#I see them!! AND I LOVE THEM!!! but to the person who sent the ask about hoodies..... yeah ...........

[geminiwritten]

punishment ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore

notes: there are no words in any language (real or fictional) for how much i love this man, it's genuinely consuming... but anyway! have some fighter pilot fun! when i reread this, i felt like it didn't hit the way i hoped, but i can't keep rewriting bradley stuff just because i want everything about him to be perfect... so please be kind! and please, please let me know what you think! i actually worked super hard on this (lots of research) and i absolutely love hearing from y'all!

warnings: swearing, italics, hangman is a proper dick, the word 'cannibalism' is used (as a joke), kind of super cheesy, and it gets a bit horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: there is a lot more navy / pilot wording in this than i usually write. i do not claim that any of it is accurate or correct. i google things and i watch youtube videos, tv shows, and movies. as long as it sounds like it could make sense, i don't care. but please do not assume any of it is absolute fact, and please don't come for me if it's laughably incorrect or unfeasible.

word count: 13863

The bar smells like leather polish and beer. It sounds like a rowdy dive, full of off-duty naval officers and a few old veterans, but it doesn’t look like a dive. It’s clean and full of light, the sun pouring in through the beachside windows and bouncing off every shiny surface it can find. 

You tuck yourself onto the furthest stool at the bar, hiding behind a well-placed pillar to quietly sulk and sip your beer. You’re not interested in conversation today. Not after the ass-whooping you took last week, which landed you on this stupid island in the first place. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to check the text. It’s from Maverick: “0700 sharp. Don’t be late. Khakis.” 

You scoff and stuff it back into the pocket of your leather jacket. Does he really think you’re that dumb? That you’re not going to wear your service khakis on your first day? You’ve got a full day tomorrow of getting chewed out by a whole new slew of admirals. Why would you possibly want to piss them off? 

A smirk tugs at your lips, but you quickly hide it behind a sip of beer. Not that it really matters if anyone notices—they’d probably just think you’re a little crazy, smirking to yourself. No one here knows who you are—at least not by looking at you. Except Maverick, of course. Your new babysitter. 

Just because you pulled off a high-speed, low-level flyby mere feet from the deck of an aircraft carrier while some snooty admiral and a group of very important people were onboard for a very serious demonstration, you get booted from your squad and strapped with a babysitter. 

You didn’t even hit anyone. It was just a very close call. A few people toppled over. But it’s not your fault they didn’t see you coming and brace for jet wash. 

It was actually quite an impressive stunt. 

But the admiral didn’t see it that way. He sent you to learn from one of the Navy’s most notorious rebels about what happens when you break the rules. You’re still not sure why they stuck you with Maverick. Maybe they’re using the logic of ‘two wrongs make a right.’ Either way, that’s one part of this whole shitshow you’re actually relieved about. Maverick’s not a total stick-up-the-ass. 

A voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts and back to the bar. “You here alone?”

Your head snaps toward your personal space intruder, bringing you face-to-face with a rather handsome man who is almost definitely too cocky for his own good. 

“That your big opener?” you ask, twisting on the stool to face him. “Because it’s giving more serial killer vibes than fuck-me vibes.” 

He smirks, unbothered by your prickliness. “Enlighten me, then. What would make you wanna fuck me?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you take a deep swig of beer, then glance back at him. “About fifteen more years of age and a nice, salt-and-pepper beard.” You slide off the stool and smack your empty pint glass down on the bar. “Sorry, pal. I’m only into DILFs.” 

He rears back, finally unsettled. You flash your prettiest grin and a wink before heading for the doors. 

You almost make it out without looking back—almost. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you spot the man rejoining his table of friends, all of them giggling like idiots. 

All but one. 

He’s got honey-brown hair that curls in the most mesmerising way, catching the sunlight like spun gold. His lips are tipped up at the corner beneath a moustache that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. And when you meet his big brown eyes, you can’t help but bite your lip like a shy little schoolgirl. 

Now, if that man had approached you, you’d probably be halfway to his bed by now. 

- 

You had your khakis dry-cleaned at the seedy little place next to the equally seedy fish and chip shop you found after sulking at the beach for most of Saturday. 

The studio apartment you’re leasing for your three months of punishment is in a block right by the sand—another small win in the grand scheme of things. At least you’re not stuck on base. 

You thought it was a small fuck you to the system to skip the official base dry cleaners and take your uniform somewhere else. 

But it wasn’t worth it. 

Now your khakis are super fucking itchy. They look fine, but every inch of fabric touching you—which is a lot—makes you want to peel your skin off. 

“What’s wrong?” Maverick asks, frowning as he watches you twist and turn in your front-row seat in the training room. 

You sigh, rubbing your back against the chair. “I took my uniform to a dry cleaner near my apartment. Now it’s fucking itchy.” 

Any other CO would rip into you for swearing, but Maverick just chuckles. “Serves you right.” 

Smug prick. 

You take a deep breath and try to settle, ignoring the prickling fabric scraping against your skin. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, shuffling through papers at the desk, “you’ll be in a flight suit soon enough.” 

Your eyes widen. You jump to your feet and step closer to where he’s hunched over the desk at the front of the room. 

“You’re going to let me fly?” 

He chuckles. “Of course.” 

“But-” 

“I cleared it with Admiral Simpson,” he says, flipping a page. “As long as the squad doesn’t know who you really are, and you don’t pull anything totally reckless, you’re cleared to fly.” 

For the first time in two weeks, it feels like you’re finally breaking the surface of the water. “Oh my God. Thank you, Mav.” 

He straightens up, finally giving you his full attention. “You don’t have to thank me. I trust you. Just don’t prove me wrong. And for the record—” he adds, a teasing glint in his eye, “—I know you’re a damn good pilot. In fact, you remind me of someone.” 

The cheeky grin on his lips is completely readable. 

You quirk a brow. “You?” 

He laughs—low, light, and smug. “How’d you guess?” 

You shrug one shoulder, slipping back into your seat. “Because I know Admiral Cain has it out for you. Why else would he saddle you with me if not to punish both of us?” 

Maverick sighs, but the grin stays on his face. “You’re not stupid, I’ll give you that. But you’re dangerous. And honestly, I’m not sure Admiral Cain really thought through what happens when you throw two dangerous people together.” 

You drop your voice low, just in case anyone else is listening. “Maybe Admiral Cain is the stupid one. Underestimating both of us.” 

Maverick tries—and fails—to hide his laughter behind the stack of papers, and you realize that maybe this punishment won’t be quite as punishing as you first thought. 

A few minutes later—and after completely shattering all professional boundaries by getting Maverick to scratch a spot on your back you couldn’t reach—the aviators who make up his special detachment start to arrive. 

You stay low and still in your seat as they file in, one by one, filling up the rows while Maverick stands grinning at the front of the room. Two aviators across the aisle glance at you curiously, like they almost recognize you. God, you hope not. 

“Good morning,” Maverick says, grinning at the room. “Apologies for the late start. I had a meeting with Admiral Simpson this morning because today..." He glances at you and nods for you to stand. “We have someone new joining us.” 

You plaster on a polite smile and scan the room—only to freeze when your eyes land on a familiar face. The guy who approached you at the bar last night. The one you all but told to fuck off. 

A snort of laughter escapes before you can stop it. 

He looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face turning redder by the second. You almost feel bad. Almost. 

“This is our new tactical training specialist,” Maverick continues, oblivious. But then he hesitates, glancing down at his paperwork before looking back up and saying your name—your first name, not your last, and definitely not your callsign. 

Just like Admiral Simpson ordered. No one can know who you really are. 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck when your gaze drifts a few seats over... and lands on the moustached sex god you locked eyes with across the bar before you left. The one you shamelessly eye-fucked before blushing like a fool, ducking out the door, and mentally writing a very detailed fantasy about that moustache between your legs. 

He’s even hotter in a flight suit. Shit. 

“Uh, anyway,” Maverick says, clearing his throat, “let’s get on with the briefing so we can fly.” 

You sink back into your chair, cheeks burning and heart thudding way too fast against your ribs. 

Maverick drawls on about a few mission updates, occasionally throwing in extra context just for you—over-explaining like you hadn’t already gotten the full briefing before being flown in. You’re still too stunned to speak—or correct him—so you just press your lips together and nod along. 

An hour later, when you’ve almost completely forgotten about your itchy khakis, Maverick dismisses the group and tells them to meet Hondo in the hangar. He calls on the woman seated across the aisle from you—Phoenix—before she can leave with the others, and asks her to show you to the women’s locker room. 

She nods, then turns to you with a small smirk. “It's Natasha, by the way. Feels a little weird calling you by your real name if you don’t know mine.” 

You return the smile—genuine this time—and keep your eyes on her instead of following the sex god in a flight suit walking out the door. “Nice to meet you.” 

She leads the way out, and you follow, assuming she's heading toward the locker rooms. 

“So, you fly?” she asks, nodding at the shiny wings pinned to your chest. 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“Where were you before this?” 

You hesitate, wishing you’d hashed out a backstory with Mav. “Uh… around. It’s… mostly classified.” 

She raises an eyebrow, sharp curiosity gleaming in her big brown eyes. “Or you've been ordered not to tell us.” 

You snort softly. “Yeah, something like that.” 

She guides you down a set of stairs and a short hallway before gesturing toward the women’s locker room. “Just in there. If they’ve assigned you a locker, your flight suit should already be inside.” 

“Thanks, Phoenix.” 

“Anytime.” She turns to go, but pauses, casting one last curious glance your way before smiling, nodding, and walking off. 

You like her. No bullshit. 

With a deep breath, you push the door open and step into the locker room. Sure enough, your flight suit is hanging beside a locker with your first name written in Sharpie on a piece of masking tape slapped across the front. It’s strange, seeing that instead of your callsign—but it confirms that Admiral Simpson is serious about keeping your identity buried. 

You’d heard your little stunt had made waves, but halfway across the country? If they’re hiding your name out here, then yeah—no wonder you’re in trouble. 

Your flight suit doesn’t have your name on it, either. Just a worn Velcro patch that reads ‘INSTRUCTOR’—the kind that looks like it’s been passed around longer than you’ve been in the Navy. Lovely. 

You peel off your khakis, relieved to shove the itchy green material into your locker, and slip your legs into your flight suit. You leave the top half hanging loose as you re-lace your boots and check your reflection in the mirror before heading out of the locker room. 

You turn down the hall without a second glance, awkwardly trying to shove your arms into your suit—only to carelessly bump into someone coming from the opposite direction. 

“Shit, sorry, I-” You choke on your words when you look up at the prettiest damn smirk you’ve ever seen. 

“You’re good,” he says—the moustached sex god. “Need a hand?” 

Normally, no. But right now, your traitorous body is practically catatonic, pretending it’s forgotten how to function just so the sexy man will help you into your flight suit. You’re supposed to be a tactical training specialist, not an inept fool who can’t dress herself. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you say, ignoring the screaming voice of feminism in your head. “I don’t know how I got so twisted up.” 

He chuckles—deep and warm, like smoke curling around you, pulling you closer. 

“I’m Bradley, by the way,” he says as he steps behind you. “Or Rooster.” 

Your brain completely short-circuits. You don't even think to respond as his fingertips brush your bare arms, sliding the suit up over your shoulders. Even through your thin t-shirt, the heat of his touch sends a riot of butterflies through your stomach. 

“Thanks.” You turn to face him, digging deep for the confidence that usually fools people into thinking you’re calm and collected. “I might need your number… in case I need a little help undressing later.” 

His face breaks into the most breathtaking grin you’ve ever seen. His cheeks flush pink, his Adam’s apple bobs with a soft chuckle, and when his brown eyes meet yours again, they sparkle so brightly you forget how to breathe. 

“Before I say yes, I need to know… do you usually ask your trainees to help you undress, or am I just special?” 

You laugh softly, your confidence flickering, and start down the hall—walking backward so you can still face him. “Right, because I’m technically an instructor.” You tap the Velcro patch on your chest. “And that would be highly inappropriate.” 

Bradley stands with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Highly.” 

“Good thing I’m not exactly known for my propriety.” You flash him your cheekiest smile, then spin around and quicken your pace down the hall. 

You make your way to the hangar—a little breathless from your run-in with the hottest man you’ve ever met—only to be intercepted by Maverick before you can reach the rest of the team. 

“Nothing fancy today, alright?” 

He hands you a dark green, slightly scuffed helmet. 

You frown at it. “But my helmet-” 

“Has your callsign on it.” 

He gives you a pointed look—a silent warning wrapped in patience—before shifting his attention to the squad. 

You roll your eyes as he walks off, then inspect the helmet in your hands, cringing at the cracked lining inside. At least it smells clean. 

After he picks the pilots flying the first drill, everyone heads to their jets. Your fingers twitch with anticipation as you climb into the cockpit, stomach flipping with that familiar mix of nerves and adrenaline. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lifetime. 

Once you're in the air, you follow Maverick’s orders to hang back, constantly reminding yourself that one more slip-up could ground you for good. 

First up: Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy. They’re good, but Hangman is cocky—and there’s a difference between cocky and confident. You’re confident. You know you’re good. And it’s borderline painful to fly like a rookie while he runs his mouth over the comms. 

“Hey Mav,” Hangman says, his voice crackling in your ear. “I’m curious—why do we need a tactical training specialist?” 

“Because you’re not good enough, Hangman. You need to be better,” Maverick replies coolly. 

“With all due respect, sir”—you can practically hear his smirk—“what are we supposed to learn from someone who flies like my grandma drives her Honda Civic?” 

There’s muffled laughter from Payback and Fanboy. 

“Maybe that’s her callsign,” Payback says. “Honda Civic.” 

“I was thinking Grandma,” Fanboy adds. 

More laughter—like they’re the funniest assholes in the sky. 

For a fleeting moment, you consider soaring up in front of them in an admittedly reckless inverted climb just to scare the smug off their faces. But you grit your teeth and bank slowly through a patch of low, cottony clouds instead. 

“Cut the chatter,” Maverick says, voice sharper now. “Or I won’t go easy on you.” 

You almost wish he’d let you off the leash. Let you show them exactly why you’re here. But he’s right. As excruciating as it is to fly like a grandma driving a Honda Civic... this is what you have to do right now. 

By the end of the day, you're bored out of your brain. You've heard so much trash talk from the pilots that you're not only feeling more defeated than after your reaming from Admiral Cain, but you're seriously considering punching one of them square in the face. 

You know it's just banter. They're not really trying to upset you—test you, maybe. Haze you. But it still grates, especially when they keep jabbing at your flying—the one thing you’re damn proud of. 

It sucks hiding your superpower. Is this how Clark Kent feels at the Daily Planet? 

When it’s finally time to hit the showers before Maverick’s afternoon briefing, you’re relieved. You drag your feet down the hall ahead of the others, not in the mood for post-flight chatter. You slip into the locker room, peel off your flight suit and underlayers, and step into the nearest stall. 

The water warms almost instantly, and you sigh in quiet appreciation. You’re just starting to relax when— 

“Get your shit outta my way, Fanboy.” 

You flinch at the voice—Hangman’s—closer than it should be while you're stark naked and dripping wet. Then you glance up and spot a vent high on the wall. It must connect to the men’s locker room. 

“You have a locker. Use it,” Hangman snaps again. 

You roll your eyes and duck back under the stream, letting the hot water drown him out. Or trying to. 

“So, what do we think the deal is with our new tactical training specialist?” one of them—Coyote, you think—asks. 

Hangman scoffs. “She’s no specialist. I’d be surprised if she’s even a fully trained aviator.” 

“She didn’t seem like she had any trouble flying,” Bob says, voice soft but clear. “She just seemed like she was hanging back. Laying low.” 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds—and your stomach does a little somersault. “Maybe she’s a total gun and just waiting to embarrass us all.” 

You smirk. He’s not wrong. If they ever take the leash off, you definitely plan to humiliate them. 

“I doubt it,” Hangman grunts. 

“She’s probably just here to babysit Maverick,” Fanboy says. “We all know Cyclone doesn’t trust him.” 

You snort quietly. 

“You’re not wrong,” Payback chimes in. 

“Probably some admiral’s daughter, too,” Coyote jokes. 

Hangman laughs—smug and overconfident. “I don’t care who she is. One way or another, I’m gonna find out why she’s really here.” 

- 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. You fly like a rookie, listen to Jake—yes, you’ve learned all their real names now—run his mouth like the class clown he insists on being, and endure Maverick assigning you to lead post-flight reviews breaking down the squad’s tactical performance. 

Your nights are spent reading, studying, absorbing everything you can about the thing you’re supposedly a specialist in. You already know your stuff—you like to think you’re pretty sharp tactically—but now that Jake is gunning for you, your cover needs to be airtight. 

The rest of the squad has been decent, if a little wary—not that you blame them. And then there’s Bradley. 

Bradley is nice to you. Like, really nice. Almost suspiciously nice, despite Jake’s constant digs. You catch him looking your way more often than not—though, to be fair, you’re not exactly subtle about your own ogling. He backs you up when Jake crosses the line, and so does Natasha—which only confirms why you liked her from the start. 

But Bradley? Bradley is a problem. The man is a walking, talking hazard to your mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Just hearing his voice over the comms is enough to make your heart skip. 

And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea how to act around him. Cool confidence is second nature when you don’t care what anyone thinks—but with him, you’re suddenly a fumbling schoolgirl with a colossal, deeply inconvenient crush. He’s kind. He’s hot. He’s got that easy swagger of a guy who knows he’s good—and he’s right. It’s not too much; it’s the perfect, dangerously attractive amount of confidence. 

Honestly? He might be the most punishing part of your punishment. 

You spend most of the weekend trying—and failing—not to think about what it would feel like to have that stupid moustache between your legs. Or worse: on the pillow beside yours, with his arms wrapped around you while you sleep. Just sleep. 

Dating seriously in the Navy—or any branch of the military, really—is notoriously difficult. You’ve made peace with casual, mediocre—often infrequent—sex. You’ve learned to ignore the craving for real connection, to smother it under adrenaline and the thrill of flying. But when you look at Bradley—stupid, hot, kind Bradley—you wonder what it would feel like to love him. And to be loved by him. 

Ugh. Gross. 

“You alright?” Maverick asks, brows pinched as he holds out a stack of paperwork. 

You blink, realizing you’ve been zoned out. You’re not sure how long he’s been standing there. 

“Yeah, sorry. Mondayitis,” you mumble, shaking your head and reaching for the stack. 

He rolls his eyes and glances toward the spot you’d just been staring at—where Bradley is talking to a maintenance tech beside his jet. 

“Yeah,” Mav chuckles. “Sure.” 

You snatch the paperwork with a little more attitude than necessary, but at this point, you’re comfortable enough with Maverick to get away with it. He knows the difference between you being genuinely annoyed—usually whenever Jake is within twenty feet—and just being a smartass. 

“You sure you’re good to stay back tonight?” he asks after a beat. “It’s just a routine FOD sweep, but the techs like having someone around who understands the tactical systems, just in case.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, hugging the paperwork to your chest. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Honestly, I’ll take any excuse to speak to humans outside the hours of nine to five.” 

Maverick chuckles, but then tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really not doing anything else? You don’t even go out? Or, I don’t know… do Tinder?” 

You raise a brow at him, trying not to laugh. “No, Mav. I don’t do Tinder.” 

“Oh.” He nods like that’s good news, but then frowns. “Still, you should go out sometime. Grab a drink, meet someone. This is a Navy town—there’s plenty of-” 

“Are you seriously giving me advice on getting laid?” you interrupt, eyes wide with disbelief. 

A faint pink tints his cheeks, but he doesn’t backpedal. “Not explicitly. But I just don’t see the point in making this punishment even more miserable by ignoring the outside world.” 

“Punishment?” 

You both freeze. Bob is suddenly beside you, looking wide-eyed and flushed—like he knows he shouldn’t have overheard but absolutely couldn’t help himself. 

You turn to him, panicked. “He—uh, what Mav means is-” 

“Bob!” Natasha’s voice cuts across the hangar. “Move it or you’re walking to The Hard Deck!” 

He gives a polite nod and bolts before either of you can say more. 

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. 

Maverick waves it off. “It’s fine. Bob’s a vault. Even if he does say something, we’ll spin it.” 

You narrow your eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re the one trying to blow my cover, not Hangman.” 

He laughs, unbothered. “You need to relax. Seriously—go out with the others tonight. Let off some steam. Maybe meet someone.” 

You groan, stepping back. “Are we back to this already? I can’t go out tonight—I’m stuck here babysitting the FOD inspections so you can go on a date and get laid.” 

That earns you a devilish grin. “You could still go out after.” 

“It’ll be too late.” 

“Alright then.” He flashes that troublemaking smile, then strolls off toward Bradley. 

You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you see it. The mischief in Maverick’s eyes, the subtle glance Bradley throws your way, the small nod. 

“Rooster’s staying back with you,” Mav says when he returns. “He’s going to help start inventorying the night gear before next week’s night ops. Keep you company.” Then he winks. “You’re welcome.” 

Your cheeks flame instantly. You can feel the blush rising from your chest to the tips of your ears, especially as Bradley sends you one of those slow, devastating smirks from across the hangar. 

You never imagined this would be your biggest problem, but here you are—drowning in paperwork and feelings, stuck with one ridiculously hot pilot… all because your CO thinks he’s Cupid. 

You do your best to avoid Bradley at first—and it mostly works. He waves off his friends, all of whom are more than a little annoyed he’s skipping the bar, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind. You find a relatively clear table toward the back of the hangar to spread out your paperwork and start sorting through what needs signing for tonight’s special inspections. 

One of the technicians wanders over and spends twenty straight minutes mansplaining the FOD sweep and borescope process. Normally, you'd bite a guy’s head off for talking to you like you're five, but this time, you let him ramble. Anything to keep a buffer between you and Bradley. 

The night wears on, and the techs move through their routines with smooth, practiced efficiency. You answer questions when needed, sign off on paperwork, and try not to keep checking to see where he is. After a couple of hours, you find yourself staring blankly at your neatly reorganized stack of documents—for the fourth time. 

“You alright?” Bradley’s voice cuts in, low and warm. He stops a few feet away, arms full of night vision goggles. 

You snap upright and nod. “Yep. Just a little bored. Need help?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and your stomach does a full aerial twist when he smiles. 

“Yeah, actually. There’s more NVGs to go through, and I need to check we’ve got enough night-adapted flight helmets.” 

You nod again and follow him to the gear closet. It isn’t small, but it’s tightly packed with equipment that smells like age and dust. The doorknob is mottled with rust, and the door itself is being propped open by a bent prybar wedged underneath. 

