#or idk it must just be red frosting

[seeingivy]

sweet nothing

satoru gojo x f!reader

**part of my satoru as taylor swift songs series

content: talks of grief, references to hidden inventory arc, satoru just being in love, megs + tsumiki babies

an: giving love to one of the best songs on midnights. also idk where I procured this emo at like 1 in the afternoon but here we are

--

You give him the book after the two of you settle Megumi and Tsumiki into bed, in the few minutes of peace you and Satoru get before you both nestle into your shared bed. You hike your knees to your chest as he picks it up, a confused look meeting yours when he reads the title. 

“On Grief and Giving?” 

“I took Miki and Megs to the bookstore today and I thought you might like it.” 

“A book about grief? I’m not grieving.” 

You look over at him - sparkling blue eyes rimmed with red, the usual sparkiness in his voice gone for the past few days, and no smothering, smushy cheek kisses every morning. You scoot over and he opens his arm up, tucking you into his side. 

You whisper the words against his neck, your hands placed on his body, tracing out the lines of his biceps. 

“He doesn’t have to be dead for you to be grieving him, Satoru. The person we knew is dead and the reaction is all the same.” you whisper. 

Satoru frowns, his hand going back and forth on your lower back. You know he hates it, when you try to talk about it. When anyone does. 

“Just read a few pages. See if it’s your thing or not, okay?” 

He looks into your eyes for a few seconds before nodding, pressing a swift kiss to your cheek. And when you leave to drop Tsumiki and Megumi off at school the next day, he reads the first page and promptly stops. 

Grief stays the same size. Life begins to grow around it. 

He thinks it’s stupid. 

--

from y/n 

you: don’t forget to bring strawberries home for froggy cake please!! 

satoru: okay love. anything else? 

you: that big fat ass 

satoru: got it :D 

you: you ruined it. 

Tomorrow marks two years since Tsumiki and Megumi have been staying with you. And of course, in your ultimate corniness, you’ve convinced all three of them to make a cake with you. And because you can never say no to Tsumiki and Megumi’s suggestions, you’re making a strawberry froggy cake. Because Tsumiki wants to try to make a little frog with frosting and Megumi just wants to eat the strawberries off the cake. 

He makes a mental note to drop by the store on the way home from his meeting with the higher ups and then his parents. Maybe buy some balloons or flowers or something to accompany the strawberries you asked for. He knows you said it was supposed to be a lowkey thing, just the four of you eating the cake together, but your annoyance doesn’t beat your surprised face, so he must. 

Satoru stops by the coffee shop first, making it a clear point to be late to his meeting with the higher ups for a very stupid reason, and gets a sugary caramel latte. He can hear your voice in his mind - berating him for picking something so sweet - but persists anyway. 

And as he leans against the counter, waiting for the cup with Satoru scribbled on the side, he takes in the shop, watching the people going around. He had never been too big on people watching, but it’s Tsumiki's favorite pass time at the park, pointing out people's silly outfits or how close and far they’re sitting away from each other. 

He spots two little girls, making little beaded bracelets in the far corner while their moms both nurse a warm cup of coffee in their hands. They have their hands wrapped around the porcelain, like they’re sequestering the heat from the glass. 

On the left, a young couple, nervously twiddling their fingers and cracking their knuckles as they make conversation - cheeks glazed pink and wobbly voices marking their conversation. They’re both dressed nicer than usual, clearly trying to impress each other. 

And in the far corner, leaning against the chair, is Suguru Getou. 

He nearly sprints to the other side of the shop when he sees him. Short hair, a man bun tucked neatly at the back with weirdly misshapen bangs and brown eyes. He can feel his heart racing, pounding even and the perspiration growing on his clenched fists as he moves closer. 

And when he reaches their table, standing way too close and looking straight into his eyes, he realizes that this is not Suguru Getou. Instead, a kid that bears far too much resemblance to him. But his eyes are rounder, his nose isn’t as pointy, and he is not a murderer. 

Satoru takes off and runs straight out the store, forgetting about his cup of coffee that’s getting cold in the pickup area.

--   

Yaga and the higher-ups' voices drone out in the back, as Satoru wracks his head. 

Why did he think that kid was Suguru? Suguru is dead. 

And it only now occurs to him, that for all intents and purposes, he really does think he’s dead. But he knows he isn't because Satoru let him walk free. Because he had to clench his fists and swallow hard to walk away the last time he saw him. 

But the man he knows is dead. Your voice is echoing in his head. 

“Satoru, are you paying attention?” 

“I mean, not really.” 

They all pinch their noses and groan, starting the lecture he’s sure they were giving him all over again. And it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. 

We want you to take more missions, there aren’t that many special grade sorcerers available. We want you to spend more time teaching, you're not doing enough. A long list of we want, we want, we want. 

And when the higher-ups trail out of the meeting, disdainful looks on their faces, he turns back to Yaga, who frowns at him. The question is on his tongue. He can’t bring himself to ask it. 

Do you ever think you ask too much of me?

He understands. He tries to. That he is the strongest sorcerer, that there’s no one like him. That he may have infinity, but he knows they forget the inner parts of him aren’t untouchable. That he’s still a person, that he’s still soft. 

Tsumiki’s shiny report cards make him beam with joy, fighting with Megumi keeps him up at night, and getting to hold you at night is the only thing that keeps him grounded sometimes. 

That sometimes the smell of blood never leaves his nose no matter how hard he scrubs in the shower, that when he sees a boy who looks like Suguru, the wound he thought he patched over feels like it’s freshly bleeding. 

But that doesn’t matter, because…

“You should be taking more missions. People are getting spread really thin.” Yaga says, clearing the dust off his desk. 

…Because he’s the strongest. 

--

As he drags his feet to the Gojo estate, he can’t help but survey the crowd as he walks there. Three girls with the same hair color as Getou, two boys with the same eye color, five people the exact same height, but none of them are Suguru Getou. 

When he reaches his parents house, pulling out the long black chairs he uncomfortably sat in for hours as a kid, his mind wanders even farther when they start talking. 

This time, he’s imagining. Daydreaming. What it would be like if he wasn’t the one gifted with the limitless and infinity. If jujutsu sorcery didn’t exist. 

That he’d have more time, be more free to do what he wanted. Make chocolate pancakes with you every morning, before the two of you walk together to drop off Megumi and Tsumiki to school. You’d work normal jobs - maybe he’d still be a teacher, a normal one - while you would do something that was entirely too impressive. Like saving lives or writing books or working at a non-profit. 

You would both go to Tsumiki’s first school dance together and take so many pictures that she’d walk away all embarrassed, red in the face. He’d go to every single one of Megumi’s baseball games, you’d both be the parents that are way too decked out, way too enthusiastic about their kid. 

Satoru would help you collect vinyls and when Tsumiki and Megumi were long gone and the two of you would put them on and dance in the kitchen humming. You’ll get wrinkles at the same time and your hair would gray so the two of you would look like pale-haired ghosts together. 

He zones back into what his parents were saying, their bored eyes glazed on him. And he doesn’t pay attention, because it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. 

They want him to be around more, because he should know how to take over the estate. They want him to meet with other clans, so he can help them with other deals. A long list of they want, they want, they want. 

And he walks out, he wonders if his parents want the life he imagined for himself, the way he wants it for Megumi and Tsumiki. If that was the life Suguru would have lived, if things were different. 

--

When he makes it home, the sun is sinking into the sky against the house, the sky an array of golden hues. And when he pushes his key into the lock, he’s met with one smiling face and two grumpy faces. 

You march over, flicking Satoru’s cheek as he moves closer to you, grabbing onto your hands. 

“Those strawberries better be hidden in your pants or something.” 

He feels his face pale as he remembers that in the loop of things he’s been thinking about all day, he forgot to get the strawberries for froggy cake. And the balloons and flowers and everything else he wanted to give the three of you. 

“Satoru. We really wanted strawberry froggy cake.” you whine, reaching up to rest your hands on his face, squishing hard. 

He reaches for your wrists, pulling them down from his face and looking down at your joined hands. 

“Oh well, I’ll just go grab them with Megumi or something.” 

He watches you pad back into the kitchen, not even phased by his shortcoming, as you place a hand in Tsumiki’s hair. She’s very focused on frosting her little frog in the center of the cake, her eyebrows knit in concentration. He makes his way in, leaning over the counter as he intently watches the three of you. 

“What if we all go to the store and pick up strawberries?” you say, a hand resting in Megumi’s hair. 

Megumi directs off of you and to Satoru, glaring at him. 

“Did you seriously forget the one thing we wanted you to get?” 

“Megs, don’t be mean. It’s always fun to go to the store together!” you respond. 

“I’ll let you pick out anything you want, kid.” Satoru mentions. 

Megumi gives him a satisfied smile, hopping off his seat to go yank his shoes on. Tsumiki follows suit and you give Satoru a glowing smile as you drag the three of them out, hands intertwined as you go to the store. 

--

And at the end of the day, in the few minutes of peace the two of you get before the next day, Satoru’s staring at you, memorizing the curve of your nose and the shape of your eyes, and the way your hair falls against your face. 

You bring a hand up, cupping the side of his face as you whisper in the dark. 

“You okay, Toru?” 

“What do you want from me?” 

He watches you frown and pull back, your hand shaking against his face. 

“Are you mad at me, Satoru?” 

He brings his hand to the back of your neck, bringing you back closer. He’s resting his forehead against yours, savoring the warmth that gathers in the back of your neck on his hands. 

“No. No, no. I just…I want to know what you want from me.” 

He watches you scrunch your forehead, as you ponder the question. 

“I mean. I’d really like it if you didn’t leave the toilet seat up all the time.” 

He cracks a smile, rolling his eyes at you, as he reaches for your hand to bring your knuckles up to his lips. He leaves a soft kiss, noticing the sweet smile that spreads across your face when he does, and drops your hand. 

“That’s not what I meant, Y/N.” 

“I mean. I’m not sure what you mean. It’s just small things, Toru. Like we should go on walks together sometimes in the evening, I think that would be nice. And we should watch all the Harry Potter movies together, like do a marathon and not sleep in between. And I’d really like a big diamond ring, circular cut, six pronged with a golden band.” 

Your hands, still resting against his face, are now meshed in with a spray of salty tears and a whimpering Satoru. You instinctively bring him forward, tucking his neck into your face as he cries into your shoulders. 

His tears are coating your neck as you run your hand through the white tresses of hair, whispering against his forehead. Imploring for what’s wrong. He doesn’t respond and the tears subside after a few minutes, his frame still shaking in your hold. 

“I’m not that attached to a golden wedding band, Satoru. I can do silver.” 

He laughs, pulling his face away from your neck to run his hands through your hair. 

“Gold is okay. I like gold.” 

“What’s wrong, Satoru? Tell me.” 

“Nothing. I just- that’s really all you want from me?” 

“I mean, yeah. What else would I want?” 

Satoru leans forward, pressing his lips against yours as he nearly cries into your face again, hanging off the ends of your lips. And you’re not sure what it means, what any of it means, but you let him - cry into your arms, hold you through the night, and make you breakfast the next morning. 

In truth, Satoru cherishes the fact that everyone may ask the world of him, but all you’ve ever wanted from him are sweet, sweet nothings. 

When you wake up the next morning, padding into the kitchen to make breakfast, you’re met with a box of strawberries, a sticky-note pressed on top. I love you, written in Satoru’s scribbly handwriting. 

Life has grown around Satoru’s grief. And it looks like you.

--

the satoru as taylor swift songs series masterlist

taglist: @porridgesblog  @platrom  @k0z3me  @kayleegomez  @yihona-san06  @bsenpai @sweetenertea  @skzismyhome  @mykyoon @violetmatcha @rebeccawinters @luna0713hunter @shotenvinsoot @itzmeme @squirrelspoetry

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[seasonsbloom]

ocean in a seashell . ( rooster )

pairing ; bradley bradshaw x female!reader

synopsis ; bradley has lived with his father’s ghost for long enough to know he’ll never make the same mistakes he did. and then he meets you.

wc ; 10.5k i'm sorry

warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; bradley bradshaw's sad, sad life; angst, literally SO much angst; mentions of canon past character death; near-death experience; alcohol abuse; explicit language; explicit sexual content (breeding kink, cumplay, p in v, dirty talk, fingering, idk?)

note: ... yeah i don't fucking know either goodbye. stole the title from "sidelines" by phoebe bridgers aka god.

sol. sunderlust... none of this would be possible without you, thank you forever.

Bradley doesn’t remember much about his father.

These days, he recalls him only in fractions: Hawaiian shirts, mustache, hair that stood up spikey like grass covered in the first tentative November frost. He had big hands, Bradley remembers that, and he used to swing him up on his shoulders and let him ride around living rooms in Army commissioned houses they never stayed in longer than a few months. He always smelled of engine oil, and he played pianos like he didn’t even know the meaning of the word embarrassment.

Bradley based his whole life on the fading glimpses of that man he carries locked in the chambers of his heart. The older he gets, the more gaps he finds.

Suddenly he’s taller than Goose ever was, older, ranked higher. He wants to say, wait, hold on, go back. Wants to rewind to a time when he felt closer to his father, when he could remember what his voice sounded like, what it felt like when he tucked him into bed. When he thought if he just sat by the front door long enough, his father would inevitably walk through it again, hoist him into the air, and press tickling kisses to his cheeks.

Sometimes, Bradley wishes he could go back to when he thought bad things happened only in movies. When he had a father and a mother and an uncle and the bone-deep, unconscious conviction that things would always stay this way.

He can’t remember the day Goose died. Can’t remember Mav coming to the house, can’t remember the dog tags pressed into his mother’s hands. Strange how the most significant day of his little life remains in his memory as just another day - morning cartoons and PB&J sandwiches and his mom reading him a bedtime story. Part of Bradley thinks it’s unfair, his whole world crashing down and him not even remembering it. Like he’s arriving late for a movie and can’t make sense of the plot.

Not once did he see his mother cry over his father. He’s sure she must have shed tears, remembers now the empty tissue boxes and the eyes rimmed in red, understands now what he was too young to see then. But Carol carried her grief like a secret. She locked it behind the mahogany of her bedroom door, she hid it behind the veneer of her smile.

Bradley is nineteen, standing at his mother’s open grave, when he decides he’s never going to do to someone what Goose did to her. What he did to him.

For a while, he wants nothing to do with the memory of that man. Wraps himself in his mother, toys with the idea of taking her maiden name. Goes to college and gets drunk, gets high, gets himself into trouble. Thinks sometimes, in his very darkest moments, that maybe the best thing he could do for the world is to stop existing.

One night lands him at the police station. And it’s not like he got arrested or anything, they just take him in to sober up and tell him to call somebody to come get him. Mav is in town, thank God, and he comes in wearing his old aviator jacket and a wistful expression. Bradley’s call probably pulled him out of some bar or some girl or both.

Mav doesn’t say much, just drives him back to his college dorm and pulls over to the curb, doesn’t even turn off the car. They sit there in silence, with the blinker going and the engine purring.

Finally, Mav says, “Sometimes, you remind me so much of your father, it scares me.”

Bradley doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Sits there for a little longer and watches as frat bros and law students and cheerleaders cross the street on their way to hook-ups, to parties, to midnight fast food runs. Envies them just for a moment. Then, without saying goodbye, gets out of the car, goes to his room, and buries himself beneath the weight of his blankets.

So it’s like Bradley always suspected. It really is a futile thing, trying to escape the memory of his father. His ghost lives inside Bradley’s chest. Rattles against his bones.

And he loves him, even if he doesn’t remember him. Thinks that love is some intrinsic, primordial thing. Something that was there before he was born and will be there after he dies. Something he can’t fight. Unstoppable like the tide.

So he embraces it instead. Tries growing a mustache he’ll only be able to pull off much later in life, gets those old Hawaiian shirts out of storage. Decides to give into the underlying current of longing he’s felt every time he tipped his head back and looked at the sky.

Accepting that he loves his father is much easier than he thought it would be. Much easier than hating him.

It’s good for a while because it feels like he has a purpose, a goal. For so long, Bradley has been drifting at sea, unmoored, unbound, with no sense of direction. Now he’s swimming toward something, broad strokes, every move deliberate.

Then Mav pulls his papers.

The worst part of it all, worse than the betrayal, worse than the anger, is the confusion. He thought Mav would understand. Mav of all people. 

(It’s his mother, setting a casserole on the table, smiling at Bradley and saying Pete over here, he’s the craziest pilot the Navy’s ever seen. It’s his sixth Christmas, the second one without his dad, and Mav gives him a model of a plane they’ll build together. It’s Mav staring at him with eyes gleaming with moisture the time he stole the Navy hat from his uncle’s head. It’s Mav in every memory of his life, laced so tightly to him he thought they were inseparable, woven together. Now the seams are coming apart.)

Mav, who keeps flying, who seems only to be a real, complete person for those few, short, fleeting moments just after he steps off a plane. Who’s never happy unless he’s going break-neck speed miles and miles above the ground, jumping off death’s shovel, laughing, flipping the bird, and saying look, I can fly!

If Maverick doesn’t understand why Bradley wants to fly, why he needs to fly, then who ever could?

Mav wants to explain it, calls him, shows up at his apartment. Bradley declines the calls, turns off all the lights, and sits on his couch in perfect silence, pretending he isn’t in.

He doesn’t want to hear explanations, doesn’t want to listen to excuses. He wants to fly.

Back when his mother was alive, she wouldn’t even let him get on an airplane. His whole childhood, they only left their state once to go to a funeral of some distant aunt or cousin or uncle, Bradley can’t remember, and his mother drove the whole ten hours there and back. It didn’t even register as anything weird to him - it was all juice boxes and gas station ice cream and goldies on the radio. It was his mom’s laughter and her smile and her fingers carding strands of hair warmed by the sun out of his eyes.

So Bradley remembers his mother every time he gets into a car. But his dad? Him, he can only get above the clouds.

He doesn’t give up. He finishes college, works odd jobs for some money, drifts further and further from the orbit he used to inhabit. And then he applies to the academy again, and then he goes to Top Gun, and he graduates top of his class and wonders what it would feel like if there were somebody to be proud of him. If somebody were congratulating him, taking him out for a celebratory dinner, or just somebody to hug him. What it would feel like if he weren’t so alone.

It’s what he dreams about sometimes, in the very darkest pockets of the night. A house with a swing set and a big, smiling, dumb dog and a pretty wife and a whole gaggle of children running through the garden. Bradley would teach them how to throw a football, and he’d carry them to bed at night, and his wife would smile at him, and there would always be food in the fridge and brownies on the table, and every room would be filled with love, and there would be no ghosts to haunt him.

It’s a dangerous fantasy. It’s a trap door, a slippery slope, it’s a snare, it’s a cliff’s edge. If he stays in it too long, he’ll be lost.

His mother always used to say he was a functional dreamer. He had his head stuck in the clouds, sure, but he knew exactly when to pull it out of there too. Maybe that’s why he’s such a good pilot.

So Bradley still is a functional dreamer. He knows that this is something he can never have, can never allow himself to have. He knows the pain of it too well, too intimately, still feels it every time he catches sight of his reflection in a mirror, the golden streaks of sun in his hair, the mustache, the split second of pure, blank horror, of oh god I look like him, I look so much like him, and feels it slice right through him like a knife through butter. He’s been carrying his father’s ghost for so long, sometimes it feels like his spine will crack under the weight.

Maybe people that live life like he does, like Mav does, like his father did - up in the sky, heads in the clouds - aren’t meant to have anything on the ground. Inevitably, they always end up leaving it.

He decided the day of his mother’s funeral, before the long procession of I’m sorrys and If you need anythings, before he let real estate agents into a house overflowing with cards and flowers - flowers in every room, flowers blooming and wilting and dying like a garden watered by his grief, like a garden watered by his ghosts - that he would never have a family. Not a wife to mourn him, not a child to miss him.

So there’ll be nobody to carry the burden of him.

And then he meets you.

It’s not momentous - it’s easy. Natural. Quicker than he thought possible. It’s stolen glances across a room and a smile that brands him like a mark, that cuts right through to the bone. A smile that settles in his heart. A smile that’ll never leave again.

In the beginning, he tries to fight it. Tells himself not to engage, not to get involved, to stay out of the mess he knows he’ll make here inevitably. To shield him, but to shield you too, to protect you from whatever hurt he’s going to inflict sooner or later.

But then it goes like this:

“Are you never going to ask me out, Bradshaw?” you ask him, smiling as you pluck his Ray Bans from him, as you place them on your own nose, and blink at him from over the rims.

The sun is casting you in gold. Bradley wants to catch the moment in a mason jar and put it on his bedside table. Let the glow illuminate his nights.

“I don’t think….” He trails off, wonders why it’s so easy for him to talk to you, why he can’t stop spilling truths like leaking water taps. “I don’t think I’ll be good for you.”

You don’t miss a beat. One eyebrow raising, you say, “And don’t you think that should be my decision?”

That’s when he knows that for him, you will always be it. That it’ll never be this way again with someone else. It’s not even a question. It’s just the truth.

When he’s with you, for the first time since he sat shotgun in a car with his mother, head nodding along to Elvis on the radio, Bradley feels like he belongs somewhere. Like he’s reached a shore, maybe. Like he can breathe.

For the first time, it feels like he knows peace, even with his feet on the ground.

His mother would have loved you.

You have a long conversation about it. About how he knows you want it - the diapers and the first days of school and the family Christmases. The pitter-patter of children’s feet, the cribs, the tiny fingers curling around your thumb. He knows you’ve dreamed of it all your life. And Bradley also knows, as much as it hurts, as much as it aches, that he can never give it to you.

He needs to be honest. He needs to put all the cards on the table so you know your options, see the truth about him. So you can walk away before you get any deeper into this.

Part of him is sure you will. Thinks it might be better, the safest option for both of you. Hopes you will, fears you will.

It doesn’t matter that he loves you. It doesn’t matter that he only feels at peace when he’s with you. It doesn’t matter that for the first time since he was four years old, the ghosts have gone quiet.

What matters is that he wants you to be happy. What matters is that if that happiness lies somewhere else, with someone else, with someone who’ll give you everything you dream of, give you a life, give you a child… Bradley will let you go. It’ll be the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he will.

Only you don’t leave.

You think about it for a very, very long time. Sit at his kitchen table with your hands folded on the tablecloth like you’re praying, with your head turned down, without looking at him, and then finally you say, “Alright. Fine with me.”

And Bradley’s protesting, pushing, saying, “Honey, you want this, I know you do, you want a family, you….”

“I want you more,” you say, and that’s that.

There’s no lie to it. It’s the truth, naked and beautiful and awful.

And Bradley - selfish as he is - accepts it. Because he doesn’t want to lose you. Because as much as he tries to convince himself of the opposite, deep down, he knows he’s not a good man. Just like his father wasn’t. They’re both just men willing to leave the people they love behind. Brave enough to fight for the “greater good”, but never brave enough to stay.

Regardless of it all, it’s the happiest Bradley has been in years. With you, he doesn’t feel like something is missing from him. He actually feels whole.

Your job as a freelancer allows you to travel with him, and he’s unspeakably grateful for it. He tries to show you, tries to be good about bringing flowers and cooking dinner, thinks if he can make you even a fraction as happy as you make him, he’ll have succeeded. When he gets deployed, he spends days memorizing your face, the shape of your throat where your pulse point jumps, the pattern of your heartbeat, the feeling of you beneath his arm.

And sometimes, when you’re asleep, Bradley puts his hand on your stomach and imagines a bump there, imagines a baby growing beneath it, and that’s when the ache gets so strong he thinks he can’t breathe.

That’s when he hates himself for not being something else: a doctor, an accountant, a real estate agent. Anything other than what he is. Could he have it then, this thing you both want so much? Could he let himself have it?

But eventually, when the fantasies fade, he always circles back to the truth: Bradley isn’t a doctor or an accountant or a real estate agent. He’s a pilot. Always has been, always will be.

He’s just too much like his father. That’s the whole point.

When he gets called back to Top Gun, three years after he met you, something shifts. He doesn’t know to explain it, but from the very first moment he sets foot on North Island again, something about it tastes like the beginning of an end. At night, he can’t settle, roams through the little house you rent off base like a sleepwalker. Checks in on you like he’s afraid you’re going to disappear. Can’t concentrate up in the air, can’t shut his brain off.

