#and if that stuff’s important to you absolutely stick with it!

[artsekey]

Thinking about the time I lost a game of Overwatch and I was so mad about it that I genuinely considered getting into shit with the other team in chat and then realized that it was a colossal waste of my living breathing Human Time and uninstalled Overwatch instead because it was only making me angry.

And then thought about the OTHER time when I was on TikTok and realized I was Not Enjoying Myself and was, in fact, seeing so many sad videos and fake influencer ads that I felt Truly Despondent and then just…Deleted it.

Imo I want my social media /general media experience to be a pleasant break from real world and I get to decide what I get to cull to make that a reality for myself. I highly reccomended it! Life has improved considerably!

[dafpork]

the thoughts are returning (making a comic adaptation of the actor au alongside the actual writing)

[problemcore]

small minor-spoilery talk of deltarune chapter 3 in the tags

[everysongineverykey]

begging people to realize that the back warehouse of a grocery store is not a second, secret grocery store that has everything you need plus some extra secret items the first grocery store does not have

[thebrandonross]

just imagine thinking about me, when you already won.

[geminiwritten]

punishment ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

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

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

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

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

word count: 13863

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was actually quite an impressive stunt. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You almost make it out without looking back—almost. 

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

All but one. 

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

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

- 

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

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

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

But it wasn’t worth it. 

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

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

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

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

Smug prick. 

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

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

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

“You’re going to let me fly?” 

He chuckles. “Of course.” 

“But-” 

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

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

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

The cheeky grin on his lips is completely readable. 

You quirk a brow. “You?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A snort of laughter escapes before you can stop it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Yep.” 

“Where were you before this?” 

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Phoenix.” 

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

You like her. No bullshit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing fancy today, alright?” 

He hands you a dark green, slightly scuffed helmet. 

You frown at it. “But my helmet-” 

“Has your callsign on it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s muffled laughter from Payback and Fanboy. 

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

“I was thinking Grandma,” Fanboy adds. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get your shit outta my way, Fanboy.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I doubt it,” Hangman grunts. 

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

You snort quietly. 

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh. Gross. 

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Mav chuckles. “Sure.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Punishment?” 

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

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

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

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

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. 

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

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

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

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

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

“It’ll be too late.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” you mutter. “Luxury storage.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes widen and heat floods your face. 

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

The older man grins and lumbers off, whistling. 

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

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

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

Bradley snorts. “Was it any good?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what the hell is that supposed to mean? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit,” Bradley mutters, stumbling forward. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer. 

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

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

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

“This is just my luck,” you mutter. 

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

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

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

“Walking disaster,” you say quickly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re staring,” he says suddenly. 

Your cheeks warm. “I’m calculating.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Yep.” 

“When’d you get it?” 

“Flight school.” 

“Is there a cool story behind it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This man is actually trying to kill you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” Bradley growls, his voice tight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

Holy shit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You squint, the brightness stabbing at your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “We’re fine.” 

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

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

Maverick. 

Your stomach drops. 

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

You're never living this down. 

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

Bradley sighs. “It was locked, Hangman.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” Bradley says. “We slept.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t react. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “Overslept.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least you’ll die happy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes and surge forward, jaw tight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All you need is the green light. The words. 

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

You take a breath. Narrow your gaze. 

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

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

“Flip the switch, Jinx.” 

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

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

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

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

Reuben groans. “She is, idiot.” 

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

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

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

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

“Oh, we’re fucked,” Mickey declares. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grin and dive—clean, silent, deadly. 

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

“Boo,” you whisper. 

“Shit!” Mickey yells. “She’s on us!” 

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

Tone lock. Missile fired. 

“Damn it!” Reuben groans. 

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

Then you wait. 

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

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

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

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

Then you dive. 

Fast. Precise. Dead-on. 

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

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

“Fuck!” he barks, pulling hard. 

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

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

Jake looks up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bradley turns to you. “Hey.” 

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

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

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

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

“Does that intimidate you?” you tease. 

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

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

You don’t think. You just move. 

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

And then you kiss him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A chorus of half-laughs and agreement follows him. 

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

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

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

“Don’t fucking tempt me.” 

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

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

END.

[aysrin]

Needle Felt Siffrin Build Log: (oct 6 - nov 20, 2024)

Credits goes wholely to @insertdisc5 for creating ISAT and siffrin's design! I am just here to attempt to make cool fanart (and get more people to play isat.. my devious plans are going great so far :3) As always, this isn't a tutorial- it is just a log about how i go about approaching a sculpture and I hope this collection of resources can help others make their own sifs!!

PSA: this has some spoilers for endgame CGs/sprites on my references image board ( also might see it in the backgrounds of my process pics). And bc this is needle felting, you will see some sharp needles! beware!

my inspiration was the intro cutscene where Sif eats the star, so my main goal was to adhere to the style of ISAT as closely as possible while transfering it to 3D space. And I knew i also wanted to try making the cloak for stopmotion purposes, so my process was tailored towards having control over the fabric with wire inlaid within the cloak (more on that later).

I ended up not sticking eyebrows on top of siffrin's bangs lol but anyways, first order of business is Gather Reference! v important. pureref is free and an awesome program. I also do some sketches to visualize the pose and important details i wanted to include in the sculpt.

behold the isat wiki gallery page! tawnysoup wrote an awesome ISAT style guide that absolutely rings true in 3d space too!! adrienne made a sif hair guide here!! (sorry i couldnt find the original link, but it's on the wiki). It says ref komaeda hair so that's what i looked at, along with other adjacent hairstyles! I also like doing drawovers on in progress photos to previs shapes n stuff to get a better idea of the end result.

Also if you're like me and struggle with translating stuff into 3D space, take a look at how people make 3d models and figurines! sketchfab is also a great resource! I looked at the link botw model by Christoph Schoch here for hair ref. (I used Maya, but there's a blender version too ! you can pose characters too if your model has been rigged!)

Face:

Started off blocking out the main shapes of eyelids and iris, and then filling in the colour details in the iris and the star highlights before moving onto adding thin black outlines and eyelashes. I didn't take many in-progress photos cause i kept ripping stuff out to redo them many many times, sorry!! This eye took about 3 hrs bc i just wasn't happy with it!! Sometimes it do be the vibe to give up, go to bed and see how it looks in the morning (more often than naught, it looks fine and it was the "dont trust yourself after 9pm" speaking)

The Mouth:

Couldn't decide if i even wanted to add a mouth as per usual with all my humanoid sculptures.. but i did some drawover tests first to see what expression i liked and to try to visualize it from multiple angles. (I was also testing the placement of stars on the hat brim here)

And then I redid the mouth like 3 times cause the angle just wasn't right (this went on for about the course of a week yay!)

Hair: woe baldfrin be upon ye

I made the hair strands individually first, and then since Sif has some of the hair at the back dyed black, i covered some of the tips with black wool (manually) (I think it would go much faster if i just took a marker to it, but hahaha i love pain and detailing!! )

And then the rest of it was positioning strands with sewing pins layer by layer, always looking at it from different multiple angles- sometimes tailoring the angle or swoop of individual hair flippies. At one point I thought the back looked too cluttered, but the hat covers a lot of it anyways!! yay for hiding mistakes! (imo this is a similar process to how cosplayers style wigs, but on a smaller scale and the same level of time consuming)

As always, look to your reference for guides, and I always do a whole bunch of drawovers over in progress photos to ascertain what was working and what wasn't.

Hat:

A trick to get a super pointy tip, make another tip seperately while keeping the connection point unfelted, and then combine the two to make super pointy hat!! (this also helps if you made the hat too short and need it to be taller. ask me how i know)

The embroidery on the hat brim was done in a hoop and then invisible stitched to the felted top portion. Technically you don't need a hoop but it helps keep the fabric tension, so you avoid puckers in your embroidery. You can also use iron-on stabilizer if your fabric is loose weave or particularly thin. this is the tutorial i used for the stars embroidery! particularly the fly stitch one, french knots, and the criss-cross stitches. highly recommend needlenthread for embroidery stitches and techniques! i learned all my embroidery from this single site alone.

For fabric, I think I used a polycotton i had in my stash,, unsure of the actual fiber content bc i bought it a long time ago. I used DMC Satin floss which was nice and subtle shiny but frayed a lot so it was kind of a pain to stitch with... but keep a short thread length and perservere through it!! After the embroidery was done, I folded up the raw edges and invisible sewed it to the top portion of the hat.

General shape:

Ok general structure of the body is this: wire armature body covered with black wool -> cloak lining & wire cage -> edge of lining is invisibly sewn to the main cloak at the hem -> head

Don't be afraid to mess around with the pattern, it's essentially a pizza with a slice taken out of it to form a steep cone shape!! Use draft paper before cutting into felt to save material! (i think i made like 3 cloaks before i was happy with the shape lol).

