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confused-squishy · 5 months ago

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Weapon Expert Danny Todd from Jason Todd's POV

This amazing idea came from @unadulteratedsoulsweets

Part 1 Part 2

Jason was starting to get worried. He had called his husband's phone a few times since his patrol started and he hasn't heard anything back. Jason knew someone had called in and asked about setting up an appointment for tonight. But Jason thought it would've been over by now.

So Jason called the phone Danny only used in the workshop. It felt like ice water had been poured on him when it went straight to voicemail. Jason quickly shoved his phone into his pocket and took off towards the current safe house he was using.

When he arrived Danny wasn't there. After looking around Jason noticed a few things were missing that Danny usually took with him to meetings. So that let Jason know Danny hadn't come back from the meeting. That made things worse. He didn't know where the meeting was or which workshop Danny would be using.

Jason took a deep breath. Trying to calm his mind. He pulled out the burn phone he uses specifically for Danny. His wonderful husband had made it for him. They both have one and it only works for them. Jason dialed the only number. His heart racing faster and faster as the dial tone continued. He swore loudly when he reached the voicemail.

Something wasn't right. Danny always answered this phone. Always. Jason turned on his coms and took another deep breath. "Oracle... I need you to look for someone. Please." There was a short silence. Before there was a clicking sound. "Who am I looking for?"

Jason took another deep breath. Trying to steel his nerves. "Danny... Daniel Jonathan Todd. He goes by Danny though. He owns a gun repair shop. Called Phantom Guns." There was a stunned silence. "Todd... As in your brother Todd or?" Jason shook his head. "Oracle please. I'll explain later."

"Jason what's your relationship?" Jason bit his tongue at the grouchy sound of Bruce's voice. "None of your business old man." Jason quickly snapped. "Jason if you want help looking for this guy we need all the information." Jason bit back a sarcastic remark. "Fine. He's my husband. Happy? Now can you please focus on finding him?"

There was a heavy silence before everyone was yelling questions all at once. Only for Oracle to snap at them to quiet down. "Jason I found something but I don't think you'll like it." "Whatever it is please. I need to find him. I don't have a good feeling." The coms were quiet before one of his phones beeped.

"There's a break in and mention of an unconscious male that is fitting the description of Danny." Jason's heart stopped before he raced off. Jumping from roof to roof. Jason could barely hear anything except his heart beat. Could someone have called Danny out and attacked him?

No. Danny can usually take care of himself. Jason had made sure of it. He knew the dangers of being with a Wayne child. Adopted or not. Especially with Jason. With what he does at night, not to mention Danny's talent with almost any gun. They both had huge targets on their backs.

Jason was snapped out of his thoughts when he saw the smoke rising into the sky. It was like the air was knocked from his lungs. He almost tripped when he landed on the closest roof but he managed to catch himself before he quickly ran to the edge.

Jason felt his heart sink at the site of one of Danny's favorite workshops looking destroyed. Jason's body moved on auto pilot. He jumped from the edge, landing on the dumpster and quickly made his way to the kicked in door. Jason went to enter before a hand gripped his shoulder.

Jason grabbed the hand to flip the person before his was pulled into a familiar chest. "Calm down. You need to think before you barge in. In case there's a trap or anything of the like." Jason involuntarily followed the order before shoving Bruce away from him. He straightened up and pulled out his favorite Glock. The one Danny had remade for him.

Jason raised the gun before turning on the heat sensor of his helmet. "I only see one body on the ground. Unconscious most likely." He switched off the heat sensor before turning on the night mode. Jason carefully entered the shop. Making sure to look where he was walking.

He froze momentarily when seeing the unconscious figure. There was a good sized puddle under him. That shirt.... That dark hair. The matching ring. "Oh my god. Danny!" Jason rushed over dropping his gun and quickly removing the helmet. He checked for a pulse. He relaxed slightly. It was weak but he had one.

Jason rolled him over and felt the air leave his lungs once more. Jason quickly ripped off his jacket and pressed it against Danny's stomach. "Call an ambulance! He's-His-" Jason sniffed. Feeling tears fill his eyes. He flinched when a rough hand gripped his shoulder. Jason looked up, meeting Bruce's determined look and hesitated before moving slightly.

Bruce bent down. Carefully removing Jason's jacket to see the wound. There were multiple deep gashes and what looked to be an electric burn from his left chest to his left shoulder. Bruce clicked his com. "I need an ambulance. There's multiple deep gashes to his front along with what looks like an electric burn from the left of his chest to his shoulders."

Bruce felt for a pulse. "Pulse is weak. Barely there." Bruce leaned forward. Listening for breathing. "Shallow breathing." Jason gripped the jacket more. How long has Danny been like this? Why hadn't he looked for him sooner?! Jason hadn't noticed his panicked breathing until he was nudged.

Dick was behind him with a sad smile. Dick gently grabbed him and helped him stand. Bruce had laid Danny out and used Jason's jacket to keep the bleeding to a minimum. Jason felt numb as Dick had start pulling him away as sirens sounded. Jason went to shove away dick but was interrupted by Bruce.

"Go home and change. I'll tell you what hospital. But right now you're covered in blood and your Red Hood uniform. I need you to go change before meeting at the hospital okay?" Jason barely nodded. His eyes not leaving Danny's pale face as Dick pulls him away. Once outside Dick pulls Jason to a car and gently helps him inside.

The drive to Jason's closest safe house was quick and silent. Neither saying anything before Jason rushed inside to quickly change so he can get to the hospital. But as he undressed all Jason saw was blood. Danny's blood. Jason shook his head and physically threw the clothes off himself.

He was going to be burning those clothes. He couldn't stand looking at them. He ran into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Turning it to the hottest setting. He didn't care if his skin was burning. He needed to get the blood off. He needed it gone. He needed Danny's blood off him. He needed Danny to be okay. He needed his husband to be alive and safe.

Jason closed his eyes as the scolding water ran down his back. Danny's pale face appeared before Jason's eyes and he shook his head before quickly scrubbing himself and jumping out of the shower. He barely dried himself before rushing into the room.

He looked at where the pile of bloodied clothes laid and felt a small sense of relief when he noticed they were gone and clothes were laid out on the bed. Dick must've taken care of the clothes. Jason would have to thank him later when he.... When he knew his husband was okay. Jason doesn't know how he got from the safe house to the hospital.

He only knows that everything seems to be too loud and bright for his senses at the moment. When he finally sat down he was in a plastic chair used in hospital waiting rooms. He looked around. Dick was with him out of his Nightwing uniform. He was standing a short distance away on the phone. Either with Bruce or Kori. Letting them know the situation.

Jason took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair. Just who had set up that Meeting with Danny? Danny always does a background check when someone wants to make an appointment with him. Had someone given a rogue Danny's meeting information? Jason's hands tightened in his hair. Whoever did this to his husband is going to pay. Big Time.

Jason flinched slightly as a hand patted his back. Dick had came back with a slight smile. He must've been talking to Kori then. "Have you heard anything?" Dick shook his head and Jason groaned softly. Dick's smile tightened before he removed Jason's hands from his hair. "I'm sure we'll get some information soon Jay. Just don't pull your hair out before we do okay?"

Jason didn't say anything. Just kept his eyes sweeping across the room. It felt like forever when a Doctor looking unsure. Jason jumped up as the Doctor came over. "Mr. Graysan. Mr. Todd." The Doctor nodded at them. Before he could say anything Jason already was asking questions. "Is Danny okay? Did he make it? Can I see him?!"

Dick carefully pulled Jason out of the Doctors face. Ignoring the thankful look Dick nodded. "Please answer him. He's not doing the best as you can see." The Doctor sent Jason a look of pity and Jason felt his body freeze. Please don't tell him...... "Mr. Daniel Todd came in with multiple deep gashes, broken bones, and a severe electrical burn mark. There were a few.... problems during surgery but we got the patient stable and in a room."

Jason released and sigh of relief. "That great can I see him??" The Doctor shifted and sent him a hesitate look. "You can... But I have to inform you of his condition..." Jason froze. "C-Condition?" The Doctor nodded with a frown. "Due to the head trauma and blood loss I'm afraid Mr. Daniel Todd has fallen into a coma..."

Jason felt his legs give out. If not for Dick he's sure he would've fallen to the floor. Oh Danny.... His poor Danny. If only he'd have looked for him sooner...maybe he wouldn't have been in such a bad condition. Jason heard only ringing as he was brought into Danny's hospital room. Jason sunk into the chair closest to the bed and gripped his husband's hand.

Please..... Please wake up soon.

#batman #danny phantom #dp x dc #danny fenton #dc x dp #dcxdp #halfa jason todd #jason todd #jason todd x danny fenton #red hood #danny phantom x batfamily #danny phantom x dc #red hood x danny fenten

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witherby · 5 months ago

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Itsame!! How do you think the batfam would react to taking in a Mouse that was a villain kid? annnddd had somewhat unhinged tendencies from growing up w/ their parents?

thank you el!

--🎆

Hmm. In normal circumstances, I think they'd all react very patiently and just steer you in the direction of making good decisions instead of bad. Damian was raised by a league of killers, and they rolled with that without blinking. You'd have to be the child of someone super fucked up to make them think twice about who you are as a person. Like extremely fucked up.

