#well. there's tomorrow for that at least.

[cookiewrites]

here's some rich scoups spoiling you thoughts i have been unable to get out of my head for the past months. the tl;dr of it all is that seungcheol is obsessed with spoiling his partner.

spoilt

wc: 1.0k

cw: rich!seungcheol x afab reader, mostly sfw but does mention penetrative and oral sex (reader reciving) a couple times, pet names for reader (baby, jagiya), little bit of praise kink. this has not been proofread.

seungcheol who loves when you spend his money. it starts simply, he makes sure he pays when you two eat out together. you try and protest it but he doesn't hear any of it, pulling out his card before you can even say anything about it - whether this is brunch or dinner.

seungcheol who uses this as an opening to start paying for things when you're at home too. ordering food in? use his card. doing some online shopping? put it on his account. you need new bedding? you both sleep in the bed, it's better to let him pay. he leaves a copy of his card around the apartment for you, putting it in your phone, making it even easier to use than your own, breaking down any excuse you have to use your own.

seungcheol who pays not as a method of control, but as a method of care. he knows you have your own money, and that you can afford to pay for things, you did it for all the years before he turned up. but he doesn't want you to worry about it any more, its part of how he looks after you. he explains this to you over and over, until you finally believe him, and put your own card hidden in the back of your purse for emergencies only.

seungcheol, who got so hard the first time you splurged on his card, that he had to bury himself in you. you came home with this beautiful necklace, rambling some apology about how expensive it was, and how you can return it if he wants, and all he can feel is his cock straining against the fabric at his jeans, seeing you finally feeling comfortable enough to let him pay for things.

"it looks so good jagiya, you look spoiled, that's exactly how i like you" he rambles as he kisses down your neck, putting a little mark right under where the chain sits. "lemme show you, baby, fuck..."

seungcheol who's favourite part of his day is coming home and seeing your haul from your day out, knowing he paid for all of it. you show him the trinkets you picked up for your shelves, and the new jumper you bought, and the earrings you bought already in your ears. the possessiveness he feels makes him feel a little dizzy, he treats you so well that you're showing it off. letting everyone else know how good he treats you.

seungcheol who gets whiney if you haven't bought anything in a while. he'll check his app and see you haven't spent anything in a bit and gets suspicious, knowing you've at least bought food in the last week, so why hasn't he paid? he'll bring it up to you, pouting, his lip sticking out. why would you hurt him like this?

seungcheol who'll use this as an excuse to pull up all the half filled baskets in your phone's browser and check them all out. he uses this as a threat, that if you aren't regularly treating yourself, that he'll do it for you. sometimes he'll just do it when you're cuddling. watching the tiktoks you're showing him, and then taking the phone out of your hands, to finish the purchases of a couple things, even as you try to stop him. there is no reason, to him at least, that you shouldn't have every single thing you want.

seungcheol who never uses the fact you buy yourself things as a reason to not buy you surprises as well. he uses the outgoings on his account to see what you're fixated on right now, and add on. is it blind boxes? he's bought you a full set. is it make up? he saw this palette he thought was cute. is it jewellery? you have a new ring to wear arriving tomorrow.

"it just reminded me of you!" he explains, pouting, as you question why he's bought you another gift. "it'll look so pretty on, baby, please? for me?" acting as if the gift for you, is actually a present for him.

seungcheol who literally gets off on spoiling you. he's finished in his pants several times as he ate you out, and you went on a shopping spree on his phone, telling him all the things you're buying. for him, this is exactly how things should be, you doing absolutely nothing, and getting completely spoilt anyway. all fucked out, and dressed up, getting anything you could possibly want.

"mmm baby you can give me another one" he groans against your thigh as you try to whine that it's too much, "i know you can baby, let me spoil you, yeah? yeah." he dives back in, losing himself in it, making you shake so much you can't even finish checking out - but he'll make sure to finish that for you later as well.

seungcheol who loves when you tell him how good he treats you, and how spoilt you are. it's a bit of a praise kink thing for him, but he just loves hearing how happy you are and how spoilt you feel. it makes his heart (and his cock) full. that's what this is about, making you feel even half of the love he holds for you.

"you're so good to me cheol" you groan, hands helplessly clawing at his back as he fills you up again. "f-fuck, so good to me, baby, no one treats me as well as you do." you ramble, letting him know just how good he is.

seungcheol who puts his black card in your mouth when you begin to complain that he is ruining your expensive lingerie, a very quick way to remind you that he can afford to buy you a new set a dozen times over - and sometimes he does it, just to prove the point.

seungcheol who's so proud when the guys point out how spoilt you are. if they even try and insinuate that it's a bad thing, he shuts it down immediately - reminding them that they'd be so lucky to even have someone to spoil. someone as special as you.

[kermdoeswriting]

The worst jobs ever lead to 0 Student debt

Have you ever been so broke that you've resorted to gigs that normally would make you seem like a minor villains goon?

Danny has.

Being practically broke, drowning in constant student debt, college student has led to some of the weirdest side gigs Danny has ever done. He can at the very least confirm that as he continues his degree in Astrophysics at MIT.

But in all honesty, he's not very picky or upset about how weird they are. Danny would rather do something strange once, then continue drowning in debt the way he was currently.

Student debt was not a joke.

And even if it were, it wasn't a very funny one, considering he himself was just scraping by on his two front teeth due to them.

Either way, the point was Danny's done practically everything in Gotham possible just to make some small bits of cash here and there. Danny only ever goes to Gotham for the sake of an extra ectoplasm boost on top of the fact it has the most jobs out of any city possible due to the crime rate.

He's been a temporary goon and a guard to several different warehouses throughout Gotham & New York City (most times there isn't even anyone or anything in them but a jobs a job). He's been in charge of covering a front temporarily for what looks like fake companies (nothing to do with drug dealing or the mob for some reason, he usually tries to stay clear of those offers).

He also was a tester for some of Mr. Nygma's traps being hired for the sheer fact that he couldn't really die and therefore could test several of Mr.Nygma's traps at once.

He took a temp job to help feed Dr.Quinzel's pet hyenas when she was in Arkham for awhile as well as pet sit. That one was his favorite honestly, Lou and Bud were sweethearts despite the carnage thing.

He recently had even been a personal insta-cart driver for a certain Penguin mob-boss strangely enough (until the guy got sent back to Arkham that is).

Danny really isn't picky when it comes to jobs unless it was just something mostly immoral and just insane, like drug dealing and/or murder & world or several life ending situations or just involved with someone like the Joker.

It's gotten to a point that the average Gotham goon usually recognizes him when he passes by during a job visit. They tended to recommend him a new job when they saw him, knowing he was just as eager as they were in this economy.

Which is how he ended up here, sitting in an empty warehouse yet again for possibly another hour before he could leave and get paid. Danny was sat on the floor doing his advanced calc homework and trying not to scream about it as he sat there.

It was something he did when the nights were slower honestly. The night was ruined quickly after that though when the glass shattered above him and scattered all over his homework and the rest of the ground.

Danny only sighed and mourned the possible money he'd be losing to that mess before shaking the glass off of him and his papers. He didn't bother looking up at his possible attacker.

"You have got to be fuckin kidding me. Not again, Kid."

Only then does Danny look up to see who broke the window. Red Hood sounds exasperated despite the mask covering all of his real voice with a mechanical voice changer. Besides him was Nightwing who seemed just as disappointed as his partner was while putting his escrima sticks behind his back.

"Can I help you Red Pill, Blue Pill?"

That made Red Hood snort while Nightwing just sighed into his hands and dragged them down his face before responding.

"Kid, what are you doing in he- Is that homework???"

Nightwing walked closer almost sounding offended as he looked down at the mess of Danny's math that he was going to have to redo before turning in tomorrow. The thought of recopying everything made him feel angry all over again.

"The one you guys wrecked by getting glass all over it? Yes," Danny leaned back into his plastic chair provided by the Goonion. "Thanks for that by the way, I'm going to have to recopy everything before class tomorrow."

"That wouldn't be a problem if you just got a normal part-time job like a normal young adult." Red Hood snorted as Nightwings slight lecture and it made Danny roll his eyes at the both of them as he sat up.

As if he hadn't tried that route already. In between his space museum internship during the day and his thousands of classes every week, he didn't exactly fit a lot of younger adult jobs schedule.

"Do you know any nearby normal adult jobs that are hiring a current university student with millions in debt and a internship schedule that only allows them to work at night?" Danny snapped back which made Red Hood start to snort and laugh again at Nightwings expression.

"Well..." Nightwing at the very least had the decency to look sheepish as if he had thought about it genuinely and couldn't think of a thing.

"Thought so." Danny slumped against the chair again, before shutting his eyes. He waved them away as he sat back, already mentally preparing himself for another all nighter for the sake of recopying his papers.

"If thats all, I'll see you next time I get a fake listing or bad job that you guys have a tendency to break into. Go away."

Nightwing only sighed again before Danny heard his grappling hook sound off back through the broken window into the night. Red Hood only chuckled one last time before ruffling his hair.

"See you, Kid. Make sure you try to sleep before class"

Danny just huffed at him and waved him off again as Red Hood shot his grappling hook off into the night and joined Nightwing. With a sigh, Danny sat up again and grabbed his nearby backpack filled with scrap paper.

Time to restart the equation all over again.

______________________________________________________________

Basically Danny needs money to keep going to MIT so he continuously decides to take up jobs for hire in Gotham (and other places but mostly Gotham), which lead to him breaking a lot of laws for another cash grab.

Meanwhile, the Batfam is very concerned that they keep meeting this meta young adult (who doesn't even live in Gotham!!) who seems to continuously be running through villain placed ad offers like water to get cash.

How desperate for cash is this guy????

[geminiwritten]

punishment ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore

notes: there are no words in any language (real or fictional) for how much i love this man, it's genuinely consuming... but anyway! have some fighter pilot fun! when i reread this, i felt like it didn't hit the way i hoped, but i can't keep rewriting bradley stuff just because i want everything about him to be perfect... so please be kind! and please, please let me know what you think! i actually worked super hard on this (lots of research) and i absolutely love hearing from y'all!

warnings: swearing, italics, hangman is a proper dick, the word 'cannibalism' is used (as a joke), kind of super cheesy, and it gets a bit horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: there is a lot more navy / pilot wording in this than i usually write. i do not claim that any of it is accurate or correct. i google things and i watch youtube videos, tv shows, and movies. as long as it sounds like it could make sense, i don't care. but please do not assume any of it is absolute fact, and please don't come for me if it's laughably incorrect or unfeasible.

word count: 13863

The bar smells like leather polish and beer. It sounds like a rowdy dive, full of off-duty naval officers and a few old veterans, but it doesn’t look like a dive. It’s clean and full of light, the sun pouring in through the beachside windows and bouncing off every shiny surface it can find. 

You tuck yourself onto the furthest stool at the bar, hiding behind a well-placed pillar to quietly sulk and sip your beer. You’re not interested in conversation today. Not after the ass-whooping you took last week, which landed you on this stupid island in the first place. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to check the text. It’s from Maverick: “0700 sharp. Don’t be late. Khakis.” 

You scoff and stuff it back into the pocket of your leather jacket. Does he really think you’re that dumb? That you’re not going to wear your service khakis on your first day? You’ve got a full day tomorrow of getting chewed out by a whole new slew of admirals. Why would you possibly want to piss them off? 

A smirk tugs at your lips, but you quickly hide it behind a sip of beer. Not that it really matters if anyone notices—they’d probably just think you’re a little crazy, smirking to yourself. No one here knows who you are—at least not by looking at you. Except Maverick, of course. Your new babysitter. 

Just because you pulled off a high-speed, low-level flyby mere feet from the deck of an aircraft carrier while some snooty admiral and a group of very important people were onboard for a very serious demonstration, you get booted from your squad and strapped with a babysitter. 

You didn’t even hit anyone. It was just a very close call. A few people toppled over. But it’s not your fault they didn’t see you coming and brace for jet wash. 

It was actually quite an impressive stunt. 

But the admiral didn’t see it that way. He sent you to learn from one of the Navy’s most notorious rebels about what happens when you break the rules. You’re still not sure why they stuck you with Maverick. Maybe they’re using the logic of ‘two wrongs make a right.’ Either way, that’s one part of this whole shitshow you’re actually relieved about. Maverick’s not a total stick-up-the-ass. 

A voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts and back to the bar. “You here alone?”

Your head snaps toward your personal space intruder, bringing you face-to-face with a rather handsome man who is almost definitely too cocky for his own good. 

“That your big opener?” you ask, twisting on the stool to face him. “Because it’s giving more serial killer vibes than fuck-me vibes.” 

He smirks, unbothered by your prickliness. “Enlighten me, then. What would make you wanna fuck me?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you take a deep swig of beer, then glance back at him. “About fifteen more years of age and a nice, salt-and-pepper beard.” You slide off the stool and smack your empty pint glass down on the bar. “Sorry, pal. I’m only into DILFs.” 

He rears back, finally unsettled. You flash your prettiest grin and a wink before heading for the doors. 

You almost make it out without looking back—almost. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you spot the man rejoining his table of friends, all of them giggling like idiots. 

All but one. 

He’s got honey-brown hair that curls in the most mesmerising way, catching the sunlight like spun gold. His lips are tipped up at the corner beneath a moustache that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. And when you meet his big brown eyes, you can’t help but bite your lip like a shy little schoolgirl. 

Now, if that man had approached you, you’d probably be halfway to his bed by now. 

- 

You had your khakis dry-cleaned at the seedy little place next to the equally seedy fish and chip shop you found after sulking at the beach for most of Saturday. 

The studio apartment you’re leasing for your three months of punishment is in a block right by the sand—another small win in the grand scheme of things. At least you’re not stuck on base. 

You thought it was a small fuck you to the system to skip the official base dry cleaners and take your uniform somewhere else. 

But it wasn’t worth it. 

Now your khakis are super fucking itchy. They look fine, but every inch of fabric touching you—which is a lot—makes you want to peel your skin off. 

“What’s wrong?” Maverick asks, frowning as he watches you twist and turn in your front-row seat in the training room. 

You sigh, rubbing your back against the chair. “I took my uniform to a dry cleaner near my apartment. Now it’s fucking itchy.” 

Any other CO would rip into you for swearing, but Maverick just chuckles. “Serves you right.” 

Smug prick. 

You take a deep breath and try to settle, ignoring the prickling fabric scraping against your skin. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, shuffling through papers at the desk, “you’ll be in a flight suit soon enough.” 

Your eyes widen. You jump to your feet and step closer to where he’s hunched over the desk at the front of the room. 

“You’re going to let me fly?” 

He chuckles. “Of course.” 

“But-” 

“I cleared it with Admiral Simpson,” he says, flipping a page. “As long as the squad doesn’t know who you really are, and you don’t pull anything totally reckless, you’re cleared to fly.” 

For the first time in two weeks, it feels like you’re finally breaking the surface of the water. “Oh my God. Thank you, Mav.” 

He straightens up, finally giving you his full attention. “You don’t have to thank me. I trust you. Just don’t prove me wrong. And for the record—” he adds, a teasing glint in his eye, “—I know you’re a damn good pilot. In fact, you remind me of someone.” 

The cheeky grin on his lips is completely readable. 

You quirk a brow. “You?” 

He laughs—low, light, and smug. “How’d you guess?” 

You shrug one shoulder, slipping back into your seat. “Because I know Admiral Cain has it out for you. Why else would he saddle you with me if not to punish both of us?” 

Maverick sighs, but the grin stays on his face. “You’re not stupid, I’ll give you that. But you’re dangerous. And honestly, I’m not sure Admiral Cain really thought through what happens when you throw two dangerous people together.” 

You drop your voice low, just in case anyone else is listening. “Maybe Admiral Cain is the stupid one. Underestimating both of us.” 

Maverick tries—and fails—to hide his laughter behind the stack of papers, and you realize that maybe this punishment won’t be quite as punishing as you first thought. 

A few minutes later—and after completely shattering all professional boundaries by getting Maverick to scratch a spot on your back you couldn’t reach—the aviators who make up his special detachment start to arrive. 

You stay low and still in your seat as they file in, one by one, filling up the rows while Maverick stands grinning at the front of the room. Two aviators across the aisle glance at you curiously, like they almost recognize you. God, you hope not. 

“Good morning,” Maverick says, grinning at the room. “Apologies for the late start. I had a meeting with Admiral Simpson this morning because today..." He glances at you and nods for you to stand. “We have someone new joining us.” 

You plaster on a polite smile and scan the room—only to freeze when your eyes land on a familiar face. The guy who approached you at the bar last night. The one you all but told to fuck off. 

A snort of laughter escapes before you can stop it. 

He looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face turning redder by the second. You almost feel bad. Almost. 

“This is our new tactical training specialist,” Maverick continues, oblivious. But then he hesitates, glancing down at his paperwork before looking back up and saying your name—your first name, not your last, and definitely not your callsign. 

Just like Admiral Simpson ordered. No one can know who you really are. 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck when your gaze drifts a few seats over... and lands on the moustached sex god you locked eyes with across the bar before you left. The one you shamelessly eye-fucked before blushing like a fool, ducking out the door, and mentally writing a very detailed fantasy about that moustache between your legs. 

He’s even hotter in a flight suit. Shit. 

“Uh, anyway,” Maverick says, clearing his throat, “let’s get on with the briefing so we can fly.” 

You sink back into your chair, cheeks burning and heart thudding way too fast against your ribs. 

Maverick drawls on about a few mission updates, occasionally throwing in extra context just for you—over-explaining like you hadn’t already gotten the full briefing before being flown in. You’re still too stunned to speak—or correct him—so you just press your lips together and nod along. 

An hour later, when you’ve almost completely forgotten about your itchy khakis, Maverick dismisses the group and tells them to meet Hondo in the hangar. He calls on the woman seated across the aisle from you—Phoenix—before she can leave with the others, and asks her to show you to the women’s locker room. 

She nods, then turns to you with a small smirk. “It's Natasha, by the way. Feels a little weird calling you by your real name if you don’t know mine.” 

You return the smile—genuine this time—and keep your eyes on her instead of following the sex god in a flight suit walking out the door. “Nice to meet you.” 

She leads the way out, and you follow, assuming she's heading toward the locker rooms. 

“So, you fly?” she asks, nodding at the shiny wings pinned to your chest. 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“Where were you before this?” 

You hesitate, wishing you’d hashed out a backstory with Mav. “Uh… around. It’s… mostly classified.” 

She raises an eyebrow, sharp curiosity gleaming in her big brown eyes. “Or you've been ordered not to tell us.” 

You snort softly. “Yeah, something like that.” 

She guides you down a set of stairs and a short hallway before gesturing toward the women’s locker room. “Just in there. If they’ve assigned you a locker, your flight suit should already be inside.” 

“Thanks, Phoenix.” 

“Anytime.” She turns to go, but pauses, casting one last curious glance your way before smiling, nodding, and walking off. 

You like her. No bullshit. 

With a deep breath, you push the door open and step into the locker room. Sure enough, your flight suit is hanging beside a locker with your first name written in Sharpie on a piece of masking tape slapped across the front. It’s strange, seeing that instead of your callsign—but it confirms that Admiral Simpson is serious about keeping your identity buried. 

You’d heard your little stunt had made waves, but halfway across the country? If they’re hiding your name out here, then yeah—no wonder you’re in trouble. 

Your flight suit doesn’t have your name on it, either. Just a worn Velcro patch that reads ‘INSTRUCTOR’—the kind that looks like it’s been passed around longer than you’ve been in the Navy. Lovely. 

You peel off your khakis, relieved to shove the itchy green material into your locker, and slip your legs into your flight suit. You leave the top half hanging loose as you re-lace your boots and check your reflection in the mirror before heading out of the locker room. 

You turn down the hall without a second glance, awkwardly trying to shove your arms into your suit—only to carelessly bump into someone coming from the opposite direction. 

“Shit, sorry, I-” You choke on your words when you look up at the prettiest damn smirk you’ve ever seen. 

“You’re good,” he says—the moustached sex god. “Need a hand?” 

Normally, no. But right now, your traitorous body is practically catatonic, pretending it’s forgotten how to function just so the sexy man will help you into your flight suit. You’re supposed to be a tactical training specialist, not an inept fool who can’t dress herself. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you say, ignoring the screaming voice of feminism in your head. “I don’t know how I got so twisted up.” 

He chuckles—deep and warm, like smoke curling around you, pulling you closer. 

“I’m Bradley, by the way,” he says as he steps behind you. “Or Rooster.” 

Your brain completely short-circuits. You don't even think to respond as his fingertips brush your bare arms, sliding the suit up over your shoulders. Even through your thin t-shirt, the heat of his touch sends a riot of butterflies through your stomach. 

“Thanks.” You turn to face him, digging deep for the confidence that usually fools people into thinking you’re calm and collected. “I might need your number… in case I need a little help undressing later.” 

His face breaks into the most breathtaking grin you’ve ever seen. His cheeks flush pink, his Adam’s apple bobs with a soft chuckle, and when his brown eyes meet yours again, they sparkle so brightly you forget how to breathe. 

“Before I say yes, I need to know… do you usually ask your trainees to help you undress, or am I just special?” 

You laugh softly, your confidence flickering, and start down the hall—walking backward so you can still face him. “Right, because I’m technically an instructor.” You tap the Velcro patch on your chest. “And that would be highly inappropriate.” 

Bradley stands with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Highly.” 

“Good thing I’m not exactly known for my propriety.” You flash him your cheekiest smile, then spin around and quicken your pace down the hall. 

You make your way to the hangar—a little breathless from your run-in with the hottest man you’ve ever met—only to be intercepted by Maverick before you can reach the rest of the team. 

“Nothing fancy today, alright?” 

He hands you a dark green, slightly scuffed helmet. 

You frown at it. “But my helmet-” 

“Has your callsign on it.” 

He gives you a pointed look—a silent warning wrapped in patience—before shifting his attention to the squad. 

You roll your eyes as he walks off, then inspect the helmet in your hands, cringing at the cracked lining inside. At least it smells clean. 

After he picks the pilots flying the first drill, everyone heads to their jets. Your fingers twitch with anticipation as you climb into the cockpit, stomach flipping with that familiar mix of nerves and adrenaline. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lifetime. 

Once you're in the air, you follow Maverick’s orders to hang back, constantly reminding yourself that one more slip-up could ground you for good. 

First up: Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy. They’re good, but Hangman is cocky—and there’s a difference between cocky and confident. You’re confident. You know you’re good. And it’s borderline painful to fly like a rookie while he runs his mouth over the comms. 

“Hey Mav,” Hangman says, his voice crackling in your ear. “I’m curious—why do we need a tactical training specialist?” 

“Because you’re not good enough, Hangman. You need to be better,” Maverick replies coolly. 

“With all due respect, sir”—you can practically hear his smirk—“what are we supposed to learn from someone who flies like my grandma drives her Honda Civic?” 

There’s muffled laughter from Payback and Fanboy. 

“Maybe that’s her callsign,” Payback says. “Honda Civic.” 

“I was thinking Grandma,” Fanboy adds. 

More laughter—like they’re the funniest assholes in the sky. 

For a fleeting moment, you consider soaring up in front of them in an admittedly reckless inverted climb just to scare the smug off their faces. But you grit your teeth and bank slowly through a patch of low, cottony clouds instead. 

“Cut the chatter,” Maverick says, voice sharper now. “Or I won’t go easy on you.” 

You almost wish he’d let you off the leash. Let you show them exactly why you’re here. But he’s right. As excruciating as it is to fly like a grandma driving a Honda Civic... this is what you have to do right now. 

By the end of the day, you're bored out of your brain. You've heard so much trash talk from the pilots that you're not only feeling more defeated than after your reaming from Admiral Cain, but you're seriously considering punching one of them square in the face. 

You know it's just banter. They're not really trying to upset you—test you, maybe. Haze you. But it still grates, especially when they keep jabbing at your flying—the one thing you’re damn proud of. 

It sucks hiding your superpower. Is this how Clark Kent feels at the Daily Planet? 

When it’s finally time to hit the showers before Maverick’s afternoon briefing, you’re relieved. You drag your feet down the hall ahead of the others, not in the mood for post-flight chatter. You slip into the locker room, peel off your flight suit and underlayers, and step into the nearest stall. 

The water warms almost instantly, and you sigh in quiet appreciation. You’re just starting to relax when— 

“Get your shit outta my way, Fanboy.” 

You flinch at the voice—Hangman’s—closer than it should be while you're stark naked and dripping wet. Then you glance up and spot a vent high on the wall. It must connect to the men’s locker room. 

“You have a locker. Use it,” Hangman snaps again. 

You roll your eyes and duck back under the stream, letting the hot water drown him out. Or trying to. 

“So, what do we think the deal is with our new tactical training specialist?” one of them—Coyote, you think—asks. 

Hangman scoffs. “She’s no specialist. I’d be surprised if she’s even a fully trained aviator.” 

“She didn’t seem like she had any trouble flying,” Bob says, voice soft but clear. “She just seemed like she was hanging back. Laying low.” 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds—and your stomach does a little somersault. “Maybe she’s a total gun and just waiting to embarrass us all.” 

You smirk. He’s not wrong. If they ever take the leash off, you definitely plan to humiliate them. 

“I doubt it,” Hangman grunts. 

“She’s probably just here to babysit Maverick,” Fanboy says. “We all know Cyclone doesn’t trust him.” 

You snort quietly. 

“You’re not wrong,” Payback chimes in. 

“Probably some admiral’s daughter, too,” Coyote jokes. 

