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mariacallous · 2 months ago

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The New York Times once dubbed the Princeton professor Robert George, who has guided Republican elites for decades, “the reigning brain of the Christian right.” Last year, he issued a stark warning to his ideological allies. “Each time we think the horrific virus of anti-Semitism has been extirpated, it reappears,” he wrote in May 2023. “A plea to my fellow Catholics—especially Catholic young people: Stay a million miles from this evil. Do not let it infect your thinking.” When I spoke with George that summer, he likened his sense of foreboding to that of Heinrich Heine, the 19th-century German poet who prophesied the rise of Nazism in 1834.

Some 15 months later, the conservative commentator Tucker Carlson welcomed a man named Darryl Cooper onto his web-based show and introduced him to millions of followers as “the best and most honest popular historian in the United States.” The two proceeded to discuss how Adolf Hitler might have gotten a bad rap and why British Prime Minister Winston Churchill was “the chief villain of the Second World War.”

Hitler tried “to broadcast a call for peace directly to the British people” and wanted to “work with the other powers to reach an acceptable solution to the Jewish problem,” Cooper elaborated in a social-media post. “He was ignored.” Why the Jews should have been considered a “problem” in the first place—and what a satisfactory “solution” to their inconvenient existence might be—was not addressed.

Some Republican politicians spoke out against Carlson’s conversation with Cooper, and many historians, including conservative ones, debunked its Holocaust revisionism. But Carlson is no fringe figure. His show ranks as one of the top podcasts in the United States; videos of its episodes rack up millions of views. He has the ear of Donald Trump and spoke during prime time at the 2024 Republican National Convention. His anti-Jewish provocations are not a personal idiosyncrasy but the latest expression of an insurgent force on the American right—one that began to swell when Trump first declared his candidacy for president and that has come to challenge the identity of the conservative movement itself.

Anti-Semitism has always existed on the political extremes, but it began to migrate into the mainstream of the Republican coalition during the Trump administration. At first, the prejudice took the guise of protest.

In 2019, hecklers pursued the Republican congressman Dan Crenshaw—a popular former Navy SEAL from Texas—across a tour of college campuses, posing leading questions to him about Jews and Israel, and insinuating that the Jewish state was behind the 9/11 attacks. The activists called themselves “Groypers” and were led by a young white supremacist named Nick Fuentes, an internet personality who had defended racial segregation, denied the Holocaust, and participated in the 2017 rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, where marchers chanted, “Jews will not replace us.”

The slogan referred to a far-right fantasy known as the “Great Replacement,” according to which Jews are plotting to flood the country with Black and brown migrants in order to displace the white race. That belief animated Robert Bowers, who perpetrated the largest massacre of Jews on American soil at a Pittsburgh synagogue in 2018 after sharing rants about the Great Replacement on social media. The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, the gunman wrote in his final post, “likes to bring invaders in that kill our people … Screw your optics, I’m going in.”

Less than three years later, Carlson sanitized that same conspiracy theory on his top-rated cable-news show. “They’re trying to change the population of the United States,” the Fox host declared, “and they hate it when you say that because it’s true, but that’s exactly what they’re doing.” Like many before him, Carlson maintained plausible deniability by affirming an anti-Semitic accusation without explicitly naming Jews as culprits. He could rely on members of his audience to fill in the blanks.

Carlson and Fuentes weren’t the only ones who recognized the rising appeal of anti-Semitism on the right. On January 6, 2021, an influencer named Elijah Schaffer joined thousands of Trump supporters storming the U.S. Capitol, posting live from House Speaker Nancy Pelosi’s office. Eighteen months later, Schaffer publicly polled his hundreds of thousands of Twitter followers: “Do you believe Jews disproportionately control the world institutions, banks, & are waging war on white, western society?” Social-media polls are not scientific, so the fact that more than 70 percent of respondents said some version of “yes” matters less than the fact that 94,000 people participated in the survey. Schaffer correctly gauged that this subject was something that his audience wanted to discuss, and certainly not something that would hurt his career.

With little fanfare, the tide had turned in favor of those advancing anti-Semitic arguments. In 2019, Fuentes and his faction were disrupting Republican politicians like Crenshaw. By 2022, Fuentes was shaking hands onstage with Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene and dining with Trump at Mar-a-Lago. In 2019, the Groyper activists were picketing events held by Turning Point USA, the conservative youth organization founded by the activist Charlie Kirk. By 2024, Turning Point was employing—and periodically firing and denouncing—anti-Semitic influencers who appeared at conventions run by Fuentes. “The Zionist Jews controlling our planet are all pedophiles who have no regard for the sanctity of human life and purity,” one of the organization’s ambassadors posted before she was dismissed.

In 2020, Carlson’s lead writer, Blake Neff, was compelled to resign after he was exposed as a regular contributor to a racist internet forum. Today, he produces Kirk’s podcast and recently reported alongside him at the Republican National Convention. “Why does Turning Point USA keep pushing anti-Semitism?” asked Erick Erickson, the longtime conservative radio host and activist, last October. The answer: Because that’s what a growing portion of the audience wants.

“When I began my career in 2017,” Fuentes wrote in May 2023, “I was considered radioactive in the American Right for my White Identitarian, race realist, ‘Jewish aware,’ counter-Zionist, authoritarian, traditional Catholic views … In 2023, on almost every count, our previously radioactive views are pounding on the door of the political mainstream.” Fuentes is a congenital liar, but a year after this triumphalist pronouncement, his basic point is hard to dispute. Little by little, the extreme has become mainstream—especially since October 7.

Last December, Tucker Carlson joined the popular anti-establishment podcast Breaking Points to discuss the Gaza conflict and accused a prominent Jewish political personality of disloyalty to the nation. “They don’t care about the country at all,” he told the host, “but I do … because I’m from here, my family’s been here hundreds of years, I plan to stay here. Like, I’m shocked by how little they care about the country, including the person you mentioned. And I can’t imagine how someone like that could get an audience of people who claim to care about America, because he doesn’t, obviously.”

The twist: “He” was not some far-left activist who had called America an irredeemably racist regime. Carlson was referring to Ben Shapiro, arguably the most visible Jewish conservative in America, and insinuating that despite his decades of paeans to American exceptionalism, Shapiro was a foreign implant secretly serving Israeli interests. The podcast host did not object to Carlson’s remarks.

The war in Gaza has placed Jews and their role in American politics under a microscope. Much has been written about how the conflict has divided the left and led to a spike in anti-Semitism in progressive spaces, but less attention has been paid to the similar shake-up on the right, where events in the Middle East have forced previously subterranean tensions to the surface. Today, the Republican Party’s establishment says that it stands with Israel and against anti-Semitism, but that stance is under attack by a new wave of insurgents with a very different agenda.

Since October 7, in addition to slurring Shapiro, Carlson has hosted a parade of anti-Jewish guests on his show. One was Candace Owens, the far-right podcaster known for her defenses of another anti-Jewish agitator, Kanye “Ye” West. Owens had already clashed with her employer—the conservative outlet The Daily Wire, co-founded by Shapiro—over her seeming indifference to anti-Semitism. But after the Hamas assault, she began making explicit what had previously been implicit—including liking a social-media post that accused a rabbi of being “drunk on Christian blood,” a reference to the medieval blood libel. The Daily Wire severed ties with her soon after. But this did not remotely curb her appeal.

Today, Owens can be found fulminating on her YouTube channel (2.4 million subscribers) or X feed (5.6 million followers) about how a devil-worshipping Jewish cult controls the world, and how Israel was complicit in the 9/11 attacks and killed President John F. Kennedy. Owens has also jumped aboard the Reich-Rehabilitation Express. “What is it about Hitler? Why is he the most evil?” she asked in July. “The first thing people would say is: ‘Well, an ethnic cleansing almost took place.’ And now I offer back: ‘You mean like we actually did to the Germans.’”

“Many Americans are learning that WW2 history is not as black and white as we were taught and some details were purposefully omitted from our textbooks,” she wrote after Carlson’s Holocaust conversation came under fire. The post received 15,000 likes.

Donald Trump’s entry into Republican politics intensified several forces that have contributed to the rise of anti-Semitism on the American right. One was populism, which pits the common people against a corrupt elite. Populists play on discontents that reflect genuine failures of the establishment, but their approach also readily maps onto the ancient anti-Semitic canard that clandestine string-pulling Jews are the source of society’s problems. Once people become convinced that the world is oppressed by an invisible hand, they often conclude that the hand belongs to an invisible Jew.

Another such force is isolationism, or the desire to extricate the United States from foreign entanglements, following decades of debacles in the Middle East. But like the original America First Committee, which sought to keep the country out of World War II, today’s isolationists often conceive of Jews as either rootless cosmopolitans undermining national cohesion or dual loyalists subverting the national interest in service of their own. In this regard, the Tucker Carlsons of 2024 resemble the reactionary activists of the 1930s, such as the aviator Charles Lindbergh, who infamously accused Jewish leaders of acting “for reasons which are not American,” and warned of “their large ownership and influence in our motion pictures, our press, our radio and our government.”

Populism and isolationism have legitimate expressions, but preventing them from descending into anti-Semitism requires leaders willing to restrain their movement’s worst instincts. Today’s right has fewer by the day. Trump fundamentally refuses to repudiate anyone who supports him, and by devolving power from traditional Republican elites and institutions to a diffuse array of online influencers, the former president has ensured that no one is in a position to corral the right’s excesses, even if someone wanted to.

As one conservative columnist put it to me in August 2023, “What you’re actually worried about is not Trump being Hitler. What you’re worried about is Trump incentivizing anti-Semites,” to the point where “a generation from now, you’ve got Karl Lueger,” the anti-Jewish mayor of Vienna who inspired Hitler, “and two generations from now, you do have something like that.” The accelerant that is social-media discourse, together with a war that brings Jews to the center of political attention, could shorten that timeline.

For now, the biggest obstacle to anti-Semitism’s ascent on the right is the Republican rank and file’s general commitment to Israel, which causes them to recoil when people like Owens rant about how the Jewish state is run by a cabal of satanic pedophiles. Even conservatives like Trump’s running mate, J. D. Vance, a neo-isolationist who opposes foreign aid to Ukraine, are careful to affirm their continued support for Israel, in deference to the party base.

But this residual Zionism shields only Israeli Jews from abuse, not American ones—and it certainly does not protect the large majority of American Jews who vote for Democrats. This is why Trump suffers no consequences in his own coalition when he rails against “liberal Jews” who “voted to destroy America.” But such vilification won’t end there. As hard-core anti-Israel activists who have engaged in anti-Semitism against American Jews have demonstrated, most people who hate one swath of the world’s Jews eventually turn on the rest. “If I don’t win this election,” Trump said last week, “the Jewish people would have a lot to do with a loss.”

More than populism and isolationism, the force that unites the right’s anti-Semites and explains why they have been slowly winning the war for the future of conservatism is conspiracism. To see its power in practice, one need only examine the social-media posts of Elon Musk, which serve as a window into the mindset of the insurgent right and its receptivity to anti-Semitism.

Over the past year, the world’s richest man has repeatedly shared anti-Jewish propaganda on X, only to walk it back following criticism from more traditional conservative quarters. In November, Musk affirmed the Great Replacement theory, replying to a white nationalist who expressed it with these words: “You have said the actual truth.” After a furious backlash, the magnate recanted, saying, “It might be literally the worst and dumbest post I’ve ever done.” Musk subsequently met with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and accompanied Ben Shapiro on a trip to Auschwitz, but the lesson didn’t quite take. Earlier this month, he shared Carlson’s discussion of Holocaust revisionism with the approbation: “Very interesting. Worth watching.” Once again under fire, he deleted the tweet and apologized, saying he’d listened to only part of the interview.

But this lesson is also unlikely to stick, because like many on the new right, Musk is in thrall to a worldview that makes him particularly susceptible to anti-Jewish ideas. Last September, not long before Musk declared the “actual truth” of the Great Replacement, he participated in a public exchange with a group of rabbis, activists, and Jewish conservatives. The discussion was intended as an intervention to inoculate Musk against anti-Semitism, but early on, he said something that showed why the cause was likely lost before the conversation even began. “I think,” Musk cracked, “we’re running out of conspiracy theories that didn’t turn out to be true.”

The popularity of such sentiments among contemporary conservatives explains why the likes of Carlson and Owens have been gaining ground and old-guard conservatives such as Shapiro and Erickson have been losing it. Simply put, as Trump and his allies have coopted the conservative movement, it has become defined by a fundamental distrust of authority and institutions, and a concurrent embrace of conspiracy theories about elite cabals. And the more conspiratorial thinking becomes commonplace on the right, the more inevitable that its partisans will land on one of the oldest conspiracies of them all.

Conspiratorial thinking is neither new to American politics nor confined to one end of the ideological spectrum. But Trump has made foundational what was once marginal. Beginning with birtherism and culminating in election denialism, he turned anti-establishment conspiracism into a litmus test for attaining political power, compelling Republicans to either sign on to his claims of 2020 fraud or be exiled to irrelevance.

The fundamental fault line in the conservative coalition became whether someone was willing to buy into ever more elaborate fantasies. The result was to elevate those with flexible approaches to facts, such as Carlson and Owens, who were predisposed to say and do anything—no matter how hypocritical or absurd—to obtain influence. Once opened, this conspiratorial box could not be closed. After all, a movement that legitimizes crackpot schemes about rigged voting machines and microchipped vaccines cannot simply turn around and draw the line at the Jews.

For mercenary opportunists like Carlson, this moment holds incredible promise. But for Republicans with principles—those who know who won the 2020 election, or who was the bad guy in World War II, and can’t bring themselves to say otherwise—it’s a time of profound peril. And for Jews, the targets of one of the world’s deadliest conspiracy theories, such developments are even more forboding.

“It is now incumbent on all decent people, and especially those on the right, to demand that Carlson no longer be treated as a mainstream figure,” Jonathan Tobin, the pro-Trump conservative editor of the Jewish News Syndicate, wrote after Carlson’s World War II episode. “He must be put in his place, and condemned by Trump and Vance.”

Anti-Semitism’s ultimate victory in GOP politics is not assured. Musk did delete his tweets, Owens was fired, and some Republicans did condemn Carlson’s Holocaust segment. But beseeching Trump and his camp to intervene here mistakes the cause for the cure.

Three days after Carlson posted his Hitler apologetics, Vance shrugged off the controversy and recorded an interview with him, and this past Saturday, the two men yukked it up onstage at a political event in Pennsylvania before an audience of thousands. Such coziness should not surprise, given that Carlson was reportedly instrumental in securing the VP slot for the Ohio senator. Asked earlier if he took issue with Carlson’s decision to air the Holocaust revisionism, Vance retorted, “The fundamental idea here is Republicans believe not in censorship; we believe in free speech and debate.” He conveniently declined to use his own speech to debate Carlson’s.

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mlqueen89 · 1 day ago

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Two | Ego

i took the miracle move on drug the effects were temporary (i love you) it's ruining my life

Fortnight by Taylor Swift ft. Post Malone | TTPD |

pairing: jake “hangman” seresin / ofc (top gun: maverick)

rating: 18+ (minors dni)

warnings: smut, mentions of p in v sex, mentions of oral (f receiving).

word count: 9,776

summary: “if it isn’t the consequences of my own actions.” in which ellie has to deal with the consequences of having the best sex ever with an actual pilot who she actually has to work with. A familiar face makes an appearance to guide ellie through politics at miramar.

A/N: guys guys guys, you are giving me liiiiife. the reception to the first chapter has been crazy. lots of jake head canon developing here. essentially, i've decided that watermelon sugar by harry styles is jake coded. for... reasons. my guy is all acts of service.

this one was also beta read by my bestest friend, so this one goes out to jj. love you girl, thanks for reading the smuttiest part of my brain. i also apologize for the amount of taylor swift/pop culture references (srry, not srry). also, the number of videos i watched on F-14s (tomcats) and F-18s (super hornets) is cray.

working my way through the november prompts, slowly but surely! there are a few left, so if you want to request, head on over there.

❥ playlist ♡ masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ previous chapter ♡ next chapter ❥

Ellie groaned deeply, her face dropping to her hands as she slouched over the kitchen island from her perch on the stool.

“I sat on his face, Yan,” Ellie mumbled through her fingers, her voice laced with the mortification of the memory from that afternoon. The way Lieutenant Seresin’s eyes passed over her, undressing her, seeing the mark he’d made on her neck and then coolly, calmly, pretending like he wasn’t put off by her presence. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck until it radiated from her cheeks. “Now I have to work with him.”

Yan, unfazed, was busy bustling around the small kitchen, assembling her version of a “girl dinner,” which currently included an obscene number of jarred olives in a variety of colours, a smattering of mixed Harvest Snaps, Ritz crackers and a chunk of Swiss cheese she didn’t bother slicing. As she pushed herself up on her tip toes to peek into cupboards, her manicured nailed fingers reaching for a box she’d seen near the back of the space, Yan reminded Ellie of the squirrel family that lived under the deck at their old college house.

“I dunno,” Yan replied with a shrug, nonchalant as ever, giving the box she’d retrieved from the back of the cabinet on top of the fridge a shake. “Maybe he’ll forget?”

The remainder of her day at Miramar had been filled with facility tours, and security briefings, introductions to ground crew and the radar teams in the tower—the usual M.O. of any other airfield she’d worked on for the past six years. Routine, smooth, reflexive, comforting in its predictability after her unexpected morning.

To her relief, she didn’t see Lieutenant Seresin again and in part, it was because she hadn’t necessarily been looking for him. Between seeing him again, being caught off-guard, her mind scrambling and having RADM Stark offer her concealer, she’d had her fill of shame and awkward interactions to last the entire week, possibly month.

When, at the end of the day, Tony let her know that he’d be emailing her in the next hour or so about her office space, she was already thinking about how quickly she could scurry off to her car and peel out of the parking lot.

Driving home from North Island was completed in a fugue state, doing everything she could to keep her mind off what would happen from now until whenever her contract was over in a few months and the possibility of her putting in for remote work. Canada, Mexico, Iceland… somewhere, anywhere far away from him.

By the time she tripped through the front door, trudging up the stairs, shoulders sunk low, Ellie was glad Nic wasn’t home. She wasn’t sure she could handle the interrogation surrounding how her first day had gone (terribly) and why she had disappeared from the Halloween party so abruptly last night without saying goodbye. Both discussions would lead to the same, inevitable, infuriatingly handsome, source. Lt. Seresin. A pilot. A mistake. A five-time in one night mistake.

When she’d instead found Yan in the kitchen, scrounging around in the cupboards, Ellie had offloaded her previous night and the resulting day in what felt like a single sigh, a mass exodus of mismatched thoughts and side drabbles. Disaster, social and career ruin the overarching themes.

Ellie lifted her head just enough to scoff in her roommate’s general direction. “Forget? He’s a pilot, it’s highly unlikely. Have you ever met a pilot? Those guys have egos the size of the jets they fly. There’s no way he’s going to just forget without some kind of semi-serious head trauma. Unfortunately.”

Before Yan could respond, mouth opened in what Ellie could only assume would come next, she held up a finger, a footnote to add, “Before you say it: Bradley doesn’t count. He’s a weird… mustachioed outlier.”

Data couldn’t track the trajectory of Rooster. Ellie had tried and failed many a time—just when she thought she had pegged him, he escaped the pigeonhole with a dogfight level of evasive maneuvering. With a lack of data or evidence, she’d been forced to accept that Rooster was just untraceable. He didn’t fit the mold of the pilots she’d met.

“Okay, but hear me out, maybe he will forget without a smack to the dome?” Yan tapped her chin as she glanced down at her plate of smorgasbord, as if considering what was missing. “For all we know, this is his usual modus operandi and you’re just another girl in the long line of hook ups?”

Ellie felt her stomach drop. Long line of hook ups. “Great. That makes me feel so much better.”

Yan popped a few pitted olives into her mouth and tipped her head, gathering herself for a moment before she spoke again. “Let’s have a choose your own adventure moment: do you want friend or therapist version of Yan Like, do you want advice advice or just to vent?”

“Are you going to bill me if I say therapist, Yan’s version?”

“How about we split the difference?” Yan held the absurdly sized chunk of Swiss cheese in a two—handed grip, nibbling at the corner as she leaned across the island. She was never going to get out from under the squirrel family allusion at this rate. “If I was your therapist, I’d say that maybe we should look at how this serves you? What does this embarrassment, feeling it, stewing in it, what does it do for you?”

Ellie considered for a moment, her forehead slowly coming to rest on the cool quartz countertop as if the answers could be found there.

How did the embarrassment of working with a man she’d slept with serve her?

Maybe the root of the mortification was the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about it, about him. The intrusive thoughts, floating around her brain, still, of the man who had undone her so completely, mapped out her body with his mouth, re-wired her brain through life-altering, transcendent orgasm, one chasing another, each cascading into the next like a line of tumbling dominoes.

Maybe her fluster was tucked behind the idea that he’d dragged sounds from her with his tongue, fingers, filled her in ways she hadn’t realized she’d been empty until he was inside of her, easing his way in as she gasped and moaned. She’d made sounds she could never have imagined making in the presence of another person, sounds she wasn’t even aware she was capable of making.

The shame was most likely rooted in the fact that she had liked it, enjoyed every moment he’d been on her and inside of her. Touching her, playing her like an instrument, tugging at all the strings that moved her. She’d melted at the way he called her sweetheart and darlin’ in that voice of his, drawl rough and husky, while doing the things he did to her. How eager he’d sounded when he’d asked her what she wanted from him and how he’d nearly read her mind and fulfilled her needs without needing to be told.

Ellie could only groan in response, the sound muffled into the countertop as she shifted on her stool, clenching her thighs together tightly as a warmth coiled low in her abdomen.

The embarrassment didn’t serve her, though it did serve to remind her that she had to have her head on straight going forward. This couldn’t happen again, even if it was all she could think about, even if her body was telling her she wanted more. Her control, careful and composed, had to be stronger; it couldn’t happen again—especially not with him, not with a pilot. Maybe if she repeated it enough, hummed it to herself like a mantra, she’d get herself back on the trail leading to the summit that was the culmination of her life’s work.

