#With my hand on your grease gun

[stesichoreanpalinode]

I totally blame Mr ‘I’m In Love With My Car’ for the adverts Tumblr is showing me at the moment

[1800titz]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ᴅᴇɢʀᴀᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴ & ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ

KNEELING LAMIA | Witch hunter!Harry x Witch!reader

There's too much tension in this cat-and-mouse. Inevitably, it stretches too taut and snaps.

★18+

This is ᴋɴᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ʟᴀᴍɪᴀ for the KINKTOBER projects. Witch x Witch hunter au.

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CONTENT/WARNINGS: enemies. p-in-v. degradation. praise. pussy slapping (light). dom/sub undertones. rough sex. bro is simply kind of an asshole, but it's in an attractive way imo.

WC: 3.7K

You hate him. 

You hate him, you hate the grease in his derisory, lopsided smile, the one, two-tick at the corners of his mouth, like an omen on the hollow barrel of a cocked gun. The stupid white straightness of them, slick with spit and glimmering off the glowing oil lantern. 

The soft humanness in his unchiseled eyes. When they’re narrowed into slits, the color is so soft, so delicate, that they don’t feel nearly as sharp as he intends. The preternatural juxtaposition of a human having eyes that are so mesmerizing is absurd— the pink-rimmed oil painting of his irises, mounted in white, under the tarp of his lashes (they’re long, dark, and cast shadows across the green sfumato). You can nearly find sunstones flecking like gold flakes wading the surface of a pool, if you look close enough.

But the bands are eroded now. Lacking. You always thought his eyes were like the moss speckling the grove in your back garden. Now, the vibrancy of it, crawling up the trunks, feels like a distant memory.

Smeared, pupils bleeding wide like spilled ink. 

(You loathe the way his green reminds you of the malachite scattered across your window sill.)

You hate his hands, too. His fingers. The way they notch on reins, and the steel hilt of a gun. The way his pointer stretches across the metal trigger— click— and the way the aim is off. Misses. A bole eats the bullet, and you think, after so many tries, he has to not miss.

He has to not miss.

But he misses, and misses, and misses— the cat and mouse is an old, familiar game, but a fractured part of you thinks he misses on purpose. And you wonder who’s really the cat; when he’ll finally admit you’ve been filling his shoes out in the hunt, long before his time. 

But you hate his hands most because of the way they touch you. The way they feel good. Pinching your bones in place, thumbprints carving into your skin. 

Pressure points— he’s no good with a gun, but he’s good at finding pressure points, scoping them with his fingertips. Squeezing in. 

You hate his teeth, because you hate him, and he hates you, and you want to sweep them off the floor when you fracture every little bone in the composite of his skull with your palms and shatter them out with your fingers. The way they chew into your nipples and stab a crushed squeak out of you. 

(It’s the nature of the game— a double helix. Taijitu. Water and oil. You’re meant to despise each other, because dark has to exist to balance light. There has to be a villain in every story, otherwise the narrative collapses—)

You can’t stand the way his stupidly fat cock splits you on him, around him. The way when he groans, the way it starts as a hum between his ribs, and metastasizes into that yawning pry of his mouth, his soft lips. 

(Conflict. Resolution. Recycle.)

His hand pawing at a handful of your breast, like kneading dough. Testing the heft when it shakes under the pressure of his hips slamming in wet squelches, sack slapping to your sticky cunt. The blunt of his nails scraping down your sides, prying in where your waist tapers, and wrapping the barbs of his fingers around, where the rungs sit at your back, to lug you against him in filthy, wet smacks. Again— again. 

(Fuck, fuck, fuck—)

“—Fuck,” you mewl, scratching out at his temple, fingertips curling into the burnt umber tufts they can reach, pulling, tangling. Scraping. Your thumb grazes his cheekbone. He bites down on your nipple, instead, where he’s been rolling it between his teeth with his tongue, and grunts. It makes you squirm on the table and arch.

When he unlatches and lurches up to loom over you, he looks wild. Like an untamed beast— reminds you of the wolf that lingers by your doorstep— that you’ve lugged along into your kitchen. Let him splay you across the big, oak table that squeals and rattles under the punishing pace he’s set with his hips. 

“Fuck— no,” Harry grunts, and slams your wrist down onto the table, beside your head, your stuttering pulse. Cuffed in his grip. Your fingers twitch. His throat bobs when he swallows.

The tip of his tongue flicks out, drags across his lips, and you think of a scenting serpent. He huffs.

“Ought to declaw you,” he muses, hunching over you, narrowed eyes oscillating from your nails to your face. Voice a husk that oozes condescension. As if you’re an animal— a feral cat that needs its talons extracted. 

“Fuck you,” you spit, and the words— the petulant tone, the way your chest rattles when his cock throbs inside of you— are enough to crook the corners of his pink mouth. Wry. Acid across his lips, in the ridges between his teeth. 

He sticks his thumb in your mouth, but not really; presses in against the flat of your front tooth when you bare your canines, squeezing at your cheeks. Pressure points— under the side of your mandible, beneath your cheekbone.

“Better watch that mouth,” he taunts. When his eyebrows climb, three ruckles seep across his forehead. Maybe evidence of how he means it, how firm his resolve is, but the way he tips his head down at you, it's goading—

Your chest rolls. “Fuck— you.”

And you get it. You do. Coexisting is an absurd, incompatible fantasy. Deluded, when you cup your teeth around the world and still feel hungry. It only stretches so wide before he’s under your teeth, too, and nobody wants to live in a hungry, sharp mouth. It’s a means of resource. Sanctum; I want sanctum, and you my friend, are preventing that like gum jammed into a lock on a gate. 

This slow dance is called perfect, incongruous symbiosis, like a winter coat and the hot sun. You don’t fit together. You’ll never work— not in tandem. 

It’s just that he doesn’t get that it’s the circle of life.

A snake and a mouse. That works. It’s unpleasant, but it doesn’t have to be watched. 

But it’s ugly. You get the angry men with the pitchforks. You get him— vigilante, here to stab the head off the python with a wooden stick and wring his hands out after, like the hero he’ll be if he manages to tame the beast (glorified pest control— snub the snake in the backyard). You accepted a long time ago that all the little people would get mad that you were eating their little people. 

Nasty, vicious thing in the back garden— get rid of it.  

But hey— that’s life. The ugly, vicious wasp nest dangling off a poplar tree deserves to exist, too, because that’s the anomalous, hideous shape mother nature’s hand squeezed it into. And that’s, you think, the disconnect. The electrical cord spitting white-hot, fizzing sparks from where it’s been gnawed down the middle.

You swallow. His eyes are blade-sharp. So unco. Contemplating, calculating.

You get all that. What you can’t wrap your mind around is the untethered snap between you, like a bungee cord lugging you into a collision. It makes you feel feverish. The fracture in the foundation below you, every atom bred from this, predestined narrative. The sizzle beneath your skin— a charred brand in the shape of his kiss under the layers of your dermis— (a lowly mimicry of what lovemaking is, all teeth). It’s brutal. Sharp. A skirt of canines across your collarbone. A notch across the bone. A means to satiate, a compound of loathing, and pining, and the cozening haze of desire. The yearning curdled in the spiral of the communal pool of your animosity.   

Because he smells like the rain rapping across your roof when you stand out with the door propped, sticking to the fireweed in rivulets under your porch steps. Like suede. Musk. The wilting coriander sprig on your altar. Your resolve is wicker snapping under his thumb. A melting glacier under the heavy heat dripping from his eyes. You don’t like it. You can’t get enough.

You tip your chin up and his thumb snags on the blunt edges, smushes into your lower lip. When his heavy cock slips out of you and slaps up against his belly, a whine prickles at the back of your mouth. You encase it with your throat like a dirty secret left to write on paper. You won’t whine for him. But he’s thick. His cock is stupidly fat, and it throbs like he can feel the encroaching emptiness between your legs for himself. 

You won’t whine, but you feel hollow, and it makes your hips cant up involuntarily. Forward. To him— you hate that— but the stamp of his palm to your cunt makes your thought process crumble apart like notes plummeting off their bars on a sheet of music. A smack of skin on skin is the aria of your twisted affection stretching and collapsing. 

It doesn’t hurt. Not really. There’s a dull pang that blooms there, under his touch, but it feels smothered under the white-hot lightning streak of shock that jolts your shoulders and sculpts your face. The mortified, blistering heat that spumes your cheeks when the whites of your eyes pool a little wider. You flounder up at him wordlessly. 

Harry hums. It’s haughty, and mocking, and it makes something ripple in your underbelly. “Say that again, little girl?”

You swallow. Squirm. The pseudonym has something bristling in your chest. You’re not a little girl. This thicket has belonged to you for hundreds of years. 

But the warm prickle between your thighs is an ugly, ugly paradox. 

And you hate the way his hand is this humongous thing between your thighs, across your sex, swallowing your smarting cunt in the cup of his palm. The way he leaves it where it landed. His thumb stretched out and lingering in the crease between your mons and your tucked up thigh. You hate the way you drool slick against his fingers, the way your clit pulses under the heel of his hand. Your chest rolls. 

His amusement is acidic. Patronization sloshes off his eyes and burns a hole right through the layer of your mettle when he cocks his head down at you, the way your hips hitch. His lips twist. “Oh you liked that, did you?”

Your face pinches. The corners of your lips curl down despite the way your empty pussy flutters under his skin.

“No."

He makes a sound. A hum that granulates into a rich chuckle, and his eyes flicker off your face, to his hand, and back, and back. Something brews in the depths under his lashes, you think— a sinkhole cratering into the ground beneath the canopy of the woods, driving the forest ground out into a void— watching the breadth of his hand envelop between your thighs. Maybe at the molten heat, or the way he can undeniably feel you clenching up. Throbbing. Against him. For him. 

“Is that right? Look at that, mm— drippy, little pussy,” Harry tells you, voice hardly over a whisper. The words are a livewire zigzagging up your spine, riding the arches of the knobs, spilling something noxious and cloudy along your cerebrospinal fluid. 

It goes straight to your head. 

“Needy, little cunt. Bet you could cum just from me slapping it.”

His middle finger grazes your asshole. Your toes curl, you can’t even argue, despite the vitriol puddling on the back of your tongue like stagnant water. He tips his head. Smiles. The flash of teeth carves an ache into you that makes your bones ring.

“Aren’t you… just the sweetest thing when you’re put in your place,” Harry murmurs down at you, eyebrows climbing, and he’s— unctuous. A headache. The kind that clusters around the arch of your skull and squeezes taut like a bundle of rubber bands. Talking down to you like you’re a wily thing for him to put into a corner, once and for all. Like your demesne isn’t stamped in his soggy footprints, layer after layer, year after year.

You bare your teeth and jut your chin defiantly, but then he drags his thumb down along your pebbled clit, and it makes your shoulders wobble. 

You used to cut hunters down like the loggers muscling in on your timber. Hatred was a pearl folded into your heart. A bead tucked into the soft, fleshy tissue between the little pockets of your ventricles, and it stung like a splinter in your gums. 

You wear it in your chest like his name shaved into a rib. The perfect harmony of dysfunction. You don’t know why being under him kindles a flame. Just that it does. He’s live coal, and you crackle over what he gives you.

The moment of reticence between you has that shattering weight of your little truce, and you’re reminded of the plunge from the hillscape of your dignity. 

Maybe it’s worse that you don’t mind. 

His shoulders swell. You like the spit-slick rim of his mouth, the way the color is an insignia of your teeth making landfall. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl?”

When he plants his hand beside your ear and stretches forward a little more, his cockhead slips across your clit. Hot, like a firebrand coated in sateen. You curl your fingers and realize your wrist is still pinned down. His eyes sway to it like he knows what you’re thinking, and his mouth twitches.

“Gonna keep your hands to yourself?” Harry purrs, grunting when you roll your chin away in scorn. 

“Because—“ His finger prods onto your cheek. Then, two. Under your jaw, enough pressure to turn your head. “You know I love that wild shit. But, can’t have you fucking up my pretty face—“

The humor coagulating his tone tastes bitter when you breathe it from the air. Swallowing it down into your lungs where it ghosts with the subatomic heaviness of want. Your eyes flit. You hate him— you hate—

He grins down at you. Not quite. Close-lipped, eyes vats that shelter his dogma. The intensity of his seriousness. “Can’t do that,” he muses, but his tone is softer than his countenance. 

You look away. And you don’t watch it, but he huffs, like he’s losing patience for your still-not-quite-subservience and lack of zeal. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. Hums. 

“Mm. Come on, doll. You know I don’t want you if you don’t want me,” he tells you, but his mouth crooks because he knows— he knows. 

You blink up at him. His eyes burn down at you from the bridge of his nose, and it feels like you’ve been swaddled into a sudden, wet heatwave. The words would nearly be considerate if it wasn’t for the condescending undertow that spills under the vowels like an oil slick. 

His pointer traces the corner of your mouth, brows furrowing as he tails the motion with his gaze. “Just you say the word.”

And despite the way you blister, something itching under your skin, you won’t. Your teeth are clenched, but you couldn’t pry them apart with pliers to turn him down, not with the fever spilling its way across you. You settle for contempt— let it set your face like a cast congealing, but he doesn’t chase the tail of your indignation with anything beyond mockery. 

He stares back at you. Doesn’t let it wither, drowns in the deluge of your inkpools, mouth curling but-not-quite. 

“No,” he sighs, after a beat of your lull— bereft of your protest— drawing his forefinger away and slinking it down the naked space of your sternum, then around your swollen nipple. You gnaw into your cheek. “You know what I think?”

“—I don’t care,” you pick your head up to hiss. 

You expect to face something crumbling at the retort. Discipline. Retribution— to watch something clot inside of him the way it wads in your chest, caking gravity across his features because— need to be taught a lesson in respect. What did I say about watching that mouth? 

But it flickers over him without a hitch. Slides off. 

Instead, he doubles down, hunching back over you. “I think you love this cock too much. Don’t you? Got you wrapped around it, by now.”

The flame from your core licks up to flare at the apples of your cheeks. He breathes when he straightens out. Deep. Like the prelude to a sigh, and you wonder if the same burning kisses along the nooks of his lungs. You don’t say anything, and he pulls his hand back.

“That’s right,” Harry coos, cocking his head down at you, “Just a sweet, cockdrunk, little whore, by now.”

Your eyes narrow into thin slits. Dagger splits. The wobble in your voice is a swordblade. “Shut— up.”

He laughs. Laughs. This muted, soundless thing that manifests more in his shoulders, the jolt across their breadth. The crater beside a smile line. He shakes his head, and cups the root of his cock with his fist. Your eyes follow it. You swallow.

“Mm, no,” he muses, gaze pooling where the mushroomed ridges of his tip slide along your sopping rim, your puffy lips, your clit, “I think you like it. Gushing all over the table.”

Embarrassment ties its tendrils along the base of your throat. Cogon grass germinating and feathering out across your esophagus, until you’re choking on your spit. You grit your teeth. Your hips nudge up. Forward. He underscores the presumption by pulling the head of his cock back, and sundering the string of tacky slick that’d stretched between him and your seam.

“Makin’ a fucking mess with your messy, desperate pussy,” Harry tells you, pressing his index to his thumb and prying them apart for emphasis. Your slick shimmers in the light. “Look at you. There’s a fuckin’ puddle.”

Your face creases. Cheeks buzzing, white-hot. You feel yourself leaking down along the cleft of your ass, and your fingers itch. A thunderbolt streaks across when you recognize that your hand is still flat against the table. Just where he left it. 

He aims his cock back against you, so thick in his palm, and murmurs, “You want it?”

You don’t know how you ended up here.

You do, but the motions between point A and B feel like a nebulous smear. Hands in motion. Fabric tangling across the floor. Teeth, and tongues, and bones, and claws.

(“Always liked an older woman,” you remember he told you, tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek. The hubris of a boy sewn into the shoulders of a man. The irony of your preternatural youth folded into his proposition as his eyes roamed across your face.)

(“So let’s put …this,” a motion between with a jutted finger, a murmur drizzled in allure, tucked like a secret into the shape of the night, “aside for a time-out, you and me.”)

You don’t know why you said yes. How. Why your body reacts like he’s a breath you need, whispering along your lungs. Why you let him unspool you over his fingers, his tongue, fucking into you like he was starving. 

But you nod.

You nod, and he presses his weepy tip against your cunt, and it only takes a nudge for him to pry you open around him again. Enveloping him. Sloppy, little pussy pulsing over the tip like a frenetic heartbeat. 

You turn your chin and bite into your own shoulder to stifle the mewl spiraling between your tonsils, and he groans. The sting is better the second-go, but the pressure of having your rim stretched taut anew doesn’t lose its edge. The ache settles in your underbelly. Flourishes in the molten geyser of your arousal. 

“Oh, shit,” Harry hums, pasting his palm flat to your tummy, right over your navel. Like this, you can feel his fingertips under your heartbeat. Across it. Thrumming. His eyes glued to where you swallow up his cock.

He feeds his cock into you slow, but it feels incongruous. The pastiche of what you’re feeling is already enough to cloud your head into delirium— you want teeth. Tongues, bones, claws. 

“Harder,” you grit, catching his eye when he stalls, hand braced across your waist. You resolve paints your words firm, “I can take it.” 

For a moment, Harry stares down at you. The whiplash of pause morphing to taunt, like a seamless rebound, has your rim fluttering over his girth. “My, my. Aren’t we eager.”

“Just—“

Your cosm ripples around you when he drives his hips forward, and lugs you back, hips colliding with your skin in a smack. A horrible, wet sound when he crams his way in, wedging your fuss back into the depth of your stomach. It flings you off your rationale. 

He shivers. “God, you’re slutty. Slutty pussy on a slutty witch.”

The pace he sets is brutal. Merciless. It caters to your complaint, and squashes it out under his thumb. Under the kiss of his tip to your womb. Deliriously, you think he’s going to spill his hot, thick load inside of you, and then what? Then, what?

It feels like he’s wringing you out between his hands, until all that’s left is a pool of want. 

You hate the way he’s chiseled in a place for himself. A tern across your branches, nested in twine and spare filaments of organs that belong to you. A little sinew peeled off of your liver. A sliver off your lung. Maybe that’s why—

You suck in a tight breath and let it rattle the nest he’s built, when he hits something unfathomably deep inside of you. Plugged on his cock, there’s no way for you to smother your moans out. He batters in to the hilt, cupping you by the waist, and rocking you back onto him, over, and over, and over. 

“I want this sweet pussy to cum around my cock,” he pants over you. A curl has flopped across his eye, and your ire is eclipsed by your yearning. The ball inside of you unspooling as if he’s peeling the layers of muscle on your heart back like an onion to temporarily pluck out the undiluted loathing. “Do you hear me?”

It’s a mindless motion— your fingers creeping to land over where you connect, where he’s splitting your gummy walls to what feels like their ceiling. But he bats your hands away, and rams into you until your mons is kissing the wiry bed of hair that’s smattered over his shaft.

