#salutations mint ::]

[cosmiccare]

IMOGEN AIRY, LUMIN AIRY, ED SALUT ZERO, ALUMINUM MINT, AURORA DIN AIRY, REESE ENT MINT, and RHYS PER are all open for asks!

[sunset-sunbun]

Boops you

b eep

[mxntio]

if you're wondering where i'll be this july.

ill be on the battlefield. GOODLUCK EVERYONE

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Under the Mall Lights

Pairing: Steve Harrington x reader

Warning: fluff, Scoops Ahoy era, flirting, classic Steve

Authors note: I hope yall enjoy, Season 3 Steve is peak

Word Count: 1.2k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The fluorescent lights of Starcourt Mall flickered softly overhead, casting a warm, almost magical glow across the bustling hallways. You could hear the hum of arcade games and the distant chatter of shoppers, but your focus was on the Scoops Ahoy counter. Specifically, on the guy behind it, wearing that ridiculous sailor uniform and scooping ice cream like it was his life’s mission.

Steve Harrington, in his blue-and-white striped shirt and dorky sailor hat, still somehow managed to look effortlessly charming. You'd teased him about the uniform when he first got the job, but now, every time you visited, it was hard not to find the whole thing endearing.

As you approached the counter, Steve noticed you and grinned, leaning forward as though you were his favorite customer. "Well, well, look who sailed into my harbor," he greeted, putting on his best pirate accent, which wasn’t convincing in the slightest.

“Oh, wow, I’d like to report a robbery,” you joked, crossing your arms. “Because that was possibly the worst pirate impression I’ve ever heard.”

He clutched his chest dramatically, gasping. “Harsh, but fair. What can I say? They don’t pay me to act. They pay me to scoop.” He held up a fresh scoop of mint chocolate chip as proof, eyes twinkling.

You leaned on the counter, matching his gaze. “So, what do I have to do to get the ‘good stuff’? You know, the special Steve Harrington treatment.”

He smirked, giving you an exaggerated wink. “Oh, the *good stuff,* huh? That’s reserved for *very* important people.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But I think I could make an exception for you.”

Steve slid over a cone stacked with your favorite flavor, topped with a sprinkle of chocolate chips and a cherry. “For my favorite customer,” he said, the playful tone replaced by something softer, more genuine.

You took the cone, feeling warmth spread through your chest. “This really is the good stuff,” you teased, licking the ice cream, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered on you.

"Can I get a thank-you?” he asked, tapping the counter, though his grin told you he didn’t actually care.

“Oh, absolutely. Thank you, kind sailor,” you said in a mock-serious voice, giving him a little salute.

“Anytime,” he replied, leaning against the counter with that signature Steve confidence. But there was something more in his eyes tonight, a kind of longing that made your heart beat just a little faster.

“Maybe you should give me a tour of the *real* Scoops Ahoy sometime,” you joked, only half-kidding.

His smile widened, and he leaned even closer. “Or maybe I could give you a tour of Starcourt, after hours. Just the two of us. What do you say?”

You looked up, catching the sparkle in his eyes, the easy confidence that still made you feel weak at the knees. "I’d say that’s the best idea you’ve had all day."

“Perfect,” he murmured, flashing you a grin as he grabbed a napkin and handed it to you with a wink. “Be ready at closing time. I’ll be the guy in the dorky sailor hat.”

With a laugh, you took the napkin, feeling like the luckiest person in Starcourt Mall. And as you walked away, you heard his voice behind you, low but unmistakable, “Can’t wait.”

The mall was nearly empty by the time closing hour rolled around, its usual lively chaos replaced by a peaceful stillness. You waited near the fountain as planned, watching as the last few stragglers left the building. And then, there he was—Steve, still in that dorky sailor outfit, looking a little out of place but somehow even more charming for it.

He walked over with that confident swagger he had, hands in his pockets, grinning like he’d just won a prize. "You ready for the grand tour?" he asked, tilting his head toward the now-empty corridors of Starcourt.

"Absolutely," you replied, matching his smile, nerves dancing in your stomach.

Steve took your hand, leading you down the quiet halls, giving you a "tour" that was a mix of ridiculous jokes, half-true trivia, and a few random stories about his days in the mall. He told you about the time he accidentally spilled an entire tub of rocky road on his boss’s shoes, and how he and Robin once tried to see how much fudge they could eat before feeling sick. You laughed at every story, feeling that nervousness fade with each word.

Eventually, the two of you ended up in the movie theater, where Steve had somehow snagged a key to sneak in. “VIP access,” he said proudly, letting you into the empty theater. He’d brought popcorn and candy from the concession stand, and after a bit of fumbling with the projector, he got it to start.

“Okay, now, prepare yourself,” he whispered dramatically as the movie started. “It’s only the best cheesy horror movie of all time.”

"Can’t wait," you whispered back, sitting down next to him. In the dark, with the soft glow of the screen lighting up his face, you noticed just how close he was sitting, his arm brushing against yours, his hand just barely grazing your leg.

Halfway through the movie, Steve stretched his arm behind you in the classic “movie theater move,” but he was so clearly trying to be smooth about it that it made you laugh.

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence, but you could see him blushing.

“Oh, nothing,” you replied, raising an eyebrow. "Just… very subtle, Harrington."

He chuckled, looking down at his lap as if suddenly shy. “Hey, I had to try.”

You shook your head, smiling, and without giving it a second thought, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. Steve froze, his eyes going wide as he looked at you. Then, with a small, uncertain smile, he reached up, cupping your face gently.

This time, when you leaned in, your lips met his. The kiss was soft and slow, like he was savoring every moment. His hand slid down to rest on your back, pulling you closer, and the rest of the world seemed to melt away. It was just you, him, and the quiet of the empty theater.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, like he was memorizing the feeling.

“So… that was, um…” he started, trying to find the right words. “...definitely better than scooping ice cream.” You both burst into quiet laughter, and he kissed you again, softer this time, like he couldn’t quite believe you were there with him.

As the movie played on in the background, you stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, your fingers tangled together. And you knew, in that moment, that this wasn’t just a summer fling or a casual date. It was something more, something real.

When the movie ended, he walked you out of the mall, holding your hand and sneaking glances at you, like he was afraid the night had been a dream. At the door, he stopped, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

“So,” he said, his voice a little shaky. “Can we do this again sometime? Officially?”

“Definitely,” you replied, your heart pounding as you squeezed his hand. “I’d like that.”

And with one last kiss under the dim mall lights, you left with a new kind of warmth in your chest—the start of something that felt like it had been waiting to happen all along.

Hope you all enjoyed! Please like and Reblog! -Midnight💜

[hopefulromances]

Could you write something for Jamie about his gf surprising him at an away match? 🫶🏻

THank you for requesting!! Super cute!!

This had to go perfect. All the time planning with Keeley to get seperate flights, separate car, all this secrecy and planning to avoid Jamie finding out any detail of the surprise.

It was Richmond's first game against Man City for the season. Last time Jamie had played against Man City it had been one of the greatest games of his career. Not only creating a beautiful assist for Colin but also scoring a solo goal himself, on a bum ankle no less.

For the first time, his mum would be coming with his stepfather, now that his father was in rehab. You were the only one who couldn't come. Or so he thought. So you had told him repeatedly.

"It would just be nice 'n all," he murmured, resting his head on your chest.

"I know, I know," you agreed, running your hands through his hair. It had gotten so long, he could almost pull it back into a ponytail. "I'm really sorry, I tried to get off."

"I know you did," he sighed. He was wrapped around you like a koala, face shoved into your chest. "Just would be nice."

And it was going to be nice. There was no way you would be missing this game.

You found Keeley at Will Call, decked out in Richmond gear, ribbons woven into your hair, Jamie's name and number on your back.

"Ah! Look at you!" Keeley shrieked as she saw you. "He is going to flip!"

"Thank you so much for all your help, Keels," You grinned and pulled her into a hug. "You're the best friend either of us could ask for."

"Alright, let's get you up to the booth."

Seeing the game from the booth was incredible. The view was perfect and there was booze within 10 ft. But the best part of the whole day was seeing Jamie play.

You'd seen him play before but everytime it took your breath away. He was always ten steps ahead of everyone else. Ten passes towards the goal that no one else was aware of. And god he looked good while doing it.

It was a stellar game, a great match ending in a 3-2 tie with Jamie scoring a beautiful goal during injury time. You'd burst out of your seat and cheered, joining the Richmond fans in the crowd in chanting his name! Jamie Tartt doo doo do do du doo!

You were there waiting for him in the hallway. There standing, hands clasped together in excitement as the lads came off the field, high on their victory. But when he saw you, the whole world stopped.

He rounded the corner, chatting with his arm around Sam when he spotted you. He froze, forcing Sam to stop as he followed Jamie gaze. You waved at him, shyly. Then he broke into the brightest grin and he bounded to wards you.

You opened your arms and let him scoop you up, spinning in circles.

"Jamie!" You cried, giggling in his arms. "You absolute genius."

He set you down just in time to pull you into a deep kiss. He was disgusting. Sweaty and gross after playing for 90 minutes on the field but, god, did he taste good.

"Thank you for coming," He breathed out. "Can't believe you're here."

"Did you really think I would miss this?" You assured him, pressing your forehead to his. "Never."

Jamie kissed you again, peppering your face with his lips. You laughed again, trying to duck away from him but you couldn't get far.

"And you look- fucking- mint- babe," he continued, pausing between each word to press another kiss to your face.

"Oi, Tartt!" Isaac called from the locker room. "Come get changed so we can fucking celebrate!"

Jamie looked over his shoulder. "I'll be right there."

He turned back to you, brushing your hair out of your face, like he still couldn't believe you were there.

"You'll come right? You're not gonna leave?" He checked, trying not to show his insecurity."

"I'm not going anywhere," you reassured him, pulling him back for one last kiss. "Now go get change, you fucking stink."

You pushed him away from you, laughing as he stumbled dramatically.

"Yes, ma'am!" He saluted you before scurrying back to the locker room, being met with cheers from the team.

Oh, god, you were glad he was yours.

[agent-grey-fics]

Breaking Point | Part 2 of ‘You don’t belong here’

Who: Denver x reader

Wordcount: 3400

Summary: After a chaotic heist at the Royal Mint, you find yourself shot and fighting for your life. Denver, determined to prioritize saving you over the heist, resorts to extreme measures to ensure your safety. Will you survive this?

Warnings: Violence, sexual tension, injury, trauma, language

Part 2 of You don’t belong here, you can read it here: X

A loud bang echoed through the Royal Mint. Denver and Tokyo exchanged a confused look. ‘Was that a gunshot?’ Without wasting time, they ran toward the entrance hall where they had gathered the hostages. Taking two steps at a time as they ran down the stairs. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Tokyo yelled towards Berlin when she saw Rio on his knees, hunched over your body. Oslo and Moscow held the hostages at gunpoint, here and there a cry sounded in disbelief. A smug grin hung on Berlin’s lips, a young woman stood trembling on her legs behind him. He was disgusting, using fear to fulfil his own needs. ‘I told her to stay in line, she should not meddle in other people’s business.’ Denver could not grasp the image before his eyes. 

You lay motionless on the ground, Rio pressed his hands hard on your stomach and Nairobi looked in disbelief at Berlin casually holding a revolver in his hand. ‘He fucking shot her.’ When these words reached Denver’s ears he launched himself forward, toward the older gangster. ‘I’m going to fucking kill him!’ Denver was screaming at the top of his lungs. Tokyo did her best to stop her friend, clinging to his waist. But he was too strong. With a simple shove, he pushed her off him and she fell to the ground with a thud. Berlin pointed the gun at the young robber. “I warned her.” Denver seemed unimpressed and continued to run in his direction. Before Berlin had the chance to shoot at him, Denver had worked him to the ground and his fist collided with his jaw. ‘You piece of shit.’ Berlin resisted fiercely, allowing Denver only a few good hits at his face and body. ‘Enough!’ Tokyo crawled upright again and tried to pull Denver off of him with all her strength but it had no effect. ‘Denver stop, she needs you!’ It was Rio screaming over his shoulder to the frantic man. It wasn’t until Helsinki marched towards the two and pulled Denver backwards onto the ground with little effort that the fight stopped. 

‘You need to calm down and help me carry her towards the office space where we stationed Arturo.’ The Serb remained calm and began handing out orders to the other group members. He went into his military mode. ‘You stay the fuck here because if I see you near her again I’ll fucking kill you myself, understood?’ Berlin could only nod irritably when he heard the Serb’s words. ‘Rio and Nairobi, keep a fucking eye on him and if he tries something funny shoot him in the leg.’ ‘Yes sir!’ Nairobi gave him a military salute. ‘Tolyo, Oslo, Moscow stay with the hostages.’ 

Denver quickly crawled back on his feet and ran toward you, still lying on the floor. ‘Baby, come on open your eyes.’ His hands were trembling as he gently placed them on your face. ‘You need to apply pressure where she was shot.’ Rio nodded towards your abdomen, blood flowed down his fingers. ‘Pressure.’ Denver mumbled to himself. As Denver applied pressure onto your stomach, memories of your moments together flooded his mind. The laughter, the shared glances, the intimacy you had discovered amid chaos. Denver, usually calm under pressure, found himself teetering on the edge of despair. ‘Please babe.’

Helsinki sank to his knees next to Rio, pushing his hands away so he could place a makeshift tourniquet onto the gaping hole in your abdomen. ‘Come on sweety let’s get you patched up.’ Denver gently placed you in his arms so he could carry you towards the office space which now served as a makeshift hospital. His heart raced as he carried your limp body, your blood stained his hands, and the gravity of the situation pressed down on him like a heavyweight. Berlin had jeopardised everything, he wasn’t done with him. The heist was already stressful and chaotic since Arturo got shot on the roof. But Denver couldn’t afford to lose you, he was going to do everything in his power to make sure you were going to make it.

‘Do you see the irony of it?’ Helsinki mumbled to him as they placed her body on a table next to Arturo. ‘She was supposed to patch us up, not the other way around.’ Denver gently stroked your hair; he was afraid you were going to break under his touch. ‘I swear to god that I’ll kill Berlin for this. The bastard.’ His eyes became watery and he blinked a few times so his vision was no longer blurred. Helsinki patted him on the back. ‘Come on, your girl needs you.’ A shaky sigh left his lips. ‘Okay, what do you need from me?’ Helsinki listed a series of materials he needed.  In the confined space, he sought any medical supplies he could find. Realizing quickly that they didn’t have everything they needed. Helsinki tried his best to stabilize the girl he learned to love as a sister. ‘We’re going to do everything we can bro.’ Denver just nodded, he already knew what he was going to do. 

Denver’s eyes were fixed on the makeshift hospital room, where Helsinki worked tirelessly to stabilize you. The urgency in the air was palpable, heightened by the earlier chaos of Arturo getting shot on the roof and of Berlin shooting you out of nowhere. Denver’s mind raced, a plan forming like a storm in his thoughts.

