#and forgets about him for a month or two in between

[lokischocolatefountain]

Battlefront | At Your Service

Fandom: Gladiator II Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x Empress!Reader Rating: M Word count: 5.3k words Summary: General Acacius returns energized by battle when an unexpected guest makes themselves at home in his tent. Warnings: Historical inaccuracies, some historical accuracies, poor description of battle strategy. A/N: Listen, I know Rome never had a single reigning Empress. But seeing loyal husband Marcus Acacius has made me eschew historical accuracy. If Ridley Scott can have characters reading newspapers before their invention, I can have Marcus Acacius being devoted to his powerful Empress wife. I'm thinking of making it a lose series with snippets of these characters' lives together. Like my Married Javi series. So lmk if there's anything you want to read about them.

“What are you doing here?” 

The sounds of battle still rang in his ears. The strategies he’d laid out playing out in his vision as he sought to identify problems he could have failed to spot. His heart was restless, every beat reminding him how high the stakes were, reminding him that every young man there was his responsibility. And then you appeared. 

Like the brain cooled the body, the sight of you cooled him. 

“You dare ask what I do at my own battlefront?” You asked, an eyebrow raised. He stood in place as you took small steps towards him. He rushed ahead, calling attention to his broad shoulders that narrowed down to his waist. Your pace was wholly inadequate for his liking.

“This is not the battlefront, Caesarea,” he said, stopping in front of you and taking your hand in his. “These are my private quarters.” He bowed and placed a kiss on the back of your hand, looking up at you from behind soft brown eyes you did not believe capable of inspiring fear until you witnessed him in battle. 

“You forget your place, General. You have no authority to deny me entrance to my husband’s quarters,” you teased. His eyes darkened at your words and the implications they bore. Your relationship had been a delicate one since the two of you left childhood behind. But it was only more so with you on the throne and him the General at your command. 

“If you wish to assert your marital rights at this moment, know I will have to as well,” he warned, his hands itching to be upon you. Unlike his soldiers, Acacius had gone many months without the touch of a woman. Some high ranking officers brought their wives and some indulged in whores. Not Acacius.

“What man asks to claim his marital rights? I believed I belonged to a man who knew what was his and conquered it.” 

It was all he needed to close the distance between you. In an instant, your fearsome general, covered in the blood of enemies and grime of their land he claimed, pulled you to his chest. His large hands engulfed your face. His lips came crashing against yours, desperate and sloppy. You instinctively reached up to one, caressing his rough hand with your soft one. Teeth clashed against each other. Saliva dribbled down his lips, transferring the dried blood on his face to yours. Smearing you with evidence of his devotion. To you and to Rome. 

His hard iron armor covered in leather and embossed with gold dug into your chest in his desperation to feel you. One hand slipped to your neck, holding you in place with the force of a soldier and authority of a husband. His other hand slipped to your hip, rough as he guided you towards the thin mattress on the floor.

“I must have you…” he growled into your ear as his hands groped around through your clothes. He grabbed every part of you he could think of, squeezing as though planting flags on a territory he’d already claimed.

You nodded, the gold and gems that dangled from your ears glinting under the light of the torches that illuminated his quarters. 

“Good,” he muttered, pushing your coat off your shoulders, catching it before it fell to the ground and discarding it on a chair. The clips and fasteners that kept your linen, silk, and wool too intricate for his impatience, he tore through anything that did not yield. Delicate fabrics met their end at the hands of the ravenous beast he became at the battlefront, revealing delicious skin underneath. He needed this. Needed to plunge into your tight, wet hole and spend the aggressive energy that coursed through his veins.

He took whores, but that was before he wed you. Married men took other women both back home and especially when at war. As long as they were whores or any other women lower than his wife’s status. It was expected, encouraged. But he was married to the Empress. Anyone he took would be a disrespect to her. Sure, many mocked him behind his back as the Empress’ wife. It did not bother him. Not anymore. 

When men depended on one’s instructions to survive each day, they ceased to question his manhood. Further, it was hard to question a man’s ability when he lead the mightiest army the world had seen to victory. 

You were beautifully exposed in front of him, your veil, stola, and palla lying in defeat on the ground. Only your tunica, exposing your legs and the shape of your breasts. His lips claimed your neck, biting and sucking on everywhere he knew you favored the way he expertly mapped and attacked the vulnerabilities of enemy territory.

Every bit of skin he touched lit a fire in your belly, replacing the weeks of agonizing solitude with only your inadequate fingers for release. 

Buried in your neck, he inhaled your scent, of your sweat combined with the roses and attar from Arabia. He licked, grunting when your gold necklace tainted the taste of your skin. Reaching behind you, he tugged at the fastener, growling when it proved too delicate to be undone by his large fingers. You let out a laugh before slapping his hand away and undoing the offending jewelry in one swift moment. He liked you bare. Needed to rid you of any object that interfered with his preference be it fabric or lustrous gold and gems.

You were an oasis in the desert. For a man surrounded by young men with nothing but rage and fear coursing through their veins. No bath fully cleansed him of enemy blood, mud and grime. Grace to the gods, you were not a woman repulsed by his gory state of being. 

You whimpered as he forced you to the ground, laying you out on his small mattress before climbing atop. The pteruges of his armor tickled your thighs as he hovered above you.

“Marcus…I have longed for you every night,” you whispered, your words clenching his heart. You did not have the luxuries that other royal women enjoyed. The wealth and adoration came with a sword at your neck and the weight of all of Rome and her people. Rare was the opportunity to only be a woman in the arms of your husband.

“I think of you day and night. My duty to my Empress by day, my duties to my wife at night,” he said, peppering kisses along your jaw. You sighed, curving away from him to expose more of yourself for his kisses.

“Do your duty then. And allow me to do mine,” you said, reaching below to caress his thigh. 

He searched under his pillow and retrieved his dagger. He tucked the tip of the cold blade under your strophium. You gasped as he cut through the layers, your breasts spilling from their restraints. Hands that for months only knew the reins of his horse and the handle of his sword relished in the softness of your breasts. He was no barbarian. He knew to treat a woman with gentle touch and loving words. 

His appetite, however, was quick to defeat the gentle Acacius who was allowed his Empress’ hand in marriage. Your breasts filled his hands perfectly, like the gods had shaped them for his sake. For his touch. For his children to feed from. The image formed in the back of his mind, his child drinking from your full breasts as your belly grew with another. His cock twitched at the thought and he acted, forcing your legs apart with his knees.

Fear joined a familiar ache in the pit of your stomach as he slid the blade down your chest, resting it near your core. Your nails dug into his arm and your core throbbed with need. You yelped as he cut through your subligar. The night air caressed your cunt forcing you to feel how wet his bestial acts made you. Your hips bucked up in search of him, desperate to fill the void he’d left in his absence. 

He traced the dagger further below and rested it on your thigh. His eyes exuded a hunger you’d seen only in the exotic beasts that devoured gladiators. “Stay still,” he said and placed a soothing hand on your trembling thigh as the other reigned terror on its counterpart. With your nod of understanding, he moved the blade closer and closer until–

You shrieked as the cold blade sat at the edge of your opening. Before you could comprehend, he brought it up before your eyes and licked the blunt edge. His eyes closed and a moan rumbled from his chest as he tasted your arousal. 

“You drip for me, melilla.” 

“I have been aching for you,” you said through trembling breaths, thinking of every night you touched yourself in his memory. He had made your body his, rending separation tartarus on land. The closest your cunt had felt of him was the ring from his pinky he placed on your middle finger before his departure. 

He tossed the dagger aside and it landed with a clang. Your cunt clenched at the sound, thrilled by his animalistic want for you. He cupped your core in his hand, parted your lips and plunged two fingers inside you. It was already much more than you had in his absence, his thick fingers filling you better than your own. 

“Please,” you whimpered as he worked you open, your cunt dripping around his fingers with each stroke. He was always gentle with you, but not this time. You didn’t want him gentle. In peacetime, he bowed to you as your loyal subject. In war, when he overflowed with masculine power, you wanted him forceful. Wanted him atop you, taking you with the same ruthless power he did enemy land. You wanted to be unburdened of the weight of your empire if only for a moment. Be husband and wife, not General and Empress.

His hand slipped under your head, grabbing your hair between his fingers. You hissed at the sting of his grip on your hair and reached for his arm instinctively. He withdrew his fingers, pushing them between your lips when you whined to be filled. As you tasted yourself, he aligned his cock up with your weeping entrance. You choked out a sob as he split you open with his cock, your walls burning at the stretch. Tears clouded your vision, but you blinked them away to see your dearest, handsome even in war. Your bejeweled fingers weaved through his dark curls, needing to touch the familiar parts of the man you’d so long yearned to reunite with. 

His own hand and a few whores was satisfactory when he was a lone general who did not know the taste of a woman he called his own. He doubted he could find someone else to satisfy his desires now that he had you. His men found this sentiment strange as they chose to relieve their stress with whores and slaves. 

None of those fools had the fucking Empress waiting for them at home. 

“Look at you…” he rasped, luxuriating at the vision. You were divine. All goddess-like in your beauty even lying on his thin mattress, hair strewn across his pillow and your hairpins coming undone under his grip. No dingy military camp was worthy of a visit from such an ethereal creature. But you were no simple Lady content to stay in the palace surrounded by your riches. He doubted he could stop you from visiting him even if you weren’t the Empress but only his dear wife.

“You like me this way,” he said instead of asking. He did not need to ask. He had seen how you looked at him when he wore his armor. No stranger to combat, the blood and gore did not seem to rattle you. His other campaigns found you in the camps for celebrations. Too many times, he had to keep you at arm’s length out of respect for your station. Now that you belonged to him…

“Always… Always liked my General so. Always wanted to pounce upon you and fight those girls you chose over me.”

He snorted at the jealousy that returned to your visage though he was now all yours. “My severed head would have joined the barbarians had I defiled the Princess, my dear.”

“You should have abstained,” you said, the smile that played at your lips all he needed to know it was but a jest. 

“And deprive you of the fruits of my experience with the female form?” He taunted, angling himself to stroke the particularly sensitive place inside you. Your lips opened in a small circle, whatever witty remark you’d concocted now dissolved into a pathetic moan.

He pawed at your breasts, his large hands and the loss of etiquette making you feel mauled by a beast. You pushed up from the ground and into his hands, sobbing as he tugged your nipples, adding to the pain of penetration. He took you in long, hard thrusts, your needy cunt pulling him back in each time he withdrew. Each stroke soothed the pain he bestowed, eased by how he had you leaking around him.

“I need, I need… please,” you begged, too occupied by your lust to find better words.

“Anything you want, Carissima,” he whimpered, bending down and claiming your lips. He smelled of war. Of mud and blood and something vile that should repulse you. He did not kiss like he usually did. Did not explore you and drink your sweet sounds. He took you, forced your lips apart and invaded with his tongue. He bit and drew blood, the taste of iron adding to the familiar taste of your beloved.

“Anything,” he growled, filling you deeper. “I will make you feel me between your legs for days. Make you wince in pain when you ride your horse,” he said, his hot breath and the threat making you shudder. “Would you like that? Like the people who bow to you smell me on you? Make you strategize with my seed dripping down your legs under your dress?”

“Macrus, want…please” you blubbered, your intelligence leaving from his vicious ravaging. Your thighs burned from how wide he spread you to fit himself between your legs. It was an agonizing stretch without the aid of any oils, without his lips easing you open for his thickness. But none of it mattered for you ached more with longing. 

Fully immersed in you, he placed his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as though he were meditating. He was heavy, his large frame that mowed through enemy men and swung weighty swords through necks now being used to contain you. He took your breath away not only with his stature but with his beauty. You liked to believe him sculpted by the gods to put you in his thrall. To tame the wild princess into the tempered Empress Rome needed.

You needed him to move, to fuck you so thoroughly you would feel him with every move you made until you could reunite once again. But you did not have heart to push him. Not when he looked like a devotee at the shrine of his goddess. 

All men thought of in the midst of war was the people they left behind. It did not change when one rose to command the entire Roman army. He opened his eyes, sighing with relief when he found you still there beneath him. He had dreamt so many times lying all alone that he was home with you. He dreamt that the war had ended and he was sat by your side as you read scrolls from senators and discussed fucking sanitation of all things. He dreamt of you returning to his arms, of your kisses and your tight cunt holding him inside you. You were never there when he woke up. 

He pinned your wrists above your head, desperate to contain you so he wouldn’t be separated from you again. 

This was no dream. Even dreams of you didn’t feel as elysian as your true form. He fucked you in short thrusts, grinding against your clit as he did. You dug your heels into his lower back, your hips rising up to meet his thrusts. He cupped your cheek in one hand and you melted into his touch, confounded by his contradictions. He brought your hand between your bodies and you took his direction, rubbing your clit as he returned to a brutal pace. 

He grabbed your hip for purchase, his other hand mauling your breast. His balls slapped against your skin, the lewd sounds of skin against skin sounding through the camp. 

You cried his name as he rammed into you over and over until you could no longer find an ounce of regard for propriety in you. Word would’ve spread that you were here. Everyone knew the General to be fiercely loyal. Now they would know it was their Empress in the tent moaning like a whore taking their General’s cock. You clenched tight around him at the scandalous thought, wrapping your arms around him to anchor yourself to reality. 

He pulled you up off the ground and onto his lap, bouncing you up and down his cock as you kept yourself wrapped around him. You grabbed his hair and pressed yourself against his chest. His dark brown eyes bored into yours, soft even as he fucked you with animalistic vigor. You kissed him, his growl devolving into a mewl like a lion tamed. Your heart beat against your ribs, longing to escape its confines to find the man it belonged to. 

You trailed kisses across every bit of exposed skin. The patch above his jaw where his beard never grew called out to your lips and you rewarded it with kisses. He returned them, his strong aquiline nose pressing against your cheekbone. 

Full of him, the world disappeared from your thoughts. Your hips moved of its own accord, taking him deeper as he bounced you up and down his cock. 

“What d’you think they would say?” he taunted, breathless from the exertion. “Their unshakable Empress being used by her husband in the camps. Your perfect hair tangled, your jewels on the ground,” he growled and you simply mewled, the shame coursing through you only aiding him as he hammered into you. 

“Answer me,” he commanded, punctuating the words with harsh thrust. You opened and closed your mouth, eyes trained on his fiery ones as he demanded what he made you incapable of doing. A sob emerged deep from your chest, the only sign you were present in your body. 

He let out a mocking laugh. “All of Rome bows to your rousing speeches yet you become mute with a cock stuffing you full.” 

You whimpered his name, or you thought you did. You couldn’t be sure of anything in this state. Your thighs shook from the force of his thrusts and your hip hurt where his fingers dug in. Sounds you did not know yourself capable of producing escaped your lips. The fire in your belly blazed wilder and your vision blackened. You felt the pressure wind tighter and tighter. You threw your head back in pleasure, whimpering when you felt his lips on your neck. He lapped at your skin, devouring your natural taste and your sweat. He nipped and bit, mumbling words of praise you couldn’t make out in your dazed state. 

His name mixed with curses flowed from your lips as pleasure hit you like lightning. You felt your back hit the floor, your legs folded up as he rammed into you. Your hole spasmed around him as he continued taking you for himself but you lay limp, spent. His warm sticky spend spurted inside you, dripping out onto your thighs and his thin mattress as he buried himself deep before collapsing on top.

He tucked his head in the nape of your neck, panting as you both came down to Earth from the heavens. His body weighed heavy on you, as did his armor. He took the breath out of your lungs but you did not want to be without him. It was the antidote for your aching heart.

“That was quite the welcome, General,” you said, placing a kiss on his cheek. “I did not receive such treatment the last time.” 

“You were the crown princess when you last visited me in the battlefront.” 

“Ah. You needed me on the throne before serving me this way?” You teased, knowing full well how it pained him to restrain himself from having you before he won approval for your hand in marriage.

“I needed the Emperor to not have my head for defiling his daughter so,” he said, rolling you over and pulling you down by your arms against his chest when you attempted to sit up. You giggled as he placed kisses all over, delighted by how playful he became once he took his aggressive energy out on you.

“He should not have given his General his daughter’s hand in marriage if he was worried about that.” 

“Mmm, I don’t know dear. The princess was quite insistent she would only wed the General. Threatened to be caught in the General’s bed if denied.”

“Yes. I hope you are grateful,” you said, giving him your hand adorned in rings, the one he gave you from his little finger gleaming brighter than the rest. He took your hand and kissed it, his eyes so soft with love and devotion for you that you could hardly reconcile them with the hunger they exuded just moments before. The words were merely a jest, but he was indeed grateful. 

He was celebrated for his prowess in battle. For the many victories he brought Rome. Many men deluded themselves into the belief that this entitled them a victory of the princess’ hand. Not Acacius. Though your hearts reached out for one other through the years, you were the only one with the courage to act upon it. The one to show the Emperor why only he would be the right companion to a woman on Rome’s throne. For that, he would forever be grateful.

“How goes the battle?” you asked, getting up and depriving him of your warmth. He grabbed a scrap of fabric that was once your tunica and tossed it at you. You caught it and whispered a thank you before cleaning yourself up.

“Who is asking? My Empress or my wife?” He asked, propping himself up with his hands.

“Would your answers vary?” 

“They would.” 

“Give me both answers, General. Husband.” You asked, wrapping your furs around you and sitting back on his chair. 

“Caesarea,” he said, finally rising up. Something shifted between you. Your voice had altered from its girlish relaxed state. Wool covered your body. You were perched on his seat while he stood in front of you in submission to your authority. “We anticipated many deaths from illness but have been spared such tragedy by the grace of the gods. The Eastern front has advanced into the barbarians' territory and they have retreated. However, I expect them to recuperate and retaliate. Our men are advancing faster to take advantage of their momentary retreat. The Northern front is not faring well. Not as we’d hoped. We have received intelligence that the barbarians have armed even women and children to attack.”

“What is your next course of action?” 

“We’ve sent troops up North and we need more men to replace them. I was hoping you would grant approval for a few more men from our reserves.” 

“How many?” 

“One century and a centurion to replace the ones I sent north, and twenty cavalrymen.” 

“And how soon do you need them?”

“We can not hold out longer than seven days. Or we stand to lose ground in the East.” 

“I’ll see what I can do. Seven days are… It is not enough time. I must send word with Decimus and the men would take time to arrive.” 

“I understand.” 

“I hope you have told the men you’ve sent North to limit casualties. We are to rule over these people once you have conquered their land. I imagine killing their wives and children wouldn’t endear them to us.” 

“I have, yes. They are under the leadership of a good man- Faunus. He trained under me. I know him to be determined and level headed. Has children of his own as well.” 

“Being a father doesn’t stop many men from killing children. They simply learn not to see those children as children at all.” 

“I have seen that too.” 

“I trust your judgment, Marcus. Let us hope you are right about Faunus and his men. What of the rations? Are they adequate?” 

“I hear more grains are coming our way from the last harvest. If true, we will not be in want of food.” 

“It is, indeed. Is there anything else my General needs?” You asked, an eyebrow raised. 

“No. Nothing that needs your immediate attention.”

“Well, then tell me what answer you would give your wife. About how the war is going.” 

He smiled, his eyes softening and his shoulders relaxing at the permission to change role from General to husband. He stepped closer to you and caged you in with his hands on the armrests. He leaned down and placed a kiss on your lips and felt you relax. As he spoke, he peppered kisses across your face, enjoying his effect on you. “I would tell you that the end of the war is closer than it was the last time I wrote you. That I long for you every hour I spend in this wretched place. I would reassure you that I am unharmed and ask you to prepare our home for my arrival.” 

“Are you?” 

He tilted his head in question, making you clarify yourself, “Unharmed. I need to see.” 

“Is that why you have come so far? To ensure I am unharmed?” 

“Perhaps. I did not want my men to believe their Empress had forgotten them. I come bearing gifts. Letters from families who have not accompanied officers. Fresh fruits and nuts. Toys and books for the children. Some hearings to handle as you said in your letters. To boost morale.” 

“You have already succeeded with me there, my dear. My morale is higher than ever,” he said, nipping playfully at your ear and making you giggle. “Back to bed now,” he said and you obliged, wrapping your arms around his neck and allowing him to carry you. 

“A happy General makes for happy soldiers.” 

“Perhaps I’m not happy enough,” he said, laying you out on his bed, gentle unlike the man he was a while ago. “You must do more, my dearest. For the sake of the poor soldiers.”

You giggled and pulled him down to your chest, sighing when his weight settled on you. You traced the gold plating on his armor with a finger idly, saying, “Oh, iff it is for the soldiers…” 

He laughed with you and the two of you lied together, quietly taking each other in. Other high ranking men in your army had the privilege of bringing their families to the barracks, but not your husband. You hadn’t the duty to keep your home but to keep your empire. Though opposition to having you on the throne had begun to dwindle, you did not feel secure in your position. You couldn’t afford peace of mind. There was disease and conflicts awaiting your attention. Plebeians to care for without angering the patricians. Marcus unburdened you of all worries about the war for you knew he would bring victory to Rome. But you worried as wives did about whether their husbands would return at all.

“I will be here for four days,” you spoke up, needing a distraction from your burgeoning fears. “I must see to a few disagreements. Inspect the troops. Maybe I will even polish your swords like a good wife ought to.” 

“Oh? What else will you do?” 

You squinted, thinking of what else the women in the barracks did for their men that you knew to do. You couldn’t cook. Didn’t know to wash clothes. Did not yet have children to raise. You could spar with him, but that was frowned upon and not at all wifely.

“Clean your quarters?” 

“My quarters are clean, Princess,” he laughed softly. You pushed at his chest playfully but he didn’t budge. It had been a long time since you could push him around physically.

“I am not a Princess anymore.” 

“I meant it as a term of endearment, not as your title.” 

“Surely there is something I can do. I will have time aside from my duties to our people.”

“When you do, mea vita…” he whispered, hot breath tickling your ear. “Lie back here and open your legs for me.” 

“Whatever for?” You teased, wearing an expression of confusion as you pretended to think of the answers. 

“To do your duty to your husband. To please me,” he said, parting your coat and cupping your sex in his hand. He swept his ejaculate that dripped down your thighs and pushed it back inside you. He wanted it to take. Wanted you full and round with his child when he arrived in Rome victorious. It was their duty, yes. But he wanted children for more than duty and legacy’s sake. He wanted to experience the joy he witnessed in his men when they shared stories of their fatherhood. He could recall a time when he fought only to sate his bloodlust. Since you became more than his friend, more than his Princess, he began fighting to return home to you. He wanted one day to fight with his children in mind. 