“It’s gonna cum around my cock,” he grunts, “or it’s not gonna cum at all.”

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[ragingbookdragon]

Just A Hunk, A Hunk, A Burnin' Love

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 1.7K Warnings: Explicit Language

Author's Note: I gotta fucking watch TGM again. Enjoy

**********************************************************************

She inhaled and exhaled deeply before she grabbed the door handle to the Hard Deck and took a step inside. A few patrons stepped out of the way as she walked towards the bar, red-bottomed heels clicking with every step.

The silky black dress swayed as she reached the bar and she leaned over, whispering harshly, “Penny!”

The older woman looked up from the beer she’d been pouring, eyes widening as she took in the young airwoman dressed up like she was going out for a night on Broadway. “Angel, look at you,” she smiled. “I guess there is a princess beneath all that grease.”

She felt her cheeks warm as she asked, “Is everyone here?”

“At the pool table,” Penny said and handed her a shot glass full of amber liquid. “Need some courage?”

“Penny…you know what liquor does to me,” she mumbled, but took the shot anyway.

The older woman leaned on the bar and grinned at her. “Which one of your boys are you trying to wrangle tonight?”

She tilted her head and looked over Penny’s shoulder, catching sight of a particularly arrogant pilot rounding the pool table. “Well, it’s, y’know…”

Penny tossed a glance over and smiled. “Ah, Seresin.” She hummed knowingly. “Man like that will break your heart, honey. Be careful.”

“Yes ma’am,” she nodded softly and rounded the bar, coming to stand behind Rooster.

She wrapped her arm around his waist and smiled. “Hi, Bradley,” she greeted, and the man looked over, confusion turning to pleasantry as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and hugged her.

“Hey, Angel,” he smiled, then took note of her outfit, and whistled. “Well, well, look at you.”

Her cheeks heated up again and she looked down. “Stop…”

“You look absolutely beautiful.”

“Bradley…” she whined. “Quit.”

He smiled and squeezed her shoulder again. “Just calling it like it is, sweetness.”

She rolled her eyes at his playfulness when Jake rounded on her side and stood before her, leaning back against the pool table; she felt a giddiness in her chest as she met his gaze.

“Hi, Jake,” she said softly, with a bashful smile.

“So, the grease monkey actually knows how to dress like a lady. Who woulda thought,” he smirked, and she felt her giddiness dip as a new fluster arose in her chest, and she unconsciously tugged at the skirt of her black dress. “Hard to believe you have a pretty face underneath all that oil.”

She pursed her lips, feeling like she’d been slapped in the face; even Rooster scowled at him.

“Hangman,” he griped. “You wanna try not being a dick for once?”

“Just calling it like I see it, Rooster,” he retorted, echoing the pilot’s former words; his gaze dropped to the peep-toe heels she was wearing. “Are those painted toenails? Wow, a lady beneath indeed.”

Shifting on her feet, she cleared her throat. “I heard about the mission you guys are on. Congratulations on being chosen,” she smiled. “You guys are definitely the best.”

Jake snorted. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you go to Top Gun, sweetheart. Not that you would know,” he added under his breath, and she tried to hide her upset at it; Jake looked at her. “So, what’s the deal with the glam? Trying to find your mark?”

Before she could even open her mouth, Rooster stepped up to him, a dark glare in his eyes. “What’s your fucking problem tonight?” he spat. “Why are you riding her so hard?”

Jake didn’t even seem fazed at him. “Look at her, Rooster, she’s obviously here to find a pilot.” his gaze drifted back to her, and he gestured to his mouth. “Little heavy on the lipstick there by the way, sweetheart.”

Rooster’s gaze hardened. “You just get off on being a dick, don’t you, Hangman?”

“What can I say?” he grinned. “It’s in my blood.”

She suddenly felt like the biggest fool and lightly touched Rooster’s arm. “Bradley, I’m going to go to the bar,” she whispered and turned, trying to keep her shoulders set as she walked off.

Rooster opened his mouth to stop her, but he sighed and turned back to Jake, scowling at him. “Seriously?”

“What?” Jake snapped. “I’m not a fucking idiot. You really think I don’t know who she dressed up for?”

“Could’ve been nicer about letting her down instead of ripping her fucking head off,” he retorted.

“Never said I was nice, Rooster.”

“No shit.”

Jake crossed arms over his chest. “It’s so cute how you protect her. Best friends and all that.” He smirked. “Something tells me you have some hidden desires about getting in our mechanic’s panties.”

Rooster’s scowl darkened. “You’re a piece of shit, anyone ever tell you that?”

“Few times, yeah,” he answered smugly.

Rooster waved him off as he followed her to the bar and sat down on the stool next to her.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She sipped the Mai Tai Penny set in front of her. “Mhm, I’m fine.”

“Hangman’s a dick. Don’t let him get to you,” he muttered. “You’re too good for him anyway.”

“I just wanted him to look at me the way he looks at all the other girls,” she said lowly. “I’m so fucking pitiful. God, he’s right…I’m pathetic.”

Rooster practically growled at that. “No, you’re not,” he snapped. “You’re crazy smart. Gorgeous. Funny. Everything a man wants in a woman.” He glared at her. “Sure, we’re top dog pilots, but we wouldn’t be anywhere without you. I’ve never seen anyone take apart an F-18 for fun, put it back together again, and have it run better than it did before, but by God, you do it every damn day.” He thrust a finger into her chest. “Don’t you dare let him make you think you’re just some dumb wrench jockey.”

She couldn’t stop the smile that came across her face at his words and she looked at him. “Thank you, Bradley.”

He nodded resolutely and stood up, taking her hand. “C’mon.”

Letting him pull her up, she asked, “What are we doing?”

Rooster led her to the jukebox and nodded at it. “Pick a song. I say we dance.”

Her smile grew wider as she excitedly scanned the songs before pushing a button and Elvis Presley’s “Burning Love” echoed through the bar.

Rooster grinned and pulled her to the dance floor, shimmying back and forth with his arms around her waist.

He twirled her around, singing, “Lord almighty! I feel my temperature rising! Higher and higher! It’s burning through to my soul!”

Laughter escaped her as they danced, and cheers erupted around them as other couples gathered around them and danced together.

Rooster and she grabbed hands and shimmied back and forth, wide smiles on their faces as they sang to each other, “I’m just a hunk, a hunk, a burnin’ love! I’m just a hunk, a hunk, burnin’ love!”

As the song came to an end everyone began cheering and clapping and she hugged Rooster tightly, resting her chin on his shoulder as she murmured, “Thank you, Bradley.”

He smiled softly, squeezing her tight. “Anytime, Angel,” he said. “Might not be a pilot but you’ll always be my wing woman.”

Pulling back, she replied, “I should probably get back to base.”

“Want me to walk you out?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“Nah, you go on back.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek before she waved at Penny and walked off towards the exit.

The night air was cool as she exited and as she took a step down, she heard, “Have fun?”

Her shoulders tensed, and she looked over her shoulder, seeing Jake leaning against the outside wall.

“I did,” she answered resolutely, then added, “Didn’t find a mark though, so, maybe next time.”

Jake snorted and stood up, walking over. “Funny little thing, aren’t you?”

“When I want to be,” she said and turned, walking towards her car.

He followed.

“You know, I’ll take you out if you want.”

She stopped and turned back towards him. “Uh huh. And what’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Jake said.

“Bullshit.”

“Ooo, feisty too.” He waggled his brows. “I like feisty.”

She scowled at him. “Why the hell would I go out with you when you literally insulted me ten minutes ago?”

“Why don’t we just let bygones be bygones?” he offered.

“How ‘bout no?” she retorted and crossed her arms over her chest, and suddenly remembering Rooster’s words, she said, “And just for the record, your ass wouldn’t be up in the air in a jet if it wasn’t for men and women like me who fixed your shit.”

Jake grinned at her. “C’mon, mechanics are a dime a dozen.”

“Mechanics are. Good ones, like me, are not.” She thrust a finger in his chest. “And I may not be a Top Gun pilot but I’m a damn good AM and fuck you for insulting my abilities. I got where I was by working my ass off and I’m fucking proud of it too. Unlike you who rode on the coattails of your family.”

His gaze darkened and he snapped back, “I didn’t ride anything to get where I was. My family name has nothing to do with my position.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she hissed. “World War pilot family? Please.”

Jake glared at her. “Watch it.”

“Or what?” she dared, and he got nose to nose with her.

“Or I’ll prove how I got where I was,” he warned.

They glared one another down and then she dared, “Pick me up on Friday at the gate. Seven o’clock.”

“Fine,” he shot back. “But you better not be in your stupid coveralls. Maybe try dressing elegantly.”

“Only if you wear your dress blues.”

“What, do you want me to take you to the Ritz?” he snapped.

She scowled. “Can you even afford the Ritz?”

“I can,” he growled.

“Prove it.”

“I will.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!” She turned on her heel and started stomping to her car when he called out, “And that dress makes you look like a hooker!”

“A hooker you can’t afford!” she retorted and flipped him off as she got in her car and drove off.

Jake glared at her taillights before he huffed a laugh and turned back to go inside the bar.

[nomie-11]

VI

masterlist!

synopsis: vi feels spectacularly out of place in the world of her girlfriend, but all her girlfriend wants is a good luck kiss before she races in the most elite series in the world

pairings: street racer!vi x f1 driver!reader

Vi felt like she was way out of her league. Formula 1 was a whole new world outside of her little bubble of street racing and fast cars. 

Your blue and white Hextech Racing race suit was a stark contrast to her leather jacket and cargo boots, and it seemed like everyone she passed by in the paddock stared at her like she had stolen her VIP pass (not that she blamed them, Vi had a face tattoo and a pink undercut that never looked perfectly clean). 

Vi tugged at the lanyard around her neck, feeling a little out of place among the rich, polished rows of the Formula 1 paddock. The chatter of engineers, the hiss of air guns, and the low hum of the engines created an atmosphere that was entirely foreign to her. She was used to the smell of burning rubber in back alleys and dingy garages covered in oil and grease, not high-tech pits and champagne bottles that probably cost more than her rent. 

And then there was you. 

You stood by your car, laughing with your race engineer—Viktor, a Zaunite who just happened to be a genius, as you said—as you adjusted your gloves, exuding a confidence that had Vi completely mesmerized. Your Hextech Racing suit hugged your frame perfectly, and the way you carried yourself screamed that you belonged here—on the world's biggest stage for racing. 

When your eyes finally met hers, you broke into a grin, passing a quick goodbye to Viktor before jogging over as if she wasn’t standing there awkwardly trying not to look like a lost tourist. 

“Vi!” You called, your voice cut trying through the noise. “You made it.”

“Of course I would make it,” her familiar confident smirk took place on her face despite her own racing heart. “It’s not everyday you get to see your girl in a Formula 1 car.”

You laughed, and Vi felt the familiar heat of a light blush dusting her cheeks. 

“I race almost every other weekend, Vi,” You grinned. “You could come any week.”

Vi shrugged, shoving her hands into her pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Yeah, well, your world’s a bit… shiny for me.” 

You tilted your head, giving her that knowing look that always made her feel like you could see right through her tough exterior. “Vi, you’ve literally stared down enforcers mid-race and didn’t even flinch. You think these people scare me more than you?”

“It’s not about them.” Vi’s gaze flicked around the paddock as though searching for the right words. “It’s just… I’m not exactly ‘team sponsor material.’” She made air quotes, her tattooed fingers curling as she gave an awkward, lopsided grin. 

You reached for her hand, ignoring the bustling engineers and photographers just a few steps away. “You’re my material, and that’s all that matters.” Your tone softened. “Besides, I kinda love seeing you here. Makes me feel like I’ve got a little piece of my world cheering me on.”

Vi ducked her head, her ears turning pink. She muttered something like “yeah, yeah, okay,” which you knew was her way of agreeing without getting all mushy in front of your pit crew. 

Just as you were about to slip on your helmet, you hesitated, turning back to her with a playful smile. “Wait. Kiss for luck?” 

Vi blinked, her brows shooting up. “What? Now? Here?” she gestured around. “Babe, there’s cameras everywhere!”

You pointed at the bottom line underneath your visor on the left side of the helmet, where the roman numeral VI was subtly embedded into the design, perfectly matching her own tattoo. “You’re seriously telling me you’re worried about a little PDA when I’ve got this on my helmet for the world to see?”

Her lips parted in surprise, her cheeks reddening. “That’s… cute as hell,” she muttered. 

“Damn right it is,” you teased, slipping your helmet on over your head and flicking up the visor so she could still see your eyes. “Now, kiss it. Like I do for you before every race.” 

Vi hesitated for a beat longer, glancing around the bustling paddock. But then she exhaled sharply, muttering something about how you always managed to get your way. Stepping closer, she cupped the sides of your helmet with her calloused hands and pressed a quick kiss to the top, her lips brushing over the crown of the helmet while her thumb lightly scraped over the VI on the side.

“Happy now?” she asked, the corners of her mouth twitching up in a smirk. 

“Ecstatic.” You grinned, slipping into the cockpit of your car. 

As the mechanics swarmed around, checking the final setups, Vi stepped back, folding her arms as she watched you settle in. She didn’t notice the flash of a camera in the distance or the way your team principal—a tall, buff guy named Jayce who Vi remembers you saying she would get along with—grinned knowingly. 

Later, when she saw the photo on your lockscreen—her kiss captured in perfect clarity—Vi groaned, burying her face in her hands. 

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

“Nope,” you replied, grinning as you held up your phone. “Best lockscreen ever.”

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

[san8ny]

Clerks ‘n Cunts

an: what if the guns n roses band name was uhh freaky and involved vaginas and gas station workers, how scary would that be.. / a draft i scrapped

Ellie Williams.

This was a bad idea.

Lewdly agreeing to hook up with the gas station clerk because you couldn’t pay for gas— genuine hoe shit.

You scruff out a few profanities as you climb over the counter, the lanky woman eyeing your short-shorts as you do so, smiling like this was the highlight of her shitty job

“Don’t give me that look, i’m not the one with an empty tank.” She snickers, calloused hand already finding itself sliding into your tresses as you kneel, “Now, be a good girl and open wide, yeah? I’ve had a rough da—aay..” Her words trail off, head tilted back in a breathy gasp when your wet tongue meets contact with her plushy lips, swollen clit hidden underneath like it’s asking you to come find it.

That’s one way to shut her up

You could tell with the mouth on her, she got no play. Just all bark, and no bite in return

“O-oh, ah! ah! ah..shiiiit..” Ellie whines as she rocks her groin onto your lips, her body at one point slumping forward, planting her hands flat on the counter as you suck, no—eat her soul out. How did this feel so good?

You didn’t let up on your assult either, wanting to make every second of this moment good for you.

To further the humiliation she’d unknowingly inflicted herself upon, the front door swings open, a customer.

A scruffy old man with a beer belly walks in, grease stains on his wifebeater as he throws a wad of cash onto the counter, “Pump 7, toots.”

Ellie’s eyes scrunch together as she tries to verbalize a quick-witted insult, instead, a meek moan quivering out when you begin tongue-fucking her, nose prodding up at her clit as you take more of her pussy into your inviting mouth,

The man looks confused, not understanding just what was happening due to the front counter’s concealment of where you kneeled

“A-allergies.” She mutters, taking the cash and pathetically counting it. Her legs were threatening to give out at this point from how much cum and spit were running down her inner-thighs. She wonders if he could hear your slurps?

Viscerally fed-up with her snail-like speed, he makes his way to the door and just leaves without the change.

Maybe she’d employ that method from now on?

“F-fuck, baby, i’m gonna cum..” She noises, looking down at you, beautiful face all wet and your cheeks hollowed out each time you apply suction to Ellie’s pearl, “Ahh..all in your mouth too? Hm? Give you a run f-oor your money?”

You nod, pulling your lips from her cunt and rubbing your pretty painted nails over the sopping mess, “Give it to me? Just really want my car to run..” You say, eyes tearing up from the pull she had on your hair, “Might let you finish on me too..”

Ellie doesn’t spare another moment, shoving you away and pulling down your top, “If i finish, I ‘wanna finish on your rack.” She heaves, slithering a hand down and beginning to draw figure 8’s on her cunt, all while you sit there with a smile on your slutty face, “U-uhnnn, so closeee.. ‘cmere doll..”

You press your soft breasts together, tilting your head up to watch the nasty scene as Ellie uses your tits to get off, perky nipples rubbing up on her slicked pussy giving just enough of a sensation she spurts cream all over them, fluids splashing on the cold marble floor and some on your face.

After a beat of silence and her slow breathing, you run a finger down your supple cheek and bring it inbetween your lips, “Pump 3, toots.”

Safe to say you left with some snacks, a filled tank and a phone number.

[randomshyperson]

Five Times Carol Danvers Kisses You

Summary: The five times Carol Danvers kisses you until you two finally get together. 

Warnings: Mentions but nothing explicit, a lot of fluff, mutual pining (and typical angst of trope), best friends to lovers, pre-canon-compliant (takes place before Carol is taken), kissing, happy(ish) ending. | Words: 4.836k

A/N-> As mentioned on this blog before, I absolutely love the dynamics of "Five Times Something" and after watching The Marvels I became obsessed with Carol Danvers, and here I am with something about my beloved blondie. It's short and sweet, and I didn't want to write anything too angsty but you can get hints of what's to come from the canon (Dr.Lawson being a Kree in disguise and what will happen to Carol). But the fic doesn't address this directly and ends up with a happy scene. Let's all live in denial.

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

One.

“This is not a place to raise a child” was the justification your father used when he left. Funny enough, he didn't take the child, you, away from all the high-tech military weapons that he described as inadequate for a child to grow up around. 

His lost, it what your mother said, an easy smile on her lips while she offered you a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. She still had some grease on her jacket and a lot of dust on her hair but she looked beautiful. That was just how things were for Wendy Lawson.

And because she was the best mom anyone could ask for, or at least that was what you would perceive it with your limited references of healthy families. She was the best because she would let you sit around while she worked for the Shield, casually teaching you advanced engineering like it was the same homework you had from secondary school.

That was the only life you knew: Afternoons of trying to stay out of the way of Shield Agents and their big weapons until you were old enough to have a gun yourself.

But before that time came, some of them worried you weren't having a decent childhood. Away from guns at least.

You don't know which of the Agents suggested to Doctor Lawson the kart track, but you wish you could thank them. Your mother, as the busy cientist she always has been, was not available to be around all of the evenings you wished to spend there but she trusted your independence to use the bus after school. Besides, you had the impression that there were always Shield Agents keeping an eye on you no matter where you went.

Só for three whole years, that old place was your favorite. You would run out from the classroom with the first ring of the bell to get to the kart track as fast as you could, and for all those three years, you were also the best runner there.

