hey there! my name is enoch / knock (they/he/it), & i’m a horror fan + illustrator/writer + aspiring warlock + etc. for more on yours truly, check here!
✦ what i write:
slashfic
reader requests
x reader / self-insert / oc insert fic
imagines / headcanons
i like to do unconventional characters, rotating between my interests, but i'm always open to writing for characters i'm unfamiliar with :)
i'll post drabbles here, but i post bigger stuff regularly on ao3!
✦ you can assume all reader-insert posts are gender neutral unless the request states otherwise.
✦ for more: rules + character lineup
✦ i also take commissions for longform fanfics, which includes oneshots. i typically charge 15 USD per 1000 words! (this would be me making 15 an hour, so really the basest i can go).
✦ if your request is worded as a longer story / oneshot idea without it being specified as such, it will be treated as a headcanon / imagines bullet list.
pondering further alien/s band au stuff hmmm. i want to write about call and ripley and the record shop she runs etc... there's so much cutesy crush stuff to explore re: call's feelings and then angst over ripley's last romantic experience (lambert, who in this au died in a car crash, effectively ending the band they were all in together and placing newt in ripley's care - still workshopping that).
i also have ideas for hicks that are extremely sad but i feel so strongly abt it + i wanna explore them (drug addiction + being closeted/stealth + depression + chronic illness from an attempt he survived, particularly the intersecting struggles of this when it comes to being in the music industry during the 80s). hmm. hicks to me is such a martyr in an involuntary way, everyone looks up to him and relies on him because he's so level-headed but it truly feels to me like a matter of bottling up so many repressed emotions due to the trauma of being a marine in-canon and i wanna translate that into smthng i have a bit more experience with re: the au... i think it makes the difficult act of spearheading their band separating from the main we-yu record label that much more impactful/meaningful because it means hicks has to WANT a future, he has to WANT to make things better for himself and others, and that's a huge mark of progress. this is all ofc going to coincide with an arc where frost admits his feelings for hicks which activates hicks' fears and self-destructive urges but it's like. they all love him, this can be good, you don't have to be scared to want that for yourself, even if the world is difficult to exist in openly this way rn.
plus i love the idea of hudson being privy to all the details of this and it maybe contributing to his urge to be the funny unserious friend all the time / avoid being vulnerable himself so as to keep the focus on friends that are 'really' struggling (he doesn't take his own issues seriously). he and hudson are childhood friends (my headcanon for the main canon but also just what i've written for this au) so it makes sense that hudson out of everyone would react to this most strongly. i think it's also why hudson is reluctant to move out / leave hicks alone or not always be there for him which can be smothering but he's so fucking terrified of nearly losing him again. anyways. i may do a reflection thingy on this soon so my ideas dont fade into the ether of my memory
will likely take a while to organize due to life and time constraints but... interest check... who would want to participate / submit to a potential lance henriksen fanzine... it's a project i've wanted to do for a few months now but i get nervous organizing community things 🥀 i don't want to miss the opportunity to make it a collective fan thing though & it feels weird only including stuff i've written + drawn + etc.
i think i would likely separate it out into a front section containing an intro / primer to lance, his background + films + art, maybe a few spreads on his most recognizable roles and then some of his underrated / lesser known roles, then the back portion can be made up of fan submissions? i have an idea for like... one-page reviews of random movies / characters (can be funny or sincere), weird images we've made for him (butchfemme chart lol amongst other things), then there can be an art section, shortform fic section, etc... hmm but yeah. that's where i've stopped. oh and i'm definitely titling it 'HENRIKZINE'
★ aliens band AU ★ lance bishop / william hudson || light my fire ✧˖°.
[✦ AO3 link] NSFW. 5.5k count. oneshot, trans characters, post-main au canon, explicit content, smoking, semi-public, etc. see more tags on ao3. art by me!
Bishop has always approached new experiences carefully. Observe, assess, proceed (or escape). Getting accidentally stoned in the back of the tour van doesn't change that. It does however estrange his usual nerves long enough to explore this feeling with Hudson, without hesitation.
June, 1984. The early hours of Monday morning after a weekend of show after show.
At 4 AM in Santa Monica, it was barely 64 °F, but playing a full overnight set could keep anybody running hot. They could do a thousand weekends like this now, if they really wanted to. The battle with the company was over. They'd finally found their new studio. Things were looking pretty damn topside. It finally felt like old times again (only better, now — Ripley was there, and Bishop was… well, more there).
The tour van rattled down the interstate, a beast of a machine that'd seen its better days come and go. A 1972 Dodge Sportsman (originally belonging to Hicks' mom), it bore dented sides from various loading dock mishaps, its seats were patched with duct tape, and a perpetual growl rose from its engine which was so loud it vibrated through the floor. They might've been successful commercially (hell, even a bit wealthy, all things considered) but there was no replacing this junk bucket.
The usual post-gig exhaustion had settled over everyone, but Hudson was wired as always. Adrenaline was still taking its time to hike back down his nervous system. Hicks was up front driving, Frost shotgun with his usual night-ride mixtape running shoegazey new wave through the fuzzy speaker system (Hudson hated the stuff, found it slow and boring, but it sure made sleeping on the road easy). The rest of the crew was scattered across the middle seats: Ripley with her head against the window catching a nap, Drake and Vasquez draped over each other across the whole triple seat bench in the middle, in and out of snoring sessions. In the back, it was just Hudson and Bishop, crammed amongst coiled cables, amp cases, and a makeshift curtain of leftover merch and tour gear hung on a hand-installed rod (totally stable, if you didn't look too close at Hicks' dad's soldering job).
Hudson had a sizeable joint pinched between his index and middle, the centerpiece of his usual post-show decompression ritual. He was laid back against one of the bean bags they'd managed to seat against the van wall. It matched the carpet, but only because the tufted fabric had darkened to a deep burgundy from years of tread.
Hudson's smoke curled up, filling the confined area with a familiar earthy haze. He hadn't meant to fill the space up so quickly, it was just something about the way this bud burned. Or maybe he was puffing faster than he thought, which was likely. The others up front were mostly spared the secondhand smoke due to the dense clothes rack and cracked windows, but the van's seals were still shockingly tight.
Bishop sat across from him on the other (smaller) bean bag, fiddling with the floppy disk intake on the band's new E-mu Emulator. He was wearing his glasses to help himself see in the low light and focus on the small screwdriver he was using to open the machine's panels. His gangly legs overlapped with Hudson's in the close quarters. Every now and then he would adjust, fabric brushing the skin of Hudson's shins where his shorts cut off.
At first, Bishop didn't notice the smoke, focused as ever. He hardly noticed at all, really, when Hudson or the others lit up. He didn't partake himself, only because he didn't usually find himself in a position to, since he was always busy or spending time alone in the soundbooth. It was a little different, now. He spent more time with the others and had more creative capacity now that he worked alongside them and the new label. And ever since his talk with Hudson that night before the battle, Bishop had definitely become more open to new experiences. Still, this was a threshold he had yet to cross. He stalled in his work, nose wrinkling slightly as he inhaled deeper than intended. Hudson caught it immediately. Bishop's eyes blinked a fraction slower, that diligent little knot between his brows softening.
"Shit, man." Hudson waved a hand to disperse the cloud between them, though it was half-hearted and languid, a combination of Hudson's own smoked-out state and a vague realization that it wouldn't do much good either way. "Didn't mean to smoke you out back here. You good?"
Bishop set the emulator aside carefully, his movements measured as usual but… looser. He exhaled slowly, considering, taking mental stock of himself. The high crept in subtly. His pupils dilated just a touch, made bigger behind his lenses, a faint flush spreading across his cheeks and the high bridge of his nose. Hudson couldn't help but find the visual pretty adorable. Bishop, the unflappable Moog wizard, looking a little lost in the fog. His usual adroit presentation rounded off into something dull and relaxed. Hudson shifted in his seat, trying to ignore the unexpected spark of heat low in his gut. The way Bishop's lips parted slightly as he processed the new sensations, the relaxed tilt of his head, the twitch of his fingers as he flexed and unflexed his hands... Damn, he looks cute like this. Hudson felt a slow grin tugging at his mouth that no doubt looked goofy as hell. All wide-eyed and mellow. Makes me wanna— yeah, no, chill out.
"I'm… functional." Bishop replied slowly, voice even but spoken with a faint delay, double-checking his own words in real time. He tilted his head to study Hudson with his typically intense gaze, hazed over but no less probing. "The compound is THC, yes? The psychoactive onset is faster than expected. I'm experiencing… mild euphoria, altered perception… hm. Intriguing."
Hudson chuckled fondly, but his pulse kicked up. He'd stopped pulling the moment he noticed it'd taken to his companion, but some smoke still lingered, visible in the dim glow from the passing streetlights that flashed through the windows. Bishop wasn't freaking out, at least. If anything, he was leaning into it, brain turning the high into an object of study. Hudson stubbed out the joint in an empty energy drink can at his side, watching Bishop's fingers drum lightly on his thigh. He looked restless, exploratory, testing his own sensory reactions. He's handling it like a puzzle. Hudson fixed his eyes on that movement, the thought turning him on more than it should. Not panicking, just… curious. Kinda hot.