As Helsinki barked orders for supplies, Denver’s gaze shifted to the entrance of the Royal Mint. The deal with the police had brought surgeons to attend to Arturo, but Denver couldn’t let them focus solely on him. He had to make a bold move to ensure the surgeons would save you first.

Without a second thought, Denver bolted from the room, gun drawn, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached the entrance hall where the surgeons were setting up to attend to Arturo. Determination etched on his face, Denver intercepted the lead surgeon, a middle-aged man in a white coat. ‘Listen, you’re not working on Arturo first,’ Denver declared, his voice low and intense as he pressed the gun against the doctor’s temple. Nairobi gasped for air as she saw his move. ‘Denver, what the fuck are you doing?’. ‘She’s dying! I cannot let her die, I won’t let her die!’ Tears were welling up in his eyes again. The surgeon, taken aback, stammered, ‘But we’re here to help the hostages, that’s the deal with the police.’ Rio cautiously approached his friend. ‘Bro, think this through. We must be careful here, they are just aid workers doing their jobs.’ Denver shook his head. ‘No, they’re helping her first. Then they can help him.’ Rio raised his hands in surrender. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll go and get her here. Stay calm.’ Denver’s eyes bore into the surgeon’s around the table. “You’re going to help her first,” he pointed back toward the makeshift hospital. ‘She’s dying, and she doesn’t have time to wait for your bureaucratic protocols. Do you understand?!’

The surgeons hesitated, caught between the demand and their professional obligations. Denver, fueled by desperation and love, leaned in closer. ‘If you don’t help her, you’ll have a bloodbath on your hands. I’ll fucking kill them all.’ There was a tense moment of silence, and then they nodded, realizing the severity of the situation. Denver led him back to the room where Helsinki was working. The surgeon assessed the situation quickly, understanding the gravity of your condition.

‘Alright,’ the surgeon said, taking charge. "Hook her up to the monitor and prep a sterile field for the equipment. Now, someone assist me.’. Denver, feeling a mix of relief and determination, jumped in to assist. The room buzzed with urgency as the surgeon and the makeshift medical team worked together. Denver stole glances at you, hoping against hope that the medical intervention would be enough to save you.

As the surgeons worked to stabilise you, Denver couldn’t shake off the guilt and anger toward Berlin. He vowed silently to make the older gangster pay for what he had done. The heist had taken an even darker turn, and Denver was willing to break any rule, defy any expectation, to ensure the woman he loved would survive.

‘Clamp!’ The surgeon ordered his colleagues as he poked at you with tweezers. 'I can see the bullet, wait I-’ A clanging sound resounded as the bullet fell into the metal dish. Denver breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the metal ball on the table. ‘Needle and thread, I have to be quick.’. With determination, he began suturing the wound. 'Give her a bag of O- too, she’s going to need it.’ Denver watched with wide eyes as they hooked you up to an IV so you could get enough blood again. "Are you sure she can get O-? The surgeon nodded. 'Universal donor.’ ’ He muttered as he tied the last loop. ‘This is all we can do for her inside here, if you let her go outside with us we can guarantee her safety.’ Denver immediately shook his head. 'No, no if she goes out, she’ll get at least 30 years in prison. Is she stable?’ The surgeon nodded. 'Then she stays here.’

Helsinki moved the table you were lying on to the corner of the room. Denver followed on your heels. As soon as the Serbian led the surgeons toward Arturo, he sank down on his knees. 'We should have left while we still had the chance. I knew it. He dropped the weapon beside him and grasped his hair desperately. ‘You’re going to be okay, you have to be okay. I’m not walking out of here without you’.

You could hear what Denver was saying to you but you weren’t able to respond, you were in a strange twilight zone. You weren’t awake but you weren’t unconscious either, you had felt all the pain, it was burning. It was a strange state you were in.

Denver stormed down the stairs straight to the entrance hall with an assault rifle in hand. ‘Denv-’ Tokyo tried to reason with him but it was to no avail. He put his Dali mask back on and pointed the rifle at Berlin’s face who was sitting on the ground near the hostages. ‘Get up.’ A cocky grin appeared on his lips. ‘What didn’t your girl make it?’ Denver was seeing red. ‘I’m going to ask you one more time and if you don’t listen I’ll blow your brains out.’ He raised his hands in surrender and stood up. He didn’t want to risk it to see if he was bluffing or not. ‘Towards the entrance.’ Denver pointed his gun towards the massive door that was shielding them from the outside. ‘You’re kidding?’ He shook his head. ‘Rio, go open the fucking door.’ Rio didn’t waste a second and ran towards his computer. ‘Everyone up, masks on and weapons at the ready!’ Tokyo yelled towards the hostages. They all obeyed and stood in a V-shape behind Denver, all their weapons pointed at Berlin. Nairobi casually walked toward him and pulled the Dali mask from his hands. ‘Didn’t think so.’ She took her place next to Rio at the door. ‘Rio, now!’. 

Before anyone could object, the young man opened the doors. 'Drive him out. The crowd stepped forward evenly with their weapons drawn so Berlin had no choice but to walk out of the bank.  ‘Adios bastard!’ Nairobi shouted. The police did not understand what was happening, one of them was thrown out of the bank. Without a mask. Within seconds they had his name: Andrés de Fonollosa. The special units marched forward and charged him. His hands were harshly held behind his back and they dragged him into the interrogation tent. As Berlin looked over his shoulder one last time, Denver raised his middle finger at him. One last sign of envy. 

Rio closed the doors before the police fully realized what just happened. When they were fully closed, Tokyo pulled off her mask. 'The professor is going to kill you. How are we ever supposed to get out of here alive?’ 'Calm down, we’ll find a solution to it. Besides, I don’t think I was the only one who wanted him out.’ Denver looked at the other gang members. Rio and Nairobi nodded in agreement; the others shrugged. 'He was just there to perform fear on the hostage takers, he had no real job. I’ll take over his duties. We’ll get out of here, with the money as agreed. Promise.’ Tokyo wearily stroked a hand through her hair. 'I hope you’re right Denver.’

Three days had passed and you still hadn’t awakened. The gang members had planned out a rotation so there was always someone sitting by your side. It was Denver’s turn. He held your hand and absently stroked your knuckles with his thumb. 'We haven’t discussed where we would go when we walk out of here.’ He muttered more to himself than to you. ‘I thought we were going to live on a remote island and party on the beach every night?’ Your voice was hoarse and your throat hurt from days of not speaking. ‘What happened?’ You tried to sit up but a hellish twinge of pain stopped you. Your face twisted in pain. Denver was in shock. ‘You’re awake,’ he muttered to himself, ‘you’re alive.’ He gently pushed you down so that you were back on the table. 'No, don’t move too much. Berlin shot you. Don’t worry I made him pay.’ Confusion was on your face. 'How long was I out for?’ Denver gently stroked hair out of your face. 'Three days, we leave in two hours.’ He stroked a strand of hair behind your ear. 'I’d never have left you behind, Helsinki and I made a stretcher.’ 'What happened to Berlin?’ Denver chuckled irritably, an angry expression crossed his face.  'We handed him over to the police. He crossed the line, we’re a team and he betrayed you.'  Flashes of Berlin forcing a woman into sexual acts moved before your eyes again. 'I couldn’t let him have his way,’ you muttered. 'I know sweetheart, I know.’

You had completely forgotten about the Professor, how would he have reacted? "El Professor? Denver saw the question in your eyes. 'He was angry, but he understood our reaction. We couldn’t trust him anymore.’ You nodded gently, thankfully he wasn’t the most important link you thought to yourself. How could you have been so wrong about someone, he seemed to be a strong leader type when he was just a pervert. 

'Would you like to try standing and walking around a bit?’ You bit the inside of your cheek and nodded. ‘Come on, I’ll help you.’ Denver stood up again and placed a strong arm around your shoulders to gently help you upright so you were in a sitting position. ‘Take a deep breath baby.’ He mumbled when he saw the painful grimace on your face. Air filled your lungs when you did what he said. You resisted the pain and swung your legs over the edge of the table. 'Put your arm around my shoulders so I can support you.’ Obediently, you did as he asked of you and clung to his neck. He gently wrapped one arm around your lower back and the other along the front of your hips. He was careful so he didn’t touch the gunshot wound. ‘On three, one, two, three.’ You got to your feet. It was a strange feeling, they felt very heavy but that was probably because you had been lying on an uncomfortable table for three days. Everything was a little stiff. Cautiously taking some steps, Denver did not leave your side afraid you would fall. ‘And?’ His voice was hoarse. ‘I’m a bit sore and not the good kind.’ His laughter roared through the room. 'I can take care of that in a few days when you’re feeling better.’ Blood rushed to your cheeks. 'Don’t be so vulgar.’ Before he could object, the office door flew open and Helsinki walked in. ‘You’re awake?’ A grin spread across his lips. ‘You’re awake!’ The Serb walked toward you but Denver raised his hand protectively. 'Gunshot wound and haven’t been awake for three days, be careful big boy.’ Helsinki rolled his eyes before gently wrapping his arms around your frame. 'Oh I am so glad you’re okay. I hadn’t doubted my ability for a moment but still.’ You laughed softly. ‘Thank you, I owe you my life.’ He shook his head. 'Well, I did a lot but if Denver hadn’t obliged the surgeons for Arturo to help you I don’t think we would be standing here now.’ You looked at Denver with a raised eyebrow. He had a sheepish expression on his face. ‘I might have held them at gunpoint until they agreed to operate on you,’ he admitted. Your mouth fell open in astonishment. ‘Dude, they’re EMT’s. You gotta show them some respect.’ He nodded. ‘I know, but I was panicking, and we couldn’t do everything because we didn’t have the right equipment. They were our only option. Your only option.’ You nodded. ‘Bring me to the others so we can leave here as soon as possible, please.’ The three of you walked towards the large entrance hall where everyone had gathered. ‘Havana!’ Nairobi exclaimed upon seeing you coming down the stairs. Tokyo and Rio turned around when they heard her scream. Moscow winked at his son, who couldn’t contain a grin. ‘Sorry I couldn’t help more,’ you mumbled as you stood among the others. Everyone expressed relief that you had pulled through and assured you that everything was going smoothly. ‘We’re leaving in 30 minutes.’ Helsinki announced. Everyone nodded. ‘Let’s do this.’ 

2 months later 

The two of you lay side by side on the sun-soaked sands of the deserted island, the rhythmic sound of gentle waves providing a soothing backdrop. With the golden sun kissing your skin, you took turns applying sunscreen, laughter dancing in the air as you playfully teased each other. ‘Give me a kiss.’ It wasn’t a question, he ordered you but you didn’t mind. You crawled towards him and straddled his lap, one knee on each side of him. ‘Told you we would end up on an island.’ You mumbled before you pressed your lips softly on his. He hummed in agreement. You placed your arms loosely around his neck and his hands slowly crept up. First over your thighs until they found a spot above the edge of your bikini bottoms. You leaned back a little so you could look at him. 'I could do this forever. Just the two of us on a deserted island.’ He nodded in agreement. ‘I assumed this was forever from now.’ He had that boyish grin on his face that you loved so much. ‘If we’re really going to do this, then-’ You didn’t finish your sentence and kissed him again, more intensely than before. You fought for dominance as your tongues swirled around each other. He didn’t just give in. His hands moved a little higher and he played with the string of your bikini top. Tired of his wait-and-see attitude, you untied the string yourself, followed by the string at your neck, causing the top to fall between you. 'I thought you promised me I was going to be sore? Or am I remembering that wrong?’ He didn’t wait a second and pushed you back into the sand. His lips found the pulse point on your neck. He sucked it gently until the stinging sensation earned a moan from you, then soothed it with his tongue. 'Havana you drive me crazy.’ he mumbled against your neck. ‘Call me y/n, please call me y/n.’ He was stunned for a few seconds and pushed himself up on his arms so he could look at you. ‘Y/n’ he mumbled, a grin appearing on his face. ‘My actual name is Daniel, but everyone calls me Dani.’ You smiled back as you repeated his name. ‘That’s easier to scream when I’m fucking you.’ You laughed out loud. ‘I hope that’s a promise.’  Instead of answering, he pressed his lips hungrily to yours again.

[nottsdarling]

Sweater Weather

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

: bbf!blaise x reader

: word count ; 1k

: cw; fluff, fluff and some more fluff!!

: a/n! thank you so much for the support on my last fic!! it means so much to me ^_^

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

The fireplace crackled softly in the Slytherin common room, casting warm shadows across the stone walls. You sat curled up in an oversized emerald-green sweater, the sleeves draping well past your fingertips. You tugged the hem down around your knees and tried not to think too much about how the sweater actually belonged to Blaise. It had been an unseasonably chilly night, and without thinking, you’d grabbed it from the back of his chair when you couldn’t find your own jumper. Across the room, Blaise was watching you with an amused expression, a slight smirk playing at his lips. You could feel his eyes on you, and you shifted self-consciously, pulling the fabric closer around yourself. You felt ridiculous in his sweater, which smelled faintly of mint and cedar, just like him.

“You know,”

Blaise said lazily, leaning back on the armchair opposite you,

“That’s a good look for you. Almost like it was meant to be yours.”

You laughed softly, rolling your eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You just left it lying around. Besides, I was freezing.”

“Oh, of course,”

He replied, nodding solemnly. “A dire, sweater-related emergency.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, but you couldn’t quite hide your smile. Blaise always had a way of making you feel at ease, even when he teased you like this. Your friendship had been something of a surprise, really. While you’d both been in the same year at Hogwarts for years, you hadn’t actually spent much time together until last year, when you’d been partnered for a Potions project. From there, things just… clicked. Blaise was easy to be around, with his calm, laid-back demeanor and dry sense of humor. He could be a bit prickly with others, but with you, he was open, almost soft. He wasn’t one for loud laughs, but you had gotten used to the quiet warmth in his smiles, the way his eyes crinkled when he was truly amused.

“So, are you going to keep it?��

He asked, gesturing to the sweater. You blushed slightly.

“Maybe,” You said with a grin.

“But only if you don’t mind.”

“Why would I mind? It suits you.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching you with that unreadable look he always wore.

“And besides, it might be nice to see you in it more often.”

You laughed, brushing off the comment, but your heart skipped a beat at the way he looked at you, his eyes lingering just a bit too long. You shook your head, determined to keep things light.

“Alright then, it’s mine now. Don’t even think about asking for it back.”

Blaise smirked, giving you a mock salute. “Understood. Anything else of mine you’d like to steal?”

“Hmm, maybe that scarf of yours,” You mused, your voice playful. “It looks soft.”

Blaise chuckled, reaching for the scarf around his neck and holding it out to you. “If you’re that cold, Y/N, you should’ve just said so.”