He pumped his fingers in and out of you with practiced ease. You trembled, sensitive from his rough use, but did not pull away. You needed this.

“Have I not pleased you enough?” You asked, only half teasing. You did not have much experience with carnal pleasure. There were a few men and several women in your past. But the men were not interested in teaching you to please them. It wasn’t entirely their fault, of course. You did not want to please anyone before Marcus. It was a source of insecurity. You’d seen how women swarmed him since he developed from a little boy who sparred with you to a broad shouldered man with a deep voice. What if you were inadequate?

“You are simply too delectable, my dear. Each time I believe myself satisfied, I only want more of you.”

“I have duties to Rome. I can’t always be in your bed.” That was another insecurity you had. That he would find you lacking in wifely duties as compared to other women, those who did not have Rome on their shoulders.

“We barely had each other a week before I was sent here.” 

“Mmm… She sounds cruel, your Empress. Separating you from your new wife so early.” He could see how you sought to bury your fears with humor. Duty to Rome and your love plagued you despite reassurances of his unconditional support. The elders often turned their nose up at you, found you lacking as a woman. Though you’d proven yourself both in battle and in administration, old men set in their ways refused to accept you as Empress. Many already whispered about you not having conceived a child. 

“She is not cruel. My Empress,” he said, smiling. He wouldn't have you doubting his trust in you, be it as Empress or wife. Everyone was you tartarus, but he would only be your peace. “She is just. She is brave and kind with intellect as sharp as the tip of my sword. The right person to lead Rome into prosperity.”

You melted into his arms and he held you close to his chest, heavy with the weight of doing right by the Roman Princess who lent little Acacius her sword when he couldn’t afford one.

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

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jealous george ₊˚⊹♡

words: 3,304 ✦ .ᐟ

♯┆flatmate george clarke, fluff, friends to lovers

you have been friends with george for a while and since moving in to his shared flat you’ve learnt that chris loves to tease and flirt with you, after playing truth or dare you’ve also learnt that george might have a truth he isn’t ready to tell you yet

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thanks @wroetolex for the idea !!

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You’d been friends with George Clarke for as long as you could remember. From climbing trees in your back gardens as kids to navigating the worst of university together, George had always been a constant in your life. There was something lovely about him—reliable, funny, the kind of person you could count on no matter what.

It was an easy friendship, the kind where you could pick up conversations exactly where you’d left off, even after months apart. But now, living together in a flat with two other housemates, things felt… different.

It wasn’t that George had changed exactly. He was still the same dry, sarcastic George who could make you laugh with just a stupid impression or an under-the-breath comment. But there were moments now where you’d catch him looking at you a second too long or leaning just a little closer than necessary.

And then there was the way he touched you.

It had always been natural for George to be touchy, he was just that kind of person. But lately, the touches felt… different. Softer, more deliberate. Like the way he’d rest his hands on your waist when squeezing past you in the kitchen, or brush stray bits of hair from your face without a second thought. Sometimes, when you were sitting next to each other on the sofa, he’d place his hand on your thigh lightly stroking it without a second thought. The gesture that didn’t seem to have any reason other than the fact that he could.

It wasn’t just you noticing, either.

Arthur had teased you about it more than once, laughing about how George would always stand just a little too close when you were talking, or how his hand would linger on your shoulder whenever he walked behind you. “Honestly, how have you been friends that long and you haven’t at least kissed yet,” he joked one night, all you could do is roll your eyes.

“He’s just like that,” you’d insisted, brushing it off. But even as you said it, you weren’t sure you believed it.

You weren’t sure when it had started, this strange awareness of him. Maybe it was the way he always seemed to notice when you were upset, even before you said anything. Or the way his laugh could light up an entire room, making you forget whatever was bothering you. Or maybe it was just the fact that George was, well, George, uncomplicated in the best way, someone who just got you.

But nothing had ever come of it, and you weren’t sure it ever would. After all, you were friends. Best friends. You’d never even thought about risking that, until now.

Because now, Chris was in the picture.

Chris had been a bit of an issue from the moment you’d moved in, with his constant routine and inappropriate jokes about you and George, the kind of guy who could talk his way out of anything. He loved pushing boundaries, especially George��s, and lately, it seemed like he’d taken a particular interest in you. It was harmless, of course, just Chris being Chris.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But you couldn’t ignore the way George’s mood shifted whenever Chris’s teasing got a little too much, or how his comments became harsher, more defensive. And you definitely couldn’t ignore the way George’s touchiness seemed to intensify, his hand on your back lingering just a moment longer when Chris was in the room, as if to quietly stake a claim.

Something was definitely going on between you two. You could feel it every time George looked at you, every time he made one of those quiet brutal remarks when Chris got too bold. Whatever it was, it was building.

And you had no idea what would happen when it finally came to a head.

The flat was filled with the comfortable chaos of a lazy night in. The living room was a patchwork of cushions, discarded blankets, and half-eaten Thai food. Someone had dimmed the lights, the glow of the lamps giving everything a warm, intimate feel. Your flatmates were sprawled across the modern furniture, all caught up in the easy feeling of the moment.

It was Chris’s idea to play Truth or Dare—of course, it was Chris’s idea. He thrived on moments like this, always looking for ways to push people just far enough for his own amusement. You were sat on the sofa between George and Chris, your usual spot, though you couldn’t help but notice how George seemed just a little closer than usual tonight.

Chris was in fine form, as always. He’d already embarrassed Arthur into confessing his worst Hinge date story and dared George to drink an unholy combination of Birra Moretti and salsa. Now, he leaned back with the self-satisfied smirk of someone who thought he owned the room.

“Alright,” Chris said, his eyes glinting mischievously. “My turn and imma say truth.. and my truth is… that I used to have a little crush on you.” He directed the comment squarely at you, the grin on his face daring you to react.

You blinked, thrown off balance for a moment, before rolling your eyes. “Oh, come on. You’re such a lying asshole.”

“An attractive asshole, though,” Chris said back, leaning into the bit. “I mean, let’s be honest. Who wouldn’t? You’re funny, you’re gorgeous.. I guess… and honestly, you’re the only one in this flat who doesn’t steal my shit.”

“Wow, high standards,” you responded, trying not to laugh.

Chris grinned, unbothered by your deflection. “Hey, I’m just saying. If you’re ever sick of these boys, my door’s always open, we can talk over some food.”

The room burst into laughter, everyone enjoying the ridiculousness of it all. But beside you, George had gone very still.

“Yeah,” George said, his tone light but with an edge that made you glance at him. “Good luck with that. Maybe next time you should ask her opinion on your shitty cooking before you start planning your future.”

Chris tilted his head, pretending to consider this. “Ah, okay so she has preferences. A crucial first step. Of course.”

“Especially since she doesn’t even like your tasteless lamb,” George added, his voice sharp in a way that felt out of place.

Chris shrugged, unfazed. “Well, we all have our faults,” he said, winking at you. “I’m sure I could convert you eventually.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Not a chance.”

The conversation moved on, but the energy in the room felt different after that. George didn’t join in the way he usually did. Instead, he stayed quiet, his arms crossed, offering the occasional dry comment whenever Chris’s flirting got too much.

As the game continued, Chris leaned further into the joke, making playful comments about him liking you.

“Honestly,” he said later, “if we weren’t living together, I’d have asked you out ages ago. But, you know, flatmate stuff and all.”

“Wow, you really know how to talk to a woman,” you joked, shaking your head.

George leaned forward, speaking before Chris could. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘romance’ like passive-aggressively leaving your dishes in the sink.”

Chris laughed. “Hey, those are part of my charm. Don’t act like you wouldn’t miss me if I moved out.”

George didn’t miss a beat. “I think we’d survive. At least she wouldn’t have to put up with you filming your voice overs at 2 a.m.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, he’s got a point there.”

Chris held a hand to his heart, pretending to be offended. “You hurt me, both of you. But don’t worry, George. I’ll give her front-row tickets at all my games, and I’ll sing Arthur’s songs at our wedding.”

That did it. George sat back abruptly, his expression hardening. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly how she’s always pictured her big day.”

The sudden bitterness in his tone surprised you, and for a moment, the room fell quiet.

Later in the game, the group was getting tired, but Chris wasn’t done yet. He leaned back, arms stretched behind his head, and grinned. “You know, George, you seem to know everything about her. Should I be worried you’re my competition?”

George’s jaw tightened, and he leaned forward, his voice dangerously calm. “I’m just saying maybe you shouldn’t pretend to have a crush when you don’t even know the basics.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, still smirking. “Who says I’m pretending?”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “Wait, what?”

Chris winked at you, his tone still awfully calm. “Relax, I’m kidding. Mostly. Unless you’re interested, in which case…”

George stood abruptly, cutting him off. “Alright, I think we’ve had enough for tonight.”

He left the room without another word, leaving you and the rest of the flatmates staring after him in stunned silence. Chris glanced at you, his smirk softening. “What’s wrong with him, I was only joking?”

You shrugged, trying to shake off the weird tension. “I’ll go check on him.”

You found George in the kitchen. He was scrubbing the counter with a level of focus that suggested he was trying to erase more than just crumbs. The faint hum of the fridge filling the space as you leaned against the kitchen counter. George stood a few steps away, arms still scrubbing. His hair, a soft chestnut brown that always seemed to fall perfectly without any effort, was slightly mussed, and his jaw clenched as he stared at the counter.

“Hey,” you said, propping yourself up on your elbows.

George didn’t look at you. His beautiful blue eyes, usually so clear and steady, flicked toward the counter instead. “Hey,” he responded.

George said, his voice sharper than he intended. He finally looked up, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, the weight of it was enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

The kitchen light caught his eyes, making them impossibly blue, like the sky just after a rainstorm. You could see the frustration etched into his face, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his lips pressed together like he was holding something back.

You leaned against the counter, watching him. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said shortly, his tone jarring.

“Right.” You crossed your arms, not believing him for a second. “So the whole moody silence thing is just for fun, then?”

That earned you a faint, fake laugh. He set the sponge down with a sigh, finally turning to face you. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired.”

“Uh-huh.” You tilted your head, studying him. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Chris, does it?”

George rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair. “Chris’s an idiot.”

“Okay,” you said slowly. “But why does that bother you so much? He was just joking around.”

George’s jaw tightened. “Because he doesn’t know you.”

The intensity of his words surprised you. “What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t know anything about you,” George said, his voice rising slightly. “I’ve known you for ages. He doesn’t know shit, like that you hate lamb no matter if it’s his or not or that you can’t stand his awkward karaoke singing or that you hum when you’re nervous. He doesn’t know you reread the same book every year because it makes you feel safe, or that you always eat the edges of your toast first because you like saving the best part for last. He just… throws out stupid lines like it’s all a joke.”

You stared at him, stunned by the outburst. “George…”

He looked away, shaking his head. “Forget it. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m getting so worked up. It’s not my business.”

You stepped closer, your heart thudding louder in your chest with every inch you closed between you. “George,” you said again, “do you want a hug?”

The question caught him off guard, and for a second, he blinked at you like you’d spoken in another language. “What?”

“A hug,” you repeated, smiling gently. “You look like you could use one.”

He hesitated, his arms unfolding awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “Uh… sure?”

You didn’t wait for him to decide fully. Instead, you closed the distance and wrapped your arms around him, your head resting against his shoulder. His body tensed at first, like he was unused to the softness of the moment, but then he relaxed, his arms coming around you hesitantly at first and then more firmly.

He smelled like the faintest trace of aftershave and the laundry detergent you both used. His body was warm, and for a second, you let yourself sink into the comfort of it.

When you pulled back, you caught the faint pink tint creeping up his cheeks. He was looking anywhere but at you now, rubbing the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with himself. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Are you blushing?” you teased, grinning.

“No,” he said quickly, his voice a little too high.

You laughed, crossing your arms. “It’s okay, George. It’s just me.”

He let out a huff of air, finally looking at you. “You don’t get it,” he muttered.

“Don’t get what?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “Chris’s an idiot. That’s all.”

You sighed, stepping closer again. “You’re being stupid, you know that? It’s not like I’m interested in Chris or anything.”

He blinked, his expression shifting. “You’re not?”

“No,” you said giggling. “Fucking hell George, just stop talking.”

And then, before you could overthink it, you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss you’d imagined when you’d let your mind wander late at night. It was softer, lighter. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, and for a moment, he didn’t move.

But then his hands came up to cup your face, pulling you closer. The kiss continued, your heart pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it. His fingers were slightly wet from his scrubbing, his touch almost like a ghost, and when he pulled back just enough to look at you, you saw something in his eyes that made your knees weak.

He stared at you, wide-eyed. “Oh,” he said quietly.

You laughed, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Um… okay,” he stammered, his face reddening again.

You smiled, leaning your forehead against his. “You’re actually quite cute when you’re nervous, you know that?”

“Stop,” he murmured, finally smiling. “But I thought you liked Chris.”

You leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, “Of course I don’t, you’re the only idiot i’d like”

George let out a breath he didn’t seem to realize he’d been holding. “Good,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Because I’m pretty sure I’d lose my mind if I had to watch him keep trying.”

You laughed softly, the tension between you dissolving into something warmer, sweeter. “You must know he was only joking?”

He smirked, finally regaining some of his usual confidence. “Yeah I definitely knew that.”

For a moment, the world outside the two of you didn’t exist—the messy kitchen, the flatmates in the living room, even Chris with his incessant teasing. All of it faded away as George leaned in again, his lips kissing yours with a little more certainty this time.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “So, what happens now?” he asked.

You smiled, threading your fingers through his. “Well, for starters, you’re going to stop being moody every time Chris makes a joke.”

George chuckled, his fingers squeezing yours lightly. “No promises.”

“And,” you added, tilting your head to meet his gaze, “we’ll figure the rest out as we go. Okay?”

His smile widened, his blue eyes softening. “Okay.”

Just as you were about to kiss him again, the sound of Chris’s voice carried from the living room. “Hey! What’s going on in there?”

George groaned, resting his head on your shoulder dramatically. “He’s actually insufferable”

You laughed, nudging him gently. “Come on. Let’s get back out there before he starts another round of Truth or Dare.”

George sighed but didn’t let go of your hand. “Fine. But if he says one more word about a wedding, I’m throwing him out.”

You grinned, pulling him toward the door. “You’re so dramatic, Oh my God.”

As you stepped back into the living room, George’s let go of your hand, Chris immediately spotted the change between you both. He raised an eyebrow. “Look who decided to rejoin us.”

Arthur glanced between the two of you, his eyes narrowing. “Wait a second. Are you two—”

“Shut up,” George interrupted, though his tone lacked any real heat.

You squeezed his hand, laughing softly. “Don’t worry, Arthur. You’ll get the full story later.”

Chris leaned back, clearly delighted. “About time,” he said with a grin. “Guess I’ll have to back off now, huh?”

“Guess you will,” George shot back, his tone dry but the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

As the laughter died down, you caught Chris’s eye and couldn’t help but smirk. “For the record,” you said, your voice carrying a teasing edge, “I always knew you were joking, Chris.”

Chris put a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Joking? I would never joke about something so serious.”

George muttered something under his breath, and you grabbed his hand giving him a reassuring squeeze. “It’s fine,” you whispered, just for him. Then you turned back to Chris, “Well, thanks for your confession, I think.”

Chris laughed, leaning back with exaggerated smugness. “What can I say? I have a gift.”

“Your gift is being obnoxious,” George replied, though his tone had softened now, the sharpness replaced with a reluctant smile.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Alright, enough about that. Who’s next in Truth or Dare? Arthur?”

The next morning, Chris caught you both in the kitchen, you sat on the counter, leaning in to talk to George. He raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Well, well. Looks like my work here is done.”

George groaned. “Don’t start.”

But you just laughed, jumping off the counter to slip your arms around George’s waist, resting your head on his back.

[bringbackmaes14]

It's fine; you just have to understand that friendships between people in different age groups don't and can't necessarily work the same as friendships between people in the same age group.

I'm not even kidding when I say that when I was a kid/teenager two of my best friends were the grocery bagger at my local supermarket, Mr. David, who was in his mid 50s, and Mr. Theodore, an usher at my church, who was in his mid 70s. I was bullied and ostracized in my own age group, so I didn't have a lot of friends my own age. But I saw these two old guys a couple times a week. Mr. David had met my mom when she was pregnant with me so he'd been around my whole life and watched me grow. And we'd been going to the church where Mr. Theodore was an usher and since I was 3 years old.

And the thing was, it wasn't a friendship where I could invite these old guys over for sleepovers or to play tag or to watch SpongeBob, and they didn't talk about politics or playing golf or retirement plans with me. But when I saw them, I'd get a great big bear hug and a "how ya doin, kiddo?" They'd ask me how school was and I'd ask them how things were at the grocery store or the church. They'd ask me how my siblings were doing, and I'd ask Mr. David about his nieces and Mr. Theodore about his grandkids. I had a secret handshake with both of them (that now that I think about it might've been the same handshake for both of them but they didn't know each other so it was fine). We'd tell each other jokes. We'd make promises to see each other again when my parents eventually dragged me off to the next errand or sunday school class.

And those were good friendships! Not every good friendship has to include tons of quality time and numerous shared interests. I'm sure tons of us have friends now, even in our own age group, where we text them or see them once every six months, catch up for a few hours, and then we don't hear from them from a long time, and that's just how the cycle goes, but you still consider that spotty cycle a friendship!

And I'll also say: I'll never forget how devastated I was when I found out Mr. David had died in an accident. I remember going to the grocery store when I was 13 and asking a manager where he was because I hadn't seen him for a while, and the manager pulled my mom and I aside and said "Sweetie I'm so sorry. I know you and Mr. David were very close, but he died in a car accident three weeks ago." That was the first major death in my life. I'll never forget how furious I was when I told teachers and therapists that my best friend had died in an accident, and when I explained that my best friend had been an "old" man named Mr. David, I was told children couldn't be best friends with old men. I still tell people to this day that Mr. David was my first best friend.

I know now that there are definitely more fulfilling ways to have friendships than the friendships I had with Mr. David and Mr. Theodore (Mr. Theodore is still alive to my knowledge, I just don't live in that state anymore), but I don't regret the friendships I had with them at all, in fact I'm very very grateful for them.

My mom was constantly stressed but very much doing her best to raise me and my 3 siblings, and my dad was around but he was an abusive piece of shit. I'd had a boatload of disrespectful and downright demeaning therapists, and 9 times out of 10 the teachers I had either brushed me off entirely or loved me right up until they didn't. Suffice to say my view of adulthood was pretty shitty.

But these two old guys were there to remind me adults can be kind, to kids and adults and everyone in between! And adults can be silly! And adults can hug people just because they're happy to see them. And adults can have fun. And adults can love- their parents, their children, their spouses, their neighbors, their coworkers, their friends, a stranger walking by who just needs a smile.

Think about all the lessons kids and teens could learn from adult friends.

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[mlqueen89]

Two | Ego

i took the miracle move on drug the effects were temporary (i love you) it's ruining my life  

Fortnight by Taylor Swift ft. Post Malone | TTPD |  

pairing: jake “hangman” seresin / ofc (top gun: maverick) 

rating: 18+ (minors dni) 

warnings: smut, mentions of p in v sex, mentions of oral (f receiving).    

word count: 9,776 

summary: “if it isn’t the consequences of my own actions.” in which ellie has to deal with the consequences of having the best sex ever with an actual pilot who she actually has to work with. A familiar face makes an appearance to guide ellie through politics at miramar.  

A/N: guys guys guys, you are giving me liiiiife. the reception to the first chapter has been crazy. lots of jake head canon developing here. essentially, i've decided that watermelon sugar by harry styles is jake coded. for... reasons. my guy is all acts of service. 

this one was also beta read by my bestest friend, so this one goes out to jj. love you girl, thanks for reading the smuttiest part of my brain. i also apologize for the amount of taylor swift/pop culture references (srry, not srry). also, the number of videos i watched on F-14s (tomcats) and F-18s (super hornets) is cray.

working my way through the november prompts, slowly but surely! there are a few left, so if you want to request, head on over there.

❥ playlist ♡ masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ previous chapter ♡ next chapter ❥  

Ellie groaned deeply, her face dropping to her hands as she slouched over the kitchen island from her perch on the stool.     

“I sat on his face, Yan,” Ellie mumbled through her fingers, her voice laced with the mortification of the memory from that afternoon. The way Lieutenant Seresin’s eyes passed over her, undressing her, seeing the mark he’d made on her neck and then coolly, calmly, pretending like he wasn’t put off by her presence. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck until it radiated from her cheeks. “Now I have to work with him.”  

Yan, unfazed, was busy bustling around the small kitchen, assembling her version of a “girl dinner,” which currently included an obscene number of jarred olives in a variety of colours, a smattering of mixed Harvest Snaps, Ritz crackers and a chunk of Swiss cheese she didn’t bother slicing. As she pushed herself up on her tip toes to peek into cupboards, her manicured nailed fingers reaching for a box she’d seen near the back of the space, Yan reminded Ellie of the squirrel family that lived under the deck at their old college house.  

“I dunno,” Yan replied with a shrug, nonchalant as ever, giving the box she’d retrieved from the back of the cabinet on top of the fridge a shake. “Maybe he’ll forget?”  

The remainder of her day at Miramar had been filled with facility tours, and security briefings, introductions to ground crew and the radar teams in the tower—the usual M.O. of any other airfield she’d worked on for the past six years. Routine, smooth, reflexive, comforting in its predictability after her unexpected morning.  

To her relief, she didn’t see Lieutenant Seresin again and in part, it was because she hadn’t necessarily been looking for him. Between seeing him again, being caught off-guard, her mind scrambling and having RADM Stark offer her concealer, she’d had her fill of shame and awkward interactions to last the entire week, possibly month.   

When, at the end of the day, Tony let her know that he’d be emailing her in the next hour or so about her office space, she was already thinking about how quickly she could scurry off to her car and peel out of the parking lot.  

