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caillea · 2 years ago

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i cant stop thinking about sex with eddie in the back of his van ugh

Neither can I, Anon. Neither can I 💕

Also sorry not sorry, I started this during tipsy thots, but it became something very soft and sweet and I'm kind of in love with it so *shoves fic into the void and runs* here ya go!

Liminal.

Eddie Munson x afab!reader.

WC: idk like 1.5k maybe?

"It's, ah, dammit. It's sort of like a place that's waiting for something to happen. Or a sort of a transitional space, like somewhere that a person can be when they're about to make a transition. Like the hallways at the highschool right before the bell rings, or someone just lingering in a doorway."

Eddie has been listening intently. Following you dutifully to the van, opening the door for you, and getting himself situated while you explained the concept in your book. Now he sits beside you, admiring the way you chew on your lip for just a second, and the way your hands break from the bend of your wrists as you gesture along with your words.

"Okay, I see. So it's like us being here in the van. We're about to go home, but the transition is sort of lingering ahead, yeah?"

"Yeah! That's exactly it." Your smile sends his heart beating right out of his ribcage every time. "I don't know, I just think it's a really cool concept."

"It is."

"Hey, Eddie?" You turn to look at him with something like real adoration on your face, and reach out for his hand where it's resting on the stick.

"Yea, Sweetheart?"

"Thank you."

Butterflies erupt into motion in his stomach at your touch. Fuck, how do you do this? "Thank me for what?"

"For all of this, for listening to me ramble, for making time for me, for making me feel like I'm important to you, I guess?" You're looking at him so earnestly, and he can practically feel the burn from your cheeks in his seat before you let go of his hand, suddenly shrinking back a little. "Sorry, that was dumb, I just really appreciate you. That's all."

"Hey. No, no no no. None of that." He shifts to face you better and reaches to tilt you face toward himself again.

"None of what?"

"None of that self-destructive bullshit."

"What are you talking about, Eds?"

"You thinking, that being honest with me is dumb." He traces a thumb over your cheek softly. "You'd never think that me talking about the things I like was dumb."

"Well, no. But I meant the--"

Your name is little more than a chuckle. "You act like we haven't been doing this for years, Babe. Like I don't know what's happening in your head when you say that kind of shit."

"Okay, you have a point, I guess." Your smile squishes a little in his grasp and all of a sudden his heart is thundering in his ears. "I just mean that I appreciate you, Eddie. We aren't kids anymore, and you're a busy guy. The fact that you still make time for me is...well it's important to me, I guess."

"You're important to me."

The air feels charged around him, and for a fleeting second he thinks this must be what makes a place liminal. Tension balancing on the edge of a knife. Atmosphere waiting in an uncertain kind of limbo, but still the fact that something is about to happen hangs thick in the air. He's sure that you've both leaned closer, but he didn't feel it happening before.

Suddenly you were just there, a breath away from his lips and he's never wanted anything so badly as he wants this. Wants you.

He imagines the red string that connects him to you tightening one more time, and that's all it takes. His lips are on yours and his head goes a little fuzzy at the way you melt against his mouth.

You were like a magnet, always drawing him in. Ever since you were kids, and he never really understood what it meant unil now. They always said that fate was inevitable. All of his books and games and the sappy mainstream songs that he only listened to when they came on the radio, say it.

When you know, you just know. And he knows.

"Shit." He says, panting a little when you finally come back to the surface.

"Yeah."

Your smile is all the warning he gets before you pull him close again.

And then it's...magic.

Lips and hands, teeth, tongue, breathy whispers of affection combined with the prettiest sounds he's ever heard a person make. He relishes in pulling them out of you. In the way his name sounds on your breath. Memorizing everything about the way that your body moves against him, under him while you're pressed into the flaking leather seats. It's something altogether different than he expected, but somehow exactly what he's always imagined. Or what he's always secretly hoped for, at least.

This is heaven, you are heaven. And when he finally sinks his throbbing cock inside you to the hilt he's sure that he can finally die a happy man. "Fuck! Baby, shit you feel so-aahhaah-good."

He's never felt so complete. So connected to anything or anyone in his life. The way every part of you surrounds him feels incredible, warm and welcoming, new and yet familiar somehow.

All of his rambling thoughts quickly drown in the depths of your eyes when you look at him again. Your eyes deep and filled to the brim with what he can only hope is the same kind of love that consumes him when he so much as thinks of you.

"Eddie, oh fuck Eddie, baby, please. Please, I lo-" Your desperate pleas are swallowed up by the single sexiest sound he's ever heard, when he nudges against that perfect spot inside you that makes you see stars.

But he wants to hear you say it. He needs to hear you say it almost as badly as he needs to spill himself inside you.

"Awh fuck, Baby." His voice drops low, and gathers a little extra rasp as he pants against your lips. You're fluttering around him, clenching harder on his cock and driving him headlong toward the edge. "I'm so close, Baby. I wanna hear you say it. Please."

"I love you, Eddie! Fuck, I love you."

Then you're tumbling over the edge of bliss, chanting his name like a prayer and suddenly he's falling too.

Well, he'd been falling for awhile, but it was okay. He thought while pressing a long, tender kiss to your temple as he holds you in the aftermath.

It was okay, because you were always there to catch him.

