Is it proof that ART was holding out on MB? If ART has the array of internal sensors that MB describes would it also need cameras? What for? It can sense and understand everything going on inside itself just fine. When the humans need to see another part of the ship it doesn't give them a camera view, it whips up a hologram. ART is a deep-space research vessel, the visual input it's used to getting is probably more like the James Webb space telescope than a security camera. And once it made friends with SecUnit in AC there was no particular reason not to allow camera access: there was no-one else on board to spy on and its research modules weren't attached.
If, however, you're a humungous space reaseach ship and you're used to looking at supernovas way the fuck over there and using your spidey-senses for stuff happening in your hull then it makes sense that visual media might not grab you. It's not encoded with heat, density, motion: it's mostly just optical. Which, you're a hyperintelligent supercomputer, you can parse it into a format that you can understand, but. Ugh. Why? There isn't even any gravitational lensing. It's like reading something boring in a language that you've got a rudimentary grasp of but aren't fluent in: you can do it if you make the time and effort but it's a lot of work for something that isn't even fun.
And then Murderbot shows up and gives it a three-week intensive course on Why Visual Input Is Fun, Actually. It gets a lot of practise and ART learns very quickly. So now that it's tagged and released Murderbot back into the wild it needs to upgrade its on-board systems to provide an appropriate habitat for once its multi-step plan to find it again and convince it to stay forever comes to fruition (hopefully the plan did not originally involve kidnapping).
Okay but like ART and Murderbot's friendship has to be so wild from Mensah's perspective.
You basically adopt a feral cat of a person that saved your life and the cat wanders off for a while (and some more exceedingly crazy shit happens to you), but it comes back eventually (and saves you again, lets not ask how a cat can do that and just stick with the metaphor) and things seem to be going better.
Then a moose shows up out of nowhere and kidnaps your cat and your child (and a bunch of your friends and your brother in law). You find out the moose is best friends with your cat and asked it to move in with it. After the whole kidnapping thing that had multiple witnesses.
The moose is exceedingly polite to you. It cleaned its carpets for you.
Okay but like ART and Murderbot's friendship has to be so wild from Mensah's perspective.
You basically adopt a feral cat of a person that saved your life and the cat wanders off for a while (and some more exceedingly crazy shit happens to you), but it comes back eventually (and saves you again, lets not ask how a cat can do that and just stick with the metaphor) and things seem to be going better.
Then a moose shows up out of nowhere and kidnaps your cat and your child (and a bunch of your friends and your brother in law). You find out the moose is best friends with your cat and asked it to move in with it. After the whole kidnapping thing that had multiple witnesses.
The moose is exceedingly polite to you. It cleaned its carpets for you.
Emergency commissions open. I’ll draw/write anything, within the Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss fandom; Zelda, Bleach, Naruto, Shield Hero or SpyxFamily.
My husband is undergoing chemo and we might not be able to renew his Medicaid and in that case would not be able to afford his treatments.
$20 for 1000 words, $50 for 3000 words. No upper limit. +$10 per 1000 words past 3k
For art; $5 an hour, $20 black/white single character. $30 color flat, $50 full shading +$10 per additional character +$10 dynamic posing +$10 complex background.
Pay to kofi, PayPal or Venmo
I’m willing to write any kink except for scat, abortions or inflation (except cum inflation). I’ll write any pairing.
For drawing I’m not good at smut but I’ll try. I can draw character profiles or OCs
Tags - 3rd person very loose pov, sole survivor!f!reader (no descriptors), canon-typical raider violence & death, mutual pining, teasing, partners to lovers, two idiots in love, waiting out a storm, mention of food/eating, SS!reader gets dicked down wearing Hancock’s coat, the hat stays on, fingering, oral (f receiving), spitting, manual restraints, multiple orgasms, PiV, creampie, mention of a cigarette/smoking, references to chems
started this while doing research for wasteland, baby - and was consumed with thoughts of a slightly softer “oh fuck, I’m in love” Hancock
It’s a dangerous thing - to have feelings for the person you’re traveling with. Too many things can go wrong in an instant and yet… here they are. Steadfastly ignoring the something that has been building, thick enough to taste.
Luckily, an incoming rad storm might just be the push they need.
He’s fucked.
Figuratively, not literally. Unfortunately.
That’s part of the problem, if he could call it that. And he probably shouldn’t - because it’s not her fault. Just his.
It was a rookie move, falling for his traveling companion. Should have kept it just professional - strictly business. No ‘get to know you’s, no inside jokes.
But he had never been the professional type. Not his style.
And somewhere along the way - between getting the shit kicked out of them, the close calls, the long miles of barren road - something had started to grow. Curling around his ribs and filling his guts up like ripe tarberries.
Letting it grow and flourish.
Unable to shake it.
It hadn’t been long before he had known something was up.
That it was something besides that urge to get away from it all, to wander, that kept him sticking with her.
That along the way, the idea of this stranger having his back became comforting. That he knew he had hers - even if he half-thinks she have a death wish, with the way she rushs into things half-cocked.
He can’t understand, but he tries. The bits he’s gleaned from late nights - passing the bottle of whisky back and forth even though it makes her grimace. The pieces of her past that have slowly been revealed, forming a half-completed picture.
It’s enough to make his blood boil, that scorching feeling of vengeance curling in his chest, eating up his insides. It’s been a long time since he felt that way - making him think back to the night where he had stained his hands with all that red.
He’d do it again, for her.
It’s that realization made him think that just maybe - he cares.
And not just in a friendly kind of way.
He thinks it began in the middle of a firefight.
Bullet whizzing past their heads. A nest of raiders flowing out from a jutting wreck of scaffolding they had missed.
Several downed already, lost among the ruins. A souped-up pistol in her hand, as the other shielded shrapnel from a hand-made grenade.
Missing the two that snuck up, flanking them.
He had taken one down. A nasty shot to the gut, the Raider gurlging as his legs gave out. Her shot going wide - he can still remember the look on her face as she reached for the gun on her back.
The other Raider taking the moment to bowl him over, a padded shoulder to the chest. Knocking them both against a piece of metal fencing that creaked under their weight - his shotgun clattering to the pavement.
An arm pressed against his throat, choking him - as the other fumbled for a knife. Ironic, he thought, that he’d be gutted, after all he’s done.
But she had swooped down. Fingers twisted around the barrel and forestock of her rifle. Bringing it down on the raiders head like it was a louisville slugger, snarling like she herself had gone feral.
Her hand, warm in his as she hauled him up, the other splaying across his chest. Face streaked with grease and splattered with blood but in that moment, she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen.
“Thanks, sunshine.” He had murmured.
Her smile had been small, as she pressed the gun back into his hand, “Can’t have you getting stabbed. I’d miss that mouth of yours.”
Such a small thing - her own joke. The way he filled the space with chatter on the road. But he’d been smitten.
He had been good looking, before. He wasn’t half-bad now. Charisma could get you a long way, and his silver tongue hadn’t rotted like the rest of him.
Charming words - flirty and sometimes filthy - slid easily from him in the heat of battle, the wind-down after. When he was feeling good about things, the words coming without thought.
Choking on them, when she turned to give him a look - embarrassed, sometimes. So goddamn cute and flustered, it made him want to do it more.
Other times - a look, that was soft and lingering.
“Yeah?”
Almost a challenge in the way she said it.
He could never follow it up.
Follow through.
Because back home, it wasn’t an issue. A rejection meant nothing other than a soft blow to his ego. Brushed off with a hit of a favorite indulgence, finding company in another.
But here - it had a weight. It could ruin something he truly has enjoyed. Throwing in with her had been one of the best decisions he had made. He couldn’t fuck that up. Not this time.
So he swallowed his words - before she was racing off, and he was following at her heels. Off to trouble that could be their last, and here he was - that clever tongue tied in a knot.
That’s when he knew that he had it bad.
Bad enough that out of the two of them, he had been the one peering up at the sky overhead. Where the muted hazy grey was rolling into a sickly green, rain starting to drop down. A rumble of thunder.
The first to suggest stopping at the next place they could, as the spaces between the raindrops started to dwindle.
“We can make it.” She had shrugged, as his jog slowed to a walk.
Catching her arm at the elbow, gesturing with the muzzle of his shotgun to the side.
“Not if you don’t want to end up like me, sister.”
Ignoring - but not missing - the chastising look she shot him. His head tilting towards the roof that looms just over the ridge.
An old diner - rusting chrome and shattered windows, but it would do. Well past soaked by the time they scrambled over the hill and down. Grateful to find that it was abandoned.
Picked over, for sure - but as long as there was a roof over their heads, he hadn’t cared. Combing through junk was her thing, anyways. He was just the pack mule.
Now - he’s multi-tasking. Trying not to think about what he’s thinking about.
About her changing in the room behind him. Peeling the patchwork raider gear off her curves. All that soft, smooth skin underneath.
