#i spent too much time drawing sans

[old-desert]

Inktobertale 2024 Day 1: Ink (warm up)

[somegrumpynerd]

Cross has trouble getting to sleep alone in his room and goes looking for a distraction, but ends up finding a solution for both of them

[diamondsheep]

The stubborn Moss Head still refuses to say Sanji's name 😔

[just-an-average-fan]



i fucking hate artblock bc i have so many ideas that i cannot phisically turn into reality at the moment and then when i try to fight it and draw anyway this is what i fucking end up with

can i finally make somethig fandom related thats NICE and not THIS??????

[saintobio]

blank canvas: the epilogue.

pairings. ryōmen sukuna, fem!reader

genre. past lovers, angst, opposites attract

tags/warnings. mentions of toxic relationships, purple hearts-ish themes, maybe some heartache

notes. 2.4k wc. i said it’ll come in a few days, but i had free time so here it issss!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

TWO YEARS LATER

Tonight was Yuki and Choso’s going-away party. 

Their decision to migrate to another side of the world was because Yuki had always talked about wanting to live abroad, and so when Choso was offered a once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity in another country, it became the perfect chance for them to make that dream a reality.

So despite your apprehensions, you couldn’t miss the chance to see Yuki one last time and accepted her invitation to the party.

The evening was alive with laughter and chatter as their families and friends gathered to celebrate their bittersweet departure. Among the crowd, you spotted some familiar faces who exchanged greetings with the couple, as well as some strangers you had never seen before.

But one person was conspicuously absent. 

It had been two years since you had seen Sukuna, and the thought of potentially running into him again filled you with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. However, deep down, you knew he wouldn’t be there. There was no chance of him ever showing up because you hadn’t heard from him since that fateful night. The apartment you once shared together now housed a new tenant, and the tattoo shop across the street had transformed into a record store. Neither Yuki, nor Choso (even Yuuji), had mentioned anything about Sukuna since then, possibly avoiding any mentions of him to you out of his request. He had simply disappeared, evaporated from existence, leaving behind nothing but a fading memory.

As you scanned the room with a forlorn smile, your thoughts were interrupted by Yuki’s cheerful voice. “Y/N! So glad you could make it! I thought you weren’t gonna come, too.”

Your first instinct was to hug her tightly. “Of course, not! You know I can’t not see you before you go.”

“Aww.” She embraced you tighter before pulling away with a sad smile. “I’m gonna miss you so much. You’re like a little sister to me.” 

Indeed, and she was the big sister you never had. Things would feel different without her here, but you supported her decisions and would always wish her the best in her future endeavors. So, despite the distance you two would soon have, you gave her a reassuring pat on the back. “We can still keep in touch. And maybe, I’ll pay you a visit there, too.” 

“Honestly, I would love that!” she enthused, “Please do, even if I have to harass Getou and Gojou about it.” 

You chuckled as she mentioned the duo’s name and spent the next few minutes with you chatting for a bit, catching up with your life, talking about your future plans. It was amazing how much can change in two years, and how some things can also stay the same. Like your friendship. And this bond that you would never find with anyone else.

For now, the night was still young, and you knew Yuki still had many more guests to accommodate, so you didn’t want to take all of her time. Eventually she did excuse herself to greet more guests, and you found yourself standing by the kitchen island, absentmindedly stirring your cocktail.

As you stood in the corner of the room, surrounded by the chatter and laughter of the party, you felt a sudden jolt run through your body as loud voices boomed across the room. They were Yuuji and Choso’s exuberant greetings cutting through the air, drawing everyone’s attention, including yours.

“Nii-san!”

“There he goes, Mr. First Lieutenant!” 

Your eyes widened as you saw the figure they were addressing with playful salute—a man in a crisp military uniform, standing tall and confident. It took you a moment to recognize him, but when you did, your heart skipped a beat.

It was Sukuna.

He looked different, transformed almost, his demeanor more composed, his smile softer yet still retaining the undeniable aura of masculinity. He looked a lot more muscular than the last you remembered. His hair, now dyed back to its natural color, was neatly trimmed. You recognized that the uniform he wore was of the Japan Self-Defense Forces, adorned with badges and insignias that spoke of his achievements. The reckless, wild look in his eyes had been replaced by something steadier, more focused.

It wasn’t just the sight of him that made your heart skip a beat—it was how different he looked. 

“That’s so cool!” Yuuji raved about his older brother’s badges, his starry eyes genuinely intrigued at the sight of Sukuna in a uniform. 

Choso, on the other hand, was pulling him in a hug in an emotional jest. “Dammit. You said you couldn’t make it!” 

“Don’t cry now,” Sukuna teased, patting the younger brother’s back. He seemed to be genuinely having fun teasing his brothers. “Had to pull some strings. I was on duty, but do ‘ya think I’d let you go without seeing you?” 

You felt a pang of nostalgia in their interaction, but also recognized the visible difference in the way your ex-boyfriend spoke to others. He was genuinely happy. He was all smiles. He was the healthiest version of himself, both physically and emotionally.

It was clear to you that Sukuna had turned his life around, and it was evident that he was doing well in his field of work. The man you once knew, who had been consumed by his reckless way of life, was now standing tall and respected as an honorable member of the military.

When you said you had never met Sukuna again in your lifetime, that was true. Because the Sukuna you knew was no longer here. It was an entirely different man, changed for the better, just not for you. 

As if sensing your gaze, Sukuna turned and your eyes mirrored each other’s surprise. For a moment, the world around you seemed to fade away, as if you were characters in a movie screen seeing each other for the very first time. It was as though your eyes were the camera, and he was the actor. You could say you were starstruck, your heart thumping so loud that you could hear it vibrate through your ears. 

Two freaking years, and Sukuna still had that effect on you. 

You didn’t know what to do. You found yourself at a loss, the red cup in your hand now shaking from the sudden surge of anxiety. Your mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, a kaleidoscope of heavy emotions, a tornado of nostalgic bliss, leaving you feeling adrift in a sea of memories. 

You wondered if Sukuna hated having to see you here. And if so, should you leave to spare yourself—or perhaps him—from any potential discomfort?

Caught in this internal struggle, you felt paralyzed, uncertain of what to do next. But then, you saw a flicker of recognition and regret in his eyes. 

Before you could even contemplate your next move, Sukuna was already excusing himself from his brothers. Their knowing looks exchanged in silence spoke volumes, indicating they were aware of where he was headed. The realization then hit you like a wave. Sukuna, your ex-boyfriend of two years, was coming toward you, and you were suddenly faced with a decision between confronting the past or making a quick escape.

“Y/N,” he greeted with a boyish grin, his voice deeper, more controlled. The bad boy persona he used to carry was completely gone. 

“Sukuna,” you replied, struggling to keep your voice steady, a complete opposite from his confidence.

There was a moment of awkward silence before he spoke again. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” you meekly replied, clearing your throat and gesturing to his uniform, “You, too. Military suits you. I never saw that coming.”

He smiled in agreement, seemingly happy about his current appearance. You had never seen this kind of bliss from him before, like he was filled with content and a sense of self-worth. He was proud, and truth be told, you were, too. 

“It’s been a good change. It gave me structure, purpose,” he paused, taking a red cup from the kitchen island nearby, “I finally got something ‘better’ to do with my life, huh?”

You smiled softly, not missing the implication of his last statement. “I’m happy for you. Really.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” 

“Mhmm.” 

The minutes that followed were some of the most agonizing of your life, not because of Sukuna, but because of the overwhelming awkwardness that enveloped the two of you. It felt as though you had nothing else to discuss, knowing full well that delving into your shared past was a territory you could never comfortably navigate. However, Sukuna, always the more vocal one in your relationship, had finally broken the silence.

“Do you…” he began, leaving you on edge, anticipating his question, “Do you wanna get some fresh air outside?” 

Right. And with a smile, you nodded. “Sure.” 

— —

You were grateful for the opportunity to escape the stifling atmosphere of the party and find some solace in the cool night air. Both of you were at the front porch, sitting over the pavement talking about anything but your past. 

Sukuna excitedly talked about his time in the military, where you learned that he had enlisted two years ago and joined the army. After enlisting, he quickly excelled in the rigorous training required for the Special Operations Group (SOG). It didn’t surprise you that his physical prowess, sharp intellect, and determination made him a standout candidate.

“I actually completed advanced courses in counter-terrorism, reconnaissance, and combat survival,” he shared, his gaze set on the clear starry night above you. “Oh, and last month, I was deployed on a high-stake mission overseas. We extracted hostages from a conflict zone. Remember the action movies we used to watch? It was exactly like that. It was fun, thrilling.” 

You listened intently, an elbow propped on your leg as you absorbed the enthusiasm in his stories. Pride and joy swelled in your heart as you heard him talk about something he was passionate about, because it was a stark contrast to the old Sukuna who wouldn’t have shown interest in these things. And this time around, you felt like you were infatuated again, but with the new him. 

“I’m really proud of you.” Longingness dripping from your voice. “Very proud. And you’re First Lieutenant, too? Wow.” 

The compliment seemingly made him blush, a sight so rare to see that you haven’t seen it throughout your relationship. “I wanted to become a better man.” 

You felt a squeeze in your heart. You recalled the words he said that night at the parking lot, of him telling you that he had his own insecurities, too. That he knew all along that your uncertainties about him were rooting from his way of life. That he was aware that he couldn’t give you the life you deserved. 

“Y/N.” Your name rolled off his tongue in an affectionate manner. He soon rose from his seat, prompting you to follow suit, before turning to face you. “I forgot to mention.”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah?”

His smile was sweet and genuine. “I’m engaged now.”

Oh.

Of course. 

What did you expect?

His words settled in your heart like a suffocating shroud. Despite the ache in your chest, you managed a polite nod, concealing the storm of emotions swirling inside you. But you couldn’t contain it—the damn tears that pooled in your eyes. Please, not now. You turned away, hoping to shield your reaction from him.

But it was all too late. 

He was already pulling you into an embrace, the familiarity in his warmth only making you weaker inside. “You are and will always be my greatest love,” he whispered into your ear, pressing his lips against your temple, “And also my biggest regret.”

Damn it. You covered your face with your hands, feeling ashamed of the tears streaming down your cheeks. What an absurd twist of fate. You could have gone about your day without encountering him again, yet here you were, shedding tears over the same man who had broken your heart two years ago.

“When I say regret,” he continued, cupping your cheeks and smiling at you lovingly. He ran his thumb across your cheeks, wiping your tears away. “I meant regret of not being that man for you. I didn’t treat you the way you deserved, or respected your boundaries like I thought I did.” Sukuna’s charm had you holding your breath still, too enamored by his beauty under the moonlight. He used to be a man of a few words, and now he didn’t shy away from pouring out his raw emotions. “I’m sorry I was two years too late. I’m sorry I had to let you go and be with someone else. But you and I know that it’s for the best.”

You weren’t crying because you wanted to get back together with him. You weren’t crying because he had promised marriage to someone else. You were crying because it felt like he was the one who slipped through your fingers, the one that got away, the one who could have been your forever if circumstances had aligned differently. It was the regret of a lost possibility, the ache of knowing that in another universe, you and him could have shared a lifetime together, untouched by the mistakes of the past.

He had dreams of making you his wife, dreams of having your children, dreams of growing old with you.

But the old Sukuna was dead, replaced by the new Sukuna who was happy and free from love’s toxicity. You realized it was time to let go. Time to bury the past and instead celebrate the future. 

“Congratulations on the engagement,” you offered your well wishes, pulling away slightly to meet his gaze with your tear-filled eyes. “I hope she doesn’t find you a handful.”

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “No, no. I have to behave or else I’m a dead man,” he joked. “She's in the army, too.”

“Well, I’m glad you met her, Sukuna. You deserve it,” you said, your voice filled with genuine warmth as you wiped your lachrymose eyes. 

Gratitude and comfort shone in his gaze. “And I’m glad you found your peace, Y/N. You always deserved better.”

You smiled in appreciation of his words as he helped you dust off your pants. Just then, your phone buzzed in your pocket, briefly taking your attention away from the current scene. “Uh, I think I need to go,” you hesitated, glancing back at the house. “But I think Yuki’s pretty busy.”

“It’s fine,” he assured. “Do you want me to call you a cab or?”

“No, it’s okay,” you replied, shooting him a grateful expression. “Satoru’s on his way to pick me up.”

He nodded, smiling. “Cool.” You were surprised when he offered his hand, a gesture to finally close whatever remained between you two. “It was nice seeing you, Y/N.”

You shook his hand and gave him a playful salute. “Likewise, First Lieutenant Ryomen Sukuna.”

As he returned to the party, immediately attacked by his friends, there was no hint of yearning or longing in him, as if the poignant exchange with his ex-girlfriend had never occurred. He was back in the scene in a fluid motion, laughing, catching up with his loved ones, telling stories about his life. No heartbreaks, no painful memories.

While as you stood there, knowing you had shared respect and love for each other, you were happy that there was a sense of closure in seeing Sukuna as the man he had become. You had both grown, both changed, and in that moment, you knew that your story, though painful, had led you two to where you needed to be. 

That your love’s canvas, once blank, now held colors to complete the portrait.

[tropes-and-tales]

Dyin' for a Taste

Day 11:  Face Sitting (Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x F!Reader)

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

CW:  Idiots in love; pining; smut (oral, f!receiving); 18+ only.

Word Count:  4096

AN:  This was requested by an anonymous person!

AN2: When I say this is not edited, please know it is NOT EDITED. Full of typos and sloppy typing. Tropes is a fat-fingered old crone.

It starts with a joke.

The 141 is on a covert ops in the mountains.  It’s cold—the sort of cold that burns, that makes the bones ache.  You’re posted up in a perch, your sniper’s rifle at the ready if shit goes south.  The rest of the team is in the square below, waiting for the drop.

“My bollacks are gonna freeze off,” Soap complains over the comms, and you snort at the whining tone in his soft Scottish brogue. 

“Shoulda dressed for the weather,” you reply.  “Ghost probably has a spare balaclava.”

“And cover this handsome face?”

“Won’t be so handsome when your nose turns black from frostbite.”