ST Taglist: @catvvitch @ghostinthebackofyourhead @hellfiresmaster @peachyproserpina @big-ope-vibes @hellv1ra @hazzaismyreligion @coley0823 @thecallofcunthulhu @roanniom @theoncrayjoy @hellfirestxnes @leatherboundriot

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caillea · 2 years ago

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[Starship Icarus] III

Part 1, Part 2

Summary: Dino safaris and appliance shenanigans, Mills’ mental and emotional deterioration and eventual decision, i.e., it gets juicy

CW: lewd actions, hints of suicidal ideation, angst, dark humor

WC:~6.5k

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caillea · 2 years ago

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A ghost stegosaurus visiting their newly discovered bones. They’re so happy you found them!

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caillea · 2 years ago

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First Kiss

Part of the Year of Themed Creation challenge by @yearofcreation2023

Pero Tovar x gn!reader (no pronouns, one nickname "amor") Word count 1,5k

Warnings None

Summary: Pero Tovar has never been kissed before.

It’s an odd feeling, nothing like Pero has ever experienced before.

Your lips are surprisingly soft.

Warm.

Pillowy.

A little dry, but not chapped or unpleasant in any way. Just unusual. He is still trying to get his bearings when you move again, sending another wave through him. His muscles tighten involuntarily as you push firm against him, your mouth massaging his gently, coaxing his pressed lips open with tiny movements.

He can taste oranges, something sweet and tangy and his mind tries to chase all the notes to figure them out. Pero feels your body, all its contours and dips, how you fit against him. He can scent pine and field you must’ve been working on earlier. And then he’s back to your taste, this time something tart finding a way to tease his palette. It’s overwhelming, all his nerve endings are on fire.

In order to try and center himself, he focuses on the feel of your mouth and how it’s pressed to him. It actually feels nice but a little confusing. After the first contact, it feels like your lips have softened further, and come more pliant and sweet. He likes the way your lips fit against him, how you hum softly at the contact. When your tongue peeks out again to lick his lower lip, he presses his lips tighter together, uncertain of the continued wetness of someone else’s tongue right there. It’s peculiar.

Is he supposed to do something, Pero wonders, trying to keep up with the multitude of emotions crackling like embers inside him. He feels almost lost at sea, unable to move or respond. He’s never felt anything like this before. Should he mimic your movements? But how? He doesn’t know how. He’s never done anything like this before! And even if he did, Pero is frozen all over. You’ve woven a spell over his body and he cannot move. He just stands there, dumbstruck.

Suddenly you pull away and his eyes finally blink, his brain still working its way through the myriad of things he feels right now. You watch him in silence before speaking, your eyes both unsure and curious. Maybe even a little sad.

“Pero?”

Your hesitant whisper is like a lightning bolt to his fried mind and he finally finds himself. Pero wraps a strong arm around your waist, halting your escape as it begins with your muscles twitching. He peers into your eyes, willing you to see that he doesn’t want you to move, doesn’t want you to run. Pero needs you here with him while he comes to terms with what just happened. And to do that, he has to stay connected to you.

“Si?” His voice is equally quiet, unwilling to break the spell.

“Was that… was that okay?”

The way you sound, dejected and shy, is far from what he felt from your lips just before. He hates it immediately and tightens his hold on you further. Even if he didn’t understand it, didn’t catch all the nuances, and most likely fucked it all up, Pero never wants you to feel like this around him. As unaware of human interactions as he is, he can’t help but want to be more for you.

“Si.” He's not lying, per se, it was okay. Even if he didn’t know how to comprehend what transpired between you and why his lips still tingle even when you no longer touch, it was okay. More than okay really.

“It’s something…” He tries to explain, cursing inwardly at the rapid heat spreading in his neck. Idiota, Pero berates himself and his inability to form words.

You wait for him patiently, something Pero has never felt he’s worthy of. So he tries again, struggles past his own embarrassment to form the words to soothe you. “It’s just that I’ve never…” he trails off again, uncertain if he should reveal this part of himself to you. Will it make you see him weak if he tells you this?

He doesn’t have to say it though. Understanding dawns on your face, your features transforming into something even more kind, gentle, and calm. Your hand finds his cheek, warmth spreading through his bones as smooth fingers trail up his temple and brush away an errant strand of hair. A soft smile dances on your lips - their ghost still lingering on him - and your eyes twinkle a little in the corners.

“It was your first kiss?”

He lets out a gruff huff and barely hides the sarcastic roll of his eyes at your question. How ever could you tell? Was it the way he resembled a stone statue more than a man confident in his skill with a partner? Or was it how he surely looked like a scared calf lost from its mother when you stepped into his space and pressed those magical lips to his? Or maybe it was the way his whole body sang an unknown song, but only in the wrong language. Surely none of these things clued you in.

He was merely 11 summers old when his family was taken from him and his only way of surviving was to become whatever he needed to be for his next meal, his next sleep, and his next day. Pero had no time for first crushes or stolen kisses in the orchard when he was whisked into the battlefield, one fight after the other. He survived, working his way from the gutter to glory, but it was at the cost of his innocence and his freedom to do as he wished deep inside.