Driving home from North Island was completed in a fugue state, doing everything she could to keep her mind off what would happen from now until whenever her contract was over in a few months and the possibility of her putting in for remote work. Canada, Mexico, Iceland… somewhere, anywhere far away from him.  

By the time she tripped through the front door, trudging up the stairs, shoulders sunk low, Ellie was glad Nic wasn’t home. She wasn’t sure she could handle the interrogation surrounding how her first day had gone (terribly) and why she had disappeared from the Halloween party so abruptly last night without saying goodbye. Both discussions would lead to the same, inevitable, infuriatingly handsome, source. Lt. Seresin. A pilot. A mistake. A five-time in one night mistake. 

When she’d instead found Yan in the kitchen, scrounging around in the cupboards, Ellie had offloaded her previous night and the resulting day in what felt like a single sigh, a mass exodus of mismatched thoughts and side drabbles. Disaster, social and career ruin the overarching themes. 

Ellie lifted her head just enough to scoff in her roommate’s general direction. “Forget? He’s a pilot, it’s highly unlikely. Have you ever met a pilot? Those guys have egos the size of the jets they fly. There’s no way he’s going to just forget without some kind of semi-serious head trauma. Unfortunately.”  

Before Yan could respond, mouth opened in what Ellie could only assume would come next, she held up a finger, a footnote to add, “Before you say it: Bradley doesn’t count. He’s a weird… mustachioed outlier.” 

Data couldn’t track the trajectory of Rooster. Ellie had tried and failed many a time—just when she thought she had pegged him, he escaped the pigeonhole with a dogfight level of evasive maneuvering. With a lack of data or evidence, she’d been forced to accept that Rooster was just untraceable. He didn’t fit the mold of the pilots she’d met.  

“Okay, but hear me out, maybe he will forget without a smack to the dome?” Yan tapped her chin as she glanced down at her plate of smorgasbord, as if considering what was missing. “For all we know, this is his usual modus operandi and you’re just another girl in the long line of hook ups?”  

Ellie felt her stomach drop. Long line of hook ups. “Great. That makes me feel so much better.”    

Yan popped a few pitted olives into her mouth and tipped her head, gathering herself for a moment before she spoke again. “Let’s have a choose your own adventure moment: do you want friend or therapist version of Yan Like, do you want advice advice or just to vent?”  

“Are you going to bill me if I say therapist, Yan’s version?”  

“How about we split the difference?” Yan held the absurdly sized chunk of Swiss cheese in a two—handed grip, nibbling at the corner as she leaned across the island. She was never going to get out from under the squirrel family allusion at this rate. “If I was your therapist, I’d say that maybe we should look at how this serves you? What does this embarrassment, feeling it, stewing in it, what does it do for you?”  

Ellie considered for a moment, her forehead slowly coming to rest on the cool quartz countertop as if the answers could be found there.  

How did the embarrassment of working with a man she’d slept with serve her?  

Maybe the root of the mortification was the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about it, about him. The intrusive thoughts, floating around her brain, still, of the man who had undone her so completely, mapped out her body with his mouth, re-wired her brain through life-altering, transcendent orgasm, one chasing another, each cascading into the next like a line of tumbling dominoes.  

Maybe her fluster was tucked behind the idea that he’d dragged sounds from her with his tongue, fingers, filled her in ways she hadn’t realized she’d been empty until he was inside of her, easing his way in as she gasped and moaned. She’d made sounds she could never have imagined making in the presence of another person, sounds she wasn’t even aware she was capable of making.  

The shame was most likely rooted in the fact that she had liked it, enjoyed every moment he’d been on her and inside of her. Touching her, playing her like an instrument, tugging at all the strings that moved her. She’d melted at the way he called her sweetheart and darlin’ in that voice of his, drawl rough and husky, while doing the things he did to her. How eager he’d sounded when he’d asked her what she wanted from him and how he’d nearly read her mind and fulfilled her needs without needing to be told. 

Ellie could only groan in response, the sound muffled into the countertop as she shifted on her stool, clenching her thighs together tightly as a warmth coiled low in her abdomen.  

The embarrassment didn’t serve her, though it did serve to remind her that she had to have her head on straight going forward. This couldn’t happen again, even if it was all she could think about, even if her body was telling her she wanted more. Her control, careful and composed, had to be stronger; it couldn’t happen again—especially not with him, not with a pilot. Maybe if she repeated it enough, hummed it to herself like a mantra, she’d get herself back on the trail leading to the summit that was the culmination of her life’s work. 

Lt. Seresin was her Voldemort. He who shall not be named. Her Darth Vader. Her Hans Gruber. She couldn’t have sex with Voldemort again. Couldn’t risk the Resistance and give herself to the Dark Side. Couldn’t let the terrorists take Nakatomi Tower on Christmas. 

“It doesn’t.” 

“Exactly. I’m not sure what just went through your beautiful noggin’ just now, but next steps: be the badass I know you are. So what? You had a spectacular night—this guy has no idea how lucky he is to tap that.” Ellie wasn’t sure how seriously she would take it if her actual therapist sat across from her and crunched on gherkin pickles, folded between a slice of prosciutto and used tap that to drive home a point. She’d let it slide for Yan. 

“Also, don’t think I don’t see it,” Yan pointed with the Harvest Snap olive hybrid in Ellie’s general direction. “I’m being nice and I’m not even going to touch the fact that you had crazy, wild sex with a guy dressed as a pilot considering your no pilots rule.”  

“In my, very feeble attempt at self-defense: Who dresses as their actual profession on Halloween?”  

“Oh, that’s just Big Dick Energy vibes, El.” Yan smirked, quirking an eyebrow, as if she was waiting for Ellie to confirm if the vibe had basis in reality. When Ellie simply rolled her eyes, Yan continued, “let’s be real though—we’re in San Diego. You could probably throw a stone and hit a minimum of three pilots in a five-foot radius.” 

Ellie propped her elbow up on the counter, resting her head in her hand, her eyes scanning the swirled pattern in the quartz to the right of Yan’s paper plate. “So, just like that? I just, what? Duplicate the BDE?” 

“More like mirror it. Sometimes that’s all it takes,” Yan nodded, using a Harvest Snap to spear an olive. “I’m not supposed to talk about it, so I won’t, but if I could talk about it, I’d say that I have a client who is an author, who shall remain anonymous, and he uses this crazy, hostage negotiation tactic when he wants to disarm and redirect.” 

Hostage negotiation. Great. This is what is had come to. 

Yan was right. Ellie couldn’t honestly say she was thinking straight when he’d looked at her with his green eyes and easy grin, the level of confidence with which he carried himself so goddamned attractive. She definitely hadn’t been thinking with the prefrontal cortex part of her brain when he’d touched her waist and leaned in close. 

Ellie levelled Yan with a narrowed gaze. “What would friend Yan say?”  

“As your friend who has witnessed some spectacular mistakes in your romantic track record, I’d say,” Yan paused for a moment, considering, Ellie thought, on how she might soften the therapist speak, “so what? You hooked up with him. Big deal. You didn’t know he was a real pilot. It was Halloween. You thought, reasonably, that he wasn’t. I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s not like you have to work directly with him, right?” 

“Except I actually do.” Ellie sighed—she'd already thought about it on the drive home, if avoidance was a viable tactic for the next little while. “I’m the one with the new tech, remember? That means seeing him all the time. He’s part of the team they’ve recalled—he’s one of the best the Navy has to offer. He might need to test my tech if I have any hope of getting it off the ground.”  

Yan paused, mid bite of her cracker, processing for a moment in silence. “Okay. First—love the pun. Second, yeah, that sucks, but maybe he’s, like, cool? Like, he hasn’t been a complete ass about it yet, right?” 

“He pretended like he didn’t even know me,” Ellie muttered, crossing her arms as the memory of his infuriating smugness resurfaced, the way his eyes found the mark he’d made on her like she was his. The way she, for a fraction of a second, let him suck all the air out of the space between them. “Which, I guess is fair, since we didn’t exactly exchange names before....”  

“... before he fucked your brains out?” Yan offered, snapping a piece of Ritz cracker off between her teeth, nonchalantly, as if fucked your brains out was a normal, everyday, part of conversations she engaged in.  

Ellie balled up a nearby tea towel and threw it at Yan as hard as she could manage, and it fell woefully short on the island between them. 

“Okay, so, he’s trying to be professional. That’s not necessarily a bad thing?” Yan turned her back to Ellie for a moment, heading to the fridge to grab the jug of pink lemonade from the fridge before she turned and poured it into a cup that sat on the edge of the sink. 

Ellie shook her head as Yan shook the juice jug in her direction. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just—weird? I don’t know how to act around him now.” 

“Oh girl, act like it didn’t happen, obviously. We both know you’re the queen of compartmentalizing, right?” 

Ellie sighed, sweeping her hair back, unconsciously touching the concealer hidden hickey, feather-light. “This is going to be a bit harder though. I just wasn’t planning on hooking up with someone I’d have to see every day.” 

Yan propped her elbows up on the counter across from Ellie before she carefully slid the plate of crackers, olives, cheese and mini pickles toward her with a grin. “Well, welcome to what we true believers call the Frequency Illusion. You’ll see him for as long as he’s front and center in your noodle. Simple explanation. Either that or you have some karmic balance to restore.” 

Ellie sighed, a sigh that sounded more like a drawn-out lament. “You make it sound like a go around kicking puppies.” 

“As my grandma used to say—God rest her soul—” Yan continued, hearing Ellie’s comment about karmic retribution, and traced a cross over her body, turning her eyes upward for a moment before she mocked pouring one out, “pussy rules the world. You set the tone. Own it. Be confident. If someone is going to squirm, let it be him. You’re holding all the cards.” 

“Set the tone?” Ellie repeated, slowly, considering. She didn’t bother to ask why Yan’s grandma, an unassuming small-statured, Filipino lady, obsessed with backgammon and finding the freshest cinnamon scones up until the very day of her passing, would have come to such a firm stance on pussy and its power level. 

“Yeah,” Yan was around the island now, fluffing Ellie’s hair and fixing the collar on her blazer, “you’re the fucking gorgeous, brainy radar engineer. He’s just some dude who got lucky on Halloween.” 

Ellie shrugged, avoiding eye—contact with Yan. “Maybe you’re right.” 

Yan leaned forward to tap Ellie on the tip of the nose, evidently satisfied with herself. “I’m always right, girly pop.” 

“Oh, is that right, huh?” Ellie swatted at Yan as she danced away, skip-hopping over to the fridge.   

Yan grinned, piling more olives onto her plate. “You know it. Now, eat some olives and get your game face on. Tomorrow’s another day, and you’re not letting some hotshot flyboy get the better of you. Even if he’s gorgeous and a generous partner.”  

Ellie shook her head, but she picked up a cracker as Yan tapped the plate before migrating to the living room. “God, this is a mess.”  

“Eh,” Yan shrugged, dropping to the couch and patting the empty spot beside her as she nestled under an oversized blanket. “Messy is more fun. Let’s watch Love is Blind Brazil, there’s apparently this super unhinged guy, Evandro who picked this girl, Ariela, who clearly isn’t over her ex—” 

“Speaking of,” Ellie crossed the room and dropped to the couch beside Yan, tugging some of the blanket over for herself. “What happened to Frankenstein?” 

“Oh, turns out he couldn’t keep it together,” Yan didn’t bother to look at Ellie, waving the remote at the TV as she scrolled, her lips quirked up in the corners into a smirk, “needed someone with a bit more heart.” 

“You’re so ridiculous.” 

Naval Air Station Lemoore, California - 2004 

Even after hours, the Californian sun sinking low on the horizon, Lemoore Naval Air Base was alive with a low hum of activity. F-14 Tomcats rested, wings folded in against their bodies, on the tarmac like sleeping giants, the lights from nearby hangars casting long shadows across the hot asphalt. 

She’d woken from another nightmare. It was always the same, a nightmare in which her dad didn’t come home, his plane screaming through the perfect blue sky one moment and then whistling to the surface of the azure water below, no ejection seat, no parachute. Just churning waves as they swallowed the body of the grey metal, silently, until there was nothing left. 

It was why, at 8:45 PM on a hot fall Californian evening, she found herself in her Justice League pajamas, shoes tied haphazardly, sneaking around the base. 

“Dad, we’re not supposed to be here,” Ellie whispered, her eyes wide as she hustled across the airfield, her small, seven-year-old hand clenching her father’s as he snuck from corner to corner, aircraft to aircraft. Stealth mode he’d called it. In her chest, Ellie’s heart pounded, the excitement mixed with the mischievousness of it all.  

Rick “Hollywood” Neven grinned, a roguish glint in his eyes as he glanced down at her by his side. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I know the boss.” He offered her a sly wink and Ellie could feel the anxiety ebb away slightly. She trusted him, always had. He was her dad, after all—the coolest person in the world.  

Slipping through the open hangar bay doors, Ellie’s eyes focused on the jet parked up in the center of the building. The one she’d only ever seen from a distance, her fingers laced through the chain link fence, her mom at her back, as the engines fired to life and her dad took to the air. Now, larger than life, it was here, looming large over her tiny frame. Ellie’s breath caught as her dad led her closer, the heavy scent of engine oil and metal filling her nostrils. Ground crew engineers milled about, running through their checks, but none of them stopped or questioned her dad. He was a legend here, and everyone knew it. Everyone knew him. 

Rick nodded at one of the crew members, and they moved aside as he led Ellie closer to the jet. “Come on, squirt,” he whispered, lifting her up to stand on a ladder beside the plane’s body. “Want to see where the magic happens?”  

Ellie’s eyes widened as she gazed at the jet’s gleaming surface. “This is your plane?”  

“All mine,” he said proudly, patting the side of the jet, his hand passing over his name Lt. Rick Neven and call sign, Hollywood, painted on the side just below the seam where the bonnet would connect. On the body, beside the rear seat, Lt. Leonard Wolfe, Wolfman was painted in white, his RIO.  

As she stared, wide-eyed, taking it all in, he pointed to different parts, explaining each with ease of someone who had lived and breathed this life for years, someone who could identify this machine as an extension of his own body. “That’s the engine, and those are the intakes. That right there is the radar, it’s here, in the nose too—probably the most important thing in the whole bird.”  

Ellie’s eyes scanned the instruments inside the cockpit, levers and buttons, throttles and sparkplugs. “Why?” Her face scrunched in thought.  

“Because without it, I wouldn’t know what’s coming my way. You see, when you’re flying up there, things happen fast. You need to know everything around you—what’s out there, who’s out there.” He turned, giving her a proud smile. “That’s where a good radar tech comes in. But the best radar tech?” He winked. “They’re sitting right behind the pilot.”  

“Like the RIO?” she asked, her voice full of wonder, eyes trained on her godfather’s name.  

“Exactly.” He gestured for her to step up higher, holding her waist as he lifted her into the cockpit. Ellie settled her tiny frame into the seat, her feet barely skimming the pedals in the footwell. Reaching back into the rear seat, he grabbed his helmet, the one adorned with his call sign, and the “lady butt” as Ellie called it. Carefully, he placed it on her head. The weight of it pressed on her neck, far too big, but she didn’t care. The weight of it made her feel important—like she was a part of something bigger, like she was in the cockpit with her dad. 

“Dad…” Ellie began, her voice small and muffled from under the oversized helmet as she pushed it up so she could see him. “What’s it like? Flying up there?”  

Her dad leaned against the side of the F-14, his gaze drifting out toward the open hangar doors where the night sky stretched endlessly above. “It’s like…freedom. Like nothing else in the world matters. Just you, the jet, and the sky. And when you’re up there, you feel like you can do anything.”  

Ellie’s eyes sparkled as she imagined, endless skies, horizon boundless, freedom. “Maybe I can be your RIO one day?”  

Her dad chuckled and Ellie could feel her heart swell, the thought of being here with her dad in his favourite place. He reached out and gently tapped the helmet on her head. “You’re already halfway there, kid. One day, you’ll be up there with me. I’ll be the one flying, and you’ll be the one keeping me safe, making sure we’re on the right track.”  

Ellie smiled so wide her cheeks hurt. “Promise?”  

“I promise,” he said softly, his eyes locking onto hers, and Ellie could feel the pride growing in her, the thought of following in her dad’s footsteps both thrilling and nerve wracking. “Just don’t tell your uncle Wolfman. You’ll be putting him out of a job and I don’t know if the Navy is ready for two Nevens up there.” 

For a moment, it was just them in that cockpit, the noise of the hangar fading into the background as her dad told her to pull back on this throttle and showed her where the ejection handles were. Ellie could feel the importance of it, the way her dad talked about all of it. If her dad said she could do it, then she could—her hero, strong, invincible. Maybe she could be his RIO one day.   

He grinned and grabbed the straps of the helmet, giving it a loving shake. “Alright, kiddo. You got school tomorrow. Let’s get out of here before someone catches us.”  

Ellie laughed as he lifted her out of the cockpit and set her down, but as they walked out of the hangar, her hand still in his, she couldn’t help but glance back at the jet.  

“I think we just found your call sign, huh?” Her dad hummed as they stepped out into the night air, the sun now gone from the sky, replaced by the moon glow of a clear night. “Eleanor Rio Neven.” 

Ellie glanced up at him, her gap-toothed grin, wide. “I like it.” 

“Rio it is then. Hollywood and Rio.” 

One day, she thought. One day she’d earn that call sign. 

Ellie glanced at the email again to stick the office assignment in the forefront of her mind, standing in front of her open car trunk, before she locked her phone and tucked it into the back pocket of her pressed pants. She was thankful she wasn’t Navy; she knew her strengths fashion wise, and it wasn’t the khaki tan colour of the service uniforms. Civilian contractors had the best of both worlds.  

Grabbing the heavy box of her things, Ellie dragged it from the trunk and hefted it, balancing it on her hip as she reached for the close trunk button.  

“Comm Center 11,” the security officer barely suppressed a chuckle as Ellie used the ledge in front of the glass to hold the box while she fished out her pass, “that’s clear across the airfield from here. You’ll have to take the perimeter; they’ll be running drills at this time. Pattern’s full.”  

“Thanks.” Ellie nodded, taking a moment to clip her pass to the waist of her pants before she lifted the box and used her hip to open the door onto the base.  

Shifting the weight of the box, Ellie tipped her chin as she passed a few officers and a few of the ground crew she half-recognized from the myriad of tours yesterday. Her things weren’t heavy individually—a few office supplies, models of the tech, schematics, a monitor, her MacBook—but stacked awkwardly, they made a clumsy, unbalanced load in the flimsy box with the caved in corners, reinforced with layers of packing tape.  

The morning sun was already intense, gleaming off the pavement so she had to squint as she moved forward, all her concentration on not dropping the box as she felt the cardboard bow under the shifting weight of her belongings, the occasional silence between the sound of jet engines and shouting staff filled by the steady clicking of her heels.  

“Need a hand?”  

The voice was unmistakable, easy, with a hint of banter around the edges, the barely concealed smugness cutting through the noise of the airfield. Ellie knew who it belonged almost immediately, the feeling of recognition hitting her square in the gut before she turned.  

Hangman. 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Ellie set her shoulders, adjusting her grip on the unwieldy box. Set the tone, she reminded herself, hearing Yan’s voice echo in the back of her mind. She had to hold her ground.   

Turning, her eyes landed on him immediately. He was standing just a few feet away, arms crossed casually over his chest, the khaki tan of his service khakis was definitely doing something for him, something dangerous for his sharp features and easy confidence. He knew he looked good. She could feel herself bristle slightly, caught off-guard by how cool and collected he looked, his lips quirked into a lazy grin, almost infuriatingly amused as he took her in. It felt tailor made to annoy the living hell out of her at this specific moment. He looked ready to swoop in if she so much as tipped the box the wrong way and she wasn’t sure if that grated on her nerves, or if it was something else entirely. 

“No, I don’t need a hand, Lieutenant Seresin,” she replied firmly, adjusting her grip on the box and her resolve. She turned around again resolutely ignoring him and starting off in her original direction, the corner of the already flimsy cardboard buckling, her belongings shifting inside as the box threatened to give way any moment. 

Sure enough, she heard his footsteps fall into pace beside her, an easy saunter as if he had all the time in the world. “You’re a civilian contractor; you can take it easy with the Lieutenant. You can call me Jake…” he began casually, before his voice dropped just enough to add weight to his next words, “since we’ve already been… acquainted.” 

Ellie’s jaw tightened, her pace slowing until she came to a stop. The box crumpled further under her suddenly tightened grip, and she thought she heard the tape coming away from the bottom of the box. She turned slightly, just enough to level him with a glare, all heat and warning. “I’m aware of what happened. That was… before.” Before she knew he was a real pilot. Before she knew cocky and smug were his default personality traits. “This is work, not—” 

“Not what?” he interrupted carefully, the mischievous glint in his eye almost twinkling now. “Not two, consenting adults who had a good time and now coincidentally find themselves working on the same base?” 

Great. So he hadn’t recently happened upon a semi-serious, short-term memory wiping head injury. How unlucky for her. She’d have to work on quashing the butterflies causing the stupid feelings in her stomach currently. The ones that told her she liked looking at his aggravating, annoying, idiotic, handsome face and hearing the charming southern drawl in his words. What was it that Yan had said? Another girl in a long line of hook ups? 

Ellie felt her face heat and not from the sun continuing to beat down. “That’s exactly what this is, actually. Coincidence. That’s it,” Ellie lifted her chin, defiant in the face of his easy charm, her voice dipping low as a crew member zipped past them in a golf cart. “One night. A one-time thing.” 

This time, he broke into a wry grin, but he didn’t speak, and Ellie felt as if he was waiting for her to continue, so she did. 

“Listen, I don’t know what your angle is, but whatever you think happened between us? It won’t happen again.” She kept her gaze trained on him, looking for the moment it might sink in. “I’m here to do a job, that’s it.” Ellie turned again, squinting against the sun as she continued on her way, her dramatic exit. She’d taken three full strides, the box betraying her confident pace, folding in as a piece of lose tape flapped in the breeze and stuck to her hand as her belongings rolled around, loose at the bottom, before Jake was at her side again.  

His eyebrow quirked up, but he didn’t look fazed. Amused, that was the more fitting word, Ellie thought. He looked entertained. By her struggle, by her refusal of his offer for help, even now as the box pitched, weight shifting oddly as the things inside moved around, uncontrolled. “My angle?” He repeated, almost as if he couldn’t believe it wasn’t butter. His tone was teasing and light. “So, you think I have an angle? You been doing a lot of thinking about me then, sweetheart?”  

