#and only a fraction of these get verbalized

[iturbide]

Thanks for the Emmeryn stuff! It does help! I really like the idea she hugs Chrom too tight cuz she's been worried. ; u ; Do you have any more ideas about how she is with her siblings, or like, with close friends, where she can be a little more casual? How does she react to Lissa's pranking people? (does Lissa ever prank her?) Do you think she was taught how to use any weapons, like to defend herself?

I'M SO GLAD THAT IT HELPS I love Emmeryn a lot and have a lot of thoughts about her because of it. ;v; So I absolutely have more ideas about her relationships with people she's close to hold tight.

Emmeryn loves her siblings so much. They, more than anything else, are what keep her going and give her the strength to hold firm in her beliefs. She wants to make a better world for them -- and while it certainly has benefits for all the people of Ylisse, I think that first and foremost, she set her sights on peace for the sake of her siblings. Emmeryn spent her earliest years in a country falling to ruin because of her father's crusade, so as soon as she was crowned Exalt and had the power to do so, she ended the war and tried to make the peaceful world she couldn't have for herself, so that her siblings could have better childhoods than she did.

I suspect that Emm did everything in her power to give Chrom and Lissa that peaceful childhood -- which includes trying to give them as normal an upbringing as possible. Rather than push studies on her brother that would prepare him for future rule, should something happen to her, she arranged for more mundane tutealge: reading, writing, arithmetic, etc. She tried to ensure that her siblings would recognize that everyone in the halidom was deserving of equal respect, regardless of their class or place of birth. This contributes to Chrom and Lissa's easygoing manner with commoners and nobles alike (especially compared to Maribelle).

Related, but this also explains their inability to recognize Grimleal symbology like the eyes on Robin's coat: Emm never taught them how to spot Plegian iconography, to keep them from succumbing to the prejudices of the wider halidom, meaning that while they know enough of the history between Ylisse and Plegia, they don't actually have a solid visual reference for what Plegians might look like until they actually go to Plegia, by which point Robin is so ingrained in their friend group that they wouldn't dream of kicking them out.

As much as her siblings mean to her, though, Emm keeps a lot from them, telling herself that it's for their sakes. Even with Ylisse now at peace, politics are strenuous and frustrating at the best of times, a delicate balance of keeping multiple groups with disparate needs happy to avoid the outbreak of civil war. She never lets on about this to Chrom and Lissa, though, because she doesn't want to burden them: that sort of burden isn't part of the peaceful world she wanted to make for them, after all, so she shoulders all the pressure on her own. She does her best never to cry around her siblings, even if she wants to: her tears are a private release for her, and if Chrom or Lissa happens upon her while she's crying she will swiftly try to get back under control and pretend it didn't happen to avoid making them worry.

This isn't to say that Chrom and Lissa don't want to help, or haven't tried to take some duties on to make her life easier. I tend to think that Chrom taking over as Captain of the Shepherds was his way of trying to ease some of his sister's burden: by going afield and dealing with simpler matters on her behalf, she could focus on the larger issues facing the halidom. While Emm does wish that a militia weren't necessary, she does appreciate her siblings' willingness to act as her agents in the wider halidom (and beyond, when it eventually comes to Regna Ferox), seeing to matters she can't easily tend herself.

Emm might keep up some of the mask with her siblings so that she doesn't burden them with her problems, but she certainly doesn't keep them at the arm's length she does most people. Her smiles are warmer and her laughter more open, and she's much less reserved on the whole, showing much more emotion than she does in public (though she still keeps a firm lid on any frustration or anger she might feel, preferring to take a gentle yet firm approach in correcting their behavior). In private she enjoys lightly teasing them about minor embarrassments and fussing over memories of their youths that they find mortifying; she can also let loose and just be silly with them, making funny faces to get a laugh out of them.

Emm tries to encourage her siblings' pursuits as much as she's able, and so long as Lissa's pranks aren't hurting anyone, she's usually the sort to laugh it off and encourage others to do the same. It's just harmless fun, something to spice up the day. With that said, though, Lissa may have pranked Emm when she was much younger, but probably tapered off dramatically as she got older because she could see the stress it caused Emm when Lissa snuck a frog in her sleeve, and she really doesn't want to stress her big sister out because she loves her: it's not fun to see Emm in distress. The worst she does now is sneaking into her sister's study and putting all her quills and ink on the wrong side/in the wrong drawer.

With a partner or especially close friend, I like to think that Emm would be easygoing, expressive and excitable with a sweet smile and a sweeter laugh. She can be playful, but she also enjoys the quiet moments she can share with good company, the kind of comfortable silences that are only possible with people you share a deep bond with. She would even be willing to let down more of the walls that even her siblings aren't allowed to see past, once there's a suitable bond of trust (something that's not easily established -- she's well aware that of how people might try to win her favor just to abuse her station, and tends to over-scrutinize interactions for possible ulterior motives). For someone that close, Emmeryn would even be willing to express doubts and fears that she would never otherwise give voice to.

Emmeryn was almost certainly trained to defend herself, though she probably refused physical weapon training following her father's death and her rise to the throne. Her distaste for war extends to the arms associated with it, and she staunchly refuses to handle them. Instead, she focused on her magic training for self defense, building off the lessons she first received from her mother. At the end of the day, though, she will only use that magic as a last resort (she's already been wounded and is unable to run); she will always pick her staff first if she has the option.

I also love the idea that Emm was never trained to ride a pegasus, despite pegasi being emblematic of Ylisse: it was considered too dangerous, given the risk of grievous harm that could come from a fall, so she got some cursory instruction in horseback riding and that was it. She does wish she could have at least tried, though: she wonders if it would feel freeing to be up in the sky like that, the world and all the problems that go with it shrinking below her, and maybe then she would be able to breathe easy in ways she hasn't been able to in...perhaps as long as she can remember.

[reanimatedgh0ul]

honestly the idea of newton and lance both ending up w gfs is funny to me only bc ik the two of them would have COMPLETELY DIFFERENT reactions the moment they realize they're in love w the girl they're now dating

basically newton's reaction vs lance's reaction

[brunchable]

The Door's Locked, but My Lips Aren't | Steve Rogers x f!reader

Pairings: Steve Rogers x f!reader Themes: Forced Proximity. Rivals with Benefits? Verbal Sparring, Flirting through bickering. Summary: When you went to the Avengers' storage room for a quick errand, the last thing you espected is to get stuck with Captain Smug himself, Steve Rogers. With the door refusing to budge, who knew being trapped with your most annoying teammate would lead to an infuriatingly good kiss? A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for a while. . .

It was just a quick errand to retrieve some equipment. That���s what you told yourself as you headed toward the storage room at the Avengers compound. You were hoping to get in and out without running into anyone—specifically him. But the universe seemed to have a twisted sense of humor.

Because standing right in front of the exact shelf you needed was Steve Rogers, his back turned as he inspected a box of supplies.

You stopped in your tracks, sighing so deeply it felt like your soul left your body. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered under your breath, half considering turning around and coming back later.

“What was that?” Steve asked, voice gratingly smug as he turned to face you, an eyebrow raised.

“Nothing,” you said, voice tight and overly polite as you marched past him, heading for the door you’d only half-closed behind you. “Just talking to myself.”

“Not much company then, is it?” Steve’s tone was all mock innocence as he leaned casually against the shelf, crossing his arms and giving you that infuriating, smirking look that made you want to either punch him or… or do something else. But that was beside the point.

You shot him a glare, reached for the door handle, and turned it. It didn’t budge.

“What the—” You pulled again, harder this time. Still nothing.

“Great,” Steve said, his voice dripping with faux sympathy as he peered over your shoulder. “Look what you did.”

“What I did?” You whirled on him, the door handle rattling in your hand. “You were already in here. If anything, it’s your fault.”

“How is it my fault?” Steve looked almost amused now, leaning closer, too close, with that damn infuriating smile of his. “You’re the one who walked in and—what? Forgot how to use a door?”

Your lips parted in shock, and you jabbed a finger into his chest, making him step back. “No, I’m not the one who broke it! What’d you do, Captain America? Shove it too hard with those freakishly big hands of yours?”

Steve blinked, his gaze flicking to your hand still resting on his chest, then back up to your face. Something flared behind his eyes—something hot and challenging.

“First of all,” Steve began slowly, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous murmur, “my hands aren’t freakishly big. They’re just right.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you shot back, words laced with challenge. “You know what they say about guys who talk too much about their size.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve’s gaze dipped to your lips briefly before snapping back up to meet your eyes, a smug smile forming. “What do they say about girls who—” He paused, gaze dropping to your chest and then back up, brow raised. “—can’t seem to fill out a shirt?”

Your mouth dropped open. “You did not just—”

“What?” Steve shrugged, unbothered by the murderous look in your eyes. “I’m just saying, if you wanna talk size—”

“Oh my god, you are unbelievable.” You threw your hands up, your heart pounding with a mix of embarrassment and irritation. “You think I care about your opinion?”

“Nope, not at all,” Steve said, smirking. “But you’re the one getting worked up.”

“I’m not worked up.” You shot him a fiery look before grabbing the hem of your shirt and yanking it over your head, leaving you in only a snug tank top. “See? Nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of.”

Steve’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, flicking over your bare arms and shoulders, then lingering on the curve of your neckline. His grin widened.

“There, was that so hard?” he murmured, voice lower now, his gaze hot.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” you bit back, feeling both a thrill and annoyance at the way he looked at you. “I bet you’re feeling warm too. Maybe you should lose a layer.”

“You just wanna see me without a shirt on, huh?” Steve said, his grin widening as he slowly began unbuttoning his shirt. “Alright. Whatever makes you feel better.”

You swallowed as inch by inch, Steve’s chest was revealed. He didn’t stop until his shirt was completely unbuttoned, hanging loosely over those stupid, sculpted muscles.

“Happy?” Steve asked, voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

“Not as happy as you probably think,” you bit out, hating the way your voice wavered.

“Mmhmm. Sure.” He leaned even closer, his breath brushing your ear. “It’s okay to admit you’re curious. I get it.”

“Curious about what?” you scoffed, but your voice came out breathless, the air thickening between you. “About what you’re compensating for under all that spandex?”

Steve’s eyes darkened at that, a challenge sparking in his gaze. “You wanna bet on it?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What, you gonna whip it out right here?” you fired back, trying to sound bold even as your pulse roared in your ears. “Should I go get a ruler?”

He gave a low chuckle, leaning back a bit but not breaking eye contact. “We both know I’d win. But hey, if you’re looking for proof—”

You didn’t let him finish. In a flash, you pushed him back against the shelf, lips crashing against his in a sudden, heated kiss. Steve responded instantly, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you against him as if you were the only thing grounding him.

The kiss was rough and desperate, all teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration. Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp as you bit down on his bottom lip, earning a low, hungry growl from Steve.

His hands roamed your body, sliding up your back, fingers grazing your bare skin, before one hand cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. You felt his heart hammering against your chest, the heat of his body searing through you as his lips moved against yours, fierce and demanding.

You gasped as Steve’s mouth trailed down your jawline, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. Your head fell back against the shelf, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat, each one making your pulse race faster.

“Still think I’m compensating?” Steve’s voice was a low growl against your skin, his breath hot and ragged.

Your grip tightened in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan. “Shut up, Rogers.”

Steve grinned against your lips, that damn infuriating smirk still there. “Make me.”

Before you could respond, the door suddenly creaked open, and you both tore apart, lips swollen, breaths coming in harsh pants.

Sam stood there, eyes wide. “Uh… sorry. Didn’t realize you two were, uh, busy.”

Your cheeks flushed as you scrambled to say something, anything. But Steve’s arm was still half around your waist, his shirt unbuttoned, your top askew, and he looked unbothered—more than that, he looked… amused.

“We were just—”

Sam held up a hand, backing away. “Yeah, no, no need to explain. I’ll… just—” He paused, shut the door halfway, opened it again just to shake his head. “You know what, figure it out yourselves. But hey, keep it PG-13, alright?”

And with that, he was gone.

You turned back to Steve, breath hitching as your gazes locked. A slow grin spread across his face, and you knew you were in trouble.

“So, where were we?” Steve asked, voice teasing, that familiar challenge lighting up his gaze.

“Oh, shut up.” You grabbed him by the open shirt, yanking him down until your lips crashed together in a heated, desperate kiss.

Who knew being stuck with Steve Rogers could be so… electrifying?

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Caught In The Spider's Web.

Pairing: Yandere!Miguel O'hara x Reader (Spiderverse).

Word Count: 2.8k.

TW: N0n///C0n, AFAB!Reader, Biting, Mentions of Blood, Implied Kidnapping, Obsessive Behavior, Verbal Degredation, Slut-Shaming But In A Projection Way, and Choking.

“Get back here, qué perra!”

“Keep your voice down, we’re in a museum!” You called over your shoulder, chasing it with a breathless laugh before sparing a glance behind you, to where Miguel was still busy clawing through the layers of haphazardly laid webbing that were currently keeping his chest and arms pinned against the far wall of newly-emptied display. You saw his talons tear through the last of it before turning your attention forward – to the tall, narrow halls of the museum, or more specifically, to the stone archways spaced every twenty feet or so. With a wild grin and one last squeeze to the diamond-studded necklace around your neck, the strap of the rucksack weighing heavy against your back, you shot your webs toward the next archway and flew.

Or, swung, more accurately – with Miguel close on your heels. He was more experienced than you, more used to superhuman strength and animalistic agility and everything that happened when a radioactive spider took an interest in you, but no amount of refined skill could’ve measured up to your raw, unrestrained zeal, to the rush of adrenaline that came with every new heist, every new opportunity to use your new powers. Even in the confined space, you moved erratically; vaulting off of walls and falling into jagged nose-dives, never gaining any distance on Miguel but never letting him catch you, either. More than once, you felt his claws graze your back, heard his low growls and muffled cursing, but you couldn’t bring yourself to worry. Why would you? You were a superhero, now, even if you didn’t do many heroic things. You felt invincible. You were invincible – at least in that moment. At least before Miguel got his hands on you and put an end to your fun for the thousandth time. “Y’know, I really thought you’d be cool with this,” you went on, bouncing off of a display case a fraction of a second before he crashed into it, shattering the glass. “I’m like Robin Hood, dude!”

There was a half-snarled bark, a flash of red in your peripheral. You threw yourself to the left just in time to avoid a tendril of pulsing, luminescent webbing – earning yourself just enough time to shoot a playful wink back at him. He bared his teeth, in response. “Robin Hood gave to the poor. You just steal and cause anomalies.”

“I’d be poor if I stopped stealing!” Finally, you came to the room you were looking for – an open lobby with a domed, crystalline ceiling – a ceiling with a panel no one ever seemed to remember to lock. You’d left it open on your way in, and if you were lucky, you’d be able to slip out of it without alerting the guards posted at every other exit. After that, it was only a matter of losing Miguel in the dark city (you’d apparently been the only spider-people smart enough to skip the eye-bleedingly bright color scheme) and hiding a place to lay low in your own dimension. You’d have to come back in a few weeks to sell what you’d stolen, but that was something you could worry about later on. You’d earned your haul, tonight. “It’s been fun, Miguel, baby,” You let your swing go wide, vaulting yourself towards the ceiling and landing just underneath your escape hatch. You let yourself hang there for just a second longer than you could afford, flashing another smile toward Miguel before—

 Before you felt his webbing latch onto your lower back, wrenching you away from the domed ceiling and sending you plummeting downward before you could think to react. Your back hit the floor with enough force to crack the marble, your rucksack of stolen art and jewelry landing somewhere to your left and spilling open. With any chance of escaping Miguel gone and your latest haul scattered across the museum floor, you went limp, letting a pained groan slip past your lips. That was the thing about super-durability. The fall hadn’t broken every bone in your body, but your bones didn’t know that.

Miguel was bolting towards you in a second, on top of you in another. You managed to lift your arm, but your web-shooters only responded with a sad, dry grinding – out of ammo, because you always ran out of webbing at the worst times. His hand shot to his mask, his bared fangs catching in the dim light, but you raised your hands in surrender before he could bite down. “Hey, hey, you can save that for the thirst traps. I can spend the next twelve hours catatonic without your help.” With a heavy sigh, you collapsed, letting another wave of aching soreness wash over you before going on. “Take me home. I’m done for the night.”

It took him a few seconds to bite back his anger, to put on that stoic, put-together face you loved to tease him for. Pursed lips, narrowed eyes – all the things that’d fall away as soon as you got on his nerves. “You’re not getting off that easily, this time.”

