#unnamed tag team

[himbos-hotline]

ALL the Hangman fics with a Cherry on top please 🥺

Hell yeah!! I have so my fucking love for the hangmega ship. Cuz not only was it the first ship I started writing for in the wrestling fandom. But its ALSO like the ship that alighted my passion for writing again. I'm gonna do shameless self promotion on this ask [sorry buddy] of ALL my hangmega fics cuz I really love how I write the two of them! You can read them either or tumblr or ao3.

[if anyone wants to request anything, I am gesturing at my ask box]

Blood is rare and as sweet as cherry wine // 4k words An angsty look at hangman and kenny when Hangman wins the title. A look at cleaner!Kenny being an alter in a system and how it hurts Hangman to not feel loved. Very much just a 'They'res love in my eyes, you only see your reflection.'

To you I'm just a man [to me you're all I am] // 7k words My first ever hangmega fic. Spurred on by a uquiz question. Hangman does peotry, talks to a horse instead of therapy and Buck didn't know his bucks. It's still my favourite fic i've written and I wish people would freak out about it more. I love how I write hangman in this fic.

If I said you could never touch me // 2k words A look at the conversation between Kenny and Hangman when Kenny returns for the trios title. It's just them and a empty lockerroom.

We made our peace with weariness and let it be. // 2k words My most recent fic, at least what I can remember as my most recent fic. I thought I'd write about Hangman coming to save Kenny from the BCC and Kenny feeling really guilty and just like he's falling behind.

I find myself alone at night [Unless I'm having sex] // 2k words Yknow that fic idea I had where Kenny would regularly retreat back to Hangman just so he could fuck his emotions out? Yeah I finally wrote it. A really sad hangmega fic from a really cute prompt. I dunno how I made it sad.

We only write by the moon // 1k words Wrestleprompt prompt: A proposal on the beach. A happy little fic where they go skinny dipping and Kenny proposes.

The things we used to share // 1k words Wrestleprompt prompt: a reluctant trip to a zoo to please your partner. A missing scene writing for my big siblings fic @itsnoosetome [you should follow them btw. They are so incredibly talented!] voicemail is full, bottle is empty. here kenny and hanger go visit the zoo.

I should've known you'd bring me heartache [Almost lovers always do] // 1k words My first fictober writing which ended up becoming blood is as rare and sweet as cherry wine.

[transingthoseformers]

https://www.tumblr.com/transingthoseformers/767860017152032768/httpswwwtumblrcomtransingthoseformers7677898?source=share

Optimus comes out of the groundbridge heavily pregnant and Bumblebee's following him because Ratchet is too nervous to let him go alone. They've just handled the time travel episode and are EXHAUSTED, but they've been saved by a Prime who is very obviously struggling to even stand properly.

Charlie asks Optimus if he's alright, and Optimus is just "No? I believe the human term is 'pregnant and ready to pop.'" And Blades (who is a medic) has to get him moved off to their quarters while Boulder explains how carriage works to Cody.

The baby pops out, and it's really tiny and wiggly and Optimus wants to die because it CLEARLY has red eyes. But all the Burnses are all swarming because it's so cute and very rare that a baby robot shows up, and Optimus just wants to hibernate for seven years. But then Optimus has to tell them that they have to take care of the sparkling because he doesn't want it around the fighting back where he's been living. The whole Burns' reactions, probably:

Charlie: It's adorable, of course we can make room here to take care of it. Just another member of the family. And I'll make sure it hears all about its... mom..?

Kade: I'm not watching it. No way. I refuse. I'm NOT a babysitter

Heatwave: You'll watch it if you have to, Kade. It's only fair that if we have to watch out for you, you can watch out for us

Chase: *actively having a mental breakdown because autobots don't have red eyes and that baby is CLEARLY a Decepticon baby*

Boulder and Graham: *eagerly showing off the baby area they built after realizing they'd have to watch the baby for at least a few days for Optimus to recover*

Blades: Oh I- I don't know how to raise a baby-

Dani: I always wanted at least ONE kid, how hard can it be

Cody: So I'm not the youngest anymore???

I adore how, out of everyone who's willing to roll with this because well it's happening, Chase is caught up on the decepticon baby part

WE KNOW WHAT HAPPENED, OPTIMUS

that is immensely funnier when you remember that, before the war, Megatronus had blue optics.

(...is he dealing with the reverse situation with a blue opticed sparkling over on the decepticon side of things?)

[dystopyx-blog]

~Dystopyx Directory~

~a guide to the different things I post ocs for~

WORKING ON EDITING THIS

NOTE: I try to keep my blog as pg14 as possible, but I am an adult and sometimes I like adult things, and I worry that the posts I like might somehow get to younger crowds?? So even though most of my stuff is pretty pg14 (albeit yandere) I would advise to tread with caution or maybe even skip out on this blog just to be safe?? Idk I’m still figuring it out oof

YANDERE WRITING COMMISSIONS

pls pay me to write yandere

👁ORIGINAL PROJECTS:

🦇batstronaut

🐱cats game clues

🎪circus freaks

🤡cirque de la muerte

🪦cryptkeepers

🌈desindants

💭dream team

🏝island of never

🕊miraculum

🌟mythic earth

⚔️the unnamed fantasy story that remains unnamed but exists

🌫mistified

💋entropy

⛓️misc yandere nonsense (oh boy)

👀other misc original projects/original stories

👁FANDOMS:

💀 creepypasta

⚡️my hero academia

💪DC comics

🐉Dungeons and Dragons

😈Helluva Boss/Hazbin Hotel

🦄My Little Pony

...More to come

👁REWRITES:

🎸hex girls

🐕scooby doo

💖Mari Mari Cutie

🫖A Tale of Two Cities

💔yandere sim

...And more to come

interested in some cheap art? Commissions are open!

note: I’m in more fandoms than are listed, those are just ones I’m more likely to post ocs for

[unplanned-parenthood]

i was reading a fic and i got curious....please indulge me im always thinking abt his 2 brothers

[muirneach]

people who complain about utah hc’s name/jersey (or lack thereof) wouldn’t last a minute in the pwhl mines

[thecrimeofmans-laughter]

watched legends of tomorrow S6E10 and this kid fernando is played by ricky ortiz who ALSO played SQ in the mysterious benedict society show (at around the same time too, according to his instagram) and so every time i saw him i was like "oh that's where he's gone!! :D oh but he is going through it :("

[thejeffersonianinstitute]

How much has hodgins cost in damages

You didn't hear this from us, but my buddy from HR said If we're counting emotional damages, it's definitely higher than what they can deduct from his paycheck. He does immediately pay back any damage he's caused physically.

[p1nkshield]

Welcome to chapter 3 of the unnamed prompt fill! I had some trouble with tagging people so if you asked to be tagged and I didn’t it wasn’t on purpose! Also lmk what you think this should be called!

The dining room erupted in shouts of confusion and disbelief.

“What do you mean ‘I thought you knew’ Jason?!? How are we supposed to predict that your rock would evolve like a Pokémon?!?” Dick questioned as the spaghetti that was once on his fork inched towards his shoe.

“Bruce was the one who put me on babysitting duty in the first place!” Jason defended

Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion “I asked you to keep an eye on an unknown asset from a mission, I had no idea the core was anything more than a power source.”

“What?!? How could you not? He was screaming every time they turned that damn thing on!”

Jason surveyed the perplexed looks on his family’s faces.

“Wait…ONLY I COULD HEAR HIM?!? YOU ALL THOUGHT I WAS JUST TALKING TO A ROCK FOR WEEKS?!? NOBODY SAID ANYTHING?!?”

They all rushed to defend themselves as they all grew more and more embarrassed over their lack of communication regarding Jason’s recent behavior.

Silence washed over them as the child in Jason’s arms stirred securing a tighter hold to his sleeve.

Jason suddenly remembered where he was.

He looked to Alfred, panic stricken and croaked out “help”

Before he could do so another icy orb of light appeared, gracefully transformed into a scroll and flitted gently into Alfred’s hands. Without batting an eye he read aloud.

“If this message has been sent correctly it should currently be in the hands of whomever is the leader of the household entrusted to watch over Young Phantom as he recovers from his injuries. I may have pulled a few strings in the time stream in order to get him to the safest place with enough ambient ectoplasm to allow him to fully heal. Please know that the child you guard is much more powerful than he appears as he is of the infinite realms, a dimension most likely beyond your comprehension.

CW

P.S. Tell Danny that yes, this is normal and yes, his usual haunt and his humans are safe when he asks”

Nobody looked anymore informed by this information.

“Well isn’t that terribly vague.” Alfred noted as he deftly swept up the child from Jason’s arms and carried him to the nearest guest room. Jason followed closely behind him.

Bruce let out a long, tired sigh. As soon as he heard the words ‘the infinite realms’ he knew who held more information about this subject.

“Constantine.” Batman steeled himself for the conversation ahead.

“What a pleasant surprise! The ol spookster has called me of his own volition. What sort of world ending threat is it this time?”

Batman chose to ignore the nickname and remark and began to ask “what do you know about the infinite realms?”

Constantine choked on his drag of cigarette.

“Who… tf… told you about the infinite realms?” A look of genuine worry was painted across his face as he coughed and recovered from the shock.

This wasn’t good, Constantine solemnly addressed his colleague.

“Bats do not meddle with this. If you can back away now. The denizens of the infinite realms vary in strength and temperament. It’s a gamble as to whether they help you or try to skin you alive and with their power set they absolutely can.”

“Too late”

Constantine groaned and looked to the ceiling searching for reason as to why he befriended people who got themselves into such strange and dangerous situations.

“Elaborate please, Batarang.”

“We’ve been elected to watch over a ‘Young Phantom’ as he heals from being unprecedentedly wounded. My team wasn’t aware of this until last night when his situation became more… clear.” Batman began to explain until he was greeted with a new peculiar high pitched noise emitting from the other end of the call.

“You have THE NEW KING?!? Nonono you’re in deep. Don’t call me anymore you only bring destruction to my life! Now I have to come over! Maybe I can smooth things over. Who hurt him this bad?!? Mortals? Mortal humans? It was, wasn’t it? I can see it on your face! You stay right there. DON’T DO ANYTHING. I’ll be over in five seconds.”

Constantine hung up on him.

Bruce sighed as the screen of the bat computer went black.

That went well.

@chrysanthemum9484 @kyrianclawraith @blankliferain @pastalavistamf @sara0055 @pike-s @xye-chan @blackroselina @malice-of-the-sunrise @gin2212 @meira-3919 @addie-lover-of-stories @undead-essence @onlyhereforthechaos @charcoalstainedbones @mimilikey @ectoradiation @persephoneblackrose @farmercale @claudiashq @boo-ghosties @56thingsinaname @insomniaxonline @thefanficcup @alixanterm @terzatheunderscorerima @skulld3mort-1fan

[doeidawn]

☁︎ — see you next saturday

a night at the bar turns interesting when a masked stranger crosses your path. he's far from approachable, but something about him draws you in until you're coming to the bar every weekend just to see him. he's enigmatic and exciting—exactly what you needed to interrupt the monotony of life. 11.2k

⟢ pairing: ghost x f!reader

⟢ tags: MDNI/18+; author is american and apologizes in advance—this probably isn't how bars in the UK are, sorry; ghost is unnamed for 95% of the fic but it pays off; alcohol consumption (no one gets drunk, it's just some sipping); awkward first meeting; slow-burn??? idk sex doesn't happen til the very end; implied size difference; biker!ghost; semi-public sex; fingering; table sex; praise; unprotected piv sex (wrap it before you tap it); oral sex [m receiving]; facial

Another excited cheer from the table behind you tells you that one of the football teams on screen has scored. Though you couldn’t care less about the game, you catch a glance at the television hung on the wall near the bar to watch the score rise. Aside from sipping on the same drink and watching people filter in and out all night, you didn’t have anything better to do, anyway.

A night out at the bar probably wasn’t the most efficient use of your time, or your money, but after a week of grueling work and the ever-increasing stress of life, it felt nice to ignore everything for a while. As long as you didn’t drink enough to hate yourself the next morning, who were you to deny yourself some fun? Well, as fun as watching drunk people mingle could be. A cheap local bar wouldn’t give way for much excitement.

You were almost thankful for that. The wrong kind of excitement only would’ve added to the weight on your shoulders. Yet, a part of you still yearned for something more than the monotony of asking the bartender for another round while your eyes scanned the crowds. Only two drinks in and already you were practically praying for an interesting face to look your way and add something that resembled anticipation to your life.

You set your glass down on the bartop with a sigh. Another cheer comes from your left, drawing your attention towards the table of patrons with their eyes glued to the television wearing their excited smiles. It’s only a momentary glance, but with your head turned in their direction, you notice the first interesting face you’ve seen all night.