It’s like his father’s ghost travels with him in his suitcases, tucked between his neatly folded shirts, climbs out when no one’s looking. No matter where he goes, that ghost goes too. He can’t shake him.

You love California. You like the sunshine and the ocean. Like the Hard Deck and Penny and Phoenix. Turn your face into the warmth like a sunflower, and then you bloom, go brighter and brighter as Bradley goes the opposite direction. As something in him dims.

“Is it because of Mav?” you ask him softly, in the quiet of your bedroom. You’re carding hair from his forehead, fingers gentle, voice gentler.

Bradley can’t look at you. Shame coils low in his stomach.

“Yes,” he says, even if it feels like a lie in his mouth.

You sigh, no annoyance, only affection. Your head is heavy on his shoulder as you press the shape of a yawn into his skin.

“I know he hurt you, Bradley,” you whisper. “It’s okay to be hurt. But I think you need to talk to him.”

He nods into the darkness. You’re right. You’re always right.

“I know,” he agrees, even though he knows he won’t.

When you’re asleep, Bradley slips out of bed. Pats into the living room and sits on the floor, back leaning against the couch. Pulls his knees up to his chest, closes his eyes, and then he dreams.

He dreams he’s four riding on his father’s shoulders through the living room. He dreams he’s ten, in a car with his mother, turning up the radio. He dreams he’s twenty, and he lets Mav explain. He dreams he’s thirty-five, and he marries you. He dreams he’s thirty-six and holding his baby. He dreams it’s a little girl with your smile and his eyes, and he loves her more than he thought he was capable of, so much it almost breaks him apart, so much it puts him back together. So much it’s worth it all.

Bradley’s earliest memory is of the giant, bone-white seashell on his grandmother’s mantlepiece. He remembers how heavy it was, remembers how cold it felt against the side of his face when he pressed it to his ear. He remembers hearing the distant, muffled hum of the waves, the song of the sea, remembers imagining what it might look like. 

It’s no comparison to the real thing, years and years and years later, he knows this, but it’s something. It’s better than nothing.

It’s all he can allow himself—an ocean in a seashell.

The mission is a disaster, even if it is successful. Later, Bradley won’t remember what he was thinking up in the air, when he hit the target, when Mav went down, when he decided to go after him. He won’t even be able to tell if that is because he’s in shock or because he really wasn’t thinking anything. Maybe for the first time in his life.

If he had been thinking, Bradley likes to believe he would have kept his plane on course. Would have flown back to the carrier and then back to you, home, home, home. Wouldn’t have gone back for a man he still hasn’t spoken to, not properly, someone he loved once and now barely knows.

But all the ghosts of the people he’s loved and lost crowd up on him in that cockpit - his father and his mother and even Admiral Kazansky and their sad, sad eyes. There’s no room for Mav to be up there, too, he thinks.

So at first, you don’t cross his mind at all. He just follows his instincts like he’s never done before, could never bring himself to do. So much of Bradley’s life has been about dissecting just those urges, dismantling them, disabling them. Making himself into a creature of logic and second-guessing. Now, for the first time, he gives in to the currents and lets himself be rushed away.

And then his plane goes down, and he drifts into the white white white of snow he hasn’t felt in so long - and still, he doesn’t think. But every instinct from the moment of impact on, the moment his feet hit the ground, every instinct centers on you.

Home, he thinks. I need to get home to her.

Up in that F-14, that’s when he realizes. The brink of death is a bleak place. It’s a place of memories, a place of despair. It’s a place of hope.

All he can think of is you. How he’s leaving you with nothing. How he’s going to die here, miles above the ocean, and what will happen then? Who’s going to bring you his dog tags, the way Mav had brought his father’s to Carole all those years ago? Phoenix? Hangman? How are they even going to retrieve them if he goes down in enemy territory? Will anybody even remember the girl in that house, the one he didn’t even marry? And why didn’t he anyway? Why didn’t he put a ring on your finger, buy you a house, get you a dog, give you a baby?

What will remain of him now, in this world after he’s gone?

Nothing, he thinks, and his lungs fill with water, high up in the sky. You made damn sure of that, Bradley.

There will be nobody to haunt. He will disappear, and he will take his mother with him, will take his father with him, will take Mav with him. Nobody to remember him. Nobody to mourn him except you, all alone, carrying the terrible burden of his ghost.

It used to be a relief. Nobody to mourn me after I’m gone. Now it feels like a punishment.

Home, he thinks, remembering the content of your smile and your eyes gleaming in the darkness and your face turning, always turning, toward the sun. Like a child, as he closes his eyes, as he tries to accept the inevitable, he thinks, I want to go home. I just want to go home.

And then that’s what he does—he and Mav. Incredibly, inexplicably, illogically, they go home.

From far away, as he walks up the driveway, the little house with the gardenias you planted blooming pink and red in front of the windows looks like an oasis at first. Then it seems to grow longer, taller, goes from beckoning to daunting. He almost doesn’t make it inside. Almost doesn’t dare to get out his keys, unlock the front door, push through and toe off his shoes. Feels like he’s doing something forbidden, like he’s an unwanted guest in his own home.

You’re in the kitchen, elbows deep in sudsy dishwater, and when he walks through the doorway, when you hear the pat of his socked feet against the tiled floors, you look up at him with an open face full of love, full of relief. It almost bowls him over.

“Bradley,” you whisper, voice soft, and then you’re crossing the room, bubbles and foam and water dripping from your wrists across the tile, and he blinks at the trail you leave for a moment. Then you’re there, arms wrapping around his neck, face pressing against his shoulder, saying his name again and again, like a benediction, like a prayer of thanks.

Automatically, he pulls you against him with both arms crossed over your hips. Inhales deep, lets the familiar scent of you envelop him. Listens to your breath echoing against the dip of his collarbone, to the steady rhythm of your heart.

Your hands leave wet prints against the fabric of his shirt, like something primeval pressed to cave walls, like something that’s been happening for centuries, something that is happening right now, something that will happen again tomorrow and next year and the year after that, and distantly, dumbly, Bradley thinks, Oh. I’m alive. I’m here.

He feels packed in cotton. He feels submerged. He feels not-real, not-present, not-normal. He feels like he’s going to fall apart, and no one will notice.

When you draw back, it takes you only a split second to realize something’s wrong. You frown, the furrow Bradley likes to smooth out with his thumb appearing between your eyebrows, eyes swimming with a concern he doesn’t deserve.

“What happened?”

It’s classified, all of it. There’s so much of his life Bradley isn’t allowed to share with you, even if he wants to. There’s so much he doesn’t want to share but knows he should.

From far away, he hears himself say, “My plane went down.”

He can feel the panic in your body, feels it go through you like a spasm. You try to draw back, but he holds you where you are, afraid he’s going to shatter all across the kitchen floor the moment you’re gone.

It’s not fair, he thinks, how he keeps looking to you to hold him together. It’s just that at the end of the day, you’ve always been so much stronger than him.

“Bradley…” you begin to say, but he can’t hear it. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear how scared you are every time he leaves, he doesn’t want to hear how it made you feel to know that he almost died because he already knows. He knows.

“I want…” he says into your hair, a fragment of a sentence, a statement that trails off halfway, that goes nowhere. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say.

In some ways, he feels stuck in that F-14. Like time kept moving, but he didn’t, remained static and crystallized like somebody dipped the moment in amber and preserved it on a bookshelf. Nothing makes sense to him. Rationally, he knows he’s standing here in his kitchen with you in his arms, knows he isn’t dead, knows he survived, but it doesn’t feel like it. 

So Bradley tries to remember grounding exercises, focuses on little things, mundane things, things that shouldn’t exist on the verge of death. The bubbles popping in the sink. The specks of dust dancing through the room. The curve of your spine beneath the worn fabric of his Navy shirt.

Suddenly, the thought of you alone in this house is unbearable. Waiting for a man that never comes back. History repeating itself in the worst of ways.

“I want to have a baby,” he says, out of nowhere, out of some madness that took hold of him up in the air, or maybe when he touched the ground, or maybe at some other point he can’t name, can’t even think.

And it’s not a conscious thought. It’s not a decision he makes. It’s just something that spills from him, something that has been there unnoticed all along, words taking shape on his tongue before he can overthink their meaning, but then they’re out, and they drop between you like an anvil, and it’s like a relief, it’s like a breath he’s been holding for years, it’s like a sigh, something inside of him finally unlatching, finally escaping the shackles he put on it himself.

Oh, he thinks. He’s known this about himself, always, but it’s the first time he says it out loud. It’s always been a want, an ache, a yearning, but now it goes from all that to a need, a thrumming inside of him, something that cannot be ignored. Something that demands to be felt instead of thought.

In his arms, you stiffen.

With your palms on his chest, you push him away from you, take a step back, take the warmth and the scent and the anchor with you. Bradley is surprised he doesn’t float right up to the ceiling.

The openness of your face has shuttered now. You look at him with something unreadable crossing your features, something unfamiliar, and say, “What did you just say?”

Bradley swallows around a lump in his throat. “I want to have a baby,” he repeats, his voice smaller now, quieter, but the words more assured.

Because he does. Because it’s true. Because he’s always wanted this and doesn’t know how to explain to you that now he needs it. How now it’s the only thing that makes sense in a world that’s gone off the rails.

Your face falls, something crumbles, and it hits him like a punch to the gut. 

“No,” you say, turning away from him. You step right into the trail of water you left earlier, it soaks into your socks, and then you’re leaving footprints too. Everywhere you go, you leave your mark like a brand. Not one part of Bradley has been left untouched.

Confusion zaps through him, but it’s a muted feeling. Muffled by all the chaos.

“I thought you….” It’s a great effort to form words, like pulling teeth. “You want children. Don’t you want this?”

“Not like…” You pause, rake your fingers through your hair, exasperation crackling from you like sparks from a burned-out socket, and Bradley can’t make sense of it.

You want this, he knows you do. So what’s the problem now? What did he do wrong?

“I don’t….”

“Don’t go there.”

There’s a finality to your voice, and he sees you drawing back from him, sees your shoulders come up, your face turning away, something wilting.

The idea of losing you, of pushing you away now that he’s finally decided to let you in, really let you in, the panic of it finally slices through the haze. Lifts the fog.

Bradley crosses the room and says, “It’s your decision too, honey, of course, it is, but I love you, and I want this, and….”

You whirl on him, and it punches the air out of his lungs. There’s real anger on your face now, your eyes sparkling with unshed tears, and Bradley’s heart clenches in answer.

“You don’t get to do this,” you say, voice heaving with the barely contained emotion, a ship on a stormy sea, “not after I compromised, not after I spent so long trying to get used to the idea of not having a baby, not after giving that up for you, Bradley. You don’t… don’t get to just come in here and change your mind just because it suits you, because you had some near-death experience and you’re full of adrenaline and… and….”

Bradley frowns, moves to touch you, but you flinch away from him, one arm going up to hug your own ribcage. As if you have to shield yourself from him.

Suddenly, he feels a sob building in his throat. To realize how much he’s hurt you, not just today by springing this on you, but by how selfish he was, again and again. By letting his past stand in the way of your future.

“It’s not that I changed my mind,” he begins, trying to string together something that will make you see the truth of it, make you understand what he means.

You interrupt, “You said you didn’t want kids.”

Bradley pauses. Did he say that? If he did… 

“And it…” You gasp for breath, the tears now streaming freely down your face, and god, it hurts, it hurts worse than thinking he lost Mav, hurts worse than thinking he’d die in that F-14 because all of that he’d been prepared for, had been practicing for his whole life. Losing Maverick, losing himself, all of that had been inevitable. But losing you… Bradley always assumed he was going to be the one to go first. 

“It’s fine,” you go on. “I was fine with it, Bradley, I gave that dream up because… because I wanted you more, and I was okay with it. It was my decision, and I don’t regret it, but for you to just… to just….”

“I do want children,” he says because he doesn’t know what to do except explain it, except make you see the truth of it all. “I’ve always… I’ve always wanted children, honey. I just… after what happened to my dad, after what that did to me, what it did to my mother, I didn’t… I didn’t want to do that to you. I couldn’t do that to you.”

For a moment, you say nothing, eyebrows furrowed, lower lip caught between your teeth.

“You…” You look like you’re trying very hard to understand it. “Are you saying you decided not to have children with me because you thought it would hurt me too much if you died?”

When you say it like that, out loud, logically, through your tears, it sounds so incredibly stupid.

Bradley opens and closes his mouth, once, twice. Finally, he nods.

He expects you to start crying harder, to hit him (all valid reactions, really), but instead, you do the one thing he doesn’t expect: You laugh. It’s a watery sound, barely amused, but it is a laugh.

You bury your face in your hands, then reemerge after a moment, eyes rimmed in red, and say, “God, Bradley, you’re so stupid.”

“I…” He doesn’t know what to say to that. Probably, you’re right. “What?”

“You just…” You exhale a long, shuddering breath. “You keep trying to make decisions without me.”

“... I do?”

“Yeah!” Your voice rises a little, then settles, and you say, “This is my decision as much as it’s yours. If I say I want it, if I say I know the risk and I know the danger, then you don’t get to tell me no. Do you think I’m dumb? Do you think I don’t understand what goes on when you get deployed? Do you think I don’t know that you’re risking your life all the time?”

“No, I… I know you know that.”

You shrug, and it’s a gesture of such helplessness that Bradley’s knees almost buckle.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. I don’t know if… if one day there’s going to be a mission you don’t come back from. I don’t know that, Bradley. I can’t know that. But until then… can’t you just let us be happy?”

Bradley’s shaking. Head to toe, tremors that run through him like the tides. Unstoppable. Unrelenting.

“I…” And he knows he’s the one who brought it up, but suddenly all the doubts come crashing down. Suddenly the ghosts crowd around him. “What if I die? What if I leave you? What if we have a baby and I’m not… there?”

“Oh, Bradley…” Something on your face melts. You step closer, put a hand on his cheek, fingertips still pruned from the water, and say, so gently it breaks something open inside of him, “Bradley. You’re not your father.”

And Bradley can’t help it - he cries. It’s an ugly sort of crying, the sort that leaves you with a headache and snot dripping down your face and eyes that hurt. The one you feel in the morning. But it’s a relief too. A release. Rain after years and years of drought.

For so long, Bradley was trying to let go of a world that didn’t want him to leave. He’s been preparing for an early exit since he entered, has been so caught up in dreaming he forgot to live. So caught up in thinking he forgot to do. He thought he would be content to go out of this world and leave nothing behind, to disappear without a trace, without a word, without a ghost.

But now he sees it clearly. Now he understands.

Bradley doesn’t want to stop existing. He wants to cling to this world like someone clinging to the edge of a cliff, like a leech, like a cancer. He wants to haunt someone.

Only there’s something else, too. 

A week before his mother died, when she had gone all quiet, when she had lost the vibrancy she used to carry around like a glow, when she had slept longer and spoke less and Bradley had known, somewhere deep inside of him, that things were ending, that they were truly ending, he’d gathered all his courage and asked a question he’d been rehearsing for weeks, months, years.

“Do you regret it?”

Do you regret loving my father now, knowing all that would come after? Knowing the landslide it really was?

And Carol had just smiled, something of that old light returning for a moment, a tenderness so big it felt like violence, and she’d said, “I could never regret him. Not even the heartbreak or the grief or the pain. After all, he gave me you, didn’t he?”

Maybe, he thinks, it’s time to let the past be in the past. Maybe it’s time to let himself have a future.

Maybe it’s time to let go of the ghost.

And you just hold him as he cries like he hasn’t since he locked himself in a bathroom stall after his mother’s funeral, cries until it feels like he’s going to throw up, cries until the gnashing teeth of grief of pain of hurt of anger finally leave him be.

After half an eternity, you pull away, warm hands cupping his face, tugging him gently away from the crook of your neck, so he has to look at you, can’t look anywhere but at you, and then you say, “Bradley, what happened to your father was a horrible, terrible accident. But he loved you. You know that, don’t you?”

He nods. His father, the hazy shape of him, the ghost he’s carried for so long - frosted tips and Hawaiian shirts and the smell of motor oil. Large hands and a mustache and rides around living rooms. So much of him is shadowed, fractioned, incomplete, but not this. This he knows. When he thinks of his father, there’s nothing now but the hazy, easy warmth of love. 

“Do you really think,” you say softly, “that they made a mistake when they had you? Your parents? Do you really think they shouldn’t have done it?”

Bradley has thought about his life in boxes. Big cardboard ones, the kind you get when you move apartments. He tucks the good parts away beneath his bed, stows them, hoards them like a secret. Like his mother kept her grief. But all the bad parts - the pain and the sadness and the sorrow - those he lets pile up everywhere, in hallways, in living rooms, on kitchen tables. He stumbles over them on his way to the bathroom. He stubs his toe halfway to the closet.

He never looks at those good parts, afraid they’ll become tainted somehow if he thinks about them for too long, afraid they’ll lose their appeal or their strength. But there’s so much good there too.

Goose loved him, he knows this without a doubt. Carole loved him. Mav loves him, Phoenix loves him, you love him… At the end of it all, even despite all the terrible things that have happened to him, even with the ghosts that have haunted him for so long, Bradley has been loved, and he has lived, and he has been happy.

Shouldn’t that be worth something, too?

“No,�� he says, voice soft, “no, I’m glad they had me.”

His life has been a long, long road. Difficult to walk sometimes, full of potholes, some as big as canyons. But there’s so much happiness there, too - car rides with his mother, Mav telling him stories about his father, the moment when the wheels lift off the tarmac at take-off. This long, terrible, winding road that led him here. That led him to you.

You brush your fingertips across his cheekbone, and Bradley capsizes.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. It’s the truest thing he’s ever known. “I want… I want to have a life with you.”

“You do,” you answer. “You have one.”

Bradley’s tears have dried so the sound he makes isn’t really a sob, but it’s damn close to one. 

“Do you…” He clears his throat. “You love me, too?”

It’s a dumb question, unnecessary because he already knows the answer. But he needs to hear you say it anyway.

And when you smile, your whole face lights up. It echoes somewhere inside Bradley, somewhere at his core, goes through him like a current.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” you say, and there’s only a little bit of amusement in your voice, “you’re the love of my life.”

His heart jumps like a jackknife in his chest.

Before he recognizes that he’s made the conscious decision to do so, he’s bridged the space between you and has pulled you into a searing, soaring, slow kiss. He fumbles it a little, teeth knocking against yours, but you just laugh into it, going up on your tiptoes, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him like you want to meld yourself to his bones. Bradley feels like somebody’s poured liquid sunlight into his chest.

Somewhere it goes heated, goes desperate, goes near frantic, all the adrenaline, all the fear, everything pouring from him in a shower of want. Somehow he’s got you pressed up against the counter, tongue tangled with yours, fingers in your hair, fingers on your back, fingers pulling up the edge of the shirt you’ve stolen from him to find the warm, soft skin beneath.

Breathless, heart stuttering, Bradley pulls away, looks at your lips swollen from the tug of his teeth, your eyes with the heavy lids, the hair mussed by his fingers, and he needs to hear it. Needs to know you want this as much as he does. The ache in him twists like a knife between the ribs.

“Tell me,” he whispers, afraid the moment will shatter if he makes a wrong move, speaks too loudly. It’s so fragile - he wants to protect it so fiercely. Presses the tips of his fingers into the place where your pulse hammers away. “Tell me you want to have a baby with me.”

“I want…” And you sigh, a sound like a spring day, a sound like a rushing mountain stream. “I want it.”

He surges forward, lips against yours again, and you’re so alive beneath him, heart racing, breath heaving, fingers grappling along his neck, his shoulders, his chest, his arms, and Bradley wants to devour you. Wants to sink his teeth into all this life and never let it go again. He wants to exist, right here, in this moment with you forever.

“I love you,” he mumbles into your neck, lets his mouth move over the column of your throat, down to the sharp points of your collarbones beneath the soft skin. Sinks to his knees on the kitchen tiles like he’s kneeling at an altar to pray.

“Bradley,” you whisper, fingers going to tangle in his hair, to smooth along the sides of his face, and the softness in your voice cracks something in him. He swears he could cry again.

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing as he nuzzles his nose against the sloping curve of your upper thigh, as his fingers tighten on your hips. He just wants to be close to you. And you’re so soft, so warm, you smell like home, and it tears through him, blazes everything in its wake, to realize just how close he came to losing it all.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he whispers, babbles, barely coherent, pressing his face against the fabric of your panties, inhaling your scent, opening his mouth to push his tongue where he knows your clit is. “Gonna make you so happy, baby, I promise, it’s all I want. I’m never letting you go again, I’m never….”

Above him, you whimper, hips knocking forward, arching into the movement of his tongue for a moment, and he wonders if you’re wet, thinks about the hot, tight vice of your cunt, and groans against you. His cock jumps.

Then you’re tugging him away from you by the hair, and Bradley goes reluctantly, mouth still open, wishing he could stay where he was forever. Drowning in you. 

You’re looking down at him with eyes blown wide.

“Bradley,” you say, and there’s something unsteady to your voice. “Take me to bed.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. It’s a tumble all the way to your bedroom - he kicks off his shoes on the way, you lose your shirt, and he’s somehow, miraculously, gotten down to his boxers by the time he drags you backward with him onto the mattress.

“I love you,” he says as he drags you on top of him, your legs opening around his hips like the petals of a flower. The mattress dips where your knees press against the springs, your weight grounds him. “I love you, you’re so perfect, you’re….”

He has no idea what he’s saying. His brain checked out a while ago, and it’s all just feelings now, just emotions coursing through him, and every once in a while, one will plunge its head through the surface, and then he’ll tell you something nonsensical, something dumb, something important, something he needs you to know, something…

You lean down to kiss him, to shut him up, his brain buzzes, your breasts press to his bare chest, and he’s so hard in his boxers it hurts.

“I love you, too,” you whisper against his lips, smile into the kiss. The curve of it burns against Bradley’s face.

He sits up, grasps you by the thighs to drag you closer, drag your core across his cock, and you both moan against each other. Your fingernails scrape over the back of his neck, where his hair is buzzed so short he knows it feels like prickles, and he shudders, sighs, lets his tongue run across your teeth.

For a while, you just stay like that, rutting against each other like fucking teenagers, tongues lazy, fingers eager, mouths hungry. Even through your panties, he can feel your wetness, wonders if it’s going to leave stains on his underwear, across his thighs. Bradley thinks he’s going to die, but this time it’s nothing like it was up in the F-14.

It’s difficult in your position, awkward, but he gets a finger first on your clit, and then, when he finds you wet and swollen and open, he slides it right inside you. Watches your face as you squeeze your eyes shut, as your mouth falls open on a muffled gasp, as your head tips backward.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He fucks his finger in and out slowly, adds a second to stretch you, and then he’s saying, “Baby, honey, you’re so tight, you’re so fucking wet, god I….”

You whimper, and then you’re pulling off him, shimmying out of your panties, leaning down to tug his boxers off.

“Gotta have…” Your throat moves when you swallow as you clamber back into his lap. “Want you inside me, please, Bradley. I’m ready.”

He groans, something in his stomach yanking tight, and he’s pretty sure he’s leaking precum steadily by now.

There’s no time to tease, no need for it either, not when you’re both aching for it, not after what you’ve just gone through. The hot slide of him inside you, feeling you all around him, Bradley thinks that might be the only thing that could make him realize he’s actually back here, that it isn’t all just a dream, that he didn’t actually go down in that plane and has been stuck in some kind of cruel limbo for the past few days.

But there’s the other thing too. The need he can’t explain. The selfish, horrible, depraved thing he can share with nobody but you. That nobody but you would ever understand.

Slowly, tentatively, he places his palm on your stomach, fingers splaying wide, and leaves it there. He’s too scared to look at you, too scared of what you’ll think of him, too scared of what you’ll do once you find out how deep his desire runs, how desperately he wants this. Will you hate him? Will you be disgusted? Will you draw back, pull away, leave him alone with all his depravity and all his fears and all his sorrow? 