Of course, it cost you some bloody noose and bruised hands. Especially with sore losers little boys who were very unpleased to be second placed by some random girl. There were also the parents, who would whisper not very lowly on how absurd it was to let an unsupervised little girl in such a violent activity.

As luck would have it, someday you were no longer the only little girl around.

The Danvers were local, and you always thought there were only three of them. The grumpy father and the loud and popular sons. But one day, the one with the warmest smile, the youngest son brought someone with him.

His little sister's name was Carol. She had her blonde hair tied down and she looked ready to punch anyone who gave her a hard time. All the Danvers kind looked the same to be fair. Blonde, strong and angry.

Unlike her brother and their free pass to do as they please, Carol was constantly reprimanded by her father. Even there, in front of the whole crowd and runners, he would scream and pinch her ear, adding to the fury that shone behind Carol's little blue eyes.

The other children would whisper just like their parents but growing up with spies and secret agents gave you this second nature to sneak in and out of places without being noticed. You weren't supposed to hear some of the adults whispering how Mr.Danvers drank more than he should or how his older son was leaving next summer for the army with a purple eye he didn't get in the training. You weren't supposed to but you did.

So the next time Carol crashed a car with one of the other runners, you messed up your perfect record to help her.

Her dad screamed again, as usual. But he left, muttering she could find her way home since she was so clever and Carol had those thick tears in her eyes that made them bluer, so you were helping her before you could give a second thought to it.

She didn't mind that you took her hand and brought her to the administration lobby. She's more interested in knowing how the hell you knew how to get there in the first place.

When you told her you grew up with spies she laughed thinking you were joking. You decided to tell her more stories in the hope it would distract her from the pain of the cuts she got in her legs from the crash.

It worked.

Carol had colorful patches on both her knees when you two sneaked out of there to the bus stop. You could take her home if she wished because you knew a lot about public transport but Carol smiled and said she could do it alone; Her dad was often not around and with soldiers brothers, she knew a lot about doing things by herself.

Yet, she appreciates the gesture and the thought. Her bus should be here in 25 minutes so you sit next to her and let your healthy knee brush her bruised one.

“My name is Carol Danvers by the way.” 

You have to chuckle at her line.

“I know who you are, Danvers.” You retort with an easy smile. She looks up with curiosity. You chuckle again. “You know your name is on the scoreboard, right?”

She laughs, almost shyly. You don't know that yet but Carol is not the best at making friends. Especially girlfriends because apparently, every girl hated how not 60s girly behavior she acted on as much as any boy.

You didn't mind. If anything, it kinda made you like her more.

“You didn't have to do that back there you know?” She starts over, fingers tugging at the bandaid you put above her knee. “Lose the race to check on me.”

You shrug, eyes on the road. “No worries. There'll be other races. Besides, you're the only real competition I get there. If you're not participating, what's the fun in winning?”

Carol's cheeks grow a little hotter, but you're both too young to know it has nothing to do with the sun above your heads. You offer her a smile and she gets up to signal to the bus.

But before she leaves, she turns to you again.

It's quicker than her crash that morning, the thank you little peck on your right cheek but is as meaningful as losing a three-year Invictus status on a track race for someone.

Carol nearly flees the scene once she catches the first glimpse of surprise in your expression. You were caught off guard, that's all. But all you can do is laugh to yourself as you watch her run to her bus.

Tomorrow, when you are back here, you'll find Carol so you can share your lunch with her. Today, you would walk home with no clue why the spot she kissed was tingling.

-&-

Two.

Shield Academy is not the army. 

It is, as the name suggests, an academic program for the gifted-minded. It's a place where a child who grew up surrounded by the brightest minds on the planet can get it easily.

Well, of course, there's a lot of studying and tiring exams that you wouldn't describe as easy but when taking everything into consideration, the only place a brainy - or huge nerd as Carol would call it - could end up was there.

So while you had big dark blue sweaters with the Shield logo on them, Carol had worn out public school uniforms. 

But she was doing okay. In fact, if anyone asked you, even though you were the nerd one in that friendship, for you, Carol was quite brilliant. She had a quick mind and such a strong, well, everything. She was as clever as she was kind. She was passionate about anything she cared for and she was easily your favorite person.

The kart track gave space for the public library and the green plains behind Shield Academia as you two grew up. Carol would take her bike from across town and spend the whole day after school in those green yards with you. Often, she had a football with her while you had a book.

And while you tried to escape your Shield colleagues, Carol would find her spot at your side. She would watch those training agents and wish to be like them, while both of you knew she would follow her brothers to the military when the time came.

But for now, you're sixteen. And Carol has been your best friend for almost 6 years now. You're not sure if friends have anniversaries or if it's something reserved for dating, and since you're not gonna ask any of the agents around, especially not Doctor Lawson, you just assume is okay to get Carol a gift.

She had been wishing for a walkman for so long - she had three already, all broke down during some of her naughty antics, from jumping into the reservation without remembering to take them off her backpack to get into a fight with older kids who thrown her stuff just for the fun of it. So yes, she had those before and she loved music but somehow she always ended up breaking them so you thought maybe because you were the one gifting it, she would be more careful.

You were right of course, but that's hardly the point.

Carol started to act strange after the gift. Even days later, during movie night at her house, she got quiet, which is definitely not a Carol Danvers kind of attitude, so you started to wonder if the present was a good idea at all.

That of course, until Carol clarified the whole thing.

“I got you something too. For, hum, the anniversary thing.” 

You pinched her ribs, the nearly shy behavior was such an odd thing to testify that was actually terrifying you. Carol has been your best friend for way too long for that or anything to be awkward between you two.

But then again, adolescence makes everything weird.

You don't open the gift very graciously. Because you were in the middle of movie night, of course, hands full of popcorn butter and Carol was being weird and suspect that you just wanted to put an end to it.

You chuckle at her worn-out team jacket there.

“So your gift to me is your jacket?” You asked with a confused frown, watching your friend struggle with her words the next moments.

“No, I mean yes. But not, just that.” She starts and it's quite the scene. Carol Danvers not being able to talk when that's all she does. “It's my favorite jacket. I… really like it.”

“Do you want it back then?” You suggest with a confused laugh but Carol shakes her head immediately, her cheeks rosy.

“God, no, that’s not…” she takes a deep breath. “I like the jacket, a lot, but not as much as I like you. So I thought, maybe if I can give you something that I really like, it will mean…”

“Oh, I get it.” You say with a smile, holding the jacket against your chest as Carol switches the weight in her foot. “Thank you, blondie. But you don't have to give me your favorite stuff to show me you like me. You don't have to give me anything at all really. Perhaps, all you have to do is say it and I'll believe you.”

Carol nods, shallowing dryly, and without missing a beat, she repeats her words from before: “I really like you.” It's nearly a whisper, and the way she struggles to hold your gaze tells you everything you need to know.

You smile, aware of the warmth spreading in your cheeks and ears.

“I really like you too, Carol.” You tell her and with no hush, you put her jacket on. The blonde in front of you takes a shaky breath once the jacket is properly around your body. You're distracted with the new outfit to take notice of the new dark shine her eyes hold. “Gotta admit it, Danvers, I could totally worm the athletic style. I mean, I look super cool don't I?”

But your question goes unanswered. Carol moves forward, her hands grab the collar of the gifted jacket and just like the first time, she kisses you quicker than you can manage to process.

Her lips are dry against yours because she's nervous. Trembling and terrified. You pull away, and Carol has her eyes closed tightly, breathing unevenly.

You take a deep breath and lick your lips to moisten them a little and the second kiss is much better. 

There's this soft noise she makes when you move your mouth but the second you feel her tongue on your lower lip, there's noise around you two.

As if getting electrocuted, Carol jumps away just in time for her evidently drunk father to stumble inside the garage.

Carol is not eight anymore, but she's the only one left in that house. Her older brother taught her five different ways to break someone's noose, but Carol still shakes like the leaves if her father is around with his harsh words and angry looks.

This time, however, he takes a long glance at you both. The guilty looks, accelerated breathing, and he just laughs.

The only thing he says is a slur that makes Carol flinch. Then he turns his back and climbs the stairs to his bedroom, passing out in the hallway before he can make it through.

“Carol, I-” You try but she forces a smile and nods at the door.

“Please go.” She asks. “I have to take him to bed and you don't have to stay.”

“But-”

“Please.”

You leave. And Carol doesn't bring up that night for the next two years.

-&-

Three.

Graduation means Army. More specifically, the Air Force because of course Carol Danvers wants to fly away from everything and everyone.

“Not everyone.” She frowns when you tell her that. Then she smiles, legs brushing yours at the back of her truck. “I would love to have you up there with me.”

You chuckle, giving her shoulder a little bump with your own.

“Sorry Blondie, you know I hate planes.” You joke but the shine in her eyes is deeper now.

“What about spaceships?” She insists it.

You sigh into the night, pensive for a second.

“Well, Mom would probably love it if I ever suggest anything that involves flying.” You say, breaking into a chuckle as your hand moves to the leg you have bent in that position, which allows you to trace your fingers toward your ankle. “Of course, anything other than my secret little Pegasus.”

Carol gives a compliance smile at the mention of the secret tattoo you got on her seventeenth birthday but continues to watch you in silence.

The stars are shining bright above you two, and the parked truck gives as much privacy as one could get in that neighborhood. If you and Carol weren't girls, people would make conclusions.

Perhaps they’ll do it anyway.

“What would I even do up there, Danvers?” You ask her because Carol is so passionate about flying that you're starting to wonder if she is able to see a whole different world up there that you can't.

This time, her hand finds you before her lips. She brings her fingers to yours resting on the truck and locks them. She gets closer and closer and gives you all the time in the world to push her back.

But she's Carol, and she's beautiful and she's your best friend. Why wouldn't you want to kiss her?

There's tongue this time. Hesitant at first then curious, until finally hungry. Of course, Carol Danvers is a good kisser, this asshole.

You break apart, to complain with a husky tone that is unfair but Carol only chuckles before kissing you again. And again. Until somehow you end with your back against her truck, painting into her mouth.

And Carol is seventeen years old and she's a huge virgin like you who really wants this to change tonight. Not just that, of course, but she's still a teen and that's exactly what she chooses to say in order to make this less life-changing than it is.

Because sleeping together as a way of ending high school without the V Card has a completely different meaning than sleeping together because you really want to ruin a friendship.

You swallow at her suggestion, aware that the heat in your veins doesn't cover for the way your heart just broke inside your chest.

But you smile and tell Carol you love her, making sure it sounds platonic. Just to hurt her just as much.

It works, but she kisses you anyway.

-&-

Four.

Maria Rambeau is the most incredible person you have ever met. She's clever and fun and kindhearted. It's so easy to love her and it comes so naturally, that you can't really blame Carol.

You also have no right to be jealous, you tell yourself.

After all, Carol asked more than once for you to at least consider following her to the Air Force. You both had military families, so it made sense for her that you both ended up following the same path.

You were not entirely excluded from that, of course. But unlike Carol with her soldier training, you had medical classes. And while she and Maria learned to shoot people, you learned to heal them.

That of course until the third year, when Carol's training moved to space crafting and yours moved to biological charts. The Pegasus was not the only military project available for you, and being home was good but every time you caught a glimpse of the empty fields near the station, you remember afternoons with Carol and the lack of her ache a hell lot inside your chest.

But visiting her at the base and then at a local bar was a bittersweet occasion.

Because time went by and Carol made a new friend. A lovely and brilliant and apparently less confused woman new best friend. Maria who made her laugh and blush and was such a great company that you couldn't hate her no matter how much the jealousy burned inside your veins.

Somehow, no matter how many dove eyes Carol threw at Maria, she didn't catch them. Immune to her charm entirely. You kinda wished she would teach you that.

The last free week you had was spent visiting Carol and ending up in a bar. But Maria's night was continuing with a good-looking soldier somewheres else, so yours and Carol's would continue with cheap drinks.

It was probably common sense, not to mix alcohol with feelings but you and Carol clearly skipped that class.

You ended up pressed behind the bar's wall in a messy attempt of drunken make-out with your former best friend.

Carol tasted like beer and the army's year changed her. Even drunk, she knew her way around a woman's body now and you had to force your stupid brain to stop wondering about who she had been practicing with. Perhaps Maria was not immune to her charm as you thought she was.

Just as things were getting out of hand, that is, it was probably against some army rules to have sex behind one bar in the military area, Carol pulled away.

She looked so good like that, with messy hair and flushing cheeks, her lips swollen due to the whole thing.

But her eyes were so sad. And you couldn't push the alcohol and the lust away to have clear thoughts on that.

“We can't do this again.” She declares with a seriousness that makes you swallow hard. “I can't.”

She stumbles away and you nearly slip down the hall on your shaky legs. Carol is looking for her car keys but she will definitely fall asleep on the seat.

To be fair, you kinda wished that night would end in her car seat, just in very different scenarios.

“Why not, Danvers?” You manage to question once the anger pushes a little of the alcohol away. Carol sighs tiredly. “Why?” You almost scream and she stops in her tracks, turning to give you a hurt look.

“I can't do this again, okay?” She retorts and she's drunk but she's so hurt. You can see it in her eyes and it kills you to think it is something you have done it. “I don't have the strength in me to get over you again”.

Your world freezes for a whole second. Your mouth is bitter suddenly.

“O-over me?” You repeat her words, confusion mixing with the pain you feel growing in your chest. “When… When were you under me?”

The question is the best of what your drunk brain can come up with but it's enough for Carol to understand.

She lets out a sad chuckle. “C'mon, Lawson. How could you not know? Everyone did. Even my dad, especially my dad.” She corrects herself then, bitterly before taking a deep breath. “It's past. It doesn't matter anymore. We are no longer kids, messing around with things we don't understand. I know what am I. And I know we shouldn’t. I won't jeopardize our friendship again for someone I cannot have.”

There are tears in your eyes, and Carol has the fucking worst timing in the world because your brain simply can't catch up with the meaning of this conversation with all the booze in the way.

“Carol, what are you even saying?”

She just smiles, giving a nod to the bar.

“Let's get inside, I'll get you a cab back to your hotel.”

She doesn't let you question further and the next morning, when the hangover barely allows you to open your eyes, Carol says the worst thing you did last night was try dancing with a Statue.

-&-

Five.

Doctor Lawson has been acting strange lately. She says it's work stress when she returns your calls and ignores your advice about her retiring.

You use your mother's stress as an excuse to come home, and it seems ridiculous that you have to invent reasons to see Carol, but she gives you no choice. Things have been very strange between you in recent months.

The house is a mess, and it's the first time you've worried about the possibility of dementia.

Strange phrases, disconnected words. You think about calling the head of Shield when you put Dr. Lawson to bed after making her some hot tea, but you end up calling Carol.

Your former best friend brings her old truck into your garage.

"Hey, blondie." She hugs you first at the greeting, and you sigh with satisfaction at the contact. You almost forget the stress of the whole meeting with your mother. "It's good to see you."

"I missed you." Carol says with a smile, squeezing you tighter before letting go. "What happened? You sounded worried on the phone."

You sigh before telling her everything you saw, standing there leaning on Carol's truck in the dim light of the garage. It's her turn to sigh when you finish.

"Good thing I brought beer." She comments, getting a laugh out of you. 

You don't even notice the time passing that night, but it's like being back in senior year, sitting side by side in the back of Carol's truck, forgetting the world around you for a moment.

When the case of beers is about to run out, you've said almost everything you have to say. Carol thinks she needs to add something more.

"I know the circumstances aren't the best but... I can't say I'm sad." She begins, looking straight ahead, a half-full can of beer in her hands. "With the possibility of you coming to live here again, I mean. I've kind of hated Washington since you left. And Shield too, for taking you away."

You giggle shyly at this and don't know what to say to Carol, so you just decide to hug her. But you're a bit dizzy after the third beer and miscalculate your approach. You end up too close to her face and can see almost in slow motion how the blue darkens or how Carol chokes on her breath.

"I'm sorry, I-" you begin in a hoarse voice, but she doesn't let you finish. The beer can slips out of her hand as she uses both to pull your face towards her.

It's an intense, messy, and passionate kiss. Carol swallows all the sighs that escape your lips as she presses her mouth to yours. Her tongue doesn't ask for passage. You melt against her and try your best to match her energy, suddenly feeling very dizzy, unrelated to the beer.

Her hands move from your face to your neck and down to your waist. Carol mentions pulling you onto her lap, but the balcony lights flicker on and she grunts as she pulls away.

You're still blinking spellbound at the whole thing, trying to catch your breath as she stands up, adjusting her hair.

"Fuck, I shouldn't have done that." She mutters more to herself than to you, hoarse and upset. You swallow dry. "I'm so stupid."

"Carol."

"You're so fucking stupid, Carol Danvers, I swear to God." She ignores your call, continuing to curse quietly to herself. You frown, but end up looking at the porch; your mother has woken up and looks just as lost as before and you really need to check on her.

When you get out of the truck, you touch Carol on the shoulder, and she turns around almost in despair.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that, I'm leaving-"

"Carol, shut up." You cut her off and don't let her say another word.

She shuts up immediately. "I really have to get back inside, and make sure my mom doesn't turn on any water or store the cat in the fridge again." You chuckle apologetically, stroking her cheek. "But I need you to understand that this isn't a mistake, an accident or a thoughtless act after a few beers. At least it isn't and it never was for me. We need to start talking to each other."

Carol nods quickly, swallowing as she looks down at your swollen lips. "Yeah, talking is good."

You smile, and hear the sound of the cat in the house and think you'd better start running. "Later, okay?"

"Later."

But your mother doesn't have dementia. She's not even allowed in a regular hospital. Shield is strangely private about everything, but you're practically coerced into signing confidentiality papers about the current state of Dr. Lawson, who seems to miraculously improve after spending an hour in a room with other agents.

Carol is the only person you can talk to about things, and she has news of her own.

"Maria is pregnant." She tells you, with a twinkle in her eye, without waiting for you to finish absorbing the news. "And she wants me to be the godmother!"

You're happy for Maria, especially perhaps because she's seeing that handsome soldier and she and Carol have nothing going on. Also, you need to tell Carol that you can go back to Washinton now that your mother is better.

"Oh, I thought..." The blonde hesitates as she hears the news, trying not to look upset by forcing a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I thought you'd decided to stay."

You're having breakfast in the living room of your house, Dr. Lawson is working upstairs. You swallow the bitter feeling of hurting Carol again.

"I would, for Mom. But why would I stay in Louisiana?" It's a rhetorical question because you both know very well what would make you stay. Carol laughs sadly, looking down. You get tired of pretending. " I would stay for you. I would stay for... us."

She looks at you in silence, a conflict of emotions on her face. "Don't be ridiculous, you can't just give up your career for a friendship-"

"Carol." You cut her off seriously, and she choked on her sentence, her eyes as tearful as yours. You give her a small smile, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding in your chest. "You know that's not what I'm saying."