Ellie rolled her eyes hard, and she picked up her pace. She pointedly ignored his question about her extracurricular thoughts, which definitely included thoughts of him despite her better judgement, but he didn’t need the confirmation. “I don’t know what it is, yet” the box pitched, and Hangman’s hand moved to right it, but Ellie angled it away from him, the sound of her monitor being smacked by the decorative arc reactor paperweight sending her stomach into a tip. “But yes, I’m sure you have one.”  

Firmly, Ellie pushed down the memory of Halloween. The chemistry between them had been a wildfire, quick, easy, starting as something small, possibly insignificant, and then grew unexpectedly, fast, all-consuming, searing, white hot, uncontrollable, unpredictable. It was only spoiled by seeing him again and realizing that he had been telling her the whole truth and nothing but the truth the entire time. He was a pilot. A Lieutenant. A pilot just like every other pilot she’d ever met. Cocky, self-assured, overly confident, reckless. It left a bitter taste in her mouth. “Whatever you’re thinking, do me a favour—don’t. You’re not fooling me.”    

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” He responded, smirking as he watched her wrestle with the box each step of the way. Part of her appreciated that he let her, liked that he respected that she’d said no and turned down his help.  

Before she could deflect, Ellie felt her heel catch just enough on an uneven bit of pavement, and the box, already unbalanced, began to teeter forward, the weight of the shifting contents making it more difficult to recover as she simultaneously tried to save her things and steady herself. Instinctively, she reached out to steady it, but Jake’s hand shot out, steadying her with one hand on her elbow and the other catching the box. He was good… really good. 

“Careful there,” he said softly, all hints of ribbing gone, his eyes locked on hers. “It’d be a shame if all that attitude ended up in a broken ankle.” 

Ellie felt a flush of frustration and something else she wasn’t willing to name, his touch igniting something in her she had to fight to press down again. Stiffening against his grasp, she quickly steadied herself and once she was sure the box was as balanced as she could get it, he carefully let go. In the wake of his skin on hers, she felt a coolness and part of her missed the contact. 

“I can handle myself, thank you” she murmured, but there was less bite. She left no room for him to question her assertation as she straightened herself to stand taller. Looking him dead in the eye was a feat, all six feet of him towering over her, even with the added height of her heels. 

“Never said you couldn’t.” He stepped back, raising his hands in mock surrender, but the smug look didn’t fade. “But just so we’re clear, if you ever need a hand, I’m around. For whatever. Work-related, of course.” 

Ellie didn’t answer, just tightened her grip on the box, ignoring the way her heart had quickened in that split second of closeness, his hand on her arm a beat longer than necessary after she steadied herself. She turned and continued toward her office, keeping her chin high and pretending she couldn’t feel Jake’s eyes on her. 

As she walked away, she heard him call out, “See you around, Ace.” 

“303,” Ellie murmured, clicking past the numbered doors, closed and plated with names that weren’t hers. “304,” she blew out a huff of air as her eyes flicked to the next door. 

She’d broken out into a bit of a sweat by the time she’d made it to Comms building 11, her calves aching. Now she knew why that security officer had laughed at the sight of her, the sad box of things in her grip already failing. Between the pace she’d kept up, a speed between confident stride and hectic hustle to get away from the man she’d been trying to avoid, and the distance between the parking lot and here, she’d hit her workout goal for the entire week. 

“305.” 

Rigby, E. Ellie glanced at the nameplate secured to the door and used her elbow to press down on the paddle handle, maneuvering expertly to use her hip to wedge the port open when she heard the click of the latch releasing. 

Turning into the space, Ellie paused for a moment, glancing back at the nameplate on the door for half a second longer when she took in the sheer size of the office. This had to be some kind of mistake, civilian contractors didn’t get windows, especially not eastern facing windows.  

The nameplate stuck to the door still said her name. The number above the port hadn’t changed. This was 305 and that was her name on the door. 

Stepping further inside, Ellie kicked the door closed behind herself, only registering that another person was in the room when they spoke. 

“Hey, Rio.”  

The call sign hit her, broadside, and drew her eyes immediately to the source.  

The man who leaned against the corner of the window ledge on the other side of the room, arms folded across his chest, was silhouetted against the bright morning light streaming in. Though his face had changed, laugh lines deepened around his eyes, the crease between his brow mostly cemented, likely exacerbated by all the young, hot shot pilots he’d watched breeze through Miramar over the years, she would recognize him anywhere. 

Captain Pete Mitchell. Call sign: Maverick. 

Ellie smirked as he stepped forward, taking the box from her without hesitation and sliding it onto the edge of the small coffee table, situated in front of the quaint sitting area which included a couch and an armchair. Free from the weight of the box, Ellie took a deep breath and, hands on hips, surveyed the space. “I think they made a mistake, Mav. This has to be your office. Way too big to be a civilian contractor’s, that’s for sure.”  

Maverick chuckled and Ellie could see the younger version of the man she’d met years ago behind the softened angles of his face. She guessed, in his eyes, she looked a lot different from the kid running around the airfield, causing trouble, getting in the way, herself. “Pulled a few strings. Anything for Hollywood’s kid.” 

She met his wry grin with a smirk of her own, a flash of gratitude filling her with a sense of the calm of familiarity, but she shook her head with a laugh. “Well, thanks for the royal treatment, but I think it’s a bit much.” Ellie gestured to the large space, the window behind Mav looking out onto the airfield, the grand mahogany desk waiting for a touch of personalization, an expanse of empty bookshelves behind it and the sitting area to her right.  

Her “office” at the base in Turkey had been little more than a space between two filing cabinets, open to the coffee station, water cooler and any Air Force pilot who thought she looked unassuming or unaware. She’d accepted that space as workable for over a year. This, by comparison, was at least seventeen steps up. For one, there was a door. “I was half expecting a supply closet, to be honest. Somewhere with more dust and a lot less… light.” 

Maverick closed the space between them, pulling her into a quick hug before he stepped back to really take her in, his hands framing her shoulders. “How’re you doing, kid? How’s Miramar treating you so far? Wouldn’t expect it’s anything Rio couldn’t handle.” 

“Rio,” Ellie tested out the old call sign, the second time she’d heard it from Mav in such a short time, a soft smile pulling up the corner of her lips slightly, “haven’t heard that one in a long time. I’m good.”  

She’d leave out the footnotes that included Hangman, or any possible complications that were attached to him for now. Instead, Ellie took a moment to look at Maverick, she hadn’t been expecting him to be here, hadn’t expected to feel the comfort in the presence of his easy nature. Seeing him settled the anxiety simmering beneath the surface, if only just a little bit. “So, they called you in to keep tabs on me, huh?” 

“Something like that.” A knowing look crossed his face, a smirk, the look of the old Maverick Ellie had known for the majority of her life. Cocky, self-assured, non-conformist, Maverick was the typical archetype of a pilot, at least every one that Ellie had ever encountered. “I figured I’d be a friendlier face than Admiral Simpson. Someone to get you started. I know Miramar’s not the… smoothest place to transition into.” 

Admiral Simpson. Stuffy, hard-lined, hard-nosed, Admiral Simpson. The same Admiral Simpson that had watch-checked and foot-tapped his way through her presentation the other day. The same Admiral she couldn’t help but feel would sideline her project if it meant delaying a mission for even half a minute. On the other hand, there was RADM Stark—welcoming and excited, and yet, there was something unreadable about her. Something that Ellie wasn’t sure she could trust behind the glad to have more estrogen in the room facade. 

There was a reason she had a reputation as someone to impress, there was a reason she was thriving in the man-made, old boys club that was the Navy. 

Ellie made a face, and Maverick simply pressed his lips into a thin line and raised his eyebrows quietly. Maverick understood—he almost always did, especially when it came to following protocol, or rather, breaking protocol. Maverick hadn’t ever been any Admiral’s favourite pilot—especially not Admiral Benjamin, even if his daughter, Penny, thought differently. If anyone could help her navigate the difficult politics of Admirals and strict rules of engagement, it was Maverick. Maverick who, somehow, hadn’t been dishonourably discharged… yet.  

There was no doubt in her mind she would be thankful to have Maverick and his rule-bending in her corner as the go-between. 

“Smooth is overrated,” Ellie scoffed, shrugging. “I’m here to work—maybe make a few of you Navy boys cry in the process, if I’m lucky.” 

Maverick’s laugh was sudden and loud, genuine, the grin on his face wide.  

“Good,” he nodded, approvingly, patting her arm. “Well, in the spirit of smooth in the context of work, I’ve got some updates from the Admirals. Did you want to—” Maverick nodded toward the desk, and it took Ellie a moment to understand what he was suggesting, lost in the soft, blurred edges of nostalgia.  

“Yeah, of course. Better to just dive into the deep end with this, I guess.” 

Ellie rummaged for a second and dug her MacBook from the box, doing her best to ignore that there was a fresh dent in the lid as she swept over to the desk and Maverick settled in on the other side. 

“So I’ve had a chance to go over your reports and the preliminary data from the prototype testing on base in Turkey,” Mav started, his expression unreadable, though his posture suggested a relaxed, nonchalant approach. She supposed this was the most professional he would get with her. “It’s really impressive, Ellie. Your dad, he mentioned you were top of the game, he didn’t mention that you were running circles around the rest of us.” 

“I mean—” Ellie started, she kept her eyes on the screen of her laptop as it started up, “it’s all still relatively untested….” 

She pointedly ignored Mav’s mention of her dad. Hollywood wasn’t exactly a subject she wanted to touch on right now. Especially not with Maverick. She knew where it would lead. 

“Still. Must be something promising to get them to pull you here from halfway across the world.” Mav didn’t push the topic further as she saw him cross his legs, ankle on knee, in her peripheral. “It’s going to make a big difference to a lot of people if we can get it off the ground. I’m putting my weight behind this one, Rio—that counts for something. At least the Admirals think so.” 

“I hope so.” Ellie straightened herself in her chair, MacBook finally at the ready, despite a few broken pixels in the top left corner of the screen. “How do we tackle this then? Do I want to know what kind of resources they’re allocating for this?” 

Maverick paused for a moment, his hands passing over the armrests before folding his hands. “Good news or bad news?” 

“You know me, Mav—news is news.” 

“Well, they’re giving us pilots and significant testing time. They’ve put me on the testing schedules too, so you’ll be seeing a lot of me. We’ll run this as seamlessly as possible and get you the data you need to make this a reality.” Maverick’s fingers drummed on his knee, casual, calm. 

“Okay, that sounds like the good news to me….” Ellie cautiously made notes, her eyes returning to Mav as if she expected the other shoe to drop at any moment. So far, these were all workable resources. “I’ll get Records to pull the pilot files—”   

“No need, I’ve got them here.” Maverick reached to the chair beside him before sliding a folio across the desk toward her, thick with dossiers. “Fifteen pilots. They’re the best the Navy has to offer. All Top Gun graduates, all recalled for the current mission training. They’re giving us four of our choosing.” 

Ellie shrugged, her hand resting on the top of the stack of files, her thumb flipping through the first few tabs with call signs. Bob, Coyote, Duke, she nodded slowly, processing. “Well, to be honest, I was expecting far less—”  

“We have to run the testing of your tech alongside the mission training. They’re giving us two and a half months.” Maverick’s words hung in the air for a long moment, a moment in which Ellie’s eyes snapped to his and she searched for the lie there she knew she wouldn’t find. Maverick didn’t lie, he wasn’t the type. 

And there it was: the other shoe. 

Two and a half months. The initial research alone had taken years. Years of algorithm building, years of theoretical practice, years of begging for funding. Hell, the prototype alone had taken a year to create in a lab with her close oversight. Two and a half months was a drop in the ocean, a near impossibility. This was an out of the frying pan and into the heat situation if Ellie had ever seen one. “No pressure, right?” 

“RADM Stark is in our corner for now—Admiral Simpson has made it clear he’ll recommend moving forward with the mission with or without your tech,” Maverick didn’t sugar coat it and Ellie appreciated that about him—it wasn’t in his nature to soften the blow. “I think you and I would both prefer that it’s with. The more of these pilots we can bring home, the better.” 

Ellie glanced at the stack of files again, folded in the larger tan manila, and nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay then, deep ending this.” 

“Pick your top candidates based on the needs of the tech and the testing. I’m looking forward to reading your report.” Maverick tapped the corner of the desk, standing before shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Let’s say my office. Tomorrow morning, 0800 sharp. Bring coffee.” 

“Careful Mav,” Ellie tutted, her eyebrow raised in a teasing way as she looked up at him over the top of her computer screen, “that sounds an awful lot like protocol. You’ve got a reputation for throwing out the rulebook to uphold around here.” 

Maverick waved her off as he headed for the door and Ellie watched him pause for just a moment, halfway out, his hand on the knob. “This isn’t exactly going to be a walk in the park, kid. But if there’s anyone who can pull this off, it’s you. Whether the name on the door is Neven or not—” Mav’s knuckles rapped against the solid wood, just under the name plate displaying her mother’s maiden name, “—the Nevens have a way of making things happen. You’re where you’re meant to be.” 

“Thanks.” 

Maverick offered her a small smile, cleared his throat and then stepped out of the door. “Oh, Ellie?” Maverick’s head was back through the door, his finger pointing to the shelving behind her. “I brought you a little office warming gift.” 

Ellie quickly found the small potted fern, the decorative pot it sat in painted with Be-LEAF in Yourself in neat block lettering. Ellie lifted the pot, turning with a raised eyebrow, displaying the saying. 

“Penny picked it out.” Mav shrugged, as if he himself were above the plant pun. When Ellie’s gaze didn’t shift, Mav waved a hand and retreated again. “0800 sharp, Rio. Two sugars, no dairy.” 

With a dry chuckle, Ellie turned back to the shelf, her eyes quickly finding something else where the pot had been, hidden. 

The photo in the frame was slightly faded, but the energy captured within the image felt timeless. It was a group shot, clearly taken at Miramar a lifetime ago, the California sun bright overhead, casting shadows across the tarmac where the four men stood, exuding effortless swagger. The aura of young pilots in their prime. 

Maverick was front and center, his signature aviators reflecting a blurred image of the photo taker, a familiar cocky grin stretching across his face. His flight suit was unzipped at the top, revealing the white T-shirt underneath. To his right, Ellie’s eyes focused on her dad. His posture, shoulders relaxed, mirrored Maverick’s, his smile easy but sharp, his trademark confidence that matched his call sign. 

Next to him, Wolfman, her dad’s RIO, his stance a little more casual but no less self-assured. He had an arm slung around Hollywood’s shoulder; their camaraderie apparent even through the static image. His grin was wide and mischievous, like he had just cracked a joke that made Hollywood laugh. Wolfman was always the one for jokes—always inappropriate, never failing to make her dad laugh. 

On the far left, slightly more composed but no less iconic, stood Iceman. His jaw was set, his aviators pushed up into his blond hair as he looked at the camera with a subtle smirk. Even in the informal setting, he carried himself with the unshakable confidence of someone who knew he was the best. 

The four of them stood against the backdrop of an F-14 Tomcat, the jet’s sleek frame gleaming in the sunlight. 

It was a snapshot of a time when they were young, fearless, and seemingly invincible—a moment frozen in time, untouched by the years and the weight of everything that would come after. In the reflection of the glass, Ellie could just make out her own face as she refocused, her eyes soft and her brow pulled together. 

Rolling her eyes, Ellie shook herself out of her own thoughts, scoffing as she snapped the picture face down, its support leg sticking up like that of a dead bug. 

If she wanted to survive here, if she had any hope of making a difference, she would need to keep her head on straight. No more distractions. 

“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that if you want to leave here with something other than lint in your pockets, Bradshaw.”  

Jake grabbed the triangle and racked the balls as Rooster groaned, the wad of bills in the fold that came out of his pocket thinner than it had been at the beginning of the evening. He thumbed out another twenty and placed it on top of the growing pile of cash sitting on the edge of the table before he took a swig of beer. “Keep taking my money, Hangman and you’ll have to tell Nic why I can’t take her out on Friday.”  

“Oh, you want me to tell your girl her boyfriend can’t handle his balls?” Hangman smirked, shifting the triangle up to the foot spot on the table before carefully removing the rack. “You know, I’d be real happy to do that, Rooster.” Grabbing his cue, Jake nodded across the table, “how ’bout I let you break first then, give you a head start.”  

As Rooster leaned over the table to line up the break, Jake grabbed his beer, leaning up against the wall. The late-day sun streamed in through the windows of the Hard Deck, casting long shadows across the scuffed hardwood, the warm glow of golden hour adding a certain charm to the scrappy, Navy watering hole. It was routine by now, mission training, the Hard Deck, hustling pool for a little extra spending money, embarrassing Rooster who always seemed eager to try to prove he was better than Jake at the game. Wash, rinse, repeat. Steady pace for a Tuesday night. But tonight, Jake’s mind wasn’t on the pool game, or the growing pile of Rooster’s cash.  

Instead, it was occupied by thoughts of a particular Radar Tech who had, in two short days, carved out a space in his head: Eleanor Rigby. That surprised Jake—surprised him in ways that took the routine out of his usual one-night M.O. 

After he’d seen her that morning, struggling with the box, almost comically, and she refused his help outright, the end of the day had come quickly. Quicker than Jake had anticipated. Between the packed mission training and the maneuver refreshers, his head had been on a swivel, his eyes peeled, but he hadn’t managed to catch her again. 

The sharp crack of the cue ball breaking and scattering the striped and solids, pulled Jake’s focus back to the game. Rooster managed to sink one solid, smirking as he stepped back to find himself for another viable shot.  

“Nice shot, Bradshaw,” Jake drawled, his eyes twinkling as he set down his bottle on the edge of a nearby high-top table. “I think this might be the first time you’ve hit something clean all week.”  

Rooster’s breathy laugh sounded for just a moment, his eyes sizing up the next shot. “Just wait, Bagman,” Rooster murmured, leaning over to line up his cue again. “By the time I’m done, you’ll be asking me for a loan.”  

“Bold for someone down to their last twenty.” Jake smirked, chalking his own cue. He waited for Rooster to take his shot—missing a corner pocket by a hairsbreadth—before stepping in to size up the table, tutting. “Might have to start playing some tunes for tips,” he nodded over to the piano in the corner. 

They rotated between trading teasing banter and goading remarks for a moment before Jake’s inquiring mind got the better of him, swimming with thoughts of her face, the way she looked at him within the new frame that existed outside of their Halloween encounter. 

“So,” Jake started, casually, nonchalant, as he chose his next shot, Rooster having missed his solid, and bent to take aim, lining up a striped ball with the corner pocket. “We have a new radar tech or something—Rigby?” Jake played dumb, played disinterested, acted as if he didn’t know her name, pretended he didn’t like the way the mark his mouth had left on her neck stuck out in sharp contrast to her put together, professional look the other day. 

As he looked up from under his lashes, Jake could see Rooster pause mid-sip of his beer, eyebrow raised. “Rigsy? Radar Tech, Engineer I think the proper term is. She’s Nic’s best friend. Her roommate now too, actually.” Rooster set his beer down carefully, “Why? What’s your angle?” 

Rigsy. So Rooster knew her outside of work. Jake carefully stored the information, his eyes never leaving the cue ball and the line of aim with the striped ball. “No angle,” he replied evenly, taking the shot and sinking the striped ball and another in its path with ease. “Just curious. Seems like she’s got the brass wrapped around her finger already.” 

“That’s because she’s good at what she does,” Rooster said, stepping away to the bar and grabbing two more bottles of beer before he returned to the table. “Smart, like, real smart. No nonsense, she won’t put up with any crap. Not the usual type you’d chase, though,” 

Jake took the shot, and the ball ricocheted off the pocket point in a way he hadn’t expected, missing the striped ball he’d lined up with that pocket, wide. Straightening, he chuckled, leaning against his cue stick, stepping back for Rooster’s turn. “Who says I’m chasin’, Bradshaw?”  

Rooster’s response was a snort as he stepped up to the table. “Sure, man, whatever you say,” he glanced up at Jake, a knowing look crossing his face, eyes incredulous, eyebrow peaked. “You don’t exactly have a reputation for curiosity without motive, Seresin.” 

Jake smirked, but didn’t respond, moving in to take another shot instead when Rooster missed his second shot and Jake sunk two more stripes in quick succession. He felt Rooster’s gaze lingering, and despite trying to play it cool, he couldn’t shake the curiosity that had been brewing since he’d seen her on Halloween. More so since seeing her here, at Miramar again, of all places. When she’d let him come back to her place and he’d fucked her until her knees shook, he hadn’t expected to see her again. Now, now he thought about what it would have been like if she’d known his name then, what it would sound like for her to moan it, beg him for more. It was enough to drive him dangerously close to mad. 

Jake missed the next shot, his mind hazed with the thought. Stepping back, he folded his arms across his chest and tried to act uninterested. “Say I’m curious for… curiosity’s sake: what’s her deal? Anything I should know?” 

“Oh shit—you really don’t know…” Rooster raised an eyebrow, taking a deep swig of his beer, studying the label as he tried to contain his smirk, before replying. “You don’t know who her old man is, do you?” 

Jake froze slightly at that, his brow furrowed, eyes narrowed at the pilot across the table from him. “Her old man?” 

Rooster chuckled and shook his head, his tone low as he tapped the cue stick on the floor. “Rick Neven. Hollywood. Shot down in combat on a mission over the Gulf. Made sure his WSO got out first and ejected too late just above hard deck. Broke his back in three places. Docs said it was nothing short of a miracle he was alive, but that he’d never walk again.” 

Jake blinked, the weight of the name hitting him immediately. Hollywood. One of the legends. The same pilot whose photo was framed alongside Maverick and Iceman, Goose and Slider in the halls all around base. He took a breath, trying to process it, while trying his best to keep composure. “You tellin’ me she’s Neven’s kid?”  

Rooster nodded, continuing as if he knew the exact thoughts running through Jake’s mind. “Yeah, man. That’s Rigsy’s dad. Big shadow to live under. She’s been pretty much anti-pilot her whole life, from what I’ve gathered.” 