“Wow,” you mutter. “Luxury storage.” 

Bradley chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, not exactly state of the art. But Mav avoids complaining—less time in the admiral’s office.” 

You laugh softly, running a finger along a dusty shelf. “Can’t argue with that.” 

He casts a glance your way, curious but unreadable, as he stacks the goggles beside you. Then he points to the shelf of helmets and tells you to grab what you can and bring them over to where he’s been cleaning and inspecting gear. 

It takes a few trips, but eventually you’ve got all the helmets laid out across the hangar floor while Bradley goes down the checklist on his clipboard. You drop into a cross-legged seat beside the gear, inspecting each helmet one by one—checking the straps, the fixings, the visor, making sure there are no cracks or faults. 

Bradley settles across from you, reaching for a helmet of his own. “So,” he says, casual and curious, “do you already have a callsign, or are we still workshopping?” 

You glance up through your lashes, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Classified.” 

He arches a brow. “That’s not a no. Should I be worried it’s something like Deathwish? Or Heartbreaker?” 

A quiet laugh escapes you as you trade one helmet for the next. “What if it’s closer to the second one?” 

He nods slowly, a smirk tugging beneath that damn moustache. “Then I’ll adjust my expectations.”  

“That’s your first mistake,” you say lightly. “Having expectations.” 

His gaze lingers a little longer this time, thoughtful. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. You’re not trying to be cryptic—it’s just that words get sticky around him. Being guarded feels easier than being obvious. You’re not that complicated, really… but for some reason, with Bradley, keeping your walls up feels safer. 

And maybe, if he’s curious enough, he’ll keep pushing. You kind of hope he does. 

More hours pass, and you fall into a comfortable rhythm. When needed, the techs call you over to check something or sign something off, then you return to Bradley with a sarcastic remark or a curious question. He doesn’t pry too much about why you’re here, but he asks simple things—where you grew up, what your favourite colour is, if you have any pets. The conversation stays light and easy, and you find yourself looking forward to hearing his voice again after every question you answer. 

“Alright, we’re just about finished up,” one of the technicians—Randall— says as he ambles over. 

You’re crouched on the floor with a few open night ops survival kits in front of you, checking for chem lights, strobes, and IR beacons.  

“Oh, that’s great,” you say, brushing your hands off on your pants as you stand. “Thanks.” 

He nods. “Security did a walk-through ten minutes back. I told ’em you two were in here, and they said they’d circle back unless you’re planning to leave with the rest of us.” 

You glance at Bradley, silently letting him decide—though you’re secretly hoping he chooses to stay. 

“We’ll be here a little longer,” he says, his eyes flicking to you. “I think.” 

You nod, and his cheekbones flush pink as a small smile tugs at his lips. 

Randall glances up, motioning vaguely at the walls. “Cameras there,” he says, pointing, “there, and there. Dead spots are that corner… or the gear closet. Y’know—if you don’t want to get caught.” 

Your eyes widen and heat floods your face. 

Bradley lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Thanks, Randall. I don’t even want to ask how you know that, but… good to know.” 

The older man grins and lumbers off, whistling. 

The second he’s out of earshot, you groan into your hands. “What is with old men today?” 

Bradley raises a brow. “Don’t tell me one of the other techs gave you a hookup tutorial.” 

“Nope,” you sigh, dropping your hands. “Mav. I think he was trying to give me dating advice. Told me I should ‘get out there’ more.” 

Bradley snorts. “Was it any good?” 

“Well,” you say, “he’s glad I’m not on Tinder—wants me to meet someone the authentically. But then he was annoyed I’m not going to the bar tonight. Never mind the fact he’s the reason I’m stuck with overtime.” 

Bradley opens his mouth, pauses, then squints at you. “Wait… was this right before he came and told me to start inventorying night gear?”  

“Yup,” you reply, popping the p and being careful not to look at him. 

“Right,” Bradley chuckles. “Maybe we should change Mav’s callsign to Cupid.” 

You roll your eyes, ignoring the blush blooming in your cheeks. “Or Stupid.” 

You quietly keep packing up the survival kits and carrying them back to the gear closet. A few of the techs call out their goodbyes as they leave, but most don’t. And then—it’s quiet. Too quiet. 

You’re not sure if the tension comes from being suddenly alone—or from the fact that Bradley now knows why Maverick asked him to stay. Would he have bailed if he’d known sooner? 

He didn’t look horrified. Didn’t flinch or recoil. Just made a joke. 

But what the hell is that supposed to mean? 

“We can finish up soon, if you want,” you offer, even though you don’t want to. 

But now you’re overthinking everything. What if he doesn’t want to be here? What if he thinks you expect something to happen—like you’re in on whatever matchmaking crap Mav is trying to pull? 

“Oh,” he says, following you into the gear closet. “I mean, it’s up to you.” 

There’s a beat of silence while you both stack kits onto the shelf. 

“I mean, if you’re trying to make it to the bar,” he adds, his laugh a little forced. 

You shoot him a flat look. “Yeah, right. With all my friends.” 

He shrugs, but it looks stiff. “Maybe you’ve decided to take Mav’s advice. Meet a guy or whatever.” 

You lead the way out of the closet, your brows furrowed as you try to decode his words. 

Is he encouraging you to go? Telling you not to? 

Why is this suddenly complicated? Why are you even thinking about any of this when you’re only here as punishment? You shouldn’t be worrying about boys and feelings. 

You shake your head and decide to ignore it, scooping up more survival kits to return to the gear closet. Bradley is right behind you, carrying the last of them. 

You’ve just reached the shelf and freed your arms when there’s a bang and a sharp screech. 

“Shit,” Bradley mutters, stumbling forward. 

He catches himself before dropping anything—but then a loud slam echoes through the space, and both of your heads snap toward the door. 

“No,” you mutter, rushing from the shelf to the door. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

The rusted doorknob starts to crack in your grip. It doesn’t twist or even budge—just crumbles like sugar in hot water. 

“Wait,” Bradley says, dumping the kits on the shelf. “Are we actually trapped?” 

“No,” you bite out, twisting the handle again. It snaps, and a piece of rusted metal—fantastic—sticks into your palm. “Fuck. Shit.” You whirl around, clutching your hand. “Okay, maybe.” 

Bradley doesn’t panic. He chuckles. It’s light, casual—and laced with something else. Satisfaction, maybe? 

“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer. 

You instinctively offer your hand. The cut isn’t deep, but there’s a decent smear of red pooling in your palm. 

“Lucky we just restocked the survival kits,” he says with a wink. 

You want to roll your eyes—but instead, you smile like an idiot. He’s so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your skin like a slow burn—and then his hand wraps gently around yours, sending a surge of electricity crackling up your arm and straight to your chest. 

“This is just my luck,” you mutter. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Technically, I’m the one who tripped on the prybar, so I think it’s my luck.” 

“Yeah, but I’m known to be a bit of a…” You trail off, clearing your throat, scrambling to find a word other than the one on the tip of your tongue. 

His head tips, eyes narrowing. “A what?” 

“Walking disaster,” you say quickly. 

That earns another chuckle as he turns to the shelf of survival kits. “I wouldn’t call this a disaster.” 

You scoff. “Really? We’re stuck in a dusty gear closet at ten o’clock at night, the techs just bailed, our phones are in our lockers, and security probably won’t even realise we’re in here.” 

Still facing away, he rummages through one of the kits. “I’m trapped in a closet with a pretty girl,” he says. “Not exactly a disaster in my books.” 

You press your lips together, trying to smother the grin threatening to break loose—but then he turns around, wearing the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label. It’s cocky and knowing, like he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on you—and worse, he’s enjoying it. Heat flares beneath your skin, and suddenly the gear closet feels about ten degrees hotter. 

“See?” he says, offering his hand for yours again. “Can’t argue with logic.” 

You let him clean and bandage the cut on your hand, silence stretching thick between you. The warmth radiating off his body fogs your brain, making it nearly impossible to focus on escape routes from this stupid closet. His hands are slightly calloused—evidence of years gripping the F/A-18’s control stick the way you’re now imagining gripping something else entirely. 

Fuck. This man might actually be the death of you. 

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your cheek as he stands so damn close. “You’re not claustrophobic or anything, right?” 

You shake your head, subtle and slow, your gaze locked on his lips, your voice nowhere to be found. 

“Good,” he says. “Because we’re probably stuck in here all night. No windows, no vents, and there’s no way we’re getting any of these radios on the same frequency as the tower. That door’s older and more stubborn than Mav—it was built to keep people out, which means it’ll do just fine keeping us in.” 

You sigh, eyes drifting down to your bandaged hand. “Great.” 

He quietly packs the kit away, head bowed over the shelf as he works, giving you a moment to just look. His long legs are braced slightly wider than his shoulders, making him seem even more solid, more commanding. He all but consumes the small closet space, his honey-brown hair dangerously close to grazing the low ceiling. His fingers move deftly, expertly, and you can’t help but wonder what else they’d be good at. 

“You’re staring,” he says suddenly. 

Your cheeks warm. “I’m calculating.” 

He gives you a sideways glance and that crooked smile—the one that makes your heart miss a beat. “Calculating what?” 

“What chance I have of overpowering you if the situation becomes dire.” 

He chuckles, but it’s lower this time. Rougher. A little dangerous. “Define ‘dire’.” 

You shrug and turn your back to the shelves, sliding down to the floor. “You know. Cannibalism.” 

You lean against the bottom shelf, packed tight with gear boxes—solid enough to act as a makeshift backrest while you stretch your legs out in front of you. 

“Cannibalism,” Bradley echoes, settling beside you. “Right. So, is it straight to eating each other, or are there warning signs I should look out for?” 

His arm brushes yours as he shifts, the heat of his body seeping through your flight suit. And the way he said eating each other? Yeah—that’s not helping. 

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat to redirect your filthy thoughts. “First comes shock and denial.” You lift your bandaged hand. “But I think I’m past that.” 

He nods, eyes on you, like he’s genuinely interested—or just waiting for your next move. 

“Then anxiety and panic,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips. “You might start crying, beating your fists on the door���” 

He snorts, and you catch him glancing at your mouth. 

“Then comes anger and frustration,” you say, letting your voice drop just a little. “We’ll start blaming each other. Arguing. And then…” You trail off, licking your lips, gaze moving slowly down his body with exaggerated interest. “Desperation.” 

“What happens then?” he asks, his voice soft, deep—almost reverent. Like you’re telling him a secret he already knows. 

You glance at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. His long fingers tangled with tension, as if he’s holding himself still. 

“We’ll probably give in to all the tension,” you murmur. 

There’s a pause—so brief it’s barely a breath—before he asks, “What does that mean?” 

You finally meet his gaze, smirking like you already have him cornered. “You know exactly what I mean, Bradshaw.” 

The tension snaps when he laughs softly, his cheekbones tinged pink as he looks away. 

“Well then,” he says, “if we’re going to be stuck in here until we both go mad, don’t you think I deserve to know who you really are?” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not a bad try. Still classified.” 

He tips his head back against the shelf, and your eyes catch on the long column of his throat as he speaks. “Oh, come on. You think I’m going to tell anyone?” 

“No, not really,” you murmur, gaze still fixed on the warm tan skin of his neck. 

You feel like a starved vampire, fixated on his jugular with something close to bloodlust. But really, you just want to sink your teeth in—hard enough to leave a mark. Claim him. 

God. Since when has a man made you feel this feral? 

Then he tips his head down again and pins you with those big brown eyes. “So why won’t you tell me?” 

You meet his gaze. “I think you already know more about me than most people do. Is it really that bad not knowing my last name or callsign? Ask me anything else.” 

His smile turns boyish, softening him, making him look younger than he is. “So you admit you have a callsign?” 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“When’d you get it?” 

“Flight school.” 

“Is there a cool story behind it?” 

You wobble your head as if weighing the answer. “Sort of. It’s not really a story—it’s more of a personality trait.” 

He nods slowly. “So I might be able to figure it out?” 

You shake your head. “Probably not. Not with the way Mav has me flying.” You don’t entirely mean to throw him a bone—some sliver of the truth behind why you’re really here—but it slips out anyway. 

His eyes narrow. “So you are holding back,” he says. It’s not a question. 

You don’t answer. Instead, you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down—hard. His gaze flicks to your mouth, and lingers there, watching you. Something in his eyes darkens, and you can see the flush crawl up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. 

“Okay, my turn,” you say, angling your body toward him. “This whole ‘prince charming’ thing. The cheeky smiles, the perfectly tousled hair—does it always work for you?” 

He frowns, but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the amusement threatening to break across his face. “What do you mean, ‘does it work’?” 

You shrug, trying—and failing—to seem nonchalant. The green-eyed monster in your chest rearing its ugly head. “I’ve seen you walking around like you own the place. Don’t tell me you haven’t left a trail of broken hearts across the country. I mean, I see the way you are with Phoenix, all the-” 

“Phoenix?” he interrupts, his eyes growing wide. “Phoenix and I are friends. Period. I’m actually pretty sure she’s hooking up with Bob, but she’s too scared to tell the rest of us because we’ll ruin it. Which, fair enough. Hangman can be a bit of a bitch.” 

“Oh, I know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “But don’t change the subject. You seriously don’t expect me to believe there aren’t a hundred women trying to beat down your door every Friday and Saturday night?” 

He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There might be one or two broken hearts in my past, but I can promise you, no one is beating down my door. And the ‘prince charming’ act...” He leans in just a little, his voice lowering. “That’s just for you.” 

This man is actually trying to kill you. 

You roll your eyes and feign indifference. “Smooth.” 

He raises his brows, that smirk still firmly in place. “You think?” 

“You know exactly what you’re doing, Bradshaw.” 

He chuckles, leaning back and resting his head against the shelf again. “Well, yeah. I know what I’m doing. But I can’t tell if it’s working or not.” 

You fight a smile, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah,” you mutter, “it’s working.” 

The next hour passes with random questions exchanged, both of you settling into an easy rhythm. He’s careful not to pry too much, slipping in the occasional question about your past or why you're really here. You answer with playful eye rolls and a quick “that’s classified,” but despite the walls you try to keep up, you find yourself telling him more than you expected. His presence is warm and easy, and there’s something about the way his eyes study you—genuine curiosity mixed with a hint of hunger—that makes you open up in ways you didn’t expect. 

Then, after a beat of silence, he asks, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” 

It’s a stark contrast to the casual questions you’ve been tossing back and forth. Your brows pinch, and you tip your head, a wave of exhaustion making your posture sag. You open your mouth to reply, but he jumps in again, voice laced with sudden panic. “Wait, you don’t have some secret boyfriend... right?” 

A soft laugh escapes your lips. “No, I don’t.” 

His shoulders visibly relax, his eyes blinking slowly, tiredly. “Why not? Aside from the stock standard military excuse.” 

You rest your head against the shelf, staring up at the paint flaking off the ceiling. “I like to blame the navy, but I think it’s mostly my fault. I can be... picky. I guess my standards are higher than they have a right to be. The last actual boyfriend I had... sucked. Monumentally.” You pause, biting your lip. “He scarred me. Haven’t really wanted to date seriously since.” 

There’s a flash of something unfamiliar across Bradley’s face—an emotion that’s gone before you can catch it, replaced quickly by curiosity. “Why did he suck?” 

You snort softly, remembering your last relationship with a sick feeling in your stomach. “Do you want the PG version or the real one?” 

His gaze hardens, anger flashing behind his eyes, though he masks it quickly. “The real one.” 

“Okay,” you say, steeling yourself for the uncomfortable memories. “Well, aside from just being a piece of shit...” You pause, taking a deep breath. “After almost two years together, he—uh, he had a hard time finishing... with me. Told me it was because he was bored, too used to me. Said I wasn’t good enough to, you know... get him there.” 

The silence that follows is suffocating, thick enough to make you choke. Your chest aches, but you can’t find the strength to breathe. Bradley’s expression has turned murderous. His eyes darken, his brows drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His cheeks are flushed, redder than before, and the colour crawls down his neck and disappears beneath his flight suit collar. 

“He told you that?” he asks, his voice rough, low, cutting through the silence like a blade. 

You nod, a bitter laugh escaping as you remember the moment. “Yep. Right in the middle of it.” 

His eyes narrow, and the anger in his gaze intensifies. “He said that to you while you were having sex?” 

You nod again, your lips pressed tight, bracing for whatever might come next. Bradley looks like he’s ready to explode, like a bull in a chute, and though it’s scary, it’s also... unsettlingly hot. 

“I broke up with him the next day,” you say softly. 

“Good,” Bradley growls, his voice tight. 

Silence settles between you again, but this time it’s softer—less charged, more intimate. You can breathe. And now that the adrenaline has faded, so has your energy. Your eyelids are heavy, your shoulders ache, but the hard clips of the gear boxes digging into your back are making it impossible to get comfortable. 

You shift upright with a quiet sigh, glancing around the cramped space for anything soft to lie on. But the only thing that looks remotely inviting is Bradley’s lap. 

He has his head tipped back, lids half-lowered, but there’s no missing the way he catches your gaze. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips—lazy and warm. 

“You can lie down,” he murmurs, voice husky and low, dragging heat across your skin. 

“You sure?” you ask, even though you’re already moving. 

He adjusts his posture, leaning back against the shelves to make room. The slight shift in his stance feels oddly like an invitation, like he’s preparing for you. Your heart pounds as you reposition yourself, curling toward him and easing your head gently into his lap. 

It feels too intimate for what it is—but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, his body goes still, and then he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to ground himself. 

The heat of him is immediate, seeping into your skin. Without thinking, you press your freezing hands to his thighs with a groan of relief. 

Bradley stiffens. “Shit. Uh... careful where you put those.” 

You glance up. His mouth is parted slightly, breath coming and going faster now. That faint pink flush has darkened, stretching across the bridge of his nose. His eyes—wide, dark, hungry—meet yours. 

“Oops,” you murmur, lips twitching. “Sorry.” Though you’re absolutely not. 

You try to focus on relaxing, but the feel of him beneath you is intoxicating. Your exhaustion is at war with the slow burn licking through your blood. You close your eyes anyway, willing your body to settle. 

Eventually, his breathing evens out again—and so does yours. You curl in tighter, tucking your knees up, and nestle into him a little more. His breath catches, barely audible, but telling. Then, after a beat, his hand rests lightly on your hip. Just that. But it sends a rush of heat spiralling through you. 

His other hand shifts near your face, and, emboldened, you ease one of your own free and find his. Your fingers slide into place between his, lacing together like it’s instinct. 

The spark that jolts up your arm is instant—sharp, electric, undeniable. 

Yeah. This man is a hazard. To your health, to your career… And definitely to your cover. 

- 

You’re not woken by your alarm or the sound of your neighbour—who also happens to be navy—slamming his door on his way out. You’re woken by something solid pressing into the back of your head. Something warm. Something insistent. Almost like… 

Holy shit. 

You sit up like a shot, as if a gun’s gone off, your body protesting the movement after a night on the floor. But the aches barely register. Not when you’re suddenly very aware of the very impressive bulge currently tenting Bradley’s flight suit. 

You press your lips together, partly to hold back your laugh—and partly to keep yourself from doing something absolutely unholy. Like burying your face in his lap. Mouthing him through the thick material. Slowly unzipping that khaki jumpsuit and devouring him until he forgets how to breathe. 

God. You’ve never woken up so horny in your life. 

You briefly consider nuzzling back into him, soaking up every drop of that delicious warmth—until you hear voices outside. And then you see it: a sliver of daylight spilling beneath the door. 

You scramble to your feet and tiptoe to the door, pressing your ear against it. You should be thrilled you’re getting out of this dusty closet, but disappointment prickles under your skin. You’re not going to sleep with Bradley tonight—not in any sense of the word. Which is stupid. Completely insane. You’d rather spend another night on a hard floor with him than go home to your own bed. 

You shake your head and focus on the voices. You don’t recognize any of them. Tech crew, most likely—starting early. 

You lean over Bradley, gently scratching the crown of his head. “Hey,” you whisper, keeping your voice low just in case. 

His eyes flutter, then snap open—briefly panicked before he remembers where he is. He looks up at you with a sleepy smile, soft and hazy. “Hey. How’d you sleep?” 

You laugh quietly. “Surprisingly well. Until I was woken up by your little lieutenant—well, actually, not-so-little, but anyway…” You trail off, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m going to shut up now.” 

His brows knit in sleepy confusion… until understanding hits. He glances down—and immediately covers his lap with both hands. “Shit. Sorry.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’d offer to help you out, but I think we should probably get out of here before the others show up.” 

His mouth opens, his gaze snapping to yours—hopeful and tortured all at once. Clearly debating whether it would be worth the risk. 

He sighs, defeated, and pushes to his feet. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” 

You both move to the door, listening for familiar voices. 

After a moment, Bradley murmurs, “I think we’re in the clear. Sounds like it’s just techies.” 

You nod. “Alright, do we start yelling for help now?” 

He glances down at himself and makes a face. “Can I get a minute first?” 

You snort softly, biting your bottom lip to contain your grin. But you can’t stop the way your eyes drift down, or the warmth that floods your chest. Whether it’s the lap-nap or the fact you’ve gone completely stupid for this man, you’ve never wanted to drop to your knees more in your life. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, brows drawn as he focuses on anything that isn’t you. “You’re not helping.” 

“Sorry,” you giggle, turning fully toward the door. “I’ll just wait here.” 

He chuckles, low and rough, his voice coated in sleep and something far thicker—undeniable desire. He paces the tiny length of the closet like a caged tiger, careful not to look at you. 

A few minutes later, he returns to your side and nods. “Okay. Ready now.” 

You smirk and nod, resisting the very strong urge to glance down. Then you both turn toward the door and start knocking. 

“Hello!” you shout, mouth close to the seam. “Help! Please!” 

There’s the sound of footsteps, muffled voices. Then a rough voice answers, “Hello? Someone in there?” 

“Yes!” you call back. “The doorknob’s broken—we can’t get out.” 

There’s a jiggle of what’s left of the knob on your side, but it doesn’t move. 

“S’not budgin’,” the man says. “Stand back, alrigh’?” 

“Okay,” you say just as Bradley grabs your arm and pulls you to the back corner of the closet. 

He cages you with his body, chest pressed to yours, shielding you like a human wall. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—his breath ghosting over your cheek, his thigh brushing yours, your mouth so close to his. One glance up and you know you’d be kissing. You want to. God, do you want to. But now isn’t the time. 

A bang. Then another. The door rattles, the hinges groaning. One final crash sends the door flying inward, half-torn from its frame. 

Bradley doesn’t move at first. Then he exhales and shifts away slightly—just enough to look—but his hand remains on your wrist, protective. 

