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ayvnari · 8 months

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begging for attention

♡ ellie williams x f! bratty reader

♡ ellie has been ignoring you all week, and you're needy. after watching her lay down for a nap after an intense workout, you see it as your time to strike

18+!!

warnings!

teasing, edging, cursing, smoking, ellie being really rough and mean :( , oral r!receiving / giving, light spanking? , hair pulling, after care, mostly smut, kind of hardcore

word count: 1.7k

you watched from the side of the small at home gym ellie had created for herself in the garage. you fidgeted in your seat as you watched ellie workout. her breasts straining against the her shirt, and her ass looked so good in those tights.

you tried to distract yourself from the ever growing aching from your core. ellie hadn't touched you in almost a week now, and she refused to tell you why. you could always pleasure yourself, but her fingers were bigger than yours, and she knew all the right ways to make you crumble.

ellie's muscles stretched against the fabric of her compression shirt. with every bench press she did, she gritted her teeth. a low growl emanated from the depths of her throat, a bead of sweat ran down her chin.

you were so used to ellie spoiling you, getting you whatever you wanted and touching you whenever you asked. it was frustrated for her to suddenly rip it all away and give you the bare minimum.

you felt hurt, but when you yelled at her for it, a smirk adorned her face. that's when you knew...

... this was her game.

she wanted you to beg for her attention, but you wouldn't do that. no. you'd take it.

ellie laid down on your shared bed, laying in a bra and some jeans. after her workout, she just wanted to relax and get high. her arm rested on her inner thigh, her legs spread open on the bed. she took a drag from her blunt, blowing out the smoke, her head leaning against the headboard

you snuck up between her open legs, leaning against her inner thigh. ellie felt a smirk pull at her lips, but she held it in and continued to ignore you.

this pissed you off.

you gave her the best puppy dog eyes you could muster up, but ellie wouldn't even spare a glance at you. instead of saying anything, you started to unzip her pants. ellie raised an eyebrow, but instead of interfering she wanted to see where this was gonna go.

ellie grabbed her phone, taking another drag of her blunt before unlocking her phone, scrolling on it aimlessly.

you swallowed an annoyed growl, but you couldn't help the ache in your core that you had been shoving down since this morning. you pulled her pants down just enough, and pulled her panties to the side, kissing her clit.

ellie gritted her teeth a took a deep breath, intent on ignoring you.

you sucked on her clit gently, looking up at her facial expressions.

ellie let out a guttural growl, closing her eyes, she moved her hips against your mouth, trying to fight that feeling. you continued to tease her, she had to break soon.

eventually ellie let out a loud groan as she sat up, gripping you hair and pulling your face up to her level. you smirked.

you got your way.

"you're a fucking brat, a slutty one at that." she growled, before suddenly shoving your face into the mattress.

"put your ass up, bitch." she said in your ear, her voice guttural and filled with irritation. before you could even move she placed her large, calloused hand on your stomach, pushing it up, forcing you on your knees.

you let out a loud yelp when she smacked your ass.

"you wanted my fucking attention right? now you're gonna get it." she said, smacking your ass again. she roughly pulled down your bottoms and panties, leaving your soaking cunt on full display.

you felt a shiver run down your back, the cool air hitting your wet core.

"god... you've been begging for me to touch you all week." ellie laughed, her voice harsh and unsympathetic. "you're such a slut for me... i can't stand it." she said, holding your legs down as her tongue ran up and down your lips, collecting the slick you've accumulated.

you let out a desperate moan, your hands gripping the sheets under you as her tongue abused your desperate cunt, her tongue moving expertly, licking you in all the right spots to make you fall apart.

"els... fuck!" you moaned, your eyes rolling back in your head.

ellie smirked, lightly sucking on your clit. "shut up and take it." use growled, the vibrations from her throaty voice sending your mind into overdrive. you could already felt your knees getting week, but ellies strong arms wrapped around your legs, spreading them so she could hit the deepest parts of you.

she stuck her tongue in your gaping hole, filling it with her longue, needy tongue, rubbing against the places you needed her the most. she rubbed your clit roughly with her hand, not interested in your own comfort.

you began to babble nonsense as your climax was approaching. ellie felt you tighten around her tongue, she knew you were close.

she pulled away, before grabbing you by your hair and pulling you up to her chest. you let out a whine.

"els pl-"

"shut the fuck up." she cut you off, her voice harsh and demanding.

she wrapped her hand around your neck, gripping it, making breathing uncomfortable, but you felt your mind go dizzy from her touch.

"you wanna cum? hm?" ellie asked, a smirk playing at her lips.

you nodded frantically. "ellie please... need.. I need... to cum... els..." you begged, you felt your slick running down your inner thigh, you couldn't do it anymore. you needed her and you needed her now.

"should I let my princess cum? hm? you think you deserve?" she said, patronizingly. you felt like you wanted to cry, you needed her so bad but she was denying you.

"yes yes yes." you repeated. "i'll be good... i'll be so good." you promised, your eyes glossed over.

ellie chuckled, before her hand slid down to your needy core, sticking three fingers in without warning. you threw your head back, letting out a loud gasp. she thrusted her fingers in rapidly, barely giving you time to breath.

"yeah... you like that don't you? oh I bet you do you little slut. you want me to fuck you senseless huh? look at you, losing your pretty little mind already."

your head rested against her shoulder, your loud moans filling the room. her words just added to your pleasure. ellie looked into your eyes, watching them roll back in your head with satisfaction. when you finally came undone, she brought her soaked fingers and pressed then against your red, pouty lips.

you were too exhausted to care, she slide her fingers in, making you clean her fingers clean.

once you had finished, she pushed you onto the bed. your head hit the pillow under you, as you looked up at ellie. she grabbed a small box from under your bed, taking out her strap. she put it on, not losing eye contact with you

she positioned herself over you. she held your leg over your shoulder. she pushed it in, she didn't even let you have time to adjust to the new length, never mind recover from your previous orgasm before she started recklessly pounding into you.

you let out a choked sob.

"els!" you moaned, your mind going blank as she hit your sweet spot over and over again, your already overstimulated core ached in a painful pleasure. you begged for her to stop, but you begged for her to keep going.

you felt those familiar butterflies in your stomach as your second orgasm of the night arrived.

"ellie... im coming..." you cried. ellie put a hand over your mouth. "shut up, you come when I tell you to." she growled.

you nodded, you already felt the tears pricking at your eyes. the sound of skin clapping and your desperate whines for release were like music to ellies ears.

"beg for it."

your eyes widened, you opened your mouth, but you barely understood what she said, your mind went blank as you focused on not letting yourself cum just yet.

"aww... is my pretty girl being fucked too dumb to understand?" she gripped your hair. "beg. for. it. you wanna come? beg for it. before I fuck those pretty lips like the slut you are."

your vision blurred as you tried to listen to ellie. you couldn't take it anymore, as you felt yourself coming on her strap. your back arched and you threw your head back.

ellie looked at you, her eyes filled with rage. she pulled out, her strap soaked with your juices.

as your mind cleared up, you realized what you did.

"did you just fucking cum?" ellie said, her tone strict and demanding. she gripped your hair, pulling you up and sitting you down in front of her strap, the tip teasing your bottom lip.

"look up at me." ellie demanded.

you looked up at her. "im sorry ellie... I... I couldn't handle it-" suddenly you were cut off by her forcing you down on her strap.

the taste of your juices mixed with the plastic you so desperately missed the taste of entered your mouth as she roughly fucked your mouth.

"I can't fucking stand sluts like you." ellie said, biting her lip at the sight. "you're not even trying to deny me. you want me to fuck you like this, this is why you've been such a fucking bratty bitch all week."

with every thrust of her hips the tip of the strap hit the back of your throat, causing you to gag. spit dribbled down your chin, the tears that threatened to fall before were on full display.

"oh... is my bitch crying?" ellie said, wiping your tears.

"maybe you'll think before fucking with me again." she said, before pulling out.

you gasped for air, clinging onto her thigh. she sat down next to you, wiping the spit off your abused lips before kissing you.

"Shh... it's okay baby." she said comfortingly, rubbing your back. "you okay?" she said, smiling at you.

you nodded, as she wiped away your tears, she brought you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up.

when she laid you back down on the bed, you ran her hands through your hair comfortingly, whispering praises in your ear.

"you did so well for me."

"god... you looked so pretty." she said, while peppering your face with kisses.

she wrapped her arms around you, as you two fell asleep.

one thing you knew.

you'd be doing this again.

(idk if this is good but I started laughing while making this bc imagine if you had a wig and ellie pulled your hair and it just came off)

#ellie williams smut #ellie williams x you #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams x reader #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou #ellie williams headcanons #elliewilliams #ellie x reader #ellie williams drabble #ellie williams #ellie x fem reader #ellie x y/n

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satoruoo · 6 months

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✦°. THE COUPLE + THE CASHIER - toji fushiguro

"‘scuse me, miss?"

the cashier is no more than 15 minutes into her evening shift, and some customer who is almost guaranteed to ask the stupidest question is already bothering her. god, what evil did she do in a past life to deserve this? she quickly sucks in the exasperated sigh that threatens to escape her lips and steels herself for the worst as she turns around.

contrary to her previous beliefs, she's faced with the finest man she's ever seen in her life.

he's tall, towering at least a head above her with broad shoulders and a large frame. the compression shirt he's wearing and the dark sweats that hang low on his waist do no good to help slow her quickening heartbeat. his facial features are sharp, dark eyes and matching dark hair with a scar over his lips.

the only reason he's not intimidating her to the point of tears is the baby he's holding on his hip. a spitting image of him, the child has the same dark hair and eyes, gripping a small plush toy in his tiny fist.

"sorry t’bother," the man says, voice deep and gravelly, "was just wonderin’ where the baby aisle is."

she blinks, not even fully registering what he's saying. of course the big, beefy, incredibly sexy, and possible killer of a man is asking where the baby aisle is. the baby in question babbles loudly as the man adjusts his position on his hip. she swallows thickly, suddenly forgetting how to form coherent sentences.

"oh, uh, yeah, it's-" she doesn't get to finish as a voice as smooth as silk interrupts.

"love?"

his wife, she presumes by the way the man immediately twists his body to follow the voice, is a striking contrast to her husband with her far softer features and more approachable aura. she watches in silent awe as his body visibly relaxes, shoulders sagging in relief. the baby perks up too, his tiny hands making grabby motions toward the woman approaching them.

you're positively gorgeous, probably one of the most beautiful women the cashier ever laid eyes on. you're smiling as you ruffle the baby's hair, placing a quick kiss on his forehead lovingly eliciting a series of sweet giggles.

"toji, it took you less than five minutes to get lost." you scold lightly, biting back the smile that creeps up onto your lips and he places his free hand on the small of your back.

the cashier is struggling to believe her eyes. what a stunning couple the two of you made. she can see the resemblance between you and the baby now too. he may have his father's hair and eyes, but his nose and lips are all yours.

"sorry ma," the man, toji she thinks his name was, says, "megs wanted to look at the toys."

you raise an eyebrow. "megs can't even talk yet, babe."

toji chuckles, his lips tipping up into a lazy grin. he can't refute that one, it seems.

"sorry about him," you say, turning to the cashier as megumi tries to get a grip on your hair before toji pulls him away, "my husband can be on the stupider side. i hope he didn't bother you."

you may have said some harsh words, but the cashier can tell it's all in mirthful adoration when toji grins and presses a kiss to your temple.

"ah, no, it's fine." is all she manages to say through the large lump in her throat.

you smile at her, thanking her for her time as you take toji's hand, guiding him to the correct aisle.

the cashier stands motionless for a moment or two, still dazed from her experience with the crazy attractive man with his insanely attractive wife and their stupidly adorable baby. she doesn't think she'll ever complain about her job again.