“I need… I want…” He can’t even finish the sentence, brain too foggy. Too scared to meet your eyes, Bradley just blinks at the sight in front of him, his big hand on your skin, and his heart seizes, his insides clench, and he can’t breathe, can’t, he’s going to…

Slowly, your fingers wrap around his wrist.

“Yes,” you breathe above him.

It’s a visceral thing. The words burn through him, wrap around him, curl into him. He surges forward to kiss you, desperate, a choked sound escaping him, and licks into your mouth. Around his wrist, your fingers tighten.

He pushes you back into the sheets, crawls over you and spreads your legs, slides between them where he belongs. When his gaze falls to your face, there’s so much trust there, so much love, and it cleaves him in two, just how much he loves you, just how much he needs you. He doesn’t have the words to express it, can only hope you understand what he means when he plunges into you without preamble, when he whispers your name against the shell of your ear, when he curves around you like he wants to shield you from everything bad in the world.

You moan, fingers coming up to grasp his arm where he’s balancing his weight on the elbows. Your mouth tips open, your eyes not straying from his for a second as he goes slow, as he goes deep, as he goes home. There’s an answer in that too.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, voice choked as he bottoms out, as he holds himself perfectly still. “So tight and beautiful, and you’re all mine, and I’m yours and….”

“Bradley,” you stop him. Wrap your legs around his hips and pull him in. “It’s okay. You can move now.”

So he does.

It’s frantic from the first moment. It’s all the tension that’s been building up for years and years inside of him, all his love and all his longing finally laid open, and he can’t hold back anymore, not when he feels like he’s going to burst out of his own skin at any moment now.

The wet squeeze of your walls around his cock has his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

“Fuck,” he curses, hips pushing forward at an unsteady pace, as he leans down to kiss you again, as you open your mouth for him easily, as he nips at your lower lip.

And it’s so dumb - he’s inside of you, curled around you, his tongue tangled with your own, but Bradley wants you closer, still. Needs to know that you’re there with him, that he’s here with you, that he came home and he is letting himself have this, you’re letting him have it, and he loves you, he loves you, he…

Bradley takes his weight off his elbows, gets his arms around you, plasters himself to you, chest to chest, hip to hip, mouth finding the side of your neck, your collarbones. Like this, with his arms around your shoulders, it feels almost like he’s pulling you down to him with every thrust, like he slides just half an inch deeper into you.

You try to muffle a moan into his hair, but Bradley pulls your face away, keeps his pace as he says, “Wanna hear you. Let me hear you, baby, tell me how much you like it. You love it, don’t you? Love my cock, yeah? Love it when I fuck you?”

Maybe it’s pathetic, but Bradley needs to hear it. Needs to know you’re as desperate for him as he is for you. Needs to know you want it just as much.

On a thrust in, your walls flutter around him, and you whine, back arching a little, head sliding across the pillow as you nod.

“Yes,” you gasp, “I love it, Bradley, I love your cock. Thought about it while you were gone all the time, every night, I….”

Bradley groans, shudders, suddenly so close to the brink he needs to squeeze his eyes shut against the image of you - the glossy eyes, the swollen lips, the absolute ruin he’s reduced you to.

“Can’t say shit like that, baby,” he whispers, leaning to press tender kisses to the column of your throat. “Not when you’re this fucking wet, not when you’re making these sounds… you’re gonna make me cum.”

You giggle, then moan, head lolling to the side to give him better access. 

“Good,” you say, legs hiking higher up on his hips, his cock sliding deeper, “that’s the plan, isn’t it?”

If there were any air left in his lungs, Bradley would laugh with you. As it stands, he just ups the ante, going a little harder, watching as your eyelashes flutter, feeling your fingers spasm against the skin of his back.

It’s so hot in the room, both of you sticking to each other with sweat, and maybe that, too, should be disgusting, but Bradley doesn’t care. When he leans down to lick a long, wet stripe along the edge of your jaw, he tastes salt on his tongue.

“I’m gonna….” When he glances down at you, at the eyes wide with that much trust, as he realizes you would let him do just about anything to you, that you’ve both opened yourself to each other completely now, no barriers and no ghosts standing between you, it’s like a dam breaking. He moans, so loud it echoes through the room, leans to plunge his tongue into your mouth, desperate, and then he’s saying into it, “God, I’m gonna fuck you so full, honey, gonna fuck you until it takes, yeah? Gonna keep you right here and fill you up, again and again, gonna make sure to get a baby in you, fuck, you’d be so fucking pretty, honey, so pretty all full of me, I know it, I can….”

And you sob. Full-on. Back arching off the bed, legs sliding off his hips, spreading so wide it must hurt.

“Bradley,” you say, fingernails breaking skin, forehead pressing against his throat to hide your face. “Bradley, fuck, I… the pill….”

He’s shaking his head, cutting you off with his mouth on yours. Conveying what he can’t speak, what he’s too far gone to formulate, here where logic has become a distant, remote concept, here between your legs. Don’t say it. Let me live in this fantasy. Let me dream a little longer.

It’s the thought of it all - a bump beneath your dresses, a baby in your arms, tiny fingers wrapping around his thumb, it’s about the long, long stretch of life ahead of the two of you. It’s about a house filled with love and free of ghosts. It’s about the first glimpse of the ocean after listening to its roar in seashells all his life. It’s about giving himself over to you completely, after years of only dreaming of it.

Do you know? he wonders. Do you know that you’re holding his whole life in your hands?

“I love you,” he mumbles, repeats it as he sinks into you again and again, as he buries himself in you, as he holds onto you like he’ll be back in the cold, cold, cold of all that snow the moment he lets go, like he’ll go back to the cockpit with the ghosts like jailors around him, like he’ll float right off the face off the earth. You have always been his anchor. “I’m gonna give you a baby, honey, I promise, gonna cum inside of you, you want that, right? You want me to come right here in this pretty pussy, fill you up all nice and wet, and….”

Your mouth moves against his clavicle, the feel of it spreading like wildfire through him, and you’re saying, “Yes, yes, Bradley, give it to me, please, I wanna feel it, want you to come inside me, please, please, I need it, I….”

A yell punches from him as he thrusts inside one last time, buries himself to the hilt in your warmth, and then he’s panting, his ears are ringing, his veins are buzzing as he cums, as he paints you with his release. He can’t do anything except hold onto you, bury his face in your hair, inhaling your scent, jerking his hips forward erratically, little sounds escaping him. It’s never felt like this before - like dying and coming back alive. The release of it is so big he feels shattered under its weight. 

And you’re saying something to him, whispering words sticky with honey into his ear, pouring them right into his heart, and he can barely hear you over the hammering of his own heart, but it doesn’t matter. You hold him as he trembles, as he shakes, as he tries to collect himself, to control his breathing, hold him and stroke lazy, soft circles up and down his back, trace patterns against his spine, leave soft kisses on any inch of skin you can reach, trapped beneath his weight as you are.

Finally, after an eternity, Bradley pulls away an inch or two, careful not to let his cock slip out. There’s a little embarrassment spreading through his stomach now because he can’t believe he came that fast, can’t believe he didn’t even make sure to take you over the edge with him.

But you barely seem to think about your own lack of an orgasm.

“Are you okay?” you ask, voice gentle, face full of concern.

Bradley’s heart clenches. Maybe, he thinks, his ribcage is going to crack open. It seems impossible for one person to hold so much love inside.

“Are…” He clears his throat, suddenly unsure. “Are you?”

You nod immediately, smile, and the relief floods him. Then you shift, gasp, muscles fluttering around his softening cock.

“Well… I…”

He doesn’t let you finish, shakes his head, says, “You did so good for me, baby. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

He’s already looking at the place where you’re still connected, where his cum is beginning to drip from you in silvery trails. The sight of it is enough to make something like madness descend again, something like that earlier haze, the frenzy of the heat.

Bradley pulls out, sighs at the feeling, and your mouth opens as if in protest, but before you can form any words, he’s replaced his cock with two fingers.

You whimper, eyes closing, a muscle in your stomach jumping.

“I got you,” he says, keeps his eyes on the mess of your swollen cunt, the wet spot soaking into the mattress just beneath, the evidence of his pleasure, smooths his free hand over your chest to settle you. “Relax, honey. I got you.”

Your answer is a moan of his name, fingers twisting into the sheets. He can feel your walls bearing down on the motion of his fingers and knows you’re close, desperately, frantically, torturously close to the brink.

So he speeds up the movement of his digits, swipes his thumb through the sopping wetness, and then across your clit as he fucks his cum back into you. Not letting a single drop go to waste.

“Bradley,” you sob, mouth opening, fingers grappling for something.

Knowing what you need, knowing without you asking for it, he catches your hand with his own and interlaces your fingers. Then he leans down, leans over you, leans in. Finds the seam of your mouth with his own. It’s less of a kiss than both of you panting against each other, finding the same rhythm.

“You can let go now,” he whispers into you. “I’m here. I’ve got you, honey. My perfect girl.”

You come with his name on your lips, cunt clenching around his fingers, arching off the bed and into him, and it’s like a prayer. It’s like a song. 

It takes you a while to come down, and he coaxes you through it, brushes kisses against your lips and your jaw and your ear. Hopes he can ground you the same way you ground him.

Finally, softly, voice faint and fragile, you say, “That was… intense.”

Bradley hums in agreement, and then a laugh rips from him. Because it’s all so ridiculous and so monumental, and he doesn’t know where to go with all these emotions.

“I… yeah. It really was.” He pauses, feels shame curling through him. “I’m sorry I sprung that on you.”

You shake your head, lift one hand to run a finger across his mustache the way you like to do sometimes. 

“It’s okay,” you say, and he knows you mean it. “You must have carried that for a long time.”

It chokes him up, the way you know him so well. Better than anybody else.

“Yeah,” he agrees, drops his head into the crook of your neck. “It… I want you to know that I really want this. It’s not… it’s not adrenaline, and it’s not just almost dying, it’s… It’s you. I want this with you. Only with you.”

He can feel the curve of your smile against his temple, can hear it in your voice.

“I want it with you too, Bradley. Only with you.”

Bradley’s so afraid he’s going to start crying again that he springs into action instead. Reaches around you for a pillow to push beneath your hips, angle your lower body upwards.

“What are you doing?” you ask, laughing a little.

“I’m trying to keep my cum in you. Maybe we’re like super extra lucky, and it works out on the first try.”

Now you’re laughing in earnest, and he gets the impression it might be at his expanse.

“Still on the pill, Bradley,” you remind him, eyes luminous with your happiness.

Feeling a little sheepish, a little embarrassed, a little elated, he shrugs helplessly.

“Can’t hurt,” he says. Then adds, “Besides… I don’t want all my hard work to go to waste.”

Then you’re laughing together, breathless, loud laughter, the bending-at-the-waist kind. The belly-hurting kind. The kind that doesn’t come often.

And it’s good. It’s beautiful. It’s the kind of peace he’s never known before but has wanted always, always, always.

It’s so much better than anything he could have ever dreamed. Because it’s real. Because it’s true.

All his life, Bradley thinks, he’s been listening to oceans in seashells. It’s good, fun even, for a while, but it’s no replacement for the real thing. It’s no comparison to standing at the shore of the Pacific Ocean, watching waves crest and crash and throw themselves against the beach again and again, like a devotion that never ends. How big and beautiful and terrible the truth of it is.

And he’d thought the whole world was in that seashell.

Once the laughter has died down, once you’ve fallen back into the kind of comfortable silence that can exist only between people that really, truly love each other, Bradley strokes his thumb against your cheekbone, watches your eyes flutter closed.

“I love you,” he says, “more than I thought I could love someone. Thanks for loving me back.”

It’s bumbling, and it’s inadequate, and it doesn’t convey half of what it should.

But you smile at him, eyes opening, face so tender his heart stutters, and you whisper, “It’s an honor, Lieutenant Bradshaw.”

For the first time, Bradley doesn’t think about dying, doesn’t think about leaving. He thinks about living. He thinks about staying.

#rooster #bradley bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun imagine #mine #f: oias

[leejungchans]

obvious — c.sc

༉‧₊˚✧ for my 1k event !

requested by @svtglitch : hiya sol :00 may i request bakery/florist au with seungcheol (svt) ? (bee tee dubs i <3 u)

a/n: hi tawni <33 tysm for requesting!!!! idk if this is what you had in mind but i hope you’ll still like the direction i went w this 💕 ily too muahhh

word count | 0.9k

pairing | choi seungcheol (svt) x gender neutral reader

genre | fluff, bakery au, florist au

warning(s) / includes | brief alcohol and food mentions (please lmk if i missed anything!)

“Lovely wedding, isn’t it?”

You smile at the man who had just joined you at the open bar as he hops onto the stool next to yours.“Mm, indeed,” you agree before taking a sip from your glass. Apple juice, because you can’t drink on the job. “Though, it’s bad manners to look better than the groom, don’t you think, Seungcheol?”

As disgustingly corny as it is to say, he’ll always be the prettiest person you know. He’s the prettiest when he’s greeting customers with a warm grin, when he’s wearing his pink apron that has Cherry Bakery emblazoned across the front in red bubble font, even when he’s pulling an all-nighter to put the finishing touches on his special orders, icing sugar dusted across his shirt and counters as though a mini snowstorm had wreaked havoc in your kitchen.

And he’s still the prettiest right now, in his wedding guest attire of polished shoes, slacks and a crisp button-up, the sleeves neatly cuffed to expose his forearms. I clean up well, you recall him joking earlier today as you both rushed around the reception venue. It’s perhaps the biggest understatement you’ve heard this week, but you only had enough time to respond with a teasing call of just don’t get frosting on your shirt!

“Have you seen the floral centerpieces?” Seungcheol asks casually, gently plucking you out of your thoughts to bring you back to reality. “The colours and composition are stunning, whoever made them must be an artistic genius.”

You hide your smile behind the rim of your glass, cheeks warming from his praises. “I could say the same for whoever made the wedding cake. Tasted as good as it looked too. Have you tried it?”

Seungcheol angles his body to properly face you. Your eyes naturally drift to his collarbones, now further highlighted by the glow of the fairy lights hanging above you. He catches you staring, and smirks. “No, not yet,” he purrs, “maybe we could share a slice before it’s all gone—”

“Oh, good! You’re both here!” The bride glides over to you from the dance floor with her husband not far behind, and you’re reminded of a princess as the floaty tulle of her gown kisses the polished tiles.

Radiating pure happiness, she takes your hands in hers. “I just wanted to thank you again,” she tells you sincerely. Her wide eyes, accentuated by shimmery makeup, brim with unshed tears. The flowers looked so lovely today. I’m so glad my friend recommended you, I’m already planning to press some from my bouquet!”

Unable to conceal your relief at the positive reception, you give her hands a reassuring squeeze. “I’m happy that you like them. Congratulations again, and thank you for letting us join the reception!”

The bride beams, cheeks aglow with a pretty pink flush that you liken to the roses from her bouquet. “Of course, you two helped make this possible!” She moves on to Seungcheol. “And you—the cake was incredible. I know I said the same at the tasting, but it really is the best cake I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you,” he says with a gracious smile, “it’s an honour to be part of your special day.”

“I’m no baker, but the icing details must’ve taken forever,” the groom chimes in, “you did a great job.”

Briefly, Seungcheol’s eyes meet yours, and you just manage to catch the mirth swirling in them before he turns back to the couple. “Ah, well, I got lots of encouragement.”

The glance you two shared had seemingly not gone unnoticed under the bride’s observant gaze. “Babe,” she chirps with a snap of her fingers, looking over at her husband, “don’t they look like they’d be cute together? A lot of people meet their partners at weddings, y’know.”

“Actually,” out of the corner of your eye, you catch Seungcheol biting down on his lower lip to suppress a laugh, “we…uh—”

Taking your hesitance for discomfort, the groom offers a sheepish smile. “Sorry, we don’t mean to make you both uncomfortable.” He gazes affectionately at his wife as he interlaces their fingers. “We should get you some water, hm, darling? You’ve already had a few flutes of champagne.”

Seungcheol waits until the couple are out of earshot before swivelling in his stool to face you with a pout. “I’m surprised they haven’t noticed,” he mumbles, looking down at his shirt, “I thought it was pretty obvious I matched with you too.”

You grin, wholly endeared by your boyfriend’s sulky display as you pat his knee in consolation. “You know what they say, love does make you blind. But if it makes you feel any better, I think you look really good today.”

He perks up at your words, a cheeky smile now playing on his lips as he leans in close enough for you to catch a whiff of his cologne. The warm, woody scent is comfortingly familiar, reminding you of rare, lazy mornings with your head tucked under his chin, face nuzzled into his soft T-shirt. It’s a smell you now associate with him, with home.

“Well, I think you look even better,” he murmurs, leaving you hypnotised by the adoration dripping from his gaze, “what do you say we go get some of that cake now?”

Your hand slips into his, much like all the other times you’ve done before. “I say that’s a sweet idea.”

“Not as sweet as you, though.”

“Mm, let’s leave the cheesiness to the bride and groom for tonight.”

a/n: mom i love him 🧎🏻‍♀️ anyways if you made it this far ty for reading 💗

if you enjoyed my writing, please take a little time to reblog and/or give feedback to support it <3 interact with content creators please !

#ficscafe #caratwritersclub #kdiarynet #sol.writings #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #seungcheol x reader #scoups x reader #choi seungcheol x reader #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #scoups imagines #seungcheol imagines #choi seungcheol imagines #seventeen scenarios #svt scenarios #seventeen drabbles #svt drabbles #scoups fluff #seungcheol fluff #choi seungcheol fluff

[pretty-toastie]

I know nobody really reads these but it's fun to shout into the void.

Anyway I'm obsessed with myth. I'm obsessed with the tragedy of "this is how it was always going to end." I'm obsessed with Hadestown and singing the song again and again as though it might turn out differently, despite knowing deep down that it never will. I'm obsessed with the concept of myth as silhouette, where even if you change the names, change the circumstances, it always ends the same way. I'm obsessed with tragic flaws.

Also, completely unrelated, I'm obsessed with wolves?? Like,,, what is a wolf. In literature, I mean. Because sometimes it's just an animal, with no meaning behind it. But that's boring.

And sometimes a "wolf" is a man---a metaphor for the uniquely human concept of cruelty for cruelty's sake. In many versions of Little Red Riding Hood, for example, the wolf is a man. In some, it's explicit---the moral is about the dangers of little girls talking to strange men. But I think that's tired, and it's also kind of missing the point? Like, no, cruelty isn't of animals. It's of men. You lose something when you call an evil man a wolf.

So then there's the third kind of wolf (are there more than three kinds? no shut up. i make the rules) which is Just An Animal, and the difference between that and the first kind is. stark.

So wolves that are just an animal (lowercase) are like. real wolves. They can be friendly, they can have families, they can be tamed, they're the ancestors of dogs. These are the wolves we mean when we say "raised by wolves" and mean like Mowgli (for lack of a better example)---when we mean kind and understanding of family and empathy, and just... lacking manners.

And wolves that are Just An Animal (uppercase) are like. The epitome of animalistic tendency. They are Hungry. They are a manifestation of starvation and cold. They are the loss of rational thought in the face of hunger and the fallback to pure instinct. They are the wolves of Will in Scarlet, the wolves of The Werewolf (Angela Carter), the wolves of any story where the reason you don't go out at night is because of "The Wolves". They are always thin, always cold, always hungry, always starving. And I think that this version of wolves in literature gets so much right. Like. They're not bad. And that's extremely important. It's not bad to be hungry. They aren't cruel. They're just animals. Animals must eat. They are more a force of nature than anything else---blameless in their drive to devour, relatable, the reduction of sentience to desperation in the face of the cold.

And I think the other really cool thing about this kind of wolf is the way they connect to the Cold. Like. Idk if whoever is reading this has seen the Jacob Geller essay about cold (if you haven't go watch it smh) but. Cold doesn't care. It's unemotional in it's destruction. It harms good and evil alike. And it is the mechanism for the creation of Wolves. Wolves aren't starving when food is plentiful. It's only when the frost creeps in and the deer cannot eat and begin to die that the wolves get hungry.

And like there's a warning there. A warning about the cold. It says, "Look. Look what happened to them, what they've been reduced to. The Cold will do that to you as well. The Cold will make you nothing but an Animal." And isn't that just so much more interesting than wolves being a shitty metaphor for cruel men?

#writing #myth #tragedy #folklore #wolves #cold #winter #metaphor #rambling #writers on tumblr #the art of storytelling #idk i hate tags :/

[lofi-bunni]

We need more SMT+!Yuu

I need more SMT+!Yuu. There’s two things that come to mind. A Yuu that works by P5 rules and can go into the collective unconsciousness to change peoples distortions or a Yuu which has a merry band of demons following them around and that listens to them like servants while also having distinct personalities and unfathomable abilities. Yuu’s like a Pokémon trainer except with gods…

Now image P5 Yuu in the twst universe. They go in there pretty normal and are still considered magic-less but the students talk about them having glow eyes. Turns out their just using whatever ability they have that highlights things and lets them see confidant/social link ranks. But the kicker would be in a overblot fight where they go into whatever NRC’s collective unconsciousness is and beat the shit out of the dorm heads shadows while their friends fight them on the outside. It would make the whole tragic backstory dump feel less shoe horned in.

Now what about Yuu who has a bunch of demon servants/summons. They have either a device that stores them or their all inside of Yuu’s brain talking to them and being released whenever. Ramshackle would be so much more lively

I wanna give Yuu some “default demons” that I feel fit the vibe.

Jack and Black Frost. Mainly because Jack Frost is Atlus’s mascot and black frost seems like the overblotted version of him and is equally iconic.

Alice! Another Iconic smt demon who fits into the twst world perfectly! Image NRC’s reaction to her, “Die for Me :)” perfect.

Idun. I don’t know she would fit very well into chapter 5. A apple themed idol goddess who heals, just a perfect counter to Vil’s OB and hey maybe they even get in on the VDC action and teach Yuu how to dance!

Mephisto. He fits very well into the twst world as well and gives me slight Crowley vibes.

Yoshitsune. All these high level demons for Yuu! Yoshitsune is a must have if Yuu’s gonna “I’ve done the hero’s journey before motherfucker.” Their way through this!

Continuing on that train, Trumpeter, Metatron, and Titania. Titania actually has a theme for twst though. Diasomnia in particular. Since Titanias the Queen of fairies and has that whole sleep theme to her.

They probably have more stored somewhere (idk man..) but those seems like the most important.

Imagine Crowley chiding Yuu for, “Not keeping track of your familiar!” And Yuu going, “You mean this sad excuse for a Cait Sith??”

“You wanna see familiars? I’ll show you familiars >:)”

“All my friends are dead :)”

Wait omg the angst potential of the darker smt world plus the multiple voices in their head jeysjehdhnshwhw YES

“I’ll paint your roses red alright…”

“I’ve killed god! You think a little sand in my eye will stop me from kicking your ass!”

“Sign a contract??? I’ve done that like…” *starts counting on fingers.* “uggh… hasn’t worked out most of the time.”

“Ah this mind control is some trouble… nothing a little brainwash can’t override!”

“Manager? Well I guess I manage a bunch of crazy’s on the regular, what can a little dancing do to hurt, hell Idun could help out.”

*one almost murder later*

“And I was getting worried life was taking it a little easy on me…”

Just an absolute crack idea that I thought would be fun to think about.

#twst au #twst yuu #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland #au hell #!Yuu #brain spill #Don’t pay too much attention #legit just me wanting a Yuu that kicks ass in a sarcastic way #while still having angst potential #SMT+!Yuu

[asmotheavatarofhorny]

Chapter 1: And A Very Happy Birthday To You

——————————————————————

Wish Upon A Star is an Obey Me series where the player, AKA Yuki, is transported into the world of Obey Me on their 18th birthday.