Rather, it was the lack of his face that drew you in. Just a few seats down the bar stood a tall man, dressed head to toe in dark clothing, sliding an empty glass toward the bartender. Perhaps the most notable thing about him is how his hood sits on his head and a mask covers the bottom half of his face. Is that skull print on the fabric?

Whoever he was, he didn’t seem too keen on letting other people know. Part of you was surprised he was even allowed to be served. To say he looked suspicious would be putting it mildly. 

But there was something about him that caught your attention and wouldn’t let go. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the air of mystery that clung to him, or maybe it was your desperate need for excitement. At this point, you couldn’t quite tell what the reason was, but his presence was magnetic. 

His head turns slightly to look up at the television mounted near the bar. For a split second, you thought he had noticed you somehow. You don’t know why it affected you enough to make your heart leap into your throat, but it was enough to make you stop staring out of fear you’d come off rude.

Your leg bounces nervously on the barstool, itching to walk you over to him. But, Christ, you’ve been out of the game for a while, and you have to assume his…unique sense of attire was to wade off any unwanted conversation. What would you even say to a guy like that? Compliments aren’t easy when you can’t see any part of the man’s face. 

Your fingertips run over the edge of your glass and you can’t help but bring your eyes back over to him. Still focused on the game. 

“What’s with the mask?” The words leave your mouth before you can give them a second thought. You regret it almost immediately, hoping that maybe between the music and the surrounding conversations that he couldn’t hear you. 

There’s a slow turn of his head in your direction. His eyes meet yours, but instead of curiosity you find nothing but a piercing gaze that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s hard to tell in the dim light of the bar, but you swear his gaze moves over you before he turns his attention to the bartender.

Bummer. Well, it was worth a shot…even if you think you’ll have to order another drink to prevent yourself from cringing on the memory later. 

You huff another sigh and swirl your drink, watching the liquid move in the glass. If nothing else, at least you got a good night of people-watching and paid enough attention to the game to know what your coworkers will talk about on Monday. The next sip burns your throat as you swallow. 

“Tactical advantage.” A baritone voice—suddenly very close to you—comes from your left and startles you, making you jump in your seat. 

Your eyes dart to the side, wide in panic, meeting a masked face looking down at you. You curse under your breath, unsure whether it’s appropriate to feel relieved.

“Pardon..?”

“You asked about the mask,” the man gestures vaguely towards his fabric-covered face as he moves to sit on the barstool next to you. The old material groans under his weight. “Tactical advantage.” 

You couldn’t help but continue to stare at him. You could tell he was a bigger guy from far away, but, Jesus, he was even bigger up close. Not just tall, but his shoulders were broad and his hands practically dwarfed the glass he was holding. He was, objectively, terrifying.

Yet, you couldn’t help but smile at his simple, concise words. “Yeah? And what advantage is that?”

“To hide my face.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt at comedy. “Well, I coulda guessed that.”

“You asked.” He looks over at you and instead of the piercing gaze from before, there’s something much warmer in his eyes. You wish you could see if he had a smug smile to accompany his words. 

“That I did.” You take another sip of your drink, hoping it’ll continue to keep your nerves settled. “So why d’you wanna hide your face?”

He’s silent for a moment, looking down at the bar as he folds his arms and leans against it. You faintly hear him sigh before he shrugs his shoulders. “No need to show it.”

“Gotta be hard to drink with a mask, no?”

“Not if you lift it up.”

“Or you could just…take it off.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“‘Cause then I’d get to see what you look like.”

His eyes—you make a mental note of the deep brown color they are—narrow at that. “Oh, I dunno if you want that.”

“I think I do.”

The stool beneath him creaks with his weight as he sits up, straightening his back and reminding you just how tall he is. His chest expands against his hoodie in another deep breath. “Determined, aren’t you?”

Another smile creeps its way onto your face. “C’mon, I’m curious.” You want to lean in, to tease him with your proximity, but you withhold yourself.

Those blond eyebrows that peek out from the rim of his balaclava raise slightly. His eyes move over you in a movement he doesn’t seem to bother being subtle about. Though the gesture makes your heart skip a beat, his silence is deafening.

“Alright, alright,” you concede, hands up in defeat. “I get it. No face.” He makes an affirmative sound at that.

“Smart girl.” He says it so fast, a one-off comment that told you to not bother pressing him for any more information, but something about it makes your breath catch in your throat. 

You have to look down at your drink when you feel your cheeks grow warm. Even though it was nearly gone, you certainly didn’t have enough liquid courage to flirt openly. You wanted to ask his name, to ask where he’s from—what if he lived close by?—but if he wasn’t even willing to show you his face at the bar, you knew the chances were slim. 

From the corner of your eye, you see him shift in his seat again. He digs in his pocket, pulls out his phone, and barely looks at it before he starts to stand. Was he leaving already? Why?

“Where you goin’?” You ask before you can really think about why you cared so much.

“M’needed elsewhere.” 

Blunt, simple, and vague. That seemed to be how he operated. 

“Oh, a popular guy, are you?”

“You could say that.” Your eyes follow him as he moves, but he doesn’t look your way when he stands. Christ, he was a big lad. 

“You didn’t even touch your drink.”

“It’s not mine.” He moves the full glass down the bar until it clinks against your own. It’s then you notice it’s the same color as your drink. Same glass, same serving. Did he really buy you a drink?

“Have a nice night.” You look back at him to see his eyes meeting yours. Maybe it was the last drink still swimming in your system, but you weren’t able to form the words to respond. “Get home safe, yeah?”

And with a nod of your head, he weaved his way through the room until he was out of your line of sight. Despite his size, he was easy to lose in the crowd. You turn back to the bartop and stare at the two glasses. The one on the left—the one he’d bought for you—was invitingly full.

You reach out, fingertips skimming the rim before you bring the glass to your lips. It was the same drink you always ordered when you went out—your favorite. Only somehow it tastes sweeter on your tongue this time.

You’ve never made it a habit to go out and drink. As stressful as life could get, it just wasn’t an outlet you ever turned towards. It was expensive as hell, and you weren’t stupid enough to ignore how much it sucked to be hungover. 

But despite that, you found yourself back in that same barstool when the weekend came around. And for the first time, it wasn’t because of the overpriced liquor.

Only a few sips into your first drink of the night and you were already looking around in hopes that you’d find a skull-patterned mask looking back at you. Desperately you tried to tune out the chatter of people around you, hoping you’d be able to pick out his voice. Maybe it was stupid. It was definitely wishful thinking. 

For all you knew, he wasn’t even in town anymore; you figured he probably wasn’t the type of guy to stick around one place for very long. And, hell, he left so abruptly last time, who’s to say he’d even want to see you again? You hated the tightness that built in your chest at the thought of that. 

Well, you might as well enjoy your drink since you’re here. You tried to pay attention to whatever sport was on the television this time, tried scrolling on your phone, but nothing held your attention. Every sip of your drink tempted you to house the entire bar. But you didn’t figure yourself that pathetic. Still, you were pathetic enough to keep looking over at the entrance, hoping you’d see that tall figure slinking through groups of people.

But you never do.

Fuck. It was stupid to hope anyway. You curse yourself under your breath, rubbing at your temples like it’ll help clear your head. With a huff and a sigh, you finish the last of your drink. It doesn’t taste as sweet as it did last time. You’re more disappointed than you wanted to allow yourself to be.

You decided rather quickly that you’d rather mope and feel sorry for yourself in the comfort of your own home. It wasn’t worth wasting money on another lonely drink.

There’s a chill breeze outside that cuts through you, making you shiver as soon as you walk out the door. You cross your arms, trying to preserve some body heat, as you make your way down the pavement. A still-lingering part of you doesn’t want to leave but your legs don’t stop carrying you further away.

You eventually come to a stop, leaning against a light post as you dig out your phone. Even though you’re supposed to be looking up the rideshare to get you back home, you can’t help but look around last time. You think yourself too desperate for your own good until you see a tall figure just a few steps away.

Standing next to a motorcycle that you can only assume is his, the hooded figure drops a cigarette to the ground, his boot grinding against the pavement to stomp it out. You thought it might be too good to be true, but then he turns just enough for you to see him pull that skull-patterned balaclava back over his mouth. He doesn’t seem to notice you—a fact you quickly want to remedy.

“Hey, big guy,” you call out to him, the nickname a subconscious one you immediately cringe at yourself for. Fucking ‘big guy’? Yeah, that’s not gonna go over well.

But it certainly gets his attention. His head turns in your direction, if only barely. He does a double-take before stopping in his tracks and staring back at you. You have to hope and pray that he doesn’t think you’re crazy as you walk over to him. Luckily, he didn’t move away from your advances. Instead, he turns towards you as if to welcome your approach, dark eyes raking over you in that same conspicuous motion.

It’s when you’re face-to-face with him—well, more like mask-to-face—that you realize you didn’t quite know what to say. You were too sober to be making a fool of yourself like this. After an awkward beat of silence of you taking in once more just how tall he was compared to you, you finally manage to conjure up something.

“I just wanted to say…thank you for buying me a drink the other night. I…I appreciated that.”

“Course.” You’d almost forgotten the gruff sound of his baritone voice. “You leavin’ already?”

You hesitate for a moment, a lie stewing on the tip of your tongue. No, no, I was just hanging out in the cold, what a coincidence, right? How much you wanted to spend time with a man you barely knew was almost pathetic. You resign the thought with a sigh. “Sorry, you’re too late. I already had all my fun.”

“What, waitin’ f’me?” 

You didn’t know if he was just confident or if he somehow truly knew that was what you were doing. Either way, it made you feel like he could see right through you, like he knew you found him interesting. “Maybe I was hopin’ you’d come by.” You bite your lip, gaze hitting the ground before looking back up at him. “You were the most entertaining thing at that bar.”

He takes in a deep breath at that. “M’sorry I missed it.” Yeah, me too. “Can you get yourself home?”

“Yeah. Well, a rideshare can.”

“How ‘bout I take you home?”

The suggestion makes your heart skip a beat, staring up at him, frozen and probably looking half-crazed. The rational part of your brain was sounding every possible alarm. Why would you ever trust a man you met in a bar who never takes off his mask to take you home unless you had a death wish? And yet the winning part of your brain was the one that was extremely curious about his implication.

“Ah, take a bloke I barely know back home? How drunk d’you think I am?”

He looks over you again in a beat of silence. “You aren’t. That’s why I’m askin’.” Knowing he didn’t want to take advantage of you eased some of the lingering anxiety in the back of your mind. But, as if he could sense that anxiety, he continued, “You don’t gotta let me in, I jus’ wanna make sure you’re safe. I’m cheaper than a rideshare, anyway.”

“Well, can’t beat that, I suppose.” You move around him to approach his parked motorcycle. You didn’t have to know much about bikes to realize it was a nice one. Sleek, but not flashy. Your fingers glide over the leather of the seat as you eye the streetlights reflecting off of the shiny black body. “I’ve never been on a bike. People say they’re dangerous.”

“They can be, if you don’t know what you’re doin’.” You hadn’t noticed how close he was—moving as silent as ever—hovering just behind you as he grabs the helmet strapped securely to the bike. Holding it out towards you, he gives you a nudge. “Here.”

You take the helmet, holding it carefully like you’re afraid to leave your fingerprints all over it. You could already tell it’d be too big, but the consideration was nice. “I trust you know what you’re doin’, then?”

“Most of the time.”

Well, wasn’t he quite the comedian.

You slot the helmet over your head with a roll of your eyes. As you guessed, it was certainly too big, tilting forward over your brow and obscuring your view. A bitterly sweet smell floods your senses as you clasp it in place; you can only assume it’s his sweat, mixed with a faint air of tobacco, embedded into the foam lining.

A heavy hand rests on the side of the helmet, holding it steady while he slides the visor up. His head tilts as those dark eyes of his greet you. “Bit big on you, innit?”

“Yeah, just a li’l.”

“How far we goin’?” You should have been a little hesitant before telling him your address, but you don’t even stutter. He spoke like he had to know, like ordering people around was what he did for a living. An affirmative hum comes from behind his mask as he slides the visor back down. “You’ll be alright.”

You struggle to balance both yourself and the helmet long enough to swing your leg over the seat. You were thankful that the helmet obscured your face to shield some of the embarrassment, at least. Then you feel that same heavy palm on the small of your back, trying to keep you steady, only to make your body tense up. The helmet swings lazily on your head as you finally straddle the seat.

Once you’re situated, after asking if you’re comfortable, he slides his hand off of you. He has no problem getting himself sat, taking up the front half of the seat as he slots in the space before you. He turns his head and, though you have to lift your head awkwardly to see him through the visor, you hear his voice say, “Hold on tight. Can’t have you fallin’ off.”

What, did he plan on speeding out of here? Hesitantly, your hands find purchase on his waist. It was gentle, barely enough pressure to feel his hoodie under your fingertips, let alone his body underneath.