Bishop shifted closer, legs pressing in, the van's sway pushing them together briefly. His hand landed on Hudson's knee. At first, Hudson took it as him bracing himself against the dodgy road, but when Bishop didn't withdraw once the road smoothed, he realized it wasn't accidental.
"Hudson…" Bishop began quietly, just between them in that low resonance he loved. "This state enhances sensory input. I wonder…" He trailed off, eyes falling lazily to Hudson's mouth, then back up. There was an orderly amount of curious interest in his own eyes, paired with something unfiltered. An atypical unmasking. Partly to ground himself, and partly because the high stripped away a layer of his caution, Bishop decided to experiment. Lean in, see what happens. "May I?"
Hudson's breath caught, but he nodded, trying to play it cool even as heat flooded him. "Yeah." He shook his head slightly, hearing the hoarsely obvious need in his throat. "I mean— yeah, shoot your shot."
Bishop's hand slid up Hudson's thigh, all method, fingers tracing the seam of his denim shorts. It looked much like it did when Hudson idly watched Bishop's hands work at untangling wires, setting them into tight order, competent and quick. Hudson's body reacted instantly. A twitch, an upward shift of his hips that he didn't bother hiding. The confined space made everything feel amplified. Bishop noticed, of course. His eyes widened fractionally. He leaned in further, emboldened, mouth brushing Hudson's. The kiss was tentative at first, experimenting in pressure and angle. He was measuring the response.
Hudson hummed into it, hands coming up to hook fingers into the belt loops at Bishop's hips to pull him closer. It was hard to remain super vigilant about it, but he tried his best not to be overwhelming. The van rumbled over a rough patch that vibrated through them, and Bishop tipped a bit closer. The smoke lingered enough that Hudson could taste it on Bishop's tongue. Filtered through him, it was sweet, herbal, mixed with the faint mint of whatever gum Bishop liked to keep his mouth busy with.
Bishop deepened the kiss, so far satisfied with the results. He experimentally nipped at Hudson's lower lip, tilting his head for better access. His free hand pressed flat against Hudson's chest to feel the racing heartbeat there under the younger man's cut-sleeved King Crimson tour shirt.
"Fascinating." Bishop whispered against his mouth, pulling back just enough to observe Hudson's rosy face, blown-up pupils mirroring his own. His shaggy grown-out hair poked over the sides of his cheeks, framing him in dark gold. "Your physiological response is accelerated. Due to the position? Or the substance?"
Hudson laughed breathlessly, one hand cupping Bishop's jaw, thumb brushing his cheek where the heat pooled and brightly colored his pale skin. He's so fucking cute. Hudson felt a flourish of affection mixing with a distinct reminder of his arousal. He became keenly aware of how Bishop's knee pressed in between his legs.
"Both, man. Mostly you." He waggled his eyebrows for effect. "I'm your willing subject."
Bishop considered the response, then nodded once, sweet smile returning. He shifted to straddle Hudson's lap carefully on the larger bean bag, mindful of the low ceiling, hands bracing on Hudson's shoulders. The van hit a bump, jostling them closer again, and Bishop ground down without meaning to. Well, he had, but he'd wanted it a bit more planned than that. The sensation was instant and altogether exquisite regardless.
Once settled, he tried again. The deliberate friction through their clothes was as Bishop predicted (utterly indescribable, and incredibly good). Hudson hissed, hips bucking up involuntarily. Bishop's expression was a mix of focus and wonder, hair slightly mussed at his temples, eyelids hooded, lips parted. "This… elicits a strong reaction." He made verbal notes to himself. His voice was a touch breathless, but he didn't stop.
He rolled his hips again, chasing points of pleasure, the high turning a potentially anxious episode into focused examination. They kept it contained as best they could under the veil of inebriety, but Hudson was lost in it. His hands roamed Bishop's back, offering praise the way he knew Bishop liked, though it came out as slurred whispers.
"You're killing me..." He stopped for a moment to make an addendum for clarity. "In the good way. The best way."
Bishop's studious composure, cracked by the occasional soft gasp, only amped his partner up more. He ground down again, mind ticking like a metronome, cataloging all physical feedback: the hitch in Hudson's breath, the subtle flex of his thighs beneath him, the way the friction built up heat between them. The van's rumble masked some of it, but Hudson was hyper-aware of the thin barrier between them and the front. Though the others were still fast asleep, Hicks' occasional laugh filtered back over the speakers, and Frost's voice chimed in about some dive bar story. Gotta keep it down. Hudson's hands tightened on Bishop's hips to guide the rhythm, tugging him closer but slower, with more control. He leaned in to capture Bishop's mouth again, muffling any potential sounds. The other responded in kind, his lips parting open to Hudson, soft and pliant. A moan escaped and passed between their mouths, more vibration than noise.
Hudson broke the kiss just enough to whisper against his ear, a low tone barely audible over the engine. "Shh, easy— keep it quiet, yeah? Don't wanna give the front row a free show."
Bishop nodded once, absorbing the information but not discouraged by it. His hand slid up Hudson's chest under his shirt, fingers tracing skin and chest hair with a feather-light touch that was teasing in its ministration. Pressure here. Drag there. Taking note of the goosebumps that rose in reply. The attention drew a stifled groan from Hudson which he bit back into Bishop's shoulder. He rocked up subtly to meet Bishop, hands roaming lower to cup his ass. His thumbs tucked into the back pockets for a firm hold, encouraging without rushing.
"Heh, you're cute like this…" Hudson drawled, so quiet it was almost just breath, his lips pressed against Bishop's nape. "Love seein' you loosen up for me."
Bishop's breath hitched on a gasp he narrowly swallowed down. Hudson leaned back just a little, only to see him averting his eyes to the side, clearly embarrassed at the recognition of his unusual boldness. Hudson somehow had the mind not to push too hard, at least not now. To bridge the gap between his want to consume Bishop in one bite and his want to treat him like a princess, he gently lifted a hand to take Bishop's chin and turn it towards him.
"Can I take these off?" He tapped a finger on the side of Bishop's glasses. The other processed for a moment, then nodded, letting Hudson slip them from his nose and set them on the flat top of an adjacent amp. He let Hudson take him in, as he wanted, despite the slightly encroaching nervousness such focused study provoked. It was only fair, he thought, reflecting on his own behavior. "You're so pretty, you know that?"
Bishop was caught off guard a little at the open admiration, but recovered quickly, stroking a hand through Hudson's soft shag (he'd actually showered post-show, thankfully). The drummer sighed into the touch, leaning against Bishop's gentle palm.
Bishop sighed. "Beautiful boy…"
He leaned in to take the outer edge of Hudson's earlobe lightly betwixt his teeth, pressing down, testing something he'd seen once but never had the chance to try. It earned him a barely stifled moan and an upturn of the other's jaw, exposing his reddened throat as he swallowed thickly down on a louder noise that would no doubt give them away. Bishop, his head buzzing with arousal and the effects of the smoke, felt himself pulse in response. Hudson noticed and chuckled deeply, giddily grinding up into the firmness between Bishop's thighs. He almost involuntarily rolled his hips back, chasing the electric shiver of contact and pressure.
Hudson got the picture and slipped a broad hand between them, palming Bishop through his pants in slow strokes, mirroring the grind, his thumb circling the bulge there with teasing pressure. Bishop's head dropped to Hudson's shoulder, disappearing a quiet gasp into his shirt, barely escaping as a deep buzz. He couldn't help it. He pushed into the feeling, grinding hard enough that Hudson could feel the stiff mouth-watering outline of him under the denim.
"Thaaat's it." Hudson praised in a hush, his own voice strained, heat coiled impossibly tight in his gut. "Nice and quiet… got ya right where I want you."
Bishop's breathing turned shallow, released in soft gasps he controlled with much effort. He hung onto his restraint by a wire. Hudson's free hand pushed up across his back, fingers splaying wide under Bishop's loose sweater. He took time to feel the warm sweat-damp skin there, the subtle tremor of muscles working in a collaborative rhythm. Shit, he really is killing me. Hudson felt his core throbbing insistently, likely slick as hell inside his shorts, but he was focused on Bishop now. Those soft gasps, bitten back to whispers, made his chest tighten in a war of desperate want and all-consuming affection. He wanted to unravel Bishop more, shudder by shudder in this liminal space between the road and home, where nothing could demand their time away from each other.
"Hey… can I touch you?" He turned his head just enough to purr against Bishop's ear, voice hidden well below the vibration of the van over interstate pavement. "Wanna feel you, make you feel good. If you want."
His hand slid down Bishop's side, hovering at the buckle of his belt, thumb brushing the shiny button below in a silent question. The front of the van laughed at something, Hicks' voice booming over the music. Hudson froze, but Bishop didn't pull away.
"Yes." He breathed out the word so soft and precious it was almost lost in the white noise. His hips stilled as he shifted to give Hudson access. The tips of his ears were tinted like a paint cup that'd been dipped with a reddened brush, spreading down to his neck. His breath quickened in anticipation. "Please."
