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yandere-wishes · 6 months

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𝕐𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕄𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℍ𝕚𝕘𝕙

❤️‍🩹Characters: Yandere! MH Ghouls x GN! Reader

❤️‍🩹Summary: There's something ancient within you. Lost and forgotten. You're an eldritch creature living amongst monsters. A piece of you lives within each of them. And a piece of each of them lives inside you...

❤️‍🩹Warnings: Yandere behavior, obsessive tendencies, Body horror in Frankie's part, slight gore and blood in the rest, angst, super cryptic.

❤️‍🩹Could be read as romantic or platonic.

I am a monster, for now and forever. I am a monster, what a terrible being.〜♡॰ॱ

There's something ancient within you. Lost and forgotten. ~❣✧❣

⚡︎Frankie Stein ⚡︎

There's something ancient within you. Lost and forgotten. Frankie is desperate to unravel it. To crack it open. She feels you in every one of her limbs. Feels you in the stems of her patchwork heart. That has to account for something right?

Your melancholy seeps through you, tainting the tiles in shades of gold.

Frankie blames the binding of your skin, she's always found it too loose.

Nothing extramundane, to tether your essence within yourself. She wouldn't mind taking you apart and stitching you back together. Recreating you into something perfect. She's grown wry of watching you crack your ribcage open, shoving astral celestials where your heart should be. You mutter things, things she doesn't understand, things she's scared she'll never understand. Her bones rattle, a rouge spark runs down her spine. Every piece of you haunts her...

Frankie use to believe, verily childishly, that parts of her were salvaged from you. She knows now that that's impossible, yet she still wishes every night for the childish dream to come true.

In many ways, Frankie has always been bound to you. Your first friend, your first confidant, your first punishment, your first comprehension. Even when you'd been too young to understand the cacophony of the world, you'd still know the two of you were connected.

It had only taken a lifetime to understand why.

Bones collapse into constellations. Somehow she feels you slipping away. Her slender fingers trace the stitches across the hollow of your chest. A meteoric reminder of her work. "It's okay I'll have you fixed in no time." Frankie doubts you find any truth in her incentive. You've always been drawn to pessimism. Still, she feeds the needle through skin and muscle. Praying she remembers the stronghold pattern her mother taught her.

The shade they used for your blood is too bright. You bleed in rivers,

flowing with no end insight. You wash away her sorrows with farfetched promises. Awakening a longing, she never knew she had.

Frankie wishes she could pluck out your spine. Kiss each vertebra like an iridescent pear. Maybe then your souls would tether, maybe then everything will go back to the way it once was. The needle snags across bones, marring your skin in star-kissed bruises. She pecks each one, muttering a sorry across cold flesh. You feel like home under her lips. A home she never got to know.

Yet the echoes of its brilliance linger faintly in the hearts of those who once knew its warmth.

Frankie smiles as your eyes crack open. Dizzy and distant, you've yet to notice your enhancements. The pieces of herself she tethered onto you. She wonders when you'll notice the new eye, the new leg, the mismatched fingers. Her heart sparks thumbing loudly in her ribcage.

She sinks down, by the operation table,skinning her knees. You feel like home, now more than ever.

Your fingers find her head, patting the matted hair, she smiles something solemn and forlorn. She trails her fingers over one of the stitches on your arm, prying her slender digits between the threads and into the gaping tissue. Her fingers release a spark, your body arches off the table. After all, blood has always been a good conductor for electricity. "It's just a power boost. You'll be right up in a few minutes." a giggle rips from her throat, as you mummble an acknowledgment. Eyes overcast with equal parts grief and glee.

She always knew she loved you how could she not? You'd been linked to her for as long as she had a conscience. You had always been her everything. Sometimes she wonders how you both ended up like this. Stitching pieces of yourselves into each other.

Frankie closes her eyes. Her mind struggling to regain control. Her deep breaths waver as she hears shifting from the table.

"It's alive..."

𓆩❤︎𓆪Draculaura𓆩❤︎𓆪

Draculaura can smell the ethereal ichor now. Maybe it's always been there. Hidden under bygone layers and golden sand. She wonders if now, knowing what you know, makes you see her as anything less. You're older now, smarter. Maybe you understand the world just a little bit better than she ever could.

Despite her gifted immortality, Draculaura likes to think that she's grown, too. No longer the little batling who faints at the mere scent of blood. Yet the urge to vomit is still there, an acidic reflex in the back of her throat. She's been avoiding you lately, simply because you make the urges go away.

She can't live with that.

Can't live with what you make her.

You trace the heart on her cheek. Your fingers feel like divinity sinking into her skin. You try to reason with her, tell her the truths of the crypt. "Surly Draculaura, you must know who you really are. Isn't it silly that you persist in this nativity?" Your words are harsh. Good intentions wrapped in silver blades. She bites her tongue, killing the queries before they dare spill.

You make her crave things.

Things she's avoided her whole life.

There's blood on your lips, dripping onto the ground. She fights the urge to kiss you. The heat of the sun amplifies the scent of the decaying flesh. Her stomach growls, this isn't right. The grip on her parasol tigtens. There is justice behind your actions, not one she can make herself understand. She watches as you tear into the decomposing body. "Don't", it's nothing less of a prayer. She feels her fangs elongate. How she wishes the world would turn to black.

Can a vampire be haunted?

Surly they can, it's the only answer to your staunch lingering.

Draculaura's coffin feels too snug, like a home and a prison encapsulated in one. She wishes she could feel cold dirt under her nails, feel the thrill of digging her way out of a grave. It's your fault, it has to be. Why must you awaken such ancient sensations? Such horrid cravings, such primal needs.

Why must she see divinity in your face, liquid darkness shimmering behind enigmatic eyes? You are something terrifying, something painful. You are what she was supposed to be, what she's fled from her whole life.

Your silhouette is a curse and a blessing. A reminder of a lineage she was thrusted into. A legacy she never wanted. Everything about you is a hunting familiarity for a family she never knew. She wonders if she would have been the prettiest girl in the morgue. She wonders if her father should have let her die all those eons ago.

"I used to be human" She confesses one night. She doesn't know why you agreed to come over. Why seeing you in your pajamas sparks one too many fond memories.

"So?" your tone is one of perplexity. She feels foolish under your gaze. You glide the makeup brush across her cheeks. dusting them with faded nostalgia. "I can't eat them. It'll feel like I'm eating myself" How long has it been since the transformation occurred? how long has it been since she shedded the body of that sickly fragile girl? She's been a vampire for centuries yet still can't get used to the title.

"You can eat these ones..." Something ancient within her stirs, her bones rattle with comprehension. She knows what you mean and it fills her with a need to scream.

Draculaura can't see her reflection, can't gauge how different she is now. You used to help her with her makeup back in high school. Back when the shade of your lipstick determined your personality for the day. She's never seen her face. She prays it's identical to yours. She prays that someday she can embody you...

There's a deathly hunger within her. Bubbling in her stomach. She needs to let it out before it kills her. Can she even die? She's almost sure she wants to. You almost make her want to succumb to the impulse of quitting her humanity all toghter. Your presence makes her all so hungry. She's gotten better at hiding it under school-ghoul gossip and trend talk.

She settles for a kiss tonight, a rushed peck on the cheek. Some vampire she is, instead of bleeding you dry she's pouring her sorrows into you. She wonders if you take note. See the ghosts jouncing within her soul.

Draculaura's nails pick at the skin of her birthmark.

The skin cracks.

blood trickles.

Can a vampire even be haunted?

Yes.

She knew the charade wouldn't last forever.

Knew that one day the lights would dim and the stage would fade to black

A final curtain call. An impending doom.

The final nail in her glass coffin. Rendering it to shards.

And she'll be left plucking fragments from her eternal flesh.

There's a small joy in knowing you'll be her effacer.

The one to put an end to 2,000 years of pretend.

"And then he was all like "You know?" and I was like "Whatever" and he was-"

"Draculaura, I have no idea what you are talking about." She turns to face you, your smile is a crushing weight. On her shoulders crave. You throw your head back and laugh. Laughing at how little she's changed since you shared a desk in class. Since your most eminent concern was fearleading practice and algebra tests. Draculaura should laugh too, this she knows. Yet she remains distracted by your neck and all the glory it holds.

Just a small bite won't hurt...

☾🐾☽Clawdeen Wolf☾🐾☽

Clawdeen is protective to a fault. A trait she could never identify as innate or habit. Still, the urge to stalk you persists. Pricking away at her fur like wolfsbane.

Clawdeen's been brought up to believe in legacy, to worship the moon and the stars and their maker. Ancient things have a way of lasting lifetimes. She knows this now, finds its evidence when she unravels her family, her pack, herself...you. Her kind has been known to nurture those they love, to birth and raise every great warrior. She ponders again if this was originally encrypted in their blood or if her species picked it up throughout the years.

All she knows is that something inside her awakens when she sees you. A testament to an ancient love, long since stifled under sand and snow.

She wonders if that's what she's done with you all these years. If, in her own way, she's raised you to become some sort of warrior, a great beast living amongst subsidiary.

The two of you sit beside the bay window. Her newest sketchbook draped across her lap. You lean in resting your head on her shoulder, listening as she explains the inspiration behind each design.

You feel like you've been mauled. A piece of you thrown in every direction. Only to morph into the creations of your hunter. "You remember your first design?" you ask, closing your eyes to still the world. "Wasn't that when we wrapped Howleen in a red blanket and my mom's scarf?" Her claws prick her upper lip as she stifles a giggle. "And made her walk around the house like it was a Scaris runway" You add, relishing in the bygone recollection.

Your childhood memories together are coated in ichor. Jejune days

when you'd watch her tumble over herself trying to be everything she could never be. Even back then, you'd known something was amiss with the world. Seen the ancient wolf that lay dormant within her. felt its bonds call out to you, pulling you in deeper. You'd cling to her like a frightened child to a teddy bear.

But you're older now. Instead of the scared child, you've turned into the monster under the bed. Funny how everyone's heritage catches up with them at some point. Even when you grow unaware of its presence. Legacy still tends to echo in your bones. You're both the same in that regard.

"I can never tell if I'm alive or dead." You tell her one night.

"Neither" Clawdeen's voice is rigid, stiff. She can feel your awakening and rebirth. It sings in her head, more vital than a howl. "creatures like us don't die so easily. We only transform." She remembers the legends, the wars, they rattle in her bones sending shivers up her spine. Neither of you have ever died. You've survived every tribulation.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" you reply, Clawdeen notes the embers that burn behind your eyes. How they spread across your body like a wildfire.

"What doesn't kill me, simply gives me a reason to kill it" She swears she sees the moon flicker in retort.

Clawdeen slits her throat with her claws.

Choking on moondust and half-fallen stars.

Her father once told her heritage is everything before giving her a golden ring fashioned as a wolf's head. She still doesn't know what he means.

She knows her kind was born from misplaced love.

She's just glad your fates are entwined.

"Someday you'll have red eyes." You trace your thumb over her lashes as you speak. Trailing down to play with her curls. She knows what you mean. Oh how, she wants to devour the hope you offer so freely. Rip it from your heart and feel it pulsing under her fangs. Maybe then her stars will align and she'll truly understand what she is.

Clawdeen's feelings grow teeth, gnawing at her carnivorously as she pulls you close. Muttering a 'thanks' as if it holds the weight of the world. There's comfort in the thought that she's molded you. Helped nourish your flames until they grew so potent. She's ever only been the middle child of the moon. But with you, she feels like so much more. Like something celestial, something ancient. An heirloom made of blood and moonrock.

Above you the clouds part. Giving way to the full moon.

₊˚.༄Lagoona Blue₊˚.༄

The air in her lungs feels synthetic, dry. She chokes off the sand and ozone, blinded by the unfiltered light, leaving burns on her frail, scaled, skin. She wonders if this is how a fish feels as it's being reeled on land. She wonders if she's any different now.

Her heart hammers when she sees you, cracking her ribs in hysteria.

Water lilies bloom from their marrow, she counts them just to distract from the stars burning in your eyes. Her teeth catch her bottom lip, gnawing the pink flesh like a shark does its prey.

Her eyes burn when she catches a glimpse of you by the pond. Gazing conflicted at three-eyed frogs. She can't help but see you as a cacophony of unmarked graves. Too many ghosts linger across your body, they're prints evident in the afternoon sun.

You leave a water lily behind her ear as you brush past her in the hallway. She thinks your perfection is exaggerated, artificial like the air. The kind daydreaming divers pray to find in rogue oysters. Lagoona is sure you're the last of your kind. An endangered creature too proud to ask for help. She clumsily fingers the flower's petals. The wave of nostalgia that invades, has her gasping for air.

The ocean she once called home is overrun by rot. She too is infected by the pollution that plugs her gills. In her dreams, she treads through clean oceans, webbed fingers entwined with yours. There is no corrosion here, no death. Just you and her and everything that entails the definition of good. When she wakes up she notices that her gills are falling one by one. Pastel blue glints scattered, floating across her bed like the empty husks of sea stars.

She too is the last of her kind.

She too is destined to perish in agony.

She wonders if you hear her tears. Hear them fall into the abyssal sea. Feel their reverberations as they create rings on the surface. She can't expect such a thing from you. You're in your own world struggling with your own scars. You left her another flower today, nymphoides indica, she doesn't understand what you're trying to tell her.

The pond has started to bleed too. Its decaying scent is pungent from miles away.

has it bled into her?

Is she infected too?

You're there again today, worlds apart yet close enough to touch. Her body stiffens as she kneels next to you. Desperate for your attention, desperate for you to tell her what she is. Maybe, just maybe she can confess her love in time to share a grave with you.

"I used to be so beautiful.." Your voice sounds evasive. A final cry for help before the ocean consumes you. Your reflection in the pond is muddled over. A glitch in reality, something Frankie would have more experience with. "you still are mate…you still are" Her words are earnest, yet she doubts they bring you solace. "If it's any consolation, I'm polluted too..". You laugh so condescending it makes her stomach churn. She rolls the words in her mouth again, tasting them for misunderstandings.

"We're all polluted Lagoona. We always have been."

You're made of one too many pieces, all doused in poison. You rearrange the water lilies on her head. Your fingers feel like home threading through her hair. "The last of our kind." Lagoona giggles, her body is growing dryer, desperate, the moisturizer and hydration station have long since stopped working. Now she awaits the poison to take over fully. You're her memento mori another helpless creature awaiting death.

And yet, to her, you're still as radiant as the first day she met you.

Lagoona's grave will be in the sea. It's a last wish one you decide to honor. You kiss her on the cheek as she turns to you. Body half submerged in her home. She hugs you, with all the longing her frail corpse can muster. It's only too late when you notice that you too are being submerged. Dragged into the eternal depths. Lagoona refuses to part with you. This is her final gift, the last present she will give you. A quick and painless death. One with a comforting presence.

Her father used to tell her strange tales of bizarre men who'd come to their ancestrial home, seeking answers far too advanced for them. She wonders if she's had the answers all along. Maybe she just had to look a little deeper.

It doesn't matter now. For her final breaths, she is at peace. She is content to end like this. With you in her arms.

𓂀𓆣☥Cleo De Nile☥𓆣𓂀

Cleo likes to think she's come a long way from her former self. No longer an autocrat cheerleader with stary eyes and a need to be worshipped.

She likes to think she's filled out the role of queen, of sovereign, of absolute.

She's done her dynasty proud...

Shattered and transformed herself into the perfect vessel.

It's not until she catches her rogue reflection in the gleam of your eyes, that she realizes she's still the same. Eons have passed yet Cleo still remains the same frail cowardly daughter bearing the burden of the D'Nile name.

You look every bit a queen, a sovereign, an absolute. You've grown to fill the role you never knew you had.

Cleo bleeds gold. She always has.

Little did she know, you did too.

You always had.

There's a crushing weight, something that makes her long for entombment. "I wish I were a mere child once more." her tone is sand on sand. So faint you think it nothing more than a mirage of sound. Her head lays on your lap bleeding out her sins as she prays for the sun to melt her. Feeble, unstable thing she is. Hailing from a feeble unstable place.

Maybe it would do you both some good to forgo the past. To embrace a thundering, grotesque future. Maybe it's time to retire the thrones and gold bangles. Maybe it's time to depart.

she laughs at such a preposterous notion.

Cleo's Icoffine lays in a pool of shards and wires and golden beads. Her bandaged fingers wrapped tightly around your bicep, tugging you closer until the scent of spices and flora became overbearing. "it's...okay" you lie through the rage bubbling in your throat. Through the tears that sting the corners of your eyes. "It's not-it's...it's never been okay", the words feel like boulders crushing her bones. turning her body and bandages back to dust.

You've known Cleo to always wear a broken crown. Funny how, after a millennia, the cracks still keep growing. Only now they bleed into her corpse, cut through bandages, and aim for the heart. You want to wipe her tears away. To whisper glory and purpose into her bejeweled ears.

Cleo lies on the golden floor. It's cold, frigid, she doesn't remember gold to be so unwelcoming, so petrifying. You pull her hand to your heart, hovering above her. Watching as she melts and hardens in the same breath.

"Allow me the pleasure of death once more. Allow me the luxury of being the only monster you ever have to know." Cleo doesn't remember missing her sarcophagi so much. Her lungs fill with broken promises as her eyes sting from mulish obsoletes. "I've been so blind for so long." She confesses, free hand fiddling with the jewels on her blouse. Running them along her nails waiting to see which will scratch first. "As have I, there's no need to-" her voice is harsh as she sits up. The undead rising from its bejeweled grave. Her hands cup your face. She tries to be gentle, to cradle you like a flower petal. "I'm-I-" her breath hitches as her fractured mind screams. "I hate myself all so very much. Yet I love you with every bit of the heart I thought I lost all those millennia ago."

Chaos has a way of squirming through her veins.

Her dreams are tainted in rubies, seeing you lying in the sand.

The noise above is defining. She hates that she's not used to it by now.

It can't be fair.

The world can't take you from her.

You're the only lifeline she has left.

The only hope that remains.

You tell Cleo you want to die one starless night, she understands the sentiment. You don't know why that makes you cry. Her lips leave phantom kisses across your eyelids. Spilling gold pleated secretes into your skin. Cleo wishes she kept you entombed next to her, rotting away far from every disaster. Yet she knows she can't, not now at least. You've morphed her into her purpose better than her omnipotent father and cruel sister ever could. With you by her side, she's truly become a queen, a sovereign, an absolute. While you rein above her, some all-knowing creature who she can't help but worship.

Maybe someday, decades from now.

The love you share will be dethroned

How unlikely such a feat seems.

Taglist: @hadesnewpersephone @feedmestraycats @deathangelraven @itotallysleepenough @yuuka29 @umgatochamadopercyval

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lexsssu · 6 months

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Adoration (Alhaitham)

TAGS: Alhaitham/Wife!Bunny!reader, cockwarming, pregnant sex, drabble Ao3 ver. | Ko-fi | Commissions (OPEN)

The last thing anyone expected of the Akademiya’s scribe was him being a doting husband. Or well…finding anyone willing to put up with his personality enough to want to spend the rest of their life with him.

While it’s no secret that he was an objectively handsome man with many achievements to his name who would make any mother or father clamor to have their daughters married to him, Alhaitham’s personality was simply too much.

Of Sumeru’s hottest bachelors, he was the most difficult to get along with, regardless if one was a scholar, a wealthy merchant, or even just an ordinary civilian.

He simply wasn’t interested in anyone…until you.

If anything, it should have come as no surprise to anyone that the only person who could capture the stoic scribe’s heart and thaw it out would be his Akademiya sweetheart.

While the two of you hadn’t been officially together at that point in your lives, more than one person had noticed that you were the only woman Alhaitham willingly associated with outside of his academics.

Those rumors about finding you sitting on the scribe’s lap while he tutored you in some secluded corner of the House of Daena didn’t feel so farfetched after all. If anything, it certainly explained just how long this relationship had been brewing even before it had come to light.

And just like those seemingly fantastical rumors, you are once again settled on your favorite seat within your now shared home with your husband as he read through various reports and journals with one hand.