Lt. Seresin was her Voldemort. He who shall not be named. Her Darth Vader. Her Hans Gruber. She couldn’t have sex with Voldemort again. Couldn’t risk the Resistance and give herself to the Dark Side. Couldn’t let the terrorists take Nakatomi Tower on Christmas.

“It doesn’t.”

“Exactly. I’m not sure what just went through your beautiful noggin’ just now, but next steps: be the badass I know you are. So what? You had a spectacular night—this guy has no idea how lucky he is to tap that.” Ellie wasn’t sure how seriously she would take it if her actual therapist sat across from her and crunched on gherkin pickles, folded between a slice of prosciutto and used tap that to drive home a point. She’d let it slide for Yan.

“Also, don’t think I don’t see it,” Yan pointed with the Harvest Snap olive hybrid in Ellie’s general direction. “I’m being nice and I’m not even going to touch the fact that you had crazy, wild sex with a guy dressed as a pilot considering your no pilots rule.”

“In my, very feeble attempt at self-defense: Who dresses as their actual profession on Halloween?”

“Oh, that’s just Big Dick Energy vibes, El.” Yan smirked, quirking an eyebrow, as if she was waiting for Ellie to confirm if the vibe had basis in reality. When Ellie simply rolled her eyes, Yan continued, “let’s be real though—we’re in San Diego. You could probably throw a stone and hit a minimum of three pilots in a five-foot radius.”

Ellie propped her elbow up on the counter, resting her head in her hand, her eyes scanning the swirled pattern in the quartz to the right of Yan’s paper plate. “So, just like that? I just, what? Duplicate the BDE?”

“More like mirror it. Sometimes that’s all it takes,” Yan nodded, using a Harvest Snap to spear an olive. “I’m not supposed to talk about it, so I won’t, but if I could talk about it, I’d say that I have a client who is an author, who shall remain anonymous, and he uses this crazy, hostage negotiation tactic when he wants to disarm and redirect.”

Hostage negotiation. Great. This is what is had come to.

Yan was right. Ellie couldn’t honestly say she was thinking straight when he’d looked at her with his green eyes and easy grin, the level of confidence with which he carried himself so goddamned attractive. She definitely hadn’t been thinking with the prefrontal cortex part of her brain when he’d touched her waist and leaned in close.

Ellie levelled Yan with a narrowed gaze. “What would friend Yan say?”

“As your friend who has witnessed some spectacular mistakes in your romantic track record, I’d say,” Yan paused for a moment, considering, Ellie thought, on how she might soften the therapist speak, “so what? You hooked up with him. Big deal. You didn’t know he was a real pilot. It was Halloween. You thought, reasonably, that he wasn’t. I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s not like you have to work directly with him, right?”

“Except I actually do.” Ellie sighed—she'd already thought about it on the drive home, if avoidance was a viable tactic for the next little while. “I’m the one with the new tech, remember? That means seeing him all the time. He’s part of the team they’ve recalled—he’s one of the best the Navy has to offer. He might need to test my tech if I have any hope of getting it off the ground.”

Yan paused, mid bite of her cracker, processing for a moment in silence. “Okay. First—love the pun. Second, yeah, that sucks, but maybe he’s, like, cool? Like, he hasn’t been a complete ass about it yet, right?”

“He pretended like he didn’t even know me,” Ellie muttered, crossing her arms as the memory of his infuriating smugness resurfaced, the way his eyes found the mark he’d made on her like she was his. The way she, for a fraction of a second, let him suck all the air out of the space between them. “Which, I guess is fair, since we didn’t exactly exchange names before....”

“... before he fucked your brains out?” Yan offered, snapping a piece of Ritz cracker off between her teeth, nonchalantly, as if fucked your brains out was a normal, everyday, part of conversations she engaged in.

Ellie balled up a nearby tea towel and threw it at Yan as hard as she could manage, and it fell woefully short on the island between them.

“Okay, so, he’s trying to be professional. That’s not necessarily a bad thing?” Yan turned her back to Ellie for a moment, heading to the fridge to grab the jug of pink lemonade from the fridge before she turned and poured it into a cup that sat on the edge of the sink.

Ellie shook her head as Yan shook the juice jug in her direction. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just—weird? I don’t know how to act around him now.”

“Oh girl, act like it didn’t happen, obviously. We both know you’re the queen of compartmentalizing, right?”

Ellie sighed, sweeping her hair back, unconsciously touching the concealer hidden hickey, feather-light. “This is going to be a bit harder though. I just wasn’t planning on hooking up with someone I’d have to see every day.”

Yan propped her elbows up on the counter across from Ellie before she carefully slid the plate of crackers, olives, cheese and mini pickles toward her with a grin. “Well, welcome to what we true believers call the Frequency Illusion. You’ll see him for as long as he’s front and center in your noodle. Simple explanation. Either that or you have some karmic balance to restore.”

Ellie sighed, a sigh that sounded more like a drawn-out lament. “You make it sound like a go around kicking puppies.”

“As my grandma used to say—God rest her soul—” Yan continued, hearing Ellie’s comment about karmic retribution, and traced a cross over her body, turning her eyes upward for a moment before she mocked pouring one out, “pussy rules the world. You set the tone. Own it. Be confident. If someone is going to squirm, let it be him. You’re holding all the cards.”

“Set the tone?” Ellie repeated, slowly, considering. She didn’t bother to ask why Yan’s grandma, an unassuming small-statured, Filipino lady, obsessed with backgammon and finding the freshest cinnamon scones up until the very day of her passing, would have come to such a firm stance on pussy and its power level.

“Yeah,” Yan was around the island now, fluffing Ellie’s hair and fixing the collar on her blazer, “you’re the fucking gorgeous, brainy radar engineer. He’s just some dude who got lucky on Halloween.”

Ellie shrugged, avoiding eye—contact with Yan. “Maybe you’re right.”

Yan leaned forward to tap Ellie on the tip of the nose, evidently satisfied with herself. “I’m always right, girly pop.”

“Oh, is that right, huh?” Ellie swatted at Yan as she danced away, skip-hopping over to the fridge.

Yan grinned, piling more olives onto her plate. “You know it. Now, eat some olives and get your game face on. Tomorrow’s another day, and you’re not letting some hotshot flyboy get the better of you. Even if he’s gorgeous and a generous partner.”

Ellie shook her head, but she picked up a cracker as Yan tapped the plate before migrating to the living room. “God, this is a mess.”

“Eh,” Yan shrugged, dropping to the couch and patting the empty spot beside her as she nestled under an oversized blanket. “Messy is more fun. Let’s watch Love is Blind Brazil, there’s apparently this super unhinged guy, Evandro who picked this girl, Ariela, who clearly isn’t over her ex—”

“Speaking of,” Ellie crossed the room and dropped to the couch beside Yan, tugging some of the blanket over for herself. “What happened to Frankenstein?”

“Oh, turns out he couldn’t keep it together,” Yan didn’t bother to look at Ellie, waving the remote at the TV as she scrolled, her lips quirked up in the corners into a smirk, “needed someone with a bit more heart.”

“You’re so ridiculous.”

Naval Air Station Lemoore, California - 2004

Even after hours, the Californian sun sinking low on the horizon, Lemoore Naval Air Base was alive with a low hum of activity. F-14 Tomcats rested, wings folded in against their bodies, on the tarmac like sleeping giants, the lights from nearby hangars casting long shadows across the hot asphalt.

She’d woken from another nightmare. It was always the same, a nightmare in which her dad didn’t come home, his plane screaming through the perfect blue sky one moment and then whistling to the surface of the azure water below, no ejection seat, no parachute. Just churning waves as they swallowed the body of the grey metal, silently, until there was nothing left.

It was why, at 8:45 PM on a hot fall Californian evening, she found herself in her Justice League pajamas, shoes tied haphazardly, sneaking around the base.

“Dad, we’re not supposed to be here,” Ellie whispered, her eyes wide as she hustled across the airfield, her small, seven-year-old hand clenching her father’s as he snuck from corner to corner, aircraft to aircraft. Stealth mode he’d called it. In her chest, Ellie’s heart pounded, the excitement mixed with the mischievousness of it all.

Rick “Hollywood” Neven grinned, a roguish glint in his eyes as he glanced down at her by his side. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I know the boss.” He offered her a sly wink and Ellie could feel the anxiety ebb away slightly. She trusted him, always had. He was her dad, after all—the coolest person in the world.

Slipping through the open hangar bay doors, Ellie’s eyes focused on the jet parked up in the center of the building. The one she’d only ever seen from a distance, her fingers laced through the chain link fence, her mom at her back, as the engines fired to life and her dad took to the air. Now, larger than life, it was here, looming large over her tiny frame. Ellie’s breath caught as her dad led her closer, the heavy scent of engine oil and metal filling her nostrils. Ground crew engineers milled about, running through their checks, but none of them stopped or questioned her dad. He was a legend here, and everyone knew it. Everyone knew him.

Rick nodded at one of the crew members, and they moved aside as he led Ellie closer to the jet. “Come on, squirt,” he whispered, lifting her up to stand on a ladder beside the plane’s body. “Want to see where the magic happens?”

Ellie’s eyes widened as she gazed at the jet’s gleaming surface. “This is your plane?”

“All mine,” he said proudly, patting the side of the jet, his hand passing over his name Lt. Rick Neven and call sign, Hollywood, painted on the side just below the seam where the bonnet would connect. On the body, beside the rear seat, Lt. Leonard Wolfe, Wolfman was painted in white, his RIO.

As she stared, wide-eyed, taking it all in, he pointed to different parts, explaining each with ease of someone who had lived and breathed this life for years, someone who could identify this machine as an extension of his own body. “That’s the engine, and those are the intakes. That right there is the radar, it’s here, in the nose too—probably the most important thing in the whole bird.”

Ellie’s eyes scanned the instruments inside the cockpit, levers and buttons, throttles and sparkplugs. “Why?” Her face scrunched in thought.

“Because without it, I wouldn’t know what’s coming my way. You see, when you’re flying up there, things happen fast. You need to know everything around you—what’s out there, who’s out there.” He turned, giving her a proud smile. “That’s where a good radar tech comes in. But the best radar tech?” He winked. “They’re sitting right behind the pilot.”

“Like the RIO?” she asked, her voice full of wonder, eyes trained on her godfather’s name.

“Exactly.” He gestured for her to step up higher, holding her waist as he lifted her into the cockpit. Ellie settled her tiny frame into the seat, her feet barely skimming the pedals in the footwell. Reaching back into the rear seat, he grabbed his helmet, the one adorned with his call sign, and the “lady butt” as Ellie called it. Carefully, he placed it on her head. The weight of it pressed on her neck, far too big, but she didn’t care. The weight of it made her feel important—like she was a part of something bigger, like she was in the cockpit with her dad.

“Dad…” Ellie began, her voice small and muffled from under the oversized helmet as she pushed it up so she could see him. “What’s it like? Flying up there?”

Her dad leaned against the side of the F-14, his gaze drifting out toward the open hangar doors where the night sky stretched endlessly above. “It’s like…freedom. Like nothing else in the world matters. Just you, the jet, and the sky. And when you’re up there, you feel like you can do anything.”

Ellie’s eyes sparkled as she imagined, endless skies, horizon boundless, freedom. “Maybe I can be your RIO one day?”

Her dad chuckled and Ellie could feel her heart swell, the thought of being here with her dad in his favourite place. He reached out and gently tapped the helmet on her head. “You’re already halfway there, kid. One day, you’ll be up there with me. I’ll be the one flying, and you’ll be the one keeping me safe, making sure we’re on the right track.”

Ellie smiled so wide her cheeks hurt. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he said softly, his eyes locking onto hers, and Ellie could feel the pride growing in her, the thought of following in her dad’s footsteps both thrilling and nerve wracking. “Just don’t tell your uncle Wolfman. You’ll be putting him out of a job and I don’t know if the Navy is ready for two Nevens up there.”

For a moment, it was just them in that cockpit, the noise of the hangar fading into the background as her dad told her to pull back on this throttle and showed her where the ejection handles were. Ellie could feel the importance of it, the way her dad talked about all of it. If her dad said she could do it, then she could—her hero, strong, invincible. Maybe she could be his RIO one day.

He grinned and grabbed the straps of the helmet, giving it a loving shake. “Alright, kiddo. You got school tomorrow. Let’s get out of here before someone catches us.”

Ellie laughed as he lifted her out of the cockpit and set her down, but as they walked out of the hangar, her hand still in his, she couldn’t help but glance back at the jet.

“I think we just found your call sign, huh?” Her dad hummed as they stepped out into the night air, the sun now gone from the sky, replaced by the moon glow of a clear night. “Eleanor Rio Neven.”

Ellie glanced up at him, her gap-toothed grin, wide. “I like it.”

“Rio it is then. Hollywood and Rio.”

One day, she thought. One day she’d earn that call sign.

Ellie glanced at the email again to stick the office assignment in the forefront of her mind, standing in front of her open car trunk, before she locked her phone and tucked it into the back pocket of her pressed pants. She was thankful she wasn’t Navy; she knew her strengths fashion wise, and it wasn’t the khaki tan colour of the service uniforms. Civilian contractors had the best of both worlds.

Grabbing the heavy box of her things, Ellie dragged it from the trunk and hefted it, balancing it on her hip as she reached for the close trunk button.

“Comm Center 11,” the security officer barely suppressed a chuckle as Ellie used the ledge in front of the glass to hold the box while she fished out her pass, “that’s clear across the airfield from here. You’ll have to take the perimeter; they’ll be running drills at this time. Pattern’s full.”

“Thanks.” Ellie nodded, taking a moment to clip her pass to the waist of her pants before she lifted the box and used her hip to open the door onto the base.

Shifting the weight of the box, Ellie tipped her chin as she passed a few officers and a few of the ground crew she half-recognized from the myriad of tours yesterday. Her things weren’t heavy individually—a few office supplies, models of the tech, schematics, a monitor, her MacBook—but stacked awkwardly, they made a clumsy, unbalanced load in the flimsy box with the caved in corners, reinforced with layers of packing tape.

The morning sun was already intense, gleaming off the pavement so she had to squint as she moved forward, all her concentration on not dropping the box as she felt the cardboard bow under the shifting weight of her belongings, the occasional silence between the sound of jet engines and shouting staff filled by the steady clicking of her heels.

“Need a hand?”

The voice was unmistakable, easy, with a hint of banter around the edges, the barely concealed smugness cutting through the noise of the airfield. Ellie knew who it belonged almost immediately, the feeling of recognition hitting her square in the gut before she turned.

Hangman.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Ellie set her shoulders, adjusting her grip on the unwieldy box. Set the tone, she reminded herself, hearing Yan’s voice echo in the back of her mind. She had to hold her ground.

Turning, her eyes landed on him immediately. He was standing just a few feet away, arms crossed casually over his chest, the khaki tan of his service khakis was definitely doing something for him, something dangerous for his sharp features and easy confidence. He knew he looked good. She could feel herself bristle slightly, caught off-guard by how cool and collected he looked, his lips quirked into a lazy grin, almost infuriatingly amused as he took her in. It felt tailor made to annoy the living hell out of her at this specific moment. He looked ready to swoop in if she so much as tipped the box the wrong way and she wasn’t sure if that grated on her nerves, or if it was something else entirely.

“No, I don’t need a hand, Lieutenant Seresin,” she replied firmly, adjusting her grip on the box and her resolve. She turned around again resolutely ignoring him and starting off in her original direction, the corner of the already flimsy cardboard buckling, her belongings shifting inside as the box threatened to give way any moment.

Sure enough, she heard his footsteps fall into pace beside her, an easy saunter as if he had all the time in the world. “You’re a civilian contractor; you can take it easy with the Lieutenant. You can call me Jake…” he began casually, before his voice dropped just enough to add weight to his next words, “since we’ve already been… acquainted.”

Ellie’s jaw tightened, her pace slowing until she came to a stop. The box crumpled further under her suddenly tightened grip, and she thought she heard the tape coming away from the bottom of the box. She turned slightly, just enough to level him with a glare, all heat and warning. “I’m aware of what happened. That was… before.” Before she knew he was a real pilot. Before she knew cocky and smug were his default personality traits. “This is work, not—”

“Not what?” he interrupted carefully, the mischievous glint in his eye almost twinkling now. “Not two, consenting adults who had a good time and now coincidentally find themselves working on the same base?”

Great. So he hadn’t recently happened upon a semi-serious, short-term memory wiping head injury. How unlucky for her. She’d have to work on quashing the butterflies causing the stupid feelings in her stomach currently. The ones that told her she liked looking at his aggravating, annoying, idiotic, handsome face and hearing the charming southern drawl in his words. What was it that Yan had said? Another girl in a long line of hook ups?

Ellie felt her face heat and not from the sun continuing to beat down. “That’s exactly what this is, actually. Coincidence. That’s it,” Ellie lifted her chin, defiant in the face of his easy charm, her voice dipping low as a crew member zipped past them in a golf cart. “One night. A one-time thing.”

This time, he broke into a wry grin, but he didn’t speak, and Ellie felt as if he was waiting for her to continue, so she did.

“Listen, I don’t know what your angle is, but whatever you think happened between us? It won’t happen again.” She kept her gaze trained on him, looking for the moment it might sink in. “I’m here to do a job, that’s it.” Ellie turned again, squinting against the sun as she continued on her way, her dramatic exit. She’d taken three full strides, the box betraying her confident pace, folding in as a piece of lose tape flapped in the breeze and stuck to her hand as her belongings rolled around, loose at the bottom, before Jake was at her side again.

His eyebrow quirked up, but he didn’t look fazed. Amused, that was the more fitting word, Ellie thought. He looked entertained. By her struggle, by her refusal of his offer for help, even now as the box pitched, weight shifting oddly as the things inside moved around, uncontrolled. “My angle?” He repeated, almost as if he couldn’t believe it wasn’t butter. His tone was teasing and light. “So, you think I have an angle? You been doing a lot of thinking about me then, sweetheart?”

Ellie rolled her eyes hard, and she picked up her pace. She pointedly ignored his question about her extracurricular thoughts, which definitely included thoughts of him despite her better judgement, but he didn’t need the confirmation. “I don’t know what it is, yet” the box pitched, and Hangman’s hand moved to right it, but Ellie angled it away from him, the sound of her monitor being smacked by the decorative arc reactor paperweight sending her stomach into a tip. “But yes, I’m sure you have one.”

Firmly, Ellie pushed down the memory of Halloween. The chemistry between them had been a wildfire, quick, easy, starting as something small, possibly insignificant, and then grew unexpectedly, fast, all-consuming, searing, white hot, uncontrollable, unpredictable. It was only spoiled by seeing him again and realizing that he had been telling her the whole truth and nothing but the truth the entire time. He was a pilot. A Lieutenant. A pilot just like every other pilot she’d ever met. Cocky, self-assured, overly confident, reckless. It left a bitter taste in her mouth. “Whatever you’re thinking, do me a favour—don’t. You’re not fooling me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” He responded, smirking as he watched her wrestle with the box each step of the way. Part of her appreciated that he let her, liked that he respected that she’d said no and turned down his help.

Before she could deflect, Ellie felt her heel catch just enough on an uneven bit of pavement, and the box, already unbalanced, began to teeter forward, the weight of the shifting contents making it more difficult to recover as she simultaneously tried to save her things and steady herself. Instinctively, she reached out to steady it, but Jake’s hand shot out, steadying her with one hand on her elbow and the other catching the box. He was good… really good.

“Careful there,” he said softly, all hints of ribbing gone, his eyes locked on hers. “It’d be a shame if all that attitude ended up in a broken ankle.”

Ellie felt a flush of frustration and something else she wasn’t willing to name, his touch igniting something in her she had to fight to press down again. Stiffening against his grasp, she quickly steadied herself and once she was sure the box was as balanced as she could get it, he carefully let go. In the wake of his skin on hers, she felt a coolness and part of her missed the contact.

“I can handle myself, thank you” she murmured, but there was less bite. She left no room for him to question her assertation as she straightened herself to stand taller. Looking him dead in the eye was a feat, all six feet of him towering over her, even with the added height of her heels.

“Never said you couldn’t.” He stepped back, raising his hands in mock surrender, but the smug look didn’t fade. “But just so we’re clear, if you ever need a hand, I’m around. For whatever. Work-related, of course.”

Ellie didn’t answer, just tightened her grip on the box, ignoring the way her heart had quickened in that split second of closeness, his hand on her arm a beat longer than necessary after she steadied herself. She turned and continued toward her office, keeping her chin high and pretending she couldn’t feel Jake’s eyes on her.

As she walked away, she heard him call out, “See you around, Ace.”

“303,” Ellie murmured, clicking past the numbered doors, closed and plated with names that weren’t hers. “304,” she blew out a huff of air as her eyes flicked to the next door.

She’d broken out into a bit of a sweat by the time she’d made it to Comms building 11, her calves aching. Now she knew why that security officer had laughed at the sight of her, the sad box of things in her grip already failing. Between the pace she’d kept up, a speed between confident stride and hectic hustle to get away from the man she’d been trying to avoid, and the distance between the parking lot and here, she’d hit her workout goal for the entire week.

“305.”

Rigby, E. Ellie glanced at the nameplate secured to the door and used her elbow to press down on the paddle handle, maneuvering expertly to use her hip to wedge the port open when she heard the click of the latch releasing.

Turning into the space, Ellie paused for a moment, glancing back at the nameplate on the door for half a second longer when she took in the sheer size of the office. This had to be some kind of mistake, civilian contractors didn’t get windows, especially not eastern facing windows.

The nameplate stuck to the door still said her name. The number above the port hadn’t changed. This was 305 and that was her name on the door.

Stepping further inside, Ellie kicked the door closed behind herself, only registering that another person was in the room when they spoke.

“Hey, Rio.”

The call sign hit her, broadside, and drew her eyes immediately to the source.

