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smoocheveryclone · 3 years

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dirty old town

Gregor x jedi!reader, part one of ???, ~3k words, uhhh, i don’t actually remember if i gendered the reader? i have to check, no (y/n), no smut though it does begin to get very mildly suggestive near the end. pg13 i guess? if that?

premise: reader is the one to find Gregor on Abafar instead of Colonel Meebur “i am droid racist but will treat clones with even less respect” Gascon

under a cut bc long post

You have mixed feelings about these undercover missions.

On the one hand, despite the danger, there is an element of freedom to them that you relish. You’re not bound by the strict codes of the Jedi Order; you feel greater license to act and speak on impulse… but at the same time, you aren’t strictly yourself. You’re playing a part.

And then you go home, to the Temple or to the War, and maybe it’s just mild disorientation, but you still feel like you’re playing a part. The part of a Jedi.

But you always end up leaving those feelings behind you, and do what you must do.

Your current mission is over now, and you’ve just started your journey home from the Outer Rim… but of course, nothing can be simple.

You end up having to pilot your ship through a- beautiful, admittedly- field of comets. Trusting in the force, you manage to get through it mostly without damage.

Mostly being the operative word.

You take a hit, and you lose your fuel tank, forcing you down onto a force-forsaken planet not far from the one you’ve just left.

You instruct your astromech to power down until you get back, because you don’t know when you’ll be able to recharge her battery next, grab a satchel with some essentials and a full canteen, and set off toward what you sense is some kind of small town.

It’s a long walk, and by the time you see buildings, you’re dusty and dry and tired. And there are battle droids here. Which is fantastic.

First things first, though. You see a sign for a diner and make a beeline for it. Never mind that it looks dirtier and more disreputable the closer you get; there’s food and drink inside. The door opens, and you stop.

That voice.

There’s no mistaking that voice, you know it as well as you know your own. Better. You’ve heard it in countless permutations, all with particular vocal tics, intonations, cadences, turns of phrase which you’ve gotten to know, in some cases quite well. So this one is familiar… but unfamiliar at the same time.

By the time you’ve thought all this, you’re already staring… and not just in curiosity or surprise. You’ve never seen a clone wearing civvies before. You’ve seen them in their armor, whether shiny and new or scuffed and painted; you’ve seen them in their uniforms; you’ve even seen them in the black body gloves they wear under their armor, once or twice (an image you have to swat out of your mind like an insect buzzing around your ear). But never civilian clothing. Something about it plays havoc with your composure, but you can’t look away.

His arms are bare. His hair is attractively mussed, and he’s got a full beard.

He’s also looking back at you.

You’ve seen eyes exactly like his so many times before; you’ve never seen them look back at you quite this way. Like he’s seeing… you. Not a Jedi, not a General, just you. Of course, you realize, you’re wearing civilian clothes as well. As far as he’s concerned, you are just you.

It takes you long enough to wonder who he is and what he’s doing here that you feel a bit silly about it. But once you do wonder, it’s quite a puzzle indeed. Is he undercover, as you were? Is that done? You’ve never heard of it. Though if a man with a million identical brothers could get away with going undercover anywhere, it’d be out here on some Outer Rim dustball. The other possibility is that he’s deserted. You’ve never heard of that, either, though you expect that it must have happened before.

You wouldn’t blame him if that were the case. You certainly wouldn’t squeal on him.

This attitude is, at the heart of it, why you have never, and will never, lead a battalion.

At the moment, though, either of these possibilities leaves you in a delicate situation. You can’t blow his cover, if it’s the first case scenario. You don’t want to scare him off if it’s the second. Then, of course, there’s the third possibility: it’s neither of those things. What else could be going on? But whatever it is, you can’t just avoid him. You can’t go on with your business, pretending you never saw him. The force is telling you that you are meant to be here, and you were meant to find him. Why?

So many questions.

You’ve been loitering by the door, staring at him this whole time, and he’s been going about his job, sneaking glances back at you as he collects dirty dishes and clears off the booths. A Sullustan- owner and operator of the place as far as you can guess- has appeared behind the counter in the meantime, and you give him only a cursory glance as you walk up and take a seat on one of the grimy stools. You pick one where you can peek back into the kitchen and follow him with your eye as he goes back and forth.

The Sullustan is chatting up a regular, which is fine by you. You may be hungry, but you can wait: there’s something far more interesting here than food and drink.

You watch the clone more or less discreetly, every so often letting him catch you looking. You’re waiting for a chance to speak with him, however briefly. Before you can find one, he comes to you.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” he says, giving you a smile.

“I just got into town today,” you say, smiling back at him. Seeming encouraged, he lays down the stack of dirty dishes for a moment to loiter a bit beside you. “My name’s Gregor.”

You give him your name in return, and he tells you it sounds pretty. This unexpectedly beguiling exchange disarms you, and for a moment you almost forget why you wanted to speak to him in the first place.

“I’m very glad to meet you,” you tell him emphatically. You can’t really speak with him here, not beyond this chitchat, but at least you can hint that you’d like to. Gregor, meanwhile, looks delighted.

“Likewise,” he says, and there are a few seconds of oddly intense silence.

“So…” you say, nodding up at the menu sign behind the counter. “What’s good?”

“Well,” he hesitates pointedly, scrunching up his face, and you laugh. “Number four’s all right.”

“Thank you for the recommendation.”

“No problem.”

Your little conversation is interrupted by the Sullustan bellowing for him to get back to work. You have already decided that you do not like this man- Borkus is his name, from what you have overheard- but you order your food and the coldest drink possible, and are otherwise left alone until it arrives.

From then until you finish and pay, he is mostly in the back washing up. You don’t get another chance to speak with him. Whenever he emerges, though, he meets your eye, and before you leave, you give him a lingering look.

Outside, you stop and lean against the outer wall of the diner for a few minutes, thinking. While you’re standing there, you hear something coming from around the back of the building. A door, the scraping of a container on the ground, something being lifted and emptied. You make a guess at what you’re hearing, and duck down the little alleyway. When you peek around the corner… there he is.

“Hello again,” you call softly, hanging around at the edge of the back alley, hoping he’ll come over and talk, away from the overflowing trash bins. It smells back there.

You can’t help noticing the way his face lights up when he sees you again. Peering backwards through the kitchen, he lets the back door close softly and, to your immense relief, begins walking over. You beckon him out to the side alley where the air is less foul.

“Hey there,” he says when he gets close.

“I was wondering… will you be free later on?”

“I get off work in a few hours,” he says, with an air of cautious encouragement.

“Would you meet with me?”

You can feel a little ripple of (pleased) surprise through the force. Obviously he’s amenable to the idea.

“I’d like that,” he replies.

So would you, now it comes to it.

“Good,” you say. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Then, there’s the sound of the diner owner shouting again.

“Gregor! Where are you! Get back in here!”

There’s the sound of the back door into the alley being thrust open, and heavy, stomping footsteps, and you frown in the general direction of the noise. Gregor looks embarrassed; you reach out tentatively, and touch his arm in what you hope is a comforting gesture.

“Sorry,” you say quietly.

He looks at the hand on his arm. You pull it back. He looks at you. You look at him.

“Worth it,” he whispers as the Sullustan rounds the corner.

“What are you doing out here? You take an extra break, it comes out of your pay! Get back in the kitchen and finish washing the dishes!”

“Sorry, Mr. Borkus,” he says, slipping around his irascible employer and scooting back the way he came. “I’m getting back to work, right now!”

You hear the door open and close, and the Sullustan turns a disapproving eye on you. Before he can speak though, you raise your hand and wave it lightly in front of his face, which goes blank.

“You should stop yelling at Gregor,” you say. “I should stop yelling at Gregor,” he repeats. “You’re not going to dock his pay.” “I’m not going to dock his pay.” “You need to get off his back and let him be.” “I need to get off his back and let him be.”

Satisfied that you’ve done what little you can to improve the mysterious clone’s day- whatever his situation actually is- you turn on your heel and walk away.

You spend the next few hours as you had intended before meeting Gregor: enquiring about the parts you need to repair your ship, discreetly poking around for information, observing the battle droids. There’s something going on here (there’s something going on everywhere, these days) but you haven’t figured out what. Frankly- although you chide yourself that you are doing your duty and not to be childish- you’re bored. You’re very much looking forward to meeting up with Gregor later.

So you can figure out what he’s doing here, of course.

After the appropriate amount of time has lapsed, you meander back to the diner, and wait across the road, watching the door.

Eventually, he and the owner emerge. He sees you right away, and veers over in your direction immediately, waving and calling for you as his employer stares (and is ignored by both of you).

“I’ve been waiting all day to see you,” he says, with a big smile on his face.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been doing the same,” you admit, smiling back. “How was work?”

“Better than usual.”

You smile wider.

“Glad to hear it.”

“So… what are you doing here?”

You shrug.

“Passing through.”

“Oh? … How long are you staying in town?”

He looks hopeful. You stop yourself from chewing your lip.

“I don’t know,” you reply honestly. “It depends.”

You realize you’re chewing your lip again when you see the way he’s looking at you.

“On what?”

You can’t help smiling at him.

“Lots of things.”

“Hmm.”

The conversation that follows is, like your first exchange earlier today in the dingy little diner, oddly compelling. Repeatedly, you must remind yourself that you are trying to figure out what he’s doing here, but much like your earlier investigation into the Separatist presence on this planet, you’re getting nowhere. You even attempt, once or twice, to steer the conversation in directions that would raise the suspicions of someone under cover… but he isn’t suspicious at all, and you end up just talking.

Talking, laughing, enjoying each other.

He’s endearing.

But before you while the whole evening away just walking around town, chatting, you come right out and ask.

“So, Gregor… what are you doing here?”

“You mean… besides washing dishes?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugs.

“I don’t know. Surviving, I guess.”

You nod slowly.

“Hmm. How long have you been here?”

“About a year now,” he replies, and you manage to disguise some of your shock at his answer. ‘Undercover’ is starting to look less and less likely. “... What?”

“Nothing. Just. Wow. You’ve been working at the diner that whole time?”

“Yeah.”

You grimace.

“Well, frankly, that sounds awful.”

He laughs, running his hands self-consciously through his hair.

“Well, it… it could be worse.”

That pricks at your heart.

“Yes. I suppose it could.”

You know very well how much worse it could be.

He looks at you, but neither of you speaks for a long moment. Maybe it’s time for the two of you to speak more plainly than this.

“Gregor… Is there somewhere we can go and talk to each other privately?” His eyes are wide as he looks at you, and for just a second, you sense the buzz of excited nerves.

“Oh, uh… well, it’s- it’s not much, but, there’s always my place.”

“That sounds perfect,” you say, touching his arm like you did earlier. It seems to help.

“Great,” he says. “This way!”

He takes your hand, and leads you down the dusty streets that still all look the same to you. You’re not really looking at them anyway.

On the way, you pass by a man he knows in the street. They wave to each other, and- after the strange man glances at you- exchange smiles.

“I’ve been really enjoying talking with you,” he says suddenly.

You look at him.

It’s been so nice, spending time with him like this. Just being yourself, with no part to play.

“Me, too.”

You’re almost there, now. You see the stairwell down into a basement apartment, and he’s slowing down. Before you get there, he stops, leaning against the wall. You can feel his self-consciousness.

“Listen, um, when I said my place wasn’t much? I… Well, it really isn’t much.”

“It doesn’t matter to me where we go,” you tell him kindly.

“It’s just… I wish I had somewhere nicer to take you. I’ve never met anyone like you, before.”

That affects you in a way you can’t altogether contain. For a second, you’re breathless.

“I’ve never met anyone like you before, either.”

It’s the truth.

He’s smiling again. Having never let go of your hand, he runs his thumb over your knuckles and begins leading you down toward his door. You would be able to tell he was nervous even if you couldn’t feel it through the force.

True enough, his place is small and as dingy as the rest of the town. But it’s his, and you decide you like it here, for that fact alone. You’re looking around when you notice him staring at you.

“... What is it?”

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, completely guilelessly. It’s so plain and sincere that you can’t help believing it, and once again, you’re breathless. “I never expected to see anything so beautiful on this whole planet.”

Then, he leans in to kiss you… and you let him. You do more than let him: you kiss him back. The only concrete thought in your head is that his beard tickles. It feels wonderful. Is that noise coming out of you?

It takes feeling his hands on your hips to realize you’ve got your own in his hair, and the way his fingers grip you makes your eyes roll back in your head. Your lips press together again, and again, and again; sometimes so softly you’re barely touching, sometimes so heavily you almost topple over, sometimes you can feel him humming against your mouth and it’s all you can do to stay standing.