BONUS:

"toji, don't you think that cashier was adorable?" you ask as you browse through the brands of diapers on the shelf.

your husband scoffs, snorting through his nose while he pretends to be useful by looking through the baby wash.

"dunno, my eyes are only ever on you, doll. didn't get a good look." he says, "saw how she was eye-fuckin’ you, though."

you almost drop the pack in your hands at his crude comment.

"not in front of megumi." you remind, "and she was not eye-fucking me."

toji grins, coming up behind you to gently nip your neck, "either way, ‘s too bad for her, ‘cause you're already happily married."

you hum, looking fondly at megumi before tilting your head up to give toji a kiss.

"i suppose."

"hey! the fuck is that supposed to mean?!"

#♡. viascribbles #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jujustu kaisen #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji x you #fushiguro toji #jjk toji #toji fluff #toji fushigro x reader #toji jjk #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk drabbles

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even-disco-baby · 1 year

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SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hello again, gendarme.” He smiles at you— not from his usual post, but from one of the cafeteria tables. A small sketchbook is laid out in front of him, along with some odd gray sticks.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Compressed graphite. Not quite as bold or blendable as charcoal, but certainly less messy.

EMPATHY — Garte will appreciate it.

“I’d like to talk about the case again.”

“You moved! I didn’t know you could do that.”

“What are you drawing?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “That’s the question, isn’t it?” His smile turns a little rueful. “I found one of my old sketchbooks and thought I’d like to fill the last few empty pages, but I’m finding myself a little… uninspired.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION — The accursed artist’s block. Staring down an empty page only for it to stare back, mocking you.

EMPATHY — He is unsure of himself. He said this was an old sketchbook. Maybe he’s afraid of drawing something new beside his old work and seeing that nothing has changed.

“Ah, yes. Artist’s block. I know it well. In fact, I don’t know when the last time that I actually *made* any art was.”

“You could draw the cafeteria.”

“You could draw one of the other diners.”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “A life drawing exercise, huh? And who would you pick as a subject, gendarme?”

“I don’t know. You’re the artist.”

“Maybe Garte? The skua could be a fun challenge.”

“You should draw the guy with the wig and sunglasses over there. He looks pretty funny.”

“Lena! She’d probably love to model for you. It would take her mind off things.”

“Kim, how about you pose for him?”

[Suggestion - Medium 10] “Why not me?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “No.”

He has nothing more to say on the matter.

“Aw, why not? You’d make a great model!”

Let it go.

KIM KITSURAGI — “I do not get paid to model for portraits. I get paid to solve murders. Such as the one we came here to investigate. Several days ago. Which has not been solved yet, for some mysterious reason.”

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — In case you couldn’t tell, that was sarcasm.

“Come on, Kim. You’re the perfect subject! A true man of the people. And there’s this sort of radiance about you… I can see the portrait already, just looking at you. Really clearly, actually.”

Maybe don’t say that. He’s just not gonna get it.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He shrugs. “Sorry, gendarme. It’s not right to use someone’s image without permission, you know? Maybe some other time.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “No.” And then, a little awkwardly, “But thank you.”

“I don’t know. You’re the artist.”

“How about Garte? Though, you’d have to draw the skua, too…”

“You should draw the guy with the wig and sunglasses over there. He looks pretty funny.”

“Lena! She’d probably love to model for you. It would take her mind off things.”

“Kim, how about you pose for him?”

[Suggestion - Medium 10] “Why not me?”

CHECK SUCCESS

YOU — “Why not me?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He considers you with some amusement, but still, he does consider. “You’re not too busy?”

“On second thought, you’re right, I have some work to do right now. Another time, maybe?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant sighs audibly.

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — What did I *just* say?

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He chuckles to himself, apparently quite tickled by the little comedy act you two are making of yourselves. “Beautiful. Why not? Have a seat. I’ll try not to keep you too long.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Much appreciated,” he says drily.

YOU — [Take a seat.]

SAVOIR FAIRE — Time to strike a pose. Let’s go with something cool. Something that really captures what you’re all about.

ENDURANCE — But make sure it’s something that you’ll be able to hold comfortably.

Wink and shoot him your signature finger guns.

Look at him with big sad eyes like a shamed puppy.

Look thoughtfully into the middle distance, as if contemplating your own future masterpiece.

Stare straight at him with eyes that have seen how this world will end.

Hold your head up high. With *honor.*

Just sit and act natural. No need to put on airs.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He looks you up and down, thumbing his bottom lip. His eyes look brighter and more alert than you have ever seen them. And then, he picks up his graphite and begins to work.

His eyes dart between you and the page, his hand sweeping across the page in bold, practiced strokes. All traces of his earlier hesitation have vanished.

VOLITION — Sometimes, a little push is all we need.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — Every now and then, he pauses to look up at you, and it’s almost unnerving to be the subject of whatever calculations are going on behind his eyes. He holds out his graphite, squinting just slightly.

VISUAL CALCULUS — This is called sighting. He’s roughly measuring the relative proportions of your figure and checking them against his sketch.

KIM KITSURAGI — Even the lieutenant is watching now, interested in spite of himself.

“Are portraits your specialty?”

“Have you been drawing anything for school lately?”

Better not distract him.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hmm…” He ponders this for a moment, not looking up from his work. “Not exactly. I’m more interested in the graphic arts than this sort of thing. But it’s best to build a strong foundation before branching out, you know?”

YOU — “Graphic arts? Like what?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Printmaking.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he speaks, seemingly without him even noticing. “Monotype, especially.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Monotype is a printmaking technique that is singular from other techniques, in that it produces only *one* unique print, rather than an edition of multiple prints.

YOU — What, really? What’s the point of printing it, then?

ENCYCLOPEDIA — I don’t know. I didn’t invent it.

“Why monotype? Wouldn’t a different technique be more… practical?”

“I see.” [Drop the subject.]

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He shrugs slightly, smudging a bit of graphite with a bare finger. “Depends on how you define practical, I suppose. If I had my own studio, and I was selling my prints, then maybe. But we make do with what we have, gendarme.”

EMPATHY — And what he has is very little.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Besides, I think monotype has its charms.”

The young man does not elaborate, instead focusing on the work at hand. He picks up an eraser that has been shaved down to a point for fine detail work, and begins on what are likely the finishing touches.

EMPATHY — He has already talked at uncharacteristic length about this. It’s making him a little uncomfortable.

SAVOIR FAIRE — He doesn’t like to share too much about himself because it makes him feel *uncool.* He prefers to maintain an air of mystery.

RHETORIC — It’s safer, too, that way. He’s learned that passion exists to be exploited. False promises and admiration are the offerings of Sunday friends.

“If you say so.” [Back off.]

“What kind of charms?” [Press on.]

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — His eyes flit back to you, sizing you up now in a different way. And then he looks back down at the page with a quiet bre ath.

“Well, it doesn’t take as much time or labor as other methods. Or expensive tools, or dangerous chemicals. Just paper, a plate, ink, and something to apply it with. And I can use the same plate over and over again, even use it to create different layers for the same print.”

RHETORIC — In other words, it’s cheap and can be done from home. An attractive option.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “And with monotype, it’s not so hard to go back and change your mind. You can start over as many times as you’d like, right up until the moment you lay the page on the plate.”

INLAND EMPIRE — That really does sound attractive. To be able to wipe the slate clean, over and over again…

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “There aren’t as many limits on what kind of textures you can create, too. Brushstrokes and fingerprints… They can really come out beautiful.”

His brow creases a little, and he picks his graphite back up to rework a particular area.

DRAMA — He’s still holding out on you, sire. Too self-conscious to admit what he really likes about the medium.

YOU — Which is what?

EMPATHY — Fragility.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — An image which is only complete after being mirrored and translated, never to be recreated except as a ghostly afterimage. An exercise in surrendering to chance. What will be, will be. And then the moment will pass, and it will be time to start the next piece.

VOLITION — This man knows disappointment intimately. It is his closest companion. He has learned to make peace with it. He passes the time with his Sunday friends, lays his paper on the plate and hopes, despite himself, for the best.

YOU — Is that… a good thing?

VOLITION — …It’s hard to say. But we make do with what we have.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “There.” The young man sits up straight, and it’s only now that you realize just how close he brought himself to his work.

DRAMA — His face may not betray him, but the body does not lie. He was having *fun,* my liege.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “All done.” He tears the page from his book and holds it out to you with a small smile.

ITEM GAINED: Portrait of a Disco Holdover

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hope I didn’t keep you too long.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Don’t worry about it,” Kim says, rather resignedly.

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — If you’d declined, the lieutenant thinks, my partner would have just found some other way to get sidetracked.

KIM KITSURAGI — Still, he cannot stop himself from glancing at the portrait over your shoulder.

PORTRAIT OF A DISCO HOLDOVER — It’s you! Unfortunately. Not even the most masterful hand could make the Expression less unsettling to look at. Your posture is poor, your face is swollen and blotchy, your hair is thinning, your clothes are shabby and out of place… I could go on.

Oh god, you could?

Please don’t.

PORTRAIT OF A DISCO HOLDOVER — But, you know… it’s nice. The smoker’s technique is bold and rather lovely, broad strokes of graphite intersecting in just the right places to create surprising depths. Somehow, even though it’s you… it’s not hideous.

EMPATHY — Because you’re seeing yourself through another person’s eyes.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — There is an odd tenderness to the portrait. Something amusing in your grimace, a touch of sympathy in your hunched shoulders. With the eraser, he has lifted small spots of pigment from your face, as if it were illuminated by flecks of light from the karaoke disco ball.

There are no disco lights tonight, but still, he sees them when he looks at you. Your moment has passed, but it left quite the impression. A ghost print, superimposed over you.

“Not bad, but the bicep girth is off. Right, Kim?”

“Oh god, is that really what I look like?”

“Hmm. It’s okay, but you should consider a backup career plan.”

“Whoa, you’re amazing! Can you draw me again, but this time in the costume from the cover of Man from Hjelmdall and the Devil Woman? And like, with a really cool warhammer? And Queen Lydiaana standing in the background, all like, ‘boohoo, where will I ever find another man like Ha— I mean, the Man from Hjelmdall?’”

“Beautiful.”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — His smile climbs up into the corners of his eyes, warming his entire countenance.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — If you were to capture a portrait of him in this moment, it would be beautiful, too.

#disco elysium #harry du bois #the smoker on the balcony #kim kitsuragi #this one is. so self indulgent. i like the smoker i like to think abt him #and assign him my art student interests #anyway. oh the joy of making art and showing ppl what they rlly look like in your eyes #and oh the beauty of monotypes and printmaking and hoping for the best #GODDAMMIT I FUCKED UP THE FORMATTING AGAIN AND DIDNT CATCH IT UNTIL LIKE 12 HOURS LATER.#if you saw that. no you didn’t.

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midnightdjarin · 15 days

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imagine training with simon riley😫 (simon riley x female reader)

You fix your form for what seems like the tenth time, letting your fists fly against the punching bag in a way that doesn’t hurt your hands or shoulders.

Simons deep voice rumbles behind you, “Atta girl, love. Much better.”

You take a deep breath and drop your arms, fighting the blush that wants to creep up on your face. Simon loves to mess with you like this. Nothing makes him happier than seeing you all flustered.

You’re still out of breath when you say, “This would be a great time to, ya know,”, you take another deep breath, “sweep me off my feet. Carry me bridal style. All of the gentlemanly things”, you wipe sweat off of your forehead.

He has the nerve to scoff, “Didn’t peg you as the damsel in distress type.”

He hands you a water bottle and you take a long swig, “I am a damsel and I am very distressed, actually.”

“What if I give you something if you go one more round?”