You think you hear him scoff. “I’m sure you’re stronger than that.” His fingers wrap around your wrists, guiding your hands forward until they rest on his chest. The movement shortens the gap of space between your bodies as your arms hover awkwardly around him. “I promise you won’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re afraid of. C’mon, tighter than that.” You strengthen your hold, closing the distance between your chest and his back, practically hugging him. “Atta girl.”

Your face heats up at that, and you were thankful the helmet obscured the sheepish smile that had painted itself on your face. 

The engine suddenly roars to life, loud enough to surprise you. The power behind it vibrates through the leather seat and seeps easily through the padding of the helmet. Though his takeoff was as smooth as it could’ve been, it didn’t stop you from tightening your hold around his body. 

The cityscape passes by in a blur of vibrant lights and towering buildings. The hum of the motorcycle’s engine overpowers the surrounding cars, echoing off of the asphalt and thrumming a rhythmic hum during the ride. The already-cool night air bites at your skin as it whips past. 

Though you have no reason to, you find yourself gripping him tighter on every take-off after a stop. And despite the chill on your skin, you felt the heat rise to your face as you realized you could feel how rigid and tough he was under that hoodie. 

There was a thrill, you realized, that ran through you and made your heart race. Not only because you were on a bike for the first time, but because of how close you were to the man in front of you. Holding on tight to a stranger whose name you didn’t know so he could bring you home safely sounded like something out of a novel. The smell of him embedded in his helmet and filling your senses, your body close to absorb some of his heat, the pure generosity of even offering to drive you home: everything made you want to abandon all self-respect and invite him in when you arrived.

The internal battle you fought over that distracted you for the rest of the ride.

You could barely see out of the helmet without cocking your head awkwardly, but you could tell when the trip was nearing its end. A pit formed in your stomach—a part of you unwilling to let the ride end just yet. It wasn’t until he slowed down enough to pick out your building that you realized how difficult it was to see over his broad shoulders. With a point and a nudge in the right direction, you guided him to your stop.

He pulls the bike up to the pavement before parking it. The sounds of the neighborhood replace the monotonous hum of the engine as he turns it off. Your movements are hesitant as your hands slide off his body, something you quickly regret and hope he hadn’t noticed. He helps you off the bike just as he had helped you on, reminding you of his gentle touch, thankful yet again for the helmet obscuring your shy smile.

You don’t ignore the sense of disappointment you feel knowing that he has to leave. Just taking off the helmet was enough to make you miss him and ache for something more, even when he stood right by you on the pavement. You knew it was strange to feel close to a man you barely knew, but he gave you more comfort than most. He made you feel intrigued in a way no one else did. 

“So,” you start, dreading the awkward silence, “do I get to know the name of my chauffeur?”

He pauses for a moment of consideration. Your heart beats faster, something akin to excitement making you hope for an answer. Finally, he looks up from the pavement. “Maybe next time.”

Initially, you felt more disappointed than you wanted to allow yourself to be. Surely his name was the one thing he could give up? But then you find yourself clinging on to that phrase. Maybe next time…Did he expect a ‘next time’? Should you expect a ‘next time’?

As you walked up to your door, he didn’t follow, staying true to his words from earlier. He kept a respectable distance to not crowd you, as if he didn’t want to make you nervous. If only he knew everything about him made you overthink your every move.

There’s a beat of silence when you grab your keys. An invite inside sits on the tip of your tongue, fighting with the rational part of your brain, consequences be damned. But his voice beats you to the punch as he breaks another long and empty silence.

“So d’you go and drink every Saturday?”

Your fingers toy with the keys in your hand as you debate your answer. “No, I don’t,” you admit after a beat of silence.

He hums a deep sound that you can’t quite identify the emotion behind. “So just a coincidence, then?”

You don’t respond to that. Instead, while fighting your sheepish smile, you look back at him. 

“Thanks for takin’ me home.”

“‘Course.”

“Maybe next time you should drink with me.”

Your heart pounds in your chest when the words leave your mouth. Eagerness didn’t seem like such a shameful thing anymore. Not when you were sharing body heat with him just a few minutes ago. Not when he knew where you lived because he cared enough to make sure you were safe. Maybe it was too hopeful to expect him to want to see you again, but when your eyes meet his under the streetlight, you’re confident the hope isn’t unfounded.

His eyes rake over you in a slow one-over as he nods. His voice is low in that same charming gruff timbre when he responds, “I’ll see you next Saturday, then?”

Fighting off an over-excited smile proves to be the most difficult thing you’ve done in a while. You sigh, calming your racing heart. “If you’re on time.”

“It’s a date.”

It wasn’t actually a date.

Surely he couldn’t have meant it literally. Still, it was enough to have you barely managing a flustered goodbye before fumbling with your keys at the door. Even after you were in the comfort of your home your face felt hot, your body practically vibrating from adrenaline. All from a stranger. The faint sound of the revving engine of his motorcycle moments later only served to remind you of his voice, the warmth of his body, and—hopefully—the promise in his words. 

You had to remind yourself constantly, every time your mind wandered throughout the week, that you were hoping for too much. You were daydreaming about a face you hadn’t seen yet from a man whose name you didn’t even know. And, God, that made you feel more pathetic than ever.

It was just a night out, spending time together over a drink, nothing more. Maybe you could learn his name if he was feeling generous enough. But to hope for anything more—a follow-up or anything deeper than friendliness—was foolish. Still, your mind kept wandering back to his words. It’s a date. 

No, this wasn’t a date, you scold yourself in the mirror, shaking your head as if it’ll dismiss the thought faster. That was just a throwaway line, something to draw you in to make sure he’d see you tonight. Nothing more, nothing implied, nothing to hope for. You knew that by now, practically drilled it into your own head. 

So why did you spend way too long looking at yourself in the mirror, obsessing over every little detail you could nitpick? Why did you drudge through your entire closet to make sure you picked the “right outfit”? Why did you stress about what perfume to wear and what drink to order? It wasn’t a date after all. 

Right?

It was too late to fight yourself on it once your rideshare pulled up. The implication of his words was irrelevant at this point; your heart seems to beat quicker with every turn of the wheels that brings you closer to the bar. Despite the cool air making you regret choosing to wear a skirt, you felt hot and stuffy—just downright nervous. Christ, you nearly felt like you could throw up when you saw a familiar tall silhouette outside the bar. 

He was on time. And he was waiting for you.

Every insecurity you nitpicked before comes to the front of your mind the moment you step onto the pavement. You force the thoughts away with a sigh and, for the first time in your life, your steps towards the bar are hesitant. His eyes meet yours as you approach and you almost wish you could see his reaction under that mask. But the more you thought about it, maybe you were better off not knowing.

He straightens up, pushing himself off of the wall, looking down at you with a face obscured by shadows and fabric. “I was startin’ to think I came too early.”

It was a huge relief to see him here, waiting and willing to see you again. You couldn’t hide your smile if you tried. “Well, lucky for you, I like an eager man.”

His steps are confident as he makes his way towards the entrance. “That’s definitely one way to describe me.” You barely hear the sentence when he utters it, which only makes your heart beat faster. He pulls the door open, holding it for you to make your way in. 

The bar is as crowded as it is every Saturday. Plenty of people scattered around, watching whatever team was on the television this weekend, drunkenly shouting overtop of the music. It never fails to overwhelm you when you walk through the entrance. A hand rests on your back, grounding you and making you all too aware of your posture, slipping to your waist before guiding you through the bustle of people.

Your date—it still felt weird to call him that—guides you towards the bar, towards the backend where fewer people crowded the space. His presence was comforting despite his silence. Not to mention how perfectly his hand slotted against your waist, a thought that had you too nervous to bring attention to his sudden touchiness.

The stools squeak and groan as the two of you settle into your seats. The bar is anything but quiet, yet an awkward silence hangs in the air between you. Something told you he wasn’t the type to care about the awkwardness, but you were far too sober to not overthink every thought that popped into your head.

You clear your throat, hoping it’ll boost your confidence to speak. “I wasn’t actually sure you’d show,” you admit. “But I’m glad you did.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You weren’t sure how to respond. He raised a good point, one that spit in the face of your insecurities and anxiety. “I dunno…guess I worried I wasn’t exciting enough for you.”

“Well, you’re no mask-wearin’ bike rider.” He leans in your direction and nudges you with his elbow. “But I think you’re plenty excitin’.” You look up at his eyes just fast enough to catch his wink.

Flustered, you avert your eyes to the bartop as you laugh. “You don’t know me well enough, clearly.”

“I’d like to. That’s why I’m here.”

That brings your eyes back to his. You may not have been able to see his face, but those eyes told you everything about his sincerity. There shouldn’t have been any doubt left in your mind after that. The man admitted to having an interest in you—in getting to know you—and it surely set your heart on fire. 

“Well, that and to drink, I’m sure.” Your smile is an attempt to distract from the way you stare at him. It was like you had yourself convinced you could make out his features if you just studied him long enough. 

“Ah, that’s just a bonus.” He gestures for the bartender with a simple wave of his hand before fishing in his pocket for his wallet. 

“So what’s the drink of choice for a bloke like you?”

“Bourbon.”

You aren’t sure why that admission surprises you; of course a big guy like him would drink whiskey. Something about that fact makes you feel warm inside. You request one for yourself, an excuse to have something in common with him. 

Your eyes follow the bartender as they move, but your mind is far from the alcohol. Everything was going well—probably the best it could’ve gone meeting someone who could still classify as a stranger for the third time. But there was still something gnawing at the back of your mind, festering insecurity and uncertainty.

“Can I ask you something?” You almost surprise yourself with the lack of hesitance with which the question leaves your mouth.

“Shoot.”

“That night we met, when we spoke for the first time, you left awfully quick.” Your fingers tap against the bartop in an anxious rhythm. “What was that about?”

From the corner of your eye, you see him shrug. “Wasn’t my choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was work. It asks a lot of me sometimes.” Work calling at such a late hour was hard to believe, but the way he said it—a layer of exhaustion sullying his words—had you convinced. “Trust me, I would’ve preferred staying to talk to you.”

You believed that, too. 

“What do you do for work?”

He pauses, taking in a deep breath, like he’s thinking about how to phrase his response. You’ve started to learn how deliberate he was with his words. “A lot of dangerous shit.”

That definitely piques your attention. You hear the two glasses clink against the bartop, but you were more concerned with him than the alcohol. “Yeah? What kind of shit is that?” You didn’t have a lot of hope that he’d open up any more than that, but the curiosity ate at you. 

He reaches for one of the glasses, sighing as he moves. “The kind of shit that makes you want to drink to forget it.” He lifts the glass in your direction. “So let’s drink, yeah?”

Even if he didn’t completely open up, it was a sentiment you could sympathize with. You may not know exactly what he spent his time doing but you knew enough to hope he saw your company as comforting. You reach for the other glass and lift it until it clinks against his own. “Just don’t drink enough to forget me.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be forgettin’ you anytime soon.”

You smile at his sentiment, taking a sip of whiskey to wash away the anxiety-borne tension in your throat.

It’s done in a split second before you notice it, but he lifts the bottom of his balaclava over his mouth, resting the hem on his nose. It gives you a view of the blond scruff that dusts the sharp angle of his jaw, of those peach lips that look surprisingly soft as he raises his glass to take a drink. The way his mask sits makes you aware of the crook in the bridge of his nose—a sign of cartilage broken multiple times over. He’s rugged and rough underneath the soft cloth, far more attractive than anything you could’ve conjured up in your own mind. And that was without seeing his entire face. They were features that any other man could have, but he hid those features from the world for reasons you couldn’t fathom. Maybe that was what made him so alluring.

“You’re starin’.”

It takes a moment for his words to register in your head. You only realized he was speaking because you could actually see his mouth move. You scoff, brows furrowing as you finally blink for the first time in a while. “I wasn’t starin’.”

He grunts in response. You didn’t have to hear him speak to know he doesn’t believe you. Hell, you didn’t believe yourself. You roll your eyes at the sound, taking a sip of your drink and averting his intense gaze by catching a glimpse of the television behind the bar. You didn’t care one bit about the scores on the screen.

Especially when you suddenly felt the warmth of his hand on your thigh. There was no way he didn’t notice the way your muscles tense, flinching at the sudden contact. It’s indescribable the way it makes you feel. His rough and calloused touch barely underneath the hem of your skirt to feel the smooth and tender flesh of your thigh sends a jolt down your spine, a heat coursing through you that you haven’t felt in a while.

“You’re a terrible liar.” It isn’t lost on you the way his voice deepens when he whispers to you, leaning in close and quiet so he can make sure you hear him.

Your mouth suddenly goes dry, your face hot and your heart racing. “Piss off. The…bourbon’s just strong.” You force the words out in a half-hearted tumble as you bring the glass to your lips. 