He’s guiding you gently toward- what? A chair? A crate? A cot? You don’t know, you don’t care; he sits down, and pulls you into his lap, and there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. You hold him so close, closer than you’ve ever held anyone. You love the way his hands feel on you, and you tell him so. In reply, he makes a sound you know you’ll hear in dreams for the rest of your life.

The way he handles you- so sweetly, but so direct- makes you feel things you couldn’t repress if you tried.

But… of course… nothing can be simple.

You break the kiss, and take a breath.

“What is it?” he asks softly. “Is everything all right?”

“Before we go any further, there’s something you need to know about me.” He’s a little wary, a little worried, and you hate it, but you can’t just let this go without him knowing the truth. Maybe it was an illusion, but you already miss the way this felt so uncomplicated a moment ago.

“You’re… you’re not married, are you?”

Your reaction to this question tells him you’re not, even before you actually answer.

“... I can never be married. I’m a Jedi.”

He’s still holding you, and he doesn’t let go.

“I don’t care what you are. We’ll work this out. I-if… if that’s what you want.”

Your eyes have never been so wide in your life. ‘We’ll work this out.’ He means it, you can feel it. You think you would believe anything this man said to you.

But.

This is forbidden.

If this is not an attachment, nothing is.

Can you do this? Can you work this out? The doubt is suddenly swallowed up by something you’re not sure you can identify, but feels very much like indignation. No attachment! But what is the bond between master and padawan but an attachment? What is friendship but an attachment? What are those bonds formed on the battlefield, are they not attachments? Can you name one single Jedi in the whole order who is wholly unattached? Who is attached to no one? Can anyone live in such a way?

It’s true, sometimes you must be able to let go.

But what value is there in anything without fondness? Without care?

And enough of your philosophizing! What about him? Doesn’t he deserve to be loved? That question, at least, has a clear and definite answer. One that cannot be interrogated. The answer is yes.

You shift around so that you’re straddling his lap, and kiss him so deeply that you get lost in each other.

“I do,” you whisper. “I do want this.”

You can sense his relief. His elation. Something inside of you aches beautifully. Is this what love feels like? You kiss him. He kisses you.

“Good,” he says. “We’ll figure it out together.”

And then, he says something that shocks you so profoundly that you stop cold.

“... But what’s a Jedi?”

#this is probably silly as hell #but here it is #i hvent done one of these in a long time it might suck #idk #gregor x reader #clone trooper x reader #i really fought myself to post this #fic: dirty old town

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phis-corner · 4 years

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If your taking prompts could you do 16 or 83 for Conner x Marinette?

Ahhhh Kon is so interesting and this was a lot fluffier than what I normally do, but enjoyable to write all the same! 16- “I’ve got you.” 83- “When I’m with you, I’m happy.”

I may or may not have made Marinette ace because I can’t deal with kiss scenes

She is falling.

Hurtling through the sky at speeds that would most definitely be fatal upon impact, wind roaring in her ears as the ground rushes closer, closer.

She is falling, and there is nothing she can do about it because she isn’t transformed.

Or, more accurately, she isn’t transformed anymore.

It was your typical alien invasion. They’d come, hoping to challenge Earth’s heroes and take advantage of the planet’s population and resources. Their force had split into two groups, one landing in Paris, and one in Metropolis.

Ladybug had quickly assembled her Miraculous Team, and they had leaped into the fight.

These extraterrestrials were bird-like, if birds had seven legs with razor-sharp claws and beaks with serrated edges that could easily bite through an arm.

One had snatched her up from the ground as she tried to find a place to duck away and detransform after using her Lucky Charm, carrying her up into the sky, far above the battle going on below.

Once they passed the clouds, they kept going up.

And then her earrings beeped.

And again.

And then her suit had receded in a swath of pink light, and suddenly she was just Marinette in a domino mask to hide her identity, up in the sky where the air was getting thin and it was hard to breathe.

Then all of a sudden, the claws in her clothing were gone, and she instantly changed directions as gravity took hold.

And now, she falls, doing her best to slow her descent, but it will not be enough to save her from being a bloody splatter on the ground.

There may be someone screaming. It may be her.

Her mind gets an idea that just might work. He’s fighting across the Atlantic, but he has superspeed, right? He’ll make it.

He has to.

She inhales as best as she can, and yells for Kon.

When she runs out of air, she inhales again and repeats, screaming his name over and over again.

The ground gets closer, and nothing has changed except her vocal chords, which hurt a little more.

She closes her eyes, accepting her fate.

Then, a whoosh of air in her ear, and there are warm, solid arms wrapped around her and she is not falling anymore.

Marinette lets out a sob of relief, heart skittering in her chest, and buries her face in Kon’s neck as he slowly flies towards the ground.

��Don’t worry, chérie.” His voice is warm and smooth and relaxing in her ear. “I’ve got you.”

.o0o.

She nervously toes at the ground, scuffing her battered pink Converses against the ground as she leads Kon into her room in the Tower, secluded and private so what she’s about to say isn’t overheard. (Because some people, like a certain Bat, can’t quash their curiosity.)

“What is it?” Kon asks as soon as the door shuts behind him, but she holds up a hand, silencing him as she digs out a bug from the underside of her desk, another plastered behind a framed photograph, and takes another out from the space in between her mattress and bed frame.

Marinette crushes them under the heel of her foot, then turns back to him, feeling all her brisk, businesslike demeanor leave again, leaving a nervous, stuttering girl behind. Ladybug dissipates, and now she’s just plain old Marinette.

“I- I have something to say.” She breathes in, and out, steeling herself. “And I know you’ll probably want to interrupt me, but just please, wait for me to finish.”

Kon nods, radioactive blue eyes focusing on her with a piercing gaze.

Marinette takes another breath, then begins. “Kon, I-I like you. I really, really like you, and not in the platonic sense. When you’re around, it’s like the weight on my shoulders is a bit lighter. Your mere presence brightens my day, and your smile makes me want to smile too. When I’m with you, I’m happy, Kon, and I’ve held it in for months now but I don’t think I can anymore and you probably don’t feel the same way but that’s okay I just needed to get it out and let you hear it, don’t feel guilty about it because it’s fine that you don’t return these feelings-”

“Okay, I know you said not to interrupt,” Kon cuts off her panicked rambling. “But who ever said anything about me not returning them?”

“Wh-what?” Marinette breathes, barely even there, but she knows his superhearing picks up on it. Her face burns, and she feels kind of like she’s floating, like that one time they went to the Kents’ farm in Kansas and he flew her up at night to see the stars-

“What I’m saying is that I like you too, Marinette.” Kon smiles that brilliant, slightly lopsided smile, the one that he gave her all those months ago above a Kansas field, and her heart stutters. She knows he hears it too, because his grin widens.

“What do you say? Wanna give this dating thing a try?” He asks, and Marinette realizes that she hasn’t responded yet.

“Y-you don’t mind that I don’t- you know-”

“What, that you’re asexual and don’t want to kiss?” He snorts. “Of course not.”

“But you and Cassie k-kissed all the time.” Marinette points out.

Kon lifts an eyebrow. “And? Cassie wasn’t ace.” He points out. “I respect your choices and preferences, Marinette. I don’t need to be able to kiss someone to survive.”

Those words part the dark storm clouds in her mind, and all of a sudden, she can’t stop the sun from shining, unable to help the smile that breaks out on her face.

“Yes.” She says, and he smiles again, eyes sparkling like the stars all those nights ago when she first felt her heart skip a beat.

permanent tags

@wannajointhecrabcult @miraculous-simmer7 @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @fantasyislive @chocolateherringtacofan @junarvion @susiej1118 @aestheticnpoetic @toodaloo-kangaroo @ladybug-182 @itsmeevie01 @g-arya @souleateralicestein @nightstarblue @i-is-mysterious @moonystars14 @vixen-uchiha @the-flapdoodle-noodle @labschaos @nathleigh

unspecified @momothefemur @indecisive-mess-named-me @laurcad123 @ilovefluffbutsmutisalsogreat @sassakitty @fusser90

#maribat #conner kent x marinette dupain cheng #asks #my writing

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the-odd-job · 3 years

Text

Close Your Eyes to This Disaster Chapter 6: And You Say…

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Chose Not to Use, Rape/Non-Con Category: Other Fandom: Transformers G1 Relationships: Megatron/Sunstreaker, Megatron/Sideswipe, Sideswipe & Sunstreaker Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Megatron Additional Tags: Dubcon, Sticky, Abusive Relationships, Mind Games, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Canon-Typical Violence Words: 3163

( Previous )

The Prime—or Prowl, rather, he was the one to set up the schedules—kept his word: they were never put to any patrol longer than frustratingly short. On top of that, they no longer had patrols together, always paired with someone else rather than each other. That one had given them a fit that slagging Ironhide had needed to talk them out of. Since when was Ironhide the voice of reason?

That was discrediting the weapons specialist a little, admittedly. Age had granted him at least some sense, to the effect that he was perfectly reasonable with his arguments. Unfortunately he was also fairly hot-headed, as were the twins. There had been quite a bit of yelling from everyone involved. They had even gained an audience before the time that the twins accepted the fact that in this instance they were safer apart than together.

It still didn’t sit well with them, but they put up with it, in large part because the patrols were short enough that they were never away from each other’s vicinity for long. Despite the other mitigating factors on top of that, such as never being paired with anyone they didn’t get along with—mostly applying to Sunstreaker, that one—it was still enough to have the both of them turn irritable. Even Sideswipe, so known for his high spirits, was just as highly affected by what became the state of their spark. Was he not supposed to be, somehow? No, that was an impossibility.

And of course, there was the fact it wasn’t wise for them to leave the proximity of the Autobot base. It ceased to be an actual order, likely because Prowl realized they would’ve been that much more eager to go against it if it was one, but it was a piece of healthy advice that they actually did follow, for once. They weren’t free of their own concerns in regards to the situation, after all. With all of the memories… They knew more about Megatron now than they had ever thought possible, and a very large part of what they knew wasn’t flattering.

The physical disparity between them was bad enough, but pile on top of that Megatron’s personality and his pattern of always getting what he wanted… Could anyone blame them for harboring some worry, no matter how rare that was for them? They didn’t want to give in to Megatron, but slag, in practice that might be hellishly difficult.

Avoidance wasn’t going to work forever, they knew that much, but it was all they had for now.

End result was that they were a stressed mess on the inside, and it bled to the outside more than just a little. Everyone got in the habit of keeping as much distance from Sunstreaker as possible after the fourth time he got his aft locked in the brig for attacking someone without any real provocation—first Cliffjumper, then Tracks, the usual suspects they were, but after that it was Ironhide, then Hound of all mecha.

He didn’t get off any lighter than usual despite the command making it clear they understood why he was acting out so badly. They were assigned more combat practice as a response, though, just to give them more chances to burn off some of their unnerved energy. Ironhide took to being the one to mostly spar with Sunstreaker, after he, again, failed to go easy enough for it to really count as sparring anymore. The old mech could handle it even when Sunstreaker lost his cool and hit too hard—and Sideswipe wasn’t that much more careful.

Eventually it was the repeated rants they got from Ratchet when he was performing post-“spar” repairs that convinced them to hold back just a bit more.

And then there were the battles. First one, then two, and those were further help when they could just fragging let loose and beat someone to scrap. Prowl had to tell them to tone it down several times, and even so they got looks from their comrades after the Decepticons retreated. Look at the twins, turning even more unhinged than what they usually were! But at least the real fighting calmed them down for a week or two afterwards.

Neither time did it last, though, and then they were back to being holy terrors. Sideswipe held back on the violence, but his temper ran short and his words harsh. He still only managed to make Bluestreak cry one time. Of course he apologized after, was forgiven, and in further practice watched his vocalizer more at least around the gunner.

Sideswipe still became considerably less pleasant company than what he usually was, and aside of the command, no one knew for certain what was causing the change. There was confusion, theories, guesses, and most of them did revolve around Megatron after his more public interest in the beginning.

But they didn’t have the answers for the twins’ changed duties or their worsened behavior when the command respected their privacy and didn’t go tattling—and the twins themselves certainly weren’t about to share that much of their past life.

It was still annoying as all pit to be so affected by the warlord. They didn’t know if he was still trying to reach them. Did they imagine the lingering looks during the battles? Could be, after how hyperaware they became of him. Maybe it was nothing. And when they were away from the Ark… Was Megatron looking for opportunities to approach them, but simply didn’t get them, hence his absence?

Or had he stopped?