The man who leaned against the corner of the window ledge on the other side of the room, arms folded across his chest, was silhouetted against the bright morning light streaming in. Though his face had changed, laugh lines deepened around his eyes, the crease between his brow mostly cemented, likely exacerbated by all the young, hot shot pilots he’d watched breeze through Miramar over the years, she would recognize him anywhere.

Captain Pete Mitchell. Call sign: Maverick.

Ellie smirked as he stepped forward, taking the box from her without hesitation and sliding it onto the edge of the small coffee table, situated in front of the quaint sitting area which included a couch and an armchair. Free from the weight of the box, Ellie took a deep breath and, hands on hips, surveyed the space. “I think they made a mistake, Mav. This has to be your office. Way too big to be a civilian contractor’s, that’s for sure.”

Maverick chuckled and Ellie could see the younger version of the man she’d met years ago behind the softened angles of his face. She guessed, in his eyes, she looked a lot different from the kid running around the airfield, causing trouble, getting in the way, herself. “Pulled a few strings. Anything for Hollywood’s kid.”

She met his wry grin with a smirk of her own, a flash of gratitude filling her with a sense of the calm of familiarity, but she shook her head with a laugh. “Well, thanks for the royal treatment, but I think it’s a bit much.” Ellie gestured to the large space, the window behind Mav looking out onto the airfield, the grand mahogany desk waiting for a touch of personalization, an expanse of empty bookshelves behind it and the sitting area to her right.

Her “office” at the base in Turkey had been little more than a space between two filing cabinets, open to the coffee station, water cooler and any Air Force pilot who thought she looked unassuming or unaware. She’d accepted that space as workable for over a year. This, by comparison, was at least seventeen steps up. For one, there was a door. “I was half expecting a supply closet, to be honest. Somewhere with more dust and a lot less… light.”

Maverick closed the space between them, pulling her into a quick hug before he stepped back to really take her in, his hands framing her shoulders. “How’re you doing, kid? How’s Miramar treating you so far? Wouldn’t expect it’s anything Rio couldn’t handle.”

“Rio,” Ellie tested out the old call sign, the second time she’d heard it from Mav in such a short time, a soft smile pulling up the corner of her lips slightly, “haven’t heard that one in a long time. I’m good.”

She’d leave out the footnotes that included Hangman, or any possible complications that were attached to him for now. Instead, Ellie took a moment to look at Maverick, she hadn’t been expecting him to be here, hadn’t expected to feel the comfort in the presence of his easy nature. Seeing him settled the anxiety simmering beneath the surface, if only just a little bit. “So, they called you in to keep tabs on me, huh?”

“Something like that.” A knowing look crossed his face, a smirk, the look of the old Maverick Ellie had known for the majority of her life. Cocky, self-assured, non-conformist, Maverick was the typical archetype of a pilot, at least every one that Ellie had ever encountered. “I figured I’d be a friendlier face than Admiral Simpson. Someone to get you started. I know Miramar’s not the… smoothest place to transition into.”

Admiral Simpson. Stuffy, hard-lined, hard-nosed, Admiral Simpson. The same Admiral Simpson that had watch-checked and foot-tapped his way through her presentation the other day. The same Admiral she couldn’t help but feel would sideline her project if it meant delaying a mission for even half a minute. On the other hand, there was RADM Stark—welcoming and excited, and yet, there was something unreadable about her. Something that Ellie wasn’t sure she could trust behind the glad to have more estrogen in the room facade.

There was a reason she had a reputation as someone to impress, there was a reason she was thriving in the man-made, old boys club that was the Navy.

Ellie made a face, and Maverick simply pressed his lips into a thin line and raised his eyebrows quietly. Maverick understood—he almost always did, especially when it came to following protocol, or rather, breaking protocol. Maverick hadn’t ever been any Admiral’s favourite pilot—especially not Admiral Benjamin, even if his daughter, Penny, thought differently. If anyone could help her navigate the difficult politics of Admirals and strict rules of engagement, it was Maverick. Maverick who, somehow, hadn’t been dishonourably discharged… yet.

There was no doubt in her mind she would be thankful to have Maverick and his rule-bending in her corner as the go-between.

“Smooth is overrated,” Ellie scoffed, shrugging. “I’m here to work—maybe make a few of you Navy boys cry in the process, if I’m lucky.”

Maverick’s laugh was sudden and loud, genuine, the grin on his face wide.

“Good,” he nodded, approvingly, patting her arm. “Well, in the spirit of smooth in the context of work, I’ve got some updates from the Admirals. Did you want to—” Maverick nodded toward the desk, and it took Ellie a moment to understand what he was suggesting, lost in the soft, blurred edges of nostalgia.

“Yeah, of course. Better to just dive into the deep end with this, I guess.”

Ellie rummaged for a second and dug her MacBook from the box, doing her best to ignore that there was a fresh dent in the lid as she swept over to the desk and Maverick settled in on the other side.

“So I’ve had a chance to go over your reports and the preliminary data from the prototype testing on base in Turkey,” Mav started, his expression unreadable, though his posture suggested a relaxed, nonchalant approach. She supposed this was the most professional he would get with her. “It’s really impressive, Ellie. Your dad, he mentioned you were top of the game, he didn’t mention that you were running circles around the rest of us.”

“I mean—” Ellie started, she kept her eyes on the screen of her laptop as it started up, “it’s all still relatively untested….”

She pointedly ignored Mav’s mention of her dad. Hollywood wasn’t exactly a subject she wanted to touch on right now. Especially not with Maverick. She knew where it would lead.

“Still. Must be something promising to get them to pull you here from halfway across the world.” Mav didn’t push the topic further as she saw him cross his legs, ankle on knee, in her peripheral. “It’s going to make a big difference to a lot of people if we can get it off the ground. I’m putting my weight behind this one, Rio—that counts for something. At least the Admirals think so.”

“I hope so.” Ellie straightened herself in her chair, MacBook finally at the ready, despite a few broken pixels in the top left corner of the screen. “How do we tackle this then? Do I want to know what kind of resources they’re allocating for this?”

Maverick paused for a moment, his hands passing over the armrests before folding his hands. “Good news or bad news?”

“You know me, Mav—news is news.”

“Well, they’re giving us pilots and significant testing time. They’ve put me on the testing schedules too, so you’ll be seeing a lot of me. We’ll run this as seamlessly as possible and get you the data you need to make this a reality.” Maverick’s fingers drummed on his knee, casual, calm.

“Okay, that sounds like the good news to me….” Ellie cautiously made notes, her eyes returning to Mav as if she expected the other shoe to drop at any moment. So far, these were all workable resources. “I’ll get Records to pull the pilot files—”

“No need, I’ve got them here.” Maverick reached to the chair beside him before sliding a folio across the desk toward her, thick with dossiers. “Fifteen pilots. They’re the best the Navy has to offer. All Top Gun graduates, all recalled for the current mission training. They’re giving us four of our choosing.”

Ellie shrugged, her hand resting on the top of the stack of files, her thumb flipping through the first few tabs with call signs. Bob, Coyote, Duke, she nodded slowly, processing. “Well, to be honest, I was expecting far less—”

“We have to run the testing of your tech alongside the mission training. They’re giving us two and a half months.” Maverick’s words hung in the air for a long moment, a moment in which Ellie’s eyes snapped to his and she searched for the lie there she knew she wouldn’t find. Maverick didn’t lie, he wasn’t the type.

And there it was: the other shoe.

Two and a half months. The initial research alone had taken years. Years of algorithm building, years of theoretical practice, years of begging for funding. Hell, the prototype alone had taken a year to create in a lab with her close oversight. Two and a half months was a drop in the ocean, a near impossibility. This was an out of the frying pan and into the heat situation if Ellie had ever seen one. “No pressure, right?”

“RADM Stark is in our corner for now—Admiral Simpson has made it clear he’ll recommend moving forward with the mission with or without your tech,” Maverick didn’t sugar coat it and Ellie appreciated that about him—it wasn’t in his nature to soften the blow. “I think you and I would both prefer that it’s with. The more of these pilots we can bring home, the better.”

Ellie glanced at the stack of files again, folded in the larger tan manila, and nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay then, deep ending this.”

“Pick your top candidates based on the needs of the tech and the testing. I’m looking forward to reading your report.” Maverick tapped the corner of the desk, standing before shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Let’s say my office. Tomorrow morning, 0800 sharp. Bring coffee.”

“Careful Mav,” Ellie tutted, her eyebrow raised in a teasing way as she looked up at him over the top of her computer screen, “that sounds an awful lot like protocol. You’ve got a reputation for throwing out the rulebook to uphold around here.”

Maverick waved her off as he headed for the door and Ellie watched him pause for just a moment, halfway out, his hand on the knob. “This isn’t exactly going to be a walk in the park, kid. But if there’s anyone who can pull this off, it’s you. Whether the name on the door is Neven or not—” Mav’s knuckles rapped against the solid wood, just under the name plate displaying her mother’s maiden name, “—the Nevens have a way of making things happen. You’re where you’re meant to be.”

“Thanks.”

Maverick offered her a small smile, cleared his throat and then stepped out of the door. “Oh, Ellie?” Maverick’s head was back through the door, his finger pointing to the shelving behind her. “I brought you a little office warming gift.”

Ellie quickly found the small potted fern, the decorative pot it sat in painted with Be-LEAF in Yourself in neat block lettering. Ellie lifted the pot, turning with a raised eyebrow, displaying the saying.

“Penny picked it out.” Mav shrugged, as if he himself were above the plant pun. When Ellie’s gaze didn’t shift, Mav waved a hand and retreated again. “0800 sharp, Rio. Two sugars, no dairy.”

With a dry chuckle, Ellie turned back to the shelf, her eyes quickly finding something else where the pot had been, hidden.

The photo in the frame was slightly faded, but the energy captured within the image felt timeless. It was a group shot, clearly taken at Miramar a lifetime ago, the California sun bright overhead, casting shadows across the tarmac where the four men stood, exuding effortless swagger. The aura of young pilots in their prime.

Maverick was front and center, his signature aviators reflecting a blurred image of the photo taker, a familiar cocky grin stretching across his face. His flight suit was unzipped at the top, revealing the white T-shirt underneath. To his right, Ellie’s eyes focused on her dad. His posture, shoulders relaxed, mirrored Maverick’s, his smile easy but sharp, his trademark confidence that matched his call sign.

Next to him, Wolfman, her dad’s RIO, his stance a little more casual but no less self-assured. He had an arm slung around Hollywood’s shoulder; their camaraderie apparent even through the static image. His grin was wide and mischievous, like he had just cracked a joke that made Hollywood laugh. Wolfman was always the one for jokes—always inappropriate, never failing to make her dad laugh.

On the far left, slightly more composed but no less iconic, stood Iceman. His jaw was set, his aviators pushed up into his blond hair as he looked at the camera with a subtle smirk. Even in the informal setting, he carried himself with the unshakable confidence of someone who knew he was the best.

The four of them stood against the backdrop of an F-14 Tomcat, the jet’s sleek frame gleaming in the sunlight.

It was a snapshot of a time when they were young, fearless, and seemingly invincible—a moment frozen in time, untouched by the years and the weight of everything that would come after. In the reflection of the glass, Ellie could just make out her own face as she refocused, her eyes soft and her brow pulled together.

Rolling her eyes, Ellie shook herself out of her own thoughts, scoffing as she snapped the picture face down, its support leg sticking up like that of a dead bug.

If she wanted to survive here, if she had any hope of making a difference, she would need to keep her head on straight. No more distractions.

“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that if you want to leave here with something other than lint in your pockets, Bradshaw.”

Jake grabbed the triangle and racked the balls as Rooster groaned, the wad of bills in the fold that came out of his pocket thinner than it had been at the beginning of the evening. He thumbed out another twenty and placed it on top of the growing pile of cash sitting on the edge of the table before he took a swig of beer. “Keep taking my money, Hangman and you’ll have to tell Nic why I can’t take her out on Friday.”

“Oh, you want me to tell your girl her boyfriend can’t handle his balls?” Hangman smirked, shifting the triangle up to the foot spot on the table before carefully removing the rack. “You know, I’d be real happy to do that, Rooster.” Grabbing his cue, Jake nodded across the table, “how ’bout I let you break first then, give you a head start.”

As Rooster leaned over the table to line up the break, Jake grabbed his beer, leaning up against the wall. The late-day sun streamed in through the windows of the Hard Deck, casting long shadows across the scuffed hardwood, the warm glow of golden hour adding a certain charm to the scrappy, Navy watering hole. It was routine by now, mission training, the Hard Deck, hustling pool for a little extra spending money, embarrassing Rooster who always seemed eager to try to prove he was better than Jake at the game. Wash, rinse, repeat. Steady pace for a Tuesday night. But tonight, Jake’s mind wasn’t on the pool game, or the growing pile of Rooster’s cash.

Instead, it was occupied by thoughts of a particular Radar Tech who had, in two short days, carved out a space in his head: Eleanor Rigby. That surprised Jake—surprised him in ways that took the routine out of his usual one-night M.O.

After he’d seen her that morning, struggling with the box, almost comically, and she refused his help outright, the end of the day had come quickly. Quicker than Jake had anticipated. Between the packed mission training and the maneuver refreshers, his head had been on a swivel, his eyes peeled, but he hadn’t managed to catch her again.

The sharp crack of the cue ball breaking and scattering the striped and solids, pulled Jake’s focus back to the game. Rooster managed to sink one solid, smirking as he stepped back to find himself for another viable shot.

“Nice shot, Bradshaw,” Jake drawled, his eyes twinkling as he set down his bottle on the edge of a nearby high-top table. “I think this might be the first time you’ve hit something clean all week.”

Rooster’s breathy laugh sounded for just a moment, his eyes sizing up the next shot. “Just wait, Bagman,” Rooster murmured, leaning over to line up his cue again. “By the time I’m done, you’ll be asking me for a loan.”

“Bold for someone down to their last twenty.” Jake smirked, chalking his own cue. He waited for Rooster to take his shot—missing a corner pocket by a hairsbreadth—before stepping in to size up the table, tutting. “Might have to start playing some tunes for tips,” he nodded over to the piano in the corner.

They rotated between trading teasing banter and goading remarks for a moment before Jake’s inquiring mind got the better of him, swimming with thoughts of her face, the way she looked at him within the new frame that existed outside of their Halloween encounter.

“So,” Jake started, casually, nonchalant, as he chose his next shot, Rooster having missed his solid, and bent to take aim, lining up a striped ball with the corner pocket. “We have a new radar tech or something—Rigby?” Jake played dumb, played disinterested, acted as if he didn’t know her name, pretended he didn’t like the way the mark his mouth had left on her neck stuck out in sharp contrast to her put together, professional look the other day.

As he looked up from under his lashes, Jake could see Rooster pause mid-sip of his beer, eyebrow raised. “Rigsy? Radar Tech, Engineer I think the proper term is. She’s Nic’s best friend. Her roommate now too, actually.” Rooster set his beer down carefully, “Why? What’s your angle?”

Rigsy. So Rooster knew her outside of work. Jake carefully stored the information, his eyes never leaving the cue ball and the line of aim with the striped ball. “No angle,” he replied evenly, taking the shot and sinking the striped ball and another in its path with ease. “Just curious. Seems like she’s got the brass wrapped around her finger already.”

“That’s because she’s good at what she does,” Rooster said, stepping away to the bar and grabbing two more bottles of beer before he returned to the table. “Smart, like, real smart. No nonsense, she won’t put up with any crap. Not the usual type you’d chase, though,”

Jake took the shot, and the ball ricocheted off the pocket point in a way he hadn’t expected, missing the striped ball he’d lined up with that pocket, wide. Straightening, he chuckled, leaning against his cue stick, stepping back for Rooster’s turn. “Who says I’m chasin’, Bradshaw?”

Rooster’s response was a snort as he stepped up to the table. “Sure, man, whatever you say,” he glanced up at Jake, a knowing look crossing his face, eyes incredulous, eyebrow peaked. “You don’t exactly have a reputation for curiosity without motive, Seresin.”

Jake smirked, but didn’t respond, moving in to take another shot instead when Rooster missed his second shot and Jake sunk two more stripes in quick succession. He felt Rooster’s gaze lingering, and despite trying to play it cool, he couldn’t shake the curiosity that had been brewing since he’d seen her on Halloween. More so since seeing her here, at Miramar again, of all places. When she’d let him come back to her place and he’d fucked her until her knees shook, he hadn’t expected to see her again. Now, now he thought about what it would have been like if she’d known his name then, what it would sound like for her to moan it, beg him for more. It was enough to drive him dangerously close to mad.

Jake missed the next shot, his mind hazed with the thought. Stepping back, he folded his arms across his chest and tried to act uninterested. “Say I’m curious for… curiosity’s sake: what’s her deal? Anything I should know?”

“Oh shit—you really don’t know…” Rooster raised an eyebrow, taking a deep swig of his beer, studying the label as he tried to contain his smirk, before replying. “You don’t know who her old man is, do you?”

Jake froze slightly at that, his brow furrowed, eyes narrowed at the pilot across the table from him. “Her old man?”

Rooster chuckled and shook his head, his tone low as he tapped the cue stick on the floor. “Rick Neven. Hollywood. Shot down in combat on a mission over the Gulf. Made sure his WSO got out first and ejected too late just above hard deck. Broke his back in three places. Docs said it was nothing short of a miracle he was alive, but that he’d never walk again.”

Jake blinked, the weight of the name hitting him immediately. Hollywood. One of the legends. The same pilot whose photo was framed alongside Maverick and Iceman, Goose and Slider in the halls all around base. He took a breath, trying to process it, while trying his best to keep composure. “You tellin’ me she’s Neven’s kid?”

Rooster nodded, continuing as if he knew the exact thoughts running through Jake’s mind. “Yeah, man. That’s Rigsy’s dad. Big shadow to live under. She’s been pretty much anti-pilot her whole life, from what I’ve gathered.”

Jake felt the words settle in his gut, realizing just how tangled this was becoming. Ellie wasn’t just some random civilian contractor; she came with baggage, a history that had been shaped by the same world they both lived in—but from a very different perspective. And after their Halloween encounter, he suddenly understood why she hadn’t mentioned anything about it. It also explained the guardedness in her eyes, the bite in her sarcasm.

“She doesn’t really talk about him much,” Rooster added, his voice dropping slightly, as if sensing Jake’s shift in mood. Rooster had always been good at that, even if Jake didn’t want to admit it. “Nic says it’s a sore spot. That and her folks splitting.”

Jake set his cue down, rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to wrap his head around it. “Damn.”

“You’re in over your head with that one, Hangman,” Rooster said with a knowing smirk. “She’s not your usual type, and if you somehow manage to get past all those SAMs she’s throwing out, she sure as hell won’t make it easy.”

“Wouldn’t be any fun if she did, Rooster.” Jake let out a dry chuckle, picking up his beer and taking a long drink. “Wouldn’t be any fun if she did.”

tags bbs: @hookslove1592 @mrsevans90 @avengersfan25 @jbennsquared @dempy @obsessed-fan-alert @djs8891 @lunatygerqueen @khouse712 @alipap3 @yuckosworld @marvelouslyme96

taglist if you want to be added/removed!

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exitrowiron · 3 months ago

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Day 3: Oloron-Saint-Marie to Saint-Savin

57.7miles, 7,516' ascent, 5:37

Today's ride featured two major climbs starting with the Col de Marie-Blanque, a cat 2 climb which first appeared in the Tour in 1978. This was a challenging warm-up for the main event, the Col d'Aubisque, a climb rated 'hors categorie' (out of category). This climb is long and steep with 14% grades. But at the top you're rewarded with iconic views, punctuated by the well-known trio of giant bicycles. The summit is also where we enjoyed lunch.

The French and Spanish guides have been doing a good job of encouraging the Type A Americans to relax and enjoy lunch and take advantage of the opportunity to recharge tired legs and lungs.

As you can see in the videos, the two lane 'road' to/from the summit is the size of wide US bike trail. This makes it challenging for cars and bikes alike and the challenge is heightened when maneuvering around the free roaming cattle, sheep and wild draft horses. That's not a typo, the draft horses were brought to the region to help construct the roads and now they are permanent residents. The animals like to congregate at sections of the road that abut natural streams.

The climbs are arduous, but we've enjoyed knowing that our hotel for the evening is in the valley and we get to descend and coast the final 10 miles. Of course that means we have to start climbing the first thing the next day, but that is a problem for Tomorrow Mike.

I'm trying to include more videos, even though we were told that using our phones (our earbuds) while riding is a misdemeanor. I think its worth the risk ;-)

Thanks for following along.

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godspeedviper · 5 months ago

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Bunker Babe - Spencer x Goth!Reader (18+)

𖤐 Synopsis: You manage to finally convince Spencer to attend a bunker rave with you, but first he’s gotta look the part.

𖤐 Type: domestic fluff || smut || no gendered descriptions || goth reader || very firmly mid 00s

𖤐 Word Count: 1,543

𖤐 Rating: explicit || recreational drug use || semi public sex

𖤐 A/N: OxyContin has the highest bio-availability, orally. While not the same thing as dilaudid, its in the same ballpark and can be used in high quantities to approximate the dilaudid high despite their differing (optimal) routes of administration. ALSO I know this track isn't "technically" hard techno don't come at me over bpm or whatever the song is just here to set the mood.

“Babe, is this really necessary?” Spencer whines as he watches you tear through his closet in search of an outfit for tonight.

“Yes!” You quip back. “What if someday your team needs you to go undercover at a bar or club for a case? You’re the youngest of the bunch so you know that statistically you’re most likely to be chosen for such a task.”

He groans and rolls his eyes in defeat. “Okay okay! But only because you have statistics on your side.”

“Oh don’t be too upset, pretty boy. I’ll make this worth your while.” You wink cheekily. “Promise!”

At this, Spencer perked up. He watched as you lay out your choice of clothing onto his bed. You were already all dressed up for the night in skimpy black latex and mesh, with your favorite pair of platform Demonias to top off the look. Spencer’s hands were all over you as soon as he opened his apartment door for you, but tonight you had a mission and nothing, not even Spencer, was going to stop you. You sit down at the edge of the bed besides the clothing, and you wave Spencer over.