“C’mon, Miguel, what do you think you’re going to do to me? Lock me in a cell for a couple days? Let your mega-spider bite me? Lecture me until I buy into your ‘great power comes with great responsibility’ bullshit?” Even exhausted and worn down, you couldn’t seem to stop yourself. He made himself an easy target, and you’d always loved the taste of low-hanging fruit. “We both know how this works. You toss me around a little, tell me to spend more of my time saving orphaned puppies trapped in burning buildings, then send me back to my own dimension. Don’t tell me you’re gonna break our routine now.”

He didn’t answer, a pressed scowl pulling at the corners of his mouth as he worked off his mask. He hand dropped to the collar of your suit, and you let out another laugh, this one more nervous than the last. “Are you going to take my watch? You know I’ll just make another one when I get home.”

His fist wrapped around your stolen necklace, wrenching it off of you with enough force to snap the silver, jewel-studded chain and send rubies and sapphires scattering around you. You watched the precious gems clatter to the floor, mentally tallying up how much you could’ve gotten for each. Clearly, Miguel wasn’t as concerned with their value as you were. “You’re not going home.”

“Miguel, that’s not fun—”

“Say my name one more time and I swear I’ll—” He cut himself off with a throaty growl, turning his claws toward your chest. Before you could so much as think to panic, the front of your suit had been torn to tattered shreds, leaving you vulnerable and exposed to the open air and thrashing against the hand now wrapped around your neck, clawing at his wrist and kicking at his chest for all you were worth. If Miguel noticed your meager attempts at resistance, he didn’t seem fazed, didn’t feel the need to respond with anything more than a harsher glare, a straighter posture, a row of pointed nails driven that much deeper into the side of your throat. “Cállate. Just shut up and take what you deserve.”

The palm pressed into the base of your windpipe, a flash of sharpened teeth in the corner of your vision, and then, Miguel’s fangs were planted in your neck, his venom sent coursing through your veins. The feeling, while unpleasant, wasn’t alien to you. You were hyper-aware of your joints locking into place, your limbs going stiff and still, a heavy fog forming over the part of your brain that told the rest of your body to get up and fight. He pulled away before the numbness set in, before you could completely float into that void of immobile, oblivious existence, but when you tried to lift your arm, to kick at his chest, your body failed to respond. You cursed under your breath, glaring at Miguel, but he'd already moved on.

A gloved hand worked its way under the tattered remains of your suit, grazing over your lower stomach before cupping your cunt. It was the adrenaline, the high and the sudden let-down. Miguel must’ve known that, but it did little to dampen the condescension in his faint smirk as he collected your slick on his fingertips, swiping the pad of his thumb over your clit and drinking in the way your expression contorted. “Little slut,” he muttered, the scarlet shine of your blood still visible on his fangs. “You’re already soaked. Can’t let someone put their hands on you without dripping all over them, huh?”

You grit your teeth, doing what you could to swallow back a half-choked moan. “Stop,” And then, with more than a note of desperation in your voice, “This is a crime, you’re not supposed to—”

The air hitched in your throat as he brought his open palm down on your cunt – the blow rough, sudden, sharp. If you’d been able to, you would’ve gone stiff, would’ve lashed out, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t squirm, couldn’t do anything but hold your breath and stifle a pained moan as the first blow was followed by another, then another, then another, until your cunt was sore and throbbing, until there were tears forming in the corners of your eyes and Miguel was breathing heavily above you. “I told you to be quiet.” It was a hiss, more than anything. A threat he could carry out, but not say aloud. “I’d tell you not to make this worse for yourself, but you were always going to find a way to make this more difficult than it had to be.”

You moved to apologize reflexively, to beg him to let you go, but he clearly didn’t have an interest in anything you had to say. He was already shoving two fingers into your burning entrance, adding something else to the ache – not quite pleasure, but not as far as you needed it to be, either. Everything he did was rough, cruel, from the way he stretched you open to how much force he used while grinding the heel of his palm into your clit. Everything he did was less for your gratification and more for his own entertainment, for as humorless as he’d always seemed to you before. Miguel’s paralysis limited your reactions, stopped you from grinding into his hand or squirming underneath him, but it didn’t help to hide your expression, to stop you from biting your lips or rolling your head to the side, giving in to the baselessly hopeful part of your mind yelling that not looking at Miguel would make him leave. He only laughed, the noise low and dark and infinitely more than anything he’d ever given you, before. That made sense. Miguel had always struck you as the kind of man who could only let his guard down after he’d already broken through yours – this was just the first time he’d gotten the chance to prove you right.

Eventually, he pulled back, drawing an airy whimper from the base of your throat at the sudden lack of stimulation. There was a wet, distorted sound you couldn’t bring yourself to name, a fist wrapped around your arm, and then, he was turning you onto your chest, keeping your wrists pressed against your back with one hand while the other spread your thighs apart. You felt his cock, already hard, already thick enough to send a pang of dread to your core, against your ass, and suddenly, you were very aware of just how easily he towered over you, just how little effort it took for him to press his chest into your back and cage you underneath him. Even if you hadn’t been paralyzed, you didn’t know if you’d be able to do anything to get away from him. Not after you’d already been caught in his web.

“You’re going to cum on my cock,” You felt his lips against your ear, the low timbre of his voice reverberating in the back of your mind. “And you’re going to fucking thank me, when you do.”

There might’ve been more. There probably was, but whatever he said was drowned out by a dull, droning buzzing in your ears – a lifeless static that nearly blocked out the feeling of his hands on your hips, his knee nudging your legs apart, the leaking head of his cock resting against your entrance before he thrust into you, splitting you open in an instant.

He was so, so much bigger than you. Even with the fall, even with his venom, you could still feel so much of him, still couldn’t seem to block out the way your own dripping cunt struggled to clench down around the girth of his cock. You let out a fractured gasp but regretted it immediately, trembling as you struggled to inhale while feeling so impossibly full. There might’ve been blood. It was hard to tell with the slick dripping down your thighs, with Miguel lapping over the side of your throat. He sounded animalistic, growling as he rolled his hips and buried himself deeper in your core, his nails burrowing into your hips and mangling what was left of your poor, ruined suit. You’d have to make a new one, when you got back to your own dimension, when you got back to your tiny apartment already over-crowded with stolen art and half-finished projects. If Miguel ever let you go back.

“You’re tight for a little whore.” He made no effort to be gentle, to hold back, to do anything but bully your cunt, bruise your ass, leave you breathless and struggling just to keep yourself sane. “Must be a tease,” he went on, dropping a hand to your clit and rubbing circles into the abused bundle of nerves. “That’s it. Stealing everything you could get your hands on, wrecking the multiverse – that was just your way of getting my attention, huh? Bet you were just waiting for someone to pin you down and fuck you.”

You could feel your legs starting to shake, in spite of the paralysis. “Please, I can’t—”

“So fucking needy, too.” There was a deep laugh, an open-mouthed kiss pressed into the curve of your throat. “I’ll have to put a collar on you. Might catch you bending over for the first person you see if nobody knows who you— fuck, who you belong to.”

His pace had been punishing from the start, but at that, it turned brutal. You felt tears starting to form in the corners of your eyes, a tight knot of tension forming deep in your core. His cock beat against something sensitive and vulnerable in your pussy and you screamed, a strangled moan tearing past your lips. “Please, Miguel, I need you to stop—"

Your voice gave out before you could finish, but that was all Miguel needed to hear. Before you could take it back, before you could bite your tongue and curse yourself for trying to say anything at all, his hand was on your neck, cutting off your oxygen supply and leaving you choking for air, leaving your cunt convulsing around him. “De nuevo.” It was a demand, an order. You were starting to wonder if he knew any other way to speak. “Say that again, before I change my mind and snap your neck.”

“Miguel.” Croaked, airy, only half-coherent. When his grip only grew tighter, you said it again, and again, and again, his name forming an incomprehensible mantra that played in-time with the pulsing in the back of your skull, in the walls of your pussy. You felt yourself clench around him, your vision burning white as either his cock or the lack of oxygen or some awful combination of the two vaulted you to a breath-stealing, mind-numbing climax – strong enough and blinding enough to leave you crashing on the downswing, plummeting into an infinite abyss of searing heat and overstimulation as soon as your climax gave out under his violent affection. Vaguely, you were aware of Miguel’s touch growing rougher, of his voice in your ear, of his cum flooding into your sore pussy. He made no attempt to pull out, but you weren’t surprised. You didn’t know if anything Miguel did could surprise you, anymore.

You were in a haze as Miguel drew back, nipping at the corner of your jaw one more time before finally letting you go. It wasn’t his venom keeping you still, anymore, but your own exhaustion – weighing you down as he lifted you into his arms, letting you rest your head against his chest. Through your eyelashes, your watched Miguel type something into his watch, a neon-shaded portal cutting through the fabric of reality a moment later. You tried to protest, to call on whatever hidden pocket of strength you still had and get away from him, but all you managed to do was squirm in his arms and let out a small, pathetic whine. Miguel responded by pressing his lips against your forehead, chuckling softly. As if this was funny to him. As if he found this cute. “Settle down. You have nothing to worry about.”

He smiled for the first time that night, and you felt something in the pit of your stomach crack.

“I’m taking you home.”

[a-b-riddle]

I'm just going to ask this because I need to get it out of my head. This is all in regards to your Poly141 x Reader series going on. I'm just going to recap things first.

-Price got verbally eviscerated because of all the times he got short/snapped at the reader because he came into their bookstore that they bought with their own money, put their own blood, sweat and tears into fixing up and had THE AUDACITY to call them immature for trying to break things off cleanly like a MATURE adult in a space that's RIGHTFULLY THEIRS because he couldn't be an adult admit how he shouldn't of been treating the reader like one of his men.

-Soap showing up trying to apologize and then thinking with his dick because of how the reader got dressed up for a dinner date and got a taste of his own medicine when the reader just hit it and quit it without so much as a thank you, or a goodbye kiss and basically told him to clean up, get dressed and kick rocks.

-Gaz shows up after weeks of just flaking out of any dates and just being a ghost (ironic considering Ghost's callsign) trying to talk to the reader in person when the reader had tried for months to just get a glimpse of him only to be told he couldn't right now but could another time. Then the reader just tell him, 'yeah sorry no. I don't have time for you and your mates nonsense at the moment, just swing by to get your stuff when it works for you'.

-Ghost showing up whenever the reader is in trouble and getting them away from danger only to disappear shortly afterward and give the reader radio silence. The one time that the reader tried to seek him out for just a SHRED of comfort and he just told them, 'You're only good for what's in between your legs love, you knew what you were getting into. You should've known better.'

With all this mind, I want Ghost to have everything and the kitchen sink thrown at him. I want him to be told in no kind words that his words and lack of realizing how fucked up the things he said to the reader were was the straw that broke the camel's back. I want the reader to hurl everything that they didn't say to Price to Ghost. I want him to realize in no unclear terms how if he didn't fuck up so royally and had actually attempted to give the reader a fraction of what he was being given, things would be so much better. And for some extra salt on the wound, have the reader tell him that they suppose that when it comes to his line of work, he's pretty good at breaking anything and everything he touches. It's just a shame that for anything that involves a softer touch, he winds up breaking it beyond repair.

I just love narrative/reflective irony and can't wait for the next part and wish you well for making it to the end of this ramble. 🥰

I'm throwing up.

I am so happy that y'all got it without me having to say it. YES! She is giving everything back that they gave her. John's outbursts, Johnny's lack of aftercare and Kyle's flakiness.

I will say this which I think is interesting. Simon said something hellllla shitty and unforgivable. Like it was mean and something once you say you can't take back. I will ask this and feel free to go back and re-read.

What else did Simon do? Before the phone call, what else did Simon do to reader? We know Simon wanted to hurt reader. Why? Did he plan

Spoiler below, read at own caution

Or was he just sick of being the only one out of the four guys to actually contribute to the relationship and knew he needed to be the one to drive it home that there isn't a future with them? Reader refers to Simon several times as her body guard or guard dog... But never a boyfriend or partner.

In flashbacks, we see that Simon only ever came over at night. You'll find out why in the next few chapters, but as much as I love y'all hating on Simon, I cannot WAIT for y'all to get to the why.

And remember kiddos, hurt people hurt people.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Chapter 36

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Allusions to abuse

A/N: This feels more like a filler chapter, just carrying the story further with no real plot. Maybe that’s just the way I see it. The prison is on the horizon!

That first conscious breath when waking was still such a treasured moment. You could smell nature, taste the crisp cold, hear the sequestered tunes of the wild, and even venture to forget that death walked. For that handful of invaluable heartbeats, life was normal.  

That particular morning was different. You still experienced those precious few seconds of tranquility, your lips nearly curling into a smile when your brain—still hazy from sleep—realized it was dawn. Walkers had not stumbled upon your camp. No one had died. There were no screams. It was pleasantly quiet aside from soft gurgles and coos. 

You felt no panic when your hand touched the cold ground, finding Birdie to be gone. Even without her verbal cues, you could sense she was close by and so was Daryl.

“Doin’ a awful lot’a jabberin’, lil’ Bird.” 

His reposeful tone harbored an inkling of amusement. Your eyes opened slowly as if you feared making a sound that would disrupt the moment. Daryl was sitting with his back against a tree, knees drawn up to pillow a blanketed bundle of Birdie. One tiny hand was wrapped around his index finger while her other limbs were secure beneath the warmth of the fabric. 

“C’mon, gotta keep ya snug here. S’too cold.”

Craning his neck, he pressed the gentlest of kisses to little fingers before pulling his own digit free in order to tuck her hand away. The baby did not care for the idea, grunting and passing gas in protest. Daryl huffed a laughed through his nose. 

“Gonna need ‘nother diaper if ya keep that up.”  

A tiny mouth opened as if to squeak but stretched wider in a yawn. The action had the archer laughing again, an actual quiet chuckle. Extending a finger, he tapped Birdie’s cheek and watched her root around for a source of food. You could watch him interact with her all day long without an ounce of boredom. Not if she had anything to say about it, however. 

“Guess m’gonna hafta wake up your mama, huh?” The blanket bulged and shifted with the movements of little limbs beneath it, squeaks and grunts heightening in their insistence. “Okay, okay. M’a get ‘er.” Daryl cradled the baby across his chest, her weight resting on his right forearm so that he could use his left hand to push himself up. Truthfully, he could have simply outstretched his leg and tapped your shin with his boot, but he never was one for making anything easy on himself, was he? 

You contemplated closing your eyes, feigning sleep in order to give him those few moments he had thought were private. Having waited a fraction of a second too long, you were caught blinking up at him just as he began to crouch. “Hey.” The image of his fury was a vivid snapshot seared into your memory. Were things really okay after everything the previous day? Daryl narrowed his eyes, staring almost coldly at you before bouncing Birdie gingerly. 

That was more than likely a no. 

“Bird’s hungry. Ya wanna—” He motioned broadly toward your torso. “Ya can do the thing an’ I can give ‘er a bottle if ya don’t want ‘er ‘round.”

Ouch. 

“Daryl.” You sighed, sitting up with your sleeping bag pooled around your waist, only then registering the other voices and sounds. Everyone was already moving about. You had been so transfixed on the moment between father and daughter that you hadn’t noticed. “Of course I want her.” You reached upward before withdrawing. “Do you want to feed her?”

“Wanna do everythin’ for ‘er.” He replied without missing a beat. “But she needs ‘er mama too.” He said while adjusting the baby to support her properly as he waited for you to make a decision. 

“I’ll feed her and then pump what I can so you can feed her next time, okay?” He jerked his chin in agreement. Shedding your jacket, you pulled one arm from your sweater and unclipped the bra. The fact that he turned his head when your breast was exposed unearthed so many emotions, bile creeping into your throat. 

“A’ight then.” Daryl offered the squirming bundle, softly shushing her in such a way that made your heart melt, the puddle of it aching in waves. With a forward tilt on his knee, he helped support Birdie’s head while you adjusted her at your breast, his fingertips brushing against the outside curve of your skin. The gentleness in his expression toward Birdie turned pained, his gaze averting quickly as well as his hand. “M’a go see if there’s anythin’ I can get for some meat.” 

Bracing the baby firmly with one arm, you leaned to clasp Daryl’s wrist, flinching when his attention snapped toward you. For so long, you had been prominent in your belief that he would never hurt you. Now? After his words from the day before? Your faith had waned.

“You could stay.” The way your voice vibrated, the words stuttering off your tongue, was awkward. Even through the rough patches, you had fought boldly to hold on to the woman you had been, the one that had filled your father with such pride. If he could only see you now. You had cried, begged, and made decisions that would have had him turning his back on you in shame. 