They couldn’t believe that. Megatron had made his desire clear, and he wasn’t the type to just stop when facing some resistance on the way to his goal.

And they were right in not believing.

It was a joyride. They were sticking relatively close to the Ark, and definitely close to a city, while still searching for some privacy to drive as fast as their spark was calling for. Just… Take what they could in their severely altered and limited life. Enjoy as much as they were able to and maybe have even a few moments of internal peace afterwards before all the tension came back and set them on edge.

Yet, it was clearly too far from other living beings, because after two curves they took–

He was standing in the shadow cast by the rise of rock on the side of the road—no signature this time either, or they would have noticed him before it was too late.

By the time Megatron stepped onto the road to block their way… It was already far too late. Too late to even slow the fuck down, in fact. They had just the time to curse, then initiate their transformations–

Only to barrel right into Megatron, the both of them. In a show of his size and strength, though, the tyrant had merely taken a steady stance and took the weight, velocity, and impact of both of them with no notable effort.

Sunstreaker stayed upright, staggering away as soon as he had enough wits about him to do so, but Sideswipe wound up sprawled on his back on the ground, groaning weakly from the ache of suddenly decelerated parts. Something had hit this, another had hit that… It was a good thing they were built sturdy; Megatron wasn’t much better than a solid steel wall. Even without any severe damage it still ended with some dented plating.

Their steel wall crouched in front of his scuffed brother—who quickly propped himself up on his arms—and Sunstreaker immediately checked his comms. They were–

…They weren’t blocked.

There was also no sight of Soundwave or anyone else.

Was it just Megatron? Alone? Could they have called the Ark right now and let them know they’d run into the unmaker again?

Instead of doing anything useful, though… Sunstreaker stood out of the way, dumbfounded as he watched Megatron reach for Sideswipe—Sideswipe was staring at the warlord with wide, wide optics, frozen in place–

And Megatron cupped the side of his helm.

They could have– They should–

They needed to call the Ark.

They didn’t.

“You have made it rather difficult to get a hold of you,” Megatron commented, glancing up at Sunstreaker briefly before his attention fell back to Sideswipe. A thumb brushed across his brother’s lips, and when surprise parted them, the thumb dipped in.

What the fuck rang between them, shock too deep for Sideswipe to even remember to do a damn thing as Megatron’s digit gently explored the inside of his mouth: stroking along his glossa, scraping against his denta–

“Didn’t want to see you,” Sunstreaker said after too much of a delay, hating the utter lack of aggression in his voice. Instead he was just breathless; almost a whisper.

But this wasn’t really going as they would have expected. He wasn’t sure what they were actually expecting, but this? This wasn’t it.

“Oh?” Megatron questioned. He didn’t sound offended.

The thumb retreated from Sideswipe’s mouth, but only for the tyrant’s claws to trace the curves of his helmet thoughtfully—with a frown. It was as if he was comparing the present to the past, noting all of the differences in their frame designs… And disliking what he saw.

Sideswipe shivered as the touch just continued. “What do you want?” the red twin asked in a murmur, staring up into the red optics bearing down on him with weight that pinned him in place.

“You,” came the answer, spoken softly.

They’d heard that before.

Sideswipe caught his lower lip between his denta and tried to forget, not think. Not think about that.

Not think of the past. Where was their resolve?

“Can’t have it,” the red twin managed with just the smallest hint of a growl in his voice.

“And why not?”

“You’re the enemy.”

“But I wasn’t always.”

“You were.” The bad they could remember.

Resolve.

Megatron changed the topic smoothly. “Why did you disappear?”

Silence. Sideswipe glared; Sunstreaker frowned, as much as Megatron wasn’t looking at him.

When they gave nothing in the way of an answer, the tyrant made a guess. “Was it because of your owner?”

Ugh… “Yes.”

“Not by choice?”

Was this the right spot to admit to anything? They hazarded an answer anyway. “…No?”

“There you have it,” Megatron rumbled, and they got the feeling they had already shared too much—given Megatron ammunition to use against them, if he wouldn’t have been able to guess correctly anyway. “You didn’t leave by choice. If you had gotten to choose, I wonder… Would you have left at all?”

Sideswipe bared his denta, only for the corner of Megatron’s mouth to pull into a smile. It was a genuinely amused little thing, as if he found their resistance charming. Not worth taking seriously, because what could they truly have done against him, even together?

The red twin went back to mere glowering, and they didn’t answer.

Megatron gave them a moment before he phrased the question differently. “Did you have any reason to leave?”

“Oh, you slagger,” Sunstreaker growled. Megatron didn’t avert his gaze from Sideswipe, but he didn’t need to. The golden twin continued, “Are you willingly forgetting all the shit you put me through, again? I had every reason to leave and my only fragging regret is that I didn’t so earlier.”

“You lie,” their old lover stated simply.

And that was all. He said nothing else. When it was confirmed that he would just let the silence reign and pet Sideswipe’s face with his thumb, Sideswipe was the one to speak their confused, “What?”

“Had you reason to leave, you would have simply left. Am I wrong?” He didn’t give them a chance to answer before he continued, “But you had no reason, and you didn’t leave before someone forced you.”

“It’s not that simple!” Sunstreaker tried to argue, gesturing angrily at nothing in particular–

But Megatron didn’t let him finish his argument. “Is it not? Didn’t you make it clear you would find a way to go, were you given a reason?”

Sideswipe opened his mouth to speak; Megatron cut him off before he could make a peep, “But I never gave you a reason. You stayed until someone else said you couldn’t anymore. Can you blame me for thinking you would have remained by my side otherwise?”

Sunstreaker ground his denta together but held onto his argument. “You kept me from leaving even if I had wanted to,” he accused as quickly as he could, before Megatron said anything more.

“If you had wanted to? Which is it? Did you want to, or did you not?” the tyrant asked, still holding Sideswipe captive as effectively as if his brother was paralyzed. His thumb brushed across his cheek, his nasal ridge, to his lips… It was hard to not focus on that too much. “Answer honestly. What do you have to lose by speaking the truth?”

Everything. Sunstreaker balled his servos into fists, turning his gaze to the side before the urge to beat the fragging bastard’s helm in got the better of him. Where would that have gotten him? Fragged into the ground again, if he knew anything about their lover.

But he wanted honesty? Slagging… What was the honest answer, anyway?

They could remember. Even that very last evening, they could remember. “No,” Sideswipe said, wanting so badly to turn his helm away from Megatron’s all-seeing scrutiny and too gentle touch, yet having not the freedom of motion to do so– “I didn’t want to leave.”

Their fields blushed with the old emotion—the thrill only Megatron could cause, heady and suffocating–

He’d never gotten enough of it. Everything had only added to the… Danger. The threat of what Megatron could have done to him, and yet… What he never did. No matter how he pushed, there were things Megatron never did, things he never said.

But what he did to so many others. Sunstreaker had been special. The exception. He had owned a piece of Megatron no one else did, that others scarcely even saw.

What was the tradeoff?

All the things they’d had… The things Megatron had done for them, never asking anything in return but their loyalty.

Megatron’s mouth pulled into a smile as true as any of his were, but this time Sideswipe was the one to speak before giving him a chance, “But that doesn’t mean I want to come back.”

“It does not?” Megatron questioned. “Do you hold loyalty to a faction you were forced into?”

“That’s past,” Sunstreaker growled. “Things have–“

“And not only that,” the warlord continued with no heed for his turn to speak, “but they knowingly took your memories. Why? Did they think it best you didn’t remember your past in fear of where your loyalty would be if you did? That it was better to have a soldier that was never given a choice, that knew of nothing else? Incapable of making an educated decision for himself?”

“Fuck you,” Sideswipe snarled, trying to yank his helm away, “You wouldn’t have given me a choice either.”

Megatron wouldn’t let him go anywhere, tightening his hold until Sideswipe was still again. “Oh, but I did,” he said, near growling now. “Hadn’t I already begun to gather my followers, formed the Decepticons? Didn’t I have more mecha join under my banner each and every day? Yet I never once told you you needed to do the same.”

That… Wasn’t untrue. They’d barely ever even discussed the rebellion despite how hard Megatronus—and later Megatron—had worked on it, had they? Megatron hadn’t brought work into their relationship.

He had to have read their uncertainty, because the growl turned into a purring rumble rising directly from the warlord’s engine—soothing, almost. “You see. But you can still choose. It’s not too late.”

“No,” Sunstreaker said immediately. “Let the past be past. Optimus, Prowl, Ratchet, ‘Hide—they never did anything to me and have nothing to do with the mistakes of others.”

“Haven’t they?” Megatron asked, lifting one of his optical ridges as if he didn’t believe him. “How do they treat you, really? With true understanding?”

They held to their silence, not that it would have necessarily mattered anyway. If Megatron wanted to speak, he spoke.

But their silence was an answer of sorts anyway, and the tyrant had more to say. ”What of the rank and file? Do they treat you as one of their own?”

“Yes,” Sideswipe spoke up at that, snarling. “I have friends, mecha that care about me–“

“If they truly cared about you, wouldn’t they learn to understand you, as I did?” He couldn’t have known if any of them did or didn’t, he was just making guesses–

Sideswipe bared his denta again. “It’s not that simple.”

“It isn’t? Do tell, what is so complex about it?”

“I work different than they do. They don’t understand something so disparate. They see two frames and think I’m two, they don’t see—and that’s normal–“

“You’re making excuses for them,” Megatron interrupted him. “I see you; what is preventing them from doing the same?”

Sideswipe’s jaw snapped shut and Sunstreaker frowned. What was preventing them? Their own biases and limited view of the world? Didn’t that apply to everyone?

Then why was Megatron different?

The warlord offered the one explanation he seemed to believe, “They don’t care about you enough to bother to understand something so special—so beautiful and unique,” he rumbled at them. Sideswipe blinked up at the gaze that had never once left him. ”Primus forbid they go through the trouble of doing so. How many have even tried? How many of them yet failed when it turned out to be too much effort?”

They’d spoken of these things, back in the Pits. They’d shared their frustrations with Megatronus, yet their acceptance of it all—they were alien on their own world and that was all most would see, it was something they just had to live with–

But also their pleasure over him being unlike most.

He wasn’t the only one. There had been others, even during the war–

But they were a rare breed and dead by now.

Megatron wasn’t, though. Megatron was living proof it could be done… Maybe not to perfection, but to an impressive point nonetheless, if one…

…Cared enough to do so.

“No,” Sideswipe said all the same, finding his growl for the next words, “you won’t have me.”

“Leave,” Sunstreaker continued with a snarl of his own, taking one step closer to Megatron and Sideswipe. Sideswipe tried to yank himself free again, but he only succeeded because Megatron let him.

Megatron let him pull away, get up, and step out of reach, rising from his own crouch at a leisurely pace. “Think on what I said,” he said, stepped two paces back and–

Transformed and took to the skies.

( Next )

#transformers #maccadam #maccadams #megatron #sunstreaker #sideswipe #fic #2021 #disaster

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bosspigeon · 4 years

Text

a permanent solution to a temporary insanity

Pairing: Mason/m!Detective, with a side of Adam/Nate (implied)

Words: 5257

Summary: Unit Bravo discover the detective has... a lot more tattoos than they would have guessed. Felix is delighted. Mason is intrigued. Nate and Adam are just worried this is going to cause issues with Rebecca, somehow. Tina and Verda become chaotic disasters when they’ve had some alcohol in them.

Takes place at the beginning of Book 2. Title taken from a quote my granddad likes to use whenever he wants me to know he disapproves of my tattoos.

AO3 Link | Ko-Fi <3

"Get your foot off the table, you fucking barbarian!"

Mason can hear the voice of the detective's coworkers from across the bar, but even if he couldn't, Chase's scent is easy enough to track. The muted bite of coffee, the sharpness of pine tempered with clary sage. The cooled sweat of a long day, and, just barely perceptible, the intoxicating undercurrent of his blood.

Mason's awareness narrows down to that stimulus, and he weaves his way through the meager crowd. He is only vaguely cognizant of his unit following behind him, so focused on finding--

He hears a laugh, low and husky, a bit of a scuffle, and he finds the detective sitting at a table with the pathologist, Verda, and the Bobblehe-- Officer Poname.

Chase's back is to him, and he’s sitting in a chair at the end of a table squished into a corner. Verda and Poname are opposite him in a booth against the wall, laughing, while Poname tries in vain to wrestle Chase's scuffed combat boot off the edge of the table. The smell of alcohol is strong between the three of them, but that is not what makes Mason stop dead.

