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rhaenella · 1 year

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You & Me - Rhys Montrose x Reader - Part 2

Part 1 | Part 3

Summary: What happens when reader assassin is tasked with killing the possible future mayor of London; Rhys Montrose. Politician by day, Eat the Rich Killer by night. But he isn’t the only person wearing different masks.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Violence, murder, immoral sociopathic behaviour, mentions of alcoholism, drug abuse and neglect, (eventual) smut

Word count: 2.8k

A/N at the end.

Song: Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene – Hozier

“Fuck the rich,” you groaned, frustrated as you kicked over two empty Chinese takeout containers.

It had been six hours since you came home from your meeting with your employer. Leaving the smug bastard behind in that 18th century abandoned building falling apart at its seams. He didn’t own you – you were your own person. Accepting jobs or refusing them as you wished, but damn it had really felt like he controlled you. And you didn’t like the feeling one bit.

Power is a dangerous thing. Something to be desired and wars fought over. You would never admit that you longed for it yourself. You just wanted the autonomy to decide your own path, your own life and future. And to make sure your sisters could do the same regardless of your shit start in life.

Yet, you didn’t feel an ounce of autonomy right now scrolling once more through the endless online hits on one Rhys Montrose. Your next victim. A man who had to be dead and vanished without a trace within 42 hours. Pity, considering the man wasn’t entirely unattractive.

But ultimately you didn’t care for the man, good looks or not. Sure, he seemed decent in his political stance and you could even find some similarities in your upbringing. Apparently, Montrose had a rather shit start in life as well. Raised in poverty by an unstable single mother. However, he got a chance in life you never did. Turned out his father was some loaded duke who actually recognised Montrose as his legitimate son and heir. From there on his life started taking off, even being able to attend Oxford. Montrose wrote one of the most critically acclaimed memoirs in — well, history. He rose in the elitist ranks and became active in politics. Now there were rumours he would take a shot at the mayor candidacy in London.

Again, you didn��t care about any of this. It was all just part of your normal vetting process. In order to get close to someone without anyone else noticing, one must get to know said person. The preparations of a kill were usually quite thrilling. Yes, you were a gun for hire but the knowledge that you were planning another person’s demise and about to carry it out without any of the victims being none the wiser was exciting.

Did that make you a sociopath? Probably. You never intended to officially label it as it would require you sharing your secrets with a shrink. Which was never going to happen.

But you knew you also had a heart and feelings. It kept you grounded in your beliefs that you were still somewhat of a normal person. Your feelings tied you to your humanity and to your sisters. You would do anything to protect them. Doing brutal things like killing possibly innocent people for money? If it meant keeping a roof over your sisters’ heads and making sure they got an education, and also not unimportant, preventing your little sister from becoming more sick and likely dying, then yes — fuck it all. You really would do anything. And you already were. But a tiny part of you also acknowledged that besides all of that, you also relished the feeling of besting someone. Watching the light go out in their eyes. And if those people also happened to be privileged assholes – well, you weren’t afraid to admit you enjoyed it just a tad bit more.

You rubbed your tired eyes and got up from the carpet where you had spread out your little research station, a dozen printed-out news articles on Montrose lying scattered around. You sighed. “First coffee,” you muttered to yourself as the early rays of sunlight entered through your almost see-through curtains. You bent down to pick up the takeout containers and walked the small distance to your tiny kitchen, throwing them away.

You had your own small apartment in central London, decorated mostly with thrifted furniture and the little you owned that you brought with you when you escaped your mother’s house. You filled the kettle with water and waited for it to start boiling, grabbing the container of instant coffee from the top shelf, generously adding three scoops of the bitter stuff.

The ringing of your phone made you pause as you set the container of coffee on your counter. Briefly glancing at your clock that hung above your stove — it read 06.32 — you fished your phone out of your pocket and picked it up, already knowing who it must be.

“You’re up early,” you heard the familiar voice of your sister Zoe along with some background noise, most likely she was preparing her breakfast.

“I could say the same thing to you,” you chuckled, moving to lean back against the counter.

“I have an early morning class in—” she paused, probably checking the time. “In two hours,” she sighed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied instantly. “It’s just, well, I’m supposed to have finished up on my notes on Poe’s Man of the Crowd and—”

“You haven’t yet,” you supplied, a smile finding its way to your lips.

You heard a huff followed by a laugh. “Yeah.”

You were silent for a minute, listening to the birds waking up outside.

“But it’s fine, you know. My professor — Jonathan Moore — he’s nice and all. He’s a little hung up on his American literature, but he’s helping me out with my own short story so I can’t complain too much.”

“Professor Moore? I haven’t heard you mention him before.”

“Well, I’ve been busy,” your sister answered reasonably. “And by the way, so have you. How was Canada?”

“It was fine,” you commented, turning around when you heard the little click that indicated the water was boiling.

“Just fine? Jeez, sis, you can tell me if you shagged a hot Canadian bloke. I promise it won’t be a commentary on your character.”

You laughed as you picked up the kettle to pour the boiling water into your cup, the smell of coffee filling your nostrils almost making you groan.

“Unfortunately, there was no hot Canadian bloke,” you replied amused. There was however quite an attractive woman that now rested — peacefully? — six feet down in Glendon Forest, Ontario. At least you buried her deep enough so the moose wouldn’t be able to feast off of her remains. That would seem to qualify as peace as far as you were concerned.

“However, I did get you some real Canadian maple syrup.”

“The answer to all my problems,” Zoe remarked dryly.

“Exactly.”

Your sister was quiet for a moment as you stirred your cup of coffee, picking it up to tentatively take a sip of the hot drink. Now you really did almost groan if it wasn’t for the shaky inhale of breath you heard through your phone’s receiver. You were about to ask what was wrong — what truly bothered her, but your sister beat you to the punch.

“Have you heard?” She asked quietly.

“Heard what, love?”

“About the possible serial killer running around London.”

Ah, the infamous Eat The Rich Killer as the media had dubbed him. A little prematurely you thought as there were so far only two confirmed kills, meaning he wasn’t technically a serial killer yet or deserving of a fancy nickname.

You had been reading up on it about three hours ago because the victims had been part of a tight group of social elitists. People who were close to your target, Rhys Montrose. It briefly crossed your mind how well-timed it would be if Montrose would be killed by the presumable serial killer within your time span of killing the man. It would surely be an easy pay day.

“Yeah, I heard. Did you know that professor? Harding, right?”

Your sister hummed affirmatively. “Malcolm Harding. He was a bad professor, never prepared his classes, but he didn’t deserve this. No one does.”

It made you smile thinking of your sister’s big heart. She sympathised with every person that walked this earth, even the ones who didn’t deserve it. Some would call it naive, and maybe it was a little naive, but you also admired that trait in her. It was a level of sympathy you’d never experienced or would ever be able to experience.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” you offered.

“It’s okay. I just hope they catch whoever’s responsible for these crimes. Did you know the killer took… things,” she trailed off, doubtlessly horrified at the idea of cutting up a body.

“Professor Harding’s finger was sent to The London Dispatch.” You could almost hear her shudder through the phone. “And they haven’t retrieved Simon Soo’s ear yet. How appalling — can you imagine cutting off someone’s ear?”

Yes, you could.

“No, the thought of it alone, it’s too awful to think about.”

“Truly horrible,” she agreed.

“But I really need to get going. I still have to finish up on my notes for Moore’s class.”

“You do that, sweetie. And please don’t trouble yourself too much with this Eat The Rich Killer stuff, just focus on yourself and your studies. Okay?”

“I will try,” your sister promised.

You exchanged your I love you’s and goodbye’s, promising to bring her the maple syrup later today. When you hung up the phone and placed it back in your pocket, you picked up your coffee and lazily walked back towards your living room. You sighed as you took in the mess of articles and your hastily scribbled-down notes on Montrose’s movements of the past few weeks.

Plumping down on the soft carpet once more, you took two deep breaths. You can do this. You’d done it countless times before. So what that he was some famous politician, being watched by the entire city, possibly the entire country. You could make this work. This was what you did best.

You grabbed a clean sheet of paper and wrote down the address of Montrose’s townhouse in Primrose Hill. That is where you would start.

The sound of the alert you had installed on your phone when a new article on Montrose would be posted, interrupted your train of thought. You quickly snatched your phone and couldn’t help but smirk as you read the headline now displayed on your screen.

Rhys Montrose Press Interview This Afternoon in Regent’s Park.

Perfect timing, you relished. Now you didn’t have to sneakily stay within the practically non-existent blindspots at his residence where you had counted at least 12 different cameras through looking up his house on Google Maps. The man was either paranoid or brilliant. Or both.

You quickly skimmed through the news article. He would be there answering questions regarding the Eat The Rich situation, as well as raise some awareness for a charity run he’s apparently organising.

You grinned, putting down your phone and eagerly grabbing your laptop to look up Regent’s Park online to examine all the different access (and escape) routes.

Finally you felt like an opportunity had presented itself, the contours of a plan starting to formulate itself in your mind.

As you scribbled down your ideas onto another fresh piece of paper in your notebook, you darkly chuckled, “You better get ready for our first date, Mr. Montrose.”

––

The sun was high up in the sky when Rhys Montrose stood in front of at least two dozen journalists and photographers that afternoon. With cameras zoomed in on his face and microphones and recorders all pointed his way, he had to carefully choose his words answering the media’s questions. Luckily, Rhys was a good talker, and if he didn’t want to provide any upfront comment he would charmingly deflect. It always worked. Handling people came naturally to him — being able to play them like a conductor who is in perfect control of his symphony.

After a few questions on his charity run coming up in two weeks, the media quickly switched tracks to bombard him with questions on the Eat The Rich Killer.

Are you aware of any possible suspects?

Do you fear for your own life?

Are you joining your friends in retreating to Lady Phoebe’s country estate for shelter?

His mind immediately zeroed in on that last question some 20-year-old newbie had shouted from the back of the pack.

Friends, he inwardly scoffed. But they had indeed invited him to come. None of them being aware that they had just voluntarily invited the killer into their little shelter.

The groupchat had exploded after the news broke of Malcolm’s murder. Lady Phoebe calling for a retreat to the safety of the countryside, away from the prying eyes of the media and other dangers that lingered in the shadows of the city of London.

Rhys was way too busy with his extensive plans that needed tending on his road to becoming mayor to accept this ridiculous offer. Besides, he had been more than a little annoyed at this pathetic attempt of outrunning, in his eyes, the inevitable — their deaths.

He was in the middle of formulating a text stating he wouldn’t attend before he paused at a new incoming text by Lady Phoebe. Jonathan would also join them. Why he was admitted to their inner circle of snobbery was beyond him, but Jonathan had intrigued him from the start. His sixth sense when it came to murder and violence kicking in. Rhys had taken a gamble when he’d placed a freshly murdered Malcolm on Jonathan’s kitchen table, but he had been impressed with the way Jonathan had handled the situation. He had been right about him. And now Rhys couldn’t resist playing with Jonathan a little more, rearranging his plans to include the faux professor in his murderous schemes.

Was it just for his own entertainment? Possibly. Would he tire of him eventually? Very likely. But Rhys would deal with that fallout when the time came. For now, Jonathan served his purpose perfectly.

Maybe Rhys would attend after all.

Rhys cleared his throat and placed a befitting, empathetic smile on his face as he turned towards the newbie journalist who was nearly crushing his pencil as he waited for Rhys to answer.

Rhys knew that he could never look weak in the public’s eye, but he did need to convey a sense of compassion towards the situation.

“I am indeed planning to travel to Hampsbridge House later today. We collectively decided to take a moment for ourselves to mourn the loss of our friends whom we’ve known since our days at Oxford,” Rhys answered, deliberately squashing any mentions of sheltering. A word that in his mind equalled pathetic and weak.

“We very much appreciate your understanding of our wish to take some time away from the bustling of the city. Lady Phoebe suggested that the calm and serenity of the countryside may aid in our challenge to make some sense of all that has happened recently. And I wholeheartedly agreed with her assessment.”

Rhys looked around, focusing on the cameras.

“And when I get back in a couple of days, I will be ready to resume my work with a clearer head and a renewed devotion to fight for what’s right in this city. To ensure the safety of all. Not just the social elite, but also the working class,” he concluded.

The journalists and photographers took it as their cue to finish up and started packing up their gear. Rhys’ security walked up to him and informed him they were set to drive him to Hampsie. He nodded affirmatively at his head of security, relaying his instructions for the stay in the country. His security would remain at the outermost perimeter of the property. There would be no need for them inside the walls of the manor anyway. Likely they would only hinder what he had now planned for the other guests.

He was discussing his final instructions whilst they left through the entrance gates of the park when someone forcefully bumped into his right shoulder. Rhys turned around swiftly, regaining his composure and stared at the back of a woman who was wearing head phones. He could clearly hear the blasting music even as she kept on walking farther away from him without apologising, completely ignoring who she had just rather rudely bumped into.

“Sir, are you all right?” His security gathered around him like a protective shield. As if the woman had been any real threat. He chuckled, looking back at his men.

“It’s fine. Let’s not waste any more time.”

The sleek black car that would take him to Hampsie rounded the corner and Rhys slid graciously into the back seat as his chauffeur held open the door for him.

Whilst they drove through the busy London traffic, Rhys rested two fingers to his temple. The next phase of his plan was coming to fruition sooner than he had anticipated. But he was prepared. He always had to be.

At last, they left the hectic city behind them and the smile that slowly made its way onto Rhys’ face was both wicked and dangerous, like a predator ready to stalk its prey.

––––

A/N: and that’s part 2!! Next part will be reader going on her mission to assassinate our favourite politician/serial killer, oh my...

ALSO, it’s the first time ever that I’ve been adding these soundtrack-esque songs at the beginning of the chapters. These are really just songs that I thought about (or listened to) during writing that would, in my opinion, really fit the vibe of the chapter. Feel free to play them as you read or perhaps listen to them afterwards

#rhys montrose x reader #rhys montrose x female reader #rhys montrose fanfic #rhys montrose fic #rhys montrose #you netflix #you season 4 #you season 4 canon divergence #jonathan moore #joe goldberg #goldrose #ed speleers #rhys montrose x original female character #on ao3 #you and me

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team-council-two · 2 years

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So how is Spy a special case?