Jake felt the words settle in his gut, realizing just how tangled this was becoming. Ellie wasn’t just some random civilian contractor; she came with baggage, a history that had been shaped by the same world they both lived in—but from a very different perspective. And after their Halloween encounter, he suddenly understood why she hadn’t mentioned anything about it. It also explained the guardedness in her eyes, the bite in her sarcasm. 

“She doesn’t really talk about him much,” Rooster added, his voice dropping slightly, as if sensing Jake’s shift in mood. Rooster had always been good at that, even if Jake didn’t want to admit it. “Nic says it’s a sore spot. That and her folks splitting.” 

Jake set his cue down, rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to wrap his head around it. “Damn.” 

“You’re in over your head with that one, Hangman,” Rooster said with a knowing smirk. “She’s not your usual type, and if you somehow manage to get past all those SAMs she’s throwing out, she sure as hell won’t make it easy.” 

“Wouldn’t be any fun if she did, Rooster.” Jake let out a dry chuckle, picking up his beer and taking a long drink. “Wouldn’t be any fun if she did.” 

tags bbs: @hookslove1592 @mrsevans90 @avengersfan25 @jbennsquared @dempy @obsessed-fan-alert @djs8891 @lunatygerqueen @khouse712 @alipap3 @yuckosworld @marvelouslyme96

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[tokkiwrites]

"Summer nights like this had a way of unfolding secrets. The kind of nights when the air hung heavy with pine and smoke, the moon glinting like a shy voyeur against the rippling surface of the lake. This wasn’t your first time at the Washington family cabin, but it was the first time that everything felt different. No parents. No rules. And, worst of all, no escape from the fact that Josh Washington was here, and he wasn’t yours."

summary: Your best friend invites you to their annual summer trip to the family cabin in the mountains—something you've done before. But this year is different: no parents. After years of secretly harboring feelings for your best friend’s brother, Josh, you decide this is the perfect chance to finally confess.

tags: best friend's brother!joshua washington x f!reader, childhood crush, both josh and reader like each other but act oblivious (josh more than reader), reader is low key obsessed with josh, minor age gap, alternative universe where Hannah and Beth are still alive, some angst, p in v (protected), virginity loss (reader), kind of fluff, josh talks you through it (yummy!!), fingering (f receiving), idiots in love 🫶🏻

/ᐠ - ˕ -マ⁩ tokkis note 𑁯 ✿ hey... how yall doing... the rami malek fever is so real i had to write something. so i did. 6,45k words to be more exact, teehee! i dont quite know what this is, but i had fun writing it, like it got me giggling and shit so yeah 💀 if you see any typos close your eyes, forget you saw anything. enjoy!

7th grade. That was when you stopped thinking of Josh Washington as just Hannah’s annoying older brother. Between the way he stayed behind after soccer practice to teach you how to kick a penalty and the smirk he threw over his shoulder, like he knew you were watching him. The first time when you actually considered Josh not being a jerk like other boys. In 9th grade, he became the hottest guy you had ever met. or maybe you just got so used to his face that you didn't want to look at other boys. Fast forward to now, you're starting college in one month, and things have changed in a way. maybe for the worstㅡ because he's all you can think about.

“You’re staring again.” Hannah’s voice snaps you out of your daze. She’s grinning, nudging your ribs as the two of you sit on the couch at the cabin. “You’re so obvious.” You blink and turn toward her, cheeks heating. “I—I wasn’t staring!”

“Oh, you were,” she teases, popping a chip into her mouth. “What is it this time? The hair? The jawline? Or did you finally notice his arms? I mean, have you seen him chop firewood? That’s peak Josh.”

“Hannah!” You hiss, smacking her arm. She only laughs, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. But she’s not wrong. Somewhere between your senior year of high school and now, Josh had gone from the boy who made stupid puns to the man who could take your breath away just by walking into a room. Unfortunately, it seems like he doesn’t notice.

“Still no move, huh?” Hannah says, lowering her voice. “You’re not seriously going to spend another summer in silent agony, are you?” You sigh. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Josh, remember me? The girl who used to wear braces and cried when I lost my retainer? Cool. Wanna make out?’” Hannah snorts so loudly that Beth, sitting nearby with her book, looks over with a frown. “What are you two laughing about now?”

“Nothing,” you and Hannah say in unison, though she’s still stifling giggles. Beth looks at you both, arching a brow. “Sure,” she says, clearly unconvinced, but she doesn’t push. She returns to her book, leaving you free to squirm under Hannah’s knowing gaze.

Josh doesn’t stick around to witness your humiliation. He’s already disappeared into the kitchen, and the sound of the fridge opening and the clinking of bottles is the only thing tethering you to the moment. “Do something this trip,” Hannah murmurs, leaning close so Beth doesn’t overhear. “Seriously. You’ve been mooning over him since forever. And now—” she waves a hand at the open windows, the twilight stretching wide like a stage—“this is your moment.”

“Hannah, it’s not like that,” you say, but even you don’t believe it. Not when your heart skips every time Josh is within ten feet of you. “It’s exactly like that,” she shoots back, voice low but insistent. “He likes you, too, you know.” You look at her sharply. “What?”

“Oh, don’t give me that face,” Hannah says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s just... Josh. Oblivious as hell.”

You’re about to argue, to tell her she’s wrong, that there’s no way Joshua Washington— carefree, clever, confident Josh, could ever see you like that. But before you can, his voice carries from the kitchen. “You two plotting something?” Your breath hitches, and Hannah, ever the instigator, grins. “Maybe,” she calls back. Josh reappears, beer in hand, and leans against the doorway. His green eyes flick between the two of you, and for a moment, you swear they linger on you. “Well, don’t blow up the cabin,” he says with a crooked smile before heading out onto the porch.

That night, the cabin settled into quiet. Beth retires early, Hannah tucked away in the room you’re sharing, and yet you can’t sleep. Your thoughts swirl—images of Josh’s hands, the way his eyes looked into yours, his voice, smooth and teasing, the way his smile felt like a hook tugging you somewhere you shouldn’t want to go.

The room feels suffocating, the summer heat pressing against your skin. You slip out of bed as quietly as you can, grabbing a towel and slipping into your swimsuit. The lake isn’t far. You’ve been there a hundred times before, but tonight, it feels like it’s waiting just for you. The water is cold when you first step in, but it’s a welcome relief, a shock that clears your head. You wade in deeper, letting the towel drop onto the shore, and soon, the swimsuit feels like too much. You hesitate, glancing back toward the cabin, but it’s silent and still. “Just you and the lake,” you whisper to yourself. The swimsuit peels away, and the water envelops you like a second skin. You float, staring up at the sky, letting the cool liquid carry the weight of your thoughts.

But then a voice shatters the stillness.

“Didn’t take you for a midnight swimmer.”

You jolt, water sloshing as you whirl toward the shore. Josh is standing there, hands in his pockets, his head cocked in that infuriatingly casual way he always manages. “Josh!” You shriek, sinking deeper into the water. “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, stepping closer to the water’s edge. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Something like that,” you mutter, your cheeks burning even as the water cools your skin. His eyes sweep over the lake, lingering just long enough to make your heart race. “You always were full of surprises,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Are you just going to stand there and watch me, or are you joining?” you ask before you can think better of it. The question hangs in the air, bold and daring, and for a moment, you think you’ve scared him off. But then he grins.

“Alright.”

You watch, half in awe, as he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the toned lines of his chest and the faint trail of scars along his ribs. He doesn’t stop there, shucking off his jeans until he’s left in his boxers.

The water ripples as he drops in, and suddenly, he’s closer than you expected, the space between you charged with something you can’t quite name. “This is nice,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. You nod, the words caught in your throat. “Do you ever feel like...” He trails off, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Like there’s something just out of reach? Like you want to grab it, but you’re scared of what happens if you do?”

Your heart thuds. “All the time.” His gaze shifts to you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you think he’s going to say something—something that will change everything. Instead, he leans back, letting himself float. “Good thing we’ve got the whole summer,” he murmurs.

You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or himself. But one thing is clear: you’ll spend every moment of this summer trying to pull him closer.

The next morning, the cabin feels alive with the quiet rustle of summer. Birds trill in the trees, and sunlight pours through the open windows, a golden invitation to start the day. Hannah is already on the deck with a cup of coffee, scrolling on her phone when you step out. “You’re up early,” she says, not looking up. You shrug, trying to hide how restless you’d been all night after what happened at the lake. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She raises a brow but doesn’t press. “Josh is down at the dock,” she says, nodding toward the lake. “Probably sulking. You know how he gets.”

You hesitate. “Why’s he sulking?”

She snorts. “Because the rest of the group isn’t getting here until tomorrow. You’d think one day without his entourage wouldn’t kill him.” You glance toward the lake. the memory of last night. Josh’s quiet words, the way the moonlight danced in his eyes, it's still fresh in your mind. “You should go,” Hannah says, smirking now. “Cheer him up. Or stare at him some more. Whatever works.”

“Hannah!” But she’s already gone, slipping back into the cabin and leaving you with no choice but to head toward the dock.

Josh is sitting on the edge of the wooden dock, his feet dangling in the water. The air smells like cedar and the faint tang of sunscreen. for a moment, you almost turn back. But then he glances over his shoulder and sees you. “Morning,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “Hey,” you say, stepping onto the dock and sitting a few feet away. For a while, neither of you speak. The lake stretches out before you, endless and still, and it feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of you.

“Big day ahead of us,” Josh says eventually, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Yeah,” you reply, matching his smile. “So many exciting activities. Staring at trees. Staring at water. Staring at each other.” He laughs, and the sound is warm and unexpected. “Careful. I might think you’re obsessed with me.” Your stomach flips, but you keep your voice light. “Who says I’m not?”

Josh looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve said too much. But instead of teasing, his expression softens. “I don’t get you sometimes,” he says quietly.

“What do you mean?” He shrugs, kicking at the water. “You’re just...different. Not like everyone else.” oh boy. “Good different or bad different?” you ask, your heart in your throat. Josh doesn’t answer right away. His gaze shifts to the endless forest, and when he finally speaks, his voice pangs through you.

“Good,” he says. "Definitely good.”

The rest of the day is a blur of lazy activities—helping Beth organize the kitchen, listening to Hannah’s playlist on the deck, and avoiding Josh just enough to keep your heart from imploding. By sunset, the air is thick with the anticipation of the group’s arrival tomorrow. Hannah flops onto the couch beside you, phone in hand. “Sam says they’re leaving first thing in the morning,” she says. “So, enjoy the quiet while it lasts.”

“Quiet?” Beth calls from the kitchen, laughing. “Have you met us?” Hannah rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. Tomorrow it’s going to be chaos. Jess and Emily bickering, Chris and Ashley pretending they’re not totally in love, Matt trying to keep the peace...and then there’s Josh.”

“What about Josh?” You ask before you can stop yourself. Hannah gives you a look. “You tell me.”

That night, you find yourself back at the lake, drawn by the same restless energy that kept you up the night before. You don’t plan on skinny dipping again—it feels too risky with everyone around—but the water calls to you anyway, soothing and eternal.

And maybe, just maybe, Josh feels the same right now.

You’re sitting on the shore, toes dipping into the cool water when you hear footsteps behind you. “Couldn’t sleep again?” You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. “I could say the same to you,” you reply, glancing back. Josh sits beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, and the warmth of him is enough to set your skin buzzing. “It’s weird, isn’t it?” he says after a while.

“What is?”

“Being back here. Without... you know. Adults. Rules.” You nod, the weight of his words settling over you. “Feels different.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Makes you think about stuff.”

“Like what?” you ask, heart pounding.

Josh doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he picks up a stone and skips it across the water. One, two, three perfect skips before it sinks. “Like what happens next,” he says finally. “For all of us. Feels like everything’s about to change.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So, instead, you reach for your own stone, throwing it as hard as you can. It skips once before plunking into the water. “Guess I’ll just have to stick around and figure it out,” you say, keeping your voice light.

Josh looks at you, his eyes shadowed and searching, and for a moment, you think he’s going to say something. what you want to hear, maybe. something important. But instead, he smiles, that same lopsided grin that’s been haunting your dreams for years. “Good,” he says.

“I’d miss you otherwise.”

The cabin feels too small the moment the others arrive. It’s a blur of bodies, laughter, and chaos as the others spill into the space, dragging in bags, cooler boxes, and enough energy to wake the dead. It’s not that you mind them—you’ve known most of Josh’s friends for years, but something about the way the cabin hums now feels different. The tight, intimate bubble you’d shared with Josh, Hannah, and Beth is gone, replaced by noise and the easy rhythm of their group. You feel...adrift, to say the least. And watching Josh slip seamlessly back into his role as the charismatic center of attention only makes it worse.

By the time night falls, the cabin is alive with music, the sharp pop of bottle caps, and the low buzz of conversation. You find yourself perched in a corner of the living room, a half-empty drink in hand, watching the others like a ghost at your own party.

Josh is at the center of it all, as always. He’s standing near the couch, laughing at something Sam said, and the sound is enough to send your stomach twisting into knots. Sam, of course, is radiant—effortlessly pretty in her cropped sweatshirt, her hair catching the light like spun gold. She’s animated, gesturing with her hands, and every time Josh leans closer to hear her, you feel like the room tilts off its axis. “Hey,” Hannah says, sliding in next to you with a knowing look. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie, taking a sip of your drink. Hannah snorts. “Subtle.” You glance at her, frowning. “What?”

“You know what,” she says, tilting her head toward Josh and Sam. “Seriously, if you’re going to keep looking at him like that, you might as well do something about it.”

“I’m not looking at him,” you protest weakly. Hannah rolls her eyes. “Sure. And I’m not your best friend.” She pauses, watching you for a moment before her expression softens. “Look, you’re not exactly subtle when it comes to Josh. But for what it’s worth? I think he’s just as clueless about how he feels as you are.” Her words settle into your chest, a mix of hope and frustration, but before you can respond, Jess calls out from the other side of the room.

“Hey! Who’s up for Spin the Bottle?” You couldn’t escape it, let's be honest.

You don’t know how it happens, but somehow, you end up in the circle. Maybe it’s the drinking, or maybe it’s Hannah giving you a pointed nudge as everyone sits on the floor, but before you know it, you’re sandwiched between her and Ashley, your pulse pounding in your ears. Josh is directly across from you, his green eyes bright in the firelight. Sam is to his left, Jess to his right, and the knot in your stomach tightens. “Okay, ground rules,” Jess says, grinning wickedly. “No chickening out. You spin, you kiss. Period.”

There’s a chorus of laughter and a few groans, but no one protests. Chris goes first, spinning the bottle with dramatic flair. It lands on Ashley, who blushes furiously but leans in to kiss him. The group erupts in cheers and wolf whistles, and you can’t help but smile despite yourself.

One by one, the bottle makes its rounds. Jess and Emily kiss, Matt kisses Ashley despite him protesting, and eventually, it’s Josh’s turn. He spins the bottle with a lazy flick of his wrist, the glass neck twirling endlessly before it slows, stops, and lands on Sam.

Your stomach drops.

“Oh, come on,” Jess says, clapping her hands. “This is gonna be good.” Josh raises an eyebrow, glancing at Sam. She shrugs, smiling, and leans forward.

You can’t look away.

Their lips meet in a brief, playful kiss—nothing dramatic, nothing earth-shattering. but it’s enough. Enough to make your chest ache, your fingers tighten around the drink in your hand. When they pull apart, everyone cheers again, and Josh laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your turn,” he says, handing the bottle to Sam. But you don’t care. You’re too busy swallowing the lump in your throat, trying to ignore the way your vision blurs at the edges.

Later, when the game ends and the group begins to disperse, you slip outside, the cool night air a welcome relief from the suffocating cabin. The lake stretches out before you, dark and endless, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe.

“You okay?” The voice startles you, and you turn to see Josh standing there, hands in his pockets. “I’m fine,” you say quickly, brushing at your eyes. He frowns, stepping closer. “You sure? You looked kind of...I don’t know, off.” You force a laugh, crossing your arms. “I’m fine, Josh. Really.” For a moment, he just looks at you, his brow furrowed like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says softly. The words hit harder than they should, and before you can stop yourself, you snap. “What do you want me to say, Josh? That I didn’t love watching you kiss Sam? That it didn’t suck seeing you two all cozy earlier?” His eyes widen, caught off guard, and for a second, you regret everything. But then his expression shifts—something softer, something almost...guilty.

“I didn’t...” He trails off, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t trying to...” You shake your head, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself. “Forget it. It’s not your fault.” Josh hesitates, like he’s weighing his next words carefully. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You glance at him, your heart aching at the look in his eyes—conflicted, searching. “I know,” you say quietly. “It’s fine. Really.” But it’s not fine. And as you turn back toward the cabin, leaving Josh standing by the lake, you can’t help but wonder if this summer is going to break you before it’s over.

The sun hung low in the sky, painting the cabin in hues of orange and gold. The group was scattered—Jess and Emily were bickering over sunscreen, Chris and Ashley were curled up on the deck talking in low tones, and Sam was by the lake with Hannah, skipping stones. It was all too perfect, too idyllic, except for the hollow ache in your chest.

Josh had been avoiding you all day.

It wasn’t like he was being obvious about it—Josh had a knack for slipping into conversations, filling the room with his sharp wit and charm like nothing was wrong. But you felt it. In the way his eyes would dart past you when you entered a room, the way his laugh seemed just a little louder when you weren’t around.

And maybe you were just as bad, lurking in the corners, pretending not to notice how often he touched Sam’s arm when they talked.

Written across your heart was all of your will to make him see—make him realize there was no in-between. There was either you and him, or the hollow echo of “I’m so sorry for your loss.” And wasn’t that what it felt like already? Like mourning something that never got the chance to live?

But it was his fault, wasn’t it?

For making you want him so much that your heart bled angel tears. For teaching your lips to sing sweet once-upon-a-times about a boy who was all sharp edges and hidden softness, who didn’t realize how much space he took up in your world.

By late afternoon, you found yourself back at the lake. It had become your refuge, the only place where you could breathe without the weight of Josh’s absence pressing against your ribs. Your toes skimmed the water’s edge, the cool ripples kissing your skin. You weren’t thinking about anything in particular—just the endless horizon, the way the light danced on the surface of the lake. But then a voice broke through your thoughts.

“You hiding out here now?” You didn’t have to turn around to know it was him. Again.

“Maybe I am,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. Josh sighed, stepping closer. You could feel the heat of him at your back, the way his presence wrapped around you even when you didn’t want it to. “Look,” he said finally, his voice softer. “About the other night...” You turned to face him, cutting him off. “It’s fine, Josh. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Yes, I do.” His eyes—those endless green eyes—searched yours, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “No, you don’t,” you said, forcing a smile. “We’re friends. That’s all we’ve ever been, right?”

Josh flinched, like the word “friends” was a physical blow. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quietly. For a moment, you believed. But then you shook your head, stepping away. “You didn’t, Josh,” you said. “I’m fine.”

That night, the group decided to make a bonfire by the lake. The air was thick with laughter, the sharp scent of burning wood mingling with the sweetness of roasted marshmallows.

You sat with Hannah and Beth, listening as Chris tried to tell a ghost story that kept getting interrupted by Jess’s sarcastic commentary. Josh was across the fire, sitting next to Sam. He wasn’t touching her, wasn’t even looking at her, but it didn’t matter.

Your hair cascaded like Niagara under the firelight, your lips so soft—even if he had never felt them under his. Josh couldn’t stop looking at you. Your eyes glowed like an eternity, and your voice—when you laughed at something - it was the only antidote he’d ever had for all those sleepless nights.

He didn’t know how to fix this.

Didn’t know how to reach across the chasm that had opened between you since that stupid game of Spin the Bottle. And maybe it was selfish—maybe it was cruel—but he wanted you to look at him the way you used to. Like he was something worth believing in.

The fire burned low as the group began to drift off, one by one. Eventually, it was just you and Josh, the silence between you heavy and unspoken. “Shouldn’t you be with Sam?” you asked, your tone biting. Josh frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, standing. “I’m going to bed.” But before you could leave, his hand shot out, catching your wrist. “Wait,” he said, his voice urgent. You froze, refusing to look at him. “Can we just—” He hesitated, his grip loosening. “Can we talk?” You pulled away, your chest tightening. “Not tonight, Josh.” He didn’t stop you this time, and as you walked back to the cabin, you felt the weight of his gaze on your back.

Neither of you slept that night.

The stars were muted behind a veil of clouds, the air heavy with the promise of rain. The cabin was quieter now. Days of forced smiles and lingering silences had worn you thin, and tonight, you found yourself outside again, pacing the gravel path that led to the lake.

You didn’t mean to cry.

It started as an ache in your chest, spreading to your throat until the tears came unbidden, hot, and relentless. You wiped at them furiously, hating the way they betrayed you, but the anger only made it worse.

How could he be so blind?

You heard footsteps behind you, familiar and deliberate. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Josh. “Go away,” you said, your voice raw.

He didn’t.

“Hey,” he said softly, his tone careful, like he was afraid you’d shatter if he spoke too loud. “What’s wrong?” You laughed bitterly, the sound hollow in the stillness. “You really have to ask?” Josh shifted, running a hand through his hair. “Look, if this is about—”

“It’s not about Sam!” you snapped, whirling to face him. “It’s about you, Josh. It’s always about you.” His brows furrowed, confusion flickering in his green eyes. “What are you talking about?” You threw your hands up, frustration spilling over. “Do you know what it’s like? To feel like you’re screaming into the void, hoping, praying, that someone will hear you? To love someone so much that it hurts, only for them to act like you don’t even exist?” Josh’s expression shifted, the confusion replaced by something deeper, something raw.

“I—”

“You don’t get it,” you interrupted, your voice breaking. “You never have. And maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I should’ve said something years ago, but I didn’t, and now... now I can’t even look at you without feeling like I’m suffocating.” The tears came harder now, and you didn’t bother to stop them. Josh took a step closer, his jaw tight, but he didn’t speak. “Say something,” you demanded, your voice trembling. “Anything.”