Daryl didn’t appear to know how to respond, to neither your words nor your touch. His eyes flickered from your fingers to your eyes and back again, blue pools so deeply betraying his uncertainty and confusion to a level so bare that you feared he would lash out. When he didn’t, when he remained stock still and silent, it occurred to you that maybe he didn’t know how he was supposed to react. 

That was it, wasn’t it? He knew you weren’t trying to hurt Birdie. He understood you were only trying to maintain a measure of safety, that what you were doing was something you didn’t want to do but felt you had to do it. 

On the opposite side of the same coin, the thought of your capability to consider such a method had awoken a fear in him, memories of a time when he had been defenseless. In the face of that onslaught, he did the only thing he could do to protect his daughter. He had run. 

You weren’t dealing with Daryl’s anger. 

You were dealing with his pain. 

That made the situation no less volatile. A vulnerable, confused Daryl was not the easiest version of him to manage. Honoring your theory, you allowed your fingers to loosen. It was important for him to have some sort of control and you would grant him that. 

“I’d like it if you’d stay here with us.” 

His eyes narrowed. Daryl was far from clueless. He could sense the shift in the atmosphere, but an opening had been left for him, a way to retreat. A sliver of tension melted from his muscles, you could feel the taut tendons relax beneath your touch. 

“A’ight.” He rasped, unceremoniously tipping back onto his ass. You weren’t sure if the space he left between the two of you was intentional. It didn’t matter. He had chosen to stay, the implications of that decision still unclear.

Your smile was a tight line, gaze lingering on him for a moment before you looked down at Birdie, her eyes heavy-lidded as she suckled, little hand wrapped around Daryl’s finger. When had he reached over? Her skin was so pale in comparison, soft and delicate where Daryl’s was tan and calloused. Those hands were so gentle with your daughter. With you. 

You longed to return to that time, when it was all new and a path was being carved toward a future together. Would you ever be that way again? You had to try. For Birdie and for the sake of your own heart. 

“I’ll never make a decision about her again without talking to you.” You blurted without looking away from the tender moment. There was an unnerving silence that awoke a nauseating fear inside you. “Please talk to me.” You continued to avoid meeting his eyes. “I’m not willing to lose this—us.”

“Ain’t losin’ nothin’.” 

Your head snapped up to find him watching you, expression hard and wary. “I’m—you’re not—”

“Nah.” Daryl shook his head and sniffed, rubbing his cheek against his shoulder as if alleviating an itch that may or may not have been actually there. “Just—I dunno.”

You wanted to tell him you got it, that you understood, but you didn’t. You couldn’t possibly. His trauma was wound so deep within the tendrils of his soul that it was possible some had become permanent, never able to heal. He would need to work through this, but he wouldn’t do it alone. You could still support him. Not understanding didn’t mean not caring. 

“I love her, Daryl. I was—I am—struggling, but I love her and I’d never hurt her.” You blew out a breath through pursed lips, holding his gaze despite the myriad of feelings that stirred behind your ribs. “I love you.”

He blinked fast, his eyes wet. He sniffed again, his jaw ticking as he looked away, side to side, up then down, anywhere but at you. “Y/N, I—”

“Hey, Daryl?” You turned to glare over your shoulder at Glenn. He was looking straight up, likely to avoid seeing your breast even as Birdie had the nipple sealed between her lips. One day, the lovable idiot would learn to read the room. “You think you can could go see about some game? I know it’s cold, I know, but we could use—”

“No, he can’t.” You snapped with a little more vexation than you had expected or meant, but from the way the man flinched and started backing away, your point had been made. 

“What’d ya do that for?” You found Daryl’s angry eyes awaiting you when you turned around, though he was working hard to heat the pointed glare. “Can speak for myself.”

The sigh that left you was nothing less than exasperated. “I know you can but we,” you freed a hand from beneath your daughter to gesture back and forth between her and yourself, “need you here.”

He was at war with himself, that much was obvious, blue orbs flitting back and forth. He had responsibilities tearing him in two, his duty toward the group in the throes of a never ending battle against his commitment to you and Birdie. You thought he would give in to the demands of Rick and the others, and you couldn’t fault him. Your heart sank when he stood and moved out of your view. 

“Daddy’ll be back, baby girl. He’s just going to—” The weight of a blanket settled across your shoulders seconds before Daryl lowered himself to sit at your side, his hip and shoulder pressing against yours. He didn’t smile, still tense and circumspect, but leaned closer, nearly resting his head against yours so he could stroke the baby’s cheek. 

“Told ya I can speak for myself.” He huffed. “And m’gonna stay right here.”

[ninibeingdelulu]

— headcanons ft. eren yaeger, armin arlet, jean kirstein, levi ackerman, sae itoshi, meguru bachira, oliver aiku, michael kaiser

How the aot and bllk boys (man for levi duh) react when they’re jealous. (Separated)

armin & meguru :

Armin's all gentle smiles and soothing words, even when jealousy eats at him inside. But that boyish gaze goes all moony and distant if he thinks someone's getting too flirty around his girl.

Meguru wears his heart on his sleeve in the most adorable way. Can't hide the wounded puppy vibes and dejected pouts whenever another guy checks you out - retreating into insecure mumbles until you shower him in reassurance and cuddles.

Both prefer dealing with jealousy through quiet clinginess. Armin starts finding every excuse to sidle up beside you, sneaking little hand-squeezes and playing footsie under tables until you're the sole target of those puppy-dog blues again.

As for Meguru, just try prying his koala-hugs off you once the green-eyed monster rears up. Trailing you room-to-room with those massive bambi eyes begging for constant little pecks and whispered affirmations that all's well.

Honestly, their reactions are so damn wholesome - making you melt into puddles over how lucky you are. Because Armin and Meguru have zero bones about baring those insecurities and need for constant validation when jealous, appealing to your nurturing instincts.

jean & oliver :

Jean's the definition of saltiness incarnate when worked up over some douchecanoe making moves. One second snapping sarcastic remarks in true wiseass style, only to deflate into petulant, brooding silences while scowling absolute daggers at the source of his ire.

Oliver radiates this aura of sneering superiority like the cocky asshole he is - until you bring another guy around the mix, that is. Then it's like watching his ego shrivel up in real-time as those cutting snide comments get more frantic and eager to impress.

Neither outright admits feeling jealous, naturally. Jean's too much of a prickly tsundere to open up like that, venting through increasingly aggressive banter and machismo overcompensation instead.

Oliver on the other hand masks his emotions behind bravado and nonchalance - until he's outright sulking like a petty bitch. Little comments about how he's "surrounded by delusional fuckboys" whenever your eyes linger too long.

But strip away those salty layers? A surprisingly clingy neediness to their flare-ups - making grabby moves and crowding in close until your full attention's back on worshipping their prowess. Jean snaking his arms around your waist or Oliver literally tugging you into his lap with smug satisfaction.

levi & michael :

Living embodiments of the 'ice cold stoicism' stereotype when jealous - seemingly nonplussed while internally simmering. But those sharp gunmetal gazes take on this menacing bite, silently peeling challengers apart with lethal intensity.

You'd never know it bugged Levi much, aside from that imperceptible twitching tic in his jaw. Not until he corners you alone in some secluded nook to silently tower over you with molten pewter embers, finally unleashing that restrained possessiveness.

As for Michael, his suave composure never slips - unless you really look for the micro warning signs. Those broad shoulders squaring up a fraction, faintly challenging pheromones wafting off his form at random passersby catching your gaze in a silent warning: 'She's mine.'

Neither demands verbal reassurances or constant affection when jealous (like they'd ever be so weak). But they crave physical reminders of ownership - whether Levi outright hoisting you against the nearest wall for frenzied, filthy claims...or Michael wordlessly seizing your collar before devouring your mouth into searing, desperate plunders of dominion.

They'll punish you later for inciting such unbecoming loss of control, of course. But for those volcanic instants, you've never felt more secure as their coveted prize to be marked and possessed at their impulse.

eren & sae :

Imagine a pair of possessive, volatile firebrands who wear jealousy like a hair-trigger aggression when set off. Because god help any poor sap who so much as breathes in your direction the wrong way when Eren or Sae's on the warpath.

Eren makes zero effort masking those raging, emerald-hot glowers whenever he's pissed over someone angling for your attention. Never one to pull punches - he'll barge over and start snapping, chest-puffing intimidation tactics like the alpha hardcase he is.

Sae, as for him, is this cool, cocky swagger on the surface over intruders. But piss him off enough, and that's when the foul-mouthed tirades rain from his laidback charisma...openly sneering about "handling the competition" while issuing blatant possessive displays.

Neither boy wastes effort on subtext or 'hints.' If jealous, they become wildly handsy and overt in staking aggressive marks - yanking your bodies flush together before ravaging any visible piece of flesh into lurid lovebites and hickies as clear 'backoff' signage.

Expect Eren and Sae busting out their filthiest dirty talk, too. Vulgar obscenities about how much their woman fucking craves every growled inch of their exclusive claim on you. How their prowess leaves zero need for any other paltry admirers in your orbit...right as they crowd you deeper into some poor sap's periphery. Absolute savagery.

[writing-havoc]

HII! HOW ARE YOU? Okay so i have a kaz brekker x reader request but it's kinda meh but i just can't stop thinking about it. And it's kinda similar to your fic 'high' (my favorite piece of media EVER)

So fem!reader (or gn whichever is easier for you<3) drunk and makes fun of the way kaz talks and his hair and the way how he's really bossy. (I would so call him emo king) and he's just trying to get her to take a bath (be a fish) and rest.

Please please don't feel pressured you can just ignore this. Don't forget to drink water. Have a nice day or night love youu<3

Loverboy

♡ Summary: Kaz comes and fetches you after you have a bit too much to drink. Getting you to bathe and rest for the night is a little more difficult than he remembers.

♡ Pairing: Kaz Brekker x Reader

♡ Fandom: Six of Crows, Grishaverse

♡ Warning(s): Alcohol, Nudity (not smut)

♡ WC: 3.5k

Hello hello!!! Thank you for your request <3 I'm doing pretty alright thank you for asking. I hope you're doing okay!

I loved being prompted to expand on this and experiment with how it would go. To be honest that's also one of my fav pieces of work that I've done, and I'm glad someone else holds the same joy for it that I do!

Anyway, here it is!! Hope you enjoy it anon, ly <3

Please excuse any grammar and spelling mistakes

∘₊✧──────────────────✧₊∘

"Oh for Ghezen's sake just put one foot in front of the other." Kaz nipped, pushing just a bit harder on your back.

Your head was lolling back and to the side, unwillingly looking at the stars. Yet your eyes remain half closed, barely a fraction of your pupil visible in the moonlight. A smile is painted on your face the whole time, lips chapped and cracked from dehydration. "'M tryin' Kaz. But my head is just, so heavy and the stars 're so pretty."

"I know I know- hold on to the cane- the cane!"

He shouldn't have let you have those last few drinks, but unfortunately you batted your little lashes and made the same little promises you do after enough time has passed for his memories to become just a little bit muddled and forget how far from the truth your promises are.

You'll say you'll be fine. You'll say you'll get home safe. You'll say you'll see him soon.

But you can't really fulfill any of those. So he at least has the foresight to stay with you, or to have someone else stay with you and come get him when you down more than your promised two or three.

And he makes a big deal out of it, saying all these things and talking like he's annoyed with you, but really?

He's not.

Not as much as he thinks he should be anyway. If he had heard anybody else complaining as much as he does in his own head he'd stuff his own glove in their mouth and tell them to deal with their inadequate relationship elsewhere.

But it's him, and it's you, and it's different.

You're not like them. You're not violent or a verbal tyrant or negligent.

"Did I ever tell you..." You start, then chuckle to yourself when you straighten up and sway around. "Did I ever tell you that kin'a remind me of a cat with your hair slicked back like that?"

You're,,, silly. And he feels silly saying that but you are. It's the perfect word to describe you when you get like this. Light jabs at the things you like about him, your feet walking to a rhythm in your head that makes you stop and go and speed and slow at random, laughing at the most mundane things.

"I don't believe you have, no." You definitely have. But he allows you to repeat it.

The Slat is wonderfully empty as he opens the door. Only a few people occupy the tables off to the side, but they're just as drunk as you are, and he doubts they can see this far from their drooling.

"Come on." He leads you over to the stairs. "Up we go."

You lean on the rail, shaking your head, smile gone. "Mh-mhn. I can't." You continue to shake your head, eyes closed. "Your leg is bad."

Silly.

"Good observation. Your legs, however, are fine, if a bit wobbly. Up you come." He tries again to coax you up, to no avail. You lean on the rail more, even pushing into it.

He forgot how much you resemble an ox when it comes to getting you to do something. It's like you contain this ability to just plant yourself anywhere and stick no matter the force that's pulling or pushing you.

"Your leg is bad. I can't go up."

"My bad leg does not effect your ability to walk up the stairs." He says as gentle as possible.

"But it does."

He sighs. "Could you explain to me why that is?"

Your bottom lip pushes out just barely, eyes opening and looking at him through your lashes. It's a look that would have any man in Kerch on their knees, he's sure of it. "Need your help."

His heart sunk. "Just grab the railing and my cane, dove. I'll take my good leg up first."

You analyzed the stairs, scrutinizing them. "Promise?"

"You know I don't make-"

"Promise?" A hint of anger bubbled in your tone, the same firmness in your eyes when you snapped your head to look at him.

He takes a deep breath. "I promise."

And just like that you were ready to ascend the stairs. You grabbed the railing, clumsily reaching out for his cane which he gave readily.

Even in your drunken state, you knew exactly which stairs creaked and which ones were just this side of broken. You skipped a stair, glaring at it as Kaz ascended with his good leg first, then continued with your usual lax expression.

He tried to step with his bad leg, but you immediately backtracked and held his cane firmly, holding him back as well. "You promised." You bit out.

"I did." He switched back, good leg going up, slowly edging you along. "It just slipped my mind."

"Nothin' slips your mind." You pouted, begrudgingly ascending when the cane went too far to hold close.

"Important things," he corrected. "Important things don't slip my mind."

You yanked on the cane, making him look at you. "You're important."

And he... doesn't know what to do with that.

Of course in whatever realm you were occupying he'd be important. He's important for a lot of things. His businesses, his club, whatever constitutes as leader of the crows.

It's not that he thinks he's not important. He just forgets to take into account that with you, he's important in the little things too.

Pointing him where to massage on his leg when it's giving him trouble, bringing him fresh tea when he tries to drink the day old stuff pushed to the corner of his desk, at least reminding him to sleep when the clock reaches two bells in the dark hours.

And right now, when you force him to take the pressure off his poorly healed shin.

"You're right." He confirms, helping you to the top of the stairs. "I am. Now come on."

When he began to lead you to his room, you groaned and stood in place. "Noo. I don' wanna fish."

His mouth struggled to stay in a line, corners quirking up. "You have to fish. You're sweaty and you smell like alcohol."

"I's a good smell."

"You gag in the morning when you smell it."

"Hogwash, you walking shadow."

He tugged you along, walking ahead of you and up the stairs to the attic. His help wasn't much needed here with how narrow and more secure the steps were, but you needed the extra hand to coax you up and towards your inevitable bath.

His office was dark, the only thing preventing the room from being cast in complete darkness was the street lights outside pushes a faint yellow glow through the window.

A lantern was stored in a bookcase next to the door for this reason. He clipped his cane onto his belt and hooked a finger under the handle, giving you little assurances that he wasn't going to let you fall while he navigated the room he knew by heart.

He parked you by his makeshift desk, guiding your hands to the desktop for some leverage while he rustled through a cabinet for the matches.

Immediately you were enthralled with the fire. Nina thinks you were an Inferni in your past life, and he finds the idea hard to not believe as he watches your once droopy eyes widen and follow the ball of fire in his hand as it lights the lantern.

He closes the shade, putting out the match and watching you smile as the whole room lights up.

"So bright." You whisper, as if it's your first time seeing fire.

He shrugs off his coat, throwing it over the back of his chair. "Very. Don't touch it."

You pout, taking your hand away. "I don't know what you're referring to."

He takes the lantern from where it rests on the desk, unhooking his cane and walking to the bathroom. "Come take your bath."

"'Come take your bath'." You mock him. "You're a bossy bossy man, you know that?"

He can't see you as he hangs the lantern on a hook, but he knows your hands are on your hips and your head cocked to the side. You always became so sassy when the initial fuzziness seems to wear off.