*is excited*

(for context, in a previous post, i added the tags " i could write an entire book on how unfamiliar french people in medias seem to actual french people, spy is an odd case; ask me about him")

aiight, you know what you signed up for, get ready for one hell of a presentation, ft terminal verbosis frenchosis ! this will be in three parts, of course, because three is a good number and the mere concept of having 3 parts should give you all a headache (look ray i didnt add a n this time)

wait shit im not even sure mistral is a spy, hold on,

aw fck thats for real ones

anyways femme fatale trope, next question

HA gotcha, you didnt think id let yall go with just one sentence huh ? so. our fella is french. our fella is a spy. our fella is a huge piece of shit. extremely common, alright ? outright overused archetype. eeeexcept that the combo's execution here REALLY stands out. how so ?

well, let me ask you a quick question. do you think the fact that he is french, and the fact that he is an evil bastard, and the fact that he is a spy are linked ?

well ill answer that for you. nope. valve treated these three traits remarkably separately. the way he speaks french in game is relatively polite, and the insults he throws around are, i checked, exclusively in english. he is surprisingly free of the usual way medias make "being evil" and "being french" be a hand in hand thing, and similarly free of the one that seems to indicate that Because you are french Of Course you are a spy. in other words, rather than being a walking glamour stereotype of sorts or an obnoxious asshole the likes of which we have seen hundreds of, this is a godawful guy that also happens to be a french snob, and that also happens to be a spy.

compare with, say, our lady mistral above who has a shitton of taunts in french, who embraces that whole sexy lady deal, deliberately plays on it and so on. difference is miles.

and now if you followed you did catch i said french snob rather than just french, there is a reason behind this, so allow me to get on part 2, which i promise will be WAY more verbose-

im not sure why but american medias love to have peppy rich french fashionistas in their shit. theyre cute, hyper, sheltered as fuck, and the entire deal is weird bc these people seem like aliens to actual french people who tend to care about fashion in pretty normal amounts and definitely do not have that many grands to bust into it. *yes* we pride ourselves in having a pretty neat fashion industry, but in a similar way as the american and the german boast about their cars. we are NOT obsessed with it okay. anyways, sometimes writers have the decency of making these characters cunts, but not always. but what doesnt vary is the trope seems to play out like ah yes, your average french- which is fucking baffling. and is the part taking us aback.

see, we HAVE the evil breed of those characters too in our shit. comedic shit, to be precise. a rundown of our humor is it often is situational humor - stupid outlandish situations with equally stupid archetypal characters, their personality equally pushed into the absurd, all of that more often than not thinly veiling some pretty heavy social commentary. in other words, you often laugh at the evil cop/rich factory/big restaurant owner/politician/etc getting karma'd in mind boggingly bizzare and hilarious ways, while clearly showing them as evil for mistreating subordinates (and often getting shit for it sooner or later) and as simpering cowards towards literally anyone who has any kind of superior position to them whatsoever.

in other words, context matters. where in american shit they are often allies or friends or comedic relief of sorts through being french/annoying or just villains, in french shit they more often than not are *targets* of some kind of events and shown to be ridiculous through other means than their obsession for fashion or whatever.

am i saying that valve did this ?

...yeah. thats a very bold statement, but yes. i mean, cmon,

see, i am overall basing this on the fact that ingame spy is so fucking similar to many, many, many of Louis de Funès' roles, and even his face, it outright had me searching around the wiki for some kind, any kind of claim of inspiration from valve-

he reads exactly as one of them ! rich cunt obsessed with money, constantly mocking people, constantly complaining about everything ever, fakely polite, not opposed to doing vile acts to have his way, extremely menacing face, *the same fucking laugh*, and the fact that characters played by this guy have remarkably often have what we call a couillon de fils, a dumbfuck of a loser ass son, if you will.

the only differences really are from comic spy, who reads far less like this. he's still well executed mind you, but he (especially @miss pauling) reads as far kinder than this dude's characters usually are, and he is a bit more... stretched, both physically and in behaviour, than the actor's goblin build and attitude, as game spy seems to be unable to stand straight whereas the comic one seems to have no difficulty with this, and the similar range of expressiveness that also ports 1:1 is game exclusive as well. and finally, comic spy also was not given the occasion to cuss people out, so.

anyways my point mostly amounts to, if you manage to make french people think of an emblematic actor beloved by many, rather than just make us go through the usual whiplash of "how is that a normal french person to american people ???", you are probably doing something right.

youtube

in addition to this wall of text, i am begging you all to watch this, it should help understand what i meant by our breed of humor, and what i mean by "spy could have been played by this dude no problem"

now, onto part 3,

well once you said he is a pathetic wet cat man you summed it up really.

for all the class he has, for all the money he has, for all the. everything ? he still is pathetic. he still is simply seen as a mean as fuck loser either trying to drown his failures as a father with expensive tastes, or simply amoral and unsympathetic because of his concerns being about money rather than about humans. he still is headcanoned as stinking by most of the fandom. nobody respects the fucken spy. he comes across as haughty and it only makes people want to shit on him some more.

really, it is pretty much everything I explained in the two points above. the patheticness helps with making it so he is not a stereotype, and it helps making it clear he is supposed to be representative of rich pretentious cunts rather than of french people.

so, he is a huge bitch, and ironically, this makes him a blorbo to us, bc who doesnt love a good ole flawed character ?

his whole french deal is not shown as eccentric or what makes him a loser but just a coincidence, in a sense. and you'd be surprised by how much of a breath of fresh air this is to french people. shitty in a realistic way rather than a made up clown, and in a way we can recognize in our own medias. it also is neat from the, err, fandom pov ? because you get to develop his frenchness and assholeness and spyness separately, since they are elements implemented for the sake of themselves rather than as a stereotypical whole. you get to have *fun* with him.

SO i think i ran out of things to blabber about. hope it makes sense tho. but i guess it really is about. not *quite* representation because we do not see ourselves in spy, of course, but way more about our culture not being bastardized and being turned into a joke about eccentrics at best, or hatred about seductive women and effeminate/homosexual men at worst, + having a fresh execution on tropes that else usually would get our eyes rolling.

alpha, over and out

#tf2 spy #langage language #tf2 #The Council has spoken #god my tags are a mess #hope yall can bear with how im basically the messiest member of the council #comes with being the frenchman i suppose

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yrsonpurpose · 6 months

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Alex taking for granted that Henry’s never had an American Thanksgiving, but it not really tracking that it’s been years since Henry had ANY kind of functional family dinner. And even then, his dad would be off on movie shoots or his mom would be doing royal duties and it was so rare they’d get together to share a meal that wasn’t also peppered with diplomats and politicians.

And Alex isn’t great with noticing subtle, but he sees how uneasy Henry is as Thanksgiving approaches, and he finally gets out of him that Henry doesn’t think he knows how to behave at a normal dinner. He’s so used to putting on that disaffected mask, or being alone with Alex or Bea or Pez. Sitting with Ellen and Oscar and Leo… Henry isn’t trained for that.

First, Alex gives him a quick, sloppy blow job to relax him. Then he crawls on top of Henry so he can’t run away and tells him that Ellen may have been President, but when she washes dishes and thinks no one is listening she sings Madonna songs (badly). Every year Oscar tries to make the turkey and every year he gives up and does tamales instead. And usually halfway through dinner when Alex and Nora have too much wine and start throwing food at each other Leo and June will wander off to play Jenga.

Alex says that there ISN’T any normal family dinner, and what Henry brings to it will be as wonderfully atrociously perfect as he always is. And if it’s shit, Alex knows where the camera blind spots are and he’ll fuck Henry by the azaleas and come back for pie with twigs in his hair. And it will be them. And that’s why it will be perfect.

👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 love this idea thank uuuuu. alex making everything seem 'normal' to henry>>> same vibes as 'no one has ever had the nerve to be cheeky to a prince', bc alex just treats him like anyone else.

#asks #bc we didnt get any canon thanksgiving content (booooo) we have to live through fics !

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talkingbl · 1 year

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The Good and Bad of Not Me

SPOILER WARNING. Also spoilers for S3 of Attack on Titan anime???

The Good:

The plot. You mean someone made an anti-establishment hit piece that touched on nearly every major social issue affecting Thai politics? I'm seated.

The message(s). Just a couple of themes I picked up on: equality for all, triumph over betrayal, the thin line between love and hate, etc. like I just- And the social issues discussed: class struggle, LGBTQ+ acceptance, democracy, racial injustice, etc. It's like this show knew it needed to happen in 2021/2022. Name a single BL series out of Thailand that hits on such important topics with the level of care we got with Not Me. I'm damn near certain you can't.

The acting. I could go on for days about Gun ATP and First KP, but I want to say that Off took another leap with Not Me. Of course, he wasn't perfect and I'm skeptical of how much more he can/will improve from here, but he's come a long way from his P'Pick days and I'm glad to see it. But even beyond these 3 performancess, the entire cast was relatively competent (especially Sing). So much so that I'd elevate Not Me over normal BLs to say that it exists somewhere between higher-end BL experiences (like MODC and TOL) and outright cinematic BL experiences (like ITSAY and Love of Siam). Of course, I'd place it much closer to a TOL than a Love of Siam, I'm just noting that, acting-wise, it's well-done in its own regard for all that it attempted (largely because of ATP's distinguished performance as Black and White).

The twin thing. Listen, when little Black told little White to promise him that he'd fight back when others tried to take advantage of him, I knew I was in this twin shit for the long haul. I love that they basically had a psychic connection. It added so much depth of feeling to the story when we finally got the first face-off between Black and White as adults.

Representation. From the more minor types of representation (short king Black with tall queen Eugene lol), to the more transformative types (positive female characters, Nuch as a transwoman, Gram as a het man who'd dated a trans woman, Yok's mom as a deaf person, etc.) we saw much more diversity on screen than we usually get in BL. I'm especially in love with how no single character's story was reduced to their gender/sex/ability. Instead, Yok's mom dealt with issues of classism and workers' rights, Nuch was a leader in her community and a future lawyer/politician, White and Black's mom was a successful judge who only wanted the best for her sons, etc. This is the type of representation that people want--not representation in name only.

The tone & direction MADE the show. Not Me is tonally the best BL I've watched outside of ITSAY and a couple others that straddle that line between BL and LGBTQ+ cinema. P'Nuchy did the damn thing. We are no longer in cheesy romcom territory, we don't play the OST everytime the leads look at each other, we don't resort to slapstick or toilet humor whenever the situation gets too serious. Instead, the show took itself seriously, treated its viewers like adults, and did would it could to resemble a project made for the silver screen (for the most part crisp film, subtle acting/writing, strong sound design, and great character-development). Without these elements, I think Not Me doesn't feel as gritty and its themes don't come across as powerfully.

The unshakable chemistry of Black's gang. Every single character worked well with the others and their relationships all made sense. And even to the romantic relationships that had developed, those all worked on a level I hadn't seen yet and haven't seen since in BL.

Black. The shining star of the show, to me, was Black. He was cold, calculated, and ruthless, yet vulnerable, idealistic, and trusting to a fault. The way he treated people reeked of arrogance but also exposed an underbelly of extreme loyalty. It was so obvious to me that he cared about Sean, Yok, and Gram, but his way of showing it was often destructive--to everyone else and himself. Above all, though, he was cool as fuck lmao. Like he did what he wanted, fought for what he believed in, didn't take any shit, and was like the mysterious anime protagonist everyone wants to emulate. His character was only bolstered by Gun's portrayal. I loved every second of Black on screen and would do unspeakable things to relieve my first moments watching him in action.

Tod and Black's weird chemistry. I swear to you, Gun had chemistry with fucking everybody in the cast, including himself. But what stood out most about Tod and Black is that they both wanted to kill each other but loved each other (platonically) too much to actually follow through. It was a real tortured feeling. --ATTACK ON TITAN SPOILERS BEGIN-- Reminds me a lot of S3 pt. 2 of Attack on Titan where Bertholdt says to the rest of the 104th that they're all his friends (and good people) but they still had to die. --ATTACK ON TITAN SPOILERS END-- Like, that's such a deep and complicated feeling to portray and Sing and Gun nailed it.

The Bad:

Bad guys still dark-skinned.

The absolute refusal to canonize GramBlack. I'm sorry but GramBlack just makes so much sense to me, but like in a one-sided unrequited love kind of way. Gram being down abysmal for Black would've been that subtle element needed to really make GramEugene even remotely interesting and it would've given Black a lot to consider.

Gram. Literally fuck him lmao fucking snake. Also fuck Mond as an actor.

#not me the series #thai bl boys love #seanwhite seanblack danyok todblack gramblack blackeugene grameugene #offgun singgun gawinfirst flukefirst #fluke gawin sing harit mond tanutchai gun atthaphan off jumpol first kanaphan

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airlockfailure · 2 years

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Invictus AU Head-canons CG Commanders Edition: Fox

Canon portrays Commander Fox as duty bound and fearless. In Invictus I decided that wasn't going to be the case. Fox is still duty bound, but I chose to make him terrified of a lot of things, just incredibly good at hiding his fear from others.

He's overprotective of the Coruscant Guard (especially the shinies and the CCs) and close friends, worries all the time about his batchmates, is an arachnophobe (that's Lego comic canon), and like many other creators' head-canons Fox is prone to self-detrimental behavior. He's similar to the colloquial "mom friend" who goes "No one else is going to do it? Okay, I will" especially in regards to keeping parts of the Republic functioning. The Ingress? He streamlined refugee intake in order to 1. weed out CIS conspirators 2. make the workload on his men less cumbersome 3. make the workload on the nat borns less cumbersome and 4. Fox hates disorder. The prison system? He's been painstakingly weeding out the corruption and misuse of funding. The Republic is broke, after all, and they ought to prioritize war criminals over citizens trying to survive. (Fox is compassionate to a fault, and dislikes injustice.) The Senate? Fox does everything he can (and then some) to try and keep the CG and the clone army as a whole in the good graces of the Republic. He's not a politician. He's not...

He takes normal GAR stims (mega doses of caffeine) to keep going, but he also takes contraband stims that are illicit drugs and is somewhat too reliant on them. Why is he not addicted to them? He is, but Fox is brutal toward himself, and is repeatedly cut off cold-turkey from supply because he ends up injured or too busy. He usually hides in the med center in Myth's office when he's going through withdrawal (while still trying to get work done, damn it Fox). The last one he ever uses is in his fight with Dooku. He doesn't touch them again after that, and even stops drinking so much caf (because lightsaber versus guts equals digestive problems).