“Come here, love.” You purred, and he instantly obliged. “Undress for me, darling.”

Spencer makes quick work of the buttons on his polo, while your hands reach to unbuckle his brown leather belt. He pulls his top off in a hurry, sliding off a pair of beige slacks, till he’s left standing before you in nothing but socks and briefs. You put your hands on his hips and he puts his hands on top of yours. You then tilt your head up, meeting his lust filled gaze. He takes in a sharp breath as you press your lips to the skin just below his navel. You take a gentle bite, and suck, leaving behind a bruise-like mark.

“Good boy.” You whisper, pulling away from his torso. “Sit here.”

You stand up and switch positions with him, so that now Spencer is seated at the edge of the bed, and you’re standing in front of him. First, you grab a shirt off the bed. It was an old Nine Inch Nails tour shirt you got back in high school that was large enough to wear to bed whenever you were too incapacitated to bother changing into proper pajamas. You had left it at Spencer’s the last time you stayed over after scoring together, and it was now serving a greater purpose. You pulled it over his head, lovingly ruffling his head after it poked through the shirt. Your hands then reach back out to the bed and pick up a black pair of denim. Kneeling in front of him, you begin to kiss in between his thighs as your hands grab hold of his ankles, guiding him into each pant leg one at a time.

“Finish putting these on for me. I’ll be right back.” You give his thighs a teasing smack and giddily make your way to the ensuite.

“Oh no…” Spencer whines as he notices a hello kitty makeup bag in your hands and a devilish smirk on your lips.

“Oh yes!” you reply. “Come on, Spencie! We gotta disguise you a little bit if you’re really that afraid of Garcia or her friends running into you. Besides, I have a gift for you in here.”

You gingerly shake the bag like one would do with pet treats, and you quickly descend onto his lap, trapping poor Spencer beneath you. You unzip the bag and pull out a prescription pill bottle. Oxycodone 80mg, immediate release.

“Ta da! Take these normally so the effects can kick in when we’re already at the party. This way we won’t risk being caught with it on us.” You wink playfully, shaking out a few green pills from the bottle onto your palm. “Alright now open up!”

Spencer laughs and complies. You gently toss them into his mouth like m&m’s and watch his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows the pills, enticing you forth to steal a loving bite.

“Let's stay.” Spencer gasped out. “Please?”

Still sitting on his lap you can feel his frustration slowly growing harder. For a moment there you’re tempted, but you quickly remember just how much more awaits you two tonight.

“Nope, not staying!” You pull away from his neck, breaking the lustful spell.

Spencer pouts.

After swallowing a handful of pills as well, you turn your attention back to the makeup bag, rummaging around in search of a short black eyeliner and the accompanying pencil sharpener.

“Look up for me darling.” You say, placing a quick peck on Spencer’s pout and cupping his jaw with your free hand. “I promise you’ll thank me tomorrow. You’re gonna love tonight.”

The pads of your thumbs delicately rub the skin of Spencer’s under eyes, smudging the charcoal-like pigment around into a messy raccoon eye style. You repeat the process on his eyelids until you’re satisfied. Then you toss aside the pencil and put a finger under his chin.

“Open your eyes, love.”

Spencer has beautiful eyes, everyone knows that, you’ve spent thousands of hours staring into those honeyed irises. However, nothing prepared you for the way his eyes seemed to glow in contrast to the darkness surrounding them. It was like staring into a pot of molten gold.

“Ohh, pretty boy…” Your voice is a breathless whisper.

Spencer blushes crimson, and he bashfully hides his face against your shoulder. You can feel his smile.

“Come on, let's get going! I can’t wait to show you off. You’re so beautiful, Spencer.”

You take his hand and lead him to the door, stopping only so he could slip on a pair of black converse he left by the entrance. The two of you giddily run out into the crisp night air. Goosebumps prickle your skin, the cold bites your cheeks, and your heart is ablaze. It isn’t long before you assume you’ve arrived at the clandestine location, pointing out a few straggling folks dressed as eccentrically as you are and you watch as they soon disappear into an alleyway behind a building. You follow behind, turning into the alley when suddenly you’re face to face with a rather large hole in the ground. Peering in, you see a flight of concrete stairs descending into darkness below. A faint rhythmic thudding can be heard, confirming that this is indeed the place. Spencer grips your hand tightly as you pull him along into the belly of the beast. The thudding grows louder, transforming into powerful kicks as the lights at the end of the tunnel get closer. Standing at the threshold between the tunnel and the large bunker, Spencer looks as if he is staring directly into the mouth of madness, transfixed. You smile triumphantly. You had finally managed to bring him into your element.

The rest of the night happened in snippets.

One: You see sprawling concrete walls covered in graffiti, the humidity of the room makes them almost look slick, reflecting the pulsing lights, all throbbing to a sound reminiscent of industrial machinery. There is an inherent eroticism to it all. You look on in awe as Spencer throws caution to the wind and starts dancing to the beat. You’ve never seen him so carefree. His sweat slicked skin glistens like a glass prism beneath the light, flickering through all the colors of the rainbow in the dark.

Two: His hands are around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Drenched, Spencer’s auburn curls cling to the skin of his forehead and temples and the tops of his cheeks. The eyeliner has now spread all around his eye sockets, making him look hungry, animalistic, possessed.

Three: You’re pressed up against a concrete slab, it feels cool against your skin. Your bodies have melted into one another in the high heat, welded together with slick until you couldn’t tell where you ended and Spencer began. The thick beats of hard techno penetrate your bodies, and the two of you thrust in tandem trying to keep up with the relentless rhythm. You cling to Spencer in desperation, as if the mounting pleasure would be enough to make you crumble into nothing but atoms. Your bones rattle as a powerful orgasm reverberates through your body. Your shrieks drown in the music, and everything fades to black.

The next morning, these scenes play out in your mind's eye as you lay awake in bed next to Spencer. You wondered how much longer this would all last. Both of you knew this lifestyle would only end with tragedy, but you didn't know how to live any other way. You're both addicted to the highs and lows of life, to the stress of the job, and to blowing off steam in the worst of ways. Sometimes you feel guilty about supplying Spencer with drugs, and you wonder if he ever feels the same way about you as you turn on the bed to face him. At least here, in this moment, you were both at peace. You always love seeing him sleep, the way all worry dissipates from his visage and all that's left is the beautiful boy you fell in love with.

ao3 || guidelines || WIPs || Ko-Fi

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oh-stars · 8 months ago

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Doodles

Hurt

a Stobin Month 2024 prompt | 539 words | CW: off-screen injury | Rating: G

“Does this make me old now?”

Robin rolls her eyes as she sits down beside Steve. She sets her markers down in the crease of her thigh as she twists to face him on the couch. “You’re not old.”

“Me five years ago would never fumble this hard,” Steve huffs. He goes to cross his arms, but the big, bulky cast on his left hand stops him. He glares hard at it before offering it back to Robin.

She hums a thankful noise and uncaps the first marker.

“Just no dicks, please,” Steve sighs, leaning his head back. “I cannot go to work with dicks on my arm.”

“Who do you think I am? Eddie?” Robin rolls her eyes again . “I would never draw a dick on your arm.” Boobies, however, are a different story. She makes them small and at the top part of his cast where it’s most likely going to be obscured by his shirts and jackets.

Steve pouts. “I just cannot believe I fell so hard I broke my arm during a game with a bunch of old men.”

“Aren’t they all under forty?”

“Yeah, but this,” he gestures to the cast, “proves that I, the youngest of the group, is old and therefore, so are they.”

“Come back to me when you get your first gray hair, then we can talk.”

“Why would you put that on me? Do you want me to die young? Jesus Christ, Robs,” Steve practically screeches, running his free hand through his hair.

She just smiles and starts drawing little flowers randomly on the plaster, trading out colors every now and then. He got a bright neon green, so the darker colors are really popping against the plaster.

For about thirty minutes, Steve just watches the ceiling fan as she doodles on his arm. She’s not leaving room for anyone else to sign, and maybe that’s selfish but Steve’s hers so she’ll do as she pleases, thank you.

Robin looks down at the mostly covered work and sighs. She decides to leave two openings for Dustin and Eddie to sign – the only two of the party who live in Chicago with them right now – but covers the rest. If she left any more openings, Eddie would doodle dicks and nerd shit while Dustin would use Steve’s arm to write equations or something. At least she’s drawing stuff he actually likes.

There’s baseballs and basketballs (which she realizes may be a sore subject right now, so she put those where they were least visible) among the flowers and little music notes sprinkled in. She even drew a bottle of hairspray in the crease of his elbow. There’s a symbol for every job they’ve worked together: an icecream cone for Scoops Ahoy, a VHS tape for Family Video, a book for that bookstore they love, coffee mug from the brief time they tried to be baristas, a donut from the bakery that Steve still works at full-time and Robin helps out on the weekends, a pawprint for the pet store Robin convinced him to try, and a bone for the museum where Robin was a tour guide (and now does research at full-time) and Steve worked in the gift shop.

And in big letters, going down his arm, she’s signed, “I love you dingus ❤ Robin.”

“How’s that look?”

Steve looks over it with a fond smile, the first since he reluctantly called her from the gym this morning. “It’s perfect.”

Thank you @lady-lostmind for beta reading!

Ao3 Link

#ohstars fic #steve harrington #stranger things #robin buckley #stobin month 2024 #ohstars posting challenge #platonic soulmates stobin #platonic stobin #stobin

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mermaidgirl30 · 6 months ago

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✨Deep Blue Part 1: Into the Deep✨

Diver! Joel Miller x marine biologist! OFC

Series Masterlist

A/N: Here is my submission to my ocean writing challenge! I originally thought this would be a one shot, but I thought of other parts I want to write, so I hope you enjoy part 1! 💙

Summary: Cleo gets more than she expects when she is gifted a spot on a great white shark diving experience. Little does she know, her friend, Jenna, was trying to play match maker all along with a certain hot diver named Joel Miller.

Rating: 18+ Only MDNI

Word Count: 6.4k

Tags: Cleo is the original female character of this story, diver! Joel, switching POVs, flirting, a little bit of grumpy Joel, feelings, eventual smut, diving with great whites in California, Joel owns a boat, no use y/n, no outbreak au

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The California sun beats down on Joel’s tanned skin, the summer breeze throwing around his tousled curls from the wind of the calm seas. He walks along the wooden deck, hauling some diving gear to his boat called Deep Blue. She was one of his most prized possessions, the first boat he got to make a business out of. Nothing beats sailing out to sea and diving with the beautiful creatures of the deep. Call it a sport or a hobby, but he’d stay out on the tides all day if he could, and sometimes he did.

He grunts as he hoists the expensive, heavy gear over the edge of the boat, tossing some brand new fins and regulators over the side. As he starts walking back to his white Chevy for more gear, he hears a high pitched voice calling his name down the dock.

Christ.

“Joel, wait up!” Jenna yells loudly, her flip flops flopping against the sturdy deck.

He groans and stops in his tracks, turning around to face the nuisance of his day. “Hi, Jenna,” he mutters as he rolls his eyes.

“So, will you do it?” she asks with big hazel eyes, pushing him to say yes.

“Do what?” he scowls.

“Will you take her out?”

“Take who out?!” he barks.

“The girl I told you about! Come on, Joel. She’s dying to dive with some great whites, and you’re the only guide I trust to do that,” she whines pathetically.

He sighs with an annoyed expression and crosses his large arms over his broad chest. “Why doesn’t she just buy a ticket like a normal person then?”

“She’s not just a normal person, she’s my friend!” she laughs out, stomping her purple flip flops into the edge of the deck.

“Well, tell her to get on the list. I’ve got customers waitin’ to be taken out on the water.”

He starts moving again, brushing past her until she grabs his bicep and holds him back. “But Joellll, she’s wanted to do this ever since I met her. She deserves a private tour. Can’t you just give her a chance?”

“Are you tryin’ to set me up on a date or somethin’?” he asks with one eyebrow cocking up high on his forehead while his dark eyes narrow at Jenna.

“Duh! She’s like my best friend. And she’s totally your type,” she smiles, her blonde ponytail blowing softly in the salty breeze.

“No,” he says harshly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to get done.”

He tries to walk past her, but she steps in front of him with her arms crossed over her aquamarine colored tank top. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs defeatedly. “You’re not gonna stop askin’ until I say yes, ain’t that right?”

“Nope!” She laughs loudly as she twists her hips in place.

“Christ,” he mutters. “What’s her name?”

“Cleo, and she’s a total babe! Like she’s a knockout. Totally your type, like I said earlier. She’s a new marine biology graduate. She’s a killer diver, extremely smart, gorgeous, and she’s super sweet,” she beams.

“I don’t know, Jenna. I don’t really…”

“You don’t really what? Date? Well, you should! Come on, do it for Jonas,” she begs, puppy eyes simmering into his skull.

“Jonas ain’t the one houndin’ me about this, you are. You beg your boyfriend this much for things? Jesus Christ,” he mutters while he pinches the bridge of his nose in mere frustration.

“Well, sometimes,” she giggles, “but this is about you!”

“Jenna, I’ve got a business to run. I’ve got payin’ customers waitin’ for me to call ‘em back. I can’t jus’ take one of your friends out on a dive for free jus’ ‘cause you want me to,” he hisses.

“I promise you I’m not asking for no reason. This would mean the absolute world to her. And hello, she’s single and hot, and you need to get laid! You’re rotting away on that boat, Miller. Pretty soon you’re gonna shrivel up and…”

“Jenna,” he warns with the tick of his jaw.

“Joel Miller, please! Come onnnn, just take her out once. Promise it’ll be worth your while. Please, please, pleaseeeeee,” she whines.

“Alright, alright!” He holds a hand out to stop her from running her mouth anymore and sighs, carding his fingers through his slicked back tousled curls as another groan escapes him. “This Sunday. Have her here, at my boat by 9:00 in the morning, no later than that.”

“Yes! Thank you, Joel! You’re the best!” She throws her arms around his neck and gives him a big squeeze until he pushes her off annoyed, readjusting his button-up shirt by the blue collar.

“She doesn’t even know you’re tryin’ to set her up, does she?” he huffs.

“Nope!” she giggles.

“Goddamn it, Jenna,” he groans. “You owe me big time.” He points an accusing finger at her, and she just gives him a big toothy grin in return.

“Yeah, yeah. Just wait till you meet her. I won’t owe you a damn thing after that!”

She runs up the dock to go find Jonas, and Joel just stands there and sighs, muttering curse words under his breath while he hauls himself back to the truck.

“She better be worth it, Jenna,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head while he clenches his jaw.

This would be a long week.

Joel sets the scuba gear out on the back of the boat, preparing the oxygen tanks and BCDs all while getting ready for the trip out to Catalina. Right on the outskirts of the island is a little alcove where the great whites love to hang out early in the day.

He sighs while he checks the air in the tanks, cursing under his breath from Jenna getting under his skin. He should be having a fully booked tour today, not taking some girl he doesn’t know out on the water for free. It was a favor he was doing, a nice thing he shouldn’t be doing. Even though Jenna was his friend, he didn’t need her begging him to take out one of her friends.

He’d thought about canceling all day yesterday, paced up and down the dock while clenching his jaw and flexing his fingers into tight fists. Jonas had asked what was up, but all he had to say was Jenna’s name before Jonas started rolling his own eyes, too.

It’s not that Joel is against dating or taking girls out, but taking just one out on a private tour is going to cost him later. He likes to do the great white tours with big groups. He’s never done a private one yet. This would be his first, and he wouldn’t lie that he was nervous as hell that it was a woman he was taking out. But the bit about you being a marine biologist made him feel a little better. Maybe today wouldn’t be as bad as he was expecting it to be.

He lines the colorful fins up next to one of the white leather seats and hoists the anchor up on the deck. As he leans over to stock the ice chest full of waters, he hears light footsteps down the wooden dock and then a young woman clearing her throat.

Just when he dumps all the waters into the ice chest, he hears your voice for the very first time. “Excuse me. Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Joel? I think this is where I’m supposed to be, but I just wanted to be sure I was in the right spot.”

He stops what he’s doing and pushes himself off the ice chest. “That would be me,” he murmurs from the floor. When he gets a strong hold on the back of the boat and pulls himself up, he gets a good look at the woman that stands in front of him.

“Are you here to…” His mouth parts open and he chokes on his own words. His eyes go wide when he sees you standing there, a pink beach bag over your shoulder with a nervous smile splayed across your pretty face.

He can’t believe his eyes, blinking once, twice to make sure you’re even really standing there in that short blue summer dress that barely grazes your tanned thighs. His eyes slide down your body, taking in the beauty that stands before him.

Your hair reaches your shoulders, summer kissed highlights coating your beachy waves. Your eyes are absolutely stunning, shimmering diamonds that remind him of the deep blue sea. The sun hits them at just the right angle, making them sparkle like the glistening ocean surrounding him. Your body is tanned, toned, mesmerizing like the siren call your voice gives off when you speak. And your smile. God, your beautiful smile. He thinks you look like an angel, like you were sent just for him. He doesn’t know you, not yet, but now he’s thinking he shouldn’t have given Jenna such a hard time because he thinks he’s just found the most beautiful girl in the world.

He blinks a few times, slowly registering that he’s just standing and staring like a mad man when he should be helping you onto the boat. He clears his throat and holds out a hand, waiting for you to take it. “I’m Joel Miller, captain of the boat and also your diving guide. And you must be…”

“Cleo,” you finish for him with a slight blush to your warm cheeks.

“Cleo…” he repeats slowly, memorizing the color of your aquamarine irises entirely, mapping out starfish in your deep blue ocean eyes.

You latch your hand with his, and he swears he stops breathing for a couple seconds as your soft fingers mold to his rough, calloused hand. You seem to lose your words as you just stare up at him, blinking those thick, long eyelashes his way.

Jenna’s really done it this time.

He helps you up onto the end of the boat, leading you to the edge of one of the white leather seats where you set your bag down.

He glances at the waterproof watch on his left wrist and looks at the time. You’re fifteen minutes early. What a good girl you are. “You’re early,” he says with surprise in his voice, looking up from his watch to the beautiful girl that stands before him.

You shrug your shoulders and give him a half smile. “It’s only considerate to be early. Besides, I wanted to get a good spot before anyone else showed up in case I lost out on a good seat.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you and leans against the metal railing. “Other people?”

“Yeah, aren’t these tours usually fully booked?” you ask, confused at the question.

“Sure are, but looks like you’re the only one today. It’s jus’ you and me, darlin’.”

Your mouth drops open, wide eyes landing on his while you look totally baffled by the statement. “No other people booked?”

“Nope,” he half smirks, crossing his arms all proudly as he watches the gears in your head grind and tick.

“Oh. That’s ummm… wow,” you stutter, still baffled at the response. Jenna clearly didn’t tell you anything other than you had a ticket for a great white shark dive tour.

“Is that a problem?” he asks, trying not to laugh at your shocked expression.

“Oh, no! Not a problem at all! This is just kind of incredible that I even got a spot today and that no one else booked. Lucky me,” you laugh.

“Lucky you,” he smirks, deciding he won’t tell you the real reason you got a free tour. At least not yet he won’t. He’ll let you enjoy the afternoon without bringing up Jenna.

“Oh, wait a second. I have something for you.” You dig in your little beach bag, reaching in and pulling out a plastic container. “I made these last night. Thought I could indulge everyone in a little snack for the trip, but looks like it’s just you. So, these are for you.”

You hand him a small container of fresh chocolate chip cookies that look delicious. The soft cookies looking like they could melt on his tongue. He takes one look at the batch of cookies, then back at your shy smile. He thinks you’re so sweet. “Now, how did you know chocolate chip cookies are my favorite, darlin’?” he asks with a crooked smile.

“I dunno. Guess it’s just your lucky day,” you beam, eyes all starry and dreamlike.

He carefully opens the clear lid and snatches a fresh cookie from the top, popping it in his mouth slowly. The cookie is warm, gooey, the chocolate melting on his tongue. He silently groans as it slides down his throat, his taste buds coming to life. He’s never tasted anything quite this good, especially for something being his favorite dessert. He has a major sweet tooth, but he thinks he might be sweeter for you now.

He finishes it off and swallows, licking his bottom lip clean as he closes the container and grins your way. “These are the best cookies I’ve ever tasted. Thank you. Think they might all be gone by the time we get back to shore.”

You giggle, flipping your long locks over your shoulder as you bask in the moment. He thinks you’re absolutely breathtaking with the sunlight glowing down on you right now. “Glad I made them then,” you smile.

He sets the cookies down inside the helm and walks back out, stopping right in front of you. “So, you been divin’ before?” he asks with a curious expression.

“Mhm. Loads of times. I’ve been certified for a while, just haven’t had the opportunity to do something like this before. It’s really exciting! And great white sharks of all things? I’m so lucky,” you gush.

He chuckles to himself, admiring your wide grin and big beautiful eyes. He would have a hard time saying no to this one. “Yeah, nothing like gettin’ up close to those beautiful creatures. Definitely incredible,” he replies softly.

“So you’ve been doing this a while now? Doing shark diving tours?” you ask curiously, crossing a tanned leg over your knee while you patiently await an answer from him.

“Sure have. A little over three years, but been divin’ way longer than that.”

You nod your head, a small smile curling over the edges of your glossy pink lips. He thinks he could look at you all day long.

Another moment passes and he almost forgets he has a schedule to make. “Well, should probably get goin’. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

“Yeah, probably should,” you reply.

He smiles shyly at you and nods to the red cooler in the back of the boat. “Got some cold waters in there for you if you need anything to drink. Snacks are up in the cabin. Oh, but before we go, let me show you around the boat.”

He leads you around his boat, showing you all the safety and emergency procedures, showing you the bathroom underneath the first level, giving you a tour of inside the cabin and a quick rundown on how the steering works in the boat in case there was an emergency.

He finds that you’re a quick learner, knowing your way around a boat pretty well. Impressed is an understatement, he’s quite enamored with you already. A beautiful marine biologist who’s definitely a knockout, just like Jenna had told him. Maybe he should start listening to her ramble about things more often.