And it wasn’t like the brothels he found himself in were keen on the art of romancing someone. Sure, he got his cock wet and his needs met, but rarely he even spoke to the people he encountered. Transactions, where money and bodily fluids swapped places, were no time for delays. He was good with the lower half of his body and he didn’t leave unsatisfied lovers in his wake. That was enough.

But now, now when there is the incessant need inside him, a monster roaring at him to claim your lips on him, now Pero knows it wasn’t enough. This, this is what he has been missing, this is something he has been waiting for, even if he didn’t know it at the time.

This feels like his entire world has shifted on its axis and he’s finally able to see clearly. He feels somehow … bigger. More full. It hits him like a surprise attack on the head.

This feels like something that could blossom into love.

It should scare him, but that’s the last thing Pero feels. He feels the same high he felt when William suggested they join the group in search of black powder. He feels full of energy, full of hope and excitement. He feels the same greed as he did them. He’s had his first taste, he will never rest until he’s had that taste again and again and again. Until his dying breath, he will want your kiss.

He is also a possessive bastard, Pero has no qualms over admitting that. Now that you’ve gifted this miracle to him, he shall not allow anyone to touch your lips and sample that sweet tangy taste ever again. Pero’s eyes turn darker over the idea and he splays his hand wide, capturing as much of your back as he can, allowing his carnal side to peek through. Your answering gasp pleases him greatly and he finds his composure and cockiness again.

“Si, amor. It was my first. But it won’t be my last, not when I’ve gotten this from you. If I can, will you teach me more?” He murmurs, inching closer so your noses touch and you can share the same air.

He waits for your answer with bated breath, equal parts nervous and excited. He still has no clue what to do, but if you allow him this, he will not remain frozen this time. He will learn how to please you, how to possess you, and how to kiss you in a way that leaves you just as breathless as he feels.

Your eyes track his tiniest movements and just when Pero feels like he can’t take it any longer, you close the final distance and he’s back in your embrace, in your kiss.

And it’s true what they say, he muses as he fumbles to find the right rhythm. Practice does make everything perfect and Pero is nothing if not persistent in this quest.

divider by @firefly-graphics

Year of Firsts masterlist

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caillea · 2 years ago

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[Starship Icarus] II

Part 1

Summary: Mills’s further misadventures, escape attempts, late night talks with a southern bartender, and vacillations in mood and mental state

CW: strong language, dark ruminations, space opera bleakness, my usual gallows humor

WC: ~4.5k

Mills strode purposefully down the corridors, working up a sweat and touching every panel along the way. Some of them lit up with mostly useless information, but often he received no response for his trouble.

At last, two sets of doors slid open, one vertically, the other horizontally, and he was given access to an elevator.

“Please, buckle up and secure any loose items. The elevator will experience a brief lapse in gravity.” Mills absorbed the information impassively, too preoccupied with other thoughts to act. It was only when his limbs started floating of their own accord that he looked up. By then his body slowly, but inexorably started peeling off the seat and ascending into the empty air. He twisted like a cat midair and grabbed for the two loose sides of the seatbelt, now also floating above the seat. They were already out of reach and he watched the map that showed his location as the elevator looped, hurtling towards its destination. He eventually bobbed up to the ceiling and pushed off it, aiming to get nearer to the ground. When he stopped, which would be any moment now, the landing would be less rough. Gravity seized his body and yanked harshly. The air was knocked out of him when he roughly landed ass first on the floor. He scrambled to his feet and dashed out as the holo informed him he was at the Grand Concourse.

It looked like an enormous mall. Or one of those tacky hotels rich people pay thousands of dollars per night to stay in. Floors stacked high with a cavernous hole in the middle, all polished chrome and sleek lines, as aggressively bright as anything he’d ever seen.

“Hello, welcome to the Grand Concourse aboard the Icarus,” a holo pad poured forth its light and took on the signature Homestead blue sphere shape. “Can I help you?”

Relief and worry clashed in him and reached a stalemate, so when he approached, Mills felt nothing at all. “I need to speak to a person. A real living homo sapiens human person,” he overqualified for the dense machine to understand.

“What kind of person? A personal trainer? A therapist?”

Mills allowed himself a short sigh and steeled his resolve once more. “Someone in charge. Part of the crew.”

“The ship’s steward handles passenger affairs.”

Yeah, yeah, and the Sun rises in the East. Very helpful indeed. Prick.

“It’s on level three of the Grand Concourse.” Oh, hey. Actually useful for once. Optimism sparked in him finally and he sped off with renewed vigor.

“Thank you!” he called out over his shoulder and heard a faint happy to help as he disappeared behind another sliding door.

The room marked as the steward’s office was dark as he approached it. Lights flickered to life as he entered, but nobody was inside. Mills stood and watched the empty chair at the empty desk and swallowed thickly. He pushed off his panicked disappointment as he doubled back and engaged the useless machine again.

He alternately growled questions and commands and tempered them with please’s squeezed through his teeth, until he was ultimately directed to find the captain on the bridge. A few bumpy zero gravity elevator rides later, and he was in a different sector, with more official looking cabins. He found the one that led onto the bridge and pressed his cuff to it.

“Bridge access requires special authorization.”

He tried two more times and got the same impassive response in return.

“Oh, gimme a fucking break,” he heard the oncoming hyperventilation as he huffed, peering into the window separating him from the life- and sanity-saving equipment just feet away. He kicked the metal door and pounded his fist on it for good measure. He was aware this would help him absolutely none, but he couldn’t stop himself.