He's afraid of drowning, but taking inspiration from that one post discussing how the Force is an eldritch horror, the drowning phobia is a metaphor for his use of the Darkside. IMO the Darkside would be the natural state of Force users if they were not exposed to Jedi teachings. Jedi exist after thousands and thousands of years of trial and error learning how to mitigate the Force's negative affects on the user. Fox, having no training, and limited exposure to Jedi where he is not at odds with them (SKYWALKER), and constantly exposed to Palpatine, and relying entirely on instinct and emotion to power the fuck through every day, Fox is drowning in darkness. He's also preoccupied with saving other clones, and in his own opinion, sometimes selfishly so.

Why doesn't Sidious sniff Fox out? Well, Sidious is trying to sniff Fox out. Fox really only begins to use the Force in earnest after helping Slick. Prior to that, he's locked down, and accidentally does things due to strong emotions (resurrecting CT-2587 or being clairvoyant for brief moments when someone is in danger: see Dawn's situation at the start of Invictus). On top of that, Fox believes he's alone in his ability to use the Force. When Colt tells him that's not the case, and gives him intel on Slick, Fox mistakes Colt's words to mean that Slick is the only other Force-sensitive clone. Colt works on Kamino. He sees some weird shit. Colt knows 100% there's a shit ton of Force-sensitive clones. And it's the sheer numbers of them that help keep Fox hidden for so long. It's not until his showdown with Sidious that they fully recognize each other. Sidious has been hunting his nightmares, and Sidious does know about Slick.

I write Fox as a sex-positive asexual. Fox is tactile and shows physical affection toward other clones by hugging them, sharing his bunk or their bunk. He lets tired troopers sleep on his shoulder. He holds dying men until they pass (if possible, sometimes it's not safe). He's constantly offering comfort to those around him. He says he's not great with words, but for a clone, you could consider Fox silver-tongued. He can lie, and he can convince people to believe him. For the clones, usually it's the phrase "everything will be okay".

I ship Fox with Riyo (and headcanon Riyo as being about 23-25). Thorn is friends with Riyo first, via escorting Padme frequently. Riyo respects the clones. She faced her insecurities as a senator with the 501st and learned a few things about war, battle, and her distaste for callousness toward life. She can take care of herself (which is great because Fox is already juggling more than he can handle), but more importantly, in regards to Fox, Riyo wants to help the clones. She wants to help him help the clones. Fox has no voice in the Senate, so Riyo speaks for him. Fox is so starved of everything a normal human has, and Riyo gives him everything. He is not attracted to her, but he loves her.

It was initially Thorn's idea to get Riyo to ask Fox out for caf. Partly as a joke, and partly because Fox needs to stop working for five seconds. And then they became serious about it, and saved the Republic and the clones (and the Jedi).

Fox doesn't actually like the color blue (LOL) or red (he hates red, and blue he has the unfortunate association of the 501st causing more chaos for him to take care of sghsgskhfd). He likes what's described as "wine-dark" because he saw the ocean at sunset once on Kamino and it burned into his brain.

Fox's Phase I bucket belonged to another clone on Geonosis. Fox had to slice it's protocols because the clone wasn't a commander. The bucket is glitchy, prone to system failure and blue-screening, but Fox is attached to it. Thorn keeps it safe for him during the upgrade to Phase II. Fox's Phase II bucket is shattered in half by the end of the war because he gives Sidious a Force backed kov'nyn (headbutt).

Fox was officially adopted by the elderly Mandalorian Aren Kelborn who had been living among refugees on Coruscant. While Fox isn't sure he sees Aren as a father figure (more like a dangerous grandpa), his death is a major loss for Fox's mental well being, as he has to go back to saving clones on his own. Aren bequeathed Fox with his beat up Beskar armor, which Fox uses as a disguise when doing unsanctioned things.

It's called the Invictus AU based on the poem by William Ernest Henley, and because in the illegal gambling fights Fox was placing himself into to earn credits for decommissioned troopers, he held the moniker "Invictus" because he didn't feel comfortable being called "Mando" (he doesn't believe he deserves to be Mandalorian despite Aren's insistence and adoption). Fox has a tattoo down is spine in Mando'a that's a line from the poem (is there a space version of William Ernest Henley? This is fiction, so why not?)

I wanted to write Fox as undefeated. The only person who defeats Fox is himself.

Is Fox overpowered? Yes. But after all the crap people give him, I think he deserves to be.

#cc 1010 #commander fox #invictus au #swtcw #tcw #the clone wars #star wars the clone wars #force sensitive clones #asexual fox #force sensitive fox #airlock writes #clone wars headcanons

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mermaidsirennikita · 10 months

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Barbenheimer review!!

Haha well

First off, I loved the *experience*. I love going to the movies, but I don't know that I've ever done a double feature in a theater before--there just haven't been many movies that would motivate me to do so, and my money is usually kinda tight, and my parents certainly never did that when we were kids because money was DEF tight and I'm one of four children. I suspect studios will attempt to replicate this shit, but it's not going to work (at least, not as well). The Oppenheimer theater I was in (saw that first, thank God) was about 80% full. The Barbie theater was completely packed. I went with a couple of female friends, neither of whom would normally see Oppenheimer, lol.

I should add--I'm not a big Nolan fan. I have seen, SOMEHOW, all but like, three of his movies, so I actually know what I'm talking about with him--and I think I can say I legitimately like Memento, I like things about The Dark Night and hate other things about The Dark Knight, I appreciate Dunkirk as a spectacle but don't think I would have liked it if I hadn't seen it in a theater, I ironically enjoy parts of Tenet (I think it's like... bad, but I really love the dynamic JDW and RPattz created), and the ONLY movie of his that I love is The Prestige. To me, everything else he's done since is chasing the greatness of The Prestige, you will never convince me that isn't his best work. And EVEN THEN. I think The Prestige, like many movies of its ilk including the Good Plot of Oppenheimer, is chasing Amadeus (1984).

I don't think Oppenheimer is bad. I think that Oppenheimer would absolutely be getting shit on for certain things if anyone other than Christopher Nolan did them, as is often the case with Nolan movies because filmbros give Nolan a pass so often; and I think it is grounded and maybe saved by a very good performance from Cillian Murphy (and I gotta say, it's a testament both to issues in the script and the power of the Murphy filmography that this is not Cillian's best work ever, it's still very good and he's set for a nom for sure) and... as much as I loathe to say this... the best work RDJ, a dude I can't stand, has done in years. I think the movie does a solid job of simplifying what is a very complex story and history (.... sometimes too much) and I think it does a decent job of portraying someone who did something really bad and then regretted it in a fairly gray manner. The movie sympathizes with Oppenheimer, but I don't necessarily think it like... lionizes him. It shows that he's a genius, but like, he was; it shows that he realized that he Fucked Up and tried to advocate for a safer usage of nuclear weapons; but he did.

Here's where we run into issues. This movie absolutely did not fucking need to be 3 hours long. There is NO. WAY. This shit needed to be as long as it was. We didn't need that much backstory of Oppenheimer in school, and Oppenheimer becoming a professor, and the bones of the Manhattan Project. The really interesting shit in this movie, I've gotta be real with you, is not the bomb. The really interesting shit in this movie is the aftermath of the bomb, the realization of Huge Mistakes, and the subsequent "betrayal" by a government that never gave a fuck about human beings, including Oppenheimer. The Red Scare of it all, and the creeping resentment Lewis Strauss felt towards Oppenheimer and the scientific community at large, which I gotta say, Nolan could've leaned into even more considering how that thread connects to the resentment right wing politicians especially feel towards not only the scientific community but academic at large to this. There's where the story felt alive--the Mozart and Salieri of it all, the PRESTIGE of it all. What is compelling is not a big bomb or tons of scientists repeatedly going "you're brilliant, Oppy, but you gotta figure out whether or not you're a Commie and plan accordingly", it is THAT. That tension. One of the best parts of the movie was Chekhov's Rami Malek, because it was the culmination of that tension, you know? Also, the FIVE BILLION TIMES we had Strauss flash back to Albert Einstein giving him a bitchy look. That kind of character tension is where it's at.

But Christopher Nolan is perhaps the most aggressively WHITE MALE filmmakers of all time, so it's really not surprising to me that he thought that The Bomb was equally interesting, and that we needed six billion shots of marbles representing uranium, or whatever.

And the thing is, for all that the movie is way too long, it also skips over shit that is incredibly important. I don't necessarily think the movie needed to delve into Hiroshima and Nagasaki on an "on the ground" level, frankly because I don't think Nolan has the range and I also think that the way it affected Oppenheimer was both direct and indirect, and the film communicated that fairly well. But as much time as the movie spent in Los Alamos, as much time as we saw beautiful shots of the area, and Oppenheimer riding horses around there with his wife, we had maaaaybe five throwaway lines about indigenous people? And like, no acknowledgment of the long term physical, financial, and emotional effects the project had on the community there. That is DIRECT. They were literally right there. And again, I don't think Nolan has the range, but when so much of your behemoth of a film takes place. Right there. It just seems insane to ignore it.

Additionally, Christopher Nolan remains incapable of writing women and convincing romantic relationships, even when he's going off of a biography of a guy whose romantic relationships were quite interesting. Florence Pugh is in like, less than 10 minutes of this movie despite having done so much promo. Jean Tatlock is given so little characterization that if you didn't understand what was happening with her before the movie, I don't know that you would fully get that she was severely depressed and not just Kind of a Bitch until she kills herself. And of course, there is like, a vague allusion to her struggle with her sexuality, which contributed to that depression, but it's not explicit. The scene where she makes him read The Line to her while he's inside her is... I wanna know.... is that like something Nolan read as a rumor to have happened or did he just make it up? Lotta questions there on a lotta levels.

I don't mind the nudity in Florence's scenes, obviously; I don't mind the sex scenes, though the second one was SUPER WEIRD (and by the second one I mean the time Oppenheimer and his wife imagined him naked with Jean riding him during his 1954 questioning). But I found the positioning of Jean as the angry whore figure to Kitty's Corrupted Madonna as super odd. Like, why is Jean shown naked so often, whereas Kitty, Oppenheimer's wife with whom he had a colorful sexual history, who in general was known to be kind of a voracious woman... Never depicted in a sexual light? Why is Jean just Kind of a Sad Bitch until she dies, and Kitty is another sad bitch who is drunk in BASICALLY. EVERY. SCENE and like, hating being a mom and little else? And like, Kitty was a known alcoholic who struggled with motherhood and had a volatile relationship with her husband. But lol, with all the fucking run time this movie had, you could've given more time to making Jean and Kitty seem like people versus thorns in his side, while keeping them flawed. Just like you could've mentioned more about the OTHER dark side of Los Alamos.

Also, one of the best scenes of the movie was in fact Oppenheimer crying in a forest over his dead mistress while his drunk wife rides up on a horse (I assume they don't let her drive a car because she literally can't drop her purse without a flask falling out of it) and is like "PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER MAN". It would've been even better if these emotional bonds had been better cemented. Same with the scene where Kitty stepped up during the interrogation and went "THAT'S MY MAN RIGHT OR WRONG. AND MAYBE I WAS A COMMUNIST IDK I WAS DRUNK."

And let's be fucking real, there are so many things about this movie that filmbros would nitpick if it wasn't Nolan. Einstein appearing out of the shadows randomly in the middle of the night in his cozy sweater to be like "shit bro, sucks that they're Red Scare-ing you". The moment in the end where they were like "and a junior senator from MASSACHUSETS didn't like what you did to Oppy" and I held my breath and went "oh my God" and they went "... and that senator? JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY". The "read The Line You'll Say Later When the Bomb Blows Up Right Now When You're About the Blow Up Inside Me" moment. That shit is so cliche, and I don't mind (most of) it in theory, but if ANYONE ELSE did it, they would be getting dragged, and if this movie was made for people other than white guys, it would be getting dragged, but because it's Nolan, it's fine.

So those are my Oppenheimer thoughts.

My thoughts on Barbie are less complex. I think it was a better movie; I think Ryan Gosling absolutely deserves an Oscar nom; I laughed a LOT. It didn't change my life or tell me things I didn't already know, but I didn't need it to. I think the visuals were great, the costume/set/production designers really came the fuck through.

I will say lol.... I do think you can see where Greta was toned down, because Greta is a very white feminist filmmaker. And honestly, she needs a tempering hand. I think this is probably my favorite work of hers aside from Little Women, which also had a tempering hand. Like, in this case, I think that having a surface level understanding of feminism and patriarchy works for a movie like this. Because while the movie is satire, it's also extreme capitalism, and it kind of goes without saying that it can't go beyond surface level.

I think there is something to be said about like... the reality of Barbie versus what this movie was selling as Barbie, and there is something so interesting about the movie both acknowledging that and totally sidestepping it. Like, that's some fascinating shit, when you really think about it.

I would've preferred a movie where Ken and Barbie fell in love, but I guess I'm just a bad feminist (lol and I had no expectation that the movie would have them fall in love walking in--I'd pretty much figured out the plot before I began the film). I also think that the movie didn't fully make me understand why Barbie wanted to be a human, at all. Like, the human world honestly sucks balls (not in a fun way), and it felt like Barbieland was more actualized and real at the end, so. Why leave. Why would ANYONE leave. If I was America Ferrera, I would pack up my dorky husband and daughter and stay there.

I did love the mother/daughter themes; I loved the "you're so beautiful" moment. I loved the Ken War. I was surprised by how it was acknowledged that women being expected to be everything was Bad, Actually and maybe we do just wanna fucking chill the fuck out and some of us want to do nothing and be moms.

So like, I have Intellectual Critiques of Barbie, but to be clear, I did have a great time and I did laugh throughout and the theater was really fun and I want to see it again. It was a totally enjoyable experience, and I think that movie is going to stay in minds and stand the test of time and be something people watch with the future generations.

But. Lol. They Cloned Tyrone was better than either of them.

