#yet another thing the pilot did better

[pyxehastoomanyinterests]

their beef needs to be revived in the show please,, PLEASE,,

(Vaggie’s name is changed to Verity in my rewrite bc. yeah)

[roosterforme]

Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw Part 2 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: The collection of letters that Bradley received from the fourth grade class provides him with entertainment while deployed. He takes the time to answer their questions and send a package back to the United States via air mail. But he has your email address. He also has a bit of a crush and some questions himself.

Warnings: Fluff, language

Length: 4100 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female teacher!Reader

Check out my masterlist for more! Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw masterlist

A few days later, when Bradley was done with his training protocols for the day, he returned to his bunk with a different mission in mind. While he unzipped his flight suit, he eyed the box which was taking up most of his nightstand, and a smile found its way to his lips. He managed to find a notebook that nobody wanted along with a thick, padded envelope, and he was going to take the time to respond to the fourth graders who wrote to him. 

He'd spent hours poring over the letters, laughing at some of the questions from the kids and frequently picking up that one photo. He couldn't stop going back for more. For another look at you. Just one more look. Okay, this really was the last one. He had to toss it across the small room toward his duffel so he could focus on something other than your smile and the fact that he might have a tiny crush on a fourth grade teacher who knew absolutely nothing about him. Yet.

The note from Jayden was on the top, and Bradley opened it up and started to jot down a response.

Jayden,

It was so nice to hear from you and the rest of your class. To answer your pertinent questions, I am currently stationed on the USS Theodore Roosevelt. The most disgusting food in the mess hall is easily the cabbage rolls (which taste nothing like cabbage... or rolls). The best food in the mess hall is surprisingly the meatloaf. And yes, I would love to see a photo of your Cocker Spaniel. Please send one next time. I hope you're studying and doing your best in school.

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

The next note he decided to tackle was the one from Violet who had the tiniest handwriting he'd ever seen. The page had at least fifteen questions written out, but he decided to answer just a few for her. He had to squint as he skimmed through them again.

Violet,

You seem very inquisitive. That's a great quality to have, especially if you want to be a pilot someday. No, I did not attend the Naval Academy. I went to the University of Virginia. Yes, the Navy is way better than the Air Force. Yes, I can hold my breath underwater for three minutes. Yes, they actually made me do it. No, I don't think I could make it as a Navy SEAL. Yes, I have been staying hydrated and getting enough sun, thanks so much for asking. Keep studying hard, because you have a lot of school ahead of you before officer training.

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

Okay, so this was actually a lot of fun. Up next was a response to the note from Oliver, which made Bradley laugh every time he looked at it. 

Oliver,

Thank you so much for drawing the different Naval aircrafts for me. I hate to break it to you, but I actually do not fly the F-35 Lightning II. Yes, I know they look 'sickeningly cool'. Yes, I know it would be like 'slam dunking off the back of a dragon'. I guess I never knew I was jealous of those pilots until right now.... But I fly the equally cool if not quite as sickening looking F/A-18 Super Hornet. And yes, I would be more than happy to draw my own version of one for you. See below.

Lt. Bradley Bradshaw

The ten minutes he spent replicating his own aircraft to the best of his ability for Oliver churned out a pretty damn good result. He fished his phone out of the nightstand and took a picture to email to Nat when he had time, because she would find this whole thing amusing. Then he reached for the letters from Harrison, Nia and Jackie. He wrote his responses, and after a bit, he had a decent sized stack of letters all ready to go back to the fourth graders.

After a few more days, he worked his way through the entire class, and each kid would soon have a handwritten response on the way. He just needed to figure out what he wanted to say to you. The pretty teacher from the class photo that he now kept tucked in with his personal items. He worked on that one last, writing your full name at the top of the page and wishing you didn't go by the very non-specific Ms. which gave him zero clue as to whether or not you were married.

The package you sent was the nicest piece of deployment mail I have ever received. Thank you. I'm lucky it ended up in my hands. I'm impressed by how much all of your students have learned about aviation this year. I just hope I did them justice in regards to the questions they had for me.

I also hope you don't mind that I replied to each kid individually. They had some very amusing stories and questions, and I wanted to acknowledge all of them. But there was one question in particular that I was asked so many times, I thought I'd answer it here instead. My call sign is kind of a silly one, so it's okay if you all laugh. I go by Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, and my helmet is mostly red, yellow and black.

Your kids seem like a fun bunch, but I bet they keep you on your toes. Feel free to let them know they can write back to me again, but please include my name on the package this time. I don't know that I'd be lucky enough to have it fall into my hands again by chance. I'll just be here somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean for a few more months, ready to answer any questions you throw at me. Hope to hear back from you soon.

Yours Truly,

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

The following day, he packed everything up and dropped it off with the rest of the ship's outgoing mail. There was a rumor that a helicopter would be coming to pick it up in the next day or two, and he wanted to make sure it got back to California and those fourth graders as soon as possible. On his way back to his bunk, Bradley stopped by the lounge to see if there was an iPad free, hoping to send a quick email or two. He was in luck. He also happened to have your email address memorized.

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

You yawned at your desk and checked the time on your computer. Within the next ten minutes, your classroom would go from silent solitude to mass chaos, so you took a minute to clear out your email inbox. You had a few messages from some parents and a reminder about Spirit Week from the superintendent. And a random piece of junk mail that must have slipped through the spam filters. You didn't know anyone with a US Navy email address, and you didn't know anyone named Bradley Bradshaw.

As you closed your laptop, you gasped and tried to pry it back open again as quickly as you could. The Navy! The package you sent a few weeks ago! Maybe it was someone writing back to your class! Of course it could just be someone saying they were sorry that they didn't have time to engage with your students, but you figured even that was better than nothing. 

"Come on," you whispered, entering your credentials again before your inbox reappeared on your screen. The email was just a few lines long, but it was addressed to you by name. You were smiling immediately as you read it.

I just wanted to let you know that I got the mail you sent to a deployed Naval Aviator. There's a package on its way to your school for your class. It should arrive in about a week or two. Your fourth graders provided me with several hours of entertainment, and I hope they find my answers to their many (and amusing) questions useful. Thanks for the laughs, and thanks for the photos, too. Can't tell you how much I've been enjoying them. Hope to hear from all of you again.

Yours Truly,

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

You squealed and pumped your fists in the air. Someone actually got the box! And he actually responded! The other, older teachers thought you were just wasting your time when you deviated from the lesson plans a bit. Literally all of them said there was no way anyone would write back, even though you took the time to go through the proper channels at Top Gun on North Island. But now you could rub it in their faces, all thanks to Bradley Bradshaw who sounded like he'd had as much fun with this whole thing as your class had.

Then your day really started as Violet and Oliver burst into your classroom, calling out your name with excitement in their voices. The rest of your kids followed behind them, already asking about the plans for the day and what kind of adventure you'd be taking them on in each subject. 

When you clapped your hands twice and said, "Good morning," they all clapped and replied with their own greeting, and then they sat quietly with their gazes fixed on you. "Guess who I just got an email from!"

"The president!" 

"My grandma!"

"My Cocker Spaniel!"

"Oliver's grandma!"

You just shook your head and tried not to laugh as you said, "None of the above. But do you remember when we wrote and packed up those letters for a real aviator in the military to read?" Most of the kids nodded, so you added, "Well, he emailed us! And he sent us some mail that should arrive in about a week!"

And telling them that was a mistake. Because you didn't know a moment of peace after that. Every morning, you had kids rushing into the room to see if the promised piece of mail arrived yet. Every day you had to disappoint them, but you were finding yourself a little disappointed, too. You wanted to know what this Bradley Bradshaw guy sent back. 

You'd responded to his initial email letting him know you and the kids in your class were delighted to hear from him and that you would let him know when the mail he sent arrived at your school. He didn't respond, but you figured he was busy. Too busy to constantly muck about with your class while he was thousands of miles away on a deployment. 

And that was what left you standing at your desk with your mouth hanging open in awe when the padded envelope did finally arrive one morning. Because when you carefully cut it open, you found not just one letter to the class but individual handwritten notes, one for each child.

"Wow," you whispered, pulling the note with your name written on the top out of the stack. This man seemed humble and sweet, and his letter made you laugh in more than one spot as you read through it. Then you read it again. He sounded apologetic about responding to each individual kid, but you felt like your insides were melting. Who would do that? Who would take the time to give individual attention to a bunch of nine and ten year olds besides you? And you were technically getting paid to do it. 

Bradley Bradshaw seemed willing to continue to engage with your kids, and you weren't going to stop him. Because starting that morning, he became something of a legend to your class. A celebrity. A real lieutenant in the Navy replied to all of their silly questions, and their love of aviation just grew from there. You figured you were going to have to keep your lesson plans going a bit longer while their faces lit up as you walked around the room and handed them each their notes. You had taken the time to skim them beforehand, often laughing at his sense of humor which seemed to jump off the pages.

"Can we write back to him?" Jayden asked as everyone read their notes from Lieutenant Bradshaw. "I have more questions."

You smiled and nodded. "Yes, you may write back to him." Then you postponed your geology lesson until the next day and let them spend the next forty minutes writing some followup letters. You took some pictures of them diligently toiling away at their desks, excitement on their faces. Then you bit your lip and sat down at your own desk.

As you started to construct an email letting him know the envelope had arrived, your thoughts drifted to what he might be like. Humble and sweet, for sure. But he also made it a point to tell you that the box from your class was the best piece of mail he'd ever received while deployed. Maybe he was a little bit lonely. Maybe he was single. Maybe he was stationed on the west coast. Your thoughts started to get ahead of you, and it was hard to reel them in when you imagined him excited to see another email from you. Smiling when he was handed another box from your class during mail call.

Dear Lt Bradley Bradshaw,

We got the envelope from you today, and my kids are absolutely thrilled! I'm not sure if you know how hard it can be to wrangle eighteen fourth graders all at one time, but they are currently sitting quietly and working on new letters for you to read. Once again, please don't feel obligated to continue correspondence if you're too busy. I'm sure you have other people you could be writing to who want your attention as well. I just wanted you to know they are overjoyed that a Naval officer took the time to answer their questions about aviation.

I have attached some photos as proof that they are sitting still. Thanks again for making their day.

You signed your name at the bottom the way you always would from your work email account, and then you attached the photos. After a brief debate about adding the selfie you took with Violet where most of your face was visible, you decided to just go for it. Adding it to the mix wouldn't hurt anything. It wasn't like this semi mystery man would be up all night thinking about you. 

But you found that you were still thinking about him when you went home to your silent house and made dinner that evening. Maybe he was a little bit lonely, but maybe you were, too.

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

It was amazing how infrequently Bradley found himself thinking about Vanessa. He was busier now with his duties picking up a bit more as his deployment wore on, but even when he was tired and in his bunk at night, his thoughts seldom settled on her like he was afraid they might. He didn't miss her or her half-hearted emails, and he wasn't craving the connection of reunion sex with her. 

Instead, he was thinking about what a group of fourth graders were learning about this week and what their cute teacher was up to. It had been a few days since you emailed him, letting him know that his package was delivered to your school. You made it sound like the kids were excited that he sent it in the first place, and when he really thought about it, he supposed some officers would have just eaten the snacks and tossed the notes in the trash.

He didn't reply to the email yet, still thrown off a bit by the pictures you attached. Your classroom was vibrant, and the kids were absorbed as they worked on more notes for him to read whenever they happened to be delivered to the carrier. But the photo with you in it held his attention longer than it should have. The fact that you were working at a school that was just a handful of miles from his damn house made him feel warm.

But what would he do about it? What could he do about it? Nothing. He didn't want you to think he was creepy. He still knew essentially nothing else about you. The only thing he could do was keep it friendly if not professional. Unless of course you did something to push the boundaries of conversation into a more personal realm. God, if you did....he didn't think he would be able to handle it. 

The next day, when he was heading out on deck to talk to the mechanics who were doing regular maintenance on the aircrafts, he took his phone. "Hey, you mind if I take a few photos of some of the engine parts? I want to send them to a class of fourth graders who will think it's cool."

"Go ahead, Lieutenant," the head mechanic replied. Then he smiled and asked, "You dating a teacher?"

Well. Wouldn't that be something? Bradley would never run out of curious pen pals. He would always have some fourth graders to take interesting photos for and to send notes to. He'd always have a classroom to visit as soon as he got home from a deployment.

He couldn't help but picture you as the teacher.

"Nothing like that," he replied, his voice a little gravelly. "Just writing to some kids who are learning about aviation."

After dinner, when he had a chance to use an iPad in the lounge, he did his best to put together a response to your email that would at least hint at the curiosity he felt. 

If all it takes is mail from three thousand miles away to get your class to sit quietly, then I should probably be writing to you every day. But I'm sure you're a great teacher. That's a given considering how much your students learned and shared with me. And I can assure you that I'm more than happy to take the time to write to your class. And you. Please don't think I feel obligated, because I do not. I want to.

I have attached a few pictures of some F/A-18 engine components as well as some of my cockpit controls. Each photo is labeled, but please let me know if you have any questions.

It was nice hearing from you.

Yours Truly,

Lt Bradley Bradshaw 

As soon as he hit send, he wanted to kick himself. Should he have included a photo of his face like you had twice now? Or did he already sound too desperate to hear from you and your class again?

"Shit," he muttered, looking around the lounge as if there was going to be someone here proficient in the art of getting to know a fourth grade teacher without sounding stupid. But it was too late now. All he could do was wait for the next mail call or hope you decided to write back to his ramblings by the next time he checked his email. 

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

You were going to have to scrape your jaw off the floor. You had no idea what this man's face even looked like, but his hands were... something else. And his thighs... well, they were pretty great, too. It must have been too long since you got laid, because you were sitting at your desk in your classroom staring at the set of photos in your inbox, currently unable to look away from his right hand. It was wrapped around the throttle of his aircraft. It was elegant with attractive veins and rough calluses. You were sure that you were supposed to be focusing on the cockpit controls, but all you could see was that hand and his thick, muscular thighs below.

The next photo was no better for you. He was holding up his helmet with his call sign Rooster emblazoned across the front, and you were able to see his left ring finger. There was no wedding band. There was no evidence of an outline where a wedding band would belong. There was just his big, strong hand.

You whimpered softly while your students worked on their math tests. You couldn't help it as you took one last look before logging out of your email account. And now you needed to know if his face matched the very attractive image you had in your mind. 

When Jayden called your name, you rocketed to your feet like you'd been caught red handed. "Yes?" you squeaked, your voice sounding higher pitched than usual.

"I'm done with my test. May I have the hall pass and use the restroom?"

You handed it to him as the rest of your class finished working through the math problems. A few minutes later, when you collected the papers from them, Violet asked, "When is Lieutenant Bradshaw going to write back to us?"

It had only been a few days since you mailed him the second box of notes and some more snacks, but it made you happy that they were all so invested in learning more from him. 

"It will probably be a few weeks before we get anything in the mail. However... he did email me some pictures of engine and cockpit parts from the aircraft carrier for me to share with you guys." When you looked around the room, the kids were on the edges of their seats, excited expressions on their faces. With a laugh you added, "I was going to wait until tomorrow and use the projector to show them all to you, but if you're very well behaved for the rest of the afternoon, maybe I could pull them up on my computer for you to see them today."

Not two hours later, you were just as excited as the kids were to look at the photos... again. As they crowded around your desk, you opened up the first one of the cockpit to a barrage of questions. 

"Is that really his jet?"

"Is that the throttle?"

"What do all the buttons do?"

"Was this right before he flew it?"

Once again you were distracted, but you managed to click over to the next photo, and the kids gasped in delight. 

"His helmet is so cool!"

"It says Rooster!"

"That's his call sign!"

"Red is my favorite color!"

You just smiled softly and laughed. "Should we go ahead and start working on another list of questions for him?" you asked as you slowly scrolled through the rest of the pictures. "He said we can write back to him as much as we want to." When everyone cheered, you handed Oliver a marker and pointed to the board at the front of the classroom. "Let's start making a list."

You listened to all of your students call out questions for Bradley while Oliver wrote them down. Then Violet asked, "Can he send us a picture of his whole jet? From the outside of it?"

You cleared your throat and added, "Maybe he could get someone else to take the picture so he could stand in front of it. For size comparison."

Violet nodded, but you knew you were a fraud. Sure, it would be great for the kids to understand just how massive the F/A-18s were compared to an actual person, but you were the one who wanted to see all of Bradley. You were itching for it now. 

Later that night, you drank most of a bottle of wine and did something you promised yourself you'd never do. You logged into your work email account after nine o'clock. You skipped over the handful of unread emails from parents and clicked on the icon to compose a new message. With your liquid courage goading you on, you typed up a response to Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw and hit send before you could think twice.

Thank you for the photos. They were very enlightening. We especially liked the ones where you were showing off your cockpit. Or I did, anyway. The kids liked all of them and started on another list of questions for you. Good luck getting rid of us now. 