You hear the tsch noise he makes over the comms, the very Soap, very Scottish noise of dismissal. 

“You’ll have to sit on my face then, hen, and warm me back up,” he says.

You’re rarely stunned into silence—you and the guys are always making off-color jokes—but when you open your mouth to reply, you only gape wordlessly.  The silence over the comms grows, expands, until Gaz—fucking Gaz—chimes in.

“I think she’s into the idea, bruv.”

And you can’t respond to that fast enough either, which leaves another long beat of silence over the comms, which likely seems like enough of an answer.

-----

The mission goes smoothly.  The team splits up as planned to avoid drawing attention.  You don’t see Soap again until a few days later when you regroup at HQ.

You think, perhaps, that he’s forgotten.  Maybe that’d be better.  You and Soap get along well, and sometimes he flirts with you, but he flirts with everyone.  It means nothing. 

And yet…

And yet, it’s Soap.  You might be able to lie to others, but you can’t lie to yourself:  you’ve spent many a lonely night with your thoughts drifting to him.  Turning him over and over in your mind. 

Soap MacTavish.  Handsome, almost unbearably so.  He could be a cocky asshole, be the sort of man who knows he’s hot and be insufferable about it, but he’s gregarious.  Friendly.  He’s a happy-go-lucky sort of man—or as much as someone in the One-Four-One can be.

-----

“Been avoiding me.”

It’s a statement, not a question.  Soap corners you in the mess hall, his blue eyes peering at you without guile.  He looks almost concerned.

“I haven’t,” you reply.  You try to shift past him, but he puts a hand out against the doorway, bars you with his arm.

“You have.”  He peers at you closer, his blue eyes somber.  “What’s wrong?”

“Why would anything be wrong?”

You thought, perhaps, that he’d forgotten…but those somber eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, then smooth out as he schools his expression.

“Maybe you think my offer was wrong,” he says.

“I never said that.”  You duck under his arm, but he lays his hand on your shoulder and stills you again.

“You’ve never said anything about it.”  You don’t look at him, but you hear his gentle snort of laughter.  “Your silence is deafening.”

You feel your face start to heat up because he’s not wrong.  Too much time has passed now to address that moment in the mountains.  You should have said something then, spat out some rejoinder to signal that it meant nothing to you, that it was just another dumb joke between you and Soap.  But something about that dumb joke conjures up the mental image of you and Soap, and your face burns in embarrassment.

So you duck from his light grip on your shoulder and it makes him laugh again, then call out to your retreating form, “the offer still stands, hen.”

-----

A month passes, then another.  You get leave for a few weeks and go someplace warm, a beach with golden sand and soft breezes where you can relax and forget the horrors of what you see every day.

Then you’re back on base, then another mission.  Over and over, the same routine.

Through it all:  Soap MacTavish, the team’s Golden Retriever.  Always with an easy grin on his handsome face, a laugh, a joke.  He teases Ghost, he does a passable impression of Captain Price.  He gives Gaz a hard time about their rival rugby teams, but it’s always good-natured. 

He jokes with you, but that joke—the one about sitting on his face—becomes just a joke between the two of you.  You don’t know if the other men have forgotten it, but Soap only brings it up when you’re alone now.

At the barracks, in the rec room, he’s sprawled out on the couch and half-dozing, half-watching a rugby match.  When you walk past, he notices, sits up.  Beckons you over, tells you to have a seat…then thoughtfully strokes his face with that damned smirk and comically waggling eyebrows.

“You’re a jackass,” you call out as you leave the room, but by now, it makes you laugh…and it lightly stokes that ever-burning flame low in your belly.

-----

Another time, he sidles up to you at the range as you study your targets with their tight formation of bullet holes.  He points out one shot, high in the corner of the paper, off of the concentric circles of the bullseye.

“Missed one,” he says.

You scoff.  “One out of….many.”

He matches your scoff with one of his own.  “Might be losing your edge.”

“I’m not.”  You know he’s winding you up, but that missed shot galls you. 

“Maybe you’re stressed out.”

You set the target down on the wooden railing.  “Maybe you’re stressing me out, MacTavish.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.  His blue eyes light up in glee, and he only gets out the first part of his retort—You know what’s good for de-stressing—before you drop to one knee and start disassembling your sniper rifle, ducking your head and hiding your burning cheeks from him.

“…nothing wrong with it,” he finishes as you shut the rifle’s case, and you realize you’ve missed part of what he’s said.

“There isn’t,” you agree.  You stand up and lean a bit on the courage that sees you through each mission.  You look him square in the eye and add, “but you’re just flirting.”

He gazes back at you, a soft smile on his face, only a little teasing.  “Not just flirting.”

“Sure.”  You roll your eyes.

He makes his Soap-branded tsch sound, then he loops his arm around your shoulders to pull you in close.  He smells like…well, he smells like soap, clean with a hint of something herbal.  It’s nothing he hasn’t done a hundred times—in safe houses after a mission, walking out of a bar on a night out with the team—that companionable way he pulls you against him.

“It makes me sad when you don’t believe me, hen,” he chuckles, and it’s low, right by your ear, his warm breath fanning over you. 

You’re not sure what spurs your next move.  You’re a natural-born sniper; you take the measure of everything around you—the curve of the earth, the speed and direction of the wind—before you squeeze your trigger.  You’re the same with people, cautious and feeling out every angle of their intentions before you make a move.  But you know Soap, and the question around his joke is the only uncertainty.

Something makes you act without much thought.  Your rifle case in your hand, your other hand tucked in your pocket, and Soap’s arm slung around your shoulders…the moment is crystalized, will be an easy memory to recall in the years to come because this is when everything between the two of you changes.

“You know what?” you ask, and you don’t allow him to hazard a guess.  Instead, you gaze at him levelly, straight into those bright blue eyes of his and add, “alright, let’s do this.”

It’s comical, how the smile drops from his face, how his mouth makes a little “oh” of surprise.  His eyes scan your face, quick, like he’s trying to find the joke, trying to find proof you’re just having a laugh at his expense.

“Bonnie,” he starts to say, and his voice has a rough edge to it.  His voice is missing its usual teasing edge, and he pauses to study you.  You don’t know if he realizes it, but the tip of his tongue darts out, licks against his lower lip, like he’s really thinking of it now that it could be a reality.

“Bonnie, are you just…are ye fer real?”  His voice is lower and his accent gets thicker, and it sets a frisson of heat shimmering through your lower belly.

You refuse to blink.  Refuse to look away.  “I’m for real if you are.”

“I was never joking about that.”

“Then I’m not joking either.”  You swing your rifle case towards the barracks, playing at bravery but willing the fluttery feeling in your stomach to calm.  “So let’s go.”

Soap—gregarious, convivial Soap—says nothing else on the walk back.  He keeps his arm around your shoulders, though, and his hand settles against your bicep, rubs you briskly before gently holding you there, like he’s proving to himself that you’re real, that the moment is really happening.

-----

Your nerve wobbles a little when you get back to quarters.  Soap’s nerves must have a similar wobble, because he turns to you and his usual boyish grin is gone, replaced by a grave expression.

“You dinnae have to do this,” he says, “if you don’t want to.”

Part of you wants to back out, chuck him in the arm and say it was just a joke.  You could still back out.  Soap is flirty and gregarious, but hooking up would irrevocably change your easy relationship with him.  It could change the tenor of the team.  And yet…

…don’t you both face death every day?  Don’t you see the absolute worst of humanity?  Don’t your bodies bear the scars of your hard, unrelenting lives—countless scars, visible and invisible both?  Don’t you all operate in your own bubbles of loneliness, sleeping alone night after night but crowded out by the ghosts you all haul around?

Is it too much to ask for even a moment of connection, of not feeling alone?

You gaze back at him.  Sweet Johnny MacTavish.  Handsome but not vain, smart but not aloof, funny without being cruel about his teasing.  Is there anyone you’d rather be with?

“I want to do this,” you tell him, and there’s no hesitation in your tone.  “If you do.  If you really were just joking around, then no harm, Johnny.”

His somber gaze softens at your use of his real name.  “Wasn’t joking at all.”  Then he opens the door to his quarters and turns to you, invites you in with a sweep of his hand, and when you walk past him, he lays his palm on your lower back to guide you.

-----

In truth, you’ve never actually sat on anyone’s face.  It’s one of those funny sex acts that you joke around about but have never gotten around to, like sixty-nine (always seemed more complicated than necessary) or food-play (always seemed too messy). 

Soap, it turns out, has never actually had his face sat on.

And it’s adorable, how he sheepishly runs his hand through the longer stripe of his short-shorn hair and admits as much.

“Figured it cannae be that complicated though,” he says.  He huffs out a breath, and you realize how nervous he must be, and it gives you courage to take charge.

“Kiss me first.  Then we can figure it out from there.”

The tame command makes his face light up and he murmurs, “yes, ma’am” in his brogue, and then he does as you say.

If Soap MacTavish is generally the team’s Golden Retriever, bouncing around with a wagging tail, he kisses with far more finesse.  He cups your face gently, reverently and leans forward, brushes the lightest of kisses against your lips like he’s testing the waters.  Like he’s waiting for you to pull away, and when you don’t, he kisses you again.

It’s awkward at first, but only because you’re both so tentative.  It’s uncharted territory.  He must be aware that you’re crossing a line in doing this, you think, and he must not care either.  But the awkwardness melts away quickly because Soap is a damned good kisser, skilled in how he moves his mouth against yours, his tongue against yours.  One of his hands stays on your face, cupping you gently and steering you, but the other hand touches your waist, your hip, slides around to squeeze your ass gently before returning to the dip of your waist.

He tastes like something warm and spicy, like cinnamon or nutmeg.  Everything about him is warm, really:  the way he cups your face but runs his thumb over your cheekbone, the way his other hand holds you steady as he kisses you.  And the way he looks at you when he breaks the kiss, the almost-shy way he tugs at the hem of your shirt and asks if he can take it off.

He’s warm too—his body, his skin as you bare it with each article of clothing shed.  You strip each other in tandem, and the sight of him leaves you breathless.  He’s like something carved by a Renaissance sculptor, but when you smooth your palms over the dips and swells of his muscles, you find that he’s warm to the touch, wonderfully so, and a wave of lust almost takes you out at the knees by how much you want to feel his body against yours, under you or on top of you, every inch of you pressed against him.

Soap must feel the same way about you—he touches you just as gently as before, almost reverent, but his goddamned eyes practically shine when he looks at you, then groans out, “fuck, but you’re stunning, hen.”

He maneuvers you both towards the bed, and then he stretches out across it, and this is precisely why your sexual repertoire has always been lacking:  when a brutally handsome man is stretched out in front of you like a damned buffet, your mind singularly focuses on one thing, and you rarely remember that there’s other, more adventuresome things you could do.

You’re already turned on.  Ever since the two of you walked back from the range, you’ve been on a low simmer of lust, and the desire has ratcheted up with each kiss, with each little grumbling groan of Soap’s, with each sweep of his big warm hands along your body.

So you’re already turned on, so why sit on his face when his beautiful cock—perfectly sized for you, the ruddy tip already leaking precum—is also an option?

And Soap is no dummy.  He must guess at your internal battle because he says your name softly, pulls your gaze back to his face where he smiles that brilliant Soap-smile at you.

“Alright then?” he asks.  He pats his upper chest.  “You can sit right here, to start.”

It hits you all at once how intimate this is.  Fucking, hooking up—that’s one thing.  But sitting on your teammate’s face feels like you’re taking a further step into the unknown.  Oral sex, to you, is already more intimate than regular ol’ intercourse, but sitting on his face feels…even more intimate.  There’s a lot of trust on both ends:  he has to trust you not to hurt him, not to put too much weight or force on his face or neck.  And you have to trust him too, since you’re basically smothering him you with your pussy, and many men are precious little babies about eating pussy.

“I could just…”  You trail off and gesture vaguely at where his erection strains and bobs against his belly, and Soap snorts before he replies, “we could do both, hen.”

When you don’t say anything, when you don’t move, he adds, “c’mon, sweet girl.  I’m dyin’ for a taste of ye.”

The accent is unfair, you decide.  The accent is not fighting fair.  Soap’s Scottish brogue is charming in the best of times, but his bedroom version is thicker, at a slightly lower register, and it’s entirely unfair.  It easily dismantles the rest of your meager defenses, so you nod and then kneel on the bed.  But when you start to awkwardly clamor on top of him, he stills you for a beat and taps his mouth, says, “give me a kiss first.”

And the kiss is unfair too because it reminds you that it’s just Soap, one of your dearest teammates, a man who often holds your life in his hands and whose life you hold in your own.  His now-familiar taste of spicy warmth on your tongue, and his lips curving in a smile against yours when he whispers, “climb on up, hen  Don’t keep me waitin’ anymore.”

There’s no sexy way to climb on top of him.  Do you just kneel by his chest and throw a leg over him?  Do you straddle him lower and scoot up?  You split the difference, try to straddle him on his lower chest and scoot up, but then his one arm gets pinned.  Any other man?  It might be a deal-breaker being so clumsy, but Soap laughs underneath you—a genuine belly-laugh full of warmth that makes you giggle too.  He wrangles his arm free, then lays both hands on your hips and guides you the rest of the way.

This is unbearable intimate too, being so exposed to his bright blue-eyed gaze. You probably have tons of issues around previous men who didn’t eat pussy, who were grossed out by it, but Soap’s eyes practically glitter black with how blown his pupils are.  His face rarely hides its emotions very well (he’s a shitty poker player), and there’s no disgust in his expression at all.  There’s only desire, naked and apparent.

“Tell me,” he says, and his voice is a low growl that sends that frisson of heat straight to your core.  “Tell me what is working for you, yeah?  Don’t go quiet on me.”

You nod, and you wish you could think of something cool or funny to say, but Soap lifts his head a little and presses a plush, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, where both are splayed in front of him, and before you can even beat yourself up for failing to think of something cool or funny, his mouth is on you in earnest.