Oh-hoh, boy did he like it when Bishop asked for what he wanted. If Hudson hadn't already sucked down a gram, he was sure he wouldn't be able to contain himself at the sight. But, being that he had, he proceeded very gentlemanly. He slid the buckle undone in two quick motions, then worked the zipper down carefully, trying not to seem too eager (and to remain mindful of the noise). The zipper's teeth parted with a controlled series of dull clicks. He eased his hand inside, wrapping around Bishop through his fitted boxers first. He allowed himself one fond laugh through his nose upon seeing they had a tasteful dark blue floral pattern.
Bishop was incredibly hot to the touch, already pulsing under his palm. His eyes fluttered, a stifled whimper escaping as he bit his lower lip to contain it. Hudson didn't make him wait any longer. He stroked him slow and firm, thumb circling the head through the fabric, feeling him twitch in response.
"Shh…" Hudson hushed, his free hand cupping Bishop's nape to pull him into another silencing kiss. "Let ol' Hudson take care of ya."
The high was peaking right about now, sharpening every sensation, emphasizing the slick slide as Hudson pushed the boxers aside, skin on skin now, stroking in earnest. Bishop's senses fragmented further under the onslaught. The firm grip, the twist at the end of each stroke, the way Hudson's thumb swiped over the tip, spreading the gathering wetness... it was dizzying. He rocked into the drummer's strong hand in slow, short thrusts, breaths turning into controlled pants against Hudson's mouth. His fingers dug into Hudson's shoulders, nails biting through his shirt. Hudson grinned lopsidedly and sped up in response.
"Doing so good… sooo fuckin' good." He whispered praises between kisses. "Don't worry your pretty head about a thing. I've got you."
"I… it's…" Bishop's hips stuttered. Hudson knew the feeling intimately, and braced himself against the other to keep him stable. He came with a shuddering exhale, hot pulses spilling over Hudson's fingers. He kept his face buried against Hudson's neck to stifle any uncontrollable sounds which the man below him absorbed proudly. Hudson stroked him through it, hand incredibly gentle so as not to overstimulate him. They could have fun with that kind of thing later, under more lucidly negotiated terms.
"There y'go… good job, babe." He kissed the side of his head. Bishop slumped against him further, breaths evening out. A small, hazy smile curved the side of his mouth as the high settled into a fuzzy glow. "So cute when you let go like that."
Hudson held him through the after-shudders, his hand slowing to a gentle caress before withdrawing, wiping the mess on the edge of a discarded tour jacket without much thought towards how someone might react to that later. Bishop's breaths came deep and even now, but there was a lingering flush on his cheeks, his eyes half-lidded and glassy. Hudson pressed another soft kiss to his temple reassuringly.
"That was intense, huh?" His hand rubbed slow circles on Bishop's back in an effort to ground him. "Just ride it out."
Bishop exhaled slowly, nodding against Hudson's chest, the high making his thoughts drift. He felt… good, profoundly so, the release having left him hazy and content. His body buzzed with a residual warmth that blurred the edges of everything. As he shifted slightly in Hudson's lap, adjusting to the van's sway, he became aware of it — the unmistakable heat radiating from between Hudson's legs. Bishop could feel the insistent warmth pressing up against him even through the denim. His hand brushed against it incidentally as he moved, and he paused, processing the heat. It wasn't demanding, and Hudson didn't rub against him. His touch on Bishop's back remained soft, moving in reassuring circles that reflected patience, no expectation hanging in the air.
He rolled his head to the side to look up at him. Hudson looked back down with hooded eyes, his gaze warm with affection in the dim light. There was only quiet appreciation there. Hudson was content to ride out the moment, let Bishop come down at his own pace. But he felt an urge towards him, spent as he was. The usual knots of anxiety that twisted in his chest were dissolved. He wanted to touch Hudson, feel him come apart under his hands in the way he'd so expertly done to Bishop not moments before. The opportunity to explore Hudson's reactions while his own mind floated free of overthinking muted every hesitation into ease.
"Hudson…" A small, loose smile curved his lips. The words flowed without his usual careful editing. "You're still… affected. I want to reciprocate, to experience this with you — while I'm… like this." His hand moved down from Hudson's chest, sliding between his thighs to press flat against the denim. He shivered, feeling the intense heat radiating from him and the way Hudson's hips gave a tiny involuntary twitch at the contact.
Hudson's sedated eyes widened just a fraction, a fresh spark of heat alighting in him. Still, he didn't jump at it. "Y'sure…?"
He searched Bishop's flushed face, trying to detect any sign of anxiety, but he just nodded affirmatively back up at him. His fingers insistently pressed the seam of Hudson's shorts, studying the way the fabric clung to his strong thighs. He wanted to feel the hot skin under there, the soft curly hairs, the way they got thicker the closer they grew to the center between Hudson's legs. His hands twitched.
"I want to touch you. Experience your reactions under my hand…" He inhaled and held it, not so high that he couldn't feel vulnerable for verbally desiring such a thing. "If you'll allow it."
Any potential nerves that made their way through Bishop's buzz were dashed as he watched Hudson beam giddily, turning his head to the side to hide it under the back of his hand.
"I mean… fuck yeah, if you want." Hudson tried to laugh but gave into a shaky swallow instead. "I'm all yours."
Bishop's next breath left as a smooth, calming exhale. He shifted carefully on the bean bag, moving to Hudson's side so they were pressed together from shoulder to hip. Hudson's arm stayed draped around him, fingers pressing in a calming infinity pattern across his back. Bishop's hand trembled only once before he slid it beneath the waistband of Hudson's shorts, then under the briefs, soft palm gliding over the dense thatch of curls that grew thicker the lower he went.
The fabric of Hudson's underwear clung to him. This kind of heat was unmistakable. Bishop's fingers slipped easily through the thick bush before finding the flushed length of Hudson's dick, swollen and sensitive under his touch. Bishop took careful mental note of it. He marveled at the way it twitched the second a fingertip brushed the underside, causing Hudson's hips to buck again just a little upwards, eagerly chasing the stimulus. He watched his own hand move beneath the fabric, savoring the patient drag of his fingers through the hot wet folds underneath the small cock just above. Hudson bit his lip hard, eyes fluttering shut as he tried to stay silent. His thighs tensed around Bishop's wrist. Every pass of Bishop's hand made a small wet sound, though it was quiet enough not to escape the space between them. Bishop noticed it caused his mouth to water. He licked his lips.
Hudson's bush was softer than one would expect from this type of hair. He loved the feeling of it against his knuckles as he pressed teasingly against the opening at Hudson's front. Thinking on it, Bishop mused that the man in general was softer than one might expect, especially in these moments. He likened it to petting a dog behind its ear, the way dogs tended to instantly melt and push against you until you stopped. He sighed into Hudson, nuzzling his chest. His body was so wonderfully honest about what it wanted. Every tiny shift of Bishop's deft hand drew out a flutter of inner muscles that Bishop could feel despite not having pushed in just yet.
An adoring sound rumbled from Bishop's chest into Hudson's side. He leaned up and in, pressing his face into the warm curve of Hudson's neck, breathing him in. He was endlessly thankful for having even the smallest amount of privacy to indulge in this, beyond all eyes and scrutiny. Moreover, he was thankful that his brain was too lax to surveil his own actions. He felt no shame in enjoying the faint salt of sweat at his lover's nape alongside the deeper, musky scent of his arousal. His lips brushed the sensitive skin there, then parted to press slow open-mouthed kisses along the tendon. Hudson's breath stuttered. His free hand tightened in the back of Bishop's shirt, and he turned his face into his hair, trying to muffle the shaky whines that kept escaping him. Every time Bishop's fingers stroked over his dick or dipped lower to circle his entrance, his hips rolled helplessly into the touch.
Bishop lifted his head just enough to catch Hudson's mouth with his own, opening him up with a polite lick into his lips so he could swallow the quiet moan he knew was about to rise from the younger man. He finally slid two fingers inside him, wet heat welcoming the intrusion immediately. Hudson clenched around his fingers, dripping around the length of them, and he did indeed keen into Bishop's waiting mouth. He hummed, pleased, positioning his thumb to press smooth, insistent circles atop Hudson's dick. Held closely in his arms, Hudson rocked against his palm with a muffled whimper, failing to contain sound after sound as his whole body shuddered. Bishop ate them greedily as he kissed him, keeping his fingers moving inside without rushing any feeling or reaction. Every breathless pant of his lover against his mouth provoked fierce satisfaction that grew pridefully in Bishop's chest. It was a sensation he'd scarcely experienced in his life, and he knew if he hadn't currently been far adrift from his higher senses, it would have overwhelmed him. He pressed his forehead to Hudson's and kept his voice low when he spoke against his lips.
"It's so… intense." He breathed deeply. "Every time you move, I want to press back into you."
Hudson's only answer was a desperate little moan that drowned inside another fervent kiss as Bishop's thumb pressed at a firmer angle, his middle and ring fingers thrusting deeper. Hudson's hips started moving in earnest against his hand. He let his head fall back against the bag, eyes half-lidded and glassy from the peak of his high and the building pleasure. His voice came out strained and breathy, completely undone.
