#''fuck this design is missing something actually... MORE ZIPPERS THAT DO NOTHING''

[geminiwritten]

playing games ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far

notes: i don't want to say this sucks because i'm actually so proud of getting it done... i was severely burnt out the past week and struggling big time, so i really hope it's not terrible and y'all really enjoy! plus, the ending had me giggling and kicking my feet... as always, please let me know what you think, i love all the feedback (it honestly keeps me going)

warnings: swearing, italics, alcohol consumption, hangman is a bit of a dick but still lovable, kind of cheesy, description of injury and blood (very minor), and it gets a bit horny (18+ ONLY MDNI)! please let me know if i missed anything

word count: 17266

your callsign is chick

You’ve known Bradley Bradshaw since your first day at the academy, and he’s been ruining your life ever since.  

With his stupid sun-kissed skin and ridiculously perfect hair. Those damn pink lips, always curled into a soft smirk beneath that criminal moustache. And those big brown eyes—so deceptively innocent as they watch you, like they know you better than you know yourself. 

Even the way he speaks gets you hot. That low drawl in his voice, the way he stretches certain words, and—ugh—the way he says your name.  

He’s a walking, talking hazard to your health. Engineered in a lab and designed specifically to make your brain short-circuit. All he has to do is look at you, talk to you, flash that smug little smirk—just exist—and you’re malfunctioning.  

You want him like a shot of whiskey on a cold night. Need him more than air when you’re drowning. He’s everything you can’t have but can’t stop craving.  

And the worst part?  

You know he feels it too. That he wants you just as badly.  

But Bradley Bradshaw is too fucking scared to cross that line and risk everything for something real.

“Rooster!” Maverick calls across the tarmac. “This isn’t a photo shoot for Hot Pilots Weekly. Move your ass!” 

Laughter ripples through the squad—breathless but alive—as you all keep circling the cones on the concrete. Because today, Maverick decided push-ups just weren’t enough. Today, he wanted to torture his squad. 

“Don’t slow down, Bob,” Hondo says, stopwatch in hand by one of the cones. 

“I can’t see,” Bob huffs. “My glasses are fogging up.” 

“Must suck not being in peak physical condition,” Jake quips, picking up the pace to pass Bob and Mickey. 

You’re just a stride ahead—and seriously considering faking a faint so you can ditch this godforsaken flight suit. 

“Hey, little chick,” Jake says, falling into step beside you. “Lookin’ good.” 

“Save it, Bagman,” you mutter, breathless. “I’m not in the mood.” 

“See, you say that,” he says, that cocky grin still in place despite running for the past twenty minutes, “but your eyes are telling a different story.” 

You let out a huff—something between a laugh and a gasp for air. “God, you’re insufferable.” 

“But I’m wearing you down, right?” 

You roll your eyes. “You’re wearing my patience down.” 

“Alright, that’s enough!” Maverick calls. “Bring it in.” 

There’s a collective groan as everyone slows to a walk, dragging themselves toward him without an ounce of urgency—tugging off gloves and unzipping flight suits as they go. 

Maverick had made everyone run in full gear. He claims it’s conditioning, but you’re pretty sure it’s just because he’s evil—and possibly an undercover sadist. 

You fumble with your zipper, yanking it down before shrugging the suit off your shoulders and pulling your arms free. The rush of cool air against your skin is nothing short of divine, and you let out a soft moan without even meaning to. You don’t even care that you’re down to just a sports bra—since you ran out of clean undershirts this morning and had already resigned yourself to suffering. 

When you glance up from tying the sleeves of your suit around your waist, you catch Bradley staring. His wide brown eyes are locked on you, roaming over your bare skin like they have every right to. His face is flushed, lips parted, breath coming in quick gasps as he slows to a stop. Feet rooted to the ground, he just stares—clearly flustered—and somehow, you’re not convinced the run is entirely to blame. 

You walk right past him, lips twitching. “Thirsty, Bradshaw?” 

He clears his throat and falls into step beside you. “Hungry, actually.” 

“That so?” 

He nods. 

You arch a brow. “Anything in particular you’re craving?” 

His tongue darts between his lips as they curl into a slow smirk, his eyes dropping down your body. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a while.” 

You want to laugh—because yeah, it’s been a long fucking while—but instead, you press your lips together and shake your head. 

Maverick drones on about how maintaining your body is just as important as maintaining your jet before launching into an unhinged story about ‘back in his day’—but you’re barely listening. You can’t. Not with Bradley’s eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. Not with the way he’s standing so close, suit half off, his undershirt clinging to his body in ways you only wish you could. 

It’s downright criminal—the way he can still look this sinfully good after a full day of torture. No one should look like that after a gruelling workout. No one. 

“You’re all dismissed,” Maverick says, snapping your attention away from the little droplet of sweat sliding down the side of Bradley’s neck. “And don’t forget—my place at six.” 

“Oh, hell yeah,” Mickey grins, turning to Reuben beside him. “I’ve been thinking about a steak all damn week.” 

Reuben frowns. “Then why wouldn’t you just cook one for yourself?” 

“Don’t know how,” Mickey says with a shrug. 

Maverick chuckles as he turns away, Hondo falling into step beside him. 

The others continue roasting Mickey for his inability to cook a steak while you head for the locker rooms, eager to get the hell out of this damn suit and under the cool spray of a cold shower—something you need for more than one reason. 

You almost make it when a heavy pair of footsteps echo down the hall behind you, and you don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You recognise him just from the sound of his stride. Is that sad? 

“You trying to follow me into the shower now, Bradshaw?” 

He tips his head, lips curling into that crooked little half-smile. “Is that an offer?” 

You press your back to the women’s locker room door, nudging it open. “You know you’re always welcome.” 

A beat of silence stretches between you—electricity crackling softly in the air as you hold his gaze. Your lips are quirked in challenge; his cheeks flushed, eyes wide with want—even though you already know exactly what he’s about to do. 

He’s going to defuse the moment. Because he’s scared. 

“Raincheck,” he mutters, voice tight—almost strained—before clearing his throat. “I was going to ask if you wanted a lift tonight? To Mav’s.” 

“Oh.” You take half a step back into the locker room. “That’d be great.” 

He nods once. “Pick you up at ten to six.” 

“Can’t wait,” you say before turning sharply and pushing all the way through the door. 

You know it was just a joke—an offhand comment—but the little stab of disappointment still lands in your gut. You should be used to it by now. He’s been rejecting you for years. But it still stings. Especially when he’s looking at you like that—gaze hot and full of every emotion he refuses to name. 

Now you definitely need an ice-cold shower. 

Because for a moment, you let yourself imagine dragging Bradley into the locker room. Peeling off his flight suit. Tasting the sweat on his skin. Pressing him under the hot water, feeling his body move against yours—his hands, his mouth, his arms wrapped around you and his cock— 

“Ugh,” Natasha’s voice bounces off the tiled walls. “My ass is basically slow-roasting in this fucking suit. If I peel this thing off and hear a squelch, I’m retiring.” 

You snort a laugh as you pop open your locker. 

“You’re better than a cold shower,” you tell her, watching as she starts wriggling out of her suit. “Did you know that?” 

She narrows her eyes. “Gross. Were you daydreaming about Bradshaw again?” 

- 

Once a month, Maverick invites the whole squad over to his house for a barbecue. It’s a cute little tradition he started when the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit based at North Island. He says it’s to keep morale up and make sure Bradley and Jake are always getting along—but you know it’s really just because he loves it. 

Your phone chimes just as you’re slipping your feet into your shoes. It’s a text from Bradley, announcing that he’s out the front of your apartment block. 

You grab a jacket—just in case—before heading out the door and turning sharply toward the fire stairs. You’ve refused to take the elevator ever since it broke down a couple months ago. It’s supposedly fixed now, but you’re not taking any chances. Those two hours you were stuck in there with your neighbour ‘Crabby Carl’ were some of the worst of your life. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you chant to yourself as you bolt down the stairs. 

You shove the door open on the bottom level and breeze through the lobby, darting outside just as Bradley presses on his car’s horn. 

You stop abruptly at the passenger-side door, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “You were barely waiting two minutes.” 

He looks like the embodiment of sin sitting behind the wheel of the Bronco—lust, to be exact. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear stick, he looks like he’s posing for some defence force recruitment ad created by horny graphic designers. He’s wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt—one that shouldn’t look as good as it does, but of course it looks good on him—unbuttoned to his sternum, showing off a delicious stretch of sun-kissed skin that makes your mouth water. 

He tips his head forward, peering over the rim of his sunglasses. “You gonna keep staring or are you gonna hop in?” 

You roll your eyes and yank the door open, trying—and failing—not to blush. 

“Nice shirt,” you mutter. “Did you mug a tourist for it?” 

He chuckles as he flicks on the indicator. “Actually, this is vintage Bradshaw. And I know you love it.” 

You scoff, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “Someone’s full of himself this evening.” 

His eyes cut toward you as the car stops at an intersection, a sharp smirk curling at his lips. “Jealous?” 

Your eyes widen. Your cheeks flame. Your breath catches in your throat. Did he seriously just ask if you’re jealous of him being... full of himself? 

The silence between you is thick with static, crackling dangerously as he holds your gaze—brown eyes lit with something reckless. Something sharp that steals the air from your lungs and makes you forget your own name. 

You’re used to flirting with Bradley—you’ve been doing it for years—but every now and then, he gets bold. No warning, no reason. Just a sudden shift in heat, like he lives to catch you off guard. 

The blaring of a car horn startles you both. Bradley’s cheeks flush as his head snaps forward, foot pressing quickly on the gas. 

The rest of the car ride is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the radio—but thankfully, Maverick’s place isn’t far from yours. It’s barely been ten minutes when Bradley pulls up to the curb in front of the small, sun-faded beach house. 

You try not to stare as he cuts the engine and pulls the key from the ignition, but it’s hard not to watch the way his shirt shifts. The way it falls open a little more as he leans forward. His skin is so golden, so warm—something you wouldn’t mind burning your fingertips on. 

“You alright?” 

Your eyes snap to his face, cheeks heating. “Yeah, sorry.” You quickly unbuckle your belt. “Zoned out.” 

He chuckles, pushing open the driver’s side door. “You know, it’s not polite to stare at someone’s tits.” 

“That so?” you ask, arching a brow as your lips curl into a half-smirk. “So the way you were looking at me after training today... what was that?” 

He ducks his head, fighting a smile as his hand tightens on the door handle. “Oh, that wasn’t polite at all.” 

Then he slips out of the car and shuts the door, leaving you to catch your breath—for the second damn time in less than twenty minutes. 

Once you finally remember how to breathe, you climb out and follow him up the front porch steps. He doesn’t bother knocking—just opens the screen door and turns the brass knob on the weathered oak door, pushing it open like it’s his own house. 

There are already voices inside—mostly bickering—and the clink and clang of pots, pans, and other cooking utensils. The kitchen sits at the very back of the house, just before a sliding set of double doors that open onto a spacious deck. 

It’s not a big house—it’s cozy—and you love it. From the worn wooden floorboards to the peeling wallpaper. It has so much charm, and so much potential to be the ultimate vintage beach shack. You always joke to Mav about leaving it to you in his will—and he usually fires back with something suggestive about leaving it to Bradley, so it will be yours someday. 

“You are not cooking,” Natasha’s voice echoes down the hall. “Last time you cooked, everything was beyond burnt.” 

“Well, the last time you cooked, the steaks were still mooing,” Jake fires back. 

“Mav, could you please tell Hangman that steak is supposed to be pink in the middle?” Nat says. 

“Mav, tell Phoenix to eat her weird, witchy, voodoo blood sacrifices in the privacy of her own home,” Jake retorts, his voice rising with every word. 

You snort quietly as you round the corner into the kitchen, just as Maverick lets out a long, exasperated sigh. 

“Would the both of you just shut the hell up?” he mutters, glancing up from where he’s unwrapping various cuts of meat. A smile curls across his face as he spots his two newest arrivals. “Rooster is cooking tonight.” 

Bradley sighs like he’s just been asked to scrub the barracks with a toothbrush, but he doesn’t argue. He just moves into the kitchen with easy familiarity, greeting the others like he hadn’t been with them all day, then starts helping his godfather unpack the barbecue haul. 

“Here,” Natasha says, sliding a beer toward you. “You’re going to need this. Seresin is in fine form tonight.” 

Jake’s head snaps toward you, his grin firmly in place. “I’m always in fine form, Phoenix.” 

You tip your head, furrowing your brow in faux confusion. “Didn’t I score higher than you on the last PRT?” 

“Actually,” Natasha cuts in, lips twitching, “I’m pretty sure we both did.” 

Jake’s smirk flickers, just slightly. “Those tests are rigged. They’re designed better for assessing female fitness.” 

“The U.S. military is more than eighty percent male,” you say flatly. “Why on earth would the tests be rigged in favour of women?” 

Reuben claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Face it, man. You’re not actually that fit. You just look it.” 

Jake’s eyes go wide. 

“You’re hot girl fit,” Natasha adds, her grin sharpening. 

“Oh my God,” you giggle. “That’s so true. You look good, but you’re not actually that good.” 

Jake’s gaze swings back to you, eyes sparkling. “Did you just say that I look good, little chick?” 

Your smile drops as you narrow your eyes. “You won’t be looking good with a broken nose if you keep calling me that.” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick sighs, stepping between you and Jake with a tray full of meat. “No violence indoors. If you want to fight, take it to the park across the road—and don’t mention my name if the cops come. They don’t like me very much.” 

Laughter ripples through the group as everyone starts moving outside. Maverick and Bradley take the meat trays while Bob, Natasha, and Jake gather bowls, plates, knives, and forks. You grab the tongs, spatula, and grill fork before following them out the back door and onto the deck. 

Javy, Mickey, and Reuben have already claimed spots around the large table. There are a few wicker lounge chairs that match the outdoor setting, and a couple of extra seats that have been pulled from Maverick’s indoor dining set. And at the far end of the deck is where the barbecue is—right next to the two-seater lounge that, somehow, you and Bradley always end up sharing. 

“Chick,” Maverick calls as you cross the deck. “You helping?” 

“Do I have a choice?” you ask, squeezing between the back of Mickey’s chair and the deck railing. 

Maverick shakes his head. “No, not really.” 

You roll your eyes as you reach the barbecue and Maverick gives you a quick pat on the shoulder before walking off, leaving you with Bradley. 

You set the cooking utensils down and turn to him with your hands clasped behind your back, standing as if at attention. “Reporting for duty, chef.” 

Bradley gives you that soft little half-smirk, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Sure you’re ready for the barbecuing big leagues, baby bird?” 

You press your lips together, trying desperately to ignore the way your heart flutters at the nickname. It’s lame, and a little cheesy, but he’s been calling you that since flight school—since your very first real flight, when you admitted how nervous you were about getting in an actual jet. Instead of teasing you, he gave you some corny speech about flying the nest and somehow made you feel brave. From that day on, it just stuck. It even inspired your callsign—well, that and the fact that you apparently followed Rooster around like a lost chick... or so they said. 

You clear your throat, blinking away the dreamy haze in your eyes. “Trust me,” you say, fighting a smirk, “I know how to handle my meat.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes and turns back to the barbecue, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks flush pink. 

Once the grill is hot, you help him lay out the meat and stack the empty trays to the side. He spends a few seconds poking holes in the sausages and stabbing a few of the steaks—for God knows what reason—before shutting the lid and turning toward you with a smirk. 

“Would you rather let Hangman choose you a new callsign… or your next tattoo?” 

You cross your arms and lean a hip against the barbecue’s side shelf, tapping a finger against your bottom lip as you think. 

“Can I choose the size and placement of the tattoo?” you ask. 

Bradley shakes his head. “Nope.” 

“Alright, callsign then,” you decide. “It’s less permanent, and I don’t think he’s creative enough to come up with anything truly awful.” 

Bradley tips his head. “Fair.” 

He watches you for a moment while you take your time thinking of your own question, his eyes flicking—less than subtly—between your lips and your chest, the latter nicely highlighted by your crossed arms. 

Honestly, sometimes he’s the least subtle man alive. 

“Okay,” you say, uncrossing your arms to curb the distraction. “Would you rather tell Mav you dented his bike, or accidentally call him ‘Dad’ during a hop?” 

Bradley laughs and tips his head back. “Oh, definitely the ‘Dad’ thing. I could live with the embarrassment, but he wouldn’t let me live if I touched his precious bike.” 

You nod. “That’s true.” 

“Alright,” he says, returning his gaze to you. “Would you rather be stuck in a supply closet with Fanboy all night, or trapped out here on the deck?” 

You snort. “The deck, easily. I’m not surviving a night in a closet with anyone on this squad—and this deck has comfy lounges. It’s a no brainer.” 

He laughs again as he turns back to the grill, lifting the hood to check the sizzling meat. 

“Phoenix, want your steak flipped now?” he calls, without even glancing over his shoulder. 

“Yes, please,” she replies. 

You grab the tongs before he can and bump your hip against his, nudging him aside to lean forward and flip one of the steaks. Then you casually check the others, rotating the sausages just slightly, before stepping back and lowering the lid. 

You turn to face him, tongs pointed at his chest. “Would you rather only ever take cold showers, or have hot showers but you have to pick someone from the squad to join you?” 

His brows shoot up, a devilish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leans in, just a little. “Definitely the second option.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Who would you pick?” 

He leans in further. “That’s not part of the question.” 

You let out a flustered little breath as he winks and snatches the tongs right out of your hand. Then he leans back, watching you thoughtfully—clearly taking his time to come up with a question that will top yours. 

“Okay,” he says finally, brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “Would you rather have someone’s hands in your hair... or their teeth on your skin?” 

You choke on absolutely nothing. 

Your breath catches, warmth flooding your face and crawling down your throat. Your heart stutters, then pounds harder—so loud you’re almost positive he can hear it. 

“I—” You clear your throat, hard. “What kind of question is that?” 

He watches you too closely, eyes sparkling with amusement, and smirk firmly in place. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“Hypothetically, of course,” he says, way too innocently. 

You narrow your eyes. “Right. No ulterior motives?” 

His tongue slides across his bottom lip as he nods. 

“Alright.” You take a slow breath, gathering your composure. “Both are good... but if I had to choose?” You meet his eyes. “Teeth.” 

His gaze sharpens, hunger sparking behind his eyes. He licks his lips again, and it strikes like lightning behind your ribs, racing heat through you in a single, breathless flash. The space between you hums with tension, dense and electric, thick enough to taste like copper on your tongue. 

Then, without a word, he turns back and lifts the barbecue lid, using the tongs to rotate the sausages like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just set you on fire—and then dump a bucket of ice water on your head. 

The impromptu game of Would You Rather fizzles out fast—both of you too flustered to meet each other’s eyes after Bradley’s last question. Instead, you keep busy, setting out crockery and side dishes, and grabbing everyone another round of drinks before the meat is done. 

Once dinner is served, conversation quiets, replaced by the sound of cutlery and near-feral eating. Everyone is shovelling food into their mouths like they haven’t eaten in days—the fallout from Maverick’s full day of physical torture. 

You end up beside Bradley in the two-seater—because of course you do—and the air between you still feels heavy. Charged, almost. 

You’re used to tension with him—it’s been there for years—but lately, it feels different. More pressing. More electric. Like one spark could light a fire big enough to burn you both to ash. 

“So,” Maverick says, setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate, “I take it everyone’s attending the gala next weekend?” 

There’s a general hum of agreement and nods all around the table. 

“Do we have to wear dinner dress?” Mickey asks, talking around a mouthful of steak. 

Maverick shakes his head. “Command made it mess dress or formalwear—your choice.” He pauses, eyes sweeping pointedly across the group. “But if you don’t have a perfectly tailored tux, I’d recommend your uniform. It’s still black tie. And it’s our first event as an official elite squadron.” 

Natasha raises her fork like she’s in class. “If gowns count as formalwear for women, can the guys wear dresses too? Or are we sticking to gender-normative black tie?” 

Maverick drops his head into his hands and sighs, elbows braced on the table. “It’s the U.S. Navy, Phoenix. What do you think?” 

“Fair point,” she mutters, smirking as she stabs another piece of sausage. 

“Damn,” Reuben says. “I had the hottest little red number I’ve been dying to wear.” 

Mickey snorts—then chokes, coughing hard as laughter erupts around the table. His face turns beet red as he waves off concern and sputters into his drink. 

Bradley nudges your elbow. “You going?” 

You nod. 

He smirks. “Got a date?” 

You nearly drop your fork. “A date?” 

“Yeah,” he says with a soft chuckle, tipping his head the way he does when he’s about to tease you. “Do you know what that is? Or has it been so long you’ve forgotten?” 

You roll your eyes. “I know what a date is, Bradshaw. I just don’t know why I’d need one.” 

“Just thought maybe you’d want one,” he says, voice softer now, cheeks pink and eyes fixed on his plate. 

Your brows lift, pulse skipping as heat flickers low in your chest. Electricity crawls beneath your skin, lighting every nerve it touches. 

You should be used to this by now—used to him. But somehow, your body still responds to every little thing. Every glance. Every tease. Even when you know better. 

“You know,” you say, voice low, “if you want to ask a girl out, you usually have to say the words.” 

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching, breath caught. It feels like the whole table has gone still—every pair of ears not-so-subtly tuned in to your conversation. 

Bradley clears his throat. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.” 

Another bucket of ice water. You feel it crash over you like a wave, and you swear the whole squad exhales at once—like they’ve been holding their breath for you. 

Heat curls low in your belly, stoking that familiar, maddening frustration that only Bradley seems capable of lighting. It swells beneath your ribs, fierce and unwelcome, pushing out any room you had left for food or rational thought. 

You can feel it creeping into your cheeks too—heat and humiliation, tangled together. How he keeps building you up only to knock the breath from your lungs again... you don’t know why you keep letting him. 

You let your knife and fork clatter onto your plate as you stand abruptly, the scrape of your chair loud against the deck. The force of it jostles Bradley, but you don’t care. He glances up, brows drawn, gaze wide and confused—as if he has any right to be confused. 

You don’t meet his eyes. You can’t. Instead, you grab your plate and empty beer bottle with stiff fingers, turn on your heel, and stalk around the table with your jaw set tight. You don’t stop, don’t speak. Your gaze stays locked on the back door until you reach it, yank it open, and step inside—closing it behind you with more force than necessary. 

You take a deep breath and try to calm your erratic pulse before starting to clean up the kitchen and wash the dishes. Outside, Natasha and Bob begin clearing the table, bringing in armfuls of plates, bowls, and cutlery, stacking them beside the soapy sink you’re elbows-deep in. Bob offers to help, but you just shake your head and keep scrubbing. 

Once everything is washed, Maverick comes inside and grabs a spare dish towel. He doesn’t ask if he can help—nor should he, it’s his house—he just starts quietly drying and putting things away. 

After a few minutes of companionable silence—the only sounds the clink and scrape of dishes—Mav sighs and catches your eye. “So-” 

“Nope,” you cut in, shooting him a pointed look before turning to stash another plate. 

He frowns. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.” 

You pick up the—clean—grill fork and point it at him like a weapon. “You were absolutely about to make some wildly inappropriate comment about me and your emotionally constipated godson—who, by the way, you helped raise. So if you really want to crack open that Pandora’s box, we’re going to need a couch, a camera crew, and Dr. Phil front and centre. Because this is not a kitchen conversation, my dude. This is a full-blown televised intervention.” 

His lips twitch into an upside-down smirk, like he’s trying—and failing—not to let his amusement show. 

After a beat, he lifts a brow. “My dude?” 

“Sorry,” you mutter, focusing on drying the grill fork a little too thoroughly. “Got carried away.” 

He chuckles and picks up another sudsy bowl. “Look, you’re not wrong about him being a little… emotionally stunted.” 

You arch a brow but keep quiet. 

“But can you blame him?” he asks, slipping the bowl into the cupboard. 

“Would you prefer I blame you?” 

“What if we just leave blame out of it, yeah?” 

“Sure,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes. “Now, since you’re clearly not going to drop it, let’s hear some of that Maverick wisdom. What’ve you got? Inspirational quotes? Dating advice? Drugs?” 

He laughs—really laughs—this time. “Wow. You’re snarky when you’re frustrated.” 

You open your mouth to respond, but Jake’s voice cuts in. “And I hear she bites when she’s mad.” He steps through the back door, letting it click shut behind him as he holds up a fistful of empty beer bottles. “What’d I miss?” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to the waiting dishes. “Mav was just about to hand out some of his expert dating advice.” 

Jake gasps. “For free?” 

Maverick sighs. “I don’t know why I even try to be nice to you kids.” 

“Because you love us,” you say, flashing him your cheesiest grin. 

“Come on, then,” Jake urges. “I wanna hear this advice.” 

Mav clears his throat, leaning one hand against the bench and the other on his hip, still holding the towel. “All I was going to say is, there’s nothing wrong with a little forwardness. I, for one, think it’s great when women take the lead-” 

“Make me two,” Jake cuts in. 

“See?” Maverick says, gesturing vaguely at Jake. “Maybe you should just ask him out. Stop waiting for him to make the first move.” 

Jake’s brow furrows, his green eyes snapping toward you. “Who? Bradshaw?” 

You roll your eyes. Duh. 

“Oh, no,” he says quickly, laughing. “No, no, no. You can’t just ask Rooster out. Not after however many millennia you two have been pining over each other.” 

“Thanks, Hangman,” you mutter dryly. 

“I hate to break it to you, but asking Rooster out isn’t going to magically fix his ridiculous fear of commitment—” Jake pauses, glancing at Mav. “Shoutout to you for that one, Captain. Excellent work.” 

Maverick throws up his hands. “How is this all my fault?” 

Jake ignores him, turning back to you with sudden seriousness. “If you really want Bradshaw to do something about whatever it is you two have going on, you’re gonna have to convince him you’re not interested anymore.” 

You frown. “What? How would that help?” 

“Because,” Jake groans, like you’re the slowest student in his class, “he’s comfortable. He knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger. He’s not worried about losing you, so he’s taking his sweet, motherfucking time. But if he thinks he’s lost you—that he’s blown his shot—he might actually do something reckless like... I don’t know, kiss you.” 

Maverick’s curious gaze shifts your way. “Wait, you two have never even kissed?” 

You feel your face go hot. “Shut up.” 

“Then,” Jake continues, undeterred, “you make him prove he wants you. Really wants you.” 

Silence falls over the kitchen, thick with anticipation. Jake just watches you, that familiar glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, while Maverick glances between you both like he’s just tuned in to his favourite soap opera. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted. Jake... has a point. But emotional warfare? Even for a cause like this? You’re not sure you can stomach that—especially when it’s someone you love. 

“No.” You shake your head like you can rattle the thought right out of your ears. “No way. It’s mean and manipulative. I’m not going to pretend I’m dating other people and just… ignore him—make him feel like crap—just to get him to admit he likes me.” 

Jake sighs and turns to the fridge. “Shame. ‘Cause it would’ve worked.” 

“I don’t care,” you say, picking up the last plate to dry. “I’m not messing with someone’s feelings like that.” 

He crouches down and starts tearing the cardboard from a fresh pack of beers. “Even though he messes with yours all the time?” 

You frown, stepping toward him. “He does not-” 

“Whoa,” Bradley says, walking in through the back door. “You three having your own party in here?” 

Jake stands, three beers in each hand. “Don’t be jealous, Rooster. I was just giving our little chick some dating advice.” 

Bradley’s eyebrows lift, his gaze sliding toward you. “Really?” 

You shoot him a flat look, then turn to Jake, eyes narrowed. “Advice I don’t want—or need.” 

He leans in with that signature smirk. “Not from where I’m standing, Chick.” Then he winks, nods at both Maverick and Bradley, and saunters out. 

Silence falls like a brick. No one moves. No one speaks. You’re painfully aware of Maverick across the kitchen and Bradley just a few feet away. It feels like you’ve been caught doing something wrong—except none of you were doing anything at all. 

Bradley glances at the empty beer bottles on the bench, then picks one up and squints at the label. “You know,” he says, turning it over in his hand, “I think they changed the recipe on these. Tastes different lately.” 

Neither you nor Maverick respond. 

Bradley shrugs and tosses the bottle into the recycling bin with a loud clatter. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. I just... can’t commit to a brand.” 

