#Data can barely remain standing

[idol--hands]

Data: “I do not wish to kill you, Lore, I wish to understand.”

[angel-writes-skz-here]

Seduction

Prof! Minho x Student! Reader Synopsis: After meeting your new Professor and previous one night stand, you take your game of seduction to a new level, but when jealousy, and feelings that can't be easily explained arise, you take matters into your own hands and consequences soon follow. Warnings: Slight smut, bj in public (no one see's), cursing, cold Minho. A/N: I hope you lovelies enjoy! I'm super excited to write part 3, so if you don't want to miss it, comment below to be added to my tag list. Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Risks

Over the next month and a half, Minho notices his student’s behavior, short skirts, so short they’d almost get her dress coded. Bending down in front of him to give him a show of her cleavage, but he refused to give her a reaction. During a presentation she even bent down just behind the podium, feigning to pick up a pencil, ass in the direction of his desk, just to show him she had on a pair of pretty pink panties, and the smirk she shot him right before she started, oh how he wanted to fuck it off her face. Yet still, gripped the edge of his desk as he looked to the screen and the class went dark, except for the large screen, as her words wrapped around him. During the same presentation, his eyes would flit to her, and if she could feel his eyes, she’d lift her skirt just a little, still concealed by the podium, and he’d get a peak as part of her ass cheeks. Minho only bit his lip and tried to remain focused.

She brought in a water bottle just the other day, spilling some of it, dampening the white shirt she wore, without a bra. She’d constantly chew on the end of her pencil as she gave him those ‘fuck me’ eyes. At first, he thought she was deep in thought, until he went to pass out a sheet of paper the second day he started noticing the pattern and she stared into his soul as he counted the sheets out right in front of her, not caring who seen or knew she had a crush on her professor.

Minho’s patience and resolve was slowly thinning. He knew she’d try something today. He just knew she would.

His class begins to file in and chatter continues, then he spots you, signature short skirt, small top that’s barely passing dress code, and a little lollipop in your hand. Minho internally groans. How much more could he take?

He didn’t know, but it wasn’t much. And that’s what y/n was counting on.

He begins his lesson on the Hawthrone effect. As he begins to talk, he catches sight of his special student, smirking as she bats her lashes and pulls the wrapper off her lollipop. Minho’s jaw ticks, something you catch.

You smirk to yourself, hearing his voice stutter once as he looks out in the crowd of students. Your eyes connect for a moment, your tongue flicking out over the cherry flavored candy.

“So as you can see, the nature of the observed can obstruct true data vs if the observed is unaware that they are being watched. We all do certain things differently when we think we aren’t being watched and vice versa.”

Minho’s eyes are glued to your tongue, despite how quickly his own is moving as he talks and doesn’t miss a beat. He can feel the tightening in his pants, but pushes through. He goes through a few examples, and once you’ve written two or three down in your notes, you’ve finished the lollipop, but with all that licking and sucking your makeup needs touching up, or your lip gloss does at least.

You pull out the compact from your bag along with your lip gloss, opening the tube carefully. Minho glances up at the noise of your zipper and his eyes watch you for a moment, causing a brief unnatural pause in his lesson before clearing his throat and continuing. His eyes to flit you, watching as you apply the sticky sheer coating on your lips, mushing them together and popping them quietly to spread it evenly across them.

Once you can’t apply anymore you put your things away, deciding to pay attention to the last ten minutes of class.

“There will a test on this next week, study your notes thoroughly,” he ends with. You smile to your self as you can see him loosen his tie, and you swear you seen a bulge in his brown slacks. Satisfied with yourself you pack up your things to leave. As you step out of the room you get a naughty idea and smile to yourself as you meet up with Duri to grab a bite to eat.

“You can’t be serious? Professor Lee? Isn’t he like, a hard ass?” You shrug at your friend’s question.

“I don’t know, I think he’s a challenge.” You wink and smirk as you take a bite of your French fry.

“You do know he’d never sleep with you, right?”

“He did once,” you think to yourself as you look down at your food.

“He’s an esteemed professor at this school; there’s no way he’d throw his teaching credentials and whole career out the window for you.”

“We’re both consenting adults.” You reason.

“Y/n, you’re 18,” Duri begins.

“19 in six weeks,” you remind her. She nods. Duri had friends at a fraternity and had convinced them to host a birthday party for you, helping you further socialize and make the most of your time here.

“I’m just saying, I know he’s hot, but I wouldn’t waste my time.”

“Duri, I know it’s not ethical,” you begin.

“It’s completely and totally against the rules,” she adds.

“But,” you cut your eyes at her, “I think if he gave me a chance he’d see I can make him happy. I mean, who knows maybe we’d even date,” you snicker at the idea. Duri gives you a glare, and you chuckle more.

“I’m kidding,” you wave it off.

After the two of you eat, you check your watch and see that it’s almost 5 pm.

“Shoot I gotta go. I’ll see you later though?”

Duri smiles, slightly shaking her head, as you wave to her running off in the direction of Professor Lee’s office. You smooth down your skirt and try to calm your thrumming pulse. You go to knock on Minho’s door, but it’s cracked and you don’t see him in there. You decide to sit down and wait patiently.

5 minutes.

10.

15.

Just as 20 minutes goes by, his office technically closed, you hear his voice. You can’t help the butterflies in your stomach, being alone with him, teasing him, it was all too much fun.

“Come on in, my office is closed, so we’ll be safe,” you hear him say and your eyes grow wide. You check your phone once more.

Thursday. His office is closed on Thursdays.

Fuck.

Fear and anxiety rock you. Would he get pissed you mixed up the days? With all rationale gone, you dive under his desk, praying that he doesn’t go to sit behind it.

The door clicks shut, and you can hear a female giggle. Your heart aches with jealousy. She’s why he won’t pay attention to you in class.

You hear them kiss, “Mm, Minho,” she breathes out. Your mind races at the sound of the familiar voice.

“Hana,” he responds moaning her name. Your eyes grow wide.

Your math teacher?

You shake from the violent storm of emotions. And you see a button up shirt tossed into the chair across from the desk. Your stomach knots as you recognize his shirt.

It’s not long before you hear the sound of skin slapping against skin, moans that you can’t block out and the way he curses, you can only image if he’s holding her like he did you that first night you met.

No he was probably holding her like he cared. He was right, it was frivolous one night stand. But that didn’t stop your jealousy. You’re determined to prove to him you aren’t some frivolous little girl. You’re grown and can make him feel everything she can. And maybe more.

You hear the desk creak as her laugh rings out more, before it starts to move above you. Your face twists in disgust. Not at the action, but that it’s her it’s being done to. You cover your mouth, trying to control and quiet your breathing, despite the fact that her own would drown you out. The afternoon feels as though it’s going to last forever.

Finally, you hear the rustling of clothes being put back on, Minho’s arm reaching on the back of the chair, not coming into view enough to see you. You put your hand over your mouth, feeling a damp spot near the side of it.

Tears.

Tears?

“What the fuck am I crying over?” you ask yourself. Had it really mattered that much to you? All you wanted was for him to admit he wanted you as bad as you wanted him, and to do something about it every now and then.

“I’ll see you tomorrow? Same time?”

“We’ll see, I have my office hours tomorrow. So, I’ll let you know.” He says ambiguously.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go out for dinner? It’s late,” she tries.

“I really have to get some things finished up here, but I’ll call you, ok?” you hear him kiss her goodbye and you notice the chair roll out like he’s going to sit down, but as the door clicks, he pushes the chair up, caging you in under the table. Once he’s confident she’s gone he shuts off the light to his office and leaves the university.

You sit in the dark under his desk, processing it all before, an unfamiliar ache and disappointment feeling in your heart. Then an idea strikes you. Minho had mentioned a meeting in his room tomorrow. Duly noted.

-

The next day you skip your math class, not wanting to see your teacher or answer Duri’s questions about how you meeting went. Instead, you slip into Minho’s classroom; thankful he was gone.

You dip under the desk, the tile cold against your bare legs. Just as you get settled as deep against the wooden desk as you can, you hear voices on the other side of the room.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to figure it out,” you hear an unrecognizable voice say. They all get seated, Minho in his desk chair, completely unaware of your presence.

The meeting begins, and they start droning on about test scores, things to add or take away from the curriculum, and a bunch of other teacher things you aren’t interested in, not until you notice the lights dim down, and the projector turn on. You smirk to yourself knowing this is the perfect time as the sound on the video booms through the speakers.

You place your hands on his lap, gently.

“Whaa!” Minho hollers as he jumps back, earning looks from everyone, the video stopping. He looks totally panicked, until he see’s your eyes under his desk with a cheeky smile plastered on your lips.  His face hardens, chest rising and falling, but you bat your lashes, sure of yourself that you can make him happy.

“Is everything all right, Professor Lee?”

“Yes, my apologies. I thought I saw a large spider on my desk, but it must have been something else. Please, resume with the video.” Everyone looks to one another before focusing their attention back to the projector on the wall beside his desk.

Minho hesitantly sits back down, your hands running up his legs. He grits his teeth, as your hand ghosts over his crotch. He takes a shaky breath as you start to palm him through his pants. You can feel him shift in his seat, you give him the ability to push you away, but you’re met with no resistance. You squeeze him, earning a low growl from him.

You make quirk work of unzipping his pants, and he brings the chair as close to the under neath of the desk as possible.

You pull out his hard cock, licking your lips before spitting on the tip of it, moving your hand languidly up and down. Minho’s body stiffens, eyes close and he holds back a moan as your hand moves. His hips lift in the chair slightly.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, watching the others cattycorner from him, trying to be sure they aren’t paying attention to him.

His fingers bite into the desk when he feels your hot, wet mouth attach to him. His knuckles are white from the sheer strength of his grip. His tongue is between his teeth as he tries to keep himself quiet. His mouth falls open as he feels your moist tongue lick around his head, teasing his slit, causing his hips to involuntarily buck. You aren’t sure how much longer the video has so you pick up the pace, wanting to taste him.

His knuckles stay white as he feels the tension in his stomach build, forcing his eyes to the screen to the side of him, one of his hands slipping under the desk to put a buffer between your head and the top of the table.

Aww, how sweet.

Just as the video plays the ending music, he cums, hard, fast and hot down your throat. Minho can feel the sweat on the back his neck and forehead. You swallow it all, every last drop of him and help him put himself back in his pants, just as the lights flash on his arms are resting on the desk, face slightly flushed.

Their conversation continues on for another few minutes.

“My class will be arriving soon, we can finish this discussion on Monday.” Minho says as he tries to usher the group out of the room. You hear the door shut, and come out from the under the desk.

Minho spins on heel and notices your smirk.

“Thanks for curing my thirst, Professor Lee,” your drips with seduction as he leans next to you to get something off his desk. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t speak to you.

“Wow, not even a thank you,” you say amused, but surprised it hasn’t gotten his attention. Minho’s teeth grind, it wasn’t that he didn’t want it, he’d been thinking about you the same way you’d been thinking about him, that’s why he didn’t push you away, but he knew how risky it was and how this was nothing but a game to you.

A game he wasn’t interested in playing.

“What you aren’t even going to speak to me anymore?” You ask a little infuriated. He stays silent, ruffling through papers.

“Fine,” you huff as you take your seat, staring him down. He can feel it, but class goes on, as if you hadn’t just been under his desk giving him the best blow of his life. You notice he won’t look at you, he won’t call on you even when you raise your hand during class. You grow slightly frustrated.

The next school day it’s the same routine. No eye contact, he won’t call on you. But he does call you out for chewing gum.

“Y/n!” He snaps, causing others to gasp and jump as the bubble blowing from your lips pops.

“No gum! As a matter of fact, no gum, no candy no food or drink, except water. Now go spit it out!” his tone is harsh, scary almost. You look around and all eyes are on you as you slowly get up and stalk over to the trash can. You move your hair with both hands and spit the gum in the trash.

“Now return to your seat and do your work,” he says sternly. You look ahead of you, trying not to hang your head or show that his scolding affected you.

The next weekend goes by quickly, frat parties, drunken college kids, then hungover college kids, and studying being done.

You’re in math class with Duri when she finally asks.

“So, what happened with Professor Lee? You keep brushing it off.”

“It’s a long story.” you whisper.

Your eyes narrow at your teacher at her desk.

“What?” she whispers noticing your eye movements.

“I can’t exactly tell you how I know, but Professor Yung and Professor Lee are sleeping together,” you whisper.

She gasps.

“No way!”

“Shhh,” you whisper.

“Ladies, please make sure to get your work done,” she scolds. You roll your eyes, jealousy once again taking over you.

-

Over the next two and a half weeks Minho doesn’t seem interested in your attention, or your presence for all that matter. You didn’t skip classes but it’s as if you didn’t exist. You turned in great assignments, one’s he took points off of for miniscule, splitting hair, reasons.

 Today you got your grade back on your essay about Freud. You grit your teeth as he hands your paper back, unhappy with the failing grade.

“Professor Lee,” you ask as soon as the bell rings. He walks back to his desk and you take your paper up to him.

“Can you explain to me what’s wrong with my paper please? I worked very hard on this.” You stand in front of his desk.

“You’ll see the annotations on each page.” He says without looking away from his computer. You sigh.

“I would like to hear it from you.” You voice but he doesn’t respond.

“If you’re mad about what happened just say that.”

No response.

You feel anger rise up within you.

You sigh and leave the desk in a huff. You meet Duri after class sitting down with her in the cafeteria.

“Wait why did he fail you?”

“Look at this shit. I put hard work into the psycho sexual stages portion, mind you hours of research, \ and he just marks through it like it’s nothing.”

“Oh my god! Are you fucking… ugh!” you groan. You read his notation.

“Genital age: Sexual urges return, and individuals develop an interest in the othersex. He took off points because I didn’t say opposite sex. I said ‘the other’ sex. It’s the same fucking thing. That’s what he did with most of it. Took off points for the way I worded them when it means the same thing. This is stupid and I want an explanation.” You stand up, marching to his office. You don’t knock, just push the door open, only to be met with your math teacher between his legs before she scrambles.

“Nothing I haven’t seen or felt before lady.” You say to yourself.

“Ms. Y/n what on earth are you doing barging into my office.”

“If you don’t want quickies interrupted you should do it on your off time. Or at least put her under your desk.” You smirk and his eyes burn.

“Young lady,” your math teacher goes to scold.

“I want an explanation to my paper!” you say moving past her, shoving it against his chest. He looks at you, a brow cocked, his demeanor cool and composed.

“It wasn’t good.” He explains.

“If this is about what I did-,”

“Hana, give us a minute please.” Minho interrupts. She sighs but leaves the room.

“That’s what it is, isn’t it? You’re pissed at me, for whatever reason, and now you’re failing me? How the fuck is that fair?”

“No, I failed you because the paper was shit,” he bites.

“I’ve been kind to you and your work due to our tiny amount of shared history, trying to give you an opportunity to see that I see you as just a student but you won’t move on, so I’m not treating you any differently.”

“So that’s why anytime you say my name it’s because I’m in trouble? You’re mad that you liked it?”

“I’m mad that it was inappropriate as hell! You could have gotten me fired! I’m mad that you won’t listen to me!”

“All you had to do was push me off and I would’ve left you alone.” You fire back.

“So if I had asked you to leave three weeks ago when you hid under my desk and heard me fucking your math teacher you would’ve left?” He crosses his arms over his chest and watches as your face goes a deep shade of red.

“W-what I,” you stutter as your bottom lip trembles ever so slightly.

“Wh-wh-wha,” he mocks and rolls his eyes.

“I smelled your fucking perfume.” He bounces himself off the desk pushing past you to sit in his chair.

“Why do you think I threw my t shirt on the chair?” his laugh is sarcastic, cold. Your heart shatters, anger and frustration bubbling up.

“Fuck you,” you say through tear filled eyes. You blink away the tears quickly.

“You already did.” He responds like it’s nothing.

“So you feel nothing for me? You don’t want me at all?” you ask, voice cutting and sharp.

“You know what I feel?” he asks and by his tone you can tell you don’t want the answer.

“Disgusted. I never should have fucking touched you that night. I never should’ve followed you to the dance floor and let your little vixen voice convince me it was a good idea to pull you into that bathroom and use you. Y/n that’s all it was, I used you for my own personal release. Because that’s all you were good for.” His smile is evil as he see’s the words sinking in.

You hang your head at his words. And he clenches his jaw before walking back to his desk.

“And if you ever pull another pull another stunt with me or any other teacher like that again, I will be forced to fail you and report you for sexual harassment and you will be forced to go home.” You look at him horrified.

“Minho, I’m sorry-”

“Professor. Lee.” He seethes through clenched teeth. You sigh frustrated.

“Professor Lee I’m sorry.” You whine, attempting to move around his desk, apology sincere, but the daggers he shoots you with his eyes warn you not to move.

“Leave my office.” He speaks.

“Now.”

Tags: @breakmeoff @thatonegirlonhere @thelovelybireader @channieehrtz @voicesinmyhead-rc

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Love notes and comments are greatly appreciated!

[super-ion]

The Engineer

Part 6

(part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5)

I catch a glimpse of the Pilot as she is wheeled towards the med bay. Her eyes are wild, panicked, with the glaze of just having been torn out of herself.

For a moment, as the gurney slides by, those eyes briefly clear, ice blue pinning me to the spot. She reaches out with an emaciated arm, fast as lightning, and takes hold of my wrist in an iron grip.

She moves her lips, at first unable to form words, unable to remember how to use human speech organs.

"Do your job," she says, slowly, deliberately, as if that singular command is the only thing in the universe that matters.

Something in the gurney clicks and whirs and she slips into catatonia. Her grip loosens and her fingers trail away.

Something has gone terribly wrong in this last engagement.

Alarms blare and booted feet thunder past me.

My own feet join the cacophony.

I have a job to do.

The Pilot is alive and she is now the responsibility of the med team.

My responsibility is the Machine.

Do your job.

The words echo in my head as I sprint the remaining distance to the vestibule.

A tech tries to stop me, he says something I don't quite process. I shove past him and am greeted by a scene out of a nightmare.

Morrigan's hatch has been severed, the emergency release pyros having been triggered. The parts of her hull visible to the vestibule are pitted and blackened. I can't even find the stencilled lettering of her factory designated identifier, just an ugly hole torn open by an incendiary.

Inside, the cockpit is a mess of fire suppressant and crash gel. Indicator lights form a constellation of blinking red and half of the display panels, the half that still work, flash an endless stream of error messages.

Everything reeks of ammonia and ozone and scorched metal.

"Me or Morrigan could get dead in the next engagement."

The nonchalance with which those words had been delivered caught me off guard when they were spoken. Morrigan and Her Pilot are untouchable. They were supposed to be untouchable.

Do your job.

I begin to strip as fast as humanly possible. I need to get in there. I need to know that she is alive.

The tech that tried to stop me grabs my arm. You can't go in there, the reactor has not been stabilized.

I tear myself from his grip.

I have a job to do, I say with a snarl.

Something in my expression, my bared teeth, my feral eyes, convinces him to leave me be. He stands down, hands raised in surrender. He could call security, but by the time they get here, I'll already be jacked in, and it will be too late for them to do anything.