Hangman laughs—smug and overconfident. “I don’t care who she is. One way or another, I’m gonna find out why she’s really here.” 

- 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. You fly like a rookie, listen to Jake—yes, you’ve learned all their real names now—run his mouth like the class clown he insists on being, and endure Maverick assigning you to lead post-flight reviews breaking down the squad’s tactical performance. 

Your nights are spent reading, studying, absorbing everything you can about the thing you’re supposedly a specialist in. You already know your stuff—you like to think you’re pretty sharp tactically—but now that Jake is gunning for you, your cover needs to be airtight. 

The rest of the squad has been decent, if a little wary—not that you blame them. And then there’s Bradley. 

Bradley is nice to you. Like, really nice. Almost suspiciously nice, despite Jake’s constant digs. You catch him looking your way more often than not—though, to be fair, you’re not exactly subtle about your own ogling. He backs you up when Jake crosses the line, and so does Natasha—which only confirms why you liked her from the start. 

But Bradley? Bradley is a problem. The man is a walking, talking hazard to your mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Just hearing his voice over the comms is enough to make your heart skip. 

And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea how to act around him. Cool confidence is second nature when you don’t care what anyone thinks—but with him, you’re suddenly a fumbling schoolgirl with a colossal, deeply inconvenient crush. He’s kind. He’s hot. He’s got that easy swagger of a guy who knows he’s good—and he’s right. It’s not too much; it’s the perfect, dangerously attractive amount of confidence. 

Honestly? He might be the most punishing part of your punishment. 

You spend most of the weekend trying—and failing—not to think about what it would feel like to have that stupid moustache between your legs. Or worse: on the pillow beside yours, with his arms wrapped around you while you sleep. Just sleep. 

Dating seriously in the Navy—or any branch of the military, really—is notoriously difficult. You’ve made peace with casual, mediocre—often infrequent—sex. You’ve learned to ignore the craving for real connection, to smother it under adrenaline and the thrill of flying. But when you look at Bradley—stupid, hot, kind Bradley—you wonder what it would feel like to love him. And to be loved by him. 

Ugh. Gross. 

“You alright?” Maverick asks, brows pinched as he holds out a stack of paperwork. 

You blink, realizing you’ve been zoned out. You’re not sure how long he’s been standing there. 

“Yeah, sorry. Mondayitis,” you mumble, shaking your head and reaching for the stack. 

He rolls his eyes and glances toward the spot you’d just been staring at—where Bradley is talking to a maintenance tech beside his jet. 

“Yeah,” Mav chuckles. “Sure.” 

You snatch the paperwork with a little more attitude than necessary, but at this point, you’re comfortable enough with Maverick to get away with it. He knows the difference between you being genuinely annoyed—usually whenever Jake is within twenty feet—and just being a smartass. 

“You sure you’re good to stay back tonight?” he asks after a beat. “It’s just a routine FOD sweep, but the techs like having someone around who understands the tactical systems, just in case.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, hugging the paperwork to your chest. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Honestly, I’ll take any excuse to speak to humans outside the hours of nine to five.” 

Maverick chuckles, but then tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really not doing anything else? You don’t even go out? Or, I don’t know… do Tinder?” 

You raise a brow at him, trying not to laugh. “No, Mav. I don’t do Tinder.” 

“Oh.” He nods like that’s good news, but then frowns. “Still, you should go out sometime. Grab a drink, meet someone. This is a Navy town—there’s plenty of-” 

“Are you seriously giving me advice on getting laid?” you interrupt, eyes wide with disbelief. 

A faint pink tints his cheeks, but he doesn’t backpedal. “Not explicitly. But I just don’t see the point in making this punishment even more miserable by ignoring the outside world.” 

“Punishment?” 

You both freeze. Bob is suddenly beside you, looking wide-eyed and flushed—like he knows he shouldn’t have overheard but absolutely couldn’t help himself. 

You turn to him, panicked. “He—uh, what Mav means is-” 

“Bob!” Natasha’s voice cuts across the hangar. “Move it or you’re walking to The Hard Deck!” 

He gives a polite nod and bolts before either of you can say more. 

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. 

Maverick waves it off. “It’s fine. Bob’s a vault. Even if he does say something, we’ll spin it.” 

You narrow your eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re the one trying to blow my cover, not Hangman.” 

He laughs, unbothered. “You need to relax. Seriously—go out with the others tonight. Let off some steam. Maybe meet someone.” 

You groan, stepping back. “Are we back to this already? I can’t go out tonight—I’m stuck here babysitting the FOD inspections so you can go on a date and get laid.” 

That earns you a devilish grin. “You could still go out after.” 

“It’ll be too late.” 

“Alright then.” He flashes that troublemaking smile, then strolls off toward Bradley. 

You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you see it. The mischief in Maverick’s eyes, the subtle glance Bradley throws your way, the small nod. 

“Rooster’s staying back with you,” Mav says when he returns. “He’s going to help start inventorying the night gear before next week’s night ops. Keep you company.” Then he winks. “You’re welcome.” 

Your cheeks flame instantly. You can feel the blush rising from your chest to the tips of your ears, especially as Bradley sends you one of those slow, devastating smirks from across the hangar. 

You never imagined this would be your biggest problem, but here you are—drowning in paperwork and feelings, stuck with one ridiculously hot pilot… all because your CO thinks he’s Cupid. 

You do your best to avoid Bradley at first—and it mostly works. He waves off his friends, all of whom are more than a little annoyed he’s skipping the bar, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind. You find a relatively clear table toward the back of the hangar to spread out your paperwork and start sorting through what needs signing for tonight’s special inspections. 

One of the technicians wanders over and spends twenty straight minutes mansplaining the FOD sweep and borescope process. Normally, you'd bite a guy’s head off for talking to you like you're five, but this time, you let him ramble. Anything to keep a buffer between you and Bradley. 

The night wears on, and the techs move through their routines with smooth, practiced efficiency. You answer questions when needed, sign off on paperwork, and try not to keep checking to see where he is. After a couple of hours, you find yourself staring blankly at your neatly reorganized stack of documents—for the fourth time. 

“You alright?” Bradley’s voice cuts in, low and warm. He stops a few feet away, arms full of night vision goggles. 

You snap upright and nod. “Yep. Just a little bored. Need help?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and your stomach does a full aerial twist when he smiles. 

“Yeah, actually. There’s more NVGs to go through, and I need to check we’ve got enough night-adapted flight helmets.” 

You nod again and follow him to the gear closet. It isn’t small, but it’s tightly packed with equipment that smells like age and dust. The doorknob is mottled with rust, and the door itself is being propped open by a bent prybar wedged underneath. 

“Wow,” you mutter. “Luxury storage.” 

Bradley chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, not exactly state of the art. But Mav avoids complaining—less time in the admiral’s office.” 

You laugh softly, running a finger along a dusty shelf. “Can’t argue with that.” 

He casts a glance your way, curious but unreadable, as he stacks the goggles beside you. Then he points to the shelf of helmets and tells you to grab what you can and bring them over to where he’s been cleaning and inspecting gear. 

It takes a few trips, but eventually you’ve got all the helmets laid out across the hangar floor while Bradley goes down the checklist on his clipboard. You drop into a cross-legged seat beside the gear, inspecting each helmet one by one—checking the straps, the fixings, the visor, making sure there are no cracks or faults. 

Bradley settles across from you, reaching for a helmet of his own. “So,” he says, casual and curious, “do you already have a callsign, or are we still workshopping?” 

You glance up through your lashes, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Classified.” 

He arches a brow. “That’s not a no. Should I be worried it’s something like Deathwish? Or Heartbreaker?” 

A quiet laugh escapes you as you trade one helmet for the next. “What if it’s closer to the second one?” 

He nods slowly, a smirk tugging beneath that damn moustache. “Then I’ll adjust my expectations.”  

“That’s your first mistake,” you say lightly. “Having expectations.” 

His gaze lingers a little longer this time, thoughtful. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. You’re not trying to be cryptic—it’s just that words get sticky around him. Being guarded feels easier than being obvious. You’re not that complicated, really… but for some reason, with Bradley, keeping your walls up feels safer. 

And maybe, if he’s curious enough, he’ll keep pushing. You kind of hope he does. 

More hours pass, and you fall into a comfortable rhythm. When needed, the techs call you over to check something or sign something off, then you return to Bradley with a sarcastic remark or a curious question. He doesn’t pry too much about why you’re here, but he asks simple things—where you grew up, what your favourite colour is, if you have any pets. The conversation stays light and easy, and you find yourself looking forward to hearing his voice again after every question you answer. 

“Alright, we’re just about finished up,” one of the technicians—Randall— says as he ambles over. 

You’re crouched on the floor with a few open night ops survival kits in front of you, checking for chem lights, strobes, and IR beacons.  

“Oh, that’s great,” you say, brushing your hands off on your pants as you stand. “Thanks.” 

He nods. “Security did a walk-through ten minutes back. I told ’em you two were in here, and they said they’d circle back unless you’re planning to leave with the rest of us.” 

You glance at Bradley, silently letting him decide—though you’re secretly hoping he chooses to stay. 

“We’ll be here a little longer,” he says, his eyes flicking to you. “I think.” 

You nod, and his cheekbones flush pink as a small smile tugs at his lips. 

Randall glances up, motioning vaguely at the walls. “Cameras there,” he says, pointing, “there, and there. Dead spots are that corner… or the gear closet. Y’know—if you don’t want to get caught.” 

Your eyes widen and heat floods your face. 

Bradley lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Thanks, Randall. I don’t even want to ask how you know that, but… good to know.” 

The older man grins and lumbers off, whistling. 

The second he’s out of earshot, you groan into your hands. “What is with old men today?” 

Bradley raises a brow. “Don’t tell me one of the other techs gave you a hookup tutorial.” 

“Nope,” you sigh, dropping your hands. “Mav. I think he was trying to give me dating advice. Told me I should ‘get out there’ more.” 

Bradley snorts. “Was it any good?” 

“Well,” you say, “he’s glad I’m not on Tinder—wants me to meet someone the authentically. But then he was annoyed I’m not going to the bar tonight. Never mind the fact he’s the reason I’m stuck with overtime.” 

Bradley opens his mouth, pauses, then squints at you. “Wait… was this right before he came and told me to start inventorying night gear?”  

“Yup,” you reply, popping the p and being careful not to look at him. 

“Right,” Bradley chuckles. “Maybe we should change Mav’s callsign to Cupid.” 

You roll your eyes, ignoring the blush blooming in your cheeks. “Or Stupid.” 

You quietly keep packing up the survival kits and carrying them back to the gear closet. A few of the techs call out their goodbyes as they leave, but most don’t. And then—it’s quiet. Too quiet. 

You’re not sure if the tension comes from being suddenly alone—or from the fact that Bradley now knows why Maverick asked him to stay. Would he have bailed if he’d known sooner? 

He didn’t look horrified. Didn’t flinch or recoil. Just made a joke. 

But what the hell is that supposed to mean? 

“We can finish up soon, if you want,” you offer, even though you don’t want to. 

But now you’re overthinking everything. What if he doesn’t want to be here? What if he thinks you expect something to happen—like you’re in on whatever matchmaking crap Mav is trying to pull? 

“Oh,” he says, following you into the gear closet. “I mean, it’s up to you.” 

There’s a beat of silence while you both stack kits onto the shelf. 

“I mean, if you’re trying to make it to the bar,” he adds, his laugh a little forced. 

You shoot him a flat look. “Yeah, right. With all my friends.” 

He shrugs, but it looks stiff. “Maybe you’ve decided to take Mav’s advice. Meet a guy or whatever.” 

You lead the way out of the closet, your brows furrowed as you try to decode his words. 

Is he encouraging you to go? Telling you not to? 

Why is this suddenly complicated? Why are you even thinking about any of this when you’re only here as punishment? You shouldn’t be worrying about boys and feelings. 

You shake your head and decide to ignore it, scooping up more survival kits to return to the gear closet. Bradley is right behind you, carrying the last of them. 

You’ve just reached the shelf and freed your arms when there’s a bang and a sharp screech. 

“Shit,” Bradley mutters, stumbling forward. 

He catches himself before dropping anything—but then a loud slam echoes through the space, and both of your heads snap toward the door. 

“No,” you mutter, rushing from the shelf to the door. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

The rusted doorknob starts to crack in your grip. It doesn’t twist or even budge—just crumbles like sugar in hot water. 

“Wait,” Bradley says, dumping the kits on the shelf. “Are we actually trapped?” 

“No,” you bite out, twisting the handle again. It snaps, and a piece of rusted metal—fantastic—sticks into your palm. “Fuck. Shit.” You whirl around, clutching your hand. “Okay, maybe.” 

Bradley doesn’t panic. He chuckles. It’s light, casual—and laced with something else. Satisfaction, maybe? 

“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer. 

You instinctively offer your hand. The cut isn’t deep, but there’s a decent smear of red pooling in your palm. 

“Lucky we just restocked the survival kits,” he says with a wink. 

You want to roll your eyes—but instead, you smile like an idiot. He’s so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your skin like a slow burn—and then his hand wraps gently around yours, sending a surge of electricity crackling up your arm and straight to your chest. 

“This is just my luck,” you mutter. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Technically, I’m the one who tripped on the prybar, so I think it’s my luck.” 

“Yeah, but I’m known to be a bit of a…” You trail off, clearing your throat, scrambling to find a word other than the one on the tip of your tongue. 

His head tips, eyes narrowing. “A what?” 

“Walking disaster,” you say quickly. 

That earns another chuckle as he turns to the shelf of survival kits. “I wouldn’t call this a disaster.” 

You scoff. “Really? We’re stuck in a dusty gear closet at ten o’clock at night, the techs just bailed, our phones are in our lockers, and security probably won’t even realise we’re in here.” 

Still facing away, he rummages through one of the kits. “I’m trapped in a closet with a pretty girl,” he says. “Not exactly a disaster in my books.” 

You press your lips together, trying to smother the grin threatening to break loose—but then he turns around, wearing the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label. It’s cocky and knowing, like he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on you—and worse, he’s enjoying it. Heat flares beneath your skin, and suddenly the gear closet feels about ten degrees hotter. 

“See?” he says, offering his hand for yours again. “Can’t argue with logic.” 

You let him clean and bandage the cut on your hand, silence stretching thick between you. The warmth radiating off his body fogs your brain, making it nearly impossible to focus on escape routes from this stupid closet. His hands are slightly calloused—evidence of years gripping the F/A-18’s control stick the way you’re now imagining gripping something else entirely. 

Fuck. This man might actually be the death of you. 

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your cheek as he stands so damn close. “You’re not claustrophobic or anything, right?” 

You shake your head, subtle and slow, your gaze locked on his lips, your voice nowhere to be found. 

“Good,” he says. “Because we’re probably stuck in here all night. No windows, no vents, and there’s no way we’re getting any of these radios on the same frequency as the tower. That door’s older and more stubborn than Mav—it was built to keep people out, which means it’ll do just fine keeping us in.” 

You sigh, eyes drifting down to your bandaged hand. “Great.” 

He quietly packs the kit away, head bowed over the shelf as he works, giving you a moment to just look. His long legs are braced slightly wider than his shoulders, making him seem even more solid, more commanding. He all but consumes the small closet space, his honey-brown hair dangerously close to grazing the low ceiling. His fingers move deftly, expertly, and you can’t help but wonder what else they’d be good at. 

“You’re staring,” he says suddenly. 

Your cheeks warm. “I’m calculating.” 

He gives you a sideways glance and that crooked smile—the one that makes your heart miss a beat. “Calculating what?” 

“What chance I have of overpowering you if the situation becomes dire.” 

He chuckles, but it’s lower this time. Rougher. A little dangerous. “Define ‘dire’.” 

You shrug and turn your back to the shelves, sliding down to the floor. “You know. Cannibalism.” 

You lean against the bottom shelf, packed tight with gear boxes—solid enough to act as a makeshift backrest while you stretch your legs out in front of you. 

“Cannibalism,” Bradley echoes, settling beside you. “Right. So, is it straight to eating each other, or are there warning signs I should look out for?” 

His arm brushes yours as he shifts, the heat of his body seeping through your flight suit. And the way he said eating each other? Yeah—that’s not helping. 

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat to redirect your filthy thoughts. “First comes shock and denial.” You lift your bandaged hand. “But I think I’m past that.” 

He nods, eyes on you, like he’s genuinely interested—or just waiting for your next move. 

“Then anxiety and panic,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips. “You might start crying, beating your fists on the door…” 

He snorts, and you catch him glancing at your mouth. 

“Then comes anger and frustration,” you say, letting your voice drop just a little. “We’ll start blaming each other. Arguing. And then…” You trail off, licking your lips, gaze moving slowly down his body with exaggerated interest. “Desperation.” 

“What happens then?” he asks, his voice soft, deep—almost reverent. Like you’re telling him a secret he already knows. 

You glance at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. His long fingers tangled with tension, as if he’s holding himself still. 

“We’ll probably give in to all the tension,” you murmur. 

There’s a pause—so brief it’s barely a breath—before he asks, “What does that mean?” 

You finally meet his gaze, smirking like you already have him cornered. “You know exactly what I mean, Bradshaw.” 

The tension snaps when he laughs softly, his cheekbones tinged pink as he looks away. 

“Well then,” he says, “if we’re going to be stuck in here until we both go mad, don’t you think I deserve to know who you really are?” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not a bad try. Still classified.” 

He tips his head back against the shelf, and your eyes catch on the long column of his throat as he speaks. “Oh, come on. You think I’m going to tell anyone?” 

“No, not really,” you murmur, gaze still fixed on the warm tan skin of his neck. 

You feel like a starved vampire, fixated on his jugular with something close to bloodlust. But really, you just want to sink your teeth in—hard enough to leave a mark. Claim him. 

God. Since when has a man made you feel this feral? 

Then he tips his head down again and pins you with those big brown eyes. “So why won’t you tell me?” 

You meet his gaze. “I think you already know more about me than most people do. Is it really that bad not knowing my last name or callsign? Ask me anything else.” 

His smile turns boyish, softening him, making him look younger than he is. “So you admit you have a callsign?” 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“When’d you get it?” 

“Flight school.” 

“Is there a cool story behind it?” 

You wobble your head as if weighing the answer. “Sort of. It’s not really a story—it’s more of a personality trait.” 

He nods slowly. “So I might be able to figure it out?” 

You shake your head. “Probably not. Not with the way Mav has me flying.” You don’t entirely mean to throw him a bone—some sliver of the truth behind why you’re really here—but it slips out anyway. 

His eyes narrow. “So you are holding back,” he says. It’s not a question. 

You don’t answer. Instead, you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down—hard. His gaze flicks to your mouth, and lingers there, watching you. Something in his eyes darkens, and you can see the flush crawl up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. 

“Okay, my turn,” you say, angling your body toward him. “This whole ‘prince charming’ thing. The cheeky smiles, the perfectly tousled hair—does it always work for you?” 

He frowns, but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the amusement threatening to break across his face. “What do you mean, ‘does it work’?” 

You shrug, trying—and failing—to seem nonchalant. The green-eyed monster in your chest rearing its ugly head. “I’ve seen you walking around like you own the place. Don’t tell me you haven’t left a trail of broken hearts across the country. I mean, I see the way you are with Phoenix, all the-” 

“Phoenix?” he interrupts, his eyes growing wide. “Phoenix and I are friends. Period. I’m actually pretty sure she’s hooking up with Bob, but she’s too scared to tell the rest of us because we’ll ruin it. Which, fair enough. Hangman can be a bit of a bitch.” 

“Oh, I know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “But don’t change the subject. You seriously don’t expect me to believe there aren’t a hundred women trying to beat down your door every Friday and Saturday night?” 

He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There might be one or two broken hearts in my past, but I can promise you, no one is beating down my door. And the ‘prince charming’ act...” He leans in just a little, his voice lowering. “That’s just for you.” 

This man is actually trying to kill you. 

You roll your eyes and feign indifference. “Smooth.” 

He raises his brows, that smirk still firmly in place. “You think?” 

“You know exactly what you’re doing, Bradshaw.” 

He chuckles, leaning back and resting his head against the shelf again. “Well, yeah. I know what I’m doing. But I can’t tell if it’s working or not.” 

You fight a smile, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah,” you mutter, “it’s working.” 

The next hour passes with random questions exchanged, both of you settling into an easy rhythm. He’s careful not to pry too much, slipping in the occasional question about your past or why you're really here. You answer with playful eye rolls and a quick “that’s classified,” but despite the walls you try to keep up, you find yourself telling him more than you expected. His presence is warm and easy, and there’s something about the way his eyes study you—genuine curiosity mixed with a hint of hunger—that makes you open up in ways you didn’t expect. 

Then, after a beat of silence, he asks, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” 

It’s a stark contrast to the casual questions you’ve been tossing back and forth. Your brows pinch, and you tip your head, a wave of exhaustion making your posture sag. You open your mouth to reply, but he jumps in again, voice laced with sudden panic. “Wait, you don’t have some secret boyfriend... right?” 

A soft laugh escapes your lips. “No, I don’t.” 

His shoulders visibly relax, his eyes blinking slowly, tiredly. “Why not? Aside from the stock standard military excuse.” 

You rest your head against the shelf, staring up at the paint flaking off the ceiling. “I like to blame the navy, but I think it’s mostly my fault. I can be... picky. I guess my standards are higher than they have a right to be. The last actual boyfriend I had... sucked. Monumentally.” You pause, biting your lip. “He scarred me. Haven’t really wanted to date seriously since.” 

There’s a flash of something unfamiliar across Bradley’s face—an emotion that’s gone before you can catch it, replaced quickly by curiosity. “Why did he suck?” 

You snort softly, remembering your last relationship with a sick feeling in your stomach. “Do you want the PG version or the real one?” 

His gaze hardens, anger flashing behind his eyes, though he masks it quickly. “The real one.” 

“Okay,” you say, steeling yourself for the uncomfortable memories. “Well, aside from just being a piece of shit...” You pause, taking a deep breath. “After almost two years together, he—uh, he had a hard time finishing... with me. Told me it was because he was bored, too used to me. Said I wasn’t good enough to, you know... get him there.” 

The silence that follows is suffocating, thick enough to make you choke. Your chest aches, but you can’t find the strength to breathe. Bradley’s expression has turned murderous. His eyes darken, his brows drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His cheeks are flushed, redder than before, and the colour crawls down his neck and disappears beneath his flight suit collar. 

“He told you that?” he asks, his voice rough, low, cutting through the silence like a blade. 

You nod, a bitter laugh escaping as you remember the moment. “Yep. Right in the middle of it.” 

His eyes narrow, and the anger in his gaze intensifies. “He said that to you while you were having sex?” 

You nod again, your lips pressed tight, bracing for whatever might come next. Bradley looks like he’s ready to explode, like a bull in a chute, and though it’s scary, it’s also... unsettlingly hot. 

“I broke up with him the next day,” you say softly. 

“Good,” Bradley growls, his voice tight. 

Silence settles between you again, but this time it’s softer—less charged, more intimate. You can breathe. And now that the adrenaline has faded, so has your energy. Your eyelids are heavy, your shoulders ache, but the hard clips of the gear boxes digging into your back are making it impossible to get comfortable. 

You shift upright with a quiet sigh, glancing around the cramped space for anything soft to lie on. But the only thing that looks remotely inviting is Bradley’s lap. 

He has his head tipped back, lids half-lowered, but there’s no missing the way he catches your gaze. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips—lazy and warm. 

“You can lie down,” he murmurs, voice husky and low, dragging heat across your skin. 

“You sure?” you ask, even though you’re already moving. 

He adjusts his posture, leaning back against the shelves to make room. The slight shift in his stance feels oddly like an invitation, like he’s preparing for you. Your heart pounds as you reposition yourself, curling toward him and easing your head gently into his lap. 

It feels too intimate for what it is—but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, his body goes still, and then he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to ground himself. 

The heat of him is immediate, seeping into your skin. Without thinking, you press your freezing hands to his thighs with a groan of relief. 

Bradley stiffens. “Shit. Uh... careful where you put those.” 

You glance up. His mouth is parted slightly, breath coming and going faster now. That faint pink flush has darkened, stretching across the bridge of his nose. His eyes—wide, dark, hungry—meet yours. 

“Oops,” you murmur, lips twitching. “Sorry.” Though you’re absolutely not. 

You try to focus on relaxing, but the feel of him beneath you is intoxicating. Your exhaustion is at war with the slow burn licking through your blood. You close your eyes anyway, willing your body to settle. 

Eventually, his breathing evens out again—and so does yours. You curl in tighter, tucking your knees up, and nestle into him a little more. His breath catches, barely audible, but telling. Then, after a beat, his hand rests lightly on your hip. Just that. But it sends a rush of heat spiralling through you. 

His other hand shifts near your face, and, emboldened, you ease one of your own free and find his. Your fingers slide into place between his, lacing together like it’s instinct. 

The spark that jolts up your arm is instant—sharp, electric, undeniable. 

Yeah. This man is a hazard. To your health, to your career… And definitely to your cover. 

- 

You’re not woken by your alarm or the sound of your neighbour—who also happens to be navy—slamming his door on his way out. You’re woken by something solid pressing into the back of your head. Something warm. Something insistent. Almost like… 

Holy shit. 

You sit up like a shot, as if a gun’s gone off, your body protesting the movement after a night on the floor. But the aches barely register. Not when you’re suddenly very aware of the very impressive bulge currently tenting Bradley’s flight suit. 