With his cock stuffed so snuggly within your cunt that had bore the brunt of his relentless affections barely half an hour earlier, your head using his defined chest as a pillow, and his hand rubbing the already noticeable baby bump on your middle, there is no place the both of you would rather be.

#lexsssu writes #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x y/n #alhaitham x you #alhaitham x female reader #genshin impact smut #crossposted on ao3

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peggyao3 · 3 months

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Night Crawler - Pt. 1

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Reader / can be read as OC

SUMMARY: Feyd-Rautha welcomes a nocturnal visitor in his chambers, who is plagued by the symptoms of her artificially induced condition.

WORD COUNT: 3,558

TAGS: 18+, smut, lactation kink 🍼‼️, pseudo pregnancy, breastfeeding (no baby involved only a big sexy egg man), she/her reader, AFAB reader, ambiguous relationship status, non-consenting drug use, dark undertones, implied violence, stockholm syndrome-ish, dubious consent, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist under construction ⚠️

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Part 1 ↓, Part 2, Part 3

The nights on Giedi Prime are inky black, not midnight blue like on her home world. Inky black are also the sharp-edged pillars that frame the hallway. Jagged polymer giants that intersect the row of windows like alien artifacts. The view outside is not much better. Where one might expect palace gardens are only industrial plants that stretch past the horizon. They are the only source of light.

This corridor is solely occupied by the na-Baron. She has been here many times. But never alone. The corridor where she resides is not far away, yet the path seems to stretch on forever, the Harkonnen palace a hostile monster that pierces her marrow and bone with every barefooted step on cold, black tiles.

She hates this so much. Tonight will be her personal disgrace. That she goes to him willingly, and in the middle of the night no less, is a first.

Though willingly is a farfetched word. No servant has reacted to her request for some pain relief remedy, mumbled then shouted into the transmitter panel in the wall of her chamber. It could be because she had uttered a wrong word in the afternoon or he didn’t like the way she held her fork and knife at dinner. It is hard to tell with Feyd-Rautha.

What is also not under her influence is the chemical cocktail in her veins that tricks her body into believing something has taken root in her womb. The symptoms are manifold, but what torments her most is how her breasts have grown bigger and heavier with milk that no one drinks.

At first glance one might think the fine lines that frame her enlarged breasts are stretch marks, but many of them are scars, placed by an enraptured Feyd-Rautha who loves to lap up the crimson beads, from base to peak. Sometimes his mouth and teeth ghost over her pert nipples.

The na-Baron seems to find sick enjoyment in her condition, fantasizing about the idea without the commitment. It is still better than being forced to carry the his real spawn.

The corridor ends in a dead end and she raises her hand, knocks on the door with cold knuckles. “My Lord?” Her warm breath is a ghost swallowed by the hallway.

There is no sound to be heard, nothing moves aside from the rise and fall of her ribcage. She swallows her pride and knocks again.

A mechanism whirrs and the door slides open. Out comes Feyd with a knife. That much was to be expected, but she still gasps when the icy edge of the blade finds her throat. The na-Baron’s frown dissolves into surprise when he recognizes her. Her throat is one of the few he wouldn’t slit right away for disturbing him.

“Feyd-!” She gasps and flinches away from the blade. Its tip tickles her jaws.

He was asleep, she realizes and is somehow surprised. The slight touch of puffiness around sharp eyes gives him away. She has never seen him sleep and she believes no one has, except for his own mother perhaps, who is now dead by matricide. This pinch of vulnerability on Feyd-Rautha’s face makes her heart stutter, as she hadn’t expected to wrest a triumph from this wretched night.

“What do you want, night crawler?" He sheathes the knife and drags the tip of a finger down her throat instead, to her collarbones, making a shiver roll down her spine. She prefers the knife.

“I am hurting, my Lord.” She stares straight ahead at Feyd's throat while gesturing at her breasts, avoiding his face. Tonight she can't stand to see the sickly joy that lights up his eyes whenever she's in pain. “They are… Too full, or so it feels.” Her bosom sits heavily in the snug night gown, warm and aching.

“Oh. Do they hurt badly?” Feyd wants to hear a yes. Fatigue and ire about being woken are gone now and he stares at her cleavage. The scars he made stare back at him.

“Would I come to you if they weren’t?” She spits. Feyd-Rautha smiles eerily and in the black of the night, his maws look like they possess no teeth.

“Come inside then.” He steps aside, clearing the passage into his chambers. The hairs in the nape of her neck prickle.

“Actually… “ She takes a step back. Even the alien pillars at her back emit more warmth than Feyd's den. “I only need you to call a servant for me. My panel seems to be broken. I’m sorry to have woken you, but I can get no rest like this. And I would…” She cringes. “I would like to be well-rested for whatever my Lord has in store for me tomorrow.” There is always something.

“Is that so?” Something about his voice reminds her of stepping on wet gravel. “You already woke me. No need to wake a servant now.” A hint of a smile creeps over his visage, a threat in one eye, glee in the other as he holds out his hand.

She chooses not to take it, so she can retain some dignity while entering his bed chambers. The door whirrs shut at her back and she knows she won’t be able to exit until he places his hand on a hidden panel. Slowly she walks into the center of the bleak room, walls made of polished stone, steps in the back leading down to a basin that is sunken into the floor. A double bed is at the right hand side and the ruffled sheets are the only sign that something lives in this room.

Feyd-Rautha moves like a beast of the night. She feels his breath on her neck before she hears his footsteps. Wiry arms circle her from behind and pull her against his chest. He is the warmest thing in the room, but as long as she isn’t freezing to death she prefers not to throw herself into an embrace that can warm her one second and scorch her the next. He kisses her neck and softly slides the straps of her nightgown down her shoulders.

Assuming Feyd’s intentions are as they most often are, she shuffles away and pulls the straps back up, trying to sound stern. “F-Feyd-Rautha, I don't know what you think you can do about my predicament, but I-”

“Sit on the bed with me.” His voice cuts the air like a Fremen crysknife. He is going to cut her breasts open to drain the milk, she thinks when she sits on Feyd's bed. The sheets are still warm.

From the corner of her eye, she sees him approaching and notices the wrinkles in his sleep shirt. Such everyday imperfections look bizarre on a man so atrocious. His bare feet pat on the tiles now and fabric rustles when he climbs on the bed. He sits and leans against the sleek headboard, a single pillow in his back and waits.

“Come.” Reluctantly she turns, gathers her nightgown skirt and scoots closer towards him. Too slow for his liking. His pale fingers brush against her throat. “Why aren’t you wearing your collar?”

“I don’t wear it to sleep!” She spits. “You’d know that if you ever-” Slept with me. Cold sweat breaks out under her armpits.

Feyd’s head tilts to the side, disgusting curiosity in his eyes. He pulls her in his lap, thighs on either side of his hips and then pulls down her night gown with one harsh tug so her right breast pops free. Even the soft scrape of fabric over her nipple makes her whimper and she hisses at him to be gentle.

Seated in his lap, her chest is roughly at Feyd’s face level. At first, she thinks he is only going to ogle the plump shape of her, taking sick pleasure in her visible pain as a reimbursement for disturbing him at night. But then his mouth starts ghosting over her and a trail of nips and feathery kisses leads him to the apex of her breast. One hand curls under the taut flesh and lifts it carefully.

Oh. Now she understands.

How grotesque. How humiliating. She should have expected nothing less.

With horror she watches his plush lips close around the nub. Dark eyes lift to scrutinize her face and when she utters no complaints (although God knows they’re clawing at her throat, they just can’t make it past the lump inside), Feyd closes his eyes.

Her face is scrunched, nails digging into Feyd's shoulders when he creates suction, hesitant at first but greedier as soon as the first drop of white milk decorates his black tongue. She cringes, thighs flexing around his which encourages him to cling to her hip with his free hand.

The sensation repels her at first, alien and encroaching, as if a parasite was latched onto her teat. She has never nursed anyone before. It takes her fear-conditioned mind several moments to realize no harm comes from Feyd’s mouth this time. He only suckles on her breast and his cock twitches against her core, which she ignores. In the chamber’s nocturnal silence, she hears him quietly gulp and with each moment, the torturous pressure in her breast abates. A tear almost slips down her cheek, that’s how thankful she is, even if Feyd-Rautha only helps her for his own pleasure.

Minutes pass and she almost grows used to the sensation, the pressure of his tongue against the underside of her nipple and the occasional scrape of teeth. The tender flesh however is starting to ache, not used to such a long assault of his mouth.

“That's e-enough, it h-hurts now.”

Feyd growls and his hairless brows twitch over closed eyes. He squeezes her breast, mouth latched over her nipple. Greedily, he suckles, ignoring her wincing. Shivering, she realizes that trying to take away his toy from him will always spark ire, so she gently scrapes her nails over his scalp instead until his ravenous mouth relaxes and strangely, she relaxes too.

“You can have the other one instead, okay?”

That works. His mouth slides over to her left breast, tongue swirling around the nipple before his lips close around it. He suckles more gently now and the relief makes her moan this time, spine arching against his face as milk flows into his mouth.

“Thank you, this is… So good. “

Feyd's hand still cups her right breast, as if scared she or anyone would steal it from him if left unattended. A bead of milk still clings to the nipple. With a spark of hope she wonders if Feyd-Rautha would ever be willing to share her breasts with an heir.

No, she sees him throttling his own spawn, just so he can have everything for himself.

In the dead of night, a sly little smile tugs on her mouth and she encouragingly wraps her arms around Feyd's neck, hugging him close. Willingly, he sinks into her chest, drinking with abandon. “Keep drinking,” she hums.

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the na-Baron, the gladiator, is temporarily docile at her bosom.

The silent victory makes heat grow in her belly as pressure is released from her breasts. She shuffles against his lap and the hardness that rests against his belly. Feyd's hand squeezes her hip, nudging her closer. While he drinks, the other pale hand lightly fondles her right breast, catching the drop of milk with an unusually gentle index finger.

Her spine arches and her hips curl against his pelvis, head and hair falling backwards. The cool of the chamber is now pleasant on her heated skin.

“Feyd, please…” A quiet sigh, nearly swallowed by the midnight hour. Her core curiously grinds against his length.

He seems to know better what she pleads for than she does. The hand on her hip sifts through the layers of silky gown to get to where he needs, finding her flesh unobscured by undergarments. Slick essence coats her gown where she had sat and Feyd’s hand stutters when his knuckles brush through the wetness on the silk.

Instantly, her cunt bucks against his fingers and Feyd's eyes snap wide open. His digits glide through her folds, stunned to find them so wet and hot. Her entrance weeps and yields so easily when he prods lightly with two fingers.

“Don't say anything, just-” She shakes her head, realizing Feyd hasn’t said anything at all since he discovered the milk from her breasts for himself. Fascinated, he gazes up at her from coal-black eyes, pouty lips puckered around her nipple still when two calloused fingers sink into her cunt. Languidly, he thrusts, finding her walls willing and soft to the touch. She meets each thrust, sighing as she brings her hips up and down.

Looking down at Feyd’s pale skull latched to her breast, she also looks at the scars that paint them. They taunt her now.

‘Does he make you wet now?’ They seem to ask. ‘Has he finally cut you into submission, into the shape he wants?’

She doesn't feel overly submissive right now, however. The pace of her hips quickens, as does that of his fingers. Her nails dig into his scalp when a third finger eases into her cunt without her request. The stretch makes her moan and her hips needily rut against Feyd’s hand.

Even if she is not truly in power, she can at least pretend she is.

“Take yourself out of your pants!”

Determinedly, she sits up straight and leans back, breasts feeling almost light now, compared to before. Her nipple slips out of Feyd’s mouth and he gives it a parting gift, sharp teeth nipping at the tender bud. Probably the punishment for her bold tone. Still, she grows nearly euphoric when he does as she says, sliding his trousers down to his mid thighs, so his daunting cock comes to rest against his navel. It doesn’t daunt her today.

She shuffles and pulls the silky layers of her nightgown away, so her pelvis can rest on the smooth, milky expanse of Feyd’s hairless thighs. His balls rest hotly against her weeping cunt until she raises her hips and kneels, grabbing Feyd’s cock to line him up with her entrance. The size of him makes the angle awkward and she has to lean forward to try and shuffle the thick head between her folds, one hand wrapped around the shaft.

“You can ask for help, you know.” Feyd chuckles, fingers gliding over her thighs under the gown. She hisses and resists the urge to tell him to shut his mouth, lest he ruins the night. It had been so nice without the talk of his foul tongue. Finally, she has him angled like she needs him and her entrance yields for his head.

Feyd knows she struggles to take him, despite the preparation. Her soft cunt stretches around his obscene length and she tries to be strong, play it tough, so her whines can’t give away the challenge it still is for her to be a fitting sheathe for his cock. Amused, he watches her toil away in his lap, slowly sinking down, then hissing and jerking back up. He gives her the time she needs, curiously watching her face shift into triumph when their pelvises come flush.

Up and down she goes, sighing and moaning and her grimace slowly relaxes as she grows accustomed to his cock. Feyd-Rautha sinks into his pillow, sliding down the headboard as his figure becomes more and more horizontal. Her breasts are out of reach now, but he still marvels at the marks and redness left by his mouth. His jaws flex. He already misses the taste of her milk. Tomorrow he will instruct the authorized doctors to tweak the formula of her injections, so she will produce more.

Unbeknownst of his thoughts but well aware of his wolfish gaze on her tits, she rides him as she pleases, hands pushing up his sleepshirt so she can grope his pale torso, leaving angry red marks on his belly and on the small dent between his pectorals.

Her shoulders roll forward and her thighs hurt a little from lifting herself so repeatedly, but she tirelessly grinds against his pelvis, chasing the pleasure sparked by power that kindles in her belly before it’ll inevitably go out by something he says or does. If he had pubic hair, perhaps it would be easier to get some friction against her clit. She is missing that extra stimulation to quite push herself over the edge.

Feyd’s hands on her hips have been docile, but the moment she falters, he strikes. Her weak knees buckle when his thumb finds her clit and her wrists are gathered in his other hand.

“I… No!” She stubbornly pleads, the figment of control wrenched out of her grasp. Not even by his hands that overtake her body, but by the mean midnight-smile that decorates his face.

“That’s alright,” he coos sweetly. No one likes gravel mixed with honey.

Hot tears gather in her eyes when she fights weakly against his grasp but still moans from the pressure of his cock. She wants to tell him that nothing is alright. It’s not alright that she can’t even fuck herself to completion without his help. It’s not alright that her legs give out because of the medication he’s put her on to induce false pregnancy. It’s not alright that her tits hurt and she gets sick in the mornings and It’s definitely not alright that he’s taking her little victory away from her.

She is close to tears but doesn’t start crying. Feyd’s hips dictate the rhythm, driving up into her cunt so she no longer rides him, she only helplessly sits as he fucks her. And to her dismay, it feels better. He just does it better.

The pressure of his thumb on her clit is just right, as are the short, hard thrusts against her cervix.

This whole night still counts as a victory, she reminds herself as her head falls back and a climax rolls through her body, walls fluttering around her tormentor’s cock while he pours sweet, gravelly honey in her ears. It’s the softest he’s ever been with her.

Feyd prolongs her climax, drawing tight little circles on her clit so her walls keep milking him until he has spilled his seed harmlessly against the entrance to her womb. A throaty groan rumbles in his chest and then the chamber falls silent.

His cock twitches and relaxes against her walls while his thumb still lazily plays with her clit. Uneasily, she shifts in his lap and her squirming draws wet noises from their conjoined pelvises.

“Stop smiling,” she demands.

“I can't.” If only his smile was prettier. Feyd releases her wrists and his thumb abandons her overstimulated clit and ghosts over her abdomen, the bunched gown, her plump breasts. A blush follows his trace as he presses into the dip between her clavicles and then brushes over her throat, perhaps still mourning the absence of her collar.

“I… I need to go to the bathroom.”

Abruptly, Feyd sits up and swings his legs over the edge, catching her before she can fall backwards off his lap. He turns his head and nips at the hand that had instinctively latched onto his shoulder. “Don't be long.”

She denies him the satisfaction of seeing her sway and buckle when she slips off his cock. It smacks against his abdomen and black seed sullies his pale stomach and shirt. Feyd doesn't mind, but if she insists on getting cleaned up, she shall.

For a moment she fears he will follow her, just to make sure she doesn't flush herself down the drain to escape him, but he remains docilely on the bed.

She just barely makes it to the bathroom before the thick rivulet of cum that rolls down her leg reaches the ankle and stains the floor. Awkwardly, she cleans herself with cold water from the sink and paper towels, then hovers over the toilet and waits until most of Feyd's release has exited her body. Some of it still stubbornly clings to her womb, she's certain.

For a moment, she regards her reflection in the mirror, little more than a shadow in the dark of night, but even now she sees the shape of her hard nipples under the silk. She feels obliged to clean the cum stain on the floor, even though that's a task for the maids.

Once she comes back out, she almost expects a knife against her throat - foreplay for what Feyd-Rautha might consider the real fun, but the na-Baron's breath chimes calmly and steadily from the bed. Could it be?

Almost as silent as a beast of the night, she slinks to the door, knowing it probably won't budge for her but it's worth a try.

“Where are you going, night crawler? Come here.”

He lifts the covers and wordlessly she resigns and climbs underneath, like a bird into an alligator’s open maws, hoping she will be useful long enough and her wings not broken when the maws snap shut.

Feyd-Rautha sleeps on her bosom that night and she cries for a good minute while caressing his scalp. Why does every triumph, no matter if big or small, always come at the cost of feeling dirty?

[If you enjoyed this fanfiction, a comment would mean the world to me! <33]

#feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd #feyd x reader #feyd x you #house harkonnen #feyd smut #dune part 2 #dune part two #dune fanfiction #dune #austin butler #peggysuave fanfics #feyd x oc

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witchofthesouls · 5 months

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Sam ending up throught groundbringe fuckery in Tfp would be such a vacation for him i think. Less action, less aliens ripping each other to shreds every miniute, the difference between how bay formers and tfp formers look.. Sam would look at tfp cons deadpan not afraid at all

Meanwhile the kids in Bayverse would get treated like sparklings probably(wattch Miko growl once at a con and promptly get adopted) Raf especially. Jack would take one look at everything and just go to work in NEST cafeteria until others can figure a way back home for him, Miko and Raf because he's NOT getting involved in this housefire(would avoid bay!Op like a plague something something honorary prime nonsense)

Sam is right there, chilling and spazzing on the minor things (to everyone else in TFP), while completely blasé to the major world-changing/world-ending things. He's been in more than one "end of human civilization" scenarios. It's not his first rodeo, and he's not even counting the doomsday panic of 2000 and 2012. He's immune to crazy, otherworldly shit via alien technology. If anything, he's weirdly disappointed over the lack of alienness of their Artifacts.

He literally resurrected his version of Optimus, met the Dynasty of Primes, had the Allspark in his mind, and dealt with the Fallen that manipulated gravity fields.

Sam's treating it like an unwanted vacation to a place that lied upon the brochure. That guy is like a powerful magnet for destroying Decepticon plans. He would probably fall into a chasm of a hidden Energon mine or interrupt an Artifact expedition to his advantage because 1) Allspark guided him, or 2) he was getting to antsy in the base of nothingness (no human personnel, no cafeteria, no agents, no systems or tasks for him) and did a runner.

He definitely puts his foot in his mouth when he meets Arcee. Sam would never get used to their more human-like frames.

Sam's boogeyman would be M.E.C.H.

Meanwhile, the Jasper Trio is stuck on Diego Garcia. They're taken back by the immense operation that's N.E.S.T. and feeling really lost. Miko doesn't have a Bulkhead-equivalent, Jack doesn't know what to make of the triplets, and Raf isn't clicking this Bumblebee.

Because everyone is too busy, they're trying to slot into things without getting too underfoot. Jack already has certifications related to his fast food job, so he gets into the mess hall to prepare meals for hundreds. Raf and Miko get into the science portions. Raf is making a name for himself as he has the most success bridging tech and understanding the Cybertronian script. Miko likes explosions.

The kids are boggled by all the politicking that goes into it and the more intensely magical things with the Allspark.

Those three will never, ever not laugh at Dorito-Starscream.