Maverick turns to him slowly and places a single, solemn pat on his shoulder—then walks out the back door, leaving the dishes behind. 

You bite your lip and shut your eyes, turning to the sink before Bradley can see the laugh bubbling up in your throat. 

Maybe Jake’s right. Maybe you do need to do something a little more drastic to help this man over his fear of commitment. 

The rest of the night unfolds like any other. You hang around drinking and talking for a few more hours. Maverick gets roasted for trying to say something ‘hip’, and Javy quietly sweeps every card game while Natasha accuses him—loudly—of being an undercover hustler. 

Eventually, Bob yawns and announces that he’s heading out—which signals the end for most of the squad since he drove them over—and Maverick agrees, muttering something about being too old for this. 

You all file out like it’s Thanksgiving at your parents’ house, offering your thanks to Maverick on your way out the door. Natasha is the first to slide into her car and peel off down the street, while Bob waits for Jake, Javy, Mickey, and Reuben to cram themselves into his car. 

You and Bradley are the last ones left on the street. Mav has already shut the door and flipped off the porch light, leaving you parked in the Bronco—roof off, as always—sitting in the dark beneath the stars. 

“So,” Bradley says, eyes somehow still sparkling even in the dark, “where to?” 

You tip your head back against the headrest and gaze up at the sky. “Take me to the stars,” you say, voice dramatically wistful. 

He chuckles as he turns the key, the engine rumbling to life. “You sure you’re ready for that kind of altitude?” 

You roll your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “Maybe if you stopped circling and actually climbed, we’d find out.” 

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, lips quirking into a soft smile, but he doesn’t answer. He just presses down on the gas, pulling away from Maverick’s and heading in the direction of your place. 

The silence that settles between you is thick—almost uncomfortably so—charged like a storm building somewhere just out of sight. You want to break it with something sharp or sarcastic, like you usually would, but Jake’s words keep echoing in your head. Reminding you just how painfully right he’d been. 

“Okay,” Bradley says suddenly, clearing his throat. “Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized Mavericks, or one Maverick-sized duck?” 

The question short-circuits your brain with how wildly it veers from your thoughts. 

“Um…” you blink out at the road ahead. “Probably the Maverick-sized duck. It wouldn’t be much bigger than an average duck anyway.” 

He snorts a laugh, tossing his head back just slightly. In the glow of the streetlights and the low-hanging moon, the sight of him steals the breath right from your lungs. You know he knows he’s good-looking—but you’re not sure he realises just how pretty he really is. 

With every flash of light overhead, the tips of his curls burn like molten bronze, while moonlight kisses his lips with silver and shadow—softening the edge of his smirk. Even in the dark, he radiates warmth, like his sun-kissed skin refuses to surrender the light. 

“Something on my face?” he asks, glancing at you for a beat before returning to the road. 

You shake your head. “No, you’re just…” 

He raises his brows, looking at you again with those curious, wide eyes. “I’m what?” 

“Pretty,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper as you quickly turn to stare out the windscreen. 

You immediately regret letting the word slip from your lips, but it’s too late. The car is blanketed in heavy silence—thick with something unspoken, or rather, something you shouldn’t have spoken—and crackling with nervous energy. Your nervous energy. 

Bradley’s smirk is gone. His brows are drawn and his eyes wide as he watches the road, jaw tight like he’s trying to work through an impossible equation in his head. His movements are stiff, deliberate—as if driving isn’t muscle memory anymore, but something he has to consciously remember how to do. 

It feels like hours before he pulls up to the curb outside your apartment block. You open the door with what has to be superhuman speed and slip out, mumbling a goodbye with your eyes locked on the lobby. But before you can even make it across the sidewalk, he’s in front of you. 

How the fuck did he move that fast? 

“What the fuck?” you blurt, a little harsher than you mean to, eyes flicking up to the man now blocking your path—standing way, way too close. 

“Sorry, I just—” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “Just wanted to say sorry. For before. At dinner.” 

You step back, needing space—because holy shit, the smell of his cologne, of his warm skin and coconut-scented hair wax, is making your whole nervous system short-circuit. 

You bump up against the Bronco. “It’s fine. Don’t be silly.” 

He takes a step forward, closing the gap again until there’s barely a breath between you. 

“No, it’s not. Everyone was listening and—and I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

His eyes meet yours, wide and full of every emotion you’ve been begging him to say out loud. 

“You know what it means.” 

You want to scream. You want to grab his face and shake him until he gets it. Until he understands how goddamn stupid he’s being. Because you know he cares. You know he loves you. But you can’t keep waiting around for him to get over whatever ridiculous fear he refuses to name. 

“Bradley,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “Why are you—” 

Your breath catches. Your voice sticking in your throat as he leans in, one hand braced against the car behind you. His warmth, his scent—it all slams into you at once, wrapping around you like a weighted blanket full of static. 

“Bradley...” you whisper, your voice unsteady. 

Your eyes are locked on his mouth, watching his tongue slip slowly across his bottom lip as he searches your face—looking for something. Maybe he’s searching for a reason to move forward, or maybe he’s trying to find one to stop. You can’t tell. 

You just hope, more than anything, that he doesn’t pull away. 

His gaze drops to your mouth. 

“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, voice low, wrecked. 

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your heart is in your throat, beating so hard it almost hurts as he leans in just a fraction more. His nose brushes yours. His breath hits your lips. 

Is this it? 

But then—he stops. 

His forehead dips to yours, his eyes falling shut, and he exhales a shaky breath. 

“I can’t,” he whispers. “Not with you.” 

The words are barely there, like it hurts him to say them. 

And just like that, the moment shatters. 

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, the sting of heat rising to your cheeks—not from the near-kiss, but from the humiliation curling hot and sour in your gut. 

Before he can say anything else, you push off the car and shoulder past him, the night air slicing cold across your skin as you storm toward the lobby, jaw tight and chest burning. 

Your vision blurs with tears that wait until the second you step into the elevator to finally fall, streaking down your cheeks in warm, heavy drops. 

You don’t even care if the damn lift breaks down—at least then, you wouldn’t be the only one falling apart. 

- 

You take a deep breath, clutching a coffee cup in each hand like they’re your lifelines. Then, lifting one foot, you tap the toe of your sneaker against the door you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes—wondering whether you really want it to open. 

“Good morning, little chick,” Jake says, grinning from ear to ear as it swings open. 

You release the breath you’d been holding and hand over one of the cups. “Peace offering.” 

He lifts a brow. “Is this you grovelling?” 

“I don’t grovel.” 

He takes the cup and steps aside, motioning you in. “What about beg?” 

You roll your eyes as you walk past him, pleasantly surprised by the fresh, citrusy scent that greets you the second you step into the kitchen—the first room off the entry. 

“Wow, I’m impressed,” you mutter, raising your cup to your lips. 

Jake drops onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “What were you expecting?” 

“Shag carpet. Disco ball. Strobe lights. A shrine to yourself. And at least a dozen mirrors.” 

He snorts. “You’re just as bad as he is, you know that?” 

You pull out a stool and settle in, resting your elbows on the counter. “Who?” 

“The man you’re here to beg me to help you with.” 

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t beg.” You take another sip before setting the cup down with a sigh. “But... yes. I want help.” 

His smirk lifts higher. “What made you change your mind?” 

“Nothing,” you shoot back a little too fast. 

He just arches a brow and waits. 

“Fine,” you mutter. “When he dropped me home last night, he apologised for the whole ‘date to the gala’ thing over dinner. I told him it was fine. He got closer, leaned in. I thought he was going to kiss me, and then... nothing. He said he couldn’t do it. Not with me.” 

Jake frowns—not shocked or empathetic, just curious. “Not with you,” he echoes. “Specifically you.” 

You give him a flat stare. “Yes. Me. Thank you for really hammering that in.” 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to rub it in. I mean... there’s something else, then. Something beyond his DEFCON-level commitment issues.” 

“So, it is just me?” you ask. “I’m too hideous or something?” 

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that. It’s probably the friendship.” 

“Oh, so I’m buried in the friendzone. Awesome.” 

Jake narrows his eyes at you. “Would you stop being such a cynic? I told you I’d help—so let me help.” 

You press your lips together and sit up straight, drawing an imaginary halo above your head. 

“Thank you,” he nods. “Now, I’m guessing the real problem is that he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship. I mean, sure, back in the academy and flight school, it was probably just bad timing. Then after deployment—separate deployments—you could both write it off as unrealistic. But now? Now it’s deeper. He’s not just scared of commitment. He’s scared of losing the one thing he really gives a damn about.” 

You tip your head, brow furrowed. 

Jake sighs. “You.” 

“Oh.” 

He takes a long sip of his coffee, eyes drifting across the kitchen like the cupboards might give him an answer. 

“We just have to figure out how to get him to believe you’re actually into me,” he says. 

Your eyes go wide. “Sorry, what? Into you?” 

His gaze snaps back to yours, amusement flickering. “Yes. Me. That’s the plan.” 

“You’re the plan?” you repeat, because your brain is still buffering. 

He nods. “Yes, I am the plan. You and me—together. That’s the play.” 

“Oh, he’ll never believe that,” you say. “Not in a million years.” 

Jake tips his cup, drains it, and drops it on the counter with a hollow thunk. “Would he believe you if you told him you were here right now? Hanging out with me on a Saturday morning?” 

You shake your head. “No.” 

“But you are,” he points out, brows raised. “So all we have to do is show him. We can’t just say it—we have to do it.” 

You pull back slightly, grimacing. 

“I don’t literally mean do it,” he sighs. “God, you act like I’m some uncontrollable savage.” 

You hide a smirk behind your cup, deciding not to poke the one person who might be your only hope. 

“Alright,” you say, setting your coffee down and straightening up again. “So, how do we show him?” 

- 

Jake isn’t just evil—he’s downright diabolical. 

You have no idea how he’s come up with so many ways to get under Bradley’s skin—though you suspect that pissing people off might just be one of his favourite pastimes. And damn, his ideas are good. You’re pretty sure Bradley will be ready to murder someone by the end of the week—if he even makes it that far. 

Right after your Saturday morning chat, Jake got to work. He started by taking a series of photos where you were just visible but not the focus. One in the kitchen, with you turned away so it’s hard to tell that it’s you. Another on the couch, your hand just barely in frame, resting on his leg. And one in the mirror—he claimed it was to show off a new beanie, but if you squint, you can spot your figure lounging on his bed in the background. 

Then it was your turn. With Jake’s help, you snapped a few subtle photos of your own—each one just blurry or cropped enough that someone would have to look twice to notice him. 

That night, he fired the first shot. He dropped the kitchen photo into the group chat with a totally fabricated caption about ‘white people taco night’—because he knew it would immediately set Mickey off. The plan worked. Within minutes, the chat was buzzing. Javy asked who the girl in the background was, but Mickey’s dramatic rant about authentic tacos made it easy to dodge the question. 

Still, the seed had been planted. 

On Sunday afternoon, Jake showed up at your place with a bag of his old clothes and a small bottle of cologne—the one he always wears. You hung out for a bit, fine-tuning your devious schedule for the week, before it was your turn to post in the chat. 

Yours had to be subtler. Jake having a girl over? Not unusual. But you? If it wasn’t Bradley in the photo, people would notice instantly. 

So you went simple. A picture of a mug of tea. Barely anything else in frame—just a sliver of the floor, a pair of regulation boots, and a bag that looked suspiciously like it was packed for an overnight stay. Keys resting neatly on top. 

You captioned it: ‘Look, Payback! Tea! And it doesn’t taste like jet fuel!’—a direct hit on the squad’s long-running inside joke about the time Natasha asked Reuben to make her tea, and it somehow tasted worse than kerosene. 

The chat exploded. Half of the messages were Reuben defending himself, and the other half—sparked by Natasha’s quickfire question about the boots—were trying to figure out who you had sleeping over. 

You played it cool—a few coy emojis, a couple of vague replies—and eventually, they moved on. But you knew better. The game had officially begun. 

And judging by how quiet Bradley had gone in the chat—especially after someone pointed out those boots were definitely too big to be yours—you were confident. 

He’d taken the bait. 

“You ready?” Jake asks, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning. 

You nod. Your mini-meltdown already happened this morning—second-guessing everything, wondering if this is too much, if it’ll backfire, if it makes you the bad guy. But then you remembered. You remembered the way Bradley has strung you along for years, the way his scent lingered on your skin that night, how close he got—closer than ever—just to leave you hanging. Again. And that’s when it clicked. This isn’t petty at all. This is justice. 

Because Bradley Bradshaw has had you twisted in knots for far too long. 

Now? You get to pull the strings. 

You walk beside Jake across the pool deck—barefoot, no pants, towel slung over your shoulder, and his shirt hanging loose over your swimsuit. 

Maverick booked a couple of pool lanes for swim training this morning. It’s not your favourite—unless the summer heat is brutal—and you don’t do it as often as you probably should, but at least he’s not making you wear your flight suits this time. 

Up ahead, the squad is already gathered at the edge of the pool, standing around in their swimmers while Maverick chats with Warlock down the other end. You and Jake are the last to arrive—exactly as planned. 

You force a smile as you get closer, eyes fixed on him no matter how badly they want to flick toward Bradley. 

“I’m just saying,” Jake grins, “if you’re going to steal my shirt, the least you can do is admit it looks better on me.” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not everything is about you, Seresin. And for the record, I saw you in it yesterday—and I can confidently say it looks way better on me.” 

He chuckles, voice low but not too low. “Okay, fair. It does look pretty damn good.” 

When you finally glance away from him, your gaze lands on the squad—all of them wide-eyed, mouths hanging open. Every single one of them is staring, expressions caught somewhere between confusion and horror. 

Except Bradley. 

He looks... flustered. A little angry. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes—wide and flickering—are running up and down your body like they can’t decide whether they love or hate what they’re seeing. 

Natasha steps forward, brow furrowed and brown eyes wide. “What the hell is-” 

“Alright, aviators,” Maverick says, clapping his hands as he approaches the group. “Time to get out of the sky and into the water.” 

You let out a small breath of relief, grateful for his perfectly timed interruption that draws the squad’s attention away from you and cuts through the growing tension. 

“I’m not going easy on you today,” he continues, a wide smirk spreading across his face as he leads everyone toward the deep end of the pool. “We’ll warm up with a two-hundred metre freestyle, then hit kickboard drills and buoy pulls. After that, combat intervals, hypoxic training, rescue sims, gear swims, and finally—your favourite—the water tread challenge. Make it to the end without a complaint and you get to leave early. If you pass out? Two hundred push-ups to prove you're not too out of shape for my squad. Got it?” 

The collective energy dips—weighted down with dread for what’s to come—but everyone mumbles their understanding and heads toward the diving blocks. 

Swim training is always brutal, but today’s line-up of torture only reinforces what you’ve long suspected—Maverick really does enjoy watching you all suffer. 

Aside from sticking to your drills and doing what you’re supposed to do, there’s hardly a moment to interact with the rest of the squad. Your head is underwater for half the day, and when it’s not, it’s pounding. You catch the occasional glimpse of Jake’s cocky smirk or a cheeky wink, and a few curious—or maybe frustrated—looks from Bradley, but for the most part, no one has time to talk. Between drills, you're too busy catching your breath and stretching out your aching limbs to worry about anything else. 

By the time Maverick finally calls for cooldown, you’re seconds away from collapsing. You’ve nearly forgotten all about your little scheme with Jake—until he swims up beside you, just as you’re about to climb out of the pool. 

“Need a hand stretching?” he asks, eyes sparkling like he didn’t just endure six hours of hell. 

You raise a brow. “Is this you being a pest, or part of the-” 

“You think so little of me,” he sighs, stepping onto the bottom rung of the ladder right behind you. 

It’s way too intimate, especially considering you're still surrounded by your whole squad and half the base. But Jake doesn’t seem remotely bothered by pressing his wet, half-naked body up against yours. 

“Move it, little chick,” he says sarcastically. “You’re holdin’ up the line.” 

You roll your eyes and continue up the ladder, quickly padding across the pool’s tiled edge toward your towel and water bottle. 

He dries off beside you while you wrap yourself in your towel and squeeze the excess water from your hair, giving him a sceptical—almost dubious—look the whole time. 

“Talk to me,” he says, voice low. “You’ve got to at least pretend not to hate me if we want this to work.” 

“I don’t hate you,” you mutter into the mouth of your drink bottle before taking a swig. 

Jake gasps—full of faux shock, and eyes wide with dramatic flair. “Don’t let Rooster hear you say that. He’ll blow his carotid.” 

You roll your eyes and tuck the towel under your arm to keep it wrapped around your body. “I swear, the way you two talk about each other, anyone would think you’re jilted ex-lovers.” 

Jake chuckles softly. “And if I told you we were?” 

You lift a brow. “I’d ask for proof.” 

His grin turns wicked. “Would you join in?” 

You tip your head, fighting a smile. “Probably.” 

“I knew it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “You are into me. Even if you won’t admit it.” 

“Only your body,” you say, stepping closer and placing your palm flat against his bare chest. “I’d just have to make sure your mouth was too busy to piss me off.” 

His jaw nearly drops—if not for the devious smirk tugging at his lips. You wink, pat his chest once, then turn and walk toward the locker rooms… right past Bradley, who you know was listening to that entire conversation. 

You take a little longer than usual in the showers, letting the hot water soak into your skin and ease the aches in your exhausted muscles. You rinse your hair until it no longer feels rough and tangled from a day spent in over-chlorinated water, and you slide soap over your skin until it feels less itchy and tight. 

Then you turn off the water and spend a good few minutes drying yourself before slipping into some blissfully dry clothes. You pack up your things, sling your bag over your shoulder, and pull out your phone to check what all the buzzing had been about while you were busy getting dressed. 

Your heart jumps into overdrive when you open the group chat to see the mirror selfie of Jake in his beanie—the one with you just barely visible in the background. The conversation started with Mickey asking if anyone wanted to go to a new Mexican restaurant tomorrow night—you know, to taste authentic Mexican food. Most of the squad had quickly agreed, and then Jake sent the photo asking if the weather was too hot for him to wear his new beanie. 

Then the questions started. It isn’t obviously you in the photo, so most of the squad began asking who the girl is—clearly more interested in that than the beanie. Natasha asked if it was the same one from the kitchen photo, and Reuben said he thought so, since the hair looked the same. Then Javy piped up, offended he doesn’t know who his best friend is ‘dating’. All the while, Jake fielded the questions with sarcastic remarks and cocky quips. 

You roll your eyes and type a quick message: ‘Hangman… with the same girl twice? Nah. Couldn’t be.’ Then you hit send just as you step out of the locker room, turning the corner toward the pool deck and— 

The next thing you know, you’re on your ass. Your head is spinning, your ankle is throbbing, and there’s a slick smear of blood trailing down the side of your foot. 

“Shit,” you mutter. 

You must’ve slipped on the wet floor—judging by how your previously dry shorts are now soaking through—and sliced your foot on something during the fall. A cracked or uplifted tile, maybe. 

You bend your knee and lift your sore ankle off the ground, gently prodding at it with two fingers—only to wince at the sharp sting. The cut doesn’t look too deep, thankfully, but there’s already an unsightly pool of blood dripping off your heel and onto the ground. 

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Natasha rushes over, cutting short her conversation with an officer you don’t recognise. “I’m not going to laugh, because I can tell you’re hurt. But damn, that was a good fall.” 

You roll your eyes. “You can laugh, it’s fine.” 

Her lips twitch into a small smirk. “Can you stand?” 

“Not sure.” You try to flex your ankle, but it hurts too much—and it’s already swelling. “I don’t want to, just in case.” 

“Good idea. I’ll go get Rooster and we’ll take you to sickbay,” she says, turning on her heel. 

“No,” you say quickly, “not Rooster.” 

She frowns. 

“Get Hangman.” 

Her eyes go wide, full of questions as she looks at you in horror. “You want Hangman?” 

You nod. “Yes. Please. Just get Jake.” 

She stares at you for a moment, like you might be some evil clone of yourself. Then you lift your brows, and she shakes her head, muttering “Jake…” disgustedly as she turns and walks across the pool deck. 

A few minutes later, you see her walking back toward you with Jake on her heels. He actually looks concerned, and you’re not sure if it’s just excellent acting or the fact that maybe he’s not completely evil. 

“Trying to walk and chew gum at the same time, little chick?” he asks, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. 

You look up at him, trying not to wince at the throb in your ankle. “Slipped on these ridiculously unsafe tiles, actually. Might have to go legal on the U.S. Navy’s ass.” 

He chuckles softly and crouches beside you. “Don’t say that too loudly—you might get yourself into trouble.” Then he leans in to inspect your ankle. “Looks pretty gnarly. Might put you out of action for a few weeks.” 

“Yeah,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “That was my first thought too.” 

He watches you for a moment—genuine worry flickering in his eyes—before sliding an arm around your waist and lifting you like you weigh nothing. “Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s get you to sickbay, see how long the sentence’ll be.” 

With Jake’s help, you’re up on one foot fairly easily. The rush of blood to your ankle makes you wince, but otherwise, you feel relatively steady in his arms. 

When you glance up, Natasha is watching with a deep-set scowl. Her brown eyes are so sharp, it feels like they’re cutting right through you. But if she’s looking for something ingenuine, she won’t find it—not this time. Because Jake actually seems worried about you right now, and his help is… surprisingly comforting. 

Even if, deep down, you’d still rather be in Bradley’s arms. 

“Can you tell Mav?” you ask Natasha. “Please.” 

She nods once before stepping aside to let you and Jake pass. But she doesn’t look happy about it, and you know you’re going to hear about this later. 

You lean into Jake as he guides you through the building—past the locker rooms, the trophy hall, and the little hire shop that always smells like feet. You’re just about to make it through the exit gate when—of all people—Bradley steps out of the guard’s office, a brand new swipe card in hand. 

“Holy shit,” he says, rushing toward you. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

He reaches out, like he expects you to drop Jake and fall into his arms. And God, you want to. But you don’t. Instead, you flinch a little and lean closer into Jake. 

“I’m alright,” you say, voice cool and indifferent. “I slipped. That’s all.” 

Bradley’s eyes widen, flicking between your face and Jake’s before settling on the way Jake’s arm is slung protectively around your waist. 

“Well… you have to go to sickbay,” Bradley says. “Do you want me to take you?” 

You shake your head. “I’m fine, Rooster. Jake’s got this.” 

Double whammy—using his callsign, which you rarely do unless you're teasing, and using Jake instead of Hangman. Yeah. That’ll sting. 

“Jake?” he echoes. 

“That’s what she said,” Jake cuts in, southern drawl thick and smug. “Told you not to sit too long on that perch, Rooster.” 

Bradley’s spine goes rigid, his expression shifting into the one you know he wears when he needs to shut people out. It’s stormy and unreadable—brows furrowed, jaw tight, lips pressed into a hard line. 

His eyes lock onto yours. “Hope you’re not grounded for too long.” 

Then he turns and walks away, shoulders stiff, fists clenched at his sides. 

He doesn’t even glance back. 

Not like you do—like you always do—eyes flicking over your shoulder while Jake walks you out. 

- 

One prime-time grade-two ankle sprain, six stitches, and four weeks on the ground. Great. And to top it off, you can’t get your foot wet for the next seventy-two hours. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay over?” Natasha asks, her voice crackling through the phone. 

“Nat, it’s fine,” you say. “It’s not like I’m totally crippled. I’ll be on crutches for a couple days, then I’ll be walking again.” 

“In a boot,” she adds, as sharp as an unimpressed parent. “You’re still injured. Don’t downplay it. How do you even plan on showering without getting it wet? You could slip and hurt yourself… again.” 

You roll your eyes and sit up on the couch, gaze glued to the muted TV. “I’m not going to shower on one leg. I’ll have a bath.” 

“And what if you accidentally drown?” 

You snort. “Seriously, Nat? I’m not a complete idiot. I can take a bath without drowning.” 

“I’m just worried about you,” she says. “You’ve been displaying some very self-destructive behaviours lately.” 

You lean back into the cushions, tipping your head against them to stare up at the ceiling. “That so? Like what?” 

She scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know. Like hanging out with Hangman alone.” 

Your eyes widen, panic licking up your spine. 

“That’s right,” she says. “I know it’s you in those photos he sent to the group chat. I’m not stupid. What I don’t know is why.” 

You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. “Because we’re friends. Why does it matter if I hang out with him one-on-one? You and I hang out all the time.” 

You can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “That’s different. You and me, you and Bradley—hell, I wouldn’t even blink if it were you and Reuben. But Hangman? And in his apartment, no less? I know there’s more to it than you’re telling me.” 

“So what if there is?” 

The line goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if it’s cut out. But then she sighs, heavy and frustrated. 

“It just doesn’t make sense,” she says. “You and Rooster-” 

“There is no me and Rooster,” you snap, sitting up straight. “This has nothing to do with him.” 

There's another beat of silence before she mutters, “Okay, fine. I’ll drop it.” 

“Good.” 

“Do you still want me to drop off the waterproof bandages?” 

“Yes, please. And—” you glance at the empty packet of sour worms on the coffee table, “can you bring me some snacks?” 

She lets out a soft laugh, the warmth in it helping to cut through the awkwardness. “Sure. What time should I come by?” 

“Whenever,” you say. “I’m going to take a bath and wash off the hospital smell, but you just tell me what works for you.” 

There’s a pause, but you can practically hear her thinking while you shuffle toward your crutches. 

“Have a bath first. I’ll swing by a bit later,” she decides. 

“Okay.” You grab a crutch and hoist yourself upright. “But give me at least an hour and a half. I don’t know how this bath is going to go.” 

“You sure you don’t want help? I’ve seen you naked plenty in the locker room.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Nat. Promise. Just give me until eight—then you can come yell at me for being clumsy, as long as you bring snacks.” 

“Alright, Chick,” she says with a soft laugh. “Don’t drown.” 

“I’ll do my best,” you reply with a small smirk. 

She sighs again, full of exasperated affection, and then you both mutter a quick ‘love you’ before hanging up. 

You use your crutches to get to your bedroom and then into the ensuite. You start the bath before hopping around the small space to gather what you’ll need, setting everything on the vanity beside the tub—within reach. Then you head back to the bedroom and strip out of your clothes that reek of chlorine and antiseptic. 

Once the tub is full of steaming water and fluffy bubbles, you brace yourself on the vanity and the edge of the tub, using them to take your weight as you—not so gracefully—swing your good leg into the bath. Then you lower yourself slowly and awkwardly until you’re sitting, propping your injured foot up on the ledge—safe and dry—before sinking deeper into the bubbles. And God, it feels good. 

You sigh, letting the scalding water envelop you as your thoughts wander back to when you last saw Bradley. The look on his face when you’d all but told him to fuck off makes your heart squeeze and your breath catch. In all the years of your friendship, you’ve never been so flippant with him. You’ve never shut him out when you were hurt, never denied him the chance to be there for you. Because honestly? That man is your biggest comfort. He’s your favourite person—and your favourite feeling. And the guilt of making him feel like anything less wrecks you. 

The ding of your phone startles you out of your thoughts. You dry your hands quickly on a towel and reach for where you left it on the vanity. It’s just the group chat—Natasha and Jake updating the rest of the squad on what happened and how long you’ll be grounded. 

You smile at the sweet and goofy messages pouring in, then type a quick reply to reassure them that you’re fine. As you go to set your phone back on the vanity, you accidentally knock over your shampoo bottle... and it sets off a domino effect. 

The shampoo hits the conditioner, which hits your body wash, then your face wash, your face scrub—until every last product is clattering and rolling across the bathroom floor. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, gripping the edge of the tub as you watch them inch farther and farther out of reach. 

You start looking around for something—an idea, maybe—to help retrieve your scattered products, but then— 

“Hello?” 

Your heart leaps into your throat, heat rushing to your cheeks—and not just from the scalding bathwater. 

“Bradley?” you call, your voice cracking halfway through. 

You hear the front door shut, followed by the rustle of plastic bags. 

“Yeah,” he calls back. “It’s just me. Phoenix said you needed some stuff but she couldn’t make it so—” He pauses. “Wait, where are you?” 

“Um, I’m in the bath,” you reply, eyes snapping to the very open bathroom door. 

“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence. “D-Do you want me to just leave this stuff here... or?” 

You know Natasha did this on purpose, and you fully plan on killing her for it later. But right now, you could actually use the help. 