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ben-the-hyena · 10 months

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In the Natives AU Skeksis UrRu have their own language. Like in canon actually. But the difference is here it is just normal languages that both derivate from a source (UrSkeksish, that divided itself into these 2 that are very close and is still spoken and learned precisely by the 2 and that's what they speak when they interact), and Gelfling's education not being controlled by anyone, anyone can learn them. It just is very hard for Skeksish, so many words being hissed or growled, when you lack the vocal cords for it. In a Natives AU version of AOR, SkekOk and SkekLach would visit Ha'rar for a diplomatic tithe exchange. Brea would have more access to many more uncensored books and many more books were written so she is fluent in several languages, Skeksish included. SkekOk would be impressed/surprised about it as soon as she mentions it, and not that she can read since here it is the normal Gelfling do. For usually, Gelfling being Gelfling centered prefer just speaking their own language which is why the canon Skeks and many more like politicians, militaries or trading merchants are fluent in it too

Ok "Gasp ! [switches to Skeksish] so you can read Skeksish ?"

Brea "[switches just as easily] I can write as well !"

Ok "oh SkekLach, she can both read and write in Skeksish !"

Lach "[gives up with Gelfling] ah ABOUT TIME I get to stop speaking that lame language"

Of course Ok being Ok and being fakely friendly and a gossipy shit, past the amazement he probably falsely praises her and actually mocks her with Lach behind her back or even in front of her a subtle way she doesn't realize for her awful accent when it comes to words that must be hissed or growled and he would twist the knife by using them more

And Aughra being Aughra and the source of all languages with her own she understands everybody and they all understand her

#aus #language #politics #Gelfling #skeksis #urskeks #urru #the dark crystal #brea #the scroll keeper #skekok #the collector #skeklach #education #mother aughra #skeksish

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sea-dukes-assistant · 1 year

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Of course that I left the Tiara moment for my birthday month, because it's my party and I want to pretend that I can attend one.

Let your immagination run wild.

What are you wearing? OK, I'm gonna need y'all to work with me here, because us enlisted degenerates don't have an equivalent of "white tie," and I'll be damned if I'm not flexing my Big US Navy D*ck Energy at a fancy dinner (also, use your imagination; the cummerbund for my rank would be black, and the buttons would be silver).

Are you married to a royal? Are you married to a politician? Not married to anyone, but Sea Duke and I fuck are relationshipping on the down low and there is nothing you can do about it.

Which family is hosting it? The Brits, for the sake of the attached fic making sense (and Sir would have some pull with respect to me attending in the first place).

When is it happening? 🤷🏼‍♂️ I don't really think about these things. Read the fic if you're dying to know.

Who are you seated next to? (if you pick Princess Michael I am getting worried about your current mental health state) It's finna be weird for me no matter who I'm next to, but ideally I'd be seated across from my emotional support naval officer Sea Duke.

DON'T FORGET TO STICK TO THE FASHIONS OF THE PERIOD (something is telling me that people will get too wild). MY BAD. *unapologetically nests my balls like bald eagle eggs with complete disregard for the space-time continuum*

CW: THERE IS DUDE SEX.

Uniform Kink

“Do you want me to wear it to bed?” he asks, his voice calm despite the offhandedness of the question.

“Huh? What? Wear what?” I hadn’t been paying attention, my thoughts having been occupied with other things, such as the very long list of very raunchy things I wanted to do to him…or receive…when he wore his Royal Navy uniform. It seems I had let my staring linger a bit to long.

“This,” he answers with a slight smirk. “You’ve only been eyeballing me since dinner.”

Oh shit, he had noticed. I usually was better at hiding it, either by using peripheral vision or pretending to be interested in what the guest next to me was saying, staring past them and at him. Everyone had left, the task of tidying up had begun, his wife gone off to get ready for bed (I can’t be certain but I think she winked at us), and it was just the two of us. This was the first time I’d ever wished someone else was in the room, and I’m upset that I didn’t have a reasonable excuse to get myself out of this situation.

My attention now was on my rocks glass, and I absentmindedly swirl what bourbon was left in there, growing more mortified as I felt the familiar sensation of heat gathering at my ears. I take a sip of bourbon, trying to balance between making it look normal and the knee-jerk desire to just knock back what was left back because OH MY GOD THIS ISN’T HAPPENING.

Sea Duke leans a bit closer to me, a smirk on his face. “You know, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it.”

He might not have calmed my mild embarrassment, but he at least made me feel less of a need to fight admitting to it, less…silly. Of course he’d have done that at least once with his wife stop being weird!

The combination of his voice, his increased proximity to me, and the imagery I’ve conjured up in my head had a very immediate effect, one that I very much needed him to attend to.

I take a deep breath and finish off my bourbon. “Yes,” I finally admit as I set the glass down. I can see him smile out of the corner of my eye. “I hate that you do that.” I can’t help but crack smile though, because he’s done it again.

He cocks his head to the side and quizzically asks, “Do what?”

“Get me to admit shit like that.”

“Well it’s either we sort this out now, or I find out on tour, when you’ve made it known to the entire wardroom, standing at attention when no one told you to.” He points at the now obvious bulge in my pants, I assume to ensure I understand the joke.

“Fuck sake!” I laugh at his description and the all too realistic probability that that’d be exactly what would happen.

“You needn’t be embarrassed about it,” he says quietly, and begins nibbling my ear.

As a reflex, I take a deep breath, exhaling out my nose, mentally pushing the anxiety out, a wave of calm taking over.

“I’ll ask again,” he says, a hint of arousal in his voice, “do you want me to wear it to bed?”

“Yes,” I answer, a bit unhappy that that came out a bit more of a moan than I intended.

His mission accomplished, Sea Duke ceases his attention on my ear. “Right,” he states, in typical British fashion, before smacking his hands on his thighs. He stands up and straightens out his uniform.

I stand up as well, awkwardly wondering what to do with my empty glass, and, in his opinion, focused too much on where to put it. He clears his throat in that sort of agitated way that officers tend to do, and I instinctively just set my glass down on the coffee table, swallowing the urge to apologize for my squirrely attention span.

“There are more pressing matters for you to focus on,” he says. I look at him a bit quizzically, as I’m the one with obvious evidence of arousal. Sea Duke sighs, feigning derision. “I’ve been wanting your mouth on my dick all night,” he declares, before turning and walking towards his bedroom.

I follow him, perhaps a bit too eagerly, basking in knowing he can’t get enough of me, just as I can’t get enough of him.

He helps get me stripped down to the waist between quick, almost authoritative kisses, backing me up to the edge of his bed. Once I'm bare-chested, he nudges my shoulder and I sit, the anticipation absolutely killing me.

“I haven't even touched you and you're already hard," he says, smirking at me while he unbuttons the last gold button on his uniform jacket.

There's some embarrassment mixed with my (obvious) arousal, but I try to ignore that as I know that's not his intention. If anything, it probably turns him on a bit; I know it'd be a confidence booster to me!

“That makes me wonder how many times you've gotten yourself off to this." Again, this comes not as a statement but more of that tactic officers use when they want answers, but don't want to ask questions directly. He's definitely turned on though; I can hear it in his voice.

“I neither confirm nor deny that," I tell him. Truth is, I lost count long ago.

“It had to have been substantial, given how eager you were for it the first time."

Ah yes, the first time. That, too, was after a fancy dinner...and he was also in his Royal Navy dress blues that time, too. Damn him and his paying attention to these things. I feel my face get hot, this time unable to keep any embarrassment at bay. Even though I wanted it, and want whateverthisis, I still hadn't fully come to terms with it. However, any level of insecurity was easier to deal with than the crushing weight the repression was starting to have on me, to the point where it physically manifested in constantly feeling like it was literally sitting on my chest.

I feel his right hand on my cheek, and then his thumb in my mouth, opening it for what's to come next. I can't help but watch, a bit mesmerized, as he unzips his trousers with his other hand. I feel my dick twitch as he, with a bit of difficulty, gets his free. Even only partially hard, his size is a bit intimidating. Without hesitation, his thumb disappears, and he pushes himself into my mouth, a sigh escaping him as he does so. Ah, it's going to be that type of night; he's more aroused than he'd admit. Either it's coincidence, or he gets as excited as I do about the decision to stay in uniform. I decide not to ask and chalk it up to coincidence, given it's not a secret that he enjoys having me suck him off (we both do, in fact). The prospect of it being the latter, though, aides in my own trousers getting more tight in the crotch...as if that were possible.

Instinctively, I start working him over, taking a more...exploratory approach, shall we say. I've waited a long time for this to happen, and I'll be damned if I don't take time and enjoy it. Sea Duke is less patient, his typical officers' composure betrayed by his unusually frequent sighs, and soft moans. I shift my focus to the head, alternating between licking and sucking, his noises serving as both encouragement and a distraction against the now uncomfortable bulge in my trousers.

“Christ," he sighs. "You had to have done this before."

I pull away from him, wrapping my right hand around his solid 8 inches. "No, you're still the first. None of that has changed," I explain, looking up at him as I rub my thumb around the head. I guess he figures I've had...experiences...while underway that I've not told him about. By now the insecurity has vanished and I'm feeling damn proud of myself for having gotten him in such a state. Usually, he's the more "together" one and it's me just making a racket and failing to make words. I'm not sure if that fact alone gets him more excited, or if he just really needs to cum, but either way, he is ready.

“On your back. Now." That was an order.

I smirk at him, excited for what's about to happen, and also finally I can get some relief! Just listening to him has got me to being annoyed at my own arousal. I do as he says without hesitation. I reach towards the head of the bed and grab a pillow, fluff it, and place it behind my head. With the level of efficiency one would expect from a German (he'll say he's Greek but let's be real here), I'm unceremoniously stripped down the rest of the way, until I'm bare ass naked. Then, his hand is on me.

“Oh fuck yes," I sighed, grateful to finally have contact.

“Reality better than the fantasy?" Sir asks, eyebrows raised and that damn smirk on his face again.

“Yes sir," I answer, my breath hitching as he gives me a squeeze.

“Mmm, I can tell. I wouldn't even have to touch you, would I?"

Indeed he would not. Sea Duke, Admiral of the Fleet, in his blues, his zipper down, his thick dick out and dripping pre-cum, stroking every inch of me in a slow, easy manner that conflicts with his earlier impatience, was even more than I could have asked for.

“N-no sir," I stutter. My stomach muscles tighten as I try to control myself.

“Right then," he chirps, immediately removing his hand. I whine about that, against my better judgement. He leans over me, and I moan as his dick makes contact with mine. It feels heavy and oddly comforting.

“Do you want me to fuck you?" he asks, his voice low and husky with arousal. I could answer, but he's taken to nibbling on my ear, which combined with the motion of his hips is absolute murder on my nerves. I hate him. I hate him for the way he teases me. I hate it but fuck, do I love it.

“Use your words," he says as he grinds against me, his mouth not leaving my ear.

I moan.

He grinds against me again.

“"YES," I blurt out. "Yes sir...god...fuck..." I gasp, nearly finishing right then.

I feel him slowly start to prep me, and as always, he offers his own unique form of distraction.

“I do hope this is a suitable solution to your problem. We would be at sea for months. I take no issue with it but...I don't need the entire wardroom wanting to moor in my port. Although," he stands back up and removes his fingers, "I couldn't blame them for that. You are rather...eager to please." My dick twitches again at his words.

“I like pleasing you," I say, horny out of my mind.

“Mmm you always do," Sir says, easing himself into me, gentle as always, until his entire length is sheathed. He wraps my legs around his waist and strokes me, lazily, while waiting for me to get comfortable, obviously enjoying himself. All I can do is lean my head back and sigh, basking in the slight stinging mixed with intense pleasure. Fuck he's so good to me.

I buck up into his hand, a signal that he can proceed, and he begins to thrust, slowly at first, until he finds the exact angle he needs.

“"I think I like you best like this," he says, smiling at me as he pulls out, then thrusts back in.

I think I like it best, too.

@yeet-didnt-start-the-fire

#statedinnerfashionchallenge2022 #fashun #working for Sea Duke

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timetide · 2 years

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Snitches & Stitches ϟ Bobbi & Sam

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @timetide & @samjacksonwc SUMMARY: Bobbi awkwardly bumps into Sam days after their “intensely spicy” night and learns from him about the sightings of the Lost Fleet, which Sam of course maintains are just rumors because ghosts aren’t real, right? Stay puft, man. WARNINGS: N/A

How long has it been? Bobbi dared not to think about it. In fact, she tried her best to forget about the memory of that night when she made the worst mistake of her life. Teagan had been gone, even thought dead, and the huxian felt alone, lonely, and abandoned. Who would have ever thought that dinner in a Thai restaurant would spur her to do the unthinkable and go home with a politician? Worse, the son of her worst enemy, the member of the town’s tourism board, the man who shared his name with a more famous and definitely more respected actor? Damn you, Sam Jackson.

Crap, crap, crap. Bobbi felt her insides melt, in a bad way, when she caught a glimpse of him at the food place she and John were delivering their fresh catch. She knew it was bound to happen one of these days, but she never thought it would be right then and there. After all, whenever she asked John about this route, as she had avoided going with him and Steve since that night in a pretty smart attempt to avoid Sam whom she knew was living downtown, he always mentioned that he never saw the politician around these parts. Was he lying? Or was this just a terribly coincidence? She shot John a glare but he just turned to her with a confused look on his face. Okay, he was probably not lying. What did I do to deserve this?

Sam was only in the area because of an old friend who wanted to talk to him about some weird shit at the docks. He wouldn’t have actually entertained the idea of paying them a visit if they hadn’t bribe him with breakfast. Sam don’t usually have breakfast, mostly because he believes it’s a waste of time when he has work and lunch would come in a few hours anyway, but this old friend, who was an actual old man, made the best tapsilog he’d ever had. To his surprise, he also found at his old friend’s carinderia the best lay he’d ever had. “Bobbi? Oh, my god, Bobbi! Hey! How are you doing? Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Oblivious to her desire not to talk to him, or maybe even acknowledge his existence, Sam approached the fisherfolk, and at the sight of John, who seemed familiar to him, tried to high five him but it was all awkward and John didn’t seem like he really wanted to be a part of any of this. It’s all right. No one in their right mind would ever want to be a part of this. “You guys also deliver seafood to this old man’s place?” Sam was both Captain Obvious AND Captain Oblivious. He turned to the old man who didn’t seem amused that Sam had left him at his table mid-story, glaring at him for the disrespect, only to receive a cheery wave from the tourism board member. “What a small world, innit?”

Why is he talking like a chimney sweep? That was the first question that came to Bobbi’s mind when she had a little bit of time to think. It wasn’t a lot of time, however, as Sam was persistent with inserting himself in her day. Even John seemed like he just wanted to just disappear right then and there, which he immediately verbalized before dipping out of there. “Looks like you and your friend need some catching up to do, B. Just text me when you’re ready. Gotta deliver the rest of these fish without delay.” He gave them both a little wave and almost ran the heck out of there without even letting her speak. I’m screwed. Poor choice of words.