Chase's leather jacket is draped over the back of his chair, and underneath, what Mason always thought was a full turtleneck sweater is actually completely sleeveless. The detective's arms are bare, save for intricate swirls and clusters of ink, mostly black, but with some pops of color here and there. Some of it is flowers, some words, a few bones and animal skulls. Abstract shapes and lines, a few sharp little designs, from shoulder to knuckles on both arms-- and Mason suddenly realizes Chase always seemed to be wearing supple leather palm gloves that matched his jacket, or, when it was colder, cozy wool fingerless gloves so he could still use his phone without trouble. Not tonight, though. Tonight his hands are bare, his arms are bare, and the ribbed shirt he’s wearing is clinging to him and really showing off the stout strength of his torso.

Mason grunts as Felix runs into his back, and time seems to pick back up to normal speed while his companion loudly complains.

Chase's head turns upon hearing the familiar voice, and Mason gathers his wits and offers a smirk and a carefully relaxed wave, sauntering up alongside the man, who raises a glass full of some dark mixed drink to him.

"There’s nothing we can do until we’ve got more information about our case, so I'm off tomorrow-- ask Rebecca," he informs Adam, who is looking disapprovingly between the detective's lax, sprawled posture and the half-empty glass held loosely in one hand, "so I don't want to hear you bitching about what I'm doing."

Adam's mouth pinches, Nate chuckles and tries to stifle it, and Mason coughs out a ragged laugh. But all that is lost to Felix shoving his way bodily around Mason to grab Chase's wrist (thankfully the one without the drink) and shout, "You've got so many tattoos!"

Chase gives Felix a lazy once-over, his brow quirked. "Yeah? And?" He looks a little bemused, as if he can’t quite figure out how this came as such as a surprise to any of them, much less a busybody like Felix. He obviously can’t say it in front of his coworkers, but Mason remembers Chase’s time with Murphy. The hospital gown and the needles and bandages. But even though they could all see in the dark just fine, there was a bit too much going on to really notice more than some smudges of dark ink on his neck and arms.

He thinks their minds might be going to the same place, for a moment, because Chase’s mouth twists from a lazy smile to a grim frown, dark, serious brows scrunching. It’s a slight gesture, barely noticeable, but he jerks his head once, as if to shake off the memories.

They’re both, thankfully, distracted by Felix whirling around to point accusingly at Mason. "Did you know he had this many?"

"If I did, would I tell you?" he sneers. Felix pouts mightily, but then pauses, and smiles. A slow, creeping smile, his eyes narrowed smugly.

"If you did know, you'd have been telling everyone you saw what the detective's got under his clothes any chance you got," he taunts. "So you must not have!"

Nate can't quite stifle his laugh this time, and Mason shoots him a dirty look.

Chase chuckles, low and smoky, and brings the glass to his lips again. “Yeah, I’ve got a lot of tattoos. Almost more than bare skin by this point, I think?” He looks to Verda and Poname as if to confirm, though with an odd little smirk that makes Poname giggle helplessly and Verda roll his eyes.

“Verda would know best,” Poname teases. “How much of Chase have you seen?”

“Enough to know that, yes, the un-inked real estate is scant at best.” He takes a demure sip of his drink while Poname cackles.

“My boss fucking hates it,” Chase snorts into his glass, gesturing vaguely with the free hand he’s rescued from Felix for Unit Bravo to sit. He finally removes his boot from the edge of the table (which makes Poname throw her hands in the air) and uses it to push the chair next to him out, dark eyes flickering up to meet Mason’s for a fraction of a second, stoking a low sort of heat in his belly. He takes the offered seat before Felix can (to some very vocal complaining) and lounges back, angling the chair so he’s able to watch the detective without making it too obvious.

Nate slides into the booth next to Poname, who immediately turns her gaze almost reverently to him, and Adam sits stiffly alongside him, giving the both of them an unreadable look. Felix posts up alongside Verda, smiling with annoying cheerfulness across the table at Chase and Mason.

“If your boss hates them so much, how’d you get the job?” he chirps, still marvelling at all the inked skin on shameless display. It makes Mason feel a bit twitchy, and he swallows down the urge to bare his teeth at his teammate with two very ignorant human witnesses in front of him. He distracts himself by subtly eyeing a splash of color on Chase’s solid shoulder in the form of a wrought-iron lantern with a single guttering candle inside, wreathed in wilted and dying flowers that trails shed petals and leaves down his bicep to mingle with other patterns.

“Mum’s got connections,” Chase drawls, swirling his glass and impressively feigning nonchalance. The ice cubes inside clink softly. “As you all know.”

The quiet that follows is damning, and Chase breaks it by tossing back another gulp of his drink. This close, with his senses full of the detective’s overwhelming… everything, Mason can tell it’s rum and Coke-- rather heavy on the rum.

Nate is the first to speak, offering a politely neutral, “You told us you were given a choice between the police academy or prison.” His tone lacks any judgement, but his brows are furrowed just a bit. Beside him, Adam’s expression is carefully blank. Good for both of them, because even clearly, comfortably tipsy and oddly candid, Chase’s gaze is sharp and analytical, his shoulders just this side of too tight.

“Yeah, well,” he goes on, staring past Nate more than at him, “Rebecca’s influence goes a long way, I learned. So after I graduated from uni-- top of my fuckin’ class, thank you-- I went off on a bit of a wild tear, you know, acquiring cars under mysterious circumstances,” Poname sputters into her drink and laughs, and Chase just gives her a dry look before she regains herself enough for him to continue, “and selling them for scrap, I miraculously didn’t wind up going to straight to prison, thanks to Rebecca pulling some strings and dragging me back here by my ear.” His lip curls faintly, and there’s a flash of something in his expression that seems to drop the temperature in the bar by a few degrees. Felix meets Mason’s eye and visibly shudders.

“That doesn’t really explain the tattoos,” Mason says, offering an easy segue to something… else.

“Sort of does,” Chase says with a shrug, eyes heavy-lidded. “I had a pretty wild childhood up to that point. Got my first stick-and-poke when I was, what? Thirteen? I think the kid who gave it to me is working at the bank now.” He snorts. “My point is, it was the one thing about my life I ever got to control. I had to be perfect, but so long as I did well in my academic pursuits and set myself on exactly the path my mother wanted for me, in my free time I could do whatever the fuck I wanted.” He rolls his shoulders again and knocks back the last of his drink, setting the glass down just a little too hard on the sticky tabletop.

“I drank, I partied, I fucked around. What else do you do when you’re a kid with no parental influence in your life save for a picture on the mantel of an empty house? You go off the fucking wall is what you fuckin’ do. Anything for even a shred of attention. And I still managed to graduate with honors, right? First in my class in secondary school, and in uni. Didn’t matter, did it?” His face goes hard, brows furrowing. “She didn’t bother to congratulate me in person. I got a card on her office stationery that I doubt she even wrote herself. My graduation from uni she didn’t even respond to the invite I sent, but I still stupidly hoped she’d show. She didn’t care until I snapped and she actually had to step in. Take a break from her job and come collect her errant brat.” He scoffs, and it sounds like a gunshot in the sudden silence that follows.

Nate looks like he wants to say something, mouth opening, but Adam touches his wrist and it snaps closed. Even Felix is stunned silent. Verda and Poname just exchange twin looks of familiar distress, but before anyone can say anything, Chase stands up so suddenly his chair shrieks across the floor. Mason, Nate, Adam, and Felix all wince at the sound.

“I’m going to get another drink,” the detective mutters, stalking off into the crowd. Mason looks over his companions, eyebrows raised, decides he doesn’t owe anyone an explanation, and gets up to follow.

Chase is leaning against the bar, asking the bartender for “something stronger than a rum and Coke, holy fuck,” and doesn’t even look up when Mason moves to stand beside him.

“I get moody when I get drunk,” he says by way of greeting.

“So you’re always drunk, then?" Mason drawls. "Not very professional of you, Detective."

Chase snorts and turns to look at him, but he doesn’t say anything-- just closes his eyes and rubs his hand over the rough fuzz of his shaved head. Mason’s gaze is drawn to his hand, and he spots a ouija planchette inked into one knuckle, a pentacle on the next, then an eye, and a crescent moon. They look old, faded and a bit blown out. When Chase opens his eyes again, the bartender has given him another drink, and from the smell, it’s a highball with a hefty pour of whiskey. He takes his first sip almost gratefully.

“Those the stick-and-pokes you mentioned?” Mason asks.

Chase holds up his hand. “Hm? Oh, yeah, a couple of ‘em. Not the first ones.” He turns his hand palm-up, and gestures with the glass. “There on the wrist.” Along the inside of his forearm is an intricate dagger with thorns twisted along the blade, but a few centimeters below the point, there is a tiny, blurry skull with a black forked tongue. “Toby Doherty, year 8. We put together a tattoo gun in his dad’s garage by pulling apart his little brother’s RC car. Think we got into more trouble for that than the tattoo.” He huffs out a rough little laugh. “I just think his mum was too nervous to actually shout at me, but I was never allowed back to their house afterwards because I was a bad influence.”

Mason reaches out and takes his hand, pulling it a bit closer so he can study the skull more closely. That’s what he tells himself, anyway, though he doesn’t think he’s fooled, and he doesn’t think the detective would be either. Especially when he rubs his thumb over the raised lines. He can feel Chase’s pulse through his thin skin, blood pumping hot and steady. This close, his pine-and-sage scent is stronger, and it fills Mason’s chest. "It's cute," he says, little more than a breath between them. He leans in, pulls the detective's wrist close to his mouth. He can feel the heat of his skin, almost taste the warmth just beneath, and Chase's breath is soft and quick and deafening in his ears.

“Chase!”

He drops the hand as if burned, and looks away from the detective before he can see how he reacts. Poname is toddling up to them, swaying a bit, and she wiggles her way between them to toss her arms around Chase's middle. He raises his highball in the air to keep her from spilling it, and she giggles.

"Chase, come back, you've got to show them!"

He groans. "Show them what?"

She only giggles louder and starts pulling him back towards the group, using the much steadier detective as a bit of a crutch to keep from stumbling through the milling crowd. When they arrive back at the table, things aren't really more comfortable than when they'd left, but they're not less so either, which Mason supposes is more than they could ask for. He takes up his seat again, but when Chase moves to do the same, Poname keeps hold of his arm.

"Wait, wait, you should be standing up for this," she giggles. Verda doesn't say anything, but he does snicker quietly into his tall glass of something that smells cloyingly of fruit syrup and sweetened vodka.

"Tina, what are you on about?" he sighs indulgently.

"You have to show them King Kitty!"

Mason’s interest is immediately piqued. Felix’s is too, clearly. He sits bolt upright and leans forward with that bright-eyed little imp grin he likes to give his teammates whenever he’s teasing them about… well, anything, really. “King Kitty?” he asks with eyes sparkling.

Chase groans, sets his drink on the table, and pushes Poname away, sending her stumbling into the table while she laughs brightly. “Don’t call it that, Tina. Christ.”

“You have to show them! He’s so good!” she insists, swaying towards him again. He dodges, and damn near skitters around the table to press into Verda’s space, which would have given Poname the means to corner him if she could figure out how to move around Chase’s abandoned chair as well as Mason (side-eyeing her cautiously) without getting tangled or falling over entirely. Verda continues to laugh at their antics, pushing Chase’s hip as it crowds into his space and threatens to make him spill his drink.

“Come on, now, what could it hurt?” he chides playfully, slipping his finger into the belt loop of the detective’s cargo pants and tugging playfully.

“Hey!” Chase barks, shifting away. All that manages to accomplish is tugging down his waistband the slightest bit, exposing the edge of his black underwear and a thin sliver of skin-- inked with designs Mason can’t properly parse, though he can’t help but lean forward a bit for a closer look. “I’ll have both of your asses for harassment, don’t test me!”

“Chase, our precinct is tiny,” Verda hiccups, finally making the decision (though it clearly pains him) to set his drink aside, since it seems Chase is perfectly willing to clamber over him to escape Poname’s grabbing hands, “I’m the HR department. You haven’t got a case here.”

“Show theeeeem,” Poname whines, putting one hand on Mason’s shoulder to steady herself. A low growl rumbles in his chest, but one sharp look from Nate (who is trying very hard not to smile at the scene, while Felix is outright giggling, and Adam simply looks confused and uncomfortable) quiets him. She smells strongly like some sort of bubblegum perfume that tickles the back of his tongue and leaves it feeling itchy and thick.

“I still have to work with them,” Chase protests, but his resolve is visibly wavering, especially with the lack of options to escape.

“We won’t tell anyone!” Felix blurts, leaning across the table. “Promise!”