“You alrigh’?” the voice asks, silhouetted in the sudden glare of morning light. 

You squint, the brightness stabbing at your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “We’re fine.” 

You both blink as your vision adjusts and step toward the opening. 

“Exactly how long have you two been in there?” comes a second voice. One you know far too well. 

Maverick. 

Your stomach drops. 

As your vision clears, the scene before you sharpens into a full-blown nightmare. Maverick, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, slap-worthy smirk imaginable. Behind him: Natasha, wide-eyed, biting her lip to keep from laughing; Bob, cheeks glowing red; Reuben and Mickey, snickering like they’re in middle school; and—of course—Jake, grinning like he’s just won the damn lottery. 

You're never living this down. 

Before you can even begin to defend yourself, Jake lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rooster. Didn’t know we were doing supply closet survival drills.” 

Bradley sighs. “It was locked, Hangman.” 

“Oh, I believe you,” Jake says, his grin wide. “But the rest of the hangar? Not so much.” 

Maverick raises a brow, smirk firmly in place. “Glad to see you both survived the night. Though next time, maybe just request a room.” 

You shoot him your sharpest glare—just shy of throwing a knife right at your CO. “That door needs to be fixed. You’re lucky I was stuck in there with Bradshaw and not one of these other idiots, or you’d have a dead body to deal with.” 

Your glare swings to Jake, cutting him off before he can open his mouth again. 

Maverick starts to reply but pauses, eyes flicking down to your bandaged hand. “Do you need to go to medical?” 

You shake your head. “No. But I could really use a shower.” 

He nods, then turns his attention to Bradley. “You need the day off?” 

“No,” Bradley says. “We slept.” 

Jake chuckles, wicked and bright. “That’s not what the security tapes say.” 

Your heart stutters. “Th-There’s no camera in there. Randall said-” 

“Randall told you about the camera blind spots?” Maverick cuts in, clearly amused. 

The group bursts into laughter, and even Bradley’s mouth twitches into a smirk. 

Jake winks. “Relax, I was kidding, sweetheart. But hey, good to know Rooster kept you safe. Always knew he was the gentleman type.” 

You roll your eyes and cross your arms, a physical barrier against the swarm of smug faces. “Unlike you, Hangman, Rooster is a gentleman.” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick says, waving a hand to dismiss the squad. “You lot suit up. And you two—hit the showers.” He starts to walk off, then glances over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Separately.” 

Your cheeks go up in flames, but there’s no clever comeback waiting on your tongue. You just take a breath and storm toward the locker rooms, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back at Bradley… and ask if maybe he would want to shower together. 

After a longer-than-necessary shower, you change into spare underclothes and slip your flight suit on over the top. It takes a little extra confidence to step back out of the locker room, but eventually, you do. You settle in the waiting room and do your best to pretend to work—analysing flight data and scribbling notes on tactical performance from Maverick’s current sky drills. 

No one speaks to you, but you don’t miss the way Jake smirks as he strolls into the room after his run. Or the way he leans toward Javy, whispering something just out of earshot. You ignore it. You’re too tightly wound to entertain his usual bullshit. 

When the day finally ends, you drag yourself home and go through the usual motions. But you can’t stop checking your phone. 

You know last night was a fluke—an accident that landed you in a supply closet with the man your heart has apparently chosen to obsess over. You know better than to expect a message or a call. To think he might actually take you up on that teasing offer from this morning. 

He’d been perfect last night. Soft, warm, protective—furious at your ex and almost wrecked with want when you’d touched him. 

But today? He didn’t speak to you once. Not in an obvious, pointed way. Just… didn’t. He didn’t sit next to you in the afternoon briefing. He didn’t chase you down before you left. 

Maybe he’s not interested. Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought. 

Despite how much your body aches and how tired you are, sleep doesn’t come easy. Your mattress is too soft. Your pillows are too cold. There’s no steady heartbeat to lull you into slumber. No warm hand to tangle your fingers with. The silence feels sharp in your ears, and your room feels colder than it did the night before last. 

- 

You’re awake well before your alarm, so you take your time getting ready. You shower even though you don’t need to, apply a little makeup even though you usually don’t, and secure your hair with more precision than normal. Breakfast is slow and deliberate, eaten in front of the TV as if you have all the time in the world. 

You’re still out the door early—even before your inconsiderate neighbour, Slammy Steve. You finally gave him a name for when you curse him every morning as his door slams shut. 

At base, you head toward the usual hangar, steeling yourself to face the squad again—to face Bradley. Your stomach twists at the thought. You’re far too hung up on a man who probably sees you as nothing more than a bit of fun to flirt with. 

You’re the first in the briefing room by a good half hour, but the time passes quickly as your thoughts spiral. Bob’s the next to arrive, and he gives you a polite smile before settling in with his travel mug and quietly watching videos on his phone. 

One by one, the rest of the squad filters in. 

“You know me, Coyote,” Jake’s voice rings out, smug and too loud as he strolls in with his wingman. “I’m a generous man. I can’t help myself.” 

You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you know it’s bullshit. 

You sink lower in your chair and roll your eyes, hoping he won’t see you. 

“Morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake calls as he drops into his usual seat just behind you. Then he leans in, his voice close to your ear. “What do we have here?” 

You don’t react. 

“Hangman,” Natasha warns flatly, “for once in your life, don’t be a dick.” 

“What?” he says, mock innocence dripping from every syllable. “Just trying to say good morning to our lovely tactical training specialist.” 

You glance at Natasha. She meets your eyes and offers a soft, apologetic smile—not that this idiot is any of her fault. 

“Good morning, aviators,” Maverick’s voice fills the room, and some of the nausea in your stomach eases. “How are we today?” 

There are a few mumbled responses—none from you—as he sets a stack of papers on the desk and powers up his laptop for the interactive display. He casts you a brief look and a small smile before returning to the task of setting up. 

Then another set of footsteps enters at the back of the room, and you can’t help but turn. 

“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “Overslept.” 

Maverick nods as Bradley takes his seat. No one says anything—until Jake does. 

A low, sharp whistle. Then, into your ear again, “Guess getting locked in a closet’s the only way you’ll ever get Rooster to spend the night, huh?” 

That’s all it takes to make the rubber band snap. 

You’re on your feet in an instant, eyes narrowed, anger simmering beneath your skin like wildfire. You’re nauseous again—burning from the inside out. 

“What the fuck is your problem?!” you snap, louder than intended—but you don’t care. 

You’re angry. You’re humiliated. A week of jabs and insults from a man who doesn’t even know you, and now this, after falling for another man who apparently wants nothing to do with you. 

Jake chuckles, condescending as hell. “Woah, settle down. It was just a joke.” 

“You’re a fucking joke,” you bite back, voice low and steady—deadly. “You talk a big game, but the only thing you’ve mastered is flying straight and fast. You burn fuel and pull Gs like it’s a dick-measuring contest, but the second a manoeuvre requires restraint, finesse, or actual tactical thinking? You fall apart.” 

You lean in, eyes locked on his like a missile. “You’re sloppy in a merge, predictable in a climb, and your cross-checks are lazy as hell. You fly like you’re invincible—which might be fine in a video game, but up there? That gets people killed.” 

You pause, just long enough to see if Maverick will step in. He doesn’t. 

“You’re not untouchable, Seresin. You’re just loud.” 

Then you turn back to the front and drop into your seat, arms crossed, chest heaving as you take a few deep, centring breaths. 

A low snicker breaks the silence, followed by a quiet, impressed whisper: ‘Damn… take that, Bagman.’ You don’t turn around, but you don’t have to—Jake’s probably still blinking. Pride simmers in your chest, and despite your best efforts, a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. 

“Well then,” Maverick says, rubbing his palms together with a smirk. “Let’s get started.” 

The morning briefing goes better than usual, mainly because Jake is too embarrassed to pipe up with his usual bullshit. Maverick talks through today’s drills, outlining what he’s looking for in their flying. He also mentions that you'll be up in the air today, analysing their tactical skills and reviewing their performance once they’re back on the ground. He gives Jake a pointed look as he says this, and you can’t help but bite back a giggle. 

About an hour later, Maverick announces that it’s time to fly, and the team starts filing out of the room. Jake casts you a quick glance—not lethal, just a small warning. Somehow, his stupidly cocky grin is already back in place. 

When you reach the door, you realise that Bradley has lingered behind, falling into step beside you just as you exit the room. 

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he says, glancing at you with that small smirk beneath that damn moustache, the sight of which sends a warm ache straight to your lower belly. 

You offer him a clipped smile, a brief glance before looking back down, focusing on the movement of your boots. 

“Unless... I already am,” he adds, his voice a mixture of question and statement. 

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of Bradley’s eyes on you—watching, soft and thoughtful. 

“I mean,” he continues, hesitating for a moment with a soft chuckle. “I know I should have called or something, especially after waking you up with my dick, but... I was honestly spent last night. Barely made it home before crashing out. But, if you’ll let me, I’d like to... you know... wake you up with my dick in a way that’s more enjoyable for the both of us?” 

You can’t help the grin that breaks across your face, a soft laugh slipping out before you can catch it. When you turn to look at him, his smile is sheepish and flushed, impossibly endearing, with a laugh hovering just behind it. His brown eyes are shining, warm and full of something that makes your chest ache—something you know is written all over your own face too. 

And damn. If this isn’t the man you’re supposed to spend your life with, you know you’ll be spending it alone. 

“Yeah, alright,” you sigh, feigning indifference. “I’ll allow it.” 

“Allow it?” he echoes, his voice rich with laughter. “Wow. I’m a lucky guy.” 

Warmth spreads through your whole body as the two of you continue into the hangar. You feel like you’re standing next to the sun—but it’s not burning you. It’s keeping you warm, keeping you alive. 

You can’t help glancing at him every few seconds, even while Maverick shouts instructions and assigns the first flyers. You find it hard to tear yourself away from Bradley when you’re called to your jet, waiting for ground crew instructions. Your mind is foggy with thoughts of him: his eyes, his smile, the little laugh he lets out, and that adorable crease between his brows when he’s confused or offended. 

Fuck. You’re so gone. You haven’t even kissed him yet, and it might kill you when you do. 

At least you’ll die happy. 

When the jet starts to rumble and your hands move over the controls, you pull your thoughts in. You focus on the here and now—the cockpit, the sky, the mission. Even the idea of flying like a grandma all day doesn’t kill your mood. Because you’ll see Bradley when you're back on the ground, and that’s enough to keep you grinning like an idiot behind your oxygen mask. 

The sky is clear—perfect flying weather—and the wind is barely a whisper. You feel like a horse champing at the bit, waiting for the gate to open. But that’s not what you’re here for. So you settle, banking slow beneath where you know Maverick is flying, waiting for instruction. 

“All right,” Maverick says, his voice crackling over comms. “Hangman, you’re mission lead. Payback, Fanboy, don’t let your wingman down. Fly the profile in your system. Deviate, and you’d better have a damn good reason. Watch for enemy aircraft.” 

“Sorry, Mav, my comms are a little fuzzy,” Jake replies. “Did you say enemy or grandma? ’Cause from where I’m flying, I can only see a Honda Civic.” 

Maverick’s irritation bleeds into his voice. “I’m the enemy aircraft, Hangman. Watch out for me. Our tactical specialist will be monitoring, and you can explain your mistakes to her when you’re back on the ground.” 

“I don’t make mistakes,” Jake says, that smirk practically audible. 

“We’ll see about that,” Maverick shoots back. 

You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath and tamping down the irritation rising in your chest. 

The others take off, and you track them—eyes sharp on the HUD and the sky. Maverick is flawless. And unfortunately, so is Jake. He’s a damn good pilot. Cocky, but predictable. You already know what he’s going to try next. 

The drill plays out. You listen to the comm chatter as you stay low and out of the way, observing. The team gives Maverick a decent run for his money, nearly finishing the nav route before he takes out Reuben and Mickey. Jake claims victory anyway—but Maverick shuts him down fast. 

“Fail,” he says. “Your wingman’s dead. Put the cocky bravado away, I’m done with it.” 

You’ve never heard Maverick so sharp. He actually sounds like a CO—calm, stern, commanding—as he orders everyone back to base. 

You keep low, banking through a few fluffy clouds, weaving like you’re bored. But your eyes stay trained, watching Jake flying just above, at your six. 

“Hey, tactical specialist,” Jake’s voice cuts in. “Just watching your cross-checks from up here. I can practically see the superiority from miles away.” 

You bite your tongue, suppressing the sarcastic retort clawing at your throat. 

He adds, “Oh wait. Nope. That’s just your nose in the air.” 

You roll your eyes and surge forward, jaw tight. 

“That’s it,” Maverick says, voice stern. “Back to the nav route. Now. You’re flying it again. And I’m not the enemy this time.” 

Jake snorts. “Mav, come on. You’re really gonna embarrass her like this?” 

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Maverick snaps. “Follow your orders. Stick to your waypoints. And good luck.” 

The way he says those last two words makes your pulse spike. Adrenaline kicks in, fast and sharp. 

Your limbs feel light. Your chest is buzzing. Your breath hitches, and a wicked smile spreads beneath your mask. 

“Alright,” Jake drawls, still clueless. “Come on, boys. Let’s show this Honda Civic how real men fly.” 

You’re practically vibrating now. Locked in. Focused. You follow the others back to the route—Maverick hangs back. You’re a bull in the chute, about to blow the gate. You’re going to kick this cowboy into the dust. 

All you need is the green light. The words. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Grandma,” Jake says, smug as ever. 

You take a breath. Narrow your gaze. 

You’re not just going to shoot them down. That’s too easy. You’re going to humiliate them. Drag it out. Make them suffer before they burn. 

Then Maverick speaks—low and clear, straight in your ear. A spark struck to gasoline. 

“Flip the switch, Jinx.” 

You’re gone before they can take their next breath. 

They can’t see you. You know it. You’re good at disappearing. Now you wait—watching from the shadows, letting them scramble. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben mutters, disbelief thick in his voice. 

“Who the hell is Jinx?” Jake asks, a beat behind. 

Reuben groans. “She is, idiot.” 

“Wait—where have I heard that before?” Mickey pipes up. 

“Jinx is the pilot Admiral Cain just grounded,” Reuben replies, his tone shifting fast toward panic. “Fastest low-level flyby of an aircraft carrier—barely two feet from the deck. And she’s the highest-scoring TOPGUN grad in twenty years. She’s fucking legendary.” 

“No,” Jake breathes, full of denial. “No, she’s not Jinx. She can’t be.” 

“You just had to run your fucking mouth, didn’t you?” Reuben says, voice deadpan with defeat. 

“Oh, we’re fucked,” Mickey declares. 

You slip beneath them like a shadow—silent, smooth—so close you could kiss their undercarriage with your canopy. But you don’t rush. You wait. Calculating. Cold. Planning the most humiliating move you can pull. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to dominate. 

“Payback,” Jake says, still cocky, still smug. “You’ve got a shadow on your six.” 

“What?” Reuben’s voice spikes. “Where the hell is she? Fanboy, talk to me.” 

“Negative radar contact,” Mickey answers. “I don’t see anything.” 

You throttle back just enough to hover beneath them, then slide up—then down again—dancing through their blind spots like smoke in a breeze. 

“Hangman,” Reuben snaps, panic rising, “get her off us.” 

“Relax, Payback,” Jake drawls. “I’ve got eyes on her. She’s not as good as she thinks.” 

You breathe deep—steady, focused. The smile on your face is razor sharp. 

“Alright, Hangman,” you murmur, voice low and lethal. “Want to see how a real man flies?” 

You yank the stick back and rocket toward the sun—fast, blinding, gone. They lose you instantly. 

“Where’d she go?” Jake barks. “Fanboy, where the hell did she go?” 

“She’s too fast,” Mickey replies, frantic. “She’s over—wait—no, she’s—shit. I can’t get a lock!” 

Leveling out, you catch a glint of sunlight off a wing at two o’clock—Jake, hanging wide. Sloppy. 

You grin and dive—clean, silent, deadly. 

Back behind Payback and Fanboy, you slip into their six like a phantom. One breath. Then you float up, nose aligned perfectly. 

“Boo,” you whisper. 

“Shit!” Mickey yells. “She’s on us!” 

“Break, break, break!” Reuben shouts, yanking the stick. But you’re tighter than their turns, reading every move. Mickey’s calling positions, but it’s useless—you’re already there. 

Tone lock. Missile fired. 

“Damn it!” Reuben groans. 

You peel away quickly, climbing high and vanishing back into the sun. 

Then you wait. 

Jake’s climbing now, banking, twisting. Scanning. You can feel it—his nerves crackling across the sky. You disappeared, struck, and disappeared again. And now it’s just him. No backup. No noise. Just the slow, sinking realisation. 

“Where the hell is she now?” he snaps. 

“She’s hunting you,” Mickey says, voice laced with amusement. 

Jake loops, banks, scans his six. He’s getting desperate. But it’s too late—you’re already behind him, tracking every flick of his wings like you're inside the cockpit. 

Then you dive. 

Fast. Precise. Dead-on. 

He doesn’t even hear the tone until it screams. 

“Splash two, Hangman,” you say, smooth as silk, smug as sin. 

“Fuck!” he barks, pulling hard. 

You stick with him and surge upward, wings slicing through a cloudbank. Then you roll cleanly inverted—and drop. 

You hover over his jet, canopy to canopy, just feet apart. Perfect. Effortless. Deadly. 

Jake looks up. 

And you salute him—with one elegant, deliberate middle finger. 

“No fucking way,” he mutters, eyes wide. 

“Mission failed,” Maverick says, the smile audible in his voice. “Nice work, Jinx.” 

You right your jet, throttle back with surgical control, and leave Jake spinning in your jet wash—stunned, smoked, and thoroughly outflown. 

The comms are silent on the way back to base, and you can’t stop grinning behind your mask. Your cheeks are starting to ache. You feel like a caged bird finally stretching its wings. Like yourself again—confident, alive—and almost as smug as Jake probably feels every morning when he looks in the mirror at his stupid, pretty-boy face. 

Then Reuben’s voice crackles through your headset. “Is it true you once locked three bogeys in a single sweep during a TOPGUN exercise?” 

You laugh, quiet enough that your mic doesn’t catch it. “Yeah. Second fly drill. Some guy was running his mouth, so I unleashed hell. Got an earful for it, though—reckless flying and all.” 

Feeling a little cocky, you bank up beside their jet, then roll cleanly over—canopy to canopy. You give them a polite little wave before settling beneath them, then punch the throttle and streak ahead toward base. 

“Dude,” Mickey says, awestruck, “I think I’m in love.” 

You grin and surge forward, barrelling up beside Maverick. You sweep past him—closer than regulation, jostling his jet just enough to rattle him. His laughter fills your headset as you rocket ahead, heart pounding as he closes in behind you. 

You chase each other through the sky in a tame game of cat and mouse until it's time to land. Following instructions from the ground crew, you ease into a holding pattern, waiting your turn to descend. 

It’s not long before you’re popping the canopy and tearing off your helmet, still grinning as you climb out of the jet and drop to the tarmac—light on your feet and high on adrenaline. 

“Holy shit!” Natasha storms toward you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “You—you’re Jinx! I can’t believe—oh my God.” 

Bob is right behind her. “You pulled a Cobra manoeuvre during a mock dogfight at a showcase event to evade missile lock. I was there.” 

Laughter bubbles from your lips, heat blooming in your cheeks as the squad quickly surrounds you. 

Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. “The navy hasn’t seen a pilot like you since-” 

“Me,” Maverick cuts in, stepping up beside you with his helmet tucked under his arm. 

You glance at him, noting the proud grin on his face, before turning back to the others. Natasha and Bob are front and centre, Javy just behind them, with Reuben and Mickey lingering in the back, still wearing their helmets. But you don’t see Bradley. 

“Listen up,” Maverick says, his tone turning serious. “As most of you know, Jinx was grounded for a particularly dangerous stunt—well, she should be grounded. Admiral Simpson agreed to let her fly on the condition that only need-to-know personnel are made aware of her identity. I’ve just made you all need-to-know. Now you have to prove you can be trusted with that.” 

Jake steps forward, falling in beside Natasha, his expression unreadable. You and Maverick both turn toward him, and your stomach twists. If he wanted to, he could unravel everything. 

Jake meets your eyes, and for the first time, there’s nothing but sincerity behind his. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re... you’re fucking amazing.” 

A grin breaks across his face—and yours follows. The squad erupts in cheers as Maverick claps a hand on your shoulder. You offer Jake a fist bump, and he accepts it with a laugh. 

“You know,” he says, that cocky smirk firmly back in place, “if it doesn’t work out with Rooster, I’m always-” 

“That’s enough, Hangman,” Bradley cuts in, dropping a hand on Jake’s shoulder and nudging him aside. 

You giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush. Your cheeks are on fire, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. 

Bradley turns to you. “Hey.” 

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking on his stupidly handsome face. “Hi.” 

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his own cheeks tinged red. “That was—uh, you’re even cooler than I thought.” 

You snort, unladylike and unbothered. “That so?” 

He nods and steps closer, just a few inches between your boots. 

“Does that intimidate you?” you tease. 

He laughs again and glances up, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath that sun-kissed skin. The world falls away—it’s just the two of you now, the rest of the squad, watching and waiting, have all but disappeared. 

“No,” he says, eyes back on you. “It kinda turns me on.” 

You don’t think. You just move. 

Your hand slides up the front of his flight suit, fingers curling into his collar as you tug him down before he can say another word. 

And then you kiss him. 

It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all the tension, the smart-ass remarks, the stolen glances and breathless moments that led to this. 

You rise onto your toes and his hands catch your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth claims yours like a promise, like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. And when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips, you don’t hesitate—you part for him, and it’s like striking a match. 

There’s laughter in the background, noise and movement, but it all fades beneath the roar of your pulse and the heat of his mouth. All you can feel is him—his body, his breath, his hands. You want the flight suits gone, burned, anything that dares keep him from you reduced to ash. 

It takes everything you have not to absolutely devour him right there on the tarmac. But you’re still at work. And people are watching. 

So you part—eventually—grinning like idiots and panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile in full gear. 

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters from somewhere behind Bradley. “Even I’m hot and bothered after that.” 

“All right, you two,” Maverick chuckles. “Save it for the supply closet.” 

You roll your eyes and drop back onto your heels, shooting him your best unimpressed glare—which, admittedly, isn’t very convincing when you’re high on adrenaline and kissing Bradley Bradshaw. 

“We’re never living that down, are we?” 

“No,” Maverick replies with a grin. “Never.” 

You groan and turn back toward Bradley, letting your forehead fall against his chest. 

