#you have to make sure your posture is right and your hold on the gun is right and that you're looking through the sights correctly

[tooies]

listen as someone who has actually fired a real gun before i can tell you that it is not actually very easy to hit a small target from far away. it is conspiracy theorizing to think that the fact that the shooter just grazed his ear rather than hitting him directly means that it's more likely that it was staged to get people (who were already going to vote for him) to vote for him than it is that the shooter just fucking missed because real life is not actually videogames and aiming a gun is actually very hard

[somaliapearls]

landing gear

Top Gun masterlist

✈️ bradley “rooster” bradshaw x fem!reader

genre: romance, slow-ish burn, slice of life, military

wc: 4.2k

summary: When a summer pool party brings you and Bradley Bradshaw back into each other’s orbit…

warnings: smut!!, unprotected sex, mild alcohol use, adult language, sensual tension, emotional vulnerability, reader is implied to have some past uncertainty about relationships (no trauma described)

a/n: had to put out this last one before i gtb, enjoy!!! :)

You show up late on purpose.

It’s too hot, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin and makes everything feel like molasses. The kind of heat that turns your car seat into a skillet and your clothes into a trap. Penny’s backyard is already filled with the sound of splashing water, music thrumming through someone’s Bluetooth speaker, and the faint sizzle of burgers on the grill.

You almost bailed. You don’t always love big gatherings—especially not in a bikini. But Penny had insisted. “Come by, have a drink, flirt with a pilot,” she’d said with a wink.

You’d laughed. You hadn’t told her you already had one in mind.

And the second you step through the gate, your stomach flips.

Bradley Bradshaw is standing poolside like something off a summer calendar—board shorts slung low on his hips, damp curls pushed back off his forehead, sunglasses perched on his nose. There’s a beer in his hand and a relaxed, lazy kind of confidence in his posture, like the sun itself revolves around him.

Which, given the way people are watching him, isn’t far off.

Your eyes rake over him before you can stop yourself. Broad chest, tan skin, shoulders that look criminal in the sun. He’s laughing at something Jake said, that signature smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but then—

Then he sees you.

Bradley’s head turns like he felt you, like some magnetic pull just yanked his attention straight to you. His smile changes. Slows. Softens. That smirk becomes something warmer, something just for you.

He raises his beer in a silent toast.

You smile back, heat blooming across your cheeks that has nothing to do with the weather.

You make your way toward the pool, pretending not to notice how his gaze tracks you the whole way. You slip off your cover-up slowly, a little part of you wanting him to look. Wanting him to stare. And he does—eyes dropping, jaw ticking just slightly, sunglasses unable to hide the fact that you’ve short-circuited his thoughts.

“You made it,” he says, strolling over, voice lazy-smooth like honey poured slow.

You glance over, teasing. “Disappointed?”

“Not even a little bit,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours.

You’re toeing the water, letting it chill your ankles. “Wasn’t sure if I should come.”

“Why?” he asks, head tilted.

You shrug. “Didn’t know if I’d be welcome.”

His brow furrows like that thought doesn’t sit right with him. “You’re always welcome with me.”

You try not to react to that, but your breath catches just a little. And he notices—he always notices.

Before you can think of something to say back, he steps closer. Not touching you, not yet, but close enough that you feel the heat of his body radiating through the air.

“You gonna get in?” he asks, nodding toward the pool.

“Thinking about it.”

“I could help you decide,” he says, voice pitched low and full of challenge.

You arch a brow. “If you push me, I swear to God—”

He holds both hands up in mock innocence. “No hands. Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you mutter.

“No, but I’m good with knots,” he quips, flashing a wink.

You snort, despite yourself, and turn just enough to hide your grin.

God, he’s too much. He’s always been too much. And yet, not enough. Not for what you want. Which, right now, is to know what it would feel like to run your hands over that chest, to press your mouth against his neck, to find out if he tastes like sunshine and salt and trouble.

But you don’t.

Instead, you slide into the pool on your own terms, slow and deliberate, while he watches with a lazy grin like he’s already imagining every inch of you underwater.

He joins you soon after, diving in with a smooth arc that splashes just enough to make you squeal and shove him playfully when he surfaces.

The rest of the afternoon is a blur of flirtation and laughter. Marco Polo games that turn into accidental touching, watermelon slices eaten with juice dripping down your wrist that he wipes away with his thumb, an impromptu game of chicken where he volunteers to hold you on his shoulders before you even say yes.

Your thighs locked around his neck, your hands in his hair, his head digging into your—how are you supposed to pretend it’s not exactly where you want to be?

But it’s not just the touches. It’s the way he touches you.

Like he’s memorizing. Like he’s waiting. Like he’s counting down to something he doesn’t want to rush.

Eventually, the sun dips low and golden across the backyard. The others begin to scatter—Mickey and Jake start a cornhole game, Natasha heads for the grill, and Penny brings out fresh drinks. But you and Bradley stay close. Still in the water, side by side, shoulders brushing.

“I was wondering,” he says suddenly, voice quieter now. “Are we… just gonna keep dancing around this?”

Your stomach flips again.

You look at him. Really look. His curls are still damp, dripping water down his chest. His sunglasses are gone, and his eyes—brown and soft and full of something that steals your breath—are focused entirely on you.

“I don’t know,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “Are we?”

He takes a step closer. Water laps at your waist. Your bodies are almost touching now.

“I’ve been trying to give you time,” he says. “Space. Not push.”

“I noticed.”

“I wanted to let you decide. Because if we cross that line…” He pauses, voice thick. “I won’t want to go back.”

You swallow hard. “What if I don’t want to go back either?”

That smile. Slow. Searing. Full of heat and affection and promise.

His hand lifts, thumb brushing a droplet from your cheekbone. “Then I’d say I’ve been waiting long enough.”

You don’t kiss him.

Not yet.

But God, you’re close. One heartbeat. One breath.

Instead, he takes your hand, threads your fingers together, and says, “Walk me out?”

You nod.

He grabs his towel, slings it over his shoulder, but he never lets go of your hand. Not as he guides you out the gate. Not as the cool night air hits your damp skin. Not as he leans against his Bronco, your hand still locked in his like something sacred.

“Dinner,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

It’s not a question. But it’s not a demand, either. It’s a vow.

You smile, heart thudding like crazy. “I’d like that.”

He steps closer. “I’ll be thinking about you tonight.”

You meet his gaze—charged, crackling.

“I already am,” you whisper.

His mouth curves like he wants to kiss you so badly it physically hurts him not to.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he tugs your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles, slow and deliberate.

And just like that, you’re ruined for anyone else.

Dinner starts off easy.

He takes you to a lowkey waterfront place—nothing fancy, but cozy, charming, and full of warm golden light. His hand brushes yours as you walk in, and this time you don’t pretend it’s an accident. He holds the door for you. Pulls out your chair. Orders your drink without needing to ask what you like.

It should be too much. Too good. But with him, it isn’t. It just is.

Conversation flows the way it always has—teasing, light, full of easy laughter. But there’s something else now. A shift in the air. An edge to his smiles. A depth behind his glances that wasn’t there before.

He listens when you talk. Really listens. Elbows on the table, fingers loosely wrapped around his glass, eyes steady and warm. You talk about work, about Penny’s party, about how you still can’t believe he volunteered to let you use him as a ladder during that chicken fight in the pool.

He laughs. “Please. Highlight of my year.”

“I nearly fell backwards and drowned us both.”

“Worth it.”

There’s a beat where the words hang between you, thick with meaning. You look at him, and there’s something in his eyes—something playful, sure, but also reverent. Like he’s looking at a wish he finally got to make.

After dinner, he drives you down to the beach. The sun’s already set, but the sky still glows faintly, the sea catching moonlight in soft silver glints. You slip off your sandals and walk beside him barefoot in the cool sand.

He’s close again. Arm brushing yours. Not trying to be subtle. Not trying to pretend this is anything but what it is.

“You cold?” he asks, voice low and warm.

“A little.”

He stops. Pulls off his flannel overshirt and drapes it around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you’ve been wearing his clothes for years.

It smells like him. Ocean, cologne, and something faintly woodsy and clean.

Your throat tightens.

You turn to thank him, but he’s already watching you again—eyes fixed on your face like he’s trying to memorize every detail.

“I meant what I said yesterday,” he murmurs. “I’ve been waiting.”

You swallow. “So why now?”

His brow furrows like it’s the easiest question in the world. “Because it’s you.”

God. Your heart nearly shatters in your chest.

You sit down in the sand, wrapping the shirt tighter around you, and he follows—knees bumping yours, one hand propping him up behind you.

“I’ve always felt it,” you admit quietly. “Even when we barely talked. I’d walk into a room and know you were there before I saw you.”

His jaw tightens. He’s still for a long moment. And then he says, “Same. Thought I was going crazy, honestly. Couldn’t shake you.”

The beach is quiet, just waves and wind and the sound of your own heart pounding like a war drum.

Then his fingers brush yours again.

You let them.

He laces them together.

You let him.

When you glance down at your joined hands, his thumb is brushing the side of your index finger in soft, hypnotic strokes. The kind of touch that says I’m not in a rush. But I’m here. I’m so here.

The tension between you sharpens. Not the teasing kind. This is different. Heavier. Hungrier. Charged.

You look up and find him closer than he was a second ago. His lips are parted, breath shallow. He’s waiting. Not moving unless you do.

So you do.

You kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you. You don’t remember who moves first—only that the second your mouth touches his, the whole world tilts. His hands cradle your jaw like you’re something delicate, but his mouth is anything but soft. He kisses like he’s starving. Like he’s been holding this back for far too long and now he’s making up for lost time.

You gasp, and he swallows it with a groan.

His tongue sweeps against yours, slow and deliberate. One hand cups the back of your neck, the other sliding down to your waist, tugging you closer. Your legs brush. Your bodies press. The sand shifts beneath you, but you don’t care.

You’re in his arms, wrapped in his shirt, your lips swollen and slick from his, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. Easy. Like you finally landed after years of turbulence.

When you finally break apart, breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the day I met you,” he says, voice rough.

You smile, lips brushing his. “You should’ve done it sooner.”

He chuckles. “You think I didn’t try?”

You kiss him again, softer this time. Slower.

And then you whisper, “Don’t take me home yet.”

His eyes darken. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

It’s 3:00 a.m. by the time you leave the beach, both of you half-wild and shaking and barely able to keep your hands off each other long enough to get in the bronco.

His place is closer, so you go there.

You’ve been to Bradley’s apartment before, but never like this.

He unlocks the door. Flips on the light. And pulls you straight into his arms.

This kiss is hungrier. Faster. His hands slide into your hair, tugging just enough to angle your mouth to his. You make a sound you don’t even recognize, and he groans into your mouth. A second later, your legs wrap around his waist, his hands sliding to grip your thighs as he carries you down the hall to his bedroom.

The door slams shut behind you. He sets you down on your feet, and your legs shake just a little as you steady yourself.

He steps back, hands on the back of his neck, and watches you. Chest heaving. Lips swollen. Eyes dark and full of heat.

“I’ve thought about this a lot,” he admits, voice rough.

“Me too.”

“How long?”

You smile. “Since the day I saw you at Top Gun.”

His laugh is low, almost a growl. “Jesus. Really?”

“Mhmm. I remember thinking you were the hottest guy I’d ever seen.”

His eyes drop to your mouth. “You were the hottest woman I’d ever seen. Still are.”

Your cheeks burn. But you don’t let it faze you. “That first time I came into the hangar… God. I could barely focus on what the medic instructor was saying. I just wanted to sit on your desk and kiss you.”

That smile—slow and smug and devastating. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I wanted to punch you in the face.”

He barks a laugh, leaning in. “And now?”

“Still want to punch you.”

“Good.” He kisses you, soft and quick. “I like that you’re a little mad.”

“Why?”

“Means you feel it too.”

A second later, he picks you up again, your thighs wrapping around his waist. He sits on the edge of the bed and you straddle him, arms looped around his neck as you kiss him, slow and deep. He groans against your mouth, hands sliding over your back, down your ribs, down to cup your ass. His mouth trails lower, tracing your jaw, down your throat. His teeth nip your neck and you gasp, fingers curling in his hair.

“Bradley,” you breathe.

“Tell me,” he says against your skin. “Tell me how you thought about it.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair. “You’d be on the couch in the hangar. I’d sit next to you. Kneel between your legs.”

He groans, pulling back to meet your eyes. “Fuck.”

“It wouldn’t be fast,” you continue, voice breathless. “I’d make you wait. Just a little.”

He curses again, then stands suddenly, setting you on your feet. His fingers slide under your shirt, peeling it up and over. You lift your arms, let him toss it aside, and then his hands are on you again, palms hot on your skin, tracing your ribs, your hips, your breasts. His eyes drop, and he makes a sound like he’s in pain.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

You blush harder, but you don’t shy away. You lean into his touch. “Like what you see?”

His eyes snap to yours. “More than you could ever know.”

And then he kisses you again. Hard. His hands slide to the back of your head, tugging at your hair as he devours your mouth. He backs you against the wall, his thigh pressing between yours, and you rock against him, a whimper breaking from your chest.

He swallows it, drinking down the sound as you grind against his muscular leg. His fingers tangle with yours, pinning them to the wall beside your head, and his other hand cups your jaw, fingers splayed, thumb pressed to your lips.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. “I’m going to make you come with my fingers and my tongue and my cock. And then I’m going to hold you while you fall asleep. I’m going to wake up tomorrow and do it again. And again. And I’m not going to stop.”

Your breath hitches.

Hell yeah.

His mouth hovers just over yours. “You want that?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I want you.”

His groan is low, feral. He picks you up, your legs wrapping around him. His bed is a mess of gray sheets and navy pillows. He lowers you to the mattress, body caging yours as he kisses you, slow and deep.

You roll him beneath you and straddle him again. His hands glide over your thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise. You lift his shirt over his head and he sits up, pulling you close, his mouth finding your breast, your stomach, your hipbone. He lays you back down and kisses his way up your body, slow and steady. His mouth hovers over yours again.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

“Are you mine?”

Your chest tightens. “Yes.”

His smile is slow. Searing. “Good. I’m yours.”

His mouth meets yours again. You sigh into him, his tongue sliding against yours. You run your hands through his sun dusted hair and hear a low rumble. He shifts just enough to slide a hand between your thighs, thumb rolling over your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear, and you arch beneath him. You’re already wet, already aching for him, and he groans when he feels it.

“Shit,” he breathes, kissing your throat, your jaw, your mouth. “Do you know how much I’ve thought about this?”

You swallow hard. “Yes.”

“Good.”

He pulls your underwear down the length of your legs and tosses them aside, his gaze dropping between your thighs.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your clit again. “Look at you. All mine.”

You nod.

His thumb rolls again, slow, lazy circles. You rock into it with a soft moan.

“Been thinking about this since the first time I saw you,” he says.

Your laugh is breathless. “Really?”

“Fuck yeah.” His thumb strokes you again, and his eyes flick up to your face, watching you. “You ever touch yourself and think about me?”

Your cheeks burn, but you don’t look away. “Maybe.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He smirks. “Did you think about me fucking you?” Another stroke. A slow, deliberate tease.

“Maybe.”

“And?”

You bite your lip. “Maybe I thought about you in your gear.”

“Fuck.” His grin splits wide. “Fresh off a fly?”

“Maybe.”

“Tell me. Tell me how you’d fuck me.”

Your breath catches, and for a second you don’t answer. But he leans in, voice low against your ear.

“Tell me, baby. I want to hear you say it.”

“I’d kneel between your legs,” you breathe.

“Yeah? You’d suck my cock?”

You nod.

His breath catches. “Fuck. Tell me.”

“I’d go slow. Take my time. Make you beg.”

His groan is ragged, thumb rolling over you again. “I’d beg. I’d beg for it.”

“I know.”

He bites your neck, your shoulder, your breast. “Would you let me touch you?”

You rock into his hand. “Maybe.”

He lifts his head, eyes finding yours. “I wouldn’t let you say no.”

“Wouldn’t let me?”

“No.” He strokes you again, slower. “I’d slide my hand up your thigh. Make you come on my fingers.”

You gasp. “God, Bradley—”

He catches your moan with his mouth, kissing you hard and deep, his mustache giving a tingly scratch. His finger pushes inside you, palm pressed to your clit, and you break apart beneath him with a soft cry. He drinks it down, swallowing every sound as you rock against his hand, chasing your pleasure.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your lips. “Again.”

He slides down between your thighs, pushing them wider, and you know what he’s doing. You know where he’s going, and it doesn’t matter that your cheeks burn. You want this. You’ve wanted it for so long.

He lowers his mouth to your clit, tongue slick and hot. You cry out, fingers gripping his hair as his fingers curl inside you, thumb stroking you in slow, firm circles. He works you over with slow, steady pressure, taking his time, drawing it out until you’re trembling and gasping, begging him not to stop. You can feel the burn from his mustache rubbing against your thighs, the sensation too much.

And then you’re coming, arching beneath him, crying out to the ceiling. He groans, drinking it down, fingers still working you through it until your thighs shake and you beg him to stop.

“Too much,” you gasp.

He kisses your thigh, your hip, your stomach. “No such thing.”

And then he’s kissing you, deep and slow, and you taste yourself on his lips. He leans over to the nightstand, pulling a condom from the drawer, and you take it from him, tossing it aside.