His grip tightens ever-so-slightly, gently squeezing your thigh. Something about it tells you he doesn’t buy that lie either. “Ah, s’that what it is?” 

The sarcasm in his voice makes the whiskey burn as it slides down your throat. You take in a breath to try and combat the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. Squirming in the stool, you press your thighs together to quell some of the heat pulsing through your veins. Nerves and excitement battle for control over your body. 

“I didn’t take you for a touchy lad.” Your own voice quietens to a whisper, almost too nervous to acknowledge his bold move.

“Usually m’not.”

Setting your glass down, you’re almost disappointed to find the mask is settled back over his face when you finally make eye contact again. “Mm. You must like me, then?”

The question wasn’t really meant to have an answer, but he didn’t hesitate to give you one. “Was that not obvious before?”

“The confirmation is nice.” You force the words out before you can think too hard about his reply. 

He liked you. One of the most enigmatic, confusing, intriguing people you’ve ever met—who should’ve made you feel scared—actually liked you. It was relieving and exciting and terrifying all at once.

You look down to see his hand on your thigh. The sight is enough to turn excitement into something much stronger that pools in your core. You run your fingertips over his knuckles, the discolored skin telling you they’ve been wounded multiple times over. You didn’t have the guts to ask. The contact makes his grip tighten slightly, his thumb slowly brushing gentle strokes against your skin.

The whole thing had your mind running wild. You certainly didn’t have enough to drink to excuse the images that flashed in your mind. But seeing his hand on you—feeling his touch—in a way you could only describe as intimate had desire pumping through you. You don’t know how good a job you’re doing at hiding it, either, but you’re certain he can feel when you squeeze your thighs tightly together.

“So,” you start, clearing your throat as if to excuse the rampant thoughts in your head, “do I get to know your name yet?”

You look over to see his eyes lingering absentmindedly on the television. “Depends on how this night goes.”

Well, it wasn’t a ‘no’.

You scoff, feigning annoyance. “What, y’gonna wait until I’m too drunk to remember it?” Your hand moves to your glass, raising it in his direction before taking a sip.

“Oh, I’m not gonna let you get drunk.” He says it so matter-of-factly that you couldn’t argue if you wanted to. Then, his hand moves carefully, readjusting his grip until the plush fat on the inside of your thigh is squished between his fingers. “Can’t have any fun if you get yourself plastered.”

At least now you knew you had no chance of embarrassing yourself in a drunken stupor. But your mind was far more preoccupied with that word—fun. Sure, he could have meant it literally; maybe he planned on taking you somewhere more exciting than a cheap bar after this. You silently scolded yourself for being disappointed with that reality. 

“I suppose you’re right…” The words came out breathlessly into your glass. You didn’t know if he heard you, but it didn’t really matter. He seemed like the type of man to be dead set on whatever he was determined to do. You just hoped the ‘fun’ he had in mind was the same type that had your heart pounding whenever you thought about it.

His hand slides off you and—God help you—you almost whimper at the loss of contact. Your eyes follow his movement, watching him slide his mask up enough to take another drink. You didn’t think you could ever forget what he looked like. It was a sight you swore you could spend the whole night staring at, but you looked away before he had the chance to tease you about it.

“Y’know,” he says with a voice quiet enough that only you could hear, “if you need somethin’, you can just ask.”

Your eyes dart over to him with an unconscious, wide-eyed look of guilt and confusion. There was no doubt in your mind that you needed something from him, but you hadn’t intended that to be obvious. A bewildered “what?” is all you manage to force out while you try to convince your rapid heart to slow.

“If you need somethin’ from me, you can just ask me for it.” He speaks slowly this time, looking in your direction with brown eyes so dark it was like his pupils had blown wide. Fuck, did you look like that too? He sets his glass down with a sigh when you don’t respond with anything more than a confused scoff. He leans in close, so close you could feel his breath on your ear and a whiff of tobacco and musk in your nostrils. “You were practically humpin’ my hand.” You swear he growls the words. “That makes me think you need somethin’.”

That immediately shot down any hope you had that you were doing great at hiding your wandering thoughts. Excuse after excuse ran through your mind, trying to justify why his touch made you squirm. But…was there really any point in denying something he so clearly had picked up on? He read you like a goddamn book—not that you were difficult to read—and something about that only made the desire heavier. And, most importantly in your mind, there was no sign that he disliked it.

Your lips quiver as they part, hesitation making your mouth run dry. “Maybe…maybe I do need somethin’...” It feels like your heart has jumped in your throat. But it wasn’t nerves that made your skin run hot. “Are you…offerin’ me somethin’?”

He straightens in his seat and pulls the balaclava back over the lower half of his face. From the corner of your eye, you watch him tap his fingers against his glass. Just before you think he’s going to end the conversation there, you hear the rumble of his voice from behind the skull-patterned fabric. “There’s a storage room in the back hall, last door on the right. Hardly anyone goes back there.” His tone is almost conspiratorial. “If we go one at a time, less chance of being noticed. We could have some privacy there.” There’s a pause before he looks in your direction, not bothering to be subtle when his eyes move over you. “That’s what I’m offerin’.”

Holy shit.

There was no reason to think he was joking, but you still couldn’t believe it. You also couldn’t believe that you were so desperate that turning him down didn’t even cross your mind. “You’re serious? Here? In the bar?”

He shrugs like the thought is obvious. “Well, you said it yourself: can’t take a bloke you barely know back home.” He leans in again, eyes boring through you. “I promise I’m worth all the hassle.”

Somehow, you didn’t doubt him one bit. You play off the disbelief and hesitation with a scoff, shaking your head. “Yeah, you better be.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at you for a moment. You wish you could hear his thoughts or see his face, get some inkling of an idea of what was running through his mind. 

Then he sits up straight, cocking his head in the direction of the back hallway. “Go on, then.”

Truthfully, his impatience had you relieved; at least now you wouldn’t have to be the one to initiate. But that didn’t mean you wanted to be the first to get caught sneaking around the back of the building. “Why am I goin’ first?”

“So I can make sure no one follows.”

“Is that your specialty?”

“Somethin’ like that.” You weren’t sure how to feel about that confession. Just how much sneaking around was a guy like him doing? “Go on.”

You’d marinate the thought later. With a sigh, you slide off of the barstool. Looking at him you find his eyes on the television screen once more. With no reassuring glance or even a flirtatious wink, you set your sights on the hallway in the back of the bar.

You’re relieved to find that no one was waiting in a line outside the bathrooms. At least that would make the sneaking around part a lot easier. You felt ridiculous, like a teenager trying to avoid their parents when they snuck out. But the promise of what could’ve been awaiting you was enough to will you to walk down the dim hallway.

There was a door towards the end of the hall, on the right side, just past the bathrooms. Just like he had said. You didn’t have time to wonder how he knew it was here, or how he knew it was a storage room. But sure enough, after slinking past the bathrooms and quickly pushing the door open, you were greeted with a room full of boxes, cleaning supplies, and old furniture. The smell of mildew made your nose crinkle as you stepped further inside.

It was then you realized he didn’t tell you how long to wait. Your thoughts spiraled from there; What if he flakes? What if an employee comes back here? Each second felt like an hour, your anxiety mounting with every moment you were alone in the stuffy room. You move to an old table shoved in the back corner. A thin layer of dust coats your finger when you run it along the trim.

Your heart jumps when you hear the door click. You were prepared to play the part of a drunken fool looking for the bathroom in case it was an employee, but you’re relieved to see the large figure you’d come to recognize slink through.

“Hey,” you call out to him, casually greeting him like you hadn’t snuck in here under the implications of sex.

His steps are slow as he moves towards you. “Hey.” That gruffness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. The room feels smaller with every step he takes in your direction.

“So,” you sigh, “do you take all your dates to storage rooms?”

“Only the lucky ones.”

He stops just in front of you, closer than he’s ever stood before, making your breath catch in your throat as you look up at him. “Suppose I should feel lucky, then.” You don’t mean to sound breathless, but you weren’t too concerned with appearing composed.

“I’d hope so.”

“I will if you take off that mask.”

You think you hear something resembling a laugh from beneath that skull-patterned fabric. He tugs at the mask and, for a moment, you think he’s actually going to remove it. But the hem only moves to the bridge of his nose, taunting you by not revealing any part of himself he hadn’t already. You must look expectant, or disappointed, because he gives you an incredulous look in return. 

“What? You seemed plenty happy with this earlier,” he gestures towards the lower half of his face, earning an eye roll from you. He scoffs, leaning in and tilting his head to follow your gaze. “If I remember, you couldn’t stop starin’ at me.”

“Fuck off. I liked what I saw.” His teasing made your cheeks feel hot. That same heat thumps in your veins when your eyes meet his again. “...Still do.”

You barely feel the warmth of his fingertips as they graze your skin, tracing your jaw. He was gentle, exploratory, like he was waiting for your approval. When all he got from you was a sharp intake of breath, his thumb ran gently over your bottom lip. 

“So do I.”

You’d chastise yourself for leaning in if you were any more self-conscious. You’d blame the eagerness on the alcohol, or the way he seemed to pull you closer with his hand, but there was no denying the want stirring in the pit of your stomach. Nothing else mattered except making your lips meet. And when they do, all you find is gentle hesitance and the taste of whiskey. 

It was soft and careful, yet completely consuming. His lips were as soft as they looked and moved perfectly against your own. You couldn’t stop yourself from sighing into his mouth and inching your body closer, bringing your hand to his chest and feeling the soft fabric of his hoodie go taut as you curl your fingers into a fist. Afraid he’d move away if you didn’t, you kept your grasp firm and pulled him closer. 

He was the one to close the gap between your bodies. It was like he was waiting for that confirmation that you wanted this. His hands move to your waist as his groan vibrates against your lips. Gentle kisses slowly turn more desperate as both of you breathe heavily. The taste of cigarettes and alcohol is sickeningly sweet on your tongue.

Strong hands move down your body and over your hips. You half expected him to grope you and leave it at that. And while you would’ve been fine with it, you’re surprised when you feel his hands move down to your thighs to lift you off the ground. The sudden movement makes you yelp and gasp into his mouth, fingers clawing at his hoodie to keep you balanced while he haphazardly sets you on the edge of the dusty, wobbling table. 

It’s brash and hurried but it’s exciting. The type of exciting that makes you forget about the dust on the tabletop and the possibility someone could walk in. Nothing else mattered when his mouth was on you, trailing over your jaw with hot and wet kisses that took your breath away. 

“You’ll tell me if I’m too much, yeah?” The rough sound of his voice surprises you, grounding you amidst the overwhelming sensations. 

You nod, running your hands over his shoulders to try and feel the rigidity under his clothes. “Y-yeah, course.”

“Good girl.”

A small kiss is planted on your neck before he pulls back enough to look you over. As your hands fall from his shoulders, he hastily rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie. Not only does the sight of sinewy muscle hidden underneath make your blood pound in your veins, but the intricate sleeve of tattoos on his left arm catches your attention. In any other scenario you’d ask him question after question about each line and symbol. But right now his hands are running up your thighs and under your skirt, the muscles in his arms flexing as he kneads the fat between his fingers. 

The way he groans at your softness makes you throb. He nudges your legs further apart—a movement you would have done on your own volition—and pushes your skirt up as he moves to hold your hips. You lean back on your hands and watch mesmerized as his eyes lock onto the sight between your legs. 

“Pretty pair,” he mutters as his thumbs rub circles against your hips. It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about your panties. “Makes me think you were hopin’ I’d see ‘em.”

Seems like it paid off to overthink every part of your outfit. “Maybe I was.”

“Yeah? Hopin’ I’d see how soppin’ wet they are?” His thumb moves inwards, running over your slit through the wet fabric. The fabric clings to your sensitive skin, proving his point, as does the way you whimper and buck your hips.

“Yeah, that too.”

His fingers hook into the strip of fabric covering your cunt, pulling the garment to the side with a forceful tug. And you swear, even in the dim light, his pupils dilate at the sight. “Fuckin’ gorgeous.”

Two fingers drag through your slit, through that slick that told him just how much you wanted him. His fingertips are rough but his touch is gentle. You gasp when he finds your clit and toys with the swollen bud by circling it teasingly. His lips find yours again with bruising kisses that swallow your sounds as you pant into his mouth. His fingers spread you open, gliding over your cunt and teasing every inch, gathering your slick as he circles your entrance.

Even though he moves slowly, the stretch of his thick fingers is certainly more than you were expecting. You whine as they curl and pump in and out in a rhythm that makes your cunt flutter and squelch with each push. Your head falls back with a moan when he hits something deep inside that sends shockwaves through you. 

His mouth moves down to your now-exposed neck, marking your skin with wet and sloppy kisses. “So fuckin’ wet for me,” his voice vibrates against you. “This is what you needed, isn’t it?”