You can also hide the seam of the cloak and collars by gently messing up the fibers of the felt with your fingers or a felting needle btw! you can also sandpaper the seams according to Sarah Spaceman in this vid (highly recommend them for their in depth cosplay/crafting builds holy smokes), though since sif cloak is at such a smol scale, I just blended the seam with my felting needle.

For the lining wire cage section, I sewed in wire around the cloak, so the main rotation point is at the top neck area under the collar. These paddles are used to keep whatever pose I need the cloak to be in for stopmotion purposes. Then after the wire is done, I invisibly sewed the lining to the cloak at the hem (same technique as the hat brim to the lining there).

In hindsight, I should've used a thinner fabric for the lining, but i only had sheer white in my stash so had to go with double felt, thus resulting in a really bulky lining but oh well!

Heels:

started with the general boot shape, then tacking on the diamond shape heel stack and also diamond shape sole bc we're committed to the bit here. I skewer the boot onto the armature which also conveniently hides the connection point into the base to keep the whole thing upright and also I can rotate the boot to tweak the angle if needed.

Pins:

I kinda just trial and error'd jewellery wire with pliers into the pin shapes. They're itty bitty!! had a whole bunch of fails before i got two nice ones. A hot tip is to use needle nose pliers and wrap the wire around the tip to get a smooth circle shape!

Base:

I smoothed out the edge of a circular wood base with a dremel, and then used wood stainer to get the black colour. It ended up kinda looking like I took a sharpie to it, but whatever.... now i have a whole ass can of black wood stainer........ I then made a rough mountain of black wool and stuck the feet armature in. And now he's standing!!

Normally at this point when I'm done felting everything, to get a smooth finish, I'd take a small pair of scissors and carefully snip away any flyaway fibers, but this time, I just left them fluffy cause i think that's what sif would do :3c

Photoshoot:

Normally I do shoots using daylight but it was winter so the sun was nonexistent. So I broke out the home lighting setup aka dollarstore posterboard for a nice smooth background, and then hit it with the overhead Fill, side Fill 2, and Rim light, and use white paper/posterboard for bounce light if one side feels too dark. But if things are overexposed, you can move the light sources away until the harshness dims down. I'm using a Olympus mirrorless camera (handed down to me by my sibling so i dont remember the model exactly), which can connect to my phone as a remote so I can avoid shaking the camera when i take photos. Pretty nifty for stopmotion purposes! (yes my camera stand is a stack of notebooks, a tissuebox and some eva foam under the lens, don't judge me)

Stopmotion animation:

I'm still figuring stopmo out on my part, but my process was straight ahead animation ... move the cloak a cm, take a pic.... move another cm, click.... and repeat until i get a version I was happy with. My ref was the cloak animation from Gris (beautiful game btw). The 2d star animation was also done straight ahead using procreate, exported in png with a transparent background, and finally stitched together with the stopmotion footage in photoshop.

My turnarounds are also stopmotion! also secret hack, the turntable is a fidget spinner sticky tacked to a cake platter.

And i think that's all! i mainly wanted to share how I go about thinking about taking a 2d concept and moving it to 3D. I also didn't go in depth into how to actually do the needle felting bc I don't think I''d be very helpful I'm a very good teacher by telling yall to just keep stabbing until it looks right (i'm self taught for this hobby),,, if anyone wants it though, i can share a bunch of tutorials and other felters' process that helped me learn more needle felting!

Hopefully this was helpful to someone! Feel free to send asks if ya got any questions or if anything needs clarification! Or show me your works! I love seeing other people's crafts :3

here have a cookie for making it this far 🥐

[hoe4hockey]

NSFW A-Z Quinn Hughes

Warnings - smut and mentions of smut. DNI if you are a minor.

Is it even a hockey themed blog if you aren’t posting Quinn Hughes content? 👀

A - Aftercare

Very important to him. Wants to make sure you are well taken care of and well looked after. If anything can be a bit too intense at times. “Quinn someone who just fucked me so hard and I’m pretty sure bruised my cervix can’t then turn around and hand feed me and wipe sweat from my forehead.”

B - Body Part (Their/Yours)

Loves his hands, loves how strong they are and how long his fingers are. Like that he catches you watching him flex his fingers and his veins running along his hands makes you almost drool.

Loves your smile, doesn’t always come off as a fun loving guy but anytime you smile whether it be because of him or literally anything else he eats it up.

C - Cum

Comes hard and lots. Doesn’t care where it ends up as long as he can see it dripping from you or out of you.

“That’s it baby, stick your tongue out and show me how good I taste.”

D - Dirty Secret

Hasn’t ever tried it and wouldn’t know how to ask but wants to try anal. So bad. Like he dreams about it. You walking around the lake house in a skimpy little bikini doesn’t help the situation at all.

E - Experience

Has had a few partners but when you first started dating everything was still a bit clunky as he stumbled around and learned every little thing you like, what made you tick. Now he can make you come from flicking and tweaking your nipples alone. You fear Quinn Hughes may have ruined you for anyone else.

F - Favourite Position

Loves missionary. Loves looking into your eyes and swallowing your moans with kisses while he feels you fall apart around him. Also like to have access to your neck to wrap his long fingers around it.

G - Goofy

Quinn thinks there is a time and place for goofiness and the bedroom isn’t one of them. He can make you giggle and laugh after he’s ruined you.

H - Hair

Dark thick hair that he keeps neat and tidy, connects to a snail trail that when he stretches and his shirt lifts it drives you insane.

I - Intimacy

Very very big on intimacy, in any sense. Loves being close to you and knowing that you are his and his alone.

J - Jerk off

Might do it once or twice a week. Doesn’t really have the need if you aren’t there. His teammates have joked after he drilled into them at practice that maybe he needs to blow off some steam.

“The only thing I’ll be wrapping my hand around is my girls neck and I think that will be exactly what I need.” He says to Brock, leaving him standing in shock in the hallway. He couldn’t look you or Quinn in the eye for a few weeks.

K - Kink

Choking - big fan of choking. He likes his hands knows you like his hands and knows you like them too. Got drunk one night and you wrote necklace between his thumb and pointer finger then placed his hand around your neck. He legitimately almost came in his pants.

L - Location(Favourite places to do it)

Strictly a bed guy, likes having you spread out before him so he can do whatever he wants to you.

M - Motivation (What turns them on/gets them going)

You being a brat. It spins his head and flips a switch inside him.

N - No(Draw a line In the sand)

Will not have sex with you anymore if his brothers are around. Only because they either have some sick intuition and have walked in on you guys in some not so pg13 positions.

O - Oral

Giver, could spend hours buried between your thighs. Wants to feel your thighs squeeze his head and watch them quiver as he tastes you on his tongue over and over again.

P - Pace

Likes to take his time and savour every moment. Would never go fast and want it to be over quickly unless absolutely necessary.

Q - Quickie

The only time they are required are during the off season when you and him offer to go and pick up dinner so you can have a little fun in the car before you get home. Yet somehow Jack still texted midway through and requested you guys pick up some extra stuff.

R - Risk

Quinn is very calculated and thinks about things heavily before he does them, in life, in hockey and also with sex. Doesn’t love the idea risk at all. In any sense, especially when it comes to you.

S- Stamina

Has stamina thanks to working out and training but he really just is a sleepy guy at his core. Loves doing what needs to be done then watching a movie and cuddling into you afterwards.

T - Toys

You have them but you only use them together. He caught you once when you didn’t hear him come through the door and the “punishment” that followed was almost worth doing it all over again.

U - Unfair(How much they like to tease)

Loves it, will tease you any chance he gets. Even in public he is so good at it and sneaky about it the only person who knows are you and him.

Hands in you underwear at a team dinner, check.

Laying on the couch watching movies with his family during the summer and his hands are cupping your breast under your shirt, check.

V- Volume (how loud they are or/what noise they make)

Moans and groans into your ear or your neck, the action sending vibrations all over your body.

W - Wildcard (random head cannon)

Has terrible nightmares, wakes up sweaty and breathing heavily gripping his chest. Looks over and see’s you and suddenly everything feels better again. Will hold you close and almost inhale you while he drifts back to sleep.

X - X-ray

Above average in length. Used to be insecure about it but has definitely learned to use it.

Y - Yearning(how high is there sex drive)

Doesn’t think he has a particularly high sex drive until he isn’t with you then it feels like he could quite literally stretch his skin off. Makes it even worse when he comes home from a roadie and then you can’t walk the next day.

Z - ZZZ(how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Has trouble sleeping in general. Does enjoy staying up and watching you cuddle into him, when he eventually does drift off has an arm firmly wrapped around you.

[moody-alcoholic]

Okay I had a fic idea what I want to request

So my bff was watching her boyfriend playing soccer shirtless and all and she was basically drooling and that got me thinking for a fic

So Ghost is training the new recruits They're outside and Ghost is looking positively delicious being sweaty and dressed only in tactical pants and his boots

And reader, Gaz and Soap are just drooling over him

So then Laswell shows up and is like, go do something productive, you can drool over your boyfriend/fiance/husband/whatever you want in your own time

And they're protesting and stuff (and ofcourse Soap is making a lot of sexual comments) and Laswell sees Price and tells him to tell his sergeants to stop drooling and go do something productive

But Price is like I don't know Laswell, Ghosts ass does look absolutely delicious in those pants

And Laswell is just done ™️

Maybe there are some important people with Laswell and they're just like these are your best people?