"Fuck… Bishop, you— you're so good at this. Sooo fucking good. Shit, right there—" Before he could bite it back again, he whined into the empty space around them. Instantly sheepish, he pressed his face into Bishop's hair again, trying to muffle himself. "You just… know exactly how to move… you make me feel so good."
Bishop's breath caught as he processed the words. He shifted his head to watch Hudson's face with rapt attention. His cheeks were hot and red, lips parted around every affectionate word of praise he managed to get out. He kept trying (and failing) to stay quiet, but even the worry of that was far from Bishop at this moment. Something unfamiliar had bloomed in his chest. He'd always found Hudson handsome, even endearingly beautiful, but seeing him like this, completely wrecked by the mere ministrations of his hand… it did something unexpected to him. With no veil of pretense to cloud Bishop's mind, he was able to recognize a new type of confidence in himself. He liked it. More than liked it.
He hummed inquisitively before leaning in to capture Hudson's mouth again. He wasn't as patient or careful this time. He tried to ride the feeling in his chest; the sense that he could allow himself to want just as much from Hudson and have that want be reciprocated in full. It was entirely mutual, and it made Bishop feel supremely centered in a way he hadn't been able to achieve before. His tongue slid against Hudson's, giving into raw affection. He felt somewhat possessive of the sounds he elicited from the other, and so had the urge to catch each one as it left him. Shifting up the seat a little, he curled his free arm tightly behind Hudson's back, pulling him in close and pinning him against his side. The taller man was effectively trapped, unable to squirm away from the relentless rhythm of Bishop's hand.
His fingers started moving with more purpose. He thrust deeper, intent on that particularly sensitive spot inside of him while he increased the pace of his strokes over Hudson's throbbing dick. The wet sounds grew louder and more frequent, filling up the small amount of semi-private space they had behind the merch rack. Hudson's hips jerked desperately, but Bishop's arm kept him right where he wanted him, where he could watch and feel every reaction as it passed through his lover's nervous system. Hudson's praise dissolved into short broken sounds against Bishop's mouth.
"Bishop, fuck, you're— you're gonna make me come so hard— babe, I can't— please don't stop, please—"
Every time Hudson tried to squirm or twist, Bishop held him close, keeping his frame pressed tight against his own.
"I like seeing you like this. Trembling for me…" He pressed a kiss at the corner of Hudson's mouth, then another against his jaw, trailing towards his ear where he could press his nose into the thick hair framing Hudson's flushed face. When he spoke next, he pressed the words to the easily-affected skin near the back of his neck. "Let go, Hudson. I want to feel it."
Hudson gasped. His body hitched up sharply, thighs started to tremble as he lost control, and then he was coming. He squeezed involuntarily tight around Bishop's fingers in strong waves, flooding over the palm as his dick twitched compulsively under Bishop's thumb. It took everything left in him to find the sense to shove his face down into Bishop's shoulder before a reflexive exclamation of pleasured relief sang from his throat. It vibrated against Bishop's neck. He absorbed all of Hudson's shakes while he worked him down slowly through every aftershock. He drew out the last tremors until Hudson finally went limp against his side, dazily attempting to catch his breath. The hormonal chemicals coursing through his body found their collective way back to homeostasis. After a few moments, Bishop carefully eased his hand free, wiping it on the small cloth he kept in the pocket of his corduroys before wrapping both arms around Hudson properly. He pulled him in close, tucking his head under his chin and pressing a settling kiss to his golden hair.
"Christ, Bishop…" Hudson let out a tired, breathless laugh against his throat.
Bishop's hand slid up and down Hudson's back, aiming to anchor any lingering overwhelm. "You were a little loud there at the end." There was a vaguely teasing note under his otherwise soft tone.
"Yeah, well… you were kind of determined to make me loud." Hudson huffed, still catching his breath. He tilted his head up, eyes half-lidded, and pressed a sloppy kiss to Bishop's jaw. "That was… really fucking good. You got all intense on me. I liked it."
Bishop went quiet as he processed for a second, before nodding shyly and tucking his face against Hudson's hair. "I liked it too… seeing you like that… being able to hear you." His arms tightened around him. "I like knowing I can do that to you."
Hudson smiled against his neck, getting increasingly sleepy now that his high was tapering alongside the afterglow. He had enough energy left to lift a lazy finger gun up with a click of his tongue to punctuate his last sentence. "You can do that to me anytime you want, baby."
They stayed curled tightly together in a sated bundle while the van carried them forward towards home. Hudson's breathing gradually slowed and deepened, his body heavy against Bishop's side. He pressed one last kiss to the top of Hudson's head and closed his eyes, letting the rumble of the freeway beneath them and the warmth of the man in his arms ease him into one of the deepest sleeps he'd ever have.
Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Lance Bishop & Original Female Character(s), Lance Bishop & Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Lance Bishop, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Movie: Aliens (1986), Artificial People Learning How To People, Domestic Fluff
Summary:
Was Eve organic or synthetic?
In the approximate 4 hours 32 minutes and 12 seconds Bishop had been aboard Eve's ship that was one of the questions he still had yet to deduce.
Observations remained inconclusive.
ao3 link
Was Eve organic or synthetic?
In the approximate 4 hours 32 minutes and 12 seconds Bishop had been aboard Eve's ship that was one of the questions he still had yet to deduce.
Observations remained inconclusive.
Eve appeared older, smile lines creasing her face in a pattern seen in people both organic and artificial, though by Bishop's estimates it'd make her old enough for her model to have been decommissioned. A lack of behavior inhibitors at the time giving them what was thought to be an eerily human personality, which was not ideal for a being meant to serve. That lacking would explain this incongruity in her behavior, to odd for a human and yet not plain enough for a synthetic, but Bishop couldn't match her face to any models of the time.
The only known fact at that moment was that she was strange, entirely strange.
"You have a question." Eve's voice broke Bishop from his ruminating, his eyes focusing to find her looking at him expectantly.
She'd been talking to Laika when Bishop started his computing (who of the two was easier to figure out as human despite his own oddities, as earlier Bishop had caught him picking at his lip till it bled crimson) animated and deeply invested in the conversation, which Bishop had assumed meant he could fade into the background to ponder. So far with Eve this was never the case.
"It is not a very polite one." Bishop admitted, unable to lie but not wanting to speak his inquiry without the qualifier.
Eve hummed, a curiously amused note. "You should let go of any social niceties while you're here, I assure you I'm not easy to offend."
Hesitation on Bishop's end left a beat of silence, a beat that went on for to long so Eve continued, "If anything I find it more distasteful if you think you cannot speak your mind."
Such an explicit directive made is so the question could slip past Bishop's inhibitors, which in retrospect he'd realize was the exact purpose of the phrasing.
Still he took caution, deciding the most delicate way to ask would be, "Are you human?"
"Only one way to know for sure." Eve smiled wide, flashing all of her teeth, and bent down to procure from her boot a pocket knife. She passes it off to Bishop and extends her other palm. "Cut me and see what I bleed."
Bishop balked at the suggestion, his distaste for even the mere concept manifesting physically as he takes a step away from the weapon. "Such actions are not in my nature."
"Why not?" Eve was brimming with an excitement Bishop could not understand. "If I am a mere synthetic than you should have no problem slitting my coating, unless you are more inclined to believe that I am human, in which case it would be against your programming."
The language she used was obviously pointed, poking and prodding at notions that made Bishop unsettled, no response that he could formulate properly fulfilling each of his discrepancies. He took to staring between their shoes on the floor, running through dialogue after dialogue till one could be deemed acceptable enough. Though his ruminating was interrupted when her hand took is, placing the pocket knife in his palm.
"Keep it." Eve folded his fingers over the smooth metal. "Until you can decide what to do with it."
Bishop began to protest, but is stopped by Eve holding up her pointer finger.
"I insist." She said with enough finality that Bishop couldn't find it in himself to argue.
The day, simulated as it be, continued without much fanfare. Eve and Laika continued about their daily tasks, Bishop usually in toe no matter how often they tried to shoo him off to his own activities, filling in the space till dinner.
Dinner itself was a quiet affair, Bishop was invited rather explicitly, and even offered a ration of his own though he was quick to decline.
The three of them sat around a circular dining table, chairs mismatched in shape but all the same light blue hue. Sitting closer, Eve and Laika talked amicably, picking up bits and pieces of conversations they'd had throughout the day. They spoke in half sentences and vague gestures, finishing the others thoughts with ease, which Bishop supposed so much time isolated to one another would foster. There was a similar comradery between himself and the Sulaco crew, a meshing of him into there group that if not for his known role there would be no real distinction between them socially.
Barely above a whisper, Bishop realizes, "It doesn't matter."
Both stop their chattering to look at Bishop.
"What doesn't?" Eve kept her tone even, but the look on her face gave away her enthusiasm.
Bishop pivoted between looking at her and the table's blank surface, a measured effort like a metronome. "Whether or not your organic or artificial."
Eve's smile brightens, creasing the corners of her eyes, she plucks the pocket knife she handed Bishop earlier from his front pocket. "Open it."
Bishop hesitated, and impatiently Eve pulls open the tool herself, revealing that inside was not a knife at all, but rather a fork.