Shaking her head in a useless attempt to brush the thought aside, she spun on her heels and turned to Sam, trying her best to put on a smile that seemed less annoyed and more normal. If that was even possible at this point in time. Bobbi gave him a little wave, just mimicking John’s gesture just a few seconds ago, unsure of what else to do or how to start conversing with Sam after everything that happened between them, the thing she’d rather have forgotten, even though it was her who wanted to act on her own curiosity back then.

“Heeeeey, Sam. Yeah, been a while. What are you doing here? This isn’t the…mayor’s office.” For the life of her, Bobbi couldn’t remember exactly what his line of work was, only that he was some politician of sort? Like his dead dad. Memories can be funny that way, especially if you try to delete them from your brain.

“Yes, it isn’t,” Sam gave her a look of confusion. Was it some sort of inside joke between them that he had failed to remember? Perhaps something from that night? Would it still be considered an inside joke if one of the insiders didn’t even remember it? Clearing his throat, Sam tried to play it cool. As cool as he thinks. On the contrary, it was pretty obvious to an outsider how lame he was, how this wasn’t something he was used to, not for the past few months anyway. Running into an ex felt weird, especially since Sam and Bobbi weren’t exes. “I was just talking to my old friend over there about some stuff that’s been happening all over town.”

Sam took a moment to point towards the old man that owned the place, but the latter had decided to ignore them, specifically him. Rudeness begets rudeness, after all, and Sam was more of an annoying acquaintance than an actual friend to him anyway. Heaving a sigh, Sam returned his gaze towards Bobbi, looking her over from head to toe, and obviously liking what he was seeing. It doesn’t really take that much for Sam to feel that way. A random leaf would be something he’d like to see depending on how bored he was. “Most of them were just rumors or hallucinations, though, nothing serious: People supposedly being much younger or older than they are, whole interiors turning into ye olden times, ghost ships in the horizon, white ladies, that sort of stuff.”

Sam chuckled at that, psh-ing at the thought that any of those things were real. Of course, some of them were real, he knew it himself. But admitting to that could put the town in jeopardy, and people couldn’t be trusted with the truth. Except maybe him and Bobbi, with the truth about what had happened between them. Ah, yes, true love. More like a mistake.

“What stuff?” The words slipped out of her mouth even before they could rein them in. For a moment, she almost forgot about the awkwardness in the air between them. They hadn’t kept in touch after that night, and Bobbi intentionally tried his best to avoid him. The town wasn’t that small for them both, but considering he was some sort of politician or something, the huxian fisherman just wanted to make sure she wouldn’t have anything to do with him until she herself was ready. Clearly, she failed.

But the thing about the town was, something strange had been happening, and Bobbi had herself gotten an inkling of these strange things even if she secluded herself on her boat, only ever socializing when she needed to fish and mostly with just her crew. And maybe some of the fun aunties at the docks. She squinted when Sam went on about time and aging and… “Ghost ships? What ghost ships?” Bobbi instinctively went closer to him, her eyes searching his for answers she needed, required, demanded. If this one night mistake was the solution to her lives-long problem, then awkwardness be damned. “Tell me everything about those ghost ships, Sam!”

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise and horror when Bobbi started getting all up in his grill. He fancied himself a champion of women’s rights, and this wasn’t even the first time someone of the opposite gender to his own started railing on him like he had owed them money, so the Tourism Board Member still did not appreciate getting attacked like that. Well, not attacked, more like called out or cornered or something along those lines, but he still did not appreciate it. She looks super pretty up close, though. I wonder what she does to her pores to get such smooth skin.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he raised both his hands up, as if surrendering himself to her for whatever reason, after finally focusing on what was going on at the present. To be fair, Sam had seen for himself how Bobbi fights. That thing in that cave at the docks? It was messed up, way above his pay grade, and he just managed to luck out when he technically saved her butt, but Bobbi actually did all the fighting prior to his miraculous rescue. She basically went toe-to-toe with a wet zombie and lived. Sam would never want to start putting hands up against her. “Chill, Bobbi. Chill. It’s just rumors. Some old guy with cataracts said he saw some ghost ships at the beach or something. Nothing verified yet.”

And then a light bulb figuratively clicked above Sam’s head. “But, you know, if you want to check it out, I’ve got my car parked nearby. We can drive to the beach right now, if you want to?”

“What?” Bobbi glared at Sam in disbelief. Was he trying to get her on a date? Again? If she was in the mood, she would’ve just knocked him off his feet. But he had information she so desperately needed. Or maybe he was just the means to an end. Bobbi craned her head, looking past him to steal a glimpse of the old man from earlier. Was he the old guy with the cataracts who saw the Lost Fleet? Bobbi wanted to just push Sam aside and talk to the man directly but he was technically a customer of her crew, and she didn’t want to offend him to the point of endangering the boys’ livelihood. Maybe Sam did have his purpose after all. “You talking about that guy? Can’t you verify it with him now?”

Bobbi felt herself drowning in adrenaline. The thought that she could finally get her ship back was overtaking her so much, she wasn’t even thinking things through. For starters, even if the Lost Fleet was around, parading themselves in broad daylight apparently, she still had no way to beat them up or rescue her ship. She had learn a lot from Lil but had never tried to put that knowledge to practical use. This whole thing could be one giant explosion in her face. Calm down. Just…calm down. She heaved a sigh, bowing her head, before turning to Sam with pleading eyes. “Sam… I really need that info on those ghost ships. Really.”

“No, not that guy,” Sam took a step back from Bobbi and fixed his shirt, even though the woman didn’t do much to mess it up. Still, in his head, Bobbi put his hands on him, mostly his shirt, and that was no bueno. Sam even let out a little scoff to emphasize his displeasure at her actions, her attitude, at the moment. “It was someone else. Someone who just left.” Sam continued fixing himself, moving on from his shirt to his always messy hair. It made no difference, to be honest, but Sam didn’t realize that. “Look: I have no idea what’s up with you and these rumors of ghost ships, but if you really need the info, I could ask around?”

Sam watched her, mostly her reaction to his offer. He wasn’t one to abandon friends, especially in their hour of need. He considered Bobbi more than a friend, though a part of him hesitated to speak of it. Sam knew next to nothing about Bobbi, save for some unverified rumors of her being from a long line of women who all look somewhat the same. Hell, he wasn’t even sure that was a thing. Could be something racist. “Again, my car is just outside, Bobbi. I could take you to the old man.” But he didn’t even know where he lived. Classic Sam.

Bobbi heaved a sigh, trying to calm herself down. Despite every bone in her body reminding her that Sam wasn’t entirely the best source of information, considering his entire job was to cloud people’s information, especially the supernatural ones, but he was right about one thing: He could take him to the old man. “All right, Sam,” Bobbi began breathing slowly, pacing herself. All that adrenaline would be of little use in this encounter. She should probably reserve it for whatever comes next. “Take me to the old man.”

“But no funny business, all right?” Bobbi pointed a stern finger at Sam, her face turning into an intimidating scowl. Sam was all about that funny business, and she wasn’t in the mood for his shenanigans. All she wanted from him was verified information on the Lost Fleet. This could finally be her chance to regain her most prized treasure. She needed to exhaust all her options, even if it included being stuck in a car with an ill-advised one-night stand. I mean, he wasn’t that bad, but he’s still a Jackson. “Let’s go.”

“Funny business?” Sam could almost guffaw. Instead, he just flashed her a smile and went to the door to open it for her. “All my businesses are very serious, Bobbi.” When she passed through, leaving the premises, he’d turn to the old man who owned the place and winked at him, much to the latter’s annoyance, before following the woman out of there as well. Sam quickly walked past her, intercepting her before she could reach his car, so that he could also open the door for her. Like a gentleman. “My lady,” he even offered her a quick bow.

Once they were both in the car, Sam scrambled to put on some nice tunes but ended up switching from one radio station to another. And another. And another. He was trying his best to impress the lovely lady he had a thing with a few weeks ago and had never seen since, until today, oblivious to how messed up that is. He was too focused on having this chance, this moment, again with Bobbi that everything else was thrown out the window. “You ready? Sam and Bobbi driving through town!”

Bobbi was about to give Sam the benefit of the doubt, mostly because she was tired of fighting with him, but the whole my lady thing just made her roll her eyes even harder, deeper into the back of her skull. But she had no other choice: She had to get in his car and have him drive him to wherever the old man with the information was. She needed that information, and she needed it verified. Sam was simply a means to an end. Just like that night. She accidentally thought about all those nights ago, when they spent an intimate one together, and blushed, annoyed at the memory. “Yes, Sam! I’ve been ready! Drive! And please shut the hell up!”

Crossing her arms across her chest, she looked away from him, not wanting the politician to see her flushing cheeks. The last thing she needed was Sam egging her on. Bobbi didn’t hate what happened between them. In fact, she wanted it to happen, if not simply to test the waters, just satiating a curiosity about the man that had been nagging her since they crossed paths and saved the town together. Now that that was over, however, the aftermath seemed more trouble for her than it was worth. So she just sat there. Throughout the drive. As quietly as she could. Gods, I hate this.

“All right, all right, jeez,” Sam turned on the ignition and began to drive, already screwing up one of Bobbi’s requests. To be fair, though, Sam shutting the hell up would require more than just the magic word, which is please of course, even if you are a pretty attractive fisher woman who slept with him all those nights ago. Best sex ever. He had to do the exact opposite of shutting the hell up to rise the ranks in a stupid attempt to mock his late father’s political career. Besides, he did a lot of shutting the hell up at home, where he spent most nights alone and lonely. “Don’t get your panties tied up in a bunch.” He probably deserved to be alone and lonely.

Heaving a sigh, he tried to go on another radio station hunt again, but again, he failed. Sam stole a glimpse of Bobbi, which was obviously ill-advised, considering that he was driving, though to be fair, the road was mostly empty and no one was driving like they were in the Daytona 500. Or 900. Sam does not watch a lot of car races. To avoid the awkwardness in the silence that he was feeling, maybe even alone, he started to whistle a tune, accompanying the song on the radio. It didn’t take him long to start yapping again, though. “What’s up with you and these ghost ships, anyway?”

The urge to electrocute Sam was strong, but Bobbi managed to fight it off and rein her anger in, especially at that bit about the underwear. Whether intentional or not, the huxian didn’t really care, already believing that Sam was trying to embarrass her for what happened between them, for witnessing her in her most vulnerable, for having been intimate with the enemy’s son. Now that her curiosity was satiated, she had realized it had all been for nothing. Sam wasn’t special. He was just like all of them, including her: Lonely and alone.

“You really wanna know?” Bobbi tried to refocus herself on the distraction of a conversation. The fact that she had realized Sam was just as sad and pathetic as she was calmed her down a bit, even though she still technically had the upper hand of being immortal while he was just another puny human, insignificant and short-lived. She would outlive him and everything about him, everything that made him who he is, everything that she’d ever know of him. Wouldn’t matter even if she told him her secret then, especially since he’s already seen her bare. “Those ghost ships took something of mine, and I intend to get that back. Whatever the cost.” As she gritted her teeth when the last sentence crawled out of her mouth, Sam’s radio glitched, the huxian’s electricity interfering in its signal.

Ghost ships aren’t real, Bobbi. Sam wanted to keep to his script, but then he remembered the first time they met when Bobbi solo’d that one zombie that looked like he’d been underwater for far too long. Was that one of the crew of those ghost ships? Or was that just an unrelated coincidence, another monster from the sea that tried to invade the docks and was fended off by the captain? Unfortunately, Sam began to focus on the wrong thing. I slept with a badass. Now that’s amazing.

“All right then,” he heaved a sigh as he made a turn. And another. And another. It took them some time but they finally arrived at the park, where he last saw the old man. Parking his car near the bend, Sam turned to Bobbi with a more serious look on his face. “If you really need to do this, then I’m on your side. This is the last place I saw the old man. Not really sure where he lives, but this could be a good start. You’re up for a team-up?” He grinned as he offered her his hand to shake in agreement.

Bobbi just stared at Sam for a couple of minutes, not sure what to make of his allegiance. On one hand, it was always good to be on the same page with the person you were doing something with. On the other? It was Sam, the politician, who denied everything supernatural, even if they were already happening to him in plain sight of everyone. “Sam, don’t take this the wrong way,” she squinted at his outstretched hand but didn’t shake it. Instead, she went for the door with her hands while still looking him in the eye. “But I only need you to verify your info with the old man.”

Bobbi heaved a sigh as she turned around and left the car, shaking her head as she stood outside, hands on her hips. Despite not knowing the old man’s face or name or basically anything about them, she tried looking for anyone who could fit the bill, desperate to verify the information about the ghost ships. All she could do at the moment was wait for Sam, sadly, but in her head, she was already thinking of ways on how to approach the old man. She hoped he would give the information freely, not wanting to escalate the situation further, especially since she considered it unnecessary.

“Okay then,” Sam made a face to himself, feeling a little offended by her dismissal of his loyalty, though he tried his best to swallow any and all negative feelings brought about by that interaction. Maybe, he finally realized, this was why she had not returned any of his calls or messages. He was just a tool for her. Ouch. Heaving a sigh, Sam followed Bobbi out of his car and locked the vehicle to keep its insides safe from squirrels and thieves. He didn’t have anything valuable inside it, but what’s the harm in being safe. “He should be around here…somewhere.”

Sam led Bobbi to the specific area of the park where he had encountered the old man from before, as quietly as possible and without turning to her. He didn’t want her to blow up on him again, and more importantly, risk himself feeling terrible because of whatever she had to say to keep him at a distance. He thought they had a great time together all those nights ago, but maybe it was just him.

Fortunately for Sam, he didn’t have to dwell on those feelings for far too long as the same old man came to view, a little startled by the excited politician who skipped towards him. “There you are, Mister Drake! Remember me? Remember how you told me about those ghost ships? Can you tell me more about them?”

Bobbi intentionally ignored the awkward silence that shrouded the two of them as they made their way from Sam’s car to another place in the park. She kept her wits about her as she looked around, scowling while trying to find someone she didn’t even know. In her head, Bobbi would be able to find the old man as easily as she could a wealthy mark. She was a supernatural hunter, after all, even though that was mostly at sea and it felt like a different life altogether. Still, her determination could not be denied, even though her efforts were easily foiled by her lack of information.