Like, the worst person they could think of.

The cave was dead silent. Every member of the family stood around a table and looked at the documentation Bruce finished putting together in regards to the child he'd locked in a cell just down the hall with a mixture of dread and concern. Information was sparse, but the DNA tests and mannerisms were more than enough to paint the picture no one was acknowledging.

Tonight's patrol was supposed to be a routine one — investigate some leads, stop some crimes, then come home and go to bed. What Batman and Robin found instead, by pure happenstance, was a partially completed setup for an elaborate death trap that the Joker had been working on, which was then subsequently blown up in a half-hearted effort to kill them so he could escape.

They'd survived, obviously, but it wasn't just Batman and Robin that came back.

"So the clown fucks," Jason finally blurted. "Think he's only got one spawn?"

"Yes, as far as I can tell," Bruce said, rubbing the back of his neck. The migraine he'd been fighting off all night was swiftly worsening. He just wanted to go to bed. "Joker didn't seem to realize he'd left the child behind when he escaped tonight. I think she wasn't supposed to be there."

"Understatement of the century, B," Dick mumbled, thumbing through the papers again. "How did he manage to keep her secret for so long? That kid is, like, seven or eight."

"How did that frivolous hack keep her alive for so long?" Damian asked. "I'm just as impressed as I am concerned."

"We can figure that out later," Tim said, addressing the biggest problem, "what do we do about the Joker's kid?"

Everyone exchanged looks with each other, all silently coming to the same series of conclusions:

1. They couldn't put the child in the System. Her history and yet uncatalogued behaviors could lead to major issues, and the Joker would find and retrieve his kid in a matter of days.

2. They couldn't put the child in Arkham. There wasn't a ward set up to handle children. She was too young to be there, and breakouts from the Asylum were a common occurrence, so she'd inevitably go back to him.

3. They couldn't put the child in Juvenile Detention. As far as they knew, she hadn't committed any crimes, so there was nothing to convict her of in order to have her admitted.

Which meant, for the foreseeable future...

Jason stood up, thumbs gliding down the handles of his guns. Bruce gave him a sharp look and he holstered them with a shrug.

"You know I'm not actually gonna hurt 'er," he sneered, grabbing his helmet to slide it on. "But she don't know that. What's a little intimidation between a captor and captive, huh? I'm just lookin' to get some info about our new roomie is all."

"You can just ask," Bruce said. "That's a child in there, Hood, regardless of whose it is. We can approach this peacefully."

"Oh, fuck off. Your favorite wacko popped out a baby and he's been raising it for years. We can't assume this kid is any more logical than the shit-pile it came from."

Jason marched past Bruce and vanished down the hall where they kept the containment cells. Bruce hurried after him, scowling, and the remaining three followed suit with different levels of curiosity and caution.

"This isn't going to be good..." Dick muttered.

It didn't take long to reach your cell. The door was made of bulletproof glass, and the walls and floor were a smooth beige color, with pressure sensors to keep track of your location, oxygen levels, and heart rate. In one corner of the room was a toilet with a privacy curtain and a sink, and in the other was a plain bed with two pillows and a blanket.

You were lying in the middle of the floor, staring up at the ceiling with vacant eyes a placid smile on your face. You had on white face paint with a bold, red lip and blue triangles above and below your eyes, a bright green button-up shirt with a black bowtie, suspenders, brown pants, and black shoes that clicked every time you bumped your feet together.

Click. Click. Click.

Aside from the rhythmic bumping of your shoes, you were dead silent and unmoving in the cell. You didn't even look up when Jason walked up to the door and leaned against it, whistling for your attention.

"Hey, you," he called. "Name, now."

You didn't answer. Jason banged his fist against the glass, listening to the sharp reverb.

"When I speak, you answer," he barked. "What's your fuckin' name, kid?"

Click. Click. Click. You continued to admire the ceiling, arms splayed out at your sides.

"That's real cute," Jason growled, punching in the code to unlock your cell door. "You gonna pretend like you can't hear me? That's fine, lemme come to you then. I'll make sure you pick up the message loud and clear —"

"Red Hood!" Bruce said, grabbing his arm. Jason shook it off and stormed inside, grabbing a fistful of your shirt and lifting you off the ground. You didn't fight him, body limp and pliant in his grasp, and continued to watch the ceiling.

Click. Click. Click. Your feet bumped against each other even still. Unbothered. Undisturbed.

"Name," Jason demanded, voice warping badly through his voice modulator the angrier he got. You didn't acknowledge him. "I'll start asking you in other languages. Don't think you can get out of answering me that way, either."

"I think that's enough, Red Hood," Dick said, slipping into the room before Bruce could get in and potentially make things violent. He walked around behind you and gently hooked his hands under your armpits, coaxing you out of Jason's grasp. "You're probably scaring her. Let's all just —"

You giggled. It startled Dick badly enough he dropped you, and you crumbled to the floor like a puppet with cut strings. Your giggling grew louder as you carefully straightened out, lying on your back with your arms splayed again, and you smiled up at the ceiling.

"What's there to be afraid of?" You asked, voice sweet and cheery. It was also strangely soft, nothing like the harsh pitch of your progenitor. "The batcifists have captured me. I'm perfectly safe and sound."

No one moved. You hummed, shifting your head side to side with a wistful sigh.

"Batcifists. Get it? Bat-pacifists? Because you don't kill people? Popsy said you guys didn't find most jokes funny, and I guess it's true..."

Click. Click. Click. You knock your feet together again as silence momentarily descends upon the room.

"Does your popsy talk about us a lot?" Tim asked from the doorway.

"You're my bedtime stories," you muttered. Click. Click. Click. "Popsy says his greatest dream is to make you all laugh so hard you choke."

Dick crouched down next to you, frowning. You kept your gaze on the ceiling.

"What about you?" He asked. "What's your dream?"

"I'm Popsy's favorite toy." The smile on your face grew wider, more genuine. Click. Click. Click. "His absolute favorite."

Jason abruptly turned and left the room, stomping down the hallway. Damian looked visibly uncomfortable and followed soundlessly after his brother.

Click. Click. Click.

"Well, we can't call you Toy, can we?" Dick reasoned gently. "Do you have a name? What does your popsy call you?"

You giggled again. It was a gentle, melodic thing, that gradually worsened and grew louder, until you were clutching your stomach and kicking your feet with sheer glee. Your sharp cackling echoed through the room, the remaining bats all watching you with varying levels of horror. In the throes of it, you sounded exactly like him.

Nearly a minute went by before you started settling down again, wiping a stray tear from your face. You chirped your name with obvious pride as you clicked your feet together.

"Punchline!"

#el speaks #batfam x reader #🎆#punchline au #bruce wayne #batman #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake #damian wayne

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jinx-xxed · 9 months ago

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Supreme Leader

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; The motivation for this one legit came out of nowhere but I can’t even complain 🫶 this is the best smut I’ve done to date I think

Part of Written in the Stars

Summary; You come back to find Snoke gone… and Kylo Ren has taken his place.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Commander Reader, aftermath of TLJ, angst to sad fluff, original characters, you get promoted!!!, Kylo’s mean, Kylo gets a lightsaber pulled on him, you have a saberstaff, throne room confrontation turns into throne room sex, fucking on the throne, tension, you’re still not Kylo’s biggest fan lol, helmet on, gloves on, calling Kylo by his proper title, orgasm denial, overstimulation, inappropriate use of the Force, very dominant Kylo, fingering, unprotected piv sex, riding Kylo, humiliation, degradation, praise, talking about feelings

Wc; 6.2k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

There’s a sharp ping that comes from the device imbedded into your metal arm cuffs, overriding the silence mode you have it set on and making you startle. You grumble to yourself, pausing your work to tap a few things on the screen and project a smaller screen above it. There it reads the message: all troops involved with mission-76653 cease operations and return to base immediately. There’s coordinates to the Steadfast attached and not the Supremacy, you note.

“Are you serious?” You snap to yourself. The members of Fleet 74 who came along with you on this expedition stop at your voice, looking back at you curiously. You sigh, lifting a hand and making a circular motion with a finger. “We’re heading back to base, I guess. Direct orders.”

Jaharah begins to protest. “Now? But we haven’t finished-“

“I know. I’m not happy about it either.” You say, a scowl settling nicely onto your features. You traveled all the way out to some planet in the Outer Rim to basically have to go right back. You turn, starting the journey to the speeders you’d left behind that’ll return you to your ship that’s even farther away. The others reluctantly follow. “I hope whatever bastard demanded this realizes we’re still two weeks out.”

Lyra’s hands wring together nervously. “Do you think something bad happened? Maybe the resistance-“

You scoff sharply. “The resistance couldn’t hope to do anything against Snoke’s ship, not as things stand now. This is something else.” Or you’d think so.

You won’t admit that you’re worried about what that ‘something else’ could be.

» ☆ «

The trip back to base was just as annoying as the trip out to the assigned planet was. Traveling in a cramped transport ship for two weeks isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world. But finally, there’s a familiar beeping of the sensors and the filter of hyperspace fades away to reveal the massive Star Destroyer that is the Steadfast sitting amongst the blankness of space.

