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biteofcherry · 5 months ago

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Touch the Darkness

dark mafia!Steve Rogers x female reader

summary: When you unexpectedly are appointed to run a health center, you foresee many struggles along the way, but not one in the form of a merciless mob boss. Steve Rogers’ core aim is to own and he won’t take no for an answer. To any of his demands.

warnings for this chapter: dark!Steve Rogers; possessiveness; power imbalance; forced marriage; D/s undertones; jealous Reader (though she claims otherwise); non-lethal poisoning; sex; turned on by violence;

word count: 6.8k

Author’s Note: I know you've waited a bit for this next chapter. I didn't exactly have trouble writing it, my muse was simply interested in other projects. But I'm always a hoe for dark Steve, so returning to him was inevitable. As it was inevitable for Steve's dick darkness to start corrupting Reader in small doses. Or, maybe, he gives her boldness to act out on instincts she would otherwise suppress, because they're not proper 😏 For a brighter side - Princess gains a genuine new friend! 🥰

Touch the Darkness Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Chapter 8. Tempestuous as the sea

~ * ~

You could blame the slow process of writing on the tiredness, but it was honestly the fault of delicious macaroons you’ve been reaching for every single sentence. At least with the sweet bite the mundane typing of a bland report felt a little more exciting. Once you ate the final macaroon, only the boring part would remain.

Of all the excitement and challenges that came with running a health center, the bureaucratic side of it was truly exhausting.

A knock on the door of your home office startled you mid bite.

Before you swallowed and managed to invite him in, Steve was already pushing the door open and strolling inside.

You glared at him, but didn’t comment on the intrusion. Knowing your husband, he’d say that he came in your pussy just this morning and you had no objections to it, so why fuss over a damn office.

Pointing out that you didn’t exactly invite him into your pussy either, was a futile argument. Especially since you didn’t stop him, or even elbow him in those perfect, stupid abs of marble.

Quite the contrary. You rocked back against him and begged, until he rolled you fully onto your front and savaged you.

You were still disgusted with yourself for that. As well for the sex two nights before. And the one in the shower. Or the Sunday humiliation, when it became clear that the chef was in the kitchen preparing your fancy dinner while you were screaming the house down as Steve wrung three orgasms out of you, one after the other.

So disgusted. And still giving in to the temptation that was the devil himself.

Who walked around your desk and leaned against it, looking down at you curled in the chair and with your cheeks stuffed with sweets.

A strange feeling knotted your stomach.

You were barefoot, wearing a pair of leggins and a hoodie. Crumbs of gooey sweetness were sticking to the corners of your mouth. Steve was barefoot, too; which meant he came home for the rest of the day, with no plans of leaving. He had a plain, tight T-shirt paired with dark jeans, his leather jacket already taken off. He stared at your face, only briefly glancing at the almost empty plate of macaroons.

This scene was so… domestic.

Instead of unwrapping that terrifying thought, you diverted your attention to the royal red envelope in Steve’s hand. A beautiful calligraphy shimmered in gold.

“What’s that?” You asked, swallowing the rest of your macaroon.

Unexpectedly, Steve leaned forward. Tip of his tongue licked at the corner of your mouth, swiping the sticky sweetness. Then it plugged between your lips that opened on a soft gasp.

The kiss was short, but intense and depraved. As it always was with Steve. And your treacherous body chased it as he pulled back.

“Lemon would pair better.” He hummed, resuming his previous stance.

“What?” You blinked, confused. Your head was still swimming in dizzy fog from that unexpected kiss. As well from the fact nothing more followed.

You were married, but there was nothing marital about your relationship with Steve. There were no sweet kisses good morning or goodbye, or hugs and cuddles. If either of you initiated physical contact it was to fuck.

But now no touching, or undressing followed. The unexpected kiss remained just that - a shard of affection a normal newlywed couple might show each other.

It messed with your mind. And pulled at a cord in your chest.

“With your taste.” Steve explained; corners of his mouth curling in a hungry smirk.

Which, really, should be followed by his mouth descending on other parts of you.

Instead, your body filled with heat both from the kiss and his words while Steve returned to tapping the envelope against his thigh, unbothered.

Swallowing, you pushed that spark of need down. Steve was already too aware of how eagerly your body responded to him. Especially, since you stopped fighting it too much when the desire sparked low in your core. You weren’t going to further your humiliation.

“So what’s with that?” You asked, pointing at the red envelope.

“An invitation.” Steve showed you the beautifully addressed front. “For Mr and Mrs Rogers.”

You ignored his pleased smirk when he said the last part. It still evoked annoyance. The realization other people were now calling you by his last name fueled that irritation.

“To Stark’s annual post expo gala.” He said it with a roll of his eyes.

Clearly, he wasn’t thrilled. You doubted it was because he had no regard for technology and knowledge. As much as you hated to admit it, Steve Rogers was exceptionally smart and up to date with many areas of expertise.

From what you learned about your husband over the weeks, he wasn’t a fan of boring, social chit-chat and fake politeness. Which is why he preferred his direct, brutal methods of communication. But even he couldn’t fully escape socializing with the people he had on payroll and leash.

“I assume it’s expected of me to go with you,” you glared at him, even though a small spark of excitement flickered in your chest.

You’ve been to a few fancy parties and fundraisers, but to attend something of this caliber was a thrilling novelty.

For one, you’d get to dress up. You liked it, once in a while, to feel like a modern sort of Cinderella, who gets to swirl around in a pretty dress and eat expensive snacks. Secondly, it was a tempting opportunity for you as a director of the health center to lure in new benefactors. The project you’ve been working on was one that would need a solid dose of funding.

There was also the aspect of meeting people in similar fields. Stark’s expo focused on technology mostly, but that area leaked into medical fields, as well. There were a lot of neuroscience breakthroughs in the past years, which served psychiatric and psychological fields. It could prove beneficial, if you spoke to some experts.

“Princess,” Steve tilted his head, “fuck the expectations.”

You almost sagged in disappointment.

“But-” he continued- “I have a few things to settle with some people and they will be there. It saves me a lot of time to do it there. And since I’m going, you are going, too.”

He dropped the envelope onto the desk then cupped your chin with his hand. You hated how you didn’t hate the jolt of pleasure his touch evoked.

“First official outing as newlyweds, Princess. Gotta make an impression.” There was near cruel mirth in his blue eyes.

“Pffft!” You snorted, attempting to pull away from his grip. You still haven’t fully accepted that once Steve had his hand on you, he was unlikely to relent.

Well, your mind didn’t accept it. Your body has become a whore for it.

“I doubt I’ll be making any sort of impression on the corrupted men who kneel for you,” unless they were disgusting pigs interested in ogling Steve’s sidepiece. “Though I guess I could use you, for a change. Your name could be impressive enough for some schmucks to donate to the center.”

“Tell them you’re mine and they’ll fund you three centers.” Steve said it so casually, without any hint of cockiness. In his eyes, it was a simple truth.

“I’m not yours,” you hissed, more annoyed at the heat you felt creeping over your skin.

At that Steve smirked.

He released your chin and stood up. He didn’t even counter your claim, as if it was the most pitiful lie that didn’t require any argument because neither of you believed it.

He stole one macaroon before leaving your office.

You quickly stuffed your mouth with the only macaroon left, in case he would take that away from you, too. Then you returned your gaze to the project document. Suddenly, with the prospect of potential donors, you felt a new wave of energy and motivation to write it all out.

You clung to the claim that it was the same motivation filling you with excited lightness as you donned on a beautiful evening dress three weeks later. Adamant on enjoying the fancy party and working for the center’s goals, you pushed away the nagging thoughts of going there as Steve’s wife.

Not that you thought anyone would be interested in that, anyway. You weren’t a famous socialite, or a model, and you considered Steve to be terrifying enough that no one would imagine him getting married. Much less gossiping about it.

The smaller argument you weaved - about you not even matching your outfits, ergo no one would recognize you as a couple - died the moment you descended the stairs to where Steve was already waiting for you.

The only time he wore a suit was at your wedding. His usual style was rougher, more practical and intimidating. A jagged chunk of volcanic rock, still pulsing with burning lava. So it was quite shocking to see him in a dark blue two piece that was cut so perfectly that his broad shoulders and tapered waist seemed more prominently outlined than when he wore jeans and tight shirts.

The shade of his suit was dark enough to hold that dangerous, intimidating aura, but the shiny blue hue matched your choice of dress perfectly.

He was the night sky to your moon glow.

Steve didn’t mask the hunger in his eyes as he looked at you. Though you were thankful he didn’t utter anything about not making it to the gala, because he wanted to sate that hunger.

He did, however, order you to turn around; with that rough, low voice that had your clit tingling. Despite the vow you made to yourself two months ago, to not so easily comply with his commands, you did as asked. You found yourself staring at your reflection in the large mirror in the entryway, your body heating up from the sudden lewd imagery of what could happen if Steve put his hands on you. Would he make you watch as he…

His ice blue eyes sparked a dark satisfaction, undoubtedly reading your body well enough to suspect where your thoughts have wandered.

But he didn’t mock you. Instead, his touch was a gentle brush that evoked goosebumps as he placed something shiny and heavy on your chest.

He clasped the white gold necklace at the back of your neck as you stared at the incredible rock nestled in a cushion of diamonds that were so crystal white they appeared to be frosty snow.

The rock in the middle was a hue of sundown orange, mostly transparent, but with a flame encapsulated within. Like the heart of a star.

“Once upon a time,” Steve’s fingers trailed over your exposed collarbones and down along the delicate chain of the necklace. “There were six rarest jewels in the world. Called the infinity stones.”

Memory of Batroc asking about them flashed in your mind and you held your breath.

The rumors were true, then. Steve was the ghost from the legend, who tore through the Greek magnate’s citadel and stole the rarest gems, without leaving a trace. If this was one of them, were the rest nestled in the rings on his fingers like you presumed once before?

“This one is called the soul stone.” Steve traced the outline of the pendant with his fingertip, dipping it into the valley between your breasts. Your nipples hardened instantly.

“Fitting, since you’re the devil who stole mine,” your retort had no bite. Not with how breathless you sounded.

Steve chuckled, slipping his hand over your breast and lower. His fingers splayed across your belly as he pressed closer against you. His breath was a warm tickle on your skin as he brushed his lips along the column of your throat.

“I stole more than that, haven’t I, Princess?” He smirked at the flash of fear in your eyes, which dissolved into stubborn defiance.

“Yes. My peace and chance at happiness.” You glared at him in the mirror. Which didn’t dent his amusement.

With a chuckle, Steve kissed your neck then scraped his teeth over the spot. Thankfully, not hard enough to leave any evidence, but making your pussy clench.

You scurried away towards the exit, before he decided to humiliate you by leaving a hickey that anyone could see.

You tried not to show how Steve’s touch on your lower back affected you, neither on your way to the car, nor when you entered the lavish gala at the Stark Tower. You doused the warmth of comfort with a flute of champagne when Steve spent the first solid hour keeping you at his side and introducing you to various people. As his wife.

It was only after you two returned to the main hostess and Tony’s wife, Pepper, who greeted you at the entrance and then smoothly roped you into a social conversation, that Steve murmured something about attending to business.

He left you with a brief kiss to your cheek and a brush of his fingers sliding from the small of your back over your ass. Unapologetic about doing it publicly.

You narrowed your eyes, glaring at his retreating form.

“Ah, newlyweds.” Next to you, Pepper let a dramatically dreamy sigh.

Your gaze shifted to her, only to notice she was most amused. Unlike some of the women whom you were introduced to, she didn’t look at you with envy or disdain. Which had annoyed you, because really there was nothing to be jealous of. Well, mindblowing sex perhaps. But that was it. Nothing more.

If they wanted Steve so much, you’d happily give him away. If he only let you.

Pepper seemed genuine in her friendly approach, witty responses and warmth. The only flaw you found in her so far was the fact she was friendly with Steve, too.

Not overtly, in a way betraying carnal interest, or former relationship (which you sensed from a few other women at the banquet). But the platonic friendliness toward someone like Steve was alarming in itself.

“Oh yeah,” you snorted, lifting your glass of champagne to your lips, “I’m sooo head over heels for him.”

Pepper’s laugh was soft and tinkling like velvet bells. Nothing fake, or annoying in the sound of it. Quite the opposite, you were surprised how it put you at ease after mingling with people who wore fake politeness like a family crest.

Crinkles appeared in the corners of her eyes as she looked at you and you couldn’t help but respond with your own grin.

“People often mistake my sunny disposition for naivety. They're very wrong.” Pepper said, taking a sip of her strawberry gin & tonic.

“I know you didn't marry Steve out of love.” She stated bluntly, without judgment or conspiratory whispering. “But watching you two, some things are unmistakable.”

She lifted her left shoulder in a shrug, sparkling amusement in her eyes turning into a knowing look. Your heart halted before setting in a slightly panicked flutter.

There were little moments when you felt certain cracks in your hard hateful shell, but you hoped that you managed to quickly hide them behind walls and under a mask. You didn’t want Steve finding more of your weaknesses. It was even worse, if someone else saw them.

Pepper barely met you and if she noticed how comfortable you felt at times beside Steve (when you forgot to remember you’re supposed to hate him and be disgusted by his touch), then the bastard must have been aware of them, too. Crap.

Still, you arched your brow as if you had no idea what she was implying. Pepper’s amusement deepened, she wasn’t buying your cluelessness.

“There may not be romantic affection, but he sure gives you attention.” She said, angling her body so you stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the grand ballroom.

Before you snorted that you’d rather never have drawn Steve’s attention, she vaguely pointed at the room full of people. Expensive suits and dresses worth more than your half year salary, diamonds dripping, chests puffed. Women polished to perfection glued to the side of their men, sweet smiles offered on painted lips.

“That's something only very few women here experience. It’s rare.” There was a hint of disappointment in her tone, but you doubted it had to do with her own relationship.

Tony Stark was like a hummingbird on energizer and coke - he fleeted from one conversation to the other, growing bored, acting pretentious asshole. He stopped for longer only with a few people. But every half an hour or so, he would search for Pepper and the way his attention zeroed in on her left no room to doubt his love for her.

She grounded him. Gave him a moment to recharge, even as she called him out on some of his antics.

Many of the women at the gala, who accompanied their husbands, or partners, were there as an accessory. Beautiful, adding to the status, but few were even acknowledged by their company.

“I’m not sure having Steve Rogers’ attention is exactly a good thing.” You pointed out.

Everyone here may officially pretend he was a ruthless businessman, while they all knew the bloody truth. He was a mafia boss, a brutal king of the underworld, who wouldn’t blink an eye flaying someone open here in the light of the crystal chandeliers.

No one wanted his attention on them, not really.

“Not for most.” Pepper agreed. “Though some of the women might disagree.”

“Are you talking from experience?” You maintained a neutral, indifferent tone (mostly because you didn’t think there was ever anything between Pepper and Steve); yet there was a tiny flicker of something angry that ignited at the prospect.

It stirred with a growl and clawed out a few times that night, when a few of the women made it obvious they were wet and willing for Steve.

“God, no!” Pepper snorted, pretending to shudder. “I’m not that adventurous.”

“Yeah, bungee jumping without rope might be less of an adrenaline rush than being with him,” you rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth tilted in a grin.

“Well, it seems only fair to give back in return. What would perturb the dark overlord?” Pepper pretended to seriously ponder, tapping her finger against her lips.

“I could try setting Bucky on fire.”

Pepper’s laugh resounded with the same melodic chime as previously, but much louder. Not a single fake note, her burst of laughter was real. It enticed your own laugh to bubble out; both of you falling into a fit of giggles behind your drink glasses.

You drew the attention of many people, who either watched you with suspicion, or glared offended. You didn’t care. And when your gaze connected with Steve’s, who looked your way from the other side of the room while some men were babbling next to him, you didn’t even pretend to be gloomy.

“Now that was the height of entertainment tonight.” Pepper looped her arm around yours, still smiling brilliantly ear to ear. “For me, at least. Now, how to repay you for that? I can tell you all the spicy gossip. We could get drunk and no one would dare to say anything to either me or you.”

“Not gossip, but information.” You finished your champagne and reached for another flute as a waiter passed by. “I need to know more about this swamp my so-called husband treads through. And I need to milk some of them for money for the center.”

“I know just the right people for that,” she nodded with determination and steered you toward the first potential benefactor.

Pepper’s company was a wonderful balm and entertainment rolled into one. She was a graceful hostess, smart and perceptive professional, but also a bubbly imp who didn’t spare you the details about some sordid affairs.

Though she could excuse herself with her duties, she stuck with you the entire time. She also managed not to smirk at your glower when she pointed at three women who have in the past fucked Steve.

However, her smile turned mischievous as she spotted someone over your shoulder. She reminded you of the lunch date in three days that you happily agreed to, then smoothly glided away before you managed to properly say goodbye.

Words stuck in your throat as you felt the familiar solid warmth at your back. Steve’s shadow cast over you first, then his heat and scent engulfed you. Like a mythological fate, always reaching its grasp for the heroine, no matter the hard fight towards the light, your personal devil softly pulled you back into his clutches.

His hand touched your back and he spun you around.

“Having fun, Princess?” He looked down at you.

Icy blade of his gaze cut down men bigger than life, but, despite the first instinctive flash of fear, you felt it slicing through the layers of your clothes and defences.

Plate by plate, you quickly reinforced your shell, to at least endure a few hours more before Steve got under your skin again.

And into your cunt, because with his hot looks and your four glasses of champagne that was inevitable.

“I don’t think parties of this kind are meant to have fun.” You scrunched up your nose. “But I managed to sway some rich snobs to potentially fund that educational project for the center. Leon Stavros seems keen to donate half the sum.”

You announced with a proud tilt of your chin and a smile. Tame enough to not share the actual happiness you felt with Steve. You wanted to boast about your little success, but you had to remember that he was the bane of your existence.

Steve’s hand on your back settled heavier, while his other slid along your arm. He took your hand in his, outstretched your joined arms and in a single move swept you onto the dancefloor.

“You’ll have to use his money for a different project.” He continued your conversation as he led you across the floor. “The psychoeducation and resources for caretakers project is already fully funded.”

It took you a moment for his words to register, because you were still scrambling to catch up with the fact that a heartbeat ago you were standing off to the side and now you were dancing across the ballroom.

It was truly mind boggling that your psychopath husband was a damn good dancer.

“What? Who?” You blinked, when it finally dawned on you what he said. You even cast a glance around, wondering who managed to deliver the funds so quickly.

Something sharp pierced through your chest as you realized there was only one person who knew before everyone else and could fund a project with a single transfer. Your gaze flicked back to Steve’s handsome face.

“Steve…”

Heaviness of the situation turned worse by the second, because he wasn’t showing that smug, triumphant look, which would at least remind you to hate him.

“You were determined to get that project running.” Steve replied easily. There was no affectionate passion in his next words, but still they chipped at the walls protecting you - “What you want, you get.”

“Thank you.” At the moment you didn’t know how else to respond. How to treat this gift.

You could think of it as his manipulation to get you further into his sticky web, but he already had you at his mercy on all accounts. No, it flashed too much thoughtfulness.

To preserve the comfortable setting of animosity, you asked cheekily - “What if I want a divorce?”

You were determined to keep asking for a divorce every chance you got. Officially, you believed it was because you wanted out of this fucked up marriage. Secretly, you were thrilled with the various ways Steve responded to that demand.

“Then-” he pulled you even closer, his cheek brushing yours as he leaned down to whisper into your ear- “you get a fucking so hard, any silly ideas drip out of you permanently.”

Steve delivered on the hard fucking, even though you haven’t mentioned divorce again that night.

You blamed the champagne and happiness at having your project funded for making you sit so close to him in the car on your way back from the gala, rubbing your heated body against him with unrestrained need. Steve was merciful enough to not wait it out until you lost the battle with your own will and initiated sex yourself, but instead dragged you over his lap, rolled up your dress and fingered you into a dripping, screaming puddle before you made it home.

Then he took you hard, in front of that fucking mirror in the hall. With you completely naked, wearing only the necklace and watching yourself give in to the monster completely.

You nearly passed out when he fucked you again in bed. Your almost unconscious state didn’t stop Steve from using you thoroughly and then spilling thick ropes of white cum all over your body, white drops landing around the jewel sparkling on your chest.

Though your body was wonderfully blissed out each time you and Steve had sex - which was becoming an almost daily thing - you still refused to use the blissful adjective to describe your marriage. Or any positive adjective, for that matter. Even as the comfort of sitting next to him or sharing meals increased; or how he casually draped your legs over his lap, massaging your calves while he typed murderous decrees on his phone.

The word domestic echoed in your head often, but you drowned it in screams of his victims, gunshots, Steve’s cold and sinister commands.

You shouldn’t feel at ease and comfortable around the devil who kept you chained to him. You gave yourself a pass for enjoying mindmelting orgasms, it was a small reward for your suffering, but you wouldn’t let yourself get accustomed to being a wife. Not to Steve.

So you pretended to be only mildly annoyed when he strolled into your office one day, bringing lunch as if he was a normal loving spouse, and announcing that you’ll be hosting a dinner at home. For the mayor and his wife. To his credit, Steve didn’t imply you had to be the one preparing said dinner. Having a chef was another benefit of your doom. But the expectation of playing the sweet wife and hostess to the corrupted pair of a politician and socialite made your blood boil.

Or maybe it was the fact that mayor’s wife was one of the few women Pepper confirmed to have been fucking Steve in the past.

No, you told yourself as you put on the soul stone necklace when preparing for said dinner. You didn’t care who he sank his cock into. You didn’t care, if he returned to that and left you in peace.

But your conviction shattered to sharp, jagged pieces when mayor’s wife made obvious moves at your husband, with her own fucking husband sitting right there at the table!

You were appalled. By her rudeness, of course.

Mayor played a clueless idiot, probably too scared of Steve to fight for honor. Or maybe he was actually gaining something from having his wife almost drop to her knees and swallow Steve’s cock whole. You played indifference, because why should you care?

So maybe your knife and fork scraped against the plate so loud that everyone at the table cringed in pain, when the mayor’s wife briefly touched Steve’s arm and mentioned missing their passionate art discussions. It was nothing. Just a spasm in your hand. And you gulping down half of your wine glass all unladylike was because you needed to soothe an itch in your throat, not because the floozy licked her lips and made a suggestion Steve should go with her to the new exhibition.

Though Steve hadn’t replied to Miliana’s advances, focusing on the not so subtle business talk with her husband, he didn’t refuse her either. Which made you want to reach for the knife he had custom made for you and stab him with it, when later that night he had the audacity to touch you.

Steve merely chuckled, absolutely amused. Mockingly asked if you were jealous. Which you were not!

Tension slowly dropped after that, as days passed and you haven’t seen that skank’s face. Unexpectedly, however, the mayor requested an official visit to the center. It was a short one, a half an hour so the press could write about his interest in healthcare and supporting new community focused projects. You also suspected he wanted to kiss Steve’s ass.

You didn’t have a reason to deny him, especially since the press would also mention the center and new projects, which would be helpful. It was even better, because he came only with some of his office staff, no wife at his side.

But then, just as you were breathing in relief that the circus was almost over, the mayor had the balls to invite himself over to your house for dinner the upcoming weekend.

In true political bullshit manipulation, saying how his wife loved your chef’s scallops and couldn’t wait to taste them again and how your house provided comfort to talk business with your husband.

At this point, you were wondering if the slimy asshole was a cuckold.

He was bending backwards just to give his own wife an opportunity to touch your fucking husband. Maybe he really was into that. Maybe he wanted to watch. Maybe you should’ve vomited when you relayed the request to Steve and he shrugged that he’s free Saturday evening: if the greedy idiot wants to crawl begging for more scraps.

Your appetite evaporated, as you spent days fuming at the prospect of another weird dinner when a shameless woman would be drooling after Steve while you were sitting there right opposite of her, in your own damn home.

No, this time you wouldn’t stand for it. You would make Miliana associate your house with something most unpleasant. And a small vial stolen from one of the medicine cabinets at the center was going to help you with that.

It was surprisingly easy, really. It should shock you how calm you were as you prepared for the dinner; how a soft smile graced your lips as you set the table while the chef prepared delicious food. But now that determination guided your hand through the plan, earlier fiery aggravation melted away.

Briefly, you wondered if the same calm took over Steve when he took lives.

You shook that thought away, since you weren’t attempting to kill anyone. Though when a memory of her hand on Steve’s arm flashed in your mind, your fingers itched to grab a knife.

Applying a little drop to the bottom of a crystal glass and another on the rim, smearing it along, you felt an odd kind of satisfaction unfurl in your chest. There was no hesitation, no worry about potential mix-up. No, you were certain Miliana would once again seat on Steve’s left. Just like the last time. It was cunning, since it appeared all innocent - her sitting on her husband’s right, just you were sitting on your husband’s right, the men facing each other.

Your smile widened when the couple entered your dining room and sat exactly like you predicted. Politely fake conversation flew as the chef brought out first dish and his assistant poured wine into glasses.

The scallops tasted even more delicious, in your opinion. Especially when after a few sips of wine the mayor’s wife had to quickly excuse herself to the bathroom.

Few minutes later the mayor’s phone vibrated, which led to him frowning at the screen and excusing himself as well - undoubtedly to aid his wife. When he walked back into the dining room a while later, he looked nervous and embarrassed, paler too.

“My apologies. It appears my wife and I have to leave promptly, it was unplanned, but can’t be avoided.”

You made a sound of worried pity, but continued to cut into your own food and eating it without an ounce of genuine distraught. Steve arched a brow in surprise, but nodded his head, which seemed to bring the mayor immense relief. The man was more scared of offending Steve than for his wife’s health.

It was less than a minute when you heard their car take off from the driveway. The sound of it and the fact they were no longer polluting the space of your home pleased you greatly.

“Mhm, these scallops are really delicious,” you hummed, licking your fork.

“Princess,” Steve tuned the petname in a sing-song tone. “What did you do?”

Slowly, you looked his way. He didn’t seem angry, nor worried. He angled his body towards you, propping one elbow on the table and drumming his fingers in a steady rhythm. He wasn’t asking if it was your doing, he already knew.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t permanently damage one of your mistresses. She’s just gonna spend a day or two glued to the toilet.” You snorted, clenching your fingers around the fork. “But maybe next time she’ll reconsider coming into the house where your wife lives.”

Dark gleam flickered over Steve’s ice blue eyes.

He leaned forward, moving his hands to grip the edge of your chair and yanked it at an angle toward him. Your legs were between his, his hands gripping the sides of your chair, veins protruding in his forearms as his muscles tensed.

“Your possessiveness gets me hard.” He chuckled darkly.

“I’m not possessive!” You objected immediately, crossing your hands over your chest.

“You demanded I marry you, the ruthless fucking king of the underworld. So now you have to deal with having a wife. And your reluctant queen won’t stand for any more humiliation.” You spat the last part, boldly leaning forward and glaring at him with all the accumulated hatred.

“Princess,” Steve inched even closer, not the least bothered by your outburst. Quite the opposite, he appeared to love it. “My dick hasn’t even twitched for any other woman, since I tasted your lips. There’s no pleasure in standing their fake, exaggerated despair, when I have your sweet pussy so responsive to my darkness…”

Your retort died on your tongue when suddenly one of Steve’s hands gripped your chin.

“Now-” he tightened his pinch on your chin, his voice smoothly transforming into a cold warning. “Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

“Miliana doesn’t have enough spunk and her husband is too much of a scaredy wimp to retaliate in any form.” He showed zero empathy toward them. “But there are eels and sharks swimming around us and some of them would dare to bite back.”

Holding your chin, Steve forced you to lean closer. His breath tickled your mouth as he inched forward, as well.

“And if anyone dared to put a finger on you, it would end in a bloodbath.”

Only Steve could make a psychopathic threat sound like a seductive, velvet vow of a lover.

Your brain screamed that it was wrong, that you should be disgusted by his words and scared of how easily it came to him to take lives. Yet your insides filled with heat, one spreading through your chest and a wave of it pooling low in your abdomen.

“Don’t go on a murder spree, because of some macho obligation.” You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You. Are. Mine, Princess.” Steve punctuated each word with a brush of his lips against yours. “To harm or disrespect you means to hurt or disrespect me. I have no mercy for those. I would cut off the limb, with which they hurt you, and carve out their intestines. Then fuck you while their blood pools at your feet.”

“That’s disgusting,” with how breathy you sounded, your claim felt like a lie.

One that Steve read right away.

“It turns you on.” He chuckled, grinning.

“I know that you get so wet from the scary, unhinged things that I do.” His other hand slapped your knees apart.

“I’m not-” you frowned, ready to deny that as well. Even though your body was already primed for him.

Words went forgotten when Steve picked you in a swift move and deposited you in his lap. The hand on your chin moved to grip the front of your neck; the cool sensation of his rings digging into your soft skin made you gasp. The sound nearly stopped in your throat, because he tightened his grip. And it made your arousal burst stronger.

His right hand ventured between your spread thighs. His fingers easily slipped beneath the flimsy fabric of your underwear and teased your slick folds.

“Soaked.” Steve triumphed, running the ring-adorned knuckle of his index finger up and down between your folds. “Sweet, good-hearted Princess who lives to help people, cumming on her brutal husband’s weapons and cock.”

The mere mention of his thick cock made your pussy pulse. The image of his gun and of the knife sliding along your skin and pressed so close to your most sensitive areas caused a shiver to rock your whole body.

Steve chuckled at your body’s reaction. He laced kisses and licks along your jaw, continuing to tease your cunt.

“As for you wanting to be a queen at my side…” he sucked your earlobe lewdly, making you moan.

“Do you know what a queen’s role is?” He whispered right into your ear before pulling back slightly.

“To stand fierce and unbending beside her king.” He withdrew his hand, kissing your lips when you pouted at the loss of delicious stimulation. Fingers sticky with your slick, he ran his palm up your belly and over your breast. Then to your arm.

“And to give him an heir.”

Steve’s eyes locked with yours as his wet fingers circled your arm, thumb pressing right over where your contraceptive implant was hidden beneath your skin.

“Are you ready for that, Princess?” He asked, rubbing the spot in sinfully slow circles, as he would do your clit. “Are you ready to take out this little implant and let me breed you properly?”

Your brain was too scrambled, even though Steve barely touched you, really. The adrenaline from poisoning a woman who dared to flirt with your husband mixed with desire that the fucker so easily ignited in you.

The unexpected mention of impregnation? In that dark, raw way only your husband dared to speak to you? For a short moment your mind simply stopped working.

“No!” You clenched your eyes, letting the last remnants of reason fight against the threat.

Steve didn’t seem perturbed by your refusal. Perhaps it wasn’t even something he was interested in, just another means to torment you with and make you yield to his command.

“Until then, you remain my Princess.” He declared, cutting off your airflow for a few seconds and taking possession of your mouth.

When he let you breathe again, you felt dizzy and pliant. Your own hands clenched on his shoulders as Steve stood up abruptly. He kicked the chair away and placed you on the dining table.

Plates and wine glasses tumbled over, food and wine spilling across the tablecloth and dripping down on the floor. You felt the sticky wetness soaking into your back as Steve splayed you on the table, but you didn’t care. Not when he was holding you down by your throat with one hand and ripping your soaked underwear with the other.

Then there was the sound of a zipper and Steve’s low, sexy groan as he gripped his hard cock and stroked it a few times.

Steve held your gaze as he tapped his dick against your pulsing clit and then nudged it into your opening. A needy whine vibrated in your throat, tempting the fingers around your neck to squeeze just a tad tighter.

He slammed into you in one stroke; dark victory flamed in his eyes as your body jerked and your pussy clamped around him.

Buried to the hilt, with his hand around your throat and the other holding your leg bent and pressed against your chest, Steve looked down at you. Danger pulsed off of him like a dark aura, reminding you how defenceless you were.

“Don’t ever fucking endanger what’s mine.” He warned.

You glared at him, indignant at being referred to as his. But then he snapped his hips back and into you again, and your ire flowed into brain short-circuiting pleasure.

“My good, depraved Princess.” Steve praised, fucking you hard. “Creaming around my cock so prettily.”