“Just you,” you whisper against his lips. “Nothing between us.”

He nods, eyes dark with desire. You pull him close, legs wrapped around him, and his hands slide down your back, pulling you tight against him. He buries his face in your neck, breathing you in, and his cock is hot and heavy against your stomach, and God, you want this. You want him. Just him. Nothing between you.

“Please,” you whisper.

He lifts his head. His thumb brushes your lip. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

You smile. “I want you.”

“Say my name.”

You kiss him. “Bradley.”

He kisses you back. “Again.”

“Bradley.”

And then he’s sinking into you, slow and gentle, and your eyes fall shut as he fills you. His groan breaks against your mouth as he pushes deeper, and you rock your hips to take him. To pull him into you. To feel all of him.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapped around you like he’s never letting go.

“God, baby,” he breathes. “You feel so good.”

You kiss his temple, his cheek, his jaw. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands framing your face. His brow furrows, eyes searching yours, and he says, “I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted you for so long.”

You swallow hard. You nod. “I know.”

“I mean it. I’ve never met anyone like you. Never felt this way before.”

Your throat tightens, and you don’t trust yourself to speak.

So you kiss him.

And he kisses you back.

And it’s slow and full of fire, his hands and hips working together, pulling you close, pushing deeper, filling you over and over again. His breath is hot on your neck, his sounds low and rough against your skin. Your fingers grip his shoulders, your heels digging into his ass, pulling him into you.

He rolls you beneath him again, body caging yours, and his mouth finds your breast, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

“Bradley, please,” you gasp. “I need—”

“I know,” he breathes.

He lifts his head again. Eyes finding yours. His thumb sweeps over your lip, and you open for him, taking it into your mouth.

“Again,” he says.

You do.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Like that. Suck it. Just like that.”

You obey, eyes on his, and he curses again, his hips snapping forward, pushing deep. You whimper, and he does it again.

“Feel that?” he says. “Feel how deep I am?”

You nod, moaning around his thumb.

“I’m never letting you go.” He pushes deeper, and your back arches off the bed, a gasp tearing from your chest. “You’re mine, baby. You’ve always been mine.”

“Yes,” you breathe, tears stinging your eyes. “Yes, yes—”

His thumb pulls from your mouth, and his lips meet yours, drinking down your moans. His hand slides between your thighs again, stroking your clit. Your nails dig into his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist, and you beg him not to stop, to let you come. And a second later, you’re breaking apart again, arching and crying out into his mouth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Come for me. I want to feel it.”

You do. Hard and fast and shattering. You shake beneath him, pulling him close, and a second later, he’s following you, groaning against your mouth, his cock emptying inside you.

You lie together, breath ragged and shaking. His mouth finds yours in the dark. You kiss him back, slow and deep and full of feeling. He pulls away, just a little, his thumb sweeping over your lip again.

You open your eyes and find him watching you in the dim light, his brow furrowed like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“Hey,” you whisper.

His eyes find yours, and he blinks like he’s coming out of a dream. “Hey.”

He leans in and kisses your forehead, your nose, your mouth.

“I mean it,” he says. “You’re it for me, you know that?”

You kiss him one more time. “Yeah,” you murmur against his lips. “Yeah. I know.”

When you wake, he’s wrapped around you. One arm around your waist, the other under your head. Legs tangled. His nose pressed to the back of your neck.

You smile, and you think maybe this is the first time in your life you’ve ever really been in love.

A second later, his eyes blink open behind you. He tightens his arm around you, nose nuzzling your neck as he kisses your skin. His other hand sweeps up your stomach, between your breasts, to cup your jaw, and he pulls you closer. You roll over, and he’s right there, eyes dark, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning.”

“Tired?”

“Mhmm.” You kiss him.

“Good.” His grin widens. “Me too.”

And then you kiss him again.

You can definitely get used to waking up to this.

[writing-girlie]

Kiss it better

Pairing: Tommy Miller x Fem!reader

Blurb: You get injured on your first patrol without Tommy, when you return he wants to make you feel better.

WC: 2k

Warnings: Soft smut, P in V and oral (f receiving)

Notes: He's such a cutie 😭

You heard the workload that Tommy was having to deal with lately, he was being pulled in five different directions. You were supposed to do patrol with him today but he took you both off because he currently didn't have the time. Every patrol you did was with him, it's just how it is. Wherever you were he was close behind. 

You find him around camp talking to some of the other men. His sleeves are rolled and his eyebrows are pinched in the middle, when he notices you it softens a little. You wander closer. 

“I still want to do my patrol.” He looks at you, his brows now raised.

“Without me?” His lips fall into a small frown, you can tell he's not fond of the idea and it makes you hesitate for a moment. 

“You can pick who I go with.” He looks at you for a long second.

“Not today, sweetheart. You can wait till tomorrow”

“I'll be careful, Tommy. Please.” A small pout sits pretty on your lips – one you know he's weak for. You can see the conflict on his face. He knows he can trust you but he knows he wouldn't be there to protect you if something went wrong. You step closer, fingers gently wrapping around his bicep. He exhales deeply through his nose.

“Fine” He gently lifts your chin, making sure that you're looking at him “But you keep your eyes open and if anything, and I mean anything, feels wrong you come straight back. You hear me?”

“I promise” You nod and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He sent you with Mike. The patrol started smoothly, it was quiet, Mike didn't talk much but you didn't mind. About halfway through the weather had made a turn, it was overcast and the wind was picking up. You reach one of the old barns that still stands. Mike takes left and you take right, just a quick check to make sure there's no threats. 

Once you're in you hear it, you barely turn in time to see the clicker behind you. When you step forward you trip over your own foot, falling hard to the floor before you could react properly. Your gun skids just out of reach, kicking up dust.

You try to scurry backwards while feeling around for your gun. The clicker moves toward you and you feel your lungs tighten. 

A gunshot cracks through the air and it collapses in front of you. You whip your head around to see Mike and exhale heavily. 

“You good?” He holds his hand out and helps you up. 

“Yeah, yeah. All good” You weren't really. Your heartbeat echoed loudly in your ears and your leg ached. When you look down your pants were ripped and there's a gash along your right shin. You must've grazed it on the large rock beside you when you fell.

You wrap it lightly not wanting to use a lot of the supplies and continue on your way, limping back home. 

You only just get in the gates when Tommy notices that you're back. You try to walk normally, like the injury beneath the blood-soaked bandage isn't throbbing with each step but he knows you well. His posture stiffens then he's walking towards you – fast. You pass your gun and the backpack to Mike to put away. 

“What happened?” Tommy is in front of you in no time, his voice firm. 

“Nothing. I'm fine” You say quickly. Too quickly. Tommy steps closer. 

“You're bleeding” His eyes flicker down to your leg. “Try again, what happened?”

“There was a clicker in the north barn.” Your voice is quiet. Tommy's face hardens. “Didn't hear it till it was too late.” His jaw ticks. It's like he doesn't know whether to get mad or hide you away from the world. “Mike shot it though, before it could do anything. I'm okay, Tommy. The cut was just from falling”

“No, you're not.” You open your mouth but close it again. He mumbles something about how you shouldn't have been out there. You don't know why you respond but you do.

“You said I could go.” You say softly, like a reminder. 

“Should’ve said no,” he mutters, finally. “Knew I’d fuckin regret it.” He doesn't wait anymore. One arm goes around your back and the other scoops under your knees, and before you can protest he's lifting you. You want to argue but to be honest your leg is in so much pain and you're tired. He carries you to his place and into his bedroom. He sets you down carefully, like you might break if he moves too fast.

He kneels in front of you and his hands grasp at your waistband, pulling them down your legs, gently over the bandage.

“Should’ve never let you go,” he mutters, more to himself than to you as he peels the bloody cloth, revealing the long cut. Every time he dabs it with the wet and cold towel you flinch. 

“Sorry.” His hands are steady. “Almost done” When he's finished cleaning it he wraps it back up firmly and places a kiss on the skin just above it. You reach for him, fingers brushing his cheek, rough with stubble.

“Tommy” You want him to look at you. 

“I told myself I'd keep you safe” He looks at you. “That's all I've been trying to do since you arrived.”

“You have.” His hand covers yours, closing his eyes briefly.

“I wasn't there and you got hurt.” You can feel his jaw twitching under your palm. “That's on me” You want to argue with him, tell him it wasn't his fault, remind him that you're not a kid and it wasn't your first patrol but the way he's looking at you makes you stop. It's like you getting hurt pained him more than the cut hurt you. 

“I'm okay”

“As long as I'm breathing you ain't got nothing to be scared of. Never gonna get hurt again.”

He holds your hand a moment longer before moving it down into your lap as he stands up. He leans over, your faces an inch apart then you both move in to close the gap. He kisses you tenderly, it's soft but you feel everything. He pulls back, just enough to look at you.

“If you don't wanna, we-” You cut him off with a kiss and slowly push your tongue past his lips, deepening it. There's a sound that sits low in his throat.

Your fingers slip under the hem of his shirt, skimming over his warm skin. He's solid beneath your touch, strength from years of working and surviving. He watches you with a soft smile. You lift his shirt up and over his head, running your hands over his chest, thumb brushing over a fading scar, one you remember patching for him some time ago. 

He reaches for the hem of your shirt and you raise your arms for him. He tosses it by his on the floor.

“You're so beautiful” He says admiring you. You shake your head with a soft laugh.

“You always say that when you take my shirt off” He brushes his nose against yours.

“Mmm, so not enough?” He murmurs, his breath tickles your skin and he places a succession of kisses from your cheek to your hairline.

His large hands slowly drag up your stomach. “You’re so soft.” He says, quiet enough that you almost didn't hear it. His fingers glide around to your back and unclips your bra. The straps slide down your arms.

“You don’t know what you do to me” he whispers. His fingers trail back down, leaving goosebumps in their wake. They hook around your panties and he drags them down your legs. 

“Lay down. Head on the pillow” He nods towards the head of the bed. You follow his instructions promptly. You lie back, watching as he gets onto the bed, on his stomach. He lifts your left leg over his shoulder and hangs the other over the edge of the bed, spreading you open. Then, he licks a slow, deliberate path from your entrance to your clit. The touch of his tongue sends a small jolt through you, he takes his time, attentive to each movement and sound you make. 

“Tommy” You exhale his name. He hums in response, the vibration sending a wave of pleasure. It makes your thighs close around his head but he pushes them back open. His hand sits on your lower stomach, keeping you still. He points his tongue and draws quick flicking motions, up and down, over and over. You thread your fingers into his hair, not to guide him, just to feel him.

Your back arches off the bed, a gasp escaping your lips. He uses that as an opportunity to slide his hand from your stomach to your back to support it and pull you closer. Your head falls back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as ecstasy builds inside you.

“Please” You whimper, not even sure what you're asking for. Everything he's doing already feels like heaven. He groans against you, making your fingers tighten in his hair. 

“God, yes” your hips buck up against his face,  his relentless tongue bringing you closer. “Tommy… I'm gonna-” You moan “fuck, I can't-” You pant, your words trail off into another moan. You shudder under him and a final flick of his tongue has pleasure crashing over you.

Your legs clamp around his head and this time he doesn't stop, he just continues to lap at your sensitive pussy till you pull your hips back and push his head away. 

He sits up onto his knees, running a hand through his tousled hair. He grins at you, his mouth and stache slick with your juices. You sit up and reach for his jeans, undoing the button and zip. You pull them down, with his boxers, as much as you can until he takes over and kicks them off, over the end of the bed.

He presses kisses along your skin the whole way until his face is in front of yours. You move your head forward kissing him, tasting yourself.

His erection is heavy against your thigh as he continues to kiss you. He reaches between you, lining up with your entrance and breaks the kiss to watch you as he slowly thrusts in. You gasp at the feeling, your nails digging into his shoulders. He pauses, allowing you to adjust to his size before he begins to move, slow and deep.

You keep your eyes locked on his and wrap your legs around his hips. His mouth finds your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin, marking you as his. A moan escapes your lips involuntarily and you can feel him smile.

The room is filled with soft moans, low groans and the bed creaking beneath you. He kisses you again as though he has nowhere else to be, nothing else to do but love you like this. He shifts, leaning on one elbow so he can reach down, his fingers find your clit. You whimper into his mouth, and you tighten around him. 

“Just like that. C’mon baby. Let go for me.”

“I-” you start but your words turn into a broken moan as your orgasm takes over. Your body arches into his and you fall apart in his arms.

“Fuck, baby-” He buries himself deep with a final thrust, pulsing inside you. He lowers down onto you, his body on top of yours feeling like security and safety. The world slows down, all you can hear is the sound of your breathing and the thud of your heart beating.

“You okay?” His fingers brush some hair from your face. You nod. 

“Yeah, a lot better actually.”

“Good”

[anticapitalistclown]

clownie can i request some lookism men fav positions

add Gun if you don't mind ty~

Sure!

asked a friend who doesn't watch lookism to choose 4 men so we have this (she chose Beolgu at first lmao) (James girlies you're only lucky she has chosen him bc she's a GD stan)

Gun, James, Jake, Vasco and Vin Jin favorite positions, smut headcanons

Jong Gun: doggy style

He is a vicious man that would never reject any way of sex, he says he has no favorites, yet you always find yourself on all fours, his grip forcing you to exaggerate the arch; sometimes with your face against the pillow and his hand grabbing the back of your neck if you're tired.

There's something about watching the curve of your back, how your ass slaps against his pelvis, how his dick gets shallowed inside you that gets him all riled up. With this position he always finds that spot.

If you turn your face to see him with your cute eyes and that expression covered in pleasure, man has to pray in order to not cum right at the spot.

James Lee: missionary

The old missionary is his favorite, it allows him to take control of you and his pace, and gives him the chance to show adoration of your body.

He loves kissing you while having you in a mating press, your legs spread being held by him, his pace being monstrously and toe-curling satisfying, your brain already melted while he praises you between kisses.

You know he loves being on top of you, how tiny you feel under him, and you always see that exited look he gives every time he is inside you, how his eyes secretly travel down to see how you're taking him, how he makes that bulge on your stomach, that sight makes him harder if it could even be possible.

Jake Kim: cowgirl

He is not someone who thinks much of sex, so at first he just did the classic postures, old missionary and not much more than that... Yet, the day you just got on top of him and rode it like a champ, you changed his whole perspective.

He loves when you take control, how you use him for your pleasure, the way your body moves on top of him, if it were for him, you could use him all day. His grip on your hips is strong, Jake always helps you to continue for a bit more, encouraging you with words of praise.

Although you're on control, keeping a man like him still would need some chains, he can't help but kiss you, having his hands teasing you or holding at your hips, helping you set with a harder pace.

Vasco (Euntae Lee): spooning

Like Jake, he just isn't someone who thinks much of sex, Euntae just follows the basic and instinctive, the position is the last he thinks of while making love to you. Yet he would be lying if he said nothing comes up to his mind when a favorite position is asked, there's something about spooning that makes him hornier.

Maybe it's because of the intimacy and the romance it holds, how his hands cup every erogenous part of your body, how his lips kiss your neck and feel your moans, how you tangle your legs with his and when he places his hand on your lower stomach feeling himself inside you, he just loves the access he has on your body.

While making love to you, he also likes when you command him to touch you, both praising each other, showing how much appreciation you have for one another. After you both reach your high, he stays in the position, cuddling you with care.

Vin Jin: full nelson

He might show a rude appearance, yet, on the intimacy he was a bit scared of hurting you, that lasted until you both got more confident with sex. You knew he is strong and has knowledge and experience with wrestling so you just got the idea of trying a position

A position he LOVES, he loves showing you his strength, he loves having you crushed in his arms, he loves pleasuring you and most important, the fucked up face you make when you become too overstimulated.

It's not really a position you both usually do, he rather prefers to keep it for special occasions, especially when you don't have anything to do for the next days so you can recover.

[mimokome]

She Didn’t Want a Choice. She Wanted to Be Chosen.

Arcane S1 Ep. 9: Jinx’s Table Test — Emotional Breakdown File #1

Core Emotion: Trust, Identity, and Needing to Be Chosen Time Stamp: 24:30–35:00 (Netflix)

I’m not claiming this is canon or fact. This is just how I read it. What I felt. What landed — and what didn’t. Everyone brings their own scars to a scene like this.

To whoever’s reading this — thank you for your time.

Scene Setup

Jinx starts the scene loud and messy — same as always. But it’s not just chaos. It’s a setup. Everything she does has a purpose, even if it looks unhinged.

She drags Vi and Caitlyn to the table and lays out the two chairs: “Powder” and “Jinx.” And without directly saying it, she’s begging Vi to make the one call no one else ever has: Choose me. All of me. Not the version you miss. Not the one you want to fix. Me.

Vi tries to play it soft. Keep it safe.

She says the right things, but not in the way Jinx needs to hear them. She won’t commit. She won’t pick a side. And Jinx can feel that hesitation in every word.

Caitlyn’s gagged — present but powerless.

Jinx messes with her, sure, but it’s not really about her. Caitlyn is the test. She’s Vi’s new world. The part of her that isn’t Zaun anymore.

Jinx sets her up under the tray and waits. Lets the silence build. Lets the pressure rise.

Then she lifts the lid. Vi lunges. Jinx looks for a reaction — and gets a half-baked one.