You blinked, surprised he’d actually offered it to you, but you took it from him, wrapping it around your neck. It was even softer than you’d thought, and you couldn’t help but sigh contentedly.

“This is ridiculous,”

You muttered, though you were smiling. “You’re going to think I’m trying to become you or something.”

“Would that be so bad?” He teased.

“Though I’m not sure I could pull off your style quite as well.”

You rolled your eyes, but a comfortable silence settled between them, the kind that only existed between close friends. Blaise leaned back in his chair, and you shifted in yours, curling your knees up to your chest. The sweater draped over you, the weight of it a pleasant reminder of their easy companionship. After a while, Blaise glanced at you, his expression thoughtful.

“Y/N, can I ask you something?”

You nodded, curious. “Of course.”

“Why do you look after everyone else but never let anyone look after you?”

The question caught you off guard, and you looked down, feeling your cheeks heat up. Blaise knew you too well, it seemed. You wasn’t used to people asking things like that, especially not him.

“I don’t know,” you murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I guess I just don’t want to be a bother.”

Blaise’s gaze softened.

“You’re not a bother, Y/N. You’re… you’re important to me.”

His voice was quiet, almost hesitant, as though he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say it. You looked up at him, surprised by the honesty in his voice. There was something vulnerable about him in that moment, something you wasn’t used to seeing. For once, he wasn’t teasing you or putting on his usual carefree mask.

“Thanks, Blaise,” you whispered, a small smile playing at your lips.

“That… that means a lot.”

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, a silent understanding passing between them. Then, before the moment could get too heavy, you cleared your throat, breaking the silence.

“Alright, since I’m wearing your clothes, I think it’s only fair that you make us some tea.”

Blaise chuckled, standing up with a dramatic sigh.

“Fine, fine. Since you’re practically royalty in my sweater, how could I refuse?”

You laughed, watching him disappear into the small kitchen area off the common room. While he busied himself, you settled back, pulling the sweater even tighter around yourself. You felt strangely content, sitting here like this, wearing his clothes, surrounded by the quiet hum of their shared space. When he returned with two mugs of steaming tea, he handed you one with a grin. “Your Majesty.”

You accepted it with a mock-curtsy, taking a sip and sighing happily. “Perfect.”

They sat in comfortable silence, sipping their tea as the fire crackled and popped in front of them. You glanced over at him, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire or the tea. In that quiet moment, wrapped in his sweater and surrounded by the familiar comfort of their friendship, you realized something. You didn’t know when or how, but somewhere along the line, Blaise Zabini had become your home. And for now, that was enough.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

Have an amazing day my angels, mwah!!

Do not reupload my work without my permission and/or credit.

[ninyard]

ur response to my vape question is so real… I agree andrew seems like the person to go cold turkey. also if he did vape YES he would be so obnoxious about it.

I guess I wasn’t thinking about him vaping to stop smoking but in conjunction to it…I was on the fence because that man does NOT care about just smoking inside so he probably doesn’t have a use for it… but I can also imagine him with a… how did u put it… blue razz elfbar at the exy banquet or inside edens. ESPECIALLY if while medicated.

now ooc but imagine andrew exclusively vaped and he always smelled like blue raspberry ice mint strawberry banana and neil is forced to replace the memory of his dead burning mother with… that

anyways thank u for listening to my brainrot. nicotine is uncool and I’m glad andreil are peacefully blowing bubbles on the roof now

“Neil Josten let his disposable vape glow until the light started flashing”

Andrew smelling like triple melon pineapple ice sour razz apple. Neil picking up his vape and saluting him.

I could see Andrew in some ways vaping some fruity stuff purely for the fact that he does have a sweet tooth. The foxes would be sitting on the bus during a long, through-the-night trip and somebody suddenly smells mango and Wymack just shouts ANDREW HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU TO STOP VAPING ON THE BUS

[saltsicklover]

Title: Not a Cyclone, But a Monsoon

Part 1 of 2 - Completed

Find Part 2 HERE and my Master List HERE

A request based off of THIS prompt, from the lovely @inkandarsenic

Romantic Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader Past Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!Reader

Platonic Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x Fem!Reader

A few uses of Y/N

Word Count: This part: 6k+ Total Fic:20k+

Rating: R

Warnings: Talks of death, minor character deaths, labor, loss of a child in utero, abandonment, drinking, talks of God and destiny, swearing, general military talk and lingo, descriptions of food and eating, coughing fits, talks of violence, actual violence, blood, vomit and throwing up, mention of near death experiences. ANGST

---

I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE REPOSTED OR TRANSLATED

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. Six years before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

The Officers Club, better known as The Flight Line Bar sits on post in Miramar, frequented by the big brass and educators at Top Gun. The whole place glows with amber light from the buzzing light fixtures that hang from the rafters, dusty and hot to the touch. This half of base, on the far side of the air field has yet to be updated, evident by the chips in the glasses and the inconsistent flickering of the halogen bulbs. The wallpaper is peeling; discolored around the old neon signs that have slowly begun to fizzle out. If it were any brighter inside those four walls, one might be able to see the discoloration of well walked floors and one too many spilt beers.

Two loan pool tables sit in the center of the bar, their felt faded from use and tearing, flanked by a couple of dart boards, their cork crumbling from age. The patrons look about the same, old and wrinkled with age, lines worn into their faces that read closer to distinguished than wary. That's what the military does to a person, wears itself straight into the skin and makes a home there, the ghosts of lost wingman and battle buddies still looming in the whites of their eyes. Too many memories are stuck in the deep folds of their uniforms, worn in around the elbows and shoulders, the creases worn from friction- salute after salute.

It's really a hard to believe that people still frequent The Flight Line Bar. After all, there are so many better places for the students of Top Gun to meander into, just off post where they don't have to risk rubbing shoulders with their instructors- or heaven forbid, hit on their guest lecturers.

After all, It's all fun and games, flirty touches and smooth words until you're slapped with a SHARP report.

The students always figure out the good places to drink after class, shortly after their arrival after one too many moments spent inside the crumbling bar. The drinks are good in taste, better in price, but not worth it at the risk of saying just the wrong thing to just the wrong person.

The new recruits arrival happens like clockwork, and it's a ritual the newly minted Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson loves to witness. He has been watching the little ordeal for the last four years, with each new Top Gun class, even choosing to mark the date on his calendar after having almost missed an incoming class last year.

The new Top Gun recruits wander into The Flight Line Bar in gaggles. Most still clad in their uniforms if they had been lucky enough to get issued a drinking order. The wide eyed aviators would file up to the bar, uneasy looks on their faces as they took in the ranks drinking around them. If the Flight Line Bar was a small pond, the Top Gun inductees are guppies surrounded by some very big fish. One year, a young aviator even tripped over the base commander's seat and was met with a glare that even Cyclone would have been nervous to stand on the receiving end of.

The recruits each drink a beer, the brave ones chancing a second, before they're heading for the door. Cyclone loves to see the discomfort that would roll off of them the moment they crossed the threshold back into the parking lot. Some would even shiver, which always seems to pull a hearty laugh out of the Admiral.

This year, however, Cyclone is met with a very different scene before him when he himself broke the threshold of the Flight Line Bar. Having been stuck in a meeting with Admiral Kazansky, Cyclone ends up arriving later than the usual crowd of recruits. So, when he finally wanders in, he is met with the fleeting glances of some top brass, but no new eyes. He can't fight the way he almost deflates; after the shit day he managed to barely claw his way through, the one thing he was looking forward to were the wide eyes of the newest, freshest meat that Top Gun managed to recruit.

As if today of all days wasn't hard enough to begin with.

Instead, it looks like a regular Friday night, which wouldn't do the leg work needed to actually flip his day around for the better. But he's already there, the drinks are cheap, and he really, really needs a drink. So, he orders with a silent wave of his hand, the borderline elderly man behind the bar meeting the wave with a nod of his head. Cyclone plops down unceremoniously onto one of the rickety barstools. It almost sways under his weight, however it does creak weakly as he settles. His temple meets his knuckles as he lets out a deep sigh as the beer being set down in front of him. Cyclone can only manage a nod to the bartender before lifting the glass to his lips.

The question of why he still drinks here, in this lousy bar, floats through his head for a moment, but he doesn't put fourth the energy to grant himself with an answer. Maybe it's the cheap beer and half price shots. Or, maybe the fact that he doesn't have to fight off the happy hour drinkers or the five o'clock somewhere partiers that seem to be carried in with the wind. Again, he doesn't entertain the question long enough to form an answer.

Cyclone doesn't even have to glance around the bar to know the crowd this Friday night hosts. Top brass, tired officers, and disgruntled wives, each drinking their own bad days away.

The glass feels about a hundred pounds and it meets the bar top with a loud thunk, the amber liquid sloshing around inside. A bit of foam sneaks over the rim, running down the crack in the glass. Cyclone scratches at it with this thumbnail, wondering how the hell the bar is still getting away with using nearly broken glassware. The thought doesn't last long, not many seem to this evening, and he is bringing the impossibly heavy glass back to his mouth for another sip.

As he tips it back a little further this time, the sulking woman a few seats down catches his attention. If this were a normal Friday night, Cyclone might make bets with himself on just why a woman might be crying, in this bar, all alone. He might puzzle that she is a soon to be ex-wife, her spouse making the choice to cheat on deployment. Maybe she is a daughter, or a sister, or a cousin, her base escort hiding in some other corner of the bar, or of the base. But tonight is not a normal Friday night, regardless of the absence of the new incoming class or not.

The Admiral can't help but watch her lazily out of the corner of his eye. She brings a shitty bar serviette up to wipe at her cheeks, sniffling as the paper touches her skin. Cyclone should feel guilty about how much the sight comforts him. At least, he thinks, someone else seems to be having just as bad of a day as he is.

Then, she catches him staring, his beer lost in the space between his lips and the counter. His fingers are sticky against the chilled glass as he holds it there, still watching her. Cyclone doesn't look away, no point in it now. Then, she breaks the disillusioned bubble forming between them with a sniffle and a hiccup.

It's not a pretty sound, but then again, the sight of the woman in front of him isn't exactly pretty either. After all, it's hard to be pretty when snot is rubbed up over the tip of her nose, catching the light as she sniffles again. Her hair is akin to a nest, like her fingers have been making their way through it over and over again until it is more mess than style.

"I'm sorry, Admiral, Sir," Her voice is straining from holding back tears. There is snot dripping from her nose again, and she wipes it with another flimsy napkin. A half effort is made to sweep back the hair in her face, her well kept fingernails catching in newly formed knots as she pushes it back. The woman doesn't break eye contact with him, even as the sight of him begins to swim through her newly forming tears.

"Hey, kid, it's okay, don't worry about it," His eyes meet the fluttering neon sign behind her, not wanting to lock eyes with her again. It lights her in a halo of sickly blue and Cyclone can see the fizziness of her hair in it's light- it's a half distraction from the way she is still looking at him with those tears in her eyes. He can't stand it when women cry, not after watching his wife, June, sob through her entire pregnancy. It's really the way their eyes glaze over- that helpless look where he can just tell they are fighting with everything they are worth, deep down knowing that it might not be enough. Though, it warms his chest a bit to call her "kid", like he has always been meant to use the term.

The Admiral's brown eyes go misty, locking onto the chipped portion of his glass as the memory of his wife, six months pregnant, stuck in a hospital bed as hot tears carved their way down her face invades Cyclone's memory like a plague. He will never forget the crimson staining her cheeks from the exertion as she fought. And fought. And fought. The way her skin was more chapped than smooth from the constant flow of tears- the way the light would catch the shininess of her skin from the petroleum jelly that he lovingly spread over her weeping skin.

She didn't make it home.

Neither did their baby boy.

And now, as this woman sits a couple stools down, crying in a way that's anything other than gentle, corralling her sobs into the fence of her chest; her face that same color he used to be so used to seeing, that same damn sheen to her skin and Beau feels sick. His eyes snap down to her hands and he watches as her fingers push through the soggy material of the napkin, a sight that makes him grimace a bit. Gross is not the word to use to describe a crying woman, that is fact he has to remind himself of, but the way her fingertips slipped right through that soggy excuse of a napkin is damn close. Cyclone schools his mouth into a tight line, knowing that anything he might say could make both of their day's spiral downwards even faster.

"Admiral," Cyclone wills himself to look her in the face, but his pupils dance around, not locking in on one spot too long. The frizz of her hair, then over the puffy skin under her eyes, then back up to the buzzing neon just over the top of her head. Anything to keep from looking into the woman's eyes. He manages a nod in her direction, rewarded with a hiccup from behind her glass.

A couple more used napkins are tossed up onto the bar, adding them to her steadily growing pile. Her beer is cold, and she can feel it travel all the way down, chilling her burning insides with each swallow. Cyclone takes a drink of his too, waiting for her to continue her thought. He closes his eyes as he tips back the glass, the image of the crying woman in front of him replaced with one of June, and he's not really sure which is worse.

Thunk goes the glass again.

"Can I ask a favor?" Her tone is so sweet, yet so, so sad. He thinks of June, then he nods, his body doing the motion for the sake of his heart, even though his brain is screaming at him. He was taught a long time ago that there are people who don't just ask for favors, specifically strange women in bars, new recruits, and the big brass. But, the woman looks about the age his son should have been now and his chest constricts with the realization that he could have been sitting here drinking with him if things had turned out different.

"How can I help you, kid?" The glass is hitting the bar top just a little bit too hard again, the splinter in the glass growing a millimeter. It's quickly covered by the large pad of Cyclone's thumb.

"I- well, I'm supposed to be here celebrating my Mother's leg-legacy," Another sob-full hiccup breaks up her sentence. Cyclone waits patiently for her to finish. She wipes at the tip of her nose with the back of her hand.

"And, she really liked to shoot whiskey," The explanation is coming out too wet and not at all concise, but Beau is nodding along anyway. The woman is rubbing at her eyes again, this time with her fingertips. She carefully runs her nail along the underside of her waterline, trying to catch the new tears before they streak down her cheeks with the rest of them. It doesn't really work, or even if it does, Cyclone can't tell. New tears fill up the spaces the freshly wiped away ones once occupied.

Despite the unclear delivery, Cyclone gets the message. Ordering two double shots of Tennessee whiskey, his wife's favorite, Cyclone offers his best sympathetic smile to his new drinking companion. Then, as the whiskey is being poured and he is shuffling over to the bar stool next to hers. That one creaks and sways too, but he tries not to pay it too much mind.

"What's your name, kid?" There's that warmth again, breaking through the tightening feeling in his chest.

"Lieutenant Y/N "Monsoon" Mitchell," Monsoon raises her shot glass to Cyclone, offering him a nod. It's such an informal introduction but both are thankful for the lack of salute, the lack of military theatrics, tradition, that they are usually stuck to upholding. After all, what is tradition except peer pressure ringing through from years past.