Most likely they drag Ghost into a closet after

I would have kept going but i'm still not feeling great and I needed to wrap this up.

CW: sex, PiV sex, handjob, cringe one liners.

______

You’re sitting out on the picnic table outside the barracks. It’s nice weather today and you can see down to the training field where Simon’s been all day. You got back early from training now you have nothing to do but look over your notes and relax for the evening. 

You took a 6 pack of beer out the fridge, there’s nothing to do tomorrow it’s Sunday even Simon and John will get a rest. You watch as the figures in the distance start getting closer, working their way back up towards the main building. 

Simon sticks out like a sore thumb dressed all in black with the white mask. This time it’s different though, you frown as he gets closer. You almost can’t believe it, he’s shirtless, still has the mask but has his shirt and vest in one of his hands. 

“Fucking hell,” you whisper taking a sip of your beer. You watch as he gets closer and closer followed by a dozen soldiers in full kit, coated in mud. Now you’re seeing Simon's coated in mud too from the waist down. There are splashes on his chest, he throws his clothes down and stops. The exhausted soldiers behind him stop standing to attention. 

You get up walking back to the barracks and opening the door. “Kyle! Johnny! You have to see this.” You call before letting the door close and going back over to the table, by the time you hear them coming out Simon’s popped open a bottle of water squirting it on his chest and wiping the dirt off. 

“What?” Kyle asks coming out first but you can already see his eyes locked onto Simon. You offer him a beer. 

“Holy shit.” Johnny says as Kyle comes down to sit next to you. 

“What happened to his clothes?” Johnny asks. You chuckle. 

“You complaining?” Kyle asks, opening his beer. Johnny reaches over to pick one up and sits on the other side of you. You all sit there in awe, you can just about hear what he’s shouting about; one of the soldiers fell in the mud and started sinking. Simon had to jump in to pull them out. 

“Maybe we should get him a bucket of water?” Kyle asks. 

“Or a hose.” You say taking another sip of beer. 

“Hey! LT!?” Johnny shouts making you jump, he turns to look over. “Need a hand!?” You watch as he shakes his head turning back to the troop. You smile watching the early evening sun shine off his skin, he looks good. He’s still squirting water and brushing the dirt off as the soldiers start jogging back down the hill. 

“How many laps do you think he’ll make them do?” Kyle asks. 

“Till he's nice and clean I bet.” Johnny says nudging you. You lean forward with your beer watching him run his hands up and down his arms. He bends down to pick something up off his vest and it’s like you all sign in unison. 

“What's going on out here?” Kate asks, coming through the door behind you. None of you turn your eyes all watching Simon stand back up. 

“Training.” Johnny says shifting next to you. 

“What happened to Simon?” She asks. 

“I don’t know but whatever it was it needs to happen more often.” Kyle says. Kate sighs and you watch as Simon crosses his arms and starts to pace. 

“Fuck, I’d let those arms crush me.” You say before taking another drink. 

“Arms? Those thighs.” Kyle says also taking a sip.

“No, it’s all about that fuckin’ arse of his.” Johnny says. “The things I’d do for those cheeks.” You can’t help laughing and nodding in agreement. 

“Shouldn’t you be doing something useful?” She asks. 

“Need to make sure he doesn’t get hurt again.” Johnny says. She sighs and you turn back to see her with her arms crossed. 

“You can gawk at him later, maybe John needs a hand with something?” She suggests.   

“Yeah, maybe.” Johnny says but none of you move. 

“And you’re the best the crown has to offer.” Laswell sighs.

“I don’t know about you but I’d swear allegiance to that body any day of the week.” Johnny says, taking a long sip of his beer. 

“Here, here.” Gaz replies holding his can up.

“I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty King Charles III, and that tight fucking ass.” Johnny says, you snort on your beer and it throws Kyle into a laughing fit. 

“Christ.” You hear Kate sigh as she heads back into the building. You all sit there in silence for a few minutes watching the troop come back up the hill. When you all hear the door again this time it’s John and Kate who come out. 

“What happened to Simon?” He asks. 

“He got dirty.” You say, Johnny chuckles. John hums. 

“Really fuckin’ dirty.” Johnny whispers. 

“I think he needs a hand getting clean.” You say, going to stand up. 

“Definitely a 2 person job.” Kyle says. Following you. 

“All hands on deck.” Johnny says, finishing his can and following you both walking over to Simon. 

“It doesn’t take three of you.” Kate calls. 

“Think of it as a team building exercise.” John says, Johnny turns and winks at him. When you make it up to Simon he turns to see you all. 

“Thought you could use a hand cleaning up.” Johnny says resting his hand on his shoulder. Kyle bends down picking up his vest and shirt and your hand lands on the bottom of his back. Simon hums as the soldiers come to a stop panting in front of you all. 

“Fine.” He sighs, before dismissing the troop. 

___

You all drag Simon into the barracks shared washroom much to John’s amusement and Kate's raised eyebrow. You run the shower getting the right temperature while Johnny and Kyle help strip Simon. You hear the sound of lips smacking together and clothes being dropped on the floor while you finish up. 

When you step back and turn they’re all naked and Johnny’s face is already pressed into Simon’s neck. You walk over to them and lean up pressing a kiss on Simon’s lips. He tastes of salt, his lips are cracked and dry, you run your hand up his stomach but before you can go any further Kyle and Johnny pull him away. 

You smile watching them take him over to the showers while you strip, throwing your clothes into the pile. When you make it over to the shower Kyle’s arm comes around you pulling you against him. You smile and run your hand up Simon’s back, brushing some of the dirt off. 

“Got yourself all dirty hum LT?” Johnny says as he runs his hands down Simon’s chest. You chuckle and Johnny looks over Simon’s shoulder winking at you. Kyle moves to stand behind you, and you continue to help the water wash the dirt off Simon’s back. 

“You’re a menace Johnny.” Simon moans, you feel his body tense as Johnny starts to stroke Simon’s cock. You peak over his shoulder only to be met by Johnny’s mouth. You hum as Kyle presses himself against you and you feel his cock brush against your thighs. 

Before you know it you're switched with Johnny who’s more than happy to run his hands over Simon’s ass. You end up pinned against the wall with Simon’s arms wrapped around you hitching you up and onto his cock. It’s not the most comfortable position but you don’t care. 

You watch Simon’s eyes roll back into his head as Johnny presses his fingers into his ass. You feel his cock twitch inside you and he stops thrusting into you causing you to moan in his neck.

“Don’t stop.” Kyle says as his hand comes over to stroke your cheek. 

“Yeah, don’t let me distract you.” Johnny says with a cheeky grin on his face. You tut shaking your head, they're not making this easy for him.

“Fuck,” Simon says squeezing his eyes closed, you wrap your arms around his neck letting him pick you up fully, his hands grip your ass bounching you on his cock. You press your lips against his, he moans in your mouth, his fingers digging into your skin. 

You hear Johnny and Kyle chuckle their lips smacking against each other. Simon changes his pace, pressing into you deeper, it makes you break from the kiss and tip your head back against the wall. 

“Simon.” You call squeezing your legs around him. You’re going to come if he keeps this pace up. 

“Yes, c’mon.” He breathes into your ear, you take that as all the permission you need clenching around him while you come. He presses his mouth into your neck as he comes too, that you weren't expecting but you don’t care. You’re both panting against each other, after a few seconds he slowly lowers you down to the floor. 

You let the water warm the goosebumps off you as Simon turns around to face Johnny and Kyle. 

“Oh you’re not done yet.” Johnny says winking at Simon. You look around at Kyle who offers you his hand then pulls you into his arms. You watch as Johnny is already pressing Simon back into the shower, his hands running up and down his body. 

“Should we leave them to it?” You ask Kyle. 

“Or we could stay and watch.” He says smiling. You smile back nodding and dragging him into the next shower. ___

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Six

Eddie stands in the hallway, his feet cold on the marble floor, feeling useless. The profound lack of confidence is new and...haunting. Going through an extended period of time where he had to face how utterly shit he’s been as a human being has been...well. He’s doing his absolute best to remind himself that all of his friends and family don’t hate him, but that’s really hard considering how utterly shit he’s been.

How much trouble he’s caused for everyone.

He nearly lost the band. After all the hard work everyone put in, they got their dream. They achieved it. They played to sold out stadiums, and Eddie nearly fucked it, nearly fucking destroyed a decade of his friends hard work because he can’t control himself.

Eddie could be the shittest human being to ever exist.

“You should put a shirt on, Chrissy will be here soon.”