"Wait here." Eve was commanding before Bishop could even process what he was holding, scurrying over to the refrigeration unit in the other room. Bishop heard it open, the soft buzz filling his ears, and shut with a resolute thud.
When Eve returned it was with a cup of cut up apples, which she placed in front of Bishop. Pride shone in all of her perfect teeth that she flashed to him in her smile. "Eat, you've earned it."
"But-" Bishop was still reeling, to many incongruities, muddling his reasoning.
"No buts!" Tittering, Eve returned to her own chair. "Either you eat them or they rot."
Bishop looked to Laika, trying to gauge the sincerity of her words, but unhelpfully the man just shrugged and continued to eat his own meal.
Adjusting his grip, Bishop punctured the first piece of apple with the fork. Eating was not a foreign concept to him, at least in theory, he knew how to do it and could approximate the sensations based on what he knew of any given item's composition, but as with all things he knew simulations were never as accurate as the real thing.
The first bite was inquisitive, and purely technical. The apple was firm, it took a moderate amount of force to take off a chewable portion. Bishop chewed it down to smaller, mostly for the social aspect as he could have safely swallowed it whole, and took in the chemical composition, mainly water and carbohydrates, but with enough malic acid and fructose to make it sweet. Bishop enjoyed the sweetness, he looked for it in the next bite, focusing on the taste over the compounds, a shift in his curiosity from fact seeking to entertainment. By the time he was beginning to feel satisfied in his findings, the apple was gone, and this brought about an intense negative input. To remedy this Bishop found himself wanting more, not for any higher purpose but just to satiate his own curiosity.
The reality of that frightened him, and his reflex told him to dull that feeling in self preservation, but one glance to Eve gave him the courage to ask. "May I have some more, please, if it isn't any trouble?"
Eve was standing before he was even finished speaking, her hands affixing themselves to his face to squish his cheeks as an expression of her joy. "Always."
apologies for how late this is! lately my mood has been low as well, so this worked as a good vent for me too <3 i hope you feel better, anon! -`♡´-
✦ lance bishop / reader || a helping hand ✧˖°.
[✦ AO3 link] SFW. 5.7k count. gender neutral reader. slight angst, hurt / comfort, fluff, pre-relationship, could be read as affectionately platonic.
The recreation floors on Gateway were stacked in three successive decks below the main offices, so as to separate the clamor of pent-up marines (or otherwise) from the rest of Wey-Yu's desk-chained employees. They were designed and built for people who wanted to forget what they were for a few hours at a time, which usually proved to be effective. This was done with vividly styled carpeting, colorfully lit hallways, and signage that advertised the product of leisure at every corner. There were gyms with all manner of equipment, two cafeterias, a few theaters with rows of padded seats (the nice kind that reclined all the way), bars with marginally okay prices by company standards, and a gaming hall that was half arcade / half lounge / all noise.
The very existence of these spaces felt antithetical to the company's MO; however, giving the masses attractive playgrounds to distract from poor work conditions was definitely on-model. You found all of it enjoyable, in theory. In practice, you'd been moving through the floors like Dante on the boat with Phlegyas — though in this version, Phlegyas was in your head, so it was really ten times worse.
You picked a spot in the arcade room tucked off the main walkway, a narrower space where the cabinets were stacked close enough that the sounds overlapped. A generic pop soundtrack drummed over from one machine, tinny gunfire from another. A constant electronic buzz surrounded you. The air ran nice and cool through the overhead vents, but the heat from the screens and small clustered bodies of other shoring crews balanced it out. You kept your eyes on your chosen game. It was easier than scanning faces, or dealing with the fact that you had to be around people no matter where you went on the station. You were tired of catching somebody's look and having to decide what it meant, imagining you were being talked about, because you could hear that too, if you let yourself linger on it. The cabinet in front of you was taller than most, the art on the side panel decorated in a full-color fantastical print: a sword, a dragon, a cartoon knight with a red tunic and an exaggerated jawline.
Dragon's Lair.
The controls were comparatively simpler than the surrounding machines. You knew from prior experience though that the simplicity was part of the trap. This game, if this recreation honored the historical rendition, was all timing and patience. Succeeding at each scene demanded immense focus and breath control.
Even knowing this, you'd been stuck on the same sequence for twenty minutes. Dirk, the knight, ran into a corridor that should've been safe and of course was very much not so. The floor dropped out, then a set of swinging blades came in from the side. You tried to move left out of reflex. Too late. Dirk's body did a quick animated flail, and the screen lit up with a gruesome death scene. It was almost tauntingly graphic. You exhaled through your teeth and hit the start button again. At least here you could fail in a way that didn't provoke a tailtuck afterward.
Behind you, somewhere near the entrance, the sliding door expressed a soft pneumatic sigh underneath the noise of the machines. Light footsteps crossed the carpet. You noticed this detail because it was, in comparison to the marines' heavy footfalls, distinctly measured and quiet. It was a cadence you knew by heart at this point. You'd listened to it in the Sulaco's corridors, on the deck, in the medbay, in the galley at odd hours when you couldn't sleep and he could always be found doing something around the ship, even when it wasn't required.
He stopped at your side, just out of your peripheral vision.
"Hello." Bishop greeted you. His voice was a low chirr against the background noise, not louder than necessary but still not too soft to be missed. Exactly placed, just like the rest of him. Your hand hung on the joystick, eyes glued to Dirk's idle animation, the way the character's grip on his sword tensed and untensed.
"Hey." You nodded after a second. "I didn't think I'd see you down here."
"I'm not usually permitted so during shore leave." He looked around at the bright screens on either side of you. "However, I was scheduled for maintenance. A Gateway technician cleared my systems and authorized limited access to the recreational floors."
You finally looked over. He stood with his hands loosely folded behind his back. In civilian lighting he looked a little out of place, like he couldn't quite figure out where he fit in against the backdrop. There was a small adhesive tag at the edge of his collar, white with black print. REC CLEARANCE. It sat on him like a label on equipment. You grimaced.
"Everything okay?" You heard the softness in your own voice before you could correct it. Maintenance was not a word you liked, on his behalf. Maintenance meant people with tools reducing things to permissions and protocols. It meant someone else's hands inside him.
Bishop's gaze settled on your face thoughtfully. His kind of stare never felt rude, not like it did from other people… more like he was giving you the courtesy of being fully present.
"I'm functional." He replied after a moment of consideration. "The procedure was… invasive, by human standards. For me, it was routine. The technician was competent."
You nodded and left it at that. You tried to make your shoulders unknot, didn't succeed. He glanced at the cabinet screen.
"What are you playing?"
You snorted. "Dragon's Lair. It's a remake of an old Earth arcade thing. Basically a cartoon that hates you."
His head angled slightly, just enough to signal interest. "The animation appears hand-drawn."
"It is!" You smiled. This remake had preserved the classic cel animation quite well. "Laserdisc game. The gimmick is you don't actually… fight, really. You react. The game tells you what's about to kill you and you pick the correct input in the one correct moment."
"That seems stressful."
"Yeah, well… it is." You laughed once without much humor, then sighed. "Unfortunately that's kind of the point."
Bishop's attention returned to you. "Is this your preferred method of recreation?"
You faltered. 'No, not really' you wanted to say. You could've answered honestly, too, with 'I picked this because nobody expects me to talk while I do it' or even 'Because I can be angry at a cartoon knight instead of being angry at a real person.'
Instead, you shrugged with one shoulder. "It's something to do."
Something in Bishop's expression changed, a subtle focusing of his pupils. It was a look that told you he'd filed the shrug away as data, and the data didn't satisfy him.
"May I observe?" He asked innocently.
You turned back to the screen. While this was a game that required your utmost attention, Bishop's presence was usually a grounding one. "Yeah, sure."
He moved a small step closer, careful not to crowd you, a simple shift of him occupying the space alongside you. He didn't touch you or lean in next to the screen. You hit start again. Dirk sprinted, the corridor came up.
"Left…!" You narrated to yourself, and jammed the joystick. Too late again. The blades swung through. Dirk died with the same infuriatingly impressive animation. The cabinet chimed back to the opening screen, and you imagined bitterly that it must be pleased with itself.
"Fuck, come ooooon." The frustration climbed up your throat and out of your mouth. You slapped the side of the cabinet with the flat of your hand, not hard enough to damage anything, but hard enough to tell it you noticed the unfairness of it all.
Bishop's head turned toward you. "Are you feeling alright?"
His question was gentle, friendly, unlike the usual technical mannerisms he used on shift. He sounded like this most often when he was giving someone an opening, making the conversation approachable enough to say anything you needed to. You kept your eyes on the screen.
"I'm fine." It sounded rehearsed even to you. There was a pause on Bishop's end. In that pause, he didn't fill the space with consolations you didn't ask for. He didn't correct you. He just waited, sorted his thoughts.
"You're clenching your jaw." He voiced his observations after a bit. "And your heart rate has increased."
You groaned, running a hand down your face. "Can I have one hobby without it becoming a diagnostic?"