When he finally sets off to Catalina Island and gets out far enough to where there’s no one around, he glances back and sneaks a peek at you. He watches you looking in awe out on the blue horizon, catching sprinkles of ocean water in your sun kissed hair, getting lost in your gentle smile when you see a dolphin jump out of the wake of the water behind the boat. Yeah, he’s hooked already.

The water is calm today, barely any waves that rock the boat back and forth. It’s just a peaceful Sunday morning, one that might turn his world upside down.

When he looks back again he freezes, eyes blowing wide when he sees you slipping your sundress down your thighs, only now wearing a revealing coral pink bikini that accentuates the curve of your ass, the cleavage of your full breasts.

He chokes on his own spit, having to tear his eyes away from the tanned beauty that stands before him. But he still watches you with the flick of his eyes in the mirror, spreading sunscreen all over the soft skin of your body. He wishes he could help you spread the lotion on your back, run his fingers over your long neckline, lather it down your long legs, tangle his fingers with your hair, kiss the delicate skin of your collarbone…

Cleo, Cleo, Cleo.

He shakes his tousled curls and runs his fingers down his jawline, catching the edge of his greying scruff. He needs to pull himself together, has to stop getting distracted by you. Jenna was more than right, he’s a fucking goner.

The salty ocean breeze kisses your tanned skin as you stand at the back of the boat, your hair tangling from the wind blowing against your shoulders. The water is crystal clear, shades of vivid blues bouncing over the soft waves. Today was the big day, diving with great white sharks along Catalina Island. The moment you’ve been waiting for your entire life.

You’re a recent graduate of Scripps Institution, getting your Master’s degree in Marine Biology, specializing in sharks. You never even imagined swimming with great whites would be possible, that was until you were introduced to Joel Miller. A dreamy boat captain and dive master that took people out on excursions to dive with the beautiful creatures of the deep.

He’s easy on the eyes. Sandy brown tousled curls threaded with silver locks, a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard he likes to slide his fingers through. His shoulders are broad, toned abs glistening in the sun over smooth, tanned skin. And his eyes. God, those big, beautiful brown eyes. Golden honey irises that glitter like gold in the ocean sunlight. He’s such a dreamboat.

You don’t know how you got so lucky getting a private tour with him, but you were eternally grateful for this rare opportunity. Great white sharks and a handsome, broad diver? What more could you possibly ask for?

You slide your skin tight wetsuit on and peel the thick layers over your bright pink bikini. You can feel Joel’s eyes on you, even when he’s throwing the anchor out into the cold blue water. A couple minutes later and he’s right at your side, flicking his eyes over your figure.

“Need a hand with that?” He nods to the back of your wetsuit, and you slightly turn for him.

You gasp when he places his large hands on you, one gently sliding around the curve of your hip and the other slowly zipping you up. His warm breath blows down your neck, clouding your mind as his meaty hand lingers for just a few seconds too long on your hip.

He circles around and starts handing you your buoyancy compensator. “So, a marine biologist, huh?” he asks, flicking his honey eyes over you again.

You blush and nod. “Mhm. Just graduated this spring with my master’s actually. From Scripps Institution of Oceanography.”

He cocks an eyebrow up and lets out a low whistle. “Impressive. That ain’t an easy college to get into. I guess congratulations are in order.”

You laugh while you adjust the straps around your buoyancy compensator. “Thanks. I definitely worked hard to get in.”

“I’m sure you did, sweetheart.” He flicks his amber eyes up to yours and then gets back to work on feeding the oxygen tank into the back of your BCD while you try to fight off another deep blush to your cheeks.

After he gets your gear aligned on your back, he sheds his white t-shirt and throws it to the side. You have to avert your eyes from staring at the toned, tanned abs that appear in front of you, have to bite your lower lip when he slides on the skin tight black wetsuit and grabs his own BCD and oxygen tank, gearing up without as much as one grunt from him. Strong. He’s so strong.

“Check my oxygen tank, will ya?” he asks nicely, turning his broad back to you while you assess the tube and all the cords, making sure none were tangling around each other.

“Looks good, Joel.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You absolutely love that nickname, but maybe he’s just being nice. He doesn’t sound like he’s from California, but from down south somewhere. Maybe that was common there, just some southern hospitality.

You smile up at him and brush it off. “No problem.”

“Your computer workin? he asks, checking out the digital numbers on it.

“Mhm,” you nod.

“Good. Now check your regulator,” he instructs.

You click on the button where air blows out, showing him the equipment is up to speck. “Check,” you reply. “You’re very vigilant, you know that?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Have to be, sweetheart. It’s my job to keep you safe. I know you signed a waiver, but it’s still my responsibility to keep you safe out there. The ocean is dangerous, even if you are an excellent diver. Anything can happen, jus’ gotta be prepared for the unknown. And I’ve dealt with a lot of stupid, irresponsible guests on my boat. But you won’t be one of those, will ya?”

He cups your chin for two seconds too short, making it a point to say you’re not those stupid divers. And the way he looks at you all invested and adamant makes your thighs clench together. “No, sir. You won’t catch me slipping out there. I wouldn’t dare,” you say confidently.

“Didn’t think so, darlin’.”

Darlin’. Jesus, you’re sunk.

He hands you a clean scuba mask and leads you over to the metal ladder at the back of the boat. He stops you for a second, putting a large hand on your shoulder as he turns you to look him straight in the face. “Before we go in, I wanna make somethin’ clear. Want you to stay real close to me. Don’t stray off. This is great white territory, their territory. You make one wrong move and you could be in a world of trouble. You don’t mess with them, they won’t mess with you. We clear?” he asks in a deep, serious tone, eyebrows fused together as his eyes stay fully focused on you.

You nod and give him a thumbs up. “I got it, Joel. Promise I won’t stray off, and I’ll respect their territory.”

“Attagirl,” he smiles, patting you softly on the back of the shoulder while you fight to keep your voice composed.

Attagirl. He just called you a good girl basically. Damn it, you weren’t supposed to fall for the shark diver, but look at you. You’re basically soaring off the cliff at this point.

He takes his large hands and starts double checking your gear, making sure all cords are secure and that you’re safe during the dive. You can see he’s very protective already. You watch him slide his hand over your regulator, watch the way he’s so careful with the equipment, with you. It makes butterflies start again low in your stomach.

“Do you ever get customers that freak out in the water?” you ask, watching his eyes flick to yours and a small smile tug at his plush lips.

“All the time,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s kinda crazy that they pay all this money, and then some just decide to stay on the boat. I had this guy that freaked out under the water before, had to get him out quick ‘cause he was attractin’ a large female shark. And I can’t tell you how many have climbed back on the boat after jus’ five minutes out there. I’ve had a lot of ‘em bail. A bit disappointin’, but what can you do? Guess it’s their money and their experience. They can choose how they wanna spend it,” he sighs, running a hand back through his wild sandy curls.

“That’s too bad. They missed out on a great experience,” you say, eyes still locked on his.

“Sure did. You’re not gonna bail on me are you, sweetheart?” He cups your chin, running his calloused fingers smoothly over your skin, making you gasp when he smiles warmly over at you.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you smile.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, dropping his hand from your chin and turning back to the vivid blue water.

That’s my girl. Oh no, you’re hooked. Hook, line, and sinker. He’s got you right where he wants you, like a baited fish.

You step closer to the back of the boat, letting the salty sea water spray your teal colored fins. The air is calm, waves barely lapping against the top of the water. It’s an absolutely perfect day to dive. “So, you’ve been coming around this area a lot?”

“Mhm. This is one of my main diving areas. It’s perfect. Not too far off from a colony of sea lions, a coral reef just a little north of here, and this is the main area great whites come to feed,” he says, leaning against the edge of the sturdy boat.

“That means you’re familiar with the sharks?” you ask with hope filling your eyes.

“I suppose so,” he smiles, slicking back his curls with ocean water. “There’s a large female great white that has stayed close to the area. And there’s a couple of juvenile ones that stay near her. I reckon those are her pups.”

Your eyes light up, and you smile widely at him. “That’s incredible! Have you named her? The female.”

He flicks his eyes once over you and chuckles to himself, surprised you’re so eager to learn about the sharks. “As a matter of fact, I have. I call her Wavebreaker.”

“Why’d you pick that name?” you ask, leaning your head to the side to assess his soft features.

“She likes to breach a lot when she’s huntin’. Comes up to the surface a lot to say hi, I suppose. Maybe she recognizes my boat,” he shrugs, smiling out to the crystal clear water.

“Guess she recognizes when she’s safe around someone,” you say shyly, fighting yourself for throwing in anymore compliments, like his honey colored eyes.

“Guess so,” he smiles, the soft breeze of the salty ocean blowing against his slicked back hair.

“Alright, c’mon. Let’s go in. You ready?”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” you smile giddily.

He leads you to the very edge, flippers almost submerged by the cold water. “Remember, stay close to me. Keep those pretty eyes on me.” Before you can choke a response, he nods his head to the water and jumps in, causing a big splash to form around the bubbling water.

You waste no time and go after him, jumping in to feel the breath of icy water slide down your entire body. You pop your head above the surface for just a couple seconds, adjusting your mask and fixing your regulator, then you follow him into the dark depths of the sea.

You start to glide through the clear blue water, following after Joel as you dive deeper and deeper, bubbles from the regulator blowing above your head. You pass thick spots of green seaweed, swim past large schools of colorful fish, take in breathtaking sights of pink and orange shaded coral reefs, and glide past a few sea lions that seem to be in a hurry. It’s all so beautiful, so magical under the water. Like a breath of fresh air, somewhere where you could stay forever if you could.

You follow Joel to a wide open area, making sure to stay on the heels of his rubber flippers. He makes sure to look behind himself every few seconds, making sure that you’re alright, safe. Just the sight of him checking on you makes your heartbeat pick up and your mind reel around impossibly fast. You decide right now that Joel is a protector, period.

You lose sight of him as an assortment of calico bass pass you by, getting lost in the flurry of bright colors that hypnotize your mind. Out of the corner of your eye you see a dark shadow lurking beneath you, but when you look down it’s gone. You gasp. That must’ve been a shark, but it was too quick to catch a glimpse because you were too involved with the other school of fish.

A few seconds later Joel grabs your shoulders and turns you to the right, letting his fingers linger there on the wetsuit, but you swear his fingertips imprint down to your skin. His touch even burns like fire in the sea.

Before you know what’s happening your eyes grow wide, your mouth would’ve dropped open if you weren’t sucking in oxygen from the regulator. Right there in the near distance is a beautiful, giant great white shark. That must be Wavebreaker.

She swims with grace in the water, her pectoral fins wide and almost shimmery under the glow of the sun shining down into the water. You watch her make circles in the distance, finally see the other juvenile sharks join in the shadows.

You can’t stop yourself from being so giddy, watching them swim in the salty water, large black eyes scanning the area, assessing the waters for prey.

You try to go a little closer, but Joel grabs your hand and pulls you back behind him like he’s shielding you from the inevitable. He takes his time letting go of your hand, keeps the space between you closed up, feeling his body heat reverberate right down your veins, like Joel seeps through your skin.

Jesus. He really did have a strong effect on you. He might as well just toss you to the sharks at this point. You’re completely hooked on him.

You stay idle in place, gently kicking your legs while you breathe through the regulator, captivated by the enormous beauties in front of you, watching them swim with no thoughts of the two humans in their realm.

You’re speechless, watching your dreams come to life in front of you. This is everything you’ve ever wanted, and you don’t think anything else will ever live up to this beautiful, encapsulated moment right now. And it’s all because of Joel.

Your eyes flicker over to him, but he’s not watching the giants that peacefully swim through the clear water, he’s looking at you. If you weren’t underwater, you’d probably drop your mouth open and blush at the sight of him staring at you. His regulator is in the way of seeing his mouth, but you see he’s smiling just a little at the girl in front of him. That girl being you.

He takes your hand in his and leads you forward, silently gliding through the water while you take in this perfect moment. He keeps his hand in yours this time, not letting go until the oxygen is almost up and the two of you head towards the boat, where you can breathe fresh air again.

When you breach the top of the water, you drop the regulator from your mouth and shout at the top of your lungs. “Joel, that was incredible! Did you see them? They were ginormous! And the juvenile sharks? Oh my God that was so amazing! The size of Wavebreaker and how docile they were in the water! I mean, fuck!!” You can’t keep your excitement in, and Joel just smiles and stares at you with these captivating brown eyes, ones that say he’s completely enamored by you and wants you to keep talking because obviously he is enjoying your enthusiasm for the love of the ocean.

You go on and on, and he doesn’t stop you one time, not until you’re completely done blabbering on. “Glad you had fun, darlin’,” he smiles, helping you up out of the water, his hand lingering on the side of your hip softly.

You take your fins and gear off, peeling the suctioned wetsuit from your sun kissed skin and watch him do the same, more gracefully than you. He sets the BCD and oxygen tank down on the deck with ease, carefully setting yours next to his and dismantling the oxygen tanks. You just stare at him, watching his big hands work while you stand in a foggy haze.

Salt water drips from his slicked back sandy locks, his huge biceps flex every time he twists and turns the tops of the oxygen tanks. You think he’s just the perfect diver and boat captain. Seriously, how did you get so fortunate?

“So, how’d I get so lucky to get a private tour with an experienced shark diver? Aren’t these things usually sold out?” you ask, leaning against the metal railing, your fingers dancing over the cool edges.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “They are usually fully booked, but your friend might’ve pulled some strings.”

“My friend…?” you ask, pondering just who could’ve pulled these kinds of strings. You think and think, knitting your brows together and crossing your arms over your chest.

“Mhm. A blonde, annoying, intolerable girl sometimes,” he chuckles to himself, shaking out cold water droplets from his slicked back curls. It suddenly dawns on you, only one certain person would have the nerve to pull this kind of stunt. Jenna.

“You mean Jenna?” you ask, cocking your head to the side.

“Yep. That’s the one,” he nods.

“Wait, how do you know Jenna?”

“I work with her boyfriend, see her around the docks all the time.”

“Oh, I see. She didn’t tell me she was friends with you.”

He shrugs and smiles over at you, the salty breeze catching his slicked back sandy curls. “Known her for a while now. She was real adamant about gettin’ this tour booked. Persistent little thing, ain’t she? The girl’s been houndin’ me about it nonstop for weeks now. Couldn’t get the girl to shut up. Didn’t know what all the fuss was about until she told me she was tryin’ to book it for her pretty marine biologist friend that happened to be single.”

“Uhhh, oh.” Fucking Jenna. “Shit, Joel. I had no idea. I’m so sorry,” you apology hurriedly. He puts a large palm out to silence the rest.

“Ain’t gotta be sorry, darlin’. Consider it a favor that doesn’t need repayin’.”

“But… are you sure? She just asked you for a lot, giving your Sunday up for me. I…”

“Hey, it’s fine. Really. She didn’t tell me jus’ how smart and attractive you’d be. My, you’re even more gorgeous than she said. Words don’t do you justice, sweetheart. Absolutely breathtakin’.”

You stand there speechless, your mouth slightly parted open as you inhale the salty sea air. “Oh. That’s… well… thank you,” you gulp. “She didn’t tell me how handsome my diving guide would be,” you blush.

He cocks an eyebrow up and a crooked grin spreads wide across his mouth. “Oh, stop. Darlin’, you’re gonna make me blush,” he laughs.

You shift your weight and cross your arms across your damp low cut bikini top. “So, what do I owe you? I know you missed out on extra business today. Let me repay the favor.”

He shakes his head and laughs. “Consider the favor paid. I got to take out a pretty girl on the waves. Your company is enough for me.”

Your wide-eyed stare doesn’t falter when those words rush out of his mouth. God, Jenna really did you a huge favor. “You’re sweet, Joel. At least let me buy you a drink?”

One eyebrow cocks up, and he crosses his large arms over his broad chest, tanned skin shimmering in the sunlight. “I mean, I could take you out for a drink,” he smirks.

“Joel!” you giggle.

“Cleo!” He mocks you, playfully jutting his bottom lip out at you as you give him large puppy eyes.

“I’m being serious here,” you laugh, shaking your head back and forth. “Please, let me buy you a drink. You’ve been so kind and had to put up with Jenna. I owe you,” you say adamantly, not going to take no for an answer.

He smiles a wide grin and nods your way. “Alright. Sure, sweetheart. I’d love that.”

“Then it’s settled.” You smile at him, watching the way his eyes flick over your bikini clad body, a bit of a deep blush coloring his cheeks while he gets back to work putting away the diving equipment.

When he finishes up, he turns back to you before disappearing into the cabin of the boat. “You know that bar called Waves on the Rocks right by the boat docks?”

“Yeah, what about it?” you ask, wrapping your teal towel around your shoulders to block out the chill of the sea.

“How ‘bout we go for that drink when we get back? That is, if you’re not busy after this,” he says with hope threaded in his warm caramel eyes, his thick fingers hooked behind the back of a metal pole.

“Let’s do it,” you smile, making yourself stay still to keep from showing just how excited you are. You’re going on a date with Joel Miller, the hottest diver you’ve seen. You’d have to thank Jenna later.

“Great, it’s a date,” he muses, turning back into the inner cabin before you can get your own words out.

“It’s a date,” you whisper to yourself, smiling like an idiot the rest of the ride back as you glide across the dark blue ocean with the wind blowing through your long locks.

You didn’t just get to see a great white today, but you just might’ve also caught the hottest diver around. You were ready to see where this would go.

#joel miller x oc #joel miller x original character #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #Joel Miller #joel the last of us #no outbreak au #diver! Joel #jamie's ocean challenge

63 notes · View notes

sunnyie-eve · 9 months ago

Text

2 | Pick on

Series: Unexpected

Paring: (Matt Sturniolo x OFC Brock!) (Chris Sturniolo x OFC Brock!)

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: none

| MASTERLIST |

"Colby..." Dani watches him walking towards a door, "How old are you?" She asks as he walks face into the door, "You're not dead."

"It's Jim Hogg's room." Chris reads the name above the door.

"Who's that?"

"I dunno... It says his name on the top." Chris points out for him so they all laugh.

"We got a Big D. We got a Jim Hogg." Nick names then men they have come across.

Matt find the knocker on the wall and plays with it while his brothers tell him to stop, "I've never seen a knocker on a wall." Dani looks at it as he keeps playing with it.

"I like playing with knockers." Sam says making Dani look at him.

"Really?"

"If it takes a lot of effort to get into somewhere, I don't think that's somewhere I need to be." Nick says about the door and the knocker.

"We have a bad reputation of breaking into places." Sam turns the camera to himself.

"Ooh, Nick look it. So many men over there." Chris points out the hall of paintings.

"You need to stop with this immediately."

"Let's rate them one through ten." He adds.

"Is this a pick on Nick video?" Dani laughs as they all make their way over.

"Exactly!" He shouts, "And I don't want their ghosts to be made at me like in an hour."

Nick picks Dan Moody as the most attractive one and they agree he's the best in the wall before they make fun of Beauford Jester's name.

Colby goes to ask do the brothers have roles and they say Matt does the laundry and drives. Nick is the leader and Chris is just there, so Nick says he the creative one.

"Let's tell them about what happened last night." Sam passes the camera over to Colby, "We were standing right in the middle of this area. And our guide screams and looks over to the left, and she saw for the first time ever, someone waving at her. And I look by this little light and a full on shadow passes the light."

"I might have left out I saw the exact same thing she saw last night." Dani tells the group.

"Don't do that stuff." Chris looks at her so she laughs as they head for the elevator.

"I hate the elevators." Matt speaks up.

"Wait, what?" He catches Sam off, "You hate the elevator?"

"Yes,"

"We have maybe a little... Ritual to do in the elevator tonight." He tells the three.

"You can count me out." Dani says hearing that for the first time.

"You know what, we can sit out together." Chris pats Dani on the shoulder as she stood next to him, "I hate those two words together."

"Me and Chris have been stuck in an elevator before for like an hour and a half." Matt tells the group, "It traumatized me a little bit."

"I'd cry." Dani shakes her head at the thought as the all pile into the elevator.

"Is this the one we're doing the ritual?" Colby asks Sam.

"No. We can't talk about the ritual."

"Did you just feel the elevator drop like three inches?" Matt asks the group.

"I did." Dani looks at him, "What's the weight limit of this thing?"

"We all just fall to our death." He jokes a bit.

Arriving in the lobby they get with their tour guide, who explains how Driskill was a big cigar guy, so they'll smell it in the hotel. Matt says things are adding up because when they first arrived Dani had the smell follow her around.

They then move to where Audrey saw the person last night talking about her experience, so Dani tells her she saw them too but didn't know how to react so she frozen in place.

"I don't know if I would freeze or run." Chris nods his head before Audrey takes them by the vault and talks about the ghosts that are normally around there.

Heading towards the elevators to go up to the fifth floor Sam asks if there was an specific haunting with them to which they conduct a lot of mischief. Dani looks over at Matt to see the look on his face, "Matt's gonna take the stairs." She chuckles as the all get into the elevator.

"I'm just gonna stand here." Nick stands closely in front of Dani since it was packed tight as she was tightly between Matt and Colby.

"It's okay." She rubs his back with a smile.

"I wonder if we all just sing Kumbaya right now?" Maddy says as they wait to go up but the door just opens again.

"Did we just pressed five and went to one?" Sam asks.

"It didn't even go up, Sam." Dani looks over at him.

"I hate elevators." Matt reminds everyone.

"I think I might join you on that." Dani turns her head to look at him to her left as she rests her arms on Nick.

They press five again but the doors just open again without moving.

"What the f..." Sam says.

"What's happening?" Colby asks.

"I'm about to say F this." Dani looks at the doors so Nick turns around to rub her shoulder.

"Lily are you fucking with us?" Audrey asks stepping out to ask.

"Dani, I might take you up on those stairs." Matt moves his head to look at her so she nods hers agreeing. "If I get stuck in this elevator." He looks over at the camera now.