“I’m still not convinced you two didn’t fuck in there,” Jake says, striding past toward the briefing room. 

A chorus of half-laughs and agreement follows him. 

Bradley’s chest shakes with laughter beneath your cheek, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. 

“If they’re going to assume we did it in there,” he murmurs, just for you, “maybe we should just go do it in there.” 

You glance up at him, eyes flicking to his mouth, already picturing that stupidly hot moustache between your thighs. 

“Don’t fucking tempt me.” 

He laughs again and drops his hand to yours, fingers tangling as he tugs you toward the briefing room. Your eyes fall to his ass—shameless, hungry—watching the way it moves with each step just ahead of you. Teasing. Taunting. 

Being assigned to Maverick’s special detachment isn’t your punishment. Flying like Jake’s grandma in her Honda Civic isn’t your punishment either. No—the real punishment is spending ten hours a day, five days a week with Bradley fucking Bradshaw, pretending to be professional. Just waiting for the evenings when you can drag him to bed and completely, unapologetically devour him. 

END.

[sparrows4bats]

If Jon falls first, he would be so awkward at first. But the moment Damian reciprocates or shows any sign of feeling the same? All restraint is gone. Jon Kent is a simp and not afraid to let anyone know. He is gonna prove to Damian Wayne that not only is he an amazing boyfriend but he will be an even better husband.

He is giddy. Everything Damian does makes him blush and stutter. It's not just because Damian is cool and smart and handsome. He is all of those things, a degree of gorgeous and competent that leaves Jon in awe.

But he realises he likes Damian when they are arguing, and no matter how angry Jon gets, Damian never flinches at his red eyes. He never wonders for a moment if Jon will hurt him. Because Damian Trusts Him.

Jon thinks it may be a crush when Damian protects him after he is sent flying into a building during a mission, and Jon knows that even if he is Superman, Damian will always see him as Jonathan Kent.

Jon realises he is in love with Damian because of how kind he is, watching him with Lizzie and his pets. Even though Jon knows how hard it can be for him sometimes. It makes his chest ache with sweetness.

He decides to do something about it after he notices he's not the only one who has noticed how amazing Damian is. Kids at school, people at galas, and even other heroes look at his Robin like he's something they can have. It's unacceptable.

So he asks his Dad for help, and Clark explains some of how he convinced Lois Lane to marry him. (Clark Kent still considers it the best and hardest thing he has ever done. It doesn't stop him from laughing at his son for 10 solid minutes when he tells him. Bruce is going to be soooo pissed when Jon succeeds. It'll be hilarious)

Jon starts small. He invites Damian on missions and listens for any animal related emergencies Robin can come to. His Dad helps by distracting Batman while Jon sneaks into the Manor. (Clark trusts his son to call if he needs help, not that he would ever willingly put Damian in any real danger) Damian is confused by his change in behaviour but is happy to come along.

After long missions, Jon invites him to stay the night with him at his apartment or the farm. He delights in Damian wearing his clothes and being all sleepy and vulnerable. They share his bed, and Jon wakes up to Damian asleep on his chest. (Jon wants to wake up like this forever.)

So Jon starts to touch Damian more outside of half conscious cuddling. He hangs around his personal space like a cloud. Jon had thought Damian would hate it, but he accepted the closeness with ease. In fact, he melts. He doesn't hug back as tightly but leans on Jon in a way that makes Jon feel stronger than his powers ever have.

Next, he starts to do little things for him, like drop off coffee, and when Damian starts working to become a doctor, Jon makes sure he eats and sleeps between studying. Jon doesn't take in much information during Damians' study sessions, too focused on how Damians nose scrunches when he's concentrating, and how he blushes whenever Jon praises him.

Jon starts giving Damian little gifts; trinkets from wherever he travels, and pretty daggers he finds thanks to Diana. Damian receives each one with a smile and soon starts giving Jon gifts, too. Pieces of art he drew or food he finds in Gotham that he thinks Jon might enjoy. (Each drawing and painting is carefully framed in heat vision proof glass.)

Surprisingly, It's Damian who kisses him first. After Jon gives him a kitten that Clark saved from a tree. (Bruce said Damian couldn't adopt any more pets he said nothing about accepting them as gifts). The kiss is soft but full of passion, and Jon can't help but deepen it.

"I love you." Jon tells him when they pull back to breathe.

"Good, because if we do this, I couldn't bear it if you left me."

"Never, I'd fight the world to stay with you."

"And I'd defeat death to keep you at my side, Habibi." Jon kisses him again because he finally can. (Damian is even more handsome when he is under him, and Jon sends a silent thank you to whatever God is listening for letting him see it.)

(Clark was right, Bruce was pissed when he found Jon naked in Damians bed the next morning.)

Damian names the cat Clark after his future father in law. (Bruce will get his revenge, he swears, on BOTH Supers.)

[munsonsmixtapes]

What about ghost who is secretly in love with his roommate and he’s returning home after being away on deployment? A lot of tension and a big messy love confession after he can’t hold back how he feels about her anymore and some smut ???

Ugh this one was so fun to write!

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) mask kink, nipple play

Ghost unlocks the door to his apartment after months of not being there. He lets out a sigh of relief as he takes in the decorations and furniture the exact same as he left them six months before. He smells that candle he knows you like to light and suddenly, he feels at home. He looks around the place for you, but he doesn’t see you but he hears you.

“Simon!” You exclaim his name and he really did miss hearing that.

All he sees is a blur racing towards him and he stumbles backwards as arms wrap around his neck. He gets a whiff of your perfume and his luggage is dropped to the floor as his arms wrap around your waist, lifting you from the floor and spinning you around, giggles pouring from both of your mouths as he does so.

Simon sets you on the floor and he takes a moment to get a good look at you. All the feelings for you that he’s been holding in are surging forward and he’s trying so hard to prevent from kissing you. You’re all he’s been thinking about for months. He’s read your letters over and over again, so close to writing everything he’s been feeling for you, but he couldn’t. He feels like he owes you the truth in person. That is, if he can stop being a fucking pussy about it.

You take your time looking at him too. He’s got so much more muscle than you remember, the photos he’s sent you not doing him justice. His biceps are huge and you hate how your thoughts are immediately getting dirty.

You snap out of it and pull him into another hug, pressing your cheek into his chest as you give him a squeeze, your arms wrapping around his waist. You realize that you haven’t hugged before, this being the first. You didn’t really talk that much before he left but when he was gone, you somehow got closer and you actually became pretty good friends-even though you want to be more. Even though you’d never actually admit that.

“Can I help you unpack?” You ask, needing something to distract yourself from how badly you want him.

“I’d like that,” he smiles and picks up both of his duffel bags as he carries them to his room with following closely behind. You open the door for him and it’s exactly the way he left it-well, sort of. It looks cleaner and he can’t figure out why.

“I wiped down the furniture and washed your bedding yesterday so it would be all nice and clean when you got here.” He’d normally find this as an invasion of his privacy, but he just can’t find it in himself to be mad at you. The gesture is so sweet and he feels his heart melt just that much more.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, setting his bags on the bed. “But it’s very appreciated.”

“I wanted to,” you reply, taking some of the clothes and putting them away in the correct drawers. Simon can’t believe how easy it is to imagine you in his life romantically. If you’re helping him unpack his luggage as his roommate, what would you be doing as his girlfriend?

He unzips the other duffel and almost jumps at the mask sitting on top. He forgot that was in there and it catches him off guard.

“I missed you,” you tell him and god did he miss you too. He thought about you the entire way home, imagining your reunion, though in his mind, there was a lot more kissing.

“I missed you too,” he replies. Simon isn’t really one to share his feelings so this already feels odd to him. But you’re the one person he feels like he can tell anything to. Well, anything besides how madly in love with you he is.

You both stand there for a beat, staring at each other, both of you trying to figure out what to say. You step closer, standing on your toes and reaching up to push back the strands of hair that have fallen onto his forehead.

His eyes flutter shut at the feeling of your fingers in his hair and when you give his scalp a little scratch, he’s putty in your hands. He leans down, his face only inches from yours and you let your hand fall from his hair, your finger trips tracing over the scars on his face. He’s so close that you could just-

Simon seems to be thinking the same thing because he’s leaning even closer, his lips pressing against yours in a brief kiss. It’s so quick that your brain barely registers what’s happening.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes quickly, his eyes widening in panic, afraid that he’s just offended you.

“I’m not,” you shake your head. “Come back here. I wasn’t done.” He obeys, a little smirk kicking up at the corner of his mouth as he leans down, meeting you as you push up on your toes.

Your arms wrap around his waist as his are around your waist. Your lips meet again, slotting between each other and this is even better than he was imagining. Your lips are soft and they fit so perfectly between his, like they’re puzzle pieces meant to fit together.

“I’ve been wanting this for so long,” he whispers against your mouth. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, I think I do,” you whisper back and now he’s got to have you, feeling his cock harden ever so slightly.

“Jump,” he says and you do, Simon easily catching you as he catches you, your legs wrapping around his waist as your tongue slides into his mouth. He carries you over to the bed and gently sets you down on it, sinking to his knees between your spread legs, your lips still attached.

You pull away to catch your breath and don’t miss the mask that’s in your line of sight. You do a double take and can’t help but let out a laugh as you reach for it, holding it up so Simon can see it.

“It seems like you have some explaining to do, Mr. Riley,” you tell him as you let the mask swing back and forth between your fingers. “Is this some sort of kinky thing I’m unaware of?”

“No,” he says, his cheeks turning pink as he reaches for the mask, holding it out of his reach. “It’s a military thing.”

“Uh uh uh,” you shake your head. “You have to at least let me try it on.” He just lets out a sigh as you put it on and can’t help but laugh as you put it on, the thing looking so silly on you. “How do I look?”

“Ridiculous.”

“You’re right. It definitely looks better on you.” You take the mask on and he bends over, each hand landing on either side of you. You put it on his head and immediately feel yourself getting wet at the sight.

“How do I look?” He asks, his voice much lower than you’ve ever heard. He’s inching closer, his eyes boring into yours and you can see them clouding over with lust.

“I think it’s concerning how turned on I am right now.”

“I don’t,” he shakes his head. “Now are you gonna stare or are you going to kiss me?” You respond by pressing your lips to his and it’s awkward as you both try your best to pick back up where you left off despite the mask.

He leans you back onto the bed, pushing his duffel onto the floor as he does so. His hands slide up your shirt and he pulls it off to reveal your bare chest, nipples hard beyond belief. God, you’re perfect.

“Fucking amazing,” he breathes, his accent more prominent now and you take the mask off just long enough to get his shirt off and then it immediately goes back on his head. You take in his toned body and this is such a different sight. You can’t take your eyes off of him.

You make an effort to pull him down onto the bed next to you and he falls, not making you work for it. As soon as his back hits the mattress, your straddling him, peppering kisses across the expanse of his chest. You bring one of his nipples into your mouth and he lets out a whine in response, his hand grasping at the bedding underneath him.

You lick and suck on him and his brain is melting, hoping that you leave marks on him, physical proof of what you’ve done tonight so he can be sure that it’s not all in his head.

“Fuck,” he whines. “I've been waiting months for this and you have not disappointed.” He doesn’t feel your lips anymore and he sits up to see you staring back at him, your mouth falling open.

“You’ve been waiting for this for months? I’ve been waiting for months.“ You can’t see it, but Simon is grinning underneath the mask. He takes it off, wanting to say his next words with it not on his head.

“I love you,” he says, his voice sounding whiny, desperate.

“I love you too, Simon. And you being away made me realize how much.” You’re both grinning like idiots now and he pulls you in for another kiss, his hands sliding down your sweatpants, pushing them off along with your underwear and once you’re completely naked, you unbutton his pants and as soon as your both naked, his eyes widen as if he’s realized something.

“I-I don’t have a condom.” He totally would have if he knew this was going to happen.

“I have one,” you tell him. “Wait here.”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” he smirks and watches you race out of the room. You’re back in record speed and he watches you tear it open and roll it onto his cock.

You’re on him in an instant and he barely has any time to react before you’re riding him. Your fingers are digging into his shoulders as you’re riding him, your tits bouncing up and down because of how fast you’re going.

Simon’s hips buck against yours, pushing his cock as fast he goes. His pace matches yours, neither of you able to hold back anymore and you only slow down to press a kiss to his lips then put the mask back on him.

“I didn’t think you’d find this so hot,” he says through a chuckle.

“Well, I do.” You pick up your pace even more and he’s trying his best to keep up, pushing inside of you inch by inch until he’s fully seated. “Fuck,” you whine. Your eyes are watering at how full you feel, but there’s no way you can stop. “Feels so good. Harder.”

Simon listens, somehow going even harder and faster, feeling winded but he’s not going to stop until either of you come. He’s sure that he’s close which would make sense since he hasn’t gotten any action for months.

There were women at the bars he and the guys went to but his mind was always on you. Even though he wasn’t sure of your feelings at the time, he still wasn’t looking at anyone else. You were and still are the one person he has eyes for.

“Fuck, baby, just like that.” His orgasm is rapidly approaching and when it does, a string of curse words followed by the word “sweetheart” which makes you melt.

Your legs feel like jello as you climb off of him and he’s quick to race to the bathroom. He comes back with a wet washcloth and spreads your legs, sinking to his knees as he wipes up your mess.

Once he’s done, he disposes of the cloth and helps you get dressed in one of his many t-shirts, him doing the same and the two of you tell each other that you love each other as you fall asleep, looking forward to waking up to each other for every day for the rest of your lives.

[seaborgium-dazies]

I’m sorry for my language but your writing? SO FUCKING GOOD AH-

Anyway sorry for my outburst. If it’s alright I have a request! (It is NSFW)

Can I have Kirishima, Bakugou, Iida and anyone else you wanna put (aged up of course) with a reader who is just super horny

Like no reason whatsoever reader is ALLL OVER THEMMM and when they ask why reader is just like “because you’re hot and pretty and cute and I can’t believe you’re mine” or stuff like that? Anyway it is totally ok if not!

ooh I wanna love that man! mdni

a/n: Thank you anon!!!! That means a lot 🥹!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Sorry this kinda took long to write... The scenarios also derailed a little from the prompt you sent (💔) but I hope u still enjoy!!!! cw: college!au, f!reader, use of "girlfriend" and "boyfriend", making out, dry humping, pet names (baby)

now playing: that man - caro emerald <3 🌊: Deku, bakugo, kirishima, iida

deku:

The softness of dekus bed gave you comfort after what seemed like a neverending day of classes. And yet you were feeling more pent up than ever.

You were sitting pretty, your nipples perking through the fabric of your dangerously low cut shirt. But you really couldn't help yourself anymore.

Deku was enamoured by his notes when you decided to take the reigns. You scooted closer, feeling the heat radiating off of him. You pressed a quick peck against his shoulder, snuggling into his side.

At first deku just smiled without paying much attention. But the bolder you got the harder it was to ignore.

And when you whispered into his ear,

"Do you know what's crazy?"

"Hm?"

Kirishima:

"That I have the hottest, most sexy boyfriend ever."

dekus eyes widened and he turned to look at you. With every passing word the redness on his face intensified. Before he could respond you continued,

"Yes you heard me! You're so sweet and adorable and honestly so stunning"

Dekus brain was already in overdrive from your words but when you kissed his neck and sunk your hands into his hair? Deku.exe crashed.

His mouth was ready to form words but somehow nothing of substance left his lips. You couldn't help but chuckle at the utterly adorable display.

"Seriously I could smooch you for days!"

You pressed a kiss to dekus lips, temporarily melting together. A whine left his pretty lips and you felt like you were ready to combust.

"I can't believe you're mine"

And with those words you emotionally overstimulated deku so much (in a good way of course) that it took him hours to get his heart to stop beating wildly.

You have been watching kirishima work out for more than twenty minutes now. You were deeply focused on the sweat sliding down his defined muscles, all his gasps and groans like music to your ears.

And when kirishima discarded his shirt? You discarded your decorum.

His workout came to an end and he walked over to you, blissfully unaware of your voyeuristic experience just now.

He expected a quick peck to accompany your cheery "hello". The passionate kiss he got instead surprised him.

His lips parted in a shocked "o" and you slid your tongue into his open mouth immediately after.

Your hand found its way to his chest, resting atop of his heart. Kirishima pulled away looking at you as if he was waiting for an explanation.

"Is something the matter?"

You asked him while batting your eyelashes. Kirishima was searching for the right words but ultimately didn't find them

"Your eagerness surprised me...that's all"

"Oh well, it's hard not to be eager when eijiro kirishima is standing before you."

You pressed a few quick kisses to his lips while still feeling his body beneath your palms

"In fact it's IMPOSSIBLE to not be eager when you see such an incredibly hot and stunning person"

"Baby-"

Kirishimas voice cracked as you started pulling him closer, his body pressed against yours now.

A toothy grin spread across his face before he grabbed the hem of your shirt. He waited for your permission before pulling it over your head, peppering kisses along your neck to the valley between your breasts.

He playfully pushed you onto his bed, taking the delicious sight in.

"You're one to talk".

bakugo:

Bakugo was unusually annoyed by your affection today. And even though you knew that he was deep into a uni assignment you just couldn't stop loving on him. But he misunderstood that affection, thinking you just wanted to tease him.

You were peppering kisses onto his neck even after he let out a soft scoff and not soon after, he grabbed you by the shoulders as he vocalized his frustration,

"What's gotten into you? I need to get this done!"

Your sheepish smile made his eyebrow twitch, the look on his face demanding an explanation.

A deep blush painted your cheeks pink as you admitted,

"Nothing... I just happen to think your focused face is cute and seeing you so absorbed in your assignment made me so proud of being your girlfriend...."

Your words flipped a switch in bakugos brain. It's like you deleted all the words floating around and he had no other option but to blush as well.

"What? Are you surprised that I think you're adorable? You can't deal with the fact that you're so beautiful and hot I find it hard to control myself?"

You continued kissing his neck, whispering in-between kisses,

"These veins? And these muscles? ohhh~"

You exhaled shakily into the crook of his neck and a wave of lust tore bakugo from his flustered trance.

"Oh, is that so?"

In the span of a second he flipped you over and pinned you beneath him, pressing open mouthed kissed to your neck.

It didn't take long until he reduced you to an aroused mess, all the coherency zapped from your brain by the movement of his hips against yours.

The way his jeans dragged along the delicate fabric of your panties made your head fall back. And you both knew that you were about to have a very fun time.

Iida:

Lately you've been seeing Iida in his element: coordinating, instructing and sometimes almost commanding. Just the memory of his stern tone made you sigh dreamily and press your thighs together.

The hours of another shared afternoon were passing you by as lustful thoughts clouded your brain. You really couldn't hold back anymore.

You walked over to his chair and plopped down in his lap. Your hands snaked over his torso, feeling his muscles before you decided to nuzzle into his chest.

You scooted up against his groin in the process, leaving Iida dumbfounded - searching for words.

A proud smirk found its way onto your lips since Iida being speechless was a rare occurrence.

"Y-y/n what has gotten into you?"

Without looking up, you asked

"What do you mean?"

"Well... You seem... needy"

Iidas hushed voice made you look up and cock an eyebrow,

"Aren't I allowed to be?"

If Iida face wasn't red already, it sure as hell was when you continued,

"How can't I be all over you when you're this hot? When my perfect boyfriend has these perfect pecs? And biceps and ugh, you're just so perfect I can't-"

You nuzzled into his body again, but something was different. Tense. As if he was holding his breath. Concerned you looked up and asked,

"Are you oka-".

And before you knew it Iida smashed your lips again his. The force of his kiss knocked the breath out of your lungs. Vigorously you kissed him back, moving your aching cunt against his bulge.

The friction made you moan into his mouth. And Iidas flustered state was replaced by something else entirely. His determination and arousal were clear as day when you heard him say,

"Let me take care of you baby".

©️ seaborgium-dazies do not copy, reupload or feed to AI.

buy me a coffee?<3

[zenfiii]

This was so cute I'm going to cry.

GOING BACK TO MY ROOTS‼️‼️ Ppl don't know but I actually started this account to upload and see mha content... Jeje. Anyway!! My sister's boyfriend asked if bnha had ended, and after I answered, I was left wondering. Because I was such a huge bnha fan back then that I was up to date with the manga. In quarantine, literally the only thing I did was watch bnha, all the available seasons (the first one not jaksj because I had it in physical form in the mangas), all the movies, I made and read fanfics, I watched and also made fanart, etc., etc. I was pretty active in the fandom, right? But one day, I just didn't watch it anymore. I don't know if it was because the manga was weekly or something, but I started losing track of it, even though I'd been reading it. I'm the type of person who prefers to watch something in one go, otherwise I'll forget it. Anyway, aside from that, I was no longer a huge fan, and to be honest, I think I'll watch everything again because I really liked it. Okay. Enough about that. Now it's them.

UGH SO CUTE. I'll eat them. How could I have forgotten these two... (probably because I didn't dare draw Rody back then because my drawings were ugly...) BUT STILL. Their dynamic at the beginning of the movie, sly fox/dumb bunny, UGH, makes me sick. And then how they end. AHH. Literally. Rody is the best character out there. I think it's genuinely one of the healthiest relationships Izuku will ever have. They both support and understand each other in their own ways, and it's. So cute. Oh, and this part.

• Deku once sent a picture of him and Eri during a little playdate to Rody the backflip his heart did when he learned that Deku was good with kids.

UGH. This literally gives me diabetes. And it also makes me want to draw it. I love them so much... Anyway. That was all, hehe. Not much because I have to watch the anime again, but, yeah. I love them.

Rodydeku headcanons part 1 :)

I'm going insane over these two hggggg-

(this screenshot from the movie makes me cackle everytime-)

• Rody fell first, no questions asked. Deku fell a bit later when he actually had the time to consider his feelings when he WASN'T fighting villains and dealing with vestiges every three seconds.

• Before they parted after the humarise crisis, they exchanged numbers so they could still talk. And, I kid you not, as soon as Deku got home he called Rody immediately. Rody played it cool like-- "damn, miss me already hero??" As if he hadn't been staring at Deku's contact for the past ten minutes wanting to call him but not wanting to seem like he missed him or anything (he really, really missed him).

• From then on, they pretty much call each other every other night when they're free, giving each other general updates (or just to hear each other's voice) (Rody's like kicking his feet and twirling his hair during these calls-)

• Rody's contact for Deku is "mass murderer (heart emoji)" the heart emoji was added a little later on when Rody worked up the balls. Deku's contact name for Rody isn't anything special, just his name with a little ":)" on the side.

• Rody's crush is soooo bad. He definitely keeps up with anything hero-related on the news just so he can talk about it with Deku during their next call.