You hum a broken “mm-hmm”, unable to focus long enough to form a proper response. But it’s that confirmation that has him moving faster and harder until your hips are jerking forward to meet his movements. 

“Yeah, y’couldn’t sit still ‘cause you were achin’ for it.” His free hand cups your face, gently squeezing your cheeks and forcing you to look at him. His eyes are dark with desire and something desperate that bores into you. “Just needed your pretty pussy fucked, huh?”

Your cunt flutters around his fingers at the praise, heat building in the pit of the stomach. Your pants turn into a moan as your breath catches in your throat. “Yes, I need it. I need it so fucking bad.”

His hand picks up speed as he coos a soft “I know, baby,” against your lips. His fingers curl and push just right, hitting every soft spot that makes your toes curl and your cunt tighten. One of your hands flies to his chest to claw at his hoodie as your body begins to tremble.

“Fuck,” you groan, barely able to get the words out, “d-don’t stop…”

“I won’t, love. Not ‘til you cum for me.”

For him. He wanted to see you fall apart under his touch and cling to him like he was the only thing in the world. You’ll care more about the sweetness of the thought when you aren’t stuffed full and moaning in the back of a bar. 

Whether it’s that thought or his touch or the heady mix of both, it’s not long before the muscles in your thighs go taut. Your breathing turns heavier as your moans and whines grow louder on each exhale. If it wasn’t for your subconscious fear of being caught and his need to feel your lips against his own you’re sure you would’ve screamed until the sound echoed off the walls. 

But even if your sounds were restrained, the sensations surely weren’t. That heat stirring in your core spilled over and your cunt clenched around his fingers until all you could hear was soft squelching as he pushed your slick cum back inside. Your thighs trembled and your chest heaved with the effort to catch your breath. It wasn’t until you could see straight against that you noticed the sweat along your brow and the ache in your back.

His fingers slid out, their girth just enough to leave you feeling loose. Before he could even take his hand off of you, his mouth was latching onto your neck for another set of rough and wet kisses.

“Turn around,” you barely hear his gruff instruction over the sound of your own breaths, “bend over.”

Still, you aren’t one to disappoint. You land on shaky legs after sliding off the table, using his sturdy form to balance yourself as you turn around. Your forearms rest against the table as you bend over the wobbling piece of furniture. 

You feel your skirt flip up, the fabric resting along your waist, before his large palms run over the swell of your ass. They’re warm and heavy and you can feel each callous as he kneads the fat in his grasp. He’s not rough, but it’s like he wants to savor the softness he finds.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cum.” That was enough to make you twitch, but then he runs a finger over the cum-slick fabric of your panties. “Think you can do it again for me?”

You barely muster a nod and an “mm-hmm” before his fingers hook into your panties and pull them down to your knees. His impatience was only riling you up, especially when you felt him spread you apart and groan at the sight. 

“Christ, look at you…” you hear him mutter, the sound accompanied by the jangle of a belt buckle coming undone. 

You could practically feel his stare boring into you, branding your skin with his gaze. You think you hear him spit before a hand rests on your ass to knead your skin again. That hand moves to your hip, holding you firmly in place while the head of his cock glides along your slit and stops at your entrance. He isn’t even attempting to push in and it already has you whimpering. You can feel it—thick and warm and heavy—waiting to split you open. 

“Breathe for me, baby. Just relax.” His voice is soothing, deep and soaked in desire, and it makes your body obey without thought. 

A few deep breaths later and your mouth is falling open in a loud gasp as he pushes in. He moves slow, pausing every time you whine to mutter soft encouragement through clenched teeth. And while his voice was soothing, it didn’t exactly ease the stretch that had your cunt pulsing around him. Nothing had made you feel so full before.

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way he groans when he’s fully seated inside you. Both of his hands hold your hips tight as he mutters a curse under his breath. Slowly, he starts to move, pulling back only to push in deep. You swear he hits deeper every time, every push forcing the air out of your lungs in a desperate moan. 

“That’s it, you can take it.” His voice was somewhere between gruff and breathless, tense beneath clenched teeth and restrained moans. Your back arches and your hips push back to meet his movements halfway to encourage him to speed up his steady rhythm. “Oh, good fucking girl.”

All you can manage is broken strings of curses and moans. Between his constant praise and the fullness of his cock, you couldn’t think straight long enough to focus on anything except the pleasure shooting through your veins. If your nails were any sharper, you might’ve left claw marks on the table beneath you as you held on.

“Fuck me. H-Harder.” You knew you were being greedy, aching for more every time you accustomed to his pace. But you were still so sensitive from your recent climax; you knew it wouldn’t take much more to hit that high again, especially when his cock kissed that spot deep inside that made your eyes roll back.

“Yeah, you need it harder, baby?” He put up no argument as he moved his hands to your waist for a better grip. He pounded into you with a force that made your legs shake, his hips meeting your ass with an obnoxiously loud sound that you couldn’t care less if anyone heard. “Goddamn, this cunt’s perfect.”

Underneath your squeals and whines are his own moans and growls, each one making you clench around him just to draw another one out of him. Knowing he was as lost in pleasure as you were filled you with pride. 

His hands move up your body, snaking under your shirt, feeling you tense and tremble underneath him. Strong palms find and grope your chest, kneading you eagerly while he bends over you. His thrusts don’t cease even as his lips find your neck.

Soft bites and hot kisses only add to the sensations wracking pleasure on your body. You almost don’t hear him when he mutters against your skin, “Simon.”

“...Huh?”

“Simon.” He repeats, moving his mouth to your ear so there’s no doubt you’ll hear him. “Say it.”

“Si—fuck…Simon…” The name comes out in a moan, something he seems to enjoy judging by the receiving growl in your ear. 

“Atta girl. Now you know what to scream when you cum for me again.”

Your panting lips curl into something resembling a smile. Simon. You were too far gone to recognize the implication of trust behind his sudden openness, but you did know how sweet his name felt in your mouth. And, evidently, it wouldn’t take long for you to mutter it incoherently as your body begins to tense.

Heat and pleasure and everything warm builds in your core with each hit of his cock. He—Simon—mirrors your heavy breaths with his own. He must feel the way you tighten; his fingers dig into your skin so tight it’d probably hurt if your mind was less hazy.

“M’gonna cum—shit, you’re gonna make me cum, Simon.” Your eyes flutter shut, all your focus narrowed to the pleasure between your legs. 

“I know, love. Cum for me, let me feel you.”

His rough and steady pace makes the build-up all the more sweet. When your climax hits, it hits hard. White-hot pleasure shoots through you, making your hips twitch and your legs shake, a breathless cry that you try (and fail) to hold back ripping through the room. Your cunt pulses around his cock, sucking him deeper while he fucks you through the high with much gentler strokes. The obscenely wet sound is accompanied by his groans on every push. 

“Fuck, y’gonna make me cum squeezin’ me like that…”

That was enough to snap you out of your haze. Perhaps a much less restrained version of yourself would’ve let him finish inside you right then and there, but you’ll entertain the thought another time. Still trembling and panting, you force yourself to sit up. “Wait, wait. Pull out, hold on,” you urge, pushing him back with your hand.

He follows your movements, his hands sliding off of your body as he leans back. The emptiness that follows as his cock slips out of you leaves you feeling gaped in the best way possible. Your body aches, sore from the rough treatment and the wobbling table underneath you, as you stumble to your knees in front of Simon. Your eyes immediately land on his cock, a dumbfounded grin you’re sure looks ridiculous painting itself on your lips.

Fuckin’ hell…that was inside you?

It was every bit as impressive as it felt. Thick and heavy and so damn hard you could practically feel it throbbing with the need to cum. No wonder he needed to prep you, and no wonder you felt so stretched regardless. 

“Enjoyin’ the view?” Simon’s voice startles you, bringing your mind back to reality.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, guiding it to your mouth as you lean in. Licking a slow, wet stripe along the underside makes him hiss and twitch against your tongue. You could taste yourself on him, your cum mixed with his musk, and the heady combination made your head spin.

Your eyes flicker up at him, at that mask still obscuring half of his face. “Dunno if I can take all of you,” you admit as your hand glides up and down his cock. “You’re a big lad.”

Simon curses and you watch his jaw tighten as his cock twitches in your hand. “Don’t worry about it. After the way you felt around me, I’m not gonna last long anyway.”

You flash him a smile—a cheeky one that, no doubt, showed how proud that made you feel—before closing your lips around the head of his cock. His musk hits your tongue and fills your nostrils and you can’t help but groan at the taste. The rest of his cock fits in your hand, throbbing under your palm while you stroke. 

“Christ, that’s good, sweetheart.” One of his hands lands on the back of your head. He doesn’t push you down or force more into your mouth, he just rests it there, watching you through heavy eyes. “Real fuckin’ nice…”

You swallow around him, taking more of him into your mouth. His hips buck involuntarily in a movement that makes you gag when the tip of his cock grazes the back of your throat. He mutters an apology that you ignore, groaning around him as your head bobs and your tongue swirls.

“Fuck, I can’t…” Simon’s other hand flies down to his cock, replacing your grip as he wraps it around the base. “M’gonna cum, baby.”

The way he growls the words makes you hum, the sound vibrating through him. You give one last firm suck as your mouth slides off of him. “Cum on my face,” you utter before you can even catch your breath.

“Y-you sure? Your makeup—”

“M’not askin’, Simon.”

“Fuckin’ hell.” He can barely get the words out as he strokes himself, fisting his cock with a lewdly wet sound thanks to your spit and cum coating his sensitive flesh.

You can hear his breath grow heavy, slowly turning to moans as his body tenses. All you can focus on is his face—what parts you can see—watching his mouth as he pants and seeing his brows furrow in pleasure. You think you’d give just about anything to see him like this without that mask on.

His hand stills on his cock just before he mutters a curse and spills onto your face. His cum lands in thick, warm globs across your skin, and you’re thankful he seems to have enough awareness to avoid your eyes. He taps his cock against your lips, spreading his cum just to revel in the sight. 

Simon’s growling breaths steady out as he comes down from the high. “You’re fuckin’ incredible,” he sighs, peach lips curling into a smile.

Your tongue darts out to clean your lips, tasting the unique saltiness that painted them. “You’re not too bad yourself. Simon.”

He offers you a hand and pulls you up to your feet. His thumb brushes against your cheek, collecting some of his spend before bringing it to your mouth. You gladly accept his digit into your mouth, moaning around it as you suck it clean. With a growl and a curse, he pulls you into a rough kiss.

“Next time,” he starts, still panting as his breathing steadies, “how about we go to your place? Then we can have a proper go at it.”

Your heart skips a beat. ‘Next time’…he wanted a ‘next time’... 

“As long as you’re a gentleman and drive me there.” You pat his chest before pulling back enough to readjust your clothing. There wasn’t much you could do about the smeared makeup and tousled hair, but you weren’t the only person in the bar who looked a little worse for wear. 

“Deal.” You can hear the shuffle as he refits his own clothes. Thankfully, the mask doesn’t come back down. “You fancy another drink?”

“Uh…m’not sure, why?”

“‘Cause if you don’t, I can take you home right now if you’d like.” You meet his eyes and he matches your smile with one of his own.

“Deal.”

[lam-ila]

Sing Your Heart Out as Your Ex Watches || Mat Barzal

Summary: Singer!reader performing at the NHL All Star Game while their ex watches.

Word Count: 851

Warnings: jealousy from an unnamed ex who plays in the NHL, slight mention of said ex being a bad boyfriend

please let me know if you find more that i should add

NHL Masterlist

a/n: this short little fic was inspired by this post by @islesnucks and was quickly written (busted it out in an hour)

this is gender neutral. hope you enjoy this! feedback is appreciated

LIKES ARE GREAT, REBLOGS ARE BETTER ♡

You were an up and coming singer, and was pretty well known in the hockey world. Growing up a hockey fan had a big influence in your life; your most famous music video included you wearing some hockey gear, grabbing the attention of hockey players, fans, and organizations.

You were already connected to the hockey world with your boyfriend, Mat Barzal, being a well known hockey player for the New York Islanders. Unfortunately, you were also connected to the hockey world through your ex... who also played in the NHL.

You had been broken up with your ex for two and a half years and you had been with Mat for a little over a year. You couldn't have been happier with Mat, he was everything your ex wasn't: sweet, respectful, kind to your family and friends, the list could go on and on. So when you were confirmed to be at the NHL All Star weekend before your boyfriend was, he couldn't have been prouder.

A few weeks later, the All Stars were announced and Mat's name was listed as one of the players; it was your turn to be proud of him. However, upon reading the list of players who would accompany Mat as All Stars, you frowned at the sight of your ex's name. You brushed it off as your joy that Mat was an All Star overpowered your sadness that your ex was also an All Star.