She swallows dryly, and despite reaching out to take your hand, she insists; "I'm gonna need you to say it."

"God, you're such an asshole." You gasp with emotion, laughing as tears of happiness escape yours and her eyes. Carol also laughs but waits. "Okay, Danvers. You've got me. I'm completely, irrevocably in love with you. I have been for a long time, maybe since the first time I saw you. And I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you."

Carol almost knocks over the coffee table when she moves in to kiss you but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[a-boca-do-inferno]

a goddess in my right eye (koba x human!reader) [request]

summary: Kobaʼs plan was just to grab some human guns, until he saw you. Whatever could happen?

warnings: angst-ish, fluff, swearing

words: 1.1k

notes: based on animal by aurora. enjoy <3

You snapped your head at the quiet thud of something falling on the floor, stopping your repairs on the light above you. You came down from the stool you had been standing on and cleaned your hands with a cloth, throwing it aside as you frowned. Who could be around here at dinner time? Mostly everyone was having supper now… Except for the drunk assholes watching over the armoury, of course. Rolling your eyes impatiently, you strolled in the direction of the sound and froze in your tracks as soon as you spotted one of those apes with his back turned to you. You let out a gasp and tried to calm down, gripping the wall you hid behind tightly. Taking another experimental peak at the scene, that’s when you saw it.

Pause. Everything happened so quickly, you didn’t even finish blinking; dead bodies surrounded the angry ape whilst he made his way toward you, stomping firmly on the cement with the biggest scowl you’d ever seen, a machine gun dangling loosely from his arm. Your whole body shook with fear and adrenaline, your hands drenched in sweat and closed in fists. Your mind went completely blank for a second. Run. Run. Run. Yet you simply could not move, your soles glued to the ground beneath your worn out boots. His piercing gaze bore into your soul like burning knives cutting through it. It was helpless. That was your end.

Right?

“Human.” He scoffs, his scarred face contorted in disgust and... curiosity, to say the least. Koba sized you up and down, invading your personal space, his hot breath hitting you so aggressively you had to flinch. Seeming mildly amused by your terrified state, he orders gruffly, “name.” 

“(y/n). I-I won’t say anything, I promise…” You stammer, shrinking even further as the ape towers over you, panting with his mouth open. His sharp exhales blew your hair slightly; such a foreign sensation. Surely that wasn’t the same guy who’d come make peace with your group earlier, riding horses and such? This one appeared not to be awfully fond of the human race in comparison. When you noticed the creature only kept on coming closer, his chest almost pressing against yours, you gulped. “Who… are you?” Your voice is but a whisper.

There was something uncanny about the way Koba examined you. He’d never seen a human that was not a scientist and you most certainly were not one, wearing those old clothes and smelling of grease. You seemed scared, but not because of him—not completely. You seemed scared of everything. The ape enjoyed how you shrank away from his every move like a small animal cornered by its prey; the rules were reversed now, it seemed. His nose caught a whiff of your natural smell again, one he couldn’t quite place under the layer of lubricant. He tilted his head, his sharp stare never leaving your eyes.

“Koba.” He huffs, pointing to himself proudly. His good eye inspected your every feature with a more obviously curious gleam now. His large hand reached out for your cheek and you pursed your lips as he traced your soft skin with his fingertips. His breathing remained heavy and quick, taking in your scent. Letting out a deep grunt, albeit not as hostile as before, the ape concedes, “Koba… like (y/n).”

You can’t help but raise your brows, surprised and confused at the statement. “What…”

He gives your face another rough but faint brush of his fingers before holding your chin in place. “Bad human.” Koba continues, pointing at the dead bodies with the gun he’s still holding, then turns to you and places his palm on your collarbone tentatively. He nods briefly. “Good… human.”

A shiver ran up your spine as he pulled you closer, wrapping an arm securely around your hips. The situation was so widely unexpected you couldn’t hold back a nervous laugh, gripping his furry shoulders for support as he held you. Koba was pleased at the sound you made and accompanied you with a chuckle of his own, deeper and more gravelly than yours. Your breathing was still slightly ragged, trying to make sense of what he meant with his words and his actions. A monkey in love with you? Like… King Kong or something?

“Why did you do this?” You ask, genuinely eager to know, while also attempting to escape your rushed thoughts. It wasn’t like those morons would be greatly missed by you. Good riddance. “Why… did you kill them?”

Koba blinks slowly, considering your questions. He doesn’t respond and instead throws the machine gun behind you, putting both his strong arms around your midriff, “Koba want you.” He snarls, impatient.

You snort and sigh, blushing despite yourself. These apes are really something. “I…”

“No talk.” He cuts you off, covering your lips with his calloused hand swiftly, yet tenderly. You obeyed if only because of the fear of turning out just like your dead buddies, but you wouldn’t fool yourself and pretend you weren’t enjoying him holding you like this. And Koba was aware of that too, huffing softly, “come?”

You took in what he was asking. He wanted you to leave the group with him? For what? For how long? His bright eye watched you carefully, even expectantly, eager for an answer. You thought back to the light you were fixing just now; this place was falling apart, anyway, and you’d had your fair share of disagreements with the leader more than once ever since the apes came along. You were almost certain they’d cause a war one way or the other, from both sides, and at some point you’d have to choose your own. And you sure as hell weren’t gonna be on Dreyfus’.  

Pulling you out of your thoughts, he asserted, giving your waist a tighter squeeze just in case, “with Koba.”

“Yes.” You breathe, not even letting him close his mouth entirely. Koba hoots gently and joins your foreheads. You smile and cup his face, blurting out in a small snicker, “this is crazy.”

The ape grunted in agreement, a smirk playing across his thick lips as you touched his scars so delicately. He closed his eyes and huffed, enjoying the warm sensation of your breath on his skin. He nuzzled into the soft hollow of your neck and sniffed, taking in as much of your muskiness as he could, eliciting a low rumble from his throat and pulling you against him forcefully, almost possessively.

“Crazy ape.” The ape follows your amusement in kind, placing a hand on his own chest. His fangs appear more as he grins, now pointing to you, “crazy human.”

[willowed-wisp]

I’m really fucking drunk right now

But the request is to just make Soap and Ghost happy, however you decide to do that 😭

Complete freedom of uhhhhhhhh prompt just that, idk, I’m floating off the face of the earth right now I am not here nope nowhere too much wine I think but it was fun 👍

mistletoe [ ghost ]

————

I hope I did well with the request given, it said to make Soap and Ghost happy. And the boys do need some love. And anonymous, I feel you- my exact though process on wine lol

————

————

Christmas, the time of giving… even in the military… even in its special branches. You were the only female on your squad, which meant one thing. You would be the only one getting them presents, because that’s just what you did at the festive season.

No missions, but you did find out from Price the most vagrant member of the teams’ phone number; being placed with him and Soap on most occasions.

When he didn’t respond to your text message to meet up, you set Soap on the case. You didn’t have family, Johnny didn’t speak to his and Simon you really had no clue about… the 23rd December rolls on, you had been up since four in the morning from habit but decided to get prepared. Cutting carrots… getting the roasties ready to cook later… Yorkshire pudding mix ready to go… Turkey in the oven…

Before you knew it there was a firm knock on the door and it was ten o’clock, and you’d expected to just see the postman before they went on their holiday leave. “Somethin’ smells good… watcha cookin’?” Johnny brushed straight past you to the kitchen, and the biggest surprise was seeing Simon Riley on your doorstep.

“He’s not wrong…” He said, rubbing is feet on the mats on both the inside and outside. Taking his boots off, you smiled at his politeness. You had never hung out with Simon, he kept himself to himself. Though you thought Johnny pushed him into coming over.

Entering your kitchen, stood Johnny MacTavish with a finger dipped in the eggnog… looking like a guilty child when you entered, “It wasn’t me, I swear…” You waved it off.

“A bit of gun grease never hurt anyone…” Knowing how messy the job proved most of the time, “How does it taste? The eggnog, not gun grease…” Ghost just stood leaned against the door frame connecting kitchen and living room. While Johnny tasted.

His eyes electric giving a hum, “Oh my god, Simon, you’ve got to try some…” Eyes lingered on you and then Johnny.

“I’m driving back, remember…”

“Come on, Lt… I’m sure Y/N doesn’t mind us staying until later, do you?” Head shaking with a dim smile on your lips.

Opening the overhead cupboard, “I even stocked a couple bottles of bourbon…” A brow raised by Simon beneath the hood and Johnny chuckled.

He shook your shoulders from behind you, “How can you say no to these faces?” Both giving your best mopey frowning.

Simon’s arms folded, “Use that technique in negotiations? Because I’m not turnin’ down a bottle of bourbon…” Johnny released your shoulders, returning back to the eggnog jug. “I wanna know why we’re actually here?” You hadn’t realised he’d slipped to stand directly beside you, and you felt your knees numb at the height of the man you’d spent hours of missions with…

It felt like you were under interrogation, “I thought you both deserved a homemade Christmas meal instead of a ready-made spag bol from the shops…” Only comprehending how close the man was to you, pushing off the island countertop and checking the turkey…

You had ushered the men to sit at counter on stools, Johnny had a jug of half gone eggnog in hand and Simon a whiskey glass. Simon more than Johnny marvelled how you worked around the kitchen, a spring in your step and a cheeky glint in your eye. A nudge to his right side, “Y’ staring, Lt…” He didn’t respond to the Sergeant, knowing fully well… maybe it wasn’t a good idea to go to your house and stay for an alcohol catering pre-Christmas meal.

But he couldn’t help it, “Need any help?”Talking to an optimistic person was what he craved and you seemed to be the only one in 141 that was a ray of sunshine in the storm ahead.

You queried, “You any good with mashing potatoes?” You swore you had never seen fluffier potatoes after Simon had finished up with the saucepan. “I’m impressed… and you alright there, Johnny?”

“Me nanna always slipped m’ some eggnog when I was a wee lad,” His cheeks ruddier than usual, and his smile wider. Let alone his speech, Simon and yourself sharing a humoured look at barely being able to understand your teammate.

Simon nudged him, taking the jug passing it to you, “Think you’ve had enough of that, Sergeant. Barely fuckin’ understand ya…” You giggled into your wine glass, taking a sip; meeting Ghost’s eye contact. He’d forgotten to take his mask up as the drink sputtered down his neck and onto his white shirt, “Fucks sake…” Discarding his jacket.

Johnny from the side, “Shit, bourbon stains like a bitch…” Simon didn’t care about the shirt, he just didn’t want to spend the entire day with an orange stain down himself.

“Throw me the shirt, I’ll get it out in a jiffy…” He cocked his eyebrow at you, “Not shy are you, Ghost?” In no time, his shirt was off and a flash of white caught in your hands.

His chin jerked up, “Work your magic then, love…” You couldn’t believe Simon Riley was taunting you, attempting to avert your gaze from landing on that toned chest and his broad shoulders. Relatively easy being around muscled men your entire career, though you were disappointed when his hoodie came over to block his skin. All while you used bicarbonate and white vinegar, scrubbing until the darker patch faded till it was barely there.

“Á voila!” Holding up the large T-shirt, “just need to chuck it in the wash.” Throwing it in with a bundle you had yet to put on. The alarm going off for the oven. Thinking a curse, tackling so much at once. Opting to run to the washing machine, throwing some washing powder and conditioner in. Returning back to the kitchen, alarm on snooze but met with the sight of Ghost carving the turkey, his collarbones defined and visible as was the top of his chest. The hem rising just enough to see the band of his boxers.

Johnny just smirked at you, merry as could be watching his squad members mentally undress each other between half-lidded gazes. “So you’re good with all kinds of knives?” You didn’t mean it to come out like a purr but it had, dishing up the roasties. Johnny was setting the three table places- he shot you a smile. A knowing one, that you had harboured a crush on your superior since you joined the SAS.

Simon Riley just had a swagger about him- a cockiness to his aptitude. He was also caring, whether he accepted that compliment or not. He had saved your life more times than you could count, you’d had his back countless in turn. Partners in stealth and then Johnny was brought into the dynamic, you’d hit it off immediately- you viewed him as an annoying, endearing brother all the while Ghost commented flirty jokes to you. Never enough to have intention but he still said it.

Never knowing much about the man, for all you knew he could have a wife and kids at home.

But the way he was acting, it could be a Christmas miracle that Lt. Simon Riley returned whatever flicker of a feeling you held for him. Fingers brushing against each other as you reached for the same cutlery set bundled beforehand by Johnny. Simon’s whiskey beside your wine while you had staved Johnny on lemonade. “I’m comin’ ‘ere for every Christmas… how did you ge’ the turkey like tha’,” It warmed your heart, you knew Johnny didn’t speak to his family all that much and that his Christmases were spent alone. “Wha’ abou’ you, Lt?”

Simon had his mask up below his nose, and had been munching away. Simply giving a shrug, before digging into more. If he hated it, he wouldn’t be going in for more on the plate.

“You’re okay with us stayin’ the night?” You had been the one to suggest it, and your house had three bedrooms. Though Johnny seemed content sleeping on the sofa- passing out after finishing off the jug of eggnog. You had draped a blanket over him. Simon was holding his whiskey well and hadn’t overdone it unlike the man asleep like a baby.

You were glad to be upstairs, avoiding Johnny’s snoring. “We’ll leave in the mornin’, so you can get shit ready for your family to come over…” That was the sad truth and he saw it on your face.

“I don’t have anybody round Christmas time…”

“No family?” It wasn’t like Simon to ask, the whiskey had loosened him up.

Your head shook, “My parents died, they’d been disowned by their families… so I’m usually on my own with a ready made spaghetti bolognese on Christmas,” You were too close to him- a wall overhead. Only noticing then that a stray mistletoe sat in that spot all year round. Your parents used to make an effort to kiss under it every day…

“We’re under mistletoe…” His gruff voice spoke too effortless while a blush covered your cheeks; maybe from the wine but maybe from how naked he was under that hoodie- forgetting that his shirt was still in the wash. “You’re gonna have to take it off?”

An arm around your waist as you wobbled. “What do you mean?” His other hand removed the mask he always made an effort to wear even while eating. But there he was, a normal man with a charming grin and puppy dog eyes. “Simon…?” Unsure of him…

“I wanna kiss you, Y/N…” And you sealed the deal, lips on his- stood on tiptoes with his palms keeping you upright. He was fire against you, your fingerprints were invisible when marking his neck. It was like a wave calmly drifting to shore, like Simon all together. Something that could be so violent yet tender, especially beneath your touch. Your lips off his, finding comfort in the eyes you’d known for years. “Did you want us to stay in the morning?”

Pondering, “Don’t you have family who want to spend Christmas with you?” A shake of the head with a lopsided grin on his face.

The man shrugged, “We never did anything for it, it’s just another day,” that’s when he grabbed your hand, “But I’d love to spend Christmas with you… and Johnny…”

The three of you ended up making another Christmas dinner on the 25th, Johnny got drunk on eggnog and ended up doing karaoke while you and Simon held hands under a blanket. A snap of you three on your Polaroid and added to your kitchen’s cork board and a picture from Christmas evening of you and Simon Riley in bed- no mask but the fact neither of you were wearing clothes wasn’t obvious.

He would come back after dropping Johnny off on Boxing Day… “Shit! I forgot to give you two presents…” He pulled you back onto the sofa as you went to rush away.

“You gave us something better than a present…” Before planting a kiss on your temple, “And your cooking was perfect,” cuddling into you watching a cheesy Christmas movie. Kind of like the one you had just lived out.

————

cod m.list | request guidelines | ghost m.list

[kryptonitejelly]

Grease & Tequila - a Flyboy One-shot

Top Gun: Maverick - Jake Seresin x Reader - part of the Flyboy!Universe

Pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader

Genre: romance; fluff; angst; best friends to lovers

Warnings:  general hangman being hangman; sexual tension; general cursing; will contain mentions of a break up / previous relationship; general use of pet names; fem!reader; pining; general naval / flying inaccuracies; alcohol; being drunk.

Length: One-shot

Summary: Set 5 months pre the Flyboy!era. The one where Jake gets the call that you and Dan have broken up and he has to be on the next plane to New York, now.

Flyboy | Mini-Series Masterlist

(not fully updated as of today, but if you follow / search the tag “flyboy universe” / “flyboy” / “flyboy fic” / “flyboy!jake” on my tumblr you’ll find recent asks / headcannons / blurbs!)

A/N: It’s been a while, and this isn’t all that exciting, but I think it definitely (I hope) sets the scene for Flyboy and helps everything click into place.

DISCLAIMER: all work posted here is purely fanfiction; it does not in any way purport to be an accurate representation of real life or the general workings of any institution.

“Lieutenant,” Admiral Craig’s voice booms out as Jake opens the door to his office. The Admiral waits for Jake to shut the door completely before he starts up again, “I got your last minute absence request.”

“That is correct, Sir,” Jake nods, as he comes to a stand in front of the Admiral’s desk. He stands with his feet hip width apart, hands behind his back, eyes meeting the older man’s.

“Everything okay?” The Admiral asks, his gaze steady on Jake’s. It was rare for a last minute absence request to come across his desk, which meant that when they did - it was usually pressing.

“Just something I need to attend to, Sir.” Jake responds, his mask not slipping, but the Admiral hears the weight behind his words. There is a silence pause between the two men, before the Admiral picks up his pen, signing the bottom of the two sheets of paper before him with a flourish. He was never one to refuse these requests as long as he deemed them legitimate, but he made it a point of looking the requestor in the eye to make his own assessment of the situation before approving them. He didn’t need to know the why, unless it was volunteered by the requestor him/herself, but he needed to know that it wasn’t being abused and Jake Seresin, for all his ego and cockiness, was a dedicated solider. He wouldn’t ask, unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Approved,” the Admiral says simply before passing one of the sheets to Jake. Jake’s mask doesn’t crack, but the Admiral sees a twitch of relief as Jake remembers how to breathe, “Godspeed.”

“Thank you Sir.”

-

Jake shifts irritably in his seat as he waits for boarding to be complete. He had reached out to Grandma Doris’ personal assistant once he had gotten off the phone with you, even before he had submitted his flight request, his text to her was just one sentence, twelve words long - I need to be on the next flight to New York, please. He usually would not have bothered her, but this - this was a pressing situation, he just had to get on that plane. She had, the blessing that she was, gotten hold of two flight options for him, the next flight to New York, and the next next as a backup, both in first class no less, with a simple request to let her know when he needed a flight ticket back from New York.

“May I offer you a hot towel, Mr Seresin?” The stewardess stops beside his seat. Jake shakes his head, offering her a polite half smile.

“No thank you.”

“How about some nuts, or maybe a drink?” She tries again.

“How long more do you think it’ll be till take-off?” Jake’s question is abrupt and she is quiet for a second, slightly taken a back. He isn’t rude, but is, obviously antsy.

“I think another twenty minutes Mr Seresin,” she says as she follows his gaze out of the window.