You press your lips together, partly to hold back your laugh—and partly to keep yourself from doing something absolutely unholy. Like burying your face in his lap. Mouthing him through the thick material. Slowly unzipping that khaki jumpsuit and devouring him until he forgets how to breathe. 

God. You’ve never woken up so horny in your life. 

You briefly consider nuzzling back into him, soaking up every drop of that delicious warmth—until you hear voices outside. And then you see it: a sliver of daylight spilling beneath the door. 

You scramble to your feet and tiptoe to the door, pressing your ear against it. You should be thrilled you’re getting out of this dusty closet, but disappointment prickles under your skin. You’re not going to sleep with Bradley tonight—not in any sense of the word. Which is stupid. Completely insane. You’d rather spend another night on a hard floor with him than go home to your own bed. 

You shake your head and focus on the voices. You don’t recognize any of them. Tech crew, most likely—starting early. 

You lean over Bradley, gently scratching the crown of his head. “Hey,” you whisper, keeping your voice low just in case. 

His eyes flutter, then snap open—briefly panicked before he remembers where he is. He looks up at you with a sleepy smile, soft and hazy. “Hey. How’d you sleep?” 

You laugh quietly. “Surprisingly well. Until I was woken up by your little lieutenant—well, actually, not-so-little, but anyway…” You trail off, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m going to shut up now.” 

His brows knit in sleepy confusion… until understanding hits. He glances down—and immediately covers his lap with both hands. “Shit. Sorry.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’d offer to help you out, but I think we should probably get out of here before the others show up.” 

His mouth opens, his gaze snapping to yours—hopeful and tortured all at once. Clearly debating whether it would be worth the risk. 

He sighs, defeated, and pushes to his feet. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” 

You both move to the door, listening for familiar voices. 

After a moment, Bradley murmurs, “I think we’re in the clear. Sounds like it’s just techies.” 

You nod. “Alright, do we start yelling for help now?” 

He glances down at himself and makes a face. “Can I get a minute first?” 

You snort softly, biting your bottom lip to contain your grin. But you can’t stop the way your eyes drift down, or the warmth that floods your chest. Whether it’s the lap-nap or the fact you’ve gone completely stupid for this man, you’ve never wanted to drop to your knees more in your life. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, brows drawn as he focuses on anything that isn’t you. “You’re not helping.” 

“Sorry,” you giggle, turning fully toward the door. “I’ll just wait here.” 

He chuckles, low and rough, his voice coated in sleep and something far thicker—undeniable desire. He paces the tiny length of the closet like a caged tiger, careful not to look at you. 

A few minutes later, he returns to your side and nods. “Okay. Ready now.” 

You smirk and nod, resisting the very strong urge to glance down. Then you both turn toward the door and start knocking. 

“Hello!” you shout, mouth close to the seam. “Help! Please!” 

There’s the sound of footsteps, muffled voices. Then a rough voice answers, “Hello? Someone in there?” 

“Yes!” you call back. “The doorknob’s broken—we can’t get out.” 

There’s a jiggle of what’s left of the knob on your side, but it doesn’t move. 

“S’not budgin’,” the man says. “Stand back, alrigh’?” 

“Okay,” you say just as Bradley grabs your arm and pulls you to the back corner of the closet. 

He cages you with his body, chest pressed to yours, shielding you like a human wall. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—his breath ghosting over your cheek, his thigh brushing yours, your mouth so close to his. One glance up and you know you’d be kissing. You want to. God, do you want to. But now isn’t the time. 

A bang. Then another. The door rattles, the hinges groaning. One final crash sends the door flying inward, half-torn from its frame. 

Bradley doesn’t move at first. Then he exhales and shifts away slightly—just enough to look—but his hand remains on your wrist, protective. 

“You alrigh’?” the voice asks, silhouetted in the sudden glare of morning light. 

You squint, the brightness stabbing at your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “We’re fine.” 

You both blink as your vision adjusts and step toward the opening. 

“Exactly how long have you two been in there?” comes a second voice. One you know far too well. 

Maverick. 

Your stomach drops. 

As your vision clears, the scene before you sharpens into a full-blown nightmare. Maverick, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, slap-worthy smirk imaginable. Behind him: Natasha, wide-eyed, biting her lip to keep from laughing; Bob, cheeks glowing red; Reuben and Mickey, snickering like they’re in middle school; and—of course—Jake, grinning like he’s just won the damn lottery. 

You're never living this down. 

Before you can even begin to defend yourself, Jake lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rooster. Didn’t know we were doing supply closet survival drills.” 

Bradley sighs. “It was locked, Hangman.” 

“Oh, I believe you,” Jake says, his grin wide. “But the rest of the hangar? Not so much.” 

Maverick raises a brow, smirk firmly in place. “Glad to see you both survived the night. Though next time, maybe just request a room.” 

You shoot him your sharpest glare—just shy of throwing a knife right at your CO. “That door needs to be fixed. You’re lucky I was stuck in there with Bradshaw and not one of these other idiots, or you’d have a dead body to deal with.” 

Your glare swings to Jake, cutting him off before he can open his mouth again. 

Maverick starts to reply but pauses, eyes flicking down to your bandaged hand. “Do you need to go to medical?” 

You shake your head. “No. But I could really use a shower.” 

He nods, then turns his attention to Bradley. “You need the day off?” 

“No,” Bradley says. “We slept.” 

Jake chuckles, wicked and bright. “That’s not what the security tapes say.” 

Your heart stutters. “Th-There’s no camera in there. Randall said-” 

“Randall told you about the camera blind spots?” Maverick cuts in, clearly amused. 

The group bursts into laughter, and even Bradley’s mouth twitches into a smirk. 

Jake winks. “Relax, I was kidding, sweetheart. But hey, good to know Rooster kept you safe. Always knew he was the gentleman type.” 

You roll your eyes and cross your arms, a physical barrier against the swarm of smug faces. “Unlike you, Hangman, Rooster is a gentleman.” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick says, waving a hand to dismiss the squad. “You lot suit up. And you two—hit the showers.” He starts to walk off, then glances over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Separately.” 

Your cheeks go up in flames, but there’s no clever comeback waiting on your tongue. You just take a breath and storm toward the locker rooms, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back at Bradley… and ask if maybe he would want to shower together. 

After a longer-than-necessary shower, you change into spare underclothes and slip your flight suit on over the top. It takes a little extra confidence to step back out of the locker room, but eventually, you do. You settle in the waiting room and do your best to pretend to work—analysing flight data and scribbling notes on tactical performance from Maverick’s current sky drills. 

No one speaks to you, but you don’t miss the way Jake smirks as he strolls into the room after his run. Or the way he leans toward Javy, whispering something just out of earshot. You ignore it. You’re too tightly wound to entertain his usual bullshit. 

When the day finally ends, you drag yourself home and go through the usual motions. But you can’t stop checking your phone. 

You know last night was a fluke—an accident that landed you in a supply closet with the man your heart has apparently chosen to obsess over. You know better than to expect a message or a call. To think he might actually take you up on that teasing offer from this morning. 

He’d been perfect last night. Soft, warm, protective—furious at your ex and almost wrecked with want when you’d touched him. 

But today? He didn’t speak to you once. Not in an obvious, pointed way. Just… didn’t. He didn’t sit next to you in the afternoon briefing. He didn’t chase you down before you left. 

Maybe he’s not interested. Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought. 

Despite how much your body aches and how tired you are, sleep doesn’t come easy. Your mattress is too soft. Your pillows are too cold. There’s no steady heartbeat to lull you into slumber. No warm hand to tangle your fingers with. The silence feels sharp in your ears, and your room feels colder than it did the night before last. 

- 

You’re awake well before your alarm, so you take your time getting ready. You shower even though you don’t need to, apply a little makeup even though you usually don’t, and secure your hair with more precision than normal. Breakfast is slow and deliberate, eaten in front of the TV as if you have all the time in the world. 

You’re still out the door early—even before your inconsiderate neighbour, Slammy Steve. You finally gave him a name for when you curse him every morning as his door slams shut. 

At base, you head toward the usual hangar, steeling yourself to face the squad again—to face Bradley. Your stomach twists at the thought. You’re far too hung up on a man who probably sees you as nothing more than a bit of fun to flirt with. 

You’re the first in the briefing room by a good half hour, but the time passes quickly as your thoughts spiral. Bob’s the next to arrive, and he gives you a polite smile before settling in with his travel mug and quietly watching videos on his phone. 

One by one, the rest of the squad filters in. 

“You know me, Coyote,” Jake’s voice rings out, smug and too loud as he strolls in with his wingman. “I’m a generous man. I can’t help myself.” 

You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you know it’s bullshit. 

You sink lower in your chair and roll your eyes, hoping he won’t see you. 

“Morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake calls as he drops into his usual seat just behind you. Then he leans in, his voice close to your ear. “What do we have here?” 

You don’t react. 

“Hangman,” Natasha warns flatly, “for once in your life, don’t be a dick.” 

“What?” he says, mock innocence dripping from every syllable. “Just trying to say good morning to our lovely tactical training specialist.” 

You glance at Natasha. She meets your eyes and offers a soft, apologetic smile—not that this idiot is any of her fault. 

“Good morning, aviators,” Maverick’s voice fills the room, and some of the nausea in your stomach eases. “How are we today?” 

There are a few mumbled responses—none from you—as he sets a stack of papers on the desk and powers up his laptop for the interactive display. He casts you a brief look and a small smile before returning to the task of setting up. 

Then another set of footsteps enters at the back of the room, and you can’t help but turn. 

“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “Overslept.” 

Maverick nods as Bradley takes his seat. No one says anything—until Jake does. 

A low, sharp whistle. Then, into your ear again, “Guess getting locked in a closet’s the only way you’ll ever get Rooster to spend the night, huh?” 

That’s all it takes to make the rubber band snap. 

You’re on your feet in an instant, eyes narrowed, anger simmering beneath your skin like wildfire. You’re nauseous again—burning from the inside out. 

“What the fuck is your problem?!” you snap, louder than intended—but you don’t care. 

You’re angry. You’re humiliated. A week of jabs and insults from a man who doesn’t even know you, and now this, after falling for another man who apparently wants nothing to do with you. 

Jake chuckles, condescending as hell. “Woah, settle down. It was just a joke.” 

“You’re a fucking joke,” you bite back, voice low and steady—deadly. “You talk a big game, but the only thing you’ve mastered is flying straight and fast. You burn fuel and pull Gs like it’s a dick-measuring contest, but the second a manoeuvre requires restraint, finesse, or actual tactical thinking? You fall apart.” 

You lean in, eyes locked on his like a missile. “You’re sloppy in a merge, predictable in a climb, and your cross-checks are lazy as hell. You fly like you’re invincible—which might be fine in a video game, but up there? That gets people killed.” 

You pause, just long enough to see if Maverick will step in. He doesn’t. 

“You’re not untouchable, Seresin. You’re just loud.” 

Then you turn back to the front and drop into your seat, arms crossed, chest heaving as you take a few deep, centring breaths. 

A low snicker breaks the silence, followed by a quiet, impressed whisper: ‘Damn… take that, Bagman.’ You don’t turn around, but you don’t have to—Jake’s probably still blinking. Pride simmers in your chest, and despite your best efforts, a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. 

“Well then,” Maverick says, rubbing his palms together with a smirk. “Let’s get started.” 

The morning briefing goes better than usual, mainly because Jake is too embarrassed to pipe up with his usual bullshit. Maverick talks through today’s drills, outlining what he’s looking for in their flying. He also mentions that you'll be up in the air today, analysing their tactical skills and reviewing their performance once they’re back on the ground. He gives Jake a pointed look as he says this, and you can’t help but bite back a giggle. 

About an hour later, Maverick announces that it’s time to fly, and the team starts filing out of the room. Jake casts you a quick glance—not lethal, just a small warning. Somehow, his stupidly cocky grin is already back in place. 

When you reach the door, you realise that Bradley has lingered behind, falling into step beside you just as you exit the room. 

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he says, glancing at you with that small smirk beneath that damn moustache, the sight of which sends a warm ache straight to your lower belly. 

You offer him a clipped smile, a brief glance before looking back down, focusing on the movement of your boots. 

“Unless... I already am,” he adds, his voice a mixture of question and statement. 

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of Bradley’s eyes on you—watching, soft and thoughtful. 

“I mean,” he continues, hesitating for a moment with a soft chuckle. “I know I should have called or something, especially after waking you up with my dick, but... I was honestly spent last night. Barely made it home before crashing out. But, if you’ll let me, I’d like to... you know... wake you up with my dick in a way that’s more enjoyable for the both of us?” 

You can’t help the grin that breaks across your face, a soft laugh slipping out before you can catch it. When you turn to look at him, his smile is sheepish and flushed, impossibly endearing, with a laugh hovering just behind it. His brown eyes are shining, warm and full of something that makes your chest ache—something you know is written all over your own face too. 

And damn. If this isn’t the man you’re supposed to spend your life with, you know you’ll be spending it alone. 

“Yeah, alright,” you sigh, feigning indifference. “I’ll allow it.” 

“Allow it?” he echoes, his voice rich with laughter. “Wow. I’m a lucky guy.” 

Warmth spreads through your whole body as the two of you continue into the hangar. You feel like you’re standing next to the sun—but it’s not burning you. It’s keeping you warm, keeping you alive. 

You can’t help glancing at him every few seconds, even while Maverick shouts instructions and assigns the first flyers. You find it hard to tear yourself away from Bradley when you’re called to your jet, waiting for ground crew instructions. Your mind is foggy with thoughts of him: his eyes, his smile, the little laugh he lets out, and that adorable crease between his brows when he’s confused or offended. 

Fuck. You’re so gone. You haven’t even kissed him yet, and it might kill you when you do. 

At least you’ll die happy. 

When the jet starts to rumble and your hands move over the controls, you pull your thoughts in. You focus on the here and now—the cockpit, the sky, the mission. Even the idea of flying like a grandma all day doesn’t kill your mood. Because you’ll see Bradley when you're back on the ground, and that’s enough to keep you grinning like an idiot behind your oxygen mask. 

The sky is clear—perfect flying weather—and the wind is barely a whisper. You feel like a horse champing at the bit, waiting for the gate to open. But that’s not what you’re here for. So you settle, banking slow beneath where you know Maverick is flying, waiting for instruction. 

“All right,” Maverick says, his voice crackling over comms. “Hangman, you’re mission lead. Payback, Fanboy, don’t let your wingman down. Fly the profile in your system. Deviate, and you’d better have a damn good reason. Watch for enemy aircraft.” 

“Sorry, Mav, my comms are a little fuzzy,” Jake replies. “Did you say enemy or grandma? ’Cause from where I’m flying, I can only see a Honda Civic.” 

Maverick’s irritation bleeds into his voice. “I’m the enemy aircraft, Hangman. Watch out for me. Our tactical specialist will be monitoring, and you can explain your mistakes to her when you’re back on the ground.” 

“I don’t make mistakes,” Jake says, that smirk practically audible. 

“We’ll see about that,” Maverick shoots back. 

You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath and tamping down the irritation rising in your chest. 

The others take off, and you track them—eyes sharp on the HUD and the sky. Maverick is flawless. And unfortunately, so is Jake. He’s a damn good pilot. Cocky, but predictable. You already know what he’s going to try next. 

The drill plays out. You listen to the comm chatter as you stay low and out of the way, observing. The team gives Maverick a decent run for his money, nearly finishing the nav route before he takes out Reuben and Mickey. Jake claims victory anyway—but Maverick shuts him down fast. 

“Fail,” he says. “Your wingman’s dead. Put the cocky bravado away, I’m done with it.” 

You’ve never heard Maverick so sharp. He actually sounds like a CO—calm, stern, commanding—as he orders everyone back to base. 

You keep low, banking through a few fluffy clouds, weaving like you’re bored. But your eyes stay trained, watching Jake flying just above, at your six. 

“Hey, tactical specialist,” Jake’s voice cuts in. “Just watching your cross-checks from up here. I can practically see the superiority from miles away.” 

You bite your tongue, suppressing the sarcastic retort clawing at your throat. 

He adds, “Oh wait. Nope. That’s just your nose in the air.” 

You roll your eyes and surge forward, jaw tight. 

“That’s it,” Maverick says, voice stern. “Back to the nav route. Now. You’re flying it again. And I’m not the enemy this time.” 

Jake snorts. “Mav, come on. You’re really gonna embarrass her like this?” 

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Maverick snaps. “Follow your orders. Stick to your waypoints. And good luck.” 

The way he says those last two words makes your pulse spike. Adrenaline kicks in, fast and sharp. 

Your limbs feel light. Your chest is buzzing. Your breath hitches, and a wicked smile spreads beneath your mask. 

“Alright,” Jake drawls, still clueless. “Come on, boys. Let’s show this Honda Civic how real men fly.” 

You’re practically vibrating now. Locked in. Focused. You follow the others back to the route—Maverick hangs back. You’re a bull in the chute, about to blow the gate. You’re going to kick this cowboy into the dust. 

All you need is the green light. The words. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Grandma,” Jake says, smug as ever. 

You take a breath. Narrow your gaze. 

You’re not just going to shoot them down. That’s too easy. You’re going to humiliate them. Drag it out. Make them suffer before they burn. 

Then Maverick speaks—low and clear, straight in your ear. A spark struck to gasoline. 

“Flip the switch, Jinx.” 

You’re gone before they can take their next breath. 

They can’t see you. You know it. You’re good at disappearing. Now you wait—watching from the shadows, letting them scramble. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben mutters, disbelief thick in his voice. 

“Who the hell is Jinx?” Jake asks, a beat behind. 

Reuben groans. “She is, idiot.” 

“Wait—where have I heard that before?” Mickey pipes up. 

“Jinx is the pilot Admiral Cain just grounded,” Reuben replies, his tone shifting fast toward panic. “Fastest low-level flyby of an aircraft carrier—barely two feet from the deck. And she’s the highest-scoring TOPGUN grad in twenty years. She’s fucking legendary.” 

“No,” Jake breathes, full of denial. “No, she’s not Jinx. She can’t be.” 

“You just had to run your fucking mouth, didn’t you?” Reuben says, voice deadpan with defeat. 

“Oh, we’re fucked,” Mickey declares. 

You slip beneath them like a shadow—silent, smooth—so close you could kiss their undercarriage with your canopy. But you don’t rush. You wait. Calculating. Cold. Planning the most humiliating move you can pull. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to dominate. 

“Payback,” Jake says, still cocky, still smug. “You’ve got a shadow on your six.” 

“What?” Reuben’s voice spikes. “Where the hell is she? Fanboy, talk to me.” 

“Negative radar contact,” Mickey answers. “I don’t see anything.” 

You throttle back just enough to hover beneath them, then slide up—then down again—dancing through their blind spots like smoke in a breeze. 

“Hangman,” Reuben snaps, panic rising, “get her off us.” 

“Relax, Payback,” Jake drawls. “I’ve got eyes on her. She’s not as good as she thinks.” 

You breathe deep—steady, focused. The smile on your face is razor sharp. 

“Alright, Hangman,” you murmur, voice low and lethal. “Want to see how a real man flies?” 

You yank the stick back and rocket toward the sun—fast, blinding, gone. They lose you instantly. 

“Where’d she go?” Jake barks. “Fanboy, where the hell did she go?” 

“She’s too fast,” Mickey replies, frantic. “She’s over—wait—no, she’s—shit. I can’t get a lock!” 

Leveling out, you catch a glint of sunlight off a wing at two o’clock—Jake, hanging wide. Sloppy. 

You grin and dive—clean, silent, deadly. 

Back behind Payback and Fanboy, you slip into their six like a phantom. One breath. Then you float up, nose aligned perfectly. 

“Boo,” you whisper. 

“Shit!” Mickey yells. “She’s on us!” 

“Break, break, break!” Reuben shouts, yanking the stick. But you’re tighter than their turns, reading every move. Mickey’s calling positions, but it’s useless—you’re already there. 

Tone lock. Missile fired. 

“Damn it!” Reuben groans. 

You peel away quickly, climbing high and vanishing back into the sun. 

Then you wait. 

Jake’s climbing now, banking, twisting. Scanning. You can feel it—his nerves crackling across the sky. You disappeared, struck, and disappeared again. And now it’s just him. No backup. No noise. Just the slow, sinking realisation. 

“Where the hell is she now?” he snaps. 

“She’s hunting you,” Mickey says, voice laced with amusement. 

Jake loops, banks, scans his six. He’s getting desperate. But it’s too late—you’re already behind him, tracking every flick of his wings like you're inside the cockpit. 

Then you dive. 

Fast. Precise. Dead-on. 

He doesn’t even hear the tone until it screams. 

“Splash two, Hangman,” you say, smooth as silk, smug as sin. 

“Fuck!” he barks, pulling hard. 

You stick with him and surge upward, wings slicing through a cloudbank. Then you roll cleanly inverted—and drop. 

You hover over his jet, canopy to canopy, just feet apart. Perfect. Effortless. Deadly. 

Jake looks up. 

And you salute him—with one elegant, deliberate middle finger. 

“No fucking way,” he mutters, eyes wide. 

“Mission failed,” Maverick says, the smile audible in his voice. “Nice work, Jinx.” 

You right your jet, throttle back with surgical control, and leave Jake spinning in your jet wash—stunned, smoked, and thoroughly outflown. 

The comms are silent on the way back to base, and you can’t stop grinning behind your mask. Your cheeks are starting to ache. You feel like a caged bird finally stretching its wings. Like yourself again—confident, alive—and almost as smug as Jake probably feels every morning when he looks in the mirror at his stupid, pretty-boy face. 

Then Reuben’s voice crackles through your headset. “Is it true you once locked three bogeys in a single sweep during a TOPGUN exercise?” 

You laugh, quiet enough that your mic doesn’t catch it. “Yeah. Second fly drill. Some guy was running his mouth, so I unleashed hell. Got an earful for it, though—reckless flying and all.” 

Feeling a little cocky, you bank up beside their jet, then roll cleanly over—canopy to canopy. You give them a polite little wave before settling beneath them, then punch the throttle and streak ahead toward base. 

“Dude,” Mickey says, awestruck, “I think I’m in love.” 

You grin and surge forward, barrelling up beside Maverick. You sweep past him—closer than regulation, jostling his jet just enough to rattle him. His laughter fills your headset as you rocket ahead, heart pounding as he closes in behind you. 

You chase each other through the sky in a tame game of cat and mouse until it's time to land. Following instructions from the ground crew, you ease into a holding pattern, waiting your turn to descend. 

It’s not long before you’re popping the canopy and tearing off your helmet, still grinning as you climb out of the jet and drop to the tarmac—light on your feet and high on adrenaline. 

“Holy shit!” Natasha storms toward you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “You—you’re Jinx! I can’t believe—oh my God.” 

Bob is right behind her. “You pulled a Cobra manoeuvre during a mock dogfight at a showcase event to evade missile lock. I was there.” 

Laughter bubbles from your lips, heat blooming in your cheeks as the squad quickly surrounds you. 

Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. “The navy hasn’t seen a pilot like you since-” 

“Me,” Maverick cuts in, stepping up beside you with his helmet tucked under his arm. 

You glance at him, noting the proud grin on his face, before turning back to the others. Natasha and Bob are front and centre, Javy just behind them, with Reuben and Mickey lingering in the back, still wearing their helmets. But you don’t see Bradley. 

“Listen up,” Maverick says, his tone turning serious. “As most of you know, Jinx was grounded for a particularly dangerous stunt—well, she should be grounded. Admiral Simpson agreed to let her fly on the condition that only need-to-know personnel are made aware of her identity. I’ve just made you all need-to-know. Now you have to prove you can be trusted with that.” 

Jake steps forward, falling in beside Natasha, his expression unreadable. You and Maverick both turn toward him, and your stomach twists. If he wanted to, he could unravel everything. 

Jake meets your eyes, and for the first time, there’s nothing but sincerity behind his. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re... you’re fucking amazing.” 

A grin breaks across his face—and yours follows. The squad erupts in cheers as Maverick claps a hand on your shoulder. You offer Jake a fist bump, and he accepts it with a laugh. 

“You know,” he says, that cocky smirk firmly back in place, “if it doesn’t work out with Rooster, I’m always-” 

“That’s enough, Hangman,” Bradley cuts in, dropping a hand on Jake’s shoulder and nudging him aside. 

You giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush. Your cheeks are on fire, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. 

Bradley turns to you. “Hey.” 

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking on his stupidly handsome face. “Hi.” 

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his own cheeks tinged red. “That was—uh, you’re even cooler than I thought.” 

You snort, unladylike and unbothered. “That so?” 

He nods and steps closer, just a few inches between your boots. 

“Does that intimidate you?” you tease. 

He laughs again and glances up, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath that sun-kissed skin. The world falls away—it’s just the two of you now, the rest of the squad, watching and waiting, have all but disappeared. 

“No,” he says, eyes back on you. “It kinda turns me on.” 

You don’t think. You just move. 

Your hand slides up the front of his flight suit, fingers curling into his collar as you tug him down before he can say another word. 

And then you kiss him. 

It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all the tension, the smart-ass remarks, the stolen glances and breathless moments that led to this. 

You rise onto your toes and his hands catch your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth claims yours like a promise, like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. And when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips, you don’t hesitate—you part for him, and it’s like striking a match. 

There’s laughter in the background, noise and movement, but it all fades beneath the roar of your pulse and the heat of his mouth. All you can feel is him—his body, his breath, his hands. You want the flight suits gone, burned, anything that dares keep him from you reduced to ash. 

It takes everything you have not to absolutely devour him right there on the tarmac. But you’re still at work. And people are watching. 