——————————————————————

⚠️Warnings:

• OC (they’re very heavily based on MC with some creative liberties taken on my part, I just couldn’t bare to make an entire series using you/your pronouns, sorry)

• They/Them pronouns, no mention of physical gender/privates lmao

• Mentions of main character being 18

• Bad parental figures

• Isekai AU

——————————————————————

A/N: Hayy~ Idk what came over me but I suddenly had motivation after months of not having a single drop… Anyways, I’ve been working on birthday content for Asmo and will be posting several things for my darling tmrrw<3 Also, do you like the banner I made for this series? Idk if it’s bad or not, but I like it, so that must count for something, right? (⁎⁍̴̆Ɛ⁍̴̆⁎)

——————————————————————

The young teen sat at their kitchen counter, smiling softly as they listened to their favorite characters sing their praises and happy birthday wishes. ‘Finally,’ they thought as they stuck a single candle into their chocolate cupcake with bright blue frosting. It wasn’t a fancy cupcake, just one they had bought for a few dollars from a local convenience store, but it meant the world.

Tonight, at exactly 12:00 AM, Yuki would blow out the candle and wish themselves a happy 18th birthday.

Today was the day Yuki would finally be rid of it all. They would finally be able to move out of the dump they called a home, or rather, their mother called a home. Yuki’s mother had never really been with them. They lived together sure, but they rarely saw each other. Yuki’s mother was unemployed and partied all night long on most nights. She depended solely on Yuki’s meager earnings from their job as a cashier at Burger Queen.

Yuki sighed and turned towards their phone, the dim light and soft music coming from the speakers brought a wave of comfort over them, pulling them back from their thoughts.

They glanced at the time quickly before lighting their candle and blowing it out, their light breath a soft whisper of hope amidst the ashes of heart break and betrayal the world Yuki lived in was littered with.

“I wish that I had a harem of demons, just like in Obey Me,” Yuki muttered under their breath, a sigh that was intended to be a small laugh but ended up coming out as a dejected moan escaping their lips.

In an act of desperation, Yuki pushed themself up and off of the barstool they were planted on, cupcake in tow, before unceremoniously tossing it into the open lidded trash can. ‘There goes my hopes and dreams,’ Yuki thought to themself before grabbing their device and trudging back to their room.

——————————————————————

“Lucifer,” a voice muttered, echoing through the large chamber where they stood.

“Hm,” the silver haired man hummed in acknowledgement.

“It’s their birthday today,” rang out the voice.

“I’m aware.”

A short silence overtook the two before Lucifer spoke again, “You don’t think this will be overwhelming for them, Diavolo?”

Lucifer heard a chuckle from the red haired demon, followed by the tapping of footsteps on the hard tile. “Worried about them, are you?” He asked, “How very unlike the Avatar of Pride.”

Lucifer hummed yet again, his voice bounced off the large hall in a low purr, “Humans are fickle creatures. I wouldn’t want to send them into shock,” he said bluntly.

“Of course. You’re not the only one who cares for them, you know?”

“Yes, I know.”

Diavolo smirked and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder before looking out onto the lake from the window they were stood in front of. “They say that a star falls every time a human makes a wish,” he started, and a bright light shot across the sky, illuminating the water and causing ripples to shine within it. It was so bright it could almost serve as the Devildom’s own personal sun. “The brighter it is, the stronger the human’s desire.”

Lucifer thought for a moment before turning to lock eyes with the red haired demon, “Why are you saying this?”

“Because that star was Yuki’s.”

——————————————————————

Yuki plopped down on their bed, their head resting briskly onto their pillow. They opened their phone yet again and were met with the soft purr of their favorite boy’s voice as the game loaded, and they let out a sigh of relief. The corners of their lips curled up into a smirk before they let themselves close their eyes.

Listening to the title music always made them so sleepy… And Lucifer’s voice certainly wasn’t helping. They held their phone to their chest, letting the soft tune lull them to sleep.

Beep Beep Beep

Yuki woke up with a start as their alarm blared right in their face. They quickly moved to shut it up, wiping the stream of stray drool from their chin before checking the time: 7:50 AM. Oh shit. They were late to school! Yuki jumped out of bed, scrambling to find some clothes to wear. They settled on a comfy oversized shirt and some baggy sweat pants. They really didn’t feel like dressing up today… Not that they ever did.

Yuki noted the bus pulling up at the stop across the road before they grabbed for their favorite ring, picked up their bag, and made off for the door.

——————————————————————

“Mammon! Get up dumbass, we’re gonna be late!” Shouted an exasperated sloth who always hitched a ride with his older brother since he was unable to take a drivers test for himself since he fell asleep every time, along with a certain glutton that rode with them as-well because Mammon never failed to have snacks nestled in between the seat cushions of his car.

“Okay, okay!” Mammon shouted through the loud pounding on his door. He picked up his DDD, glancing at the time: 7:50 AM. Shit.

Mammon scrambled to throw his uniform on, grumbling angrily as he struggled to get all the complicated buttons and straps settled comfortably on his body before he grabbed his bag and headed out the door.

——————————————————————

Yuki sighed as they sat down on the bus, close to the front so they didn’t have to deal with anyone unsavory. They always liked to grind Obey Me in the mornings, and it was hard when they had other people making fun of them for playing a silly dating game.

They tapped the screen idly, grinning at Lucifer’s grumbles about ‘not being a morning demon.’

They dragged an apple from the gift menu to give him, mirroring his soft smile upon receiving the treat.

“Hey, mind if I sit here?”

Yuki could feel a migraine coming on from the question. They really didn’t have the energy for this today.

“Uh, sure,” they answered, picking their bag up off the seat next to them and placing it on the floor before glancing back at their screen at the blushing Lucifer eagerly awaiting more pets and gifts. Yuki heard the shuffle of the other person sitting next to them, and they could feel unease plague their emotions as they felt themself being stared at.

“So, Lucifer’s your favorite?” The voice asked, effectively pulling Yuki out of their trance. Their eyes stayed fixed on Lucifer as the surprise guest ended, and they watched the screen fade back into the game’s Home Screen.

“Oh, uhm. I guess you could say that,” they answered, “I didn’t know anyone who went to this school played Obey Me.”

“Ah, my apologies. I don’t actually play the game myself, I just happen to know Lucifer personally.”

Yuki looked up, flabbergasted at the strange response. They locked eyes with the person and studied his brown eyes. That with his pale skin and white hair, mixed with the black vest and undershirt with a cream colored jacket to top everything off.

“Woah,” they muttered, almost inaudibly. “So you don’t play the game, and yet you’re still a cosplayer?” They remarked skeptically.

“Cosplayer? Oh, this,” the all too obvious Solomon ‘cosplayer’ hummed. “I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t a cosplay,” He grinned mischievously.

“Sure, sure. Man, you even have the poses down,” Yuki said, completely in awe of the detail on the ‘costume.’

Solomon glanced at his hand that Yuki was staring at which was in the air in a wave.

“Whenever Sol does that pose in game, I always think he wants a high-five,” Yuki giggled, looking back fondly on the memories of tapping Solomon’s hand lovingly.

“Sol? What a cute nickname. I have to say I’m honored to receive one from you, Yuki,” Solomon said with a smile.

“…Huh?” Yuki blinked at him before glancing outside of the bus for a moment, attempting to make sense of this situation. “Sorry, how do you know my name?”

Solomon chuckled lightly before answering, “It’s merely something I picked up in passing.”

“Oh. Okay…?” Yuki looked down at their phone screen again, noting Lucifer’s pouty face. ‘Are you neglecting me on purpose so I’ll pine for you?’ It read, and Yuki immediately felt bad for leaving him for so long. They tapped his shoulder softly and his pout turned into his normal resting face as he prattled on about Diavolo. ‘Typical,’ they thought.

“He’s rather cute on the little screen like that,” Solomon noted, “He looks so vulnerable standing there.”

‘Oh right, this guy’s still here,’ Yuki thought annoyedly.

“Mind if I tap him?” The sorcerer asked with a grin. Truth be told, Yuki didn’t really like other people to touch their stuff, but it was just one tap, right?

“Oh, uh.. Sure?” They answered.

Solomon reached over and lightly poked Lucifer on the shoulder, just as Yuki had done earlier.

Just as he had done that Lucifer’s head fell and his eyebrows furrowed, as he prattled on about how untrustworthy Solomon is.

Yuki held in a laugh at the message, glancing over at Solomon to see his reaction.

Classically, he looked rather taken aback, unsure what to think about it.

“Seems he isn’t very fond of you, huh?” Yuki laughed, and Solomon merely glared playfully at the teen.

‘Maybe this guy isn’t so bad after all…?’

——————————————————————

Previous / Next Chapter

#help I’m bored lol #I’m in love with obey me isekais rn i stg #sigh… #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me series #obey me isekai #obey me fic #wish upon a star #pls give feedback #idk where im going with this #send help #btw I went with Yuki for a name bc MC is giving too much Y/N vibes for my taste #and also it’s the default name for MC #idfk I just liked it lol #anyways #asmotheavatarofhornytm

[hitmanbalor]

MORE OWEN AND BRET INCORRECT QUOTES BECAUSE I LOVE THEM WITH MY ENTIRE HEART

Bret: Self care is stuff like taking a bubble bath or putting on a lot of make up if you like that, or taking a nice warm nap and stuff like that basically.

Owen : Self care is the burning heat when rage washes over you. self care is when you feel the bones crack under your powerful fists. self care is the fear in your enemies eyes.

Yn: Self care is stealing someones birthday cake just to eat the frosting.

Owen : If you touch my birthday cake I’ll make you eat your hands.

---

Owen : *yawns*

Yn: Yeah, being that pretty must be tiring.

Owen : Then you must be exhuasted.

Bret: Will you two shut up? Some of us are lonely.

---

Owen : The best part of an oreo is the cookie part, not the frosting. Deal with it.

Bret: Darkness without light is an abyss. Light without darkness is blinding. You cannot have a coin with one side.

Yn: YO SOCRATES! IT'S A FUCKING COOKIE!

---

Owen : Go ahead, Yn. Let it out, cry. If you don't, your tear ducts will get blocked up, and then when you get old, you won't be able to cry.

Bret: Just when we thought it was safe to let you back into the conversation.

---

Bret: Goddamn it, the printer broke while printing out Yn's birthday invitations.

Owen : Well, what are they supposed to say?

Bret: "Yn's birthday".

Owen : So, what do they say instead?

Bret: "Yn’s bi".

Owen :

Owen : Works out either way.

---

Yn: *looks at Owen *

Yn: Baby boy. Baby.

Yn: *looks at Bret*

Yn: Evil.

---

Owen : And now for a gay update with Bret and Yn.

Bret: Getting gayer.

Owen : Thank you, Bret.

---

Yn: *double checking supplies in the boat* Compass. CB radio. Sunscreen.

Owen : Hot dog costumes!

Yn: I’m sorry, what?

Owen : You know, in case we get lost at sea, and one of us, probably Bret, goes mad with hunger, we’ll put these on. Bret hates hot dogs, so they probably won’t eat us.

Yn: Are you saying that Bret would rather eat us than hot dogs?

Bret: I do hate hot dogs.

---

Bret: Yn, what does IDK, ILY, and TTYL mean?

Yn: I don’t know, I love you, talk to you later.

Bret: Alright, I love you too, I'll ask Owen .

Yn: Wait- Bret, no-

Yn: If I die, my funeral will be the biggest party ever and you're all invited.

Bret: "If"

Owen : Great, the only party I'm ever invited to and they might not even die.

---

Owen : I told Bret that their ears turn red when they lie.

Yn: Do they?

Owen : No.

Yn: Then why did you tell them that?

Owen : Because I can do this.

Owen : Hey Bret! Do you love us?

Bret, with their hands over their ears: No.

#bret hart #owen hart #wwf incorrect quotes

[twinhood-2dot0]

A Shallow Dive Into: Justice League of America

Good morning Alex, and sorry, this must be getting boring. I usually have a topic ready days prior but this week was pretty hectic. I was gonna write code to analyze Spotify's top tracks and report my findings but sadly I don't have the time to write the code and write a blog post about it so I'm fishing my draft for the Justice League shallow dive I'd scrapped and finishing it up :P.

What's the Justice League?

DC had a team of superheros called the "Justice Society of America". After comic books fell out of popularity, the team was pretty much abandoned, and later reimagined in the form of the Justice League and also revived, but in a parallel universe. The Justice League at it's conception had the big shots Batman and Superman, Wonder Woman, A new Flash and Green Lantern (versions of whom who appeared in the Justice Society), Aquaman, Martian Manhunter but the roster has expanded exponentially since then and spawned sub-teams such as the magic based Justice League Dark, Justice League International consisting of superheroes from countries that are not America and Justice League Incarnate for the multiverse to name a few. The popularity of the Justice Society spawned other teams such as the Teen Titans, Young Justice, the Fantastic Four and the Avengers (Yes, DC did it first, just like everything else).

Meet The Cast

Superman - The (super)man, the myth, the legend. Kal-El is an alien from the planet Krypton (named so because the writer liked the element Krypton???). He landed on the farm of a couple, Jonathan and Martha Kent in Smallville, Kansas. His powers include: Flying, very durable body, super-strength, super-speed, frost breath, heat vision, super-vision (x-ray, telescopic yada yada). He can photosynthesis, but not under a red sun, they remove his powers, Krypton has a red sun, so Kryptonians are normal on Krypton, except I think Supergirl learnt to fly on Krypton in Injustice so idk, maybe just inconsistencies. Batman also has red sun in his possession to stop Superman if need be. Do not ask me how that works.

Batman - See: My last post

Wonder Woman - Princess Diana is the daughter of Hippolyta, the Greek mythology one. Although in DC, Amazons live on an island named Themyscira, where no men are allowed, and everyone is immortal I think so there is no need for reproduction. Wonder Woman is bisexual but her main love interest is a man, sadly. This origin story was concocted by a super-feminist and considered them the superior sex so he made an island without men cuz men suck I guess. I’m really sorry but I know very little about Wonder Woman.

The Flash(es) - The Flash is more of a mantle than a character. It has been carried by like 6 people at this point, those being:

Jay Garrick - The first Flash. Please forgive the origin story, it was 1940. He, in a lab, tipped over a beaker of HARD WATER, and the fumes of it gave him super-speed. He’s too old for me to know much about, sorry.

Barry Allen - Ah, the most iconic one of them all, FOR OLD PEOPLE!!! He was the Flash in the Justice League back in the Bronze and Silver ages, and was killed off in 1985, in Crisis. He returned in 2008. Just let Wally have some peace man, he’s been tortured because of Barry’s existence. Bartholomew Henry Allen’s (why is it legal to name people that) mother was killed by [SPOILER] when he was a kid and his father was wrongfully arrested because there was no evidence. Barry became a CSI to prove that his father did not commit the crime. He sadly died in prison before Barry could prove his innocence. Anyways, onto how he got his powers. This one is better tho. While working in the forensics lab one night, he was struck by lightning and doused in chemicals, giving him superspeed, because lightning, I guess.

Wally West - Nephew of Barry Allen’s girlfriend at the time Iris West, he was a huge fan of The Flash who just so happened to be his uncle. One day Iris took Wally to visit Barry’s crime lab, and guess what, lightning does strike twice. Barry revealed his identity and mentored him as he became Kid Flash. As Kid Flash he was a founding member of the Teen Titans. Again, I’m very salty that very few Teen Titans adaptations have him despite him being a founding member. Then, as he neared his 20s and still going by Kid Flash for some reason, Barry dies in his fight against Anti-Monitor. He is forced to step up as The Flash and struggles with carrying on the legacy. He has a psychological block on his speed because he was scared to outshine Barry, but with new threats forcing him to overcome the block, he becomes the fastest Flash ever and has the best connection to the Speed-Force, the force that gives the speedsters their powers.

I won’t go into details about the rest of the speedsters, there are far too many, but I will list some of them. Bart Allen, grandson of Barry Allen. Tornado Twins, twins of Barry and Iris. Johnny and Jesse Quick, Father and Daughter who get superspeed by speaking a formula, 3X2(9YZ)4A, don’t ask Wallace West, Barry’s nephew who got his powers the same way Wally did. Wait. Wallace? As in Wally? Wait what? Yeah, so remember how Wally was wiped from existence? Wallace was brought in to replace him. He’s Wally, but African-American, younger and just a less fun character.

Green Lantern - This is also a character with multiple characters having the same name. The Green Lantern Corps is basically an intergalactic police department. Each of them have a ring that lets them create anything, limited only by their imagination, and superspeed and breathe-in-space-thing. The first Green Lantern I know nothing about, Alan Scott, got an actual green glowing lantern and made a ring with it. The rest, however, were approached by a premade ring and selected for their indomitable will. Oh yeah, there’s also a whole rainbow of Lantern Corps. Yellow is their main enemy led by a former GL. I know too little about them too except Alan Scott is the Jay Garrick of GL, Hal Jordan the coolest the Barry, and Kyle Rayner the Wally. The others I don’t know much about, but they are John Stewart, Guy Gardner, Simon Baz, Jessica Cruz, idk why there’s only 2 female GLs and both took till the 2010s, and Sojourner Mullein.

Martian Manhunter - I know far too little about him too, but he’s a Green Martian, who was a criminal on Mars, his race was wiped out, I think, and is trying to reform on Earth. He has transformation powers, intangibility, and telepathy and a heck ton more, even wiki collapsed the list, even Superman doesn’t have a list that long.

Aquaman - Super-speed underwater, super-strength, super-durability, trident, talks to fish, weak telepathy, largest nation on Earth. Oh, right, origin story. Arthur Curry's mother was the Queen of Atlantis but his father is human, so he’s half Atlantean and half-Human so Atlantis people hate him but he gains their respect. I know too little, sorry again.

Those are the main members of the JL of America (There are a lot more). And there’s Cyborg too I guess but I consider him a Titan so he’ll be in part 2 if there’s ever one.

Alex, I'll see you on Thursday -Alia

#dc comics #dceu #dc extended universe #snyderverse #restorethesnyderverse #superman #batman #wonder woman #the flash

[rafescoke]

Never sent a request idk if I do this right. Been to lazy and not good lately and honestly I just need a good fluff. The basic plot where he is in a bad mood like angry and then he turns to his lover etc etc. Do your thing I just need some comfort and love!

Cupcake ; Rafe Cameron

masterlist

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x reader

Summary: Maybe making cupcakes with a girl he likes won’t be a bad thing

Warnings: Slight angst on the earlier part, cursing, substance, extreme fluff, adorable Rafe Cameron

A/N: I hope you're doing good, sending all my love and hugs @ you <33 remember to rest!!! @asimpwriter

p.s; you know the drill - send any requests!

"Fuck off," Rafe sighed, shutting his eyes against the bright chandelier above the dinner table. Since when did it got so bright? The last time he checked, it was dimmed. "I swear Sarah, say one more word and I'll fucking kill you."

"Rafe," Ward sighed, placing his cutleries down onto the expensive wooden table. "It's family time. Excuse your sister."

"She's hanging around with those stupid pogues, dad!" he groaned, not wanting to believe that his dad was on her side. Not that he was ever on his, but he thought his father would have the same mindset as him towards this topic.

"Let. It. Go."

"They're my friends," she breathed, and Ward closed his eyes again, knowing the screaming that was about to occur. "I'm sorry you're stuck with Topper-"

"Didn't you cheat on him?" he laughed, and turned to look at his dad. He mouthed at him with an amused expression, "She cheated on him."

"I didn't, and we broke up 2 weeks ago. I'm sorry he couldn't move on from me," Sarah shrugged, and Rafe watched as she put aside her green beans and offered some of the mashed potatoes to Wheezie.

How could she act so normal about this?

"Oh, and-" Sarah turned to Ward, and Rafe waited impatiently for the lies that was about to slip from her mouth. "Do you know that he does drugs?"

"Sarah!" Rose yelled, furrowing her eyebrows as Rafe laughed out loud, clapping his hands loudly that the sound echoed throughout the huge house. "It's a family dinner!"

"I don't give a fuck about this family," Sarah said, removing the napkin from her lap and quickly standing up to get out of the house. Ward didn't say anything, neither did Rose, and after a few seconds, he let out a sigh.

"This is getting out of hand," he started, clasping his hands. "Rafe, I'm no longer letting you take over my business."

Rafe stopped his movements, looking at his father with widened eyes. After all those time he spent at college, trying to make his father proud and to take over the business, only for this?

"Dad, you can't. She's lying, dad, I haven't been using drugs."

"I saw the stash, Rafe," he sighed, and Rafe thought about the space under his bed. He closed his eyes, muttering a ‘fuck’ when he finally remembered the empty space. He didn't think much about it earlier, thinking about how he must have used up all of the powder.

"Until you get your life back on track, or nothing at all."

"Dad-"

"Go find your sister, and bring her home."

"Dad, please-"

"Go find Sarah."

"Okay," he sighed, standing up immediately and letting the chair scraped the polished floor. Wheezie shifted uncomfortably at the sound, and Rafe had an urge to do it again, just for the sake of riling his father's anger.

He cursed silently, walking away towards the table and to the porch, all while thinking about the joy if he could destroy the Pogues' life for making his hard.

The drive from Figure 8 to The Cut took him 30 minutes at high speed and being fully caffeinated, and when he arrived at the Chateau, all riled up from the quarrel with his father that he had before, he didn't try to see if his sister was even in there before barging into the small home.

"Yo, what the fuck?"

"Where's Sarah?" he muttered, giving Kie his side glance and continued searching for her. "Where the fuck is she?"

"Yo, bro, this land is off to the kooks," JJ stepped in, eye to eye as he leveled up to Rafe's height. He was only an inch shorter, but the difference was apparent. He continued to place his hands against his chest, whispering slowly. "Especially to crackheads like you."

Rafe laughed, tilting his head to the back to release the tension building up in his body. He was so, so close to give the blonde boy the consequences of his words, but was halted when Sarah entered the room, hand in hand with John B.

"What are you doing here?" she groaned, walking forward and standing in front of him. "God, can't you leave me alone?"

"Oh, trust me, I rather do that more than anything especially-" his eyes trailed to John B, "When you're fucking with a trash."

"JJ-" Kie stepped up, pulling JJ's shirt to stop him from doing anything. She sighed, knowing that this was bound to happen anytime soon, and she had told John B about this before, but he didn't listen. Now it was like her job to protect her friends from Rafe.

"Leave," Sarah stated, her lips pulled into a tight grimace. "Leave before I'll tell dad about this."

"I'm just trying to protect you," he ran his fingers through his hair, making it more messier than ever. Why couldn't she get that? All he was doing - it was all to protect her, so that his father could see him for what he's worth.

"You know what?" he sighed, wrapping his face with his large hands and turning towards the exit. "You wanna be one of them? Go. Don't ever come back home. You're just another trash, anyways."

He wasn't sure if he meant them, or if it came from the heat of the moment. All he could think about was to run away, to hide and to never come out and face his father or the judgement put by everyone else. He felt an uneasy feeling rising in the pit of her stomach, but he was too proud to say sorry.

“That was useless," he thought, leaning over his motorcycle and blinking his eyes against the lights by the side of the road. He couldn't go back now, not when his father had just ordered him to bring Sarah home and he had failed to do so, and he couldn't go to Barry's; his dad could find him there if he search for him the next day.

He groaned, feeling the cold air nipping at his skin until the final thought occurred to him. He laughed then, not sure as to why he hadn't been thinking of that sooner, and soon he was in front of the mini apartment.

He rapped on the door and waited patiently, his heartbeat quickening. He looked at his watch, checking if his arrival was too late. He groaned, noticing the time, but it would be embarrassing for him to turn now.

(Y/N) was trying to figure out what colour should she put into the frosting mixture, her hands on her waist when she heard the knock.

Her head instinctively looked at the clock, frowning when she read the time. It was not that late, only around 10 p.m., but she was not ready for any guests or her friends to come over.

Had she been too loud that the cranky neighbor next door who sleeps early everyday had come to tell her off?

She sighed, lowering the music coming from the radio before making her way to the door. She was in nothing but her ribbed top and a pair of sweatpants, and her hair was messier than ever.

"I'm sorry, Jerry," she sighed, opening the door to greet the old man. But standing in front of her was not the grey-haired man with furrowed eyebrows, ready to scold her, but it was the boy she had been crushing on since forever instead.

"Rafe?" she exclaimed, and she couldn't deny the shock spreading through her veins at the sight of him. He was sweaty, like he had just been in a fight, and his shirt was sticking to his body. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, I'm sorry, can I come in?"