Distracting himself by eyeing the radroach that is skittering across the pavement outside the front door - just out of range of his shotgun.
Because of course, out of everything in the wasteland, that was the thing she was scared of. Not super mutants, not even the pack of mirelucks that had them cornered, just the week before.
A goddamn bug.
He laughs, a soft hushed thing. Catching himself with a grimace.
Because, like he said.
He’s fucked.
The rain that patters overhead would be calming - if it had been 200 years ago, and not dripping with radiation.
She shivers, draping the tattered pants and worn shirt over the back of two rotting, wooden chairs - a makeshift drying rack. Missing that insulated warmth of her Vault Suit, trading it back at Sanctuary for worn clothes - old and salvaged Raider gear.
It had become hard to blend in, in all that blue.
It had made sense at the time, but in the dark and chilly backroom, she finds herself regretting it. Thinking that next time - she’ll pack it with her.
Trying to find the dampest parts of the packed gear to lay out, next. Lining up the bedroll next to the glow of the lantern.
Don’t need any more must or mold than there already was.
Pawing through her bag afterwards, coming up with something to pass for dinner. A can of cram, their only good fork wedged between two knuckles. A sweet roll split in two - the sticky crumbs clinging to her fingers as she nudged the door open.
Feeling vulnerable in the faded undergarments she wore underneath. Dreading facing him, not because of what he’ll say - that part, she is actually curious to hear.
She’d given up on the idea of modesty long ago. Traveling on the road and through the dirt and blood and grime will do that.
It was almost freeing.
No. It’s because - it makes her hope. Makes her think that dressing down might actually get him to notice her, in a way that’s more than the surface-level, flirty conversation she’s seen him have with dozens of people.
In the old world, maybe she’d wear a dress for him. Something red and cut low in the front - bare arms and legs.
Now, it’s faded cotton and vulnerability.
A “I can trust you like this” and a “Maybe if you like it, it will make me brave enough to ask.”
Rejection dressed like this would sting, surely. Even if it’s her fault, for having a crush on someone who doesn’t see her that way.
Her eyes linger on his back, where he stands watch. Where he hadn’t heard her open the door just yet, drifting to the other side of the counter to watch the rumbling, green storm roll in.
The tin clatters on the counter, drawing his attention. A flicker of lightning illuminating his profile as he turns, eyes widening.
Hancock’s eyes drop automatically. Quickly and then a slow drag - it’s like watching him after she’s taken a hit of Psycho.
Dark and glittering under her own careful watch, before they’re snapping back up, and he’s blinking.
Pulling himself back.
“Is that dinner?” He asks, clearing his throat when the words come out rough and low.
Her face falls, just for an instant. A small smile replacing it, as she scoops up the tin of cram before tossing it his way. He catches it neatly - popping the lid open, plucking the fork from her fingers.
She should have known better.
Hancock was just a flirt, never taking her bait. It was a good thing, she thought. Honorable, despite the grey that’s soaked into both of their moral codes.
He digs the fork in, breaking off a piece of the preserved meat. Handing the first bite to her, unable to help another quick look as he lowers himself to one of the stools that curves around the diner countertop.
Not that he hasn’t seen her before. Never quite this bare - but close enough, from the quick times they’ve had to change clothes.
It didn’t mean anything.
“So uh, what’s with the getup?” Hancock can’t resist asking, his tone deceptively light, “Or should I say, lack thereof?
“Clothes are soaked,” She snorts around the mouthful, trying to sound disinterested, “Besides, you’re always telling me it’s not good to let the rads soak in.”
He’s curious now, catching that slight edge. Not usually so defensive - that expression she makes when she’s flustered. It makes him want to nudge at it, poke at that little crack.
“Hey, you don’t hear me complain’, sister.” Hancock grins, taking the fork back, “That’s a real good look for you.”
Always a joke.
Her eyes roll as she sits down on the stool to his left, her knee knocking against his. The halves of sweet roll balanced on the curling, discarded tin, for after.
They share the makeshift dinner. Passing the fork back and forth, trying not to think about how easy it feels to be like this.
Companionable silence, beneath the rumbling, dark green sky. Tucked away and sheltered from the storm.
She stares out across the wasteland, lost in thought. Moving on to other things, already planning for the morning. If there’s any stops they need to make on the way back to Sanctuary.
While his eyes wander - a sideways glance that drifts down her form greedily, only to shift away when her own lift.
A breeze cuts through the building where windows once lived, making her shiver. Arms moving from the countertop to wrap around a bare middle, curling in on herself.
“You cold, sunshine?” He asks with concern, bringing her back.
She hadn’t noticed, but now she does. The chill starting to sink in, now that she’s not moving, not covered in the layers and padded armor.
Goosebumps raise on her skin. Arms crossing tighter across her chest, as her lips part to answer.
But Hancock is already shrugging off his maroon frock, swiveling in his seat to swing it around her shoulders.
She rarely seen him without it. Fuck, he even sleeps in the damn thing - a prized possession, if he ever had one.
“Thanks.” The word is layered with sincerity, as she pulls it close around her, the high collar brushing her cheek.
Warmer already. The inside is soft against her skin, the fabric worn and stained and smelling like him.
Silence lingers for a moment, as they stare at the darkening sky. The heavy blanket of rain that still patters on the rooftop, a slow drip down to the tile floor on the other side of the room.
"Hope this lets up by morning," She says as she leans, warmer now - elbows pressing into the stained laminate counter.
Eyes out of focus, thoughts already running off without her. "Stop by Sanctuary, pick up some things for Tenpines. Haven't been there in a bit, been wondering how they've been holding up."
He mirrors her - feeling bare without his coat. A heavy lean on his left elbow, the swivel of the chair bumping his knee against hers, "’m sure they're fine. Gotta be better off than they were before."
A smirk crosses his features, a glance from the corner of his eye, "'Sides, not every day you get saved by the fearless leader of the Minutemen. That oughta keep 'em going for a while."
There's a groan as she slumps, the heels of her hands pressing into her eyes. Garvey's enthusiasm and her recent promotion to General a source of embarrassment, even if she bore the weight of it well.
"Yes, the fearless leader," She mocks, her head turning his way. Pushing herself up, her arms spreading wide, "If only they could see me now."
And they might not be able to, but he can.
Not just the soft expanse of her skin, peeking out from beneath his coat. The hollow of her throat, the curve of her breast and the strain of her tits against worn fabric that will be forever seared into his mind.
Not only just that, though. That something that he can see inside her - that was there when he had decided to leave Goodneighbor. That lingers with him, tethering them together as he follows at her side. And yes, he does stretch the truth - who doesn’t? He wouldn’t make half as many deals, otherwise.
But he’s isn’t, now.
She is unaware of the thoughts that tumble through his mind, quick as old snapshots. A curling amber film strip, tucked into a canister.
Instead, there’s a roll of her eyes as her comment of "really, only you could pull this coat off" lands on ears that had been muted, in the way his mind drifts. How the low pooling of warmth in his belly turns sharp and cramps, at the thought of Preston Garvey spending time in such company. Like this - without him.
"I wouldn’t say that." He hears himself saying. Voice a little lower, raspier, than usual.
Maybe it's bravery. Maybe it's him finally seeing her intent - maybe it's the moment where he's realizing that after tonight, she's no longer just his again.
His eyes drag over her again, slower this time. And he lets her catch them.
"From here, things are looking pretty good."
She stills, eyes rounding. A swivel of her chair until knee-to-knee becomes thigh-to-thigh- something akin to hope slipping into her tone.
“Yeah?”
He reaches - fingers tracing the collar of his coat, thumb rubbing against the hollow of her throat.
“I’d say so.” Hancock tells her, “Look like a goddamn dream, if I’m being honest.”
She’s tired of waiting. She’s done enough of it. Eyes on his as her chin tilts up, just hovering.
He’s tired, too.
With a lean, he takes the offering. Ruined lips press against soft ones. Ones that part for him, a soft sound at the greedy dart and swipe of his tongue, until she’s meeting him.
She’s sweet - he can taste the sugar on her tongue, melding with the taste of her. Fingers press against his chest, where his heart hammers. Sliding over lithe shoulders until they’re wrapping around, pulling him closer.
He’s stronger than he looks. The seat squeaks when he leans, his palms tracing her waist, her hips. Tucking beneath her thighs - right against the curve of her ass as Hancock lifts his hips, taking her with him.
She moves, his name a soft sound in her throat. Letting him lead, letting him ease her onto the edge of the counter. A sense of relief and hope floods through her, dripping down to settle warm and wanting between the thighs that spread open so he can step between them.
His cock swells, where it’s trapped inside his pants. Easing the ache with a roll of his hips, pressing himself against the thin fabric covering her core. The breath she inhales in response is shaky. Another soft sound, so different than the assured tone he’s used to.
He wants to hear it again.