With the leisurely amble of a man lost in every conceivable way, he wandered listlessly around this new sector. Eventually, he stumbled onto a narrow room which stretched far to the left and right of him.

“Welcome to the observatory,” a male voice, deeper and more commanding than the female voices doing the greeting and soothing, boomed and echoed in the vast chamber. “What can I show you?” it asked and projected a long, sprawling image. As more details coalesced, he recognized the route the Icarus was taking, mapping its voyage from Earth to Homestead II. A golden thread weaved through countless stars that hung in the air, stretching from where he couldn’t see far into the distance, to their destination.

“We’re making landfall soon,” he informed and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I’m the only one awake as far as I can tell.”

If the holo was able to process this kind of information, it wasn’t doing a good job of showing it. “Is there something you would like me to show you?” it tried again, in its ineffectual bureaucratic way.

“Show me Homestead II,” Mills shrugged. That was a start.

“Homestead II is the fourth planet in the Bhakti system,” the holo rumbled as it showed a projection of the planet. Mills didn’t need to hear the fact rundown again and he stopped the info dump.

“And where are we? Where is Icarus?”

“The Icarus is in transit from Earth to Homestead II. We will arrive in approximately ninety years.”

The projection condensed the sprawling image of the route so that it fit in the several feet of space directly in front of Mills. The wispy golden thread connected Earth and their destination and a single point pulsed golden bursts of light about a quarter of the way between the two.

Cold sweat instantly enveloped Mills and he felt his knees cut off. “What?” he breathed and was surprised the holo picked up the sound.

“The Icarus arrives at Homestead II in ninety years, three weeks, and one day.”

He shook his head, and the shorter strands around his face tickled his high cheekbones. “No, that can’t be right. How long ago did we leave?”

“Approximately thirty years ago.”

“I woke up too soon,” he muttered and sank into a crouch. With his head in his hands, he locked his legs back up and stuffed his head between his knees, taking deep steadying breaths.

When he willed himself to believe this was just a minor hiccup and he would see it resolved soon, he turned back towards the Grand Concourse, finding his legs felt hollow and wobbly.

“I need to send a message to Earth,” he sternly told the spherical greeter holo.

“Messages to Earth are sent by laser array. This is a costly service.”

“Suck my dick,” he spat as he blew past the machine and took a seat at the desk.

“Happy to help!”

“Planet and connection?” the operator asked jauntily.

“Earth. I need to contact the Homestead company.”

“There are 30,826 contacts listed under ‘Homestead Company’,” the screen displayed a crawl of several rows milling in front of him, all working for this damn place.

“I am en route for the exploratory mission scheduled for ninety years from now. There’s a bit of an emergency,” he rubbed his eyes, the excessive amount of sarcasm really taking it out of him.

“I can put you through to the customer helpline.”

“Would you? You’re a peach.”

A red button flashed Recording and the holo told him to begin his message.

“I am a passenger on the Icarus. For some reason, I was awoken far ahead of schedule. Ninety years, to be more exact. Something must have gone wrong with my pod. Nobody else is currently awake, as far as I’ve been able to tell. I need to know my next steps.” Mills was satisfied with his steady tone and clear delivery. “Thank you,” he remembered to add as his thick finger hovered over the send button.

The pad chirped and the voice told him his message was sent. He nodded to himself, pulling his dark brows together and leaning back in the chair. It would be agony waiting for the few minutes it took for someone to respond. He hoped it wouldn’t take hours – he would drive himself mad. Leaning back into the chair, he threw one long leg over the other and took a deep breath.

“Message will arrive in nineteen years.”

“The fuck?” he lurched forward, nearly launching himself out of the wheely chair, gliding too smoothly under him.

“Earliest reply in fifty five years.”

“Fif—“ his fists balled up.

“We apologize for the delay.”

He was still processing the number. Fifty five years. By then, he could be…

“That will be $6,012.”

“You can go fuck yourself six thousand and twelve times, bitch,” he muttered.

“Happy to help!”

In fifty five years, he would be… ninety four, he balked at the outrageous number. With a grisly humor, he corrected himself inwardly. In fifty five years, he would be fucking dead, more than likely. Stress and space dementia were not conducive to longevity. Sure, his manifold instruction manuals and informative videos did not specify this was the case, but he was willing to stake his life on that he was right.

And then, in another thirty five years – oh, and three weeks and a day, excuse him very fucking much – when the Icarus does touch down on Homestead II, the mysterious pile of bones piled up in some corner, or scattered around the ship from being tossed around some space shithole… Well, that would be a problem for the folks a century from now. Mills would be dead long before anyone came asking any questions, or sending any helpful, concerned messages from the ironically named helpline.

He trudged along the gaudy mall-like environment of the Grand Concourse, still pinching himself and trying to suggest scenarios to himself – he was just dreaming, this was some post-hibernation delirium, someone was yanking his chain…

So absorbed in his wretchedness, he didn’t notice the tinkling music as it discreetly began to fill the air. He only reacted when some movement in his periphery caught his eye. He did a double take and ran inside the bar-like environment. The long bartop was a deep, polished wood and the whole place had a southern sort of charm. But he only had eyes for the bartender.

