#and let her down gently if she doesn’t make the squad

[heavencasteel420]

I finally figured out how Jonathan and Chrissy are gonna start having weird sex.

[charliemwrites]

A Thought™️ that I had yesterday after watching those AITA videos and babbling in the discord:

(This is also babble to be clear. I’ve been writing this throughout the morning so it might be a bit incoherent)

The 141 is shopping for a new team member, someone to round out their four person squad into five. They have a dozen candidates, pick one that looks promising, and transfer him over under the military equivalent of “probationary” status.

Pretty quickly they decide his personality alone might not make him a good fit but whatever, if he’s good at his job, they’ll suck it up. The “alpha male” posturing bullshit is kind of amusing in the meantime at least.

Well, first mission comes and goes. The guy isn’t too bad, honestly — apart from almost picking a fight with Gaz. Skills-wise he’s as advertised, so he gets to stay a bit longer while the 141 decides if they can stand him.

Post successful mission, though, they go out for drinks at the guy’s insistence. He invites his girlfriend — who he dragged along with him — to the bar to meet his new squad. (Because he thinks there’s no way they’re not making him a permanent teammate.)

And the 141 may be barely tolerant of him, but they decide almost instantly that they adore his girlfriend. She’s incredibly charming and bubbly, doesn’t even blink at Ghost’s mask. One of the first things she does is thank them for the opportunity they’re giving her boyfriend and for keeping him alive.

Which is about the time the real issue starts.

The boyfriend says some rubbish about “an alpha doesn’t need protecting, he does the protecting. He looks out for his pack.”

And you smile a bit awkwardly, looking embarrassed, and try to usher the conversation along.

It doesn’t take long for him to quickly fall out of what little favor he accrued. You’re a bright spot in their group, laughing and chatting with them all like you’ve known them for years. Incredibly sensitive to asking any hard questions and sort of forcing the conversation through the weird patches where your boyfriend interjects with some inane comment.

Eventually, your boyfriend gets sick of your chattering and tells you to fetch them more drinks. Soap instantly sits up, saying you don’t have to do that, but you gently wave him off. Chirp that you don’t mind doing it as a thank you for their service, and weave into the crowd.

The table goes uncomfortable quiet — apart from your boyfriend, who makes some ghastly comment about how you have a pretty face but an annoying laugh. When you get back, drinks expertly balanced in your hands, Ghost goes out of his way to drop puns that get you giggling like mad.

As the night ticks later, and your boyfriend gets drunker, he reaches the point you always dread.

“Garrick, le’s arm wrestle.”

“Baby, I don’t think that’s…”

“This is between us men.”

You groan a bit and sit back. Gaz looks befuddled but shrugs and agrees. It’s not even a contest; your boyfriend’s arm is flat to the table in all of ten seconds. Flustered, your boyfriend demands a rematch. And when he loses again, scoffs and demands a go with Soap.

You practically sink deeper and deeper into your seat before the secondhand embarrassment starts to weigh and you have to excuse yourself to the restroom. When you get back, the impromptu arm wrestling seems to be over, though your boyfriend is sulking in his corner of the booth.

When you gingerly slide back in, Price nudges you with his calf.

“Would you like a go, luv?”

You grin and shake your head. “I don’t fancy a broken wrist, Captain.”

“C’mon luv, you might surprise yourself,” he teases and you can’t resist the playful glint in his eye.

So you lock your thumb around his, elbow on the table, and push. And his arm incrementally goes down… down… down…

“Well would you look at that,” he muses.

You burst into laughter, flattered and endeared by his indulgence.

“That tough, eh?” Soap muses, arching an eyebrow. “Let’s see it, then.”

So you roll your eyes, fully expecting to get trounced. But just like with Price, he starts to relent when you put up resistance, making a show of straining and panting as he “loses.” When you’ve won, you finally play into the joke.

“Serves you right,” you tease.

By your side, you hear your boyfriend huff derisively. “Oh, come on.”

Before your fun can be ruined, though, Ghost is offering you his hand, dark eyes sparkling. You bite your lip, but it doesn’t hide your grin as you accept the unspoken challenge. His hand is huge around yours, but shockingly gentle. He goes down easiest of all, whistling in amazement.

“Look’it that, you’re a pro,” he says, “think we should all be buying you a drink.”

“She doesn’t drink,” your boyfriend interjects.

You huff and settle back into the booth. “Maybe some other time, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Count on it.”

You get into an argument with your boyfriend that night. He thinks you were “challenging his dominance” and “stirring the pot,” trying to sew discord and strife amongst the men to get them fighting over you. He says something about being the alpha of the group and that he would win but it’s insulting to him as your “provider” that you would question his authority.

He’s tipsy as he says it though, working himself up. You just follow the usual routine of soothing, reassuring, simpering — and then considering leaving when he’s finally asleep. But you’re far from home, don’t have the means to leave, and besides, you won’t be finding any support from your family on this front so…

Well, it’s not so bad, you remind yourself. He can be an asshole, but so can you and it takes two to fight. Besides, he only gets really bad when he’s been drinking and that’s only once a week? 1 out of 7 isn’t a bad ratio.

—

The 141 pretty much collectively decide that they adore you though. You get regularly invited to team outings, wherein your boyfriend keeps challenging (and losing) arm wrestling, while the boys coax you into “winning.”

They’ve also become rather adamant that you don’t bring them drinks anymore.

“You’re not our personal beer wench, yeah? We’re able to get our own pints,” Gaz soothes.

Your boyfriend chuckles and shakes his head, imparts his “wisdom” that it’s a female’s job to serve her man and his friends. As a sign of respect or something. You know it’s not an argument worth having and just sip at your drink in silence.

But you love going out with them. Love knowing the men keeping your boyfriend alive and they’re a good bunch. Respectful and funny and disciplined — you’re kind of hoping they snap your boyfriend out of this weird “alpha male” phase he’s been going through. On the other hand, you’re thrilled to be making something like friends. Sure, your boyfriend has made it clear that the 141 are his friends, but they’re always so conscious of keeping you involved and comfortable.

Then one night your boyfriend mentions what a “good little cook” you are and that instantly has all the boys perking up. Smiling, you offer to host during the Saturday League matches. They gleefully accept over your boyfriend’s protests about other men in his territory or something like that.

But when they do come over they’re horrified by the unspoken expectations. You tell them to sit, that you’ll bring them all drinks, with snacks on the way. They’ll be having none of it.

Ghost helps you with drinks, Gaz chops the veggies for snacks (and dinner). Soap pops in to keep you company while you babysit simmering pots. Price helps to tidy as you go, despite you’re fussing that he really doesn’t need to, he should be enjoying the games!

They end up spending more time with you in the kitchen than out in the den with their own teammate. You barely notice, swept up in the busy currents of playing hostess. When your boyfriend shouts that he needs another beer, you come back to find Price getting plates and utensils for dinner. It’s so thoughtful you could cry.

Even worse is when they help you clean up afterwards. Each of them taking and clearing their own plates. Soap on washing big dishes, Gaz on drying. Ghost is packing up leftovers. Price is turning over the dishwasher, asking you where dishes go and tutting when you insist you should be helping.

All the while, your boyfriend stands in the doorway telling you all the ways you could improve the meal next time. And how you definitely ate too much for your body size, etc.

He only stops when Price makes a pointed comment about standing around looking pretty.

When they leave, they each sweep you up in a hug and drop a kiss on your cheek, praising your home and cooking and hosting. Soap promises that he’ll get you a little souvenir on their next mission as a thank you.

And sure enough, three weeks later, the boys are coming by. Except your boyfriend is nowhere to be found — out with some other guys from the base that he says he hit it off with. The 141 insist that he agreed to a football watch again, the empty headed muppet.

And of course you’re not going to turn them away! They’ve brought you flowers, a little matryoshka set from their last mission, chocolates and wine. Not one of them is empty handed.

“Do you even like the game?” Gaz asks as you put it on.

“My favorite team isn’t playing until tomorrow but I don’t mind watching,” you answer, shrugging.

But somehow no football is watched at all. Instead they convince you to tell them your top three favorite movies, then claim none of them have ever seen any of them and they have to watch all of them.

Which is how your boyfriend finds his whole team enjoying a little movie marathon with you. You’re on the ground with Johnny (it’s Johnny now, for you) doing his eyebrows. Gaz is braiding your hair. Ghost (Simon) is sharing a bowl of candies with you. You’re sat against Price’s shins, the captain sitting in your boyfriend’s chair, lounging like a king.

When you welcome him back, telling him the boys are staying the night, he tries to throw a fit about it. How dare you let four strange men stay alone with you?! You calmly remind him that he promised he’d be home by 11 and it’s already nearly 1. And besides, he trusts them with his life, you’re allowed to trust them to be polite in your own home.

With all four of his teammates watching, tense and nearly hostile, he mutters something about being tired and storms off to bed. You end up falling asleep on the couch with ghost despite yourself.

And your boyfriend becomes absolutely haunted by his team’s (is it even his team? It feels more like yours!) affection for you.

They always invite you out even if he doesn’t plan to invite you. (When did you get any of their numbers?! Never mind Ghost’s. He doesn’t even have Ghost’s number.)

They stop by the flat constantly, sometimes dropping in. Other times staying for hours. Soap tells him that they’re all one big family; that includes you. (“Alright then why don’t we go hang out with one of your girlfriends?!” He had an actual nightmare about the laughter that gets him.)

And the fucking gifts. It’s not just soap bringing you things anymore. It’s all of them. Magnets, mugs, sweets, pretty rocks. Just garbage to your boyfriend but you treat it all like treasure. They’ve even got you sending them on hunts for specific things. Something blue, something with nuts, something with the flag.

Then there’s the base.

They bring you on one day — Price picks you up, the boys greet you at the barracks with coffee and breakfast. You’re put into a big 141 hoodie that says “Riley” on the back and toured around. You’re supposed to be “surprising” your boyfriend, but he’s busy with recruits and generally seems uninterested in being around you.

Not to worry though, the 141 is happy to show you a good time around base! Gaz and Johnny walk you through one of the obstacle courses, Simon lets you sit on his back for pushups during the last of his workout. Price takes you to the range and shows you the basics of shooting, then lets you catnap through the adrenaline drop in his office.

Your boyfriend only bothers to find you when Johnny and Simon are teaching you basic self-defense. Your boyfriend scoffs that you’re plenty protected by him, but you point out that he’s away too often to be of any real help — at which point Johnny tags you and bolts before your boyfriend can get all up in arms.

You only recognize that this little hurdle in your relationship has become a chasm when something happens. A big argument with your parents over the phone — you barely even remember what about. But instead of calling your boyfriend afterwards, your first call is to Gaz. (Because you know he’s the most likely to be free and paying attention to his phone.) You’re almost shocked when he picks up on the second ring. Your boyfriend has never answered on the first call.

When you try to explain through poorly-restrained tears, he coos at you to find a warm coffee shop and that they’ll be right there. “They” ends up being him and Johnny, since Simon and Price are locked up in an important meeting. They buy you hot chocolate and pastries while you vent to them, and end up leaving feeling better for once.

But you can’t break up with your boyfriend. Because if you do, the 141 will surely stop hanging out with you, and you value their company enough to put up with it.

At least until you come home one day to find all your little gifts gone. When you ask through a tight throat where everything is, your boyfriend says he was just making space. That you’ve been complaining that you two need a bigger flat, but now he’s solved the problem without wasting money.

You actually raise your voice for once, throwing an entire fit because this. This is the last straw. You storm into your bedroom, slam and lock the door, and call the 141.

A small part of you expects they’ll take his side or something. But nope. Simon soothes you on the other end, that the whole squad will be there in fifteen and to pack your stuff.

You do so while Price takes over and keeps you level. Reminds you of essentials to pack and explains that you’ll be coming to stay at his place, since he’s got off-base housing. It’ll be quiet and cozy and safe while you recover.

Five minutes away, they promise to be right there and end the call.

You could absolutely scream when your boyfriend — ex boyfriend — starts banging on the door. Demanding that you open the door to him. That you’re being over dramatic and blowing everything out of proportion. Using the “your emotional and irrational” line that you’ve heard a thousand times and are just about sick of.

Your heart stutters with relief when you hear the knocking at the apartment door, confused silence as your ex goes to see who it is. You take that moment to slip out, packed suitcase in hand.

You startle a bit at some commotion, round the corner to see your ex’s shirt bunched up in Johnny’s fists, looking ready kill him. No one seems inclined to pull him away; neither are you.

“How are you holding up, luv?” Gaz asks gently as Simon takes your bag.

“Been better,” you admit, sniffling as Price wraps you up in a hug.

“It was just things, luv,” he soothes, “we’ll get you a million more, if you like.”

You pull back to give him a miserable look. “But they were my things and they didn’t have to go anywhere. He just threw them out.”

Johnny snarls something out, but Gaz is already ushering you out the door. You tell your family about the break up through text and then shut off your phone, bundled into the backseat of an SUV with Gaz in the backseat. Price is in the front, all of you waiting for Simon and Johnny to come down.

“What now?” you ask quietly.

“Well, about time we cut that knob loose,” Price muses. “But that’s not your problem anymore.”

“Oh…

“And you, luv.” He looks at you through the rear view. “You get whatever you want.”

[kyra-cooneyx]

nena — barça femení x teen!reader

summary: you are the baby of the squad and your teammates never let you forget it

“hola nena,” mapi’s smile widened as she spotted the tub in your hands, eyes practically sparkling. “what do you have here?”

“cookies and cupcakes,” you answered, a little ‘duh’ tone slipping through. “but only enough for everyone to have one of each so go away.”

“wait!” mapi hear her hand up, stopping you from walking away. “you baked them yourself?”

“yeah.”

“was keira with you?”

“oh my god,” you rolled your eyes. “i am not a baby, i know how to use an oven!”

with a huff, you gave the spaniard one last dirty look before heading towards the cafeteria where you knew the others were gathered.

as you entered, pina and patri shot out of their seats and hastily approached you. you had told them the night before about your plans to try a new recipe and after they begged and begged, you promised to let them have the first taste when you brought the baked goods in.

you reached into the tub and handed them a cookie and cupcake each, looking up at them expectantly as soon as they’d both finished eating.

“so?” you asked, eyes slightly wide as you looked between them frantically. “say something, you’re killing me here!”

they both grinned widely and you scowled, reaching out to swat at patri since she was closest. “they are very good nena.”

pina hummed in agreement, frowning when you turned and swatted her hand away from the tub.

“one each,” you told her. “if someone doesn’t like one you can have theirs. but right now there is only enough for one cupcake and one cookie each.”

with that you swiftly made your way around your teammates, handing out the sweet treats until the tub was empty and you were sat snuggly between ingrid and frido, glancing around the room with a beaming smile.

“well if football doesn’t work out for you, you definitely have a career waiting for you in the baking world.” lucy said and your cheeks flushed as everyone else agreed.

“i’m gonna bake no matter what,” you told her. “it’ll just be a hobby.”

“a supervisada hobby.” alexia said pointedly and you rolled your eyes.

“i am not a child!” you whined.

“well technically—“

“shut up lucia.”

-

“that colour looks really good on you.” jana complimented as she laid down on your bed.

“thank you,” you smiled. “can you pass me that cover up?”

you took the garment from jana’s outstretched hand and slipped it on, whizzing around the room as you made sure everything was in your beach bag before dragging jana downstairs.

your phone buzzed as a text appeared on your screen but not even ten seconds later, an annoying screech of the car horn sounded outside.

part of you wanted to make pina and patri wait even longer but the horn sounded again and you were quick to swipe your keys from the coffee table, throwing them into your bag and leading jana out of the apartment complex.

“did you bring them?” pina asked as soon as you’d climbed into the back of the car.

you sighed and reached into your bag, thrusting the little bag of treats into her outstretched hand. she grinned and thanked you, placing the treats into her own bag.

“i didn’t bring enough for everyone,” you said as patri opened her mouth. “clau asked me to bring some, if you’d have asked i’d have brought some for you too.”

seeing the small frown on patri’s lips, you decided that ruining the surprise for the people in the car wouldn’t be such a bad idea. “i did bring these though and there’s definitely enough for everybody.”

you opened your bag enough for patri to see the little tubs that held even more sweet treats that you’d baked the night before. and as pina drove to the beach, you explained that you found yet another new recipe to try.

you were still talking as the four of you made your way over to where the other girls were sat under the giant parasols, a slight skip in your step as you walked along the sand.

“hello!” you chirped, gently placing your bag down before taking off your cover up and throwing yourself onto mapi’s lap.

“hola perrita.” mapi grinned as you looked up at her, shifting yourself when ingrid began tugging at your hair.

“i think i hate that more than nena.” you muttered, wincing a little as the norwegian braided your hair.

as soon as ingrid had patted your shoulders to signal that she’d finished, you shot into the water with jana, bruna, and esmee following.

the squeals of laughter from you all could be heard along the quiet beach, water flying everywhere as you all pulled out your best olympic style performances.

after another fifteen minutes, alexia rounded you all up to have some food, everyone eating quietly yet quickly.

you spotted mapi go into the water and was just about to stand up when alexia caught your wrist and pulled you over to her.

“ale!” you whined as she pulled out a bottle of suncream from your bag. “i wanna swim!”

“you burn, nena. remember what happened last time? the water washed this all off, you got burnt and you were complaining for days. put this on or you don’t go back in.”

you really tried your best to hold her hard gaze but eventually relented with a sigh, standing with your arms crossed as alexia lathered the sun cream over every sliver of skin she could see.

“there,” she said, poking your nose gently. “now you can swim.”

the speed you held as you ran back into the sea had alexia laughing with a shake of her head. just as she turned her back, she heard the war cry before a loud splash and spluttering.

you laughed loudly as mapi emerged from the water, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. your laughter came to a quick halt as mapi grinned wickedly and you’d never realised until that moment just how hard it was to run in water.

“no! no mapi! i’m sorry!” you cried out, wading desperately away from the spaniard. “it was a joke! it was a—“

almost as quickly, mapi’s arms were around your waist and then you were submerged, thrashing your limbs in an attempt to splash mapi enough that she’d leave you alone.

it didn’t work.

ingrid was the first to notice the commotion, pushing herself up on her towel. she couldn’t tell if you were screaming or laughing but she could see your arms flailing as you fought against mapi.

“why do they insist on playing so rough?” ingrid asked with a sigh as you tackled mapi back into the water.

“because they are children,” alexia said, lifting her sunglasses up to have a look. “well one of them actually is.”

your manic laughter sounded again as mapi flailed in the water, holding her arms out as you splashed her.

“if you stop i will buy you ice cream!”

silence followed and mapi peeked over her arms to see you nearly halfway to the shore. with a sigh she followed along, quickly catching up and dragging you towards one of the nearby ice cream carts.

and until it started getting dark you were in and out of the water, annoying mapi at any given moment and somehow concentrated long enough to dig a little moat around alexia’s body where she sunbathed.

“oh i think it’s someone’s bedtime.” lucy cooed mockingly as you yawned, dropping onto the towel ingrid had laid out for you.

“m’not tired.” you murmured, yawning again as you forced your eyes open.

“sí es usted.” pina said and you mustered your best glare.

“vamos nena,” you heard alexia say softly as someone lifted you up. a small whine left your lips but you leaned back into whoever it was behind you. “arms up.”

you did as you were told, feeling a t-shirt being slid onto your body. you looked down with tired eyes, knowing that any other day you’d be teased for how big it was on you.

you woke up enough to walk ahead with jana and bruna, pina and patri catching up as jana snapped the selfie.

the sky was darkening beautifully and as you yawned again, you were scooped up into someone’s arms.

“ale m’seventeen, not a baby,” you muttered. “don’t need to be carried.”

“maybe so,” alexia hummed, watching your eyes droop. “but you will always be our little nena. no matter how old you get.”

[tropes-and-tales]

It's That Simple

Day 16:  Praise Kink (Bob Floyd x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Light angst, kinda (Bob gets deflated); talk of panic attacks and self-doubt; smut (handjob); 18+ only.

Word Count:  5656

AN:  This was requested by an anon!

AN2: If you've been around a bit, you know the drill: this isn't edited or re-read or beta'ed.

It’s another terrible first date.

Bob struggles to even snag a first date.  He’s unassuming; he lacks the swagger and extroversion to stroll up to a woman and talk her up.  Most of his dates are obtained from other members of the Daggers—double dates, set-ups, stuff like that.

The latest one was set up by Fanboy, a friend of his sister.  Within moments of meeting his date, Bob knows it’ll be a mess:  she makes a face when she greets him at the door, and it goes downhill from there.

It ends when she gets a text.  An emergency, she tells him, and Bob is too smart and perceptive to buy the lie.  But he’s a gentleman, so he nods seriously and offers to drive her home or wherever she’s needed, which she declines.  He pays the bill of their abortive dinner, and he pretends not to notice how his date practically skips out of the restaurant and into the waiting car of a friend.

He should go home to lick his wounds.  Another failed date, another night alone.  He sees the stretch of his life in front of him and despairs that he’ll ever meet someone, and he should go home to sulk, but he goes to the Hard Deck instead.

He might as well break the news to Fanboy, at least, and maybe Nat can cheer him up with her usual sarcastic humor.

-----

The Hard Deck is as packed as always, and Bob—in his date clothes of dress pants and a button down shirt—stands out among the uniformed pilots and fellow wizzos.  He finds the Dagger Squad, confesses his failure to Fanboy, then settles into a stool near Nat and Rooster.

Nat puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a comforting squeeze.  “I’m sorry, Bob,” she says.

“Her loss,” Rooster offers.

Bob shrugs.  It’s not anyone’s loss but his, but he offers them a weak smile that fools neither of them.

It’s Hangman who sidles up to Bob, and in an uncharacteristic moment of thoughtfulness, the cocky pilot offers to be his wingman—which makes Bob laugh, and it comes out laced with some bitterness.

“No offense, Bagman, but you’d be a terrible wingman,” Bob says.

“What?  Why?”

Bob lifts his hands in a helpless shrug.  “Because you’re….you.  And I’m not like you at all.”

“So?”

He scoffs in frustration at Bagman being so obtuse.  As if any woman would look at Bob if he walked up to them with Jake at his side.  It’d be like an Aston Martin rolling up alongside an old Honda Civic, and that’s the analogy he uses to make Jake understand.  But Jake shakes his head, clasps him on his shoulders and gives him a friendly shake.

“Nah, Baby on Board.  You got it all wrong.  You just need some confidence.”  Another teeth-rattling shake.  “Trust me, there’s a girl out there for you.  C’mon.”

Bob finds himself powerless to resist as Jake pushes him off of his stool, then shoves him gently in the direction of the crowded bar.

-----

The first pair that Jake sidles up to is a bust, but it’s not Bob’s fault:  Jake had hooked up with the one woman before, forgotten about it completely.  He’s moments from getting a drink tossed in his face when Bob tugs him away from the danger and they pull back, reevaluate.

The second pair is a bust too.  The first woman doesn’t even let Jake get the full sentence out before she’s wagging her ring finger in his face.

“Married,” she says, her words clipped.  “Move along, sailor.”