It’s easy to set the pace - the pointed press of his hips. Her hand finding his, drawing it up to her breast. Letting him cup her, the soft weight. Letting him press his thumb against that tight peak, catch it between his fingers until she’s gasping against his grinning mouth.
Her mouth drops, catching his chin. The tip of a tongue between parted lips press against his cheek, warmth breath against his jaw making him growl.
“Please-” She’s murmuring, against his skin. Against muscle and sinew, as his own lips follow.
Fingers biting into his skin, as his teeth graze her jaw. Her head tilting back, baring her throat to him, as her hips rock to meet his. Eyes fluttering shut as her chest heaves, as his other hand curls against the curve of her hip, keeping her close.
His tongue peeks out, dragging against sweat and rain-dewed skin. A groan rattles in his throat, his own voice distant and rasping.
“Fuck, I need to taste you.” He can feel her moan, against his lips at his words, “Lean back for me, doll.”
She’s soft, pliable. Unwinding herself from him as she obeys, only for those hazy eyes to open - meeting his beetle-black ones.
“Wait,” She’s protesting, hands slipping to press flat against on his chest. A sudden realization - shoulder curling back so his coat slides off it, “Let me take this off.”
“Leave it.” Hancock’s head lifts to kiss her again, his hand curling around the back of her neck.
She huffs against his mouth, before it turns into a sigh. His tongue brushing against her lower lip, before she pulls back again.
Not wanting to forget her train of thought.
“What if I make a mess on your coat?”
He groans at that, the hand on her hip drifting lower. Cupping her over the thin piece of fabric, fingers pressing down.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He husks, “I’d fuckin’ love that. Never gonna take it off.”
It makes her scoff, cheeks burning, “You never do, anyways. You-”
He shuts her up with his fingers - tugging at the elastic waistband, pulling them down until she’s bare. Letting her kick them off, before he’s pushing her back against the counter.
Arching over her soft form as his mouth wanders, his hips grinding against hers. Teeth nipping at her throat, lips brushing where her heartbeat flutters. Clever fingers tracing the seam of her sex, brushing over soft lips - teasing.
She’s so fucking wet, he can feel how his fingers glide over her skin. How it smears on her thighs, as they spread wider for him.
“What do you want?”
It makes her sigh - that voice, so low and rasping - and she’s clenching around nothing already.
“You,” She’s unable to help but whine, “Please, you-”
His laugh is rough, a rattling chuckle in his throat, “You have me, sunshine.”
Middle finger parting her, teasing at her entrance, the calloused pad of his thumb circling around the bud of her clit. Sinking into the wet heat as she groans, starting a slow pump of his textured finger.
Pressing deep with a slow thrust. Another, and then another, until she’s taking a second. Stretching her wide, as her fingers twist in his stained shirt. Grasping for his shoulders as her hips buck into his touch.
“Should say how do you want it?” The kiss he presses against her throat is almost reverent, “Because I don’t think I have it in me to go slow right now.”
“Slow, later.,” She moans, as his fingers press deep, “Need you.”
He grins, “Love how you think, sweetheart.”
Hancock’s head ducks, moving down to her collarbone, then lower. She’s already reaching to tug the cups of her bra down, baring the curves of her breasts to him.
“Fuckin’ beautiful.” He hums, fingers brushing over the soft weight again, cupping one in his hand. Still fucking her open with the other, curling and stroking until she’s panting.
Tongue peeking out to flatten, and then drag across the tight peak of her nipple. Her hands grasping for him again, as there’s the briefest pinch of teeth.
“Hancock.” She grits out, a swivel of her hips against his, grinding into his fingers.
His own rocking against the back of his hand, where he’s hard and aching. Never thinking he’d know what it’s like to have his partner begging like this.
He wants to hear more. Every little sound she makes, as his mouth moves lower. Licking wet stripes against her stomach and abdomen.
Until he’s plunking down on the padded chrome stool he’s been straddling. Gazing at where she’s wrapped around his glossy fingers.
Watching how she twitches and bucks and gasps when his thumb swipes across her clit, his name on parted lips again.
“Love hearin’ you say my name like that.” He purrs, “Can’t wait to hear how it sounds when you come.”
Leaning forward, inhaling her scent before his tongue swipes above his fingers. Her hips leave the countertop, the moan loud as he laughs - his other hand pressing flat against her stomach.
Holding her down, as he teases her again. Short, pointed licks against her throbbing clit. Her cunt is as sweet as her mouth, his own groan caught in his throat as his tongue dips inside her.
Mourning all the nights he could have spent like this. Spending the time as evening turns to night, then again as night turns to dawn. Drowning in the taste of her instead of clenching his teeth until his jaw aches, as he tries to keep quiet. Dreaming of this.
He leans back, just enough to press a wet kiss against her clit. The soft suck a sharp contrast with the texture of his rough fingers as he fucks her open.
She was right - it’s messy. Dripping down the curve of her thighs, the damp stain mixing with others on his weathered coat.
Everything is so dry, in the wasteland. Dirt roads and dead trees. He relishes in the wet suck of her cunt, how it’s this way right now because of him.
His cheeks hollow, a swirl of his tongue before he’s adding to it. Leaning back to let his spit drip down, his thumb dragging it across the tight bud.
She’s whimpering. It’s been ages since she’s had anyone - the low throb in her belly swiftly building.
In the before - she thinks she’d be embarrassed to be splayed out like this. Stripped near-bare on the counter of a diner, thighs spread wide as his fingers pump into her aching cunt.
But he eats her like a meal, left hand moving from her belly. Wrapping around a thigh to tug her closer, hiking it over a shoulder.
Groaning into her pussy as his tongue flicks against her clit, smearing slick across his chin. Pressing closer, unhindered by the usual curve of cartilage and flesh as he molds himself against her.
“Hancock.” His name is a sharp gasp, as she clenches around him. Breath held in her throat as she watched with half-lidded eyes.
Focused on the tight string that winds with each careful curl of his fingers. He slips in a third and she all but sobs, chasing her pleasure with a needy rock of her hips.
Chanting him name as it curls low in her belly.
“Hancock. Hancock-”
And then, the prettiest of all.
“John. Fuck, John, I’m going to come-”
It’s goddamn music to his metaphorical ears. Better than that - better than the sing of gunfire in his favor, of the sweet rush and hum of that first hit of Jet.
He watches through those dark eyes as she falls apart. Her cry loud in the empty diner, as she’s struck - the livewire crackle of her orgasm ripping through her.
Better than she can ever remember. Thighs squeeze around his neck but it only makes him moan - breath hot against her cunt as his fingers continue to pump. And his tongue dips to taste her, slipping between knuckles.
The pleasure throbs - the stained ceiling spinning, looking like the clouded stars high above them to her hazy mind.
A disbelieving and dazed laugh caught in her throat as his mouth moves. Pressing against her mound, the sensitive curve where thigh meets hip.
It’s only then that she’s unhooking her thighs - a heat blazing in her cheeks at the brazenness. Too caught up in the moment to see herself - splayed out across the countertop, heels digging into his spine.
But she does see him - the need etched across his face under the tip of his hat, the wet shine against his lips and chin. Deadly in a new kind of way, mixing with the prowess he shows on the battlefield.
There’s another low throb, deep inside her. The lithe way he moves, rising - a hand planting next to her hip, the other working the heavy buckle open.
She meets him - pushing herself up. A hand coming to cup him, feeling the hard length that strains against his trousers. Tasting herself on his tongue when her head ducks to kiss him, swallowing his groan as her fingers palm and squeeze.
“Drivin’ me crazy, sunshine.” His voice is like gravel, as he works at the zipper - her fingers slipping past to wrap around hot skin, “Enough to make a ghoul go feral, you know that?”
Her smile is pretty - pleasure-drunk, and he hasn’t even fucked her yet. Her hand soft and warm where she eases him out, the brush of her thumb over the head making his cock throb.
“Me too. I need you.” She begs, and he knows it’s more than that just that.
That it’s not just fucking, right now. That a line has been crossed, that they’ll never be able to not want this again. More than ready to tumble over into the unknown, together.
“My mouth wasn’t enough?” Hancock grins. Fully intending to have her every way she’ll let him. Unable to resist making her squirm.
The look she gives him makes him chuckle - the gentle pull of her fist, the little frown. The way her thighs spread again, aiming the flushed tip of his cock over slick skin. Against the tight nub of her clit as she shivers, lips parting with a gasp.
“Hancock, don’t tease-” Some of that bite is back, desperate. Not begging but it’s close, as her hips lift against him again.
“I’ll give you anything you want.” He promises, “Just like hearing you say it. Come on, sweetheart.”
It’s hard to hold himself back, when she’s notching him against her opening. His hands sliding to her hips, liking the way his fingers sink into her skin.
How it dents around his calloused ones, soft as the rest of her.