She pulls out the Hextech gemstone — her wildcard — but says nothing about it.

Caitlyn breaks free, grabs Jinx’s gun, and turns it on her. Vi pleads, caught in the emotional middle — begging Caitlyn not to shoot, begging her to see reason.

Jinx watches them both. Still. Quiet. Testing with every word, every glance, every twitch of her smile.

And when it’s clear Vi won’t choose — won’t make the call — Jinx knocks Caitlyn out.

She was measuring. Who’s flinching? Who’s posturing? Who’s trying to fake their way out?

Silco starts talking. Tries to hold the room with words. Tells Jinx she meant something to him. That he wouldn’t have given her up.

But she remembers what he said. She’s not stupid. He already admitted he would’ve traded her.

And when he reaches for the gun — that’s it.

The illusion shatters. All the talk about family. About choice. About trust. Gone the second he goes for control. Just like everyone else.

So she pulls the trigger. Not because she wants to. Because she’s tired of not being chosen.

Silco was the last one she thought might actually ride for her. And he failed. Like Vi did. Like everyone else has.

When it’s done, she doesn’t scream. She doesn’t break. She just makes a decision.

Fires the Hextech into the council. Not because it’s strategic. Not because it’s smart. Because she’s done begging for answers from people who keep hesitating.

She gave them a choice. They didn’t make one. So she did. "She didn’t want to be fixed. She wanted to be chosen — as-is."

This scene isn’t just chaos — it’s Jinx cracking open. She’s trying to figure out if anyone actually sees her, not who she used to be or who they want her to become.

She’s not looking for a fix. She’s looking to be chosen — for someone to look her in the eye and say, “I still want you. As you are.”

The whole setup is her final test. One last shot to see who’s real, who folds, and who’s still lying to themselves about what they’re willing to do for her.

What Was the Intended Emotion?

Everyone at that table thinks they’re doing the right thing. That they’re handling Jinx the way she needs to be handled.

But none of them actually see her — not in the way she needs to be seen.

Vi thinks she’s protecting her. She’s soft with her. Careful. She won’t say “Jinx” and she won’t say “Powder.” She’s trying to let Jinx feel safe without committing to either version.

But Jinx doesn’t need safety — she needs certainty. Vi’s gray area just feels like another rejection. Another person who can’t pick a side. Can’t pick her.

Caitlyn thinks she’s staying out of it. But she doesn’t get it. She’s used to rules, structure, clear outcomes.

So when Jinx starts playing with her, Caitlyn doesn’t know how to respond emotionally — only tactically.

She’s smart, but she’s blind here. She doesn’t see the trap Jinx is setting, and that makes her look weak. To Jinx, Caitlyn’s not a threat. She’s a stand-in for everything sterile and distant about Piltover.

Silco was never gonna make the “right” choice, because betraying her was never on the table.

He’s been watching over her since she was a kid. He doesn’t know how to be a father — he knows how to lead, to control. That was his version of protection.

But even then, you can see it: he had a soft spot. He gave her freedom when it wasn’t required. That wasn’t strategy. That was care — just twisted by the only language he knew.

Even when he said he’d “give her up,” I don’t think Silco truly meant it. I think he had a plan — some twisted hope of saving her after the fact. That’s the kind of love he showed: warped, selfish, but real in its own way.

His bond with Jinx is unshakable because he gave her structure when no one else would.

He thinks his love — twisted as it is — is still enough. But love that comes with conditions? With expectations? With control? That’s not love to Jinx anymore. Not after everything.

And the second he reaches for the gun, he proves what she feared most: Even he doesn’t trust her.

They all came to that table thinking they could save her. Fix her. Reason with her.

But all she wanted was for someone to look her in the eye and say, “You. I choose you. No rewrites. No hesitation.”

None of them could do it. So she burned the whole table down.

Why Does It Hit?

This scene hits because it’s not a villain moment — it’s a heartbreak moment.

Every move Jinx makes is calculated. She’s learned from Silco after all these years. She’s not spiraling. She’s setting up emotional traps. She’s testing everyone in the room:

Will Vi commit?

Will Caitlyn flinch?

Will Silco try to control her again?

Here’s the part that gets missed a lot:

When Jinx shoots Silco, it’s not just because he reached for the gun. It’s because she believed he was going to choose control over her.

She’s projecting. That trigger pull isn’t based on what Silco actually does — it’s based on what she thinks he’s about to do.

Her fear. Her trauma. Her constant sense that everyone is just one second away from turning on her. That’s what she’s firing at. Not Silco. Not really.

This isn’t the first time she’s done it.

Jinx has been trained — by loss, by abandonment, by silence — to expect betrayal. To brace for it. So even when someone might not hurt her, she assumes they will. Because they always have.

Vi left. Vander died. Silco lied. Every person who’s said “I care” has followed it with “but…”

So when Silco reaches for the gun, it’s not the motion that matters — it’s what it represents.

Another choice she didn’t get to make. Another person deciding who she is and what she needs. And even if Silco wasn’t going to shoot, the damage was already done.

Her fear had filled in the blanks.

The sound design? Underrated.

It’s not loud. It’s tense. The way the lighter clicks, the crows outside, the kettle boiling in the background, and that eerie quiet when everyone’s holding their breath — you feel it more than hear it.

The average viewer might just see a wild girl with a gun. But if you’re paying attention?

It’s Jinx begging someone to finally pick her. Not to fix her. Not to calm her down. Just to say: “Yes. You, right now, are enough.”

Rewrite That May Have Hit Harder

Silco should’ve slid the gun toward her and said: “It’s always been your choice.”

That line. That moment. That gesture — giving her the power without control — would’ve made her final decision feel like ownership.

She wouldn’t be reacting. She’d be choosing, fully. And that would’ve crushed us.

Final Thought

Jinx didn’t snap because she’s unstable.

She snapped because she was cornered — again. Because the people she loved most couldn’t give her the one thing she needed: To be chosen. Without conditions.

She gave them a chance. Put everything on the table — literally and emotionally.

And when they hesitated — or tried to control the outcome — or couldn’t just say what she needed to hear? She made the choice for them.

That’s what this scene is. It’s not about chaos or madness. It’s about what it does to a person when they keep reaching out and no one ever reaches back.

That feeling of having to be your own answer when no one else will give you one.

That’s why it hits.

Disclaimer

All rights to Arcane, its characters, and related imagery belong to Riot Games and Fortiche. This is a non-commercial analysis intended for educational and commentary purposes.

About Me

I’m not a polished writer. I’m not an industry name. I’m just an emotional dude trying to figure out where the hell he fits. I feel shit — deep. I pay attention. I watch people. The way they move. The way they speak. The pauses they don’t mean to make.

I care about what’s underneath — what’s real, even when they don’t say it out loud.

I value emotion — raw, unfiltered, ugly, honest. The kind most people hide. I want to bring that out. I want people to see the parts that get ignored.

Because whether it’s on purpose or not, most people only look skin deep.

You don’t know what someone’s been through. But if you actually understand where they’re coming from — even for a second — it changes everything.

That’s why I’m here. That’s what this is for.

Written by: Jordan Waltz

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 8, “TIME OF DEATH.”

The downstairs training room at Mid-Wilshire Station had the faint tang of sweat and rubber mats, the morning sun slicing in through the high windows in angled beams. Three rookies stood shoulder to shoulder on the mat — Lucy Chen, Jackson West, and John Nolan — facing their unexpected instructor. Detective Dylan Jenkins stood in front of them, sleeves pushed up, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with a few rebellious strands falling across her face. Her stance was relaxed but sharp — every inch of her broadcast command.

Sergeant Grey, standing off to the side, addressed the rookies first. “You all need a reality check when it comes to self-defence. This isn’t a refresher. It’s survival training.” He gestured to Dylan. “Detective Jenkins has the most real-world experience on this mat. Back in London, no gun meant every fight was hand-to-hand. You didn’t learn to win, you didn’t walk away.”

Jackson raised a brow. “That intense?”

Dylan gave a small smile — not warm. Knowing. “I didn’t carry a weapon for most of my career,” she said, pacing in front of them. “If someone wanted to kill me, I either talked them down, fought them off, or died. We didn’t have the luxury of distance. No guns. Just grit.” Her voice was low, calm — but it cut through the room like a blade.

Outside in the hallway, Tim Bradford had been walking past with a case file tucked under his arm, headed for one of the admin rooms — but something about the voices and the thud of a body hitting the mat caught his attention. He paused in the open doorway, half-hidden behind the frame. Inside, Dylan had just flipped Lucy Chen onto her back with a quick, clean sweep of the leg.

“Keep your centre of gravity lower,” Dylan instructed, holding out a hand to help her up. “You’re fast, but you’re over-committing. Stay light on your feet.”

Lucy, breathless but grinning, nodded as she stood. “Yes, ma’am.”

Tim leaned against the doorframe, silently observing. He told himself he was watching because Grey had asked her to run the training — making sure everything was tight. Professional. Efficient. But the longer he watched, the less that felt true.

She moved with such control. Fluid and fierce. Every takedown was delivered with grace and precision, but there was always a purpose behind it. Dylan wasn’t just tossing them around — she was teaching. Adjusting their posture, pointing out their blind spots, demanding more from them while still offering sharp, smart guidance. Tim watched her sweep Jackson onto the mat with a shoulder roll and a hip check, then crouch beside him.

“You’re strong,” she said, “but your strength is working against you. You’re pushing through the opponent instead of redirecting their force.”

Jackson let out a grunt. “I’m trying, but you’re really—”

“Efficient,” Dylan finished, smirking. “You’re learning.”

Tim’s gaze flicked over her — the sweat glinting on her brow, the few strands of hair stuck to her cheek, the faint flush on her neck from exertion. And damn, she looked good like that. Not dolled up. Not polished. Just herself. Natural, focused, in her element — and something about that struck him harder than it should’ve. He exhaled softly and looked away — as if that might help push the thought down.

Back inside, Nolan hesitated before engaging Dylan. He looked tired, wary of being thrown again.

Dylan raised her hands. “I’m not going to drop you this time.”

Nolan gave her a look.

She grinned. “Well… not hard.”

And then, in a flash, she twisted his grip and redirected him toward the mat with a clean takedown that left him winded, blinking up at the ceiling. From the doorway, Tim smirked. Show-off. But still… impressive.

After the last drill, Dylan called the rookies to attention.

“You don’t win every fight,” she said. “But if you do it right — if you stay sharp, stay fast, and fight like your life depends on it — most of the time, it won’t be you who ends up on the ground.”

She scanned their faces, chest still rising and falling from exertion. They looked tired. But better. More focused. And just before she turned to gather her things, her eyes flicked up to the doorway — where she caught Tim watching her. He didn’t look away. Neither did she. Just a pause. An acknowledgement. Something warm beneath the usual guarded glances. And then she gave a small smirk and turned back to the rookies.

Tim pushed off the wall, continued down the hallway — file still under his arm, and something unfamiliar stirring in his chest. He didn’t quite have a name for it yet. But it had started. And he knew it.

The locker room was quiet, the soft hiss of a shower running somewhere beyond the row of benches the only sound that echoed off the tiled walls. Dylan Jenkins stood at the sink, tying her hair back with deft fingers, wiping the remaining sheen of sweat from her neck after the rookie training session. Her arms ached in that satisfying way — the way that told her she’d earned her bruises and hadn’t pulled her punches.

Meanwhile, out in the bullpen, Tim Bradford leaned against the corner of a desk, chatting half-distractedly with Lopez and Bishop about Jenkins’ impromptu fighting clinic.

“She flipped Nolan so fast, I thought the guy lost a tooth,” Bishop was saying, her tone both impressed and amused.

Lopez smirked. “I’ve never seen Jackson look more confused. She’s got them properly scared of her now.”

Tim cracked a small smile. “Good.”

But the moment barely had a chance to land before the mood shifted — like the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. Because someone walked into the bullpen. Someone wearing an orange jumpsuit.

Isabel. Handcuffed, her wrists red, her blonde hair tangled but recognisably hers. Two plainclothes detectives flanked her, one holding her by the elbow as they steered her through the station like a VIP guest.

Tim’s heart dropped. He froze mid-sentence, his breath stalling as his eyes locked on her. What the hell is she doing here?

His body was already moving before the thought finished. He stormed across the bullpen, his boots heavy on the tile floor, and cut across the path of the detectives escorting her — his focus locked on the one person who hadn’t looked surprised by her presence: Sergeant Grey.

“Are you serious?” Tim barked, his voice sharp and loud enough to turn a few heads.

Grey looked up from the folder in his hand, expression unreadable. “Bradford.”

Tim jabbed a finger toward Isabel, who had gone quiet, eyes flicking between them. “What is she doing here? Why the hell is she out of county?”

Grey let out a steady sigh, like he’d been expecting this. “She made a deal,” he said.

Tim’s jaw clenched. “What kind of deal?”

“She’s signed on as a confidential informant.”

Tim blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“She has contacts,” Grey replied, voice low and steady. “From the streets. From her time inside. And whether we like it or not, she knows how to operate. She’s been trained.”

“You think that’s gonna save her?” Tim snapped. “If anyone finds out she’s an ex-cop or a CI, she’s dead. You know that.”

“I do,” Grey said quietly. “But it’s her call. And this? It’s better than watching her rot in a prison cell until something worse happens.”

Tim ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, trying to keep it together as Isabel was guided down a side hallway, out of view.

Grey rested a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I’m not asking you to be okay with it. But I am asking you to step back. This is above you now.”

Tim didn’t reply. He just stood there, pulse thudding in his neck, until he felt another presence beside him — softer, familiar. Dylan. Fresh from the locker room, her hair damp at the ends, her face still flushed from exertion. But her eyes were sharp and immediately focused on him.

“You alright?” she asked quietly. Tim didn’t respond. Dylan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t even look at her when he muttered, “She’s a CI. Isabel. Grey signed off on it.”

Dylan blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

She hesitated for half a second — then stepped closer, her hand lifting to rest gently on his shoulder. A simple gesture, but one with weight. A reminder he wasn’t standing there alone.

“Tim,” she said, her voice low. Calm. Firm. “I get it. This is a mess. But you can’t burn yourself trying to clean up hers.”

He didn’t look at her, but she could see the tension in his jaw loosen — just slightly.

“I know you want to protect her. But that ship sailed a long time ago,” Dylan continued. “You’re a good man. A damn good cop. But you don’t owe her your soul.”

He finally turned to look at her. And for a moment — a brief, vulnerable moment — all the armor in his expression cracked.

And all he could say was, “I didn’t think it’d still hurt this much.”

Dylan didn’t flinch. Her thumb pressed softly into his shoulder, grounding him. “You’re allowed to hurt,” she said. “But you’re not allowed to drown.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Of understanding. Of tension. Of the kind of care that lived in the quiet between words. Tim gave her the smallest of nods. And for now, that was enough.

The sun had dipped low over Los Angeles when the shooting occurred.

John Nolan had only seconds to make the call — a man with a warrant out for armed robbery had pulled a gun, aimed it directly at Nolan’s chest. The officer had shouted for him to drop the weapon. He hadn’t. So Nolan pulled the trigger. One shot. Center mass. The man dropped instantly. By the time backup arrived, Nolan stood frozen — his weapon shaking in his hand, his face pale, lips parted as if the words had never left him.

Three hours later, the precinct felt like a courtroom. Internal Affairs had already taken Nolan’s weapon. The protocol was in motion. The investigation into the shooting — standard, but still chilling — was being handled as a homicide case until it was cleared.

Nolan sat in one of the briefing rooms, silent, staring into the palms of his hands like they held the weight of the man he had just killed. He’d done the right thing. He knew that. Everyone knew that. But it didn’t feel right. Not at all. And now, one by one, the officers who’d been on scene or who had responded soon after were being called in for their statements — not as friends, but as witnesses.

Tim Bradford sat with his arms crossed in the interview chair, stone-faced, speaking in crisp, clipped words.

“Nolan warned him. Multiple times. I was twenty seconds behind him. The suspect pulled first — if Nolan hadn’t fired, he’d be the one on a slab.” His voice was flat, but the edge was there — not anger at the process, but at the fact that Nolan had to sit in that room like a criminal. “He did exactly what he was trained to do. Exactly what I would’ve done.”

⸻

Dylan Jenkins leaned forward, her elbows on the table, voice low but calm — the accent cool, collected.

“He didn’t flinch. He didn’t hesitate. Which means he was scared, but did it anyway. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Stop the threat.” She glanced toward the glass wall — the mirror behind which Nolan was still being processed. “I’ve seen people shoot for the wrong reasons. Out of panic. Out of fear. This wasn’t that. He waited as long as he could.”

⸻

Lucy Chen was the most emotional, her eyes rimmed in red but her voice clear and unwavering.

“Nolan’s the kind of cop you want out there. He doesn’t look for trouble, but when it finds him, he acts. He’s got the heart and the judgment. I know people who would’ve fired three shots before that guy even blinked. Nolan gave him every chance.” She crossed her arms. “You wanna investigate someone? Investigate the guy who pulled a weapon on an officer. Not the one who saved his own life.”

⸻

Angela Lopez sat back in her chair, arms draped lazily across the seat, her tone cool but pointed.