The third pair?  The third pair works out.  Jake hones in on one immediately, a blonde with big doe eyes, but the second one—you—rolls her eyes at him.

But when you turn to study Bob, you don’t roll your eyes.  You hold out a hand, introduce yourself, ask for his rank, then pat the empty chair beside you.

“Settle in, Lieutenant,” and your smile is easy.  “Let’s chat while we watch your friend strike out, huh?”

-----

It turns out you’re drunk, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

For one, you’ve fallen in with Bob Floyd, the most gentlemanly man a drunk, single girl could come across.  He’d never take advantage, and in fact, he’ll end up driving you home at the end of the night, getting you into your apartment.  He will take your shoes off of you, tuck you into your bed, and press a glass of water and a couple of ibuprofen on you before he sees himself out.

For another thing, Bob Floyd has fallen in with you, the most fiercely sweet drunk that a down-on-himself man could come across.  You’re one of those loud cheerleader types when you drink; the kind of woman who chats up other women in the bathroom, who tells them they’re beautiful, that you love them.  With your friend and Jake otherwise engaged, Bob finds himself caught in the tractor beam of your charm.

“You look sad,” you tell him around the rim of your glass.  “Are you sad?”

You’re drunk and Bob is sad, and you’re staring at him with wide eyes that glitter in the low light of the bar, so he tells you.  He tells you about his terrible date, the latest in a string of terrible dates, that he’s been single for so long and he’s not entirely convinced he’ll ever meet someone, that he’s too scrawny, that his glasses are terrible (one date called them serial killer glasses), that he’s too reserved to ever catch the eye of a woman, too unremarkable looking, let alone—

“No!”  You cut him off by exclaiming it, a near-shout, and your hand finds his forearm and grips him there.  “You’re gorgeous, Bill!  Don’t even say you aren’t!”

He grins despite himself.  “It’s Bob.  But thanks.  I mean, it’s nice of you to say—”

“Bob.  Yes.  Sorry.  Bob, not Bill.  I say it because it’s true.”  You release your hold on his arm and sit back in your chair, your eyes narrowed now as you study him closer.  You’re quiet for a long beat, and Bob squirms under your attention, but then you tell him more and he swears he breaks out in a full-body blush.

“You’re gorgeous, really,” you tell him.  “It’s just that you have a sneakier handsomeness, you know?  Like, that one there—” You gesture broadly at Jake.  “—He’s, like, Ken-doll handsome.  Like, he catches your eye because it’s all symmetrical and stuff, and he’s fine, but symmetry can be boring and someone like you, it’s sneaky.  You have a nice face, and these nice blue eyes, and nice hair, and I bet people think about you after the fact like, ‘oh, that Bob guy, he’s not bad at all,’ and then even later it’s like, ‘oh, Bob, he’s pretty handsome.’  Because you’re that sneaky sort of handsome and that’s the worst damned kind.”

Bob isn’t entirely tracking what you mean, but he shakes his head at the unearned praise, and he can’t stop the smile that’s plastered on his face.  He probably looks like a dope.

“Why’s that the worst kind?” he asks.

“Because it’s deadly!”  You lean forward again, put your hand on his arm again.  “Sneaky-handsome guys are like a virus because by the time you realize they’ve infected you, it’s too late.”

Bob chuckles.  “I’m a virus?  Suddenly my night has gotten worse, somehow.”

“No, not at all.  It’s just…”  You trail off, polish off your drink.  You wave down Penny for another.  “It’s just that you sneaky-handsome types never understand the power you have.  Ken-doll over there knows he’s hot, and by the mere fact of him knowing he’s hot, he loses a considerable amount of hotness.  But you have no idea you’re handsome, and that makes you even hotter.”

“I think there’s a string of women in the San Diego area that would disagree with your assessment,” Bob replies.  “But I appreciate the compliment, nonetheless.”

“Oh, them.”  You flap a hand, a dismissive wave.  “There’s a lot of idiots in the world, Bob.  You can’t let a string of women in the San Diego area make you feel bad.”

“I guess I just need to find someone who isn’t an idiot.”

“Ah, well!”  You set your drink down and wave your hands in front of yourself in a ta-da sort of flourish.  “Cal Tech graduate, Bobby.  I work for NASA.”

He feels a warm flush at you calling him Bobby.  “You’re a rocket scientist?  Definitely not an idiot, then.”

“Astrobiologist, actually.  And only an idiot sometimes, but never when it comes to the sneaky-handsome men here at the Hard Deck.”

Bob shakes his head, a little embarrassed at how much he likes you, a drunk stranger, talking him up.  He tries to dial it back, afraid he’s going to fall in love before last call.

“You’re way too smart for me, then,” he tells you.

That makes you arch an eyebrow at him.  “You afraid of smart women, Bobby?”

“Not at all.  It’s just that smart, beautiful, and sweet?  Do you understand the power you have?”  He keeps his tone light, teasing, but he’s in over his head with this:  he’s definitely going to fall in love before last call.

Of course he is.  His question makes you laugh, a warm sound that knocks free the lump in his chest from his earlier failed date.  Your laughter makes him feel drunk even though he hasn’t touched a drop; he feels warm and light and big-headed at how kind you’ve been to him, how sweet, but your laughter is the sound that makes him fall in love with you.

-----

The two of you stay until last call.  Bagman and your friend disappear hours before then, and you shrug at Bob, say you called it all wrong, that you didn’t think Jake was your friend’s type.

Bob drives you home.  You’re unsteady on your feet, so he hovers near you, but you manage reasonably well until it’s time to unlock your door.  He watches you try it, then he reaches out and takes the keys from your hand.

It’s the first time he touches you.

He gets you inside.  He gets you to your bedroom, and you flop gracelessly across the mattress, and Bob immediately goes into caretaker mode.  He slides your shoes off of you, sets them in a neat row by your closet.  He makes his way to your kitchen, gets you a glass of water, then stops in the bathroom.  He rummages through your medicine cabinet—you use the same brand of toothpaste as he does, the same type of toothbrush, and Bob marvels at the strange intimacy of learning these things, the everyday things that not everyone is privy to about you.  He finds some ibuprofen and shakes two out, then takes them and the water back to you.

You’re already drifting off to sleep, and Bob has to cajole you into sitting up.  He gets you perched on the side of the bed and gives you the pills and water, which you take without complaints.  He takes the empty glass back from you, and then there’s a moment—

—you sit on the edge of your bed and Bob stands over you, and you look up at him with your bleary eyes and he sees fear.  You’re understanding what you’ve done, maybe:  you’ve invited a strange man back to your place and you’re drunk, and he could do anything, and Bob sees the flicker of uncertainty, the beginning of fear in your eyes.  It makes him feel sick because he’d never take advantage.  It makes him sick that the world, being what the world is, makes this fear lance through the whiskey fumes in your head.

He reaches down to the foot of your bed where there’s a blanket neatly folded.  He shakes it out, urges you to lie down, and when you do, he covers you up.

“Be sure to drink more water when you wake up,” he tells you softly. 

The nascent fear fades out of your expression, and it’s replaced by a loose, goofy grin.  You free a hand from under the blanket and give him a sloppy salute.  “Aye, aye, captain.”

Bob sees himself out but not before he’s struck with a bit of brave optimism.  He sees the little whiteboard by your refrigerator, and he writes out his name and his number.  He drives home and sends up a silent prayer that his sneaky-handsome virus has already infected you, charmed as he is by your earnestly drunken (albeit clunky) analogy from earlier in the evening.

He wakes up the next morning and feels less hopeful.  He queues up a playlist and sets out on his morning run, but his morning pessimism is misplaced:  you call him a mile into his run, and Bob stutters in his steps to hear your voice—a little rough, but sunny nonetheless.

“I’m looking for a guy named Bobby,” you tell him over the phone, and he can hear the smile in your voice.  “Lieutenant Blue Eyes.”

-----

The two of you make plans to meet up at the Hard Deck, but you don’t call it a date so Bob doesn’t either.  He’s in unfamiliar territory:  things have always been a date or not a date in the past, but he’s noticed that many of his Dagger teammates speak in looser terms—meeting up, hanging out—with potential partners.  He’s unsure how to handle it; if he seems too casual, you might miss his interest.  If he comes on too strong, he might scare you off.

He decides to just turn up in his uniform, as he usually does, and when he arrives at the Hard Deck, you are already there.  You’re perched in a bar stool and chatting to Penny, but when he strolls in, you see him.

You smile at him as he walks over to you, but then you shake your head in a mock-rueful way.

“Oh, no,” you say as you hop off of your stool.  You open your arms and Bob steps into them, and you hug him warmly like you’re old friends.  “I thought maybe it was just whiskey-goggles that night, but you really are cute.”

Bob chuckles.  He releases you, then takes the stool beside yours.  “Well, I’ve been downgraded.  You called me handsome that night,” he points out.

“Sneaky-handsome, actually.”

“There seems to be a whole spectrum here that I was never privy to.”

You wave down Penny who comes and takes your orders.  Once your drinks are in front of you—a hard cider for you, a shandy for Bob—you click your glass against his.

“Here’s to the sneaky-handsome men of the world,” you say.

Bob ducks his head and grins  “And to the rocket scientists,” he adds.

A date or not a date…the evening passes in a blink, and you leave Bob that night entirely sober after long conversations and a lot of easy laughter.  You pull him in for another hug before you part, and this hug lingers longer than the hug you gave him as a greeting.  When you pull away, though, you gaze at him with a somber expression.

“I wanted to thank you for the other night,” you tell him.  “For being a gentleman when you took me home.”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean it.”  Your hands on his upper arms squeeze him a little firmer.  “You could have taken advantage, and you didn’t.  You’re a good one, Bob.”

He shakes his head, tries to wave you off, but you squeeze him again.  You don’t let him shrug off your thanks.  You don’t let him downplay his goodness.

“You are a good man, Bob,” you repeat, and you stare at him, like you’re daring him to disagree. 

Bob, who finds that you’re something of a force to be reckoned with, wouldn’t dare to disagree.

-----

He’s still not entirely clear if this is dating or not.  Neither of you actually says the word.  You text each other steadily, and you meet up sometimes at the Hard Deck, but your schedule isn’t great and Bob’s is even worse.  He worries that he’s missed his chance.  When he talks about it to the other Daggers, Hangman rolls his eyes and tells Bob he should have taken his shot earlier, that Bob is pretty much friend-zoned now, but Nat rolls her eyes at that and says he’s overthinking it.

Of course Bob overthinks it.  Bob overthinks everything.

He doesn’t know yet that you overthink everything too.  That you are going through your own pangs of regret, that you think you’ve missed your chance too, that your friends circle around you too and give you tough-love pep talks to build up your courage to take the lead on this burgeoning thing with Bob.

And ultimately, Bob’s hunch that you’re a force to be reckoned with is correct.  In the end, you take charge.

-----

You end up inviting him over for dinner on a night when your schedules align, and Bob overthinks that too. 

What if it’s a date-date, and he turns up too casual, with nothing in his hands—no wine, no flowers?  Or the opposite—what if he dresses up a little, brings you a mixed bouquet, and it’s just a casual friends-type thing?

Bob has no idea how he can manage the systems on a sophisticated plane because his brain grinds to a painful halt the moment he starts to contemplate this dinner at your place.  It’s Nat—it’s always Nat, with her no-nonsense lens into the mystique of her fellow women—who smacks some sense into him.

“Wear a nice shirt, shower beforehand, and take a bottle of wine,” she tells him.

“But what if—”

“It’s always polite to take a gift, Bob.”  She rolls her eyes, heaves a sigh.  “And it’s always polite to, you know.  Shower.  Show up fresh-smelling and neat.  Jesus Christ.  Just go.”

So Bob turns up at your apartment, a mid-tier bottle of wine in his sweaty hand.  Freshly showered, a daub of cologne behind his ears, and a nice blue button-down that brings out his eyes. 

And it’s a good thing he took Nat’s advice too, because you open the door in the sweetest sundress, and there’s music softly playing and the most heavenly smells wafting from your kitchen.  Bob realizes all at once that it’s a date-date after all, and his heart does an alarming little stutter in his chest, enough to stun him until you take his hand and gently pull him inside.

-----

Part of Bob’s issue with women is his inability to pick up on subtle, sometimes invisible cues.  He has always fallen in with the sort of women who play mind games, who play coy and say one thing while meaning another.  He always feels back on his heels; it feels like women speak a language he’s only slightly fluent in, so he’s always playing catch-up to translate what they mean.

But it’s refreshing with you, in this moment, because as you both sit down to the feast you’ve prepared, you just talk with him.  The two of you chat about your lives, you catch each other up since the last time you’ve talked, and Bob almost forgets to be nervous.

Almost.  A pair of tapered candles flicker between you and cast your lovely face in a golden glow, and low, bluesy music sets the soundtrack as you eat.  You sip at the wine he brought, and he eats your home-cooking, and Bob imagines an entire life like this…and he almost misses the way you keep swiping your palms along your thighs, like you’re nervous.

Almost.  He leans into his WSO work, studies you closely like you’re a dashboard of lights and alarms and switches.  He watches you a little closer, and he sees the way your throat bobs when you swallow a mouthful of wine, like you’re swallowing past a lump or going all dry-mouthed on him.  He sees the deep breaths you take, the way you press the back of your hand to your neck, like you’re flushed and trying to calm yourself.

“You’re nervous,” he blurts out when he realizes it for sure, and you pause in where you’re lifting the wine glass to your mouth and stare at him.

“I am.”  It’s that simple.  No mind games, no coy pretending. 

“It’s just me,” Bob says.

You smile at him, and it trembles a little at the corners.  He can feel the nerves in you now, and he reaches out a hand across the table, palm up.  He makes a grabby motion with it until your smile firms up and you lay your hand in his, and he grasps you lightly.

“It’s just me,” he repeats.

“And I like just-you,” you tell him.  “Like-like, I mean.  I wanted to tell you so tonight.”

His heart does that wicked little stutter in his chest, but he squeezes your hand.  “Sounds like you just told me then.”

“Guess so.”  You watch him, and your smile seems tremulous again, so Bob replies, “I like you too.”

It’s that simple.  After you each put yourself through your own overthinking hell, each suffering through your own sleepless nights and needless worrying about dumb things like friend zones, it comes down to a moment so simple that it’s stupid:  just the two of you holding hands as you confess your mutual feelings matter-of-factly.

-----

It feels too easy.  After months (years) of struggling to even land the occasional first date, suddenly Bob’s dream girl turns up just like that.  It feels too easy, and so Bob slips into his overthinking almost immediately.

It goes fine after dinner, when the two of you trade nervous kisses on your couch until the nerves burn off enough that your mouth slotted over his feels natural, that you move in concert with each other—your head tilting one way, his tilting the other, no longer bumping noses or knocking his glasses askew. 

It goes fine as you climb into his lap, the solid weight of you a welcome sensation because Bob’s head feels like it’s filled with helium, drunk and fizzy from the feel of your lips against his, your tongue against his own.

It goes fine when you climb off of him, shaky-legged like a newborn foal.  When you hold out your hand and take his to lead him back to your bedroom.

The moment he finds himself stripped down to his boxers and lying on your bed is the moment it falls apart.

It’s like every mean comment, every brush-off and ghosting, every roll of the eyes and beleaguered sigh and overheard commentary about him crowds into the room and leaves no space for this moment with you.  Bob thinks of all the feedback he’s ever gotten on dates—the serial killer eye glasses, the lack of muscles, the lack of game.  He tries to take a deep breath and finds he can barely pull in a lungful, and his throat feels like it’s closing on him—

And he can’t get hard.  His near-erection from making out on the couch deflates, and even though you are perched over him—you’ve shed your sundress, and you’re in the sexiest, sweetest lingerie set, powder pink, like the underside of a cloud at sunrise—he cannot coax himself back to attention.

The panic that floods him—he recognizes the feeling.  He’s felt it a million times.  He feels the hot, splotchy redness as it breaks out across his chest and neck, and his face flushes furiously bright, and you notice it all in real time.  The sultry, heavy-lidded look on your face disappears and is replaced by pure concern.

“Bob?  Bobby?  Are you…okay?”  You reach a hand out and cup his face, and your palm had felt warm earlier but now it feels cool….which proves how hot he’s flushed, how feverish his panic makes him feel.

“I’m sorry.  Shit, honey.  I’m…I gotta go.”  He tries to sit up but your mattress is soft and he flails a moment, and if Bob were just a bit younger he’d burst into tears at how sideways this has all gone so suddenly.  You served him up the perfect evening, you’re kneeling right beside him in the hottest fucking lingerie, and he’s been reduced to a stuttering, red-face idiot who can’t even get hard—

“Hey.”  You lay your hand on his bare chest, steady him.  “Hey, hey, hey.  Take a second.  Just breathe, Bobby.”

“I gotta—”

“Just relax.”  You press against his chest, tap your forefinger against his skin.  “Breathe for me, okay?  Everything’s fine.”

“It’s not.  Fuck, it’s not!”  He raises his voice, winces at how shrill he sounds, and the dam in him breaks.  Something in him dislodges, and it all spills out:  every mean, rotten thing he’s ever thought about himself.  Every bit of unfair criticism, every insult and slight and how his own insecurity has twisted it all into a crippling imposter syndrome.  How he only ever feels competent at his job but how he struggles with everything else, and now how he’s fucked it all up with you because he’s overthinking, always trapped in the own tangled maze of his mind, always waiting for the other shoe to drop because he’s not good enough, he can’t even get hard even with you looking like a dream—

“Hey.  Whoa.”  You remove your hand from his chest, but you scoot over to sit beside him, turned to face him, your expression very similar to the night he met you—the same easy smile, the same studious eyes.

“Nothing’s ruined.  You haven’t fucked anything up.  Take a breath.  Is this because of that bad first date you had the night we met?”

He nods.  “A little bit.”

“There’s been other bad first dates, I guess?”

Another nod.

“And now you’re worried this is just another bad first date?”

“Yeah.”  It comes out a croak, a roughness in his throat. 

“Hmm.”  You lean forward, press a soft kiss to his forehead.  “You wanna hear about my worst first date ever?”

“No, honey, it’s okay—”

“His name was Justin.”  Another soft kiss, this one to his temple.  “Good job, good looking.”  Another kiss, to the other temple, right at his hairline.  “Picked me up and gave me flowers, took me out to San Diego’s most exclusive restaurant that has a reservation list a mile long.”

Bob chuckles weakly.  “Sounds awful,” he says, wry.

You hum again, kiss his flushed cheek.  “He was charming at dinner.”  A kiss on his other cheek.  “Said all the right things.  Asked about my life and listened to my answers.”  The lightest of kisses on the tip of his nose, and it makes him smile despite himself. 

“Halfway through dessert, a woman comes up to our table.”  Bob feels the gentle press of your lips at the corner of his mouth, and he turns his head to kiss you back, but you pull away. 

“It was Justin’s wife.”  A flurry of kisses now, to his chin, along his jawline, near his ear. 

“He was cheating,” Bob says.

“Nope.”  A kiss, this one lingering, under his jaw, on his neck.  “Turns out, this was a little game he and his wife play.  Some weird cheating, cuckolding fantasy.”  Your lips skate over his pulse point.  “He takes a girl out, his wife pretends to catch them, and then they go to a nearby hotel to fuck each other senseless.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit is right.”  You lift your head to gaze at him.  “Asshole left me with the bill for dinner too.  So Bobby….you’re not my worst first date.  You’re not even close.”

“Honey—”

“You have no idea how hard you’re gonna have to work to really, honestly fuck this up.”  You grin at him, and then you straddle his lap again, and he lays his hands on your hips and stares up at you.

“Because you’re, like, exactly the sort of man I’ve always been looking for.  You’re that sneaky-handsome sort, and you’re smart and sweet, and you took care of me that first night when I was too drunk to make good choices.”  You cup his face in your hands, and you stare at him hard, that sweet forcefulness on full display, like you dare him to disagree with you.

“It’s already a sure thing, Bobby.”  You lean forward, kiss him gently.  “There’s no pressure to do anything tonight.  Don’t even think about needing to do anything.  How about you just let me love on you, and you just relax, and if you can keep your secret wife from busting in and turning this into a cuckolding fantasy, we’ll end the night just fine, okay?”

That makes him laugh, and it breaks the spell of his terrible ruminating.  Bob laughs, and he slides his hands from your hips up to your waist to feel your soft skin.

“I didn’t even think of getting a secret wife before I came here,” he confesses.

“See?  It’s a sure thing, then.”  You lean forward again, whisper in his ear, your warm breath making him break out in goosebumps as you tell him to just relax and let you love on him.

-----

The antidote to Bob’s awful overthinking, as it turns out, is your care and praise.

As far as first dates go, this is the one where Bob learns something new about his own sexuality.  He learns, thanks to you, that he has a praise kink, because your hands and mouth and body on his feels amazing, but it’s your words that make him hard.

Loving on him means you touch him everywhere.  You kiss him everywhere.  You stroke him, press your soft lips to him, lick against parts of him until he feels like he’s on fire in a way that is completely different than his panic attack.  You kiss every inch of his face and neck.  You trail your mouth over his shoulders and collarbones, across every bit of his chest and belly, and you praise him whenever your mouth isn’t otherwise occupied.

Look at you, Bobby.  Hiding this body away under that uniform.

You praise his arms, the muscles of his chest and abs.  You praise his shoulders and back, the smattering of chest hair, the trail of hair that leads down and disappears under the waistband of his boxers, and you glance up at him, the question in your eyes as you toy with the elastic.

“Can I?” you ask, and Bob nods, swallows hard, and you go lower, you push his boxers down and his cock is there, hard from your honied words.

“Holy shit,” you blurt out.  “Bob, are you for real with this?”

It probably seems like a cliché, like the pretty girl in a movie who somehow never realized she was pretty, but Bob has never really considered his size.  He’s been around plenty of other penises through the course of his career, but he’s never exactly eyed up other men and measured himself against them.  The handful of women he’s slept with never said anything so he assumed he was average, but you praise him here too—you tell him he has a beautiful cock, and Bob blushes at the compliment.  He’d never call it beautiful, but when you wrap your palm around his shaft and grip him gently, he’d agree to any adjective you might offer, so long as you never let him go.

This feels too easy too, but the panic never claws at Bob’s throat again.  You’ve chosen him, you’ve made it a sure thing for him, and you’ve cut through his awkward moment of near-flight to get him to this:  your body stretched alongside his, your breasts pressed against his arm, your hand working against his cock while you whisper praise in his ear. 

And every time doubt starts to creep in—he should be touching you too, he should be making you feel good too—you hush him, you still his mouth by kissing him, and you tell him that he has all the time in the world for touching you, but he should let you take care of him now.

His orgasm creeps up in fits and starts, and it seems to ratchet closer with each bit of praise you lavish on him, more so than each movement of your hand working against his cock.

“I want you to come for me, Bobby,” you whisper against his neck.  You kiss his pulse point, a plush, open-mouth kiss that makes him shiver as you grip him tighter, work a faster rhythm with your hand.  “Come for me like a good boy.”

