#d-90

He stopped. Blinked once. Slowly.

Then his eyes tracked across the room…

and landed on you.

Seated. Comfortable. Fork halfway to your mouth.

Eating. His. Pie.

“…That’s my box.”

You froze mid-bite. “…Sorry, what?”

“That was MY PIE!,” D-90 repeated, voice calm enough to make it terrifying.

You glanced around. “There are literally fifty other pies in here.”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “And I don’t want fifty other pies. I want that one.”

“They’re all the same flavor.”

“*They are not.*” He clasped his hands behind his back like he was about to give a LECTURE.

“That one was chilled to precisely 3.2 degrees Celsius. Perfect crust integrity. Ideal firmness. It’s tradition.”

You blinked. “…You just said ‘crust integrity’ like it was a security protocol.”

“It *is*,” he said, with the deadly seriousness of someone who would write a 47-page report about it.

“I have taken that same box every week for two years. It saves forty-five seconds of deliberation.”

You squinted. “You’re emotionally attached to a refrigerated pastry.”

“I’m attached to *efficiency.*” He inhaled sharply. “Unlike some people.”

You put your fork down slowly. “…Are you implying I’m inefficient because I picked a random dessert?”

“Yes.”

“That’s insane.”

“So is pruning time criminals, yet here we are.”

You stared at him. He stared back, like a very tired panther deciding if pie theft qualified as justifiable homicide.

“…Okay, but in my defense—” you began.

He raised a finger, slicing the air like a knife.

“No defenses. You knew what you were doing.”

“I did not know I was biting into your emotional support pastry.”

“You absolutely did.”

“You were across the building!”

“I could feel it.”

There was a long, tense pause.

Then he exhaled like a deflating airlock.

“Instead of quietly eating my post-mission pie,” he muttered, “I am now explaining *pie logistics* to a food criminal.”

“…Wow,” you said. 

“Correct. Now return the pie.”

You looked down at the half-eaten slice on your plate.

Then at him.

His eye twitched. Just slightly.

With a theatrical sigh, you nudged the plate across the table.

“Fine. Take it. I haven’t slobbered on it *that* much.”

D-90 sat down stiffly, pulling the plate close like it was a rescued hostage.

For a moment, the tension cracked—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was dangerously close to gratitude.

You watched him chew with the grim dignity of a man trying not to enjoy something.

“…You know,” you said, “normal people don’t emotionally implode over dessert.”

“I’m not normal people,” he replied without looking up. “I work for the TVA.”

“…Touché.”

He set his fork down with military precision, then went completely still.

For a second, you swore he was about to scold you again.

Instead, he just said quietly:

“…I’m tired.”

The words hit like a glitch in the timeline—jarring, unexpected.

You tilted your head. “Tired like ‘need a nap’ tired, or tired like ‘existence is a cruel paradox’ tired?”

“Yes,” he said flatly.

You blinked. “…Okay, that’s not concerning at all.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even flinch.

Just stared at the table, posture still perfect, voice lower now.

“The timeline was a mess,” he said. “Too many branching points. Too much resistance. Analysts will call it ‘contained,’ but they weren’t there.”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again when you saw his jaw tighten.

“They weren’t there when it started fracturing. They weren’t there when the air turned to static. They weren’t—” He stopped, catching himself.

Then breathed out slowly, like venting steam from an overpressured system.

His eyes lifted to yours. Still sharp. But tired.

“…So no. I’m not okay.”

You blinked at him, then looked down at your now-pie-less plate.

“…You could’ve just said that instead of trying to kill me with eye contact.”

His shoulders loosened just a fraction, like someone unclenching a fist.

You studied him for a moment. You almost never saw him like this—cracked around the edges, vulnerable.

“…Did something out there really get under your skin?” you asked gently.

He chewed in silence.

Then nodded once. “A variant.”

“Dangerous?”

“Annoying,” he corrected. “Arrogant. Talked too much. Knew which buttons to push. Kept… laughing.”