Cyclone knows her, well, her name, this recruit- on paper at least. Suddenly he feels a bit worse for feeling less alone when he spotted her crying.

"Beau "Cyclone" Simpson," He raises his own glass, moving to tap them together. It's a risky move with the state of the glasses, each sporting chips in their rims and hairline fractures down their side. They share sullen, makeshift smiles, neither putting any sort of heart behind the expression. It's a knowing sort of thing, the look they share, one that says I won't say anything if you won't.

"To my Mama, Lieutenant Maria Davis, the best damn medic the USS Vinson ever saw," Monsoon's toast is simple, but she means every single word. Beau's mouth turns up at the corners, nodding to her in acknowledgment of a good job.

"And too my wife, June, and our baby boy, god rest their souls."

The bottoms of the glasses hit the table before the rim makes contact with their lips. The alcohol goes down with a burn, but it's a welcomed sensation. Anything feels better than swallowing grief and there's too much in the air right now. Cyclone chases the shot with a gulp of his beer. Monsoon doesn't. She rests the cool glass against her warm cheek, squeezing her eyes shut. It's a refreshing feeling, almost like she is being rinsed from the inside out.

The alcohol settles deep within them. She is buzzing, he is a bit queasy. Neither need to say a thing about it. It kind of feels like church- like a well spoken sermon where one sits in the pew the furthest from the crowed, tucked away in the back, poking holes in each lesson the preacher delivers. After all, it's not really God's plan, is it? More dumb luck than divine circumstance. Yet, they are both still there, sitting on stool that could give out at any moment as the lights above them buzz and the world feels a little smaller.

"I was watching the class today. You're a damn good pilot, Monsoon," Beau speaks after a few beats of silence, not quite sure what to say. Go with the truth, right? It would be rude to move back to his original seat, especially after the woman next to him just got control of her tears, so small talk is the next best option. She cracks her eyes open, trying to read the expression that follows the compliment. It looks genuine, if not a little proud, so she nods.

And then the world is a bit smaller, still.

"Thank you, Admiral, sir," She sets the glass down, gentler than he has done the whole night, "That means a lot, coming from such a talented pilot as yourself, sir."

And then Cyclone is chuckling, his chest vibrating. That feeling being the closest thing to godly he has felt in a long time, but it's more Zeus, more Jupitar, than it could have ever been God. Monsoon's words are so genuine and it catches him off guard. Most people who say something like that are trying to kiss his ass so hard that there they all but wear marks on the backside of his trousers.

"Are you getting excited to graduate? The ceremony is next week, right?" He asks, bringing his eyes back to the neon behind her. The light above them flickers, neither one acknowledging it. There is a sort of kinship between the way their souls feel and the state of the bar, where living feels like the flickering of a light, tonight.

"Sir?" The question comes with a tilt of her head, her fingers wrapping loosely around her beer. He watches the condensation drip down the glass, the water disappearing behind her fingertips.

"To graduate," he explains like it's the clearest thing, "To finish Top Gun,"

"Oh!" Monsoon almost chuckles, but her soul is too heavy. She settles on a small smile, as kind as she can manage.

"I don't graduate for another six weeks. Today just wrapped my seventh week here, but halfway done does feel good," He can tell she is holding something back with the way her eyes are pinched at the corners, the smiles on her lips straining a bit under her words. Monsoon looks like she almost doesn't believe the words that are leaving her own mouth, but when Cyclone catches her eyes again he can see that look again, I won't say anything if you won't.

"Oh," Beau's hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck, all of a sudden feeling like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "In that case, you are one of the best pilots I've ever seen,"

The words fall from his tongue like they are the simplest thing in the world. His eyebrows are still raised as he downs the rest of his beer. He contemplates Monsoon's career in his head, attempting to think back to files he knows are sitting on his desk, but the alcohol swirls the statistics together in his brain.

"Thank you, sir,"

"Is your father planning on coming to your graduation?" The question is so simple, the next plausible question after toasting to her Mother's life. Monsoon bristles at the question, her expression becoming impossibly more tight, pinched.

"He's uhm," The foam in the bottom of Monsoon's glass is the most interesting thing in the room. Tears are flooding her eyes again, and she's turning back to the shitty bar napkins in the even shittier dispenser. Cyclone knows his question hit a nerve based on how she is frantically pulling napkin after napkin out of the dispenser; and the Admiral's guilt swims to the surface. He is sure that the horizon of it can be seen in his iris's, if Monsoon were to look past the evident sadness that has made a home there. He's pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, blue in color and perfectly folded. He offers it to her and it's taken with a slightly shaky hand.

"M.I.A. or AWOL?" Cyclone asks. There's a bit of humor to his question that neither of them comment on.

"He went AWOL when I was seven," She doesn't take her eyes off the popping foam in the bottom of her glass, "Then I suppose he went M.I.A. three years later, when he stopped sending birthday cards,"

Cyclone hates the way her shrugs are all noncommittal and vaguely unbothered. He would have killed for a chance to raise his child, hell, he would move the Earth if that meant he even had a chance to do something. The fact that a man would walk out on his family, on his own child, it makes him sick. There is still something else Monsoon isn't saying; the way she chuckles is almost wax poetic with the way she rolls her eyes. Cyclone raises an eyebrow at her as he gestures to the bartended for two more on tap.

"I was in Admiral Kazansky's office today," She chuckles again, eyes glassy and unfocused. Cyclone slides the new beer over to her. He brings his up to his lips as she breathes deeply, trying to order the words together in her head, words she can't believe she is about to say out loud.

"There's a fucking picture of my father on his desk," Then she is downing the beer in quick, deep gulps. It's half gone before she sets it back down. Cyclone's brain is working on overdrive, swerving the hazy clouds of intoxication, searching for the mental picture of the Admiral's desk. Monsoon is chuckling in quiet disbelief, picturing the damn photo on his desk, her father and the Admiral shaking hands during their time at Top Gun. It makes her sick, really, but she doesn't need to say it based on the way her face feels, all contorted and ugly.

"I didn't even want to be a fucking pilot," Cyclone doesn't know if she is speaking to him anymore, or if the words are meant for her half empty glass. Hell, the way she speaks them they could be meant for the universe, for Khaos, for the air itself. There's a chip on that glass too, in the smooth side if of it, where it tapers down. He watches as Monsoon rubs her fingertip over it again and again and again.

"What did you want to do?" The question is leaving Cyclone's lips before he can stop it, common sense kicking in too slow. He is kicking himself.

Then, her thumb is stopping.

"I wanted to be a RIO," The glass is lifted to her lips again, her eyes rolling at the mere thought, "I wanted to fly with my Dad,"

The laughter that leave Monsoon's lips is dry as autumn air. Her lips crack too, under the stretch of her half hearted smile- one that holds no joy, it's all lukewarm and apathetic. He watches the skin of her lips crack and separate- it looks painful, and Cyclone has to fight not to grimace at the sight. Blood slowly begins to leak through the new flesh wound, bright red as it crests over the fullness of her bottom lip. He remembers watching the same thing happen to Maverick in the back of a helicopter as the wind whipped around them. But then, Maverick wore a truly joyous smile, one that rounded out his cheeks with a rosy hue that went deeper than the wind burn.

Then it hits Cyclone like a ton of bricks- like pulling 6 G's in a fucking barrel roll. Mitchell. This girl in front of him, this broken, fatherless girl is Pete Michell's kid. As if Cyclone needed another reason to hate the reckless man.

Beau wants to punch Pete Michell so hard that the only thing the man can make out in his field of vision is stars. Either the ones in the sky as he is planted with his back in the dirt, or the ones that would no doubt sparkle behind his eyelids. He wants to watch as the other man bleeds from the nose, the lip, the inside of his mouth. Cyclone can almost see the way the blood would pool in the spaces between Maverick's too white teeth, turning them a sickly vermilion. He would take a little too much pride watching the blood drip out of the corner of Pete's mouth, or down the crest of his chin.

Hell, Pete Michell, bloody, is a justified sight in Cyclone's book.

But that wouldn't help her right now. So Cyclone takes a breath, calming the flames of anger, of Hades that often lick at his legs, at his hands, whenever he so much as thinks about Pete "Maverick" Mitchell.

He's a bastard, that much is for sure. And it doesn't seem that Monsoon needs reminding of that fact.

"Well, kid," Beau is hunting, hurting for the right words, "If it's not wrong of me to say- your talents would have been wasted as a fucking RIO, especially for that son of a bitch," That gets Monsoon chuckling. She wants to ask if her grandmother was really that bad, but she doesn't make the joke. Though the laugh sounds a bit strangled as it untangles from the dense pain in her chest, Cyclone is happy to hear it. Something small swells in his heart at the sound.

Somewhere, deep in the cavernous spaces of his soul, a broken part of him feels like a father for the first time in years, even if it isn't exactly proper and the woman in front of him isn't his kid. Cyclone feels like a father, not even in a pseudo sense of the word, but truly like a father, and the feeling warms him from the inside out. It overtakes his whole body, leaving him almost buzzing.

Now it's his turn to chuckle. It's sour with pain and longing, but it's still there. Like joy is trying to crawl it's way out, lukewarm and dripping wet.

"Well, Admiral, sir," Monsoon's voice is a little lighter now, sweeter maybe. Cyclone is watching as she's pulling her coat over her shoulders, "Thank you for the favor, and the drink,"

She's nodding her head in the direction of the half full glass still dripping with condensation.

"Thank you for remembering them with me, too," They share a knowing smile, it's a little broken but it is still warm. Again, it's one of those I won't say anything if you won't looks shared between the pair. They lock eyes one last time before Monsoon is turning on her heel, ready to head right out of the front door.

For just a second Cyclone wonders if Monsoon will shudder with relief in the same way the new Top Gun recruits usually do, or if something as simple as that will effect such a skilled pilot. He wonders if anyone will be there for her on graduation day, or if she will be stuck alone in the seas of families and friends- just like he was all those years ago.

I won't say anything if you won't. Yeah, that's not a chance he's willing to take.

"Wait," Cyclone calls after Monsoon, his voice a little too loud and not at all hesitant enough. Monsoon chances a look back, confusion written into the furrow of her brows. He becons he back with a wave of his hand. Cyclone pulls a business card from his front pocket. "I am going TDY, but I should be back for your graduation," The words don't make sense to Monsoon, and neither does the card that he's presenting her between his two fingers. She is cocking her head to the side again, eyebrows furrowed. Cyclone tries to not notice how much she looks like her father.

He notices anyway.

"Email me, remind me of the date, and I'll be there," He is presenting her the card again with a shake of his wrist. Then, she reaches out, grabbing it with nervous fingers.

"Oh, uh-" There are new tears forming in Monsoon's eyes at the words, the card now swimming in her vision. "Thank you, sir,"

"Oh, better yet," Cyclone plucks the card from her fingertips, a move that may have been considered crass but Monsoon can't help but find a little bit funny. Cyclone quickly scribbles down a phone number in messy loops of blue ink, the numbers taking up a little too much room on the back side of the card. Then, he blows on it carefully to make sure the ink won't smudge before handing the card back out to her in the same manner as before.

"Text me the reminder, so it doesn't get lost in my email," Cyclone's smile is so kind and there is a ribbon of hope, a glimmer, really, shinning through the lightest parts of his irises. Monsoon can barely hold back her tears at the sight, and so the card becomes the most interesting thing in the room, held between her shaking fingertips. "You deserve to have a parent there, kid,"

Those are the last words they share that night. They don't need to say anything else. After all, how do you explain the want to stand in as a lost family member? Beau would never admit just how much he's dying for a kid to support, to cheer on and celebrate. Monsoon knows the feeling too, the want to be a daughter who isn't seen as an inconvenience, a burden.

The next time they see each other, Cyclone is sitting in the front row at her Top Gun graduation, a small bouquet of calla lilies on his lap. There is a proud smile on his face and the moment Monsoon sees it there are tears in her eyes. She wonders if this is the feeling she had been missing out on, a father's pride, his love. She tries not to dwell on it, even as walks across that stage.

When the pair meet in the crowd, Cyclone doesn't hesitate to pull her into a hug, one that may not have been professional or regulated, but he feels a weight come off her shoulders the moment he pulls her in. He feels a little more whole too. The hug is short, quick, really, but there are tears in both of their eyes when they pull back.

Cyclone has so much pride for her, and God, Monsoon can feel it. From the way he beams at her to the way he shoves a camera into the hands of his battle buddy, tucking her under his arm. Both clad in dress uniform, posing for the camera as she holds the flowers against her chest to try and quell the beating of her heart. They both sport tears in their eyes, cheeks round and plump red as they smile too wide.

That photo makes onto his desk a week later, displayed in a beautiful mahogany frame.

USS Stennis. Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Four Years before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

The first time Monsoon calls him Pops, it's an accident. She got shipped out to an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Pacific. The tour is lonely. She doesn't know the team, the group who have been stationed there for the last six months, and they weren't overly keen on the 'new girl'. Monsoon made it through three months before she started to feel like a part of the team. It's a conscious choice, really, to keep working at fitting in. But in the end that team, those people, they aren't her family and they aren't going to remember her after she ships back stateside.

Emails to and from Cyclone kept her going, as he reassured her that life on the carrier isn't easy on anyone. He urges her to try and make better friends with those who hold a more permanent position on the vessel, so she does her best to take the newbies under her wing. If she wasn't welcomed, that was out of her control, but she can sure as hell make sure that the newbies are.

The plan starts off a little rough, the new sailors unsure of the overly friendly Lieutenant amongst the standoffish seasoned crew of the vessel. But days turn to weeks, trust is earned and the long days and nights onboard get easier to swallow.

Then, Cyclone gets shipped out to the carrier for a briefing. He can't help the rumble of excitement that tracks through him. He might get to see Monsoon, his kid, and he's going to do everything in his power to track her down on board. 

There is too much joy on his features as he touches down on the carrier. Too much joy for the briefing he is getting ushered into. It drags on longer than necessary as they hash and rehash out plans for missions. He knows he should care, he really does, but it's not like people's lives are on the line this mission. It's all practice runs and jet maintenance, and how could anyone expect him to focus when his kid is on the same vessel and he is just fucking sitting there. Cyclone barely sits still, knowing the clock is ticking down on his time aboard and if this meeting goes on any longer than planned he is going to miss his chance to see Monsoon.

Around suppertime, Monsoon is heading to the canteen, desperate for some sort of nourishment. It has been a long day, trial after trial, and thankfully for her, she's fairing better than some of her other wingmen. At least she hasn't puked over the side of the carrier since her first week aboard.

She guides one of the newer pilots, Story, down the stairs from the flight deck, her stomach rumbling as they go. The new Lieutenant on board hot on her heels as they make their way down the stairs.

"I know, Story, but you're going to get through this," Monsoon's voice is low as they wind their way through the tight hallways of the lower decks. "You're a good pilot, there is nothing you can't do. So what if you need a little more practice. That's why we're out here, right?"