The ship is brought into the hangar and you immediately get the feeling that something is off. A tension in the atmosphere, a shiver running up your arms beneath your uniform. Stormtroopers stand about in a more stiff manner than usual, and the lower workers of the Steadfast seem to have become as meek as mice. There’s also a tinge of leftover smoke in the air, like something blew up within the Star Destroyer. You glance back at your Fleet members as they exit their ships; they feel it too, but Jaharah shrugs, just as lost as you are.

“General,” comes a sudden voice. You snap back around to see a trooper standing before you. “Your presence is requested in the throne room immediately. And the Fleet’s.”

The throne room? What would Snoke want with you now? And what would he want with your Fleet?

You nod, following the Stormtrooper as he acts like some guide through the Steadfast. You’re sure you could find your way faster than he ever could, but you follow along to be nice. The walk there is long, of course, since the ship is so ungodly huge. The hall turns colder as the throne room doors come into view, and it’s like the tension you felt in the air before becomes about ten times heavier, threatening to weigh you down and prevent you from going forward. There’s Sith Troopers guarding the doors, and you see the members of Fleet 74 who stayed behind waiting there as well.

You look to Chief, your second in command. “What is this about?” You demand in a whisper.

“You’ll see.” She mutters. You don’t like that.

The Fleet gets in to a close formation with yourself at the head. The doors open and you’re led inside. You nearly freeze in your tracks with the sight you’re met with.

Snoke is no more. Instead, sitting in a newly made, imposing throne, is Kylo Ren.

He wears his full uniform, hood pulled over his helmet adorned with the red veins that stick the shattered pieces back together coursing through the black metal. His Knights fan out on either side of the throne, still as statues with their weapons held tightly in their hands. Kylo himself is clearly trying to be every bit as intimidating as Snoke was, with his boots firmly planted on the ground, gloved hands clutching the arm rests, back straight as a board.

You kneel before he even gets the chance to tell you to because somehow, initiating it yourself is less humiliating. You hear the Fleet follow suit behind you. The cold, reflective metal of the floor bites into your knee as you stare at it.

There’s an unnerving silence and you feel his eyes on you. Then, “welcome back, Commander.”

You perk at the title, your head shooting up. “Commander?”

“It seems we’ve both gotten promotions.” Kylo drawls. “Snoke is dead, killed by the Jedi girl in his own ship.”

Liar.

He knows that you know, and he also knows that you know it’s better to keep your mouth firmly shut. The discussion you’ll have later should be interesting.

“I’ve taken his place, and I believe it’s most logical to make you my Commander. Fleet 74 will remain as it is. I’m sure you can handle the extra duties, correct?” He asks.

You dip your head again. “Yes, of course. I’m honored, Com-“ you clear your throat, correcting yourself, “Supreme Leader.” It feels wrong.

He taps a finger against the arm rest. “Then you’re dismissed. You and I will talk later.”

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

You rise with the Fleet, leading them out of the throne room with tense muscles. As soon as the doors close behind you, a few of them clap you on the back, congratulating you on the new position. You can’t share in the celebration, unable to ignore the itch in the back of your mind that you can’t quite get rid of.

What the hell happened while you were gone?

» ☆ «

You’re called back to the throne room an hour later.

You know you don’t have a choice in the matter, the message was very clear in that sense. You either go willingly or you’re sure someone will come along to drag you there. So you put away the report you were filing on your forcefully failed mission and push yourself from your chair. You walk down familiar halls, you try to ignore the tremor in your hands by clenching them into fists.

The path to the throne room is void of life, as if it’s a radioactive zone that nobody wants to enter. The description isn’t far off; it feels like you enter into a cloud of smog that chokes you when you get near and it sends a shiver down your spine. The Dark is heavy, threatening, and thick in the area. It parts for you when you pass through, ever so willing to obey your commands even if it doesn’t belong to you, but you feel it pressing in on every side. You take a deep breath when you see the doors leading into the throne room finally appear around a corner, looming like a beast waiting to pounce.

You push them open without pause, steeling yourself and the nerves that buzz beneath your skin. Your face is set with hard lines, your brows slightly drawn over your eyes and your lips positioned with a small downturn. Cold air and the sharp tang of polished metal hits you when you step inside, the click of your heels against the ever-so shiny floor the only sound.

You quickly take note of the fact that the room is empty. There are no Guards, no Stormtroopers, no Knights. Only him.

There is only Kylo Ren, sitting on a false throne.

You feel his eyes behind that mask trained on you as soon as you enter, crawling along your form and taking in every bit of you. He looks as he did before, his body cloaked in black robes with his hood framing his helmet, hiding it from the light. The throne isn’t the same as Snoke’s, this one has had to be built from scratch like many things after the utter obliteration of the Supremacy. This new chair has clearly taken inspiration given its size, but the energy surrounding it has changed. It isn’t as Dark as people would believe it to be.

You stop a healthy distance away from the dais, your perfect reflection along the floor mirroring your movements. “You requested me, Supreme Leader?” The title feels wrong and foreign on your tongue when referring to him and you struggle to hide the mockery in your tone, though he hears it all the same. There’s a seed of unease that burrows itself in your gut, eager to bloom into something bigger as you stare at the man you’ve worked with for most of your life. All of this was unexpected, and that’s where your problem lies. Kylo did this, he got himself to this position—and you don’t understand it.

His gloved hands brace against the armrests as he stands. You watch him intensely, your body feeling like it’s pulled taut as a bowstring, ready for something that you don’t know about yet. Your breathing stutters in your chest, it quickens with your heartbeat. He walks down those steps, one after another with the grace and power of a leader that knows his strength. There’s a brush against the shields in your mind, a familiar Force signature that’s taunting you, playing a game that you’re not interested in. You recoil from the touch, quickly forcing it away from you and out of your head. It can’t be trusted.

He reaches the same level you’re on but when he tries to take another inch of the space between you, you find your lightsaber in front of you. It screams to life, red beams of plasma coming from either end. It lets out a steady hum through the handle clenched in your palm—a threat, a promise. Kylo pauses where he is and you glare at him over the weapon, the red bouncing off the silver on his helmet.

“What did you do?” You demand, words spat from between your teeth.

“Don’t be stupid.” He sneers, deep voice crackling through the vocoder.

He moves towards you again, unfazed by the deadly lightsaber you have pointed directly at him. His pace is unrelenting and you move yourself backwards, eager to keep the same distance. You bare your teeth, twisting to follow him as he circles you like a predator. “What happened to Snoke?”

There’s a minuscule shake of his head as he observes you. “I told you-“

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Kylo. What did you do?” You say again. You want a straight answer, you want to know what the fuck happened when you were gone. You want to know what happened to the man you were beginning to trust. You remember the hunger he’d had in his eyes when you’d first met him, the insatiable desire for power and to prove himself to whoever dared doubt him. You wonder how that young man would feel seeing himself now like this, standing at the top of the galaxy. And you wonder how much farther he’ll go, if this is where you make the stand for your life because you’re a threat.

“I did what I had to.” He says coldly with nothing but conviction. “You’ll understand.” He got himself behind you, now forcing you to walk in the opposite direction to stay away from him. There’s ripples in the Force, the darkness swirling around you both. You feel him at the shields you keep up, but he’s not trying like he should be to get in. He’s basically just sitting there, occasionally reaching forward to remind you that he’s waiting. It’s a silent plea to be let in, but you won’t listen.

“Snoke was a worthless coward. He was incapable of fighting his own battles. Why do you feel such remorse for him when he’s the one who’s caused you so much pain?” Kylo demands, so blatantly angry at the idea of you sympathizing with Snoke. You don’t. You never would. You’re glad to see that he’s gone, that you’ll never again have to experience dread when returning back to base. Snoke tortured you both but after knowing of him ever since you were a child, hearing him in your head, that seed of unease blooms into fear. What will happen now? What kind of leader could Kylo Ren possibly be?

You don’t have the chance to ponder it further. The backs of your legs hit the seat of the throne after having been forced up the dais by Kylo who now comes so close it causes you to fall unceremoniously into the chair. Your lightsaber is still active, poised at his throat even as he slams both hands on either armrest, caging you in. “I saved us,” he snarls, “and this is how you thank me?”

Even as Kylo’s presence threatens to rob you of breath, his darkness trying to choke you, you don’t cower. Your lightsaber reflects in your eyes in the same way it does his helmet, the heat from the plasma an uncomfortable presence between you. “How am I supposed to trust you?” You practically throw the words in his face, and you can see the way they make him recoil. It’s barely there, so very slight, but he draws back just a fraction of a centimeter and you hear the creak of his gloves as he grips the armrests tighter. It hurts him, it brings you satisfaction. You feel the flinch in the Force, betraying his true emotions to someone like you who’s more attuned than he realizes.

And then it’s gone. He brushes it aside and replaces that emotion with bristling anger. He reaches past your arm, past your lightsaber without a care, and he grips your chin. You want to thrash against him, want to fight against his hold; it would be so easy with the saber you have against his neck. But you can’t bring yourself to. You let him hold you there as he makes sure you’re looking at him, his fingers digging into your jaw.