• I think Rody's voice helps Deku relax a lot, even if he doesn't realize why (keep this in mind, it'll come into play later).

• Rody thinks about the time when Deku spiderman-ed him around Otheon. A lot.

• Deku told everyone is class 1-A about Rody, more than he talked about the actual humarise crisis.

• During Rody's visit to Japan (in the spin off "team up missions" manga), I like to think he started developing a bit of an inferiority complex to Deku's friends.

• Like, who was he to Deku compared to all these friends that had been through so much together?? Compared to them, he was literally just some guy he saved the world with once.

• It didn't help hearing all the stories about Deku solving villain crisis after villain crisis with said friends.

• Of course Deku didn't think that way, and considered Rody a friend just like he considered everyone in class A a friend (with something a little extra there but he hasn't realized that yet).

• Deku once sent a picture of him and Eri during a little playdate to Rody the backflip his heart did when he learned that Deku was good with kids-

• Also, seeing Deku get along and be sweet with his siblings almost killed him.

• Sometimes, Pino will steal Rody's phone and send a random cluster of emojis with ninety percent of them being hearts. Deku was a little confused when this first happened, but after Rody (frantically) explained it was Pino, whenever it happens Deku just goes "hi pino!"

• Deku grows to be able to read Rody pretty well, even when he hides Pino from him. Although, having a friend with a built-in lie detector is pretty convenient.

• "Have you been missing me at all??" "Pssh, nah, you cause way too much trouble for me-" *distressed chirping in the background* "PINO." "I miss you too Rody :)"

• Rody pokes fun at Deku for the mass murderer incident all the damn time. "I don't know man, do I really wanna hang out with a mass murderer??" "Oh no, please don't hurt me mister mass murderer."

• Deku going on hero rants and Rody going on plane rants and both of them listening to each other with full attention :( <3

• Okay let's get into the more angsty stuff.

• After the war, and after all the villains escaped tarturus, and planes stopped getting to Japan and stuff, Rody was kinda worried (he was VERY worried).

• He was at work when all the commotion was on the news, and he completely froze when they mentioned UA high school. As soon as he got home, he tried to call Deku to make sure he was okay, but he got no answer. Because by then, Deku had already left UA high.

• Deku didn't want Rody to worry about him, so he pretty much ignored all his calls (feeling incredibly guilty as he did so) (also for the sake of it let's pretend he still had his phone).

• Rody tried so many times to call him, wanting to pull his hair out every time he was sent to voicemail. He was losing sleep just worrying about him, and Rody's siblings noticed. They tried a lot to try and get Rody to cheer up, which he did appreciate despite still being worried.

• He wasn't picking up his phone, and leaving a text just wasn't enough. So, eventually, he decided to leave a bunch of voice messages, as some way to make himself feel better.

• They started off with him trying not to sound too worried:

• "Hey, Deku! It's been a little while since I've heard from you. I know you're probably busy with everything happening in Japan right now. Call me back when you get the chance."

"The past few weeks at work have been exhausting. People are acting like the world's gonna end, but I'm sure things'll be alright. That's why we have heroes like you, right?"

"I was able to take Roro and Lala out yesterday, I sent you the pictures. Did you know Roro grew a whole inch?? Soon he's gonna be as tall as me!"

• Until they eventually grew more and more concerned and desperate:

• "Hey, I saw the news this morning. Japan is in really bad shape right now. Is everyone in UA alright??"

"You are getting these, right? If you have, please at least send me a message saying something. Roro and Lala have been worried, you know."

"Deku, I know things have probably been rough for you over there. For you and everyone else. I know I don't know you as well as your friends at UA, and I know that in the end I can't understand what's happening over there. But whatever you're dealing with right now, I'm willing to listen. So...please. If you're getting these- if you're even alive- just let me know. I'm worried, okay...?"

• At some point, Rody gave up on trying, only hoping that somehow Deku was okay, and that maybe he just wasn't getting his messages.

• But Deku was. And he listened to every single one, resisting to the urge to send him something, or call him. But he told himself it'd cause Rody more trouble if he responded, so instead, he just listened to each voicemail over and over, finding comfort in Rody's voice (he also looked at pictures of him with his friends for comfort as well but this isn't about them/j).

• After class A dragged Deku back to UA by the ear, once he was finally able to rest, he couldn't help but think about Rody and finally responding to him, but he wasn't sure what he would say, and he had a bunch of other things to worry about at the moment, so it slipped his mind.

• But eventually, as Rody was laying in bed thinking about Deku (as he had been doing for the past few weeks), he decided to try calling him again cause god damn it why not. He wasn't expecting a response, but at least he could say he tried.

• And to his surprise, Deku answered.

• At first, Rody just kinda sat there in shock, trying to process the sound of Deku's voice. And finally, weeks worth of emotions came spilling out and he just started ugly sobbing while yelling at him and questioning where he's been. Deku tried to calm him down a little, which only made Rody even more upset because how DARE you tell him to calm after you up and disappear for weeks without any sort of communication!!

• Knowing Rody's anger was justified, Deku told him he'd explain everything. And he did.

• He spent the next hour explaining everything that had happened to Rody. From the very beginning. How he was originally quirkless, how he got one for all, one for all's vestiges, the league of villains, All for one, Shigaraki. He explained everything, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders as he did so. Rody, though confused and confounded, listened intently.

• Once he was finished, Deku apologized profoundly for not telling Rody any of this, and how he just didn't want him to be put in danger. That's when Rody realized just how big the burden Deku had been carrying all this time, all by himself, truly was.

• "You've already put me in danger once before, hero." Rody said jokingly, trying to lighten the mood. Deku let out an weak, involuntary laugh. "You didn't have to hide this from me...you listened to all voice messages right? I meant it when I said I was willing to listen. You really don't have to carry that all by yourself..."

• Deku really couldn't help but sob once again at the support he got from one of his dear friends. And hearing Deku cry, Rody said he was a crybaby while also starting to cry as well.

• Just like that one time, both of them started to laugh together while still crying.

I love them so much :(

[domxmarvel]

P*rnstar

Masterlist

Pairing: Billie eilish x Female!Reader

The work you do carried a heavy stigma but you didn't care,and the money more than made up for it. You had plenty of fans,mostly older rich men who had nothing better to spend their money on,but you also had plenty of women watching you. One in particular being very active,you'd see her username on almost every post you made.

One of your most loyal fans,you were getting ready for a new livestream. It was more casual,and of course the very first person there as usual her user name popped up.

Billiee00: "Hey baby" her message appeared on your screen. She usually either call you baby or pornstar.

"Hey,Billie" you said back,watching as other people joined the live.

Billiee00: "You look really pretty tonight" She kept her attention on you,commenting on your looks,your outfit and your surroundings. Clearly having a bit of a crush on you.

"Thank you" you subtly posed for her "I remember you told me you liked this makeup last time."

Billiee00: "That's why you're my fav" It was almost a challenge to see how well you paid attention to her,her messages and things she said. Maybe it was a little obsessive. Soon the viewers went from 156 to 680 making the comments flow in,her comments being drowned by the others. 

“Show a little more skin babe!”

“How did you start doing this stuff”

“Is this gonna get hot?”

“You look so hot” A few people asked how long the stream would go for,others giving you tips and advice. But most people were just horny,and most of the guys were trying to get your actual attention and keep you entertained. The sound of the tip notification rang out,with the name of the user who had sent you a tip. The top of the screen displaying the username and the amount. Most of them where small amounts,just 5-10 dollars or so from different users,since it was still early in the stream. But one of them was a 100 dollar tip,causing you to look down in surprise at the username.

Billiee00: "That was me,you look extra pretty in those next panties." It was only a few moments before more people tipped,a few people trying to out do her tip,but she just kept out tipping them. She wanted to be the top tipper. You appreciate her jealous and how she wanted all your attention,and you did also enjoy how it made you more money thanks to her. In the span of around 10 minutes,she had doubled the amount of the tips that you made. She loved seeing you so focused on her,like she was your main priority and everyone else was just an afterthought.

"I'll make this a bit more fun,five minutes and then my top tipper will get to pick what I wear for Wednesday's live" That grabbed peoples attention,even hers. The tip notifications where coming in at a rapid pace now,people wanting to be your top tipper so they could pick your outfit for the next stream. It was almost too fast to keep up with,people tipping hundreds at a time. Clearly they all wanted to be the ones to pick your outfit,it was like a competition to them,and of course she was going to win. There was about 10 seconds left on the timer and the highest tipper wasn't her,it was a guy who was currently sitting at 600$ but there were still seconds left. You counted out loud the remaining seconds."Five four three two one" and just as you said 'one' a notification rang out with her name,she had waited until the last second so no one could out tip her.

Billiee00: "What do you think of my last second surprise?” There it was,she'd tipped you 1000$. Now everyone knew she had the best tipping power,and if anyone wanted to prove her wrong they'd have to outdo her first.

"I'd say I owe you a private show for that"

Billiee00: "You'd do that for me?"

"Anything for my best client"

Billiee00: "When can we do it?"

“I'll send you a message and we can work it out,also think about what you want me to wear"

Billiee00: "I already know what I want you to wear." The chat was now filled with people being jealous. They had a good reason to be jealous,she was getting an actual private show from you,and in anything she wanted. Nothing they could tip or say would get them to that level with you. She was more than happy to let them know it too. Billiee00: "You all wish you were getting a private show"

You wrapped up the show and messaged Billie.

"What do you want me to wear?" You asked,wondering what she had in mind.

Billiee00: "Have you any fishnets? preferably in black"

"I have fishnets,what else?"

Billiee00: "How about a skirt,a really short one"

"And the top?"

Billiee00: "I'd like you to wear a crop top,I love it when you wear them" After you were dressed you set up your camera and started the show for her. Immediately she sent you a message. Billiee00: "I want to see you twirl around for me" You pushed your computer chair away and stood up,slowly twirling to show off the outfit. Billiee00: "You look so amazing in that,I knew I picked well."

"You always do," You said,sitting back down.

Billiee00: "Can I request something else?"

"Anything for me favorite subscriber"

Hours later you messaged her.

"By the way,you still have to think about what you want me to wear for Wednesday's stream. You still won that after all." You reminded her.

Billiee00: "I've actually already decided"

"Does it have something to do with the package I received?"

Billiee00: "You already got it? It was quick,I figured it would take a few days"

"I haven't opened it yet but I'll unbox it on Wednesday”

Billiee00: "You have to promise to open it on stream then,I want to see you wearing it as soon as possible"

"I promise"

On Wednesday you started the stream,watching the comments flood in. Many comments were being flooded,all of them tipping and asking for different things. Some were even asking about things you had done in the private stream. But her comments still caught your eye. She had tipped you a few times already,but the amount she was tipping was much more than the other people. She wanted to be noticed and make sure everyone knew that you were her favourite to tip and that she was the one who got a private show.

"Yes,Billie I see you" you knew she was trying to get your attention. "You got my attention"

Billiee00: "Of course I want your attention,baby" You held up the box,talking to the camera.

"I got your package and I'll open it on camera like you asked." You opened it to find a pair of lace panties and an oversized shirt. The panties were new but the shirt had been worn and smelled of perfume. It was her shirt,that's what she wanted you to wear. As you took out the piece of fabric,it was obvious it was hers. The lingering scent of the perfume was sweet,and it was easy to tell that it was hers,it was just like she was there in the room with you.

Billiee00: "You like my little gift?"

"Of course when you get the choice it's not something scandalous,it's just your shirt" You chuckled.

Billiee00: "Take the shirt,take it and put it on" Her name popped up along with another notification $200

"Of course I'm gonna wear it" You stripped on camera,slowly putting on a show. She was throwing tips and comments rapidly your way.

Billiee00: "Keep going,baby I want to see more."  $300

Billiee00: "Mmm,my favourite little show girl. Looking so beautiful for me."  $150

Billiee00: "You look so sexy in it, my baby"  $400

Billiee00: "You look amazing in my shirt. So beautiful and just for me"  $350

"Slow down there,don't want you running out of money" You winked,putting on her shirt,you knew that wasn’t a fear and you just wanted to tease.

Billiee00: "Don't worry about me running out of money,just let me tip you all I want,my baby "  $1500

Billiee00: "my little pornstar,in my shirt"

She began to use the other name again,the one she used when she was possessive. She wanted to make sure you knew exactly who you belonged to and no one could do anything about it.

"Really showing off today aren't you,Billie?"

Billiee00: "Of course I am,baby."

"Making me wear your shirt and taking all my attention" you smirked.

Billiee00: "Do you like wearing my shirt,baby?"

"Maybe,your perfume is nice" you took a whiff from her shirt. "Which perfume is that?" You asked her.

Billiee00: "I can send you a bottle if you'd like"

"Jumping at the chance to spoil me,huh?"

Billiee00: "I love to spoil you,that's what I do best." Spoiling you is her favorite thing to do,and she's not shy to spend any amount of money on you.

Billiee00: "I'll send you a whole bottle of the perfume I wear,baby. So you can always smell like me." Her next comments were all attached to tips.

Billiee00: $600 "I want you so badly,baby"

Billiee00: $300 "I can't keep my eyes off of you"

Billiee00: $500 "You look so perfect, my show girl"

Billiee00: $250 "I love seeing you in my shirt,baby"

Billiee00: $300 "My favorite little show girl"

"Hold on,Billie. Let me plug my toy and connect it to your tips" Despite your telling her to slow down and wait she didn't stop. 

Billiee00: $900 "You're so addictive, my show girl"

Billiee00: $700 "I can't stop tipping, baby"

Billiee00: $400 "God you look so amazing in that shirt"

Billiee00: $300 "You know exactly what you're doing to me,my baby" You set up your toy and connected it to her tips.

"It's set up for you,it'll vibrate when you send me tips," You arched your back,softly moaning as she continued not holding back at all. Your moans turned louder. She kept tipping, sending the toy into another fit of fast and strong buzzing. "Yes,yes Billie" you moaned out,knowing it could drive her crazy.

Billiee00: "Baby say my name, say my name, say it. Only my name,not anyone else,just my name" You repeated her name over and over until you reached your peak. She hasn't slowed down.

Billiee00: "Keep saying my name,I want more."

She had lost count of how much she had tipped, but it didn't matter to her. She was completely entranced.

She didn't slow down when you finally reached your peak,she was in control and wanted to keep the vibrations going as much as possible,hearing how you reacted and moaned her name. You were quickly becoming overstimulated,you couldn't take more.

"Please slow down,Billie. Please" you begged her.

Billiee00: "I'll slow down,baby. I don't want to overwhelm you" She sent a few more tips, but slowed down quite drastically now.

"That was incredible" You were out of breath.

Billiee00: "It really was. I just couldn't help myself,baby,you know how much I love tipping your streams." After the stream you sent her a video of you touching yourself in her shirt as you loudly moaned her name. You had sent the video like a letter signing it with. -from your favorite pornstar She watched it over and over,saving it immediately and listening to you moan her name, over and over again. She knew the video was just for her, no one else was meant to see you like that,it was just for her. It was like a personal little gift,something just for her. She even thought about working it into one of her songs. She hid the moans within the melody,making it blend seamlessly but if you listen closely you'd hear the moans. And one word made it through a bit muffled but it was you moaning her name. She loved the idea,and even more she loved that no one but her would know what that sound was. No one else would be able to guess what that sound really was,but she knew,and she was the only one who would know. The song immediately became a massive hit,like every song she made. She hadn't stopped messaging  you or attending your streams. No one could deny that the song was a hit,it had everyone talking and speculating about the odd noise in the melody. But no one had any real clue what they actually were,and no one knew the answer but her. One thing that people caught in the song was some girl moaning Billie's name. Immediately speculating who the woman was. Everyone was speculating who the moan belonged to,and all the comments were about trying to figure out who it was. She watched as people tried to put a name to the voice,and each guess was farther off than the last. None of them knew,and it satisfied her to see them so clueless. But most people were convinced that it must've been Billie's new girlfriend.

You were busy and finally had gotten a house,letting you move out of your tiny studio apartment. You made some posts,thanking your subscribers for supporting you. As usual Bille was first.

Billiee00: "Congrats,baby!"  She had sent a tip along with her comment. Many of your subscribers replied to your announcement,they were all congratulating you and expressing their gratitude for you. Comments like.

"You're so amazing,congratulations!"

"Can't wait to see you in your new house!" filled the comments. Later that day you had posted your wishlist and almost immediately it was bought out by one person,and you knew exactly who it was. You sent her a message.

"Couldn't have left something for someone else,huh?" You joked.

Billiee00: "Of course not,you’re my girl” She didn't even consider anyone else,no one could get the chance to spoil you like she did. You got a notification,stuff that wasn't part of your wishlist were included. She had bought your entire wishlist and added more gifts to it.

"You got my full attention,and a few private videos once I set up my studio"

Billiee00: "Mmm,I love getting your attention,baby. I can't wait for those private videos, you're so perfect." You sent her a few photos of you,they weren't too raunchy, just casual.

Billiee00: "You're so beautiful,baby! You look amazing in those pictures" One thing she saw in the background was a poster of her album cover.

Billiee00: "What's that in the background, baby? I can't quite make it out"

"Oh,the poster for the Billie eilish album? I've always wanted to go but her tickets sell out so fast"

Billiee00: "Yeah,the tickets do sell out fast. But you know, I can always get you some if you want to go. I could get backstage passes too." She sent a tip along with her comment.

"Really? You could?"

Billiee00: "Of course, baby. I can get you tickets, backstage passes, anything you want. Just say the word"

"You'd do that for me?"

Billiee00: "Oh, absolutely. I'll do anything for you, and that means getting you front row tickets, backstage passes, you name it." she replied,adding another tip.

"I would love to see her,I've been wanting that for years. She should have a performance coming up in LA in three months."

Billiee00: "Oh she's definitely got a show coming up in LA, and guess what, I can get you those tickets. Front row, backstage passes." She said, with total confidence.

"But how,that show has been sold out for months?"

Billiee00: "I've got my ways, baby. I have connections, and I can make things happen. Don't worry about how I'll do it, I'll just get it done. You'll be seeing her live, front and center, with backstage passes and everything."

About an hour later she had sent you the tickets.

Billiee00: “All set, baby. You’ve got your tickets, front row, and backstage passes. I told you I’d get it done.”

"How did you even do that,so quickly too"

Billiee00: "Oh, baby, I have my ways. Like I said, I have connections. I told you I could get you those tickets, and I never disappoint. I'll always come through for you, no matter what."

"You really are incredible"

Billiee00: "I wanna make you happy, and I'm willing to do anything to do that. So enjoy those tickets, and get ready to have the time of your life at the concert."

One week later you were at the concert,the music started and there she was. You could hardly contain your excitement as the concert started. You had dreamed of this moment,and now it was finally here. Then, there she was. She walked out on stage, looking stunning and radiating confidence. Her presence alone was enough to captivate you as she started to sing, her voice filling the entire arena. But throughout the show you felt her staring at you,not your section but you directly like she knew who you were. Her eyes fixed on you in the crowd. Even though she was performing in front of thousands of people, it was as if you were the only one she was focusing on. The song ended,giving her a few seconds to speak before the music would start again.

"How you guys doing tonight?" she asked, her voice filled with energy and excitement. The crowd roared in response, but her eyes were still fixed on you, completely ignoring everyone else. She then turned to you,before saying the next song was dedicated to someone. Then she said something,a nickname,a nickname she wasn't supposed to know. A nickname only one person would call you. She then locked eyes with you once again. "This one's for you, pornstar." She said, her voice soft but loud enough for you to hear over the music. You felt a jolt of surprise as she turned to you and dedicated the next song to you. But it was the nickname she used that really caught your attention. "Pornstar" was a nickname she wasn’t supposed to know, how did Billie Eilish know that? You were left confused and stunned as the music started up again. How could she have possibly known that,unless it was her this whole time. That would've explained it,the money,the tickets all explained. It was her all along. 

[honeyyhivee]

i put spell on you ⠀ྀི

⠀ྀི in which sir crocodile feels you put a spell on him ⠀ྀི

cw ⠀ྀི minors dni! reader’s a cult leader with a vampire-like devil fruit (I’m in a spooky mood), black!fem reader in mind but read as you please, explicit smut with a bit of plot, blood drinking/feeding/draining (not during, but before), unprotected p in v (wrap it up, folks!), petnames/nicknames (mistress, woman, pretty, doll), hair pulling, biting, cunnilingus, spanking, squirting, restrained by a belt

word count & thoughts ⠀ྀི 1.7k , lowercase intended, reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated ♡

“mistress, there’s a man… he’s been looking for you.”

a man in a velvet red suit with a star symbol on the right side of his blazer, symbolizing his allegiance with you. in this wide, dome like opera house, seats filled with your followers, only lighting being the only working chandelier in the middle of the stadium, big arches along the stone walls with a beautiful mural of you on the wide ceiling. you, in a long, dark, flowy dress laid on a gold, black and maroon fainting couch, exhausted by the ceremony of loyalty, swearing in a new member.

a wine glass in your hand with a deep red, smooth fluid, tasting richer and smoother than any red wine a human would drink, filling the beautifully crafted glass. your eyes peered at the man and slowly you tilted your head. “this is important to me… why?” you uttered, wiping the side of your lips, careful not to mess up your lips. “well, miss… he’s um, he’s very close. saying very personal things about you.”

your glare intensified, causing your follower to speak up his words and to speak clearly. “your grace, he’s been saying how you and him have unfinished business. not specifying what that business is and, you see, he’s getting too close.” from his words you chuckle and tut your tongue, not understanding why he was so scared. “do you think this… man could do something to harm me?”

“well- no, mistress, but-“

“so, i ask again, why is this important to me?”

“well, it’s- um… sir crocodile, the warlord of the sea.” the very name echoed throughout the opera house, turning the heads of many. “is it? sea warlord, huh…” you muttered and scanned the building for the biggest men before grinning a wide cheshire grin, fangs on both the top and bottom row of your mouth showing. “sounds tasty… you’ll do something, love?”

your voice, as smooth as butter as you demanded this warlord be brought to you, you knew exactly who this was. a man who was part of your old life.

to your surprise, the biggest, tallest and strongest men in your following that you sent out were deemed as unfit to protect you, being slain by crocodile as they tried to order him to come with them. crocodile took all of them out without a sweat, getting information from the last man alive.

through shallow, ragged breaths, the last man alive, the newest man who’d been sworn in days prior, swallowed and gave crocodile all the knowledge he had, believing croc would let him live. that belief he had was short lived, being killed swiftly afterwards by croc for his disloyalty.

as a storm passed, you grew hungrier and impatient, feeding on a follower, who’d given you the permission to, in front everyone. your fangs deep into his neck, not draining him yet, you were interrupted at the perfect moment.

the storm cleared up as yells came from the entrance of the opera house before the doors were heard slamming open against the hard walls. you took your finishing sips as loud footsteps against the polished hardwood of the flooring took your attention.