“Hang on,” you say, settling deeper into the water and gathering bubbles over your chest. “Can you—um—could you give me a hand?” 

You hear something clatter in the kitchen, like your words startled him into dropping whatever he was holding. 

“You want me... to come in there?” 

You sigh. “Yes, Bradley. Please. You won’t see anything—I just... I dropped my stuff and I can’t reach it.” 

“Okay,” he mutters, uncertain. 

Each footstep grows louder, heavier, your heartbeat matching the rhythm until it’s pounding behind your ribs, threatening to burst free. 

And then he appears in the doorway, and the breath leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale. 

It’s unfair how beautiful he is. How easily and effortlessly sexy he is, without even trying. 

He’s wearing a pair of old Naval Academy sweatpants and an oversized black shirt. His hair is mussed, cheeks flushed, and those big brown eyes are practically glowing. His lips part as he breathes, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. He looks flustered, confused, maybe even a little angry—but mostly... sad. 

“Hey,” you murmur, dragging your gaze from his face to the bottles scattered across the floor. “I knocked everything over.” 

He shakes his head and blinks hard before quickly crouching down. “I can see that.” 

He gathers all the bottles and lines them up on the vanity, keeping his eyes firmly on the task at hand—anywhere but on you, naked in the tub. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice rough and a little strained. 

You shrug one shoulder, and it’s almost impossible for him not to notice the way the bubbles slide off your skin as it lifts above the waterline. 

“I’m okay,” you say. “The painkillers are still doing their thing, so I’ll probably feel worse in a few hours, but for now... I’m alright.” 

He nods, fixing his eyes back on the neat row of bottles like they’re the most important thing in the room. 

“I feel a bit awkward though,” you add with a small laugh. 

His gaze flicks to you, then back to the vanity, brows drawn like he’s fighting with himself. He looks torn—caught between reason and ruin—with no right answer. 

“Do you—I mean, I could—” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you want some help? It doesn’t have to be weird. I could just... help wash your hair and make sure you don’t slip getting out.” 

Your breath catches, heart thundering in your throat and robbing your brain of oxygen. 

He looks so vulnerable. So... nervous. You’ve never seen Bradley like this. He’s usually cool, confident—borderline cocky, though not like Jake. Sure, he gets awkward sometimes, and you’ve definitely seen him be uncool. But never like this. Never so visibly unsure of himself. 

“Okay,” you say, before the rational part of your brain can stop you. 

“Okay,” he echoes, cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red. 

He shifts quietly, moving to the end of the tub behind you. You hear the soft thud of his knees hitting the tile and you can feel the air shift with his closeness. The room is quiet—except for the gentle lapping of water, the drip of the leaky basin tap, and the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears. 

You don’t dare turn around. 

Not when you know he’s kneeling back there, barely a foot away, and you’re naked in a tub full of bubbles that feel more and more useless by the second. 

You hear him flip the shampoo cap open and squirt a generous amount of liquid into his palm. Then the soft friction of his hands rubbing together. 

And then he touches you. 

His fingers slide into your hair, spreading warmth across your scalp as he works the lather in. The first stroke is gentle. So careful. Like he’s scared to hurt you. Or scared of something else entirely. 

Then he finds his rhythm—stronger, more sure, fingertips dragging slow and deep through your hair, massaging the base of your skull with maddening focus. 

Your eyes flutter shut. 

His thumbs sweep behind your ears, along your nape, and it sends a pulse of heat right between your legs. You shift slightly, breath catching, and the water sloshes softly around you. You know he can hear it. You know he can see the way your spine arches and your shoulders bare themselves as you lean into his touch. 

You feel exposed. 

And you know he’s trying not to look. You know he's trying to be a gentleman—but he’s still a man, and you’re naked, and the steam in this bathroom is thick with tension. You can practically feel his eyes skimming over the curve of your neck, your slick shoulders, what little the bubbles don’t hide. 

He breathes heavier now. Not quite panting, but close. His fingers falter for just a second when your head tips back a little farther, throat stretching bare, water sliding lower on your chest. 

“Bradley…” you whisper. 

You don’t even know what you’re about to say. 

But he cuts in first—voice hoarse, like he’s choking on the words. “So… you and Hangman, huh?” 

Your whole body tenses. 

You blink, stunned. Your first instinct is to laugh. The second is to scream. The third is to climb out of the tub and straddle him until you make him eat his words—but you do none of those things. 

Instead, you turn your head just slightly, enough to murmur, “Are you really asking me about that right now?” 

He hesitates. 

“I just thought—” His voice breaks off. “I don’t know. I’m just curious... I guess.” 

You let out a short laugh—sharp and disbelieving—as you tilt your head just slightly, just enough for your voice to carry over your shoulder. 

“Yeah. I’ve been spending a little more time with him.” Your tone is sweet and deliberately casual—but it’s laced with something else. Something darker. Something dangerous. 

And then, as if you’re thinking out loud, you add under your breath, “He definitely wouldn’t be sitting behind me right now acting like he doesn’t want to get his hands on a lot more than just my hair.” 

Bradley goes still. 

You can hear the breath catch in his throat—feel the tension rise like a tide behind you. His hands freeze where they’re tangled in your wet strands, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. The air between you is thick, heavy, charged. 

He doesn’t speak. 

You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fixed ahead as heat blooms under your skin and something inside you dares him to move. 

Come on, Bradshaw. 

“Yeah,” he mutters as his fingers begin to move again. “He probably wouldn’t.” 

The moment shatters—falling around you like glass, sharp and splintering, embedding in your skin. Your spine stiffens as you close your eyes, forcing a slow breath past the frustration clawing up your throat. You can’t yell at him. Not now. Not while he’s on his knees, helping you. Not just because he refuses to give in to his own damn needs. 

Needs you know are there—because five seconds ago, you would’ve sworn he was about to climb into the tub with you. 

But no. 

Bradley Bradshaw is still locked in his cage of commitment issues and unnamed excuses. Still holding the line no one asked him to. 

The silence stretches, thick as steam, humming with everything you both refuse to say. 

You feel the shift in his hands as he cups water and begins to rinse the shampoo from your hair, the heat running down your back in slow rivulets. His fingers trail through the strands, patient and careful, untangling and smoothing. Each pass makes your skin buzz. 

He doesn’t speak. 

And neither do you. 

But you can hear his breathing—shallow, uneven, just a little too fast. You know he’s trying not to look. You know because he hasn’t touched you anywhere he doesn’t absolutely have to. When his knuckles brush your shoulder again, it feels almost obscene. 

Once your hair is clean, he reaches for the conditioner. You close your eyes as he works it through—slick and warm—massaging your scalp, smoothing it through to your ends. His fingers graze your temple, your ear, the nape of your neck. 

It’s methodical. Careful. 

But it still feels like worship. 

And he still hasn’t said a word. 

When he’s done, he gives your hair one final rinse, quiet and efficient, then stands and wipes his hands on a towel. You expect him to bolt—mutter something and flee—but instead, he grabs a fresh towel and holds it out, eyes fixed on the far wall like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. 

“Here,” he says, voice rough. “Let me help.” 

You stand—slowly, cautiously—and his hand darts out to steady your elbow, instinctive and warm. He still doesn’t look. Not properly. His gaze stays down, jaw tight, throat bobbing. 

He wraps the towel around you, still avoiding your eyes, and lingers only long enough to make sure you won’t slip. 

And then he steps back, fists clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together by a thread. 

“You good?” he asks, voice tight. 

You nod, arms locking the towel around your chest. “Yeah. Thanks for the... help.” 

He nods back, quick and stiff, eyes still looking everywhere but at you. “The first aid stuff is on the kitchen bench. Snacks too—your favourites. If you need anything... uh—” 

He backs out of the bathroom like he’s escaping, eyes finally flicking up to yours. “See you at work.” 

And then he’s gone. So fast you barely register it. 

When you turn to the mirror, you're surprised to find yourself crying—cheeks flushed, eyes rimmed red. You swipe at the tears, blurry and stupid, and grab your phone with trembling fingers. 

You pull up your text thread with Jake and type: ‘I don’t know if we should do this anymore.’ 

- 

“You let him what?” Jake’s eyes go wide, blueberry muffin frozen halfway to his mouth. “And he didn’t even-” 

You shake your head. 

“Not so much as a-” 

“Nothing,” you say, staring into your coffee as you stir lazily. “Barely even looked, let alone touched.” 

“My God...” Jake mutters around a mouthful of muffin. “The man has the restraint of a priest.” His eyes narrow, flashing toward you. “Are you sure he’s not a-” 

“He’s not a priest, Hangman.” 

He nods slowly. “Okay, so he’s an alien.” 

You just shrug and take a long sip of coffee. 

“Well, we can’t stop now,” Jake says, voice firm. “No way. He must be close—like, so close. If we play this right, we’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time.” 

“I don’t know,” you mutter. “It feels wrong. Like I’m forcing him into something.” 

Jake raises an eyebrow. “Kind of how he’s forcing you to stay ‘just friends’ even though you’re clearly in love with him?” 

You frown. “How are you so good at twisting things?” 

“Years of practice, little chick,” he grins wickedly, leaning his forearms on the table. “Now, let’s focus on finding you a drop-dead gorgeous dress for the gala.” 

You spend the rest of your Tuesday at the mall with Jake—thanks to an RDO from Maverick—shopping for a dress and a matching tie for him for the gala next weekend. It takes a bit longer than it should, thanks to your foot and crutches, but Jake is patient. He even lets you vent about Bradley, spilling some of the more intimate details you’d usually keep to yourself. 

When he drops you home, he promises to give you lifts to and from work all week, and even offers to take you to your doctor’s appointment later in the week. 

That night, Maverick calls to check in and fills you in on the light duties you’ll be able to do while staying off your foot. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you’re grateful—you’d probably go insane being stuck at home. 

The rest of the week is relatively uneventful. You don’t spend much time around the squad, stuck doing menial admin tasks instead of flying, and Bradley is completely avoiding you. Not that you blame him. 

Natasha drops by your place once or twice, and on the nights she’s not there, Jake is—not just to scheme about Bradley but to help you out. He takes you to your doctor’s appointment where, thankfully, you get to hand back your crutches, then helps you get used to walking wonkily in the moonboot. 

Saturday night arrives before you’re ready, and suddenly the floor-length red gown you picked out a few days ago feels like way too much as it clings to your body. 

“I don’t know,” you mutter, even though it’s too late—you're in the car. “I feel a bit stupid.” 

Jake’s smirk hasn’t wavered since the moment he picked you up. “You don’t look stupid at all. You look incredible. I’m actually debating whether or not to let Rooster have you.” 

You roll your eyes. “Like you have a choice, Seresin.” 

“Oh, little chick,” he chuckles, eyes flicking toward you then back to the road. “If I decided I wanted you, you wouldn’t have a choice.” 

You scoff. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bagman.” 

The drive isn’t nearly as long as you need it to be, and before you know it Jake is pulling up in front of the valet service. Your heart hammers in your chest—part nerves, part something else you can’t quite name. You smooth your dress again, feeling every inch the bold red against your skin, while Jake adjusts his tie with a cocky grin. 

Stepping out of the car, you instantly feel the weight of dozens of eyes—curious, impressed, maybe even a little jealous—tracking your every move as you walk toward the grand entrance. The gala’s ornate doors loom ahead, polished glass and shimmering chandeliers spilling warm light onto the stone steps. 

Inside, the room dazzles with opulence—sweeping staircases, crystal glasses clinking, a string quartet humming somewhere off to the side. You catch whispers as you move through the crowd, a low hum of “Is that…?” and “Holy shit…” 

Then you spot them—the squad, clustered near the bar. Maverick’s unmistakable frame stands out even in this sea of tuxedos and gowns, arms crossed, leaning casually but alert. His eyes flick to you with a brief nod—respect, approval, or maybe warning, you can’t tell. 

And then there’s Bradley. 

He’s leaning against the wall, jaw tight, eyes sharp as daggers. The tux fits him like a second skin, dark and sleek, every line tailored to perfection. The way the collar of his shirt presses just right against his neck makes your breath hitch. 

His gaze locks on you—cold, charged, and… undeniably magnetic. 

You swallow, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown out the music. Whatever else is going on, Bradley Bradshaw looks absolutely fucking delicious in a tuxedo. 

Jake practically has to drag you across the ballroom, and you lean into him a little more than you should—using his arm to steady yourself under Bradley’s unwavering stare. 

“Damn, Bagman,” Natasha says first, eyes trailing up and down Jake’s suit. “You clean up alright.” 

Jake brushes an imaginary speck of dust off his lapel. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Phoenix.” 

She just rolls her eyes and tips her champagne flute to her lips. 

“You look good, Chick,” Javy says with a smirk, beer bottle halfway to his mouth. 

You give him a soft smile. “Thanks.” 

“And for the record,” he adds, nodding toward the rest of the squad, “they’re all thinking it too, but they’re too nervous to say anything with the way Bradshaw’s watching you.” 

Bradley doesn’t even flinch. He’s still leaning against the wall, just a step away from the others but close enough to hear every word. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps threatening to split the seams of his suit jacket, and his jaw is set tight. His eyes are glued to you—not your face, but your body—raking over every curve of the silky red fabric like no one else is in the room. 

“You know, Bradshaw,” Jake says, turning toward him, “you probably shouldn’t be lookin’ at another man’s date quite like that.” 

You roll your eyes. “Jake, don’t.” 

He glances down at you. “What? It’s true. He's being rude.” 

Before either of you can say anything else, Bradley is gone—disappearing into the crowd without a word, leaving the rest of the squad exchanging wide eyes and raised brows. 

Yeah. This isn’t awkward at all. 

You’re sitting on a stool at the edge of the room—a chair Jake found for you when you started complaining about your foot—watching people dance and mingle as you realise... you’re not quite sure what you’re doing anymore. 

This whole thing started because Bradley almost kissed you. Jake offered to help, to make him jealous, and you agreed to play along. But you’ve barely followed through, not with your injured foot getting in the way of every plan you had to tease him at work. 

So instead... all you’ve managed to do is nearly break your ankle, piss off your best friend, confuse your entire squad, and go on what is very clearly a date with Jake. Like, an actual date. Because tonight he’s been nothing but kind and attentive, making sure you’re okay and comfortable—even though Bradley is nowhere to be seen. 

How does any of this make sense? 

“Thirsty?” Jake asks, holding out another flute of champagne. 

You take it with a smile and tip half of it into your mouth. 

“Have you seen Bradley?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. “Not in the last ten minutes, but Javy said he spotted him at the bar with Reuben and Bob. I think he’s avoiding us.” 

“I don’t blame him,” you mutter. 

“I just don’t get it,” Jake sighs, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “He’s obviously irritated, and he obviously wants you. So how are we supposed to—” He cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. That’s it.” 

You frown. “What’s it?” 

His gaze snaps to you. “Don’t worry. This one’s on me. I’ll handle it.” 

“Jake—” you start, but he’s already gone. 

You slide off the stool and start weaving through the crowd. Your foot is aching, but not nearly as badly as your head—and neither is enough to stop you from finding Jake. The look in his eye had been downright devious. You have no idea what he’s planning. 

After a lap of the ballroom, you're drawn toward the back terrace. Fairy lights glitter in the trees, gauzy drapes billow across the tall windows, and pots of manicured flowers line the stone railing. It’s all so beautiful, so dreamy, you almost forget why you came out here. 

Almost. 

Until— 

“Alright, Rooster,” Jake’s voice cuts through the cold night air. “What’s your problem?” 

You quicken your pace along the side of the terrace, catching sight of Jake, casually leaning against a pillar. 

“Don’t start, Hangman,” Bradley replies. 

You can’t see him yet, but you can guess he’s slouched in the dark, probably with a drink in hand and a sour look on his face. 

“Too late,” Jake says. “You’ve been in a foul mood all week. Shooting daggers across the room all night. You got something to say, or are you just going to keep sulking like a coward?” 

Bradley exhales hard, frustrated. “Can we not do this here?” 

“Too late.” 

“I’m not avoiding you,” Bradley snaps. “But if you were smart, you’d walk away right now.” 

Jake chuckles—low and dry. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m-” 

“Jake,” you say, stepping beside him, wrapping your hand around his wrist. “Just leave it.” 

Bradley is exactly as you pictured him—leaning against the wall with a scowl—but his eyes don’t look angry. 

No. They look hurt. 

“I know this isn’t real,” he says, voice low but steady. 

Jake tilts his head. “Excuse me?” 

“This—whatever this thing is between you two. It’s not real. I know she’s not that stupid. I just don’t know why the two of you insist on playing games.” 

Jake’s lips curl into a devilish smirk. “It’s not a game, Bradshaw. And it sure as hell felt real the other night when she called me over.” 

Bradley blinks. His expression faltering as he pushes off the wall. 

Jake steps forward, voice quieter now—cutting and smug. “She called me right after that bath, you know. Must’ve still been feeling the heat. You’re a hell of a warm-up act.” 

Bradley goes still, face empty. His lips part as he stares at Jake, unblinking. But then something sharp flickers in his eyes—something dark and visceral—and his jaw tightens so hard you swear it might crack. 

“You’re lying,” he says, voice flat but lethal. 

Jake rolls his eyes, smirk unmoving. “Believe what you want. I’m just saying—maybe next time don’t leave the door half open unless you want someone else walking through it.” 

Bradley tenses like he’s about to pounce—face flushed, jaw tight, eyes wild—but something holds him back. You step in quickly, before that something disappears. 

“Hangman, seriously,” you say, palm against his chest. “You’re being an idiot.” 

“I’m not the idiot here,” Jake mutters. “Bradshaw’s the idiot for fumbling a girl like-” 

“Just shut up, Seresin,” Bradley growls. “She said-” 

“Oh my God,” you snap, throwing your hands up. “Both of you, shut up.” You turn to Jake. “You need to stop before you cause a real problem. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’re going to blow the whole squad to pieces if you keep going.” 

Bradley scoffs. “Exactly-” 

“And you,” you whirl on him, eyes flashing, “you want to be mad? Then be mad. But don’t pretend I’m the only one who’s been playing games. For years you’ve begged me not to love you while doing nothing but showing me that you’re in love with me, too. And I waited. I gave you everything. For what? So you could push me away every damn time?” 

Your voice cracks—just a little. 

“And now that it looks like I might actually move on, you get all fucking huffy? You don’t get to do that. You don’t have the right. And you know what? If I wasn’t already so broken because of you, I might actually be into Jake. Because he’s nice. He’s considerate. Sure, he’s a cocky asshole—but he goes after what he wants. And it felt really fucking good to be wanted. Even if it was just a game.” 

You turn on your good foot and try to storm away. Your foot screams in protest, pain slicing with every step, but you don’t stop. Your eyes burn with unshed tears, barely held back—and you’re not sure how long they’ll stay put. 

You make it through the ballroom and out the front door, sliding into one of the taxis waiting at the curb. You pull out your phone and type a quick text to Natasha: ‘Tell Mav I had to leave. My foot.’ 

Then you cry. Quietly. Not messy or loud—just a few stray tears slipping down your cheeks. Frustration. Embarrassment. And a little heartbreak. 

Once the taxi pulls up at the curb outside your building, you pay, thank the driver, and slide out. Then you limp into the building, across the lobby, and press the button for the elevator. You’ve since mended your relationship with the lift—because stairs are a non-starter these days. 

By the time you reach your bedroom, your foot is absolutely throbbing. You quickly slip out of your dress, not even bothering to change the lacy matching underwear you—for some reason—decided to wear tonight, before pulling an old, oversized shirt over your head. Then you hobble into the kitchen and take a double dose of painkillers. 

The thought of having to go to work in less than two days makes your stomach twist. You’ve just royally embarrassed yourself—not just in front of your best friend, but your whole squad. And they’re not idiots. They’ll know exactly why you left. Now you get to walk back into work on Monday and deal with all the pitying looks. 

At least desk duty means you won’t have to see them as much. 

You drag yourself from the kitchen to the couch, collapsing into the cushions with a groan as you reach for the remote. After a few minutes of mindless scrolling through streaming apps, you settle on Pride & Prejudice—the Keira Knightley version, obviously. 

You lie back with your foot propped up on a stack of pillows, head turned toward the screen. But you barely make it to the part where Elizabeth visits a sick Jane at Netherfield when there’s a knock at your door. 

You’re not even sure you heard it at first. You sit up slightly, ears straining, eyes fixed on the front door. Another knock comes—louder this time, sharp and almost startling. 

You sigh, swinging your foot off the pillows, wincing as you push yourself upright and limp toward the door. 

You open it—and there he is. 

Bradley. 

His curls are a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through them the whole way over. His tie is gone, his shirt is wrinkled, and there’s a wild, desperate look in his eyes—like if he blinks, you might disappear. 

“I know I should’ve called,” he says, voice hoarse. “I just... I didn’t think you’d answer.” 

You stare at him, heart hammering. He shifts, like he might bolt, and exhales hard—as if the words are fighting to escape faster than he can form them. 

“I’ve spent so long convincing myself I couldn’t have this. That I couldn’t have you. That it wouldn’t work, or it’d blow up, or I’d ruin you like I ruin everything that matters to me.” His jaw flexes. “But tonight, seeing you like that—watching you walk away like you were already gone—I couldn’t breathe.” 

Your throat tightens. 

“I’m scared,” he admits. “I’ve been scared this whole time. Of loving you, of losing you. I pushed you away because I thought it would hurt less than this. But I was wrong.” 

He takes a shaky breath and steps closer. 

“I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. And if there’s even the smallest chance I haven’t screwed this up completely… I’m here. I’m yours. And I’m not going anywhere this time.” 

A beat of silence stretches between you—thick and electric. You’re toe to toe, just staring at each other, almost close enough to touch, tension crackling in the charged space between your bodies.  

“Well,” you say, arms crossing over your wildly beating heart. “That was dramatic.” 

He lets out a breathy laugh, completely wrecked. “Really? I just poured my heart out and that’s all you’ve got?” 

You shrug. “It was either that or I was going to tell you that you beat Mr. Darcy to the big speech. Although… as someone who’s seen Darcy’s speech more times than I should admit—I’m not sure you beat him in terms of drama. You needed to stutter more.” 

His brow furrows. “You’re watching Pride & Prejudice?” 

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Want to join? I know you love it.” 

His lips part, his chest still rising and falling a little too fast. Then his eyes drop to your chest—recognition flashing across his face. “Is that my shirt?” 

You glance down, heat flooding your cheeks. “Um, yeah. I think I stole it.” 

“Clearly,” he says, eyes sparkling. 

You roll your eyes. “Come in. Before my nosy neighbours call in a noise complaint.” 

You turn on your (good) heel and limp back toward the lounge, willing your face to cool and your heart to stop hammering. God, it’s taking everything in you not to jump his bones right now—especially with him looking like that in his deliciously dishevelled tux. 

“Just so we’re clear,” you say over your shoulder, voice laced with sincerity, “I didn’t call Jake after the bath. He didn’t come over. I’ve never even kissed him.” 

You don’t hear him move—just feel the sudden grip of his fingers wrapping around your wrist, warm and unshakable. He spins you around in one smooth motion, and you barely register the soft, wicked smirk curling on his lips before he pulls you into him, your body crashing against his like a wave. 

His mouth is on yours in a second—hungry, demanding, desperate. There’s no hesitation. No sweetness. Just years of pent-up tension snapping loose as he devours your lips like he’s been starving for them. He lets go of your wrist, both hands coming up to cup your face, holding you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t. 

You gasp into him, fingers knotting in his shirt, and he groans like the sound is driving him insane. Then he moves—walking you backward until your lower back hits the kitchen counter, his hips pressing hard against yours. You feel the sharp edge of his need, the strength in his grip, the undeniable heat radiating between your bodies. 

And then—his hands slide down to the crease of your thighs, and you know what’s coming a heartbeat before it happens. 

“Bradley—” you breathe, but it’s too late. 

He lifts you clean off the ground and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your injured foot forgotten in the blur of heat and want and the feel of his body flush against yours. His hands grip your thighs, holding your weight like it’s nothing, before he sets you down on the bench. Then he grips your waist and deepens the kiss—hotter, deeper, more possessive than ever. 

You’re gasping when he finally pulls back, foreheads pressed together, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent, “I know.” He kisses you again. “I know nothing happened with him.” 

You plant a hand on his chest, pushing him back even though every nerve in your body is begging to let him devour you. “Then why did you almost lose it?” 

His lips—puffy and thoroughly ravaged—curve into a sheepish smile. He drops his gaze to where his hands are gripping your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. “Just the—the thought…” he mutters, voice rough and trembling with something darker. “The thought of you with anyone else… fuck, it drives me out of my goddamn mind.” 

You fight a smirk as your hand trails up his chest, slow and deliberate, until your fingers slip beneath his jaw and tilt his face back up. “Much better,” you murmur. “With the stuttering, I mean. Mr. Darcy would be proud.” 

He groans, more amused than annoyed, then crashes his mouth back onto yours. “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby bird.” 

A shiver rips through you as he grinds into you, the hard line of him thick and straining beneath his dress pants. It drags across the damp lace between your legs, lighting a fire low in your belly. 

His breath catches like a spark in dry grass when he looks down and realizes—at the same moment you remember—you’re not wearing pants. Just his shirt… and a very pretty, very intentional matching set beneath. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, his fingers skimming the lace at your hips like he’s trying not to combust. His gaze snaps back to yours, pupils blown, voice suddenly hoarse. “Any restrictions on sexual activity with your injury?” he asks—clinical, but barely hanging on. 

You smile, toying with the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Pretty sure the doctor said I’m cleared. But I’m on light duties. So…” You lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “Strictly pillow princess stuff.” 

He groans low in his throat, burying his face in your neck like he needs to ground himself. “Christ. After making you wait this long, you’re owed a lifetime of pillow princess treatment.” 

“You’re not wrong,” you hum. 

With a soft laugh, he lifts you effortlessly and carries you to the bedroom—your giggles trailing behind like glitter. He sets you on the bed and drops to his knees, carefully undoing the straps and fixings of the boot like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift. It’s absurdly tender. The kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. His fingers are gentle, reverent, and the only sound is your shared breathing and the faint scratch of shifting fabric. 

Then his hands glide up your thighs—slow and searing—raising goosebumps in their wake. He hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and draws it over your head, revealing skin and lace and everything he’s been aching for. 

His breath hitches. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice raw with awe. “I’m so in love with you.” 

You bite back the grin that threatens to split your face. “Then hurry up and show me,” you urge, cupping his face in your hands. 

He doesn’t hesitate. 

His mouth crashes into yours and he lays you back, moving you with practiced ease to the centre of the bed. He pauses for one breathless second—just enough to drink you in, to let his eyes drag over every inch of you. Then he’s on you. Everywhere. Lips, tongue, teeth, hands. Worshipping. Possessing. Making up for every second he waited, every moment he hesitated. 

And let’s just say… he starts making it up to you very well. 

Over. And over. And over again. 

END.

[palbabor-writes]

Practicum

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT/18+ only, unbalanced/unhealthy relationships, student/teacher sex, tw.dubcon, tw.sub/dom dynamics, brat taming, fingering, masturbation, a table is pretty roughed up in this, so pls hold a brief moment of silence for it    

Words: 12,857

“So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And...answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands.

You bite at your lip again and pass your gaze from his amused expression to the bland cover of the textbook, debating your next move, trying to walk yourself through all the ups and downs. It’s too simple; too easy. It’s not like him. He’s got something else in mind, why else would he fucking look like that? It’s not a bad look. No, it’s a look that makes your stomach flip and head spin.

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Notes: the title was selected because it’s got the word cum in it. ahhh, the things that crack me up. anyhow. 

this is part of the BNHA Degeneracy server’s 9 to 5 collaboration! i had a ton of fun participating in this and thank you guys for making this so freaking awesome! special shoutout & thanks to @albinoburrito​ & @kugutsuu​ for their beta edits! this was a departure from what i usually write about and i appreciate all of your notes and help!  

Practicum prac·ti·cum /ˈpraktəkəm/ noun a practical section of a course of study

It’s your senior year, they said. Live a little, they advised. Stop and take a breather, you’re practically home free! Take some easier classes. Focus on what’s in front of you, it’ll be over before you know it! On and on and on. 