So you part—eventually—grinning like idiots and panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile in full gear. 

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters from somewhere behind Bradley. “Even I’m hot and bothered after that.” 

“All right, you two,” Maverick chuckles. “Save it for the supply closet.” 

You roll your eyes and drop back onto your heels, shooting him your best unimpressed glare—which, admittedly, isn’t very convincing when you’re high on adrenaline and kissing Bradley Bradshaw. 

“We’re never living that down, are we?” 

“No,” Maverick replies with a grin. “Never.” 

You groan and turn back toward Bradley, letting your forehead fall against his chest. 

“I’m still not convinced you two didn’t fuck in there,” Jake says, striding past toward the briefing room. 

A chorus of half-laughs and agreement follows him. 

Bradley’s chest shakes with laughter beneath your cheek, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. 

“If they’re going to assume we did it in there,” he murmurs, just for you, “maybe we should just go do it in there.” 

You glance up at him, eyes flicking to his mouth, already picturing that stupidly hot moustache between your thighs. 

“Don’t fucking tempt me.” 

He laughs again and drops his hand to yours, fingers tangling as he tugs you toward the briefing room. Your eyes fall to his ass—shameless, hungry—watching the way it moves with each step just ahead of you. Teasing. Taunting. 

Being assigned to Maverick’s special detachment isn’t your punishment. Flying like Jake’s grandma in her Honda Civic isn’t your punishment either. No—the real punishment is spending ten hours a day, five days a week with Bradley fucking Bradshaw, pretending to be professional. Just waiting for the evenings when you can drag him to bed and completely, unapologetically devour him. 

END.

[alliwritespuck]

Afterglow [Will Smith]

𓂁 Summary: After a fight ensues between you and Will, you’re quick to learn that his anger and frustration is driven by a deep-rooted insecurity, and he just wants you to tell him that it’s alright

𓂁 Warnings: cursing, fighting

𓂁 Word count: 1.6k

﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏

The fight was inevitable. And you didn’t like that. Not one bit.

The Sharks, while not in the best position in their division, conference, or the league, a playoff spot was possible. Not by much, but if by some miracle they win the rest of their games and do well, they could clinch a playoff spot. But the chances of that happening were slim to none.

And Will.

Well, Will didn’t know how to handle all of the pressure. The pressure of only having one year of college under his belt and then signing his ELC. The pressure of performing well when he knew he could very easily be sent down to the AHL. The pressure of being compared to players he wasn’t.

Sure, he had been doing well since January, getting at least one point every game. But there was still that lingering, nagging feeling in the back of his mind.

That he wasn’t good enough.

He wasn’t Macklin. He wasn’t William. He didn’t compare. He wasn’t them, and that was his fatal flaw.

At least that was what he thought.

The door to your apartment slammed shut, the harsh sound shaking the walls. The loud thud of the hockey bag landing on the floor. The sound of shoes squeaking against the tile as he took them off. He was eerily quiet. Too quiet. And that was even worse.

“Hey, hun. How was practice?” you ask, standing over the stove, making dinner for the both of you. A simple chipotle chicken pasta, easy to make, but full of protein and carbs for him for his game tomorrow night.

“It was fine,” he says, response short and clipped. That should have been your first clue that something was off. Usually, he was talking your ear off. Mack said this, Toff did that. Delly wants to go golfing on our next break. Sharkie played a prank and we answered a question for a TikTok. You usually couldn’t get him to shut up.

“Are you okay?” you ask, testing the waters. If something was wrong, letting it fester and sit, bottled up in Will’s mind wouldn’t help.

“I’m fine, Y/N. Just drop it,” he says, finally snapping. He doesn’t continue, he just walks out of the kitchen and into the living room. You hear the TV come to life, some show playing, filling the once quiet apartment with the noises of reality TV.

As you finish dinner, you tentatively walk into the living room to tell Will.

“Will. Dinner’s ready,” you say, not saying a word more than necessary.

He walks into the kitchen again, sitting at the fixed dinner plate on the side of the island. You stand across from him, but on the other side of the kitchen, keeping your distance. You didn’t want to fight. And you knew if you ask more questions, continue to press, it would end up in a fight.

“Come sit down,” Will says. His nonchalance and easy-going tone makes you question his earlier mood. The switch was unexpected, and while it confused you, it put you more on edge than you already were.

“I’m okay over here,” you say, voice quiet. You didn’t want to push him, knowing that sometimes that could make it worse, or could make him totally spiral into a fit of anxiety.

“What, are you scared of me now?” he asks, and you’re kind of shocked. Scared, no. Careful of what to say? Yes. You haven’t seen him like this before. And you didn’t want to say the wrong thing.

“No. I’m just eating over here,” you say, pleading with whatever, whoever could hear you that he would just simmer down a little.

“Y/N, just come eat over here.”

“I’m fine over here, Will. Just eat.”

“So I’m not good enough for you to sit next to me to eat?” he asks incredulously. Now you feel you might need to say something because you had no idea where that was coming from.

“No, that’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant, right?”

“Will, what’s wrong? I tried just dropping it but something’s wrong. You never act like this,” you say, setting your plate on the counter.

“Nothing is wrong Y/N. I’m just tired from practice. It’s been a long week,” he says, fork clashing against the plate. His anger, while not unusual, was seemingly different than any anger of his you’ve experienced before. You didn’t know how to go forward. What could you say, do, to stop him from whatever was going on with him?

“Bullshit, Will,” you say. You may not want to fight, but if he wanted to, you would.

“What the hell is your problem?” Will’s chair screeches across the floor as he stands up.

“My problem? What the hell is your problem, Will? I have felt like I’m walking on eggshells tonight because you’re in a pissy mood. Now will you tell me what is wrong?”

“No. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Oh my gosh, Will. You’re being ridiculous,” you say, eyes rolling as you turn back to your food. You’re trying to remain calm, trying to keep your anger under control. Because his anger was one thing, yours was a culmination of a million different things. It was different entirely. And that would not make things any better.

“Well then leave me if you think I’m so ridiculous!”

“It’s my apartment! But that’s not what I want! I want you to tell me what’s wrong!”

“No, you should! Go be with someone who doesn’t play like shit, who isn’t benched, who is a lot better than me!”

“I don’t want someone else, Will,” you try to say, but Will doesn’t want to hear it. He cuts you off before you can say anything more.

“Go be with someone like Mack!”

It clicks. Everything clicks. You’ve seen what people say. What people think. Saying that he isn’t Macklin and should be sent down to the AHL. That he should’ve spent another year at BC. You’ve seen all sorts of comments from nobodies that can barely understand hockey, let alone play in the NHL. You knew these things, had seen them being said. But it never occurred to you that it was affecting Will. And you felt like shit for not noticing just how deep he was in everything.

Despite this, you knew that it wasn’t true. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. You knew Will.

You only want him, and it hurts that he’d think you didn’t.

“I don’t want Mack, I want you!” you shout, and everything goes quiet. Will’s tirade ceases, and you two are left standing there. You could hear a pin drop. It’s silent, neither of you knowing how to proceed next.

The sound of the TV still playing from the living room makes it less awkward. You shift on your feet, suddenly feeling out of place in your own apartment. This was new territory for you.

“What?” Will asks, voice broken, quiet. And your heart breaks. He believes you want someone else. That he isn’t good enough for you. That he treats you like the other guys before him. That he doesn’t deserve you.

“Why would you think I want Mack?” you ask, making hesitant steps toward him.

“Everyone says I’m not Mack.”

“But you’re not. You’re Will. And that’s just as good. That’s better than Mack. I want you, Will. And I want you for you. I don’t want someone else,” you say, finally coming to stand in front of him.

“You mean it?”

“I do. I don’t care if you’re a good hockey player or not. It’s a bonus, for sure, but that’s not why I love you. Your performance in a game doesn't determine the amount of love I have for you. The wins and losses don’t determine how much I love you. I won’t love you any less for failing, Will. You’re human. I’d be more surprised if you didn’t fail. I love you for the way you treat me, the man that you are. I don’t care what everyone else says because I get to see the Will that they don’t. The sweet, shy, absolutely loving William Smith that I get to call mine,” you say, arms looping over his shoulders. “I love you, and no hockey game, no social media critic, no other man is ever going to change that.”

As you finish your monologue, you see the tear land on his cheek. And as quickly as it fell, you wipe it off with your thumb just as quickly.

“I love you too. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you. Please don’t yell at me, and please don’t shut me out. I’m here for everything. The ups, the downs, and the everywhere in betweens. If something’s bothering you, I want you to trust me enough to talk to me.”

“I do trust you. I don’t know what happened. I just got in my head, thinking that everyone was right. I love you. So much.”

“I love you too, Will,” you say again, moving your hands to cup his cheeks, wiping any lingering stray tears.

You look him in the eyes, his all bloodshot but swimming with a hopeful glint. You pull him closer, placing your lips softly on his. The unspoken words flow into the kiss, ones that were too vulnerable to ever be spoken, saying everything he couldn’t bare himself to speak.

You felt the desperation, the longing need, the insecurities Will held onto for what seemed to be far too long. He kissed you like his life depended on it.

And when you pull away, his eyes look a little brighter, and a small smile starts to form on his face.

“Are we okay? Tell me we're alright,” he asks, pleads quietly.

“Yeah, baby, we’re good,” you say. And you were.

It may take a while for him to be completely willing to talk to you when he feels down, but you would remain here, by his side, waiting for when he finally could.

﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏

alliwritespuck © 2025

Do not copy, translate, or repost my work as your own

[unholyhelbig]

please please please mary x reader

Title: I Miss the Way Things Used to Be [18+]

Part One | Part Two| Main Masterlist

Ship: Female!Reader x Mary (Sinners 2025)

Summary: It's been twenty years since you've fallen out with Mary, the same woman that changed you all that time ago. Though you're not shocked to see her, you miss her more than you're willing to admit.

Dt💕: @luciferdidwhat, @thinking1bee

Warnings: Blood, biting, cannon-typical violence, pet names (Darling, sweet girl, all the fun southern dialects), Grinding/ dry humping (Mary Recieving), slight dom/sub tones, use of good girl, blood drinking, implied death, mentions of murder, funeral, angst, drinking, and horrible grammar, I don't proofread.

[A/n: Alright, I'll admit it, I've got Mary brainrot. I'm going to see the movie again tomorrow night with some friends, and I'll have the keep the secret that I write about this woman to dicking me down! Let me know what you think!]

The café was open later than it used to be in the 40’s. It had taken over the bookstore when physical media went out of fashion, somewhere along the line changing from leather-bound books to something that held the knowledge of the world behind a device that sat heavy on a desk. You prided yourself on staying current- up with the times, but something that would never change was the ache you felt in the pit of your stomach each time you saw the everchanging storefront of Monarch.

They’d kept the name, at least. A homage to the rich history of the city. The apartment you used to share with Kate had been turned into offices in the 80’s when renting on the block had become too steep for anyone but the owners of the brownstone, but the windows stayed the same. The exterior and the floors and the walls were all the same. Built to last.

The light fixtures had been updated to something modern and sleek. Bursts of dark roast filled your lungs and hints of floral white tea curled around you. Music played from a boombox behind the counter. Something soft and languid.

You ordered a black coffee for the simple fact of wanting to feel something warm in your stomach, something human, and settled in a booth by the windows. The edges were frosted from the temperature change. The script against the glass was preserved by the historical society. A woman you’d never had the pleasure of meeting named Lisa had hand-painted it, according to legend.

You breathed in the oaky, spiced scent of the blend. Despite the lack of books in this place, you had to admit that they offered up a good drink. More than that, it opened up a moment of peace in the Mississippi Delta that was always evaded.

The bitter drink never touched your lips. You set it down and slowly opened your eyes to the occupied seat across from you. There was no jolt of anxiety that skyrocketed through you, no, not with this one.

She’d been following you for days. Keeping her distance with her hands deep in her pockets and her head ducked as if you would actually turn around and nail her with a stare. You went about your business because there was nothing else to do.

Instead, you’d leveled her with an unimpressed stare and leaned back into the plush of the booth. The silence tumbled in the empty vacuum of space that rested between you both. Neither wanting to acknowledge how close you were to a treasure of memories just a floor above.

Mary.

She wore a leather jacket like a second skin, open to a black t-shirt that hugged her figure. Her hair was longer, pushed to the side. A dark swath of makeup lined her eyes. She was admittedly stunning. 1990 was treating her well. A little too well for your liking. The moisture was effectively zapped from your mouth.

You’d taken on a clean-cut look yourself. A sweater to combat the cold, or to at least keep up the appearance of such. Something soft and classic and a mix of neutrals that fit you just fine in Boston but made you stand out here. You ached for the cobblestone and the red ivy, and the constant flow of rain. Even in the dead of winter, the heat was too startling here.

“When I heard you were back in town, I thought, there was no way.” She leaned forward, taking your mug from the neutral ground and taking a long, slow sip. Her lips left a red tint behind on the rim. “Because my girl? No, my girl wouldn’t walk the streets of Mississippi without lettin’ me know she was here.”

You swallowed back a groan at her antic, instead clenching your jaw and lifting your eyebrow. She was livid. Despite the calm rasp to her voice, there was anger lingering just beyond the brewing storm.

“But here you are, enjoying a cup of coffee at the Monarch of all places.” She lowered her voice to a hush “Does it bring back memories for you? Make you uncomfortable?”

A long sigh escaped you as you picked up the mug and placed your mouth over the same spot Mary had, enveloping the pink stain with your lips and gulping down the scalding liquid, not pulling your eyes away from hers. An act of defiance that rivaled the warmth in your stomach.

“I’m not here for you. I’m here out of respect for Sammie.”

Her face softened at this, but only for a moment. “Could’ve sent a letter.”

“To whom? His cello player? She stopped responding to me the second she found out I had anything to do with the likes of you and Stack. Doesn’t matter how close Sammie and I became. What happened that night was none of my business and never will be, but it’s hers.”

“The Cello player?”

“Don’t get any ideas.”

She scoffed at you but didn’t correct you in her line of thinking. You saw it in the deep brown of her eyes, wondered if they flickered a deep scarlet now, not the same blinding and kind white that you’d known. As kind as she could be.

The context weighed heavily on you both. Preacher Boy was the last connection to Mary’s life before the sticky taste of blood was all she could remember. A tether that reminded her of the night at the Juke Joint all those years ago. The one person who had made it out with a pulse was about to be bones in the ground with the rest of them.

Your fingers twitched and you moved them to your lap, not figuring yourself strong enough to keep your hands away from hers in an act of learned comfort. It would be so easy to run your thumbs over her calloused knuckles. To hold her flush against you while she mourned the loss of a friend.

Over the scattered years, Mary would take you to see Sammie’s shows. He was a brilliant musician. He was past that, if you were being honest. Listening to him play was like swallowing a warm cup of tea, the bottom of the cup coated in melted hot honey. The first two decades, she’d grasp at your hand and pull you away before he could notice her presence. The third decade, she introduced you.

He was as kind as his lyrics. Even those who only listened to Preacher Boy Sammie sing, felt the waves of his death. A string on the devils fiddle snapped. The flames burned a little less hot, just for one day. Just to mourn the loss.

“I don’t want you here.” Mary said pointedly.

“You’re a real charmer, you know that? Twenty years and you still know how to flirt flawlessly.”

“This isn’t a joke, y/n.”

You took another sip of your coffee, taking in her stance over the rim of the cup. Mary flashed an expression that you’d only seen once before. Mary was scared. It tumbled away the second it appeared but it was there nonetheless. The same as it had been the night you decided you had had enough.

“What’s going on, Mary? Are you in some kinda trouble?”

“Trouble? No.” She shook her head, pursed her lips and averted her stare from your own as if she couldn’t tell a lie straight to your face. “No trouble, angel. Forgive me if I’d rather not see the woman who walked out on me when things got rough.”

“Rough? Mary, you were ripping through people left and right. I still have the newspaper clippings about the Delta Demon. You were out of control.”

“And you were a coward.”

You snapped your jaw shut, adjusting yourself against the vinyl seat. She watched you carefully as you stretched your arm over its length, shifting your ankle to your knee. Mary was deflective, an angry scrunch to her nose, admittedly adorable.

 “I might have been a coward, but I made you feel something all the same. Mary, you don’t think that was hard for me?” You swallowed the dryness in your throat, the bitter coat of coffee. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You gave me life and I had to walk away from the one we created together just to snap you out of it”

She stared at you silently, the low hum of music from behind the counter mixed with a steam exhale of the espresso machine. Both of you were so accustomed to the background grind of noise that constantly surrounded the air.

“Unless I didn’t and you’ve spent the last two decades slaughtering anything with a pulse and forgetting that we had something at all.”

“You’ve grown bold in Boston.” Mary leaned forward, the ghost of a smirk pulling her lips upward. “It’s fucking sexy.”

You weren’t exactly proud of yourself for your next actions, though, you were proud of the Monarch for having a bathroom door that locked not once, but twice. The chain slid into place easily. It was natural, much like the way Mary fit flush against your body.

You pushed her against the bathroom door, mouth hot on her own. It wasn’t a graceful kiss. It was hungry and desperate and tinged with the sour taste of coffee that was way too expensive for what it was. When she let out her first moan, swallowing the sound was a new brand of heaven.

Both of your hands were against her hips, holding her in place with a bruising grip. Mary moved to flip the two of you around, but you held firm, moving back and leveling her with an unimpressed stare. “Still have issues with control, huh?”

She growled deep in her chest “What do you think?”

You scoffed and returned your full attention to her, attaching your lips to her neck as if you were a starved animal. She let out a stuttered breath and tilted her head to the side, allowing you more access. The tips of your fingers grazed the warmth of her thighs, the hem of her jean skirt.

You placed your knee in between both of her legs, feeling the instant heat of her. You’d worked her up, wondered how long it had been since she felt a satisfying touch. She gasped and it bled into a stuttered moan.

“Mm, so sensitive.” You hummed against her skin, letting your fingers slide under her shirt, nails dragging against her toned stomach. “You’re so worked up, baby. So desperate.”

“Shut the hell up,” Mary pressed down to generate more pressure against her core, wasn’t quite satisfied “Stop teasing and fuck me, already.”

The chuckle escaped you naturally and infuriated her more, your other hand grasping her chin and angling it towards you, lips ghosting her own. “If you want to come so badly, why don’t you grind against me and fuck yourself?”

Mary’s hand splayed against your chest and a scoff left her. Though, her flushed cheeks and heavy pants gave her desperation away. You loved this look on her, felt a thrill from being in control. Having her under you after all these years.

“You can’t be serious, babydoll.” She whined, jutting out her lip in a pout. “That’s humiliating.”

“That’s the point.”

Mary swallowed hard, let her head thump against the door, but you felt her grind down all the same, her stuttered breath warming your collarbone. The sensation must have been satisfying enough because she did it again, back and forth, and then again.

Soon, Mary was bracing herself against your shoulders and falling apart on your tensed thigh. You felt her heat, her wetness, soak through the fabric of your pants. She fell forward and tucked her forehead into the small of your neck, breathed you in desperately.

“That’s it, sweetie, take what you want.”

You coaxed her easily, earned a grunt in return as you pressed her hips down, creating more tension. She was trembling now, so close. Her fingers curled into the fabric of your sweater as she picked up the pace, breaths rapid.

“You don’t have to fight it,” You whispered against the flushed color of her cheek. “Let yourself come undone like the desperate little slut that you are.”

Mary tensed against you, muffling her moan in the fabric of your shirt. You could feel the drool, the slick on your leg. She’d looped her arms around your midsection and held you close, closer than she had in years. You worked her through her high, even as she slowed her movements to a stop and breathed through her release.

She swallowed the dryness in her throat, nose cold against your pulse point and hands gripping you as if you were the only thing keeping her steady. If she weren’t so close, you wouldn’t have caught her words. “I don’t want you here.”

“No, you want me inside of you.” You shot back quickly, a flash of anger washing through you despite the fact that you didn’t want her to let you go. She made no move to. “Don’t get snarky because I made you work for something.”

She pushed her head against the door, a fucked-out expression on her face. “I work for plenty. You know how hard it is to keep my patience around you?”

“Mm, I don’t, but you can tell me.”

Mary let out a frustrated grumble and shoved you off her, pulling the bunched-up fabric of her skirt back down before crossing to the mirror to check her makeup. It had smudged from the tears that streaked her cheeks, left charcoal lines behind. You were thankful that the reflective surfaces were nothing but a myth.

“Fucking infuriating.” She dragged her finger against the pigment at the corner of her lip. “Eternity has made you a brat.”

You crossed your arms and leaned against the obnoxious puke green tiles. “Listen, I wasn’t lying when I said I was only here for Sammie. Stack called, asked if I would attend a memorial. I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

Mary’s eyes met your own in the reflection. Instead of disdain, there was sadness. A certain level of affection that rushed straight to your gut, reminded you of the old Mary. The Mary that was tangled up in the moonlight just upstairs, all limbs and love.

“Alright,” she murmured, “alright, I know. I just… didn’t want something like this to happen.”

“Some things are inevitable.”

She turned and faced you, her palms resting against the granite of the countertop. Hair fell into her stormy eyes. They were captivating, beautiful in a way that was inhuman, just as she had made you under her own volition all those years ago.

“Even if we’re stuck in one place, one age, one lifetime, the world moves around us just the same. Maybe it’s better to be forgotten.”

She let out an uneasy breath, white-knuckled the ledge. Her eyes still glowered darkly at you, but there was a softer, quieter edge to it. “How do you mean?”

Your body moved forward on your own volition, out of habit and not because you’d thought anything through. Most times, with Mary, you stopped thinking and let the energy edge through your veins instead. The pull made you hook your fingers into her belt loops and pull her against you. Mary didn’t resist. She melted against you instead, peered down with a petulant frown.

“Legacy is subjective, Mar.” you traced a finger against her jaw, so tender that she nuzzled against the inside of your wrist, the same routine that brought you to where you are now ghosted her breath against your pulse point. “The detective that’s after the Delta Demon will pass his hat to the next the second he retires, if you’re lucky. And the next.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? You worry so much about what people will remember of you. Of the mark you left behind when someone is right in front of you who would never dare forget.”

There was a tense silence between the both of you that seemed to drag on for a few seconds, or perhaps it was eternity. Her breath was hot on your lips. You could see the gold specks that pockmarked her iris’s, and it made you ache for the memory of the memory that was the sun.

A rushed knock at the door pulled the two of you apart, Mary’s discontented stare enough to burn a hole through the wood. You could hear the nervous heartbeat of the employee on the other side. She didn’t’ have to say anything for you to know that you’d spent much too long in here to be conspicuous.

But, then again, nothing about Mary ever was.

Time moved at an even pace when eternity was filled with routine. It had been easy enough to secure a job teaching night school, easier still to find a rhythm in teaching the basics to students who were searching for their GED’s, worn by the day and sleep mussed enough to listen without fail.

You leaned against the edge of the desk at the front of the small lecture hall, eyes languidly following along as one of the students read aloud through the dense paragraphs of the Grapes of Wrath.

Though you’d read John Stienbecks novel time and time again, and had assigned countless essays and subsequent tests to follow the content, you always found your mind drifting to the actual time in history. The sharp sting of dust in your eyes, and the heavy taste of dirt on your tongue. It had been easier to find a meal. Too easy, perhaps. The time pulled listlessly at your withering soul.

You’d glanced up when the door creaked open at the back of the room. It was silent, not stealing the focus of any of your students as one wrapped up a page and the other took over seamlessly, the timbre of their voice rusted with exhaustion and boredom.

She slipped into the seat at the very back, shrouded by a cloud of darkness. It was impossible for you not to clock everything in any room you stepped in. You were built like a predator, designed to hunt and kill and swallow people whole. Of course, Mary’s scent filled your lungs as easily, steeled them with longing all the same.

The rest of the class went by in a steady lull of reading, but you hardly paid attention. Not with dark eyes blinking at you behind shaded features. You swore you could catch the flash of something animalistic there, a flash of silver in her petit stare.

“Right, that’s enough for tonight.” You cleared your throat, prying yourself away from the desk and setting your worn copy down, the pages bent with love. “Make sure you come in on Thursday with chapter twenty read and analyzed. You know my office hours if you have any questions.”

You waved them off lazily, and they were more than ready to file out. Mary got a few stinted looks, but nothing of suspicion, nothing that weighed heavily on them the way that it rested on your own shoulders. Her mere presence, just three months after you’d fucked her against the door of the Monarch, was enough to root you in your place.

“Livin’ it wasn’t enough?” Her accent sounded out of place, but smooth and beautiful all the same. Mary stood, bundled in a coat thicker than you’d ever seen her in before. But, you supposed she was much out of her element. “You had to teach it too.”

“It’s in the curriculum. People never cease to be fascinated by suffering.”  

The irony was not lost on you, and by the flat look in Mary’s eyes, you figured she picked up on the same thing you did. The way the two of you gravitated towards one another despite the agony you both endured.

Her proximity alone made your stomach hot, goosebumps rising on your skin. You hadn’t seen her since Sammie’s funeral, only two weeks before. It was nothing compared to the twenty years that passed prior, but somehow, the ache ran deeper and rougher than before.

“What are you doing here, Mar?”

You went to your desk and started straightening paper that didn’t need to be straightened. Filed them away in a bag that was made of leather that carried a certain old and oiled smell. She allowed the desk to be a buffer, pressed her perfectly manicured fingers against it and watched you carefully.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said.” She paused, swallowed whatever dryness was in her throat. “it’s easy to forget yourself when you’ve lived for as long as I have. The nights, they blend together into a numbness that… that I was fighting hard to break. And killing, killing gave me that rush.”