“my, my, what an interesting sight.”

a deep voice glossed your ears as you looked up and dropped the man you were draining. sharp toe shoes, a big fur coat in that dark suit, and that big, gold hook. you knew exactly who this was, blood slowly dripping from your lips that slowly turned into a grin.

you stood to your feet as he kept walking towards you, your members following him closely with their eyes, ready to protect you if need be. finally, he got to the bottom of the stage, as you peered down at him, his dark eyes slowly making their way up to yours, simply mesmerized by being in your presence.

having your very eyes maintaining contact with his own set his soul on fire, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel the same way. “woman, you set those weak men to come grab me?”

you went to your knees, leveling with him with the smirk that hadn’t left your face since you got your eyes on him. “i wasn’t gonna get you myself. if you wanted me, you would’ve come regardless and look at ya’… here… in front of me.”

you held your hand out to him, allowing him to press a soft kiss on it before helping you down the steps. your breath hitched at his big, tall stature, praying no one could see it in your face as you walked him to a small office in the front of the opera house. the simple aroma that came from his clothing brought you back, years back, he was and will continue to be the only man who’s been able to satisfy you in every single way.

“i heard you were searching for me… askin’ around.” he chuckled, shaking his head not even being able to deny the claim. “got some business to handle… that’s what i was told… what business, baby? missed me?”

he did miss you, he missed your touch, your smell, your suave tone of voice, and, god, did he miss the way you’d look up at him with hungry eyes. so, when you slowly made your way up behind him, circling him until you were able to face you, then batting your pretty lashes at him, he couldn’t hold back.

the “business” being the craving he had for you that couldn’t be satisfied by anyone else besides you. his hand softly gripped the back of your head, pulling at your hair softly but firmly with his other arm wrapped around your body. you grinned a little before giving him a quick kiss.

“if i… i don’t wanna hurt you again.” you muttered against his lips. “what fun would that be, doll?” this time he went deeper, the two of you moving to the nearest surface. the papers, the money, the flowers, the offerings given to you by followers all on the ground with you bent over this dark wood desk with the beautiful engravings on the sides of it.

crocodile wanted to get everything he had desired, pulling your arch to force your arch more and feeling on your ass. “missed you.”

“i can tell-“ interrupting your words with a spank, causing you to squeal. that’s exactly what he needed, his hard, large hands slapping your ass once again just to hear that sound come out of you.

only time he’d ever go on his knees would be for you, having you with your legs spread open in front of his face. he was looking at his meal, drooling at the sight of your cunt, dripping and aching for him. eyes rolling back as he began to savor your taste without warning, lapping from your pussy to your ass, you just gripped at what you could, biting your bottom lip.

both his big hands spreading your cheeks so he could further admire his pretty little baby, a choked out moan left your lips feeling his tongue shove itself deep between your folds. crocodile loved those sounds, putting him at such peace as he massaged the spots he spanked, his erection throbbing more and more as he continued to eat you.

“fuck- wait-“ your pleases fell upon deaf ears, with him lost in it and you on the verge of tears feeling your release washing upon you hard as you made a mess on his tongue, squirting onto his mouth and face. he stood up, quickly getting his coat and vest off, rushing to get his belt off as he watched your body shake and your pussy drip onto the floor.

“arms to the back, pretty.” hazily you did as he demanded, feeling your arms be restrained by his belt as he tightened it around your wrists, being sure that they weren’t hurting you. you laid your head to the right side, watching as he took his cock out of his pants.

“take a deep breath.” was his only warning before pushing his thick tip, that leaked pre-cum, into you, stretching you out in a way that you only dreamed about.

letting you take another inhale before slowly shoving himself into your cunt, savoring every second of it with a small hiss from his lips. you clenched around his thickness as he gently pumped himself into you, he was a gentleman after all, needed to savor his craving completely. up until you whimpered his name, trying to hold back was no longer easy to do. not when you were begging for more of him.

his grip on the belt tightened as he began to fuck himself into you, grumbling under his breath for you to hold still. you couldn’t hear him though, you were too busy moaning and drowning in the feeling of him hitting your spot each time he thrusted into you.

you just kept squirming with your eyes rolled to the back of your head, he had to fix it himself, pulling you up by the belt restraining you, with his cock still rutting into you, your back arched away from his body with his free arm around your neck, catching you in a small chokehold.

“told you to sit still, now look at you.” you whined before gripping the arm he held you in a chokehold with, biting down into his forearm. he winced a little before continuing to work open your pussy.

you had not been touched this good, since the last time you saw him. tried to replicate the feeling but nothing worked. no one was him, nothing could compare to him, and it was better now, he’d grown bigger and effortlessly hit the spot that made you see stars and feel the kind of ecstasy that nothing, no one besides him, could awaken in you.

with the squelching of your wetness, the slaps of his skin against yours, and the cries coming from your lips, crocodile found the bliss he would’ve done anything to find, like you put a spell on him to make sure he’d never be able to feel this way with anyone.

no matter if he came inside off you, no matter how many times your orgasms hit, you both wouldn’t stop. had to make up for all the time you were apart.

© honeyyhivee (2024)

don’t use or steal my work, thanks!

[desigal-26]

Im the person who sent in the last ask about praising ur smut and since u said general thoughts/requests are fine so I come with a request! Id love something smut with aemond, you can even do a part 2 with your latest aemond work! I think that would work well, and if it's not too crazy maybe breeding kink for heirs yknow

Thank you for your ask. Requests are always well-appreciated, no matter if they are vague or too detailed.

Sweet Girl

Aemond Targaryen x Sister-Wife!Reader

Read Part One here

He was the storm that was feared by everyone, and she was the thunderclap that followed him with a morbid curiosity for chaos

The new King has a new Queen Consort. The royal couple—the newest envy of every man and woman. But little do they know of the chaos that follows them out of the Small Council chambers to their rooms—and sometimes even in the Small Council chambers.

Warnings:- MDNI, 18+ content, Targcest, Sort of Exhibition Kink, Breeding kink, Fingering, PiV, Fingering, Unprotected sex (wrap it before tap it), Dirty talking, Aemond being unhinged, Nicknames

Word Count: 2.2k

Aemond was only a single second’s patience away from slamming someone’s head into the table that acted as the centre piece of the Small Council’s chamber—much in the manner that Criston Cole had done during the meeting immediately after his father’s death. The table was the sole place where the realm’s most crucial and powerful decisions were made, the future of the realm was fabricated carefully by the most cunning of minds.

The debate had been going on for far too long—far too lacklustre to keep the King was yawning almost unnoticeable into his fist while his gaze swept over every lord that now sat his table—all loyal to him, either by oath or by fear. He didn’t mind either, though oath could be broken. Fear? Now, that was forever embedded in someone’s mind.

House Frey was proving to be hard to bend the knee. Their demands stood high, and for a moment, the One-Eyed King thought of burning the whole house down and be done with the matter for all. But then, his sister’s cunning yet soft voice whispered in the ears of his mind, telling him to keep his calm and to treat the fragile political bonds of the realm with care—especially, now when everything can fall apart by only a little mistake.

The realm is moistened mud, she had said the other day, explaining carefully to him the reason to not deal with anything too harshly. Because treating wet mud with force leads not to formation of anything but disruption—and the House of the Dragon, or what was left of it, could not afford any new rebellions or civil wars anymore.

“We shall discuss these matters tomorrow now, my lords.” Aemond blinked at the firm command by his sister-wife, biting back a half smirk as the lords of the Great Houses looked at her startled, clearly taken aback at being dismissed by a Queen Consort.

Never before had a Queen sat in the Council meetings were it not for ill health of the King, not at least after the era of the Conqueror. But that had changed now, because the One-Eyed King would not reduce his fiery wife to a mere showpiece for the court. Instead, he was supplying air to that fire, letting it grow and dance in the rhythms of a music only she could hear. All while he watched with pride, and a glass of wine.

The lords of the Small Council had turned to him, expecting a word of protest but all they received was a dismissive nod. He didn’t acknowledge him apart from that, his gaze focused on the way his sweet sister reclined in the chair on his right. Her silver hair, braided and adorned by small silver dragons, glistened under the candlelight that flickered around the room. Her eyes—so identical to his—watched him back with a sly smile and a crooning voice.

“See something that intrigue you, your grace?”

His gaze traveled down from the sly smile on her plump lips to the slope of her neck, bared by the low cut of her dress’s neckline that dipped just enough to provide him with a peak of what laid beneath the velvet fabric that wrapped her perfectly—hiding the picturesque view of her bare skin that he had indulged in since that evening in his study.

Their mother would frown up the thought if she ever found out. But how could he resist her when she looked as she did that night and then every night that he could count. Long hair, so identical to his but only more curled, left loose and out of their intricate designs. Muscles relaxed and breaths deep, accentuating the curve of her bosom hidden from his eye under the fabrics of green. Lips curled in a perfect smirk that sent blood right down his trousers.

She was perfect in a manner that was hard to explain to anyone—to put her beauty into words was to limit her beauty to there.

To the realm, she was the Queen Consort whose prophecy had shaken the roots of the royal family. But to him, she was his sweet girl—the very same that begged to be fucked prettily almost every night, who let him indulge in whatever dark fantasies his mind could conjure, who moaned loud enough to wake the entire Maegor’s Keep when he nestled deep into her folds, or the one who pleaded to him to breed her like a good wife she was.

Aemond felt his breeches tightening as his mind brought up the images of the last night and the night before it, and the one before it. The sweet tears of overwhelming pleasure that rolled down her cheeks. The broken moans and the hoarse voice from screaming his name with every orgasm that wrecked through her perfect body. The purple marks that he had gifted her, staking his claim over and over in form of his release inside her and the budding bruises that were carefully hid beneath her dress and jewellery.

“Come here, sweet girl,” he growled, his gaze darkening with uncontrollable desire.

The Queen Consort only raised an eyebrow, her gaze flitting over to the four King’s Guard that stood unflinching yet quiet nervously near the double doors. She had no problem in indulging her husband in herself, quite the opposite—but not with their guards trying to act like they weren’t seeing anything.

Aemond only smirked, waving his hand to dismiss the four guards who quickly turned on their feet, opening the door and marching out before closing it behind them. The silence that followed was thick enough to be cut by the Valyrian steel that laid on the table with a quiet reverence. The blade that once belonged to Aegon the Conqueror—now had a new owner in the One-Eyed King.

His wife watched him quietly, sitting up a bit straighter before she finally followed his old order. Her dress fluttered around her feet as she stood up, cautiously approaching him with her hands intertwined in front of herself.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, wife?” It was a rhetorical question, one delivered with an all-knowing smirk and casual arrogance of a man self-assured. His fingers drummed against the wood, eye watching her with an intensity that had her shying away despite that not being in her nature at all. His other hand—the one closer to her—snaked around her waist once she was close enough, pulling her closer until his breath fanned over the exposed skin right above the curve of her tits.

She gasped his name, her hands flying to hold her balance, fingers dipping into his broad shoulders. His fingers dung into the fabric clinging to her waist, tasting the feel of it beneath his fingertips—savouring it.

“Someone might interrupt,” she whispered, breathlessly. Her own light eyes had darkened but she was practising more restrain than her husband—only she didn’t know that he was far too gone and won’t listen to any reason she might have.

“Then let them.” The growl followed by him standing up to his full height had her breath hitching, bodies pressed against each other, restrained by the suffocating clothes that felt too warm against their heated skin. His head tilted down, lips trailing the delicate curve of her ear before his teeth sank into it, drawing out a surprised whimper that echoed in the silent room.

He walked her backwards until the back of her thighs brushed against the edge of the Small Council table. His hands had ventured on their own task, exploring the curves he had memorised all too well in the past few weeks, tugging at the dress that covered the most delicious of her parts.

Slowly, one of his hand pushed up the hem of her dress, pushing her to lean more on the table while his feet hooked on the insides of her legs, pulling them apart to give him easier access to her most intimate part—the one that belonged to him and him alone.

His hand slipped in, gathering the wetness that had gathered in between her thighs, a slow smug smirk tugging on his lips while he trailed down kisses over the expanse of her neck, whispering huskily, “so perfect for me, little sister. All made for me.” She only moaned in response, buckling against his hand while her knees weakened.

“Ae-Aemond, please…” she begged, but for what she didn’t know. Maybe for him to stop teasing, or for him to continue to torture her, to slowly bring her closer and closer to release before deprive her of the peak that shatters her completely.

He bit down on her neck, right above the place where her pulse thrummed in anticipation of what was to come for sure. She clung to him—desperate and wanting the climax only he could bring her to—begging with her wide eyes.

Gone was the Realm’s Oleander and in her place was Aemond’s sweet girl. The one who listened to every little noise he made and was made to please him.

“Turn around, wife.”

She gulped, body weak from his ministrations but thrumming with excitement as she did what he demanded on shaking legs. He towered over her from behind, his hand gently pushing her forward, bending her over the table where the realm’s future was dangled on thread on daily basis. The thrill of it sent a shiver down her spine, straight to her glistening core while her chest heaved against the tight confines of her dress.

Aemond reached down, fingers curling into the deep green of her dress and pushing it up to her hips, baring her damp folds to the cool air of the Small Council’s chamber. The little whine that echoed in the room fell on deaf ears while his one hand moved to rub circles on her clit while the other loosened the laces of his breeches, pushing them down enough to pull out his hand and angry length.

Two of his long fingers entered her slowly, a groan leaving his lips as her walls welcomed the digits home, sucking them in like they belonged there—which they did. He started to thrust them in and out, drawing heavy pants and little moans while she begged for more greedily. But the One-Eyed King was in a generous mood and decided not to prolong her torture.

Removing his fingers from her warmth, his wrapped them around his cock, coating them with her own wetness before he moved closer to her. The mushroom head of his length pushed past the plush and wet folds, straight into the embrace of her warm walls that hugged his length desperately. His hands found her hips, pushing back the hem of her dress to watch the bare flesh of her ass against his pelvis.

A groan echoed through the room, obscene noises following as he started to move inside her. Her fingers clung to the table in order to find some purchase while the intensity of his thrusts rocked it altogether.

“So tight, so wet…all for me, sweet girl?” One of his hand moved from her bare hips, travelling up to find her hair and fist them before tugging up at them. His other hand loosened the laces holding her dress together, baring a sliver of skin of her back.

She nodded, unable to form words or coherent thoughts in her mind, but a harsh tug of her hair had her whimpering out the answer. “Yes…yes, all for you.”

The smug grin on his face was hard to wipe out as he hastily pulled down her dress from the top, baring her full tits that brushed against the table with every thrust, nipples pebbled by the stimulation.

“Ae-Aemond,” she squeaked as he pounded hard into her, wet noises filling the air between growled out words and moaned pleas.

“I will breed you so well, little sister.” He punctuated with a rough thrust that had her gasping for breath, one of her hand moving down to cup his. Her walls clenched at his words, making him chuckle breathlessly as he leaned over her—his clothed chest brushing against her scarcely bare back.

His hot breath fanned the side of her face, growling filthy words into her ear.

“You will look so good, all round and full with my child in you. Your pretty tits overflowing with milk for our son. Your puffy cunt welcoming for me and him.”

Her lips parted in silent scream, the knot in her lower stomach close to snapping. She begged him to go faster, to breed her like she was supposed to be, and he complied without any hesitation.

A loud moan filled the room as she came, but Aemond didn’t stop. Instead, he was chasing his own high, while his mind conjured up images of her, round and desperate for him while carrying his heir in her stomach. That image alone, mixed with her loud noises were enough for him to come inside her, filling her fertile womb with his potent release.

A part of him hoped that his seed takes place, but another one, a selfish, darker part of him hoped not. After all, that gave him just more opportunity to breed his sweet, little wife.

[adeepdeepslumber]

Hi hi hi !! 😼

May I request reo and nagi being both in love with f!reader while the three of them are best friend ? Maybe like them being possessive and jealous would be rly kewl

I just discovered your blog and I think it’s bodaciously cool already and I’m excited to read your future work !!

Feel free to ignore this btw but thank you if you end up doing it :3

oo yesss i get it 😳😳 sorry if i post this abit late i would have just posted a nagi oneshot so this might take me awhile too love u for requesting mee 🩷🩷

you could have anyone you want. - reo mikage, nagi seishiro

jealous - eyedress

you three were called the golden trio.

reo mikage was the all rounder, his charming looks enchanted many. not only that, he was a kind soul, but tended to be cocky sometimes. his speech alone puts others in a trance, flashing aura blinding them. though he was friendly to others, he'd have a rather ruder attitude towards those who he disliked, scaring them.

nagi seishiro was the lazy genius, despite not putting in effort into anything, he excelled at most aspects of life. though his laziness often put people off, many often were entranced by him. he was lazy, always dozing off in classes, never giving any attention to anyone. he tended to dismiss everyone, almost always in his own world.

you who caused people's heads to turn. bold, never one to shy away from anything too intense. a pearly smile from you was all it took for someone to fall for you. you were the the top third in school in studies, with reo and nagi surpassing you. you tried your best in everything, and your bold personality drew others to you.

you, reo and nagi met when you were 10, at a playground randomly. you three just clicked together, and slowly, you started hanging out together, turning the bond between you three into superglue, keeping you three from separating. it seemed like the closeness you three could get was never ending, you three only seemed to get closer and closer together.

but obviously, that causes something new to form among it.

unbeknownst to you, you had both reo and nagi wrapped around you finger.

as they hung out more with you, they realized that feelings started to develop for you. the wide and confident smile you bore on your face sent their ears to flush red, and the tight hugs you would provide them comforted them with a warmth.

however, both reo and nagi knew that the other also had feelings for you. this caused a silent opposition to spark between the two.

oblivious as you were, even you'd notice the tension in between the two when they were with you.

reo would casually hold your hand tightly, walking with you to the next class, while the slacking nagi tried his best to keep up. reo's pace quickens, desperate for nagi to be left behind, just so he could have more time with you.

nagi would call you over to come to his house and game, leaving out the part that he never invited reo, to spend more time with you.

their actions slowly grew more and more obvious, but somehow you really never caught on.

"hey, wanna go to a cafe for lunch later? just the two of us?"

reo asked you casually, his heart beating faster and faster as he stared down into your eyes as you contemplated the thought. recently, you did realize that their actions seemed to revolve more around you and not around whatever else it should be. you'd always push it off, but now it started to bug you more.

"reo, but what about nagi?"

your innocent question was enough to make reo's eyes narrow, jaw clenching slightly at the mention of nagi's name. his eyes darted around the room, as if an excuse lay there.

"nagi.. is busy." giving a sour smile, completely not acknowledging that nagi was right behind him.

"i'm busy?" nagi asked from behind reo, his question innocent, but clearly laced with spite and jealousy. seeing each other, reo managed a sour smile, full of frustration, as nagi was clearly going to tag along.

"thought you were" reo muttered under his breath, before offering to walk you to class. the tension was so clear between the two of them, that you couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. this was clearly unlike them.

nagi muttered something that wasn't full audible, before completely draping himself over you. suddenly so clingy, but you never cared for it.

your captivating self drew everyone to you, despite you not noticing it. you could have anyone you want, but these two pined for you.

week after week, their actions became bolder and bolder, even your friends started suspecting they had feelings for you. well, you always brushed it off, but you couldn't deny that even you started suspecting it too. well, it came to light one day.

you went to the school campus on a weekend, to drop off some items for reo and nagi for their upcoming soccer match. when you were walking to the locker room to drop them off, it came to your mind that you didn't inform them in advance that you were coming. should be fine, right?

well, when you almost opened the door to the locker room, you could hear an agitated reo and a tired nagi.

"nagi, you like her don't you?" by guess, you thought that nagi would deny it, but surprisingly you head a faint "yeah".

reo too admitted it, and it finally dawned upon you that your two best friends, from childhood, came to have feelings for you. the two's conversation was filled with tension, hoping to win you over eventually without the other. many people told you that you could have anyone you wanted, well, you never expected that it could go to this extent.

slowly, you opened the door, revealing yourself and the totebag full of items you bought for them.

reo and nagi were caught off guard, now calculating in their minds if you'd heard their conversation.

"um. i wanted to give you guys these for the upcoming match."

holding out the totebag to them, you deliberately avoided eye contact with either of them, looking to the lockers as if your favorite drama was playing. this gave the duo confirmation you heard their conversation.

glancing at each other, nagi let out a sigh, holding his neck with his hand. while reo too let out a sigh, running his hand through his hair. taking the totebag from you, reo opened his mouth to talk to you, but you turned around quickly, determined to leave the locker room to escape the awkwardness. until nagi held your wrist, wanting you to hear them out.

"you heard us right? reo and i both like you, so give us time for us to win you over." nagi said it so casually as if he was talking about his video games, but you gotta admit, you heart fluttered at those words. reo chuckled, flashing you a charming smile, in agreement. now with the knowledge that your two best friends liked you, you were slowly getting flustered under their gazes. sticking out your tongue, you ran out of the locker rooms.

from then on, their actions towards you were bolder and more obvious, with clear effort being put in between the two to try and see who won you over first.

at one point the two were basically fighting over who would walk you home.

you can have anyone you want, but you really have those two wrapped around your finger.

this is unwiped asscheeks and super short sorry this is so clapped I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO WRITE JEALOUSY TROPES BETWEEN TWO PEOPLE GHIOERFJKSN

[jungkoode]

5 SECONDS TO FREEDOM | prologue

˗ˏˋ debts unpaid ˎˊ˗

"In Tokyo's underground, there are only two currencies that matter—respect and reputation. When someone threatens to take both, you don't just race them. You destroy them."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 3.5k

content: street racing culture, debt collection, first meetings, midnight races, dangerous driving, Spanish endearments as provocation, the dynamics of Tokyo's underground scene, and your first defeat in nineteen months.

✧ author's note ✧

Soooo here we fucking go.

I've been obsessing over this story for months—I think we all know that lmaooo I think I posted the teaser like a couple months ago and I was devastated because it barely got 50 notes. But you know what, this was still in my head so I did write some drabbles—and I kind of shaped the prologue, which is what you’re gonna read below hahaha.

“But Kiki we just sent you 45 asks telling you to rest” AND I SAID SIKE??? No actually, I’m okay I promise! Usually writing different stories is what prevents me from burning out, because I get frustrated with the same storyline so it’s like… I write something else and my brain goes ‘yay thanks’. You know, ADHD—shiny new toy, mind dances to the music.