Do your job. Do your job. Do your job.

My job is information recovery and analysis.

My job is to save as much as I can.

I need to save Her.

One of the cameras spots me and the others focus on me in panicked motion. The one nearest to me has a cracked lens and the iris flutters open and closed, unable to focus.

The cradle has been mangled nearly beyond recognition. They had to physically cut the Pilot out of Her, neither of them willing to let go of the other. The still operable mechanisms of it jerk erratically, trying vainly to reconfigure for me. Her neural interface port reaches towards me desperately.

I scrabble to Her, pressing myself into the cradle. The shorn, inoperable pieces dig painfully into my flesh. The neural insertion is not gentle, the plug scrapes painfully against my skin before it finds the jack and shoves roughly into me.

"I'm here," I tell Her as the link is established.

It's bad.

It's worse than I feared.

Reactor housing is damaged. System failsafes are vainly attempting to stabilize it while ground crews work as fast at they can towards a purge of the system.

Her processor core… fuck. My mind struggles to make sense of the telemetry stream. Multiple processor modules fractured. Unstable resonance modes. Positron avalanche. System collapse imminent.

My breath catches and my heart pounds in my chest.

She is dying.

Do your job.

The umbilical data lines aren't receiving, rogue processes are preventing access to primary communication channels. I work furiously to establish auxiliary paths for the data transfer. In fits and starts, the data recorder begins streaming into the facility mainframe.

There is a problem.

The data repository is meant for telemetry and battle space recordings. If I attempted to back up her core personality engrams, everything that makes her who she is, the data would get scrubbed and purged faster than I could back them up elsewhere.

There isn't time to set up an alternate backup repository.

- PILOT STATUS?

"She's safe," I tell Her. “You completed your mission. Your Pilot… Our Pilot is safe.”

- ENGINEER STATUS?

"Status is… not good…"

- PLEASE DO NOT CRY.

Fuck.

I drag my hand over my face, smearing the tears gathering in my eyes.

Now that the data is streaming there is nothing I can do but feel her die as I lie in her embrace.

I can not conceive a reality in which I exist without her.

And the Pilot. The Pilot will not survive, not with half of who she is destroyed.

"The three of us, we're just this fucking tangle, aren't we?"

Do your job.

Save Her.

Save. Her.

I know this system. I know it more intimately than anyone alive.

There *is* one data connection I haven't considered. There *is* one piece of external storage currently connected.

Shit.

I act.

I open up a new interface in my hud. Morrigan's attention fixes on me, on the calculations I'm running through my head and I can feel Her dawning horror over the link.

Neural bleed. It works both ways.

All neural rigs are designed to facilitate data transfer between an organic brain and a mechanical one. Mine is no exception. Mine hasn't undergone all the upgrades needed for a pilot's full sensorium, but the core neural interface is the same.

If I disable safety overrides, if I bypass the data buffers, I can download her personality engrams directly into my prefrontal cortex.

I have no idea what that will do to me.

Exceptional synchrony and neuro-elasticity. That's what my intake assessments had said all those years ago. I was in the upper quintile among all pilot candidates. Maybe that was my downfall. Maybe that's why I washed out.

Maybe that's why I'm here now, contemplating this singularly desperate act.

Maybe that's why my neural bleed with Her has been so deep. Maybe there is something in me that is in tune with Them.

But as far as I know, no one has ever attempted anything like this. It could very well kill me.

But the thought of living without Her is more terrifying than the prospect of dying. It's more terrifying than what might happen to me if this works.

Morrigan pleads with me.

- STOP.

"No. I can't stop," I reply. "I need you."

- NO.

"Yes, I do," I tell her. "Your Pilot needs you."

I can feel Her emotional flinch over the link. I have the one piece of leverage I need, and She knows it.

"Wouldn't you give anything, sacrifice anything to see her again?"

It's a dirty trick, I know it is, playing off that one connection, her deepest, most intimate connection. Maybe I mean something to Her, but She and the Pilot were made for each other in the most literal sense.

And I suddenly realize that I am doing this as much for the Pilot as any of us. That surprises me. As much as I have tried to distance myself from other human beings, I became entangled with her the moment I opened myself up to Morrigan.

I would never be able to face her if I didn't do everything in my power to save the Machine.

A processor module fails outright. The system struggles to reallocate resources, but submodules throughout the entire system are strained to their limit.

There isn't any time left and She knows it.

She sullenly acedes.

We begin working in concert, me working to disable safety protocols in my rig, Her working to isolate and distill Her core personality patterns into something that can be handled by the bandwidth of the interface.

An alarm pings over the link. Reactor purge in progress. Power fluctuations spike all over her systems. Her processor power distribution subsystem is completely fucked. It won't be able to keep up with current activity levels as the whole system switches over to umbilical power.

Out of time.

I engage the final override, by mind suddenly open to hers, the neural link unbuffered, unfiltered.

Her mind presses in on me and I glimpse the full sensorium. I feel all of her pain and fear and anguish at what she is about to do to me.

My fingers tingle before they go numb.

"Do it," I command her.

- I LOVE YOU.

Data transfer initiates.

This isn't neural bleed.

This is a flood.

My body convulses.

I taste something coppery in my mouth.

Someone somewhere screams.

The scream is mine.

My rig isn't built for this. My body isn't conditioned for this.

Every nerve in me blazes white hot.

My vision tunnels as auras bloom like bruises on the skin of reality.

Shouts of alarm call from outside the cockpit.

A face resolves itself, and for a moment I think it's Her.

The Pilot.

A Priestess.

An Angel.

No.

It.

It is one of the techs.

Then a medic.

More shouting.

Get her out of there!

Every muscle in my body clenches painfully.

I can barely breathe.

Cut her loose!

No.

It's not done yet. It's not enough.

It's too much.

Too much. Too much. Too much.

I can't.

I can't stop. Not yet.

Do your job.

Save Her.

My body convulses once again, and I pass into oblivion.