Spring semester is almost here. You’ve applied for graduation, the cap and gown ordered, and you have a shiny class ring sitting on your pinky. It’s in the bag. Just breeze through four more classes and you’re out. Well, it would be an easy shot, if you hadn’t put off this one class. 

It always popped up, so it’s not like you could plead ignorance. Your advisor warned you, each quarterly meeting, that you needed to get it out of the way. Take it seriously, he cautioned, clacking out his notes, typing down that you’d failed to heed his sage advice, again. If you wait too long, you’re not going to get the professor that you want.

That was the other problem. You’re a procrastination superstar. If there was some kinda award for putting off assignments, you’d have won it ten times over. You liked the heart pounding race to the deadline, the sleepy boasts that you’d tackled the project within hours of its due date. 

It’s a stupid habit. Every semester you promise yourself that you’ll do better. You won’t wait, you’ll tackle things one assignment at a time and turn them before the hard cut off at 11:59 pm. Who the fuck did you think you were kidding? Certainly not your friends, or your advisor. He could read you like a book. Hell, he’d even sent warnings. 

‘Don’t forget about the deadline for senior registration!’

‘You don’t want to be on a waitlist. You especially don’t want to take one of the harder professors. These are freshman level classes, they’re designed to flunk undergrads. Don’t forget (Y/N), chew them up and spit them out tactics are employed.’ 

But you had. You’d set an alarm on your phone, then neglected to give it a title, so you’d only chuckled and smacked the chirping into silence that morning, snoozing the all important deadline away. 

Fuck. 

Most of the classes for biology are wait-listed. No, scratch that, all the classes for Intro to Genetic Biology are wait-listed. You opt into the waitlist for all of them, just in case, and a week later your phone alerts you that one has an open seat. Actually, it has several open seats, too many open seats to be natural. However, you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so for now, you’re enrolled in BIO 1208: Principles of Cell and Organismal Physiology - For Non-Science majors. 

Perfect.

Yeah, no. You’d looked up the professor, since the whole open seat thing was still giving you the heebie-jeebies, and your heart dropped. You’ve heard of him, most of the student body has. His classes are notoriously small. Not because the university limited them, or planned for smaller class sizes. No, his classes are tiny because he is infamous for failing students. 

Most, when they realize they’re scheduled for his bio classes, frantically drop, taking the withdrawal and praying for better luck next semester. Others, brave souls who think they can come out unscathed, attempt to grit their teeth and push through. But, by midterms, they’re war torn and haggard, shaking their heads and praying for a ‘C’, at best. Fewer still, pass.

This pedagogy isn’t a sign of good teaching; quite the opposite, in fact. You don’t want your student body failing. Yet, year after year, Professor Tomura Shigaraki keeps teaching the same Intro to Bio class. It boggles the mind, but you’ve never had to worry about it. Well, until now. 

When you’d received the notification that you’re enrolled in the B section and spied the name Shigaraki under the professor listing, you’d scarfed down your suddenly flavorless lunch and dashed up the steps to the student advising hall, praying there was some way you could wiggle your way out of this growing disaster.

“I’m pretty sure I told you to take it earlier and to take it in the fall when there are more freshman level classes available. I swear I said that to you. And, AND, I even sent you emails, several times if my sent inbox is to be believed, to NOT forget when senior registration ends.” 

Your advisor is peeved. You don’t blame him. He’s right, this is your fault, but there’s gotta be some kinda loophole. Something, fuck, anything, that can pull you from this mess. 

“I know, I know! I’m so sorry. You’re right. But, I mean, can’t I just hold off for another week? See if the waitlist clears?”

The man that you’ve known for four years, that’s seen you progress from freshman to senior, steeples his long fingers and purses his lips, likely debating on a tactful scolding, or a firm rebuttal. He takes a deep breath and you can’t help but sink into the soft cushioning of the chair, your nose wrinkled and brow furrowed, mentally preparing yourself for the worst.

“Do you know how many students we require to take BIO 1208?”

“No,” you gulp, nibbling on your lower lip nervously. 

“Over 7,000. Do you want to hear the statistics that would need to shake out in your favor for you to miraculously avoid taking this specific class? Nothing is going to open for you, it is this class, or no class.”

You sigh, and your advisor nods, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Well then, I suggest you brush up on your study skills. Find a classmate that you can compare notes with, join a study group, go to the student union and ask for a tutor. I would hate to see you back here for the summer semester. You’re scheduled to walk the stage this spring and you’ve worked hard for this, so don’t fuck it up, okay?”

You’ve attended this university for four years, but the first day of term always gives you the jitters. It doesn’t matter that you know your way around, or that you know ten professors by name, and bump into several friends on the way to your next building, you’re always buried in your phone, checking and double checking the next class’ room number. 

Despite all that caution, you’re lost.

In your defense, it’s your first time stepping foot in the Graduate & Research building and the whole concrete block is a fucking maze. There must be a basement because the numbers don’t match up with the floors and they seem to jumble further every time you round a corner. Like what the hell? How can this next room be GR 3.03.05 when this is clearly only the second floor and GR 2.03.11 was right down that other hallway?

Exasperated, you lean against the nearest wall and tug your phone out again. Shit. Class started ten minutes ago. 

Part of you wants to call it a day, end the search here and try again on Wednesday. Maybe take a few extra minutes to scout out the building next time and have some idea of where you’re going before the start of class. 

Ugh, why is this so stressful? 

It’s the first day of classes. Surely Professor Shigaraki won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late; besides, if you’re lost, others must be too. 

You tuck your phone back into your pocket and resume the hunt. Two hallway turns later, you find your mark.

Your hand pauses beside the heavy wood, and you take a steadying breath. Again, why are you so nervous? Just go in and take a seat, it’s easy, stop freaking out over nothing. 

The door groans open, hinges protesting the sharp push, and you stumble into a darkened room. The low glow of the projector doesn’t help your blurry vision. Ah, shit, it’s one of those older rooms, so it’s built like a bad movie theater. Oh well, better get to a seat before he spots you. 

Swiftly, you make your way toward the raised steps of the aisle and the second row of chairs, plopping into the first one you reach that’s empty. You’re too busy fiddling with the zipper of your backpack to notice that the speaker has stopped his rasping preamble, but as you pull your laptop out the ominous weight of that heavy silence hits you and you toss a hooded stare toward the front of the lecture hall. 

Immediately, your eyes land on the professor’s and you feel a low shiver shake up your spine. 

He’s watching you. 

The gleam of the overhead projector makes his red eyes flash, and he openly scowls at your gaping expression, his lips curling into a dark sneer.

“Well, thank you for joining us, Miss…?”

He’s waiting for your response and you squeak out your last name, mindlessly rubbing your moistening palms against your thin skirt. 

“Ah, Ms. (L/N). Now that you’ve graced the class with your belated presence, may I continue?”

“Uh,” you gasp out, your mouth dry, tongue sticking to your teeth, “I’m sorry. I got–”

“I didn’t ask for an explanation, or in your case, an excuse. Or are you now attempting to disrupt this class purposefully?”

“Wha– I-I’m–” your words stumble to a halt, voice failing under the intense glare that he’s giving you. “No,” you finish lamely, ducking your head, nails digging into your sweaty palms. 

“Thank you. Do me a favor, stay after class.” His voice is gravel, threatening and low. You don’t like the edge in his tone. It makes your skin prickle and your knees knock. He sounds like the kind of guy that you don’t want to run into in a dark alleyway, or a classroom, for that matter. Even so, it’s not your fault, and despite your feelings of unease, you can’t tamp down your need to protest his unreasonableness. 

“But, professor, I didn’t mean to–”

“If I need to repeat my insistence for silence, I’ll make things easier on both of us and fail you now.”

Stunned and fuming, you bite your tongue and lean back into your chair, crossing your arms and blinking back mounting tears of frustration. Great, just great. It’s the first fucking day of class and it looks like you’re already on his shit list. And for what? For being late on fucking syllabus day! What an ass. 

You look over at him as you defiantly finish setting up your computer, hoping each pull of a zipper or screen reboot will grate under his stuck up skin. He’s not inordinately tall, or old. In fact, he looks like he might only be in early 30s. He has long white hair that’s pulled back into a low ponytail and, from what you can make out in the dim lighting, some kinda skin condition on his forehead. That, or he’s prematurely wrinkled, and let’s be honest, if he’s gone through life with that big of a stick up his ass, he deserves each and every pull on that mottled skin of his. 

You linger in your seat when class is over, lips pulled into a thin line and legs crossed. Finally, when the last student has left the room, professor Shigaraki flips a switch beside his elevated podium, filling the lecture hall with a sharp, fluorescent light. He pauses by his raised computer system and clicks off the overhead projector, blanketing the massive room in an uncomfortable silence. 

“Since you missed the part of class where I go over the syllabus, I’ll give you a brief rundown. Under no circumstances will I tolerate tardiness. If you do it once more I’ll mark you absent and three absences knock you down a full letter grade.”

Glumly, you cross your arms and peer up at him, finally able to get a good look at his face. Your first observation was correct. His skin is sharper around his forehead, but his wavy white hair does a pretty decent job of covering up the imperfections. He has two scars: one nicks across his right eye and the other splits down his rough lips, parting the skin and granting him an even more foreboding appearance than his already gruff demeanor does. He’s dressed in a dark pair of jeans and he’s wearing a low slung v neck shirt. It’s a brilliant red and it brings out that otherworldly glint of his red eyes. Shit, you think bitterly, while he’s not conventionally handsome, he’s not exactly hard on the eyes either. 

You shake your head against these unproductive musings and curtly snap out a clipped, ok.

“What was that?” Shigaraki scoffs, tilting his head at your sullen figure. “Speak up.”

“I said,” you bristle, eyes narrowing and chin lifting, “Okay, I apologize for interrupting your lecture, it won’t happen again. But, in my defense, if I’m allowed to do that in this class, I’ve never been in this building before, and it’s not like–”

“You’re a senior, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then you’ve had four years to figure out the layout of this university. The excuse of ‘being lost,’ isn’t an option for you. You know the buildings and you’re fully capable of turning up early to sort out the rooms.”

You let out a long sigh and look away, mumbling vague protests. This guy is ridiculous. You’re not a science major and it’s not your job to know the ins and outs of each building. How fucking stupid. Who does he think he–

“Speak up. I won’t ask you again.”

You bite your lip and look back at him but he’s moved in that distracted moment, silently stepping down from his raised platform and is now leaning over the first row of chairs, looming over you. You can’t help your sudden flinch as you sink further into your chair, away from him.

“If you’re gonna complain, Ms. (L/N), I’d much rather hear it. Don’t you think It’s rude for you to mutter under your breath about me? You don’t see me doing that to you.”

“Fine,” you blurt out, turning away from his insistent, and all too close, gaze. “I was saying that I’m not a science major. I get that I’m a senior, but you can’t seriously expect me to know every nook and cranny of this campus.”

“No, but I can ask for you to be a little more thoughtful. I put time and effort into my lessons and I won’t have you undermining them by bouncing in here with those legs and that flouncy little skirt.”

You’re about to counter his little haughty speech on politeness when you finally process that final comment he’d breathed out. Flabbergasted, you raise your head back to his, but he’s already moving away, snatching up his shoulder bag and waving you a curt goodbye as he presses open the squeaky door. “Next class is at 10 am sharp, so be on time Ms. (L/N).”

You’re still slumped in your seat when the door glides shut again, your eyes wide and jaw no doubt comically unhinged. 

Wait. Did…did he really just say that?

Obviously, for the next class, you’re early. You’re so early that you’re the first one in the lecture hall. You select a seat toward the back and fiddle with your computer, checking your messages, adjusting your brightness, replying to old emails, anything to keep your head down and attention occupied. 

The door opens and, despite your best efforts, your head flies up, expectant and tense, ready to meet those red eyes of his head on, to show him you’re here and he better… oh. It’s not him. It’s two chattering freshmen. One of them gives you a quick smile, but they both quickly take their seats, a few rows over, and continue their soft conversation, leaving you to fall back onto your earlier distraction tactics. You twiddle with your phone and shoot off a few texts, change your wallpaper, accidentally close an app you meant to leave open, and then the lecture hall door reopens.

He steps in slowly, completely ignoring you and the other scattered students, opting to sort out a few papers and set up his login on the school computer. The minutes tick by and you can’t seem to jerk your eyes away from him, suddenly fascinated by his languid movements. He looks more relaxed than he did on Monday, looser and fluid, completely in his element. True to his word, at ten am on the dot he begins class. 

Professor Shigaraki has an interesting voice. It’s low, calculated, bordering on a rasp. It’s one of those tones that makes you want to lean forward and listen up, even though he’s only discussing cellular biology. Which isn’t exactly the sexiest topic for that shockingly dulcet timbre of his. 

Wait. Sexy? 

Your pen falters against your notebook, and your eyes drift up to his frame. He’s switched the lights off again and the shine of the overhead projector is the only illumination in the hall. His white hair gleams in the dim lighting and his long hands animatedly illustrate his points, elegant fingers opening and closing, gesticulating about the intricate nature of the human genome. You’re so focused on watching his movements that your elbow partner has to push the slip of paper onto your collapsible desktop. You blink at the sheet, your pen nearly clattering from your hand, and you twist to peer at the unfamiliar student beside you. 

“It’s the attendance sheet and, um, I think you’re the last one,” they whisper, careful to lean away after they finish their explanation, not wanting to draw professor Shigaraki’s ire. You maneuver the paper under your pen and scribble down your name, biting your lip and silently berating yourself for your poor selection in seating. Great, now you’ll have to take the paper down to him after class. What if he talks with you again? Shit. 

At 11:25, class ends. You collect your things and plod down the steps, the attendance sheet clutched between your fingers. He’s just snapping the projector light off when you reach his podium. 

“I, uhh, have the attendance. You want me to just leave it here, or…”

“I’ll take it,” his hand is extended toward you and those red eyes are fixed on you now. It’s not the same disgruntled stare he’d given you on Monday. No, this look is a little more curious. Again, you’re taken aback by your reaction to him. He’s not even saying anything, just patiently waiting for you to deposit the sheet into his open palm, but there’s something about him that’s making your heart race. 

Maybe it’s those eyes of his. 

They are an unusual color and they have a strange intensity to them. Right as they narrow, the vermillion shining under the sharp lights; you press the paper to him and he pulls it from you, studying the names that are listed. 

You want to say something. Maybe toss him a quick, friendly, goodbye. Or apologize for the other day? Ugh. What can you even say? ‘Gosh, so glad I was on time today! All that fascinating information about the genetic code! So glad to be here!’ No, that sounds stupid and a little patronizing. Besides, why do you want to talk with him at all? He’s an ass, remember?

“Did you need something?”

His question snaps you out of your stupor and you numbly shake your head at him, already lowering your gaze, but his exhaled chuckle makes you pause, your fingers curling around your backpack straps.  

“I know I upset you the other day, but I appreciate you taking the effort to correct your mistake.” 

“Oh,” you breathe, your eyes finding their way back to his. “Yeah, well, like you said, I’m a senior. Gotta take responsibility for myself someday.”

“Ah,” he smirks, that long scar on his lip quirking upward. “Seems like you’ve got some determination after all. You might be more interesting than I gave you credit for.”

“God,” you scoff, popping out a hip and crossing your arms at the bemused leer on his face. “Just come right out and say you think I’m a bad student, why don’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” he amends, tucking the attendance sheet into his shoulder bag and snapping the clasps closed. “There’s plenty of time for you to end up right back at square one with me.”

He’s already halfway out the door by the time you right yourself from the shock of his last comment and you follow him, a string of low curses falling from your lips. 

The spring semester always flies by, and before you realize it, a full month has bled away. You’ve kept that same seat in Shigaraki’s class and at the end of each session you head down to his little platform, attendance sheet outstretched. Each day of class has a different ebb and flow. Sometimes he chats with you and it’s gotten easier to talk with him, both of your eyes holding and lingering, lips raised into calculating smiles. Sometimes it almost feels like he’s flirting with you. Other days he only spares you a curt nod, his white hair curtaining his expression from your curious gaze. You’re not bothered by these silences, not when you’ve got your secret weapon. 

The days that you like best, the ones that you plan, sorting through your closet until you’ve found the perfect choice, are the days when you wear one of your skirts. You’d even gone on some skirt shopping sprees as of late. On those days he doesn’t just make some sort of fleeting eye contact with you, no, on those days he stares. 

At first, you’d tested out your theory, staggering your outfits, careful to not screw up your suspicions with a hasty miscalculation, but as they say, the third time’s the charm. How did he expect you not to notice? He never bothers to hide those sharp ogles and recently you’ve made a point of dramatically gathering your things when you wear these cute little ensembles, bopping down the steps so his eyes have to work to follow the line of your hips and the long paths of your bare legs. One rainy afternoon you’d worn over the knee stockings, that came to an abrupt halt over the plush skin of your upper thigh, under your mini skirt and he’d practically leapt over the podium to grab the sheet from you, his eyes hooded and dark, almost wild.

“Test, on Friday,” he warns, eyes finally rising to meet your bemused expression. “Don’t stay out too late tonight.”

“What makes you say that?” you ask, brushing at a rogue fold in your skirt, luring him back to your legs. 

He scoffs at you, that jagged scar arching into a smirk. “Humph. You’re dressed up. Most of the students just wear the sweats, or pjs, and call it a day.” 

“I like to put a little effort in all that I do,” you retort, grinning up at his vermillion stare. 

“Yes, so I’ve noticed. You certainly look the part…and you’re keeping up with the workload of this course.”

“Ahhh,” you crow, clapping your hands excitedly. “Are you saying I might get an ‘A’ in this class? Be the first time someone’s done that in a while, from what I’ve heard around campus.”

Shigaraki sneers and tuts out an inaudible reply, leaning a little closer to you, making you inadvertently fall back a step. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Awe,” you pout, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m doing ok on all the quizzes and the classwork.”

“So far,” he taunts, his pearlescent hair falling over his broad shoulder.

“Tch. Don’t be like that. I’ve been studying.”

“Sometimes it takes more than that.”

“Oh?” you smile, raising your chin. “What else should I be doing, professor?”

“We’ll know that after Friday, won’t we?”

God. 

You’d felt so confident when you’d turned in your test and that stupid, horrible, sexy little quirk of his lip scar that he sends you, when you’d handed him your papers, carries you on some strange, half aroused cloud all weekend. Maybe, just maybe, this class won’t be so bad after all.

The tests are handed back the following Friday, passed from row to row so everyone can fish out their papers and marked Scantrons. Yours, since you still occupy that final seat on the back row, is the last. Biting back a grin, you flip it over, so ready to see that A, that grade that you worked so fucking hard for, that… wait.

The gross flash of red across the top of your paper leaves you reeling, your breath catching against the back of your throat. It’s not a terrible grade, well, it wouldn’t be, but there are only three tests in this class, so it’s going to plummet you down to a B. One more fuck up will leave you with a C, or worse, an automatic failing grade. 

No. No, no, no, no. 

You can’t afford a bad grade, you honestly can’t even let yourself slip to a B. Your fucking cap and gown have just come in and with them that cord that you can wear around your neck at graduation. The one that marks you as honors cum laude. Fuck. You’re already pulling one B, in one of your other classes, because you’ve been focusing so much time and effort on this one. Another B will strip that cord from you, leaving you barren, with a less than ideal GPA. 

God fucking damn it.

You glare up at Shigaraki, who’s busy taking the rest of the class through a review of genetic mutations, but you can’t hear him anymore, too incensed, too overwhelmed to even care about what he’s saying. The test crumples under your fingertips, the paper shaking in your hands, and you seethe, your teeth biting your lower lip to pieces. 

It’s not fair. You’d paid attention. You’ve taken all the notes. Read all the chapters. Drilled and studied till your eyes had drooped, heavy with exhaustion. You’ve done it all right. Plus, he’d been so fucking flirty, so open with you. You’ve never chatted with a professor this way, never gone out of your way to wear clothes they like, that make them watch you, their eyes hungry pinpricks as you walk to them, mindful of the luscious sway of your hips. 

No. Fuck him. Fuck this class.

Before your elbow classmate can leave, you ask for them to hand in the attendance sheet. You barely hear their response, too busy slamming your laptop into your backpack. As you storm past the podium, you can feel his eyes on you. The distant sensation of his gaze makes your flesh prickle, but you ignore your involuntary reaction and shove your way out the door. 

“(Y/N), you can’t switch classes this late. It’s almost midterms. Besides, I don’t think anything has opened up and if you’re going to drop it, you’ve gotta get the signature of the professor,” your advisor tells you, blinking at your stony expression over his thick glasses. “I don’t get it. Why do you want to drop it? Your grades are alright and it’s just one test. You can always try–”

“Gimme the paperwork.”

Shigaraki’s office is on the top floor of the research building, tucked away down another winding and weaving hallway that once again requires your careful inspection to navigate. When you finally hit the right set of doors, you slowly make your way forward, counting the numbers up as you pass. His door is wide open, a yawning cavern that’s filled with the distant light of a lamp. You brush a hand down your skirt, smoothing away any wrinkles and steadying your nerves. 

You’d tossed on the skirt this morning, before you’d gotten the grade, and you hadn’t thought to go home and change, too consumed by that simmering rage bubbling within you. And now, like this fucking class, this skirt felt like a mistake, something stupid and vapid that you wished you had time to change out of. He’d told you he liked your attire, liked that you put effort into your outfits. At the time, you’d been so thrilled and excited that he’d complimented you, but now you wish you were confronting him in baggy jeans or lazy sweats, anything that would turn that avid gaze of his away from you. 

Lost in thought, you waver beside his open door, nibbling on your lips and tugging at your clothes. It’s now or never. No point in putting it off. What’s the worst that can happen? What can he do now? Or, a darker side of you whispers, what do you want him to do to you? What? That’s a stupid thought, you scold yourself, lifting a hand to the wall and rapping against the beige paint, announcing your presence. 

When the sound fades away, swallowed up by the empty and darkened hallway, you poke your head around the corner, searching for him. His head is tilted quizzically, and he blinks twice when he spots you, that all too familiar smirk lifting his lips. 

“Ah, Ms. (L/N), what can I do for you?”

His voice is softer than usual and your name sounds like honey, his tone resting on the syllables and consonants for a beat, almost as if he’s savoring their lift, their sound. You can’t help but swallow heavily at his appraisal. Suddenly this may be a terrible idea. 

Ugh. Get a grip (Y/N). 

“I-I need you to sign this withdrawal paperwork,” you finally reply, digging in your bag and tugging out the thin leaflet, holding it out to him. He’s silent after your demand, meditatively threading his fingers and peering up at you, his red eyes bright. 

“Step inside and shut the door behind you,” he instructs, his gaze never falling from yours. Despite the simplicity of his request, you can’t help but bristle at his imperious tone. Why does he always have to sound like that? Like he’s seconds away from taking control of the situation, or of you? He’s always one stupid step ahead, and no doubt he’s going to try and talk you down. Or, he’ll sign it and say that he always knew you were a screw up, someone who only did things halfway, who could never match up to his lofty expectations. Humph, the sooner you’re outta here and out of his class, the better. So, you obey, closing the door and petulantly flopping into the unsteady chair that sits in front of his low desk. 

He maintains that uneasy quiet, his red eyes whisking over your disgruntled face, waiting, watching. Unable to take this strange standoff, you push the university paperwork toward him, sliding it as close as you dare to his bent elbows. “I would like to withdraw from your class,” you repeat, lips setting into a thin line. 

“Why?” he asks, cocking his head so his loose white hair falls a little further down his rough brow. 

“Something came up.”

“Hmm, I can try to work with a new schedule, if it’s your job, or home life,” he counters, eyes narrowing as he sharpens his observations of your brittle expression. 

“It’s not that,” you smart, crossing your arms. Great, he’s going to make this difficult. 

“Then I suggest you tell me what’s on your mind,” Shigaraki replies, mirroring your movements and leaning back in his chair. 

“I don’t think this class is working out for me.”

He exhales a soft laugh at your lie, and you watch that tiny mole at the edge of his chin lift in his quiet mirth. “This is a freshman level course and you’re a senior. You’re in my class because it’s likely the last pre-rec that you need to take before you graduate.”

“Um, yeah. But–”

“And now, you’re wanting to drop it because of one poor grade.”

You grind your teeth and fix him with a stark glower. “I–”

“There will be two other tests. If you read your syllabus, you’d know this.”

“I read the syllabus. Your tests are worth a stupid amount of points and it only takes one of them to tank my grade.”

“Frankly, you did better than most of the class. You only need to work on practical application. I said that the written portion would be a major component of the exam. I also provided you with a review and a rubric. So I’m not sure–”

“Your grade drops me to a ‘B’, and that ‘B’ pulls me from the honors list. And… well… I thought that…”

“Oh? What did you think?” he presses, his voice suddenly dropping to that lower octave it had drifted into when he said your last name. 

“I thought I’d get a better grade,” you spit out, turning your head and biting at your lip again. 

“Why?” he counters simply. His obtuseness is making your blood boil.

“What do you mean, why?” It takes all of your will to not slip a ‘jackass’ into that question. 

“It’s not a hard thing to answer. I graded you fairly and according to my rubric. Why exactly do you feel you merit a different grade than the one you earned?”

You fall into a frustrated silence. You can hear your heart pounding against your ribs and you want to scream at him, to leap over his desk and shake him until his teeth fucking rattle. Your shoulders are rising and lowering disjointedly and his vermillion eyes are honed in on your face, shifting over your pinched expression with a distant interest. You can feel tears pricking at your eyes and you hastily rub a fist over them, brushing away any rogue drops of moisture.

“How can you ask me that? You think I didn’t notice you staring at my legs? Or that you always had something to say to me when I was wearing a skirt? What was I supposed to think, huh? I fucking thought shit like that was gonna help, ok? God, I’m so stupid. I can’t… fuck.” 

Shigaraki arches forward when you finish, a deep sigh leaching through his parted lips. His teeth snap together when you look up at him, your eyes gaining back some of that earlier defiance, and he gives you a quick grin, clearly pleased by your shift in attitude and pushes your paper aside, fixing you with a dark look. “Here’s a thought, since you feel you’re so different, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a chance to make up the score.”

“I don’t care about the score anymore. I wanna drop your class,” you snap, but it’s a halfhearted barb. Something has changed in his demeanor. He’s dropped the concerned professor act and is leaning so close you can hear his steady intakes of air. He’s only a few inches away; if you want, you could touch him.

“I doubt you want to attend a class in the summer. Besides, they won’t let you walk if you haven’t finished your freshman level courses. And you can’t tell me you don’t want to graduate, to earn that cord that lets you into the honor cum laude. So stop pouting and hear me out. I think you’ll like what I have in mind.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever like anything about you,” your voice is sharper than you mean it to be, but the challenge makes Shigaraki smile. As it crosses his cracked lips, it pulls that scar up and it makes those eyes of his glow. He looks like the cat that’s got the cream and you’re not sure how to respond, so you cross your legs and wait for him to make the next move. 

“You sure about that? Well, I’ll have to change your tune then, won’t I? But that can wait, lemme tell you what my requirements are. I’ve got a copy of the textbook in here. I’ll have you review some of the major concepts, you’ll read the passages aloud so I’m sure you’re on the right track, you’ll hand the book back to me, and then I’ll verbally quiz you over the material. If you answer them correctly, I’ll bump you to an ‘A’ on your test.”

You have to actively work to keep your mouth closed. “So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And… answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands. 

You bite at your lip again and pass your gaze from his amused expression to the bland cover of the textbook, debating your next move, trying to walk yourself through all the ups and downs. It’s too simple; too easy. It’s not like him. He’s got something else in mind, why else would he fucking look like that? It’s not a bad look. No, it’s a look that makes your stomach flip and head spin. 

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Your eyes boggle and you have to clench your thighs tighter, your stomach churning, you feel light-headed and you can feel your core fluttering with your sudden arousal. “Wh-what did you just say?”

“Stop gaping at me like that, you’ll make me blush. Now come on.”

Your jaw snaps closed and you shake your head, trying to clear your mind from your whirling emotions. He takes this reaction as a surrender and stands, stepping toward a marred table that rests a little ways away from his desk. He licks his thumb pad and flips through a few pages before finally settling on an appealing section. Once he places it on the table, he twists back to you and crooks a finger your way. “Come here,” he orders, his voice deep and languid. Obediently, you rise on unsteady feet, hands tugging at the length of your skirt, careful to keep it pressed down as you walk toward him. 