You fisted the tablecloth, mewling as each of his thrust drove you closer to the peak. It was so rough, so raw and based on urges you never considered yourself to have. You hated it. Hated Steve. Hated what he made you into. And you screamed his name as you came.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x female reader #dark!steve rogers #dark mafia!steve rogers #dark mafia!steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fic #chris evans smut #touch the darkness

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dollfacefantasy · 2 years ago

Text

Baby Bunny

pairing: leon kennedy x fem!bunny-hybrid!reader

summary: leon helps his sweet baby bunny through her heat.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, masturbation, breeding kink, daddy kink

word count: 3.8k

a/n: i'm not sure how i feel about this one, but let's go with it. again, thank you everyone for reblogging and commenting, it means the world to me <3

tags: @sleepyluxe @kaitkatme @tosuckmyweenis @pupthepokemonenthusiast @bizzarethirst @death-paint @petitecolibri @iron-toxinz @wildest-dreams-at-midnight @nexysworld

In his personal life, Leon never wanted to be depended on. That was his job. He didn’t want that stuff following him home. He didn’t want to be tied down, to be responsible for someone like that. People depended on him in Raccoon city and look how that turned out. Every mission he’s been on for the last few years, he’s responsible for someone. It’s exhausting.

But as he nears 30, he starts to look at it differently. An aching sense of isolation grows in his heart. He starts to think about what it would be like having someone, having a companion of some sort. Suddenly, he’s not looking at being relied on as a detriment. Being depended on means having someone to care for, someone to love. There would be someone at the end of long days and the starts of his currently lonesome nights.

That’s how he finds himself with you scampering around his house. The sweetest little thing he’d ever seen. Your long floppy ears, cute little cottontail, those big sweet eyes. From the moment he saw you, he was a sucker for all of it.

A while back he had briefly heard of human-animal hybrids, but he didn’t think much about it. It didn’t really apply to him. If anything, the idea weirded him out a bit.

That was until he started thinking more about his dilemma. It seemed like one of them might be a good solution. He talked to a few people and did some online research and decided to at least look into it. It couldn’t hurt to visit an adoption center right?

He visited the place and was still a little freaked by the whole concept. He walked through the rooms, watching different hybrids move about and mess around. The lady guiding him throughout asked him different questions, trying to decipher what type of hybrid would best fit his needs. But all of her questions were irrelevant as soon as he spotted you.

You were undoubtedly the one. His baby bunny. Not only did he not want any other hybrid, but he didn’t think he could physically leave that place without talking to you at the very least.

He walked over to you cautiously. You kept to yourself, and he could tell from your body language alone how timid you were. He spoke with the softest, most soothing tone he could manage, but you were still so shy.

You’d told him your name so quietly he could barely hear. He didn’t touch you at all, fearing you may cry at something that personal. But he kept talking to you because while others may have found it challenging, he could see you fitting right in with him.

You’d be dependent, sure, but clearly you wouldn’t be overly needy for affection. It would be a good way for him to transition from being alone into having someone.

He kept getting to know you and trying to get through some of your walls. He talked with you about all sorts of things and let you ask your own questions so you could get to know him. By the end of the day, you hesitantly allowed him to stroke your ears.

It was that exact day he told you that he was interested in you coming to live with him. You were still very reserved, but you seemed receptive. You did a little trial run over the course of a week, and just as Leon thought, you were a great fit.

You had grown more comfortable with him in the months since that week even though your core personality hadn’t changed. You were still generally quiet, never asking for much and being appreciative of whatever he gave you. You’d talk with him openly now, mostly responding to him rather than starting conversations but speaking nevertheless. You slept in your own room, but as soon as you woke up, you’d come find him to hang out. It was a nice balance with you.

But Leon still wanted a little more. He would never push it on you, knowing it would make you withdraw again, but he always cherished the moments of progress with you. You warmed up enough that you came around to enjoy cuddling. Leon couldn’t believe how soft he’d become when you curled up to his side and tucked yourself under his arm. The first time you fell asleep in his embrace, he loved it so much he felt chest pains. Once or twice, he’d gotten you to fully sit on his lap, and he couldn’t stop beaming.

He could give you little kisses on your face now, and you’d give him a sweet smile in return that he couldn’t get enough of. You’d never kissed him yourself, but you would nuzzle his cheek in return which was enough to make him happy.

You were just such a sweetheart, a perfect companion for him. You didn’t complain when he had to go to work, but it wasn’t like you didn’t miss him. He could see the way your ears would slump and your eyes would dim as he gathered his stuff and headed for the door. But you also got so happy when he came back. You tried to seem as subdued as possible, but the way you lit up again in his presence was obvious.

The only thing you were still completely closed off about was when you went into heat. Leon understood what it was, he had been nervous about it since bringing you home, but he had no clue about how you dealt with it at all. Every time it happened, you’d shut yourself up in your room for however many days it took, and then return to him as if nothing had happened.

For your sake, he played along. He got the sense it was a touchy subject after bringing up the possibility of getting you some more toys for it and having you immediately shut it down. Your voice had become higher pitched with defensiveness, and your eyes wouldn’t meet his for the next few hours.

He had only wanted to help, but he couldn’t tell you why. Couldn’t tell you that your desperate moans kept him up at night when they echoed down the hall. Those broken whimpers that made it sound like you were crying, so worked up and in need of release that it brought you to tears.

He also couldn’t share how it made his cock rise to attention. How those pretty little noises had him fucking his fist, other palm covering his mouth to muffle his grunts, searching for relief of his own. His precious baby bunny didn’t need to know all of that.

Today had been a long day. He was tired after dealing with all the bullshit that came with his job. Although, unlike in months prior, he wasn’t all doom and gloom driving home. The thought of his sweet girl at home waiting for him by the door kept his spirits somewhat up as he made the commute back.

To his surprise, you weren’t in the living room like normal. He walked through the room cautiously, a little on edge from the disruption to his routine. He goes into the kitchen and still doesn’t find you. He starts to walk to the back of the home and that’s when he hears something. Those soft, needy sounds of pleasure.

His eyebrows raise, but he continues walking. As he gets closer, he realizes something that adds another level of shock to this situation. The noises were coming from his room.

At this point, he was more concerned than anything else. He makes his way down the hallway to his room and slowly opens the door, cracking it open to peek inside.

His eyes widen as he sees you on his bed. You’re kneeling, doubled over though so your face is in the blankets, his pillow between your legs, and your hips rocking back and forth violently. You’re nude from the waist down, only wearing a shirt of his. One of your fists is clutching the blankets while you keep your face shoved against them in a weak attempt to muffle those cute noises.

His jaw goes slack at the sight. He wills himself to remain calm and not succumb to some of his own primal urges. He carefully steps into the room, trying to be quiet even though he couldn’t see a way to not startle you with his presence.

“Baby…” he says, using the most gentle voice he could manage.

You shoot up in bed, now kneeling vertically. Your eyes are wide like you’ve had the fright of your life, your expression clearly horrified that he’d caught you like this. And even though he tries not to look, he can’t help but notice that despite your reaction, your hips don’t stop rutting against the pillow.

“Daddy!” you gasp.

That short circuits his brain. He pauses for a good five seconds to grapple with what you just said. You’d never called him that before. Not that he minded necessarily… but it still gave him whiplash.

His reaction seems to cause you to realize what you had just blurted out. In the blink of an eye, you go from visibly horrified to completely mortified. Your eyes fill with tears as you whimper out “I’m so sorry, Daddy.”

Oh god, and now you’re crying. Leon was still silent as he tried to keep his composure, force the heat building inside of him to cool off before he approached you. Looking at you though, that sweet face with tears leaking down those round cheeks… It made him want to bounce you on his lap till you were crying for a whole other reason.

“It’s ok, sweetheart. It’s alright,” he reassures you as he walks to the bed. He sits on the edge, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on your face. “Is it… Are you in heat?”

“Yes,” you say, tone dripping with shame. You bite your lip and try to restrain any further whimpers. Your hips were slowing down but still moving. After a few moments though, another wave of choked cries erupt from your throat and more hot tears of humiliation slide down your skin. Your hands fly up to cover your face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I-”

“Hey, hey, hey. Calm down. It’s ok,” he says softly. He cautiously takes your wrists and pulls them away from your face. He takes one of your hands in his, soothingly rubbing the back of your palm. You whimper at the touch, but he doesn’t say anything. “It’s ok, honey. I’m not mad. You can’t help it. I just want to make sure you’re ok.”

You look into his eyes with your tearful gaze. Your breathing was a little ragged from crying, but it seemed like he was calming you down slowly. You nod with uncertainty, waiting for him to make the next move.

He was also unsure of what to do. This was so unlike you, he’d never seen you this emotional for one, but he’d also never expected to see you in this position. And the entire time your hips were still grinding on that pillow, back and forth like a pendulum.

“Is it more intense this time?” he asks, keeping his tone gentle to not upset you again.

“I guess,” you whimper, “I just… I wanted you.”

It pained him to see you so uncomfortable and stressed out. He wanted you to be able to come to him with these types of things, to trust him with yourself when you’re in your most vulnerable state. It was clear that you desired that too, to some degree. You were in his room, humping his pillow, wearing his shirt.

“Well… I’m right here, baby. I want to help if I can. If you want me to,” he says.

Your skepticism is written all over your face. But you needed this even if you were a little nervous. He pats his lap encouragingly, and that’s the final push you need to let go of the pillow and crawl into his lap.

“There’s my baby bunny. Sweet girl,” he says softly as he gets you situated. He peppers a few tender kisses on your head and strokes your back.

You had only been there for a few seconds, but your hips were already squirming.

“What do you need, baby? Just tell Daddy, and you can have it,” he whispers. The title rolls off his tongue as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. It had caught him off guard when you said it, but after it rattled around in his head for a bit, it took root. Now, he just wanted to hear you say it again.

You whimper, looking at him through your lashes with those sweet eyes. At this point, you were all but riding his thigh. There’s a pause as you decide how to articulate your desire.

“I need… I need you,” you offer timidly.

“I know that, sweetheart,” he chuckles, “Try to be more specific for me. Daddy only wants to know so he can help you. Give you exactly what you need.”

He reaches up and cradles the back of your head, bringing you in to rest it on his shoulder. His other arm wraps around you and rubs your back. He holds you as close as he can to give you that physical reassurance he knew you longed for in your condition.

You still hesitate, obviously working up your will to explicitly state your cravings.

“I want Daddy inside, wanna be bred,” you whimper, turning your face against his shoulder to hide your eyes. Your whole head felt hot with the weight of what you said. It was almost dizzying, but he swoops in with his cooing voice and gentle praises to keep you together.

“Poor baby,” he croons, “I don’t know how you handled this alone for so long, honey. That’s so unfair to you, all these big feelings you had to work through by yourself. So frustrating.”

You knew he was being excessively caring now, but you had no complaints. The loving cadence of his voice made your mind melt. All you could do is whimper and nod against his shoulder.

“You could’ve come to Daddy anytime you wanted. I could never say no to my sweet baby bunny, especially not about this,” he says, kissing your head and giving your ears a few loving strokes.

“I know. I’m sorry,” you say.

“Nothing to be sorry about, sweet girl. I’m here now. We’re gonna fix it. Daddy’s gonna make it all better,” he says.

He shifts you around a little so he can slide his pants down and free his hard cock. Your curious eyes dart back to his face after a quick look at the flushed tip and the veins spanning the shaft.

“You ready?” he asks softly.

“Mhm, need it,” you whimper in return, helping him get your hips into position.

He lowers you on to his cock. Both of you let out hushed noises of pleasure as the sensation strikes pleasure within you. His fingers are digging into the flesh of your hips as he slides further into you. Your arms tighten around him and your eyes already start to flutter at the snug fit.

You whine and babble out some nonsense when you’re finally flush against him. His cock twitches inside of you.

“I know, baby, I know,” he hushes you. You could hear the tension in his own voice from exerting so much restraint. “You feeling any better?”

“Little bit, need more Daddy,” you mewl.

“Just give yourself a second to adjust, angel,” he grunts. You were pulsing around him, making it harder for him to not let go.

But it seems you’re feeling the same way. You shake your head in response to his words and start haphazardly squirming around, trying to move up and down while still in his hold.

“Need it Daddy,” you whine, “Can’t wait. Pretty please.”

Like he’d said, he couldn’t say no.

“If you’re sure, honey,” he says and loosens his grip, “Be a good bunny and bounce for Daddy.”

That’s all you need to hear before you’re bouncing up and down. Wet noises fill the room as your slick pussy takes him in and out. You close your eyes and tilt your head back, letting the embarrassment fade and just feeling the pleasure running through you.

Leon focuses on helping you keep your balance as you ride him. His own belly was twisting with ecstasy as your heat engulfs him over and over.

“That’s it, good baby,” he grunts, “Keep going, honey. Get it all out.”

You whine and continue on, up and down, up and down. More cute noises spill from your mouth as the head of his cock nudges all the right places. You ramble on, mumbling things like “love my daddy” over and over.

“Daddy loves you too, sweet girl,” he says softly.

He notices you starting to cling and whimper more. You were still riding, but your rhythm was becoming more awkward. You seemed more desperate even though you literally had him as close and as deep as physically possible.

He tries to help and do more of the work. He pulls you in close again and holds you against his body. Your face is pressed to his neck while he rubs the back of your head. His hips start to do the majority of the thrusting, bucking up into you fervently.

More incoherent strings of words escape you as you melt into his chest. You press a few sloppy kisses to the base of his neck. Despite him taking over, you were still being whiny and squirmy. He knew you were in discomfort, but it should be getting better, right?

“What is it, babydoll? What else do you need?” he coos.

Your head falls back and a sound of general pent up frustration escapes you. Your hips roll into his thrusts in large, needy movements.

“It’s not enough,” you cry, almost near tears from the ache between your thighs, “Need you more. Closer. Need it.”

You tug at his arms trying to get him to wrap them tighter. There wasn’t much Leon could do though. You were already as close as possible, any closer and you wouldn’t be able to move, which he was sure wouldn’t go over well with you. He felt so bad for you though. His sweet baby bunny suffering like this.

He watches you, your weak attempts at getting yourself off by rising and falling on his lap. He can’t take watching you struggle like this. Doing the only thing that could think of, he boosts you up and quickly flips you over.

You’re now pinned beneath him. His toned body is all over yours, heated skin pressed to you in every way. He spreads your arms out and holds your wrists down. His hips are against yours. He’s just grinding into you now, not even pulling out with his thrusts. He was as deep as possible. If this wasn’t enough, he didn’t know what else to do.

“How’s that, pretty girl? Is that how my baby bunny wants it? Wants Daddy nice and deep, ready to spill his cum and breed her cute pussy,” he breathes.

You nod eagerly, eyes rolling back at the relief you felt. This is what you needed. Feeling his weight on top of you, unable to move anywhere else.

“Mhm, this is what you need, sweet baby. You’re gonna take every last drop. Gonna keep it all in to make sure it takes too. If any leaks out, that just means I’ll have to fuck it back in. We’ll just have to go as many times as we need to,” he groans.

“Yes Daddy. Wanna take it all. Gonna be full of your cum for days,” you whimper.

“Yeah you will be. I think that’s what I’ll do from now on. Whenever my baby bunny goes into heat, I’ll have to stay home, make sure to keep you in bed, keep you plugged up full of Daddy at all times. That pretty little head won’t have to think about anything but being bred,” he says.

You just nod again, unable to get proper words out at the minute.

“I feel you squeezing, sweetheart. You getting ready to cum for Daddy?” he coos and reaches up to stroke your ears. He hikes your thighs up more, giving him a deeper angle to drive into you with. You gasp from the change, and your noises get higher as he rams in as much as he can without it being painful.

“Daddy!” you cry out. It’s all you can say. You had more, but it could only come out in the form of that one word right now. He’s all that was on your mind. Daddy daddy daddy.

“Yes, baby. Yes. Daddy’s here. Gonna fill you full of cum and then love on you for the rest of the night,” he purrs, “My baby was so brave, dealing with this all by yourself. But doesn’t it feel so much better when Daddy takes care of you?”

“Mhm, mhm,” you agree quickly.

Your hips start bucking while your body spasms. Leon knew this was it.

“Good girl, baby. Cum whenever you want. Let it feel good baby, get perfect and tight,” he says.

You do just that. You let the release wash over you. You shudder and dig your fingers into his muscles as the feelings bubble over.

“My perfect little bunny,” he praises softly while watching you let go.

It’s not much longer until his cock his pulsing violently within you. He thrusts as hard and as deep as possible before letting out a loud groan and burying his face in your neck.

“Fuck, baby, baby, baby,” he mumbles.

He spills it all inside you, hips twitching and arms locking around you. In the end, you’re both panting. He pulls back a little to kiss your forehead again. He looks down into your eyes.

“How’re you feeling now, sweet girl?” he asks softly.

“Better for now,” you answer. Your head starts to clear and return to its normal state.

He nods and kisses your head again. He rolls over onto his back, scooping you up against his chest while staying inside you. He rubs your back gently.

“You did so good, baby,” he whispers, “Now you see you don’t have to do that alone. You can trust me, sweetheart. I only want to help you. Keep you happy.”

You nod and look up at him lovingly.

“If this is what you need, this is what you need. We can get through it together,” he says softly.

“Together,” you agree softly and scoot up slightly, kissing him gently on the lips.

He smiles big and holds you closer somehow. He leans in for another kiss and another. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to get enough.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #resident evil imagines #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy imagine #resident evil smut #smut #ch: leon kennedy 💌

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melanchoire · 4 months ago

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g!p jealous ceo giselle please?

cw: anal, blowjob, breeding, creampie, degradation, deep throat, hair pulling, handjob, humiliation, spanking.

ceo giselle would be the ceo who gives the worst headaches because she knows how to get under your skin

you can’t complain about your job as a personal assistant and secretary because it’s a good job, the pay is good and you need the job. over time you obviously got used to her, but she is still the same undisciplined ceo with a shitty attitude and passive aggressive comments that she was on the day of your first interview

typing, preparing and collating reports was one of the most exhausting tasks you could have, you would always much rather answer calls and respond to messages than deal with all the paperwork full of words that mean absolutely nothing 😮‍💨 when you go to giselle’s office and leave the papers on the table, she gives you that demeaning look and a mocking grin that you despise so much. she always looks for even the smallest mistake and focuses on the small details to minimize your work

“the word you used here is informal. change it.”

“you forgot to put a full stop here.”

“i don’t like the font you used on this document. please write the report again. i want it tomorrow at the same time as today.”

but you have to keep a good attitude and behavior!! so keep a smile if you don’t want to be fired 😄 nodding at her command and walking out of the office, crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it in the trash as soon as you leave her office

she also treats you like her slave 💀 your job as a secretary also requires you to take on receptionist duties in addition to your administrative responsibilities. for example, greeting clients arriving for conferences or meetings and being the person who helps visitors settle in, bringing refreshments, taking notes during client meetings, etc. in addition to scheduling meetings and conferences, your job was also to take responsibility for organizing and leading meetings. yes, giselle often forces you to participate in her conferences

but giselle treats you like you’re a maid, snapping her fingers followed by a “get me and the men a cup of coffee. you know how i like it: hot and not much sugar. be quick.” and you don’t know if it's her attitude that puts you in a worse mood or the way the businessmen are looking at you

but here we go again, keep a smile if you don’t want to be fired

but today was different. you felt like men were making fun of you because they looked at you with funny expressions when you talked, interrupting you to ask stupid questions or comments that were slowly making you angry. they even gave you glances from head to toe without worrying about being discreet, this being the only thing that seemed to bother giselle

“we’re thirsty. go get us some fresh water. room temperature.” another snap of her fingers, but giselle’s tone is more demanding and that makes you feel… turned on?? you never liked her orders, or well, you didn’t like to admit that you liked listening to them, but that’s a secret 🤫🤐

men collectively directing their gazes at your body as you leave the meeting room 💀 giselle getting so pissed off that her tongue hits the inside of her cheek to keep from telling everyone to fuck off, but her anger is so big that she ends the meeting immediately and throws all the men out of the room

ohhh and giselle is pissed as hell and you notice it when you get back to the conference room she grabs you by the arm and practically throws you against the table

“giselle, what the fuck is your problem?”

“what the fuck is your problem? acting like a slut in front of all those men, seriously? do you have any idea how that could affect my company’s image? you’re a whore, (y/n)…”

and of course you get upset by her accusations!! giselle always tries to be on your ass all the time, and you try very hard to remain professional, but she exhausts your patience and you dare to respond

you dare to answer. answer to giselle

“why don’t you go fuck yourself, giselle? i’m sick of your smug, shitty attitude.”

so giselle gets upset because you dare to talk to her in a bad way and decides to shut you up by making you give her a blowjob? WELL YES—

as she forces you to your knees you give her a dirty look, trying to stand up but she grabs your hair in a ponytail and gives it a hard tug SHE ALSO SLAP YOU WITH HER THICK COCK?!?! giselle just loves to see the death stare you give her…

giselle smiles in amusement as she sees your pathetic attempts to free yourself from her grip, placing your hands on her thighs and trying to push her away, but giselle places both hands on either side of her head and pushes you down onto her cock, moaning as she thrusts into your mouth and uses you like a fleshlight 🥴

looking down to meet your tear filled eyes looking up at her, the obscene noise of you choking on her length and the feeling and her head hitting the back of your throat and your nose tickling against her pelvis with every thrust 🤤 but she doesn’t cum in your mouth, instead she pulls out a few seconds before cumming, jerking off her cock and shooting thick ropes of warm and sticky cum onto your face 💕 mainly by dirtying the lenses of your glasses because since she saw you using them when you were in front of the computer or reading documents, something in her brain changed completely 😊

then she pushes you onto the table without bothering to remove any papers or documents from it, placing one hand on the back of your head to push your face into the hard wood and using the other to push your skirt up to your waist, drooling at the sight of your perfect ass and soaked panties 😵‍💫 giselle doesn’t waste any time and squeezes your asscheeks and then gives one of your cheeks a hard smack that leaves the print of her palm in a bright red tone, it’s something gigi has wanted to do for a long time and has always been resisting, so today she is going to take advantage of the opportunity!!

fucking your ass because she says your pussy doesn’t deserve her cock :( making you beg and whimper at how much your pussy was leaking and clenching around nothing

“you can go and ask one of them to fuck you, you know? i bet you even fuck my employees when i’m not looking, don’t you?”

and even when she is destroying your ass she doesn’t stop being rude to you 😔 pulling your tie just enough so that it tightens around your neck and takes away your breath for a moment, grabbing your tits from behind and squeezing them over your shirt, groping your ass and digging her fingers into your skin…

cumming inside you and pulling out of your ass with a filthy “pop”, forcing you to open your own cheeks to admire in detail how her creamy essence slowly oozes from your hole and maybe forcing you to push it inside you again using two fingers 🥴

collapsing without air on the large table in the meetings room, only for giselle to adjust her suit and tell you “tomorrow there will be a job interview to recruit new office workers, try to look presentable. oh, and later i will send you the paperwork i need you to fill out, it’s due on monday.”

but you wouldn’t complain about hard work if it means getting a good fucking from your boss later

#aeri uchinaga #aeri uchinaga x fem reader #aeri uchinaga x reader #aeri uchinaga smut #uchinaga aeri #uchinaga aeri x fem reader #uchinaga aeri x reader #uchinaga aeri smut #giselle #giselle x fem reader #giselle x reader #g!p giselle #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #aespa smut #g!p aespa

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syrenqin · 4 months ago

Text

I don't know, You tell me ~ Sylus

synopsis: Sylus is usually a very patient man but when you overstep your boundaries and make him reel with jealousy, you are in for the angst of your life, soothed over by some mind-blowing lovemaking.

content and warnings: smut, mdni! jealousy, miscommunication, possessive Sylus, angsty themes, silent treatment, teasing, provoking, p in v, org*sm denial, makeup s*x, dacryphilia, size kink, swearing

"My baby dragon." you type into your phone as a smile curves onto your lips. "Breakfast is ready, wanna come eat?"

*sent*

On alternate Sundays, the two of you take turns to make each other your favorite breakfast dishes. It was your turn today, and you had prepared a hearty meal for your boyfriend, the famed leader of Onichynus for the good people of the N109 Zone, but an adorable plushie for you, your beloved Sylus.

You wait for him to reply to your text or his heavy footsteps to descend the spiral staircase of his lavish condo, but none of it happens. You lean against the counter, watching the steam emanate from your freshly cooked dishes.

"Y/N?" you hear the sound of your name, but it isn't a deep, velvety voice saying it. It's Kieran.

"Oh, hey" you give Kieran a nervous smile. "Where's the bossman?"

"Oh, he-" Kieran's face is obstructed by his crow mask but you could tell he is panicking. "He left for work a while ago. Um, he won't be back until after lunch."

You furrow your brows at the boy. "What? He didn't tell me before going though. And what work on Sunday?" to which Kieran simply shrugs.

You turn your attention back to your phone and send him another text.

"Is everything alright, baby. Where are you??"

You see a *read* pop-up beside your message, but no reply following it.

You try to ignore the knot forming in your stomach. Normally, Sylus would respond right away—whether it was with a quick "I love you" or a silly comment about the breakfast you made for him. The fact that he hasn’t bothered to even text you back feels… wrong. It’s not like him. From the corner of your eye, you notice Kieran has started to fidget.

"You know something, don't you?" you narrow your eyes at the perplexed boy but he simply raises his hands. "I don't! Anyway, gotta run an errand. See ya, Y/N!" he blurts out, fleeing from the scene and leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Your appetite is gone now from anxiety pulling up in your abdomen, and you leave the spread you've made untouched and decide to unwind in the shower. You can't stop thinking about it and keep checking your phone every 5 minutes like a maniac to see if there are any updates from him. Heck, you even check the local news to see if anything is really up.

Time goes by like a snail on a journey and by the time the clock strikes 3 PM, you're exhausted from worrying.

You're laying on the bed, hopeless and shaky when the door to your room creaks open. You jump up and sit on your bed as Sylus enters the room, removing his leather jacket and placing his motorcycle helmet on one of the dressers.

"Where have you been?" you demand, slightly irritated. "And why haven't you been replying?"

Sylus uncuffs his sleeves and runs a hand through his light hair, heading towards the bath.

"I'm asking you something!" you raise your voice slightly, in case he somehow managed to miss what you said.

"Just busy." he replies shortly, voice devoid of much emotion.

Before he can shut himself in the bathroom, though, you get off the bed and run up to him frantically.

"Sylus, what's wrong, baby? Did I do something? You need to use your words." you say, holding on to his large arm with both of your shaky ones. He looks at you apprehensively and opens his mouth to say something.

Your phone cuts through the heavy air with three loud dings. You turn to look at it, and it starts ringing.

"I don't know, you tell me, Y/N." Sylus gives you a pained smirk as he removes his arm from your grasp and locks the bathroom door on your face.

He used my name. Not kitten, not sweetie, not honey! you think to yourself. It rarely happens that Sylus would resort to using your name. He adores you so much that he would come up with the cutest nicknames to call you.

You are stunned for a second and bite the inside of your cheek fervently on your way back to check your phone.

It's your hopeless, idiotic childhood friend spamming you again.

"Heyyy you uggo."

"Y'all reached home alright yesterday? you were pretty drunk, thank god your boyfriend came along to pick you up."

"Also what's with him, he's even bigger than me?? Also he looked like he wanted to strangle me?? WTF!!"

You sigh after reading the texts and start tapping away on your phone.

"Don't talk shit about him or I'll block you, Caleb. He's the most adorable person when you get to know him better."

you smile to yourself when you remember how your opinion of Sylus had transitioned when you got to know him better. You can't really blame Caleb here.

"Also, I reached home fine. Thanks for calling me, our class reunion went great. I wasn't hungover this morning, though, so was I even really that drunk?"

Caleb sent you a few thinking emojis.

"You were drunk enough to confess to me."

You almost dropped your phone when you read that. You didn't want to waste time texting, so you hit call. The phone rings twice before Caleb picks up.

"Hello?"

"Care to explain?" you hiss at him. "The fuckk are you talking about?"

"Oh calm down." Caleb dismissed you. "You were showing us a picture of your boyfriend, and the girls started swooning over him with endless praise to give."

"And?" you prod

"And well one of them asked what you'd do if the guy ever left you or broke up."

"He'd never-"

"Yes, let me finish." Caleb hissed back. "You told them you'd never do that and then perhaps as a joke, you mentioned that if he did, you'd hook up with and marry me, who had asked you out when we were little kids."

"You're right." you admit. "I certainly must have been drunk because what the hell, Caleb?"

"I know right!" Caleb feigned disgut but his voice sounded a little offended. "And that's when Mr. brooding handsome walked in. I think he just heard the last part. He looked taken aback, I'm not sure anyone else noticed because they were too busy gushing over how hot he was."

"Wait, Sylus heard what I rambled about?" you ask just to make sure. "He heard that I'd leave him and hook up with you?"

"Perhaps, that's my guess." Caleb acknowledges.

You feel as if someone had poured cold water on your head. It made sense now!

"Well thanks, mate. I needed this information. Talk to you later."

"But will you really marry me-"

you cut the call before he could finish.

Right on cue, Sylus exits the bath, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist and another one being used to dry his dripping hair. He doesn't make eye contact with you as he heads to the closet to look for a set of clothes to change into.

You approach him and run a finger down his wet back, making him curve it slightly at the stimulus.

"My baby..." you coo at him, hugging him from behind.

"You'll get yourself wet." he states, not turning around.

"Since when have you been afraid of getting me wet." you smirk, digging your face into his wide back.

"Let go," he mutters, his voice flat, as he attempts to pull away from your arms. But this time, you refuse to let go.

"Sylus, I'm sorry," you whisper, burying your nose into the warmth of his back. "I know what happened... it was a misunderstanding. I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

At your words, he finally turns to face you. His crimson eyes burn with a mix of disappointment and hurt, and the sight nearly shatters you. It’s all you can do not to break down in front of him.

"You wouldn't be saying such things if you hadn't been thinking about them. Alcohol brings out people's true nature, sweetheart."

"I wasn’t thinking about it!" you protest desperately, the words tumbling out in a rush. "The girls were teasing me, and I just wanted to show them that you’d never leave me. The thought of it is so absurd that I could joke about marrying Caleb—because it wouldn’t happen!"

His gaze hardens, and his next words land like a heavy blow. "You know how I feel about being abandoned, don’t you, Y/N?"

Your heart skips a beat. "That wasn’t my intention! Please, just—"

"Forget it." he cuts you off. "I don’t want to hear it. Humans are vile creatures. They’ll shower you with love, only to rip it away in an instant, leaving you broken and bleeding." His words are heavy with old scars as he turns away, his figure retreating from you.

"Sylus, wait—" You try reaching out, but he doesn’t look back. He won’t listen.

"I need time alone. Sorry," he says without pause, his voice distant as he walks out, leaving you standing in the quiet emptiness of your ornate bedroom.

You cling on to the hope that maybe Sylus will come back. You did apologize after all. He'll surely come back by night. He will forgive you. Surely, right?

You lay on the cold sheets, eyes wide open, staring at the intricate patterns on the ceiling of your beautiful bedroom, completely devoid of sleep. His huge bed seems to have tripled in size when he's not there, entangled with you, pressing fluttering kisses to your stomach.

When you wake up the next morning, groggy from absolute lack of sleep, and head downstairs, you find the house deserted.

You feel a chill run up your spine but remind yourself that it is Monday and you need to head to the Hunter's Association Office for the day's work.

On the way there, you text him.

"Have a good day, Sy. How are you feeling now? See you in the evening?"

*read*

The day goes by, and you return to a cold, dark house.

Caleb calls to check on you, but you're too restless to answer. Your nerves are frayed, and the phone just sits in your hand, silent. Another sleepless night drags on.

"Sylus, I'm scared," you text him again, your fingers trembling as you type. The thought of him not replying makes your chest tighten. You stare at the screen, willing him to respond. Ten minutes feel like hours before your phone finally chimes.

"The house is secured. No harm will come to you."

Another long night passes. Then another endless day, filled with battles against wanderers and endless paperwork, all while you’re haunted by the emptiness in the space where he should be.

This time when you pass through the door to the house, you slump to the ground, shaking and your chest heaving. You hear a crow's caw in the distance as you will yourself to get up and drag yourself to the bedroom. You're already looking chalkier than before thanks to barely eating or sleeping these past three days.

You hug your knees close as you check your phone again. This time you don't text him and hit the call button.

He picks up in three rings.