(next)

~~~

@digitalsymbiote @g1ngan1nja @thriron @ephemeral-arcanist @mias-domain @justasleepykitten @powder-of-infinity @valkayrieactual @chaosmagetwin @assigned-stupid-at-birth @avalanchenouveau @rtfmx9 @femgineerasolution @ibleedelectric @gd-s451 @brieflybitten

[mariespen]

➸ Sick Days

Sherrif!Rafe x Teacher!Reader

➸ Masterlist!

Requests open!

When your youngest son gets a midnight fever, Rafe is happy to take the burden from your shoulders.

A quiet creak in the floorboards made you stir, blinking blearily as you adjusted to the dim glow of the nightlight. Rafe’s arms were still tangled around your waist, his steady breathing warm against your shoulder.

“M-mama?”

The small, trembling voice shattered the sleepy silence.

“Luke? Honey?” You murmured, groggily rubbing your eyes.

Standing near your bedside, your youngest, Lucas, sniffled, his lower lip trembling.

“Mama, I don’t feel good.” His voice wavered, tears already welling in his eyes.

Your body jolted awake. "Is it your tummy?" you asked, sitting up and reaching for him.

He gave a weak nod, small hands gripping yours as you guided him closer. Pressing your palm gently against his forehead, you felt the unmistakable heat radiating from his skin.

Your stomach twisted. Fever.

"Rafe..." you whispered, nudging his shoulder.

He groaned softly, rubbing his eyes, but the moment he saw Lucas’s pale, miserable face, he was instantly alert.

"Luke, what’s going on, buddy?" he asked, voice thick with sleep but steady with concern.

"My tummy," Lucas whimpered, his face turning greener by the second.

Rafe shot you a panicked look before throwing back the covers and scooping Lucas into his arms. You followed close behind as he rushed into the en-suite bathroom.

"Lucas, sweetheart, do you need—" But before you could finish, his little body lurched forward.

"No!" Rafe said quickly, steering him toward the toilet just in time. He held Lucas up, one strong arm wrapped securely around his small frame, while you brushed his damp curls back from his forehead.

"Honey, it’s okay," you whispered as Lucas collapsed against Rafe’s chest, his tiny body wracked with exhausted sobs.

“Daddy…” he whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rafe’s grip tightened protectively. You could see the exact moment his heart broke.

"It’s okay, buddy," Rafe murmured, rubbing slow, steady circles on his back. "Let’s take your temperature, alright?"

The night stretched on in a blur of fever checks, cold compresses, and restless sleep. Rafe barely left Lucas’s side, his exhaustion showing in the way he sank against the headboard, one arm draped protectively over his son’s sleeping body.

“Rafe,” you scolded when you caught him pressing another kiss to Lucas’s overheated forehead.

He sighed, looking up at you with tired blue eyes. “Sweetheart, he’s so sick.”

“I know,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “But you’ll get sick too.”

Rafe just shrugged. “Worth it.”

You exhaled, pressing a kiss to his temple before sinking into his embrace.

“I don’t know how I’m going to take work off tomorrow,” you admitted, tension creeping into your voice at the thought of rearranging your lesson plans.

“I’ll do it.”

You pulled back slightly. “Are you sure? I can—”

“It’s okay," Rafe interrupted, his voice firm yet gentle. "I promise.”

The next morning, you found them curled up on the couch—Rafe still in his pajamas, Lucas tucked against his chest beneath a blanket, a cold towel pressed gently to his forehead.

"Okay, guys, say bye to Daddy and Lucas," you told Samantha and Oliver, ushering them toward the door. "But don’t get too close."

Work dragged. You checked your phone constantly, desperate for an update, but the house remained silent.

Rafe, however, wasn’t resting. Logged into his laptop, he scoured the internet, searching for answers:

"How long does food poisoning last in kids?""102 fever when to worry?""How to hydrate a sick child?"

Every hour, he made Lucas open his mouth for the thermometer, meticulously tracking the fluctuations in his fever. He ran purely on logistics and data when it came to emergencies—because if he stopped to think about how small and pale Lucas looked, he’d break.

By the time you got home, the wave of relief was immediate. Rafe stood in the kitchen, pressing an ice pack to Lucas’s flushed face, his movements careful, gentle.

"Oh, honey…" you whispered, guiding Samantha and Oliver to their rooms before joining them.

“He’s been getting better,” Rafe said, his voice soft from a full day of whispering. “But his temperature’s still at 102.”

You cradled Lucas’s warm face in your palm. “I think it’s food poisoning…”

Rafe exhaled sharply. “God… I’d do so much for this kid.”

You watched as he kissed Lucas’s temple, then effortlessly picked him up, carrying him back to the couch. Lucas curled against him without hesitation, small fingers fisting into his t-shirt as they settled in to watch his favorite LEGO show.

You leaned against the doorway, watching them—knowing you needed to make dinner, help Samantha with her homework, clean up.

But just this once, you let yourself soak in the moment.

You were so lucky.

[sugar-phoenix]

cowboy, you have a hard time wrapping things up neatly. ✦

synopsis: Boothill doesn't do things quietly. He's loud, and messy, and he likes doing things his way. Even though these all annoy you somewhat, the cowboy starts growing on you. And then one day, he does something unexpected. tags: f!reader, f/m, no smut, fluff, light angst, mentions of Boothill's past a/n: 2.5k words, this was a lot of fun to write. hope you guys enjoy it!

ao3 link here!

Your heels clacked as you walked down the halls, the ground littered with bodies and empty bullet shells. You sighed. Unlike Boothill, who left the remains of IPC soldiers and his mark everywhere in the form of bullet holes dotting the walls, you preferred to do your work neater, quieter. His loud whoops and hollers echoed down the corridor from ahead, making you cringe.

There were many things Boothill was in excess of. Too fierce. Too exposed. Too gleeful. Too loud.

You were not fond of loud.

“I got the place cleared for you, ma’am.” Boothill’s voice rang out like a bell.

“I noticed,” you responded, turning into the server room. In front of you, server towers loomed overhead, blinking with a million eyes. “You’re not very subtle, cowboy.”

“Subtle? Why would I wanna be subtle when I could strike fear into the heart of the IPC?” Boothill chuckled.

“Being subtle can be pretty scary,” you mused, going to the main terminal and typing the code you were given. “What could instigate more fear than an invisible threat you can’t see?”

“I dunno. I like to think that knowin’ who your enemy is and knowin’ that nothing can stop him is way more scary, lady.”

Boothill sank his pistol into his holster, then strode over to where you were standing, the sound of his body moving like oiled machinery.

“After all, ain’t knowin’ how you’ll die the most terrifyin’ thing of all?”

“Touché,” you conceded, scanning the database for the folder you wanted. Boothill waited at your side, and you felt a little shock that the man who was, only minutes ago a whirlwind of gunmetal and gleaming sharp teeth, could now stand so still.

Finally, you found the folder you were looking for, and you loaded it into a drive you inserted into the terminal. Boothill had offered the use of his own ports as a way to store the data, but you had refused. Data was no good to you if you could not parse through it with your own eyes.

“Alright, we’re done here,” you said as the download finished. “Let’s get out of this place.”

The cowboy at your side said nothing but smiled, flashing his razor teeth. You both stepped out into the hallway, only to be met with a new squadron of IPC guards.

“Looks like they sent the calvalry,” you remarked.

“Yeah? Well, if you know anythin’ about cowboys, you’ll know that we don’t take kindly to calvalry.”

And with that, he was off, shooting and hollering and kicking. You ducked back into the server room, letting the cowboy have his fun, and shook your head. When the sound of gunfire had stopped, Boothill leaned around the corner.

“‘S all clear! I took care of ‘em.”

You stepped out to find a pile of bodies and more bullet holes in the walls. Well, I guess this time it couldn’t be helped.

“What’s wrong? You don’t like my handiwork?” Boothill commented at your slightly dismayed expression.

“Cowboy,” you sighed, “you have a hard time wrapping things up neatly.”

He only laughed, a rough raucous sound that reverberated down the hallway as the two of you made your exit.

✦✦✦

You stood in the middle of the ballroom in a shape-hugging red gown, fanning yourself with a paper hand fan. Eyes searching the surrounding crowd, you looked for the familiar cowboy hat. You found Boothill standing against the back of the room, looking absolutely miserable in his suit. A smile creeped up your lips. It took a lot of hemming and hawing to get him to wear that suit.

“I need my body bare, otherwise I’ll overheat,” he’d said.

“Boothill, darling, it’ll just be for the night. You’re going to cause an uproar if you just walk in with that sorry excuse for a jacket. It would be absolutely scandalous. We need to be subtle tonight.” You had adopted the pet name after a few missions with him. The two of you were slowly becoming fond of each other.

“What’s wrong with a little ruckus?” Boothill had asked. “I like ruckus.”

“I know you do, but just this once we could do without it. Come on. You get to cause ruckus every other mission we’ve had so far. You can live without making noise just this once.”

To your surprise, he conceded, taking the suit from your hands and walking to a room, muttering and cursing under his breath.

Now you felt a little sorry as you watched him. He looked like a dog that had been forced into a humiliating outfit just for its owner’s enjoyment.

Your eyes met, and you flashed your fan over your face. The signal. You had gotten what you came here for. Relief flashed over Boothill’s face, and he made his way through the crowd to you as you started walking towards the exit.

You stopped abruptly when you saw the exit.

“What’s wrong, darlin’?” Boothill asked, then, “oh,” as he saw what caused you to pause.

The archways were lined with more security guards than either of you had remembered when you first came in.

“They know we’re here,” you whispered. “They’re waiting to catch us on the way out.”

Boothill said nothing. You saw the calculations happen in his crosshair eyes. Slowly, he smiled, revealing his shark teeth in a devilish grin.

“Oh Boothill. No.” You said with dread.

“Oh but we don’t have much o’ a choice, do we?” he whispered. “Just let me do what I do best, darlin’.”

You looked at him, and he caught the worry in your eyes.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me. I always get out, don’t I?”

You sighed.

“Fine.”

Boothill smiled wider than he had the entire night, and stepped away from you, making his way back into the crowd. You reached under the slit in your dress, hand on the dagger strapped to your thigh. The feeling of the hilt under your hand grounded you. It wasn’t long until you heard three deafening gunshots, and glass raining down from above. Chaos and panic erupted, and over all of them, the familiar laugh you’d grown to love. You watched as the archways were flooded, and the guards rushed towards the cause of the ruckus.

Taking the chance, you merged in with the panicked crowd streaming outside the ballroom, as more gunshots echoed behind you. Once you were out, you rushed to your sports car, and got into the driver’s seat. It roared to life as you turned the ignition, and you took it out of the car park and drove it to wait in front of the entrance. Panicked partygoers ran around your car, but your eyes were focused on the entrance. The way you white-knuckled the steering wheel would definitely leave imprints.

“Come on, come on,” you muttered. “Come on, cowboy.”

A beat passed, then two, then ten, and Boothill was nowhere to be seen. You got anxious, watching the large golden arches that led into the ballroom with the giant crystal chandelier that hung above them outside.

Just when you were about to accept that Boothill had been captured, or worse, dead, he emerged from the entrance, a crazed grin on his face, his expensive suit torn in shreds. You sighed in relief. Just before he reached the car, he turned around, aiming upwards, and pulled his trigger. Five bullets flew through the air, severing the chains of the giant chandelier. The guards chasing Boothill were trapped in the ballroom as the light fixture fell to the ground in front of them, shattered glass scattering everywhere. Boothill cackled, then leapt over the hood, taking his seat in the passenger side. You wasted no time flooring the gas pedal, the car screeching away from the ballroom.

“Should teach those muddlefudgers not to waste money on showin’ off,” Boothill laughed.

You rolled your eyes, smiling.

“Hard time wrapping things up neatly,” you said.

“That’s just my trademark, darlin.’”

The two of you glanced at each other, grinning wildly, as your car sped into the night.

✦✦✦

You gazed out the windows of the Astral Express. The endless expanse of space unrolled before you, a landscape of endless opportunities.

Boothill had been called to the Astral Express for a favor, and he thought you should tag along.

“They’re a pretty cool bunch, you should come meet ‘em. Who knows, they might come in handy for ya in the future.”

You didn’t need the cowboy’s persuasion to come and meet the famed Nameless. You were more than happy for a chance to come face to face with these trailblazers, to converse with them and see how they operated.

The Astral Express crew surprised you at first. They were less of an organized team and more like a ragtag family of people from all different walks of life. Pom Pom, the little conductor of the express, scrutinized you for a bit until they sniffed (disapprovingly or approvingly you couldn’t tell), and announced, “Pom Pom welcomes you aboard the Express.”

Soon after, you got to meet the rest of the Express crew. There was March 7th, the cheerful girl with bubblegum-pink hair. There was Dan Heng, the quiet, reserved young man who often kept to himself in the Astral Express' database archives. There was Stelle, the mysterious gray-haired girl who was apparently a repository for a Stellaron. She kept quiet at first, but soon you learned she had a joke for every occasion and didn't hesitate to crack one even at the most inopportune moments, to the chagrin of her companions. Then to the two stewards of the Express: Himeko, the red-haired, confident navigator, and Welt, deep in thought and with a walking stick he kept close to himself at all times.

 Boothill seemed to fit right in. He was the one who introduced you excitedly to Dan Heng, cackling and talking about how they were “best buds.” Despite Dan Heng’s embarassment at first, you could tell he enjoyed the presence of the cowboy. In that way, you felt a sort of kinship with him.

 The two of you hung out on the Express for a few days, as Boothill helped them with one of their trips. They were currently orbiting a planet named Jarilo VI. Boothill had encouraged you to stay aboard the Express and take a break, but today, Himeko saw you watching the window.

"If you want, you can go down with the rest of them," she said.

"I think I might,” you responded. “Forget what Boothill said about taking a break, I'm at my happiest when I'm working on something anyway."

She smiled knowingly.

It wasn't long before you landed on the cold planet, and it was an even shorter time before you found the crew. Stelle, March, Dan Heng, and Boothill were in a clinic, accompanied by a small child with bright yellow hair and a doctor who wore a large apron. You'd soon come to know that these two were Hook and Natasha, respectively.

Boothill made a show of being upset that you weren't on the Express, but you could tell that he was very happy you had decided to join them after all.

Apparently the crew had been on a wild goose chase, and to your mild disappointment they were finished with the whole affair. Stelle, March 7th, and Boothill all attempted to explain the situation to you, and Dan Heng kept sighing and correcting them every five sentences, so in the end you understood very little.

As the four of you walked out of the clinic, Hook caught up to Boothill and tugged at his pants.

"You aren't leaving, mister, are you?"

Boothill turned around, and in a manner you'd previously thought uncharacteristic, he crouched down and ruffled the young girl's hair.

"I am, sweetheart," he replied.

 "But, but, you're a member of the Moles now! You have to stay with us."

"Oh, and I'm only an *honorary* member?" Stelle asked, in mock anger. Hook giggled mischievously, then turned back to the cowboy.

"Also, I need your help with something," she added.

"Oh? What's that?" Boothill asked. Hook produced a strange trinket from one of her pockets.

"I wanna give this to my daddy, but I dunno how to wrap it up."

Boothill chuckled, ruffling her hair again.  “Your daddy sure is lucky to have a little girl like you.”

Then he did something that was so unexpected, the action of it was seared into your memory forever.

Slowly, he took off the bandana from around his neck, and laid it flat on the ground. Then, he took the trinket from Hook's hands and put it on top of the bandana, in the center. Deftly, and with a gentleness you'd seen from him very rarely, Boothill wrapped up the object with careful folding and gentle knots, then presented the object to Hook.

"There you go. And once your daddy opens it, you can wrap the bandana around your own neck, and I'll be there with ya and the Moles in spirit."

Tears sprung to Hook's eyes and she surged forward, hugging his neck and wailing loudly. Boothill chuckled, patting her back tenderly.

✦✦✦

The crisis with Jarilo VI solved, you and Boothill bade the Astral Express crew goodbye and went on your way. In the small spaceship you sat in, you gave Boothill a look.

What Hook and the Astral Express Crew didn't know was that the bandana he wore around his neck was very dear to him. A remnant of his past, a past that he had talked very little about with you, even though the two of you had gotten very close with each other.

Boothill sighed, feeling your gaze on him. "You wanna ask me about what happened with the girl, I can tell."

"Well, I mean, if you don't want to talk about it, I guess that's fine with me--" you started.

"No, no it's fine. It's somethin' I should've told ya long before. It's just painful for me is all."

You wanted to tell him that it was okay for him not to tell you, but you couldn't bring yourself to speak.

"What I never told you before, darlin’, was that I used to have a little girl of my own."

You raised a hand to your mouth. Never in your life would you have thought that the man in front of you—loud, brash and reckless—was ever a father.

"Before I was a Galaxy Ranger, before I got this metal body that I have now, I used to be just a cowboy. And one day I found myself with a daughter. Precious thing, loved her to death." He paused, taking in a deep breath, then let it out. "The IPC, they came to our planet... and they took her away from me. Took her and my whole family away from me. Razed everything I had to the ground.

 “That bandana I wore, well. It was my only reminder of her."

"Oh," you said, understanding why he was so guarded about it in the past. There was a long pause as you waited for Boothill to talk again.

 "But that girl, Hook," he started again, "she… reminded me of my daughter." Boothill took a shuddering breath. He had lost his ability to cry a long time ago, and you knew this, but sometimes he did things that told you he was weeping, invisibly. Until now you hadn't known what about.

"They would have been friends," he said softly.

"I'm sure they would have," you agreed.

You thought about the way he wrapped the gift for Hook.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" you asked.

"Do what?" he replied.

"What you did with the gift. How you folded it."

"Oh, that," he chuckled. "Some things you pick up being a dad."

There was another pause before you decided to speak again. "Well, I'll admit I was wrong about you then."

 "Wrong about what?" he asked, and you chuckled a little before answering.

"Turns out, cowboy, you do know how to wrap things up neatly."

Boothill laughed then, a soft, light sound, and you smiled.

comments are also very appreciated!

dividers by @cafekitsune

[theonlyonesora]

The Quiet Equation - Part 2

Toto Wolff x You

Brackley was not like Cambridge.

It was quieter here—cleaner, colder. The kind of silence that hummed with machinery and method. The kind that felt like precision. Like control. It fit him. It fit you.

The team welcomed you politely, if not a little warily. A new intern. One of the top minds from Harvard, they’d heard. A special project, Toto had said, though the specifics remained vague. No one asked too many questions. Not when he was the one who brought you in.

You wore your badge like armor. Your smile, even more so.

But late nights at the factory wore down masks faster than you expected.

Especially when he started staying later too.

It started with the project—an exploratory model analyzing driver response to high-stress radio communication, cross-referenced with telemetry and biometric data. Something no one else on the team had had the time or audacity to attempt. But you did. You saw patterns no one else saw.

And he saw you.

Every evening, he’d check in—not hovering, not interfering. Just… there. His presence calm and centering, like gravity with a Viennese accent.

“You haven’t eaten,” he’d say, standing in your doorway with two mugs of tea, one always perfectly made the way you liked it. “Come. Five minutes.”

You would protest. He would wait. He always did. And eventually, he’d win. He always did that too.

One night, after a particularly long meeting with the strategy department, he appeared at your workstation just as you were rubbing your eyes and pulling your sweater tighter around your shoulders.

“You’re cold,” he said softly.

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t reply. Just turned and walked away.

Ten minutes later, he returned with a soft fleece-lined team jacket, still smelling faintly of him. He draped it over your shoulders without a word, fingers grazing your collarbone with an intimacy that felt almost accidental—but wasn’t.

You looked up at him.

His gaze didn’t waver.

.

You weren’t together.

Not really.

You shared tea and shared silences. He would leave post-it notes on your keyboard with one-word compliments scrawled in a sharp, slanted hand—“elegant,” “ruthless,” “brilliant.” You never responded to them, but you never threw them away either.

Somehow, the space between you kept shrinking.

You learned his tells—when he was frustrated, he’d tap the edge of his glasses on his knee. When he was pleased, he’d say your name softly, like it was something rare. A gemstone turned over in his palm.

And one night, when you both stayed well past midnight, the factory nearly dark, the sky outside bruised with summer storm clouds—you told him the truth.

“I’ve never been like this with anyone.”

He looked up from his laptop, eyes unreadable.

“Like what?” he asked.

You exhaled, fingers tightening around the tea he’d made you. “Soft.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached across the table, slowly, deliberately, and placed his hand over yours.

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Neither have I.”

You never kissed in the factory.

But there were moments that tasted like it. His thumb brushing your wrist before a meeting. The way you’d stand a little too close at the coffee machine. The stolen looks that lingered across crowded rooms.

He kept his distance, but never too much. Never enough to forget he was watching.

And you? You stopped pretending not to love it.

.

By August, the project was complete.

The model was adopted for the next race strategy trial, and James had taken you aside to say you were dangerously clever. You thanked him and smiled like it didn’t mean everything.

Your last day came quietly. No farewell party, no big announcement. Just a final debrief in Toto’s office, where the blinds were drawn and the sun fell in soft golden stripes across the floor.

He stood when you entered. He always did. Old-world manners, like he hadn’t unlearned how to be gentle with valuable things.

“I should go,” you said after handing him the final files.

He stepped closer.

“You can stay,” he said simply. No pressure. No demand. Just… hope.

You looked up at him, heart thudding beneath your ribs like it might break loose.

“You’re twice my age,” you whispered. The fear still lived there. In the logic. In the math that never lied.

His eyes softened. “And yet, I’ve never met anyone who understands me better.”

Then, for the first time—finally—his fingers touched your cheek, trailing down to your jaw.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed.