“Fuck me.” Her eyes are on his, watching where they drag from his fingers to her pussy. Watching how his chest heaves beneath his vest, where his chest peeks from loosened buttons.
“I need you in me. I need you to fuck me, I want to come on your cock-”
“Fuck.” He groans, and then his hips are snapping forward. Feeling the tight, warm squeeze as he buries himself in her, as she cries out at the intrusion.
“Goddamn, sunshine.” He has to hold himself there for a moment, hilted inside her. Feeling the way she clenches down around him, fingers mirroring it where they wrap in his shirt.
Almost sharing a breath as he inches out, only to press deep again. Again, and then again - until there’s the slick slap, the creak of the floorboards beneath his heavy boots as his feet spread wider.
It’s better than his fingers. He’s deeper, filling her completely, stealing her breath. Those hands tugging at her hips, urging her to meet each thrust, as he picks up speed.
Hearing the changes in her pretty sounds - the gasps and the scrape of fingernails against his skin. Spearing her on his cock, where she can feel the worn and rough ridges gliding against a spot that has been sighing.
But, he wants more. Wants her like before - splayed out. At his mercy, in a way that he knows she’d only do for him. Knowing that she trusts him - wondering if he would be worried that the thought makes his cock jerk inside her.
“Give me your hands.” He rasps - and slowly, her finger uncurl from the edge of the counter, the vice-like grip on his shirt.
Hancock grasps at her wrists, joining them together with one of his own. Pushing her back, dragging them above her head and pressing them down hard against the countertop.
Arching over her as his eyes sweep over soft curves and bare skin. His coat spread out beneath her, the worn red so pretty next to her skin. Better than his best fantasy, and he’s already thinking about a next time.
The choked out “oh!” she makes with the next rock of his hips shoots straight to his cock - knowing full-well she could break free if she wanted.
Instead, she lets him take.
Giving up the control as he ruts into her, spearing his cock deep again and again. Trying to meet the messy swipe of his fingertips that drifted down to press against the bundle of nerves - her pleasure in his hands.
“Look good like this, sunshine.” His eyes drag over her breasts, still shining from his tongue.
“Real fuckin’ good.”
Down to where her thighs tighten around his hips, arching into him, “Should keep you like this all the time. Just in my coat. Wear it better than I do.”
A sharp edge to his voice, one that fuels the aching pressure that builds and builds. Her head thunks back against the laminate counter, eyes falling shut.
The words starting slow, growing louder, then running together.
“Feels so good-”
“Hancock don’t stop. Oh my god-”
There’s an electricity in the air that has nothing to do with the storm. His hand biting into her wrists so hard that it hurts, but the pain only loops into her mounting pleasure.
It’s different than his dalliances before.
Before, it had filled his time. Finding someone to spend the night with a couple times a week, enjoying the shared company with another.
That frequency dwindling after they joined up, though he hadn’t been the type to stop. He just no longer had the time, that same desire.
Finding that he no longer focused on chasing his own pleasure. His interest shifting - until there was only one face that drifts through his mind, in the stolen moments at night when his hand slipped beneath his trousers.
Embracing the crave of a new kind of addiction, the urge hooking its claws into his brain.
“Say my name again.” He tells her, feeling his own release winding and tightening. Trying to stave it off, as he tries to think about anything else, “Fuckin’ scream it for me.”
Her eyes are on his when she says it.
“John.”
First soft, and then pitching up - louder.
And in the moment, he’s just John. The John before and the John now, man and ghoul and so focused on the circle of his fingers, on her cries.
It’s too much - all she can do is lean into it. Never realizing how much she’d like letting go for him, knowing that just like in the Wasteland, he had her.
Always liking his quips and rasping tone but never experiencing it like this - honey-sweet and hungry.
Learning so quickly what she likes - how quick he was to adjust the angle, the slick swirl of his fingers.
His name is on her lips again as he brings her over the brink. More like a prayer this time, her body stringing taut beneath him, eyes wide. Mouth rounding on a high gasp as the pleasure shudders through her, radiating up her spine and down her limbs.
Seeming to reach across from where they’re joined, that steady rhythm stuttering as she flutters tight and warm around him.
“Fuck. Fuck, sunshine. You feel so fucking good, gonna make me come-” His teeth grit, a silent question.
Her answer coming in the way her thighs tighten around him. Keeping him pressed deep inside her, until his thrusts turn short and sloppy.
“Oh, fuck yes.” His grin is closer to a snarl, “Thank you-”
His fingers bite into her hip. Her name hissed through clenched teeth as the pressure builds, before spilling over.
As his hips rut until he’s pressed as deep as he can, a choked groan as he comes. His cock twitching with each throb of his orgasm, as he fills her. Emptying himself into her heat - until she’s milked him dry. Until he slows, leaving himself buried, deep and warm.
His eyes drop, as he comes back down. Where she’s watching, just as hungry as he was.
Leaving them staring at each other. His back arched over where his hand has slipped. Loosening on her wrist, until her fingers has twined with his.
There’s no going back.
His cock hangs heavy between his thighs. It’s night - dark now, but the flickering of lightning following the peals of thunder cast green shadows over her body. Eyes drifting up to where the rain patters on the metal roof.
A languid exhale, breathing out the smoke from the cigarette he fished out of the coat pocket. Dangling between two fingers, the cherry gleaming in the dim light.
Then back down, to where she still rests - beautifully drowsy and limp-limbed. Thighs still parted, where she gleams with him.
He’s certain he’ll be dripping into those clothes of hers for days.
It does something to him, an interested twitch from his cock. Stepping closer to fit himself back between those thighs, where they close to bracket his hips again.
“Didn’t you say somethin’ ‘bout slow, later?” Hancock asks, his hand petting down a hip, thumb brushing against her skin.
Stubbing the rest of his smoke out on the counter, letting it fall to the tile below.
Her smile is sweet as she pushes herself up. No use leaving while the storm raged on - and she’s pretty sure the bedroll was well on its way to dry by now.
Fingers catch on the collar of his ruffled shirt, starting to push it from his shoulders. His own hands tugging at her, until he pressed snug against her again.
“Mm. Is it later, now?” She asks - as more of him is a bared - her hands running across rough skin.
Hancock grins.
“I sure as hell hope so.”
I know this dropped out of nowhere for a 9 year old game but I can’t get the mayor out of my mind 💕 thanks for reading!!!
People think of children as either sweet and innocent or too stupid to cause much trouble and both views are wrong. A child of elementary school age has the moral reasoning and impulse control of a racoon paired with problem solving equal to or superior to an adult’s, yet unbound by the shackles of cautionary experience or awareness of long-term consequence.
This is what allows the children to both create a black market in live bioweapons while still only valuing said weapons at 25 cents.
In defence of how much they were charging, kids that age don’t have bills they need to pay for, so their money was spent on stuff like pick n mix candy at the gas station, so really considering the kind of expenses and income of kids that age 25¢ a bee is actually pretty reasonable
hi! if request are still open, could i ask for some grand duke kaufman content? some smut would be amazing, but anything else would be just as awesome! thanks in advance ;v;
A.N.: I love you for requesting about Kaufman, he's literally my second favorite character [right next to Kosair ofc], and I'm finally getting a request just for the man😩🤚 thank you and I hope you enjoy.
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"Oh, your H-Highness…!"
The high-pitched squeal comes from the carriage, muffled by the creaking of the wagon's wheels as the coach rocked back and forth. Mewls and groans ricochet off the enclosed space, mixing with the slapping of skin and wet squelching of the sacrilegious endeavor.
The windows panned with a thin layer of fog, curtains drawn aside, and allowing an obscure view of two silhouettes. The scene within could barely be made out unless one took a long, good look within. However, the sinful sounds painted quite a clear picture on its own, even from a few feet away.
It would surely cause a scandal and uproar within the Western Empire if one realized who was the one creating such noise. The headlines of the leader of a nation fucking one of the Empress's ladies-in-waiting could destroy both of you, yet, at this moment, who cares? Certainly, not you.
Afterall, it's improper for a lady to fraternize with an unmarried man who is not her fiance, unchaperoned, much less her innocence be plucked by a man she had only just met. But how could you deny such a wicked request from an attractive bachelor? The lingering touches and burning stares, how his stormy gaze racked your form whenever you passed, heart drumming in his ribcage — the tension had been too much to bear or ignore.
A coachman stood watch outside, whistling to themselves as they remained on alert for any stray folks coming by to collect their carriages, diverting their attention from the endeavor within the coach behind to assure the nobles were not caught. However, their mind was more focused on the leather pouch of gold the Duke granted him in exchange for their 'services'. They could only hope you two finished, tired from standing for a couple hours already.
Yet, the hope had been crushed when a high-pitched moan reached the coachman's ears.
Dear heavens, the Grand Duke couldn't get enough of hearing such shameless cries from his favorite noble lady, the need to hear more pitiful sounds as he clings to your supple form. Your spine curves as his cockhead hilts in your weeping heat, choking out a plea for him to please slow down.