He makes space for you to stand in front of the book and shifts back, one hand resting on the table, propping him close to your bent figure. You look up at him, but he only nods his head toward the table, a wicked smile curling the corners of his lips. Blink a few times but finally, the words clear and you can see the block of text that’s in front of you. It’s passages on DNA encodes and RNA proteins, hefty stuff, things that you had to make flash cards for. This isn’t going to be easy. If anything, he’s picked some of the harder concepts, the ones that take steady knowledge in the foundations. Flustered, you look back to him, but he’s moved. He’s leaning against the wide window beside the table, a dark mark against the glass.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a laugh bubbling in his tone.

“There’s no way…” you stammer, shaking your head at him. 

“Want me to throw a curve in?”

“I should ask what kinda curve, but knowing you, it’s likely gonna be something terrible.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he rumbles, stepping away from the window and leaning close to your stiff form. “It just takes an open mind and some enthusiasm on your part.”

“Enthusiasm?” you question, trying your best to withstand his closeness. You can feel the heat radiating off of his broad shoulder and if you tilt a little nearer, you could graze against him, or feel his breath on your skin. 

“You’re right,” he amends, his forearm contacting your side. You startle at the touch, a gasp falling from your lips, but you don’t pull away and you can’t stop staring up at him, your eyes wide. “Obedience is a better word. From here on out, whatever I tell you to do, I expect you to obey it, although it’s not exactly, ah, school approved.”

“You want me to suck you off or something?” you sneer, hoping to stumble him off his guard, even if it’s only for an instant. Too bad he’s always one step ahead. 

“Don’t be vulgar. Think outside of the box, (Y/N). Do you think I’m going to go for something so short sighted when I could have you bending to my will? Obeying every little demand that I make? I’d much rather see if that skin of yours tastes as good as it looks, then simply have you on your knees. No, I want you to fucking scream for me while I stuff you full of my cock. But first, you need to put in some work. You should know that by now.”

Oxygen is suddenly very hard to come by and you can feel your mind hazing over as you stammer up at him, your mind flitting from word to word disjointedly. Shigaraki grants you a wolfish grin, and he dips his lips beside your ear, whispering over those tiny hairs that rest against your tender skin. “I’ll make this part easy. Nod and I’ll give you the first set of instructions.” 

What did he say? Nod? What happens when you nod? Fuck, why are you letting him do this? Is your grade really worth it? Are you that desperate that… that… 

Shigaraki is whispering other promises over you as you war with yourself, speaking his words gently, slowly, his breath hot as it fans over your neck. It’s like you’ve fallen under some kinda spell and before you realize it, your traitorous head is bobbing up and down, letting him know you want him to keep going.

“Perfect,” he sighs, his lips grazing over the shell of your ear, jerking a shiver from you. “Now, lean forward and put your hands against the table.” 

You do as he says, but he’s not satisfied with your positioning, his fingers wrapping around your wrists and yanking you forward, jutting your ass out and pressing your chest down, maneuvering you until your nose is right above the pages of the textbook. “There we go,” he rasps, pulling away so he can admire your splayed form. “Hmm, your legs are too close together. Spread them.” Knees trembling, you obey, gasping when he runs a palm against the curve of your thighs.

“You’ve got such nice legs (Y/N), so let’s put them on display, shall we?” His fingers search against the top of your skirt and they still when he reaches his prize: the zipper. When he pulls it down, you let out a sharp squeak of protestation but he silences you with a swift pinch to your side. 

“Now, now, don’t be like that. You nodded, remember? Besides, you could have left when I told you I’d give you a curve but you couldn’t help yourself could you? You want me to keep going and to do that, I need you to take this skirt off. No, don’t move. I’ll get rid of it for you. Why don’t you focus on the task at hand, hmm? Aren’t you supposed to be reading for me?”

You arch away from his fingers and he chuckles at your impudence, one large hand hooking under your chin and pulling you toward his face. His red eyes blaze as they find yours, the dark pupils threatening to swallow up that deep vermillion. “Let’s start with the second paragraph. If you do well, I might grant you a reprieve.” 

Jerking your face from his grip, you twist back to the text, trying, and failing, to ignore his inquisitive fingers, unable to resist sighing as he works one up your inner thigh. He pauses when no words fall from your lips and you grumble out a few low curses before acquiescing to his silent demand. 

“The flow of genetic information in cells from DNA to mRNA to protein is described by the Central Dogma, which states that genes specify the sequence of mRNAs, which specify the sequence of proteins. The decoding of one molecule… the… the… molecule… by spec-specific…”

He’s slipped your skirt down over the swell of your ass, but he’s taking his time, flexing out the front of the material and dipping his fingers over the bump of your lower stomach, kneading into the delicate flesh that’s stretched out for him. You can’t help the twitch of your spine and you involuntarily wiggle, palms slipping forward, dragging you further along the tabletop. Shigaraki chuckles above you, running his rough lips over the back of your neck.

“You’re so sensitive. I’ve barely touched you.” 

He circles his hands back to your skirt and edges it along, lowering it sharply on one side and then giving the same treatment to the other. You’re doing your best to keep up with your stammering readings, but it’s difficult when he keeps sighing and running his long nails across your newly bared skin. Finally, he works the skirt down and it thumps against your bare ankles; the fabric tickling your skin. 

Meanwhile, his other fingers skitter against the elastic band of your rapidly dampening panties. Once he hooks the lace under his hand, he yanks them along your legs, trailing them sinfully slowly, ensuring that they glide down the billow of your thighs. His teeth nip at your ear when you stumble to a halt in your recitation and your hands tense over the grains of wood beneath them, your nails pinching into your palms. “If you stop, I stop,” he warns, his head bumping against yours, his sharp nose pressing against your pulse.

“You’re not exactly making this easy,” you grumble, doing your best to ignore his renewed pets and strokes. 

“Stop complaining,” he smirks, leaning away from your head to peer at your newly exposed flesh. “You better pay attention to what you’re reading or you’re not going to pass the questions I’ll be asking you.”

“Yeah, yeah, ow!” you squawk, whipping your head around to glare up at him. He fucking pinched you again! This time, he’d slipped his hand between your spread legs and tweaked your inner thigh, painfully. 

“Read,” he repeats, running those guilty fingers upward, lingering beside the heat of your cunt, careful to not get too close. When you start on the next sentence, one of his hands tugs up the fabric of your shirt, snaking upward until he’s thumbing against the wire of your bra. Once again, you falter to a halt and exhale a wavering breath. 

Goddamn it. This review is no review. You’ll be lucky if you can even recall what a cell is if he keeps this up. You hear his ominous intake of air and quickly resume your recitation, mumbling something about RNA and mRNA differences. 

Wait. Didn’t you just…  

“Looks like you’re having trouble listening to me. I told you to read aloud, not to repeat the same passages over and over.”

“Hey, at least I’ll have a firm grasp on those. You should ask me something about that s-section… ah–”

The hand that was resting under the cup of your bra has made its way underneath the lightly padded material, and his thumb and index fingers have trapped your peaked nipple between them. As soon as your snarky comment left your mouth, he’d twisted the bud, squeezing it until it throbbed. 

“Pay attention,” he commands, shoving your bra upward, freeing the globes of your breasts and cupping both of his broad hands under them. Your abused nipple stings and the mixture of sharp pain and jarring arousal goes right through you, stoking that coil that pulsed within your core, and sending a tacky flush of your essence down your spread thighs.

The next few words are a struggle. The text keeps blurring and your breaths are coming in fast and heavy. Shigaraki is still feeling you up, keeping his lips close to your ears, rasping sharp commands to you and dealing out lightning fast rounds of pinches and squeezes each time you falter. 

“I–I can’t… I don’t even know what I’m reading anymore,” you bemoan, your hips pressing against the edge of the table, legs trembling as you attempt to keep them apart. He’s deliberately ignoring your throbbing clit and a desperate edge is creeping into your voice. 

“Are you always this whiny? Fine. I’ll give you a moment to read without any distractions.”

Thank God.

True to his word, he slips away from your back and you’re left shivering against his sudden absence. Despite your quaking, you’re determined to make the most of this chance and you quickly read out the paragraphs that are on the second page. As you ramble down to the last bit of text, you realize you can’t hear him anymore and when you finish the last sentence; you start to really wonder where he’s drifted off to. A tense silence follows your completion of the material and you arch up on the tips of your toes, jutting your ass out and stretching the stiffened muscles of your lower back. 

“Didn’t say you could stop reading, and judging from all of your complaints, I don’t think you got some of those earlier concepts, so I’d suggest doing a quick review,” he taunts, the sudden rasp of his voice startling a low gasp from your lips. 

He’s close; somewhere behind you and to the left from the sound of it. You try to twist around, your chest lifting from the table, and when he notices, his hands return, creating a rough pressure against your neck as he forces your body back down. His weight plasters you to the surface, scraping your partially exposed stomach and tender breasts over the nicked wood. Shigaraki is merciless in his swift correction, his breath puffing out angrily behind you. “Didn’t say you could move, either.”

Stunned, you freeze. Your arms are arched awkwardly, but he keeps his weight against you, flattening your breasts and forcing your back to arch into an awkward bend. Fuck, you think, how are you supposed to stay like this? Your legs are already aching and if he shifts away again, he’s likely going to expect you to maintain this absurd pose.  

“Yes,” he groans, his voice catching against the word, “Good girl. Now, stay just like that.”

Damn it.

“Go on, read the first part again,” he instructs. 

“The entire genetic content of a cell is known as its genome and the study of genomes is gen-genomics. In eukaryotic cells, but… but not in p-prokaryotes, DNA forms a complex with histone proteins… with histone proteins… sub-substance… of…”

His teeth have latched onto your neck, and he’s sucking bruises into your tender skin. He’s still pinning you to the table, but his hands are widening their explorations. He’s started dragging a fingernail across the puffy folds of your cunt, teasing against the dripping and swollen flesh, chuckling when you buck against his hold. 

“You always seem to lose it when you get to cellular modulations.”  

“I–I–It’s not… I can’t help that you keep…” you whimper, your fingers curling under your palms, head shaking back and forth. You can’t think. He’s not being fucking fair, and you can’t even string your goddamn words together. Shit. “Y-you’re not being fair,” you accuse, falling on the only thing that keeps running through your mind, your splayed feet shifting uncomfortably under you.

“Not fair? Not once did I say fairness would come into this arrangement,” he lifts himself off of your back and leans beside you, one arm planted beside your crooked elbow. His fingers trace over the curve of your ass, cupping at the thickest part of you and squeezing. 

“But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get a little satisfaction out of this arrangement. I bet you look good when you cum. And you’ve been working so hard to get my attention these last few months. So careful to do what I tell you. Looking at me with those big eyes of yours, all wide eyed every time I catch you looking at me. And don’t even get me started on your lips. You’re lucky I didn’t fucking bend you over after class, especially when you started wearing all of those cute little skirts for me. Ahhh, don’t moan like that, I won’t be able to help myself if you do. Let’s see how you’re doing, shall we?” 

Without warning, he slips his longest digit into your cunt, groaning loudly when he’s sucked into your welcoming heat. Your pussy, hungry for any kind of scrap, ripples around his intrusion, clamping and pulling, desperate for more. 

“Fuck,” he groans, his weight falling against your shoulder. “You’re soaking.” His elegant digit pushes deeper and you roll your hips under him, urging him closer, sighing when he sinks to the last knuckle. As he pulls his finger back, he adds another, swiftly v-ing the two before curving them together as they slip back out, dragging a steady line of pleasure from your quivering cunt. Shigaraki whispers another round of awed praise against your ear, his voice dark and breathless. 

A third digit is added on another trip out, and it creates a ragged sensation within you. It’s close to what you like, but he’s stretching you too far and it’s starting to hurt. He either needs to speed up, or give you a little more pressure. If you can hump your clit against the edge of the table, maybe it’ll give you the friction that you need. When you mindlessly buck your hips, your thighs threatening to lose that spread, he stops, holding his fingers inside you, laughing as you agitatedly try to shift him back into his earlier rhythm.

“So eager. I’d say you’re ready for my questions.”

“W-what?” you gasp, wholly focused on making him restart the push and pull of his fingers inside you. 

“I’ll start you off with something easy. What’s the cell membrane?”

“W-what? The cell… ah–” 

“Answer me. Now,” he grunts, leaning forward, re-steadying you as his fingers pull outward, dragging against your sensitive folds and schlicking through your arousal lewdly, loudly. You moan and your eyes roll back, completely ignoring his demand as you fall into the haze of pleasure that comes after his movements. 

His free hand travels up your neck and he tangles his fingers into the tendrils of your hair, yanking and jerking at the strands, demanding your attention.  

“I said, answer me.”

“Shigaraki–I–fuck. I can’t even… ugh… think right now!”

“Do you want the grade, or not?” he questions, his voice tense. “Answer correctly and I’ll give you what you want.” 

“I–I don’t think I can,” you whine, pressing your hips back as he thrusts his fingers forward again, curving them upward, searching for the spongy pad of nerves that rest against the front of your pelvis. 

“Oh? What happened to wanting that A? What about your graduation? You gonna let me fuck up your entire college career? I can do it, you know. I’ve done it to so many simpering freshmen. I fail kids left and right and you’re no different, (Y/N). 

The university lets me ahh–there it is! God, you’re so fucking wet. 

Where was I? The university can’t say no to me; they let me do what I want. I bring in too much money, too many tempting grants, and that’s all they really care about. So what’s it gonna be? Let me see that you can answer this basic crap and I’ll pass you. Or would you like for me to tie you down and force it outta you another way?”

He’s picked up the pace of his fingers as he rambles over you and a swift press against that newly discovered spot inside you has you falling to pieces in his hands, popping up onto your tiptoes and rutting yourself against the surface of the table. “O-ok, God, ok! Just–fucking repeat the goddamn question,” you pant, head slumping forward, forcing his fingers to tighten against your hair to hold you upright. 

“What is the cell membrane?” 

You wince your eyes closed, trying to rack your brain to focus on something other than the heavy pressure of the three fingers that are teasing their way across your dribbling pussy. He’s moving his presses with a lackadaisical, inconsistent rhythm now and it’s hard to fucking think. You can’t tell if his next thrust will be hard, or soft, or so rough that it’s bordering on that bittersweet line of pain. 

You shake your head, doing your best to ignore the mounting pressure that he’s building inside you and the ache of your neck and legs. Finally, after another sharp tap against that secret bunch of nerves at the front of your cunt, you latch onto a vague remembrance. 

“It… it’s a double layer of–of phospholipids that make a boundary between the cell and t-the surrounding… ugh… it controls the passage of materials.”

“Very good. Elaborate on the cellular wall.”

He’s unrelenting in his domineering treatment, twisting and frigging his fingers each time your breath hitches, and your arousal is leaking down your legs, making your skin stick and pull. It’s too much, you can’t! How can he even ask this? Words are falling from your lips incoherently, and all too soon you’re gasping out his name rather than reciting the answer. 

“Cellular–oh, fuck, Shi–Shigaraki–Please, keep–don’t stop! S-Shigaraki, God that… feels… ah–keep going!”

He ignores your request and pulls his fingers away, robbing you of that sweet pressure that he’s so carefully mounted within you. 

“I’ll count that one as incorrect. Your ‘A’ is swiftly becoming an ‘A’ minus, (Y/N)” he snarls, his teeth gritted, hands falling to the swell of your hips, wet fingers digging into your soft skin. 

“What? No! You didn’t give me enough… e-enough time! How can–can you expect me to answer that qui-quickly!”

“Let’s try another.” 

It hurts. That ache that he’s drawn out of you is starting to sting and throb and he’s being such a dick about it! You twist and grind under him, and he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“I don’t–” you protest weakly, your legs trembling and chest heaving under his weight.  

“Do you want this? Wouldn’t you like to pass this class? To graduate with honors?” he growls, leaning closer, his hands braced against you, his fingers no doubt leaving bruises on the supple crest of your hips. 

“You’re such an ass! Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then answer another question. What’s diffusion?”

“D-diffu-diffusion is the process by which molecules move from an a-area of… of… fuck- of high concentration, to low concentration. Shigaraki!”

“I should count that as another miss, but you got the major concept correct.” He removes his fingers from your waist and yanks your ass toward him, keeping your overeager hips away from the fleeting relief of the sturdy table. “Pop your legs together,” he commands, one hand wrapping around your arched throat, squeezing until you obey. His other hand drops to that thatch of curls that rest between your quivering thighs and he gathers up your gossamer strands, rubbing against your clit for one hazy instant, sending a flash of spots across your vision.

“Mmm, now that’s a pretty sight. Good girl, don’t move,” he reminds you and you want to scream at him. Right before you can spit some frustrated vitriol out, he’s releasing your neck, his hands dropping from your skin and letting you fall back to the uneven surface below. Just before your chin contacts the wood, his hand is back in your hair, tugging you upward, holding you a few inches above the table. The sharp pain makes your scalp tingle and you unconsciously rut against the tempting heat that’s now plastered to your ass. He’s hard. You can feel the stiff bulge of his cock straining against the front of his dark jeans, pressing into the cleft of your posterior. 

“T-that’ can’t be comfortable,” you pant, twisting your head so you can look up at him from the curve of your shoulder.

“Oh? You worried about my cock?” he asks, his red eyes flashing down at you challengingly. You don’t bother giving him a verbal response, opting instead to grind your ass up, catching against the jut of his length, earning yourself a low groan. His lips curl when you repeat the motion and you realize you love watching that smug face of his drift into a look of tense pleasure. It makes his scar on his lip flush and those red eyes of his fall to a lazy half mast. He spies your arched brow and pleased grin and pushes himself off of you, leaving you alone and open on the table.   

“Keep pushing your luck. I’m more than happy to drop you back to a B.”

“What?” you scoff, teeth clinking together as you clench your jaw. “I didn’t move!”

“No, but you’re trying to take control of this and we can’t have that can we?” Shigaraki sneers. “Now, how shall I punish you?”

“P-punish me?” you stammer, a chill racing down your spine. 

“Ah, I know. This’ll really piss you off,” he twists from your strained gaze and walks back toward his desk. What? What the fuck does he mean? You can’t see him from this angle, not with the way your legs are stretched and back is lowered, but it doesn’t stop you from trying, your chin lifting upwards as you do your best to keep him in focus. 

Ugh. It’s no use. He’s slipped past your field of vision. 

Hearing is likely your best bet, so you shift your forehead back to the table and listen, straining your ears to pick up any morsel. Something opens and closes and you catch the sound of the wheels of his chair as they shift, squeaking across the floor, and the groaning of the springs when his weight is applied to the cheap leather. 

Okay, so he’s in his chair. Is he just gonna look at you? That’s not… wait… 

There’s a faint clicking sound. 

It’s both familiar and unfamiliar to your ears, but once the teeth slide over the last pull, you realize. It’s a zipper. 

Oh fuck. Is he going to jerk himself off? With a gasp, your head whips back around. He’s still positioned himself away from you, and you can only just make out the sounds that are accompanying the undoubted rise and fall of his fist. All you can see is a tiny sliver of his body, but you catch sight of the coiling muscles on his neck and you notice that his head is dipped forward, pearl white hair settling across the cut of his collarbone. The one red eye that meets yours is blazing and hungry, it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand up.  

God, he’s staring at you, watching you, getting himself off as you’re half naked and bent over a desk in his office, fully subjugating yourself to his whims and fancies for the sake of your grade. 

Damn it, (Y/N). This should not be a fucking turn on. You should be disgusted, but the flush of slick that drips down your thigh says otherwise. 

He lets out a choked moan, picking up the pace of his hand, letting you hear the click and slip of his palm as it strokes up and down his cock. A shiver echoes up your spine and your hips seem to have a mind of their own, grinding your clenched thighs over the dip of the table, easing the clenching pulsations that your cunt is shuddering through you.

“Look at you, so desperate for my touch that you’re humping the fucking table. Such a dirty girl, and so disobedient. You’ve only answered a few of my questions correctly and yet your slutty little mouth and body keep pushing at me. Making me put you in your place. Let me ask you something, why should I go out of my way to fix your grade when you can’t even prove to me you understand the simplest concepts? 

Ah, here’s a thought. What if I told you I’ll wave the other requirements; no more readings, no more quizzes, but I won’t let you cum? What if I just get myself off? You’re putting on a such a good show for me! Why should I bother with seeing that you’re satisfied when that table seems to do the job for you? Sound good? Or would you like for me to come back over there and make you cum?”

“I–I don’t… I don’t want…” You can’t get the words out, your tongue feels leaden between your lips and you can’t think of anything but the steady itch that’s spreading from your clit. 

“Speak up,” Shigaraki demands, slowing his jerking fingers. The chair he’s sitting in groans as he leans forward, and his eyes wide as they take in the delicious sight that’s propped before him. “You don’t want to cum? Is that it? You’d like for me to get myself off and leave you there?”

“No!” you cry out, your fingers digging into the scuffed wood of the table. “I-I want you to make me cum.”

There’s a sharp clatter and you jump at the abrupt noise. It must be the chair you think, your heart pounding against your chest, waiting for Shigaraki’s next move. He only lets a few seconds drift by before he presses himself back to you. He leans his broad chest over your back, the front of his legs pushing against the back of yours. His exposed length is wedged firmly against the cleft of your ass and its tempting hardness makes you squirm under him, but he’s propelling you forward, pinning you against the rough wood, and you can only flail uselessly under his control. His lips skim over your neck and he bites into your skin, sucking and licking bruises as he inches closer to your pulse.  

You say his name pitifully, wantonly, and he lets out a shaky gasp. Something about your tone has shifted something within him and you can feel his cock swelling, dripping a rope of wet pre-cum down your shaking leg. 

He leans away, removing his sticky hardness from your ass. “Seems your priorities have shifted. You’re a little preoccupied right now, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice gravel scraping against your overwhelmed senses. You let out a weak moan and he snaps into action, his fingers pushing under your flattened stomach and tugging against the fabric that he finds. He yanks you upward, pulling your shirt up as he goes. His palms dip under your half lifted bra, and he cups at your breasts, massaging the rounded bulbs and plucking at your peaked nipples. Your head lolls back, and he sucks at your earlobe again, his breath warm and rasping as it passes by. 

“Hold still,” he commands. 

It’s not an easy position, this stretched upward arch that he’s forced you into, but it’s worth it when you feel his cock pushing between your tensed legs. He doesn’t thrust into you, opting to run his weeping tip against your slippery folds, pressing until his bulbous head is twitching against your pulsing clit. 

Goddamn it, you think as he stills, his lips smacking open-mouthed kisses over your shoulder, it’s not enough. You wiggle your hips back and forth and he abruptly exerts a firm pressure against your windpipe, leaving you sputtering and gasping. “What’s wrong? Not happy with this? Do you think you deserve something more? Do you think you’ve earned that?” He shoves you back against the surface of the table, his broad chest following the plane of your back, trapping you under his heavy form. 

You’d replied, you know you must have, but you can’t hear yourself anymore, your attention attuned to the warm length that’s pressed against your shuddering folds. You’d likely thrown in a please for good measure because Shigaraki rewards you with a quick peck to your shivering neck and his thumb, swirling it around your clit, creating a cresting ache that leaves you mumbling incoherently, a thin line of drool slipping from your parted lips. As he keeps that faint osculation up, your fingernails scrape over the wood of the table, your feet lifting you onto your toes, curving your back, and shoving your leaking pussy into his open palm. 

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” Shigaraki says, a breathy desperation lingering around the edges of his rasping voice. “But it’s just not enough, right?” 

You nod, licking up some of the excess saliva that’s built under your heavy tongue and crane your head back at him. His eyes are the first thing you see. They’re wild, ravenous and glinting with a roughness that makes you whisper out a soft whine. Fuck. It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re not supposed to want him this badly. Goddamn it. Now that he’s caught your gaze, he won’t let you look away, and he presses himself closer, his cock twitching and warm, the tip rubbing back and forth, keeping time with his circling thumb.

“You gonna fuck me, or not?” you finally ask, unsticking your lips and smirking up at his hardened face. 

“Tch. Don’t rush me,” he grumbles, removing his hand and teasing cock from your cunt, watching as your body convulses under him, your pussy quivering against the excess stimulation that he’s wrought over you. Your thighs burn, aching to break free from his control, to rub against that throb, that tingling that keeps shuddering outward.

“One more question,” he tells you, lifting his dripping thumb to his lips and sucking off the traces of your arousal. The sight of him licking his pink tongue over his gleaming knuckles almost makes you lose your balance, your arms shaking precariously under you. 

“A-another? Come on,” you pout, your eyes following the curve of his wicked lips, watching as his scar quirks upward, amused by your useless defiance. 

“Make you a deal, answer it correctly and I’ll give you my cock. Sound fair?”

“Ugh, whatever, just hurry up,” you snap, so impatient and turned on that you can hardly think. 

The tip of his cock presses against your sopping entrance, pushing forward just enough to part your dripping folds but stopping before he clears that first, tight ring of flesh. The promise of his dribbling tip makes you lose any semblance of self-control. You thrash under him, but he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“No! Don’t stop! Come on Sh-Shigaraki–Don’t be such a fucking–ah–” 

“Do you want this? Do you want my cock?” he growls, leaning over you, his fingers squeezing down, no doubt leaving bruises in the supple crest of your hips. 

“Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then you better answer. What are cytosines?”

“They… they’re n-nitrogenous base… fuck… base that pair… that pair with guanine during D-DNA replication… I–please, please, Shigaraki! Fuck me! I want your cock! Fuck me, fuck me!”

Thankfully, he either takes pity on you, or can’t control himself anymore, his hips surging forward, gliding his thick length into your cunt and snarling at the mind numbing heat that waits for him. He keeps driving upward until he bottoms out, sharp hipbones grinding against the plushness of your ass. 

He’s not gentle with you, no he’s animalistic and raw, his thrusts papping into you with a terrifying strength. You would have liked something slower, something that lets you enjoy each imperfection and dip that raced along his cock, but this, oh, this is an exception because this is perfect. It’s not what you want, but it is what you need. 

The heavy fullness that he’s stuffing you with leaves you breathless, but you somehow manage to gasp out a string of nonsensical praises each time he drives back into you, overwrought by his roughness. 

This coupling isn’t kind, isn’t right, and is not healthy, for either of you. No, not with the way he’s using your shivering body, distracted with slacking that euphoric thrum that’s making his cock pulse and swell inside you.

But fuck it feels good and you can’t help but tremble with delight. These intoxicating thrusts of his ram him up against something that’s buried deep inside you, and each time he hits it another star of bright pleasure races through you. The familiar coiling of release is steadily mounting with each rapid fire rut he gives you and if he could just, ah, there’s something that’s… no, fuck, it’s, it’s not going to work. It feels good, but it’s missing one vital ingredient, one thing that he’s neglected to pay attention to, to notice. 

Your clit needs to be tweaked and rolled, and right now it’s pulsing away against the table, beating a sad tattoo into the grainy wood. Oh well, you think, head fuzzy, lost in the euphoria of his powerful cants, grinding your ass into his hips as he digs into another teeth chattering thrust. He’ll likely finish soon, and you’ll probably need to get yourself off later. It’s not something new, and it’s not like he’s going to care enough to focus on that, on you. This whole thing has been about control, so there’s likely no room for your own pleasure.

“What’s wrong,” he gasps out, his fingers lifting from your hips to curl beside your turned head. 

“What? N-nothing–I–” you pant, eyes rolling back as he hits that spongy patch of nerves again. 

“Tch. Hold on,” he interrupts, his voice rasping and breathy. He pulls himself out of you with a grunt and yanks you upward, hauling you onto the tabletop and flipping you on your back, bending your stiffened legs and bracing your knees against his lean forearms. 

He holds you apart, spreading you open with his powerful hands. You can see him properly now, and the sight makes your breath catch against the back of your throat. Fuck, he looks good. 

His long white hair is draped across his bare shoulders and his eyes are blazing pits of hunger, devouring the sight of you with those red irises. His jaw is clenched, and he glares down at you from his imperious height, his nostrils flaring as he drags in a quick intake of air. To your shock, he gives you a little time to acclimate to this new position, opting to languidly step forward, letting his slippery cock head press and tease at the dip of your opening. But right when you think he’ll move again, he stops, his eyes roving over the lines of your face. 