“He was going to have me kill you.” Kylo says, tone quiet and blunt as he brings forth information he’d been holding inside of himself for so long, letting it consume him. “That’s why I sent you away.” Scenes flash in your mind, brought to you by Kylo so that you can see exactly what terrified him, to see what caused the sense of fear he had that day he gave you your mission.

Snoke would’ve had you both come to the throne room, and you would’ve thought nothing was amiss. But then he would reveal that he wished to further Kylo’s training after his recent failures, and that you were the key to making him stronger. That key was your own death. Snoke would admit as such, that he wants Kylo to kill you. You could feel it—the rage inside of you, the despair. Snoke had always favored Kylo over you because Kylo had a name behind him, he had a legacy. You were just a kid with a meaningless family that he picked up off a worthless planet that turned out to have more potential than anyone could’ve ever dreamed. You’d surpassed Kylo in more than enough trials to prove that and yet… it didn’t matter. You were to die to push someone else forward.

“You would’ve fought,” Kylo murmurs, briefly breaking you from the vision, “but you would’ve lost.”

You see what he means. You turned on Snoke, you lashed out with everything you had in you as the Praetorian Guards advanced. You killed all of them, your will to live greater than their own strength, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough against Snoke, who forced you to your knees even as he struggled to do so from your protesting. You could’ve been something, you could’ve been more, but you were just fodder for the machine. You at least looked Kylo in the eyes with your chin held high when he lifted the hilt of his lightsaber. The vision cut out directly after that, and you find yourself heaving for breath.

Your own lightsaber is gone, taken from your grip by Kylo while you watched your death play out. The anger that boils in your gut almost feels misplaced because that future never came to pass, and it never will. Because of what Kylo did. He sent you on a convenient mission to the Outer Rim, as far away from Snoke as possible. Then he took his chances back here, trying to figure out some way to save you, and then the perfect opportunity was laid at his feet.

He keeps his hold on you, forcing you to watch through his own eyes and learn of what he’d gone through. Rey had shown up. The young Jedi girl actually had the gall to deliver herself right to her enemy. She definitely has guts, you’d give her that. She tried and failed to get Kylo to turn away from the Dark Side, trying to make him see the Light. But it didn’t work when his thoughts remained on you and keeping you from Snoke’s grasp. He was too focused on the fact that if the future he saw came to fruition, he knew he’d lose himself entirely. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.

So he used Rey in his schemes, used her as a distraction of sorts. He used her to finally kill Snoke, to free himself and you from his reign. He couldn’t believe it actually worked, that Snoke was truly lying on the floor severed in half. It was like a weight was lifted off his shoulders, a ghoul finally banished from the corners of his mind. It was peaceful, but only for a moment. Him and Rey fought the Guards, and then he tried to get back his grandfather’s lightsaber once more to no avail. The memories from then on are bright flashes, fuzzy images, and explosions—nothing you can make out.

You’re pulled from Kylo’s memories, your jaw slack and your heart racing. It feels unreal, something you can’t believe because you weren’t here to witness it. But if you had been here, you would’ve died. “Now you see, don’t you? I told you that you’d understand. Yet you still can’t bring yourself to trust me. It just disgusts you, doesn’t it?” He says lowly, jabbing at you. “How could you ever bear to trust someone like me?” Someone who saved your life, he wants to add with his mocking tone.

There’s a moments pause where you stare at each other, unsure of what to think or say. You wish you could see him, could see his eyes and his face. Your nervous hand reaches up, attempting to get the latch on his helmet to take it off, but he stops you abruptly. He grips your wrist firmly in a leather-clad hand. You try and fumble for words. “Kylo, I-“

“No. You’ll address me as Supreme Leader. You need to get used to that title.” He snaps, forcing you all the way back into the throne as he comes even closer, his boot sliding between your own and forcing your legs apart. Your breath hitches when he takes both your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head so you can’t do anything stupid like trying to shove him off or drawing your lightsaber on him again.

The rise and fall of your chest quickens when cold air kisses the skin of your stomach, your layers shoved up by his free hand. The leather of his glove is rough as it skates along the newly exposed area on its way further down. His fingers catch on the waistband of your pants and they don’t hesitate to slip beneath the fabric. Your body feels like it’s been set on fire, your spine pressed so firmly against the back of the throne that there’s nowhere else for you to go, even as you try to scoot away from his burning touch.

You jolt when he grazes your clit, your teeth digging so sharply into your lip that you think you taste blood. He’s moves slow and with purpose, knowing exactly what he’s doing when a low groan rumbles from the back of your throat. You can tell by the way he’s so willing to taunt and tease, by the way his huge body covers your own and boxes you in, that this isn’t going to be good for you. The pad of his index finger traces slow, tortuous circles around your entrance while the heel of his palm makes occasional, light taps against your clit to keep you aware, to keep you anticipating.

“You love to say how much you hate me, and yet you’re always so eager for me.” Kylo spits, his voice guttural when it comes through his helmet, struggling to get past the vocoder as more than just lustful static. He can feel how wet you are, how easily the dark leather of his gloves slides between your folds. His finger finally plunges into your waiting cunt not a second later, a gasp rattling your body. It’s a welcome feeling, one that finally gives the throbbing of your walls something to focus on instead of just aching, empty space.

The thrusts of his finger are lazy, staying at the same easy pace even as you squirm. He’s more generous to your clit now at least, his palm staying firmly against it, providing the friction of rough leather and stitched seams with each in and out of your hole. You whine in pleasure when he finally adds a second finger, the thick digits filling you more completely. They go farther, sink deeper into your heat, finding and pressing against the spot you’re never able to get on your own. Your hands struggle against the hold he has on them, your attempts at freeing yourself as your body writhes having been unsuccessful. You know you’ll have bruises in the shapes of his fingers across your wrists from the strength of his grip.

Kylo enjoys seeing you like this, completely under his mercy and so, so very compliant. It’s rare when he gets what he wants from you—your submission—so he’s relishing in it now while it lasts. His enjoyment is obvious from the erection creating a tent in his pants. You have to avert your eyes from it, trying not to think of the way he’d use it, the way he’d ram into you again and again and fill you with his desire. You can feel your own mounting, a knot in your gut that grows bigger with his ministrations, threatening to come undone.

You’re almost there. You’re standing on the ledge, leaning over the side, ready to fall off into bliss. Just a few more thrusts of his fingers, a few more circles around your clit, and your orgasm will be washing through you. But it never comes despite the way he continues to fingerfuck you, despite the way you can feel it right there and so ready to burst. It’s like something’s blocking it on purpose, a dam built with the sole mission of denying your release. Your eyes snap open, finding Kylo. He huffs a laugh. “What, you think I’d let you cum that easily?” It pisses you off how much he’s liking this. “I’ve barely even started.”

You practically growl at him, lip drawing up to reveal your sharp teeth, but you know he just finds it amusing. Especially when you try to grind your hips down onto his fingers as if that’ll be enough to break the Force hold he has on your body. You can’t move much beyond that with the way he looms over the throne, his legs pinning yours and your hands still stuck above your head. An involuntary whimper rips from your throat when he moves his thumb to your clit, rubbing at it with more purpose and ferocity and a third finger managing to slip into your eager cunt. Your feet scrabble against the floor, trying to find some kind of purchase as the denial of an orgasm makes you dizzy. You try and swallow the drool pooling in your mouth, the breath of your panting fogging the metal panels on Kylo’s helmet from your proximity.

You give in to begging once tears prick your eyes. Your words are barely more than a whisper. “Please- please, Kylo, just-“

There’s a harsh thrust up into your cunt that has your words falling silent, instead replaced by a sharp, high pitched yelp. “What did I fucking tell you?” He demands, pressing even harder against that spot along your walls that has you seeing stars. You feel like you’re about to explode from the built up tension in your body. “What did I tell you to call me?”

You glare at him, your eyes full of all the fury you can’t manage to get out with your voice. You don’t want to say it. You don’t want to bend to this man who’s held such a ridiculous amount of power over you for what feels like your entire life. Your teeth grind together in defiance, even as your face burns. He hums at that and seems almost happy that you’re going against him. He does love a good fight.

His fingers stall and begin to slowly slide out of you, ready to leave you completely empty and with a simmering need that won’t be taken care of. You jolt, eyes widening. It’s in that moment you find you don’t actually give a fuck about defying him, you just need him to stay in you. “Supreme Leader!” You practically shout, so sudden it even startles yourself. Your next words are quieter, more restrained. “Supreme Leader, please..”

You moan in relief when his fingers take back their positions deep inside your cunt, the sounds of your slick sloshing around filling the empty throne room. “Good,” Kylo says roughly, clearly struggling himself. Your obedience is music to his ears and it does nothing to soothe the ache of his cock still restrained by his pants. It just makes it worse. “Say it again.”

You hate him. You’re probably going to kill him. “Supreme Leader, please-“ you have to choke back your humiliation and death threats, “please let me cum.”

This time Kylo groans, the desperate sound crackling through his helmet. He thrusts his fingers one more time, swiping his thumb along your clit, before he lets you go. The release is instant. Something akin to a scream comes from you with your orgasm, the world around you feeling like it’s shattering. You can barely breathe, pure pleasure wracking your body and sending lightning through your limbs. The dam finally broke, and it feels so fucking good. The unbearable pressure is gone, bliss washing through you like a wave from the ocean as you cum around his hand. “See how nice I am?” Kylo says with heavy breath, barely able to contain himself. His eyes are locked on to where his hand disappears into your pants; he can feel your cum pooling on his glove. “How well I reward you when you’re good?”