"I can stop monitoring you, if you prefer?" He offered at once, somewhat hurried. You swallowed, instantly regretting your words. It wasn't him you were frustrated at.
"No, no. It's not that. It's just…" You exhaled, stared forward at Dirk. He seemed keen to be killed again. "I'm just having a week."
"Hmm." Bishop nodded, shifting his weight to lean slightly against the cabinet. "Would you like to tell me why?"
You should've said no, kept your mouth shut and let this just be about a stupid game. But Bishop was the one person on the ship who never made you feel like you needed to perform your feelings for an audience. He didn't look for the most entertaining version of your story, he looked for the true one. You hit start again, more as something to do with your hands than because you had any faith in your timing. Once more, you went too late. You didn't even swear this time. You just stood there with your hand upon the controls, staring at Dirk's animated death like it'd personally insulted you. It was starting to feel that way, anyhow.
"It was Drake." You let out a long breath.
Bishop didn't leap at that, or react as if it were mere gossip. To him, it was just another piece of a puzzle. "What occurred with Private Drake?"
"We got into it about something stupid. Well, not stupid, but…" You shook your head once. "It blew up. I said something. He said something. Vasquez got between us. Now everybody's doing that thing where they're trying to be normal, but you can tell they've picked a side, or they've decided it's easier to just avoid it."
Bishop hummed, furrowed his brow while he processed. "Why do you believe they've picked a side?"
"I don't know." You huffed, feeling bitter and hating how it sounded. "That's the problem. I don't know what anybody thinks, and I don't want to ask… I don't want to make it worse. So I've just been… not around."
He was quiet for a moment. "You're isolating yourself to reduce the probability of further conflict."
"Yeah. Look at me, being so tactical." You couldn't help the cynical laugh that left you.
"There is some tact to your decision, even if it's rooted in avoidance." He let the faintest shade of dry humor show in his tone. "It's a rational response, given your stated fear of confrontation."
You swallowed again, but your throat felt tight. Leave it to Bishop to cut right through to the point.
"It's stupid, though. If I know all this about myself, why can't I just fix it?"
"Fear isn't stupidity. It's a physiological and social response. Humans are not designed to enjoy interpersonal hostility within a small group. It's destabilizing."
"Yeah, tell that to the corps." You restrained an eye-roll. Bishop's eyes stayed on you, though you sensed no pity or judgment under his observation.
"I can tell you this…" He took his weight off the machine to stand upright, folding his arms. "You aren't being maliciously excluded from the group."
You scoffed, an immature defense against admitting how much you wanted him to be right. "You don't know that."
"I've observed the crew's behavior over the past week. They haven't treated you as disposable. They have treated you as… temporarily difficult to approach. That's not the same thing."
You watched the game, went through the motions, met the familiar sight of Dirk's skull. The game was patient. It would let you die forever, if you wanted that.
"Why does that sound worse...?"
"It's less catastrophic." Bishop's mouth twitched up at one side, very slightly. "Which means there is more nuance to decipher."
You sighed out an awkward laugh, sounding more like a cough. He continued unphased.
"If you'd like, I could help evaluate some options. There are ways to repair your friendship with minimal to no confrontation."
You looked back at him, dubious. It was hard to believe Bishop had experience with this stuff, but you supposed all it took was observation and a little sympathy. "Like what?"
"Option one is a direct apology, focused on your own behavior, not theirs. It can be short and kept to specifics. That reduces potential for defensiveness."
You frowned. "Bishop, that is a whole confrontation."
"It can be brief if needed." He reassured with an optimistic timbre. "Option two is a written message. It carries the risk of misinterpretation, but allows you to structure your words without face to face pressure."
"And… option three?" You already knew you weren't going to do option one anytime soon, and the idea of a physical message made you worried just anyone could find it before Drake. The life of a marine wasn't exactly a private one.
"Option three is doing nothing today." Bishop uncrossed his arms. "Resting. Returning when you have more internal resources." You sighed at that. He noticed the look on your face, and went to remedy it. "You haven't failed at anything, this way. You're simply pacing yourself."
"You really think I'm not just… hiding?"
He didn't answer immediately. He just watched you, comparing responses behind his eyes.
"I think you're tired." He nodded, knowingly. "And you're hurt. You're protecting yourself the way you know how. That isn't cowardice, though it's definitely not sustainable indefinitely."
Your eyes stung. You blinked fast and looked back at the screen like it could save you from being seen. That'd been your intention after all, coming down here to lose yourself in a crowd, sink into something else for a few mind numbing hours. The ambience of the arcade filled the gap in conversation. A marine laughed down the row from you, their cabinet playing a chiptune victory song that made you feel all the more sour about your own game.
Bishop shifted slightly, a small movement that brought him closer without touching you. "Do you want to continue playing? I could provide assistance with timing, reduce your mortality."
You raised a brow at him, finding the idea of Bishop coaching you at an arcade game rather humorous. "You would do that?"
"I can observe patterns." He bobbed his head. "The sequences may have consistent cues. However, I don't want to reduce your enjoyment if playing alone is more preferable."
"Hah. Enjoyment's a strong word for this game." You laughed, for real this time. It was a masterful work of art, undoubtedly, but infuriating all the same. "Okay, then. Coach me."
"Thank you." His cheeks creased from a brief but wide smile, and you couldn't help but mirror it. "If I may…" He lifted a hand towards yours where it sat positioned on the joystick. "Could I direct your hand?"
It took you more than a second to reply, breath faltering just slightly. You were sure he noticed this, so you rushed to soothe whatever subroutines in his brain might try to tell him he'd made a faux pas. "Yes. Yes, please."
He looked relieved. You relaxed your hand so it wouldn't feel tense when he touched you, though it was difficult not to feel some type of way when his skin met yours. His fingers positioned themselves gingerly betwixt yours. Once comfortable, Bishop's attention returned to the screen, concentrating instantly. It was almost funny, watching him treat the absurdity of the visuals like he would equipment back in the lab. Then you remembered that he treated most things like that, if the person asking him to do so cared enough. You pressed start. Dirk set out and met the hall again.
"Now." Bishop signalled as he gently pressed your hand to the left. The timing was perfect. Dirk leapt to safety with a bold flourish. He squeezed your hand slightly when the sound of success chimed out of the speakers.
You blinked, breathed. "Oh."
"Good job." He encouraged you, though there was never much time to pause during this type of game.
Another trap, a flash of bright color on the source of Dirk's incoming threat.
"Down." Bishop pressed lightly. You obeyed. Dirk ducked, and the arrow booby-trap missed. You made an involuntary sound, some kind of half-laugh, half-disbelieving noise.
"Is this cheating?" You smirked and raised a brow at him.
"This is assisting." Bishop corrected. "Your hand is mainly in control."
"Hmm… if you say so."
You died two scenes later anyway. In the high of making progress, you got excited and jumped Bishop's cue. You groaned and leaned your forehead briefly against the side of the game, making direct eye contact with the wrapped print of the dragon's menacing face.
"Frustration is valid. However, you survived longer."
"Thanks." You mumbled against the cabinet.
"You're welcome."
He hadn't made a move to lift his hand, despite the death screen playing. You straightened as you realized, suddenly, how close Bishop was. You thought about how this was his first time down here, his first time seeing any of these spaces, how he'd come down here and chosen you to stand beside. A weird warm sensation filled your chest. You turned slightly, enough to look at him without fully facing him.
"Did it suck?"
Bishop turned his attention to you from where he'd been studying the menu screen. "The game? No, I had a pleasurable time."
"No, no…" Although it did make you happy he'd had a good time, despite how bad you were at it. "I meant the maintenance."
He was still for a second, scanning his own internal language for the right translation.
"It is… unpleasant to be handled as equipment." He finally decided on saying. "Even when the handling is necessary and professional."
Something behind your ribs panged. "I'm sorry." It came out a little too earnest to hide behind a subsequent joke, your usual attempt at lightening the emotional load of another.
Bishop's expression eased by a degree, even so. "Thank you. I appreciate your concern."
You swallowed. His hand was still alighted on your own. You thought of something, then, and decided to be a little selfish with his time. "What if we played as a team? We both get a button, and… we can still both do the joytstick. If that's okay?"
Technically you were playing as a team already, but… you wanted Bishop to play for himself as well, to feel invited and included. Besides, that other button was hard to remember in the split second frame this game forced you to make decisions within.
The proposition looked like it both confused and interested him. "Are you sure?"
"Oh, because I wouldn't want someone with ace pattern recognition for a partner?" You gave him a look and he fidgeted sheepishly, which you couldn't recall seeing him do before (outside of his usual idle finger-stimming). You'd be damned if you became the source of any of his anxiety, so you nudged him playfully. "C'mon, play with me, Bishop."
He settled. "Hmm… alright. I'll give it a try." You beamed wide as he readjusted his hand to sit over the rightside button, left hand remaining atop yours on the joystick.
The game killed you again eventually, because it always did, but you kept going, giggling under your breath instead of cursing. You failed with less bitterness in your chest. Between attempts, your hand tensed under Bishop's, looking to steady yourself as the game picked up. You were further than you'd ever been before in the story. From the periphery, you saw Bishop look at your hands, then at your face. He pushed the button on time regardless, effortlessly, which gave you a little bit of a thrill.