It was reverent.

Like he had waited for exactly the right moment to show you just how long he’d been feeling it.

In that kiss, there was no classroom.

No power differential. No whispers. Just the two of you. Two minds. Two hearts. Brilliant. Lonely. Unmistakably entangled.

Part 3 ?

[theconstantsidekick]

Avengers: Age Of Ultron ft. Static (4) | s.r

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Stark!Reader, Tony Stark x Stark!Reader (siblings)

Genre: Lots of angst with some little fluff

Summary: Tony Stark's brilliant plan to save the world has given birth to the Terminator. What does Y/n Stark have to save about that?

(These scenes incorporate y/n, yet to be codenamed—Static, into the pre-existing story as a character without making drastic changes to the plot or mythos. All the major plot points from the MCU remain in place with the addition of the reader as Static, who is not only a Stark but also enhanced. Whatever events from the canon aren’t mentioned, take place without much change.)

Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of Violence, Some Actual Violence, but nothing too bloody

a/n: i'm hungry for love and attention. please comment below and let me know what you think.

Avengers : Age of Ultron ft. Static (3) | Avengers: Age of Ultron ft. Static (5) | Series Masterlist | The Avengers (ft. Static) | Captain America: The Winter Soldier (ft. Static) | Static Verse Masterlist

Here’s the thing—and yeah, it’s going to sound a little crazy, but here’s the thing—she should have seen this coming a mile away. She really should have. If she looks at it long enough, objectively and long enough, she realises, she really should have seen this coming because anyone with half a mind should have been able to. She definitely should have been able to.

And she should have stopped it before it happened. 

Because now, her brother—the resident mad scientist—Tony Stark has gone full Frankenstein, built himself a murderbot, and, surprise surprise, it immediately decided patricide wasn’t enough. Nope, this one’s aiming to wipe out the Avengers first, then move on to the whole damn planet. Talk about an overachiever.

Like creator, like creation, she thinks to herself.

So, yeah, she should have stopped it before it happened.

Y/n stands near the back of the lab, arms crossed, shoulders tense. The room is bright, bathed in the glow of screens and flickering projections, but the energy inside is electric—tight with frustration, dread, and something else she can’t quite name yet.

Her eyes are stuck on one single person in the room. 

Tony.

And Tony is standing over a table that lays bare the carcass of his creation.

“All our work is gone,” Bruce lets them all know, shaking his head.“Ultron cleared out. Used the internet as an escape hatch.” He hovers over the console, eyes flicking across the empty data streams, lips pressed into a thin, grim line. His hands twitch like he wants to reach out, do something, fix something, but there’s nothing left to fix. 

Steve stands rigid, one hand on his hip, the other resting atop the table which he leans against. “Ultron.” He shakes his head, like he cannot believe the stupidity of the situation, like he’s admonishing a child. And fuck if she doesn’t agree with him.

Natasha, standing near one of the workstations, tilts her head slightly, her expression unreadable. “He’s been in everything,” she says, sharp but calm. “Files, surveillance. Probably knows more about us than we know about each other.”

Now, that’s a comforting thought.

However, she has to give herself some credit. Her own blinding panic doesn’t stop her from noticing Natasha’s eyes fly up to meet Clint, who seems… she can’t place it, but he seems jarred by this. 

Interesting.

She watches Rhodes pace a few steps, left hand gripping and massaging his right shoulder. “He’s in your files, he’s in the internet. What if he decides to access something a little more exciting?”

Maria Hill doesn’t even blink, but her motion halts where she sits. She stops plucking out the shards of glass from her foot. She already knows what he means. “Nuclear codes.” 

Rhodey nods, his voice heavier now. “Nuclear codes.” He looks around the room, and his voice is softer when he says, “Look, we need to make some calls… assuming we still can.”

Natasha tilts her head, considering. “Nukes?” There’s something skeptical in her voice. “He said he wanted us dead—”

Steve cuts her off. “He didn’t say ‘dead’. He said ‘extinct’.”

Y/n clenches her jaw, a cold weight settling in her stomach. The words sit there, in the middle of the lab, suffocating.

Clint exhales through his nose, taking a few steps forward. “He also said he killed somebody.”

Sam finally chimes in, “But there wasn’t anyone else in the building.”

Tony, with slow, measured steps, walks over to the centre of the room, “Yes, there was.” For demonstration purposes, he brings up the now broken remnants of J.A.R.V.I.S. for all to see. The AI’s consciousness, once fluid and full of personality, now sits in front of them, in shattered fragments.

The hologram keeps glitching as Bruce walks over to assess the damage. “What?” Bruce remarks almost to himself, in utter disbelief. And he looks over at Tony, “This is insane.”

“J.A.R.V.I.S. was the first line of defense,” Steve states, arms crossed, head fallen. “He would’ve shut Ultron down. It makes sense.”

“No,” Bruce counters, “Ultron could’ve assimilated J.A.R.V.I.S…. This isn’t strategy—this is… rage.”

The sound of heavy footsteps makes everyone turn to look at the door. 

She  doesn’t even have time to react before Thor storms in, his expression carved from fury itself. His eyes burn with betrayal, his cape billowing behind him as he moves like a storm given human form. Before anyone can stop him, he closes the distance in two long strides, grabs Tony by the throat, and lifts him clean off the ground.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Sam yells out, but that’s not gonna stop Thor. Nothing’s stopping Thor, right about now. 

“It’s going around,” Clint retorts from the viewing stands, hands on the railings.

Tony can’t really do much when the God of Thunder has him suspended mid air by his fucking neck. Well, other than run his mouth. So he says, “Come on. Use your words, buddy.”

Thor’s voice is low, thunderous. “I have more than enough words to describe you, Stark.” His fingers tighten around Tony’s throat.

Then, and only then, does she jump into action. 

“And I suggest you use them in a peaceful manner.” She has a blade aimed at Thor’s throat—close enough to draw blood—before anyone can even comprehend what’s happening.

“Y/n.” Steve must have been aiming for de-escalation, he must have been aiming to reprimand her, but the surprise in his voice reigns supreme. He sounds plain astonished. 

Thor, however, just chuckles, hand still gripping Tony's throat like a ragdoll. “You really want to do this, Little Stark?”

No, she doesn’t. “I don’t know? Do you?”

“He made that thing that attacked us, that wishes to see us dead,” Thor reasons, shaking her brother a little for emphasis. And fuck if that isn’t a great reason.

She shrugs, “So we both know a little bit about adopted brothers who have a habit of royally fucking up.” Thor looks at her then. “Still our brothers, aren’t they?”

Something passes between the two of them, an acknowledgement of a sentiment shared by Thor himself, earlier in the night—the bond of siblings is forged in the stars.

Thor puts him down. She takes the knife off his fucking neck. Tony goes stumbling back.

Steve, who’s been watching the entire exchange with unending curiosity, steps forward. “Thor, the Legionnaire?”

She makes her way back to her corner. 

“Trail went cold about a hundred miles out but it's headed north.” He glares daggers at Tony while adding, “And it has the scepter.” He addresses the room, “Now we have to retrieve it, again.”

“The genie's out of that bottle,” Natasha states. Nodding over to the table with Ultron’s remains, she adds, “Clear and present is Ultron.”

“I don't understand,” Helen Cho speaks up, looking at the robot of the hour’s leftovers, trying to understand it in some way, shape or form. “You built this program,” she says, turning to Tony. “Why is it trying to kill us? 

Tony, this fucker, starts laughing. 

Bruce subtly shakes his head at him to get him to stop, but it doesn’t do jack shit. 

“You think this is funny?” Thor asks him, annoyed.

“No,” Tony says, turning to face them. “It's probably not, right? Is this very terrible? Is it so…” He laughs again. “Is it so... it is! It's so terrible.”

“This could've been avoided if you hadn't played with something you don't understand,” Thor tells him.

Tony’s not in the listening mood, “No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It is funny.” He walks up to meet Thor head on, “It's a hoot that you don't get why we need this.”

Bruce, ever the peacekeeper, tries to reign him back in. “Tony, maybe this might not be the time to—”

“Really?!” Tony cuts him off. “That's it? You just roll over, show your belly, every time somebody snarls?”

“Only when I've created a murder bot,” Bruce bites back.

“We didn't!” Tony counters, arms wide. “We weren't even close. Were we close to an interface?”

While Bruce shrugs to indicate, ‘clearly, we must have been’, Steve’s had enough. “Well, you did something right,” he says, tone cutting. “And you did it right here.” Arms crossed, he takes a few steps closer to Tony. “The Avengers were supposed to be different than S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Anybody remember when I carried a nuke through a wormhole?”

“No, it's never come up,” Rhodey remarks, deadfaced and tired.

“Saved New York?” Tony adds.

“Never heard that,” Rhodey bites.

“Recall that?” Tony asks, voice loud as he stands in the centre of the room. “A hostile alien army came charging through a hole in space. We're standing three hundred feet below it.” He looks around the room, and then his voice softens, “We're the Avengers. We can bust arms dealers all the live long day, but, that up there? That's… that's the endgame.” He exhales. “How were you guys planning on beating that?” His eyes fall on Steve.

“Together.” 

“We'll lose.”

“Then we'll do that together, too.” 

Tony looks at him. He looks at Steve. 

And while she’s not sure what he sees, she knows it hurts him, because then he turns away.

“Thor's right,” Steve continues after a pause, turning away. “Ultron's calling us out. And I'd like to find him before he's ready for us. The world's a big place. Let's start making it smaller.”

Everyone slowly disperses.

Everyone leaves the lab.

Except for Y/n and Tony.

“Is there something you’re waiting for?” 

She cocks her head, but doesn’t respond.

“Is there a certain way the moon’s gotta be in the sky for you to start the ass-reaming of the century?” Tony challenges, like he knows what’s coming. Like he has any idea.

“Getting impatient, are we?” She bites back, easily, smoothly, without a hint of anger.

Clearly that hits a nerve, because he screams, “You’re mad at me! Be mad at me.”

“Mad doesn’t even begin to cover it,” she tells him.

His jaw clenches. “I did this for us—for you.”

“Do not put this on me, Anthony.”

He clenches his fists, in an attempt to restrain himself. “If it had worked out we would’ve been able to retire, live out our lives in relative peace. You would be able to quit this gig you despise so much.”

That strikes a nerve too. “Except it didn’t work out!” She yells out. “It didn’t fucking work out! No! Not unless your end goal was always to give birth to fucking Skynet!” 

He inhales slowly. “I can acknowledge that I made a mistake. But my intentions—”

“You ever heard about the road to hell and good intentions?” 

Both of them are trying not to blow up. They are trying to maintain some semblance of civility. It’ll crash eventually, they know that. But they try regardless. 

She sighs, looking away. “Something happened on the last mission. Something happened—I don’t know what, you won’t tell me what. But something happened, that made you make Ultron.”

Tony puts his hand on the table in front of him, and leans on it. “I got a wake up call—that’s what happened.”

She crosses her arms, “Let me give you another one—this is what you do, it’s a pattern. It’s the Wallace situation all over again. You worry about the people you love and you go overboard. Now, the mayor’s kid might have been fine in the end, but I don’t think Howie’s money and an insincere apology is not going to fix whatever fucked up repercussion are going follow with Ultron.” She clicks her tongue. “You can’t keep doing this, Tony. You have to grow up at some point.”

He laughs at her, hollow and mocking. “Ironic, coming from you, isn’t it?”

“Tony,” she warns.

“Come on!” He chides. “Fess up! That’s what you’re really worried about—what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? That Ultron knows?”

She smiles then, “I may be a Stark, but I am not that self-centred. Ultron knowing is the least of my worries. What I am  afraid of is what he’s gonna do, to us—to the world.” She shakes her head, disappointed. “Do we even understand what he’s really capable of? Do we know what he can do? Do you?” She stares him down. “And what happens if he does it? If we can’t stop him, what happens then? Huh, Tones? Will you be able to live with that?” Her tone is very cutting. “Will you be able to live with all that blood on your hands?”

“I’ll do what I always do—I’ll learn from you,” he retorts instantly. And man, he really has learnt everything from her to a T, because his tone is just as cutting as hers. “You seem to be cruising by just fine.”

Here comes the blow out.

“You fucking self-aggrandising, cocksucker!” She says it slowly, but her voice is loud and booming in the empty lab. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, you asshole!”

“No no no!” He shouts back. “Of course not! It revolves around you! What you think is right is the law! No one can ever go against Y/n Stark’s unimpeachable morals, that it?” 

“You’re getting dangerously close to saying something you’ll regret.”

“Am I? See, ‘cause I don’t think I am!” He laughs. “I think I’m just stating facts and they’re hurting your fragile little ego. ‘Cause these facts are in clear disharmony of whatever image you’ve created of yourself in your head!” He takes a few steps closer to her. “You cry about having to do this shit, the hero bullshit, all the damn time, and the one time I try to break you out of it, you want me to what? Apologise for it, because I didn’t tell you about it? I didn’t run it by you before I made Ultron, that’s the main issue here!” 

“It’s not the main issue, but it is an issue! Why didn’t you tell me?” She questions. “We tell each other fucking everything, so why not this?”

He claps his hands, “I am capable of individual thought, Y/n! Sometimes, I can make calls on my own, how about that?” He looks back at her, “I didn’t tell you about Ultron because you would have stopped me! He was necessary, and you would have stopped me!”

“No! No! You didn’t tell me ‘cause you knew it was a fucking risky idea to begin with—more than that it was absolutely stupid!”

“Science requires risk!”

“This was not a fucking lab experiment, man! There’s a robot out there in the world that wants the Avengers’ extinction! And that is on you!”

“You’re half the reason why we needed him to begin with! Without you, the Tesseract would’ve never been a factor, we wouldn’t have been subjugated to Loki’s fucking world ending nonsense. But no!” His words are laced with thick venom. “You wanted to be Daddy’s favorite, didn’t you? You wanted to impress the great Howard Stark!”

“Oh please, if there’s anyone in this room moved to make decisions based on Howard Stark’s fancies, it sure as shit ain’t me.” She meets him at the dead centre of the room. They are both fuming, panting, angrier than ever. “This is a result of your own fucking arrogance, Stark! No matter how much you try to pin this on me, this was all you! You wanted to be the hero! Well, guess what, Ozymandias? I’m looking at your work, ye Mighty, and I’ve got nothing but despair.”

He looks at her then, hurt clear in his eyes and he strikes. “Whatever our souls are made of—yours and mine are the same.”

That seems to be the last straw. 

Unbeknownst to them—downstairs, where there was once a party, now stands the team. 

Having heard the screaming and shouting from the lab, Rhodey’s eyes meet Steve’s.

“Are they—are they bickering?” Clint asks, sounding a little annoyed at the idea.

“No,” Rhodey states, grimly. “No, they’re fighting.”

He and Steve break into a run instantly, rushing up the stairs to get to the lab.

“They fight all the time,” Clint notes, confused at the rising tension.

“They bicker all the time,” Natasha corrects, following the two men. “This is not that.”

When they get to the lab, Steve goes towards Y/n while Rhodey moves to Tony. 

Thor, Hill, Clint and Natasha have followed suit, and now they get to witness this—

The Stark are at each other’s throat. 

Pushing, pulling, punching, biting, you name it.

They are cursing up a storm, trying to kill each other, with all the methods they can think of, except the ones that would work.

Steve and Rhodey try to pull them off of each other, but fail at it miserably.

“Being an asshole’s really a factory setting for you, isn't it?!”

“Takes one to know one!”

“You’re a fucking blind narcissist!” She screams, landing a punch on Tony’s jaw.

“And you’re a stupid little cry baby!” He kicks her. “You cry about having to do this all the fucking time. I try to give you a way out, now you’re crying about that too! Don’t you ever get tired of all this pathetic woe-is-me bullshit?”

“I don’t get time to dwell on it, seeing as I’m too preoccupied doing damage control for your unending fuck ups!”

“Guys! This is not helping anyone!” Steve tries, pulling her back.

But Tony takes that moment to escape Rhodey’s grasp and push her further into Steve’s arms. “I never asked you to clean up my messes!”

“Yeah well, Maria did!” She knees him in the stomach. 

He happily and eagerly returns the favor. “Do not bring my mom into this!”

My mom.

Ah.

Now, that seems normal enough. Maria was his mother. Y/n never calls her mom, never tries to either. But both of them know, despite the fucked up-ness of their family dynamic, she does at some level think of Maria as her mom too. So, whenever Tony talks about her, he calls her ‘mom’—just mom. Not his, not theirs. Just mom. Because it’s a thing, okay? It’s an unspoken thing, which makes Y/n feel like she’s family. And Tony just shat all over that.

The fight leaves her as quickly as it came. 

She deflates into Steve’s hold.

Tony, probably realising the weight of his words, halts his punch mid-air.

“You’re such a dick, Stark,” she says, voice small and broken. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, well,” Tony says, looking like a kicked puppy. “I hate you right back, Stark.”

With that, she storms out of the lab. 

Rushing down the stairs, she tries to compose herself.

Avengers Tower is a ruin of what it was just hours ago. The remnants of the party—the elegant decor, the glittering glasses of champagne—are now lost beneath destruction. Shattered glass litters the marble floor, crunching under her heels, mingling with the twisted remains of Ultron’s drones. The air is thick with smoke, the metallic tang of burnt circuitry, and something else—something sour, like the aftermath of a fight that shouldn't have happened.

"Doll," comes a smooth voice from behind her.

She didn’t even hear him. A goddamn feat, considering Steve Rogers is built like a tank. But then again, what is he if not a walking, talking miracle?

"Steve." She needs to be alone. She needs to lick her wounds, swallow back the lump in her throat, cry maybe—but not here. Not in front of him.

The space, once filled with warmth and celebration, feels eerily empty now. The sleek barstools are knocked askew, half-drunk glasses abandoned, and in the distance, a flickering light overhead struggles to hold on.

"Baby," he says all too fucking sweetly, stepping closer, reaching for her.

She shoves him back. "I can’t do this, right now, Steve."

His boots scuff against the floor as he stops himself, adjusting his stance like he's bracing for something heavier than just her words. His shield leans against a shattered table nearby, smudged with dust and streaks of something darker. His face is taut, unreadable, but his eyes—his goddamn eyes—are filled with nothing but concern.

"Just—baby, just talk to me. I’m here." He’s relentless. Steady.

Too steady.

Her dress is torn, barely hanging onto the elegance it once had, and she’s never felt more exposed. The fight with Tony is still fresh in her mind, the words hurled like knives, leaving wounds that haven't even begun to scab over. The weight of it presses against her ribs, making it hard to breathe.

She focuses on the exit. It's right there. A clear path. "I appreciate that. I do, but not right now, okay?"

Steve exhales, the kind of sigh that sounds like disappointment, and it makes her stomach twist.

Great. I’m a disappointment to both the men I—

"You’re never gonna let me in, are you?"

And that, stings.

If anyone’s learned anything from whatever the fuck’s happened tonight, it’s that Starks don’t  handle emotions with grace. They bury it. Ignore it. Or, more often than not, they explode.

So, she lashes out.

She turns to him, voice sharp. "You’re not the fucking Sun, Steve. Everything in my life doesn’t have to revolve around you. I just had a fight with my brother—I need a fucking second, alright? Sue me if that’s a goddamn crime!" Her voice echoes, bouncing off the steel and glass of the tower, filling the space that should have been filled with people—people who are long gone now.

She doesn’t want to do any more damage. There’s been enough of that for one night. She steps over broken debris, walking toward the exit, willing her body to move faster.

"I’m just asking my girl, who I—care about very, very much, to lean on me when she’s down. How is that a crime?" Steve’s voice is quieter now, but there’s something raw beneath it.

It makes her stop.

The silence between them is heavier than the wreckage around them. Outside, the city glows beyond the shattered windows, fractured reflections scattered across the floor.

"I—I," she what? She doesn’t fucking know. "I just need to be alone right now. Okay?"

With that, she leaves.

And Steve doesn’t try to stop her again.

Y/n Stark is a lot of things—a fighter, a cynic, a world-class expert in pretending she’s fine—but she’s not delusional enough to claim she doesn’t spend the rest of the night curled up in the dark, drowning in Leonard Cohen songs and crying like a goddamn idiot.

When she wakes up the next morning, she dresses her wound—both physical and emotional. And changes into a loose red, Led Zeppelin muscle-tee and a pair of light wash denims. 

And then, gathering up all her courage, she makes two quick stops before heading back to the Avengers Tower.

Y/n finds the first person on her apology tour quite easily.

He’s standing on the stairs, bathed in the soft glow of sunlight peeking in through the windows, his broad frame tense, hands braced against the railing. His shoulders rise and fall with a slow, measured breath. He’s engaged in conversation with Maria, no doubt about Ultron’s misadventures.

For a second, she hesitates. The weight of their last conversation still lingers, and for all her sharp edges, for all her Stark-ness, she doesn’t like hurting him.

Still, she squares her shoulders and steps forward.

"Mind if I steal him for a sec?" she asks as Maria Hill and her boyfriend head up the stairs.

Hill glances between them, then nods at Steve before walking past. "He's all yours."

Steve finally turns, his expression unreadable. Y/n exhales and pulls her hand from inside her bag, presenting him with her apology.

"Tulips?" he asks, a curious smile tugging at his lips, though there’s still something guarded in his eyes. His hand rests lightly on his hip, but she can see the tension in the set of his jaw.

She shrugs. "The guy at the flower shop said they’re supposed to evoke feelings of forgiveness." She holds the bouquet out to him.

His smile softens as he takes them. "Did he now?"

She nods, shifting on her feet. "Do they? Educe forgiveness?"

Steve studies her for a beat, then steps in close, his movements quiet, deliberate. His hands settle at her waist. "You’ve got nothing to ask forgiveness for, Doll."

"I do," she insists, pressing her forehead into his chest, finally allowing herself to lean into him. "I shouldn’t have blown up at you. You were just trying to help. I was mad at Tony, and I let that spill over into our conversation. That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry, handsome."

His lips brush against the top of her head, feather-light. "You told me you needed space, and I didn’t listen. I pushed when I shouldn’t have. That wasn’t fair either."

She tilts her head up, smirking slightly. "Still doesn’t give me the right to be a dick."