The smell of freshly baked cupcakes wafted into his nostrils, and he noticed the drool in his mouth. He didn't eat dinner that much, being forced to chase after his sister, and all he wanted was to enjoy some good food and get a good sleep for the night.

"I'm not. . . we can't. . . I'm not prepared for anything-"

"It's okay, I didn't come for sex," he bit his lips, trying to contain her amused laughter at her statement. "We're friends, (Y/N), aren't we?"

"Yeah," she raised a brow, not grasping at the way he was playing his words. She allowed him in, asking him to sit by the kitchen counter and checking her porch outside to see if there was any cameras in case he was trying to prank her.

Rafe Cameron never contacted her for anything if it wasn't for sex.

"What are you making?" he pointed at the mess on the kitchen, and (Y/N) tried to hide her red face as she quickly tried to put the stained bowls and cutleries into the sink.

"Uh, cupcakes."

"Yum," he chuckled, liking the way she was so nervous around him. The truth with (Y/N), she was extremely wild in bed but also very shy outside. It was like a complete two different person, but he was always intrigued by this.

The first time they had done the deed, he was shocked when she got into control, and he would lie if he said he didn't enjoy it. That night was one of Rafe’s best nights, the starting point to the many after.

"Relax, (Y/N)," he laughed, watching as she tilted a cup and placing his hand under the table to catch it before it could break. (Y/N) yelped, struck to her position, and let out the biggest relief when Rafe put it back to its previous place, safe as ever.

"Why are you so jumpy?" he whispered, sneaking beside her to help with whatever she was doing. He hadn't got a clue about this whole baking thing, only watching Cake Wars for the drama, but he wanted to help the girl beside him if it means he got to spend time with her.

"What are you doing?" she muttered, glancing at Rafe's hands as he whisked the fluffy frosting. "Rafe, you're going to get it more clumpy."

"No, I won't."

"Rafe, I swear," she groaned, reaching over to grab the whisk only for him to turn around, laughing while she struggled to get him.

"I'm just making it more fluffier," he smiled, continuing to whisk the mixture without even looking at the white colloid. He was too busy looking at her, and he wondered if she knew about the small amount of flour powder that had gotten on the top of her nose.

"Was the coke good?"

"Huh?" she tilted her head, confused, and still angry at the way he was not listening to her.

"The nose. Was the coke good?"

(Y/N) gave him a look before going to the corner to stare at herself in the mirror, letting out a yelp when she saw the powdery stain on her nose. She quickly dusted them off, stalking back to the still-whisking boy, and she wondered about the amount of energy he had in him and how he was still not tired.

"Rafe! It's all clumped!" she sighed, finally having a hold on the large bowl. She took her a finger and tipped it into the mixture, pulling out before slipping the finger into her mouth. Her face scrunched up, and she reached for the glass of water by her side.

"What? It's more prettier. More texture-ish. If we're in Cake Wars, we'll be the winner."

"That's not how it works," she groaned, pouring the failed mixture into the sink and letting the water cleansed them off. "Now my cupcake's going to be naked."

"You know what can be naked too?"

She held up her middle finger, placing the wet bowl onto the counter and using the clean cloth to wipe it dry. "And I'm not giving these to the children's home naked. You have to help me, Rafe."

Rafe felt a smile tugging on his lips at the mention of 'children’s home', and he thought about how perfect could she be. She’s the epitome of the girl everyone wants to be - she's good in school, never using anyone's money for her, good at baking, and has a big heart?

He thought about how she's good in bed too, but he tired to shake the childish thought away.

"What can I do? Should I go to the store and get any Betty Crocker's frosting?" he offered, his hands in his pocket to reach for his keys. He watched as her shoulder slumped, and he felt bad for ruining her cake. He touched her shoulder, "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't know it would actually be clumped. I thought it would get even more fluffier."

"You don't think, Rafe, that's why," she sighed, "But that's alright. Do you think you can help me make another one?"

"Are you sure? I don't want to ruin anything," he backed away, glancing at the sink and thinking about the clumped mixture making their way to the sewer.

"Yes. Can you reach for that sugar? That's flour, Rafe, god, yes, yes, okay, c'mere," she rolled her eyes, taking the container from him and dumping the content into the dried bowl. "Now, what do we do?"

"Put water?"

(Y/N) laughed, tilting her head to one side, trying to clutch her stomach from hurting. "Yeah, if you want the kids to get sick."

"Okay, Gordon, what should we do next?" he grunted, but he liked the lightness in the air. How the conversation flowed easily, and how quick he regained her trust to help her make whatever this is.

It was like she didn't care about the Rafe Cameron that gets into fights with the pogues or snorts coke when he's stressed. He felt like staying in this moment forever, wanting to help her bake whatever and watching her smile.

(Y/N) handed him the butter, muttering something along the words of 'dump them in', 'use the mixture', 'you're going to break your arms' and 'watch while it's whisking'.

He didn't care about the many orders she was giving him - he enjoyed it. He truly liked how his night was ending after a long day of bullshit, starting with his college sending him a letter for the vandalism he had caused outside of the Dean's office, Kelce and Topper going on a road trip without him and giving him the explanation of 'we asked you, and you said no'.

In truth, he didn't even remember anything about meeting them. His memory was starting to fade, and he shuddered at the thought of not knowing anyone when he reaches Ward's age.

"Okay, that's enough," she groaned, switching the button off. Rafe apologized quickly, being so caught up with his own thoughts, and waited for her next order.

"Choose the colour," she exclaimed happily, pointing out two different food dyes. "I can't choose!"

Rafe skimmed over the label that said 'blue' and 'pink', and made a face. "Are you going to give the blue ones to the boys and the pinks to the girls or something?"

"What? No?"

"Okay. . . why can't we just use both?"

"And make purple?"

"Yeah? Hey, look, I'm wearing blue and you're wearing pink!"

(Y/N) looked down to the ribbed top, noticing the colour, and her face turned into a red shade. Now everything's going to be awkward.

"Okay, purple it is," she rolled her eyes, giving him the blue bottle and taking the pink one for herself. "Three drops together. Are you ready?"

"Mhm."

"1."

Rafe licked his lips, so eager to watch the colour forming.

"2," she looked at him, and back to the frosting. "Rafe!"

"What?" he raised a brow, following her gaze and watching the blue dots on the frosting. He put his hand over his mouth, too stunned to say anything. "Oh my god, I'm so-"

(Y/N) laughed out loud, this time with her hands gripping onto the kitchen counter to stabilize herself, her mind rewinding back to his expression when he found out what he just did.

"Ha-ha, now you're just being an asshole," he rolled his eyes, but he was glad he had made her laugh. Instinctively, her laugh had made him feel better, and all of his worries dissipated into the air.

After a while, she tried to get ahold of herself to put the pink drops in, but failing to do so as his face kept appearing in her mind. Rafe groaned, having to wait for a few minutes now, and pulled her to feet. He pushed her against the counter, her back against his front as he trapped her.

"Don't laugh."

(Y/N) bit her lips, being in this position but not for what they usually do, and concentrated on dropping 3 drops of pink into the bowl. She cheered when she was done, pulling his hand away to move to the other side. The back of her neck was still hot, and she could still feel his arms around her.

"Mix it," Rafe smiled, leaning against the counter to watch as the mixer whisked the frosting, turning the pearly white colloid to a beautiful dark purple.

"It's dark!" she groaned, but she thought about how it still looked good, though it wasn't her expectation. Her job was almost finished now, and she could hear her bed calling.

"Now, the fun part," she smiled, taking her icing materials and placing them before his eyes. She watched as he laughed, being so excited as if he was a toddler seeing a playground for the first time.

"They used these in Cake Wars," he said proudly, showing her a nozzle.

"Stop with your Cake Wars," she mumbled, preparing the icing bag and giving Rafe one. "Put some frosting- not yet, Rafe, God, do you ever wait? Don't fill the bags too much, just in the middle, yes, just like that, and, wait, let me do mine."

She showed him how to do the perfect icing, practicing on a clean plate and asking him to do the same. He scoffed at her, saying how he got this, but what appeared was nothing more than a crooked line.

"That's nice," she muttered, sighing. "For a coming-out party."

Rafe groaned, trying to copy her artwork, and by the time it was 12.03 a.m., he had managed a copy of hers. Not literal, but there was a hint of hers in his.

"Okay. Now, Rafe, we'll make this quick. I do 80 cupcakes, and you do 20. Is that okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, concentrating on his piping bag. He watched as she did the first cupcake, ending her icing perfectly and exclaiming happily as she put it aside. She looked at him, waiting.

"Don't look at me, you're making me nervous," he mumbled, and leaned to decorate the cupcake. It took him a total of 2 minutes, stopping at times and getting a yell from (Y/N), saying how he should not stop, and the result was impressive. At least to him.

"This will probably be in the rejected part of a bakery, you know, that they'll sell with a discount."

"Not everyone can do arts, (Y/N)," he rolled his eyes, but he truly enjoyed the joke.

It was nearing one in the morning when Rafe saw her sighing in relief, placing the last cupcake into the pastry box and safely storing them in the refrigerator. Her hair was in a bun, he had helped her put them up, and when she refused to let him help her, he gave her a poke.

"What? It's not like it's my first time putting your hair up."

"God, Rafe, you're impossible."

His eyes were almost shut, being so tired after being a cake decorator, and all he wished for was to pull her into her bed and sleep until the morning greets them. He waited until she was done cleaning all of the utensils, walking tiredly towards to him to wake him up.

"Get change, Rafe, I'm not letting you sleep in my bed with that shirt and that sweatpants."

"It's not a problem before," he mumbled, allowing himself to be pulled by her to the bedroom. He removed his shirt weakly, pulling off his sweatpants and jumping into the bed as soon as she closed the light. (Y/N) giggled lightly, noticing how adorable he was being, and she pinched his cheeks before she could stop herself.

"Take off your clothes."

"I'm not going to take off my clothes," she laughed, pulling down her shorts and getting into the bed beside him. She finally laid her back against the mattress, letting out the biggest relief ever as she tried to get comfortable.

He pulled her close towards him, breathing into her scent. She smelled like cupcakes, and he loved it.

"I'm going to the children's home with you."

"What?" she pulled a face, because she wasn't sure if she had heard him right. There was no way Rafe Cameron would ever step his foot into a children's home, what more to give out dark purple cupcakes.

"I'm going to the children's home with you. To give them cupcakes."

(Y/N) smiled and kissed his cheeks. "Okay."

"And we should do this again."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Goodnight, Rafe," she laughed lightly, placing another peck before closing her eyes.

He placed a long kiss fully on her lips, feeling the butterflies soaring in his stomach. "Goodnight, (Y/N)."

-

taglist is close atm until i figure out wtf is up with tumblr :(

@okayshoto @joselyn001 @onceuponateenagetrash @dyingsleep @im19yearsold @iwannabeapogue @meaganjm @rafesobxs @flossy2929 @drewstarkeyluver @unfortunatekiwitrash @Mellifluouszayn @hhishho @hvrcruxes @scottybitch @asimpwriter @starxqt @amaya124 @Made212 @adriee16 @eggirl @tommy-tommo @thatshithurted8 @beyatch012 @fallincindy @marvelwhor3 @rafeswh0ree @kookap @supernaturallydc-blog @blank-velvet @alaniskauany @lumzs @kiiim8 @witchywrter @kaitlyn2907 @heyimflo @overcookedpastasause @tsukkiswifeey @spidey-d00d @anonymousobxfan @gotmeinloveagain @chicagoblackhawkslover96 @lexi-writes @Emmalvei_03 @classydragonthingknight @belongtoyou-u

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagines #drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey imagines #rafe cameron smuts #rafe cameron fluff #outerbanks #outerbanks imagines #outerbanks x reader

[scrabble--drabbles]

Soulmark Au - First Words

Pairing: Diluc x gn!reader

Contents/Warnings: Fluff, sfw, reader has a word written on their wrist, reader is not from Monstadt

Word Count: ~1.3k

A/N: I'm a sucker for soulmate AUs! This is my take on the Soulmark- First Words trope. Idk what the "classic" trope is, but 'Setting' explains how it works in this drabble!

Setting: All setting/lore is the same as in game. Only addition is that adults, once all parties are of age, will receive the first words they will hear their soulmate speak on their wrist. Once heard, the words will gently pulse, signifying that they have been spoken.

Background: When the word "No" appeared on your wrist, you thought it a sick joke. Fortunate friends received sentences or information about their pairing, but you? You received no-thing.

Unaccustomed to the stone streets of Monstadt, you rubbernecked around the city, often pausing to admire the architecture or flora before moving on to the next interesting thing. Between your behavior and attire it was clear you were an outsider, garnering you light attention from passerbys. Specifically the attention of a more elaborately dressed man.

Introducing himself as Kaeya, Calvary Captain of the Knight of Favonious, he offered to introduce you to the city. How a captain had that kind of time was beyond you, but he seemed friendly and without ill intent so you accepted. That is how you now found yourself escorted toward a tavern, the Angel's Share, with a freshly borrowed Travel Guide in hand. He had a way with words, convincing you to leave the calm library in exchange for a social hangout, but he assured you the tavern would be just as quiet this time of day leaving you to trust his position before accepting.

Being the local, he easily guided you through the streets, conversation flowing effortlessly through his lips even if you chose to keep your own shut. "Don't tell the owner," he leaned slightly towards you, lowering his voice as he continued, "but the Angel's Share is the best tavern in Monstadt."

In the short time you'd known the man he danced around all things personal. Unsure if he was somehow baiting you on, you hesitantly tested the waters, "If you like their business, you should tell them." Glancing over to him for how our words landed, a flash of something... complicated crossed his face with your query. You could almost read an internal journey warring behind his blanked expression, but just as quickly as he faltered he recovered.

"Well now," He began, facade now revived with a playful grin, "a captain shouldn't play favorites." Winking in your direction, or what you presumed was a wink due to his eyepatch, he pulled away from you. There certainly was more the captain kept hidden away, but with how the city walls began to curve the tavern must be close so you paused any response.

Curiosity kept you quiet as you examined each structure, trying to pick out the Angel's Share instead of prying at your companion. Buildings kept passing by as you scanned for any clues, it wasn't until you nearly reached the last one that you cursed yourself for not noticing sooner, tables and sign neatly out front. But with your destination now discovered, it was time to resume the conversation.

"You said 'don't tell the owner,'" quoting his words back, unsatisfied with his earlier dismissal. "Oh did I?" Kaeya hummed towards you, indifference in his tone but his eye told a different story. The playful twinkle bore into you, silently daring you to press further to see how far you would go. As the captain reached out to the tavern door, holding it open for you to enter first, you accepted his dare and passed through the threshold. Glancing back towards him, mouth ajar and ready to quip back, his attention quickly curved around you towards the tavern interior.

Credit where due the captain had been right, excluding the closing hinges, the only sound inside were your own steps and rustling. For the "best tavern" you were surprised to see no other patrons inside before finally following his eye to reach the subject that diverted his attention. You missed whatever greeting Kaeya called out, focused instead on the man behind the counter and his deepening scowl with each new word the other spoke. Flaming hair swayed as he reflexively began preparing whatever drink had been requested, seemingly using the beverage as a distraction while Kaeya kept speaking.

The longer you observed him, the more questions you gained. Knowing Monstadt housed another tavern, why would Kaeya insist on visiting the one where his presence was met with displeasure? And why did the man serving him glare at each sentence, but soften whenever the other looked away? No answers came and perhaps you'd never receive them, but any current chance of learning was soon lost as Kaeya drew you from your thoughts, "Pardon my manners, (Y/N), would you like something to drink?"

Flicking your eyes back towards him, worried you had been caught staring, a surprised puff of air left your lips, prefacing the gentle "No," that shortly followed after. In truth the breeze had been nice and cool leaving you satisfied for now. With the quiet inside you had no plans to leave soon, giving time to request a beverage later if you grew thirsty, but for now whatever answers watching the two of them would give was your priority.

You returned your eyes to the bar to see if you needed to repeat your answer, expecting a brief acknowledgment or clarification. Instead crimson eyes gawked at yours as the bartender froze, pulling back the pouring bottle for a split second before returning to his ministrations. Declining a drink shouldn't be that odd you thought, but Kaeya once again caught your eye and distracted you as his head eagerly whipped around towards the other man.

Seconds trudged by as the two locked eyes, only the instinctive preparation of Kaeya's drink marked the slow passage of time. Completely unable to read the captain's expressions now that he faced away from you, you relied solely on the other as the two held a conversation through looks alone.

Though neither of them bore an electric vision, the room sparked with sudden tension. Each cock of Kaeya's head was quickly met with a leer in return from the redhead, him eventually raising his brows with stern annoyance. As the scowl returned to the bartender's features he capped the bottle, placing it behind the counter and huffing towards the captain in front of him. It wasn't until the drink clanked against the counter top, droplets leaving the glass due to the force, that the silence finally broke.

"No."

Time moved quickly for you as the bartender spat towards the other. At first nothing changed, your eyes still affixed on the two interacting, but as red eyes locked with yours once more, the gentle pulse of your wrist pulled at you. Lifting any fabric covering the patch of skin, you stared down at the common, useless word, that haunted your life. As the sensation died down and pieces fell together, you gawked at your wrist, missing how the two men had both turned to look at you.

Unfazed with the sharp tone thrown his way, the captain stated "You both had 'No', didn't you?" even though its answer was clear. Flicking your eyes up to meet the captain's frosted one, you instinctively nodded in response, clearing any doubt to what just passed. It wasn't until the captain's eye closed and a smile began to spread across his lips with a chuckle that you looked away. A knot formed inside you as you met deep crimson once more, nervous that somehow you had misunderstood the situation.

Silky laughter filled the room as the captain downed the fresh drink in front of him. Had you been in his shoes you too might have found humor in the situation, the likelihood of sharing the same word, and it being such an annoyingly overused one were slim. Neither of you joined in with his cheer however, instead you stared blankly, processing the predicament neither of you have prepared for.

Drink finished, Kaeya immediately bid farewell, claiming a forgotten meeting he must attend but felt confident with the new guide to replace him. You doubted any truth to the excuse, but were too stunned to snap back before his escape out the door. After a muttered apology for lying, you and your new companion carried along with pleasantries, you forced to provide most of the content. Through the conversation, your mind continued to add questions to the growing mysteries from your first visit to the City of Wind. Maybe one day you would get answers to them all, but for now you received his name, Diluc, and that would be enough.

#scrabble+drabbles #diluc x reader #genshin diluc x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin diluc #genshin impact diluc #diluc #diluc sfw #soulmate au #diluc x gn!reader #and just in case i wanna be clear #no this doesn't involve kae/////luc at all it's just brotherly care #do i think this is perfect? no #am i still posting it anyway and never looking at it again? absolutely #kaeye would 100% know diluc's word so everyone new he takes to the tavern and asks them a yes or no question #under the guise of being annoying but also he just wants to see his brother happy even if they're tense atm #but anytime diluc sees kaeya and someone new enter the tavern he just d e e p s i g h

[nullio]

Damn 5 whole followers 🥵🥵

Jkjk- it's time for more ranting abt Inside Job cause nooone else in my life watches it so I'm stuck with my myself and I 😔😔

The Gang(tm) throwing Brett a surprise party ,,,

IMAGINE IT THO

Brett for sure had some sucky birthdays, actuall ass of a time birthdays

So imagine it's Brett's birthday, idk if the crew would be the type to pull the "let's ignore Brett and pretend we don't care it's his birthday then surprise him" cause that would prob give him another complex

So instead they genuinely have no clue it's his birthday, and he doesn't bring it up cause he's just so used to dissapointment at this time in his life

Mayb Regan reads it in a file, maybe Myc reads his mind on accident or heck maybe he does let it slip that it's his birthday but he really downplays it "it's fine! Just another day in the year, yknow?"

But NO. That's un acceptable. Reagan IMMEDIATELY pulls the team (minus Brett) into a strategy meeting. She's had one too many sad/failed birthdays to let her friend willingly go party-less this year

I wanna say Gigi is on decorations, you KNOW she has an eye for that shit but I'd give that role to Andre (or maybe they collab)

He's the party animal, he knows what partying looks like and can adapt any room (think Tom Haverford) he's on lights and uhhh

It is at this point that I must admit to my audience that I don't go to parties. Ever. Anyway <3

•Andre (and maybe Gigi) on setup. •Gigi makes a plan to keep Brett distracted throughout the day. •Myc needs to decipher was Brett wants for his birthday. Either by digging through his thoughts or just by asking straight out and almost blowing their cover lmaoo. •Glenn is doing heavy lifting, physically heavy lifting. Putting up speakers, moving shit off desks, moving tables (btw they're either parting in the main office or in Reagans lab maybe) also fuk u, Glenn is the DJ, he has good music taste •Reagan is simply the head of operation (and the wallet of the operation) she just want to see her friend be happy. Gigi=shopping. Cake, drinks, she pulls a caterer out of her ass- she's doing this correctly or not at all

Hijinks absolutely ensue, nothing goes to plan. Someone drops the cake, Myc can't get a read on what Brett wants and is complaining about having to spend so much time with him (bonus points if the only thing he wanted was to spend time with his work family) Gigi and Andre can't decide on a theme. The caterer dies, shit is hitting fan

I'm too dumb and tired to come up with a good resolution but they cobble together a party, Reagan catches Brett right before he's supposed to leave and is like

"I'm so sorry, can you stay and help me with an assignment? It's an emergency"

And Brett being Brett agrees to help and he 🥺 he gets led into the office/lab and everyone there says surprise and Andre launches off one of those massive annoying confetti canons. Ppl are dressed up

Brett 100% stands in shock and just starts crying but dw they are the happiest of happy tears

Everyone hugs b/c I SAID SO and they party >:)

Here's miscellaneous stuff

They ended up getting him like 4 boxes of Legos, idk much abt men or adults but they seem to like Legos

The cake was dropped at some point so the frosting is smeared and omg. The cake decorator spelled his name wrong- that's my favoutie cliche gag every single show has ever done, spelling someone's name slightly wrong on a banner or whatever

"It says Happy Birthday Brent?? 👁👁??"

The punch bowl is not safe from Andre and the Gang knew that so the one sitting at the snack bar is a decoy (its water with red food colouring)

I think Brett is a Georgia boy so mayb they got a pitcher of genuine sweet tea (I think sweet tea is a thing in Georgia idk)

They have a makeshift dance floor and there are 💗multiple injuries💗

I'm sleepy, please take surprise party into consideration- gimme ur party headcannons >:( do it now

#inside job #andre lee #brett hand #reagan ridley #gigi thompson #glenn dolphman #magic myc #rant #positive rant #i just want them to b happy #im going slowly insane #i need season 2 rn #blease #omg #she speaks

[harold231]

It wasn't real

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Posted: 04/30/2021

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: None? Maybe a lil angst just a lel bet.

A/N: I think it might be good? Idk You let me know. But like frfr, don't just give me feedback in your mind, put it into words. Also I apparently have a thing for Bucky in a dotted apron soooo yeah.

FYI: time zone/era is open for interpretation. Bucky never became an avenger/soldat and steve isn't part of this one.

The wind that blew around you was warm and sweet with the scent of freshly bloomed flowers. Perhaps it was an act of kindness from some God trying to distract you from the cold bitterness settling into your bones. Closing your eyes you conjure the very memory that left you so desolate.

The sun snuck it's way through the curtains to illuminate the room, effectively disturbing the sleep that you always seemed to be craving. Waking up is always hassle but whenever you remember that you get to spend your day with the only person who tolerates you and you him, getting out of bed is the easiest thing. Bucky is crazy and the damn boy is never in one spot for to long and he always has something to say, but you can't imagine how boring your days would be if you guys had never met. well technically if your parents had never met.

When you were a child you parents had to move to new york for business and they decided that Brooklyn was the place to be. You had been Bucky's neighbor and the first day you guys moved in his mom had dragged him over with the most delicious angel food cake that he so proudly claimed to have made mostly on his own. He just loved cooking and baking since forever, he would tell you that he just liked experimenting with foods but you knew the truth was that the boy liked to eat and didn't have the patience to wait for his mother to come home.