A man about his size, with one prosthetic hand and a gray shirt buttoned all the way up to his throat, stood behind the bar and polished a glass with a serene look on his face.

He looked up after Mills stood there panting for a few beats, eyes as wide as saucers. “Afternoon, sir,” he greeted in an accent Mills couldn’t place instantly, but there was an unmistakable drawl to it.

“I thought I was the only one awake,” Mills croaked. Didn’t you hear me hollering all day, he thought, but was pleased he didn’t start on such a combative note.

“Who’d wanna sleep on a nice day like this?” the bartender’s voice was quiet and soothing. “Clyde’s the name.”

“Julian Mills. But everyone calls me Mills.”

“Pleased t’make yer acquaintance, Mills. What can I getcha?”

“Huh?”

“T’drink? Ya look like a whisky man. Or bourbon?”

“Bourbon’s fine.”

A whirring sound revved up and Clyde slid smoothly towards the bourbon bottles and spun 180 degrees like he was on a turntable. Mills gripped the bartop and leaned over it to find that under his dark shirt, tentacle-like machine parts coiled under Clyde and propelled him mechanically.

“Ugh, you’re a robot,” Mills sank into his seat.

“An android, technically,” Clyde said, no hurt feelings in his tone. Of course. He wasn’t a fucking person, Mills reminded himself.

“Wait! How much do you know about this ship?”

“Oh, I dunno. I know some things. Why don’t ya lay a question on me?”

“What can I do if my hibernation pod malfunctions?”

“That doesn’t happen. Hibernation pods are failsafe. They never malfunction,” Clyde offered a reassuring smile.

“Well, mine did. I’m here.”

“Can’t happen,” Clyde was satisfied with his answer and went back to polishing a glass.

“When do we reach our destination?” Mills swirled the brown liquid in his glass.

“’Bout ninety years or so.”

“And when are passengers scheduled to wake up?” he took a drink and sucked his teeth, winding up his killer blow.

“Four months b’fore we touch ground.”

“So how am I sitting here with you – with ninety years to go?” Mills set his glass down just a little too forcefully. Clyde was frozen, staring back at him unresponsively and Mills wondered if these androids just shut down when confronted with something they consider a paradox.

Clyde’s amber eyes darted side to side nearly imperceptibly fast and he huffed, arriving at a satisfactory answer. “S’not possible fer you t’be here.” He offered a serene smile and went back to his work. It was so easy to be an android, unbothered by the tragedy and incongruity of life.

Mills downed the rest of his drink and gave Clyde a rictus smile. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Good morning, Julian! It’s a beautiful day here on Starship Icarus. So rise and shine – it’s time to enjoy your stay!” The voice that greeted him was overly chipper and Mills groaned, folding a pillow over his head to drown it out. He never enjoyed an attitude like that much and in his present state of mind, it was torturous. He would rather take the incessant high-pitched beeping of alarms back home or even those metal bastards that ring and clank so loud they pierce your ears. He sat up and retrieved a cigarette from the panel. Opting for a quick, soothing smoke before breakfast, he was shown out to a special designated chamber for smoking. It collected the soiled air and purified it, protecting the other passengers. It also had the added feature of issuing warnings about how bad it was for him to be smoking, displaying disgusting images of impacted gums, yellowed fingers and teeth, and black, tar-laden lungs.

“You know what else is bad?” he asked, sucking in a defiant lungful of smoke and tossing his head back sumptuously as he savored the rich notes of tobacco. “Waking me almost a century too early and dooming me to die alone,” the cigarette dangled and bobbed in his mouth as he spoke, leaning his long body against the wall. When he was done, a tray protruded from the wall, but he tossed the butt on the floor and watched with contempt as some fancier cousin of a roomba came scuttling in to clean up.

When he entered the mess hall to get some breakfast, he finally became conscious of the fact he hadn’t had any food in the whole time since he’d been up. His empty guts roared with a painful, nauseating growl, demanding sustenance. The enormous room was outfitted to seat five thousand people and it showed. Even more so when his soft solitary steps padded dully as he approached one of the large hive-like contraptions that doled out food.

“Please, make a selection,” it prompted after he activated it with his cuff.

“Sorry, the French roast is reserved for gold-class passengers.”

Fucker. They conveniently left that out from the myriad promotional materials. Who did he have to blow to get some decent coffee, then? He pressed it again, and a few more times after he received the same response, feeling unabashedly petulant.

“Sorry, the French roast is reserved for gold-class passengers.”

“Well, I want it,” he responded futilely, anger distilling into a hot ball in the center of his chest. It growled at him to punch the fucking thing, but he decided against it.

He went down the line, pressing every button on the panel, like when he was a child and pressed all the buttons on the building call box when he was let in, just to make the people have to come to the door and yell into the receiver when they realized no one was there.

”One black coffee,” the machine finally acquiesced.

He would have preferred it with creamer, but screw it.

Mills’ head was clearer after a night’s sleep, a few robust cups of coffee and whatever the hell soylent-green-only-beige concoction they served to passengers with his clearance for breakfast.