His sudden stillness makes you peer quizzically up at him and you scoot closer, your feet lifting from the table. The movement snaps him out of his stupor and he grabs your ankles, roughly pinning you back down.

“Keep still,” he snarls through clenched teeth, that scar of his lifting. 

You nod mutely and he rewards your unquestioning obedience with another powerful thrust, sinking his swollen cock back into your waiting cunt. He lets out a sharp groan and grabs at your hips, jerking you forward, already drifting back into that all-consuming rhythm he’d started earlier. His ruts are a little slower from this angle but, in no time at all, that familiar ache pools in your core, stoking and building at an alarming rate. The driving force of his hips soon has you blinking back spots and distant stars, and this time he adds the all important pressure of his thumb, circling the finger pad over your clit and dragging a broken moan from your quivering lips. 

“So that’s what you needed. You close?” he grits out, his lips set in a curled scowl. He’s lost some of that early control, his hips stuttering as they connect with yours, his power lessening, cooling, as he looks for your release. 

“I–I think–oh fuck, do that again. Yes! Just–ah!”

He angles your hips upward and gives your clit another quick oscillation, pressing down until you’re gasping. “There you go. That felt good. You’re getting tighter,” he laughs, looming over you, shoving your heaving chest downward as he jerks your hips into him, forcing your body to do most of the motion, making your shoulder blades scrape across the uneven wood. “Cum for me. Fucking cum on my cock, (Y/N). Cum and I’ll give you your A, I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want.”

Your spine arches as you break around him, your cunt greedily pulling him deeper, slipping him past the barrier of your tender cervix and earning you a weak shout of praise from Shigaraki. Seconds later, he’s pulsing and twitching against your walls, the warm pooling of his cum filling you up and spilling down your spread thighs. 

His head drops to your shoulder and the rough skin of his forehead sticks to your sweat dampened flesh. For a long moment you’re both still, each of you struggling to catch your breath, luxuriating in the tingling sensation of release. 

“I fucking hate you, you know,” you gasp out, your arms circling his back, fingertips etching vague patterns over his neck and shoulders. 

“Ha,” he snorts, “I’ll have to remember that. Don’t worry (Y/N), I’ll pay you back for that little remark next time.”

“Oh? Next time?” you chuckle, moaning as he twists out of your hold and pulls his softening length out of you. 

“I’ll fail you on every assignment if you try to keep away,” he threatens, his eyes falling to the gaping mess that he’s left behind. You cross your legs, denying him the satisfaction of leering at your dripping pussy. 

“Fine. But next time, fuck me on something softer than a damn table.”

tags: @spicy-skull​, @xwildskullx​, @yixxes​, @ghstmthr​, @rekoii​, @diaouranask​, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love​, @libiraki​ <--- i’m coming for you. you’re gonna have to read for this, lady. so, uh, i’m officially noneconing you here. 

notes: you made it! this thing is a monster & i’m so sorry i can never stfu

[lord-pigeon]

Okay as par my notes from last post, Objectively Good Designs (from a design standpoint):

Amber

Barbara

Cyno

Venti

Zhongli

Now this going off a few bits of criteria. Most specifically: Silhouette (can you tell this character apart from others if blackened out), Looks (what their job/personality is by just taking a quick look), Color Coordination (do their colors make sense/not clash), Simplicity (are they simple enough that you can just make them by poorly sketching them), and general vibes

Now Venti, I'll be honest, is pushing it a bit for the Simplicity bit, but if you took away all the details it's still him. Same goes for the others. Now, notably, these are all early and/or manga characters.

Especially for the manga characters since no artist with their mind in tact is gonna draw a gacha character's 86 zippers every panel. My justification under the cut:

Amber:

Originally the postergirl until the fandom shat on her and now she's thrown into barely-relevant hell. Due to that, they clearly kinda gave a shit about what they were doing, so let's go through.

Silhouette: Honestly, the bunny hairband is what makes her pop, when paired with goggles and her hair. Not a lot of characters have that combo when paired with her perkiness, so she does certainly stand out from the crowd

Looks: Goggles, shorts, and a general "aviator" esque look makes me think pilot. She's a gliding ranger, so that's as close as you'll get to pilot in fantasyland.

Color Coordination: Reds and Browns with a hint of white or yellow. Nothing crazy.

Simplicity: Just add the bunny band and her jumpsuit and really you got Amber.

Barbara:

Silhouette: She's generic, but it works for how generic she is. Pigtails, poofy dress, and the nun-nurse-esque cap are her three bits. Her problem is that other "nurse" characters tend to look similar, but her poofy dress sticks out since anime really likes the skin-tight nurse uniform vs poofy idol-esque dress.

Looks: At first glance, you'd never think she was a nun. But with her cap and her pigtails and cheerfulness, you'd def check her down for an idol. Since she's a healing (/nurse) nun...idol....entity, this works fine for her.

Color Coordination: White and Blue with a slight hint of cream/gold

Simplicity: Pigtails and a nuncap, a simple poofy dress, and bam, there's Barbara. She's a harder sell than others because well, she's an idol-nurse and those aren't that rare, but if put against those that aren't her archetype, she sticks out fine.

Cyno:

Silhouette: A very funny situation because of his helmet. His helmet is his silhouette. Since he's meant to be the Anubis archetype, that's almost perfect for him because it almost seems like his head is actually a jackal's.

Looks: Again, as an Anubis archetype, it's hard to fuck that up. He plays into that trope just fine and is actually one of the better versions of it. Anybody who knows about Anubis would probably assume Cyno has something to do with death, or judgement. As basically an assassin for plagiarists, that checks.

Color Coordination: Purple and Black with a hint of gold and white

Simplicity: Jackal helmet and everyone knows its Cyno. Personally, I wish they kept his blindfold and more monstrous bits from the spirit, but guess I'll die. They took away Nahida's character animations ffs.

Cyno is a very weird situation because the Anubis aesthetic is an incredibly solid one, and one that is so good, it doesn't raise to need much change. Of this list, he does feel the most weirdly complicated, but he's also the least dressed one here, so it's a strange balancing act.

Venti:

Silhouette: Typical bardish silhouette, so can easily be mistaken for others his archetype, ala Barbara. Yet if added with his pose, it sort of isolates itself as something unique.

Looks: He looks like a genki bard, he is a genki bard. Peak Leetle German Boie. All he's missing is lederhosen.

Color Coordination: Green and Brown with some white and gold

Simplicity: If you take away all his finer details, nothing about his design will really be lost. It sorta works in that sense. It's weirdly complicated at points, but without it, nothing about Venti's design....changes, per se.

Zhongli:

Disclaimer, this would have been a much different analysis if Chong Yun wasn't released in Arknights, or Yakumo from Nu Carnival existed yet.

Silhouette: A very smooth and elegant shape since he's wearing more or less traditional clothes. It's sorta difficult to gauge Zhongli since he's so rooted in Chinese design, it's like trying to gauge the silhouette of like, donghua characters, since they're so very Chinese, ya know?

Looks: He seems like a serious sort of fellow, and I recall the word ethereal being thrown around back during his release, which is accurate. Of all the archons so far, he really seems the most like a god or divine figure. He looks wise, and he looks pretty. Not quite as strong or brutish as one would expect from Geo, which is the dynamic his statue gave off, but again, a lot of his stuff is rooted in culture

Color Coordination: Brown and gold with a hint of orange

Simplicity: You can put him in MSPaint and it still would end up as Zhongli once all the details are taken out. However, there is a bit of a rising archetype of "brown-themed asiatic pretty boys with vague martial artist skills" which I think he started. Zhongli still sorta sticks out amongst his peers, but well, he has peers now. There's a reason people jumped onto Nu Carnival after seeing Yakumo and calling him BL Zhongli (coughmeincludedcough) and why I personally call Chong Yue Arknights Zhongli.

He's a weird, sorta iconic design like I feel Jing Yuan from Star Rail's gonna be

[angryschnauzer]

Do You Want Some Hunny

Summary: Your roommate brings you to a Halloween costume party and your costume is Winnie The Pooh, and you find another resident of the Hundred Acre Wood there who shows you just how well Tiggers can bounce.

Pairing; Henry Cavill x Female Reader (Moodboard disclaimer: Usually i keep any physical images of women out of my moodboards, but i couldn’t find a shot of the shorts without a model in. It is mentioned in the story that the reader purchased the shorts and they/she were not the same as the model)

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Crackfic, Smut, Public fingering, Oral Sex (female recieving), unprotected sex, Creampie.

I do not operate a tag list, but please pop over and follow @angryschnauzerwrites​ and put that blog onto notifications. You’ll then get an alert every time i post a new story.

Masterlist can be found on AO3, Link HERE.

Do You Want Some Hunny?

You hurried along the pavement, trying to keep up with your roommate as she stalked ahead in her sky high heels, somehow managing to not get them caught in the trim of her Morticia Addams costume. You had opted for your Red Converses that matched your costume and yet still you were having to trot behind her. Fighting against the wind that whipped at your bare legs, you clung to the long parka coat you’d thrown on over your costume, cursing the fact that what you’d chosen at the last minute from an urgent amazon prime order had been more designed for warm climates.

The Winnie The Pooh ears you’d had left over from a trip to Disneyland a few years back were what started it all, a red t-shirt borrowed from your roommate that seemed a lot longer on her than you, and the only thing missing was something yellow to wear with it. You hadn’t wanted to wear a skirt, so had opted for a pair of velvet yellow shorts, however they were a lot shorter than had appeared in the photo, and were very much hotpants rather than shorts. Anyway, they had arrived just a few hours before the party, so it was them or forgo a costume, and not wanting to be a party pooper you decided to go with it. 

Following ‘Morticia’ up the porch steps, your heart sank when you saw everyone else’s costumes as they milled around; it was all spooky, dark, and horror movie costumes. Nothing as cute or fluffy as Winnie The Pooh. The host called out to your friend - her girlfriend - and you smiled as you watched the other woman who’d slicked her hair back and had drawn on a mustache to look like Gomez Addams embrace. ‘Gomez’ turned to you and grinned;

“Thanks for coming, i was worried people wouldn’t want to come, let me take your coat”

Shrugging your jacket off you handed it over and fidgeted as she glanced over your costume, you tugged at the shorts;

“Yeah, it was a last minute costume… not very Halloweeny like everyone else”

Gomez winked at you;

“Oh you’re not the only resident of the Hundred Acre Wood here tonight, c’mon, let me get you a drink seeing as my love has wandered off to behead the roses again”

-

Two hours later you were pleasantly buzzed from a couple of beers, and had been introduced to the other Hundred Acre Wood escapee that was at the party - Tigger - who tended to go by the more human name of Henry. 

Six foot of pure muscle was now animatedly installing the virtues of PC gaming having discovered you were starting to learn how to play yourself, all whilst dressed head to toe in a Tigger Onesie. On anyone else it would have looked absurd, but with the zipper undone just enough to show off an inviting patch of chest hair he managed to pull it off. And it wasn’t the only thing you wanted him to pull off. Your attention wandered to his hands and how he was able to circle a beer bottle with his fingers and your words faltered as you explained how you were the hosts girlfriends roommate, instead turning the question back to him;

“So, how do you know Gomez?”

“We’ve been working together on a production here, she’s let me stay in her guest room whilst we’re on a break from shooting”

“You’re an actor?”

He actually blushed at that point;

“Yes… and its quite refreshing to talk to someone that doesn’t immediately recognise me”

Before you could say anything a shout came from the living room;

“Come on! Movie’s about to start!”

Henry led the way and you discovered most of the seats and spots on the sofa’s were taken, finding a single soft chair as he flumped down into it, his legs spread. You paused for a moment before he took your hand without even thinking and pulled you onto his lap;

“There’s enough room for two”

The room was cold, so as the movie started you found yourself snuggling up to the warmth emitting from Henry, envious of his onesie. The room was dark and the massive screen was at the furthest point of the room so everyone’s attention was trained away from the two of you. The movie was one of those modern creep-fests, with ghosts creeping around and the stars oblivious of the entrance to hell they built their cottage on, and with every scare you clung to Henry tighter, his strong arms wrapping around you. Soon you weren’t even paying attention to the movie, your nose hooked under his chin and you let out an involuntary shiver as you were surrounded by his scent.

“Cold?” he whispered

“A little”

He reached and grabbed a blanket that had been tossed over the back of the chair, pulling it over the two of you and it suddenly felt like you were in your own little cocoon. With the warm fabric up to your shoulders you shivered again when Henry slid his hand down beneath the blanket, a grazing touch against the curve of your breast and you found your body arching for more of his touch. He turned to look at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as his gaze consciously focused on yours, licking your lips you gave the smallest nod as he pressed forwards. The kiss was silent and as his plump lips caressed yours you sank into his embrace, his hand finding the edge of your top and slipping beneath the fabric, moving to cup your breast through your bra. As his thumb brushed over your nipple you let out a tiny gasp, but it was enough for his tongue to slip inside your mouth. 

The kiss deepened and you shifted on his lap, suppressing another groan when you felt him starting to harden beneath you and even through the thick fabric of his onesie you could tell Tigger had a lot for you to bounce on.

Henry however had traced his wandering touch down your body and was toying with the edge of your shorts, a featherlight touch over the inseam had you gasping against his lips. His voice was low as he spoke, barely a whisper;

“Does Winnie want me to play with her Hunny Pot? I bet you’re delicious”

“Henry!” you shushed him; “We can’t, not here!”

“I wasn’t going to eat it, i was just going to taste it… for now…”

Slipping a finger beneath your shorts he hooked them to the side along with your panties, his thick digit swiping through your folds and seeking out your clit, rubbing firm tight circles against it before letting the elastic snap back into place as he brought his finger to his mouth, humming as he tasted you.

Just at that moment there was a pop and the power went out, the movie shutting down and the emergency light in the hallway the only illumination. Gomez stood and said she was going to call the power company, returning a few minutes later with the bad news that a car had taken out a utilities pole down the street, knocking out power for at least a few hours. A suggestion of heading out to a local bar was floated, with general agreement, but hidden by the noise of everyone else your groan of disappointment was both heard and felt by Henry;

“Lets stay here” he whispered; “Come up to my room. We can… snuggle…”

“Just snuggle?”

His wicked grin told you he wanted to do a whole lot more, and in the melee that followed as people searched for their coats by the light of their phones, Henry was able to lead you through the house and up the back staircase, grabbing a couple of halloween lanterns as he went. 

-

Pressed into the mattress you were buck naked as Henry pressed kisses down the valley of your breasts and across your stomach, before disappearing between your thighs. You ached to run your fingers through his hair however he still wore the Tigger Onesie, and what made the situation seem so surreal was that all you could see from between your legs was the top of Tigger’s head. 

Henry’s tongue worked utter magic on you as he slid two thick fingers into your tight hole, sucking on your clit until you were bucking beneath him, clawing at whatever your hands could reach before he suddenly pulled away;

“Fuck, that pussy tastes amazing… but i wanna be inside you…”

Kneeling between your legs he unzipped the onesie all the way, his dick springing out from the open zipper.

“You were going commando?”

He grinned at you and winked;

“I was enjoying hanging loose and free until you walked into the party… from the moment i saw you i’ve been sporting a chubby…”

Fisting his dick he lined it up with your entrance and pushed in, the both of you gasping at the feel of skin on skin and the stretch of his fat cock filling you. Setting off slowly he rolled his hips, finding that delicious spot deep inside you almost immediately;

“Fuck, Henry…. Please, harder…”

“You asked for it Winnie… just watch this Tigger bounce!”

He started to pile drive into you, fucking you into the bed you were sent to heaven and god turned you around and send you straight back down again, Henry pushing his legs further apart to get even deeper, the slapping of his balls against your ass and the thick root of his dick rubbing against your clit almost overstimulating you already, trembling around him as he fucked you even harder;

“Are you gonna cum for me, soak me in your hunny?”

“Yes… keep… keep doing that…”

Just a few more thrusts and you were cumming hard, your body gripping him tight as he slowed his thrusts. As you lay trembling with aftershocks from your orgasm, he pressed kisses to your neck and chest, muttering soft praises before he carefully pulled out;

“I’ve gotta take this off before we continue…”

“Conti…. Oh… you haven’t cum yet…”

“Nope… hope you’re ready for round two”

You watched as Henry finally stripped himself of the Tigger Onesie and you got to seem him in his full glory for the first time; dark brown curls, wide shoulders and incredible arms, a chest you just wanted to lay your head on and sleep. As your gaze unashamedly travelled further, you clenched as you followed the thick trail of hair down his stomach to his crotch, his dick still standing hard and proud, before taking in the thick thighs;

“I wanna ride you…”

He laughed, a deep rich cry of happiness as he climbed onto the bed and kissed you before rolling onto his back. Holding his dick steady he watched as you straddled his waist and positioned yourself over him, before slowly sinking down. When you were fully seated he held up his hand;

“Wait a sec…”

Grabbing your Bear Ear headband he lifted it onto your head;

“C’mon Winnie, work that Hunny Pot for me…”

Just at the moment the bedroom door opened, and in the faint light of the halloween lanterns you saw Morticia and Gomez look in shock then laugh;

“Yeah, Tigger and Winnie are fine…”

The door clicked shut and you felt a light smack on your ass, bringing your attention back to Henry. Resting your hands on his chest you rolled your hips and gave it all your worth, giving him the full rodeo. Soon you could feel him start to tremble beneath you, and he quickly sought out your clit, rubbing circles against the tight bud with his thumb as you started to cum, your walls squeezing him tight and setting his own orgasm off as you milked him dry.

He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you to his chest, pressing kisses to your face before you rested your head on him.

-

When you woke the pale light of November 1st was creeping in through the drawn curtains, and for a moment you forgot where you were. Then the heavy muscled arm of the beast you bedded the night before pulled you closer, the warmth of his chest pressing against your back;

“Morning Winne”

“Tigger…”

His hand slid down your stomach, brushing against the patch of hair;

“Hows your hunny pot this morning?”

You hooked your leg over his as you turned your head to look at him;

“Ready to be refilled”

[shotgun--rider]

Fake It Till You Make It - Two

A Sam x Reader Series

PART TWO

Y/N knows it’s a bad idea to try telling her family that she’s dating Sam Winchester. But it’s just for the week of her sister’s wedding, and it’s all fake anyway. What could go wrong?

Word Count: 4100

Warnings: plus size! Reader, fatphobic, & diet comments, Y/N’s family are demons, allusions to drug use

A/N: Significantly more fluffity fluff than I intended this part to have. So enjoy it!

Aunt Abaddon’s garden, like the rest of the house, was oversized and vaguely vintage-designed and expertly manicured by underpaid grounds staff. It was less of a garden and more of a courtyard-esque mingling space, really, and it was currently filled with all of the people you would have been perfectly content to never see again. 

Involuntarily, your hand tightened around Sam’s, and he responded immediately with a reassuring swipe of his thumb over the inside of your wrist. You tugged nervously at your sundress with your free hand for a moment, trying to scope out the least disastrous location to aim for, and winced as your mother immediately came barrelling toward you. 

You dropped Sam’s hand just in time to catch her as she squeezed you (too hard) in an over-the-top hug, squealing in your ear at some kind of bat-radio frequency. “Oh, thank god you’re here. We were beginning to worry, weren’t we, honey?” She beckoned to your father, who sidled up with an awkward grimace and an untouched glass of something very pink in his hand. 

Her hands came up to frame your face, squeezing your cheeks, and she tilted her head critically. “You look...pale. Doesn’t she look pale?” Her eyes rolled impatiently. “You’re not sticking to the keto, are you?”

You exhaled heavily, pulling your face back out of her grip and suddenly feeling very small. “No, Mom.” You had a whole speech you’d delivered many times to other people about how diet culture was all bullshit anyway, but your mother always had a way of making you feel like your words would be wasted if you bothered to speak. 

“How many times do I have to tell you, Y/N? Your life could be so much better--you could look like Ruby, you know, if you put a little effort in. She’s tiny, and now she’s getting married.”

“That’s because she survived on crack in college, Mom,”

Your mother rolled her eyes, waving it off. “Well everybody has to have something,”

Your mouth tightened into a thin line, her words needling into you the way they always did. “Okay, Mom,” you said tiredly. “Whatever you say,”

She hmmed at you like she didn’t believe you, but let go and turned her attention over your shoulder. “Who is this?” Her eyebrows were making an escape toward her hairline and you couldn’t deny that it was a little bit satisfying watching her tilt her head up trying to look at Sam. 

“Mom, this is my boyfriend, Sam.” The lie came out smoother than it had the last time you tried it, but the words still felt like they wanted to stick in your throat.

“Mrs. L/N,” Sam extended his hand toward her, but she didn’t take it.

“Y/N, how did this happen?” she asked dismissively, waving at Sam on the word ‘this’ like he was something inanimate. 

Sam offered her a polite laugh, his hand coming to slide around your waist and tug you into his side, warm through the thin material of your dress. “Uh, the usual way?”

Your mother sniffed, crossing her arms as she looked between the two of you. “The house is all her aunt’s, you know; Y/N doesn’t have money.”

Right. Because the only way you could bring home a good-looking boyfriend (or any boyfriend at all, apparently) was if he was looking for money. You cleared your throat, your hands twisting together anxiously. “He’s a lawyer, Mom, he doesn’t need money,”

You weren’t actually sure if Sam had all that much money, given that Dean was always talking about all the pro bono cases he took on, but it would hopefully shut your mother up.

“A lawyer? But--”

“Yes,” Sam cut in roughly, “and I consider myself very lucky to be with her.” He dropped a kiss to the top of your hair, selling your relationship with more ease than you’d expected, and you focused on reminding yourself that was what it was--two friends selling a lie. 

Your mother sputtered indignantly, unable to come up with any further response, and you took the opportunity to slide off to the side, aiming for the shock of blonde hair you were fairly certain belonged to your most tolerable cousin, Meg. To your surprise, Sam followed without letting go of your waist, though you weren’t really sure what you had expected. You were trying to look like a couple, after all. You just had to remember not to get used to it.

“Sup?” Meg half-slurred when you reached her, immediately holding out a glass of what was probably very alcoholic punch. You took it from her hastily, mostly to keep her from spilling it on herself, and sighed. 

“It’s barely three o’clock, Meg,”

“That’s almost five,” she returned cheerfully. “You didn’t think I was gonna do this shit show sober, did you?”

“I don’t blame you,” you mumbled, cautiously sniffing the glass. It smelled overpoweringly of alcohol, and you figured someone--possibly Meg--had spiked it well beyond the original content.

“So, who’s the hottie?” Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at Sam. “And where do I get one?”

Sam could tell she was harmless, and he laughed easier this time, letting the most-of-the-way-drunk woman tease him. It was kind of sweet to watch, if in a mildly alarming way. Meg had been your only solace growing up, but she’d lived too far away to be more than a buffer at big family gatherings. Still, you knew how she could be, and you weren’t too confident in leaving him alone with her. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t look like you were going to have much choice. A claw-like hand was suddenly digging into your upper arm, and you turned to meet your sister’s cold eyes. “You need to come with me,” she announced, leaving you barely enough time to set the glass you’d been holding down on a table before she was physically hauling you out of the conversation. Sam shot you a slightly concerned glance, but Meg immediately demanded his attention back, and you allowed your surprisingly strong sister to pull you back toward the house.

“What do you want, Ruby?”

The expression on her face was equal parts annoyed and vindictive. “You missed the fitting for your dress. I figured I had better make you do this now,” she sighed, “in case we have to alter it again. Not like you seem to care,” she muttered. 

“Ruby, I already told you I couldn’t get off work--”

“Whatever,” she cut you off. “It’s whatever. I just thought maybe my maid of honor would put in a little effort, you know?”

You gritted your teeth in silence, knowing nothing you could say would change her mind. Everything in Ruby’s life that went wrong, from the time she was a child, was always someone else’s fault. Somehow, neither of your parents had thought to correct that assumption before she grew up and took it into the world with her, but, given the way your entire family was, it shouldn’t have surprised you. 

Following her reluctantly into a sitting room on the second floor, you watched Ruby sift through a standing rack of silvery-gray dresses. None of them were particularly flattering, and you had no doubt that whatever she’d picked for you would be especially ugly, in her passive-aggressive way. It wasn’t like you’d expected a pretty bridesmaid’s dress, because, really, weren’t ugly dresses the stereotype anyway? Still, it was the same kind of thing she’d done to you since you were kids, and it left a sour taste in your mouth. 

Ruby handed you a mass of slippery fabric, and you held it up hesitantly, a cautious sensation of relief in your chest as you realized that it didn’t seem overtly horrible at first glance. 

“Hurry up,” your sister was waving at you, “put it on!”

You huffed, walking behind the conveniently located changing screen with a still-nervous pit in your stomach. You hated trying on clothes, from the time you were a teenager shopping with your mother, and she’d made comments about how the clothes you’d picked would look better in a smaller size. Even now, shopping alone, it was still frustrating and embarrassing to look in the changing room mirror and realize that you looked nothing like what you’d hoped you would when you were picking items off the rack. 

“I’m not wearing the right bra for this,” you warned Ruby, noting that the dress had a plunging back. 

“I figured, it’s whatever for now,” she said carelessly, then, “So how long have you and Sam been together? He’s new, right?”

“Three months,” you returned automatically, recalling the date you’d agreed on in the car as you shimmied your hips into the slinky fabric. It was a bit too clingy for your tastes, but that was what you’d packed extra shapewear for. 

“Huh,” Ruby mused from somewhere beyond the changing screen. You could hear her feet pacing softly, and you didn’t have to see her to know she had her hands on her hips and a smirk on her lips. “That’s like a new record for you. What’d you do, anyway?”

“Do what?” you grunted, twisting your arms behind you like the world’s most painful pretzel trying to grab the zipper. 

“Keep his attention. I mean, come on, Y/N, he’s gorgeous,”

“Why do you care?” you shot back. “You’re getting married,”

You could almost hear Ruby’s too-casual shrug. “I was just curious. I know he’s not staying for the sex. Dick said you never fucked him,”

“You talked about me?” you practically shrieked. It wasn’t enough that your bitchy, entitled sister was marrying your god awful ex, they had to bring you back into it too?

“Duh,” Ruby giggled. “Wait, are you still a virgin? I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me--”

Finally wrestling the zipper into submission, you lifted the hem above your bare feet and stormed out from behind the changing screen. “No,” you snapped out. “Do you like it or not?”

“God, Y/N, I was just kidding,” Ruby rolled her eyes. “You need to calm down. And, yeah, the dress is fine. Just try not to eat anything before Saturday,”

You just stared at her, the brief anger flaming through your chest dying as hurt welled up instead. “Every time,” you whispered. “You do this every time,”

“Oh, quit being so sensitive.” Ruby waved you off. “Hey, remember you’re picking up the cake and the flowers tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, no problem,” you returned hollowly, watching her bounce out into the hallway, leaving you standing there in an ugly bridesmaid dress, defeated expertly in the way she always knew how. 

And you had promised yourself that you weren’t going to let them make you cry, but your eyes were stinging and your chest felt tight. For what felt like the millionth time, you wondered what it would take for any one of them to actually act like they cared about you. 

You stripped off the dress mechanically, hanging it carefully back up to avoid Ruby throwing a fit, noticing as you did that every other dress on the rack was tailored to accommodate tiny women with tiny waists. The rest of the bridesmaids were Ruby’s crowd of friends, and you knew you were only part of this because it would have looked bad to not include her sister. 

Blowing out your breath, you put your own clothes back on and shook your head. This was a standard day in your house. Last Thanksgiving had definitely been worse. So why are you still letting them get to you? You snapped at yourself. Get over it, Y/N.

You knew that you should be going back outside to Ruby’s little pre-wedding garden party to rescue Sam, who was probably in well over his head by now, but you couldn’t stomach the thought of dealing with any more of it right now. Before you could change your mind, your feet were pointing toward the third floor staircase, and you were making a beeline for your bedroom. 

“There she is!”

You stopped in your tracks at the sound of his voice, swearing a blue streak inside your head. What on earth had you done in your life to deserve this kind of brutal cosmic karma, anyway? Turning slowly, you let out a resigned sigh. “Dick,”

Your stupid ex-boyfriend was smiling with all of his perfect white teeth, hands slid into the pockets of a pair of very nice dress slacks as he meandered down the hallway toward you. “It’s been a long time, Y/N,”

“Best two years of my life,” you confirmed with a nod, well past the point of being nice, even if you knew your entire family would inevitably end up hearing about you sassing the groom. 