He wants to be good for you; he wants to do as you say.  Some not-so-small part of him craves your approval, and maybe the two of you will play around with that sort of dynamic in the future, but for now, he just wants to obey you.  He wants to do his part to salvage the night he thinks he almost ruined, so he breathes in time to your strokes, focuses on every sensation—the softness of your breasts pressed against him, your wet, hot mouth kissing him, the light scent of your perfume.  The tension in his belly is a coil, and it tightens and tightens until it snaps, and his hips stutter against your grasping hand.  He gasps out your name, warns you, and then a beat later, he comes.  He spills over your hand, thick ropes of cum coating your fingers and wrist, spilling over onto his belly.

“Just like that, baby.”  You kiss his panting mouth, and he feels the curve of your lips as you give a pleased smile.  “It’s that simple.”

[callsign-rogueone]

one too many

Liam Mairi x reader you have one too many on a night out, but Liam is there to take care of you. this is a part 2 to the spider, but can be read as a standalone. words: 1.0k 🏷: no book spoilers, just fluff, I may be sober but I can still write about drinking and how much it sucks, descriptions of being drunk, she/her "girl" reader, one very minor instance of a guy at the bar being creepy but again -- Liam to the rescue. that's all I got for tags. it's nap time now, byee (yes, there will be a part three to this. it's already in motion.)

You’re definitely starting to regret going out tonight. You have no idea where your friends are, if they’re still here or not, and you really don’t feel good. Weaving through the crowd, you finally spot a friendly face. “Hi, Liam.”

“Hi yourself,” he greets, putting an arm around your shoulders and pulling you a bit closer to keep you out of the way of the other patrons, and to be able to hear you over the lively conversations and music filling the tavern.

You smile, cuddling into his side contentedly. “Missed you.”

You’ve had a soft spot for the boy for a while now. You don’t spend much time together, being in separate squads, but he’s your across-the-hall neighbor in the dorms — you see him a few times every day, coming to and from your room between classes. 

He’s always nice to you, offering you soft smiles and the occasional kind word or small talk, and the other week, when you’d knocked on his door in a mild panic and asked — begged — him to evict a spider from your room, he’d done it without hesitation, and without judgment.

“Are you feeling okay?” He asks gently.

“Head’s a little fuzzy,” you answer with a frown, “but I don’t think I had that much.”

You only remember having one drink, that you’d been sipping on steadily through the night but never finished. You shouldn’t feel this intoxicated — the room is spinning, blurring at the edges, and you feel unsteady on your feet, hence the way you’re rather un-subtly clinging to him.

“There you are,” some guy he doesn’t recognize calls, “thought I lost ya. You ready to go?”

“Who’s your new friend?” Liam asks, holding you a little closer and shifting his body to place himself between you and this new guy, eyeing him with apprehension.

“Oh, this is…” you blink, struggling to recall the other boy’s name. Everything between him walking up to you and the present moment seems a little hazy and unclear.

Liam makes his decision; you’ve had one too many, and you clearly aren’t there enough to agree to go home with a stranger, especially not this guy, who just looks like bad news. “She’s not leaving with you, if that’s what you’re after,” he states flatly, not leaving any room for argument.

The boy scowls, likely thinking that Liam is your boyfriend, and realizing he’s wasted his time flirting with you. He leaves, presumably to find some other girl to sweet-talk into his bed.

“Let’s get you back to the school,” Liam coaxes. 

You agree quietly, letting him guide you out the door and down the street, his arm still around your shoulders to keep you upright. You’re glad you chose sensible shoes for the night — it’s already hard enough to walk in your current state.

You rub at the exposed skin of your arms in an attempt to warm yourself up — you can’t remember if you had brought your jacket with you and forgotten it in the tavern, or if you’d left it in your room.

Ever-observant, Liam shrugs off his own jacket and helps you get your arms through the sleeves. You burrow into the soft fleece-lined leather, warm from his body heat and nicely oversized, the cuffs extending past your knuckles.

“Thank you, Li,” you mumble, taking hold of his arm. “I really didn’t want to go home with that guy.”

“Of course, sweetheart. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

You continue to tell him how you feel. “You’re such a good guy, you know. Always looking out for everyone. S’ why I like you so much. Well, that ‘n your eyes.”

“My eyes?” he asks casually, as if you hadn’t just drunkenly confessed to having a crush on him.

You hum in affirmation. “They’re really pretty. Like the ocean. Reminds me of home.”

You cover a yawn with a sleeved hand, exhausted, but keep walking alongside him. The alcohol may have lowered your inhibitions, but he still can’t help but feel a little squeeze of pride that you trust him to do the right thing, to take care of you in your vulnerable state.

You don’t protest, or seem to notice at all, that he’s headed in the opposite direction of the dorms — to the healers’ quadrant, instead. 

You continue holding onto him as he leads you into the infirmary and explains to one of the healers what’s going on.

After a quick glance at you and a flip through your patient file, she identifies the problem: “We gave her a medication last week that shouldn’t be mixed with alcohol — it makes one glass feel like five. She’ll be fine in the morning, just really hungover, but she can’t go out drinking again for a while yet. Make sure she gets some water, and plenty of sleep.”

Liam nods, thanking her.

“She’s lucky to have such a good boyfriend to take care of her.”

Liam doesn’t correct her, just offers her a smile and another thank you before he leads you back across the campus to your room.

Thankfully you’re cognizant enough to unlock the door yourself, and you move to sit on your bed as soon as it’s in your sight.

He uncaps your water bottle, finding it half-full. “You should have some water,” he coaxes, extending it to you. 

You comply, emptying it slowly. 

He certainly isn’t going to change your clothes for you, and you look too exhausted and unsteady to do it yourself, so he settles for tugging off your boots and setting them next to the pile of shoes by the door. You can sleep in your outside clothes for the night and just wash your sheets tomorrow.

He picks your stuffed dragon up off of the desk, handing it to you — you hum happily, hugging it to your chest as you lay down. “You gonna be okay?” He asks softly.

Another hum in affirmation as your eyes start to close. 

“Alright. Blythe can have Deigh wake me up if you need me, okay?”

“Mmkay,” you murmur. “Thank you, Li.”

He lays a featherlight kiss on your forehead, draping a blanket over you. “Get some sleep, pretty girl. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

[nahoney22]

Happy Birthday 🌊

🫧 pairings: Hunter X Female!Reader

word count: 1.8k

prompts: none

A/N: For a special someone for their birthday. Happy birthday @photogirl894 ♥️ 🎂

It’s your first birthday without your loved ones nearby, however Hunter has a little surprise in store for you.

warnings: Safe for work, Fluff, Light Angst, Reader Missing Family, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, The Batch Being the Sweetest, Present Giving, Surprise Birthday Celebrations, Female Reader, Not Proofread.

“So, I heard it’s someone’s birthday today?”

The voice is like a warm caress, and you spin around in the pilot’s chair, a soft smile already forming. Hunter stands in the doorway, his arms crossed, and that ever-gracious smirk playing on his lips. Stars above, how could one man be so effortlessly handsome and charming at the same time? His presence alone sends your heart into a wild rhythm.

You try to hide your bashfulness, a difficult feat given Hunter's heightened senses. You often wonder if he can hear the way your heart skips a beat whenever he talks to you, or if he can sense the blood rushing to your cheeks. “Hmm, I’m not too sure,” you say, pinching your chin in mock contemplation. “Remind me again?”

He chuckles, a sound that feels like a soft embrace, and walks towards you, placing a caring hand on your shoulder. “Happy birthday, trooper.”

His touch sends a warmth coursing through you, and you grin, though he quickly notices the smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. His brows furrow slightly, a sign of his genuine concern. “Something the matter?”

“It’s just… it’s my first birthday without seeing my friends and family, so it feels a bit, I don’t know, different? I guess.”

It had been almost a year since you last visited your home planet. Being a medic for the squad meant you were always on call, patching up the boys and tending to Omega’s scraped knees. You loved your job and the Batch, especially one member more than the others. But celebrating your birthday without your other loved ones felt tougher than you had anticipated.

Hunter moves to the chair beside you, using his foot to gently spin you around to face him. “I guess it would be quite strange,” he acknowledges, leaning forward. “But we will make the day work, huh? Wrecker, Tech, Crosshair, and Echo want to take you out for breakfast this morning. Maybe go for a walk on the beach too.”

The thought of the boys offering to take you out for breakfast is sweet, but you can’t help the slight disappointment. “And you and Omega don’t want to come too?”

He shifts, suddenly looking a bit nervous. “Oh, erm, I just have to do some data logs and boring stuff, and Omega said her stomach hurts this morning.”

In an instant, you panic and stand. “What? Is she okay? Why didn’t she tell me?” You start to walk away to find her, your medical and nurturing instincts kicking in. But you’re stopped by a gentle hand grabbing hold of yours.

A warmth spreads up your fingers as you look down at the hand intertwined with yours, then up to the gentle eyes they belong to. “She’s okay, just sleeping.”

Your breath catches in your throat, unsure how to respond. Why was he holding your hand? Why hadn’t he let go yet? “O-Oh, I see.”

He smiles, another one of those smiles that often turn your knees to jelly. “I’m sure you’re going to have a great birthday,” he says fondly.

Your heart swells, a mixture of emotions swirling within you. Hunter’s presence, his touch, his words—they all have a way of making you feel seen and cherished in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. You had liked him for the longest of time and you had a somewhat naive hunch he felt something for you too. You had seen the way he acted with women before and it was never the way he was with you. You didn’t want to get your hopes up but you couldn’t miss the way he looked at you.

Hunter’s hand lingers in yours, neither of you seeming to want to let go. The warmth of his touch sends a gentle thrill through you, and you find yourself completely lost in his eyes. Memories flood back: the countless times he had stood by your side, his protective nature, the soft, caring words he had for you after tough missions, and the gentle way he always made sure you were okay.

He steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours. You feel your heart pounding in your chest, breath hitching as the space between you seems to shrink. His face is inches from yours, and you can almost feel his breath when—

The moment is shattered as Wrecker bursts into the room, his loud, jovial voice breaking the spell. “Hey! Happy birthday!” he bellows, his enthusiasm filling the cockpit.

You and Hunter quickly pull apart, standing back as though caught doing something you shouldn’t. Wrecker’s massive arms envelop you in a bear hug, lifting you off your feet momentarily.

“Wrecker!” you laugh, your cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and lingering warmth from the almost-moment with Hunter.

The rest of the Batch filters in, each offering their birthday wishes. Echo’s smile is warm and genuine, Crosshair gives a nod of acknowledgment, and Tech adjusts his goggles as he speaks. “We should get going before all the good food spots are full. I’ve done extensive research and compiled a list of optimal breakfast locations.”

You chuckle and nod, grateful for the distraction. As you prepare to leave, you give a shy wave to Hunter. He returns it with a nod and a smile that makes your heart flutter once again. Once you’re gone, Omega peeks into the cockpit, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Is she gone?”

Hunter nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “Let’s get to work.”

Breakfast is a yummy affair, filled with so much laughter juice nearly snorted out your nose at one point. With Tech having done his research, he led you all to a place where you could indulge in a variety of good dishes—crispy hash browns, fluffy pancakes drizzled with syrup, and a savoury omelette loaded with anything topping you could think of. Wrecker, of course, devours his food with unabashed enthusiasm, while Tech critiques the menu with a meticulous eye.

After breakfast as promised, the group of you heads to the beach. The sun is warm on your skin but a little too hot later on which meant you had to buy a straw hat by one of the nearby stalls, and the gentle waves lap at the shore.

As you lay on the sand, you watched on as the boys engage in light-hearted banter which soon lead to Wrecker and Crosshair ending up in a playful scuffle, each trying to push the other into the ocean. Their laughter is infectious, and you can’t help but join in, feeling a lightness you hadn’t in a while. But, the longing for your family was still there.

As the day winds down, Echo announces we need to return to the ship.

As soon as you step inside you’re greeted by the sight of decorations, a table laden with gifts and, and the people you love most in the galaxy. Your friends and family. Along with the Batch and Omega, who beams at you with pride.

Emotion wells up within you, your eyes watering instantly and you rush to your loved ones, pulling them into a tight embrace. “I can’t believe you guys are here!”

Echo approaches Hunter, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Good job.” They both watch you wipe the tears of happiness from your eyes.

That evening, the festivities of your party slowly start to dwindle. The campfire that was made crackles gently, casting a warm glow on those around you.

After the games, laughter, and a satisfying barbecue, presents are exchanged. You always felt shy when receiving gifts and today was no different. Though you were very grateful.

Tech hands you a crafted gadget, its sleek design and functionality immediately appealing to your practical side. Crosshair, true to his stoic nature, offers a high-quality knife with a subtle smile, acknowledging its usefulness. You weren’t much of a fighter but maybe you could ask Hunter to teach you one day…

Echo gives you a beautifully bound journal with a smooth leather cover and crisp pages of flimsi. He knew you liked to make notes on your adventures and this just adds a more personal touch. Wrecker’s gift, a massive stuffed animal, brings out delighted laughter from you though the others weren’t too impressed with where it’ll fit on the ship.

As the night settles, Hunter catches your eye from across the fire and nods towards the lake. “Would you like to go for a walk?”

Curiosity piqued, you nod and follow him away from the glowing campfire and the soft chatter of your friends. The path to the lake is softly illuminated by the last hues of twilight. The sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving a trail of purples, pinks, and deep blues in the sky, reflected beautifully on the still waters of the lake.

The environment is serene, with the gentle rustling of leaves in the evening breeze and the distant sound of creatures stirring. The cool air carries the subtle scent of pine and freshwater, wrapping around you. Hunter walks beside you, his presence steady and calming which is what you always felt.

“Thank you for the surprise,” you say, your voice soft and sincere. “I promise not to ugly cry again.”

Hunter chuckles softly, the sound blending harmoniously with the natural ambiance. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Are you wondering where your gift from me is?”

“Not at all, you already did so much!” You say quickly, hoping you hadn’t come across ungrateful at all. But he reassures you as you both come to a stop, away from the view of the others.

“It was nothing, you do so much for us so it’s only fair I do something in return.. but I do actually have a gift for you.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small box. Opening it, he reveals a stunning bracelet, an intricate mix of different shades of blue stones, woven together in a delicate design on a silver band. The twilight’s remaining light catches on the bracelet, making it shimmer softly.

You’re momentarily speechless, the beauty of the bracelet and the thoughtfulness of Hunter’s gesture leaving you stunned. Smiling gently, Hunter takes your hand, his touch warm, and slips the bracelet onto your wrist. “I don’t know how to thank you,” you whisper, emotion thick in your voice.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Hunter replies, his voice filled with warmth. He pauses, his eyes holding yours with a quiet intensity. “But maybe we could finish what was almost started this morning?” His tone hopeful

You didn’t expect him to bring it up again, in fact you momentarily forgot about it, but his words send a thrill through you. You nod, a shy smile playing on your lips. Hunter steps closer, his hand gently cupping your cheek. The touch is electric, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

The kiss is soft, slow, and tender, a sweet exploration of emotions that were long felt, but never spoken. The galaxy around you fades, leaving just the two of you in this perfect, timeless moment.

When you finally part, Hunter’s eyes are filled with warmth and affection. “Happy birthday, beautiful,” he whispers, his breath mingling with yours.

Your heart swells with happiness, and you realise that this birthday, surrounded by love is one you will cherish forever.

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[starsjulia]

beneath the surface - leah williamson

a/n : i have a flight in a few hours and i can’t sleep, so here’s some angst.

warnings!! - homophobia, kinda stockholm syndrome??, abusive father (nothing actually described just implied) no happy ending sorry :(

this is set when they were teenagers

Leah Williamson stood at the edge of the training pitch, her breath misting in the cold evening air. She watched as Y/N worked through drills, her movements precise, but with a mechanical quality that Leah had come to recognize as a shield. It was the way Y/N played when she was trying to hide, when she was trying to keep the world, and Leah, at arm's length.

Leah had known Y/N for years, long enough to recognize the fire in her eyes and the way it dimmed when something weighed heavy on her heart. They had come up through the ranks together, fought for their place on the Arsenal squad, and shared countless moments of joy and triumph on the pitch. But lately, the bond that had always felt unbreakable had been strained by something Leah couldn’t quite touch, something that seemed to grow darker with each passing day.

Leah’s feelings for Y/N had been a constant, a quiet love that had taken root in her heart from the first time they’d laced up their boots together. She’d never said anything, too afraid of what it might mean to put that love into words, to give it life. But now, seeing Y/N so distant, so broken, she couldn’t stay silent anymore.

After practice, Leah approached Y/N, who was already heading toward the locker rooms, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Y/N, wait,” Leah called out, jogging to catch up with her. Y/N paused, glancing over her shoulder, her expression guarded.

“What’s up?” Y/N asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Leah hesitated, searching for the right words. “Can we talk? It’s just… you haven’t been yourself lately. I’m worried about you.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered with something Leah couldn’t quite decipher before she quickly masked it with a small, tight smile. “I’m fine, Leah. Just tired. You know how it is.”

Leah wasn’t convinced. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know something’s wrong.”

Y/N looked away, her hands fidgeting nervously. “It’s nothing. Really.”

Leah stepped closer, lowering her voice as she spoke. “Is it your dad?”

At the mention of her father, Y/N flinched, the slight movement sending a pang of hurt through Leah’s chest. Y/N’s father had always been a shadow over their friendship, a figure Leah had never met but had heard enough about to know he was controlling, manipulative, and far from the supportive parent Y/N deserved. Leah had tried to bring it up before, but Y/N would always shut down, insisting everything was fine.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Y/N murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Leah’s heart ached for her, for the pain she knew Y/N was holding inside. “You don’t have to go through this alone. You know that, right?”

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears, and for a moment, Leah thought she might finally open up, finally let her in. But then Y/N blinked them away, steeling herself. “I’m not alone. I have my dad.”

Leah felt a surge of anger, not at Y/N, but at the man who had twisted her mind, who had made her believe that the only love she deserved was the kind that came with conditions and control. “He’s hurting you, Y/N. You know that, don’t you?”

Y/N shook her head, her expression desperate, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as Leah. “He loves me. He just wants what’s best for me.”

Leah reached out, gently taking Y/N’s hand in her own. “That’s not love. Love doesn’t make you feel like you’re not good enough. It doesn’t make you scared to be who you are.”

Y/N pulled her hand away, the movement sharp and painful. “You don’t understand, Leah. I can’t… I can’t be like you.”

Leah’s breath caught in her throat. She had never come out to Y/N, had never told her about the feelings she harbored, but somehow, Y/N had always known. “There’s nothing wrong with being like me,” Leah said softly.

“There is,” Y/N replied, her voice cracking. “My dad… he says it’s wrong. That it’s a sin. I can’t disappoint him, Leah. I can’t.”

Leah wanted to scream, to shake Y/N, to make her see that the man she was so desperate to please was the one who was truly in the wrong. But she knew it wasn’t that simple. Y/N had been conditioned to believe these things for so long that breaking free seemed impossible.

“I’m in love with you, Y/N,” Leah confessed, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “I’ve been in love with you for so long, and I don’t care what your dad says. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to be loved for who you are.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in shock, and for a brief moment, Leah saw something flicker there—hope, maybe, or even longing. But then it was gone, replaced by fear and confusion.

“I can’t,” Y/N whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

Before Leah could say anything else, Y/N turned and ran, leaving Leah standing there alone, her heart shattered into pieces.

***

That night, Leah lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, her mind racing. She couldn’t stop thinking about Y/N, about the pain in her eyes and the way she had pulled away. Leah wanted to help her, to save her from the nightmare she was living, but she didn’t know how.

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N grew more distant, retreating further into herself. On the pitch, they were still teammates, still the unstoppable duo they had always been, but off the pitch, Y/N was a ghost, slipping away before Leah could even reach her.

Leah tried to talk to her, to make her see that she was being manipulated, that her father’s love was conditional and toxic. But every time she brought it up, Y/N would shut down, her expression blank and unreadable.

One day, after a particularly grueling practice, Leah found Y/N sitting alone in the locker room, staring at the floor, her shoulders hunched.

“Y/N,” Leah said softly, sitting down beside her. “Please talk to me.”

Y/N didn’t look up, her voice hollow as she spoke. “I don’t know what to do, Leah. I feel like I’m drowning, but I don’t know how to get out.”

Leah’s heart broke at the despair in Y/N’s voice. “You don’t have to do it alone. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

Y/N finally looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with a deep sadness that made Leah’s chest ache. “I’m scared, Leah. I’m scared of what he’ll do if I tell him… if I admit what I feel.”

Leah took Y/N’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “You don’t owe him anything. You deserve to live your life on your own terms, not his. But I can’t make that decision for you. Only you can.”

Y/N’s lip trembled, and she leaned into Leah, resting her head on her shoulder. Leah wrapped her arms around her, holding her close, wishing she could take away the pain, the fear, the confusion that had Y/N so tightly bound.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” Y/N whispered.

“You are,” Leah said firmly. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. And I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

For a moment, it felt like Y/N might believe her, might find the courage to break free. But then she pulled away, shaking her head.

“I can’t,” Y/N said, her voice trembling. “I can’t lose him, Leah. I’ve already lost Mum. I can’t lose dad too.”

Leah wanted to scream, wanted to tell Y/N that she was already lost, that the man she was clinging to so desperately had taken away the person she used to be. But she knew it wouldn’t help, knew that Y/N had to come to that realization on her own.

“I love you,” Leah whispered, the words a desperate plea, a final attempt to reach the part of Y/N that still remembered who she was before her father’s poison took hold.

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t say it back. She just shook her head, her expression one of deep sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Leah,” she said, her voice barely audible.

And then she was gone, slipping away from Leah’s grasp, leaving behind a void that nothing could fill.

Leah watched her walk away, her heart breaking all over again. She didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know if Y/N would ever find the strength to break free from the chains her father had wrapped around her. But she knew one thing for certain—she would be there, waiting, hoping, and loving Y/N from afar, even if it meant breaking her own heart in the process.

[sevcasejay1chicago]

Hi! Would you please write one with Matt/Kelly/Jay x reader where the reader is walking home or something and gets attacked. Roughed up a bit maybe a concussion and like a dislocated shoulder... but she manages to get away before anything too bad happens and just runs on instinct to 51. Kelly and Matt all worried and trying to comfort her but she’s in shock. Sylvie and Violet take care of her and take her to med. Jay meets them there. Maybe with worried brother-in-law Will and a Connor appearance?

Messed with the wrong one- Matt, Kelly, and Jay

Warnings: attack briefly described, vomiting, possibly wrong medical jargon

————————————

You have always been decently independent, which is something that your boys love and hate at the same time. You enjoy doing the grocery shopping and often find yourself walking the short distance to the small neighborhood market around the corner from your shared home. Today was no different.

It was late in the afternoon. The sun was just starting to set and you were happily enjoying watching the beautiful colors change in the sky. Jay was still at work, you having been able to leave early since you finished your paper work, but Jay still had a few files left to tidy up. Your errands could have waited, but you had the time now. So, while Matt, Kelly, and Jay were all still at work, you planned on getting a head start on dinner.