“Nolan saved his own life. Saved others, too. You’re lucky it was him standing there — someone who actually gives a damn. If you’re asking whether I think he was justified? You already know the answer.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping. “What I want to know is how long he’s gonna have to sit in that room while we all pretend it wasn’t a cut-and-dry case of self-defense.”

⸻

Jackson West, more composed than expected, clasped his hands together, voice steady.

“He hesitated just long enough to give that man a chance to do the right thing. And when he didn’t, Nolan did what he had to do. We train for this. We hope it never happens. But when it does, we don’t punish the officer for surviving.” He shook his head softly. “Nolan’s one of the most level-headed cops I’ve met. If he pulled the trigger, it’s because he had no other choice.”

⸻

Bishop was the last to give her statement. She didn’t waste time.

“He did everything right. You can try to pick apart the footage, dissect the angles, but in the field, it’s half-seconds and instincts. Nolan’s instincts saved him. Don’t crucify him for being alive.” She stood at the end, unapologetic. “You’ll get the same version of this story from every single person in this building. So the only question is: how long are you going to keep a good cop waiting?”

⸻

Outside the interview room, the precinct felt heavy. Grey stood near the edge of the hallway, watching Nolan through the glass. Tim, Dylan, Lucy, Jackson, Angela, and Bishop stood nearby, silent — a wall of unwavering support.

And inside, Nolan sat alone, still pale, but finally beginning to believe — maybe — he hadn’t done something wrong.

The break room lights buzzed overhead — too bright for the mood in the room. The clock ticked loud in the silence between sips of lukewarm coffee. Five officers sat around the table — each in varying stages of exhaustion.

Angela Lopez leaned back in her chair, one hand wrapped around a half-empty mug, her expression unreadable but tired. Jackson West and Lucy Chen sat opposite each other, hunched, arms folded, both still processing the trauma of the day.

And Tim Bradford? He sat still, shoulders tight, cup untouched, eyes fixed on the grain of the table. His jaw flexed once. Twice. A storm behind the stillness.

Dylan Jenkins, seated next to him, kept her own mug cradled in her hands, watching everyone over the rim with those sharp, perceptive eyes that never missed much — especially not the way Tim hadn’t spoken in over ten minutes. The silence had stretched out so long, it had started to feel like part of the room.

Finally, Lucy broke it. “Is there… anything we can do?” she asked, voice small but sincere. “For Nolan?”

Angela glanced at her, then looked away. “No. Not really.”

“Not until IA clears him,” Jackson added. “And that could take days. Weeks, even.”

Tim shifted in his seat, his mouth tightening. “He’ll be fine. The evidence is clear. The guy pulled on him. Body cam will prove it.”

“And in the meantime?” Lucy said. “He’s just… in limbo?”

“That’s the job,” Angela replied. “Sometimes you do everything right, and still end up under a microscope.”

Jackson’s brows furrowed. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” Dylan said softly. “It’s not.”

Tim said nothing. But Dylan could feel it — the tension radiating off him in waves. And she knew… it wasn’t just Nolan weighing on him. It was Isabel. It was everything.

The silence returned, heavier than before. Then Dylan’s knee — bent slightly under the table — brushed gently against Tim’s. It was the lightest touch. Accidental. At first. But neither of them moved. Tim didn’t even flinch. His eyes stayed fixed forward, but his jaw loosened. His shoulders dipped — just a little — like the pressure valve had eased.

Dylan didn’t pull away. She didn’t look at him. But her knee stayed against his. A simple point of contact. Human. Warm. Grounding.

Angela’s voice broke the quiet again, softer this time. “The only thing we can do is show up tomorrow. For him. For each other.”

Tim finally took a sip of his coffee. Still didn’t speak. But beside him, Dylan’s knee remained against his. And that was more than enough.

The midday sun filtered through the trees above their usual burger van, casting broken light across the picnic table where Angela Lopez, Tim Bradford, and Dylan Jenkins sat nursing their lunches in silence. There wasn’t much to say. Not after the week they’d had.

Tim sat hunched slightly, eyes low, poking at a paper tray of fries without eating them. Dylan leaned back against the bench, one leg stretched out, sipping her drink. Angela was mid-sentence, trying to keep the conversation light — something about Nolan needing a new haircut — when her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, and everything shifted. Her eyes narrowed. She tapped the screen, read the message twice.

Then, slowly, she said, “Isabel’s going into a buy tonight.”

Tim’s head snapped up. “What?”

Angela kept her tone even. “She’s wearing a wire. Narcotics set it up. They think she can get them in with a new heroin supplier out of South Central.”

Tim was already pushing off the bench. “Are you kidding me?”

Lopez sighed. “Bradford—”

“That’s suicide!” he barked. “She’s been clean five minutes, she’s barely stable, and they’re putting her into a wire deal?”

Dylan stood too, her food forgotten. “Tim—wait.”

But he was already walking — storming across the parking lot, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides. Dylan exchanged a look with Angela, then jogged after him.

They reached the precinct within minutes. Tim didn’t stop moving — not for anyone.

“Tim,” Dylan said, right on his heels. “Stop. Just—listen to me for a second.”

He didn’t. He pushed through the bullpen, shouldering past a stunned officer, and threw open the door to Captain Andersen’s office without knocking.

The captain looked up from her desk, immediately bristling. “Officer Bradford.”

“This is insane,” Tim snapped. “You’re putting a known addict with no field control back into deep work? With a wire?”

Andersen calmly closed the file in front of her. “You want to take a breath before continuing, Officer?”

Tim didn’t move. “She’s going to get killed.”

Andersen stood. “I understand your concern. And I understand that this situation is—personal—for you. But it’s not your call.”

“She’s not ready.”

“She volunteered.”

“She’s not thinking straight.”

“She passed every psych test. Every prep scenario. She’s cleared.”

Tim stepped forward, chest rising with every shallow breath. “You don’t know her like I do.”

“No,” Andersen said. “But I know you, and I know you just barged into your captain’s office in the middle of operational briefings because your emotions got the better of you. And that is not how this works.”

Tim fell silent. The tension between them crackled.

Dylan stood in the doorway, watching it unfold with quiet intensity. She could see it in Tim’s face — rage, fear, helplessness. It made sense now. All of it. Why he hadn’t slept, why he hadn’t been himself. Because deep down, he still believed he could protect Isabel. Still believed it was his responsibility.

Andersen took a breath, her voice softening just slightly. “I can’t pull her from the operation. But I can give you something.” Tim’s gaze lifted. “If anything goes wrong — if the signal goes dark, if the buy turns, if the room gets hot — you and Jenkins will be first in.”

Dylan blinked.

Tim hesitated. “You’re assigning us to the rescue team?”

Andersen nodded. “I know you want to be in control of this. You can’t be. But if something does happen — I’ll make sure you’re the one who gets there first.”

Tim swallowed hard. Slowly, he nodded. Then, without a word, he turned and stepped out. Dylan lingered in the doorway, watching him go.

Andersen’s voice called gently after her. “Detective Jenkins.”

She turned.

“Keep him focused.”

Dylan gave a small nod. “I will.”

And she meant it. Because she could see it plain as day: Tim Bradford was standing on the edge of something dangerous. And if she didn’t keep him tethered — he might just fall.

The sky had turned black above South Vermont Avenue, the hum of the city muffled by the thick, humid quiet that always preceded something bad. Streetlights flickered overhead, and the buzzing neon sign of the Wendell Motel sputtered a faint Welcome! over rusted brick.

Tim Bradford sat in his truck, engine off, headlights down, parked just out of sight with a view of the parking lot. His eyes weren’t on the motel, not yet. They were on his phone. A video played, soft and shaky, filmed on some long-forgotten day.Isabel was laughing — a real laugh, bright and full — standing on a beach somewhere, hair tousled by the wind, holding a melting ice cream cone and grinning at the camera.

Offscreen, his voice:

“You’re going to drop it.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re going to drop it.”

Plop.

“Told you.”

Laughter. Her laughter. Tim’s chest ached with the sound of it. She hadn’t laughed like that in years. The video ended. He just stared at the black screen, thumb hovering over the play button again, when the sound of a car door opening pulled him back to reality.

Dylan Jenkins slid into the passenger seat, dressed in tactical black, her hair pulled back, eyes scanning the perimeter before locking onto him. Without a word, she handed over a steaming cup of coffee and a brown paper bag — his favourite takeout, the kind only someone who had been paying attention would know to get. Tim took both, surprised but silent.

“Thought I’d bring dinner to the stakeout,” Dylan said casually. “Didn’t want you chewing your own hand off or starting a hunger strike in protest.”

He gave her a sideways look, lips twitching slightly. “Didn’t ask for a babysitter.”

“Didn’t ask for a partner, either,” she replied with a smirk. “And yet, here I am. Full of charm and carbs.”

Tim huffed — maybe a laugh, maybe not — as he took a bite of the sandwich. She sipped her own coffee, glancing at the motel.

“You alright?” she asked after a beat, her voice quieter now.

Tim didn’t answer right away. He stared through the windshield, into the shadows.

“I’m worried.” he muttered eventually.

“You loved her,” she said simply. “It’s only human to worry.”

“I still…” He stopped. Jaw clenched. “I don’t know. Maybe I just loved the version of her that didn’t exist anymore.”

Dylan leaned back in her seat, letting the silence fill the truck for a moment. “Grief’s a weird thing,” she said. “You can grieve people who are still breathing. Doesn’t make it easier. Just makes it messier.”

Tim turned to her, and for the first time that night, really looked at her. “Is this the part where you tell me it gets better?”

“No,” Dylan said. “This is the part where I tell you the food’s getting cold, and if you don’t eat it, I’m having it.”

He snorted. “You’d steal a man’s dinner in the middle of a crisis?”

“Absolutely. British charm only gets me so far. Hunger takes the wheel after that.”

The warmth between them sparked — soft, quiet, so necessary — but it didn’t last. Because then, they both saw it.

Isabel. Stepping out of a dark sedan parked three buildings down. Wearing tight jeans and a leather jacket. Hair pulled back. Face unreadable. She walked up the broken sidewalk toward room 207, eyes straight ahead, body tense but purposeful.

Tim sat up straighter. Coffee forgotten. His whole frame tensed like a coiled wire.

Dylan’s tone shifted. “It’s starting.”

And just like that, the levity drained from the cab. They were no longer two people sharing a meal and a moment. They were officers on an op. And it was game time.

The inside of the truck was deathly quiet now, save for the low hum of the comms unit. Tim and Dylan sat in silence, coffee cups forgotten in the holders, eyes fixed on the motel room door marked 207, their ears tuned to the small earpiece through which Isabel’s wire fed intermittent static and sound.

“She’s in,” one of the detectives said over the line. “Audio is live. Keep it quiet.”

Tim’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Isabel’s voice crackled through the speaker. Calm. Clear. Professional.

”—You got it?”

A deep male voice — Vance, the dealer — responded after a pause.

“One kilo, uncut. Carson said you could handle the delivery. You sure about that?”

“Please. I’ve done worse on less sleep.” Isabel’s voice carried that sarcastic lilt — the one Tim hadn’t heard in years, but recognized instantly.

Tim exhaled through his nose, heart pounding. Then she said something that made every officer listening freeze.

“What about a second one?”

Tim’s head snapped toward the comms unit.

“Two kilos,” she said. “I can move both. I’ve got the buyers lined up. That way, I don’t come crawling back tomorrow asking for more like a desperate stray.”

There was silence on the line. Even through audio, you could feel it — the shift in the room. She was pushing him. Pushing hard.

“Shit,” Dylan muttered under her breath.

One of the detectives in the surveillance van whispered, “What is she doing?”

“She’s smart,” another replied. “If he gives her two, we can track the supply line. It’s a fast ticket to Vance’s supplier.”

“Or he gets suspicious,” Tim growled, already shifting in his seat. “And shoots her in the face.”

No one answered him. Then Vance spoke.

“You’re bold. I like bold. But…” He paused. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Tim sat up, adrenaline slicing through him like a blade. “No, no, no—”

“You look familiar.” Vance’s voice sharpened. “What’d you say you used to do, again?”

Isabel’s voice wasn’t immediate. That pause said it all. Then— Silence. Dead air. No static. No feedback. Just nothing. Tim’s heart dropped.

“Signal’s gone,” one of the detectives said. “Shit, she must’ve been made—”

Tim didn’t wait. He was already out the door.

“Bradford!” the lead detective snapped, stepping out of the surveillance van. “Stand down! We don’t have visuals yet!”

“She’s in there with a kilo dealer and no backup!” Tim shouted, pulling his vest into place as he sprinted across the lot. “I’m not waiting to find her body.”

Dylan was only two steps behind him, already gearing up. “He’s right. You lose signal on a wired C.I., you move.”

The detective protested again, but the team was already in motion, following behind the two officers as they made their way toward the stairwell of the motel. Tim led the charge up the rusted steps, weapon drawn, jaw clenched, every sense on fire.

Dylan, at his back, was steady and calm — her voice low in his earpiece. “We breach together. Don’t get yourself killed.”

Tim didn’t answer. His only focus: Isabel. And he’d be damned if she went down tonight.

The motel door crashed open with a violent bang, splintering against the inside wall as Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins entered, weapons drawn and hearts thudding in their ears. The backup team followed close behind, boots pounding the worn carpeted stairs and peeling linoleum floors.

“LAPD!” Tim shouted, slicing through the air with authority. “Hands where we can see them!”

No answer. No sound. Only the faint creak of the ceiling fan overhead and the buzz of a TV left on — static hissing in the background. They cleared the main room first — bed unmade, chairs pulled back, drug paraphernalia still out on the counter. No movement. No sign of life.

“Clear,” Dylan muttered, moving toward the bathroom. She opened the door with precision — nothing.

Tim stormed toward the back window. It was cracked open, the curtains rustling gently in the night breeze. He stepped closer and froze. A small pool of blood glistened in the corner of the carpet. And beside it… The wire. Isabel’s wire. Torn off, the mic exposed, battery blinking once — then dead.

Tim stared at it, his jaw locked, his entire body vibrating with emotion. “No,” he whispered. Then louder, to the room — to the detectives arriving behind him — “No. NO.”

He bent, snatched up the wire, and turned with a wildness in his eyes no one had seen from him before. He hurled the wire across the room. It hit one of the lead detectives square in the chest.

“You did this!” Tim roared, his voice ragged and full of fury. “You did this!” He surged forward, body rigid with rage, eyes locked on the detective like a target. “You put her in there with no cover! You sent her in to die!”

The detective raised his hands, backing up instinctively, but Tim wasn’t stopping.

“Bradford—!” someone yelled, but he didn’t hear them.

Dylan was already moving, stepping between them just in time, planting her palms on his chest.

“Hey! Hey!” she shouted, her voice sharp enough to slice through his storm.

Tim kept moving, pushing lightly against her as if he didn’t realize who it was.

“Bradford!” she barked, forceful, gripping the edges of his vest. “Calm down.”

He resisted — for half a second. He looked at her. Her eyes were locked onto his — wide, sure, and steady in a sea of chaos. And in that look, something in him cracked. The fury began to drain — not all at once, but like a leak springing in a dam. His breathing slowed, his shoulders dropped a fraction, and the tension in his arms bled away into something else. Shame. Sadness.

“I shouldn’t have let her…” he started, voice trembling. “I knew this would happen. I knew…”

“Stop,” Dylan said gently, her voice now quiet but firm, her hands still resting against his chest like an anchor.

He looked down, blinking rapidly. And just like that, the anger was gone — replaced by a deep, unshakeable grief. Everyone in the room went silent. The detective didn’t move. Dylan didn’t let go. Tim finally exhaled, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight as he tried to steady himself.

“She’s not dead,” Dylan whispered, only for him. “We don’t know anything yet. But you’re not doing her any good like this.”

He nodded, barely. Dylan eased her grip on his vest but didn’t take her hands away. And he didn’t step back.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

[captainsophiestark]

Naval Wedding

Natasha "Phoenix" Trace x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for my personal fic writing challenge for 2024, Sophie's Year of Fic! Featuring a new fic being posted every Friday, all year long :)

Fandom: Top Gun

Summary: Phoenix needs a fake date to a Naval wedding to avoid sailors hitting on her all night, so who better to ask than her best friend?

Word Count: 2,925

Category: Fluff, Humor

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

"I have a favor to ask you."

I sighed dramatically, making a show of pulling my attention from my laptop to my best friend, Natasha "Phoenix" Trace, who sat across the table from me. She held her coffee mug with both hands and stared intently at me. Clearly, whatever she was about to say next had been on her mind for a bit now.

"It's something I need you to help me out with, if you don't mind. And if you're not busy."

I raised an eyebrow, closing my laptop and leaning across the table to match Natasha's posture.

"Okay, spit it out, Nat. You've never danced around something the way you're doing right now the entire time I've known you. What's wrong?"

Nat took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, then met my eyes with a new determination.

"I need you to be my fake date for a Navy wedding next weekend."

Honestly, I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting her to say, but it definitely wasn't that. The corner of my mouth quirked up in a smile, and I had to work to hold back a laugh.

"Nat... first of all, I'm in." Her shoulders immediately relaxed, the dire look on her face morphing into one of relief as she eaased back in her chair. I shook my head, still smiling. "Second, you seriously need to work on your delivery. I thougth you were about to ask me to help you hide a body."

Her eyebrow shot up.

"You thought I prefaced asking you to hide a body with 'if you don't mind' and 'if you're free'?"