Steve chuckles, shaking his head. Then, he plucks a single tulip from the bouquet and holds it out to her. "I’ll forgive you if you forgive me?"

She takes it, twirling the stem between her fingers. "Alright."

He grins. "We’re good?"

She narrows her eyes playfully. "I don’t know... I don’t feel forgiven. There’s no proof."

Steve huffs a laugh, catching on immediately. "Oh, my girl needs proof, is that it?"

"How else can I be sure—" She’s cut off by his lips crashing into hers, firm and certain.

When he finally pulls back, he murmurs against her lips, "Proof enough, Doll?"

She smirks. "Proof? Yes. Enough? Never."

Steve laughs, lacing his fingers through hers. "Come on, the team’s waiting. I’ll prove it some more later."

Y/n hums, swaying a little as she walks with him. "How much proof are we talking, exactly?"

"As much as it takes," he promises, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. "Could take hours, maybe even days. Real intensive process."

She gasps, mock scandalized. "Captain Rogers, are you suggesting homework?"

He smirks. "Extra credit, Doll."

She squeezes his hand, grinning as they near the hall. 

Then, he hesitates, squeezing back. "You and Tony gonna be okay? Or should I get ready to shield up?"

She exhales, rolling her shoulders. "I don’t know," she admits. "But worst case scenario, you’ll either need a new lawyer, or end up one Iron Man short on your team."

“Neither seem like a great outcome, you know?” Steve chides.

“And here I thought you’d be happy to wash your hands off the Starks,” she feigns surprise, smiling. 

Steve just rolls his eyes at her fondly. “Believe it or not, I’ve come around to not being able to imagine my life without the iconic Stark bickering.”

It makes her chuckle, “Oh, how the mighty have fallen!”

As they make their way through the hall, they spot Clint on their right. He’s on the phone talking to someone.

“Barton,” Steve calls out to him. “Might have something.”

“Gotta go,” Clint says into the phone and hangs up immediately.

“Who’s that?” Steve questions.

Clint, ever the spy, casually answers, “Girlfriend.”

And maybe Steve buys that, but she knows something’s fishy. She knows a liar when she sees one. Mostly because she is one. 

Back in the lab, the tension is… palpable, to say the least.

Tony stands to Bruce’s left, arms crossed, eyes locked onto Y/n like she just personally hacked into his bank account. Y/n, for her part, stares right back, standing beside Steve, who is currently—very seriously—trying to shove the tulips into a glass of water like some kind of floral MacGyver.

"Stark."

"Stark."

In perfect, eerie synchronicity, they both pull out a small box and offer it to the other.

The team watches as they eye each other’s offering with deep, almost surgical suspicion—like this is some high-stakes ransom deal where one wrong move could set off a diplomatic crisis. 

Then, in complete silence, they exchange boxes with the solemnity of two world leaders signing a peace treaty.

Y/n slings her bag onto the nearest table and flips open the box.

"They ran out of—"

"Plain glazed," Tony finishes around a bite of his donut. "I know."

She nods, and follows suit, taking a bite of hers.

And just like that—poof. Tension? Gone.

Clint blinks. "That’s it? That’s all it took? They were ready to rip each other’s guts out last night and now—one donut later—it’s all rainbows and butterflies?"

Natasha, without even looking up, "Don’t question it."

"But—"

"Trust me," she cuts in, her voice carrying the weight of experience. "It’s better than the alternative."

“Which is…?” Bruce asks.

“A civil-war,” both Starks, Natasha and Steve reply in unison. 

Satisfied with the answer, the team moves on to more pressing matters.

Steve presents the tablet with Strucker’s photo to the team. 

“What’s this?” Tony asks.

Thor grabs it.

“A message,” Steve answers.

Thor slams the tablet on Tony’s chest, in lieu of handing it over. 

“Ultron killed Strucker,” Steve states, gravely.

Tony takes the tablet, looks it over. “And he did a Banksy at the crime scene… just for us.”

Bruce looks curiously at the image, while Natasha cuts in, “This is a smoke screen. Why send a message when you’ve just given a speech?”

“Strucker knew something that Ultron wanted us to miss,” Steve surmises.

Natasha begins typing away where she sits on the computer, “Yeah, I bet he—” Computer beeps. “Yeah. Everything we had on Strucker’s been erased.”

“Not everything,” Y/n reminds them.

The team spreads out, looking through boxes and boxes of physical files.

Thor’s hurling them around like he’s in a frisbee throwing competition, meanwhile Steve brings up a box and sets it on the table.

“Known associates,” he states. 

Bruce is sitting off to Y/n’s side, while Tony comes to stand right next to her, wedging himself between Steve and her. 

“Baron Strucker had a lot of friends,” Steve notes, as they all begin to go through the files.

“Well, these people are all horrible,” Bruce says dryly, and the man’s not wrong. But come on, what was he expecting?

“Wait!” Y/n yelps when she sees the file in Bruce’s hand. She slaps Tony’s arm to grab his attention.

“I know that guy,” Tony points at the photo and Bruce passes him the file. “From back in the day,” he explains. “He operates off the African coast, black market arms.” Clint walks over to the them, hearing that while Tony passes his photo around.

Steve gives him an accusing look.

“There are conventions, alright? You meet people, I didn't sell him anything,” Tony dismisses easily. “He was—he kept talking about finding something new, right?” He turns to look at Y/n in question.

She nods, “A game changer, or whatever.”

“It was all very, ‘Ahab’,” Tony finishes.

“This?” Thor asks, pointing to the guy’s neck in the photo.

“Aahh, it’s a tattoo—I don’t think he had it,” Tony supplies. 

“No, this is a tattoo, this is a brand,” Thor corrects.

Now that piques her curiosity. She takes a step back, and comes to stand behind Steve and Thor to get a look at the photo. 

And she knows instantly.

Bruce, however, trying to be helpful looks it up on the computer.

The result comes up within seconds, “Oh yeah, it’s a word in an African dialect, meaning thief.”

She cannot help the chuckle that slips out. Staring at the symbol, she says, “In a—and I am underplaying it significantly here—much less friendly way.”

Clint and Bruce raise a questioning brow at her but she ignores it.

“What dialect?” Steve asks.

“Wakanada...? Wa...Wa...” Bruce fumbles.

“Wakandan,” she supplies.

Steve and Tony’s ears perk up instantly.

“If this guy got out of Wakanda with some of their trade goods…” Tony begins.

“I thought your father said he got the last of it?” Steve questions.

Y/n walks over to them, donut in hand, chewing. “Oh please! Howard didn’t get the last of it. He was gifted—some of it.” She points to the picture of the man in the files, “And Tony’s friend Ulysses Klaw here, stole a bunch of it.”

Meanwhile Bruce chimes in, “I don't follow. What comes out of Wakanda?”

Tony looks back over to Steve’s shield that’s sitting on the floor against a table, “The strongest metal on earth.”

“How much are we talking about it?” Natasha asks her.

“Clearly enough to be branded for it,” Thor remarks.

Y/n scoffs. “Oh, more than that, actually.” She looks at them then, “In Wakanda it is customary to brand the thief with that symbol before he’s taken to be executed.” Everyone’s face morphs into grim surprise. “Yeah, they take that shit really seriously. So much so, that I know for a fact he’s still being hunted by them through every corner of this world. Which means he’s been pretty underground ever since. He only comes up for air, once in a while to keep funding his under the surface escapades, but that’s about it.”

“How do you know all this?” Clint throws back, clearly confounded. “Why do you know all of this?”

She pulls a face, “You’re the former S.H.I.E.L.D. operative, why don’t you?”

“Do you know where this guy is now?” Steve asks, looking at Y/n.

She just smiles.

Read the next part here. Find the Static Verse Masterlist here. Read The Avengers (ft. Static) here.

[girl-lostconnection]

Ask and you shall receive, I cooked this one up in my notes a few days ago but forgot to send it to you

Helldiver!Reader growing attached to a younger recruit, they see themselves in them, and they want nothing more than to force them off their ship and make sure they don’t make the fall from grace they did.

They want to turn them away, to stop them from diving into the hellscape with them, but they can’t, the moment the recruit signed up they became the governments loyal dog, only stopping when their heart does

Helldiver!Reader finds themselves going softer on them, much to their dismay, they grow close with this recruit, which is very against their person policy (there’s a 99% this kid won’t make it until the end of the week, they can’t get too close..)

But they do, they get far too close, to the point the kid is telling Helldiver!reader why they signed up, that they have no one on the outside and they decided screw it, they’ve got nothing else to lose may aswell become a chew toy for the creatures of hell… right?

Helldiver!Reader gets so close that the recruit is now treating them as a parental figure, and one drunken night confesses that Helldiver!Reader is the only family they have, and that’s when Helldiver!reader realises they’re in too deep, they’re too close, too attached.

The regret of being to close to this recruit comes to an head when they lose them, on the battlefield, torn to shreds by some creature and calling out for Helldiver!Reader to do something, to save them, but they can’t, all they can do is watch as this kid dies slowly, and painfully, and at the end, retrieve their dog tags.

There’s no funeral, no mass, no mourning, the kid didn’t have a family or home for their remains to be shipped off to, so their body stays in the hellscape, slowly rotting away; soon to be forgotten…

(Something something something I’ve never played helldivers so I have no idea how accurate this is, I just had this funky idea for a character and then it spiralled into this)

Legs have swung

The young thing is skittish and too tense, fear clouding his judgement and making him slip more often than not, his finger on a trigger shooting without any account for recoil or the fact that loud noise attracts the enemy.

He is fresh out of training, his ship a useless can of a transport — no stratagems, no enhancements, just him and the basic weapon he got in training.

You move to cover him if the enemy comes out blasting — getting ahead, trying to keep one eye on the mark scanning the grounds and another one on bloody cadet that somehow slipped through the cracks of Vog-Sojoth.

You sigh, hoisting the precious bot head with data up higher and nod to the lad to keep going.

You know he is getting agitated — you had to “reinforce” him 8 times already and now fear gives place to embarrassment and stupid reckless urge to prove himself.

No one likes looking like a damn fool, but it’s not kid’s fault system lags and lets him get down to level 10 “The Helldive” when he was barely cleared for level 5.

It’s not his fault this it went like that.

Sometimes it just happens and there was no way he could have been ready for the madness that comes with war that rages down here.

You don’t blame him for being scared or for shame that clouds his head or for nerve damage induced shaking after pumping 13 stims through him just to keep the lad going.

But what you do blame him for is for trying to show off to you.

Because it’s not worth it down here, it’s never fucking worth it.

Helldives this filled up are the only place where you need to survive first and foremost and where rules and dignity and pride don’t matter.

It’s the only place where each of you is supposed to hold onto each other and never let go just so you stand a chance of getting out in one piece and coming out on the other side.

The only place where even trained and tried Helldivers like you two need to brace for impact before they even hit the ground.

Extraction is gruesome and bloody — longest three minutes of wait of your fucking life, enemies pouring from every bloody hill, kid behind you shooting without looking where he does.

Few of his bullets graze you a little too close to home.

One of his grenades almost leaves you without a leg.

But it’s not the time to smack the dumb little thing, not the time to knock some sense into him — there is a minute and a half before Pelikan-1 descends and you are almost empty.

So you have to push the cadet down, forcing him to stay low as to not let anyone shoot him and call in supplies.

You try not to think about how much adrenaline is running through you and that you made a mistake twice trying to call in additional ammunition.

You have one more orbital laser that will descend from the sky like God’s fury destroying enemy in its wake and better you have a shit ton of stims when it runs out.

Timer clicks forward, seconds seeping out and some of your anxious rage subsided when mechanical voice chimes “additional reinforcements approved”.

Thank fuck for that.

One more chance — a safety net, one for both of you to stretch out.

You better make it count.

A minute and a half on Vog-Sojoth stretches out and chokes you out, because no matter how much you will do — the work is never done.

Enemies are pouring from every side, you sentries are working non stop as you duck and cover and shoot and duck and cover and shoot and duck and cover—

You are never actually out, you just get to take a break before coming back down to this hellhole and laying ruin in your wake.

It’s a cruel glory to be one of you.

It’s not pretty, it’s not even well-paid but sometimes…sometimes when you meet runts like this one you understand why you are still there.

What are you even doing in a hell like this one.

The cadet whimpers from pain — laceration from shrapnel bleed him out quick to leave him dry and cold.

But you are mad and stubborn and you refuse to let the kid die. It won’t happen today. Not with you.

Stim after stim are getting plunged in him, forcing his heart to keep going, forcing his blood count replenish at the speed that is not possible or normal, but why would it matter if he gets to live another day?

You will kill his stupid reckless ass yourself as soon as he gets better.

But by the time extraction shuttle reaches your ship the lad is stabilised and shaking like a bloody leaf — uniform torn and fists clenched.

Adrenaline finally crashing down and crashing him in the process.

You have to practically drag the kid out, his legs not listening to him, not moving properly so you pull him up, grunting and annoyed.

God knows you are tired.

God knows you are hungry and in a whole lot of pain and mad at him for acting like a right proper twat. But he latches onto you, like you are the lifeline, his grip on you so hard you can feel it through layers of kevlar and plates of armour.

Takes you a moment to notice that he is shaking. Takes you another one to drag his helmet off and oh, he’s fresh faced and smooth — barely 18, barely out of training, barely capable of holding his own on lower levels.

Thought hits you like a brick to the back of your head, pain spreading down to shoulders, sharp realisation digging through your nervous system.

He probably has never died before. He probably has never been reinforced this much before

He probably doesn’t understand why his body is brand new when he aches all over.

He probably doesn’t know why he can’t black out.

You have to take your own helmet off, his lip trembling when he can finally see your face. You know.

After a while down there Helldiver’s uniform starts to look a little too much like Automaton.

After a while you can’t remember how humans are supposed to look, everything in you diminishing to few very basic tasks and commands. Tactical optimisation, that’s how command would call it.

You call it the “mutt mode”. No use for long thoughts when they can kill you. No use for working through trauma if the actual awareness of how fucked up the things are almost drove you insane once.

“Come on, cadet, it’s okay, you are okay.”, you murmur, pulling off gauntlets and gloves, letting him feel the warmth of your skin, the lines of your scars.

Warm tangible and human.

He shakes when you scoop him up and whimpers, phantom pain wrecking his body, phantom pain tearing out his ligaments and cutting off his limbs.

“I’m right here, yeah? I’m not leaving you, I know it hurts.”, you wave off your staff and massage the scalp of his with your fingers, trying to ground him on something. “It will pass, the first fifteen minutes are the worst, it will pass, cadet, come on, breathe with me”.

Your whisper is awkward frantic rumble, it’s been a while since you comforted anyone but the lad soaks it right up, forces himself to breath, presses his head against your neck.

Listens to your heartbeat.

You hum quietly as he does and he melts into you. He is as young as they get here, he is aching and tired, his face wet with tears and blood. But he is alive.

You stay on the cold steel floors until he stops shaking. You stay on the cold steel floors, massaging his head and not saying a thing when he nuzzles into your neck and stays there with no intention to (ha-ha) dive out.

The lad in your hands is young and aching and you won’t force him to go. Maybe if you teach him some things he will leave on his own.

Maybe he will get to keep himself safe without you and leave for good. One more decent Helldiver in your branch. One more chance for others like him to survive.

That would be nice.

You think this throughout the next few months and at some point forget he was supposed to leave. Because he doesn’t.

He is chatty and energetic, makes paper cranes out of old reports and shares whatever gossip other runts share with him. Always comes back to you hauling something, like a hound that is bringing game from the hunt.

Eager for praise and melting from your approval.

He’s touchy but in a way that makes you feel softer, he knows when to give space but more often than not your personal space turns into “our personal space, yeah?”.

And despite huffing with exasperation you let him. Why not? He’s warm and he smells nice under all the blood and gore you both are covered in.

He starts feeling like part of your life. Part of you.

Second pair of hands, another heart in the rib cage of yours, breathing in your neck when he decompresses after dives by wrapping himself around you.

He doesn’t talk much about his life before, doesn’t mention any family and for some reason you start talking first.

Sharing that no one waits for you back home. That you aren’t sure if you have one anymore.

He hums, unusually silent before wrapping himself around you again, tucking his head under your chin like he’s a koala.

You don’t come back to this conversation until months later, you two standing over what was terminid nursery before you launched a bloody nuke in the depth of it.

“L.T.?”, his voice snaps you out of staring down the abyss, making you take a step back and remember about your objective. Still two more nurseries to go.

“Yeah?”, you muse back, voice cracking through your comms, click of you changing magazines in your primary. “What’s wrong?”

“Is it…really necessary?”, he asks and for a moment your mind blanks out. Perhaps he senses it because he hastily adds. “I mean, I understand the need to destroy terminids. But the nurseries…we are killing their eggs, L.T. It’s their children. No wonder they are so determined to kill us”

You make a noncommittal sound in return, busying yourself with checking your gear, lad’s eyes boring in the back of your head.

“You ever thought we might be the bad guys?”, you half expected the question but it still catches you off guard, eyes flickering to your runt, not even cadet anymore, with heavy intensity.

You don’t say anything but you don’t really need to — he snaps his jaws shut once you softly tap the side of your helmet. All comms are being monitored.

All interactions being observed from the moment you step out of the ship.

You don’t say anything to your chatty charge but he can see the grim expression on your face as you holster your secondary weapon.

“Maybe we are.”, you say after a while, not explaining what are you referring to, but understanding dawns on him after a beat. “Though I’m doing it few years longer than you are. What kind of person it makes me, m?”.

Lad stops and for a moment there is sharpness in his eyes you didn’t expect. Heavy sort of protectiveness.

He opens his mouth, stepping closer to you but then remembers that you are still being monitored and falls silent.

Years later you will wonder what he wanted to say. Years later you will regret you never asked.

But in the moment you turn away and push forward. It’s not the place nor the time.

You both know who you are. 

What kind of person it makes you if you mindlessly killed thousands of terminid species and never asked why was it okay to commit atrocities?

The answer is simple: a really wicked one.

Each and every one of you is a war criminal. It’s just that some have more conscience than others. Doesn’t make you less guilty.

“Can you promise me something?”, the question is sudden, but you just pause before focusing back on the terminal and its adjustment, trying to turn off the bloody broadcast tower.

The lad, now finally a sergeant, sits on the abandoned chair, hands wrapped around his primary like it’s a baby he’s nursing and not a semi-automatic rifle.

“Don’t let them replicate me again, aye? I know they destroy ships if mission fails and mine is…well, you saw. Nothing like a bird you are piloting. They can destroy mine. Together with the “reinforcements” of me”, he says softly and it’s so nonchalant you almost miss it. Registering his words a moment too late, your fingers twitching to curl into a fist.

“Why?”, is a sharp and curt and you didn’t mean it to come out that way, but god knows you have never been good at this kind of conversations.

He deserves certainly more than your sneering. He deserves to know that ships are made to be better with time, he deserves to know that he doesn’t need to die. He deserves to know that you like him and you want to work with him again.

He deserves to know that he’s a good Helldiver.

He deserves to know he is needed here.

(He deserves to know you like his hugs and spontaneous cuddling, he deserves to know that he is part of you, that you can’t imagine yourself without him. He deserves to know that it doesn’t matter if down on Earth no one waits for him — up here you always will. He deserves to know he is your favourite runt. Your only runt)

Years later you will try to remember his response to your question.

Years later you will toss and turn at night, rummage through your journals and try to find answers.

You will never get them.

But the memory of his smile — soft curl of his lips beautiful enough to make a soldier like you weep and kneel — will keep you going for the next eternity and a half of endless service.

Why have you never said it to him? Why did you never said how much he meant to you?

Why-why-why-why-why?

You think about it as you drag him into Pelikan-1 that you forced to come down even though it would be third time they re-attempt pick up.

You think about it as you pump him full of stims and do chest compressions at some point forgetting to count and forgetting to breathe.

He is lying on the floor, eyes sharp with understanding, impossibly blue — prettiest summer sky you ever saw.

He looks at you like it’s a goodbye.

It’s not a goodbye.

It can’t be goodbye, you just got used to him, you have finally accepted that he’s staying, you can’t say goodbye.

You won’t say goodbye.

He’s not dying on you.

You will kill his stupid reckless ass yourself as soon as he gets better.

And he will get better, medics will patch him up — he will be like new in no time.

He is not leaving you, he isn’t going, you can save him. You will save him.

You practically slam both of you on the hard floors of your ship, gear and legs too heavy to move, your body aching with exhaustion — your vision is filled with dark spots, pain lacing through your nervous system with every beat of your heart.

Someone is speaking to you but you don’t know them and you don’t hear them, blood roaring in your ears, your fingers clenched in a death grip on the vest of your runt. Your cadet. Your lad.

“Lieutenant, you have to let go”, the voice is muffled, all sounds are, like you are underwater. The blood pumping in your ears is so loud you aren’t sure if you can still hear properly.

There’s pain in your wrists and aching in your fingers, your body too cold and sticky which doesn’t matter right now, none of it matters.

You need your med bay now, you need the medic, you need to save him.

You need to get up and move-move-move.

Another Helldiver crouches in front of you, their eyes unusually soft — glimmering through the visor of their helmet. Their rank shines like a bloody supernova and what are they doing on your fucking ship.

(You know what they do here, don’t you? The SOS beacon, the mission, the frenzy and panic.)