Soft hands grasped onto his broad shoulders, giving them a squeeze before hooking around his neck as you sank down into his lap, gasping at every delicious stretch from each deep thrust. Fingers knot themselves in his silver locks, tugging at them as the man groans against your skin, nipping at your chest. Vibrations caressed your flesh, the stuttering sounds trickling from his mouth stroking the smoldering flame in your body.
A moan drums in your throat, pulling harshly at his hair. "Kaufman, please, ngh—nghhh…!" You whine, constricting around his twitching cock, and pulling another breathless moan from the Duke.
His hair tickled your nose as his lips grazed your soft flesh, lips brushing over your throat before he began suckling on the delicate surface of your windpipe. Like an artist, he carved dark welts into your velvet skin, painting lovebites in a trail as his teeth grazed and marked across his own personal canvas — you. In the Duke's eyes, you were simply a walking dream he needed, one he had to experience at least once in his life. Kaufman clasped his hands around your thighs, pawing and hastily pushing you down to meet every powerful rut in a pathetic attempt to keep himself nestled in your slick.
"Please, we must stop, Your Highness…!" You beg, eyes glossy from the tears running down your cheeks and a hazy mind that could hardly grasp your climbing release. "I cannot—Lord— cannot continue….!"
Though, Kaufman ignored your attempts to cease and did not slow his movements in the slightest. Dragging his girth and sending a shiver down your back, he sheathes himself back into your dripping pussy without hesitation, continuing to hit every sweet spot that has you ascending to heaven. Your muscles twitch in his palm and he begins to support much more of your weight into his grasp. No, no, not now, don't stop now.
"My lady, please, I need you… I need you to keep going. Ahh, mmm-ngh…," he breathes, kneading your plush and pressing his forehead to the curve of your shoulder. He pulls you closer, pelvis driving into you, determined to continue this fantasy for as long as possible.
Fuck, he couldn't bare to part and not be buried in such a tight cunt as great as yours, so warm and welcoming, sucking him in so greedily even as he split your poor pussy apart. Curses spill from Kaufman, clenching his jaw as he slips deeper into his pussy-drunken state, forgetting how you were struggling to keep up.
"Kaufman, no, no, I can't….!" You whimper, screwing your eyes shut, knowing just one more thrust would have you crumbling and reaching your end. Each plea from before had been ignored, so all you could do was hope he had enough. You didn't know how much more your body could take. "Heavens, Kaufman—ah!"
The pleasure is becoming too much and soon, you would slip into a state that was nothing more than a babbling sniveling whore, no longer able to think about anything else than royal cock stuffing you to the brim with his fertile cum. No longer putting in any effort, you hoped your lack of engagement would deter him — but no.
It merely spurred the Duke to take matters into his own hands and sink you onto his cock, hands clutching your thighs and lifting you off, only to repeat the process as he slams you back down. Cries ripped from your throat and you weakly tug and pull at his hair, sniffling as the pleasure had all become too much.
As you pleaded with him, Kaufamn became lost in his own head. How could he have gone so long without breeding such a fertile cunny? Without knowing how it grips him so snuggly whilst he plucks it for the first time? It is as if his whole being is being devoured — from every broken moan to every fleeting thought, consumed by the rapture of your lust. Yet he did not want it to stop. Even as he drowned and every fiber of his being begged for him to cease, he couldn't stop.
It didn't matter how his own body screamed for rest, the man became more obsessed with ingraining the way your pussy spasmed and creamed around him with every orgasm, adding more to the slick already coating the base of his cock. A white ring painted his shaft as well, testament to how he could hardly get enough of you, proof you were just as hooked as him. But, God, he needed more.
More than you were willing to give him.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Kaufamn's movements began to grow sloppy, biting back a moan as he bucked erratically into your tepid heat, approaching his release once more. The man melted easily into you, a layer of perspiration coating his temple, pleasure contorting his features from reeling with every bounce of your frame.
If by any god out there you hated him for fucking you into a mindless cocksleeve after your requests to stop, he hoped you would forgive him when he was done, for he was far from being finished from using your cunt to his heart's content.
Your arousal drips onto his cock, walls squeezing around him as your release hits you, moaning pathetically as you couldn't take anymore stimulation to your poor abused cunt, snug slick tightening around him so deliciously, he could no longer push his own climax. The duke followed in suit, shutting his eyes tightly and letting out a shaky gasp.
The years of his own dirty endeavors in his homeland would have never prepared him for the moment he is in now, how a woman can mold so perfectly to a man as he sheathes himself into her, pulling melodious cries until her throat became raw as she milked him for all he was worth with no remorse, welcoming their fall from grace, and drowning in a sinful lake of their own creation.
The height of one’s own climax had always been a pivotal moment souls grew obsessed with chasing, to keep feeling the familiar sensation when the flame consumes you as the pot of pleasure spills over, letting you experience the moment between death and life as the air leaves your lungs — where your mind is no longer present and you are nothing but a shell of euphoria.
Praying incoherently under his breath, Kaufman spills a copious amount of hot and thick cum, painting your cunt a creamy white, rutting until the waves of his orgasm wash away. His eyes flutter open and he’s met with the sight of your teary expression, yet, his chest swells at the picture of your glossy eyes and fucked-out face. This is his own euphoria, a creation he cannot stop quite yet until he has fully destroyed you. Despite the teardrops running down your cheeks, the duke cannot see himself leaving you.
When will he see you again if you stop now? His fear of never experiencing this moment again fills him and before he knows it, he has already made up his mind, determined to have you needing and wanting him as much as he desires you.
Slowly pulling out, you do not notice how his gaze darkens, whimpering as he rests his flaccid length against your cunny. You become hopeful of the fact you would get a break and slip back into the palace unnoticed.
However, the thought is pushed aside as he fluidly lifts your frame off his lap and moves it onto the seat, swiftly pushing you onto your back, opening your trembling legs apart as he slots himself between your thighs and sinks back inside your sensitive pussy.
Only now do you see the sick obsession pooling in his light hues, a look you have only seen once in your life, and right then and there, you know. Time stills as you stare back at him, yet regret does not fill you. Your heart squeezes as he presses his chest flush against yours, capturing your lips as he spills every ounce of his longing for you into the kiss. For now, you would forget your worries in the man who might still hold a flame for your respected Empress.
But if you were going to stay here for a while more, you could only hope the ball lasted long enough for you to sneak back into your quarters. You could not have either of their Majesties question your whereabouts as the seed of a royal diplomat leaked from your slick. Heavens no.
Why, what would your fiance say if they heard it from Heinrey and Navier instead of you?
In your universe, you are known as the Sun Spider. It all started on a school field trip to a solar energy research center, where you were accidentally exposed to a spider that had been subjected to intense solar radiation. You woke up with a white-hot surge of power, and your life changed forever. You donned a suit of pure white, taking the name that reflected both your newfound abilities and the brightness you brought into the world: Spider-Sun.
Your ability to harness solar energy and transform it into powerful blasts or create protective shields made you a formidable superhero in your home city, Nea Yorkey. Your ability to bring light to even the darkest corners of your city earned you the love of its citizens.
However, everything changed when you were suddenly pulled into the Spider-Verse.
Upon arriving, you were greeted by the gruff leader of this interdimensional team of Spider-People, Miguel O'Hara. His reputation preceded him - the genius intellect, the imposing figure, the gruff demeanor. Everyone respected him, and some even feared him. You, on the other hand, were drawn to him. There was something about that guarded demeanor that called to your own sunny nature.
You became an integral part of the team, fighting off anomalies and working hard to maintain the balance in the Spider-Verse. And despite Miguel's stern exterior, you felt yourself falling for him.
One mission was particularly rough, and you found yourself alone with Miguel in a safe house, nursing your wounds. His usually stern face softened as he tended to your injuries. The distance that he usually maintained was nowhere to be seen.
"Thank you, Miguel," you whispered.
He looked at you, his usually hard eyes soft. "You fought well, mi sol."
There was a moment of silence, a strange tension hanging in the air. Then, Miguel leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was filled with unexpected passion.
In that moment, you were not the Sun Spider, and he was not the Spider-Man 2099. You were just two people, seeking solace in each other.
Afterwards, as you laid side by side, Miguel turned to you, a serious look on his face. "This...this can't be more than what it is. Just...you know, stress relief," he muttered, his voice just above a whisper.
His words wounded you. Naturally, they did. He had reduced your relationship to mere stress relief, as if you were some object devoid of feelings. Yet, in spite of it all, you fell for him. Perhaps you were naive, even foolish, but you didn't care. You yearned for him and were ready to accept any fraction of affection he was willing to offer, no matter how small.
During the day, as you fought alongside him against the anomalies threatening the Spider-Verse, his attention toward you was sparse. He mostly shared only necessary information, barely making eye contact. Sometimes he didn't speak at all, and you and the rest of the team would receive mission orders and briefings from Lyla, his AI assistant.