You peered up at her. This was the first ounce of honesty you’d gotten out of her in a long time. A rush of warmth that came with words like I love you, you’re all I’ve ever needed, we have eternity together. Something you hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Something only your sire could provide. Mary stuttered a breath as if she felt it too.

“It was scary for you, wasn’t it?”

“Watching you spiral? Of course. You were the only love I had ever known, and you were slipping every day. What scared me more than anything is that I was ready to fall with you, Mary.” Your voice cracked, you covered it by clearing your throat, squeezing the bridge of your nose before meeting her steady stare, glossy with emotion. “I didn’t leave because I cared for you any less. I left because if I didn’t, we’d both be drenched in blood.”

Mary opened her mouth, closed it and opened it again before she thought better of it. The two of you stared at one another in an electrically charged heat. Even under the fluorescent lights of the classroom, she was stunning. A dangerous trap for you to fall directly into.

Finally, she spoke. “It woke me up, believing that I had disgusted you enough for you to leave. Stack had stayed, because Stack always stays but he wasn’t quiet about how much I’d fucked up by losin’ you. Pushing you away.”

She’d found your hand over the surface of the table, fingers a burst of comfort against your own. Out of reflex and desperation, you squeezed back, wanted to destroy the barrier that separated you, but held steady and strong.

“I knew you were too good for me the second I walked into your bar, and I still couldn’t stop myself. Even though I knew it was unfair to you, to pull you from the life you’d built for yourself. I needed to have you and then… shit, then I ruined it all and left you in my wake.”

You laughed sadly, pulling her hand up to your lips and laying a tender kiss to the base of her palm. “Believe it or not, Mary. My life does not hinder on your own. My happiness however, would improve greatly if I didn’t have to return home to an empty apartment and a dog that I think only tolerates me.”

“Are you asking me to stick around?”

“Maybe for a little while.” You gave her an easy smile. “If you’re up for it, that is.”

The smile that Mary wore was stunning. It bloomed across her features in a way that reminded you of spring rain, of what you remembered a day stretched on the lakeshore with the sun beating against your skin would feel like. Everything special you cherished from being human, and everything eternal you desired from being anything but.

Her lips were against your own, a tender kiss that was intimate in it’s delicacy. Her fingers traced your jaw, touching you as if you were glass. Fragile in the way that she’d made you. She tasted slightly of metal and citrus. But more than anything, she tasted of home.

[incendiobrock]

lonely, longing nights {chris sturniolo}

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

pairing(s): bf!chris x gf!reader

warning(s): sad, long distance relationship

summary: when chris is away on the surprise party tour you can’t help but miss him.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

the house was quiet.

deadly quiet. your boyfriend wasn’t there to crack any jokes, yell or bounce off the walls, or fill the space with his unmistakable laughter.

it was dark too.

the sun was long gone. the glow of the moon leaking through the window was the only source of light coming into the bedroom. it felt wrong.

you had no reason to feel this way.

at least that’s what you told yourself… over and over and over again. chris was out on tour with his brothers. he was meeting fans and doing what he loved.

your eyelids were heavy as you laid in the cold, empty bed. the time ticked by slowly as you waited for his call. the show had to be over soon and then you could hear his voice.

your gaze was locked on the window, looking at the moon as you answered his call.

“hi gorgeous, how was your day?” he asked excitedly, his voice emitting from the speaker with that unmistakable laugh, presumably caused by one of his brothers.

“it was good,” you answered a little too quickly “how was the show?”

“it was amazing! everything went perfectly and i got to reveal my surprise. you should’ve seen matt and nick’s face! holy shit it was the funniest thing i’ve ever seen! the way nick’s jaw dropped-“ chris recounted the entire show, the bright smile evident in just his voice over the phone.

“-yeah that’s nice babe.” your words interrupting his, something noticeably off in your tone. chris immediately faltered, his grip on the phone tightening slightly as he quickly brought it up to his ear, taking it off speaker.

“hey, you okay? what’s wrong?” his voice now soft and worried.

“nothings wrong, just tired.” you replied, feeling too guilty to tell him the true reason. why would you make him feel bad about being away on tour?

“…are you sure? it sounds like you’re upset..” he said cautiously, beginning to pace slightly inside the tour bus.

“i think i should go to bed. it’s late here, y’know?” the edge in your voice instantly bringing you the feeling of regret.

“…yeah, uh, okay… i love you so much, sleep well, alright? i’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

“mhm, love you.” you mumbled in response before quickly cutting the line. your eyes stung as they welled up with all the tears you had managed to hold back throughout the day.

sinking into the mattress you welcomed the tears.

who knew that a tour could feel so lonely?

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

it is 2am rn i should be asleep but i'm high on the buzz from reading literally everything you've written with her so i'm doing something i've never before and asking: Furina confession?

also, again, love the writing, tumblr one-shot writers truly make the world... something idk i need to sleep

(Genshin Impact) Furina Confessing to Reader

I exist because content for the girls does not (or at least anything recent besides myself and others I can count on like one hand. On tumblr anyway, on AO3, BOY IS THAT A LOT OF SMUT)

Furina stood in the mirror, staring at herself and taking a deep breath.

Right now, she was in nothing more than a plain shirt and baggy pants since there was no home.

Her hair was also a bit disheveled, but appearances didn't matter right now!

Exhaling finally, Furina nodded to herself and recited her line.

(Furina) "(Y/N). I'm in love with you-!"

She elegantly gestured outwards with her hand, ready to go off on a mini-tangent, endlessly showering them with praise and dramatics...

...Until she sighed, shaking her head. Theatrics wouldn't do. This was something that deserved to come from her heart.

For the fat lot of good that was.

Furina slowly tapped her finger against the sink, eyes trailing down as her thoughts began to wander.

She had impersonated an Archon for centuries, performed in countless theater productions, faced the music of her people's judgement, and came out a new person, truly her own.

And yet, confessing to (Y/N) was up there in the most stressful of tasks.

They were one of the few people to treat Furina normally after the truth was revealed, and actively stuck around in her life after the fact much to her relief.

(Y/N) treated her as a friend, first and foremost, even when she was still under the guise of an Archon.

Any time spent with them caused her heart to race, and before she realized it, she fell head over heels for them.

And with the disaster looming over Fontaine averted, Furina could finally follow her heart.

And that terrified Furina to no end.

(Furina) "Ugh...! Focus! It shouldn't be that hard!"

Shaking her head again, she decided to leave the mirror and flop onto her bed, face first.

It wouldn't really help, but it'd at least just get her distracted. At least it would've, if she didn't hear a knock on her door.

Not bothering to check or remove her face from the mattress, a very muffled-

(Furina) "Who is it?"

Answered the knock.

(Y/N's Voice) "Furina. Are you okay? I can barely hear you!"

Furina quickly rolled onto her back and shot up straight like a bullet, eyes widening in surprise.

(Furina) "(Y/N)?! Oh, um! A moment, please! I'm not decent yet!"

She cursed her clothes that were still drying, rapidly darting left and right to see if any of her fancy dresses were ready!

Why was this happening now?! (Y/N) was supposed to meet up with her tomorrow!

(Y/N) "I just came by to drop off some food, I had leftovers and figured you would want some! I can leave if you-"

(Furina) "N-NO! Don't!"

After realizing that she said that a little too fast, she quickly cleared her throat and attempted to compose herself.

(Furina) "I wished to talk to you about something, actually!"

Realizing what she just said, she could hear her inner self screaming.

(Furina) WAITWAITWAIT! Maybe if I can say, later, I can have time to-

(Y/N) "May I come in now?"

(Furina) "Yes! You may-"

(Furina) WHY IN THE HELL DID YOU SAY YES?! (Also Furina) I DON'T KNOOOOOWWW!

(Y/N) entered the room, putting aside a picnic basket on her drawer, before turning to Furina with a smile.

(Y/N) "Hah, dress still in the dryer?"

(Furina) "Tch, unfortunately! Though, I was not expecting anyone to show up today either."

(Y/N) just smiled at that and sat on her bed, growing a little more serious.

(Y/N) "What did you wanna talk about?"

Furina's heart threatened to bust from her chest, but she did her best to calm it down and sat next to them, a respectable distance away as well.

Taking one last deep breath, she closed her eyes and turned to (Y/N), giving them a stare and speaking directly from her heart.

(Furina) "I bike you."

(Y/N) remained still, hands still in their lap, and a moment of silence passing between the two of them.

Furina clenched her fists, watching to see if (Y/N) would react in any negative way.

After what seemed like an eternity, (Y/N) finally gave their answer:

(Y/N) "...Bike?"

(Furina) "...Eh?"

(Y/N) "You bike me?"

(Furina) I MESSED UP?! NONONONOTHISCAN'TBEHAPPENINGHOWCOULDIHAVEFLUBBEDTHISUPSOBAD?!ICANNEVERFACETHEMAGAIN-

(Y/N) mercifully noticing her face turn bright red, only chuckled lightly before trying to help calm her down, by grabbing her hands and squeezing them.

It seemed to have worked as Furina was anchored back into the real world instead of her self-berating thoughts, (Y/N) smiling softly.

(Y/N) "Do you want to try that again?"

With how carefully Furina's hands were being held, she was confused.

Did they...Return her feelings?

The way they were smiling, the way their eyes seemed to glow with affection.

A small smidge of confidence coming back to her, she again steeled herself and spoke slowly.

(Furina) "I like you, (Y/N). You mean more to me than just a friend. You have been by my side for all these years, and have never stepped away, no matter what came. Will...you continue to do so?'

Not knowing her heart could beat even faster, she saw (Y/N) nod, moving closer to close the gap.

(Y/N) "I'd love nothing more, if you'd have me."

The corner of Furina's eyes were pricked with tears, Furina immediately going in for a hug, one that (Y/N) happily reciprocated.

After a far too brief dozen or so seconds, they pulled back and just smiled at each other. Until (Y/N) spoke.

(Y/N) "I came in while you were practicing to say that, didn't I?"

Furina stammered, quickly pouting while her blush gave her away.

(Furina) "I didn't need to practice! I just needed to speak from the heart is all!"

(Y/N) "So bike is how you really feel about me then, huh?"

(Furina) "D-DON'T TEASE ME!"

Furina squeaked when (Y/N) embraced her again, though after a defiant moment, she sighed and returned their affection, the two saying nothing and staying like that for a little while longer.

Even if it wasn't the way she intended, at least it ended happily.

...Maybe this was a better way to convey her feelings anyway.

==

Bonus:

The panel that directly inspired the dialogue in this ask

A/N: I wasn't even gonna mention this last part, but my writer's integrity refuses to pass that bit off as original. Credit where credit is due, it's from an original Doujin called "The Show Must Go On!" by an artist named Chicken. I cannot link the source because it's AHEM, a spicy one, but nevertheless! I found it too cute to not utilize! And also because that absolutely seems something Furina would do.

[tkomptgoedluv]

revenge.

tear you apart pt.2

pt.1 here | pt.2

grumpycafeworkervampire! joost x f! reader

tags: dead dove do not eat, f! reader, internetcafe & vampire au, reader doesn’t know how to cope very well, joost’s heart is too big for his body, they’re both desperate to be the other one’s peace, so much hurt, possibly even more comfort, plenty of angst, all characters are dutch and speak in dutch but dialogue is written in english for obvious reasons.

word count: 8,490.

warnings: very detailed descriptions of blood and self harm, descriptions of an un-specific mental illness, semi-heavy stalking, breaking and entering, mentions of gore, brief mentions of violence + abuse, rpf.

notes: hello my lovelies <3 thank you so much for being so patient with this one! it’s not only the longest fic that i’ve ever written, but also genuinely my pride and absolute joy. i fear that i might not ever be able to top this one, actually, so please enjoy it! just keep in mind that this fic comes with a MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING.

also once again, a big big shoutout to my BABY @joosthead for putting up with me constantly asking her to check the doc every time that i added something. please go check out her work if you haven’t already — she’s got some mad shit coming 💋

── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──

you never really were too good at knowing when to stop, were you?

it’s always been easy for you to get lost in it, lost in the feeling of your old razor blades carving line after line into your skin. once you started, you just had to keep going until you physically couldn’t. not until you’d get too dizzy to focus, until you just couldn’t quite keep your grip tight enough on the razor anymore.

you never learned how to cope any other way; since you were fifteen, it had been your default. cutting yourself up whenever you started to feel too much, or whenever levi would push you too far. as a kid, it was more of a punishment but with him, it was your way of controlling all the pain that you felt.

that’s why you’d done it again, why it’s been the only thing that you’ve managed to do over the past five days or so. you were trying to control things, trying to come to terms with what you had seen and all the big feelings that came right along with it.

you’d spent so long wishing him away — daydreaming of all the terrible things that could happen so you’d finally be free of him. you never actually thought that it would happen, though. that you’d witness your own boyfriend get ripped apart limb from limb; devoured as if he was nothing more than a piece of meat.

you hated that some sick and twisted part of you deep down, missed him. that you just couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that he was gone now. and you hated that when it came to joost, you weren’t quite sure what you felt. for less than a fucking hour he’d been the closest thing to a friend that you’d had in years, but then he’d gone and done that and —

blood dripped down from your wrists, the tops of your arms, and your thighs, and onto the dirty white tiles of your bathroom floor. you’d never gotten this carried away before, and you had made such a mess of it. all the cleaning up would have to be done tomorrow because right now you doubted that you’d even be able to stand.

at least you weren’t feeling quite so much anymore; only the stinging of each and every single one of the fresh cuts. it all hurt, but it was a better thing to feel than the guilt that had kept you confined inside the walls of your own home for so long. you couldn’t help but wonder if you would die here, alone and bleeding on your bathroom floor, or if the police would find you before you’d get the chance to.

you’ve seen bits and pieces of what his friends had been saying online— knew that they wanted to report levi as a missing person now. you wondered how long it would be before the police would come for you, either looking for him or his killer. then again, you weren’t actually sure if there was even a body left behind for them to find.

finally, after god knows how many, you put the razor blade down. it clattered against the linoleum and laid still in one of the few small pools of your own blood. honestly, you were a little proud of what you had done to yourself, even though it still felt like it wasn’t enough. 

in a daze, you just sat there quietly as the time passed, as the blood slowly began to dry. you weren’t entirely sure of the time but it had to have been late from how dark it was outside. your phone was somewhere in your flat, having died a while ago after you neglected to charge it for a few days, but it’s time probably would’ve read something like one or two o’clock in the morning.

no one had been by to check on you, not that you had expected them to, especially not at a time like this, so you jumped when you heard a knock at your front door. silence rang out as you waited, too afraid to move, until you finally heard another one. only then did you get up.

it was with wobbly legs that you limped your way out of the bathroom and through your hallway, your heart hammering away inside your chest. you tried to peer out through your front room windows as you hobbled over to the door, certain that you’d see flashing blue lights or the silhouette of a police officer waiting for you on your doorstep.

but as you opened your front door just an inch, barely wide enough to peak your head around outside, all you saw was nothing. no cars going past, no people wandering by, nothing.

for just a moment, you could have laughed. because this was it now, surely; your breaking point. all that guilt, all of that paranoia — it was finally driving you mad. 

the old hinges of your door squeaked as you went to close it again, turning on your heels as you did so. you glanced up as one of the floorboard creaked from behind you, the gloss in your eyes only slightly blurring the sight of him standing right there, somehow.

you went to scream, a high pitched, blood-curdling shriek right on the rip of your tongue when his hand came up to cup your mouth shut. he knocked you back into the door, slamming it shut as his entire body weight came down to have you pinned against it. you could feel just how hard he was shaking as he held you there, see how those big, panicked eyes of his were flickering between blue and red.

“no no no, please, please don’t scream. i’m not gonna hurt you.”

joost was frantic as he spoke, almost choking on each of his words, begging for you to keep quiet. no matter how desperately you were trying to fight against him, your nails clawing at his chest through his shirt as you fought to get him off of you, you weren’t going anywhere. the more that you struggled, the harder his grip on you got.

you had no way of knowing it yet, but this was killing him. seeing you so small like this, crying out, sobbing, against his hand as you used what little strength you had left to try and push him away — it was undoubtedly going to haunt him. 

he knew that he shouldn't be here, not really. he shouldn’t know where you live, shouldn’t have followed you home that one night a couple months ago. it was just that there had been an attack in your city that week; some poor girl found dead in an alleyway, all bloody and beaten, barely clothed. he’d already had your routine memorised by then, so he knew that you’d be making your way back from the cafe alone, in the middle of the night.

joost had just wanted to protect you, he’d just wanted to make sure that you weren’t about to become the next headline in the local newspaper. at least, that was what he had told himself as he’d stayed hidden away in the shadows, his head down low and hood pulled up as he’d ‘escorted’ you home without you ever knowing it.

sure, it had definitely crossed some lines, him sneaking out of the cafe’s back door after you’d left that night to follow you, but the alternative was worse, right?

that’s what all this came down to, really. his insatiable need to know that you were safe. because last week, you’d ran from him that night with marks on your arm that your boyfriend hadn’t been the one to put there. and you’d ran from him, no less, scared out of your mind at the mere sight of him as he’d stood there pleading with you to stay.

and joost couldn’t stand that.

everyone else could view him as a monster and treat him as such, but not you.

never you. 

that was the only reason why he’d ended up on your doorstep tonight. he needed to know that you were okay, that you were still alive, and that you understood that what he had done to levi, he would never, ever, do to you. 

it was never his plan to ‘invite’ himself in the way that he had. he was going to knock on your door and wait for you to answer it, and he was prepared to spend the rest of the night out there, reasoning with you to just hear him out if he had to. and if by the end of it all you were to still cast him out with the promise of never wanting to see him again, he’d find a way to live with it. just as long as you’d be okay; he’d live with it.

it was never his plan to get to the top of your street and already be able to smell it. the thick, sweet, iron-heavy smell of your blood already so strong that he was gagging by the time he made it to your doorstep. hunched over and heaving, he’d stumbled up to your front door, forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths through his mouth before finally knocking. it took everything in him, every little last bit of willpower, not to turn right then and there.

“lieverd, it’s okay. i promise it’s okay; i’m just here to talk. you…you don’t have to fight me.”

even as you were still thrashing, joost leant down to rest his forehead against yours. his eyes bore into yours as they continued to flash between the two different colours, a few tears of his own welling up behind his waterline. the last time that you were up this close, close enough to see the sweat shining on his temples, you were grasping onto his arm in such a feeble attempt to hide yourself from who you thought to be the only monster in the room.

the one whose blood you’d later seen dripping down from in between joost’s fingers, as he’d clutched onto his heart like a trophy.

he should be the real monster to you — a small part of you even wanted him to be. as terrible as levi truly was, he’d never bitten the head off of anyone, never ripped a heart straight out of someone’s chest. he was just…levi. he was your boyfriend and you hated him, but you never wanted him to die.

there was a bigger part inside of you, though, one that twisted up at the thought of joost being anything like one of the ‘bad guys’ from your old bedtime stories. because despite everything that you’d seen, despite how he’d found out where you lived, somehow, and now had you pinned up against your own front door with his hand holding your mouth shut, you knew that he wasn’t. he wasn’t evil, wasn’t dangerous like how your boyfriend had been, and you knew that. you just didn’t quite know it yet.

still, you began to relax. whether it was by choice or because you simply didn’t have any fight left in you anymore, you weren’t entirely sure. your whole body felt as though it was on fire from how several of your cuts had ripped open slightly from your struggle. small spots of blood started to seep through the thin, white cotton of your shorts as you almost went limp against joost; your eye-contact unbreaking. 

there was just something about the way in which he was looking at you. it was the exact same one he gave you that night last week, when he was desperately trying to convince you not to go back home to levi. his hands had been cupping each one of your cheeks, his warm breath fanning across your face as he panted. seeing that same look on him now, it was enough for you.

joost had felt you start to ease, had heard the fast beating of your heart start to slow. his grip on your mouth loosened as he gently wiped away the wet from your face with his free hand, tucking the loose strands of your hair away from your eyes.

“i’m gonna let you go now, okay? then we can talk?”

you nodded, blinking away the tears from your eyes.

as he held back a breath, joost finally moved his hand away from your mouth and took a single step back — allowing you just enough space to stand up on your own. he still hadn’t looked away from your face, his eyes stuck on yours as he searched your features for any signs of fear, any signs that you were about to turn and run. 

but instead you seemed…calm. still very much in shock; your hands still very much trembling as you wrapped your arms around your middle. but you were calm enough to stand your ground and not shrink underneath his gaze. you didn’t flinch when both of his hands came up to cup either side of your jaw, the pads of his thumbs caressing along the skin.

“are-are you okay? i’ve not seen you in…i thought that maybe you had…”

he couldn’t quite find it in him to finish his sentence. it wasn’t like he needed to, you already knew exactly what he was talking about, and now it all started to make sense. 

that look in his eyes, the way his voice kept shaking every time that he spoke. he was here because he was scared, terrified even, that you’d done something to yourself. that night you’d told him, or rather shown him your secret so he knew what you were capable of now, and it had been driving him mad ever since you disappeared.

you hadn’t needed to say anything; the way you suddenly pulled yourself away from him had said enough. in all of the chaos he hadn’t thought to simply look down. if he had, he would have seen all the damage you’ve already done; every single one of the fresh cuts that you’ve given yourself tonight and all of the ones from the nights before. the old vest top and pyjama shorts that you were wearing weren’t hiding anything — from your shoulders down to your shins, he could see everything now that he had finally dropped his gaze.

with his head down, you couldn’t see his face but you could feel the way he tensed up. you could hear him sniff, cough, and swallow down the bile that was rising up in his throat as he stumbled back a few steps.

you were still bleeding. 

it was making his teeth ache.

neither of you said anything for a while. you stood frozen by the door, your arms still wrapped around yourself as he just stared blankly at you with tears running down his cheeks. 

he felt sick; sickened by the very thing he’d been so afraid of now staring at him right back in the face. he couldn’t stand the sight of it but couldn’t bring himself to look away, either — there was just so much red. long, neat lines of red that covered you almost completely from head to toe; no patch of skin left unmarked. it was vile, it was abhorrent, it was breaking his heart.

“why?”

that was all joost could muster. a pathetic, broken question as he tried so desperately to pull himself back together. 

“i…i don’t know.” you paused only to wipe your teary eyes on the back of your hand. “i never know what else to do when i feel like this; it’s just been hard, joost -”

you trailed off, quickly losing your train of thought when you heard him sob all of a sudden. you hadn’t seen him start to crack because you’d been staring down at your feet, suddenly feeling too shy to meet his eyes. except now he was the one trying to hide, his arm coming up to cover his face as he cried hard enough to make his shoulders bounce.

he repeated ‘i’m sorry, i’m so sorry.’ like a mantra in between shallow gasps of breath and hiccups.

he was blaming himself for this because how could he not? all those cuts along your skin; you might have been the one behind the blade but he had been the one to do it. he’d been the one to scar you like this. that one irreversible act of his that he prayed would keep you safe had pushed you to an edge that he feared he wouldn’t be able to pull you back from. 

it wasn’t even his responsibility to, not really. he didn’t know you and you didn’t know him, either. still, he found himself loving you in a way that didn’t make any sense. 

and you loved him too, didn’t you? in a way that you couldn’t quite wrap your head around because of course you did. you proved that to both yourself and to him by how you finally moved from your spot by the door just so you could take his hands and pry his arms away from his face. you let him engulf you, cradling you close to his chest as he cried into your shoulder because you knew that he needed it.

you didn’t know who he was or even what he was, but you knew that he wasn’t something to truly fear. deep down you knew that you loved him in such an awfully twisted way, and you knew that he needed to feel you just to know that you weren’t going anywhere. 

joost was still spilling out his apologies as you tried so hard to soothe him. you felt him shiver under your touch when you let your hands slip underneath the hem of his t-shirt to rub the hot skin of his sides, your soft little whispered assurances filling his ear. 

it wasn’t his fault, nor was it levi’s or anyone else’s. you were like this long before he’d ever set his eyes on you and a part of you had already accepted that you always will be. the very last thing that you wanted was for it to be a burden someone else had to carry, let alone somebody like joost.

“you didn’t do this, okay? it’s alright. i’m gonna be alright.”

maybe it was cruel of you to try and calm him with words that even you didn’t fully believe in. what you had done to yourself only an hour ago, only you would ever be to blame for it, but you didn’t know if you were going to be alright in the end. you were still a witness to what he’d done and you were still doomed to live with the guilt of that.

“you don’t need to apologise for what i’ve done; you know that this is what i do. it’s not your fault.”

“but i fucked up, lieverd.”  joost shuddered as he sucked in a sharp breath, sniffing. “i fucked up and i did this to you; you did it because of me.”

you hushed him, carefully stepping back just enough so that you had the room to cradle either side of his neck in your hands, urging him to look back at you. as soon as he did, you could see that his eyes were back to being just their usual sweet blue, nothing else.

“i did it because i was scared, joost. i didn’t know what else to do.”