Eddie glowers at Steve. He’s got a hundred things on the tip of his tongue. Steve’s a traitor for leaving. Steve’s a cunt for being in his house for a week uninvited in the first place. How dare Steve just...abandon his post, or whatever. How can he just...leave Eddie to this. Steve’s just some guy with a dumb job and Eddie is that dumb job and Eddie hates him for it.

Steve hoists his stupid sensible back pack up higher, a small duffel in the other hand, “I prepped some snacks in the fridge if you get hungry later. Don’t forget the stuff in the dryer, it’ll crease if you leave it too long.”

“You’re not my mom.”

Steve professional mask slips back into place, “nice meeting you, Eddie,” and then he heads to the front door.

“I...wait. What am I supposed to do?”

Steve shrugs, “have a nice life?” he suggests vaguely, his eyebrows, doing that nothing thing that’s definitely a thing.

“And that’s it...you’re just going to leave?”

“Your rut is done, so is my job.” Steve gives Eddie a cold, customer service smile, “Chrissy’s coming over later to hang out. She said something about taking you to the studio tomorrow, that’ll be good, right?”

“I. I mean.” Eddie feels sick. He does not want to face the guys. He absolutely does not want to do that, at all. They’re going to hate him and it’s going to be awkward and it’s going to be shit and Eddie’s lost the people who are most important to him in the whole world and it’s all completely his own fault.

Steve’s face softens a little, back to just Steve and not professional Steve, and he puts his duffel down, “what is it?”

“Thought your job was done,” Eddie grumbles, wrapping his arms around himself defensively, suddenly deeply regretting his bare chest. Steve is well built and golden and healthy looking, and meanwhile Eddie is painfully aware of his scrawny, sad wet rat appearance.

“It is, I’m off the clock. You get one free pass, go for it.”

Eddie feels like a naughty child, staring the shit out of the floor. He gestures vaguely. “What if I fuck it up?”

“You’re probably gonna’.”

Eddie’s head snaps up, incandescent with rage, “what in the actual fuck-”

Steve shrugs, putting his duffel all the way down, “look. Statistically it takes a few tries for sobriety to stick. There’s...a lot of things I’m supposed to say about this, but, honestly,” he shrugs, “I’m not on shift, so, the best advice I have is remember this. Remember how shit you feel. Remember how much you upset Chrissy. Remember how much you fucking hated having me here. Remember how much you hated the center. Remember how fucking dogshit you felt when you found out your band were ready to bail on you. Hold on to it, and when...when you think you might fuck up, just think to yourself, is it worth it? Is it worth losing those people. Is it worth going through all this, again? Because...it isn’t worth it, is it? And, realistically...what really matters is what you do after you fuck up. The self destruct is the easy way out, getting back on the horse is the hard thing...but the right thing.”

Eddie kind of, deflates, a little. Because honestly, Steve's right. No ones ever put it quite like that before. It’s a horribly solid argument for not fucking up.

Steve picks up his duffel, turning to go, but he stops, smiling to himself, lingering for a second in the doorway, “and if that doesn’t work, just think, what would Dolly do?”

The door closes, and Eddie sighs.

The house is suddenly really, really big, and really, really fucking empty.

Eddie goes and runs himself a bath, and if that means he can imagine Steve is still in the house somewhere, there’s no one here to know what he’s up to.

"I didn't hate having you here," Eddie finally replies to no one.

“Eddie, get fucking dressed. What are you even doing in there?”

“Nothing,” Eddie grumbles from under the covers.

The door bangs, “oh my god, you’re not even up, what are you doing??”

“I’m not going.”

“Excuse you?” Chrissy drags the covers off him, and it’s fucking brutal. The air is chillier than the warmth under the covers and the light is too fucking bright.

Eddie yelps and curls up into a ball, “they don’t want to see me. I’ll just...ruin everything.”

“Oh. You’ve finally hit the feeling sorry for yourself stage.”

“What?”

“Recovery. It’s like with grief. There’s stages. I read a book.”

“You read a book-”

“Look. They want to see you. You’ve pissed them off, yes. You’ve been absolutely shit, also, yes.” Eddie curls up on himself even tighter, “but you had a problem Eddie, and you...weren't very well. And now you’re putting in effort and they see that, okay. They want their friend back, they want this to work out, okay?”

“You think?” Eddie mumbles, his face shoved into the sheet.

“Yes, I do. I also think that if you think a good first impression is you showing up fucking late and keeping them waiting then you’re an-”

“I’m up!” Eddie shifts, climbing out of bed, “I’m getting ready. I’ll be like, twenty minutes.”

Chrissy has Eddie a coffee ready in a to go cup in the kitchen, and he grabs it, rooting around in the fridge, he pulls out the last Tupperware, digging for a spoon from the drawer.

“Since when do you eat breakfast?” Chrissy asks as Eddie juggles everything, following her to the car.

“It’s overnight oats, peanut butter raspberry, there’s like, chia seeds and shit in it, Steve makes them. It’s like dessert for breakfast. Honestly it’s even better than his waffles.”

Eddie gets his seat belt on, pulling the lid off and digging in, he catches Chrissy staring at him, “what?” he speaks with his mouth full.

“I...you know what, nothing...just don’t spill that shit in my car.”

Eddie hesitates at the door. They’ve spent a million hours in this studio over the years. It’s like a second home to all of them. Every studio album they’ve ever produced, they’ve recorded it here. It’s like...a second home now. After they got shot to fame. When they didn’t have a clue what they were doing, not really, not in the beginning...this is the place where they learned how it sounded when your music got mixed by an actual professional.

This is the place that breathed life into Eddie’s vision.

He thunks his head against the door, just for a second, Chrissy waiting patiently a step behind him. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t press.

“What would Dolly do?” Eddie whispers to himself, and then he opens the door.

It’s actually been a few months since he’s seen the guys; easily the longest they’ve been apart since high school. Everyone looks a little uncertain when Eddie walks in, and Eddie suddenly feels like a stranger. Like an outsider, in a place he shouldn’t be.

In a place he has no right to be.

In a place he most certainly doesn’t deserve to be.

“Uhm, hi, everyone.”

There’s a moment of quiet that almost has Eddie retreating straight back out the door, but then Gareth is up out of his chair. He’s across the room in three long strides, and Eddie almost flinches back from the hit he thinks is coming, but then he’s in a hug. A big, solid, bone crushing hug.

Eddie closes his eyes, and rests his hands on Gareth’s back, “I’m so sorry.”

“Fucking better be,” Gareth huffs.

The hug lasts forever, like Gareth doesn’t want to let him go, but eventually he has to. Eddie is wrapped in Gareth’s scent. It’s as familiar as his own. Home, pack, brother, it says. Eddie relaxes into it. It’s calm, Gareth’s scent, not really betraying anything other than...Gareth’s happy to see him.

Jeff is next, “I’m so sorry man.”

“Wait? You’re sorry?” Eddie’s enveloped in another hug. Another familiar scent fills Eddie’s lungs. Makes him feel a tiny bit more whole. Another puzzle piece slotting into place, settling his insides. He’s denied himself this for so long, the relationship more and more strained the further Eddie spiraled.

“We saw it happening man, we made excuses. Told ourselves it wasn’t that bad, or it was just a phase. And then before we knew it it...it felt like we’d watched it get out of control, like we just sat back and let you struggle. I feel like we could have done something.”

It breaks something inside Eddie a little, he nuzzles closer, pressing his forehead against Jeff’s shoulder. “I made my own stupid mistakes.”

“In the beginning, yeah, totally you did. But...it became an illness, Eddie. And when you’re sick...you need help. We left it too long. You nearly fucking died.”

“I’m...I’m okay now, okay?”

Jeff pulls back, his eyes wet like Eddie’s, “you wanna play some tunes?”

“Fuck yeah I wanna’ play some tunes.”

Chrissy ordered them Chinese. They’re not allowed food in the actual booth bit, so they sit out in the lounge to eat.

It had...felt a little stilted, at first. Like they all had rough edges that weren't quite sitting right. It took a little while, but playing their older stuff helped. Something cathartic about completely ignoring their big hits. They don’t play a single number one tune the whole time they’re in there, playing their own personal favorites instead, shouting what they wanted at each other in between tracks.

It’s...good. It’s fun. There’s no pressure, and an hour in, they start to really click.

An hour after that, Eddie almost forgets all the bad shit. Almost stops feeling the rift he’s caused.

It’s back now though, back in force, when Gareth asks him what he wants to do next.

“I can’t tour,” Eddie says immediately.

There’s no push back, startlingly, everyone seems to agree, “yeah, I think it’s a bad idea. And to be honest...I don’t really want to. Not for a while, it was...a lot, right?” Jeff asks.

Everyone agrees. Everyone has families, hell, Gareth’s, somehow, got a hot wife and a kid. It’s a lot, being away from home so much when you have commitments like that.