Soap, a damned good kisser.  It translates to this, his skilled tongue and lips licking at you, suckling at you, swirling against you before he breaks up the pattern with an outright kiss, then resumes his routine.  He traces the tip of his tongue around the firm bud of your clit, the perfect amount of pressure before he snakes it lower, lapping at the arousal leaking from your entrance.  He’s unabashed about it, groans against your feverish skin, and you love him in this moment—love that he wasn’t joking after all, love that he had led you here, where you sit perched on him while he feasts on your cunt and seems to genuinely enjoy it as he does. 

Any other position, you’d lean down and kiss him, or pull him to you and kiss him.  Now, as he groans against you again, you reach down and run your fingers through the longer stripe in his hair.  He must like that, because he groans a third time, and his grip on your hips spasms tighter.

You remember what he asked of you, so when he purses his lips and suckles against your clit, you gasp out a startled “oh!” but then add, “fuck, Johnny.  Just like t-that.”

“Good?”  It comes out muffled against you, and he pauses his mouth long enough to gaze up at you with a smile.

“So good.”  You shift your hand, cup his stubbled chin slick with your arousal—a gentle movement that makes his smile soften too. 

“Like when you call me Johnny, hen.”  Now he sounds a little shy, like he’s edging close to something beyond a random hookup with face-sitting.

“Keep using your mouth like that and I’ll call you Johnny all the time,” you tease.

“Deal.”  And then he’s on you again, laving your sensitive folds with his tongue, his bit of stubble raising a warm burn against your inner thighs.  His hands on your hips pull you closer, and he encourages the slow, careful rhythm when you start to actually ride his face—a languid back-and-forth, mindful of his need for oxygen, while he eats your pussy with the fervor of a starving man.

Your orgasm approaches faster than you thought; you thought you might have to fake it, since you rarely come from oral alone.  But there’s something about this position.  You feel powerful in a benign way, in charge, but mindful of the man underneath you.  You run your fingers through his hair and Soap preens at the touch, just as he preens when you pant out praise for him, tell him how good you feel. How good he is making you feel.

He must sense it because his grip tightens on your hips, but his tongue moves faster and focuses solely on your clit—teasing with the tip of his tongue, then laving it with the flat of his tongue, then wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

“F-fuck,” you choke out.  “Johnny…fuck…I’m gonna…” but you don’t finish the sentence, you keen out a garble of nonsense as you come.

The heat in your belly pools over, spills over in a brilliant wash that courses through your veins, into your trembling legs and up through your body, makes your vision shimmer and crackle with sparks.  Your heartbeat, your panting breath are loud in your own ears, and you hear Soap groan but he sounds faraway.  He teases your orgasm, prolongs it by licking against you until you grip his hair tighter and hold his head still while you clumsily dismount, then flop gracelessly onto the bed beside him.

You feel boneless.  You feel heavy, sleepy, like you could sink into the mattress and sleep for days.  You close your eyes and feel the bed shift, and Soap disappears for a moment.  You hear running water—he must be cleaning his face, you think—but then the mattress dips again and he’s curling his warm body around yours, wrapping his arms around you as he pulls you to him, then settles the blanket over both of you.

“Good, yeah?”

You laugh.  “Yeah, that was good.  Especially for someone who’s never done it before.”  A beat.  “Give me a moment to catch my breath and then I can help you out.”

Soap chuckles above you, and you feel him press his lips to your forehead before settling again.  “No need.”

“But I—”

“Already came.”

The gears in your head turn slow when you’re sated from sex.  Coming makes you stupid.  “Huh?  When?”

Another chuckle, another kiss to your head.  “When I was eating you, hen.”

You turn your head and try to peer up at him.  He looks comfortable and sleepy too, content and sated.  “Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Told ye I was dyin’ for a taste.”  He shifts a little, pulls you closer to him.  He tugs the blanket more securely around your shoulders.  “If ye want a second round, I’ll need a few minutes.”

You appraise the situation:  the warm scent of Soap, the feel of his naked body pressed to yours, the warm little cocoon he’s created here in his bed.  Of course you want a second round, but you’re sleepy too, and the thought of sleeping with Soap doesn’t seem nearly as terrifying as it might have seemed before he had his mouth on your pussy.

“Or we could sleep,” you offer.

“Sleep,” he agrees.  “Round two tomorrow.”

The doubts from earlier start to surface in your mind, but they seem tiny and inconsequential when you’re wrapped up in Soap’s arms.  You feel sleep tugging at you—he’s already asleep, you think, breathing deep and even against you—so you chance to brush your lips against the bit of him you can reach and whisper good night to him.

But he’s not quite completely asleep yet because he kisses you back, another press of his lips against your head, and he whispers back, “g’night, hen.”

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 82 (Adorable Lavender)

Lavender had her father's blue eyes and mother's hair. A wiggly infant who loved wake up time, she was a delightful, happy baby who could even tolerate tummy time longer than most.

Her excitable nature did often leave her with hiccups, but this didn't impact her digestion like her pediatrician feared it might. Even her tired cries made her parents' hearts swell. Heather and Conrad settled into a daily routine: sending Ash to school before they left for work, delivering Lavender to daycare on the way. At night, they helped Ash with his homework, spent time with the kids, and cared for their pets.

Conrad's workload at the precinct was heavy. His search for Ximena's brother did his schedule no favours, but Conrad was careful and meticulous with his cases. With young kids at home, none of his fellow detectives suspected he had any free time - let alone that he was using it to search for Rafa under the table.

More than anything, Conrad hoped it wasn't too late to get through to him. If San Myshuno PD found him first, Rafa would be sent to prison. Conrad had been the closest thing to a father-figure he'd ever had, and he couldn't help but feel, when he left Ximena, he'd left Rafa, too.

"Gord hovers so much more now that Lavender's here," Heather mused. "He doesn't even get excited about leaving for work with you in the mornings anymore."

Conrad knew why Gord didn't want to leave Heather and the kids, but he still couldn't find the right way to tell her the truth.

"Gord decides who he wants to serve and protect," he said instead, giving in to the Bernese's desire to stay home. "I can't make him chase down suspects at the station if he'd rather be here."

The longer it took to come clean, the harder it seemed to bring it up. He was grateful Ximena had stopped calling him, at least.

Ash was improving his grades and always breezed through his homework. Nancy had promised simoleons for every A grade on his report card, and the young genius was happy to work his wealthy grandmother for the extra spending money. Heather tried to object, but she couldn't stop Nancy from spoiling him.

Art was his favourite subject at this stage, and he spent hours drawing. Nancy wanted to sign him up for art classes with prestigious painters in the city, but he was happy enough with crayons at his craft table, and not quite interested in easels and paints just yet.

He was still a little unsure about his little sister, who was only moderately more interesting to him as an infant. "Lavender still doesn't do much, mommy. When will she be able to go out and play in the snow with me?"

"Not for a while yet," Heather explained. "But you were this small once, and you grew. She might even be able to hit her milestones faster if you play with her. Show her how to be a big kid like you."

Excited at the prospect, Ash was sweet with his baby sister. Lavender watched him wide-eyed and giggled at his stories about aliens and zombies and superhero princesses. But she, like her brother, liked best the one about the giving tree.

They were happy and Heather, like his coworkers, was none the wiser to Conrad's search for wanted man Rafa Bonilla. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

NOTE: Lavender's third infant quirk will be revealed, but it's not apparent yet!

[d0llcuries]

Hey beautiful! What do you think it would be like to have a childhood love with Neteyam? I would love to see this written by you, your writing is impeccable❤️

TWO FLYING FAN LIZARDS

pairing(s): neteyam x fem!na'vi reader

summary: alongside a boy destined for greatness only, you suffer

author's note: my first ever request i am geeking out rn!!! ◝(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) ◜♡ this was such a delight to write and i truly hope it lives up to ur expectations :3 also pls send more requests i begggggggg. second also,, to gain the most out of your reading experience i recommend listening to “let you go” by clara la san

(i would link it but it doesn't work for sum reason ( ˶•ᴖ•) !!)

edit: oh wait nvm i figured it out :p

your earliest memories of neteyam are filled with the fond experiences of your shared childhood. you remember the days when your mothers would gather under the open sky, their laughter ringing out like music while you sat beside neteyam. he was the boy with golden eyes, always grinning, always curious, and with him, even the quietest moments seemed to hold something special.

you were shy, clinging to your mother’s side, too nervous to speak or even meet the gaze of others. but neteyam, with his patient nature, never made you feel awkward or rushed. his presence had a quiet sort of assurance, like he knew you'd come out of your shell when you were ready. all he had to do was wait. he was oh so patient and gentle with you in fear that by even speaking too loud he might scare you away from him. you didn’t have to say much, anyway; he’d simply be there, drawing you into his world without a single word.

one day, when you were no older than six, the two of you sat by a small stream, its crystal-clear waters bubbling softly as they wound their way through the lush, bioluminescent foliage. nearby, a pair of glowing fan lizards darted between the trees, their wings shimmering as they moved through the thick, humid air. neteyam pointed them out to you, comparing them to your friendship with him. “that would be us if we were kenten.” you laughed softly at his silliness. he always tried to make you laugh, being the one to make you smile brought him immense pleasure, even then.

“come on, let's go fishing.” he said, turning to look at you with that smile of his, the one that made your stomach feel fluttery and warm. you had only blinked at him, unsure of how to answer, you didn't know how to fish. but that didn’t stop him. he stood up, pulling you gently by the hand. “come on, i will show you how.”

and that’s how it was with him. he didn’t push you to speak when you didn’t want to. instead, he’d offer you his hand, his patience, and his unspoken promise that whatever he was leading you toward would always be safe.

you and neteyam shared countless quiet moments like that. together, you wove crowns from soft vines, his strong hands clumsy at first while your nimble ones worked with natural ease. when his attempts would unravel, he’d laugh, his cheeks flushing the faintest shade of blue, but you’d always fix it with a smile and a flower tucked behind his ear, then everything would be okay again.

as you grew older, you noticed that things began to change. not so much between you and neteyam—no, he was always the same, always there—but the world around you shifted. neteyam was growing into his role, becoming more of a warrior, more of a leader. he spent less time with you, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. training demanded long hours, and when he wasn’t training, he was surrounded by other boys—future warriors, like himself. there were fewer afternoons by the stream and more days where you’d find yourself watching him, your heart oddly heavy with despaira sickening feeling that made your nose burn. they laughed loudly, joked around in ways you couldn’t quite relate to. eywa.. the way your heart would twist when one of the girls would playfully shove him, her eyes bright with something you didn’t want to name. you didn’t like feeling jealous. it wasn’t something you were used to, and it made you uncomfortable. but there it was, that little knot of jealousy, always sitting heavy in your stomach whenever you saw him with someone else. maybe there was something wrong with you. while neteyam was the easygoing, confident and popular warrior, you were still the quiet one. the shy one. the one who couldn’t quite shake the feeling of being on the outside looking in.

you told yourself it didn’t matter, that this was just the way things were supposed to be, but it hurt. a lot more than you were willing to admit. you’d tell yourself it didn’t matter, you had your place in his life, but the ache in your chest told you otherwise. you couldn’t help but feel out of place, as if you were being left behind, still sitting on the sidelines while everyone else moved forward without you.

you missed him. you missed the quiet connection you shared, the way he’d look at you like you were the only person in the world. you missed having him all to yourself.

you wondered if he missed that too.

you couldn't even wallow in good conscience, either. he wasn't doing anything wrong, he hadn't hurt you intentionally. and it wasn’t that neteyam ignored you. he never did. whenever he saw you, his face would light up in that way that made your heart skip, and he’d always make time for you, even if it was just a brief moment between his training sessions. but it wasn’t the same. you weren’t the same.

you weren’t blind to the fact that some of the other boys teased him for it—hanging out with a girl, the way he always seemed to make sure you were okay, even when you were off to the side. they’d throw comments his way, playful jabs meant to make him feel embarrassed, but neteyam never let it bother him. he’d shrug it off, flash them that confident smile, and maybe toss back a joke of his own. but he never let their teasing get in the way of the way he treated you. you were his friend, his closest friend, and nothing anyone said would change that.

what you didn’t know was that neteyam never let their words change the way he saw you. no matter how much they teased or questioned why hung around you, he would always defend you, though he never told you as much. to him, you were more than just a childhood companion. you were the one who knew him in ways no one else did, the one he could always count on, even if the two of you had drifted a little. you were his person. the one he could be quiet with. the one he could just be neteyam with, not the future olo’eyktan, not the skilled hunter. just him. he’d speak of you in ways that made their words fall flat. he’d tell them about how skilled you were with weaving, how you had a way with animals that no one else did, how your quiet nature wasn’t a weakness but a strength. he’d say all these things with such conviction that eventually, the teasing would stop, and some of his friends even began to speak to you with a newfound respect. not that you ever knew why. no, neteyam never told you how he stood up for you, how he made sure everyone knew just how important you were to him.

he thought about you more than he should, really. even when he was training, his mind would wander, wondering what you were doing, if you were sitting by the stream like you used to, if you missed him the way he missed you. he never said anything, though. not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know how. neteyam was a leader, a warrior—he wasn’t supposed to get caught up in feelings like this. but when it came to you, he couldn’t help it.

sometimes, he’d catch you watching him, your eyes soft and sad in a way that made his chest ache. and on those days, he’d find a way to slip away from the others, to find you and remind you that you still mattered to him. he’d sit with you in the quiet places, just like you used to, and you’d talk about everything and nothing all at once. or sometimes, you wouldn’t talk at all, and that was okay too. because being with you, even in silence, was always better than being anywhere else.

the years went on like that, this quiet dance between you. a push and pull that neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt. neteyam would go off and train, surround himself with the others, and you’d watch from a distance, feeling that familiar sting of jealousy. but then he’d come back to you, in those small stolen moments, and everything would feel right again.

in the stillness of the night, when the village had quieted and the stars blinked softly above, you would often find yourself beneath the great tree, kneeling before its glowing roots. with trembling hands, you’d reach out to the sacred tendrils, allowing them to intertwine with your queue, the warmth of tsaheylu forming a direct connection to eywa herself. as soon as the bond was made, a soft hum filled the air, a rhythm of life, and the world seemed to fade away. you would close your eyes, letting the sensation of eywa’s presence wrap around you, offering comfort to the ache deep within. through the bond, you would silently pour out your heart, sharing the loneliness that had taken root, the hurt of watching neteyam slip further into the world of others while you were left behind. you missed the days when he was yours—if only in the quiet ways no one else saw—and the memories of those moments felt like threads slowly unraveling in your hands.