Since you were performing, you were listed as one of the four celebrity captains. You of course drafted your boyfriend as your first pick resulting in the fans, both yours and his, going wild in person and over social media. Your and Mat's names were all over social media the entire weekend with your ex's name sometimes following your names as he seemingly didn't even try to hide his jealousy that you were happily with Mat. Your ex's obvious jealousy didn't bother you at the time, you were secure in yourself and your relationship as was Mat.

Your and Mat's names appearing on social media only increased on the Saturday, when you were behind the bench that Mat sat upon. Clips of you strategizing play and semi-flirtatiously bossing Mat around were all over the tags relating to the both of you and the NHL All Star Game.

You were set to perform after the second game of the day before the third and final game of the day. At first, you were excited to perform, however, as the All Star weekend went by, you were increasingly getting nervous about performing in front of your ex. As you were getting ready with your backup dancers in the arena's home team locker room, you realized how un-ready you were to perform in front of him. Your backup dancers noticed your nervousness and one of them texted Mat that he needed to come to calm your nerves. Once Mat arrived, you didn't look his way as he expected, signaling that you were lost in your thoughts.

"Hi," he said after cautiously approached you and sitting next to you, worried that he would abruptly break you out of your thoughts.

"Hi," you repeated, a slight smile accompanying your greeting as you met his gaze.

"What's going on in that pretty head of yours?" he asked, gently grabbing your hands and holding them in his as if saying 'you can't avoid this conversation'.

"I have to perform in front of him," You didn't have to say his name for Mat to know that you were talking about your ex. "Him being here wasn't bothering me Thursday, or yesterday, or even earlier today, so I don't know why I'm worried."

"I do," You looked at Mat, confused as to how he knew, but you didn't. "You're worried because it's the first time you perform in front of him since you broke up with him. And I completely understand that." Mat paused, allowing you to talk if you wanted to, but your silence showed him that he could continue. "But you know what? He's been jealous this whole weekend. He can't stand how well you're doing for your singing career without him by your side."

"And he can't stand that I have a boyfriend who's better than him in every way," you added, causing Mat to giddily smile and blush. You took a deep breath, your hands still in Mat's, before adding, "I can do this."

"Now that's the positive self talk I want to hear!" Mat squeezed your hands before letting go, standing up to lean down and give you a chaste kiss on your lips. "I want you to go out there and sing your heart out while your ex watches. Relish in the glory because you've earned it."

"I have?" you asked, standing up in front of Mat.

"You have," he reassured, "and that's all your work that allowed you to get to this point." With one last kiss - the good luck kiss as Mat called it - he was gone, re-joining his NHL peers on the ice waiting for your performance of a lifetime.

——————————

NHL taglist: @readyfreddy @jostystyles @jimothystu @typical-simplelove @2manytabsopen @11livpangburn @matthewkniesys @lifeofpriya @fallinallincurls

join my taglist here

[aziraphales-library]

Hi team! I was wondering if you might have some recommendations for Aziraphale-centric fics? Not really looking for whump, or fics where his feelings for Crowley are his sole focus (though I'd still enjoy it if were a significant part of the story), but moreso fics that look at Aziraphale holistically. First fic that comes to mind as an example is "Angel-Centered Therapy Through A Multicultural Lens: An Integrative Approach" by Nnm. Thanks!

Hello! Here are some Aziraphale-centric fics for you...

Could you breathe with me? by Euny_Sloane (T)

Aziraphale goes to counseling/therapy with an unnamed therapist and spends some time exploring his feelings related to love, loss, and family. Note that this is an imagined counseling session, and so may bring up uncomfortable feelings, regardless of how many tags I place, especially if you have the unfortunately common experience of feeling unloved by your family, or unworthy of love. Nothing graphic happens except a reference to Pompeii, though.

In a Perfect World, I would Hold your Hand and Kiss your Cheek by boredom (T)

A chance encounter with a young man leads Aziraphale on the path of healing and discovery. Maybe now he can finally admit to what he wants, without guilt and without fear. Maybe now he and Crowley can finally move forward, together.

Human Labels, and Angelic Discovery by Hemlock_Holmes (G)

Aziraphale discovers autism, and goes on a one-angel mission to learn everything he can about it. This is a purely self-indulgent fic about discovering yourself after many years, because I am so tired of reading books (not fanfic!) where the word autism is skirted around and treated like taboo, even when everyone knows that's what the author means. Just say it people! Also because nothing gives me greater joy than watching Aziraphale stim.

something wretched about this by IvyOnTheHolodeck (T)

You might wonder why Aziraphale can't seem to enjoy his retirement in peace. You could ascribe his distress to the series of terrifying thoughts that haunt his days, or the only book he wishes he'd never read, or even the wound that still hurts after six thousand years. Really, though, you should blame the fact he's never learned to talk about his feelings.

The Other Arrangement: or, How the Angel Got so Hungry by burnttongueontea (T)

‘It’s just… funny. Don’t you think it would be funny, if it turned out we’d had it the wrong way round all these years? If I ate all the time, and you hardly ever?’ Crowley discovers that Aziraphale has been strictly and obsessively limiting his food intake for millennia, due to fear of punishment from Heaven if he gets caught eating too regularly. The angel’s confident facade comes apart at the seams after they move to the South Downs, as he struggles to cope with new-found freedom while still keeping his past a secret. With the future of their relationship soon hanging in the balance, Crowley must find a way to convince Aziraphale that he is a safe pair of hands to collapse into – and that they can rebuild things from the ground up.

My Favorite Ghost by cassieoh_draws, DiminishingReturns (T)

Decades after the world didn’t end, Heaven and Hell got their war — and nearly destroyed everything in the process. When Aziraphale finally manages to reacquire a corporation and return to Earth, he discovers he was gone longer than he thought and the planet has become unrecognizable. As he searches for Crowley and tries to figure out how he fits in a world that Heaven, Hell, and God have all wiped their hands of, nature works around him to reclaim the bones of an old civilization as the scraps of humanity build a new one. A lush and optimistic post-apocalypse story, told from the POV of an immortal who can't let go of the past.

And the one you mentioned...

Angel-Centered Therapy Through A Multicultural Lens: An Integrative Approach by Nnm (G)

“I’d love to meet with you,” Davey said, apologetically, when he had been called up by a fellow looking to initiate therapy, “but I’m all booked up for months.” “Are you sure?” The fellow said, through a poor connection that crackled. Davey had been sure. And yet. Right there in his calendar was a blank spot, just a few days away, which he had somehow completely overlooked before. “How about that…I’ve got Wednesday at eleven, if you can make that work.” “What a miracle,” the fellow said, “that would be just the perfect time.”

- Mod D

[lostintransist]

Liaison Part 4 Winning This Bet Will Be Easy

Part 1 can be found here. Up to chapter 32 over on AO3.

Kate could, arguably, be the person you know the best in the 141. You had her number saved in your work phone and also your personal. She took you to lunch at least once a week to confirm you weren’t having any problems. This lunch felt a bit special since you had been at your job for six months.

Kate seemed to treat these meals like an informal progress report. She also checked that Ghost wasn’t giving you any more problems. Seems word got around to all the teams that you and he did not get along. Any week you saw him you reported what offense he handed out like a challenge coin and how you responded. The week you told her about the hair pulling she shot beer through her nose.

Coughing, Kate grabbed a napkin. She pressed it against her beer-leaking nose.

“You said what to him?”

“I told him that hair pulling is kinky and asked him if he would follow up on his offer.” Shoving a bite of pasta in your mouth you watch Kate clean up the mess on her face.

“God I wish I could have seen that. Ghost isn’t always a right bastard but when he is it’s hard for anyone beyond Soap to take him to task. Why do you two hate each other so much?”

“I can’t say why on his end but I don’t respond well to demands. First thing he asked of me, ‘scuse me, demanded of me happened on a bad day was to confirm a contract and I could not respond in any way that wouldn’t cause problems. Seems no one else stands up to him so I have become his favorite wall to ram his head into.”

“You’ve been here six months now, how do you feel like you’re fitting in?”

“I’m not.”

Kate paused, looking you over. “Tell me more about that.”

“There isn’t much to say, I am chained to the computer and the phone. I took over this portion of the job from you, you know how much work this is.”

“And I will never be able to thank you enough for that, believe me,” Kate reaches across the table to squeeze your hand once before sitting back up.

“I think the only person I could say I have had a non-work related conversation with is Roach.”

“Roach? Really?”

Kate’s confusion is understandable. Roach is voluntarily mute. You tend to forget he is in the room when you yell at your computer until he sends you a cheeky message about keeping it down over there. It never comes across as high-handed or rude. The man has quick fingers and a quicker wit. The odd back and forth of talking to him and his responses rolling in over chat doesn’t bother you. It’s no different than a voice note in a text conversation.

“Some of the guys are in town tonight and we are hitting the local pub, why don’t you come and get to know them better?” Kate’s offer sounds genuine.

“Will you be there? I would hate for you to miss another epic loss for Ghost,” you tip your beer toward her, brow raised.

The laughter bubbles out of her, “I hadn’t planned on it but if you are going to be there I would love to watch a match up with Ghost.”

“Well, I will meet you in the lobby tonight for drinks. Hopefully, the sparks that fly will show how well Ghost and I don’t get along.”

❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈❈

No one questioned you or Kate when you appeared in the lobby, standing close to her side. Nearly twenty people filled the small space, some of whom you had no name for. You were positive you had a file on them just no idea which name belonged to which face. When the men moved forward through the door you followed, chatting with Kate the whole time.

The group ended up at a pub no less than a five-minute walk from the building. A cozy space with dark wood paneling and an air that the pub had been around exactly as it was long before the Romans came to conquer.

You end up sitting straight across from Ghost because of course, you do. At the table with you are Ghost, Kate, Price, Soap, and a yet unnamed man with a sad smile. Someone with a name tag appeared at the table once everyone had sat. Price passed over his card to cover the costs of the dinner for the few tables they took up. The woman took everyone’s order with an efficiency that spoke of experience.

The fries, chips, you ordered arrive hot at the table with the drinks. Listening as everyone else talks gives you a better sense of who they are. The man you had no name for goes by Reb, his file noted he was a sniper. He tells good stories, and everyone laughs at the experience he shares of trying to outrun a bull when he accidentally set up a nest on the wrong side of a hill.

Everyone notes when someone enters the bar, quick glances and assessments without breaking the conversation. Even you notice when a gorgeous redhead steps into the room. She settles at the bar. Large, loose curls drift down her back and her freckled face is clear from where you sit.

Over the next hour, you watch three different members of the 141 from different tables try and talk to her. Each gets shut down hard within thirty seconds. After the third man slinks back to his table Soap comments.

“Poor bastards, I doubt anyone could take her home tonight.”

“I could,” you pop another fry into your mouth.

You pause chewing when the table goes silent.

“What? She hasn’t given any of the men an iota of attention. Look at how she’s dressed, her outfit screams lesbian.”

All eyes focus on the woman at the bar. She doesn’t turn but shifts on her stool.

“Prove it then.” The challenge comes from Ghost.

“Wanna bet on it Gengar?”

Kate’s eyes go wide and connect with Price’s who smirks at the whole interaction.

“Oh, Jesus save us,” Soap takes a large swallow of his drink.

“£1,000,” Ghost snarls.

“Done, winning this bet will be easy.” Pulling a stack of sticky notes and a pen from your backpack you write down your Venmo.

Peeling off the top layer you slap the paper on the center of the table.

“I’ll give you ten minutes to get the money together after I leave with her. Kate, thanks for the invite. I’ll see you in the morning.” Sending nods around the table, you give Ghost a wink instead.

A fourth man is leaving, tail between his legs, when you slide onto the stool next to the beauty.

“Hi, I know you probably came here to just have a drink alone but could I interest you in helping me win a bet?”

She sends you a heavy side eye as she sips at her drink.

“What kind of bet?”

Leaning heavily onto the bar you point toward Ghost.

“You see that scary motherfucker over there?” She turns, eyes him, and turns back to you. You continue, “See I don’t get along with him. Quite frankly I think he is a bastard and would love to win £1,000 off him. The task that will win me that money is getting you to leave with me.”

A surprised little laugh drifts to you.

“That is quite a tall order.”

“I agree, and the least I could do is tell you what is going on and ask for a bit of help.” Sticking your hand out for a shake you give a name, “You can call me L.”

“L,” she looks you up and down, more interested, “You can call me Clare.”

“Hi Clare, wanna help me win a bet? I would love to take you to dinner for your trouble.”

Her tongue plays with the edge of her canine as she thinks.

“Why not, where would you take me?” She turns from the bar to face you fully.

The scraping of chair legs against the wooden floor tells you someone is unhappy to be losing. An angry murmur follows and you trust that Price or Soap will handle Ghost.

“I’m new in the area, I would take you wherever you wanted. You know the max budget for the date,” you flirt with her.

Her hand moves to rest on your arm as she leans closer.