(Both sides have the not-so-fun realization about the malfunction connected to Unicron in the middle of Earth. That's too farfetched for anyone, but the truth literally grabbed the respective Primes with giant elemantal fists to viciously shake them.)

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pinkrose05 · 10 months

Text

Sudden realization that we now have a Smol Cloud Quintet of kids on the Luofu.

Warning: contains minor spoilers for version 1.5 content.

After Huohuo's debut and the recent Trailblaze Continuance + Event, I've noticed that a few recurring faces seem to parallel the good ol' High Cloud Quintet of the Luofu, be it by accident or on purpose. And if you know me, then you may have noticed I really like to connect the dots (or in some cases, make up headcanon dots for funsies), so I had to put these thoughts into words.

Going clockwise from the center, we have:

1) The High Elder of the vidyadhara, well-known for proficiency in healing arts, designated mother hen, and.... significantly shorter than everyone else in the group. Poor Bailu. At least she gets to be a short gremlin, and that's neat! Go cause mischief, queen!

2) A talented swordsman who aspires to be the Sword Champion and has an affinity for ice. And for throwing sharp objects as an attack. Kinda funny how Jing Yuan is the only one of Jingliu's disciples that doesn't do that, and yet his own apprentice picks up the habit anyway.

3) A newbie Cloud Knight of somewhat traditional upbringing, who happens to be really impressed by their superior and gets noticed by them in turn at some point (see Sushang's About Yanqing line, and the latter calling for assembly when he joins a team with her specifically).

4) A foxian who's known to be very good at her job, but gets into a lot of trouble and earns a nickname for exactly that (Cursed One for Huohuo, Starskiff Killer for Baiheng), and still miraculously scrapes by every unfortunate encounter.

5) A crafty, short-lived outlander whose home planet was destroyed in their childhood, with them being taken to the Xianzhou as a result, and then rising to fame thanks to their creativity and fiery spirit. They also befriend the aforementioned newbie Cloud Knight, except there's lots of squabbles and teasing involved.

Personally I think they should all be friends. A silly lil group that circumvents the law and gets up to shenanigans. Half of them are already besties in canon too, so it's not particularly farfetched, and the potential interactions between the rest are fun to think about!

Bonus:

Oh my god, they know.

#can't believe that reference is actually canon #anyway i'm rotating these five in my head. they're stacked like tsumtsums and spinning around with various levels of enthusiasm #new friendgroup headcanon acquired! hooray ^v^#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr bailu #hsr yanqing #li sushang #hsr huohuo #hsr guinaifen #smol cloud quintet #pink's musings #honkai star rail spoilers #hsr spoilers

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savorypink · 4 months

Text

buckle bunny

you've taken a liking to someone next door.

contains smut. + cowboy!alex.

It’s not wrong, right?

It’s just looking—observing. You aren’t hurting anyone. Well, the potential relationship with your neighbour could damage a few things. Ugh, that word. Potential. It makes your stomach swirl with nausea; potential.

You want something more permanent than ‘potential’. Right now, it seems farfetched, almost out of your grasp. But until permanence occurs, you can at least enjoy the view.

You draw back the curtains to your window, the mobile home adjacent to yours now in vision.

He’s home today.

The plastic encasing your popsicle bursts opens with a soft ‘pop’, though the emptiness of your trailer makes it seem louder than usual. The bitter Red 40 hits your tongue before the tart cherry flavour washes it away. It reminds you of something. You recall the fleeting feeling of your heart drumming against your chest the first time you did this—your bitter Red 40.

Then relief covers you in warmth like a blanket, but your stomach still churns, partly in butterflies, the other…disgust? It isn’t your fault. Alex is just that excellent of a specimen. Your microscope will forever fix on him.

It’s like watching a sculpture in motion. But your time in the museum has well passed. Alex is dripping sweat from the damp hair shielding his face to his lean, sun-kissed arms. He isn’t too bulky but shows no signs of fragility, either. Rugged. Masculine. Sharp edges you don’t mind cutting yourself on. Replace the dumbbell in his hand with your neck, and it could leave an attractive bruise. Your body and brain melt at the thought while your thighs come together pathetically. He could crush you like a bug.

Your lips fall agape as you watch him curl the dumbbell for another repetition. As he curls the dumbbell, your grip on the popsicle grows tighter, mirroring the contracting muscles in his arms. Your peep show is beginning to feel like a workout, with the underarms of your shirt dampening and soreness in your knees from digging them harshly into the mattress.

Your chest burns a fiery red hot as if he’s placed a boot there. Your feeble wheezing congests your ears while the savoury sound of your bones snapping sends a jolt of heat through your core. He could crush you like a bug. He could crush you like a bug.

A pink tongue laps away at the sweat forming across his upper lip. Bumps and edges your body wants to get familiar with. You’d look good on him, and you don’t doubt that, but he’d look delectable between your folds. Your ache could use easing, and he could be your painkiller.

The weight gradually comes up his chest for what you presume is his final set of curls. The strain on his sweaty face softens once the dumbbell is at his side again. With what you think is a hearty grunt, he sets the weight at his feet. His large, gloved hands sit at his hips as he triumphs over the weight. You catch him trying to fight the smirk threatening to paint his features, but eventually, he caves. Shit-eating. Sexy. Belittling.

He’s such a man.

His chocolate eyes study the ceiling, dizzy with power. When his eyes tear away from above, they meet the window beside him.

The window you’re across from.

Your heart falls from where it once was and into your churning guts. This is real, is it? The hot guy from next door watching you is merely a vision trick. Correct? Closing your curtains makes you as cowardly as it does guilty; you remain statue-esque under his gaze regardless. The heat rushing to your neck and face tells you it’s terrible, but something else tells you to embrace it.

Alex drinks in your stunned state, amused. It’s almost a repeat of the same grin from when his workout finished. Smug. Proud that he’s gained an audience of you. Only you. He reaches for the string of his blinds before swiftly closing them, your beloved show ending on a cliffhanger.

The reality of what happened has yet to smack you in the face. Your mattress hasn’t swallowed you yet. Your underwear is still uncomfortably wet. The trailer is empty; no camera crew tells you you’ve been Punk’d. The quiet is deafening, but a buzz in your pocket quickly follows before allowing you to wallow in your silent shame.

It’s from your neighbour.

Change your shirt.

You look down at the splotches of red and blue staining your work polo. A warm, sticky puddle of popsicle soaks your skirt’s denim, dying your thighs and fingertips. Groaning, you leave the bed and gather nearby tissues to blot away the pesky Red 40 and Blue 1 splattering your skirt. Before you can angrily toss the empty popsicle in the garbage, you read the text on the stick’s end.

How do you warm up a frozen cowboy?

Yee-thaw!

—

“You still tryin’ to fuck that old dude next door?”

Your head comes up from your magazine to look at your friend. “He’s not old.”

She waits for your protest but smiles when you respond with silence. “Then that means yes.”

The trailer park folk are friendly; it’s something that comes with living in the South. You’ve shaken hands and exchanged hellos, but your only real friend sits beside you. Two trailers away and a bit gossipy, though you felt comfortable updating her on your staring rituals. She ensured your secret was safe with her; surprisingly, she’s incredibly supportive of your efforts. Or lack thereof.

“You two would make excellent babies.”

The summer sun isn’t responsible for the heat rushing to your face. You roll up the magazine and smack her thighs, but her infectious giggling alleviates your embarrassment.

“I don’t just want to fuck him,” the lawn chair squeaks as your back sinks further into the plastic. “Do you think he likes to cuddle? We can cuddle.”

“Naked, probably.” She sighs, about to leave her chair. “Want me to find out for you?”

You hold her wrist in a vice grip. “Don’t.”

She snatches her wrist from you, returning to your side. “You’re strong. You’ve been flicking the bean much more since Al’s been here, huh?”

You shield the magazine over your flushing face. Your friend isn’t wrong. “Leave. Please.”

“You have his number. Send him some nudes or something.” You allow her to get up this time, peeking at her through the glossy pages. “It’ll be more fun than watching him smoke.”

Her flip-flops clap along the pavement as she leaves. Groaning, you toss the magazine at your feet. You hate it when she’s right.

Nudes are a bit extreme, but you’ve made your interest clear. It’s not that Alex isn’t entirely interested, either. If you remember correctly, he quite literally smiled when he caught you. In some roundabout way, Alex opened Pandora’s Box between you two and left the rest in your hands. Your phone can be used to communicate. Did you know this? Alex practically gave you an opening. Enter the door.

Alex is having a cigarette. Double-denim clad. Large silver belt buckle around his hips. His worn hat sits beside him on the stairs leading to his trailer. He’s returned from the ranch. You recognise the exhaustion from your prior viewings. In sunlight, his dark circles are prominent, and so are the tan lines along the collar of his shirt.

A single bead of sweat trickles down his neck, glimmering in the sun before disappearing into the valley of his chest. Your toes curl into your flip-flops as your core tightens around your slick walls.

Stop staring. Stop staring. Stop staring.

Does he even know you’re alive over there?

You admire and envy his blase. He could sit in front of you and not say anything, let alone give you a glance. Instead, he taps away at the keyboard on his phone, one letter at a time. Looking absolutely adorable in the process. It definitely shows his age, but your heart flips and bends all the same.

His nonchalance might be a blessing in disguise. He can’t see the imaginary hearts floating above your head.

What does his search history look like? Who is he texting? Does he prefer Candy Crush or Bejeweled?

Your dumb questions halt once you hear his door shut. The loneliness isn’t as deafening as the night prior. You’ve gotten used to it. In fact, you’d call it a loop of the day before, the way your phone buzzes again.

The next show is tonight at 12. Dress to impress.

You’re alive. And Alex is aware.

Confirmed. See you then.

—

11:59.

Time doesn’t move the way you want it. 60 seconds shouldn’t feel like forever, but tonight, it does. You’re in your usual spot by the window, waiting for something to happen. But rather than silence, it’s your heart hammering your eardrums. Instead of just sitting there, your fingers twiddle with the lace hem of your nightgown. A lump sits in your throat, sour and hot, and you find it hard to swallow with each tick of the clock.

Where is he?

Could you blame him if he bailed? Not entirely. This is weird; strangers don’t wait by the window for one another. They don’t invite the other to watch them either—you don’t know him. Close the curtains. You can have a good cry about it later.

12:00.

Alex opens the blinds.

The towel wrapped around his hips is oddly thick. You want to kick yourself for letting your eyes land there first. He must’ve noticed. Alex is going for the towel. You ball up your nightgown and wiggle in your seat; your heart is the only echo in your ears.

Thwip!

There’s another towel underneath.

The air feels less thick as you laugh, the bricks on your shoulders tumbling to the ground. His lightheartedness is endearing; it makes your palms less sweaty. It’s a quality lacking in the boys your age: pure charm. You wonder what else he can do to fuzzy your chest. Make you laugh. Make you feel wanted. The skin on your arms raises at the thought. Butterflies flap wildly around in your belly. He could be yours.

Your phone lights up.

Show me something.

You’re unsure of what he means for a moment, but your body understands it clearly. You slip the nightgown straps down your arms, wincing as the cold air hits your bare skin. The blood rushes precisely where Alex wants it, frigid air and arousal stiffening your nipples. Your glazed eyes notice an inviting and prominent dent in the towel.

Another text.

Beautiful.

Wetness damps the pillow underneath you, and shamelessly, you rut against it. Your fingers swirl your nipples in circles, closing in on them with a hard pinch as Alex finally removes the towel. The strong arms you watched him work hard for get their chance to shine. He spits into his hand and begins pumping, almost in tune with your twist on your breasts. His fists, hefty, veiny, and what you’d picture as calloused, nearly eclipse his cock.

Already leaking out of the fat head, looking heavy in his hands, you don’t doubt he can fill you to the brim. You wouldn’t have it any other way. Your bodies demand to collide; the hunger between you two is almost never-ending.

You get a firm grip on the pillow and start grinding. A breeze wicks away the sweat forming on your brow, and you grind harder, the fabric painfully rubbing at your unnerving ache. Alex has an idea of what you’re doing and what you’re doing it with, and he knows it should be him instead.

Captivated with your breasts dancing and your slack jaw, he can’t tell if his new speed is out of anger or lust. You’ll be so good to him. Good for him. You’re worth the trouble.

A heat rises in your belly as your hips follow his hand’s maddening pace. The friction between your core and the pillow hurt all so good. Your folds will probably be a puffy, burning mess afterwards, but Alex makes it worthwhile. His body shines with sweat, defining his v-line and biceps, glowing him in the dark. He mouths what you think is your name but finishes with an audible “Oh.”

White stripes spurt out of his cock and onto his knuckles and bedsheets, but his movements continue as he waits for your arrival. You mewl and rock against the pillow until your legs tire. You hold your tongue when the heat in your stomach rushes through you, but you’ve made him aware of what you need.

The ceiling looks as if it’s made of stars with your head thrown back as you ride out your bliss, though you feel your movements becoming desperate again. When you dip your head back, Alex closes the blinds, leaving you alone again. The wet spot in the pillow grows cold quickly, and you prepare for silence again.

Until your phone goes off.

You wish it was your hand, don’t you?

You type out your message, hitting send with your eyes shut.

You wish you were the pillow, don’t you?

—

Ask him for a cup of sugar.

You’ve had dumber ideas.

It seems innocent enough. It’s more tasteful than just showing up and asking Alex: “What are we?” You even went out of your way to buy ingredients for a cookie recipe, knowing that a bag of sugar exists in your cupboard. Typically, you would hate lying, but this one could have an enormous payoff. Maybe you’ll finally figure out if he likes to cuddle. Your teeth ache at the sweetness of it all.

His door seems more menacing up close. It’s easier for you to turn heel, return to your house and act like the past few days never happened. You’d be better off that way. But the actions from your home are what lead you here. You’ll have to face that silence if you go back. Your skin will ache from unfulfillment, touch-starved and bone dry. Desires will continue to pound in your ears, and you’ll have no one to share them with. It’ll be you like it’s always been. You’re bored of it.

You knock firmly on the door, your heart halting as his footsteps approach.

The door swings open to reveal Alex draped in worn pyjamas and an equally worn shirt. Warmth wells in his eyes at your form. He smiles. “Hi.”

“It’s you.” Your voice is barely a whisper.

“In the flesh.”

“Can I…do you have sugar? I need a cup.”

He moves out of the way of the door, the scent of air conditioning pungent. “Come. Can’t have you waiting out here.”

You could pinch yourself a million times, but this will still be your reality. This isn’t a dream. You’re here. He gestures for you to sit at the kitchen table, and you sit statue-esque with your hands in your lap. Nervousness and curiosity keep your eyes bouncing from one thing to another.

The TV is playing some western on low volume. Kung-fu movies on VHS sit in a quiet corner. Playboys and painkillers sit on the end table next to the yellow couch, guitar picks scattered in the mix. There are no family photos; he wears no ring. There isn’t a life you could ruin. You can breathe a little easier. The silence still has you wheezing, though.

“Your spice cabinet is pretty full for a white guy.”

Alex closes the cupboard, turning to you with furrowed brows. “Thank you?”

All the blood in your body goes to your face. “Uh-huh.”

It might be best if you didn’t say anything.

He sets the sugar in front of you and then pulls out the chair across from you. “What other activities do you like besides peeping?”

It feels like more of an interrogation than an ice-breaker. You twiddle your thumbs. “Baking. Daydreaming. Long walks on the beach.” You force the last part, needing to be lighthearted; your arms can’t hold something this heavy.

“You like cowboys?”

You’re not picky, but you like this cowpoke specifically. “They’re fine, I guess.”

He clutches at his shirt dramatically, letting his head fall back. Acting as if you’ve shot him at point-blank range. He’d be as good as an actor as a lover.

“Woman, you wound me.”

You giggle, and he yearns to hear more of your laughter. “There’s a ranch not too far out from here.” Alex begins. “It’s where I work. Beautiful. All the acres you could want. The family’s filthy rich, too. I can sneak you in if you want. Teach you how to ride—a horse.”

The invitation is enticing and as charming as he is. It’s got those butterflies flapping about in your stomach. Without a thought, you slide out of your flip-flops and let your skin graze his ankle. Gooseflesh forms immediately at your contact.

“What else can you teach me?”

When your toe hits his calf, he takes your ankle. “We can get a head start on riding. You pick the place.”

His hands feel the way you pictured them. Calloused and rough—the hands of a working man. You look around the trailer. The couch is inviting. The kitchen counter won’t work. You’ve seen his bedroom, and your presence makes sense, but a question slithers into your head when your eyes meet again. What’s wrong with right here?

Alex releases your leg, allowing you to stand before him - albeit a nervous wreck. He embraces you regardless, the same calloused hands seemingly lightweight around your hips, grazing the bone with his thumbs. His nose pokes at your own, and Alex nudges it cutely, wanting your approval for a kiss. He doesn’t need to ask, but you tilt your head, and you two collide.

Finally.

It’s better than what you pictured. The fizz of Coke on his skilled tongue, his beard etching burns into your skin. Your failure to catch up with your tongue makes him clutch you tighter, the seams of your sundress nearly coming apart in his grasp. He bucks into your clothed core, and you mewl, returning the gesture with movements of your own.

A hand finds your breasts and squeezes possessively, another pathetic moan leaving your mouth. He drinks your sounds like water, rewarding you with noises from his gut. You steady yourself by placing your hands on his shoulder, but to your dismay, it breaks the kiss. Alex pulls back with a grimace, hissing through his teeth painfully. Your heart drops into your gut immediately.

“What…happened?” Concern shrills your voice.” Did I do something?”

He kisses you in assurance that he’s fine, albeit timidly. It has you second-guessing if he’s truly at his best. “I had a fall on the ranch. It’s unimportant.”

You begin tracing shapes along his shirt. “It’s important to me,” your lips curl into a pout, and you can feel his legs tremble. “I don’t wanna hurt you, Alex.”

His hand palms the lacy material of your panties, already sticky and damp to the touch. “You couldn’t hurt me even. Not even if I begged for it.”

You grind against the ridges and lines of his hand, but softly enough to reduce any damage you could do to his arm. His palm is hot under your core, and the lace of your underwear begins to burn at your ache. Your wetness spills out of his fingers in excess, adding to the stains you already stamped on his pants with your needy grinding. You claw at the waistband of his pyjamas, his bulge more prominent than before.

“Can I…? Please?” Your fingertips hook the elastic.

Alex withdraws his hand, pulling your panties to the side. “Take what’s yours.”

You slide him out of his pyjamas and boxers hurriedly. Your core tightens around itself as the tip already leaks precum. With a teasing finger, you smear the substance along his slit, another hiss leaves his lips, but it’s not out of pain. Alex retaliates by sliding two fingers into your leaking core, grinning when your finger spasms.

“Tight.” His fingers scruff the spongey part of your bits. You moan. “You’re gonna be so good for me. I know it.”

The wet squelching sound at the expense of your core is louder than your heart in your ears. Alex’s fingers curve and swirl, pumping mercilessly in and out of you. The moment heat pools in your lower belly is when his fingers withdraw from you. You whine.

“Don’t whine.” Alex lazily drags his tip along your folds before slipping inside you. “I got ‘cha.”

The bulbous tip is enough burning on its own, effective in stretching you out and making your toes curl painfully inward. With Alex fully seated inside you, your core is scorching, the burn is too harsh, and it is too delightful to ignore. Instead of his shoulders, your hands grip the neckline of his shirt, looking up at him with watery lenses.

“Like I said, I got you.” Alex guides up his cock, stilling at the base, then resuming, bringing you all the way to the tip. Your hot slick runs down each thick, lengthy inch of his cock, your wall’s usual grip uncomfortably wet and slippery. Alex has your hips coming down at a moderate pace, and you’re sure his shoulder is to blame. You try not to apply too much weight but let your head rest there, pressing kisses.

He wants more of you, and it’ll hurt him to do it, but he brings you down faster on his cock. His shoulder screams in agony, groaning in lust and in pain. He needs you to talk him through it. You’ll make it more bearable.

“No boyfriend, right?” He pants in your ear. “Besides your pillow, I mean.”

If he weren’t already in pain, you’d hit him. “Leave him out of this. He’s just a friend. Promise. Mmm, so good, Al. Close.”