"You see me though, I'm pressing five." Audrey says but it just opens again.

"Maybe we give her a minute to breathe." Nick says.

Sam looks over at Matt and Dani telling them to stand on the other side to see if anyone of was fucking with them so the step out and watch the doors close.

"We're just gonna leave my sister alone with him?" Colby asks before the doors open again and they them him no onw is messing with it. "You just said these malfunction." Colby tells Audrey.

"We need to try it alone." Sam suggests.

"Dani?" Colby turns around to look at her.

"Fuck you," She makes the triples laugh so Sam tries it alone.

Once it works Audrey tells the group about Samantha being their most known ghosts. She was just about four when she passed playing with her balls by stairs and fell down them. On the fifth floor they were taken to Samantha's painting.

"She doesn't look four in that." Colby stares at it, " She looks about eight."

"Really? I thought she looked four." Audrey looks at it more.

"It's probably the getup." Nick speaks up, "She had a fancy getup on." He says so they agree with him.

"She looks 1894 not 2024." Audrey says.

"That's a lot of hair for a four year old." Colby adds making Dani look at him.

"Dude, I had a shit ton of hair at four."

"You forgot how Dani looked?" Sam laughs so everyone smiles at Colby.

"He didn't care." Chris laughs now.

"He was non observant." Nick joins in making fun of Colby.

"Trust me he never payed attention to me when he was supposed to." Dani crosses her arms eyeing down Colby, "I ended up with a Dora bob and micro bangs just like my dolls. Scissors were off limits for me."

"Chris would've been the one to give her scissors." Nick laughs and so does Matt.

"Honestly, I probably would've found her a buzzer." Chris smiles.

"Thank god I didn't know y'all." Dani laughs as they make their way to the room now.

#sam golbach #colby brock #sam and colby #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #oc #sibilings #matt sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo imagine #ff #fanifiction #fanfic #sturniolo fanfic #best friends #friends to lovers

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faketrex · 5 months ago

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We have reached the end of these cakegate bodyswap shenanigans. I hope you enjoy this final part! The whole thing will be up on my AO3 page... eventually.

Thank you kindly for reading and liking and reblogging and making me smile in the tags!

...

SHARING A SLICE... part 6

RWRB, rated T, 1000 words (this part).

(click here for part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5)

...

After brunch, they visit Tower Bridge.

“Over there is the Tower of London.”

“That’s where they locked women up when they didn't pop out babies fast enough for the king, right?”

“Exactly right. Did you know they kept an elephant there, too?”

“What?”

“They fed it bread and wine. I'm sure you’ll be shocked to learn that it died.”

“Y��know, I almost feel like I should cut you some slack. All that inbreeding obviously messed up your brains.”

Henry smiles. It probably looks great to the paparazzi.

After Tower Bridge, it's the Tate Modern, followed by St Paul's Cathedral, Hyde Park, dinner, and then Kensington Palace again for the night.

Yeah, it's a stunt, and yeah, Alex doesn't really get to look at the art or visit the sites, and yeah, he has zero say about the itinerary, but it's not terrible. Henry's not awful company.

By the end of the day, Alex is exhausted. Henry seems just as tired. On the one hand, they’ve convinced the public they're best friends and maybe reached a personal truce. On the other hand, it's twenty-four hours post-caketastrophe and they're still in the wrong fucking bodies.

“We can't stall any longer.” He's watching Henry pace back and forth in front of the windows with the ugly-ass curtains. “I have to go back tomorrow. Well, I mean, you do. You as me.”

Henry doesn't respond.

“How long do you think it’ll take one of us to get arrested for spying? My money's on less than forty-eight hours.”

“I need ice cream,” Henry announces.

“Music to my ears. Lead the way.”

They settle on opposite sides of the kitchen island and eat their ice cream in a half-peaceful, half-melancholic silence.

“Despite the uncanny aspect of it all, I have to admit this hasn't been horrible,” Henry says eventually. “They don't often let me play tourist... and I never get to fabricate pseudo-historical nonsense for a mouthy American.”

Alex nearly fumbles his cone. “Wait, you made stuff up? When?”

Henry shrugs.

“Come on. It was the elephant, wasn't it? I knew there was no way–”

“I assure you, the elephant was real.” Henry taps on his phone and spins it so Alex can see. “He even has his own Wikipedia entry.”

“Elephant of Henry III,” Alex reads, bending closer. “What the fuck.”

The smug expression on Henry's face – Alex's face – and the way he licks his ice cream makes Alex's stomach flip over strangely. His neck feels hot. There's melted ice cream dripping onto his hand.

Without breaking eye contact, Alex slides his free hand over the countertop and rests it on top of Henry's.

“Hey, don't spook, okay?”

His words have the opposite effect. Henry's eyes widen and his shoulders tense like he's getting ready to bolt, but Alex just tightens his grip.

“Maybe... close your eyes?”

“Alex–”

“Suit yourself,” Alex murmurs. As he leans in, Henry takes a deep breath, then closes his eyes. There's a nervous crease between his brows. "Okay. Here goes nothing.”

He mashes what's left of his ice cream against Henry’s face.

“What the hell, Alex?”

So much for that idea.

“Shit. I was thinking maybe the ice cream... after the cake... and I was touching your skin, so...” It doesn't make as much sense out loud as it did in Alex's head.

“You don't–” Henry sputters.

“Listen, I honestly wasn't trying to get back at you for the tour guide shit, I hoped it would fix–”

“No, no, I was wrong, I thought you–”

“What?”

“Alex, don't...” Henry laughs under his breath and reaches out to flatten a sticky palm against Alex's cheek. “Don't spook, alright?”

Before Alex can complain about the mess, Henry brings their lips together in a soft, vanilla-flavored kiss. Alex's stomach flips over again. He closes his eyes. Like this, it's easy to forget he’s kissing himself – and it’s still Henry, isn’t it? It's Henry, kissing him. Henry, kissing Alex.

The kiss is cautious, like Henry's expecting rejection; Alex leans into it anyway. Henry's hand smears ice cream onto his face and the edge of the counter presses into his ribcage, painful, but he wants it. It's shocking how powerful the want is when he hadn't even noticed it before.

Alex slides one hand up Henry's cheek, into his soft hair, and feels – he opens his eyes.

“Well, fuck.” Have Henry's eyes always been so blue? They hadn't seemed that blue in the mirror. They're kind of beautiful.

“Hello,” Henry says. “I'm back? You're back. Are you?”

“I guess. When did you come up with that plan?”

“I – plan?”

“You figured it out? Curse-breaking kisses or something? Wasn't that–” Alex stops. Henry hasn't pulled back from his awkward lean across the counter. From bizarre-but-true personal experience of less than sixty seconds ago, Alex knows for a fact that it's an uncomfortable position.

“If you'd like, I could pretend that it was part of a plan,” Henry offers quietly. “I've got plenty of experience pretending.”

If it's not the truth, though, Alex doesn’t want it. “Nah, no need. Don't get me wrong, it's weird if you don't want any credit for getting us back to normal again, but whatever.”

Henry's incredulous laugh makes Alex feel like kissing him again. “Covered in ice cream is normal for you?”

“Hey, chill. We're having a fucking moment.”

“A fucking moment, truly,” Henry echoes, mocking, but his smile is wide and happy.

“I'm not used to being covered in cake, trading bodies, being covered in ice cream, or kissing princes.”

“No?”

“But I've been branching out lately. Expanding my horizons, y’know.”

“I see. And now you know what to do if any one of those things happens again, I suppose?” Henry squeezes Alex's hand where they're still twined together.

“Yeah,” Alex agrees, squeezing back and leaning in. They've got more to figure out here, but right now it's his turn. Henry kissed him, so now he needs to try it for himself. Simple. “Let me show you. It's a piece of cake.”

...

#faketrex writes #fic: sharing a slice #fandom: intro to international relations #rwrb fanfic #rwrb fic #firstprince

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daryascurse · 1 year ago

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TROPETEMBER 1: "Love at First Sight"

♥ 𝘈𝘬𝘪 𝘏𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘸𝘢 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

pov : second person, she/her pronouns, no physical description; ~pre-canon Chainsaw Man ☆ rating + tags: SFW: rated PG13 for cursing and violence, grossness as per the CSM universe, love at first sight, fluff ☆ word count: ~2.4k ☆ author's note: welcome to the first day of my Tropetember event! no promises that everything will be prompt daily but my goal is to complete them all.. eventually! :) ☆ ao3

Your first day working with Public Safety had been terrible; even worse in retrospect as you piecemeal the day together, lying half-draped across your dining room chair and aimlessly drawing streaked images in ketchup with Family Burger fries.

The morning?

The morning, you had dropped your pen, failed to recover it, and instead used the narrow end of a highlighter to mark down anything important. Naturally every note became thoroughly, immediately, illegible. The morning, you had met tens of new coworkers whose names you tried to burn into memory. All but a handful are already forgotten. The morning, spent on a facility tour with a small cohort of other silent new employees. The morning, you had accidentally locked yourself in the bathroom that only the most frantic jiggling of the door could unstick.

You were contemplating tendering your resignation by that point.

“This sucks,” you heard someone in the group mumble during the training videos. Thus far you’d been inclined to agree.

In the morning, you had first seen him, too; just a hand raking through the underside of hair swept up into a top-knot, a middle finger bending to hook through the elastic hair tie and the shift of a starched collar as he shrugged in some response.

“Do you have a lighter?” was what you had heard as you walked past in hasty tandem with the tour guide, and you almost drew your hand to your purse. In that moment you would have given anything to that gentle voice. You don’t even often carry a lighter.

And now you think of the afternoon and groan, breath condensing into the table and ketchup spattering like blood as you throw your hand down.

Fuck.

“Fuck!” came the scream of another Devil Hunter. Her convenience store lunch slipped from her hands. The bag burst as it broke across the street and your own remnants dropped seconds before.

“What is that?” you breathed, eyes wide as the saffron yellow, gelatinous thing engulfed another street sign, the pole bending forward and red triangle refracting light across the road as it melted. It convulsed, the form parting in something that could best be described as opening its fucking mouth, revealing decaying black innards in the churning mass beyond.

“Quicksand Devil,” she said, and you looked wildly to her, as she spread her hands helplessly. You had recognized her from the morning tour, another novice straight out of completing the intake paperwork. What was her name?

Even now as you frown at your Family Burger you can’t remember it.

The Devil’s sludge had splashed heavily through the windows of a 7-Eleven. You looked back at her and found her eyes wide, still stuck to you.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Do something!” she said, voice growing more shrill with panic.

“Do what something?” you asked again, even as your hands patted desperately empty pockets. No weapons strapped to your back or up your sleeve like the more experienced Devil Hunters. All that rose under your fingers were the useless coins left after paying for this wasted lunch.

“Don’t you have any Devil contracts yet?”

You shook your head. “I’m new.”

God, I wanna go home.

She grimaced. The freckles on her face seemed to rise to prominence with just how pale her face grew, eyes luminous and fixed on the Quicksand Devil. It lurched down the alley towards the two of you, some boggy rotten stench wafting nauseatingly with it. It made your eyes water, and you lifted your arm over your nose to desperately block the putridity.

The Devil recoiled at your sudden action and rose high into the air. It made some grating guttural screech, like nails echoing down a chalkboard. You took a step back in alarm.

It twisted and began to turn down, angled straight at the two of you.

“Don’t antagonize it, fuck!”

“I’m not trying to?”

The other new Devil Hunter only screamed in hysterical laughter. “I want to go home!” she yelped, echoing your own panicked thoughts.

I’m fucking quitting.

And then came back another voice from behind - “Kon.”

This voice was strong, sharp, bidding forth an enormous pair of snarling jaws that erupted from the air around you, eliciting another scream from the girl. The pure shockwave through the wind knocked the air clean out of you, and you doubled over, clutching a painfully empty stomach. The Quicksand Devil still spiraled down to your bodies, as these terrible teeth bared, snapped open to bisect it.

“Move, move!” the girl screamed as your fingers knotted into each other and you struggled to stand upright again.

But he stepped forward first, the outstretched hand the first to enter your field of vision – and you looked up - clean, groomed, square nails, up to the pale wrist highlighted with tense tendons, crisp black suit jacket – and up. You weren’t looking at the Devil anymore, at that putrid incoming death twisting down between the jaws of a giant fox head, but at the hair swept up at the napes of his neck. Up to a top knot that seemed so instantly familiar, as it spiked up with strands caught in the winds of motion.

He was standing before you, other hand reaching back with broad fingers for the katana strapped along his shoulder blades, and in an instant you remembered what the training videos had so childishly laid out on a static-fuzzed screen. The little animation of a jeering Devil had slipped closer, closer, to a cartoon Hunter. The figure waited patiently for it to come within reach before slashing out with a knight-in-shining-armor beam of onomatopoeia and special effects to slay the Devil, head rolling with X’s for eyes as everyone cheered.

Then there had been the follow-up version with frowning emoticons where the Devil Hunter had moved too slowly, arm moving out of time, and the Devil bit the little cartoon head clean off with a fountain of blood in its place.

The man with the top knot gripped the katana handle.

“Steady,” he said, and it took a second to realize he was talking to you. “I’ve got this, I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

These moments as tar rained down could have been his last, and here he was comforting you. Your clammy hands relaxed from your abdomen, and you watched yourself reach out, reach for him. In that instant, there was another roar of wind as those fox jaws snapped clean through the Quicksand Devil.

The Devil’s decapitation was gruesome. The tarred sludge those teeth burst into popped like a sickly balloon. It came down hot, rancid, and your empty stomach convulsed in an unsatisfied urge to dry heave.

“Disgusting,” came a growling voice somewhere from above. You agreed.

“You don’t want to eat?” the top knot Devil Hunter called sardonically up at the teeth dripping with black.

“Disgusting,” the voice repeated, a shadow slowly fading as the sun seemed to make its way back between the buildings into the alley.

You remembered the other Devil Hunter only when she emerged out of a doorway, out of harm’s way and clean of the sludge. She coughed.

It made you break your gaze from him at last. Like the snapping of a cobweb, he slowly drew away as well, hand relaxing down from his grip on the katana as he stepped forward to examine the mess of Devil remnants. You walked towards her with shaky knees.

“I know him,” the girl said under her breath, her eyes narrowed on the man with the top knot. “Oh, they mentioned him during orientation. Remember? He’s the best, he’s one of the best, Aki Hayakawa.”

He turned back then, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth, smearing that rotted blackness across his starkly pale skin.

“The Fox Devil only enters contracts with those it finds attractive,” she had whispered. “He’s hot.”

He’s perfect, is what you had to keep yourself from saying.

Aki had, with those eyes of stone, not unkindly sent you back to the office, told you to clean up in the locker room. He had stayed behind and you heard him tell the other girl to start cleaning; she had howledin dismay.

The late afternoon went a little differently. And this was…

You lift a French fry under the harsh light. The afternoon had been better than the morning.

You had walked with determination down the hall, clutching papers in freshly washed hands hard enough to crease, and in front of a window you had seen him again. But this time you saw him properly, and even thinking now with a fistful of cold French fries filling your vision, you can see the green of his eyes as the sun cuts across his face, amber light setting a portion of his skin aglow.

And you had swallowed, finding your throat dry.

“Who the hell does she think she is?” someone had muttered behind you in a manner clearly meant to be overheard. There’s a tittering sound of agreement, and all the fears of earlier hours began to beat in your ears, so loud it became hard to know if the words came from something churning in your mind, or other lips in the hallway. The events of lunchtime had spread faster than you’d imagined they would.

“He stepped in front of her?”

“She went up to it alone?

“He’s so good.”

“Aki’s just such a good person.”

“Shouldn’t she know to be armed? What are they teaching those fucking rookies?”

That other novice Devil Hunter from lunch looked at you in silence cowardice, her only sound the snapping of readjusting her barrettes. Aki had fought. She had fled. You had merely frozen, that worst option of all, about to be nothing left but a sad face emoticon on next year’s training video. Just as Aki could have been if he had moved too slow to your defense.

And was he circulating the rumors too? He was watching at the end of the hallway, his footsteps stilled as you approached.

You clenched your hands, squeezed in fists and crinkling the paper.

Perhaps the best approach would be to be defensive, hostile, here in these halls where polite smiles get you nowhere and the crisp professionalism only extends as far as blazers buttoned over slumped shoulders. You felt those eyes burn on you, and you steadied your grip as you walked towards him down the hall. Yes, you would steel yourself. You hadn’t asked for this Aki Hayakawa to come rescue you. It was as much his fault for being down that road at the same time you were. And who does he think he is right now, impassive and waiting for you to come to him?

If he has a problem, like everyone else has a problem - then, well, it’s a problem.

So that’s how you had walked down the hallway, prepared to speak with a biting tongue, but Aki had spoken first.

“Hello.”

The word comes soft. It’s softer than you’d expected. His tone is gentle, and your bluster goes out the window. You had prepared for battle, not for kindness. And your face flushed hot, blood beating behind your ears.

But there was no time to regroup when Aki looked right at you. And you stared back, shamelessly, in an instant memorizing his face within the framed window light. His eyelashes caught in the sun, casting spiking shadows across his cheekbones, an echo of the hair sticking up from the back of his head. His lips pressed together for a moment, the corners of his mouth tight, and then he let out a soft puff of breath.

“It’s your first day here, right?”

You nodded, opened your mouth, and words didn’t come.

Aki waited.

“You…” It felt lame to say you saved me, so you swallowed and tried again. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he said, as if he knew the words you had choked down. “You can’t die on your first day.”

“Well. They do say you’re a good person,” you said.

Aki frowned – a gesture that wrinkled his nose, his eyes at last breaking their confident hold.

“I don’t think any of us are good people anymore.”

Your lips twisted, but Aki wasn’t smiling.

“I think saving someone’s life counts,” you said. “I think it makes you a good person.”

Aki hesitated and shrugged. “I don’t want to watch anyone else die,” he said, as if it were just that simple.

You pursed your lips, and looked past him. The papers felt too stiff in your hands. Eyes were on you from the cubicles behind. And Aki stood there still, for some reason not moving any further down the hall.

The words you had swallowed, all the frightened emotions of the day, came back in a burst, a second wind of bravado. You angled your body back to him.

“Do you remember the training videos you had to watch? If you remember your own first day. Or, I mean, if you even had to watch training videos when you started. I don’t know how long you’ve been working here.”

Aki opened his mouth. You saw, and kept speaking.

“Anyway. There were these animations we watched this morning. The Devil Hunter character looked like one of old British fairy tale knights, with the clunky armor, and he had a little sword like it, too. I didn’t really get how it would work in real life. I didn’t know what to do when I saw a Devil. But you were like that knight. You – you saved me, you were my knight. My knight in shining armor. Um. Or something.”

The spirit left you with the wind, your lungs tightening as your sentences rambled on to a stammering, embarrassing conclusion, but that’s when Aki did it as you nodded your head and muttered, “anyway,” and scampered down the hall clutching papers like your life depended on it.

He smiled at last.

And that’s how the evening crept on. Every time you looked at Aki you caught his eyes already on you. It’s instinct, the way you promptly looked away, flushing hot again with fingers shaking. And Aki never averted his eyes. The last hours of that nightmare first work day melting into a beautiful dream.

You think of him now, and feel your lips turn in a smile again.

You were not prepared for this. None of this is what you signed up for with the Devil Hunters. And for what it’s worth, at this point, you don’t know what you had been expecting. But somewhere along the way today, with each piece of Aki that came across your path and left him standing dazzling before you, it became something worth signing up for.

Because –

“Oh,” you say out loud to yourself. “Oh god damn it. I’m in love.”

Ketchup spatters across the table again as you spin a cold fry in the air. Maybe you won’t quit after all.

♥

#tropetember #daryafics #aki hayakawa #aki hayakawa x reader #aki hayakawa fluff #aki hayakawa x you #chainsaw man #chainsaw man x you #chainsaw man x reader #ao3 crosspost

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fantasyismyonlyrealescape · 1 month ago

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Whumptober 2024: No. 12 - Underground Caverns/"Just A Little More"

Title: Tight Spaces

Characters: Sami Zayn & Kevin Owens (Zowens)

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Word Count: 1454

A/N: Welcome to another addition to Whumptober, Day 13. Just as a heads up, this fic is all about claustrophobia, so if that is triggering to you don't read. Also, I based this fanfiction off of Caverne de St-Léonard (Saint-Léonard Cave) in Montréal, Québec, Canada. They give guided spelunking tours, but for the purpose of this fanfiction we are dropping the guide and replacing them with Sami. So, here we go. I hope you don't mind my artistic license with this one. Enjoy!

Summary: Sami Zayn doesn't know Kevin Owens as much as he thought he did, putting them in a situation that they both soon regret. Can Sami get through to Kevin and get them out of it?

Cross posted on AO3 under user wrestlinginjeans.

Kevin could see Sami practically vibrating with excitement in the driver’s seat as he made the last turn and pulled into the parking lot of the attraction that Sami had insisted they go to. It had been a surprise, planned weeks in advance when Sami knew that they would both have the same day off. With Kevin on Smackdown and Sami on Raw, they hadn’t been able to spend as much time together as either of them would have liked so this was Sami’s attempt at rectifying that. “We’re here!” Sami says, a smile that Kevin knows like the back of his hand illuminating his face.

“Unhelpful, Sami. Where are we?”

“You’ll see, come on!” Sami said, wanting to keep it a surprise for as long as he could. Long fingers wrap around Kevin’s bicep for a moment with an insistent tug before they disappear, and the slighter man is hopping out of the car and into the parking lot.

“We got here just in time for the opening, so there shouldn’t be too many people!” Sami babbles happily as they make their way to the entrance. “I can’t believe you’ve never been here before, Kev. You’ve lived here all your life!”

“How do you know I’ve never been here? You won’t even tell me where ‘here’ is?”

“Because I asked you and you said you hadn’t.”

Kevin takes a moment to wrack his brain and remembers Sami asking him numerous seemingly pointless questions, but Sami had asked him a lot in the past few weeks, and he couldn’t think of exactly what question Sami was referring to.