It’s all you can do to nod dumbly, too blissed out with your ears still ringing to really comprehend what he’s saying. You don’t resist when your pants are pulled off, your underwear entirely soaked through and baring your sensitive, wet cunt to the cold air. You shiver. Your cloak is tossed aside, your top layers undone to reveal your upper body. You’re barely more than a rag doll when Kylo braces an arm against your back, using it to scoop you out of the throne so he can take your spot. His zipper is pulled down, his boxers lowered so his cock is finally freed, painfully erect and dribbling precum.

He sinks you down to the hilt without hesitation. All the air is punched from your lungs, your body tensing as his length fills you to capacity. Kylo’s appreciative groan is loud and throaty, his fingers digging bruises into your hips. You have to pause for a moment to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling so full it’s like you’re not allowed to breathe. Your lips are parted, your nails digging into the ribbed sleeves on his forearms for purchase. His body is warm and muscular beneath your hands.

You struggle to move, still feeling the after effects of your orgasm, your limbs weak and trembling. Kylo makes no effort to help you, his helmet instead tilted up towards you expectantly. “If you want it you’ll have to work for it, Commander.” He says with some twisted amusement. You briefly consider how easy it’d be to reach forward and wring his neck.

But you put that aside, swallowing your broken pride. You unfortunately want his cock more than that. The first thrust is bliss, pleasure filled shocks coursing through you like a live wire. You and Kylo moan in tandem, both of you finally getting some form of relief. Your movements are slow at first, trying desperately to get used to the feeling of his cock splitting you open. His hands travel up your sides, his left glove still soaked in your juices and leaving a trail along your skin. He finds your breasts, encompassing them with large, warm palms that have your head tilting back and your eyes closing. He pinches your stiffened nipples between his fingers, rolling them experimentally as you whine and arch into his touch. Your pace on his cock is steady now, finally having figured out a rhythm.

“Touch yourself.” Kylo orders suddenly, words sounding choked.

Your gaze snaps to him, brows furrowing slightly. “What?”

“Touch yourself.” He snaps again. “If you’re smart, you’ll listen to what I say.”

You glower, your face burning even hotter. He knows you don’t enjoy doing it, which is giving him all the more reason to make you. You hesitate, both not wanting to do as he demands and also not wanting to see whatever repercussions will come if you don’t. Your shaking fingers reach down and find your clit, the bud still sensitive and aching from Kylo’s earlier abuse. Your lip is between your teeth, trying to keep back your moans as you run circles over your clit. The stimulation quickly builds and you can feel that familiar knot forming in your gut again.

Kylo’s helmet tilts up and you can feel his eyes on you. You try not to meet them. “You look pretty like this, you know? Finally fucking listening to me.” He rumbles, giving your nipple a particularly hard pinch and making you writhe in his grip. “Say my name.”

You try to ignore him, ignore his stupid power trip and ego boost. But then he makes his move—one hand comes down to grip your wrist and the other is firm on your hip, completely stalling your movements and messing up your concentration. Your climax steadily begins to fade, a loud and frustrated groan coming from you. “This is stupid.” You snarl at him.

He doesn’t back down. “Say it.”

A harsh breath blows through your nose. You move your head so you can look past him, not wanting to admit that this is what he’s bringing you to. “Supreme Leader.” You mutter, your hips shifting to try and get friction with his cock still hard inside your cunt. He puts a stop to that quickly with a harsh squeeze.

Kylo lets go of your wrist to instead grab your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Again.”

“Supreme Leader.” You grit out.

“One more time.”

You grab his forearm, your nails digging deep enough and with such fury that they’ll leave marks. It’s the least you can do. “Supreme Leader.”

“Good girl.” He murmurs, thumb running along your lower lip. You want nothing more than to sink your teeth into it until you taste blood. “You’ve done so well.”

His following thrust up into you has you forgetting what insult you were going to say. Both of his hands rest on your hips now, keeping you steady as he fucks you mercilessly. You bend forward, gripping his shoulders as some kind of anchor, punctuated moans spilling endlessly from your mouth. His helmet is downturned, the forehead of it resting against your sternum as he watches his cock disappear inside of your cunt, slick smearing along the front of his pants. He uses his Force to swirl against your clit, creating a sort of buzzing sensation that quickly brings that knot back and sets your blood ablaze.

“A commander reduced to a fucking cocksleeve. So good for my dick, aren’t you?” He breathes, words made even more gravelly by his vocoder. “Fuck.” You can only nod along and whimper, your brain fucked into useless mush.

You grip him tighter when your second orgasm finally bursts, your walls spasming around his cock and making him curse even louder. Cum gushes from you, dripping along your folds and making a further mess of Kylo’s pants. You cry out when he keeps thrusting into you, everything throbbing and overly sensitive for his harsh pace. You can’t think straight, you can only dig your teeth into the padded armor of his shoulder as tears well and threaten to fall.

His cock twitches, his hips stuttering. He gets in a few more thrusts before he’s cumming at last, a slew of cusses mixed with grunts and groans falling from his mouth. You hum in pleasure when you feel his warm spend filling your cunt to the brim, effectively coating your walls white.

Neither of you can move for a couple of minutes after. You don’t know how long you sit there for, your body finally relaxing and your eyes closing. He doesn’t pull out, his cock softening inside you and making sure you stay plugged full of his cum. You’re tempted to fall asleep before Kylo’s hands are leaving your hips and instead coming up to undo the latches on his helmet. There’s a hiss of air as the mechanisms slide out of place and he’s able to take it off. His black hair falls around his face, sweat drenching the ends.

You struggle to lift yourself up, but you want to see him. Your hands shake from exhaustion when they reach forward, taking his cheeks in your palms. He looks so tired. His sigh tickles your skin, his eyes closing at your touch. He seems significantly more relaxed now, his body letting go of its tension and his Force signature becoming something calmer. You can feel the weight shift as he leans into your right hand. His arms circle around your back, somehow pulling you even closer.

He swallows before speaking. “I was… afraid.” He mutters. “Afraid without you here… and yet I had to do it. Otherwise I’d lose you.”

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips gentle as they brush along your collarbone. “I was afraid that I would fail. That it would’ve all been for nothing.” He continues. He sounds so quiet, quieter than you’ve heard him in a while. You run your fingers through his hair. “I just… I’m glad I sent you away.”

“Me too.” You mumble, your eyes trained on the back wall as your mind runs. You’re finally coming to terms with the fact that your death had almost been set in stone at the hands of Snoke. Coming to terms with the fact that your lifelong teacher was going to have you executed by his star pupil, and the fact that Kylo decided to save you and possibly get himself killed instead. The fact he did everything he could to make sure you wouldn’t come back to a death sentence. You swallow thickly. “Thank you.”

He stills at those words. They’re the last thing he expected to hear from you and it makes him uneasy. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s okay. You know he can’t. Besides, it’s easy to gather what he wants to say from his Force in this moment of vulnerability. An apology is at the forefront; an apology for taking things out on you again. He doesn’t regret it, but he didn’t mean for it to happen. Then underneath that there’s longing that’s still lingering from when you were gone. He wanted nothing more than to see you, to know you were okay. He’s more than happy to have you in his arms now.

You pull yourself out of his thoughts, blowing out a tired sigh and resting your head on his shoulder. He wraps his cape around you to protect your mostly-naked form from the chill of the throne room, his warmth bleeding into you. You’re content to just sit there in his lap, and he seems content to let you. He relaxes back into the throne, cradling you against him with his soft breathing ruffling the hairs on the top of your head.

You’re together. You’re alive. That’s all you need in this moment.

#insane behavior #writing mean Kylo is kinda new so 🙏#sorry if it’s wonky or anything lmao #star wars #star wars fanfic #star wars x reader #original characters #kylo ren #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren x reader #kylo fanfic #kylo x reader #kylo #kylo x you #Kylo ren angst #Kylo ren fluff #Kylo ren smut #smut fic

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lansitec · 2 years ago

Text

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keferon · 7 months ago

Note

im glad that my first submission was enjoyed. this was meant to be a part of it, but i struggle a lot more writing first aids pov than vortexs. its still not perfect, but i figure i should let it out into the wild before it drives me crazy.

some further questions: what exactly are the quintessons made of? are they techno-organic? entirely mechanical? or like...synthetic materials mimicking biology? and whats up with the program that produced vortex? did it shut down? or is it still operating (maybe under shockwave now?) did jazz go through it?

______________________________________________________________

His head is killing him.

Felix comes to in the unyielding dark of Vortex’s cockpit, squinting uselessly before giving up, letting his head lean back against the seatrest. It pulses in time with his heartbeat- elevated- sending waves of fresh misery through him. But he’s alive, Vortex let him live, and the realization pulls a miserable laugh from him.

Vortex saved him.

From Pharma.

The thought is like ice water poured over his head washing away any lingering exhaustion. Pharma. What the hell was going on? Why did he-? Had the irritable CMO finally lost it? Or was there something else going on?