Before she could take it out on Sam again, however, the politician came through. Bobbi’s face lit up when Sam took flight toward an old man, flocking to them like a seagull on a fish out of water. They exchanged pleasantries, which she viewed as a complete waste of time, considering they should have known each other already and she really was just there to verify the elderly’s information. Sam seemed insistent on wasting her time, and Bobbi did not appreciate that. Still, she waited patiently for them to wrap things up, as if she had a choice.

Every now and then, while Sam continued talking with the old man, he’d turn to Bobbi, which the old man easily picked up on. When Sam noticed this, however, he tried to stop the old man by placing a hand on his back and gently drawing his attention elsewhere, so they’d both end up with their backs to her. Sam thought this was a good thing, considering Bobbi might not have wanted the extra attention, especially because she seemed too focused on getting that information, more like verifying it really.

Once he got what he needed, however, Sam returned to Bobbi, walking toward her with a sigh after waving his goodbye at the old man. He couldn’t look her in the eye, still a little offended at what had earlier transpired between them. Sam was a good soldier, though. If anything, he tried to be as reliable as possible for the people he cared about, maybe even more than he did himself. “Okay, so the old man said that he saw the ships moving east at the beach. I think that would be around where we first met, right? That cave with the wet zombie?”

Bobbi squinted at Sam but immediately looked away, focusing her attention elsewhere, mostly on the ground, just so she wouldn’t be distracted by his current awkwardness. Was he talking about the Cave of Voices? Bobbi knew that was the case but doubted it for a moment, hoping to get something bigger, better, of a location than the same cave she’s seen so many times. Then again, what better place to hide stolen treasure than somewhere most people discard as nothing special. Or something dangerous.

“I see,” Bobbi heaved a sigh before starting to walk away from him, fumbling for her phone in her pocket. She was already dialing John’s number, so he could pick him up and they could deal with this on their own, or mostly she on her own, before she could thank and bid farewell to the politician who got her the verified information. Well, as verified of an information as she could get from Sam anyway. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll take it from here.”

If Sam’s heart had not been broken before, it was definitely broken now. While he had no delusions about being able to fight on Bobbi’s level, especially after he saw her fighting that wet zombie off way back when they first met in that cave, he still had hope that she would retain his services, rather his assistance, with whatever was going on with her. Sam had a gun and he learned new tricks while in South Korea helping Yoo-ara with that whole bulgasal thing. He could definitely help her. Worst case scenario? Bobbi could use his corpse as a shield.

“You sure?” Sam looked her in the eye this time but wearing those sad puppy dog eyes unintentionally. It was simply a reflection of what he was feeling right then and there, not an actual tactic to have her pity him and bring him on her team of Avengers or whatever. Then again, maybe it was a tactic by his subconscious. Hard to tell these days, what with his father’s ghost still haunting him and all the weirdness in town taken up to a nine. “I could still help.”

As Sam tried to continue getting Bobbi’s attention, she herself was struggling with contacting John. His line seemed to be very busy, which only served to frustrate her. Holding a hand up to keep Sam off her case, she continued to be met with failure after failure. It seemed that John wouldn’t be able to pick her up from that place, so when she caught another glimpse of Sam, she realized he still served a purpose to her. Unfortunately. “All right, Sam,” Bobbi heaved a sigh. “Can you drive me home then?”

Bobbi, however, did not consider anything else after that. Once she was back on her houseboat, she would then bid Sam farewell. He had been useful, sure, but she wasn’t quite sure he’d be useful enough to help her with what was to come next. He did save me from that wet zombie that one time. But would he be able to survive more of them without becoming just another additional thing for her to worry about? If I won’t bring my crew, the people I trust the most, then I can’t bring Sam, son of my worst enemy. It was what it was.

Sam lit up when Bobbi asked for his help. Here we go, he thought to himself, beaming with pride. Sir Sam the Brown Knight to the rescue! If he had said all that out loud, he would immediately realize how problematic that imagery was. Probably. But he didn’t, and instead, Sam played the gentleman, rushing to open the door of his car once again, so that Bobbi can enter and he can drive her back to her home, her houseboat, as per her request. If he was lucky, he’d probably get round two of that sultry night between the two of them. Hehehe.

Sam drove quickly, mostly because of that last thought. He was smitten by Bobbi, though that wasn’t much, considering Sam was lonely and alone, and he was easily smitten by anyone who’d give him the second of their day. Regardless of that creepy imagery, however, Sam would definitely give his life for her. That’s not saying he’s a good. That’s just saying he’s a dumb piece of shit. Love, or at least attraction, makes a lonely man do weird things. Once they were at her houseboat, he grinned from ear to ear, turning to her with that same grin, excited at what happens next. “Now what? Should we, uhm, warm ourselves first before we tackle whatever it is you want tackled?” Hehehe.

“Sam,” Bobbi spoke his name after he asked his stupid questions. The sigh that came out of her mouth was like cherry on top, except only because it provided the same punctuation a cherry would over every dessert it topped. Bobbi wasn’t feeling like having a dessert at the moment. She was barely feeling anything at all. Well, except for the impending doom that came at the realization that the Lost Fleet might be close by at the same time the town’s end also seemed imminent. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before quickly leaving his car, saying her goodbye through the window. “Thank you, but I need to face this thing alone. On my own.”

It was like talking to a little boy who mistook her for his mom. Or a teenage boy who mistook her for a romanticized version of herself. Whatever happened between them that one night before, it was special, even though Bobbi would never admit that. But it was nothing more than a memory now, an event in the past that they both needed to move past to survive what happens next. Bobbi still needed to deal with the Fleet. Maybe she can even get her ship back before everything went to shit. Maybe. “Take care of yourself. I mean that.”

And then she left him, walking back to her boat, her home, with warring thoughts of risking everything to get back her past or to leave before she could waste not just her future but her crew. What was a captain to do?

#wickedswriting #para #snitches and stitches #sam jackson

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silverwings22 · 2 years

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Caught in the Crosshairs: Chapter 6 In My Head: Jason Derulo

Series warnings: Smut, mind control, canon typical violence, childhood trauma, language, chronic illness

Chapter Warnings: SMUT, language

Mando'a Translations: mesh'la- beautiful

cyar'ika- sweetheart

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Taking duty on Coruscant was its own adventure. Today, it was a boring political gala none of them wanted to be at. Especially Crosshair.

But here Clone Force 99 was, in their dress uniforms and Miria neatly in her nicest dress. She didn't usually dress up, most comfortable in the leather and wool of her order… but tonight she didn't look like a Jedi. She looked like a woman, her striped hair pinned back and petite figure encased in a light creme kimono dress with lavender patterns embroidered into it, and a darker purple obi wrapped around her thin waist. Her lightsaber hung on her right hip, and her flowing sleeves nearly touched the ground when she let her arms fall at her sides. There was nothing abject sexy or revealing about it, but… Crosshair couldn't take his eyes off her.

She was the star of a fantasy he hadn't realized he'd had until she met the team at the door of the senate building. The second he spotted the violet pin in her bun, with a delicate dangling flower on a silver chain, he imagined pulling it out to watch her hair fall down her shoulders. He'd wrap his fingers into the silken strands and pull her head up, til that graceful neck was stretched all the way up and he could press his mouth against the soft line of her jaw.

Right now, she was smiling and talking quietly to some senator from Naboo, a decent looking woman with kind brown eyes and a headdress that had to be exhausting to hold up. She looked at ease in the face, the only indication she hated this as much as he did being the way her fingers drummed inside her sleeve. A rhythm only he probably noticed.

Leave with me now. Just say the word and we're gone, we don't even have to tell the others. It's crowded, they won't even notice.

"You okay, Cross?" Wrecker grinned, leaning over next to him as the sniper hung out in a corner.

"Hate this shit. Hate the crowds." Crosshair grumbled. "Too many people behind me."

Wrecker patted his back. "Try to have fun. The drinks are good, I'll grab you one."

Crosshair shrugged. He felt out of place without his armor and rifle. He hadn't wanted to come, but Miria was required. And since they were a small squad, she'd asked them all to come with her. Normally Jedi would just bring their command staff when it was their turn; commanders and captains to help them talk politicians and the rich into donating credits to the war effort. She'd said it was important work, her part in making sure he and his brothers had the equipment they needed, fuel for the ship, and rations to eat.

But she didn't like it, and he could tell. She was shy and soft spoken by nature, not comfortable dressing up with all these elite in their hundred-thousand credit suits and gowns.

As if she had no idea how her simple embroidered cotton made her outshine every damn one of them. He could take her somewhere, away from the hundreds of eyes, where she felt safe. He could pull that carefully tied obi out of the bow on her back. It'd slither to the floor of a dark room somewhere, and he'd slip his hands between the lapels in front and pull it open just to get his teeth into her collarbone.

"Here ya go, Cross." Wrecker handed him a scotch.

"Thanks." Crosshair grumbled. "Where's the others?"

"Tech found some engineering company rep, and they're talking. I heard something about testing new equipment. Maybe it blows up." The giant grinned. "Hunter is on the balcony with the 212ths Commander. Said it was quieter."

"Probably is. Hope no one lights a cigarra out there. " Crosshair chuckled. Tobacc smoke never failed to nauseate his brother, and trigger a blinding migraine. Part of the reason Crosshair had quit smoking years ago, because as fun as it was to piss Hunter off he didn't actually like to see him in real pain. It was a paradox: the other batchers' presence annoyed him, but the idea of anything happening to them made him furiously protective.

"General looks like she's having fun." Wrecker commented, smiling at the pretty Jedi now chatting with the chancellor. Based on her hand motion, she was recounting Christophsis and hiding under enemy lines in a duraboard box.

"She's not. Watch her mouth. She chews the inside of her bottom lip when she's nervous. " Crosshair was proud of his ability to see details like that. He liked knowing things no one else could see.

Wrecker watched Miria’s face. "Oh. Well, she's good at faking it. "

She wouldn't have to fake a damn thing with me.

Crosshair shook his head, chasing the thought that stubbornly lingered. She was chewing her lip again. Her painted Naboo-style, soft lips. He would have given his right eye to see that paint smeared all over his face and chest after she'd kissed him.

She was too innocent. She'd surely never gone to bed with someone, probably never even kissed anyone. He bet she'd never broken a rule in her life, while his entire personality was based on shattering as many regulations as possible without getting thrown in a brig. What did she see when she looked at him? Something dangerous to be held at arm's length? If so, why did she make so much effort to be kind to him?

Maybe… he intrigued the goody two-shoes because deep down she wanted to cut loose?

And maybe, just maybe, he was looking at her so hard because her unflappable goodness was the most reliable thing in his life.

Maker, he could almost feel what her skin would be like against his. He could show her exactly how good it could be, show her what her life in the temple denied her. It was a shame to keep hiding a body that beautiful… but he was startled at himself when his fantasy didn't end after the sex did.

He wanted to pin her to a wall, devour her mouth and map the shape of her with his tongue. He wanted her, naked under him and whimpering until they were both spent. But then… he wanted to keep holding her. He wanted to tuck that pretty head under his chin and bury his nose in her hair, smooth her skin under his palms until she fell asleep so he could watch her breathe. He'd drive her back to breathlessness in the morning when she woke, admire the night before's bruises and bites while he left new ones, and when she was convinced not to leave the bed for a while longer he'd rest his head on her chest and she'd run her fingers through his hair and across his shoulders. Soft and sweet, things he'd never wanted or needed before. But he'd take them from her…

"Coruscant to Crosshair? Hello?" Wrecker waved a hand in front of the sniper’s face. "Are you listening to me?"

"Nope." Crosshair jolted. "... sorry. I was thinking."

"Must have been. You just apologized." Wrecker chuckled. "What's so interesting?"

Crosshair was too distracted to lie. "Miria." He murmured. "She looks… good. Like this. But she hates it. I want to take her somewhere."

"... Cross, she's a general. You can't really be thinking about hooking up with her. Even if she went for it, you'd both get in big trouble. You heard what Tech said."

"I'm not talking about a hookup." Crosshair shook his head. "Something else. Something… more than that. She's not a hookup girl."

"... you've got an actual crush on her." Wrecker gaped at him. Crosshair was, even among them, the outlier. The grumpiest, the most aloof. The least emotional. Even compared to the logic obsessed Tech. To imagine him with feelings as pure as a legitimate crush on anyone, let alone a Jedi, was insane.

"Maybe. I just can't get her out of my head." Crosshair shrugged. "Why not? She's gorgeous. I wouldn't kick her out of bed."

"You've kicked a lot of gorgeous girls out of your bed."

"I'm a bastard. We know this. But she's… different. I dunno, I can't explain it. I just…. She's honest. I don't know if she'd go for it, since she'd have to lie to the temple."

"Just don't be a dick to her if she turns you down. I like her, she fits with the squad." Wrecker elbowed him in the ribs hard enough to make Crosshair hiss. "I'm going to the food."

He left Crosshair alone with his thoughts, the sniper wondering if he said too much to his brother. He and Wrecker were close, the big guy hard not to love even though he drove Crosshair insane with how loud and messy he was. Maybe it was because, when they were cadets, Wrecker was always the first to comfort him when he was being punished. And he was always being punished for something. If Miria did turn him down, Wrecker would be the one who brought him caf and practically laid on him while he moped about it.

Telling him was just…. Insurance. Right?

"Having fun?" Crosshair nearly jumped out of his skin when Miria popped up beside him. He hadn't heard her coming, lost in his thoughts.

"Not a fan of crowds." He muttered on reflex, before wincing. Fuck. Complaining was a habit, but this literal ray of light had to find it annoying. He needed to shut up and just-

"Nor am I. I'm sorry for dragging you along." She sighed, leaning against the wall beside him. "This is exhausting."

"You never complain." He chuckled, a little surprised.

"I try not to. It hardly helps anything." She smiled softly, and his heart picked up a notch. "But… maybe you're rubbing off on me."

"Let's get out of here, then. You've done your job, schmoozing with these chucklefucks." He shrugged. He wanted to beg her to leave with him. He never begged for anything.

"I suppose I could call the squad…" She reached for her comm, startled when the sniper’s gloved fingers looped around her slim wrist.