You roll your eyes, “Like what, true loves kiss?”

Simon has the audacity to sound smug, “Is that what you want, love?”

“Shut up, Simon”, you toss the water bottle to the side and get into your starting position.

You’re about to start swinging, but you feel Simon’s presence move behind you. His large hands move to your waist, positioning you differently.

You expect him to let go, but his hands stay firmly placed on your waist, “Simon?”

He sounds unbothered when he responds, “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you.”

“How is this helping me, exactly?”

Simon leans forward, his voice is heard directly by your ear, “What’s wrong love? Somethin’ distracting you?”

You look down and clear your throat, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His right hand leaves your waist to grab your chin, forcing you to look over your shoulder at him. You can’t help but notice the way his eyes travel to your lips. They linger there for a second before his thumb gently swipes across your bottom lip.

He leans forward devastatingly slow, his mask nearly making contact with your skin when he whispers, “Your form still needs work.”

Simon then leans back, removing himself completely from you. You feel his warmth escape immediately as you snap out of your daze.

What a tease.

You scoff and shake your head, once again readying yourself to take out all of your frustration on the stupid blue punching bag.

Simons hand stops you once again, “Let me show you.”

You step back, grateful for the break. He moves in front of you, and you can’t help but notice how nice his back muscles look in his black compression shirt. Every part of him is defined and sculpted. It’s ridiculous, really.

He starts to strike the punching bag. Swift, fast punches that you can barely keep up with. The way his muscles move is almost mesmerizing.

“I need to train in here more often”, you thought.

You snap out of your ogling when he finishes and turns towards you. He looks like he didn’t even break a sweat or bat an eye.

Simon looks at you, “You see? That’s how it’s done correctly.”

You shrug, “You did alright. Your form could use some work.”

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blindmagdalena · 8 months

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The Fall

2.8k mostly sfw homelander x reader. christmas adjacent. depowered homelander.

Summary: After being struck by an unidentified projectile that renders him powerless, Homelander crash lands in your backyard, wholly at your mercy.

this is a rework of this original prompt. inspired by the fable of the mouse that aids the lion whose paw has been stuck by a thorn. ♡

Homelander is over a hundred feet in the air when he hears something whistling through the sky behind him. Some kind of projectile. A small missile, maybe. It's nothing he hasn't handled before: It could blow up in his face and he would be fine. He’s more curious about what exactly it is, who’s stupid enough to fire it at him, and where it’s coming from.

With that in mind–in that split second he has to react–he decides to forgo dodging it and instead attempt to catch it. However, as the mystery projectile gets nearer, his vision begins to tunnel.

What the fuck?

His reflexes slow, and before he knows it, the projectile strikes him hard in his left side rib, exploding in fumes that fill his lungs and coat his skin. In an instant, he feels pain like he's been turned inside out, a sensation worse than anything he’s felt since childhood. Instantly he's plummeting towards the ground, crashing directly into your backyard in an eruption of snow and yard furniture.

With his vision going black, the last thing he hears is the sound of the world turning deafeningly quiet.

When Homelander comes to, he's being shaken. No–compressed, hands over his chest, pushing again and again in a steady rhythm. Warm lips press against his, and a rush of air fills his lungs. His eyes snap open, and out of pure reflex, he drives his fist into your unfamiliar form, sitting up with a frenzied look in his eyes.

You should have flown back thirty feet with a hit like that. Instead, you only fell back onto your ass, coughing. Homelander's hands are shaking as he looks at them, and he can feel blood dripping from his ears, taste it in his mouth. He's disoriented, his whole body heavy. He's having trouble breathing, every ragged inhale a struggle, and his heart is pounding.

"Someone tried to kill me," he rasps in disbelief. Not surprised that someone tried, but that someone very nearly succeeded. "Someone... Someone tried to fucking kill me," he says again, growing more hysteric the more the pain sets in. His own brain is hammering against the confines of his skull, beating at the backs of his eyes.

He’s certain that he’s halfway to cardiac arrest, but no matter how he tries to focus, he can’t calm himself. His strength is gone. It’s gone. He looks at you, you, who should have a hole punched through your chest. Instead, you’re staggering to your feet, totally unharmed.

"Homelander!" You address sharply, audibly trying to rein in your own bubbling panic. He can see his own fear reflected in your eyes. You’re just as confused as he is. Just a stupid little mouse that crawled out of your hole and found him like this. "I can help you, okay? Let me help you."

There’s something about the sharp authority in your voice mixed with an undeniable quiver of compassion that catches his attention. It could be the degree of his vulnerability sinking in, but after a second of dumbfounded staring, Homelander nods.

It must be pure adrenaline that gives you the strength to help him into your house. You don’t look like you should be able to carry him. He's practically dead weight in your arms, barely keeping himself on his feet as you both stumble into your living room. The height difference does neither of you any favors.

You get him down onto the couch before fetching a wet rag, a bottle of water, pills, and a first aid kit. He watches you fumble with it, hands shaking. He assumes it’s adrenaline, though you lack the acidic stench of it. No, you probably don’t. He just can’t smell it anymore. He can’t smell anything except the faint tinge of blood, and whatever nauseating scented candle you use to stink up your home. Though, even that’s distant compared to what he’s used to. However, he finds he doesn’t have it in him to panic. Is this what shock feels like?

He takes the water you offer him, but denies the pills. “No, no. I have no idea what that shit will do to me right now.” You nod, setting the bottle aside. You then lean over him, inspecting the level of damage. His ears are ringing, and his whole body is throbbing with sharp, painful aches. Maybe the pills would help, but he’s never had to take painkillers before. He’d rather swallow tacks than lean on something so pedestrian.

As you work, he notices a mottled mark blossoming darkly across the center of your chest, just under your collarbone, approximately the size of his fist. Without thinking, he reaches up to touch it, remembering the blow he’d dealt you.

You startle, looking down where he touches with a wince. The skin looks as tender as he feels. It must sting. Is he bruised like this beneath his suit? The thought of these same ugly dark marks mirrored on his own body brings him visceral disgust.

"Don't worry about me," you tell him, as comforting as your voice can muster. You grasp his wrist and gently lay it back down at his side.

I'm not worried about you, he thinks derisively. "That should have caved in your chest."

"Guess it's my lucky day, then," you say absently, more focused on using a wet cloth to wipe away the blood from his temple, up into his hairline, seeking the injury. You're meticulous but gentle in the way you handle him, cupping the side of his face to turn him one way, then another.

If not for how clumsy your movements feel, he’d think you’ve done this before. There is care and determination in the way you tend to him, but no obvious medical expertise. Even the kit you pull from looks out of date and sparse. You probably picked it up from a gas station on a whim because you needed safety pins. "I think these need stitches," you say as you carefully apply bandages, brows furrowed. Homelander's gaze lingers on your lips as you speak. What kind of person sees someone fall out of the fucking sky, blowing a crater in their yard in the process, and then thinks to give them CPR?

"I'm calling an ambulance," you say, moving to stand. That breaks him out of his stupor. He catches you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, despite how pitifully weak his own grasp feels. "No, no, not... Don't do that," he says, screwing his eyes shut briefly. No one else can know that this happened. Besides, if those psychopaths are still out there, it will draw them right to him. "Too much attention, I just... give me a fucking minute," he says, flexing his hands. They still feel weak, tingling like they've fallen asleep, but the bizarre sensation is gradually beginning to abate.

Whatever was done to him, it doesn't seem to be permanent.

He hopes to fuck that it isn’t. "Okay," you say tentatively. Instead of leaving, however, you reposition to continue wiping the blood from his face, gently rubbing from his temples down his jaw. He watches you like a hawk, rolling his fingers in and out of fists, gradually feeling his strength return to him.

He's unaccustomed to the way you're handling him. One hand cupping his jaw, ginger in the way you move his head only when you absolutely need to. The concern wrinkled between your brows is so palpable, so sincere, that for a moment he almost forgets you're strangers to each other.

"What're you doing?" He asks eventually, voice low. You pause, looking down to meet his eye. "Oh, I just... There's still blood, and I didn't want to leave you alone."

Your response tightens something in his chest, like a steel coil wrung too tight, leaving him uncomfortable. He feels small, vulnerable, and the tenderness of your touch is doing nothing for it. "I don't need you," he snaps defensively. "I'm fine."

"Okay," you respond, aggravatingly calm. Still soothing. "What do you need?" Homelander opens his mouth, but hesitates. Your earnestness is infuriating, waiting on bated breath for what you can do for him. He closes his mouth, jaw tight. His gaze flickers back down to the bruise on your chest. It's darker now, varying shades of purple and yellow fading into one another.

Looking back up at you, he schools his expression into calm focus. "Close the blinds," he says, gesturing with his head to the window, where you have twinkling white Christmas lights strung up.

"I need to lay low awhile." He can feel his powers steadily returning. Once he gets back to Vought, he'll find out who it was, and rip out their fucking spine.

You've already gotten up to do as he asked, drawing the blinds down, and then closing the curtains over them. Afterwards, you turn to leave.

"Hey," Homelander calls, frowning. You stop in the doorway. "Where are you going?"

"The kitchen," you answer, hand on the doorframe. "You can call if you need something."

"Stay here," he says, ignoring the bit of petulance he can hear in his own voice. He doesn't care if you're confused. He doesn't care that he doesn't entirely understand himself. He just wants you to stay.

He watches you take a seat at the end of the couch, near his feet. He exhales, closing his eyes. It isn't as though you could do anything if proficient killers did appear, but for whatever reason, no matter how useless you would ultimately be, he feels better for having you near.

Even a curtain is better than no door at all.

After half an hour, his senses begin to sharpen again. It begins as a dull, irritating buzz at first. It has him rubbing at his ears, screwing his eyes shut. It rolls in and out of focus, making it difficult to adjust to. “Are you okay?” You ask from the other end of the couch, where you’ve been sitting with remarkable patience. Maybe you’re afraid of him. He hates not being able to tell by the rate of your heart.

“Peachy keen,” he replies flatly. “Hearing’s coming back.”

“That’s good,” you say, though the inflection you end with makes it sound more like a question.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good, it’s just… Loud,” he says, grinding the heel of his palm into his temple. His skull is still pounding. “Everything’s all… Coming back in a jumble. Giving me a fucking headache,” he says, though as he speaks, he realizes he’s able to focus fairly well on the conversation, drowning out the more intrusive ambient sounds. “Keep talking.”

You look surprised by his demand, but after a beat, you oblige. After maybe an hour of idle conversation, he learns your name, that you work from home, you like decorating for Christmas even when you spend it alone, and that you've lived a thoroughly dull, ordinary little life until this very moment.

That’s just what you’ve told him.

From his personal observations, he's learned that you’re a perpetual fidgeter, that you touch your face when you're nervous, and that you would rather laugh than take any of his disparaging remarks about your mundane life to heart.

"I think it's lucky for you that I’m so boring. I might not have been here otherwise," you counter. Your smile is so inexplicably charming–nose wrinkled like you’ve somehow pulled a fast one on him–that Homelander forgets to refute your point. Instead, much to your alarm, he sits up.

"Oh, steady! Are you sure you're okay?" You ask, standing as he does, hands out as if to catch him. He stretches his hands out in front of him, and then curls his arms back in. Exhaling, his eyes flare crimson. He likes the way it makes your heart jump when he looks at you through the red glow.

His lips quirk, lasers fading out. "Good as new," he says confidently, though the aches of his fall still linger in his joints. Not quite new. He takes a few long strides across your living room, pausing in the doorway to your kitchen, where he can see through to your yard, and the absolute crater he left in it. "Vought will... take care of that," he says, gesturing vaguely to the destruction.

You can't help but laugh, crossing your arms loosely to survey the damage with him. "I appreciate it, but really, I'm just glad you're alright," you say honestly, staring out into the wreckage of your yard.