In between the next scenes, you felt a slight squeeze between your fingers. You glanced just a moment to Bishop, who was studying the incoming sequence.
"To stabilize you." He clarified without looking away, clearing the next cue perfectly. You replied with a worldless 'oh', hoping he knew you weren't phased by the sensation.
He adjusted only a slight bit further, likely measuring his own weight, how much pressure he could comfortably press against you. You appreciated that detail, though you would have taken him at any rate. It only mattered that he was there, reminding you you weren't alone unless you chose to be. Against your own, his fingers were on the cooler side of lukewarm. You hadn't noticed that before, really, your mind focused solely on getting somewhere in this game. He felt smooth, the texture more consistent than standard, but the gentleness of him wasn't simulated at all.
You fixed you eyes back on the screen, nearing the final scenes. With Bishop at the helm beside you, it felt like you had a bit more bandwidth for thought than before.
"What if I can't fix it…?"
Bishop's thumb moved, just barely, a subtle reassurance against your knuckles. "Then you'll still be you. And you'll still have value to the group. And to me."
Your throat contracted again, nearly making you miss a cue. You didn't answer, just squeezed his hand back once with an upward fold of your thumb. It was a small move which could be read as thanks, or as something else, depending on what he wanted to see. If it bothered him, Bishop didn't show it, and didn't try to interpret it out loud.
"Now." He pressed his button, and you followed up in the next three seconds with a final tug on the joystick.
Dirk plunged his sword into the chest of the attacking dragon, felling it in one blow. Your face lit up. The knight plucked the key from the dragon's throat and leapt to Princess Daphne, who sat patiently waiting for him to finally save her from her crystal prison. You looked to the side to see Bishop watching raptly, his mouth open just slightly. You'd seen this final scene before on uploaded records, but it felt ten times as gratifying knowing you'd made it here together.
Daphne pressed an adoring kiss to Dirk's cheek. The screen framed them in a little pink heart before fading to black. It had the effect of a mirror without the backlighting, and you saw your reflection there in the glass, noticing that Bishop was looking at you now instead. You turned to him, hands still slotted together. Maybe it was the high of finally having beaten the game, or the relief you felt at finally feeling anything but deep paranoia for the first time in a week, but a sudden boldness overtook you. You leaned over and pressed a kiss to Bishop's cheek (decidedly less voracious than Daphne — you were pumped up, sure, but you didn't want to overwhelm him).
You let it linger there for a few seconds before retracting suddenly, realizing you hadn't asked if he'd be okay with such a thing. You scanned his face for signs of distress. Bishop raised his free hand from the controls and grazed fingers over the spot you'd kissed him, eyes distant.
"Bishop, I'm sorry, I… I got excited, and we did so well at the game, and —"
"It's alright." He came back to you upon hearing the worry in your voice. He applied the tiniest bit of pressure to the hand that held yours. "I was surprised, but… I'm not opposed to it."
"Oh. Oh, good, then." You blinked, smiled meekly, then looked to the floor. "I'll remember to ask. Next time."
His brows raised a fraction. "Will there be a next time?"
You couldn't help the way your heart sank just a little. "If you want. There doesn't have to be." You really wanted there to be.
He nodded, opened his mouth to reply, then paused, caught on something interior. His brows furrowed. You found yourself wanting to press a thumb between them and rub smooth circles, tamping out his worry completely.
"I do, yes. I would like that." The sentences came out slowly, piece by piece. You wondered if something in his code was challenging him on this. If so, it gratified you to see him challenge right back, or at least push through the snags to say what he really wanted to. You'd be there if it ever became distressing.
"Hmm. Alright, then." You gripped the hand that held yours and swung it off the cabinet deck, pulling Bishop down along the row. "Let's try another one. Think we can find a game you can't pattern-detect?"
"Highly unlikely." He let you lead him forward through the scattered groups, careful not to trip on any stray ankles. "But I don't mind an experiment."
BONUS: epilogue, idea by @/nshtn !!
Everything always felt ten times smaller post-leave. It reminded you a bit of getting back into your mother's van after one of the only camping trips you'd been on as a kid. For a brief moment you had all the world to explore, and then it was back into the cramped interior of a vehicle. Granted, Gateway was hardly comparable to the outings you were afforded as a child, but the metaphor worked in your head. You found a way to adjust back to the steely insides of the Sulaco, leaving the corporate playground behind. Until next time.
Thanks to Bishop's encouragement, you ended up speaking with Drake that evening before it was time to board. Something didn't feel right about returning to the hull with this tension sitting so heavy between you. It turned out he was feeling weird about the whole situation as well, but wasn't sure how to approach it with you. So… he'd been in exactly the same position, much to your relief (and embarrassment). Vasquez was there for the reunion as well, who promptly trapped you in a noogie for being so emotionally constipated. The feeling of alienation melted away slowly once you realized just how warped your brain had made the whole thing seem. You scared the last of that feeling out by joining the others for a final drink at the least expensive Gateway rec bar, an excursion which promptly ended when Hudson threw up trying to tornado an entire beer in one go (for the third time that night).
You caught up with Apone in the bridge while he was lighting up his usual 'welcome back' cigar, trying hard to nonverbally communicate how much he didn't want to be bothered. You burst that bubble right away.
"Hey, Sarge."
"What is it now?" Apone didn't glance up from his lighting job, though the clicker was barely sparking.
"Next time we're on Gateway, I want Bishop to have his own rec floor pass. All-access, permanent. Same as us."
That got Apone's attention. He finally looked back at you with an arched brow, cigar hanging .
"You want what?"
"A pass." You tried to keep your voice firm. "So he doesn't have to wait on maintenance clearance to be allowed to exist like the rest of us. So he can actually… come with us, if he wants."
Apone made a short sound in his throat, either a sigh or swallowing irritation. He flicked his eyes to the corridor, like he expected someone to be listening. Noise leaked down the hall, someone laughing, another complaining about their bunk. Life resumed its patterns.
"Private —" Apone turned back to you. Your stomach tightened, knowing this was how he started when he was about to shut something down. "You know I don't handle corporate policy. That's Gorman, and even he can't pull much power."
"I know." You spoke quickly, a little desperate. "But you run us. You sign off on leave lists. You can ask for exceptions."
Apone just stared back. He pulled his cigar out to hold it between his index and middle, then smiled crookedly, shaking his head.
"Since when do you get sentimental about the android?"
"He's not 'the android'." You bristled, then remembered you needed him to hear you out, not give you an order back down the hall. "And I'm not sentimental. It's just… fair."
Apone sighed, weighing whether you were going to become a problem or whether you already were one. Finally, he jerked his chin down once in a nod.
"All right."
Your chest loosened a fraction. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He crossed his arms, nodding again slowly, chewing on the idea of what he'd just agreed to. "I'll talk to corporate. Or whoever I can reach that doesn't make my head hurt. No promises. Those corpos like their rules."
"I'm not asking for promises." You offered some reassurance, grateful he was offering at all. "Just… try."
"Yeah, yeah. Go stow your gear. You've got one of the better cots, don't let Hudson make camp on it again."
You almost laughed. "Right away, Sarge."
"Damn right." Apone said more to himself, already turning away. His lighter finally clicked and sparked, and he drew in a heavy pull. He'd need it.
You left him there and headed back down the corridor, swallowed back into the guts of routine. The hallway had emptied out, all noise falling behind you. Suddenly, your footsteps sounded too loud. Everyone must've gone to the mess, or to the common areas closer to the east side. You decided to take the turns faster, assuming you were alone to rush as you pleased; only, on the first edge, you nearly walked straight into someone. You stopped short. So did they.
Bishop stood there, stock still, hands relaxed at his sides, posture calm. For half a second you didn't connect it, just tried to process the sudden shock of nearly toppling over on him.
"Oh!" You gasped, and felt heat crawl up the back of your neck. "You —"
"I overheard." He admitted, tilting his head towards the bridge.
You rose a hand to your forehead and rubbed your temple. "Bishop, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to… I mean, I didn't think anyone was —"
"I wasn't intentionally monitoring you." He soothed immediately, halting that exposed feeling of being surveilled before it began. "I was in the corridor helping Frost find his suit. Your voices carried."
You scrubbed a hand over the back of your neck. "Still. I didn't really want anyone else to know about it."
"I understand. And I apologize for listening."
You blinked, confused. "You apologize?"
"Even if the circumstances were incidental, you didn't consent to being heard." He stepped back from the corner to give you a slight bit more room. You relaxed your posture in response, hoping the shift in body language would suggest you weren't put on edge by him.
"Okay. Yeah." You relented. "Well. I didn't mean to make it a big deal, it just… bothered me. That you had to have a technician sign you out. That's not right."
Bishop's expression slackened minutely, the smallest shift of facial mechanisms. "You advocated for me."
"Of course." You nodded, like it was simple, obvious. "I'm kinda shocked it hasn't happened yet, honestly."
Bishop studied your face. He didn't look away bashfully, the way some people did when they were uncomfortable with gratitude.
"Thank you. I know it took considerable effort."