"It's what im paid for." He calls, swirling the basin of water he had filled up before he left. It was only expected that you should get a bath tonight, and he didn't want to wake anybody now of all times to come and fill it up.

"Youre not getting paid right now."

He didn't have any soap. He used up all of his last time and you usually keep yours tucked in your room, eager to hide its existence from greedy hands.

Just water will have to do, since he doesn't trust you to not fall asleep in the time it will take to go to your room and retrieve yours from your spare set of shoes.

He exits the bathroom, coming face to face with you. "I should be with how I'm ordering you around right now."

He waves you over, and it seems at this point you're becoming too tired to really fight back. You shrug off your outer layers, leaving them in a pile on the floor that you attempt to kick to the side. It's seems you think that you did away with them well enough, but really you just kind of spread them around.

That will have to come later, he thinks, and then puts a hand on your bare shoulder as you take off your shirt, throwing it over the side of the basin. Your pants come off and are thrown at its base, shoes somehow already off in the time span it took to check the tub and come retrieve you, socks following.

"You can keep your undergarments on if you'd like." He says, resting his cane against the wall.

"Oh don't get shy on me now, Kaz. You've seen me naked at least a dozen times." You look back at him, a shit eating smirk on your face.

He's thankful for the warm lantern light to obscure the warmth creeping up his neck and nipping at his ears. "Only because we end up in situations like these. It's more efficient to just get you clean now than have you complain in the morning and almost throw up in the tub."

You moan, the sound throaty and like gravel. "I don't wanna be a fish."

"You dont have to be one for long. Just a few minutes until you're clean."

"Can' be clean if there's no soap."

"We can at least get most of the grime off. Come on, one leg over the other."

Slowly, you climb into the tub, Kaz helping you get in with minimal sloshing.

And now comes the hard part.

His gloves are made of leather. He can't dunk and soak them in the water and expect them to be fine later.

They come off quicker than last time, but just as shakey. He puts on two pairs of cloth ones he's kept in here since the third time this happened, when it became apparent that this would happen again and several more times after.

Once they're on he flexes his hand, feeling the cold unforgiving waves slosh at his knees and lick up his thighs.

It's not the same. It's a bath. It's you.

"Can you get your body?" He asks, though. Because as much as he'd like to be of some help here he can't help but need to touch you the least amount as possible.

You think it over, stretching out as much as the tub allows before nodding. "M'yeah, I can do it."

He hands you a rag, watching it sink under the water and become several shades darker.

He turns around and allows you to do your thing, but knows your routine from when you, Nina, and Jesper had a heated debate about which order to wash your body in.

You'll wash your neck and chest first, digging into your collars bones and over your shoulders, then do you arms, followed by your torso and around your back. Then you'll scrub at your legs, moving to your face, then your waist, then your feet.

It'll take about ten minutes to go over every part, scrubbing in places you think have the most grime, and all the while having your shampoo already scrubbed into your hair so that you can rinse everything out all at once.

But you're tired and drunk, and he doesn't know how far you'll make it down your list until you eventually get frustrated or too exhausted or both.

He listens to the water in the tub move as your scrub yourself beneath its surface. A throaty hum emanates from your throat, a tune oddly familiar to the song that plays in the club filling the room.

Every once in a while you'll sigh, the water halting. He'll lean back and ask if you're alright, and you'll hum and get right back to scrubbing.

It's fifteen minutes before you say anything.

"You alright t' do my hair?"

His stomach churns, acid bubbling at its entrance.

"Ill be fine."

He turns, gesturing with his finger for you to lean your head into the water.

There's a pause before he reaches into the cold depths, wondering if he actually /will/ be fine.

When you look at him, eyes rimmed in red and glassy, he scrounges up whatever stability and modicum of the word "cope" he has and dunks them in.

Immediately he finds your hair, burying his fingers between the strands and finding your scalp.

It's hard to feel anything besides temperature with these gloves, and your head is practically burning against the cool water.

You're definitely cold. He can tell by your flushed cheeks and the way you curl your arms around your waist, goosebumps littering your arms. Yet you remain warm under his touch.

He watches the little hairs on your arm wave in the bath current as he scrubs, almost hypnotizing in their back and forth movement as you move to let them rest against your thighs.

But it's not enough.

He's scrubbing your hair, trying so hard to just focus on the grime under his fingers as his hands make the cold water slosh. The feeling is oddly familiar to the waves coating his hands as they dunk half under as he clings to blue flesh.

But you look at him, and your giggle is like little bells that keep him above water, just for the moment.

"You know what you look like?" You ask. "You look like- oh, what's that new style they got goin' on?"

He has no idea what you're talking about. Fashion trends are far beneath his radar unless necessary for a job.

You snap your fingers, pointing up at him. "Emo!"

That makes his eyebrows raise. Because he is familiar with Emo, because a bunch of kids called him that when they were out much past their bedtime. They found it necessary to shout it at him while he was passing by, laughing as they ran into an alleyway.

"I don't think that's accurate." He manages to get out, dunking your head a little further to cover your ears and get the wisps of hair in front of them.

"It's sooo accurate." You draw out your o's, blinking slowly and out of sync. "Emo king."

He sighs. "Whatever you say, little fish."

You pout, moving away from him and turning belly down, chin dipping into the water. "I thought I was your dove."

Again, thankful for that warm light. It makes his stomach feel all twisty the way you say "your". For just a moment, he let's himself smile, really smile, and puts his chin on his hands. "You are. But right now, you're a fish."

You huff, turning back and putting your head within reach. "Okay, mister emo cat."

He sighs, beginning to scrub at the parts of your scalp that he already got but feels he needs to do another once over for. "I am neither emo nor a cat."

"Tell that to your hair, loverboy."

Loverboy.

He scoffs, taking his hands from your hair. "Your hair's done. Get out so you can dry off."

You laugh at your accomplishment, sitting up and scrunching your hair as he discards his wet gloves on a towel rack and dries himself off.

Honestly, loverboy? He's not some lovesick puppy. Loverboy applies to those who are unfathomably whipped, wrapped around their partners finger and touching at all times. It has no place being in the same sentence that his likeness occupies except to say that he is not a 'loverboy'.

He hands you a towel as you get out of the tub, heading to his closet to fetch you some of his clothes.

"An old one, please?" You yell out to him.

"I know." He calls back.

If he can help it he replaces his button ups every few months. But you like the ones that are just around that area of wear and tear. In your words, they "ain't tight and smell like him. Win win."

He doesn't bother with pants, but grabs a pair of his underwear for you to change into instead that he knows you'll find more comfortable.

As he limps back to the bathroom, he halts as he analyzes his thoughts and actions.

Fuck. Maybe he /does/ deserve the name Loverboy.

The realization almost makes him groan and sit down on the floor right then and there.

Can't he just carve his heart out? Isn't that what the poets and song writers do?

Alas, he is neither a poet nor a musician. So he will instead take the long way out, and bring you his clothes and get you into into his bed before the third bell chimes.

He hands you the clothes, watching your face light up for a moment before he exits to his office to clean up the mess you made.

The beak of his cane hooks under your coat, dragging it up and into his hand which he then throws onto the chair. You hate getting it off the coat rack, half the time pulling it with you when you take your coat back. So he sets it here for now, and takes your shoulder bag and shoes and organizes them around the chair just as you usually do.

"I think I found my new look."

He turns around, seeing you trying to pose against the wall. It's supposed to be sultry and sexy, but it definitely does not read that way with your soaked hair, stiff back, and uncooperative limbs.

"If you think so." He nearly chuckles, taking his gloves from your hands and slipping them onto his own, and then retrieves the lantern from the bathroom. "Come to bed."

Thankfully, you seem to love the idea of the bed. It doesn't take much to lead you to the little nook he calls his bedroom. He hooks the lantern to the wall as your body slumps onto his partially eaten sheets.

"Mmm." You hum, smile hidden under your squashed cheek. "Warm."

"Doubtful." He jabs, unfolding a blanket at the foot of the bed and draping it over you.

"It really is. Should try it sometime." You poke at the space beneath your eye, tongue sticking out.

He assumes you're referencing the eye bags that have taken permanent residence on his face, to which he rolls his eyes and hikes up the blanket to cover your back. You hate the cold creeping in.

If you wake up cold in the morning, you will be cold for the rest of the day. And unfortunately for you, you have a job in about six hours.

The less you have to complain about, the better.

"Ill try it later." He promises. "For now, you need it more."

You mumble something, but with the way your eyes are drooping he figures you're not even aware you said anything at all.

As you doze off, he half sits on his nightstand, and watches your breathing begin to slow and even out. It's loud at first, but eventually you grow quieter and quieter, muscles relaxing as you sink into his hard mattress.

Your hair is thrown about everywhere, still wet from your bath, and you'll need Nina to remove a kink in your shoulder in the morning. But for now, you're calm, and safe, and that's enough.

He takes a deep breath, just the same as you do, and then sighs.

"Goodnight, little fish." He mumbles, and then stands, off to collect the ingredients for a hangover tonic and catch up on paperwork.

∘₊✧──────────────────✧₊∘

Tags:

@b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r @a-candle-maker

[solalunar-eclipse]

No-Way Mirror

Inspired by this fantastic comic and a conversation I had with the talented @sharpedgedfool.

TW: blood, minor punctures, brief mention of the sensation of blood being drawn (and of course blood drinking)

Also available to read on AO3!

(This was mostly written before my hiatus began, I just wanted to finish editing it in a semi-reasonable timeframe, ahaha.)

...

Shadow continued to smile wryly after his admission, allowing himself a faint laugh. “The best part is,” he continued, “I can’t even begin to imagine how a vampire would go unnoticed for any length of time. Their teeth are massive, surely anyone bitten by them would scream and get them caught almost immediately?”

What Sonic said next came as a bit of a surprise. “I could show you, if you want.”

Shadow glanced over in confusion, finding that same self-confident smirk still on Sonic’s face. “What?”

“I can show you what a vampire’s bite actually feels like.” he explained, throwing in a cheeky wink for good measure.

Ah. That made more sense. Shadow rolled his eyes. Sonic was probably trying to goad him into a fight of some sort or another—or perhaps even being flirtatious. He did tend to match Rouge’s energy at times, though this was the first instance Shadow had noticed where he had done so without the bat being directly present.

Well, he had been at the party for a while anyway, and he was tired enough of socializing that he was willing to humor Sonic, for his own entertainment if nothing else.

He pushed off the wall, shrugging. “Sure. Why not?”

The blue hedgehog’s eyes widened, and Shadow took a bit of pride in having thrown off his companion. “Really? I mean, heck yeah, man!” Sonic grinned, leading him towards the back of the house. This wasn’t his place, it was Amy’s, meaning both that Sonic probably knew it almost as well as his own and that Shadow was distinctly less willing to tear it up than he might have been if it were Sonic’s home.

Once they’d made their way down the hall and into a side room, Shadow raised a skeptical eyebrow at Sonic. “So, what’s this ‘vampire bite’ supposed to feel like, exactly?”

Instead of replying, Sonic took a deep breath, steadying himself—

—and then lunged.

Shadow was practically thrown backwards, only catching himself half upright on the desk that happened to be by the window. A sharp, pinching pain radiated from his neck, but it soon settled down into a duller yet persistent ache.

Had that moron actually gone and bitten him as a joke?!

For a fraction of a second, Shadow was prepared to tear into Sonic, both verbally and also physically if necessary, but then he noticed something else that left his limbs feeling oddly as if they’d been filled with lead.

The teeth currently buried in his neck were…very sharp. And, now that he was thinking about it, very long, especially for a hedgehog that hadn’t been genetically modified like him. Shadow had gotten his blood drawn enough times in his life to know what the sensation of blood leaving his body felt like, and he could also feel that in his veins.

Okay. New assessment of the situation. Sonic was, quite possibly, an actual vampire. Which meant that vampires were real. And Sonic was currently drinking his blood.

Shadow wasn’t really sure what to make of all this. He didn’t exactly want to try and rip two vampire fangs out of his neck—while he would heal fast enough that his health wouldn’t be a concern, it would hurt a hell of a lot worse than it currently did.

Thankfully, before he could think much farther than that, Sonic seemed to rouse himself slightly. He shifted a little, exhaled against Shadow’s neck (and wasn’t that a whole host of other things the hybrid would prefer to never unpack), and then slowly retracted his teeth.

Almost nervously, Sonic took a few steps backwards, his lips stained a green that would normally have been only a shade or two lighter than his eyes. Right now, though, his irises burned as crimson as Shadow’s. That was a little odd considering he hadn’t just consumed red blood, but Shadow had already been made quite pointedly aware that his knowledge about vampires was severely lacking.

“Um.” Sonic said, the picture of eloquence as always. “…I kinda expected you to throw me through a window by now.”

Shadow blinked. “Why?”

“I dunno, maybe ‘cause I just bit ya and drank your blood for a solid ten seconds?” Sonic shot back, but his raised quills made the comment seem less like a quip and more like an accusation. Accusing who, the hybrid hedgehog wasn’t sure.

“Honestly, I…just can’t find it in myself to be all that bothered,” Shadow said, still feeling a bit distant and bewildered.

Sonic frowned, stepping forward again to look more closely at Shadow. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t take enough for you to be dealing with blood loss, but you seem kinda out of it.”

Shadow looked away, paying a little more attention to how he was feeling for a moment. “I think I’m just overwhelmed.” he explained softly. “I was already beginning to feel a bit strained from the party, and this is…not bad, necessarily, just a lot to process on top of all that.”

“I didn’t mean to do that.” Sonic looked uncomfortable and guilty, and Shadow didn’t particularly enjoy seeing him that way.

“Here,” he offered, “why don’t you walk me home? That way I have more time to ask you some questions in a place that isn’t keeping either of us cooped up.” A place that isn’t keeping you from stretching your legs, Shadow didn’t say, but heavily implied.

A soft half-smile, so unlike his usual cocky smirks, spread across Sonic’s face. “That sounds great, honestly.”

The two of them left through the back door, each texting their friends to let them know that they were leaving early. Despite the fact that Sonic had a lot more people to message, he finished at about the same time as Shadow, given that he was rather less concerned about any minor spelling errors and tended to type much more quickly.

They walked in silence together for a little while, Shadow gratefully taking the time to process what had happened.

So, Sonic’s a vampire. What now?

…well, do I really even have to do anything? Sure, he drinks blood, but he has far too strict of a moral code to actually hurt anyone permanently. And he’s been a vampire this entire time, long before I knew, and there haven’t been any problems, so…I suppose this doesn’t really change much at all.

It seemed the silence was too good to last, though, because Sonic spoke up. “Hey, uh…sorry. About drinkin’ your blood a little, back there. I really figured you’d, like, punch me in the face or Chaos Blast me off or something.”

Shadow blinked, drawn suddenly out of his thoughts, and accidentally said the first thing that came to mind. “I honestly forgot I could do that.”

Sonic let out a laugh that was half genuine, half disbelieving. “You forgot? How’d you forget about the thing that literally only you can do?”

“I just did.” Shadow insisted, only barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes at his companion. “And if you’re so sorry about it, then why didn’t you pull off as soon as you realized I wasn’t reacting?”

“I didn’t think I’d even get that far, really.” Sonic shrugged, and Shadow shot him a half-hearted glare.

“It wasn’t a date, Sonic, it was you biting my neck.” he retorted flatly.

The blue hero laughed again, this time a proper unrestrained cackle. “Aw, what, should I take you out to dinner next time first?”

Shadow nearly stopped walking, only just catching himself. “Maybe I ought to bite you ‘next time’, we’ll see how you like it.”

“Aw, c’mon, you wouldn’t bite lil’ old me, would you?” Sonic batted his eyelashes innocently, his fanged grin completely undercutting the image he was trying to portray.

Shadow had a feeling that Sonic was hoping to goad him into insisting that he would, so instead he tried a different tack, looking to throw the other off. “I suppose you’re right, given that I’m a vegetarian.” he said, adding a pointed, “unlike somebody currently present.”

Sonic abruptly started pouting, an expression Shadow didn’t often see on his face. “Hey, normally I’d just snag a few blood bags from the hospital! That’s at least better, right?”

“You what.” This time Shadow actually did stop walking.

The sharp tone of his voice alone had Sonic freezing mid-stride as well. “I mean, it—it’s not really that many! And I only take the ones that’re gonna expire, I swear!” He held his hands up defensively.

The hybrid let out a sigh. “Still, people might need those. Frankly, I’d rather have you bite me again than keep on raiding hospitals.”

Sonic’s uncharacteristic silence made Shadow hesitate. He looked at the vampire properly, only to see him wearing an expression that looked a little like someone had just smacked him with a live fish.