“I wouldn’t mind something local though,” Gareth says, “maybe just like...stay in the states. Do like, a couple of stadiums or something.” The thought of being in front of all those people feels a little…itchy, to Eddie. He’s really not sure about performing right now, and Gareth clearly clocks it. There’s something there, the understanding. Eddie’s scent is probably going buck wild too, “not until we release a new album though, obviously,” he tacks on. Adjusting. For Eddie.

“Right,” Eddie nods, “right, a new album.”

Eddie hadn’t even thought about it. Didn’t think he had the right any more, didn’t think the guys would support him with anything like that, or even...trust him with it.

“I kind of have,” Jeff starts, pulling some balled up scraps of paper out of his jacket pocket.

Gareth has a whole fucking notebook, “what?” he says at the looks on everyone's faces, “I was bored, alright?”

Eddie gathers it all together, “okay if I...take it home and have a look?”

Everyone agrees, and by the time Eddie goes home again, they have plans for a full day in the studio, Eddie’s been invited to a BBQ at Gareth’s, and Jeff wants to run a games night.

Eddie’s going to have to dig out his dice, which, is kind of a weird feeling. He’ll have to brush up on the Handbook, they haven’t played for...well. Probably years with the tours.

Eddie finds himself kind of excited about it.

Part Eight

[anantaru]

can i have some sunday headcanons, if you are okey with that?

⊹ ‧₊˚ ᰔ synopsis. spicy sunday headcanons that live rent free in my head, cw. idk just horny, messy, pussy eating, all that stuff and i almost forgot: he has a fat cock, fem! reader // ꒰ᐢ⸝⸝⸝⸝ᐢ꒱ ♡

sunday catches himself day dreaming a lot, and it's mostly poles apart from what he's usually preferring in the bedroom— by all means, it's nothing too out of the ordinary, but the man had developed a strong liking towards trying out new discovered kinks between you two.

to sunday, the most important entity of trying out new kinks was your comfort, he loves and respects you, and he wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable in any way. in fact, before you dabbled through those new twists, you both agreed on a safe word to keep you from crossing each others boundaries.

alas, exploring them along with how well he would fuck you only added to the arousing press inside your belly. sunday wants to taste you absolutely everywhere until his senses were occupied by nothing but your scent and flavor— to trace the flat of his tongue between your fat folds until your skin was hot and quivering, your hands clenching in his hair and you're begging, hoping he'd push you over the edge until you come and come and come against his wet muscle playing with your clit.

you should tug his hair more often too, or even better, stroke over his wings with your digits until sunday gets aroused by it.

to elaborate further, the moment you begin to subtly squeeze and tug on the feathers, he could never recover from the loss of your hands against them, it's as if the man had grown addicted to you battering your palms across his wings that he never wanted it to end.

he slurrs his words as he kisses your clit before silently licking across your belly, slow huffs and ragged groans along with the laps of his tongue crossing your entire body.

he assured you he's going to taste you everywhere, didn't he? after all, he'll give you anything you want— like the pleasure you deserve.

shortly after, he settles between your legs and slowly fills you to the brim, adding inch after inch until his erection was snugly compressed by your walls, the thickness of his shaft pressing down on your nerves and making you feel like you're flying rapidly without moving.

at last, sunday finds your lips and grinds himself into your warm core, your breasts crushed against his chest as he thrusts into you before bringing your knees up so he could press them against your chest.

the man was beginning to shift his weight to pin your hips with the weight of his body, before applying a brief kiss to the inside of your knee as you look at him in awe, head lolled to the side with your eyes glowing clear and wide.

you cannot stop yourself from admiring your boyfriend, and neither could your body get used to his erection crushing your insides— turning your skin hot, warm, cold, quivering, searing, until your bodies touch and stick together like burgeons of fire. your pussy lips swollen up and your eyes soused in a haze as sunday smiles at you lazily from above, lovingly patting your head;

"you're holding up great, my dearest,"

..."i'm so proud of you."

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[cultkinkcoven]

Things Lord Lucifer would like beginners to know

I original made this post on reddit, but I thought it relevant to post here too. I’ve spoken about some of this stuff on my page already but a little reminder never hurts.

This is in no way a comprehensive list, these are just things he has expressed to me over time that he would appreciate me sharing with others.

1. Lucifer will never approach two different people in the same way.

Lord Lucifer, unlike some other deities or spirits, is extremely in tune to human psychology and will manifest to each human in a very personal way. He will intentionally take a form that communicates something very specific to you, he will utilize your fears, dreams, and the things you do not yet know about yourself to make himself known to you. To me, Lucifer has appeared in a variety of forms depending on the context. Sometimes he appears as a young human man with black hair and blue eyes. Sometimes he appears as an older man with blonde hair and red eyes. Sometimes he appears completely inhuman, like a serpent, a dragon, a raven. Sometimes he appears like a garden, or a planet, or a mountain. All of these forms are used to communicate different things. An older Lucifer is meant to communicate how ancient he is. When he appears as a planet or mountain, he’s communicating how gargantuan he is, a serpent to communicate how subtle, sneaky, and manipulative he can be. Don’t be all too surprised if he appears very differently than he did yesterday.

2. Lucifer really despises begging.

This was something he made clear to me right away. Do not beg Lucifer to manifest, do not beg him to pay attention to you, he hates it. It’s okay to be genuine and express how much you may need him for whatever you’re doing, or to want to be recognized. But do not beg for him to appear as if you were a peasant begging for food. You are a sovereign in your own right, you have every right to a response, you are important and worthy enough to be in his presence. Act like it. Do not grovel and beg him to have pity on you. Absolutely show respect and gratitude. But do not act like you’re “so lucky” that he’s paying attention to you.

3. On the same note, self degradation is a big no no

Beyond just talking down to yourself, Lucifer hates people who fish for compliments. If you’re constantly calling yourself ugly, Lucifer isn’t going to be the one to reassure you that you’re pretty. Sure, he can definitely be the one to give you a little extra confidence, he gives me compliments all the time. But if you degrade yourself enough times, he’ll start to agree with you. Yeah, you are ugly. He’s not going to give in and shower you with the compliments you’re looking for. A large part of this journey with him is finding our own power and confidence. You’re preventing him from doing his job any time you degrade yourself. And if you’re preventing him from doing what he was created to do, then he’s going to start ignoring you.

4. If you think you know everything you’re already wrong

You will always be a student, regardless of how long you’ve been practicing or how mature you are in that practice. When you assume you know and have done everything, you cut yourself off from the possibility of learning more. There is always something new to be learned, and you will be forced to change your mind and evolve. You will never be done learning from him.

5. He doesn’t demand loyalty, but he definitely appreciates commitment. He will not trust you if you do not trust him.

Lucifer is the morning star, but he is also the mourning star. He is an entity that has been betrayed and has lost companions time and time again. He is very used to his followers eventually leaving him and going on to do something else. He’s not going to demand you devote your eternal soul to him if that’s not something you actively and passionately want to do. He greatly values loyalty and commitment, he wants followers that are going to stick with him through this life and beyond, and he will reward his followers that remain loyal to him. But unless you are truly, and I mean seriously and truly willing to devote your life to upholding his principles, *do not* say you will. Your word is bond, and to betray your word means it is worth nothing. If you go back on your promises, he isn’t going to hurt you for it, but he’s also not going to trust you and he is not going to prioritize you.

6. Morality is a human concern. It is your job to define your boundaries, not his.

You need to be very aware of your boundaries and limits before you reach out. Lucifer is not going to be the one to discourage something because it’s mean, immoral, or illegal. It is your responsibility as the human to have morals that you can remain firm on, regardless of if Lucifer himself disagrees or not. Murder and animal abuse are off the table for me. I don’t care what the ritual calls for, I am not going to kill a cat or hurt a child. It’s not Lucifer’s responsibility to ensure that I have good morals, it is mine.

7. He will test your boundaries and convictions, he isn’t always being serious.

Connected to the last point, Lucifer will mess with you just to test how firm you are in your morals. He will say things he doesn’t agree with, just to hear you justify your reasons for believing what you believe. If Lucifer tells me I have to hurt a child for him, it is my job to put my foot down and say no. You are allowed to disagree with Lucifer, in fact sometimes he will force you to. He finds it very admirable when someone is able to hold their ground against him. He will force you to reaffirm what it is that you believe and why you believe it constantly. If he says something heinous, and you truly disagree but meekly agree just to appease him, he will know your will is fragile. You do not have to appease Lucifer. Remain true to yourself.

8. Lucifer does not know shame nor will he reject you because you did something wrong.

Just be honest. Don’t lie and don’t try to hide it, he can see everything. If I make a mistake or resort to some behaviour I am ashamed of, I can always rest assured that Lord Lucifer will help me approach it with unconditional acceptance. He will not cringe or turn away from your most repressed parts, he will help you acknowledge them and move forward. Having the strength and bravery to say “I know that I shouldn’t have done this, and I need help to ensure it doesn’t happen again” is far more admirable than hiding it and running away. You need to be willing to admit when you’re wrong and ignorant so you can be given the tools to grow and get right.