“Thanks,” is all she gets from Jake as he continues to stare out of the window beside him as if willing take-off to come faster.

-

“Anything else?” The cashier of the fried chicken shop just around the corner from your apartment building asks Jake as he rings up the total on the till.

“That’s all, thanks.” Jake says as he slides his card out of his wallet before tapping it against the screen of the payment machine which is proffered to him.

“Here’s your receipt, please wait on the right.” Jake slides his wallet back into the pocket of his jeans before stepping towards the right. The tequila which he had picked up on his way out of the airport is in his backpack, the shape of the bottle pressed against his back, a reminder that he was just that much closer to what he came to New York for.

-

The ride up the elevators to your apartment is excruciatingly slow, and Jake taps his foot against the ground the whole way up. He hadn’t had to buzz you to let him up, managing instead to catch a couple on their way out and slip into the building - something which he made a mental note of in the back of his mind - perhaps it was time to convince you to move to somewhere with a doorman or concierge for increased safety.

The bottle of tequila is now in one of his hands, and the bag of greasy fried chicken and fries in his other - his remedy for your broken heart. Alcohol, fast food, and well, him. His eyes are fixed on the flashing red numbers as if willing the elevator to go faster. It stops with a ding, and Jake all but runs out.

-

He hears you before he sees you, hears faint noises and shuffling, the unlocking of a separate bolt and a lock before you pull open the door an inch to peer out past the safety chain. His eyes meet yours, and sees your eyes, glassy and red rimmed, no doubt from crying meet yours. The doors shuts fully for a second or two as you undo the safety chain before it is pulled open fully.

Jake takes you in the second the open door reveals you - the red tip of your noise, hair on top of your head in a loose, messy up do, body clad in an oversized t shirt and a pair of loose sweatpants and he feels a funny tug in his chest.

“I thought you might need this,” he says as he holds up the items in his hands. You hold his gaze for a second more, and then it happens, the glossiness in your eyes turn into tears which spill over onto your cheeks as you take a step forward, throwing your arms around Jake’s body, burying your face in his chest. Jake hears, but also feels the sobs that wrack your body against his front and he is quite sure that in that moment, the tug in his chest feels like a earth shattering crack.

“I got you,” he says gruffly, bringing both his hands down around you, while still holding onto both items. His words only intensify the sobs coming from you and all Jake can do is draw you closer.

-

“I’ve never liked him,” Jake snorts as he watches you down yet another shot of tequila. You are both sitting around the coffee table in the floor of your living room, greasy chicken and fries demolished, the open bottle of tequila three quarters gone - with more damage having been exacted on the bottle by you than by Jake. Jake isn’t drunk, but he definitely isn’t sober, which means that neither are you.

“He’s an asshole,” you half shout, your words slurring from the alcohol as you let your self sag backwards, leaning against the sofa before you let yourself droop sideways, your head coming to rest on Jake’s shoulder. Jake shifts, moving his arm around you. It allows you to scoot further into his side, your face turning slightly to rest against the side of his chest. You breathe in his scent, the faint smell of soap, laundry detergent and airplane along with his own natural musk, which wraps around you like home, and you feel Jake’s fingers running themselves soothingly along your arm..

“Say the word, I’ll beat him to a pulp,” Jake says, dropping the side of his cheek against the top of your head, his finger squeezing the top of your arm gently. His tone is light, joking almost - but yet not really. Nevertheless, the thought of Dan facing off against Jake makes you chuckle lowly. Dan was no slob himself, he maintained a decent level of fitness - occasional runs, regular visits to the gym, but he might as well have been one compared to Jake. Dan worked out for aesthetics, but next to Jake, who had worked out for functionality all his life, football, the Navy, Dan paled greatly in comparison.

“He’ll never stand a chance,” you say, amused as you close your eyes. Your head has started to get impossibly heavy, your tongue feels thick from the copious amounts of alcohol running through your system, and you let your head rest heavier on Jake’s chest.

“That’s the idea,” is what Jake says and it makes you giggle this time as you sink yourself further into Jake’s hold, seeking out a comforting, physical closeness. Jake can feel yourself pressing into him.

“C’mere,” he mutters, as the arm he has around you tightens. You feel movement, and Jake is reaching across your body, managing to slip an arm under your legs to pull you onto his lap.

“Jake,” your protest is weak because you don’t put up an ounce of a fight, opting instead to shift along with him so that you are comfortably nested on his lap, your ear against his shoulder, tip of your nose just about brushing the side of his neck, “I’m not a child.”

“Mmm,” Jake simply hums in agreement with your words, both his arms coming to form a loose, protective cocoon around you.

You both sit in a comfortable silence, a haze of alcohol enveloping you both. Truth to be told, the break up, the serial cheating - it all hadn’t come as a surprise to you. You had suspected on many occasions, but it had been easier to ignore and live in denial than to face the truth after 3 years of being with the same person. It had broken you for many reasons, and it still hurt like hell to lose a constant presence with which you had spent the past 3 years with, but you weren’t all that sure it had broken your heart, not when your relationship had been fizzling out for a while and you’ve suspected for months.

“He wasn’t good enough for you, you know,” Jake says as he turns his head slightly, managing to plant a half kiss on the side of your temple.

“You say that with every break up,” you laugh dismissively, “that’s what best friends are supposed to say.”

Your words make Jake frown and he moves himself to move you, making you sit up sideways on his lap so that he can look you in the eye. Your are slightly elevated from being seated on his thigh, and you find yourself staring down, holding his gaze. You slide the palms of your hands past his shoulders to steady yourself.

“They were all not good enough for you,” is what he says, unwavering as he holds your gaze. From your sideways position, you can feel one of Jake’s hands sliding around your back, and coming to rest on your waist, and the other coming to rest loosely across your lap.

“Or maybe I wasn’t good enough for them,” you say with a rueful quirk of your lips, letting yourself drown in alcohol induced post break-up self pity. Your words only make Jake’s brows furrow together, a flash of irritating passing through his eyes. It makes him move the arm hanging across your lap up to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing the space just below your eye. You let yourself luxuriate in the warm against your cheek, leaning into his hold. You see Jake’s gaze dart from your eyes to your lips, but the fuzziness of your mind doesn’t let you overthink at just how intimate the moment between you both is.

“You are too good for all of them,” is what he says. You see a flash of something in Jake’s eyes, and perhaps if you were sober, it would have been something you could more accurately place, but you can’t.

“I want to go to bed,” you say, your exhaustion suddenly hitting you and you let your eyes close, weight of your head still balancing on Jake’s hand.

“Ok,” is all he says as his thumb continues to move gently across your skin.

“Come with me?” You say, your ask clear, you didn’t want to be alone - it was simple, nothing more, no innuendo and you knew that Jake would understand.

“Ok,” he repeats as he finally drops his arm from your cheek.

-

Jake has a hand behind his head, eyes fixed up on the ceiling of your bedroom. You had fallen asleep the moment your head hit the pillow, no doubt attributable to all the tequila you had ingested, but also a sure sign at just how exhausted you were. He had taken a quick shower, ridding himself of whatever traces of airplane he had left on him, before tugging on the pair of shirt and shorts he had brought along with him and, true to his word - gotten into bed with you. There was no way in hell was he allowing you to wake up alone.

He lets the soft hum of your snores wash over him, and Jake tilts his head down to watch the rise and fall of your body from where it is curled up beside him in a fetal position under the covers. You look at peace, finally - but he can see the sunken skin beneath your eyes, a tell tale sign that not all was well.

“Baby,” he sighs, murmuring to himself, the term of endearment slipping too naturally from his lips, as you shift, your body finding its way a few inches closer to him. He doesn’t hesitate, removing the arm from behind his head to caress the side of your cheek. Your snores stop, turning instead to an sleep exhale of content, and in that moment, it strengthens Jake’s resolve. He feels the gears shift in his brain and chest, feelings that he had kept at bay in the recesses of his mind and heart for months, years, coming to shore. He had spent the past 3 years watching you fumble your way around with Dan, and even more before that with different men that you had dated, but it was enough - fuck that. He was sick of watching them hurt you, breaking your heart when you deserved so, much, more. Jake wasn’t going to let that happen again. The next person you dated was going to be your last, the person you dated, was going to be him.

-

“Text me when you land,” you twist your fingers around, interlocking them with each other as you and Jake stand on the sidewalk outside your apartment, waiting for his car to pull up.

“I will,” he says while watching you twist your fingers together. You weren’t ready for him to leave, and neither was he - ready for himself to leave, but the days since his arrival on Thursday night had blown past, and Sunday had come too soon, “text me whenever you need,” he says as he extends an arm, pulling you sideways into him. His action makes you stumble slightly, and you reach out with a hand, to grab him around his waist.

“I will,” your response is a parrot of his. It had been a great past few days, once you had gotten over the hangover that hit you both, but you harder, on Friday morning. Jake had forced you out of the house for two whole days of everything and nothing - strolls around the city all while forcing you to thread your arm through his, making sure you filled your stomach with an assortment of food, watching bad television together in your apartment. He had filled your space with laughter, familiarity, and physical touch when you needed it most and you weren’t ready for him to leave.

“I’ll miss you,” he says, leaning sideways towards you to brush his lips against the top of your head. Jake lets his lips linger for a second or two, and you let your eyes close - letting yourself be vulnerable, enjoying the moment.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” you voice is soft, small almost, the truth of your words both a happy feeling for Jake, but also a stab to his heart.

“I wish I didn’t have to either,” he says gruffly, removing his lips from the top of your head to pull you into a bone crushing full frontal hug. He could see a car approaching from the end of the road, his time with you dwindling now to just mere seconds, “I’ll see you soon,” he says, a statement, not a question as you cling onto him in similar fashion.

“Soon,” you echo, a promise between you both.

-

“So how long are you leaving your girlfriend for?” The driver asks his question conversationally as he pulls away form the sidewalk. Jake’s gaze lingers on you as he raises a hand to wave goodbye. He sees you offer a lopsided smile and a similar wave of your hand.

“I don’t know,” he admits to the driver without much thought, not bothering to correct him. Jake keeps his gaze trained on you until he is no longer able to.

“Hopefully you’ll see her again soon,” is what the driver continues with conversationally, “she looks crushed that you’re leaving.”

“Yeah, hopefully,” is all Jake can say as he settle back into the seat of the cab, his mind far away, his heart still with you.

[simplepotatofarmer]

sanctuary

living on the edge of the frontier, techno is used to many things wandering onto his land. that includes dream, an outlaw who is looking for some help and a place to hide.

rating: teen & up characters: technoblade, dream tags: western au, tending to injury, blood, alcohol

written for @nekioe for the @rivalsduogiftexchange! i hope you enjoy! <3 <3

The horse’s head hung low to the ground, sniffing the ground but making no move to nibble on the grass that poked out stubbornly from the dirt in sparse clumps. It was a white horse, grey on the nose and lower legs, and it wasn’t Techno’s horse. He stood in the doorway with his tin mug of coffee in hand, staring at the horse. Even at a distance, he could see the foamy sweat around the straps of the saddle if he squinted a bit. He didn’t need to squint to see the drops of blood in the dirt or the splash of red on the saddle blanket.

“Huh,” he said and took a sip of coffee before turning back inside. He set the mug down on the table. His gun and holster hung of the back of the chair and he picked it up. The leather was well worn and supple and buckling around his waist it was second nature. Through the greased paper window, Techno could see the horse, still in the same spot, just as blurry as when he had seen it the first time.

Outside, the sun was coming over the ridge and Techno squinted as he approached the horse from the front. It lifted its head but made no attempt to move away even as he patted its neck. Sweat covered its neck, chest, and flank. The horse had been ridden right to the edge of exhaustion, the sign of either a reckless or desperate rider. Judging by the blood, Techno thought desperate. The blood left a clear trail to his barn but he took the time remove the saddle and bridle from the horse.

“You just stay right here,” said Techno, giving the horse one last pat before following the trail of blood left on the dusty ground.

The barn door had been pulled closed. Blood was smeared on it, a partial hand print that the owner had attempted to wipe away. That struck Techno as odd. They had made no other attempt to hide their presence so why try to clean up the blood on his barn? He put one hand on the hilt of his gun and pulled the door open, letting light pour inside.

A gun was pointed right at Techno’s head.

The hand holding the gun was bloody and shaky and attached to a man, propped up against a bale of hay. His other hand was pressed against his side, holding a rag that likely used to be another color but was now reddish-brown. The lower half of his face was covered by a black bandana with a curved white line embroidered onto it, like a strange smile.

“Seriously, Bawaajigan?” Techno let go of his gun. “You’re gonna break into my barn then point a gun at me?”

An annoyed snort followed by a low wince of pain left the man. He lowered the gun.

“I—I told you, stop calling me that.”

“It’s your name, man, I dunno what to tell you,” Techno said with a grin. He crossed the distance between him and the man in three large steps. He knelt. “Did ya go and get yourself shot again?”

Above the black bandana, the man rolled green eyes. His forehead was shiny with sweat, blond hair sticking to his skin.

“What, sad it wasn’t you? Again?”

“You’re the one who wanted that duel, Dream.”

“Heh. Yeah—Yeah, that’s fair.”

Techno shook his head, grin softening into a knowing smile. The moment he saw the horse, he had thought his day would go something like this.

“Lemme see how bad it is.”

Dream slipped his gun into the holster that was strapped to his leg and finally pulled the black bandana down. Techno could count the number of times he had seen the whole of Dream’s face on one hand. He frowned a little as Dream pulled his hand away from his side. Dark, almost black blood slowly oozed from the tear in his skin.

“It didn’t get anything important,” said Dream.

One of Techno’s eyebrows shot upwards as he pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket.

“You sure about that?” he asked, pressing the handkerchief as gently as he could to the bullet hole. Dream drew in a sharp breath, air whistling between his clenched teeth.

“Well, I mean… No, but I don’t think it did.”

The words sounded uncertain and tight. Techno clicked his tongue. He wanted to ask what had happened, who had shot him this time and who was going to come looking for him. It was unlikely that anyone would come here; the last time he had been spotted in public with Dream, he had been twenty paces away. Techno’s hand felt around Dream’s side, looking for the exit wound. There was none.

“Good news,” Techno said as he leaned back on his heels, “you’re right – for once – and it didn’t hit anything important.”

The corner of Dream’s mouth twitched.

“Go to hell,” he said. And then, with the air of someone who already knew the answer, “What’s the bad news?”

“I’m gonna have to dig that bullet out.”

Dream closed his eyes for a moment. The blood had slowed to trickle, his body doing its job to keep him from bleeding to death. It wouldn’t matter if the bullet was left in to shift or break apart and seep lead into his blood.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

His eyes were still closed and Techno took this moment to look him over more closely. Blood had soaked his shirt and the waist of his pants but also near the hem of the opposite side. His knuckles were scrapped and his cheek was puffy and yellow, the sign of a newly forming bruise. 

“Alright. Well, I don’t want to go diggin’ it out in my barn so how about I help you inside?”

“Yeah, sure.”

With a deep sigh, Dream finally opened his eyes and began to push himself upright. His hand slipped a little on the loose straw covering the floor of the barn. Techno grabbed his shoulder to steady him before unceremoniously shoving his hands beneath Dream’s armpits and pulling him to his feet. A string of curses were muttered but Techno ignored them, wrapping an arm around Dream and letting him lean against him. The first couple steps, Dream was stubborn, trying to walk without assistance but by the time they had left the barn, he was fully leaning on Techno. He squinted in the sunlight.

“I left—Spirit should be out here, somewhere,” he said.

The horse had wandered a few feet, closer to pasture where Techno’s horses were, and was grazing. He would have to be put up but for now, exhaustion and the fact the other horses had wandered over to the fence to graze closer to the newcomer was working in their favor.

“He’s right there,” said Techno, nodding his head towards the fence. “He’ll be fine. I’m gonna stop you from dyin’ on my land and then I’ll go put him up, alright?”

Dream nodded. His jaw was clenched and his fingers dug into Techno’s arm hard enough to hurt as they climbed the stairs up to the porch. Techno almost made a joke about how he wasn’t going to drop Dream, if that’s what he was worried about, but decided against it.

“Your house sucks,” Dream said as he stepped onto the porch, breathing heavily.

Techno snorted.

“At least I have a house, Dream.”

He used his shoulder to push the door open. The bedroom was straight ahead, the door already open, and Techno steered Dream in that direction. It would mean a change of blankets but he needed a relatively flat surface.  

“You’re such a bastard.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Lay down,” Techno said.

Dream did what he was told without argument, though he tried to prop himself up on his elbows to watch Techno dig his leather medical bag out of his trunk and only fully laid down when Techno returned and pushed him back down. He grumbled a little then but it seemed to be all he had the energy for. Techno sat on the bed and the mattress creaked.

“Pull your shirt up a little.”

“You better not mess this up,” said Dream, pulling his torn and blood stained shirt up.

The buckle on the leather bag had long since broken and Techno pulled out a few items – clean rags torn into strips, a pair of thin metal tongs, and a bottle of whiskey – and set them on the crate serving as a night stand.

“Pfft, I’ll remind you that you came to me, man.” He uncorked the whiskey. Dream eyed the bottle warily. Carefully, Techno poured some over the wound then wiped away the blood with one of the rags. He glanced up at Dream, face beaded with sweat, and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

Lifting his hand, Dream wrapped his fingers around Techno’s wrist, his pale skin in stark contrast to Techno’s brown skin, and squeezed.

“I—I believe you.”

It was earnest and Techno inclined his head towards Dream before picking up the metal tongs. Dream let go of his wrist in favor of balling his fists into the wool blanket as Techno began his work. He found one large chunk of the bullet fairly quickly and discarded it to the side. The other two pieces were harder to find and Techno paused a few times when Dream made a pained sound, reaching out to place his hand over Dream’s for a moment. When he had finally gotten the final fragment out with a bit of twisting and pulling, Techno poured more whiskey over the wound. Dream hissed out a quiet ‘god damn’.

“Anything else I oughta take a look at?” asked Techno, glancing down at the blood on Dream’s leg.

Dream shook his head.

“N-no, I’m fine.” Techno paused in the middle of rinsing his hands off in the basin and cocked an eyebrow. Dream huffed. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, okay? I’m fine.”

Drying his hands off on his pants, Techno pulled out another strip of the makeshift bandage. He slipped a hand behind Dream’s shoulder and guided him up. A pained wince was bit back as Dream glanced at Techno sheepishly.

“I believe you, alright, I believe you,” he said. Without being told, Dream lifted his arms up so that Techno could wrap the bandage around his abdomen a few times, pulling it taut enough to help stop the bleeding but not too tight to be uncomfortable. “D’you want to tell me what happened now?”

The expression on Dream’s face was serious, hurt, and he looked away. There had only been a handful times that Techno had seen Dream’s face but the times he had, the other man had been grinning. The change was disconcerting.

“It was an ambush. I—They’re probably going to come looking for me. I figured, you know, I figured that they wouldn’t look here.”