Felix’s stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of Pharma obeying another- who would order this? Who could order this? To what end? How had none of the other medical staff noticed? Or did they notice and not care?

His stomach lurches again, and Felix fumbles at the restraints- looser, now- and finally manages to hit the quick release clasp, practically flopping forward before he catches himself, swaying pathetically in the dark- pulling his helmet off is a welcome relief, the cooler air of the cabin circulating around his abused head. All of his muscles are sore, each joint something just a little firmer than liquid. The only light comes from the running lights, blinking on like soft red stars against Vortex’s night, and Felix lets himself stare blankly at a particularly interesting assortment of them, trying to will the nausea to subside.

It does not. In fact, it strikes back with a vengeance, and Felix presses a fist to his mouth to stifle his suffering. It works, somewhat, his gorge settling slightly. He needs to get out of here, out of the blood-and-bleach scented warmth of Vortex before he overstays his welcome. Maybe he already has, and Vortex is just biding his time before he kills Felix gruesomely. Right on cue, he can feel the familiar faint prickling sensation of cameras and infrared sensors being trained on him, the behemoth paying its quarry its undivided attention.

“Vortex,” he says, or more accurately, tries to say. All that comes out of his mouth is a pathetic little groan. His stomach is churning again now.

“Vortex.” he tries again while fumbling for the canopy hatch- God, movement was a bad idea- and while it still fails the benchmark of being a word, it at least sounds like Vortex’s name.

His gorge rises again, and Felix can’t stop the faint whimper as he runs his hands over the instrument panel, looking for the canopy release lever. He is not going to throw up inside Vortex, even if worse things have been thoroughly ground into the panels and seams of the mech. Felix still has some pride. And he doesn’t need to risk Vortex’s wrath any more than he has.

“Vortex.” and now it sounds like a proper name. Felix can feel the hum of Vortex’s machinery and wiring change underneath his palms. His head spins, and the tug of exhaustion has returned, borne on the back of the enveloping warmth of the cockpit.

His stomach flips again.

“Vortex, open the cockpit.” Felix tries, giving up on fumbling in the dark for the lever. “Please,” he amends, because apparently his manners have left with his health.

The darkness takes on a vaguely threatening feeling. Vortex must have spent all his goodwill on not killing Felix earlier.

“Vortex, please-” he gags, pressing his fist to his mouth again, “I- I’m going to-”

He gags again, and this time- thank you, Vortex!- the canopy lifts, barely a few feet before coming to a stubborn stop, the dull halogen glow of the docking bay lights breaching the cockpit. The opaque filter over the canopy bleeds away, returning the familiar blood-red hue to Vortex’s visor. Felix barely makes it to the edge of the cockpit before throwing up, practically lying out over the instrument panel as his arms fail him. It spatters, worryingly dark against the burnished metal of the catwalk. He lies there bonelessly, his throat burning and head spinning. How the hell had his life ended up like this? Cosmic punishment for stealing organs still? Felix had thought getting demoted to nurse and resident Vortex-cleaner punishment enough.

He eventually rolls off of his stomach and carefully (gracelessly) slithers back to sit on the floor of the cockpit, head resting against the instrument panel, staring up at the cockpit ceiling. The dark plating is smooth, almost seamlessly jointed together, only interrupted by the explosion of wires and cording comprising the neural connectors. It’s…almost peaceful, in the cockpit, with only the purr of Vortex’s systems humming through the panel that Felix is resting his head on interrupting the silence. The halogens filter through the red polycarbonate of Vortex’s canopy, staining the light bloody ruby.

His mouth is dry. Horrifically dry. He needs water. Getting water means leaving the relative safety of Vortex’s cockpit.

Water can wait.

Pharma might still be out there, lurking.

His head swims, stomach vaguely threatening to rebel again. Felix turns his head, pressing his cheek to the warm metal of the instrument panel. It feels pretty nice. This particular piece of Vortex only smells like metal and circuitry, not blood. If he closes his eyes, it’s just pleasantly dark enough to settle into a half-sleep slumped against Vortex’s plating. His skin prickles faintly.

The pang! Of a piece of plating hitting the floor wakes him from his doze, sending fresh gouges of pain rippling across his skull. Felix blinks, headache settling squarely behind his right eye socket and encompassing his entire skull. Where had that come from? Was something wrong with Vortex? Or more likely, had Vortex tired of his presence and was preparing to finally kill him?

The plating sits on the flooring, looking as deceptively innocent as any non-sentient sheet of metal can. Felix huddles back further against the instrument paneling. The canopy was shut sometime while he was drowsing, completely locking him in. Light ripples across the cockpit, and Felix slowly twists around to squint up at the display.

[OPEN THE BAG]

Bag. Open the bag. What bag?

Felix casts helplessly around the cockpit space, searching- there! In a shadowed cubby against the far wall, which- if he remembers from the pilot’s manual correctly- should not be there. Felix attempts to stand, legs wobbling, before giving up and crawling over to the alcove. His skin prickles again, and he refuses to feel shame underneath Vortex’s mechanical gaze. It’s because of the stupid medical boot. Not him. He pushes the loose plating aside and is rewarded with a screech of metal-on-metal that sends his head throbbing again. Felix sags against the wall with a groan before throwing what’s left of his caution to the wind, sticking his hand into the alcove and dragging the bag out. Vortex does not take his hand off. Not even a finger gets scraped on the exposed metal. There’s not a hint of violence from the mech, and Felix sneaks a glance at one of the cockpit cams. It’s trained directly on him, lens shadowed in the claret gloom. He gives it a weak smile.

The bag is the heavy black polyester duffle ubiquitous to military installations, and it takes a bit of fumbling for Felix to find the zipper and tug it open. Inside is a fresh pilot’s uniform-the Nomex base-side kind, a small toolkit, a radio, a number of MREs and-

Water.

Felix grabs the first bottle, twisting the cap off and chugging the water down. It’s warm, with a strange plasticky aftertaste. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He drinks another just as fast, water settling heavy in his stomach and washing the taste of bile from his mouth before leaning back against the wall again, the steady rumble of machinery behind it a small comfort. The ex-medic checks the cockpit display, but it remains a steady blank. Another check to the camera confirms that it’s still trained directly at him. Felix gives it a second awkward smile.

“Vortex- I ah…I- thanks.” He finishes lamely, rubbing his face. His skin is disgustingly oily to the touch. What do you say to a thousand-ton killing machine when it doesn’t kill you? “For-”

Not killing me.

Saving me from the evil clutches of Pharma.

Giving me water.

“For everything. Yeah.” Felix cringes at the awkward words. He’s never been particularly well-spoken, but this is just embarrassing. He almost wishes that Vortex would try to kill him again, just for the possibility to escape this torture.

They sit in silence, Felix’s gaze focused on the floor, skin prickling. His stomach clenches, water threatening to make a reappearance.

He should’ve known better to drink anything Vortex offered. He slowly stands, one hand against the wall of the cockpit for stability before slowly crossing to the front. “...can you please open the cockpit?” He hazards, one hand pressed to his openly rebelling stomach.

There’s the distinctive sound of the locking pins dropping. Felix winces as his stomach clenches again.

“Please-” he retches, throat burning as bile forces itself back up his worn esophagus. “I-I don’t wanna-”

The canopy lifts with an almost petulant hiss of the hydraulics, only a few feet again. And again, Felix barely gets his head out of the cockpit before throwing up. The water burns as it leaves, and Felix spits a few times after it to clear his mouth, hand pressed to his cramping stomach. His head pounds under the unrelenting light, and he slips back into the welcoming dim dark of the cockpit. For the second time that day, Felix finds himself sitting on the floor of Vortex’s cockpit, mouth sour and throat stinging, staring up at the ruby wash of light across the ceiling. The canopy hisses shut, locking pins ch-chunk-ing into place with finality. The red light ripples, disturbed, and Felix can’t stop the weary sigh as he lifts his head to read Vortex’s words.

[FELIX-BABY, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SWALLOW]

Felix feels his cheeks heat, and he looks away from the chiding display. He’s not sure which is worse, being called baby by Vortex or the joke.

“I threw up. That's different.” He mutters, running hands through his sweat-stiff hair.

The ventilation stutters, on-off-on-off, like human laughter. His cheeks heat more.

[DRINK MORE. SLOWLY]

Felix gawks at the screen. He must have brain damage- there’s no way Vortex is giving him medical advice. Advice in general, actually. This must be a trick of some kind.

But he is thirsty.

He shuffles back over to the bag.

Opens another water bottle.

He drinks slowly, stealing small sips each time until the bottle is mostly empty and his stomach settles into a kind of low-grade simmer. His headache eases some. Immediate crisis resolved, Felix’s attention wanders back to the medical boot. Why does he have it? His leg doesn’t hurt- he wracks his brain, did he injure it sometime before Pharma got to him? Or did he put up enough of a fight to injure himself? Was that why he was drugged?

His memories are not forthcoming, but it makes sense. Many sedatives interfere with the formation of new memories; if it was put on at around the same time as the IV, his brain might not have had the ability to recall why.

It leaves only one course of action.