You were two blocks from the market when you felt four hands grab you and drag you into a nearby ally. All your training kicked in and you fought back as hard as you could. All you could think about was getting home to your boys. You kicked and punched, having to drag yourself off the ground twice. The second time you found yourself on the ground, your head also found purchase on a brick wall. You quickly shook it off and stood, laying one guy out and dodging the other, bolting down the ally and running as fast as you could. You didn’t dare look back.

Next thing you know, you are running through the bay doors of 51 and Kelly is snatching you up in his arms. You are violently shaking, blood tricking down your neck and face. You don’t respond when Kelly talks to you, given the fact that you can’t hear him over the ringing in your ears. You notice blurred figures run past you and out of the bay doors, others running out of the firehouse to see what the commotion is all about. Matt comes to your side, but you flinch and scream when he touches you.

“Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s just Matt.” Kelly whispers, rocking you back and forth in his arms. He isn’t sure you hear him, but you relax as you bury your face into his neck and breath in his familiar scent.

Matt doesn’t attempt to touch you again. Not yet anyways, but he thinks he understands why you screamed now. Your left arm is cradled between you and Kelly protectively, leading Matt to believe that your hurt. “Kelly. She’s hurt pretty bad.” Matt whispers, walking around you slowly to examine you with only his eyes.

Kelly nods. “I know. I know baby. Let’s sit down, yeah?” Kelly says, acknowledging Matt and guiding you to sit in his chair at the squad table.

Brett and Violet are standing at the ambo with the doors open. They are both assessing you from afar until Matt and Kelly can get you focused or give them permission to approach. Brett can tell you are slipping into shock, but she doesn’t want to make things worse, so she waits.

It doesn’t take long after Kelly gets you sitting down. His hands pushing your shoulders to lower you down has you screaming in pain. Matt steps aside and waves the medics over, allowing Kelly to keep a hold on you since he got to you first.

“Y/n? It’s Sylvie Brett. Can you hear me?” Brett asks, crouching down to find your tear filled eyes. When you nod, Brett smiles warmly at you. “Good. Good. Can you tell me what hurts?” Brett asks, not yet laying a hand on you.

You gently run your right hand over your collar bone and then touch the back of your head. When your hand comes away with blood, you start shaking harder and hyperventilating. You didn’t feel that.

“Hey. Hey. Baby. It’s okay.” Kelly soothes, taking your hands in his. He carefully wipes them off with a towel that Violet offers as Brett stands to examine your head wound.

“Pretty deep.” Brett comments. At this point, you have lost most of the color in your face and are sweating pretty heavily. Brett can tell, without checking your vitals, that the shock is fully setting in. “Kelly. Get her loaded up. Violet, run inside and tell Boden what’s going on then drive us to med. Matt, call med and have them set up a trauma room and have x ray and CT ready upon arrival.” Brett instructs, putting her feelings as your friend aside to get you help quickly.

Everyone jumps to their tasks. Kelly scoops you up and apologizes as you cry out in pain from the movement. Brett gets in the ambo and immediately pulls out some pain killers and an Iv tray for you. She hands Kelly a towel to keep pressure on your head wound as she hooks you up. You barely flinch as the Iv is stuck in your hand, but begin to calm slightly as the meds take over.

When you stop whimpering, Brett moves to check your chest. “Y/n. I gotta look, okay? No pressing. I promise. Just gotta make sure that everything is still relatively where it’s suppose to be.” Brett said, not wanting to scare you with the fact that your bone could potentially be out of your skin or at an alarming angle or something.

You nodded, leaning your head further into Kelly’s hold as Matt finally jumped in and the ambo began moving. You groaned as the movement caused nausea to spike as your head swam. “Mmmm.” You ground out, trying to breath through the nausea.

“What’s wrong hunny?” Brett asked, pulling back from looking at your collarbone, which seemed to be in place, to look at your face. You had gone pale once again, your face scrunched up as you shakily brought a hand to your mouth. “Okay. Hang on.” Brett said, pushing Kelly forward to lean over and grab a sick bag for you. Matt immediately took it and held it under your chin so that Brett could keep examining you.

“M-Matt.” You gasped, clutching onto his wrist when he came into view. It was like you were just processing that he was even around at all.

“Shhhh. I’m here baby. Kelly and I are here.” Matt soothed, using his free hand to wipe tears from your face. “We are almost to med. We gotcha now.” Matt murmured, hating to see the pain and fear in your eyes. He wanted nothing more than to find whoever did this to you and lay into them, but you were his first priority.

Matt’s thought process was cut short when you heaved, flying forward with a scream of pain at the end of it. Kelly stood, holding your forehead in one hand and the cloth to the back of your head with his other hand. Matt held the bag around your mouth, holding one of Kelly’s arms to stop from trying to steady you or put his hand in the wrong place and hurt you more instead o comforting you.

“Brett. You gotta do something.” Kelly said, trying not to burst into tears as you threw up, screaming when you had enough air. You were shaking violently again, the pain and the vomiting causing your body to go into overdrive.

“Kelly. I can’t. We are two minutes out. I gave her enough to take the edge off, but they gotta assess her before she gets anything else on board.” Brett tried to reason, wiping tears from her own face as she attached wires to you to check your vitals. “I’m so sorry Y/n. I’m so sorry. We are getting you to med.” Brett whispered, her heart aching as she watched her friend get sick and scream while her other friends desperately tried to help.

As soon as the ambo got to Med, Conner Rhoads, Maggie, and your brother in law, Will Halstead, were pulling open the doors. Will stood slightly away, knowing he couldn’t treat you, but he also couldn’t leave you and the boys until Jay got there. Luckily, Jay had been notified by Will when he found out, so he knew his brother would be there soon.

“What do we got?” Conner asked, helping Brett get the stretcher out of the ambo as Kelly kept up, one hand still holding the cloth to your head while the other held the bag Matt had to secure it under your chin as you gagged.

“Deep head lac and suspected broken collar bone. The vomiting started about 4 minutes ago. GCS 6, 140/97, pulse 120, O2 95 on room air.” Brett spout out. “Iv in the field. Left hand. Administered 5 of Morphine to take the edge off.” Brett said, getting your sheets in her hands.

“Okay.” Conner said, “On my count. 1, 2, 3.” Conner counted, then helped transfer you onto the hospital bed. You screamed out again as they moved you, then proceeded to pass out. “She’s out. Elevate her feet. Tip the bed.” Conner instructed, following your head down as you were moved. He checked your pupils and palpitated your collarbone while you were out. “I can feel some inflammation around her collar bone on the left side. Most likely broken, but still in place. She also has a minor concussion. I’m gonna have them do an xray and CT just to make sure on both.” Conner said, standing and looking at the monitor. “Maggie, put her on 5ML of oxygen. Her stats are dropping some. Probably from the pain. Let’s go ahead with another 15 of morphine and some Zofran too.” Conner said, typing it all up pretty quickly.

You began to stir as Kelly pushed some fly away back. Conner was quick to get to you, repositioning the bed to a more comfortable position and checked your head lac. Your eyes fluttered open just as Conner was stepping back.

“Welcome back.” Connor said with a smile. “Your gonna be okay. We need to run some tests, but I think that you’ll only need a few stitches and all you’ll need is a sling to stabilize that arm while your collar bone heals.” Conner supplied, smiling as he heard Matt, Kelly, and Will sigh in relief.

You nodded, then winced. “Hurts.” You whispered, throat raw from throwing up.

Conner nodded and moved aside for Maggie. “Mags is gonna give you more morphine and some Zofran. Sound good?” Conner asked, searching your face for confirmation. When you you gave a shaky thumbs up, he smiled. “Good, I’ll check back in a bit.” Just as Conner was leaving, Jay skidded to a stop as he came barreling through the door, almost hitting Conner in his haste to get to you.

“Baby girl.” Jay breathed, patting Conner on the shoulder and going around him to get to you. He was sweating, eyes wild as he searched your body for injuries, hands and bottom lip shaking.

“J-Jay.” You immediately sobbed out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You wailed, covering your face with your right hand.

Jay shook his head as he laid a hand on your leg. “Shhh. No baby. No. It’s okay. It’s not your fault sweet girl.” Jay soothed, rubbing your leg over the blanket. “We got them. Voight and Antonio have them. Your safe.” Jay soothed, smiling sadly at you.

“She was so smart and so brave. She ran straight into the bay doors of the fire house.” Kelly praised, kissing your forehead.

“You know your always safe with us.” Matt said, rubbing one of your feet over the blanket.

“I-I didn’t even think. I j-just ran.” You sniffed, wiping your face with the back of your arm. “I just thought a-about you guys. I-I needed to get h-home to you guys.” You murmured, tears streaking down your face again as the horrors of the event began to creep into your head.

“You’ll be home tonight sweet girl. Until then, we are here.” Jay soothed, moving forward as Maggie walked out, kissing your forehead gently. “You did so good Angel.”

“I’m home here with you guys. Wherever you are is home.” You whispered, finally relaxing as the drugs numbed the pain and the nausea. You were exhausted and you knew your boys would keep you safe, so you allowed your eyes to slip closed.

——————

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@100yroldteenagers

@senjoritanana

@celtic-shadow-wolf

@starset21

[ilovetopgunsstuff]

heyyy!! i love your writing especially the night shift! i was wondering if i could submit a request for bradley? just him being physically affectionate and always having a hand on you (i feel like that’s his love language idk idk), maybe we’re at the hard deck with the dagger squad and it’s just super fluffy! overall rooster is just hubby material, and maybe there’s a cute kiss or make out sesh outside the hard deck or against his bronco! i trust you haha and i love your writing so whatever you think works! :))

touchy

prompt: it doesn’t matter where you are, but bradley HAS to touch you, it’s his love language it doesn’t matter where on your body: on your arm, thigh, knee. for a tall gruff military guy, he’s like a little teddy bear

warnings: literally js fluff, maybe a little suggestive

a/n: this was such a cute request, hope you enjoy!

“Christ, are you ready yet?” Bradley called from your couch. It was easy for him to say; all he had to do was put on a Hawaiian shirt, a tank top, and jeans. You, however, had to shower, shave your legs, dry and style your hair, do your makeup, pick and outfit, the list goes on.

Bradley acts annoyed, but secretly he enjoys it. He’d wait for you forever. He loved laying on your couch, already dressed for wherever you were going, and listening to you get ready. He’d continue to act annoyed every time, though, cause your little eye roll as he complained was worth it. He was itching to get up and go see you in the bathroom, but you barred him from entering while you were doing your makeup so you could “be in your zone.” He’d pretend he wasn’t bothered by it, but every second he was away from you he wished he wasn’t. He wanted to touch you, kiss you, smell your perfume, anything. He wanted you, all the time.

Tonight, the team was going to the Hard Deck since it was Friday. It was a spot you two would attend regularly, but Bradley loved how done up you got every time you went. Without fail, you were the most beautiful girl in the room, makeup or not, and he’d tell you that over and over.

“Shush,” you replied, spraying one last bit of perfume on before stepping out of the bathroom. You smoothed out your dress, which was light blue, and it hugged your curves so well. You hadn’t looked up at him yet, but you heard a whistle.

He stood up, not hiding that he was looking you up and down. You thought you heard a “damn” whispered under his breath but you weren’t sure. You also weren’t completely sure about your outfit.

“I really don’t know if I like these heels. It was between these and another pair and I might go-“

“You look perfect,” he said as he grabbed both your hands, pulling you into him. You felt his hands snake down to grab your ass, and he couldn’t help but kiss your neck. “So perfect,” he murmured into your skin, “that we could skip the whole bar thing and just stay at home. And if you’re unsure about the shoes, I could take those right off for ya.”

You pulled yourself away from him to keep from possibly agreeing. “Bradleyyy, you love the Hard Deck!”

“That I do,” he said as he pulled you back to him. “You know what I love more?”

“Hm?”

“My girl.”

You could help but shyly smile. “Well,” you stated, “tell her she can wait then.”

He scoffed at your joke as he nuzzled into your neck.

“Come on, let’s go!” you turned around and dragged him by the hand out the front door.

He groaned as he followed after you like a puppy. You walked like this all the way down the gravel path to the driveway. He opened the Bronco door for you on the passenger’s side, then walked around and got into the drivers seat.

As soon as he turned on the car and started driving, his hand took its common place on the inside of your upper thigh. His thumb absentminded rubbed your skin gently. You looked over at him and just watched him. His mustache and hair together looked so good against his tan skin and flowy Hawaiian shirt.

“What?” he was at a red light, and he lolled his head to look at you with his sunglasses on.

“Nothing.”

A small smirk was on his face as he looked back forward, giving your thigh a squeeze.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

- - -

The Hard Deck was crowded tonight, but it didn’t take long to find your group. You met Phoenix at the bar; she was standing there talking to Penny, who greeted you with a drink. You smiled at her and joined in on their conversation.

Rooster was in the process of being convinced by the guys to play a game of pool.

“Mind if we steal your girl for a little while, Rooster?” Penny called out over the noise of the crowd and music.

“If you promise to give her back.” He smiled at her.

He then kissed you on the cheek from behind, squeezing your hips as he whispered that he’d come find you later before he got dragged off. Your knees almost buckled, you wouldn’t lie. Phoenix looked at you with feigned admiration.

“Aren’t you two just adorable?” she teased.

“Two peas in a pod,” Penny quipped, winking at you.

You couldn’t even be annoyed at them, because you were beaming. “Whatever, guys.”

“So… what’s been going on with you two? Spill!” Phoenix pressed you.

You knew Penny would never ask you that sort of question outright, but she was definitely leaning in to hear.

You loved having girl talk, and you could talk about Bradley for hours and hours, happily bending to Phoenix’s wishes. You glanced over to the pool table to find Bradley laughing with the cue in his hand, a beer in the other. You girls’ conversation went on into the night as you lost track of time.

- - -

Bradley played a tipsy game of pool with Hangman, Bob, and Coyote while the others sat and watched, sipping lazily on beers. He and Bob won of course, and game after game went by into the night. Every once in a while, he’d glance up at you, making sure you were still there and he could still see you. You had no idea how bad he just wanted to take you home in that dress, but he’d wait it out. Seeing you so happy talking with your friends was worth it.

Before he knew it, though, he was a few beers in and he just couldn’t get you off his mind. He checked his watch and time had flown. It had been a few hours since you got here, and it was now a little before 1 AM.

- - -

You’d stopped drinking after your second drink; you didn’t feel like getting drunk tonight. The crowd was dying down and so was your energy.

“Well, ladies, I think it may be time to call it. I’m tapping out,” you told them. They agreed with you.

“I was thinking that also. Need help closing or anything, Penny?” Phoenix asked as she looked around for Hangman, Bob, and Coyote, the group she came with.

“Oh I’m good. Not much left to do around here,” Penny responded as she finished polishing glasses. “You girls have a good night.” You and Phoenix thanked her. Phoenix hugged you goodbye, promising to call you tomorrow and saying that she’d see you at work Monday.

Then it was just you. You looked around at the dwindling crowd, narrowing your eyes to try and find-

Then his familiar arms slid around your waist.

“Hey, baby,” he whispered.

You turned in his arms, and you were now face to face with him. “Hi,” you smiled up at him. “I’m tired.”

“Me, too.” He couldn’t get his hands or gaze off you. He just looked down at you while holding you close. It was his favorite thing to do. “Lead the way.”

And you did, all the way out to his car. The parking lot was void of people except for you two. He hadn’t kissed you in so long. As soon as you got out of sight from everyone he backed you against his car and his lips passionately met yours. His hands roamed so desperately. You hummed in surprise as his hands found the back of your thighs and lifted you onto the hood of his car.

“I’m sorry baby,” he said through kissing you. “I know we should continue this at home, I just want you so bad.”

“Take me home, then,” you said breathlessly. All of your self control was gone by now.

“Gladly.”

And boy did he speed home.

[4ttack-ur-heart]

Cherry Chapstick

Pairing: Armin x reader

Warnings: none.

Summary: Armin refuses to let you use his chapstick. No worries, you have other ideas on how to keep your lips from getting chapped.

(also just pretend chapstick is canon in the aot universe for the sake of the fic 😭)

Another long and grueling day of training was finishing up. The sun was setting through the huge forest of trees.

“Alright, trainings over! Rest up and be ready to head back in 15 minutes.” The squad leader said with his barking voice.

Your squad leader liked doing various training sessions with just your squad, something about strengthening the bond and making it easier to tag team during expeditions.

Landing on one of the branches to catch your breath, you sat against the bark let your body slouch for the first time that day.

“Tired?”

Looking up at the voice, Armin was standing in front of you. His new shorter blond locks shifting gently in the breeze as his pretty blue eyes locked on your figure. He was one of your closest friends. The friendship was honestly ideal with him giving you the guidance that you needed while you encouraged him when he was feeling insecure.

You nodded at him through half-lidded eyes and a lazy smile. “I’m so glad we have a day off tomorrow, I’ll probably spend it sleeping.”

Armin returned a smile at your words. “You’re almost there, (y/n). I’m sure your bed misses you too.” While you laughed at him, Armin squatted down next to you.

“What do you got planned tomorrow?” You asked and leaned your head against the tree. He pulled his green cloak tighter around his shoulders when the breeze kicked in.

“Probably go out into the valley and find a nice place to read.”

“By yourself? What about Eren and Mikasa?” You raised an eyebrow. The trio was pretty much inseparable.

Armin waved off your question with his hand. “They wanted to go into the city and I’m tired of third-wheeling. It wasn’t much fun as kids and still isn’t now.”

Nodding your head, you gazed once more at the sun just about to set. The orange hues casting over the green plains.

Armin finally sat down on the branch, his leg brushing up against yours. “God, I can’t stand this weather.” He muttered and started to fish for something out of his pocket.

With curious eyes, you saw him pull out a small tube. Chapstick? He uncapped it and gently spread it on his lips.

Armin chuckled when he caught you staring at him. “What? My lips are chapped.”

“I can see that.” You could also see his plump pink lips all shiny from the substance. “What flavor is it?”

“Cherry.” He pocketed the chapstick.

You inched over to him. Cherry was your favorite flavor, a timeless classic that forever held your heart. You were about to ask him for some when he seemed to have read your thoughts and immediately shut you down.

“No, you can’t have any.”

Instantly shocked at his words, your mouth was agape and you crossed your arms with a pout. “What, why?”

Honestly, you couldn’t care less… well maybe you cared a little bit. But being petty and dramatic was more fun however, especially in front of Armin.

“(Y/n), don’t take this the wrong way, but anything you touch immediately disappears.”

Ok, now you cared a lot a bit. “No it doesn’t!”

“Oh, you defended yourself real quick there, huh? Alright, tell me where Sasha’s hairbrush is.” Armin had a smile on his face as he rested his arm on his propped up knee. Sasha lent you her brush one day and it was never seen again. She made you buy her a new one the next day.

Your silence was the answer he needed.

“Maybe you know where Mikasa’s training gloves are?”

Again, more silence. She’d let you borrow them for training and you stupidly set them down when it was windy.

“Oh, wait! My blue sweater? Haven’t seen that in a while and you were the only person I lent it to.”

It was a rather chilly morning one day, so Armin lent you his infamous blue sweater.

Manipulative little bastard.

A slight blush dusted your cheeks. You glared at the blonde and scoffed. “I feel like this isn’t just about chapstick.”

Arming gave out a chuckle. “It is, (y/n). Don’t worry.” With that, Armin rose to his feet and patted your head as he walked along the branch.

Your eyes fluttered in satisfaction when his fingertips rubbed your scalp.

“I can’t even have a little?”

“No.”

Ugh, be like that then.

———

Your squad eventually had to make the journey back home. Riding next to Armin, your horses ran in sync as you both gave each other little glances every few minutes.

“Can I have some of that chapstick now?” Your voice rang over thundering steps of the horses.

“No.” Armin replied.

“But my lips are chapped!”

“Figure it out.” He shouted back.

Oh I will.

———

“Finally home.” You moaned and jumped off your horse and led her to the stables. Your body ached and sleep was all you were craving. It was dark by the time you guys got back and your squad leader gave his appreciation by quickly dismissing everyone.

Maybe I’ll skip dinner. I’m so tired.

Thoughts flowing through your head as you undressed your horse of her gear. Hanging the saddle on a peg, you brushed her mane and fed her some carrots.

“Eat up, Star. My pretty girl.” You cooed, gently running your hand over her nose. Another set of steps disrupted your intimate moment with Star.

Turning around, your eyes softened at Armin, who led his horse over by the reins.

“Hey, stranger.” He teased and began working on his horse. You smiled back at him and it was silent for a few moments, just the sound of the equipment clinking with movement.

You turned to look at him only to give a dry chuckle when you saw him pulling out his stupid cherry chapstick again. The stupid smile never left his face as he applied it.

“Ar-”

“No chapstick, (y/n).”

Damn.

“That wasn’t what I was going to say!”

Armin turned to meet your gaze with raised eyebrows. “What was it then?”

Shit. Think (y/n).

Armin chuckled as the silence answered his question. His hands gently brushed through his horse’s mane. “You’re a bad liar.”

A scoff left your lips. “I don’t like this new attitude of yours.”

Over time, Armin slowly broke out of his shell, no longer the dorky and nervous kid he once was- even though you loved that about him. Now, he was comfortable enough to speak his mind without a second thought, even to you.

“Get used to it, (y/n). Looks like you’ll have to find another way to keep your lips moisturized.”

You didn’t like the snarky look he had on his face. A sudden idea popped into your head. As Armin finished settling his horse for the night, you caught his wrist as he walked by.

A confused look adorning his features when he turned to look at you.

Without thinking twice, you pulled him towards you and stood on your toes. Lifting your head, your lips quickly planted themselves onto his.

You could tell he was caught of guard. His blue eyes widened at the sudden action and a startled whimper escaped him. It was kinda hot honestly. Pulling away, you rubbed your lips together and popped them. “Mmm, gotta love cherry.”

His lips were partly opened and a red rouge covered his face. He still couldn’t believe it.

“U-uh, I-”

“Night, Armin. See ya tomorrow.” You smiled innocently at him before brushing past him to leave.

His hand latched onto your elbow and pulled you back. Raising an eyebrow at him, Armin gripped both your shoulders before pulling you back in, lips meeting yours once more. His back was crouched down a little to meet your height. Now it was your turn to be surprised.

Oh. Oooh

He moaned slightly against your lips when you started kissing back.

The kiss lasted a few seconds before Armin slowly pulled away from you. You both were slightly panting from the adrenaline and the eye contact between you both never broke.

“There.” His hands still gripped your shoulders. “That should last you a bit.” With that, his hand moved just below your ear, his thumb brushing over your jawline.

Armin finally snapped himself of whatever trance you had on him and gave a small smile. “Meet me here tomorrow at noon, that’ll give you plenty of time to sleep in and you can join me in the valley.”

“O-okay.”

Without another word, Armin left the stables. Your mind ran crazy with thoughts. Yes, you kissed him first, but you didn’t expect him to actually want to kiss you again.

How in the world did he play the game better than you? It was your idea-

—————

The sun shines brightly through the curtains of your room. You let out a groan as the stiffness in your muscles were more prominent from yesterdays training.