The younger man hums in agreement, disappointment scribbled all over his face. They are both coated in sweat, Monsoon's hair sticking to her sweat soaked skin. She craves a shower almost as much as she craves food. Her body is weighed down with flight fatigue as she drags her feet.

The halls of the ship begin to smell more and more like hot biscuits and butter the closer they get to the mess hall. Their stomach's rumble in unison at the smell wafting down the hallway. Monsoon is rounding the corner with her front turned towards Story, not bothering a glance in the direction her feet are heading. A second later, her back meets a hard body, a grunt coming out of her mouth at the impact.

Story goes white at the sight of his new friend running straight into an Admiral. Monsoon doesn't like the look on his face, he looks like he's just seen a ghost, or maybe prophesied a murder. So she turns around slowly, so, so slowly. Her eyes are scrunched as she turns. There is already an apology on her lips as Monsoon peeks to see just exactly who she just ran into.

Eyes go wide, and smiles break out over their faces.

The need for food, a hot shower, and sleep dissipate from her body as she looks up at the man in front of her, joy overtaking.

"Pops!" The name comes out a little too quick, catching them both of guard. Monsoon's cheeks flush dark with embarrassment, realizing what she just said and who she just said it to. Without warning, Cyclone is pulling Monsoon into his chest, wrapping her into a warm, tight hug, just the kind of hug a Dad would give.

"Hey Kiddo,"

TAG LIST

@its-the-pilot

@t4medicroe

@inkandarsenic

[cosmiccare]

7 greedy greedy pests

[harleehazbinfics]

Home is where my Heart is.

Chapter 8: An Angel's Head Table of Contents | Profile

Word Count: 2128 A/N: aaaaa take it. we're getting more miledy backstory in the next chapter, cheers!

Feeling a gentle hand sweep through my face, I open my eyes and see Al. I wiped my own tears away and sat up.

“Couldn’t sleep well?” he asked somberly.

“Yeah, just- it’s just a few months until her birthday is all. I just miss her so much,” I answered hugging myself trying to shake my anxiety.

He sighs, probably feeling the same way. Al left us before Abby could even reach her 4th birthday. He adored Abigail, in some way she had her grandmother’s face that made him attached to her even more. So, leaving without seeing Abby through adulthood has been rough on him. Though I’ve him told stories about our lives, how Abby missed him and often quoted his sayings from his recorded shows that she begged me to give her when she found it in her father’s old studio when we were cleaning it out. It warmed his heart that he was still an important part of her life despite being gone, clearly pleased that he didn’t end up like his own dad that he grown to despise.

“I know, but since we haven’t found her here. She must be off up there, somewhere better… safer…” he mutters almost regretfully.

I tried to smile and held his hand in assurance, “Yeah, I hope you’re right.”

He raises his lips to a smile and says, “Well then! How about some breakfast to lighten up the mood?” and guides me to the table in the woods in our room placing a dish for me and a deer carcass on his side. I roll my eyes playfully at him and said, “I’m not standing next to you if you don’t take a mint after.”

“Of course, of course. I won’t forget.”

While we enjoyed our meal together, the door bursts open to reveal Vaggie and a bunch of Eggbois.

“Alastor!”

His eyes shifted from her to me and his meal before replying, “Do you mind? I’m in the middle of breakfast.”

“Good morning to you too, Vaggie,” I greet before eating a mouthful of the meal that Alastor prepared for me.

“Hi,” she responds dryly, “Pentious' eggs are all over the place, and I need you to get rid of them.”

He throws away his utensils and summons his microphone before responding, “Oh, well, in that case, I'd be delighted to!”

“Humanely!”

“Hmm. Well, that's a lot less fun,” he remarks turning his head from Vaggie and on to me revealing his glowing red eyes and the x-mark on his forehead, “but I suppose I can take care of that on my outing today.”

“Great!” she looks at our table and sees the dead deer and comments, “That looks disgusting.”

“Dear, can you wait after breakfast?” I sighed, while Vaggie saw herself out.

“Alright, I can wait,” he smiled smiling at me and sitting in front of me again.

“Hello, little men. How are you all doing today?”

“Hi, pretty fish lady! We’re well, though we got kicked out by the owners, now we’re going wherever you go!”

I laugh at them petting their heads, “I see. Now be good eggbois and follow Alastor and I closely. We don’t want you ending up cracked.”

They saluted at us rather clumsily making it endearing for me to look at, they remind me so much of how the children in the orphanage played pretend.

As we enter Pentagram City, the little Eggbois kept pestering Alastor with questions making me cover my giggles under my hand as I watched his eye twitch in annoyance from their never-ending questions.

“This seems rather familiar. Remember when Abby reached the age where she would question us about everything?” I started with a smile, trying to calm him down.

He huffs out a laugh and nods, then shakes his head, “She was so talkative, it seemed like she would never lose her voice.”

“She’s a lot like you in that way,” I grin bumping my hips at him.

We get caught off-guard when Zestial comes before us, I guess we were so engrossed in our conversation that we missed this mighty being’s arrival.

“Hark, Alastor, M’lady. How fare thee this day?”

He places a peck on my hand in greeting while Alastor makes a little static sound.

“Who's that, boss? Want me to rough him up for you?”

“Follow in silence if you value your shell!” he replies tapping their heads and then turns back, “Greetings, Zestial!”

“Ah, the weather, doth become this fine day.”

 “Indeed, looks like we might have some acid rain this afternoon!”

Not a moment later, a demon overhearing their conversation lights themselves on fire and runs away screaming, my eyes following his figure before our party continues with our walk. I let the two gentlemen talk with themselves—listening in to their conversation.

“If our luck doth hold! I do revel in the screams. How art thou? It has been an age since thou hath graced us thy presence. Some hath spun wild tales of you falling to... holy arms.”

As he says this, my eyes couldn’t help but widen at the implication. This wasn’t just about him helping Charlie, who by proxy is Lucifer’s daughter—an angel. Does he mean that he made a deal with someone from heaven. With a confused look, I turn my eyes on Alastor who looks around somewhat nervously.

“Oh, I just took a well-earned sabbatical, nothing serious,” he adjusts his bowtie in the mirror as he answers, “Though it's fun to keep everyone on their toes!”

“There too hath been rumor of thy involvement with the princess and her recent flight of fancy. Tell me,” he stops walking and opens his coat briefly, making me somewhat embarrassed for looking directly at him, “how does thou fall in such folly?

“That is for me to know. But please, do guess, I'd love to know the theories!” Alastor answers holding his cane in one hand and the other on my waist pulling us forward.

“T'would be grander folly by far to assume the workings of your mind, Alastor. Thou hath been naught but an enigma since thy manifested in this realm!” Zestial comments.

“Coming from someone as ancient as you, I take that as quite the compliment!” Alastor ‘smiles’ as we arrive at the entrance to Carmilla’s building. While we got on the elevator, the little Eggbois closely followed only to be stopped by Alastor.

“No, no. I have a very important task for you. Stay here and guard the front until I return,” Alastor commands making them salute. I raise my eyebrow counting only four of them. I find the other one near the door, which I pushed behind me with my foot signaling him to stay quiet.

We entered the venue, quietly greeting Rosie then sitting between her and Alastor.

“Welcome, Hell sovereign overlords. I've invited you all here because you represent the controlling powers of our city. Together, you own millions of souls. Souls at risk with the new Extermination schedule. We need to discuss what can be done to minimize the impact to our interest.”

“Zestial, so good to see you, my friend,” she greets when he sits near her.

He summons a teacup and saucer and replies, “Enchanted as always, Carmilla.”

She finally notices my husband and calls him, “Alastor?”

He replies smugly, “Yes, I know I've been absent some time. I'm sure you've all been wondering!”

“...Not really. But welcome back in any case,” she replies dismissing him which he narrows his eyes in offence to.

“This year's Extermination was brutal, far more even than years past. We have assessed that about 16% of the population was lost With the angelic legions now returning twice as quickly, I think it prudent we—"

She gets cut off when Velvette enters the room on the phone with presumably one of the other Vees, side-eyeing her for her impertinence.

“Yes, I've got it handled, Vox. Are you doubting me? Really? Me? That's what I thought. Haha! Yes, I know. They're all a joke. Thank you, V. See you soon. Kisses, darling.”

“Nice of you to join us, Velvette. Will your... colleagues be joining?” Carmilla asks despite being rudely cut off by the brat.

“No, they have better shit to do than to listen to an old windbag who thinks she's tough shit. I'm here to represent.”

“Charming. So, as I was saying, we need to discuss—"

She again interrupts Carmilla by waving her hand to get her attention.

“Yes?”

“On the subject of discussion,” she starts before taking out an Exorcist’s head throwing it onto the table lolling side to side as it rests in front of us.

“Holy shit!”

“Oh! Tasty...”

Narrowing her eyes, Carmilla asks, “Where did you get this?”

“We found it during Extermination Day. If these Holy Rollers can be killed, the game has changed. We can take the fight to them. The boys and I have come up with a full assault plan—"

Velvette stops talking as she and the other overlords look at Zestial, who is sipping his tea loudly and aggressively to drown out Velvette.

“If it be true thee and thy colleagues desire to war with such meagre proof, thou art far more... foolish than I be thought,” he laughs.

Velvette scoffs and crosses her arms, “Meagre proof? It's a dead fucking Exorcist. I'd say that's pretty fucking definitive. You going blind, old man?”

“We know not how this perished. Mayhaps t'was not by a demon's hand at all. If we rush to war without knowing mightn't, they purge all of Hell for daring an uprising?”

The other overlords mutter in agreement. Velvette notices Carmilla's expression and smiles.

“Oh, I get it. So, Grandpa is too pussy to fight, so I guess there's no point, right?” she says getting on Zestial’s face, “Oh, what's the matter, Fossil? Too senile to make a real power grab for—"

I lost myself with Carmilla and Velvette’s little duet. They’re completely different styles but they blended well together which I appreciated a lot. Despite Velvette being a little brat coming here, I can’t help but enjoy her singing. I got startled when Carmilla announces that the meeting was over. We didn’t even properly start it when Velvette came in and suggested picking a fight with heaven.

Alastor and I walk out of the room eyes never leaving Carmilla. She seemed so defeated.

“Hmm. Well, that's interesting,” he then points at the remaining Eggboi with his cane, “You, little egg creature. I have a job for you.”

“Oh. Yes, boss!”

“Follow them!”

He then salutes and scuttles over inside the room.

I looked at it worriedly, “Will he be alright?”

“Darling. It’s a little egg thing. No need to get so attached,” he titters holding my waist and takes us to the elevator.

“But it’s so cute!” I pouted.

“Alright, we’ll ask Pentious if he can lend you one of them when he can,” he compromises making me beam at him. “Only if, he can tell us something valuable.”

“Deal!” I reply excitedly then giving him a kiss on the cheek are we got off the elevator and waited for the little egg to report to us.

He bounded happily and stops in front of us.

“So, what did you hear?” 

“First, the old guy w-was all, "Y-you're not yourself. You're the one who killed the angel," a-a-and, she was all, "♪ Whatever it takes ♪"” he reports clumsily making me smile a how adorable it was.

“And then what was the last thing?" Alastor asks getting annoyed by how jumbled up his sentences were.

“She killed the angel?”

Alastor hums finding this information important, “Interesting. Let’s keep this between us. Shall we?”

“You got it, boss!”

My eyes still wide about the information, “She killed exorcists? How? I mean the evidence was staring at us dead in the face, quite literality but, this changes everything.”

“Indeed. We should keep this to ourselves for now, this could help us someday,” he answers mysteriously.

He’s been doing that more often now with me after those years that he stayed gone. Oh Al, what happened.

We arrive at the hotel seeing them get together so happily bantering with one another.

Vaggie says from the balcony, “Alastor. failed to get rid of the eggs, I see.”

“Yes, well, the little monsters prove to be rather useful,” Alastor replies eyes glowing with excitement.

“Why don't you give them back to Pentious,” she says smiling.

“Really? Sir Pentious asks teary-eyed.

“Yeah. After today, I guess I can trust you with them. But seriously, no more weapons,” she announces putting her foot down.

“Why don’t we go to our room ourselves, dear?” Alastor suggests escorting back us to our room.

[msn-04iinightingale]

Toldare Operation Briefing

OPERATION TOUCHDOWN TASKFORCE Helios FOB Hawk Commanding General Melissa Hazen's Field Office

The newly minted Khan Owen McEvedy and saKhan Bell enter the field tent of Commanding General Melissa hazen, both snapping to sharp salutes once inside.

"Khan McEvedy and saKhan Shepard reporting for duty, General."

It still felt strange to say that, but he supposed he'd get used to it.

"Came as quickly as I could, given everything that's happened recently on my end."

@is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not

[chaosbarelycontained]

See Me Go Through Changes

North Country Boy Chapter 4

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x AFAB!OC

TW: Swearing

Words: 2k

Synopsis: Price gives Jules access to much more than her usual tech and Ghost gets the third degree.

“You need a medic?” Price asked gruffly once the Lieutenant had left the gym.

“No sir, I’m good,” Jules responded, resisting the urge to rub her aching jaw, instead placing her beret back onto her head.

Price nodded once and set off at a brisk pace. Jules followed the Captain down stark corridors, each taking them deeper and deeper into the bowels of Stirling Lines barracks. They encountered a myriad of soldiers on their journey, most of them wearing the caps and badges of the SAS or the SRR, and all of them saluted Price as they passed.

They must have taken a circuitous route that Jules hadn’t used before but they ended up in a wing that was familiar to her and where she’d spent a lot of her time during her SRR training. Stopping before a closed, unmarked door, Price paused with his hand on the door knob. He turned to Jules with a devilish look in his eye.

“Now before we go in, just remember, I don’t want you to get all over-excited on me, Sergeant, understood?”

“Understood,” Jules replied, but her tone was raised, as if her response were a question.

Price pushed open the door and then stepped aside to reveal a bank of monitors and some of the most advanced computing and remote surveillance equipment Jules had ever seen. She stepped into the room with a soft gasp and ran her fingers delicately across the top of the monitors. Her skin prickled with goosebumps in the air-conditioned coolness and she turned back to Price with a genuine smile of joy.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell! Are you flirtin’ with me, Sir?” she teased, earning her a deep, rumbling chuckle.

“If I wanted to flirt with you, Tiger, you’d know about it. I take it you like the set-up?”

“Like it? It’s mint!” Jules exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Good. I need you to make sure it's got everything you need. If anything’s missing then there needs to be a list on my desk by 0800 hrs tomorrow. Anything, Sergeant. If you need it, just ask.”

“Absolutely, Sir,” Jules said, but already sounded distracted as her attention was drawn back to the equipment before her.