Felix fumbles with the buckles and straps- thank god Pharma only used one of the temporary, removable braces rather than something more permanent like plaster or fiberglass. Otherwise he’d have to stick his leg into Vortex’s machinery to get it off. He pulls the boot off with little difficulty, studying his leg. A simple check; wiggling his toes, rolling his ankle, flexing his knee. No pain. Not even any cuts or bruises cross his flesh. Which means…Felix pokes around the wads of cotton padding pulled from the brace. There!

A small metal device, no bigger than a coin, nestled into a fold of gauze. A tracker? Or some kind of…recording device? He holds it up for inspection, skin crawling as Vortex’s cameras and scanners snap to it. A surge of malevolence fills the cabin, Vortex’s wrath roused by the discovery. Plating rattles, the low purr of the mech’s engine climbing to a dull roar. Felix draws his legs to his chest, curling against the bag for its flimsy protection, device clutched tight in his fist. Another panel pops loose, clatter of metal half-drowned by the increasing volume of machinery grinding.

[DESTROY IT]

Felix does not need to be told twice, scrambling to toss the cursed thing into Vortex’s grinding gears. It’s shredded immediately, fragile circuits ripped apart and ground to silicone dust in the face of his fury. There’s a high pitched whine- Vortex’s weapons systems charging, oh god- before it all subsides. The silence is profound against the pain in Felix’s head, the mech’s engines and drives settling down towards their previous quiet purr like nothing happened. The plating stills, returning to inert, the gap where Vortex had offered Felix a place to throw the thing the only break in the metal.

The medic carefully replaces the panel covering the humming machinery, plating hooking into place smoothly, seamless. No response from Vortex. He casts a glance at the cockpit canopy, but there’s no chance that Vortex will let him out, and he’s not about to ask after all of… that. There’s only one thing for him to do, other than try to sleep- which is not happening.

He goes through the bag again, trying to regain some semblance of calm, hands clammy. The toolkit is compact, but it has a surprising number of tools, most of which Felix has no idea how to use. He's a medic by training, not a mechanic. He carefully checks each one anyways to occupy himself, pristine metal warm and smooth against his fingers. Next are the MREs. Still sealed and within expiry date, no obvious signs of tampering. He puts them back in the bag. But the real prize is the pilot’s uniform, fabric stiff with disuse and heavy across the shoulders and chest with patches. Felix pulls the suit out of the bag and half unfolds it over his lap, running his fingers over the patches crowding the suit. Different patches for different bases, various military campaigns from all over the world, rank, even for different specialties. The owner had been cross-trained as a helicopter mechanic.

He lingers over the name, petting over the coarse thread picking out VORTEX over the right breast of the suit. Felix toys with the velcro; his own pilot patches haven’t come in yet…

It’s a dirty thought, stealing a dead man’s name tape for his own use, especially if the dead man in question is watching and prone to fly into fits of rage. Felix might’ve sunk low to reach this point in his life, but Pharma must’ve really dosed him up with something if he’s this out of his mind to even consider such a thing. He shouldn’t even want Vortex’s name emblazoned over his shoulder. But the thought lingers the longer he stares at the patches.

Pilots typically wear number badges to denote their mech anyway, what’s the harm in wearing a name instead? Vortex is already known better by his name than by his serial number. It’s fitting for his pilot to wear his name too. Vortex seems like the kind who’d like that sort of thing.

Felix hastily folds the suit up, stuffing it back into the bag before temptation can overwhelm sense. His unfortunate predilections aside, stealing from the dead is a violation of numerous ethical codes, and he’s pretty sure Vortex would kill him for even considering taking something so personal from the remainder of his belongings. Even if the mech has been almost…tame towards him so far. Not a pinch or a threat. Even some banter. No, this must be the calm before the metaphorical vortex sucks him in and kills him.

He casts a reluctant glance towards the exit again, skin prickling. He’s just going to have to wait this one out. It’s not a terrible concept, waiting here in the dark and warm for Vortex to make his mind up. It’s not like Pharma can find his way in. Whatever happens, it’s at least a break to figure out what he does next. Whatever that is.

ANON. ANON LET ME PICK YOU UP AND HOLD YOU FOREVER. ANON I DONT KNOW YOUR NAME BUT I WANNA HOLD YOUR HAND FKFKGKMRJFKFNDJKSK

Haha mmm. I'm fine I'm okay I'm normal

Yeah so about Quintessons. I imagine they can be all kind of creatures. Organic, techno organic, straight up just techno. Tf:one, Cyberverse, straight up Pacific rim Kaijus. All kinds of monsters haha

Also, Vortex was the part of the first batch of pilots for Mecha program. The technology was very new and VERY underdeveloped so...yeah, Vortex was part time pilot and part time lab rat.

The whole process of making someone into a pilot was a lot more dangerous and painful back then because no one really knew what they were doing. But after some time it became safer and less painful. So when Jazz joined he didn't suffer as much as Vortex. And when later Blurr joined he didn't suffer as much as Jazz.

(You didn't ask but. I like to think that Vortex knows quite a lot about all kinds of side effects of neural connection. Also about side effects of physical procedures and all kinds of weird fucked up experiments. Just because. You know. He went through it all. A lot of times.)

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#tf mecha universe #texaid #mecha writing #mecha ta writing #vortex #first aid #AAAUUUHH I LOVE THIS THING SO MUCHHH #long post

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swtechspecs · 5 months ago

Text

Imperial Army Swamp Trooper Armor

Source: Planet of the Mists (West End Games, 1992)

#star wars #galactic empire #imperial army #swamp troopers #swamp trooper armor #armor #blasters #grappling hook #survival gear #helmet #galactic civil war #first appearance planet of the mists #star wars ttrpg #star wars d6 #west end games #sensor technology

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lazy-ahh · 1 month ago

Text

DEVOTION

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

a love that’s more teeth than tenderness—jason todd doesn’t know how to love you quietly. it’s in the traps he rigs around your apartment, the way his hands shake when he pulls you close, the growl in his voice when you’re five minutes late. he’d raze gotham to keep you safe, and the worst part? you’d let him. you’d help him burn it down.

taglist @kasarian , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

you step into the apartment, kicking off your shoes with a little more force than necessary—because honestly, who has the energy to bend down after a long day?—when you hear it. a soft click under your foot. you freeze for half a second before rolling your eyes. another one of jason’s stupid security measures.

it’s just a pressure sensor, harmless unless you’re some unlucky bastard trying to break in while jason’s out doing whatever morally questionable shit he calls "work." and yeah, okay, maybe it’s overkill. maybe the six other traps he’s rigged around the place already cover every possible entry point. but that’s jason for you—paranoid, overprotective, and completely incapable of leaving well enough alone.

your phone buzzes in your pocket—third time this hour. you don’t even have to look to know it’s him. of course it’s him. because god forbid you go more than twenty minutes without him checking in like you’re some helpless civilian who doesn’t know how to handle themselves. (which, for the record, you definitely do. you’ve thrown hands with worse than some two-bit gotham thugs.)

you sigh, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. just fondness. the kind that settles warm and stubborn in your chest, no matter how much you pretend otherwise.

"just checking in," the text reads.

you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. dramatic bastard. but despite yourself, your chest does that stupid, traitorous little squeeze—the one that always happens when he does this overprotective shit. you thumb out a reply before you can overthink it. "i’m fine, jay. just got home."

his answer pings back before you can even lock your phone. "good. lock the door."

no "hey." no "miss you." just straight to the point. typical. you huff out a laugh, but your fingers still brush over the screen like it’s something fragile. god, you’re pathetic.

of course you locked the door. you always lock the damn door—not because you need to (you’ve taken down guys twice your size without breaking a sweat), but because you know what it does to him if you don’t. you’ve seen the way his jaw clenches when he thinks you’re not looking, the way his fingers twitch toward his guns like he’s seconds from bolting back home just to check.

it wasn’t always like this. well, okay—it was, but not this bad. back when he was just your ghost, your shadow, the nameless presence you knew was watching you but could never prove. back when he was still dead to the world, and you were just the idiot who kept visiting his grave every other day like clockwork, talking to a headstone like it could talk back.

(the two of you never talked about what you used to say to that empty plot of dirt. some things are too raw, even for you. but you have a feeling he knows. no, you know he knows.)

then came that night—the muggers, the alley, the way you’d barely rolled your shoulders before he dropped out of the fucking sky like some avenging angel in a leather jacket and a stupid helmet. he’d made quick work of them, all brutal efficiency and barely-contained rage, and you? you just stood there. staring. because you knew.

you’d lunged before he could disappear again—because of course he was trying to disappear, the self-sacrificing bastard—and wrapped your arms around him so tight the plates of his armor dug into your ribs. it hurt, but you didn’t care. you couldn’t care, not when his heartbeat was thundering under your palms, not when the smell of gunpowder and leather and him flooded your senses like a punch to the gut.