Homelander purses his lips slightly, glancing at you from his peripheral. Above him, he feels something brush the top of his head. When he glances up, what he sees hanging in the doorway makes him smile deviously.

Without warning, he puts his hands on your waist and spins you to him, lips landing warm and firm on yours. He absolutely devours the surprised little noise you make against him, halfway tempted to see what other sounds he can wring from you.

Your heart quickens to a race in his ears, and much to his delight, you kiss him back. You even surprise him by grabbing the back of his head with both hands, deepening the kiss of your own volition.

Not one to be out done, he adjusts his hold on you, one arm wrapping properly around your waist while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck, gloved fingers gently squeezing your bare skin.

To his delight, you retaliate with your tongue, slipping it between his lips and coaxing his forth.

Just full of surprises, little mouse.

Maybe you aren't so boring after all.

He meets you eagerly, exhaling a rough, excited little huff through his nose, dropping the hand at your waist to grab a cheeky squeeze full of your ass, wringing a soft moan from you that sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock.

When Homelander pulls back, you're flushed warmly all over. You smell of antiseptic wipes and peppermint, like Christmas in a hospital. It’s bizarrely appealing.

"What was that?" You ask, dazed.

"Mistletoe," he purrs, tipping his head back without taking his eyes off you, settling his hands back on your waist.

You look up slowly–taking a solid few seconds to process–and huff a gentle little laugh, nodding at the aforementioned ornament dangling above you.

"Is this your way of saying thank you?" You manage to ask after swallowing back the lump in your throat, your shoulders relaxing, though your heart continues to gallop in your chest. "I hope you're still going to pay for my yard."

It's Homelander's turn to laugh. "Oh, no. I haven't even begun to say thank you yet," he assures you, hands lingering on your hips.

The kiss had been pure unrestricted impulse, nothing he intended to follow through on. However, now that you're toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, your skin warm against his, your eyes half lidded, he’s not sure that he wants to let you go. Your lips shine where you’ve licked the taste of his from them.

“I think for your good deeds, you’re owed a very merry Christmas,” he says, waggling his brows.

You give a flustered, incredulous bark of laughter, covering your mouth as you look away from him, that flush of yours intensifying, making your whole body thrum warmly. You wouldn’t need to worry about keeping warm on these cold winter nights if he had his way with you.

“Okay, well, uhm, thank you for… for that thought,” you say, tripping over your words in a way you haven’t this entire encounter. “You hit your head pretty hard, though so maybe before you make any promises, we make sure you get checked out by an actual doctor,” you say, pushing lightly against his chest.

He maintains his hold for just a second longer, utterly immovable. It feels good to be himself again. He runs his tongue along his teeth, downright predatory in the way he stares down at you, but he does relinquish his hold.

“You should come with me to the tower. You know, now that you’re… Compromised,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “Someone might come looking for me here. Interrogate you on my condition.”

Real fear flashes in your eyes at that. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he gives back gravely.

“Uh… Okay. Uhm, let me… I’ll pack a bag,” you say nervously, stepping away from him to do just that.

“Okie-dokie,” he gives back simply, glancing around your home while he waits. He picks up an odd little gnome with a big red hat that covers everything but a little button nose, and a long white beard. Maybe he’ll convince you to bring along some of your festive decorations.

Merry Christmas to me, he thinks, already daydreaming about twisting the head off of whoever hit him with some kind of neutralizing agent.

He might thank them for the impromptu date while he’s at it.

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #depowered homelander #i was originally just going to edit the original post but #i couldn't add a title to it that way #so have a brand new post lol #i never posted this one to ao3 because i always meant to do this #so i'll cross-post this later #also i think i want this to serve as the foundation for my depowered HL verse #especially that one where he's seemingly lost his powers for good #my writing #ho ho homelander #enjoy some wildly out of season christmas btw lol

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scribbledghost · 4 months

Text

Strike A Match

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Civilian!Wife!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: T

Word count: 1,041

Warnings: Major character death, angst, no happy ending, Third Person POV

Note: I wanted some angst, so have some angst. Very rarely do I write something without a happy ending, but this seems to be the exception to the rule this time. :V

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Ghost was a special forces soldier. She was a civilian. He should have left this world far sooner than her.

The universe had things backwards. Nothing made sense. Not anymore.

He’d gotten the call almost as soon as the task force had touched down back on base. All four of them were weary, beaten, bruised, and barely keeping their eyelids open. But any sense of fatigue had left him as soon as one of the higher-ups rushed their way to him.

He doesn't remember the exact words now, only bits and pieces. Flashbulb memories of a day he’d do anything to forget.

Your wife.

Car accident.

Hospital.

He’d been belligerent when he’d arrived at the emergency room. That much, he remembered. He’d stormed his way through the bays, looking desperately to find her.

Part of him now wishes he hadn’t.

It had taken five nurses to hold him back while another three attempted to restart her heart. He’s sure he screamed obscenities at the staff keeping him from her as he yanked and pulled against them all. He fought, he kicked, he pulled, and he now thinks it was a minor miracle that no one did anything more drastic to get him out of the building.

Perhaps it was because he had still been decked out in his full combat kit. It must have been frightening enough to try and subdue a man as large as he was, let alone one that was loaded to the teeth with weapons.

He doesn’t remember much of what happened after that. Just the lengthy, ear-splitting screech of the monotone heart monitor attached to her body, coupled with him shoving medical staff out of the way to take over doing some form of CPR.

He doesn’t remember how long it took for him to stop.

To give up.

To collapse next to the gurney.

But he does remember that it was Price that got him there, with a soft hand on his shoulder and a quiet “that’s enough, son”. When his captain and the rest of the task force had gotten to the hospital, he didn’t know.

Had they seen him struggling with the nurses? Had they overheard him screaming at the woman on the table, begging her not to leave him?

If they had, they never mentioned it.

In fact, they didn’t speak much at all. Simple questions, a couple of quick “I’m sorry”s, but not much else.

Just as well. He didn’t feel like talking anyway, and even if he did, he was too far disassociated to string together anything coherent. He vaguely remembers funeral arrangements being made, vaguely remembers staying at Price’s place and having Soap deliver clothes and other necessities for him from the home he’d once shared with her. Ghost couldn’t bring himself to go on his own - the memories alone threatened to suffocate him. He wasn’t sure he could handle the physical evidence of her absence.

It’s backwards, he thinks now as he stands next to an open grave.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

As he stares at her casket, he thinks back to when he’d watched from the shadows as a crowd had gathered to pay their respects to his mother.

And Tommy.

And Beth.

And little Joseph.

This time, he’s front and center. Right next to where her body lay.

His stomach turns.

He may as well be there with her, he realizes.

Only a small shred of Simon Riley had remained after the deaths of his family; one she’d managed to cradle in her hands and grow until it felt like a part of him again. A part of him other than Ghost.

That part of him is gone now. Simon Riley died with her in that emergency room. He had died as soon as Ghost had stopped the chest compressions and fallen to his knees.

Only Ghost remains now.

He knows those close to him can see it; he’s rarely been alone for too long since she left him. He goes through the motions - eats when Price puts food in front of him, showers when ordered to, sleeps when his body collapses in exhaustion. He doesn’t know if he’s spoken much more than one-word sentences since the incident, nor does he care. Even now, as people line up to offer condolences, he only nods in response.

He thinks that if he hears the phrase “I’m sorry for your loss” one more time, he’s going to kill someone.

As he stares at the casket lid separating him from her, he sees his future clearly - there is no other path left for him. He will throw himself into the task force, volunteering for whatever borderline-suicidal missions the brass hands down. He will do this again, and again, and again, as many times as he needs to, until finally the universe takes pity on him.

He will become the prized fighting dog he knows he can be, and he will cause as much destruction as he needs to until someone finally puts him down.

He has lost her in this life. He’s ready to move on to the next one, ready to begin the search for her again.

He doesn’t realize that the rest of the funeral-goers have left until he blinks and realizes it’s now too dark for him to see the grave in front of him. He doesn’t feel anything, though he’s sure his voice cracks under the weight of his words when he apologizes to the open air.

Part of him wants to scream, to bellow out into the night about how wrong all of this is. But he doesn’t. Ghosts don’t tend to scream in ways others can hear.

Instead, he stalks away to his car, gets in, and drives slowly out of the graveyard.

Ghost isn’t fully in control of his movements, but he can’t bring himself to care. He isn’t quite sure why, but he gets a can of gasoline and travels down a road he’s intimately familiar with.

An indeterminate amount of time later after emptying the can, he stands in a yard, staring at a building he can’t bring himself to go inside of anymore.

And he strikes a match.

#is this barely-comprehensible? Maybe #do i care? no #have simon going insane with grief #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost scribbles

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thewritetofreespeech · 5 months

Note

Can I request JJK men doing kabedon on the reader?

‘I’m late! I’m late! I’m late!’ You curse in your head over & over as you try to rush down the hall. Like if you chanted it enough times it wouldn’t be true.

Your alarm hadn’t gone off, so you were running late to classes. Barely enough time to put yourself together and make it out the door. Yaga-sensei was going to kill.

“Hey [Y/N]!”

You were barely able to skid to a stop when Satoru came around the corner in front of your path. The grin on his face made it clear that this wasn’t a happy accident. He had been planning to ‘run into you’ there. “Not now Gojo! I’m going to be late!”

“Ehhh? You? Late? What’s the world coming to??”

You glare at Satoru and try to get past him quickly, but his long arm snatched you up and spun you around to pin you to the wall. “Hey now. What’s the rush? You’re already late, right?”

That grin on Satoru’s face never left. In fact, it crawled up higher as he leaned in closer to you. His lanky height towering over you as if he made it a point to use all of it against you. “I…I don’t want to be later than I already am.” Your face must have been beet red. It certainly felt hot.

Satoru hummed once, then seemed to take pity on you and let you go. Releasing you from the cage he had built for you and taking a step back. “Run along then, I guess. If you need a note from a teacher let me know.” He gave you a little wave, and another smirk, and you felt a shudder go up your spine before you sprinted off again. Arriving to class flushed, and not just from the run.

This was Toji’s favorite position to have you in. Except of course the ones where you are laying down.

His large body pinning you against the wall of the corridor. A wall of flesh. No, more than that. Walls were static and flat. Toji was more fluid. Like a cat, a big jungle cat. One of those big cats you had seen on TV in one of those nature documentaries. The ones that are just poised to strike their prey. Coiled back. All muscle and compressed energy. This tense in the air of waiting for them to strike, and that any sudden movement might trigger a response.

That was what you felt like pinned against the wall by Toji. He was the big cat waiting to strike, and you were his unwitting, but willing, pretty.

“You wanna get out of here?”

To entranced by the moment (the tension, his smell, those muscles) all you can do is nod. That was all it took for Toji to pounce on you. Finally landing his strike. Not taking you anywhere but right in the alley.

“Hey [Y/N]! Can you come over here? There’s something I need to show you.”

You perk up and look around the corner, just in time to see Yuji put his phone in his pocket, before coming into the room. “What’s up?”

“Can you stand over here please?” He seemed a little nervous, but no more nervous than his usual keyed-up-Yuji-energy. So you oblige. Your back at the wall and looking at him. “Now lace your fingers together like this.” You arch a brow but comply, mimicking his movements. “Ok. Now inside fingers up!” You do it and then Yuji reached forward with his hand, grabbed yours, and lifted you linked fingers and arms over your head. Pinning your arms above you. “W’as up?”

A blush tinted your cheeks for a second before you snickered and just full on started laughing.