as you made tsaheylu, eywa would listen, her presence gentle yet unwavering, and you could feel her understanding pulse through you, as if she too mourned the shifting tides of your life. you sought her wisdom, asking why it was that neteyam’s laughter with others felt like a knife to your chest, and why you no longer felt enough in his eyes. in that sacred connection, though, eywa offered something more than answers—she gave you peace, a quiet reminder that your worth was not tied to neteyam’s presence or absence. though your heart still ached, there was a growing strength within you, a stirring realization that you, too, were part of the balance of this world, and it was time to let yourself grow. the bond with eywa whispered gently, nudging you forward, reminding you that while you could not control neteyam’s path, you could choose your own, and in that, there was a power you had long forgotten.

it was clear that the great mother had heard you.

as time went on, you changed too. slowly but surely, your once-soft voice became stronger, more assured. you spoke up during gatherings, your words thoughtful and careful, earning the respect of those around you. your smile seemed a little brighter, your laugh rang out a little louder. even the other girls began to take notice, welcoming you into their circles in ways they hadn’t before. the quiet, shy girl he’d known since childhood was beginning to take up more space, stepping into her own.

the older women would often call on you, noticing the quiet grace with which you handled tasks. your hands had become deft at weaving intricate patterns into cloth, your fingers swift and sure, and soon enough, your skill was sought after for more than just small adornments. you became a familiar presence in the community, helping gather herbs for healers or assisting with the intricate beadwork on ceremonial attire. the elders would smile as you passed, offering words of praise, their eyes warm with approval as they watched you grow into yourself. in their gaze, you no longer felt like the shy girl trailing behind—there was a new respect, one you had earned for all by yourself.

neteyam was so proud of you. maybe now that you weren't so painfully uncomfortable in public settings, he could spend more time with you! you were more vibrant now, more seen. it was like the world was finally catching up to what neteyam had always known—that you were special. some of his friends, the very ones who used to tease him for spending so much time with you, began to gravitate toward you. they were curious, drawn in by the way you carried yourself now, with a grace and confidence that was undeniable. he’d catch glimpses of them laughing with you, their eyes lingering a little too long, and it stirred something in him that he didn’t quite understand at first. it was a strange, uncomfortable feeling—one that settled deep in his chest, coiling tight and hot.

his now, increasingly annoying, friends admired you, spoke of you in ways that made him violet with discomfort. neteyam didn’t like it. he didn’t like the way they looked at you, as if they were seeing something new in you, something that had always been his to see. he wasn’t used to sharing you like this, wasn’t used to watching other people discover the parts of you that he had cherished in private. it didn’t sit well with him, though he told himself it was just because things were changing, and change was always hard.

the realization hit him one afternoon, as he watched one of his friends catch your attention, making you laugh in that bright, easy way of yours. neteyam felt a pang of something sharp and uncomfortable, something that burned hot in his chest. jealousy. it was jealousy. and with it came the sudden, undeniable truth that he’d been avoiding for far too long.

you weren’t just his childhood friend anymore. you weren’t just the girl he’d spent years playing with, weaving crowns by the stream and catching the light in the water. you were more than that. you were special in a way he hadn’t fully understood until now, and the thought of someone else seeing you like that—of someone else making you smile the way he always had—made him feel like he was losing something important.

in that moment, as he watched you laugh, so vibrant and full of life, neteyam realized what he had been denying for far too long. maybe you weren’t just his closest friend. maybe you were more than just the girl who had always been by his side. maybe, just maybe, he liked you in a way that made his heart race and his thoughts stumble. it was a slow realization, creeping up on him like the setting sun, and by the time it fully settled in his chest, he knew. this wasn’t just friendship anymore.

lmk if this whole “shy yn” bit is annoying or uncomfortable, it feels like the most comfortable thing to write for me but i can swing in any direction u guys preferrrr

[smallermangoes]

"Nngah... Oshi-san, m'pregnant... 😭"

This is 100% a shitpost that I spent way too much time on. You know that one Mika card where it looks like he's holding up a pregnancy test? Yeah I had to draw it. (Also everyone who headcanons Mika as transmasc is correct)

This one ⬇️

Bonus:

[rat-typewriter]

Hating Weddings | Dabi x Reader

SUMMARY: Just hours before you’re due to marry a man you don’t love, Dabi comes to change your mind; as it turns out, you don't need too much persuasion. WORD COUNT: 2.3k

You sat, staring at your reflection - the stylist nervously tried to meet your eyes in the mirror. She had spent three hours - and quite possibly half the world’s supply of hairpins - drawing your hair into the elegant

“It’s lovely.” You said, attempting to mask the disappointment in your voice - but judging by the way your soon-to-be mother-in-law rolled her eyes and huffed, you were still a bad liar.

Over the year that you had known the woman, the only thing you seemed to have in common was a mutual dislike for one another. You were not the sort of bride she wanted for her son; maybe it was the way you didn’t fall over yourself at the opportunity to spend time with the beyond dull boy - or maybe it was the way that XYZ. Either way, she had really mastered that expression of distaste she wore (which you could only imagine was paired with her envisioning you being run over by a bus). But she tolerated you nevertheless and you did the same for her. Engagements like your own were rarely anything to do with love or feelings or whatever you wanted - they were strictly business.

Quirk marriages were much more common than most people would’ve liked to believe; they paid well too. You’d been found by the guy’s father - an owner of a wealthy demolition company - who knew your quirk would be an invaluable asset to their business. It wasn’t the life you had imagined for yourself, but at least money would never be an issue for you again.

“Thank you,” You smiled sympathetically at the stylist, who seemed unable to exhale fully - glancing between you and the other woman with wide, doe eyes.

She seemed to relax a little before your mother-in-law took her by the elbow and pulled her into the doorway - as if standing a few feet away suddenly made you incapable of hearing their hushed voices.

Shutting your eyes, you exhaled slowly - as if, with enough determination, you could expel the tightness in your ribs through your breath. Your legs buzzed with adrenaline that only seemed to worsen as the ceremony drew closer and your head was starting to feel slightly too light for the rest of your body - as though a strong wind would dispel your skull into a wisp of smoke.

Just as you began to half-heartedly wonder if you might be about to vomit: your phone buzzed. The text from an unknown number flashed up on the screen.

Last chance.

Quickly, you swiped the message away - averting your gaze, instead focusing on the colours of nail polish picked out for you. You had no idea that there could be so many shades of white: eggshell, light ivory, pearl, fresh snow, bone china, chiffon, porcelain, dark ivory-

I’ll be outside in twenty-five.

You stared at the text, your legs becoming more restless than ever. You could practically hear his low voice and smug tone in the sans serif. He was so sure of himself; so arrogant. Who did he think he was? Expecting you to follow him wherever he went, well over a year after you’d told him that you were giving up work with the league of villains. Expecting that you’d just abandon everything you’d worked for - to build a new identity and to cover your tracks so you could leave it all behind - just because he goddamn asked.

It was only as your fiancé’s mother reentered the room - meek hairstylist in tow - that you tore your gaze from your phone.

“Don’t do that with your face.” She scoffed and you were suddenly aware of your deep scowl. Despite trying to relax your expression, you still felt the hot redness in your cheeks.

She continued, “Plenty of girls would kill to be where you’re sitting. I don’t see why you have to go and spoil it for everyone else.” She turned back to the stylist and resumed her string of complaints and general dissatisfaction, occasionally jabbing a finger in your direction.

You tried to follow a string of deep breaths - in and out, in and then fucking out - but Dabi’s stupid, snarky voice still rang in your mind.

The pair of you had always argued like your respective lives depended on it. To the untrained eye, strangers would have assumed your relationship to be beyond dysfunctional - but insults and generally winding each other up was just how you both communicated. It ranged anywhere from flirty teasing to pettiness to flat-out screaming matches - but it was never truly malicious. Even after the most seemingly brutal throwdown, you both continued like nothing had happened - with a casual Do you want takeout tonight? or a simple See you later, babe and a peck on the cheek. Somewhere along the way, being at each other's throats became being more-or-less joined at the hip. And as quick as you were to poke fun at one another and compete - you were still (literally) partners in crime and made a killer team.

Leaving him was one of the hardest things you had ever done. But it was a decision you had to make.

Again, the phone buzzed - sliding across the table a little.

Now or never.

You exhaled - biting back a smile - the fucking cheek of this man. You were tempted to text back Now-or-never my ass, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a response. Now or never had become a secret between the two of you: a reference to your first meeting that you’d drop into as many situations and missions with the league as possible. He’d shouted it from the street below, trying to convince you to take the leap out of a fourth storey window after him; you’d whispered it in his ear while pressed up against him, hiding between shipping containers. It was a prayer to your relationship; a promise. All referencing that first chance meeting.

—

You stumbled through the snowy alleyway, still reeling from excitement - and, now that you thought about it, smoke inhalation. You hadn’t burnt something like that in a long time. Probably ever. Sure, as a child you scorched the odd tablecloth and spent your awkward teenage years nervously causing whatever you held in your hands smoke haphazardly - but to truly, completely burn something: that was new. You were fed up with lighting people’s cigarettes and melting their frozen car doors and listening to the frankly endless (and sub-par) swathes of spark-based pick up lines. For once in your goddamn life, you got to burn something.

The night air was freezing; turning your breath to fog in the dark. Despite your blackened clothes and singed hair, the cold numbed your fingers and you were suddenly very aware of your choice to wear flip flops in February. You had only meant to make a quick trip out of your flat to the shop downstairs; had you known that you were going to be making your debut as a record sprinter, you probably would have chosen something a little more robust. Each step through the wintry slush left your feet dripping and even in the dim, yellowy light of the alley, you could see your toes beginning to turn blue.

Hopefully this place wasn’t too far - if it even existed.

You reached a metal door - dented and dimly lit by a flickery yellow light over the frame - and, before you could convince yourself otherwise, knocked. Do you knock at a villain’s hideout? Stepping back from the door, you steadied your breathing - a group of drunken men walked past the opening of the alley, shoving each other and slurring.

Was this even the right place? You rarely found yourself on this side of the city and your melted phone had about the functionality of a deformed paperweight. Conversations with odd people in stairwells or strangers smoking out the back of the kitchen where you worked were all you had to find the league of villains. Conversations with people that you really shouldn’t trust.

The clunk of bolts being undone, followed by the scrape of metal-on-metal pulled you from your thoughts. Hinges groaning, the door swung half-open.

For a moment, it was as though it had opened by itself; breath caught in your throat you stared into the unlit building - but a few feet back from the doorway, the shape of a person shifted. His voice was low and gravely when he spoke.

“Coming in?”

Opening your mouth - vaguely aware of your brain screaming as you sprint back down the alley - you managed a hoarse Uhhh.

Another moment passed, the quiet filled by your soft breath turning to fog. A van rumbled past on the road and you caught yourself glancing back, watching as it rolled by.

“You’re letting the cold in.” He said. “Now or never.”

Oh, fuck it. Turning back to the door you laughed weakly - sounding like something between a cough and a sore throat. “Suppose it better be now then,”

The stranger stepped back and a yellowy strip of light crossed his face, illuminating his features. His skin was littered with scars - you recognised them as burns. Over the years of not being able to control your fire quirk, you had plenty of your own. But beneath them he was young, no older than you.

His eyes crinkled slightly and he grinned - which sent jolts of fear and excitement through your chest again.

“Come on then, sparky.”

—

It was the eleventh time that your phone buzzed - two minutes before the ceremony was to start - that you gave in.

You jumped out of your seat, the bridesmaid (who you barely even knew) and had been fixing your hair stumbled back.

“I- Uh,” you stammered as the other bridesmaids turned to stare at you. “I’m going to the toilet.”

And you took off.

You stumbled out of the door and down the hallway in eight layers of tulle and shoes that were horrendously uncomfortable. You took a left, then a right, then a left again - until you found an open window.

Good enough.

With no further thought, you forced the window as wide as it would go and shimmied through - tumbling out and into a bush.

As you attempted to pull yourself out and untangle your stupidly poofy skirt - which had caught in the branches - you heard a familiar laugh.

“Wow. Bit desperate to leave are we?”

You whipped around, finding yourself face-to-face with Dabi.

“Didn’t think you missed me that much,”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out and your brain was suddenly empty. Butterflies erupted in your stomach - the boy who you hadn’t seen in over a year was still able to make you nervous.

He grinned - oh how you’d missed that - and laughed again. “You look gorgeous, Doll.”

“Thanks, I’ve always loved the dragged-backwards-through-a-hedge look.” you said, dryly, before adding. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He stepped forwards - rolling his eyes; offering a hand to pull you out of the bush. “Oh, how you flatter me.”

Accepting the hand, you let him heave you out of the bush - pulling you far closer than necessary. You stood practically against his chest, having to crane your neck slightly to look him in the eyes.

You swallowed and felt your face grow warm.

God, he knew just how to make you feel sixteen all over again.

“I see you still like to leave everything until the last minute.” He said, glancing down at his watch. “I texted you ages ago.”

You scoffed. “An hour at most–”

“–Two hours.”

You glanced at his watch. 10:59. “I’ve still got a minute - there’s still time for me to marry that guy!” You threatened, unable to hide your grin. “Don’t test me!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Just curious - with or without the dragged-backwards-through-a-hedge look?”

“I’ll do it.”

You narrowed your eyes, holding his gaze: both locked in a semi-serious staredown. Standing there, his dark hair falling into his eyes; his arm around your waist tightening every-so-slightly, was the person you had thought of every day for the last year. At night, as you stared at the ceiling he had been the one that you wished was by your side. At every fancy dinner and business party; every dress fitting and stupid, stupid charity ball that you had gone to with your husband-to-be - you had wished he was holding your hand.

And now he was here, holding you close. Staring you down like an asshole.

"I've missed you." You blurted out. It came out slightly disjointed and stilted, surprising you both a little. He glances down at your lips.