“You’d let me feed from you? Like, for real?” he asked, blinking and shaking his head as if to make sure he hadn’t just imagined Shadow’s words.

“I would.” Shadow insisted. “I can regenerate blood much more quickly than most people, so you might even be able to take more than you could from a hospital’s blood stores. It’s a win-win. You get a meal without the theft and uncertainty, and I get to know that you’re not stealing from hospitals anymore.”

Sonic stared at him in disbelief for a moment longer, before smiling more genuinely than he had throughout the entire rest of the night. “I’d—I’d honestly really appreciate that.” he said, rocking back on his heels.

Shadow nodded in agreement. “I’ll send you a message at some point to schedule a time, then, unless you get hungry soon. If so, you can text me—but don’t pretend to be hungry when you’re not!” he added quickly. “I’ll be able to figure it out if you do.”

“Cross my heart, I won’t!” Sonic said, doing the associated motion for bonus effect and adding a wink at the end. Clearly religious symbols (at least from human traditions) weren’t as good at dispelling vampires as they were made out to be.

“You’d better not.” Shadow scoffed lightly. “Now then, where—” he continued, looking around for a street sign, only to realize— “oh. This is my street.”

The vampire frowned unhappily. “Aw man, already?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be seeing me again before long.”

It was almost comical how quickly Sonic perked up. “Hey, good point! I’ll be seein’ ya ‘round soon, Shads!”

He dashed off before Shadow could even begin the sentence “Don’t call me that,” which was heard only by the empty space around him.

Shadow let out a tired sigh, and walked the last few meters to the front door of the building where Rouge’s apartment was. The receptionist at the front desk gave him a slightly odd look, but he paid them no mind as he stepped into the elevator, allowing himself to lean against the back wall only once the doors were closed.

He shut his eyes and exhaled. He didn’t regret making that offer, not one bit, but if every subsequent vampire encounter was going to be as draining (pun not intended) as this one had been, he might need to schedule them even more carefully than he’d originally thought.

Once the elevator arrived at the correct floor, he shuffled over to the apartment door and unlocked it with practiced ease, stepping inside and instantly beginning to shed his costume. It was only once he’d removed his cape that he caught sight of himself in the mirror and did a double-take.

There was an acid-green stain on the right shoulder of his shirt, marring the pristine white material. Shadow stepped closer to the mirror and took a closer look. Indeed, there were two puncture holes in the shirt’s neck on that side, showing exactly what had caused the stain.

Sonic had probably gotten saliva on his nice shirt too, the idiot. Shadow huffed in mild irritation as he pulled it off, heading to his room to hide the damage. He would see if it was salvageable tomorrow.