He laughed as though you’d just told the funniest joke. “Charming as ever, dearest. You know, I still have a few days before I’m married. What do you say?”

“Ruby would kill you,” you tried, taking a step backward. 

Dick arched an arrogant brow. “Hardly, I’m sure she’d encourage it.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” you said flatly, your skin crawling at the mere thought of him. “Please go somewhere far away from me now,”

“It’s a public hallway,”

“Just leave me alone,” you sighed, turning away resolutely to resume marching toward the stairs. 

“Alright, alright!” Dick muttered. “Damn, I’m glad I chose the other one,”

His words shouldn’t have mattered, but they cut into you anyway. You slammed your bedroom door behind you with tears welling up in your eyes, kicking your shoes off across the room and marching to the bathroom halfway between misery and rage. See? Even slimy Dick fucking Roman doesn’t want you. 

You stared down your reflection in the bathroom mirror, all anxious bitten lips and red, teary eyes. You looked, in your personal opinion, a little bit deranged, and huffed out a breath, trying to control yourself before you went into full-blown ugly sobbing. That would just make you look like a mess for dinner. 

You weren’t sure how long you’d just been leaning on the sink, staring blankly at the outdated gold faucet, when you heard the door in the bedroom open. You swallowed hard, thankful you’d shut the bathroom door behind you, and debated between silently trying to pretend you weren’t there at all and just shouting for Ruby to get lost. 

“Y/N?” 

No, that was Sam’s voice, and that sent a whole new wave of panic through your body. This wasn’t Sam’s mess to clean up, this was so not what he had signed up for, hell, he’d barely signed up at all. What was any halfway decent person supposed to say when Dean and Charlie started ganging up on them?

A soft tap sounded on the bathroom door, and your voice came out slightly strangled as you bargained for time. “Yeah, be out in a sec!” You swiped your hands under your eyes hastily, blinking in the mirror like that was somehow supposed to make you look less emotionally flattened. 

Sam, evidently, wasn’t buying it. “Y/N, can I come in?”

Your emotions had been all over the place for the past week in the anxiety of having to come here and deal with this, and, apparently, just the sound of Sam’s concerned voice was enough to have tears welling up in your eyes again. Damn it. You pressed your quivering lips together, staring up at the ceiling like that was going to convince the tears to drain back into your eyeballs. 

The bathroom door opened behind you, and you opened your mouth on a gasping breath to say something just as you felt Sam wrap his arms around you from behind, pulling you back against him carefully without choking your neck against his forearms. The contact and gentle support broke the last thread on your tenuous control and you let your head fall forward as a sob wracked your body.

“Whoa, hey, what happened?” Sam sounded surprised at your sudden reaction, but he didn’t let go, just tucked you more firmly into his embrace and held on as your body shook with the sudden pain you hadn’t even acknowledged in your chest until now. “I got you,” he whispered just above your hair. “I got you, Y/N,”

You followed pure instinct, wiggling around in the circle of his arms until you could bury your face in his chest instead, and Sam let you, automatically adjusting to make sure you stayed tucked against him. He was warm and solid and safe, and he felt like home in a way you’d never experienced before, a physical barrier between you and the world. 

That thought jarred you out of your mini-breakdown, because you couldn’t afford to think like that. This wasn’t a rom-com and just because you had a stupid crush on Sam before this whole thing started didn’t mean you could let it go to your head. You pulled back from him slightly, wincing as you noticed the damp spot you’d left on his shirt. Your nose wrinkled, and you grimaced as you ducked out of his arms to grab several of the Kleenex on the back of the toilet tank. “Sorry,”

Sam had that look of adorably genuine puzzlement on his face again as he watched you blow your nose, unfazed like he couldn’t figure out why you were saying what you were saying.

You gestured vaguely with one hand at yourself, at the bathroom. “This shouldn’t be your problem, Sam,”

“Y/N,” he frowned, catching you in the web of those hazel eyes that somehow never failed to take your breath away. “I’m right where I want to be. I told you I had your back, remember?”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head wearily as embarrassment and frustration began to sink in. “This is so stupid,” you whispered turning your body away from him more than you really needed to toss the tissue from your crumpled fist into the trash can. 

“If it makes you upset, it’s not stupid, Y/N,” Sam argued softly. “You don’t deserve that from people,”

You paused at that, staring at him awkwardly as you tried to come up with a response. Finally, you settled on the truth. “I’m pretty sure no one has ever said that to me,”

“I’ll say it more often,” Sam reached out to you, his hand landing on your upper arm to gently pull you out of the bathroom. The sun was starting to set through the big west-facing window, and you let yourself fall back onto the bed with a groan as you remembered that the night wasn’t over yet. 

Sam walked over to peer down at you on the mattress, standing over you with an expression on his face that almost made you burst out laughing. “What?”

“Dinner,” you huffed, throwing an arm over your eyes for a brief moment. “I forgot they were going to expect us for dinner,”

“Do you want to go?” Sam raised an eyebrow, and you almost shot into a sitting position at the question. 

“What? No. Why are you even asking me?”

Sam shrugged, sitting down next to you easily and lacing his fingers together in his lap. “If you don’t want to go, then let’s not go,”

Turning to look at him with a smirk, you propped your head up on one hand. “Sam Winchester, are you suggesting we play hooky?”

His face split into a wide grin, his eyes dancing as if to say why not? “I’ll tell them I missed my girlfriend, and we can stay up here and leave them all downstairs to be jealous of our functional relationship,”

“Our functional relationship that’s so functional it’s fake?” You were laughing up at him now, and Sam Winchester was going down in your book as the only other person besides Charlie who could completely change your mood in under five minutes. 

Sam pouted at you, some of the light dimming from his face. “Exactly,” he cleared his throat.

“There is one flaw in this plan, though,”

Sam turned, flopping down on his stomach on the mattress beside you and making you bounce slightly. “Hm?”

You batted your eyelashes exaggeratedly at him, making your best puppy face. “I’m hungry.”

Which was how you found yourself creeping down the stairs in your bare feet with your hand in Sam’s even though nobody was watching, on a mission to raid the fridge. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Mr. Big-shot Lawyer,” you teased, peering briefly down the hallway to check that it was empty before continuing.

Sam shot you a mock-hurt look. “I’m in human rights law!”

You stifled a fit of giggles, cursing yourself for turning into a girlish idiot around him. “If Aunt Abi catches me down here, she will actually kill me,” you said instead, your voice conversationally sarcastic. 

“I think she’s still fighting with your uncle,” Sam shrugged, following you into the thankfully empty kitchen. “What do you want?”

“Ooh, did Uncle Fergus show up high again? And there should be a bunch of crap in there, just grab whatever.”

Sam blinked at you, holding open the fridge. “Why do you sound happy about that?”

You opened the pantry, lifting out a bag of chips. “Because, a, unlike my sister, he doesn’t try to force other people into drug abuse, and b, the fact that everyone hates him more than me is probably the only reason I’m still alive. Oh, grab the brownies!” you added, peering around him into the fridge. 

Sam just shook his head at you, studying you with an expression you weren’t sure how to identify. 

“What? I like brownies,”

He shook his head, hair sliding into his face with the motion, and pulled out both the pan of brownies and a bowl of tossed salad. “Nothing. I’ve just, uh, never met anyone like you before.”

“What, surprisingly well-adjusted?” you asked sarcastically. 

Sam held your gaze over the dishes in his hands. “I was going to say strong,”

You swallowed, glancing down, not sure how to answer. “Okay. Uh, we should probably get out of here. This is enough,”

Thankfully, he let it go, leading the way back upstairs and smiling at the way you burst out laughing as soon as the door was closed and locked behind you. Then, you watched him pull a spare bed sheet out of the bathroom and throw it down on the floor, sitting cross-legged and waiting for you to join him. “Dean used to do this for me,” he said quietly, sticking a fork into the salad bowl. “Sometimes Dad would leave us in motel rooms and Dean would try to make it like a picnic.” He winced. “Couldn’t cook, though. He was eight.”

You laughed softly, reaching out with a fork to pull a mouthful of lettuce from the other side of the salad bowl, your eyes soft as you looked at him. “Tell me more,”

You let Sam keep talking while you both munched on snacks and sprawled out on the floor, listening to the random stories of his childhood and, occasionally, something from law school. His voice was soothing, and you hadn’t realized you were tired until you were suddenly blinking back awake, the room pitch-dark and the thin carpet making your spine complain. 

Still half-asleep and fuzzy headed, you started to sit up, reaching for your phone, and noticed suddenly that something was holding you down. Your thumb grazed the home button, lighting up your phone’s screen enough to see, and you blinked in surprise as you realized that Sam was asleep beside you with his arm slung over your waist. 

A small smile crept on your lips as you studied his sleeping face in the dim blue light, completely at peace. Waking him seemed like a crime you weren’t willing to commit, and if part of you was unwilling to make him let go of you, well, who would ever know? You turned slightly, pillowing your head on one arm, and let your phone turn itself back off as you felt Sam try to pull you closer to him. Your decision made, you told your spine to shove its complaining. You could totally manage one night on the floor. 

--

tags: @vicmc624​,  @thebookisbtr​

[mychemicalficrecs]

Hey! Can you come by any Trans Frank or Trans Gerard Fics? Plz no fics that fetishize it.

There’s quite a lot of fic featuring trans characters in mcr fandom!

Trans Frank and/or Gerard

A New Design For X and Y by DeadFreddie, Frank/Gerard, 6k, Explicit. Frank Iero is the frontman in a successful band called Leathermouth, and Gerard Way is a comic writer working for DC. When they meet at one of Frank's shows, their mutual respect for the other's work becomes something a lot more personal. Oh and Frank's a trans guy and Gerard's nonbinary because I'm Trans And I Make The Rules.

Should be Living a Different Life by Chibifukurou, Frank/Gerard, 2k, General Audiences. Ella didn't want to miss hearing her favorite singer Frankie Iero. That doesn't make it any easier to go to the club when she's having such a bad day.

She's Like the Sun (and I'm Hanging On) by myrtlewilson, Frank/Gerard, 6k, Teen And Up Audiences. The Way sisters are like nothing Frank has ever encountered in his life. The three of them meet when he’s ten and to be fair, at that point, the Way sisters don’t even know that they’re the Way sisters themselves.

Let Me Tell You What's Right by fvckmefrankie, Frank/Gerard, 868 words, Teen And Up Audiences. There was no going back now. Gerard knew, he fucking knew something was up, and she couldn’t just lie to him.

I'm still me, Frank by giraffewrites, Frank/Gerard, 4k, Teen And Up Audiences. Gerard can't go another day without telling Frank. He can't go another day without telling him who the real him is. He can't go another day going by a name that isn't his and being called by pronouns that do not suit him.

But Why Do You Care? by frnkuloid, Frank/Gerard, 708 words, General Audiences. “Why do you care?” Frank immediately wishes he could rethink a way to say that a little more politely. God, he is so moronic sometimes. He sits, ponders, Gerard is furrowing his brow at the smaller boy who is now covered in a mountain of cotton and zippers. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but, you seem to be the only one who sticks around even when I’m too depressed to do anything. You could just be using me for my amazing habitat,” Gerard waves and turns his body to look and present the dingy basement they’re both in, “or my washer,” he looks directly at Frank, much more seriously than before, “but I’m pretty sure I need you just as much as you need me.” Gerard smiles, sincerely.

It's 'She' by fvckmefrankie, Frank/Gerard, 2k, Mature. “She,” Frank said, and Bob made a 'huh' sound, and Frank sighed, “It’s she, actually. Not he. She,”

Barely visible stars by giraffewrites, Lindsey/Gerard, 4k, Teen And Up Audiences. Gee had preferred it when she wasn't out to her school. The days when she could just be herself and not have abuse shouted at her as she walked the halls. The days when she wasn't scared of doing such mundane tasks such as catching the bus. And then Lindsey comes along, and maybe everything isn't completely shit for once. Maybe.

A Solid Right Hook by Go0se, Frank/Jamia, 13k, Teen And Up Audiences. Frankie was sick of the boy's certainty that he could talk to them whenever he felt like, was the thing. Five times Frankie Iero got into a fight and once when she didn't have to.

good-weird (gerard/bert/frank poly fic) by picht, Frank/Gerard, Bert/Gerard, 8k, Teen And Up Audiences. “Do you know what polyamory is?” Frank asks, and Gerard shakes her head. “So, like, okay. Polyamory is basically a relationship that involves more than two people. Like, an open relationship and stuff. It can be, like, a relationship where three or more people all love each other, or a relationship that involves multiple people but not everyone in the relationship is involved romantically with each other.” He stops here, with this look on his face like he’s very proud of himself.

My Lovenote Has Gone Flat by tragicivn, Frank/Gerard, 2k, Not Rated. Frank is in leathermouth, and Gerard is his best friend. They follow all his tours, and what if their secret comes out, what if Frank finds out they have a crush on him.

Not The Last Time by Redeemableforsurgery, Frank/Gerard, 2k, Teen And Up Audiences. “What’s up Frankie?” Gerard’s voice was soft and Frank covered his own face with his arm, hand resting on the back of his own head, fidgeting with his own hair. “I just…” he sighed again, not really knowing how to put what he was feeling into words without it turning into a rant, “I just wish it was easy, you know?” Frank is feeling dysphoric in the summer and Gerard cheers him up, short and sweet.

truth is now acceptable by orphan_account, Gen, 453 words, General Audiences. "I'm trans," she tells them, and Mikey looks at her with a raised eyebrow. But there's no disgust in Ray's face, and Gerard is almost smiling.

X-22 by abc04, Frank/Gerard, 75k, Mature. Nothing will ever happen to that boy ever again. She'll make sure of it, even if she has the whole world as enemies. Frank is her everything.

Not That Kind of Girl. by transgendergerard, Frank/Gerard, 1k, Teen And Up Audiences. When Gerard has a bad experience with an interview it makes him have really bad dysphoria for the rest of the day and the next. Luckily his boyfriend Frank is there to make it better.

Crazy 4 U by EarthToQuinne, Frank/Gerard, 9k, Teen And Up Audiences, Explicit. Frank hates Valentine’s Day but really loves Gerard.

Seven by EarthToQuinne, Frank/Gerard, 11k, Teen And Up Audiences. Gerard is in love with Frank but among other things, it's something he can't bring himself to say out loud.

in my time of dying by owbobmyhead, 5k, Not Rated. he just wanted to go home

Trans Gee and cis Frank by CaseyBenSullivan, Frank/Gerard, 10k, Explicit. After dating for a while, Gee finally takes the plunge and lets Frank see that he's trans.

Barriers by Brndn1095, Frank/Gerard, 14k, Explicit. After the Projekt Revolution kiss. You know the one. Frank wants Gerard, seems straight forward enough, but Frank worries Gerard isn't into him because he's transgender.

I Can't Anymore by totallyinnocent, 924 words, General Audiences. Jet and Poison hear a noise coming from outside, they move to investigate and didn't except at all what they found.

[myhockeyworld87]

Nervous Regrets - Tyler Seguin - Part 6

Requested: No

Word Count: 3922

Warning: Cursing

POV: Reader

Notes: Total fluff piece. Currently finishing part 7.

The last twenty-four hours had been a whirlwind; to call it a roller coaster of emotions would be too cliché. It was more like that carnival ride, the one called the Zipper; the long-armed ferris wheel type ride that held several free flipping cars, that caged your body in, as it rotated around and around. Spinning constantly, flipping you through the air when you would reach the peak of the arm; the ride left you giddy and nauseous all at the same time. In your teens, it was your favorite ride; now in your late twenties it was a metaphor for your life.

Last night you had no intentions of telling Tyler you were pregnant; in your circle of friends you were known as everyone’s confidant. The fact that you couldn’t keep your own secret wasn’t lost on you. There was no going back now, but what your next move with Tyler was going to be still had you guessing. From the moment you’d found out, you knew Tyler would be a part of the baby’s life; never questioned that. Clearly you hadn’t anticipated the joy he would experience; while not at first, it was quite evident at the end of the night he was excited about being a father.

 So, here you were, sitting on your couch in an old pair of Dallas Stars sweats; eating ice cream straight from the container, while you watched your baby daddy play hockey. While said baby, could not be seen yet; you were obviously taking this mom indulging in her favorite foods’ thing seriously. The only thing missing was the pickles, and since they made you nauseous even before you were pregnant; you had an inkling you wouldn’t be running to the store any time soon. It felt good to watch the Stars play again; you’d blocked them out of your life, just as you had Tyler. Oh, you still kept in touch with some of the wives and girlfriends, not so much now; but the first few weeks you did. It felt odd sitting in front of the television, when it was a home game; the norm usually being sitting in the designated wags section. While you didn’t quite belong there anymore now; this didn’t feel quite right either. But really was there anything in between?

 “Come on ref, that’s a fucking horrible call?” you yelled at the tv, then spooned another bite in your mouth, as you watched Rads get called on some bullshit high stick. Thankfully Tyler wasn’t on the penalty kill unit; it was added stress neither him or you needed. With about four minutes into the second, a bad turnover by the Kings had Tyler dangling the puck around the goalie. Weaving in and out looking for the perfect shot; you hadn’t realized you were on the edge of your seat. Faking to his left he shifted at the last minute, completely fooling Quick in the process; the puck skidded over the goal line, sounding the horn. “Score,” shouting at the empty living room, you cheered.

 Finishing the game, and the container of ice cream, you turned off the tv and headed to bed. Weeks of sleeping, still hadn’t prepared you for this tired feeling pregnancy brought with it; your body was exhausted. Mentally however, you couldn’t make your mind stop spinning; thoughts of Tyler occupying them. When you met him, he’d been your Prince Charming; sweeping you off your feet into a love so grand there was no other possible ending then happily ever after. That Cinderella wasn’t knocked up at the end of movie, after the prince had cheated on her; was something Disney must have omitted. Being the heroine of this fairy tale was going to take more than a pair of glass slippers that was for sure; hopefully, in sleep you’d find a godmother, that brought you sage advice and wisdom instead of a dress.

 When morning came however, you were no further ahead than you’d been the night before; so, getting up, you headed to work. The day went blessed easy in the morning; it was the afternoon that turned into a cluster fuck. First, Andrea brought you in a beautiful bouquet of red roses, long stemmed placed in an exquisite vase; they were the classic, something every woman dreams of receiving. It was who they were from that had you frowning. The card read simply, Hope you are feeling better, Always, Robert. Somehow you had pushed thoughts of him to the recesses of your brain. Despite his possessive nature, Robert deep down was a good person. He deserved to be told face to face, that things between the two of you weren’t going to happen.

 The second time she walked in, Andrea wasn’t carrying anything; which didn’t disturb you; that was not until she held your office door open for not one, not two, not even three; but ten gorgeous arrangements of flowers; all in hues of lilac. That the color was a melding of both blues and pinks wasn’t lost on you; though it surprised you Tyler would come up with it. Delicate blooms of roses, hydrangea dotted with small sprigs of baby’s breath adorn most of the vases. However, one stood out, while it still contained roses, this one had a unique flower interlaced in it; star shaped little blossoms ran up and down the stem. What stood out was the fragrance, sweet smells of springtime filled the air; giving off an aroma of new beginnings.

 Apparently, the florist had come along to deliver the massive number of flowers; she saw you take interest in the bloom. “It’s a hyacinth, the flower of forgiveness. In the world of magic, it is said to symbolize love and happiness as well as protect it’s recipient from harm.” Handing you the card that went with the arrangements, she turned to leave. It read simply, I’m sorry. I’ll never fuck up again. Love For All Eternity, Tyler. That’s when you noticed that damn single tear was back.

 “Thank you, so much. They’re all so extraordinary.”

 “Your welcome my dear. You must be very special and he must be extremely sorry. It’s not every day I get a call with such specific requests. Most men think the rose covers it all. But yours, he knew what he wanted before I could even make suggestions. Trust me they weren’t easy to find at this time of year either, or I would’ve done more than one bouquet.” She walked out the door, and that’s when you lost it. Dropping down into your chair, you sat there and sobbed. Sure, Tyler had sent you flowers after he cheated; now that you thought about it, they’d all been roses. Always in various shades and color, but always just vase after vase of roses. That he had specifically requested these for you this time, meant more to you than every rose he had ever bought you. Your heart melted a little more, the ice thawing so that even you weren’t sure if it existed. He’d said he was sorry, practically begged for your forgiveness, swore it wouldn’t happen again; you weren’t sure it was possible, but this, this was telling you that perhaps you should at least try. It wouldn’t be easy but maybe, just maybe if you did you both could find peace and be able to move forward together.

 The hour you took to collect yourself, put you behind with work and had you staying later than you anticipated; which meant you were running late when Tyler showed up. The small apartment was something you rented on a month to month basis as you tried to determine what the best living arrangement for you and the baby would be; it was nowhere near the house you’d lived in with Ty. Running to the door to answer it; you were still in your work clothes. “Hi Ty! Sorry I got caught up at work and ran late. I just need to change.” He stepped into the apartment, taking in all the surroundings. It had been furnished when you rented it, everything very clinical and clean, nothing that spoke to the person that lived there. All your belongings still in storage. “Have a seat, do you want a drink or anything? God, I think I have some wine or something here, not that I’ll be joining you.”

 “I’m good babe. I’m not drinking anymore either.”

 You were halfway back the hall to your bedroom, when what he said actually registered in your brain. Sliding your heels off, you had to know more “What? Why aren’t you drinking?”

 “I just…I don’t know. You can’t drink, I kind of feel like it’s something I can do with you; at least until the baby’s born.” No wonder you loved this man; that he wanted to do even something this tiny meant more than words could ever say. Entering the bedroom, you quickly grabbed a pair of jeans and a loose flowy top; thank god jeans were made with spandex in them nowadays, not knowing how many more times you’d be able to put them on this easily. Grabbing a pair of chunky wedged sandals, you headed back out to the living room; back to Tyler.

 “So where are we headed?”

 “I already told you, that’s a secret. You ready to go.” Excitement was radiating off of him; it was contagious.

 “Yeah, I just want to grab a quick protein bar. I think someone’s feeling a little snackish.”

 Chuckling he responded back, “Would that be you or the baby? Because I distinctly remember you used to always have snacks in that suitcase you call a purse.”

 Playfully, you swatted his arm. “So, I like my snacks, nothing wrong with that. Besides I also remember a particular someone, who would dig in that so-called suitcase, for something to eat on a regular basis.”

 “You got me there, babe. You did pack two didn’t you,” this while winking at you.

 “Of course.” With that, the two of you strode out the door, to the car. Being ever the gentleman, Tyler came over and opened the door for you; that he took the seatbelt and proceed to buckle you in was new. “What are you doing? You know; I can buckle the seatbelt.”

 “Just making sure you’re both safe and snug in here.” This over-protective thing was going to take some getting used to; though it did tear down yet another wall that you had built up against him.

 The drive was silent; soft music playing in the background; nothing like the drives you used to take. When his hand would be in yours or on your thigh; music as loud as it could be, you both singing the whole way, Tyler mainly off key. Reaching your hand over you began to scan for a station you both enjoyed. “What, you didn’t like what I had on?”

 “Ummm, no, not really. I thought we were in a freaking elevator,” chuckling you added “in a museum, run by dead people.”

 “It’s supposed to be soothing and create a loving environment for the baby.” Raising an eyebrow, you looked at him, like he had just grown three heads.

 “Where did you come up with that?”

 “I read it in one of my daddy baby books.”

 “Oh!,” it was the only response you could think of; your mind still grasping at the fact that he was reading a book for expecting fathers. That wall you thought about earlier was definitely crumbling now. “So, did you learn anything else,” this said while you worked your way back to the station with the elevator music on it.

 “Hmm, that you should start to show soon. That the kid is the size of an apple, pear or orange; that seems to vary depending on what book I read. Oh, and that we should be able to find out the sex at that next ultrasound you mentioned.” He seemed to really be doing his homework. “Do you want to find out the sex?”

 “Ummm, I hadn’t given it much thought. What do you want to do? I think it’s a decision we both have to make. Like I don’t think I could stand it, if you knew and I didn’t. It would drive me insane.” People always said that life was full of surprises; you kind of felt that statement contradictory. There truly weren’t many really authentic surprises left in life, but the miracle of life itself. However, knowing would make things so much easier, you’d be able to pick out the color of the baby’s room, buy all his or her clothes in appropriate colors, even have his or her name all ready. You really could go either way, and maybe this decision could be up to Tyler.

 “Hmmm, I think it would be fun to know. I kind of remember one of the guys talking about doing a baby reveal or something; which sounds like a lot of fun.” Well that decision was made; we’d be finding out at the next ultrasound it seemed. “But you know, when are we ever gonna get a surprise like this. Maybe when we have the second one, we can find out the sex, but I think this first one I don’t want to know. If that’s ok with you?” Woah, and here you thought that there were no real surprises in life, that statement right there was one; first that he didn’t want to know, second, that he was already planning your next child, together.

 Your stunned silence, had Tyler looking over at you wondering if you’d heard him. “Yeah, I agree, I don’t want to know. Unless it’s like super obvious or something.” Staring out the window, you tried not to focus on images his words evoked; a happy loving family, Tyler playing with your toddler on the floor of the living room, while you fed child number two. It was something you hadn’t let yourself think about; hadn’t seen this as your future after everything that had happened. But here, now, hearing his words; the picture was so real, you felt you could reach out and touch it. Shaking yourself, you brought yourself back to the present; seeing familiar homes pass by. “Are we going to the house?” While you’d made headway today; you weren’t completely sure you were ready to walk back into the home you once shared.

 “Umm, no.” His short answer was all you received. A few more turns had you slowing down to the apparent destination. The large house loomed in front of you; recognition dawning on your face as the vehicle made its way through the gate. You’d been here before, probably driven past it over a hundred or more times; always with this same man by your side, but never up the drive to the house itself. To say that the look you gave him was questioning was an understatement.  “Surprise!” That, that was the only word he said, it really didn’t give you any answers.

 He seemed so pleased with himself; yet you had no clue as to why. “Ok, I’m gonna need a little more than that Ty. Surprise, what?”

 “It’s the house, the one we always talked about raising our family in.”

 “I can see that. Why are we here?”

 “I bought it, for us.” He stated it that simply; smiling brilliantly at you. That you needed a deep cleansing breath before you even thought about replying back to him should have made him at least sense your mood; instead the lovable idiot just continued to smile.

 Massaging your temple, from the headache you could feel forming; you spoke as calmly as possible. “You did what? Tyler, what the hell are you thinking?”

 The smile that lit up his face dropped instantaneously. “I thought this could be a fresh start for us. Plus, we’ve always wanted this house. It came up on the market a few weeks ago; obviously I didn’t buy it then, we weren’t together. But I called yesterday and it was still for sale, so I had the realtor start working on everything, it’s practically ours.”

 “We’re not together now Ty. Why would you have him start the whole process? What the hell were you thinking?” That wall, which had been crumbling before, was now being rebuilt by a dozen stonemasons; their incessant pounding making your brain hurt. “Is this some grand gesture to get me to forgive you?”

 “Yes…no. God I can’t do anything fucking right with you; can I?” His head crashed against the back of the seat and he blew out a frustrated breath; hands clenching the steering wheel in front of him.  “I’m trying here. I really am. Can you just go inside and look at the place? Not for me, hell not even for you; but for the baby?” The pleading sound in his voice had you halting progress on the barrier around your heart.

  “Ok,” you relented; it wouldn’t hurt to just look at the place. The door to the house opened then and Tyler’s realtor stepped out; suit and tie all business like, ready to make the sale of the year. Opening the car door, you got out walking around, matching strides with Tyler. Greeting the realtor, you tried to keep an open mind; you’d dreamed about what the interior would look like, this was finally your chance to see it. The massive double doors opened to an understated entry way; an elegant dining room off to your right. The place was tastefully decorated; not ornate or too elaborate, more relaxed as if the people who lived here truly made this a home and not some decorated show piece. The office on the left, was light and airy, not heavy with wall to wall bookshelves; a family portrait hung above the fireplace. You couldn’t help but imagine your own family’s photo hanging there.