Mason doesn’t chime in, but it’s a near thing. The last few weeks he’s tested the limits of both Adam and Nate’s patience with his innuendos about the detective, and he even thinks Agent Kingston might be one lewd joke from stabbing him with a fountain pen.

But Chase is weakening, he can tell. Mostly because he can’t seem to figure out how to climb over Verda, and Poname’s hands have found his belt. “Fine! Fuck, fine, you menace!” he exclaims, pushing her off with a surprising amount of gentleness, considering his tone. “Just get off me!”

Poname backs off obediently, but she’s still giggling up a storm, flushed with the effort, her hair a bit mussed. Verda looks entirely unbothered, and he takes up his drink again with a smug smile. Chase returns to his chair but doesn’t sit, and Poname returns to cozying up to Nate and being entirely oblivious to Adam trying very hard not to look annoyed.

Chase takes a deep, bolstering breath, snatches up his drink, and downs about half in one swig. “You’ve all got to swear you won’t breathe a word to Rebecca about this,” he says with grave, if faintly slurred, severity.

“Oh, absolutely,” Mason agrees, quickly enough that Felix shoots him another infuriating smirk.

“Scout’s honor!” Felix blurts, nearly bouncing in his seat.

Nate smiles and nods, looking for all the world like he’s simply indulging the shenanigans, but he’s clearly curious himself. Chase isn’t terribly secretive about most things-- he’s actually pretty fucking blunt-- so this has to be… interesting, for him to put up such a fight. Adam looks like he’s bolstering himself to look away as quickly as possible so he can have some plausible deniability should Agent Kingston find out regardless.

Chase’s hands go to his belt, and Mason’s stomach clenches, heat rushing under his skin. The detective unbuckles with practiced ease, flicks the snap open, and tugs the edge of his cargo trousers and briefs (are they briefs? Mason would certainly like to find out) down just a bit. His other hand goes to his fitted shirt, tugging it up.

The hair beneath his navel is thick and dark, and the trail leading down into his trousers is very, very inviting, but Mason’s attention is drawn inexorably to the design inked into the soft, brown skin. He supposes he should have expected the name “King Kitty” to give it away, but he couldn’t have predicted what he was in for.

It’s a snarling black cat, cartoonishly stylized, wearing a jauntily cocked royal crown. Underneath, spanning from hipbone to hipbone, are the words “BOW DOWN” written in bold, jagged script.

“Everyone, meet King Kitty,” Poname proclaims with a sloppy, grand gesture to Chase’s pelvis.

“Yeah, yeah, are you happy now?” Chase groans, hiking his waistband back up and buckling his belt. He tugs his shirt down and flops into the chair, taking another slog of his drink. It’s almost gone already, and he’s sure to be feeling it soon.

“Absolutely tickled,” Verda says primly.

“Oh, completely,” Poname chimes in.

“Wouldn’t mind seeing him again,” Mason rumbles, and Chase’s eyes flick to him for a split second, dark and sparking, brows quirked. Nate sighs audibly.

“Well, are you going to tell the story too?” Verda presses. “Share with the class?”

Chase drops into his chair and kicks his feet up again, and Poname makes a vague sound of protest. This time, at least, a sharp glare shuts her up. “Might as fuckin’ well, right?” he snorts. “So, I had this ex in college--”

Both Verda and Poname make strange noises, and when Mason spares them a glance (still a bit caught up in eyeballing the detective’s lounging about like a lazy cat-- which is oddly appropriate, all things considered) they are both looking somewhere between annoyed and downright angry. Chase actually looks… guilty, for a split second, before he waves it away and continues.

“Anyway. He wasn’t, uh… Very good in bed. But I loved him or some nonsense,” he scoffs and gestures vaguely with his glass, “so I put up with it. Because I couldn’t tell him he hadn’t gotten me off to his face, right? He was a sex god, according to him, always hit the marks,” he takes a sip and snorts a bit into his drink. Verda barks out a sharp, sudden laugh that seems to startle even him.

“He did not say that! Chase, please tell me he didn’t say that to you!” he squeaks out between ragged, uncontrollable laughter.

Poname is collapsing against Nate’s side, consumed by a fit of wheezing giggles.

Chase rubs a hand down his face and huffs out a laugh of his own. “He fucking did and I have to live with the fact that I continued to sleep with him after that, every day for the rest of my life. Point is, after a lot of general university stress, I got tired of faking orgasms to save his ego, and I finally told him he hadn’t gotten me off once since we’d started dating. Crushed him, of course, and we did break up for a bit because of it. And in the interim, I thought it’d be a good idea, to, ah, ensure that the next one wouldn’t be so… lost. I had a bit of liquid courage, lied admirably to my favorite tattoo artist when she asked if I was sober, and King Kitty was born. Then when I inevitably made the bad decision to get back with my ex, the next time we tumbled into bed, I just pointed at the instructions and told him to get to work.”

He finishes off his drink, puts his foot back on the ground with a heavy clunk, and leans his elbows on the table. “Turns out, he worked best when I was a bit mean to him. Apparently it’s a thing he wasn’t aware of. Go figure.”

“Christ, no wonder he only bothers you more when you’re a prick to him,” Verda scoffs with a hearty roll of his eyes. “You’ve trained it into him!”

"That is… quite the tale," Nate offers magnanimously, eyebrows threatening to make a break for his hairline. He looks to Adam, who is looking away and trying very hard to pretend he wasn't listening at all. Mason gets the idea he knows well enough that if he opens his mouth, what comes out is likely to piss off their dear detective.

Felix about falls over cackling, which is a fine distraction for Mason to lean in close, snagging Chase's attention and murmuring, "Wouldn't mind you bossing me around a bit," with a sly little smirk.

The look Chase gives him is dry as a fucking desert, but his eyes are crinkled at the corners. "You have proved on multiple occasions that you absolutely do mind," he fires back.

And that's what delights him about the detective, he thinks. He's sharp-tongued, and he doesn't try to dull it. Prickly, but clever, unafraid to say what's on his mind. And he's never once rebuffed Mason's advances outright, just… Spiked them back with sly smirks and raised eyebrows. Challenging, a sort of unspoken, "Oh, so you think you can handle me?"

Mason would very, very much like to handle him.

"Well, I think I'd be a lot more willing to follow orders if less clothes were involved," he slyly remarks, and Chase's dark eyes brighten just a bit.

“You have to earn that privilege, pretty boy," he murmurs, lips curling on one side.

Mason is a breath away from leaning closer, when Verda's phone goes off and he stands up, startled, and bumps the table. Mason has to snap one hand out to grab Chase's empty glass before it goes careening to the floor. Poname looks a bit astounded by his (far too fast) reflexes, but she's also more than a bit foggy with liquor and likely to forget quickly.

"Shit, sorry," Verda offers sluggishly, blinking a bit behind his smart browline spectacles. "That's Eric," he explains, grabbing his coat. He's steadier than Poname, but not by much, and he leans heavily on Chase's chair when he bends to press a kiss to his bristly scalp. "Come on, you reprobate. Time to get you home." Chase grumbles and halfheartedly swats at him, a bit of red creeping up to his ears from beneath his high collar. “You too, Tina!” Verda calls, “Leave the poor man alone, would you?"

Poname, who was beginning to list against a somewhat bemused Nate's shoulder, sits bolt upright and blinks, then pouts a bit. "Hm? Oh… okay." She pushes unsteadily to her feet, helped in no small part by a few gentle nudges from Nate, and she turns to give him a giggle and a wiggly-fingered wave before Verda’s put-upon sigh spurs her to totter towards him. Adam watches her go, making a face he likely thinks is impassive, but Mason knows well enough the tense pucker between his eyebrows and the grim tightness around his mouth.

“Remember what I said,” Chase offers, heaving to his feet with a low groan that immediately drags Mason’s attention from Adam’s silent simmering, grabbing his jacket from the chair and slinging it over his shoulders. “Not a word to Rebecca about any of this.” He gives Adam a long look in particular. “My options are limited in terms of retaliation, but I can be pretty damned creative. Don’t test me.” His eyes flicker almost instinctively to Mason, and his lips twitch, but he says nothing more before he swaggers with surprising steadiness after his coworkers.

“Bye, Detective!” Felix hollers, waving enthusiastically. Mason winces, but comforts himself with staring unabashedly at the detective’s retreating backside. The second he’s out the door, Felix rounds on Adam with a bright laugh. “Look at you! You managed to be in the same room as the Detective and you didn’t get into a fight!”

“Because he kept his mouth shut the entire time,” Mason snickers. “Looked like it was killing you not to talk shit.”

“I don’t talk shit,” Adam snaps, and Nate helpfully slides out of the booth so he can escape as well. “I just point out when the Detective is being…”

Mason raises his eyebrows, waiting for him to come up with a word that’s not an insult.

“Difficult,” is what Adam settles on, giving Nate a sidelong look.

“Oh, yeah, you wouldn’t know anything about being difficult,” Felix chimes in helpfully. Adam scowls at him and adjusts his jacket. Nate is clearly trying not to laugh and make Adam even more annoyed.

“You’re the one who felt the need to hassle the detective on his off time,” Mason hums not-so-helpfully. “Can’t blame him for being annoyed.”

“And you can’t say anything either,” Felix chirps, “Since you just went right along with it.” He’s grinning, wide and wicked, and he sways into Mason's space and gets shoved for his trouble. He totters dramatically for a second, then pops back up and snickers. "You're not as smooth as you think," he taunts. "I saw your eyes almost pop out of your skull when you saw those tattoos!"

Mason shoves him again, and Nate chuckles. "There were a lot more than I would have guessed."

"And I bet there's a lot more where we couldn't see," Felix adds, sticking his tongue between his teeth and waggling his eyebrows. Mason glances around the bar, the crowd having thinned in the last half hour or so, and decides he can get away with putting the little brat in a headlock.

Nate sighs at them. Adam rolls his eyes skyward, but they let Felix flail and squawk for a bit before Adam barks out, “Enough!” and Mason obediently releases him so he can tug his fancy scarf forcefully back into place and adjust his beanie. “Let’s just go.”

“This was nice, wasn’t it?” Nate offers with a bit of genuine cheer as they file out the door and leave the bar behind. “Getting out? Talking to people?” He nudges Adam when he doesn’t respond, and gets a faint grunt for his trouble. “Seeing the sights?”

Mason lights up the second they’re outside, inhales, and exhales a long plume of smoke, and smirks a bit around the filter. “I enjoyed the sights, at least.”

“I had fun!” Felix chirps, having already moved on from Mason’s rough treatment. “We should spend more time with the detective outside work stuff. He’s cool when he’s not all--” He makes a face, stiff and frowning with a crinkled brow, that looks pretty damned similar to the face he makes when he’s mocking their illustrious leader. Mason almost bites down on the filter of his cigarette to stifle a laugh.

“It was nice to see him unwind a bit,” Nate chuckles. “His friends seem… fun,” his mouth quirks a bit, somewhat uncomfortably, “Friendly.”

Adam makes a disgruntled noise. “Too friendly,” he mutters. Mason is about to lose the fight with himself and start snickering.

Ah, hell, he can’t resist. “I dunno, I think Natey might have a chance with the Bobblehead.” The look Adam gives him could kill a lesser man, but he just gives a lopsided grin in return. Felix, however, loses it to the point he almost falls over in the street.

Nate, ever the diplomat, just chuckles a bit and says, “Officer Poname is lovely, but she’s a bit… young for me, I think.”

Yeah, about eight-hundred-something years too young, Mason thinks, rolling his eyes. But, unlike Felix, he’s made it a point not to get involved in the love lives of people he’s got to work with. He’s already got his hands full trying to figure out the detective. Though, he supposes, he’s got to work with the detective, too. On a more permanent basis, now, it seems. But Chase is a lot of things-- stubborn, headstrong, blunt and honest-- but he’s not the type to let a bit of fun get in the way of his job, and neither is Mason. The second they stop dancing around each other, Mason will lay it out plain for him, and if he’s not on board with a bit of fun between co-workers, then that’s it. No problems.

He takes another puff of his smoke and lets the others get ahead of him, Felix still chattering happily and Nate fielding it with his usual calm enthusiasm while Adam manages to both sulk and stalk admirably alongside them both. Their voices fade into the background, and he allows himself a private little smirk, thinking about those fierce dark eyes, that stout, compactly muscled body with its bold ink, and privately wonders how much more is hidden under the detective’s clothes, and the best way to see them all.