“what, scared of me?”

his question was more like a punch to the gut than anything else. for just a moment it knocked the air out of you; left you winded and with no idea on how to go about answering it. truthfully, the answer was yes, but also no, because it was never actually him that you were so afraid of.

you were just afraid of what he did; what you know joost is truly capable of now. you were afraid of the part of you that was almost relieved to see levi suffer what he did, knowing that it meant that he wouldn’t be able to hurt you anymore. but again, you never wanted him to die. you never wanted to see him get torn apart, piece by piece.

joost whimpered out your name when you didn’t answer and instead just stood there with your mouth slightly agape. your lack of an actual, verbal answer was an answer in itself, really, and he knew that; knew that you were probably just too scared and too kind to tell him the truth. still he needed to hear you say it though, purely for his own sake, he needed to hear you say that he wasn’t just another monster to you.

but the longer that he waited, the weaker his knees started to feel. he kind of fell into you, in a way, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck as your arms came up to hold him against you. his hot tears ran down your skin and pooled together in the dip of your collarbone and it was right then that your own eyes started to burn. 

slipping out from his grasp, you wordlessly led him by the hand over to your sofa. you watched him collapse onto it as you took a seat next to him, his elbows rested on his knees as his head hung low in between them. his shoulders were still shaking and you could still hear each of the muffled cries that were spilling from his lips.

“please, please, believe me, lieverd. what i did…i never wanted it to hurt you. i’m so sorry.”

you curled yourself into a tight little ball and let out a long, deep breath, one that you hadn’t even known you’d been holding. you had questions; so, so many questions that had been festering, growing like mould in the back of your head. and joost could almost feel you holding them back as he looked up at you with such watery eyes, the only red in them being the sore, puffy rings around them.

“ask me anything, whatever you wanna know.”

“why did you do it?”

there was no emotion in your voice and you kept your face blank as you spoke — it was only the slight quiver of your bottom lip that gave you away.

“he was going to hurt you, schatje.” 

“but how…how were you even…?”

it had happened decades ago, back when internet cafes were still just your average libraries and when only the rich could afford to have their own mobile phones. 

joost had been young, living off the high of infamy and adoration that came with being in one of the best punk bands in the scene at the time. him and his friends, they’d been something of local legends; for good and for bad, it just depended on who you asked. those that loved them deemed them god-like in their old denim and rusted chains, and those that hated them, simply feared them.

he’s not proud of it, how they spent day after day rotting away in a garage, doing whatever drugs they could get their hands on and writing songs just to spend night after night playing shows at only the worst bars they could find. how they’d get even more off their faces afterwards and start fights, smashing up the venues and spray-painting anarchy symbols anywhere and everywhere that they could. how if the night didn’t end with them running away from the cops then it would end with them in the bed of anything with a pretty face, two legs, and a heartbeat.

and then what was supposed to be the best night of the band’s life, the biggest show they’d ever played to a crowd that already knew all the words to their songs, became nothing more than the beginning of the end. it’d happened after they’d all really outdone themselves, whilst those so-called ‘friends’ of his that only ever brought out the worst of him were all passed out somewhere, and joost had decided to go out for a little wander. 

still to this day, he can’t remember the face of who had jumped him. the alleyway had been too dark and he’d been too drunk to even know where he was, so all that truly stuck with him was the agony of it all. the searing pain of a pair of fangs plunging deep into the side of his neck, the gradual, stinging cold he’d felt as the life was almost all but drained from him. whoever it was, they’d left him there to die afterwards — still to this day, a part of him wishes that he had. 

waking up that next morning something so much worse than human, consumed by an appetite so uncontrollable that he just couldn’t help himself when he came across that lone jogger whilst on his way back to his friends. surely it had to have been worse than death. he’d torn that poor guy to shreds as if it was nothing, as if he was just pulling chicken off the bone. 

but he hadn’t stopped there, had he? he couldn’t, he didn’t know how to. even after he’d shown up on his drummer’s doorstep covered in blood and crying his eyes out, he had to keep going, keep feeding. because joost wasn’t too good at knowing when to stop, either, was he?

it had taken him years to figure it out, actually. years of mindless, reckless slaughter to realise that he actually hated what he was now, and that his ‘friends’ weren’t ever really his friends. from the moment he’d shown up that day, all stained red and babbling about the man he’d just killed, the band played him like a puppet simply because they knew that they could.

regardless of the change, he was still joost. they knew that it really wouldn’t take much to get inside of his head, to spin whatever that had happened to him into something almost profitable for them all. and it hadn’t, because everything they had him do was always ‘for the band’, so really, how could he have said no? 

besides, he would have been lying if he’d said he hadn’t come to enjoy it, after a while. seeing the life drain from their eyes as they’d beg for mercy, pleading with him, promising him that they’d do whatever he wanted if he’d just let them go. he’d always laugh then, before sinking his teeth into their throats. 

and it helped that these people also happened to be nobodies, too. from shitty bar owners that wouldn’t let them play to members of a rival band that had just gotten a little too cocky for their own good. no one ever missed them, most hardly noticed that they were gone.

joost was never a monster to them, to the band, just an over-glamorised attack dog that could do a lot more than just bite.

it had taken him far too many years to realise it.

“that’s how i ended up with the cafe…i wanted to get away; i didn’t want to be like that anymore.” he paused only to gauge your reaction, or more so your lack of one. you hadn’t said a word the entire time, hadn’t flinched or pulled a face; you had barely even blinked. 

“what did you do with the body?…his body?”

the sudden sound of your voice, it made him glance back up at you with a small quiver in his lip. you were still staring blankly at the wall ahead, your expression borderline unreadable, but your words hadn’t cracked and your hands weren’t shaking anymore, either.

“i know some people that are…like me; they handled it.” when you fell quiet again, joost continued, wiping the snot from his nose as he did so. “i’ve done a lot of bad things, lieverd. what i did to levi, fuck, that’s not even the worst of it. you should be scared of me; i’m scared of me.”

“i’m not.” 

“why?”

“because if you were still the monster that you think you are, i wouldn’t have even made it halfway out the door that night.” 

after only another moment or two of silence had passed did you finally look down to meet his eyes again. whilst there was a shine in yours that definitely matched his own, there was something so soft about the way you were gazing at him. it made the muscles beneath his shoulders relax and drop down as he breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.

you didn’t need to elaborate any further, didn’t need to say anything else to prove to him that you knew he wasn’t that person anymore. he could tell simply from the hint of a smile that was tugging at the corners of your mouth. from how it was with careful, delicate movements that you moved to crawl onto his lap and hugged him, nuzzling your face into the curve of his neck.

the large, warm palms of joost’s hands slid underneath the cotton of your tank top and soothed the cool skin of your spine as he rested his head against yours. instead of asking how you were even real, how someone so undeniably good was able to look past each and every single one of his sins, he kept quiet to let the last few tears of his fall.

but if he had in fact asked, then you would’ve told him that truly, you couldn’t hold any of it against him. 

of course it was all awful, from the countless faces he’d torn apart to the people that he terrorised even before the change. your skin had been crawling as joost had spoken and you just couldn’t ignore the fact that anyone else in your position probably would’ve taken off running by now. that, and that they’d have every right to.

except you weren’t just anyone, were you? as far as you were concerned, those old so-called ‘friends’ of his were the real monsters, because you of all people knew what it was like to be hurt by those you trusted most. to have someone so deep inside your mind that you quickly became blind to everything else. you couldn’t hold it against him because in your heart, you got it. you could feel that, that wasn’t who joost was anymore.

“can you stay tonight? for a little while?”

you felt his hands trail down to the side of your hips and squeeze as you pulled away just enough to see his face, your own two hands falling down to rest against his stomach.

“i’ll stay for as long as you want me to, schatje. i’m here.” 

being on the brink of almost giddiness as you nodded, that small smile of yours twisting up into an almost grin, you hadn’t realised how his fingers were starting to roam. that his hands were gently moving around, rubbing up and down the flesh of your waist until they reached the very front of your hips. 

you hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t been able to take hold of his wrists to stop him before the soft pads of his thumbs could find the aching, bumpy lines of the cuts you’d put there a few days ago. as you froze, you watched his own sweet smile drop and his eyebrows furrow, and felt him slowly lift up the hem of your top just enough to see the true extent of it.

even in the low light of your living room, even if his eyesight wasn’t as unnaturally good as it was, he still wouldn’t have been able to miss it. just like the rest of you was, the tight skin of your stomach and all the way across to your hips were marked with the same harsh, red gashes. most were scabbed over but a couple were sprouting fresh drops of blood from where you’d been moving around so much, pulling them apart at the seams.

you went to stand and then tried to simply twist yourself away when you couldn’t, but even then joost’s hold on you was too strong. his touches were feather-soft as he traced the tips of his fingers along every single one, following them down to the ones on your things and then back up along the ones on your arms. by the time that he reached your eyes again they were already scrunched up closed, hiding from him.

“because of me.”

it was more of a statement than a question, partly because he already knew the answer, and partly because he knew that you’d still deny it if he asked.

“joost -”

“- you have a first aid kid somewhere, right? lemme help.”

you shook your head as you went to tug your vest top back down, only to freeze when you finally caught a glimpse of all the little spots of blood that had seeped through your clothes. you stopped and stared at them for longer than you meant to, your hands trembling as you toyed with the material between your fingers. 

the blood was always your favourite part. how it would slowly peek through the small breaks in your skin before oozing out, running down your body until the drops would fall and hit the floor. it had a way of hypnotising you every single time, making you want to keep going and going just so you could see it happen over again and again. even now, when the tiny red polka dots were nothing more than just a few sticky stains on your top, turning the tips of your fingers a deep pink.

it took joost gently prying your hands away for you to snap out of it. 

“n-no, no, i can’t let you do that. it wouldn’t be fair, not when there’s so much blood and you’re…”

“i’ll be fine, lieverd, i promise.”  you felt him give your hands a soft squeeze as he paused, “let me help you.”

there was no point in trying to change his mind. once you lifted your head back up and saw how those big blue eyes of his were staring back at you, the smudged, dark makeup around them making them seem so might brighter, you no longer had the heart to tell him no again. he could have asked anything of you, and you would’ve said yes.

“it’s in the bathroom.”

without warning, joost moved to grip the backs of each of your thighs and stood up, smiling when you squealed as you wrapped your arms and legs around him. it baffled you for a moment how it seemed as though he already knew where to go, that he already knew that your bathroom was all the way down the hall, last door on the left. you chalked his strong sense of direction up to it just being another one of the many perks that came along with being…well, him.

and whilst that was true, maybe it wasn’t the only reason why he specifically knew the layout of your home already. maybe he’s escorted you home more than just the once, twice, three times. maybe this wasn’t actually his first time walking down your hallway at all. 

the cold of your bathroom counter underneath you made you jump slightly as joost carefully set you down on it. you’d left the light on from when you were in here earlier; your razor still laying discarded on the floor, coated in a drying layer of your own blood. you hadn’t even thought he’d seen it until he was picking it up and tossing it in the bin as if it was just a piece of rubbish that he’d dropped. 

neither of you were saying anything. joost had fallen uncharacteristically quiet, breathing somewhat heavily through his mouth as he dug through your cabinets until he finally found that little green box with the red cross on on the front. his hands were shaking as he opened it, pulling out the countless packets of alcohol wipes and plasters, dropping a few things as he did so.

had you been paying more attention, then you would’ve noticed that actually, this was taking quite the toll on him. but you couldn’t shift your eyes away from the bin, the one that now contained the very last one of your razor blades amongst a small collection of used tissues and tampon wrappers. joost had thrown away your last one, and now you had none.

“okay, i’m sorry if this stings, schat. let me know if you need me to stop, okay?”

it was as you were nodding that you suddenly hissed, your leg jolting from the pain of the alcohol wipe joost had used to clean the first of the cuts on your upper thigh. on instinct you tried to pull away, fighting against the grip that he held on you to keep your leg still against the counter.

you weren’t expecting it to hurt as much as it did. considering how many times that you’ve been here before, cleaning yourself up because you didn’t always have someone around that cared enough to want to do it for you, you thought you would have been used to it by now. you never would have guessed that it would have you in near tears all over again, gripping the edge of the bathroom counter until your knuckles slowly started to turn white. 

maybe this was just the price you had to pay for going a little deeper than you meant to. 

“hey, do you think you could just…i don’t know, talk, for a while? tell me something about yourself?” at the look of confusion on your face joost just smiled, raising his hands a little to show you just how hard they were shaking. “it’ll help me concentrate.”

he was struggling more than he thought he’d be.

except how could he not be? this was a lot for him. all that blood of yours smeared and stained across his fingers aside, simply just being this close to you was enough to somehow make him feel lightheaded. feeling your knees on either side of his thighs as he stood in between your legs, so close to you in fact that he could hear your heartbeat louder than anything else. 

he just needed to hear your voice, needed something else to focus on besides your blood that now laid underneath his fingernails.

“oh shit, uh, okay….um…”

you weren’t sure why you started to chuckle, almost, stumbling over these noises that barely even resembled words. you wanted to come up with something to talk about fast, to help get joost’s mind off of what he was actually doing, but the harder you thought the quicker your mind went blank. nobody’s ever really asked you to talk about yourself before; you had no idea what to say.

there wasn’t a whole lot to say, really. you used to have interests; hobbies that you used to put your heart and soul into, dreams that you were so determined to make a reality for yourself. levi had, had other plans for you, though. either, he would simply take up too much of your time, or he’d be so insistent that those hobbies of yours were ‘pointless’, that eventually you grew to lose interest in them. since day one of the relationship, everything about you had to be about him.

you used to think that it was probably for the best, that maybe he was right and you really were just wasting your time. but now that he’s gone for good, and you’re stuck with someone in front of you that genuinely wants to get to know you, you realise now that there’s nothing for you to tell them. there’s nothing of who you used to be left.

joost gave your knee a quick squeeze before turning his attention onto your arms, having slowly picked up on the fact that once again, your lack of an answer told him far more than you wanted it to. 

“okay, let’s start with the easy stuff — what did you want to be when you were growing up?”

“i wanted to be a painter.”

you hissed again at the burn of one of the alcohol wipes against your skin; smiling softly when he reassured you of just how brave you were being.

“a painter? that’s sick! did that happen?”

“almost. i went to school for it, got a degree and everything, but uh, levi always said that it’s not a ‘real job’ so…”

joost’s frown was immediate. he was shaking his head, the lines in his forehead already so prominent. “did you really give it all up because of that? that’s bullshit.” 

“i didn’t really have much of a choice, joostie.”

you both fell quiet again after that.

he felt horrible for reacting like that, fearing that you mistook all of his anger towards levi and each of the silly little ideas that the guy had planted in your head to be aimed at you. you’d sounded so defeated as your shoulders slumped, your voice falling to a near-whisper as you moved your gaze onto the floor. of course you didn’t have a choice; that much should’ve already been obvious. 

and it was the look on your face now that was hurting him the most. a look of mourning as you pondered the life that you almost had, had it not been for that asshole and the hold that he’d once had over you. as joost wiped another cut clean, he regretted for just a moment not going back for seconds that night — it would’ve been the least that levi deserved.

“what kind of art did you do?”

that brought something of a smile back to your face as your mind drifted back to all of the scrapbooks you had hidden underneath your bed. old, dust-covered notebooks filled to the brim with page after page of everything from doodles to full-fledged paintings. your bottom lip wobbled when you thought of all the canvases though, the same ones you once watched levi destroy one night just because he’d wanted to see you cry after a fight.

“everything — oil paint, acrylics, watercolour. i really loved chalk, though. seeing all the stains it would leave behind made it feel like it meant something more, you know? like i was really creating something.”

a gentle grin curled the corners of your mouth up as you spoke, beginning to ramble so passionately about what you loved that joost really did almost forget what he was doing. he had to stop for a second just so that he could witness that smile of yours, see that gleam in your eyes that he’d once had himself back when he was just kid writing songs in his bedroom. in a blink of an eye, you had suddenly become so alive and it had him floored.

it had him captivated, actually; irrevocably wrapped around your finger.

his hands weren’t shaking so much anymore.

“i have a friend that’s a painter; he mainly does the oil stuff, i think, but maybe i could introduce the two of you one day? he’ll probably have some chalk laying around somewhere.”

“is he…?”

“no, he’s not like me. can i lift your shirt up a little bit? we’re almost done, i’ve just got to get the last ones.”

you nodded, wondering how it was that his skin felt so warm against yours, all things considered.

“it wouldn’t have mattered to me if he was.”

joost knew that you were telling the truth, could hear it in the way that your heartbeat kept its rhythm. 

and the conversation continued to flow as joost patched up the last few cuts of yours, sticking little hello kitty plasters delicately across your hip bones. he told you all about this oil-painter friend of his, ‘daan’ — how he’d been the first genuine friend that joost had made after the change, how he never would’ve been able to get away from the band if it wasn’t for him.

joost even opened up to you about his family, his parents. even after so many years, you still had to help him breathe through it as he told you their story with tears all in his eyes. it was only fair that you did the same after that; he almost couldn’t believe it when you’d said you'd lost your parents when you were younger too, spent some time in the system just as he had. after all, that was how you met levi. 

and he told you all about another friend of his, ‘lenny’, how it’s because of her that he likes foreign graphic novels so much. whenever he’s not reading those porn mags that he swears he only picks up for the articles, he’s reading and then re-reading her old japanese comic books. you were never much of a comic book kid yourself, having always preferred to lose yourself inside the pages of a stephen king or a neil gaiman instead, so you promised to read ‘death note’ if joost read ‘the shining’.

by the time that he was pulling your shirt back down and chucking away all of the used, bloodied wipes that had accumulated, you were fighting to keep your eyes open. joost could tell that he was losing you just from the way that you kept swaying from side to side and nodding your head slightly even when he hadn’t asked you a question. it made his heart ache, knowing that you were so, so exhausted but still so unwilling to sleep because you wanted to keep the conversation going.

he hadn’t told you his favourite colour yet.

“cmon you, i think it's bedtime.”

you were yawning before you could argue, letting your head fall back against the cabinet behind you. the thought of your bed was undeniably heavenly; the feeling of your mattress dipping below your weight as you curl yourself into a ball beneath your blankets. the only problem was that you were just as comfy here as you would be over there, though, perched on the edge of your bathroom countertop with joost still standing in between your legs, his hands resting on each of your thighs.

this bubble you had created with him — it wasn’t one you were ready to leave quite just yet. there was still that fear of waking up alone again lurking in the back of your mind.

and it was before you could argue that joost was also scooping you up again, holding you up by the backs of your thighs as he began to carry you back down the hall. you let your head fall to rest against his shoulder, your arms draped loosely around his neck. if it wasn’t for that fear of yours twisting your insides and rotting your brain from the inside out, you could have fallen asleep right there. 

you probably would have.

“you’re gonna stay with me, right?”

joost glanced down at the top of your head with a crease in his eyebrows, carefully nudging your bedroom door open with his foot. “i already told you, lieverd, i’m not going anywhere. i promise.”

“no, i know that. i just mean -” you paused when he gently set you down just beside your bed, only stepping away to turn on the light until you made a sudden, desperate reach for his wrist. 

when the warm glow of the lamp flooded the room, you could see that he wasn’t smiling anymore. instead there was worry in his eyes as he took that step back closer to you again, his hands coming up to tuck loose strands of hair behind your ears.

“what’s wrong?”

“- i meant that you’re not gonna exile yourself to the sofa or anything, right? you’ll stay with me?”

it finally clicked in his head what you were asking. 

and it definitely felt like a lot to be asking of him, again all things considered. you just couldn’t do it though, you couldn’t handle the idea of being by yourself anymore. it was why you always stayed in the end, with levi, why a part of you couldn’t help but miss him. his presence would be chilling but his side of the bed would always be warm when you would wake up in the mornings. 

you didn’t want to start crying when you felt as though it was taking joost too long to answer. you didn’t want to guilt trip him like that, make him feel as though he had to even if he didn’t want to. but it was just another thing that you couldn’t help, because you were so tired and so afraid that you just didn’t know what else to do besides sit down and cry.

he copied you by sinking down into a squat, placing both of his hands onto each one of your knees. since you kept your eyes focused on the ceiling, trying and failing at trying to blink away your tears as you hiccuped, it was from the corners of your sight that you saw joost reach up to wipe them away himself. the pads of his thumbs stroked along the skin of your cheekbone and lingered there for a moment or two before he spoke.

“can you look at me, schatje?”

you did so almost reluctantly.

“i’m not going anywhere, alright? i’m not gonna leave you.”

nodding as you sniffled, you kept your eyes locked with his as you crawled back onto your bed and pulled back the covers. neither of you said anything nor dared to look away from the other as joost kicked off his shoes and undid the clasp of his watch, slipping it off of his wrist to leave it on your bedside table. 

that was all he did before he climbed into bed with you, still dressed in the same hoodie and sweatpants that he’s had on all night. you let his arms wrap around you and tug you up into his chest as you grabbed onto fistfalls of his sweatshirt, trusting that he meant it when he said he’d stay with you but still feeling too afraid to let go. 

more tears began to fall from your eyes, your shoulders wracking against him as you cried. soft, gentle circles were drawn anywhere on your skin that he could reach; your shoulders, your hips, your sides, and he murmured sweet little assurances into your ear.

“i mean it, okay? i’ve got you. i’m right here.”

it was with your whole heart that you believed him. with your tears slowly soaking through the cotton of his jumper, you believed that he’ll still be here when you wake up, all curled up with you with his hand still rubbing up and down your back. 

“i’m here.”

[desigal-26]

Im the person who sent in the last ask about praising ur smut and since u said general thoughts/requests are fine so I come with a request! Id love something smut with aemond, you can even do a part 2 with your latest aemond work! I think that would work well, and if it's not too crazy maybe breeding kink for heirs yknow

Thank you for your ask. Requests are always well-appreciated, no matter if they are vague or too detailed.

Sweet Girl

Aemond Targaryen x Sister-Wife!Reader

Read Part One here

He was the storm that was feared by everyone, and she was the thunderclap that followed him with a morbid curiosity for chaos

The new King has a new Queen Consort. The royal couple—the newest envy of every man and woman. But little do they know of the chaos that follows them out of the Small Council chambers to their rooms—and sometimes even in the Small Council chambers.

Warnings:- MDNI, 18+ content, Targcest, Sort of Exhibition Kink, Breeding kink, Fingering, PiV, Fingering, Unprotected sex (wrap it before tap it), Dirty talking, Aemond being unhinged, Nicknames

Word Count: 2.2k

Aemond was only a single second’s patience away from slamming someone’s head into the table that acted as the centre piece of the Small Council’s chamber—much in the manner that Criston Cole had done during the meeting immediately after his father’s death. The table was the sole place where the realm’s most crucial and powerful decisions were made, the future of the realm was fabricated carefully by the most cunning of minds.

The debate had been going on for far too long—far too lacklustre to keep the King was yawning almost unnoticeable into his fist while his gaze swept over every lord that now sat his table—all loyal to him, either by oath or by fear. He didn’t mind either, though oath could be broken. Fear? Now, that was forever embedded in someone’s mind.

House Frey was proving to be hard to bend the knee. Their demands stood high, and for a moment, the One-Eyed King thought of burning the whole house down and be done with the matter for all. But then, his sister’s cunning yet soft voice whispered in the ears of his mind, telling him to keep his calm and to treat the fragile political bonds of the realm with care—especially, now when everything can fall apart by only a little mistake.

The realm is moistened mud, she had said the other day, explaining carefully to him the reason to not deal with anything too harshly. Because treating wet mud with force leads not to formation of anything but disruption—and the House of the Dragon, or what was left of it, could not afford any new rebellions or civil wars anymore.

“We shall discuss these matters tomorrow now, my lords.” Aemond blinked at the firm command by his sister-wife, biting back a half smirk as the lords of the Great Houses looked at her startled, clearly taken aback at being dismissed by a Queen Consort.

Never before had a Queen sat in the Council meetings were it not for ill health of the King, not at least after the era of the Conqueror. But that had changed now, because the One-Eyed King would not reduce his fiery wife to a mere showpiece for the court. Instead, he was supplying air to that fire, letting it grow and dance in the rhythms of a music only she could hear. All while he watched with pride, and a glass of wine.

The lords of the Small Council had turned to him, expecting a word of protest but all they received was a dismissive nod. He didn’t acknowledge him apart from that, his gaze focused on the way his sweet sister reclined in the chair on his right. Her silver hair, braided and adorned by small silver dragons, glistened under the candlelight that flickered around the room. Her eyes—so identical to his—watched him back with a sly smile and a crooning voice.

“See something that intrigue you, your grace?”

His gaze traveled down from the sly smile on her plump lips to the slope of her neck, bared by the low cut of her dress’s neckline that dipped just enough to provide him with a peak of what laid beneath the velvet fabric that wrapped her perfectly—hiding the picturesque view of her bare skin that he had indulged in since that evening in his study.

Their mother would frown up the thought if she ever found out. But how could he resist her when she looked as she did that night and then every night that he could count. Long hair, so identical to his but only more curled, left loose and out of their intricate designs. Muscles relaxed and breaths deep, accentuating the curve of her bosom hidden from his eye under the fabrics of green. Lips curled in a perfect smirk that sent blood right down his trousers.

She was perfect in a manner that was hard to explain to anyone—to put her beauty into words was to limit her beauty to there.

To the realm, she was the Queen Consort whose prophecy had shaken the roots of the royal family. But to him, she was his sweet girl—the very same that begged to be fucked prettily almost every night, who let him indulge in whatever dark fantasies his mind could conjure, who moaned loud enough to wake the entire Maegor’s Keep when he nestled deep into her folds, or the one who pleaded to him to breed her like a good wife she was.

Aemond felt his breeches tightening as his mind brought up the images of the last night and the night before it, and the one before it. The sweet tears of overwhelming pleasure that rolled down her cheeks. The broken moans and the hoarse voice from screaming his name with every orgasm that wrecked through her perfect body. The purple marks that he had gifted her, staking his claim over and over in form of his release inside her and the budding bruises that were carefully hid beneath her dress and jewellery.