Anyways, so. I love this. I love this because as always I get to experiment with different personalities and psychological backgrounds and what I fucking love about these two is the masks they wear and how opposite they are. He’s cocky and arrogant, but in a different way FMU!jungkook is. She’s determined and ambitious, always pushing for more, but still very distinct from all my other Y/N’s because she’s handling different situations (you’ll see in later chapters).

And Hachiroku and Jaque aren't just racing personas—they're escapes. And what makes this delicious is that they're running from opposite lives. One from privilege, one from struggle. Both finding freedom in the same five seconds at the starting line.

And yes, the cars matter. They're not just vehicles; they're extensions of identity. The AE86 is legendary for a reason—not the most powerful, but perfectly balanced in the hands of someone who knows exactly what they're doing (sound familiar?). Meanwhile, the R34 Skyline is raw, unapologetic power held in check by someone who understands precisely when to unleash it.

AS ALWAYS—READ THE AUTHOR INTRO AND TW listed in the index post. This is a must before reading this story.

Fair warning: this isn't going to be a clean race. These characters are messy. They make decisions that will make you want to scream at them. They'll crash into each other's lives and leave debris everywhere, and the kind of attraction that feels like a guardrail giving way on a mountain pass.

But that's the point, isn't it? The most interesting stories happen in the dangerous curves.

So buckle up. We've got a long road ahead.

Ready? Light’s about to turn green.

Also. Notes for this one are pretty high, that’s intentional. Like I just wanted to post the prologue to have it out for a bit but I still need to work on the arcs and major plot points. So I don’t have the story fully shaped out for now, which is why I want this to rest and check for engagement and reactions. Seriously—don’t crash out, I know this one will take time and that’s absolutely my intention!

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Respect isn't given in Tokyo's underground—it's paid in cash or blood.

You roll the cherry lollipop against your teeth, counting seconds in your head like engine timing.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours since you left Kalo and his overpriced Supra in your rearview on the Hakone downhill, his taillights disappearing around the corner while you took the perfect line through the hairpin that everyone else brakes too hard for.

It's nighttime at Daikoku.

You cross one leg over the other, letting your heeled boot dangle casually off the edge of your AE86's hood. The mini skirt wasn't a random choice. Neither was showing up without your racing gear.

Because tonight isn't about driving—it's about collecting.

"Kalo's nowhere to be seen," Maya says, leaning against your car's hood, arms crossed. "Dipped hard."

You don't bother looking at her, just shift the lollipop to the other side of your mouth with your tongue. The neon from nearby signs reflects off the polished black and white paint of your 86.

"What?" Maya catches your expression. "I'm just saying. Word is he's been avoiding this spot since you embarrassed him."

"While still flashing cash at that club in Roppongi," you add, voice flat. "Buying drinks for anyone who'll listen to his bullshit version of what happened on the mountain."

You tug at one of the layered chains around your neck, watching the crowd that's gathered tonight.

The usual suspects are here—wannabes with more money than skill taking photos of each other's cars, veterans huddled around hoods talking suspension setups, scouts looking for the next race.

Everyone except the one person who should be here with your money.

"So what's the plan?" Maya nudges your shoulder. "Just gonna sit here looking pretty until he magically appears?"

You roll your eyes. "Since when do I just sit and wait for anything?"

"Fair point." She grins that wolfish grin of hers. "So?"

"So I track his ass down." You twist the lollipop stick between your fingers. "He owes me fifty thousand yen. But more than that, he owes me the respect of paying up and admitting I smoked him fair and square."

Maya snorts, exactly as you expected. "Called it. Knew you wouldn't let this slide."

"It's not about the money." You straighten up, adjusting your cropped leather jacket. "It's about the principle. You lose a race, you pay your debts. That's how this works. You don't just disappear like some amateur who can't handle defeat."

"Especially not when he talked all that shit beforehand," Maya adds, picking at her black nail polish. "What was it he said again? Something about how no girl could ever handle his—"

"'No girl could handle my power on the downhill,'" you quote dryly. "Right before I passed him on the outside of that corner everyone brakes for."

The memory brings a slight smile to your face.

The shock in his eyes when you appeared in his side mirror where no car should have been able to fit.

The desperate overcorrection that sent him nearly scraping the guardrail while you smoothly accelerated away.

"Exactly." Maya pushes off your hood. "So what's the first move? Hit his usual spots?"

You pull the lollipop from your mouth with a pop. "Already did. Club Seventh in Roppongi. The garage where his uncle works in Setagaya. That ramen shop he's always at in Shibuya."

"Stalker much?" Maya raises an eyebrow.

"Thorough," you correct her. "There's a difference."

A brief silence falls between you as you both watch a metallic blue GT-R roll into the lot, bass thumping hard enough to vibrate the pavement.

Not Kalo's crowd—these guys run with the Yokohama crew.

"Kenji might know," you say finally, referring to your mutual friend who somehow knows everyone's business in Tokyo's racing scene. "He mentioned Kalo's been hanging around some new spot in Meguro the past week."

Maya pulls out her phone. "Want me to text him now?"

"Already did." You tap your boot against the bumper of your car. "He's supposed to meet us here in—" you check the time on your wrist "—fifteen minutes ago."

"Typical." Maya rolls her eyes. "That guy couldn't be on time if his life depended on it."

You're about to respond when you spot a familiar face weaving through the crowd. Kenji, with his signature sunglasses despite it being well past midnight, making his way toward you.

You straighten up slightly, not wanting to appear too eager for information.

"Ladies," he greets with that irritating smirk of his, adjusting his sunglasses even though there's absolutely no need. "Looking dangerous tonight, Y/N. Someone's not here to race."

"Just tell me what you know about Kalo," you say, cutting through his bullshit.

Kenji leans against your car without asking—a liberty you allow only because he's useful.

"Direct as always. That's what I like about you."

"Kenji," you warn, patience already wearing thin.

"Fine, fine." He holds up his hands in surrender. "Your boy's been hanging at this new garage in Meguro. Place called Midnight Rush. Trying to get in with that crew that runs the Wangan on weekends."

You raise an eyebrow. "The twins' territory? That's desperate even for him."

"After what you did to his reputation?" Kenji shrugs. "Man's gotta find somewhere to start over."

Maya laughs. "Not how this works. You don't just reset when you lose."

"Exactly." You shift your weight, boot heels clicking against the pavement. "So he's there tonight?"

"Should be. They're prepping for some big run tomorrow. Word is there's serious money changing hands. He's trying to buy his way in."

The conversation halts as the distinctive growl of an approaching engine cuts through the night.

Not just any engine—something with a tune you've never heard before.

Sharp. Aggressive. Perfectly balanced.

Heads turn as a midnight purple Skyline R34 GT-R glides into the parking area, before coming to a stop under the harsh parking lot lights.

"Who the hell is that?" Maya straightens up, suddenly alert.

Kenji's expression shifts from boredom to interest in an instant—a rare change for him. "New player. Goes by Jaque."

You study the car, assessing rather than admiring.

Aftermarket body kit, but tasteful. Custom wheels. The stance is aggressive but functional.

Whoever built this wasn't just throwing money at it—they knew exactly what they were doing.

"Jaque?" you repeat, keeping your voice neutral despite your curiosity. "What kind of name is that?"

"Latino guy. Showed up about a month ago." Kenji lowers his voice, shifting into the gossip mode he lives for. "Been cleaning up. Undefeated so far."

Your eyebrow rises slightly at that.

Undefeated is a bold claim in this scene.

"Never heard of him," Maya says, voicing what you're thinking.

"That's because he's been running mostly on the Wangan line. Outrunning cops, taking stupid risks. The kind of shit that gets you noticed fast." Kenji's eyes remain fixed on the car. "Word is he beat Hayato's record on the C1 loop last week."

That gets your attention, though you're careful not to show it.

Hayato's record has stood for three years.

This guy has broken it in a month.

Who the fuck is this?

Your question is answered when the driver's door opens, and the crowd's murmur intensifies. A figure emerges, oozing the confidence of someone who knows they belong anywhere they choose to be.

Not tall, but with a presence that fills the space around him. Dark hair, sharp jawline, and a smirk that suggests he's already three steps ahead of everyone else.

"He drives like he's got nothing to lose," Kenji adds, a note of genuine respect in his voice that you rarely hear. "Like he doesn't care if he crashes or dies. It's... I don’t know man. Something else."

You watch as the driver—Jaque, apparently—leans back against his Skyline, surveying the crowd like he's taking inventory.

His gaze sweeps across the parking lot, until it lands on your group.

Or more specifically, on you.

He gives you a small nod, as if acknowledging territory.

"Looks like you've got an admirer," Maya mutters, nudging your ribs.

You shrug, unimpressed. "Looks like another ego with a nice car."

But you don't look away, and neither does he. It's a standoff of sorts, neither willing to be the first to break eye contact.

You've played this game before with countless racers who thought they were hot shit.

You've never been the first to look away.

"Don't dismiss him so quickly," Kenji warns, surprising you. "I've seen him drive. I’m dead serious, it’s not normal."

"Nobody's unbeatable," you say, finally breaking the staring contest to look back at Kenji.

Just because you had to look back at Kenji.

"Maybe." Kenji shifts uncomfortably. "But this guy... he doesn't race like a normal person. It's like he's got some kind of death wish, but with the skill to back it up."

You scoff, though something about Kenji's tone—the genuine concern beneath his usual bullshit—gives you pause.

"Death wish or not, a car's a car, and physics is physics. There are rules to this game that nobody breaks."

Maya's watching you with that knowing look she gets when she can tell someone's gotten under your skin, even just a little.

"You want to find out, don't you?"

"I want to find Kalo and get my money," you correct her, though your eyes drift back to the Skyline against your will. "That's why we're here."

You scoff at Maya's knowing smirk, about to tell her to shut it when fragments of conversation float over from where the newcomer stands. One word cuts through the ambient noise of engines and chatter.

Kalo.

Your head snaps toward the source.

The Skyline guy—Jaque—leans against his car, talking to a small circle of racers. His hands move expressively as he speaks, gold bracelet catching the neon light.

"Kenji." You cut him off mid-sentence. "Who exactly is this guy talking to?"

Kenji follows your gaze. "Nobody important. Some Yokohama kids trying to get noticed." He adjusts those stupid sunglasses. "Why?"

"He just mentioned Kalo."

Maya straightens beside you. "You sure?"

No mistaking it. Not when you've been hunting that name for two weeks.

"Excuse me," you say, already moving.

Maya sighs behind you. "Here she goes again."

You don't look back. Your boots click purposefully across the pavement, moving slowly. Not rushing—you never rush. But determined.

Three guys surrounding Jaque glance up as you approach, their expressions shifting from interest to wariness. They know who you are.

He doesn't turn immediately. Keeps talking, voice carrying a rhythm unlike anything you've heard in Tokyo. An accent that doesn't belong here.

Only when you're close enough to count the stitches on his leather jacket does he acknowledge your presence.

And even then, it's just a partial turn. Forty-five degrees. Neck cradling slightly to look at you sideways.

Performative, if anything. Like he knew you were coming before you did.

You cross your arms, weight shifting to one hip. His mouth twitches upward at the corner, eyes traveling from your face down to your boots and back up again.

Not subtle about it at all.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this sight?" Velvet slides from his lips.

One eyebrow quirks upward, the slightest movement. His Japanese is fluent but different—consonants softened, vowels stretched in places they shouldn't be.

You narrow your eyes. "You mentioned Kalo. What do you know about him? What's your relationship?"

He studies you for two full seconds. Not answering. Just looking. Like he's trying to read something written in small print.

Then he chuckles, using two fingers to move a thin strand of dark hair that's fallen across his view. The movement is unnecessary. Theatrical. Done for effect.

"Why so serious, princesa?"

It’s Spanish, the last word. You know that much, know from the way the word rolls off his tongue, deliberate, inserted where it doesn't belong. Like he’s testing boundaries, hoping for a reaction.

"I asked you a question." You keep your voice unimpressed.

"And I asked you one too."

He turns to face you fully now, leaning back against his car with the casualness of someone who's never been afraid of anything.

"But since you came all this way... Kalo. The Supra guy, right? The one who races like he learned driving from a video game?"

The description is so accurate you almost smile.

Almost.

"I hear he owes someone money," he continues, watching your reaction carefully. "Someone who smoked him on the mountain course two weeks back. Embarrassed him so badly he's been hiding like a scared rabbit."

His three companions take subtle steps backward, no longer interested in being part of this conversation.

Smart.

Maya appears beside you, silent backup. Though her presence changes nothing in his demeanor.

"And how would you know about that?" you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder.

"People talk. I listen." His accent thickens when he adds, "Es lo que hago." (It’s what I do)

"Is that right?" You don't react to the Spanish. "Interesting that someone who just showed up knows so much about other people's business."

"I'm observant."

His eyes lock with yours.

"For example, I observe that you're not here to race tonight. That outfit? Those heels?" He clicks his tongue. "You're here to collect. To make a point."

Something cold slides down your spine. Not fear—you don't do fear. Something else.

Being read so easily isn't a sensation you're familiar with.

"What's your name again?" You ask it like you've already forgotten, though you haven't.

"Jaque." He says it with a slight emphasis on the second syllable. "And you're Y/N. The 86 driver who hasn't lost a mountain race in what, two years?"

"Nineteen months," Maya corrects automatically.

You shoot her a look.

Jaque's smile widens. "Nineteen months. Impressive."

"If you're done wasting my time," you say, turning slightly, "I have a debt to collect."

"From a guy who isn't here."

He pushes off his car, closing the distance between you by half a step. Not enough to be threatening. Just enough to make his presence unavoidable.

"And won't be. Not tonight," he adds.

"And you know that how?"

"Because I passed him on the expressway heading in the opposite direction. About twenty minutes ago." He taps his wrist where a watch would be. "Running scared, looked like."

You clench your jaw. If he's telling the truth, you've wasted your night. Another dead end in your hunt for the coward who owes you.

"So you just happened to recognize a stranger's car?" Maya asks, skepticism heavy in her voice.

"A white Supra with that terrible aftermarket body kit and the Rising Sun decal on the hood?" He makes a dismissive gesture. "Hard to miss. Hard to forget, unfortunately."

That description matches Kalo's car exactly; and the sick feeling in your stomach tells you he's not lying, as much as you'd like him to be.

"Well," you say, voice cooling by several degrees, "thanks for the information."

You turn to leave, disgusted at having your time wasted. First by Kalo's absence, now by this newcomer who clearly just wanted to get your attention. Another night, another waste.

"I'll pay you double what he owes you."

The words stop you mid-step.

You turn back slowly, measuring every movement.

"Excuse me?"

Jaque's expression hasn't changed, but something in his eyes has.

They’re gleaning.

"Fifty thousand yen, right? I'll make it a hundred." He says casually, like offering to buy a coffee. "If you beat me."

Maya makes a small sound beside you, something between a scoff and a laugh.

"And why would I race someone I don't know for money I don't need?"

You almost laugh. As if this is about the money. You were born into more yen than he’s ever seen—this is about respect. About principle. About owning your loss when someone beats you clean. No excuses. No saving face. Just bow your head and pay what you owe.

But he’s not done.

"Because you're curious." He says it like it's obvious. "Because you've been the best for nineteen months and you're bored. Because you want to know if I'm as good as they say."

"As good as who says?" You roll your eyes. "I've never heard of you before tonight."

"Then I must be doing something right." His smile shifts, becomes syrupy. "But if money doesn't motivate you, how about this—I win, I get to run with your crew. Race in your territory."

You can't help it—you laugh. Short and dismissive.

"That's not how this works. You don't just buy your way in." Your eyes flick to his car. "No matter how pretty your GT-R is."

"I'm not buying," he corrects, that accent slipping into his Japanese again. "I'm earning. Difference."

You narrow your eyes.

Maya leans close to your ear. "You're not seriously considering this?"

You should walk away. This guy is nobody. A newcomer with a nice car and too much confidence. The racing scene sees them every month. They come, they crash, they disappear.

But.

Something about the way he stands there, utterly certain of himself, gets under your skin.

Like he already knows your answer before you do.

And maybe it's the wasted night. Maybe it's two weeks of hunting Kalo with nothing to show for it. Maybe it's just the need to put someone in their place.

"One race," you hear yourself say.

Maya's head whips toward you in surprise.

"One race," you continue, "and when I win, you pay double what Kalo owes me, and you don't bother me again."

"And when I win," he counters, not missing a beat, "I race with your crew. Simple."

"If," you correct.

"When." He doesn't back down.

One calculated step closer brings his scent into focus. Leather, naturally, but beneath it something that doesn't compute. A scent that belongs to ryokan inns and meditation halls, not this arrogant foreigner.

Hinoki.

"You're awfully confident for someone who knows nothing about me or how I drive."

"And you're awfully defensive for someone who's supposedly unbeatable." His voice drops lower, meant for your ears only. "What are you afraid of, princesa?"

The Spanish word again. A barb. Challenging.

"Afraid?" You match his tone. "I'm trying to save you the embarrassment. And the money."

He laughs, so genuine that it catches you off guard. "So it's settled then. You and me. Tonight."

From the corner of your eye, you see Kenji approaching, drawn by the developing scene. Others are watching too.

Word travels fast in this world.

"Fine." You extend your hand, a formality in this world of verbal contracts. "My terms. My course."

He takes your hand. His grip is firm but not aggressive. Just right. His palm warm against yours.

"Your course," he agrees. "But I pick when."

You raise an eyebrow. "When, then?"

His smile widens, showing teeth. "Now."

Death has a rhythm.

Tonight, it sounds like Daddy Yankee.

The mountain is yours—every curve, every shadow, every inch of guardrail. You've memorized each crack in the asphalt like the lines on your palm.

Yet as you sit at the starting line, engine purring, the midnight purple Skyline beside you blasts "Gasolina" loud enough to vibrate your windows.

He's not even looking at the road.

Jaque's got hand on the wheel, the other tapping the window frame in rhythm.

Kenji stands between the cars, arms raised.

You grip your steering wheel tighter.

Focus. Calculate. This is your mountain. Your rules.

"Ready!" Kenji shouts.

You check your gauges, settle into position, drop your breath rate. Your 86 is an extension of your body.

"Set!"

Jaque turns to you—actually turns his head away from the road—and winks.

Winks.

What the fuck is his problem?

Your jaw clenches so hard you hear teeth grinding.

"GO!"

You snap into the first gear immediately, launching forward as your tires bite into asphalt. Perfect traction. Perfect release. Your 86 shoots ahead exactly as calculated, exactly as it always does.

The Skyline stays even.

First corner approaches—tight right-hander with a nasty camber that catches amateurs by surprise. You brake at the perfect moment, downshift, feel the weight transfer as you clip the apex.

Textbook. Flawless. The corner you've taken hundreds of times.

The Skyline mirrors you exactly, staying in your blind spot. The bass from his music is still thumping through the night air.

Second corner. Third. Fourth. Each attack perfect, each line immaculate. And still, he's there. Not gaining, not falling behind. Just... present. Like a shadow you can't shake.

"What the hell is this guy playing at?" You mutter, taking the next hairpin with a controlled aggression that should give you an advantage.

Should.

Doesn't.

The Skyline follows, its midnight paint swallowing the moonlight instead of reflecting it. Through the next three corners, it continues—you lead, he follows, neither gaining ground.

Until the straightaway.

The road opens up, and you floor it. The 86 responds instantly, pushing you back into your seat. This is where your lighter weight should shine.

But the Skyline surges forward, twin-turbo engine unleashing a growl that slices the night.

He passes you.

Not aggressively. Not dangerously.

Just... efficiently.

Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

For the first time in nineteen months, you're staring at someone else's taillights.

"No fucking way."

You push harder, finding speed you rarely tap into. The gap closes slightly on the approach to the next corner—a sharp left with a cliff drop on the outside.

No guardrail. No room for error.

Normal people brake early here.

Jaque, as it turns out, is not normal people.

You don't brake until the last possible microsecond, throwing the 86 into the corner. The tires scream, traction at its absolute limit. You can feel them searching for grip, dancing on the edge of adhesion.

You exit the corner a car length behind him.

"Come on!" You slam the gearshift, pushing for more.

The next section is technical—five corners in quick succession. Your territory.

It's where precision matters more than power.

You close the gap. Corner by corner, inch by inch. Three more and you're on his bumper. Close enough to see his fingers still tapping against the frame slightly to the rhythm.

The next hairpin is your chance. The inside line is risky—there's barely enough room—but it's your mountain.

You know exactly how much space you need.

You dive for the gap.

For one beautiful moment, you're alongside him. Equal. Your front bumper inches past his door.

Then he does something impossible.

Instead of defending the line—instead of doing what any rational driver would do—Jaque throws his car into a drift so aggressive it sends the back end swinging wide, nearly touching the guardrail.

The move creates an arc that cuts you off, forces you to brake or crash.

You brake.

The maneuver costs him speed, should give you another chance to pass on exit.

But before you can capitalize, he's already accelerating out of the drift, the Skyline's all-wheel drive finding traction where none should exist.

"What the actual—"

The move was insane. Suicidal. The kind of thing that ends with twisted metal and sirens.

And he pulled it off like he was parallel parking.

For the final stretch—three corners and the last straightaway—you throw caution aside. Push beyond limits you usually respect. The 86 responds, giving everything it has.

It's not enough.

The Skyline crosses the finish line two car lengths ahead. You slam your palm against the steering wheel.

The taste of defeat is metallic in your mouth, foreign and despised.

You bring the 86 to a hard stop, tires protesting at the sudden deceleration.

The music still pounds from his car. That same goddamn song.

You throw open your door, adrenaline and anger propelling you forward. The cool mountain air hits your flushed face as you storm toward his car.

Because that last move? It wasn't just reckless—it was deadly. The kind of stunt that gets people killed on these mountains.

Words build in your throat. Sharp words. Words about respect for the mountain and death wishes and arrogance.

His door swings open as you approach. The music blasts louder without the barrier of glass and metal. He slides out with that same casual grace you saw when he called you princesa, when he winked before accelerating.

And something stops the words in your throat.

He shakes his head slightly, dark hair falling across his eyes before he pushes it back with one smooth motion. His other hand remains on the Skyline's roof, some golden ring catching the moonlight.

When he turns to face you, there's no triumph in his expression. No arrogance.

Just... satisfaction.

Like he's found something he's been looking for.

His eyes meet yours across the short distance. That smile appears again—not the cocky smirk from earlier, but something more genuine. Lips curved just slightly at the corners.

"Thanks for the adrenaline rush, mami," he says, voice carrying over the pounding beat of Daddy Yankee.