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star-linedsoul · 4 years

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Legacy: A Supernatural Fanfiction | Sneak Peek

STORY SUMMARY:

Dean & Sam Winchester have spent their lives surrounded by the evil forces of the world, pushed and pulled and forced to bend in attempt to rid the world of evil and save innocent lives. As such, they jump at the chance to close the gates of Hell, forever removing demons from the face of the Earth. However, a visitor from the future causes the brothers to question this decision as the cost of this endeavor makes itself clear. Raised in a future where demons rule the world, Erica Winchester longs for an escape from the darkness that has destroyed her family. Sending herself to the past to finish the job her father started long ago, she hopes to atone for her own mistakes as much as she hopes to fix her world. As she delves into nigh-impossible trials and ancient magicks, however, she begins to wonder whether redemption is even possible. Perhaps, in the end, destiny cannot be avoided. Perhaps, for a Winchester, the only possible legacy is one of blood and death.

CHAPTER SUMMARY:

After the events of episode 8x13, “Everybody Hates Hitler,” Sam & Dean return to the Men of Letters bunker to find that they are no longer the only ones entrusted with its secrets. A search ensues to determine who or what has compromised the security of their new home.

Well, as definitive proof that I really need to work on my self-control, the writing bug has officially refused to leave me alone when it comes to this WIP. It will probably be awhile before I post any full chapters of this story, but I couldn’t resist sharing an excerpt featuring the first meeting between Dean and my OC Erica. I’m trying a couple new things in regards to a more concise writing style and a streamlined writing process that will hopefully allow me to write faster. Feel free to give me some input/constructive criticism on whether or not you feel it works! I put the excerpt under a read more due to length and mild spoilers for anyone that isn’t caught up on the series!

Legacy Taglist: @wordspin-shares

As always, my askbox and messaging are always open for discussion or if you would like to be added to the taglist! :D

EXCERPT:

Shaking his head at how ridiculous it was to be playing hide and go seek in his own home—without even knowing who he was looking for—Dean securely latched the door on his way out of the bedroom. No one was violating his space more than they already had. Not if he had anything to say about it.

The hunter crossed the corridors on silent feet, every sense tuned to pick up on the slightest sign of the bunker’s mystery guests. He knew he had finally struck gold as he turned into the hall leading to the garage. Amid the funky rhythm and melodic vocals of what his ears immediately recognized as the Red Hot Chili Peppers, the metallic clang of tools clattering together sang through the air. He knew that sound well. Pressing his back against the wall flanking the stairs that led up into the garage, he quickly texted Sam, letting him know that he had finally found something.

Dean ascended the first few stairs leading into the garage, stopping when he was just high enough to see over the concrete walls of the motorcycle bays flanking the stairwell. Scanning the open garage, he found all of the cars and bikes still in their places, with the sounds coming from the corner workspace at the rear. He ducked back down out of sight as he caught movement between the shelves that separated the work area from the rest of the garage. Bingo.

The hunter not-so-patiently waited until his phone vibrated with Sam’s confirmation that he was on his way before climbing the stairs to fully enter the garage. He kept his gun low but at the ready as quick strides carried him toward the corner, where a single figure was silhouetted behind the shelves. Ready to duck out of sight if anyone else should show up, he stayed close to the vehicle bays.

Several choice curses punctuating Anthony Kiedis’ melancholic crooning through “Californication” had Dean categorizing this particular intruder as female, and he absently wondered if this was the owner of the jacket he and Sam had found in the library. The loud music masked his steps as he approached the gap that left the workspace open to the rest of the garage, giving him a moment to survey the scene without being noticed by the target. This objective was even better served when he saw that the woman stood at the near end of a collapsible worktable, on which rested a shiny, black and chrome motorcycle. Her back was to the hunter as she leaned one shoulder against the bike’s rear tire to hold it in place while she struggled to install its axle with her free hand.

“Come on, girl,” she growled between the dull thuds of a rubber mallet knocking the axle into place. “Stop being such a bitch!”

As if the bike heard her, the shaft finally found its seat. Dropping the rubber mallet to the table, the woman rested one hand on the reinstalled tire, running her other hand through choppy black hair as she muttered, “Finally!”

Deciding to press his advantage while the woman was still unaware that she was no longer alone, Dean reached over and turned off the small stereo on the shelf next to him. As the intro to “By the Way” abruptly cut to silence, the hunter raised his pistol to the ready position. “Nice bike.”

With a loud gasp, the woman whirled around, swiping the mallet from the table once again and adopting a defensive stance in a single, fluid motion. She froze, however, as she spotted the gun leveled at her chest. Narrowed eyes widened in surprise and a crinkle formed along her brows while her knuckles turned white from gripping the mallet in her hand.

“Who are you?”

“Funny. I was planning on asking you the same thing,” Dean gestured to the woman’s hands with the barrel of his gun. “Drop that mallet and kick it under the table. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

The hunter thought for a moment that the woman was going to try something very stupid. She had the looks of an animal caught in headlights and panicking, seconds away from bolting. He had left her nowhere to run, making him wonder if she might try to charge him. He had her unquestionably outmatched in size, but fear made people do crazy things. Luckily, she proved to be a bit more sensible. Though her body was still taut with tension and her eyes remained glued to him, she crouched and placed the mallet on the floor. She raised her hands in a gesture of surrender as she rose, kicking the mallet away.

Though it was the result that he had wanted, something didn’t sit right with Dean. He couldn’t quite explain what it was. Maybe it was that this was too easy. Maybe it was that the intruder seemed to be trying too hard to appear normal. This woman before him had somehow managed to infiltrate their bunker—which was supposed to be secret and hidden—and yet she was tinkering in the garage instead of robbing the place of its virtually priceless collection. Nothing about her appearance suggested that she was anything other than average. Surely no older than thirty, she wore a simple, black T-shirt, form-fitting jeans, and scuffed biker boots, with no logos or embellishments visible that might be traced back to a store. No charms or amulets decorated her wrists or hung around her neck, nor were any weapons visible that might suggest that she was a hunter. And yet there was something unsettling about her. About how quickly she had picked up that mallet and prepared to defend herself only to disarm just as fast. About how she looked as submissive as possible, wide-eyed and with her hands in the air, and yet her entire body was tensed as if ready for a fight.

Remaining on alert, Dean stepped closer to the woman only for her to back away in equal measure. “What do you want?”

The hunter was sure it was meant to be a demand, but her voice was too shaky for it to have the desired effect. “Hey, you’re the one in my home without permission, sweetheart. I’ll handle the questions.” Before she could protest further, Dean closed the distance between them, grabbing her shoulder and pushing her to turn around. “Keep those hands up.”

His pistol ready in one hand just in case, he quickly skimmed his free hand over the woman’s lean frame. Starting at her torso, he then went down one denim-clad leg, confiscating the switchblade tucked into her boot. On the way up the other leg, he swiped the leather wallet from her back pocket.

“Hey!” she protested, whirling back around and reaching for the wallet. “Give that back!”

Dean dodged her, moving out of reach. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it back so long as you don’t do anything stupid.” He could tell she didn’t like that answer as her hands tightened into fists. Green eyes fixed him with a scorching glare, which he elected to ignore as he flipped open the wallet to check for ID. “Got any friends with you?”

“It’s just me.” Dean glanced up at the woman’s wooden tone, but he found that she wasn’t looking at him, fixed on a spot behind his left shoulder. Then, faintly, “Oh…there’s two of you.”

Turning to follow her stare, Dean found his brother surveying the scene, pistol lowered but ready. About damn time. “Hi, Sammy! I’m so glad you finally decided to join us.”

The younger Winchester answered with a curt nod, glancing between his brother and the woman he’d cornered. “What’s going on?”

“I was just getting acquainted with our new friend here.” Dean made a show of holding up the ID he had pulled from their guest’s wallet, keeping his tone casual. “Meet Erica Jackson from Seminole, Oklahoma. She’s a...let’s see, carry the one, thirteen minus seven…twenty-six year old Gemini and”—he raised an eyebrow, looking at the woman’s choppy black locks—“a blonde?”

She shifted her weight to one leg, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry, is dying hair a crime these days?”

Dean definitely didn’t like that snippy tone. “No, but breaking and entering is. So give me one good reason why you’re in my garage and I’ll think about letting you walk outta here.”

“I-I didn’t know anyone lived here.” Erica had the decency to at least pretend to be remorseful, nervously tucking her hair behind one ear and scuffing one toe against the concrete as she glanced between the brothers. “The place was empty when I found it.”

“And you just decided to move in?” Sam inferred, moving forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean.

“No, of course not!” Erica returned, indignant. But then she faltered, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. “Well, kind of, I guess…” She huffed. “It’s a long story.”

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darlingpetao3 · 5 years

Text

Cursed (Ed Stevens x Reader)

Rating: G

Summary: Without being fully aware of it, you seek out Ed for comfort on an issue that had been eating away at you until you broke.

A/N: hey everyone. So, you all know that I like to write things that I think people would enjoy. But I also write things that I just need to write - sometimes just for me, to get out everything that’s in my head and feel a little better. I also write these stories so that I can come back to them and read them at a later date, again, to feel better. This one I’ve written here was something that I felt like I needed to write for me the other night. I don’t really know if anyone can relate to the issue in here (or even knows Ed Stevens very well - if you don’t, and would like to, start here), or if it’s any good, but I decided to post this in case it comforts someone else even a little too.

Warnings: Emotional Hurt/Comfort fic (with a sweet ending)

***

It’s dark out, but you’re unaware of the time. You open the door to the building, but you don’t register where you are. You don’t know anything right now. It’s dark, it’s late, and you have been walking around for God knows how long in this strange sense of limbo.

But if there’s one thing you do know, it’s that the overwhelming sense of sadness - loneliness - is inching up from your heart to your eyes where it will inevitably erupt in the form of wet, salty tears.

Scuffed, tiled floors?

Lemon Pledge?

Nacho cheese?

Did you hear your name just now?

“(Y/N)?”

There it is again.

You look up to find your good friend Ed standing in the doorway to his office. So you’re in Stuckey Bowl… You can’t even begin to wonder how you got all the way to this part of town on foot. Ed smiles at you at first, but when he takes a much better look at you, his expression turns to worry - dread, perhaps.

“Ed?” you ask, totally out of it still.

“Is everything-?”

He never gets to finish his sentence because the tears have already begun to fall, accompanied by a choked sob - the first of many. You feel like your legs are going to give out from under you, but Ed has rushed over the few steps to keep you steady in his arms. You hold on for dear life.

“Hey, hey, hey, what’s going on?” he asks softly.

“I- It’s- Never- I-” Clearly you are incapable of forming a sentence.

“Come here,” he says, helping you into his office and whether it’s your friend’s kindness, his soothing voice, or just actually having someone there for you when you need it, it sends you into more vocal cries.

Ed is watching you so intently, attempting to get a better look at your face. Knowing him, he’s probably wishing to make everything you’re feeling disappear just by willing it away. Trying to be brave, you go to look him in the eye, but that just makes it worse. It seems far too much like pity, and you are already feeling too much of that for yourself.

He takes your hands in his and silently offers for you to sit down on his office’s sofa. A ball of tension forbids you from sitting back and relaxing, so instead you sit rigidly. You sniffle loudly, and Ed wordlessly hurries over to his desk to fetch a box of tissues for you.

“You probably know this already,” he starts slowly, “but you can tell me anything. And if you don’t want to talk, I’m still here for you anyway.” He places his hand on your arm. You nod, then inhale. Talking. Talking is good. You can get this out.

“You’re probably busy with a case if you’re here so late,” you say in an attempt to back out.

“Screw the case. You’re more important.”

“You’re not getting paid to watch me be a mess, though.”

“(Y/N).”

“Okay…”

In the most hoarse, wavering voice, you begin to tell of your inner sorrows.

“I am… Ed, I am so, so lonely. I know that sounds pathetic. Horribly pathetic and stupid, and I am ashamed, believe you me. And I realize that people are having real, actual problems that matter. But, you just have no idea as to the extent of this loneliness and sadness I’ve been feeling and how it’s been affecting me. Especially lately.”

“(Y/N)... you know you’re not alone,” Ed tries while he rubs circles on your back. “We’re all here for you, every day. Mike, Nancy, Molly, yours truly of course.”

“I know, I know. But that’s not what I mean, and I think you know that too.”

“You mean having someone? A significant other?” he clarifies. You nod, then look him dead on.

“Ed, have you ever seen me with anyone? Have you ever known me to have a boyfriend over the course of our friendship?”

“Well, yeah, I… hang on.” Ed stares off to the other side of the room.

“Coming up short, right?” you give a small wry laugh.