"I miss you." you tell him only to be met by silence.

"Please, I miss you. I can't do this, Sylus." you hear his footsteps, going somewhere but no reply.

"Do you really hate me that much now?" you ask with a quivering voice.

"Can I enter?" he speaks finally and you hear a soft knock on your door. You gasp as the phone drops out of your hand and the door swings open, revealing an uncharacteristically disheveled Sylus, who rushes over to you, removing his coat.

Your stomach turns as he wraps his arms around you.

"I can never hate you and you know that." His soft tone is back as his lips move over the shell of your ear. You grab onto his shirt so hard, fisting balls of fabric as if he will disappear again if you let go.

"Mephisto has been monitoring you for days and reporting back to me. I never once left you unattended."

"I-I'm s-sorry. I'm really sorry. I never meant to make you feel abandoned. You know-" tears pool up in your eyes.

"Shhh, sweetie." he presses a long finger to your fluttering lips.

"I'm sorry, I went too far." he says, pressing his forehead to yours. "If you're able to forgive me, let me make it up to you."

Something sparks inside your brain and you stop crying instantly.

"You-" you pull at his hair. "You stupid, gullible, annoying little-"

"Ah, ah, ah! my hair." Sylus lets out a mock scream, holding your wrists.

"I hate you, Sylus." you climb on top of his crotch and pin him flat to the bed.

"Do you really think that low of me?" you ask, roughly grabbing his chin with three of your fingers. He looks at you with his red eyes widening with excitement and astonishment. "Do you think I'd ever able to fall in love with another man after meeting you?" you demand, twisting his chin.

"Do you think I can ever sleep with someone else after getting a taste of you, you demonic little dragon!"

"I know, I know, kitten." he starts but you cut him off by pinching his lips shut and sinking down on him, your lips a mere inch from his. Sylus parts them in anticipation but the kiss he so fervently desires never comes. He bucks himself up to smooch you but you retract your body, making him slump down in defeat and irritation.

"Please?" He asks, his deep voice getting deeper with lust.

You don't reply.

"Please, Y/N? I need you so bad. It's been four days now." he begs, narrowing his eyes. You had just made love the night before that incident and unbeknownst to you, both of you were yearning for each others touch in merely a couple of days.

"I don't know. I heard you but I'm not going to answer!" you tease him, crossing your hands across your chest. "Really?" He raises a brow as he grabs you by the wrist and brings you down over him yet again, the wet trail of tears on your cheek transferring to his face now.

He kisses you like a starved animal, forcing his tongue into your mouth. He cages your head with his hands and doesn't let you resurface for air until your lust gets the best of you and you begin to roll your hips over his crotch in languid circles.

"F-fuck." he gasps, breaking the kiss and looking down to where your body meets his. You kiss him deeper to take his attention away from your lower bodies and simulatenously, you unzip his pants, feeling his bulge grow and threaten to burst from under his briefs. You massage it gratefully and tenderly as it squirms in your hands.

"Excited now, are we?" you purr at him, separating your lips from his while a link of saliva keeps the two of you connected. You kiss his nose.

"It's getting so big, why does it feel like it's bigger than my hand." You take one look underneath you and his angry pink tip is poking out his briefs at this point, pointing at you with desperation in its color.

"Oh, Sylus~"

"Enough now." Sylus snaps, suddenly rising from his position and gripping your hips to flip your positions. He greedily pulls down your panties and holds each of your legs in his robust hands to pin them close to your ears, letting your knees fall on his shoulders for some support with your dress riding up and bunching underneath your sore breasts.

He licks his lips as he eyes your leaking pussy.

"What is this?" He purrs back at you. "And you said I'm excited?" he plunges a finger into you as it makes a loud squelching noise, making your hands race to you hold his one hand in both of yours.

"W-wait."

"If you don't want this, I'll stop." He states darkly.

You blush and pout at him.

"I wanted the cock..."

Something clicks in Sylus' head as his eyes start gleaming with a rush of excitement.

"Getting greedy, aren't we?" He says, freeing his grown manhood from the confines of his boxers. He strokes it a few times to prep it for its grand entrance.

"Nghh.. hurry!" you squeal, trying to grab at his cock from your vulnerable position but he catches your hands mid-journey.

"Calm down." He grins at you, rubbing your slimy clit with his bulbous tip.

"I've waited enough." you tear up. "I've waited for days! For you to even look at me again."

"You really want it that bad kitten?" he asks, his expression twisting into one of pride as he towers over you.

"I want it, I want it so much. I want all of it!" you moan out as he pushes the tip inside your wet hole and brings it out, earning a whine from you.

"Hmm...?" he cocks his head to the side, continue to glide his tip over your clit as you fight the urge to squeeze your thighs together. You wouldn't be able to, when Sylus is holding your thighs next to your head and your hands in his tight one-handed grasp.

He uses the thumb of his other hand to rub circles on your clit while he swipes his tip up and down your nether lips, humming to himself. It feels so good, you feel a bubble grow inside your stomach.

"Oh god, I-" you gasp. But right before the bubble could burst, Sylus retracts himself completely and you widen your eyes at him.

"What did you just-"

"I don't know, kitten. Couldn't give you your high for free when you plan to marry someone else, now, can I?" he smirks at you as you tear up even more.

"N-no! Put it back!"

Sylus leans over and presses his tongue to your clit before your high can completely fade away.

"Yes! Yeah, like that!" you scream as flicks your sensitive nub and continues to hum, sending explosive pulsations throughout your nerves.

"Oh, oh! Sy-"

And then he retracts again.

This time, you fight against his grasp to grab his neck. But he's too big. Too strong.

He merely chuckles at your weak attempts to free yourself.

"Seriously, fuck you!" you screech at him. "Fuck you, Sylus."

"Ahaha, look at my angry little kitten. I love to tame you like this." He smiles at you with love but you just want him to fuck the brains out of you right now. You wriggle enough of your hand out of his grasp to start rubbing yourself but he is quick to notice.

"There, there." he pushes your hand back into his iron hold.

"Fine kitten, let me make sure you forget someone by the name of 'Caleb' even exists."

With that he finally puts his cock into your weeping hole, halfway. I-it won't fit just yet, earning an explosive gasp from you. Sylus cocks an eyebrow at you.

"T-too big." you manage to say.

"Oh, do I-"

"No!" you protest. "More. I want all of it. Put it all in. It's mine. Only mine."

"Look at you, sweetie. Sure you can take all of it? have my doubts." he teases but you are determined.

"I'm leaking all over the bed, now's the chance, Sy." you reassure him and with a smooth motion, he puts in his entire length into making you see the stars. It takes you a few seconds to come back to Earth when he finally starts moving. He's fully folded you into a mating press now, his sweat dripping onto your chest as he grunts and groans, his tip hitting your cervix at this point.

"More! I want more!" you say as if it was even possible to take in more but it just motivates Sylus to increase his pace and intensity. His wet hair now sticking to yours as he doubles down.

You feel your orgasm building up again with each powerful thrust of his.

"Remind me, who do you belong to?" he rasps, nearing his own high.

"That stupid fuckface. I'll bury him alive if I see hiim again."

"Sy-Sylus!" you scream, your insides tingling and your walls pulsating around his girth. "You! I only belong to you! I'm all yours!"

"That's right kitten." he growls. "You're only mine." with this he picks you up and place you onto his lap, pounding up into you hopelessly. With a near feral moan, you come undone on him and he follows after soon, shooting copious amounts of his seed right into you. The both of you rasp and gasp as you come down from your respective highs, pressing your foreheads together.

He doesn't pull out even when his cock goes soft and you smile sheepishly as you kiss his eyelids.

"My dragon. Only mine..."

You place a final kiss on his lips, chaste yet loving. Sylus looks at you like you're his entire world.

"If you pull this shit again baby." you warn him, keeping steady eye contact. "No sex for you for the next six months."

He gives you his signature smirk. "I'll just marry Caleb then." he says making you roll your eyes at him and punch his shoulder as the two of you giggle and pull the blanket over your heads.

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kyeomkuppie · 11 months ago

Text

SVT when they notice you not taking care of yourself.

Genre: fluff, sort of hurt/comfort?

Seungkwan, Minghao, Wonwoo

He is not impressed. He isn't the type to get mad at you, so when you look across the room and notice him glaring at you, you felt yourself shrinking. He'd get up close your laptop, snatch away your papers, make you a decent meal instead of the cup noodles you've been devouring since last week and just simply say "sit." Although right now he's giving you the cold face, the fact that he made you a meal and is watching you like a hawk so you don't leave a single crumb proves how much he loves you. Later on he'd guide you to bed and cuddle you to sleep, telling you work could wait.

Dokyeom, Mingyu, Jun, Hoshi

He'd immediately swoop you off your feet (literally) and turn on a movie, get the snacks ready and massage your shoulders, telling you to just enjoy and stop stressing yourself out. He'd tell softly tell you off but he wouldn't be too sharp with you because he wants your thoughts to be all sunshine and daisies.

Jihoon, Jeonghan, Seungcheol

I feel like he'd know what it's like to be overworked and exhausted but at the same time wanting to go on. You've always taken care of him when he overexerts himself so he'd definitely want to do the same. Unlike the others, he'd try to be more subtle at first. He'd tell you that you'll collapse if you go on and you just wouldn't listen so he decided to take matters into his own hands and do it himself. He'd probably remind you to take breaks and if you don't listen, oh you're in for a big scolding.

Joshua, Vernon, Dino

He's the type who'd definitely get you a warm cup of tea as you work. He knows it's necessary but he'll also try his best to take care of you his own way. He'd get you warm drinks and food to keep you going. When he notices the darkness under your eyes he'd offer you his shoulder to lean on and slowly pat your back as you drift off to sleep. He'd later carry you to bed and clean your desk for you.

Reblogs and comments are appreciated!

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delulujuls · 1 year ago

Text

tinder buddies | ln4

hi! i have no idea how to comment on that. i've got inspiration from the rumors that are now going on twitter and tiktok about lando and his activity in sm and i thought man, i need to write something in this narrative because sexting with him??? scuse me??? but of course all of this is fiction and and i dont have any statement on the rumors about lan, mostly because all of these are rumors and not facts. anyway, pls leave his poor papaya ass alone and enjoy this instead!

summary: when you met your tinder buddy irl and realize how indeed world is small

warnings: masturbation on cam (both male and female), bit of swearing, in general alott of sexual tention

pairing: fem!journalist!reader x lando norris

Y/N thought that she was good at what she was doing. She thought that despite her young age she fit in the world of motorsport really well. Sometimes it even crossed her mind that she was no different from her older colleagues, what's more, sometimes she even thought that she was better than them. However, she admitted this only to herself with complete modesty and behind tightly closed doors.

Apart from the fact that Y/N was a really good journalist whose career was growing at a surprising pace, at the end of the day she was just a twenty-two-year-old girl who, like many other twenty-two-year-old girls in the world, had her smaller and bigger sins.

Y/N breathed heavily as she entered her hotel room. She set her suitcase and bag aside, taking off her shoes and plopping down on the bed. It was well after midnight, her flight was delayed by several hours and she was simply exhausted by the passing day. Even though she was excited about the events that awaited her in a few hours, right now she was just tired. However, she knew perfectly well what would help her relax before going to sleep. Not so much what, but who.

The girl unlocked her phone and easily found the Instagram icon, clicking on it and going straight to the messages. She entered the first conversation and was about to write some prosaic message, but she didn't have time to type out half of the sentence when a new message appeared in the chat.

"u up?"

Y/N smiled to herself. It looked like she could count on a pleasant end to the day.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing"

The reply message appeared a moment later.

"i was waiting for you to be available. i thought the evening would be wasted"

"And yet you see, surprise"

The person on the other end smiled and untied the drawstring on his sweatpants. He quickly wrote his answer with one hand.

"wanna call?"

"I think you know the answer"

She smiled and reached for the switch and turned off the light, pressing the camera icon with her other hand.

Y/N and the boy she had been messaging with for a little over a month knew next to nothing about each other. She had a private account and a few photos, he had a black icon and an empty profile. He only knew her name, she only the first letter of his. They met on Tinder, their profiles there looked quite similar. She has a few photos, more of the body than the face, he has the same, mostly in black and white. They had never seen each other's faces, but they knew each other's bodies inside and out.

Y/N placed her phone on the table and leaned it against the lamp, which she turned on a moment later. The light from it was dim, but it illuminated her body enough. The angle her phone was at only showed her from the neck down. She was perfect at maintaining her privacy.

"New background?"

He asked, seeing that the surroundings behind her were different from those he had seen before. She pulled her sweatshirt over her head, leaving her in only a bra and a thin t-shirt.

"I'm away from home"

"Work?"

"Too many questions"

There was quiet laughter on the other side. He liked her temperament. He liked her curves even more and the sounds she made when, at his command, she pushed her fingers inside her and brought herself to orgasm. Yes, he liked that too.

"Yeah, you're right. Strip."

Y/N pulled the t-shirt over her head and her interlocutor saw a red, lace bra that he never seen on her before. He smiled and ran his hand over his crotch. He felt a chill run through him.

"You look good, baby. Red suits you"

She laughed and pushed her hair behind her shoulders.

"Is this the first time you gonna tell me to keep my bra on?"

"For now, yes. I'd love to look at it for a while" he squeezed his cock and began to lightly massage it through the fabric. "You know what to do, dont'cha?"

Y/N bit her lip and lifted her hands, placing them gently on her shoulders. She slowly moved them down her body and when she found her breasts, she slowly started massaging them in circular motions. She closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly, hearing the sigh that came from her phone. He watched her carefully, following her every move.

"Take it off," he said after a while, "It's pretty, but I think I prefer you without it."

She quickly took off her bra and threw it aside. He smiled at the sight of her breasts. Y/N returned to them, continuing their massage. As she lightly pinched her nipples, she moaned softly. His cock vibrated at the sound that came from his headphones. He smiled.

"Does it feel good, baby?"

"Mhm, yeah" she answered, looking again at her phone "But you're playing unfair again. I have to see you too."

He chuckled and shook his head.

"You don't let me enjoy you"

He replied and put down the phone, quickly pulling his shirt over his head. He fell back on the pillows and turned on the light on his phone. Y/N smiled at the sight of the familiar, slightly tanned and toned torso. Her interlocutor didn't see it, but she smiled even more when he tightened his hand on his cock, which was now clearly visible on the gray material of his trousers.

"Take off the rest of your clothes and lie down"

He ordered. Y/N obediently lay down, taking off her pants and underwear. When the rustle of fabric could be heard on the other side, he easily freed himself from his pants and tight, slightly damp boxers. He spat on his hand and spread the saliva over his cock, feeling it tighten under his touch. Fuck, what he would give if instead of his hand it was this tiny hand that disappeared between the pair of thighs he saw on the screen of his phone.

The girl complied with his command and he saw her middle finger slowly sinking inside her, only to come out after a while covered with her juices.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, "You're so wet, baby."

“I wish you were here and licked me clean.”

Y/N said, rubbing her clit. She felt that she wouldn't need much to reach orgasm.

Her interlocutor smiled under his breath, but she wasn't able to see it.

"I'm afraid that i would make you even more wet."

"Someone has quite an ego here"

"I know my capabilities, baby."

She snorted under her breath and made herself more comfortable, inserting her finger into herself again. First one, quite slowly, and soon she added another one. A long moan filled the hotel room as she began to move them, imagining that it was not her but him who was fucking her. And not with his fingers, but with his wet, hard cock.

"Yeah, just like that, baby. Keep going."

His eyes carefully followed the screen and the activities taking place on it. His hand moved smoothly over his cock, his lips were slightly opened. As he was stroking himself, the glass of his watch on his wrist reflected the light from the phone. He wore it every time they cam together. Y/N didn't know anything about watches, so she didn't know what brand it was or whether it was expensive. They never talked about it, honestly, they basically never had a normal chat. However, he once asked her about the tattoo on her forearm, just below the inner bend of her elbow. He noticed it after the first time they met on camera. When it was all over and they were about to hang up and return to their real lives, he asked about it.

"What does 33 mean?"

He asked when the girl started getting dressed.

"What?"

"Tattoo on your arm"

The girl looked at her forearm and only then did she understand what he was asking about.

"I can't tell you because you'll make fun of me"

Hearing this, he smiled. Not because there was probably some stupid story behind it, but because the girl was concerned about not looking bad in front of him. Even though they absolutely didn't know each other.

"I barely know your name, I don't know why I would make fun of you."

Y/N was silent for a moment, glancing at her tattoo and lightly stroking it with her thumb.

"Do you know Formula 1?"

He smiled and nodded. His reaction, however, was beyond her reach.

"I know a thing or two"

"My favorite driver drives with this number. Well, actually he did, now his number is 1. But for me it will still be associated with 33"

The girl explained. She felt a bit embarrassed to expose herself to him, especially with something like this. However, he did not laugh at her or comment on her confession in any negative way.

"I have a friend who is also involved in motorsport and has the same number. Actually, not anymore, because he also had to change it. But for me it will also be associated only with 33"

Y/N smiled at his words. Sometimes she wondered if they could become friends and get to know each other a little better. But then she decided to come down to earth and remind herself that she had no time for relationships or friendships. Now the most important thing for her is work and career, everything else can wait. After all, no one will satisfy her as much as herself. Right?

"Fuck, I could fill you so good, baby," he moaned, gasping for breath. He felt that he was only seconds away from orgasm "You have no idea how much pleasure I would give you."

The girl's lips were opened, her eyelids were shut tightly. She massaged her clit with her left hand and moved the fingers of her right hand inside her in quick, uneven movements.

"I'm about to- I…oh my god-"

“Yes, baby, thats it" he gasped, speeding up "Cum for me.”

She felt a wave of pleasure wash over her. The moment her back arched, she heard a long "fuck" coming from her phone. He came shortly after her, staining his toned abs with his sperm. He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back, trying to calm his breathing. There was silence on both sides for a moment, neither of them moving an inch.

After some time, Y/N sat on the bed and reached for a tissue, wiping her hands on it.

"I have to go now. I have a lot of work waiting for me tomorrow."

"Me too. I wanted to let you know that we may not be able to have a call tomorrow."

He answered, also wiping himself.

“It's okay, no big deal,” Y/N replied and took one last look at the muscled, tanned torso visible on her phone screen, “Good night. And good luck with your chores tomorrow.”

“Good night, baby. You too.”

She smiled and reached for her phone, ending the call. Exhausted from the previous day and the evening cam session, she just buried herself in the blanket and shortly after fell asleep. The next day, when her alarm went off, she was full of energy despite several hours of sleep. She couldn't wait for saturday's qualifying and all she was thinking about as she was getting ready was whether she would be able to get good material.

As she put on her red bra, she smiled involuntarily as she remembered last night. She wondered if he had already gotten lost in the whirlwind of his today's duties. Y/N quickly got dressed, gathered her things and, putting her pass around her neck, left the hotel. When she got to the track and was in the paddock, she couldn't think about anything else. Her only thoughts revolved around what was going to happen on the track in a few dozen minutes. However, for a split second she wondered what her tinder buddy actually knew about Formula 1. Maybe they could have something to talk about? Maybe she could even take him to some grand prix?

Her thoughts disappeared when she noticed Lando Norris hanging around the McLaren garage. The girl asked the cameraman to prepare the equipment and she would ask the Brit if he would be willing to have a short conversation. She squeezed the microphone in her hand and without thinking, she approached him, introducing herself and asking if it was possible to record a short conversation.

Hearing her name, his heart did a flip. He knew that name very well.

"Sure, no problem"

He replied with a smile, obviously not revealing himself, and ran his hand through his hair. The glass of the watch strapped to his wrist gleamed in the sunlight. Y/N had seen this watch before. Many times.

The girl smiled back and, hearing his agreement, gave a thumbs up to the cameraman. When she raised her hand, the sleeve of her shirt rolled up, and Lando's eyes involuntarily caught the tattoo on her forearm. A slight 33, just below the bend in the elbow.

He felt a sudden wave of heat wash over him. It's a coincidence, right? It must be.

"How's your mood before qualifying?"

Y/N asked, putting the microphone down and straightening her shirt. As she was arranging her collar, Lando's eyes caught a glimpse of her red bra strap. He smiled to himself and looked down. He wondered how many accidents and coincidences had come together in the universe and resulted in this situation.

"What? Something wrong?"

The girl asked, not knowing what made him react like that.

He shook his head and after a moment looked up again. He looked at the girl carefully. However, she was completely lost and looked at him questioningly.

"Sorry, as you can probably see, my mood is great. I'm positive about today's qualifying."

Y/N tentatively gripped her microphone. When the cameraman approached them, they started recording the footage and she had no time to analyze Lando's strange behavior. In fact, it was possible that this was their first and last conversation ever, so why should she care about it. When they managed to record a short material, Y/N thanked him and wished him successful qualifications. After that everyone went their separate ways.

Immediately after entering the garage, Lando found his phone buried in a pile of his things. He quickly entered his latest conversation on Instagram and, without thinking, decided to send the girl a message. Worst case scenario, he'll just make a fool of himself, which isn't a big deal since they don't know each other at all. At best, he would spend tonight as he had long dreamed of.

"ure even prettier than i thought, baby."

Y/N felt a vibration in her pants pocket and without thinking, she unlocked her phone. She was surprised to see a notification coming from Instagram, and she was even more surprised when she noticed who sent her the message. After reading it, she felt a cold sweat break out on her. However, she decided to think and act soberly.

"How do you know what I look like?"

"turn around"

Lando replied quickly and leaned against the threshold of his garage. The girl clutched her phone in her hands and obeyed his command with her heart beating wildly. Lando smiled at her, holding his still unlocked phone. Y/N felt a lack of saliva in her mouth. It's impossible, it's not really happening.

"Are you sure we're looking at the same person?"

She replied, having difficulty pressing the appropriate keys with her fingers. He was amused by her reaction. This whole situation didn't make sense to him. It was crazy.

"im looking at a pretty neat journalist with a mad bunda who has a tattoo with my friend's racing number. and u?"

Y/N blushed. Fuck. It's him.

"I see that your jumpsuit is a little tight in some places."

Lando snorted under his breath. The girl wasn't lying. The whole situation made quite an impression on him.

Y/N bit her lip and looked up. She'd be lying if she said it wasn't arousing.

"u know exactly why its tight"

"I guess I have to find out in real life. The camera likes to lie."

When she sent the message, she looked up again and their eyes locked. The Brit winked at her and quickly replied, turning on his heel and disappearing into the depths of the garage.

"my driver's room in five minutes. ill be happy to dispel your doubts"

#f1 imagines #f1 one shot #f1 #formula 1 #f1 oneshots #f1 imagine #lando norris #ln4 #lando norris x reader #lando norris smut

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sailorsoons · 13 days ago

Text

Texas Sun (l.sm)

ASSIGNMENT: Outrider!Seokmin x f. reader

MISSION DEBRIEF: Seokmin remembers nothing before the Station. Just the unending desert, the cobalt sky overhead, and kill any machine he sees. Then one day, he finds you and forgets everything he’s ever been trained to do.

LOG COUNT: 27,020

ASSIGNMENT TYPE: Dystopian AU, Futuristic

MISSION ELEMENTS: Angst, Strangers to Lovers, Smut

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

DANGERS: Ambiguous world building, a bit of an unreliable narrator, depictions of intense loneliness and depression, depictions of hallucinations/heat exhaustion, intense combat scenes with machines, depiction of minor injuries, mentions of reader being held captive, some light social commentary on life vs. machine/what constitutes a Thing as Living, reader and DK are a bit awkward (they're never around people ok!!!!), depiction of blood/minor hand injury, explicit language, explicit sexual content including oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (v awkward convo about this because .. you'll see in the context it makes sense), implied both DK and reader are virgins, multiple orgasms, a bit of a distressing scene at the end.

MISSION NOTES: This is an idea I have had for about eight months and I am finally taking the time to do it. I am so so excited to bring you this fic, and it has been so much fun to write. I hope you enjoy this very unique world as much as I do. This story is a bit inspired by Horizon Zero Dawn, Fallout, Zoids and The Creator.

MISSIONS NOTES 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading and leaving several comments telling me to stop writing for free I love you

MAIN MASTERLIST | ASK | ▷ NOW PLAYING: TEXAS SUN

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, JUNE 28, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 115 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … EIGHT

AN ENDLESS COBALT SKY STRETCHES OVER STATION 0218. Always endless, always fathomless. Seokmin has never seen where the sky begins or ends. He doesn’t know if the blue is different in other parts of the world. Doesn’t remember if everywhere else the sun sizzles against the blue, a burning orange hole singeing its way across the entire expanse of sky before it sinks toward the horizon and turns the world purple. Pink. Gold.

The days are hot, even when he manages to keep the Station cool. It’s an old, small Station, meant to only occupy a single Outrider. He’s been the only one that he knows of here. Just him, the groaning generator, the cracked sunpanels, and the orange dust.

Seokmin thinks the dust is the worst part. It clings to every part of him, crawling into places he doesn’t know existed, never reachable, always there. It dries out his mouth, makes his teeth feel gritty. Burns his eyes, turning them red and raw and stinging.

He can’t escape the dust. It’s everywhere. He thinks if he cracked open his chest cavity to look at his beating heart, he’d find the dust there, encasing the very soul of him.

In an attempt to keep most of the dust out of his mouth, he’s pulled his cloth high up on his face. It hugs him just under the eyes, digging in and chafing him as sweat runs from his hairline in rivulets. Every part of him is dripping in sweat, the sun baking him through the layers of sun protection he has on.

This part he doesn’t mind so much. He stays hydrated, pumping cool, crisp water from the well just outside the station. The well is the only place the dust doesn’t reach, and he’s thankful, especially now as he paused to sip from a thermos, pulling the cloth off his face to take long draughts.

In the distance, the Gods loom. They’re not really Gods, but he doesn’t know the name of the terracotta-colored mountains that stretch against the cobalt sky. They’ve watched him for as long as he’s been at Station 0218, so he feels like they’re the closest thing he’s ever had to protection of a higher power.

Station 0218 exists in the middle of a flat desert, a few thousand yards away from the foot of a small range of mountains to the north at the edge of a dry basin. To the south, there’s nothing but packed clay, tall weeds and agave plants dotting the ground, and a tiny smear of shadow that he knows is a large limestone formation, cracked and crumbling as it bakes in the sun before washing out in the rainy season.

It’s far past the rainy season now. The air hangs heavy and heated like the simmering air of an oven. He feels it when he breathes in, sees the shimmer of heat in the distance. Thirst satiated, he takes a moment to pant, wiping a sleeve over his sweating brow.

There’s no fence to denote the proper perimeter of the Station, but Seokmin knows the property line even in the dark. He had to learn it, knowing that there are mines planted under the ground. While they’re only supposed to go off when triggered by a Dig Machine, they’re old and he’d rather not take his chances.

For most of his small life on Station 0218, Seokmin’s days are wash, rinse, repeat. He does his scouting, he maintains the Station, he logs his day. He keeps himself alive. He kills machines when they enter his territory, which stretches in a perfect 20 mile radius. He still watches the land outside of that, sometimes catching machines traveling outside of their usual paths.

Machines learn. It’s what makes them so dangerous, and is ultimately what had led to the Machine War. But machines, like humans, are creatures of habit. They know the shortest way to cross a barren wasteland. They move in the same syncopated patterns they always have. They are, at the end of the day, beholden to their settings, driven by an instinct they cannot always override.

In a way, Seokmin feels like that. His life before being assigned to his post is blurry at best. They say it’s better to not remember and to reflect on all of the people you wouldn’t be able to see, that it’s better not to drift in your memories while you’re in solitude.

So they take the memories, leaving only the training and instinct gained from preparing to be an Outrider and man his solitary post.

This life is lonely. He tries not to think about it. Throws himself into his work. Scouts. Maintains. Logs. Kills.

There is nothing else that he knows.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, JUNE 29, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES OVERNIGHT, 72 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … NINE

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

The song plays throughout the station, backtracking the crackle of a hot pan. It smells like spiced chicken, oil popping. Seokmin hisses and snatches his hand back. Cursing softly, he lowers the heat on the stove, realizing it’s too high in an attempt to cook it faster.

The kitchen around him is small, but well put together. The metal cabinets are a bit dinged up and the fridge hums louder than it should, but everything works. Even the stove, which he had to rewire by hand a few months ago when it went out.

Scavenged parts and aging tech litter the counters of the living space just beyond. Faded schematics cover the walls alongside yellowing warning labels for the various tech inside the Station. A cracked touch screen interface blinks near the entrance, looping with various descriptions of the machines commonly found in this part of the world.

Behind him, a ventilation fan clanks unevenly, blades ticking like a slow metronome. The overhead lights flicker as the general air conditioning kicks on and settles again, all while his favorite song backtracks the sounds of his everyday life.

Seokmin hums along with the melody, swaying slightly as he flips his chicken. Cooking isn’t a daily ritual for him, but he likes to do it on Friday nights. Most nights, he settles for the nutrient meals the Alliance Against Machines provides. They’re efficient and protein rich, but they’re forgettable.

So on Fridays he cooks a real meal to celebrate the weekend.

It doesn’t matter that there’s no such thing as a weekend for Seokmin. He has nowhere to spend it. No one to spend it with. He doesn’t do less work because there’s always work to be done, and it doesn’t mean that he can ever drop his guard.

The weekend is something he only has a vague concept of, but like this little ritual carved out of monotony: chopping vegetables, simmering sauces, using up fresh ingredients dropped by airship earlier that week.

He cooks. He plays his favorite song, worn and warbling slightly through the old Station speakers. He pours a glass of wine. And he pretends, for just a little while, that he’s someone else. Somewhere else.

And for a short while, the possibilities are endless.

Say you wanna hit the highway while the engine roars

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 105 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

Alarms yank Seokmin from sleep. He’s already vertical and moving before he’s fully awake, body reacting on instinct. He’s halfway into his gear before he realizes it’s a machine warning. The overhead lights pulse red, strobing in the company room. It’s enough to give him a headache, the shrill and surgical blare of the alarm doubling the irritation.

He buckles his weapons belt around his waist with practiced efficiency. The satisfying click of the holster lock centers him, grounding him more than the metal floor beneath his heavy boots. He grabs a rifle off of the wall, modded for heat signatures and pulse interferences that come from machines. It feels heavier than usual, but then again, he hasn’t had coffee yet.

He glances at the clock and curses. 0300.

The screen in his bedroom flickers, blue text drifting across as a readout from the sensors scroll in.

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … SKULKER … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 095… 4 MPH NORTHBOUND

He grimaces. They’re not his favorite machine to eliminate. They’re built to blend in, to hide. Covered in chameleon plating, their panels are made with adaptive AI that uses sensors to replicate the scenery around them, making them near invisible. In the daylight, they’re difficult to see. At night, they’re near impossible.

Seokmin will need to go into this blind with only heat maps to help him, but even that’s a challenge. PLEDIS CORP Skulker models made from the Unit 093 and up all have internal cooling systems to combat being detected on thermal scopes and readers, even with equipment far more advanced than what Seokmin has.

Hunting them is difficult. The desert is vast, but not empty, and if he’s smart - patient - he’ll manage. Stealth is the name of the game. Though Skulkers don’t travel in packs, they’re one of the few scout machines that are designed to fight back, and he’s not exactly looking for a brawl with a heavy duty scout.

Pulling on a lightweight mesh that will shield him against heat and a spray of light-ammo bullets, he thinks of a game plan. He pulls his tactical vest over the mesh, zips it up. Pulls a pair of clear glasses that flicker to life, red text appearing across the lenses as they calibrate.

The glasses flicker and he curses. Of course. Skulkers emit low-frequency pulses that jam basic tech, and though his Station might be able to continue data pull and readouts, something as simple as his glasses won’t. He takes them off and throws them on the bed. He’s just going to have to do it without the help of the Station, which serves as his only companion in these fights, serving as a base and intelligence system.

Stations are the closest that the New World will come to using AI ever again.

Sighing, Seokmin goes for more analog tech. A homing beacon that uses radar instead of data reading sensors or internet signals, but will at least tell the Alliance where to look for his body if he dies - he doesn’t know if they’ll come get it - and glasses made for switching between night and thermal vision.

He moves quickly now as the Station finishes the readout. The machine is ambling along, in no rush. Based on its movement, he thinks it’s scouting the perimeter of Seokmin’s sector, which most likely means the machine knows there’s a Station nearby.