“One more thing,” Price stated, pulling her focus back to him.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Lieutenant Riley,” Price began and Jules immediately stiffened. “I don’t know what’s gone on and I don’t need to, unless it compromises my team. Will it compromise my team, Sergeant?”

“N-no, Sir,” she replied, her face flushing with embarrassment at her very public loss of control.

“Good. See that it stays that way,” he ordered, but then his face softened. “Go on then, have at it,” he nodded towards the monitors and left Jules to it.

She slid into the comfortable wheeled chair, removed her beret, and lifted the headset onto her head. One swipe of the mouse and the screens before her lit up to show the familiar MOD log in screen. She tapped in her credentials but the homescreen she was expecting to see didn't appear. Instead of the SRR logo with the Corinthian helmet and sword there was a design she hadn’t seen before. The centre of the logo still featured a sword but instead of the helmet there was a skull and they were bordered by a pair of feathered wings and a laurel wreath. The only text visible was under the hilt of the sword and all it stated were the numerals 141.

Moving the cursor over the logo, Jules left-clicked on it and the screen dissolved to show a desktop layout that wouldn’t look out of place in any office in the country but a closer look at the icons showed programs that the majority of people wouldn’t even know existed. There were flight scanners, access portals to world-wide air traffic controls, drone programming systems, access to civilian emergency service and CCTV networks, both radio wave and microwave detector systems for communications interceptions, banking network portals, and pretty much anything else she would need. There, at her fingertips, were the tools she needed to monitor and even start incursions the world over. There was even the Spotify app, which made her huff out a chuckle.

Even with only the most cursory of glances over the system, Jules couldn’t see anything that was conspicuous by its absence. Her list for the Captain was, for the moment, unpopulated. Checking the time on the clock in the bottom left of the screen she noticed a small icon that she recognised but had never had the opportunity to use.

“You’re shittin’ me,” she breathed, before double-clicking on the tiny image.

The screen darkened for a moment before lighting up with a soft blue glow. An electronic chirp sounded from one of the desk drawers and Jules opened it to reveal a high end VR headset resting on a magnetic charging dock.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” she squealed, picking up the tech and cradling it in her hands.

Swallowing down the knot of excitement in her throat she removed the headset she was wearing and slowly replaced it with the VR gear. Sighing in satisfaction at the new accessibility she had gained she weaved her hands through the air in a graceful pattern, relishing the lack of need for hand controllers. A few gestures later and she was walking through the streets of Kyiv and then, in a flash, had been transported to favelas of Rio. Throwing her head back and letting out an excited laugh she allowed herself to get lost in the advanced technology that she loved.

* * * * * *

“Geek,” Rob said affectionately, scrubbing his hand over the top of her head. “Computer Science though, Jules? Why the fuck did you pick that?”

“Cause I like it, knobhead,” she replied, shoving his hand away and batting at his shoulder.

The pub in Preston wasn’t that busy for a Saturday afternoon and the train ride up from Manchester that morning had been uneventful. It had mainly consisted of Jules trying to study for a seminar whilst Simon did his best to antagonise her once he’d finished with the copy of FHM he’d picked up at Piccadilly Station.

“She’s good at it too,” Simon added, catching her eye over the rim of his pint glass. “Got some mint grades on your last assignments, didn’t y’Jules?”

“Yeah, suppose so,” she nodded, flushing a little at his praise.

Rob’s eyes flickered between the pair of them and narrowed in suspicion.

“Is there summat going on wi’ you two?' ' he asked.

“Nah!” Jules exclaimed hurriedly, spluttering around her cider and blackcurrant whilst Simon just let out a short laugh and shook his head.

“Just seem a bit pally, that’s all,” Rob hummed, draining his pint.

“Y’said to look out for her while y’were away,” Simon shrugged.

“I can look out for my own bloody self, Jesus,” Jules muttered. “Fuckin’ cavemen.”

After a chippy tea and a farewell to her brother, Jules and Simon made their way back to the station. He seemed lost in thought, not speaking much as they walked onto the platform to wait. Jules leaned back against the red brick wall and wrapped her arms around herself to stave off the chill of the evening.

A shadow fell across her, blocking the light from the station floodlights as Simon leaned over her, caging her in with a devilish smile.

“Didn’t realise the thought of bein’ wi’ me was so bad,” he rumbled, one hand propped against the wall above her head whilst the other came to rest at her waist.

“Was I wrong though?” she protested with a tilt of her chin. “We’re not exactly seein’ each other are we?”

“Well I’m not seein’ anyone else, Jules,” he said, his face turning slightly more serious.

“What’re y’sayin’ Si?” she breathed.

“Just think we should start bein’ honest with ourselves, that’s all,” he replied, his chestnut eyes trailing over her face.

“What about Rob?”

“I reckon he’d be alright with it,” he said, raising his hand to cup her face.

“I reckon he would too, but I think he’d kick your arse first,” Jules laughed softly.

“I’d let him if it got me wi’ you,” he laughed with her as his thumb brushed gently over her cheek.

“Dick’ead,” she murmured, her tongue darting out across her bottom lip as he lifted her chin and tilted his head down to capture her lips with his.

* * * * * *

Ghost waited at the door to Price’s office, outwardly presenting the model of military perfection but his mind whirled in a mess of guilt and confusion. He regretted pushing Jules as far as he had, and there wasn’t much in his life he did regret. Strange how a lot of it involved her though…

“Si, stopppp!” she laughed, batting his arm away from her waist.

Price rounded the corner of the corridor, his face drawing into a scowl as he spotted Ghost. He didn’t need to say a word, simply making a gesture to enter that Ghost followed without question.

The scent of patchouli permeated his nose as they climbed the uneven stone steps of the old drapery building that housed Affleck’s Palace.

He stood at ease before the Captain’s desk as Price sat and deliberately took his time making himself comfo​​rtable. Opening his top drawer he pulled out a cigar, clipped the end with a silver clipper that Ghost himself had gifted him and then lit the tobacco. He stared at his Lieutenant with an ambiguous expression as he waited for Ghost to break the silence.

“It’s on the top floor innit?” he asked, groaning at her pseudo-innocent face.

‘I didn’t know! I swear down!” she gasped out a giggle, grabbing his wrist and hauling up the stairs behind her.

“She’ll do,” Ghost rumbled, scrunching his nose a little under his mask which made the drying blood crack away from his skin.

“And is that your professional opinion?” Price asked, a hint of sarcasm making its way into his words.

“Yeah,” Ghost nodded once.

“Si! I found ‘em!” Jules squealed, bouncing over to him with four small figurines and a beaming smile on her face.

“Want to talk about it?” the Captain probed but Ghost shook his head.

“Negative.”

“Just going to throw this out there Simon, but maybe you need to talk to her.”

Ghost shook his head again but found himself unable to meet Price’s stare. They remained in their non-verbal standoff as the seconds ticked by but Price eventually let out a huff and shook his head in defeat.

“Go on then, dismissed. Just…stop being an arse to her, yeah?”

“It’s like you don’t even know me,” Ghost retorted, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little before leaving the office.

Slipping unseen into an empty room along the corridor, Ghost locked the door and then leaned back against it before sliding to the floor. Pulling his balaclava off over his head he ran his hand through his short blond hair and probed at his throbbing nose. It wasn’t broken, although it wouldn’t have been the first time. Resting his arms on his raised knees he dropped his head and let out a deep sigh.

They had to pass through the cafe on their way back to the stairs that would take them out of the building. Jules walked beside him clutching the paper bag that held her treasured purchase. He didn’t want to leave just yet, desperate to spend more time with her.

“D’you fancy a hot chocolate?” he asked, nodding his head towards the cafe’s counter.

“Umm, yeah, we could do that,” she replied.

He ordered for them whilst she found them two seats, near the window so they could watch the world go by below.

“Here y’are,” he said, placing a mug of hot chocolate topped with all the trimmings before her.

“Cheers, Si,” Jules muttered, but he could tell she was distracted.

“What’s up, chuck?” he asked, nudging her knee under the table.

“Y’don’t…y’don’t think it’s a stupid present?” she asked timidly, nodding towards the paper bag on the table.

“Don’t be daft Jules, he’s gonna love ‘em, and if he doesn’t, I’ll ‘av ‘em,” Simon grinned, trying to reassure her. “If someone bought me Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle figures for my 19th I’d be made up!”

“Is that a hint?” Jules laughed, “‘cause I’m not buyin’ you Turtles for your birthday.”

Taglist: @aykxz98

[sexsylexi]

Home coming Nerf Battle

Wally West x reader

Summary-

Wally West returns home exhausted to find his apartment in chaos and his family missing. Initially worried, he soon discovers his partner and son engaged in a playful Nerf gun battle. Relieved and amused, he joins in, enjoying the lighthearted family fun. The evening is filled with laughter, ice cream, and a cozy movie, reminding Wally of the love and joy his family brings into his life.

---------------------------------------------------

Wally West was exhausted as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment. Another day of hero work, another series of battles, and all he wanted was to spend some time with his family. As he approached the door, he noticed it was eerily silent inside. Usually, at this time, he could hear his son’s laughter or the sound of the TV.

When he opened the door, the sight that greeted him was unexpected. The apartment was in chaos—sofas flipped over, tables upended, and toys scattered everywhere. The lights were off, casting the place in dim shadows. His heart raced for a moment, imagining the worst. He took a cautious step inside, scanning the room for any signs of life.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet space. “Y/N? Little man?”

No response.

Wally moved deeper into the apartment, his senses on high alert. Just as he was about to pull out his phone to call for backup, he heard a soft giggle.

Suddenly, he felt a tap on his leg and looked down to see his son, beaming up at him with mischief in his eyes. He was holding a brightly colored Nerf gun.

“Gotcha, Daddy!” his son exclaimed, laughing.

Before Wally could respond, a soft foam dart hit him squarely on the shoulder. He turned to see you, standing behind one of the overturned sofas with a Nerf gun in hand, grinning from ear to ear.

“Welcome home, hero,” you said playfully. “Thought you could use a little bit of fun after a long day.”

Relief washed over Wally, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “You two had me worried there for a second.”

You gave him a mock salute. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

Wally swiftly picked up a nearby Nerf gun and aimed it at you, a playful glint in his eyes. “Alright, prepare for the fastest Nerf battle of your life!”

Laughter filled the apartment as the three of you engaged in an epic Nerf gun battle, ducking behind furniture and dodging foam darts. The worries of the day melted away, replaced by the simple joy of being with his family.

Eventually, you all collapsed onto the floor, breathless and giggling. Wally wrapped his arms around you and your son, pulling you close.

“This,” he said softly, “is exactly what I needed.”

You smiled, resting your head on his shoulder. “Welcome home, Wally. We missed you.”

He kissed the top of your head and then his son’s. “I missed you guys too. Now, who’s up for some ice cream?”

Your son’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Me! Me!”

As the three of you headed to the kitchen, Wally couldn’t help but feel incredibly grateful. No matter how tough things got out there, he knew he always had a place filled with love and laughter to come back to.

In the kitchen, you pulled out a tub of Wally’s favorite mint chocolate chip ice cream. Wally scooped generous portions into bowls, adding a few sprinkles for good measure. The three of you sat around the table, enjoying the treat.

“So,” you began, “how was your day, Wally?”

Wally sighed contentedly, savoring a spoonful of ice cream. “Busy. We had a run-in with some of the Injustice League. But everything turned out okay. What about you guys?”

“Well,” you said with a mischievous smile, “we had a run-in with some Nerf bandits, but I think we handled it pretty well.”

Wally chuckled. “I think you did. Our little guy here is becoming quite the marksman.”

Your son beamed with pride. “I practiced all day, Daddy!”

Wally ruffled his hair. “And it shows, buddy. You got me good.”

After finishing your ice cream, the three of you began the task of tidying up the living room. Wally moved at super speed, flipping the sofas back and setting the tables upright in a blur, while you and your son gathered the Nerf darts and toys.

“Having a speedster around definitely makes cleaning up easier,” you remarked, smiling at Wally.

“Perks of the job,” he said, giving you a wink.

Once the apartment was back to its normal state, you all settled on the couch to watch a movie. Your son snuggled between you and Wally, his little head resting on Wally’s shoulder.

As the movie played, Wally felt the day’s exhaustion finally catching up to him, but it was a good kind of tired. The kind that came from being surrounded by the people he loved most.

As the credits rolled, you noticed your son had fallen asleep, his little chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Wally carefully picked him up and carried him to his room, tucking him in with a gentle kiss on his forehead.

When he returned to the living room, he found you waiting for him, a warm smile on your face. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For tonight. For everything.”

You looked up at him, your eyes reflecting the love you felt. “You’re welcome, Wally. We’re a team, remember? Through thick and thin.”

He kissed you softly, a promise of many more moments like this to come. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[steddieasitgoes]

Written for @eddiemonth Day 11 Prompt: Pirate read on ao3 | link to my ao3 Eddie Month series

There are a lot of challenges that come with being a parent: dealing with tantrums, having to be responsible, cooking all the time, making friends with other parents (thank God Steve’s a people person because Eddie would rather stab himself in the eye with a fork than listen to Brenda brag about her kids — Newsflash Brenda, all our kids shit in the toilet, it’s not an accomplishment!) Fortunately, Eddie’s conquered them all, mostly. What he hasn’t conquered, though, is the biggest parenting challenge of all: saying no to their little girl.

But, like, can anyone even blame him? How is he supposed to look at Rosie with her big, brown eyes behind her purple round glasses and her lush, springy curls and tell her no? He’s not, that’s how. It’s even worse now that she’s learned how to wobble her lower lip and bat her eyelashes (Dustin and Erica are on babysitting probation for that one.)

It’s a move she’s already perfected and has been pulling all day to keep Eddie from doing any of his actual parenting duties while Steve’s held up at school in a marathon of parent-teacher conferences. But it’s fine. Better than fine if he’s straight with himself. There’s nothing Eddie loves more than some quality make-believe time with his daughter. Brings him right back to his Hellfire days. And once Eddie commits to a story, he’s in it until they reach the end (or until Rosie gets bored — whichever comes first).

He takes world-building just as seriously, which is why their living room has been transformed into a pirate ship. The long couch stands in as the main dock. An assortment of cardboard boxes from their latest Costco run stacked in a chaotic way on the front and the end, making up the stern and bow. A once-white pillowcase is now stained with purple marker — a Rosie original drawn in the middle — and hanging from the broom shoved into the couch cushions. (Steve’s not going to be happy about that one, but he’ll level with him later.)

Rosie is dressed in her favorite pirate costume. One of Steve’s button-up shirts and her favorite black leggings. Her feet (and most of her legs) are shoved into a pair of Eddie’s old black boots and the left lens in her glasses is covered in black duct tape (fuck, he hopes it doesn’t scratch them). The store-bought pirate hat disappeared weeks ago so in its place is one of Eddie’s old bandanas. Thankfully, the store-bought sword they bought her last year hasn’t gone missing (he’s pretty sure his streak of saying yes would have to end if she demanded access to the kitchen knives). Oh, yeah, and she’s refusing to answer to her name — responding to Eddie only when he refers to her as Cap’n Skittle.