“Sami, you are always talking about one thing or another and we are always jumping around between conversations. It’s hard to keep track of one thread of your thoughts let alone all of them. Unhelpful.” Kevin states in mock irritation with no real heat to it, Sami smiling happily and giving a small shrug in response.

A moment later, they are at the ticketing booth. Sami pays for them both and when the worker hands Sami two bright orange hardhats with headlamps attached, Kevin begins to bite down on the inside of his cheek nervously.

As Sami tosses Kevin his hardhat, placing his own on his head in one swift motion, Kevin attempts to regain his inward composure. From the outside, he was totally fine but inside he was beginning to worry.

“Sami… What do we need these for?” Kevin asks quietly, looking down at the hardhat still in his hand.

In another swift motion, Sami grabs the piece of gear out of Kevin’s hand and places it on his head. He points down towards a wrought iron staircase, the happy smile still on his face as he buckles the chin strap for Kevin.

“I think the term is spelunking, silly right? Have you heard of it? Essentially, it’s cave diving.”

No. Out of all the things Sami wanted to do on their day off, cave diving was at the top of his list? Kevin couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Sami, oblivious in that moment to Kevin’s internal battle, was already pulling him by the arm down the stairs and into the start of the cave system. Sami pulling him along was the only way he would ever set foot in a cave. He was only able to take one steadying breath before he was pulled along into the cave, his eyes immediately beginning to adjust to the lack of light.

Sami, having dropped his hand from Kevin’s arm was moving his body in a slow circle, his eyes directed upward, and his mouth slightly parted in awe at the rock formations around them.

“Isn’t this incredible, Kev?” Sami said, his tone a mix of awestruck and disbelief. “I’ve been here several times, and every time I come back it always feels like the first time.”

Sami, clearly not afraid of tight spaces but curious as to why Kevin had gone so quiet, dropped his gaze back down to eye level.

“Kev?” Sami asks quietly, a questioning look on his face.

Kevin, never one to voice any of his concerns, immediately shrugged off the question.

“Yeah, Sami. I’m good. Let’s go.”

Not ten minutes later and in a particularly tight part of a passageway which Sami could fit through with ease, but Kev couldn’t, Kevin was on the verge of a breakdown. Sami, leading the way, didn’t realize until it was too late how Kevin was reacting to the situation.

“Sa-mi…” Kevin managed to get out, the rush of blood in his ears only surpassed by his heartbeat thrumming like a drum beat. His heart seemingly threatening to burst from his chest was the only thing that he was aware of in that moment.

Sami having just made it to the next opening, spun around to say something to Kevin who he assumed was right behind him, the comment fading from his lips when he saw Kevin not making progress towards him.

“Kev? You good?” Sami asks, his smile fading as he takes a couple steps towards the exit he had just pushed himself through. When he got no response from the dark-haired wrestler, Sami directs his gaze to read Kevin’s eyes. Sami had seen that gaze in his best friend’s grey orbs before and it didn’t bode well for either of them.

“Kev. Kevin, come on. Just keep moving forward. You’ve got this.” Sami encourages, placing his hands on the exit and bending down slightly to get a better angle of his friend. “Kevin Owens, snap out of it.”

Grey eyes, slightly clouded in his panicked state, dart to Sami’s own hazel ones.

“That’s better. Come on, take one step at a time. Breathe, Kev, I am right here.”

Kevin, unable to comprehend in that moment how Sami could possibly breathe so easily given the situation, inched slightly forward only to slam his eyes shut. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t feel anything, he only wanted to get away, but he couldn’t. Would this be it for him? Of all the dangerous things he has done in his life, Kevin Owens would go down as “died by spelunking”? What nonsense.

“Kevin! Keep moving forward. I can get us out of here, but you need to clear the way first.”

With Sami’s words once again falling on seemingly deaf ears, he climbs back into the small passageway. In a moment, warm hands make contact with Kevin’s forearms. Sami, making a quick assessment of Kevin’s state, notices how quickly he is breathing and how a sheen of sweat had formed on Kevin’s skin. Inwardly cursing himself, Sami wraps his fingers around Kevin’s forearms with just enough force to attempt to get a reaction from the shorter man.

“Kev. I’m right here. You and I are going to back out slowly, okay?” Sami instructs quietly, glancing behind Kevin to make a quick mental estimate of how long the passageway went. While not an ideal situation, Sami was worried that if they moved forward and made it to the next opening, he wouldn’t be able to convince Kevin to go back into such a confined space even if it meant guaranteed freedom.

“Kev, you got that? I need some kind of response from you.” Sami asks gently, giving Kevin’s forearms a gentle but insistent squeeze. Kevin his eyes directed downward at Sami’s hands on his arms, takes in a shuddering breath before nodding his head once.

“Great. Alright, now I need you to start backing up slowly. I’m not letting you go. You make a motion, and I am going to match that, okay?” Sami instructs slowly, giving Kevin’s arms a reassuring squeeze as he removes one of his hands to give himself better leverage for what they were about to do. “Alright, Kev. Let’s take that first step now, okay? Ensemble.”

The passageway that they were currently in was tight to the point where they had to crawl through on their hands and knees. So, when Kev made the first motion back towards the entrance, Sami couldn’t help but sigh inwardly in relief. Kev was listening to him; they would be out of here in no time. After several minutes of slow moving, Kevin exited the passageway stiffly followed by Sami. Leaping down from the ledge, Sami immediately made his way to Kevin.

“Kev, how are you feeling now?” Sami asks urgently, his hands reaching out towards Kevin, his fingers finding his friends upper arms. Sami sees Kevin take one steadying breath, licking his lips once before bringing one of his hands up to brush against one of Sami’s.

“I’m good, Sami. But the next time you want to go spelunking, drag Seth or somebody else with you.”

Translations: Ensemble – Together

#whumptober2024 #no.12 #underground caverns #just a little more #professional wrestling #wwe #fic #claustrophobic #panic attack #cave diving #my fic #wwe fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #zowens #sami zayn #kevin owens

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likecastle · 2 years ago

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Ronance Femslash February - "midnight"

Thank you, anon, for sending in the prompt “midnight”! Thanks to everyone who's sent a prompt so far! Please keep them coming, I'll be accepting them all month! (Anon asks are totally fine! You’re welcome to send more than one, if you want! And, for the record, I’m pretty open about subject matter. If a prompt isn’t something that works for me I may give it a miss, but chances are I won’t be offended. Don’t be shy!) You can find previous prompts I’ve filled here.

Putting part of this behind a cut because it got a little spicy. Still very much a teen rating, just gonna err on the side of caution.

Robin’s always been a good kid, not that her parents appreciate that. She gets good grades, never skips school or stays out past curfew, and she’s only come home drunk from a band party and thrown up in a potted plant once, but she cleaned that up so her parents never even found out. None of this, of course, stops her mother from nagging her about her clothes or lecturing her about her unladylike manners. It doesn’t preclude her dad’s quiet consternation when she insists that Steve’s just a friend for the millionth time. It turns out, you can do everything right and still be a disappointment to your parents.

She’s spent most of high school missing out on ‘normal’ teenage foibles, either because she didn’t want to risk the attention that came with doing something daring, or, more often than not, simply because nobody thought to include her. Now that she finds herself making out in the back seat of a car on a secluded back road, there’s a delicious sort of novelty to it—like visiting somewhere she’s only ever seen in movies. And here we have your typical American teenager, engaged in an activity commonly known as ‘getting to second base,’ she pictures a tour guide saying in a bored voice as imaginary tourists take photos though the windows of Mrs. Wheeler’s station wagon. It’s all so conventional she kind of can’t believe it’s really happening to her, sometimes.

Which is not to say she’s not enjoying kissing Nancy Wheeler, because she definitely is. Nancy’s weight on top of her sort of short circuits her brain a little bit, to say nothing of the way Nancy always kisses her like she just can’t get enough. Making out with a pretty girl who seems to be, like, really, seriously into her, too, is something Robin never in a million years thought would happen before she got to college, and sometimes she despaired of it ever happening at all. So what if all this backseat necking is a little clichéd? Sometimes clichés can be fun.

“Wait—just—hang on—” Nancy is guiding her hand up under her blouse, trying to help her undo the clasp of her bra. “It’s caught on the—there!” Robin runs her hand along the smooth skin of Nancy’s back, feeling the line left there by the band.

“You can take off my shirt,” Nancy says breathlessly. “If you want.”

Robin does want, of course she does. Except when she leans forward to start unbuttoning Nancy’s blouse, she catches sight of the car’s clock, lit up like a warning in the gloom. “Oh, shit,” she groans, her head dropping onto Nancy’s shoulder.

“What?” Nancy’s voice is suddenly sharp in the enclosed space of the car. “Robin, what’s wrong?”

“No, nothing.” She brushes a reassuring kiss against Nancy’s throat and feels her relax against her. “I just—I was supposed to be home by eleven.”

Robin glances up again, regretfully, just in time to see the clock’s illuminated numbers tick over from 11:59 to 12:00.

“OK,” Nancy says, straightening up. She reaches behind herself to do up her bra again. “It’s fine, don’t worry. If we hurry, we can get you home in fifteen minutes, maybe less.” Her voice is clipped and efficient, the tone of someone who’s saved the world enough times to be sure she can do it again. “I’ll tell them it was my fault, that we lost track of time.”

Nancy is already climbing off her lap, but Robin isn’t ready to give up the sweet weight of her. “Wait. Nancy, wait.” She settles her hands on Nancy’s hips, drawing her back in. “Let them ground me, I don’t care.”

“Are you sure?” Nancy asks. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

Robin shakes her head, which quickly turns into nuzzling the soft line of Nancy’s throat. “I think we’ve earned the chance to sow a few wild oats, don’t you? What’s the point of saving the world if you can’t break curfew to make out with your girlfriend once in a while?”

“Well,” Nancy says, breath hitching as Robin lets her teeth graze lightly against Nancy’s neck, “can’t really argue with that.”

#ronance #robin/nancy #robin x nancy #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #ronance femslash february #femslash february #thank you again anon! this was so fun!

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all-about-kyu · 2 years ago

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Summary: San thought he would have the upper hand here; you prove him otherwise. Pairing: switch!San x switch fem!reader Tropes: spring break au Genre: smut Rating: R 18+ Warnings: language Smut Warnings: dom-sub undertones, choking, edging, begging Word Count: 1,229

Chapter 2: Bikinis & Bathhouses ៚ WITT Masterlist ៚ Chapter 4: A little pain never killed anyone.

Originally, San was going to stay back at the local beach with Mingyu and Youngkyun today. Jaehyun managed to convince him to come to the nearby city instead. He didn’t know what there was to do around here. He just let Mingyu choose the location and everything; he was getting a nice vacation at less than a full trip would cost on his own. Even when he and Jaehyun got to the club, he knew he had no intent on getting any alcohol in his system. People-watching could be just as fun as being in the moment and not remembering it the next day.

That’s when he saw you sitting in the corner of the room doing the same exact thing that he was planning on doing. After weighing the options, he abandoned his friend and sat with you.

“Can I help you?” you scoff.

“If you really want to, sure.” he teases back, “What has you people-watching instead of enjoying yourself?”

You shrug, “Sometimes being drunk isn’t as fun as you think. You?”

“Same reason, I guess. You live here, on the island?”

“Yeah, I moved here a few years ago. Island life is a lot simpler than the busy city. I’m a bartender here. It makes things a lot easier, especially with my apartment upstairs.”

San nods and starts looking out at the crowd. Most people are severely drunk already despite it barely being mid-afternoon. He can see your eyes on him out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t say anything; instead, he observes the small club. He manages to find his older friend in the crowd. It’s amusing just how social Jaehyun can be while also being one of the least social people in their friend group. After a few moments, he finally caves and lets his impulsive thoughts win.

“Wanna ditch this place and give me an apartment tour?”

“Big talk for someone who doesn’t even know my name.” you tease.

“You don’t mine either, but here we are.” he chuckles, placing a hand on your thigh, “I’m San.”

You tell him your name and take his hand off your thigh. You hold his hand and stand to guide him towards the stairway beside the bar toward your apartment. The moment you punch in the code to your home, San has you pressed up against a bookshelf in your entryway. You look at him with lusty eyes. You lean in, ready to kiss him, but he pulls just far enough away that he’s out of reach and smirks at you.

“You want something, pretty?” he asks, voice laced with lust.

“Kiss me.” you breathe out.

San leans in and kisses you with as much passion as he can muster up, “Care to show me your bedroom first?”

You nod against his lips and push forward to guide him. All while you’re still in the wraps of a heady kiss. You’re surprised you don’t walk into something on your way down the short hallway. Your back ends up against your bedroom door, San’s kisses now trailing down your neck. He reaches next to your hip and opens the door. His hands then find purchase on your waist to guide you to your bed.

You find yourself lying on your back with San on top of you. His hips are flush against yours. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans. You’re so ready for him to fuck you. He seems to want to take his time, though. You know he thinks he’s in charge here, but that’s simply not the case. You move your hands up his torso in the guise of wrapping them around his shoulders. Instead, you grab a handful of his hair, pull him back from your throat, and close your legs around him, flipping him over, so you’re seated in his lap.

“Did you think I was gonna go down that easy, pretty boy?” you giggle with a slightly sadistic tone.

He just whimpers in response and bucks his hips up into you. You let your hand fall down around his throat. It just rests there for a moment while you gauge how comfortable he is right now.

“Are you okay if I choke you a bit? Maybe edge you too?” he nods, “Use your words.” you clarify, rolling your hips slightly.

“I’d like that.” he practically whimpers.

“Good boy,” you smirk, “undress for me, then we can have some proper fun.”

You’ve never seen someone strip so quickly and get back to their spot on your bed. You take your time getting your clothes off. You can hear San trying to swallow whines, hoping you move faster, even slightly. When you do get back to your bed, you sit between his legs and gently run your nails along his thigh. You eventually bring your hand to his painfully hard member. The moan he lets out is beyond pornographic. It sends a rush through your body. Your hand strokes him slowly, almost too slow if you ask him. San throws a hand over his eyes, and that’s when you finally move.

“Don’t you dare cover your eyes. Look at me.” you demand.

Your free hand moves his arm away from his face. He looks absolutely debauched despite having only jerked him off a little bit. He furrows his eyebrows slightly and whimpers again when you pay extra attention to his tip. The hand that had been occupied by his arm now shifts down to his throat and gently squeezes around it.

He tries to thrust up into your hand again, and you just chuckle at him. His breaths grow shallow and labored. You hardly have to do any work. He’s thrusting up into your hand, chasing any pleasure you allow him.

“I- I’m gonna cum,” he moans. You take your hand away from his cock completely, “no, no, no, wanna cum.” he whines, “Please let me cum.”

“I told you that I’d edge you, pretty boy. Be patient for me.” you remind him. You tighten your grip around his throat, and his eyes roll back slightly at the pressure, “Now, are you ready for me to touch you again?”

He nods vigorously and lets out different pleading statements. You wrap your hand around his shaft again and move at a fast pace. He moans loud enough that you worry that people downstairs may hear you. It doesn’t take long for him to get close again and when he warns you about his impending high you give him the permission he so desperately wants. He jerks under you as he cums. You keep your same fast pace that he claims is too much but also wants more of.

When he slowly comes back to you, he’s panting. He smiles a goofy kind of sideways smile that makes your heart flutter slightly. He seems completely unbothered by the cum across his torso. Just as you assume he’s going to ask your permission to fuck you, he throws a curve ball at you. He lunges forward, making you fall back onto the bed again. He presses his torso against yours and kisses along your neck. The feeling of his cum now on your skin feels odd but not unwelcomed in this situation.

“Time for me to return the favor, pretty.” he nearly growls in your ear, “Hope you can handle it.”

Networks: @kwritersworld @k-vanity @cultofdionysusnet

Tag List strikethrough = unable to tag: @meowniee @cryoculus @2nk-3554 @yumekowhore @hyunjaespresent-deobi

#ateez smut #kwritersworldnet #kvanity #cultofdionysusnet #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #san fanfic #san x reader #san smut

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farter-imperator · 2 years ago

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The Post-Ritual Ritual

Word count: 1,275

Rating: Teen & Up

Summary: After a ritual ends, Dew is left alone while all the other ghouls pair off. Papa keeps him company.

Key features: Muzzled Dew, submissive Dew, lots of fluff and no smut, caring Copia

The end of the show was always filled with high energy, wanting to give the city a lasting impression. Aether jumped around, Swiss slid on his knees, Sunshine would dance and jump around the stage, Cirrus and Cumulus would cuddle and spin, Mountain would do a five minute solo, Dew and Rain… Were Dew and Rain.

Normally, once the show had ended, the ghouls would all pair off and head back to the green rooms, dressing rooms, toilets, or just the alleyway for some fun before clambering back onto the tour bus.

Copia tended to stay out of it, for the most part. High energy ghouls were dangerous. Lots of fangs and teeth and claws and hissing and growling. And frankly Bad Dragon sized appendages. For his health, he let the band work it out amongst themselves.

However, after finishing their show in Adelaide, Copia noticed that one ghoul had been left out.

Aether and Swiss had quickly ducked off the stage with excitable grumbles, Rain had been grabbed by the claws of Cirrus and Cumulus and dragged to a nearby dressing room, Sunny had held Mountain's hand and lead him to a green room with happy chirrups and chitters.

But that left Dew.

And he looked pretty lost.

He was quiet, shuffling around backstage as he packed away his guitar instead of letting a tech do it.

Copia, who had been standing at the stageside dressing mirror as he removed his makeup, noticed.

"Little ghoul." He said, leaving just the black around his eyes as he stood to full height. "Is everything alright?"

Dew looked up at him like a deer caught in headlights. He blinked, then slowly closed the guitar case and locked it.

"Ghoul?" Copia repeated. "Answer me. Although I am Papa, I cannot read minds, you know?"

Dew blinked again. Then, he raised his eyebrow behind the goggles of the helmet and pointed to the mouthpiece. He tipped his head to the side.

Ah.

The muzzle.

A flat piece of fabric that laid over his mouth and nose and buckled in the back. They had started muzzling him during rituals as Dew had a habit of biting people when his excitement got too much. Inside the muzzle was a rubber bit, that could be swapped out for various sizes and chew strengths, depending on what he needed that night.

"My apologies, ghoul. I had forgotten about that." Copia chuckled. Dew just went back to wrapping up cables. "Where is your pack?"

Dew shrugged.

"Do you not wish to go off with them, huh? The ghoulettes seemed to be having fun with your little friend."

Another shrug.

Copia could see Dew's jaw working behind the balaclava, playing with the thin rubber bit in his mouth.

"Well…" Copia sighed, leaning back against the vanity as he took out his earpiece and placed it down for some tech to find. "I was planning on going back to the bus and filling out my crosswords. I think your pack will be a while yet. Would you like that?"

Dew nodded quickly, his helmet wobbling. He finally took it off and placed it to the side, but kept his balaclava up. The stagehands didn't need to know about the muzzle.

"Come, come." Copia wrapped his arm around Dew's shoulders and led him through the long corridors to the back of the venue, his hand gently rubbing under the epaulette at the top of Dew's uniform.

As they passed some of the rooms on the way, they heard hisses and growls and mewls and slams. Copia tried to ignore it, but he would be checking in with the ghouls later, because that slam sounded rough.

Copia nodded to the security outside the venue as they walked out into the night. Down the alley, he vaguely spotted Mountain being pressed against a wall, his legs around Sunny's waist, the smaller ghoulette somehow holding the taller ghoul upright effortlessly. He huffed fondly, then guided Dew in front of him, making him board the bus first.

Thankfully, the cleaners had been in during the concert. The ghouls had a horrible habit of making the bus look like a bombsite.

"Go and get changed." Copia instructed. He could smell the sweat coming off both the ghoul and himself, and his trousers were far too tight to lounge in. "We'll meet at the sofas upstairs."

Five minutes later, the pair reunited. Copia was wearing a black tracksuit, the jacket unzipped, a plain tee underneath it. Dew was in a band shirt, far too big to be his own, and he was wearing it like a nightie. He also still had his muzzle on, though this was probably because Sister had enchanted it so he physically couldn't take it off by himself.

Dew stood awkwardly in front of Copia, who was lounging with his puzzle book in one hand and a pencil in the other. His reading glasses were perched on the top of his head.

"Well?" Copia asked, eventually looking up from '(6) Ghastly'. He raised an eyebrow at Dew. "Are you going to sit? Or would you prefer to kneel?"

Instantly, Dew dropped to his knees. He crawled, on his hands and knees, to Copia, then pressed his forehead against the side of his knees.

"Ah… Well…" Copia chuckled awkwardly. He passed his pencil into his other hand and reached down, placing his hand on top of Dew's head. Dew let out a soft 'mrrp' and pressed his head up into Copia's hand in response.

"You like that, huh?" He asked. He felt Dew nod against his hand. "You know, I can take off the muzzle for you, if you would like to spe-" Dew shook his head violently. "Alrighty then. We will keep it on."

Copia returned to his crossword, and the bus lapsed into silence.

For Dew, the minutes seemed to stretch into hours. He quietly played with the bit in his mouth, running his tongue over it, gnawing with both his back teeth and his front teeth, while staring at nothing in particular down the long hallway of the bus.

After what seemed like ages of zoning out, the fuzzy feeling hit him in one big rush. Dew exhaled slowly, feeling his shoulders slump as the subspace slowly crawled up his neck and into his brain. Copia hadn't even done anything, and he was already dropping.

Copia noticed. He saw how Dew's shoulders slumped. Felt how he leaned just a little harder against his side. He could also feel Dew absentmindedly playing with his shoelaces.

"Everything alright, little ghoul?" He checked in. Dew gave a small nod against his knee. "Can I make this better for you?"

Dew paused for a long moment. His brain was like molasses, and he needed a moment to process what Copia said. Eventually, his hands moved, signing what he wanted. 'L-A-P'.

Copia had to then go through his internal sign language dictionary. The ghouls were all fluent in it, what with Dew and Rain sometimes going nonverbal, but Copia was still learning.