“And if I did,” she pauses, “want to go home with you?”

“Well I’ve never had a chance to bed a beautiful and savvy woman like yourself but I’m a quick study,” you lean forward, tipping your head to the side ever so slightly.

Clare takes the invitation and initiates a small kiss. You match her effort, pulling away with a smile.

“Let’s get out of here Clare, I owe you dinner,” you breathe the words against her lips.

She lips from her stool, dropping a small purse on a long chain over one shoulder. You signal for the bartender.

“Can you put her drink on Price’s tab? He will approve it. If not I will pay you for it the next time I come by.”

The woman nods, “I’ll hold you to it.”

“I would hope so.”

Clare heads toward the front door, and you follow behind. Before you leave the building you turn and find Ghost staring at you, eyes hard.

Lifting all your fingers you mouth ‘ten minutes’ at him before you follow your date for the night into the dark.

Your phone dings before you can hail a cab.

Part 3 | Part 5

Masterlist

@nicroyal02 Chapter 32 is up on AO3.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Man-Sized 5/9 Rebound Effect

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

He left after that.

And what was more, he left without saying goodbye, he just sneaked out in the morning and left her with a bunch of money on the table. At some level, it made her feel like a prostitute, even when she knew that was not what Simon had meant.

She didn’t harass him for leaving like a thief in the night because the man had obviously freaked out. It would do no good at this point to try and have a therapy session about it. But what she did comment on was the money roll he had left her with.

She wasn't bitter, only bereft. She had thought Simon would stay at least a few nights if he was on leave. Truth be told, she had thought he'd stay for a week like he used to when he came to watch her at the club. But he was running away from guilt, not her; protecting her by pulling back the potential threat that was him. As soon as she realized he only did what a soldier would do, all confusion left her. It was admirable, but she feared it also meant that the silk gloves were back on.

You forgot something on the table.

A gift. Don't take it the wrong way.

If you say so.

Thank you.

Anytime.

The gratitude came mainly from remembering her manners. But it got under her skin, so much so that she felt like there was more to this than just Simon wanting to help her out or play the provider.

In a furious decision of not submitting to the role of someone who just waited for their man to come home from work or war, she tried to concentrate on her studies. But the next time she visited the library, she walked straight to the psychology shelf and loaned books about PTSD and war-related trauma.

She read about the major symptoms of torture victims, the PTSD treatment for combat veterans, she read how to screen for impulse and control issues. Whatever had happened during Simon's career as a soldier had left more than just scars. Combined with a traumatic childhood, it was a marvel he was doing as well as he was. If she were to continue down this path with him, she would have to take it slow.

Slow and steady would win the race. Creating an atmosphere of safety would win the poker game. Again, she could hear the alarm bells ringing but did nothing about it.

Simon had left but wasn’t wholly unavailable this time. He wasn’t working in the field and had more time for her. He even called, and not just once, but nearly every night. For the first few times, it was only a brief session, just an exchange of how are you’s and how’s it been’s. It was a change and a welcome change at that. The calls soon turned into hour-long marathons.

He shared more details about his life in the base of the unnamed military organization he was working for and revealed that he was the commanding officer of his team. The person she had taken for a shady ladies man and a simple soldier turned out to be a warm-hearted, level-headed leader who was fiercely protective of his subordinates.

The way he and his team found humour, even in the most grim situations, was hilarious, and she spent most of the calls laughing with tears in her eyes. Simon seemed especially vexed with a certain Scottish teammate who was the exact opposite of him: extroverted, silly, and cheerful. So lovably childish that it was clear that Simon was more like a father figure than a superior officer to this man. And it was also clear that he wasn’t actually vexed at all: he loved this particular person, who was codenamed after being good at "cleaning", more than anyone.

"What do they call you? Skeletor?"

"Very funny."

"Why is your alias a secret but Soap’s isn’t?"

He finally told her, and another door into his soul opened. It was labeled with one simple word.

"Ghost."

And of course it would be something memorable and ominous.

"What’s the story behind that one?"

There was a short silence on the other end.

"I was buried alive once but came back."

At her end, the silence was much longer, much more palpable. It sounded like a stupid joke, but she knew better. The men she had previously dated were definitely not in the same league as Simon.

This was fucking crazy. She tried to sound casual as she made a quip about another horrible trauma this man had suffered.

"So you’re the Kill Bill Bride instead of 007."

"I used the jawbone of the dead man I was buried with to get out."

Jesus Christ on a motherfucking surfboard.

"Oh, or a MacGyver."

There was a husky laugh at that, but she was fucking horrified.

That stuff followed her even to her dreams. In them, he was the undertaker, and she had to get out of a coffin by using a skull he gave her. Another test… not assigned by Simon, but by Ghost and those eyes that wanted her dead.

In other dreams, she was there with him in the field, invisible to everyone but him, helping him find a way through bombarded buildings like Ariadne escorting Theseus in a labyrinth. She liked those dreams more because in them, Simon needed her and not the other way around.

He seemed hellbent on his protocol of not updating her on where he was, what he was doing, and when they would be able to see each other again. She kept her apartment always tidy in case he would stop by, she put on makeup, even when she went to grab something from the store. Her eyes roamed the campus in search of a tall man dressed in black, and the smell of cigarette smoke made her stomach pinch with excitement. If Simon was even half as into her as she was into him, he would have serious trouble concentrating on his work.

She was tired of being the one always waiting for him. In that department, slow and steady started to feel like an absolute torment. Appearing calm and collected, playing hard to get had worked for a while, but what would happen if she went all in and made him want and wait? What if there was a hidden jackpot in being a tease?

She sent him photos in various states of nudity, cuteness and temptation: when she was chilling on her bed, or about to walk on the stage, once even when she was at school — always with the enticing words Wish you were here or Thinking of you. It was raunchier than the first time, highly uncharacteristic of her, and so much fun that she didn't even have to fake a smile in those photos. It was a pure attempt to seduce him.

And it worked: after only a few days of sending such pictures, Simon came back. As always, there was no warning, unless the radio silence after the fourth photo could be considered a warning that a storm was coming.

She was at the club, and her gaze had turned inwards when Simon had walked into her life. She didn’t choose a guy from the audience anymore. She only danced for herself and him, wherever he was.

She noticed him only in the middle of her show and started smiling, something she never did while on the pole, at least not here. The second she saw him in that familiar setting with a scotch in front of him and those eyes burning, the whole world shifted. Had he taken a day or two off just to come here and make her pay for her little come-hithering? The rest of the dance was energetic and wild, and that beaming smile gave her a roar of applause she had never experienced before. The whistles followed her even to the bar as she went straight to his table and all but radiated delight.

"I've forgotten how bloody good you are on that thing," he said with a thicker voice than usual.

"Nice to see you too, honey."

He looked at her with a full-blown smirk then and was, all in all, completely different from the guarded stranger she had first met at this very same place.

"I've been promoted to honey?"

"Don't take this new position lightly."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He downed that scotch, and she went to get her things, and when they walked to her apartment, he took her in a gentlemanly arm-in-arm escort. It felt good, the kind of possessive that said he was committed, that they were in a relationship. An established couple.

But as soon as the front door of her home was closed, the gentleman turned into a ravenous mercenary who pinned her against the wall, much in the same way he had done nearly three months ago. The shared kiss was starved and desperate, and she had no trouble whatsoever getting wet for him anymore.

"You're the most infuriating man I have ever met, did you know that?"

They were both panting at that point, and she was feeling high and wild, especially when Simon seemed suddenly more serious than ever.

"I'll take that as another promotion."

"Of course you will," she whispered out of breath as he devoured her neck and pressed her even more fervently against the wall of her hallway. Her heart was racing, and she had never, ever had a feeling that a man could merely lift her skirt and pull her panties aside and slip inside with no effort. Right now, she did, and right now, she would go mad if he wouldn’t do it.

"Ya missed me?"

"Every day."

The whispers were like long-held secrets finally uttered out into the open air. The lights were off, the city was sleeping, her ghost was here, and she wasn’t afraid at all. She was ready for everything, to conquer the whole world with him.

"How about you?"

"I'll show you just how much," he answered and suddenly detached from her, then grabbed her by the shoulder to spin her around and pin her against the wall again. It was a rough treatment that briefly reminded her of The Incident… But she was so drunk on him that even that didn’t spoil this moment that only felt good and right.

"This too much for you?" A slight trepidation in his voice told her that they were both walking on the brink of something new, but his cautiousness only made her feel more sure about letting him do whatever he wanted before they set the world aflame together. The silk gloves and normal dudes could go to hell; she wanted bare, calloused skin and a revenant, she yearned for the shared suffering that was only a kin to passion.

"No."

That steel of muscle kept her in place as the other hand went under her skirt. The garment was loose enough again and made the plundering far too easy. And of course he commented on it.

"I like the skirts you wear."

The arm from her back disappeared, only to descend down her back and grab hold of the lifted clothing. There was a soft rustle and a poignant click, and then her underwear was stretched away from her skin.

"They're convenient."

She didn’t feel the blade as it cut the fabric, but she could feel the sudden snap as the soft material yielded under a sharp edge. The rest of the ruined clothing was torn down from between her legs, and he didn’t even put the knife away, didn’t fold it with another precise flick and tuck it back to wherever it had been hidden.

He drove it to the wall. Next to her face, not close, but close enough for her to draw a panicked gasp. It wasn’t a classic stiletto or a pocket knife; it was sturdy and tactical, something she would never even have guessed was foldable. The silk gloves were nowhere to be seen, and she was overjoyed about it.

"You know what's infuriating?" The next thing she heard was a zipper opening as he got himself out of his jeans, then pressed his whole body against her.

"Watchin' all those fucking blokes drool after you in that joint."

It was that kinky talk again, but something told her there was more than a few months worth of frustration here too, gushing out like a flash flood. The thickness was guided to her opening in an almost blunderous manner, but he wasn't a brute. He only seemed to be in a hurry to get inside her and chuckled when he found her completely ready for him.

"Makes me wanna shoot everyone." And then he did push inside, with one measured but steady thrust, letting out a shaky sigh as he did it. She was watching the blade jutting out from the wall and didn’t give a single fuck what her landlord would say about the dent left on his property. Her ghost slid in and out of her, finally content. Tender, but thoroughly passionate, like he had missed her far more than mere words could express. He didn’t need his hands to keep her steady anymore; his chest did all that, but a hand found its way to her hair and pulled gently, lovingly, as he nuzzled close to whisper in her ear.

"Would ya like that?"

She tightened around him — she didn’t know whether it was his voice or his words that made her so unhinged. But another huff of silent laughter hit her at the response she gave him without uttering a single word.

"Yeah… That's wha' I thought."

His other hand reached for her thigh, slid down under the knee, and lifted, granting him better access to hit even deeper, and she finally moaned. She could almost hear the good girl talk, even when it never came. He didn’t have time for that, for there were more important matters at hand.

The longing of entire months came undone, and the knife on the wall was evidence enough that Simon was very much dedicated. Somehow that ferocious gesture was a vow, a whole pledge from the man who didn’t fuck anyone else after all. And if that didn’t make her wet, then nothing would.

"Dripping all over me here…" He stated the obvious as he continued the pillage she surrendered to — gladly and with an orgasm that came almost without a warning as the mercenary drove deep and grunted his desperation on her skin. She had to bolt her lips tight to not whisper something stupid that would only ruin the moment that was her first experience of a quickie, first experience of a fierce, intense rutting perfectly capable of having a godly amount of affection in it.

She broke against that wall and knew that she was lost: lost in Simon, in Ghost, or whoever he was. From this day forward, he would be forever inside her. Even if and when he pulled out, she would never get him out again.

Simon was a full package, and she had to accept all of it rather than try and fix him. If he would leave her only with his ghost, she would be forever bound in that frozen state of the engraving, the woman who dropped everything for the sake of sulking and only remembered beauty and meaning from a distant past. It was better to take the risk and die one way or another with this man.

"Simon," she sighed, whispered, because she was afraid that the three words that must not be said would come out if she wasn't careful. His hand found hers and entwined their fingers together, a surprisingly gentle lapse in the middle of a rough fuck.

"You're the one who's infuriating," he grunted. It was his way of telling her that he was nearing the point of loving too, and her only answer was another broken sigh as she came down from the overwhelming realization and the stunning, sinful orgasm that felt more like a love confession.

She was being pressed into pieces between that hard wall and an even harder chest, spread open for his taking, but it only felt safe to be trapped there like this. She was crying inwards by the time he came inside her while having all the earmarks of emotional turmoil as well. The controlled, rigid manners were gone, and he didn’t pull out for a good long time, only panted together with her against that wall that she paid rent for, which had a knife on it, a knife he had probably used to end human lives. How could the same man kill someone one day and bring someone back to life the next?