He smiled - with only a hint of his usual smugness. "I've missed you too, Sweetheart,"

He leant down, quickly kissing you. It wasn't long or passionate or hot. Just a regular, discrete peck on the lips.

But, God, did it make you fall in love all over again.

The sound of a door opening and voices flooding into the street came from around the corner. Dabi took a step back and turned to you with that slightly-terrifying, but oh-so-exhilarating grin.

“What do you say we get out of here?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He extended his hand to you, faking a courteous bow and in return you grinned and curtseyed. Giggling slightly, you put your hand in his and he pressed a brief kiss to your knuckles - winking up at you.

"Touya Todoroki, I never knew you were such a gentleman!"

"If you ever tell anyone, I'll have to kill you"

For a moment, his tone is so serious that you almost believe him; even more worryingly, you don’t seem to care. But then he smiles and tugs on your hand.

"C'mon, I hate weddings."

"Me too." You giggled.

With your hand in his, you both took off running.

NOTES: This is actually a rewrite of something I wrote last year to try to ease me back into writing! I've missed it sooo much over exams but ngl when i sat down to finally write again the absolute DRIVEL that came out of my head wasn't worthy of seeing the light of day. Please send over any requests you might have!! im desperate for some inspo atm!!

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Thinking about the fact that Delta!Sans canonically is a plural character cuz he absorbed the Bravery soul and now they share a body and can canonically have soul-to-soul conversations and time kinda freezes for them when they do.

Thinking about how Ultratale!Chara is referred to as Omega and Delta is Delta and thinking about the kiddo tryna call themself Alpha cuz they’re “cool and manly and tough.” But somehow Delta manages to convince the kid to settle on being nicknamed Beta instead, symbolism of being a second-in-command and all that.

Thinking about Delta wandering by stores and getting distracted because the kid spotted some cool boxing gloves or action figures in the glass windows and then Delta shows up late to his meetings with Epic and Color, carrying bags of toys, because the kid started crying when Delta tried to leave without buying them anything.

Or whenever the Epic Sanses hang out, Delta always makes sure to order something sweet for the kid to enjoy because listening to “grown up talk” is boring and not fun and if he doesn’t Delta will be dealing with a headache all evening.

Thinking about Delta trying to keep the kid away from the worse of the fighting and all the worse things that the Multiverse has to offer, because the kid dreams about their death at Asgore’s hands and what it felt like being held in a container for centuries almost every night. But the kid always insists that they’re brave and tough and strong and they can handle everything.

Delta taking every opportunity he safely can to allow the kiddo to be a kid again. Decorating their shared room in their apartment in the Omega Timeline, making a spot in the corner designated for Beta. He sets time aside to allow them to partake in activities of their choosing, such as puzzles, strategy games, and competitive games.

Thinking about Color and Delta hanging up all of Beta’s drawings on their fridge like proud parents, and Color sometimes just sitting and listening to Beta yap to all the other six souls absorbed inside Color because, unlike Beta, they aren’t exactly their own full people anymore but it makes the kid feel less alone.

Letting the kid explore the surface and play in the sun whenever possible, as they spent who knows how many years trapped Underground in a jar. Maybe Delta even gets glimpses of Beta’s memories whenever they dream, the loneliness and claustrophobia of being trapped in a jar. The fear of being hunted down by monsters throughout the Underground and having to face down someone as intimidating as Asgore, the pain and fear of death, experienced through the eyes of a child. A very brave and strong child, but a child nonetheless.

Maybe Beta clung to the few embers of warmth they had when they were living under Toriel’s care, and Delta/Sans gets to see his friend in a new light, but also he gets to make true on his promise by at least keeping an eye on and taking care of Beta when he couldn’t for Frisk.

I think Delta possibly considers what happened to his Frisk a very deep and personal failure, made worse by the Toriel that Beta remembers—because Delta gets to see how much Toriel loved each and every fallen child and he can imagine the grief she felt when they all left and died. I’d like to think that AUs of Asgore, heights, spears, being alone, and enclosed spaces are all fears for Beta, so Delta always tries to reassure them even though they attempt to be brave every time.

So basically both of them are struggling with PTSD, and also Beta with the fact that they’re now in a body that isn’t their own after however many years of not having a body. And also the fact that any friends or family they might’ve had when they were alive are likely dead now, so I’d imagine that Delta would try to search down and visit any graves of Beta’s family whenever visiting Ultratale or any of its variants.

Beta proposes making graves for the residents of the Underground too, probably in the Omega Timeline. And given that Delta is friends with Epic who is friends with Cross who shares a soul with XChara, I can already imagine the trouble that XChara and Beta would get into.

[tgmsunmontue]

Saga of Solitude 5/?

Nepo!Baby Bradley and his life at USNA and afterwards. DADT fully in force. IceMav AU. (Begun prior to 'It's not who you know' - the non-angsty version).

PROLOGUE (He remembers)

HANGSTER FIRST MEETING (Lonely Nights - set 2009)

Updating ~weekly (longer chapters).

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

ONE (2000) TWO (2001) THREE (2002) FOUR (2003)

CHAPTER FIVE – 2004

              He spends three weeks in a submarine and it helps cement his decision to attend flight school, if they accept his application. There is of course the natural competition between everyone, it’s simply how they function, each striving to be better, make those around them better, but also support them and drag them through it if they have to. His third year at USNA wraps up and he’s facing his summer break. The entire year has gone well, no terrorist attacks, although there is definite heightened security since.

              The routine is easy now, he’s an upperclassman, has Natasha and then a smaller circle of people he considers friends, if nothing close to what he has with Natasha. He’s aware that a significant chunk of upperclassmen think that he and Natasha are together, and the one time he checks in with her about whether she’s okay with that she’d just shrugged and said it had stopped the guys expecting her to pay any of them attention. No one asks, and they never correct anyone. When they head out to have leave together no one bats an eye. When they mention having spent some of the previous summer together it’s the same.

              He finds out why Natasha doesn’t talk to her family. Teenage pregnancy. She’d refused to get married to the guy, someone she won’t even tall Bradley the name of, and the shame of either the pregnancy, or their daughter not obeying them, they’d kicked her out. Her application with USNA had already been accepted, her place guaranteed and Bradley doesn’t need to ask to realize what her decision must have been. He briefly feels awful about introducing Tamsin and Petra to her, but she seems to take great joy in chatting to them on the phone and drawing and sending them pictures, so he lets that guilt melt away.

              They’ve both been asked to return to USNA and assist as upperclassmen for Plebe Summer, something he feels immense pride in, glad to have made a good enough impression that he’s being held up as a role model to the new recruits. Of course it makes their leave almost non-existent and they decide to spend it together, which he knows will only fuel rumors that they’re a couple. They go to San Francisco for five days at the start of their leave, and he finally gets to meet Natasha’s sole family member that has anything to do with her, and the way his eyes travel up Bradley’s body leave him blushing furiously. That he’s hot doesn’t help at all.

              “Oh, it is nice to meet you,” Christopher says, shaking his hand and Bradley looks to Natasha with a raised eyebrow and she’s just shaking her head.

              “Nice to meet you too. Bradley.”

              “Mmm. I have heard a lot about you. She didn’t ever mention just how delightful you looked.”

              “Because to me, he isn’t very delightful to look at. There are nicer views.”

              “Hey!” Bradley objects, out of principle more than anything, and Natasha is already cackling and pushing past Christopher with her bags but Christopher is looking at him seriously, completely different to the over-the-top flirtation of a moment ago.

              “Oh my god. You’re…” Christopher makes a limp-wrist gesture which sends Bradley’s eyebrows up in surprise.

              “Uh. Don’t ask don’t tell…” he says, throat tight, wondering where the fuck Natasha has gone.

              “Oh honey, I am not part of your weird cultish military shit. And I wasn’t asking, I was confirming. Holy shit. No wonder Tadpole likes you so much.”

              “Tadpole?”

              “Shut up!” Natasha calls out and Bradley grins.

              “I’ll tell you the story later,” Christopher says, voice low and conspiratory and Bradley nods, hitching his bag over his shoulder. Christopher jerks his head toward where Natasha can be heard grumbling. “Sorry, only got the one guest room. She’s already claimed the bed probably, so you’re on an air mattress.”

              “That’s fine, not the worst place I’ve slept by far.”

              “You’re my guest, I’d like to hope not. I’ll let you guys get settled then we can head out and find some food.”

              He leaves Bradley at the door and Natasha is smirking at him.

              “You couldn’t have told me?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

              “Sorry, his sexuality isn’t exactly something I drop into casual conversation. We’re at USNA remember. Repression is being ingrained into us.”

              “Okay, would you hate me if I asked him out?”

              “No. But his boyfriend might.”

              “Oh. Yeah. Okay.”

              “They can take you clubbing. I’m sure you’ll find ways of enjoying yourself here.”

              She’s right, and she’s smug about it. During the days they do touristy things and just spend time relaxing, occasionally working out. In the evenings Christopher and his boyfriend Patrick take them dancing or clubbing. Natasha comes along once, but then tells them she doesn’t want to sit around getting hit on by anyone so instead either goes to the movies or stays at Christopher’s apartment.

              He’s spent previous weeks on leave in New York, having sex with strangers, but this is a completely different experience. One he’s not going to forget in a hurry. For a start he has never had so much sex in such a short period of time, and it’s good sex, the guys that Christopher sends his way clearly more experienced and keen to give him good experiences or teach him how to give better blow jobs. It’s like each of the guys has undergone a screening process, and when one slips that he’s an ex of Patrick’s he realizes that maybe they have been. He can’t bring himself to care, not when he’ benefitting and enjoying it all.

…           …           …

              They get to Ice’s house and there’s a welcome home party and he can’t believe how big Tamsin and Petra have grown. It’s a vastly different experience to their brief time in San Fransisco but he’s glad they have two weeks and Natasha seems to take her role as surrogate big sister seriously, the four of them watching movies, or lying around with slices of cucumber over their eyes. Sarah snaps a picture of them like that, gets it printed and gives copies to both him and Natasha, along with a pile of other photos she’s taken while they’ve been staying.

              Of course, his birthday comes and he’s twenty-one. Maverick hands over an envelope and a key and he looks at it blankly.

              “What’s this?”

              “The deed to the house. It’s to go to you on your twenty-first birthday.”

              “But… what am I going to do with a house?”

              “Live in it?”

              “But… I’ll be deployed or away…”

              “Bradley, it’s the house your parents bought. What you do with it is up to you. I’d like to still live there of course…”

              “Of course! I mean, if you’re not moving in with Ice, then of course you can stay there. It’s just… nothing has to change right? It’s just a piece of paper?”

              “It’s just a piece of paper. And we’ll help navigate any legal stuff. And we won’t be moving in together any time soon,” Ice states, voice soft, but his expression is sad and Bradley wishes things were different.

…           …           …

              Tom wants to wrap himself around Maverick and never let him go. The amount he’s been away on deployment makes every moment they have together even more precious, and he’s starting to second guess his own rules, even if they’ve kept them both safe. He has two kids and an ex-wife which is a damned good cover, even if his best friend comes and stays frequently. He isn’t telling anyone that doesn’t already know, and no one is asking him, even if they have their suspicions.

              He hates the fact that Pete is now effectively homeless, not that Bradley would ever kick him out of the house, but Tom wants him to have somewhere that is his, and maybe not his alone, but something that would just light Pete up from the inside. The way flying does. He pauses mid-thought and thinks back to a couple of years ago, the Beechcraft and the airstrip, Mav taking Bradley up in the air. Huh. Not a plane, not yet, but there were hangars out there. And a hangar beside an airstrip is probably somewhere Pete would consider living if he thought it was a legitimate option. Not that he himself would want to live beside an airstrip, but this isn’t about him.

              He makes a few calls. Then a few more calls. He’s got to consider leases, and taxes and whether it might just make more sense to rent. He doesn’t want to rent though, wants to make some sort of large gesture and present it as a fait accompli that gives Maverick no wiggle-room to turn it down. He feels pretty confident it wouldn’t be turned away regardless, unless Mav was feeling particularly difficult on the day. Then he gets a call, someone had heard he was looking, and it’s an old Navy hangar, located at the very same airstrip and it feels serendipitous and he agrees to come out and have a look.

…           …           …

              Of course, with how much mentoring he’s doing with the Plebes come the questions, and he remembers his conversation with Ice, a couple of years ago now. When they ask him questions about his parents he simply pulls a face and shakes his head, ignores his own peers, fellow Firsts, who he can see from the corner of his eye who were shaking their heads at the Plebes, trying to stop them from simply asking.

              “My dad was a naval aviator who died in a Top Gun training incident in eighty-six and my mom died of cancer in ninety-four. I was raised by my step-father after that. Any other awkward questions you want answers to?”

              It’s probably why they never ask him or Natasha anything, and another First slaps the Plebe on the back, mutters I tried to warn you off asking but he doesn’t feel upset about it at all. It’s not at all a lie, even if his step-father would be here in a heartbeat if Bradley needed him to be. He knows that both Ice and Mav intend to attend his graduation in formal roles, and while they might night get to acknowledge their roles with each other in such a formal setting he doesn’t care. They want to be there and they’re planning to be there, special leave already requested and granted long ago, considering they’ll be in uniform.

              He and Natasha both work hard, both at their studies and also on their physical fitness. Their applications for flight school were submitted months ago, he really wants to go with her, can’t imagine not going without her. They’re both consistently in the top two or five percent, which he knows bodes well for them. Knows that their involvement with extra curriculars and being friendly with pretty much everyone has them well liked and respected. He just has to be patient and wait.

…           …           …

              They both look at the envelopes, slapping them on empty palms. They look identical, but unlike his USNA acceptance letter, this is a single piece of paper and it could be flight school acceptance, or a decline.

              “On the count of three?” Natasha asks and Bradley admires her courage.

              “Yeah. Three.”

              They rip them open.

…           …           …

              “I knew it!” Maverick screams, his joy palpable through the phone for their Saturday afternoon call. “Ice! Ice! He got in! Hold on, let me put you on speaker…”

              “Of course he did… well done Bradley. Congratulations.”

              He blows out a long breath, because he’s glad they have seemingly unshakeable confidence in his abilities. God, he never wants to disappoint them.