“It’s time you walk the plank, traitor!” she shouts, hoisting a well-loved Garfield stuffed animal over her head. Hopping on the couch cushions, she glances at Eddie over her shoulder. “One-arm Gravy, prepare the plank.”

“Ay, Ay, captain,” Eddie says, saluting with the hand that isn’t pulled through the sleeve of his shirt and resting on his stomach. Rosie really made him commit to the whole one-arm thing, and he’s not about to suppress her creative whims.

With a careful step into the middle of the couch, Eddie reaches for one of their custom decorative pillows. It takes a few tries, but eventually, he manages to get one end of the throw pillow balanced on the edge of the couch while the rest hangs off.

“The plank is ready, Cap’n Skittle.”

“Time to meet your end, Garfield!”

Without a moment of hesitation, Rosie chucks the Garfield stuffed animal off of the couch, sending it flying across the room and into the bookshelf against the other wall. Thankfully, nothing breaks or falls over. Explaining to Steve why Rosie isn’t in bed yet is easy. Explaining how his mint condition replica of the Beamer broke, not so much.

“See you never traitor,” she cackles, far more sinister than a six-year-old should sound.

On second thought, maybe suppressing her creative whims is a good idea, Eddie thinks for a moment before shaking his head. Nah, Wayne let me do whatever I wanted, and I turned out fine.

“It’s time to celebrate!” She gathers the rest of the stuffed animal-turned-crew mates as she skips her way back to Eddie. Hoisting and swaying her sword high up in the sky in celebration.

“Not so fast,” Eddie says, shoving his arm back through the sleeve of his shirt. He peels off the paper mustache Rosie demanded he wear and yanks out a sword he’s been hiding in the waistband of his pajama pants.

Rosie screams, lowering her own sword in preparation for a duel. “Not Cap’n No Moosetach! I killed you.”

“You tried to be a hero Cap’n Skittle, but you failed to remember the most important thing about being a pirate captain,” Eddie says, voice an octave lower than usual. He takes a tentative step forward on the couch and then another and another until Rosie’s trapped between him and the armrest. He holds his sword up to her chin, not touching, but close enough for her eyes to go a little crossed as she stares at it. “We never die before we get our treasure.”

Eddie swings his sword, but Rosie’s quick, swinging hers back at him. It’s the beginning of an epic sword battle that has both of them doing the most. Rosie leaps at him, wrapping her arms and legs around his middle until they’re both toppling over onto the couch. She quickly gets to her feet, shoving her sword in Eddie’s face for a moment before he rolls off the couch and into the “waters” below.

“You’ll never get the da’blooms,” she shouts. Glancing over her shoulder at the hoard of stuffed animals on the couch, she shouts, “Man the cannons!”

Eddie barely has time to shield his head before she’s throwing pillow after pillow at him. Shouting orders left and right to her “crew mates.” Hoisting himself up, Eddie gets back on the couch and engages in another battle with Rosie. Swords clinking against each other as Eddie hums a made-up soundtrack for their battles. He gets lost in the humming and has no time to defend himself when Rosie jabs her bony elbow into his ribs.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he groans, massaging over the spot. “That hurt Rosie.”

“Who is this Rosie you speak of?” she growls, threatening him with her sword. “I don’t know any Rosies!”

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek to keep from snorting. She may not biologically be his daughter, but oh man, does she make up for it in her quirks and personalities. After all, no one commits to a fantasy role more than a Munson.

The battle continues with both of them taking turns being the winners and losers until the front door knob starts to jingle.

“Avast Ye,” Eddie says, pulling Rosie in close. “A landlubber approaches.”

“Aye,” Rosie nods. “We can take him together.”

“A truce, you say? Only if you give me half of your Doubloons.”

“I’ll give you three.”

This time, Eddie does snort, earning a fierce glare from Rosie before the front door opens. Steve steps in, looking more exhausted than ever before. His lucky striped tie is pulled loose, his blazer slung casually over his shoulder.

“Aye, it’s the wealthy merchant Sir Steven of Stevensburg.”

Despite the pure exhaustion on his face and in his bones, Steve cocks his head to the side and arches his brow. “Sir Steve of Stevensburg? That’s the best you can come up with?” He toes off his work loafers and pads his sock-covered feet further into the mess of the living room.

“Hey,” Eddie whines, voice returning to normal. “Cut me some slack; we’ve been at this for hours.”

“Shush you landlubber!” Rosie says, leaping off the couch and into Steve’s arm. “If you want our Da’blooms, you have to fight me and Cap’n No Moosetach.”

“Da’blooms? I don’t need your da’blooms.”

“Then why are you braving these here seas, Sir Steven?” Eddie asks as he steps down from the couch, eager to get his hands on his clearly exhausted boyfriend.

“Well, I am a Prince in search of a fair maiden. A princess, actually,” he says, nuzzling his face into Rosie’s neck. She squeals in delight before squirming out of his arms and dropping to the floor. “Do you know of any princesses around here?” Steve cups his hands over his eyes, turning them into binoculars, as he glances around the room.

“Me! Me!” Rosie shouts, jumping up and down. “M’a princess! The prettiest princess in all the land.”

Steve crouches down to Rosie’s height. Hands on his hips and tired eyes squinted in a focused manner as he studies her pirate costume. “Hmm, I don’t know,” he puzzles, dramatically tapping his chin.

Eddie watches Steve take on the role of a Prince. When Rosie first started getting into make-believe, Steve struggled with the “yes and-ing” that comes with improvised play. It took a while for him to come out of his shell and allow himself to actually be goofy. If Eddie ever gets his hangs on the Harringtons he swears he’s going to ring their neck for stifling Steve’s creativity. Because dammit, his Steve is creative! Weaving epic adventure stories like it is second nature. Sometimes even better than Eddie can.

Eddie absolutely adores it when Steve gets like this. When the pressures of being an adult fade away all that matters is the story and Rosie’s imagination. It totally works for him too.

“You look like a pirate to me,” Steve says, finally, before standing up to his full height as he looks down on Rosie.

“Cap’n Skittle, to be exact,” Eddie says, saddling up next to Rosie with his sword outstretched in Steve’s direction. “The most vicious pirate to ever pirate the seas.”

“No, no,” Rosie shouts, yanking the sword from Eddie’s hands and tossing it aside, “‘M Cap’n Skittle now, but if you kiss me, I’ll turn into a princess! Kiss me, you’ll see!”

There’s a beat where Eddie and Steve share a fourth-wall-breaking glance. A silent should we be worried about this? and eh, it’s probably fine in return. They’re caught up in their half-concern, half-amused state that neither one realizes Rosie is moving until it’s too late. She throws herself at Steve, scaling her way up his legs and into his arms.

“Kiss me! Kiss me! Kiss me!”

With a laugh, Steve dramatically dips Rosie in his arms before planting a kiss on her lips. He pulls away with a loud smooching sound that has Rosie giggling and then rips the bandana off of her head. “Be still, my beating heart. You are a Princess!”

“Told ya so,” Rosie says before quickly switching to her new Princess role. “Tis I Princess Buttercup and you’re Prince Peanut. Together we’re Prince and Princess Peanut Buttercup!”

Damn candy commercials, Eddie thinks, hiding a smile behind a lock of hair. Glancing at the clock, Eddie realizes it’s way past Rosie’s bedtime. A fact Steve also picks up on based on the look he’s giving Eddie. A raised brow followed by a dramatic wink. He can practically hear Steve saying, watch this — forever the expert at getting Rosie to bed.

“What say thee, Princess Buttercup? Shall we retire to our room for a royal slumber?”

“But m’not tired,” she pouts.

“Ah, but Princess Buttercup. You must sleep so tomorrow we can defeat the evil Lord Munsington.”

“Munsington? Really?” Eddie laughs, shaking his head.

“We’re not talking to you, Lord Munsington,” Rosie scolds, shooing Eddie away with her hand. “We’re going to need lots of sleep to defeat him, Prince Buttercup.”

“Well, then, we better get started,” Steve muses, carrying Rosies toward her bedroom.

Eddie doesn’t follow, letting Steve get some quality time in with Rosie before she falls asleep. Besides, Eddie’s all storied out after hours and hours of playing pirates and witches and fairy tea parties. He collapses on the couch instead, letting his own eyes shut until he hears Steve’s feet padding their way to him.

“Missed you,” Steve says, kissing the top of Eddie’s head before sinking into the couch cushion beside him. He’s already stripped out of his work clothes, clad now in a pair of worn sweatpants.

“Missed you too,” Eddie says, snuggling up to Steve’s side. His warm shirtless body feels relaxing on Eddie’s aching bones. Especially his ribs which are already bruising from Rosie’s brutal hit earlier.

“Looks like I missed a good storytelling day.”

Eddie hums. “Well, we lost the plot at the end there, but yeah, it was a good storytelling day.”

“Worth the mess of our living room?” Steve asks, glancing around at the cardboard boxes, stuffed animal graveyard, and pillows littering the floor.

“I’ll clean it up in the morning, promise,” Eddie says through a yawn. “Right now, Lord Munsington needs his sleep.”

“Come on then,” Steve huffs, hot air fluttering the unruly tendrils of Eddie’s hair. Heaving Eddie off of him, he stands to his feet before extending a hand out. “Prince Peanut is feeling generous and will allow Lord Munsington to sleep in his bed.”

“Will cuddling be allowed?” Eddie asks, slapping his hand into Steve’s.

With a swift yank, Eddie’s on his feet and being propelled into Steve’s awaiting arms. He wraps his own around Steve’s neck, fingers kneading at the knots in his neck. Steve groans in pleasure before his own arms wrap around Eddie’s middle, squeezing.

“Cuddles are always allowed.”

Untangling himself from Steve, he moves his right hand until it rests on the small of Steve’s back. “Then let’s get a move on it,” Eddie says, guiding them towards their bedroom.

[wordywarriorwrites]

Burning Hearts

Burning Hearts | A03 | Master List | Rating: M

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F! Reader

Summary: Frankie gave you up for all the right reasons, but he just can't seem to let you go...

Pairing: Frankie Morales X F! Reader, Triple Frontier AU

Warnings: Language. Smut. Mentions of violence.

It’s well past last call, but the bartender pours Frankie another without him having to ask.

He knocks it back and chases the burn with a long drag off his cigarette. The combination of nicotine and booze gives him a pleasant buzz, but his favored tried-and-true vices bring him no relief.

All the club’s patrons shuffled out about an hour ago, but the staff carries on, seemingly content to remain open just to wait on him. Frankie knows they won’t cut him off or boot him out, but the need to maintain appearances, at least in public, prompts him to reach for his wallet.

He doesn’t pay for drinks – not at this particular watering hole – so, the Benjamin he slaps down on the counter is more for the speedy service and absence of questions than anything else. He stabs out his smoke, and when he gets to his feet, the peanut gallery on the peripheral of his pity party of one simply moves off to do other things.

An armed enforcer – especially a drunk one, out after hours and clearly spoiling for a fight – would prompt most people to run for cover, but the strippers are pros, and the guards don’t flinch easily. Plus, Frankie’s part owner, which means he can do whatever the fuck he wants, and what he wants, more than anything, is to see you.

So, he gives in to the urge.

He walks by the stage, tips the lone dancer for still bothering to put on a show, and salutes both the DJ and bouncer as he exits out the back. His driver is seated behind the wheel of his always-at-the-ready Bentley, and Frankie parks his ass on the supple, buttery leather of the backseat for the journey. By the time he reaches your estate, he’s sobered up a bit, answered all the texts he’s been ignoring, and pulverized about a half-dozen mints into the grooves of his molars.

The security guys at the gate know who he is. They take pity on him, allowing his vehicle to pass and continue on up the winding driveway. As the car crests the small hill, Frankie’s eyes sweep over the acreage, taking note of the tables and chairs set up on the grass. There are also at least a dozen catering trucks and twice as many hands, all busily taking apart centerpieces, pushing overflowing bins of linens, packing away decorations, and breaking down a podium, dance floor, and sound system.  

There are other armed guards – way more than usual, in fact. Vested bodies dressed in black, with their intimidating visages dispersed in strategic places along the peripheral and in blind spots. Frankie isn’t nervous; he knows they’re on the job, and he doesn’t intend to do anything that would spur them or their semi-automatics into action.

Foregoing the bell, he uses the knocker, allowing the old, iron lionhead to wallop against the mahogany front door. Your head of security, Will Miller, answers promptly, weapon drawn and ready for action. He’s young and a bit tetchy, but he’s got sharp eyes and knows how to handle himself. Will’s been by your side for years and takes his job very seriously, and though Frankie would never admit it aloud, he’s relieved the guy is ready and able to protect you with unhesitating ruthlessness.  

“Morales,” Will greets tersely. “State your business.”

“I just wanna see her,” Frankie replies without preamble.

He scoffs and curls his upper lip, but before he can reply with something undoubtedly and deservedly curt, your voice lilts through air.

“William?” you call out. “Who is it?”

It’s clear by Will’s thunderous expression that Frankie’s unexpected arrival has caused a disruption of the regularly scheduled programming. He’s positive the guy is just itching to plug him, but that doesn’t happen. Instead of being pumped full of lead, a quiet exchange between you and Will takes place, ending with him re-holstering his weapon and you graciously inviting Frankie inside.

The polonaise runner just beyond the threshold guides Frankie into the foyer, the hardwood floor beneath it polished to a high shine and positively gleaming under the soft light emitting from the chandelier hanging overhead. The ornate mirror situated above the marble console in the entryway reveals his slumped profile and wrinkled suit, and Will’s unimpressed sneer is all it takes to get him to straighten his tie and square his shoulders.

Will resets the alarm, and takes your slight nod and murmured thanks for the polite dismissal it is. Once he’s gone, you motion for Frankie to follow you, traversing a familiar path toward the kitchen. He clocks the sway of your hips as he trails behind, paying no mind to the cleaning crew who stops mid-task to hurriedly make themselves scarce. The chef and small army of assistants packing up leftovers and scrubbing the hell out of cookware are just as respectful, filing out in a silent, quick procession.

The two of you are alone, so, you play hostess, going for the fridge and emerging with a bottle of Voss in hand. After placing it on the island within his reach, you move off, and the physical distance between you isn’t lost on him. It hurts, but affords Frankie the opportunity to take you in. Louboutin heels. Trendy cocktail dress with a modest hem length and neckline. Tasteful jewelry, light make-up, and hair pinned back in an elegant twist.  

You’re straight-up class. And so far beyond his reach.