“Come here, sweet girl,” he growled, his gaze darkening with uncontrollable desire.

The Queen Consort only raised an eyebrow, her gaze flitting over to the four King’s Guard that stood unflinching yet quiet nervously near the double doors. She had no problem in indulging her husband in herself, quite the opposite—but not with their guards trying to act like they weren’t seeing anything.

Aemond only smirked, waving his hand to dismiss the four guards who quickly turned on their feet, opening the door and marching out before closing it behind them. The silence that followed was thick enough to be cut by the Valyrian steel that laid on the table with a quiet reverence. The blade that once belonged to Aegon the Conqueror—now had a new owner in the One-Eyed King.

His wife watched him quietly, sitting up a bit straighter before she finally followed his old order. Her dress fluttered around her feet as she stood up, cautiously approaching him with her hands intertwined in front of herself.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, wife?” It was a rhetorical question, one delivered with an all-knowing smirk and casual arrogance of a man self-assured. His fingers drummed against the wood, eye watching her with an intensity that had her shying away despite that not being in her nature at all. His other hand—the one closer to her—snaked around her waist once she was close enough, pulling her closer until his breath fanned over the exposed skin right above the curve of her tits.

She gasped his name, her hands flying to hold her balance, fingers dipping into his broad shoulders. His fingers dung into the fabric clinging to her waist, tasting the feel of it beneath his fingertips—savouring it.

“Someone might interrupt,” she whispered, breathlessly. Her own light eyes had darkened but she was practising more restrain than her husband—only she didn’t know that he was far too gone and won’t listen to any reason she might have.

“Then let them.” The growl followed by him standing up to his full height had her breath hitching, bodies pressed against each other, restrained by the suffocating clothes that felt too warm against their heated skin. His head tilted down, lips trailing the delicate curve of her ear before his teeth sank into it, drawing out a surprised whimper that echoed in the silent room.

He walked her backwards until the back of her thighs brushed against the edge of the Small Council table. His hands had ventured on their own task, exploring the curves he had memorised all too well in the past few weeks, tugging at the dress that covered the most delicious of her parts.

Slowly, one of his hand pushed up the hem of her dress, pushing her to lean more on the table while his feet hooked on the insides of her legs, pulling them apart to give him easier access to her most intimate part—the one that belonged to him and him alone.

His hand slipped in, gathering the wetness that had gathered in between her thighs, a slow smug smirk tugging on his lips while he trailed down kisses over the expanse of her neck, whispering huskily, “so perfect for me, little sister. All made for me.” She only moaned in response, buckling against his hand while her knees weakened.

“Ae-Aemond, please…” she begged, but for what she didn’t know. Maybe for him to stop teasing, or for him to continue to torture her, to slowly bring her closer and closer to release before deprive her of the peak that shatters her completely.

He bit down on her neck, right above the place where her pulse thrummed in anticipation of what was to come for sure. She clung to him—desperate and wanting the climax only he could bring her to—begging with her wide eyes.

Gone was the Realm’s Oleander and in her place was Aemond’s sweet girl. The one who listened to every little noise he made and was made to please him.

“Turn around, wife.”

She gulped, body weak from his ministrations but thrumming with excitement as she did what he demanded on shaking legs. He towered over her from behind, his hand gently pushing her forward, bending her over the table where the realm’s future was dangled on thread on daily basis. The thrill of it sent a shiver down her spine, straight to her glistening core while her chest heaved against the tight confines of her dress.

Aemond reached down, fingers curling into the deep green of her dress and pushing it up to her hips, baring her damp folds to the cool air of the Small Council’s chamber. The little whine that echoed in the room fell on deaf ears while his one hand moved to rub circles on her clit while the other loosened the laces of his breeches, pushing them down enough to pull out his hand and angry length.

Two of his long fingers entered her slowly, a groan leaving his lips as her walls welcomed the digits home, sucking them in like they belonged there—which they did. He started to thrust them in and out, drawing heavy pants and little moans while she begged for more greedily. But the One-Eyed King was in a generous mood and decided not to prolong her torture.

Removing his fingers from her warmth, his wrapped them around his cock, coating them with her own wetness before he moved closer to her. The mushroom head of his length pushed past the plush and wet folds, straight into the embrace of her warm walls that hugged his length desperately. His hands found her hips, pushing back the hem of her dress to watch the bare flesh of her ass against his pelvis.

A groan echoed through the room, obscene noises following as he started to move inside her. Her fingers clung to the table in order to find some purchase while the intensity of his thrusts rocked it altogether.

“So tight, so wet…all for me, sweet girl?” One of his hand moved from her bare hips, travelling up to find her hair and fist them before tugging up at them. His other hand loosened the laces holding her dress together, baring a sliver of skin of her back.

She nodded, unable to form words or coherent thoughts in her mind, but a harsh tug of her hair had her whimpering out the answer. “Yes…yes, all for you.”

The smug grin on his face was hard to wipe out as he hastily pulled down her dress from the top, baring her full tits that brushed against the table with every thrust, nipples pebbled by the stimulation.

“Ae-Aemond,” she squeaked as he pounded hard into her, wet noises filling the air between growled out words and moaned pleas.

“I will breed you so well, little sister.” He punctuated with a rough thrust that had her gasping for breath, one of her hand moving down to cup his. Her walls clenched at his words, making him chuckle breathlessly as he leaned over her—his clothed chest brushing against her scarcely bare back.

His hot breath fanned the side of her face, growling filthy words into her ear.

“You will look so good, all round and full with my child in you. Your pretty tits overflowing with milk for our son. Your puffy cunt welcoming for me and him.”

Her lips parted in silent scream, the knot in her lower stomach close to snapping. She begged him to go faster, to breed her like she was supposed to be, and he complied without any hesitation.

A loud moan filled the room as she came, but Aemond didn’t stop. Instead, he was chasing his own high, while his mind conjured up images of her, round and desperate for him while carrying his heir in her stomach. That image alone, mixed with her loud noises were enough for him to come inside her, filling her fertile womb with his potent release.

A part of him hoped that his seed takes place, but another one, a selfish, darker part of him hoped not. After all, that gave him just more opportunity to breed his sweet, little wife.

[zuppizup]

Not Quite Domestic Bliss

Opeli struggles not to let her irritation show as they continue to wait. Even King Ezran is looking anxious by the time Callum bursts through the door, looking flustered.

“Sorry I’m late!” He grimaces at everyone clearly waiting for him.

“No problem, Callum.” True to form, Ezran smiles brightly at him, seemingly holding no grudges for the fact they’ve been sitting waiting for over half an hour.

Opeli watches as Callum takes a seat, noting his dishevelled state. His hair is wilder than usual and he seems to be adopting more and more Moonshadow attire, dressed in a strange mismatched manner, dark leggings that look uncomfortably tight and a crumbled tunic she suspects might actually be a nightshirt.

In fact, if she didn’t know better, she would almost believe Callum slept in that shirt-

It’s morning, but it’s not particularly early.

He would never... would he?

Callum has never been the best time keeper, even back when things at the castle were more formal, but he’s become totally hopeless since moving permanently to Evrkynd. Opeli didn’t really consider his resignation from King Ezran’s council as much of a loss. He’s always been distracted and much of his actual “contributions” are in the form of random tangents or crude jokes.

At least Rayla isn’t with him today.

Opeli feels like a school mistress when they attend meetings together, constantly having to remind them to pay attention… struggling not to lose her temper at their whispering and giggling.

The crude jokes are even more frequent when they’re bouncing off each other.

“Where’s Rayla?” Soren asks, an eyebrow raised, seemingly at Callum’s appearance.

Opeli desperately hopes they don’t end up waiting for Rayla too.

“Em, she’s at home,” Callum winces, finally taking his seat. “She’s, eh, not well.”

“Oh no, is she okay?” Ezran asks, leaning forward in his seat.

“She’ll be fine,” Callum reassures them. “I’m still getting the hang of foraging and I kinda mixed up regularly moonberries with the moonberries you use to make moonberry surprise and well… she’s just lying down in the dark for a while.”

Opeli arches an eyebrow, knowing well by now what’s in moonberry surprise. “Is she safe alone?”

While she is concerned for Rayla, sending Callum to keep an eye on her would hardly be a loss for this meeting.

“Terry is keeping an eye on her,” Callum flushes bright red, avoiding eye contact as he drums his hands on the table. “So... where were we?”

After the meeting has concluded, Opeli overhears Corvus talking to Callum as she packs away her notes.

“Soooo, Callum, how’s life in Evrkynd?” Corvus looks and sounds awkward as he asks this, clearly trying not to look too intently at Callum’s mismatched clothing or ridiculous hair.

“Good!” Callum enthuses, “but busy,” he nods, wide eyed. “Lots to learn, you know? And not just magic either. Barius is coming over again tomorrow to help us with the bread stuff. I told him he doesn’t have to, but he got kinda mad when he saw what we baked the other day. He said we’re killing the dough or the yeast blob or something. You’re suppose to feed it… I don’t get it-”

“Uh huh,” Corvus nods kindly. “And how’s everything else? If you want help with anything-”

“Oh, we’re fine,” Callum waves him off, pulling awkwardly on his pants for what seems like the tenth time in so many minutes. “We’re figuring stuff out-”

“You’re obviously not,” Soren scoffs, folding his arms over his chest.

Callum gapes at him, looking offended. “Yeah, we are-”

Soren rolls his eyes, his lip curled. “Callum, you’re clearly wearing Rayla’s pants.”

Callum’s mouth falls open and he blinks stupidly for a moment before responding. “We’re pretty much the same height!”

“Yeah, well, girls pants fit differently to guys pants.” Soren make a play of shielding his eyes.

Callum goes bright red, making a futile attempt to pull his shirt down. “We’re behind on laundry!”

“What you two need is a roster,” Soren throws his arm around Callum shoulder and starts dragging him towards the door. “I know I can’t rely on you to be disciplined, so that means I have to deal with Rayla.”

“Hey!” Callum protests, trying to extract himself from Soren’s grip. “I can be disciplined when I need to be-”

Corvus sighs, watching Soren herd Callum out the door.

Picking up her scrolls, Opeli joins him, vaguely amused as they continue to bicker down the street.

“It’s good someone is taking the lead with Prince Callum,” she smiles at Corvus. “I fear learning domestic duties has not been high on his or Rayla’s list of concerns.”

Corvus arches an eyebrow, his face sceptical. “You think they’ve been high on Soren’s list?”

Opeli winces, turning her eyes back to the two younger men. “Oh.”

Corvus sighs, beginning to walk after them. “It’s like the blind leading the blind.”

———

For @m4rs-ex3

Sorry I couldn’t find any fluff for you in my WIPs 😆

[ramp-it-up]

Muse: Four

Muse Three | Muse Masterlist | Muse Five

Summary: This is the one. The one where decisions are made. Words are said. The end or the beginning of you and Ari.

Pairing: Art Curator! Ari Levinson x Plus sized model! Reader

Word count: 3 K

A/N: Muse will be a series of one shots featuring Muse and Ari, and this the second one. We’re gonna hear from them at least every week. 😏 . This AU is tangential to the Peach and Knock You Down verses. If this drabble makes you angry, let me know! I love reblogs, replies, asks and likes. Let me have it! :)

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. Angst. Art Curator Ari. Plus sized model Reader, dating app life, casual sex, Dominant Ari, Missed connections, yearning, the green eyed monster, late night confessions, oral (f recieving), fingering, hint of breeding kink, size kink, nipple obsession, nipple play, protected sex, the 'L' word (finally).

I don’t have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

--------

Two days later, you were shooting inside one of the most beautiful spaces you’d ever worked in. It was a gallery so beautiful it felt dangerous ot breathe. A curated reverence hung in the air, the kind that made you instinctively speak softer and move slower.

But you were on edge, because you hadn’t known the shoot would be here. 

No one had said Red Sea Gallery. The one owned by Ari Levinson. Just: White walls, natural light. Tribeca-adjacent. Minimal set.

When you put the address your agent sent you into your maps app and the name popped up, you were gobsmacked. You tried to prepare yourself in the two hours notice you had before the shoot, but you weren’t.

There were the standard issue floor-to-ceiling windows, along with the scent of clean wood, old paint, and history. What was unexpected was the way the afternoon light struck a sculpture in the corner, a piece too raw to be just decoration or inventory. 

It was too intimate not to notice.

You stared at it, knowing that he had chosen it, and how much more you understood about Ari because of it. There was something about the shape of the metal, the tension in the curve, the heat in the cold material. It was alive somehow.

It was you come undone.

Your stylist, Misty, snapped her fingers. 

“Hey. Earth to supermodel. Time to get into look number three.”

You nodded, throat dry. “Right. Sorry.”

But as you changed in the makeshift dressing area, pulling silk up over your hips, you couldn’t stop staring at the sculpture.

Couldn’t stop feeling him.

Ari had studied your face in the dark, and he’d whispered, “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Yeah. Well, you fucking knew now.

You posed for the camera like everything was fine. Hip cocked, chin high, face set to neutral.

But inside, everything churned.

And then, you saw a flicker out of the corner of your eye. You turned your head just in time to catch a shadow slipping past the far end of the gallery. The figure was tall and broad with a confident stride. 

Ari.

You didn’t need to see his face.

Your heart rate spiked, your skin prickled, and your body betrayed you all over again. But by the time you crossed the floor barefoot and barely covered, the hallway was empty.

He was gone, just a ghost of cologne in the air.

The photographer called your name.

You turned back slowly, with one last glance at the metal sculpture, gazing at the raw emotion rendered in steel.

You hadn’t spoken to Ari in days.

He hadn’t texted. You hadn’t called.

And still, the city kept folding you into each other’s orbits.

Near.

But not enough.

—----

Ari hadn’t meant to stay, it was going to just be a fifteen-minute walkthrough before tomorrow’s showing, nothing more. But the moment he heard the shutter snap and then heard your laugh, Ari stopped breathing.

He knew that you were here in his gallery and in his world. That world tilted a little bit.

His adrenaline spiked as he ducked into the shadows between exhibits, watching you from there. You were barefoot, bare-shouldered and bathed in golden light, wearing a gown that clung to your body like a second skin.

You were fucking good at your job, and Ari was witnessing first hand the work that went into producing those gorgeous pictures. You were professional and poised, but he knew the passion that lay underneath.

Ari’s fingers became fists at his sides because he had touched that fire, he’d tasted it. And now, all he could do was watch as he starved for you, every nerve stretched thin, every breath hard to take.

It had been days, not weeks or months, but he felt too long deprived of the sight of you. Even though he’d decided not to contact you again after that night that felt like war.

You turned slightly, your hips angled, one hand at your waist, and the light hit you just right. Like you’d been lit by God himself.

Those lips. That jaw. That hourglass silhouette that curved into him like a puzzle piece, you were amazing.

His hands had memorized every inch of that body, but at the moment he couldn’t move to touch you, couldn’t speak to you, couldn’t even fucking blink your image out of his brain.

The photographer said something about “more edge,” and you smirked, dropping your chin just enough to make mischief with your gaze.

It wasn’t meant for Ari. But fuck, he felt it. 

Ari stayed in the shadows just long enough to carve your image into his bloodstream.

Then he turned and left, silently bleeding for you.

—--

You weren’t trying to be on your phone, but it buzzed three drinks deep at some rooftop party, where the music was loud and the faces were blurred by flash and too much champagne. 

The second your screen lit up, you sensed it.

A DM. Then another. You tapped through. And there he was.

Ari Levinson. Black sweater. Cocky smile. Calm, cool, and collected.

A woman with mile-long legs and too much lip gloss draped herself over him, laughing into his shoulder in the boomerang video.

Made so you could watch it over and over again.

Ari didn’t touch her; he barely looked at her. But he didn’t move away either. 

And that was enough.

You locked your phone, shoved it under your thigh, forcing your lips into a smile when your friend slid another drink your way.

“You good?”

You lied. “Peachy.”

It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t own him. You didn’t even call him yours.

But all you could see was him, the man who once kissed you so hard you forgot your own name.

The man who made you feel.

And now he was somewhere else and you were losing your mind in an Uber home, crafting and deleting half a dozen texts you’d never send.

you looked good tonight

Delete.

was she worth it?

Delete.

i can't stop thinking about your mouth

Delete. Delete. Delete.

—--

Ari left that rooftop party ten minutes after that girl posted him.

He didn’t even say goodbye because he hadn’t wanted to be there. He hadn’t wanted anyone but you. And when he saw your name light up his notifications, saw that you’d watched, well shit, it made him feel sick.

Because he knew what you’d think, and it wasn’t the truth. The truth was you were already under his skin; you were already it for him.

He didn't know why that was so important to him, but it was.

You were.

—-

The knock came at 1:42 a.m.

You were scared, because you knew it was someone who could hurt you.

You knew it was Ari.

You padded barefoot to the door, one hand trembling against the wood as you peeked through the peephole. Ari was there in a Tribeca Festival hoodie, his hands deep in his pockets and his jaw tight.

You opened the door and didn’t say a word. Neither did he. For a moment, the city noise poured in behind him and then you stepped back.

He walked in like he was home. And you let him.

—--

You didn’t speak.

Just closed the door behind him and walked into the kitchen like he hadn’t shown up at nearly two am with that whole brooding/penitent thing going on.

You opened the fridge, poured a glass of water and sipped. You should have been an actress.

Ari stayed where he was, near the door, hoodie pushed back, hands in his pockets, eyes never leaving you.

You didn’t spare him a glance.

“Thought you were busy tonight,” you said evenly.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I was,” he said finally.

You set the glass down, still not looking at him.

“Saw the party,” you added. “Looked like fun.”

Nothing in your tone gave you away. Not the way your chest was tight, not the sting behind your eyes, not the taste of jealousy in your mouth.

"Didn’t stay long," he said finally.

The laugh that escaped you was bitter and broken.

"Long enough."

You turned, and there he was, suddenly in front of you, so close you could feel his heat.

"You were watching," he said quietly.

You glared up at him.

"Is that why you’re here? Because I saw?"

"I’m here because the second I saw your name on that story, I felt like I couldn’t fucking breathe."

You stared at him and saw that he wasn’t untouched. He wasn’t fine. He was fucking wrecked.

"You think you know what I’m feeling?" you said, voice cracking.

"I know exactly what you’re feeling," he said, "because it’s the same thing I’m feeling."

The words landed because they were true. Because he was the one person who saw through all your practiced detachment and soft cruelty. Even after so little time.

It was lightning in the bottle, finding the one who looked at you, read your bullshit and still wanted more. On a dating app no less.

Fuck your life.

You walked past him toward the couch, brushing too close on purpose. 

“You think you know me,” you said, sitting down and crossing your legs slowly.

“But I don’t own you Ari. You're free to do what you want. And she looked like a good time.”

You shrugged.

“You showing up somewhere with her is none of my business.”

Ari bristled.

“I didn’t show up with her. I went alone. I left alone.”

You blinked as he crouched in front of you, his hands on the edge of the cushion, one knee brushing your thigh.

“And I’m here now. With you. Because all I could think about was you sitting here, alone. Wondering what it meant. Wondering if I was fucking her. Wondering if I’d moved on.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He reached up, thumb brushing your jaw.

“I haven’t. I can’t. You’re in my fucking bloodstream," Ari said.

"And I can’t rip you out."

He bent and pressed his forehead to your knee and just breathed.

Your fingers hovered above his head for one breath. Then two. And then you gave in. They slid into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and his whole body tensed, like he hadn’t expected you to touch him, like he was braced for a shove instead of tenderness.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. And when your hand tightened, just slightly, he looked up.

Those eyes. God, those eyes. Those eyes gutted you the way they looked at you like you were the one who might disappear if he blinked.

You leaned in just enough to make him meet you halfway. And when his mouth met yours, it wasn���t urgent. It wasn’t greedy.

It was devastating. You couldn't pretend any more.

You broke the kiss only to whisper, “I hated seeing you with her.”

His head dropped, breath ragged against your knee.

“I didn’t touch her,” he rasped. “I haven’t touched anyone.”

You tilted his chin up. “Why?”

His answer came without hesitation. 

“Because I can’t get you out of my fucking head. When I look, I can’t see anyone else but you. I don't want anyone else."

That was when you lost it. The dam broke. You grabbed his hair, dragging his mouth to yours. 

The kiss wasn't sweet. It was needy. It was desperate. Your teeth, hands, and mouths were ferocious, and still, it wasn’t enough; it would never be enough.

"Tell me you hate me," he whispered against your mouth.

You kissed him harder.

"Tell me you don’t feel this."

You gasped, "I can’t."

You kissed him again.

"I don’t want to feel anything.” 

“I know.”

“And I still fucking do.”

“I know that too.”

Ari groaned against your lips, the sound low and primal, and it shot straight through you. His hand found the hem of your tank top and found the warm skin underneath.

You shuddered and gripped the front of his hoodie, yanking him closer and when the kiss broke and you gasped for air, he pressed his forehead to yours.

"You are so fucking stubborn," he whispered.

"I know," you rasped.

His hand slid up your ribcage and weighed your breast, thumb tracing your areola.

"Still want you," he said. "Even when it hurts."

He pinched your nipple to emphasize his point. You grabbed his jaw, palm dragging over his beard.

"Show me," you whispered.

Ari groaned and peeled your top over your head with shaking hands, tossing it somewhere neither of you cared about. You stripped his hoodie and t-shirt off too, tugging him closer by his broad shoulders, breathing him in, burying your face in his throat for one dizzying second.

Ari turned and sat on the couch, lifting you onto his lap. Your knees sunk into the cushions on beside his thighs and your bodies crashed together. He kissed down your throat, stopping at your pounding pulse to bite down gently. And when you felt the huge ridge of his cock through his jeans, you moaned helplessly.

"You drive me insane," he  whispered into your skin.

“Can’t fucking breathe without thinking about you."

You whimpered and arched into his touch while his thumbs circled your nipples until you were gasping in his lap.

"Ari," you moaned.

He kissed every inch of you he could reach.

"I’m here," he said. "I’m right here."

He carried you up to your bedroom, and the way he looked at you when he laid you on your bed made your heart ache. When he slid your panties down your legs, he kissed the inside of your ankle, then your calf, your knee, working his way up your body like he had all the time in the world.

You tangled your fingers in his hair and whimpered when he kissed between your thighs.

"Need to taste you," Ari stated. And then he did.

His tongue licked into you as his hands pinned your hips down when you tried to buck them up into his face, feeling like a desperate slut for him. Ari was an expert at making you feel good; his tongue was perfect on your clit and licking inside your folds, and his fingers fucked you open, lighting you up from the inside out, over and over, until you were a trembling, trembling, moaning mess under him.

You came hard, gasping his name, nails clawing at the sheets, and he didn’t stop tasting you until you came down. Then, he kissed up your body, planting open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, your ribs, and your throat.

At this point you were beyond feral, and you yanked at his jeans, needing more, needing him. He stripped them off, pushed his boxers down, and there he was, thick, hard, beautiful, aching, and dripping for you.

"Condom," you panted.

"Fuck…. Okay, yeah."

He scrambled for his jeans, hands shaking, and you couldn’t help but smile; wild and wrecked looked good on him. He rolled it on, kissed you again and then he guided the broad tip of his cock to your snug, slippery entrance and eased inside you.

You both gasped. He was so fucking big. Ari destroyed you so good.

It wasn’t just physical. It was everything. All the denial. All the want. All the feelings. It all combined to have your cunt slowly pulsing around him already.

Once fully inside you, he stayed still, forehead pressed to yours, giving you, and himself, time.

"You good?" he whispered, his voice wavering as your cunt pulsed around him. He was so close already.

It had never been like this.

The question was strange. He'd never cared this much while he was fucking you. But this time, it wasn’t just fucking.

You nodded, eyes burning.

"Move," you said.

And he rocked into you slowly at first, like he was savoring every second. You clung to him, nails dragging down his back, thighs tightening around his waist, making involuntary whimpers and ragged gasps.

His fingers glided over your clit and the pleasure exploded in a rich, crazy rush.

"Ari," you sobbed.

"I know, Baby," he panted against your neck. "I know. Feels so damn good."

He kissed your jaw, your temple, and your mouth like he couldn’t get enough. You rode his thick cock as his fingers spun your climax higher and higher as you tipped over the precipice again, crying out, your cunt locking down around him.

He groaned and thrust harder, losing control. It was the quickest he would ever come with you.

"Can’t…fuck…can't hold on..." he gasped.

You grabbed his face, made him look at you.

"Come inside me," you whispered. "Please."

This wasn't about the condom. It was the sentiment.

Ari's brain blanked, his whole body shuddered, and he buried his face against your throat and let go, hips jerking, mouth open in a silent cry.

You held him through it. And when it was over, he didn’t move. Just stayed pressed against you, still inside you, breathing hard.

"Don’t leave," you whispered into his hair.

He made a broken sound,  half a laugh, half a sob.

"I’m not going anywhere, Muse." he said.

"Not anymore."

—---

You woke tangled in Ari, your cheek pressed to his bare chest, his arm heavy across your waist, his breath steady against your hair. For a second, you just laid there, afraid to move. But then, his fingers moved up and down the curve of your spine.

You swallowed hard and shifted slightly, feeling him stir against you, realizing that he was hard again.

God, you were wrecked for him. Beyond reason. And beyond pride.

You tilted your head back to look at him, and saw that he was already awake, watching you. You opened your mouth to say something, something stupid. Something defensive. 

To make a joke. To make it light. To pretend it didn’t mean everything. But Ari beat you to it. 

His voice was rough with warning.