If not, then it seemed that he would be insisting upon a suitable replacement from Sonic the moment that vampire scheduled his first feeding session.

~~~~~~~~~~

AN: I said it on my reblog of the original comic, but I’ll say it again here as well—if you liked this, then please check out Orion’s Fleetway and Shadow series! It’s very similar, very well-written, and much longer than this small piece.

[shakespeareanwannabe]

As You Wish, Chapter 3

Summary: When arriving at Camp Silver Star, Abby Floyd was anticipating a summer of adventure with an ocean separating her from the three people she loved most: her mom, her Uncle Bob and her Aunt Natasha. But after a run in with Charlie Seresin, an extremely familiar looking and irritating camper in a different cabin, her summer plans take a turn that neither girl ever could have expected.

Trigger Warnings: reader's children are described as being blond with green eyes because genetics are wild and Jake's genes are strong, reader is canonically Bob's sister, reader goes by Buttercup and is tattooed, swearing, verbal arguing, references to divorce, death of a character, injuries, misinformation about the US Navy and how it works (I tried my best)

Briefing Room, Classified Location, 11 years ago

Briefing rooms after missions go horrifically sideways were typically quiet. Those who were involved in the mission were usually too busy inside their own heads, trying to shove feelings and memories into tiny little lockboxes that would then get shoved into other boxes and hidden in the dark recesses of the mind, only springing free when things got…dark. The top brass was usually reading reports and gathering steam, preparing to bring the hand of God down upon the person (or people) who were responsible for the mission going…poorly. Therefore, the rooms were usually can-hear-a-pin-drop quiet, but they were never this…still. This silent.

The fifteen lieutenants stood in four rows and, while most of them were four people deep, the one missing a person stood out in cold contrast, as did the empty spot at the front of the room, where the team leader usually stood. Cyclone, Warlock and Hondo stood just past that spot; heads ducked together in a whispered conversation. Besides that, nobody moved. Nobody stirred. Not Bob, balancing on a pair of crutches with a cast bracing his leg up to his knee. Not Fritz, his arm strapped against his chest to immobilize it. Not Rooster, with a black and purple bruise on his temple, or Coyote, a neat row of stitches gracing his cheek, or Hangman, who felt a painful twinge every time he breathed, the binding protecting his bruised and fractured ribs pulling taut with every inhale. None dared to move or fidget.

Finally, Admiral Simpson moved into the empty space at the front of the room and sighed.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen…I don’t think I need to tell you what an absolute clusterfuck that was.” Fanboy flinched, his head ducking fractionally as the words carried clear across the gathering. “In fact, it was such an absolute clusterfuck that Rear Admiral Cain has decided to disband the Dagger Squad. Immediately.”

Jake heard Yale gasp behind him, and he would have too, if it weren’t for the sinking weight in his chest. The mission had been a clusterfuck, there was no doubt about it, but they had achieved their mission. He had risked his ass after watching Maverick’s plane get shot out of the sky, putting all thought of his little Charlie girl waiting for him at home and the whisper of ‘god damnit, Buttercup was right’ out of his head, and he had taken charge. He had been the one to pull Rooster out of his single-minded mission to avenge Mav’s death, he had been the one to take down the jet that had been targeting an ejected Bob and Natasha, and he, Payback and Fanboy had been the ones to deliver the payload in the end, effectively taking out the target.

He had brought all but one of them home safely, but he didn’t feel any sense of relief, or even grief over Mav’s death. All he felt was the warmth of his baby girls, curled up against his chest as he rocked them in their nursery. All he tasted was the sweetness of Buttercup’s kiss, all he smelled was that newborn baby smell that he swore to God was the best thing he’d ever smelled in his life. All he saw was Buttercup’s tear-stained face as she gathered Abby in her arms and left, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing in his ears. If his reaction time had been even a millisecond slower, he could’ve been in Mav’s position, and then what? What would happen to his Charlie then?

“…because of the nature of this mission, disbanding the Dagger Squad, and because you all are the best of the best, the Rear Admiral has decided to make you an offer. As you know, the Navy doesn’t often let you make very many decisions, so I want you to think carefully before you respond, because we do need your answer today. Your first option is to be absorbed into another Squad; in which case you would be shipping out today for your new assignments. Yes, Lieutenant Fitch, if both members of your team decide to go with option one, you will be keeping your WSO. Your second option is—”

The clatter of metal against wood stole the words from Cyclone’s lips, and everyone turned towards the mild-mannered, quiet, shy WSO standing behind the glaringly empty space in the third row.

“—retirement, with a full pension and an honourable discharge,” Cyclone finished, staring down at Bob’s nameplate, lying on the desk beside him.

“I think it’s pretty clear what I choose,” the WSO spoke softly, but no one in the squad could miss the barely tempered rage in his voice.

“Lieutenant Floyd—”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted,” Warlock stepped up next to Cyclone.

“I almost died on this mission,” Bob stated frankly, his gaze never wavering from Cyclone’s face. “I had to eject Lieutenant Trace and I from our aircraft after she was struck in the face by shrapnel that broke through our windshield and destroyed her helmet. Debris that came from Maverick’s plane.” The silence was heavy, tension mounting with every word, but Bob pressed on. “Nat’s never going to fly again. They already told me. And frankly, sir? I don’t know if I have it in me to bond with another pilot after holding my best friend’s body as we waited for rescue, already knowing that our team lead was KIA.”

Cyclone opened his mouth to speak, but a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“I understand, son. If you, or anyone else, decide to retire, know that you’ll be going with the full gratitude of the US Navy,” Warlock responded.

“Thank you, sir,” Bob saluted, then propelled himself out of line, crutching past the waiting rows of his friends and coworkers as he headed for the door. “I’ll fill out any paperwork you need, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“There’s no need to pack and go so quickly.”

“All due respect, sir, but yes, there is,” he came to a stop in front of Jake and fixed him with a steely look. “My family needs me. And if I don’t help them, who will?”

Jake swallowed painfully, his heart pressing against his aching ribs with every heartbroken beat, the roar of fear and shame and anxiety swirling around in his head, blocking out every sound other than the whispers of his regrets.

This wasn’t how his life was supposed to go. Football captain, homecoming king, star pupil of the Naval Academy, he flew through OCS and aced his ASTB. He was the only pilot of his generation with a confirmed air to air kill, handpicked for Top Gun and their top-secret uranium mission. And, on top of all of that, up until six months ago, he’d had the most perfect, beautiful wife waiting for him at home with their precious newborn twins.

Now, he was a divorced single dad of one beautiful little girl. A beautiful little girl that he’d had to leave in the capable hands of Penny Benjamin when the Squad had been deployed. A beautiful little girl whose sister he missed so incredibly much that it threatened to bring him to his knees. Whose mother had been right about damn near everything.

“Lieutenant Seresin?”

Jake blinked, his vision and hearing coming back into focus as Cyclone stepped down to face him.

“I’m going to be frank with you, Lieutenant. You’re the best of the best,” Cyclone stated, stepping closer. “Your skills in the cockpit are unmatched and you showed the type of leadership qualities we need in this line of work. There are whispers of promoting you due to your actions on this last mission. With the loss of Captain Mitchell and your actions on this mission, you are now the only ace pilot that the Navy has to offer. You’d have your choice of assignments, should you choose to stay. It would be a damn shame to lose you, son.”

Jake felt something squeeze in his chest, and this time it wasn’t his busted ribs. Being a Naval aviator was the only thing he had ever wanted to be, and Jake Seresin always got what he wanted. He should be elated, planning for his move to the best naval base in the country, where they would probably let him lead his own squad after the way he led the Dagger Squad home safely, tearing victory from the jaws of defeat. He could be Lieutenant Commander Seresin.

Buttercup’s tears and the clicking of his apartment door as it swung shut.

Those bright baby blues that were just now starting to darken into the very same light green he saw in the mirror every morning.

The powdery scent of diaper powder and formula, and the solid warmth and weight of his baby girl in his arms.

“With all due respect, Admiral?” Jake pushed through the catch in his throat. “It would be even more of a damn shame for my daughter to lose her dad. I’m all she’s got. I…I can’t let her down. I can’t let her ever think there’s a chance in hell that her daddy ain’t comin’ back to her. I’m afraid I have to thank you for the opportunity and request that you tender my resignation. Sir.”

Cyclone sighed, a wave of disappointment cresting over his face as he opened his mouth to argue, to convince him to stay, but a firm hand gripped his shoulder.

“We understand,” Warlock reached out and shook his hand. “Thank you for your service, Lieutenant Seresin.”

Jake nodded, shaking his hand before turning and saluting Cyclone. “Thank you, sir.”

“I…I’m with him.” Jake turned and saw Javy saluting the two members of the brass.

“Coyote…”

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. I followed your ass on the football field, I followed your ass to the Naval Academy, and now I’m following your ass out the door. You’re not the only one Charlie’s got, man. You both got me.”

“And me.”

The two men turned to see Rooster fiddling with his name plate.

“Bradshaw…” Cyclone’s voice rose in shock.

“My mama never wanted this for me,” Bradley continued, as if he hadn’t heard him. “I know she didn’t. Hell, my mama never stepped another foot on a plane after my daddy died. She was too terrified of bein’ in the air, thinkin’ I might lose her too. I used to think that flying brought me closer to my dad, that I could feel him when I was alone in the cockpit.” He unpinned his name plate carefully, studying the engraving. Lt. Bradshaw. “I can’t feel him anymore,” he murmured. “I’m older than he ever got to be. And now Mav’s gone…” Rooster sighed. “I don’t think I’ll be able to shake this last mission, sir. I’d be a detriment to any team I join, and I don’t want to put anyone in that position. So…I’m walking away.”

“I…understand. Thank you, gentlemen, for your years of service.”

Rooster saluted, then the three men walked out of the briefing room, the weight of their actions blanketing them.

“So…what now?”

Jake rubbed at his ribs. “We go to Mav’s funeral…then I guess we go home.”

“And where exactly is home?” Rooster drawled. “I can’t imagine you want to stay in your apartment after…everything.”

Jake shook his head, his tactician’s brain kicking into high gear. “Javy?”

“Yeah, man?”

“I think it’s time we introduce Bradshaw here to some Texas barbecue.”

The Brig, Camp Silver Star, Present Day

“Amelia? You…you knew?” Charlie yanked at the t-shirt that felt like it was closing in around her neck.

Amelia kicked off her rainboots, shed her yellow raincoat, and shuffled towards them, gingerly taking a seat on Abby’s bed.

“Yeah…I knew.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Charlie’s hands clenched rhythmically as she tried to breathe.

“I didn’t know the two of you were here at the same time,” Amelia soothed. “I found out that day that cantaloupe ended up in the fruit salad. You both came to me to ask about it, and I went to find my mom right away. That’s when she told me that she had sent emails about the camp to your aunt and uncles, offering a friends and family discount if you came for these specific weeks.”

“A-Aunt Penny knew too?” Charlie croaked.

“She did. Charlie, I—”

Charlie shook her head, sending her blond braid flying, the end whipping at her face with the force of it. “No. No. This is all a coincidence. It has to be one big coincidence. My dad and your m-mom…them knowing each other doesn’t mean anything.”

“Charlie…” Amelia started, but Abby felt something snap inside of her.

“You’re not actually stupid enough to believe that, are you?” she spat. “Why can’t you just admit that it all makes sense? Our parents knew each other, they got married, and they had us. We have the same birthday, we look identical, and we have these pictures to prove it! Why is that so difficult for you to see?”

“Because it means he lied to me!” Charlie shrieked, burying her head in her hands. “He lied to me. My whole life. He hid my mom and my sister from me for twelve years! He’s my best friend, we tell each other everything, we do everything together, and he lied to me!”

Charlie’s shoulders shook with the force of heavy sobs as the wind whipped at the windows, making the cabin shake. She’d asked her dad about her mother for years, and he had never told her. And neither had Javy or Rooster, who so clearly knew her mother too. Her chest ached with the sting of betrayal, and she had no idea how she was supposed to go home and look her three favourite people in the eyes after finding out they had been hiding such a massive secret from her.

Charlie flinched as she felt an arm wrap around her shoulders, and she sniffled as her head was tugged onto Abby’s shoulder.

“W-why aren’t you angry?” she whispered.

“I honestly don’t know,” Abby murmured back, staring sightlessly out the window. “I know that I should be. I know that my mum and Uncle Bob and Auntie Nat lied by omission by not telling me about you and dad, but I just…can’t.”

“Why would they do this to us?” Charlie scrubbed at her face with the sleeve of her sweater. “How is it legal to say that each parent gets a kid, and they never have to see the other one?”

“They had a custody arrangement…” Amelia had moved to kneel at the edge of Charlie’s bed.

“What sick judge would agree to something like this?” Charlie hiccupped as Abby removed her arm and leaned forward, desperation shining in her eyes.

“No one,” Amelia sighed and turned her face downwards. “Now, I don’t have all the information. I was just a kid when your parents split up, and my mom and Mav tried to shield me from the worst of it. All I know is that they got engaged after dating for like a really short amount of time, then your mom found out she was pregnant with you two, and they eloped in Las Vegas. Mav was pissed.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t he like my mum?”

“He loved your parents, both of them. Hangman was a pain in the butt, but Mav wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. After that first mission they flew together, when Hangman saved Mav and Rooster’s life, nobody really cared that Hangman was cocky. The way he could needle at the other members of his squad, it only ever pushed them to be the best that they could be. I know Mav saw a lot of good in your dad, and he really cared about him. And your mom? I think Mav loved your mom because she really helped bring Hangman down to earth. He once told me, ‘Buttercup keeps Hangman’s feet on the ground while his brain is racing through the sky’,” Amelia chuckled. “God, I loved hanging around with your parents. They were so cool.”

“Wait…Buttercup?” Abby bit her lip. “That’s what my aunt and uncle call my mum. Well, that and kiddo.”

“Yeah, nicknames around Miramar kinda just…stuck. Your dad started calling your mom Buttercup, and that was that. She was Buttercup from then on.”

“She even has a buttercup tattoo on her collarbone,” Abby said excitedly, her mind racing with the implication.

“That’s great and all, but can we get back to the story? Why was Mav angry?”

“Because he wanted to be there when they got married,” Amelia laughed quietly. “The Dagger Squad got chosen to do an air show in Las Vegas, and Hangman was able to work it so that your mom could come. Mav didn’t question it at all, even though he knew they were engaged and expecting. Your dad had to do 200 pushups when he got back for not telling Mav the plan so that he could be there,” Amelia giggled. “But I never heard him complain about it. He thought your mom was worth it.”

“So then…what happened?”

“Like I said, I don’t know. My mom and dad split when I was younger, and I guess my mom thought that watching one of my favourite couples in the world split up might bring up some bad memories, so she and Mav sheltered me from a lot of it. I know they had a really bad fight, they both said some things, and then they split, and they each took one of you.”

“H-how did they decide who to take?” Charlie trembled.

“I honestly don’t know. But I know it was never supposed to be permanent. The custody arrangement, I mean.”

“Then what happened? Why did they keep us from each other?”

Amelia shrugged. “I know that it was partly your dad’s deployment schedule. It was hard to set up a visitation schedule when Dagger Squad was being called into action so often. Then, the pandemic hit, and nobody wanted to be sending really young kids on international flights where they could get sick and potentially have lasting complications. After that, I really don’t know.”

Charlie took a deep, shuddering breath as Abby chewed on her lower lip. The cabin was silent, save for the wind and rain lashing at the windows.

Finally, Amelia sighed. “I know this a big revelation for the two of you, and I hate to leave when you probably have a billion more questions. But I do have to get back. I’ll be back later tonight to collect your tray, and I’ll hopefully have more time to answer your questions. Okay?”

Abby nodded but Charlie sat stock still, staring into space.

“Charlie?” Amelia called softly, ducking her head to catch her gaze. “Are we okay, hon?”

Charlie nodded mutely and Amelia returning it with a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll see you both later.”

“Bye Amelia,” Abby called softly as the door swung shut behind her.

Silence fell for a brief moment before Abby looked over at Charlie.

“What are you thinking?”

“Shhh…” Charlie hissed, but Abby didn’t take offense. It was clear from the deep set of Charlie’s eyebrows and the pensive look in her eyes that she was planning something. No…plotting something.

Abby shrugged and walked over to the small card table that held their trays of food. Two small Thermos’ of chili, an array of Ziploc bags filled with cheese, chili flakes, bacon bits, and sour cream, and two snack sized bags of tortilla chips were seated neatly on the silver trays, and Abby felt her stomach grumble.

She had just sat down to her freshly topped chili when Charlie moved, sitting across from her with a steely look in her eyes.

“Charlie?”

“I want to get to know my mom,” she stated simply, as though she was saying that the sky was blue or that grass was green.

Abby nodded eagerly. “I know! I can’t wait to get to know dad! Maybe we could call him together on Friday and talk to him together? And then we could do the same for mum!”

Charlie shook her head. “No. I mean really get to know her. I want to meet her in person. I want to be able to hug her. I want to spend time with her, and I want to be able to do that without having to spend time answering questions about how we found each other or her trying to tell me about what happened between her and dad.”

“I…I want that too,” Abby confessed, though Charlie’s words were confusing her. “And we can do that. Once they know that we know, we’ll be able to use that custody agreement and see mum and dad, and each other, more often.”

Charlie shook her head again. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to talk to dad. Or Rooster. Or Javy. They lied to me for my whole entire life! I’m so mad at them that I’ll probably just scream the whole time we’re talking to them. Besides, whose to say that they won’t make excuses and not let us see each other again? What happens if they just decide that I can’t see mom and you don’t get to see dad?”

“They wouldn’t do that!”

“Abby, they already did do that!” Charlie reached out and grabbed Abby’s wrist, her gaze pleading. “Don’t you want to get to know dad without having to deal with all of this? Don’t you want to be able to meet him and get to know him without all the awkward stuff, like him asking you what your favourite colour is or what you got for your tenth birthday?”

“Well…yeah. Of course, I do. But…how would we do that? It’s not like I could just go to Texas when camp is over.”

“Why not?” Charlie’s eyes shone bright with excitement. “Who says you couldn’t just take my boarding pass and fly to Texas to meet dad? Who says I couldn’t just take your boarding pass and fly to London to meet mom?”

“Charlie, you sound insane,” Abby gently removed her hand from her wrist and picked up her spoon. “First of all, I don’t have a boarding pass. I fly stand-by because my uncle is a pilot and gets me on the plane for free, so long as he’s the one flying. Second, we might look a like, but there are still some cosmetic differences! My hair is shorter than yours, I have pierced ears, and we have different accents. They would certainly notice all that. And third, our parents have known us since birth. Surely they would be able to tell that we’re not us!”

“We can fix those things!” Charlie leaned forward. “I can teach you all about my life in Texas. I can show you the layout of the ranch, which cows to avoid, how to tack up my horse at home. I can teach you all about dad and Javy and Rooster. I can cut my hair! And listen, it’s not even that hard to fake a British accent. Pip, pip, cheerio!”

Abby snorted. “And what? You expect me to teach you all about London? Where to catch the tube, the layout of the flat, where the best fish and chips are? You want me to tell you all about mum, and where Uncle Bob hides his glasses cleaning cloth, and how not to stare at Auntie Nat’s scar? You want me to start talking like a cowboy? And what about my ears being pierced?”

“Why not?” Charlie begged, her green eyes shining. “We’ve got like a month to teach each other everything we would ever need to know. And we both have cell phones, so it’s not like we would be completely cut off from each other. If I had a question, I could just text you and ask!”

“Charlie, you sound ridiculous!” Abby threw her spoon down and rubbed her eyes. “There’s no way I can teach you about my life in a month. You want us to try to pull one over on the people that know us best. It would never work.”

Charlie bit her lip then leaned in for the kill. “I saw the way you lit up when Amelia mentioned mom’s nickname being Buttercup. I know how excited you got when you realized that mom has a tattoo of a buttercup. I know you were thinking the exact same thing I was.”

“Which is?”

“That if the people around her still call her Buttercup, maybe she still has feelings for dad. The nickname obviously meant enough to her that she got it tattooed on her body, and she hasn’t tried to get it removed or anything.”

“Mum, she…she’s never dated,” Abby admitted quietly. “She always says she just doesn’t have the time, but…I’ve always hoped that maybe it’s because she still has feelings for my dad.”

“Dad is the same way,” Charlie whispered. “He says I’m his best girl, but I know from Rooster and Javy that dad could be going on lots of dates if he wanted to. They love to tease him about it, and he tells them that he’s too busy with me and the ranch. But I know it’s because he still loves mom.” Charlie reached for her wrist again and this time Abby didn’t pull away. “Abby, if we do this, they will eventually have to switch us back. I’m not suggesting we do this forever. We can get to know them for a bit, then tell them the truth, and they’ll have to meet to switch us back. And when they meet…”

“…they could fall in love again,” Abby murmured.

“They could. Or, at the very least, they can talk and figure out a schedule so we don’t have to be separated again. C’mon…isn’t it at least worth a shot?” Charlie blinked over at her; the puppy dog eyes she had learned from her dad shining in full force.

Abby sighed. “Do you really think we can do it?”

“We’ve got a month, we’ve got social media, and we’ve got access to the computers once a week. I don’t see how we couldn’t pull this off.”

Abby chewed on her bottom lip. “O-okay…but if I don’t feel comfortable with this later, I want to be able to change my mind.”

“Done.” Charlie stuck her hand out and Abby grasped it, pumping it twice in the air with a grin on her face. “Now…let’s get to work.”

Tags List: @mamachasesmayhem @jessicab1991 @waltermis @buckysteveloki-me @allepaula @yuckosworld @seresinsbrat @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @kim-stark @cierra715 @high-speed-r @helpmepleasethanks @starsrfun @tomanyfandomstrash @averyhotchner @the-blueatlas @princessliz86 @dashes-dizzydisaster @a-girl-who-loves-disney @boiolay @djs8891 @torimcc @tgmreader @kmc1989 @landpiranha-blog @sydthekid1518 @lynnevanss @hello7442 @mackenzieblair @minejungwoo @starset21 @ssa-sadboi @tgmavericklover @dempy @rockbottomphilosophies-blog @lovemarvelousfics @starkleila @magical-spit @whatislovevavy @simplyreading96 @vivalas-vega @itsdesiree86 @inky-sun @books-are-escapes @abaker74 @clockworkballerina

[reveluving]

omg phillip graves and his shy wifes first time together pls

Anon, baby! You're playing with my meow meow rn!! 😭💗 BUT LET'S GO

Includes: soft dom!graves (dating/pre-marriage), implications of virginity loss/bad past experiences, petnames ('pretty girl'), fingering, licking & marking, unprotected sex (p in v)

COD x shy!wife thots closed! Thank you, everyone, for your time & amazing minds! I sincerely hope I can do this again with y'all soon! 💌

Come & check out my COD m.list!

It starts with a kiss.

Kisses after kisses. He wants to ease you into the moment. To let you know that time wasn't of the essence and he won't (and would never) rush you into things to the point of scaring or downright pressuring you.

He'll be rougher or freakier with you some other time. When he knows you're more open to newer things, curious of what sex—no, making love has to offer. 

“Y'sure you want this?” You nodded into his chest, and as cute as it was, he needed verbal confirmation, “‘M gonna need t’hear you say it, pretty girl.” 

“Yes,” It was breathy, almost whispering, but your tone was pure need—he'd know hesitation when he hears or sees one, “Please, Phil. I need you… I–” 

You paused, “I've always needed you.” 

He effortlessly carried you to the bedroom, holding you up at the foot of the bed before gently laying you down. 

He straightened up to remove his shirt, ‘taking the lead’ in undressing in hopes that you'd feel more comfortable with the idea.

“Mind if I take ‘em off?” He gestured to your shirt, kissing your jaw while waiting for your response. Even when you uttered a ‘mhm’, he didn't take them off immediately. Instead, his lips wandered wherever he could reach, then tested out with a few nips here and there.

Hearing your whimpers, barely able to cover up your moans, one could only imagine his self-restraint, dying to make an appearance to make you his. It was evident in the way he gripped the sheets next to your head.

He does the same with your pants/skirt, trailing kisses down your leg as the bottomwear slides off, leaving you in your undies. 

He lets you cover yourself, only looking at you with a smile, despite the half-lidded gaze as he whispers in your ear. 

“Always knew y'had a fine body,” He emphasized, unable to resist running his hands up and down your soft skin. He helps you with your bra—slowly, then your panties, teasing you with his tongue and noting the spots that make you jump, “Always so soft against me. Makes me fuckin’ hard just thinkin’ about it.” 

He chuckles when he sees you cover your eyes, failing to control the rush of heat coursing through you.

Seeing this side of you, still so shy but also waiting to be ruined. It may not be his first time but damn, he could've fooled himself by the control he was nearly lacking.

He rests his head on your tummy, peering up at you through his lashes as he slides a finger in between your folds, pulling it away and delighted to find it wet and shiny. You can’t help but shiver when he groans upon easing his middle finger into you, the tiniest squelch reaches your ears.

He won’t stop until you’re finally used to three of his fingers, caressing your head and face as your face contorts in slight pain, then comes his favourites; eyes rolling back, lips parting and back arching, babbling against his lips ‘yes, yes, yes’ or begging him not to stop. 

His cock looks painful at this point, holding himself back against the sheets despite the slight precum on the tip. He asks again, “Inside?”, and at this point, you have your arms around him, almost as if praying to just have him in you.

It’s hard not to stare at his body, especially as he throws his head back. His muscles flex as he wraps your legs around him, slowly bottoming out and letting you get used to his size; the girth is one thing, but the length is another. 

A fraction of his resolve begins to chip away when he looks down at you, digging your nails into the sheets and throwing your head back into the pillow, and in a daze, he lunges, nipping and sucking on your neck. Licking up the thin layer of perspiration that covers you in amidst the heat. Giving into your desires, your carnal pleasure.

To finally have him as close to you as possible.

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

[raz-writes-the-thing]

It's The Dominance Of The Thing (Bad Samaritan One-Shot)

Cale Erendreich x Fem!Reader 18+ ONLY / requests are open

Summary: Cale wants you to ride his boot.

CW: It's Cale- that should be warning enough tbh, boot grinding, blood (super mild), choking, vague CNC, verbal humiliation, name-calling

Bad Samaritan Tag List: (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

For such a string bean of a man, Cale was very foreboding. Incredibly foreboding. There was just something in how he carried himself- the way he spoke and in the way his energy rolled off him like even that was trying to get away from him. 

By all accounts, you should not have been attracted to him. The safest thing would have been not to be attracted to him. But you were, and by some (un)lucky twist of fate, he was attracted to you, too. 

Not that he’d ever seriously hurt you or anything. But it was just that he screamed ‘dangerous’ to all of your input receptors and you just ignored them anyway. You’re pretty sure Cale knew this. You’re also pretty sure he got off on knowing that you could be, at times, just a little scared of him. 

Like right now, for instance. 

You’d been sitting on your pillow in the lounge room on the floor when Cale came home. You had been working on an essay and had somehow just wound up on the floor. That happened sometimes. There were flecks of blood across his cheeks like crimson freckles that you’d noticed as he’d closed the door and gotten closer. You knew better than to ask where they’d come from. Cale had sat down on the couch behind you, his booted foot brushing against the outer curve of your ass. 

You leaned into his touch just a fraction, and a noise of satisfaction escaped his throat. 

“Turn around.” A command, not a question. 

You set your laptop down in front of you and turn to face him, essay forgotten. His expression is cool and calculated, and you watch with rapt attention at the way his eyes dilate from the sight of you kneeling before him. 

Cale adjusts his boot so it’s between your knees. You look down at the boot before sliding your gaze up his calf, thigh, tummy and finally back up to his face. His eyes flick downward, telling you without question exactly what he wants from you. 

You bite your lip and angle yourself to lower back down onto the ground. Your cunt rests on his boot and you suck in a breath. You know your cheeks are heating up and flushing the prettiest shade for him right now. It’s not the fact that it’s his foot- it’s the dominance that does it for you. 

Cale grunts in approval, and nods his head. Permission.

 

You experimentally grind yourself against the leather and a little gasp works its way free before you have time to stop it. Cale smirks, not taking his eyes off yours for a second. You flush darker, mouth dropping open just slightly as you roll your hips again. And again. God, this felt good. 

You reach to wrap your arms around his calf, gripping at the back of his knee for balance. Cale laughs now, but mockingly. Your eyes flick to the blood across his cheek, and you’re almost a little concerned at the way your clit pulses at the sight. 

Fuck. Your hips stutter up against his boot, and your eyes begin to droop as you succumb to the pleasure. 

“Fuckin’ look at me, slut,” he says, and you snap back to attention. Fingers flex against his denim-clad skin, and he tuts disapprovingly. “Look at you- humping yourself silly on my fuckin’ boot.” 

You nod, rocking your hips faster. The pleasure is melting into the burn of your muscles but you don’t dare stop. Not with the way Cale is looking at you. 

“Gonna cry? Fuck, you look like you’re gonna cry. Pathetic, darling. Yeah, you like that, I know. You love it when I call you names, don’t you?”

You whimper, struggling to keep your gaze on his when it burns with such intensity. Your insides are aching as you chase your orgasm. It’s getting closer, and you’re panting more now as you exert yourself over him. 

“Answer me,” he says evenly.  

“Y-yes, I love it,” you pant back, resting your forehead on his knee. He chuckles and leans forward in his seat. He’s sitting and yet somehow also leaning over you. His hand is suddenly in your hair, ripping your head back and forcing you to make eye contact. 

“Thought I told you to look at me, slut.” 

Your eyebrows screw up and you cling to him harder. 

“S-sorry sir,” you whimper out. Cale hums in a way that tells you that’s an acceptable apology for now and lets go of your hair. You’re so close to cumming now. It’s all you want- that sweet release. “P-please.” 

Cale arcs a brow, running a finger down your cheek and over your jaw. 

“Please what?” 

“I- I need- I want- please I want to cum,” you pant out desperately. Cale’s eyes lave over your face, drinking down every detail of your desperation. 

“Then cum.” 

That’s all the permission you need. You rock your cunt against his leather boot, not caring what sounds or pants you release in the process. You’re desperate to cum, working yourself harder and harder, feeling that coil tighten bit by bit. 

Cale’s hand shoots out like a snake, fingers wrapping around your throat before you even realise he’s moved. 

Your breath cuts off and a yelp dies on your tongue. Your hips jolt against him and the warning look in his eyes is all it takes before that coil snaps. Your hips jerk over him uncontrollably, muscles spasming over your body as the force of your release slams into you over and over again. 

You haven’t cum this hard in so long, and the way Cale’s mouth drops open just barely, pupils blown wide, makes you think he’s definitely going to have you do this again. Your hand automatically wraps around his wrist, and he clicks his tongue. His own fingers grip just that little bit harder and you feel your tongue swallowing over nothing, trying to clear an immovable blockage.

He holds you like that, desperately grappling with his wrist as you grow more desperate for air. You can’t help the way your cunt pulses with need. Even like this, growing closer and closer to blacking out you want him. Want him to fuck and ruin you. 

The bastard knows it too. 

“Good girl,” Cale praises, letting go and watching as you collapse against his knee, sagging into a heap as you greedily suck air into your deprived lungs. 

You giggle a little wheezily, and that makes Cale smile. 

“Filthy thing.” It’s affectionate, though. Cale loves you. 

You know he does.

[chaifootsteps]

Ahhh I'm so happy that were getting more Stellitz talk on your blog! I was really worried that people wouldn't like them, and just think I ship them out of spite, so it's great hearing that other people like them too! Anyway, here are some random Stellitz hypotheticals because I love them so much :]

Blitz teaches Stella how to cook. Obviously neither of them are very good at it, but they both try their best. However, since they grew up eating very different things, they're proficient in very different recipes. Stella can make things like calamari and lasagna, while Blitz is better at things like enchiladas and chili.

Stella realizes that since everyone at I.M.P. has opened a portal to earth, they're all capable of learning magic, and she begins giving them weekly lessions. She's incredibly happy to get to pass down her ice spells to even more people, and I.M.P. are able to show her that imps and hellhounds are just as capable as royals. The first time Loona is able to create ice cubes, everyone hugs her so hard her back cracks.

After some time of them dating, and reuniting with Fizz, Blitz sits Stella down and explains something important to her. He's not just pansexual, he's polyamorous. Stella is confused at first, but once he makes it clear that he wasn't going to stop dating her, she brightens up and accepts him happily. Blitz ends up dating Fizz, Asmodeus, and Striker alongside Stella, and while she can't quite get on Striker good side, she makes fast friends with Fizz and Ozzy. (And maybe something more with Ozzy? I've thought about making Stella poly too but I can't decide)

One day Stella requests I.M.P. to kill someone for her. When she provides them with angelic weapons, everyone expects the target to be Stolas, but it ends up being Andrealphus. She's very cagey as to why she wants him dead at first, and it's only when she and Blitz are alone that she comes clean; Andrealphus is verbally abusive to her, demeaning her in ways that lead to her lashing out at others while hoping he would one day be proud of her. Blitz completely understands, saying that his relationship with his father was similar, and that he'll always be proud of her. They hug it out, they cry it out, and then they kill Stella's shitty brother.

Anyway! These are just a fraction of my Stellitz thoughts, so please tell me if you want to hear more, because I would love to write even more! Hope you have a great day!

- What-If Anon

Ahh, this is all wonderful! Thank you for lighting this particular flame, and by all means, please feel free to share more!

I especially adore the idea that Stella's good at making lasagna. Lasagna, especially good lasagna, is a labor of love...it takes time and effort to make and you really get back what you put into it. It just flies in the face of this notion that Stella is a stupid, soulless cow who doesn't care about anyone or anything but herself.

[bamboobooshark]

STEVE ROGERS X READER

“That was good work!” || 700 Words || P.G. Rating || Fandom: Marvel (Avengers)

Author’s Note : Hi all! It’s October now. I’m excited to announce I’ll be writing a fic every day (but they’ll be uploaded late some days)! Each fic will be based on a prompt list by @fictober-event on Tumblr. I might not write a full-length fic everyday. Some days will be blurbs, headcanons, or something else. Without further delay, enjoy the fic!

CONTENT WARNINGS: Discussion of exhausting activities, reference to overstimulation, use of the pet names "kid" and "kiddo", Reader is semi-verbal and recovering from a rough day, Reader has the ability to use their arms (no other mentions of mobility), somewhat beta read.

You’ve been lying in bed since you got home. Your head was pounding and pressured with pain. Overlapping thoughts swarmed abundantly that they became akin to a fan’s white noise. Your body felt numb in every aspect; you had no regard for others’ concerns about you, only a fraction of an ounce of energy to socliaze, verbally or otherwise, and you felt physically attached to your bed, the blankets being chains that kept you down.

You were withdrawn from your mind’s cage of overwhelming analysis of your current state when Steve calmly knocked on the door. You let out a sigh that resulted in a sharp pain in your chest. You muffled your wincing with your palm as you awaited the man outside of your room to speak. Your brows furrowed in expectation, your expression an instinct to this reoccurring situation. Another soft knock from Steve’s hand hit the wood of your bedroom door. He called your name in a slow, calm manner. Any time he knew, or even suspected, that you weren’t in the best state, he kept that consistent tone. You whine into your pillow from the threat of having to socialize in your current state. However, you’d rather have to nod your head a little than leave Steve hanging. You weakly pushed your upper body up with your arms and groaned at the man, a somewhat verbal communication for him to come in. “Thanks,” he said as he opened the door while you laid back down.

He shut the door gently in case anyone else was around right now to listen or barge into your shared alone time. They wouldn’t, though. You and Steve shared your living space with no one else but each other. You knew he wanted to make you feel secure, but you found the lengths he went a little silly at times. As if he were about to give you a stern talking to, he approached your desk and pulled the office chair away from it, sitting down with a grunt. His elbows pressed against his spread knees, resting his chin on top of his knuckles. “Alright,” he said with bated breath. “I’m guessing we both know why I’m in here,” he stated. His soft gaze settled on you as he awaited any kind of confirmation. You wanted to let out the most exasperated groan, but you didn’t have enough air in your lungs nor energy in your system to go through with it. You simply nodded your head a little in agreement. “I know, kid. I know,” he sympathized with a pitiful look in response. “I know you’re tired from today, but that was some good work you did out there for me,” he praised while looking down at you with admiration. His sweet attitude made the white noise of thoughts in your brain go quiet. Now you were focused on the sound of your breathing, the slight heat coming off of Steve’s body, and his gaze. “You used those awesome arms of yours to help me get the groceries inside. Hell, you did amazing just getting through the experience of grocery shopping with me,” he continued. You laughed shallowly at his words with the knowledge that he wouldn’t praise anyone else for simply going to shop with him. It didn’t matter in his mind, though. Everything he preached about you was true.

He rolled the chair closer to your bedside as if approaching a scared puppy. “I’m being serious, kiddo,” he said with raised eyebrows. He placed a calloused hand on your shoulder, softly caressing the area with his thumb. “I’m proud of you. I always am. I’ll find a reason to be today, tomorrow, and every day after that,” he promised. You put your best effort into giving him an appreciative smile before sluggishly reaching your arms out to him. Steve tilted his head to the side, asking, “You want me to hold you?” You agreed with a head nod. He chuckled softly as he climbed into your bed, the wooden frame creaking. He settled with a short groan, proceeding to wrap his arms around you. “Hope that’s better,” he hummed as he kissed the back of your neck gently.

[tip-top-cloud-surfer]

The Forgotten Nest (Part 4) - Rooster

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw / Mitchell!OC (Cora)

Word Count: 4.0k

This work, all my works, and my entire blog are 18+ Only

Warnings: Past Unplanned Teenage Pregnancy; Angst; Absent Father Figures; The 'He Didn't Know About the Pregnancy' Trope; Repeating Trauma Cycles; Crying; Arguing; Verbal Altercation; Named Mitchell Daughter OC (Cora) and Named Mitchell-Bradshaw Son (Nickie)

Summary: Rooster seeks to make amends with Cora. Chaos ensues when Nickie doesn’t listen to his mom.

A.N. There are references to a previous unplanned teenage pregnancy (between two eighteen-year-olds) in this fic. There won't be any flashback scenes to the pregnancy, but the references are still there, so if that makes you uncomfortable, please do not read.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Epilogue

Master List

The sun was starting to set in the distance as Rooster and the other members of the newly formed Dagger Squad made their way off of the sandy beach and back to the Hard Deck as it opened for the night. They had an early morning the following day and lots of training to make up, but for tonight, they were going to enjoy the moment.

Penny had already left with Maverick, so Rooster didn’t have an opportunity to talk to her about Cora. He could have asked Maverick about Cora, but Rooster was always cautious, even before the whole Academy papers incident, about bringing up his relationship with Cora to Maverick. There was a reason why they hid it from him when they were teenagers.

But who the hell wanted to talk about their ex with their ex’s dad? Definitely not Rooster.

While he looked around the Hard Deck and briefly dwelled on the photo of him and Cora on the piano in the old bar in town, Rooster found himself focusing on Cora yet again. He still hadn’t completely shaken off the last interaction that he had with her outside of the diner.

He wasn’t expecting her to be that angry with him. Not even a fraction of that angry. Disappointed, sure. Unhappy to see him, definitely a possibility. Looking like she was holding back the urge to knock his lights out? He wasn’t expecting that.

And part of him felt like something was off. He hadn’t contacted her since he left, meaning that whatever anger she had for him was approaching on seventeen years now. And Cora wasn’t the type to just hold onto every little thing. She was pissed at him. For some big reason that Rooster had no inkling towards. And his brain was screaming at him to figure out what she was mad at him about.

After all, he was getting along better with Maverick than he had since before the Academy papers incident. Maybe that was a good sign. Or a source of false confidence. Either way, Rooster was determined to settle whatever his relationship with Cora entailed before they shipped out for the uranium facility mission.

“You want another one?” Phoenix asked Rooster, who shook his head in response after a moment.

“No, I think I need to figure some stuff out,” Rooster stated, getting up from his seat.

Bidding goodnight to the remaining Daggers, Rooster paid his tab, and headed out of the bar. Pulling out his keys, he slid into the Bronco. Bradley typed Cora’s address that she sent him years ago into his navigation and started for Cora’s house with a focused expression on his face.

He was going to get to the bottom of this. Whatever this was.  