He didn’t.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until you shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “Of course,” you said, turning away. “Why did I even expect—” But before you could take another step, his hand caught your arm, spinning you back toward him.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate, messy, like he was trying to say all the words he couldn’t find through the press of his lips. His hands cradled your face, grounding you even as the world seemed to tilt beneath your feet. For a moment, you froze, too stunned to move. But then your hands found his shirt, clutching the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I’m sorry I made you feel like this.” Your chest ached, the anger draining from your body as quickly as it had come. “Josh,” you started, but he cut you off, his green eyes locking onto yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I know I don’t. But you’re all I think about. You always have been.” The words broke something in you, and the tears came again, but this time, they weren’t born of anger or frustration. “Then why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Because I’m a coward,” he admitted, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. “Because I’m an idiot who didn’t realize what he had until he almost lost it.” You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his hands still framing your face. “I can’t.” You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you did the only thing you could: you kissed him.

This time, it was softer, slower, filled with all the things you couldn’t put into words. And when you pulled back, his lips curved into a small, hesitant smile. “Does this mean you’ll stop avoiding me?” you asked, your voice shaking with a mix of laughter and tears. Josh chuckled, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “You'll start wishing I would."

The first low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky as you and Josh lingered, the sound so faint at first that you barely noticed it. But then it came again, louder this time, accompanied by a flash of light on the horizon, pulling you both from your kiss. You glanced up at the clouds gathering above, your chest tightening. Josh followed your gaze, a grin tugging at his lips. “You afraid of a little rain?” Before you could respond, the heavens opened up. The rain came in a sudden, torrential downpour, drenching you both in seconds. You yelped, the cold droplets soaking through your clothes as Josh let out a startled laugh. “Come on!” he shouted over the sound of the rain, grabbing your hand.

He led you up the path, past the cabin and deeper into the woods where a small gazebo stood, tucked beneath a canopy of trees. The structure was simple but charming, with its whitewashed beams and ivy creeping up the sides. Inside was a weathered but cozy couch, draped with soft blankets that someone—Hannah, probably—had left there.

You stumbled under the shelter just as another crack of thunder split the sky. The sound was deafening, but you couldn’t help laughing as you leaned against one of the beams, rainwater dripping from your hair and clothes. Josh stood across from you, his hands on his hips, his shirt clinging to his chest in a way that made your heart race all over again. His hair was a mess, dark strands sticking to his forehead, and yet he looked unfairly good—smiling at you like this was the best night of his life.

“Well,” he said, shaking water from his hair, “so much for staying dry.” You rolled your eyes, wrapping your arms around yourself. “You think?” He stepped closer, his grin softening into something warmer. “Here.” He reached for one of the blankets on the couch, shaking it out before draping it over your shoulders. His fingers brushed your arms as he adjusted it, and you shivered, though it wasn’t from the rain. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice quieter now.

Josh sat beside you on the couch, his arm resting along the back as he leaned into the cushions. The rain pattered against the roof of the gazebo, a rhythmic hum that filled the silence between you. “You know,” he said after a moment, his voice low, “I kind of like this.” You glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Getting caught in a thunderstorm?”

“No,” he said, chuckling. “Being here. With you.” You looked away, focusing on the rain streaking down the gazebo’s wooden beams. “Josh...” “Hey,” he said, his voice softer now. You felt his hand brush against yours, tentative, like he was testing the waters. “Look at me.” You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. The rain softened the world around you, muting everything except the warmth in his gaze.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. It was just the two of you, sitting close on that old couch, the rain falling like a curtain around the gazebo. You could feel it, that familiar warmth creeping up within you, curling in your stomach every time Josh was near. Your heart thuds as his rough palm drags itself up your exposed thigh. Before you could stop yourself, the words rushed out of your mouth. “I’m a virgin!” Your face flushed a deep crimson as soon as the words left your lips, and you immediately covered your face with your hands in embarrassment.

Josh froze for a beat, his hand still resting on your thigh. You could feel his gaze on you, but you didn’t dare look up. And then, to your surprise, you heard him laugh softly, the sound low and warm. “Wait... really?” he asked, his voice filled with amusement but also something softer, something affectionate.

You peeked up at him, still hiding half of your face behind your hands, the flush on your cheeks deepening. “Yeah, really,” you mumbled, not sure whether you were embarrassed or relieved to finally say it out loud. Josh’s grin widened, and there was a playful glint in his eyes as he leaned a little closer. “I gotta admit, that’s a little... surprising.” He paused, his tone teasing but gentle. “But, hey, no rushing." Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of him being your first. You nodded, your eyes searching his face, still unsure whether to be embarrassed or... maybe a little proud?

His hand gently moved from your thigh to rest on your knee, his thumb brushing over your skin in slow, reassuring circles. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said quietly, his voice soft. “I'm not trying anything unless you want to.” You looked up at him, meeting his gaze, and found only kindness there— no teasing, no judgment, just understanding. And somehow, that made everything feel a little easier. "I do want to... you know.." The words won't come out. “Still,” you muttered, “it’s... kind of awkward, don’t you think?” Josh chuckled, that warm smile never leaving his face. “Don't think so” he said, his voice low and serious now, “if you’re gonna share something like that with anyone, I’m glad it could be me."

You nod, scooting closer to him, palms now flush on his chest. his eyes scan your every inch, and you try to look away, but he captures your lips into another kiss. his lips trail down to your neck with a low "can I?" And you hum, trying your best to stay quiet as you get used to the feeling.

in no time, you're under him, both entangled, half naked and out of breath. he finally pulls off your panties, tossing them to the floor as he spreads your cunt wide open with two of his fingers, and god, you looked so erotic, all shying away as he loomed over, fingers playing with your pussy. "You ever torched yourself like this before?" You nod bottom lip captive between your teeth. "J-just a little..." Oh, god. "You're so beautiful, fuckㅡ" And he's already losing his mind. Nights of fantasizing couldn’t have prepared him for this.

placing his palm behind your knee, he lifts up your legs, laying light pecks onto the plush of your thighs, thumb now tracing down to your puffy clit. Josh starts slowly, swirling his finger and still kissing your soft flesh. "Thank you for letting me do this." tracing the entrace with his index, he pushes his finger slow and deep inside, and you arch against him. this was it. he was where all of his dreams led him to. you looked like something straight out of a 80's porno. cunningly, josh moved his finger, and before you knew it he added another one. you squeezed perfectly around his digits, the sounds you and your pussy made driving him to the brink. "You hear that?" he asks, curling up his fingers, the wet sounds amplifying. "don't think I've ever had a pussy this wet before..." you whimper ans wrigle under his hold. "Josh.."

"What? It's the truth." he chuckles, speed picking up, his other hand now flush to your lower belly. "Want you to come. Can you do that for me?" he looks up, doe eyes searching for yours, and you can already feel your body convulsing. it didn't take long for you to finally give in and gift him what he asked for, coming just from his fingers. the way you thighs squeezed together, trapping his hand between them, soft pleads dripping from your lips like honeyㅡ he was done for. you were embarrassed, to say the least, hiding your face into his shirt he had taken off long ago. "Stop that, heyㅡ look at me, baby." Baby. did you just come again? "You did great. so good." he leans in over you, pressing a soft kiss on the bridge of your nose. "Do you wanna keep going?" and you say the most eager 'yes' known to man. "i got you." he smiles, eyes tracing every curve of your body. he takes off his pants along with hus briefs, letting his shaft spring free, small pearls of precum already gathered at the tip.

your eyes opened. what the fuck? is that normal? you knew your first would hurt, but seeing what Josh had going on for him you knew it would be the most painful experience for you yet. "Don't worry. I'll go slow." he stumbles a bit back, grabbing a hold of his trousers, palming his pockets before he mutters a soft 'there we go.' and takes out a shiny wrapperㅡ a condom. the opens it and carefully takes it out, lining it with the tip of his aching cock. "If you ever wanna stopㅡ" he start, whilst rolling the condom down his length. "Tell me. Yeah?" you nod.

taking his length into his fist, Josh pumps it a few times before he aligns it with your entrance that trickled with juices. he lets it slip in, and your eyes close as tears threaten to fall. you claw at his back, but Josh kisses you as he slides in some more, your walla wrapping perfectly around himㅡ just like it was meant to be. "It's okay, you're okay, baby."

after going in the last couple of inches, he starts to move, gently holding down onto your waist as he lets you adjust. "Doing so food for me."

just a few strokes after he feels you wrapping your legs around his hips, urging him deeper. "Please.." You plead, the sweetest sounds escaping your plump and swollen lips, and he swears he could come just by that. "Fuck, yeah, okayㅡ" he groans, with the way your teary eyes stared up at him. He starts to move his hips, harder, deeper, each sound you made an encouragement. His palms make his way under your back, pulling you up, almost to sit on his lap. He fucks up into you, your arms lazily draped over his flexed shoulders whilst his lips kiss soft blooms onto your chest. you clench around him. "J-Josh..." he shakes his head, laughing as his fingers dig deep into your flesh where you know bruises will appear later. "Don'tㅡ ha, I'm gonna come if you keep doing that." whines slip past your lips as his speed picks up. "Shit, shitㅡ" he pulls you closer, lips now stuck to your neck like a locket. "Y-you gonna come?" he prys. "Mhm.." you squeal as your eyes roll back. "Go ahead, for me." that's all it took. you come once again, nimbly wrapping around josh like a vine, walls squeezing him so tight. your mind goes blank, only soft moans gripping your throat as Josh pumps into you, finally releasing inside of the condom with a few thrusts.

you both breathe heavily, hearts beating in a sing-song, as you come down from your high. realization sets in as you meet each other's gaze. it was real. it really just happened.

"You okay?" he leans in, pressing a lazy kiss onto your lips. "Yeah... How okay can one be after having sex for the first time..?" and he laughs, playing with the strands of your hair. "Thank god for the rain covering the sound. You were super loud just thenㅡ"

"Josh!"

[girlsoutlate]

this is my new account, so i'm reposting my 1 piece of work, hope you enjoy!!

readers thoughts are in pink, ever so light implied john price x reader, light questionable behaviour from men (not 141)

thinking about subtle sarcastic reader, especially to the type of man she'd encounter while working in the army. being a civilian and a woman many on base just looked over her, or looked too intensely at certain parts of her. but after months of working she's found her place, she's now respected by those who surround her. but what happens when some higher ups come and visit?

working closely with the 141 was no easy task. going from mundane paperwork to the flurry of action from a mission was difficult for you to handle, let alone helping them. you'd grown closer to them though, no more bouts of shyness stopping you from being yourself. instead you'd grown in to steady workplace banter with all.

unfortunately today couldn't be one of those days as some ever so important higher ups were holding a meeting with the 141, and since you handle the majority of the paperwork you were so graciously invited to attend.

you wished you had a little bit more time to prepare for this. these were important people, who wouldn't be nervous? apart from soap who appeared with a shit-eating grin at your office door, gifting you another surprise meeting. or gaz who could charm any conversation his way a bit too easily, with suave compliments and easy-going humour. don't forget ghost who doesn't even need to look engaged because of his mask, or be expected to speak due to his... unique personality. oh and the captain has been to countless of these meetings, so he can't empathise with you either.

but, one thing you could all agree on is that meetings were incredibly boring. for two reasons mostly. either the attendees were so dense it seemed they hadn't stepped on planet earth before, let alone a military base. or the subject matter was so bland you all wondered why there needed to be a meeting in the first place.

as your heels tapped hastily along the hallway you wondered which it would be. arriving barely on time with a tight clutch on haphazardly organised documents and a cup of coffee you opened the door, and had an inkling it wouldn't be any. you were met with two male voices. one high, clipped and plummy, the other harsh and american.

"-- that's what i expected from someone of her-oh hello! nice to finally meet you" the man at the head of the table said. an older, short and stout man with thin wire-rimmed glasses and a black tailored suit. a typical english man in an authoritative position. "ah, sorry i was late you'll have to excuse me. i thought to bring my extra notes, i hope i didn't make you wait long." you replied. "not at all, my colleague mr sullivan and i were discussing stories from our base". your gaze flicked over to what must be the source of the american voice. perfectly gold hair stuck down with copious amounts of gel, paired with lightly tanned skin and a too white smile didn't make it hard to guess. "civilians eh?" the taller man began "don't know what's up with the ones here, especially the woman we were just talki-"

"right" prices deep gravely voice cut over the grating one "meeting should start we're all 'ere". murmurs of agreement filled the room, and so did glances between the 141 that you didn't pick upon. however you did notice they were unusually quiet though you brushed it off, they were probably tired. "gosh where are my manners" the man at the head of the table exclaimed "my name is mr buckton and i'll be leading this meeting." briskly taking a few steps towards you he shook your hand roughly. being polite you attempted to make eye contact, yet his eyes were still looking straight ahead? lingering only on your chest for a moment he then made eye contact with you, a wide grin crept on his face. "come, your seat is next to mine" he prompted, gesturing you to walk infront of him and take your seat. as you walked infront of him his eyes now travelled further south. a small grimace shared from gaz to soap went undetected by the three sitting at the top of the table. mr buckton at the head, you to his left and then the captain and ghost next to you. opposite was mr sullivan, with gaz then soap next to him. with you all seated the meeting began.

for once the meeting was actually worth being held. despite it not being anything too serious you did well, even with your nerves. you answered questions and expanded in the points of others. as you suggested plans of action mr buckton steadily kept his eyes on you, while mr sullivan constantly scribbled notes down. soon enough the meeting was a breeze. well for about twenty minutes. across from you, mr sullivan was very inquisitive about anything you said. asking you to back it up or to show proof. not thinking much of it you obliged. it was a little odd but you knew your stuff and why not show off infront of higher ups? however the sentiment was not shared with the rest of the 141. who even asked for evidence about evidence? they understood wanting clarification on certain things, but it was growing incessant now. you were capable of your job and they knew that - that's why you were there. price especially helped you in the growing awkwardness; his job had never been so easy with you working underneath him. gaz and soap constantly gave eachother questioning glances, not wanting to explicitly speak up if their captain didn't. ghost was pissed he couldn't hide his eyes rolling as well as his scowl behind his balaclava. although they were growing increasingly annoyed the meeting continued, with more ridiculous questions being asked. professionalism was continued with a grim expression for another twenty minutes or so. hardly.

until mr sullivan basically dislocated his back by stretching in his chair with an exaggerated yawn leaving his cavernous mouth. "thought you woulda brought coffee since you kept us waiting for so long, cant believe you didn't make me some fresh". with beady eyes on you he smiled lazily. oh he has to be joking you thought to yourself there's no way this guy is real. play them at their own game. "why would i make more? i've already got some for myself" you smiled sickly back at him back, one that gaz has used on you many times when he's late giving you a report.

the table fell unusually silent again, and that's when you noticed it. the crackling of unease filling the air. sharp eyes from the 141 darted from eachother to you, to mr sullivan and back again.

"don't be so mean, i'm literally a dying man" he snarkily replied, eyeing you coolly. "one can hope" ghost muttered under his breath.

"i have urgent needs that need to be taken care of, won't you help?". mr sullivan continued, a slimy smile displayed as he noted the effect his badly hidden innuendo had on you. you felt your cheeks warm. he smirked at this, finally affecting you after bugging you the whole bloody meeting. fuck impressing him he's an arsehole.

"well, i'm sure you'll be alright by yourself. seems it happens a lot." you said back, indifferent. as soon as that left your mouth a strange sharp bark that hastily turned in to a cough came from soap. all heads from the table whipped to look at him. "pardon me" he shakily said, quickly taking a sip of his drink, watery eyes not straying from the blank wall above ghosts head.

"let's get back on track hmm?" mr buckton suggested "so cheeky, must be that time of the month". he turned to you with an eyebrow raised with an impish grin.

what. what the actual fuck. not only was this unprofessional, but who even though if that? let alone say it out loud.

price coughed uncomfortably and turned away. gaz and ghost looked at eachother in disbelief. and soap was finding that wall even more interesting. surely it could not get any worse.

"oh you all know what women are like, don't pretend. especially when they're frustrated" mr buckton let out a giggle "you know from work". you actually spluttered, eyes wide with disbelief. the feeling of unease in the air was now a full jolt of electricity. just as you felt price boiling with anger you leaned forwards to mr buckton. if everyone on the table wasn't watching you, they certainly were now.

"tell me" you said. mr buckton looked at you shocked, mouth gaping open. "tell me what women are like. you know i've been so airheaded this last week i hardly know my left from my right!". just to amp it up a little you slowly crossed your arms just underneath your chest, accentuating it. "you've explained so much to me this meeting surely you could explain this?"

the 141's eyes grew to the size of saucers, there's no way these two would actually fall for this? right? at this point mr bucktons and mr sullivans jaws were practically falling off. the latter was sadly the quickest to start talking 'so, when women start-". a smart rap in the door interrupted. a male voice said seriously

"emergency call for you mr buckton".

"oh, oh you must excuse us. i have to end this meeting" mr buckton declared "i simply cant miss this". messily shuffling their papers together both men swiftly said their goodbyes to you all. with that they just about made it out the door without tripping over their own legs.

a second passed after the door banged shut before gaz burst out in howls of laughter, clutching his ribs, soon joined by soap who could barely look at the wall for any longer. ghost stared at the door muttering who knows what under his breath and the captain sat there with his gaze fixated on the table mortified. he turned his head to you apologising profusely and asking if you're okay.

you just nodded vaguely and replied "men"

all likes, reblogs and comments are so appreciated!! this is my first time writing something properly so i hope you enjoyed it

[additiva]

ace charles?! been dying for some ace fics ngl

Yes!

Here's a snippet, for the consideration of the (proximal) masses. It's unedited (be nice to me).

“Hey, Max.” Charles wonders aloud, tilting his phone for Max to see. “What one do you like more?”

He flicks between two hoodies on the screen – a pale blue, and a black, both with Nahmias splashed gaudily across the front. Max squints at the screen. It probably doesn’t matter which he says; Charles will almost certainly get both.

“I like the blue one.”

Charles hums, letting his head flop back against the pillows, looking down at the screen of his phone propped on his bare chest. Max snorts quietly, amused. From this angle, he has about nineteen chins.

“Maybe, I will take both.”

Max bites back a smile, and turns his focus back to what he’d been doing before – what he’s been doing for the past forty minutes. He lifts one of Charles’ knees back over his shoulder, feeling his heel settle against the middle of his back. He lets his fingers trail up, wrapping over to stroke firmly over the crease of his hip. When Charles finishes shuffling -- still tapping absently at his phone – Max settles in to lick at him again. Not at his clitoris – Charles doesn’t like that – but around it.

The hoodies, Max knows, will be here in a few days, in one of two ways.

Either they’ll come to Max’s address, the box adorned with the fake name and contact details Charles has used to order them; or Doni Nahmias will figure out somehow that it’s him, in which case the clothes will be deposited at Charles’ doorstop, and the money back into his account. After that, Charles will wear them to Max’s apartment, take them off, and forget them on the couch, or in the kitchen, or in the bedroom, or on the terrace. Max will fold them, and put them in the drawer with the rest of his forgotten belongings, until Charles accuses him of stealing them, and takes them home again.

It'll have to happen soon, he muses, thumbing gently over warm, wet skin. The drawer is getting full.

Charles sighs heavily and lets his phone fall, hands collapsing against his chest, apparently content with his procurements. When Max glances up, he’s gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. His expression doesn’t change as Max’s fingers wander, except that his eyes fall closed. His foot slides up to plant itself on Max’s back, knee lifted a little higher – thigh close enough for Max’s head to lean against, hips tilted for better access.

Max, watching his face, folds his fingers – with two knuckles, he glides firmly over the dip between folds. Charles shudders a little, twitching. Some days he likes this; others it’s too much. Today’s a good day. Max can tell by the way his scent has been clear and fresh all morning. It has a certain crispness to it – one that can easily turn sharp with apprehension or sour with warning.

Max does it again, pressing more firmly with his knuckles – there’s no friction, the delicate skin already thoroughly soaked. Not with slick. Charles’ body rarely produces slick. It’s happened maybe once or twice in the entire time they’ve been doing this – months. Not even enough to make him wet; just barely enough for Max to catch a scent in the air, and a trace on his tongue. He’s not even sure what it was that did it – they haven’t been able to replicate it, to Charles’ great disappointment.

Max doesn’t mind.

Yes, maybe those slight traces tasted better than the champagne he drank on his first ever podium. Maybe it shone on his fingers like gold – gleaming brighter than the WDC trophy.

But in some ways it seems right, that he only got to have it for a moment. He works himself half to death just to hold that trophy for ten minutes each year – none of his replicas at home can quite compare.

He thinks he might’ve worked harder still, with Charles. He thinks they both have.

In any case, for Max, it’s probably the smaller moments in between that make it worthwhile. It’s each step closer to the perfect setup on a new race-weekend. It’s every purple sector, and podium. It’s the way the mechanics make space for him among them; the way Christian smiles up at him with pride on the top step; the way GP’s daughter lights up when she sees him.

With Charles, it’s the way his knees flop languidly open when Max nudges at them; the way his hands find Max’s skin without thinking; the way his scent stays warm and open through it all.

It’s like that now: soft and calm and inviting. It’d probably even stay that way if Max were to slide a finger or two inside him, to stroke at the velvety heat of him and massage at the tightness of the muscles there.

But Max won’t, because as he’s contemplating it, a timer goes off.

So instead, he slowly pulls away, going to the bathroom to wash his hands.

Then he goes back to the bed, and flops down next to Charles, casually tangling their legs as he digs his own phone out of his pocket.

“Alright, so.” He flicks open a spreadsheet. “What went well?”

-----

Idk guys are we vibing it or no? Lemme know.

[steviewashere]

Pacific Waters

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Depression, Minor Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Negativity Tags: Post-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Steve Harrington Whump, Depressed Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Self-Worth Issues, Steve Harrington Feels Like a Burden (again), Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents (Sorta), Steve Harrington Talking About His Dreams, Steve Harrington Has a Special Interest With Marine Biology, Neurodivergent Steve Harrington (If You Squint), Eddie Munson Comforts Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, But There's No Love Confession, And They Very Much So Don't Get Together Here, Water Imagery, Ocean Imagery Well, this is the depressed Steve at the beach fic I've had in my drafts for a couple months. This is the original draft of "My Scars Are Hiding (My Branches Don't Show)", but obviously this draft was heavily modified in the final version. Sorry if the ending of this is overly sweet, I just didn't want it to be super depressing.

🌊————————🌊 The sand clumps between his toes as he digs them further underground. Wind slaps him across the face, one-two, one-two, one-two. They’ll be ruddy and well blotchy when he makes it back inside. Hair wild around him, catching tangles into his eyes. Ocean water rushing up to the very tips of his toes, kissing them with pecks, receding back.