You feel him twitch inside you. “Can’t wait to meet ’im.”

Another hotness spills from you again, but it’s stickier than you’d produce. Alex spills into your walls with a primal grunt. Everything but his hands go limp as he paints your core a hot, gluey white, his bouncing off your body slowing down.

Unlike that time in your room, his name comes out of your mouth with confidence as you succumb to the burning heat in your belly, clutching him tightly as your vision turns to pink haze. Both of your pants bounce off the walls of the trailer, the scent of sex breezing away from the air conditioning.

Alex shifts the chair, giving you room to stand. Your footing is shaky on the way up, your knees nearly buckling as you rise from his lap. He brings your underwear back to its original position, plugging the release and threatening to slip out of you. He gives your core an affirming smack, smoothing out the wrinkles in your dress.

You twiddle your thumbs and watch as he tucks himself back into his pants, the silence you know all too well blanketing the room.

“...So?”

“So.” Alex drums his fingers against the table.

You give two clammy thumbs up. “We’re good?”

“More than good.”

You take the cup of sugar, grinning. “Cool. Um, do you like cookies? I’ll bring you some when they’re done.”

He takes your hand and grazes your knuckles, kissing them tenderly. “You don’t need cookies to come see me. Visit anytime. You know where I stay.”

You'll be back. Cookies or not.

Guaranteed.

#mickey is typing…#alex turner fanfic #alex turner smut #alex turner x reader #alex turner x you #yeehaw!alex

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sleepynoons · 2 months

Text

dr. ratio x gn!reader, sfw, not beta read

cw: explicit language

notes: college!au ratio is scrumptious + i love trying new characterizations of such a well-written character. some emotional angst regarding insecurities + never feeling good enough. platonic btw, though feelings spark at the end. also, requests are now open – please read all of my acc + request rules, which are linked in my nav. finally, repeat after me: YOUR HOBBIES DON'T HAVE TO BE YOUR JOBS.

YOU HAVE got to be shitting me.

you gawk as you stare at the student across from you. piercing eyes, gold laurel accessory adorning indigo hair, apron crisp and clean – why the hell is the veritas ratio here?

you’re a simple student. day and night, you’re studying to pass your classes and working a part-time shift as a barista at a local café to scrape in a little bit of extra cash. the difference between you and ratio is more than the distance between heaven and earth. the only time you ever interacted with your college’s “legendary genius” was at a study review session for one of your classes that he happened to be a teaching assistant for.

the first ten minutes of the session were wasted because ratio was criticizing the hell out of another student. to be fair, the latter was acting like an asshole. you had overheard some of the snarky comments they made about ratio as you all were waiting outside the classroom. but ratio was equally, if not more, biting and ruthless as he made comeback after comeback after comeback. you didn’t have a good opinion of him either. and so, you snuck out of the review session and never attended one led by ratio again.

you try to shift your expression into a more amicable one as you sit down next to him. out of all the places to meet him again, you would have never predicted it to be at your favorite pottery studio.

it’s fine, you think, it’s not like he knows who i am.

you’re not good at pottery – mediocre at it, at best. but the feeling of the wet clay against your hands, how pliable and cool and malleable it is, is soothing. even the sheer act of throwing a ball of it onto the wheel is stress-relieving. you frequent this studio once every few weeks or so, and it’s become something of a third home to you, a place that you can run away to really at any time.

ratio has accolades in the arts as well, especially renowned for his sculptures, so pottery doesn’t seem too farfetched. yet you’ve never seen him here before.

you’re deep in thought, until a steady voice interrupts with a call of your name.

you perk up, looking around. another call of your name. there’s no one else in the vicinity besides you and ratio.

you squeak in surprise. “oh! yes, um, hi, ratio! what’s up?”

ratio’s response shocks you. he asks, “i am having trouble with pulling the sides of my bowl up. would you mind showing me how to do it?”

what. ratio needs help – and your help at that? you quickly pull yourself together, though, because you’d rather not get berated by him.

“y-yeah, sure,” you acquiesce. “what are you trying to make?”

for the next hour or so, you guide ratio through the very few basics of pottery that you’ve become acquainted with. of course, ratio catches on very speedily, but contrary to your initial impression of him, he listens with rapt attentiveness and asks questions only when necessary. the final result is a round bowl with scalloped edges.

during your next visit to the studio, which is a week later, you run into ratio at the entrance. you both nod politely in recognition, remaining in silence as the studio manager helps the two of you set up. this time, ratio does not reach out to you. you notice that ratio creates another of the bowl he made (and you helped with) last week.

you don’t visit the studio again until a month later. midterms season plus additional shifts at the café because a coworker had quit without a two-week notice took up all of your time. yet, here ratio was again, already throwing as you settle at your station.

it’s weird, really. when and why did ratio pick up pottery? no one else on campus seemed to know – indicative by the lack of gossip regarding the genius –, and after a brief exchange with the studio staff that you’ve become familiar with, they thought he was simply a new frequenter.

you’re suddenly feeling courageous. maybe it’s because of the accumulated stress from the past month or the lack of caffeine, but regardless, you’re feeling bold enough to initiate conversation with ratio.

so you start easy, to seem casual. “hi, ratio,” you chirp, even adding in a small wave to appear extra friendly.

he glances up and nods before concentrating back on his work. you take that as your cue to get started as well.

after half an hour, from the corner of your eye, you see ratio pause his wheel and stretch, judging and evaluating the progress he’s made. you notice that he’s making something new, a wide plate with a shallow rim.

“nice work,” you offer.

“thank you,” he states.

you sigh. now, you’re just getting irritated. going about this in a roundabout way is clearly not working.

you set down your tools and stare right at ratio. “i’m curious,” you ask, “why pottery? i’ve never seen you here.”

“you’re not here often either.”

you groan internally. of course he’s focused on the trees instead of the forest. “i come often enough to know the other regulars, and you were definitely not one of them up until a month ago.”

ratio breaks away from his work and looks back at you. even though you’ve seen him in person a few times now, his eyes always manage to glimmer so beautifully that they steal your breath away. “is one not allowed to pick up a new hobby? or are your conceptions of a so-called ‘genius’ limited to that of a naturally gifted workaholic?”

you have to think for a moment before responding. ratio seems rather uncomfortable with the term “genius.”

you muse, “maybe. you’re the closest thing to being a genius that i know, and you seem to be winning awards all the time. that can’t be possible if you’re not working hard all the time. but… it’s good to know that pottery’s just a fun activity for you.”

he asks, “is it for you?”

“yeah, i think it is.” you smile, though it’s more for yourself. “look, i’m not particularly gifted at anything, not even at pottery. but that’s fine because you don’t have to turn your hobbies into work.”

“i don’t agree with you.” you tilt your head in confusion, slightly wary because you don’t want to debate or argue. ratio continues, “the notion of separating work from hobbies is clear, but claiming that you are not particularly gifted is unnecessary self-deprivation, no? i’ve seen your work from class, and it’s very obvious you have certain strengths.”

you roll your eyes and scoff. “that doesn’t mean i’m talented at anything. everyone has strengths, that’s true, but it’s not like i’m doing anything impressive enough to get on the front page of our university newspaper.”

ratio states your name, but it sounds more like a stern rebuke. “i don’t take pride in being called a genius.”

“why? because you didn’t get nominated last year?”

he corrects, “for the past few years.”

the genius society, the most prestigious nonprofit in the world, offers a scholarship program that selects and nurtures the brightest college students globally. despite all of the research and leadership ratio has contributed, he has never once been accepted, let alone waitlisted, for the program.

you think you have a better idea of the kind of person ratio is. maybe he’s more like the sun to your earth, more tender-hearted and relatable than you had assumed.

“make sure the clay is evenly distributed in the center of the plate,” you note. you know he doesn’t need empty words of sympathy or comfort.

“i will.”

the two of you work until you’re both done; he finishes his plate and you a medium-sized soup bowl because you had accidentally shattered the only one you had.

before you leave, though, ratio calls out to you. (you notice you like the way he says your name.)

he says, “please, call me veritas.”

you chuckle and nod. (he notices he likes the sound of your laugh.)

“i’ll see you soon, veritas.”

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garden-of-joy · 1 year

Text

Simon "Ghost" Riley SFW alphabet

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

At first, Simon is anything but affectionate. He's distant, cold, and vaguely rude, but that isn't permanent. He'll slowly start to unravel, peeling layer after layer of professional hostility. Then, he'll begin with small things. Little compliments here and there, maybe he'll do something for you if you ask him, start to talk to you between missions and deployments, invite you to drink together. It'll start small due to the ridiculously high walls he has, but he'll come around eventually, it's just that he'll be subtle with his affection.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Having Simon as your best friend is kind of weird. For him to even let you be his normal friend first he has to get really comfortable around you, but once he quietly makes you his best friend? Oh, he feels safe. The kind of safe and understood he's never really felt before. This means he's a really dedicated and consistent friend. He's never cancelling going out unless it's an emergency, and he's not going to just ditch the friendship for no reason. If there's issues, he'll talk them out with you. He's practically glued to your hip and he's not letting go. He'll listen to everything you say and be an overall great friend to be with, despite what might seem at first. The only issue is that unless you're in the 141 yourself, you'll have to deal with him suddenly dissapearing due to his job. He's just so happy to finally have someone very close to him, even he doesn't directly state it.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Simon isn't really big on cuddling for long. Small hugs here and there are fine, but long cuddling makes him feel trapped. That said, every once in a while, he'll be in the mood for cuddles, and there's no escape. Be prepared to snuggle a big and muscled teddy bear, because he sure feels like one. For some reason, he's so good to hug, it's just that he's rarely in the mood for big and long hugs.

Another thing is that he's not happy with PDA. He just doesn't like it, being watched by everyone. In fact, a small fear of his is someone wrong seeing his affection and then using you as leverage against him. He wants to keep you out of harm's way as much as possible.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

At first, Simon thought that he is unfit for life in the civilian society. He thinks that he's nothing more than a weapon- an asset. In his eyes, he doesn't know who even would be insane enough to want a future with him. In the end, he does want to finally have a somebody to call a home with, but that's a distant yearning to him. Simply a farfetched dream. Or, until he meets you.

As for cooking and cleaning, he's impeccable at cleaning, but mediocre at cooking. Everything is in perfect order, spotless and in line. Simon hates chaos and filth, so he cleans every corner. Cooking though, is a different story. It's not that he'll give anyone food poisoning, but he's so used to surviving off of military rations and processed food, he doesn't know how to cook beyond boiling eggs.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

It will be hard for him. He'll definitely be heartbroken if he realised the relationship he has is toxic and not good for him or you. At the start, he'll probably start making excuses to try and convince himself it's good to still be in a relationship, but given enough time, he'll realise it. He's just so averse to the idea of splitting up with the only person who got actually close to him, to the point he'll try his hardest to not break off the relationship. As for how he'd break up, he probably wouldn't have the courage to confront you. He'll be so hurt and sad that he'll probably just... Dissapear. He'll leave off the face of the Earth. He won't respond to texts, he'll not call you back, won't meet with you, nothing. He'll just leave. If you're in the 141 with him, then he'll return to his original behaviour. He'll be cold, standoffish, and refuse to talk to you unless it's strictly related to work.

F = Fiance (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Again, long-term commitment is like a distant dream to him, but once you want to become his s/o (after a lot of persistence mind you) he'll feel good about it. Then again, he'll probably feel like a placeholder. A boyfriend, just so you aren't single while you search for someone better. That's why you need to sit him down and talk to him, explain why he matters to you, and that you genuinely love him. He'll break down in tears, showing genuine emotion and vulnerability like he hasn't done in God knows how long. But after you comfort him? You've got the most commited boyfriend under the sun.

As for marriage, he's still hesitant to think about it, almost scared that he'll turn out like his father. But now that he's sure in your connection, he'll be far more inclined to accept marriage after you've been together for some time.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Again, he's not veey gentle, but with time he'll be very much so. He thinks he has the mentality and hands of a killing machine, not a human. He'll just need time to realise he's wrong. Simon is generally really caring and careful with things he values, but before a genuine connection is established, he'll not be very careful.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Same as cuddles. Long and drawn out hugs make him feel trapped, but occasional hugs here and there are perfect for him.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

He's painfully slow when it comes to a confession. Even if he's fully sure you like him back and want to enter a relationship, he'll still not confess for a long, long time. You'll have to make the first move.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Sadly, Simon gets very jealous, very easily. He manages to not let it get in the way of course- he's not going to carry you out of a situation just because he's jealous.

That said, he still will make sure to show you're his. He'll come up to you, put his hands on your shoulders and coo out "Hey love." then kiss you lovingly om the head. He'll show who's whose, but he won't straight up yank you out of anything, unless it's a threat.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Simon is slow, methodical and through. When he wraps around you and wants to kiss you, he'll kiss every part of your face, his tongue will feel every part of your mouth. He'll work you slow and good- nothing good comes out of rushing after all.

He he loves getting kissed on the neck. It's a little sensitive, so every kiss there is sublime to him. He'll never, ever admit it, but loves it when you gently nibble his neck or trace his teeth along it. You probably found out after you started trailing a kiss all throughout his face accidentally slipped to the underside of his chin. He'll deny anything about this, but it's obvious just how much he's enjoying it.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Honestly, children are not his speed. It'll take a few years of dedicated marriage for him to even consider the idea. Even then, he still isn't sure, because he's military and that calls for him abruptly needing to leave at random times. And the last thing he wants to be is a bad or absent father, like his was.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Simon would like to laze around all morning with you. It makes heim feel safe for once. Watching you sleep or gently taking your hand while you sleep and dozing off like that? Perfect. He's not completely against the idea of cuddling in the morning, but he's not the biggest fan either. Once in a while is good by him though.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

It depends, really. Some nights, he sleeps slike a baby and doesn't move an inch. Some nights, he gets plagued constantly by nighmares and can't sleep for more than an hour before waking up, drenched in cold sweat. If it's one of those nights, even if he can't sleep, he's perfectly content with watching you sleep. Watching over you, somehow... Guarding you, makes him feel much more at ease.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

He starts sharing small tidbits here and there even before you two get together. For example, if you ask him for his tattoo, what it means, etc. he'll tell you, even if somewhat laconically. Just don't poke and prod too much, he might get iffy if you do so.

However, he'll need much more time to share the more sensitive things, to open up about all the emotional baggage he has. Even then, it will be bit by bit, slowly and only if he's sure you'll listen.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Simon can get ticked off and annoyed fairly easily, but downright angry is hard to achieve with him. He knows how to handle his emotions, and some small inconvenience isn't going to get him enraged.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Simon makes sure to remember everything, from needle to thread. He just... Remembers it. And even when you tell him something that's more obscure and niche, he'll make sure to keep it mind. This doesn't happen only when you're in a relationship with him, he'll do that even before you're together. Partly out of habit, partly because he just subconsciously makes a profile of everyone he meets, then keeps it in his head.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

It's definitely the fact that there's somebody out there that loves him. Wants him. He never thought he'd have any friends, but then he became a part of the 141. He never thought he'll have a special someone, but he met you. You gave him hope, and no matter how much he tries not to let it show beneath his exterior, he loves and cherishes you for that.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you?)

Simon is VERY protective, but he's not being overbearing either. He'll keep you under a watchful eye, and remain close when he thinks there's danger, but he won't be insufferably protective. He'll point out anything he deems fishy in anyone and tell you what to do, just in case.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

At first, he'll not put much effort into anything, because as I said, he doesn't think it'll last. But with time, when he sees that the attraction is mutual? He'll begin to try his hardest to have a good time with you, he'll treat you to a nice restaurant, he'll remember every little moment worth celebrating, just for you.

He'll do everyday tasks regardless of his commitment though.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

He's very aloof and dismissive, and doesn't even realise it. He'll try to remember everything you tell him, but it's not like he hasn't just completely ignored you on accident for no reason. Not to mention that he'll try to undermine any concerns you have for him, saying he's "fine".

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Not really. He already wears the balaclava most of the time, and he doesn't really put much thought into it. Unless it poses a threat, he doesn't take any special care of his appearance, just showers and washes, that's all.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Yes. When he bonds with you more throughly, he'll definitely miss you a lot, especially if he's alone on a mission.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Simon is obsessed with knives. He has a wide collection of different knives. Throwing, regular, special... You name it, he's probably got it.

But if you ask him to tell you more, by God be ready to get your ears bled out, especially if you're close to him. That's the one thing you can see his enthusiasm for.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

If his partner is really loud and boisterous, if he can easily identify them in a croud of people by sound only? Gives him the ick. Another thing is someone who takes things too quickly and is too energetic. He needs time and space to adjust, to plan everything out.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

On nights with nightmares, it's not like he completely can't sleep. When he wakes up, he just needs to try and fall asleep again for a bit, and it usually works. This process isn't fulfilling sleep though, so he's extra grumpy the next day.

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 4 months

Note

wibta for not telling my friend i have bedbugs after she stayed with me?

so my (nb24) friend (f26) recently came back from a vacation and stayed the night with me before driving home since i live near the airport and it was a late night flight. i didn't know i had bedbugs at the time until after she left and a few days later saw one crawling across my blankets. i reasonably freaked the fuck out and pulled my mattress off and found signs of an infestation that's been going on for what seems like a while.

so i have a dilemma. i haven't checked my spare room for them but it's likely they're in there too. i'm disgusted and embarrassed by this, and i really don't want anyone to know and just want to get this dealt with discreetly with pest control. so i'm thinking of just not telling her, and if she had picked them up from my house, she might just think she got them from the airport or the hotel she stayed at. it's not too farfetched and i don't really see the harm of a small lie like this. what you don't know can't hurt you and all that?

but would i be the asshole if i didn't tell her? it's not like i can take the bedbugs back if it spread to her home and i had no idea i had them when she stayed, otherwise i would have definitely told her to stay away and even pay for a hotel for her

#aita #am i the asshole

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elusive---ivory · 1 year

Text

Yandere!Vampire x Reader

Hey!! Howdy!! fics have been a little slow, but!! I am still getting used to writing again, so please bear with me. My requests are still open!! Please help me with ideas!!!

Warnings: mentions of blood, nsfw mentions, violence, yandere tendencies, kidnapping, murder.

A vampire's life is filled with solitude. He is distraught with grief. After living in the human world for over a thousand years, he found life on this Earth monotonous and dreary. He's experienced the world, but his heart is still empty. His thirst for blood lives on. He yearns for a companion.

However, he has yet to find the right one. Until you came along. You were walking with your friends late at night. He was looking for a new host to feed on. His thirst led him to follow you, closely. You were interesting to watch. Usually, he didn't find mortals interesting, but when you were out with your friends, you got up to all kinds of mischief. Your friends were pranking people's houses, while you were looking for cats to pick up from the street and pet them.

He smirked. Frankly, human life was meaningless to him. But, why does a small human like you interest him so?

He couldn't bring himself to drink from you, so he took another victim instead. He trapped himself in his mansion. You didn't leave his thoughts. His servant was worried about their dear vampire master. His chambers weren't disturbed. His cold heart started to beat again in his chest. You were the person that he wanted to spend eternity with.

His servant was the first person to catch onto their master's lovesick expression. On the cover of the night, they went to your home and abducted you while you were deeply asleep. You woke up in unfamiliar surroundings. The mansion was huge with spiraling staircases, and a large portrait of the Vampire sitting in the living room.

You were confused as to how you got into some goth dude's mansion. The servant was making human food in the kitchen. You walked in, surprised at the little man at the stove.

"Oh good, you're awake." The servant muttered sarcastically. "The master requests that you eat this human slop." It was a beautifully made plate of waffles, pancakes, and fruit all laid out on a plate.

"Wow! I don't know if I can eat all that." You said, smiling gently. You sit down at the table and began to take as much as you would like. "Thank you so much."

The servant scoffed, stepping down from their stepping stool. "Don't thank me. You should thank the master. He's the one that didn't kill you."

"The 'master'? Is he the guy that owns this place?" You asked, looking around the kitchen. Curtains wrapped in tin foil decorated the kitchen, as well as most of the giant home. You began to piece together what kind of person who might live here.