~~~~~

“Nickie, dinner’s done!” Cora called up the stairs before turning back for the kitchen.

Nickie got up from his desk, leaving his math homework for now, and left his room. Gently trotting down the stairs, Nickie paused at the base of the staircase and noted that there were only two plates set out on the dinner table.

“Gramps isn’t eating with us?”

“He said that he’d probably be home later,” Cora replied, moving to fill up a glass with water. “I’m pretty sure him and Penny are—”

“—Mom!” Nickie interjected, practically going green.

“I was going to say catching up!” Cora defended herself, smacking her son lightly on the arm.

“I feel like I should warn Amelia,” Nickie sighed, pulling out his phone and clicking on Amelia’s name. “No one should have to walk in on their mom in that situation.”

Shaking her head, Cora went about cleaning and setting up the table. Nickie was about to grab his plate when he noticed a car pull off the road in front of the house. And that instantly caused a warning siren to go off in the back of his mind.

The street that the Mitchell family lived on was quiet. There was barely any through traffic besides residents in the area, so Nickie was automatically suspicious. Walking over to the windows with the shades drawn, Nickie stared out the window as Rooster stepped out of the car.

Was that . . . was that the guy from the Hard Deck? What the hell was he doing here?

“Mom,” Nickie called, causing Cora to immediately turn to him.

“What, Nickie?”

“There’s a guy outside,” Nickie stated, causing Cora’s face to immediately draw.

Concerned, she immediately rushed over to Nickie’s side to peek out the window at the invader. But unlike Nickie, she recognized Rooster in an instant. Breathing out sharply, Cora subconsciously reached out and grabbed the back of Nickie’s shirt as if to steady herself. Nickie turned to his mom with greater concern than before.

“Who is he? Do you know him?”

“Nickie,” Cora whispered, her voice shaking a bit. “Just . . .” Glancing between Rooster and Nickie frantically, Cora struggled to find her words. “Just stay here.”

“Who is he, Mom?” Nickie asked, a bit more demanding as Cora stared to walk towards the door.

“He’s . . .” Cora trailed off cautiously.

Slowly and skittishly, Cora turned and looked up at her son. Her son that looked so painfully similar to the man right outside her front door that it killed her just a little every time that she noticed. It killed her when he opened his eyes for the first time and she saw Bradley’s staring back at her. And it killed her now when those same eyes were staring at her with confusion and deep concern.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. She was supposed to have time to prepare. She was supposed to break the news gently, when Nickie was ready to hear it. When Bradley was ready to hear it. Did she tell Nickie now? Did she tell Bradley now? Did she hide it for just a few more hours or for the rest of her life? Should she call her dad? Ice? Penny? Someone, anyone who could mediate?

Caught up in a momentary panic, Cora flinched when the doorbell echoed around the house. She looked over at the door before slowly returning her gaze to her son. To her baby. The first person that she would do anything to protect.

“Just stay there. I’ll handle it,” Cora promised, trying to put up a brave face for her son.

Turning for the door, however, that brave face quickly fell off and shattered on the floor. Nickie peered curiously after his mom and made sure to move so that he was out of view of the front door. Just because his mom said she had it handled didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to standby and let her face it all on her own.

Cora reached for the door knob and paused for a moment to compose herself, before unlocking and pulling the door open. Bradley looked up from the porch as the door swung open, revealing Cora dressed casually with a clear skittish look in her eye.

“What are you doing here, Bradley?” she asked softly, blocking Rooster’s view into the house. Of Nickie.

“I just . . . I felt bad about our conversation the other day,” Rooster stated, shoving his hands into his pockets and shifting his weight around on his feet. “You were right, I . . . I was just trying to bring myself closure. And I realize that probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to you since I was the one who left in the first place, but . . . I’m sorry, Cora.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cora replied, shaking her head, already moving to close the door. “It’s fine.”

“Is . . . are you okay?” Bradley questioned, noticing just how distraught Cora looked.

The fire that had been behind her eyes when he ran into her outside of the diner was gone, replaced by a rabbity barely-contained fear. Was . . . was she scared of him? He knew that he didn’t leave on the best of terms, but he never thought that he made her that uncomfortable. That much unlike her usual confident and poised nature.

“Did I . . . I probably should have called first but I didn’t know if your number changed—”

“—No, it hasn’t,” Cora interjected, pursing her lips together. “It’s the same as it’s always been.”

Nickie took a step closer to the door, more than intrigued about the situation now, and more and more concerned about his mom. He swore that he could see her shaking and even though the man at the door—Bradley was his name, apparently—didn’t seem to be an outward threat to her, Nickie was still on edge by his presence.

“About that, I . . . I feel like you’re still mad at me about something and I was trying to think through everything and—”

“—Don’t worry about me, Bradley. I can take care of myself. I’ll be fine,” Cora stated, gripping the doorknob tightly. "And I don’t need a therapy session with you tonight.”

“Can you at least tell me why you’re mad at me?” Rooster asked, causing Cora to grip the door knob just a bit tighter. “I mean, I know that we didn’t leave things anywhere near a good note, but I didn’t realize that I hurt you that much. That deeply.”

“No, you didn’t,” Cora replied quietly, glancing back into her house briefly. “But I can’t—I don’t want to talk about it right now, Bradley. Maybe later.”

“Cora—”

“—Bye, Bradley.”

“Cora, please, wait,” Rooster practically begged her, placing his hand on the door.

And that one little action set off an immediate chain of events that Cora knew were out of her control.  

“She told you to leave,” Nickie snapped from behind the door, causing Bradley and Cora to freeze.

Should he have realized that Cora was probably not home alone? Definitely. There were two cars parked in the driveway, after all. But if Rooster was expecting anyone else to emerge from Cora’s house, it would have been an adult. Or maybe a little kid.

That voice sounded like a teenager to Bradley’s ear.

“No,” Cora whispered to herself, turning back to her son, and trying to keep him hidden from Bradley. “Nickie, I’m fine. Just go back to the kitchen.”

“Nickie?” Rooster repeated, frowning slightly with confusion.

“Mom, who the hell is he?” Nickie demanded, finally stepping into Bradley’s view.

Bradley immediately recognized Nickie as one of the kids at the Hard Deck when he went to try and find Penny. But it wasn’t the kid’s familiarity in that sense that startled him nearly out of his skin. It was what this Nickie kid, who just so happened to apparently share a name with Rooster’s deceased dad that Hangman just brought up yesterday, called Cora, ‘Mom.’