We were wondering if you could have someone take a picture of you standing in front of your jet. For size comparison purposes. And also because my students would like to know what you look like. Hearing from you makes our day even better.

You couldn't believe how forward you were being with this man who you'd never even met in person, but you fell asleep thinking about his hands and what they might be capable of.

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

This Bradley makes me swoon. I've never wanted to be a fourth grade teacher so badly in my life. There is something that's starting to blossom between them even though they haven't even met in person. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 3

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[bekolxeram]

I'm usually very block happy, but sometimes a couple of hot takes from the opposite side of the fandom manage to slip through. I'm no saint, I admit I do get quite worked up at first, but after some time, I realize they give me new perspectives to scenes I've watched countless times and discover things I didn't pick up before. So this one is for all of you, staunch Tommy haters, thank you for enriching my viewing experience.

In 7x04, when Tommy goes to Buck's loft to talk things out, this line gives some people the ick, because it echoes what Taylor said in 5x05. In that episode, Buck thought his team was off because they blamed him for Chimney leaving. He talked to Taylor about it, she shared her own experience with her boss being sulky around her, and it turned out her boss was just in a lot of physical pain, she ended the conversation with "maybe not everything is about you". While what she said was absolutely right, and she made an effort to make Buck feel appreciated at the end of the episode, but I can also see Buck not feeling supported emotionally at the time the conversation occurred. In a fashion true to her profession, Taylor delivered it in a very blunt, direct and advisory way. Her being right did not cancel out Buck feeling insecure about everyone acting weird around him and him not knowing why.

What Tommy says here though, is in a a completely different context.

Before all of this, Tommy has already reassured Buck that he's not trying to replace him, that his place in Eddie and Christopher's life is irreplaceable.

Look at Buck's smile, he's apparently in a better mood than before. It's like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

So going in this next part, Buck is more receptive to what he frankly needs to hear: Eddie isn't hanging out with Tommy because Buck did something wrong, he just enjoys Tommy's company.

We've witnessed Buck's growth over 7 seasons, now he can recognize that getting jealous easily is one of his character flaws, he tends to overthink and make other's action personal when he's feeling insecure in a relationship. He's telling Tommy this probably to signal that he understands he messed up and he understands what he did wrong. He never expected Tommy to validate his feelings.

But Tommy does empathize with his predicament.

Buck doesn't understand what Tommy, the cool, confident (and hot) pilot would be jealous over. And he almost can't believe Tommy gets what he's been feeling.

Tommy tells Buck that he's envious of the ride-or-die familial bonds within the 118 nowadays, as if he didn't also put his career and life in danger just to save Athena and Bobby (probably Hen's career as well), after one phone call from Chimney.

Now it's Buck's turn to reassure Tommy.

Another hot take I've seen from the other side goes like "if Tommy was nicer to Hen and Chimney back in the days, he wouldn't have to be jealous over what the 118 has now". You know what? Judging by Tommy's face here, he probably would agree. This is not the face of a man who is proud of what he did. This is the face of a man who is burdened by guilt and regret, this is a man haunted by his past, this is a man who doesn't think he deserves the praise.

Buck even cites fake mouth static as an example of Tommy's effort in aiding the 118's clandestine rescue mission, and they naturally fall into a flirty dynamic. I have no explanation for that, except, your honor, this is exhibit A against the "no chemistry" allegation.

Buck then spells it all out for Tommy that he also put everything on the line just for the 118, without hesitation. Tommy looks like he still has a hard time accepting it as an act worthy of redemption for his past behavior.

We've all made mistakes, and we all know we can't go back to the past and change what we did, so the best way forward is to change ourselves and be better. Judging by Tommy's "and [Gerrard] didn't make me a better person" line in 7x10, he quite possibly reflected on this a lot. Yet, sometimes you still can't help but doubt yourself over if you've learned enough from your past, if you're a good enough person now. I can't imagine how good it feels hearing Buck say out loud that he actually likes the person Tommy is now.

Apparently Buck likes Tommy so much that he came up with excuses just to hang out with him and get to know him.

Tommy is pleasantly surprised, because he did tell Buck to call him when he wants to go up. In fact, Buck can call him for whatever reason, Tommy accepted the Harbor tour request, there's nothing indicating that he would feel weird just hanging out with Buck. Tommy just doesn't know how much of a overthinker and bi disaster Buck truly is yet, but that's the story for another time.

Buck and Tommy really don't know much, if anything, about each other at this stage, as you can see in 7x05, but they're already validating each other's feelings. We've seen Buck get his feelings ignored, hurt, dismissed and kind of fetishized for 6 seasons, now this is something he's been looking for the whole time, for someone to understand what he's going through. At the same time, this interaction must also be quite freeing for Tommy, who's been haunted by demons from his own past.

[jollyhunter]

24 Kinky Days with Dean x reader - Day 13.

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Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW - MDNI! - includes explicit sexual content. It's a kinky writing challenge, so expect anything at this point, (nothing freaky, don't worry) but it's a surprise calendar so I won't spoil it! (Also, English is not my native language) Contains brief reference to Dec.11 (Temptation)

Summary: You and Dean manage to piss off an Amor and in return he "gifts" you with a life-swap with two strangers for the next hours. Not much of a deal for you two, you think. You're hunters after all, so how bad could it be? Oh how wrong you were. Remember one of Dean's biggest fears? Yeah. About that.

Words: 3,100

⚝‿︵‿୨♡ ⚝ ♡୧‿︵‿⚝

Feedback and reblogs are highly appreciated! And let me know whether you enjoy it so far! <3 A/N: Alrighty, this was a bit of a wild ride.

I really need to write less and yet I end up writing more every time and keep screwing up my sleeping schedule damn it. This is the first time I've written this much dialogue. :') I'm still new to writing fanfics and now I'm a bit anxious about posting it haha. I really hope I got Dean right - I didn't get to proof read it yet, so maybe I'll adjust some small things tomorrow (or rather when I'm awake again in a couple of hours). EDIT: Yeah, I did edit it now. Just a quick heads up. Although I am still not entirely satisfied with it… I might rewrite this one someday but for now I gotta move on to the next prompt.

⚝‿︵‿୨♡ ⚝ ♡୧‿︵‿⚝

13th Dec. - Freaky Friday

"Love is in the air!" The amor chanted before popping off. At that point you didn't know yet that naked bastard meant it quite literally.

Next moment you open your eyes, you're stuck on an airliner with a screaming Dean next to you, in pilot uniform.

“I’m gonna kill that crotch-faced angel!” Dean yells, his face beyond pissed.

“Jesus- What the hell just happened!?” You sputter, blinking at him rapidly. You find yourself clinging to the armrests as your body tries to catch up with the sudden shift of surrounding. One moment you’d been standing in a dining kitchen, next thing you know you’ve been hurled into a cockpit’s seat 30’000 miles in the sky.

“Goddamn sky nudist, that’s what happened,” Dean growls, hands instinctively patting down his new clothings in search of his colt. He grits his teeth with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, “Of course he stripped me of my stuff.” His eyes roam the cockpit, the realization slowly settling in and his stomach twisting into sickening knots, “This gotta be some kinda sick joke.”

“What joke?” A voice startles both of you, Dean even briefly clasps his chest with his hand. You both snap your heads around to face a young, scraggly guy who looks like he’s one sneeze away from lifting off.

“Who invited you to the party?” Dean asks sarcastically, eyebrow arched and eyeing the poor lad with scepticism.

“I- uhm – I’m part of the cabin crew… I’m Bob.” He sputters, his fingers fiddling with his name tag before his eyes dart back and forth between you, curiously. “What party?”

“He’s being sarcastic, Bob.” You crack an amused, lop sided smile.

“Great, we’ve got ourselves another birdbrain. Just without the angel-juice.” Dean quips, rubbing his face in annoyance. “You better buckle up, kid. This’ll be a bumpy ride if it's real.”

“Maybe… it’s just a dream?” You try to reason, although you are pretty positive that this is anything but a dream, “I mean, he’s an angel after all. He wouldn’t put you in charge of 200 passengers, right?“

“660,“ Bob chimes in matter-of-factly, „It’s 660 passengers. Plus 16 cabin crew and that’s-”

“Bob. Not helping.“ You cringe inwardly.

“Including me…” he adds in a small voice.

“And who gave you permission to add your crap?” Dean deadpans at Bob before his head snaps back at you, “And you kiddin’ me? When did angels start to care about any of us?“

“Right - fair enough. Then, uh, let‘s just get the co-pilot. Bob, where‘s the man of the moment?” You turn to glance at the steward again.

“Uh,” Bob mutters with a nervous smile, “That would be you, miss.”

“What?” You look down and notice just now, that indeed, you were wearing a pilot’s uniform. “Really? No stewardess? Well, uh, that’s… refreshing.”

“Fantastic. Just fantastic.” Dean mutters next to you.

„Tell you what — I‘m gonna call Cas,“ Dean fumbles for his phone, „He can shazam us out of this shitshow- Nah! Come on!“ he cuts himself short and throws his hand in the air, “That son of a bitch took my phone as well!“

“Dean - breath - you’re panicking-“ you try to calm him down but get cut short.

“I’m not panicking! I’m peachy as fuck!” he retorts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just because I‘m a little worried about being stuck up in this flyin’ tin can of death doesn‘t mean I‘m freakin’ out.” Dean defends himself, his eyes narrowed, trying his best to act tough and offended. When in reality his grip on the armrest is close to a breaking point.

You reach out a hand to place it on his arm, when suddenly the plane shudders and Dean’s eyes go as wide as saucers, his grip on the armrest now enough to strangle the life out of a man.

Bob pipes up with recovered confidence, “It‘s just a little bit of turbulence, Captain. I fly this same route every day, it‘s perfectly normal.”

Dean’s head whips around to shoot Bob a deadpan glare, “Yeah, ‘cuz you’re totally unbiased, aren’t ya?” Bob blinks at him, seemingly not understanding a single word he said. “I’m not your Captain, kid.” He clarifies with an exasperated groan.

Bob looks like his face has been hit with a wet towel, “But… you’re wearing a pilot’s uniform.”

Dean shoots you a sarcastic smile. “Oh, bless his heart.”

You sigh, “Thanks for stating the obvious, Bob.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“So... you are pilots.” he concludes.

“Shut up, trolly-boy.” Dean snaps gruffly before he turns back to face the sky in front of them. He runs a frustrated hand down his face, unsure what to say with his usual bravado seemingly dissipated.

“I need a drink,” Dean mutters to himself after a moment of silence, the sweat beading on his forehead.

Bob takes this as his cue and proudly hands him a bottle of water.

“This better be gin.” He grumbles and uncaps the bottle, downing it in one go. He sets the empty bottle down on the ground, his eyes flicking across the dashboard of the cockpit. His hair gets ruffled by a frustrated hand of his, before Dean suddenly pushes himself off the seat, muttering. “I need some fresh air.”

“Sure, let’s just open a window - are you insane??” You shout after him, turning in your seat. Bob shoots you the look of a deer caught in headlights, his face drained of all blood as he watches him walk out on them. You roll your eyes before you get up to rush after Dean.

“Just keep the damn plane in the sky.” You clap him briefly on the shoulder, at which Bob stutters something along the line of ‘this not being part of his job description’. But you cut him short with a mocking smile and a brisk slap to the chest. “It’s your lucky day, pal. You just got promoted. Now just don’t screw the pooch ‘till we’re back.” And off you went, slamming the cockpit door shut behind you. Leaving poor Bob back with nothing less but 10,000 switches, dials and buttons. And an empty water bottle.

***

You hurry after Dean who just disappeared in the lavatory. “Dean, wait-” you get inside as well, already feeling a slight deja-vu of the cooped up situation in here, but choose not to comment on it now. “Look, I know this sucks but… I think I’ve got an idea how we can get out of this.”

Dean tries and fails to pace in the narrow cabin. He’s now running his hand through his hair in a frantic manner instead. “Oh yeah? Please, indulge me.” He says sarcastically, his breath slightly shaky.

“Dean, listen to me,” you pause, your fingers pinching the bridge of your nose, “God… I can’t believe I’m saying this but…” you take a deep breath, fighting the urge to curse out a certain naked love-angel, “The way I see it… Right now, the lives of 676 innocent people depend on your dick.”

“Uh-“ Dean stares at you for a moment, dumbfounded, “Are you trying to flirt with me? ‘Cuz that’s one hell of an odd pick up line.” His lips shift into a mischievous smirk, “It’s kinda hot though.”

“DEAN,” You groan in exasperation, “I’m being serious! Lives are at stake here!” You reach over to lock the door with a bit more force than needed. “Including my ass!” You add as you whip around to face him again.

Dean throws his hands up in mock surrender, “Okay, okay! I get it! Just sayin’, it’s a weird thing to say to your boyfriend!” He plops down on the toilet seat behind him, his expression one of mock-seriousness, his lips twitching, “So what’s my dick gotta do with the fate of this plane?”

You sigh and lean back against the door, your knees almost touching his in the narrow lavatory. “Love is in the air.” You state matter-of-factly before you continue, “That’s what the Amor said, remember? It’s a lesson, Dean - we gotta… ya know-” while you speak you make an obscene hand gesture to get your point across, “- do it.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, nearly disappearing into his hairline, “Whoa, whoa, whoa - slow down there, Squeak. You can’t be serious, you really want us to-”

Before he could finish the sentence, the plane lurched suddenly, causing you both to grab for each other and almost knocking heads. Your eyes lock, realization dawning on you that time’s ticking. Fast.

“No time for explanations,” you blurt out, “You just gotta trust me on this.” You drop to your knees between his legs, your hands working the buckle of his belt. When suddenly Dean pipes up.

“I can’t.”

Your mind just came to a screeching halt at those two words. “What?” You sputter, looking up at him in disbelief.

“I can’t do it.” He repeats in a low voice, clearing his throat this time. And his eyes dart around the lavatory in an attempt to avoid your flabbergasted look.

Silence.

“We literally fucked in a public fitting room the other day and you want to tell me you can’t do this?” You stare at him wide-eyed. This entire situation seemed like a stupid joke to you. Dean’s dismissing a chance to bang you? Ridiculous.

Dean looks taken aback by your argument, his face scrunched up in an offended manner. “Hey! That wasn’t 30’000 miles in the air - s’not the same!-” His voice turns into a little screech when you cup his privates in the middle of his arguing, “Hey, hey- whoa- easy there!” He sputters, his voice a few octaves higher than usual. His fingers wrap around the edge of the toilet seat in a death grip, forcing himself to regain his composure in front of you.

His cheeks flush with a faint pink when his eyes finally meet yours again. “He’s-” he croaks out before he cuts himself short. He clears his throat and forces his voice to its usual confident, gruff tone, “He’s scared. Alright?” His jaw clenches and he looks away again, forcing a sarcastic smile when he scoffs, “Go on, laugh it up.”

Oh. Now it clicked in your head. You suddenly feel bad for snapping at him, but you still can’t help the hint of an amused smile tugging at the corner of your lips. He felt so embarrassed, it was almost endearing. “Well,” you smack your lips, your soft voice carrying a hint of teasing, “Guess I’ll just have to step up my game then.” You push yourself to your feet and before Dean gets to object, you disappear out the door with a quick wink at him. Dean stares at the door in confusion, his eyes occasionally darting down to his half-exposed boxers and its non-existent bulge. His jaw clenches and he curses a silent “Damnit”, already regretting that he told you.

A few minutes later, the door to the lavatory swings open again. And Dean’s breath hitches at the sight in front of him. “I thought you’d like this, Captain Winchester.” You drawl out his name in an extra sultry tone. Your finger playing at the neckline of your tight stewardess outfit. And his attention was effectively drawn to your subtly bobbing breasts whenever the plane shook. It had taken some smooth talking but you had managed to trade clothings with one of the stewardess’. Not without raising a few eyebrows though. But hey, lives are at stake here. And if the Winnichester needs some coaxing then you’ll damn well do so by wearing a super short blue skirt and a tight blouse with your pushed up boobs hanging out halfway. “Damn,” Dean swallows thickly, his voice cracking slightly, “You- uh- you look hot.” He starts to fidget around on the toilet lid, his eyes roaming you up and down with a sudden look of lust.

“So do you, Captain.” You hum, your teeth grazing your lips slowly. The pilot uniform fit him perfectly. Just how you had always imagined him. You secretly always hoped that the day would come where he’d need to wear one for a case, but of course that chance never came. Until now. And damn, the sight made your stomach tingle and the fabrics of your panties dampen.

But the moment is ruined by another strong turbulence, making the plane lurch again, this time stronger. You stumble forward and Dean panics, his hands braced against a wall each, “Oh come on! This can’t be normal!”