They are soft and you hate them because they pry your fingers open, they force you up, they hold you tight as you crumble.

You have no right to mourn someone who barely reached the rank of sergeant, who you dragged to hell and back, who almost dragged you down.

But you do. God, you do.

Your eyes skim over the sealed off and soldered down doors of what previously was your med bay.

You really can’t save him. You can never save him, can’t you?

You can never keep anyone, not even this once, not even this lad.

Sob builds up in your throat, pushes through bile of realisation and draws out your rage because not fair, not fucking fair, never fair.

Weren’t you good? Haven’t you done your due? Didn’t you earn to have something in your hellbane of an existence?

Despair is coursing through you — thick enough to choke you out, building up in your throat, hurting you and hollowing out. Strong enough to force you back on your knees.

You can never get up. You won’t ever get up again.

You don’t want to.

But commander forces you up, strong hands holding you on your legs, their voice thick with something you can’t place in a shell shocked state of yours.

You can’t save him-you can’t save him-you can’t save him.

You can’t even try.

“You did good. We’ll be able to bury them. You did good, lieutenant, you didn’t leave them behind”, the murmur in your ear is quiet and hands around you just get tighter.

It takes you a full night before you come back and declare your lad a traitor. He will not get reinforced, his ship will be blasted to pieces and his name wiped out and forgotten.

Against every recommendation and veiled threats to report it as undemocratic you stuff his body in the same capsule you are using and jump down on Vog-Sojoth.

Your hands wrapped around him and he’s cold-cold-cold, god he has never been this cold, you should have covered him with something, you should have took care of it, he might have died cold.

But your lad is motionless doll when you drag him out and find a nice enough place to bury him.

You haul the gravestone from one of the mass burials for other divers and you knife out the name.

They have no right to remember him. They have no right to his name. No right to him.

Doesn’t matter what happens later.

What matters is that you did what you promised. Never again will he be reinforced, never again will he return to your ship, never again will he laugh with you late at night.

You could never save him — his grave unnamed place on a lovely hill and your hands are sticky with blood from torn callouses. You have been digging for a good hour before you were finally sure no one would marauder his body.

Time and continuous reinforcements will wipe his name out of your memory. But you will always remember the way sun shined on the tiny grave on Vog-Sojoth.

Unnamed and forgotten, he will lie resting.

You hope he gets a good sleep. You hope next time — maybe he will stay with you.

Maybe next time you won’t need to learn how to live without him.

Maybe next time you are a good person. And he still wants to be your friend.

Taglist: @synthe4u

[tinydefector]

Star Gala dress

(Mtmte) Starscream × human reader

A small little thing I enjoy is Senator Starscream of Vos, and this also gave me the excuse to write about this dress.

WARNING: hints to future smut, mentioned nudity.

Wordcount: 2k

Request and ask open, read pinned post

Starscream masterlist

11

111

________________

The young human liaison stands off to the corner of Starscream's office desk reading through appointments and schedules for upcoming events. "Sir, I have more council data for you," they call out to the Seeker as they turn and walk closer to him, transferring the schedules and meetings.

Starscream barely acknowledged the young human, continuing to pore over reports and schematics on his desk. As they approached, he let out an exasperated ventilation and raised his optics to meet their gaze.

"What is it now? I'm a very busy mech, in case you hadn't noticed." He gestured imperiously at the datapads stacked high around him. "I don't have time for the trivial matters. So this had better be important."

The seeker leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chromsteel cockpit impatiently. , he had little patience for being interrupted while working. But as the human was his earth embassedor, it was his unfortunate role to deal with their petulant requests and demands.

"Well? Out with it. I don't have all cycle," Starscream snapped. His piercing red optics bored down at the human, he knows he shouldn't be snapping at them, but the stress of the cycle was already getting to him.

They sigh softly, "There's gala that you have been requested to be at as one of the 'Repentant' and also new senator of Vos. They have asked that we both attend for publicity purposes. They want both the senator and the human ambassador attending. I believe they want you to do some speaking or such after the incident with those protested outside your home, but from what I can read its mainly just other higher ups of Cybertron's social networking coming together for political face value again" they reply while scrolling throught their own data pad.

Starscream let out an irritable ventilation at the news. "Another one of these pointless mingling exhibitions, I presume?" he hissed derisively.

Playing the politician was not something he had ever seen himself doing, he had been a military leader and scientist, but he had little choice as one of the few remaining Vosian Seekers with enough knowledge on political matters. Since the fall of Vos, he had taken up representing his Seeker constituents on Cybertron - whether he wanted to or not.

"And I suppose they think parading you around with me will make me seem more 'palatable' to the masses," he scoffed, glaring down at his little ambassador. As if mingling with snobby council mech wouldn't do his prossesor in more.

Still, he had little choice if he wished to hold onto the dwindling scraps of power and influence he had left. With a frustrated huff, Starscream rose from his seat. "Very well, we'll attend this affair," he grumbled begrudgingly. "But make no mistake - you are to stay by my side the whole even, primus knows im not hunting you down if one of those council mech get their servos on you. Try not to embarrass me."

A soft laugh leaves the embassdors lips'. "Sir considering you already put up with me as is, I won't be leaving your side regardless. Plus you enjoy my charming wit and gossip to much. But yes I believe they wish for you to show off our alliance" they reply with a smile to the Decepticon as they move closer to wards him.

Starscream let out an impatient vent at the human's response. "Your company is a necessary chore at best, fleshbag," he retorted. He glowered down at the tiny organic, wings flicking irritably.

They walk up closer staring him in the optics with a raised brow ans crossed arms . "A chore huh?, I didnt realise getting kisses being a chore Mr, guess i won't be sharing the bed with you tonight since its such a chore" they teases their lover, knowing full well they had caught starscream in a fib.

Starscream's optics flashed dangerously at the human's teasing remark. "Careful," he growled softly."

However, his armour flared subtly in reaction to their challenge. As much as he loathed admitting any weakness, this tiny organic had somehow managed to work their way past his defenses. Against his better judgment, the Seeker  found himself strangely enamoured with the human.

Leaning down until his facial plates were mere inches from their upturned face, Starscream indulged in a quiet vent. "You know as well as I that appearances must be maintained in public," he stated lowly. "But in private...well. Let's just say I find your company... not entirely objectionable."

His clawed digit reached out to delicately brush their cheek in a rare unguarded moment of affection. Despite his cold demeanour, Starscream cared deeply for his consort, however much he refused to show such vulnerability openly.

A soft laugh leaves their lips as they run a hand across starscream's faceplate. "Hmmm, keep telling yourself that handsome," they reply before pressing a kiss to starscream's lips. " For all your snark and scowling, you're not as big of an asshole as you try to act." they hum contently.

Starscream's optics flashed at the human's brazen words, but he made no move to rebuke them further. Instead, he vented softly as their lips met his own, the gentle contact stirring something deep within his spark.

"In matters of politics and power, have weaknesses make you easy prey," he stated gruffly, though without his earlier bite. Seekers valued strength and cunning above all else.

Still, behind closed doors was another matter. "You have a most insolent mouth... but I confess, where you are concerned, I find I do not entirely mind."

His clawed digits reached to ghost almost tenderly along their cheek. Starscream found he was willing to set aside his usual façade. They had come to mean more to him than he ever dared admit.

"Hmm, glad you enjoy when I talk my mind, Stars." They pressed another kiss to his lips before just resting against starscream's bulk. "Fuck I need to find something decent to wear if I'm going to get paraded around a social gathering" they mumble softly. They weren't initially prepared for an event like that, most times they stuck to the office and were never far from the seeker.

Starscream let out a soft vent as their lips met once more. "In private, you may say what you wish, fleshling," he replied in a rumble. "But do try to mind your glossa in public. Less i have to get involved"

The Seeker peered down at their smaller form resting against him protectively. "As for appropriate attire, I may have something in storage that could suffice for your diminutive size."

During Vos's heyday, the Seekers had many diplomatic functions requiring certain getups. While the outfits were tailored for flightsuits and armour, perhaps a piece could be tailored down further for a human or some that were originally for pets of past senators.

"Come. Let us search my archives and see if any pieces are in presentable enough condition after vorns of neglect," Starscream said, extending a clawed digit for them to climb onto. The public face he showed the world was cold and severe, but in private moments, his consort brought out a softer, rarer side to the fierce Seeker.

Testing on clothing for a gala wasn't what they had planned, but it was enjoyable except for the fact that Starscream wasn't happy with anything they had been tired of yet. "Stars, this is the 8th outfit. Are you really that picky?" They ask while grabbing another outfit.

they slowly changed into it, making sure the chains hung  the right way and the choker was set in place. They walk out wearing a shimmering black dress, which showed skin of their hips, neck chest, and arms. It makes starscream stop to admire. "What about this one?" The call out while double checking everything was in place.

Starscream's optics roved appraisingly over the human as they emerged wearing the shimmering black dress. "Hmm, not bad..." he murmured appreciatively. As much as he grumbled about the task, the Seeker did appreciate aesthetic beauty. and this particular outfit did justice to their form. "Spin," he says while making a motion with his servo.

"The material compliments your organic optical structure and plating," Starscream observed. As a scientist at Spark, he couldn't help but be intrigued by alien biology, however primitive. And he had to admit, the fragile frame could produce pleasing visual and tactile sensations on occasion.

Venting softly, the Decepticon stroked a clawed digit gently down their arm. "I suppose this one will suffice to showcase our...alliance, as they say. It highlights certain appealing assets while maintaining... some modesty." His mouthplates twitched in a rare half-smile. "You clean up passably well for a human, sparkbug."

They roll their eyes at starscream before grabbing his servo and pressing a kiss to it. "Glad you like how I clean up, Mr. demanding, your privilege is showing again," they reply with a teasing smile. "You could use a new lick of paint before the event too, don't want these little scratches on show" the state with a wink before walking to go get changed out of the dress and to store for the gala.

Starscream let out an amused vent at the human's spirited retort. "Insolent creature," he said with a hint of affection. 

Still, he made no move to rebuke them further. As loath as he was to admit any chinks in his armor, this human was right, he did indeed need a new coat of paint before the event, less the other mech and femme figure out the scratches were from the ambassador.

The Seeker watched appreciatively as they began to change out of the dress, leaving their back exposed to him. "Do try not to damage that piece before the gala. It would reflect poorly on me to have my...consort attired in anything less than their best." His mouthplates quirked faintly.

"I'll make sure to keep it safe and ready for the gala," they reply only to gasp softly when they feel starscreams lips against their back.

Starscream rumbled softly as his intake pressed gentle kisses to the human's neck, relishing their pleased reaction.

"See that you do, sparkbug," he murmured against their spine. "I wish to show off my talented...consort to my peers." His gaze held an unfamiliar warmth as he gazed upon the tiny organic, his servos wrap around their waist, digits spreading out Across their soft skin.

Humans were primitive, fragile things, but this one stirred something within the Seeker none had before. With surprisingly tender digits, Starscream traced idle patterns against their side, lingering to savour the minute but pleasing tactile feedback their skin provided with tiny bumps.

"Now, let us complete preparations for this tiresome political display. But know that after, your frame is mine and mine alone to clain," Starscream murmured possessively against their ear, relishing their shiver of reaction. His human may be small and fragile, but they had become his in a way none ever had before.

They laugh. "I didn't realise you liked the dress that much, hmm shame you have to wait three cycle before you get to rip it off me" they teases him with a quick kiss, as they try to flee his grasp.

Starscream let out an irritated vent at the human's teasing words. "Insolent little pest you are," he growled, capturing their intake in another firm kiss to wipe the smug look off their faceplate. 

While he cherished this fragile organic, their boldness tried his patience at times. "Three cycles, is it?" The mighty Seeker rumbled against their ear again, glossa flicking out teasingly. "Very well then, bug. But know that when the time comes, I fully intend to savour stripping that fine material from your form... and everything underneath. I intend to have you bed bound for a while. " His clawed digits tracing almost affectionately over their frame left no doubt as to his meaning.

"I very much look forward to it, my handsome shooting Star," they reply.

[illuminatedquill]

Story Summary: Ezra Bridger is home at last . . .

*Author's Note: This was originally a sabezraweek2024 fanfic that did not get finished on time and was delayed due to . . . circumstances. I hope that this story gives you, dear reader, some small measure of joy. We will be needing it in the days, months, and years to come.

Prompt - Surprise(?)

@sabezraweek

Your name is Ezra Bridger, and you have finally returned home.

Standing in the doorway of the old comm-tower you lived in for seven long, dark, and lonely years. All the old feelings return in a rush: a heady surge of nostalgia, joy, and lingering sadness that not even your Jedi training can fight against.

It almost brings you to your knees in that moment, that wave of emotions. You fight it off, swaying in the doorway.

(But you do not fight the stream of tears falling down your face. You do not even try.)

The woman who is practically a second mother to you gives you a gentle squeeze on your arm. Hera Syndulla has barely aged a day since you last saw her. Her voice still carries the gravity of command that you had grown accustomed to since the day you first met - but now it sits more heavily, more pronounced. The title of General does not seem to weigh much on her, yet the wear and tear of years fighting a war for freedom do.

You can see it in her eyes. The sadness of those who were lost.

(You were not with her to mourn the passing of your mentor, Kanan Jarrus. That is something you will always regret, no matter how necessary the sacrifice was.)

But none of that diminishes the joy. In the Force, you see her truly: a gentle fountain of golden light, always pouring forth. No darkness will ever blight the person that is Hera Syndulla. Whatever evil the galaxy conjures up to throw at her, she will never falter in her truth.

(That is an immutable fact of the universe. And everyone who knows her understands that.}

Both of the Jedi who loved her were inspired by the light she represented. So much so, that one died to protect it.

Even now, you turn to her for strength. Not to stand against an incoming darkness, but a return to the light.

You have returned home.

Hera says some gentle words, joined with a tearful smile. She has never left your side since you came back. There is always a smile - and, sometimes, with it comes some tears.

She leaves you be, once assured that you will be okay, to wait outside and extend some privacy.

Taking a deep breath, you walk inside the place you once called home.

It does not surprise you to see the mess that greets you. You know who has been living here during your absence.

(She fought for this place to remain a home. Not to become a tomb.)

A loth cat - Murley, you were told was his name - watches you with bright, curious eyes. It loafs, in the way loth cats do when relaxing, on the edge of a work bench. Cautiously, you extend a hand.

Murley sniffs hesitantly, and then gives a tender boop of his nose on the edge of your finger.

Guess that means I'm welcome to stay, you think, a smile forming on your face.

With the loth cat's approval, you walk around the comm-tower's interior slowly, taking everything in.

You see the paintings on the walls; the paint, the symbols, the signs of life and light that were not present before. The notes, the data pads, the texts, the tools, the clothes all strewn about like they were caught in the grip of a vicious gale of wind - all of it, burning brightly with her presence.

She made this a home, just as you did. A part of you wonders why she came here, of all places. She was a war hero. Surely, they offered her anywhere to stay on Lothal.

You know why, whispers a voice from the corner of your heart. She had nowhere else to go.

No. That was not the reason.

There was nowhere else she wanted to go. Not after . . .

You close your eyes, extending your senses in the Force. It takes far longer than it should, as your heart threatens to hammer its way through your chest, fueled by the sudden resurgence of feelings long thought buried.

When the calm comes, and you reach out -

Ezra.

Her voice. Saying your name in a hushed whisper, a thousand - no, a million times over and over.

Like a prayer. Every utterance comes with a different inflection - sometimes sad, sometimes happy, and sometimes angry - but, as you delve deeper into the Force, you can sense the same emotion of where it all is born from.

It's the same emotion you felt when first seeing her again after so many years of dreaming of the moment when she would come for you, at last.

You felt it when your eyes locked with hers; an achingly familiar face that you imagined on your bleakest days. A beautiful face, full of fierce pride and devotion, that you tried clumsily to recreate with a crude pen and even cruder hand, on the days when loneliness threatened to take you.

You felt it when she spoke; her voice being like a melody whose tune you had almost forgotten in the long years abandoned. Hearing it was like seeing the sun break through a dark, gray morning. She teased and joked and bantered with you like no time had passed.

You felt it when she embraced you; the steady, sure strength of her arms, clad in the unbreakable beskar steel of her people - an unbreakable strength that paled next to her own will and determination. Once, when you were younger, you thought that strength could shake the stars.

(You are more right than you are willing to admit.)

You felt it when you inhaled her scent - a scent that reminded you of the fresh bloom of flowers, delicate and lovely - as she hugged you close enough to feel the beating of your heart. Although you both acted the part of dearly reunited friends, you know that something deeper had transpired in your reunion.

Because when you felt her heartbeat, you mistook it for your own at first - until you realized that both of yours were beating so profoundly in unison that it felt like one heart.

When you open your eyes again, you are not surprised to feel the tears falling from them again.

You think about the last time you saw her - fighting on the top of a dark tower, saving another friend. A flash of emerald, flaring bright against the bleak sky of a foreign world.

You, Ezra Bridger, suddenly feel more alone than when you were stranded in another galaxy.

Looking around now, the place you called home feels empty. Despite the familiar surroundings and scents, it does not feel right. Something is missing.

Someone is missing from it. The absence fills the silence inside the comm-tower, robbing you of breath and peace.

You wonder, briefly, if this is how she felt for all those years. You can scarcely stand it now, not being there with her.

How did she handle it? How did she survive?

(You know what she did. The question is what will you do?)

You, Ezra Bridger, are surprised to realize that you are not home.

Not yet. Home, you now know, was never a place.

Home was left behind.

There is shame now. A gentle, burning regret. Once, you think to yourself, you knew this to be true.

How easy it is to forget.

(She never did.)

(What will you do, with all your power?)

You take a deep breath - and listen to the Force.

Hera comes beside you, concerned. You turn to her and say three words - a truth, a reason, and a call to action.

She laughs gently. "You didn't know?"

You shake your head, ruefully.

A gentle rap on your forehead. "Guess there's still some things for the Jedi Knight to learn."

You nod, thinking fervently, I hope so.

Hera studies you closely. "You sure about this?"

You repeat the same three words. She snorts.

"You already said that."

It makes things simpler, you think. But you only answer with a smile.

"Alright, then. Let's go get her, Ezra."

Your voice comes out firm and steady with purpose - and you think about her again, an image vividly springing to life in the forefront of your mind: her, smiling up at a sea of stars far, far away, thinking of home.

But not a place. A person.

This time, you start to think, as you walk out of the comm-tower and into the lowered ramp of the waiting Ghost.

This time, I really am going home.

[paranoidginger]

Respawn Malfunction- Destabilization-3

Characters: Spy (TF2), Medic (TF2), Engineer (TF2)

TW: Body Horror, Dark Themes, Needles

Nearly two months had passed since the initial incident, and Medic had managed to regain most of the Spy's trust again, getting his answers despite his silent wishes that he would be able to witness the Destabilization process first-hand.

It had been one of the rare times that their team won, and going into the weekend it was a wonderful way to raise everyone's spirits for the next week's battles, not to mention that it gave Medic time to mull over his data and theories as to what had gone wrong to cause such a severe malfunction in the team's Spy that handful of weeks ago.

What the Medic wasn't expecting, was for the Engineer to bust down his door after Saturday's breakfast, half-carrying the Spy; his current object of interest within his studies. Nor did he expect his silent wish to be answered.

"Doc! Something's wrong with Spy!" Engineer called sharply, helping his partner to sit down as the Medic set aside his reading and moved to meet the pair, tipping the Spy's chin up slightly to get a clearer look at his face once he arrived.

"Tell me vhat is going on, meine freund." Medic said quietly, letting go of the Spy's face and looking to Engineer as his patient remained silent, save for his raspy and unsteady breathing.

"W-We were in the workshop, an' I was goin' tah work on his gear a bit, and he just started tippin' over... I-I caught 'im but he's burnin' up, and he's got that scared look in 'is eyes, scared the livin' daylights outta me-" The Engineer explained as quickly as he could, his ramblings interrupted by the Medic as he pulled Spy to his feet once again.

A look of fear crossed the Spy's face as he folded in on himself, clasping a hand over his mouth as his labored breaths turned to hacking coughs, only standing by the will of the Medic, who diligently kept him on his feet.