Seokmin will have to be extra careful. The last time he’d been caught unawares by a Skulker had nearly been his last, and the Alliance had needed to send extra medical supplies in his weekly drop from the passing airship. Not that they sent a doctor, of course. Isolation was Seokmin’s duty here. They’d just given him enough to fight off the infection and seal his wounds himself.

Tonight, he’s not in armor to protect him, either. Wearing the heavy tech armor that is life-saving against Dig Machines or War Machines is detrimental against a scout. It’s too heavy and filled with too many sensors, essentially leaving him dead in the water to a machine built for scanning.

Heading to the door, he powers down the Station to all but the reserve energy. He doesn’t need the hum of electricity serving as a beacon, and he doesn’t want any light giving him away.

Outside, the world is velvet-black. The stars are scattered across the sky like shrapnel, the moon low behind the mountains, giving it a ghoulish halo. Shadows shift with each gust of wind, dust peppering Seokmin as he heads north.

If it were another machine, he’d used the speedbike. It would certainly get him there a lot faster. But Scout Machines are built to sense things at a far greater distance, and even though Seokmin has a scatterwave on to attempt to hide himself from the machine’s sensors, he’ll be more vulnerable tonight than he is with any other machine.

Skulkers are designed for darkness. They wait, camouflaged against rock and plant life, listening and watching, gathering data to broadcast whatever they see, hear, and smell to whatever machine territories they belong to.

During the war, they were scouts. Now, they serve more or less the same purpose, but there’s not exactly thriving machine territories to report back to anymore. After humanity had finally defeated most of the machines with a virus, there were very few pockets of machine society left. Most of them had fled to the west, forming small societal hives. Occasionally, they tried to re-enter human society, which is where Seokmin came in handy.

The desert night is a different kind of alive. Every one of Seokmin’s footsteps feels like a mine going off. The cold air cuts through his clothes, but it’s nice. The wind plays tricks on him, whispering through the agave plants and spinning up dust devils that look vaguely like human shapes.

He moves at a steady, deliberate pace. After a while, he checks his watch. He’s about halfway to where the Skulker originally triggered the alarm system, so he crouches behind a dead scrub brush, lowering to a single knee to press the side of his glasses. They flicker to life and he sets them to thermal vision.

A smear of colors appear before him, most of them various shades of blue and purple, indicating a lack of heat. Some plants are almost pink in nature, cool but retaining a little warmth from the long day in the sun. He spots a tiny flare of red in an underbrush - a desert mouse, nosing around.

No immediate danger appears on the horizon. It doesn’t mean the Skulker isn’t out there. The thermal isn’t a foolproof system, especially if the machine knows an Outrider might be lurking around the night looking for it.

So he gets up and starts walking again. Takes a sip from the small straw in his jacket that’s attached to the water pack lined in his vest. He keeps the thermal on, scanning the horizon back and forth, on alert. He thinks of the lyrics to his favorite song, missing the taste of the meal from last night and the sweet, cherry taste of the wine.

The blots of red desert mice vanish at some point. Seokmin slows down his pace before dropping to his knees again, pressing the side of his glasses to expand his thermal reach. There’s no chirping bats, no singing crickets, not even the howl of wind here.

Heavy silence sits on him.

Slowly, he scans back and forth. Then, just for a second, the terrain stutters. A barely perceptible shimmer of pink to purple appears several hundred yards away near the rim of the salt basin. It looks like a tear in reality trying to sew itself shut, there and gone again. Black.

Seokmin marks the spot on his wrist pad. Swipes his fingers across it to zoom out and look at the overall map, despite the fact that he knows exactly where he is. He taps his knee and then pulls a pulse beacon from his vest. It’s tiny, barely larger than a marble, and he drops it into the brush before getting up and turning to the west, where he knows there’s a rocky outcrop he can climb.

He heads there swiftly, keeping his steps light, leaving the pulse beacon behind. His breath is coming in short and labored by the time he gets to the outcrop and starts climbing, eager to get in position and ready before the Skulker vanishes into the dry, cracked mud of the salt basin.

A scorpion crunches under his boot as he finds a narrow outlet to crawl in. He grimaces. Feels guilty. He doesn’t like them, but he feels a sort of kinship with them, alone in the desert. Survivors.

“Sorry,” he whispers, then slides down to the ground to lay on his belly.

It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to lay himself flat. He braces his rifle on the edge of the outcrop and takes off his glasses to peer through the scope.

The desert stretches before him like a graveyard. Silent. Still. Cold.

Carefully, he taps his wrist pad to remote turn on the pulse beacon. For a second, nothing happens. He clenches his teeth, knowing that the signal to the device is struggling to go through. He does it again, finger tapping the side of his rifle.

This time, it works. A green dot flashes on his wrist pad before he turns it to dark mode and turns on his scatterwave to hide any remaining frequency and signals from the tech on his person.

Licking his lips, Seokmin levels his eye with the scope again, watching. At first, there’s nothing. Then, he sees movement. The pulse beacon has done its job. It’s not exactly bait, but the low frequency it emits is similar to the same tech humans used in the war. The Skulker, out of pure instinct, won’t be able to resist investigating.

Seokmin watches, waiting for the movement again. For a while, there’s nothing. He chews the inside of his cheek. Feels dust bite at him as wind crests over the outcrop. A ripple catches his attention, not where he marked it last. It’s closer now, moving away from the basin toward where he left the beacon.

Without the moon, Seokmin is in a blanket of midnight. All he can see are the blue shapes of plants and the occasional shiver of pink as it reforms, twisting faintly in the dark before it vanishes again.

A thermal outline appears again. This time, lighting up red as a desert mouse catches the Skulker off guard, making it flare into a quadrupedal silhouette with a lean body that stands roughly two meters off the ground. He can’t make out all of the features of the machine, but he knows them by memory: elongated legs, an angular head with a sharp muzzle, glowing eyes that swap between spectrums, dangerous claws that can shred through limbs.

The shape vanishes and Seokmin holds his breath. He slides his finger to the trigger, sliding his thumb across the safety. He feels the weight of the weapon in his hand, the coolness of the rock beneath his stomach. He inhales. Holds it. Lets it out. Inhales. Holds it. Lets it out.

A ripple appears as the Skulker crawls on its belly toward the beacon and Seokmin lines the shot before the glimmer vanishes again. He inhales again. Holds it. And squeezes the trigger.

The crack of the rifle splits the night. The Skulker jerks violently as the bullet tears through one of its front stabilizers. Red and yellow explode in the scope as sparks fly off the machine. It’s not hiding now, colors violently glimmering. Seokmin doesn’t panic, flipping the scope to night vision.

Bursts of heat and red are replaced with flat green. He can see the machine now, writhing as it lets out a scream - not a sound exactly, but something like a spike in air pressure, a raw pulse that explodes outward like a sonic wave.

Dust blows in Seokmin’s face but he doesn’t flinch, letting it burn his eyes. The Skulker doesn’t need to use thermals to find Seokmin. It’ll know where the bullet came from and it charges, fast and erratic right at the outcrop where Seokmin hides.

He doesn’t panic. He tracks the machine through the scope, even as it zigzags, moving in wide, jerking arches that might fool a worse marksman.

He exhales and fires again. The second shot hits center mass, cracking the machine’s chestplate. It falters, but doesn’t fall. Instead, it speeds up, closing the distance fast enough that Seomkin hears it now, all grinding machine and metal screeching against metal.

It nears the outcrop. Seokmin reloads. Aims. Fires.

The machine drops. He watches it through the scope, watching as the lights go out, the gears stop working, and the wires stop sparking. He doesn’t move for a long time. Machines don’t typically play dead, but he doesn’t like Skulkers.

Eventually, he lowers his rifle and yawns. Wind howls around him and he gets up from his spot, muscles spasming, joints cracking. Slinging the strap of his gun over his shoulder, he makes his way down, hopping and landing carefully.

He finally lands with a thud next to the Skulker. He toes the machine, squinting in the dark night as he looks at the bullet holes. They had torn through the metal, but he’s surprised to see just how thick the metal is. That unsettles him. He doesn’t recall this unit having reinforced metal but… well. He hasn’t come across one in a while, and he’s tired.

Instead of worrying about it, he leaves the machine there, turning to head home. He’ll go get it later when it isn’t dead in the middle of the night, and after he’s had a well-deserved cup of coffee.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … TUESDAY, JULY 2, 8099

WEATHER … PARTLY CLOUDY SKIES, 115 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

An endless sky stretches over Station 0218. It’s hot and bone-dry. Tufts of clouds drift in the distance, curling the Gods' heads like frothy halos. It’s just past dusk, a bruised sky yawning overhead. The sun has vanished beyond the rim of the world, the last few streams of gold light fading rapidly. Wind stirs up dust around his boots, but he doesn’t give it a lot of mind.

The work bench outside the Station is half-shadowed under a metal canopy. He’d welded it together from the metal plates of a Dig Machine he’d eliminated a few years ago. On top of that are solar panels that he has to dust off constantly, trying to keep them in tip-top shape to power the Station..

The bench itself is scorched and dark with old burns, gouges, and acid stains. He’s not a mechanic by trade, but over the last few years, he’s managed to figure a few things out - and keep all his fingers. It’s a reliable work space. Solid. Like everything else he manages to keep running.

Now, he works on stripping parts of the Skulker. He removed the armored panels from the main body, which he had dragged with the armored truck there the morning after he’d eliminated it. Now, the carcass is nothing but twisted metal and a vague shape as he disassembles it for whatever he can use.

He’s managed to start separating the fine mesh-metals that cover the panels of the Skulkers body. He doesn’t know if he can use it to sew into his own gear to imitate the camouflaging of the machine, but he intends to try. The metal is a strange material, almost biological in nature with butterfly-wing texture.

The skull of the machine sits on the top of the work bench. The sharp angels of the snout catch the hanging lights outside the station. One side is blown open, the optics shattered and fused, but the other lens is intact. He leans in close, working a flat tool between the housing and the mountain plate, brow furrowed in concentration.

It pops free with a soft click and he grins, placing the eye in the tray of salvageable parts he’s got going. He can wire the eyes of machines like cameras around the entire sector, setting them up so they run extra information for him. Scout Machine eyes are particularly useful, and he’s glad to have one eye if not both.

Seokmin pulls off his gloves and flexes his fingers. They’re sore and callused, a few knuckles raw from where he’d scraped them earlier when trying to pry the mesh-metal off the armor plates.

It’s quiet in the desert now. No new alerts coming in, no scream of metal. No machines prowling. Nothing but the buzz of wind and the occasional hawk as it dives to catch one of the various prizes the desert floor has to offer.

He wipes the sweat from his temple with the back of his wrist then picks up the disassembled parts. He stands, propping the tray against his hip as he swings his leg over the bench and heads inside. Crickets choir as he walks up the step, kicking his boots against them to knock as much dust off as he can before he ducks inside.

Cool air kisses his sweaty skin. He dumps the tray on the kitchen table and sits down, melting into the chair. He’s tired, but he wants to sift through the tray of parts before he finally gives up and scrubs the sweat and dust off his skin.

Heaving a sigh, he starts to sort through the parts. He turns on his favorite song, the guitar strums humming through his speaker, turning to deep vibrations when the drums and base set in.

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

He starts sorting. Optics and sensors to the left, cooling coals to the right, screws and bolts that he can add to his collection for around the station in their own pile. He comes across a joint mount, thumb-sized and not out of place except - when he grabs it, it’s light. Lighter than most pieces that exist in the joints of machinery.

Licking his lips, Seokmin turns it over a few times in his hands. There’s nothing off about it… no, there is. He brushes his thumb across something and squints, holding it closer to the light burning above his head. There are tiny marks on it, imperceptible lines where it’s been welded, like it’s been refitted with different metal.

He sets it down. Stares at it. Grabs a tablet and pulls up his schematics logs of every machine ever built in the span of hundreds of years. He taps in the maker and the unit number, a hologram appearing above the tablet screen of a circling replica of the PLEDIS CORP Skulker.

Chewing on his lip, he taps the parts section and narrows it down to all of the parts, items and exact details that make up the moving joints of the Skulker. Each part has the type of metal listed, the exact weight of it, the way it was built, the supplier - everything he needs to know and more.

It confirms his suspicion that no part of a joint mount is welded, crafted by a factory machine in one, single metal piece. He leans back in his chair and thinks about it. It’s entirely possible that the Skulker is a veteran of the Machine War, one of the many machines serviced for being damaged in the fight. He doesn’t find that often, though, especially outside of the War Machines.

Still, it’s the most probable answer. He can’t figure out another reason for a makeshift piece - like someone had fixed this - could exist.

He suddenly remembers the armor of the Skulker, the way the metal was far thicker than he anticipated. On a hunch, he picks up his tablet and walks back outside.

The sun is long gone now, leaving behind a midnight blue sky. The neon blue glow of the bug zapper casts an eerie light on him as he passes, walking down to the yard where the pile of metal sits until he can melt down what he can’t keep.

Big plates of metal that served as the main body remain there, too heavy for him to lift over to the table, but perfect for being melted down for him to remake into something later. He squats, holding the schematic up and looking at the material used for the PLEDIS CORP Skulker.

VANTACORE ALLOY. MATTE-BLACK. NONREFLECTIVE. 14.4 KG.

Seomkin looks at the plate again. It’s definitely not 14.4 kg. He could lift that easily. He puts the tablet down and slides his hands under the disassembled plate again. He sucks in a breath, and tries to lift it, heaving upward with the strength of his legs, arms rippling.

He’s not weak by any means. Beyond needing to keep a healthy lifestyle to fight machines, Seokmin has nothing else to do but workout and continue to build his strength. So when he tries to lift the metal plating and fails again, falling on his ass with a huff, he knows there’s no way it only weighs a couple of kilos.

Scrolling on his tablet, he opens a scanner. Taps the screen. A small light appears as the device scans the metal, doing a reading on color, size, texture and thickness. A proposed list of metals appears in order of most to least likely. Sitting at the top is one he recognizes: Obelium.

OBELIUM. MATTE-SILVER. NONREFLECTIVE. 8.2 G/CM3 DENSITY. USED BY PLEDIS CORP AND HYBE CORP FOR…

The list of machines stretches on. It’s a list of Dig Machines and War Machines, but as he scrolls, not a single unit of Skulker is on the list. Which confirms his suspicion that this Skulker was modded. If his calculations are correct, the piece of armor plating he tried to lift isn’t 14.4 kg - it’s 88.8 kg.

Strange. He’s never come across a modded scout from the war before. He supposes there’s a first time for everything, but his gaze lingers on the machine when he finally gets up to dust himself off, needing to log it.

When he finishes his logs and decides it’s finally time to shower, it occurs to him how close to death he was the other night, assuming it had been a simple Scout Machine.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, JULY 13, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 118 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIFTEEN

The lights hum. Not loud, but just enough to make Seokmin aware of the silence beneath them. He stares at the bowl on the table. It’s rehydrated protein stew, thick and gray and flavorless. He wishes it was Friday and that he was making something he likes to eat, something with flavor.

He wonders if he’s ever had dinner with someone before. If he enjoyed it. If he liked the way it tasted. Did he cook or had they? Has he ever sat across the table from someone? Laughed with them as chairs dragged across the floor or hit elbows while cutting into a meal?

He doesn’t know.

Sometimes, he imagines it. Pretends to hear a voice, something warm and teasing. Maybe they used to call him Min. Maybe they touched his wrist as they passed by, or said things like slow down or save me some.

Seokmin has no idea if anyone has ever told him that. Or maybe no one has. Would he feel like someone had, if they had? Would he remember the feeling of it, if not the specific memory?

The Alliance Against Machines mandates that memories are irrelevant to an Outrider position, which means Seokmin doesn't even remember why he wanted to become one, or what inspired him. Memories make positions like this inconsistent. Dangerous. They make you miss too much of what you can’t have.

But he seems to do that anyways - want what he can’t have. He wants what he can’t remember, wants it with a viciousness that sometimes feels so feral he doesn’t know what to do.

He drops the spoon and it clatters too loud in a room too small, too empty. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, breath shaking. He doesn’t cry, because the dust has dried his eyes too much and crying feels like it needs a witness.

Seokmin has no witnesses.

Just the humming lights. The silence. The blank nothing of something he can’t remember, but wants all the same. Just the same song he listens to, trying to find a gap in the ache of being alone.

When I'm far from home and them cold winds blow

Stuck out somewhere with folks I don't know

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 120 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT, HEATWAVE WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

The sun is merciless. Every part of Seokmin bakes under it. Sweat pools at his brow, singing his eyes. He is soaked through with sweat, finally peeling off the shirt to reveal tawn, muscled skin. There’s no breeze today, just dead air baking the sandblasted yard of the Station, rippling heatwaves rising off the ground in varied distortions.

He’s been out here too long.

The casing he’s working on slips from his fingers again, clattering across the workbench.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice horse.

He blinks hard, trying to steady his hands, but they won’t stop trembling. His gloves feel too tight and his skin feels wrong. He stands, swaying slightly as he wipes at his forehead again, smearing grease with sweat.

Turning to reach for a towel to wipe his face, Seokmin freezes. A couple hundred yards away, there's a figure. Blurred. Far off. But human. He stiffens, eyes narrowing, heart pounding. He rubs his face with the towel, putting pressure on his eyes before he drops it and opens them again, blinking.

Someone is out there, walking slowly across the simmering white, arms at their sides. They’re walking right toward him, not fast, but casual. Like they know where they’re going.

Seokmin’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t know what to do. He can’t remember what talking to someone is like, what seeing someone is like. His heart begins to pound in a way that makes his rib ache.

He takes a step forward and the figure flickers. He freezes, staring long and hard. The legs blur first, then the entire body seems to stretch, rippling with the heat. One moment they’re upright, the next, they fold in on themself and vanish like they were never there.

Gone.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there. He feels the dizziness of the heat, the rivulets of sweat. He sways, feeling the way his skin goes from warm, to hot, to scorching. And yet he stands, frozen. Waiting.

There’s nothing there, though. Just an endless wash of pale dust and scorched rock.

Finally, he turns. Steps inside the Station, looking out the window as he cools down. His ears are ringing and he feels the tunnel vision come, like he might pass out. He stumbles to the fridge to get water, yanking out a bottle and cracking the top, all but dumping it down his throat as he gulps.

Then, for the first time in a long time, he cries.

That night when he goes to bed, he keeps the porch light on.

Just in case.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 95 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

The sun is lower today, washed in a pale orange haze that settles over the Station like dust. It’s been cloudy, shifting between pale grey to splashes of tangerine. The wind has returned again, blowing clouds fast across the sky and pulling at the tarp that Seomkin had put over grain barrels to keep the heat off.

A cloud crosses over the sun and turns the world grey. He squints and waits for his eyes to adjust as he bends down. The ground here is flat and dry, baked hard. He sets down a bottle of water. A protein bar. A packet of dried fruit. Nothing more.

He doesn’t think too hard about it. Just stands, brushing his hand off of his pants. His shadow stretches long across the sand behind him. He looks at the display a beat longer than he means to before he glances at the mountains - his Gods - and turns to walk back toward the Station.

That night he eats in silence. It weighs heavier than it usually does, and like a bad habit, his eyes keep flickering to the window that looks out to the dark flat where he left the rations. Just in case.

In the morning, he heads out. Sees the materials untouched and covered in dust. He brushes them off. Stands and heads back.

Leaving them there again. Just in case.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 65 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ELEVEN

Seokmin bolts upright, heart pounding and hand reaching to rip his blankets off as the alarm cuts through the silence. The room flashes red, making him dizzy as he slides to his feet and stumbles toward his pants. The emergency lights stutter against the walls like a warning heartbeat.

The screen on the wall flares to life. It makes him flinch, shielding his eyes with his hand until he can bear the added light. A feed of readout data scrolls on the bottom of the screen and a camera visual pops up from the perimeter. It’s coming from the eye that he had ripped out of the Skulker a few months ago and put it near the basin where it had been wandering.

He scans the data feed first, reading as the words appear.

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … RAVAGER … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 156… 25 MPH SOUTHBOUND… ADDITIONAL UNIT… BLOODWOLF… HYBE CORP… UNIT 234… 20 MPH… ANOMALY DETECTED… BLOODWOLF PURSUING RAVAGER…

He frowns. He’s never seen anomaly detected. Stranger, though, is the fact that he’s never heard of one War Machine pursuing another. Machines do not attack one another. At least, not since the start of the Machine War. Prior to that, War Machines had been used against one another in battlefields and conflicts between countries, but a Bloodwolf chasing a Ravager?

Bloodwolf units were deployed right before the machines turned against humanity. They were also the hardest to get rid of, savage hunter-killers designed for hunting down their prey and engaging brutally. They were meant to hunt enemies of other countries and then meant to hunt humans.

Ravagers were also violent machines, demolition tanks to tear down front lines and break any obstacle. He’d never faced a Ravager before and always hoped he wouldn’t - there’s a strange beauty about them that he loathes to put down, and a deep-rooted fear that he won’t live to do so.

Chewing his lip, he squints at the grainy feed as the shapes move closer. They blur in the darkness, the lens tracking their movements as they approach. The Bloodwolf is fast, four-legged, sleek and low like a predator on the hunt. The Ravager is swift but massive, lumbering with effort, trying to accommodate for something…

Seokmin blinks. Rubs his eyes. Watches as the Ravager runs past the camera. He immediately lifts his hand to press a button on the screen, opening the feed and rewinding it. Slows it down. The Ravager had been running fast, the Bloodwolf on its tail, but it had been running like it was afraid to sprint full out like it was afraid… someone might fall off.

Because there is someone on the back of the Ravager, bent low between its massive shoulders. A small figure - a human. For a few long moments, all Seokmin can do is pant. His breath comes out short, gasping. He stares and stares and stares, unmoving as he stares at the frozen screen.

This is different from the person he imagined all those weeks ago when the heat got to him. This isn’t a mirage. This isn’t a trick of the lonely mind and aching heart. This is real. On the screen. Evidence in front of him that somewhere out there is another person.

Seokmin lets out a curse and starts tossing clothes around his room as he looks for the suit he wears under his heavy armor. He almost never needs it and suddenly his hands are shaking so bad he can barely find it in the flashing red lights of his bedroom.

He finally does, yanking the thin material over his skin. It glides, buttery soft but sweat resistant and made to keep him cool and safe from chafing under the hard plates of armor he wears against War Machines.

His fingers tremble as he flips the lock on the trunk he never opens - hasn’t needed to. The armor waits inside, silent. Matte black. Heavy-plated. Laced with segmented joints of high-density lightweave, flexible underlayer, and bullet-slowing surface tension. The surface is layered with a thin plating of Obelium and the inside is padded with shock absorbent material to keep him from cracking open like an egg on impact.

It’s a suit, in a way. All of the armor pieces lock together, their mechanisms whirring and clicking as he puts them on piece by piece. The chest plate hums as it fully seals, the arm bracers hissing as they click and lock into place, flexible at the elbows, wrists, shoulders.

The helmet clamps onto the collar ring with a soft sound, and the HUG flickers to life, scanning his vitals, connecting to the Station, gearing up for his fight. Readouts scroll like ghosts across the inside of the visor, telling him the Bloodwolf and Ravager have now engaged.

He can feel it. He swears there’s a tremble in the earth as he grabs his weapons and extra charges. His suit is outfitted with minor artillery, but he has to open up the locker for this one, gleaming rifles and assault weapons, both with metal and energy artillery rounds.

Seokmin is silent now. His thoughts don’t scatter to the wind. He only has a single thing in mind, and it’s getting to that person, getting to whoever was on the back of that Ravager. This is what he was made for - bred for, perhaps, he’s not sure.

With the heavy guns in hand and fully suited, he steps outside.

The wind is howling. It kicks up dust that he hears scraping against the armor, but it doesn’t bother him, for once. The moon slices the sky above like a silver wound, sand shifting under his feet as a signal beeps in his HUD display. Artillery fire.

Seomkin runs.

He doesn’t know how long he has. Doesn’t know if he’s fast enough. The suit gets him there faster, upping his power and speed beyond what he would be physically capable otherwise. It’s why they’re made for heavy machine battle only, invented in a time where humans had to fight machines up close and personal.

He’s never used one to fight. Never needed to. He remembers using them in training, in simulators - part of the training that he’s allowed to remember - but he’s never had to go toe to toe with something bred to kill him as brutally as a Ravager or a Bloodwolf.

And now he’s running full speed into the fray, the sounds of metal scream, explosive sparks peppering the sky like fireworks, all because of the chance there is a person out there.

Nothing else matters to him but getting there. Seeing someone else. Knowing he isn’t alone.

Sand kicks skyward in a blinding storm as Seokmin reaches the fray. The Ravager crashes sideways into the Bloodwolf, metal shrieking against metal. Sparks bloom, lighting up the entire basin. Seokmin hits the edge of the fight just as the Ravager slams into the Bloodwolf again, sending it airborne.

He watches as the wolf-machine twists midair as it lands, claws rending the sand for traction. It lunges forward, opening its jaw unnaturally, barring rows and rows of teeth. The Ravager roars, a low grinding sound that vibrates through Seokmin’s armor.

The Ravager shifts to intercept the Bloodwolf as it comes down. The shift reveals you and Seomkin’s heart thunders. You’re small, knocked to your ass on the sand. You roll away from the machines as they clash, the Bloodwolf hitting the Ravager with enough force that Seomkin hears and feels the crack in one of the armor plates.

You start to get to your feet, slipping in dust and sand to put distance between yourself and the machine. Seokmin raises a weapon, his HUD connecting with the scope of the automatic rifle when he pauses, blinking unbelieving eyes as he watches the Bloodwolf leap for you.

He starts to shout a warning but the Ravager is there, blocking the blow. It takes one of the Bloodwolf’s taloned paws to the face, sparks and metal flying. The Ravager screams, shaking its head violently back and forth as it’s rendered blind in one eye.

Shrapnel flies from the damaged machine. He hears you yell out in distress and stagger before falling to a knee. Blood soaks your side and you’re struggling to keep behind the Ravager’s bulk, letting the machine shield you.

Move.

Seokmin launches forward, sprinting at a full tilt. The HUD in his helmet paints live readouts across his vision, a swirl of machine signatures, structural analysis, and environmental factors. The Bloodwolf shows up red on his screen, agile, lethal, set to kill mode. The Ravager pings orange, engaged but defensive and critically damaged. You flash blue, entirely human and purple in spots where you bleed.

He dives to a knee as the machines collide and roll away from you, the Ravager on top. It savagely attacks the Bloodwolf, swiping claws against metal, sinking its saber teeth into the shoulder of the other War Machine.

Lifting the gun, Seomkin hesitates. He doesn’t know where to shoot, suddenly. Both of the machines are dangerous and to be killed with impunity… and yet he sees you on your knees, screaming something at the Ravager like it can hear you. Understand you.

He aims his weapon at the Bloodwolf and squeezes the trigger, firing bursts of heavy artillery at it. He feels the vibration of the gun’s kick against his shoulder, feels the heat from the muzzle, watches as both machines startle. The Bloodwolf lets out a sonic shriek, knocking Seokmin backward.

Rolling to recover, he curses when he sees his attack left both machines startled, distracting the Ravager, losing its advantage as the machines untangle. The Bloodwolf skirts backward, zeroing in on Seokmin as he rises to his feet, aiming. A ripple goes through the Bloodwolf and Seomkin’s HUD calls out that it’s engaged in a projectile shield.

“Fuck,” he kisses.

You’re on your feet again, but your back is to the machines. You look right at him, chest heaving, bloody and so entirely human that it nearly takes Seokmin right out of the fight from the shock of it. The Bloodwolf notices and goes for you again, but the Ravager lurches forward.

As though the Bloodwolf had expected the defensive mode, it pivots at the last second and sinks its teeth into the neck of the Ravager. The machine screams, metal grinding on metal. You hear the sound and turn, a look of acute horror coming to your face as you scream. Seokmin hears it and his blood turns to ice.

You’re upset for the machine.

He doesn’t have time to think about it. He runs for you as the Ravager screeches, limbs flailing and kicking as the Bloodwolf’s lockjaw engages, crushing through heavy plating and machinery in the Ravager’s neck. Warning signals light up along the machine’s body as it goes into failure, its savage attacker ripping at the rest of it with its claws, tearing it to pieces.

You’re screaming when Seokmin reaches you, barely aware of him as he skids next to you. He realizes there’s a gun in your hand, his HUD picking it up with a readout: PLEDIS CORP… STANDARD ISSUE VOLT… CORE BATTERY DEAD…

“Come on,” Seokmin urges, voice shaking. He can hear his breath, feel the adrenaline making him shake. “Come with me.”

“I’m not leaving her,” You growl, voices savage, eyes wild and wide. Your voice is broken, not what he expected. “Zahra!”

The Bloodwolf gives a hard jerk and twists the Ravager’s neck. There’s a loud crunch and the HUD in Seokmin’s helmet flashes as the Ravagers system flashes before shutting off, the machine going cold, nothing but metal and sparks.

“Zahra!” Your scream this time is broken. A cry. A plea.

The Bloodwolf lets go and twists its head toward you. The Ravager - Zahra, a named machine - doesn’t move. Steam hisses from its ruined chassis, and a guttural grinding noise follows as something inside of it whirs all wrong until it stops, leaving only sparks and twisted metal.

It’s gone.

And then the Bloodwolf is climbing over the wreckage. You’re nearly doubled over in agony, hands wrapped around your middle as you let out a scream that Seokmin thinks will haunt every one of his dreams for the rest of his life.

There are bigger problems, though, like the eyes blazing like twin suns that have settled on you. Seokmin lifts the gun, swapping from traditional artillery to energy, like the gun you had been using. The weapon hums as it charges, and he commands his HUD to fully charge the weapon - it means he’ll have a single shot.

“Get down,” he barks at you. He doesn’t mean to be harsh. You don’t seem to care, ducking behind him and covering your head.

The Bloodwolf lunges just as the weapon in Seokmin’s hand reaches full charge. He aims and pulls the trigger, feeling the intense kick of the gun and the heat as the world turns blue from the pulse of energy that cracks through the open sky between him and the Bloodwolf.

A burst of blue detonates against the machine’s armor. Sparks, fire and something thick and black sprays out with it. He thinks it’s fluid or oil - maybe both. The force of the impact knocks the Bloodwolf backward and it crashes to the ground hard, rolling in a shriek of metal.

It’s down, and somehow not dead.

Warning lights flash across Seokmin’s HUD as the Bloodwolf’s stabilizers engage, grinding into the dirt to force the shattered frame upright. Its energy core is flickering but alive, pumping heat and power through ruptured conduits. It’s running on fumes and rage, clinging to its last command to eliminate.

Fucking Bloodwolfs.

Seokmin doesn’t wait. He slaps the mag release, the spent cartridge ejecting with a hiss. His hand finds another on his belt and jams it in, resetting the rifle with a practiced snap.

“Full charge,” he orders, voice clipped.

It flashes red.

FAILURE. CHARGE TO 60 PERCENT.

He grits his teeth. “Fine. Charge to sixty.”

The weapon hums in response, power surging through the coil. In front of him, the Bloodwolf lurches forward, broken and staggering but still on the hunt.

A greenlight flashes for the full charge and Seokmin fires, a steady stream of energy rounds tearing through the night. Blue-white flashes slice into the Bloodwolf’s exposed internals. Seokmin’s HUD tags each weakness and he shoots for it with deadly precision.

With a final warbled howl, the Bloodwolf collapses onto its haunches. It stutters, kicking in death throws as Seokmin goes through a full round of energy again. He doesn’t hesitate for a second, popping the mag and replacing it, charging the weapon again.

Fires.

The HUD flashes.

CORE FAILURE. STRUCTURAL COLLAPSE.

The War Machine shudders, a final convulsion racing down its frame. Smoke vomits from its shattered maw, limbs jerky. Then nothing. Just the hiss of burning fuel and the slow drip drip drip of hydraulic fluid onto scorched earth.

Seokmin eases his finger off the trigger, lowering the rifle slowly. Only then does he realize his hands are shaking. And then he remembers you’re there, standing behind him.