You take the chance and with one ‘wrong step’ you land on his thighs, both your knees straddling his hips. Taking the moment back by force. Dean startles for a moment, gasping for air as he’s torn between panicking from the planes sudden alarming noise, or feeling turned on by your bold action.

You shift on his lap, your wetted panties grinding against his covered crotch. Dean’s eyes briefly flutter closed, biting back a groan. Without another word, you lean in and capture his lips in a passionate kiss, which Dean quickly succumbs to. After a moment, you break the kiss again, leaving him breathless and still a bit befuddled.

“You listen to me,” you command in a sultry tone while you cup his cheeks with both hands, holding his gaze, “You will fuck me now as if our lives depend on it. Ya hear me, Dean Winchester? I know you can do it.” Because our lives do depend on it, you add mentally.

Dean swallows thickly, his mouth suddenly going dry. After a moment of silence, despite the unsettling increasing clattering of the cabins and the rattling of the floor beneath them, Dean nods. “Yeah, I hear ya.” He replies huskily.

You can see in his darkened eyes how his fear is slowly dissipating and making room for excitement and lust. His hands slide off the walls to move to your waist and he rolls his hips up against you to show the effect you’re having on him. And indeed, his erection is twitching against the fabrics, begging to be released now. He looks up at you with that cocky smirk of his, finally carrying his usual confidence again. “Ready to be air-boned?”

“Seriously now?” You snort with an amused chuckle, your eyes roaming his pilot uniform, “Come on, Captain,” you playfully swat his thigh and then lean in, your lips grazing his ear, “I’ve always dreamed of gettin’ laid by a pilot. Hard.”

At that Dean’s green eyes glint with eagerness and desire. He raises an eyebrow and chuckles, “That so?” Without a warning, he grabs you by the hips and he pushes off the toilet lid. With a tight grip on you, he whips you around and bends you over the small washbasin. You gasp when you suddenly find yourself shoved into the mirror, your hipbones pressed firmly against the edge.

He leans down next to your ear, whispering gravelly, “Hold on tight,” His fingers dig into your hips to angle them slightly up, making you arch your back. “’m gonna make this so much better than your dream, sweetheart.” You shudder from his touch, the heat already pooling between your legs. He runs his hands up your inner thighs until he reaches your skirt which he slowly nudges upwards until he’s got his eyes on your exposed ass. He bites his lips with a low groan. “Damn, you look so beautiful, baby.” His fingers hook under the hem of your panties pulling them down to your knees in one swift movement. You stifle a moan, your thighs already dripping wet. Dean pulls his boxers down and his hard erection twitches against your ass as he leans down again, his chest firmly pressed against your back as he traps you underneath him. “Gonna fuck you ‘till we touch down. That sound good for you?” He growls with a cheeky smirk, his hot breath tingling your skin.

A low whine escapes your lips, pleading with a “y-yes- please.” You’re begging for him to take you already, to pin you down and fuck you like an animal. Your throbbing clit was aching for relief by now. You pant against the mirror and you feel your mind going hazy. Your head drops forward when you feel his fingers brush against your slick folds with a low groan of his.

“Jesus, you’re killing me sweetheart…” he whispers against the nape of your neck. He hooks his two fingers into your cunt to pull you back with a quick tug. You moan loudly but quickly get muffled by his hand, his middle finger slipping past your lips for you to suck on. And you suck hard, drawing a moan out of him this time.

“You ready to be banged to the heavens?” he asks deeply, his fingers slipping out of you again to part your folds open.

You nod, eagerly, a low muffled moan leaving your jammed mouth. Dean hums satisfied with your response and next moment he pushes his thick cock inside you. Despite his size, you take him with ease by now. But not without a guttural moan and you buckling for a moment. Dean quickly slips one hand underneath to your stomach to hold you in position. He doesn’t hold back long, after a few slow in and outs, he thrusts into you like there’s no tomorrow. Seemingly unloading all the pent-up tension from before. The hand on your stomach dips a bit lower, his finger flicking over your swollen nub, determined to get you there along him. His other hand leaves your mouth to push down on your lower back, pinning you down beneath him while his teeth graze at the skin of your neck. He grunts and groans, slamming into you like an animal. You meanwhile whine and whimper, your legs shaking from the relentless thrusts of his cock getting driven inside you, the turbulences only adding to the sensation. He picks up his pace, deep and rough, just the way he knew you liked it.

It didn’t take long for you both to reach the edge. Equally panting and trembling. When you finally come undone with one last hard thrust, you almost scream his name and your walls clamp him, taking him over the edge with you. Dean collapses on top of you with a shuddering, exhausted groan, but quickly makes sure to not bury you beneath him by propping himself up on his elbows.

After a moment of catching his breath, he whispers softly, “Damn… that was… intense.” his forehead drops to your shoulder and he pants heavily against your back, his damp hair tickling your neck. “You doing good, sunshine?”

You finally manage to flutter your eyes open again and it takes you a second to realize where you are. “Oh my God, Dean.” You exclaim breathlessly. You tip your head back, nudging him with your back-head. Dean slowly raises his head, just enough to look over your head, expecting to see his reflection in the mirror. But instead is faced with a swaying kitchen pan.

“Jesus,” he mutters a bit shocked, “Don’t tell me-” “Yes!” you cut him short while wiggling free from underneath him, “It worked! Love is in the air, baby!”

⚝‿︵‿୨♡ ⚝ ♡୧‿︵‿⚝

Masterlist of opened windows:

1st Dec. - Sunshine 2nd Dec. - Spell Book 3rd Dec. - Lights Out 4th Dec. - Tickle 5th Dec. - Dirty UNO 6th Dec. - (TBA) 7th Dec. - Candlelight 8th Dec. - Hex Play 9th Dec. - Whip Stroke 10th Dec. - Barbie World 11th Dec. - Temptation

⚝‿︵‿୨♡ ⚝ ♡୧‿︵‿⚝

Tags:

@ariasong11 @deansjacket @literallylexa @lmpala1967 @foxyjwls007 @impala67rollingthroughtown

[purinfelix]

new recruit ₊˚⊹ - charles leclerc

summary: the age-old tradition of Top Gun pilots spending the night before a mission at the local bar is interrupted by a new, boyishly charming, face w/c: 1.8k

taglist: @zowifi @musicallisto

a/n: y'all knew it was coming .. as soon as he dropped these pics i knew what i had to do (consider this a semi-ode to my top gun phase when maverick first came out)

The Hard Deck Bar never changes, and neither do its visitors. It's a fact you rely on comfortably whenever you get the call to return to the beachside town you've learned to call home after years of missions there. You push through the heavy wooden doors, sighing happily as you're welcomed by the sound of laughter and music as the evening comes alive - all against the backdrop of the golden sunset.

"Dice, is that you?" You whip your head around at the sound of your call sign - a gift to you from your lieutenant, an acknowledgement of your risky tendencies in the air. You break into a warm smile as you make eye contact with Phoenix - one of the only other female pilots on the team to whom you've grown close.

"You look well," you reply as you walk over to where she and several others stand.

Surrounding the pool table you're greeted with several familiar faces, some newer than others but all smiling regardless. You had gotten to know the other Top Gun pilots fairly well as one of the most experienced amongst the group, and the one most often called back for missions. It had come to the point where whenever it came time to take part in the old tradition of hanging out at the bar before your first mission briefing, it felt more like a family reunion than a group of coworkers. The only thing that set you all apart from the general public was the khaki uniforms you donned, decorated with multi-coloured patches celebrating your achievements.

"Did you hear there's a new recruit?" Hangman asked, the question clearly directed to you, as he potted a pool ball.

"Oh yeah, the admiral did mention it to me when he called me in," you replied before sipping your drink.

"Reckon they'll be any good?"

"Hope so, I heard this mission's one of the hardest we'll be on," Rooster scoffed from the other side of the table.

"Agreed, especially since they're going to be my co-pilot," you sighed.

"Sounds like Chief had enough of your risky solo missions," Phoenix laughed as she took her turn to play.

You could only smile shyly as she did, finishing the last of your drink before letting your eyes scan through the rest of the bar. Music from the jukebox floated through the air, joined by the loud laughter of the bar's regulars as they drunkenly joked raucously. It was nothing out of the ordinary and worked wonders in calming the nerves you inevitably felt brewing about the responsibilities you'd have to step up to tomorrow.

The bell above the doors tinkles again, announcing the arrival of yet another customer, but this one in particular catches your eye. Not because of his messy brown hair or the boyish air surrounding him - but because you've never seen him here before. You lean over to elbow Phoenix before nodding in his direction, and she turns to look at him too.

"Newbie?" she asks, and you nod before hopping off of the stool you've perched yourself on and waltzing over to where he's leaning against the bar.

You watch as his round eyes scan the menu intently, eyelashes batting as he squints to try and get a better look - it's almost endearing how lost he looks. Shooting the bartender Penny a sly smile, alerting her immediately of your plans, you take the seat next to where he's standing.

"You alright there?" you ask, and he turns to you with a shocked expression.

"Is it that obvious I'm struggling?" You pick up on his accent right away, though it takes you a little longer to locate it. Regardless, you're drawn in almost immediately by the embarrassed smile that spreads across his features.

"Just order your usual, Penny makes everything taste amazing anyway," you reassure him. He nods obediently, leaning over and mumbling his order. "I'm guessing you don't come here a lot?"

"Yeah, first time actually," his hand comes up to rub the back of his neck and you take note of the multiple string bracelets decorating it. What you don't notice though is the way his eyes scan over you, or more specifically, your uniform.

"Are you a soldier?"

"Close, army pilot." You tap the crest on your shirt.

"You must be good then," he smiles, pointing to your patches and it hits you that he might just be flirting with you.

"I am actually, thank you for picking up on that," you shoot back smugly, "how about you, what do you do?"

"Oh me, I'm just trying out some new things, travelling, flying lots." He nods, though the smirk toying at his lips tells you he's not telling the whole truth. You don't care enough to press on though, as you shift on your stool. You don't care enough to press on though, and at that moment his drink order slides across the bar to him.

"You haven't told me your name yet," he's the first to break the silence this time, before taking a sip of his drink. He lets out a surprised hum as if to tell you that you were right about Penny's bartending skills.

"Everyone around here calls me Dice," you reply, gesturing around to the entirety of the room. This piques his interest.

"That's an interesting name."

"Well it's not my real name it's my call sign, it's a pilot thing," you explain and he nods thoughtfully, "it's because I tend to take a lot of risks while on missions."

"Interesting," he murmurs, "but these risks must work out for you." He points to your patches again and you laugh softly.

"I guess you could say so. What about your name?"

He pauses for a bit, almost as if he's forgotten his own name. "Predistinato," he finally says.

"Predi- wh- sorry could you say that again?"

"Predistinato," he repeats, laughing a little this time.

"Is that French or something?"

"Almost, it's Italian," he explains and all you can do is nod, unaware that you're silently mouthing it back to yourself. It certainly isn't a name you'll forget any time soon.

"Well, Mr. P," you say, slipping off your stool and dusting off your hands, "it was nice meeting you and helping you out with your order.""

You're about to give up on your plan before you hear him call out to you just as you're turning around.

"Hold on, Dice," he hesitates before finishing, "how about taking another risk?"

You spin back around and the expression on his face tells you he isn't finding this any less cringey than you are. "Pardon?"

"Do you think I could get your number?"

A cold smile spreads across your face as you skip back over to the bar and lean over to catch Penny's eye. As you do she walks over to the corner of the bar the two of you are seated in, reaching up and ringing the large bell hanging above it. Immediately, the entire bar erupts into a loud commotion of roars and whistles, with people lifting up their cups towards the man sitting across from you.

You can't help but laugh upon seeing his confused expression and all you do is point to the sign hanging between two beer taps. Disrespect a lady, the navy, or put your cell phone on my bar - you buy a round.

"Woah, disrespect? That's harsh," he smiles sheepishly, but you only shrug.

"Rules are rules."

"A round, for everyone?"

"Good luck, and see you around," you nod, patting him on the shoulder with a smug expression before turning to rejoin your friends at the pool table.

"Attention on deck!"

The heavy sound of several chairs scraping the floor in unison is the only thing you hear as you and the rest of the pilots stand at attention. Standing as still as you can, you watch as Admiral Bates marches to the podium at the front of the hangar.

"Good morning, and welcome to your special training detachment." His expression is stern and you watch as his eyes scan the rows of tables. "Be seated."

"Everyone here is a Top Gun graduate, I'm sure you know each other well enough to know that's true. You may consider yourself elite, the best, but that stops now. In here, you will all be treated like equals and you must prove your excellence to make the cut."

The air is tense and no one dares to look at each other as he talks.

"Today we begin with the introduction of a new face however, I'd like you all to welcome the newest addition to this mission." The admiral gestures towards the back of the room and several heads turn to the figure standing at the back of the room, who begins walking between the aisle of tables. His steps are heavy, confident, and almost eager.

"Despite being newer, he has proved his proficiency in every aspect required of this mission and so I warn you not to underestimate him."

The figure passes your table and you physically feel your heart drop to your stomach when he does. He's facing away from you, and he looks completely different when sporting the pilot uniform instead of casual clothes - but you're sure you'd recognise that messy hair anywhere, even though it's clear he's tried his best to comb it down.

"Please welcome Charles Leclerc. Call sign: Il Predistinato."

Of course, just your luck.

"Good morning," from the front of the room and under the bright morning light he looks different, but the boyish charm he seemed surrounded by last night still lingers in the way he smiles.

"Charles, why don't you take a seat next to Dice in the front row, you'll be co-piloting with her for now." Your eyes widen as the attention is suddenly turned to you, and scoot uncomfortably in your seat as he nears you.

"You look well" he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear as he takes the seat next to you. You let out a low chuckle, not knowing what else to do other than nod a little awkwardly.

The admiral goes on talking, briefing you all on the aims of the mission, but despite your best efforts to focus you can't seem to. Not with the boy sitting next to you, the way he leans forward on the desk to listen attentively the same way he had last night at the bar, the way his deep brown hair falls onto his face as he does.

"Sorry about last night," you hear yourself whisper to him as you lean in, though he doesn't seem to be holding any grudges.

"No need to apologise," he begins, and you sit back with relief. "But next time, maybe you can pay for my drinks?"

You sigh in exasperation, as he shoots you a wink before turning back to the lesson. You could only pray he flew as smoothly as he spoke.

[dadsbongos]

twist in the gut

3.3k words / warnings - rape/noncon, .2 seconds of plot w lots of implications, penis in vagina sex, alley sex, no comfort

summary - Dead Dove: curly rapes a lesbian that he's in love with.

He’s twenty-six, he’s got soft cheeks, he’s got messy waves, his hands are thick with all the show of hard work without any callouses to stand behind; and he’s eyeing you from across the bar.

Curled around Swansea’s shoulder with a cherried grin, positively gleaming despite the older man’s visible displeasure. His entire face wrinkled inward and hands firmly denting into his hips. He watches you with disdain warped around awe. Says something snarky that makes you and the rest of the crew laugh.

Whatever he sneered, all you respond with is tipping your head back to laugh harder than the rest and wringing both arms around his neck to squeeze.

Sight alone makes Curly grin to himself.

Fingers tightening around both glasses. Something sweet and tangy in his right, and frothy sweaty beer in his left. One step forward precedes another until he’s flanking Swansea’s opposite side, holding out a red cocktail with the cheapest plastic umbrella slotted against the rim.

“Captain. For you.”

Your face brightens, flinging a hand out over Swansea’s chest to snag the drink. Sugary sweet, you sing, “Thank you!”

Easier than brushing lint away, you flit from Swansea and into Curly’s side. Barely able to peek at him from behind his obnoxiously broad chest with yet another sickeningly saccharine chirp,

“I missed you!”

“Did you?” he scratches behind his ear, cheeks suddenly flaring, “I wasn’t gone too long, was I?”

“Basically an eternity,” you slur into your glass’ rim, downing a fifth of it before cringing as bitter tequila overwhelms your senses.

“It’s a bit ironic, we’re celebrating my promotion but you’re the one drinking.”

“Aye,” you tink, tink, tink his pint with your finger nail, “I see some Coors in there.”

“Mhm,” Curly tilts his glass back, pouring the sharp wheat down his throat in hopes to dull the searing heat in his gut. A foolish wish because he should know better by now -- drinking only makes him hotter, “But I could see straight.”

“Can you?” prodding, you hold a finger in front of his face and drift it in either direction, “Sobriety test. If you don’t pass, then I’ll need your keys.”

“You need the keys?” Curly staples your hand into his and waves the entwined limbs in front of your face, “Can you even follow something this big, sweetheart?”

Snorting, eyes rolling, and scoffing- as if that was the most ridiculous thing he could’ve asked, before you blink and shake your head. Knees swaying and mascara caking beneath your lashes, “No.”