"Yes, of course. You should get dressed. There are clothes for you on the table." The servant sipped their tea. "Hurry up!" They scolded.

You looked at the outfit. It was a gorgeous Victorian gown with a deep red color and it was velvet to the touch. You smiled, running back up to your bedroom. Putting on this dress was like a dream. The corset fit nicely and wasn't as suffocating as most corsets of the era were. The dress hung snugly around your waist.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. It was very rare that you'd find yourself enjoying your appearance. You smiled to yourself while fixing your hair. You felt something like a ghost touch your neck gently. When you whipped your head around, you found no one there.

You could hear an airy laugh as you opened your bedroom door. A chill ran down your spine. You didn't want to think the house was haunted, but with vampires existing, ghosts aren't a farfetched idea.

You helped Servant for hours on end. You were getting ready for the arrival of the Master. You looked at the portrait of the Vampire again, and you heard that laugh once again. This time it was right inside your ear.

"Enjoying my masterpiece, kitten?" The Vampire purred deeply.

You jumped, turning your head, looking directly at the master of the household. You blush immensely, trying to maintain eye contact. You find yourself stuck on words. Before you go to say something, the vampire interrupts.

"Did a cat cut your tongue, dear girl? Please, speak. Tell me your name, darling." He pulled you close, placing his slender hand on your hip. "Could I call you 'Kitty'?"

You were taken aback by all of this sudden affection. While you were very flattered, the Vampire could tell that you didn't trust him with your heart.

He smiled softly. "I don't mean to frighten you, dear. I simply want to have a meal with you."

You gulped, nodding slowly. "Alright, but afterwards, you have to let me go."

The Vampire chuckled darkly. "Of course, my love. I promise you'll be able to leave immediately after."

He looked over at the Servant, who simply pushed their glasses up.

You sat across the vampire with a long wooden table divided them. You looked at your meal, it was a combination of all your favorite meals. You were frankly shocked.

The Vampire watched you with a smile. A tall grin appeared on his lips. He watched you eat like a wolf watching his prey. You were oblivious.

When you were finished, his eyes were glued to the plate. You got up from your chair, wiping your mouth off with a napkin. "Thank you for the meal, dear sir. But, I must be going."

The Vampire grinned sinisterly. "Oh? Aren't you going to stay for dessert?" The Vampire used his powers to pull you towards him from across the table.

He pulled you into his arms. His pupils glowed a bright red. His pointed teeth grazed your skin, then he bite into you, drinking you slowly.

The feeling of being drained slowly was a wonderful feeling. For a moment, the sharp pain in your neck didn't matter compared to the euphoria. You fall to your knees, half-drunk, while the pain in your neck starts to bulge.

The Vampire handed you a tiny vile. "Drink, my love. Drink and spend eternity with me."

#yandere #yandere boyfriend #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere vampire #yandere vampire x reader #yandere x darling #vampire boyfriend #vampire boyfriend x reader #vampire aesthetic #yandere boyfriend x reader #yandere boy #yancore

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tgmsunmontue · 2 months

Text

Online & Anonymous 14/16

Hangster. Explicit. Years before they meet in person Bradley and Jake strike up a friends-with-benefits relationship online. And then something more like an actual relationship.

>>Bradley chatting (bold and italics)

>>Jake chatting (italics)

2005/2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018

2019 – Bradley

Reconnecting with Jas after nearly a year and a half of no contact feels like a fragile glass butterfly in his hands, one he’s scared to hold too firmly in his hands, terrified it will shatter if he moves wrong. He continues sending pictures of his morning cup of coffee, although it’s just with a heart emoji now; no daily apology. Simply an acknowledgement that he thinks of him pretty much as soon as he wakes up. He doesn’t always get one back immediately, but their time zones are very different right now. Jas has admitted that sometimes he takes the photo and saves it to send, so he can pretend they’re sharing, existing at the same time. Bradley admits to wanting to be able to make him coffee every morning. Knows exactly how he takes it.

His leave has been approved for December, and he’s put in a cushion of an additional week either side to allow for missed flights and natural disasters and he’ll fucking go AWOL if he has to. He hasn’t shared his little contingency plan with Jas, but he will if worst comes to worst. He doesn’t let himself think about it too much, or look forward to it. Doesn’t want to build it all up for it to crumble down around him again. And he’s working very hard to ensure he doesn’t sabotage himself. Not this time. His therapist has given him a lot to think about and sometimes he really hates how right they are.

Right now though he’s in Ramstein working with the Airforce, some cooperative training gig and he’s trying to use it as a cultural thing, but he feels like he could just be on a base somewhere, anywhere, back home. For some reason it makes him feel homesick for what he thinks must be the first time in his life. Last Christmas he’d spent it with Ice and his family for the first time since he was a teenager. Their relationship healed enough now for him to realize and regret how many years he’s lost. He guesses the maturity and therapy have probably helped, although he sometimes feels like a little kid again, seeking out attention and approval. One of Ice’s kids has kids themselves, and that is wild to him. Ice can’t talk very well, but considering how expressive his face can be when he chooses it to be he’d had entire silent conversation with Bradley while he’d been staying.

… … …

>>I’m in Germany.

>>Huh. I’m in Japan.

>>Oh. I like Japan.

>>We’ll have to go together sometime.

>>Wait.

>>What are you doing in Germany?

>>What do you mean?

>>I’m deployed here?

>>Uh. I know you’re Navy. I mean. Yeah.

>>You let it slip years ago.

>>Oh. Shit. Did I?

>>I didn’t realize.

>>Yeah.

>>So. Only seems fair to tell you I’m Navy too.

>>Shit. Really? God. What are the chances?

>>Well, I crunched the numbers few years ago, and they’re not that farfetched.

>>Of course you did.

>>And I’m in Germany helping out with a cooperative training exercise. Just a short four month stint and then back home in June.

>>You sure you don’t want more details?

>>Positive. I like the idea of us having some topics of conversation we haven’t covered.

He desperately just wants to blurt it out, has in fact tapped out his name and exactly what he does, only to delete it all. He’ll respect Jas’s wishes, even if he doesn’t like them. Even now, knowing they’re both in the Navy and Bradley could, if he wasn’t respecting Jas’s personal boundaries, call Ice and ask him to pull every active-duty man with the initials JAS and born in 1986. Surely there aren’t that many.

>>Talking has never been something we’ve struggled with.

>>Have you seen the new How to Train your Dragon movie?

>>Weirdly, I have. Why?

>>Well, I’ve only been able to watch it in German. I think I understand what is happening, but can you run me through what exactly they were looking for? I didn’t get why it was so important.

He wants to ask why Jas has seen a movie for kids, but he doesn’t, instead waits for Jas to fill in all the bits of plot Bradley missed due to watching the film in the nearby town with a German dub rather than watching it on base.

… … …

“Bradshaw. The CO would like to see you.”

He nods his head to acknowledge the words and heads off immediately. He doesn’t know why he’s being summoned but he’s not going to start disobeying orders or summons. He knocks on the door and waits to be called in.

“Lieutenant. You’ve been called in for a special detachment. You leave for North Island at seventeen-hundred.”

“Today sir?”

“Yes. A matter of urgency it seems. A shame, you’re a damned good instructor and flier. I’ll be sure to have you back.”

“Thank you sir.”

He’s handed the papers, a mere formality now, he’ll have electronic ones sitting in his HR account. He’s got a few hours to pack, say some goodbyes. North Island. Of all places. Okay. He’s heading back stateside.

… … …

He manages to get some sleep on the flight, then rest and report in. North Island is home and it also isn’t. He always feels mixed up emotionally when he’s here, too close to his parents and all his memories with Maverick growing up. He goes and collects the Bronco from storage, unsurprised to find a note telling him it’s been serviced and run, and he swings by to visit Ice, who doesn’t seem surprised to see him at all. He looks tired though, wearing a thick jacket and scarf despite the warm spring day. Bradley knows better to mention anything, Sarah having warned him. He stays for lunch, plays with the grandkids and then, because Ice is an angel amongst men, heads to the Hard Deck where he’s just been told his best friend probably is. The fact that she’s also been called to whatever this mission is fills him with pride, she’s a damned fine aviator, definitely better than him in some respects; and definitely able to make the most of having a back seater.

Of course she’s pissed off with him for not telling him that he was going to be here, and he can’t exactly tell her he only knows because the COMPACFLT dropped him a message. He does mutter about being in a different country less than twenty-four hours ago but she just pulls a face at him and he knows she doesn’t accept it as a reason or an excuse. It hurts a little to see Seresin again. To think about the potential they had. He looks good though. Happy and confident, the little smirk always there just on the corner of his lips. He always wants to kiss it off, but it's not his place. Has never been his place. He plays it off, tries to anyway, and his mouth still takes off without him, brain distracted by looking and he really has to practice better self-control.

“Hangman. You look… good.”

There’s a flash of annoyance and Bradley winces. He’s glad he went with something as mundane as good, except him saying that has always been a lead into hooking up. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to do this. Not with anyone, but especially not with Seresin. They aren’t anything to each other, never were, never will be. He’ll apologize as soon as he can for the slip up.

“I am good Rooster. I’m very good. In fact, I am too good to be true.”

He rolls his eyes, but he deserves the sharp look, the slight meaness, although he also can’t ignore it, because Seresin is still an arrogant shit, for all his beautiful flying. Natasha is muttering under her breath, talking about not caring about dick sizes, and he has to stop himself from laughing as she blatantly and obviously changes the subject, the others grabbing the lifeline like drowning men. He focuses back in on the conversation just in time to hear Seresin again.

“And which one of y’all has what it takes to follow me?”

He snorts.

“Hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave.”

Fuck. He hadn’t meant that. Not like that. God. Another thing to apologize for. He’s opening a fucking tab.

“Well, anyone who follows you is just gonna run out of fuel. But that’s just you, ain’t it, Rooster? You’re snug on that perch, waiting for just the right moment… That never comes.”

He knows it’s a jibe about his fucking inability to commit to his relationship, and he’d like to prove him wrong by telling him that he’s very firmly back with his guy, but it feels empty when he flirted with him not even five minutes ago. What the hell is it with Seresin that always brings out the worst in him. He’s going to have to apologize but he’s going to hate every fucking second of it.

“I love this song!”

Right.

He’ll apologize as soon as he no longer wants to punch him.

… … …

Fortunately Natasha’s presence, the piano playing and singing force him to unwind and it shifts his mood considerably, exactly what his therapist has told him to do. Not that a piano is frequently available, but he’s working on it. He sees Seresin head out and he follows him quickly, ignores Natasha’s hissed warning to not get into a fight.

“Hey! Seresin! Wait up!”

“What do you want Rooster?”

He sucks in a big breath. He can do this.

“I just wanted to apologize. For flirting. I shouldn’t have done that. For several reasons, but it was shitty of me and I’ll work on it not happening again.”

Seresin looks at him, expression tense and he’s worrying a toothpick which Bradley does his best to ignore.

“Anything else you want to apologize for Bradshaw?”

Bradley pauses, thinks back to what he said and pulls a face.

“Fuck. Yeah. You won’t lead anyone into an early grave either. I didn’t mean that. It was a shitty thing to say. I’m sorry.”

“Anything else?”

Bradley blinks.

“Uh. No… not that I can think of? Why?”

The look Seresin is giving him is calculating, like he’s trying to figure something out; then Seresin is reaching out and tugging on his shirt.

“Thought you might like to apologize for crimes against fashion. This is one godawful shirt you’re wearing…”

“I like this shirt.”

“Of course you do. Hmm.”

“Are you going to apologize to me?”

“For what?”

“For calling me slow?”

“Nothing wrong with slow Rooster…”

The look on his face, the way he juts out his hip and licks his lips around the fucking toothpick… Bradley feels the flush hit his cheeks, can tell his neck and chest are also going warm and he steps back. He can’t and won’t engage with this. With him.

“Was good seeing you Seresin. Have a good night.”

… … …

He gets back inside the Hard Deck and he spies Natasha talking with Bob, knows she’s starting the process of getting to know her new back seater, which is usually to beat them soundly in whatever macho game they think they’re better at, and then to show them that she can and will fly, and fly well. Then she usually forces them into a self-care night of face masks and nails, for which Bradley is usually invited along to if he’s around, although he knows Coyote has been seconded into the roll a couple of times.

“You look… whole,” Natasha says, and she reaches for his hand, inspects his knuckles and Bradley huffs in annoyance, pulling his hand back when he realizes what she’s doing.

“I didn’t punch him.”

“No. You just stalked out of here looking like you wanted to.”

“I actually went and apologized to him.”

Both her and Bob blink.

“Seriously?”

“What can I say, I’m the bigger man, admitting when I’m wrong and apologizing.”

“I still feel like I should go outside and check for a body…”

“It’s fine. I’m going to try and be nice.”

“Yeah. Okay. Good luck with that.”

“What she said,” Bob says.

… … …

The thing is he does try, but he’s also completely thrown by the fact that Maverick is there and is apparently the one teaching them. His anger is bubbling fresh, like he never took it off the boil and he’s angry again with Ice for not fucking warning him. Maverick doesn’t look at all surprised to see him and that makes him feel even angrier. He desperately needs to either run, punch some pillows or angrily play out his feelings on a piano until he calms down. None of which he can do while he watches his godfather stand at the front of a makeshift classroom and tell them all that the mission success will come down to the pilot in the box.

… … …

“So, Rooster, mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Jesus Christ, one apology and the man is going to ask about his whole life history. Now is not the fucking time, not to mention the line is open and everyone can hear them. He scans the skies and screens for any sign of Maverick.

“Would it matter if I did?”

“What’s the story with you and Maverick?” Speak of the fucking devil… “It seems like he’s got you rattled.”

“That’s none of your business. Now where the hell is he?”

“Been here the whole time.”

“Holy shit,” Seresin breathes and Bradley pulls a face, because that tone is also far too similar to what he sounds like in bed and he can not be thinking about that right now.

He get’s shot down for a second time, knows he’s toeing the line of being an idiot, doesn’t need Natasha railing at him, or the four-hundred push-ups he insists on doing which leave his arms feeling like jelly and Hondo looking at him like he pities him. He goes back to his accommodation on base and stares at the key to his family home, wonders if he should do anything about it, ignores Natasha’s messages and falls into a fitful sleep without even changing out of his clothes.

… … …

He wakes later, and his first instinct is to make coffee, except it’s late and he needs to get used to the time difference. So he makes himself a hot cocoa from the supplies, although the fat he has to chip away at the solid mass tells him it likely won’t be worth the effort. Still, it gives him something to do. He snaps a picture and sends it, just adds a jet lag is real over it and sends it. Jas has been unnaturally quiet the last couple of days and Bradley desperately wants to just pick up his phone and call him. Except he doesn’t have his number and he won’t ask for it.

Calling was never an option in the beginning, not with the lack of service out on carriers, and the fact that exchanging numbers also meant exchanging names. Bradley has never not answered the phone with his whole name, so he’d never offered. He’s got so many regrets on so many fronts he feels like a twenty-sided dice.

>>Everything okay?

>>You’ve been kind of quiet these last couple of days.

>>You ever bump into someone and think that it was maybe me you were talking to?

>>Um. Actually yeah.

>>Once. Years ago.

>>But there just ended up being all these little facts that didn’t line up so I figured it wasn’t you.

>>Was he hot?

>>He was alright. Easy enough on the eyes.

>>Nothing happened. I was his instructor at the time.

>>You and your moral compass.

>>I’m rolling my eyes at you.

>>I’m not a saint.

>>Never accused you of that. Not sleeping with someone because you’re in a position of power. That’s pretty decent of you.

>>Got to try being a decent human right?

>>I guess.

>>Sometimes I fuck up but got to keep on trying.

>>Yeah. I guess you do.

… … …

Internally he’s a mess. The fact that the mission seems impossible, has been called a suicide mission, he’s having to see Maverick everyday, and Seresin keeps looking at him like he’s trying to puzzle something out. Like how big the body bag needs to be maybe. Now he’s being told he isn’t flying fast enough, he’s going to get shot down and he’s going to be responsible for the death of his friends. Like any of them won’t suffer the exact same fate.

“It’s not the plane, sir, it’s the pilot.”

“Exactly!”

“There’s more than one way to fly this mission.”

“You really don’t get it. On this mission, a man flies like Maverick here, or a man does not come back. No offense intended.”

“Yet somehow you always manage,” Bob murmurs and normally Bradley would smile at the comeback, but he can’t right now. His frustration and anger are carefully balanced and he doesn’t want either of them to tip over.

“Look, I don’t mean to criticize. You’re conservative, that’s all.”

“Lieutenant.”

“We’re going into combat, son, on a level no living pilot’s ever seen. Not even him. That’s no time to be thinking about the past.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Rooster.”

“I can’t be the only one that knows that Maverick flew with his old man.”

“That’s enough.”

“Or that Maverick was flying when his old man…”

“Lieutenant, that’s enough!”

“That’s enough.“

“You son of a bitch!”

“Hey, come on!”

“I’m cool, I’m cool. Hey, hey.”

“That’s enough.”

… … …

>>I have had an awful fucking day.

>>Tell me something to cheer me up?

He doesn’t get an answer.

… … …

He still doesn’t have an answer the next morning and he sends off his usual morning picture of his coffee, feels his entre body unclench when he gets a picture in response. There still isn’t any messages but it’s not complete radio silence. There is a message from his Captain, telling him to report to the Hard Deck in civvies appropriate for the beach and he lets out a long sigh. Sends a screen shot to Ice with a what the fuck is he thinking now? To which he gets back a line of laughing-crying emojis and your guess is as good as mine.

Well. He has no idea where the hell Maverick dreamed up dog-fight football, but at least they’re not all getting drunk together. That would have been a recipe for several disasters. It’s not that warm, but once they’re all running around it heats them up enough and it feels good to simply run around and play, forget, even for a little while, that one or more of them might be dead in a couple of weeks.

… … …

As if they needed reminders about just how dangerous their jobs are without the added aspects of the mission in front of them they have the day from hell and Bradley feels responsible. Thinking his verbal sparring with Hangman somehow made it a bad day he somehow jinxed them all. Having Coyote come so close to burning in because of g-Loc, and then Natasha… his best friend. Listening to Maverick yell eject at them over and over is going to be added nightmare fodder he’s sure will enter rotation, something he can look forward to. He sits in the quiet of the room, turning when he hears footsteps.

Maverick.

And no-one else around to act as a buffer.

Well shit.

He’s tired and already emotionally raw, doesn’t want to talk to him right now.

“They’ll keep Phoenix and Bob in the hospital overnight for observation. They’re gonna be okay.”

“That’s good. I’ve never lost a wing man.”

“You’re lucky. Fly long enough, it’ll happen. There will be others.”

“Easy for you to say,” Bradley bites out. “No wife. No kids. Nobody to mourn you when you burn in.”

He feels detached from what he’s saying, but the anger is all still there, and he feels justified in that at least, although he’s also lying. As much as he might be angry, he’d still grieve Maverick if he died. Of course Maverick tries to be calm and rational and instead of calming him down it has the opposite effect, and he’s snapping out words again, and Maverick is snapping back and god, it’s a wonder Ice didn’t bang their heads together earlier.

“Maverick,” Warlock says, stopping them from screaming more hurtful things in each other’s faces.

Then he learns that Ice has died and of course bad things come in threes.

He leaves Maverick with Warlock and heads off into the dark for his base housing.

… … …

>>You know how I told you about my uncle?

>>The one with cancer?

>>Yeah?

>>He died. His funeral will be in a couple of days and I’m going to have to somehow not cry in front of everyone.

>>Would you give me your mobile number?

>>Why?

>>Because I’d really like to hear your voice. Talk to you properly.

>>I wouldn’t call until you gave me the go ahead.

>>I just… I don’t want to be alone right now.

>>I feel very alone.

>>I thought the other day was bad, but today has been so much worse.

He wanders around aimlessly, wonders if maybe he should bite the bullet and either go to the rec room and play the piano there, or see if the piano at his closed-up parent’s house is even playable. He’s half-dressed for bed, mind so far away he doesn’t register the knocking until it’s louder and more insistent and he heads to the door, opening it and half-expecting to find Maverick there.

“Hangman?”