The desperate clutch that had curled both their hands into a fist loosened its hold, and the chest that had heaved her up pulled away just enough for her to catch some air. He pulled out reluctantly, and the seed gushed forth, making a magnificent mess. A gentle hand ran down her back, another released her leg just to slide up her hip like she was the most precious work of art a bloodied man like him had ever looted. She reached a hand behind his neck to tell him that she was his if he wanted her.

"Love," she whispered the most important one of those three words, and he lowered his head to rest on her shoulder. His was a heavy weight to carry, but she didn’t feel like she was Atlas holding the world. This burden was something she shouldered with joy.

---

The next morning was laced with drowsy tenderness and lazy lovemaking, and she couldn’t hold the question in any longer.

"Simon… are we in a situationship or a relationship?"

"You tell me."

She turned in the loose hold of his arms and admired how comfortable he looked under the mundane, flower-patterned linens. Simon still couldn’t be described as someone joyous or carefree, but he did appear calmer than ever. She liked to think that at least some of it was her influence.

"I like you. I like this."

"Yeah... You're okay, I guess," he muttered with a sleepy smile. She laughed and got up with the intention of making some coffee. And tea.

He soon followed in her trail, and the mood in her apartment was heavenly. He sat on her couch with nothing but his boxers and t-shirt on, the sunlight got in, and the coffee machine made cozy sounds and filled the air with the smell she loved. Simon didn’t even go outside for a smoke: it looked like he was in no hurry at all to get anywhere from that little piece of furniture.

She knew that love was a drug. Would Simon find it amusing if she told him he was the only drug she was on? If she confessed that she was an addict who never wanted to go to rehab...

"Why do you wanna be with me of all people?"

She had already asked the question once before, but today, she was feeling unusually confident. Some of his cockiness was contagious, and something had shifted last night, some fragile power, and she felt wild and optimistic again.

"You're a hot school girl."

"Simon…"

"You remind me of… I dunno. Something from back home."

Again, she didn't quite know what to make of him. Did he mean that he liked the girl from next door look? Was she a nice holiday from his exciting, death-defying work, a small slice of wholesome dullness? It wouldn’t bother her if she was. But something in that remark screeched in her head like nails on a blackboard.

"Something from back home? Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

The sunlight didn’t only fill the room with light; it exposed dust and long-forgotten clutter.

"Tell me about your childhood in Manchester."

"No thanks."

Her confidence this morning was more than enough to move whole mountains and seas. She wanted to know, even if it would hurt to know. If this was supposed to last, she needed to know.

"Was your father a beater?"

"Yeah, and a serial cheater."

He didn’t run away; he didn’t escape this conversation in any way. She had braced herself for resistance, but she was met with none, which caused her to mentally tumble all over the place that was Simon’s past.

And suddenly, she didn't like where this was going. Even if she was the one who had dragged them on this path.

"Only with paid women, though," Simon continued without any filter on.

Hold on…

That didn't sound right.

"Could you please tell me what I remind you of from back home.”

He finally stirred, a torturer who realized he was the one being questioned.

"Sarah…"

"I remind you of a hooker and you're trying to save me?"

"That's not… No."

She saw in his eyes that it was a blatant yes. At least for some part. The jealousy, the offering of money… All made perfect sense now. She felt like a project, not a love interest. She was a nut to be cracked, even if he did it gently and with a tenderness that left her writhing with pleasure. The need to set some things straight suddenly chose to override everything else.

"I’m a dancer, not a sex worker. And just for the record, I've had like three men before you. Plus the relative who abused me when I was… almost of age."

She never said "as a child" because that sounded too fucked up. She had been 16, so it wasn't the same as 6. It fucking wasn't.

She immediately got an excellent reminder of why she didn't share this stuff with people; because that pity stare was even worse than the fact that shit like that had happened. It reduced her back to a helpless victim.

"I don't want your money," she declared.

"Got it."

She turned, feeling guilty and idiotic for having ruined the most beautiful morning they could ever have had. The coffee was ready, but she felt like throwing up. She put the kettle on — would he want milk and sugar with his tea? Perhaps another slice of trauma dump served with it?

Whatever happened to slow and steady, to creating that calm atmosphere…

She hadn’t meant to share that. It simply flew out of her mouth. Not because she wanted pity, but because she wanted him to know that in some way, there were things that needed to be saved, ruins that needed to be haunted by different ghosts…

And hadn't he been her project as well?

She wanted more than this, more than tests and strategies and projects. Raw, naked flesh was what she wanted, not a treatment plan. He had disarmed her last night, and apparently, it was time for the final surrender. She waited for the bullet of mercy, but it never came.

She heard him rise and walk behind her, then felt Simon place his hands on her shoulders. He was here amidst her ruins, and her eyes stung, even after all these years.

"Are we gonna have a pity party?" She squeezed the ear of her favourite Don’t make me use my art historian voice mug. She wondered why the hell she had voiced anything at all.

"No."

"I don't want your money."

"You already said that."

The hands wouldn’t draw away, they stayed and felt soothing. At least as comforting as her snug little home and the familiar smell of coffee in the morning. The nausea had left her shaky, but he held her, just with his hands, making it known that he was here and wouldn’t leave her with her shattered self.

"I only want you," she finally said to the coffee machine and the empty mug and waited for a second or two to see if that warmth would leave her.

It didn't. If anything, the sun seemed to shine on whole new parts of her.

"You have me."

She felt bold enough to finally turn, and he immediately closed her into a hug and pressed her against his chest.

He breathed more life into her, day by day. All the goodness in the world returned, the water reached a boiling point in the kettle, and an exceptionally loud magpie made a racket outside.

"Ok," she whispered and let herself soften against his warmth.

Simon wasn’t a phantom or a cold, emotionless soldier. He was a man and very much alive. There was coffee and tea, and even if they strangled each other occasionally with ghosts that weren’t invited, it wasn’t enough to choke the mass of beautiful things that came from having found something as pure as this.

"You have me too," she announced in his shirt.

"I was hoping you would say that."

[buffyfan145]

So glad "The War of the Rohirrim" NYCC panel had a live stream today as I was able to watch it and I'm even more excited to see it!!! 😀 Stephen Colbert moderated and revealed he got to see the movie already and loved it. Am tagging as spoilers but from what the writers, director, producers, and cast talked about today mostly does match what is in the LOTR appendices. Also tagging "Rings of Power" as they actually mentioned it when talking about Héra.

First off the creative team talked about the movie and how they wanted to expand of Helm's daughter Héra, as she was unnamed in the books but the story does revolve so much around her since the war all starts because of the rejected marriage proposal from Wulf's father to unite her and Wulf and their people.

Brian Cox, who voices Helm Hammerhand, said Helm and Héra's relationship is a very loving father/daughter one and sets up things that happen later in the story. Brian also told some funny stories too and loved being able to be part of a LOTR movie.

The producers want us to love Wulf before we hate him and he's very different at the beginning of the movie before his father's death. Sounded very similar to the "ROP" creatives about how they made Sauron/Halbrand on the show. Stephen also said he was impressed with how amazing Wulf's hair is the whole movie. LOL

Gaia Wise and Luke Pasqualino then both talked about Héra and Wulf's relationship and confirmed there is a whole "What if?" situation with them as it's hinted at they likely would've married anyway if what happened between their fathers never happened. They teased about it being similar to childhood friends growing up and falling in love if the worst hadn't happened. I had also seen from a preview of the upcoming artwork book that Wulf is in love with Héra, but for her character only teased that she never realized it and till that point never thought of it. I'm very curious where this is going to go as I've also seen she tries to use their friendship to get him to stop the war. This is also why I keep tagging my posts about this movie as Haladriel as it does feel similar to them on "ROP" and even some of our AU fics where we kept him as human.

Gaia also confirmed she used a few LOTR characters as inspirations for Héra including her descendant Éowyn (Miranda Otto also narrates this movie as her too), but she also named Galadriel. I've noticed this too not just from "ROP" but from the books and how younger Galadriel is described to be.

The producers also said they are thinking of other LOTR anime movies after this. Depends on how successful this movie is and they will be making live-action movies like "The Hunt for Gollum" too.

They also showed some clips but us watching the live stream couldn't see. One of these clips showed that there is a Ring of Power involved. I don't think it's the One Ring but very curious what that means, especially since Wulf usually does end up recruiting some of the Easterlings that work for Sauron.

There was a motion tapestry of scenes from the movie released and a new song by a well known singer called "The Rider" will be released in November.

[could-they-be-a-pro-wrestler]

HIGHLIGHTS FROM THIS EPISODE OF FRIDAY NIGHT PUNCHGROUND

DAMIAN WAYNE AND PETER PARKER GET THEIR TITLE SHOTS

Previously, Damian Wayne (DC) and Peter Parker (Marvel) decided to join forces based on a mutual feeling that they were being disrespected in the ABW space. They agreed to turn against their father figures, Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne, and carried out their plan at Fictional Wrestlemania. Both Damian and Parker turned heel as a result of their actions.

In this episode of PunchGround, the unnamed commissioner decided that instead of punishing the duo, he will give them a chance to prove themselves. Damian Wayne and Peter Parker will have a shot at the Universal Championship in the next pay-per-view/event poll series (Fictional Backlash). However, the setup of the match will depend on if they can beat the team of Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne in a tag team match.

The stipulations are:

1) If Damian and Peter win, they’ll both face against Tony Stark in a triple threat match for the Universal Championship. Basically, they have an equal chance at becoming champion.

2) If Tony and Bruce win, Damian and Peter will fight each other to determine who’ll fight Tony Stark.

[trickphotography2]

TrickPhotography2's Masterlist

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Jake 'Hangman' Seresin

D-Day (Jake Seresin x Reader series)

After finding out his girlfriend is pregnant, Jake is ready to move in and get married. The last thing he expected was to be hit with a six-month deployment at sea and missing the birth of his first child. (Jake x Reader, no y/n used)

First and Goal (Jake Seresin x Reader)

Hangman hosts a college football day for the Daggers, only to have Payback bring a history making Angel. (Hangman x female Reader fluff, no use of 'you')

Overtime (Jake Seresin x Reader, First and Goal pt. 2)

It was just supposed to be a football game. But then Hangman took Syla up on her invitation to watch the Blue Angels perform at the Miramar air show. A month after meeting and facing the last home show of her career, the history making Naval Aviator invited Hangman to visit her in Pensacola. She didn't actually expect him to accept. Payback definitely wasn't happy.

'tis the damn season (Jake Seresin x OC series)

After six years away from home, Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin was finally going to make his parents happy and surprise his family by spending Christmas in Magnolia, Texas. Introducing his pregnant fiancee to his family is a culture clash, with rural Texas meeting California influencer. Though unhappy in his relationship, Jake knows he has to buckle down and do the right thing with a baby on the way.

The last person he expected to run into was his high school sweetheart and the one that got away, Julie.

After almost a decade apart, Jake and Julie can't help but feel that old familiar spark. Even with the realities of their lives pressing in, they can't help but wonder what might have happened if just one of them had fought for their relationship all those years ago.

The Perfect Match (Jake Seresin x Reader one shot)

Every third week in March, fourth year medical students find out where they'll be going for their residency. A quick 2.2K word one-shot of Jake's girlfriend going through that process.

we can't be friends (but i'd like to just pretend) (Jake Seresin x unnamed Reader [Ladybug] one shot)

Jake's not entirely sure how the bet came about other than being too drunk and maybe a little bored at the Fourth of July party. But after shaking on it with Yale, he agrees to help the new WSO - Ladybug - out with her crush on Rooster and figure out how to get the two of them to the Navy Ball together. With four months to get it done, it'll be simple. But when the reserved aviator is harder to get to know than expected, Jake has to push her to get out of her own way.

Two Lines (Jake Seresin x Reader one shot)

The last thing Jake expected to see first thing in the morning was a pregnancy test in the trash can. And he definitely didn’t expect a debate with his wife about what those two lines meant. 

Robert 'Bob' Floyd

(Every Step You Take) I'll Be Watching You (Bob Floyd x Reader one shot)

Bob disliked Friday team nights at The Hard Deck but knows they're important to the squad. That is, he disliked them until Penny hires a new summer bartender who gently pushes him to try new things. But when he comes in to find the police asking for her, the last thing he expected was to find himself protecting Evie. Trigger warnings: stalking, attempted assault. (Bob x Reader [Evie], no physical description)

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw

Santa's North Island Delivery Service (Bradley Bradshaw x Reader one shot)

Stuck at work, Bradley is missing his daughter's first Christmas Eve. But when the squadron decides to turn the hanger into Santa's Workshop, the pilot is able to sneak away to spend a little time with his girls. (Inspired by a true story; Rooster x Reader Christmas fluff)

Wanna Dance with Somebody (Bradley Bradshaw x Reader one shot)

When his girlfriend of three months ditches a night at the Hard Deck after a rough day, Bradley knows just what to do to cheer her up.