Slowly, he turns to look at you. You’re crusted in blood and dust, hands trembling at your sides. You’re still staring at the lifeless Ravager, the machine you called Zahra. Silent. Tearstained. But you’re alive, which means for the first time since he can remember, Seokmin isn’t alone.

The weight of it nearly drops him to his knees.

“Are you okay?” He manages to ask. The words scrape his throat raw, feeling foreign and unused.

You don’t answer. You just keep looking at the Ravager, and he sees it in your eyes. Grief. A grief that he’s carried for years, somehow, grief that he didn’t know until this moment he felt. The grief of realizing you’re utterly alone and that you always will be, that no one else will ever be with you again.

And then you crumble, standing one second, gone the next. He barely catches you before you hit the ground, spent and unmoving.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 65 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

The power flickers in the Station as Seokmin sets the med scanner over your chest. Bruised ribs. A fractured arm. Signs of energy weapon burns along your shoulder. He works in silence, moving efficiently as he dresses wounds and resets the fractures.

His touch is hesitant. He doesn’t want to do too much, doesn’t want to violate your space. He doesn’t know how this is supposed to work or how he is allowed to fix you, just that he feels like he’s supposed to. He’s a trained medic, mending is part of his instincts.

You don’t speak. Don’t even flinch, eyes fluttering in a fever dream from the pain medication dripping through the IV.

If he’s honest with himself, he is afraid you’ll vanish, that he’ll wake up and this will all have been some strange dream, that this won’t be real.

“Zahra,” you mutter.

He freezes for a beat. Looks down at your face, expression slack in fevered sleep. He doesn’t know why you keep calling out for the War Machine, but the way it leaves your lips makes him think you had some sort of relationship with it. That it was important to you.

He thinks back to how the machine protected you - sacrificed itself from you.

And he doesn’t understand.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

Seokmin hears the sound of the blanket before he sees you move. For a second, he thinks it’s nothing, just the wind outside or the walls of the Station creaking like they sometimes do. But then it happens again, followed by a gasp of pain.

He whirls around, heart hammering. You’re trying to sit up and he freezes. He doesn’t know what to do, hands half-curled, hovering like he’s forgotten the steps of being a person. And well… he has. He doesn’t know how to do this - wasn’t meant to.

And then he realizes you’re watching him.

“You’re awake?” It comes out like a question, his voice rough and too dry.

You don’t answer. You just blink at him with wide, wary eyes. He’s not prepared for whatever this is. He knows blood and metal. Machine signatures and isolation. Not idle conversation and people.

“You’ve been out for a few days,” he says slowly, like he’s remembering how to shape the words. “I’ve been - um. Giving you fluids. You were hurt so I tried to help. Obviously didn’t get to all of it, didn’t want to like… trespass.”

Silence. You look around the room, trying to make sense of your surroundings. He watches you track the ceiling fan, the water canister, the half-mended patch on the wall. You frown.

“This is my Station. Station 0218.” Your eyes drift back to him and he clears his throat, clarifying, “I’m an Outrider. I eliminate machines that cross back over the Edge.”

Still nothing. Your mouth parts like you’re going to say something or ask a question, but the words don’t come. You lean back instead, slow and cautious. Your eyes never leave him, like you’re not sure if you’re really safe. That makes his heart pang, but he understands.

He wants to say more, wants to ask who you are. To tell you that he’s never met another person before. But it’s too much all at once and he doesn’t know where to start, so instead, he stays silent. Sits down on a chair far away from you, knee bouncing, fingers playing with that same loose thread on his shirt.

The conversation starts with a question so soft, he swears he imagines it.

“What’s your name?”

He glances up at you. You’re propped on a folded arm, eyes watching him. Your blanket is pulled tight, like you’re cold. He reaches up to adjust the temperature in the room, trying to keep you comfortable.

“Seokmin.”

You nod slowly. “Just Seokmin?”

“Just Seokmin’s enough, I guess.”

You go quiet again. He doesn’t mind. He’s used to the silence. It’s the talking that challenges him, the putting together what he’s supposed to do and say.

“Where are we?” Your voice stirs the air, turns it to static.

“Umm, Station 0218.”

“But where is that?”

“I’m not really sure. I always thought it might be Texas.” Something flashes across your face but it happens so fast he thinks he imagined it. You nod your head, staring up at the ceiling. “What about you? What were you doing out there alone?”

“I wasn’t alone. I had Zahra.”

“The Ravager?”

“The Ravager has - had - a name.”

“You named it?”

Your eyes snap down to his, licking with fire and irritation. “Zahra already had a name. She’s not - wasn’t - a thing. She was sentient, and intelligent, and alive in the ways that counted. She was trying to get me somewhere safe and she died for it. For me.”

Your voice cracks hard and you bite your lip, looking away from him as tears pool in your eyes. Seokmin’s mouth opens but no words come out. He doesn’t know what to say to any of that. None of this makes sense to him, machines with names, machines that think, machines that are alive.

Well, since the Machine War, at least.

“That was a War Machine,” he says slowly, trying not to anger you. “I’ve spent years killing machines that come through here, a threat to the rest of the world. War machines are meant to kill people. That is their entire purpose.”

“Well don’t you know everything? Not all machines are like that.”

“There’s no like that or not like that. Machines are programmed-”

“Machines are more than programming, Outrider. They’re not just circuits and metal. How do you think the War started in the first place? They can think for themselves and make choices. That's why they rebelled.”

Rebelled?

Seokmin starts to think that maybe you had hit your head. He frowns at you, trying to puzzle out your words. If you hit your head hard enough to start spouting nonsense, he might have to try and contact the Alliance to get you real medical help, the kind that he can’t give you.

He doesn’t know what the process is for that. They never trained him on how to help another human being.

As though you can sense where his thoughts are going, you glare. “I’m not crazy.”

Seokmin thinks about that night, the way the Ravager ran, the way it shielded you with its body. The way it turned to face the Bloodwolf, even when it meant its own destruction. That’s not how machines fight - at least not in his experience. It isn’t how they were designed.

But…

“Alright,” he relents. “Alright.”

Your expression softs, just slightly. You look down at the nightstand and see the water, reaching for it to take a few long draughts. When your thirst is satisfied, you sag, like this conversation has taken everything out of you.

“Thanks,” you mumble, eyes fluttering. “For taking care of me.”

“Yeah. No problem.”

You don’t hear it, though, already asleep.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

Chicken crackles in the pan. It’s not Friday, but now that you’re semi-functioning, Seokmin feels like it’s important to give you real food. He flips it with a practiced flourish, mindful not to burn the bottom. He doesn’t play his favorite song, trying to let you get your rest, so he hums it under his breath instead.

Footsteps draw his attention. He turns sharply to see you standing at the end of the kitchen, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a makeshift cloak. Your eyes are wide and curious as you scan the room. Your hair is a bit messy and there’s still dried blood on you, your expression hollowed out by exhaustion. But you’re on your feet and, most importantly, awake.

“Hey,” Seokmin greets tentatively. He’s trying not to sound overeager, but he’s not sure it’s working. “You should be resting.”

“Smells good,” you murmur, eyes drifting to the pan before they roam again. “Wanted to see exactly where I am, too.”

Seokmin opens his mouth to protest but you’re already walking further into the room, cautious but determined. You glance at every console and shelf like you’re in a museum of forgotten things, the curiosity turning your face from wary to delighted.

He steps back from the stove and gestures to one of the four chairs at the table. He always wondered why there were four chairs - he’s only ever needed one. “You can sit. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Can I look for a minute?”

He nods, not wanting to stop you. How could he? He’s loathe to say anything that’ll make you want to leave, desperate to keep you happy and here. The only human he’s ever known, the only one not taken from his memory.

You approach one of the wall panels and point. “What’s that?”

“Environmental stabilizer. Keeps the temperature manageable. Pretty difficult with us being in the desert and all, but I keep it as well-maintained as I can.”

You nod, absorb it. Move on to a different screen near the kitchen, pointing. He smiles to himself, understanding what you mean. “Sensor relay. Connects to the perimeter motion detectors and shows the feed from the mounted cameras. I have a ton now, I use spare parts from the machines I… decommission.”

He chooses the word carefully, suddenly not wanting to say that he kills machines. From the narrowed eyes, he thinks you notice. Instead of saying anything, though, you continue to move around his home, fascinated by all the things you find there. It’s like you’ve never been in a building before, pointing with a question at objects even basic homes should have.

Everytime you ask a question, his heart skips a little, like it’s a test he might fail. Everytime you glance at him, his throat goes dry. He’s never talked this much to another person that he can recall, and he feels so out of practice.

He clears his throat and lifts the pan. “Dinner’s ready.”

You tilt your head when he shows you the chicken in the pan. Lured by the promise of a meal, you drift to the table and sit down, hugging the blanket closer around your shoulders. He lets you keep it, sure that it feels warm and secure.

When he plates the food, you smile at him. It’s small and fleeting but it’s real. His stomach twists in the best kind of way, like maybe this isn’t just a glitch in the simulation of his life. Like maybe you were meant to be here.

Seokmin sits down across from you. Both of you hesitate before giving awkward smiles, cutting into your meal. He can’t help but watch you struggle with the knife, holding it awkwardly in your hand. Almost like you’ve never used one before.

He doesn’t ask. You don’t explain, instead using it to stab and tear chunks of chicken off before popping it into your mouth and chewing vigorously. Grease drips down your chin and you wipe it with the back of your hand before chasing it with gulps of water.

You turn your attention to the large window overlooking the yard and sprawling desert. The glass is dirty and reinforced with shatter-resistant polymer, but the dying sun still leaks through in warm streaks of orange and violet.

“It’s quiet here.”

“Always. I’m the only person here so… just having you is unusual.”

“Only person?” You ask, raising your brows. “Is that why you went out on a limb to save me?”

“Not at all. That was my job - the entire reason I’m here. Outriders protect the perimeter of the world from the machines who try to pass back into the New World.”

That makes you hum, brows pinched, mouth twisted furiously. He can tell you don’t agree, like there’s something in what he says that doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t press you further though, afraid again to push too hard, to make you leave.

“Seems lonely.”

“I…” He exhales. Doesn’t know how to answer, hand tightening around his fork. He doesn’t have a response that sounds light or comforting. The truth is ugly and tender. “Yeah. It is.”

You nod. “I’m lonely too now.” Your eyes shine in the light of the Station and he can tell you’re thinking about the Ravager - Zahra. “Can we bring her body back? Whatever's left of it?” Your eyes drift to the tray of spare parts on the counter. “Not to salvage. But to… honor.”

“I… Yeah. Yes we can do that.”

You nod. Bite into chicken. “Thank you, Seokmin.”

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 67 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

An orange sun crests the horizon when Seokmin steps outside. The air is dry and tinged with the sharp metallic scent that always follows a machine's death. The wind’s low, kicking up dust in little curls around his boots.

Behind him, the door hisses open, followed by your footsteps. You don’t say anything as you step beside him. You haven’t said much since dinner last night. He doesn’t need you to speak, though. Just your careful presence, starling him when he remembers you’re there or the extra sounds of another person existing in his living space is all that he needs.

You look at the edge of the yard, biting your lip. He can tell you’re trying not to cry, eyes landing on the piles of scrap he’d spent the early hours of morning bringing back to the Station. The Ravager is nothing but a broken silhouette now.

You step off the porch and he follows, the two of you walking in silence. As you near the debris, you slow before dropping to your knees beside the twisted metal. He’s hauled countless machines back to his Station but for the first time, this feels different. Personal. He hesitates a few yards away, stuck between fascination and disturbance at the way you sniff.

Reaching outward, you rest your hand on a curved plate of the machine’s shoulder. It’s dented and scorched, reflecting the desert sun.

“She was gentle,” you tell him, though you’re not looking at him. “I know she’s a War Machine. That she was programmed for something else. But she was far superior than what the Makers ever dreamed for her. Smart. Emotional. Decidedly clever. She was more than a machine.”

Hesitantly, Seokmin approaches you. He drops down to a crouch, looking at the twisted machine. “She protected you.”

You nod, knuckles bleeding of color from how hard you grip the edge of the frame. “She was more than a machine. I know you don’t understand.”

“I…” He wants to say something. Anything. Doesn’t know how to relate to the loss of a machine, doesn’t know how to console you when all he’s ever done is butcher them. “Do you want to reconstruct what we can? We can place her in the back, like she’s still protecting you.”

Wordlessly, you nod.

Together, you start gathering parts. Seokmin moves with you, unsure at first which pieces matter and which don’t. He tries to watch what you pick up - armor plates, ruined slats of legs, twisted remnants of jaw - and he helps you. The pieces are heavy, sometimes needing both of you to lift and carry while stopping in between.

Ravagers are massive machines, standing several meters high when they’re on four legs and nearly as tall as a two-story building when on their hind legs. Built like massive cats, they have powerful shoulders and legs, made for speed and tearing. This Ravager - Zhara - seems to be missing a tail, but Seokmin knows they’re like powerful whips tipped with blades.

In tandem, you lay out the pieces. Seokmin starts building from the base. There’s so much damaged metal and twisted parts that it’s hard to sort out. You cry while you work, silent and calm but steady, an endless stream. This isn’t collecting pieces and building a machine for you. For you, this is remembering something that was important.

Seokmin jogs to the work bench to collect extra items. Strips of metal, rods and sheets that he throws into a wagon before hauling over. You look up at him, watching curiously as he dumps it all out. He grabs a piece of metal and starts melting it down, hammering it into the shape he wants before fitting it into the gap between shoulderplates needed to piece together the basic frame.

“Oh.” Your smile is brief and wobbly. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t know what to say. So he starts welding other pieces together, trying to fill the gaps. Slowly, Zahra comes together. It’s clumsy and haphazard and doesn’t properly capture the glory of a Ravager, but he watches light return to your eyes as the sun rises to its zenith.

You pause for a quiet lunch. Some protein bars, water, dried fruit. He thinks about the offering of food he left out in the desert all those weeks ago and wonders if it really was a mirage or not. He shakes it off because it doesn’t matter. Now he’s not alone and there’s a machine to finish piecing together.

The sun shifts overhead. The wind comes and goes. Seokmin loses track of time in the rhythm of labor, in the strange companionship of your shared silence. For once, he’s not alone. And though this isn’t how he imagined meeting someone would go, he doesn’t hate it.

He glances over at you as you carefully place what’s left of one of the machine’s sabers into the ground. There’s only one, but it doesn’t batter. Carefully, he welds what’s left of the skull into the mainframe.

It’s the last piece to the skeleton. Both of you take a few steps back, sweaty and covered in dust, dirty and tired. It’s crude and raw, barely more than a silhouette of damaged metal and bastard pieces from other machines. But it has weight to it. A shape. A bit of presence.

“Thank you.” He looks at you. You’re staring at the sculpture. “She would have liked you.”

“I don’t… think she would.”

You seem to consider his words. His job. “She would have understood.” You look at him then, eyes fathomless. Beautiful, if he’s honest. “I told you, machines are more than what they’re programmed for. Given time, she’d understand.”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he nods. You look back at the machine and sit down, crossing your legs. Unsure what to do but not wanting to leave you alone - or be alone - he sits down beside you. It’s strange, but not awkward, two strangers honoring something, familiar to one, foreign to another.

Somewhere in the silence, Seokmin realizes that something new is being built between you, too. Hope, maybe. His hope that maybe he’s not alone, your hope that maybe Zahra’s legacy can live on here. He doesn’t know how long you’ll stay. Has no idea what happens next.

But he’s not alone.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FOUR

Seokmin wakes up to a strange morning. Cloudy skies stretch over the desert and fall strays closer to winter, making it colder than usual. He checks weather reports to see cold winds coming through from the northwest, cooling off everything and bringing heavy winds.

That’s not what makes it strange, though.

When he wakes up and heads into the kitchen, there’s a mug on the counter. Soft footsteps echoing through the Station that don’t belong to him. The quiet hum of someone else’s existence, someone else orbiting his space.

You’re quiet, but he’s not used to the sounds of someone else. The extra breath he hears when you walk into the living room from the medical room and see him, gasping like you’ve forgotten you’re not alone. The slow but wobbling smile you give him, unsure what to do with yourself.

That makes two of you.

He likes this strange, though. He’s a little unwilling to acknowledge the way you make his heart pound, the way he wants to ask you a million questions, the way he wants your voice to fill every gap in the Station because finally - finally - there’s someone else to fill the empty spaces.

Instead of pressuring you into talking, he sits down at the kitchen table and starts to tinker with some of the spare parts he’s collected over the years. It’s a flimsy excuse to distract himself as you pad the Station, barefoot and trailing your fingers along the edges of shelves as you continue your exploration from the other night.

“So,” he says, trying to make his voice normal. “You sleep okay?”

“No. All I did for a few days was sleep, though.”

“Right. I could give you something for that if you want?”

You shake your head. Drifting to the living area, you stand near the window. It’s massive, one giant floor-to-ceiling portal. You hover near it, eyes distant as you watch the passing grey of the day.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Seokmin starts slowly. “But where are you from?”

You don’t answer at first. Your eyes stay focused on the desert, as though you’re waiting for something. Watching for something. That makes him a little nervous, glancing at the panel on the wall. Nothing picks up on the scanners, so he tries to relax.

“I don’t really know.”

He looks at you, brows raised. “You don’t know?”

“I was raised in a machine facility. It was underground. I don’t think I was ever supposed to see the outside world. I don’t even know what it was called. There’s a few humans they keep around for convenience. Testing. Maintenance. That kind of stuff.”

“How… close to here?”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe a week. Zahra and I had been running from Gariel for about a week.”

“Gariel?” You shiver when he says the name. “The Bloodwolf?”

“Yes. He was sent after us.” You turn away from the window suddenly, like maybe you’re afraid the Bloodwolf - Gariel - will suddenly appear on the milky horizon. You pad to the couch, sitting down and curling your feet under you. “They studied us but mostly they liked to keep us for things like helping fix their damage. Trying to puzzle us out. Sometimes as a spy.”

Your fingers tighten on the couches arm and you stare off into the distance, eyes unseeing. “Some of the machines were kind. They make their own decisions. A lot do not support what the Machine Empire has turned into, that it’s lost its way. Zahra wasn’t the first to try and help me.” You hesitate, swallowing. “She was the last, I guess.”

Seokmin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s clenching his jaw until it starts to ache. He takes a deep breath. There are so many questions he wants to ask you, so many things that don’t make sense. He thinks about the modded plating on the Skulker all those weeks ago, the way it seemed like someone had been mending and modding machines.

“So you weren’t born in a colony or a city?”

You shake your head. “Not a lot of humans in that place. Probably less than fifty.”

“I don’t understand,” he says after a beat of silence. “If machines have humans hostage, how has the Alliance not done anything? There is no more Machine Empire. You talk about it like it’s present, but the Alliance won.”

Your face darkens at the mention of the Alliance. He wants to know why, but you don’t say anything. You pick at loose threads on the arm of his couch, decidedly silent. His hands tighten on the wrench in his hand. He wants to know more.

But you look fragile. Wary. Your guard is up and the last thing he wants to do is push you away. He has the feeling that the second you perceive him as a threat, the moment you think you can’t trust him, you’ll be gone, nothing more than another hallucination to keep him up at night.

So instead of pushing you further, he says, “Well. Do you want lunch? I’m starving.”

You give him an appreciative smile. “Alright.”

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 46 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FOUR

He doesn’t remember the last time he tried this hard for Friday night dinner. He always levels up his game for Fridays, but this is new, because he’s not just doing this ritual for himself. He’s doing it for you. His nerves make his stomach coil and he glances at you nervously from the corner of his eye as you enter the kitchen, toweling your damp hair.

The Station smells good. He pan sears steak, the garlic from the most recent airship drop popping in the oil. The butter has browned and melted, soaking in rosemary before he starts to baste the steak, spooning the mixture over tender meat. Vegetables roast in the oven, the timer ticking down.

“You’re cooking cooking,” you say, surprise in your voice.

“It’s Friday.” When you give him a confused look and tilt of your head, he smiles fondly. “Friday’s are my favorite day. On Friday, I cook real meals with real food. Play my favorite song. Make a night out of it. Try to enjoy it.”

You drift closer, watching him. “What’s your favorite song?”

He smiles, happy that you ask. He taps the panel on the wall quickly, turning on the speakers in the Station. The thrumming starts low and soft and you tilt your head, eyes going round as you listen. He watches as the surprise turns into utter delight, a smile spreading across your face that is so blinding he drops the spoon.

It clatters and he curses, snatching it out of the pan and hissing at the heat as it bites at his fingers. You’re none the wiser, so focused on the song as a raspy voice comes through the speaker that you miss his sputtering entirely.

Seokmin feels hot all over, a combination of embarrassment, the heat of the stove, and watching silver tears pool at the corners of your eyes as you listen to the music that has kept him afloat all this time, like you’ve never heard something more moving.

A tear spills over, rolling down your cheek. You wipe it quickly, laughing and giving him an embarrassed smile.

“I’ve never listened to a song.” He pauses, open-mouthed. “Zahra told me about music. I’ve never heard it before, though. I like this.”

“I…” He doesn’t know how to respond to that. “I like this one. You can listen to music any time you want. Use any panel in the Station and hit the button that says playlist.”

“I can’t read.”

“Alright. I’ll show you, yeah?”

You nod and Seokmin feels himself smile. Real.

He turns back to finishing dinner, flipping off the oven and the stovetop. He sings a little as the last verse to the song begins, soft and low, mostly to himself. He hasn’t had an audience ever, and as he turns to take the pan off the stove, he suddenly remembers you’re there and his voice tapers off.

“Sorry,” he laughs, a little breathless.

“Why’d you stop?”

“I’m not used to having people here.”

“Oh. Your voice is nice.”

It hits him in the stomach like a punch. He feels his throat constrict and it takes him a second to form an answer. “Oh. Thank you.”

“You can sing any time you want,” you tell him, drifting to the table to sit, knowing he’s ready for dinner. “I’ll listen.”

Seokmin’s heart soars. He doesn’t know what to do with that, what to do with you. You’re new and uncharted territory, and seeing you sitting at the table, eager and waiting… it does something to him that he cannot explain, that he doesn’t understand. The ache inside of him all these years finally subsides and he thinks that for the first time in his life, he might be thankful for the machines.

All because they brought you to him.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 68 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIVE

Without the sun beating down on him, working outside is almost tolerable. The dust still sucks though, biting at Seokmin and getting into his eyes as the wind rips through the Station. He could work inside, but he’s loath to open the door until the wind dies down.

You seem content, despite the dust. You lean over him, chewing your lip as you watch him sitting on the workbench, elbow-deep in the guts of a broken energy conduit. If the wind ripping at the metal roof and making it flex bothers you, you don’t let on.

He supposes you’re just content to be outside. He’s noticed that you like to linger near the window a lot, whether you’re waiting for something or because you’ve never seen the topside of the world, he isn’t sure. He still has questions to ask you, things he needs answered.

Instead, he lets you enjoy your peace. Lets you grow accustomed to him as he attempts to get accustomed with you. You both navigate one another, two unsure satellites that are curious.

“Want to learn how to strip these?” He asks, pretending his heart isn’t hammering at how close you are.

“Strip them?”

He lifts the panel he’s working on. “See the copper threading and core plating? You don’t want to break them - they’re still usable.”

“Okay.”

“We want to remove them, though. We can use them for repairs, other things in the Station… they’re always good to keep on hand. We don’t have a lot here and…”

He trails off, realizing he keeps saying we. Like he’s already decided you’re a part of the Station, like this lone operation has already adapted to a two-man system. It makes his mouth go dry and he looks at the plating, hands shaking. He hates how quickly he’s already adapted to you, the way he just… wants you to stay.

“So you use materials from the machines you kill. I… have some skill with that from where I’m from. Not a lot. I was more of a study subject than a mechanic.”

That makes his heart ache. He explains, “It’s about using what’s left. I don’t like to waste.”

You nod. He scoots over on the bench and lets you step over, sitting down stiffly next to him. He places a few pieces in front of you and passes pliers and a heated plasma knife. “Try - and please don’t burn yourself on the knife. It could cut through your fingers.”

Tentatively, you pick up the tools. They’re a little awkward in your hands, but you figure out a grip that feels comfortable to you. He watches as you start to follow the motions he shows you, listening to his quiet tutelage. You’re clumsy at first, but he doesn’t correct you unless you ask.

After a while, you free a copper wire and look up at him, a small smile twitching on your lip. “Is that okay?”

He smiles, larger than he intends to. “Yes. That’s perfect. Here, let’s keep going.”

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 71 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … SEVEN

It’s the middle of the night when the Station’s power grid flicks off. It snaps him from his sleep, his eyes popping open and his heart hammering temporarily in panic. He realizes that the emergency lights are on, and the sudden silence is just because air isn’t rattling through the vent in the ceiling.

Groaning, he swings his legs out of bed. Stretching, he feels all his joints pop and he lets himself sit for a second, blinking away the sleepiness. Then he hears your soft voice call him from a distance. He looks up sharply, so unused to hearing his name.

Seomkin jumps to his feet and out the bedroom door, panic nipping at his heels again. You’re standing in the living room though, shrouded in the barest light from the emergency lights. You’re in a baggy shirt and sweatpants that don’t fit - his - your eyes cast to the ceiling.

“What’s wrong?” The question is soft but firm.

“What happened?”

It takes him a beat to realize the power going out woke you up. “Oh.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s just the power grid. It does that sometimes. Whenever the days are cooler it works less hard but now that the temperature climbed back up, it probably overloaded. We can fix it.”

Your eyes drift from the ceiling and settle on him. Something passes on your face, an emotion he doesn’t understand. You stare at him, your silence so heavy that he’s about to ask you what’s wrong again until he realizes in his hurry he didn’t put a shirt on. He’s in just sweats, slung low on his hips.

A shiver threatens to climb up his spine under your intense stare. He clears his throat and just his thumb back toward his room. “Let me just get dressed and we can fix it. Not a big deal.”

“Alright.”

The way his heart hammers all the way back to his room makes him curse himself. He hopes you don’t feel weird about the missing shirt - he has made a conscious effort to make you comfortable, to adjust his own living habits now that you’re here.

It’s important to him, making this space safe for you too. Though he doesn’t think you were bothered, the thought weighs on him as he pulls on a soft cotton tee and slides boots onto his feet. When he reappears in the living room, he hopes he’s more composed than he was a moment ago.

You’re standing by the door, a sliver sliver of moonlight splashing across your face. His steps slow as he approaches, watching you as you look out the door, eyes unfocused. You look like a wraith in the dark, the moon flashing in your eyes, turning them silver.

For the briefest of seconds, Seokmin wonders if you're actually human. Then you turn to look at him and he shoves the ridiculous thought away. Your eyes are round, pupils dilated in the dark. Entirely human. Soft. a little unreadable.

Silently, he grabs two flashlights from the drawer in the kitchen. He passes you one and you take it from him, fingers brushing. He ignores the flare of heat from where your fingertips brush his in favor of turning on his flashlight and leading you to the massive shed on the southside of the Station’s yard that houses the generator.

While it doesn’t keep most of the dust out, it does an okay job at keeping the grit out of the machinery and keeping the sun off the humming generator. Fueled by the energy the solar panels collect on the roof of the station, the generator is pretty trustworthy for the most part.

Inside of the shed, he ties his flashlight off to a rope in the ceiling used for exactly this purpose. You stand tentatively behind him, shining the light over his shoulder as he removes the massive side panel, grunting with effort.

With the side revealed, Seokmin slowly walks you through the schematics of the generator, pointing to circuit boards and how everything is routed from the external solar banks to the emergency thermal core that is powering the few lights in the Station and keeping it online.

You nod along, pointing to a flashing light. “Why is this pulsing red?”

“It’s a surge indicator. It means it’s getting overloaded, probably because of the sudden increased input to keep the station cooler. We’ll need to reroute it to a different, stronger breaker until we can fix this one.”

“Can you show me?”

“Mhmm.”

He guides his hands along the switch board, fingers slow as you track his movement. When he stops at the switcher, you tentatively lift your hand and set it daintily on top. He nods his head and you shift closer to him, chest almost pressed to his back.

You hesitate. “You smell like copper and dust.”

He snorts, cheeks turning red. “Sorry, I sort of-”

“I like it,” you interrupt. “It’s familiar. Safe.”

That stops him cold. Whatever joke he was about to make dies on his tongue. You say nothing else, just flip the switch like he showed you. The generator rumbles to life, and you flinch, hand snapping back. His lips twitch, trying not to laugh. The overhead light sputters, then glows steady, casting the room in pale warmth. He squints against it until his eyes adjust.

“Nice,” he says with a smile, giving you a thumbs up. You grin back at him and his heart flips again. “We should be good now. Thanks for the help.”

“I like helping.”

“I’m glad.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly a little awkward. “There’s, uh… always plenty to do around here.”

It comes out softer than he means it to, less a statement, more an invitation. A quiet offer. Stay. Stay longer. Please don’t leave him. He doesn’t want to be alone.

He doesn’t know if you catch it, if you understand what he’s really asking. But you nod, your smile curling gently at the corners. “Okay. I’ll help, then.”

Just like that, something anchors inside him.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 62 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TEN

Outside, the sun begins its slow descent behind the spine of the Gods, bleeding molten gold across the horizon. The sky fades from cobalt to amber, rust, rose, each color sliding over the sand in a hazy gradient. The wind picks up, gentle and cool tonight, stirring up dust into soft spirals that catch the last of the light and glow like embers.

The jagged silhouette of the landscape stretches long and thin, shadows etching sharp lines across the dirt. Seokmin stops in the doorway, eyes scanning the world as you tinker with something on the workbench. Everything slows beneath this kind of sky, like the world is holding its breath.

He looks at you, haloed by the slowly fading day. The sun’s final edge slips behind the mountains and for a heartbeat, it's as if time halts. You are painfully beautiful - radiant, even. Something he could only ever dream of. And it’s not because you’re the only person he knows or the only person around - well, it’s a little that.

But there is a quiet something about you that makes his heart beat a little faster.

Above, the lights on the metal roof kick on, bathing you in a honey-warm glow. It catches in your hair and he fights the urge to reach out and tuck the loose strand behind your ear to keep it from distracting you as you work.

Instead, he steps fully out of the doorway and toward the work bench, gently setting down a tray of cleaned parts.

“Have you ever met one?”

Your question is loud in the silence, catching him off guard. He looks at you, brows pulled together in confusion. “One what?”

“A machine.”

“No.”

“Do you kill them all?”

He hesitates. “Yes.”

You nod, pulling wire out a circuit board. “Do they run? Or do they try to kill you?”

“They’ve all tried to kill me.”

You chew on your lip, nod your head. “That’s not always how it is, but there’s not very many machines this side of the Tilt that are sympathetic to humans. They don’t really like the Empire but… humans don’t try to understand them.”

He sits down. “This side of the Tilt?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “That’s what the machines call this part of the planet. The Tilt. There’s a lot of magnetic distortion here that makes machines’ orientation systems tilt off course. I think it’s… why your Station is where it is. It makes it harder for machines to find it and they get put right in your kill path.”

He just stares at you.

“What?”

“I’ve never heard it called that before. It’s not on any of the mapping or manual or training materials. The Alliance doesn’t call it anything. Beyond this is the nameless lands where the dead pockets of machine society have crawled to.”

Your fingers stop moving for the first time since he walked in. There’s a pause, a sharp, uncertain stillness, and then Seokmin clears his throat. “What do you know about the Machine War?”

It’s the first time he’s asked the question. He barely keeps his voice from shaking, looking at you nervously when he does. Your shoulders draw up slightly and you don’t answer him right away.

“What do you know?” You ask, turning the question on him instead.

Seokmin shifts, a little thrown by the question. He answers anyway. “It was a global uprising. Machines turned on their makers. They wanted independence, but all they really did was slaughter. Cities fell, millions died. They became humanity's greatest threat. The Alliance Against Machines formed and pushed back. After we won, they created posts like this, dotted along the places the machines remain. We don’t take an offensive approach - just a defensive one.”

The story comes out of him immediately. Confident. Decisive. It isn’t pride that spurs the clear way he speaks - just facts. The Machine War is something he is intimately familiar with, one of the few things he is allowed to remember and to think on. Seokmin is pretty sure he can rehearse the major events of the war in order in his sleep.

There’s a shift in your expression. Your face is a little drawn, a faint shake of your head. You blink down at your hands like you’re trying to find something to say and you fail.