"They're having a good time. Let's just go, you and me." He murmured. "No one will notice." Okay, his brothers were probably not having that good of a time. But he saw a chance and he'd regret it forever if he didn't take it. Maker, he just wanted to be alone with her. He could see, perfectly in his head, what she'd look like if he could just find a way to show her a fraction of that sweetness she offered so freely. He had to have some in him, somewhere… right?

He could touch something innocent without leaving fingerprints. Couldn't he?

Miria considered the hand on hers thoughtfully. His touch felt electric to her, and she could feel the calluses on his fingers even though the gloves. He'd let go any second now, chastened by her silence. Say something, Miria. Tell him you want to leave with him. Tell him you can't stop thinking about him. Do something!

His fingers loosened on her wrist. "Sor-"

"Yes." She whispered, faint enough he barely caught it over the din of the gala. "Yes, let's go. You and I."

He felt like she'd strapped a jetpack to him and told him to hold still. Yes. She'd said yes. "C'mon." He murmured, fingers sliding up to her palm. She let him take her hand and guide her out the back door unnoticed, abandoning her fellow Jedi and his brothers to the intemperate political climate almost carelessly. But she did care, just… only about him right now. She couldn't care about anything but how his larger hand curled around hers.

She'd arrived in one of the Order's skycars, with Obi-wan and Anakin. They'd catch a ride home with Padme or one of the others. They'd be fine. Crosshair opened the passenger door for her in a surprising display of politeness. It made her smile. "So there is a gentleman under that sass, Cross."

"Maybe you're rubbing off on me." He chuckled. "Where to?"

"Somewhere quiet." She looked at him, nervous butterflies in her stomach. What was she doing? Sneaking off like a careless padawan, with a man she knew had a taste for rule breaking. If she went somewhere alone with him, there was no telling what might happen. What if she couldn't stop him from doing something that would change everything between them forever?

What if she didn't want to stop him?

"I've got an idea." He walked around to the driver's seat and they took off, Miria with her hands in her lap. She was chewing her lip again. Nervous, adorable. "Don't be scared." Crosshair murmured. "It's just me."

She wanted to balk at both statements. A Jedi didn't fear… and there was nothing just about Crosshair. But she instead reached out and brushed her fingers against his hand on the gearshift. "I'm not… scared. Just nervous, and that's precisely why." She breathed. "Because it's you."

"I make you nervous?" He raised an eyebrow, pulling them into a high parking garage over Republica Park. There weren't many people around at this time of evening, quiet just like she'd asked for.

"It's a good kind of nervous." She murmured sheepishly. "It's… exciting. I like it… perhaps I shouldn't, but I do."

Crosshair cut the car off and shifted in the seat to look at her. His stare was electric, burning into her with the heat of a supernova that settled somewhere lower than the pit of her stomach. "Good. I don't mind making you nervous, but I don't want you scared of me." His hand, still under hers, turned so their palms rested together. "I wanted to talk to you… about that girl I brought to the ship, the last time we were on Coruscant. "

Miria deflated just a touch, fingers twitching against his. Oh, she'd terribly misread the situation. He wasn't… why did she want to cry? There was no reason for it, this was a good thing. She couldn't have this anyway, she was a dying Jedi. It wouldn't be fair to him. "Oh… please tell me she isn't pregnant." She tried to joke.

He saw right through her, to the shining of her eyes in the city lights as they dropped away from him and the way her shoulders dropped. "What? No, Maker no." He was a moron, that was no way to start a conversation like this. Now she thought… "Miria, I'm trying to say she was the last one. I don't want any more strangers."

She blinked, oddly soothed. "Really? Why?" Her eyes

"Because they aren't you." He said it quietly, but the detonation could have been nuclear.

Her. He wanted her?! The sickly little padawan, fated to die. The weak Jedi who had to struggle for what everyone else could do easily. The General who could only handle one squad, that the council hadn't even wanted to let join the war. Crosshair, the capable, tough, brilliant marksman wanted her?!

She squeaked, eyes big as saucers. "Me…?"

Crosshair nodded. Please don't pull away. Please don't leave. Give me a chance, I can do something right for you. "You're in my head. All the time." He murmured. "I can't figure you out, but I want to." Under her palm, his hand itched to curl around hers and hold on, to make her stay until she agreed with him. Maybe with someone else, he would have. But he couldn't bring himself to make Miria do anything… he needed her to want this as badly as he did.

"Crosshair…" She whispered. "It would be cruel of me. I…" Force, this would ruin everything, but it was the only thing she wanted. How cruel of fate, to tempt her so sweetly. "I won’t have a long life. I can't give you what you deserve, as much as I want to."

Over his momentary disappointment echoed the last words. As much as I want to.

She wanted this, but something was holding her back.. .

"It’s war, we could all be dead on the next mission. If it's going to happen no matter what, why can't you have what you want?" His golden eyes glittered like a kyber crystal in the city lights, and for once she didn't think of Illum. His fingers slipped between her own. “If you want to give me anything, give me right now.”

Miria was drowning. She wanted, yes she wanted so badly. To cradle his face in her hands and let him breathe another twenty years into her; years without the ache of standing on the sidelines watching everyone else while she was alone. Everyone else got a choice, they could leave the Order if they really wanted to. They wouldn't die if they chased a dream… why couldn’t she have that?

If she was destined to die, why couldn’t she live?

"Right now…" She finally breathed.

Crosshair squeezed her hand lightly. "C'mere."

Miria leaned in as he shifted in his seat, his other hand catching her chin. He tilted her face toward him, considering her sweet eyes and soft features. His thumb lightly stroked over her cheek. "You're lovely…" She whispered. "I've always thought so."

Crosshair chuckled, low in his chest. "I'm not soft and sweet. Not like you." He watched her lashes flutter. "I don't want to scare you off."

"I don't scare easily." She smiled.

"Good." His mouth crashed into hers with blinding speed, the Jedi yanked into his chest. She went dizzy with sensation, eyes closing almost immediately. He’d been right, whether he knew it or not, that she’d never so much as kissed anyone before. Carefully, he settled a hand on the back of her delicate neck and tilted her head the way he wanted. She didn’t seem to know where to put her hands, nervously pressing against his lapels. She could feel his steady heartbeat through his uniform, beating under her palm. It felt like a calling.

When he leaned back, still holding her head, she looked at him with doe eyes and shuddering breaths. He chuckled a little. "So fucking innocent." He murmured faintly. "You have no idea how much I want to ruin you."

She blinked, tightening her grip on his uniform front. "This… it won't be over in the morning, will it?" She whispered. "It's not just… nothing to you?"

For a moment, his eyes softened. He didn't do vulnerability in general, but… she was special. She was asking for so little, to mean something to him. "I don't think I could walk away if I tried, baby girl." He murmured cautiously. "It can't be nothing. You're already… important to me."

He hoped she understood. He'd been wishing it was her in his arms for months. Not because she was beautiful, but because she was kind. He wanted all that sweetness, all her light, all over him.

Miria smiled and her hands moved up, curling softly around the sharp planes of his jaw. "Then I'm yours, if you'll have me."

He chuckled quietly. "Think you can put up with a bastard like me?"

"You're not a bastard, Cross." This time, she leaned up and delicately pressed her lips against the corner of his smirking mouth. "How can I show you how wonderful you are?"

He felt something in him melt. He was burning alive at her skin finally on his, but Maker she deserved better than the back seat of a skycar in a parking garage. "Let me kiss you again."

"As often as you like." She murmured, and his mouth found hers fervently in the dark, tongue pressing quickly against her lips. She wasn't sure what to do until he squeezed her hip, using her gasp to slide into her mouth.

He tasted of scotch and desire. She tasted of summer fruit and devotion. "How much of you can I have?" He whispered, moving down her jaw to see if she shuddered like his daydreams when his tongue met her neck.

"As much as you wish." Miria breathed, arching into the center console in her haste to press into him.

"I like that answer." He murmured. "Get in the back for me."

Miria nodded, eyes wide as she slipped her seat belt and carefully climbed into the back seat. There was hardly a graceful way to arrange her sleeves and skirt without tripping, but she managed. Crosshair followed her, impatient hands guiding her sideways across the seat with him kneeling between her parted knees. She let him press her back against a door, kissing her once again. This time, however, he'd been given a green light to explore her. And how could he refuse?

She gasped when he latched at her throat, searching out her pulse and sucking a mark that would barely be covered by her normal robes. A pity, he thought, that no one else would see. But he'd know, and remember he had been the one to have her. And keep her.

He tugged the pin from her hair and tossed it into the front seat carelessly, getting a handful of her hair to tilt her neck back further. Whatever perfume she wore for the night was delicious, and he nipped his way across her delicate skin. Miria must have heard his fantasies, because her gasps and breathy whimpers were better than he'd imagined.

When he pulled her belt off, tossing it and the attached lightsaber to the seat with her hairpin, she couldn't help but smile. A lightsaber is a Jedi’s life. And here she was, putting it in his hands while he was blissfully unaware of how much it meant.

Crosshair opened her dress easily, eyes fixed on the swell of her chest under a simple cotton breast band. Expensive lingerie wouldn't have suited her half so well. "You've never done this before." He murmured, not asking.

"N-no." She breathed, the air hitching in her lungs as he palmed her breast firmly, testing the weight of it in his hand. She was willowy, slim framed and small busted, but he liked it. He couldn't wait to see the porcelain of her skin dotted with the evidence she'd chosen him. Of all clones. Of all men, him.

"Sure you want it to be me?" He paused. "It's never too late to back out. I'm not that kind of asshole."

"I've never wanted it to be anyone else." She assured him, reaching to put her hand over his and press it harder against her hammering heart. "I'm certain, Crosshair. I'm yours."

He groaned low in his throat before pulling her breast band down and pulling a pretty pink nipple into his mouth. He had a thousand feelings right now he didn't know how to process; what did he say to even begin to describe how grateful he was to be trusted, how clumsy he felt with someone so perfect? His composure was unraveled when she so much as smiled, and she hit him with that?

He occupied his busy mind with her body instead, setting his teeth into her flesh at the border of pleasure and pain. Miria arched, hips jolting to rub against the sinful hardness growing below his belt. His response was just to squeeze her other breast eagerly, making her squirm.

In the enclosed space of the car, even her desire was sweet. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.” He mumbled into her skin, moving down the center line of her sternum. “All these months, watching you. So fucking pretty. So goddamn sweet.” He nipped at the point of her hipbone, just above her panties. “Always so nice to everyone, putting bacta patches on scraped knees like a good little teacher.” When his teeth caught a little harder, she whimpered and squirmed. Crosshair held her down with a forearm, chuckling. “Can’t figure you out, Miria. Never broken a damn rule in your life, but you’re in the back seat with a pain in the ass like me.” She let out a precious, desperate noise when his knuckles pressed against the rapidly dampening fabric of her panties, teasing her deliberately. “That what does it for you? A bastard with a smart mouth? I’ll be happy to show you what my mouth can do.”

Miria surprised him when her fingers ran softly through his hair. “You’re not a bastard, darling.” She mumbled. “You are divine."

Crosshair smiled. A real one, and nudged her knees further apart. "Maybe just for you."

His fingers hitched her panties to the side, revealing the glistening pink of her heat. He wanted to strip her bare and admire every inch before picking her apart piece by piece… but there would be time for that later. Right now, he needed to know what she tasted like. He needed her coming undone under him, enough to keep her coming back for more, because he didn’t think he had it in him to wake up one more morning in his bunk without her.

Miria almost sobbed the second his mouth dropped between her trembling thighs. His tongue was skilled, years with a toothpick in his mouth granting dexterity and attention to detail. He zeroed in with the kind of attention to detail only a sniper of his caliber could be capable of, flicking his tongue against her clit until she squirmed. When her hips attempted an escape from him, he'd turn his head to bite the soft skin of her inner thighs or crease where they met her mound.

Her pitiful, pleasured gasps turned him feral. If he had the presence of mind to be embarrassed, he would have been at how his own hips ground incessantly against her leg and the seat below him. He usually had better self control, but Miria made him needy.

How could he help it when she tasted so sweet, and her pale hands smoothed across his shoulders and through his hair? What man could resist how she whispered his name like it belonged on her lips?

He'd picked his name because he wanted everyone to know who he was, and what he did. Crosshair, the sniper. Deadly and efficient, he wanted the awe that a CT number never provided. But when she said it… it was headier than any drug. His skillset of death didn't matter to Miria. Something about the way she breathed across the syllables told him that even if he'd been a terrible shot, a worthless soldier… she'd have still wanted him anyway. She saw him. She knew him.

And the Mando’a word for knowing was the same as the word for love.

He didn't think he'd be very good at love. But Miria would, and didn't the thought of it make him want to be different? Just for her.

Mirias eyes squeezed closed when the sniper curiously brought his fingertips to explore her. “Relax, baby girl.” Crosshair mumbled against her thigh, softening to a kiss instead of another nip. “You trust me, right?”

Miria nodded shakily. “Y-yes…”

“Relax for me. Last thing I want to do is hurt you.” Crosshair murmured. “I’m gonna make it good, I promise. You just gotta relax.”

The Jedi nodded, taking a slow breath before willing the tension from her muscles. This was okay, nothing was wrong. She was safe, with Crosshair. He wouldn’t hurt her, and there was no reason to be so nervous, she wanted this. She just didn’t know what to expect…

But he’d take care of her. She opened her eyes and looked at him, his chin resting lightly against her pelvis. He was watching her curiously, one hand holding her knee and the other prodding between her slick legs. “That’s my girl.” he chuckled after a minute, and rewarded her with a thumb circling firmly against her clit.

His girl. Miria, the youngling who’d never had any friends, belonged to someone. Someone wanted her to be theirs… someone like Crosshair who could have had anyone with no more effort than it took him to smirk. He wanted her. She had no idea how much he had wanted her, all this time.

When his clever digit pushed into her heat, she couldn’t contain a moan behind her teeth. He was slow, careful with her and watching her reactions like a nexu hunting prey. She was soaked, granting him enough leeway to start gently thrusting his hand into her as he dropped his tongue back to her clit and resumed consuming her like she was the only oasis on Tattooine. Between her little cries and the way her breath was starting to fog up the back windows, he was chuckling into her skin. Those little vibrations made her squirm and clench, and Crosshair was drowning in it. “Pretty girl, Maker, I can't wait to see your face when you come.” He withdrew his tongue and replaced it with his thumb again, so he could look at her pretty face. “Gonna get at least two out of you first before I take you back to the ship. I want you in a bed, where I can fuck you how you deserve it.” He promised. “I’ll make it good, so good you’ll never want to leave me. Fuck, I can’t let you go if I wanted to. Not when you’re so perfect.”