Then your eyes flutter shut, you squeeze his hand. Warm. Just slightly chapped. Secure. Knees buckling, you rock into his side with the softest giggles muffled into his cotton-polyester blend shirt. A hot sigh fans his ribs before your face angles away, and you down another fifth of your drink.

Cocktails are meant to be sipped, but you’re not a traditionalist by any sense of the word.

“Again,” he lulls you back to hang in the crook of his arm, your head drooped against his shoulder and bloodshot eyes slithering all across his face, “Ironic.”

“Huh…?” your brows knit inward, cradling your drink to your chest and tonguing the straw into your mouth. Cheeks hollowing as you sip, “What’re you talking about?”

“I just got promoted to co-pilot, but you’re drinking harder.”

“Guess I’m just happier than you!”

“Right… finally some competent back-up, huh?”

“Something like that,” you glug half your drink’s remains- candy red dew leaking down your chin.

Curly reaches out, thumb swiping over your hot skin. Silk against silk until only a sticky smear remains along your jaw. He smiles, close-lipped and lopsided, and sucks the tip of his thumb into his mouth to lave off tequila.

“Good stuff?” you wonder, voice thick and drowsy, both brows raising.

“Too sweet for me,” he shrugs, slinking an arm around you and shuffling you closer, “You know I prefer beer.”

At that, your nose wrinkles. Earnest disgust flashing over your face, throat bobbing in protest at the simple mention, “Horrible taste comes with being a man, I guess…”

“And you would know about that?”

“Yeah, that’s why I avoid you guys.”

“Uh-huh,” he nods, exaggerated with each pull, choosing not to mention the two men you’ve already clung to tonight, “I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“Huhh? No way…” you pout up at him, caging your drink to your chest, “I’m just getting buzzed.”

“A captain should stay vigilant,” he notes.

“And what would you know about that?” sneer rapidly devolving into a giggle, you pinch his cheek, “You just got to be co-pilot! You’re still little!”

“Am not,” he pries your hand away, smoothing his thumb up your palm. Massaging up until he’s practically caressing your knuckles.

Which is when you rip away. Placing your cocktail on the table to cradle both hands by your churning stomach, an unsteady smile rising over you before you announce,

“I’m gonna step out for air.”

Anya nods and sweeps your glass beside hers, sharing an adorable wink as you pass.

You’re gone for all of two seconds before Curly announces,

“I’ll go check on her.”

Anya does not respond. He passes unacknowledged.

Stepping out the bar just to round toward the alley when the front bares no signs of you. No fruity perfume or straight cut jeans or colorful top. Calling your name heeds no answer, either. So he ventures deeper into the alley. Behind blocky dumpsters and far away from boorish orange streetlights. Even the moon shies away from back here.

That is where he finds you.

Shadowed away and huddled into yourself, and you don’t have to look up before asking,

“We’re friends, right, Curly?”

“Of course,” he sounds wounded, guttural. Even cups a hand over his heart as though you stabbed him, “You hate me all of the sudden or something?”

Shucks out a laugh like that’s the end of it, but it isn’t.

“We’ve worked together awhile, and even though you were never co-pilot, you really took responsibility like one. I liked the way you walked, commanding respect. And I liked how sure you sounded carrying orders. I always knew you were cut to lead,” it’s hard to make you out when you’re muttering, head bent and hands shaking, “Not like me. I don’t like being in charge. Can’t handle the scrutiny, but you can. You’re good for it.”

He says your name.

You just continue to bubble out, “For better or worse, you always go forward. Always marching ahead. Sometimes it’s like you don’t hear anything else, you see the forest and just try getting through. Blind to the trees.”

“Sounds like you don’t think I’m cut for co-pilot…” again, he laughs. Plastic. Structured. Thick, almost impossible to snip through and call out. But you know him well enough to wear it out.

“I do, I just know you’re…”

“I’m…?”

Pushing yourself off the wall and lowering both arms, you sigh. Eyes still cast toward your shoes, “We’re just friends, Grant. But I can feel… I feel like there’s more you’re expecting.”

“Well,” he barks a scoff and shrugs offbeat, “I mean. I- what do you want to hear?”

“The truth.”

“Then yes, I want more,” bright blues stick to you, unblinking, “I’m in love with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am!”

“You can’t be!”

“Why not?!”

“Curly, I’m- I don’t…” your head is just a tad too heavy, far too clogged with toxins, to process the complicated feelings balled in your gut, “I love you, but I can’t love you…” you drawl, lips drawn in a fat pout, “You know that.”

“You’re why I still work here,” he affirms, those sad puppy eyes emboldening -- flaxen brows furrowing, “I decorated my apartment with you in mind, everything I own I bought because I wanted you to like it. Everything I say is because I want to impress you, everything I wear is for you- !”

Before he finishes rambling, you slap a palm over his mouth. Violently shaking your head, teeth grit and eyes so wide they burn, “Curly, don’t…”

Three words are muffled into the meat of your hand. Vibrating down your forearm.

“Please, just stop,” you whimper, sniffling, “It’s not gonna happen.” When nothing else comes from him, you slowly retreat -folding both arms over your chest before repeating, “It’s not gonna happen.”

His mouth hangs open a moment, cinching the next, and opens again. Shuts. Opens. He has lots of things to say, but none of them come out beneath the spindling nerves stinging his throat. Barbs protruding through pinkish flesh until all he can do is swallow hot blood and saliva. One breath precedes another until he’s dry-heaving over your shoes. Stumbling forward with both hands flying out towards you, wide open before clutching you viciously. Shaved nails cutting down to the veins in your biceps.

Horrible gags rack through his entire body, shaking from his fingers to his neck. Tearing up, Curly suppresses the twitching long enough to look up at you. Red spindles webbed around the ridges of his eyes. Flitting over the cringe lines in your face, then to your bunched shoulders, bent knees, and clenched fists. Studying the rigid form you’ve adopted from his touch.

Is he so disgusting to you? When everything he’s done is for you?

“I thought we were getting married,” he croaks. Squeezing your shoulders.

Jutting both palms into his chest, you jerk back -trying to wriggle out of his hold, “I’m a fucking lesbian! You know that!”

“But you- “ he snarls down at you now, each exhale increasingly ragged, “You’re so cute with me, you flirt and touch and you let me in!” quickly rocking you in his grasp, throttling you so violently your chin cracks into your collar and the back of your neck pops, “You let me stay with you! We drink and we talk, you’re the only reason I’m here.”

“I told you!” you scream in his face, pressing your hands against his face and one foot flying towards his gut, “Get off of me!” he merely pulls you in, arms binding your waist flush to his, so you try ripping his eyes out with your nails, “Get the fuck off me!”

Curly flips you in his arms, teeth shelling your earlobe, burning fingerprints into your shirt. Your hips flick off his with panicked gasps fizzling in the base of your chest. For a moment, he’s confused why you’re pulling away so oddly. Focused entirely on your legs rather than using arms to budge out.

Then, suddenly and without much pause, his whole brain lights up. Every neuron firing simultaneously just for him to realize:

You think he’s going to fuck you.

And suddenly, he’s just so much more enamored with you. Letting out a low sigh and hooking his chin over your shoulder while one arm slithers down and around your pelvis, “I guess that’s why you’re captain,” he murmurs, mushing his lips as tightly to your cheek as possible, “You’re smart and you think ahead…”

Because suddenly, fucking you sounds impossibly good right now.

Cupping your cunt through your pants, Curly watches -batting lashes fluttering along your skin- as you squirm. Soft whimpers and seethed curses sway him none as he slots two fingers along the seam of your jeans. Palm crushing, covering your mound.

You can feel his heartbeat against your back. Erratic and thundering. Sweltering pants slick down your front.

When his other arm straps around you to begin unclicking your buttons, you scream. Kicking back elbows and heels in any hope some jagged piece of bone will punch sense through him. Because, surely, that’s all this is. He’s just drunk, right? He’s just stressed, right? He’s just upset.

Curly’s just not thinking straight, he’d never

One hand rips your jeans and panties down toward your knees in a single swipe while the other flies over your mouth.

“Shhh,” he assures, spinning and pinning you against the bricked wall. His wrist takes each scrape from uneven plaster instead of your face, “Just be nice, it’ll be over quicker.”

Like he’s your boyfriend. You gag behind his hand and bite. He doesn’t even flinch.

Just as he’s about to enter, knuckles brushing your ass and tip parting your lips, he husks, “I love you.”

Deranged, Curly repeats himself into your boiling ear. The hand not bracing your face against brick peeling you open from below. Fingertips skittering over where his cock splits into you, obsessively caressing as he harshly cuts in. Sinking without water. Punching into the current, desperate to go down with the waves no matter how violently he’s spat out.

i love you

Hunched over you like a growling hound, Curly’s hand blurs up from between your thighs -wetting the digits by your ear, earning a shudder from you- and darts back down. Circling your clit with measured incisions, each drag painfully sensational. You shudder again, this time with a gurgled down whine. Leg twitching around his.

Swiping both hands back against his flexing abs does nothing, if anything Curly takes it as encouragement. Nails scraping over his soft shirt only serve to pull him closer with every thrust. Deeper. Closer to the core. Like he wants to be melted inside you.

Manufacture devotion from your warm hole. Die and be reborn from the one place he isn’t allowed.

i love you

Sawing through you with even strokes. Stretching you around his fat cock as he moans -- crackled and low from the back of his throat. Budding pressure against your clit, carving the initials of the kids he wants to have with you. Lips moulding against your shoulder, kissing along the dewy flesh before chomping into your bone. Licking over the dented gashes apologetically, just to suck them again with intent to bruise.

Then, like a gunshot you can tell the bullet is coming -hear it, sense it, feel it- just before it hits. You squeeze around Curly and a gush flows out around the seam, sticky wetness clicking with each drag of his hips. Skin clipping skin as he smears proud lips over your shoulder. Gasping out mangled praises

“Take it so well, so tight and wet for me,” he mewls, “I knew you’d like me,” he buckles, thwap, thwap, thwaping into you faster as his cock twitches inside you, “I love you.”

i love you

You already know. Fighting it is useless.

Battering your insides until they’re pliant enough to milk his cum, Curly tears your head aside to expose your lips to his. You can’t even open them to scream before he’s puckering them together. Slobbering over your face, desperately clawing his tongue into your mouth. Groans and huffs vibrating against you while his chest is hot, pelvis rocking unsteadily, and he’s spewing thick globs against your cervix.

“Get pregnant,” he murmurs, you don’t know if he meant to say that aloud, but now that he’s orgasming his honesty is ripe, “I want you- need you- have… ugh… uh, uh…”

Climax brings resolution brings sobriety to Curly. Once his ears have stopped ringing blood, he can hear your hiccuping breaths. Feel you trying in vain to wriggle off his softening cock. Cum sloppily dribbling down your thighs.

As gently as a leech, he latches and pulls you off the wall. Turning you around to wipe snot and dirt and tears from your face, frozen into a grimace. Your entire body shakes beneath him, even as he sinks to pull your pants back up like he’s tender. Like he’s compassionate and soft.

When Curly’s stood straight again, a loose blonde strand dangles between his brows. Glued in place with sweat. Rosy lips parted panting, he watches snowy white air puff out his mouth with each exhale before asking:

“Do you need a ride home?”

Stiffly, without much affection or personality, you nod. Your walk is different. Curly never really noticed that each person had a different walk until yours was gone. Without rhythm to your gait, you march toward his Nissan and wait by the passenger side door. Staring at the handle like it means anything.

If this was a couple hours ago, you probably would’ve joked that he should open the door for you. And then opened it yourself. But the joke still would have been made.

You don’t say a word the entire drive out. He doesn’t either, but he really wants you to.

After the fifth turn, the silence becomes normal. Punctuated by the lack of radio jargon.

As Curly rolls up to your house, you slip out -which is when he realizes you never strapped the seatbelt.

“Hey,” he calls through the window.

You look back without flinching. That has to be good for him, right?

“I’m…” Curly watches you. Black soaked beneath your eyes and cheeks shiny with spit and tears and mucus. Lips swollen. One shoulder -the bruised one- hanging lower than the other. You look fucked up, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

He’s really fucked up. Coiffed hair and big muscles and a still-wet dick molding in his pants.

When you’re totally unresponsive, he repeats,

“I’m sorry.”

You nod limply. Turn away. Retreat to your door.

Curly sits there long enough to catch you peeking through the blind slats to see if he’s left. When you know he hasn’t, he hears a crash behind the door. He isn’t delusional enough to check the source, instead speeding off down your street and whipping towards his own.

He doesn’t expect to see you in the corporate office the next day, though maybe he should have. He was called in earlier this morning; a spontaneous meeting about his rank. When they said that, he nearly puked. When they said he was moving up, he actually did.

He should’ve assumed he’d see you walking out just as he arrived. You’re out of uniform, he isn’t. Your hair is unkempt, his isn’t. Your hands are shaking, his aren’t.

Studying you head to toe, he asks the obvious, “You’re leaving?”

The driest, “yeah” is all you can summon. When what you really want to say sounds something clunkier and less succinct and more like

Fuck you i hope you get shot you were my fucking friend i cant work here anymore everything here reminds me of you we met here we laughed here you think you fell in love with me here i feel bad until i dont i think you should fucking kill yourself i hate you i wish i just stayed in that night at least then i would never know

Then i would never know

Id rather not know

“Where’re you going?”

“Don’t know.”

For a moment, Curly stretches the script open. So brief, you’re almost not sure it ever happened when he says, “I guess now you wouldn’t tell me even if you did, huh?”

And for a moment, you can let out just a fraction of what you’re feeling, “No, I wouldn’t.”

Then he’s snapping back, “Well. Take care.”

Absolute indifference. It’s all you can muster in the face of a man you’re sure you would’ve died for days ago.

“Okay.”

* *

He hopes Jimmy has the same number. Every couple of months or so, he’ll get a text from a random string of digits claiming to be his lifelong friend from a new phone. Chancing it all, Curly calls the most recent string and prays it answers,

“Aye, Jim’, a spot just opened on the freighter.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Our captain just resigned, so, uhm. Yeah. They’ll promote me, and then we’ll need a new copilot; I’ve already talked to my supervisors from corporate about you.”

“Your captain walked?” Jimmy snorts, “The chick, right?”

“Uh, yes.”

A faint mutilation of your name drips from the receiver before Jimmy snaps and declares your name. Repeating it again when Curly says nothing, then he outright laughs, “Damn, what’d you do to make her ditch that position? Fuck her girlfriend?”

Curly says nothing.

Jimmy laughs louder, “Oh, shit- you did!”

“No. Just some… personal disagreements.”

[mikareo]

“ ࣭⸰ ★ HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU . . . ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ 呪術廻戦 ; gojo satoru x fem reader (1k)

⊹ ⠀⠀ valentine's day is approaching; and with a valentine comes love...or for worse...heartbreak.

contains; gojo satoru x fem reader, angst, mentions of fluff idk, there’s some swearing i think author's note; happy (almost) valentine's,, i’m projecting

1 day, 9 hours, and 47 minutes.

your last conversation wasn't anything out of the ordinary. there was no dry spell. no plateau. no failure to communicate. just you and satoru, plus the typical banter, talking about something as simple as what you were planning on making for dinner; to be more precise, what you were trying to make for dinner. you're a pretty awful cook according to him.

everything seemed to be going so well...really well...almost perfectly well— and with valentine's day right around the corner, you'd instinctively assumed that he'd ask you to be his. instinct is a difficult emotion, though. is it even an emotion? you're not quite sure, but your heart believes it is. your heart— which is practically pounding out of your chest at the current moment, stretching your skin, eager to feel the limitless fresh air and freedom that comes with floating on cloud 9— instinctively wants to believe satoru is your soulmate. you love him don't you? is the answer yes? it should be no.

you've known him for...what? four months? four months of your twenty years of life is seemingly small. that's only one point six-seven percent of your entire lifetime...one point six-seven percent of your life that you wish you could relive forevermore.

...he isn't going to text you back is he?

2 days, 2 hours, and 15 minutes.

each second passing is another flicker of hope that misses the candle wick. instead of lighting the path that leads to your eventual relationship, it lights a fire beneath your feet. your socks feel warm. there's coal beneath them. hot, burning coal withering away the sense of feel in your toes; breathing in the aroma of heartbreak until it becomes a roaring fire that consumes all of you.

why is he doing this? what did you do wrong? you haven't done anything wrong. he's just a man. a man who can't seem to stop playing with your heart.

you can hear his voice in the back of your mind. the part of your mind that connects to your heart. "can you facetime, right now? i'm having a bad day and i just want to see your face." he had to have meant that. "you don't need to apologize for talking over me, i love hearing what you have to say." a guy wouldn't just say that to say that. "don't be too hard on yourself, i know you'll figure everything out becuase you're you. you always know what to do." it couldn't have all been bullshit.

it can't have been bullshit.

because if that's all it was, then you're just a fool in love.

and fools in love are no better than clowns.