              “Thanks. Natasha got in as well.”

              “She’s a very capable young woman. Proud of you both. Please pass that on to her.”

              “Yeah, thanks. I will.”

              “Yeah, we’re both very proud. You can go back to work now. I’m going to go outside and talk to my godson…”

              He hears Ice mutter something in the background, not clear enough to make out, but then Mav is telling him off for rolling his eyes and he can just imagine what he said, the gentle laughter between them and he can’t help but smile.

              “So. did Ice tell you he bought me a hangar?”

              “He did what?” Bradley asks, because such a move seems like something Mav would make, rather than Ice.

              “He bought me a hangar. Said that I was obviously always welcome wherever he was, but that he knew I needed my own place and that I now had a space for the plane I’ve been eyeing up.”

              “You’ve been eying up a plane? Wait. A hangar. For you to live in? What about the house? You aren’t moving out are you?”

              “No. Of course not. But I’m going to be there as often as you are, probably less considering Ice has become a lot more, uh, relaxed about his stupid sleepover rules. The hangar isn’t currently habitable anyway. But there’s this P-51 Mustang I’ve been looking at. It’s beautiful.”

              “He proposed to you with an aircraft hangar. Oh my god, that’s so… romantic and practical of him.”

              “He didn’t propose.”

              “Mav. If a guy bought me an aircraft hangar what would you think about the guy?”

              “That he was crazy in love with you, and utterly committed… oh shit. I’ll call you back.”

              He is not surprised when he doesn’t get called back.

…           …           …

              He hadn’t expected it.

              They hadn’t warned him.

              The emotions of the day, coupled with the fact that they’d asked every single member of the 1986 Top Gun class there, along with a few other friends of both his parents. He clearly has the biggest cheering section and he feels like a mess inside, although outwardly he’s all smiles and calm togetherness. Four years of training helps with that at least. Ice and Mav are both up on the stage, part of the VIP section, along with several others who are still serving, and he recognizes them from his birthday a couple of years ago.

              “Did you know they were all going to be here?” Natasha asks, and he shakes his head, throat working against the tightness of his collar.

              There are photos, Ice agreeing to so many photos with newly minted graduates and Bradley lets them all go, fights his way through the crowds to find Mav. He and Ice can stage photos later, there will always be times when they’re in uniform. Just the fact that they’re here is more than enough and he’s so happy that he has had them supporting him every step of the way.

              “Captain Mitchell.”

              “Midshipman Bradshaw. Congratulations. Your father would be very proud. I flew with him you know?”

              Bradley blinks.

              Blinks again.

              Hopes his internal dialogue somehow is being telepathically beamed into Mav’s head.

              You are such a dick. Hopefully his expression does enough to convey his exasperation.

              “Really? I didn’t know that sir.”

              Mav gives him a shit-eating grin and Bradley wishes Ice were there to hit him around the head. Not that he would, not in this setting, but damn he sees why he’s always so tempted.

              “I’m going to have a photo with all the graduates who are going to be heading off to Corpus Christi for flight school. I think they want us over there.”

              It’s chaos. Positive and energetic happiness with everyone feeling the sense that they’re about to begin their careers, that they’ve made it through what is meant to be the hardest part, even if Bradley secretly thinks flight school might be even more challenging, it’s only for eighteen months. He manages to get photos with Maverick, Natasha and Ice and nearly every available combination. Then there are photos with the 1986 class, and he ignores the fact that several of the other men seem to shed a tear.

              Then it’s dispersing, the crowd thinning and families are gathering, taking more photos and he can see Sarah pushing through, the hands of Tamsin and Petra clasped and he grins, starts heading toward them, already thinking that Tamsin has grown a couple of inches, can see both his sisters pulling Sarah toward them before she decides to let them go.

              “Natasha! Natasha!” Petra screams, and she’s running across the quad, hair streaming behind her with gold and navy ribbons mixed in, running past him and Natasha is grinning broadly, bending down to swoop Petra up in a hug. Bradley stands back up from where he’d been just about to scoop her up himself before she’d breezed past him.

              “Wow,” he says to Sarah as she comes to a stop to stand beside him.

              “Hurts doesn’t it?” Sarah says, not really asking and Bradley nods, murmuring a quiet yeah under his breath. He doesn’t begrudge Natasha the joy and love of his sisters, love isn’t in finite supply, it’s just a little hurtful to not even warrant a hello. He has to remind himself that Petra is only seven.

              “I love you Bradley,” Tamsin says, arms coming around his waist to give him a hug, as if she can tell how he’s feeling and he hugs her back.

              “Love you too Tam.”

              “You’re dressed up all fancy like Daddy and Papa.”

              “Yeah. You look pretty fancy in your dress too. Is that new?”

              “Yep. Mom bought is especially for today!”

              “We can look fancy together.”

              “Congratulations Bradley, we’re all very proud of you.”

              “Thanks.”

              “Are you proud of me? I go to school too,” Tamsin says, and Sarah looks heavenward and Bradley wonders if she’s been fielding questions like this for a while.

              “I’m proud of you, going to school can be really hard work somedays,” Bradley says.            

              “Daddy!” Tamsin says, and then Ice is there, pressing his cheek against Sarah’s in greeting and nodding at Bradley again.

              “Bradley! Up!” Petra demands, appearing at his side and Natasha is grinning.

              “Hello to you too Miss Petra, happy to be of service.”

              There are a few people doing a double take as they see who he is standing with, who he is clearly family with, but he cares less now. He’s finished here, no one can claim he played any favoritism card. He knows flight school will be different, wants to be in the air as soon as possible.

              He can’t wait.

CHAPTER SIX (2005)

[archiveikemen]

Jace Main Story: Chapter 1

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes, grammatical errors, and some creative liberties. All original content and media used belongs to Cybird. Please support the game by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Read this before interacting

I think he’s like a flower — a gorgeous, bewitching flower that gives off a sweet, pleasant fragrance. 

That charming smile of his made heads turn, drawing them in and making them addicted to it. With love from others and lust as its fertiliser, the flower blooms more beautifully than ever. 

The flower’s heart, however—.

What kind of true feelings, known to none, are hidden behind that smile? 

…

The next day, my fate took an unexpected turn. 

I urgently applied for a paid leave and spent all morning packing my belongings. Right now, I stood in front of a condominium building with a huge luggage in hand. 

(I was told that I only had to bring myself, but I thought I should at least bring the bare minimum of my daily necessities. Even so…) 

(This condominium gets even more impressive the more I stare at it. Is it really okay for me to live here from today onwards…?) 

My resolve that should’ve been hardened felt like it was starting to waver. In my mind, I thought back to the Chief’s cold voice during our phone call in the morning.  

(Applying for leave right after that happened… of course the people at the company will have lots to say.) 

I got a heavy feeling in my chest, but I decided to shake it off and avoid brooding over it. 

(This is for the sake of my presentation! I should give it my all!) 

…

Sakura: Heya, you’re here. 

Sakura-san welcomed me inside with a big smile. 

Rina: Good morning, Sakura-san. I look forward to working with you from today on! 

Sakura: It’s good to see you’re full of energy. I look forward to it too, good luck. 

Rina: Okay! 

Sakura: Let me take you to your room right away. Come with me. 

…

I was brought to a guest room with a spacious living-cum-dining area next to it.

The room was well furnished with glamorous furniture, even the curtains and wallpaper looked luxurious. It was much larger than my own place. 

(This looks like a high-end hotel.) 

Rina: Would it be alright for me to use such a gorgeous room? 

Sakura: Surely. It’s unoccupied anyway. 

Sakura: We’ll leave the talk about your job at the office for another day. Now let’s discuss your role of being a housekeeper.  

Sakura-san gave a simple explanation of my job scope as a housekeeper. 

In this condominium, each room seemed to have its own designated housekeeper. 

The other housekeepers would also clean the common living room and bathroom. 

Sakura: You’ll be assigned to Jace’s room starting from today. I suggest getting to know him better first, it’ll make your job easier.

Sakura: For the sake of your presentation, you have to build a trusting relationship with him. Given how he is right now, he probably won’t pay attention to what you want to say. 

Rina: Indeed… you’re right. 

Sakura: Also, I believe you already understand this, but please don’t tell your company about this. 

Sakura: This is purely a special arrangement made for you, so there’s no need to inform them. 

Rina: Understood. 

(It’s finally starting…) 

Nervousness ran through my body. 

… Just then, the door to my room was casually opened.

Jace: Sakura-san? Are you here? 

Ivy: Huh? You’re… 

The two people who came in were Jace-san, the topic of our prior conversation, and Ivy-san. 

Jace: You’re Aegis-chan from yesterday. Wow, you really came.

Sakura: Hey, learn to knock. 

Ivy: Ah, sorry. 

Jace: I was looking for Sakura-san and didn’t expect this girl to be here, it couldn’t be helped. 

Sakura: Good grief… she’ll be using this room from today onwards, so be careful next time. 

Jace: Hmm, so this is Aegis-chan’s room. 

Ivy: She seriously became our housekeeper… 

Rina: Once again, it’s nice to meet you all! I’m Kawanaga Rina. 

Ivy: Nice to meet you too. I understand this is hard for you, but do try your best. 

Ivy-san gave me a calm smile. 

Jace: Nice to meet you. You’re so tense. Relax, take it easy.

Rina: No, that won’t do. 

Jace: Haha, so serious~

(… He looks kind of aloof to me…) 

I was a little confused by Jace-san’s personality. He seemed more frivolous than friendly. 

Sakura: Jace. Starting from tomorrow, Kawanaga-chan will be your room’s designated housekeeper. 

Jace: Hmm… is that so?

Jace-san narrowed his eyes and whispered while peering into my face. 

Jace: In that case, I should get friendlier with you. 

Rina: …! 

With his voice as sweet as honey and perfect smile, this man looked like a breathtaking work of art. 

Standing before me again, it was like he had some kind of magic in his eyes and voice. 

I was so bewitched by him, I couldn’t move — as though my heart and soul had both captured. 

Jace: What’s wrong? Could it be… you’ve been mesmerised by me? 

Rina: N-nothing of the sort… 

Jace: Fufu, cutie. 

Ivy: Oi, Jace. Stop that. 

Sakura: Stop wasting your pheromones by spreading it everywhere you go. 

Sakura: This isn’t what I meant by letting you interact with her. I’m just telling you to NOT try anything weird on her. 

Jace: Of course I know that. Right, Aegis-chan? 

(You must be kidding me.) 

My face was burning up from the embarrassment of getting that flustered because of him. 

(I’m starting to get a little uneasy about being this person’s designated housekeeper…) 

Seemingly having caught on to what I was feeling, Sakura-san gave a wry smile. 

Sakura: Well, because this is exactly how this guy is, you might have a hard time… hang in there. 

Rina: O-okay. 

Sakura: Ah, right. One more thing. I have a favour to ask of you that involves Jace. 

Rina: A favour? 

Sakura: I was hoping you could keep an eye on Jace. The location of this room is perfect for doing that. 

Rina: Eh!? What do you mean by “keep an eye on him”? 

Apart from the main entrance, the penthouse had a sub-entrance that could also be called the “back door”. 

That door was right smack in front of my room. 

Sakura: If you’ve done your research on exe Creed, you should know what kind of person Jace is. 

Rina: Yes, more or less…

Jace from exe Creed… he was said to be in-charge of sexy and visuals in the group. 

(He’s so beautiful, he even has the nickname of “Perfect Face”.) 

In the self-produced group exe Creed, he was also responsible for anything related to art. For example, deciding on the make-up looks for their songs and designing the stage outfits. 

(He’s also the ambassador for a few famous western brands. Really impressive.) 

However, his remarkable works aside, he has another nickname given to him by the general public. 

“Scandal Maker”.

Rumour has it that he’s had countless romantic partners, and it appears that he had many issues involving women before he became a member of exe Creed. 

Sakura: This guy has an incurable bad habit of hooking up with women. 

Ivy: He hasn’t changed one bit since the beginning, even though he’s been told a gazillion times to stop this behaviour… 

Sakura: No matter how I tried to convince him, he never stopped sneaking out at night to fool around with women. It’s really getting on my nerves. 

Jace: Could you guys not talk about me right in front of my face? That’s my personal life, it’s irrelevant. 

Ivy: Oh really? I’ll have you know that you’re not the only one affected by this problem.

Sakura: Given exe Creed’s current status, creating scandals is strictly forbidden. … That’s where you come in. 

Rina: Don’t tell me, what you meant by “keep an eye on him” is to… 

Sakura: Correct. I want you to make sure Jace doesn’t sneak out at night. 

Sakura: To leave this place, you have to use either one of the two entrances. 

Sakura: My room is next to the main entrance, so I can keep watch from there; but I can’t see the sub entrance. 

Sakura: Therefore, I’m leaving the sub entrance to you. Please really keep a VERY close eye on Jace to stop him from being up to no good! 

Rina: You want ME to surveillance Jace-san!? 

Sakura: I’m not asking you to sacrifice your sleep for it. I just think that your presence might work as a deterrent for him. 

(Isn’t this way too ridiculous? I wonder if this is also part of a housekeeper’s job.) 

(I’ll definitely oblige if it is, but…) 

I had tons of questions and no idea how to respond. 

Ivy: Eito, you’re having one of those absurd ideas again… 

Jace: Hmm, so that’s what Eito-san’s thinking. Using Aegis-chan to tie me down?

Jace: If that’s what you’re going to do… I’ll come up with my own ways to go against it too.

Rina: Go against it? 

Jace: Yeah. First of all, I’ll win Aegis-chan over and have her side with me. 

Jace-san suddenly held my hand with a bewitching yet fearless smile on his face. 

Rina: P-please let go. 

Jace: Eh— why should I? 

Option Chosen: Because it’s embarrassing.

Rina: Because this sort of thing is embarrassing…

Jace: Are you not used to it? You’re so cute. 

Jace-san turned to leave the room while still grabbing my hand. 

Jace: Let’s get going then.

Rina: Wha— 

Sakura: Where are you taking her? 

Jace: To my room. The two of us need to deepen our relationship. 

Rina: !? 