Looking at the clock on the wall- 8:25 am.

You can still catch breakfast before it ends and relax a bit before meeting up with Armin.

Oh yeah…

What a peculiar night. You honestly thought Armin would either be confused or disgusted when you kissed him. Not flustered. Him kissing you on his own also surprised you. The little manipulators all grown up now.

You got up and threw on some random clothes, heading to the dining hall.

You quietly ate your food, only a few soldiers remained in the dining hall since breakfast was ending soon.

Time slowly passed by, and you decided to take a nap in your bed for another hour or two before leaving. The nap only left you more tired. After changing into a more presentable outfit, a simple button up and a long skirt, you threw your favorite sweater over. The material was soft and the fading but familiar scent was comforting to you.

Your footsteps were slow as you walked to the stables. The soreness in your body along with the tiredness still swirled in your system.

“(Y/n), over here.” Armin called out to you as he led his horse outside his stall. “Perfect timing, I was just getting ready to- is that my sweater?”

Oops. Yes, yes it was.

“Maybe.”

“I thought you said you lost it!”

“I never said I lost it.” You yawned. “Just never wanted to give it back to you.”

Armin chuckled and was a bit surprised at your words, he climbed on his horse and turned down to you, hand extended. “You ready?”

Nodding, you grabbed his hand and he pulled you up. Your legs straddled the horse and your hand hesitantly grazed his waist. It wasn’t until Armin flicked the reigns and the horse quickly trotted forward that you decided to wrap your arms tightly around his waist as he navigated through the towns.

“You good there?” He joked and placed his hand on top of your clasped ones that pressed against his abdomen.

—————

“You look nice in my sweater.” Armin commented, trekking his fingers gently through your scalp.

The warm breeze swayed the grass and wildflowers surrounding you. The meadow Armin took you to was beautiful this time of year.

Your head currently rested on his thigh. Armin was sat against a willow tree, a book in his other hand. Every so often, his hand would leave your head to turn the page and gently return.

“It’s mine now.” You mumbled through closed eyes. Armin insisted you try to nap again while he read. However, no one brought up the situation from last night. At the moment it almost seemed like it never happens. No one acknowledged it.

“Of course it is.” He said with a smile before taking his hand away from your head. He shifted and buried his hand in the pocket of his trousers. His leg raised your head slightly as he moved. “Sorry, I just can’t- dammit where is it?”

You craned your neck to see his agitated face. “What happened?”

“I can’t find my chapstick.” He muttered with a frown.

A giggle erupted from your mouth, making him look at you. “And you say I lose stuff?”

“Shut up.” He muttered.

You both returned to your original positions with you head still resting on his lap. The breeze continued to blow and you glanced at Armin to see the tips of his blonde hair blow across his face. The shorter hair really suited him.

You let out a small sigh and pulled the sweater tighter around your frame. Reaching into the small pocket, you pulled something out.

Uncapping it, you gently applied it to your lips and didn’t miss the way Armin was staring at you dumbfounded. The label was clearly a different color than his. No, this one was yours. All yours.

“It’s strawberry and before you ask- no you can’t have any. I wouldn’t want you to lose this one too.” A devilish smirk crossed your face. Payback was a bitch. If he could be petty, so could you.

Armin sat back and mumbled something incoherent. His book was now discarded to the side and his arms were crossed with a pout. Memories of last night flooded his thoughts.

The way he held you. The way he looked at you. How you tasted.

You looked up at him with innocent eyes and rubbed the substance coating your lips together. He was staring at you.

You let out a small laugh as he pulled your body up and lowered himself down closer to you. You didn’t miss the way his eyes stared into yours before darting to your lips, then back to your eyes. He was so close. Then as if he decided it was right, Armin’s lips were encasing yours once more.

You gave a small sigh into the kiss and your fingers raked through his blonde hair.

Armin’s tongue gently swiped against your bottom lip and before you could open your mouth for more, he pulled away.

“You’re right.” He said and rubbed his own lips together. “Cherry does taste better.”

You were a little disappointed at the sudden break in contact. Sitting your body up, you faced him. “We can get you more when we head back into town.” You offered and avoided your gaze.

Maybe he was just getting payback for last night?

Armin rolled his eyes and pulled you back towards him. “Yeah that sounds good, but I like this option better.”

And he kissed you again. More passionately this time.

He suddenly pulled your body against his so you were fully sat in his lap, emitting a small squeal from you. Your legs curled into his side and his hands were placed at your waist, thumb brushing your hip.

“Thank you for coming with me.” He mumbled against your lips.

“Just take me out and we’ll call it even.” You replied, your arm wrapping around his neck.

“Okay.”

——

Taglist: @cullenswife

(Lmk if you wanna be added <3)

[rollingsins]

all hers, part xiii

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | part xi | part xii | part xiii | part xiv | part xv | part xvi | part xvii | part xviii | part xix | part xx | part xxi | part xxii | part xxiii | part xxiv | part xxv | part xxvi | epilogue

summary: You deserve everything Ghostface is giving you, you know it deep down. Why should you live while the others died?

warnings: (+18), Tara is Ghostface, mention of murder. Ghost face spoilers for Scream 1-4.

word count: 4.5k

a/n: 👀 smashed through my writers block, let me know your 🔪🔪 theories.

You haven’t left the car - or Tara’s lap - by the time the police arrive. 

Sam greets them, watches as they make their way through the house, casing for strewn pieces of clothing, discarded weapons, footprints, handprints, anything. 

But there’s nothing to find. Ghostface is long gone. 

By the time they’re done, your anxiety is at an all time high, not even Tara’s arms around you enough to quell the fear inside you. Your chest thumps uncomfortably. Your palms are shaky, sweaty. Flashes of the mask, the knife raised against you. 

Is this how Tara’s victims felt in the end? Is this how Wes felt? 

The only difference between you and Wes is you’d survived. And he’d died innocent while you survived, guilty. It isn’t fair. You deserve everything Ghostface is giving you, you know it deep down. Your will to live is selfish, almost. 

Why should you live while the others died?

The answer is pressed to your side. She’s beautiful, as ever, squeezing your hand so tight the tips of your fingers turn white. Her knee bounces steadily, an indication of her nerves. Her dark eyes are wild, flitting from you to the house to the officers on the lawn. Scanning, as if Ghostface will jump out at any moment. God help him if he does, when she’s like this. White-faced, quietly stewing in her own anger and anxiety. You can almost hear the cogs turning in her brain as she runs wild with the possibilities of who it could be. 

The police have questions, what feels like millions of them. The most pressing is why. Why would Ghostface target you specifically? Of course, you know why. 

You don’t mention the other victims. You don’t mention Tara’s Ghostface mask hidden in a lockbox in her closet. You don’t mention the motive Ghostface had all but spit into your face. 

Someone who thinks you should pay. 

Tara, a little on edge, tires very quickly of their incessant questions. 

“There’s never a why, do you even live in this town?” Tara barks, voice hot with annoyance, “They’re random. They’ve always been random.” 

“That’s not exactly true.” It’s Sheriff Hicks. She climbs out of her squad car, slips her gun into her holster as she stands. 

Your chest tightens. She makes you so nervous. You’re so scared one of these days you’ll slip, blurt out the truth before it’s too late.  

“Billy Loomis blamed Sidney for his mother abandoning him. Nancy Loomis blamed her for killing her son. Roman Bridger and Jill Roberts wanted infamy.” She surveys you, hand resting gently on her holstered pistol, “The question is: what does this Ghostface want?” 

The back of your neck prickles uncomfortably under her gaze. You sink deeper into Tara, wear her almost like a shield. 

“Forget his motive, what are you going to do about catching him?” Tara says, arm tight around your waist, “I want a squad car here 24/7. I want officers escorting YN to school. I want a walkie talkie and a phone number so we can have direct contact with them whenever we need-”

The thought of stepping foot into that house sends shockwaves of panic through your body. You grip her waist, tight, trying to draw her attention. 

“I can’t go back in there.” You say, voice tight, “Tara, I can’t stay here tonight. I can’t sleep here.” 

If Tara’s surprised by this, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she wraps her arms tight around your shoulder and presses a long kiss to your forehead.  

“Okay baby.” She says, “We’ll stay with your parents, how about that?”

“I can post a squad car.” Sheriff Hicks interjects, “Two officers. I’ll give you their cell numbers. I’m afraid we’re all out of walkie-talkies.”

She looks at you, for the first time in a long time there’s sympathy in her eyes, “You’re going to be okay.” She promises, “My officers are the very best. But you call me if you remember anything. Anything at all that could help.” 

The moment is interrupted by the sheen of blinding headlights. You avert your gaze, blink away the stars in your eyes at the sudden intrusion. 

It’s a familiar truck, the heavy slam of the door signals the driver has exited the vehicle. You squint, make out Richie’s figure as he rushes towards you. 

“Hey. I came here as fast as I could. Where’s Sam, is she okay?” He’s out of breath, a little panicked as he scans the driveway for his girlfriend. 

“Sam’s fine.” Tara says, her shoulders tight, “YN was attacked.” 

Richie blinks. 

“By Ghostface? Are you alright?” 

“Of course she’s not alright.” Snaps Tara, “Some psycho just attacked her at knifepoint.”

She pauses, as if something has just occurred to her. Suspicion brews in her eyes. 

“Where have you been?” 

Richie draws his attention back to her. The lights of the police sirens flash across his face. 

“I was meeting some friends at a bar,” Richie says, “Is Sam in the house?” 

“What friends? You got an alibi?” Tara asks, her eyebrows drawn tight. 

“You’re not serious?” Richie stares back at her. 

The Sheriff tilts her head, suddenly interested. 

“Do you?” She reiterates, “Tara and Sam are accounted for. We’ll need to corroborate with any potential witnesses who can place you at the bar.” 

Richie opens his mouth in disbelief. He looks between the three of you, waiting for the punchline. 

“I didn’t make it there. Sam called-”

The Sheriff hums, scribbles something down on her notepad. 

“So no alibi.” Tara scoffs, “You’ve been here two weeks and the one night you go out, YN gets attacked.” 

“This is ridiculous.” Richie splutters, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, “Tara. Why would I attack YN? I have no motive.” 

But Tara’s mind is made up, she crosses her arms, glares at the Sheriff. 

“Are you going to arrest him or what?”

“Tara. I can’t just arrest people.” The Sheriff says, closing her notebook. She looks at Richie, “I suggest you outline to one of my officers the exact route you took to and from the bar. If we can place you on CCTV we can rule you out as a suspect.” 

“You can’t arrest people?” Tara challenges. There’s that fire, the one that’s been brewing for the last hour, finally emerging, “What kind of a Sheriff are you?”

“Tara.” You hiss. You turn back to the Sheriff, eyes wide, “I am so sorry, Sheriff, she’s just scared-”

“Scared?” Tara says, sounding outraged. Her dark eyes burn, “I’m furious. I have a prime suspect for you and you won’t arrest him-”

“Just because you don’t like me doesn’t mean I put on a Ghostface mask and tried to kill your girlfriend.” Richie argues, loudly. 

“What’s going on?” It’s Sam, finally emerging from the house. Richie and Tara both turn to face her, matching expressions of outrage on their faces. 

“What’s going on? Your creep of a boyfriend just tried to murder my girlfriend.” Tara snarls. 

Richie throws his hands up. 

“Why? Why would I want to kill her?”

“I don’t know.” Tara says, “You tell me. Because you’re twisted?”

“You know what,” Richie says, his nostrils flaring. He points his finger at her, “It definitely wasn’t me, because if I was going to murder anyone, it would be you-”

“Stop it!” Sam yells, “Both of you. God. You’re like fucking children.” 

They both fall silent. Glare at each other. Sam storms off, presumably back into the house. With a final dirty look at Tara, Richie turns and follows her inside. 

You take Tara’s hand, rub your fingers over the back of her hand reassuringly. Richie is a little strange, granted, but you seriously doubt he’d try and kill you. You’ll talk her down later tonight, you figure. Right now; you want out of here. 

“Do you have any more questions, Sheriff?” You ask, quietly hoping the answer is no, “I need to call my Dad.”

She surveys you for a moment. 

“I think we’re all good here.” She says, finally, “Call me if you remember anything.” 

-

Your Dad is freaked, rightfully so. 

In a panic, he demands you come home. He seems to be so frightened he doesn’t even protest when you tell him Tara’s coming too. 

She’s still glaring at Richie as she pulls out of the driveway, leaving the slew of officers and sirens behind as she makes her way to your parents home. One hand on the wheel, the other gripping your thigh, tight. 

“It’s him, I know it’s him.” She stews, hands tightening on the wheel, “How fucking suspicious can he be. Meeting with some friends, my ass.” 

“We don’t know that, babe.” You say, squeezing her hand, “He’s kind of right - what’s his motive? As far as I know we haven’t done anything to offend him.” 

“I’ve been on his ass since he got here.” Tara says, “Maybe he’s sick of me. Of us.” 

“Or maybe it’s someone else.” You say, staring out the window, “Someone related to the others. Sadie has a brother, I think. One of Aaron’s friends? One of Chase’s?”

There’s a long list of people who would want vengeance on the two of you. It hurts your head to think about. 

“Cool it on Richie, please babe. If he is Ghostface, the last thing we need is him getting spooked.”

“I need to get him away from Sam,” She says, chewing her bottom lip, “If he hurts her-”

“We don’t know it’s him, babe.” You say, pressing your hand over Tara’s, rub the back of her knuckles, “Besides, if he is Ghostface, he’s not going to kill her. His beef is with us.”

It doesn’t calm her down. Her knee is still bouncing when she pulls into your parents driveway, grip around thigh so tight it’s starting to hurt. She shuts off the car and presses a kiss to the back of your hand. 

“I’ll figure it out, don’t worry baby.” She says, voice heavy. Despite the comfort she’s trying to give you, her eyes betray her. Brown, wide, swimming with worry, “No one’s going to hurt you, I promise. I’m not taking my eyes off you. You’re not going anywhere alone, I mean it. You’ll have to get used to me watching you pee.” 

You half think she’s kidding, until she follows you upstairs and into the bathroom. 

“Absolutely not.” You say, pressing your hand to her chest and pressing a kiss to her lips, “Wait here.”

“But-”

“Ghostface isn’t hiding in the bathtub, babe.” You tell her, and close the door behind you. 

You pause. Check the bathtub just in case. 

Your parents make a fuss, like you knew they would. Your mom rushes off to comfort cook, something she does best, and your Dad gets his power tools out, triple checks all the windows and doors for any shaky locks. 

If he minds Tara staying the night, he doesn’t say it. Instead, he hovers at the bedroom door, eyeing her up as he reiterates his safety mechanisms. 

“Keep the door locked,” He says, voice gruff as you climb onto the bed, next to Tara, “At all times. Front and back. I have a security specialist coming in tomorrow to install some cameras and alarms.” 

“Thanks Dad.” You say. It takes the weight of your chest, just a little. 

“I’ve got my shotgun loaded and ready to go,” He continues, “If you hear anything- anything at all - just call out and I’ll be here in a moment.” 

“Do you have a spare?” Tara asks suddenly, “Gun, that is? I’ll be a little closer, is all.” 

He watches her for a moment. That expression is on his face - the one he always wears when he sees Tara. Mild distaste, like he’s just taken a bite of something that’s gone bad. Briefly, you worry he’s going to try to kick her out. 

“I can’t give a gun to a kid.” He says, voice curt. Her brows furrow. 

“This kid might be the only person who’s able to protect her in time.” Tara challenges, “You’re all the way across the hall. What if he covers her mouth so she can’t cry out?”

“Babe.” You warn, “It’s fine. We’ll be fine.” 

Your Dad shifts his weight, staring Tara down. You know he doesn’t like her, it’s written all over his face. But if she goes, so do you. And he understands that, you know he does. 

“I have a handgun.” He says, finally. He looks at you, “I’ll give it to YN. Remember those lessons down at the cabin? You’re confident you know how to use it?” 

You nod. 

When you were younger, your Dad had taken you shooting, taught you how to fire a gun, how to load it - and most importantly, how not to hurt yourself doing it. The thought of drawing out a gun to protect Tara from Ghostface’s knife makes you feel only the slightest bit better. 

He looks back to Tara. The distaste is back in his expression. 

“It’s for her. You’re not to touch it. Understand?”

You can feel Tara fizzling next to you. Her fingers curl, and before she can give your Dad the dressing down you know she so desperately wants to give, you jump in. 

“She understands.” You say quickly, “Thanks Dad.”

“I don’t know what his problem is,” Tara complains, stormy-eyed, when he finally leaves, “I’m just trying to protect you.” 

“He’s just being a Dad,” You say, pulling her into your arms and quelling her mood with a kiss, “Don’t take it personally.”

Dinner’s awkward. 

Your head is a mess, heart pounding out of your chest every time you think of the looming threat. Tara grips your thigh under the table protectively, as if she’s afraid Ghostface might launch in any second and send the roast laid out on the table flying. 

Your Dad glares at Tara. Tara glares back at him. Your mom stares at you, worry in her eyes. 

You stare down at your plate, your appetite somewhat dissipated. 

“I just don’t understand.” Your mom says for what seems like the hundredth time this evening, “What does he want with you?”

“What does he want with any of them?” You mumble, “He’s a psycho, that’s all.” 

You push a rogue potato around your plate, starting to regret the choice to come home. At least Sam’s questions were easily combatted by one of Tara’s swiftly timed jabs. You could hardly expect Tara to snap at your Mom. 

“Let’s not talk about it.” Your Dad says, to your relief, “You’re freaking her out.” 

“I’m just saying,” Says your Mom, chewing her lip, “Are we sure he was there… for you?”

She lets it hang. The scrape of cutlery against plates stops momentarily, as the entire table takes in the implication. You frown, look up at your Mom. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing.” She says, hurriedly. You don’t miss the glance she sneaks at Tara. 

“Seriously?” You say, “You’re blaming Tara?”

“I’m not blaming anyone.” She says quickly, “I’m just saying-”

“Well, don’t.” You snap, standing up, “God. Tell me now if you don’t want us here and we’ll go.” 

“Of course we want you here.” Your Mom says, “YN, sit down, please sweetheart-”

“I’m not hungry.” You say, scooting yourself away from the table, “Thanks anyway. Come on, babe, let’s go to bed.” 

They don’t protest as you lead Tara upstairs and into your bedroom. You slip your pants off, curl up into bed, take Tara in your arms. 

“Your Mom’s right, you know.” She says, after a quiet moment, “None of this would be happening if it weren’t for me.” 

“Don’t say that.” You murmur. You press a kiss to her head, wrap your arms a little tighter around her. 

“It’s true.” 

It is true. But she doesn’t need to think that, not right now. You curl your fingers through her dark hair, scratch her scalp affectionately. 

“You-” You hesitate, picking your words carefully, “You’ve made some mistakes. But that’s in the past now. You turned over a new leaf, remember?”

You remember it vividly. The night after Amber’s death, making her swear black and blue she’d never kill again. Promising her she’d never have a reason. She shifts in your arms and looks up at you. There’s something in her eyes. Fear. Hesitance. 

“Baby,” She says, biting her lip, “Whoever this person is. I have to kill him. You know that, right?”

Your stomach flips. 

“No.” You say immediately, “No, Tara.”

“If he’s alive, he’ll hurt you. You know I can’t let that happen. We can’t turn him in, he knows too much. It’s the only way.” 

That sinking feeling is back. The one that had been there when Chase died. The one after Amber and the one after Wes. Like everything is crumbling around you. You squeeze her a little tighter. 

“I’ll do it.” You say. The thought makes you sick. The thought of her doing it makes you sicker. 

“No, baby.” Tara says. She presses a kiss to your shoulder, “Not after last time. Look at what Wes did to you.”

“I don’t care.” You say, shaking your head, “I don't want you doing it. You can’t-” 

Be trusted, is what you want to say. The Rage is terrifying, violent, and you don’t want to reawaken it. You hold it back, pull her closer to you. 

“I don’t want that part of you back. I don’t like that part of you.” 

Tara’s quiet a moment. 

“It’s already back, babe.” She says, pulls your hand to her chest. Her heartbeat is wild, out of control, “Don’t you see? It isn’t killing that prompts it. It’s anybody trying to get to you.”

You’re too tired to fight. Too tired to admit she might be right. At the end of the day if it’s her or him, you know what you’d rather her do. 

You lean down, press your lips to hers, try to redirect the conversation. 

“You will sleep tonight, right?” 

“Not likely.” She admits, her grip on your hips tightening. 

“Let’s take it in shifts.” You suggest, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, “Half and half so we both get some sleep.” 

She nuzzles her nose into the side of your neck. 

“Okay. I’ll take first watch.”

She looks towards the handgun your Dad left for you on the bedside table, tugs it carefully over to her side of the bed. 

“You know how to use that?” You ask, a little skeptical, “You know to turn the safety off?” 

“Yes babe, I know how to use a gun.” She assures, a little irritated you asked. 

“Alright, alright. Just checking. The last thing I need is you shooting yourself in the foot.” 

“Give me some credit,” She grumbles, “That’s something Chad would do.” 

You kiss her, softly, then snuggle down into her chest. Listen to the rise and fall of her breathing, her rampant, crazed heartbeat as it pumps in her chest. 

“Remember to wake me.” 

-

She doesn’t wake you, as you should have predicated. When you open your eyes it’s the next morning, and she’s pressing a warm kiss to your lips. 

You scrunch your eyes, blink her into view. 

“Babe? Did you stay up the whole night?” She kisses your forehead, nudges a warm cup of coffee into your hands. 

“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway. There was no point in me waking you.” 

“Baby.” You groan. Her eyes are red, tired. You press your hands to her cheeks, lean up to kiss her. 

“You’re exhausted.” 

“I’ll nap in science.” She promises, “Mrs. Fletcher is enough to put anyone to sleep. Besides. I needed to make sure you were safe.” 

She kisses you again.

“Speaking of: I asked Chad and Liv to stop by with a few supplies.” 

She reaches for a paper bag, empties out the contents onto your mattress. You sit up, interest piqued. 

It’s nothing less of an armory. You blink, hold up a small metal device. 

“A rape whistle and a taser?” You say, “Babe, how am I supposed to take this into school?”

“Keep them in your purse.” Tara says, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable request, “It’s not like they check our bags. It’s for emergencies.”

She presses a long kiss to your forehead, “But you won’t need them. I’m not leaving your side. Not for a minute.” 

“I have Chem today,” You say, heavily, “And you have English. We can’t be together all the time, Tara.” 

“We’re skipping.” Tara says, “I’m taking you home early.” 

“Tara, if the school calls my Dad and he finds out I’m skipping classes-”

“He’ll do nothing.” Tara says, fire behind her eyes, “You’re eighteen, he can’t force you home with him. And if he tries then I’ll-”

“You’re not killing my Dad.” You say, firmly. She pouts a little. 

“That isn’t what I was going to say,” She says, a little put out, “I’d give him a piece of my mind, is all.” 

You sit up, pull her into you. 

“Sorry, babe.” You apologize, soothe her with a kiss, “I’m just a little on edge.” 