"it’s you," you’d choked out, voice cracking like you were some heartbroken kid instead of someone who’d spent years pretending they were fine. "you idiot. you absolute idiot, did you really think i wouldn’t know?" your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket, desperate, like if you let go he’d dissolve into smoke. "i’d know you anywhere. in any lifetime. any fucking universe."

he didn't move. didn't breathe. the kind of stillness that wasn't just shock—it was like you'd reached inside his ribs and yanked out whatever scraps of his heart he'd been stupid enough to keep for himself. (as if he hadn't already given you every broken piece years ago, back when you were both too young and too stupid to know how much it would hurt later.)

his breath came out in one jagged gasp, the kind that gets stuck in your throat when you're trying not to sob. for one horrible, endless moment, you could practically feel him shutting down—muscles tensing like he was about to bolt, hands twitching like he wanted to push you away before you realized what a mistake this was. before you realized he was the mistake.

(like hell you'd let him. you wouldn’t have let him. you’d have held on tighter. you’d have crawled after him if you had to. you'd chase him through fucking crime alley if you had to. you'd done it before.)

but then—slowly, so slowly it ached—his hands came up. trembling. hesitant. like he thought you’d vanish if he touched you too hard. when his arms finally locked around you, it wasn’t the desperate, bruising grip you expected. it was reverent. like you were something sacred. like he was afraid he’d wake up and find this was just another cruel dream.

(you didn’t let go. not then. not ever.)

now? now he’s worse. so much worse. like, next-level, should-probably-be-concerning-but-is-weirdly-endearing kind of worse. the apartment's practically booby-trapped enough to give batman pause, your phone blows up every twenty minutes like clockwork, and the way he looks at you? fuck. like you're some miracle he doesn't deserve. like if he looks away for one second, you'll turn to smoke between his fingers.

and yeah, okay, maybe you should be weirded out. maybe normal people would call this obsessive. but you're not normal, and neither is he, and that's the fucking point. you get it. you get it, down to your bones. because if you'd crawled your way out of your own grave only to find someone still waiting for you? still choosing you? you'd lose your goddamn mind too.

jason todd loves like a starving man at a banquet—all trembling hands and desperate bites, terrified the food will disappear if he blinks. it should feel like a cage. it would feel like a cage, with anyone else. but it's him. so when his arms wrap around you too tight, when his voice goes rough with "where were you?" after five fucking minutes, you just press closer. because you know the shape of this fear. you've tasted it yourself.

because here's the secret: you're just as bad. you love him with the same terrifying intensity, the same need that should probably scare you but doesn't. not really. not when it's him.

you love the way his hands shake when he pulls you close after a long night—not the dramatic, crime-fighting kind of shake, but the quiet tremble of a man who still can't believe he gets to touch you. like if he holds on tight enough, he'll wake up and this’ll all be some cruel dream. you love how he remembers your schedule, how he still hums your favorite songs under his breath when he thinks you're not listening, how he makes your eggs just slightly runny because he knows you like them that way even though he prefers his 'perfectly crisp'. stupid things. little things. the kind of things that would be meaningless if it wasn't him remembering them like they're scripture.

and fuck, the way he looks at you. like you hung the goddamn moon. like he'd carve out his own heart if you asked nicely. (you wouldn't. but the fact that he would if you were ever to ask? that gets you every time.)

what you don't say—what gets stuck in your throat like broken glass—is that you're just as fucking gone for him. you know the exact pressure needed to clean his favorite knife without fucking up the edge, which snacks he craves after patrol (those delicious spicy chili chips), how to make his hot chocolate just right—extra whipped cream, because "sweetheart, if i wanted vaguely chocolate water i'd drink batman's sad attempt at comfort food." you've memorized the way his breath stutters when you trace the scar along his ribs, how his eyes go that particular stormy green when he's blinking back tears, the exact weight of him when he collapses into your lap after a shitty night, all battered armor and quiet hurt.

and yeah, maybe you keep his favorite hoodie tucked under your pillow like some lovesick teenager. maybe you've memorized the pattern of his scars better than your own. maybe you wake up some nights choking on phantom dirt, your hands still remembering the feel of cold headstone beneath your palms, the way your voice cracked raw screaming his name into empty air.

but he's here. he came back. and some days, when the sunlight hits him just right and he smiles at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen, you think you might actually owe the universe for this one. for him.

sometimes, when the moonlight spills through the curtains just right and your breathing's gone slow and even, he lets himself be vulnerable. his calloused fingers—usually so sure around a gun, so deadly in a fight—trace the curve of your cheekbone like he's mapping constellations. it's the lightest touch, barely there, like he's afraid you'll dissolve into smoke if he presses too hard. like you're some sacred relic instead of the same idiot who once ate an entire pizza in one sitting (despite him warning you) and then complained about stomach aches for hours.

you're not fragile. you've taken punches that would knock out people twice your size, have scars that tell stories he doesn't even know yet. but in these quiet moments, when his breath catches and his hands tremble just slightly, he treats you like something precious. like you're the only thing in this godforsaken city worth protecting. you're not. but to him, you are.

and maybe that's why you don't give him shit about the excessive security measures (seriously, who needs that many knives hidden in one apartment?), or the way your phone lights up with his texts every twenty minutes like clockwork, or how his voice goes all gravelly with barely-contained panic when you're late coming home from the fucking grocery store. because you know that fear. you've tasted it—bitter and metallic—in the back of your throat every time he walks out the door wearing that damn helmet.

you love him like it's the last rebellion against a world that keeps trying to take him from you—like every breath you take is just another way to say fuck you to the universe. and yeah, maybe loving someone this much should terrify you, should send you running for the hills. but the thing is? you've never been good at walking away from a fight. especially not when it's him.

so when he stumbles through the window at 3 AM, knuckles split and that familiar exhaustion dragging at his shoulders like a second skin, you don't even blink. the blood doesn't faze you (you've seen worse), the way his hands tremble when he reaches for you doesn't make you hesitate. if anything, you meet him halfway, your fingers curling into his jacket before he can even get his boots off.

you press closer, until there's no space left between you, until you can feel his heartbeat against your ribs—too fast, too wild, but there. your lips find the scar on his mouth (the one he got that time he wouldn't stop running his mouth at black mask), then the fresh bruise blooming along his jaw (you'll ask about that tomorrow, when he's not vibrating out of his skin). and when he buries his face against your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, you don't just let him. you drag him closer, your own fingers digging into his back like you're trying to fuse your skeletons together.

you breathe him in like he's your last hit of oxygen, your nose pressed against his hair, memorizing the scent of gunpowder and sweat and him. your hands don't shake when they slide under his shirt—they tremble, tracing every scar, every ridge of muscle, like you're trying to rewrite every hurt he's ever known with your fingertips.

and when he finally slumps against you, all that tension bleeding out of him in one long sigh, you hold him up. you always will.

then when he whispers it against your skin—lips brushing your collarbone like a prayer, voice rough with something too raw to name—"i'd let this goddamn city burn for you. hell, i'd torch the whole fucking world and smile while it burned," you don't doubt him for a second. how could you? you've seen the way his hands steady when they're wrapped around yours, how his eyes go dark and certain in a way that makes your ribs ache.

your smile comes slow, private—the kind you only ever let him see—as you card your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. "i know, pretty boy." because you do. you've always known. it's in the way he memorizes the rhythm of your breathing when you sleep, how he still flinches when you touch his back (too many scars, too many ghosts) but still lean in for more, how every goddamn morning starts with his lips against your pulse point like he's checking you're still alive.

and christ, it terrifies you sometimes, how good it feels to be loved this way. not careful, not gentle, but consuming. like there's no version of this story where you don't end up tangled together, blood and bone and all the ugly, beautiful parts in between. it's the kind of love that should feel like too much, except it's him, so it's never enough.

(because here's the truth they don't tell you about love this fierce: it doesn't make you softer. it makes you reckless. it makes you dangerous. and when his mouth finds yours in the dark, all teeth and desperation, you think—with something like joy, like hunger—that you'd raze entire cities for this man. you probably would have if he hadn't saved you that night.)

"i know," you say again, quieter this time, and let him kiss the words from your lips.

because you would too. you’d carve your name into the bones of the earth if it meant he’d never have to hurt again. the real question isn’t if—it’s which one of you would burn brighter.

would it be him, with his hands stained and his heart too big for his chest, tearing through the dark just to keep you safe? or would it be you, reckless and grinning, already halfway through the matchstick before he even finishes shouting your name?

does it even matter?

when the smoke clears, you’ll always find each other in the ashes.

2.5k words of jason todd being devastatingly human—all rough hands and soft devotion, love that borders on obsession but feels like coming home. because god, i missed him. missed writing his particular brand of broken tenderness, the way he loves like it's the last thing holding him together. because it might just be. it's criminal how i don't get any requests for him compared to mark, but hey—at least this way i get to pour all my pent-up jason feelings into something raw and unfiltered. or maybe i just don't write him well enough... my pretty boy with too much heart and too many scars, who deserves the world and would burn it down for the right person. lowkey wish it's me— hope this makes someone out there fall in love with him all over again like i did. or at least makes you clutch your chest dramatically like i did writing it.

#GODDDDD I MISSED HIM #MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAAANNNN #i kind of lowkey wanna write something sweet or funny for him but all i keep thinking about is angst :'[#BROOOOO WHY ISN'T HE HERE IN MY ARMS RIGHT NOW #lazy-ahh #dc comics #red hood #jason todd #gender neutral reader #red hood x reader #jason todd x reader

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