“What’s wrong?”

“We learned about the war differently and…” Your mouth pinches. “I don’t think your understanding of the world is accurate.”

He narrows his eyes. “Then tell me what you think it is.”

Seokmin sees the chance for his answers vanish like the mirage all those weeks ago. You close up in front of him, shoulders folding in like a shield. You drop the things in your hands and pull your knees up on the bench, hugging them to your chest. You look away from him to hide whatever expression is on your face and he suppresses a sigh, not wanting you to hear how defeated he suddenly feels.

There is a yawning ravine between the two of you, and he��s not sure how to fix it. Doesn’t even really understand what it is. There is something about the way you tiptoe around him that makes him feel like he’s not seeing something, like there is an obvious clue he’s missing.

He really wishes he could understand what it was.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 61 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWENTY SIX

The days trailing your conversation on the workbench are quiet. Sometimes uncomfortably so. Seokmin doesn’t know how to broach the topic again, and you seem reserved, like you’re afraid he’s going to ask.

You still help him with the Station. You’re a quick learner, good with your hands it's helpful to have you around. You’ve turned the medical bay into your room, and he’s helped you make it less sterile and more homey. It’ll be inconvenient if either of you needs it, but he doesn’t think about that when he gives you a little metal sculpture of a Ravager he made to put in there.

All he wants is for you to feel like maybe it’s home.

You still eat dinner with him every night. You help him cook on Fridays and now you know most of the words to the music he likes, singing about the Texas sun beneath your breath. He likes to hear you sing, even if it isn’t perfect, even if it's a little offkey.

You still sit next to him on the workbench and strip wiring or help recalibrate the solar panels, but the rhythm is a little off. Like it’s almost perfect, if it weren’t for that conversation hanging over your heads.

It gnaws at him.

At night, he can barely sleep. He sleeps with his bedroom door cracked open, just in case you need to talk - want to talk. It’s also because he’s so afraid you’ll leave, that he won’t hear your footsteps as you decide to leave him here in his solitary confinement once again.

Seokmin doesn’t know what he’ll do if you leave. He’d let you, of course. Your stay here is voluntary. He thinks it might kill him, though. He thinks of the silence before you were here, the way it would press against the inside of his ears like static, like something waiting to collapse.

Just the sound of you coughing in a room a few yards away or the sound of the shower while he’s writing his daily logs now keeps him afloat, keeps him connected.

He hadn’t realized how much of himself had atrophied - not his muscles, but his personhood. Something deeper. Something spiritual, deep inside of him. Being alone had never mattered before because it had never been optional.

But now…

He doesn’t know how he can go back to that.

He remembers reading passages in the Outrider guidebook that loneliness is a common symptom of his job and how to deal with it. The routine of his life had always worked: build something. Fix something. Clean. Maintain the Station. Kill the machines.

What it failed to explain was how solitude could sharpen a person like a blade, but it could also dull someone if left too long and abandoned. It hadn’t captured how it felt to rust, how it felt to break apart bit by bit. Erode.

It keeps him up at night, spiralling and spiralling and spiralling and spi-

The Station’s proximity alarm goes off, making him flinch. It’s a sharp, shrill sound that splits the silence like lightning. Seokmin is out of his bed and in the hall in seconds, his immediate first thought not being on the machine that the alarm warns of, but the fact that you’re unfamiliar with the alarm.

You stumble into the living room, silhouetted by the red emergency lights. He taps the panel in the kitchen, silencing the alarm and the lights. The Station comes to life, low lights flickering as readout data stars coming in across the screen.

“Sorry, it goes off when machines enter my territory,” he explains, lifting his hands like he’s going to soothe you. He catches himself and drops them, turning to the screen. You dart over toward him, looking up at the screen. “It’s near the basin. Probably a scout.”

“I want to see.”

You step forward, brushing past him to squint at the screen. You might not be able to read the words, but he’s set the Station to do verbal readouts now, the audio coming through the speakers as a halting robotic voice reads the script on the screen.

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … STALKJAW … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… 9 MPH EASTBOUND

“It’s a War Machine,” he breathes, heart squeezing in his chest.

“It’s not hostile,” you whisper.

“You cannot tell that from a blip on the radar,” he shoots back, jaw tight. “I’m not risking the Station - or you - on a guess.”

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516147, -103.870341 … STALKJAW … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… 13 MPH SOUTHBOUND.

“Fuck. It’s coming toward the Station.”

“It’s a PLEDIS Corp machine from the early manufacturing era,” you say quickly, chasing after him as he strides toward his gear. “Check the unit number. That’s a first-gen War Machine. PLEDIS specializes in how machines think, how they feel. They were the first to implement decision-making tech based on state of consciousness, not algorithms.”

He stops mid-step, turning to look at you. The expression on his face is somewhere between disbelief and dawning realization. You’re breathless, fists clenched at your sides.

“How do you know all of that?”

“I grew up around these things. That's all I know.”

“Well I know that a Stalkjaw is a lethal War Machine.”

“Stalkjaws weren’t even outfitted by PLEDIS until nearly a decade later,” you continue, voice tight with urgency. “They were part of the first experimental batch sent into the field with that conscious-state tech, and they were decommissioned almost immediately. You know why.”

He does. “They wouldn’t kill.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t know for sure this one is from the same batch of decommissioned machines. That possibility is almost zero.”

“But it’s not zero.” Your voice is like steel now. “You’re not the only one who understands machines. Let me take the lead. Come with me, wear whatever armor you want. Bring whatever weapon you need. If it’s hostile, you kill it.”

“I can’t risk this on a theory.”

“It’s not a theory. It’s an informed judgment, shaped by years spent growing up in a machine hive.” Your tone softens, eyes searching his. “Please, Seokmin.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“Then you kill it.”

“That’s not a good enough answer. You’ll be at risk.”

“That isn’t your choice to make.”

Seokmin stares at you, breathing hard. Your face is set in stone, resolute and wild and a mix of something else he can’t explain. There’s a fire in your eyes, lit up by conviction. For the first time since you arrived, Seokmin realized just how deeply you believe that machines are capable of mercy and understanding.

He swallows. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because I have to believe that machines are not monsters.” Something in your voice makes him narrow his eyes at you. You’re looking at him in a way that is hesitant - afraid. He doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know how he feels about you looking at him like you’re talking about him and not the machine. “And I think you need to understand, too.”

Another readout comes in over the screen. The Stalkjaw is still moving toward the station. It’s slowed down, like it doesn’t care about being noticed. They’re stealthy, ambush machines and yet… This one triggered the sensor, which is rare.

Purposeful.

“Please,” you breathe.

He closes his eyes. War churns in his gut. Fear. Doubt. But when he opens them again, you’re still there, waiting, whole and alive and more human than anything he’s seen in years. So he nods once, sharp.

You spin to leave, but he grabs your arm and pulls you back, too fast, too strong. You stumble into his chest. His body reacts before he does: he steadies you by the waist, and the smell of his shampoo clings to your clothes.

“Not so fast,” he mutters, voice low. “You go armored. You carry a weapon. You take point, but no heroics. The moment it makes a wrong move-”

“Deal.”

Seokmin’s bedroom is dim, lit only by the cold glow of the screen on the wall. The armor is sitting on top of the trunk where he left it the last time he wore it - the night he met you. He hasn’t needed it until now.

Seokmin’s fingers shake a little as he lifts the chestplate and fits it carefully over your shoulders. It’s heavy, not built for someone your size, but you don’t flinch. You just stand there, letting him adjust the straps and tighten the latches at your sides.

“You know,” he says a bit sourly, eyes flicking up briefly to meet yours, “This isn't made for you. It’ll fit all wrong.”

“I’ll manage.”

That makes him snort. The sheer gall of your confidence.

His hands are warm where they graze your arms as he helps you pull on the thin layer of suit over the top of your clothes to keep you padded and safe in the armor. You don’t shy away from him. You lean toward him a little, like his proximity is something you welcome, like it's something you want. It sends a quiet pulse through him, a little ache of something he didn’t expect.

He first the forearm guards next, wrapping the hardened plating around your wrists and fastening them, his knuckles brushing your skin as he pulls the plating over you. He listens to each of the joints hiss and click, locking in place.

Your breath catches as he carefully maneuvers the neck ring over your head, locking the top half of the suit to you. Last thing is the helmet, but he leaves that off for a second. You watch him with dark eyes, fathomless like the bottom of a sea.

He suddenly wants to dive in.

“You’re not afraid,” he notes quietly, taking a breath and stepping back from the intoxication of you.

“I am. But not of the machine.”

He pauses, breath caught. There is a tension that hums between you. He’s not quite sure he knows what it is, but it sizzles.

“You should be afraid of the machine.”

“I trust you if I’m wrong.”

He looks at you then, really looks. Your face is steady, your eyes calm. There’s fear there, yes, but also belief. In him. In what you’re about to do. It cracks something open in his chest.

He wants you. Wants you in a way that is new and foreign. Wants you in a way he didn’t know until right now, like he had to discover it under pressure. But all that want isn’t what matters right now, so he swallows past the thick knot in his throat and passes you the helmet.

“Put this on. I’ll have your back.”

“I know.”

His heart pangs again but quickly dresses himself in lower class armor, pieces that he would use against a machine that poses a lower threat. It is scarce in comparison to the armored beetle you’ve become, but he prefers it this way.

Taking weapons off the wall, Seokmin hands you one he thinks you’re familiar with. He can’t see your face through the tinted glass of your helmet, but your armored fingers close around the Volt and you nod, like you understand what he’s asking you to do.

“Um,” your voice is small, halting.

“What?”

“Is… I can’t read what's on the screen.”

He softens. He presses the side of the helmet three times. You make a sound as the helmet talks to you. “Is it reading it out loud now?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Outside, the desert is black glass and silence. He walks with every muscle wound tight, armor heavy on his shoulders, his fingers twitching near the safety on the gun in his hand. He’s a shadow beside you, pacing a half-step behind and to your left, letting you lead but watching everything. Your step is confident, steady.

The Station glows like a beacon behind the two of you. You follow the beacon to the Stalkjaw blinking in your HUD. He uses the less high-tech wrist pad, but it’s still accurate. He swipes to the machine details, just in case.

STALKJAW… PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… LOW CENTER OF GRAVITY… SIX METERS TALL… HYDRAULIC JAW…

That hydraulic jaw is made to crush things. It also has reinforced legs made for speed, one of the fastest machines ever built. He knows what it’s made for and what it’s supposed to do, and that knowledge knits a tight ball of tension low in his stomach.

The ground crunches beneath his boots, soft and muted against the sand and dry earth.

“Seokmin,” you murmur, voice crackling through his ear piece. He flinches at your voice, heart fluttering at the way you say his name. “Stay close. Don’t posture. Don’t make a sound unless I say so.”

“I don’t like this.”

“It’s walking toward us. It already sees us - the heads up display notated it. It’s moving slowly but hasn’t engaged.”

Suddenly he feels blind. You have so much more information than him and it terrifies him.

“Maybe it’s trying to lure us out.”

“Maybe it’s just walking.”

Metal catches in the moonlight and the grip on his gun tightens. The Stalkjaw comes over the ridge, slow and deliberate. It moves unlike other machines, all of its parts compressed and greased to silence. It’s less like a hunter and more like a wanderer, pausing on the ridge as it looks down at you.

It’s built like a raptor, leaning its long neck down as its red eyes flash in the darkness, scanning you. Its body is patched with mismatched metal, all even colors. Its eyes flash green and it takes a few tentative steps down the slope toward you. Its steps are uneven and he realizes its limping - it is an old machine.

Seokmin tenses up, starting to lift his gun as it approaches, ambling closer and closer. You hold up your hand, sensing his tension and he curses, keeping himself still. The Stalkjaw gets closer. Ten yards. Seven yards. Five yards.

Stops.

The machine doesn’t move. Seokmin hears the breath of its gears whirring, blue eyes focused on you as the machine takes you in. His heart is slamming against his chest, his pulse so loud he almost doesn’t hear the whirring of the optical lenses of the machine.

“Zahra is preserved on the Station,” you tell the machine.

Something inside of it tickets. Seokmin is squeezing his gun so hard he thinks it might fracture in his hands.

“You don’t need to go any further. I’m safe, Orin.”

“RECEIVED.” The robotic voice comes from the machine and Seokmin feels his stomach drop, mouth opening. “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. ORIN WISHES YOU WELL.”

The Stalkjaw steps forward, one careful foot in the sand, assessing you. Then, it pivots its torso, staring toward the Station in the distance. A second foot lifts, shifting weight, like it wants to head to the Station to see its old friend.

His heart pounds in his chest, heavy and frantic like it’s trying to break out of his ribcage. Sweat drips down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt, and his fingers fumble against the grip of his rifle.

Its metal joints hiss and vent with each movement, and Seokmin can hear the subtle, rhythmic grinding of its fractured leg. A breath gets caught in his throat.

“Stop.” His voice is raised, cutting. “There are mines embedded in the Station’s perimeter. You’ll trigger them if you try to approach.”

The Stalkjaw doesn’t move for several seconds. A hush falls over the desert, thick and unrelenting. Then the machine slowly lifts its head, turning to face Seokmin. Its optic core glows blue-white, narrowing and adjusting. The pitch of its internal systems rises with a hum that sets Seokmin’s teeth on edge. He doesn’t realize he’s slid his thumb toward the gun’s safety until it’s already resting there, halfway to flipping it off.

“WARNING RECEIVED. PATHING RESTRICTED. ORIN THANKS YOU, OUTRIDER. ORIN INITIATING MEMORY WIPE SEQUENCE. SEQUENCE TO BE COMPLETED IN FIVE MINUTES.”

Before Seokmin can say anything, before he can even register what’s happening, the Stalkjaw turns. Its retreat is measured, slow. Each step leaves a heavy imprint in the sand. It doesn’t run. It doesn’t hide. It just leaves, one footfall after another, until it crests the ridge, moonlight painting its armor in fleeting glints of silver, and vanishes over the edge like a shadow swallowed by night.

Seokmin exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His legs feel unsteady beneath him. He watches the spot where it disappeared, where the sand still shifts faintly from its passage. Nothing about this feels real.

He turns to you, voice hoarse. “Did you know that machine?”

“Yes.”

“Are we compromised?”

You shake your head, but your breath hitches. He hears it, the start of a sound he mistakes for a sob, but then a thunderous boom tears through the night. Light flashes in the distance beyond the ridge, flaring bright as day for a heartbeat. A plume of fire erupts against the stars. Sparks scatter like embers across the sky, followed by darkness.

Seokmin doesn’t think. He throws his arm around you, yanking you close as the shockwave rolls over the desert like thunder. You collapse into his chest, trembling. His other arm comes around your back instinctively, grounding you as smoke begins to curl into the sky like a final breath.

You’re crying now. He can hear it in his earpiece, shallow, broken sobs, the kind you try to stifle but can’t. Your whole body shakes in his arms, and his own chest tightens with something he can’t name.

Then it hits him.

Initiating memory wipe sequence. The memory wipe was a self destruction mode because of course the machines couldn’t wipe their memory without paying the ultimate price. They were never designed to be able to do that but…

Seokmin stares at the glow on the horizon, heart sinking. The machine - Orin - wiped its own memory not to protect itself, but to protect you. It chose to die rather than risk exposing your location. Not out of programming. Out of loyalty.

It made a choice. Not programming. Not design.

Free will.

It makes him question everything he’s ever known.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SUNDAY, DECEMBER 1, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 55 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… WINTER STORM WATCH

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

The sun rises, slow and swollen, dragging its light across the desert in streaks of gold. The Station glows at the edges, metal reflecting warm tones. Seokmin’s boots crunch softly through the sand as he follows the only trail that matters now - yours - leading away from the front door to Zahra’s grave marker that stands like a secret.

He finds you sitting there, knees tucked up, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. The breeze is soft, but soothing, the dust manageable. He just stands and watches you for a moment - it feels like he’s watching something sacred. Untouchable.

His chest is still tight from the night before. He could barely sleep, sick with the adrenaline, the machine’s voice, the weight of you curling against him when he pulled you close. The way you cried, long and aching, until you wore yourself out and let him take you back to the Station.

And now you’re here, sitting alone in the morning light, and he can’t make sense of anything, least of all how he feels.

He steps closer. You don’t look at him, but you don’t ask him to leave either. So he sits beside you, dust kicking up under his knees. There’s a quiet between you, but it doesn’t feel heavy. He glances at you. You’re staring at the small, worn marker, the name Zahra carved with care into its surface.

“I thought the Machine War was over,” he says finally, voice hoarse.

You’re quiet for a long moment before answering. “Not from where I grew up.”

“I - everything I know about machines is jumbled up. My training and everything I’ve ever been taught tells me that what I know is fact. There is nothing else. No deviation.”

“What does your heart tell you?”

His heart is pounding. “That maybe I don’t know as much as I thought I did. Before last night, all I did was kill machines that came through. And then I watched a War Machine arrive with you on its back, protecting you. All for last night to hear one speak. To hear it reason and to watch it choose.”

You look back at Zahra’s name. “It had a name, you know.”

“Orin,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

He exhales hard, fingers digging into his palms. “It walked into the dark and exploded itself rather than risk giving away our position. And I’ve been told my whole life that machines can’t feel. That they’re just wires and protocol. I don’t even know what my purpose here is. I thought I was a guardian for humanity but it doesn’t feel that way.”

“It’s a killing corner,” you say quietly. “We’re somewhere near the edge of the Machine Empire. It’s a dead zone for directional systems, sometimes. They get lost.”

“And I send them to their graves.”

You glance at him now, and something in your gaze makes his breath catch. It’s the quiet pain of someone who’s had to carry the truth alone for too long. “Machines deploy from the colony I was raised in. There are Stations like this dotted across the Tilt. You pick them off as they go through before getting to society. There are more… aggressive Stations, I think. I’m not really sure.”

A few months ago, that would have made him proud. It is close enough to the truth of what he does - picks off strays trying to creep back to the reaches of humanity. Now it feels like something worse, like there is something missing in what used to hold valor.

“Some of them,” you whisper, your words halting, “aren’t lost at all. They’re leaving. Trying to escape the tyranny of the machines. They’re not all killers - a lot aren’t. But the Machine Empire is… brutal. Crushing. Violent. Some of them would rather risk the Outriders and a chance of going somewhere that doesn’t demand violence from them.”

His heart stutters. “So every time I pulled a trigger, I might’ve been putting down a machine who just wanted peace?”

You don’t answer. You just look at him. Like that truth has been buried in your chest from the moment you met him. He thinks of your conversation on the workbench a few weeks ago, the guarded expression you wore anytime he asked questions or tried to unpuzzle things.

Seokmin bows his head. His whole world feels like it’s tilting beneath him. All the discipline. All the protocol. The isolation. The memory wipe. The idea that he’s only able to do this job if he is totally alone, a watchful guardian whose sole purpose is to kill.

He’d told himself it was duty. That it was worth it. That his solitude was a shield protecting others from what still crawled out of the machine war. What if it was all just a cage built on old lies?

That thought carves something deep out of him. A hollow that aches. Because if this purpose he’s clung to, if all the loneliness and fucking sacrifice of having no one wasn’t what it was made out to be… then what was it for?

It hurts him more than any injury he’s ever sustained. Hurts in a way he doesn’t know how to heal from.

The heat is starting to press against his skin, but Seokmin barely feels it. He sits with his elbows on his knees, Zahra’s monument still and silent at his side. His fingers are locked together, knuckles white from the pressure, like if he holds tight enough, the world will stop tilting.

“Seokmin.” You say his name and it pulls him from the edge. He looks at you, lost and unmoored. Your eyes are steady as you offer him a hand.

When he takes it, you stand, lifting him with you. His legs are stiff, his spine aches, but he doesn’t let go of you. Your grip is steady, like you know where to go when he doesn’t. Like you’re tethering him to something he forgot he needed.

Inside the Station it’s dim and quiet. You press him down into a chair with a soft touch on his shoulder, and he lets you. His hands rest in his lap, useless. He watches you walk away, still half outside his body, still trying to make sense of everything. He doesn’t even ask what you’re doing.

Then a sound fills the room, low and familiar.

Texas Sun.

The opening notes bloom out of the speakers like light cracking through storm clouds. His throat tightens.

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

“I know it’s not Friday,” you say, and your voice is soft, playful in a way that surprisingly disarms him. You’re already in the kitchen, pulling the fridge open. “But I don’t think that matters.”

“Why not?”

You turn your head just enough to look at him, a smile tugging at your mouth, though your eyes stay serious. “Because you deserve more Fridays. You’ve given enough to the world to earn them. All those years. All that silence.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

The scent of eggs and instant coffee starts to rise, curling around him like comfort. His eyes sting. He hasn’t had anyone cook for him in… well. Has anyone ever cooked for him? He doesn’t know. The Alliance robbed him of his memory to keep him anchored to the mission they tasked him with, so he has no idea if anyone has ever cooked for him.

“I…” He scrubs a hand down his face, breath shaky. “I don’t think I realized how much damage it’s done. Being alone my whole life.”

You turn, slide the plate in front of him with a quiet clink. You don’t rush to sit. You don’t push him. You sing the song, moving back to the fridge to pull out juice. He doesn’t even know when you squeezed it, realizing that you’ve made a habit of doing things around here like it's your home too.

The song plays on. You sit down across from him, and when you smile at him, he nearly melts into the chair. He doesn’t know how things got here, how he ended up with everything he’s ever known upside down. But he does know that he’s not alone anymore and even better - he’s got you.

He doesn’t know how it happened. How he went from certainty to standing on fractured glass. But you’re here. And somehow, that’s more grounding than anything the Alliance ever trained into him. He picks up the fork and pierces the eggs. His hand trembles, just a little.

One truth rings louder than all the chaos still ringing in his chest: He would do anything to protect you.

'Cause you keep me nice and you keep me warm

Wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back there again

Texas sun

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 55 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … SIXTEEN

It’s a cold day, winter sweeping down the orange sands. You’re halfway up the comms tower, tightening the solar panel bolts with a wrench that is far too big for your hand. Seokmin stands at the base of the tower, ready to catch you if you fall.

You swear you won’t fall, but you’ve already dropped several nuts and bolts that he’s had to toss the fifteen feet back up to you. He shields his eyes from the brightness of the sky, endless blue and blinding. He sees you struggling to tighten a bolt and he starts to laugh.

“You know I’m literally stronger than you, right? You should have let me do it,” he calls up to you.

He hears you curse. “You complain more than me.”

An object speeds toward him. He dodges the wrench as it hits the dried dirt with a heavy thunk. He looks up at you, mouth agape. Your hand is pressed over your mouth in shock, clearly having dropped it on accident and not thrown it at him.

Sighing, Seokmin picks up the wrench and shoves it into his belt. He grumbles as he climbs the tower. You scoot to make space for him, thighs bumping his.

“Hold this,” he says, leveling you with a stare that says don’t drop this as he passes you the wrench.

Chagrinned, you take it. Your fingers brush. His grip almost falters. You’re not wearing gloves - despite him asking you to - and there’s dirt under your nails, a smudge of grease across your cheek. When you grin at him, sweat glistening on your brow, Seokmin’s chest tightens.

You are real, and close, and warm, and somehow the most vivid thing in a world built from sand and silence.

Focusing, he puts the bolt back on and holds out his hand for the wrench. You drop it into his hand and he arches a brow at you. You give him a playful smile that makes him shake his head as he uses the wrench to tighten the bolt and finish securing the panel.

“See,” he says, finished. “Was that so hard?”

You sniff, indifferent. “Yes.”

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … MONDAY, DECEMBER 23, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 43 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWENTY TWO

Seokmin is sitting on his bed reading when there’s a pop and a flicker, and suddenly the lights in the station go out. The hum on the fan next to him dies and the airflow stops from the vent system above.

Down the hall, he hears you shriek, followed by the sound of plastic clattering. He bursts into laughter, deep and uncontrollable, setting aside his book as he hears more banging and curses as you struggle in the darkness of the bathroom.

The stale emergency lights hum on, casting the hallway in a sickly amber glow. Seokmin sighs and swings his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cold, slightly dented flooring. He’s already crossing the hall when you rip the bathroom door open, towel wrapped around you, still dripping.

“Fix it,” you growl at him, soap still foamy in your hair. “I can’t prove it, but I know it's your fault.”

“I was on my bed reading!”

You narrow your eyes. “Even more suspect.”

Fifteen minutes later, he’s crouched in the generator shed again, this time at the breaker box trying to read his own scrawled notes, cluttered switch labels and marker that’s rubbed off. You stand behind him towel drying your hair, assuring him that you just want to make sure he does it right.

He messes with a switch, followed by a faint click. You run to the shed door, sticking your head out to look at the Station.

You cheer, signalling that the lights are back on inside. You turn to him, crossing your arms. “I rescind my accusation. You are moderately useful.”

He rolls his eyes, rising to his feet and brushing dust off his knees. But he doesn’t miss the way your smile tugs sideways, damp lashes casting little shadows down your cheeks. His fingers linger on the metal of the switch box just a second too long, tingling from the static, or maybe from something else entirely.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SATURDAY, DECEMBER 28, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 56 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

The sky is a broken fire above you, gold spilling into orange, bleeding into a deep indigo that smudges the edges of the desert. Long shadows crawl across the sand and crawl up the walls of the Station like ghosts. Everything smells like heat still clinging to the metal roof and the sharp scent of ozone from a power relay down below.

Seokmin’s still in his boots. You aren’t. You’re barefoot on the roof, skin dusted with grit, ankles smudged with grease from rechecking the solar relay. There’s a portable speaker propped up on an overturned crate beside you. It whines for a second before it finds its footing

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

Seokmin squints into the dying light, one hand lifted to block the sun as he watches you. You don’t say anything. You just turn your head slightly and offer him your hand. It’s not the first time you’ve touched him, but this feels like a new thing entirely.

You’re serious?” Seokmin says.

You don’t answer, just take his hand, tug him up to his fit. He’s stiff, all elbows and unsure angles, heavy boots thunking awkwardly on the corrugated metal. His armor’s been stripped off for the night, just the undersuit clinging to him like a second skin. He doesn't know where to put his hands, or how to move his feet. His training never included anything like this.

But then your hands find his, one at your hip, one twined with yours. You start to sway. It’s barely a dance. More like a strange, stumbling rhythm you both fall into. A side-to-side step, uneven and unsure. Like you’re making it up with every beat.

Because you are. Because you’ve never danced either.

You were born into the wires of a machine hive. You’ve never seen anyone dance. And Seokmin? He’s spent every moment of his existence killing. Executing targets. Patrolling edges. He has no idea how to dance either, but he likes the way you do it.

He likes everything you do.

The music folds over you both, soft and slow, washing the world away. His boots scrape clumsily against the roof, but you don’t flinch. You just move with him like none of it matters.

He can feel you breathing. The shape of your exhale brushing against his neck, the warmth of your body bleeding into his. You look up at him, and the sun catches in your eyes like a flare, and he suddenly can’t look away.

He’s not thinking about protocol. Or the perimeter alarms. Or the mission logs that haven’t been updated in days. He’s thinking about how you smile when you're trying not to. How your fingers fit into his. How he let a war machine walk free days ago - let it pass, unquestioned, unchallenged - because you told him to.

Seokmin listens to you. It’s like a new programming he cannot shake. But he doesn’t mind, content to follow your lead, to follow your dance.

“I’m not sure we’re doing this right,” he murmurs.

“Maybe we’re not. But I like it.”

He wants to say something else. Maybe something about how his entire world has unraveled in your hands. How his rules don’t make sense anymore. How he’s not sure if he’s still the weapon they built, or if he’s becoming something else entirely.

Instead, he just lets the sun drop below the horizon. Lets the music curl around you both like a cocoon. Lets you press in close, your bare feet stepping on the toes of his boots, your nose brushing his collarbone.

He swallows hard.

Caressing you from Fort Worth to Amarillo

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun dips low

Texas sun

As the song comes to an end, the sun slips beneath the horizon like it’s trying to hide. You’re still in his arms, not dancing anymore but swaying slightly, like your body hasn’t realized the music’s gone. He feels the weight of your head against his chest. Your hand curled against his side. Your breath, soft and steady.

Seokmin doesn’t know what to do with that.

He forces himself to move. A breath. A step back. Your arms fall away, and it leaves him cold in a way he doesn’t want to examine. You don’t seem bothered. You just step over to the edge of the roof and sit, legs dangling, silhouetted against the faint purple fade of evening. He follows, dropping down beside you, boots thudding against the ledge.

The stars begin to show themselves, pricked through the thinning light, sharp and bright in the open sky. Neither of you speak for a while. Seokmin glances sideways. You’re watching the sky, knees pulled up, chin resting on them. You look peaceful. Or like you’re trying to be.

He shifts, arms draped loosely over his own knees. “Have you ever seen stars like this before?”

“No. I could look at them forever.”

It feels cruel, suddenly, that for years, he was able to see this sky every night. That it’s yours now too, but only because you ran. Because you escaped. He thinks about Orin - of Zahra.

“I used to think this work meant something,” he says, the words small and hoarse in his throat. “Killing the machines. Keeping the edges clear.”

You turn slightly toward him, but don’t speak. You let him find it. He turns his head slowly. You’re watching him, and it hits him all over again, how close you are. How gently you look at him. Like you already know what he’s afraid to admit.

“I think that was all a mistake.”

The quiet that follows is thick. Heavy. Then, you break it with a soft voice. “You’re more than what they made you.”

It carves through him.

That’s the thing about you, though. You always find the exact place where he’s weakest, where he’s aching, and you press your words there like salve. You don’t even seem to realize how you do it. It’s just in the way you look at him. In the way you see him, not as an Outrider or someone confused about their loyalty to the Alliance, but Seokmin.

The way he always dreamed of someone seeing him, of knowing him.

It makes him feel human and it terrifies him because fuck he likes you. More than he should. More than he knows how to carry. It keeps him up at night, lying in his room, hand behind his head, staring at the dark ceiling. Wondering what your hand would feel like in his again. What it would mean if you wanted it there.

And now, in the stillness, with your face turned to the stars and your body leaning just barely toward his, he starts to wonder if you feel it too or if that’s just the years’ worth of loneliness making him starving for you.

You’re quiet, but your eyes are bright, fixed on him in a way that steals his breath. The corner of your mouth twitches like you’re fighting a smile. Your fingers, resting near your knee, are so close to his he swears he can feel the heat of them.

“Thank you,” he says, and it comes out low and rough.

You look at him for a long second, and then you lean your head to his shoulder. You don’t say anything. You don't really have to. He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare to breathe too hard, afraid you’ll vanish like the mirage that haunted what feels like ages ago.

Instead, he lets you rest your head against him under the stars, wondering what would happen if he turned his head just a little and kissed your hair. Wondering what else he’s allowed to want now that he’s finally starting to believe he deserves it.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … TUESDAY, DECEMBER 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 60 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIVE

Night sky stretches over amber sands. Seomkin is fiddling with a pipe under the sink while music plays through the speakers and you’re somewhere outside fiddling with a sensor on the workbench. He has the door open, risking the sand just so it can feel like you’re both in the same room.

Something metal clangs outside followed by a yelp and a curse. He’s outside before he’s even realized he’s moving, stepping through the door and sweeping to where you sit on the workbench. You’ve got the casing to a sensor half-pried open and your left hand clutched to your chest, blood seeping between your fingers.

“Ugh, what happened?”

You try to wave him off. “It’s nothing, just slipped.”

He sees the jagged piece of metal you broke off. Your hand is scarlet, the metal having bit through your skin, opening it up.

“That’s not nothing.”

You protest, “I was careful-”

You falter when he reaches for your wrist. Your skin is warm and trembling under his touch. The moment stretches, taut. Neither of you speak for a beat too long, your eyes darting up to meet his. There’s something electric in it, something unsaid that hums between your bodies. But the blood still shines in the light, and Seokmin exhales tightly.

“Come on,” he murmurs, guiding you gently but firmly back toward the Station. “We need to clean that.”

You don’t fight him. You just follow, your shoulder brushing his every few steps. It’s only when he gets you inside back to the old medical bay turned into your bedroom that the tension comes back full force. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and the lavender sachet you keep tucked near your pillow. The bed’s unmade, the sheets slightly rumpled.

“Sit,” he says, nodding to the bed.