“Don’t run from me.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a plea. It was a command.

Your chest hurt because God, you wanted to run.

It would be safer. Easier. But you couldn’t run from him anymore.

You dragged your hand up his chest, feeling the rough patch of hair and the steady thump of his heart.

“You make it really fucking hard to breathe,” you whispered.

Ari smiled and kissed the corner of your mouth. Your cheekbone. Your eyelid.

And then he rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, keeping you locked against him as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you even closer. You buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing him instead of air.

And then he said it, the words that split the world wide open.

“I’m in love with you.”

Like it was simple. Like you could just say shit like that.

You froze.

But he didn’t flinch, backpedal, or give you a single out. He just held you.

Like what he’d just said wasn’t terrifying.

And now you were crying, hot rivulets of your tears running down his neck.

You pulled back just enough to see his beautiful, stubborn, stupid face, and you gave him the only thing you had left.

You whispered it back, trembling and scared.

“I’m in love with you too.”

-----

oh. my. god. wbu?

Muse Five

[stars-eclipsing]

Its so romantic in Paris...

First of all I just wanna say i was an og sabrina fan before allll her espresso fame back in like 2018. All of u guys r fake. Anyway.

Note: I cant b a normal person and have a severe spiritual illness so this is part 1, aka the normal part. part 2 will be cunnilingus and all that amazing stuff. Ok? Ok.

Content: All sfw, angst, mentions of canon-typical violence

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

You sip on rich, decadent hot chocolate as you watch the full moon cast beautiful light against a backdrop of endless black. The moonlight’s shine spills onto the oceans back elegantly, whilst the restless waters gently ripple and slosh against a rocky bed. You watch the scene intently, unable to tear your eyes off of nature’s beauty. 

Your first day in France was more than you could have ever hoped for. The sites were just as serene as the pictures, the cafes might have been a tad overpriced, but you’d still enjoyed your time conversing with the locals. Unfortunately, Mark had to leave halfway through. But it was fine. You could make do on your own. And you did. 

Work has been…tough recently. It’s been overwhelming to even leave the soothing comfort of your bed in the mornings, let alone carry on with your mundane days. Seeing your discomfort, Mark had suggested a vacation to ease your mind off of everyday’s stress. 

Reluctantly, you had agreed. 

And a good thing you did. You can’t even picture yourself at a desk anymore, slaving away all day. The thought itself makes you cringe.

Besides that, it’s all just been a bit much recently. More than someone like you can handle. A human, and not so terribly flawed, you’ve come to realize. At least you weren’t made to flaw… 

Behind you, there’s a soft click. The subtle sound of the hotel room’s door opening catches your attention, successfully disturbing your train of thought. 

You carefully set the mug on the white railing supported by well-sculpted pillars, enclosing the balcony (rather tastefully, in your opinion.) You turn around to see your lover, albeit tattered and stumbling, but still comfortingly beautiful. 

You can’t help the small smile that creeps on your face at the sight of him. “Mark,” You purr. 

He grins at the way you say his name so sweetly. He peels his mask off of his face, revealing your tired, but darling boyfriend. 

You meet him halfway into an embrace, and he holds you back. You instinctively kiss the side of his jaw, he chuckles. 

Cupping a side of his face, you look into his glimmering eyes, and you almost see the moon in them, “I thought you wouldn’t be back till tomorrow.” You tell him, though there's still a peaceful smile on your face. 

He closes his eyes as you gently stroke your thumb across his cheekbone, and leans into your touch to lightly kiss the inside of your palm. He shakes his head, “Mm-mm. No way. No how.” He opens his eyes to look at you, and you feel your heart melt. “I wanna be here with you.” He holds your hand in his own, warm and reassuring. 

Your shoulders sag in relief and you sigh, your face relaxing. Hero duties never sleep, but you were hoping it would– just for the night. Just for one, quiet night. 

You look at him with all the love in your heart. Seems the stars have granted your wish. 

You take the opportunity to lean in and kiss the plush skin of Mark’s lips, and he reciprocates eagerly, enjoying the gentle suckling on his tender bottom lip. Time leisurely curled around both of you as you kissed—slow, suspended, infinite.

Everything was perfect for a moment— too perfect, like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. Perhaps the world could end now, like it’s done time and time before, and you would accept it, relish in it. After all, there is no other place you’d rather be…

Your heart stutters in your chest at the thought, the afterimage of collapse, destruction, and fear running through your mind. You try to forget it, tuck it away to the furthest, darkest corner of your mind, but you can’t. How could you, after everything that he’s— you’ve been put through. You flinch away from him like he was hot coal. 

You hadn’t even noticed your breathing had picked up, and you held your hand to your heart, trying to expel the fear from your body desperately. 

Mark calls out your name amidst your internal struggle, but it comes out more like a scream underwater. Your ribs ache, and your legs feel weak. 

This can’t happen. Not again. How many times will there be a miracle for you to ride the coattails of? Not enough. 

You can’t live like this. In fear, in agony. It’s too much. Why can’t anyone see that? Why can’t he see that? 

You're abruptly snapped out of your thoughts when you feel arms encircle your waist. Mark’s hand comes to your temple to lean your head back, placing a ghostly kiss on your cold skin. 

Your fingers grip the balcony’s railings, watching a silver eye staring back at you, unblinking against dark waters. The sparkling stars hang like broken glass against the deep expanse of sky, of space, of unknown. 

How did you get here? 

Your eyes search for anything, a sign, an omen, an angel. When you find nothing, you inhale shakily, your face scrunched up and determined. You needn’t proof to know that this time will be different. It has to be. 

You can’t bear the thought of more tragedy, the feeling of helplessness already etched far too deep into your skin. When will enough be enough? 

Turning just slightly to the side, you see the refined marble shine modestly. You keep your eyes on it. “Mark,” You utter his name gravely, quietly. 

He lets out a soft ‘hmm?’ and you look up at him, his eyes are already on yours. 

Your lips suddenly feel dry, and the air seems harsher, prickling at your sensitive skin. The waves below crash insistently, trying to grab your attention. You hardly even notice. 

In your restless dreams, you see that day. You see the mangled bodies at your feet, ruining your brand-new white shoes. Your shaky hands had lifted up into your line of view, showcasing… blood. It had dipped all the way to your elbow, into every crack and crevice on your hand. Your destiny had been entirely erased from your palm. 

In the shower, you had spent hours scrubbing yourself, your sobs scratching at your throat and echoing against the walls. The drain swirled with a whirlpool of red. Your white shoes outside, abandoned in the dumpster. Throughout it all, all you could think was, ‘But, why? Why Mark? Why me?’

Was there something so egregiously wrong you’d done you needed to atone for? If so, you wanted to repent. So badly, you did. All you need… is for the angels to tell you where you went wrong. And you promise— oh, you promise you won’t be swayed astray again. You couldn’t bear it anyway. 

You blink up at him hollowly. There was no life in your eyes, only the echo of where something used to be.

Your lips open into a small keyhole, trying to find the words to say. What to ask. 

You want his help. You need him to help you. 

Cold hands touch his face, but he doesn't flinch or shiver, merely matching the intensity of your gaze. 

He’s desperate to speak, but he can tell something is weighing on your mind, a question on the tip of your tongue. Your eyes trace his features, committing them to memory. You don’t want to forget… not so soon… because you could swear his hair was shorter just yesterday. 

You chew on your bottom lip, furrowing your brows as you look at him like you’re here. Here with him. “Is it you…Mark?” 

Sometimes, Mark feels like a broken mirror you had tried to piece together, but your feet keep bleeding from stepping on the shards, and your reflection doesn’t look quite the same anymore…

He looks at you lovingly, his fingers curling around your face like petals closing around morning dew. 

His smile is strained, but he tries at it anyway, “It’s me. I promise.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

See the way I decorate my posts to seem aesthetically pleasing, Mark?

Anyway, im starting a series with cray cray reader and this is lowk beta and ill post the final version on ao3 but yolo (i'll fix this one afterwards!)

masterlist <3

[sturniololuvz]

hii could you do a fic where matt’s daughter shows up at home like super drunk and he doesn’t yell cus she won’t remember anyway and in the morning she was super hung over and the triplets take care of her

“She’s Gonna Feel That Tomorrow”

It was almost 2:30 AM when the front door creaked open and slammed shut a beat too hard.

Matt sat up straighter on the couch, where he’d been waiting with his arms crossed and worry etched across his face. The lights were low, just the kitchen lamp glowing softly behind him.

Y/N stumbled in with her shoes in one hand, mascara smudged, hair falling out of her bun, and her phone held upside-down like she was trying to use it as a flashlight.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said brightly, voice slurred. “You look like a worried owl.”

Matt sighed, standing slowly. “Y/N…”

She hiccupped. “I didn’t do tequila. That was Samantha. I did—um—other… clear stuff.”

“You smell like a brewery,” Matt said, gently guiding her toward the stairs before she could fall over. “Come on.”

“No yelling?” she asked, blinking up at him.

“You won’t remember it if I do.”

“Thas’ true. You’re smart. Like, surprisingly smart.”

He held back a laugh as he helped her up the stairs, steadying her as she tripped over literally nothing.

By the time she face-planted into her bed (fully clothed), Matt had set a trash can beside her, tucked a glass of water on the nightstand, and laid out Advil for the morning.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her snore softly into her pillow.

“You’re lucky I love you, kid.”

⸻

The Next Morning

“Who’s dying in here?” Nick whispered, peeking into Y/N’s room with a bowl of dry cereal in hand.

Y/N groaned from under the blankets. “Why is the sun screaming?”

Matt entered behind him, holding a cup of black coffee. “Because actions have consequences.”

“Dad,” she croaked, clutching her forehead. “Please don’t be smug.”

“I’m not smug. I’m just enjoying being right.”

Chris popped in next. “Heard someone partied like a freshman frat boy last night.”

“Shut up,” she whimpered.

Nick tossed a Gatorade bottle onto her bed. “Hydrate or die-drate.”

Matt set the coffee down and gently brushed her hair back from her face. “How bad is it?”

“Like… my brain’s trying to claw out of my skull.”

“Well,” Chris said, grinning, “at least you didn’t do tequila.”

She sat up a bit. “That was Samantha!”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “You remember that?”

“Only that part,” she muttered.

Matt smirked, wrapping her in a blanket burrito. “You’re grounded.”

“I figured.”

“But also… you’re okay. And I’m glad.”

She leaned into his shoulder. “Thanks for not yelling.”

“You’re not off the hook,” he warned, but his voice was gentle. “Just lucky your uncles showed up with electrolytes and carbs.”

Chris waved a bagel triumphantly. “Your savior.”

She winced at the motion. “Too fast. Everything is too fast.”

Nick patted her head like she was a wounded animal. “Next time, maybe drink water between shots.”

“I hate all of you,” she mumbled, taking a sip of the Gatorade anyway.

They stayed in her room most of the morning — teasing, feeding her, and making sure she didn’t die. And even though her head was pounding, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a little lucky.

Because hangovers suck — but being loved like this?

That was a win.

⸻

[rpmemes-galore]

the last of us (game) ... sentence starters

"Endure and survive."

"Holy shit. She's infected."

"There is no other choice here."

"You have no idea what loss is."

"You listen to me, you little shit…"

"Come on. Make this easy for me."

"Yeah, well, I was trying to kill you."

"No, fuck you! You handcuffed me!"

"How is it that you're never scared?"

"I shot the hell out of that guy, huh?!"

"But, man… you can't deny that view."

"And we are going our separate ways."

"We're not murderers. We just survive."

"I will not turn into one of those things."

"It's called luck, and it is gonna run out."

"Well, is that everything you hoped for?"

"You're lucky you're still drawing breath."

"What are we doing here? This is not us."

"It can't be any worse out there… can it?"

"They sacrifice the few to save the many."

"What do you know about us? About me?"

"Yeah, I thought you were one of them, too."

"Just take it easy. Drugs are still wearing off."

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that bullshit."

"That was plan A, B, C, all the way to fuckin' Z!"

"You're treading on some mighty thin ice here."

"Oh, baby girl. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay now."

"You're gonna be really happy you didn't kill me."

"I'm sure your 'friend' will be missing this tonight."

"(name) saw the world one way, I saw it the other."

"I'm… I'm not going anywhere. This is my last stop."

"I'm exhausted and I just want this to end… So be it."

"Well, I ain't leavin' without you. Let's go wrap this up."

"Ssh, ssh! It's okay! It's me, it's me! Look, look. It's me."

"No, no, no, that was your crusade, I'm not doing that."

"Admit that you wanted to get rid of me the whole time."

"I'm glad I didn't get my head blown off by a goddamn kid."

"Hearing them talk, it's good to know they're scared of you."

"Swear to me. Swear to me that everything you said is true."

"Well, I guess we're both disappointed with each other then."

"This tunnel, you use it to smuggle things? Like, illegal things?"

"Focus right here, right here. Or I'll pop your goddamn knee off."

"Where are anyone's parents? They've been gone a long, long time."

"And just so we're clear about back there… It was either him or me."

"Well, maybe in all that research they turned into fucking monkeys."

"I'm just saying, I'm glad you're on my side. That was a compliment."

"You're right. You're not my daughter. And I sure as hell ain't your dad."

"The tests just keep getting harder and harder, don't they? I'm so tired."

"It's okay. I would've probably done the same thing. Where are you from?"

"People are making apocalypse jokes like there's no tomorrow… Too soon."

"They might still look like people, but that person is not in there anymore."

"Really? Guess what, we're shitty people. It's been that way for a long time."

"I lost most of my crew crossing the country. I pretty much lost everything."

"I guess no matter how hard you try, you can’t escape your past. Thank you."

"After all we've been through. Everything that I've done. It can't be for nothing."

"Listen to me: if I get in trouble down there, you make every shot count. Yeah?"

"Look, there's enough here that you have to feel some sort of obligation to me."

"I believe his last words to me were 'I don't ever want to see your goddamn face again'."

"I hate to interrupt your little biology lesson, but can we get the fuck out of here? Please?"

"I dedicated my life to this cause and… now I won't get to see whether we make it or not."

"I…. can't imagine losing someone you love like that. Losing everything that you know."

"And then you show up and somehow we find you just in time to save her. Maybe it was meant to be."

"I'm gettin' you outta here, baby girl. I got you. I got you. Come on. We're okay… we're okay… we're okay…"

"You know, as bad as those things are, at least they're predictable. It's the normal people that scare me."

"I get it. But whatever it is you think you're going through right now is nothing to what I have been through."

"I struggled for a long time with surviving. And you... no matter what, you keep finding something to fight for."

"Is this really all they had to worry about? Boys, movies… deciding which shirt goes with which skirt? It's bizarre."

"Do you even realize what your life means? Huh? Running off like that, putting yourself at risk — it's pretty goddamn stupid."

"You wanna know the best thing about my job? I don't gotta know why. Be honest with you, I could give two shits what you're up to."

"What if the people are still inside? What if they're trapped in there, without any control of their body? I'm scared of that happening to me."

"Yeah, everyone barricaded themselves in their homes. Then supplies started runnin' low. That's when you saw what people are really capable of."

"You know what? No. How about 'Hey, I know it wasn't easy, but it was either him or me, thanks for saving my ass'… You got anything like that for me?"

"And in this world, that sort of shit's good for one thing — gettin' ya killed. So you know what I did? I wisened the fuck up. And I realized it's gotta be just me."

"Everyone I have cared for has either died, or left me. Everyone—fucking except for you! So don't tell me I would be safer with somebody else, because the truth is, I would just be more scared."

[campingwiththecharmings]

The Set Up

AN: Inspired by a prompt from this list. I'm not sure how I feel about this as it didn't turn out the way I wanted but I'm posting it anyway lol. Happy Star Wars Day! May the 4th Be With You 😊

(Un-beta’d)

Your friends set you up with The Perfect Guy™️

Rated: M-ish (very, VERY slight, honestly just rating it this just in case lmao) Words: 1,218 Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader (pretty sure it's GN, please let me know if that's incorrect) Warnings: References to sex but no overt sexual content, awkwardness, drinking/tipsiness, mentions of past drunkenness, please let me know if I missed anything. AO3

——————

“Let us set you up,” they’d said. “It’ll be so fun,” they’d said. “We have the perfect guy for you,” they'd said.

The Perfect Guy. Right.

Just so happens you’ve already dated this particular Perfect Guy.

Well, maybe “dated” wasn’t the right word. “Had a history with,” maybe? Or, more like “shared a bed with”...

It was late last year, after one of many missions in the Outer Rim. You’d been having a drink at the Cantina, drowning your sorrows after the loss of a friend. He’d been doing the same for similar reasons. You’d gotten to chatting, commiserating, slinging back drink after drink, and had soon ended up outside Poe’s quarters sloppily making out against the door. He’d been solid, and warm—and such a good kisser—and Maker, you’d just needed the comfort he was offering. So, you’d slept together. You don’t remember too much, just flashes here and there, but it must’ve been awful because the next morning, he was nowhere to be found. You’d been embarrassed to say the least but thankfully you didn’t really run in the same circles. You’d never told anyone about it and it appeared he hadn’t either, so you’d just tried to forget about it.

“Poe,” you say, voice shaking slightly. “Long time no see.”

He has the decency to look at least a little uncomfortable, which gives you some hope that he’s not a complete nerf herder. 

“About that–”

You cut him off with a hand, shaking your head. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

He pauses, lips still parted. He nods after a moment, briefly averting his gaze.

An awkward silence falls between you before he breaks it with a question. “Still drink spice rum?”

Your eyes widen a little in surprise—he remembered your preferred drink? “Oh, um, yes.”

He smiles gesturing toward the bar. “Can I get you one?”

After a moment’s hesitation, you nod. So, this date was still on then?

He returns and hands you the glass of rum, just the smell of it putting you a little more at ease. “Thanks.”

Silence falls between you again, but it’s less awkward somehow. 

“How’s BB-8?” you ask, gingerly sipping on your drink.

Poe’s eyes light up at the mention of his droid and it kind of warms your heart a little. “He’s good, thanks. Just got back from a mission in the Mid Rim so he’s getting cleaned up by the techs at the moment.”

You nod, trying to make yourself relax a little. “So the mission was successful then? I know you can’t go into details but…”

He nods enthusiastically, his mouth otherwise occupied with his Jet Juice. “Yes, definitely successful.”

“Good,” you reply, wetting your lips.

Poe’s gaze briefly drops to your mouth and your skin heats. You swallow hard, the memory of what kissing him felt like popping into your mind unbidden.

Kriffing hell, you had to get out of here.

But you don’t, instead choosing to torture yourself with more awkward conversation. You talk about a lot of things, but none of it feels natural. Not even after four spice rums. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he offers you an out, explaining that he has an early call tomorrow. Relieved, you jump to your feet, swaying a little, your head spinning a little. Maker, maybe four spice rums was too many on an empty stomach…

You feel Poe’s hands on your shoulders as he tries to help steady you, a concerned look on his face. 

“You okay?”

You chuckle, slightly embarrassed. “I think I just…stood up too fast.”

He looks unconvinced but doesn’t try to stop you as you move to walk away from the table you’d been sitting at, your legs feeling like jelly. 

“Hey, um, maybe I should walk you back?” he offers, eyebrows raising hopefully.

You shake your head, then immediately regret it, the quick movement making the room spin.

“Okay,” you hear Poe say, his warm, strong hands steadying you once more. “I’ve got you, it’s alright.”

He threads your arm through his, his voice soft as he directs you to wrap your fingers around his forearm for more balance. It gets better the longer you walk, your feet less clumsy, the room less…spinny. You’re pretty much back to normal by the time you make it to your quarters.

Wordlessly, you key the door code in, the familiar snick of the door opening reaching your ears.

“Thanks for walking me back,” you tell him softly, staring resolutely at your feet.

“Of course, anytime,” he says, slowly releasing you from his hold. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” you chuckle breathlessly, stealing a brief glance at him. “Just a little embarrassed.”

He tsks, leaning his shoulder against the wall beside the door. “Embarrassed? What for? Not like I haven’t seen you drunk before.”

You snort, shaking your head at the low blow. “This is true.”

He’s smiling when you finally meet his eyes, the tension between you thawing slightly. You stare at each other for a moment, Poe’s face shifting before he looks away. He chews his lip, drawing your attention as he says, “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it but—”

“I still don’t,” you interject, averting your gaze once more. “Look, I get it. It was bad. Let’s  just…be adults and move on, okay?”

Poe’s brow furrows at your words. “What was bad?”

You scoff, not daring to meet his gaze. “You know.”

“I really don’t,” he argues, sounding genuinely perplexed.

You sigh, annoyance flickering in your chest. “The sex obviously.”

“Y–you thought it was bad?” he asks after a beat, stepping a little closer to you.

His proximity forces you to meet his eyes.

“You’re the one that left,” you whisper, swallowing thickly as you begin to walk into your room. “Good night, Poe.”

His hand on your bicep halts your progress and you snap your head back toward him, the quick movement making the hallway spin for a moment. 

“You were the one that left.”

Your mouth opens and closes wordlessly before you respond. “What?”

Poe leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your cheek. “I left to go get breakfast for both of us and when I came back, you were gone.”

No, that’s…that’s not possible…Is it? 

“I–,” you begin, exhaling heavily. “When I woke up, you were gone. So I thought—-”

He curses under his breath, releasing your arm as he runs a hand through his curls. “Listen, I would never—,” He pauses, swallowing hard before continuing. “I’m so sorry you woke up alone.”

His words ignite a spark in your chest, the warmth of it permeating, spreading out toward your fingertips. “Thanks.”

“Could we—,” he begins, wetting his lips. “Could we maybe start over?”

You smile softly, meeting his earnest brown eyes. “I think I’d like that.”

He smiles back, relieved.

—

The next date you have ends in Poe's quarters again, but this time you remember every second—every kiss, every sigh, every brush of skin against skin. It's so good. He makes sure you know he's still there in the morning, too, waking you up with his head between your thighs.

Maybe your friends were right, maybe he is actually The Perfect Guy.

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

🌟 Masterlist 🌟

i am no longer doing a taglist. please follow @charmingupdates for updates and turn on notifications.

[jman14102-blog]

Danse Macabre

An art piece I commissioned from @leafinqxi of a scene from an upcoming story I'm writing. They were fast, patient, and excellent to work with! I definitely recommend them! Thank you again for bringing to life O and Cyn, and the beginnings of what will eventually become the world's most toxic relationship.

The gramophone cranked to life, the music groaning and moaning until it was fully up to speed, filling the room with a sweeping, cascading song.

O winced as he turned, knees locking as he performed an exaggerated bow with his singular arm, winking, "May I have this dance, miss?"

Cyn's head rocked to the side, crooked little body shuddering under the change in balance. She was quiet for a moment, but then she moved, that ever-present smile unchanging as she shuffled forward, "Polite curtsy. Yes, you may."

They half-stumbled, half-walked into the center of the room as the crescendo in the song gave way to a woman's voice, every word, every note carrying with it a haunting, forlorn longing.

The maid's tiny hand found his and stretched outwards with it. Her head tilted forward and bumped off his chest, and a short laugh was his reply. She didn't pull away, instead pressing against him, rising on tiptoes, other hand trailing up, fingers searching, twitching with a nervous energy as they grazed against his shoulder. She couldn't reach, instead settling for gathering a balled up wad of fabric between her fingers. Her head drifted up, tilting slightly, eyes blinking, "I have never. Danced. Like this before. Big Brother is usually. Too. Busy. To teach me."

He looked down at her, a smile, an actual smile present there, as he gently but firmly guided them across the floor, "Well, that's a shame. Everyone here should know at least the basics. Turn with me, please?"

O twisted his hand, beginning to turn. Cyn released his jacket, maintaining her grip as he pulled her into a slow, halting spin. It was spastic, unsure, stumbling feet and disjointed knees dragging what should have been a graceful move into something ugly. She nearly fell twice, but O would stop moving each time and allow her to recover. He let her lead.

"Don't feel bad." He whispered, "Practice makes perfect."

Her spin finished, and Cyn tried to hide the flush lines on her visor as she replaced her hand on his jacket a little too quickly.

"Sheepish. Expression." She mumbled, legs quivering, her head turned to the side and pressed against his chest, "Much to learn. Yes."

They continued on like that. Slow and meandering. Their moves were clumsy, halting, neither of their bodies cut out for something this elegant, but still they danced. The earnestness, the want to drift among the moonlit shadows, guided their steps regardless. Any mistakes, any slips or stepped-on shoes, were quickly forgotten amid nervous giggles and the soaring music.

For the bespectacled maid drone and curious human girl watching through a crack in the door, it was absurdly cute. Something they'd spend the rest of the night gossiping about, snickering and smiling.

For the broken butler and the mangled maid, however, nothing changed. Time stretched on, and eventually their dancing was little more than the two of them turning in slow, simple circles. Both of her hands were now pinned to his jacket, his singular arm wrapped gently around her. Cyn's head was nestled gently against his core, feeling the electric thrum through her audials, eyes focused somewhere far away, smiling. O's head rested atop her's, chin squishing down the extravagant bow, eyes shut with a lazy grin.

"Another lesson tomorrow?" He sighed, breath ruffling her hair, her bow, "You have me now. Plenty of time for lessons."

Her smile grew, her hold tightened, she nuzzled further against his core, absorbing the warmth, the faint scent of oil, the tingle of electrodes and circuits. Her eyes glinted in the dim light.

"Yes." She said, and something vaguely resembling a symbol flickered across her visor for a split-second, so fast that none could have noticed. Her grip tightened further, refusing to let go, "I do have you now."