“It’s fine,” She reassures, “Just please keep these on you. Please.” 

You agree for her sake. 

-

Word gets out quick. 

People stare in the hallways, everyone trying to get a glimpse of Ghostface’s latest victim. It’s unsettling, this much attention. You grip Tara’s hand tight in yours and try to ignore the leering of the other students as she walks you to your locker. 

When you reach it, Mindy, Chad and Liv are waiting for you. 

“Is it true you saw him?” Chad asks, wide-eyed. 

“Is it true he stabbed you?” Liv asks. 

You shoot her a look, open your locker and grab your books for first period. 

“Does it look like he stabbed me, Liv?” You ask, witheringly. 

“Give her some space guys,” Tara says, pushing Liv back slightly, “She’s not a zoo animal.” 

“Still.” Mindy says, “You survived a brush with Ghostface. Not many people can say that.” 

You ignore the hot flash of dread that zaps through you at the mention of him. He could be anyone. Maybe he’s even here now, watching you. Waiting to get you alone. It must flash through your face because suddenly Tara’s hands are on your waist, rubbing your back reassuringly.

“She doesn’t want to talk about it.” Tara says, a little protectively, “Why don’t we meet you guys in Math.” 

“Come on.” Mindy says, “Not talking about him gives him power. You don’t know who it is, right? Maybe we can help you figure it out.” 

“Maybe it’s you, Mindy.” Liv says, voice sweet, “After all, you’re obsessed with horror movies.” 

Mindy looks over, sharply. 

“What kind of motive is that?” She says, annoyed, “Besides, I’m not the only one who likes horror movies. Tara does too. Maybe even more than me.” 

“So Tara attacked her own girlfriend, that’s your theory?” Chad says, incredulous. 

Mindy shrugs, “It’s happened before.” 

She turns to you. 

“YN, ever get the feeling like Tara wants to kill you?”

“I’m going to kill you in a minute,” Tara growls. 

“Yeah.” Mindy nods, like her theory is confirmed, “Major Ghostface vibes.” 

“Stop it,” You say, reaching for your Math textbook, “Tara didn’t attack me, she was with Sam. And I’d really rather not talk about it.”

Mindy’s shoulders deflate a little. 

“Wes likes horror movies too.” Liv pipes up, “Maybe that’s why he ran away. He wanted us all to think he was dead so he could live his true life as Ghostface.” 

You roll your eyes. Let them bicker. As you grab your final textbook your finger catches on something soft. Something you didn’t put there. 

It’s a t-shirt, worn, gray, ACDC logo on the front. Your fingers curl around it, brows furrowing. Something hard is within the fabric. You fish it out, turn the cool plastic in your hand. It’s a DVD. Stab 2. Your stomach flips.

You slam your locker shut, white as a sheet. It draws the attention of the entire group. You feel a little dizzy, like you might pass out. Someone had been in your locker. It feels more of a violation than it should. Tara straightens, grips your hand. 

“What’s wrong, babe?” She asks immediately. 

“Bathroom.” You mumble. 

You don’t say goodbye to Tara’s friends. You tug her behind you hard and fast, not sure how much longer you’ll be able to stand upright. 

When you reach the bathroom, you slam the door closed, fish out the t-shirt and thrust it towards Tara. 

“What’s this?” She looks confused. Flips the t-shirt in her hands. 

“It’s Wes’,” You say. You take a heavy breath, try to quell the blood rushing to your ears. 

Tara swallows. Her fingers brush the DVD. 

“Stab 2.” She says, furrowing her brows, “What is this supposed to mean?” 

“I don’t know.’ You say, biting your lip, “Nothing good. How did he get into my locker?” 

“The school has cameras.” Tara says, thinking fast, “If I can get into the security feed I might be able to see who it was.” 

“How are you going to do that?” You ask,  

She bites her lip. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Please don’t get yourself in trouble,” You say, reaching for her hand. You entwine your fingers, “The last thing I need is you getting kicked out of school.” 

“I’ll be careful.” She promises. Dips down to kiss you. 

Then, she retracts, tosses the t-shirt and DVD in the trash. 

“Tara. What are you doing? What if we need that?” 

“We don’t need it, babe.” Tara assures, “Ghostface is trying to fuck with us, that’s all. Besides, the last thing we need is for the Sheriff to catch us with Wes’ old t-shirt and one of his movies.”

She pulls you in again, holds you tight. 

“Are you going to be okay in class?”

You nod, drop your forehead to her neck. Wrap your arms around her waist. Your hand catches on something in the back pocket of her jeans. You furrow your brow, then tug it out. 

“Tara!” You hiss,  mouth dropping, “You brought a knife to school?”

Tara blinks back at you. 

“Of course I did.” She says, “There’s some lunatic running around. You really thought I wouldn’t come prepared?” 

“Baby, if one of the teachers catches you with this-”

“I have it hidden.” She assures, “They’ll never see it. How am I supposed to protect you if I don’t have a weapon?”

You're more concerned with protecting her. There’s a horrible niggling feeling in the pit of your stomach. Like Ghostface has been a little too easy on her so far. The knife in her hand gives you only the slightest reprieve. 

“Let’s go to class.” She says, with a kiss to your cheek, “Do you have your rape whistle?”

You shoot her a look, tug at the string around your neck. She’d insisted you wear it at all times. 

“Right here, babe.” 

“Good girl.” She kisses you once more. 

Your fingers curl around the taser in your back pocket. Slip your phone into your backpack and head to class, Tara’s fingers entwined with your own. 

You take a deep breath. You're in school. In the middle of the day. Hundreds of students around.

Whoever Ghostface is, he wouldn't be so stupid to attack you in broad daylight.

Right?

next part

[brighter-by-the-daly]

Ruesha Littlejohn x Reader

You Ruined Love for Me

Part of the Beth McCarthy mini song series

If You Loved Me Right

If you didn't lie to me

Tell me you'd die for me

Break every promise

If you were honest

I wouldn't be crazy

If you didn't call me names

If you didn't try to change

Every part of me

Every part of me you hate, I

Know that if you loved me right

I wouldn't be crazy

On the plane to Australia you were catching up with the latest Ruetube, they always make you laugh and couldn’t wait to see if you had made this week’s cut. Midway through, you could tell your bestie wasn’t her usual happy and crazy self; she seemed distant and the sparkle in her eyes had faded. Always the light of the party and the clown of the locker room Ruesha had the power to make anyone belly laugh their way into next week. You could be having the worst day of your life but could guarantee Rue would change that with a single sentence. You never had to tell her you were having a bad day, she could always just sense it and would do everything she could to try and cheer you up. She was everyone’s pick-me-up and none of you had noticed how sad she truly was lately. She’d been painting on a brave face every day of training but the camera doesn’t lie - the despair in her eyes was undeniable. That’s why watching her online made you feel so guilty, you knew she was going through a tough time with the break up and being released from Villa but missed the sadness behind the mask she paints on every single day.

Looking behind to spot Rue a few rows back as she made her way through the aisle pretending to be an air hostess, singing Busted as she went, most would be fooled to think she was truly happy. You knew how much she had been worrying that she wouldn’t make the squad. You knew her break up with Katie was messy and that she didn’t get a choice about leaving Villa. Everything she’d known for years had gone. Disappeared. Her life had been turned upside down and you just hadn’t noticed how much it had taken a toll on her until you watched it back on the laptop. She may be laughing and joking behind you but it’s all pretend.

“Oh hello madam, may I offer you a refreshing beverage?” Rue tapped on your shoulder sounding exactly like Mrs Doubtfire. Entertaining her efforts as she served your drink but ignored Katie who was in the row opposite - you can hardly blame her! Everything had come at such a shit time for her and when she finally slumped back down in her seat, it didn’t take her long to put on her headphones and pull the hoodie over her eyes. Unable to watch her combust any longer you made yourself known by dropping hard into the empty seat next to her. She’d purposely stationed herself in the empty back row, moving from the seat in front of Katie before take off. Nudging her hood back to spy who had invaded her space to see it was you and immediately forced a smile back on to her face. “Wanna watch a movie?” your voice perky, “I’m not really in the mood (y/n/n)” your friend grumbled behind the jumper covering her mouth. “Okay..” thinking of another approach, “I have cards? Entertain an old lady would ya?” nudging her gently as she laughed a little at your statement. “I’m older than you ya cheeky hen, whats that make me?!” snatching the cards out of your hand to shuffle them.

A few games in, Rue finally took the bait and started talking. Just as you expected, life had just got a bit too much for her lately and putting on a front had become tiring. Determined to not let her be sad the entire tournament and knowing you were underdogs with this being Ireland’s first time at a World Cup, she should be enjoying it. So you decided to make it your mission to drag her through the shit and into the light so she could fully appreciate her first time in Australia and at a major tournament, knowing it would most likely be her last chance too. “I’m so glad you made it mate, I couldn’t imagine doing this without you” trying your best to make sure she knows how much the team love her. “Very nearly didn’t come, didn’t know if I could face that for weeks” gesturing towards Katie with her eyes. “But Shebhan convinced me, said I would never forgive myself if I stayed home” her eyes never faltered from the cards in her hand. “Well I’m glad I’ve got my best friend here” nudging her shoulder as you slapped down the winning card. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right? Sometimes the person who makes sure everyone’s okay needs someone to ensure she’s okay?” Rue nodded as she as shared out the cards again. Playing non stop for a few hours she shared her worries of not knowing how she’s going to cope being stuck with Katie for so long, at home she can escape but here she’s got to see her ex every single day. She was also hoping to be picked up before coming away but nobody had enquired about her and made the prospect of retiring suddenly more real. She didn’t know what she would do next but you told her you would pay a hell of a lot of money to hear her commentating and you’re sure others would too!

Once you’d arrived at the hotel you made sure Rue was your roommate so you could stabilise her mood and bring back a spark of joy we’re so used to seeing. You thought it was working but when the day of your first game came you could tell she was on the war path - snapping at everyone and losing it over the littlest things. You hadn’t put two and two together until you were in the tunnel stood across from Australia, noticing Caitlin Foord directly opposite Ruesha, suddenly everything made sense. As your eyes burned into the back of Rue’s head who was burning holes into her rival’s - on the pitch and off, you could tell by her stance she was angry. Echoes of Rue’s voice shouting for Ireland bounced around in the metal tunnel, bangs on the side rippling through the line up. By this point it was too late to address her as you walked out with your team, grabbing her after group photos to ask if she was okay. “Yeah why wouldn’t I be?” she replied in loud arrogance. You knew this was going to be a looong 90 minutes.

———-

Shoving Rue back into the locker room Katie was in her face and not letting up as she screamed at her that she was psycho. Laying into her ex for ignoring her new girlfriend in the line up and lashing out after the game. There’s a lot Rue did wrong but she played a superb game regardless, she hadn’t played 90 minutes in ages and it didn’t show for a second. Noticing Rue was about to blow you put yourself between the two exes just like you did on the pitch with Caitlin. You knew Rue was gonna boil over and being the nearest to her, you had to pull her away.. And here we are - a screaming match after our first ever World Cup game.. it certainly leaves a lot to be desired for the rest of the tournament! Being only one person in the middle of two very passionate people right now, it didn’t take them long to simply walk around you. Every time you moved between them they just swerved your body to face each other again. Two Irish women screaming at each other made your ears ring. “If you were a decent human being I wouldn’t be fucking crazy would I!” Rue shouted literally through you towards Katie. “You tried to change everything about me and that still wasn’t enough for you!” this time standing on the bench to shout over the top of you. “It’s always the same argument from you isn’t it! Can you blame me for not being honest if this is how you react? I don’t love you anymore Ruesha, I haven’t loved you for years!” That statement from Katie made your eyes bulge in shock, that was a spiteful thing to say. “You always liked to keep your options open didn’t you!” still standing on the bench and kicking Katie’s belongings onto the floor. “You’re so over emotional and unpredictable Rue, what the fuck even was that out there? Are you trying to embarrass all of us? You don’t deserve to be here!” Katie picked up a boot to throw at her. “WOAH, THAT IS ENOUGH!” you screamed to get their attention, grabbing the boot out of Katie’s hand and throwing it across the room. “RUE! OUT! NOW!” pointing at the door. Ruesha’s arms folded as she refused to move so you did the only thing you could. Grabbing her legs and throwing her over your shoulder you carried her out as the screaming continued behind, kicking the door to open it as you marched the midfielder out of the changing room. Placing her feet back on the ground, as soon as the door closed she burst into tears, lowering her down gently as she collapsed onto the floor. Cradling your best friend who wailed into your lap as the rest of the team walked past, you waved them on determined to not make it a big scene. Once they’d passed, you scooped her up to carry her into an empty room and attempted to her calm her uneven breathing, fetching cold towels for her forehead before she gave herself a migraine.

Exhausted from all the crying she soon fell asleep on the coach, your back was against the window with your legs draped over her - feeling like you were protecting her against the world and the childish snickers from the back of the bus. Arriving back at the hotel you carried her limp body into your room and tucked her into bed, holding her into the next day, ready to take on the world again - in more ways than one.

[writing-until-i-drop]

Wildflowers For A Hangman Ch. 7 Pt. 1

Summary:

Daisy, a career novelist, moves in with her college best friend Phoenix who has been permanently assigned to Top Gun with Dagger Squad. She finds herself instantly connected with a cocky pilot who's soft only for her and Jake can't help but want to know everything about her. When the past comes knocking at both of their doors, will they stand together or fall apart?

Or: The Dagger Squad can't cook and Jake falls in love with a woman who makes a mean lasagna while they work their personal trauma.

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x writer!femOC | 18+ (eventually) minors dni. Fluff, smut (eventual), idiots in love, past trauma.

A/N: Daisy and Jake have a conversation. Natasha plays wingman.

AO3 Link

Previous Chapter

The house smelled delicious, I had spent the last few hours making the perfect bolognese sauce, homemade focaccia, and I had tiramisu ready in the fridge for after dinner. The Daggers were coming over for dinner and I had received a dozen texts from the group about how excited they were to have a home cooked meal, it made me feel good. The day was perfect, Cassandra had given me twice as many pages as I had anticipated, all of which I sent over to my agent to read. For once in my life, everything seemed to be falling into place. 

“Honey, we’re home,” Rooster was the first through the door, the rest of the group trailing in after him with shouted greetings and proclamations of how good everything smelled.

“Wash up, everyone!” I shooed them all away from the kitchen, even Natasha who pouted at me, but Jake just grabbed my hands, pulling me to him. He kissed my temple,

“I missed you.” 

“It’s only been a week,” I rolled my eyes but wrapped my arms around him, relishing in the warmth rolling off of him. Sure, it was largely my fault we hadn’t seen each other, dodging his texts and coming up with excuses not to go to the Hard Deck but that didn’t mean I hadn’t missed him. 

With everyone laying into me about how much Jake and I should get together, I needed a few days to breathe and sort through my own feelings about him. Plus, Cassandra really had been chatty this week, giving me a valid excuse to stay away. I raised up on my toes and pressed a kiss to his jaw, “Wash up, Jake. I’ve got to finish setting the table.” 

I pulled away but he pulled me back, pressing a long kiss to my forehead, sending my stomach into a nervous frenzy.

“We’re going to talk about this later.” I nodded, looking anywhere but him. I could feel his eyes on me as he washed up in the kitchen sink while I finished setting the table, even as the others filed back into the room. 

“Thanks for dinner, Daisy,” Bob gently squeezed my forearm with a smile.

“I already made you a take home box for later, it’s in the fridge.” Bob’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas. 

“Do I get one too?” Rooster threw an arm around my shoulders, “I shot down three of these guys in training today.” 

“I’ll give you an extra helping of dessert, Roo.” I patted him on the gut, “Now-”

“Now, we take our hands off the little lady,” Jake pulled me away from Rooster, “And sit down at the table.” 

“Who says the little lady doesn’t want my hands on her?” Rooster asked with a grin and Jake dug his fingers into my hip, staring down his friend and roommate. This was…a first. I’d never been stuck between two guys like this before and it had officially rendered me speechless. Luckily, Bob had my back.

“Alright, let’s not do this,” Bob pushed Rooster towards the table filled with trained naval aviators who all needed to take an acting class.

“Come on,” I patted Jake’s hand, removing it from my hip. “Let’s eat.” 

After dinner everyone spread around the apartment, Javy, Rooster, and Bob were playing video games in the living room, Phoenix was arguing with her mom over the phone in the kitchen, the rapid mix of Spanish and Italian giving me flashbacks to when Natasha failed a midterm sophomore year. Cassandra had started to speak again and Jake had accompanied me to my room, laying on my bed while I wrote. Once I reached a good stopping point, I turned to find Jake under the covers, reading one of my New York detective books. 

“You took your boots off, right?” He grinned, putting the book down on his chest.

“Want to come check?” 

“You’re an idiot,” I laughed, stretching as I stood. “And a cover hog.” 

“I can share, Wildflower.” He held up the other end of the blanket and against all good judgment, I climbed in with him, snuggling into Jake’s side. “How are you feeling?” 

“Sleepy,” I stretched an arm across his center, my fingertips coming in contact with his bare skin where his shirt must have ridden up. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m good, sweetheart,” Jake kissed my hair. 

“You like to use nicknames a lot,” I muttered, tracing circles into his side. “Is it because you guys use callsigns at work?” He didn’t say anything and I found myself filling the silence. “Like, do you use them for everyone? Do they mean something?” 

“Are you asking if I call everyone sweetheart, sweetheart?” I tensed, was that what I was asking? Shit, it was. Jake didn’t seem bothered, running his fingers up and down my arm soothingly. “Well, there’s a ranking for things like this. Honey, darlin, and sweetheart are low hanging fruit, I’m from the south after all. Next up would be personal nicknames, based on things that are specific to them.” 

“Like Wildflower?” 

“Yeah, like Wildflower. I thought about calling you kitten too,” I cringed,

“Please don’t.” Jake shook with laughter,

“Next, every guy has the one name they use that’s reserved only for girls he’s serious about. Also, I don’t have nicknames for you, I have pet names, there’s a difference.” 

“What’s your one name?” I needed to know, my curiosity more than piqued at this point.

“Jake.” 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” I pinched his side. 

“No need to get rough, Daisy.” He kissed my temple, “It’s baby. I don’t ever call girls baby.” Oh. My heart dropped to my stomach, a heavy but oddly comforting feeling settling in my chest. Jake’s heart was beating loud and fast beneath my head, he was waiting for me to say something. If I did, it could change everything. If I didn’t, we could lose it. That’s what time did, it stole things away from us. I took a deep breath. Fuck it. 

“You call me baby.” 

“I do.” 

“I like when you do.” 

“Good,” He kissed my hair again, “I wasn’t planning on stopping.” After a moment he added, “You ready to talk about this, baby?” No, I was not. I moved away from him just enough to see his face, which was soft and unguarded. I took a deep breath, consciously dropping my own walls. The phrase now or never seemed a lot scarier when the now was now. 

“The idea of whatever this is scares me,” He cupped my cheek but stayed quiet. “And honestly, I don’t know when I stopped thinking you were teasing me and started believing you were actually flirting, but-” I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment to gather some courage. “But I’m right here if you’re here with me. Does that make sense?” 

“Perfect sense,” Jake leaned close, his cologne surrounding me as his lips brushed against mine. Then again more firmly. His lips were warm and soft, moving gently against mine, his hand sliding into my hair. Heat bloomed in my chest, spreading through my body as the kiss became more feverish. I parted my lips, letting him deepen the kiss as he laid me back onto the bed. 

“Jake?” He moved his kisses to my cheek, then my chin, and my neck, making my head spin. “I have a house full of people downstairs.” 

“Yes, baby?” His lips found a spot on my neck that made me gasp and Jake focused his efforts there, lavishing the spot with his tongue and teeth until I knew there would be a hickey the size of a bowling ball there for the next week. “Fuck, you’re making such pretty noises for me.” 

“Jake,” I whined, digging my fingers into his side, “We have to stop.” 

“You’re right, we do.” Jake gave me three quick kisses before rolling back to the side, “Because when I get to do what I want to do to you, you’re going to wake the dead with how loud you’ll be.”

X

A/N: This chapter was longer than I realized and I had to break it into two parts

Part Two

Taglist: @dizzybee03 @littlezee80 @cinderellasmissingshoes @carolina-on-my-mind03 @mizzzpink

[sinfulsalutations]

𝕦𝕟𝕤𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕕 ⋆*･ﾟ𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕣 𝕔𝕣𝕠𝕤𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕣

➼ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ ☆ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʜᴀɪʀ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

➼ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ☆ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʜᴀɪʀ'ꜱ ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ꜱᴜɪᴛ. ʜᴏᴏᴋᴜᴘꜱ ᴀʀᴇ. ʜᴇ ɪɴɪᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋꜱ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴅᴏɴᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ.

➼ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ☆ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ, ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ, ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʜᴀɪʀ ɪꜱ ʙᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ꜰᴜᴄᴋꜱ ᴜᴘ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇꜱꜱ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ ꜱᴇx, ʀᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱᴇx, ᴏʀᴀʟ ꜱᴇx (ᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴅᴏᴍ/ꜱᴜʙ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ, ʜᴜʀᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

➼ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ☆ 7.7ᴋ

➼ ᴘᴏᴠ ☆ ᴛʜɪʀᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ

➼ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ ☆ ᴇᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ᴀɴᴛꜱ - ɢᴏʀɪʟʟᴀᴢ, ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀᴜᴍꜱ, ɪᴄᴜ - ᴘʜᴏᴇʙᴇ ʙʀɪᴅɢᴇʀꜱ, ᴀ&ᴡ - ʟᴀɴᴀ ᴅᴇʟ ʀᴇʏ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴡᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ - ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇɪɢʜʙᴏᴜʀʜᴏᴏᴅ, ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ - ᴛʏʟᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀ, ᴄᴏᴏʟ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ - ʙᴏʏɢᴇɴɪᴜꜱ

⋆ ★ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀɴ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴏʟʟᴇʀᴄᴏᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ. ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʜᴀɪʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪɴ ɴᴜᴍᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ɪꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴅᴋ ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴏʀ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ɪᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀꜱ ɪ ᴅᴏ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴀᴍ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴘʀᴏᴜᴅ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ. ꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴀɪᴅ, ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ

➼ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ 18+ ᴅɴɪ

⋆ ★ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3 ⋆*･ﾟ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴍ

Crosshair isn’t a man of many words.

He never will be;

it simply isn’t in his nature.

He expresses dislike with a scowl and dark stare, and amusement with a sly chuckle. If one were to ask, the sniper wouldn't be able to remember a time he’s smiled with a genuine feeling of happiness behind it. He is cold, he is closed off, and has always been that way. But to say that it benefits him more often than not would be a stretch. 

Because of this, attachments are a rarity; his brothers in squad and blood will be there deep in his heart for evermore, an unmovable part of him that's been there since the beginning. Crosshair couldn't imagine a world without them. No one else has the privilege of making space in his life, in his mind, in his heart the same way they have. 

Not until she comes along. 

She is just a one-night stand, at least at the beginning. Another pretty face in the crowd that lets Crosshair take her to bed. Or, in this case, against a wall in a dingy alley beside 79's.