I just shrugged and waved her off. "You were crazy grim and looked more stressed than I've ever seen you. I didn't think the favor was gonig to involve a party. Which brings me to third: why? I'm happy to go with you, but I'm a little surprised you're asking."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "You know I work with a lot of men. Most of them are fine. Some of them are great. Some of them I want to punch in the nose sometimes. But at big Navy weddings, there's always tons of pilots I'm not familiar with, and at least a few of them always try to hit on me. This time, I don't want to deal with it. So... fake date."

I grinned. "Natasha Trace. Are you telling me that I get to scare off Naval Aviators all night if they try to hit on my girlfriend?"

Natasha grinned and shook her head with a laugh. I waited until she faced me again, then raised an eyebrow since she still hadn't answered my question.

"Alright, sure. You get to scare off anybody who flirts with me, any way you want to."

"Amazing."

****************

The next weekend, I stood in front of the mirror adjusting my outfit nervously while I waited for Natasha to arrive. We were meeting at my house, then driving over together.

When I'd told her I'd be happy to go as her fake date to this wedding, it had been a partial lie. I'd been wrestling with some feelings for my best friend since a few months ago, and I wasn't completely thrilled about the "fake" part of "fake date". When my doorbell finally rang and I opened the door to find Natasha looking like an absolute knockout, my heart did a few backflips before breaking in half as I remembered that she wasn't actually here for a real date.

"Wow," she said, sounding a little breathier than normal as she looked me up and down. "You look great."

"Me? Nat, you look stunning. Like, wow."

Nat looked up and met my eyes with a smile.

"Well, then I guess we make a good pair."

My heart did another flip, so I took a deep breath and stepped through the door to join Nat on the porch before she could give me a heart attack.

"Those Navy boys won't know what hit 'em," I declared, holding my arm out for Nat. She took it with a grin, and we headed for the car arm in arm. My heart skipped a couple beats at the proximity, and I did my best to tell it to shut up.

It mostly listened throughout the wedding ceremony. When we got to the venue, we got some looks and some raised eyebrows, especially from Natasha's closest Navy friends, who she apparently hadn't told about her plan. I got to ditch Hangman to cross the room and chase off a more tangentally-invited pilot who'd been hitting on Nat, which had been a highlight of the night so far, especially as she leaned into my side and I wrapped an arm around her. Unfortunately, we didn't get to linger, since we had to take our seats for the wedding itself.

It was beautiful, and thankfully, didn't stretch on too long. Before I knew it, we were heading to the reception, throwing a few of Nat's aviator friends in the back of the car to get to the venue hosting the reception. We blasted music, laughed, and I even got up the courage to reach out and take Nat's hand while she drove. She turned to me with a grin and squeezed my hand back, and I tried not to let my imagination run away from me about whether that might mean something.

We pulled into the venue, and Natasha immediately took my hand in hers. I bumped my shoulder into hers, and we shared a grin as we flowed through the doors with the rest of the wedding guests. The music was already blasting, and people were floating around and snacking while we waited for the bride and groom to arrive with the rest of the wedding party. Nat's friends went ahead of us as she stopped, turning to me with a smile.

"Alright, what's first? Food or drinks?"

"Hmm... I know the guests of honor aren't here yet, but what about dance floor?"

She laughed. "Okay, drinks it is. If you actually want to pull me out there, I'm going to need more than just water in my veins."

"I don't think the alcohol actually goes into your veins-"

"You know what I mean! Come on, I'll get you your favorite. On me."

"Isn't it an open bar?"

"And isn't it the thought that counts?"

I laughed, letting Natasha pull me along and through the crowd, trailing after her with a happy smile. When she came to a stop at the bar, tugging me up to stand next to her, I had to fight very hard against the urge to lean in and kiss her, then and there. I swallowed, but managed to get a hold of myself and respond to her instead.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's the thought that counts."

Nat and I ate the snacks and chatted with her close friends while we waited for the couple to arrive, and then for the party to really start. Dinner was delicious, the toasts were sweet, and not long after the last one finished, the dance floor officially opened for business.

I turned to Nat, intending to make good on my answer of what I first wanted to do when we got here, but I found her facing in the other direction as some guy in a suit smiled down at her, one of his hands resting on the back of her chair. I narrowed my eyes.

He didn't notice me, he was too focused on Nat. I knew she was more than capable of telling him to get lost on her own, but I also knew that the main reason she'd asked me to be her date at all tonight was to avoid dealing with clowns like these. I stood and walked around to stand next to him, pushing my way into the spot between him and the table and holding a hand out to Nat.

"Hey, babe," I said, smiling at Nat without sparing a glance for the guy. "You ready to hit the dancefloor?"

She grinned back at me in sync with the guy beside me saying "Babe?" as a clear question directed at me. I turned to face him like I had all the time in the world, keeping a straight face as I met his eyes.

"Yeah. That's generally what I call my girlfriend. You got a comment about that?"

The guy blanched, taking a half step back and removing his arm from the back of Natasha's chair.

"Uh... no. Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me, she's the one who had to put up with some random guy trying to put moves on her."

The guy scowled, but he muttered a quick apology to Natasha all the same before heading off into the crowd again. I watched him go, then turned to Nat with the massive grin I'd been holding back the whole time.

She shook her head, mirroring my grin all the same.

"You have way too much fun doing that."

I shrugged. "Maybe. But you don't have any fun doing it for yourself, so this seems like by far the best option."

"I guess I can't argue with you there."

"You're right, you can't. Now come on, I want to dance with my girlfriend. Let's get out there."

My heart hammered in my chest at my own words, worried that I'd overstepped, even in the context of a group in public for our fake-date situation. But Natasha just smiled at me again, softer this time, and took my hand.

"Fine. I guess I'm tipsy enough for this. Barely."

I laughed, pulling her out onto the dancefloor behind me. Tipsy or not, I usually enjoyed making a fool of myself on the dancefloor, and it turned out to be even better with Nat's hand in mine, the two of us spinning in and out of each other's arms.

The rest of the wedding party disappeared as we lost ourselves in the music, just the two of us, breathing hard between laughs and holding each other tightly. Eventually, the music wound down from the high-energy stuff we'd been listening to, shifting to something made for slow dancing. We stuttered to a stop on the floor as couples flocked in all around us, and I looked at Nat.

She shrugged, stepping closer to me and putting her hands on my waist.

"We're supposed to be a couple too, right?"

I grinned back at her. "Damn right."

I laid my arms across Nat's shoulders and the two of us swayed back and forth on the dancefloor, the low lights sweeping over us as we moved. I couldn't take my eyes off of her, and the corner of her mouth lifted up like she'd noticed. Slowly, she leaned in, and my heart just about stopped in my chest. She rested her forehead against mine, and I sighed, half content to stay here like this with her as long as she wanted, half disappointed she hadn't been going in for a kiss.

When the music of the slow dance faded, we just stayed where we were for a long moment before finally pulling away from each other. I opened my mouth to say something, although I wasn't totally sure what yet, but before either of us got the chance to speak the music picked up again, and her closer aviator friends swarmed us on the dancefloor.

"I can't believe you got Phoenix out to dance!" called Fanboy, grinning as he threw one arm over her shoulder, jumping up and down to the beat. Natasha tried to duck his arm, presumably to ditch the dancefloor, but Fanboy knew her well enough that he managed to stop her. I gave them a half-hearted smile, then took the opportunity myself to slip away from the crowd.

I knew Nat probably would've wanted me making up a girlfriend excuse to get her out of there. Normally I would've helped her, but that moment on the dancefloor before her friends showed up had felt so real, and I needed to take a moment to remind myself that it wasn't.

I ducked and weaved through the crowd with relative ease, since only Nat's close friends would've recognized me and they were all out on the dancefloor. I made my way to the bar, not even ordering, just leaning against it for a second. Enough other people hovered around that it'd be hard to spot me amongst the crowd, but I could still see Nat out on the dancefloor, laughing and smiling even as she shook her head and tried to tell her friends to get lost.

I was in love with her. Her attitude, confidence, strength, wit. The way she smiled at me when I said something funny or called Hangman "Bagman" even though I barely knew him and had no reason (other than loyalty to Nat) to use the nickname. I was in love with her, and I had been for a long time, but after tonight, I wasn't going to be able to ignore it anymore. This night had been a mistake.

"Hey! You want a drink?"

I reluctantly turned to face the person shouting in my ear only to find Rooster, one of Natasha's best friends, leaning over to talk to me, his shirt unbuttoned and his tie around his head.

"Uh... that's okay," I said. "I think I'm good."

"You sure? You made me a lot of money tonight!"

I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow at him, but he was drunk enough that he didn't get the hint. He turned and quickly snagged two bottles of beer from the bartender, who had to explain to Rooster that it was an open bar and he didn't need to pay, before Rooster finally turned back to me with a grin.

"Want one of these?"

"No," I said, gently pushing aside the bottle he offered me as I took a step forward. "Rooster, what do you mean I made you a lot of money tonight?"

"Technically you and Phoenix! Everybody kept betting that you guys weren't going to figure out your shit for another month at least, but I had faith-"

"Bradley, what the hell are you talking about?"

"You guys!" he said, motioning emphatically with the beers in his hands between me and the dancefloor, where Nat had been cajoled into enjoying at least one song. "Finally getting together! After hearing her wax poetic about how great you are since the day you guys met, we started taking bets on when she'd finally do something about it. And I won! So, thanks!"

"Hold on..." I reached out, taking Rooster's arm to steady myself. The room had started spinning around me, and it had nothing to do with alcohol. "Roos, what are you saying? What do you mean, Nat's been talking about me since the day we met?"

"Ah, I probably shouldn't have told you," he said, shaking his head and at last lowering his voice to normal volume, although it was still far from a whisper. "But it's probably fine now, since you're dating. God, she used to drive us all crazy talking about how great you were and how much of a thing she had for you. It's probably gonna get worse now though, since you guys finally admitted you were pining after each other- Hey, where are you going?"

I ignored Rooster as I headed back to the dance floor, a buzzing in my brain as his words echoed. He was clearly drunk, but if anything, that made me more confident that what he'd told me was the truth. The whole time I'd been driving myself crazy trying not to admit feelings for one of my best friends, she'd been doing the same thing.

Before I knew it, I stood in front of Natasha again. The music still thumped, people laughing and jumping and twirling all around us, but I barely noticed. Nat stood to one side of Fanboy, with Bob on his other side, the two of them holding him up as he attempted to drag them both into a dance, so it took Nat a minute to notice me. But once she did, she straightened up.

"Hey, are you okay?"

I nodded, taking a step closer to her.

"Rooster spilled his guts. You like me. For real."

Shock registered on her face, then straight rage as she whipped her head around to look for Rooster. I just grinned, pushing Fanboy's arm off her as I closed the rest of the distance between us.

"Nat. I like you, too. For real."

She whipped her head back around so quickly that she almost broke my nose. Her wide eyes searched mine, one eyebrow raised.

"Are you kidding?"

"Hell no I'm not kidding. Nat... can I kiss you?"

She grinned, any trace of trepidation or irritation melting away all at once.

"Hell yeah you can."

I grinned back, letting my hand come up to the back of her neck as I leaned in and finally, finally kissed Natasha. She wrapped an arm tightly around my waist, pulling me closer to her as we deepened the kiss. Some cheers and whoops from her friends snapped us both out of it enough to finally pull away, both of us smiling delirious-looking smiles.

"I'm so glad you asked me to be your date to this, Nat," I breathed, letting my arms fall to rest on her shoulders. Her hands came onto my waist, her smile turning into more of a grin.

"Me too. Although, I am looking forward to an opportunity for a real date, without my idiot friends in range or any other people trying to hit on me."

"Sounds great. How about... tomorrow night?"

Nat threw her head back and laughed, but when she met my eyes again and saw me looking as serious as ever, she grinned again.

"Alright. Tomorrow night it is."

"I can't wait."

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen

Top Gun Taglist: @elenavampire21

[tactical-jellyfish]

Watcher 1-1

Part Four

Call this shit the silly before the storm because they're getting SILLY!!!

Warnings!: The 141 will be criminally stupid, fumblers, all of them. Death (canon-typical), Violence (canon-typical), loss of limb (no, I won't tell you who yet >:), but I will cover the symptoms as well as possible) They do get kissy, but no smut (that I'm writing, but it's very much implied).

"This is Firecracker, completing final equipment check."

You can hardly keep the tremor from your voice as you grin into the radio, finally wrapping up your very first official mission on the 141.

It went just as it should have, a quick in and out, with the exception of a small gash on your thigh, an order not followed quickly enough from Price's end that left you in the hot seat. Ghost was watching your six the whole time, just like he'd promised on the fly in.

He'd said I always will, sergeant. Something in your gut squeezed when he did, but you ignored it.

Now, that skull-masked Brit sits across from you in the big belly of the helicopter–a stupidly pretty Pave Low that Nikolai was flying, as per usual–and you see the fabric rustle a little on his cheeks.

Like he's smiling.

Before you can really ponder that, or why it makes you want to see it again, Johnny is attaching himself to your side, waxing poetic about how good ye were, leannan, I knew we were right to go wie ye.

You grin wider than you would like to admit as you shove him lightly, one hand right on his waist to hold him at least a little further back, to pretend you weren't stupidly fond of him already, like he hadn't proven himself to be a wonderful teammate and... fuck, a good friend to boot.

Helping you unjam your gun, correcting your posture with a sort of gentleness you never knew you were deserving of.

Of course, thoughts of Johnny always bring thoughts of Kyle, too.

You can see him there, sitting next to Price, looking like an outside observer, like he's just passing by.

It makes you frown.

"Gaz?"

His head perks, stupidly pretty brown eyes locking onto yours without a moment of delay, always at the ready.

Goodness, you're terrible for finding him so pretty.

"Fuck're you sitting over there for? With the geezers? Did we suddenly get boring or something?"

The toothy grin you give must be enough to prevent the individual wrath of both your lieutenant and captain, because when Price gives you a look, Simon taps his thigh, just once. John huffs, but relaxes again, still looking squarely at you with something sharper than before in his eyes.

When you look away, slightly unsettled, Kyle's there beside you too, and you gladly pull him in to your little predicament with one very clingy Scotsman.

Yes, you're all grown adults. Does that make tussling in seats that should only be sat in any less fun?

Absolutely not.

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

You're not exactly sure why or how you let this happen.

All you're fully aware of is that Johnny and Kyle managed to drag you out to an actual bar to celebrate.

It's a small spot, but cozy and playful, balmy in atmosphere with some temptingly good hip-hop that you don't quite recognize, but listen to anyway.

Kyle sits on the end of the booth that's pressed to the wall, Johnny on the other side. You pick the wall, get a good look at the men before you.

Johnny's wearing a nice deep red shirt, unbuttoned enough to show off the glint of dog-tags on his pale skin, and the fabric of Kyle's thick cargo pants brushes against your thigh, forcing you to swallow as you smile.

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

Most of the night, the chatter is sweet, you'd be hard pressed to understand how you got here.

Something is roiling in your gut, but it's most definitely not the shot you've just knocked back, it's hotter.

Johnny's since taken up his place by your side, already flushed from how tipsy he is. You're gonna need to flag a cab home, all three of you, considering Kyle was just as blasted as the two of you, even if he's drinking you and Johnny under the table. you have no idea how he does it.

"Fuuuuucckkkkk..."

You groan as the sting of alcohol wears away to leave the bitter taste of the shot itself. It's not worth how bad your head is going to hurt tomorrow morning, but the way Kyle's looking at you is.

His eyes are terrible in the way they make you desperately try not to shiver, a beautiful brown yellowed to a lovely syrupy color in the warm lighting of the bar.

Before you do something stupid, or worse, say something stupid, you force yourself to comment on the shot instead.

"Is... is this 80 proof, Kyle?"

Your voice is tripping over itself a little, tongue slowed in your mouth until its motions are clumsy. You know he hears you, and you know he understands by how he swallows before meeting your eyes, opening his mouth to reply before he's cut off by a slightly pink Scotsman.

"Och, feckin' naughty dog, aye? Wha' do ye think we should do wie him, Firecracker?"

Johnny's breath is right against the column of your throat, teasing at the side with a warmth it has no right to have. A hot shiver grips you by the base of your spine, and you can feel your breath get caught in your throat for just a second too long.

"Johnny, you're-"

"I ken. Jus' havin' a wee bit of craic, tha's not a crime, is it?"

You're too focused on the blue-eyed menace to spot how hungrily Kyle is looking at the pair of you, the way his hand reaches out until it's holding you by the chin, gently guiding your face up to his.

"You know, you do things to people, Firecracker. He's just returning the favor."

His voice is ever so slightly lower, a little blurred by the liquor, but fuck it makes you swallow all of your pride anyway.

"Do I really?"

You're trying so hard to tease, you really are, but even you can catch how breathy you sound, and you can see Kyle's plush lips turn up at the corners, you watch him lean down until there's barely any space between your faces.

Maybe it's habit, maybe it's a mindless craving, but your head tilts to the side, and you watch him chuckle.

That's all that you can really see before there are lips on yours.

He's so warm, you can taste the sweetness of his old scotch when he parts his lips, tenderly traces his tongue on the seam of your own, like you're something to be revered, durable but deserving of good treatment.