He tightens his arms harder around his knees. Legs folded up to his chest, chin resting on his knobby joints. Fuzzy skin to his baby faced chin. Sunglasses squished up the bridge of his nose, nearly one with his brow bone. T-shirt billowing lightly at the hem, air tickling up his ribs, and smoothing the shirt back down with the same featherlight fingers.

Eddie wades in the shallow water. Ocean to below his knees. Holding up pant legs in his tight, naked fingers. Hair in thick wisps above and angled to the left. He’s looking out at the horizon, at the midday sun, at the crystal catch-alls of sunlight. There’s peace cascading down his body—evident in the relax of his shoulders, the loose straightness of his spine. It’s him rippled by a calm, a sense of wonder.

“I’ve been to the beach before,” Eddie had told him, “many, many years ago. Down in California on a Disney trip paid for by my grandpa. I haven’t seen it since. I’m going to take you.”

Steve thinks Eddie looks good like this.

Wishes he could figure out how to be like Eddie in this moment. Instead of some knot tethered in the sand, in the fine dust of eroded rocks and shattered beer bottles and crumbled crustacean shells.

He swallows around nothing, breathes through his nose. Tongue like tongue—a wet sponge in his mouth, a muscle that jumps when he unclenches his teeth, an organ. His whole mouth tastes like grief; of things he never did, things he should’ve done, things he can’t wait to do. It’s cardboard and salt and smoke. Staleness, too, that he figures is from forgetting to brush his teeth this morning, last night, the day before, and the day before that one, too.

No matter where he goes, his brain follows. It follows with tension. With unknown fear etched deep in the webbings of his fingers, splinter-riddled where he gripped that nail-bat. Bloodshed and blood soaks, where he laid his hands, where he squashed, where he protected when need be. Memories of knuckles to his cheeks, ribs under his palms, blank stares into sterile rooms; broken bones and white irises and floating half-corpses; anger, so much anger.

Confusion. Anger. Confusion. Anger.

Grief; so much grief.

It all sits deep within him in this very moment: a pulsating, shiny, inflated to burst ball in his stomach. Uneasy and nauseous. Nothing digested inside him.

Eddie looks over his shoulder at him. He can’t quite make out the expression on his face. But there’s that heavy weight of being stared at. Steve unfurls his right hand, where it had been tight on his opposite forearm, and sends a finger-wave. Makes his lips do something like a smile, but it’s tight, pinching his cheeks, makes the corners of his mouth ache.

“You good?” He thinks Eddie mouths.

Steve lifts the same hand and shifts it side to side. Sort of.

As soon as he splays his hand back on his own forearm, Eddie begins wading out of the water. He folds his pant legs to rest cinched on his knees. Stomps through the sand, arms out at his sides, fingers splayed as he keeps his balance. And then he plops down next to Steve, breath huffing and puffing as he catches it. He knocks their shoulders together.

“Why so-so? Should we head back to the cabin?”

He shrugs, no matter how little. “Just feel sorta…blank, I guess?”

“Blank,” Eddie echoes softly. He looks out at the horizon, then back to Steve. His mouth opens and closes like a floundering fish—something like Steve feels. And sighs through his nose. Then, soft still, “I’m worried about you, sweetheart.” A hand to the center of Steve’s back, fingers brushing the knobs of his spine.

Steve sighs into the touch. Reaches up to his sunglasses, dragging them into his hair once the sun dips lower and lower still. He blinks at the sudden change of lighting, but doesn’t look over at Eddie quite yet. Instead, he unfolds his legs so that he’s criss-cross and barely sinking, knee hitting Eddie’s thigh. He worms his right hand under the sand, combing fingers through it as if he’s petting the fluffy back of an animal. “How so?” he musters.

“It’s like…like…you’ve disappeared into yourself now that the world isn’t ending,” Eddie murmurs, “like something up and left.”

He sniffs, scratches the skin of his neck, looks over at the sand falling from his grip. That’s me, he notes, the sand. “Hm,” Steve grunts. But he leaves it at that.

“You can talk to me,” Eddie whispers, “if you need somebody to just listen.”

“I know,” Steve returns in the same volume, “I just…it’s just…”

“Just?”

He shrugs again. “It’s just stuff, y’know.” Steve drags a heavy breath through his lungs, heaving them as if lifting weights. The sand keeps passing through his fingers. Not slowly. Not within seconds either. Just…falling. Melting back into the rest of the sand, sitting right where it initially belonged. And yet…yet the imprints of his fingers has disturbed the original mound it had been in. It’ll never go back to that original mound, unless he were to reshape it. But even then, he’s not sure how to do that. Steve swallows around nothing again. “Like…have you ever felt like, no matter what you do, your life isn’t yours?”

Eddie inhales sharply. His whole torso seizes with it. “Sure, in some ways,” he answers, “before I moved in with Wayne. When everything I did was controlled by fear—of my dad, of bullies…my own hands, sometimes.” A gentle pet down Steve’s back, down and up, resting warmly between his shoulder blades. “Is that…is that how you’ve been feeling?”

The sand passes and passes, dust and dust—kuh-shhh, kuh-shhh. There’s the ocean, crashing hard and unrelenting, but the sea-foam kisses soft. He digs his thumb underground until he finds a large shard of shell. Picks it up between his index and middle finger, dangling just above the indentations in the sand. Eyeing it: where the stray sun rays glow the edges, the speckles of sand caught in the fine crevices, leftover chalky residue coating his fingertips.

When crustaceans no longer fit their shells, they find a new one. Molting. Once they can no longer justify fitting in the same shell, they molt; survival, a need.

He always wanted to be a marine biologist. Work out in the ocean. Saltwater cold against his diving gear. Gloved hands brushing sea rocks, the gentle sculptures of coral reefs. It had to be freeing, to work a job like that—to swim with the fish, zig-zag and snake-like. To be free.

Then, his dad thrusted him into sports—outside of his pick of swimming. Not that he didn’t enjoy playing, he did, but it hadn’t been his choice. It hadn’t been his choice to involve himself with the business clubs or the student council. Hadn’t been his decision to get popular. Hadn’t been his decision to cater. It was all just expected of him. That he’d graduate high school, go directly into college, graduate from there with honors, land a big shot career—business, like his dad—find a nice girl, settle down, have kids…big house, picket fence, and a little dog, too. Parts of that he liked the thought of. A lifelong partner. A dog. Good career. But everything else wasn’t him.

At least some of his decisions lead to the Party and to Robin and to Eddie. He chose to help Nancy and Jonathan. Everything else, though, it felt like people were relying on him to do the job, to be there, to take over. He did it, of course he did. He shouldn’t have to be responsible like that, though; he shouldn’t have had to take it all on.

He shouldn’t have to sit here with the remnants of himself, scattered and unfit like the sand below.

“I wanted to be a marine biologist,” he murmurs to Eddie after some thought.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Wanted to swim with the fish. Wanted to study their homes, their ecosystems. Wanted to know what they ate, how they travelled with each other, who their predators were.” Steve rests the shell in his flat palm and hovers it above his folded lap. There’s sand scattered across his bare shins, his knees right where the shorts don’t cover. “My mom used to take me out here to the west coast, used to stop by the beaches. She’d run around with me. Chase me up and down the sand dunes, help me pick up shells—like this one”—he displays it to Eddie—“this one’s a mollusk; think it’s a scallop, based on the rounded edge of it? She and I would identify them all because of this book I had.

“It was a thick book. Full of pictures and definitions and biological names for all the different mollusks and crustaceans. She’d ask me what shell I wanted to find, and I’d tell her, and we’d go. And we’d find it.” He shimmies the piece of shell so it rests between his fingers again. Holding it up the pale night sky. It’d probably be a pink or purple-pink in the daylight. Here, though, it’s dark and blue and muted. He sighs. Continues, “Now…now I’m afraid to swim in even my own fucking pool. And I just sit around my house, waiting for somebody to fill it. I’d call, but everybody’s busy. Everybody’s always so busy.

“Steve has the nail bat and Steve has the car and Steve is the babysitter. And I enjoy that gig, most of the time I do, but what about his company? I have company, how about that? Steve has another concussion and another concussion and man up, Steve, man up, stop crying, stop it with the nightmares, stop with your unrealistic dreams—be this, do that. That’s not okay, that’s not right; you need to apologize—oh, but I did nothing wrong—apologize anyway! Hey, wanna come watch a basketball game with me? No, Steve, that’s stupid. That’s jock shit—you’re bullshit, Steve, it’s all bullshit.”

In a last second decision, Steve closes his fingers tight around that shell shard. He clenches as hard as he can, knuckles turning white, nails starting to bite the skin of his palm. And when he opens his fist again, the shell is nothing but dust. Sand. It falls between his fingers, something he can no longer grasp onto. He watches it pour over his naked legs, into the well of sand below him, dissipating into just another small pool of erosion beneath him.

It becomes a fine nothingness.

He swallows around nothing once more. Words that should dry up just stuck in his throat, hard to digest.

“My life is bullshit,” Steve croaks, “it’s never mine. Just everybody else’s to have, to use. I’m a sex god, I’m a great kisser, I’m a lonely guy trying to get his fill. I’m King Steve and a jock and a nerd and a dingus and utter horseshit. I’m a wash-up, a smudge. A burden.

“I’m a burden to my own fucking brain, Eddie”—he smiles something sickly and small and humorless—“I’m just…just stuff. Just this with nothing else to it. Sitting here on a beach I used to know the feel and sound of, cowering at the rush of waves that used to meet me as I ran to it. Sitting in complete darkness, feeling awfully sorry for myself. And for what? Why am I here? Doing any of it?

“I…I…never mind. Never mind,” he mutters, shaking his head. His lips roll tight against his teeth, he drags his sunglasses to sit over his eyes again, and he keeps his face pointed at the ocean. At the calm waves. At the coral reefs he wanted to explore. At a dream he left behind in order to chase what everybody else expected of him. Expectations. Steve Harrington is full of other people’s expectations. “Sorry,” he whispers, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laid that all on you like that. Guess I’m just stuck right now. Outside of my body, that kind of shit.”

Eddie’s hand is still. Marked flat in the center of Steve’s back. Silenced. “Steve,” he breathes.

He shakes his head once more. “I shouldn’t have said it all like that. Just…just…yeah. I’m stuck, that’s it. That’s all it is.”

“Steve,” Eddie whispers. Voice somehow cutting over the crashing waves, over the distant bustles of a city rising to nightlife, over boats sailing far away. He blinks behind the sunglasses, but makes no other movement. “Look at me,” he demands featherlight, “look at me, Steve.” The waves kiss his toes again, frothing frozen over his skin, receding. “Please,” he hears plead in a murmur, “please, Steve, look at me.”

Damn him. Damn you, Eds.

If there’s one thing he’s going to do since March, it’s listen to Eddie. Obey commands. Or…really, give himself over to the aching. To the incessancy. To a desire he’s been trying to chase away—melting into Eddie, no matter what.

Reluctantly, he pries the glasses off his face, twiddles them around in his grainy palms, and drops them into the sandpit between his legs. And then, one arduously slow second at a time, turns his head over to Eddie’s voice. His jaw twitching hard, locking right into place. Nostrils flaring, brine air coating and sticking to his nose hairs. Eyelashes heavy, clumped by the salt when he blinks once more—blinks to clear the image, to focus the surroundings, blur the background and soft-spot Eddie. Already, he fizzles, pops, and burns like the bonfire they prepared the other night. Where sticky s’mores melted over their fingertips, frothy beer stuck center to Eddie’s stubble, and their laughs rivaled seagulls making their way homebound. And he was flickering, brave and gentle and anew, for just a moment—the flame in the cold, at the center of it, alive.

The hand on his back travels. Fingers trailing and bumping over spine knobs. Nails shifting the thin fabric of his t-shirt. A palm finally landing, warm and soft and cautious on his neck. Some sort of peace offering; a pheromone; a slurry of words during a panic episode, nestled in the corner of the couch, eyes dropped to his knees so he won’t be startled when he comes to, and a hot drink waiting. Waiting for him to come back. To look.

To see.

“Thank you,” Eddie says softly, “for letting me know what’s going on. Okay?” He nods once at Steve, so he bobbles back—not really an understanding, doing it just to do. Eddie’s eyes flicker like those flames, back and forth and dancing over his face. Dark and searching. Effortlessly adventuring like owls on prowl. “And I’m sorry”—

“Ed, it’s not”—

“No,” he firmly interrupts. “No, Steve. Listen. I don’t…I don’t wanna tell you what to do, but just listen to me. I am sorry, okay? I’m sorry that I might’ve played a part in all this, even in the short amount of time I’ve been able to know you. Because I know, Steve. I know, in some way—whether you wanna approach that hill or not—that I’ve been a part of this.

“But I’m sorry that not only has the world been unkind, but your own fucking life. You deserve to have control and you deserve to have your own purpose and you deserve everything you could want. Even if…even if you feel like you don’t. I get that part, okay? I get it, sweetheart, I do.

“It’s unfair, though. It’s unfair you’ve been treated like some trophy on a shelf. High on a pedestal. And…and…Steve. Steve, I need you to know that your life isn’t over. You’re talking to me like it is and I can assure to you, in this moment, you aren’t done with it. I won’t let you be done with it—that’s one thing I’m gonna dictate over you. The only thing.” Eddie’s other hand comes up at that, too. Slow-like and gentle. Cupping the right side of Steve’s face, his remaining palm going to the left side. Holding him in place between his hands, as if Steve is an entire universe, a planet meant for observing.

Steve swallows, but this time around a lump. A sour lump, solid and immovable lodged deep inside him. It’s the pulsing sphere in his stomach, it’s the tears he has yet to give name to, it’s build-up. Calcium on a shower-head. “Ed,” he mutters, voice wavering, “you don’t…you don’t mean any of”—

“I do!” Eddie exclaims softly. “I do,” he then whispers. “You want a star? I’ll buy you one. You want a garden? I’ll bring you the seeds and the soil. You want to just sleep? I’ll tuck you in. Don’t you get it? Don’t you?

“I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m not asking you to just accept the words tumbling out of my fuckin’ mouth. I’m asking nothing of you. But I care. I care about you, Steve. I care so much about you—if something happened, I don’t know what, but if something were to happen to you, it’d be like Hell all over again. So, I’m gonna ask you a question. Just one question. Just…answer me. However you want, I want you to answer me. That’s the only other thing, okay?” His eyes are flickering again, harder this time, aggressively. The flames of the bonfire tore higher and higher, cascading to the sky; his fingertips had been melded together by marshmallow guts and chocolate tears; the beer sloshed inside him like he was a boat in the ocean; but Eddie held his hand and helped him put it out, helped him find the solution. This is that. The flames. A fire.

He nods once, not much movement, not much to give—head still held between hands, sure and firm and still—but he gives just this one thing.

Like he did in the Upside Down, Eddie does it back. “Okay,” he whispers, “Steve.”

And he blinks, eyelids heavy, stinging. Heat tears down his cheek, biting him all the way to his chin where it wobbles precociously. Doesn’t stop it. Doesn’t want to.

Tenderly, Eddie catches the droplet on his thumbs. Not even acknowledging it with a breath. Then, “What do you want? Out of anything in the world, what do you want?”

A lot of things, he doesn’t say.

My parents. A bedtime story. Hot dinner with a loud house.

To be wanted like a friend, not a fighter.

Maybe a dog or two? Small, though. To keep me company?

You. Your eyes. And your mouth. And your smile. The words you have for me. For your hands to keep holding me forever. A flicker to engulf. For us to be here, at the beach, under this sky with the stars and the birds sleeping on the water and the boats, shells under our legs and for me to identify them all for you while you tell me about Dungeons & Dragons and for us to be happy, stuck in time.

A few more tears trail down his cheeks. He darts over Eddie’s face this time. Not really looking, more just recognizing. Something, he’s not sure.

“To be a marine biologist, Ed,” he murmurs, “to not be afraid of getting in the ocean with you. And I can stand there, pointing out all the…the creatures and shit at our feet. Be taken seriously as I talk about what I love. The seashells. The wildlife.”—he swallows the lump, warm and sleepy, somehow content after it all—“To be free.”

There’s a soft, small smile on Eddie’s face. Just barely stretching. “Will you do something with me? You can say no, but I just wanna…wanna try something. That alright?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“You see the tide right now?” Eddie stretches out his left arm, finger pointed at the foaming edge of the water. His hands fall away from Steve’s face. Following where Eddie’s pointed, he hums his acknowledgement. “I think—if you hold onto me—we can kneel in that bit of water there. And maybe you can talk to me about any shells we can find?”

Looking closer at the tide, Steve blindly reaches out and wraps his hand on Eddie’s wrist. Squeezing hesitantly, yet tightly. “I…I don’t know if”—

“We don’t have to,” Eddie whispers, his voice close—it’s as if his head is turned, his mouth directly next to Steve’s ear, but he can’t bring himself to look. “I just thought that, well, if you want to be a marine biologist, then we gotta start with the basics. Right? So…this’ll be exposure or something. Again, though, we don’t have to”—

“And you’ll be there? You won’t…you won’t let go, right?”

“No,” he murmurs, shaking his head—a stray curl whips the side of Steve’s head. “I’ll keep holding on as long as you want me to.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Steve hums. He takes a slow, deep breath. Lets it out just as slowly. “Okay,” he says, “but not too far in.”

At that, Eddie gently rises from the sand, pulling Steve up with him. They tread over the sand, wobbly footing and knees shaking as they keep their balance. Far enough that the tide meets the soles of their feet, but doesn’t rise farther than the tops. However, Eddie doesn’t kneel down until Steve begins to. Going just as slow as Steve needs, one moment at a time.

“It’s cold,” Steve whispers, still kneeling down.

Eddie breathes out a tiny snort. “Yeah, I should’a mentioned that, sorry.”

“��S’okay,” he murmurs, “just watch out for jellyfish. We’ll have to go back inside if they sting you.”

“Duly noted.”

Finally, when Steve is fully sat back on his haunches, Eddie meets him in the sand. The water laps around their shins. Foamy and cold and biting. But the water doesn’t rise, doesn’t try to knock them down.

It’s odd, both distant and full, how Steve welcomes the water back to himself. Nothing like being under it, though, swimming his heart out—until it’s pounding and he’s heaving for breath and needing to get out because he’s pruning. But it’s still comfortable, for now, at least.

Eddie’s left hand digs into the sand at their knees. Rummaging and digging and burrowing until he makes a small, “a-ha!” and presents a shard of something up in Steve’s line of sight. “What kind of shell is this, Stevie?”

He snorts, taking in the object that’s held right in front of him. “Eds, that’s a shard of a beer bottle. That’s not a shell.” Before he lets Eddie get too downtrodden, Steve is searching in the sand, too. Holding up his own find. “This one’s a sand dollar,” he explains softly, “it’s not a shell. Not technically. In fact, it’s not even dead.”

“It’s not?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see Eddie tilt his head slightly. It’s cute, if only he could work the courage to say that. But venturing into the little bit of water is enough for tonight. He shakes his head. “No, it’s very alive. A very alive, flat sea urchin. See how this is super dark?” Lifting the sand dollar up higher, he lets the bit of light from the moon brighten it. “This one’s almost black. Kinda like a deep purple. And if I flip it over”—which he does—“you can see all these little things on the bottom.”

The underside glints and shifts, but shadows with how Eddie moves closer. “Whoa,” he lightly gasps. “What the hell are those things?”

“Bristles,” Steve answers, “they move kinda like worms or, and this is kinda gross, like maggots do. Squirming. See?” He tilts the sea urchin again, holding it closer for Eddie to see. Taking in the even tinier gasp that elicits out of Eddie, he knows he’s done his job. “They act as little legs or arms for the urchin. Dragging microorganisms—like plankton—to a small opening in the center of these bristles. Essentially bringing the plankton in for eating. It’s cool, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs, “shit, Steve, this is probably the coolest biology lesson I’ve had.”

“You’re only saying that because you used to fall asleep in biology, Eds.”

“But I’m being honest! Seriously, Stevie, this is genuinely super cool.” Eddie gets closer again, nearly stitched into Steve’s side. “Will you show me other stuff? How ‘bout…”—he digs in the sand again—“…how about this one?”

This time, Steve actually full bodily laughs. “Eddie,” he sighs. “Ed, that’s another glass bottle shard.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know?”

“I’ll find some more, Eds. Help me dig?”

Eddie gives him a sloppy salute on his forehead. “At your service, future marine biologist.” Steve rolls his eyes, but before he can get too far into his distracted digging, Eddie’s pulling on his arm. He looks over, curious—mainly to see if it’s yet another glass shard that he’s being shown—but he’s met with Eddie’s soft, beautiful face. “I’m serious, Stevie. I’m gonna help you get to that dream career again, no matter what it takes.”

He smiles. Soft and personal and just for Eddie. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, sweet”—

“No, Eds,” he murmurs, “thank you for listening. For…for trying to help me. It means a lot to me.”

“I’ll always listen, Steve. No matter what, sweetheart. Now, let’s get digging; I’ve got some learning to do.”

Tonight won’t fix it all, but it’s a start. And Eddie’s right. His life isn’t over yet. This is a new beginning.

🌊————————🌊

[forwards-beckon-rebound]

of the father and the son

warnings: major character death, referenced assault and battery, religious themes, weird references to cumbia and salsa, basically just every warning related to the events of jason's death

it started as all rendezvous do. knowing glances, a delicate chase between tomcat and robin. a dare: catch me if you can. his partner slips out of the room unbeknownst to all except his target. the game is afoot.

they meet alone in a room. it starts with a dance. a cumbia variation. right step, left step. cross body lead. a slide to the left, a turn to the right.

“agua!” his partner cries in delight. their movements are a blur as he fights to keep control. hesitation, block, check. and then, a change of place. a change of pace.

time comes to a stand still. his head dips. he has been ensnared.

but what type of dance would it be without music? there’s not much to work with, so they improvise a duet. his partner provides the rhythm, and if done well, his jaybird rewards him with an “a” note. it’s syncopated.

clang, a-lang, a-lang, a—clang, a-lang, a-lang, AH—

but every cinderella’s evening must come to come to an end. and the clock is about to strike midnight.

                               before they part, he leaves him a small gift.