Miria blinked, managing to get her eyes open enough to look at him. Her hand, tangled in his hair, softened enough to catch his chin, still slick with her. She was trying to find the words to say how much she never wanted to leave. How for the first time in her life, she didn’t care if she was dying… because for a moment she was living. “I w-want to stay with you.” Her voice trembled, though if it was the emotion or the fact he hadn't slowed the diligent work of his graceful hands she wasn't certain. All she was sure of in the moment was how much she adored him. How she'd happily give the rest of her life to spend by his side.

Crosshair surged up to kiss her mouth, a second finger joining the first inside her and curling with wicked precision to have her seeing hyperspace. "Tell me you're mine." He growled against her lips. "No one else's."

"I'm y-yours!" She moaned.

"Again." He ordered, breathless.

"I'm yours."

"Say my name and come for me, mesh'la."

"Crosshair!" She wailed obediently, and soaked his hand from fingers to forearm when she desperately released.

He immediately lavished her throat and shoulders with his lips, nearly making her forget this was a lethal soldier in her arms. He was so suddenly sweet on her, nibbling at that pretty collarbone and running his tongue between her breasts. "Good girl. My good girl." He mumbled quietly. "Want inside you so bad… fuck. Not yet. Not here." He sounded like he was arguing with himself, and the straining hardness against her leg was arguing back. The front of his pants was damp, pre-come leaking messy and hot from him. "Let me take you home. Never want it to be anyone else, baby girl."

The word home sounded so good from his lips. She nodded immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck. "J-just a moment. Please… let me hold you." She pleaded softly. He answered with a kiss that stole the breath from her lungs. His tongue was in her mouth again, and he tasted of her.

Don't let this be a dream. I can't bear to wake up alone.

Crosshair didn't want to stop kissing her, but he had to. "Let's go." He finally murmured. "Back in the front."

Miria nodded, letting him get up off of her and slide his lanky form into the front seat. She followed on shaky knees, closing her dress but ignoring her belt as he fumbled the controls to get them back to the dock.

Her heart was almost starting to settle when he slipped a hand into her lap and started rubbing her through her ruined panties, eyes on the skylane. "I promised you one more." He murmured, smirk painted on his lips.

She gasped and squirmed against his fingers, chasing the friction desperately. "Cross…" It was almost a whine, and he felt an electric thrill race through his blood. His dignified little General whining his name was an ego boost that could have undone him if he wasn't so goddamn determined to have his release from inside her warm body.

"Feel good, baby girl?" He crooned. The nickname felt right and entirely inadequate to explain how he actually felt. He was no good with sweet words, but Miria understood. She was clever like that. He'd have to get by with how he touched her, and hope she kept understanding the words he couldn't find.

They were just landing the car in a parking garage when she broke open again, whimpering into her hands she'd jammed in her mouth. Crosshair chuckled and leaned over, nipping her ear as he gathered the articles of her clothing he'd cast aside from the floorboard. He tucked them and her lightsaber into his uniform pockets before getting out and walking around to gather her in his arms and carry her into the Havoc Marauder.

It was late, and dark, so no one else saw the utterly debauched look on her face. Crosshair could admire his handiwork openly, from the purple blotches peeking out of her open dress to the way one slipper hung halfway off her dainty foot. She looked wrecked, and he wasn't even remotely done with her.

He carried her straight to the bunkroom and set her in his bunk, kneeling to pluck her shoes off first before opening her dress and guiding the fabric off her. Her breast band and panties followed in a heap on the floor, until she was completely bare to his eyes. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" He murmured, loosening the collar of his shirt. "What you do to me? How the hell has nobody had you yet? It's all I've been thinking about since I laid eyes on you… since you asked me my name."

Miria lifted a hand and hooked two fingers in his belt, smiling softly. "I've never wanted anyone else like this, my darling."

He couldn't get his clothes off fast enough. They hit the ground with blinding speed, Crosshair driven half mad with the need to put as much of his skin against hers as possible. When he was bare as the day he was born, he crawled over her and pressed his chest against hers. "Keep talking."

Miria’s hands moved tenderly over his copper skin, sending goosebumps in her wake. Through his hair, across his shoulders, down his back and up the nape of his neck, she soothed the raw places in his bruised and battered spirit. "All along." She assured him. "From the moment I looked into your eyes, I've known you were special. You were a shining star in the night, guiding me home. I've wanted to kiss the pain out of those lovely eyes since the first time you smiled. Let me be the one who makes you smile.

"You do. Maker…" He tucked his head into the curve of her neck and breathed like he was drowning.

Miria smiled, holding him to her. Somewhere in her battered heart, she felt the heat of the moment coalesce into something solid and real. It was too soon to say love, but it could be if given the chance. Like a flower, it just needed to be tended to grow. "Let me stay yours." She pleaded.

He nodded helplessly, pulled under at her confession. He had to ground himself in something before he forgot how to breathe.

When he moved, pulling her leg up over his hip and sliding into her inch by patient inch, she let out a strangled moan. "Crosshair…" She whispered.

"Right here. I got you." He gritted out, as if she couldn't feel him. As if she wasn't mind-shatteringly aware of every part of him, on and in every part of her as his pelvis fell flush against hers. He fumbled for her hand, locking their fingers together.

It was such a sincere little gesture, tender in a way he normally wasn't. His entire body was shaking with the effort it took him not to just shatter her, to yank her up to his chest and take everything he had been dying for for months. She read him like an open book, and couldn't help but smile at what she saw.

Let me be good to you. Let me show you that I know how. Let me prove there's something in me that deserves this.

She cupped his cheek, drawing his lips back to hers. Like he'd dreamed, the red paint was smudged down her face and his. "I'm yours." She whispered, sweet as honey, before her other leg slid around his narrow waist and pulled him a little closer with surprising strength.

He was done for. Miria was warm and soft and molded so perfectly around him, soothing every ache. Every wanting, fulfilled. He could have spent forever buried in her, feeling her heartbeat slamming into his ribs under him. For once in his rough paced life he was looking forward to the after, when he could hold her utterly spent figure to him and indulge in something kind and tender… he'd never wanted that before.

For the moment he busied himself with rocking into the Jedi beneath him, slowly at first. Her expressions ran riot over her face, bliss and vulnerability. She trusted him with this, with her. The soft whimpering coming from her were so quiet and sweet he barely heard them, but he liked them better than any amount of pornographic moaning he'd heard before. This was sincere, this meant something.

She squeaked when he pulled off her and sat back on his knees, tugging her up until she was straddling his lap and he could hold her, chest to chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her head tilting back when he picked her up by the hips and settled himself right back inside her. The angle pressed him impossibly deep, and he held still again so he could devour her mouth. "Fuck…" Crosshair mumbled into her jaw. "Fuck, you're perfect." Maybe there was a Maker somewhere, who made cute little nat-borns that accidentally ripped every bit of his guard down with a couple smiles. Maybe Crosshair would thank him later… or maybe just enjoy his creation a little bit more.

Miria kissed him like she was starving for his affection, fingers curled tight in his short hair when he started moving again. He could feel her lips moving, mumbling the syllables of his name into his lips. All he ever wanted for the rest of his life was to hear her voice say his name like that. "Cross, Cross, oh Crosshair, please. Oh please, don't stop. Please."

How the hell could he stop now? Not when he finally had her in his bed, her body pressed against him and her taste in his mouth. He tightened his left arm around her, forearm along her spine and her head cradled in his palm. The right hand slipped between them to find her apex and press his thumb to it, pressure circling in time to the rhythm he thrust up into her. Warm lips ghosted against her throat. "Wanna feel you come with me inside you." He growled, the Jedi’s mind going to putty at the sinful darkness and desire. "C'mon, Miria. Give me one more, and tell me who's making you come apart on my cock. Say my fucking name again."

She couldn't have resisted giving him what he wanted, if she'd wanted to. And she didn't. She wanted to please, wanted him to be satisfied and stay. Miria wanted him to want her again and again, to be so in love with the way she could make him feel that he'd never look anywhere else.

She had no idea he already was.

"A-ah… Crosshair!" She all but screamed desperately, fingers sliding down to his shoulders and turning to durasteel as she writhed in his lap and lost her mind. The winding band of sensation snapped with the force of a collapsing star, stronger than she'd ever felt before, and every muscle in her core locked up. Crosshair groaned, barely holding them both up as a couple faltering pumps of his hips into her heat sent him spilling between her legs.

"Maker… fuck…" He gritted his teeth, shaking as he managed to lay her back and collapse on top of her. He was still twitching, shuddering his release.

Miria smiled and kissed his jaw. "A-are you alright, my darling?" She sounded drunk.

Her darling. He was fucked up now. "Are you…?"

"Yes." The answer was immediate and affectionate.

"I'm crushing you." He mumbled, making a jelly-legged attempt to crawl off of her. He winced as his cock slipped free of her, but before he could get far she was pulling him back down. His head dropped into the softness of her breasts, and she ran delicate fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

"It's alright. Let me hold you."

Crosshair melted into the touch, going boneless. Her hands felt good, safe and kind. Had he always been so starved for someone to touch him like this? Had he been chasing this all this time, with all the wrong people, when what he really wanted was right here all along? He nosed against her sternum, bringing his arms up to half hold her in return.

Miria smoothed her palms over his shoulders and back, up his neck and hair, just like he'd imagined. Like she knew how much he needed this to be different. Special, because it was her. "Crosshair?" She murmured.

"Mm?" His eyes were closed, and she was in love with the way his face relaxed when his eyes closed.

She smiled. "You're beautiful."

His eyes flicked up to her, and the barest hint of a flush rose on his cheeks. "Nah."

"I didn't think you'd blush, darling." She couch resist teasing him just a little.

"Didn't think I'd like cuddling either. But here we are." He mumbled, burying his face in her chest. "Never liked it before. But… it's you."

Miria resumed her gentle stroking over his back, watching his skin rise with goosebumps. It dawned on her that she was probably the first person he let hold him like this… she called the blanket up and tucked it around him comfortably. "I'll stay as long as you want me to."

"Move your stuff in here." He said abruptly. "Not right now, but… later. After." His head popped up. "If you want to, I mean."

Miria smiled. "Alright. Go to sleep, I'll be here when you wake. I promise."

Crosshair smiled, a genuine one. "I can have you?" He murmured, almost hopefully.

"Only if I can keep you."

"Deal."

Miria nodded and leaned up to kiss his forehead. "Perfect."

He didn't know if she meant the agreement or him, and he didn't care. He was getting to fall asleep with her. Finally.

Late that night, the rest of the batch would stumble back to the Havoc Marauder in various states of concern they'd lost their general and confident Crosshair would turn up. When they found both of them laying in the sniper’s bunk, everyone froze.

Crosshair opened one eye, tucked quite smugly on the General's barely covered breasts. "Wake her up and I'll shoot you." He mumbled.

".... why is General Halcyon in your bed?!" Hunter whisper-hissed.

"Naked." Tech was repeatedly cleaning his goggles, putting them back on, then taking them off to clean them again. He couldn’t be seeing what he thought he was seeing.

"You know exactly why." Crosshair smirked.

"You can't be fucking your general!" Hunter was steaming like a tea kettle.

"Probably not. But I can be fucking my girl. Now shut up, she just fell asleep." Crosshair yawned. "Don't ruin this for us. She's happy."

Miria stirred faintly. "Mn… Cross?"

"Go back to sleep, cyar'ika. It's just the guys."

"... okay darling…" Miria nodded, slipping an arm up over his shoulders again and dozing back off.

Wrecker grinned. "Aw, Cross…"

"Shh. We'll deal with it tomorrow. Just let her sleep."

Hunter grumbled as he got ready for bed. Maker fucking dammit, the whole ship was going to reek of sex all the goddamn time!

It was good to be home. Miria hadn't realized how much she missed the Havoc Marauder until she woke up back in the ship. She’d woken up in Crosshair’s bunk, with the sniper still curled around her. She had been so comfortable she hardly wanted to get up, but she duty called. And she was at least now finally cleared for their next mission away from Coruscant. "Aww. You even cleaned." She chuckled at the clumsy attempt by Wrecker, the most oblivious to cleanliness. "That's sweet, boys."

"We had time to kill." Wrecker grinned. "And we wanted to make it nicer. It was Crosshair's idea."

The sniper shrugged. "Maybe I was just sick of the smell."

"More like trying to impress her." Tech shrugged. "Though, based on what we saw last night it hardly seems necessary.

Miria chuckled and followed them into the hold. "Wait a minute. Where's my hammock and footlocker?" She frowned.

"Bunkroom." Crosshair shrugged, fiddling with his toothpick. "Next to my rack."

She smiled a little. "I see. Lucky for you, I'm sure the general won't mind."

He smirked. He'd been a little unsure when he'd moved everything while she was in the fresher, hoping quietly she'd want to keep sharing a bed. Last night had been the best sleep he'd had in years, curled up beside her, but he wasn’t sure she remembered agreeing to it. They had been… distracted.

"Where are we headed next, General?" Tech chuckled as she settled into her seat.

"Salucemi. It seems there's rumors of a Separatist outpost. Wrecker, you might actually get to blow something up." She chuckled.

"Hell yes!" He grinned.

Miria leaned back in her seat as Crosshair dropped into his behind her. She settled in to flip through the mission dossier as Tech got them off the ground, content. How had she ever thought she'd be afraid in this war, with them beside her? They'd always keep her safe… and for as long as she had breath, she'd do the same.

She didn't remember her family before she joined the Order, but she couldn't imagine it would have felt any better than this. And while war curled wicked claws into the galaxy and threatened to rip it in two… without it, none of these men would have existed. And, idly, she thought that if she'd never been sick then she never would have met them away. Funny how fate put it all together.

The will of the Force brought them into existence, and into my life.

She glanced back at Crosshair, flipping a toothpick into his mouth. A blossom of soul deep affection warmed her chest. She would never give him a full lifetime, she didn't have the time even if they all survived to see the end of the war. But she could give him right now. And every right now she had, for as long as he wanted her.

#explict #eventual smut #original character #crosshair #crosshair smut #clone force 99 #caught in the crosshairs

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