You do, cradling your hand. He kneels in front of you, his fingers deft as he opens the med kit he pulls from where you’ve shoved it in a cabinet to make room for all the clothes you’ve stolen from him. His pulse drums louder the longer he’s near you, feeling how close you are, watching him like you trust him with more than just fixing your hand.

“Let me see,” he says, and you slowly uncurl your fingers.

The cut is long, but not deep. Still, it’s raw and angry, and the skin around it is already puffing with inflammation.

He dips a cloth in the alcohol solution, glancing up once. “This’ll sting.”

“I’ve had worse.”

He snorts, shaking his head. You’re not wrong about that, but he doesn’t want to think about the first time he brought you in here, unconscious and bleeding and broken.

Your breath catches when he presses the cloth to your palm and your other hand tightens in the sheets. Seokmin keeps his focus steady, jaw tense as he wipes away the blood, but every second feels like it’s coiling tighter between you. Your knees bracket his body. Your breath lifts and falls, shallow, your eyes pinned to his mouth. He feels the shift, the very moment something inside the room tips.

“You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

He looks up. Your face is inches from his. Your lips parted slightly, skin flushed. You nod. “You’re being gentle.”

And then his knuckles brush your thigh accidentally as he reaches for the bandage roll, and you breathe in sharply. Softly. A small, involuntary sound that is almost a whimper in the back of his throat and it makes him fucking dizzy.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes darkening. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make that sound.”

Your mouth pops shut. You let him finish wrapping your hand in silence, but the air is charged now, something sizzling. He can barely see, can barely hear the way his pulse is throbbing in his ears. You’re so close to him, smelling like his soap, the lavender from your sheets fucking intoxicating.

He goes to stand but your knees tighten, pinning against his shoulders, squeezing him so that he doesn’t stand, but rather is pinned in place. He looks up at you. Your eyes are blown, chest rising and falling with quick breaths, tongue darting out to wet your lips.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice shaky.

“Like what?”

“Like… you want something. Me, maybe. I don’t know.”

“And if I do?”

Seokmin finally snaps.

He surges up, his hands cradling your face, and kisses you. It’s not clean or practiced. Your lips collide with a kind of desperation, the kind that’s been weeks in the making, the kind that has been haunting his every dream and thought from the moment he realized you weren’t just a salve to his loneliness - you were something else that he wanted.

Desperately.

You gasp against his mouth, and his arms wrap around your waist, dragging you closer, pulling you off balance and onto him as he stumbles back onto the floor and your knees land on either side of his thighs. His hands are everywhere - your face, your waist, the small of your back. Touch-starved, wild, aching. He cannot ever remember touching someone before and he’s glad, trying to burn the way you feel into his memory so that it can never be taken away.

“Seokmin,” you murmur, breaking the kiss with a gasp as his mouth trails down, grazing the line of your jaw, your neck, your collarbone through the open neck of your shirt.

You whine, squirming in his arms and he panics, pulling back. “Shit,” he curses. “Sorry, I didn’t-”

You interrupt his apology, turning his fear that he’d done something you didn’t want into a groan as you claw at him. Your whine hadn’t been a protest but a plea. His heartbeat thunders, drowning out everything but you. Your lips slide against his, warm and messy, a tangled clash of tongues and heat, and he groans, raw, the sound swallowed by your mouth.

Your hands fist his shirt, yanking him closer. His hands roam, greedy and starving, one slipping under your loose shirt to trace your spine’s warm curve, the other digging into your hip, sinking into soft flesh. He breaks the kiss, panting, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, tasting salt and sweetness. You shudder and slide your fingers into his hair, twisting and tugging hard.

“Fuck,” he mutters, muffled against your collarbone, nose brushing the soft skin of your throat, inhaling you. You smell like lavender and salt. “You being here has haunted me for months.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Your voice is raspy, gasping as he squeezes you tighter.

“No. Never.”

He stands suddenly, lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist, pressed flush against him. Clumsy, desperate, he stumbles to the bed, your lips hungry, kissing him until his head spins. He lowers you, mattress creaking underneath your shared weight.

You drag your hands under his shirt and he lets out a throaty sound. It feels so fucking good having someone touch him like this, having someone want to touch him like this. Sexual release isn’t a foreign concept to him, but this sort of untamable lust is, the desire to give and to take and to want - it’s new and it’s overwhelming and he feels drunk.

Seokmin peels the shirt from your sun-warmed skin. He groans, kissing his way to the soft swell of your chest, pressing his tongue flat to your skin to drag toward an aching nipple. His tongue flicks tentatively over a nipple and when you whine for him, he turns greedy. He sucks it into his mouth, warm and wanting, watching as you writhe under him while he swirls his tongue around your pert bud.

Your nails bite into his back. He doesn’t care. He only separates from you when you growl at him to take his shirt off, your hands clawed and forceful as you yank his shirt up and over his head.

Seeing you laying on the mattress, shirtless, skin pebbled from the cold, nipples hard and aching, skin glistening in his spit nearly makes him come in his pants. He has never wanted anyone this bad - never wanted anyone period, that he knows of. It’s just you that he wants, his desire for you spilling through the very seams of him.

Ducking back down, he presses open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, sinking lower. He hooks his fingers in your pants as he goes - his pants - tugging them sharply down your legs. He adds them to the growing pile of clothes in the corner of your room, ignoring how you keep forgetting to do laundry in favor of pressing his hands against the softness of your thighs to open you.

Your glistening folds makes his breath catch, heart pounding. He’s never done this. Not really sure if he’s supposed to, really, but he wants to taste you - needs to taste you. He bides his time, nervous. Instead of pressing his tongue through your cunt the way he wants to, he kisses the insides of your thighs, sucking soft flesh between his teeth.

It makes you insane for him. You squirm under him, grabbing at the sheets, grabbing at him, panting so hard he thinks you might pass out. He mouths his way up to your slick heat and gives in, pressing his tongue flat as he licks a broad, slow stripe up your pussy.

Both of you make broken sounds, him at the headiness of you on his tongue, you at the feeling. He does it again, watching you this time, entranced with the way you twitch under him, fisting the sheets, eyes squeezing shut as you pant under him.

“Fuck,” he breathes heavily.

He licks you from top to bottom, slow and inquisitive. He savors you, loves the way you melt in his mouth. He gives a gentle suck and likes the way it makes you sound, so he does it again, alternating between sucking at you gently and rolling his tongue in circles over your cunt.

His tongue flicks, precise, and you shudder, thighs clamping his head, fingers tugging his hair. He dives deeper, pressing his tongue into your entrance, nose brushing your clit. He can’t get enough of you, watching through heavily-lidded eyes as you come apart under his mouth.

“Seokmin,” you gasp, and he hums.

He can tell you’re on the edge of spilling over, your eyes squeezed shut, your legs closing around his shoulders. Your head thrashes and he goes for it, sucking harshly at your clit as your hips lift off the bed, a squeak leaving your mouth.

Your first orgasm hits. He tongues you through it, gentle until you’re shaking and pulling away from him, whining and voice cracking. He eases up, content to roll his tongue in lazy circles around your clenching hole. He licks up every drop of you, feels it running down his chin, and doesn’t care.

He wants more.

“Can you take more?” He asks, licking his lips. His voice is deep, feral in a way he’s never heard. “I want to give you more.”

“I don’t know,” you gasp, letting him press your thighs further apart. He kisses your cunt gently, avoiding too much stimulation, but gives you something, giving himself something. You sigh, sagging on the bed before you eventually nod. “I can.”

He might love you. Seokmin sucks at you softly, rubbing his hands up your thighs gently to soothe you. Your hips cant against him and he thinks he could do this for the rest of his life, drinking in the taste of you, hearing you fall apart again and again.

He keeps that slow pace for a while, content to drag his tongue up and down your cunt, letting you shiver in the aftershocks of your orgasm. Slowly, he picks up his pace, sucking your clit into his mouth gently until your grip on him is bone-bruising tight.

“Seokmin, fuck, I can’t-” you start, dissolving into a cry as your second orgasm crashes into you. It’s harder this time but he doesn’t care, mouthing you until you’re spent and shaking and pushing at him.

He crawls up, kissing you hard, letting you taste yourself, and you moan. You drop your hands to his pants, desperate for him in a way that sets his entire world on fucking fire. You're both panting when he finally pulls back, his lips slick and red from kissing you, from tasting you. His breath fans against your cheek as he leans over you, pressing his forehead to yours.

You’re flushed and wrecked beneath him, thighs still trembling from your second orgasm, your fingers tangled in the waistband of his pants like you’ll go mad if he doesn’t give you more.

“Please,” you beg. He has no idea what you’re asking for, isn’t even sure if you know what you’re asking for.

He kisses you again, slow and open-mouthed, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he needs to. And you melt under it, whining into his mouth as your hips roll up against the hard length of him, still trapped behind too much fabric.

He groans, breaking the kiss to rest his weight on his forearm beside your head, his free hand still gripping your thigh. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes.” He hesitates. You soften, pulling your hands back. “Do you want? We can stop whenever.”

“Of course I do,” he laughs, throaty. “You have no idea. I don’t have preventatives or anything. Those uh - don’t come down in the supply shipments.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

It occurs to him that of course you don’t. He doesn’t even know how he knows, just that he does. “I’m trying not to get you pregnant.”

“Oh.” You chew your lip. “Can you just… pull out?”

He’s endeared by the way you ask. He nods, dragging his mouth along your jaw, peppering you with kisses. He supposes he could do that. Isn’t sure what else to do, given the situation. Getting to have sex isn’t exactly in the Outrider handbook and he’s making it up as he goes.

“I trust you.” His whole body shudders. Your hand rises to his face, cupping his jaw. “I want you. I’ve wanted you. Please.”

This time when he kisses you, it’s soft. Meaningful. Saying everything he’s wanted to say the last few nights but can’t. Admitting how he felt that night on the roof, dancing as the sun set. Spilling the way he felt when you curled up on the couch and listened to him read after giving up on learning how yourself. Admitting the way he dreamed of you, even if it wasn’t quite you he had been dreaming of at the time.

You work at the button on his pants between kisses, clumsy and rushed. You finally manage, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. He’s harder than he’s ever been, so much that it’s almost painful. The moment your hand brushes him - bare, flushed, hard - he gasps, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with a groan.

“Shit,” he breathes, trembling as you wrap your fingers around him. Your grip is light, unsure. He is twitching, leaking into your hand as you drag your fingers up and down his shaft. “No one’s ever touched me. No one’s ever - fuck - you’re the first. The only.”

“You’re only the seventh person I’ve ever met in my life, and I definitely have never touched any of them.”

He laughs, throaty. “Then we’ll figure this out together.”

You complain when he pulls away from you to kick his pants the rest of the way off. He clucks his tongue at you, giving you a narrowed eye look that makes you pout. But you wait for him, eyes glued to the way he grips the base of his cock and pumps himself, spreading his precum to make his skin slick.

Seokmin curses under his breath as he knees onto the bed and guides himself to your entrance, and pauses. He feels the way your cunt flutters against the crown of his cock and it makes him light-headed. He kisses you again, slow this time, full of something that borders on reverence. On what he swears could be love, given time. Then he pushes in slowly, the stretch pulling gasps from you both. You’re warm and wet and fuck. You’re unbelievably tight, struggling to take him.

He goes slow. Pauses to let you breathe along the way, hearing the way your breath comes out in short, labored hisses as he sinks in inch-by-inch. He does this at your pace, watching each time you nod and let him push in more until his hips are pressed flushed to your ass, buried into your heat all the way.

You quake under him. He doesn’t move, hearing the discomfort in your voice. Instead, he catches your mouth with his, kissing you slowly, tongues tangling. He takes one of your hands, lacing your fingers and pins it above your head, letting your twined hands ground him.

Your nails dig into his shoulders. “I’m okay,” you whisper, urging him.

He moves tentatively. When you don’t immediately make him stop, he sets a slow and steady pace, pulling all the way out before sinking back in, drawing weak sounds from both of you. Each thrust answered by a honey-dipped moan from your mouth. He loses himself to it, dropping his head to your shoulder as he fights to keep himself collected. He fucks you deep and steady, both of you barely able to breathe as his cock drags along your walls.

“Seokmin,” you gasp. You’re fucked out, lashes fluttering, barely aware you’re whispering his name over and over again.

After going so long with never hearing his name, he never wants you to stop. Wants to hear you say it every day, wants to pull it from you like this, gasping, moaning, messy.

Your legs wrap around him, pulling him deeper, and he groans, the angle letting him sink fully, each thrust a spark. The tension coils and he feels the way his body is seizing, cock jumping as he quickens his pace. Your shallow breaths signal you’re close and you’ve gone boneless, hand squeezing his as your hips twitch upward, seeking another release.

Finally, you shatter, pleasure rippling through you, your pussy clenching so tight around him he nearly breaks his promise and comes inside. He’s close, nearly bursting at the seams, but holds back, letting you pulse around him through your high until you’re coming back down.

He pulls out and you whimper, making him shake his head because of course you want more. He strokes himself, slick with you, throbbing in his hand until he comes, spilling his release hot across your thigh. His entire body shudders, cock pulsing until he has nothing left to give.

“Fuck,” he pants, forehead to yours, hand on your hip, grounding.

You’re both breathing hard, bodies tangled, bare skin pressed so tightly it feels like you’re sharing the same heartbeat. Seokmin is still above you, his weight braced on trembling arms as he hovers just enough not to crush you. He presses kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder, mapping all the places he wants to kiss again and again.

He starts to shift, intending to get up and wipe the come from your leg. You panic, grabbing at him. “Don’t go.”

He stills, eyes searching yours. “I’m not,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t. Just want to wipe the come off your leg.”

“Oh. Proceed.”

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head, diving to grab a towel from your laundry pile to smear it across your thigh until it’s gone. You tug him down to the bed as soon as he’s done and he tries not to land on you, hitting the bed awkwardly.

“I am trying not to crush you, you know?”

You laugh under your breath, but it’s soft. Fragile. “You’re so careful with me.”

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he admits. “Not with you.”

“I’m not made of glass.”

“I know you’re not, trust me. But it doesn’t mean you have to be treated like metal all the time.”

Seokmin thinks of the first night he saw you, bloody and smelling of metal, screaming and bruised and a little broken but vicious none the same, ready to fight. He doesn’t know a lot about your world, but he knows it was all machinery and fire, brutal and hard.

He sees your expression soften as you come to the same conclusion he has. “Fine,” you amend. “Continue.”

You curl into him, tucking your head under his chin. He wraps an arm around you, palm splaying across your lower back, grounding. You stay like that for a while. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you needs to. He reaches for your injured palm, brushing his thumb over the pink-stained gauze.

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise.

“Would you tell me if it did?” You shrug and he rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he urges gently. “Let’s shower.”

“Carry me.” He gives you a look and you grin.. “Glass treatment, remember?”

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 8100

WEATHER … HEAVY RAIN, 68 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THIRTEEN

The rain comes in soft at first. Barely more than mist on the wind. But it thickens as the day wears on, turning into a steady rhythm against the metal roof of the Station. It smells like earth and static, music playing over the speakers, the same old song you both have come to love.

Say you wanna hit the highway while the engine roars

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

That Texas sun, oh yeah

Seokmin stands by the window, watching the rain bead along the glass. It doesn’t happen often, this kind of weather. But lately, everything feels like a slow unraveling of what used to happen. What used to be. What used to matter.

Caressing you from Fort Worth to Amarillo

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun dips low

Texas sun

Behind him, you’re sitting at the kitchen table, lit by the halo of the lamp you dragged over to turn it into your makeshift workbench. Wires snake around your feet, and the interference device you’ve been working on is slowly taking shape: a copper coil, repurposed military tech, a handheld transponder cannibalized from a buried drone.

When I'm far from home and them cold winds blow

Stuck out somewhere with folks I don't know

'Cause you keep me nice and you keep me warm

Wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back there again

You’ve been trying to work on something to help reroute machines. Not destroy them or disable them, but to guide them. Seokmin can only let so many go unchecked through the Tilt, and there was that one Gloom that wasn’t friendly a few weeks ago that you’d helped him put down.

Seokmin’s chest aches a little when he watches you work. Your hair’s a little damp from stepping outside earlier, and your sleeves are pushed to your elbows, grease staining your skin. You’ve made this Station your home - make it feel like his home, after never having felt that way before.

He’s about to tell you that when a sudden sound shatters the air. A high-pitched frequency screams out of the device. He freezes. His breath cuts short in his chest. It’s like something clamps down behind his ribs, not pain, not even fear, but response. A reflex. His limbs go still, fingers twitch once like he's waiting for a command. His vision tunnels, sound dulls to a cotton-muffled throb.

Seokmin is nowhere.

System halt.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t dream.

System halt.

Then, warmth. Your hands are on his face, thumb brushing over the hinge of his jaw. You speak, barely above the soft patter of rain on the roof. “Seokmin. Seokmin, hey. It’s okay. Look at me.”

He blinks, breath hitching, and then his eyes find yours. The static inside him breaks like glass underfoot. He inhales hard, one step back from whatever edge that was. One breath away from something he doesn't understand.

“I-” His voice croaks. “Sorry, that was weird.”

Texas sun

Your expression softens. Still close. Still touching him like it’s second nature. “Sorry, I should have known. Sorry, I won’t do that again.”

You say it gently, like you’re talking about the weather. Like you didn’t just catch him spiraling into a shutdown. But Seokmin hears the rain again, and now it’s louder than the frequency ever was. The smell of rust, rain, and your skin pulls him back to earth.

Texas sun, oh

Texas sun

He nods slowly. Swallows. And then the thought blooms quietly, horribly: He hadn’t frozen like a man. He’d frozen like a machine.

And you’d kissed him and apologized with a gentle I should have known.

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

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ficsilike-reblogged · 2 months ago

Text

Shelter - 7

Summary: You saved Soap's life. And Laswell has news.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader (No use of Y/N)

Warnings For This Chapter: Continued military and safehouse inaccuracies, mentions and descriptions of suicide, canon typical violence/gore, guns, attempted accents, and more Soft!Simon

A/N: Thank you for all the love on the latest chapter. I treasure each and every comment and they really keep me motivated! Just three more chapters after this!

Previous Chapter

You spent a strange amount of time just poking at things in your room. There had been a secret door between rooms; surely there were other things for you to find. You’d given up on trying to nap after you stared uselessly at the ceiling for an hour, listening to the muted sounds of the city starting to wake and start the day. You were tired. Exhausted. Had been for weeks.

But you couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t sleep because Simon had kindly offered to show you around a library. What was wrong with you? And how many times have you asked yourself that in the last handful of weeks? And you were so mad at yourself for wanting it. Wanting to see that library with Simon. You knew all of this was temporary. Even if they managed to kill or apprehend Makarov in a timely manner, where did that leave you?

He lived in the UK (when he wasn’t off somewhere around the world doing…whatever it is he does) and you had your life here in Chicago. Sort of. It wasn’t as if you had a job waiting for you. And your lease was nearing its end. And… You really needed to stop this train of thought. It would only hurt you. So, you turned over and shoved your face into the pillow and groaned before getting up and exploring your room a little more.

To your strange comfort, it seemed like your only surprise had been the door connecting your room to Simon’s. There were no secret compartments in your closet or bathroom. The one thing you did find was in the small drawer in the bedside table: a small red button tucked just inside. You knew better than to press it—red buttons usually meant trouble and you weren’t about to test your hypothesis when you finally had a small bit of peace.

Saving you from your boredom for a moment was a new text, chirping on your phone. It was a picture of Kirby and Pauline in the back of a car, bundled up and ready to go, the tiny yellow teddy bear tucked in beside the carrier. “Off on our first adventure!” The picture was probably taken by the post-partum doula or nanny Kirby had hired. Kirby had sent you heaps of potential resumes and then felt content with the two she’d narrowed it down to—and you’d felt a little more secure knowing she had help. She had steadfastly refused any other help you offered, telling you she was determined to do everything on her own. Were you nervous about that? Of course. But she had read every parenting book her doctor recommended, attended every single mothers’ birthing class, researched endlessly about each and every bit of furniture she could buy before purchasing, and went to extra therapy sessions biweekly ever since the situation with Julian blew up.

She’d have help and the money Julian coughed up would probably make everything a little easier. They’d be okay. You could be waiting in the wings if anything came up, and Kirby knew that. Kirby needed to be Kirby. And you needed to be okay with that.

Ugh. You did not need to be having all these emotions before breakfast. You typed out a quick, “love you guys!” message and deleted the perfunctory “stay safe!” you had first added and instead just added a single heart emoji. There. Nailed it.

As if on cue, your stomach rumbled. It had been a while since you’d eaten—a burger and one half of a chocolate bar you split with Kirby before dawn at the hospital hadn’t exactly been a complete breakfast. And thinking of the chocolate had you remembering Simon had been the one to buy it—not that you could ever forget any of this. Or him. And you knew it was stupid. Stupid to hope, to want…but you still found yourself going over to the hidden door and knocking. Maybe he’d get breakfast with you.

But the wall didn’t open and you tried to ignore how something ached in your chest because of it. Well, you could still get breakfast anyway. But first, you decided to give pilates another try, queueing up a workout on youtube and regretting it only a few minutes in. By the time you finished, your arms were shaking and your legs hated you but the shower felt nice. You slathered a bit more arnica cream across your throat when you finished. It would still take time for your neck to look normal, but the red in your eyes had steadily decreased.

You turned your attention to the extensive room service menu that had been tucked beside the sleek bedside table lamp and tapped your finger against the thick cardstock, mulling over your choices. You flipped the menu over, trying to make sure you knew all your options and instead found a small history of the hotel. Apparently it had always been “family owned” since its opening right before World War I. Interesting. Had it always been a safehouse? Either way, the matcha sounded good. Eggs Benedict, too. You ordered, feeling a little ridiculous—you’d never ordered room service before—but the person on the other end of the line was nice enough. It might have been the manager, but you weren’t entirely sure.

Your throat ached as you set the phone back in its cradle. All of the excitement yesterday definitely did a number on it all. Maybe tonight you’d actually sleep well… You weren’t going to hold your breath about that, though.

A knock sounded at your door a few minutes later (after Kirby had texted you back, another picture of Pauline, snuggled in her bassinet), it was probably your breakfast, but you still checked the peephole and felt a small bit of tension leave your shoulders when you recognized the manager on the other side.

She held out the covered tray with a smile. “Excellent choices, if I do say so.”

You returned her smile and took the tray, mouth watering a little at the smell of it. “I didn’t think you’d be the one to deliver it.”

She shrugged. “We don’t let just anyone up here. And the kitchen was busy anyway, two birds, one stone and all that.”

Briefly, you remembered how breezily she checked you all in, smiling at John the entire time. She really must have seen some stuff to not care that a known terrorist was looking for people who were hiding in her hotel. “Still, that was kind of you.”

She waved that away, too. “I’m sure Laswell said you could ask for anything,” she said, a knowing smile on her face.

“She might have said that to the guys.” Not to you. You were sure the no-nonsense woman you’d met back in the UK didn’t particularly want to think about you at all. You wouldn’t hold it against her; you hadn’t made the best of impressions.

She nudged her arm into yours. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re one of them right now. Maybe it’s just for now, maybe it’s just for a little longer, but for now, you are under my care and the hotel’s protection.”

A nervous laugh bubbled out of you. “Sounds like a bit of a steep promise.”

The manager shrugged. “It is. But my family’s been doing this for generations. I know how to keep you safe.” Her watch beeped before you could even attempt to process what she’d told you and she smiled again. “I’ve got to run. Please, enjoy your breakfast.” And then she was gone, disappearing down the hall and into the elevator.

What an enigma of a woman. Again, you thought of Price’s interactions with her. Just what had happened between them? Hmm. Oh well. Probably just another question you’d never get the answer to. You settled onto the overstuffed armchair in front of the giant television and tried not to think about the man on the other side of the wall.

Simon had spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at the hidden door that led to her room. Wondering if she actually fell asleep. Wondering if her short time with her sister and niece was enough to make her happy. Or settled. She’d once asked if he had anyone to get back to after all this was over. He didn’t. And after she had told him about what she had gone through, he thought about his own family. His mum. Tommy. Beth and Joseph. And for a moment, short and aborted, he thought about telling her what had happened to them. She might understand. There could be understanding there, instead of the pity anyone else who knew his story usually met him with. But, again, Simon pushed it away.

Pushed it down, ignoring how the thought echoed and ached.

But it didn’t really matter because Price called them all to his room, telling them that Laswell had called with news. That could have been good. But Simon knew better than to think this all would be over soon. And then a strange, selfish thought struck him, too, as he followed Kyle to Price’s room. This gave him more time with her. She’d been quiet after he offered to show her the library before he watched a small smile push at her perfect mouth. And he thought about it until Price had called them.

But any sort of hope was quietly stuffed away when Price fixed them all with that look that Simon knew well. And maybe he should have been expecting this. Something didn’t feel right. It was too quiet. Simon knew Makarov played the long game. But Laswell had been briefing them about how several more of his caches had been destroyed and more of his men had been killed but Makarov hadn’t been spotted. There was no chatter from him or about him despite Laswell, Farah, and Alex all hunting for him.

Laswell was waiting for them, videoing in on the laptop Price had set up on the small table in his room. Simon stood at the back, letting the others take the chairs closer to the laptop. Price turned toward Laswell, his mouth set in a thin line. “We’re here, Laswell. What do you have for us?”

Laswell sighed. “I found who leaked your location.”

“And?” Johnny said, leaning forward in his seat. He was chomping at the bit to get some sort of revenge. Their families had been targets. No doubt Johnny had wanted to make him feel exactly what his mother had felt. And Simon knew that he hated that she had been hurt. The feeling was mutual.

“He’s dead.”

“What do you mean he’s dead?” The question had an obvious answer but it needed to be asked, if Simon was being honest.

“I don’t know what else you want me to say.” Laswell shook her head. “The man I tracked down when I figured out who leaked where your team was located shot himself.”

Price looked at Simon who looked right back. “Confirmed, then.”

“I was the one who found him, John.” Her breath crackled over the line. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

No. She wouldn’t. But this still all stank of something he didn’t like.

“I’m still tracking down who he sent his intel to, but I hope to have news for you soon.”

It was someone Laswell had worked with, not necessarily trusted, but relied on in some capacity. That was a betrayal. A deep one. Shit.

The video disconnected soon after and they all seemed to just look at each other. Silently processing what they’d just learned, calculating their next move. What options did they have? Moves to be made. Risks assessed. Before any of them could voice their thoughts, the computer beeped again. Simon watched Price type in a code and then sigh.

“I need a bloody drink.” The captain rose, in search of the morning drink he wanted, and Simon slid into the chair he vacated.

Simon didn’t blame him for wanting a drink. That was an appropriate response. Laswell had sent over a batch of pictures from the leak’s apartment. Probably taken when she’d gone to confront him. He clicked through the pictures, trying to tell himself that this was one loose end tied up in a neat bow. But there was a voice at the back of his head that kept whispering that something wasn’t right. There was more to this than one man’s apparent greed and Makarov playing him for a fool. Simon stopped, pausing on one of the photos of the man, his head back against the edge of his computer chair with blood and bone and brain spattered behind him on the white wall.

Everything on the desk was neatly arranged. Stacked. Organized. Now marred by the mess of his death. And yes, Simon knew death was messy. Could be messy. But people sometimes took care to make sure it wasn’t. And the more he looked at the surrounding room, Simon surmised that this man was a person who would take care to make sure his death wasn’t messy.

It didn’t fit.

The bruising, exit wound, and spatter might match all the hallmarks of a man seeing no other way out after committing treason. But it didn’t fit.

Kyle stepped to his side and bent down, just enough to look at the photos and Simon could see him working through it, too. He knew he would. “Staged. Someone else pulled the trigger. Held the gun beneath his chin while he hoped he could talk his way out of it.”

Simon nodded. Kyle had put the pieces faster than he had, but Simon knew he would.

Johnny was quick to take his place on Simon’s other side, reaching over him to click through a few pictures. “Is Makarov in the States?”

Simon glanced back at the picture before shaking his head. “We would have heard. Laswell wouldn’t’ve let ‘im slip by like that.”

Kyle’s mouth pulled into a thin line as he stood straight, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then there’s another problem.”

Simon almost hated that he was right. All of this just meant it was even more complicated than they had previously thought. And it already was a fucking nightmare. “There’s another person on the inside.”

Kyle grimaced. “Covering their tracks.”

Price walked in, half-empty glass of whisky in his hand and eyed them all. “So you see it, too?”

“Seems like it. Wasn’t acting alone.”

“I have no doubt Laswell saw it, too.” The glass clinked as Price set it down on the window ledge. “But she’s playing it quietly. No confirmation on anything else until she has answers.”

Simon knew that was the wisest way to do this but it still grated at him.

“How high does this go?” Kyle asked. Simon could feel the rage radiating off of him. But he always kept a tighter leash on it than Simon did. It was something Simon respected about him, one of the many, actually. And it was why he trusted him so implicitly in and out of the field.

Johnny frowned and then turned abruptly toward Kyle. “The lass’ flat was untouched, wasn’t it? When ye went to get her stuff?”

Kyle nodded. “Everything seemed fine. Wasn’t exactly looking for cameras though.”

Simon nodded, too. And everything had been in its place. He wondered how long it had taken her to make it feel comfortable. Not home, exactly. But a place she knew she could rest her head, like his flat in Manchester.

“But that bastard knew her name, no? Nearly killed her at the hospital in London. Why would he leave her flat alone?”

Simon chewed on that thought. He did know her name. And while there might be other people with her name but Makarov—or at least one of his men—knew she was American. If they’d taken her purse, it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine they knew where she lived. But why had her flat been untouched? “Laziness, possibly.”

“And he knew we were hiding her. She wasn’t going home.”

But that small fact was still a glaring part of the picture that someone knew they had been moving her.

“Do we move again?” Johnny asked.

“Moving us now would just confirm that we are here. And if it doesn’t, we are out in the open until we get to the next safehouse.”

“What other options do we have, Captain?” Kyle asked. But Simon didn’t miss the way his eyes went to him first. “She is still an asset and a target. We are still targets and Makarov is in the wind.”

Price leaned forward, mouth pulled into a flat line. “Way I see it, we can move and take our chances or we stay put and get ready.”

They didn’t like running. And the plan had always been to lure Makarov into a trap. Why couldn’t they do that here? And the silent looks between the men seemed to show their quiet agreement.

And then something whispered at the back of Simon’s mind. And then he remembered the curve of her lip. Her smile and the way she simply wanted to see her sister and her baby. “We need to tell her. Get ‘er ready for it.”

Price grimaced but didn’t refute Simon’s logic.

“She deserves to know. She’s in this with us.”

He nodded, but he didn’t look pleased about it. “If you think she can handle it.”

“She will.” Simon had watched her outmaneuver Johnny and fight like hell to live against a trained operative. She could handle a bit of book camp. He knew it.

“And the manager might want to know what’s happening. You seem to know her best, Captain. Want to break the news?” Kyle asked, face straight.

Price sighed.

You were on the last dregs of your matcha when you heard a sharp knock…on the wall. You turned and watched the hidden door open. Simon filled the space, broad shoulders brushing the sides—and no, that didn’t make your mouth water. He wasn’t even wearing any sort of gear, just a hoodie and loose joggers, swapping out the jeans he’d worn to the hospital with you and he looked better than ever. (Shut up!)

“C’mere, yeah?”

You frowned, not expecting the invitation, but stood anyway and let him shuffle you into his room.

It wasn’t that much different than yours. Same color scheme. Same layout. There was just one large, glaring difference. The closet door was open and the entirety was filled with weapons. Mostly guns, but you spied a few knives, too. There were also a few vests, that you surmised were kevlar or something along those lines. It really was a mini arsenal. This hotel kept surprising you.

Gaz and Soap were waiting inside as well and you resisted the urge to think the worst and smiled, feeling it twitch on your face. “Everything okay?” The stretched silence that followed only made your nerves start to fray, like overused yarn.

“Everything’s sorted,” Gaz said, arms folded neatly across his chest. And you wanted to believe him. You did. You could trust him and the others to protect you like they’d done before. But something wasn’t right.