3 days, 14 hours, and 22 minutes.

you did what you hate doing. the thing that makes you want to scream into your pillow at the mere thought. the very thing that screams desperation and neediness and clinginess and insecurity all in one. you sent another message.

in the past, you've never had feelings strong enough to elicit such a response. your heart hasn't tied itself to another person's with a red satin bow. the fated string of fate hadn't found you yet. it allowed you to maintain a stable head and remain grounded with no hopes of love on your radar. you hadn't yet learned how to fly; until that day you met satoru and suddenly you had a hundred pilot lessons lined up day-after-day.

it was so easy being with him. everything was so easy.

for the first time ever you had no doubts. you weren't afraid of waking up one morning to find him gone. disappeared. nonexistent. you full-heartedly believed he'd never leave; and you believed he reciprocated those thoughts. now, though...now you may never know what bits and pieces he reciprocated— because your plane crashed. turbulence flew beneath the wings and drove the flight off course. the oxygen masks bellowed down upon the passengers, every seat being filled with your pounding heartbeats, and each and every one of them blew out of the window with no parachute. he didn't even try to cushion the fall.

4 days, 1 hour, and 39 minutes.

if there's one message you never expected to receive, it's surely 'seen 14 hours ago'.

you'd given him space and assumed he'd been busy with a million other things and hadn't had any time to send you a quick message. your last text wasn't even anything out of the ordinary, just a quick "are you okay?", you think that's pretty reasonable. it's reasonable, isn't it?

something could be seriously wrong with him. why else would he leave you on read? he's never done this before. usually, you're the one who's more distant between the two of you. that's how your relationship began, after all. he'd send five texts in comparison to your two; which later evolved into five rivaling five, and now to zero rivaling two. the scales have tipped. how do you rebalance them?

you trust satoru. there must be a perfectly good explanation for this odd irregularity that's occurring in your otherwise perfect relationship. after all, all of your friends love him— they think he's the greatest catch of the 21st century. he's never done anything in the past to warrant such strange behavior. this is simply a difficult week for him...and you'll be there whenever he's ready to vent.

5 days, 22 hours, and 7 minutes.

a broken heart isn't for the weak...but unfortunately, you're not one of the stronger warriors.

he's at another girl's birthday party. he hasn't messaged you back in almost six days...and he's with another girl? celebrating her? he could be holding her close and you wouldn't even know, because god knows he wouldn't tell you. he won't even say good morning anymore. he won't even answer your fucking three word message that you sent out of desperation and concern for his well being. instead, he's at the club with his friends, getting drunk and taking shots, having the time of his life; and you're sitting in your room watching his social media stories...believing that everything that went wrong is all your fault.

but it's not your fault.

it's not your fault you fell for someone like that.

someone like satoru gojo.

[spotlightlowlife]

status is superficial

Ozzie and Bee "enjoy slumming it with the low class plebs" according to Mammon what was there defence? 'Wanna fight' and 'ew you, nobody wants you'.

Where exactly is the lie?

They didn't even dispute the claim because it's true and that's not a testiment to how humble they are when their mixing with the poor places them at the top, since amungst their peers they are powerless and obligated to conform even though there seems no leadership.

It's sort of more decent that dispite being upfront about not caring, exploitation and making an example of those who step out of line, Mammon sat happily by a pair of void of personality robots and would try to pursue an equal and Satan has a literal angel on his shoulder.

Bee and Ozzie however, like their relationships with their partners, their relationship with the public is a transactional power imbalance where everybody has themed superficial perceived fun, these practical gods hang out and show off and nobody is really comfortable.

They are no different to Stolas, where's the proof otherwise?

Things aren't looking good for him either. The same episode had Stolas loose his status and the public instantly turn on him

and not just the general public who watched the trial, a janitor who was working at the time jumped at the chance to give Stolas a piece of his mind

not to forget that we saw many random imps willing to take out Stolas right at the start when we hardly knew him

and his regular hunter Striker has issue with the power structure in general

Stolas fetished Blitzø, pilot and main series, season 2 was intent to make him more sympathetic but showed us that he cornered Blitzø when he could do with feeling better about himself. He has property that Blitzø's business hinged on and Blitzø so Blitzø agreed to their transactionship. What exactly Stolas was famous or infamous for is unknown however the mighty has fallen.

Yet Bee holds high position, she is a leader of a ring of hell. She is hellhound like and throws parties for the helhounds, she dates a hellhound who gets to unwind at parties with his 'own kind', who he invites, after a days labour for yet another higher rank of demon.

If Bee were to loose her status like Stolas, would hellhounds being bottom of the pack, the low paid jobs and the orphanage/prison/dogpound suddenly be an issue?

We saw someone who resorted to threats and intimidation quickly, can we really say that this person is genuinely liked?

How about Ozzie who may be just as responsible for Fizz's branding as Mammon? The timeline continues to make no sense, when did Fizz first enter the pagents, before or after the accident? He seems a teen when they were announced yet has been winning for the last 10 years yet is way into his 30s? It's clear that Ozzie supplies the physically disabled imp with robotic limbs, seems nice but then remember they're a couple, when did their pairing happen and how? What was agreed upon before they met where the sexbots, Fizzbots are manufactured by Ozzie who makes a range of adult toys.

Fizz served two masters who are equals but Ozzie doesn't like Mammon, Fizz makes a big scene as he leaves behind a sociopath boss to go full time with his other boss, lover who he lives with and shares a bed with, acts as a PA to, works with and has the same interests as. Fizz is seen as cute by Ozzie, the lust guy, which is nice but this cuteness is shown by him being babied and carried around like "a purse dog" while others like him must know their place.

A lot of business hinges on Ozzie and what he distributes, who is he without if stripped of all of this?

Though it's probably never going to be the case, there's every reason to believe that these characters aren't liked at all but are intimidating, manipulative grifters who have capitalized on 'dating down' and it just so happens that their partners directly boost there supply.

[vivwritesfics]

Shine A Light Into The Wreckage

Chapter Two - Until Next Time

Bob Floyd was many things. He was an instructor at Top Gun, a lover of Tolkien books and a huge fan of coffee. But Bob was also clumsy. That was how he bumped into the table, knocking her drink onto her notebook. He felt bad about it. Bad enough to come back time and time again, in the hopes that she would be there. And, every time, she is. Each time looking a little worse for wear. It doesn't take Bob long to realise he has to save her.

2K

Warnings: Abusive relationship! Abusive hair pulling! Abusive slight choking! Forceful sex! Seriously don't read if you're affect by stuff like this

Series Masterlist

The feeling of guilt didn't leave Bob for the rest of the day. He couldn't stop thinking about her, thinking about whether he'd ruined some important work or sketches that meant a lot to her or something. And then he thought about the coffee he had spilt over her lap. Was it burning hot? Did she have to go to the hospital instead of back to work? God, he hoped not. 

He didn't have work that day, but it didn't mean that he, Jake and Natasha weren't hanging out. Normally they wouldn't run to the cafe to get coffee on a day like this, not when they had Natasha's coffee machine so close by. 

Jake offered him a cigarette as the three of them sat on the back porch. Bob took it, placing it between his lips. But he didn't light it, not yet. 

"Anybody want a coffee?" Asked Natasha. She stubbed out her own cigarette and stood up. 

But, before she could get to her back door, Bob was there. "I'll get them!" He said quickly. "Latte and a black coffee, right?" He asked. But he gave them no time to answer and took off, leaving through Natasha's front door. 

"What the hell was that?" Jake asked as he watched Bob disappear out of the front door. 

Natasha returned to the porch to sit beside her fellow pilot turned Top Gun instructor. "I seriously don't know," she said, turning to Jake, her eyebrows raised. 

"You think there's a girl involved?"

"With our Baby On Board?" Asked Natasha, her eyebrows raised. "Maybe it's the cute barista, the one with the pink hair," she suggested. 

Jake looked back towards the door, but Bob was long gone by now. "Should we follow him?"

She shook her head. "He's getting us coffee. We can grill him once the cup is in my hand."

***

Bob didn't light his cigarette. He placed it in his pocket as he grabbed something, a notebook, from the passenger seat of his truck. 

As soon as he had the notebook tucked under his arm, Bob set off, heading to the café. There was no guarantee she'd be there. He just had to hope.

He didn't see her when he first walked in. No, he was looking for a girl in a blouse and a grey pencil skirt. He wasn’t looking for someone dressed down in a sweater and jeans, hair pulled back out of her face. He wasn't looking at the back of the cafe, was expecting her at the front. 

Bob walked up to the counter. He got the black coffee, the latte, and the tea (he might have been a coffee man, but it wasn’t always his go to. Sometimes there was nothing better than a good cup of tea). 

When he turned back around, his drinks in the cupholder, he finally spotted her. 

The sweater was blue, knitted. The sleeves were folded at the wrists, probably too long. The legs of her jeans were too long, hiding the shoes on her feet. She was undeniably pretty, something Bob didn’t notice the first time around. But, in his defence, he was too busy fumbling. Again she had a cup full of coffee in front of a notebook with brown pages. The notebook he had ruined just days before. 

When Bob approached, she didn't look up, desperately trying to read beneath the coffee stains. 

For a moment, Bob didn't know what to do. He looked around and awkwardly cleared his throat. 

Finally, she looked up, meeting his gaze. There was a second before she recognised him. "If you’re here to throw another coffee over me, I'm begging you find another victim." 

Bob managed a weak laugh as he set his own drinks down, this time without spilling any. "Actually, that's why I'm here," he said, grabbing the notebook from under his arm. "I saw that I ruined your notebook yesterday and I'm really sorry about that. I can't get back the stuff I ruined on the pages, but I was hoping this would help. Even if just a little."

Bob held the notebook out to her, their fingers touching as she took it from him. The cover was pink, with nothing else on it. She opened the notebook to find the lined pages. It was exactly what she needed. 

Placing the notebook beneath her ruined one, she looked up at Bob. "What's your name?" She asked, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in her chair. 

"Robert Floyd, ma'am. But everybody calls me Bob."

"Do you wanna have a drink with me, Bob?" She asked as she picked up her mug and took a sip. She put the mug back down and licked the coffee moustache from her top lip. "Maybe then you can buy me a replacement drink."

Bob nodded. He pulled off the lid of his takeaway cup, added the sachet of milk and the sachet of sugar to his tea. 

She took another long sip of her coffee. "You're an aviator, aren’t you?" She asked. 

Bob couldn't help but smile at that. "Uh, yeah. I was in Top Gun last year. I'm an instructor now."

She nodded slowly. "You hang out at The Hard Deck?"

Bob gave a quick nod and stirred his steaming tea.

"Yeah, I went down there once," she said. "One of your guys flirted with me, and my boyfriend got so angry he got us kicked out." She had been smiling for most of the sentence. But, as soon as she had said it, the smile dropped from her face.

Boyfriend. Bob tried not to dwell on that. He wasn't here to get her attention in that way. No, he was here to make things right.

"Let me guess," he began. "He was tall, spoke with a Texas accent, and the name on his uniform said 'Hangman'."

Suddenly, she let out a snort. "No freaking way," she said through giggles as she looked at him. "You actually know him? That's hilarious!"

Bob couldn't help but laugh along with her. It was infectious and, as soon as he saw her face light up, Bob realised he couldn't get enough. "Yeah, that sounds like Hangman, all right," he said. All this time he had been mindlessly stirring his tea. 

Bob shifted the conversation away from his friend and co-worker. "Do you come in here often?" He asked and lifted his tea to his lips. 

She moved her head from side to side. Not saying no, but more like she was unsure. "I... do now," she said and finished her drink. 

Bob's eyes moved to the notebooks in front of her. The one he ruined and the one that replaced it. "What were you working on? You know, before I interrupted."

When she didn't immediately reply, Bob assumed the worst. He had overstepped and she no longer wanted to sit and drink coffee with him. 

She sucked in a breath, drumming her nails against the table. "Bob, did you ever have a vision for your life? You know, imagine the way you wanted to be loved, the way you wanted to love someone?" She asked, her eyes staring at the floor. If she saw when Bob slowly nodded, she didn’t indicate. "I did. But life threw curveballs my way."

She didn't say much more than that. Bob waited, his boiling tea in his hands as he looked at the disassociated look on her face. "Are you," he began, leaning forward in his seat with his arms on the table, "are you writing a romance story?"

She seemed to snap back into it, embarrassment written on her face and she sat up. That was all the confirmation Bob needed that, yes, she was writing a romance story. 

"You've got to let me read it."

The look she shot at him could only be described as incredulous. "You have got to be kidding me, Bobby," she said, the corner of her lips twitching up. "I barely know you."

Suddenly, Bob was feeling brave. Maybe it was because her words sounded like an invitation. "Well, let me get you another drink and you can get to know me.”

Conversation with Bob was easy. He bought her the hazelnut latte with oat milk, just as she had asked (okay, maybe she was splurging a little) and sat in the seat opposite her, still working on his own tea. He was only too eager to talk about his life, growing up in Montana and how he had ended up in San Diego. 

She listened, actually laughing when Bob attempted a joke (even if it wasn't very good). She talked back, offering up stories from her own life, making her own jokes, the kind that had him blushing red. 

By the time they finished talking, their respective drinks had gone cold (the ones Bob had bought for Jake and Natasha hours before had been forgotten, already thrown in the bin). 

"Crap," she said as she began putting her notebooks in her bag. "I didn't realise it had gotten so late." 

"Got somewhere you need to be?" Bob asked. Because, really, he didn't want to leave this cafe, didn't want the night to end. 

She shook her head. But then she stopped and gave a contemplative look. "Well, I should get going home," she said, pulling her jacket on and placing the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "But I hate walking in the dark."

"I can walk you."

He'd said it so quickly, he barely registered that he said anything at all. But he had and he couldn't take it back. 

"What, so you can find out where I live?" She challenged with a teasing smile. "You're a little stalker, aren’t you, Bobby? That's how you knew I'd be here today."

There was a split second, a fraction of a split second, where anxiety took over and Bob thought she was being serious. But then she laughed and he visibly relaxed. She was teasing him, and doing a damned good job of it. 

When she took his hand and pulled him out of the cafe, Bob's chest was hot. He'd known her a few hours and already there were feelings there. But she made it so easy for him. And that just simply wasn't fair (Bob knew she was a taken woman; she had told him. No matter what his feelings were, he hadn't acted on them and he wouldn't act on them. Feelings without action weren't bad, right?)

"So, why do you hate walking in the dark?" He asked as she led him to the end of the street. 

She shrugged her shoulders. "Always have," she answered quickly. "When I was a kid I had these vivid, awful nightmares of getting snatched off the street in the dark and I guess I never grew out of it."

Bob nodded. It was fair enough, really. He was sure if he had nightmares as a kid that were bad enough to follow him into adulthood, he'd still be scared of the cause. "I'm scared of slugs and snails," he said suddenly, easing the slight tension in the air. 

"What?" She asked before she let out a laugh. "But they're so cute!"

Bob shook his head. "They're not cute! When I was a kid I stepped on one and it exploded between my toes," he defended.

She stopped walking. "Bobby, you're gross," she said with a laugh and turned to the apartment building behind her. "Well, this is me," she said, fishing through her bag for a key. "Now you can properly stalk me." 

She found the key in the very bottom of her bag. "It was nice to properly meet you, Bob," she said, the joking tone gone from her voice. "Thanks for walking me home." 

"Until next time?" He offered, unable to keep hope out of his voice. 

"Until next time," she echoed as walked into her apartment building. 

But, before the door could shut, Bob caught it. “Wait!” He cried as she started up the stairs. He couldn't follow her, that would have been too much. “What's your name?”

“Until next time!”

Taglist: @biancathecool @not-nyasa @burningwitchprincess

[lockheed-martin-unofficial]

22 for the drabble ask with Starscream!

22: you, from their perspective.

I sort of bent the prompt a little and wrote the moment his perspective of her changed. For context our human is a pilot, and Starscream has agreed to reluctantly cooperate with the Autobots (season 2 ish) even though he refuses to join them. This didn’t turn out 100% the way I wanted it to, all the more motivation to get better at writing so I can re-do it in the future.

Thank you for asking!

Words: 850

——————————————————————————

“You know, it’s nice to finally have another flyer on the team.”

“Right.” Starscream stretched his limbs, his wings twitching from how good it felt to just spread out. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since his last flight. He met the human standing next to the cliff edge, feeling the warm desert air flow around them from all directions.

“And who might your first flyer be?” He asked with a smirk, skeptical.

“Um, myself?”

A deep, rumbling laugh sounded beside the pilot.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You, you’re not a flyer.” He replied, an air of superiority about him. This human, a flyer? What a ridiculous concept. Humans weren’t even created to fly, let alone fly to the degree of a seeker. Whereas he was engineered to aerodynamic perfection. How could they ever be the same?