Consequently, he was able to think more productively. He scoured the areas he did have access to, and found things that would come in handy. For the next several days, he looked through assorted equipment he found in storage, and manuals - medical autodoc, the bar service model android guide, hibernation pod. Bingo, cocksucker. He took the last one with him and read it religiously cover to cover, and then flipped right back over to the beginning, until he could recite it backwards and forwards. He raided the storage some more, rummaging through every box that would open for him. For several weeks, according to Clyde’s sporadic updates, he worked on the pod, trying to fix it. When he was too tired, fingers too sore from work and eyes too tired from reading, he would go up to the bar on the Grand Concourse and hang out with his de facto friend.

The one armed – correction, one-handed - bartender Clyde came preloaded with his own story, if passengers wished to be regaled by listening to it. He was full of amusing superstitions, Tom Sawyer-esque stories about his childhood and family, delivered in a funny accent and loaded with folksy wisdom.

“Couldn’t they even spring for a whole hand for you?” Mills teased one night as he downed one in a string of bourbons.

“People prefer some imperfections. Slight irregularities in the face, a lack o’symmetry, some filler words as we speak… It sets ‘em at ease.”

“Well, that’s the least comforting way of putting that,” Mills’ face soured. Just as he had forgotten himself enough to be ribbing Clyde like a friend, he was rudely reminded of how pathetically alone he was. “Pour me another.”

“Comin’ right up.”

One such evening at the bar, a solar flare disrupted the ships electronics for a few unhappy seconds, just at the moment when Mills was, unfortunately, engaged in conversation with Clyde. The bartender glitched uncannily and his illusion, what part of it Mills could hold on to thus far, was shattered. He didn’t come to wet his whistle for a few days, didn’t even leave his cabin much, except to smoke and sulk. It was getting to be weeks before the utter despair of hopeless loneliness started to nag at him to pretend to talk to the android again.

Mills tried comforting himself that he was making progress on the pod. After weeks of tinkering with it, finally, it gave way. The oval contraption hissed as it filled with some foggy gas and opened in segments in front of him, like a mechanical flower blossoming. He stood in awe as his heart raced. He did it. As if someone spurred him on with a whip, he leapt inside triumphantly, and relief washed over him as the mechanical petals began to fold in around him, ensconcing him safely inside. He closed his eyes, chest shaking with laughter and unshed tears.

He lay as still as he could, wondering if the pod sensed his activity and was refusing to proceed with the next steps until he was calm. He waited for an indeterminate amount of time, realizing something was seriously amiss. The temperature inside was rising, from his body heat and breaths. His breathing accelerated as his body tried to extract enough oxygen out of the rapidly dwindling supply inside the pod. The damn thing was not working, no systems were engaged. Mills pressed his hand against the glass, prying it open, but it wouldn’t give. He tried pushing harder against it, but it stayed put. Fight mode engaged, he felt the icy pricks of panic stab along his vertebrae like pin pricks. He pushed off the ridges of his mattress, slamming bodily against the lid of the pod. He pushed to the limits of his strength, growing dizzier with every burst and finally pooled into an exhausted heap. His flailing body finally set off sensors inside and the pod automatically opened, programmed to do so if something apparently living stirred inside it. Mills shot out like Dracula bursting through his coffin and sucked in greedy lungfuls of air as the black dots cleared from his vision. He climbed out of the death trap and steered well clear of it.

In all that time, while he thought he was at least semi-successfully overriding the programming of the pod and making it functional again, all he really managed to achieve was to fix the opening and closing mechanism. And even that was debatable since he nearly suffocated in there. He would hardly call that fixed.

As he wallowed in his defeat, a thought came to him. Maybe he could finagle the opening and closing mechanism on some of the crew’s pods. It was a shit thing to do to someone, but crew had clearance he didn’t. Surely they had ways of communicating directly with the Homestead Company, or they knew better than he did what to do. At the very least, how to put him and themselves back under.

“Crew pod room access requires special authorization.”

It didn’t even come as a surprise to Mills anymore. His plan hadn’t even really included the door cooperating. It would have made for a nice shortcut and an overdue bit of good fortune, but he came to terms with this restriction easily.

He launched himself into the task of trying to bust into the crew pod room. If there was one thing he had done successfully in all his wretched time, it was picking open door mechanisms. He threw all he had into it – the tools he acquired over time, short circuiting the panel, busting it with a mallet, welding it open, spraying some of that pink liquid from his water dispenser at it.

After several more days of his siege, he finally took a break. It smacked of defeat again, but Mills told himself he’d keep trying.

He finally ventured back to the Grand Concourse, embarrassingly excited to have a chat with someone again, even if it was a stick figure on a wall or a volleyball with a bloody handprint on it.

Mills strode purposefully towards the bar, the hum and greetings of the machines around him having become white noise to him. Had he moved slower or grown less desensitized to it, he might have taken note of how, behind him, the door started to shut, but then went a little haywire. It sputtered its words.

“Grand Con—please—make—going dow—level—“ it kept yawning and chomping its double lipped mouth. Then it seemed to stabilize, shutting properly. “Grand Concourse,” it announced and guttered out.

“Missed me?” he called out to Clyde as he took a seat.

“S’good t’see ya, Mills,” Clyde smiled and appeared friendly, as always. It may have been just a shadow on the wall, but Mills took what comfort could be had. “The usual?” Clyde offered.

“Why not?”