9. Please experiment

This was one of the points he stressed the most. Stop asking for permission and just do it. Maybe it’ll work out and maybe it won’t. As a God of Enlightenment, Lucifer is most excited by the pursuit of knowledge. That sometimes means failing. Before you ask someone else if Lucifer likes a certain offering, just try giving it to him. He prefers when his followers learn from experience rather than just following the advice of others. “Will Lucifer like it if I-?” Maybe! “Will Lucifer be offended if I-?” Ask him! “Is it okay if I-?” Who knows! Try it out and record your results.

10. Worship yourself above all else, but leave room for empathy.

“Empathy is the greatest tool of intellect. In order to understand oneself they must first understand the world that created them, and the people who created the world. Once they understand the people who created the world, they can begin to change themselves, other people, and the world.”

- Lord Lucifer

Above all else you should be honouring yourself and treating yourself as divine. However, do not forget that every other human you share this Earth with is also just as divine as you are. The goal isn’t to become a narcissist or to think you’re better than others. Understanding how your actions impact others and being able to empathize with their experiences is essential to spiritual enlightenment. Learn from others, continue to seek knowledge from unexpected places, and do not ever turn your back on humanity.

11. These things take time. Consistency is key

Try to get to a place where your rituals actually become *rituals*, things you do routinely every day until you don’t even have to think about it anymore. If you’re working on mantras or enns, say them while you doing something you do every day like showering. You’re not going to have that breakthrough right away, you’re not going to see results right away. Part of the commitment of the Luciferian path is patience. Some things can only be understood in retrospect. Don’t rush anything.

12. He’s a therapist.

He will make you cry, he will make you remember things you’d rather forget. He will make you aware of all of the factors and childhood experiences that have made you the person you are today. Your locked box is now open, there is no secret he does not know, no fetish or fixation he hasn’t seen. Let him help you. His goal is to make you aware and give you the tools to change.

13. Talking shit about other Gods, angels, spirits, or religious will not gain you points with him.

Lucifer is in many contexts considered to be a separate entity than the biblical Satan. He doesn’t care about Christianity or Abrahamic religion and its followers, and he gets bored extremely fast when people assume he wants to participate in complaining about Christians all day. Don’t get me wrong, he does at times get agitated by organized religions and the way they have historically suppressed knowledge and freedom, he doesn’t agree with the biblical doctrine, he’s not a fan of the church, he doesn’t necessarily like or agree with the Abrahamic God, and you might catch him throwing some shade from time to time. But he also doesn’t have a great hatred towards that God or his people either, in fact I’d say he is largely apathetic. He despises spiritual slavery, supremacy, and the doctrine that dominates Christianity. But to actively hate God or religion would be to allow them to have power over him. That power would inform his decisions, it would control him. Lucifer does not care enough to shit talk angels, nor will he encourage you to spend your precious minutes ranting about Christians. His philosophy with me has always been “forgive God and move on.” Do not forgive out of righteousness or kindness. Forgive so you can no longer be controlled by your hatred. This doesn’t mean be complacent or nice for the sake of being nice. When you see injustice, call it out. But don’t obsess over a religion you’re not apart of and a God you don’t worship.

14. Bigotry is a huge turn off

Lucifer is the God of liberation. He is the lord of the liminal, the atypical, and the rejected. If you hold any kind of belief that places one human below another, he’s really really not going to entertain it. It doesn’t matter what kind of discrimination it is. Racism, homophobia, transphobia, islamphobia, antisemitism, fatphobia, ableism etc. He doesn’t care. Lucifer truly values diversity and appreciates those who have been hated the most. He is a God of the minority, and he holds the greatest solidarity with those whom society has outcasted. The queer, the freak, the insane and the obscene, Lucifer is the patron of. If you see those who are different than you as lesser than, if you reject the immense diversity of the human race, and if you look down upon others because they are too weird, or too difficult to understand, Lord Lucifer is not going to take you seriously at all.

15. Say thank you

Lucifer likes recognition. If you’ve recently received some blessing that you think came from him, some kind of recognition or thank you is appreciated.

I think that’s it! These are all the major things we’ve discussed most recently and have remained consistent in all the conversations I’ve had with other Luciferians. Lord Lucifer is an incredibly patient and truly wonderful presence in my life and I hope the same is true for you! Ave Lord Lucifer and Hail Thyself!

[danikamariewrites]

Sickly

Poly!Batboys x reader

Notes: I’m not sure why but a lot of my poly batboys stuff has been Cassian. At this point I should just make these ideas just Cassian x reader but I love including all the boys

Warnings: mentions of medicine and the flu

Kissing and hugging each of your mates goodbye never gets easier. Today was an exception though. You were excited to stay home alone for a few days—alone time is rare since your mates are always around.

Cassian feels the opposite. You saved his goodbye for last knowing how clingy he gets when he goes away.

“I’m gonna miss you so much, sweetheart.” Cassian groans into your neck as he squeezes you. Patting his shoulder you let out a small ‘aww’.

“I’m going to miss you too, baby.” You move to let go but Cassian tightens his hold on you. Rhys lets out a deep sigh. “Cassian, we have to go. Now.”

Cass groans louder, finally releasing you. He ruffles your hair and gives you a small pout. “Bye, sweetheart. We’ll be back in a few days.” He says genuinely sad. You smirk and raise a brow at him. “I know that, do you know that?”

Cassian messes your hair again as Az moves to pull him out the door. “Bye! I love you guys!” You yell after them. “Bye, sweetheart!” Azriel rolls his eyes, “She knows Cass. She will be fine.”

“But what if she isn’t-” before Cassian can get another word out Rhys winks at you, grabbing onto the males to winnow away.

Shutting the door you take the stairs two at a time to your personal chambers. Nuala and Cerridwin had set up a spa night for you and without the boys interrupting you it was sure to be a peaceful one.

Hours later with your hair brushed and braided the twins helped you settle into bed. While your mates would only be away for a few days you were going to revel in this short lived peace.

Your peace was, unfortunately, was shorter lived than you expected. When Nuala came to wake you for breakfast she found you absolutely miserable. Cough, runny nose, aches, and a fever that had her snatching her hand away from your forehead as if you burned her. You had tried to wave it off as nothing but a cold.

“Should I call for the High Lord to return?” Nuala asked carefully. You shook your head slowly so as not to aggravate your sinuses. “No. I’ll be fine, I just need to rest.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Nuala bowed before leaving you.

About halfway through day two you were wishing for your mates to come home and take care of you. You dreamed of Rhys using his powers to take your pain away so you could sleep peacefully. But you couldn’t find it in you to call them home knowing how important their work is.

But today they were finally on their way back. They promised you they’d be back in time for breakfast. All morning, every sound had you jolting to stay awake as you waited in bed.

Your eyes fluttered open as a large calloused hand cupped your cheek, tsking at how warm you felt.

“Hi sweetheart,” Cassian whispered. You mumble an incoherent greeting thanks to your lips feeling too heavy and your tongue sticking to the roof of your dry mouth.

“Has she been sick since we left?” Cassian asked softly, but you could hear the restraint in his voice. You didn’t have to open your eyes to know his jaw was clenched. “Yes,” Nuala replied smoothly, “she didn’t want to call you all home, insisting she rests. Madja has seen her and left tonics.”

Cassian’s fist clenches in your hair, quickly releasing so he wouldn’t hurt you. “Thank you, for keeping an eye on her.” “Of course.” The wraith bows her head, turning on her heel to leave.

Cassian always hated leaving you in case something happened. Even if it was just a cold, Cass wanted to be there to save you from it. The fact that you’ve been suffering for three days without him makes his stomach tie in knots from guilt.

“Can I get you anything? Did you take any tonics yet?” He asks softly.

“No,” you mumble. “Will you get it for me, and some toast?” Cassian leaves a light kiss on your forehead. “Of course I can, I’ll be right back.”

In his absence Rhys and Azriel check on you. The pair dote on you, telling you about the snowfall in the Illyrian mountains. You were starting to wish you went with them, but winter would arrive in Velaris soon.

When Cassian returns he gives the two males a scowl reserved for his soldiers. “Cass, this is not an I-told-you-so moment.” Rhys tells him gently.

“Out, so I can take care of our mate.”

Rhys and Az hesitate, not wanting to leave you while you’re sick.

“You two should go. I don’t want to get all of you sick.” You pout at them, giving them sad eyes for good measure. The pair conceded and left you in Cassian’s care. Az gave you a quick peck on your forehead before Cassian shooed him away.

You watch as Cassian rips your toast up into bite sized pieces to feed to you. You smile at him with hearts in your eyes. Watching the General of the Night Court do something as mundane as angling the straw in your water cup so you don’t worry about spills just makes you fall in love all over again.