Techno pat Dream on the knee and then handed him the bottle of whiskey. Now he grinned as he took a swig, face scrunching up as the alcohol burned his nose.

“Well, I’ve never been one to kick an injured and homeless man to the curb,” Techno said, nudging Dream a little with his knee. “You can stay here as long as you need.”

“What—You’re a son of a bitch, Techno.”

Techno’s smile stretched wider.

“That sure is a funny way of sayin’ ‘thank you’, Dream.”

A long, resigned sigh was pulled from Dream.

“Thank you.”

[xaphrin]

“Do you remember when you last slept?”

The question speared through the silence of the room, slicing through the usual calm that slipped between them. Damian's tone was pointed, as if he was trying to gauge her response before determining how angry he should be. 

“No.” Raven sighed and ran her hand through her hair, scowling at the grease that slipped through her fingers. She couldn’t remember the last time she had showered, let alone slept. “Wait. Maybe. Three nights ago?”

Taking a sip of her now-cold coffee with a double shot of espresso, she fell into her usual chair in Damian’s library, tilting her head back to stare at the fresco on the ceiling. In the warm light, fat, happy cherubs smiled down at her, unconcerned of the exhaustion coursing through her veins.

“Raven.” Damian’s voice sounded like a sultry reprimand and a promise of deep sleep all at once, teetering on the edge of being understanding and wanting to spank her. Raven forced back a laugh at that thought. The spanking probably wouldn’t punish her in the way he was hoping.  

He sighed and leveled a hard stare at her from his spot behind his massive desk, pushing his laptop to the side. “You need to rest.” 

“No.” She pulled her head upright and glared at him. He knew exactly why she was running herself ragged. “I need to solve-”

“Raven.” Damian let go of a low, echoing growl - a warning that his patience was thin. “You need to sleep. You can’t keep running yourself ragged, chasing leads that don’t go anywhere.”

“Your reputation is on the line.” She was trying to impress how important this was, but he wasn’t understanding it. 

The air in the room suddenly changed, and Damian stood up and walked over to where she sat. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at her. “You think I care about my reputation, Raven? You think that matters to me?”

“Damian.” She leveled an incredulous stare at him. “Some part of Wayne industries is implicated in whatever this illegal smuggling is. I’m trying to keep you from being implicated too.”

“I will survive this. My reputation is always on the line. It’s on the line when I wear the wrong colored suit to a summer function. It’s on the line when I make a business decision without learning all the facts. It’s part of being who I am, and I’m used to it.” He dropped down to his knees in front of her, resting a hand on her lap. “You, however, will start hallucinating in another few hours.” Damian slid his hand up to her shoulder, pushing her blazer off of her. “Now, since you went to all that trouble to sneak into my house, let's get you undressed and in bed.”

“I…” Raven felt Damian’s warm hand slide up her neck, his thumb sliding into a tense muscle and rubbing a knot free. A soft sigh escaped from between her lips and she leaned into the touch. Maybe giving in wouldn’t be so bad… “A bath. I need a bath.” 

Damian sighed and slipped his arms under her, lifting her up from the chair and pulling her close to his chest. Raven frowned at him. “I’m not some damsel in distress that needs to be babied. I’m a detective, with a gun, I might add.” 

“Humor me.” He huffed in her ear. “You can shoot at me later.” 

He walked her through the quiet dark of Wayne Manor, taking her through the master bedroom to the en suite bathroom. He set her down on the cold, marble tiles and turned on the taps to the bath, filling the room with warm, luxurious steam that smelled faintly of lavender and chamomile. It felt divine, and she hadn’t even touched the water yet. While the bath was filling, Damian stripped her of her clothes, and set her in the frothing water. She sunk deep into the bathtub, letting the bubbles tickle up around her shoulders and neck. 

“How does that feel?” Damian settled behind her outside of the tub, rolling his sleeves back. 

“Better.” She shivered and Damian began to massage shampoo into her hair, his touch lulling her into a space outside of sleep, but still not in the waking world. “I want this to end, Damian… because the sooner it does, then the sooner I feel like maybe I can be… with you. In public. As more than just a detective working on your case.” The admission made her flush, and she opened her eyes to see Damian staring down at her, his face unreadable. 

“Raven, I want that.” He slid his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close to him. “But not if your health comes as an expense. I will wait for this investigation to be completed, and having you run yourself ragged isn’t going to make that happen any sooner.” He rinsed the shampoo from her hair, and tipped her head back to look into her eyes. “So, rest.”

‘You know, that’s rich coming from a man who wanders around Gotham in a bat suit all night.” 

He rolled his eyes but didn’t respond to her dig at him. Instead he let the silence settle over them both, the soft washcloth sliding up and down her skin, lulling her into a state of relaxation. Forcing her eyes open, she stared up at Damian and reached out to grab his arm. “I think… I should get out. And go sleep.” 

A teasing, I-told-you-so smile pulled at his lips, and he kissed her forehead. “Yeah. I think you’re right.” He drained the water and wrapped her in an oversized, fluffy towel drying her off. Damian brought her back to his room, dressing her in one of his undershirts and then tucked her into his bed, pulling the covers up over her. “I’ll let Captain Grayson know that you probably won’t be in tomorrow.”

Her eyes felt heavy and every muscle in her body was fighting to give into that sweet seduction of sleep. Raven shivered and grabbed his arm, pulling him closer to her. “You’ll stay… won’t you?” She wasn’t sure why she felt like she needed him to stay, but the only thing she really knew was that she needed him here with her. She needed to know he was close. 

“Yeah.” Damian lowered himself down next to her, wrapping his arms tight around her chest. “Until you wake up, beloved.” He adjusted to get comfortable, drawing her back into his arms as he kissed her shoulders. “Now, for the love of God, go to sleep.”

Raven was trying to think of a swift, sharp response, but she was already too far gone. Tonight, she’d let him have the last word.

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Held | Ghost x Price

Day 12: Rotten Touch w/ Simon “Ghost” Riley

Summary: While on leave, Simon can’t seem to get to sleep properly, and Price knows just the thing to help.

Word Count: ~ 1.3k

Warnings: death, murder, guns, blood, stealing, nightmares, ptsd, implied soapgaz smut, non sexual cuddling

A/N: my allergies are killing me, but this is my first time dipping my toes into the waters of priceghost, so I hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

His hands weren’t just an instrument of death.

They were a carrier; a harbinger of it, what made the sirens start blaring, warning people of what came ahead if they didn’t run.

Well, it wasn’t like running would help anyway.

Once he touched someone, it was over. Like a plague, a fungus, it spread from person to person.

From the mother, crying over the body of her dead husband who had a few new bullet holes through his chest, who’d reached for the gun, seconds too late as his finger pushed down on the trigger, silent shots entering her body, choked sobs coming from the now-wailing child in the corner as she ran to her mother’s body, shaking it as the ground rumbled from a nearby explosion.

To the shopkeeper, trying to defend his store, not wanting any men, especially strange foreign men, hiding in it to take cover from the gunfire and activity in the streets. The shotgun had been heavy in the man’s hand. One shot rang out, and Ghost had signaled forward with his hand, Soap’s knife embedding itself in the man’s neck before another shell casing clattered emptily against the floor.

Or the soldier, who’d probably been drafted or forced, or maybe even joined when he had been young and dreamed of glory, forced to fight an old man’s war. He hadn’t known the weight of taking a life yet, not when the bullet from Ghost’s sniper rifle tore through his head, body thudding against the floor, the family photo tucked into his pocket not enough to protect him when it mattered.

It was all the same to him.

Get the job done. Go home. Live another day and wait for your next mission.

That was how it had always been. But it didn’t mean the nightmares weren’t any better, that he didn’t feel any less bit of nagging guilt for the orphaned children, the grieving families, the war-raised countries feeding the newest generations hatred and violence, how to pull a trigger and not how to be a decent human being.

It was worse tonight.

He’d woken, cold sweat clinging to the back of his neck, limbs tensing and relaxing rapidly as he tried to focus on his surroundings. He was in the house. One window on the left wall, a door on the right one.

Price’s home.

The older man had offered him a place to stay while on leave, knowing that Simon usually just lurked at the base even when he could leave. He knew he had nowhere to go.

So he’d invited him out to a little house in the countryside, to stay for the three months they were both off. It hadn’t been terrible. Homemade meals, cooking, and cleaning up the house. He’d learned a thing or two about fixing leaky sink pipes, changing bulbs, fixing creaky doors and floorboards, and cleaning, and the fact that cooking bacon was a lot more terrifying than it looked, the grease popping up onto his arms and burning what skin wasn’t already numb.

It didn’t help that it hurt like hell.

Price was teaching him everything he’d somehow not picked up from his mother, things his father hadn’t even bothered trying to teach him, and no matter how much his older brother had cleaned up his life, he still hadn’t shown him any of this either.

Simon pushed the covers to one side of the bed, slipping out and letting his feet land against the cold floor. He began approaching the door, twisting the knob, stepping out, and walking down the hallway, legs carrying him to the kitchen for whatever reason. Probably muscle memory. He made a trip to the kitchen every time he woke up or couldn’t sleep.

A small thudding sound came from one of the rooms that had him whirling, stance shifting into a defensive one, and he realized that Gaz and Soap had decided to stay here a few nights too, probably feeling lonely on leave.

Sighing, he turned back and continued towards the kitchen, flicking one dimmer light on before grabbing a cup from a cabinet and filling it with water, draining the entire thing in one large gulp.

“What’re you doin’ up?”

It caught him completely off guard, almost embarrassingly so for the occupation he had. Price’s low, scratchy voice settling into the room.

He put the cup down. Turned.

Price looked like he’d just gotten up as well, hair a bit disheveled, only in some boxers, blue eyes bleary and filled with sleep still. He raised a brow, and Simon remembered the question all too suddenly.

“Nightmares.”

He answered abruptly, trying and failing to hide the slight tremble in his voice. The tremble that was also in his hand.

Price grunted in response, grabbing a cup, filling it with water from the sink, and gulping it down, eyes elsewhere, thinking about something. Like a less intense version of his scheming face.

“You wanna talk about it?”

No. He didn’t.

It was the same as any other nightmare. Blood, death, bombs, guns, grenades, war. What was there to even talk about?

But for some reason, his tongue betrayed him.

“I..”

The word slipped out instead of the usual flat no. He saw his Captain’s surprise and slight curiosity. It was hard not to.

He stood there like an idiot, not sure what to say, throat drying up as he grabbed his cup again, the movement to fill it and swallow the water almost mechanical.

“I don’t know.”

He concluded, walls being built back up, hiding him away again. But Price wasn’t having it. He could tell.

A small nod from his Captain. His lips separated, and he expected the usual statements of pity of sorries, or the empty justifications or assurances, but instead got something he never would’ve expected.

“I’m ordering you a tactical cuddle, Ghost. Recon in my bed at 2300 hours.”

He was left there, speechless, as Price gave his order, and then walked back to his room.

He checked the clock that was always a bit fast and sat on the kitchen wall. He had two minutes before the official “Recon” at the bed.

Taking another swig of water, he figured that he had an order; and he would damn well see it through as he began walking to Price’s room down the hall, slowly pushing the door open, walking in, closing it behind him as his eyes adjusted to the complete darkness, and feeling around till his feet hit the corner if what felt like a bed frame.

“There you are,”

Price murmured as Simon finally found the bed, knees meeting the mattress first as he crawled in, laying down awkwardly with his stiff limbs and tense muscles. Price’s warm, broad hand found his bicep before it slid down to his side right near his ribs. He heard the man shift, pulling some blankets over Simon, before another hand wrapped around him on his other side, gently wrapping around him as Price’s warm chest met his scarred back.

The thudding from the other room was steady against the wall and had him on edge before he finally figured out exactly what was going on in the room over.

“Those muppets, going to town on each other like we aren’t right here.”

Price muttered, making a little huff of laughter leave Simon before he realized something.

Simon Riley had hardly been held before, the only time being when he was a baby. It felt safe and warm like he didn’t have to worry about how many magazines or clips he had left, or the scope he was using, or the exfil, or friendlies versus the enemy. He was safe.

And as Price’s hands began gently rubbing into his skin, making him melt into his superior’s touch, he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, his touch wasn’t so rotten at all.

Tags:

@hawke1917

@angstober

[storyscribeforthesentiment]

the detective & the dark knight | chapter 6

Summary: Detective Marie Manning, investigating a series of brutal murders in Gotham, crosses paths with the mysterious Batman. As they work together, their mutual respect turns into a deep, passionate bond. Amidst danger and corruption, their unlikely partnership evolves into a profound love, forever changing their lives in Gotham’s dark corners.

Pairing: Batman/Bruce Wayne x f!main character

Author’s note: I've been meaning to post this for days! Prepare for lots of tension & anxiety as Marie finds out who the man behind the mask really is.

Word count: 5.5k

Warnings/tags: mentions of gun violence, police bribes, fighting, murder

Chapter List

Marie stumbled into the precinct, barely managing to down her coffee in one gulp as she weaved between desks. The place was alive with the usual chaos of the early morning shift — phones ringing, papers shuffling, cops yelling at each other over case files.

Her head throbbed from lack of sleep, her body protesting the nonstop grind, but this was Gotham. There was no pause button.

“Another late night with your millionaire boyfriend, Manning?” Harvey Bullock’s gruff voice broke through the noise. He was leaning back in his chair, half-smirking, a toothpick hanging from his mouth.

His desk was a mess of takeout containers and open case files, but that was Bullock for you — rough around the edges but sharp where it mattered.

Marie shot him a sideways glance, her exhaustion momentarily lifting as she fired back, “Billionaire boyfriend.” she corrected, her voice dry but playful. She couldn’t help the small smirk that followed, despite the exhaustion gnawing at her.

Bullock raised his hands in mock surrender, his lips curling into a grin. “My mistake! Didn’t mean to downgrade Gotham’s golden boy.”

Marie rolled her eyes, shaking her head at his usual banter. As much as Bullock could be a pain, his sarcasm was one of the few constants around here, and she appreciated it more than she’d admit. Passing his desk, she noticed the grease-stained paper bag sitting atop his mess of files.

“Already on the burgers, Bullock?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Breakfast of champions,” he shot back with a wink, holding up a half-eaten sandwich.

“Gonna kill you one day,” she muttered before walking on, though she couldn't help but shake her head at the man’s complete disregard for his arteries.

“Manning.” Gordon’s voice cut through the banter, calm but firm. He was standing outside his office, arms crossed, a thin layer of weariness clinging to him.

Marie straightened, her mood instantly sobering as she met his eyes. He gave her a quick nod, signaling her to follow. She took a breath, nodded in return, and made her way to his office.

Once inside, she saw the mess of Red Lotus case files scattered across his desk. The room smelled faintly of old coffee and paper, the remnants of long nights spent chasing ghosts and leads that seemed to disappear the moment they were found.

She slumped into the chair across from Gordon, her body still sore from last night’s kickboxing session. Bruce had volunteered to be her sparring partner, and to her surprise, he was far more skilled than she’d expected.

She knew he worked out, but the way he moved—fluid, precise, like a seasoned martial artist—had caught her off guard. Turns out, Bruce Wayne was full of surprises.

“Have you slept at all?” she asked Gordon, taking in the dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t answer immediately. He was rubbing his temple, his focus glued to the papers in front of him, his glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose.

“Not much,” he finally muttered, leaning back and exhaling deeply. “We’re close on this one, Manning. Too close to stop now.”

Marie glanced down at the files, her brain kicking back into detective mode despite the fog of fatigue clouding her thoughts. "You piecing something together?"

Gordon leaned forward, hands resting on the desk as he rubbed his temple again, clearly tired but determined. “Cobblepot’s little outburst at the Iceberg Lounge got me thinking. He said something about someone using the chaos of the Red Lotus murders to settle old scores... leverage it, even. They’re covering their tracks while making moves of their own.”

Marie’s brow furrowed. She recalled Cobblepot’s cryptic words, the way he seemed to almost enjoy dangling just enough information to stay out of trouble. “Right. He practically confirmed the murders are part of a bigger plan... someone trying to frame Falcone.”

Gordon nodded, his jaw tight. “Exactly. Someone’s orchestrating this whole mess, using the killings to throw us off. Falcone’s empire is a mess right now, and whoever’s behind it is taking full advantage.”

Marie bit her lip, her mind already working through the possibilities. “It’s gotta be Maroni. He’s the only one with the guts to make a move like this against Falcone. The way these bodies keep showing up? It’s too convenient.”

Gordon let out a tired sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, well, if we push too hard, Maroni’s going to know we’re onto him. He’s not the type to sit back and wait. We’re talking about a full-blown war, Manning. And he’s not afraid to put a bullet in a cop’s head if he feels cornered.”

Marie clenched her fists, feeling the frustration bubble beneath her skin. “That bastard’s not getting away with this.”

Gordon raised a brow, his expression softening a little. “I know you’re eager to take him down, but we have to be smart about this. If Maroni even suspects we’re closing in, he’ll disappear, and we’ll be back to square one.”

Marie slumped back in her chair, rubbing the back of her neck. “I get it. I just... I can’t stand feeling like we’re always one step behind.”

Gordon gave her a long look before shifting the conversation. “How are things with Bruce?”

The question caught her off guard. Her posture stiffened for a moment, and she hesitated before answering. “It’s... good.” She smiled before continuing, “Almost too good, you know? Feels like something’s bound to go wrong.”

Gordon gave her a knowing smile, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. “Listen, Manning. Life’s messy. It doesn’t hand you perfect balance on a silver platter. You’ve got something good going on right now. Don’t spend too much time worrying about when the other shoe’s going to drop. Enjoy it while you can.”

Marie felt a pang in her chest at his words, a sense of dread she couldn’t quite shake. “Yeah... I hear you. It’s just... complicated.”

“Life always is, especially in this career.” Gordon said, his voice softer now. He glanced at the case files, then back at her. “But complicated doesn’t mean it’s not worth fighting for. You know that better than most.”

Marie met his eyes and nodded, appreciating the brief moment of humanity in the middle of their relentless pursuit of Gotham’s worst. The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of both their words and the case looming large over them.

"Alright," Gordon said after a beat, his tone shifting back to business. "We need to be careful about our next move. If we’re right, and Maroni’s behind this, the whole city’s gonna blow up. We’ve got to be ready. I’m heading to his side of town today, I’m planning to interview him about the cases."

Marie frowned, crossing her arms. "You don’t want me to go, boss?"

"Absolutely not," Gordon shook his head. "If Maroni’s involved, he’s probably been tracking everything. The moment you walk in, he’ll know he’s under our microscope. You’re the lead on this case—he’s got eyes on you. But he doesn’t know I’m in the loop yet. I can play it off like I’m just checking in on folks who know Falcone, make it look routine."

Marie nodded, her exhaustion fading as determination set in. "Just be careful. He’s not the type to leave loose ends."