“I don’t expect you to possibly understand the true meaning of flight.” He replied dismissively.

“Listen, I get it. Here you are, flying since the day you were created, with a body quite literally tailored to the sky. And all of a sudden this small, fragile creature without even wings to call her own says you two are the same? I’d be unimpressed too.”

He looked down at her with one raised eyebrow, not expecting the genuine reply. She didn’t sound angry, she didn’t even sound offended. The human pilot sat down, remaining a safe distance away from the edge and crossing her legs.

“Let me put it this way. When you were left without your T-cog, unable to fly…How did it make you feel?”

Starscream sat down as well, his legs dangling off the cliff. Wings drooped down ever so slowly on his back. It was obvious she’d hit a sensitive spot.

“Restrained. With an indescribable sense of longing.” He replied without missing a beat, gazing off into the distance.

“And every time I looked up at the sky…”

A pause. A tiny crack in his voice.

“You felt the crushing weight of knowing you could never reach it.” She completed, her tone soft yet containing a hint of sorrow. His stabilisers shot up, and he suddenly turned his head to look at her.

“You…”

“That’s how I feel all the time. Look at me. No dancing between the clouds for me. No heat of the sun on my frame, no wind tugging at my stabilisers, and certainly no gentle droplets of rain on my wings.” The human sighed, her voice faltering.

“That’s just the way it is.”

He felt pity. He almost even felt a little guilty. Starscream raised a servo, placing his talons on her shoulder as gently as possible. He felt sorry for her. He could hear the longing in her voice. The passion and love she couldn’t help but feel, despite knowing it only made things worse for her.

“I’m sorry.”

Perhaps he had misjudged her. True, she was a small and fragile little thing, but he had to admit the fact that she was still striving for the sky, even though her own body was against this idea, made her admirable in her own way. The human was startled for a split second at the touch, before relaxing and placing her own hand over his servo, her fingers caressing his digits and her head leaning into his touch.

“It’s alright.”

“No.”

The human looked up, and Starscream leaned down to her level.

“No,” he repeated, “it’s not alright. It’s terrible! How do you even deal with it?” He had already spent a few months unable to fly, but he couldn’t imagine doing it for an entire lifetime. He would’ve gone insane.

She was touched by the outburst. It made her feel seen, made her struggle feel so much more real.

“Well… I try to fly as often as I can, get as close as I can, but it’s not what I want. It’s not the same as having my own wings to fly with, being able to feel and control every little thing. You know?”

“Of course not…” he nodded, contemplating. “It could never be the same.”

It made more sense now, why she had been so eager to assist him all this time, why she’d volunteered to be his partner. She’d seen him going through the same thing she was, but unlike her, his situation could be helped.

For that help, he was silently grateful. And then, Starscream did something unexpected.

“If you’d like…” he averted his gaze, fiddling with his talons as he spoke. “I will allow you to fly me on our way back to base.” He offered, trying to sound as nonchalant, as disinterested as possible.

“Thank you.”

He flinched at the sudden feeling of something warm and soft wrap around his digits. He collected himself, answering quickly.

“Yes, yes, don’t get used to it. I just don’t enjoy seeing you all sappy and miserable.” He waved her away with a servo, still avoiding eye contact.

As humiliating as his current predicament was, he had to admit it was nice to have another flyer on the team. Even such a squishy one.

[cinebration]

Too Slow For Me (Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader) [One-shot]

Premise: Of all the bars in all the world, Jake had to walk into yours.

Tagged: @abaker74, @ahopelessromanticwritersworld, @the-romanian-is-bae, @b-bradshaw, @alldaysdreamers, @bat-luna-cat, @solo2leo, @lucy-sky

Warnings: none

Gif Source: topgundaily

When you were hired to work as a bartender for Penny Benjamin at her bar, you thought nothing of it. The Jake Seresin you knew, while an up-and-coming hotshot flyboy, would never make it to TOPGUN, not with his mouth and his inability to play well with others. Working in the bar would be safe, you were sure of it.

Until a year later when Jake walked through the door.

A shock of surprise blasted through you when you recognized his face across the room, heard the familiar sound of his voice. Like suddenly being doused in cold water, you shivered and felt your heartrate skyrocket.

There was nowhere to hide. As the only bartender on duty, you were obligated to stay behind the bar. You couldn’t run even as Jake crossed the room and headed directly to you.

Trying to quell the mounting panic in your chest, your skin suddenly unbearably itchy as sweat broke out beneath your armpits, you forced yourself to stay calm.

He stopped at the bar and leaned his forearms against it. “Two beers.”

He flashed a pearly white smile.

You felt as though you’d been punched in the stomach. Nodding jerkily, you faced away from him to find two beers and pop off their tops, your face burning.

He didn’t remember you.

You handed him the beers and wordlessly took the money he slapped down onto the countertop, everything within you screaming as you fought back the hot tears pushing insistently at the back of your eyes.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said, winking. “What’s your name?”

You quietly gave it to him. A faint crease rumpled his smooth brow.

“Don’t I—”

“Can I get two beers and a boilermaker?” another patron asked, raising their voice over Jake’s.

“Sure thing,” you answered with false cheer, scurrying away with relief to fetch the man’s drinks.

As Jake walked away to join his buddies, he glanced back over his shoulder as though to catch your eye, but you studiously avoided his gaze. Bitterness and pain flooded you as you kicked yourself for being stupid enough to think that working in a bar that catered to Navy pilots wouldn’t make you cross paths with him again.

Maybe, you realized, you had wanted to this happen. Maybe you had wanted the chance…

~~

When you first met Jake, he was fresh out of flight school and hadn’t earned his call sign yet. You hadn’t recognized that his confidence was arrogance and his ego was outsized even for an Navy pilot. You couldn’t see past the charm, his grin, and the mischievous green eyes.

You never expected Jake to even look at you. He seemed to like girls faster than the jets he flew, and you were decidedly not one of them. As you once half-heartedly joked with your mother, you were invisible, particularly to anyone who looked even half as handsome as Jake.

So when he approached you one night, teeth gleaming and eyes glittering in the soft lighting of the bar, cozied up to you, and invited you out to dinner, you could hardly believe your luck. You pinched yourself more than once through the night, so surreal it all felt.

He took you to a middle-grade Italian restaurant that was better than getting pizza and beer but not very extravagant. You didn’t mind, preferring the food to the heavier, richer foods of high-end restaurants. The conversation was stimulating, Jake’s charisma out in full force and the banter crisp and light-hearted. You had never quite so clicked with anyone as you did with Jake that night.

As the evening wound to a close, you were excited to see him again. Before you could say as much, he leaned in toward your ear and whispered, “Why don’t we get out of here?”

Your heart plummeted. Swallowing thickly, you pulled away and muttered, “I’m not…I don’t think so.”

He frowned. “Why not? I thought we were getting along great.”

“We were—are. But…not on a first date.”

He stared at you, the glimmer in his eyes fading. Shaking his head, he exhaled heavily. “You’re too slow for me, sweetheart.”

And he left you standing there, cheeks burning and your stomach roiling.

You hadn’t eaten Italian since.

~~

The night crawled. You exerted all of your energy trying to avoid looking in Jake’s direction or focusing on his voice as he crowed with his friends over winning shots at the dartboard or the pool table. You served drinks and faked smiles at everyone else that came up to the counter.

When the evening waned into the early morning hours, all that remained were Jake and his friends. You could hear the individual tick of the second hand of the clock over their laughter and raised voices, itching for it to be two a.m. so you could kick them out.

“Last call,” you finally yelled with relief.

Jake immediately sauntered over. You wanted to kick your own teeth out.

“Last round of beers for us,” he said, leaning against the counter.

Nodding, you counted heads and proceeded to collect the beer bottles.

“Don’t I know you?”

You froze, your heart thumping painfully in your chest. “No,” you answered. You popped open the first beer.

“Nah, I definitely know you”

You tried to pop off the caps faster, working furiously to hand them to him.

“Wait a minute…” He leaned forward, scrutinizing your face as you handed gave him the last of the beers.

“That’ll be thirty dollars.”

“You’re that girl. Italian dinner, no after party.”

Your cheeks burned. Ducking your head, you tapped the bar. “Thirty dollars.”

“Where’re the beers?” one of his friends called. “Hurry up, man!”

“How’ve you been?” Jake asked, frowning slightly as he dug around for his wallet.

“Why would you care?” you muttered, snatching the money from his hand. You scurried away from him to the opposite side of the room, hiding behind chores.

The group left before you had to kick them out at two. Relief made you slump into a chair with your head in your hands, your stomach slowly relaxing and releasing the knot it had been holding for hours. Somehow, Jake remembering you—or rather, how he had remembered you—was worse than him not recognizing you at first.

You took your time wiping down the tables and booths, stacking the chairs atop them so you could run a quick vacuum over the floor. The chores helped relax you, though bitter sadness lingered tartly in your mouth.

You locked up, debating how to tell Penny that you were quitting, and strode across the sand to the parking lot—where Jake and his friends had set up a stunt course with orange traffic cones, daring each other to do better as they screeched through the obstacle course. Cones went flying as each one clipped corners too hard or fumbled gear changes, the clutch grinding like a creature in the throws of pain.

You hesitated as you watched them, as you watched Jake laughing at his friends’ failures. Leaning against your car, you watched waited for his turn.

Climbing into the car, he revved the engine like he knew what he was doing and took off, burning rubber on the asphalt as he navigated the course. He clipped one cone, then two, before spinning out as a third snagged in the wheel-well.

Everyone laughed and talked shit as Jake climbed out of the car with a sheepish grin on his face. He shrugged it off and said, “Nobody can make this course, man.”

You pushed off your car, tossed your purse into it, and strode across the asphalt to Jake. He sobered as you approached, wariness diminishing the humor in his expression. You held out a hand for the keys.

“I wanna try,” you said.

A quiet ooooo rippled through the group.

“No offense,” he began.

You tore the keys from his hand.

“Uh, knock yourself out, I guess.”

“No way,” someone else said, shaking his head as you passed him to the car. “What’s a civilian gonna do? Total our car!”

You slipped into the driver’s seat and adjusted it before slamming the door shut, blocking out the naysaying crowd’s voices. Inhaling deeply, you glanced at the obstacle course, committing it to memory.

How’s this for fast? you thought savagely.

Kicking the car into gear, you shot forward into the opening of the track. With practiced hands, you shifted seamlessly through gears, the clutch almost purring with relief at not grinding. Coming up to the first pinched turn, you tore around it easily, the rear bumper of the car missing a cone by mere centimeters.

The thrill of the speed rushed through you, making the crowd and the circumstances drop away. You tore around the next turn, looked ahead to see that two scattered cones were a threat to your wheels.

Without hesitation, you slammed on the brakes, sending the car into a slide. Yanking the gear shift into reverse, you pivoted the car into another 180, sliding through both cones and whipping around to finish the last leg of the course.

You streaked through the other side, not a single cone touched in your wake.

Cheers thundered in the silence of the night as you killed the engine and exited the car.

“Un-fucking-believable!” someone shrieked. “Did you see that!?”

The only woman in the group was grinning, a “Niceeeee” hissing past her lips.

Jake trotted up to you. “That was—”

You tossed the keys at his chest. He had to scoop them off the asphalt as you strode across the parking lot to your car.

“Hey, wait a minute.” He hurried to your side. “I want to talk to you.”

“What for?”

He blinked. “I want to buy you a drink, catch up.”

You stopped abruptly, adrenaline still flooding your veins. You stared him directly, the first time you had been able to meet his eye all night. He took a step back under the force of your gaze.

“Why?”

“Because…you’re interesting.”

“I was always interesting, dipshit. You just didn’t stick around to find out,” you snarled.

You took off to your car, leaving him standing there. He tried to catch up, but you were too fast for him.

[bugmomwrites]

Weary

Dr Flug x Reader

Stealing my sister’s bf’s HBO password is the second best thing I’ve done this week. Whipping up a solid drabble in 30 minutes and refining it into a whole oneshot in the same night takes first place.

There’s like, one innuendo towards the end but everything else is straight up fluff. Story came to me after reading yet another shady thing a certain airline I won’t name did, but it sounds like “we ain’t going”. I am changing the names so I don’t end up dead in a van somewhere, but if you know you know ;)

—•• •—• ••—• •—•• ••— ——•

“…And then what happened?”, Flug yawns, looking up at you through his goggles. You smile gently, kissing the front of the bag where his forehead would be.

“Well, according to some sources…the former production and safety manager’s exact words were ‘if anything happens, I didn’t do it myself’,” you respond, reading the article off your phone. Using the same soft voice you use when you read picture books to a sleepy 505, except it was a news article turned Wikipedia rabbit hole.

You two had gone from listening to him explain the differences between a 767 and an Airvan, to him resting his bagged head in your lap as you click on various entries and articles, bouncing information back and forth. The person, a known whistleblower who had retired from the controversial airline a few years ago, had tried many a time to draw attention to the company’s shady practices. For him to die so suddenly, especially as more inside secrets came to light, was too fishy for the public to ignore.

“I’m no detective, but…”

“Assassination?”, you finished for him, raising a brow. The two of you exchanged knowing looks.

“Does the Dreamweaver have flexible wings?”, he grumbles, wrapping his arms around your waist to bury his head further into your tummy. It tickles, but you try not to laugh lest you disturb his rare peace. Moments like these didn’t happen often, and you knew if any of the others were to see you like this, Black Hat would tear you both a new one, and Demencia would never let you hear the end of it.

A few more minutes go by, occasionally filled in with fun facts about the company’s various other incidents that had made the news in the past. You click off of yet another one where a plane was literally falling apart mid-air, having to make an emergency landing in a massive blaze. That was enough internet for today, at this rate you’d never want to hop in a plane again. You carefully set your phone to the side after checking the time.

“If I were him, I wouldn’t have let them get me.”

“I know, Flug.”

“And I would have documented everything.”

“Mhm”, you rest a hand on his back, your own eyes growing heavy.

“I’d go down there and put them back together myself. I’d personally take all of their shitty scrap parts, and make a better airplane than any of those so called professionals,” he says disdainfully.

You smile as he heaves a long sigh, like the weight of the world rests upon his weary shoulders; which isn’t far from the truth, if the way Black Hat nags him and Demencia torments him on a regular basis is any indication. Not to mention raising a son/care bear/science experiment through it all. But even if it’s not quite the whole earth, at the very least it’s the whole company. Everybody ought to give him more credit, himself included.

“If anybody could do such a thing, I know it’d be you, Flug. You’ve always had a brilliant mind.” He hums softly at the praise, feeling quite chuffed to know that at least someone in the manor besides his own son appreciated him not just for all he does, but who he is.

It’s quiet again for a few moments as he drifts in and out of consciousness, your hand gently rubbing his back until he speaks up again a few minutes later.

“And I’ll make you my co-pilot.”

This takes you by surprise, the hand rubbing his back stopping briefly as you let the words settle over the two of you. Reading between the lines was something you found yourself doing almost as often as reading his expression through his paper bag, the man still not quite comfortable enough to outright say all the things he’d had bouncing around in his head to you just yet. Your hand resumes as you test the waters, stuck between delicate hope and fear of possibly scaring him off.

“I…don’t know how to fly a plane. Nor do I have a pilots license.”

“Me neither, but I’ll show you how to do it in the cockpit. I’ll make sure you have a smooth ride for your first time.”

A pregnant pause falls over the both of you, and your whole face heats up, mind processing his words only to take a nosedive into the gutter. You open your mouth to respond only to be met with quiet snores from below, Flug blissfully unaware of the effect of his words.

‘Looks like the week finally caught up to him’, you think. Odds are he might not remember something like that when he woke up, but you could tease him about it later on. For now, you stretch your arms over your head and attempt to make yourself as comfy as possible without disturbing him, sleep beginning to overtake you as well. You glance down once more to where he dozes peacefully for the first time in years, committing it to memory before joining him in slumber.

“Buenas noches, Flug.”

—•• •—• ••—• •—•• ••— ——•

[fireinmoonshot]

“wait, no, don’t take kissing away from me.” & hangman please

“No more,” you hum, taking a step back from Jake. He’s had more than a few drinks and the poor man is becoming more and more pouty by the second and you know that his friends and fellow pilots will never let him live this down if you don’t try and put an end to it. “I’m going home, baby. You wanna come with me?”

Jake effortlessly weaves an arm around your waist, pulling you back towards him and pressing you against his chest. “But we’re having such a nice time, aren’t we? And I can’t go yet! Javy and I made a bet for $50 that I’d leave before him, and I don’t wanna lose!”

You look over at Javy, standing only a few feet away from you, and he smiles sheepishly. “He probably won’t remember any of this in the morning if you wanna just take him home.”

Jake tightens his grip on your waist, not wanting to let you go. “Stay, baby.”