Cassian feeds you a few pieces of the ripped up toast before handing you the tonic. As he cuddles up to you Cass lays a cool cloth on your forehead, relieving your high temperature and the splitting headache he knows is coming. A satisfied hum leaves your lips as you snuggle closer to Cassian. “Thank you,” you say quietly. He lightly kisses the top of your head, “Of course, sweetheart.”

[revelboo]

hiya! just a lil guy in your inbox who is trying to get into writting, this stuff is hard hard but i get so baffled by how fast you do your work! im genuinely suprised you havent got burned out while im out here chipping away at my first fic... whats your secret 👀?

I’m just doing these for fun, so I don’t get too worried about making them perfect and Twitter’s word limits got me used to writing short and concise. I know with novels, just getting started can be the hardest part, that first chapter intimidating and serious fanfiction is probably the same. I’ve absolutely skipped ahead to scenes I was excited to write and then came back to the harder chapters before. I tend to just stick ‘888’ in the middle of a manuscript along with a sentence like (something happens) that way I can search for the 8’s later to fix it instead of getting stuck trying to write that one scene or chapter that I’m just not feeling at the time.

Even if it Kills Me Pt 23

Armada Starscream x Reader

• Painfully aware of him as you slide into his cupped hands and he ferries you down onto the floor of his habsuite before turning to go get food, you don’t regret what you did, but you can’t stop from feeling awkward about it. And the mini-cons are all staring at you, chirping softly among themselves to make you positive they know exactly what you and Starscream did while they were out. They’re grown, you remind yourself. Not that it makes it any better that they know you slept with their giant roomie.

• Venting as you sit crosslegged and put your face in your hands, he shoots the mini-cons a look and they fall silent, little faces innocent as they look up at him. And he’s not buying it at all. Lowering himself to sit with you and them, he nudges you with a box of your food before distributing energon to the waiting mini-cons. Why won’t you meet his optics? Watching you dig out a handful of your human food to eat, your silence bothers him. Still overthinking things? Dealing with hangups as you’d called them?

• You can feel his optics on you and that awareness twists to heat and need to your embarrassment. Is it just because you like him and he didn’t change after sex? That he’s still treating you the same, not like a belonging now? Chewing your dry cereal, you wonder if it had ever really been love with your ex. He’d been sweet until he’d managed to isolate you from everyone else and you’d been so infatuated, you’d not realized what he was doing until those bridges were burned and by then you’d been too ashamed to ask for help.

• Where did your thoughts go just then? Your expression emptying to make his wings fidget. “I thought we could go out,” he says to distract you because he hates when you go distant like that. Afraid you’re remembering painful things. “That you might like some sun?” And there’s a small smile. Spark aching when you look up at him, smiling like everything’s okay when it’s clearly not. Knows smuggling you in and out of the base increases the risk of getting caught. Of the Autobots kicking him out and losing the only place he’s ever felt truly safe, but he wants you to be happy. He’s not sure when that became more important than his own happiness.

• “I’d love that,” you manage, forcing a smile for him because he worries and broods when you’re unhappy. And it would be nice to feel the sun on your skin, the breeze in your hair. Leaning against his leg, you watch him tip up his own energon cube to drink. It’s still so strange, to have someone that’s not family looking out for you, to care if you’re happy or not. This is what love should be, you’re sure of it this time even if it scares you. Because loving him gives him the power to hurt you and you’re so tired of being hurt. He wouldn’t. You know that, trust him, but that fear is still there.

Previous

Next

[shimmerandink]

3 AM Shenanigans

Jinx x Gn! Reader

Fluff

Tags: Jinx x gn reader, one-shot, mention of exposives, sfw

Summary: Jinx wakes you up at 3 AM with a wild idea, zero regard for sleep, and a handful of homemade explosives. Saying no was never an option.

Masterlist

The soft hum of Zaun’s neon lights filters through your window, casting streaks of electric blue and violet across the ceiling. The city never truly sleeps, but you do, or at least, you try to. Wrapped in a warm blanket, the weight of exhaustion drapes over you like a second skin, lulling you into the kind of half-sleep where the world feels distant, blurry, unreal.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The entire door shudders under the force of frantic knocking.

"Hey, hey, wake up! Wakey, wakey, eggs ‘n’ BAKIE!"

Your body jolts at the sudden noise, heart skipping a beat before frustration catches up. You don’t even have to open your eyes to know who it is.

"C’mon, open up! I got somethin’ reeeeally important to tell ya!"

You groan, burying your face deeper into the pillow. "Jinx… it's—" You peel one eye open, squinting at the dim red numbers on the clock. 3:17 AM.

Before you can process another thought, the door swings open, of course, she picked the lock, and in bursts Jinx, barefoot and buzzing with energy. Her wild blue braids are slightly disheveled, sticking out in odd places, and she’s still wearing her usual mismatched layers, a telltale sign that she hasn't even considered sleeping.

"Okay, okay, I know what you're thinking-‘"Jinx, why are you breaking into my room in the middle of the night? I need sleep like a normal human being!’—but hear me out!" She claps her hands together, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

You roll over with a groggy sigh. “Jinx… what could possibly be so important right now?”

Her grin widens. That manic, mischievous sparkle in her eyes tells you you’re about to regret asking.

"BoomBugs!" she exclaims, yanking a handful of tiny, blinking devices from her pockets. They look like little mechanical fireflies, small, round, and covered in intricate gears and glowing filaments.

You blink. “BoomBugs?”

"Homemade firecrackers, but like, way cooler. Way more explode-y! They go zap, pow, boom, like, real chaotic stuff." She wiggles her fingers excitedly. "Buuuut I need someone to help me test ‘em. Y'know, in case I, uh, accidentally make them too powerful. Or not powerful enough. Or set something on fire. You in?"

You stare at her for a long moment, letting the weight of the situation sink in. Here you are, barely functioning, while Jinx is in full-blown manic scientist mode, asking you to play assistant in one of her late-night chaos experiments.

“…Jinx,” you say slowly. “Are you seriously asking me to get up, in the middle of the night, to go blow stuff up?”

She tilts her head, considering for a second. Then she beams. “Yup!”

You groan, flopping back onto the mattress. “No. Absolutely not. I like having all my limbs.”

Jinx gasps, dramatically clutching her chest like you just stabbed her. "Wow, okay, betrayal much? You’d really leave me out here, all alone, to test potentially volatile explosives by myself? What if something bad happens, huh? What if I blow off a finger? Or two?"

You squint at her. “…You’d love that, and you know it.”

"Yeah, but that’s beside the point!" She throws herself onto your bed, practically on top of you, her cold fingers poking your cheek. "C’moooon, pleeeaaase? It'll be funnnn. Just one little test! Or five. Or like, a dozen. I promise you’ll be back before sunrise!"

You groan again, but you know it’s useless. The second she decided you were part of this scheme, your fate was sealed. If you don’t go willingly, she’ll just annoy you until you cave anyway.

With a long, suffering sigh, you shove the blanket off and sit up. "Fine. But if I die, I’m haunting you.”

"Deal!" Jinx chirps, immediately grabbing your hand and yanking you toward the door.

And just like that, sleep is no longer an option.

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

Hello! I saw your girl dads Bill & Josh posts and I’m wondering if you can do one for Girl dad Jerry & Pete if you please 👉🏾👈🏾

(Absolutely!! I'm sticking true to pete

Pete and Jerry girl dad headcannons !

Pete DiNunzio girl dad headcannons-

1. Old-School Protective to the Point of Madness

Pete doesn’t believe in letting his daughter walk home alone. Ever. She’s 17? Doesn’t matter. “You think some creep’s gonna stop and ask your birth certificate before being a freak? I’ll pick you up.”

2. Calls Her Nicknames Like ‘Principessa,’ ‘Bambina,’ or ‘Dollface’

And says them with real warmth. It’s half mafia-movie, half genuine affection. But if anyone else calls her that? Suddenly Pete’s shouting and cracking his knuckles.

3. Slightly Sexist But Not Malicious

He’ll say things like “This is guy stuff” when working on the car—but if she shows interest? He’ll grumble, sigh, and then teach her everything while pretending it was his idea.

4. Thinks Every Boy is Garbage

“Boys are wolves, sweetheart. They’ll act sweet, then next thing you know they’re borrowing your Switch and ghosting you with some girl named Kaylie.” He gets offended when she says she likes someone. “Him?! He’s got a dumb haircut!”

5. Surprisingly Sentimental About ‘Tradition’

He wants her to know the family recipes, how to make a proper sauce, and the importance of sitting at the table. “Sunday dinner’s not a suggestion—it’s a rule, capisce?”

6. Yells A Lot, But It’s Never Serious

He raises his voice over everything. Lost the remote? Shouts. Someone looked at her funny? Shouts. She’s having a rough day? Shouts at whoever caused it—but never at her in anger. If he does, he apologizes through actions, like her favorite ice cream or fixing something she didn’t even ask about.