“Mom?” Bradley repeated again, turning to Cora with sheer incredulousness in his eyes.

Glancing between Cora and Nickie quickly, Rooster swore his brain short-circuited. Was it a possibility in his head that Cora had kids of her own? Absolutely. Had part of him expected her to already have kids? Absolutely. But Rooster was expecting them to be babies or young kids.

Not a teenager. Rooster was horrible at guessing kids ages, but this Nickie kid—Cora’s kid—had to be somewhere around . . . sixteen years old.

And the more that Rooster stared at Nickie, the more familiar he got. The brown eyes, the nose, the shape of his chin, the way that his hair curled at the ends. Nickie got the slope of his cheeks from his mom and the darker shade to his hair too, but other than that, Rooster swore that he was staring out of a window into the past.

His past.

“You have a son?” Bradley asked Cora quietly, who seemed to have stopped breathing in that moment.

“You need to go,” Cora told Bradley a second later, trying to salvage some control in the situation.

She moved to shut the door again, but Bradley held firm, feeling like he was on the edge of a mental breakdown. Running through the numbers in his head, Bradley tried to cling to his sanity. He fled the Mitchell house about seventeen years ago, if you rounded up. If Cora was pregnant when he left, the kid would have been sixteen or on the cusp of sixteen now.

And one look at Nickie felt like it was equivalent to a paternity test at this rate.

“How old is he, Cora?” Bradley demanded from Cora, feeling like he was in some fever dream.

“Bradley,” Cora pleaded with him, “please, just go.”

“How old is he, Cora?” Rooster demanded louder than before.  

“I’m sixteen, fuckwad, what’s it to you?” Nickie snapped back, causing Bradley to turn to him.

“Nickie!”

“What, Mom?” Nickie scoffed, walking over to the door. Tilting his chin up to try and match Rooster’s height, since Rooster still had a few inches on him, Nickie glared up at the aviator. “And she told you to leave. So, I suggest you start moving.”

“Nickie, honey, please just—”

“—Is he mine?” Bradley interjected, turning to Cora, who had a deer in headlights look about her. Taking a step out in front of Nickie, Cora gripped the door so hard that her hands were shaking from the sheer force of it. “Is he my son, Cora?”

“Bradley, please—”

“—Who the fuck do you think you are?” Nickie snapped, causing Bradley to turn to him with a softer expression than the one that he reserved for Cora. Nickie scoffed when he noticed Bradley’s expression, shaking his head in disgust. “What? You think you get to just show up after sixteen years and start demanding shit? That’s not how this works!”

“Nickie—”

“—You know that I’m your dad?” Bradley asked Nickie, straightening up again.

“Bradley—”

“—I don’t give a shit who you are,” Nickie growled back at Bradley, causing Bradley to reel back a bit, as if he had been smacked across the face. “All I care about is the fact that you’re upsetting my mom, so get the fuck out of here.”

“Nickie—”

“—I didn’t—why didn’t you tell me, Cora?” Rooster demanded, turning to Cora once again.

However, that was perhaps Rooster’s biggest miscalculation of the night so far. And, really, he should have known better. He was a mama’s boy when he was Nickie’s age, after all.

“Don’t blame her!” Nickie snapped, causing Rooster to turn back to him. “You left! You left her alone with a baby! You didn’t answer her calls! You didn’t answer her letters! You didn’t give a shit about her! She raised me without you and you don’t get to just show up when I’m almost grown up and start demanding shit from her or me! And you’re definitely not going to blame her for your fuck ups!”

Stepping around his frantic mom and standing toe to toe with Rooster, Nickie bit back his own fear and his own resentment in that moment and tapped into the pool of anger that had been simmering in his stomach for what seemed like his entire life. And once the cork was popped, there was no way to put it back again.

“If you have a goddamn handful of respect or love left for her, you’ll turn around and you’ll never look back. You’re not my dad, you’re just some asshole who I share some DNA with. And you’re not going to ruin our lives any more than you already have!”

“You . . .” Bradley trailed off, trying to find his words.

“What part of ‘leave’ don’t you understand!? Go! You’re really good at that whole disappearing act anyways,” Nickie snapped, causing Bradley to noticeably shudder.

While Nickie was yelling at Rooster, Maverick rolled up to the scene. He was returning from Penny’s, assuming that he would arrive at a calm scene of Nickie doing his homework and Cora resting on the couch, watching TV or reading.

He was definitely not expecting to roll up to this shit show.

“Fuck,” Maverick cursed under his breath, sliding off his bike.

Sprinting up the walkway, Maverick grabbed Rooster by the arm and pulled him away from the door. Rooster didn’t fight him, seemingly still in shock about the information that was just thrown at him a thousand miles a minute. With Maverick on the scene, Cora seemed to snap out of her own trance. Yanking Nickie back into the house, Cora shut the door and locked it.  

“Bradley, you need to go,” Maverick stated, leading him away from the door.

“No, I—” Rooster started to say, weak from the emotional whiplash of the evening.

“—You need to go,” Maverick interjected more firmly, causing Rooster to round on him.

Yanking his arm out of Maverick’s hold, Rooster turned to square off against the man who practically raised him as his own. Tears stung Rooster’s eyes as he shot absolute death daggers at Maverick, who seemed prepared to handle the situation. And, after all, he had about sixteen years to prepare for this exact confrontation. Rooster had about six milliseconds.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Bradley hissed at him.

“You need to go, Bradley,” Maverick repeated, not reacting to Bradley’s words.

“You knew and you didn’t tell me!?” Bradley demanded, his voice growing a bit louder and breaking off at the end. He turned for the door again, but Maverick jumped in front of him and grabbed him from knocking on the door again. “I need to talk to her, Mav, I can’t—”

“—You’re not the kid anymore!” Maverick snapped, holding Bradley firmly, shaking him a bit. As if to snap him out of whatever trance he had fallen into in the last few minutes. “You’re not the one that I need to protect here. And you need to go back to base. Now.”

Rooster smacked Maverick’s hands away from himself and took a step back from the stairs. Sniffling, Rooster shook his head and shot Maverick a look that Maverick could only describe as the look of death. And Maverick took it while standing firm on the front stairs, protecting his daughter and his grandson from another confrontation that night.

“Fuck you,” Bradley cursed at Maverick as a tear slipped down his cheek. “Fuck you to hell, Maverick.”

And despite the way that those words dug straight into his heart, Maverick did not change his stance. Rooster glanced back at the house, probably searching for any sign of Nickie or Cora, before turning and stumbling for his car.

Maverick watched Rooster drive away before he slowly closed his eyes and let the weight of the day finally hit him. Rubbing his face slowly, Maverick headed inside, unlocking the door with his keys. Closing the door behind him and locking it once more, Maverick followed the sound of sniffles and choked sobs into the living room where Cora and Nickie were sitting together.

Nickie was resting his head on his mom’s shoulder, his bravado gone and replaced with that childish fear and anxiety that was only natural given the situation. Cora looked like a shell of herself as she held her son close, trying to soothe him while also failing at finding any comfort of her own. Taking a breath to steady himself, Maverick walked over to the couch to comfort his family.

~~~~~

Phoenix, Payback, Bob, and Fanboy were laughing and sitting around the coffee table, playing a game to pass the time when Rooster came stumbling into their shared house. In an instant, Phoenix stood up and stared at Bradley with clear concern. He didn’t look drunk but he looked absolutely out of it.

“Bradshaw, what—”

Rooster didn’t listen to her and instead stumbled straight up to his room. Slamming the door shut, he locked it behind him. Leaning on the door, Bradley slowly slid down the door—or perhaps collapsed was a better term—until he was sitting on the floor. And then he held his head in his hands and sobbed like a little baby. Like he hadn’t since his mom died.

~~~~~

Maverick closed the door to Nickie’s room, since the teenager finally fell asleep, before heading downstairs to check up on Cora. She was still sitting on the couch with a blanket over her legs and her head in her hand, the glass of water that Maverick got her untouched on the coffee table. Silently, Maverick moved to sit next to his daughter.

“How are you holding up?” Maverick asked softly.

“Oh, you know. One of my biggest nightmares just came true and now I’m certain that I’ve fucked up my son for the rest of his life, so I’m doing fan-fucking-tastic, Dad, how about you?” Cora replied, her voice coming out as more of a whimper at the end.

“Cora, you didn’t fuck Nickie up.”

“I didn’t? Did you see him?” Cora stressed, pointing over at the stairs. Holding her head in her hands, Cora let out another pitiful sob. “I failed. I failed him, Dad.”

“No, you did not,” Maverick insisted, grabbing Cora’s shoulder so that she looked up at him. “You did not fail Nickie, Cora. You’re a great mother to him.”

“But what if I could have done something differently? Reacted differently when Bradley showed up? Hell, what if I drove around the US when I found out I was pregnant until I finally tracked Bradley down and told him to his face? Hell, what if I just shoved Nickie into his arms until he gave in?”

"Cora," Maverick began softly.

“I mean, what am I going to do now? Bradley knows and Nickie knows and they both hold such a fucking grudge that I swear it’s genetic and—”

“—Cora, sweetheart, you’re getting ahead of yourself,” Maverick stated, trying to calm his daughter down. “Just breathe. Breathe.”

“What am I going to do?” Cora sobbed, lowering her head again.

Maverick pulled his daughter into a tight hug, letting her latch onto him like she did when she was small and there was a thunderstorm outside. He rested his head on top of her own and just let her cry, trying to absorb her fear and concern with his comforting hug.

Because if there was anyone who failed in this situation, it was Maverick. At least, in his own opinion. He should have been a better father. He should have kept Cora and Bradley apart and actually had a talk with them about safety. He shouldn’t have pulled Bradley’s papers. He should have gone after Bradley when he left the first time.  

If there was anyone to blame for this mess, it was Maverick.

“Don’t worry about Bradley. I’ll try and talk to him,” Maverick stated, causing Cora to pick her head up.

“He hates you,” she pointed out, sniffling a bit. “And with this, I mean . . .”

“That’s for me to worry about. Not you,” Maverick assured Cora, squeezing her shoulder. “And as for Nickie . . .” Maverick trailed off, glancing up the stairs for a moment. Turning back to his daughter, Maverick sighed. “Maybe it’s best that he takes tomorrow off from school. And then the two of you can talk. Or just rest.”

“Yeah,” Cora agreed, nodding along. “That’s a good idea.”

At the thought of her son’s crumbling expression the second that the door slammed shut, Cora let out another whimper and covered her face with her hands. She never wanted Nickie to find out like this. She never wanted Bradley to find out like this. And it all just went up in a big ball of flames in just a matter of seconds right before her eyes.

“It’s going to be okay, Cora. Everything will be alright,” Maverick told his daughter once more, though his confidence didn’t meet his eyes.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Epilogue

Tags: @xoxabs88xox@eternallyvenus @mygyn @kmc1989 @thegoddessc @midnightmagpiemama @badasspizzalover @praline357 @oatmealisweird @a-court-of-roscoe-and-baby @abaker74 @avengersfan25

[namelessprayers]

"tell me about yourself, little spider." lace says, as she ties bandages over her appendages with an impressive meticulousness.

"what is there to tell?" returns hornet, flippant as she polishes her needle, wearing an expression as cold as its metal surface.

"a traveler like you with a fighter's spirit." starts lace, propping her own weapon up against a nearby rock in some show of truce. "life rarely produces such exceptional things nowadays. in this dying world, i'm curious to you and your blatant aliveness."

"you talk too much." scoffs hornet, barely lifting a brow at the strange incredulity of lace's insinuations.

"ah, and i'd say you talk too little for a spider who's every word tastes delicious." giggles lace, near mocking in her condescending tone. "come on now, indulge me, i'm already hanging on your every web and weave; what's a few conversations more?"

"we never converse." simply answers hornet, putting an end to the beginning before lace has chance to make plans for a nonexistent future between the two of them.

"all battles are discussions of a kind, whether physical or verbal. i don't often engage in such long ones, so already, we have gone beyond the usual amount of talking." proceeds lace, unbothered. "this is only one stage further, but it's not too far. what, are you afraid of saying something? do you have secrets? well, that's not surprising. every bug has their share of skeletons in the ground to hide."

"i'm not afraid, and i'm quite an open book." retaliates hornet, almost surprising herself with such a display of direct honesty. "i'd rather not die, and you already know what my objective is, which is why you are trying to kill me."

"hm. suppose that's all true. though, i'd be interested in anything you have to give." lace pauses as a certain look glazes over her stare with predatory intent. "like, for example, why red?"

"why red?" cautiously sounds out hornet, as if the question may turn around and bite her.

"yes, i want to know, why the red choice of colour for your cloak?" the query near seems genuine coming out of lace's crescent shaped mouth. "it sure is adorable and definitely matches you, but there must be better reason you chose it than just that alone."

"good example, but i don't intend on answering it." decides hornet, ignoring the way lace gazes on with an smug smile, like she'd already predicted this to happen. but hornet wants to take lace off guard, wants to surprise each other the way they do it succinctly in spars, so she does. "how does the red match me?"

lace's eyes widen a fraction, only for a split second, before her face settles itself into a pleased grin; an equal victory for both of them.

"it's bold, eye catching, just like you." says lace, so startlingly sincere as she stares into hornet's eyes. neither of them want to look away first. "it makes a violent statement, some kind of warning, like bloodshed and danger. the colour speaks to elegance too. it's not natural, but it's still vivid, coveting a life of its own."

hornet mulls on the description for a long while that lace is content to leave be, meanwhile poking the fire to simmer.

"i'm going to get out of here, but i promise, i'll return eventually. when i do, i'll tell you." hornet hesitates, unused to the sound of her own sweetness. "i'll tell you why it's red. so, you better stay alive until i come back." she stands to leave as her and lace never camp together.

"of course, i wouldn't dream of missing it. by then, you'll probably have a lot more tales to tell me, won't you, little spider?"

at that, hornet frowns. after all, lace is still the one supposed to catch her and stop her from leaving, but the words contradict it. she wonders if lace is truly on her side or if this is a part of the game.

regardless, lace doesn't stop her from leaving, and they continue their typical fights until hornet escapes pharloom headed for hallownest; she's not prepared for what she finds at home, but at least she'll have quite a story to tell lace when she visits back.

but, hornet thinks, i don't want to think of it like that. she doesn't want to be growing fond of lace, of this, of them.

======

"it was my mother who gave me the red cloak. she liked the colour too, thought it fitted me just as well as you." says hornet, for once initiating a conversation.

lace stays silent, requesting she go on. the wreckage of ghosts and crying cities suddenly feels ages away, expelled by both time and distance and words. hornet inhales, pointedly looks away from lace's inquiring eyes, and exhales out her long withheld answer.

"i already stuck out of crowds with my white shell, a tribute to being both my father and mother's daughter, even if i didn't want to admit it. the cloak was just a compromise with that; the final step to embracing the difference. my mother always said it was a good thing though. she could find me in any crowd and spot me in any corner, made sure that i never could and never would hide from the world even when i wanted to. better to face it head on, better to be remembered than forgotten."

hornet is aware that lace has gracefully come to lay by her side. it is quiet and the world holds promise again, sings of innocent faith and hope coming to real fruition.

on the humble dirt, her cloak dirty but still valiantly red, hornet can hardly feel the ache of all that's happened. she thinks of the time it took to get back, but doesn't ruminate in the journey. for the first time, she feels as if the destination has reached a strange level of safety; right here by lace's side, who whispers approvingly.

"well, i must say that i'm glad for your mother's choice. the red suits you, and it helps to find you in anyplace, helps to remember you more clearly when i want to."

and hornet is glad despite her instinctive reservations; to have went home and to have known it broken, so that she could move on and rebuild elsewhere. hornet thinks of life as it will be, telling lace why her cloak is red and the tales of how she survived hallownest to return to pharloom.

she dampens down the urge to deflect a teasing statement or genuine ask of why lace would want to remember her, instead, giving the truth which she's sure to owe if she hadn't promised it ages ago.

"don't worry, i'd never wear anything else. although, i doubt i'll be going anywhere else anytime soon. you're alright with that, right? if i give you more memories for when i'm not around?"

"i'm not worried. i know you too well to be worried about you over everything else in this world." lace's voice softens and hornet is sure that the spots that their limbs meet are purposefully touching. "don't worry, dear hornet, everything about you, memory or not, is perfectly fine. it's okay. we're gonna be okay."

oh, hornet thinks (with less distress than there should be), i'm so incredibly fond of you. she's fond of lace, of this, of them.