You've never hated Spanish music more in your life.

goal: 500 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @jkrailme @graydolan12

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[tocara]

A reader, who doesn't believe in love and then they met Satoru.

Part 9

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8.

Once the skies cleared and flights resumed, he walked you to your boarding gate.

You didn’t talk much. Just small things. Light things. But it felt warm—like the quiet didn’t need to be filled, like being near him was enough.

When they called your boarding group, he gave you a soft smile and a casual goodbye. Like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t the person who once shook your world with a single smile—and again, when he sat beside you in that waiting area, saying nothing at all.

You thought that was it. Maybe it should’ve been.

But later that night, in your hotel room, iced coffee in hand and half-watching the city lights flicker through the window, your phone buzzed.

You nearly choked.

@gojo_satoru followed you. And then, a message:

"Made it safe? Turbulence looked nasty from my side."

Your heart stuttered.

You stared at the screen way too long before finally typing:

"Yeah. Got here just fine. Thanks for asking."

The next morning, he asked how your vacation was going. You replied with a photo—breakfast on a breezy balcony, tropical fruit and ocean view. Later, a picture of the shoreline, your shoes half-buried in the sand.

He sent his own. The view from the cockpit: endless sky, the curve of clouds far below, golden sunlight pouring through the window.

A blurry shot of his coffee.

No captions. No explanations.

Just snapshots.

And somehow… it became a habit.

Sometimes you’d send a photo of your view without a word, and he’d respond a few hours later with a glimpse of his.

A sunset. A book spine. His shadow on a tarmac. Your cat asleep on your bag. Your new favorite snack. A bus window during a rainy commute. The silence between you stopped feeling awkward. It became something else. Something steady. Familiar.

The messages, once random and polite, began to thread their way into your day like a quiet rhythm.

You weren’t sure what it meant. If it even had to mean anything.

But you started looking forward to them. To him.

Bit by bit, he became part of your everyday.

—

Months passed.

You didn’t expect him to say it.

“I’ve got a week off. No flights. Company’s forcing us to rest. So… I thought maybe I’d come see you.”

You froze mid-message, staring at the screen like it would change.

Then another one followed, almost sheepish:

“Unless you’re busy. Then I’ll just—sleep for a week, I guess.”

Then you told him the truth.

That you were already packed for Japan. A solo trip. Nothing fancy—just cold air, quiet streets, vending machine coffee, and snow.

You’ve never seen snow.

You told him you loved the cold.

Then came his reply.

“Japan, huh? Sounds like I picked the perfect time to clear my schedule.”

You stared at your screen for a long moment.

“Are you inviting yourself?”

“Obviously. Unless you say no. But just so you know���I’ve already started looking at flights.”

—

You weren’t sure what to expect when you arrived at the airport.

You clutched your passport tighter than necessary. Your suitcase felt heavier than usual. Not because of the weight—but because he’d be there.

Waiting.

And he was.

He stood just past the entrance in a long black coat, duffle bag slung over one shoulder, sipping coffee from a convenience store cup. He looked good—effortlessly so. Like he didn’t even try. And you miss him so much. Damn.

He looked up. Smiled when he saw you.

“Hey,” he said like it hadn’t been months. Like he hadn’t slid so slowly, carefully into your life.

“You weren’t kidding,” you murmured, falling into step beside him.

“About what?”

“Inviting yourself.”

He laughed. “You didn’t say no.”

You didn’t.

You still wouldn’t.

You shared snacks before boarding. He offered you the window seat. You passed each other gum and talked about little things—flight schedules, restaurants that you wanted to try, whether you’d get lucky with actual snowfall.

Nothing big.

But it felt different.

Real.

He wasn’t just someone on the other side of a screen anymore.

He was here. Choosing to be here.

With you.

[jeannereames]

Hello Dr. Reames, I just have a question in regards to Alexander's approach to his soldiers treatment of women (I'm getting at sexual violence here) and what Alexander most likely handled such things. I think most of us know the story of how he praised Timoclea for her bravery after she was violated by one of his men, but what about other women? I remember reading (I'm pretty sure it was Diodorus) that when Alexander's army got to Darius's camp after the battle of Issus, Alexander's men "had their way" with some of the other women left behind. Who were these women? Servants? Noblewomen? And other similar instances that I'm sure I've read elsewhere. I guess what I'm asking is HOW likely is it that Alexander extended his chivalry to "common" women in his empire? I mean, there are some instances were he certainly was, as we would describe, chivalrous. He sent the women warriors that were offered to him (by Bessus I believe) in Arrian's Anabasis out of fear his men might "molest" them, and during the burning of Persepolis ordered his men not to touch the women of the city during the burning. I suppose I don't want to believe (for all his MANY faults) would allow such things to happen freely, as childish as that sounds.

Also if you can recommend some books (if you know of any I can get) that mention or discuss Alexander's approach to sexual assault in his empire that'd be great. Also I love your work and your YouTube channel!

Alexander and Female Prisoners of War

The treatment of women in war has always been horrendous. Full stop.

In the ancient world, the treatment of upper-class women was typically presented in the literature as a sign of the all-important clemency on the part of conquerors, whether they were Alexander, Scipio, Cyrus, etc.: “good men” who accorded “proper ladies” their social due.

One extremely important question we must ask is whether the depiction in literature accurately reflects what ACTUALLY happened. E.g., is it just a pretty story? To some degree, this is an unanswerable question. We weren’t there. In the case of Alexander, our (surviving) sources are largely late, so they weren’t there, either. And some of their sources weren’t there but relied on yet other accounts.

Think of these tales a bit like those “Introducing the Candidate” videos that political action committees put out to present Their Guy/Gal in glowing terms. Those videos may not be wholly false, but they’re also not entirely true. The degree to which they’re false or true obviously varies, depending on the person in question—an important point in this day of auto-cynicism. If few people in politics are Jimmy Stewart’s Mr. Smith (Goes to Washington), some really are there for (mostly) the right reasons.

We need to take a similar view of these tales from the ancient world. This is my usual pushing back against the same auto-cynicism among some of my historical colleagues. Nonetheless, even if we decide at least some of the stories about Alexander might be more true than false…

The treatment of women in war has always been horrendous. (as above)

For every Timoklea spared, there are a thousand nameless-to-history (if not to themselves) women who were raped, enslaved, and/or killed as a result of Alexander’s conquests. Yay, for Timoklea?

Via a modern lens, ancient warfare was almost unimaginably brutal. Modern war messes up people, sometimes/(often) for life. Ancient warfare was that on steroids. But I think it’s easy to forget how extremely precarious life was in the ancient world. War was, if not “common,” certainly not uncommon. Death was also much more in-your-face possible at any stage of life. Chance was understood to have a lot to do with it, and the favor of the gods, rather than anything inherently “good” in a person. Even while we do see folks in the ancient world trying to moralize bad luck, that’s more true in the ANE. In Greece and Rome, it was more about Luck, and Fate.

Today, I think the average person is very much cushioned from death. We rarely see dead bodies, and when we do, it’s in a casket at the funeral home. We’re not usually present when people die. We buy our meat prepackaged in the grocery story, without skin or offal and maybe even without any bones. We spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to preserve life, and to make living more comfortable and meaningful for the chronically ill, even for children born extremely disabled.

THAT WAS NOT THEIR WORLD. They’d be absolutely stunned (and arguably appalled) by the idea of saving a child with severe birth defects, or mortgaging one’s house to afford desperate measures to save somebody mangled in a car wreck and barely holding on to life. The kind thing, to their minds, would be to end the suffering ASAP. Who’d want to live like that? “Quality of life” had an entirely different meaning. And if, yes, the super-rich (like Alexander) might have been willing to pay anything to save the life of someone beloved (like Hephaistion), that wasn’t most people’s lived experience.

I point out all this to contextualize their perceptions of war, and war’s results. Resilience, or the ability to survive and recover from trauma, depends on a number of psychological factors, including having the event acknowledged as real, and the survivor’s preexisting ideas of a just (or unjust) world. One reason incest can be so incredible damaging is the secretiveness of it, and who did the assault (someone the survivor was taught to trust). Rape in war is done by a hated enemy and is not secret. That hardly makes it “better,” but it allows the survivor to process the trauma in a more straightforward way, and in the company of (many) others who have suffered the same. For women who wind up enslaved, rape will likely remain a normal part of their existence from then on, although the violence that accompanied it probably varied.

All of that led to a certain amount of hardened hearts, both to what happened to others, but also to what one suffered one’s self. It also explains why, in particularly brutal situations (such as sieges), entire families might elect suicide if the walls were breached—if they had time. This sort of whole-family suicide is mentioned in one of the accounts of Alexander’s razing of Persepolis, if I remember right. Also, some of the Indian sieges.

As for the well-born, and despite the fact the Greeks invented democracy, ancient Greece and Rome were still very much “class” societies. And more of Greece was NOT democratic than was. So the notion still existed that some women belonged—by “blood”—to a class who should be spared brutality, and elites and aristocrats were elites and aristocrats by virtue of special descent. Just as kings were kings by special descent. This might offend the modern mind, but not theirs. The children of slaves were born to be slaves; that was the “natural order of things.” But the children of the wealthy ruling class were born to rule, so when war intervened to reverse their fortunes, it was seen as especially sad. And that’s where clemency comes in.

It was a show of both admirable self-restraint and civilization for the victor to spare the (weaker) women and children of the defeated ruling group—to a point. After all, to be able to do so, he has already demonstrated his excellence in victory and has the POWER to offer clemency. That’s why clemency is a bit different from “grace” in a broader sense—and can be an insult for a man to accept. Caesar used it as a way to lord it over his enemies: “I could kill you...but I don’t respect you enough to fear you.” Also, clemency was often withheld from groups perceived to be “too barbarian.” They didn’t deserve it.

In any case, for upper-class female prisoners-of-war, acts of clemency, whether from the victor by freeing them, or from allies who offered ransom to rescue them from a life of slavery, became a sort of social coin. Not unlike starting a Go-Fund-Me today for a friend who’s fallen on hard times. One gets brownie points for the gesture…even if it 100% comes from a place of compassion. (Two motives can coexist at once in people.)

So, all of that may help to contextualize Alexander’s acts of clemency towards certain women who fell under his power. Was he actually more sensitive to captured women than most? I’m inclined to think he was. But I also recognize that such stories carried a lot of weight for later writers (such as Plutarch and Arrian) who had a particular picture of him that they wanted to paint.

That said, the fact he encouraged his soldiers to marry the camp followers with whom they’d had children, many of them women from the lands they conquered, and even offered dowries for the women is an uncommon act. It’s also weird enough, I suspect it’s not invention and points to an unexpected concern for women. We need to look “in the corners” of accounts about other matters, where clemency isn’t the point, to discover how atypical Alexander actually was.

So yes, he was (a little) ahead of his time. But I doubt he gave much thought to the plight of women in cities such as Thebes or Tyre or Persepolis, other than passing pity. Their fate was, to his mind, the fault of their male family members who chose to rebel against him—and a warning to others against resistance. There’s no point to the carrot without the threat of a whip, in ancient thought.

I don't know of any specific articles about this topic, although it's an interesting one. There are numerous articles about ATG and women more generally, many by Carney, Müller, D'Agostini, and (earlier) Greenwalt. But aside from an article by Müller on ATG's chivalry in the various medieval romances, I don't think anybody has directly examined the stories in earlier sources. Or, I take that back, Beth Carney wrote an article about women and warfare for the new Brill's Companion to the Campaigns of Philip II and Alexander the Great, and Sabine Müller wrote on war crimes more broadly, but I've not had time to read either chapter yet. The book literally just came out at the tail-end of last year. I bet they have some good bibliography to them.

[godsholyhat]

Sketches from an AU where Theresa dresses up as a man and follows Godwin to rescue Henry and Hans.

Hans/Henry, past Henry/Theresa and Henry/Bianca, ambiguous Theresa/Bianca

Warnings for brief mentions of Theresa's near assault at the start of KCD1.

It was near midday when the war party reached the crossroads that led to Trosky Castle, high in the sky above them like some fairy fastness. Theresa, her head aching from the blow of the bombard, ears still ringing, scarcely heard the words being exchanged, but knew only that at any moment her fate might be sealed. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest, sluggish in its beating. How ironic, she thought, to have survived the burning of Skalitz only to meet her end here. If she was lucky, they would not see past the armour she wore and would just hang her from the nearest tree. She had always longed for adventure. She could never have known what it would cost.

Beside her, Lord Capon stirred. Lord von Bergow was speaking to him, she realised. She kept her face cast down.

“And what of my serving boy?” asked the young lord, his voice sharp.

“You mean Kobyla’s bastard?” asked von Bergow. “He will go with Sir Istvan. What happens to him after that is none of my concern, nor yours.”

“I mean this boy here,” he said, indicating Theresa. “Young Thomas. He came with Godwin, sent by my uncle. He’s served me since he was a nipper. I’ll need someone to tend to my wounds, and he’s a dab hand at it.”

Bless him, she thought to herself. He owes nothing to me and yet he’s trying to save me. A darker thought came over her — perhaps he was only saving her to use her. She’d heard the stories of Lord Capon, after all: a man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself and who was partially responsible for providing the herbwoman in Ledetchko with a steady business. He’d even taken the last of Karolina’s maidenhead — what she hadn’t already given away to Nicholas, the baker’s son, that is. Theresa’s small dagger lay hidden beneath her mail, tucked into the belt she wore around her gambeson, ready to use should any man get that close. She would use it on Lord Capon if he tried anything with her.

von Bergow snorted, frustrated. “I suppose I can allow it, Sir Hans,” he said briskly. “A nobleman needs his valet after all. But mark my words, he will be your responsibility. My duty of care extends only to you: you will feed and clothe him yourself, and any wages you pay him will come from your pocket.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Capon.

—

She’d fooled around with Matthew, a few years ago, and the experience had been pleasant enough but vaguely disappointing. Henry had been much more fun to sport with, but it was clear the whole time that they were both thinking of someone else, and when he half-heartedly proposed marriage to her at the end, she had known he did not mean it. If her blood had not come at the end of the month, she might have taken him up on the offer, but as it was, her blood came, for they had been careful and he had not spilled inside her. Still, it had been good to know she was desirable, even if she could not shake the feeling that there was a third person standing between them, a woman with dark brown hair and laughing black eyes, and Theresa could still not confidently deny that when Henry kissed her she did not imagine it was Bianca instead.

—

It took her far too long to realise that Lord Capon was in love.

—

“Henry,” she said, recognising him even in the dark. Her lantern cast strange shadows across his face, and she saw for just a moment that he had been weeping. She unslung her shield and set it down against the parapet wall of Suchdol fortress. “Henry, what’s wrong?”

“Tess, will you marry me?” he asked quietly. “If we survive this.”

“Henry, what’s brought this on?” She examined him closely. “Where’s your Lord Capon? I thought he’d be here to see you off.”

“He— I—” The words caught in his throat, and as though illuminated by a flash of lightning, Theresa knew exactly what had come to pass. It was strange, she thought; by any measure she ought to be disappointed to know that the man she loved was in love with someone else. But she had known long ago that what they shared was not the type of love that men and women typically share. Theirs was the love shared by Katherine and Žižka, the love shared between brothers-in-arms, something deeper and more lasting than common affection. She would lay down her life for him, as he would lay down his in return. But she did not love him as a woman ought to love a man.

“You love him,” she said, simply, and he bowed his head, ashamed, shoulders shaking as he wept silently. “Oh, Hal.” She stepped close and touched his cheek. “There’s no shame in it.”

“But there is,” he said. “If I told you the desires of my heart…”

She smiled a little. “What?” she asked quietly. “Do you want him to bugger you? Bend you over the nearest table and take you? Or maybe you want the reverse?”

Henry gave a wet, miserable laugh. “Something like that,” he said. “I love him, Tess.”

“I know,” she said. “He loves you. I worked that out in Maleshov.”

Henry’s eyes, as bright and blue as cornflowers, met hers. “That early?” he asked, confused. “Then why—”

“I don’t think he knew himself. Nor did you.”

“No,” said Henry. “Not until this night.” He sighed and took her hand in his, his bare fingers perfectly fitting between the fingers of her gauntlets. “Have I done wrong by you, Tess? By playing the lover as I did back in Rattay?”

She twined her fingers between his. “No more than I played you false.” She bit her lip, thinking. “That last night in Skalitz, when I didn’t come to the dance… I watched you and Bianca from over by the charcoal wagon. I thought myself jealous of Bianca, that she had won your love so easily. I am not sure now if it was only her I envied.”

“You… her?”

“Is it so strange?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper. “If a man can love another man, is it so strange that a maid can love another maid? I do not think that we are so different, men and women.”

“You sound like Rosa,” Henry said, smiling a little.

“Aye,” said Theresa. “She’s a wise woman.” She looked Henry over. “Well,” she asked, nudging him with her elbow. “How was he?”

To her great delight, Henry flushed red. “Capon?”

“Who else, you ox? Was he gentle when he took your maidenhead? Did he make you scream and curl your toes?”

His flush deepened. “I— we didn’t…”

Theresa gave a sigh of disappointment. “Don’t tell me you just held hands and gazed longingly into each other’s eyes.”

“Ah, no, we didn’t,” he said. “He’s… very considerate.”

“Did you cry? You almost did with me.”

“Oh, piss off,” said Henry, but a smile began to creep across his face. “It was nice. And that’s all you’re getting out of me.”

Theresa smiled back at him. “A shame.”

The smile faded from Henry’s face. “Have I damned myself?” he asked, after a heavy silence. “I know myself to be a sinner: I’ve killed and I’ve stolen. But this — this is far worse.”

“You’ve fornicated outside wedlock before,” pointed out Theresa.

“Aye. With Bianca, and then you…”

She chewed her lip for a minute, thinking. “Why is that less wicked than whatever you did with your Lord Capon?”

“Because what we did — what I want to do — is a sin so grave that even devils shun it?” His tone was lighthearted, but he was rubbing his hands nervously. She caught them in her own and turned him towards her.

“I do not believe that,” she said gently. Her mouth twisted unhappily. “I do not believe that love is a greater sin than theft, or murder, or — or rape.” She shut her eyes against the memory. Henry had saved her, she reminded herself. Henry had saved her, and she had escaped. She breathed in, filling her lungs, and exhaled slowly. “You love him,” she said. “Christ bade us to love one another. I can see no sin in it.”

“He is to wed another,” said Henry.

“That is something you will have to face on your own,” she said. “I am no priest. Besides, we may not live to see that future. Not unless you succeed tonight.”

He nodded dumbly. “Thank you, Tess,” he said quietly, pressing his forehead against hers. They remained that way until the sound of approaching footsteps broke them apart and Theresa stepped back, picking up her shield as she returned to her role as soldier.

[imminent-danger-came]

Why do you think s4 lmk is sometimes seen as a drop-off in writing quality compared to earlier seasons?

IS IT REALLY. That's so funny, I personally think s4 elevated lmk's writing to unbelievably high levels. It recontextualized previous seasons in ways that cemented my faith in lmk's writing team, and proved to me that this wasn't just going to be good, it was going to be GREAT, an honest to god masterpiece.

I find that the more complex the writing, when things like love and devotion aren't put into "good" or "bad" boxes, when characters are hypocrites and things develop in a way people don't like (it doesn't make them "feel good" but the writing itself is solid), that's when people start to say things like "the writing's gotten worse". I've seen plenty of takes for characters like Wukong and Viren (from The Dragon Prince), where folks want to boil down the mess and the complexity into "the writers don't know how to write this character," when the truth is the opposite. Sometimes, characters say one thing and do another and that's on purpose, thank you. Sometimes, characters mean well and have good intentions, but they still suck. Writing like that is fucking awesome.

(Big Owl House rant incoming, turn back now if you're not interested in that)

It's not really a surprise to me that something like The Owl House, where the characters are fairly one note and everything is said out loud and the themes are much more simplistic, is/was far more popular. Obviously, I don't want to shame anyone or make people feel bad for loving toh—like it's great if you love it, keep doing that—but I do think that objectively, toh has pretty weak writing (which honestly doesn't/doesn't have to determine how much you love it).

I was discussing this with a few friends last night, how with toh, the implications are hardly thought through, and characters aren't viewed beyond the role they can serve in the episode or the arc. Like, I think of the beginning of Hollow Mind, where King says "No one wants to believe they've spent their life following the wrong person", which is fine, it's something that could be interesting given the proper execution, but when you analyze it deeper, try to find the consistent character thread...it doesn't make any actual sense for King or the development he went through at the beginning of s2. Had he said something along the lines of "No one wants to believe they've spent their life following a lie", now THAT ties directly into the lie he believed for his whole life, and to King as a character. But that's not what happened, and that's never what happened in toh.

Even with Belos, the main villain, it's clear the writers wanted Grim Walker angst for Hunter, but they didn't want to explore the implications of Belos recreating his brother over and over again. So at that point, it's like...why not just have Hunter be adopted? Why have him be a grimmwalker at all if it's not something we're going to explore deeper on Belos' end?

Needless to say, lmk isn't like that. If a character has dialogue or a scene, it's going to contribute to our perception of them and their internal motivations. If Pigsy is worried about his relation to his ancestors in s4, and what that says about him, we can actually trace that back to 2x04: tradition matters to Pigsy, and it's a huge part of his heart, identity, and life. Of COURSE Pigsy is affected when he learns his ancestor was someone he doesn't like, someone who tried to eat the love of his life. He even tries to comfort MK with what he thinks is a shared experience, and it's AGH. It's so good

If something is established in lmk, it's expanded upon. Hell, even the Mayor of all characters was given his own spotlight outside of LBD. He even has a direct parallel to Azure—following and giving service to an Emperor before becoming disillusioned and changing loyalty to the person that will bring about real change: their Lady and their King.

Anyways,

I went on a super long tangent. I can't truly know why some people think of lmk s4 as a drop-off in writing quality, but those are some thoughts from me to you!

[conclaveyaoi]

giulio was a milan boy and aldo worked in the vatican

[handsomegentlebutch]

also relating to people calling palestinian gfms scams... the "trusting third parties with no authority" thing from that person and people like them really gets me. bc that person on their first blog claims to be anti-fash and anti-cop. and yet... need to see some authority from people vetting fundraisers. like. yes please, tell me, white western tumblr user that claims to be a leftist, what ARE your ideas about authority? and whose authority do you deem valid, my fellow whitey? is it, perhaps, that you only view white, western "authority" as valid? that only white, western institutions have "authority"? why is this "authority" so important to you, so-called anti-fascist and anti-cop white leftist? is it, perhaps, that your ideas about what gives a person or entity "authority" is steeped in racism and western ideas of what "authority" is?