Clyde poured him his drink and left room for Mills to talk, if he so wished. He made for a good replica of a bartender, not pushing for people’s confessions unless they were eager to unburden themselves. Mills let the drink burn its way into a puddle in his gut and stared into the prism-like bottom while Clyde polished his little glass, undisturbed by anything around him.

“I’m so fucked, Clyde,” Mills laughed joylessly.

The bartender stared blankly for a few moments as he searched his scripts, locating a response that seemed to fit. “C’mon now. Every could has a silver linin’.”

Mills kept chuckling dryly and all his elan seemed to evaporate. “I never thought about it that way,” he feigned being profoundly moved by Clyde’s words, taking cold comfort in the fact that even sarcasm as egregious as his went over the android’s head. “That’s so helpful.”

“M’glad t’hear that.”

“Yeah. I guess I’ll lose my mind long before I ever fall deathly ill, so I won’t even be present mentally for my total physical and spiritual collapse,” Mills said cheerfully and toasted the air with an empty glass.

“That’s bad luck,” Clyde warned and Mills rolled his eyes. Oh, no – would something go wrong if he toasted with an empty glass? Whatever would he do?

After a pause, Clyde went philosophically on. “Well, we all die, don’t we?” The thought did not seem to disturb him in the least. “Even us androids end up on some scrap heap somewhere.”

“You don’t mind that at all, huh?”

“Well, the way I reckon, whether we tie ourselves in knots over our fate, or let it wash over us, we still end up in the same place we were headin’ anyway.”

“Do I sense you’re about to lay some of that famous bartender wisdom on me?”

“If ya’d like,” Clyde said in a remarkably convincing display of coyness, smirking and averting his eyes like some saucy hussy.

Mills nodded. Not like he had better prospects lined up.

“Yer not where ya want t’be. That’s fair enough,” Clyde tossed a rag over his shoulder and leaned on the bartop confidentially. “Ya feel like yer s’posed t’be somewhere else.”

Great summary of everything he’s been saying since day one. “Two for two, Clyde, old chap.”

“Say ya could snap yer fingers and be wherever ya think ya should be. Chances are ya’d still feel the same way. Not in the right place.” Mills wanted to disagree energetically, but Clyde went on with his ruminations. “Point bein’, ya shouldn’t get so hung up on where ya’d rather be and squander the chance t’enjoy where y’are,” Clyde said and gave Mills a penetrating stare.

Mills raised a brow. “You coming on to me, Clyde?”

“’Fraid not.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Take a break. Play a trick on yerself. Breakthroughs come when yer mind is relaxed. Often, when yer too focused on the problem, ya get tunnel vision. But when ya distract yerself, focus on other things, let yerself enjoy something…” he paused. “The answer jus’ comes.”

Mills’ silence confirmed Clyde was on the right track.

“Live a lil’,” the bartender gave him a friendly nudge.

“Live a little, ay?” Mills considered. “Alright then. But only a little,” he grinned, indicating with his thumb and index finger, like he was being offered some cake and he was trying to cut down.

Clyde mirrored the grin and the gesture. Mills slapped the polished wood of the bar and got to his feet with a renewed sense of purpose.

@queeniebee @vedavan @heartlight-starlight @house-of-cadwyn @lumberjack00fantasies @safarigirlsp

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caillea · 2 years ago

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Please reblog this if fanfiction has been beneficial to your mental health.

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caillea · 2 years ago

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Stay with Me (GN!Reader x Santiago Garcia

CW: Mentions of anxiety, depression, and chronic body pain. Slight angst. (Hurt/Comfort)

The reader is GN, but the term 'querida' is used. There is no g/n term equivalent.

*No y/n*

AN: This has been sitting in my docs folder, and I decided it was time to try writing again. Be gentle, and let's hope for more!

WC: 1.5kish

Oscar Isaac Character ML

Santiago Pope Garcia ML

You halted at his apartment door. The faint hum of his guitar sounded from the other side. It never fails. Your world falls apart, and you find yourself here again, needing him to put you back together.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you knocked. The door rattled before revealing those beautiful peppered gray curls and shining brown eyes you'd missed so much. Santi swiped his tongue alongside his bottom lip as he took in the sight of you.

No phone call or text message letting him know of your arrival. No invitations or plans to meet up. There never was, not since the argument that drove you away from each other. Santi backed up into the apartment, motioning you inside.

"Tea?" He hummed as he strolled past you, heading towards his small, tidy kitchen. The apartment was the same as it always was, bare walls and simple furniture. You tossed off your shoes and jacket and slid onto the island barstool. You knew precisely what Santi would be doing at this hour.

Outfitted in his favorite sweats and teeshirt, you skimmed the coffee table. Sure enough, a book rested there, his guitar carefully propped against the sofa. Santi was a man of routine. He said it kept him sane.

You were agitated. It had been longer than usual since your last visit. And yet, he automatically responded as he always did; to take care of you. You shifted in place. Santi would let you sit in silence for as long as you like. Still, you needed his soothing assurances to alleviate the chaos in your mind sooner than later. Santi signaled towards the couch, his hands carrying two mugs of tea. Sighing, you took your cup and pulled your knees to your chest.

"Thank you." You mumbled, breathing in the herbal steam, letting it fill your nostrils, attempting to avoid his stare. Santi cleared his throat.