You can feel your cheeks flame with color so fast it's nearly dizzying, every single system of your body lighting up as your gut flutters and your brain shuts itself off, focused entirely on the sensations that envelop you.

Johnny's at your back now, so very close to kissing at your neck, his breath ghosts over your pulse, and the feel of a strong body behind you makes everything double, forcing a muffled groan that Kyle eagerly swallows up before pulling away.

"Shit. Johnny was right."

Truth be told, Kyle had held his reservations about this. But having you there, flushed and hot and swollen-lipped from his kissing, he's struggling to think of any of those reasons.

Instead, he cradles your flushed face in his hands, and you spot him leaning down to peck Johnny's lips, too.

"You're gonnae be good, leannan, I cannae wait to have ye."

Johnny isn't as gentle as Kyle, you can feel his eagerness in the way his teeth catch a little against your skin before he really plans to, kissing and nibbling at your flesh as he suckles on it.

Kyle's grinning now, and he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth, playfully licking into you with an energy that makes you want to sob.

It felt so wonderfully good. Terribly good, it makes you grip at his shirt, trying to pull him close enough to get a real kiss.

You can feel him smile against your lips, shift enough to give you what he knows you need.

It's wonderfully filthy, hot and heavy and you know you won't last much longer.

Johnny and Kyle know this, too.

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

[cleolinda]

Weekend links, May 25, 2025

My posts

SOMEHOW, FINALLY, I finished the fifth Silent Hill 2 commentary. May I introduce you to: Maria.

Physical therapy kicked my ass on Monday (I managed to get the SH2 posts out right before I went), and then it kicked it even harder on Wednesday, and my Post-Mortem Exertion Fatigue has been fully engaged. (PT was better on Friday. My new therapist is better up-to-date with the current chronic fatigue research and we did things a bit differently.)

I am sleeping so much (with PT approval) that I'm having to switch back to queue-based posting in case I just lose time utterly. 

Things I learned from the radio station at PT: Guns N' Roses is now considered classic rock, and there's gonna be a live-action Elden Ring movie. I am married to Lunar Princess Ranni despite having never played the game (she's a blorbo-in-law), so I am wary of this endeavor. Also, fuck outta here with this "November Rain is classic rock" bullshit.

Zoologist's Tyrannosaurus Rex fragrance came up in a poll, so I reblogged my review from a couple of years ago. My perfume reviews are usually me asking "WHY IT SMELL LIKE THAT??" and telling you what I found out, and "that" in this case was "a slaughterhouse." Spoiler: The answer was somehow "rose oxide." 

Reblogs of interest

Hey, let's dip into Romanian politics for a change! The thwarted clownery of George Simion.

Agatha Christie saved a little girl's life from beyond the grave, and it gets wilder from there.

Beneficent chain posts: "I hope every writer who sees this writes LOADS the next few months"

"You can fight AI in indie publishing by leaving reviews"

"Look, if you’re having a bad day, here’s a 6,000 year old pig-shaped pottery pot."

"I'll believe long covid is real when someone who is not bisexual has it." Well, I'm not helping

How to connect with neurodivergent kids

"Mold fairies with their berry of choice"

Mermay 2025 art by Christophe Young

The paintings of Anastasia Trusova

"Posts that make you google the salinity tolerance of flamingos"

"OK Tumblr Geriatric Ward, let’s talk about your posture," with helpful exercises

Listen, everything involving legs is just automatically funnier to me after playing Silent Hill 2

Honestly, I would have put the Molotov cocktail quote under Sacred Texts, except it's from an actual TV show

I'm considering this one as well: "You’re just a weirdo with a gross fetish. Covid didn’t make you suddenly want to fuck dead people"

"You're either in the pot or you're holding it"

Hard lime difficult time

Video

Last week I was obsessed with the Halsey & Amy Lee song; this week it's Fiona Apple's cover of "Heart of Gold"

Also, two new songs from Alison Goldfrapp

Manul Monday: BE NICE HE'S TRYING HIS BEST

I... think he knows what he's saying?

Blumineck demonstrates a double-curved archery shot

Once again, RIP Vine

The sacred texts

I first saw "I want a new character" "Then make one" screencapped on Pinterest, and I have never forgotten it. 

A taxonomy of trucks

by talos this can’t be happening

Personal tag of the week

I'm not sure why my Star Wars tag was really cooking this week, but don't talk shit about Max Rebo.

[riddles-n-games]

TIG Drabble #4-Avery and Jameson

A/N: Hey guys, this story is inspired by the additional photoshoot compilations I found from a little while back. Oh, and enjoy the little surprise at the end.

Breath in.

"Okay, Heiress. Take your stance. Good. Lemme just..." He placed his hands on her waist and adjusted her posture then went around to straighten her back.

One foot in front, one foot back. Equidistant, both facing forward. Make sure they are perfectly aligned in parallel.

Square the shoulders. Tuck in the chin.

"Relax your shoulders." He tapped her shoulder blades until he felt her drop them. She forgot to stop tensing. That was one thing Nash had told her time and time again but she just kept forgetting. It was hard not to. Every time she came here, every time she held a gun, it reminded her of then.

The shooting in the Black Wood, the airplane bomb, Sheffield Grayson... Whenever she heard something near the fireplace when she was alone, her body would freeze or tense. It was clear she developed a trigger reflex. She also avoided the passages. And the nightmares; she hated to be alone at night. She stowed away in Libby's room and if she was feeling bolder, she stayed with Jameson.

It was hard navigating a new relationship while fighting for your sanity and mental stability. But Jameson was supportive through it all and it didn't take her long before she confessed the real truth behind his mother's charges. She'd never seen him more serious or angry than that moment. It was why they were here now.

While Nash and Oren were training her to shoot, Jameson insisted being the one when they weren't available and also started teaching her martial arts and kickboxing. He was rigorous and passionate; she knew he'd been deeply affected. But he was trying and that was enough for her.

Being with Jameson was enough.

"Ok, I know Nash said you were still having some trouble with holding it so I got you one that I used to practice with. It’s a bit smaller too so it should be easier to hold.” He handed her the gun and she turned it over in her hands, taking in every inch, the rust, the scratches and the little dents. He had to have used it a long time. "It's a Col-"

"Colt Python, '95 model." Jameson's brows raised in surprise. Avery shrugged. "I may have been doing a little bit of research since Nash got me started."

"Uh-huh. Well then, you can tell me what kind of pistol that is once we’re done.” Avery turned to the table, locking in on the black glock that was on the edge. She was feeling wary just looking at it but she couldn’t deny the curiosity creeping in. “Now, show me your locked and loaded pose.”

She glanced at him through the safety glasses and pushed them back up before focusing on the target in front of her. Deep breaths. Roll back your shoulders. Your arms should be eye level and most importantly, remember that the gun is an extension of you.

As she was about to pull the trigger, her hands went clammy and started shaking. She tried to wipe away the sweat on her pants. The tremors weren't going away but Avery ignored that and refocused on the target, gripping the revolver tighter than before. She tried tensing her index finger against the trigger but it only started to react and trembled as if it had a mind of its own.

Soon enough, her well-positioned aim was wobbling around the center of the bullseye and the harder she held the gun, the sweatier the handle and looser her hold. She huffed frustratedly and she swiped furiously against her pant leg again. That was when a warm hand wrapped around hers and she looked up, startled, to see Jameson standing beside her. "Allow me."

He didn't make a move until she nodded and gently slid his hand to her wrist then brought his other hand around the handle. His fingers overlapped hers. A little up and to the right, he fixed her aim and with that, her breathing slowed. The tension started to lift.

"Just like that. You're doing great, Heiress," he murmured just as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. She smiled briefly but focused on their entwined hands. He steadied her. The shaking subsided; Jameson must have noticed because he gave her a reassuring squeeze then retracted his hand from hers.

He took hold of her free hand and placed it on the handle where his was previously. As soon as she had a comfortable hold, he let go and slowly unwrapped his other hand from her wrist. Avery looked at him and he nodded at her. "You can do this. I'm right here, Avery."

She nodded back at him and then faced the target again, inhaling sharply and holding her breath. This time her aim was poised and steady. Her finger pulled the trigger.

Breath out.

Bonus:

[rumi-buni]

𝒟𝒶𝒹𝒹𝓎 𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉

TW: Murder, Graphic descriptions of a crime scene, Y/N is crazy

The air is warm and heavy this evening outside of Shuji’s apartment. The gun in your hands is heavier. You and Shuji stand in the alley beside his apartment, the setting sun bathing the world in a golden glow. You run your fingers over the textured chrome material. It’s funny, how something so small can cause such big consequences. Shuji’s eyes follow the pattern your fingers trace on the side of the gun. The two of you agreed that tonight is the night Shuji will kill your father. Which meant you had to go home if this plan was going to work. You hold the gun out to Shuji, your eyes flickering up to his gold ones. He holds your gaze for a moment before he takes the gun from you, he slips it into the waistband of his jeans. A conflicted look crosses Hanma’s face, and before you can ask him about it he opens his mouth.

“Are you sure about this? You know you could always just stay here, with me.” Shuji drags the toe of his sneaker across the pavement, his eyes looking anywhere but your face.

You let out a sigh exasperated, “We’ve been over this Shuji. He’ll come looking for me if I don’t go back. I’ll never be safe as long as he’s alive.”

Hanma finally meets your eyes. The look on his face makes you soften, just a bit.

“You know I’d keep you safe.” He speaks softly, but his words are firm.

“I know,” You nod, taking his hands in yours “But killing him is the best way to keep me safe. When he’s dead we’ll never have to worry about him again.” You bring Shuji’s left hand to your face, and ‘sin’ caresses your face.

“Alright.” Shuji lets out a breath. His finger winds into your hair, tugging you closer as he leans down for a kiss. You rock up onto your toes to meet him. When your lips connect a warm feeling like honey spreads through you. You’ve never felt as warm as you do when you’re kissing Hanma Shuji.

You walked home alone, your bag slung over your shoulder. The walk home was quiet, just you and your thoughts. You went over the plan in your head again. You would have dinner with your father just like you do every Sunday, after dinner you will tell him that you are tired so he will let you go to your room early and he’ll go to the living room to watch TV. You’ll take some valuable items from around the house, then you just have to wait for the guards to change shifts at midnight. You hum a tune to yourself as you walk.

Your father was waiting at the door when you walked in.

“Where have you been? Nobodies seen or heard from you in two days!” Your father grabs your arm, tugging you close to his face. You can already smell the liquor on his breath.

“I’m sorry, I went to a friend’s house.”

“What friend?” Your father snaps, his grip tightens. It’s going to leave a bruise.

“Rika, Rika Yamamoto. We went to school together.” His eyes narrow at you, and you hold his gaze. If you look away now he would know you’re lying.

He lets go of you, running a hand through his graying hair. “Don’t stay away for so long without calling. We were worried sick.”

You bow your head, “Yes Daddy. It won’t happen again.”

“Come on, dinner’s ready and I’m starving.”

You leave your bag in the genkan and follow your father into the dining room. The table is set when you enter the dining room, and your father takes his seat at the head of the table. His posture is rigid in his chair. His left hand rests on his dinner knife, tracing the engravings on the handle. You take your seat on the right side of the table. The seat that should have been your mother’s. The door to the dining room creaks open, and two maids slip into the room carrying heavy trays of food. One maid stops at your side, she begins filling your plate with tonight’s dinner. You steal a glance at her out of the corner of your eye. She looks like she could be around your age. She has dark round eyes, framed by darker bangs. The rest of her hair is tied back in a tight bun. She looks so innocent. You wonder if you would look like that if your father hadn’t taken that innocence from you. The maids finish filling your plates before they retreat from the dining room leaving you and your father alone.

You’re quiet during dinner, listening to your father talk about his work. The deadline coming up and the quotas his employees are missing. Usually, you’d pay more attention to his ramblings about his businesses, they’re going to be your business eventually. Tonight you can’t be so bothered. There is an electricity buzzing in your veins, the anticipation of what’s to come.

“What was she like? My mother.” You cut off your father’s ramblings.

He stutters, surprised by your question. His fork is frozen mid-air halfway to his mouth.

“Your mother?” His eyebrows knit together in confusion, for a second you wonder if he even knows who you’re talking about. “She was perfect. She was so innocent, and beautiful.” Your father looks over at you, something akin to love in his eyes. “She was just like you.”

You nod, bringing your fork to your mouth and chewing carefully. Your father’s eyes never leave you.

You excuse yourself from the table after that, telling your father that you just want to go to bed. He waves you off telling you he’ll see you tomorrow. You know that isn’t true.

You’re quiet as you make your way upstairs. Your eyes constantly scanned for maids or guards, but no one seemed to be around. You make your way to your father’s office at the end of the hall, silently hoping that the door is unlocked. You carefully turn the knob to the heavy wooden door, and it opens. You slip inside, closing the door behind you. You knew exactly where to find what you were looking for. Your eyes land on the photo of you hanging on the wall. You were 7 in the picture, you were dressed in a purple kimono decorated with white flowers. Your hair had been pulled into a tight bun and decorated with flowers. It was Shichi-Go-San. That photo was taken on the steps of the shrine you visited that day. You vaguely remember feeling like a princess all dressed up. You pull the picture from the wall, laying it on the floor at your feet. Built into the wall was a safe. You punch in the code —your birthday. The safe beeps, and you hear the lock turning. The safe opens a second later revealing the mountains of papers stacked inside. You groan rolling your eyes. You wished your father was more organized. It takes longer than you would have liked, to sift through all of the papers. Eventually, you find what you were looking for. When you were in middle school your father acquired several businesses and properties in your name, but you never had access to any of the funds or information. Now you did. You close the safe back, making sure it’s locked before you put the photo back in place. You fold the papers carefully before tucking them into the waistband of your pants and covering them with your shirt. You’re quiet as you slip out of your father’s office, closing the door behind you.

Your father had acquired 25 businesses and properties in your name over the last 7 years. He’s also collected 3.5 billion yen from these assets. God only knows where that money is now though.

You sit at your vanity, organizing the paperwork for each company and property into a neat pile before putting them into separate folders. You couldn’t stand your father’s methods of organizing, or lack thereof. Besides, you had nothing better to do at the moment. It was 11:45, and Shuji still had 15 minutes before the guards would change shifts and give him the opportunity to come in through the downstairs window you had unlocked earlier, 15 more minutes before your life changes.

Those 15 minutes went by faster than you expected. Your phone pings with a message from Shuji.

‘You ready?’

‘Yes, meet you downstairs’

You flip your phone closed, leaving it on your vanity. You open your vanity drawer, next to your make-up brushes sits a wad of cash. You slip it into your pocket before leaving your room.

You take the stairs 2 at a time. You don’t want to miss what’s about to happen. When you make it to the bottom of the stairs you realize Shuji beat you there. His dark silhouette stands behind the couch, his gun pressed to the back of your father’s head. You can hear the low rumble of Shuji’s voice, it sends a jolt of electricity through you. You’re too far to make out his words. Your breath catches in your throat, and your eyes widen at the sight. A small part of you wonders if your fathers scared at all, but a larger part of you couldn’t care less. Your nails dig into your palms as you clench your fists, waiting for Shuji to pull the trigger. You hear your father whimper, and then a gunshot rings out. The bullet goes clean through his head, shattering the TV hanging on the wall across the room. All of the air goes out of you as you watch your father slump over on the couch. Shuji turns to you, lowering the gun. The moment your eyes meet his you spring into action. Rushing towards him you pull the wad of cash from your pocket holding it out to him. Shuji takes it from you, stuffing it in the pocket of his hoodie. You grasp the front of his hoodie, tugging him closer. You rock onto your toes to kiss him, Shuji leans down to meet you. His free hand comes up to grasp the back of your head, tangling in your hair. When you part you let out a shaky breath.

“Thank you.” You look up at Hanma, you hope he understands just how grateful you are.

Shuji gives you a smile, one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I promised you didn’t I?”.

You nod, taking the gun from his hands. “You should go now, the guards will come soon.”

Shuji nods, “I’ll see you soon.” He says.

“Yes.” You breath.

You watch Shuji make his way back to the window he had climbed through, you tuck the gun into the waistband of your pants letting your shirt cover it. Once he’s gone you turn your attention back to your father. You walk around the couch to get a better look at him. He’s slumped onto his side as if he started to lie down for a nap. His forehead had been blown open, exposing his skull and bits of his brain. It was staining the couch. You lean forward, caressing your father’s face. If only he’d been a better man. You take a step back from the couch before letting out the most blood-curdling scream you could muster.

It only takes a moment before maids and guards come rushing into the room, nearly tripping over each other to see what happened. You stand back, your hands covering the smile on your lips as tears slip down your cheeks. You watch as the maids rush to call the police and the guards try to figure out what happened.

After a while, a maid takes you by the arm. She leads you to the room, murmuring something about a lady not seeing these things. The maid is gentle as she helps you prepare for bed. She says nothing when she sees the gun peaking out of your waistband when you change.

When the maid slips out of your room, leaving you alone you flop down on your bed. Staring up at your ceiling it finally hits you. He’s dead. You let out a giddy laugh, if you hadn’t seen his body you might not believe it. Your father is dead, and he’ll never touch you again.

𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓝𝓮𝔁𝓽

𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉: @duchess-rowan-lover @tr-mha-fan

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Experienced Hero vs Inexperienced Villain part 1

Warnings: attempted murder of Hero (that fails rather spectacularly), questionably un-moral Hero toying with inexperienced Villain, hostage situation

Villain had thought of everything. He was sure of it. He'd spent months planning, plotting a trap for the infamous Hero. A person strong and proud that even the greatest supervillains often hesitated to engage. He'd heard many rumors about her, about how she wasn't like other heroes. How she would fight dirty when necessary. She was more of a morally-gray type character, apparently. And one of the most dangerous heroes around.

Villain was only 20, but he longed for the respect and acknowledgment greater villains had. How they were feared, and got what they wanted on a whim. Everyone always looked down on him because he was young and inexperienced, but he was about to prove them all wrong. He'd prove his worth, prove he was capable of fighting.

It's why he went to all the effort of targeting Hero in the first place. After all, supervillains and crime lords couldn't possibly ignore him if he successfully trapped and killed the most dangerous Hero alive.

He was determined to succeed where so many other villains had failed. If they refused to recognize his potential, he'd make them see it. And so Villain had meticulously crafted the perfect, foolproof plan. He was pretty proud of his technique, a simple but effective tactic he was to carry out.

Villain was in a bank, and had taken a hostage -- an older lady -- before ordering all other citizens to evacuate the building. He didn't try to steal anything, or even break into the vault. He just kept his hostage at gunpoint and patiently waited behind the front desk for the civilians he'd let escape to call up Hero to the scene. And he didn't have to wait long.

There was a flash of blue-and-red leather outside the front door, before Hero herself came skidding inside, in all her glory. It was the first time Villain had actually seen her up close -- he'd always studied his enemy through the screen of a TV or in newspapers. She was tall and imposing in real life, posture stiff and straight like a trained fighter. The media wasn't able to quite catch her regal grace on screen.

"Hero! Thank goodness, please help me--" the old woman in Villain's arms started crying hysterically, and Villain pressed the barrel of the gun harder into her temple.

"Quiet," he hissed harshly, and the woman stopped pleading, though the sobs didn't stop.

"Let the hostage go," Hero growled flatly. She only looked half-focused on the villain -- her gaze kept wandering around the room like she was looking for something in particular.

"Make me," Villain challenged with an audible sneer in his voice. Hero's face darkened, and she took a step forward. Villain's eyes excitedly tracked the movement. She just had to be a little closer...

Hero stopped a few inches shy of the trap Villain had set, and Villain scowled in frustration.

"Let your hostage go first, and then we can fight," Hero bargained -- why did it sound like a bargain!?

"No," Villain pouted. "You're not winning that easily. This hostage isn't going anywhere. I'm going to kill her in ten seconds if you don't find a way to stop me first."

"Are you?" The simple question caught Villain off-guard.

"Do you think I'm bluffing?!" Villain snarled loudly. But the hand holding the gun was subtly trembling. He'd never actually killed someone before. Someone innocent, that is. Killing Hero was a necessity, but to involve an elderly civilian...

No. He needed to stay focused. No distractions. "I'm not playing around!" He barked angrily. "I will unload this magazine into this lady's head without a second thought!"

"Really? Sure looks like you're having thoughts right now." Hero inched closer -- almost close enough to spring the trap. But her confidence was unnerving, how she so easily called Villain out on his lies.

Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222

[kneelingshadowsalome]

would you ever be interested in writing a more masc reader? i kind of got it by know you write fem!reader exclusively, so i've been wondering if you'd write something along the lines a manly gal.

like the type that sees könig do his pushups, she must also immediately try to catch up to him? she sits manspread and wears manly clothes and makes everything a raunchy sex joke and has no shame and is kind of a muscle mommy and a total gremlin? something like that? and it disarms könig completely cuz he's used to damsels in distress, but this one can do everything herself but somehow wants him?? like an equal partner?

also can u pls tell each of your königs i love them with all i have? pls? 🥺 they're like my reason for living this past year i wanna give them a big sweet kiss and pet them

🤲 here, have an offering as gratitude. ignore the arms lol

Maaaan your offering 😭😭💖💞

And yes I have a habit of writing König with helpless maidens and sassy fairies don’t I 😂

So… König with masc!reader…. (Lol this turned out very rivals to lovers but I hope you enjoy!)

König can be a little off-putting. One would think that a man of his size wouldn’t get so threatened by a girl with some muscles on her... But you catch him mansplaining guns to you more than once, showing off his new rifle and then snapping his mouth shut when you fire a round of 5 bullseyes with a calm, stable breath and perfect posture.

“It’s nice,” you give it back to him, “but I’ve seen better.”

Knowing that you just threw his own words back at him – he’s always boasting on the field – König just blinks and grabs his rifle from you.

“...Where?”

“In my safe,” you shrug, trying to keep a neutral face.

And you’ve seen him during sparring, knowing already that he likes to one-up everyone. König is skilled and fierce, but he’s also competitive to the point of petty, which is why you’re amused when he suddenly turns gentle, even hesitant when paired with you.

At some point, it starts to get on your nerves though. It’s slightly insulting, even sexist, that he’s trying to treat you like a gentleman when you’re supposed to hit each other. So, you snap a good right hook through his guard and watch the man see some stars. Hoping that it would fix that attitude, you do it again, and again until he stops giving you the princess treatment.

But even after that, you see he’s holding back. The more you try to get him to attack properly, the more pissed off he gets, refusing to strike you even when you bring him down – a man twice your size – and gloat over him. His eyes are flaming because he just lost for the sake of some weird “I don’t hit women” policy, and it shouldn’t bother you. The man’s an asshole, what are you to do?

Still, it’s giving you a headache. Did you win the match only because he allowed it? You almost smack him in the head again. You already dealt with these kinds of idiots at the training program, and now you have to take shit from pros too? While you’re the pro? Jesus.

Determined to give him hell for the rest of the week, you make a lousy joke about the size of his gun when you go on a mission. It’s a bit unhanded, because this lame ass fool actually gets bothered by your quip, and you mentally beat yourself up for messing with your partner’s head before an important hostage rescue.

He barges through the door like a bull, and you purse your lips under your balaclava – on the other hand, is it even your fault if he gets killed because of some stupid Freudian joke?

This guy is simply too much fun…

So what happens is that you can’t keep your mouth shut. It’s horrid, what comes out of your lips when he’s trying to save lives. Things such as:

“Do you have your gun in hand?”

“I’ll keep an eye on your six while you take the women”

“Did you see their faces when König rammed himself in?”

The innuendos are obvious and rampant and so bad that König is surely blushing under that hood before you even board the plane. On top of everything, he rubs the barrel of his gun up and down in the plane because he’s so nervous. He does it absent-mindedly; the poor guy probably doesn’t understand the outrageous amount of Freudian jokes that could be cracked about that…

You try to pull yourself together after that because otherwise, people would start to suspect you’re having a crush on him. Army humour is army humour but you’re taking this shit a bit too far… Your jokes have never been this bad before, they certainly never induced such crazy behaviour from a guy.

...Because it turns out that you’ve awoken a demon.

At the gym, you see König watching you do pull ups – you’re the only girl there, yes, but you don’t wear some sculpting, seamless gym pants and a suggestive sports bra. You only have your old sweats and a tank top on, but the man's looking at you like he’s dreaming of either killing or fucking you. He's smashing the plates around like they've just personally insulted him, and glares at your way again, then lifts more than you’ve ever seen anyone lift before. He never talks to you: just stops and stares when you’re doing a set, then does his own, then glares.

You don’t know if it’s some kind of an awkward challenge or if he’s trying to flirt with you – menacingly – but you’re a mess after that gym session.

Next time during training, König personally offers to spar with you: he even pushes away the guy that had been assigned as your pair. And this time, he doesn’t hold back. He’s serious, and rough, and fucking frightening.

“That’s it, big boy,” you’re panting before half a minute has passed, “You finally found your groove?”

“No talking during sparring,” he grunts, and almost manages to land a blow – almost, because it ends with him on the floor. The takedown is something even KorTac’s best would be proud of, but he doesn’t allow you to gloat this time. Oh no: he rolls through it: actually, he rolls so that he lands on top of you, then smashes his whole weight on your chest to keep you down.

“Right where I want you,” he says, so brunt and brief that you’re not sure if you just imagined it.

“Is...that...so?”

You try to fight him in vain: he only presses you further into the mat and forces even your face to the side with his own.

“I thought you liked girls,” he pants into your ear, so low that the others can’t hear.

“That’s funny,” you whisper through clenched teeth, fingers curled around his shirt. “I thought you liked girls.”

You hear him draw air right beside your ear, and then – it’s unmistakable, the throbbing pulse against your thigh.

He’s getting hard.

The fucking moron is getting hard during a sparring session with you–

“There’s no need to crush your partner,” the trainer instructs, to everybody grinding on the mat in general, perhaps, but you have a feeling he’s directing the words König who’s currently choking you with his entire body.

“Is this what you want?”

He lets you breathe, only enough so you can turn and have another staring competition with him, this time with his mouth only a hair’s breadth away. Those eyes are hard as steel and as beautiful as snow, and that stare still wants to either fuck or murder you…

“Hm? You want to get crushed?”

“...Why do you think I joined the army?” You laugh breathlessly, eyes glimmering from mirth. He’s such a sight when he’s angry and confused.

Your cheeky answer only makes him more perplexed. Poor man – it’s so easy to tease him that you almost feel like a bully.

“That's right... Take your time getting up, there’s no need to rush,” you breathe, and watch the snow melt into a bewildered cerulean sea.

It sets sooner than you thought, his lids dropping as he settles to watch your lips, the heavy pulse on your neck.

“Oh I’m up already.”

[etoiline]

that thing you used to be

(read with tags and characters on AO3 instead)

“I’m gonna go record a bedtime story for Kata,” Bode says, and Cal reaches out to snag his sleeve before he can turn.

“Stay,” Cal says, emboldened by their hug. “You can tell me a story too. Force knows I need some sleep.”

Bode looks down at Cal’s hand, his whole posture stiff. When he looks up at Cal, his lips are pressed so tight the skin around them turns white.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Bode says, finally, and Cal feels like there’s something he’s missing. The Force is silent around Bode, even when Cal reaches out for him.

“Stay,” Cal says, and pushes himself upright, so he can take Bode’s gloved hand. The leather is soft under his fingertips, worn smooth in the divot between thumb and forefinger where the grip of his blaster would rest. Cal traces it and smiles, thinking of the callus that’s forming on his own gun hand.

Then he looks up at Bode, lips parting as he catches the intensity in the older man’s eyes. Cal doesn’t know what he’s done to merit such a look, but he tries to match that dark gaze, stroking over the leather. A relter calls from deep into the ruins, and Cal is glad of the excuse to tear his eyes away. His cheeks are warm, even though the Jedha night is cold as it edges toward dawn.

“If you really wanted me to stay you wouldn’t ask me to give up Tanalorr to the Hidden Path,” Bode says, his voice so quiet he might have just been talking to himself.

Cal’s mouth falls open, but he’s not sure what to say. Bode had been so accepting of the idea earlier, he’d thought, and the joy that coursed through him then, that he was doing the right thing, for the Jedi, for the galaxy, what had gone wrong?

Bode shakes his head as if he can hear Cal’s confused thoughts. “I have to keep Kata safe,” he says, staring past Cal into the desert. “There’s no way she’s gonna be safe if the Empire finds out about Tanalorr. And they will find out, Cal, if we’re flying the hyperlanes with fugitive Jedi. The Empire already knows about this planet, and they’re so close to finding the Jedi right under their noses. All it takes is one stray transmission, one spy in your ranks—you don’t know, one could be here already.”

“What are you saying? Bode, no one here is a spy,” Cal says. “And it’s not like we’re going to blast a map of the route to Tanalorr all over the holonet. We’ll keep folks safe there. Even Kata. But I thought she was with friends? Someone’s taking care of her, makes sure she gets those bedtime stories you send all the time, right?”

Gloved hands suddenly squeeze Cal’s shoulders, tight enough that he wonders if he’ll bruise. Bode’s expression is wild, broken, the remnants of the fire flickering across his face. “You don’t understand, scrapper. I made a deal to keep her safe. And I thought that Tanalorr was a way to get out of that deal, but not if you want to open up this haven. If it was just us—then we could survive. But the moment we start ferrying more people there—void, the second we start supplying the place, because we don’t even know what in the seven hells is on that rock—you know the Empire will find us.”

Cal frowns. “I don’t think it could be that bad,” he says. “We’ll be careful, disguise our movements, vet the people we work with; they haven’t found us yet.”

Bode closes his eyes, exhales, the breath stirring Cal’s hair. “They already have, scrapper.”

He drops his hands from Cal’s shoulder and reaches into one of the pockets on his belt, holds out the holopuck he’d shown Cal on Coruscant. Cal takes it, brushes over the control to send the wavering blue image of Bode’s daughter spinning in the air. But there’s something else shining on the puck, an echo, tightly curled against the duraplast. It’s a bleak and angry one, Cal can tell, without even touching it, and dread curdles in his stomach. But he can’t resist an echo, so he lays a finger on it, because he has to know.

“...there, Denvik, you know everything about Jedi terrorist Cal Kestis. He thinks we’re best friends. Now let me talk to my daughter.” It’s Bode’s voice, the echo burning his anger through Cal’s veins.

Denvik chuckles, and Bode imagines the man to be steepling his fingers in that metal-filled Imperial office, and Bode wants to reach through the commlink and choke the life from him. “It sounds like you’re more than friends,” Denvik says, the words oily even through the spotty connection. “I find myself wondering if you’ve lost your way, Bode. If you’ve fallen back into old habits.”

Bode seethes, but he can’t say anything in protest, or Denvik will realize just how close to the truth he is. “Remember, Bode, the ISB is not an organization to be trifled with. I took you back because I trained you, and it would be such a shame to lose your skills. But if you continue to string out this...this infatuation with the thing you used to be, well. I’m afraid your daughter will just have to wait a little longer for her bedtime story, hmm?”

Cal is quite surprised to find the holopuck still intact in his hands as the echo breaks. Bode’s rage shudders through him, and there’s only one thought swirling through the white haze in Cal’s mind. Bode is an ISB agent. It’s on repeat, a holoprojector stuck in a bit of code. Bode is working for the Empire.

He realizes he’s shaking when his knees buckle, but Bode’s strong hands are there to catch him, to hold him, and Cal wants to sink into that hold, but he keeps thinking Bode=Empire like he’s a glitchy droid and pulls away.

The rock wall at the edge of the platform is right there, and Cal sags against it. The holopuck echo still pulses in his hand and he wants to throw it away, smash it to the ground, let it shatter against the boulders far beneath, but it’s Bode’s only link to Kata, and no matter how much he hates—yes, hate is the right word here, even if it breaks Cal’s heart to think it—at this moment, Cal can’t bring himself to destroy that tether.

Cal sets the holopuck on the rock, so gently the duraplast doesn’t even click against the stone. The Jedha sands stretch out before him, red rocks turned purple in the false dawn. False. More than friends. Lost your way. To think, Cal had wanted him to stay, the longing thick in his voice however he tried to hide it. Bode is working for the Empire.

The man is a strange warmth at Cal’s back, close enough to feel but holding an artificial tension between their bodies. Cal could break it with a breath, could draw his saber in a Force-quick motion and spin before Bode could stop him. Bode would heave back, hands up, the yellow blade close enough to crisp the leather of his holster. All this time, Bode was a spy.

“Was any of it real?” Cal says, and hates the way his voice breaks on the last word. A scrape of boot on rock and Cal sees Bode come up next to him, placing a hand over the holopuck, his fingers millimeters away from Cal’s. It might as well be parsecs, Cal thinks, as streaks of light appear over the horizon. His eyes slide to the gloved hand next to his, and he wonders if the Empire provided those gloves, if anything about how Bode presents himself is real, or just a skin provided by the enemy.

“I never lied to you, Cal,” Bode says, rough. “but I never told you everything, either. I was just trying to keep Kata safe, and at first the way to do that was to feed my handler information. But you, and your crew—I made myself into the person you needed, and it felt good. And then I made a mistake, Cal. I fell for my own line. And for a while I let myself believe that it didn’t matter, that I could keep going that way, that I could let myself fall for a while. But then you wanted to give away our haven, and—and I couldn’t pretend. My life’s in your hands now, Cal. Mine and Kata’s. I have to hope that it’s enough to at least make you think about the consequences about opening up Tanalorr.”

Cal closes his eyes against the brightening dawn, against Bode’s revelations, against the chill that rushes over his skin. He’s been spying on us since the beginning. But he won’t be able to do that anymore. Can’t spy on your mark when the mark knows you’re spying. Bode is useless to Denvik now, not that the man knows it yet. He’s lost, and a tiny smile sneaks past Cal’s guard to think of it. A blow to the Empire without having to fire a shot.

Sunrise is nigh; Cal can feel it in the Force, a held breath planet-wide. He narrows his focus to the man beside him, testing the borders of nullity. Bode feels the same to Cal’s senses as he always has. Nothing about him has changed since Cal’s learned the truth, only Cal’s understanding of him.

So Bode has likely reported on their movements, given his handler their profiles. So far, nothing has been done with that information; there’s been no chatter to suggest anything in the works. But soon enough, if Bode stops reporting, there will be, Cal is sure of it. And Kata will pay the price of her father’s defection. Determination rises in his chest. He won’t let that happen.