Only a few years after your family had moved to Brooklyn you and Bucky had already built an unbreakable bond. You guys had found a beautiful cherry tree one day when playing tag and had deemed it to be your's and Bucky's spot. Whenever you had a bad day or needed time away from the world you guys would go to the tree and just pick cherries, in the winter time you and Bucky would lay under the tree and kick the trunk so that the snow would fall from the leaves. It was the place where at only 15 years old bucky swore he would open his own Bakery and to quote him "I'm serving my ma's food my way doll, It's gonna be the next best thing to hit New York."

You were laying on the ground with your hands crossed behind your head looking up at Bucky swinging upside down from a branch when he told you all this. You felt something you had never felt before at that moment, looking up at the wild haired boy who loved to eat, loved his family, and had the most ambition you had ever heard from kids your age. Your heart felt full and your cheeks grew warm as you looked up at the same blue eyes you had know for years now, only this time you notice the way they twinkle in the sunlight and how rosy his lips are. Now 7 years laters you and Bucky were preparing to open the very bakery he promised you he'd open. Banners were beautifully strung along the walls and cute retro china was set out, ready to be filled for opening day. There was no hesitation from you when Bucky had asked you to run the bakery with him, you were excited to spend your days with the person you hoped you would spend the rest of your life with.

At around 6:30 in the morning you had arrived at the bakery but it seemed that Bucky had beat you to it. The smell of fresh angel food cake and cocoa danced up your nose as soon as you opened the door. Closing your eyes you smiled at the memories that it brought back. Moving to the back you grabbed your Disney themed apron and placed your bag and coat in its place before scurrying over to the kitchen while trying (and failing) to tie your apron. There in all his dorkiness was Bucky wiggling around to the chordettes. He knew that you loved the 50's aesthetic so he found a way to incorporate it without going overboard, by adding little trinkets, a jukebox, and even those cute little dining tables. In fact at the moment he was wearing a ruffly red polka dotted apron as he frosted some cupcakes.

Apron tied, you were finally ready to get to work. You walked up to Bucky bumping his hip as you reached for some cupcake pans, "Whatcha doin here so early Buck, we don't open until 12" he looks at you with squinted eyes, "The hell are you doing here so early." "Woah,woah,woah completely unprovoked. I'm just saying cuz' you were the one complaining about the opening time being set at 8. Like damn." Breathing out a huff of air he wipes his forehead with a towel "I'm sorry doll, I'm just super nervous and I couldn't sleep so I came to start baking things. I already frosted the ice cream cakes and I just finished the pies, but I was thinking that maybe we needed some cupcakes too, even though we already baked so many pastries and stuff last night I'm worried it won't be enough."

Setting down the trays you move to hug Bucky from behind holding him close to you. "Buck I know we'll do great your food is too good to pass up on especially when it's free." You place a soft kiss to his shoulder " I promise you'll do great, everything you do is amazing you try your hardest at everything Buck, You've worked your butt off and made mine considerably larger to get here, don't start losing your mind on me now." A cute little laugh from Bucky lets you know that he's hearing you and he isn't so stressed anymore. "I just want this to be perfect ya know?" with your head still against his back you nod, "I just want it to be a special day for my special girl."

You couldn't stop the slight blush that rose to your cheeks or the way that your heart suddenly started beating three times faster. You had also wanted to make him something special which is why you had got here so early. Finally releasing your hold on Bucky you straighten your apron out before gathering everything you need for some red velvet cupcakes. Bucky loved your red velvet cake so you loved making it for him. After hours of mixing, baking, and frosting had passed, you guys were rewarded with a bakery that looked as great as it smelled. "Alright doll, I'm heading out, I gotta go get ready. Meet you back here at 12 , Love ya." He didn't even give you a chance to answer as he ran right out the door. "Love you too."

You had stayed behind just a little while longer as you perfected your secret project. Carefully you added snowflakes to some of the cupcakes because you knew how much he loved snow even if he hated winter, some cats, flowers that reminded you of bucky, and one extra special cupcake. When you finish you decide to clean up a bit more and prepare some drinks for later before heading home to get ready. As soon as you got home you took a shower and did the simplest of make up with a light pink lip. You had decided to wear a dress to match the blossoming flowers that spring had brought. Pink with a yellow lace trim and flowers embroided all over the dress, matching it with some yellow flats.

You had decided that it was a perfect day for a walk so you grabbed a light scarf and slung it over your shoulders, grabbed Bucky's cupcakes, and headed over to the bakery. You felt as if a Hundred pounds had been lifted from your shoulders knowing that Bucky had felt the same way about you. You had decided that you would tell him today with your special cupcakes. As you rounded the corner you felt giddy and you couldn't wipe the smile from your face no matter how hard you tried. As you reached the bakery you saw that a majority of the people had already arrived and you knew that it would put Bucky at ease to see all the people enjoying his food. You stopped at the window, closing your eyes to take a deep breath to prepare yourself to join the celebration.

Opening your eyes you reached for the handle only to stop at the sight on the other side of the door. Bucky stood there arms wrapped around a woman eyes locked on hers as he leaned in for a kiss. It must have all happened in about 30 seconds but it felt as if time himself had slowed it down for you to watch the way he tilted her head and ran his tongue along her bottom lip before finally uniting their lips. Your heart dropped as quickly as your smile did and suddenly you felt so stupid for thinking this could be real. You willed yourself not to cry as you allowed your legs to carry you anywhere but there.

That's how you found yourself sitting underneath a blossoming cherry tree. A tree that held only happy memories because it wasn't a place you could be sad... back then. With your back against the tree and box of cupcakes full of unrequited love in your lap you realize how much you over romanticized Bucky. Opening the box you decide it would be a shame to let them go to waste. The first one you grab has a big red heart frosted in the middle, you let out a deep sigh before breaking the cupcake right down the middle. You shove half of the cupcake into your mouth and only then do you allow the tears to fall. You sat there for hours crying eating cupcakes, watching the sunset, and thinking about everything that Bucky did for you, as a friend. You realize you had no right to be angry at Bucky, after all you never told him how you felt you just assumed that he would feel the same way after so many years. With every broken memory another cupcake vanished.

He was always there for you, when no one wanted to come to your slumber party Bucky did and he even did all the girly things with you. Painting your nails, doing your hair, watching chick flicks, and pillow fights. once he even asserted that no one could protect you as well as he could, when you had decided to go camping with your friend from class so he insisted on taking you himself. Your friend was most noticeably gay so you had assumed he wanted to spend time alone with you. But now that you think back on those memories these are things that anyone would do for their bestfriend. And that's what you realized 8 hours and 11 cupcakes later.

The moon floated above you and as it's white rays settled upon the lake you decided it might be time to go home now. You get up and dust your dress off before leaning down to grab the mostly empty box. Turning around you are stopped again by what's in front of you. Bucky stands there brows furrowed as his eyes flash from you to the box in your hands. "Where the hell have you been, I've been calling you all day." swallowing the lump in your throat you go to answer but are interrupted. " everyone's been asking me about you all night and I had no damn idea what to tell them, but apparently you were just out here being inconsiderate. You go and tell me I can do great tonight, that you'd be there for me, but you weren't." You try to answer him but are again interrupted. "You could have told me something earlier instead of leaving me there like a dumb-" "SHUT UP!" this time it was your turn to interrupt him.

Taking a deep breath you look into his eyes before explaining. "Of course I was ready to be there today, you think I wore this dress to sit under a damn tree? Well I didn't. When I left my apartment I was ready and I was excited, so excited. I couldn't even stop smiling on my way over, but then I got to the shop and I saw-" Immediately you stopped as you realized what you were about to say. He cocked an eyebrow and shook his head slightly as if to say 'Hello?' "You saw what? What did you see that would make you abandon ship just like that?" Shame flushed through your being and you could no longer keep eye contact. "Nothing, you know what, it doesn't even matter. I'm sorry I was being dramatic I should have been an adult and dealt with it on my own time. And I'm sorry I abandoned you all, but the night was about you anyways."

"The night was supposed to be about the both of us so it does matter if you saw something that made you want to leave. Just tell me doll, what did you see?" his voice is soft as he pleads with you. "I saw... well I saw you kissing that lady and I just wanted get away and ended up here okay!?" You said it all in a jumble hoping that he wouldn't be able to understand what you had said. But luck wasn't your friend so of course he did. "So seeing me kiss another person was so gross to you that you had to run away, what the hell? are you 13 again?" You hadn't admitted it outloud yet and it seemed that the dumbass in front of you was going to force it out of you.

Stepping around Bucky you pull your scarf tight around your body as you focus on not crying anymore until you get home. You distract yourself by thinking of all the love you saw in all the little things Bucky did for you. Dancing around the newly furnished bakery body against body as frank sinatra brought you heart to heart, watching rom-coms and ugly crying together, but by the time you get home you force yourself to face the ugly truth. The Love was always in your head. It wasn't real.

A new wave of tears blurred your vision as teardrops fell perfectly to the ground. "It's because I have feelings for you Bucky, and I now know you don't feel the same way." Sniffling you don't bother looking up because your heart is to broken for that right now. "I'm Just gonna need a little bit of time and I'll be back good as new like nothing even happened." Still unable to lift your gaze from the ground you decide to focus on the last cupcake left in the box. 'I Love You' is written in tiny light blue frosting letters. "I uhm, uhh." That brought your attention to Bucky, as embarrassment pulsed as strong as ever through your veins. " You don't have to say anything Buck, It's fine, I'll see you next week, on monday" you hand him the box as you go to pass him "I think you would have a better use for this than me I ate 11 others already so."

Divider credits: @firefly-graphics

#BuckyxYou #BuckyBarnesxYou #Bucky Barnes x You #Bucky x you #Bucky x reader #Buckyxreader #BuckyBarnesxreader #Bucky Barnes x reader #Buckyimagine #Bucky Imagine #Buckyfic #BuckyB #Buckyb #Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes imagine #Bucky barnes fanfic #Marvel Fanfictions #Marvel Imagines #James Barnes x reader #Dani's 2021

[bisexualdaemon]

something missing | feysand oneshot

a/n: oh hello! idk this just kind of....happened? it came upon me unexpectedly. I’m rereading ACOFAS and it’s snowing outside so...here’s some sugar-coated fluff laced with filth for this sinday :)

warnings: 3.3k of fluffy smut and smutty fluff

Hmmm. Feyre worried the paint brush stuck between her lips with her teeth. There was something missing from the painting. Frost and Starlight, she had called it in her mind walking through the Palace of Thread and Jewels that day before Solstice. Now, weeks later, she clung to the buzz of the early chill of winter, wanted to remember the bustling life that had turned scarce in the city. 

It was now bitterly cold—according to Mor, colder than it had been in Velaris in decades. The streets were mostly empty, quiet except for the bundled shuffling of people coming and going but rarely standing for too long. Feyre could hear the wind beating at the locked gallery door, could feel the cold pushing against the magic of her floating flames. The only thing keeping her from freezing to death in the dimming light of the Rainbow. 

Even the Rainbow had been less alive lately, artists only leaving their studios for occasional supplies. The musicians had taken to giving little salon concerts. Only the most desperate had remained busking outside. Feyre had persuaded Rhys into magicking some coins into their open instrument cases, enough to keep them out of the cold for awhile.

She shook her head and refocused on the swirls of color in front of her, the painting that might have been finished if she weren’t so set on the details of it. What’s missing?

I don’t know, but I know what I’m missing. Feyre smiled involuntarily, his purr down the bond snaking its way down her spine. 

Incorrigible. Where have you been? If you went someplace warm without me, I’m staying at the gallery and you can sleep alone in our cold bed with none of what you’ve been missing. 

Rhys chuckled. On the contrary, my love. I was in the Steppes with Az, settling a few more of the descenters down. I’ve been freezing my balls off all day. 

Feyre shivered just thinking about how cold the war camps must be, the rows of tents barely standing up to the winds. But she couldn’t resist the door he’d left open. Poor Illyrian baby, so afraid of losing something important to a little cold spell.

He sent a rude gesture down the bond and Feyre smirked, taking the paint brush from her mouth to shove into the messy bun on top of her head. She paused halfway when her mating ring caught one of the faelights behind her, setting the brilliant sapphire glittering. Ah, that’s what’s missing. 

She dipped her brush in a tiny bit of white paint and leaned into the canvas, dabbing little specks here and there, in every window in her frozen Palace. When she sat back, the effect set her eyes sparkling. The blues and reds and greens of her scene turned into glittering sapphires and rubies and emeralds. The jewels the Palace was famous for leaped off the canvas and twinkled behind the glass, worthy of the astonishment she had painted in the faces walking past.

Beautiful, he breathed, seeing the painting through her eyes. Lately, she had been leaving her mind open to him when she painted. He didn’t pry often, but she found she wanted to share a little of her process with him. Even if she couldn’t talk about some of her feelings, some of the things they left in the darkness, she could show him here in the quiet of the gallery at night. 

Feyre felt him before even the shadows could react to his winnowing. Rhys grazed the skin at the edge of her sweater, just below her neck. Shivers ran down her spine again, but not because of the cold. Her nipples hardened in response to his touch, a kindling warming low in her abdomen. 

“Hello, Feyre darling.” 

His solid presence relaxed her, the warmth of him radiating into her back. She exhaled and leaned into him as his hands left her neck to wander down her front, skillfully avoiding the hardened peaks that reached for him. Even with the stool, he still towered over her, giving him enough room to rest his chin on top of that messy bun. 

“Gods, I missed you,” he inhaled, breathing her scent, now eternally mixed with paint, “the Illyrians are such bastards when they’re being obstinate.” 

“What did you and Az have to do?” Feyre ran soothing fingers up and down his arms still covered in Illyrian leathers. 

“Nothing too taxing, just some strong words and a demonstration.” She could feel him tense up, even as his wandering hands caressed her sides, trying to find the hem of her sweater. 

“Did you kill anyone?” Such a casual question, but even with the veil of sarcasm he knew she would want a serious answer. 

“No, but let’s just say a couple of their captains won’t be flying anytime soon.” He let some of the tension he always carried after bad days melt away as he curved into her, moving to pepper her neck with sloppy kisses. 

“Rhys,” she moaned, combing her fingers through his hair that was still damp from the Illyrian snow. “Let me clean up and then you can ravish me at home all you like.”

His teeth grazed her earlobe and she bent her head sideways giving him more room. Just as his fingers finally found that hem of her sweater. Snow-cold fingers tickled the skin just above her leggings. Feyre yelped and twisted on her stool, finally turning to face him fully. His eyes were pure violet fire, taking in every inch of her, from her wild hair to her booted feet. His chest raised and lowered quicker with each passing second, the bulge in his pants evidence of his mirrored desire. She bit her lip. And he snapped. 

Fuck the house, he purred down the bond. His mouth collided with hers as strong hands lifted her from the stool. She wrapped her legs around his waist, careful to avoid his sensitive wings. His pouty lips devoured hers, a wild moan escaping him as he tugged at her bottom lip. Feyre could sense him reaching with his magic, trying to find some place to put her down so he could properly have his way with her. Out here it would be the wall between the hung paintings or the cold floor. She knew he was weighing those two options. 

There’s a table in the back room, she panted, clawing at his mental walls with the promise of what was to come. If she was honest, she wouldn’t have minded the wall, but the paintings were precious and she knew they wouldn’t be hanging for very long. He carried her, his mouth still firmly pressed against hers. She shifted her head and opened fully for him, inviting him into her mouth with a flick of her tongue against his. He tasted like citrus kissed with the bitter tang of whiskey, left over from the drink he’d had to take the edge off the demonstration earlier. 

When he kicked open the back room door, Feyre’s floating firelight followed them, immediately stoking and warming the space. 

You’re getting better at that. His praise was like gasoline on that kindling inside of her, kicking up a blazing fire that sang through her blood, through her bones. He deposited her on the worktable, only taking a second to notice the sharp scent of paint and the supplies that littered the space behind her. His lips curled, this reminds me of the cabin. Remember how messy it was?

“It was our mating,” she answered out loud, “I remember every second of that day.” I can still feel it here, Feyre took his hand and guided it under her sweater to press against her panting heart. He stepped closer to rest his brow against hers, dragging a finger down her cheek. It was a second before his soft smile went devilish, another second before she felt the wet streak where his finger had been. 

He wiggled a cerulean-tipped finger at her. 

“Rhysand!” 

He tipped his head back and roared with laughter as she slapped at his leather-clad chest. The closest jar to her was a cotton candy pink. She snapped her fingers and his leathers disappeared, leaving a perfectly sculpted tan chest for her to draw a big heart on with her fingers. 

Hmpf. Turnabout is fair play. The playful gleam in his eye sparkled as he snapped his fingers and her clothes just...disappeared. She quirked an eyebrow, I hope you’re giving those back before we leave. A low growl rumbled beneath her fingers still toying with his chest. 

I’ll take it under advisement. You might have to beg me. A wry smile formed on his lips as he dipped that same cerulean finger into the pink paint and swirled it between her breasts, a trail of purple from her throat to her belly button. Feyre exhaled heavily and leaned back on her hands, scattering some charcoal pencils. They echoed in the cold space when they clattered to the floor but she didn’t care. She was naked and Rhys was not. Her legs spread a little wider against the edge of the table, putting herself on display for him. 

“Wicked, beautiful creature.” His hot breath ricocheted off her chest where his paint marks were quickly drying. It was a struggle to keep from moaning at the touch of his fingers toying with the inside of her spread thighs, dangerously close to the liquid fire pooling between her legs. He grinned at her restraint, the muscles dancing beneath her skin. “What do you wish of me, High Lady?” 

“I wish…” she tilted her head back in a slow roll, “I wish…” When her eyes met his again, their intensity burned anew. “I wish for you to take me like you did that first time,” snapping her fingers to rid him of the last of his clothes, “no holding back.”

His knees shook like a newborn foal at the command in her words. He kneeled before her on those tattoos he’d had as a reminder for centuries. I will bow before no one and nothing but my crown. The crown he shared with her. He bowed now, as he had before, as he would many, many more times before they were through with this life. The most powerful High Lord in history sent to his knees by his Queen. 

He forced her thighs even wider to accommodate his broad shoulders between her knees. His Fae eyesight didn’t miss the way her stomach muscles clenched as he played with the sensitive skin at her hips, his fingers making a slow path to her spread thighs. He cupped the back of her knees and quickly pulled her closer to his waiting mouth. 

Her yelp turned to a deep moan when he finally tasted her. Fingers immediately weaved into his hair as her back arched off the table. Gods, you taste like honey. You’re so wet for me, Feyre. 

She didn’t have any coherent words to send back to him, just waves of pleasure licking down the mental bridge between them. He suckled at her folds, drank from her, his holy font atop his only sacred altar. She writhed beneath his fingers moving over her warmed skin, let out a groan so deep he felt it vibrate against his face when he found her peaked nipples swollen and screaming for him. He felt her toes curl against his back, stroking his wings in places that made him moan into her. 

It was the last swirl of his tongue, a figure-eight pattern from her entrance to that bundle of nerves at the apex of her folds that finally sent her chanting his name over the edge. She wasn’t sure if it was out loud, but she knew he heard her either way. His wings flared proudly, knocking over a row of easels propped against the side wall, but he couldn’t hear the noise over her heartbeat pounding across the bond. 

The force of her climax pushed her into a sitting position, her fingers still curled in his hair holding his head against her as he stroked his tongue with every wave of pleasure. Even when she was spent, her thighs trembling over his shoulders, she couldn’t neglect him. Her fingers combed through his hair and snaked down his back, busying themselves with the grooves of his wings as he sucked a mark into the inside of her thigh. She made to release him, allow him off his knees, but he growled. 

Don’t stop.

The corners of her mouth curled upward. Is it truly like stroking you...elsewhere?

Well, Feyre darling, how do you feel when I stroke that one spot near the base of your left wing?

She clenched her thighs around his head at the thought. Point taken. 

He stretched his wing in encouragement. She followed his lead, splaying her hands across the membranous skin, tracing his scars. The feeling was, well he couldn’t quite think straight. Pleasure was too tame a word to describe the white-hot fire that licked his wings every time she ran her fingers over the spines, the scars, the muscles that purred and loosened for her. She pressed in at the space between the primary spine and the muscles in his back. He moaned so loud the paint jars rippled. 

Mother above, stop. 

It’s poor form to blaspheme in such a compromising position. Feyre grinned like a cat about to pounce on its prey. This was what she had been waiting for.

Feyre Cauldron-Blessed would know. He sucked in a breath. Her hands hadn’t moved. If you don’t stop, I’m going to spill a different kind of paint on this floor and ruin all our fun. 

Such a messy Illyrian brute. But she let him go, let him rise from between her thighs and stand. He was at full attention, wings spread wide to prolong the feeling of her fingers on the sensitive skin. Even now, after almost a year with him, she still marveled that this thing between them was real. That she was his and he was hers. My mate. 

She reached for him again, low. It was his turn to chant her name. 

Rhys caught her wrists, turning her hands over. He pressed a kiss to each palm. I’m plenty primed, my love. 

Feyre wrapped her legs around his waist, forcing him closer, so close to where she wanted him. She knew he liked this position, liked to watch her respond to him. He gripped her hips and positioned himself right at the precipice, took a breath. And pushed in to the hilt. 

Their collective moans shook the little back room, shadows gathering against the walls. Rhys’s eyes were fathomless pools of violet, boring into her very soul. He opened his mind fully to her and saw herself through his eyes, felt the love and the unending desire for her, tasted herself on his tongue. 

I love you. His voice clanged through her, flipping that light switch that lived deep inside of her, that little piece of Day linked to moments of pure joy. Her skin began to glow, only growing brighter when he moved within her. Slow strokes at first, deep inside. Shadows began to lick at her light, snaking against her responsive skin, the contrast only making her shine brighter. 

His thrusts quickened, control flickering with his hips. The hands that gripped her were little more than wisps of darkness, but she could feel his claws lengthening. Feyre reached back to grip the table, but instead knocked over a full jar of paint, splashing green into her hair, onto her skin. 

She laughed, tightening around him. The snarl he released shook her very center, pummeling the dam that he was determined to break for a second time tonight. She sent paint flying through the air on a breeze, landing squarely on his chest like a bullseye on a dart board. Her giggle sent his shadows skittering. 

Laughing at a male in the throes of pleasure is unbecoming of a High Lady, he panted down the bond. 

And how would you know? There’s never been a High Lady before me. Her eyes threatened another laugh until he hauled her leg off the table and shifted his hips. Her eyes rolled back. The floating fire around them surged with her answering moans, sweat beading on both of their brows. 

His hips stuttered. He was close. Feyre reached out and ran a hand down the open gates of his mind. Rhysand, she purred. 

He looked at her, his pupils narrowing, that beast of his barely concealed in this place between pleasure and chaos. His thoughts were a rush, his senses too open to hold on to any particular thought for long. The only thing she could make out other than pure sensation in his mind was one repeated word. 

Feyre, Feyre, Feyre—

Her name. Over and over again. His tether to this world, to the light. 

Rhys. She brushed at the claws on her hips, catching his attention. Come with me. 

The roar was deafening. Anyone else would have been terrified, but all Feyre could do was launch herself over the cliff with him as he finally plunged headfirst into his own pleasure. Blazing light flashed. Her light. Her joy, covering Rhys’s darkness with her own body as he collapsed into her, panting heavily against her shoulder. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, calming the tremors that rolled through him. 

For a few moments the only sounds in the room were the crackling of Feyre’s dying fire lights and their ragged breathing. When Rhys could finally lift himself onto his hands, he just looked at her for a long moment. 

Thought for a thought? she wiped at the sweat dripping from his temples. 

He smirked at her, I was thinking that if I didn’t already know what it feels like to die, I would think you were trying to fuck me to death. 

Her answering laugh shook her whole body, down to the place where he was still sheathed inside her. Rhys hissed, slowly withdrawing. He watched her glow dim. It always did when they parted, a fact that made him equal parts proud and melancholy. She sat up and stretched, cocking her head as he snapped his fingers to clean them off enough to get to the bath at home, leaving only the paint behind. He always liked to scrub that off of her himself.

“I’m going to have to come in early to clean up,” she worried at her lip, surveying all the spilled paint. The room was a bit of a wreck. Tumbled easels, green and blue paint dripping from the table onto the floor, scattered pieces of drawing paper with distinct details from his mate’s naked body outlined in pink and purple. Rhys scoffed and snapped again, setting everything right. 