                                a gentle caress of the cheek, so he won’t

                                                             forget

                                                              their

                                                              time

                                       to                   gether.

                                        the            wound,

                                               it burns.

the spell is broken. it is 12 o’clock. and the jaybird is all alone.

12 is a funny number. it was the egyptians, who had first decided to split the night into 12 parts based on the 12 asterisms. it was caesar, who had ordered the creation of a 12 month calendar. it was jesus, who had 12 apostles before he was betrayed and that number became 11. and soon, the 12 seconds jason todd had left were about to become

11.

on good days, his mother (no that wasn’t right. his real mother was the unconscious woman the joker had left sitting across the room from him. his mother was the woman who had brought him into this world just so he could die for humanity’s sins. her included, for she too was only human) caretaker was atheist. it was only on the nights when the electricity bill had not been paid and the snow piled high on their window ledge, that she began to pray. a private mass, just the two of them. a confessional without a booth, a church without a father.

10.

he had thought she was silly then, all pressed up against the wall to steal the warmth from the next unit over as she preached of loving thy neighbour. they were bundled up in as many layers as they could wring out of the closet. under the last-washed-in-august comforter, he wore a puffer and under that, his sunday best. it was the warmest he had, all wool and short around the ankles, with a bulky security tag pressed against the small of his back. it was the only thing his father had ever left for him. he had hated her perpetual prayers that kept him from sleep. now, he longed for those days. at least then, he wouldn’t have died alone.

9.

our father, who art in heaven. did jesus pray like this too, when he was on the cross? did he ever curse the fact that even as he bled out, he could not say “my father”? for everybody is a child of god. even the prostitutes who sold themselves for a full stomach and a roof over their heads. even the criminals on either side of him, who committed sins much worse than telling the truth. even the very soldiers who had hung him there and pierced holes in him that would never mend. did jesus ever wonder why, out of all of god’s children, he had been the chosen one, born to die?

8.

he had always been taught that good things come to those who do good. he had always tried to do good by others. he had stopped his classmates from being bullied. he had fought that mugger who was about to take some old lady’s purse. he had tried to take down the joker all alone despite orders because he had wanted to save his mother. surely, those were all good actions. surely he was good.

7.

did jesus’ father ever take pity on him? god must have seen him bleeding out. even if he had accepted this fate, surely every parent’s instinct is to protect. the child’s role is to be foolish, and the parent’s role is to forgive. so surely, his own father could overlook this mistake one time. he would be rescued and they could pretend this was nothing more than a bad nightmare. but jesus hadn’t made it off his cross alive, had he?

6.

everything would be alright. his father wasn’t god. his father was batman. and batman would never let anybody die on his watch. hell, even if it was the joker locked up in here with the bomb about to go off, his father would probably save him too. god, though? god couldn’t even save his son.

5.

what was he worried about? his father would break through this door with a badass kick and save him just in the nick of time. that would show that stupid clown.

4.

any second now, his father would break through this door and save him in the nick of time.

3.

any second now, his father would come to save him.

2.

his father would come to save him.

1.

dad…save me

0.

.

.

.

they created a lovely tableau. a broken figure, no more human than he is alive, cradled in the lap of a parent he no longer fits into. mother and son, engraved in marble. father and son, covered in ash. time continues on its lumbering path, but a parent’s grief never changes.

[otomiyaa]

Day 23: Party

Momose x Shirosaki

[Miya & Mia’s Tickletober 2023] - Another niche tktober 2023 fic I'm fishing out of its grave muhahaha. I realize this is actually up there with my fav anime and pairings EVER. I'll go down with this ship!

Word Count: 1.1K

Momose felt moved. Never had he seen such a thing. The office was decorated, a tray of cupcakes was on his desk, music was playing, and everyone in the department welcomed him with applause. 

“Happy birthday, Momose,” Shirosaki said, and he and a few colleagues fired confetti at him. They all started singing. Woah!

“Happy birthday!” 

Momose blushed and awkwardly wiped the confetti from his head. He then bowed deeply, his hands gripping his pants.

“T-t-thank you very much!” he said, trying hard not to cry. At his previous job, no one had ever done something this considerate for him, let alone his boss. 

The only thing was…. Today was actually not his birthday!

He could understand how his goofy boss mixed up the dates and accidentally swapped the day and month numbers. 

“Today is your first birthday since you started working here. I wanted to celebrate in style,” Shirosaki explained fondly. Aah, so cute. Momose would rather take this day as his new official birthday than admit to his sweet boss that he got the date wrong.  

“Thank you, manager… What about work, though?” Momose tried to say casually as he wiped away a tear from the happy emotion, and he looked around, amazed to see everyone in the office was having fun. People were relaxing, eating cupcakes, chatting, watching MyTube and laughing together. It really was a party, on a plain Monday morning at the Planning and Sales department of Minette.

“We will resume work after lunch. Right now, we will enjoy the surprise party,” Shirosaki said. Momose felt so guilty that everyone was making time for him when it wasn’t even his real birthday, but he couldn’t help but feel happy and honored too, and he thanked Shirosaki again.

“Thank you so much!” 

Aoyama suddenly stood by their side and he proudly munched on a cupcake. “You became a fine boss, Shirosaki-kun, even remembering what to do on your employee’s first birthday at the office.”

Shirosaki thanked him with a humble nod. “Section Chief, thank you. You taught me well.”

"But… aren’t you forgetting something?” Aoyama added, looking very suspicious all of a sudden.

Momose cocked his head, but Shirosaki seemed to understand and nodded. “Ah, right.”

To Momose’s surprise, Shirosaki stepped towards him, and Momose’s initial reflex was to flinch - his former boss had been quite the intimidating figure and he wasn’t over it yet.

However, what happened next was anything but scary. More like… weird?!

“Huhuhuh? W-whahahat, mahahanager!” Momose felt embarrassed to suddenly be tickled on his sides, and he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around his middle, dancing awkwardly in response to the random tickles.

“Happy birthday tickles,” Shirosaki announced dryly.

“Whahat? Hehehehe thahat’s s-sohoho suddehehen!” Momose laughed, shaking his head and trying his best not to jump away too fast since Shirosaki seemed so eager to tickle him.

“A-aren’t Manager and Section Chief the only ones upholding this tradition?” a female colleague asked, but Aoyama hissed “Sshh don’t tell him!” while Shirosaki tickled Momose playfully.

Momose couldn’t believe he was getting dragged in a weird little birthday tickle tradition (?) between the two of them, and it surely was a little humiliating to laugh like this in front of everyone.. but Shirosaki looked like he was having so much fun.

And in return, Momose felt a kind of joy he hadn’t felt in a long while. All of his remaining past work trauma was about to disappear with the magic of Shirosaki’s gentle tickles.

“It tihihickles! Hehehe mahaha-manageheher!” Momose giggled, squirming and wiggling as Shirosaki continued to tickle his sides.

Shirosaki nodded. “Yes. It should tickle.” Hehe! So serious!

Other employees slowly distanced themselves from their awkward tickle party, leaving Momose with only Shirosaki, and Section Chief Aoyama who stuck around too.

“A little bit here too,” Aoyama said, suddenly joining in by poking Momose between the ribs. Momose twitched between them and yelped as they both tickled him.

“Hehehe nohoho!” he whined. Both men tickled him a little more, but not too much. Though embarrassed, Momose truly felt happy after genuinely laughing like that, and he caught his breath with a smile on his face.

“This is for you,” Shirosaki finally said, handing him a wrapped gift. “From me,” he added, blushing adorably.

Momose was glad he already had tears from laughter in his eyes, or he would start crying new tears all over again because of how cute his manager was.

“You even got me a gift!” he whined thankfully, and he opened it after Shirosaki’s encouragement.

“Ah - t-this is…” Momose admired the cute keychain with on one side a photo of Hakutou the cute kitty, and on the other side a photo of Momose and Shirosaki together - a photo that was taken of them when they were at the amusement park.

“You can put it on the house key I gave you. Or… on something else, of course,” Shirosaki said with a cute blush.

Momose’s eyed widened, and he could hear the nervous bursts of laughter from some colleagues behind them.

“A family picture?”

“Are they a married couple?”

“That’s right - didn’t he propose to him the other day? They are moving fast!”

“They even named the cat ‘Hakutou’ after themselves!” they gossiped.

Shirosaki blushed when he overheard them just like Momose, but Momose giggled and held the gift with both hands.

“Manager, thank you so much. I love it,” he said with teary eyes. Shirosaki smiled gently.

“I’m glad,” he said, and he walked away. He showed his cute and goofy side when it appeared he didn’t remember where he was walking off to, so he turned around again and returned to Momose’s side.

“Momose? I wanted to ask. If… Well, if you do not have any birthday plans today… You are free to visit Hakutou and me. I have some drinks too, a-and Hakutou will be pleased to meow you happy birthday,” Shirosaki offered shyly.

Momose blushed. So cute! Of course he did not have plans since it was not his birthday, and he nodded.

“I would love that!”

“Great. Also, I apologize,” Shirosaki said. Momose frowned.

“For what?”

“I realized I should have asked you first… if you wanted happy birthday tickles. My boss gave them to me on my first birthday at the office, and it took me by surprise. I ended up doing the same to you.”

Pfft!! Momose threw his head back and laughed. God, he loved it here.

“That’s alright, ahaha!” he laughed.

My abusive boss gave me mental stress and an ulcer, so I switched jobs. My new boss is the goofiest and cutest person I have ever met. He threw me a birthday party on the wrong date, gave me happy birthday tickles, and invited me to his home!

[ailendolin]

I am having thoughts about the Bitter Sweethearts again.

Or more accurately about Lucas sacrificing himself for the group at some point in the future because he cannot bear to lose any of them again.

Like, even if the others eventually get their memories back, that won't change the fact that he still lost his friends and had to go through life for a while missing something that never existed because no one but him remembers it. And I think the thought of that happening again would terrify him to the point where he'd do anything in his power to protect the others - even if that means putting himself in danger in order to keep them safe.

So he's becoming more and more reckless as time goes by because he's already lived in a world without them and cannot bear to do so again. And depending on whether or not the others already have their memories back at that point, I can see this going one of two ways:

The others are very confused by this self-sacrificing idiot who calls Ellory Sweetheart every time he gets hurt and is delirious with pain and become very protective of him.

They know exactly what's going on but have no idea how to convince and reassure Lucas that they have no intention of leaving or forgetting him again* and become even more protective of him than they already are.

Things will probably come to a head either when Lucas actually sacrifices himself for the group or fails and someone else gets hurt instead. Everybody would be okay, obviously (no more angsty endings for these guys) but I'd like to think that Lucas would open up to them about those months post-Wish for the first time then and admit how difficult and painful that time was for him.

I don't know where I'm going with this - I just can't stop thinking about Lucas desperately trying to hold onto his friends once he gets them back because he never really came to terms with losing them in the first place. And don't get me started on his relationship with Ashen because that little spark between them only started after Ashen lost his memories which doesn't make any of this easier.

*The answer to that is cuddle piles because Lucas has nightmares about the Time That Never Was and not sleeping alone helps.

[im4rmy]

his favourite part of your body - OT7 (idol AU)

☄. *. ⋆ Mark

• your lips: you have pretty plumped lips and you usually wear lip gloss. you often catch him staring at your mouth while you talk.

• "sorry what were you saying baby?"

• he often gift you new lips products. you don't buy them anymore since you met him💀

• "that's the new lip gloss, isn't it?"

• he wants to kiss you 24/7.

• "plaese, baby, just a peck"

• you make sure to put on some lip gloss before getting on your knees and giving him head.

• "god, baby. you know me so well"

☄. *. ⋆ Renjun

• your hands: you have soft and slim hands, you like to wear gold jewellery. he likes to play with your hands when you're talking, they're just addictive.

• once he got turned on by how you were turning the pages of your book.

• he gift you new rings every now and then.

• "i like this new hand cream. is it peach scented?"

• lots of kisses on your knuckles.

• there's a reason if he loves to interwine your hands together before you two climax in bed...

• you're much smaller than him and seeing your little hands on his body makes him go feral.

• "look at you... c'mon, honey, use your pretty hands on me"

☄. *. ⋆ Jeno

• your whole body: you're not super skinny and he fell in love with your curves instantly.

• he loves to just rest his hands on your belly and he loves your thick thighs.

• "tonight i dreamed about dying suffocated between your thighs. i woke up with the worst boner ever"

• he asks you to sit on his face at least once a month.

• you're not insecure about your body and he finds that even sexier.

• you sometimes steal his credit card to buy new coordinated lingerie and he thanks you every time.

• your ass cheeks are his favourite anti-stress. he prefers the right one, for some reason.

• "they fit perfectly in my hands, it's crazy"

☄. *. ⋆ Haechan

• your neck: you have a pretty long neck and you never forget to wear your signature scent... and he happens to be in love with it.

• he loves to fall asleep with his face buried in your neck while you lazily run your fingers in his hair.

• "i would gladly die here, like this"

• you became a master in the art of covering hickeys.

• he loves how you always wear your silver necklace, it compliments your skin so well. it's just the cherry on top.

• "i just want to crawl inside your skin. this close is not enough"

• lots of kisses starting from your collarbones all the way up to your jawline.

• "so fucking sweet. you're something else, istg"

☄. *. ⋆ Jaemin

• your back: he fell in love with you at first sight seeing you in a fancy black dress that left your back uncovered. since then, that's his favourite thing in the world.

• he gives you back massages to turn you on but in the end you fall asleep and he's the one hornier than ever.

• he has plenty of pics of your bare back in his phone gallery.

• "look! look how perfect you are"

• you picked up the habit of laying on your belly on the bed, so when he comes in he excitedly lays on your back and hugs you. you can't move anymore.

• kisses. kisses. kisses. bites. other kisses.

• your back is the reason he loves to take you doggy style.

• "god, you're so beautiful from here, princess"

☄. *. ⋆ Chenle

• your legs: you're a volleyball player so you have pretty muscolar legs. there's a reason he loves to watch you play in those scandalous shorts.

• "are those even legal?"

• he gives you rubs from your ankles all the way up to your thighs, he just loves to touch them in every way possible.

• you once apologized because you didn't have time to shave properly and he looked at you like you were crazy.

• "what are you talking about? i love this, you're so hot"

• he loves to bring your legs over his shoulders while he's on top of you.

• when he's on tour he often asks for some pictures.

• "you know what i want, (y/n). take off those pants for me"

☄. *. ⋆ Jisung

• your butt: he'll never admit it but he literally drools over your ass.

• he literally can't watch you play volleyball because what if he get caught staring at your ass by chenle? That's a no.

• you got him the first boner just by sitting on his legs.

• "i'm not obsessed over it... i like it, of course i do... it's you"

• he loves to hug you from behind for a reason.

• he always asks for your permission to touch it and would never do it in front of other people.

• you once sat on his dick turning you back at him and he came in that exact moment.

• "fuck- what was that? do it again"

[levandright]

im a very introverted person who takes a long while to get close n comfortable with people, but when im really close i turn into the weirdest, and most spontaneous person ever. i generally have a hard time trusting others due to issues from the past, and don't easily forgive ppl if they did me wrong. i tend to not take care of myself properly, and forget to eat properly. my love languages are quality time and physical touch.

‎im an aries, my ideal type is someone who can match my energy and shares the same interest, opinions and values on important things. someone who's kind and respectful to everyone but not touchy with people except close friends.

‎i love love childhood friends to lovers and trouples similar to that! im on the aromantic spectrum (demiromantic) so i need to know/been friends with the person before feelings develop. i love winter, and my fav hobbies are: reading, playing games, painting and dancing!

‎enha or dream <3 and a playlist for me! (thank you in advance pooks, hope your day is well 💜)

FINDING YOUR MATCH...

MATCH FOUND! your first match is... MARK LEE

MARK'S first impression of you was that you were the shy and quiet type, but that quickly changed after knowing you for a few months. your slow transition of shy, and introverted to loud, and spontaneous was quite the surprise if you asked him. he found it quite cute how you showed your true personality as you got to know each other more though!

MARK noticed that you seemed to hide things when you first met, but when you guys finally got together and told him how you had a hard time trusting people because of your past he's understanding about it! he makes it known that whatever you tell him will be kept between you two only.

MARK worries how you don't take yourself well, he will make you promise to him that you'll start eating better, and start treating yourself better in general. makes sure he takes the time to message you on his free time, and breaks to check up on you even in his hectic schedules!

MARK will always make sure he has time for you even with all the comebacks, and promotions on his way. when you guys are out on dates, he always has his hands holding your hands. but oftentimes, you guys will be just at home laying in bed cuddling, and basking in each other's presence while watching a show or movie.

MARK loves to go out on walks with you during winter, and drink hot chocolate together <3 cuddling in your bedroom while you rewatch classic christmas movies.

MARK loves watching you when you're painting, your focused expression being so cute to his eyes. he would love to hear you talk about your favorite books, and maybe he'll give it a read too when he's interested in the story(totally not to talk about it with you) will teach you the steps of some of their songs when you ask him too. will be so so patient when you struggle with a certain step, and would break the steps down in an easier way for you to get it <3

MATCH FOUND! your second match is... PARK JONGSEONG

JAY is such a gentleman, always always has you as one of his top priorities. when he's back home, not busy with tours, promotions, and back to back comebacks he's at your apartment cooking for the both of you. SPOILS you to heaven and back (get it? chase atlantic heaven and back? sorry i'll stop-), sometimes you worry how much money he spends on you... books you've been wanting to read, painting materials you ran out of and the list goes onnnnn.

JAY asks you to teach him how to paint! he loves watching you paint, but he loves it even more if he can join you <3 he wouldn't be as good as you, but he'd do his best to try and paint you! you always praise him for trying his best, and he LOVES it. enjoys going out on picnic dates where you can both paint!

JAY would teach you how to play the guitar if you showed interest in learning it! is a good teacher. probably gets distracted when you're focused on playing the guitar with your eyebrows furrowing, and your adorable focused look. he'll randomly kiss your cheek sometimes which breaks your focus, and turn you into a huge blushing mess once you realize what he did.

your custom playlist made by yours truly <3

✮ lev notes : first matchup for my moot honeychocos <3 hope you love this oomf, had a fun time thinking of your match hehe. i will note that i will write at least 2 matches in reqs with two or more groups but the 2nd matchup will have less content than the first one. ✮ want to find your own match? apply here! curious about other matches?

[notmoreflippingelves]

I'm just a girl standing in front of the Elena of Avalor S3 timeline begging for it to make even a little logical sense.

[selamat-linting]

resignation letter is the most potent painkiller. i love you resignation letter i love you one month notice <3

[lucalicatteart]

Poll adventure (paventure? lol) Day 16: read the small story tidbit below the poll for more details, OR just vote based on initial impression

(✦ see past poll results + further information HERE (link) ✦)

Yesterday's poll decided that The Adventurer should offer to help the travelers with their broken wagon.....

~

After much internal deliberation (and some zoning out staring at butterflies), The Adventurer decides it would be best to offer his assistance. Technically, he IS still following his goal of not getting distracted, because theoretically it would make his journey much faster if he were able to catch a ride on a carriage. So really, this is all an ultimate big brain genius strategy for maximizing efficient travel.. Or, at least that sounds like a good enough justification to him.

Gathering up all of his social courage, he approaches one of the travelers fiddling with a broken wheel near the far end of the carriage and meekly asks if there's anything he could do to help.

The man was so focused on his task, he seems initially startled to look up and find someone near him. "OH..! Oh, uhh.. help? With the wagon?", he smiles pleasantly, gesturing towards a few wooden boards that are just out of his reach, "Sure, kid. If you could just hand me th-"

"Apologies, but we actually won't be needing your assistance, stranger." A taller man, surprisingly almost matching the stature of the Adventurer, suddenly slinks out from somewhere behind the carriage, sternly placing himself like a barrier in front of the man working on the wheel. Wheel Guy nervously averts his eyes, making himself smaller, silently resuming his work.

The Adventurer tries his best to maintain composure against the weight of the tall man's bitter gaze, but can't seem to muster much of a response "Aeughh,,, uh… b-but, h- Bu--HHHh,,?.."

"Look, disregard whatever my father told you, he's old, never has any clue what he's talking about. It'd be best for you to simply move along." ('Father'? They don't look alike at all, and seem to be nearly the same age..)

"W-well.. he.. he didn't really tell me anything, I me-hhH,,.. I mean, I literally just got here, s-so...."

"Good. Even more reason to be on your way."

Placing a gloved hand firmly on his shoulder, the tall man begins to motion the Adventurer away from the wagon, but a strange noise interrupts, echoing from inside. Perhaps some sort of animal sound? Or a person faintly yelling about something? Or… both?

"WH-wHggg… whAT was t-that???!!" The Adventurer immediately stops in place, pausing to listen as the tall man keeps trying to push him ahead.

"I didn't hear anything, stranger."

"No, t-there.. was dEFinitely, UHH, a-"

"Likely something in the forest."

"Wh--aah... d.. do you think it was an animal?"

The tall man continues a dramatic struggle to 'subtly' drag him further down the road, whilst the Adventurer mindlessly digs in his heels, too distracted to even notice he's being so strongly prompted to leave.

"Many animals do, indeed, exist within forests. This should not be suprising."

"...It's just.. ..eughh… s… so weird…"

"I assure you, it is not."

"I-it really sounded like.. like it came f-from insid-"

"Yes, from inside the forest. Now, please, if you would.."

The noise interrupts again. It's definitely someone, or something, in some sort of distress.. And definitely from inside of the cart.

"wHoAAGH, aa!!! T-tHat's NOT from the f-forest, that-"

The tall man fully just shoves him now, sending the Adventurer toppling across the dirt, clumsily rolling and landing just past the other side of the carriage. A mother and young child who seem to be part of the traveling group simply stare down at him with empty blank gazes, wholly unconcerned about helping him up.

As the Adventurer fumbles back to his feet (still confused as to why he was even pushed in the first place), the tall man looms by the carriage, diligently watching to ensure that he leaves.

"Travel safe, stranger."

Despite his initial obliviousness, the Adventurer begins to piece the situation together as he stares back at the man, now fully convinced something suspicious might be going on...

…What should he do next??

~

~

~

Additional Information

the adventurer's current main quest: follow his map to reach the abandoned castle ruins and see the rare animal specialist about the mysterious egg he has