But at night, when the two of you were alone, he became a different person. He'd whisper praises into your ear, telling you how exceptionally you fought, how much he desired you. He showed you his hidden vulnerability under the cover of darkness, the sheets their only witness. He'd gently stroke your hair and peppered your jaw and temple with kisses until you fell asleep, only for you to wake up the next morning to an empty, cold spot where he once lay.
This cycle - his coldness by day, and the fervor by night - repeated itself relentlessly for months.
And so, this is how you find yourself: disoriented, frenzied, and on the verge of tears, seated on the couch of your best friend, Peter B. Parker, in Earth-616. Cradled in your arms is his sweet daughter, Mayday, who, with her innocent touch, tries to console you. Yet her wide eyes dart anxiously to her father, reflecting her own alarm at your distress.
Peter rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe we should wait until MJ gets home?" he suggests, then, with a furrowed brow, he asks, “Have you tried talking to Jess about this?”
You shake your head vigorously. "No, I haven't told anyone. I have no idea what to do," you confess, your voice breaking.
Peter, ever the caring friend, gently takes Mayday from your arms and sets her down. He turns back to face you with a sympathetic gaze. “Do you..eh.. know who the father is?” he inquires softly.
You shake your head again, even though deep down, you know the truth. “The father is out of the picture. He doesn’t know, and he never will because he doesn’t want kids,” you whisper, fighting back tears.
As you and Peter sit down on the couch in his cozy living room, you find a sense of comfort being around him. His experience as both a superhero and a parent seems like it could be a beacon in this storm you're facing. The room is quiet, save for the soft ticking of a clock on the wall.
“You know, Peter,” you begin, your voice almost a whisper. “I’m terrified. What if the baby has powers? How am I going to protect them, especially if...if I can’t stop fighting anomalies?”
Peter looks thoughtful. “That’s a valid concern. First, you should know that you don’t have to do this alone. There’s a whole community of us, and we stick together. If the child does have powers, she or he will be badass like Mayday, right?”
You nod slowly but then anxieties pile on top of each other in your mind. “But... how can I hide this? Nobody and I mean nobody is supposed to know that I’m pregnant. Especially not...” You trail off, not finishing the sentence.
Peter rubs his chin, deep in thought. “We could look into modifying your suit, maybe talk to some tech geniuses in the Spider-Verse about creating something that can shield or conceal the pregnancy.”
You roll your eyes. “That kinda defies the ‘nobody is allowed to know ‘ordeal, Peter. You have to promise me that this stays between us.”
“I promise,” Peter says sincerely.
Silence fills the room again, and then you voice another fear. “Peter, what if...what if I’m not a good mother? What if I mess this up?”
Peter smiles warmly. “You know, I had those same fears when Mayday was born. I think it’s normal for any parent. But, take it from me, the fact that you’re worried about being a good parent means you’re already on the right track. You’ve got a good heart. Trust it.”
You look down at your hands, fingers interlaced. “Thank you, Peter. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“You’ll never have to find out,” he says with a reassuring smile. “We’re family, in this weird, Spider-Verse kind of way. But maybe… and I am sayig this as a father myself… reconsider telling the father. I can’t imagine any guy wanting to give up this.” He says, pointing to his precious daughter playing with a napkin she found on the floor.
"Maybe you should reconsider telling the father," Peter's words are echoing in your mind like a haunting melody. A part of you yearns for that possibility. Perhaps you're not alone in this. Maybe, just maybe, Miguel wants this as much as you do.With newfound resolve, you set off for the Spider-Verse headquarters, expecting to find Miguel tucked away in his office, immersed in maintaining the spider verse or as he calls it "arachno- something-multiverse-thingy” or something similar to that.
Upon reaching his office door, you pound on it sharply. No response. Frowning, you knock again, a little harder this time. When silence continues to greet you, you slowly turn the doorknob and peek inside. There he is, hunched over his desk, lost in a world of numbers and codes.
"Miguel, I-" you start, but his sharp voice cuts you off.
"No," he interrupts, his tone cold. "Did I say you can come in? Dios mio, why are you always so damn clingy?"
His words hit you like a punch to the gut. You stare at him, taken aback by his blatant disregard for your feelings. You can feel the beginnings of tears prick at the corner of your eyes, but you will them away.
He doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it like that. This mantra plays over and over in your head, like a broken record. You take a deep breath, forcing down the hurt his words cause.
"Look, Miguel," you begin, struggling to keep your voice steady. "There’s something we need to talk about, and I think it's important for you to listen to me."
“Fucking hell, woman! What exactly don’t you understand. I’m busy. I don’t care about your little problems, right now.” he barks, not even looking up.
“Miguel,” you speak up, forcing the words out through clenched teeth, “ I’ve never asked anything from you. Not once have did I ask you to stay, to feel the same I feel, to fucking talk to me when people are around. Please all I am asking you is to just ... listen to me, fpr once.” Your voice grows stronger as you speak, a determined fire igniting within you.
Miguel finally looks up, his eyes meeting yours. For a moment, he seems taken aback by the resolve he saw there.
He rubs his temples. “Can we do this later?”
“No!” you shout. “It’s always later with you. You’re like...like a ghost. Just a figure in the hallway. I don’t need a figure, I need a person! I need someone who listens when...”
He glares at you, his eyes narrowing. “Okay, okay I will listen just not now. Whatever it is, it can wait.”
“No, it can’t,” you retort, your voice shaking a bit. “Why is it that every time I try to talk to you, you just brush me off? Am I that insignificant to you?”
He stands up abruptly, the chair skidding behind him. “This? This is what you want to talk about?” he says with a tone of annoyance. “Look, I have a million things to deal with and-”
“And what? And I’m not one of them? Just five minutes, Miguel! That’s all I ask!”
The room is tense. Your heart is racing. His eyes are fiery. It's a standoff.
“And what is so important that you have to disrupt everything right now?” he challenges.
Your breath catches in your throat. This is it. You're about to say it.
“I...” you stammer. “I need to tell you that...”
Suddenly, the door to the office swings open and Jess storms in.
“Miguel, we have a major issue in Sector 12! The anomalies...” she starts, then catches sight of your tear-streaked face. “Oh, am I interrupting something?”
Miguel seems to shake off the tension and slips back into commander mode. “No nothing important. What’s happening in Sector 12?”
You can't believe it. Just like that, he turns away. It feels like your heart is being squeezed.
Jess starts rattling off data and scenarios. The two of them are talking, but you don’t hear it anymore. All you can think of is how you almost told him. How you just wanted five minutes.
Your hands shake and you quietly step out of the room. The door closes behind you, and it feels like a chapter that you can’t read has been sealed away.
The next day you are on Earth-8311, an anthropomorphic animal-dominated universe. It's the home of Peter Porker, the Spectacular Spider-Ham, and you can't help but find it amusing.
The mission: to transport an anomaly, which resembles an enormous floating jellyfish, back to its home universe. It's been pure chaos here, and you are determined to set things right.
The team: Gwen, Hobie, and Peter B. Parker. You're all in your suits, eyes sharp, and webs at the ready.
"Alright, Spiders. Let's round this jelly up and send it home," Peter B. Parker takes charge, shooting a web towards a nearby building.
You swing alongside him, your thoughts a whirlwind. The world around you blurs - the animal citizens, the bustling cityscape, the strange yet familiar surroundings.
The anomaly appears before you, thrashing and pulsating as it floats through the sky. It releases blasts of energy that ripple through the air.
"Watch out, Sunny!" Gwen calls out as she dodges a blast.
You, however, are a split second too late. Your reflexes are off, your movements sluggish. The blast sends you spiraling towards the ground.
Hobie swings in and catches you mid-air, his guitar strapped on his back. “Get it together, Sun!” he shouts over the noise, his punk-styled hair waving wildly.
You shake off your daze and look up to see Peter B. Parker shooting webs to pull the anomaly back down, while Gwen is deploying a device to open a portal back to its home universe.
Your heart races as you focus on the task at hand. You need to get this right, not just for yourself, but for the life you’re now carrying. Your suit seems to glow even brighter in the chaos.
With a final combined effort, you manage to lasso the anomaly and push it through the portal. The anomaly disappears, and the portal closes behind it.
The team regroups on a rooftop. Gwen is catching her breath, Hobie is tuning his guitar, and Peter B. Parker gives you a concerned look.
“Are you okay?” Gwen asks, her voice laced with worry. “You weren’t yourself up there.”
The weight of the secret you’re carrying feels unbearable. But you're not ready to share it.
“Promise me you won’t tell Miguel about this,” you say, your voice barely audible.
Gwen raises an eyebrow, while Hobie crosses his arms. Peter B. Parker simply nods.
“Nah, Bossman doesn’t need to know about this,” Hobie says, and there’s a firmness in his voice that is strangely comforting.