Feyre grumbled, “you still need to teach me how you do that.” 

“I promise I will, but I’m still waiting for my thought,” he said, as he snapped a third time. Her clothes reappeared in a neat pile. They both dressed as she formed the words in her mind. Words to convey the way her pulse ticked up every morning in the shade of his wing, the way her cheeks pinked with the faintest touch of his fingers on her skin. 

“Will it be like this always? Will I still want to rip the leathers off of you in a thousand years?” He walked over and took her hands, the movement of his sleek black sweater and trousers the only sound in the room. Warmth passed between them, through their clasped hands and the look he gave her. Like a thousand years was only the beginning of their forever. 

“I hope so, Feyre. I really hope so.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and winnowed them both home. 

fin.

#a court of thorns and roses #acotar #acofas #sarah j maas #sjm #feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #acotar smut #my writing #acomaf #acowar #acosf

[paisley-print]

4:00am : Queen Bee

About:  After a stressful morning Jack takes you down to his training room to show you the ins and outs of lasso throwing ...and other work related actives. 

Rating: NSFW

Characters: Agent Whiskey x Reader

Warnings: FILTHY BDSM, Dom!Jack, Impact play (whips, crops, floggers oh my) , Slight exhibitionism???? (Does a phone call count?), Slight food play, toys, Curse words  …….yeah I think that’s it.

Word Count: Its a secret :) 3952

MIDNIGHT MASTER LIST

NOTE: I might rewrite this chapter.....at the time it was kinda an experimental filler piece and the ugly duckling of the chapters....idk I’ll see. 

“I fucked up-”

Jack squinted as he stepped into the light of the kitchen. He was in pajama pants, t-shirt and socks. “What?”

You dawned similar attire - complete with apron and icing splotches. “The order for the wedding shower tomorrow, I fucked up. The bride is allergic to tree nuts. I’m so fucking  stupid.” 

You bent down to take a tray of cookies out of the oven. Jack had been kind enough to lend you his kitchen until the bakery was finished. He wasn’t home most of the day anyway. 

Your phone buzzed on the counter, he stole a glance at it. “You got three new voicemails darlin.’”

“I know” you sighed “I don’t have the time or energy to deal with him right now.”

For the past week and a half you had received daily phone calls from your ex, you didn’t know what he wanted and frankly you didn’t care. You winced as the hot baking tray grazed your arm, god you were close to losing it but you forced a smile and set the tray down to cool.

“And look on the bright side, now you have a boatload of cookies to bring to work on Monday. It's a win win.” Honey pot and bumble bee shaped cookies hit the cooling racks. “Code name: queen bee of cookies- no Tennessee Honey cuz, get it? Bees? Whiskey? Yeah you get it- ” you gave a strained laugh and turned away to grab more wax paper. 

The sleepy cowboy watched you - woefully unprepared for the total mental breakdown he had just stumbled upon. Welp- guess he was baking tonight. 

He clapped his hands together, surveying the workspace. “Alright, well whaddya want me to do?”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“You're the boss, give me a job….though I will warn you honey- I look downright terrible in a hair net.”

“You sure?”

“Yes mam. I am your faithful servant for the night.”

You smiled “I kinda like the sound of that.”

He came up behind and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “And once we're done, we can switch.”

Fuck, you were falling for him so fucking hard. Keep. It. Together. You grinned “I would like that.”

----

A few hours and a case of red bull later the finished cookies were placed in the back of the event planner's car. The kitchen sink looked like a war zone but at least the counters were clean.

You bound into the kitchen, still wired from all the caffeine. How the two of you managed to pull that off was anybody's guess. “Jack Daniels, great at a whip and whipped cream frosting! The James Bond of baking!” 

Your shaking hands swiped the honey off the counter, it was nearly empty. Gold liquid crept down the side of the bottle and into your mouth. 

His gaze stayed fixed on you and the thick sugary ropes of honey that you dripped onto your tongue. It was never meant to be sexual, it really wasn't -  but the sight must have flicked a switch in the cowboy’s mind.

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

You pulled the bottle away a little too fast. Drops of honey spilled onto your chin and dotted the counter. “Uhh nothing?” 

You cursed and lifted a hand to wipe off the honey but he caught your wrist before you could.

“Really? Because it seems like you're making a mess out of my kitchen…. downright unacceptable.”

You laughed in confusion “what?”

He took the bottle of honey from you and dumped a string of it on the counter.

“Jack!” You scolded, “I literally just cleaned that-”

He smirked at you “it seems as though you missed a spot.”

….Oh.

You shot him a confident and much too cocky little smile “fine.”  Slowly, you leaned down and slid your tongue along the smooth granite; never breaking his gaze. When you were finished you stood and showed him all the honey you had collected on your tongue...before giving a wink and swallowing.

Jack had an immaculate poker face. He stepped closer and handed the bottle to you “finish it.”

Instead of dripping the remaining honey into your mouth like he said, you tilted your head and drew a line from your neck all the way down to where your v-neck started. “Oops.”

Jack chuckled darkly and stepped forward, forcing your back to press against the counter.  “Now babygirl- you know that ain’t what I asked.”

“And?” you gasped as his hand took hold of your ponytail and jerked your head back. 

His free hand pulled down your shirt, placing his tongue flat against the skin between your breasts and dragging it upward.  Sticky lips gave special attention to the sensitive space just below your ear.  

His voice was deep and unwavering “that wasn’t a smart move honey….seems as though you need to be put in your place-”

“You're right, you should call Ginger in - you know, just to make sure it gets done properly.”

He raised his eyebrows at you “keep goin’ sweetheart, every little comment you make now will be a mark I'll leave on you later.”

“Yeah, well we’ll see” you shot back.

He let go of you, taking the dish towel off his shoulder and spinning it up. A fit of giggles fell from your lips, knowing he was about to whack you with it. “Go put on somethin’ pretty for me darlin’ - I’ll be waiting in the office.” 

He turned you around, nudged you forward then whipped the fabric right across your ass.

“ Ow! I’m going!”

“Just gettin’ you warmed up sugar.”

---

High heels padded down the long hallway leading to his office. He wasn’t there when you walked in... however you had a pretty good idea where he could be. When Jack bought the house, the previous owners used the office space as a bar area. Attached to that was a wine cellar, which was converted into an armory and training space. 

Once you descended the steps you noticed that Jack had changed too. Discarded was the flannel pajamas, replaced by one of those wonderfully tailored suits he wore to work. He was turned away from you, busy surveying a display of gadgets on the wall. 

You watched as he took them down one by one and laid them on a table. A shiver passed through you while you imagined what they would feel like against your soft skin.

Believe it or not this was the first time the two of you did something like this. Sometimes he would give you a light spank during your rougher sessions, but he had never taken out his work stuff before.  You noticed a few other things on the desk as well…. and those were definitely not Statesman issued. 

You set your phone down on the floor next to the wall.  He looked so calm...confident- silent. Yeah... you were in for it. The room was mostly bare, save for two wooden chairs that stood facing each other on opposite sides. 

Boots thudded against the floor, you looked up to see Jack approaching; lasso in hand. He pretended not to be affected by the lingerie you had on. A flashy little number that he had brought home from a business trip a few weeks back.  As much as the cowboy liked to shower you with elegant and expensive gifts, you also gathered that sometimes he wanted you to look cheap. He got off on the fantasy that you were his little whore, and therefore would dress you up accordingly.

“Watch,” Jack commanded, facing the wooden chair at the opposite side of the room. He narrated each movement he performed. “Grab the rope by the tail, throw it forward-” the rope was tossed in front of him and landed gently on the ground. 

“- make loops as you reel it in. Then swing it around your head, twisting at the wrist.” He brought his arm around his head slowly so you could see the movement. “When you feel the momentum swing you forward, release-” 

He flung the rope around twice more and let it go; it flew through the air and landed perfectly on the chair back. “Then pull-” 

He gave the rope a firm yank. It snapped up and constricted the chair - like a boa choking its prey.  “Try it.”

You were….. confused to say the very least, lingerie for a training session? Yes you were having fun, just not the type you expected to have. Either way Jack had stayed up all morning to help you, the least you could do is approach this situation with enthusiasm. 

He stood, arms folded, watching while you bound up to the chair. You released the rope and tried to mimic the actions he just taught you.  Christ he made it look so easy. What were the steps again? Toss, loop, swing, release -

The hoop didn't even make it past the center of the room. 

“One” he counted, “again.”

You gave him a confused glance as you pulled in the rope, “I don't-”

“Again” he said a little more sternly this time. 

Well alright. You tried again, this time the rope just grazed the side of the chair.

“Two. Again-”

You were starting to get frustrated “just tell me why-”

“Three-”

“I didn’t even throw it yet!”

He cocked his head to the side a little “for talkin’ back-”

“Jack-”

“Four-”

“Jack!”

“Five- You wanna go for six?”

“Fuck fine-” you tossed the rope again, somehow your aim managed to get worse. 

“Six. Plus two for the comments made in the kitchen, so we are up to eight. Again-”

You drew in a slow breath, starting to catch on…….Well shit. 

It took four more tries until you finally managed to hook the lasso on the tip of the chair. You yanked it like he showed you but instead of tightening like you wanted, it just fell apart into a pathetic clump of limp rope.

You waited nervously for his response.

He bent down, took the rope from the floor and reeled it in. The tail slithered along the concrete like a viper through sand. 

When he was finished he took hold of the chair and turned it, it’s sturdy wooden legs made a loud thud against the floor. “Come sit.”

You obeyed, walking over quickly and taking a seat. The glazed mahogany felt like ice cubes against your bare skin.

Jack took a knee in front of you, making sure to have your full attention before he spoke. 

“Rules: Green to go. Yellow to slow down. Orange to pause. Repeat em’ for me darlin’.”

“Green to go. Yellow to slow down. Orange to pause” you confirmed.

“Red and the session ends….you got all that?”

You nodded, “red and the session ends.” 

“Good girl.” His lips quirked into a smile as he got back on his feet “now stand.”

You did as you were told, your heart already racing with excitement.

“Unhook your bra and slide it off.”

It was a front clasp. Nimble fingers graced over the delicate material, all it took was a gentle pull for the fabric to come free.  His brown eyes were fixed on your chest; you could see that he wanted to touch you...however he refrained. 

He leaned down a little, reaching behind you to spin the neck of the chair around. “Turn, place your hands on the back.”

You did.

Jack took a step forward, towering over you in order to tie your wrists to the chair with the lasso. Jesus Christ how were you already so turned on? He hadn’t even touched you yet. You leaned back a little, wanting his warmth - only to find that he was already gone.

“Color?” he asked, grabbing something from the table.

The rope was secure, but not painful. “Green” 

He came behind you and moved your hair over your shoulder gently. Fingers trailing along the length of your spine - you shivered.

“God- aren’t you a sight….desperate , needy - carved by the fuckin’ gods.” 

Boots kicked your feet apart. The leather of what felt like a riding crop smoothed over your ass and trailed along your inner thigh. “Twelve hits- four for each, count em’ for me sweetheart-”

Jack reeled back and brought the crop down on your ass. It made you jump but it didn’t hurt, “one.”

He hit you again, this time on the back of the thighs “two.”

“Still think Ginger could do better?” he asked.

“...yes-” you mumbled.

“What was that babygirl? Say it a little louder for me-” 

“Yes” Hit “three.”

“And Tequila? What about him?”

You paused, and laughed a little. “Yes” Hit “Four.”

“Color?”

You could already feel the desire pooling in your core. If most men were sparks, then Jack Daniels was a whole goddamn barrel of gunpowder. The way he played with you like a game of chess, expecting your defiance and using it to his advantage - was thrilling.

He already knew that he had you in his clutches -  knew it as soon as you stepped into the room. What Jack wanted was to make you think that you were the one in control. He wanted to break you down strike by strike until you surrendered to him. It was never about pain, it was about power…..you were his fierce little prize to be won. 

“Green.”

“Good.”

You watched as he placed the crop down and took up a flogger. Strong hands gripped the neck of the tool, testing the weight of it in his hands. You felt your hands on the chair tighten as he walked towards you.

“You know what I found the other day? Just sitting on the bathroom counter- next to your makeup bag?”

“No,” you said honestly. 

“This nifty little contraption right here” he withdrew something from his pocket and held it up in front of your face.

It was your bullet vibrator, you hadn't even had a chance to take it out of the box yet. You were saving it for something like this….

“Now, you’re gonna do me a little favor and keep this right here till I'm done.” He clicked the button on the toy, then reached down the front of your panties to settle it against your clit. 

You gasped at the sudden sensation and wiggled your hips a little. He had placed the toy on the lowest setting, meaning that it was winding you up but not giving you nearly enough simulation for release. 

He stepped behind you again, “alright honey - new question. What’s my name?”

“Jack.”

The flogger swung through the air, each little strip of leather connected with your ass. It stung a lot more than the crop did. “Try again.” 

You wracked your brain for the answer he wanted, “sir?” An immediate sting settled across your thighs, you winced. 

Jack noticed the way your legs were starting to shake, “color?”

“Green” you moaned and rubbed your thighs together. If only the toy could just press a little harder-

The leather bands of the flogger trailed your back, you sighed and leaned into the delicate feeling.

God how you wanted him to touch you-  A soft yelp escaped from your lips as the flogger snapped against the meaty part of your shoulder.

“Legs apart or I'll shut it off” he warned. 

You sighed and did as you were told.  The pleasure that was building in your core faded back into that teasing ache. 

“There you go honey bee...  now what about that name?”

As your body got more frustrated your brain got more hazy. All you could focus on was that feeling between your legs….“Ja- no fuck wait- W-whiskey? Whiskey-”

Hit

“Agent Whiskey” you gasped.

He hesitated, you braced yourself for the next strike, but it never came. Instead his hand came up to smooth over the marks he had just made. You relaxed into his touch, the sting subsiding a little. 

Music sounded from the corner. Both of you turned your heads to look- the musc was playing from your phone.  He set the flogger down on the seat of the chair and walked over to look at the caller ID - just in case you needed it for work. 

He laughed a little then flashed you a grin that made your stomach drop to the floor. At that moment, he looked downright wicked. 

Jack pressed the answer button while he walked over to the table, “hello?” 

You stayed silent,  trying to hear who was on the other line-

“No this is still her number, unfortunately she’s a bit tied up right now.” He winked at you and took hold of the whip. “But can I take a message?”

The cowboy approached you again, placing the phone against his shoulder then shifting the whip in order to give himself a free hand.  He continued to listen to whoever was speaking while he reached into the front of your panties and clicked the vibrator to the highest speed. 

“Sorry, real quick - what was your name again? Peter did you say?”

You gasped- wrists yanking at the restraints. 

 It was a combination of pleasure flooding your core, along with the realization that Jack was speaking to your ex fiance….. The one who had cheated on you. Jack had been very vocal about the things he would do to this guy should he ever meet him face to face.

 “Jack wha?-”

His hand came to clamp over your mouth. “One second, just let me grab a pen and paper-” he put the phone on mute so he could speak to you. “Alright, colors this time darlin.”

He maneuvered the phone back into his left hand and shifted the whip into his right. Although he had disappeared from your view, you could still hear him speaking behind you. “Yep I’m ready. I’m gonna repeat it back just to make sure I got it all.”

Jack was smiling like a kid in a candy shop, he couldn’t have asked for a better situation...

The vibrator pressing against your sensitive bundle of nerves forced you to slip deeper and deeper into bliss. You had to shift your weight onto the chair a little more, your legs starting to go weak.

He cracked the whip once, signaling to you that he was about to start. “You were calling to speak to her because you wanted to see if she still had your grandmother's ring-” 

Your head snapped back and your entire body twitched as the thin leather instrument seared your flesh. “Fuck” you whined, every muscle starting to tense up. 

It felt like everything was being magnified by a thousand, you couldn’t pick any single sensation to focus on.… although it didn't even matter- you simply had to take it.  “Green” 

Jack chuckled darkly “oh that? One of the mare’s we got is in heat. Crack a whip a few times-” he snapped it in the air again “-and it usually settles them down-” 

Hit.

It came down on you harder this time. You were unable to stop the obscene cry that tumbled from your mouth.  Hot tears stung the corners of your eyes. You had been edged all morning and you just needed some release. Your hips bucked forward into the air - the natural instinct for friction taking over. 

All you desired in that moment was to be touched. You wanted to feel him hold you down, to bury himself inside of you and fuck you senseless. To have his hot breath tickling your shoulder, weight pressing you firmly into the mattress - nails racking across your flushed and trembling skin. The chair groaned beneath your ironclad grip... “Green.”

He kept speaking into the phone: “Since the ring is a family heirloom you thought that it should stay in the family-”

Another snap of the air and a hot lash on the back of your thighs. By this point you had completely surrendered to him. Tears rolled down your cheeks as nonsensical moans fell freely from your lips.

The pleasure between your legs had built to a dizzying height, god you wanted it so badly. You wanted to cum so badly - you were so fucking close-

“- And if she was ever in town again, to call you - so you could grab coffee.”

Jack didn't warn you this time, he just let the leather fly and brand you with a fiery mark. You struggled to breathe as you fell apart, knees giving out and hitting the ground hard. A mixture of agony and complete earth shattering euphoria took hold of you and dropped you down into its depths. You choked on your words “Red! Red! F-fuck, jack stop-”

You didn't hear him get off the phone or jog over to you. Your mind was overcome with endorphins. Your entire body trembled- walls of your pussy fluttering around nothing. 

No man had ever come close to what Jack just achieved. He had force fed you a red pill in the limits of your body….and you loved every single fucking second of it.

You were slumped awkwardly on the floor - hands still pulled upward onto the back of the chair. 

Once he undid the restraints and you wasted no time reaching between your legs and pulling out the vibrator. Over stimulation was starting to take hold and you couldn't handle it anymore.

Your pretty lace panties were soaked through completely.

The device fell to the floor with a click and stopped moving. 

Jack took you up gently in his arms…. you were exhausted. You looped your arms around his neck and pulled yourself up, burying your face in his chest. He peppered sweet little kisses to your cheeks. 

He was so warm, and you loved his touch…..fuck. Fuck. You had tried so hard not to love him these last few weeks- you knew he didn’t feel the same way - and that it was setting yourself up for heartbreak. However you just couldn't help it. No matter how pathetic and miserable it was - you loved him. You loved a man who told you that he could never see you in that way-

Large warm hands laid flat across the skin of your back and rubbed soothing circles. He shushed you gently and nuzzled his nose into your hair. 

You hiccuped - stuttering and trying to formulate sentences-

“Relax, sweetheart just relax. You're fine. I got you…... You did so good baby girl - Christ, you were absolutely incredible.”

The two of you stayed like that for a few minutes until your senses calmed down. He brushed your hair behind your ear and pulled back to see your face. Those big doughy brown eyes looking at you softly. “How do you feel?”

“Good” you smiled dreamily. There was pain, but it was a good throbbing pain. The aftershocks of adrenaline were still giving you a slight high….“exhausted.”

He matched your smile. “I’ll bet. I didn’t overstep?”

“No!” you assured. “Not at all- I was putting the conversation with him off because- well honestly I was scared. I didn’t know what he wanted.”

Jack leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, “if he ever calls you again, give the phone to me and I’ll take care of it. You understand?”

You nodded. 

“Good, now how about I carry you upstairs, run you a bath -  then after we watch that show you were talkin’ about? What was it? The square?”

You laughed “The Circle.”

“Right, that one…. Waddya say?”

“I’d like that- Oh and for what it's worth, Ginger and Tequila could never.”

“And don’t you ever fuckn’ forget it.”

#Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Pedro fanfic #Kingsmen Fanfic #Kingsmen Fanfiction #Agent whiskey fanfic #Agent whiskey x you #Agent whiskey x Reader #Whiskey x you #Jack Daniels x you

[liamloveslarry]

The Boy Who Cried Wolf~

okay i’ve posted some snippets below and i’ve kept the general theme the story flows in so far, however it may not make sense as i’ve purposefully left some things out but i think u can get a general vibe from it hopefully, idk let me know what you think bc it’s been ages since i’ve picked this up and i would love to finish and post it soon!

tw for one use of derogatory language, violence, body horror/gore, swearing, experimentation, surgery & fictional medicines, mild nsfw, use of guns but at the beginning - these all sounds worse than they are, but it’s a werewolf fic so there had to be some element of ~horror.

The ground beneath Harry is hard and damp. 

He can feel the wetness soak through into his already sodden socks from where his shoes had come off in the brawl, and it reminds him of being young and spilling ice cubes on the floor, trying to hastily clean the water up with his foot and feeling the cold cling to his toes. 

He squeezes his fists together and bends his head between his knees, breathing deep. 

There’s a chill in the air and the frost nips at his nude body, causing goosebumps to flare in his skins wake so fast it stings as they burst through his flesh. 

His long hair acts as a barrier against the frigid air, but every time he rocks back, the metal bars stood tall behind him hiss against his skin and cause him to whimper and growl. 

He looks up and wraps his arms around his knees, shielding what little modesty he has left. 

He can see two guards standing either side of the cell, each holding firearms in their sturdy arms. Their fingers on the trigger ready to shoot if Harry so much as thought about doing something he shouldn’t. 

There’s another body to the right of him that looks in bad condition. He can smell it before he sees it. The person’s leg appears to be injured judging by the sluggish trail of blood that’s pumping into a puddle on the floor, and there are multiple cuts and grazes across their torso and face. 

Deep enough that Harry can see muscle and bone. Deep enough that Harry can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.

If he focuses enough, he can hear them breathing. 

Or maybe that’s just himself.

Harry’s feet scuffle on the floor as he tries to get a closer look, but it causes one of the guard’s head to twist towards him and narrow his eyes, gripping his gun even tighter as he opens his big, fat mouth.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He growls.

Harry whips his head up and looks him in the eye. He retracts his arm slowly from where he was reaching out to touch the person’s pulse point and places it on the floor.

The guards face is pinched and sweaty, as if he’d be afraid of Harry if there wasn’t a thick barrier of metal between them. He can hear the hitch in his breath when does so much as blink, confirming the theory further that he’s more afraid of Harry than Harry is of him.

“What am I doing here?” His voice his shot and gruff, a reminder of just two hours previous when he’d been snarling and shouting, trying to tear chunks of flesh from their bodies out of fear while they’d held him down and stunned him into submissive shock.

He doesn’t remember much after being shoved into the back of a truck and led to where he assumes, he is now, cooped up in a dingy cell with a half rotting body and two wankers as company.

The guard punches out a laugh, the tip of the gun clanging against the metal as his body jerks forward. It causes Harry to wince as the sharp sound penetrates his ear drums.

“For a dog I thought you’d be smarter. But it looks like you’re just another dumb bitch.”

Harry’s fingers catch against the grain of the floor as the tip of his claw protrudes and causes the concrete to shift and crumble beneath him. He can’t help the rumble in his chest while the thought to bare his teeth becomes more prominent each second the guard smirks and cocks his gun mockingly at Harry’s head. 

“Calm down puppy, it’s not even a full moon yet so I dunno why you’re gettin’ all hyped up.” 

Harry doesn’t feel himself move but he can see the guard’s eyes sweep across his form, right from the tips of his toes to his hairline as he clenches his gun tighter, which means he now must be standing. 

He knows better than to step forward, knowing he’ll probably get shot if he dares so much as inch his pinky out. 

He can feel his bones shift and his muscles twinge, and there’s a deep throbbing coming from his thigh which he only notices now. As he casts his eyes down, he can see it’s torn and open. There must be something slowing the healing as usually something like that would’ve closed up by now.

“Tell me why I’m here.”

The guard cocks his eyebrow.

“No.”

Harry’s hands clasp into fists and he takes a deep breath.

“Tell me why I’m here.”

He can see the guard smirking, albeit if he narrows his eyes slightly, he can still see his pulse jumping under his skin as if trying to scramble from his body. He shifts his hip slightly to take the weight off his injured leg, causing his cock to slap against his thigh.

The guard’s eyes drift down and this time it’s Harry’s turn to smirk.