Her hands scramble for purchase as he steadily rocks his hard length into her, keening at every touch, every graze of his bare skin he oh-so-generously graces her with. He smirks, tucking a stray hair behind her ear rather gently, but staring down into her eyes as though she was his prey and he was soon to feast.

"Feel good, hellcat?" He asks, darkly grinning at his own teasing. For a moment, he gazes up again as his dick throbs inside of her, and her pussy clenches, his eyes fluttering closed, succumbing to the pleasure. He's still able to make out the noise of a hum, and opens his eyes to catch her approving nod, feels the way her thighs close harder around the cold plastoid of his armor to push him in deeper, bring him closer.

"Yes, yes, yes..." She whispers through parted lips and a tight throat, before encouraging him to keep going, please, ruin me. So he does. He leaves harsh bruises under the fabric of her clothes, chokes her out, growls when she misbehaves until she comes hard and with a guttural moan, making a mess all over his kit.

She’s a stress reliever, and judging by all of the scratches she's left over any bare skin she could reach, he is the same for her. It's soothing, it alleviates the tension building up in his joints, a good one-time pick-me-up.

There is nothing different about this night than any other hookup; she is like all of his nightly escapades. He doesn’t bother listening to what comes out of her mouth when she attempts to make small talk, or orders herself a drink at the bar, or when she tells him her name; it isn’t relevant if she moans the same, feels the same as any other pretty girl he could've chosen. Attachment and intimacy won't make a difference; the frantic, anonymous fucking Crosshair indulges himself in would quench his thirst all the same, he believes.

She is nothing special.

Until he makes a large mistake, in his opinion: fuck her a second time.

They see each other again. Months later at 79’s when the boys celebrate a successful run of missions with drinks. She’s there. The same booth as the first time they met, talking to a shiny young reg with bright eyes and a smug twist of his lips. For the first time, he takes in her smile; the eager grin she wears while talking to the trooper, nodding with ardor, fascinated at whatever osik he had to say.

Something inside of him, deep in his gut, twists at the sight. He places his drink down and stands up rather abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Hunter asks, but Crosshair only waves a dismissive hand and doesn’t bother looking behind him.

“I’ll be back,” He says before striding over to the booth. Standing taller than all the other troopers conversing and careening their bodies around him, he is a walking shadow; creates one when he leans menacingly over her and the reg, who, at closer inspection, is groping her knee with tanned and sinewy fingers. But his eyes don’t linger over the gut-twisting sight for too long; he looks back up into her eyes.

“Are you busy?” He hisses, and her mouth drops ever-so-slightly. When Crosshair sleeps with a pretty girl, he only registers just enough to remember the face if he so inconveniently bumps into them again. But when he looks at her at that moment, he takes in more of her; the shape of her cheeks, the way her eyebrows push together, the twinkle in her eye captured by strobing dance lights that illuminate the bar. The melodic rise and fall of her chest is a reminder that the gaping girl in front of him is a real person, not just a vessel for his sexual frustration. All the new information is stored in his mind for future use (if the time ever even comes, he reassures himself confidently). 

“I’m…” She begins, before taking her bottom lip between her teeth and looking back at the reg, who watches Crosshair with distaste.

“I am,” She finishes with her eyes glued to the other clone. 

But Crosshair won’t have it. A hand he's pressed on the booth table moves to curl around her chin, and he clicks it back to his face. She complies without hesitation, just as obedient as she was when they fucked. Crosshair smirks. 

“Is he someone important?”

Her head barely shakes under his tight grip. She is able, however, to suck in a tight breath of air and exhale shakily as she answers him.

“No,” She trembles. 

He huffs, looking back at the shiny with a sharp eye, and signals for him to leave. The reg scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

“Asshole defects,” He says bitterly, outwardly disapproving even as he shimmies out and gives Crosshair access to join her instead. The moment makes him smugger than anything. He slides in beside her the second the reg is gone, eyes never leaving hers.

She blinks out of the trance he cast her in, but then does her mouth shut, and she quickly frees herself from his grasp on her chin and scowls.

“I was talking to him, you know,” She whines, ridiculing his actions, but he only hums and shrugs without a care. 

“You didn’t seem to protest when I told him to leave,” He retorts.

Her mouth shuts promptly after that; Crosshair smirks.

The two fuck again after that. This time in an out-of-order `fresher at the back of 79’s.

“We could go back to my place,” She offers even as he guides her through the door. Crosshair shakes his head and brings her closer to his solid chest. 

“Need you now, hellcat.”

It’s filthy. She drops to her knees at his request and lets him reach the back of her throat with his cock, steadily holding himself there until he felt satisfied and let her take some pleasure for herself. Then he fucks her on the sink, first facing each other so Crosshair can kiss and nip at her chest, before turning her around when she gets close to finishing and making her watch herself come undone in the mirror, Crosshair’s looming figure above rocking into her with deep and heavy strokes. 

“Tell me,” He demands, eyes drifting to the way her knuckles go white as they clutch the bathroom sink tiles. “Who’s making you feel this good?”

“Y-” She begins, but the sentence ends with a whimpered moan and her head falls. Crosshair's hand comes to her scalp and grips the roots of her hair, pulling her head up so she can continue looking in the mirror. He shoves himself into her roughly, the pad of his index finger swiping over her clit, and her mouth falls with an unconfined moan. 

“C’mon, you pretty little thing,” He continues, cruel and harsh and brutal.

She gulps hard and does her best to keep eye contact with his piercing stare. He notices more and more about her now the longer he looks, the longer he is in her; the little squeaks she makes, the path her tears tread when they fall down her face, the pattern of her breathing when his hand is curled around her neck, holding a thumb to feel her pulse. The little, particular fragments of her, the things that make her something special, begin to take space in his mind the second time he takes her. 

“Y-You are,” She finally finishes her sentence and comes with a sweet, sugary sigh. Her eyes flutter close and she weakens under him, and Crosshair almost empathizes with the messy excuse of a woman under him. His grip on her hair loosens as he rocks into her once, twice, before finishing as well deep inside of her fluttering cunt. 

He cleans her up with toilet paper wordlessly when he finally slips out. He’s surprisingly tender, careful when his hand slowly swipes over her used cunt, slow and tantalizing, perhaps teasing if he didn’t know any better. Her hands come to his shoulders to hold herself steady as she shakes with aftershocks, humming pleasantly when he swipes over her overstimulated clit.

“How long has it been?” She asks suddenly, her voice cutting through the tight, silent air that surrounds them. Crosshair looks up from his intense focus below and tilts his head, eyes squinting. She blinks obliviously. “Since the first time, y'know.” She tries to explain.

Crosshair’s face doesn’t change, and he looks back down as he finishes cleaning her up.

“A while,” He says lowly.

“Hundred rotations at least?” She queries. He nods. “Where have you been?” When she asks, Crosshair can tell that it isn’t malicious. She’s light and calm with her tone, despite the question feeling more critical than anything. She is genuinely curious. 

It takes him a moment to come up with a response. 

“My squad is on the road a lot,” Crosshair explains, and she hums. He turns away to expertly toss the towel into a wastebasket a few feet away and looks back at her. She still sits bare on the kitchen sink, level with his face thanks to the elevation.

“You’re not part of a normal battalion, are you?”

Crosshair shakes his head. The next words come out more of a hiss, like a snake trying to hold back its bite.

“Clone Force 99.”

She nods. 

“I’ve heard about your squad.”

“From the regs?” He says adversely, and she nods again. 

“You’re quite famous," She remarks.

Crosshair scoffs and turns away. He doesn't know how to approach this situation; it is all new territory. Now recalling all his previous hookups, he's suddenly unsure if he’d ever talked to one this long, this much after the deed. They'd usually tuck themselves in, say something along the lines of 'that was fun' or 'we should do this again' and go their separate ways, never seeing each other again. But not only has he slept with her a second time, but he'd disclosed more personal information than he has with all other partners combined.

“Not for good things,” He comments while he looks back; her eyes drift away, and she shrugs, taking in a deep breath. 

“You’re respected.”

“Because we’re menacing,” He scoffs breathily. Her lips screw tight with ambivalence. 

“I don’t find you very menacing,” She tells him, hands slowly beginning to fall from his shoulders. He backs up and lets her push herself off the sink and grab her discarded panties and skirt from the grimy fresher floor. She swiftly dresses again, and Crosshair tucks himself into his pants, eyes not leaving the other’s gaze once. The whole short moment of time is strangely coordinated and intense, oddly intimate despite their hands not feeling each other up. Crosshair's chest tightens under the pressure of her longing gaze, but he tries to ignore it; fighting back with his level head. His better thinking wins this time, but if the feeling gets stronger... he might have a problem on his hands. 

Once they're both back in their clothes, she leans back on the sink, staring up at Crosshair with doe eyes. He looks back to the mirror quickly to take a glance at his own appearance. Not one piece of his armor besides his codpiece came off while they fucked. But there is still something unruly about his appearance; his hair, usually gelled to his scalp, is wildly tossed around, and a purple bruise-like mark has formed in the crook of his neck. They are both messes, but at least he is composed. She, covered in little love bites and marks with untamed hair and stretched clothes, isn’t in the slightest. She doesn’t care and doesn’t keep a close watch on her own undoing and vulnerability as Crosshair does.

“How long will you be off-duty?” She asks. He’s almost taken aback by the question, blinking rapidly at her with a strange twist of his lips. He can understand why she asks; logically and on the surface, at least. Crosshair knows he’s a good fuck. But he’s never been with a girl more than once to see the effects of their nights together.

“We’re going back to Kamino tomorrow,” He tells her, almost melancholic. Even he, so out of touch with his own feelings, can sense his shift in voice; it's bemusing. Her expression drops. 

“Oh,” She mumbles, overtly louder than what she initially intended. He remains as neutral in his face as possible.

But suddenly, his hand, twitching with hesitance, reaches over to her arm, gripping her wrist tightly as his other hand fumbles for a pen. He finds one in a side pocket and quickly scribbles in capitalized, messy handwriting over her soft skin. She doesn’t protest; only watches wordlessly with her lips parted in a delicate manner. 

He clicks the pen and puts it back in its spot and looks at her with a lift of his chin. 

“My frequency.” 

She blinks, still feigning doe eyes and innocence. It’s almost, almost (he has to repeat mentally to assure its truth) adorable. The moment is stored in his mind. 

“Message me tonight. I’ll let you know when I’m back on Coruscant.”

She breaks out of her trance, quickly fumbling and looking down at the link, looking back up with a shaky exhale and a nod. Crosshair smirks, but if she isn't anything like him, she’d know it was far closer to a genuine smile. 

He walks her out after that, a hand protectively hovering over the small of her back; they walk beside each other, but their eyes look anywhere else that isn’t back at them. And they only make it past a few booths before he begins to itch in his own skin. 

There are just too many eyes, too many snides and comments and words being exchanged between gossipy and judgemental regs. He shifts the weight of his armor, but it just seems to make it feel heavier. But she is unfazed, doesn’t notice how uncomfortable he is with familiarity, with being recognized as being with someone. 

“I have to go,” He says abruptly; she whips around. Her head tilts and but his face remains expressionless and inaccessible. All at once, he takes more of her in; the marks he left that are barely hidden by the neckline of her top, her red and swollen lips, and her chest rising and falling almost in sync with the pounding music that claps over his eardrums. The longer he looks at her, the longer he stays, she makes space in his memory. Perhaps that’s why he gave her his frequency. He’s got to make use of the knowledge, or else it would be just useless space taken up by a girl who didn’t mean anything, nothing to him. 

“OK,” She answers, surprisingly compliant with his abrupt change in thought. But he can sense it; there’s something artificial about her expression. 

But Crosshair doesn’t let himself dwell on it for too long. He spins on his heel and walks away and back to his brothers without another parting word. 

* * * 

“Tech, are you finished?” Hunter asks vexed, arms crossed as he leans across the Marauder and glares holes in the back of his brother's helmet. He turns to Hunter and nods.

“I’ll be done momentarily,” Tech assures him, and Crosshair grumbles, standing up from where he sits beside Wrecker on the ramp, twisting a toothpick between his teeth as he trudges into the ship with heavy steps. Once he is out of earshot from the rest of his squad, he leans against a wall and rubs his forehead with a groan. Perhaps he had a little too much whiskey the night before; though he can't even recall drinking more than a few sips before he saw her and stopped in his tracks completely. But this hangover is less physical. Is an emotional hangover even possible? Maybe he can ask Tech to research it.

That’s when he gets the message. 

His helmet chimes from his bunk. If Crosshair were a different man and not a completely calm, completely collected sniper, he might’ve jumped or been startled. Instead, he glances at his helmet and `pad beside it laying on his unmade bed. They both blink rapidly with a clicking sound of an incoming message.

He walks over (faster than he would admit) and reads the new conversation at the top of his bar, sent by an unknown frequency. 

729-NWS-47-K-6: Hi. It’s me. 

His heart might’ve stopped. He isn’t sure. Maybe it didn’t, and might have if he was someone else entirely. Someone who didn’t refuse to feel much for anyone. But he can’t deny the new sensation, something bordering on a giddy excitement, that rushes through his lungs and leaps out of his throat. 

She doesn’t give him the grace of her name that he so quickly forgot, so with a grumble, he saves it as the only thing he can think of. Then he types,

Crosshair: I told you to send me something last night.

It shows she’s seen his message, but she doesn't start typing for a short, but tedious moment. 

Hellcat: I forgot to. 

Another text immediately follows in succession.

Hellcat: I’m sorry. 

Crosshair is only slightly dumbfounded; he almost sends one saying that she didn’t need to, and got to a few words before he deleted all of it and left the message box blank as he thinks of what to say. Why would she feel the need to apologize? Not unless he’d acted as though before, that she needed to apologize for every single action he didn't like. His stomach twists again, the same way it did when he saw her flirting with the reg, and Crosshair poignantly decides then that he does not like the feeling. 

Crosshair: It’s fine.

Hellcat: Are you off of Coruscant already?

Crosshair: Soon.

Hellcat: Oh.

Hellcat: Let me know when you make it to Kamino. Stay safe.

He freezes in his tracks. The words, like the rest of her, crawl inconspicuously into his skull and places themself there. His mind wants to yell;

She cares! She actually cares!

He can almost feel it happen. For the first time, Crosshair can physically pinpoint how he tries, launches into something new; everything with her, from her smile to her body, the things she says and the way she says them, it’s slowly burrowing itself into his head; perhaps even his-

Quickly, he catches his breath silently and shakes the idea out of his head. 

He quickly messages her back,

Crosshair: Ok. 

closes his `pad, and shushes his thoughts before his brothers are able to walk in and ask him what he was doing.

After that day, it is ten weeks; fifty days before he is back on Coruscant. 

Crosshair doesn’t allow himself time or space to think of her; despite his mind being stubborn on keeping the pieces of her he can vividly remember deep in the crook of his thoughts at all times. He doesn’t message her once, not to ask how she is or what she's doing. Though his data-pad glares at him vehemently from his bed as he cleans his rifle in the main quarters, disapproving and shaking its head for not being nicer to her. But his `pad should know damn well by now; Crosshair doesn’t do nice. Or feelings at all. 

She's no exception.

At least that’s what he tells himself when he messages her almost the instant that their ship lands on Coruscant again. 

She responds only a few minutes after; asks him to meet her at a cafe, somewhere in the heart of the city nearby where she works, she explains. He says 'OK' to her and ends it at that but panics at the prospect of having to deal with his brother's interrogation. It goes as well as he expects.

"What's the rush?" Hunter teases him when they finally get their ship on the ground and away from the main hangar. He snaps his head to his brother and glares. Hunter only smiles warmly. "We just got here."

Wrecker trudges up from behind and slaps his shoulder roughly, and Crosshair scowls and swats him away.

"Yeah, got some important business to attend to?" He asks.

Crosshair grumbles.

"I'd like to have some peace and quiet for once away from you all," He speaks spitefully, a mean eye squinting at the two. "I don't get enough of that around here."

Wrecker laughs.

"You sure don't!" He exclaims deep from his belly before walking away satisfied. Hunter takes a little longer to be convinced. He still stares at Crosshair with a suspicious side-eye.

"... just comm us if you get yourself into any trouble," He says, taking a few steps to softly pat Crosshair's shoulder. He accepts it, though grimaces internally at the contact. 

"Yeah, got it," He responds, letting out a long breath of relief once Hunter leaves. The second the two join back with Tech and drift all their focus away from him and his business, Crosshair whips around and starts heading to the address she told him to go to. 

He isn't eager. He isn't. His mind and his body doesn't absolutely itch to see her again. To feel the little dips and curves and crevices of her body again. Restore the fragments and pieces of her that he lost in the time away. No. That's not what this is at all. 

It's just another hookup. With the same girl as before. In her apartment. Where she and her identity lives.

He practically strides through the door, pushing it open with one arm, and scans the place without any regard for others. The only thing that matters right now is her-

Not her. Not her. This is, has to be about him. His ache and his crutch and his pleasure. Right. If he keeps going around being concerned over her, he'll lose himself. He just knows it.

She stands up from where she sits tucked into a corner and waves him over. His head snaps to her and she smiles when they make eye contact; he stops himself from giving her the common decency of grinning back. 

He walks over, chin dipped down and eyes closed in on her. Everything around him fades into the background and she takes center stage. She stands across from him, hands meeting at her front and she bites her lip.

"Hi," She says, rather simply, but it is enough. Crosshair's lips flatten into a line, his own way of greeting her, and she blinks and averts her gaze away again, almost shameful in the flutter of her lashes. His gut twists. 

Fuck, he doesn't like this.

Caring for how she reacts and thinks of what he does. 

"...Hey," He finally says, and she looks up. He can see her tongue sitting uncomfortably in her mouth, catching how her fingers quickly interlock and dispatch from each other in timorous movements. He thinks it's pity, the softness he then shows with the weakening of his posture and how he walks closer to her, but it is something else entirely that he hasn't caught onto yet. 

“Why did you ask me here?” Crosshair asks coarsely. The glaring stares from other patrons tingle and itch where they train their eyes on him; the customers, all citizens of Coruscant really, should be used to seeing clones off-duty roaming the streets, but Crosshair is sure they’d never seen a trooper that looks quite like him in a cute, quaint cafe that radiates everything she is and he isn’t. 

“I just got off work,” She says, glancing away for a moment nervously before looking back. “I was planning to grab my dinner here when you messaged me.”

Crosshair nods stiffly before sitting down across from her. His legs leisurely spread and he hangs an arm on the back of the chair, looking perfectly relaxed though everything inside him was strung tight as a weaved cloth. The back of his head, the one that controls his primal instincts, mutual respect and kindness, begs him to ask her what she does for work, but he stops himself, lest he wished for her to take up more space in his mind. 

She finishes her food just before the sun sets and then she takes him to her apartment not far away. Guiding him by his wrist, Crosshair can feel the slight tremble in her actions, even as he just watches her swiftly careen through throngs of city-dwellers and slot her keys into the door. He’s [positively] still, carefully composed to ensure he did not look anything but.

And once they make it to the threshold, he backs her up into the wall and takes her just like that. She tells him the bedroom is just down the hall, but he positively tells her again that he needs her now. The cool chalk of the wall paint felt less personal than fucking her in her own bed.

Steady and determined, she pushes herself up onto her tiptoes and kisses him hard and good, gripping the collar of his shirt hard as his hands hover over her waist. She swipes her tongue over his bottom lip, begging for more control, but Crosshair pulls away. When she whines, he only clicks his tongue melodically, like a disappointed teacher, and grasps her wrists, pinning them together above her head. She yelps, but he swallows the sound with his tongue, forcing itself into her mouth roughly and without much coordination. 

It’s only after he breaks away to catch his breath that he berates her in a throaty voice,

“Who told you that you can do that?”

She whimpers and her chin quivers. He coos, his other hand coming up to cup her jaw and lifting it to get a better look at her face. 

“I’m in charge here, hellcat.”

He presses his hips into her, and his warm bulge presses against her lower stomach, and they simultaneously groan at the feeling. Slowly, he rocks himself against her, tantalizing and oh-so-sweet; he bites his lip and looks away to try and come across as if this is only torture for her. 

“Don’t you forget it," he grits out.

The sex is catastrophically good.

It’s what Crosshair tries to convince himself is the reason he keeps coming back to her and her only.

He doesn’t think she’s seeing (or interested in for that matter) someone else, at least he hopes, but he tries to come off as though she doesn’t have such a hold on him. Stiffly wrapping an arm around her torso when he falls asleep beside her. Not giving a goodbye kiss when he leaves the morning preceding. Messaging her with the most boring, dry conversation starters.

But the façade starts to melt away more than he wishes. 

She’s able to make him smile, actually smile, at her messages.

Hellcat: I think you might be a rare subspecies of loth-cat.

Crosshair: ?

Hellcat: One came in today with tooka pox. Little guy was a menace. Territorial, moody, and would lash out if he felt threatened. More importantly, their breeds’ natural fur color is gray. 

Crosshair: …Are you saying I am a loth-cat?

Hellcat: Just that this one is your reincarnation. You can’t prove me wrong.

Crosshair: Touché. 

He’s learned more about her than he’d ever bargained for. She’s a veterinarian at a nearby hospital and likes to bring some of her patients home and give them more comfortable conditions than the poor quarters in the clinic. He’s visited her apartment numerous times, welcomed by a feline rubbing itself against his leg with a purr or a bird squawking incessantly if he gets too close. 

He lets her hold him, even when he won't speak.

The first time it happens it's when he returns from a long string of long and exhausting missions. He barges in without any warning to her. When she jumps from the kitchen, he quickly sprints over to her and grips her waist, making sure she sees him, sees his eyes, and they both are calm. 

"`t's just me," He says lowly, hands softly moving up and down her waist. 

She sighs, chest heaving down before her nose scrunches and she slaps his shoulder roughly, sending him backward. He gawks.

"What was that for?!"

"Don't fucking do that!" She whisper-yells, waving a hand in his general area. "At least message me first before you come running in. Or comm. I thought you were a murderer!"

He glares, but she doesn't stand down. When she crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows, he finally lets up with a scoff, softer and more apologetic than he intended. 

"You're right," He says, bringing a hand to try and knead at the knot in his forehead. "I got worked up."

Hesitantly, her arms drop and she takes a step toward Crosshair, arms coming to his shoulders. When he looks back at her gaze, he immediately gets stuck in the intense atmosphere she creates with just her stare.

"What are you worked up about?" She asks, gently and carefully, as though she was an animal tamer trying to trap a wild lion in her cage. Crosshair bites his lip, letting it go quickly with aimless worry before he answers her with his lips.

She squeals ever-so-slightly, but he swallows the sound; his body takes hers and quickly presses her against the counter of her kitchen. His hands drift lower until they softly take the backs of her thighs and lift her to sit atop and have better access to his face. The moment allows her to break away from him quickly, eyes widening as he tries to dip in for another, but she pushes him back with her hands.

"You didn't answer my question."