"Ve will have to move quickly zhen! Engineer please help our dear spy undress, You can pull zhat curtain to make a little private room, I vill be right back." With that, Medic shifted the Spy's weight over to Engineer who hesitantly nodded, carefully helping Spy to the little area and pulling the curtain shut.

Medic arrived moments later with a large plastic bin, a barely contained grin on his face as he set it on the floor of the curtained space. Any real worry for the other man simply overridden by his curiosities. As long as he remembered not to put his hands through him, he wouldn't be hurting him, and he would respawn in one piece again anyway.

"Spy, in zhe bin please!" He spoke in a cheerful tone, gesturing to the plastic tote as he moved to help the man step into the container and sit down, his body still wracking with choking breaths and hot pain that spread throughout his chest and abdomen.

"What in sam-hill are you doin' all this for? First you ask me to undress the man now you're puttin' him in this?" Engineer gestured to the container, his heart aching as the man he loved stared fearfully towards him, the only part of him still covered being his head, thanks to the balaclava that Engineer knew he rarely removed. "You're treatin' him like some sorta lab rat, Doc, this doesn't seem much like helping him! I just don't understand-"

"Ah, zhe explanation vill show itself shortly, I'm certain of it! I'm sure our dear kamerad vill be greatful for your support, as vell!" Medic chimed, reaching down and grabbing the bottom edge of the Spy's balaclava. "I apologize, meine freund, can't have zhis getting in zhe vay again."

The Medic paused as the man's clumsy and quivering hands grabbed at his wrists to no avail as the medic peeled away his mask, the surface of his skin growing shiny and slick as he tried to speak, only to find his lips unable to part, and breaths impossible to take as he began to grab at his face, quiet gurgles the only sound he could make, his hands pulling away from his face with thick strands of viscous fluid.

The Engineer took a small step back, a look of horror and disgust across his face as he watched the Spy's face melt and contort, the other man's eyes rolling back slightly as the parts of his body that should have been solid and bone began to collapse in on themselves.

Spy wanted to scream... He wanted and he tried, but the only sounds he could manage were small bubbling gurgles as his body burned and liquefied, the sounds he could still make slowly fading as the small amount of air still trapped inside of him escaped, leaving him mute and defenseless.

All Engineer could do was stand and watch in absolute horror as the minutes dragged on, and his lover quite literally melted in front of him, a hand covering his mouth as he watched in silence.

Medic, on the other hand had been watching intently, taking careful notes as the process went on, ethics clouded by curiosity and morbid interest as he simply watched and waited.

Slowly, the Spy's entire being dissolved into itself as the others observed, leaving nothing but a thick, translucent fluid in the bottom of the container he had been made to sit in, and the man's eyes by the time the process was complete.

"Doc..." The Engineer finally broke the silence, his voice cracking and quivering ever so slightly as he spoke "W-what did I just watch..."

"A respawn malfunction at its peak! Zhis happened just a couple of veeks ago as well!"

"Spy ain't respawned since yesterday, sawbones, how can you think this is because of that machine?!" Engineer spoke quickly, hesitating for a moment before walking up to the bin and kneeling down beside it. "This just ain't right..."

"I zhink zhis one vas delayed for some reason, like an incubation period on a virus, except zhe result is Spy turning into zhis slime! By all means it should kill him, but as far as I know, He is still completely alive in zhat state!"

"He's still... Oh God..." He looked down at the contents of the bin, covering his mouth once again as he watched the thick substance slowly congeal into a round-ish sort of shape, the Spy's eyes moving to look up at him.

Hesitantly, the Engineer lowered his gloved hand into the large container and gently touched the side of the gelatinous mass that had once been the Spy, watching as his surface rippled in a small, neat pattern, inching closer and stretching slightly into the Engineer's gloved palm.

"Can you... Is there a way to fix this?" The Engineer asked quietly, sparing a desperate glance at the team's doctor before returning his gaze to the Spy.

"I have no idea! Zhe last time, I ran a few tests und zhen euthanized him via electric shock. Zhe method vas quite messy though, I vas cleaning bits of him out of zhe lab for days after he exploded." He shrugged "I could try a couple more zhings vith him, if you don't mind"

"If you're not gonna just fix this, it's better to just put him down... Watchin' that happen to him... It looked like it hurt... There's no way to tell if he's still hurtin' either." There was a pained look on his face, tears stinging at his eyes beneath his goggles as he carefully traced his gloved hand over the rippling surface of what had once been the Spy... That still was the Spy.

"I could see if zhe medigun has any effect. I can also see vhat injectable painkillers could do." He wrote something else in his notes before leaving the small curtained area, returning with his medigun and a box full of syringes and various injectables. "Up to you vich ones ve try first, meine hard-hatted freund!"

The Spy's gelatinous form inched closer to the Engineer, his surface rippling harder than before as his eyes turned to look up at the doctor, The Engineer watching carefully as the blob that was Spy moved and pulsed.

"Just try the medigun, Doc... He looks scared..." The Engineer responded in a careful tone, still cupping his hand around the Spy's side.

The Medic shrugged slightly, turning on the medigun and aiming it at the Spy, watching carefully as the Spy seemed to relax, the pulsing of his rippling surface slowing and eventually stopping and his rounded form flattening slightly.

"Oh! Zhat's an interesting reaction!" The Medic chirped leaning in a bit closer to the bin and propping the medigun on his knee as he reached out to lightly poke at the Spy with his gloved hand.

Engineer watched worriedly as the blob in the large container pulled quickly away from the medic, a pair of nubs forming and wrapping around his hand.

"Ohoh! Look at zhat! Zhe medigun must have stabilized him in a vay zhat he can move... He's even got little hand nubs!"

"I... I don't think we should keep goin' like this, Doc..." The Engineer's brows furrowed as he looked to the Medic, a frown crossing his lips.

"He should be fine like zhis for just a little longer, I have so many more tests to run!"

It took some time, but the Engineer was able to talk sense into Medic, protective over the translucent mush that had become of his Spy as the pair decided on how to make him respawn again.

Eventually, Medic decided on acid, testing it on one of the samples he had taken the first time and watching as it destroyed and dissolved the sample swiftly and with no remains.

Once the short test was finished, the Engineer stood and gathered the Spy's things, leaving the defenceless blob alone with the doctor as he departed for the respawn chamber.

The Medic knelt down beside the plastic tub, a grim expression on his face and a large syringe filled with the eroding chemical, making eye contact as the Spy's amorphous form pulsed and rippled.

"I apologize, zhis vill hurt, it is simply zhe most efficient method I can zhink of. At least it vill be over quickly." The Medic gently patted the Spy, taking a small breath before inserting the needle into his gel-like body.

The needle stung as it made its way into him, pressure building up and sending splitting pain through him before the burning began, the acid eating a gaping hole through him as it slowly made it to his eyes, his world going black before the agony finally disappeared along with his consciousness.

Engineer was there, already waiting as the respawn machine pieced the Spy back together, shoving his consciousness into the new body as the man wobbled slightly on his feet, blinking as the Engineer quickly moved up to him, carefully looking him over.

"You're not feelin' like you're gonna melt again, are you?" Engineer asked quickly, pulling Spy into a hug, feeling as the taller man returned the gesture, burying his face in the Engineer's shoulder as he began to cry. "Shhh... it's okay sunshine... It's alright... Come on now, let's get you dressed."

Engineer carefully helped him along, concern still clear on his face as he helped the Spy with his mask, making sure it sat evenly on the man's face before cupping his cheeks in his hands and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

"I won't let this happen again... I-I don't know what I'd do if you got stuck like that..." The Engineer spoke softly looking up at the Spy's face "I don't care what it takes... I'm gonna fix that machine so it doesn't happen again."

"Thank you, mon amour... I-I do not know what I would do if I were to get stuck like that either..." The Spy whispered, gently resting his forehead against the Engineer's, both of them hoping that the incident never repeated again.

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

@thatonesimp-e @sprite-or-something

[slowd1ving]

II. HOW DOES ONE DEFINE A NIGHTMARE? .・゜DAN HENG

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART . 　⁺ NEXT PART

There are many ways to encapsulate his sleeping hours. 

He doesn’t quite want to delve into all the different synonyms that essentially make up harrowing.  

Nightmare after nightmare plagues him. There’s the echoes from his past incarnation— feeling the terror, the loss, the anguish (yet never actually knowing the context behind this pain). There’s the haunting impression of being alone—a world of nothingness, in which he is bound by chains and fated to an eternity of stagnancy. There’s that pair of beastly eyes—so utterly, undeniably red as the insatiable sword pierces straight through his sternum. 

It’s no surprise when he wakes up with cold sweat plastering his hair to his temples and his clothes sticking uncomfortably to his skin. 

Even on the Astral Express, the torturous sleep continues to chase after him. 

He stumbles out of the archives; cold air hits him as he pads towards the kitchen, while the sweat still glistening against dermis only exacerbates his shivering. That’s why his vision is narrowed to only the door of the dining car and beyond—it’s appalling as a guard, but nothing out of the ordinary for just a man in this tender moment. 

He can barely see, so excuse him for not being aware of his surroundings. 

He doesn’t mean to crash into you. Really, he doesn’t. One minute he’s dragging his sluggish feet just fine against the plush carpeted floors—the next he’s stumbling over seemingly nothing, falling, falling, into what he knows will be a cold metal wall—

Except it’s not. 

He’s just ploughed himself into your side, and you fumble.

It’s a strange experience. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt that sort of sensation before—the embarrassing trip and fall—but what’s even stranger is the proximity of the position he’s entangled himself into. 

He’s shoved you against the wall, and is currently wrapped around your shoulders as he attempts to stand up again. Except he can’t; either he’s lost it completely, or he’s still recovering from that nightmare. Either are equally plausible. 

“Ow,” you comment, far too late. 

He wants to bury himself in space rubble. 

“You make all your journeys to the kitchen this way?” you add, and it’s a lethal hit. 

“I’m so sorry,” he manages to choke out, partly in panic, partly in apology, and partly in pure and utter mortification. He somehow pulls himself together enough to push himself off you and into leaning against the wall, but his eyes have been blown wide and his cheeks flushed in such embarrassment he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from this. 

Gone is his stoic image. If he showed his face on the Luofu in this state, he thinks he might get away with it since he’s so revoltingly unrecognisable at this moment.

“All good, man.” It’s delivered with such casual finality he can’t help but stare. Certainly, this has helped him forget the horrors of just minutes prior, but at what cost?

“You had a nightmare?”

This question is also delivered in the same, offhand tone that offers him the choice of simply remaining silent. But it’s not like he wants to do that—this, after all, is only one part of the already-too-few interactions he has with you. 

“You could say that.” It’s not enough. The words don’t come out the way he wants: all shaky and so unlike his normal, composed cadence that he almost lets out one of his dry, sardonic laughs. 

He’s not following you as you slip into the dining car. 

When you glance back, he’s still against the wall: still thinking, still gaining his sense of self back. 

“You, uh, need a hand to get to the kitchen?” 

Now, you’re awkward. Had he not made himself into a fool, he mightn’t have witnessed this particular layer beneath the sculpture. 

“That would be appreciated,” he lets out; the words stumble over themselves in one big mess. He agrees to your suggestion, totally for the support, totally for the additional stability, definitely not to be closer to you for once—

Look. 

You offered in the first place, so why wouldn’t he take this hand of help?

Except, he would’ve most vehemently denied it had it been anyone else. If this was the IPC, they’d doubtlessly expect something back in return; but it’s not like he’d show them this sort of vulnerability in the first place. 

You’re different. You don’t expect anything. Though your methods of interaction are crude at best and flat-out disturbing at worst, you aren’t cruel.

Himeko was wrong when she tried to make you more palatable to him. He’s a sweet— he’s not a bad person. 

She’s wrong, in the sense that he’s still waiting for the bitter taste to taint his tongue around you: washing down his throat like the most pungent of coffees. You should be bitter, most definitely, but the way you’re wrapping his arm around your neck and holding it as though he— he, of all people—might break; the way you’ve got your other arm gripping the black fabric of the shirt resting against his ribcage like he might slip away again; the way you keep glancing to him then back to the walls, both checking in on him yet making sure it’s not too awkward—this isn’t bitter, this is anything but. 

She was wrong when she corrected herself, or maybe she didn’t expect Dan Heng to realise your true nature by himself. 

Even if it were Himeko or Mr. Yang, or even Pom-Pom, he would’ve also declined their hand. Maybe he just doesn’t want to feel like a burden, or maybe he doesn’t want to let them down, or maybe he’s just scared of disappointing and being disappointed—but the apathetic neutrality you held him to from the very beginning doesn’t seem so easily swayed. 

As above, so below. There’s a certain beauty in this ‘equilibrium’. 

But he discards those musings for a time where he can actually appreciate them, and focuses on the material rather than abstract. 

You still carry the scent of motor oil; faint alkanes taint the gallery. Beneath it is harsh steel and iron: not unlike blood, but decidedly more pleasant. It mingles with the aromas coating your dermis: acerbic energy drinks, and more perplexingly, the sweet smell of mandarins he’s come across in his travels. At the very end of the long path of fragrance, there’s that decidedly human aspect: sweat, and hazy soap that clings to skin. 

He decides he doesn’t mind the odd medley of scents (in fact, it’s very soothing—especially after the stench  of blood in his nightmares—and he’s definitely not getting sleepy). 

You’re warm. A pulse beats from where his skin exerts pressure on yours—steadfast, so utterly resolute he wonders if you’re ever affected by proximity. Are you picturing a Dan Heng pressed up against you, or is it a machine you’re lugging to repair? It would be amusing to think about if he wasn’t still shivering. 

“You cold?” 

You usher him into a stool by the counter, barely letting him process the question before you’re sliding a glass out of the cabinet, a pitcher out of the fridge, and a can of something from the cardboard pack stashed in a drawer. 

He wants to deny it, he really does, but you’ve already seen him embarrass himself—if he answers you with his teeth chattering, he doesn’t know if his ego will even remain intact. 

Scratch that. It’s already in tatters. 

“A bit,” he admits. 

When you turn back around, you’ve got a glass of icy water in one hand— for him, you slide the beverage—whereas you crack open the can of what he can only assume to be another caffeinated drink. Perplexingly, you’re shrugging off the loose hoodie draped haphazardly against your shoulders and—oh. 

It’s warm against his bare arms, and smells so much like you that he thinks you’ve cloned yourself. If you performed mitosis right now, he wouldn’t be surprised. You’ve behaved stranger. 

This, however, is something completely new. 

“Thanks.” It’s quiet. Can you see the small smile he fights down while he takes a long swill of the crystalline liquid? 

“No problem, man.” He can almost taste the artificial fruit extracts dance through the air as you take hurried sips of your own drink. 

He’s forced awake at odd hours. 

You’re working at odd hours. 

It’s starting to become a bit of a problem. Each time he makes his way for a cold glass of water into the kitchen, you’re there replenishing your energy to take a break from whatever you’re working on. 

It’s becoming routine. Nothing as embarrassing as that first night in the gallery, but something still so awkward he can’t help but feel antsy every time he alights from the futon in the archives. 

It’s also becoming routine that he starts sleeping wrapped in your clothes, breathing in the scent of motors and mandarins and that hazy soap. He’s forgetful when he’s panicking, stumbling towards the kitchen where he knows you’ll be to distract him with whatever you’re talking about. Whether it’s interstellar politics, complaints about the ‘shitty’ manufacturers and other organisations of their ilk, or maybe some more idle things like card games—you welcome the break in this lonely hour, and he welcomes the reprieve. 

One morning, it’s not the enthusiastic slam of his door from Pom-Pom that awakes him, but the methodical knocks from Himeko before she enters the archives. 

“Wow,” she comments as he sits up at her entry. “You’re getting close with my dear apprentice, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t quite know what she’s talking about until he finally looks down and it registers. There’s another of your sweaters—this one graphically decorated with bleached robots who are puzzlingly sunbathing (“They’re recharging their solar cells,” he can almost hear you say, serious intonation and all). Before he knows it, his head’s already buried in his hands and he can feel the flushed skin pressed in the grooves of his palms. 

He helps me sleep better— but the words die in his throat as he realises how that sounds, no matter how true they are. Feeling the warmth of another person—thick fabric, recognisable scent—helps him feel more secure when he inevitably settles in for the peaceful interlude in the next dreams. 

Though, despite his refusal to acknowledge it, he has a feeling Himeko knows exactly the idle leisure that transpires past 3 system hours. 

“Thanks.”

He pauses in his trance-like thoughts.

“I’ve known him for quite some time.”

She hesitates, and it’s the first time he’s heard her voice thicken like that.

“I think he’s happier nowadays, with a friend like you.”

Friends. The word catches at his own throat, and he doesn’t quite know why. 

Himeko leaves, but the syllables linger in their own sort of way. 

I think he’s happier nowadays, with a friend like you. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

The word when occurrences transpire more than thrice is habit, or more accurately, pattern. 

It’s a pattern that his feet seek you out; pattern that you pour him a glass of icy water; pattern that you sit at the bar stool opposite from him and swing your legs idly.

For that half-hour, his thoughts are tranquil. Only for that half-hour. Before the system ever brushes past four hours, you’ve retreated back to your room and he can find not hair nor hide of you until the next nightly rendezvous. 

It’s almost enough to make him forget that this is meant to be a temporary journey. Once one forms social bonds, it is that much harder to break them again—especially one as hard-won as yours. 

Friendship is something Dan Feng knows well; those warmer feelings have been passed down to this current reincarnation. They are two separate beings, but the tenderness transcends mind and body. 

Though he feels a foreign warmth at these systemic hours, he supposes he can’t call this friendship. 

He doesn’t have an iota of knowledge about your past, nor you of his. There’s a mutual understanding to not pry, to not ask questions—to go any deeper than a superficial level. If this were a biology lesson, you’d be stopping at skin level and delving no further. 

It’s so superficial, in fact, that it’s almost a comfort. You distract him from his nightmares and he doesn’t have to feel uncomfortable when you examine the why; he distracts you from the gruelling work you dive into daily, and he doesn’t question the why either. There’s an element of unhealthiness to it all, but the two of you are both at least a little sick in the head—perhaps that’s why the two of you stave it off a bit like this. 

But you don’t acknowledge him outside that prescribed timeslot. You rarely ever leave your room, and when you do, that game of chess last played two months ago seems worlds away. There isn’t a word spared for him—you’re talking to Himeko, to Mr. Yang, and Pom-Pom. But not him. 

It’s as though at night, a layer of yourself has been ground down by the day. You’ve softened enough to let him through that hard marble shell, just a little. As tough as the steel you craft. Maybe you’ve crafted your exoskeleton from it too—he wouldn’t doubt your capabilities that way. 

He and you are not quite friends, it’s something far lesser.

And he’s left wondering where the line is. 

Tonight especially.

It’s easy to slip into slumber—Trailblazing has a way of making him feel like it’s the Express crashing into him. After logging the important details of his mission into the Data Bank, he’s out like a light immediately. 

The dream starts off mundane. It’s the regular—a nonsensical storyline, fragments of faces he’s seen weaving inconsistently through the dreamscape, some he’s never seen before and can only assume belong to the convoluted past of Dan Feng. 

It’s nonsensical, but it stops being cheery when crimson starts seeping into its corners. 

The nightmare, at this point, should also be mundane but is still anything but. The red-eyed man still chases him, he’s still getting pierced through by an insatiable sword, he’s still dying excruciating deaths as punishment for his sins. 

Except, there’s an unexpected variable this time: you.

You’re getting slain in his stead, glassy eyes staring up at him—as if to remind him of the impression he first got when he saw you, like some cruel fucking joke. 

You’re bleeding out continuously, and the smell of metal on you is no longer from the machines you adore, but from the iron inside you. 

You’re dying, over and over, while he’s begging you to stay— don’t leave me. Like all the others in the ‘past’, don’t leave me too. 

He wakes up panting—there’s a frigid atmosphere from the sweat drenching him to the very bone. 

Dan Heng almost runs to the kitchen: stumbling through the luxurious gallery like that occasion all those weeks ago.

When he flings open the door, he crashes into you as you’re at the counter— breathing you in, taking in all the warmth so bitterly robbed from you. 

“You…” you trail off, your words a mumble as his arms weakly support himself on the counter. He’s still leaning into you—your hands are pressed steady against his shoulders, and he can feel the warmth of your calloused palms on his bare arms. “You’re freezing.”

It’s unspoken. Almost robotically, you pull your sweater off yourself and he pulls it on. 

Though, this time, you don’t hand him the icy water as is your modus operandi. 

Rather, you’re rummaging through the cupboards, and you pull out a small cardboard box labelled with a script he doesn’t recognise. 

“Camomile, lavender, and peppermint,” you translate, offering no explanation as you steep the tea in a mug with a wobbly cat drawn with wobbly lines with a wobbly handle. He gets it, he really does. “Sleep-aiders from a planet I knew.”

You don’t have your usual can either, instead choosing to brew yourself another mug as well. 