"How long?"

You shrugged, straining to steady your grip on the mug. The hurt and tightness in your limbs fought for your attention. Santi abruptly tugged at your legs. You obeyed the silent command. Carefully, he removed your socks before his calloused hands began massaging your feet.

His voice was gentle while firm.

"How long?"

You sighed into the cushions as your body relaxed. You missed him. You knew Santi didn't need you to answer, but it was the game you both played with each visit. You would show up at random times of the evening, depleted from sleepless nights consumed by panic, chronic body pain, and despair.

In the beginning, after you left, you caved quickly, ending up in his arms every couple weeks. Now, you tried desperately to stay away. But this last episode was scarier than it had been in the past, and you weren't sure you could make it through alone.

"It's been a few weeks." You wavered, swallowing down the sob growing in your throat. Santi's jaw tightened. You knew he would be upset and that he worried. One of the many reasons you keep your distance is you hate it. You hated being the cause of any more stress. Santi bore a heavy past.

"You should have come sooner, querida." He sighed. Shrugging, you sipped your tea. The intrusive cycle of vitriol whirled in your head. Intuitively, Santi shifted closer to you, his hand resting on the back of your neck. "It's okay." He murmured, taking your mug from you.

Tears welled in your eyes as Santi hauled you into his arms, his lips immediately pressing to your brow. The pang in your chest unfurled as his warmth began to thaw your body. Santi's calm, steady reassurance in your ear grounded you as he rocked you while you sobbed.

You finally allowed him to lead you to his bedroom and gently remove both of your clothes. You crawled under the covers as Santi moved to shut off the lights. You had no idea what time it was, but you knew it couldn't be that late into the night. It never failed, no matter what the time was when you arrived. The routine was always the same.

No place felt safer than being enveloped in Santiago's arms. You had searched for many years before and after him and still always found your way back to him, every time. It was only a short time until you were sound asleep.

Santi's face was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes the following morning. His faint snoring made you smile as you cuddled closer. Santi's eyes flickered open, immediately aware of the shift in your position. The man never missed a beat. He surveyed your face before speaking, his voice husky from sleep.

"One to ten?" He questioned as he caressed your back.

"A ten." You murmured without thought, closing your eyes not to expose the rush of emotion that rushed over you. Santi hummed a sigh of approval before brushing a kiss on your forehead.

"I guess you can't beat a ten." He whispered. Santi's touch hesitated before he spoke again. "We could wake up like this every morning." You should have known this was coming.

Instinctively, your walls came crashing down. You didn't want this argument. Evading his stare, you stood and began searching for your clothes. Santi's features tautened as he observed you getting dressed.

"I won't stop asking, querida." The dejected sigh emitted from him was a hard blow to your chest. You needed him too much. It was unhealthy. This is why you couldn't stay. You were a constant disappointment.

How many therapists have told you that codependency only kept you sick? No, you were a ticking time bomb. And the times that Santi misstepped and couldn't provide for you obliterated him. He deserved better. He had fought enough battles and didn't need to fight yours.

"Just stop." You blundered to the living room. Santi followed.

"Dios mío." He muttered before tugging your hand. "You don't get to tell me to stop. Not after I held you all night."

"Stop." Your voice quavered as you stood in the center of Santi's living room. He shook as he spoke.

"I can't keep doing this. You show up, expect me to fix you, and leave as quickly as you came." Santi's tongue darted over his lips as he realized his error. "Expect me to fix you." It was too late.

Yanking backward from him, you stumbled to put on your shoes. Santi instantly softened and sank to his knees.

"Let me love you."

You choked in the air as your body fought from rushing to him or running out the door.

"Look at yourself." You spat and gestured wildly. "You, with your shit knees, are on the floor. And for what? Over me?" You wiped your runny nose. "I am a fucking wreck of a human. And you don't need to spend all your time 'fixing' me. It's an extra burden you don't need." Trembling, you put on your jacket. "So you can stop, and so will I." Santi's jaw tensed as he leaped to his feet.

"You're not the only fucked up human here." His pain, frustration, and desperation were unmistakable. "You are always saying that I am taking care of you…” Santi wavered. "I was numb when I met you. Empty. The blood on my hands, the secrets I have to keep. You become apathetic. It's easier. And then you came into my life, and I wanted to feel everything. Everything was so much more colorful when I shared it with you. And when you left, well…" Santi breathed in and stepped closer to you. "Everything good left with you. You aren't a burden to me, cariño. Eres la luz de mi Vida." You ambled back as his glistening eyes analyzed your face.

After a minute in silence, Santi exhaled and rubbed his face vigorously.

"How about we go get some breakfast? The cafe we love, down the street." He moved swiftly to you before you could utter the anxiousness building in your mind. "One day at a time. Let's take this one day at a time. Today, we have breakfast. How's that sound?" His hand reached for yours. "Will you have coffee with me?"

There would never be anyone else. You knew this. You knew that the reason you always ended back here was that there was no one else that could reach inside the darkness and pull you out.

You nodded, slowly dropping your shoes to the floor. Santi's shoulders eased, and you were sheltered in his arms without skipping a beat.

Thank you for reading!

If you enjoy my stories, let me know! My Inbox is open, and I welcome comments! Please reblog if you fancy sharing this piece.

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