Crosshair grumbles, dipping his head down. Surprisingly, she takes matters into her own hands and grips his chin between two shaky fingers, lifting it back up to look at her. 

"I'm gonna kick you out of my apartment and not let you back in if you don't talk to me. I'm not kidding."

He huffs and keeps his head in place, but his eyes drift away. 

"Past few rotations..." He begins aimlessly, with no real direction to where the sentence is heading. He clicks his tongue and looks back up at her, who's patiently listening with such attentive eyes he almost feels undeserving of her time and energy. "...they've been rough."

She nods.

"That's okay," She assures him, hands softly acting as a pillow for his face. He gratefully takes the spot to rest but acts as though the touch doesn't have such an effect. "That's all you have to say. `It's enough for me."

Crosshair bites the inside of his cheek, muttering a quick 'good' before he seizes her parted lips and takes her to the bedroom, fucking her rough and hard in her own bed.

She knows far too much about him. Even if that sentence is all he's ever disclosed of mental turmoils, his body language, the grace of memorizing his curves and special unique parts of him is more than he's ever shown to anyone. Crosshair is unsure if she even realizes it.

He notices small things about her, little mannerisms that piece together her identity. The way she always stops when she sees a street performer and tips them any extra credits she has in her pocket. How she always manages to find some humor in his dry comments. The books that line her walls and little crevices of her apartment. 

Slowly, the longer he stays, the more she becomes something special. The more she makes space in his mind– and his heart.

And it is terrifying. 

She can feel it. Crosshair just knows it. Her touch lingers ever so slightly longer than before when he leaves her in the mornings; she holds back the urge to reach out and leave him with a kiss permanently etched into his skin. She can feel something different. For the first time, they are both on the same page; they're holding each other back, and it is all his fault.

It isn't her responsibility to make him open up. But perhaps she feels that obligation; why else would she give him such control and power over her body? At this point, after becoming such consistent parts of each other's lives, it couldn't just be a sexual dynamic. No matter what he does to her.

"Please, please, why-" She whispers one night as he goes down on her. The last word catches his ear, and he briefly looks up at her face. She scrunches her nose, tears forming in the corners of her shut eyes and catching in her eyelashes, letting out heavy pants between such small mumbles it's practically impossible to fully hear.

"Why, why..."

The pity in his eyes is a weakness, he thinks. He leaves one last lingering, messy kiss over her soaked cunt then flips her around to her stomach, and fucks her from behind as impersonal and brutally as he can. It's for the both of them, he fails to realize; they're both caught up in their own minds to even see what might truly be happening to them.

He is catching feelings, and he knows if he were to leave now, it wouldn't be unscathed.

“When you first gave me your frequency…” She begins one night after he comes home to her, still tangled in sheets and panting with exertion. He perks up from where half his head is buried in a pillow, an eyebrow raised. She looks at him with thoughtful eyes, barely illuminated by the pale moonlight. “You never messaged me once.”

Crosshair looks at her, almost perplexed, but he isn’t confused at all. He rather doesn’t know what to say. 

“Neither did you,” He manages to rebuke. She blinks at him, mouth slightly agape, and she shrugs with no real point. When she slumps her head back onto the pillow beside him, still looking into his eyes with a look of misplaced longing, the gut feeling twists, pokes and prods at his insides harder than it did before. She reaches out and hangs an arm lazily over his shoulder, and everything inside of him wants to flee, retreat with a white flag all the way back into his comfort zone. But he stays. The soft look on her face is a treasure even the deepest and most fortified parts of him wish to keep. 

“Crosshair?” She speaks softly. 

“Yes?” He answers.

“Have you been…” She pauses, carefully treading over her next words. “Seeing anyone else?” She says the word seeing so unsure, so frail and worried he holds back the shakiness of his limbs begging him to just hold her.

“Are you seeing anyone else?” He snaps back, automatically and without much thought. But when he sees the shift in his eyes, his gut ties a knot in his stomach.

She frowns.

“Please don’t answer my questions with questions,” She tells him.

He bites his lip, gazing away for a long moment. The world pauses; his body is on fire lying down and listening and clawing at the grasp of any survival. Any salvation that this isn’t an attachment. 

“I’m not…” He mutters so quietly and tenderly to intentionally assure that she doesn’t hear. But she does and she perks up, eyes wide despite the tire he can sense in his body. Without any thought of what it might be interpreted as, what she might think of it, he crawls into her closer, mouth hovering over hers. She's able to feel the quivering of his lips as he speaks. “I’m not as long as you aren’t.”

With the moonlight peaking through gray curtains, he can see the sweet grin she wears at his admittance. 

“I’m not either,” She tells him. He exhales through his mouth, head dipping down to look away and his body shakes. Fucking shakes, at her words. Her hand grips his shoulder, grounding him in his place, but his mind still spins in his skull. It's overwhelming, just those three words. Suddenly, everything about her is so present; her touch and her breathing, her body against his. He feels, feels so fucking much for the first time, and doesn't know what to do with it. Instead, it spills out raw and without any of his macho overcoating, and he decides to let his body speak for him as he reaches out to kiss her; for the first time, it’s soft.

She squirms ever-so-slightly, as if a ghost hadn’t walked through her and instead enveloped them in their arms, but slowly melts into it as he continues so persistent. He adjusts their positioning, pulling her by the waistband of her panties and holding her thigh with a calloused hand. He hikes it up, asking her, begging her with his touches to do anything, fucking anything to let him know that she is here and she is present and everything is okay.

So she does. She tentatively crawls on top of Crosshair, her legs wrapping around his slim waist and he groans once they part, hands slowly slipping under her panties and holding her with such need, so much yearning it physically pains him.

His chest seizes and he gasps against her when she rocks her core against his crotch abruptly, feeling himself grow under her. She looks down at him, hands on either side of his face, eyes blown wide, surprised at her own sudden movement.

"Is-" She begins, ending the sentence with a short, honey-coated whimper when he takes two large handfuls of her ass and pushes her down on him. He smiles crookedly, but she quickly catches her bearings. "Is this okay?"

The question seems silly, but it's important that she asks; he can't recall a time that he'd let her have even an ounce of control during sex. Resolve weakening under her kind, lustful stare, he gulps and nods, Adam's apple bobbing. 

"Yeah, yeah," He grits out, groaning breathily when she rocks her hips again. "Just... keep going. Please?"

She looks at him timorously, but he gives her an encouraging thrust with his own hands still on her ass. She sighs, leaning down and pecking his lips softly.

"Okay," she mumbles, almost to herself more than him, and kisses him again.

A hand softly drifts down to his bicep, squeezing it while the other sinks into his scalp, fingers slipping into his hair, her legs tightening around his thighs with every slow wave up and down his hardening cock. She moves languidly, comfortably until she finds a suitable rhythm, one that has him keening into her mouth once she finally reaches down into his boxers and wraps her hand around his cock.

"Fuck," He swears, gritting his teeth. She looks up from where she gazes down and her eyes widen. 

"Am I doing fine?" She asks tentatively, slowly twisting her hand over his length. He sighs.

"You're doing fine," He assures before his head falls against his pillow and his eyes shutter close. It feels so good, so much better than any other time she'd been teased with this much power. He'd like to say he doesn't know why, but they both know the real reason. "Kriff, you're doing perfect."

He can feel the smile that plays on her lips against his skin. She reaches up and connects their lips once again. It is the only thing about the moment, the movement of their bodies that exudes such innocence in it, pure admiration. It's so much. He quickly breaks away when he feels himself getting lightheaded. 

Crosshair exhales raggedly against her lips, and she opens her eyes, tilting her head with a questioning gaze. 

"I..." He begins, eyes burning with the intense gaze they hold. "I promised... fuck." He genuinely cusses himself out at his struggle to just get even the simplest words out. But could she blame him? When has he never been this upfront about his emotions in his life? "I promised myself I wouldn't- allow myself this."

Her lips part and her eyebrows furrowed. They close again and she asks before he can continue.

"Allow yourself... to be taken care of?"

"Yes," He answers quickly. "But, no, that's not what I meant."

She blinks twice consecutively but doesn't say a thing. So he continues.

"I promised myself I wouldn't allow... an attachment." The menacing, cobra-like persona inside of him emerges with the final words; he hisses them as if they were a curse he was casting on an unsuspecting victim. Or a taboo word he uses with such indictment no one could gasp in surprise at the use. "Promised myself I wouldn't fall in love." He rewords.

The face she flashes is one he's seen before, in the eyes of many other girls, and for a brief moment he wonders what makes it so much better in her eyes than the others. What if he'd never seen her again after that first night? What if he'd never allowed himself a second, third, or fourth night with her? He wouldn't have this at all. He's giving her so much that he didn't even realize he needed it until it finally came out, whether like this or with his body.

How could he have ever thought falling in love with her was a mistake?

"Are you still promising yourself that?" She finally asks softly against his lips, starting to pick up rhythm again. Her hand loosens over his cock and her lips part over his, resting just where he could easily sink back into his kiss. But she waits for him to respond before she keeps going.

He trembles out a shaky breath into her mouth when he talks.

"As-As long as you don't break," He stammers, so strangely insecure in his own voice and how it sounds. But she doesn't seem to care. He takes in a deep breath, steadying the erratic rise and fall of his chest before he continues. 

"As long as you don't break my heart," He says. She nods thoughtfully, hand slowly drifting up from his cock and resting on the space right above it as she listens. 

"I promise," She says before taking both of her hands, cupping his face between them, and kissing him hard with fervor. He lights up under her, one hand holding the one she has on his face and the other keeping her on top of him as he adjusts to sit up, back against the headboard, giving them both more access. Once they're in the position, she adjusts again, leg lifting up so she can slowly peel her panties off. His hand drifts down to her core and she sighs.

"I promise," She repeats. He grins, but it's more genuine than smug. Her lungs skip a breath and she hiccups with a squeak at the sight.

"I heard you the first time, hellcat," He says, parting her folds softly and softly moving his fingers back and forth as he talks. Her eyes flutter and she softens against him. "I believe you."

She smiles and surges forward, tangling herself into him. One hand drifts down his chest, softly trailing over the waves of his muscles and scars, like a soft blanket of heaven, and the other holds the back of his head, gripping his hair as a rock while she grabs his length. And he lets her. Lets her have control. Is perfectly fine sitting back, letting her decide his movements for once. It's another form of liberating.

Lining him up with her entrance, she looks up at him while sinking down, steady and kind and sweet. He'd never seen eyes so perfect in his life. And when she's fully seated, he lets out a guttural cry and groans,

"Thank you."

She smirks, slowly squirming in his lap to get comfortable, trying to find the ropes to being on top of him like this. 

"Why are you thanking me?" She asks, half cheekily and half genuine. 

The little minx, he wants to think, but a part of him has to admire her for being the one getting him worked up instead of the other way around.

"For this," He gestures to her body, but they both know he means more. He means that he's thanking her for the space in her bed, the place in her cunt for him to let out his frustration, the space to speak about things he keeps to himself if he wishes to, the genuine smiles she elicits at her silly jokes and the little quirks he's so devotedly memorized.

He means thank you for everything.

Thank you for your love.

She nods but doesn't answer, only kisses him again before she starts moving, finding a pace above him with a hand placed over his stomach, pushing him down further, encouraging him to relax, let her do this. He does, happily pinching her hips softly and rocking his hands with her movements while they both sweetly, languidly take in each other.

And when they both finish, almost exactly at the same time, she finally answers.

"It's my pleasure."

He looks up at her with a long, intense stare, not one hidden behind masks and forts of hardness, but one unfiltered and filled with so much emotion, it's almost overwhelming for both of them.

But it's safe for him to drown if he wishes.

For once, Crosshair is okay diving headfirst into something new.

[naturesapphic]

Hi! I have an Olivia Benson x reader request, if you want to change it up that’s cool too!

Reader and Olivia are out on field, in this case to a multi story high business building, following up on leads. Reader doesn’t ever take elevators, she gets triggers to past events. She never wanted to disclose this to the squad, they always pass it off with how she’s super fit already. This time Olivia scolds her out of climbing flights of stairs. Reader was tense on the way up and unlike herself, Liv notices but doesn’t put any emphasis on it. On the way down the power cuts and elevator halts…

Fears of Elevators

Olivia benson x fem!reader

Warnings: fear of elevators, hurt/comfort, Olivia being a complete softy

“Ugh! I hate men! I can’t believe he didn’t give us any information and had the balls to hit on me!” You exclaimed to your girlfriend Olivia who is also your partner in the SVU after Elliot left. You knew her when she was in the academy and was close friends with her which later led into a relationship that’s been going on for four years now. When Elliot left, Olivia was heartbroken. Olivia considered Elliot a close friend and it hurt her that he left. When he left, you offered to take this opportunity to work with your girlfriend. You got the job and from there y’all were the best team out there.

She chuckled and gave you a look “you shouldn’t be that surprised now.” She explained and you sighed in understanding. “That’s true.” You replied back as y’all were walking down the halls in a multistory building that was filled with elevators all around, with a couple of stairs that you immediately took a liking to. You were about to take the stairs again for the third time until Olivia pulled you back on your arm gently. “Y/n. Please stop taking the stairs, you are wearing yourself out and we need as much energy as we can until we catch this son of a bitch.” She explained and you groaned loudly with made her raise her eyebrow at you. She never understood why you liked taking the stairs when there was a perfectly good working elevator waiting to be used. She just thought it was good exercise for you but these stairs were long and she didn’t want you to be tired and worn out already.

“Please livia…I just like taking the stairs.” You tried to explain but liv was pushing you gently towards the elevator and you sighed in defeat, letting her guide you toward it. Once you the both of you were in, you immediately held her hand, seeking comfort. Olivia gave you a corned look but nonetheless gave you a gentle smile and rubbed her thumb over your knuckles. Everything was going smoothly until the elevator abruptly which made your heart sink. “Shit. The elevator is stuck. I’ll call Elliot and munch.” She said and she whipped out her phone calling them to let them know about the situation they were currently in. While Olivia was getting help, you were panicking the fuck out. You knew you should have taken the stairs but you realized that Olivia would be all alone and you couldn’t imagine that, but you were still freaking out.

You tried to calm your breathing but it was no use. The lights went out and you whimpered out which got Olivia’s attention quickly. She hung up the phone, telling them to hurry their asses up and quickly got your hands in hers and looked in your fear written eyes. “Hey hey baby. It’s okay. What’s wrong? Breath.” She said softly and you couldn’t make a sound besides heaving breathing. She realized that you weren’t gonna talk, there’s no way you could right now, and decided to gently get you sitting on the ground and she immediately went behind you so your back was against her chest. She put you in her lap and moved you to where you were being cradled like a baby and she gently took your shaking hand and put it on her heart. “Breath with me baby. It’s okay. I’m here. Follow my breathing.” She coached you with a quiet voice and you were slowly following her breathing and after seven minutes your breathing was slowly going back to normal.

“Thank you livia…” you said quietly and she gave you a small but genuine smile. “Of course sweetheart. Anytime.” She said as she leaned down to give you a loving kiss on your forehead. “Now. Would you like to tell me why you are scared of elevators?” She asked and you started fidgeting with Olivia’s fingers and she kept giving you kisses on your head. “It’s okay baby. You don’t have to tell me just yet if you aren’t ready.” She explained and you smiled softly but shook your head. “No no…I’m ready…” you said and you went on to tell her the story on how your mom and sister was killed in a elevator accident. You were only 10 and staying with your grandma while your mom and sister went to do some errands. When you found out what happened you never ever went on elevators again.

“Oh babygirl…I’m so sorry…now I know why you never really talked about your mom and sister.” She replied and you nodded your head yes. When you were about to say it was okay, the lights flickered back on and the doors of the elevators were opened revealing the cops and the svu team along with captain cragen. Olivia helped you stand on your feet and you immediately rushed out of the elevator, relieved to get the fuck out of that thing. Olivia was close behind you but was stopped by cragen and Elliot. She explained what happened but didn’t go into full detail, leaving that up to you to tell them and they respected that. You went back over to them and let them know that you were okay and was just happy to get out.

The team left shortly after, leaving just you and Olivia again. Olivia came to you and wrapped her arms around your shoulders. “Let’s go home baby. Cragen said we can have the rest of the day off but we have to be back tomorrow morning. He could tell how fragile you are right now and he doesn’t want you to have another panic attack again.” She said and you giggled at her. “Yep. We do have a dirty bastard to catch.” You said and she smiled as the both of you walking out of the building, walking back to the home that y’all both shared.

A/n: I hope y’all enjoyed! Winter/Christmas requests are still open for all of the people that I write! Remember to stay hydrated and to rest! I love y’all!

[vodika-vibes]

Here Comes The General

Summary: Scorch is not having a good time. Sev is missing and presumed dead. Boss is on Coruscant. Fixer is on Naboo. And he’s here, playing flying monkey for a man he’s been planning on killing since the day they met. Unfortunately for Scorch, Hemlock has well and truly bound his hands.

Pairing: Clone Commando Scorch x General Rynn (OFC), mentions of Delta Squad x OFC

Word Count: 1218

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly @kimiheartblade @mire-draws-things

A/N: I have Rynn on the mind, so you get a Rynn and Scorch story. Wherein I fix what happened to Scorch at the end of TBB. Yes, I have requests, but I need a break from requests for a little bit. Sorry.

Scorch slams his fist against the panel next to the stark metal door separating him from Rynn. He only gets an hour each week to spend time with her, and he knows he should be grateful, but he’s not.

Every time he comes to see his Rynn, he leaves angrier.

The door slides open, and she looks up, a small smile crossing her pretty face, though it does little to draw his attention away from the stark bruises marring her face and arms.

“Scorch,” She still smiles when she sees him, and his heart swoops affectionately. 

“Rynn,” He steps into the room, and the door slams shut behind him, not that he minds in the slightest. Scorch tugs off his gloves and tosses them to the side, along with his helmet, as Rynn stands and steps towards him.

His hands immediately move to cup her face, gently tilting her head so that he’s able to examine the dark brown bruises better, “I’m okay,” She reassures.

“They hit you.”

“Hemlock hit me,” She corrects, her own hands coming up to press against his cheeks, “You’ve lost weight.”

“Yeah, well—” Scorch scoffs, “It’s not like anyone here cares about the health of a clone.”

“Oh, Scorch,” She sounds so heartbroken that Scorch wants to cry.

He smiles at her, and leans in to press his forehead against hers, “There’s no need to say my name like that.”

“You deserve better,”

“We both deserve better,” He corrects quietly. Scorch moves his hand so that it’s brushing through her short hair, “I tried to talk Emerie into letting you have a headscarf, cyare. But they won’t allow it.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” He brushes his lips against a bruise, gently enough that she doesn’t even flinch, “Your religion is a huge part of who you are.”

“My religion is more than a headscarf, Scorch.” Her voice is soft, “My religion is just as strong here in prison as it was on the Nightwing. Stronger, even.”

He sighs softly, “I know that. I do. It just feels wrong.”

“Well, they don’t exactly have the moral high ground here, no.” She replies with a small smile.

Scorch’s fingers move to the collar around her neck, thick and clunky, with a flashing red light on the front, indicating that the bomb is active. “I wish…”

“I know, Scorch. It’s going to be okay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because,” She stands on her toes and glides her lips against his, “I have faith. Faith enough for the both of us.”

“But…Sev—”

“Is alive. I know. And Boss and Fixer are just playing by the rules until we can be together again. This bomb,” She taps the collar with a short fingernail, “ensures the cooperation not only of you, my love.”

Scorch makes a face, “When we reunite, I’m not going to be allowed to touch you for days.” He bitches quietly, “I can already hear Fixer saying ‘Well, you had her all to yourself for months, so deal with it’.”

She laughs softly and presses her forehead against his chest.

Slowly, he smoothes his hand down her back, but before he can say anything, the cell door slams open, and he sighs quietly, “Times up.”

“Just for now, Scorch.” She lightly pulls herself from his embrace, and she walks over to pick up his gloves and helmet, “Back to work.”

“Back to slavery, you mean.” Still, Scorch slowly pulls his gear back on, until he’s fully kitted out again. 

Rynn smiles at him. Soft, warm, and loving, and he rolls his shoulders. It’s all for her. He will do anything to keep her safe and alive, even if it means working with the enemy. 

“Love you, Rynn.”

“Love you too, Scorch. I’ll see you in a week.”

He turns on his heel and heads out the open cell door. “Yeah.” It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But he’ll make do. He has to.

Scorch watches, amused, as his younger brothers from Clone Force 99 raid Mount Taniss. He watches as Hemlock confronts them, and he watches the oldest of them…Hunter, he believes his name is, punches Hemlock.

And then something interesting happens.

A small device, roughly the size of his palm, falls out of Hemlock’s pocket and slides across the floor.

Hemlock scrambles for the device, but Scorch gets there first. He picks up the device and examines it, uncaring of the blasters aimed at him from his younger brothers.

“Scorch!” Hemlock shouts, “Return that at once!”

He knows what this device is. This is the device that controls the bomb around Rynn’s neck. He’s seen it enough times to recognize it on sight.

Scorch meets Hemlock’s gaze, and quickly destroys the device before dropping the pieces on the floor.

“You—”

Scorch doesn’t allow him to finish as he curls his hand into a fist and slams all of his weight into the punch. Hemlock staggers back, his hand flying to his face. Scorch doesn’t think twice before shooting Hemlock twice in the head.

Execution style, Rynn used to call it.

His younger brothers hesitate and lower their weapons, “I thought you were working with him,” One of them, the one with goggles, says accusingly.

“Believe it or not, vod’ika, there are many ways to force someone to do something,” Scorch absently examines his blaster, “ways that have nothing to do with the damn chip they put in our heads.”

“So nothing has forced you to work for him?” The biggest member of the squad demands.

“Did I say that?” Scorch turns his head when there’s a rumble and the ground splits open on the other side of the room. He straightens and pulls his helmet off, hooking it to his belt, as Rynn lifts herself out of the hole she made.

She lowers herself to the ground and looks around for a moment, a bright smile crossing her face as she sees Scorch, “Have you seen my lightsaber?”

“Fraid they destroyed it, cyare.”

“Well, that’s rude of them. I guess I’ll have to make do with my spare.” She steps around some broken pieces of metal and allows Scorch to swing her into his arms, and press a light kiss against her lips.

“The Empire and rudeness go hand in hand, cyare. You should do something about that.”

Her smile is vibrant, “Oh, I intend to. As soon as I have all of my boys back. I assume the Nightwing is here somewhere?”

“Hidden. Safe and sound. Just like you ordered.”

She beams at him and presses her hands against his cheeks, “You follow my orders so well!”

“When I want to.”

“Of course.” Her smile softens, “Let’s get out of here, hm? We need to get to Sev.”

“Yes ma’am,” Scorch sets her down and motions towards the exit, allowing Rynn to take the lead. He pauses before he leaves and sends a comm code to Tech, “Here. It’ll connect you to the Nightwing. If you should need it for any reason.”

And then he’s gone too, following Rynn out the hanger door.

Scorch has no idea what comes next. Though, based on the small smile on Rynn’s face, she not only has an idea, she even knows how to pull it off. They just need the rest of their family back.