"Oh, you want… You wish to sit… In my lap?" Copia asked, wanting to make sure they were on the same page. Dew nodded, then before Copia could move, he'd already scrambled up into his lap. "Oh… Dewdrop…"

Dew let out a soft trill, curling up tight in Copia's arms. He rested his head on his shoulder, his arms linked loosely around his neck. He shifted around a few times, getting comfortable, then started purring softly. Copia smiled warmly, then rested his head on Dew's, letting out a contented sigh.

"There we are, my droplet. You're a good boy, really."

#ghost #ghost band #ghost bc #papa emeritus #headcanons #my works #headcanon #dew #dewdrop #cirrus #My fics #Cumulus #Swiss #Muzzled dew #Copia #Cardinal copia #Bun writes fics

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bitchsister · 8 months ago

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soooo I need luckycharms!AU Bucky and Curt on vacation somewhere.. slutty. your choice. john wants to show his boy from the bronx the world. maybe rome? like in EYY but this time they get to truly experience and enjoy it without the fear of doom & war & death ?!!? ya kno

Ohhhh you know I love a good Italy trip lmaooo. Cattonquick in Liguria was my favorite thing to write. Now I get to write Bucky and Curt being sluts? I’m so lucky. Ripping the nude beach idea right out of my Cattonquick fic and putting a Curtbucky twist on it.

Andiamo!

This request got pregnant with this other one ⬆️ it felt right so we went with it!!

HONORABLE MENTION;

Don’t read if you aren’t down with these: More vibrating butt plug, nude beach filth, ‘daddy’ is used twice, spanking, very very very very light dom/sub vibes if you squint but hardly, Curt is a cunt, abundant use of pet names

All it took was a few planted magazines on the coffee table for Bucky to quickly realize where Curt had wanted to visit, and the places he absolutely did not.

“Paris would be so fun, don’tcha think?” His legs were stretched over Bucky’s thighs who had been intently eyeing the score of the Brewers versus the Reds, dramatically huffing and puffing as the score continued not to work out in his home teams favor.

“Yeah, baby.” Bucky nodded, acting as though he was hardly listening but he was instead taking permanent mental notes. Paris is added to the possible itinerary, as is Aspen, Madeira, Lagos and Porto.

Then came ramblings of Barcelona, ripe springtime strawberries held between Curt’s lips as he flipped through pages filled with beautiful images of Casa Batlló, La Sagrada Famila, and the Picasso museum. “Look.” He turned the magazine around, pointing to the water. “Look how blue the water is, Ducky. We ain’t ever gonna see that here, huh? Closest we got is Coney Island.” He chuckled, again oblivious to Bucky’s mental note taking, the itinerary growing longer and longer with each new travel magazine Bucky hid around the house.

“Why do you got all these, anyway?” Curt grabbed the latest addition, a travel guide of Italy. “You got like thirty of the things.”

“I get ‘em for free at the office.” Bucky lied, and felt bad about it. “Guess Harding never cancelled the subscription when he was cruise shopping. I snag ‘em before he can realize they were even delivered.”

Curt hummed and nodded his head, puffing at the joint between his lips, all sprawled out over the cushioned window bench like a sunbathing feline. “I’d do anything to go to Italy.” He whispered, and alarms went off in Bucky’s head.

Bingo, bing, bingo.

Ding, ding, ding!

“My Nonna tells me stories about growin’ up in Bologna.” He hung upside down, the magazine held over his face as he multitasked like never before. A couple puffs, a flick of the page, ashing his joint, running his gorgeous mouth. “Oh, look!” He scrambled to his knees and sat upright again to turn the magazine around like it was his turn for show and tell. “Pompeii!” He flipped the page, his excitement growing. “Look! Tits! Dicks! Ass!” He pointed to all of it, the page covering the top rated nude beach in the country, Guvano.

And so, when Curt went back to his campus dorm room for a few days to hunker down and study for finals before summer break, Bucky did his own studying on hotels, which quickly had been switched to villas, vineyards, tours, beaches, restaurants, you fucking name it.

He had eventually enlisted the help of a concierge, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying. He didn’t speak Italian and he wanted to know what was really worth seeing, according to the locals.

Come Friday evening, Curt looked and felt like he’d been beaten with two cinder blocks, trudging into Bucky’s stretch of hallway once he stepped inside.

He barely had any energy left to announce his arrival, quiet footsteps wandering into the kitchen where Bucky stood with his hip jutted, his phone an inch away from his face and a wine glass in the other as he read closely each step of the recipe he’d chosen to make for dinner.

Cacio e Pepe and scottadito. Earlier, he prepped for the perfect Caesar salad, ready to eat since he knew Curt would be starved to death after his finals.

“Hey.” A voice squeaked after the source had snapped an incognito photo on his phone of that version of Bucky — quiet, contemplative, focused.

“Jesus.” Bucky dropped his phone onto the counter. “Baby, you gotta make some noise or somethin’. I’ll have a heart attack.”

Curt huffed a laugh through his nostrils and shuffled the floors toward him to wrap himself around Bucky, his eyes closed as he rested his head against the mans chest. “Oh,” Bucky cooed, rubbing circles into Curt’s back once he’d sat down the glass of wine he’d become rather familiar with in the last hour or so. “How’d it go?”

“My brain.” Curt groaned, pressing his face into Bucky’s chest. “It hurts.”

Curt, as Bucky had quickly realized, was a goddamn genius and he knew just how to work it. Never to speak out of turn, always raw and honest and never pretending to be something he isn’t, that thick New York accent poking through even the most intelligent sentences Bucky had ever heard in his life.

Listen to this, listen to this. Alright. Here we go.

Curt stood in front of Bucky, reading part of his final presentation project as practice with one of Bucky’s sweaters hanging to his mid thigh and another joint rolled with pink papers between his teeth.

The potential of shape memory alloys in morphin’ wing technology with adaptive geometries that adjust in real-time could greatly optimize performance across various flight conditions.

Curt took another puff, his eyes locked on Bucky instead of the paper in his hand. He’d memorized it all and knew it by heart. After all, it was a touchy subject he felt passionate about.

Furthermore, research shows that this could increase fuel efficiency, reduce emissions, and could have a hand in improvin’ maneuverability.

Bucky was speechless, his jaw slack, hearts spilling out of his eyes and onto the floor. He was no help really, because every goddamn thing Curtis did was absolute perfection.

“Feed it.” Bucky held Curt to his chest with one hand while the other grabbed a plate, built an excellent Caesar, and offered it in front of a barstool at the island in the middle of the kitchen where half of it was still occupied by Bucky’s iPad, his knives, his cutting board and all of his oils and seasonings.

“You’re a real homemaker, you know, Egan.” Curt reluctantly detached himself from Bucky and plopped into the stool, stabbing forkfuls of lettuce and shoving it in his mouth while Bucky poured him a glass of some orange-ish hipster rosé, because the red shit gave him headaches and made him feel sleepy.

Good taste, Bucky would say.

You’re a natural at spending money.

“Yeah?” Bucky leaned against the island, pressing sweet kisses to Curt’s face despite the way he was feverishly shoving salad into it. “You gonna have me all kept at home while you make the dough, hm?” he was teasing, but knew once Curt got his foot in the door at a job after graduation, he’d be making his own natural hipster wine budget.

Big time.

“You think I will?” Curt murmured through a full mouth, booping noses with Bucky who nodded.

“Obviously, baby. No other choice, I fear.” Bucky watched intently as Curt sipped his wine, giggled, blushed, rolled his eyes. “How you feelin’ about the final?”

“Dunno.” Curt shrugged, watching Bucky continue on his prep for dinner and dessert. “I did good on the presentation part. It’s the fuckin’ multiple choice that I get so fucked up on. I’m indecisive! The shit’s outdated — how long they been makin’ us poor brain dead fucks fill in some bubbles, ya know?” He gulped more wine from his glass, “Like, since the dawn of time, I bet. And ain’t that shitty? You’d think they would—“

A red envelope was plopped in front of him, sealed with wax.

“What’s this?”

Bucky shrugged, sipping his glass of wine nonchalantly. “Dunno. Found it. Think it might be yours.”

Curt gave him a look of confusion, shaded with hints of brattiness and sass.

Bucky could eat him up.

His fingers deftly peeled the envelope open, his eyes taking in the words that he could hardly comprehend. “Italy?” He whispered, his heart sinking to his gut. “You’re kiddin’, Bucky..”

“I was going to wait until we got your score back from the final. But I know you’ll pass and I just couldn’t wait.” Bucky braced himself for Curt’s suddenly energized squealing and jumping and screaming and hooting and kissing and licking and all of it.

So. There they were, beach Guvano, the very same one in the magazine Curt had brought with him to compare and contrast magazines versus real life — so far, not a single thing had disappointed him.

“How’s it look?” Bucky asked from beside Curt, sprawled out on their beach blanket as he shoved sweet grapes into his cheeks.

“Less people here than in the pictures.” Curt had stripped down, of course, as he typically found any reason at all not to wear clothes at any time, no matter the location. “But I like that. ‘Cause some of these people in here shouldn’t be seen with clothes on.”

Bucky swatted his thigh, a dumb grin tugging his lips. “Bad boy. Be nice.”

Curt smirked and rolled onto his belly and closer to Bucky who still wore his skimpy little black speedo that he purchased simply to fit in with the rest of the Europeans.

American swim trunks didn’t feel authentic.

“You gonna lemme see the rest of ya?” Curt pressed a kiss to Bucky’s unbelievably tan, warm, sweaty neck. “Or you gonna be a perv?”

Bucky shrugged, scrolling on his phone in his left hand, his right buried deep in Curtis’ loose brown sea-salty waves and occasionally grabbing more grapes to chomp on. “Do pervs keep their swimsuits on at nude beaches?”

“Yes, actually.” Curt nodded, wagging his little ass once a warm breeze had tickled over it, his favorite plug between his sunburnt cheeks — the one that he’d worn to dinner with Bucky and Gale not long ago.

And Bucky had already started playing with him.

“I think the real pervs have vibrating plugs in their asses. In public.” Bucky gave Curt a look of mock-surprise once he’d flicked the level up to two, meeting Curt’s look of real shock with one of pure theatrics.

His mouth agape, his brows furrowed, his chin quivering as he moaned.

“Goddamn it.”Curtis cursed.

“Feel good?” Bucky whispered, the shade from their umbrella almost hiding them from the rest of the beach where the closest visitor seemed about thirty yards down the shoreline, minding their own business with their tits out. “S’your favorite one, isn’t it?”

Curt nodded quickly, his gaze softening into little horny feline slits, thick black lashes practically fluttering over his own pink cheeks, the freckles over the bridge of his nose accentuated by hours spent outdoors sipping wine or cappuccinos and eating all the finest culinary in the city. “Mhm.. M’favorite. Yeah.” He spluttered, practically drooling already.

Bucky laid his phone on his chest, reaching forward to caress his sweet boys soft cheeks instead, gathering the moisture from Curt’s wet lips onto his thumb and licking it clean. “God, you’re so fucking sweet.” He fawned, admiring again a practically frozen Curtis who whimpered softly in response.

“C’mere, my baby.” He hooked a hand around Curt’s waist and pulled him closer, the top half of his body resting over Bucky’s chest while the bottom involuntarily rut against every warm gust of wind with his ass or the blanket atop the soft sand with his cock.

Curt’s lips had found Bucky’s fingers, sucking them like he would his cock, or Gale’s, whenever their schedules aligned these days. “I passed my exam.” He breathed, pulling away from the hand he held with both of his own, half the size of Bucky’s. “Gotta ninety.”

Although he was expecting a one hundred or more including the bonus questions that saved his ass, he was nowhere near unhappy with where his GPA stood going into his second year.

Bucky lit up, of course, kissing him like it could be their last. “I fucking knew it.” He whispered between kisses. “My fucking genius boy. God, you’re so fucking smart. It’s so sexy.”

Bucky would eat him if he could.

Carry him around just like that, wherever he went, there Curt would be.

“What can I say?” Curt grinned, lips drenched in shared saliva. “Somebody besides J.Lo has to make a name for the Bronx.”

Bucky snarled a laugh. “Christ,” he chased the moan that escaped Curtis into his own mouth to devour it. “Better graduate early, then.” He teased, his hand grabbed again and the fingers enveloped once more in the soft hallows of Curt’s cheeks that grew pinker by the minute.

He wiggled his ass again against the plug that was stuffing him, eventually moving to sit on his folded legs and rut against his own heel, Bucky’s gaze watching all the while beneath a pair of sunglasses with rather transparent brown lenses.

Curt loved to be watched.

He loved, so very much, to be the center of Bucky’s world.

He’d put on little shows for him, all sweaty and panting and begging for it. He’d become a mess, held together by prayer alone at the altar he worshipped so reverently - theirs — their love, their passion, their unbridled blazing hearts that had morphed together somewhere along the way, or perhaps in lifetimes before this one.

This love, the one that gushed so unabashedly, was the reason Bucky was able to stomach the sight of Gale between his baby’s legs, or the way Curt sucked on his fingers while Gale fucked all of his courtroom rage out of him, his pretty blue eyes in the back of his head.

Whatever they did with Gale was an extension of their love, yes, but it would never get between it.

Could never harm it.

Bucky caressed his parted thighs but didn’t dare to touch Curt’s cock that leaked sweet little milky white droplets down his smooth shaft, a sight to behold since so much was typically impossible without a belly full of Bucky’s cum. “You’re so fuckin’ wet. Getting yourself all messy.” He whispered.

Curt was aroused beyond reason — every one of his milder kinks (amongst many others that wouldn’t be appropriate beneath the blue sky) were being fulfilled. Bucky’s eyes on him, sweet little words muttered in praise and adoration.

The sun on his shoulders, the sea breeze sending shivers down his spine.

His bent legs spread wider until he was sat between them, his ass plopped onto the beach blanket which he ground himself into. “Look’it what you done to me, daddy.” His voice was low and rasped through breathy gasps and moans, “I want your big cock in me so bad.” He chomped his teeth at Bucky, proving to be all bark and no bite.

Bucky hummed, ignoring the rumble of thunder that hung above their heads, and his cock that stiffened so much his Speedo struggled to conceal it. “Not here, honey.” He adjusted his sunglasses to sit perfectly nestled in his brown curls, his usually loose waves tightened and accentuated from the saltwater still in it from that morning. “Laws still exist in Italy, you know. I looked it up.” He had no reason to study European law, but for this, he did a little research.

“But —“ Curt whined, his palms flat against his thighs as he rode the plug like he would Bucky, feeling the intensity of the vibrations kick up a notch when Bucky flicked a little green bug off his phone screen, the notch set to its maximum which they’d never done before. Especially not after sitting on a three for so long.

Curt hardly knew what to do with himself, the fire in his loins growing and growing, just like the storm cloud that hung above their heads. “Too much — I can’t —“ he panted, scrambling to reach between his legs and get rid of it but Bucky abruptly stopped him.

“Ah, ah.” Bucky tsked, “Don’t you dare.” He pressed gentle kisses over Curt’s knuckles that held onto him like a lifeline, tight white and shaking.

“Please,” Curt whined, looking between his legs and down at his own cock that had yet to reach its climax but continued to trickle with a steady stream of excitement and arousal, toes curling as he squealed.

“You gonna come?” Bucky sat up, then. He thought maybe he was going to witness history — Curtis Biddick making himself come without being pumped full of it first. “Oh, honey. You’re so close. I can see it. Fucking look at you.” Scrunched nose, back arched, nails digging into his own thighs. “Make a mess, baby. I’ll clean you up.”

Curt huffed and puffed, their umbrella swaying in the wind and a drizzle of rain peppering his warm shoulders. “I’m g’na come.” He said through rapid huffs of breath.

“Give it to daddy, baby. C’mon.” Bucky was doing that sexy little thing he’d do. He’d pout his lips and mutter filthy encouragement through a clenched jaw. He grabbed Curt’s cheeks and severed their gaze, instead redirecting his attention down to his own cock. “Watch with me.”

Curt was wailing, watching his body react instinctively to everything happening to it but the closer he crept, the lighter he felt the vibrations becoming until they were gone completely.

And then came the torrential downpour.

“What happened?” Bucky asked once Curt began cursing, pulling his hands away from their restrictions in Bucky’s grasp to pump himself but there was hardly any hope in it.

“It fucking died!” Curt was angry.

He pulled the thing out of him and tossed it harshly into their beach bag, pulling on his so very American swim trunks and his Blink-182 tshirt. “Fucking bullshit goddamn technology, Bucky! I could make a better fucking goddamn fucking thing than that — fuck!” Curt was still panting but every other sensation he felt only a moment ago had been so abruptly ripped away from him.

“Well do it, then.” Bucky grumbled, sitting up and gathering their things as the storm raged on and Curtis stood with his arms folded, clearly pouting and being no help at all. “If you’re so fucking disappointed. It’s your job to charge it, Curt. It’s going in your ass, after all.”

Bucky rummaged for the keys to their rental car, soaked by the rain but still looking so rideable despite Curt’s suddenly horrendous attitude. “But you’re the one that fucks the battery!” He waved his arms, “With your fucking bullshit!”

Curt was left there, standing in the rain while Bucky made a beeline for their big Audi SUV that was similar in size to Bucky’s Range Rover, but he’d made several comments about maybe thinking about switching to something a bit more like this back home. “If you’re going to drain the battery, I’m just fuckin’ sayin’ you should also be held accountable for chargin’ it, too.” His voice followed behind, catching up eventually.

Bucky had opened the passenger door for Curt to get in before he even made it back over to the car, hoping he’d curl up for a nap and fall asleep before Bucky was done loading up the car again.

He couldn’t be so lucky.

“You still runnin’ your mouth?” Bucky furrowed his brows, shaking sand out of their beach blanket before folding it neatly.

“Yes!” Curt whined, wanting to fucking cry. Bucky wasn’t hearing him — he wasn’t understanding. He was so, so fucking close. He felt the butterflies wake up in his belly, his heart hammered in his chest, his legs felt like they’d turned to goo.

And then nothing.

“You aren’t listenin’ to me!”

Bucky closed the trunk before he sauntered to Curt, his neck craned downward to look at him. “Bend over.” He pointed to the passenger seat, voice stern but steady.

Sharp, but buttery smooth around the edges.

Curt stuttered for a moment, “I — Bucky,” but suddenly realized it would be his pleasure to do just that.

A silence settled between them as they stood in the rain, their narrowed gazes in a standoff until Curt backed down and draped himself over the leather interior, his trunks pulled roughly below the plump curve of his ass that fucking jiggled when he spread his legs a little, perking his ass out for Bucky to spank.

“Make it a good one.” Curt quipped, his tone almost bordering mockery. “Or it’d be a shame you bent me over at all.”

Bucky had been a little pissed off by that one, but knew whole heartedly that had been the exact point — Curt knew what he was doing.

The buttons to push.

The buttons he licked with his tongue and bit with his canines until he drew blood.

The buttons he knew all too well.

A loud and heavy handed crack left a vivid and splotchy pink handprint over the delicious and a little bit sunburnt strawberry milky white skin of Curt’s right cheek, his knuckles bitten as he whined.

“I want an apology, Curtis.” Bucky bent over his body, nipping at his ear. “Not fair to take your frustration out on me, is it?”

Curt rolled his eyes, grinning into the leather of the seat beneath him as they replaced the new car smell with their own. “Fuck you.” He mumbled, going to sit up again until a hand forced him back down.

“What was that?” Bucky shoved Curt’s stance wider with his knee, feeling a hand back again to spank Curt’s left cheek that time. He hardly tensed up at it, seeming to melt under each crack against his skin.

What am I gonna do with you, Biddick?

“Hm?”

Curt wasn’t so tough eventually. All it took was three more good whips of skin against skin before he was back to begging for it. “Just let me sit on it while you drive.” He begged, clearly unaware how unrealistic and — even moreso— unsafe that sounded.

They had a schedule that day that allowed little wiggle room and Bucky had warned Curtis of this plenty before they made the reservations that they did.

We’ll have no time to play in between, Curtie. You realize that, right?

Curt nodded his head, encouraging Bucky to confirm their reservations.

I’m not an animal, Bucky. I can control myself. Jesus.

Lie.

“C’mon. We can make it work. Please.”

Bucky checked his watch and shook his head. “We have the tour you wanted to do in an hour, Curtis.” He pulled Curt’s trunks up and manhandled him into his seat despite his resistance. “And we’re not going to be fucking late because of your bullshit.”

He closed Curt’s door and made way around the vehicle to his own where he hopped in and turned over the engine, blasting the AC against their warm skin as O Mio Bambino Care droned through the speakers.

“I’m sorry.” Curt whispered, leaning over the middle console and pressing kisses to Bucky’s bicep and shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said — I — I was havin’ an outburst.”

Those happened often.

Curt was simply a hothead, too used to acting out on his first instinct, which was always anger.

Gale was helping him work through this, but wasn’t always around to be the mediator.

Bucky wasn’t going to let him hide behind that excuse forever, though. “No, you weren’t.” He mumbled. “You were being shitty just to be shitty.” He rolled a window down and lit a cigarette. “I didn’t come either, you know.” He looked toward Curtis again. “You don’t hear me crying about it.”

Curt scrambled in his seat, crawling into Bucky’s and subsequently falling into his lap, his back smashing against the horn but he didn’t give a fuck. At the very least, it made Bucky smile. “You’re right. I’m shitty. I was bein’ shitty just to be fuckin’ shitty. And I’m sorry.” He inhaled the smoke Bucky shared with him, their lips slotting together perfectly.

Bucky could never deny Curtis the satisfaction of an accepted apology — this wasn’t a real fight. It was nothing of the sort.

It was a squabble, yes, but in the end, it wouldn’t make or break anything.

Except a few of Bucky’s fragile nerves.

“Still doesn’t mean I’m gonna fuck you, honey.” Bucky smirked, cigarette between his teeth. “C’mon, back in your spot. We gotta get goin’.”

#💌#yoyo writes #I love these two #curtbucky #this one is so long #masters of the air #lcau

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