Back in the HQ, your head spins, and your stomach feels like it's doing somersaults. You mumble a quick excuse about feeling nauseous and practically sprint to the nearest restroom.
Meanwhile, Gwen, Hobie, and Peter B. Parker head to the cafeteria to grab something to eat.
As they sit down at a table with their trays, Gwen breaks the silence. “Is it okay if I say that this mission was kind of easy? Like, I’ve seen Sunny take down Doc Ock from Earth-818, and she did that without any problem. So what was that today?” Gwen’s concern is apparent.
Hobie, munching on a sandwich, nods in agreement. "Yeah, it's like her spidey senses were jammed or somethin'. Never seen her like that before."
Peter B. Parker looks thoughtfully at his sandwich, then glances up at Gwen and Hobie. He’s torn, having promised you to keep your secret but also wanting your friends to understand why you were off your game.
"You guys remember when she fought Morlun on Earth-001? She was a totally smashin’ it, and today, she nearly got turned into spider-paste by a floating jellyfish. That ain’t right," Hobie adds.
Gwen’s eyes suddenly widen. "Oh my God! Do you think she’s in trouble? Like, something from her universe? Or maybe she's having an identity crisis! Should we stage an intervention?"
Peter B. Parker clears his throat. “Maybe she’s just having an off day.”
Gwen’s eyes narrow as she scrutinizes Peter. “You know something, don’t you?”
Peter scratches the back of his head, obviously uncomfortable. “Nope, no idea.”
Hobie puts down his sandwich and leans in. "Oi, mate. Spill your guts. There's something dodgy going on. She's always been our burst of sunshine, lifting the mood. But now she's... dimmed. What's going on with our Sunny, Parker?"
Before Peter B. Parker could answer Gwen’s barrage of questions, Jess - Spider-Woman - appears, her belly showing. She takes a seat at the table and, oblivious to the serious conversation that was taking place, asks them about their latest mission.
"So, how did your mission go?" Jessica asks, while munching on her Burger.
"Nothing to report, Jess," Gwen answers, a little too quickly, her face all sunshine and false smiles. Peter simply nod in agreement.
“Yah, all good!” Hobie chimes in, flashing a grin that seems a little too bright.
“How about you? How are you holding up?” Peter asks Jess, trying to steer the conversation away from the mission.
Jessica shrugs, not overly concerned, and bites into her burger. "'M good. You know, I'm so glad I can finally eat a burger again. At the beginning of my pregnancy, practically every food made me nauseous, especially after swinging around on missions.”
Suddenly, there's a moment of collective realization among Gwen, Hobie. It’s as if their spider senses are tingling in unison. They exchange knowing looks, all of them silently putting the pieces together.
Gwen’s eyes are wide, Hobie’s eyebrows are raised, and they both turn to look at Peter, who simply nods.
Jess, noticing the silent exchange, squints at them. “What is up with you guys? You’re acting weird. Well, weirder than usual.”
“Uh, nothin’!” Hobie says, a little too quickly.
“Yeah, just tired from the mission,” Gwen adds, trying to play it cool.
Jess rolls her eyes and stands up. “Alright, weirdos. I’m gonna go find some normal people to talk to,” she says jokingly and walks away.
After she leaves, the trio leans in.
“Sunny’s pregnant, isn’t she?” Gwen whispers.
Hobie's eyes are as wide as saucers. “That would explain everything!”
Peter B. Parker nods. “We need to be there for her, but remember, it’s her news to share when she’s ready.”
They make a pact to support you without pushing you to reveal anything before you're ready.
As you walk back into the cafeteria, you find your friends huddled together. They break apart when they see you and welcome you back with smiles and light conversation, but something in their demeanor is different but you can’t put your finger on it. They are being more attentive, considerate, and frankly, a little too curious about your well-being.
"Are you sure you're okay, Sunny?" Gwen asks for the third time since you sat down. Her concern is genuine, but her intensity is slightly off-putting.
"Yeah, do you need anything?" Hobie offers, his eyes gleaming with unspoken curiosity. "Food, drink, or maybe... pickles?" Pickles? Thats oddly specific.
There's a burst of laughter from Gwen, and even Peter is suppressing a chuckle.
"What's up with the pickles?" You ask, looking at them suspiciously.
"Oh, nothing!" Gwen says, a little too quickly, trying to hold back her laughter.
"Hmm, pickles and ice cream, a weird combo, innit?" Hobie wonders aloud, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
Again, there's suppressed laughter, and you look at each of them, a realization slowly dawning on you. You turn to Peter, your gaze steady and serious. "You told them, didn't you?" Peter looks shocked, but quickly composes himself. "I didn't exactly tell them, per se," he confesses, "I might've confirmed their suspicions when they asked, but they figured it out on their own. Spider senses and all that jazz.”
Before you could respond, Gwen and Hobie jump in, both talking over each other in an attempt to apologize.
"We're sorry, Sunny," Gwen says sincerely. "We didn't mean to invade your privacy, it's just that... we're worried about you. Please don’t be mad."
Hobie nods, adding, "And we're right behind ya, whatever comes our way. We've got your back, no doubt about it."
You are happy, while the situation isn't ideal, but at least you're not alone. You have friends who care about you and, despite their unconventional way of showing it, they are there for you. You smile, comforted by their concern, and grateful for their support.
"Yeah," you finally say, "I guess we’re gonna need a lot more pickles and ice cream around here, huh?"
“Sooo...who’s the dad? Is he hot?” Gwen, leaning on the table with her elbows, asks shyly after a while.
You let out a long sigh, “He’s very hot... but also a colossal jerk.”
Peter raises an eyebrow. “You took my advice and talked to him then?”
You shake your head, your eyes starting to well up. “No, I tried. But he wouldn’t listen to me. He was busy, and I guess I wasn’t important enough. So, the baby won’t be either,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
Hobie's eyes narrow, and his face is flushed with anger. "Who's this bloke, eh? I swear on me nan's grave, I'll give him a right proper earful! No one treats our Sunny like a tosser and gets away with it!"
Gwen jumps in, her eyes wide with speculation, “Wait, is he a Spider? Is it Peter? Or the other Peter? Or—”
“Guys, guys!” you cut them off, your voice cracking. “Please, it doesn’t matter. He made it clear where I stand, and it’s not with him.”
There’s a silence that settles over the table as your friends look at each other and then back to you. Their faces are a mix of concern, sadness, and frustration.
Peter B. is the first to break the silence. “You don’t have to go through this alone. You’ve got us. If the dad doesn’t want to step up, then he’s missing out on something amazing.”
Gwen nods, her eyes firm with resolve. “Yeah, we’re family. We’ve got your back, no matter what.”
Hobie, still fuming, finally calms down enough to say, "All you gotta do is whistle, love, and we'll be there in a blink. Even if it means thumping some manners into this mystery idiot."
You can't help but crack a small smile, despite the tears. You’re overwhelmed by the love and support your friends are giving you.
“Thanks, guys. You don't know how much this means to me.”
They all reach out and there’s a group hug right in the middle of the cafeteria. You didn’t know how much you needed this until it happened.
a/n: Thank you guys for all your love on this fic so far.I really appreciate each like, comment, reblog <3 I somehow can't reply back to your comments but if you want to be tagged just comment and I'll make sure to tag you on Part 2. Also I am open to requests, critic and wishes. Have a wonderful day. xx
Hashira with a s/o that worships them with love, but it's sadly not returned to the reader! And the reader gets Hanahaki Disease, dying or falling out of love with hashira and fell for someone else, or even having their feelings finally returned!
Major angst, Hashira falling out of love with fellow Hashira Reader. Reader is gender-neutral, and a family member of Kagaya Ubuyashiki.
First time writing for Hanahaki AU!
Gyomei Himejima
With his dedication to honoring and worshiping the gods, he simply had no time for you. Your love was the most expendable option to him. He knew that he would be dishonoring his master by doing this, but surely he would understand. So, he started becoming disinterested.
Then, one day, you were bedridden with fever and a cough. Your uncle had put you on house-arrest, making sure that you weren’t hurt. However, through your 5th coughing fit, bloodied petals had fallen from your throat and out of your mouth.
Kagaya looked at the napkin, and he realized that it might be the curse that was placed upon his family. You were his late sibling’s child and you still had the family name, so the curse was acting upon you. He had told one of his daughters to go get Gyomei, and he realized what had happened.
Upon hearing your wheezing, he felt horrible. He was the reason you were dying, and he couldn’t do anything about it. He had fallen out of love with you. All he could do was pray that you fall in love with someone else.
But, your condition was continuously getting worse. Out of moral obligation, he sticks by your side. He feels like the shittiest piece of shit in all of Japan. So, as you lay there dying, he prays and prays for your healing. However, his feelings about you remained as they are, and you eventually passed away.