“Rooster.”

“Uh. What are doing here?”

The look on Seresin’s face tells him he’s not exactly sure either, and the fact that he’s not certain is something he’s even more annoyed about.

“I just… I know your dad flew with Admiral Kazansky. I... I thought that maybe you might know him more than just as the COMPACFLT and be... I thought you might want company.”

“I...” Bradley starts, because he really does want the company right now, Natasha is in hospital, Coyote is with her because sometimes things like near-misses force you to reevaluate. Not that she can come, but he wouldn’t call her anyway, doesn’t want to rain on her happiness. Not when there is no guarantee of any future right now, the bird strike and g-Loc incidents both really driving home how dangerous their jobs are.

“Not anything else, by the way… just company.”

“No. I... Yeah. Company would be good. Thanks.”

“Also I figured I should take a leaf out of your book and apologize. I’m sorry. About bringing up your dad. That was a dick move.”

Bradley blinks.

“Um. Okay.”

“Right. Sleeping right? You want me to cuddle you?”

“Actually yeah, since you offered,” Bradley replies, giving Seresin a disparaging look but then takes in the fact that he’s dressed in sweats and a worn t-shirt, like he maybe come over after he’d already gotten ready for bed.

“Come on then, finish getting ready. Always waiting for you to catch up Bradshaw…”

“Yeah yeah, give me a minute.”

He shuffles around, puts on a t-shirt in deference to the fact that Seresin seems seriously intent on hopping into bed with him, and not for sex. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, unable to bring himself to do any more. His mind is thinking about Sarah and the kids and grandkids. Funerals, oh which he feels like he’s been to too many. He folds himself into the bed, his head and body already feel heavy and weighed down and he cannot believe he’s watching Seresin of all people turn off the lights and then slide into bed beside him, his arm settling over his waist like a drag sail.

“Go to sleep Bradshaw, I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

… … …

Despite everything he has one of the best nights’ sleep he’s had in a long time, and he can’t put it down to the sheer emotional exhaustion of the last couple of days. He woke up several times during the night, not used to having someone else in the bed, but each time Seresin had been there, arm settled around Bradley like he was holding him together. He’s not there now though, but Bradley can hear someone in the kitchen and it can’t be anyone else but Seresin. He stands and stretches, feels his back and neck click and reaches for his phone, feels a little swoop of happiness when he sees he has a message.

>>I don’t want you to be alone right now either.

He grins and quickly types out a response as he heads to the kitchen.

“Hey, morning.”

“Morning. How are you feeling?”

“Uh. Better. Thanks,” Bradley offers, because he’s a little unsettled by this softer and more accommodating version of Seresin.

“Here,” Seresin says, and he slides a mug of coffee across to him. It’s not his usual mug, but that’s okay. The mug isn’t the important part, and he snaps a quick picture.

“What are you doing?”

“Um. Just taking a photo of my coffee,” Bradley states, looking up as Seresin makes a slight choking sound. “Thanks by the way, for the coffee and for staying last night. I really needed the company.”

“Yeah. Uh. Anytime. I’ve got to go. Glad you’re feeling better Bradshaw.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks… see you later…” Bradley says, voice trailing off as Hangman flees like he’s on fire.

Weird.

He takes a sip of his coffee and blinks in surprise.

It’s perfect.

… … …

He drags himself through his morning routine and heads to Ice’s house, needs to see Sarah and the others, the only family he has. Or at least that he’s currently talking to in civil tones. He lets himself get hugged as he hugs them all in return, they’re all talking in soft mumbles with empty platitudes he knows don’t ease the grief. But being with others who are also grieving helps. He’s allowed to feel sad and miss him when he’s surrounded by people who feel exactly the same way.

Sarah is poised and calm, her red eyes the only thing belying the fact that she’s been crying plenty. He’s sitting down talking to Samantha, Ice’s eldest daughter, when Sarah finds him and presses an envelope into his hands.

“He wanted me to give this to you as quickly as possible after his passing. I think he was adding it to it just yesterday…”

His throat goes tight and he runs his fingers along the crisp edge of the envelope, swallows and then gives up, lets the tears fall and hugs her back tightly as she presses a kiss to the top of his head, feels Samantha hug him from the side. He guesses he has some reading to do.

… … …

Dear Bradley,

If you are reading this it’s because I’m dead. Now, as outcomes go, this isn’t what either of us wanted, I’m sure. I’m glad I only had one rule with you as a teenager, and that you listened to me. This is the natural progression of things, children having to bury their parents. I am sorry that you have had to do this so often though, your life has not often been fair to you. There is one silver lining of being a dead man, and that’s getting a dying wish. Your mother had a dying wish you see, and I didn’t agree with what she wanted, but I had to respect it. It was her dying wish after all. And now this is mine, so if I meet her in the afterlife, then I know she’s not going to be able to hold it over me.

I want you to know that she never wanted you to fly.

She asked Maverick to pull your papers.

I tried to convince both of them that it was a terrible idea. But your mother became very difficult to argue with, being dead and all, and well, Maverick is one of the most stubborn and pig-headed men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. I’m glad I’ve been able to count him as being a friend, because having him as an enemy would be ten times worse (and it was already pretty trying some days, as you can imagine). Anyway, I could already envision what would happen, you get your own stubborn and pig-headedness honestly at least, and it was then polished by being raised by Maverick after your mom passed.

Now, I am not asking you to forgive Maverick. However I am asking you to try. He loves you and cares for you, but what he is most terrified about is failing both of your parents. He thinks they’d be perfect parents, so holds himself up to that ideal. He thinks he needs to be perfect. Being a parent myself I know that’s impossible, I’ve just tried my best to make decisions based from a place of love and support. Maverick has always tried to make his decisions based on what he thinks your parents would want for you. Your mom didn’t want you to fly and yet here you are. And Maverick has to see that and know he failed her. And he failed you. And he will always believe he failed your father.

I never had to second guess my parenting decisions, even if I would later make a different decision with hindsight. I knew I made the best decision I could at the time with the information I had, making it from a place of love, then I couldn’t really regret it. Maverick second guesses everything when it comes to you. For all his don’t think, just do bullshit, he overthinks everything when it comes to you.

One of your parents gave you anything and everything you wanted, because he only saw you for a few months of your entire life. In between all the training and deployments, it just wasn’t enough. He loved you, do not ever doubt that, and he’d be so proud of the man you are today. I believe he would have supported you going to USNA with his whole heart. He’d be proud of you being a naval aviator. He would love that you were a pilot.

Your mother had to become both parents and then manage your early teen years and at the same time she wanted to protect you from everything bad in the world. She couldn’t protect you from losing your father, or then losing her, and I am sure she thought she was protecting you by asking Maverick to pull your USNA papers. However neither of your parents knew you as well as Maverick knew you, and yet he tasked himself with an impossible task.

So you have had a parent who only knew you really as a baby, another as a child, then another as a young man and now you’re an adult with a life and career of his own. You might have a better chance of getting Maverick into therapy than I ever did, simply by asking him. I am proud that you go. That you listened and took my advice. It’s always nice to be right. It’s been a pleasure watching you grow into the man you are today, and I know you will continue to grow.

Having you back in my life has been one of my joys. Getting to know you again, share stories with you. I’ve written a lot more down for you, and there’s a box with your name on it. Lots of photos because I’m old and we had film cameras. Make all the old jokes you want, I’m dead and I don’t care. Growing old is a luxury for some, and I am glad I got as far as I did. Anyway, I think Samantha might be digitizing the photos. Ask her. Please stay in touch with them all. You are a part of our family, even if it didn’t feel that way for you for some years. You are always welcome, never forget that. I want you to be in each other’s lives again. Maverick’s as well. You need him even if you think you don’t. And he needs you too. You’re both going to get invitations to Kazansky family gatherings, and it’s going to be awkward if you’re not talking to each other. At least give it a try. That’s all I’m asking.

Never forget how loved you are Bradley.

By all of your parents.

Ice

Saw you flying today. Made me so proud. Also made me wish I could have flown with you. Watching you fly is like watching the best of myself and Maverick. He is very unhappy with me about the mission. Doesn’t want to have to make the choice. He views it as lose-lose all round, which might be true. I hope it isn’t, for both your sakes. If I have any say in it you’ll all return safely home. I’m tired, so I’m going to go to bed now. Love you kid.

… … …

They’ve been given the day off, which seems a little ridiculous considering how close the mission is. He’s immeasurably glad though, he feels shaky and emotionally raw, and he still has to get through the funeral and somehow process the whole shifting worldview that his mom made Maverick promise. That Maverick wouldn’t just tell him that confuses him, what would he do? Hate his mom for wanting to keep him safe? He just doesn’t get it. He opens his phone, not really having had a chance to look at it since the morning after he’d sent his coffee picture. Jas hadn’t replied by the time he left to go to Ice’s house, but when he opens his phone now he can see he has a couple of new notifications. The coffee cup in reply looks familiar and he realizes it’s his coffee cup. The one he usually uses except this morning… What the hell?

He opens up Grindr and clicks on the new message, is pretty sure he knows what to expect when it displays and there it is.

>>I’m in the Dagger Squad.

Just like that his world tilts on its axis again and he stares at the five words. Closes it and then reopens the app. Reads the words again. Actually turns off his phone and forces it to re-start. The words stay the same.

JAS.

Born in 1986.

Texan.

God he’s an idiot.

Not just in the navy, he’s a Naval aviator.

A photo of his own coffee cup sent back to him from this morning.

He’s laughing at his own stupidity and he’s already cried so much today but he feels like he might just burst into tears again, his emotions all too exposed and he needs to find out where Jas-Jake-Seresin, (what the hell does he call him now?), lives. He rings Natasha, knows she’s still with Coyote. Coyote will know where Jake, (Jake feels right? Maybe?), lives. Because it’s not on base. Of course Coyote won’t give him the address and Bradley feels like screaming. Tells him to ask Jake, then to text it through to him when he gives it to him. He’s that certain Jake will give it to him. He could just ask himself, but he also doesn’t want to give Jake an opportunity to ignore him. Not that he thinks he will.

Last night suddenly makes a lot more sense, now that he thinks about it. No one else would have known about Ice passing, and yet Jake turned up, because he’d figured it out. God. When did he figure it out? He’s trying to reconcile Jas and Jake Seresin in his head. The brash confident and arrogant naval aviator he knows and has had plenty of sex with, and Jas, the open, vulnerable and sweetly-sassy man that he’s… also had plenty of sex with. Well. At least he knows they can handle the long-distance aspect of any relationship. God he really wants to see him now.

The address comes through and he taps it into his phone, following the directions as he drives, wishes it was closer. He doesn’t bother telling Jake he’s on his way, he already knows because Coyote has given Bradley his address. With permission. He pulls up and it’s a newly built block of condos, and he has to look for a carpark for too long before he finds one. He lets himself feel annoyed at the poor planning, grateful that it pushes the grief and shocked-joy just to the side for a moment, no matter how brief. It allows him to gather his bearings as he walks up the pavement and knocks on the door. While he waits for an answer, he wonders if he should send a message. Why the hell not.

>>Answer the door Jas.

>>Give me one good reason.

>>I love you.

>>Now please answer the door.

“Hi.”

He stands there and just… looks. Jake’s wearing exactly the same clothes as when he left Bradley’s place earlier today, and he looks soft. A little scared and Bradley realizes that he’s maybe worried that Bradley might be disappointed somehow. He reaches out, slow enough that Jake can stop him, or step away; cups his cheek in his hand, runs a thumb over the apple of his cheek. Wants to enfold him in a hug and be hugged in return.

“Thank you.”

“Uh. You’re welcome?”

“You want to know what I’m thanking you for?”

“Sure.”

“My second chance. Always planned on thanking you in person.”

“Um. Yeah.”

Bradley bites his lip, won’t mention aloud the groveling and body worship that Jas had mentioned, is sure that Jake might not yet be in a place to hear him say words out loud. Written word is something completely different. He wants to kiss him, definitely wants to carry out the body worship, but he feels like they’re all the way at the beginning, needing to feel each other out a little bit, emotionally that is.

“Can I hug you?”

“Yeah, of course. Come in and close the door.”

Of all the hugs he’s had today this one feels the best, firm, grounding and warm. Both of Jake’s arms around him, head resting against Bradley’s shoulder while his nose and mouth press against the side of his head. He presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“When did you figure it out?” Bradley asks.

“When did I suspect, or when did I know? Because there’s kind of different stages I went through…”

�� “Yeah? Want to share? Because I… needed you to point it out apparently.”

“Always a little slow Bradshaw…”

“Oh my god I’m never going to live this down am I?”

“Nope. Probably not.”

“Okay. I’m okay with that. Come on. Blow me away with your superior intellect…”

“You want to have this conversation while we hug in my entryway?”

“I don’t want to let you go.”

“Oh. I have a sofa? Or a, uh, bed?”

“How about we start on the sofa. Can we both fit?”

“Worth a try…”

He makes himself comfortable in the corner and then holds out his arms, silently inviting Jake to curl up in them, to settle himself in the v of his legs. He desperately wants to be holding him again and hopes he equally wants to be held. Fortunately Jake seems to, relaxes against him and Bradley feels a sense of contentedness well up inside him. They’re both facing the same direction and part of him is glad; feels like it might be a little too overwhelming to have this coming conversation face-to-face. It’s like a compromise between being online versus facing each other.

“So… what was your first clue?”

“Uh, your shirt at the Hard Deck. Payback made a comment about how it wouldn’t be possible to miss seeing you arrive and it pinged something in my mind, about when we were meant to met up. You said I wouldn’t miss you…”

“Ugh. You mean the time I stood you up to sleep with… you. I’m still very sorry about that by the way.”

“Well, I’ve sort of made my peace with it. I mean, I can stop being jealous about the other guy at least…”

Bradley huffs in amusement, tightens his arms around him a little.

“Oh… When you asked whether I was going to apologize about fashion crimes. That was you sounding me out.”

“Trying at least. You blanked me so I figured it was just a coincidence.”

“Okay… then what?”

“Um. I saw a photo of your dad. Nicholas Bradshaw.”

“Nick.”

“And Bradley Bradshaw. NickNick. Stupid double-barreled names. Then I remembered your first username, and you hating the name Pete… And how you really don’t like Maverick. Lots of coincidences that just suddenly were too many to just ignore and they made sense.”

“Yeah…” Bradley breathes, smiling against Jake’s hair. He likes that Jake has been paying such close attention, would never have thought it of Seresin or Hangman, but it’s definitely Jake through and through.

“So… Uh. I suspected and then seeing that photo kind of confirmed it. Your moustache and how you said you look like him. Your dad I mean. You do look a lot like him. Anyway, I thought you knew who I was, and you were making fun of me.”

“What? Never...”

Jake twists to give him a look, eyebrow raised in disbelief and Bradley shakes his head.

“Not about this,” Bradley stresses.

“So, I suspected, and then I thought you knew and hadn't told me and I got so angry...”

“You picked a fight,” Bradley says with dawning realization, because he’s fucking been there and done the same thing, like picking at a wound.

“I wanted to hurt you. I'm sorry.”

“I swear I had no idea.”

“Oh yeah, I know that now. Last night when I turned up... I almost asked you. Last night was when I started to realize that you really had no idea.”

“Gorgeous and smart…” Bradley says, and he’s never seen Jake blush before, but he’s doing it now, his face going pink from the corner of Bradley’s eye. “And then my coffee cup picture from this morning... Shit. That’s when you really realized I was truly fucking clueless.”

“Yeah. And I needed to figure out a way of telling you but I had no idea how…”

“Well, you did a good job telling me. You made my coffee perfectly and I still didn’t put it all together.”

“Still took you long enough to get here though.”

“Oh, I didn’t check the messages until about an hour ago. I messaged Coyote pretty much immediately. Did you think it took me that long to figure it out after you told me you were in the Dagger Squad?”

“Well, it has been about four hours.”

“No! I’ve been at Ice’s all morning. Spending time with the family.”

Jake makes a choking sound.

“You’re actually… family?”

“Yeah,” Bradley says with a quiet sigh. “After my mom died and when Mav was deployed I lived with Ice and his family. When I left Mav I pretty much left Ice too. I made up with him a few years ago. Here. Read this…”

He shifts awkwardly and pulls the letter out of his pocket, pulling Jake back into his arms and handing it to him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I have literally no secrets from you.”

He reads it again over Jake’s shoulder, let’s himself cry again and tries to not feel self-conscious about the fact that he’s holding Jake and crying. He’s allowed to feel emotions. He’s not an automaton.

“Jesus Bradley…”

It’s the first time Jake has said his name and he lets out another little hiccupping cry, but it has happiness behind it this time, not that Jake can tell and he lets out a little laugh of just how ridiculous the whole situation is.

“Yeah. Ever had emotional whiplash? I think that’s what I’m experiencing today. It’s pretty fucking rough.”

“Stay here tonight. Hell. Did you sleep okay last night? You said you didn’t want to be alone…”

“Last night was great. Exactly what I needed thank you. And yeah, I’ll stay here. Might need to borrow some clothes.”

“Or we can just… go to bed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ni-, Ro, Bradley… I do not want to waste any more time, especially considering how much time we might not have.”

Fuck. Now there’s a depressing thought. Although it also seems like Jake is having the same internal battle about what to call him as he’s been having.

“What’s your middle name?”

“What?”

“I’ve been calling you Jas in my head for so long, when I get angry with you I’m going to need to full name you…”

“Jacob Andrew Seresin.”

“Bradley Peter Bradshaw. Nice to meet you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jake says, but he’s turning, shifting to face him and Bradley smiles, knows he probably looks messy with fresh tear tracks, but he’s smiling at him and Jake is smiling back.

“We were so close so many times weren’t we…”

“Yep. Think it had some silver linings though.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Bradley asks, because he’s curious.

“Don’t want to think about some of them right now. Want to take you to bed.”

“Yeah. Lead the way…”

… … … Every touch is reverent, and he hasn’t slept with anyone in a long while, not since he last slept with Jake in fact, which has him realizing that he hasn’t done anything sexual with anyone but Jake for… nearly three years. Huh. He’ll share that little tidbit of information later, when he’s not sliding his hands under Jake’s t-shirt and working it up off his body. Jake’s working Bradley’s clothes off, and he doesn’t usually feel the need to check in, not when it’s the middle of the day, both completely sober, but he still needs to, the emotions of everything making it a necessity.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. It's okay. This isn’t our first fucking time…”

Bradley grins, lets himself press his body against Jake’s, letting them both lower their bodies into Jake’s bed. He’ll pay more attention to Jake’s room and bed when he no longer wants to give absolutely every bit of his attention to the man under his hands and mouth.

“Sorry if I want to cater to my body worshipping kink…”

“Selfish,” Jake says, his voice breathy and Bradley bites at his collarbone lightly.

“Yeah. Very selfish. You should totally kick me to the curb.”

“Mmm. See if you can convince me otherwise…”

He feels a happy and excited swoop of pleasure that Jake seems playful, happy in himself to have Bradley in his bed, to stay in his bed for more than just sex.

“I love you,” Bradley murmurs, and he kisses a trail down Jake's neck, then back up. Lets his fingers touch everywhere he can reach, captures Jake’s mouth in a kiss as he grinds his hips down, feels Jake’s mouth gasp open and he licks into it. They’ve had sex with each other a lot, but it’s never quite felt this heavy. Like every touch, every shift of their bodies against each other, carries with it a little bit extra weight, extra meaning.

“I love you.”

There are definite benefits to already being familiar with Jake’s body, knowing how he responds, what he likes. It’s been long enough since they last slept together than it’s all novel and new, while also having the deep-rooted feeling of familiarity and sense of homecoming. He wants to worship every inch of him, Jake seems more than willing to let him. The fact he can pepper his actions with I love you is exhilarating, being able to both show Jake and tell him in equal measure.

He knows he can make Jake come twice, wants to take him apart and hold him together, give him absolutely everything. God, all the things he’s fantasized about are now potential things they can explore together and he grins into the jut of Jake’s hips, sucks little kisses as he teases along the band of his underwear.

“Off off, get them off…”

“It’s been months, or years, depending on how you count. What’s a few more minutes? You know I like the anticipation and building up.”