“But that can’t be right.” He’s frowning, he can’t believe it. “It can’t be.”

“Well, it is, believe it or not. Because I’m cursed. I have been cursed and no man - no decent man - has crossed my path, let alone attempted to cross my path. It’s like I have an invisible sign over my head saying STAY CLEAR OF THIS ONE. Or NOTHING SPECIAL, MOVE ALONG.”

“Stop it,” Ed orders you. His hands fall to your shoulders and he gets you to face him. “Don’t you ever say anything like that. You know that’s not true.”

You scoff.

“Except if you’ve lived this long, being lonely for this long, you start to actually believe it.” You think you’re about to start crying again, but Ed has you in a tight hold close to him. Your tears leak onto his T-shirt.

“You can’t give in to those thoughts, (Y/N).” His hand feels so nice on your back, and you almost think that maybe it’s rubbing every bad emotion and thought out of your body. “You just can’t. You are so worthy of love and it hurts me that you can’t see it. You are amazing and smart and funny and kind- I can keep this going all night. Just watch me!”

You chuckle the slightest bit.

“See? There you go. You have so many wonderful qualities that could take nights to rattle off and someone is going to see them all. ...You never know, someone already might have noticed.”

“Ed, this is Stuckeyville, are you kidding me? Do you not know all the men in this town? They are shit. You and Mike notwithstanding.” Ed opens his mouth to say something, but you accidentally interrupt. “Maybe I should just leave. I’ve lived here all my life, but what good has that done me? I mean, yes I have my job, and I love it. And generally life is alright, but what good is any of this without someone to spend your happiness with? Maybe they’re elsewhere. Because, you know, I don’t even know what that’s really like, Ed!” you cry. “What’s it like? What’s it like to have someone? What’s it like to be in love?”

Before he can answer, you dive in again for another hug, desperate to feel some more comfort from him.

“It’s… indescribable,” he says, words muffled in your hair. You don’t really have anything to say to that. That’s what everyone you’ve asked throughout your life has said. Indescribable. There are no words. Just once, you’d like to experience this mythical thing called love so that you can have no words to say about it too.

You give a little tired sigh, relieved even just the tiniest bit for at least having got those spiralling thoughts out. You just needed a sounding board. What on Earth would you do without Ed?

“Well, I’m sure I’ve bothered you enough already, so I should probably go home. And oh- I’m sorry, I totally ruined your shirt.”

“You have not bothered me in the slightest,” Ed assures you, “and I have plenty more of these shirts at home. Bought them in bulk. Not even remotely an issue.”

“Ha… okay, then.”

“Let me drive you home,” he offers.

Naturally, you let him because now it’s somehow the middle of the night, and neither one of you would feel comfortable with you wandering home on your own. When he reaches your place, Ed even walks you to your front door. Honestly, sometimes you wonder how this guy is single too.

“Thanks for the ride, Ed,” you say, “You really are the best. I don’t know what I would have done without you tonight.”

“Let��s not think about that, but I’m glad that I was there to help you,” he says softly, pulling you in for a goodbye hug. “If you ever so much as feel even slightly upset again, I want you to call me. Find me. Track me down, I don’t care. I need to know you’re alright. Promise?”

“Yes, I promise. Thank you.”

You pull away from the hug, but before Ed lets you go, he says, “And (Y/N)?”

“Yeah?”

“About what you said earlier. Don’t leave Stuckyville. Just… just don’t. At least, not yet.”

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t bear it if you did.”

“Oh. Well, then I won’t. At least, not yet.”

“Good.”

“Okay.”

“...Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Ed.”

***

In the morning when you go downstairs to fetch the paper, you are startled upon opening your front door.

“Jesus,” you say with almost no breath left. Ed sits mere feet away from you, slumped over in one of your porch’s chairs. He stirs awake at the sound of your voice.

“Ed, what are you doing here? Were you here all night? You’ll catch a cold!”

He rubs his eyes awake. “Ah, don’t worry about me. I have the good ol Stevens immune system.”

“But why are you here?”

He stands. “I was afraid you’d skip town first thing in the morning. I wanted to stop you in case you did.”

You laugh. “You should know me better by now. I’m all talk, with no follow-through.”

“Well, I’m glad in this instance.”

There’s something in his voice. It’s not just relief, but something else that you can’t put your finger on.

“Do you… want to come in? I can make you the most caffeinated coffee or tea ever. You couldn’t have slept a wink out there.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “I’ll take you up on that.”

You open the door for him after grabbing the newspaper and soon getting started on the coffee. Once Ed finally has a piping hot cup in front of him, he takes a sip, then immediately puts it down.

“(Y/N)? This is terrible coffee. Simply atrocious.”

“Gee, thanks,” you laugh.

“Something has to be done about this. Would you like to get a cup of real coffee with me?”

“What? Now?”

“Yes, now. I’m pretty near falling asleep here. You may need to help me get to the cafe.”

“Okay, then…” you agree. But as you walk away, you stop and frown, and end up spinning around to face Ed.

“Ed. Did you…”

“Did I what?”

“Is this a date?” There’s a pause.

“I was kinda hoping it would be.” His little smile speaks more than words. “It doesn’t have to be though if you don’t want it to be.”

“No, no. I um, I want it to be, too.”

Ed tries to suppress his growing smile. “Good. Great. That’s great. Do you want to…?”

You follow his gaze and see what he’s referring to - your big fluffy robe.

“Oh right!” You giggle. “I’ll just be a minute.”

After you’ve ditched the robe and freshened up a bit, you head back downstairs to a waiting Ed Stevens. And now you can’t help but have a sliver of hope that maybe your curse has been broken.

#reader insert #ed stevens x reader #ed stevens imagine #ed imagine #ed fanfiction

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samingtonwilson · 7 years

Text

10 Things I Hate About You - Jim Kirk

Summary: The poem from 10 things i hate about you-- jim kirk edition

Warnings: language, lil angsty

A/N: a bit long once again. i seem to have a thing with the number 10 and jim kirk. huh. hope it’s not too similar to the last one. forgive any typos, i didn’t read this over too carefully. enjoy and please let me know what you think! (P.S. @star-trekkin-across-theuniverse- this is the piece i told you about)

I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair.

There was a deep sting spreading over the skin of your inner thighs. It was as if you needed to be more aware of the angry red abrasions coloring you, as if your skin didn’t feel close to spontaneously igniting with each step you took.

Most days, you would have worn the scuffed skin with pride— you could never think there was anything to be ashamed of. But this was not one of those days. On this day, the sting served as a reminder of the shore leave you would’ve preferred to forget.

As you walked through the halls of the Enterprise, your lips clamped shut to prevent the sound of any unintended winces, you told yourself all you needed was one of Leonard’s magic balms and a good night’s sleep. You told yourself it was doctor’s orders— as if that pathetic addition to your inner monologue would result in a smile.

A few inches from the medbay entryway, you tugged on the hem of your unnecessarily bright blue uniform and took a deep breath. Normalcy, you repeated to yourself. Normalcy is all we’re after.

You inhaled the scent of antiseptic until it hit every corner of your lungs and pulled your PADD closer to your chest as you nodded in greeting to the nurses and even managed a smile when you spotted Leonard in his favorite exam room.

“Didn’t see you on the shuttle.”

You hummed as you approached his side, shrugging when he glanced in your direction. “Made it there late and had to sit with the command ensigns.”

“That explains all’a,” he motioned towards your face, “that.”

“Excuse me?” you asked with an incredulous laugh. You crossed your arms over your chest and watched as Leonard sifted through the newly restocked drawers. “What’s that mean?”

“Don’t usually look as angry as you do right now, sweetheart, that’s all.”

“Angry? I smiled at you!”

He nodded. “Looked menacing enough to have me damn near pissin’ my pants— looked like the homicidal offspring of that Khan bastard.”

“Kind,” you quipped, rolling your eyes as you looked down at the screen of your PADD. “I should go before my first appointment gets to Exam Room 1 and I’m nowhere to be found.”

“It’s Jim so I stocked your cabinet with sedatives,” Leonard winked as you slipped from the room with a weight pulling the corners of your lips downward.

You couldn’t blame him for mentioning Jim so casually. He knew you had a little crush on the man, knew the man had a little crush on you, but was blissfully unaware of what transpired as a result of these tiny crushes.

The thought had you smirking ruefully at the word itself: crush. You thought it was apt.

“You’re early,” you hated the sound of your voice as you spoke to his back. It sounded as if you’d ingested helium, as if your vocal cords shook beyond your control. But, rather than show Jim your annoyance at yourself, you offered him a smile as he faced you. A smile you hoped was not as menacing as the one you offered Leonard moments ago.

He smiled back at you. His face was bare, all of the two-week growth that painted your inner thighs gone. He’d even trimmed his hair, the soft blonde hair your fingers ruined each day of those two weeks looking brand new.

You thought he might have been eliminating traces of you. After all, the deal was two weeks— two weeks to finally tear through your lingering tension, two weeks to keep fraternization from interfering with your careers. And those two weeks ended the moment you woke up to an empty bed saturated with the scent of mint and citrus.

“No use putting off the inevitable, right?” he said, hopping onto the biobed with ease. “You have to draw my blood and I’d rather you did that when I’m running off the high of a launch.”

There was a soft pinch at the border of your throat as he spoke. Nonchalantly, composed, deprived of anything that was so imbued in his voice the last you spoke. His smile almost finished you off with its easy-breezy feel— you shook your head to yourself, though. Normalcy.

You just needed time.

“Scotty says Keenser actually picked up during shore leave.”

“Wow,” you mused, your voice soft so that any pitch issues could pass by unnoticed. “Didn’t know they made ‘em short enough.”

“You’re concerned about height?” Jim asked with a snort. He looked bright, he sounded bright. “The man’s skin is almost rock-solid, Doc! Who’s that comfortable for?”

I hate the way you drive my car, I hate it when you stare.

It took three weeks for Jim to grow tired of the mask he wore. The weight of the thick façade corroded his resolve more and more each day. In the beginning, he’d assumed the opposite. He likened his assumption to the mere exposure effect— the more he saw himself with the mask, the more he withstood the weight of it: the more likely he was to develop a habit of it, if not a liking toward.

Sadly, that ended up being untrue. His exhaustion increased almost twofold everyday, his dislike toward himself increased with the same leap. It would increase even further upon encounters with you— in his mind, you were so unaffected, so… okay. Meanwhile he stroked the bare skin of his cheeks and wished he could regrow that beard you seemed to love so much, maybe still have a part of you with him.

The exhaustion didn’t arrive alone, though; it arrived with self-loathing. He used to pride himself most on his honesty, on his willingness to go against the grain to do what was right for him and for the greater good. But he was not allowed that comfort in this situation and the loss of his comfort resulted in the thick self-loathing he’d never felt before.

There were certain things he couldn’t control. He couldn’t control the way his body changed around you. His chest would ache— a stuttering beat producing a longing he didn’t think he’d be able to withstand. And his eyes would be unable to move from you— as if he wanted to drink you in while he still could. He even kept you from away missions as it meant he could look at you more, unscathed and unharmed— he didn’t know what he’d do if you were put in harm’s way.

Because it wasn’t a two-week-thing for him. It could never be a two-week-thing for him when it came to you.

“For fuck’s sake,” you groaned as your eyes snapped forward again as if the blue you caught sight of was lethal. You nearly stumbled into Uhura as you took a step forward in the commissary queue.

She looked over her shoulder so you could meet her gaze. Her coffee brown eyes were narrowed so her long eyelashes cast a shadow over her sharp cheekbones. “Is it Kirk again?”

“I can’t go anywhere on this goddamn ship without seeing him.” You busied yourself with pulling the skin beside your fingernails. “I know he’s the captain and it’s his ship but can he stop acting like he’s the captain and it’s his ship?”

Uhura snorted. “Yet you’re still friends with him, Doc.”

You scowled at the sound of his nickname for you. “It was just two weeks of sex. If I can’t go back to being friends after that, what does it say about me?”

After a moment, Uhura’s curiosity found Jim and she stared at him with her head tilted. “He’s still looking at you.”

“I don’t care,” you scoffed. You were getting better at the indifference routine.

“Really? Then why have you been complaining about his relentless gawking for the last couple of weeks?”

“I just think it’s sad he’s settled for looking at me when there’s, like, a million stars to look at out the window. Plus, it’s impolite to gawk and his mother has probably taught him better.”

I hate your big, dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind.

You sat in Leonard’s desk chair sideways. Your legs were draped over one armrest while your back rested against the other. A glass of whiskey sat on top of your stomach, a smile of amusement over your lips as you balanced it somehow.