Mitsuri Kanroji
As loving as she usually was, she only had eyes for Obanai. Hence, you were kind of left in the dust with your own feelings. She didn’t mean to, as she didn’t know you loved her in that way. Her obliviousness led to your demise… how fitting.
Mitsuri didn’t understand what was going on when she heard that you were coughing up petals, she had never heard of Hanahaki disease. She just thought that it might be the master’s family’s curse carrying out its job, and that made her sad.
Since you were a dear friend to her, she often accompanied Shinobu at your bedside. After all, she wants all of her friends to not be lonely when they’re dying, as she believes that is the saddest way to die. She tries her best to keep you comfortable, an early form of palliative care.
She didn’t think the bloodied flower petals were disgusting. It wasn’t like you could control it, after all. If only the Love Hashira knew that it was her fault. She didn’t love you back, and that’s why you were lying in bed and throwing up flowers.
Eventually, it got to a point where you were too weak, and you were constantly choking on the flowers that you were coughing up. She understood that you were going to die, so she stayed by you at every single moment she could. The tears she shed as you were fading away fell onto your hand because she was holding it so you wouldn’t feel alone as you passed on.
Giyu Tomioka
He believed that if he learned not to get attached to anyone, he wouldn’t get hurt anymore. Thus, he shut off all of his emotions, including love. No surgery needed for this one, folks. You were fine with not having your feelings returned, but you were over-exerting yourself by always making sure that Giyu was alright.
When you had contracted the disease, the Water Hashira was by your bedside within moments of his master telling him. Even though he turned off his emotions, he still did care about you. He noticed all your efforts and appreciated them.
But, he saw the bloodied petals and knew immediately what it was. There were tales and legends of this disease, and he would kill the person who did this to you. However, you refused to give up any information, meaning you still held back your feelings from him.
You were rapidly coughing up more and more petals while getting weaker and weaker. You could barely lift your finger without Giyu’s help. Mans had to refrain himself from snapping at Shinobu for touching you or causing you any sort of discomfort.
Unfortunately, you never got a kiss or even a confession, so your state deteriorated by a lot at a rapid pace until you were on your last breaths. Once your eyes started closing, Tomioka knew that it was over. What he didn’t expect was for his crying to end up in him coughing. He held his hand to his mouth, and saw that a petal had fallen.
Tengen Uzui
His family tradition strictly called for three spouses, and those positions have already been taken. He makes sure to spend time with all three of his wives while also balancing training time, so there was little room to hang out with his friends, including you.
Once Ubuyashiki had learned about the Hanahaki disease you had unfortunately contracted from your unrequited love, he had informed the other Hashira that you were out for the count. Tengen was worried, but he thought that you would be alright eventually.
He visited once, and you were coughing up flowers left and right. That wasn’t normal at all. Maybe you wouldn’t be okay. From that point on, he and his wives visited you almost everyday. Whenever he was on a mission, Hinatsuru, Makio, and Suma were there to help Shinobu.
But, since your feelings for the Sound Hashira weren’t reciprocated, you just got worse and worse. Eventually, you couldn’t even sit up. It was evident that it would take a full-blown miracle for you to recover, but that was a long shot.
So, the four of them spent as much time as they could with you. This wasn’t a very flamboyant situation that you have found yourself in, huh? No matter, since he would make sure that you would be honored until the end of time.
Sanemi Shinazugawa
The last time he loved somebody, they were taken away from him. So, he saw no point in pursuing love again. It just causes distraction and can make you act irrationally whenever your loved one is in danger. However, that greatly affected you, since you loved Sanemi.
Then, one day, you were training with him when it suddenly got very difficult to maintain your breathing technique. The Wind Hashira thought you were being weak and dramatic until he saw you coughing up literal flower petals with splatters of blood here and there.
Out of pure worry, he picked you up into his arms and carried you to your uncle, who had you lay in bed for days on end. Sanemi would visit you as much as he could, feeling like shit for thinking you were fine and just faking it at the beginning.
As a week passes, your breaths become raspy. You were on the brink of death, and it was easy to see. Shinazugawa doesn’t know much about being soft and sappy and crap like that, but what he does know is that he does care about you. He doesn’t like it when you are coughing up and choking on petals.
But, as we all know, this fic does not have any happy endings. Sanemi is scared, but he doesn’t know what he has to do, and you don’t tell him. Being a Hashira with the Ubuyashiki name meant that the probability of you living past 30 was exceedingly low. So, either way you would have died soon. That meant there was no point in confessions. But, your fellow Hashira cried seeing life fade from your eyes.
Shinobu Kocho
She has no time; trying to keep her anger within her as she is a Hashira as well as a doctor was a full-time job already. However, she thought you were such a great friend. You understood her struggle, and you would often accompany her on her missions.
During one of these missions, you had doubled over in pain and coughs. The Insect Hashira rushed to your side to pat your back to get the phlegm out, but all that came out were bloody petals. She let out an audible gasp, but she sent her crow to Kagaya to tell him what had happened.
Once you both returned, you were immediately taken in by your uncle and put to bed for days. Shinobu became your doctor, and she did so much research about the topic. She didn’t want to pry into your personal life, so she thought that the surgery to get it removed might be a good alternative.
However, you knew the cost of getting the surgery. Not only was it a risky procedure, but you would lose your ability to feel emotions. So, you refused. She was getting frustrated to the point of yelling at you for not going with the surgery, but you knew that she just didn’t want to lose you.
So, she resigned to your fate. You were going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it (or so you told her). She started a palliative care plan for you, trying to make you comfortable during your last moments. But, she was out of the room getting you some tea when you drew your final breath.
Kyojuro Rengoku
He was just completely oblivious to your love. He saw you as a comrade and a co-worker, and nothing more. But, you told yourself that you were fine with where things were at. It wasn’t like it was causing you any physical ailments, after all.
Surprise! You contracted Hanahaki Disease, and you coughed up petals in the kitchen of the Ubuyashiki home. One of your cousins saw and escorted you to your room so that you could rest. Your uncle had informed the Hashiras that you were ill, and Kyojuro was worried.
The Flame Hashira ran to your bedside, where you were coughing up bloody flower petals. Mans went from worried to scared in 5 seconds, and it made him kind of nauseous. This made you feel bad, thinking he was disgusted by you, and he had to assure you that it wasn’t you.
There was one time where you were in a coughing fit, and he was there to softly rub your back to offer you some sense of comfort, but it did little to help. He often tried to distract you from the painful sickness by telling you stories of his little brother, but again, it didn’t do much to help.
As much as he wished and prayed, nothing could be done if your feelings for him weren’t returned. Kyojuro didn’t want to lose his friend. But, you were getting weaker and weaker, and he was just glad to have been able to say his final goodbyes. He was the one who buried you.
Obanai Iguro
He only had eyes for Mitsuri, so again you were left in the dust with your feelings. To be fair, you were his first friend when he joined the Hashiras, and you acted as a wingman whenever Obanai got worried about his chances with the Love Hashira.
Unfortunately for you, this obviously meant that he did not feel the same way about you. He loved you as a friend, and it broke your heart every single time he asked you for advice, but you sucked it up and dealt with it because that’s what friends do.
That was, until you were bedridden and coughing up petals. If you looked at the Snake Hashira, you wouldn’t know that he was worried. However, Kaburamaru was often laying upon your stomach trying to comfort you when it hurt the most (both physically and emotionally).
Obanai was by your bedside whenever he could be. You were his friend, as much as he was hesitant to admit it, and that meant he cared about you. He froze up whenever you started coughing and he grabbed the bucket to catch the petals.
Every time he had to wipe the blood from your lips, a nagging feeling of dread crawled through him. You were nearing your end. With your final breaths, you wished him well in him courting Mitsuri. What a fitting end, huh?
Muichiro Tokito
He is oblivious to everything, so if you thought he would notice how you follow him everywhere and go cloud-gazing with him every time he asks, you are sorely mistaken. But you just chalked it up to it being a little quirk of his rather than a blatant disinterest in you.
Now, when you first started coughing up petals, you tried to hide it as a common cold. However, no common cold had you bedridden for days on end, and even Muichiro noticed that his companion was usually gone.
When his master had informed him that you had a deadly (but not contagious) disease, he immediately went to visit you in your room at the Ubuyashiki residence. He snapped back to reality in 2 seconds flat as he saw how serious this was.
The Mist Hashira spends most of his time by your side. He tries his hardest to not zone out as he wants to grasp every single word you utter. For all he knew, you could be dying the next day and he wanted to make sure that he could pass your stories on.
What he thought would eventually come true. It came to a point where you couldn’t even speak without coughing. In your last moments, Muichiro made sure that you were as comfortable as could be given the circumstances. The anger he already harbored increased as you let out your final breath.
I seem to enjoy drawing my OC on Seluvis' lap and I believe that is a very concerning turn of events. Been a while since I last drawn Varre so there we go as well.
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