Ivy: Oi, Jace! What are you planning!? 

Sakura: Did you even listen to a single thing I just said? I warned you not to try anything funny. 

Ivy-san and I were shocked, and Sakura-san was dumbfounded, but Jace-san responded with an unashamed grin.

Jace: What weird ideas are you all getting? We’ll only be discussing work-related matters. 

Jace: Since Aegis-chan will be in-charge of my room, don’t I have all sorts of things to explain to her? 

Rina: T-that’s true, but… 

He made a fair point, so I had nothing to say about it. 

Jace: Then let’s go. 

And just like that, I was dragged out of my room by the hand. 

Ivy: This guy, oh my goodness…! Will that girl be okay? 

Sakura: Uhh… she’ll have a hard time, but she has to get over it somehow. 

Ivy: … What on earth are you expecting from that girl, exactly?

Sakura: I’ve told you before, didn’t I? I hope to see a change in exe Creed. 

…

Jace: Come on in.

Rina: Pardon me. … Wow. 

(It looks luxurious like I expected. Very sophisticated too.) 

Every piece of furniture and decoration brought out his personal style. I could never design a room like this. 

On top of that, an alluring fragrance that suited Jace-san filled the room. 

(As expected of exe Creed’s visual representative…!) 

While I admired the room, Jace-san placed his hands on my shoulders from behind. 

Jace: Like it? 

Rina: Yes, it’s a gorgeous room. It looks like a pain to clean, but I’ll do my best. 

He spoke while leading me further into the room,

Jace: I don’t know about the other guys in the group, but I super welcome you here. 

Jace: In any case, I prefer having a girl as cute as you clean my room. 

Jace: If ever those guys say nasty things to you, feel free to come to me and I’ll comfort you. 

Rina: No, it’s fine. I won’t ask you for that much. 

Jace: Ehh, don’t need to be shy. 

Jace: After all, you’re my room’s designated housekeeper… so we’re not strangers anymore, right?

… I snapped back to my senses when I was made to sit on the bed. 

The high-quality spring mattress bounced. I looked up to see his face dangerously close to mine. 

His eyes held the same bewitching light as before. 

(I have a bad feeling about this…!) 

By the time I realised, it was too late— Jace-san already had his arm around my shoulder, holding me tight. 

Rina: Um, aren’t you going to explain about the room…!? 

Jace: I will. But before that… I want to chat with you a little more. 

Before I could refuse, I was already drawn in. 

Rina: W-what are you doing? 

Jace: Fufu… I said I was going to win you over, didn’t I? 

He reached out his long, slender fingers and cupped my cheek.

(I have to resist him.) 

I thought so, and yet I found myself unable to move. The sweet fragrance in the room grew stronger, enveloping me. 

Jace: Don’t turn your eyes away… look at me. 

His sweet, breathy voice sent a shiver through my body. His shapely lips were so close, they could almost touch… 

Rina: ………っ

(If this goes any further…!) 

[blueskittlesart]

hi :] this isnt really a reqest cuz it'll prob be a longer answer but im rlly curious abt ur comic process

i love all ur comics and somehow they always manage to gutpunch me- and ur composition and the way they read is always so beautiful and adds so much to the message youre trying to get across

yeah lol let's get into it! Ive spent maybe 5 or so years refining this process to the point it's at now so it's pretty much my standard procedure now. I'm going to use Now that you're gone as my primary example here since i still have most of the planning stages associated with it (my laptop does not have a whole lot of storage left so i usually delete my planning once the comic is finished lol) but i'll try to throw in some other examples too!

I almost always start with a written script. (the exception for this is longform oc comics which i find easier to write in the moment, but for my shorter character studies I almost always write first.) I use discord to write because it's convenient, but before i had a dedicated discord server for my stuff i was using txt files on my laptop which i do NOT recommend. anyway, this is what the written script for ntyg looked like:

note that some small elements changed in production, like the amount of time that had passed since link's death. the lines "I look at her and i am only afraid. i remember all the ways in which i hurt you. She's almost as old now as you were then. I cannot stand the thought of outliving her, too" were also added during the rough stage because i felt like there wasn't quite enough emphasis on aryll in the initial script, and since this was a major change that necessitated a whole extra page in the comic I went back and edited those lines into the script so I wouldn't forget them. (both these changes were made during the rough stage. i'll almost never make major script adjustments after the roughs are finished.)

more examples of my scripts; specifically the original script for totk: failure and two versions of oot: adulthood (one before some major refining and one after.) with comics like these, where i have a very clear idea in my head of the imagery i want to go along with the words, i'll sometimes include it interspersed in the script, either spolier-marked or denoted with brackets.

with ntyg and some of my other more. canon divergent? i guess? comics, there's sort of a mini phase in between scripting and roughs where I do some minor character studies to get designs nailed down in the early stages. with ntyg I already had a clear image in my mind for aryll, but the central character was link's dad, whose design wasn't quite so solid in my head. I really wanted to make sure that his design was well thought-out and consistent throughout everything, so i did a few mini sketches and studies to ensure I had his design memorized and could execute it consistently:

these are sans hair and accessories because nailing down consistent facial features was my main focus with them, and both these sketches ended up getting used as references for certain panels later on. This isn't a step I ALWAYS take with my comics, but if there's a central character that i'm not super used to drawing i find it helpful to get some practice in before jumping into the real thing!

after the scripting and design phases i move on to roughs, which I consider to be the most important stage in my process. roughs are very very quick approximations of what I want the final pages to look like. they usually don't take me more than a few minutes per page to create, and their sole purpose is to help me visualize the flow of the page and the placement of major elements like panels, characters, and dialog. this is what the 1st page rough for ntyg looked like compared to the final page:

as you can see, all i have laid out is the major text and visual elements, but it really helps me to visualize how the finished comic is going to flow. i do the roughs for every page before i start on the finals so that i have an idea of what the entire comic is going to look like before I really start finalizing it. it's important that these roughs are FAST--i almost never draw fully-fledged characters unless the pose or expression is particularly important to the scene, and that's because the goal is to allow everything to flow quickly and easily from panel to panel and page to page, and getting too caught up on one panel or element often breaks that flow. Nowadays, i have a pretty good idea of how much room my writing takes up so i don't write out the entire script in my roughs, but back when i was a little less experienced i took the time to write everything out in this stage to ensure that my dialog would fit into the space it was given without getting cramped or cutting off other important elements. doing that really helped me build awareness of how much dialog and panel placement matters and how i could use it, so this rough stage is non-negotiable for me even now!

after the roughs i go straight into finalization. I never enjoyed lineart back when i was learning to draw digitally so i basically built my art style to be understandable and visually appealing after one sketch phase, meaning there's legitimately no in-between stage between that rough and that final page, i just sort of. go for it. this is what works for me, but i think most normal people would probably find a second sketch phase helpful LMAO i'm just crazy and i need everything done as fast as possible. the finalization stage usually doesn't contain any major adjustments of script, composition, etc; i make it a general rule to keep most of the major adjustments confined to the earlier stages, for my own sanity. One thing that DOES occasionally change in this stage is my plans for color--ntyg in particular was originally planned to be completely black-and-white with no grays added, but when looking at my completed pages i found them sort of empty and unengaging without the gray, so i added it. usually if my color plans DO change it's something small like that--I'll almost never switch between full-color and grayscale on a whim because the way that i sketch for those two versions differs significantly so it isn't an easy switch to make.

anyways i hope this is what you were looking for! I'm very passionate about making comics and this process is a result of years of experimentation & finding what works for me, but i hope it's of some use to you as well!

[50calmadeuce]

Ch. 22: Back Home

Warning: Mention of miscarriage. Some chapters have sex.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Top Gun: Maverick world, trademarked by Paramount Pictures Corporation. I do not claim ownership of the characters and the world that I am borrowing.

The story and situation I am creating are a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This work is for entertainment only and is not a part of the storyline.

I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story, but I do hope it gives you happy thoughts.

These stories are my own, so please do not take them and use them for yourself without my permission. If you see them somewhere else, please let me know. :)

A couple of weeks after your journey from San Diego, you found yourself engrossed in work late one evening in your office. The sound of a knock at the door interrupted your focus. Lifting your eyes, you saw Chuck standing there, holding a small tray filled with snacks.

"Come in," you invited, taking a moment to organize the papers strewn across your desk.

Chuck entered, placing the tray on your desk. "Figured you might need a little something to munch on," he offered, a considerate gesture that brought a moment of warmth to the late hours.

You couldn't help but smile at the thoughtfulness. "Thanks, Chuck. That's really kind of you," you expressed, genuinely touched by the gesture. The sight of the snacks—a mix of fruit, nuts, and some chocolate—was a welcome sight, considering you hadn't realized how much time had passed or how hungry you actually were until now.

Chuck observed the situation, remarking on your evident busyness. "It looks like this new grant project is keeping you quite occupied," he noted, acknowledging the lengthy days you've been putting in.

You responded with a confirming sound, the weight of the work ahead clear in your tone. "This is just the start. I've been going through resumes to find some assistance for the upcoming winter and summer," you explained, signaling the expansive scope of your project and the need for additional hands to manage the workload.

As a yawn escaped you, you promptly covered your mouth with your hand.

Chuck issued a gentle warning, "Well, don't push yourself too hard. I understand with the Lieutenant away, you might dive into work to keep him off your mind, but it's not the best for your health," he pointed out, concern evident in his voice. "And you've seemed pretty worn out lately."

You dismissed the concern with a nonchalant shrug. "Nah, I'm fine. Just still getting my bearings after all those time zone changes a few weeks back," you claimed, attributing your fatigue to the adjustment period rather than the workload or emotional stress.

"Have you heard from the Lieutenant?" he inquired, observing as you picked up a grape from the plate and popped it into your mouth.

After a moment spent chewing and then swallowing, you answered, "No," your tone casual yet hinting at a deeper resignation. "But that's nothing new." You continued eating off of the plate.

Chuck's observation came unexpectedly, drawing a parallel from his experiences, albeit in a different context. "Doc, I'm no rocket scientist, but I've been around horses enough to see when something's up. Are you sure you're not pregnant?" he asked, noting your sudden appetite as you continued to eat grapes.

You stopped mid-motion, a grape poised between your fingers, as his words prompted a rush of thoughts. The realization dawned on you; you and Jake had been cautious only that one time.

The room suddenly felt too small, your mind racing as you tried to piece together the timeline, the possibility that Chuck's offhand comment might hold more truth than jest.

Chuck, realizing the gravity of what he'd suggested, immediately softened his approach. "Hey, I didn't mean to jump to conclusions or anything. It's just, you've been looking a bit off color lately, and now the sudden hunger," he explained, his voice tinged with concern rather than suspicion.

You set the grape back down, suddenly not so hungry. "I... hadn't really considered it," you admitted, the possibility now taking root in your mind. "But now that you mention it, there have been a few signs that I just attributed to stress and being busy." As you glanced down at the grape held delicately between your fingers, a stark realization hit you. You despised grapes. The fact that you were not just tolerating but seemingly enjoying them now added an unexpected layer of complexity to Chuck's question. This sudden shift in your dietary preferences, coupled with the recent context you were forced to consider, made the scenario all the more perplexing and worthy of deep thought. "I'll make a doctor's appointment tomorrow." You looked at Chuck and nodded. "Good night."

A few days after your conversation with Chuck, you found yourself in a different kind of waiting—sitting in a doctor's office, draped in a gown that felt less like clothing and more like a symbol of vulnerability. The anticipation was palpable, the room filled with a silence that seemed to echo your racing thoughts.

The door finally opened, breaking the cycle of your anxious musings. A middle-aged woman stepped in, her curly dark hair framing her face and glasses perched on her nose, exuding an air of professional calmness. "Dr. Seresin, how are you today?" she greeted, her voice carrying a blend of warmth and formality, the sort that healthcare professionals master over years of practice. Her presence, while reassuring, also marked the moment of truth you had been both dreading and anticipating.

"Dr. Katz," you acknowledged her, trying to muster a semblance of calm. "I guess I'm doing okay."

Dr. Katz took a seat, her gaze meeting yours squarely, a gesture that seemed to brace both of you for the forthcoming revelation. "Well, we might as well just get right to it. You're pregnant."

The moment the words left her lips, it felt as though the room's atmosphere shifted dramatically. It was as if all the air had been vacuumed out, leaving behind a charged silence that enveloped you. The reality of her statement hung heavy, a profound turning point that was both intimidating and real.

Dr. Katz, observant and empathetic, noticed the change in your demeanor. Her voice softened as she addressed the situation, "I take it this wasn't planned?"

Releasing a deep breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding, you managed to find your voice. "Not really, but..." Your words trailed off, a mix of emotions swirling within you—surprise, apprehension, perhaps a hint of something else. In that moment, with the reality of your situation settling in, you stood at the threshold of an unexpected journey, pondering the myriad ways it could unfold.

Dr. Katz's gaze briefly settled on the wedding ring adorning your finger, a symbol of commitment that prompted her next question. "I didn't know you were married? Does your husband not know yet?"

Meeting her gaze, you clarified, "I've been married for four years. My husband is currently deployed. Due to a past circumstance, we recently rekindled our relationship."

Dr. Katz turned her attention back to the computer, typing away for a moment before stopping, a note of concern in her expression as she addressed a sensitive topic. "Ah. Being kicked in the stomach and losing the baby." Her gaze shifted back to you, searching, as she asked, "How do you feel about this?"

There was a brief pause as you collected your thoughts, the weight of the question pressing down. "Honestly, nervous," you admitted, your voice carrying the mixed emotions of fear, uncertainty, and perhaps a glimmer of hope or resilience. It was a moment of vulnerability, acknowledging the complexity of your feelings in the face of such unexpected and challenging news. he room seemed to hold its breath as you shared a piece of your past, a shadow that lingered over your present. "After it happened, my husband didn't really talk to me for four years," you revealed, the pain and isolation of that time evident in your voice. Meeting Dr. Katz's eyes, you expressed a fear deeply rooted in your experience. "I don't want that again."

Dr. Katz, sensing the depth of your concerns and the weight of your past experiences, offered a supportive suggestion. "There's a psychologist I can connect you with..."