“You’re not supposed to laugh!” Yuji whined. Looking crestfallen his smooth moves didn’t work on you. “It went better in the TikTok….”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You apologies. Pulling Yuji in close for a hug by the waist. His face heating up now. “It’s just funny that you did all that build up for that. I wasn’t laughing at you. Do you want to try again? I promise I won’t laugh this time.”

“N-No…I think I like this better.”

“….I don’t get it….”

You return Megumi’s frown. Apparently, he wasn’t seeing the fun in it. “It’s supposed to be sexy….”

When your friend told you about the little stun Yuji had tried to pull on them, of course you wanted to try it with Megumi. Besties sharing besties and bestie tactics was one of the fun parts of your relationship. But Megumi wasn’t Yuji. So you shouldn’t have expected him to be on board immediately.

“I just don’t think it’s very sexy.” He replied. Releasing you from your very loose pinning. “I just feel like I’m trying to crush you. Or intimidate you. I don’t want to do that.”

“It’s not supposed to be ‘intimidating’.” Although you supposed that was sweet of him. Wanting to respect you and your space. “It’s supposed to be…sexy intimidating. You know, like dangerous.”

“Our lives aren’t dangerous enough?”

“Not like that.” This was getting a little exasperating. Finally you sighed and just announce, “here. Let me show you.” You quickly change places with Megumi, before he can object, and pin him against the wall. With your height difference you have to start with his shoulders, since you couldn’t just put your arm by his head like you’re supposed to, pressing them hard against the wall and letting him slump a little before putting your arm up beside his head. “See. Like that.”

Your boyfriend didn’t say anything. His eyes just a little wide. The tips of his ears a little pink, which was quickly flooding in on the rest of his face, before he brushed you off and stood upright again. “I…I think I get it now…”

You smirk at his reaction and ask him, “want to try it again a little later? Maybe in your bedroom? On your bed?”

“N-No!” He barked back. But his bravado quickly dissipated and he muttered, “….maybe…”

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ohtobeleah · 2 years

Text

Radar // Bob Floyd

Summary: After Phoenix and Bob are forced to eject after a freak bird strike—the Top Gun class find out a little bit more about their quiet back seat weapons systems officer.

Word Count: 7.3k

Warnings: Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd paring. Jake ‘Hangman’ Sersin Antagonist Angst.

Author Note: Absolutely obsessed with Bob atm. Open to make this a concept train— Bobs just so pure. I could write about him forever. For the purpose of this fictional universe OS ranks over Lieutenant.

“Bird Strike!--” Phoenix shouted, the jet buffering for a second before swinging to the right. Alarms instantly began to blare, a warning light popping up with one of Bob’s biggest fears. Fire. looking behind him out to the left of the cockpit, Bob could feel the panic rising in his chest at the quickly escalating severity of the situation unfolding.

“Phoenix, left engines on fire.” Bob relayed what was going on, even though he knew Phoenix already knew from the amount of alarms ringing off.

“Climbing!” Phoenix shouted as she pulled back on the throttle. “Throttling back, shutting off fuel to the left engine, extinguishing fire.” Bob watched as the right engine began to diminish, not something you’d want to see at a time like this.

“Phoenix, right engines out I repeat! right engines out!”

“It's still spinning, trying to restart the right engine.”

“Phoenix it's on fire, don't try to restart it!” Maverick's voice came through the comms as Bob watched on from the back seat, his mind running wild. Was this how he was going to go out? Was this it? A fucking Bird Strike? Bob's mind was blurred with images of you, your smile, your laugh. He thought what you would do in a world post him, if you'd move on, if you’d ever have children. It was easy to live with ignorance, but in situations like these the certainty of death was all too confronting. Every small moment with you Bob treated it like it would be the last, not a second was taken for granted, because he knew that every time he climbed into that back seat ready for take off? He may not get to experience another.

“Throttling up!” Phoenix reported as she climbed a little higher trying to restart the engine, but it was to no use. The engines completely cut out, bursting into fire. Bob could feel the heat radiating behind him, panic setting in heavily.

“Phoenix we’re on fire, we’re on fire!” Bob shouted.

“Dammit–” Phoenix sighed, not sure what her next move was going to be, but whatever it was, she had to think fast. It wasn't just her life on the line, but her back seaters as well. Spinning out of control and hurtling towards the mountain range below, Mavericks voice came over the comms once again.

“Phoenix, Bob, punch out now, punch out!” Maverick shouted in desperation.

“There's warning lights everywhere Phoenix, were in hydraulic failure.” Bob reported, his mind made up–but he had to wait for Phoenix to confirm they were punching out.

“I can't control it–” Phoenix panicked as she pulled and pushed the throttle she gripped in her hands, trying to control the fall.

“We’re going down Phoenix, we’re going in where going in!” Bob repeated. Automated warning signals blasting throughout the cockpit.

“You can't save it, eject, eject!” maverick called. The three words of confirmation finally left Phoenixes mouth, Bob let out a heavy sigh as he grabbed his eject handles.

“Eject, eject, eject!” Phoenix shouted.

“Ejecting–” Bob replied, pulling harshly on his cords, only to smack into the lid of the cockpit on his way out. Shooting high into the sky in a picnic. His shoot had come loose. “Shit!” Bob panicked as he fell free towards the ground below, working frantically to pull his shoot to slow down. Only when doing so did it jerk him up fast, compressing his torso until he let out a blood curdling groan, blacking out as he descended to the ground.

—---

It was hard to get a read on Bob Floyd. His call sign was his nickname—short for Robert. Just plan, simple Bob. The other pilots at Miramar for the life of them couldn’t get a read on him. Bob was quiet and in all aspects, reserved. They kinda just decided as a collective unit to throw the call sign Bob back at him because in all honesty? Bob didn’t really try all that hard to give them any sort of personality.

He was simply a back -seater. A weapons system’s officer who was damn good at his job and just so happened to be in love with the Miramar Operations Specialist. His darling wife of two blissful years and best friend of five, Bob Floyd held that card close to his chest. Just as close as his wedding band strung around his dog tags, tucked under his flight suit.

Your name was Renée Spencer-Floyd, but everyone just called you by your call sign. Radar. To be fair, you and Bob couldn’t help but to laugh some nights. It had to have been the hyphenated last name that threw people off your scent. And to give a smidge of credit Floyd was a pretty common last name. So to have Spencer-Floyd and Floyd at Miramar at the same time? The reach wasn’t all that far.

“Well, there doesn't seem to be anything broken besides the few busted ribs Lieutenant Floyd, but I would like to keep you both overnight for observations. You know–” Doctor Chris tried to explain to the two obviously shaken aviators. “To be sure the signs of shock diminish and to double check that there's no internal bleeding anywhere.”

“Isn't that where the bloods supposed to be?” Bob tried to crack a joke, his ribs busted in three separate places from the impact of his shoot ripping him up, faulty– but still life saving. “Internal?”

“I guess you could put it that way.” Doctor Chris chuckled to himself as he quickly checked Bob’s pupils. One by one with a small flashlight. “You got any family we can call? A girlfriend perhaps?” Phoenix smirked to herself as she sat on the bed across the room, Bob didn't have a girlfriend did he? Surely he would have mentioned it.

“Uh, yeah actually, you could call my wife? She’s probably either not aware of what's happened or trying her best to manage expectations that she's cool, calm and collected one hundred percent of the time albeit while she's screaming on the inside.” Bob rambled, too afraid to look over at Phoenix.

“Wife got a name Bob?” Dr, Chris asked as he clicked his flash light back into the breast pocket of his coat. Pulling out a pen and notepad to write the details down.

“Uh, it's uh, OS Renee Spencer-Floyd–” Bob squinted at the squeal that left Phoenix’s mouth, her jaw dropping to the ground as Dr. Chris wrote down the details, leaving soon after to go contact you immediately about Bob's situation. There was a few months of silence before Bob had the courage to look over at Phoenix, still in shock. Not from the crash, but from the new revelations. “I don't wanna hear it.” Bob begged.

“You’re married!? More specifically to the OS!? Radar!? As in the radar, our all seeing eye in the sky?” Phoenix had always admired what you did just as much as you did her. “You and Radar are married?”

“For two years, yeah” Bob pulled out his dog tags that were tucked away into the pocket of his hospital gown. The nurse had made him take them off before he had his multiple x-rays, having given them back shortly after with his wedding band still strung around the chain. Holding it up so it spun in a small slow circle. “We both transferred over from Lemoore, try and stay as close as possible, whenever we can.”

“We've all been in a group together at the Hard Deck and not once have I seen either of you interact like any more than friends?” Phoenix questioned.

“How are you and Bob going?” Maverick asked as you sat with him at the bar. Sipping down the cold beer Penny had offered you as you sat. The pair of you had just made your way over from being briefed about this highly classified, dangerous and in your professional opinion— ridiculously suicidal mission.

“We’re good.” you nodded, pressing your lips together as you let the bottle rest on the bar. “You know, trying to keep things quiet while we’re stationed here, a need to know basis type quiet.” Pete Michell had always seen you as the daughter he never had, always keeping up to date with your life, both personal and professional.

“But if you had it your way he wouldn't be here right now would he?” Maverick smirked, watching as you looked over across the bar to where your husband sat, watching the other aviators play pool as he ate what you could only assume to be peanuts from a plastic cup. Taking the final sip of your first beer you quickly gestured at Penny for another, fishing some cash out of the pocket of your Naval skirt, accepting the fresh beer.

“After that briefing are you kidding me? Hell no, but I don't make the rules, do I?” you smirked, taking another sip, you still couldn't process what you had just been briefed on, but until you had a chance to sit down and really go through all the intricate details and program a simulation? You didn't want to think too much about it. Crossing the hard Deck you slowly approached your husband, god he looked good in his uniform. He always did.

“Is this seat taken?” you cooed, coming up beside Bob close enough to graze his shoulder. Small, undetected touches were always a go to for the pair of you, indiscrete but full of love and electricity. Turning to face you with a bright smile beaming Bob shoved over, making enough room for you to sit beside him. The blush across his cheeks made him feel like a teenager again, talking to girls was never a strong suit of his, but you always seemed to make it easy, well, as easy as it could be for a guy like Bob.

“Please, have a seat.” Bob replied softly. “When did you get in?” He asked curiously, drinking in the sight of you. Completely head over heels.

“I literally just got here, I went straight to the briefing room when I got off the plane.” you explained, having had to take a separate flight to Bob. “I feel like my heads going to explode.” You took a sip of your beer as Bob bummed your side.

“That bad huh?” he questioned, taking a sip of his own beverage— a cup of ice water. You nodded in response with a small sigh. Looking at Bob, he could see the worry swirling around in your eyes. “A need to know basis I’m assuming?”

“The Admiral will brief you and the guys tomorrow.” you smiled softly. Feeling a presence coming towards you. Catching your attention as you took just one more sip of your beer. “All due respect though–” you paused for a moment, drinking in the sight of your husband, taking into the bottle neck of your beer discretely. “If I had it my way, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.” Bob understood where you were coming from, he never really had to worry about you being in life threatening danger as much as you did. More often than not you were stationed stateside, and when you weren’t? You mostly stuck to patrol boats, the non-combatant type that just sailed the seas on reconnaissance. Bob knew that after this mission was over you’d both had a total of two blissful months together before new stations were sent out, so in his mind? Any time he got to spend with you was a blessing, no matter the danger.

“And with all due respect, ma’am.” Bob teased, his fingers dancing discreetly with the hem of your naval skirt, his eyes roaming your face, taking in all the features, all the beautiful flaws that made you perfect in every respect. “I'm just thankful that I get to be stationed in the same place as you.” you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you smirked.

“And who would this lovely lady of the sea be?” Jake Seresin, you'd heard rumours but never had you ever had to encounter the man who had an ego the size out Mt Everest. “Bob? Care to introduce us to your friend here? One of Top Guns finest i presume?”