With a sigh, you lean in and press a kiss to his lips. Jake seems to enjoy this, his spare hand moving to gently hold the back of your head as his lips move against yours. Even though he’s incredibly drunk and you can taste the alcohol, his kiss is still patient and gentle, as are all of his kisses unless he intentionally makes them more passionate. 

Your attempt at a quick kiss is smashed to smithereens.

You attempt to pull away from the kiss, pressing your hands on his chest, and Jake lets you, not wanting to keep you doing something like that against your will. His grasp on your waist loosens as well. “You okay, baby?” He asks, a tinge of worry in his slurred voice.

“I’m going home now, Jake, okay?” You reach up with one of your hands to stroke his hair. It’s something he always loves when you do, usually something that helps him relax, too.

This time, though, he doesn’t notice as he’s too focused on your words. You’re going home. You’re leaving him. “Wait, no,” he shakes his head. “Don’t take kissing away from me.”

Against your better judgment, your lips quirk up into a smile. You also hear the beginning of laughter from a few of the other pilots around you. Oh, Jake has dug his hole now, you think. He’s never going to live this one down. But now, you also have your means to get him out of here before he digs his hole any deeper.

“If you wanna keep the kissing, you gotta come home with me now, Jake,” you explain.

Jake stares at you for a moment and then sighs, giving in. “Okay,” he pouts. “I’ll go home.”

Javy helps you take Jake out to the cab and also pays for the trip home – his way of ending the bet, just in case Jake does remember in the morning. Jake is sleepy and slightly starting to sober up when you reach your house and the two of you go inside.

“Can I have another kiss now?” He asks as he sits down on the edge of your bed. 

You smile and wander over to him. “Just one, and then bed. Okay?”

Jake nods sleepily. The alcohol and the late night having finally caught up to him. You give him two minutes tops before he’s passed out cold. You dread the hangover he’s going to have in the morning.

You stand in-between his legs and cup his face gently in your hands before you press your lips to his. Jake kisses you back instantly.

“Was that worth coming home for?” You ask after you pull away.

Jake nods. “It will be if I can have one more.”

You can’t help but laugh at him. It was a good thing you got him out of the bar when you did, then, you think, or else he’d be severely regretting his choices in the morning even more than he already was going to. 

[fazedlight]

Tattoos (fluffy supercorp ficlet, post-6) “The wild days of youth,” Lena said jokingly, holding out the to-go box of potstickers to Kara from her comfy seat in the Tower. “I just didn’t want to stop.”

“What was the appeal?” Kara asked, reaching for a potsticker with her fingers, popping it into her mouth as Lena pulled the box back.

Lena smiled in amusement. Classy as always, she thought, as she reached for her chopsticks. “I suppose it was just… the expectations. A Luthor should not be so uncultured.”

Kara was making small grabby fingers, so Lena rolled her eyes affectionately, passing the box of potstickers before reaching for the pan-fried green beans. Kara popped another potsticker in, her voice muffled from the food. “So it was an act of rebellion?”

Lena hummed. “My arm tattoo was first, the day I turned eighteen. A simple bird, something that could fly - it always seemed like freedom to me. Same reason I got my pilot’s license.”

“What came next?” Kara asked curiously, curling up on her spot on the couch.

“I went big. The ‘Purity’ script on my back.” Lena smiled, somewhat embarrassed. “It was kind of an ironic tramp stamp. I wasn’t as, uh, extroverted as some of my friends. Veronica was kind of wild at parties.”

Kara laughed. “And then the circles?”

Lena grew pensive for a moment, before nodding. “Lex turned the sun red, and I… just couldn’t breathe. I found myself thinking about my mom a lot.”

“Your mom?” Kara said gently, pausing from her food to look up.

“She… talked a lot, about past, present, future. It’s one of the few things I remember her saying.” Lena glanced down at her wrist, where three circles of growing sizes lay in a line. “I just wanted to commemorate that. That whatever I was going through now, I would be able to get past it.”

“Oh, Lena,” Kara said, a little sadly.

“It was a long time ago, Kara,” Lena said emphatically, her voice… perhaps a bit contemplative, but content. “Things are better now. You make things better.”

Kara smiled softly for a moment, before wondering out loud. “And the pain didn’t bother you?”

“Not really,” Lena said. “It hurt, but it was… meditative? Something to focus on, when I needed to distract myself.”

“That makes sense,” Kara said thoughtfully. The two glanced at each other, before quietly resuming their meal.

Lena reached over for a paper napkin, smiling in a bashful way that crinkled her nose. “So am I the most tatted person you know?”

“Oh no, definitely not!” Kara said, as she popped yet another potsticker in her mouth, looking down into the container for her next one. “Kate has way more tattoos than you,” she muffled through her food.

Kate Kane? Lena thought, with a twinge of… something. She forgot that Kara had even met Kate before. “Oh really?”

“Yeah, like everywhere,” Kara said, reaching for the scallion pancakes. “She even has a dolphin on her butt. It’s super cute. Just don’t tell her I told you,” she said with a laugh.

And Lena’s mind froze. A moment passed, before it slowly started turning again. 

Kara- 

Kara has- 

KARA HAS SEEN KATE’S ASS?! 

“That’s nice,” Lena said tensely.

Kara glanced up from her food, examining Lena closely. “Are you okay?”

“Yup,” Lena said, failing to get the stiffness out of her voice.

Kara’s eyebrows crinkled in concern, as she set her food back down on the coffee table - a large feat, really, considering that there were still three potstickers left. “Are you- are you jealous of Kate?” Kara asked curiously.

I didn’t know you liked women, Lena thought desperately. Why didn’t I know? “It’s- I’m fine. It’s fine.”

Kara tilted her head. “You can always get more?”

“What- no, Kara, it’s not her tats I’m jealous of.”

Kara blinked. “Then what are you jealous of?”

Fuck fuck fuck.

Lena paused, taking stock of her options. Kara isn’t currently dating Kate, Lena thought to herself. That much was certain, Kara didn’t mention visiting Kate at all, and Lena was pretty confident that whatever they had before, wasn’t going on now. And it did mean that Kara was into women…

Maybe they had a chance? “I like you,” Lena said, trying to keep the grimace off her face. “Romantically, I mean.”

“Oh- wait- really?” Kara said, stuttering. “I’m not sure how that relates- I mean, I didn’t think you- I-” Kara coughed, pausing for a moment to clear her throat. “I like you too. Romantically.”

“Oh,” Lena said, her eyes widening as Kara smiled shyly. “That’s… that’s good.”

“Yeah,” Kara said, smiling softly. “I want to… take you out on a date?”

“I would like that,” Lena said.

Kara’s foot bounced, a nervous sort of excitement in her body, the two sheepishly resuming their meal, with the occasional warm glance, thoughts floating by their minds on what the future might hold.

Until, eventually, Kara’s expression grew a bit pensive. “What’s wrong?” Lena asked.

“Nothing!” Kara said. “I’m just not sure how we got here from talking about tattoos.”

“Oh, I… I just didn’t realize Kate was your ex, that’s all.”

“My ex?” Kara said, her eyebrows furrowing again in confusion. “Wait, I- you thought- oh.” “What?” Lena asked curiously.

“Lena, I-” Kara paused, holding back a laugh. “I saw her tattoos in battle. I needed to use my x-ray vision.”

“... Oh,” Lena squeaked.

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

☆There's No Place Like Home☆

Episode 1: A Warm Welcome

[Pilot]

《You are new to this... Neighborhood? Where the hell are you?》

《Warnings: the subject matter this ARG has are potentially disturbing. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Welcome Home was created by Clown @ partycoffin 》

-

Furiously wiping at your eyes, snot running down to your chin. You try to control yourself when realizing that the voices didn't sound like they were gonna hurt you.

"Oh, dear!"

"My goodness!"

"Are you alright!?"

Shaking like a leaf, you gaze down at the rainbow-colored pieces of paper falling down your shoulders.

"Wh-hat?"

You choke out, feeling spit and vile in the back of your throat.

"Neighbor, are you alright?" A soft voice questioned you, gazing up at...

That is not a person. What are you even looking at?

A yellow fleece-skinned puppet with blue hair styled into a tall, spiraled pompadour and 70s clothing greets you. He kneels beside you, reaching out a yellow hand to your back, rubbing it up and down gently.

His expression was rather calm than frightened of your well-being.

You wanted him to back away and didn't have the energy to shove him if you were honest. It felt like your skin was saggy and your bones turned into juice.

"I'm so sorry Neighbor, we didn't mean to frighten you. Right everyone?" The male puppet says, looking at the other puppets that stared at you with worry.

"O-oh, yes!" One of them rushes to you, causing you to lean back. "I'm so so so sorry! We didn't mean to come in without asking! Of course, we scared you! Poor thing!" The pink fleece-skinned skinned puppet exclaimed.

"Julie, maybe give them a bit of space, you're invading it." Another voice pipes up behind the female puppet. A gray puppet pulls the girl back by the arms gently.

"Oh, right!"

"What are you?" You whisper, and your pupils were blown out with fear.

"WHO. Are you?" You ask more loudly, catching the colorful group off guard.

"I forgot! Introductions are in order!" The pink puppet proclaimed.

"My name is Julie! Julie Joyful, oh, this is Frank!" "Frank Frankly."

"I wanna go next!" A voice boomed, and another puppet appears in your line of vision. "My name's Sally! Sally Starlet! And I'm a star!" She flaunts good-naturedly, her eyes bright with energy.

"Oh, I forgot!" Sally pulls a giant bird with rainbow feathers, a caterpillar-like puppet, and a mailman puppet toward your supposed "group".

"This is Poppy, Eddie, and Howdy!" They smile at you kindly before Howdy pulls out a cake, (from seemingly out of nowhere.). He holds it out with a smile with his multitude of hands.

"We brought a welcome cake from my bodega! We hope you would enjoy it," Howdy said showing it out to you from your position on the floor. The cake was layered with white frosting and rainbow sprinkles slathered around the giant frosted words: Welcome To The Neighborhood.

Little signatures surround the bottom of the bolded words. "Oh.. Thank you..? That's very, uhm, sweet."

You pause, recalling your words in your head and becoming quiet.

"Hahah! Good one bud'!" A big blue puppet dog laughed, slapping his paw on his knee. His laughter was contagious as the rest of the marionettes giggled along.

"You're gonna' fit right in! Names, Barnby B. Beagle, your new Neighbor."

The dog winked, holding out his hand for a shake. Yet moves his hand away when he pulls the yellow puppet from beside you. Holding him by his armpits and showcasing him like a shiny trinket. The blue-haired puppet seemed unfazed and still had his soft expression.

"This nice 'fella here is Wally, a real Darling! Hehe, a pal of mine! My best-est buddy, and hopefully, your's too!"

Why did it feel like this was a commercial or a horrible skit you weren't in on?

"It's lovely to meet you, Neighbor," Wally replied.

You nodded, looking away from his eyes and focusing on the cake.

You felt better than earlier when you thought you walked into some murdered party or cult-type thing. But was it worse than talking puppets without strings?

You aren't sure yet?

Was this cake even real? Was any of this real??

"W-ell, thank you for the hospitality. But this isn't my home... I'm not even sure where this place even is?"

The puppets grow quiet at your words. Their confused stares made you uncomfortable and queasy. "This is Home, where inside your Home silly! Isn't this all your stuff?"

Poppy points out, gazing at the clutter of unopened boxes and furniture.

"Hmm, they must have forgotten. Moving is tricky business, especially on short notice." Frank states thoughtfully.

"N-no that's not-"

You feel your tongue become limp and your eyesight blurring into meshes of color.

"Are you okay, Neighbor? I bet all that stress of moving got ya' pretty tired. C'mon, let's eat some cake!"

Barnby states, letting go of Wally and helping you up.

Everyone cheers as Sally goes off to find cutlery in one of the boxes. Howdy places the cake on a table hidden away in a corner while Eddie and Frank round up any chairs they could find.

Wally pulls out your seat like a gentleman, handing you a plate of cake as everyone chats and eats

-

[Taglist closed]

@tearjerker666 @trzppyghxuls @cookieswithay @luna-charlie @isometimeswritestuff @kazi-pop @lightspectre-universe @jjowithastar @smilingfox22-blog @jayysnotjoyful @cadaverous-coop @heather-hutchcroft @camilo-uwu @pauldanosbandonedirection222 @sweetheartturtle2007 @pretty-please-just-let-me-sleep @welcomehome102

[Hiya! Thank you guys so much for such the positive comments! I need some more, I crave. Readings ya'lls reactions are the best and make it easier for me. Thanks! Art is always appreciated!]

[seresinhangmanjake]

your way back to me

Dad!Jake “Hangman” Seresin x female reader

Summary: Jake’s best student gets into an accident and ends up in the hospital, and he doesn’t want to leave her alone so he waits for her mother to show up. But her mother just so happens to be the love of his life who left him in the middle of the night decades prior, and it’s about time she shared her biggest secret. 

Warnings: Allusion to smut. Cursing. idk, that may be it. 

Notes: This is an AU of the Oh, Baby series. 

She was a good kid. 

A great kid. 

Dedicated, strong, wise beyond her years. Wickedly stubborn, and yet, she managed to keep it from impacting her work. She didn’t have the ego; that entitlement and bravado that came with being as talented as she was. But she wasn’t just talented. As if it were woven into the network of her veins, she was the absolute best at what she did, far surpassing her classmates. 

No one wondered how she achieved so much at such a young age. She lived by some internal set of rules that Jake had caught onto over the last few months. Something along the lines of ‘work harder, train longer, don’t lose hope, never surrender.’ He could see it in every choice she made—too similar to his own mantra of motivation when he was developing his skills in the sky so many years ago. But she was also open. Open to offering others what she knew, and open to learning from others what she didn’t. He couldn’t have asked for a better student; didn’t even realize one like her could possibly exist.

He never had a child. There was one woman he would’ve given it all to, but when she left, finding another he cared to build a family with was not so easily achieved. But if anyone were to come close to what he imagined his kid to be like, Eve was it. The qualities she possessed that he recognized as his own were what bonded them, and the rest of her—the other pieces that made her whole—were infinitely better. They surpassed him. Those qualities, he’d deduced, came from her mother. 

He didn’t know much about Eve’s mother, and knew of Eve's father only what Eve had shared with him—that solely being that the man was a pilot and the determining factor in her choosing to be the same. And maybe, he thought, that was why the two of them fell into their easy flow. He had always wanted a child; someone to care and be there for, and Eve was in need of the support and encouragement that should have come from the father she never knew. And so developed the relationship they had—one of instructor and mentor, confidant and friend. 

Rooster teased him; told him that if he wanted something to take care of and watch over like a papa hawk, then he should’ve just gotten a puppy. But a puppy was a thought-out process. It was an acknowledged adjustment to daily life that required careful planning. It wasn’t the same. He hadn’t planned on taking Eve under his wing. Somehow, it was a natural development. He cared about the kid’s well-being. He wanted her to do well. The possibility of her fire and liveliness being snuffed out from a mission gone wrong was unable to pass through his mind without an accompanying squeeze to his heart. Should it become a reality, he would lose the closest thing he had to a daughter, and he knew he’d feel the full force of it. 

That was why he stayed when the rest of her team had eventually gone back to base. Despite his exhaustion, despite his duties, the aches in his body from cheap waiting room chairs, and the hours upon hours of unchanging news, he refused to leave. 

Eve only had her mother, and while she had been notified of the accident, it would take ages to make her way to California from the east coast. When she would finally arrive at the hospital, he didn’t want her to be alone. He wanted Eve’s mother to understand that there was someone else who cared about her baby, who tried so damn hard to protect her when he could, and wouldn’t leave her side when he failed. 

—-

Jake…

Jake!

He internally groaned. 

He hated when you called out to him. He hated that your voice always sounded so clear; so near that it filled him with enough false hope to have him reaching out into the darkness, thinking his fingers might actually feel your body. He imagined them grazing along your skin as you smiled at him in a promise that you were real, right in front of him, able to be tugged close and held tight and kissed until the rest of the world fell apart around you. He pictured you still in his bed, wrapped around him, trading whispers of love. It was a common stabbing to his chest that never failed to pierce through to his heart. Yet, if it disappeared, if you disappeared, if the dreams stopped, he knew it might be the thing to finally undo him. 

“Jake!”

He jolted upright in his chair before his eyes had a chance to snap open. He looked up at a ghost. Stunning. Ethereal. A well-known silhouette.

Huffing, he positioned his elbow back on the armrest so he could rest his cheek against his fist. He allowed his eyes to drift closed. “Go away,” he mumbled. “You’re not real.”

“What are you talking about?”

His vision again tried to adjust to the overhead lighting. With a bite in his tone, he replied, “You are not—” 

His eyes widened as they met those he had stared into so many times before. Real? 