Gordon grunted in agreement, giving her a knowing look. As tangled as their lives were, as grueling as Gotham’s streets could be, backing down wasn’t an option. Not for either of them. Not now. Not ever.

—-------------------------------

At Wayne Manor, Bruce stood in the Batcave, his eyes fixed on the glowing monitors that filled the room with their eerie blue light. Crime reports flooded the screens, each one a new reminder of the chaos that plagued Gotham, but his mind was elsewhere. Tonight, he had made a decision that had been weighing on him for weeks. He was going to tell Marie the truth.

For too long, he had lived with the lie, balancing his double life with increasing difficulty. But Marie wasn’t just another person in Gotham. She mattered to him, and he couldn’t keep deceiving her. She deserved to know who he really was.

Bruce stood from his seat, his heart racing as the weight of his decision settled over him like a heavy cloak. He cast one last glance at the case files spread across the Batcave’s central table before closing them.

Alfred stood there, waiting as though he could sense the inner turmoil swirling inside Bruce. He raised an eyebrow, his usual air of quiet wisdom about him.

"Are you sure about this, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked, his voice calm but tinged with the concern of a father figure who had seen Bruce through too many dark nights. "Once you tell her, there’s no going back. The truth... well, it has a way of reshaping everything."

Bruce clenched his fists, the tension in his muscles taut, as if the armor he often wore had seeped into his very being. "I’ve been lying to her for too long, Alfred. Every time I look at her, I feel like I’m betraying her. She thinks she knows me, but she’s only seen half the truth." His voice wavered slightly, betraying the raw emotion he so often buried deep inside. "Marie deserves to know everything."

Alfred studied him carefully, his gaze softening as he took in the sight of his surrogate son, visibly struggling. "And what if the truth isn’t what she wants to hear?" he asked, his voice gentle but pointed. "Are you prepared for that?"

Bruce swallowed hard. "I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me for hiding this from her. She trusted me... trusted Bruce. What if... what if she hates me for lying to her like this?"

Alfred’s eyes softened with empathy. He stepped closer, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. "Miss Manning is a strong woman, Bruce, and a fair one. I don’t believe she’ll hate you. She may feel betrayed, yes, but hate? No. It’s not in her nature."

Bruce’s jaw tightened, but the vulnerability in his eyes betrayed the fear he’d been carrying. "What if this is it? What if I ruin everything? I can’t... I can’t lose her, Alfred."

Alfred exhaled softly, squeezing Bruce’s shoulder reassuringly. "Master Wayne, love is a complicated thing. It’s messy, as you well know. But if there’s one thing I’ve observed, it’s that Miss Manning cares deeply for you—for Bruce and for Batman, even if she doesn’t know they’re one and the same. You’ve fought battles, both of you, in your own ways. This will be just another one to face together."

Bruce ran a hand through his hair, the weight of Alfred’s words sinking in, though the anxiety still gnawed at his core. "I’ve faced criminals who would kill me without blinking. But this? Telling her the truth?" He shook his head. "I’m terrified, Alfred. She’ll look at me, and everything will change. She won’t see Bruce anymore."

Alfred’s lips curled into a faint smile, though it was tinged with sadness. "Perhaps, Master Wayne, it’s time for her to see all of you. The man beneath the mask. The one who’s been carrying this burden alone for too long."

When Bruce didn’t respond, Alfred stepped forward, his calm demeanor grounding Bruce’s chaotic thoughts. "Bruce, Miss Manning is no stranger to the complexities of Gotham. She’s seen her share of darkness. I dare say, she’s faced it head-on in her line of work."

"That’s different," Bruce snapped, but the desperation in his voice was clear. "She deals with criminals, with the scum of this city, but this... this is me. She’s never seen me like that. I’m not just handing her the truth—I’m giving her everything. The rage, the guilt, the weight of it all. And I don’t know if she can handle that."

Alfred remained still, his eyes never leaving Bruce’s. "You underestimate her, sir. Miss Manning is stronger than you think. She might surprise you."

Bruce shook his head again, more frustrated with himself than anything. "She deserves better than this—better than the lies, better than the secrets. I don’t know if I’m being selfish, wanting to keep her close, knowing what it’ll do to her once she knows."

"You’re afraid she’ll run," Alfred said quietly, his words cutting to the heart of the matter.

Bruce met his gaze, the truth of it settling heavy in his chest. "Yes."

Alfred sighed, walking closer, his expression softening even further. "Master Wayne, you may carry burdens too heavy for most, but that doesn’t mean you need to carry them alone. Miss Manning... well, she may be more prepared for that than you think."

Bruce swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the conversation. He wasn’t worried she’d see him as weak. He was scared that when she saw him completely—both Bruce Wayne, with his broken facade, and Batman, driven by vengeance—it would ruin the image she had of him. He feared the truth might be too overwhelming for her and that it could drive them apart.

—-------------------------------

Marie stepped into Wayne Manor, feeling the familiar warmth of the place wrap around her. The stress of the day began to slip away as she spotted Bruce standing near the foyer, his tall frame dressed in dark slacks and a wool sweater, perfectly casual but still effortlessly composed. The sight of him always had that effect on her, like her world could pause for a moment just by being near him.

She smiled, her steps quickening as she closed the distance between them. Without hesitation, she slipped her arms around his waist and pulled him into a hug, pressing her cheek against his chest. Bruce stiffened for a second, then slowly relaxed into the embrace, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, holding her close.

“God, I needed this,” she murmured into his chest, her voice muffled but content. “You wouldn’t believe the day I had.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Bruce’s hand gently stroked her back, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles that made her melt further into him. She could feel his heartbeat under her cheek, steady and strong, but there was something different about it tonight. A slight tension, an unease she couldn’t quite place.

Marie pulled back slightly, her arms still around his waist, and tilted her head up to meet his eyes. “Hey, are you okay?” she asked softly, her brow creased with concern. “You feel... tense.”

Bruce didn’t respond right away, his eyes flickering with an intensity she rarely saw in moments like these. Instead of answering, he leaned down and captured her lips in a kiss, his hands sliding up to cradle her face. The kiss was gentle at first, almost hesitant, as though he was trying to lose himself in the moment. But it deepened quickly, the unspoken weight of what he wasn’t saying bleeding into the way his lips moved against hers.

Marie sighed into the kiss, her hands tightening around him as she leaned up on her toes to pull him closer. She didn’t mind the sudden shift; in fact, she welcomed it, feeling the connection between them grow stronger with each passing second. For a brief moment, everything felt right—the world faded away, and all that existed was the warmth between them.

But when they finally broke apart, Bruce’s eyes were still clouded with that same tension. His forehead rested against hers, his breath heavy as if he’d been holding something in for far too long.

Marie’s hand slid down to his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath her palm. “Bruce,” she whispered, her voice filled with both tenderness and concern. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

He hesitated, his grip on her tightening. “I’m fine,” he murmured, though the strain in his voice betrayed him. “I just want to hear about your day first.”

Marie frowned, studying his face. She knew him well enough to tell when he was deflecting. She pressed her palm more firmly against his chest, her thumb brushing over the fabric of his sweater. “No, something’s wrong. I can feel it. Please, just tell me what’s going on.”

Bruce exhaled slowly, his jaw clenched as if he were fighting an internal battle. His hand dropped from her face to hold her hand, squeezing it lightly. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, his voice low, almost reluctant. “Something I’ve been keeping from you.”

Her stomach tightened at his words. She stared up at him, her mind racing as she tried to read his expression. “Bruce, whatever it is... you can tell me. I’m here.”

His eyes softened for a moment, but the weight of what he had to say was clear. He brought her hand to his chest, holding it there like an anchor. “I should’ve told you a long time ago, Marie. This... changes everything.”

Before he could continue, Marie’s phone buzzed in her pocket, startling them both. She sighed, reluctant to break the moment, but when she saw Gordon’s name flashing on the screen, her heart sank.

“Shit,” she muttered, glancing at Bruce with an apologetic look before answering the call. “Gordon, what is it?”

“Marie, we’ve got another body at the docks,” Gordon said, his voice serious. “You need to get down here. This one’s big.”

Marie’s chest tightened with frustration as she glanced back at Bruce, her heart torn. “I’m sorry, Bruce,” she said, her voice soft but filled with regret. “I have to go. It’s the case.”

Bruce nodded, his tension evident in his clenched jaw. “Of course. Be safe.”

She stepped away, but not before placing one last lingering kiss on his lips, as if to reassure him. “We’ll finish this, I promise,” she whispered, before heading out the door.

As she stepped out into the night, Bruce watched her go, the words he’d intended to say still trapped in his throat. The silence of the manor pressed in around him, heavy with unspoken truths. With a deep breath, he turned and headed straight for the Batcave. If Marie was going to the docks, he’d follow—but not as Bruce Wayne.

—-------------------------------

The Gotham Docks were shrouded in an oppressive fog, the mist wrapping the scene in a ghostly pallor. Marie’s footsteps echoed eerily as she approached the deserted crime scene, her pulse quickening with each step. The eerie quiet felt wrong—no flashing lights, no yellow tape, no usual hum of police activity. The stillness was unsettling.

As she approached, her heart dropped at the sight of Gordon, slumped in a chair, his face swollen and bloodied beyond recognition. Panic surged through her veins as she rushed to his side.

“Gordon!” she gasped, grabbing his shoulder, her voice laced with urgency. “What the hell happened? Where’s the body?”

Gordon’s head lifted slowly, his swollen eyes barely open. His voice was a raspy whisper. “Marie... it’s a trap. Maroni... he made me lie. There’s no body.”

Before he could finish, a voice, as slick as oil, cut through the fog. Maroni emerged from the shadows, his grin sharp and menacing, his goons flanking him.

“Ah, Detective Manning,” Maroni drawled, relishing every syllable. “So glad you could join us. Gordon here has been very cooperative. His acting was almost believable, wasn’t it?”

Marie’s eyes narrowed, her fingers twitching around the grip of her gun. “What are you talking about, Maroni? What the hell is this?”

Maroni’s laugh was low and guttural. “The Red Lotus killings, Detective, were my little work of art. A way to shake up the city. You and your little friends kept sticking your noses where they didn’t belong, and now... you’re going to pay for it.”

“Why? Why kill all those people?” Marie’s voice cracked with anger.

“It’s simple,” Maroni sneered. “When you control the chaos, you control the city. Falcone was getting too comfortable at the top, but now... I’m the one pulling the strings.”

“You’re insane,” Marie spat, her hand tightening on her weapon. “You won’t get away with this.”

Maroni’s smile widened. “Oh, but I already have.”

He gave a small nod to his men, and they descended on Gordon, beating him with merciless precision. The brutal sounds of fists meeting flesh echoed across the docks, making Marie’s heart race. She aimed her gun, her mind focused only on survival, on taking out as many of them as she could.

A shot rang out, and one of Maroni’s thugs fell, but there were too many. They closed in, forcing her back. Maroni was still laughing, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Suddenly, a shadow moved in the fog, swift and brutal. Batman appeared like a force of nature, emerging from the darkness with calculated precision. His cape whipped around him, cloaking Marie as he positioned himself between her and the advancing thugs.

"Stay behind me," Batman growled, his voice low and protective, a command more than a request.

Marie’s heart raced, but she didn’t argue. She knew better than to question him in the middle of a fight. Batman was already moving, a force of nature unleashed on Maroni’s men. His body twisted and turned with brutal precision, blocking a punch meant for her and retaliating with a strike that sent the thug crumpling to the ground. The sound of bone crunching under his fist was drowned out by the chaos of the battle around them.

The docks echoed with the grunts and shouts of Maroni’s crew, but none of them could stand up to Batman. He was a whirlwind of motion—disarming guns with a single swipe, breaking limbs with ease, and flooring anyone foolish enough to challenge him. Thugs came at him from all angles, but he fought them off like it was second nature, each strike efficient, each movement perfectly calculated.

Yet something wasn’t right.

Marie noticed it first in the subtle shift of his movements—still powerful, but slower than she’d ever seen. His strikes weren’t as sharp, his dodges not as precise. And then she saw it—the flash of a blade in the midst of the brawl.

One of Maroni’s men had gotten too close. Too close for Batman to react in time.

The thug plunged a knife deep into Batman’s side, the sharp edge slicing through the armored fabric with a sickening sound. Marie’s breath hitched as she saw the blade sink in, the shock of it mirrored in the sudden pause of Batman’s movements. He staggered for only a moment, his gloved hand instinctively pressing against the wound, but in the chaos, he didn’t stop. There was no time to register pain, no time to falter.

But the damage was done.

Blood seeped from the gash, staining the dark fabric of his suit. Each punch, each kick, pulled the wound open wider, and though he fought to keep going, the toll it was taking on him became clear. His jaw clenched in pain, muscles tensing under the strain, but Batman didn’t let up. He couldn’t—not with Marie still in the thick of it.

Marie’s eyes darted between him and the thugs swarming around them. She could see it now—the way he was favoring his injured side, the subtle stumble in his step as he tried to push through the pain. Batman was still dominating the fight, but he was weakening, his strength fading with every passing second.

A thug wielding a steel pipe rushed him from the side. Batman blocked the blow with his forearm, but the effort cost him. He grunted in pain, his hand instinctively clutching his side as his body swayed. The thug seized the opportunity, landing a brutal kick to his ribs.

The impact sent Batman stumbling back, his boot scraping against the concrete as he struggled to stay upright. His vision blurred for a moment, the edges of his focus dimming as the pain from the wound radiated through his body. He inhaled sharply, trying to steady himself, but the pain only grew worse. He could feel the blood soaking through his suit, warm and sticky, making every movement a challenge.

"Batman!" Marie’s voice cut through the chaos, filled with alarm. She saw the blood now, trickling down his side and pooling beneath him.

Another thug came at him, swinging wildly with a crowbar, but Batman was slower this time. He managed to deflect the first hit, but the second strike caught him square in the shoulder. He staggered again, his balance faltering, and for the first time, Marie saw something she never thought possible.

Batman was losing.

“Batman!” she called out again, her voice more urgent, but he was already in motion, his focus locked on his attackers despite the obvious strain. He gritted his teeth, lunging forward to drive an elbow into one thug’s face, sending him crashing to the floor. But it was taking everything he had left.

Batman faltered, dropping to one knee. Another hit landed—this time a solid punch to his jaw that snapped his head to the side. Marie’s heart raced as she watched him stagger, his strength quickly draining. She could see the blood trailing down the side of his face, and the way his chest heaved in uneven breaths. He was hurt. Badly.

With her remaining rounds, Marie was able to shoot a handful of Maroni’s men, though more were advancing on them.

“Get out of here!” Batman growled, his voice strained, almost pleading. “It’s not safe. I can’t hold them off much longer.”

“I’m not leaving you!” Marie shouted, her voice thick with fear. She could see Batman staggering, the blood soaking through his suit, his strength fading.

The remaining thugs, sensing their chance, converged on Batman and Marie. He fought back with everything he had left, but it wasn’t enough. A vicious blow knocked him to the ground, and he didn’t get back up. Just as they closed in for the final strike, a sudden round of gunshots rang out.

Gordon, with a final burst of strength, lifted his weapon and fired. The bullets found their marks, dropping the remainder of the men in rapid succession. The recoil sent a jolt through Gordon’s already battered body, and as the last thug fell, he slumped over, unconscious.

Marie’s heart raced as she watched Gordon collapse, but her focus shifted instantly to Batman. She had half a mind to look for Maroni, though she figured he was probably long gone. The real priority was Batman, who was losing blood fast.

She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands trembling as she pressed them to his wounds, trying to stop the bleeding.

“No… no.” Marie’s voice shook as her trembling hands pressed down hard. “You’re gonna be okay. Just hold on.” Her voice broke despite her best efforts to stay calm.

His breaths were shallow, pained, each one more labored than the last. When he finally lifted his head, it was slow, almost too slow. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, were glassy with exhaustion and pain.

Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out everything but the sound of Batman’s ragged breathing beneath her fingers. 

“I can’t do this job without you.” She said weakly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Placing his hand over hers on the wound, Batman spoke, “Marie...” His voice was a rasp, barely audible. He winced, his mouth twitching in a grimace. “I wanted to tell you... I wanted to...”

“No.” She shook her head, her vision blurring with tears that she couldn’t hold back any longer. “Don’t talk. Just save your strength. Help is on the way. You’re going to be okay, I promise.”

But Bruce’s eyes were starting to lose focus, his gaze drifting as though he were looking somewhere far beyond her. His hand, slick with blood, trembled as it lifted, reaching up weakly toward his mask.

The motion was slow, hesitant, as though he were still deciding whether or not to go through with it.

Marie’s stomach twisted at the sight. “No... no, don’t.” Her voice was barely a whisper now, thick with fear and confusion.

But he kept going, pulling weakly at the mask with trembling fingers. His hand faltered, and for a moment, Marie thought he didn’t have the strength to finish.

She reached out instinctively, catching his hand as if to stop him, but Bruce shook his head, a soft, barely-there motion.

“Marie,” he whispered again, his voice cracking with the weight of everything he hadn’t said. “You need to know...”

Her heart stopped as she watched him. Her mind raced, trying to process what was happening, but it felt like the world was collapsing around her. She watched helplessly as, with a final tug, he pulled the mask off, revealing the battered face of Bruce Wayne beneath.

For a second, Marie just stared. Her breath caught in her throat, and her mind struggled to connect what she was seeing with the man she thought she knew. “Bruce?” The word slipped out, barely a breath, as if saying it would somehow make it less real.

Bruce’s eyes met hers, bloodshot and full of pain. “I wanted to tell you,” he repeated, his voice hoarse. “So many times... I just couldn’t.”

Marie’s tears fell freely now, her heart twisting painfully in her chest. “Why didn’t you?” she choked out, her hands still pressing against his wound, desperate to keep him here, to keep him alive. “Why didn’t you trust me?”

“I did trust you,” Bruce whispered, his hand weakly gripping hers. “But I was scared... scared of losing you... if you knew... everything.”

Marie shook her head, disbelief and hurt swirling with the fear that now coursed through her veins—the fear of losing not just Batman, but Bruce too. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time?” Her voice cracked as she spoke, the weight of the betrayal cutting deep. “All those times... Bruce, why didn’t you just tell me?”

Bruce’s breathing grew shallower, his strength fading with each passing second. “I didn’t want you to be a part of this... of my world. It’s too dangerous. You deserve better.”

Marie bit her lip, fighting back a sob as she leaned closer, her hand cradling his face gently. “I don’t care about being safe. I care about you, Bruce. You didn’t have to carry this alone.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, his body trembling under her touch. “I couldn’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Stop,” she pleaded, her voice breaking as she leaned down, pressing her forehead against his. “You’re not losing me, okay? You’re gonna be fine. Just hang on. Help’s coming.”

Bruce’s hand reached up to brush the tear from her cheek, his touch weak but filled with tenderness. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with regret. “For everything.”