“Uh–” Bob stammered over his words as he cleaned peanut crumbs from his uniform. “This is uh–um i–” rolling your eyes as you chuckled as you stood, holding your hand out for Jack to shake.

“OS Renee ‘Radar’ Spencer-Floyd.” you introduced yourself. “I presume it's Hangman?” you saw the colour slightly fade from Jack’s face as he shook your hand. “Nice to meet you, and the rest of the Top Gun class.” you gestured to those who stood around the pool table.

“You're our operations specialist?” Jake questioned with a hint of disbelief in his tone. “God damn we’re all doomed boys.” Jake smirked, biting his bottom lip as he eyes you up and down.

“Not if I have anything to do with it.” you replied, slightly annoyed at the misogynist undertone Hangman had given you.

“Well, I'm keen to get to know more about you, so how about we go out to dinner sometime, you can tell me all about what it is you actually do and I can tell you how dangerous it is to fly fighter jets for a living?” You generally wanted to gag. Not only could you not process the severity of this mission but now you had Jake Hangman Seresin hitting on you in front of the class you had to get home safe to their families but also your husband. Rolling your eyes you handed Bob your beer.

“Listen, Hangman, I'm flattered really, but–” you paused, feeling Bob's hand slipping up and down the back of your thigh gently, complete secrecy to his gentle touch. “I've got my hands full right now keeping you all alive and you really really arent my type.”

“Are you not into pilot's Radar?” Hangman questions, trying to read you as you chuckled and sat back down next to Bob.

“Weapons systems officers are more my type.” you teased, Bob couldn't hold his drink in as he splattered a cough. Shocked, you'd be so bold. The group laughed at the way Bob reacted to your comment.

“Well you're in luck Radar, Bob here's a weapons systems officer.” Coyote pointed out, having no idea you already knew.

“We are friends.” Bob agreed wholeheartedly before correcting Phoenix a little. “Well technically she's my best friend but I mean you get the drift.” Bob couldn't help but to smirk. It hit a little harder then Phoenix expected it to, thinking back to what Maverick had said earlier in the week.

“Dont tell me, tell his family.'' At the time Phoenix didn't know Bob’s family, but the fact you were Bob’s wife, changed everything.

“Holy shit– I can't believe it, you and the radar!” Phoenix clapped her hands as she slightly giggled to herself. “Woah, that's got me, I'm too stunned to speak.” Bob let out a small scoff, looking down at his feet.

“Yeah well, we don't really like to mix our personal and professional lives all that much.” Bob explained. “Hence why we don't really announce our relationship, our marriage to the entire navy. Just a small need to know group.” Bob explained as Phoenix listened, understanding wholeheartedly.

“Well thanks for letting me in.'' Phoenix smiled softly from across the room, Bob simply pressed his lips together and nodded in response, nervous for you to find out. “How long have you two been together?” Phoenix tilted her head to the side, waiting for Bob to respond.

“All up? It will be seven years this August, and boy has time stood still with her.” Beside his job as a weapons system officer, Phoenix had never really heard Bob speak about anything else so passionately. It was like a flood gate had been let open. “I’m telling you Phoenix, that woman?” Bob smiled bright from across the room. “Is the absolute love of my life, so thank you for allowing me to come home to her one more day.” Bobs thank you was as sincere as it could be. Tears in his eyes as he held his emotions in.

“Radar seems like a really nice person Bob, I'm glad you have someone to go home to, especially after today.” Phoenix smiled softly, feeling confident in her choices today, the ones that led to both her and Bob both still being alive and breathing and most importantly, both in one piece. “She's quiet though? like you.”

“She's passionate too, loves her job Phoenix, she’s probably in that communications office yelling at the Admiral about something that needs to be altered or changed completely to keep us all safe up there.” Bob chuckled, knowing you were always fighting for everyone else. “Hell she’d challenge anyone to keep pilots safe, she doesn't believe in suicise missions.”

“Does she think this one is?” Phoenix asked sheepishly. “Does she think this missions a suicide mission?” Bob was quiet for a second or two, knowing how you felt about this one.

“She knows that there's a possibility someone won't be coming home, but, she's trying her best to make sure we all do, whoever ends up going.”

—--------

You weren't aware of what happened. You were in the middle of an operation that required all of your focus, time, and most importantly your expertise.

“Two minutes and fifteen seconds is an impossible time to match, with the combination of the steep climbs and the fact whoever flys this mission is going to have to withstand incredibly force, i highly recommend pushing to two thirty–”

“Unbelivable–” Admiral Bates groaned. “You played whatever stupid game on the beach with the aviators and got close!” Admiral Bates was up in your personal space in the commander's station. A dark room full of radars and operations systems. you felt your mind escaping back, not the the beach because of the dogfight football, but for something else, someone else. Bob.

“So—“ you cooed, walking with Bob up the beach along the water’s edge. “I'm a little pressed you didn’t take your shirt off.” you sighed playfully. Bob couldn’t hold back a laugh as he smiled bright, turning to you as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Oh yeah, no I uh—I didn’t want to bruise Hangman’s ego.” Bob teased kicking the water that lapped around his ankles. “You know, with how absolutely ripped I am.” You chuckled in response, letting the conforming silence fall between the pair of you. “Still would have enjoyed the show-“ you smirked, thinking about the way Bob felt, his warmth, his touch. “I think Rooster might be onto us–” Bob interjected with a worrisome tone. His fingertips danced with yours as you walked side by side. “I think he saw you sneaking into my bunk the other night.” you couldn't help the scoff that left your mouth. Nodding in response.

“Oh yeah, caught me red handed, but I told him the next morning we were doing paperwork–”

“Paperwork?” Bob questioned. “You couldn't have come up with any other excuse?”

“I was caught off guard!” you laughed, defending yourself as you bumped Bob's side, him doing the same to you with his hip. “Besides, if anyone was to know, I think Rooster would be the absolute least of our concerns.”

“Since when does Bob talk to girls?” Coyote couldn’t help but lock onto the pair of you as you walked up the beach. Rooster watched as you bumped into Bob before he bumped back into you. Laughing loudly. “I mean they were stationed at Lemoore together so maybe he’s just comfortable with her?” Rooster mentioned, sparking a questioning look from Coyote.

“What?”“Who told you that?” Coyote pressed, crossing his arms as he watched on.

“Radar did? We had lunch in the mess the other day, just ran into her, why?” Rooster explained as he watched Bob try to trip you up. Thinking back to when he had caught you sneaking into Bob bunk, he was sure paperwork did not involve the things he heard, but for what it was worth? Go Bob.

“Bob told me they’d never met before until last Thursday—“ Coyote questioned, dumbfounded at the sight he was seeing as Bob made you scream like a teenager as he wrapped his arms around your waist, tackling you gently into the water.

“I knew taking a chance on you was almost as incredibly risky as taking a chance on Maverick—at least he lives up to the expectations set for him.” Admiral Bates hissed your way, throwing insult after insult at you as you stood your ground. You’d run the systems, done the checks, done the math and the numbers, the risk to reward ratio wasn’t adding up. Rolling your eyes you proceeded with your judgment call, having simulated the mission over and over and over again.

“This is my professional opinion as an operations specialist, the numbers don't add up. It's gonna take one hell of a pilot to succeed and even then you have to accommodate for loss, he or she–” you hesitated for a moment. “Won't come home if you send them in at two fifteen.” you felt as if you were red in the face.

“I have no doubt in my mind that it is Radar, however, your judgment is skewed by the amount you have grown to know this class.” you could feel your heart racing. “They all accept this risks—“

“They all have families who love them?” You argued. “What excuse will be good enough when you tell them you had a choice to do this the right way and you pushed and pushed and pushed Admiral!” Slamming the stack of papers you held in your hand down on the table next to you in frustration. They never listened to you, a woman very much climbing the ladder in a man’s words.

“Those pilots have what it takes, Radar, it’s you who doesn’t have the faith—“

“It’s a god damn suicide mission!” You shouted, anger coursing through your veins. “And if you think it's doable, admiral, how about you fly it?” you hissed, gritting your teeth as you held your ground. “All due respect sir, this mission as important as it may be it isn't worth putting people's lives in danger any more than they have to be, if i can help it, i will, and in my expert opinion on the subject you either need to increase the time limit or find a damn good pilot who’s willing to self sacrifice.” A knock at the door interrupted the heavy moment between you and Admiral Bates. Taking a step back and a heavy sigh, you answered to the request harshly. Rooster popping his head through before standing to attention.

“Admiral Bates, OS Spencer-Floyd.” Rooster stood to attention before you waved him down.

“At ease, what can we do for you lieutenant?” you questioned frustratedly, still trying to regulate your anger at the situation.

“May I have a word Radar? In private?” Roosters concern was as clear as day even in such a dimly lit room. It worried you instantly as you followed him out of the communications office into the corridor.

“What's wrong whats, hey–!” you hissed as Rooster dragged you down the hall into a nearby room. Empty. “Rooster!” You and Rooster had always been friendly, your dad knew his dad. They’d flown together on the SS Hammerlock, before Goose and Maverick were sent to Miramar. Having always known each other, always finding comfort in each other’s presents. Rooster had always had a hunch you and Robert Floyd were slightly more than then friends, especially after he’d seen you and Bob leaving the Hard Deck together late one night after a few too many beers on the old timer, and even more so once he’d seen the way you and Bob interacted on the beach. And his suspensions were almost one hundred percent confirmed when he’d caught you red handed doing “paperwork” with Bob in his bunk. Almost as if you were still on your honeymoon, totally consumed and infatuated with one another. You and Bob were always careful about your levels of public displays of affection—but sometimes? You had to sneak a kiss or two in. Or in this case, Take ever inch he could give. Rooster had always had his suspicions, you and Bob were somewhat glued to the hip, best friends. Husband and wife.

“It's Bob'' Rooster signed, his hands coming down to slide across his face, pulling at his skin. “It's Bob, Renee.” Your heart sunk into your stomach, shit he had training today didn't he? Did something go wrong? Was he okay? Fuck, you could feel your face heating up, your heartbeat began to race as your voice cracked.

“What's– what's Bob got to do with me?” you asked, still trying to keep your composure. “Wouldn't–”

“A call came in from the Miramar Hospital–” you stopped listening after you heard the word hospital. Question after question spiraled uncontrollably out of your mouth. Rooster had just so happened to be passing by the administration office on base, one of the receptionists had kindly asked him to go find you. Fill you in on the situation. You were lucky it was Rooster who had been passing by, not someone like Hangman who would have spread this shit like wildfire.

“Hospital? What do you mean hospital Rooster? What happened? Is Bob okay?--” your mood instantly shifting to panic mode. Rooster interrupted you by placing his hands over your shoulders, looking his eyes on yours as he spoke as calmly as he could. Trying to keep you from panicking too much, grounding you by touch.

“There was an accident during the training session, Bob and Phoenix had to eject, that's it, that's all, he's alive, he's in one piece, but a Dr. Chris? called looking for Floyds emergency contact Renee, said Bob had asked for his wife to be contacted?” Rooster let his question hang in the air as you tried to read his concern, ultimately landing on the only possible explanation. The truth. Pulling out your dog tags from your naval uniform, you showed Rooster your wedding band. “Holy Shit–”

“Spencer-Floyd, Rooster, it's not rocket science.” You chuckled to yourself as you shook your head. “But it sure wasn't hard to keep a secret.” you smirked, tucking your tags back into your uniform. “Now can you save your questions for when you drive me over to the hospital?”

“You want me to drive you?” Rooster questioned. “I just came in here for like—damage control you know, I thought you’d want this to stay under wraps?” You didn’t have to ask again as a small sob escaped your mouth before you covered it with shaky hands. Tears forming in your waterline. Rooster pressed his lips together, nodding gently. “Okay, okay, I’ll drive you, c’mon Radar—let’s get you outta here ma’am“ rooster scooped you inside his arm as he led you out.