But not using Tanalorr as a base for the Hidden Path? It’s not up to him anymore. Preparation has already started. Maybe—maybe Bode was right, though. They really don’t know anything about Tanalorr other than it exists, and is presumably habitable to most species, from Cal’s dizzying walkthrough of Dagan’s memories. Maybe someone should go check it out first. Makes sense that a Jedi should do it, especially one who’s been there before, even if it was only in echoes.

Fog rises around them as the incipient sunrise warms the rocks, and everything turns soft and dreamlike. The two of them seem like the only solid things on the planet, and even Bode’s form, so close to Cal’s, seems to waver, a void in the Force where there should be light.

Needing assurance that this is real, Cal lets his pinkie finger move just that little bit so flesh meets the tiny strip of skin between Bode's glove and his sleeve. Even Denvik noted they were more than friends. Maybe Cal can figure out a way to move past Bode’s lies—or omissions, as it were. But that oily voice had also said old habits, and the thing you used to be, and what is that supposed to mean?

He stares down at their barely-touching hands, and sighs. “What was the thing you used to be, Bode?” Cal says, his voice lost in the fog. It seems important to know, if Cal is going to try to trust the mercenary again. “You owe me the truth, I think."

Bode inhales beside him, but doesn't say anything for a long moment. Call realizes he can feel the man's anxiety, but before he can parse that, Bode seizes his hand and pulls Cal toward him. Cal can't resist his strength, doesn't want to, but all he can muster is a palm to Bode's chest. Which doesn't really help the dizziness he's feeling, honestly.

Because Bode cradles his face in his hands and touches their foreheads together, and Cal's senses are filled with Bode, as the man opens himself to the Force.

Cal gasps, fists his fingers into Bode's collar, his other hand flailing until it lands on Bode's waist, holding on like his belt is an anchor in rough seas. The sensation washes over Cal like a wave as the sun finally breaches the horizon and makes him squeeze his eyes shut against the sudden brightness, and he revels in the glorious connection and loses his breath to it and asks why why why as his throat closes over hurt cries.

“I couldn’t tell you before, scrapper, and you know why,” Bode says, so quiet. “But you asked for the truth. Stars, you reached out so many times and I couldn’t reach back, as much as I wanted to. But if you’ll—if you’ll just think about what I’m saying, like I think you are, then it’s worth it, to stop hiding.”

How and how could you and you know I wanted to find other survivors swirl in Cal’s head and into the Force and wrap around Bode in a complicated cloud, and Bode chuckles wetly. “So many questions, scrapper, but look—it’s dawn. Things are already moving. What are we going to do about it?” he says, and Cal can feel his uncertainty in the Force. He can feel Bode in the Force, and Cal swallows his anger and disappointment and betrayal and just soaks in the sensation of a fellow Force-sensitive as the fog burns away around them.

Of course the sun has come up again. Of course time moves forward. Cal can only sway there in Bode’s arms as they embrace like they did before the sunrise, feeling like everything has changed.

Bode tightens his hold on Cal, then releases him and steps back, a wondering smile curving his lips. Cal keeps their hands tangled and knows he has a similarly silly grin on his face. The rising sun halos Bode’s head and makes Cal blink away tears. Bode wipes them away with gloved thumbs, and places a gentle kiss on Cal’s forehead.

Cal closes his eyes and listens as they breathe together, coiling his aura around another, awestruck to feel Bode reach back the same way. The sun warms his forehead as the last of the fog drifts into nothingness. His questions can wait for another sunrise, he thinks, and captures Bode’s lips in a kiss.

[dearabby1990]

Chapter 45: The Vacation of a lifetime

All boarded onto the plane everyone gets to their seats Mike & Dustin fighting over who should get the window seat when you settle it like a mother hen telling them you’ll flip a coin whoever wins gets the window on the way there whoever loses gets the window seat on the flight home. Dustin winning Mike sulks in his seat before Eddie flicks him in the forehead “hey perk up wheeler the wife worked hard for all of us to be here at least smile Christ kid” Mike rubs his forehead before turning to you “He’s right I'm sorry Jame I appreciate just being here but he always calls shot gun & I get the shit end of the stick” you chuckle ruffling his raven black hair “I’ll make you a deal wheeler no more bickering or sulking out of any of you & I’ll give you the surprise I have when after we settle into our rooms how’s that sound?” At this he straightens out his posture & smiles nodding his head “okay deal” Eddie laughs grabbing hold of your hand “you’re gonna be an amazing mom you know that? I’ve never seen anyone handle those 3 the way you do they love you too ya know” this makes your heart melt even more then it already has “I know that’s why they’re here Ed’s they’re an important part of who we all are & they’ve all been through so much I think everyone here deserves a nice break from the hell storms that have been our lives” “I second that shit!” Gareth shouts from across the aisle you start laughing. The flight attendants start their emergency drill announcements as we all buckle up. Eddie’s never been on a plane before & he’s very nervous so you make sure to hold his hand extra tight as the plane begins taking off as soon as it levels out you open your window & tap his shoulder “Ed’s look how beautiful the clouds are” he slowly turns his head afraid to look at first but once he gets sight of the different colors streaking the sky among the clouds his eyes twinkle & he smiles “it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen almost as beautiful as you” kissing your cheek “I love you Ed’s” “I love you too sweetheart”. You both doze off shortly after to be woken up by Mike “hey guys we’re getting ready to land soon” you sit up giving him a thankful smile tapping Eddie “thanks Mike, hey Ed’s it’s time to wake up hun”. The landing went smoothly Eddie’s nerves being a lot calmer now that he knows he’s heading to the ground. Getting off the plane you see a long row of beautiful natives in traditional wear holding an assortment of colorful leis the younger ones faces light up at how beautiful everything is & we’re only at the airport descending down the stairs each of you is greeted by someone with a hug & kiss to the cheek & a beautiful lei Eddie looking at you as he notices the purple one that was sat around your neck. “How ironic is that sweetheart it’s your color” your eyes began to water “honey what’s wrong?” You smile grabbing his hand “when we were landing I prayed & asked mom if she can hear me to send me purple flowers & that I missed her & loved her & wished she was still here with me I think she heard me” he wipes your eyes “of course she can hear you love she watches over you all the time just like mine I swear she’s saved me on multiple occasions” you hug him tightly “alright everyone let’s go grab our bags & head to the car rental place let’s get a move on I got to find a restroom fast” “yeah me too dude I feel like I’m about to piss my pants I was too scared to use the bathroom on the plane” shouts dustin. Deciding it’d be easier to get two vehicles just in case the older ones could go exploring if they wanted you all head towards your resort Eddie guiding the group while you navigate with a map. “Okay hun we’re almost there 2 more miles” Dustin Mike & Lucas are in your vehicle & gareth Jeff & freak are in the other. Pulling into the front of the resort you decided it’d be easier to check everyone in yourself. You & Eddie in a honeymoon suite gareth Mike & Dustin in one suite & freak Jeff & Lucas in another.

Jogging back to your rental car you toss you & Eddie’s key in your seat before jogging to Gareth’s vehicle to give him a key & Jeff the key to the other “okay guys suites are set up for groups of 3 gareth you have Mike & dustin Jeff it’s you two & Lucas follow us to the parking garage & I’ll show you where we’re all staying” “okay sis you got it lead the way” you run to the car hopping in your seat “okay love rooms are set let’s go park they’re already dropping bags at the rooms Mike dustin you two are with gareth & once we get settled we’ll meet at me & Eddie’s room to discuss a few things” pulling in was a breeze as you all check out your surroundings on the way to the rooms seeing everyone look extremely excited & happy. Everyone pops into their designated rooms while you & Eddie check out your suite. Two floors with the master bedroom on a beautiful loft overlooking the ocean that has a deck attached with a shower & is connected to the crystal blue water. A room fit for royalty champagne & lots of fresh fruit & flowers full living room & kitchen & dining set “wow sweetheart you truly outdid yourself” “it’s our honeymoon Ed’s I wanted it to be special” he wraps his arms around the back of you “anywhere we’re together is special because all I’ll ever need is you” as he peppers your face in loving kisses. Your love fest is interrupted by a knock at the door “who is it?” You say warmly a weird voice booming through the crack of the door “it’s da cable guy open da door” Eddie shaking his head “fuckin Jeff damn ass clown” swinging the door open all the boys pile in chuckling “holy shit this room is INSANE!” Lucas walks around eyes wide scanning the suite “yeah seriously what did you do to get a suite this nice sell an organ?” You laugh shaking your head “boys I’ve had a large sum of money for some time I just didn’t want to touch it until I knew it was the right time hence our wedding our home & property & this vacation with you guys not to mention the business I wanna open invest some so we have something as a nest egg for the future maybe pass it down to our children still not 100% sold on what I want to do yet but when the time does come dustin I’m gonna need your genius to help me with a few things but other then that I’m glad you’re all here with us on this trip you’re all here because you hold a special place in me & Eddie’s life now I’m gonna continue but before I do Ed’s is there anything you wanted to say?” He took your hand & smiled “okay fellas let’s make this trip one for the books life’s passing us by faster than any of us could’ve anticipated new chapters are beginning big things are happening but no matter what happens we all still have each other how about a toast to me & Jamie’s new marriage this amazing trip she planned for all of us & to new beginnings & bright futures” you pull out enough glasses for everyone & a bottle of champagne & a few cans of Dr Pepper pouring sodas for yourself & the kid’s & champagne for the adults passing out glasses to everyone Eddie being the first to raise his in the center of the room “To Mr. & Mrs. Munson & to new beginnings with amazing people” “cheers” around the room dustin Mike & Lucas wanting to taste champagne for the first time but all of you laughing as they make sour faces finding somewhere to spit it out. “The kitchens to the left guys” you chuckle shaking your head once they get back mike is rocking on the balls of his feet looking at you both with anticipation “so what’s that surprise you were talking about?” You smile at him before going to your bags digging around for the 3 boxes that were meant for the boys at the wedding but beings it’s an early released item to being with your glad to have even gotten your hands on some of them. “So I’ve been in contact with my god father you 3 really remind me of him at times I’m not sure if you guys are familiar with Sega Corp but he works for them & I got my hands on some prototypes that are set to be released until next year around Christmas so…. I hope these get put to good use”

The 3 of them looking at each other with wide eyes unable to even form words as you set the 3 very large gift bags in front of them & take a seat on Eddie’s lap “Well go on open them” with that the 3 boys plop onto the floor like little ones of Christmas morning tissue paper flying in every direction until they see the consoles box sitting at the bottom slowly removing them to get a good look “No way!! This is bitchin’!” Mike is the first to break the silence Dustin looks up at you blue eyes blown wide in excitement before you could ask if he was alright he gets up bolting across the room to engulf you into a hug followed by the other two boys “this is the best day ever thank you Jamie” you’ve never seen Lucas smile so bright before & it makes you happy that you can do something special for them. “You’re welcome guys now Mike can teach El a thing or two about video games ah speaking of which I have these for everyone arcade cards basically get to play unlimited games with these something new they’re trying instead of quarters they use play cards that kind of work like bank cards oh & before i forget the receptionist at the front said they just got street fighter in so you guys are definitely gonna have a ball so go ahead have some fun & we’ll meet back here around 5:30 to head to dinner love you guys now scram I need a bath & a nap” Gareth laughs shaking his head “no worries you two I keep them in line enjoy your nap” & with that you & Eddie are finally alone. You see a glint of mischief written on his face before you know it he’s pulling you up onto the bed & begins jumping & tickling you both enjoying a moment to let loose for once. Once Eddie sees you’re getting tired he hops down heading to the bathroom to start a bubble bath for the both of you. Getting in once it’s the perfect temperature in each others arms looking at the beautiful scenery just outside the window. This is definitely one adventure that you’ll have stories to tell about for a lifetime. Here’s to forever & to a beautiful life with beautiful people making spectacular memories.

[hard-deckpilots]

Storm Season.

Fandom: Top Gun.

Pairing: Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Reader.

Summary: Whilst visiting Jakes home whilst in leave, the weather takes an unexpected turn. One you’re not use to, but one Jake has experienced many times.

Wordcount: 1.09k

Warnings: Talks about tornadoes. Not a tornado expert. Some swearing. Jake being comforting. Mentions of tornado damage.

Tags: @sebsxphia​

A/N: I’m basing this off a Instagram post Glen Powell just made, which is about a Twister reboot. And despite being one of the films I hate I am going watch and write about it. I was also going to do this one months ago but didn’t.

Images not mine.

Jake was a bit reckless as a teenager, anytime there was a tornado warning he’d go out in his truck and try to get as close to it as possible. Times have changed though, he’s a lot smarter and safer especially after an incident that happened in his town about 10 years prior. He knew it was a little bit of a risk to bring you home during storm season, but it was the only time off that he could get.

You on the other hand, had never experienced a tornado before so it was an entirely new experience. Growing up in Montanna there was maybe one or two a year, but you had never been around to witness them. Thankfully. The most severe weather you have ever experienced was the snow storms, which seemed to last forever.

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Sitting in the living room of Jakes family house, you sat there and the colour of the sky changed. When you woke up this morning the sky was a beautiful blue, but that quickly changed as clouds started to roll in. You went to the toilet and as you came back, you could see that Jake was standing at the window looking towards the sky. 

“Jake, you okay honey?” You asked wrapping your arms around his waist,

“I’m alright sugar. Just keeping an eye on the weather. Just wanna make sure we stay safe.” Jake smiled softly at you to keep the reassurance. Although Jake use to chase storms whenever they turned up, he knew how to read the clouds and the different warning signs that were given. Sitting back down, you noticed that Jake wouldn’t take his eyes off of the window. You turned your attention back to the TV and lost yourself in it for a little while. That was until you felt Jake stand up and head into the garden, you frowned a little and went after him.

"Y/n just prepared to have to go into the basement cupboard." Jake spoke holding your hand softly,

"Why? What's going on Jake?" You asked concerned in his sudden change of posture.

"Babe, look at the circulation of the cloud. That's turning into a supercell, that could produce a tornado at any point." Jake explained watching as the clouds started to darken, and the wind started to pick up slightly.

"Wait... Really? Jake please tell me you're not playing a joke on me." You speak worried, also trying to think why on earth you were standing by the outside in the first place.

Jake turned to you and put his hands on your arms softly. There was a hint of seriousness on his face, one that you don't usually see.

"Honey I need you to listen to me. This is the one thing I do not joke about. If I tell you to get to the basement cupboard, then we both go." Jake explained keeping calm but serious head.

You nod and for the next 5 minutes you stick next to him. Both of you watched TV until a message popped up in the middle of the show. A tornado warning. Jake stood up and grabbed your hand first, then grabbed some pillows and blankets.

"Come on darlin' we have to go downstairs now." Jake spoke calmly taking you to the basement.

You follow Jake, and he sets the blankets and pillows down in the basement cupboard. He sat you down then looked into your eyes.

"Listen to me. I'm just going to run upstairs quickly and I'll be right back down okay?" He stated quietly,

"Be right back yeah Jake?" You asked a bit scared.

"I'll be right back." Jake kissed your head softly and watched as he went back upstairs. You kept your breathing calm, as you waited for him to come back keeping your eyes on the stairs.

You watched as Jake came down the stairs fairly quick, missing a few steps as he came over to you. He sat down next to you and held you in his arms.

"Listen to me Y/n... Not matter what happens I'm going to be with you the whole time okay? I love you and no matter what, I love you." Jake spoke as he squeezed you in his arms.

Looking up at him with fear in your eyes and suddenly your ears pop. You put your hands to your ears trying to adjust to the sudden pressure change.

"I love you too Jakey, so so much." You spoke, Jake hearing the fear in your voice.

He pulled you onto his lap and covered your ears with his hands, trying to help you with the pressure change. But also because he could hear the roar of the tornado close by. He tells you to close your eyes and he holds you right against him.

One of the first thing you noticed when you started dating Jake, he had a wonderful singing voice. One that would calm you down. Where your head laid on his chest, you could feel him humming. Keeping you calm and keeping him calm.

"It's okay sweetheart... It's okay... We're okay... We're gonna be okay." Jake spoke keeping as calm as possible, hearing the roar from the tornado.

After about 10 minutes being in the basement cupboard, the noise had calmed down and Jake finally uncovered your ears.

"We're okay darlin', we're okay." Jake kisses your head and he can feel you shaking. "I'm gonna check outside okay? I'm gonna be right back..."

Jake stands up and walks up the stairs carefully. He reaches the top of the stairs and thankfully the rest of the house is still standing. But the garden and some other houses down the road weren't so lucky. He called down the stairs.

"Baby! It's okay you can come upstairs." Jake shouted down.

He waited a few minutes as you came up the stairs and instantly walked into his arms. You were still shaking slightly, but you were both alive.

"We're okay. It's all over." Jake whispered holding you close. After a while stood together, you finally pulled away and looked out of the windows. Jake opened the front door grabbing his boots and his yellow raincoat.

He stood in the middle of the street, looking at his surroundings and looking at the sky. Only a few homes destroyed. Those homes were already being attended to by emergency services. Jake sighs and walks back in, checking the power cables are still standing.

You could tell he was a little shaken, it was the first tornado in over 5 years that he had seen. But he focused on you. His focus was always on you. He kisses you softly.

"We're okay."