“Oof,” you said. “So a professional menace.”

His jaw flexed. “I didn’t lose my temper. I never do. But…”

His eyes locked on yours. Steady.

“…I thought about it. Longer than I should have.”

You raised a brow. “He mocked you, didn’t he?”

“Obviously,” D-90 muttered. “But it’s not just that.”

“Then what?”

He hesitated. Fork hovering above the last bite.

“…Have you ever wondered what you’d be, if you were a variant? If you got to live… out there?”

You blinked. “Uh… honestly, no. I’ve always been TVA. It’s not like I’d be missing much.”

He shook his head slowly. “That’s the thing. They get parties. Festivals. Sunlight. Random nonsense. We don’t get any of that.”

“And your point is…?”

D-90 poked his pie, voice dropping to a near whisper.

“Their lives are colorful.

And most of them don’t even see it.”

You watched him silently poke at the last bite like it might reveal the meaning of life.

“…So,” you said, “deep existential crisis… cured by pie?”

D-90 flicked his eyes up. “Temporarily.”

You grinned. “Guess the TVA knew what they were doing with that ‘one pie per week’ rule.”

“Correct,” he said without hesitation. “Any more would create an emotional imbalance.”

You snorted. “Right. Two pies and you’d start… what? Hugging people?”

His expression didn’t move. “Exactly.”

You blinked. “…Wait, you’re serious?”

“Always.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “God, you’re impossible.”

“Efficient,” he corrected automatically.

You rolled your eyes. “Same thing.”

D-90 finally ate the last bite, set down his fork, and sat back with the faintest sigh—like the weight of the timeline had eased by exactly one pastry’s worth.

“…Thanks,” he said, so quietly you almost missed it.

You smirked. “For what? Committing pie theft?”

“For… restoring balance to the timeline.”

You grinned as you stood. “Glad I could help. But next week, I’m stealing your pie again.”

His gaze sharpened instantly.

“That would exceed your allotted quota.”

“Worth it.”

And for the first time all day, D-90 smiled.

as soon as you reach his apartment, D-90 unlocks the door to let you in. his hand closes the door behind him while his eyes stay trained on you intently. your gaze must be just as dark because he’s on you intently an instant, large hands coming to cup your face and pull you into a loving kiss. it’s desperate and slow. it’d been so long since you’d been alone together, with him just getting back from the Void. you’d thought you’d lost him, you’d never be able to hold him in your arms, never feel his lips on yours. so while his lips stay on yours, tasting every inch of them again, your hands come up to his helmet, unclasping it before setting it on the small kitchens counter. he slips off your own before pulling away to undo the straps and hooks of his uniform. you’d forgone the trip to the armory, too focused on something else to discard your uniforms. so the various pieces are left scattered in a trail to his bedroom. when the trail ends, you’re both bare and exposed to each other. you’re sat on the bed while he’s on his knees before you, head tilted back to reach your lips that kiss his. when he pulls away, he’s panting, face flushed red. “w-wan’ you to call me somethin’ else.” he says, eyelashes fluttering shut as his forehead presses to your chest. confused, your hands runs over his cropped hair and you tilt your head back.