Jake shook his head, trying to recall any serious hits to the head. But then an invading thought caused him to remember his purpose. 

His stiff joints cracked as he hopped out of his seat and rushed to the main desk.

"Excuse me, Miss." The words tumbled from his lips so fast it startled the young woman behind the counter. "Can you please tell me if—"

"She's going to be fine, Jake."

His breath hitched at the voice not leaving the mouth of the shocked young woman. The voice that came from behind him. That voice. The only one that mattered.

Moments ago, he was convinced his mind was having fun with him, playing and betraying simultaneously. However, needing to know Eve's state had shoved that concern to the side. But now it was unmistakable.

Jake gulped. He slowly turned. 

Fuck.

His brow pinched, eyes beginning to sting as his heart went wild inside his chest. 

Beautiful. So damn beautiful. 

Like a fresh wave, it washed over him how different he felt just at the mere sight of you compared to how he did for any woman he had in his life over the last decades. Those feelings never came close to matching. They weren't on the same tier; couldn't be when what he felt for you sat high on a pedestal of his own making. 

His eyes savored their slow scanning of you.

Exhaustion showed in the slump of your shoulders and in the dark circles under your eyes. Your hair was slightly messy. The shape of your body was hidden under a large sweatshirt. Your thumbnails were worn down from being nervously picked at. And Jake could see a few fine lines touched around your face. But you were still you. You still looked like his girl. And he couldn't understand how the hell you were in front of him.

"Eve's going to be ok," you repeated. "I talked with the doctor already. They gave her some medication to help her rest."

"You talked to…" He was still worn out. Brain trying to catch up with the world around him until, eventually, it clicked. "Eve is your daughter."

The empty room was silent as you stared at him. Then you said, "We can come back in the morning to see her. They said visiting hours are over so we have to go."

You twisted on your heel, making your way to the exit. Your steps against the tile echoed. 

You were real. Each passing second further proving it. So he followed after you.

"Wait! You can't just walk aw—"

"Not here," you interjected. 

His mouth instantly closed. He wouldn't argue, fearing that doing so would somehow make you disappear. And that was not something he was willing to risk.

He trailed you out the front door of the hospital.

"Are we far enough away now that you'll talk to me?"

You stopped and faced him. Neither of you seemed to guess what to do first. He had asked his question and he wanted his answer, but you didn't appear to know how to give one, so he skipped past it and instead glanced at your ring finger. It was bare. But maybe that meant nothing.

"Are you married?" He asked.

"No." You wrapped your arms around your middle. Hugging yourself. Barring yourself from him. Your weight shifted to your other foot, then your averted gaze made its way back to his. "Are you?"

His head shook as he soaked in the relief of your response.

Heaviness settled between you despite the California breeze moving the air along. 

"Did you know?" He broke the silence, but the tension held firm. And as if you expected it, you didn’t flinch. "Did you know I was her instructor?"

The simple gesture of your nod was a punch to the gut.

"And you didn't want to reach out? Talk to me? See me?"

"Jake—"

"I would've done anything to get a chance to—" He stopped himself at the pain screwing your features. That expression had always ripped him apart. Twenty years changed nothing. 

Taking a calming breath, he continued. "I'm sorry. I didn't…I'm not trying to…" His hand ran down his face. "Shit, I don't know how to do this anymore. I never thought I'd see you again." 

You made no rushing move to collect the words he was giving you, and Jake sighed in disappointment. This was not how the two of you interacted. You didn’t stand so far apart. You didn’t hold yourselves back from touching one another. You weren’t supposed to be nervous in each other's presence. 

"You look beautiful."

With a snort, you replied, "I'm a mess." You looked down at your sweatshirt and leggings. "I wore this to bed last night. They called me at the crack of dawn and I practically ran to the airport." Tugging at the hem of the oversized top did nothing to erase its wrinkles. "I didn't know you guys train so early."

"Eve likes to, so I let her," Jake said. "I'm so relieved that she's going to be ok. She's really great. If I ever had a daughter, I'd hope she'd be like Eve."

A hard swallow briefly created a bulge in your throat. Your arms found their way around your waist again.

"Do you, uh…do you have a place to stay?" With me, he thought. You belong with me.

"I'll find a hotel."

"You can sleep at mine."

"I couldn't intrude—"

"Honey, it's you. You're not an intrusion," he said, stepping closer. 

He would’ve paused to consider the slip of the endearment and the slight widening of your eyes, but he too desperately needed to convince you to go with him. He needed more time. More time to exchange questions, to learn all he’d missed. More time to hear your voice, and maybe, if he could encourage it, hear your laugh as well. More time to be in your presence and exist in the space you enchanted. More of any and everything with you. 

His hand rested on your arm and even through the thick material of the sweatshirt, he could feel your heat. So familiar. So welcoming. 

Home.

"Come home with me, Honey. I've still got the spare room."

—

There'd been an unspoken agreement, as Jake drove back to his house, that neither of you would discuss all that had been revealed within the half-hour prior. Well, ‘agreement’ maybe was not the most accurate of words. You didn't speak, so Jake didn't pressure you. Had you chosen to open your mouth, he would've hung onto every syllable. 

When you did finally step into the house, you shocked him with your sudden willingness to ask questions. How long had he been an instructor? Why had he kept the house when he'd surely been deployed elsewhere for long periods of time throughout his career? How the rest of his old team was?

He answered each one as you made your way down the hall into the living room. Then you went quiet and Jake glanced over his shoulder to find you staring at his wall of frames. From left to right, your eyes scanned each picture—those of his friends, group shots of his past classes, and one or two of him with his Gram. But you stared longest at the last one, and reached up to softly run your fingers over your younger face; a happy young woman smiling wide from his kiss on your cheek. 

His chest tightened. "Do you want something to drink?"

You jerked your hand back to your side. A pinkish tinge rushed to your cheeks from having been caught, but seeing that reaction only produced the same in him. "No, thank you."

Nodding, he said, “Make yourself at home.” Just as you used to. Back when you were so close, so attached to one another that home really was being in each other’s space. It was the way things should have always been. It’s the way things would have continued to be had you not left him. 

Jake grabbed a glass from his cabinet as you sat, poured himself a swigs-worth of alcohol, and downed it. He needed to curb the edge; calm the wiggling nerves under his skin. Then he joined you on the couch. 

“How are you feeling?”

You blew out a long breath. “Exhausted. I was in panic mode all day. The only reason I’m not suffocating right now is because the doctor promised me she’ll be fine.”

“I felt that relief, too,” he said, trying to restrain himself from wringing his hands. “I mean, I know she isn’t my daughter, but I try to help and prepare her for every obstacle as if she were my own.”

As he had hoped, he got to hear your laugh. Not the one he so fondly remembered, though. It was a weak chuckle, not the least bit imbued with humor, and there was an odd twinge of something else he didn't quite understand. 

“Of course you do," you muttered under your breath.

His brow pinched, and he was ready to ask what you meant, but his first word was interrupted. 

“Jake, why didn’t you ever marry?”

"Uh…" He shrugged. "I don’t know. It just never happened.”

Lying to you was not something he was accustomed to. It was different than when he was a younger man keeping the secret of his feelings from the woman he’d loved for a year. You’d never directly asked him what he felt for you, so he was never in a position to be untruthful. But he sure as hell wasn’t about to tell you now that the sole reason he never married was because the only woman he ever imagined having a family with vanished from his life while he slept unaware and unable to stop it. You, though, didn’t seem to have the same problem when it came to properly moving on. You had created that family. Without him. 

“Were you ever married?” he asked. “To Eve’s father? Or someone?”

For such a simple curiosity, you took a while to address it, opting instead to sit in silence, eyes not entirely focused on any particular thing in the room as one thumbnail picked at the other. 

He knew that look, only shown when you were overthinking. 

"Jake," you began, eyes still lost for a moment before they flicked over to his, “Do you know how old Eve is?"

"Sure. Pretty much everyone does. She's one of the youngest to ever be in the program," he chuckled. 

A sense of pride encouraged his smile. Being so young made Eve’s skill and abilities wildly impressive, and aiding in her success couldn't be compared to anything less than an honor. 

His grin remained long after the lingering of his statement faded entirely. And not once did your expression shift. Rather, the radiating anxiety continued to halo your body. 

Jake placed his hand on top of yours to soothe their fiddling, and you immediately grabbed onto him, pulling that hand closer and keeping it snug between your palms. 

“Honey, what’s wrong?"

Sighing, you peered up at him. Your gaze was sad, desperate, pleading, in a way. And he stared back, trying to decipher that pain; hoping to figure out why you were looking at him as you were, and why you'd asked the questions you did.

Then his eyes widened. 

His jaw slackened. 

Lips parted.

He’d heard of those random shocks. Those instances of a thread suddenly linking two dots, and that new connection bringing a clarity which, in hindsight, should have been so very obvious. 

Jake sifted through his rapid replaying of memories that spanned the last couple of months. 

Phoenix eyeing the young student and commenting how the girl bore quite the resemblance to him—He’d brushed it off. Plenty of people had blond hair and green eyes. 

The way she sometimes spoke. A specific phrase said in a specific tone that he’d only ever heard come out of your mouth—Just an odd coincidence.

The fact that her name was the same as his grandmother's—There were only so many names to select from, right?

But now, with that new unbreakable thread connecting those previously sporadic dots, clarity smacked him upside the head. 

"You left me at the beginning of that summer," he started, voice low and slow and careful with each word. "And Eve's birthday is in March."

"Yes."

Looking down at your joined hands, he nodded and said, "She's our daughter."

He could practically hear your swallow. 

"...Yes."

He stood then, hand slipping from yours so it could run down his face as the other settled on his hip. He blew out a heavy breath.

"Jake, I'm so sorry. I should have told you. I thought—I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. When I found out you were her instructor, I was going to find a way to tell you, but I was so scared and it was selfish and—"

"Does she know?"

"No, she—When she came here she told me she looked up to you, and that if she imagined the kind of man her father was, he'd be like you." 

You paused to properly exhale, head hanging in the aftermath. 

He wanted to erase that showing of shame, but if he interrupted you, you might not have given the rest of the story. And he needed the rest of the story. He needed the truth of the events that had haunted him for decades. 

"I always felt I made the biggest mistake of my life the day I left you, but hearing her say that solidified it. And for years, I let fear keep me from righting that wrong,” you said, a droplet of water falling from your face, soaking into the fabric of your leggings. "All this time I've been so afraid that you wouldn't want her, and you wouldn't want me, and it's paralyzed me."

His fingers twitched at his sides, begging him to allow them to brush away your tears—to let the woman he loved know that he didn’t hate her for her past choices—but he couldn’t move. And the only thing he could think to say was, "Should it really have taken her getting hurt for you to tell me?"

Raw heartbreak seeped into your gaze.

"So it's my daughter that is laying in a hospital bed right now." The more he said it, the more he called her that in acknowledgment of who they truly were to one another, the more it ached each limb and vein and nerve of his body to know that she was hurting. Yes, he had always cared about her and treated her like his own, but Eve being his daughter changed things. It altered his biological instincts and the chemical balance in his brain. Failing in protecting her was no longer just a failure, it was catastrophic to his soul. 

He pictured her face bruised, her lip cut, her cheek swollen. He imagined your sheer horror once learning she was injured thousands of miles out of your reach. You’d faced it alone. You never should have been alone to begin with. 

"I should've kept looking for you," he said. "I should have just told everyone else to fuck off."

"Jake, if they were telling you to give up, then—"

"Don't. Do not say it was for good reason. We could've been together. If I had found you we would've been a family."

The day his friends had sat him down, laid out what they believed to be the reality he refused to accept, and told him to move on, was fresh in his mind. Not a moment of it had faded. He’d dreamt about it for ages—sometimes still did—always waking devastated. 

Your palm cupping his cheek called him back from his thoughts. 

"The only reason we weren't a family is because I fucked up. I did,” you stressed. “This isn't on you."

You were suddenly so close, he realized. So warm within his space. How he’d survived losing you, he didn’t know. 

"Would you have come back with me? If I had been able to find where you were?"

Your hand fell but he grabbed it before you could retreat, and thankfully, you didn’t fight him. Then you sighed, the act expelling the tenseness that had stiffened your form. "I'm not going to answer that question." 

Perhaps for the best. Either answer would’ve broken him.

He wished to go back in time, to never give up on his search. He wanted a chance to convince the woman he loved to raise a child together. He wanted to be a father to that baby girl as she’d grown, and enjoy all of the moments that came with being her parent. 

Nothing could give that to him now, but at least he wouldn’t be losing any more time. 

Eve being grown didn’t mean she wasn’t his. Being in one another’s lives proved to be predestined. He was a father, had always been, and could maybe finally be seen as a father by his daughter now that you had bared it all and given the truth.

So he figured maybe it was only fair to do the same for you.

Jake looked at you. Really looked at you. His eyes bore into yours, taking in the swell of your pupils and the different colors flecked around in what remained of the ring of your irises. "Is this secret sharing day?" he asked.

"What?” Your brow pinched as you sniffled and swiped your fingers under the lower lashes framing your right eye to remove the final remnants of tears. “I-I suppose so. If that’s really what you want to call it."

“Good.” Both hands were on his hips to give him some sense of physical stability, and he licked his lips, then said, "I didn't get married because I never found anyone I loved as much as I love you. I couldn’t fully give myself to anyone while I still belonged to someone else.”

Shock and disbelief melded inside that previously heartbroken gaze.

He hadn’t been able to say the words before you left. You hadn’t given him a chance. But he could see now that you had spent years wondering if felt that deeply for you, as he had wondered if you felt that way for him. 

 “Jake, you…you love me?”

“I've always loved you, Honey,” he declared just before his lips met yours. 

The soft touch didn’t seem to stun you. You didn’t take your time to adjust to the kiss you hadn’t shared in decades. Instead, you fell right into it, right alongside him. Your arms rose to wrap around his neck, sending shudders up his spine. You tugged him closer as he did the same to you. You moaned and whimpered and let your tongue play with his, so generously allowing him to get drunk off of your taste.

You kissed him exactly like he remembered; like nothing had changed or interrupted the perfect path you once started on. There was the same sweetness that, just as it used to, surrendered to an underlying burn. A familiar need for each other that had never died. And you settled into it; kissing skin and grasping at clothes and snuffing out all space between you until neither of you could take it anymore.

“Honey?” A little whine into your mouth.

“Yes,” you replied, sealing your lips again before he could say another word. Because you weren’t just answering the call of his name for you. You were answering the unspoken question the both of you already knew was coming. 

Jake grinned into the kiss and slipped his hand down the front of your leggings. 

—-

"I assume you have more questions?" 

Your voice was the first break in the peaceful silence where he had been lazily pressing his lips to your neck and bare shoulder while your back was tucked against his chest. 

He did have questions. But it was a war whether to ask them or to remain a little longer in the bubble of bliss where he could touch you and cuddle you and kiss you. You had asked, though, and he'd never been too good at denying you anything. 

Pulling his lips away from your skin, he said, “A hundred of them.” 

You flipped under the bedsheet to face him. "Any particular one you wish to start with?"

Jake paused. Not because he didn’t know the first of which to ask, but because your answer had a great deal of power over him. It contained his hope and his pain, either with the potential to destroy the other. It was an answer that would dictate his future. 

"Can she know?" He finally asked.

"She deserves to know,” you replied to his relief. “She'd want to know. As long as you want her to know, too."

His arm over your waist curled and pulled you closer. "Of course I do, Honey." 

"Then we can tell her tomorrow, if you want."

"Are you ready for that?"

"It's not about me," you said. "She might forgive me now, she might not. It could take a while, I suppose, and I hate that, but I'd deserve it."

When your head dipped down away from his, he ran his hand over the strands of your hair and brushed his lips against your forehead. 

"I hope that we all can look at this as a chance to have something new, though," you continued. "I'd like for us to look ahead, not behind."

Jake smiled. That was all he wanted. Just a chance to have what he’d lost. Everything he had lost.

"And what about you and me?" He hummed as his knuckle under your chin tilted your face back up to his. "Do we get something new as well? Because I don't know if I'm capable of letting you walk out of my life again."

The corners of your lips curved the slightest and you cupped his cheek, drawing him further into you. The kiss was gentle, brief, but more than enough to send tingles throughout him. Then you separated a hairs width and whispered:

"Jake, I'm not capable of leaving you again."

----

A/N: Ok, so this might be it for a little bit, guys, as far as fic posting. There’s been a lack of interest it seems lately and i’m not in a good space mentally to be able to put a lot into it and not know how it’s being received. It’s no ones fault but my own that I feel this way. This is how I’ve chosen to spend my time and this is the platform I picked. I want to write the rest of Oh, Baby and Beyond the Hills stuff but idk. Maybe i’ll snap out of it. But this was just to let those of you who have been following know what the plan might be. I’m very thankful that some of you have stuck around this long.

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