“Fuck this hurts—“ you sobbed. “You said he’s okay right?” You mumbled through your breaking composure. Your head, hanging low. “I don’t think I could handle it if he wasn’t.” Your mind was wandering back through your life spent with Bob. A rolodex of memories playing through your mind, you couldn’t stop them—you didn’t want to stop them. “Bob—“ you sobbed a little louder this time.

“He’s okay, I promise I wouldn’t lie to you.” Rooster led you all the way out to his truck, opening the passenger side door for you like the true gentleman he was. “Mrs Floyd.” He gestured as he opened the door for you, noticing the small almost undetectable smirk on your face as he did so. “So—“ Rooster started his truck and got to work. “Why Bob? If you don’t mind me asking?” Rooster focused on the road ahead. His glasses dark against the sun of Miramar.

“Why Bob? Don’t you think that’s a loaded question?” You replied as you thought of an answer. Sniffling. “He’s just Bob, has been for years I guess. That’s kinda what drew me to him, his naturally reserved nature, the quietness, but boy is he smart and funny and oh, he hates reptiles and amphibians because they freak him out and it’s just—“ you caught yourself spewing your guts as Rooster smiled as he drove. “Sorry, too much.” You mumbled, looking out the window as the desert turned to small in a middle of nowhere town.

“Hey I asked, so please, continue.” Rooster gestured as you repositioned in your seat. Thinking about Bob, hoping he was without a single scratch. “Besides, now I know lizards are gonna be a good prank.”

“You know Bradley—“ you paused for a moment, remembering just how wonderful your wedding day was. An elopement in your parents backyard with your family and Bobs. So simple and so small but exactly how you pictured it. “Someday, someone is gonna come into your life….and they are going to love every single atom of your being. They’re gonna adore every little thing about you. The way that you eat, the way that you smell, the way that you put your cold toes on them in the bed when they’re nice and toasty.” You turned to face Rooster, knowing it never really worked with anyone before. “And it’s gonna make so much sense why it never really worked with anyone else.”

“Does Bob love every atom of your being?’ Rooster replied as he turned the next corner. Nodding gentle re responded quietly.

“Every single one, so if he's not okay, please–”

“I know as much as you do Radar, he's alive.” Rooster cooed letting the silence linger for a moment before he was at it again. “So like, what's with the ginger and rice?” you couldn't help but to break out into a loud obnoxious laugh, looking over your shoulder at Rooster who wore curiosity well.

“It's an old wise tail, fresh ginger and white rice, apparently it helps settle your stomach.”

“Why doesn't he just eat a banana if he's got a weak constitution?” Rooster countered.

“Why would he eat a banana?” you questioned. Smirking as you waited for Rooster to reply with surely some smart ass remark.

“It tastes the same coming up as it did going down.”

——————

The moment you stepped foot into the general admissions area of the Miramar hospital, every single pair of eyes turned to look at you as you stood a few inches short of Rooster. Stopping dead in your tracks as you faced the class of Top Gun, all wearing the same expression of confusion on their faces.

What the hell is the OS doing here?

“Go, ill do my best to cover–” Rooster leaned in and whispered softly in your ear. Nodding with your lips pressed together, you headed over to the nurses station, Rooster heading towards a very curious class.

“I'm looking for Robert Floyd?” you were quiet in your request to the nurse who sat behind the glass. Chewing her gum that was probably the only thing she had time to eat in the past nine and a half hours. But you weren't quiet enough for the prying ears of Hangman, who’d somehow managed to slip past Rooster and follow you over to the nurses station, lingering behind you as you spoke. “Im his wife–”

“I'm sorry, what did you just say?” Hangman's voice scared the shit out of you, causing you to jump in fright as you turned to face him. Looking at Rooster over his shoulder, all he could do was shrug his shoulders in defeat.

Good one you idiot, you couldn't help but to sigh his way.

“Since when are you and Bob married, since when does Bob talk to girls, he barely talks to me?”

“Why would anyone willingly talk to you Hangman?” Rooster chimed in, coming to your defense. “In this moment Radar is still our OS, know your rank before you dig yourself a deeper hole to climb out of man.” Rooster turned to you, jerking his head slightly to tell you to leave. Wasting no time, you turned on your heels and ran down the hall, counting the room numbers that passed you by. The group followed shortly behind.

“What the hell is going on here?” Coyote questioned, all he was here for was to check up on Phoenix and Bob, his head wasn't processing why you were here. This didn't seem like a situation you as an OS needed to be involved in. “Why's radar he– oh damn, Bob pulled.” The group went absolutely silent as they finally reached Bob's room, you'd flung yourself over him as he laid in his hospital bed, sitting up with the covers pulled up over his legs reading some random book one of the nurses gave him. A true library dweller.

“You scared the hell outta me Bob!” you whispered into the crook of his neck, letting go as he groaned from the pressure you'd placed on his stomach, your eyes growing wide at the face he pulled. “What, what have I not been told?”

“It's nothing i promise, i'm good.” Bob led. “Just a few broken ribs to remember the moment.” you audibly gasped, sitting back in the chair you'd wasted no time in pulling to his bedside.

“I was in the command office, I didn't know you'd been in an accident–” you tried your best to explain, Bobs hand came to rest over yours, squeezing softly.

“Not a serious one, I'm all good here bub, you don't have to worry.” Bob was calmer than you, more level headed, if only you'd seen the way he reacted in the backseat of Phoenix's aircraft this morning. Then you wouldn't have thought he was so level headed. “I'm still here, hey i'm not going anywhere, without you by my side.” Bob cooed, his hand lifting your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your palm.

“This was too close this time–” you held back your tears, taking a deep breath and looking up to the ceiling. “Too close Bob, I hate the feeling I got when Rooster told me a call came in from Miramar hospital, I hate the emptiness and the not knowing if you were really okay.”

“Its our job Radar.” you smirked at the call sign, Bob never really called you by your call sign when it was just the two of you. “It's the risk we take.”

“Yeah but you aren't a job to me, you're my best friend, my husband for god sakes, every other person waiting out there is a job to me, but they still have friends and family who love them, who need them to be safe.” you explained as you looked into Bob's eyes, swimming with love for you. “You are and will never be a job to me, the quicker you understand that, Lieutenant, the quicker we can be on the same page going forward.” Bob chuckled as you leaned in to place a small and gentle kiss against his lips. Smirking against yours as he chuckled. The moment pure and fleeting, the way Bobs lips felt against yours was like a drug you’d become addicted to.

“Yes ma’am, understood.” Bob kissed you back a little harder, a little hungrier for the taste of you after having faced the possibility of never coming home to you again. “Not a job—“ silence fell over the pair of you as you pulled back, sinking into your chair with a sigh of relief. Knowing Bob was truly okay had you let out a breath of air you didn’t know you’d been holding in. Looking at the love of your life so vulnerable lying in that hospital bed when he was usually way up in the sky.

“I never told you this—“ you began, feeling a presence behind you, Rooster, Hangman, Coyote. “But I was in love with you long before I first told you.” It was an admission to the audience that had formed behind you, not just to Bob. “Hell, I’m pretty sure before you were sent to Top Gun the first time.”

“Renee—“ Bob tried to interrupt, but you kept speaking.

“From the very first second I saw you smile at me, I knew I was hooked for the rest of my life.” You let out a small chuckle. Looking at Bob looking at you. “If you ever don’t come home, that’s it, I’m nothing without you—so if you and Phoenix end up flying this mission, you better come home to me or I’ll be furious with you Robert Floyd.” You chuckled together, Bob nodding in response as his eyes wandered to the crowd behind you.

“I gather you’ve all met my wife?” Bob smirked at his team. Jaws wide open in shock. Questions after questions rattling around in their brains. “This doesn’t change a single thing—“

“It absolutely does Bob.” Hangman pushed forward. “How do we know you won’t go on this mission because dear old Radar here puts in a good word? Huh?” You scoffed in disbelief. “It all makes way too much sense now—“

“If I had it my way none of you would be flying this mission especially Bob—it’s a suicide mission Hangman.” You hissed, standing from where you sat next to your husband. “Day in day out, all I do is run this damn mission, over and over again and it’s never good enough to keep you from being the latest naval statistic.” You groaned. “Not even your egotistical arse.”

“It’s true—“ Rooster chimed in. “I heard Radar kinda giving Admiral Bates a piece of her mind before I knocked, they want us to run a time of two fifteen—Radar wants to push for more.” You stood silent, squaring your shoulders at Hangman who grit his teeth, looking down at you slightly as he towered over you.

“Let’s not forget, I’ve never left a single soul out to dry, we all know if Bob had been in your backseat he wouldn’t be here right now, so don’t test my limits lieutenant—Bob might be my husband but I know for damn sure he’s just a worthy as you think you are to be chosen for this ridiculous mission, he doesn’t need me blowing smoke up his ass—hence why we don’t disclose our relationship publicly.” You couldn’t help but let your emotions get to you. This whole situation had you sick to your stomach. Especially since you’d already had a blow out with Lieutenant Seresin previously.

“There’s more than one way to fly this mission—“ it was the combination of Rooster’s low baritone, the seriousness in his tone and the way his eyes held a deeper need for validation that had you standing a little taller, shoulders a little more pulled back. Mavrick had just told Phoenix to have a good enough excuse to tell Bob‘s family why she didn’t anticipate the next turn. One they would accept at the funeral. It got to you, got to Bob.

“How do you propose we go about it?“ pilot input was always incredibly important to you, especially when designing and coordinating mission flight sequencing. As Rooster looked you dead in the eyes ready to explain, Hangman couldn’t shut his mouth to save his own life.

“You really don’t get it—“ he hissed, turning to Rooster. “On a mission like this a man flies like Maverick here, or a man does not come back.” Chewing his gun too obnoxiously for your liking, Hangman took the moment to turn to where Phoenix sat. “No offence intended.”

“And yet somehow? You always manage—“ You smirked at how instinctively Bob had Natasha’s back. Smirking softly as you peered his way, making eye contact with your husband as he turned back to face you at the front of the class. Smirking back, Bob lowered his head to focus. “You’ve left two of your wingmen behind in the past 72hrs—“

“Three—“ you corrected Bob. “The back seater is included in Hangman’s casualty list.” Bob could hear the sadness in your tone the way you looked at him like he hung every single star in the sky just for you. It was hard to hide the disappointment you felt that someone who was meant to look out for your husband would leave him behind. “Three lives lost and for what? A failed mission.”

“There’s a reason why Bob here is a black seater.” Hangman interrupted, managing your expectations of him. “You have to be at least this tall to sit upfront.” It was childish, The way Hangman held his hand about three centimeters above the ground. “Isn’t that right Bobby Boy?”

“Don’t take this out on me, your egos been all out of whack since Radar turned you down at the Hard Deck—“ you were Bob's wife, point blank.

“It is absolutely imperative that you act like a team, a family, for this mission, otherwise? someone won’t come home, and you’ll have to carry that weight. Every day, every night.” You explained with as much seriousness as you could muster. Finding a slight gap before Hangman could make a comeback. “I can’t stress that enough.”

“It’s not my problem they can’t keep up—“ Hangman smirked, sinking into his chair as he tapped his own against his paper. That was probably then when your final very thin straw broke.

“Hangman—“ you began, walking closer as the heels clicked against the concrete of the empty hanger turned classroom. Arms behind you. “What is it that you think is so special about you that puts your life above every other person in this room?” You questioned, leaning in over his desk as you got in his face. “Because quite frankly the way I see it is those people who can’t keep up will end up being the ones who save your sorry ass when you take a wrong turn and end up needing support—“

“It’s incredibly hard to take advice from a non-combatant.” Hangman hissed. Bob's ears pricked as he sat up a little straighter.