“what?” you ask, somewhat puzzled. “found out my name. they use the first letter of our names. our real names.” he explains, and your eyes widen. “what?” his head pulls away and his eyes are filled with something you can’t place. hatred, betrayal, any cruel emotion that fills his soul from what’s been kept from him by the TVA. “i found out who i am.” he says, and his expression turns soft, more desperate and exposed. so you stay silent, letting him talk. “my names David. David MacTavish.” he says, eyes turning down. “they took me from my timeline. w-who even knows what i had?” he says, voice breaking. you nod and rub his shoulder. “I know.” you reply, tears swelling in your orbs. “I thought about it y’know. leavin’ and seeing what it was.” a pause and a held breath. “but. i think I like this more than anything it had.” he whispers, looking into your eyes now. a small laugh escapes your lips as you smile through the tears that threaten to fall. “David.” you say, and the man below you whimpers. “David.” another noise and his head is buried in your thighs. “David.” one last time and a tight grip on your hips. something burns at you though. who are you? you’ve been Hunter L/N-73 your whole (known) life. who are you really? you don’t want to just be some identification that the TVA gave you. “ho-how did you find out?” you ask, and David’s head lifts. “the Tempad.” he explains, and stands to walk to his small dresser that has his Tempad. he hands it to you, kneeling between your legs again. “scan.” he says, and you press your thumb on the thing, allowing it to log you in. your profile appears, and David taps away until a restricted file shows up. “we could not access it while Miss Minutes controlled it.” he says lowly, and bypasses the wall. he hands it to you, letting you look first.

and there it is. y/n l/n. a huff leaves your chest and you look at him. “think I’ll use this from now on too.” you whisper, smiling. “y/n l/n.” you say, and David breaks into a smile. he rises, pushing you onto your back so he can lay atop you. his stomach presses into your own and you can feel each inch of his skin on yours. soft lips press into the side of your neck. “y/n.” and you can see why he was so vulnerable. lips parting, your eyes screw shut at the sound of him saying your name the way he does. “y/n.” and you moan, hands finding his shoulders. “y/n.” as his tongue licks up and down the vein of your neck, you let your legs part for his hips to press against yours. his now hard length grinds on your warmth, tip pressing on your clit with each small thrust. “David.” you whine, hands tightening on him. you want more, need more. need more of him pressed against you, need him slipping in you like never before, chanting your name as he spills inside you, being able to moan out his as he causes you to release on him. he nods in your neck, fingers reaching down to mess with your pearl. the urge to buck your hips emerges, and you allow your back to arch on his movements. “god, you love my fingers, don’t ya, y/n?” he purrs in your ear and you nod rapidly. “yesyesyesyes.” you say, letting him bully you close to release. his fingers almost seem to vibrate on your clit, and it’s all sending waves of pleasure up your spine. “D-David!” you cry, hand clenching on his bicep. “c’mon.” he growls, and you feel his cropped hair brush against your neck. the coil in your tightens and tightens and tightens and wetness pools in your eyes, threatening to fall over as your jaw tightens and your thighs squeeze together. your hole clenches around nothing though as you come, and David’s fingers rub you right through the aftershocks of release. you’re a proper mess, panting beneath him as his aching member grinds against your thigh.

“Please please please David, wan’ your cock, please.” you beg, fumbling for his length. he helps you guide it, slicking it with your arousal before slipping in the first few inches. you forgot just how large he was. nice and thick, fat veins running down the side of his. the mushroom tip is flushed and red as he slips it out, grinning at the sheen of your liquid on his length. but he’d never leave a pretty girl like you waiting, and slips back into your warmth, groaning as your cavern engulfs him. “fuhhh-fuck y/n. feel so good.” he gets out, grinding his tip on your cervix. you whine at his words, practically purring with pride at the fact that you made him feel good. you made him feel good. you! your tight cunt wrapped around his cock so well, how could he not feel good? David’s thrusts increase, more of him sliding out. he’s careful to keep you nice and full of him though, only pulling out an inch or two at a time. “ngh! D-David yes-just like that.” you pant, hands squeezing his waist. “anh!no’ gonna last long.” he grunts, eyes closed in focus as his hips pick up. “come in me.” you beg, needing to feel it inside you. knowing that you’re his and he’s yours in all ways. a hand comes to play with you, and the combined pleasure of his length hitting that spongy spot, rubbing his veins on your warm walls, and his fingers rubbing your pearl furiously, you let yourself release on him, overwhelmed by the pleasure. head thrown back, your eyes widen and jaw goes slack, letting out a guttural noise when you come. he’s not far behind, animalistic grunts leaving his mouth before he spills inside you, white release painting the inside of your cunt.