“What’s the matter? Never seen one this big before?”

The guards face turns red and he splutters, his pig face scrunching up as if he’d sucked on a sour lemon and he scrambles to point his gun through the bars and at Harry.

“Shut the fuck up you fucking dog! I swear to god I’ll blow your fucking brains out you mutt, you utter cu- “

“That’s enough.”

They both whip their head towards the second guard as his hand inches out and places it on the other guard’s gun, pushing it down slowly.

“You!”, he says, eyes piercing into the other man and gritting his teeth, “need to shut your fucking gob and stop riling Lassie up; and you!”, he turns and sweeps his gaze over Harry’s form, boots coming to rest against the edge of the metal, “need to stop asking so many sodding questions and shut up.”

Harry blinks down at his wet socks and frowns.

“Can I at least have some clothes?”

The second guards gaze lingers on his abdomen.

“No,” he smirks, eyes trailing upwards and resting on Harry’s face, “I’m rather enjoying the view.”

Harry growls out “fucking pervert” and doesn’t think twice before moves his foot forward, which causes the first guard to panic and fire his gun. 

The bullet doesn’t pierce his skin, but it’s made of something hard and it smacks full force him in the chest, instantly knocking him backwards and winding him.

He can see both of the guards arguing and waving their arms at each other, but his hearing has gone woofy so he can’t understand what they’re saying. 

The room is starting to spin and the pain in his thigh and upper chest are getting worse, causing Harry to sway on the spot and collapse onto his knees.

The last thing he remembers is the sound of an alarm before his vision blurs and turns to black.

~

It was dark by the time he’d left the office, nodding and waving at the receptionist who was sat in the tiny booth on his way out. It had also been raining, which Harry realises now he probably should’ve driven in, but the morning had been so frosty and clear with dew drops settling on autumn leaves, that he couldn’t help but walk through the winding paths and bramble bushes to get to work. Even if it did take him thirty minutes.

He remembers pulling his hood up and walking down the road until he reached a narrow ginnel that acted as a bridge between the small town and his house.

It had been here he’d been attacked.

At first, he thought it was just somebody mugging him and he knew it wasn’t best placed to chomp his way out of it, it wouldn’t look too good if a local hooligan had been found with teeth marks imprinted onto his skin, so he’d done his best to ignore him, promptly shoving them off; only to realise there was two of them and one had what looked to be a gun.

Stunned, he’d tried to run but they’d pinned him down and cast a sickening blow to his stomach. It had caused Harry to go into sensory overload as he could smell the cheap cigarette smoke on their collars and their nasty breath wafting up his nostrils, causing him to heave and snarl. It was only a matter of time before his abilities kicked in and his claws and teeth had decided to make an appearance. He’d nicked of the men on his jaw and tried to bite his neck, but the other man held an electric rod against his ribs and shocked him.

~

She’s fair skinned and has light brown hair that’s held up in a ponytail. She doesn’t say much as she checks the stats on the monitor screen, but Harry does his best to smile whenever she looks over at him.

“Hey. What’s your name?”

She startles and nearly drops her clipboard, grasping it at the last second before it falls to the floor. She looks at him wide eyed and says nothing.

“I’m not going to do anything, I promise”. He grins and wiggles his fingers slightly in the straps. “Not like I can do anything, anyway.”

She stares at him for a beat longer and lowers her head.

“Mary.” She mumbles, fiddling with the pen and twisting it in her fingers.

Harry smiles again and tries to get her to look up.

“Mary. That’s a nice name. My name’s Harry, but I’m guessing you already know that.”

She blushes and looks away, busying herself with the buttons on the monitor and biting her bottom lip. 

She’s nervous, Harry can sense it. But if he wants to get out of here semi-unscathed, he needs to play nice with those who so far, haven’t been very nice to him. She seems kind enough anyway, judging by the fact that she wasn’t poking any fingers into his wounds or prodding at his teeth.

“I know you probably can’t say much, and I understand that; I really do, but.” He sighs and looks down. “Please can you tell me where I am?”

She continues to ignore him, taking out a needle and flicking the cap. She pumps it a few times and Harry watches as the liquid inside begins to bubble up.

She goes to inject the tip into his thigh but he catches her wrist just as she was about to press in, claws forming a shield around her delicate bone.

She looks up at him wide eyed, her breathing heavy and scared.

“Mary, please. Please tell me where I am. I won’t let go until you say something.” He can feel her small hand trembling but he isn’t going to give up without a fight.

Her fingers squeeze tighter around the needle and she tries to force the tip into his skin, but his hold is stronger and she lets out a gasp.

“Please stop, you’re hurting me.” 

“I’m sorry, I will, I promise. But not until after you tell me where I am.”

Her fingers seem to seize and stop, dropping the instrument onto the bed and her quiet, shaking voice splits the silence open like a knife cutting through paper.

~

He can smell the winter air and the frost settles in his bones, calming him instantly. He’s also very aware that he’s still in a gown and participating in a full moon event of his own. 

He’s about to step over the threshold when a hand tugs him back.

Harry turns around, and he sees Mary for the kid she is. Barely an adult and shivering in the cold.

Her nose has turned red already.

~

He lets out a ragged sob and pounds his fist against the floor. He tries to move his leg and bend his arms to press against the solid ground so he can at least heave himself up when he notices a beaming light coming towards him. He turns his head and sees through tears, rain and the dirt prickling his eyelids, the headlights of a car that’s heading his way.

The car eventually slows down to a stop in front of him, but he can’t see much through the business of the windscreen wipers and the headlights shining in his eyes. He must look a right state right now, and he’s shocked the car even stopped for him. 

If it was him, he would’ve kept on driving. 

There’s a click and the engine turns off. The lights stay on, albeit they’re dimmed a touch. 

The car door opens from the driver’s side and a man dressed in a parka and joggers hesitantly makes his way around the front of the car.

There’s silence for a few moments until the man opens his mouth.

~

Harry doesn’t know how long they drive for. He’s content to just let the sound of the quiet radio wash over him while he huddles into the blanket more, directing his toes underneath the heater. He appreciates that Louis probably has a multitude of questions he’s dying to ask, but instead he keeps his mouth shut, humming along to the radio every now and then.

They drive through the tiny town of Barnstable and the car jostles as they drive over cobbled streets and the sporadic pothole. The occasional light flickers from the shore to the right of them, but other than that the streets are as dark and as quiet as the night sky.

They tumble upwards towards a hill and Louis leads them through winding roads and sharp bends. On a particularly keen one, the car lingers to one side and Harry’s thigh moves with the turn, bashing slightly against the inside of the car door.

He winces and Louis catches it, sending a look of sympathy his way.

“Sorry, mate. Won’t be long now – another couple of minutes.” He nods down at Harry’s leg which has started to seep blood through the material. “We’ll get that patched up straight away, just try and keep some pressure on it for now.”

Harry takes a deep breath and nods, wrapping a part of the blanket around his fist and pressing it harder against the wound.

~

He grabs some shampoo from the holder that’s stuck to the wall and squirts a generous amount into his palm, rubbing his hands together and lathering it through the strands. He does the same with the shower gel and starts to wash his body as he thinks.

What he remembers from the night feels fragmented and broken, tail ends of memories flashing before they disappear. He sighs and dips his head backwards underneath the water and washes the shampoo out. 

Whatever they shot him with must’ve delayed or hindered his healing abilities as usually anything superficial or worse, only takes around an hour to heal. Granted he’s never been shot before, it should’ve only taken a little longer before it had fully closed up, instead it had gotten worse the longer the bullet had been trapped inside his leg, rooted underneath muscle and skin.

He looks down and feels as well as sees, his skin starting to knit back together. Bits of flesh fusing as one around the stitches like solder to an iron. He doesn’t know what he’ll say to Louis in terms of there no longer being a wound or a scar left in its wake, but he figures he probably doesn’t need to be semi-nude around him again, so he decides not to say anything.

He scrubs the last remnants of dirt from his body and turns to switch the shower off, taking his time to grab the towel left for him on the radiator and wrapping it around his waist. 

He pads over to the mirror and looks at his reflection.

His eyes are slightly bloodshot and his cheekbones look hallow. His long hair is dripping lukewarm water down his chest and onto the floor, but he can’t find the energy in him to do something about it.

~

He spins towards Harry, blue eyes tired and sleepy, with a soft smile etched onto his face. He lifts his arm to ruffle the back of his hair and his arm muscle expands slightly, filling out the sleeve of his hoodie. It makes Harry swallow, a quiet click due to his dry throat echoing through the room.

“You’ll be okay in here, right?” Louis asks. “You know where the bathroom is and there’s some spare toothbrushes in the drawer, feel free to get up when you want and have another shower and stu- oh!” Louis pauses and places his hand into his hoodie pocket, pulling a small box out. “There’s some paracetamol here in case you need them in the middle of the night for your leg – pretty sure there’s a spare glass in the bathroom too, just in case you didn’t wanna stick your head under the tap.” He places the box down onto the bedside table and throws a smile Harry’s way.

Harry won’t need them but he nods and smiles anyway, yawning out a thank you. He forgets momentarily that Louis is still in the room when he starts taking the hoodie off, and only remembers when a cough sounds out against the silence and he whips his head up.

~

Harry unclicks his seatbelt and goes to open the car door when Louis’ hand stops him. He turns back. 

Tired, green eyes meet concerned, blue ones.

“Just.” Louis pauses. “Just be careful out there, okay?” Harry stays silent while Louis’ fingers tighten around his arm. 

It doesn’t feel unsafe.

“When I found you, I thought you were dead. I haven’t asked you what happened because I assumed you’d tell me when you were ready. And you still don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He rushes to say, then pauses to stroke his thumb lightly over Harry’s arm, hair standing to attention and swaying under soft material and fingertips. “So just, be careful. Please.”

His eyes feel like they’re boring into Harry’s soul, each pupil filled with worry and pleading as if for Harry to promise him. Harry doesn’t know what to do, so he gently places his hand on top of Louis’ and smiles kindly.

“I promise. It was just a,” how does he word this “– a bad night. And hopefully it won’t happen again.” He figures he might have to verbalize what happened one day, but today is not that day. Where would he even start? ‘Thanks for saving my life and oh, by the way, I’m a werewolf?’

One headache is enough for now.

Louis looks at him for a second longer and breathes out, squeezing his arm one last time and dropping his hand back down, resting it on his thigh.

“I’ll call you.”

Harry nods and opens the car door, turning back one last time.

“Thank you, for everything.”

~

Making his way through to the living room, he flicks the light on and watches as dust bunnies flit about the air, as if to say welcome home. The machine to the right of him is flashing relentlessly, signifying there are messages waiting for him. He presses the voicemail button and listens as a robotic voice, followed by a woman’s, floats through the speaker.

Beep. Three new messages.

Beep. First Message.

“Hi, love. It’s only me. Just checking to make sure you’re alright? I know you said you had a busy week so wanted to catch up before the weekend.”

Beep. End of first message. 

Beep. Second message.

“Hi, Harry. Me again. Not sure if you got my first message and I know you’re probably having a minute to yourself after work, but just give me a call back when you get this.”

Beep. End of second message.

Beep. Third message.

“Harry, it’s me. It’s nearly 8 o’clock and I haven’t heard anything. I’m starting to worry, will you ring me back, please? I swear to god if something’s happe-yes! I’m ringing him again, he’s not answering, Har-”

Beep. End of third message.

No more messages.

~

If he listens carefully enough, he can hear the hedgehog’s tiny teeth tear through the slop, gurgling as he swallows. Small wheezes puff through his narrow nostrils when he pauses, the spikes on his back sparkling under the stars. Harry’s eyes adjust better than any humans could while his ears hone in on the sounds around him. Voles and mice race through the grass, snatching worms and bugs alike. Owls hoot in the distance while foxes rummage through bins, rubbish galore. He can even hear the moths fluttering their tiny wings as they quiver and vibrate through the dark.

The plate is nearly empty when he hears something snap. Even Bob pauses licking the ceramic to sniff the air; black, beady eyes darting right to left. He must think they’re in the clear when he starts moving again, nifty nose nudging through wet food. Harry continues to watch the garden when he hears another snap. 

This time it’s louder.

Claws replace fingernails and grip the step below him, twists of PVC twirling underneath sharp talons as they’re sliced from the ledge. 

Forgive him for he usually wouldn’t be this on edge, however getting oneself kidnapped and tortured has made even the scariest of monsters slightly fearful.

Though his eyesight is much like that of a hawk, he can’t see anything out of the ordinary. The bushes and leaves sway slowly in the breeze, every now and then a hoot echoes in the distance.

He stops breathing when he feels something brush against his ankle and his claws pierce the delicate skin of his palm; but he realises when he looks down that it’s just Bob nuzzling between his sock clad feet, trying to reach a meaty grub that’s getting away. He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes, counting to ten in his head. He shifts his feet so his three-legged friend can reach his dessert. He decides it’s enough for one night and reaches down to pick the plate up. He stands and casts his eyes around the garden one more time, settling on a tree branch that rests over the fence. He doesn’t know how long he stares at it until he feels the chill of the air whip against his face. Blinking out of his stupor, he shakes his head and lets out a small huff, breath casting white shapes into the cold air. 

“Bed,” he whispers, “just go to bed, Harry.”

~

It’s the middle of the night when he needs the toilet, bladder unrelenting as he shuffles sleepily out of the tent, torch in one hand as he makes his way over to a nearby tree. He’s resting his palm against the trunk when he hears a snap and a low moan coming from somewhere next to him. He tries to hurry his peeing as fast as he can, shaking himself off and guiding himself back into his shorts when something barges into him, slamming him down onto the forest floor.

His head knocks against the ground and he groans, mind going fuzzy. He can’t see for shit what’s on top of him but it’s dark and big and it’s groaning. Rumbling screams clutching at his bones. He tries to shake it off but it’s larger than Harry, at least seven foot and it drags him about like prey. He goes limp and cold, as if his mind is disconnected from his body. All he can remember is a white-hot flash of pain from where the thing had sunken its jaws into Harry’s side, teeth seizing around his rib cage and pulling, twisting, sinking. He remembers trying to scream but no sound escaped his lips. It was like he was watching from above. Watching as his body was tugged and heaved from left to right. Sharp claws scratched and hooked at his hip bones, making sure he couldn’t get away.

He could feel blood oozing out from where he’d been bitten and torn at, and the pain he felt was almost blinding. His fingers twitched at his side until they felt something smooth and hard. In a moment of sheer adrenaline, Harry had lifted what he assumed was a rock and slammed it down onto the thing’s head, once, twice, three times. Until its jaws had become loose and its teeth unclenched from around his bones. Blood spurted onto his face, lining his lips and staining his eyelashes. The thing went limp and sagged against Harry’s body, white eyes rolling back into its split skull as it shivered, seized and stopped.

He remembers pushing it off his body as best he could and trying to scramble away from it, bare feet and toes digging into the soft earth as he pushed himself backwards. He gulped when he hit the back of a tree and lay panting, hands shaking as they touched his side, feeling nothing but hollow bone and air. Looking down there was only red. Torn flesh and muscle protruding and dangling down as if no longer part of his body.

He remembers sobbing as he blinked through the tears and tried to get a good look at the figure lying dead in front of him. Holding both hands against where he’d been bitten and pulled apart like leftovers.

He remembers looking up at the sky above him, the moon big and bold as she stared back at him.

He remembers feeling like he was going to die.

~

A book is placed into Harry’s hands and he looks confused at the two men before Zayn just nods his head at the item, encouraging Harry to open it. 

“What is this?” He asks.

“Just read it.” Niall says, blinking at Harry.

It’s black and the corners are worn. It isn’t a big book either by any means, but it’s chunky and smells of old leather. Indented in gold on the front page are what look to be like nymphs and needles, wound tight around flesh as if both are becoming one. He turns to the first page and registers the thin, waxy paper.

~

Harry nods, doesn’t feel as though he can speak properly before stepping onto the train. His foot barely reaches the entry when his name is called behind him. He turns his head and sees Zayn walking up to him.

“I,” he coughs, looking around him a touch awkwardly, Niall turns away and bends down, pretending to busy himself with his shoelace. “Stay safe, yeah?” 

He pulls something out of his pocket and presses it into Harry’s hand. “Call us if you need us, anytime. I mean it.”

And with that he’s spinning around and walking up to Niall, clapping him on the back and nodding towards the exit. Harry tightens his fist around whatever Zayn had given him and ducks into the carriage, finding a seat near the far back and sitting down.

He rests his head against the cool glass and shuts his eyes.

Tries to keep his racing thoughts from becoming nightmares.

~

Page 37.

Sally.

ne.re.id. sea.nymph. mer.ma.id.

August 13th 1989. 15:07pm.

Found near the North coast of Portknockie in Scotland. Terrain is rocky and waves were at high speed. Out of plain sight to any passersby, however not so hidden she wouldn’t have been spotted by cliff dwellers. Water is salty meaning she has not swum from any freshwater rivers or lakes. Around 250cm in length, including the tail which has been jaggedly severed from fin upwards. The creature is unconscious but has a strong heartbeat. A mixture of morphine and hematide has been administered into the left arm of the creature and she remains stable. 

Despite her long frame, she has a petite torso and fine hair decorating her entire upper half. Subject has dark hair and green eyes. They seem to change to lilac under fluorescent lighting while her pupils dilate. She speaks in broken sentences, mostly garbled hums and high-pitched warbles.

Subject has webbed fingers and sharp nails. Subject also does not have a belly button nor any eyebrows.

Harry’s fingers freeze around the handle of his mug and he places it down onto the table shakily, taking another steady breath inwards. Outside the bin men are talking joyously as the disposal unit crunches in the distance while the neighbours next door are having yet another argument about who’s turn it is on the computer. But nothing registers, and Harry can only focus on the words standing stark against yellow stained paper below him.

~

September 7th 1989. 14:24pm.

Subject ‘Sally’ has been prepped for surgery. Subomunex was dispensed into the subject’s neck gills. We have found this to be most effective when operating on water-based creatures as it releases certain toxins and nutrients to ensure the subject can breathe without the need for H20.

Research into the common cold occurred almost one year ago, and we have found certain elements that make up a nereid’s larynx fight most, if not all symptoms of a ‘sore throat’. Today we shall create a medium incision into the subject’s neck muscle and remove the larynx, most commonly known as the voice box, from the subject’s throat. Delicate strands of tissue and muscle will be removed and sent to the Section B lab where it will be tested and if successful, dispensed into edible capsules and distributed among Pharmacies across the UK. 

A tiny proportion of the larynx’s genetic makeup will be extracted and re-created to ensure there is enough material for us to provide in the long term.

There’s a picture underneath the paragraph of what looks to be a theatre and Sally stretched out along a bed, four doctors are also in the photo, two standing either side of the creature and if Harry squints, he can see their smiles through their surgical masks.

~

“H-hello?”

There’s silence before the other person speaks.

“Uh…is this Harry?”

He doesn’t register the voice and his brows furrow in confusion, nose sniffling.

“Uh, yeah? Who’s this?”

“It’s um, Louis?” the voice replies, “I picked you up from the middle of the road, uh. About a week ago?”

God, has it really only been a week?

All of a sudden, his eyes widen in stark realisation and he clutches the phone tighter in the palm of his hand.

“Oh! God, I’m so sorry, hi. How are you?”

There’s a little huff of laughter and Harry imagines Louis’ eyes crinkling.

“Yeah, I’m alright, mate. Are you? You sound a little…off.”

Harry leans against the living room wall and rolls his head sideways, “uh,” he glances at the book, “just a sad film, proper got to me, had a little cry as you do.”

~

“I should probably leave.” Harry says, and carefully dislodges Cliff’s head from his leg, placing it down gently onto the couch cushion beneath him. He doesn’t even move, just wiggles his back slightly and twitches his paw from where it’s resting in mid-air.

“If this is about you dribbling on me, I really don’t care. I’ve had worse things on me.”

Harry’s blush darkens, and he mumbles out, “it’s not about the dribble thing, I just think I should go.”

He stands up and makes his way into the hallway, vaguely aware Louis is talking to him, but the words are muffled against the heavy sound of Harry’s beating heart. He grabs one of his shoes and slips it on his foot, patting down his chest and pockets, trying to search for his keys while shielding his face so Louis doesn’t see how red his cheeks have become.

“-think you should just stay the night.”

Harry’s in the middle of slipping on his other shoe, when he braces his arm against the wall to stop him from tripping up, and turns to face Louis who’s piercing Harry with his gaze, despite the warm flush that’s expanding across his face.

“What?”

“I said, I think you should just stay the night.”

“I-,”

“I don’t mean, um,” Louis huffs a laugh, a telltale pink blooming on his cheeks, “in my room, or anything. I meant the spare room again, if you want?” He places his hands into his jean pockets and rocks back a little on his feet, “it’s just really frosty outside, and dark, so I’d feel pretty shitty if I let you drive back now.”

“Lou-“

“Sorry if it sounds like I’m being pushy, I don’t mind, really! It’s just,” he sighs, lips pursing and fingers reaching out to scratch at the chipped paint on the wall, “I’d just hate for something to happen, y’know, like last time,” he murmurs quietly, a sad sort of smile sweeps across his lips and he looks down, shrugging his shoulders.

You’d think what happened that night fucked him up a little too.

Maybe it did.

After all, he was the one who made sure Harry was alright and pulled a bullet from his leg, right over where Harry casts his eyes into the kitchen.

~

He groans and lifts his body to sit upright, leaning down and massaging his leg with his hand. 

He drops his head forward and sighs, insides feeling like they were going to jump out of his skin any second and run off the excess energy without him. He stands up and stretches, fingers pointing upwards towards the ceiling while his back cracked along his spine. 

It felt like a shift, bones and muscles repositioning under flesh, like tectonic plates moving and slotting into the different crevices of his body. But it wasn’t time, and Harry had learned to control the urge quite early on after he’d found himself naked in the local park after a midnight stint, bleary eyes opening to find ducks quacking nervously in the pond and a jogger staring at him with his mouth hanging open; probably wondering what he was doing lying there nude at four in the morning. He wasn’t too far from home that he couldn’t sprint back in time that nobody else noticed him, covering his delicate parts with his hands as he ran through the streets in the milky morning light. 

His clothes had been torn to shreds and he doesn’t remember much, not a great deal of evidence either from the night before other than the dirt that had gathered underneath his fingernails and twigs in his hair. He also felt different somehow, as if his body finally relaxed into itself and took one huge breath out.

~

Louis slides the door fully open then and steps into the room, toes sinking into the plush carpet beneath him. He isn’t wearing anything other than his boxers and Harry’s very aware he’s in just the same. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Harry shakes his head, fingers spreading out along the bed and clutching at the tight bottom sheet, trying hard not to think about how Louis’ shut the door behind him, not fully, but just enough to bathe the majority of the room in moonlight and heavy whispers.

“Me neither.” Louis huffs, lips morphing into a small smile and feet shuffling forward. “Feel like my body’s just pent up, y’know? Usually I’m out like a light.”

“Same.” Harry replies. “My brain won’t switch off so I’ve just been,” don’t tell him you’ve been snooping, “counting sheep.”

“And the bang?” Louis laughs.

“Oh! Uh, I just got up for some water and tripped into the bedside table.”

Harry doesn’t think about how it’s becoming easier and easier to lie.

“Do you need anything for it?” Louis asks, coming closer as if trying to inspect Harry’s foot. His toes scrunch inward under the careful scrutiny, as if they don’t want Louis to see how unblemished they really are.

There’re only a few feet between them now and Harry can feel the sleepy heat radiating from Louis’s body, can count the chest hairs that sit between his pecs and can smell the fabric conditioner of his bed sheets caught up in the hairs on his arms.

“No, I think I’m good.” He swallows, throat clicking and fingertips twitching beside him as if they’re aching to reach out and feel just how soft Louis’ skin is underneath quivering patterns of swirly flesh.

“Okay.” Louis whispers, eyelids blinking slowly, heavy with heady want, tongue inching out to lick his dry lips.

#the boy who cried wolf #mine #pls dont post this anywhere #i know its long but it would be lovely if u could tell me what u think #i know its a little different #sally is my fave but im biased #sorry not sorry for leaving it on a cliffhanger