But you quickly dismissed the idea, a reflexive wave of your hand punctuating your decision. "No. No psychologist. I can deal with this." Your voice carried a mixture of determination and perhaps a hint of apprehension.

Dr. Katz exhaled deeply. "Alright, I'll provide you with that information, just in case you have a change of heart. But do start taking a quality prenatal vitamin. I'll see you in a month's time, purely as a precaution because of the last time. It's not that I'm expecting complications, but I'd rather be safe and ensure everything is on track."

"Okay," you nodded in agreement.

"You're going to be just fine, Y/N," reassured the doctor before exiting the room.

You released a breath you hadn't noticed you'd been holding in.

Entering the kitchen late, you carried a small bag, its contents consisting of prenatal vitamins.

Chuck glanced up. "Everything alright, Doc?"

Setting the bag on the counter, you extracted the vitamins. "You were correct. I'm pregnant."

A smile brightened Chuck's face. "Doc, that's wonderful news! But, why do I sense you're not thrilled?"

"I am happy," you admitted. "It's just the thought of Jake's reaction that's weighing on me."

Chuck nodded, understanding the complexity of the situation. "I think the Lieutenant will be thrilled about it."

"I hope so, but it's my line of work that makes him anxious. Particularly after the last incident." Drawing in a deep breath, you contemplated your next steps. "I need to see about getting an assistant or an intern. It's time to have a discussion with work."

As if on cue, your phone began to ring, and Jake's name flashed on the screen. "Speaking of Jake," you remarked, pressing the answer button for a face call. "Hey babe!"

Chuck discreetly exited the kitchen, giving you space to talk to Jake.

Jake's voice came through, vibrant and warm. "Hey, darlin'!"

God, how you missed the sound of his voice. Heck, you missed everything about him.

He noticed your weariness. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. It's just been a long day. I literally just got home."

"Well, then I called at the right time. How are things?"

"Things are going well. I've been swamped, between the job and managing the grant, it's been non-stop."

"Darlin', make sure you're not overdoing it," he cautioned gently.

A smile found its way to your lips. "I won't, Jake. Don't worry about me."

His gaze carried a tinge of concern. "You sure you're alright?"

With a reassuring smile, you responded, "I'm fine, Jake, really. Like I mentioned, today was just one of those long days."

Seeing his expression ease brought you a bit of relief. "You'd tell me if something was up, wouldn't you?"

"Without a doubt." You took a brief pause before shifting the focus. "How about you? How have you been?"

"Doing well. There's been a lot of training going on."

"That sounds positive, doesn't it?"

His smile returned, warmer this time. "Always is." His gaze met yours, carrying a mix of longing and affection. "I miss you, Y/N."

The feeling resonated deeply within you. "I miss you too, Jake. Any idea when you'll be back?"

He hesitated, the uncertainty evident. "Not at this time."

You nodded. "Is there anything you need? I took care of your apartment, so you're good on that."

His voice carried a hint of regret. "Nah, I'm alright, but I really need to catch some sleep. Sorry for not calling sooner. This was the first chance I got."

Your words were soft but firm, "Jake, it's part of the job. I get it. Go catch some sleep. I'm heading to bed soon myself."

"That sounds like a plan. I love you, Y/N."

"I love you too, Jake."

After ending the call, Chuck re-entered the room.

"You didn't tell him, did you?"

Shaking your head, you responded, "No. He's got enough on his plate without adding to his worries. He needs to stay focused on his work." You met Chuck's gaze with determination. "And there's no arguing with that."

Chuck gave a nonchalant shrug, conceding to your point. "Whatever you say, Doc. You call the shots." Moving towards the stove, he changed the subject. "Got an appetite?"

"Starving!" you exclaimed, grateful for the distraction.

Chuck then busied himself with preparing a plate for you, signaling the end of the conversation and a shift to more comforting, domestic matters.

Tags: @buckysteveloki-me @bellyliveslife @tgmreader @callsign-barbell @86laura11 @dizzybee03 @kmc1989 @guacam011y @nerdgirljen @hookslove1592 @dempy @djs8891

[sunlightmurdock]

Ceasefire | 0.9 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: Bradley Bradshaw is in San Diego, summoned to Top Gun for the first time. Commander “Hyde” Simpson is his flight instructor, and she doesn’t have time for schoolboy crushes.

Warnings: ex-husband!beausimpson, divorce, age gap (rooster is somewhere between 26-28, reader is 38), power imbalance between instructor and student aviator, swearing, angst

���

Spotting him across the floor of a Navy gala, handsome and all-American, chiselled and stoic — convincing him to fuck you in the back of his sensible but stylish Cadillac that same night. You have always been too wild for Beau Simpson. His mother had tried to warn him about this; about you.

Maybe you were too much, maybe he was never enough — just doomed from the start, that’s all you know for sure. Making yourself smaller for him, making yourself tidier, calmer, you’re done with every single compromise that you’ve ever made for that bastard of a man.

Truthfully, Beau wasn’t that bad. If he had just listened earlier, or if he had just listened at all, you wouldn’t be half as furious as you are this morning. You’ve been psyching yourself up all weekend and there is no stopping you now. Days until Rooster graduates and he’s out of your class, a couple of weeks before his next posting.

Enough time wasted. Beau winds the hands on his watch, barely listening to Bernie listing off his plans for the end of his first week as a newlywed.

Your boots clatter loudly, thudding with each step along the hallway. You don’t bother knocking, you’ve spent enough time waiting for Beau’s permission. Armed with gossip that is more than enough to save your ass, you just about stop yourself from kicking the door open — opting for the handle instead.

The door swings open and slams into the wall, Bernie tenses and droplets of his lukewarm coffee spill onto his khakis.

Cocky as ever, your soon to be ex-husband smiles coyly from behind his grand looking desk, morning sun spilling through the blinds and illuminating the frosty blue of his eyes. “I don’t believe that we have a meeting scheduled, Lieu—“

“Cut the shit, you son of a bitch,” You interrupt him, eyes alight with fire as you carry forwards into the office swiftly enough to make Hondo stumble back and out of your way. You slam the papers down onto his desk, eyes wide, nostrils flared. He hasn’t seen you this fired up about something since he pulled the head off of Dylan’s doll and handed him a baseball. That was a big fight. Beau glances downwards, but he already knows what the papers are. “Sign.”

Beau squares his shoulders and narrows his ice-cold eyes at you, sitting back in his chair calmly.

Hondo swallows and smooths out his uniform, still tripping over his feet as he struggles towards the door. “I’m going to give you two some space.”

The door closes behind him and Beau raises his eyebrows expectantly at you, “Without my lawyer present?”

“Have whatever you fucking want, the savings, the assets — I refuse to spend another fucking second on this Earth as your wife.” You bite back, grabbing one of his dumb, expensive pens from the holder and slamming it down on the paper.

Beau scoffs and shakes his head, “What’s with the hysterics? — Is this about the wedd—“

“Yeah, it’s about the wedding.” You lean forwards and rest your palms on the desk, squinting your eyes at him seriously. Beau glances down at the picture of Taylor on his desk, silently terrified of the day that she looks at him as defiantly as you do. “It’s about you not keeping your damn hands to yourself.”

He rolls his eyes and leans back folding his arms over his chest, “I kissed my wife — sue me.”

Your pupils blow wide open. You lean in closer to him, the smell of his morning coffee filling your nostrils. The thought crosses your mind to just pour it in his lap. No, you've got something that will hurt more than that.

“Your wife,” You draw the word out, glaring ahead at him, venomous, “Went home on Saturday night and had mind blowing sex while you sat on your fucking own. Thanks for the parting gift, Beau. Now, fucking sign.”

He stares at you. Gaze hardened, used to people quivering and keeling over at his whim. Not you. You’ve never been that way.

He laughs and grabs his coffee cup from the desk, purely because it’s too early to be drinking scotch. Though, having this conversation this early on a Monday morning is having him rethinking things. “Sign so that you can go and be a whore? — Yeah, I’ll have to think on that one, baby.”

Whore. It’s practically worth reminiscing. The first word his mother ever said to you. Fitting, that he spits it back in your face now. He looks like her when he’s cold like this.

You don’t falter in the slightest bit, khakis fitting snugly around your curves as you lean further forward. “He graduates next week, and I’m introducing him to the kids. I’m serious about him.”

“Great, you’re fucking a high schooler.” Beau scoffed as he sets the mug back down.

You give him a second. That’s all it takes. Cyclone’s a lot of things, but he isn’t dumb. His face changes. Now it’s his turn. Pupils blown, nostrils flared, enraged.

“He’s — I thought that you were fucking kidding! One of your students? — Jesus Christ, Hyde!”

You glare at him, banging your hand against his desk, “Keep your voice down.”

“Keep my voice down? — I’m going to make sure everyone who has ever thought you were worthy of a promotion finds out about this!” Beau shoves the desk and stands up sharply, jutting forwards like he’s going to tackle you.

“You say a damn word, and I’ll tell everyone about that fucking twenty year old that you fucked in our bed!”

Bernie. Beau stares at you blankly. Bernie, loose-lipped at the best of times and busy spilling secrets to Hangman for most of the reception on Saturday. Beau — who had been drunk out of his mind, and who had spilled his secret about the sharp-witted, young bartender who he had taken home the week before.

You watch your ex-husband scramble for leverage in his own mind; he’s already certain that his indiscretion is not half as bad as yours — you’ll still be in a much worse situation than he will.

Your lips quirk. “Did she tell you that she’s in flight school by the way? — That makes you her superior, huh?”

Studying a man for years leaves you with certain skills. The oh-so familiar ‘oh shit’ look has become one of your favourites. It suits him to look so dumbfounded.

You pick up the pen again and hand it towards him. “Sign — or you fuck us both over.”

His brows knit together just slightly. His head moves like he’s trying to shake it, just slightly. He takes the pen from your hand numbly as he searches your face. Looking for any semblance of the woman he loved.

“What did I do for you to hate me so much?”

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes. You stop yourself from leaping across the desk and shaking him, smacking him — cursing his name, because he still doesn’t fucking see it. He still has no idea.

He watched you slowly stop loving him every single day for years and did nothing to stop it. He reacted with fury and cruelty. Even now, he wakes up every morning with the intention to hold you back. A hot poker to your throat, there isn’t a single word that you can manage to say to him.

You exhale slowly and shake your head.

“I don’t hate you.” It’s the truth, you’re not sure that you ever could — even if he’s trying his best to make that happen. You stare at the floor, nudging the toe of your boot against a chip in the wood. “I hate that you made this such a mess, when it could’ve been over months ago. But I don’t hate you.”

It’s more of an answer than he probably deserves, he knows that. He holds onto his breath, turning his chin downward as he scrawls his signature on the dotted line, turns the page and does the same again. He knows where the pen needs to go — he’s been staring at these forms for once and waiting for you to change your mind.

Setting the pen down against his desk, he pushes the document back towards you.

“Who is he?”

“Don’t, Beau.” You sigh, picking the paper up from his desk and turning away. You open his office door and close it with more civility than he deserves.

It’s a hard time to get divorced — 8am on a Monday morning. It weighs on his mind through his morning briefings, the starts of his weekly catch-ups. The thought of you, down there in the classroom with those animals drooling over you. He taps his foot under the table as some two-star admiral drones on about unmanned planes.

“So, is Hyde as mean in bed as she is in the sky?” Javy grins, torso twisted to look back at Jake and Rooster’s desks behind him. There’s a movie playing on a projector in front of them about stealth maneuvers, but every time Javy looks forwards, all that he can think about is you moaning Rooster’s name this weekend.

Jake grins, leaning across towards Rooster, “Has she ever made you cry, Bradshaw?”

Rooster’s lips quirk, tugging at an amused smirk as he kicks back in his seat, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Does she make you call her Commander?” Javy grins, spurred on, his entire face consumed by the smile as he tries to stop himself from laughing.

Jake snorts at the idea, twirling his pen between his fingers, “So, you guys ever fuck on base?”

Rooster has been trying to look ahead and keep his mouth shut, and ignore their comments as much as he can, but they’re still his best friends — and he can’t pretend he isn’t proud of himself.

He leans just slightly towards Jake and lowers his voice, “She sucked my dick in the supply closet near pre-flight once.”

“No, she fucking didn’t!” Coyote whispers excitedly. Rooster swings his foot forwards and kicks the back of his chair, glaring at him. The three of them glance sheepishly back towards the front.

“So, Hyde sucks dick?” Jake whispers, deep in thought at the idea. “I woulda thought she was too mean for all that.”

Rooster’s lips quirk softly. He gives a gentle shake of his head and turns his attention back towards the screen. “She’s not mean.”

“Not to you.” Coyote replies with a small chuckle. Rooster smirks, then nods.

“No wonder after what we heard on Saturday. Oh, Rooster, fuck, I’m gonna—“ Jake stops abruptly as Phoenix turns around, bewildered. He gives her a small nod of acknowledgment. She glances between the three of them and then shakes her head, turning back towards the front.

Rooster bites his cheek and Jake and Javy snicker around him. He knows that he makes you feel good, and he’s proud of that. Jake and Javy can tease all they want. Rooster hopes they find someone like you someday.

“She does have nice tits.”

“Watch it.” Rooster bites. Jake’s lips quirk as he turns his attention back to the screen. He knew that he was going to get that reaction, he just wanted to see how far he could push Rooster.

As the video finishes, you dismiss the aviators to pre-flight and sit back in the office chair. Sitting at the back of the class, Jake and Rooster are the last to leave. Jake’s grinning at you as he walks towards the door.

“Cut it out, Hangman.”

He turns and winks back at you, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret, Teach.”

Turning, he finds Cyclone standing a few feet down the hallway. He’s out of your line of sight but he’s staring straight at Jake.

Jake remembers being back home in Texas, young and stupid with nothing better to do than hop into the bull’s pen and race to see if he could jump out before he was impaled. He has looked a pissed off bull in the eyes many times, and he recognises that look on Cyclone’s face.

“Seresin.”

Jake leans his head back and groans, knowing that he shouldn’t find this as funny as he does. He raises his hands in defence and starts to walk backwards.

“Alright, Sir—“

…

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