"I mean, I didn't storm the corporate offices, or anything." You couldn't help the snort that came out. "It was just a conversation with Apone."
"That isn't what I mean." He shook his head once. "You placed yourself in a position where you might be dismissed. Or teased, or told no. And you did it anyway. You've recuperated very well from your prior social discouragement."
Ah… well, it was true, wasn't it? Leave it to Bishop to make this into some big statement on your character. You looked past him down the corridor, at nothing really, gradually feeling too overwhelmed to look him in the face.
"I'm tired of things being 'just how it is.'" You sighed. "Especially when 'how it is' translates to some office asshole deciding you get less."
Bishop's voice became quiet, reflective. "I do get less. But I'm accustomed to it."
"That doesn't mean it's acceptable." It was imperative you pushed back against each and every statement like this. He always said these things like he believed them as much as he believed in the ground beneath his feet, like it was all an unquestionable fact of the universe and not some company-programmed grift.
He shifted his weight a little. He might've been unsure how to respond, which made sense to you. It made you a little angry at the thought that it could be his programming keeping him from agreeing outwardly with you.
"There… is something else." Now it was his turn to avert his eyes. "If I may?"
"Yeah?"
"I would like to have joined you." He looked so hopeful and honest it made you feel a little blinded. "More than once, not only for the arcade. For the… casual time. The time that isn't work."
This time, when your chest got all tight, it was painful in a different way.
"You can." It wasn't even a question. "Always, if you want to."
"I do." Bishop slowly but surely punctuated himself with a small smile, which you returned tenfold.
"We'll make it happen, or we'll keep trying until it happens." You tried not to look too affected by the idea that he wanted the same things you did, meaning your eyes strayed everywhere but his face. They landed on his hands, one of which fidgeted a bit at his side.
"Could I…?" He raised the hand up slowly in suggestion. He didn't need to clarify. You understood what he was asking permission for. Touch, contact, a small human thing that pacified most worries. You surmised he'd liked having that contact before, helping your hand along in the game. And… you'd liked it as well.
You answered by meeting him in the middle, folding your fingers in between his easily. He relaxed visibly and you giggled a little at the obviousness of it.
"C'mon, I gotta make sure Hudson hasn't made my cot into a dog bed." You could see him now, passed out in a curled up ball after the liquor finally hit his system. He'd listen to Bishop though, and you had no qualms about using the XO against him.
divider by @/saradika :)
thank you for reading! 💌
you can find more of my writing on ao3!
indeed i did! i'll compile some general thoughts here and try to keep it clipped, though ofc i'm prone to rambling, especially about movies (and lance henriksen in general...)
in both films, these characters are a part of prominent society primarily through wealth + influence. newton's (bowie's) wealth comes from inventions + patents he brings via the knowledge of his home planet. raymond (lance) has been given most everything he has from similar figures that have access to cosmic forces, and per their goal, they invest their power and resources in him.
raymond isn't an alien like newton, so i admit the comparison i had in mind is more... looking at how these films depict otherwordly influences and the allure / corruption of power. newton is explicitly a type of humanoid that comes to earth to retrieve water for his dying home planet, while raymond is a rich sports team owner working with a secret society trying to revive / manifest an ancient cosmic entity. newton is the true outsider, while raymond is more like... a human given access to the powers of outside / inhuman forces, and what he does with that is more insidious (convoluted context: the secret society realizes the entity they're trying to manifest can be brought back through a woman named barbara, whom they assigned raymond to, and so he develops a romantic relationship with her. it's mentioned that this entity had children with humans and has half-human descendants, so the idea is that barbara has its blood, and thus has the power to give birth to its reincarnation... raymond's assignment is to uhh basically ensure that she continues having children until this entity is reborn within one of them).
newton's alienness makes him vulnerable to the influences of earth + human society, while raymond's connections make him predatory within it. newton falls in love with parts of humanity and is consumed by it. raymond is already in it, and uses his position to manipulate situations with the institutional influence his sponsors provide, all in order to pursue cosmic transcendence.
newton is somewhat looking for this as well, but via the salvation of / return to his home, and i don't believe he truly wants to achieve that in a way that will harm those living on earth. newton is treated as this strange and beautiful figure, but is still so alone and separated from community.
raymond is part of this community, but when he's trusted with the powers of alien entities, he becomes a force against that same community. newton exposes the horrors of humanity by being destroyed by it, raymond exposes them by blending into our systems in a scarily effortless way.
hmmm... i just greatly enjoy thinking about the dynamics there. the ways a human feels comfortable destroying others simply for the chance to gain access to alien intelligence, versus the interior conflict an actual cosmic visitor feels when faced with the turmoil of loving humanity and losing themself in that, as they also face the horror of losing their home / sense of self...
if i had to describe either film in short words, i'd say TMWFTE is similarly surreal and existential to the visitor but far sadder... newton is supremely lonely and misunderstood, and his backstory is tragic. the visitor is a baroque / giallo scifi horror flick coming right out of the satanic panic era, and raymond's character is terrifyingly stoic / single-minded. i don't think he regrets anything he did and he doesn't seem to have any feelings of sentiment for the people he's surrounded himself with, because they're just pawns to him + those directing him.
fellow bishop fan 🫵 give me all your bishop headcanons...............
WAAH HAI fellow Bishop fan :3 where do i even begin...
(this ended up being very long so im putting a cut)
- firstly, the most important headcanon to me is that Bishop is bigender... Bishop has a great yearning to be a part of humanity and included with humans, and I think this could easily extend into a like ambivalence in how his gender is perceived so long as she is being assigned one, just any acceptance into that human system is enjoyable, he/she Bishop truthers rise up
- in the TR Napper novel Bishop enjoys drinking whiskey for the sensory input of it and I think if given the opportunity to try them this would extend to more drinks, especially one's with strong tastes, strong smells like floral teas, or similarly smooth textures, I think on the Sulaco given how things are rationed he wouldn’t accept being given food too easily but since fun drinks aren't as essential he could be more easily swayed into having a cup or two
- sort an extension of the last one and I made a long post about it here but tldr I think a lot of Bishop's traits or mannerisms are pretty analogous with autism, something about being socially othered and ostracized for falling short of social norms is very . autistic to me, but something that I didn't really touch on is I think Bishop would benefit from stimming, I think it was also the Napper novel that said this ? if not that then Gibson's scrapped Aliens 3 script but Bishop's joints store energy locally for faster movement/reaction times which I think would make being stationary for long periods kind of uncomfortable, so lots of movements like hand flapping, pacing, or just clenching and unclenching muscles periodically would feel pretty good
- Bishop is a bit more logical in her thinking but I don't think that excludes him from poetic notions, like he has a like index of several star systems just in her brain, and when the crew is alseep and there's nothing to do I think she'd enjoy mentally mapping out the stars and finding new shapes or patterns to overlay over them, Bishop is also just symbolically star-like to me, something about her being very quiet and li trying very hard to fade into the background to not disturb anyone and it makes me think of stars and how they're a very soft and distant thing that is often washed out by brighter light, and I don't think it's a comparison that would be lost on him
- Bishop is also very closely tied to flowers in my head mainly because of these three fics but I do greatly enjoy him having encyclopedic knowledge on flowers and their meanings, I think she also enjoys the different scents and maybe even flavors...
- again, jumping off the idea of Bishop wanting to be a part of human social groups, she definitely enjoys any sort of bonding activity, whether it be playing games to physical touch he gets a lot of positive input from being included, but very rarely if ever will ask to participate, always has to be invited or have someone else initiate, I think the Sulaco crew would be good at doing this, many of them treat Bishop as just another one of them already so I like to think he is frequently included in their shenanigans, in particular I think Hudson is constantly roping him into some nonsense and will bestow upon Bishop many hugs and other such affections kisses I think Hudson should kiss her
- in cryo I don't think Bishop sleeps, but rather goes into a low power usage kind of standby mode, a lot less thinking happening but still is aware and processing through memories to decide what gets put in long-term vs short-term storage similar process to human sleep, after that process is complete I think he's just there . waiting . and when everyone wakes up I think it takes him a minute to remember to be a person again
also because you said all let me live up to my 18+ blog and add the nsfw headcanons as well sniles sneetly
- PRAISE KINK . I don't even feel the need to elaborate on that one . look at the face she makes when Ripley said he did a good job and tell me I'm wrong
- also in that vein I think Bishop would get a kick out of puppyplay.. put her in collar and tell him he's good NOW, something too about being able to shed social expectations and just be . for awhile might be appealing
- if there is a penis down there it's my truth that it's little... 2 inches max, maybe 3 when erect, enough to give the impression of something there for aesthetics and nothing more
- very talkative until he isn't, not necessarily in a dirty talk sense, but I think it's helpful for Bishop to feel safe during sex if she can talk a partner through what he's doing or how what's being done to her is making her respond, and on the flipside will also ask for and need constant reassurance from any partners that what's being done is okay, but once pleasure increases to a certain point I think he loses a lot of vocal functionality, making noises more like a theremin than coherent speech
and that is all I can think of for now >:3 thank you for sending in an ask !!!! I < 3 talking about Bishop yay