7. Obsessed with Making Her ‘Tough Enough’

He teaches her to throw a punch “just in case” and insists she keeps pepper spray in her bag. “I’m not raising some pushover. You hit first, talk later—unless it’s a teacher. Then call me and I’ll hit them.”

8. Doesn’t Know How to Express Emotion—So He Cooks

If she’s upset, he won’t say much. But the kitchen will be full of garlic knots and pasta within 30 minutes. “I’m not good at the feelings crap, alright? Just eat.”

9. Thinks the School System is a Scam

He’s supportive, but suspicious. “SATs? Total scam. Just make sure you’re smart enough not to get screwed by a car lease or some finance guy named Todd.”

10. Would Drop Everything For Her, No Matter What

He acts all gruff, but if she calls and says, “Dad, can you come get me?”—he’s already halfway out the door, jacket half-on, yelling into his phone: “Who do I gotta yell at?!”

“The Incident”

It happened at CVS.

Pete had taken his daughter out to grab chips and Saw II—totally normal dad-daughter outing—when she froze in the aisle with a weird look on her face. Then she muttered something like, “We need to go home,” and walked off holding her hoodie around her waist like she’d been shot.

Pete followed, confused and already bracing to fight whoever made her upset.

Pete:

“What happened? You get sick? Someone give you a dirty look? You need me to yell at a manager?”

She kept walking. Face red.

Daughter:

“I need… stuff.”

Pete:

“…Stuff?”

Daughter: (mumbling fast)

“Girl stuff.”

Pete blinked. His brain short-circuited. Then—

Pete:

“Oh. OH. Jesus, Mary, and all the saints.”

He whipped around like someone had pointed a gun at him, nearly knocking over a display of Tic Tacs. A nearby grandma raised an eyebrow. Pete glared at her like she was to blame.

---

Back at home, Pete paced the kitchen like a soldier trying to defuse a bomb.

He'd dropped a Walgreens bag on the table—filled with the wrong kind of pads, some Midol he wasn’t sure was right, and, for some reason, a mini stuffed bear holding a heart that said "Feel Better."

She sat at the table, mildly horrified.

Pete:

“Look, I’m not good at this. When I was your age, my ma just yelled at me to do the laundry and left a whole bunch of stuff in the bathroom like it was some sacred rite.”

Daughter: (snorting)

“Dad, you didn’t get a period.”

Pete:

“Not the point! The point is, this is... nature. Biology. A monthly hit job from your uterus. And I wanna be clear, I ain’t squeamish, okay? I saw your cousin Dominic break his pinky playing stickball and I fixed it with a spoon and duct tape. But blood? That just shows up?! Randomly?! And it’s fine??”

Daughter:

“Yes. It’s fine.”

Pete: (waving his hands like a madman)

“I mean Jesus Christ, you’re just walking around with this time bomb in your body like it’s no big deal?! You’re twelve!”

Daughter:

“I’m thirteen.”

Pete:

“Oh that makes it better!”

He paused, breathing heavy. Then glanced at her. She was fighting a smile.

He ran a hand down his face, sighed, and finally sat across from her.

Pete (quieter):

“…I just wanna help. I don’t know how, but if you need anything—anything at all—I’m here. You wanna cry and throw something? I’ll buy you a pillow to scream into. You want ice cream? I’ll buy you the good kind, not that no-name crap.”

She nodded.

Daughter:

“Maybe just… the right kind of pads next time?”

Pete:

“You got it, Principessa. I’ll go in there like it’s a freakin’ mission from God. I’ll get wings, no wings, maxi, ultra, whatever the hell—I’m learning the code.”

He stood up, grabbed his keys, and headed for the door again.

Pete:

“And if your stomach hurts, you get the heating pad with the duck on it. That thing’s magic. Don’t ask me why.”

Daughter: (grinning now)

“Thanks, Dad.”

Pete: (gruff)

“Yeah yeah. Don’t get sentimental on me. I’m already losing hair.”

JERRY STOKES AS A GIRL DAD – HEADCANONS

The Sensible One:

Jerry reads all the parenting books. He doesn’t just wing it—he checks forums, medical sites, and probably even signs up for the baby tracker app. He may not talk about his feelings, but he shows love through quiet preparation.

Subtle Encouragement:

He’s not loud with praise, but when his daughter tries something new—drawing, coding, learning guitar—he gives the soft “That’s actually really good,” and keeps her art on the fridge for way too long. Her old crayon Pikachu is laminated.

The Period Talk? Done Over Text.

He panics too much to do it in person. She gets a calm, slightly clinical message that says:

> "Hey. You might need some products in the bathroom. Everything's labeled. You can always text me if you need more. Also I got chocolate."

And then he disappears from the house for 45 minutes to let her breathe.

Board Game Nights are Sacred.

No phones, no excuses. Jerry insists on family game night—sometimes D&D-style campaigns with just the two of them, where he lets her be chaotic and overpowered. He plays the dungeon master like a pro, even if she steamrolls his traps.

Teaches Her How to Build a PC.

Not because she asked, but because he wants her to know. “One day, your laptop’s gonna die mid-exam. This will save you.”

Protective But Non-Threatening.

If she dates someone, Jerry doesn’t threaten them with a shovel like Pete might. He just asks weirdly specific, nerdy questions until the kid gets nervous and leaves. “What’s your opinion on 'The Thing' vs. 'The Fly' remakes?”

If they answer wrong: "Huh. Interesting." (Meaning: "You're done.")

Worried Sick but Pretends He’s Not.

When she’s sick, he hovers silently, leaving water and soup at the door. If she says “I’m fine,” he nods—but 30 minutes later, she gets a thermometer, lozenges, and Vicks on her nightstand.

Matching Fandom Shirts.

He never forces his interests, but if she likes something he does (like Doctor Who or Star Trek), he gets so excited—buys them matching shirts or mugs. Pretends it’s no big deal, but his smile gives him away.

Teaches Her to Stand Up for Herself.

He might be soft-spoken, but he doesn’t want her walked all over. He teaches her to calmly, effectively shut people down. “You don’t need to yell. Just be smarter than them. Trust me, it ruins their day.”

Loves Her Fiercely, Quietly.

He may not be the most expressive, but his love is steady. Her favorite snack is always stocked. Her weird niche interests are researched. He’s the dad who stays up fixing her cosplay, or making sure the Wi-Fi is perfect for her big presentation.

Ten Going on Trouble

Jerry’s Saturday plan had been simple: coffee, fix the loose shelf, and maybe rewatch The Wrath of Khan for the fiftieth time.

Then his daughter came stomping down the stairs with all the rage and devastation only a ten-year-old girl could contain.

Daughter:

“I hate Mia. I hate everything. And my bangs look stupid.”

She collapsed dramatically on the couch, face buried in her pillow. Jerry blinked from behind his mug.

Jerry:

“…Okay. That’s… a lot. Do you want a snack, or—”

Daughter:

“NO.”

Pause.

Jerry:

“…Okay.”

He set his mug down. Sat on the edge of the couch like it might collapse under the weight of his discomfort.

He’d fought trolls in MMORPGs. He’d debated Star Trek continuity on Usenet forums.

But this?

This was terrifying.

Jerry:

“Alright. What happened?”

She sniffled, pulling her face out just enough to breathe.

Daughter:

“Mia said I was bossy. And that I always act like I know everything. And then I tripped in front of everyone during gym. And my hair is dumb. And I just wanna go live in the woods and be a cryptid.”

Jerry blinked.

Jerry:

“…You know, being a cryptid doesn’t come with indoor plumbing.”

Daughter: (snorting despite herself)

“Maybe I deserve to stink.”

Jerry:

“No one deserves to stink. That’s a universal truth.”

He got up and came back with a granola bar.

She didn’t say thank you, but she opened it and took a bite.

Jerry:

“You’re not bossy. You’re assertive. Confident. Big difference.”

Daughter:

“Mia said I talk too much.”

Jerry:

“Well, if that’s true, it’s genetic. Sorry. You come from a long line of over-explainers.”

She gave him a look.

Jerry:

“I once gave a girl a twenty-minute lecture on the plot holes in Phantom Menace. She still kissed me after, though.”

Daughter:

“Ew.”

Jerry:

“Exactly. But the point is—you’re allowed to be smart. You’re allowed to have opinions. Don’t shrink yourself because some kid can’t handle it.”

There was a pause. She fiddled with the wrapper.

Daughter:

“…You think my bangs look okay?”

Jerry looked at her. Truly looked.

They were uneven. She’d clearly taken scissors to them herself. One side was higher than the other and flared out like a confused anime character.

Jerry:

“They’re… avant-garde.”

Daughter: (groaning)

“So they’re bad.”

Jerry: (gently)

“They’re bold. But we can fix them. If you want.”

Daughter:

“…Yeah. Okay.”

She slid off the couch and held out her hand. Jerry took it like it was the most serious mission in the world.

Jerry:

“To the bathroom, Commander.”

Daughter:

“I should’ve just gone full cryptid.”

Jerry:

“Maybe next time. You’re still young.”