“Fuck off, you can edge me another time. I know you want to. Right now I want you to make me come.”

“Demanding.”

“Damn right.”

He pulls Jake’s underwear down and sucks the head of his cock into his mouth as he continues to work the underwear down his thighs. It’s a little uncoordinated, Jake trying to help by thrusting his hips up, his cock hitting the back of Bradley’s throat so suddenly he gags, unprepared, digs his fingers into his hip to stop him from doing it again as he pulls the underwear off and throws it elsewhere. He feels Jake’s fingers running through his hair, deliberately ignores the subtle direction to go faster, slows down and grins when he hears Jake groan and mumble asshole under his breath. Jake groans again, his whole body tensing then relaxing under him and Bradley lets himself finally speed up.

He shifts, kneels between Jake’s spread legs so he can get an unobstructed view up his torso, can watch his face as Bradley gets his hands and mouth all over him. His fingers encircle Jake’s cock and he works fast, mouth and tongue licking over his balls before sucking the head back into his mouth. Jake is watching him, mouth open, chest shuddering with broken breaths and Bradley feels a swell of sudden and immense gratitude that he gets to have this. That Jake is allowing him to have it.

“I love you,” he says, his eyes not leaving Jake’s as he opens his mouth and sucks Jake down again, lets Jake’s hips thrust up, ready for it this time and shivers at how gorgeous Jake sounds saying his name. He works his hand faster, presses a knuckle against his perinium, licks and sucks his balls and it’s a tight fit but Jake just stretches his legs wider to give him more space to work. He sees the muscles in Jake’s stomach clench, loves that he knows that that’s one of Jake’s tells, that he’s close to coming. Then he is, shooting up over Bradley’s fist, hitting his chest and stomach.

“I love you,” Bradley says again, it becomes like a prayer as he runs his hands over his calves and thighs, presses kisses up his inner thigh and his balls again. His eyes haven’t left Jake’s. He licks up Jake’s stomach, cleaning up Jake’s come as he goes, smirks at the little broken sound Jake makes. Wonders if he should have said something about the lack of condom this time, but hopes that Jake simply trusts him. Three fucking years.

“God I love you…” Bradley whisper, wants, needs, Jake to know the truth of him. Jake kisses him, tongue seeking out every groove between his teeth, moaning against him and he realizes he’s maybe getting off on the taste of himself in Bradley’s mouth. God they’re going to be able to explore and try so much more now that they have the trust that exists between them. Something he knew he wanted, and to have it, he feels so damn lucky.

Both of Jake’s hands are in his hair, he’s being kissed so thoroughly, Jake’s grinding his hips up against him where he’s partially holding himself above him. Then one of Jake’s hands is on his ass, gripping and pulling and oh. He grinds down, presses his erection against Jake and grins into his mouth.

“Why are you still wearing underwear?” Jake complains.

“Mmm… was too busy getting reacquainted with your body.”

He loves the torn expression on Jake’s face, clearly wants to argue some point, but also can’t think of anything that he can argue about. Instead he digs his fingers into Bradley’s ass cheek and rolls his hips and Bradley moans, much closer than he thought he was. He wants to drag this out, continue re-learning every inch of Jake’s body with all his years of knowledge he’s acquired.

“Come on, want to get my mouth on you… take you fucking underwear off.”

Oh. This isn’t quite going the way he had planned in his head, but he stands and quickly strips off the garment which Jake has been scowling at. He’s more than okay doing what Jake wants as well. He follows Jake’s annoyed muttering directions until he’s straddling his chest, head of his cock a mere inch above Jake’s mouth. It’s a fucking gorgeous sight and his mouth is dry as he watches Jake, eyes dark, and then the tight warm heat of Jake’s mouth takes him in and he groans, his hips twitching reflexively. Then Jake’s hands are on his hips, encouraging him and his eyes fall shut as he lets himself start rolling his hips, the suction around his cock tight and warm. He opens his eyes to look at Jake, to give himself a visual to what he’s feeling and experiencing and –

“Oh god… Jake. Fuck.”

He pulls out sharply, not able to give any warning before he’s coming. Not that coming all over Jake’s face and neck is any better than coming in his mouth, but he’s not going to assume. His breath is coming in panting gasps, his body shaking and he puts a hand down to hold himself up, stares and Jake’s eyes carefully open and Bradley shifts down, needs to be kissing him again. He cleans up his own come this time, peppers his licks with kisses and murmured I love yous against the shell of Jake’s ear. It’s not what he had planned maybe, but it’s no less perfect. They’re going to need a shower, and he can’t wait to introduce that new level of intimacy into their relationship. He settles beside him, pulls up the sheet and reaches out to place a hand on his waist, fingers brushing softly.

“So… It’s nice to finally meet you. Properly I mean…” Bradley says, eyes searching Jake’s face and he’s smiling and feeling fond and content. Soft, he realizes, thinking about Natasha’s word she uses to describe him sometimes, especially the last couple of years when he’s been working at getting better at being more in touch with his emotions.

“I love you,” Jake says, and like hearing his name for the first time Bradley feels like he’s going to burst. At the same time it’s like Jake Hangman Seresin melts away and Jas is there, eyes wet with unshed tears and he kisses him again, feels the wetness slide over the pad of his thumb.

“I love you so much.”

“Can’t believe it took us this long.”

“You know we could have avoided all this if we'd just told each other our names...” Bradley says, because he’s definitely going to dig a little. He’s still him.

“Names? We could have sent each other photos of our faces…”

“Neither of which you wanted by the way. So I’m making you take the blame for just how long it took. But you also get the credit for figuring it out…”

“Damn right I do.”

“Love you Jake…”

“God you’re a sap…”

“Only with you.”

Jake blushes and Bradley smirks, because genuine sincerity is apparently the way to make him a complete mess.

… … …

Their day back at training after Ice’s funeral he feels more settled and is immediately thrown off balance again by the fact that Maverick isn’t there. He sits there in disbelief as he hears Admiral Simpson outline new parameters and agrees with every muttered and under-the-breath comment. A little distracted by the noise coming in over the radio.

“Uh, Maverick, range control, uh, green range is confirmed. I don’t see an event scheduled for you, sir.”

“Well, I’m going anyway.”

“Nice,” Natasha murmurs and Bradley rolls his eyes. Of fucking course everyone is already impressed with him. He hasn’t even fucking done anything yet.

“Setting time to target: Two minutes fifteen seconds.”

“Two-fifteen? That’s impossible.”

Bradley agrees in principle, however he also knows that Maverick knows himself. He wouldn’t set a time like that if he didn’t truly believe he could fly it. Jake turns around and smirks at him, as if to say this is your fucked up family and Bradley subtly gives him the finger, although inwardly he feels thrilled that he has someone with him, that knows him so well and his whole bullshit relationship with Mav. It’s such a relief, especially now that Ice is gone.

“Final attack point. Maverick’s inbound.”

He looks around the room, and he understands why everyone is so invested. If Maverick can do this then it proves it’s actually possible. He already knows it is, Maverick wouldn’t be trying to teach them if he didn’t think it wasn’t possible. But the others need to know it. Know it like he does.

“Popping in three, two, one.”

He leans forward, can feel the tension in the room mounting.

“Bombs away.”

Seconds tick by.

“Bull’s-eye!” “Holy shit!” “Yes.”

“Damn.”

Damn indeed.

He knows then, looking at Cyclone and Warlock’s faces that they’re probably going to send Maverick. Make him team lead. Which means either he's going, or Jake is going. There aren’t any guarantees and he can't believe their actual time together may only be counted in days.

… … …

By mutual agreement they don’t talk about it. They also don’t mention anything to anyone else, instead sequestering themselves away at his family home that no-one knows about except Mav, who definitely won’t be looking. They have to air it out, and deal with the dust and cobwebs, but’s it’s not as bad as it could be and he wonders if he has something else to retroactively thank Ice for, even if he can’t anymore. They buy new sheets and pillows and the entire house soon smells of them and sex and takeout food, neither of them wanting to waste time cooking when they can just be holding each other.

He keeps up his morning cup of coffee picture, tells Jake he doesn’t ever want him to doubt how he feels about him, even when he’s lying in bed and the cup of coffee in question is brought to him by a nearly naked Jake. Tells him the view that comes with his morning cup of coffee is much improved. The time they have together might be short but he’s going to make the most of every moment they have together.

… … …

“It has been an honor flying with you. Each one of you represents the best of the best. This is a very specific mission. My choice is a reflection of that and nothing more.”

He feels sick. He doesn’t care about flying and proving Mav wrong. Not anymore. He just doesn’t want Jake to go and then not come back. He has no idea who Mav will choose, and he knows Jake feels the same about him going. They’re both good. But there are so many things that can go wrong. There’s a reason why Mav has been listing off fucking miracles.

“Choose your two foxtrot teams.”

“Payback and Fanboy. Phoenix and Bob.”

“And your wing man?”

“Rooster.”

The relief he feels is immediate, knowing that Jake is going to be safe. Is going to live. It’s immense. The look of on Jake’s makes him feel sick though, because he knows it’s exactly what he’d be feeling if Jake had just been named Maverick’s wingman instead. They find a quiet spot and Jake kisses him like he’s trying to climb inside his body, Bradley presses them together like he’d let him climb inside if he could. Then they’re having to head up on deck.

“Give em hell,” Jake says, and he doesn’t need to say any more, he can see the unspoken words in his eyes and tense line of his jaw. You come back to me, you have to come back to me. He nods in understanding, an unspoken promise.

… … …

He can’t lose his last parent, not now.

God.

If he survives this Jake is definitely going to kill him.

And he’s probably going to get kicked out of the Navy.

He hopes Jake will be okay with him being unemployed.

… … …

“You all right?”

“Yeah, I’m good. You all right?”

Then he’s being pushed to the ground and he winces at the pain in his ribs, his head swimming a bit. Fuck. He thinks he has a concussion.

“What the hell?”

“What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?

“You think I took that missile so you could be down here with me? You should be back on the carrier by now!”

“I saved your life!”

“I saved your life! That’s the whole point! What the hell were you even thinking?”

“You told me not to think!” Bradley snaps, because he’s got tone on him now, the fucking self-righteous asshole. They both pant, catching their breath and just stare at each other for a few moments, and he still doesn’t really know how he’s going to relearn how to not be constantly angry or upset with Maverick.

“Well, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Bradley states, because he’s meant to be building bridges, not yelling, no matter how much of an idiot he thinks Maverick is.

“So what’s the plan?”

Maverick is insane.

That’s the plan.

No sane person would think this was somehow feasible.

“You’re not serious.”

He’s thinking about Ice’s letter, talking about how he was always glad to have Maverick on his side, because it beat having Maverick as an enemy and god he hopes that still remains true. That Maverick has some infinite well of good luck. Or a guardian angel. Hopefully both.

“You’ve got to be shitting me. An F-14?”

“I shot down three migs in one of those.”

“We don’t even know if that bag of ass can fly.”

“Let’s find out.”

“Mav!” Bradley calls out, but he’s already hustling away. “Oh for fucks’ sake…” Bradley mutters under his breath as he heaves his aching body up and convinces himself that he has to follow Mav. Does he not have pain receptors? Surely he’s aching at least half as badly as Bradley is.

“There’s guys up there, Mav.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s more over there.”

“Okay. Let’s start running.”

“Yeah, run. Run.”

He feels like he’s stepped back in time, the hangar holding the enemy F14 rusty. His body coursing with adrenaline and Maverick is looking crazy-eyed. Bradley knows the feeling.

“Once… once I give you the signal for air, you’re gonna flip this switch until the needle gets to 120. When the engine starts, you got to pull out the pins and disconnect everything. You understand?”

“Yeah.”

Then Maverick is running around and Bradley’s glad that he apparently knows what he’s doing. He thinks of Ice and how he’d always said how crazy Maverick was. He’d always sort of thought he was exaggerating for the sake of telling a good story but is starting to think he downplayed some of the more dangerous shit that Mav has taken part of. It’s a little terrifying to think about. He hops into the back of the F-14 and stares at all the dials and little screens, only vaguely familiar. Maybe from a visit to a fucking museum. He’s starting to really believe that Mav lives the not thinking aspect of his motto, because when he questions the wings coming out, raises entirely valid concerns about it being a taxiway he is just plain ignored. No. He gets told to hang on, like he has another option or any say in the matter.

“Holy shit!”

Holy shit seems to be his inner and outer mantra for the next few moments, Maverick intent on having a one-sided conversation that he doesn’t need to contribute to, which is just as well because he has nothing of value to add. The way Maverick asks him to get in touch with the boat is infuriating, like it’s a simple press of a button like a kid’s walkie-talkie. Nothing is fucking working, and he doesn’t know enough to get it working. He has to ask, feels like Mav is teaching him how to drive all over again, and that was an unmitigated disaster until Ice and Sarah took over.

“Throw the, uh… The uhf-2 circuit breaker. Try that.”

“There’s 300 breakers back here. Anything more specific?”

“I don’t know. That was your dad’s department.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Bradley mutters, and he continues looking, only to see something out of the corner of his eye and he freezes for a micro-second. “Mav, tally two, five o’clock low. What do we do?”

No one is ever going to believe him that Mav’s plan here is wave and smile. He follows the instructions though, can hardly believe that it somehow buys enough time for Mav’s brain to speed through however many options he thinks he has. Bradley doesn’t know how many he’s got, he can’t get past the idea that he’s going to die. Again. The idea of dying. Not actual dying. Maybe it’s just a day where he’s going to constantly think he’s going to die, but never actually does. Fuck he really really hopes so. He will live with the nightmares if he doesn’t actually have to die.

“All right, listen up. When I tell you, you grab those rings above your head. That’s the ejection handle.”

“Mav, can we outrun these guys?”

“Not their missiles and guns.”

“Then it’s a dogfight.”

“An F-14 against fifth-gen fighters?”

“It’s not the plane, it’s the pilot. You’d go after them if I wasn’t here,” Bradley states, absolutely certain of the fact. The taxiway was apparently easy and not risky at all. Holy shit his mind supplies.

“But you are here,” Mav counters.

“Come on, Mav. Don’t think. Just do.”

God he hopes he doesn’t die. Then Mav has shot one of them down and he can’t believe it, warns him about the next one, feels helpless without the option to fire his own missiles. Watching the fifth-gen fighter in action is unreal and god he wants to fly one. Then they’re getting low and heading back into the canyon area, heading out toward the sea, so at least in the general direction of the boat at least. He’s grateful that the terrain does seem to confuse the targeting system, that they still haven’t been shot down and he knows if he lives through this he will need to thank Mav every day. Fuck. If Ice is somehow watching he’ll make sure it happens just to ensure they make up. It would be a power move from him for sure.

When the second fifth-gen plane goes down, the pilot ejecting just before it smashes into the side of the canyon walls Bradley feels his heart start beating again, like his entire body has been in stasis for however long that all took. It probably wasn’t longer than a couple of minutes, but it feels like a lifetime and the briefest moment in time all at once. Through some miracle he gets the radio working, and if anyone asks him what he did he won’t be able to tell them. He attempts to get in touch with the boat, but he’s not sure if it’s working two-way, too distracted by the sudden beeping indicating the location of a bogey and he looks for it, knows he needs to be another set of eyes. Why can they not catch a fucking break? The fifth generation fighter appearing on their nose is a blow, as is them running out ammo, then flares. Nothing left to offer even the smallest splinter of hope. The plane is taking hits and he’s glad they built them to withstand hits because they would be dead by now. Then Mav is talking about gaining altitude and ejecting and he listens this time, pulls the handles desperately, his stomach sinking when nothing happens, the ejection function clearly broken.

“I’m sorry, Goose.”

Oh shit. He can almost feel the waves of Mav’s guilt, that his death is going to be as his back seater just like his dad. He feels like throwing up, not advisable and he’s not going to be alive to have to do anything about it –

BOOM.

The explosion, cloud of black smoke, vibrations and then the new jet appearing all happen simultaneously. Then the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your savior speaking. Please fasten your seat belts, return your tray tables to their locked and upright positions… And prepare for landing.”

“Hey, Hangman, you look good.”

“I am good, Rooster. I’m very good. I’ll see you back on deck.”

He’s pretty sure there’s a threat in there but he could cry he’s so relieved and happy. Soon the adrenaline coursing through his body is going to stop and he’s going to hit a wall but Jake will be there. Mav will be there.

He’s alive.

Nothing else matters.

… … …

Having working engines to land matter.

He’s once again very glad that Mav is the one flying.

Fuck this shit.

… … …

He’s never crash landed on a deck before and he never wants to do it again. He wonders if people have bucket lists of things they don’t want to have happen, but which have happened anyway. Sounds like it might make for depressing lists.

“You good?”

“Yeah. I’m good,” Bradley says, but he’s already thinking about saying similar words to Jake. Searches for him as he steps down from the F-14, his legs wobbly, body aching and head starting to pitch like he’s in a storm. He spies Jake, can’t help but smile at him goofily. He looks so good and he wants to kiss him. It’s probably not a good idea.

“Chalked yourself another kill.”

“That makes two,” Jake says, and Bradley will save the fact that he now technically has three for a day when he needs to bring Jake down a peg. Or when he needs to remind him that he had no choice, because taking life is not a thrill either of them particularly want.

“Mav has five. Makes him an ace.”

Bradley shakes his head, because he’s pretty sure Mav doesn’t like the idea that he’s killed people either, although again he expects similar sage advice to don’t think if he ever asks him about it. Maybe he might surprise him though. He calls out to him, glad they’re at least going to have a chance of mending their relationship and he smiles, starting to feel the world tilt again.

“Thank you for saving my life.

“It’s what my dad would’ve done,” Bradley says, and he knows it’s the truth. The hug he gets has him wincing and Jake hasn’t stepped further away than a couple of feet, has clearly been watching him carefully, is pushing his way towards him, his hands running over Bradley's face and torso in concern and he presses his face into his hand, suddenly feeling like sleep would be a really good thing to do right now.

“You need to go to the fucking sickbay.”

“Uh… Something you want to share with the class Hangman?” Natasha asks.

“Yeah. I just saved his life, don't want him to fall off the fucking carrier and waste all my hard work.”

“Come on, take me to sickbay.”

“Okay, that’s weird... Maybe he's concussed,” Natasha says.

“Oh, he’s definitely concussed,” Maverick says, and Bradley wants to argue, but Jake’s arm is around his waist and supporting him, leading him away from the noise.

Then they’re going down some steps, Jake turns at the bottom and reaches for him, kisses him and Bradley smiles and hums appreciatively, even with his brain feeling like it’s swimming in soup he’ll never turn down being kissed by Jake.

“I thought you were taking me to sickbay?”

“I am, but first I’m going to kiss you because I am so happy to see you alive. And I won’t yell at you, because I’m pretty sure you’ve got a concussion –”

“And broken ribs,” Bradley adds, because he’s pretty that where the pain is coming from.

“Jesus Rooster. I am so angry with you. How dare you risk yourself like that. You’re an idiot!”

“Your idiot though. I hope?”

“Yes you’re mine. Damn it. Come on, sickbay.”

“Thought you were going to kiss me?”

“I did, but then you mentioned broken ribs. And I’m thinking we’re going to have to get creative for a little bit while you mend… come on.”

… … …

Of course Mav ends up in the sick bay too, being forced to be looked over by an exasperated Cyclone and amused looking Warlock. Both clearly relieved that everyone is back alive, even if not well.

“So, how long have you two been together then?” Mav asks, and Bradley follows his gaze to his and Jake’s linked fingers. The fact that Jake hasn’t left his side. Yeah. That’s not subtle at all. He guesses they’re done with keeping it from everyone then. He’s more than okay with that.

“Couple of days.”

“Over a decade.”

They look at each other and both pull a face.

“It's complicated.”

Maverick looks between them and simply nods his head.

… … …

Jake doesn’t leave him alone, only when Natasha arrives and tells Jake to go and eat and have a shower does he actually go, kissing him quickly and throwing Natasha a wink as he leaves. She looks a bit worried and confused and he’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.

“So… you finally giving up on your penpal huh? Settling with Hangman?”

“What?”