You – blue-blooded and born into generational wealth. Him – a nobody from nowhere. Your name commands respect. His incites fear. You’re an admired, contributing member of the community, full of kindness, and always willing to help. He’s a trigger man, constantly on the precipice of chaos, dragging around a sordid reputation, and always ready to run.

You’re the real deal. You’ve got the pedigree that demands a high-class match with someone important. Someone who doesn’t have a permanent target on his back. Someone safe, who doesn’t always have to fight, fuck, kill, or steal to keep what he’s got. And he knows – damn it, he knows he’s not worthy…   

“Why are you here, Frankie?” you prompt gently.

Thoughts grinding to a halt and at a loss for the right words, he simply shrugs. The picture of patience, you remain silent, which is just as well. He knows he can’t keep doing this to himself or to you. He needs to do right by you. He needs stay the fuck away, but it’s always so much easier said than actually done.

In fact, it hasn’t been that long since he last saw you. A month, maybe? He wondered then, as he does now, if you’ve moved on because he certainly, obviously, hasn’t. And the thought of anyone else touching you? The mere idea of you with another? Someone who could be part of your world, whose mere presence wouldn’t put your life at risk? It makes Frankie reexamine both you and his surroundings with a more observant, suspicious gaze.

Beyond the obvious chaos of a messy kitchen is a small chef’s table, and on the surface, a half-eaten chartreuse board and an open bottle of Merlot. Two pieces of stemware; one stained with lipstick matching your shade, and the other, blemished by the remaining inch of red at the bottom. The lingering stench of a cigar. The presence of your favorite handbag on the chair.

What he perceives amounts to nothing more than a collection of assumptive, so-called evidence that fits the wild narrative in his mind. Still, Frankie seethes with jealousy. Mind and body all tilt-o-whirl, he snarls – deep and nasty, like he’s some sort of fucking animal protecting his territory, but you don’t balk. Instead, you reach for your clutch, pop the clasp, and fish out what looks like a folded piece of paper.

“The charity fundraiser was this evening, remember?” you explain without any guilt or guile. “Pope asked for a private audience after. Apparently, I forgot to rescind his invitation.”

Frankie runs the pad of his thumb over his lower lip, eyes narrowing at the nondescript check you slide across the island’s countertop. Temper unjustifiably flared and now subsequently doused, he snatches up the proffered bottle of water, uncaps it, and forces gulps past the fist-sized lump in his throat.

Fuckin’ Pope. When it comes to making money, he’s merciless, indiscriminate, and not one to let personal feelings get in the way of business dealings. Of course, he’d want to rub elbows with your people. His presence at your soiree, along with Will’s trigger-happy mood, and all the extra staff and guards? It makes complete sense.

But a one-on-one so late afterward? It must’ve been important – something urgent that couldn’t be spoken of in mixed company or discussed over the phone. There are only so many things a man like Pope and a woman like you would have to talk about. Last Frankie knew, the police were still sniffing around, and the lawyer you have on retainer is having a fucking field day, but the heat isn’t bad enough to warrant a face-to-face.

Then again, maybe Pope sought you out for personal reasons and professional gains. Pairing up with the big Boss would guarantee your continued safety and silence a lot of wagging tongues. Your connections would also open up a plethora of new revenue streams, providing Pope with unfettered access to some very deep pockets. Shit, Frankie can practically hear Pope listing the mutual benefits, spinning the rationale of it all, and it makes him feel sick.

Sick and absolutely fucking murderous.

You’re an honest, good woman. All that forthrightness and decency – it’s right there, in your beguiling, steady gaze. And you’re not stupid. In fact, you’re too damn smart for your own good, and the thought of you putting yourself at risk makes Frankie itchy all over. You’re so disarmingly calm, while he’s barely fucking holding it together, and damn it, he has to know for sure…

“Did Pope –” Frankie croaks, scraping a hand through his hair. “Did he ask you to do something for him? Or want to take you out on like, a date, or whatever?”

Lips parting in shock, you blink as if taken aback, and that’s answer enough. Relief buoys and deflates him, and Frankie downplays his seesawing emotions and outlandish, self-sabotaging thoughts by moving over to the table and busying his hands. He pokes at the slices of baguette and the cubes of gourmet cheese. Feigns interest in the thinly sliced prosciutto. Tilts the wine bottle to glance at the label.

None of it interests him because the only thing Frankie’s interested in is you. He gave you up for all right reasons, but still, the feelings you stir inside of him, and the white-hot desire he has for you – they’ll never go away. They roll through him now, stronger than ever; dark possessiveness and furious agony punching him in the gut and pulsing between his legs and clawing at his already tender, bleeding heart.

Frankie met you while scouting some swanky restaurant ripe for poaching, and after cajoling you into abandoning a dinner party, he somehow talked you into drinks, and then, seduced you into his bed. What should’ve been an amazing one-night stand morphed into eight months that quite literally rocked his world. Your acceptance of who he is, your ability to compartmentalize, the way you simply fit in and adapted to his extremely fucked up reality – hell, if the shoe were on the other foot, Frankie’s not sure he could’ve risen to the occasion or withstood it.

What he’s found and experienced with you – it’s fucking lightning in a bottle. Insane, magical, incomprehensible. It never happens for guys like him because guys like him don’t get the girl or the happily-ever-after. Too good to be true? Maybe. Was he in too deep? Absolutely. But it didn’t matter if you were ignorant or a willing participant – it was dangerous either way.

And Pope’s not just the Boss – he’s Frankie’s best friend. His brother. And Frankie’s a loyal soldier – has been since the two of them were in diapers. Yes, he’s in love with you, and if you moved on, he’d get over it eventually. Someday. Maybe. But if you moved on with Pope? He wouldn’t – couldn’t – survive that. And because he’s a fucking glutton for punishment, he has to ask the million-dollar question.

“What if he wanted to?” Frankie asks, pressing his thumb into what he believes is a hunk of Parmesan Reggiano and mashing it flat. “Would you consider it?”

“Consider what?” you wonder. 

“Being with him?”

A sharp breath. A ragged exhale. Your lower lip trembles before it gets bitten into submission by your teeth, and when you meet his gaze, he sees his own pain reflected back at him a thousand times over.

You tell him to leave, heels tap-tap-tapping as you hastily move for the intercom system, voice clipped and cold as you inform him a maid will see him out. He hasn’t just offended you; he’s hurt you, again, but a halting hand on your waist and a fervently whispered apology keeps you from the call button.

Frankie knows he’s got no fucking right – no right to question you or touch you, and certainly no right to step forward when you step back. He’s got no right to dig his fingers into your hip or press you up against the pantry door or burrow his nose against the crown of your head and slowly, greedily inhale.

“I’d fuckin’ kill him,” he growls. “If he ever – I swear, I’d fucking rip his throat out.”

You place your hand over his, and your touch is so soothing, immediately calming his too-hot temper like top-shelf whiskey. Your index finger ghosts over his knuckle tattoos. Ink that means nothing to outsiders, but showcases to anyone who knows his world just how dangerous he is. It’s the hand he uses to dispense justice; it’s scarred, tainted and stained with blood, yet, you touch it with such reverence, such fearlessness…

Frankie closes his eyes and rolls his jaw, “I shouldn’t have – I didn’t mean –”

“I wouldn’t,” you interject, words weighted and insistent. “Not ever.”

“You don’t – shit, you don’t need to tell me that,” he insists, shaking his head at his own uncouth stupidity. “Besides, it’s none of my business. And you’re right – I should go. I should go and stay gone.”

You let out a soft, contrary sound, “You shouldn’t have left.”

He swallows hard. You turn your head. Then, your nose and cheek are brushing against his jaw in a gesture of affection that settles something inside of him that’s too feral to define. Your palms gliding up his arms, along his shoulders, and down the expanse of his chest – it pulls him back from the ledge he’s been tiptoeing along since the day he said goodbye to you.

Frankie meets your eyes. Cups your cheek. Allows his thumb to caress your soft skin. You say nothing, but you look at him as if he’s the only one – as if there could never be another – and he wonders if you can tell that he feels the same way.

“I love you, Frankie,” you assert. “It’s always going to be you.”

“Cariño…” he sighs against your temple.

You’re braver – so much braver than he’ll ever be – and you’re the one who gives into it. You press your lips to the scruff covering his chin, and that gentle, achingly familiar prelude to a kiss destroys his already too-flimsy resolve. Frankie is the one surrendering to you, but you’re the one who yields to him, tilting your head back and opening up to his eager mouth.

He dreamt of you every night. Woke up every day to cold sheets. Had been unable to throw away your toothbrush or part with the half-full bottle of your shampoo. Was unwilling to change the lock screen on his phone from a picture of you to something less painful to look at. He couldn’t delete the playlist you made for him or stop buying the books you put in his Amazon cart. Your favorite fuzzy socks are still in his top drawer, tucked safely next to the pristinely folded, ridiculously threadbare boyband t-shirt you’ve had since you were a teenager.

You have no idea what you do to him. No clue about the kind of hell he’d raise for you, the bodies he’d put in the ground, the lives he’d destroy – all for you. He can’t explain it, not in words, so, he coveys it with his body. Seeking the taste of you with his tongue and searching for your skin with his hands. Sliding his thigh between your legs and rocking into you because he just wants to be close – he just wants to feel you, to lose himself inside of you, to make you smile at him again.

“Upstairs,” you whisper into his ear. “Come upstairs with me, Frankie.”

Powerless to resist, he follows you to the privacy of your room, located on the second floor at the very end of the hall. Jacket, belt, tie – you divest him of his modern-day armor, letting the pieces fall like petals leading up the path to the altar that is your California King-sized bed. Frankie’s shoulder holster is last, and once he’s placed his gun safely on the nightstand, you begin frantically working apart the buttons on his shirt.  

“Love you, cariño,” he pants as he yanks his arms free of the sleeves. “I love you so goddamn much.”

You kick off your heels before giving him your back, “Show me.”

Frankie lowers the zipper on your dress. Pushes at the straps. Watches the inky, supple material slip and slide off your figure. You work your panties down, ass teasingly meeting his crotch as you push the delicate silk and lace past your garter belt. Then, you ease down onto the bed, back hitting the downy comforter with a soft thud.

He’s palming himself through his pants, trying to decide where to start, and your thighs parting in invitation help him make up his mind. He kneels. Hooks his arms around your calves. Yanks you forward until your ass is practically hanging off the mattress. You let out a peal of laughter, and he grins up at you rather dopily as he hitches your legs over his shoulders.

“This okay?” he breathes against your calve.

You touch the tip of your tongue to your upper lip and nod, “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Are you?”

It’s impossible to miss the vulnerability and doubt in your eyes. Frankie knows he wasn’t the only one brokenhearted and that his mistakes hurt you both. An apology seems so inadequate, but he says it anyway, listing the litany of ways he intends to make it up to you, but only if you’ll allow it.

You cup his face and let out a sigh, “I just want you. That’s all.”

Frankie nods. Presses a kiss to your palm. Allows his lips and tongue to trace a path up your thighs, canines sinking into supple flesh along the way. He seeks the center of you with a parched tongue and fingers longing to touch, and when he reaches his destination, you cry out for him.

“That’s my girl,” he groans, suckling your clit and dipping his tongue inside for a taste. “Let me take care of you, cariño. Just let go for me, yeah?” 

Your left breast – plump, soft, and encased in silk – spills free when he yanks the cup of your bra down. Frankie pinches the hardened peak of your nipple, and you arch into his caress, clamping down on his fingers and writhing all over his face. You’re lost to it, just like he is, and when you come against his mouth, it’s indescribably beautiful.

“I need you,” you declare fervently. “Need you inside me, Frankie.”

He doesn’t heed your call until he makes you come again. When he does get to his feet, you’re boneless, but still, you sit up and reach for him. As soon as he’s popped the button on his pants and worked the zipper down, your hands are there, tugging at his boxers. You take him out and wrap your fingers around him, nice and snug, just how he likes. He’s leaking like a goddamn faucet, unable to stop his hips from pumping into your firm hold, and he has to put a halt to your teasing or risk coming in your hand. 

His boxers and pants are in a tangle over his shoes, but he manages to kick everything off and crawl into the soft pile of blankets and pillows after you. Frankie peels off your stockings. Winds your silky-smooth, bare legs around his waist. He kisses you, teasing you and bumping your clit with his hard length until you beg him for it.

He lines up. Pushes in. And then, it’s paradise – pure and true.

You twine your arms over his shoulders, pulling him down into the cradle of your embrace until he’s practically smothering you. Forearms braced on either side of your head and face buried into the crook of your neck, Frankie eases back and slowly thrusts forward to the hilt with a roll of his hips. You meet him halfway, tilting your pelvis up and bearing down, engulfing him in a fist-tight wetness that forces him to work for every deep stroke.  

“You feel so fuckin’ good, cariño,” he groans, smearing his lips along the hinge of your jaw. Frankie puts more effort and weight behind each thrust, hitting deep and keeping a firm, steady pace that he knows gets you off. “Did you miss this? Miss me?”

You mewl. Nod frantically. Forehead pressed to yours, he reaches for the bend of your knee and loops your leg over the crook of his elbow so he can put his back into it. Driving and grinding into you possessively, gaze fixated on yours, flitting between nipping at the tops of your breasts and licking into your mouth and sucking at the pulse point of your neck.

“N-no more,” you stutter, biting into the meat of his shoulder. “No more running, Frankie.”

Frankie nods and snaps his hips forward, “No more running.”

The promise is sealed with another kiss, and when you come for him again, Frankie loses what little finesse he still possesses. You encourage his rutting, whispering in his ear that you want it, that you need him to come inside you. And you’re so wet, he can hear it – how turned on you are, how good he makes you feel, and it’s so good – so goddamned good – that when he comes, his vision dims and all the noise in his head goes silent.

Save for your mingled, harsh breaths, it’s quiet. Peaceful. You welcome his weight on top of you, holding him, scratching at his scalp and kissing his forehead and running your hands up and down his spine. Affection, freely given, without any expectation or ulterior motive behind it. It reminds him of what he almost lost, and he vows to himself that he’ll never let you go again. 

Frankie looks up at you with sleepy, half-lidded eyes, “What did Pope actually want?”

“He begged me to take you back,” you reply, letting out an amused sound as you trace a fingertip over the shell of his ear. “Said he’d donate ten thousand dollars if I did.”

“Is that so? And what did you say?”

“I told him it wasn’t my decision. Then, he upped the offer to twenty, so, I said I’d think about it.”

Frankie snorts and squeezes your waist, “Oh, I bet he hated that.”

“Well, you’ve apparently been a real pain in his ass lately,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug. “So, I told him to donate fifty, and that I’d call him when you came to your senses.” 

He laughs – full-bodied and freely. He kisses you – proud of the hard bargain you drove. And once Frankie’s tucked into bed beside you, absorbing your warmth into his cold bones, he makes a mental note to thank Pope for his meddling in the morning.