“I should be an acrobat.”

Jim snorted from the seat across the desk. There was a soft pink tint over the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose. His eyes were glassy but focused on you, almost too focused.

He had his obnoxiously heavy booted feet set atop the desk, crossed at the ankles as he held his glass of whiskey tightly between his two hands. “I’d like to see that.”

“You, of all people, Cap, should be supporting me in this endeavor. You can attest to how bendy I am.”

You saw his the electric blue of his irises flash. He hummed. “You’re still the clumsiest person I know.”

“You need to augment the pool of people you know, then,” you mumbled into your glass.

Jim had walked in on you breaking into Leonard’s liquor stash. He didn’t ask any questions upon noticing your reddened eyes and paled skin, he only fell into the seat across from you and told you to pull a glass out for him as well. He knew you needed to forget whatever caused your stuffed nose and forced you to hiccup every third word, and he would forget with you if that was what you needed.

He watched you knock back your sixth drink, his second still untouched. “You know, I can’t imagine my life without you in it. And I’m sure everyone can attest to that.”

When you snorted a laugh of disbelief, he felt as broken as you looked, your bottom lip between your teeth so it could stop shaking with unreleased sobs.

Something about what he said and something about the way he said it made your ribs shake as it hit the spot that hurt so much. “Is there some special reason you’re telling me that?”

He frowned and shrugged. “Just thought you should know.”

I hate you so much it makes me sick — it even makes me rhyme.

You groaned as you flushed the toilet filled with your stomach acid and putrid alcohol-scented upchuck. You rose from your aching knees and smeared enough toothpaste on your brush watch it ooze off the sides. It was the third time you’d gone through that routine in a span of just four hours and the sixth time you’d gone through it in the span of ten hours.

The air in your small shore leave quarters smelled stale— it carried an overpowering mixture of the alcohol leaving your pores, the mouthwash you so diligently swished, and the strawberry-like fruits you had completely forgotten about on your kitchenette counter. Your sheets were too rough— you thought the white fabric might exfoliate your skin for you unintentionally. Your mattress was too stiff— you snorted a laugh at the idea that it might have been made of limestone.

You let yourself be angry at all of that— at the scent your room carried, at the bedding that was nothing short of adequate, at the mattress that would’ve hugged you if you gave it a chance. It was certainly easier than accepting what you were truly angry about.

After all, you had no right to be jealous. Jim was yours for two weeks on a shore leave months ago. Who were you to burn at the sight of him with someone else? Who were you to feel your chest tighten, your throat pinch, and your eyes water?

So you refocused all of your negative energy. You suffocated whatever energy you could by drowning it in vodka and unleashed the remnants upon your sheets, upon your mattress, upon the strawberry-like fruits that understood the neglect you so deeply felt.

There was anger focused on yourself that you couldn’t control, though, no matter how hard you tried. Each time you looked in the mirror throughout the course of the day, you only saw how your body deceived you. You only saw the red rimming your eyes, the swelling of your features, the sadness so clearly coating your irises. You’d told yourself there was no reason to be upset, no reason to feel your heart break at such a trivial occurrence. It just seemed that you didn’t listen, that you were too far gone to listen, too angry to listen over the whoosh of blood pumping in your ears.

“I’m okay, Bones.”

He snorted from one of the four too-tall, too-straight, too-uncomfortable chairs encircling the sorry excuse for a dining table. His eyes seemed to notice all of your body’s deceit as well. “S’good thing you didn’t go into acting, sugar. You’re the most unconvincin’ —”

“Bones,” you interrupted, your voice soft. You tried to smile at him a little. “I only asked you to bring some food and maybe nausea medicine. You don’t need to play therapist. I’m fine, it’s just a small problem of mine.”

“‘Fine,’” he snorted. “You’ve looked miserable for a while, it just hasn’t come to head until now.”

He sighed and placed a large, warm hand over yours. His hazel eyes softened as he looked over you. “I’ll kill whoever it is, just name ‘em.”

You smiled easily, shaking your head. “What makes you think someone did this? I’m an independent person— I can make myself miserable without anyone’s assistance.”

I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie.

“I got you something.”

You looked up from the table at which you sat, tilting your head at Jim as he slid a small paper bag under your nose. “Why?”

A frown of consideration was spread over his lips and he set his elbows atop the table. He drummed his fingers against the surface and raised his thick eyebrows, shrugging. “Figured you haven’t eaten.”

You glanced around the sparsely populated commissary— few red shirts were clustered together in the back right corner and the nurses you preferred to have by your side in the medbay were situated at the far left.

You had decided to take your break earlier— there was a higher likelihood of peaceful solitude after half a shift of performing physicals that way.

“Assumptions can be harmful, Jim.”

“Did I assume correctly?”

“Yes,” you admitted, desperately wishing the smile that pulled at your lips would quash itself. “But I’ve been feeling kind of sick lately and replicator food is hardly a good antidote—”

“It’s not replicator food.”

“So what, you’re just sneaking actual, fresh food on board now like contraband? S’not allowed.”

He flashed you a crooked smile, leaning forward so you could feel his breath caress your already warm cheeks. He watched as your eyes widened a little. “Next time you want to reprimand me for breaking the rules, Doc, try not to sound so aroused.”

You sat back in your seat, creating a wider distance between the two of you. “Cap, I’d like to see someone who doesn’t get aroused at the prospect of actual, real food on this starship— even if we’ve only been back for a day.”

You pulled a small basket of the same fruit you’d let rot on the kitchenette counter of your shore leave quarters, biting down on your lip. You looked at Jim and tilted your head. “How’d you know I like these?”

“I didn’t know,” he answered, taking one of the red berry-shaped fruits for himself. “I like them.”

The face he made as he took a bite indicated otherwise.

I hate it when you make me laugh — even worse when you make me cry.

You stepped between Jim’s legs, placing your hand against his right cheek. You tapped your finger against his skin three times and kept your eyes in the blue haze before you. You had to work hard to not crack a molar due to the strength with which you gritted your teeth.

You used your hand to turn his face and stare at the long gash that ran from below his temple to the middle of his cheek. There were several smaller cuts sprinkled over his face, disturbing the otherwise smooth surface. You had to suppress a loud and heavy sigh.

“You could be more gentle.”

You tried to focus on the beeping of the biobed monitor rather than the amusement in his voice. “You could be less of an idiot.”

“Now that’s not fair.”

“Yeah? Did someone ask you to go near volatile machinery while the ship passes through a magnetized nebular field?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at the cut as you rolled a cotton swab coated in povidone-iodine over its length. You watched as it slightly stained the surrounding skin to a deep rust color. “I would think when Scotty warns you not to and actually tells you he’s the only one authorized to handle it, you would play fair and command your ship from where you were meant to.”

He tried to turn to face you but you pushed back with more force. He clicked his tongue in reaction and you felt his jaw clench under your gloved fingertips. “I was trying to make sure there would still be a ship to command.”

“That’s what your chief engineering officer is meant for.”

“And are my physicians meant to lecture me?”

“Only when you’re being stupid,” you returned through your teeth, picking up the dermal regenerator from the biobed and firing it up once you held it to Jim’s cut.

You watched the red light work its magic, chewing the inside of your cheek in silence. Once you reached the halfway point of the scar, you let yourself glance at Jim— he looked a bit worn down, less bright than you were used to.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, almost inaudible over the regenerator’s whirring. You caught Jim’s eye as he peered at you. “I know you were only doing what you thought was right.”

He dropped his gaze, looking as far down as his held-steady head would let him. “No, you’re right. I tend to be headstrong sometimes.”

“‘Sometimes’?” you repeated with a soft smile, the chuckle leaving your lips almost foreign to you in its involuntary nature.

You sighed after a moment, switching the handheld machine off. “You have no idea how much it worries me to see you like this. Especially after I hear you’ve been interfering with engineering, you yellow shirt.”

You felt him smile.

“The last time you did that, I had watch Bones identify your body,” you added, shaking your head when you felt your throat pinch. “I am sorry if I come across a bit harsh, but it comes from a good place.”

You’d made a promise to yourself the night your jealousy led to an enormous intake of alcohol. You told yourself you wouldn’t be upset over Jim. You wouldn’t feel jealousy, sadness, anger over him as you had no right to. But, once again, it seemed that your body was betraying you as a few heavy tears fell onto your cheeks and burned the way down.

All you could do was grit your teeth and hope for it to pass.

I hate it when you're not around. And the fact that you didn't call.

Jim was moving on! Or so he told himself.

He was doing all he could to get you out of his mind. After all, you were the only thing on it for how ever many torturous months he spent convincing himself friendship was enough. And after seeing how broken you were as you patched him up, how restless you became at his very presence for the following weeks, he knew there was no way he could be around you without holding you until the frustration left your limbs, without kissing you until the fear left your eyes. So he avoided you.

He spent less time heckling Leonard in the medbay as he ran the risk of bumping into you in the stark white room. He avoided the commissary at times he knew you would be there, he chose to spend evenings in his room rather than the senior officers’ lounge, he reiterated to himself that the observation deck was off-limits. He did all he could to get you off his mind.

The problem was, though, that he couldn’t.

When you noticed his absence at first, you were a bit relieved. No more staring, no more dirty boots trudging through your quarters, no more assumptions that turned out to be annoyingly true— your body couldn’t betray you if he wasn’t around. For those first few days, you subscribed to the “out of sight, out of mind” principle. Only it failed you by the end of that week.

You noticed his absence made you think of him more. You began to pay more attention to the voices you heard around you in the commissary, hoping to pick his out of the bunch. You spent more time in Leonard’s office, bothering him until you resigned back to your post. Your body betrayed you anyway and you did all you could to ease the tightness in your chest.

The problem was, though, that you couldn’t.

But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you—

You found yourself at Jim’s door. Your hand was raised and you leaned your knuckles against the metallic surface, setting your forehead there as well.

You groaned inwardly.

You raised your hand again, knuckles at the ready… before placing them against the door once more. Not a sound could be heard.

You shook your head this time. You took your hand from the door and shook it, taking a deep breath and counting to ten. Then you counted to twenty, then thirty, then forty.

With a loud sigh and a curse under your breath, you raised your hand and rapped your knuckles against the door with a force you didn’t know you were capable of. You regretted it immediately and considered racing down the hall to slide into the safe confines of the turbolift, but stood your ground.

When the door slid open, you didn’t give yourself enough time to watch his eyes widen or his mouth fall open. You looked over his shoulder and said, “I need to tell you something.”

He moved out of the way and silently motioned for you to enter.

You fell onto his couch. You crossed your legs at the knee, then at the ankle, and once again at the knee— you settled at the knee. You twisted your fingers together.

“Is everything okay?”

The breath you’d been holding left your lips in a single gust. You took your eyes, useless with the blur of unshed tears, from your fingers to Jim’s vague form. “No.”

You blinked hard, looking away only to look back at him as he knelt before you.

He took your hands in his much larger, much warmer ones and stared up at you as if every planet he was sent to explore resided in your irises, pupils dilated enough to consume you entirely. He watched a few more tears escape the corners of your eyes and felt them burn his cheeks as they rolled down your face.

He had to clear his throat before he spoke a soft, “What’s wrong?”

“I thought what we were doing was the right thing to do,” you told him in a voice that broke more times than you’d care to admit. “But the right thing shouldn’t feel like this.”

You took a shaky breath and wiped your cheeks clean. You almost leant into one of his hands as he took it from yours and cupped one side of your face, his thumb brushing your skin lightly. “I had you for two weeks. I thought I would get it out of my system, get you out of my system— but I couldn’t. All I could think about was how stupid those people are that claim it’s better to have a little than to have none.

“I would trade those two weeks just to have you as a friend again— and I know we still are now, but it’s not the same. I used to be more comfortable around you than anyone. Now I look at you and I’m scared that you’ll see how in love I am with you and you won’t feel the same.”

Jim sat up a bit, letting his hand move from the side of your face to rest against the back of your neck. Looking at you in a way that forced your heart into your stomach, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against yours softly. He let his nose bump yours. “You have absolutely nothing to be afraid of— trust me.”

— not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

#LISTEN. READ THIS RIGHT NOW #IT TOOK SO LONG TO WRITE #i'm crying yall what if this is so bad and im telling myself it's ok because i want to get a piece out #i had this idea and almost peed myself i was so excited to write it but when i started writing it just got away from me #whoops #jim kirk #jim kirk imagine #kirk imagine #jim kirk x reader #star trek #star trek imagine #captain kirk x reader #captain kirk imagine #imagine kirk #imagine jim kirk #kirk x reader

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