“Your online boyfriend. You giving the thing with Hangman a go instead now? I thought you were… going with the guy online.”

“Uh. Not exactly. Jake is my online boyfriend.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“The guy you’ve been… holy shit. You’ve been together for years and you’ve only just figured it out?”

Oh fuck, he realizes his mistake then, realizes he’s never going to hear the end of it. From both her and Jake both. And probably fucking Coyote too.

“Haven’t the two of you been fucking each other for like, the last three years?”

“Natasha!”

“Oh no, I have heard too many drunken ramblings about his ass to let this go. You owe me so many foot massages if you want me to keep this quiet.”

“Fuck.”

… … …

>>I need to tell you something.

>>Through Grindr?

>>Yeah well, it’s relevant I guess.

>>Wanted to tell you before I delete it off my phone.

>>I haven’t hooked up with anyone but you since 2016.

>>I mean, it’s either been you in person, or you on here. So no one but you.

“Really?” Jake asks, voice loud in the quiet of the room.

“Yeah, really.”

“Oh.”

“Mmm. You’re my first choice online and you’re my first choice in person so pretty much makes you my only choice…”

“Good. Just the way I like it.”

“Me too.”

2019 - Jake's POV

#online and anonymous #Hangster #Sereshaw #hangman x rooster #Top Gun Maverick fanfic

67 notes · View notes

talesofesther · 10 months

Text

tangle me in all your broken pieces (and watch me stay) | ch 2

Loki x Reader

Series Summary: An Asgardian god has just threatened your planet and you were called in to provide a little help. What you didn't expect was to develop a strange soft spot for said god, who hid more pain behind his cold facade than you thought possible.

A/N: I'm not sure if I completely like how this turned out. It feels a lot like a filler chapter, but nonetheless, a very necessary one. Next chapter will be more interesting and have more of Loki as we head into the main plot, I promise. <3

Word count: 4k

Masterlist | Read ch 1 here

"Are you out of your damn mind?" Fury screamed, he dragged you by the arm all the way into Banner's laboratory—nearly making you stumble on your own feet as you struggled to keep up with him—where Tony, Steve, Natasha, Bruce, and Thor, stood waiting.

You shook yourself off of his grasp, huffing angrily and adjusting your black cardigan over your shoulders. Everyone's eyes were on you, but they kept silent. Your chest heaved with adrenaline. With your sleeve, you brushed away the trail of blood under your nose.

"One minute you tell me you just want to talk, and wouldn't take any risks," Fury kept his tone loud, gesturing with his hands to where he'd just dragged you out of the room Loki was kept in. "And the next, I look at the cameras and what do I see? You're standing in front of him, inside the damn cage."

You gritted your teeth, breathing sharply through your nose. Your eyes were downcast, and you felt like a child being reprimanded for misbehaving.

You stole a single glance at Tony, who stood just a few steps behind Fury. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his lips hung open and he shook his head with indignance. "What the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea of what could've happened?"

"Give me one single reason as to why I shouldn't send you home. Right. Now." Fury spoke with finality, both hands resting on his waist expectantly. He was fuming, you doubt you'd ever seen him this angry.

You knew you had been reckless, unbelievably so; in deciding to ditch the rules and simply take Loki's fate and mind into your own hands. But his pain had spoken louder then. And damn your heart, maybe it still does.

"I was right," you stated, raising your chin and quirking an eyebrow at Fury. "Loki's mind was being controlled. Not completely, but he wasn't the only one there. Something else was twisting his thoughts and pushing him into doing what he was doing." You took a step closer to him, sparing a glance at every person in the room before focusing back on Fury. "I. Fixed. It. You're welcome."

Fury scoffed, a small, slightly mocking smile coming to his lips. "Oh, you fixed it? Just snatched the bad out of him then?"

"There was an enchantment, a connection to the same person who tortured him into obedience,"

"Tortured?" You heard Thor wonder quietly.

"I reached into his mind and severed it, just like you brought me here to do." You finished.

"I brought you here to fix the people he messed up, our people. Not him," Fury argued back, again pointing a finger toward Loki's general direction in the Helicarrier.

"So is he not worth saving?" You asked quietly, tilting your head slightly sideways with furrowed brows. It was rhetorical, and he knew. You held his gaze for a while longer, daring; until you turned to look at Loki's scepter that now rested on a table near the windows; "the plague in his mind came from that," you nodded towards the weapon, "I suggest you get it as far away from us as possible, it's not worth the trouble."

"It- it makes sense," Bruce spoke up for the first time, adjusting his glasses as he took a single step forward. "Loki had used the scepter to mind control people, it's not farfetched to think he would be under the same fate." He shrugged.

You met his eyes and gave him a grateful nod, noticing the way Natasha also raised a brow in agreeance.

The tension inside the laboratory lay thick in the air, conflicting opinions charged it with electricity and gave you goosebumps. You crossed your arms over your chest to create some sense of self-reassurance. "When I freed Loki's mind, I cut his connection to the alien army he would bring to Earth. He has no means of doing it now, no location to open a portal to. It's over."

There was a beat of silence, everyone exchanged curious glances with each other. Yet you could see Bruce breathing out a sigh of relief, a smirk appearing on Tony's face as he gave you a sneaky wink, and a new look of concern crossing Thor's face.

Fury was still very much pissed at your actions, but as he glared at you, you could feel just a smidge of pride in there too.

"I'm sorry," you said, voice gentle. "I did what I felt was right."

Tony came up to you then, he laid a hand on your shoulder and squeezed. "Good job, but never do something like that again. Or you're gonna give him a heart attack," he gestured at Fury, who only told him off with a gesture of his hand.

All you did was close your eyes and nod. You couldn't know if your decision had actually been the right call or not, but what was done was done.

And when Clint and the others attacked the Helicarrier, you were able to free their minds pretty easily before too much damage was done. Clint was lightheaded and tired, but he knew enough to point agents to the location where Selvig was being held. The dust started to settle then.

─── ·❆· ───

Now that Loki's plan was no longer a threat, the scepter had already been moved to a facility on the other side of the ocean, and the Tesseract had been recovered, the only problem that remained was; what to do with Loki.

You sat at the round glass table in the Helicarrier's main control room, sunken in your chair and fumbling with the long sleeves of your cardigan while your teammates discussed Loki's fate. You tried to keep to yourself, feeling as if you had already drawn too much attention today as is.

You couldn't help but notice the different energy in the room, however; all the other agents walking about and between the rows of computers were much calmer than they had been this morning. The glow of a setting sun seeped through the huge main windows at the front with an air of tranquility.

This was your doing, at least partially. You'd always been one for helping people, but never at the expense of your own safety. Yet today you'd put that on the line, and it turned out okay. It began to feel selfish that you'd kept your abilities to yourself for so long, when maybe you could be using them for good.

The god of mischief himself had been… quiet. Strangely quiet. You kept glancing at the displayed image of him near the control panels; he still sat on that same bench inside the glass cage, slumped against the wall, and staring at nothing. It brought more questions than answers to you—for a second you panicked with the thought that you'd somehow broken his mind, but then you remembered who he was, a god. Part of you wished you could go in there again to see him. Of course, that was most definitely not an option anymore.

You still couldn't place why you cared about what would happen to him at all. You came, and you fixed people's minds. Your work here was done.

So why did you feel like it wasn't?

Thor was in the middle of an argument with Fury about how his brother was, in fact, not evil incarnate when you finally spoke up; "Why not keep him here?"

There was silence, and everyone's eyes were immediately on you again. You cursed under your breath. You should probably start thinking before you speak.

"Excuse me, I thought we'd just agreed on no more shit ideas from you," Tony pointed a finger at you as he spoke, with an eyebrow raised at your audacity.

You shrugged, "It's just a thought, okay? Loki sees humans as below him, he wanted to rule over our planet," you reasoned, "Well, make him learn his lesson here, live in our shoes, and see that he's not above us."

Tony narrowed his eyes at you, "Have you been drinking?"

You gave him the middle finger with a deadpan look.

"I must agree with the lady," Thor finally spoke again, his gaze cautiously shifting from you, to Tony, to Fury, "It was only after I was stranded here on Earth that I truly understood the purpose of being worthy."

"And how exactly do you suppose we do that?" Fury scoffed, leaning back on his chair, "Keep him on a leash, tell him to sit down, and just hope he doesn't retaliate?"

"That would be a sight," Natasha mumbled against the rim of the coffee mug she held, before taking a sip.

Thor seemed to be in deep thought for a moment, and then; "I can speak to my father, Odin, he should be able to help with keeping Earth safe from Loki's tricks."

"Am I the only one who feels a little uneasy about allowing the guy who just threatened to bring an army to our planet, to stay?" Steve looked from one end of the table to the other, gauging everyone's reactions.

"No, you are not," Fury spoke matter of factly, making sure to throw you a glare in the process.

"I for one want him as far away as possible," Clint grumbled from his place leaning against the wall.

"I don't love the idea either," Bruce joined in for the first time since you all sat down, "But she singlehandedly prevented a possible war, people," he gestured toward you, "I think it's worth considering her idea."

You sat up straighter, leaning your elbows on the table, "I can keep an eye on him myself if you let me. I'm pretty sure I would be able to feel it if he tried anything more… severe."

Everyone exchanged glances in silence, all of them holding the same apprehension.

"I shall speak with my father," Thor decided, "And if he assures me that Loki would not be a threat if he were to stay, then you can decide."

─── ·❆· ───

When Thor came back with the news that Odin would, in fact, be able to completely strip Loki of his powers for an undetermined amount of time, things were pretty straightforward from there.

Without his seiðr, Loki would be like any other human. Easy enough to contain. So with a bit of united convincing from both yourself and Thor that the best course of action would be to keep Loki here, on Earth, so he could serve his sentence living amongst the very people he wished to rule over, your teammates eventually—albeit some of them begrudgingly—relented.

Loki's progress would be tracked and monitored regularly, and he'd only be able to leave Earth once he atoned for his mistakes and the lives he took. You'd maybe even go as far as calling it a rehabilitation program—though he'd probably actually kill you if you told him that.

Fury was not exactly pleased, you could feel the tension flowing off of him when the decision was made, but he wasn't totally opposed either. The fact that he would also be keeping a close eye on Loki was a given. More than anything, he didn't like the idea of you being involved, yet you suddenly had the urge to prove to him that you could handle this, that you were capable of it.

And Tony was… a whole other story.

"No. Nope. And have I said… absolutely not?" He spoke matter-of-factly, putting on his sunglasses even though he was still inside the Helicarrier, more specifically in the kitchen.

"Think about it, Tony," you followed after him as he opened cabinet after cabinet, looking for the mugs. "Your tower is the safest building in all of New York, if there is a right place for us to keep an eye on him, while also making sure he actually goes out and sees our world, it's there." You opened the cabinet to your left and pulled out a mug, handing it to Tony.

He paused, looking from the mug, to you, and back to the mug before snatching it from your hand. "All I'm hearing is that you wanna bring a lunatic, self-absorbed diva into my home."

You held yourself back from rolling your eyes. "I told you, I'll be the one watching him, don't you trust me?"

Tony filled his mug to the brim with black coffee and then turned to you, raising his sunglasses. "You said it yourself, you're not the hero type." He stepped closer, observing you, "You once told me you wanted nothing to do with this world, with your abilities even." He paused, looking you straight in the eye, "What changed?"

Your lips hovered yet no words came out. You didn't know. He was right, this wasn't your world. Risking your life for the sake of others was not you. And yet you felt this pull on your heartstrings every time you so much as thought about all the pain you'd felt inside Loki; all the memories, the torture, and the cries for help that no one answered.

You realized that perhaps the reason why you cared about Loki's fate, was because if not you, it seems like there would be no one who would. Not even Thor, not in the way Loki needed.

A sigh went past your lips. "You don't know what I saw when I was in his mind, Tony. What happened to him, I-" You briefly avoided his eyes, shrugging halfheartedly. "He's hurting, I just want to give him a chance." Stark knew you too well, there was no point in lying.

A low groan escaped Tony and he took a generous sip of his coffee, "Damn you and your heart and those puppy eyes," he mumbled, then said more clearly; "Alright, if we're doing this, it's on you, you hear me? You're gonna be responsible for him, if he hurts someone, or worst of all, damages my tower, I'm holding you accountable."

You grimaced and nodded once, holding back a chuckle; "You make it sound like I'm adopting a feral cat."

Tony raised a finger at you, "Keep that thought, treat it like it, and you might just succeed."

─── ·❆· ───

The sun was high and bright in the sky when you landed the quinjet on an empty, grassy field where the Allfather himself would come to see Loki. You sat on one side of the jet, beside Fury; Thor and Loki sat on the other side, the latter wearing handcuffs and a muzzle; Tony was in the driver's seat.

Even though Loki couldn't speak, he glared at you the whole way. His piercing gaze made the entire trip a complete nightmare because you couldn't relax at all.

But at last, you had arrived. The back doors of the jet lowered open, allowing for the bright sunlight to seep in and make you squint until your eyes adjusted.

You walked out first, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in as soon as your boots touched the grass. The smell of trees and the sunlight on your skin had never felt so good after being cooped up inside an airship for so long.

Your teammates followed after a moment later, Thor guiding Loki by the arm. The brothers walked ahead on the extensive field while you, Tony, and Fury hung a few steps back. No words were exchanged, the only acknowledgment given was a shared nod between Thor and Fury.

There was a sudden burst of light coming from the sky that made you flinch, and when it disappeared—leaving an intriguing burnt mark on the grass in its wake—Odin and Frigga stood before Thor and Loki. Even from a little far away, you could feel Loki's heart rate spiking immediately.

Thor finally removed Loki's muzzle, and the trickster opened and closed his mouth in relief.

"Loki…" Frigga breathed, taking half a step towards them. You felt a little bad for prying, yet you couldn't help but tune yourself to their emotions and thoughts. His mother held sympathy and worry in her gentle heart, she seemed anxious to reach out for him.

"Hello, mother," Loki spoke for the first time, his voice hoarse, "Have I made you proud?"

You clenched your fists before burying your hands in your pockets. The pain clouding Loki's heart still persisted, you wondered how he lived with it so seamlessly; on the outside, at least.

"Please, don't make this worse." Frigga pleaded to her son.

Loki tilted his head to the side; "Define 'worse'."

"Enough," Odin spoke up, his voice grave and commanding. He held his chin high, as if looking down upon Loki.

"I really don't see what all the fuss is about," Loki chuckled lightly, gesturing with his cuffed hands.

"Do you truly not feel the gravity of your crimes?" Odin shot back, his golden armor shining under the sun, "Wherever you go there is war, ruin, and death."

Loki kept a smirk on his lips, seamless. But you were able to sense the stumble in his heartbeat, the catch of air in his throat. It cut deep. Yet Loki believed the words said to him to be true, even if they hurt him.

"I came here to rule the people of Earth as a benevolent god. Just like you," Loki told him easily.

Thor sighed and shook his head, clasping his hands together in front of his body.

"We are not gods. We are born, we live, we die. Just as humans do." Odin stated.

"Give or take 5000 years," Loki shrugged halfheartedly.

Odin shook his head, "All of this because Loki desires a throne." His voice held no emotion, as if this were nothing more than an inconvenience on his day.

"It is my birthright," Loki said in the same heartbeat.

"Your birthright was to die," Odin raised his voice, it echoed until it reached the trees far away. "As a child, cast out onto a frozen rock."

You had to gulp back a sudden lump in your throat, your eyes burned. You felt Loki's pain as if it was your own, and yet, when he finally kept quiet under the weight of his father's words, you knew you weren't feeling even half of it.

Loki's actions towards Earth shouldn't be excused, no. But you already knew that this ran much deeper than simply what happened on your planet.

And while beside you Tony muffled a chuckle at the sight of Loki being chastised by the Allfather, you held back tears.

You took a moment to focus on Odin then, he was difficult to read, but you sensed disdain and indifference there. Loki was more burden than son to him.

"If I am for the axe, then for mercy's sake," Loki breathed with a half smile, "just swing it."

His words sent a chill down your spine.

A beat of silence passed, the only sounds being the distant singing of birds and a soft breeze ruffling the grass and leaves. Odin took a single step forward, still towering over Loki, who also refused to lower his head.

"Frigga is the only reason you remain alive." The words calmly fell from Odin's mouth.

Loki locked eyes with his mother and drew in a sharp breath. You had a feeling he had something to say, but didn't.

"The people of Midgard have made an offer, and you will accept, as did I."

The eyes of the god of mischief turned back to Odin when he continued talking, now glinting with new curiosity.

"You will remain here, living peacefully amongst the ones you once wished to rule over." Odin's tone left no room for argument, "You will be stripped of your powers and shall remain in exile until you have atoned for all your mistakes and crimes."

Loki scoffed and stumbled backward, his lower lip trembling and bright eyes shining with unshed tears. He argued back just as fiercely; "You cannot be serious. This is outrageous, a disgrace, I will not accept-"

"You have been given the most generous offer you could ever hope for," Odin once again raised his voice over Loki's, his patience wearing thin, "Were it up to me, you would be locked up in the dungeons of Asgard for eternity, and I will make sure that is your fate if you dare disobey my orders."

Loki's breath came out in shaky puffs, he desperately looked from Odin, to Thor, until he settled on Frigga. "Mother…" The word was nothing but a quiet plea, for what, you doubt even he knew.

The panic coursing through Loki's body was nearly sending you into a panic. You had to avoid your gaze from him for a moment to breathe, telling yourself that this was the best for him even if he didn't believe it yet.

"It is decided!" Odin exclaimed. He raised a hand towards Loki then, speaking vehemently; "I now take from you your power, your seiðr." The skies rumbled in the distance and the wind around you picked up speed. "In the name of my father and his father before!" The armor Loki still wore slowly fell from his body and clattered to the ground in broken pieces, leaving him in only black pants and a long-sleeved dark green shirt.

Silent tears cascaded down Loki's cheeks, his eyes fixed on the ground.

"You will remain here," Odin spoke with finality, "Indefinitely." And with that, he harshly turned around and walked away.

The silence that lingered then was an unbelievably heavy one. Loki refused to raise his eyes, even when Frigga walked towards him. She raised a hand and gently touched Loki's cheek, a melancholic smile painted her features. "Be well, my son," she whispered to him before turning around as well.

And with another flash of light, they were gone.

You were stunned into silence. Trying and failing to wrap your mind around what you'd just witnessed. You couldn't take your eyes off Loki's broken form, heart thundering against your chest. He looked so… small, cuffed hands shaking heavily, hair askew, and clothes so bare compared to his armor from just a moment ago.

A joyfully impressed whistle came from beside you and captured your attention. "That's one way to start the day," Tony commented with an over-exaggerated grimace, "Right, let's get moving, people. I have to be in the city in half an hour." He started towards the jet as if it was just another Thursday.

Thor looked over his shoulder to Loki, undoubtedly feeling at least part of the weight of what just happened, "Come on, brother."

Fury slowly turned away and followed Tony as well. You, however, stayed glued to the ground, heavy wind ruffling your hair.

You watched as Loki took staggered steps behind Thor, seemingly still trapped in the daze of what would be his new reality. That is, until he raised his gaze and locked eyes with you. His expression turned stone cold, colder even than how it had been when you'd gone visit him in the glass cage.

"You," Loki hissed through gritted teeth, his steps grew larger and quicker toward you with a newfound urgency, eyes burning with raw anger; "This is all your fault. If you hadn't interfered I wouldn't be-"

Loki was abruptly cut off by Thor's hand colliding with his chest and stopping him in his tracks. The god of thunder came to stand between you and his brother, eyes just as stern; "Must I remind you, brother," Thor spoke gravely, "That if you so much as consider harming anyone here, it's straight to Asgard's dungeons."

A scoff went past Loki's lips as he took a step back from Thor. They held each other's gaze for a beat, until Loki pursed his lips and shook his head. "How far have we fallen," he whispered, before walking past Thor.

Loki made sure to harshly bump into your shoulder as he walked by you and towards the waiting jet.

You stumbled in your stance but remained frozen in place. "Oh boy," you breathed, eyes wide with the realization of what you had just gotten yourself into, "This will be fun."

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Read ch 3 here

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