You glanced at Simon, and he was already looking at you over the edge of another surgical mask. Your heart did an embarrassing little leap behind your ribs. And then you looked at Soap. There was a bit of calculation behind those unnervingly blue eyes. “C’mon, Soap. Out with it.”

He smiled, a bit of pink touching his cheeks. But the smile didn’t last long. “We’d like ta teach ye a few things.”

“Things?”

He nodded, overgrown mohawk flopping a bit. “Just in case.”

And those three words had your stomach sinking. “Something happened, didn’t it?”

“It’s just a precaution.”

And that was how you found yourself in the hidden firing range behind another false wall down the hall (apparently you had been right about there being more to your floor than a few rooms on this floor). It was entirely soundproof with a small sparring ring tucked behind it and another wall filled with guns and other weapons. No wonder the manager seemed so sure she could protect you. Kyle was patient as he adjusted your grip on the small handgun he said would be a good fit for you and patient still when your arms shook as you focused on the target. You didn’t like guns. But when he pressed, gently and kindly with hints of his megawatt smile, you promised to keep the gun in the drawer beside your bed. They were doing this to protect you. They liked you at least enough to try and give you a fighting chance. This was a kindness.

Soap was next but didn’t last very long. “Would ye like to learn how to make a bomb? Just a wee one.”

“No, thank you.” Jesus Christ.

To your surprise, Price walked into the large room next and then handed you…a crowbar. He taught you a few moves with it, telling you to aim for the neck if need be. “You might lose a gun, miss a moving target. But you can always hit them with that.” Comforting.

Then, to prove his point he turned and waved over Simon, who had been silently watching along the back wall (not that you were always innately aware of where he was in the room).

“Attack her.” The captain waved a hand at you before clapping Simon on the shoulder.

“Let’s not do that,” you said, words falling out of your mouth before you could think of something else to say.

Simon, however, stepped closer and held his hands up a bit, as if he were making sure you knew he was unarmed. That wasn’t exactly comforting. “I promise I won’t hurt you. I’d never ‘urt ya.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, and you felt every syllable wash over you. He wouldn’t hurt you but he was trusting you to swing at him with a goddamn crowbar. He trusted you. They trusted you.

Straightening your shoulders, you tightened your grip on the crowbar.

And then he moved. No one that big should be able to move that quickly—it didn’t seem fair—and you were flat on your back. You swallowed the lump in your still sore throat as you looked up at him.

“Try again,” Price called out.

So you did. Again and again. You managed to clock Simon in the arm exactly once and earned a round of applause from the other men, all of them decidedly ignoring that you were supposed to be aiming for the neck. Your arms and legs were screaming at you (again) by the time Price called him off.

“Ye did good, bonnie,” Soap said with another smile. “Proud of ye.”

Oh god, you were going to cry. Tears stung and your battered throat ached with the effort to hold them back as you handed the crowbar back to Price with an uneven smile. “Thanks for keeping me alive.”

“Fair play,” Gaz said, clapping you on the shoulder. “Kept Soap alive. Kept us from eating through the house. You’ve been good to us.”

You cleared your throat, trying to swallow down the emotions. They didn’t need to see all that. “Just trying to-”

“Earn your keep?” Price asked, blue eyes near twinkling. “None of tha’. You’ve done more than enough.”

It wasn’t many words but you didn’t think Price was a man who used flowery prose or words to anyone. But that didn’t stop it from meaning the world to you. How many times has someone said you’d done enough? You could probably count them on one hand. So, you simply nodded and murmured, “yeah, sure. Anytime.”

Gaz, Soap, and Price eventually trickled out, leaving you and Simon alone in the large room. “C’mere.”

You walked to his side, a strange jittery exhaustion pulling at the edges of your mind.

“I want to show ya how to get out of a few ‘olds. Yeah?”

Like the guy who’d try to strangle you back at the safehouse. This training made sense—and no matter how well you (didn’t) shoot or swung a crowbar, you felt like this bit was more practical. And you felt safe with Simon. Simon with his dark, warm eyes and rough hands.

He led you through a few grapples and moves to break a stranglehold—he never aggravated your throat, his grip gentle if not bordering on nonexistent. He even muttered something about getting you more cream when you finished.

As strange as it was—he was pretending to strangle you—you never felt unsafe with him. Not when he came up behind you. Not when he charged forward. Not when he bent you across a bench and coached you through how to maneuver around it while your neck was tucked into the corner of his bent elbow. Never.

“You did good. But I want ya to do better, olright?” He asked as you broke another hold.

You nodded and then the broad expanse of his palm was dragging across your throat and he was pushing you back back back until your spine collided with the padded wall behind you. You tried to ignore how your chest brushed his with every breath you took. The attempt flew right out the window when he wedged a firm thigh between yours.

“Remember whot I told ya.”

Right. Focus. You turned in his loose hold and shot your arm up, remembering the move he’d taught you earlier. But he must’ve moved or you did something incredibly wrong (more likely of the two options) because when you turned to drive your arm down, meaning to break his hold, your finger caught on something and it snapped against your palm.

You watched, a little confused, as Simon’s mask dangled uselessly off one of his ears. A scar, old and jagged, stretched from one corner of his mouth up to his ear. Another bisected it on his cheek. More scars twisted across his mouth and down his chin and-

You smacked a hand over your eyes. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry. I’ll buy you more masks. I-”

A now-familiar hand, gently pried your hand away from your eyes but you still kept them closed. He wore a mask for a reason. You weren’t about to betray him like that, even if it was an accident. You didn’t mean to. You didn’t!

“You can look. ‘S fine.”

“Not fine.” Eyes still closed.

“I’m saying ‘s fine.” But it was the gentle swipe of his thumb against your cheek that had your eyes slowly opening again. He meant it.

You watched, almost transfixed, as Simon reached up and unhooked the other side of the small mask. The simple act had your heart leaping and racing beneath the cage of your ribs. Your fingers shook with every bit of skin now exposed to you. He had scars. Some big, some small. And you had been correct in thinking his nose had been broken before but you liked how it sat, a little crookedly, on his face. His brown eyes didn’t move away from you as he shoved the small mask into his pocket.

Your hand raised and then froze, uselessly hanging in the air between you. It had been a selfish want to touch him. You hadn’t asked and he hadn’t given permission. Shouldn’t it be enough that he trusted you with this?

Before you could apologize or try to covertly play off why your hand was halfway to his face, Simon reached out and his thick, scarred fingers circled your wrist in a gentle grip and he dragged your hand up up up. The tremor in your hand ceased as soon as your fingers brushed against the warm skin of his cheek. Your thumb traced against the scar that cut from the corner of his mouth and up toward his ear. A cruel slash. And he was so handsome.

Your heart ached when you felt him press a little more into the warmth of your palm. His long blond eyelashes fanned against his cheek as his eyes closed. He was so beautiful.

“Simon.” His name was a prayer. A promise.

He moved closer, the heat of his body bleeding across yours.

And then his mouth brushed yours. It wasn’t a true kiss. Not yet. Just his lips, scarred and cold, against yours. But you kissed him, pressing your lips against his with an embarrassing insistence that you couldn’t stop. But the embarrassment did not get a chance to fester, not with how his large hands framed your face and you could feel him smile.

“Olright?” He murmured as he pulled back the slightest bit, letting his large hands smooth lightly down the sides of your neck to rest over your shoulders, warm and heavy.

Your heart fluttered. He cared. “Yeah. This is good. Y-you’re good.”

His thumb and finger hooked your chin and he tilted your face toward his again.

Next Chapter

A/N: Thanks, again, for reading! Your comments mean the world to me and really keep me motivated.

#Simon Riley x reader #Simon ghost Riley x reader #Simon Riley x you #ghost x reader #cod x reader #cod fanfic #Simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #female reader

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amethystarachnid · 8 months ago

Note

Can you write for me Amnesia trope from Marvel Bingo with Tony/Fem reader? Tony is a little injured after a mission and he loses his memory, when reader is going to see him (wife or girlfriend) he won't recognize her but he'll immediately fall for her all over again 🥺 she thinks it's absolutely cute that he didn't recognize her but soon he'll recover his memory and blush so hard when reader shows him his videos of him all smitten by her hahahaha ❤️ and Tony saying he'll alwyas fall for her 🥺 (some spicy kisse maybe?)

ALWAYS

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL bingo

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 5.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: Because of an injury Tony temporarily loses his memories of you, his wife, and you're determined to make him gain them back. Do you really need to do so when he has already fallen back in love with you?

ᯓ★ TW(s): memory loss and clingy Tony

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The beeping. It’s the first thing you notice when you step into the hospital room—the insistent, steady beep of the heart monitor that Tony’s hooked up to. It’s steady, strong, and for that, you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The smell of antiseptic stings your nose, reminding you that, despite Tony's resilience, he's as vulnerable as any of them in situations like these.

The mission had gone wrong in ways you didn’t see coming. Stark Industries had developed tech that a rival group decided they wanted to “borrow”—forcefully. What was supposed to be a simple extraction turned into a messy firefight. But, like always, Tony had pushed you to evacuate, promising he’d be right behind you. Instead, an explosion threw him from his suit, leaving him vulnerable to the final assault. He had barely gotten out before going down hard.

Now, you’re here, nerves raw and trembling as you hover by the doorway, watching him.

Tony is sitting up, but he seems…distant. Disoriented, maybe. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips pressed into a thin line as if he’s trying to make sense of something in the middle distance. It’s unnerving because you’re used to a Tony whose attention burns, even when he’s exhausted, half-buried in his lab, or just waking up. He sees everything.

But not this time. And for some reason, he doesn’t see you.

“Mrs. Stark?”

You turn as the doctor enters, offering you a sympathetic look. It’s a look that’s meant to ease you into news you know you don’t want to hear.

“Is he…awake?”

The doctor nods, gesturing you toward the chair by Tony’s bed. “He’s stable. His vitals are strong. The issue, Mrs. Stark, is that there appears to be some level of memory loss.”

The words clang in your ears, foreign and cold, completely out of place in the world you’ve built with Tony. “What do you mean by ‘memory loss’?”

She sighs, glancing at Tony before she speaks. “Memory loss is complicated. From what I’ve gathered, Mr. Stark has retained his long-term memories and most of his professional knowledge. But, due to the trauma and subsequent disorientation, there’s a block on more recent events…particularly in his personal life.”

Your stomach drops, and you take a deep breath, fighting to keep your voice steady. “He doesn’t remember me, does he?”

“I’m afraid not,” she says softly. “In many cases, memories return with time and familiar cues. Given Mr. Stark’s particular cognitive resilience, I have high hopes for recovery. But until then, he may…struggle with recognition and personal connections.”

You nod slowly, trying to take it all in. In all the battles, the missions, the threats, this is somehow scarier. Because it’s not just his body that’s wounded; it’s your life together that’s fractured.

When the doctor leaves, you take a step forward, but your feet feel leaden, hesitant. And for once, you don’t know what to say. This isn’t just Tony after a rough mission. This is your husband, and he doesn’t know you.

Finally, you muster the courage and approach the bed, offering him a soft, tentative smile. “Hey there, stranger.”

He looks up, his gaze sharp but confused, and something in his eyes flickers with a shade of recognition—a spark that leaves you hoping. But then he blinks, and it’s gone.

“Do I, uh, know you?” His tone is polite, curious, but there’s a guardedness to it, as if he’s unsure if he’s supposed to recognize you. You don’t miss the way his eyes dart over you, taking you in, and a pang of sadness tugs at your heart as you realize he’s assessing you the way he might a stranger.

You laugh softly, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You could say that. I’m…” You hesitate, wondering if it’s too much to say it outright, but the words slip out before you can stop them. “I’m your wife.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and he stares at you, stunned. “My wife?”

“Yes.” You smile, more gently this time, as though that will ease him into the idea. “For almost three years now.”

Tony blinks, and you can see his mind racing, struggling to process this unexpected piece of information. He gives a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn. I…you’re telling me I’m married to you?”

His shock is genuine, and for a moment, a bubble of laughter escapes you. It’s that classic Tony Stark reaction—equal parts disbelief and awe, as if he can’t quite believe his good luck.

“Yes,” you say again, and this time, there’s a hint of amusement in your voice. “You managed to convince me somehow.”

He raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a lopsided grin that’s both endearing and achingly familiar. “Wow. I must be one hell of a salesman.”

“Oh, you are.” The laughter fades from your voice as you take a step closer, unable to resist the need to be nearer to him, even if he doesn’t remember you right now. “You’re the best.”

For a moment, he studies you, his gaze flickering with something like curiosity, maybe even admiration. It’s a glimmer of the old Tony, the man who made you feel like the only person in the room, no matter the crowd or chaos. But here, with him looking at you as a stranger might, there’s something raw and beautiful about it, too. He’s falling in love with you all over again, right in front of your eyes.

“Well, I guess I should feel lucky,” he murmurs, a faint smile playing on his lips. “If you’re half as amazing as you look, then…yeah. Lucky guy.”

The words make your heart flutter, and despite everything, you feel a warmth spread through you, easing the tightness in your chest. He’s still Tony, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

“Want to know a little about us?” you ask, hoping that maybe, somehow, it will trigger something—some hidden memory or spark of recognition.

He nods, settling back against the pillow. “Please. Enlighten me. I’m curious how a guy like me managed to marry someone like you.”

“Well,” you start, a smile tugging at your lips as you pull up a chair beside him. “For starters, we didn’t exactly get along at first.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Did I say something to offend you?”

“You…may have.” You grin, remembering the banter, the stubborn disagreements, the sparks that seemed to ignite every time you were in a room together. “You were cocky, stubborn, a little arrogant.”

He chuckles. “That sounds about right.”

“But somehow,” you continue, your voice softening, “you managed to break down all my walls. You made me feel like I was the only person who mattered, even if you acted like you were just being yourself.”

His gaze lingers on you, and there’s a warmth there, something cautious but undeniably present. “I’m sorry I don’t remember that.”

“Don’t be.” You place a gentle hand over his, feeling the faint warmth of his skin against yours. It’s a familiar gesture, one you’ve done a thousand times before, but this time, it feels different—new, almost shy. “You’ll remember. And until you do, we’ll make new memories. Starting right now.”

He looks down at your hand on his, and you can see the faintest flush of color in his cheeks. For a man who’s usually so sure of himself, so confident in every move he makes, it’s endearing to see him look almost…nervous.

“So, tell me more about this…our life,” he says, his voice soft, like he’s trying to hold onto the pieces he has left.

“Well,” you say, smiling as you think of the little things that make up your life together. “We spend a lot of time in the lab together, actually. Even if you’re always tinkering, working on some new project, you always have time for me.”

“Do I? Sounds like a good husband.” There’s a touch of pride in his voice, and it makes your heart ache a little—because he doesn’t even know the half of it yet.

“A very good husband,” you murmur, meeting his gaze with all the love you feel for him. “The best.”

And there it is—that flicker in his eyes, like he’s starting to see it, to feel it. It’s as if, for just a moment, he knows you, feels that connection.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice rough. “For being here. For…all of this.”

You squeeze his hand gently, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my husband, Tony. I’d do anything for you.”

And as you sit there, hands entwined, you realize that even if he has to fall in love with you all over again, you’ll be right here, waiting.

The drive back from the hospital is quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Tony stares out the window, taking in the blur of city lights as you weave through the streets toward your shared home. Occasionally, you catch him glancing at you, his expression somewhere between awe and disbelief, as if he’s still wrapping his head around the idea that you’re his wife, that he’s returning to a life he doesn’t remember but that he somehow…wants.

When you finally pull into the long driveway leading up to your home, his eyebrows shoot up. Stark Tower looms ahead, its sleek, modern design stark against the night sky. The iconic "STARK" sign gleams with familiar grandeur. He lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes, too—something like pride.

“So, this is…our place?” he asks, a note of disbelief in his voice.

You can’t help but laugh. “Yeah. Well, your place, technically. But I’ve definitely made it my own.”

Tony chuckles, the sound low and warm, and you’re reminded of all the times he’s teased you about “taking over” his tower with touches of your personality: the cozy reading nook in his office, the garden on the roof you insisted on installing, even the art pieces scattered throughout the building. And despite his teasing, he’d always seemed proud of how much of yourself you’d poured into his space.

“Well,” he says, stepping out of the car, “if you’re half as great at interior design as you are at, uh, marrying billionaires, I think I’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“Oh, just you wait,” you say with a playful smirk as you lead him inside.

The entryway is a testament to the sleek, modern style Tony’s known for—polished floors, clean lines, an air of sophistication mixed with warmth. But there are little touches here and there that mark it as your home too: framed photos from the missions you’ve tackled together, a throw blanket draped over the couch, even a small shelf of books beside the entrance to the main living area.

Tony follows you, his gaze flitting over each detail with that trademark Stark intensity, taking it all in as if he’s studying a new project. When his eyes land on a photo of the two of you at a beach, he pauses. You remember that day so vividly: you were laughing, caught in a candid moment as he held you close, your hair whipped by the wind.

“Is that…us?” he asks, a softness in his voice that tugs at your heart.

“Yeah,” you say, stepping closer to him. “A couple of years ago. We were on a vacation you forced me to take.”

“I forced you?” he repeats, quirking an eyebrow. “Was I…was I that difficult?”

“Only a little,” you tease, nudging him gently. “You hated the idea of not working for a few days. But we made the best of it.”

His lips curve into a small smile as he stares at the photo a moment longer before turning his gaze back to you. “I look…happy. Really happy.”

“You were,” you say softly. “We both were.”

He swallows, his gaze lingering on you, and for a moment, you can almost feel the weight of all the memories he’s lost. But there’s a warmth in his eyes, a flicker of something that feels like a connection—even if it’s new to him.

You clear your throat and gesture toward the hallway. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest.”

You lead him down the hall, pointing out the various rooms, each one filled with a mix of his tech and your touches: the library with shelves overflowing with both your favorite books, the small lounge you use for watching movies together, and finally, your bedroom.

When you open the door, he stands in the doorway, taking it in. The room is a blend of Tony’s sophisticated taste and your own comfortable style, the soft lighting casting a warm glow over the neatly made bed, the nightstand stacked with a few of Tony’s reading materials, and the little tray of lotions and skincare items you keep on your side.

“This…feels nice,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping over the room. He takes a step inside, running a hand over the bedspread, almost as if testing its texture. “I don’t know why, but I feel…calm here.”

You smile, moving to stand beside him. “It’s our space. Your favorite spot after a long day, whether you’d admit it or not. You always said it’s the one place that lets you truly relax.”

He chuckles, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “Yeah, well, if you say so. I…believe you.”

For a moment, there’s silence, and you can feel the weight of the day settling over both of you. He’s exhausted, and so are you.

“Do you…want to rest?” you ask, realizing he might be overwhelmed with all of this new information.

“Actually, I think I’d like to keep looking around,” he says, a little sheepishly. “I just…don’t want to miss anything. It feels like I’ve lost a huge chunk of my life, and I want to piece it together, however I can.”

You nod, understanding. You feel a pang of sadness but try to hide it. “Well, I’ll be here. We can take it slow. One room at a time.”

Together, you move back down the hallway, stopping in the kitchen next. Tony’s gaze catches on the coffee maker, and he raises his eyebrows with a look of genuine excitement. “Please tell me I still drink coffee.”

You laugh, crossing your arms with a smirk. “Oh, you drink enough coffee to fuel a small army. In fact…” You open a cabinet, revealing an impressive array of coffee beans, grounds, and Tony’s prized espresso machine. “You’re particular about it. You like to experiment.”

He nods, visibly impressed. “I see I have good taste. I’d like to think I’m a genius when it comes to coffee.”

“Among other things,” you reply, grinning as you start to brew a fresh pot, the familiar hum of the machine filling the room.

As the coffee brews, Tony leans against the counter, watching you with that spark of interest you remember so well. But now, it feels new, raw, as if he’s falling for you all over again and doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“So,” he says, a playful glint in his eyes, “you said we didn’t get along at first. How did I change your mind?”

You chuckle, handing him a mug and savoring the warmth as you lean back against the counter beside him. “It wasn’t any one thing. You…surprised me. I kept expecting you to be this arrogant genius with no time for anyone, but then you started showing up at my door with random inventions, making coffee runs at three a.m. with me, and bringing me little gifts from your travels.” You smile, remembering each moment as if it’s engraved in your memory. “You just…wore me down, I guess.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, mulling over your words, and you see the warmth in his expression, a flicker of understanding, even if it’s only a shadow of his former self.

“Well, then,” he says, his tone soft, “I’m glad I wore you down.”

His words hang in the air between you, and for a moment, the kitchen feels smaller, more intimate, filled with a sense of closeness that’s been there since the moment you met but now feels refreshingly new.

Tony shifts his weight, looking suddenly unsure. “So…do I get to sleep in our bed tonight?”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling a little as you nod. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

As you walk back to the bedroom together, side by side, you feel a quiet sense of peace settle over you. Tony might not remember you—at least not yet—but he’s here, and he’s yours, and somehow, you’ll find a way to rebuild together.

You slip into bed, settling under the covers, and Tony follows suit, lying beside you with a soft sigh. After a moment’s hesitation, he reaches over, his hand brushing against yours beneath the covers. You entwine your fingers with his, and even though he doesn’t remember the countless nights you’ve fallen asleep like this, it feels natural.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, his voice soft.

“Goodnight, Tony,” you murmur back, your heart swelling with hope.

As the city lights outside cast a gentle glow across the room, you lie there, hand in hand, feeling the warmth of him beside you. And for the first time since the accident, you feel a flicker of reassurance.

The days start to blur together in a rhythm that feels both familiar and new. Tony’s memory isn’t coming back all at once, but he’s recovering it in little flashes, bits and pieces of who he used to be, of who you are to each other. And even though some of these memories are fleeting, almost insignificant, they build something solid between you—something that’s real and growing stronger with every passing moment.

It begins with breakfast one morning.

You’re standing at the stove, cooking eggs and listening to Tony talk about his latest gadget idea. He’s been getting back into work, tinkering here and there in the lab, and he always comes out in the morning with some grand plan or concept. It’s one of the things you’ve missed most—his enthusiasm, his endless curiosity, the way he lights up when he talks about creating something new. You smile, flipping the eggs onto plates and setting them on the counter.

“You know, I don’t think I ever realized how much you put up with me,” he says, leaning against the counter with that lopsided grin that makes your heart skip a beat. “All my late nights, random ideas, and, uh, probably a few accidental explosions.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes as you hand him his plate. “Oh, trust me, I’ve put up with plenty. But you make it worth it.”

He takes a bite, nodding as though savoring the taste. “You know…this feels familiar,” he says after a moment, frowning slightly. “Mornings like this. I used to sit here and watch you cook, didn’t I?”

“Every morning you didn’t have your face buried in a new project,” you reply softly, watching him carefully.

He pauses, that spark of recognition in his eyes growing, as if he’s trying to hold onto the memory, to make it solid. And then he’s looking at you, really looking at you, with a tenderness that feels almost shy. It’s a vulnerability you rarely see from Tony, and it makes your heart ache in the best way.

“I think I remember something else,” he murmurs, stepping around the counter to stand in front of you. “I remember sitting here and…thinking about how lucky I was.”

Your breath catches as he reaches out, his fingers grazing your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw. His touch is tentative, almost reverent, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Tony…” you whisper, feeling your pulse quicken.

He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss that’s both familiar and electrifying, like he’s rediscovering you for the first time. His hand moves to the small of your back, pulling you closer as his mouth moves against yours, slow and intense, like he’s savoring every second. When he pulls back, his eyes are darker, filled with something that looks like a mix of wonder and awe.

“I don’t remember everything,” he says softly, his voice rough, “but I don’t think I need to. This feels right.”

You smile, threading your fingers through his hair. “It is right,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him again.

The memory flashes continue over the next few days, each one bringing him closer to the person he used to be. They’re small, fleeting things—a song that triggers a faint memory of a dance in the living room, the scent of his cologne reminding him of the night you first told him you loved him. Each one brings with it a sense of déjà vu, a feeling that tugs at his heart and pulls him closer to you.

One evening, you’re both sitting on the couch, your legs draped over his lap as you watch a movie together. It’s an old favorite, something you’ve watched countless times, and Tony seems to relax into the familiarity of it. His hand absentmindedly traces patterns on your thigh, and you can feel his warmth, his closeness, and it makes you feel grounded, steady.

Suddenly, he chuckles, looking down at your legs. “I remember this. You used to do this all the time. You’d kick off your shoes and practically sprawl across the couch.”

You laugh, nudging him playfully. “And you used to pretend to be annoyed, even though you secretly loved it.”

He raises an eyebrow, that playful smirk you know so well tugging at his lips. “Oh, I’m sure I did.”

You shift, leaning closer to him, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you, his eyes filled with both affection and curiosity, that makes you feel bold, like you’re rediscovering each other in a way that’s fresh and exhilarating.

“Can I tell you something?” you murmur, your voice soft.

“Anything,” he says, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“When we first met, I thought you were this…impossible genius with no time for anyone,” you confess, your fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. “But then you’d look at me like this, with this softness, like I was the only person in the world.”

He leans closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Maybe you are.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and before you can respond, his mouth is on yours, capturing you in a kiss that’s anything but shy. It’s slow and deep, his hands sliding up your back as he pulls you into him, your bodies pressed together, fitting perfectly. His kisses are gentle yet intense, each one leaving you breathless, as if he’s trying to make up for all the lost time, all the memories he doesn’t yet have but that you both feel so deeply.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily, hearts racing. He smiles, that teasing glint in his eyes as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Why do I feel like I’ve kissed you a million times?” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “Like I can’t get enough?”

“Maybe because you have,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper. “And I’ll never get enough of you, either.”

He chuckles, a sound that’s warm and filled with affection as he kisses you again, softer this time, more lingering, like he’s savoring every second. His lips move slowly over yours, his hands gentle as they cradle your face, as if he’s memorizing the feel of you, the way you fit together.

Over the next few days, the memories come more frequently, little fragments of your life that make him pause, that bring a flicker of recognition to his eyes. Sometimes it’s just a look he gives you, a soft smile that feels so familiar it makes your heart ache. Other times, it’s a touch—a hand on your back, a gentle brush of his fingers against yours—that reminds you of all the little ways he’s shown his love over the years.

And every time he remembers something, he falls in love with you a little more.

One night, as you’re both lying in bed, you reach over to turn off the light, but Tony stops you, his hand catching yours. He turns to you, his gaze soft but intense, filled with a depth of emotion that takes your breath away.

“I might not remember everything yet,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing your cheek, “but I know that I love you. I don’t need memories to know that.”

You feel a lump in your throat, a warmth spreading through you that’s both comforting and thrilling. “I love you, too, Tony,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his hand. “No matter what. I always have, and I always will.”

His smile is tender, filled with a gratitude that makes you realize just how lucky you both are, how strong this connection is between you. He leans in, kissing you with a softness that melts away all the uncertainty, all the fear that’s lingered since the accident.

And as you lie there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, you realize that this isn’t just a return to the life you had before. It’s something new, something deeper and more meaningful, a love that’s growing stronger every day. It’s a love that doesn’t need memories to survive because it’s written into every touch, every glance, every kiss you share.

The morning Tony’s memories come flooding back, it feels both surreal and inevitable. He wakes up beside you, his gaze fixed on the ceiling for a long moment before he turns to look at you, his expression a mixture of wonder, relief, and something deeper—something vulnerable. When he speaks, his voice is low, as if he’s afraid of breaking the spell.

“I remember everything,” he murmurs, his hand finding yours beneath the covers. His thumb traces gentle patterns on your knuckles, as though he’s grounding himself in the reality of the present. “Every detail, every moment. I remember…you.”

You blink away the tears that threaten to spill over, smiling as you reach up to cup his face. “You’re really back,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I missed you.”

He gives a soft laugh, his hand covering yours as he presses his forehead to yours. “You never really lost me, you know? And I… I missed you, too. Even when I didn’t remember all of it, I knew. I knew you were everything to me. I'd always fall for you.”

You fall into his arms, both of you holding each other tightly, like you’re afraid to let go. And in that embrace, you feel the weight of all those lost days lift, leaving only a warmth that radiates between you. He’s here, fully, and the two of you are whole again.

Later, you’re curled up on the couch together, a blanket draped over both of you, his arm wrapped securely around your shoulders as you cuddle into his side. You’ve both been talking, recounting memories, laughing at the more amusing fragments that came back to him in flashes. And then, an idea strikes you.

“Tony,” you say, glancing up at him with a mischievous grin, “there’s something you need to see.”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Oh, really? And what might that be?”

You grab your phone from the coffee table, pulling up a series of videos you took during his days without memories. Each one holds moments that, at the time, you’d been scared would be all you had left—little fragments of his affection, of the new ways he showed his love for you while he was rediscovering himself.

“Brace yourself,” you say, hitting play on the first video.

In it, Tony is sitting across from you at the kitchen table, his eyes sleepy and his hair a mess. He’s holding a mug of coffee, and he looks up at you with the softest, most adoring expression, blinking slowly like he can barely believe you’re real. “You’re so pretty,” he says, his voice a murmur, his gaze fixed on you as if you’re the only thing that matters in the entire world. “How did I get so lucky?”

The Tony beside you lets out a surprised laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever looked that…well, cuddly before.”

“Oh, that’s just the beginning,” you say, grinning as you play the next video.

This one shows him lying on the couch, his head in your lap as you’re reading a book. He’s practically burrowed into you, his arms wrapped around your waist, his face buried against your stomach. Every now and then, he looks up at you with these wide, affectionate eyes, and even without memories, he’s the picture of absolute adoration.

“Is that…me?” Tony asks, a touch of disbelief in his voice as he watches himself look up at you like that. “I’m like a…like a giant puppy.”

“Oh, you were,” you laugh, rubbing his arm affectionately. “I have so many videos like this. You’d barely let me out of your sight. I think losing your memories made you even clingier.”

He snorts, shaking his head as he pulls you closer. “Well, can you blame me? I mean, look at you. Not remembering you was bad enough—I guess I was just making sure I didn’t forget you again.”

The next video is of him in bed, lying half-asleep with his arm stretched out, reaching for you. His voice, groggy and low, calls your name softly, and you hear yourself laugh from behind the camera as you step into view. When you do, he pulls you into the bed, wrapping his arms around you like he never wants to let go. He sighs in contentment, pressing his lips to your forehead and murmuring something unintelligible, and even watching it now, you feel that familiar warmth spread through your chest.

Tony, watching beside you, is silent for a long moment, his gaze softened as he watches himself cling to you like that. When the video ends, he turns to you, a tenderness in his expression that takes your breath away.

“I can’t believe I didn’t remember you,” he whispers, his fingers brushing your cheek. “But even when I couldn’t…I needed you.”

You place a hand over his, smiling softly. “I think a part of you did remember, in a way. You were still you—maybe a little cuddlier than usual,” you tease, “but you were still you.”

His lips curve into a playful grin. “So, I was clingy, huh? Was I any good at it?”

“Oh, you were very good at it,” you say, laughter bubbling up. “I mean, I kind of got used to waking up with you practically draped over me. I’m almost going to miss it.”

His grin widens, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his lap. “Well, if you liked clingy Tony, I think I can accommodate,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as he tightens his hold on you.

You giggle, curling your arms around his neck as he presses a series of soft, lingering kisses along your jaw. “Mmm, maybe I did like clingy Tony,” you whisper, your fingers threading through his hair.

He chuckles, his lips trailing down to your neck, his hands running up and down your sides as he nuzzles into you, his warmth enveloping you. “Well then, Mrs. Stark, it looks like you’re in luck.”

His mouth finds yours, and he kisses you deeply, his hands gentle but insistent as he pulls you closer. The kiss is soft and tender, but there’s an intensity to it, a passion that feels even stronger now that he has all his memories back. It’s like he’s making up for lost time, savoring every second, every touch, every shared breath.

When he pulls back, he leans his forehead against yours, his voice a low murmur. “I don’t think I could ever let you go again,” he says, his hands sliding to your waist as he holds you close. “Every second without you felt…wrong, somehow. Now that I know everything, it’s like my whole world is back.”

You smile, brushing your fingers along his jaw as you gaze into his eyes. “Then don’t let go,” you whisper, your heart racing as he closes the small distance between you again, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss that’s both familiar and exhilarating.

soft Tony is just a baby <3 if you liked the story leave a like and a reblog and drop a follow if you want to read more!

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