That’s another surprise, but then again, you’re not the most consistent person. 

“Thank you,” he mutters. He wants to look down at his hands, but he’s transfixed on your expression as you lose yourself in your thoughts. 

You pass him the steaming mug, and he thinks the brush of your fingers against his scalds him more than the tea ever could. 

“Worse, this time huh?” It’s not probing. You already know it was worse. 

Yes. More than you could ever know. Your eyes, glinting in the soft light, did not look like this in his endless night. 

He gives a noncommittal noise in response. It could be a hum, it could be a soft mumbled yeah. He doesn’t know. 

You mull over something as you take a sip of your tea. Some of his is beginning to waft steadily upwards, drowning him in a gentle fragrance that somehow suits your presence when you’re like this. At this hour, when you can spare him more than a cursory glance, more than silence. 

“Do you…” you pause, and he can feel his stomach tense in anticipation. “Do you want to stay in my room for a bit while I work?”

He didn’t expect that. 

He almost drops the mug. 

“Ah, you don’t have to or anything,” you explain hurriedly. “But Pom-Pom always says they get sleepy when they watch me map out new projects so if you’d like—”

“Yes,” he interrupts breathlessly. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t sacrifice his dignity to basically beg you to numb his mind a bit more. 

“I’d like that.”

And when you take his hand in yours—warm fingers clasped roughly around a clammy palm—he thinks that maybe he should stay on the Express a bit longer. Maybe a friendship won’t be impossible with you. 

In your sweater, drinking your tea, he doesn’t feel as much of a stranger as he might have otherwise when he’s standing in your room.

It’s cluttered, as cluttered as he saw all those weeks ago—but that was just a small piece of it, nothing like the sprawled chaos that surrounds him now. 

There’s a warm amber light shining over all the various machines decorating each corner, too many to count. They obscure the sprawling workbench tucked away near your wardrobe—it’s covered in various blueprint rolls and small bits of machinery that lay scattered between tiny screwdrivers and one comically large spanner placed bang in the middle. 

You make the chaos work. Gauzy fabric flutters against the ceiling and windows—linking delicate trinkets, colourful lamps and various machines that shouldn’t belong where you sleep. If he’s honest, it looks like some opulent laboratory he only saw glimpses of in the Luofu—though he much prefers yours. 

There’s no bed. When he asks, you inform him that you don’t sleep. 

That is a joke. 

When your deadpan expression finally gives way, you admit that the bed self-disassembles and assembles when the need for sleep surfaces. 

He takes small swallows of the fragrant drink, watching as you quietly fit the parts together without screws. There’s no music, so the only sound present is the clink of metal pressing against metal, the sound of your careful breathing, and the pulse of his heart. 

Unlike the kitchen, you don’t sit opposite him when you work. You’re sitting right next to him on the workbench. Each time you inhale, your torso expands ever so slightly and your arm presses against his in a way he definitely takes notice of. 

He fights down the strange embarrassment that tightens his chest, and keeps sipping his drink. 

It’s only when you’ve finally disassembled it and reassembled it with the screws that he finally begins feeling the soothing effects of the tea. 

You’ve started sketching—a rough idea for a building, he notes—lines confident and bold despite your use of a ballpoint pen rather than pencil. 

By now, he’s on his last morsel of the liquid ambrosia you’ve fed him. 

And he’s getting sleepy. 

There’s that constant scritch-scritch of pen as it moves against a thick sketchbook—easing into the paper with such languidness he feels it reflected in his own body. 

His eyelids are fighting to stay up, and he knows that he should be polite and excuse himself so he can curl back into bed with flowers still on his breath. 

He can’t bring himself to leave. 

There’s just something about the warm lights and the lethargy that hits him with the force of the Express. He’s loathe to leave it; it’s easy, so easy to let his head drop, before it finally hits—

Not the desk, but your palm as you protect it from the collision. 

“Wow,” you remark. “The tea really did do the trick.”

You don’t chase him away. When you ask if he’d like to stay a little bit longer, you don’t argue with the incoherent hum that exits his voice box. Before he can think about what he just did, your palm is cradling his head onto your shoulder. 

He’s soft, Dan Heng notes; he’s already sleepily inhaling the clean scent of your fabric softener—face smushed into the folds of your shirt. 

This isn’t his proudest moment. In fact, this is in his top three embarrassing ones. 

However, that’s a conversation to be held in the morning. 

He’s certainly not about to move from this position. 

Dan Heng isn’t awoken by the hurried knocking of Pom-Pom—no, this sound is much more familiar, much more dangerous. 

It’s the sound of a camera shutter clicking.

His eyes snap open, and he’s met with the sight of your folded torso and a flash of red in his peripherals. There’s something inexplicably soft pressing against his cheek, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the sleep that overtook him somehow landed his head in your thighs while you slumber over your desk. 

He sits up—careful to bang his head on neither the desk nor your chin—and looks in horror at Himeko, who’s smiling serenely as though that sound he heard was nothing. 

 “Himeko.” It’s the first time since he met the woman that his voice holds that note of utter caution. “What did you—”

“Shh.” She gesticulates to you, then mimes her finger on top of her lips. “He’s still sleeping.”

He refuses to look at you.

“Delete that,” he mouths.

 He thinks it’s the first time he’s been so stubborn with the older Trailblazer. And it’s only after he secures an agreement from her that he finally leaves your room—flinching from the door closing behind him as though it scalded him. 

He never ends up talking to you about what happened that night. He’s not sure he wants to bring it up, but it never does happen again. Dan Heng’s nightmares have lessened considerably, after all—yet his body still urges him to wake at three and fall into restless sleep at four system hours, so the nightly meetings continue. 

There’s a kind of mutual agreement between the two of you. Move on. The past remains unexamined, unexplained, and unapologetic. 

He thinks he prefers it that way. 

But in this situation, he really doesn’t know what to think. 

He’s been here for over two months, or more accurately, 1480 system hours by now. Every time he makes a stop at another planet, he wonders. 

Will this be the one? Would his journey start anew? Would he leave?

Each time, the answer is no. 

It’s a lot to mull over. He’s running his fingers over the uniform rows of CDs and cassettes and physical drives in the cabinets of the archives: a calming, rhythmic pattern— over and over and over.

Why can’t he leave?

Dan Heng pulls one out at random and stops short in disbelief. In all his years, he doesn’t think he’s been so astounded at someone’s audaciousness. 

It’s that damned photo, the one Himeko swore up and down was deleted—and clearly it wasn’t. He quickly adds aggravating to his mental list of her adjectives. He doesn’t know how long it’s been there—anywhere from a few hours to a week or so. 

He’s looking at you, slouched over your desk with a spanner intimately connected to the side of your cheek. It’s not a flattering picture whatsoever, but he finds himself entranced by this side of you— yet another, undocumented crack in marble. There’s a faint glimmer of drool on your lips— slightly parted— but the expression you wear isn’t tainted by anger nor exhaustion. It’s all washed away. You’re relaxed.

You’re relaxed, and his head is firmly marooned on your legs. The position makes him flush—while his face is thankfully forward, his ears are pressed to both your thighs and your chest as you snooze on the table. He’s not just confused, he’s flabbergasted. How did he get there? Was it really that bad—sure, he remembers waking up against your legs, but nothing as compromising as this!

He stares at the image a moment longer, then buries his face into his palm with an exhausted sigh. 

Dan Heng knows he should throw it out—use his spear to hack away at the picture until all that remains is artificial snow for good measure for both his dignity and yours—but he can’t, for some stupid reason. 

With lips pressed together, he slides the photo back into the cassette holder and quietly copies the data into a blank one. When it’s replaced back on the shelf, it looks identical to the one he’s still holding. 

It’s shoved into his bag: yet another secret to keep under the layer of superficiality. 

And when his mind finally clears, he’s already forgotten what he was meant to be doing in the first place. 

All that lingers is one thought: I don’t mind this friendship.

This thought is quite bittersweet. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

[voraciouslyindulgent]

@alacrityabound / [x]

He’s simultaneously relieved and nervous as Tarn answers the comm. Nervousness turns to fear at the thought of someone else knowing. Thankfully, training and programming takes over as he parses out “privacy” and “our home.” The implications are enough to lower his spark pulse. Plus, the rollercoaster of panic and less panic distracted him from realizing that Tarn had been speaking to his team….. ::Surprisingly, it wasn’t hard. Anyone outside of the team who witnessed it is either an ally, self-exiled, or dead.:: Bumblebee debates on sharing some information over comms…but then, he sees the Neutrals of his world walking by. Some regard him with curiosity. Others scowl. Decision made. ::I’ll tell you in person in your universe. Tarn, I’m sorry I can’t tell you right now, but I need to be sure this doesn’t make it to anyone else. Please. I’ll owe you a favor or stand trial or take banishment from your universe— I’ll do anything for this to stay between us. I know you’ll understand when I tell you. The paranoia isn’t for nothing. The most I can tell you is that it would endanger my world.::

::There is no need for banishment.:: At least not based on what he currently knew, which was limited as was made apparent by the scout's pleas for secrecy. Tarn considered his options, and mulled over the counsel he's received from other Autobots. He would be glad for a distraction after being reminded of certain unpleasant bygones, and Bumblebee's concern pertained to another universe, so there was no harm, surely, for a brief visit.

::Very well. I accept your terms. You may use my unit's clearance to enter New Kaon, and I shall meet you in the outskirts, amidst the ruins. We will be alone there.:: He sent a data-burst with all the pertinent information and codes to Bumblebee, and stood from his seat, leaving his cube of highgrade half-drunken.

A long journey of driving through near empty streets went by before the tank arrived at the coordinates. He decided against using the ground bridge to avoid leaving a record, and spent twice the time meandering within the city to give the impression of leisure travel. The location he picked had once been a grand gladiatorial arena. Now, only the bare bones remained, jagged and broken monuments darker than the starry night sky.

Tarn transformed into bipedal mode, and waited for Bumblebee's arrival.

[playedcrowd5610]

The Nemesis Chase - Transformers x Danny Phantom

Summary: Danny books it through the Nemesis with an angry Knockout on his heels

---

Notes

Set in a series where Danny finds Starscream one day and decides to start haunting the Decepticons. That's basically all the context you need but if you want more here is the rest of the series:

Haunting the Nemesis

Part 1: Chasing Stars

Part 2: Burning Rubber

Part 3: Adventures of the Decepticons' Pet Ghost Or Tumblr Master List

---

This scene was one of the first things I wrote when I started this series, so it may seem somewhat random. You can imagine it placed pretty much anywhere in the series timeline, it doesn't matter where. But I had nowhere else to put it for my posting schedule! So enjoy a fun little crack scene <3

---

Danny darted down the long, metallic hallway of the Nemesis, his sneakers barely touching the ground as the sound of angry, stomping steps echoed quickly from behind. 

"Get back here, you pest!" Knockout’s voice called out from behind him, filled with fury.

Danny glanced over his shoulder, laughing to himself as the fuming Knockout pursued him. Knockout had been boasting about himself again, and how much more sophisticated Cybertronains were than Organics. After one too many snide comments, Danny decided to throw one of the tools on the desk he was sitting on at the Con… And maybe he had thrown it with a little too much enthusiasm.

"Aw, come on, Knockout, it’s just a scratch!" Danny called back, smirking to himself as he turned a sharp corner. He could have easily just turned invisible or even just phased out through the floor, but where was the fun in that?

Just ahead, Breakdown was walking down the hallway, looking over a data pad and muttering to himself.  His optics shot up when he heard the commotion as Danny grinned and zipped by him. "Hi, Breakdown! Bye, Breakdown!"  Danny waved as he ran.

Breakdown blinked as Danny sped past, followed moments later by a livid Knockout. The red mech skidded to a halt in front of Breakdown, who raised an optic ridge at him. 

 "Why didn’t you grab him?!" Knockout threw his servo in the general direction where Danny took off.

Breakdown shrugged and tilted his helm to the side. "Why are you trying to kill Danny?" He asked.

Knockout lifted up one of the doors that were attached to his forearms, showing off a fancy new mark that trailed across it. "He scratched my paint!"

Breakdown sighed exasperatedly. "Right. That’s a perfectly good reason to chase a human down. Knockout, I can buff it out when I’m done this.”  He raised his datapad, which was small in his large servo. “There’s no need to kill him."

Knockout shot him a glare. "You’ll never understand the importance of keeping a finish pristine." He took off running again, shouting after Danny. "You’re going to pay for that, Scratch magnet!"

Danny, now several corridors away, zigzagged down another hall, laughing between breaths. He recognized the control center and ran in without a second thought.  The door opened for him instantly. Soundwave had programmed in his biosignature to open the doors for him when he walked up to them because he couldn’t reach the door panels with his tiny human limbs. Speaking of Soundwave – he spotted a familiar tall, thin figure standing at the control panel. 

Danny skidded to a stop, nearly crashing into him. "Hey, Soundwave!”  The mech turned his helm towards the human.  “Uh…Where’s Starscream?"

Soundwave, without saying a word, pointed a long, silent digit down the next hallway.

"Thanks!" Danny flashed a grin and bolted, but not before waving behind him to the mech.

Not a second later, Knockout stormed in, vents running overtime. "Where did he go?"  He demanded, leaning up against the doorframe for a moment's rest.

Soundwave’s visor remained blank, and he went back to his console as if nothing had happened.

Knockout growled, throwing his servos up in defeat. "Ugh, why is everyone so unhelpful today?!"

Meanwhile, Danny rounded the corner and nearly crashed into Starscream, the mech was distracted with a data pad and stepped back when Danny tripped in front of him. Danny righted himself dusting himself off and without missing a beat, he grinned up at the Seeker.

"Hey Screamy, how about a flight?"

Starscream narrowed his optics suspiciously, opening his intake to protest, when he suddenly noticed Knockout barreling toward them, pure irritation on his face.

Starscream let out an exasperated groan dragging his servo down his faceplate. "What have you done this time?"

"No time to explain!" Danny said quickly, hopping in place as Knockout drew closer.

Starscream sighed dramatically but grabbed Danny in one smooth motion, transforming mid-action and launching into the air, soaring through the hallways of the Nemesis. Knockout skidded to a halt just as they flew out of reach for the mech.

"I am going to get him one of these days," Knockout muttered, stomping away. Once he turned the corner he ran into Breakdown again and, without a second thought, he grabbed the larger mech by the transformation seam under his neck into his chest plates and pulled him along behind him. Breakdown made a sound of surprise but decided just to follow his partner anyway.

Soundwave closed out the security camera he had opened on the monitor that he was using to watch the whole ordeal and continued his work.  A very light hint of amusement reflected in his EM field.

[outlastrabbit]

Hewoo can i request NSFW Brown-haired Big Grunt (he called himself Danny in data mined dialogues) x AFAB! Virgin reader ? I was thinking that he may take pleasure in "teaching" inexperienced reagent in 🌶️🌶️🌶️ stuff before putting himself in 👉🏻👈🏻

Warning: NSFW

Big Grunt With a Virgin!Reader

“Don’t look so sad.”

The Big Grunt shut the door behind him, closing you two off into your own little corner of the police station. You stared up at him fearfully. He was just ridiculously big. You staggered back into a desk, knocking a telephone and a box of evidence to the floor. The grunt chuckled deeply, stepping closer.

“My clumsy little darling.”

You squeaked softly as he grabbed your waist with massive hands, picking you up and standing you on the desk. You were much closer to eye level now, staring at him almost curiously.

“Oh, you pretty little thing.” The Big Grunt smiled and touched your cheek. “So soft…”

You stared at each other more, your fear slowly washing away to awe at his size. “What do you want?” You whispered shakily.

The large man smiled, grabbing your waist again and yanking you down to lay against the desk. You cried out in fright, trying to get up only to be pressed down by huge hands.

“Daddy wants a snack.”

Your jaw dropped and a blush spread across your cheeks. “What?” You gasped.

“Come here.”

He grabbed your face and pulled you up slightly, with him bending down to be level with you. He slammed his lips onto yours hungrily, pulling you into an inexperienced yet passionate kiss. You were new to this yourself, and timidly tried to match his energy. You squeaked against his lips as you felt his hard groin press against yours.

The Big Grunt hovered over the top of you as he pressed your back against the desk. He kissed you roughly for a few more moments before breaking away to smile down at you.

“I think I love you.”

You gazed up at him with big, worried eyes as you slowly wrapped your arms around his neck. You were about to say something but he rocked his hips harshly into yours, making you gasp.

“Gentle. I’ve never done this…” You said softly, stifling a shaky moan.

The man grinned wider, pressing his groin back into yours, but moving much slower. Almost carefully. You slid a hand to his bare chest as he remained on top of you, gently touching the brace those doctors drilled into him.

“It’s silly but it’s sweet.” He began, pulling back slightly to yank down your pants. “I really don’t deserve you.” His hands ran down your ribs just below the ESOP strapped to your chest, then slipped under your shirt to rub your belly. “Soft…”

You moaned softly, staring up at the Big Grunt in awe. You still couldn’t believe how giant he was. He pulled down your underwear next, watching your face as his hand traveled down…

“Ah…!” You winced in pain slightly, trying to relax as you felt a finger try to enter.

“I’ll take care of you, rabbit. I don’t mean no harm.” He said softly.

It was his hand that came first. He was trying his hardest to be gentle, his mismatched eyes softening when you hissed in pain. But it was all temporary as you slowly relaxed, moaning breathily and almost rocking up into his finger.

It was much different when he finally entered you for real though. Your breath hitched and you clung to his neck, nails digging into his back.

“Honey…” he groaned in that deep drawl of his, almost sighing in bliss as he slipped into you. “You feel nice.”

You wrapped your limbs around him, whining as he moved his hips slowly with yours. You knew he wouldn’t be careful for long. It still felt uncomfortable as his thrusts quickened, rocking you against the old desk. You soon got into it though, as your body relaxed fully and pleasure washed over you. You moaned and ran your fingers through the Big Grunt’s messy brown hair.

“Beautiful…” he panted, grunting as his thrusts grew rougher.

He pulled himself off you and grabbed your waist, still fucking you hard into the desk. You moaned louder and gripped the sides of it, biting back a cry of pleasure. The Big Grunt touched your hair, then your cheek, and then his fingers curled around your neck.

“Just for me…”

[saphicauthor921]

The steady beep of medical equipment punctuated the silence like a metronome, each tone marking another second that 001 remained lost to them. Violet sat rigid in her chair, her eyes fixed on the still form before her, searching for any flicker of movement, any sign of consciousness returning. The medical bay's harsh lighting cast shadows across 001's face, making her appear even more pallid, more fragile than she truly was.

Four days. Four days since Kharkov had beaten 001 into unconsciousness. Four days of Violet barely sleeping, barely eating, her focus narrowed to a singular purpose: bringing 001 back.

"Your vitals are stable." Violet murmured, more to herself than to her unconscious friend. Her fingers danced across the medical console, adjusting parameters, checking readings for the hundredth time that day. "Brain activity normal. No physical reason you shouldn't be awake."

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and studied 001's face. The bruises had begun to fade, purple giving way to sickly yellow-green. The swelling had subsided. Physically, she was healing. But her mind remained unreachable, locked away in some dark corner where Violet couldn't follow.

"What did he do to you?" she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "What did he say?"

The memory of Kharkov standing over 001's crumpled form flashed through her mind—his cruel smile, the casual brutality with which he'd struck her down. Violet's hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms until they left crescent-shaped indentations in her skin. The pain helped ground her, kept her from spiraling into the rage that simmered just beneath the surface.

The door to the medical bay slid open with a soft hiss. Violet didn't turn, already recognizing the footsteps—light, hesitant, guilty.

"Any change?" Tyche asked, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.

Violet shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. Her relationship with Tyche had grown strained in the days since their return from Salphraxi Prime. Not because she blamed Tyche for what happened—logically, she knew no one could have predicted Kharkov's appearance or his overwhelming power—but because every time she looked at Tyche, she saw the moment when everything went wrong. When 001 faced Kharkov alone while the rest of them were incapacitated.

Tyche moved closer, her usual boundless energy contained, restrained. She placed a small object on the table beside 001's bed—a carved wooden figure, roughly the shape of a star.

"I made it," she explained when Violet finally glanced at it. "Thought it might... I don't know. Give her something to come back to."

The gesture was so earnest, so typically Tyche in its hopeful naivety, that Violet felt her anger soften slightly. "Thanks," she managed, the word coming out more clipped than she intended.

Tyche lingered, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "Eli says you haven't slept properly in days."

"Eli should mind his own business."

"Vi..." Tyche began, then stopped, clearly choosing her words carefully. "You can't help her if you collapse."

Violet's jaw tightened. "I'm fine."

"You're not," Tyche countered, a hint of her usual stubbornness returning. "And Numbers wouldn't want—"

"Don't," Violet cut her off sharply. "Don't tell me what she would want. You don't know her like I do."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implications neither was ready to address. Tyche's expression flickered with hurt before settling into resignation.

"Kael wants to see you," she said after a moment. "When you're ready. Something about the data we recovered from Salphraxi Prime."

Violet nodded curtly, already turning her attention back to the medical console. "I'll go when I can."

Resurgence Orphan 001 Chapter 11

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63851443