“Watch it Bagman—“ Bob grumbled. “Radars—“ Bob went in to defend you, but before he could? Hangman was interrupting with a snicker.

“Oh sorry Floyd, don’t you think your girlfriend here can’t handle it?” Hangman teased, chewing his bottom lip as he turned back to you. Standing tall once again. “C’mon sunshine don’t pretend you can roll with the big boys.” You chuckled, smirking slightly as you looked around to the class—all eyes on you including Mavericks.

“Lieutenant Seresin, I have zero tolerance for pilots who think reckless endangerment is a damn personality trait.” You spoke firmly. “If there isn’t a dramatic attitude change in the next five seconds I will make sure come hell or high water you will be removed from this program no matter who good you think you are, and I will make sure that no commanding officer will want to work with you—“ spied briefly, leaning in once again. “Do I make myself clear?” You hissed through gritted teeth. It was completely silent on Hangmana behalf, you could hear a feather drop. “Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear!?” You shouted.

“Yes OS!” Hangman repeated. Sinking into his set. Turning on your heels you Gave Maverick and all knowing look—he knew it and you knew it more, Jake Seresin wasn’t the right fit to fly this mission.

“C’mon hangman, we all know it’s just the ego taking—“ Bob interrupted. “All those times you’ve made a move and yet somehow, you never noticed she was taken.” Bob chuckled.

“If you weren’t in a hospital bed right now I’d put you in one—“ Hangman hissed, you held your hand out against his chest—stepping in front of his path towards Bob.

“Don’t make this worse, walk it off—that’s an order.” Your eyes were cold as ice as you ordered Hangman to step outside. “Go—“ Bob watched on as you used your authority. It kinda got him going. Never really one to see you get so worked up. But the two most recent times he’d been present for? Had blood rushing to parts he only wished you had some time to give attention to. “You guys should go see Phoenix, I’m sure she’s waiting for you guys to check in on her?” It was more of an order than anything else. You wanted Bob all to yourself for a moment.

“Jesus—“ you sighed, sitting back into your chair, pulling yourself as close to Bob as you could. “What am I gonna do? I’m past damage control, this is a bloody shit show!” You groaned, your index finger and thumb coming to squeeze the bridge of your nose, releasing some pressure. Bob couldn’t help but to try and lighten to mood, smirking as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Would this be a bad time for me to mention I’m totally one hundred percent attracted to the way you just put Hangman in his place?”

***~***~***~***~**~

#bob floyd #top gun bob #top gun fandom #top gun fanfiction #bob floyd fanfiction #Robert Floyd #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fanfiction

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taizi · 8 months

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Ooh would you write a sequel to the one where Luffy tells the crew about Sabo and paints their flag, then Robin goes and calls Sabo to come n visit them??? 💕

sequel to this

Luffy is holding his hand so hard it’s beginning to hurt, but it doesn’t even cross Usopp’s mind to let go.

The man who boards them looks nothing like Luffy, or even Usopp’s memories of Ace. He’s very pale and fair-haired, with a graceful, willowy sort of frame that Usopp’s storyteller mind leaps to associate with princes and castles.

The man looks extremely nervous. He holds himself absolutely still with picture-perfect posture, like it was something drilled into him at a young age. Once his eyes find Luffy, they don’t look anywhere else.

He came alone. The solitary figure he strikes on the opposite side of the deck tugs at Usopp’s heart.

Robin makes a disapproving sound under her breath when he stays rooted where he’s at and strides across the grass to meet him.

“Sabo,” she greets him, holding out her hands. He seizes them with equal parts gratitude and desperation but he still doesn’t look at her.

Next to him, clustered as close as they are together, Usopp feels the jolt go through Luffy like a surge of electricity.

It was the name, Usopp thinks. None of them have said it out loud since that shocking conversation with Robin, which Luffy had absorbed without speaking for four very long minutes before bolting from the room to hide with Sunny on the figurehead for the rest of the afternoon.

Usopp tries to imagine being told his mother was alive, after growing up and apart from her for half his life. He tries to imagine the shock and disbelief, and how it would fold slowly into reluctant hope, and how much it would hurt to claw open a wound that’s ten years healed and how ready he would be to do exactly that if there was even a chance he might see her again.

Luffy lost Ace two years ago. It happened right in front of him. It happened in the worst, most traumatizing way it possibly could have. And it happened when his crew had been forced apart and flung to the far corners of the world and he was left to bear that impossible grief all alone.

Take care of him for me, Ace had said, smiling with his teeth beneath an unrelenting desert sun, all reds and golds and warmth.

Usopp holds Luffy’s hand tighter, the rubber skin and bones compressing in a familiar way beneath the unrelenting grip of his fingers.

The morning after The Conversation With Robin, all of them packed around a breakfast table laden with hearty biscuits and gravy, strip steak and eggs, and cinnamon rolls the size of their heads—Sanji’s unspoken spoiling of their captain after the previous afternoon’s bombshell; he even let Luffy try his coffee, which never fucking happens. They were all poised to do and say and be exactly what their captain needed, if he’d only give them a cue.

Luffy, for his part, breezed into the galley bright and early, like it was any other day, and he hadn't spent all of last night all by himself. He called out cheerful greetings, tussled playfully with Zoro, fought with Franky over the spicy potato hash, filled his plate, and then, in the red flag of all red flags, ate exactly zero bites of food before turning to Robin.

“Hey, Robin,” he said, “why didn’t Sabo come find me?”

The only sound in the kitchen was the unobtrusive steaming from the medley of pans on the stovetop and the sharp clunk of the glass Nami accidentally set down too hard.

Robin smiled at Luffy, the special way she smiled that was reserved solely for him. She grew an extra hand and nudged his plate towards him.

“I told you, captain,” she said. “He had amnesia. The only thing he remembered from his childhood was his desperation not to return to Goa Kingdom.”

“Retrograde amnesia is a medical condition,” Chopper piped up, desperate to be helpful. He’d been on the edge of his seat all morning, ready to fly to Luffy at the first tiniest indication that he should. “Several different things can cause it, like disease or injury, but it sounds like S—like his memory loss was probably caused by trauma.”

“Yeah,” Luffy said easily, accepting what they told him without question. He scooted food around on his otherwise untouched plate, expression giving nothing away. “But after that. Robin said that seeing Ace in the newspaper made him remember. That was two years ago.”

Dread sank in Usopp’s stomach like a stone. He glanced quickly around the table and found his friends’ faces mirroring what his own probably looked like.

“He didn’t come find me,” Luffy said. “Does he hate me?”

“No,” Zoro said at once, his tone a guarantee that it would be the last thing Sabo ever did if it was true.

“Why would you think that?” Sanji forced out between gritted teeth.

“Because I let Ace die,” their captain said frankly. “He was right in front of me and I couldn't save him. Now Sabo doesn’t want to see me.”

Everyone started talking at once, and Chopper upset his apple juice in his scramble to finally fling himself into Luffy’s arms, and Usopp decided that getting his ass beat by Mr. 4 and Miss Christmas hurt a hell of a lot less than this.

Robin rose gracefully and rounded the table. An extra arm bloomed out of the table to grip the back of Luffy’s chair and wrench it around, facing it towards her.

She kneeled and took his hands, and then her wrists grew hands so that she could hold Chopper’s little hooves too. But her eyes were all for Luffy when she said, “He loves you. He’s making a better world for you.”

Luffy stared back at her and finally his blank expression cracked. His mouth twisted a little, brows furrowing above shiny brown eyes.

“Then why didn’t he come?”

“Because despite your separation, you two are more alike than anyone could have guessed,” Robin said warmly. “And he’s afraid you hate him, too.”

And now they’re both here, standing beneath the cloudy sky, and Luffy—wild, relentless, unassuming Luffy—doesn’t seem to know what to do. He’s always the one who makes the first move, who barrels right in with a noisy laugh, but instead he just clutches at Usopp’s hand and presses his opposite shoulder into Zoro’s and drinks in the sight of the man across the deck.

Studying him, Usopp realizes. Recognizing him.

Then Luffy blinks, and the wetness in his eyes falls down his cheeks, and the blond man jerks like he’s been punched in the gut.

“I, um,” he says, digging hastily into one of his inner coat pockets, “I brought you something.”

He tosses the gift over and Luffy lets go of Usopp’s hand to catch it. It turns out to be an old brass monocular telescope, shining dully in Luffy’s hands. Worn and scuffed in quite a few places, easily decades old. Luffy studies it very quietly.

“All of my things were lost when my ship was shot down,” the man says. “Nothing could be salvaged. But that was in my pocket. It must have been important if it was the only thing I was carrying with me, so I kept it all these years.”

He tries on a smile. It pulls at the side of his face discolored and puckered by burn scars. It seems like a miracle he’s standing there and smiling at all.

“You wanted a telescope when we were kids, remember? I finally brought you one. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“Sabo took forever,” Luffy says. He sounds young.

It’s the way he sounded in Alabasta, when Ace showed up and interjected himself in the chase between the Straw Hats and Smoker’s men—like it was his body’s natural response to plant itself like a tree between Luffy and whatever danger was behind him. Luffy ran away laughing, bright and untroubled and certain of his safety.

Peak little sibling energy, Usopp had later thought wryly. It explained so much of who his captain was as a person to know he was the baby of his family of monsters and mad men.

Luffy sounds that way now, his face all screwed up, blotchy and streaked with tears.

“He took forever,” he says again, emphatic and bewildered and hurt. “I missed him so much and he was too busy being stupid to come tell me he’s alive. I thought—”

Robin steps out of the way in time to avoid being trampled when their guest moves the way a missile shot from a cannon moves. Luffy lurches forward, too, but he doesn’t have time to make it a single step before he’s being snatched up in bigger arms and hauled into an embrace that looks like it might leave a bruise. One gloved hand on the back of Luffy’s head cradles it against a broad shoulder and the other grips the back of Luffy’s jacket hard enough it starts to tear.

“Robin told me,” the man gasps, like he’s not getting enough air. “I don’t hate you, how could I hate you? You’re my brother. I’m so—I’m so grateful you survived, Lu. I don’t know what I would have done if you—if—”

He can’t say it, can’t speak the words into existence, as if the world would be a dark, unlivable place if Luffy weren’t in it. In that instant, Usopp understands this stranger completely.

Sabo pulls back, but only so he can hold Luffy’s head in his hands. Luffy goes on tiptoe to knock their foreheads together, a gesture Usopp has seen him do with his nakama, and always chalked up to Luffy’s weird feral energy. It’s a gesture that makes Sabo’s next breath sound like a sob. Or maybe a laugh.

Luffy laughs with him, wet and choked. Neither of them are self-conscious about the state of themselves. They sit right there, a graceless collapse into the warm grass, somewhat on top of each other like clumsy, half-grown wolf cubs.

Usopp feels a weight lifted. He thinks he must be smiling like an absolute idiot and his own eyes are definitely damp, but he’s unselfconscious, too. A person learns a thing or two about what appearances actually matter, sailing with this crew. And tears come easily when you live honestly, the way Luffy always has.

He’s rattling at a million words a minute now, speaking in an Eastern language Usopp is unfamiliar with—probably a regional dialect from the island he grew up on.

Sabo follows along effortlessly, interjecting now and then in the same language, but content, for the most part, just to listen to his little brother talk.

He absorbs every second of Luffy’s presence the same needy way plants unfurl to soak up sunlight.

#one piece #opfic #asl brothers #revolutionary sabo #monkey d luffy #god usopp #op #my writing #prompt #anonymous #asl bros #after this sabo sees the ASL flag in the galley and starts crying again #franky makes him one to take home

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