Marie shook her head, her tears falling onto his face. “Don’t apologize. Just stay with me. Please.”

But Bruce’s eyes were drifting shut again, his breathing growing more shallow.

He was slipping away, and there was nothing she could do but hold onto him, her heart breaking as she watched the man she loved fighting to stay alive.

“Damn it, Bruce. Don’t do this,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. Her tears fell freely, mingling with the sweat and grime on his face.

The sound of sirens approached, their flashing lights cutting through the fog. Marie scrambled to her feet, waving her arms frantically to flag down the approaching ambulance.

She felt a brief surge of hope as the sound of approaching ambulances cut through the night air. But when she turned back to where Bruce had been lying, her heart plummeted—he was gone.

The spot was empty, the blood on the ground the only trace that he’d ever been there.

Her eyes darted frantically through the thick fog, searching for any sign of him, her breath quickening as panic set in.

But there was nothing—only the swirling mist, thick and unforgiving, swallowing everything in its path.

“Bruce!” she cried out, her voice breaking with fear and desperation. She strained her ears for any response, but there was only silence.

The fog closed in around her, heavy and oppressive, and with it came the gut-wrenching realization that he had used the last of his strength to disappear into the night.

[scoobyrooster1]

She's Mine [Intro]

Qimir x (she/her)!reader

Summary: Events take place after episode 8 of the acolyte. You are Qimirs new acolyte after agreeing to train under him. But, first you both must escape to the outer rim and outrun the Jedi who now hunts you. A precarious situation arises when you suddenly owe a debt to the local gunrunner... but it could be just the opportunity you've been hoping for. Warnings: None so far Notes: I plan for this to be a slow burn story between you and Qimir. Future heist plot on canto bight. Haven't officially decided on a permanent title yet. Probably needs more edits lol.

^ Nice ambience for the intro

Master List

She's Mine [Intro]  She's Mine [Part 1] She's Mine [Part 2]

______________________________________________________________

You and Qimir had been on the road for months now. Vernestra couldn’t put out an official warrant on you both—not without raising questions she didn’t want to answer. Instead, she relied on something more insidious: whispers, rumors, just enough to keep you glancing over your shoulder but never enough to reveal her true intentions.

So now you found yourself sitting in a mossy dive bar waiting on a pilot that could be your last chance to escape republic space. He was 20 minutes late and it had been one hell of a day. Your patience was wearing thin.

You felt someone sit down at the stool next to you. Not giving them any notice ----until they spoke.

"Oi. Ale for me and whatever the lady wants."

You stifled a grunt, eyes remaining fixed on your drink.

"Not interested."

The bartender, unfazed, slid a glass down the bar landing directly into the strangers hand with ease. He took a full three chugs before wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

Exhaling he exclaimed. "Not interested?... Handsome fella like me? Sure you are."

"Its been a rough day." You grimaced, still not sparing him a glance.

"Well its about to get a little more difficult."

You could feel him shift beside you. Instinctively, you unholstered your blaster and aimed it directly at his crotch. You were now face to face with Ian Skynyr. Notorious playboy and smuggler.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." You whispered.

He only froze, eyes widening on where your blaster now rested. His shoulders slightly relaxed almost as impressed as he was shocked.

"Easy"

"Like I said its been a long day and I'm not especially forgiving on those. So get lost."

"One of my men is in a bacta tank thanks to you."

You recalled what had transpired a mere few hours ago.

Some thug saw you walking through the bazar. Cloaked, your figure appeared small and unthreatening. He assumed you'd be an easy target. He assumed wrong.

Qimir had found you standing over the aqualish male, his breathing labored, knocked unconscious with far more hidden injuries.

All Qimir had said to you was, lets go. No emotion shown on his striking face.

"If he wanted an easy pocket to pick he shouldn't have cornered me."

"Listen sunshine, you put me in a bit of a bind here."

"Not my problem. I know your line of work and I'm not looking for that kind of heat."

Neither you or Qimir could take that right now.

The stranger didn’t back off. He leaned in, just enough for you to catch the scent of engine grease and blaster residue.

"Oh I think it is, don't think I don't know exactly why you're sitting here."

You suppressed a laugh. Of course.

"So I can assume you intercepted my pilot."

"Theres now a debt to pay. Im here to collect."

"I wouldn't bet on it."

"Right... Only a certain type of woman wears with an LL-30 blaster pistol strapped to her thigh."

"And it only takes a special kind of idiot to steal from her." You retracted the gun back to under your cloak.

He cracked a smile.

"The job I have lined up that you so gracefully mucked might actually be of some interest to you."

"I highly doubt that."

"You and your friend need to get to the outer rim no? Something about avoiding the order? I can provide that for you both so long as you pay whats now owed."

You couldn’t hide the shock on your face.

So the pilot had a loose mouth. But you knew Qimir would later curse you for your own.

"I don't owe you anything."

"Deny that little fact all you want. What you can't deny is that the republic has been slowly tightening its grip on hyperspace routes. Good luck finding another freighter that can slip past their patrols unnoticed."

You frowned.

He wasn’t wrong. Vernestra wouldn't risk the upper hand she now had on the two of you. It was easy enough to establish stricter checkpoints in the name of peace and safety. Finding another ship capable of making it past their checkpoints undetected and unquestioned would be next to impossible.

You sat there. Silent. Weighing the options in front of you. Even though you had your finger on the trigger and every reason to pull it, you squirmed underneath the predicament he now faced you with.

He watched the gears turning behind your eyes, carefully calculating your next move.

"Well." he sighed "If you're that confident, I guess its easy enough for me to find another replacement."

He slowly stood, nudging the now empty glass towards the edge of the bar.

"Good luck out running the damned Jedi."

What were your chances of another opportunity like this? As damned as the circumstances were.

Before he could step out of the cantina you turned.

"Wait."

Ian inclined his head to you, smile spreading across his stupid face.

Qimir was going to kill you.

_____________________________________________________________

[whatitshouldvebeen]

Hi it’s me! I would like to order 1 obsessive/yandere Johnny with a side of however you want to do it and my compliments and a big kiss and hug to the chef for making amazing works. I’ve been reading your works a lot and look forward to your posts🥰🩵

Thank you so much sweetheart! I hope this scratches your itch 😈

Your Shadow

Contains; yandre Johnny, possessive behavior

~~

Your coworkers nicknamed Johnny your shadow. You didn't mind having a handsome, brooding man observing you from the other side of the bar as you cleaned out glasses and prepared drinks. He wasn't exactly discreet about it either; he wouldn't order drinks from anyone but you.

He had been a regular presence for weeks, and there was a betting pool for when he'd finally ask you out. You made the mistake of telling one of your coworkers you found him handsome, and now, whenever they saw him, they teased you relentlessly.

One night, as you exchanged glances with Johnny across the bar while cleaning up, an already drunk patron stumbled in and slapped the countertop. You regarded the man with a raised eyebrow.

“Well? Ain't you gonna ask what I want?” he demanded.

“Last call was five minutes ago, and you’re already drunk.”

“Cut yer tone and get me a goddamn drink,” he growled.

“No. Like I said, last call has already happened.”

The belligerent man leaned over the counter, grabbing your shirt. “Make me a goddamn drink, bitch.”

You reached for the gun under the counter, but you didn't need to because a look of terror crossed the man's face, and he dropped your collar instantly.

“Back away, nice n’ slow,” Johnny's low voice was barely audible as he stood close behind the drunk man. The man raised his hands and backed up, sweat beading on his alcohol-flushed face. 

“Was this man giving you trouble, sugar?” Johnny asked, his dark eyes meeting yours. 

“She wasn't doing her job ‘s all! I just wanted a-” The man protested, but froze when Johnny pressed closer. 

“Say another word, and I'll gut you from behind,” Johnny growled. “I asked the lady a question.”

You blinked rapidly, adjusting your shirt and nodding slightly. “Y-yeah, a little bit. It's alright though, Johnny. Don't get yourself in trouble.” 

“This ain't trouble. I'd do a lot worse to him if we weren't being watched.” Johnny digs the knife into the man's back, making him whimper. “You hear me? If I see you ‘round here and no one's lookin’, ain’t nobody's ever gonna see you again.” 

The man's red face drained, leaving a dread filled expression behind. 

“Got it?” Johnny asked, twisting his hold on the man's arm. 

“I got it!” The man hiccuped pathetically, tears rolling down his plump face.

“Get out of here,” Johnny said, shoving the man toward the door. The man tripped over his own feet and fell to the floor. You saw his pants soaked with urine, and your nose crinkled in disgust. The man sobbed and stumbled as he got up and pathetically dragged himself out of the bar. 

Your eyes left the sorry sight and trailed to Johnny, who was still watching you intently behind messy strands of greased black hair. “You okay, baby?”

You blushed. “Yeah. I'm okay.” 

“Can't stand to see anyone touch you,” he muttered. 

“I'm alright now. Thank you, Johnny.”

“Anytime,” he said, still watching you intently. “I'll never let anyone disrespect my girl like that again.”

You weren't sure how to feel about being called his girl when you'd barely spoken a word to him, but you were thankful all the same. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

“I always will.” His hand reached out, caressing your face. “I promise you that.” 

[lovelytsunoda]

typical male // pato o’ ward

summary: pato is nothing if not a simp for his girlfriend, the most wonderful woman on the planet, in his eyes. or, all the little moments that made pato o' ward feel like the luckiest man on earth

pairing: pato o ward x female! reader

warnings: smut scene, inappropriate use of a mclaren, fucking on the hood of said mclaren, pato is a simp and cannot go five minutes during the act without telling her how pretty she is. weddings and talk of. pato is the boyfriend we all deserve, a game of giant jenga played at a wedding reception (and may end a few friendships)

Tell me lawyer what to do, I think I'm falling in love with you

(..)

All I want is a little reaction, just enough to tip the scales. I'm just using my female attraction, on a typical male, on a typical male

i

the garage smelled like grease and pennzoil, the hood of pato's mclaren popped open and a bluetooth speaker in the corner blasting a playlist of blues-inspired rock and roll from the seventies and eighties. ac/dc. guns n roses. the usual.

pato didn’t mean to stop and stare, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself, leaning against the doorframe, eyes trained on his lovers ass, barely covered by her grease stained cutoff shorts.

she took his breath away.

"hey, beautiful." pato hummed, slipping his arms around her waist, gently kissing her neck.

"pato, i'm covered in grease, wearing the rattiest shorts i own and i'm not wearing a bra." y/n laughed, lacing her fingers with his. "i feel like a trainwreck."

"but you look incredible, love." pato insisted, peppering her face with kisses. his embrace was warm and comforting, a reassuring presence in her life.

pato made her feel complete, like she was the only girl in the world.

"and you know what no bra means." the driver hummed in between kisses. "easy. access."

"at least let me close the hood first." she giggled under his kiss, slamming the hood of the electric blue sports car down and wiping the grease off her hands as pato slipped his hands up her shirt, gently playing with her nipples. she moaned under his touch, heat growing between her thighs.

"lean down over the hood, mamas." pato hummed. "wanna see your beautiful body."

the hood of the car was cold against her skin, shirt still pushed up over her breats, making her jump in surprise. behind her, pato laughed, gently tracing the linework carnation tattooed on her back, just above the hem of her denim shorts.

"you okay, pretty girl?"

"your car is freezing, jesus!"

"sorry, corazon. we can head inside if you want?"

y/n snorted, resting her head on her folded arms as she looked back at her lover. "you and i both know that we aren't going to make it back to the bedroom."

pato laughed, playfully smacking her ass before pressing himself against her, fingers fumbling with buttons. "god, baby, i need you. i need you all the time, yeah, you looked so fucking sexy bent over my car like that."

"you need a new fan belt, by the way." she moaned, unable to speak as her boyfriend slid her shorts down her legs, revealing her lacy fuchsia panties. "yours is cracking."

"i love it when you talk dirty to me." pato laughed, half moaning as he undid his belt. "but i'm more concerned with taking care of my pretty girl than my car."

"mhm, spank me, papi." y/n joked, shaking her ass in pato's direction. she loved that she could goof around with him, that pato didn't take himself too seriously in the heat of the moment.

"do you have a good grip on the car?" pato asked softly, running his soft hands up and down her spine, giving her full body shivers. "i don't want you to get hurt or anything."

"baby, i'm fine. honestly, i'm shocked we haven't fucked on your car before." she giggled, reaching back to hold pato's hand. "you know that if anything feels off, i'll tell you."

pato gently let go of her hand, reassuringly tracing circles on her thigh as he used his other hand to tease his cock up and down her entrance, making sure that she was ready to take him.

he slipped in gently, listening and watching for any sign of discomfort before y/n reached once again for his hand, signaling that it was okay for him to start to move.

pato's pace was relentless as she moaned underneath him, whining his name as she squeezed his fingers.

"yes, pato! fuck, just like that."

"that's it, corazon. you're doing so well for me, yeah? so beautiful. so fucking beautiful and i wish you could see yourself the way that i see you every fucking day."

ii

the room was dark, the mirrorball hanging from the ceiling refracting the party lights against the wall. the music was loud, the singing bad as y/n and cate, callum illotts girlfriend, took to the stage, singing a duet of ‘the best’ by tina turner.

“i know that look.” alex palou laughs, clapping pato on the shoulders as he stares at his fellow testing drivers awestruck expression, the stars in his eyes as he watched his girlfriend butcher tina turners greatest hit.

felix rosenvquist snorts, looking over at alex “has he told you that he’s spent the last hour debating whether it not he should ask y/n to marry him tonight?”

“marriage?” alex snorted “dude, you’re still so young, why tie yourself down like that?”

“what if I want to be tied down? i love her and I want to spend my life with her” pato said matter-of-factly, pulling a small velvet box out of his khakis

“we aren’t going to stop you, but that perfect moment isn’t just going to present itself.” felix shrugged. “you have to make the moment yourself.”

back onstage, the song was ending, cate and y/n collapsing into laughter fuelled by adrenaline and sugar. the light refracted off her skin, making her glow like some kind of neon goddess in the nightlight.

“before I get off this stage, there’s something I want to say before I lose my nerve!” y/n shouted, lifting her cocktail glass into the air. “patricio o ward is the love of my life! he’s the reason I look forward to getting up in the morning, the driving force behind what I do. he’s my biggest supporter, and the best lover, but moreover, he’s my best friend.”

the room started cheering. felix nudged pato in the arm, the mexican driver getting to his feet with a smile and waving to the room as if he was the queen of england. y/n beckoned him closer to the stage, and pato began to wonder if this was the perfect moment.

the moment he would pop the question.

“patricio, my love, my light, my smile. my best friend.” she smiled, lacing her fingers with his. she’d have got down on her knees to ask, full proposal classic, but with the crowd in this room, it would turn into a sex joke. “will you do me the honor of being my husband? will you marry me?”

pato just laughed, opening the ring box in his hand. “i was about to ask you the exact same thing.”

they both laughed, wrapping their arms around each other on stage, in front of the whole indycar grid as pato kissed her softly.

“is that a yes?”

“you first, tough guy.”

“yes, of course I’ll marry you, pretty girl.”

iii

“you look so fucking hot right now.” pato whistled as his fiancée stepped out of the dressing room, fabric of the wedding dress swishing around her legs as she walked.

they do say not to let your husband see you in your dress before the ceremony, but seeing as y/n was technically the one that proposed, they said to hell with all the regular wedding superstitions.

"you've said that about every dress so far." she giggled, twirling to look at herself in the mirror.

it turns out that the lovesick male is also very unhelpful when narrowing down which dress to buy, as the specimen thinks that every dress is equally as hot.

the dress was simple, white fabric hugging all her curves, with a scooping v-neckline. she loved the way it looked, but wondered if it might be perhaps a little . . . pedestrian. but she didn't even want a big wedding, she was happy with a quiet family affair in cancun.

pato shook his head. "this is different, babe. this dress is the one."

"you don't think it's too basic?" y/n worried, swishing the fabric around once more as she stared at her reflection.

"i think it's beautiful, corazon. you are beautiful." he wrapped his arms around her waist. "i'd marry you if you were wearing ripped jeans and a grease-stained tears for fears shirt."

"good to know. when we have our vow renewal maybe i'll wear a leather skirt."

"vow renewal?" pato laughs, kissing her softly. "we haven't even said them the first time yet."

"i can't wait until we do." y/n sighs, leaning back into his arms. "i love you."

"love you more, pretty girl." pato grins widely, kissing her cheek. "so, how do you feel about the dress?"

"this is the one."

iv.

"pato watch out!" y/n laughed, watching her now-husband remove one of the large jenga blocks from the tower set up in the middle of the reception hall.

pato had stayed true to his word when he promised that it would be a small wedding, only family and close friends allowed to join them in the serene jungle of cancun.

in lieu of a guest book, the o'ward's had bought a massive handmade jenga set, and each of the guests had written a message for the happy couple on one of the wooden blocks now towering into the trees and the stars above.

"relax, honey, it's not going to fall." pato chuckled, using both hands to maneuver the wooden block. "elba, get me the step ladder!"

shaking her head, pato's sister brought over the small two-step ladder that the wedding guests had been using to play the life-sized game.

or, larger than life sized.

"patricio, if you fall, i swear to god." y/n half warned as she held the ladder in place, the glow of happiness and surreality on her face as she tried to comprehend that she was now married to her best friend in the entire world.

pato rested the jenga block on the top of the wobbly tower, straightening it and attempting to stabilize it without knocking the whole thing over. stasified with the structure's strength, pato let out a breath and descended the ladder, moving to stand next to his wife.

he thought she looked so beautiful in the soft, led lighting. the jungle clearing was right on the water, lit up by christmas lights stung between the trees and plugged into a generator. y/n had a hibiscus flower pinned behind her ear, and a small smudge of mascara on her cheek.

that didn't matter. she still took his breath away, made his knees go weak when she smiled.

even after marriage, he was still al lovesick fool.

felix was up next in the massive jenga game, pulling out a block from the middle that he could barely reach, getting alex to hold the step ladder in place as he ascended to the top of the dangerously rickety tower.

"i don't like the looks of that." y/n hummed, resting her head against pato's chest. "if those jenga blocks crush anybody at our reception-"

"they won't, don't worry about it." pato murmured, kissing her forehead softly. "i'm so happy we did this."

"me too."

"the tower's coming down!" alex shouted, pushing felix out of the way and into the water as the jenga blocks fell down.

in the opposite direction of the lake.

"what the fuck was that for?" felix shouted, surfacing in the turqoise waters as he began to doggy paddle back to shore.

"sorry." alex laughed. "i thought it was going to fall on you."

still laughing, y/n turned to pato, kissing him softly. "i love you."

"love you more, pretty girl. way, way more."

TAGS:

@oconso @libraryofloveletters @magnummagnussen @sidcrosbyspuck @scuderiamh @scuderiasundays @cl16version @unluckyhoneybee