 Continuing the tour, next you saw the kitchen; flashes of you baking and preparing meals for Tyler and your children popped into your head. It opened up to a family room; where you saw the kids playing with the dogs. Walking down the hall, you entered the master suite, enormous in size it looked out onto the pool; a king size bed fit easily into the room. Images of you and Tyler rolling around on the bed took control of your brain, arms entangled, bodies sweaty, moans filling the air; you looked away needing to shake the thoughts from your head. A sitting area off in the corner offered an opportunity to enjoy your coffee in the morning light. French doors leading outside to a private alcove overlooking the pool; a lounger large enough for two people covered most of the area. It was intimate, shielding its inhabitants from small prying eyes; a place the two of you could make love for hours on end. It was too much; you were standing outside and yet you needed air. Falling back on the sunbed you’d just sexually fantasied about being on with Tyler; you sat, taking deep breaths.

 Tyler whispered something to the realtor, who strode back inside the house; leaving the two of you alone. Sitting beside you, he quietly asked, “you ok?”

 It was a loaded question, physically you were fine; mentally you thought you were going to explode. “I don’t know Ty.” The look of concern that crossed his face, had you quickly following that up. “It’s not the baby, we’re ok. It’s just this…” waving your hand at the beautifully manicured landscape in front of you. “This is supposed to be our dream home and we’re just not in that place right now. I won’t lie to you; I wish we were.”

 Taking his hand, he made soothing circles up and down your back; the movement evoking all those images from just moments ago. “Babe, we’re going to get there. I know it’ll be hard, but just try to have some faith in me.” Turning your head, you stared into his eyes, searching for the trust he spoke of; wanting so much more. There was hope there, hope for a future the two of you could build. Love, so much love it made you ache; even a tinge of sadness for what had been lost. Finally, you saw it, that small glimpse of faith; that it came from the reflection of your eyes in his, is what surprised you. His hand stopped; simultaneously your breathing sped up. Even though the small voice in the back of your brain told you not to surrender; you pressed forward anyway. Taking his face in the palm of your hands, you brought his lips to yours; it was a sweet caress, filled with promises. Slow and gentle, the kiss left you dizzy; neither one of you fighting for control, just relishing the touch of each other.  Mouths fussed together as one; you could’ve stayed like this for hours, but softly you pulled away, resting your forehead against his.

 His eyes were closed, lids hooded so you couldn’t tell what was going through his mind. Why you thought you’d be able to know what he was thinking, when you didn’t even know where your mind was; you couldn’t comprehend. All you knew was that it was a start; a tiny move in hopefully the right direction. Taking a second waiting for him to look at you; when he didn’t, finally you said, “I’m still not sure you should buy this place.”

 Eyes flying open, he looked at you; grabbing your hands, he helped you to your feet. He drew you to the edge of the water by the pool. Standing behind you, he turned you to look at the expansive lawns. His hands encircled your waist, caressing your stomach, where your child grew. Resting his chin on your shoulder; he spoke, his voice low, “Can you see it? Right over where the water’s real shallow. The kids are splashing around with the dogs. I’m over there by the grill, cooking up some burgers for dinner. And right there,” pointing to edge of the pool. “You have our newest little one in your arms, rocking back and forth near the kids in case they need you.” That you could almost smell the burgers, bespoke of how vivid the image became in your head. You wanted, no needed it all; could only pray for it to become reality.

 That’s when it happened, you weren’t entirely sure what it was at first; but then it fluttered again. “Did you feel that?”

 “Was that the baby?”

 Tears sprang to your eyes; only this time they were tears of joy. “Yeah, I really think it was.”

 “Think he’ll do it again?”

 “I don’t know, maybe? Wait did you say, him?”

 “Did I? Hmmm, maybe I did.” Then as if the little one knew we were discussing him or her; it happened again. “I think he or she likes their new house.”

 “Tyler, don’t you think we should talk about this?”

 “Mmmm, too late, I already told the realtor to have the papers ready, for when we go back inside.” With that he took off running before you could smack him; playfully of course. Shaking your head at what had transpired in the last thirty minutes or so; you wandered around the property. Tyler, had gone inside, you assumed to sign said papers. Maybe, just maybe, he was right and this could be the new beginning you were searching for. 

[weelittlewain]

Sway

9.29.2019

I drag my bag to the front of the hostel and then soon realize my bag is broken. Perhaps my emotional baggage sent it over the edge. I do what I can to do damage control and close the bag with the zipper it has left. I call a taxi to my parent’s hotel and they do their best to fix the bag.

We enjoy our breakfast and my pocket buzzed and I see that Kristiina has texted me. Jesus woman I wish you slept more. However I haven’t had a decent night sleep in ages. I miss my best friend.

It’s a funny thing when you truly start to care about someone. You start to notice everything about them as if you are narrating a story and they are your favorite character. I tried to make little mental notes of your habits or ticks. They are all quite charming. Now with everything else they seem to fade a tiny bit each day. I wish I knew how this absence would feel and I wish I had more time. I know it’s not the end of the world but I will forever miss that time period. Before everything became so complex and before I had to finally grow up. Before my heart broke in two leaving everyone behind.

I gather my thoughts during breakfast and finish my yogurt. It is evident that the bag cannot be saved and we have to buy a new one. My mother and I hop in a cab and race to St. Stephen’s shopping centre and as we pull up Wicked Game starts to play on the radio and I start to jiggle the door but it’s a sliding one. We haven’t stopped moving but I’m ready to self eject. I am forever traumatized by James Vincent McMorrow’s live cover of that song. 

Nothing is open until 11 and we are forced to go to another store. The biggest one they had to fit my needs a black case. How fitting. I’m surprised Bronski Beat didn’t start playing. We get another little black case for everyday wear and toiletries. We hop in another cab and head back towards the hotel.

I was dreading this visitation for weeks and now as the door clicks after their bags are gone - I feel empty again. It was actually quite nice to have a familiar face to enjoy company with. They were definitely the nicest meals I’ve had in weeks, I am bloated from this weekend’s escapades. I have no complaints though. I miss them. However flawed they are, in some small way, they made me feel a little less dead during these dreary 72 hours. I am thankful for that.

I call my dad and we talk for a long time about everything. I miss him so fucking much. He lets me vent, I go off on a tangent but he is still there listening. Being patient as he always is.

Last night in the rain I walked past where someone yelled at me all of those years ago in the middle of traffic. Gesticulating almost comically with such diction that all I could do was laugh and hold my head low as we approached our bus stop. I stand there on the corner watching the scene unfold and let the water flow off the tip of my nose. Humans are strange, we all move on in whatever way we have to but some of us can never quite let go.

I miss Kelly and I cannot wait for her to be here this weekend. To hold her in my arms. Hold her skin against mine and enjoy the warmth of it all. I miss swaying to our favorite songs. We have done this sway many times over. In different cities and what feels like a lifetime ago. In the kitchen while making dinner while I sing her favorite Frank Sinatra songs. On a warm night in the middle of the street.

I wonder if I will be happier moving here. Time will only tell. Everything takes time. All I know is I want to be happy. No one can necessarily make me achieve that - I have to embrace the feeling of sadness and not shy away from it no matter the circumstances.

I think about what she is up to 4,000 miles away. Loving someone and being in love can be like having your heart operate outside of your body. You’re forever wondering what they’re doing, how they are, what they’re thinking, if they’re safe and if you will see them again. You have to create some sort of narrative subconsciously even if you don’t know the answers to those questions - otherwise you go insane.

Later in the day I realize the sun will set soon and decide to grab a hot tea and enjoy it on the River Liffey. I watched as the swans made little ripples in the canal, slowly and gracefully making these elaborate designs. I see what I am assuming is stratocumulus/stratus clouds stretched out towards Dame Street and it’s just perfect. A child squeals as she passes by.

Hans Zimmer is buzzing in my ear and after a half hour or so I feel better. I walk back towards my hostel and end up at a Nepalese restaurant. I order a vegetarian dish which to my dismay has bamboo shutes in them. The server recommended it and I have to lie to this poor man when I tell him I love it. I’m starving so I eat what I can but the bamboo shutes left shoved to the side explains more than enough.

Finally start making my way back to the hostel and start to rationalize things and my chest starts to hurt. It feels a little hard to breathe and I trip just a little bit over cobble stone. My anxiety attacks used to be so bad I had to get several EKGs done but none of them ever came back with results except for that I was mentally ill.

I am settled in for the night and then think about this whirlwind of a day. I have more to learn at college tomorrow and I am excited. My biology class is by far my favorite and I cannot wait to start injecting proteins, watching cells grow and die and start experimenting.

I am fascinated by all the facades of the human body. I am preoccupied myself most days keeping up with my own personal facade. Here’s to a good nights sleep and a wonderful sunset. We all learn something new everyday. I hope you learn something new tomorrow as well.

[lokikingofasgardslover713]

Sparkling Topaz & Mead: 3

One   Two   Four Five

Masterlist  

Loki Laufeyson x Plus!Size Reader

Warnings: Not much Loki this is setting up for the next part went way over 3,000 words so I'm breaking it up, cussing, SMUT, TRIGGER WARNINGS SUCH AS POSSIBLE NON-CON, though nothing yet. I'm making sure the story doesn’t start till under the cut. Nudity.

Macushla = Gaelic meaning my darling

Words: +1,900

I got the itch to write this one for some reason, so here you go! Also if I tagged you and you want removed let me know!

That evening was weeks ago, & much to Loki’ frustration he still hadn’t learned much about his little raven, telling him what she felt he should know, Y/N got by with pacifying him with never naming her mother but telling him Morrigan was a well-known ‘witch’. Though Y/N knew that didn’t stop him from following her around every chance he got trying to figure her out & possibly waiting for her to slip up again.

Coming up on yet another mission that left Y/N  the only one who was entering the benefit gala dressed in a black evening dress that showed cleavage but not enough to draw attention. Y/N was the only one that wouldn’t be recognized by the security detail like the others surely would have so she was totally alone.

“God I hope Loki is not watching this, or he will tear this place apart for what I'm about to do,” Y/N spoke quietly in her com once inside pretending to straighten her jewelry in a mirror.

“He isn’t; besides it shouldn’t have to go that far,” Natasha spoke into her ear.

“Your tricking the trickster,” Y/N spoke before turning away from the mirror to head to the bar.

“Just get up to the room & we will take it from there,” Natasha reassured Y/N watching her on the screen walking towards the target, a middle-aged man, short cropped salt & peeper hair, your typical business man that she had to seduce to his room.

“We got your back Y/N, don’t worry it want get that. Graphic,” Tony’ voice chimed in.

“Yeah we got your boyfriend & his brother stationed on the quin jet, they will only know if we need them,” Sam chimed in, making her have to stop from rolling her eyes at the statement of Loki being her boyfriend and having to refrain from telling Sam to kiss her ass.

Gracefully Y/N took a seat at the bar, making eye contact with the target who immediately got up & started to her, having already began seducing him the moment she entered so that this would move along quickly. The less time she spent on the floor with prying eyes the less chance was Loki would come barreling through the doors & showing his ass like a diva.

Faining a smile the moment a warm sweaty hand caressed around Y/N’ exposed shoulders to snake to the other side & suppressing the shiver of fear that threaten to run her spine. This felt off, his touch, this was off, but she had to play the part. Maybe it was because she had gotten used to the tricksters company, accustom to the way he moved & now everyone else just seemed to be a Neanderthal. Titling her head slightly as the man leaned down to speak into her ear, fingers lazily tracing over her clavicle exposed by the thin straps.

“Hello sweetheart,” the man began, voice smooth as silk, New York accent, alcoholic breath fanning over her cheek, fingers threatening to dip to the top of her exposed breast, maybe she rushed it.

“Good evening,” Y/N smiled speaking sweetly, wanting to roll her eyes at having to fain innocence, god this guy reeked of bourbon & cheap cologne, probably another thing she could thank Loki for being able to notice.

“Care to join me in my suite? I have something you may like to see,” he continued to speak in her ear, hand moving to cherish along her soft neck just bellow her ear, god this felt wrong, stomach turning in knots.

“Damn girl you laid it on thick this time, I'm glad Loki isn’t watching,” came Bucky’ voice this time, she knew he was across the street watching the entrance.

“I would love to,” Y/N smiled sweetly once more keeping up the innocence while turning so she was able to brush up against him, earning her a sparkle from his brown eyes.

“I knew you weren’t innocent,” he spoke darkly, taking her hand to help her down from the bar seat & looping it in his.

Y/N had to steady herself before taking off with the man, her legs felt weak, stomach twisting even worse & felt like the designer stilettos where to tall. The entire situation making her feel like a 4-year-old playing dress up. Oh god this wasn’t right, the feeling becoming worse the moment they entered the elevator to ascend to a penthouse suite.

“You look so nervous baby,” the man spoke, turning to Y/N & gently pressing her back into the rail of the elevator, one hand around her thick hip, giving it a squeeze making her jump slightly while his other hand went to the back of her head, so it didn’t bang on the mirrored wall.

Gaze flickering to he mirror across form her, shit, she looked pale, her hands gripped so tightly to the rail the knuckles turning white, time to turn on the charm.

“It's been awhile,” she spoke gently, prying her hands free to reach up & place her arms around his neck, her smile faltering when Steve’ voice came over the comm telling her that she was cutting out & they had lost all visual.

“It's OK sweetheart, it will be like riding a bike,” he smirked, pulling away, his voice dipping as if he was trying to hide an accent, stepping back to pull her with him to leave the elevator that was now open, when had that happened?

The doors had opened up to an extravagant floor, 4 guards coming forward the moment the two exited, the large framed woman on his arm & the man looking for someone. Y/N reading everyone, this was a mistake, this, it had to be a trap she thought watching one of the guards tilt his head to what she believed was the bedroom. Breath hitching when he pulled her to the door & the comm turned to static in her ear.

The man on her arm knocking on the door & a gruff voice asking who it was. This cant be good, the doors opened by the man with Y/N when they were told to enter, eyes immediately falling on a figure in front of a large window. Taking his arm from Y/N not realizing she had been holding onto it like it was a life line, & leaving her alone with the one who now turned to look at her.

“I told Evan to pick me up something at the bar but I didn’t think she would be as beautiful as you,” the man spoke getting closer, Y/N working her seidr as hard as ever, to the point she projected & stepped away to allow her projection to do the dirty work, another secret that she kept hidden form the team & Loki.

The man looking like every other sleazy business man trying to shit someone with the promise of weapons & technology. Y/N let out a sigh of relief, another pig another untwisting gut that told her the fear was unfounded, turning her back on the two so she didn’t have to watch the man drag her projection to the bed. Stepping around them to look out the window to try to spot any of the team static still in her ear & choosing to cut it off to stop the headache before it began.

Well, Y/N thought heading the sloppy kissing behind her, might as well rummage through his stuff. Moving around the perimeter of the room, lewd noises continuing while she dug through his suitcase. Stooped down to go through the contents pausing when cold metal snaked around her neck to clamp shut, the hot hand that place it there wrapping around the back of her neck to pull her up & back into a bare chest. The lewd noises gone free arm wrapping around Y/N’ tick middle while the one on her neck moved to the front & crushed the binding collar into her wind pipe, hands flying up to the all too familiar grip.

“Sly little devil,” the thick Gaelic accent drawled in her ear, hot breath fanning over it in a way that she hoped to never fill again.

“Mordred,” Y/N gasped out, turning her head to look up into the burning red irises that sparkled with glee at having found his little pet.

“Thought you could trick me little Morrigan? I knew that was you them moment you entered the hotel,” he spoke darkly, pulling her back to the glass by her throat feet slipping out of the high heels while trying to keep up & slipping back into his chest.

Mordred got her to her feet in front of the window, crushing the collar into her throat so that her chest heaved & feeling him glaring down at her breast that was barely covered. Unable to let go of his arm around her throat to stop his other from reaching to the back of the dress to pull the zipper.

Y/N watched the dress fall in the reflection from the glass, pooling at her feet & snapping her gaze to meet Mordred’. Not like this, please not like this her body shook, watching him look at her choice of lingerie & smirking sickly to show his sharp fangs, fucking demon was all he was.

“I heard you joined the Avengers after you escaped, but I had no idea what or actually who you stayed for,” he hinted down to the deep green satin garments that where trimmed with black lace, the glint of a green crystal glinting in the glass from between her breast.

“I’ve missed you macushla, I have worried over you ever since you left,” Mordred began, free hand sliding around her hip to play with the top of the panties, head dipping closer to her ear, nipping at the earlobe, & chuckling at the shutter it caused, Y/N trying to pull away only for him to press the collar in harder.

“Tell me, is your precious god out there watching us now? Watching me toy with you like old times,” he snarled, fingers pushing the lace out of the way reaching for her slit but stopping before reaching it but fingers threatened to dip further.

“He’s not my god & you are not my master,” Y/N choked out, his entire hand thrusting between her legs to grip her mound & squeeze it, making her squirm.

“Your body tells me differently,” he continued darkly, locking gazes with her in the window, removing his hand, shredding the panties to get them off & not hesitating to do the same to the bra.

“I hope he sees, sees how beautiful this thick body looks against mine,” he breathed heavily breaking the gaze to rake his fangs over her bare shoulder, the one that carried the scar she had kept charmed, so no one seen, the ugly one that Y/N couldn’t bare to look at, that he had graciously given her for disobeying when she was younger.

“My little Morrigan, how it seems you have forgotten your place since you left, thinking that your mother could kill me, she couldn’t even survive Thanos,” he chuckled looking up to Y/N’ shivering from in the glass, how she seemed to be searching for something, someone.

“Don’t worry Y/N you will be seeing him soon enough. Once I harness your seidr then I will be sure to pay him a visit, I need to replace what your mother took from me,” he growled over her shoulder, jerking Y/N away from the glass & back to the bed.

I tagged who I thought would be interested, if you would like to me removed or put on my list let me know!

Tags:@beets1bears1battlestargalactica  @readitandweepfics  @linnyrero7-blog @gramaeryebard @mamapeterson  @aikibriarrose       @legolasothranduilion  @weehawkendawngunsdrawnyouron @lilypalmer1987   @nickyl316h @buckysforeverprincess    @andiyholly @prettybubblesintheair  @moonfaery  @jovanna-shewolf @dark-night-sky-99  @katstablook @reallyheckinggay

[thelionshoarde]

If you still want prompts, obiyuki, 141 (weightless).

urk, sorry, you managed to get me right after i logged out of my shift in the porn mines. i almost managed to crawl back down into the deep, but not quite deep enough it would seem. still, i present to you where my dumb brain immediately went with that prompt and the fact that it is you, o fellow scifi nerd!TAGS: mature! if not quite nsfw lol. inappropriate use of v expensive technology, sneaking around, established (new) relationship, possibly unintentionally racist in which case i am so sorry let me know i guess lol

pls, imagine that shirayuki is a top japanese engineer and was transferred over to america where obi’s dumb ass has spent the last seven months attempting to woo her despite language gaps (shirayuki had no time for learning english, she was a math and science nerd!) and obi’s terrible attempts to impress her by randomly pointing at things and asking “kawaii???” also i know nothing about any of this pls ignore the giant gaping wounds that are my scientific knowledge <3 thank you (ps obi and yuzuri have been trying to get shirayuki to use contractions but the girl is stubborn okay, “i will only break the language once i have learned it entirely,” she tells them, utterly serene.)

“This is crazy!”

Shirayuki’s voice was a shiver of excitement, buoyant with joy. Obi couldn’t help the smug grin as he drifted across the room on his back, arms behind his head, propulsion lazy but constant from the gentle push of his toe against the nearest wall. “What’s crazy,” he corrected, “is that you designed the systems for this whole operation and not once did you think to try it out for yourself. Tsk, Miss Engineer. For shame.”

“It is not my place,” she said, diction careful but tone easy. “I work here, for you – for the astroexplorers like you. You need this for training. I don’t.”

“What?” Obi cannot help but ask, incredulous. “Easy as that?”

“Yes. Easy as that.”

He shook his head, despairing her entirely too proper, respectful existence. “You need to let loose a little,” he complained, turning his head to see her in an almost painfully slow spin, tilted on her axis. The little smile of pride on her face suited her gleaming, liquid green eyes.

“Ah,” she teased, and Obi caught only a flash of that smile widening into a grin before all he had was the top of her head, her body still rotating gently. “But I think I am, Obi. You just broke into this place. Did I not come with you while you did so? I am here,” she giggled, coming back around. “Am I not?”

“You are,” he agreed, and was amazed when the pounding thud of his heart didn’t change his course. He bumped into the opposite wall and reached for a hand hold, the loop’s location familiar to him after so many hours in the simulation room. Arching more or less vertical, Obi considered the Japanese engineer and her delighted spinning.

Considered, also, the security roster and schedule for walk-throughs and the likelihood of anyone wandering by and flicking on the switch that would turn on the cameras.

“Hey,” he said. “Miss Engineer. Want to do something really naughty?”

“Naughty?” Shirayuki asked, and though Obi couldn’t see the perplexed expression on her face, he knew it was there – that cute little pucker between her brows, the wrinkle of her nose. “What is – Like what, Obi? Context, please.”

“Wellll, perhaps I ought to just show you, instead.”

“Obi,” murmured Shirayuki, voice sweet and unsuspecting, “just what are you up to, hm?”

Laughing, Obi shifted, and then launched himself forward. It took a bit of doing, especially since Shirayuki hadn’t the faintest clue what he was up to, and didn’t move in the way he wished. But still, before long they were spinning in place, pressed close from nose to toes.

Well, toes to shin. Shirayuki was much shorter than him, after all.

She flushed, smiling shyly from this close. Made almost to duck her chin and hide her gaze beneath her fringe, but Obi caught her cheek with his fingers, stroking gently, not letting her hide. “You know, I actually love the fact that you don’t have dimples.”

“Huh,” she said, and smiled even more.

“I also love adventure and there isn’t much I’m adverse to trying,” he continued, fairly cheerful despite the growing husk to his voice. He saw the moment Shirayuki registered it and what it meant; saw the way her lashes fluttered and her mouth slid open on a soft, surprised exhale. “That being said, fucking you in zero-G might be a bit ambitious, even for me.”

Her brows arched sharply.

“Even for us,” he amended. “Genius though you are.”

“Then, uh,” she swallowed, leaning closer. “What are you thinking, Obi? What shall we do?” Her gaze flickered hungrily down to his mouth, cheeks growing steadily pinker. Like this, she could have kissed him easily, a feat she was rarely able to do while standing.

Not that she was standing now, exactly, but it was startlingly close. It’d be even easier for her to wrap her legs around him like this – he wouldn’t even have to support her. But now that the thought was in his head, he really couldn’t resist. With careful hands on her waist, he said, “Stay still, okay? I know what I’m doing.”

“Of that I – oh!”

He spun her so that she rotated, coming back around with her nose nearly hitting his knee. “Oops,” he chirped. “Sorry about that.” With a slow heave upward, he brought her up until he could press his forehead against her thigh. There, he hesitated, waiting, pulse thrumming with excitement. “How’s this?”

“Imaginative,” she decided, sounding breathless. “Also – incredibly inappropriate. Really, Obi. I should not even be here, what if we – what if –”

“If we get caught?” Obi drawled, nuzzling against the inside seam of her jeans. “Oh, sweetheart. That just adds to the fun, doesn’t it?”

“…You have a very odd sense of fun, Obi.”

It was a little tricky trying not to knock them off course, away from each other, but still Obi managed to get her jeans undone and pushed up past her knees, above his head. All that pale, freckled flesh on tantalizing display for him and, oh yeah –

“I fucking love your sense of style,” he croaked, tugging her up enough that he was staring almost eye to eye with an upside down Hello Kitty.

“They were a present!” Shirayuki protested, both embarrassed and amused. “From Yuzuri – she has odd taste, and I think she assumed I would like them, because I am Japanese. And, well. I do, but I doubt it is because I am Japanese. I – o-oh!”

“Less talking,” Obi decided, mouthing the white cotton of her panties and pulling her legs apart gently. “More sexing, c’mon. This is gonna be hot.”

Careful hands at the zipper of his own jeans gave lie to Shirayuki’s fussily voiced protest, “This is a terrible idea! I will be fired! You will be fired! What will space do, then, without you amongst the stars? I can’t – ah! I, yes, uhm. T-that, do that – oh!”

[sterekiseternal]

FBIS Story ch.4

Beginning  || Previous Chapter

“Whoa, Derek. Did I miss some sort of werewolf routine thingy, like a bi-annual shift in the moon on Mars, because I know the full moon is next week so it’s impossible that’s what made you go all rogue werewolf on my bag, and we’ve spent all day in bed and I’ve had you moaning all day, which is so very different from your angry growling even if I can make you growl and moan basically at the same time but that’s different, and my point is, I know I didn’t do anything to make you angry,” Stiles rambles as he takes in the mess next to the couch in the living room.

“Nothing that warrants this at least,” he continues, “and shouldn’t you be more in control anyway?”

The backpack that Stiles had dropped there when they had arrived, having unpacked only as much as he needed, like his toothbrush, lays on its front, zipper wide open and with nearly all its contents strewn about it. He crosses his arms over his threadbare shirt as he turns to Derek, who walks in a moment later, with an unimpressed expression.

“You’re cleaning up after yourself, mister,” Stiles declares, crouching down to reach for the laptop that was still in the backpack. He stops as he notices the busted zipper and groans. “Dude, this was my favorite backpack!”

“Will you stop accusing me of something I didn’t do?” Derek huffs in reply, stepping into place next to him. “If I had gone ‘rogue werewolf’-” he actually makes air quotes as he meets Stiles pouty glare dismissively, “then that backpack would be in shreds.” He opens his mouth again to add on but Stiles interrupts.

“And ‘don’t call me, dude’. I know, I know.” Stiles waves it off. Derek knows he’ll never stop and Stiles knows he’ll never stop complaining.

Stiles also knows Derek has a point, which he kinda hates because he loves being right, and also this is totally not on him. Then again he’s stopped getting too attached to material things because they always end up getting damaged sooner or later so it’s not a big deal and Derek could just admit it. Handing off the backpack for Derek to inspect, he plops down on the couch, legs spread out on it wide and boots up the laptop.

“The only two people in this apartment are me and you - your nose would’ve told us otherwise if not - and you were the one who went to grab new blankets two hours ago so there’s really only one possibility here and it’s you,” he says without looking up.

“Or it was you who broke the zipper and then knocked over the backpack while sleepwalking,” Derek argues.

“I don’t sleep walk anymore so if anyone knocked it over it’s you… And then you kicked it for extra measure just to scatter all my things-”

“Our things, actually,” Derek corrects. He can admit that he can’t be bothered with his own backpack, so he gives Stiles anything he might need. Sometimes they switch off carrying it. Mostly it’s on Stiles though. Which makes sense because most of the things are his anyway.

“Wait, is this payback for me eating half your Ful Mudamas? Because that, while understandable, was totally unnecessary. It’s not like you couldn’t have stopped me from eating it or gotten it back with all your werewolf mojo,” Stiles says.

“Right, because I was going to tackle you and make a scene at a restaurant in the middle of Alexandria.”

Stiles smirks. “That’s why I’m the one who makes the plans. This,” he gestures to the mess between them, “is very weak because you’ll be the one cleaning up in the end. You got nothing out of this…” Stiles doesn’t mind messy, he can work with that, but Derek, on the other hand, likes to have the floors spotless at the very least. And well, a zipper can be fixed if need be. He does also have a spare bag in the closet. It’s important to always be prepared.

Derek rolls his eyes at Stiles. “You’ll know it when I go for payback, and it’ll come when you least expect it,” he declares. He spends some time looking over the backpack, getting close to it to make sure there’s no scent he missed before he figures their previous theory must hold some truth because there’s absolutely nothing else suspicious about the backpack.

After he cleans up, all the while ignoring Stiles’ victorious smirk, he lifts his legs so he can seat himself beneath them on the couch as well.

“No intriguing new reports,” Stiles informs him, eyes darting quickly over the screen. “Just your usual monthly omega scaring a few campers, aaand tiny asshole fairies taking their mischief too far and nearly taking down a whole town. No biggie. No new leads on the long term stuff. They should change the name to Division for the Affairs of the Supernatural because this is just S-A-D.”

“And I thought I was the one who didn’t know how to relax.” There is clear amusement in Derek’s voice and Stiles can tell it’s not directed at his great pun.

“We spent the last two days relaxing. I need something to /do/,” he complains, setting the laptop so he can sigh directly at Derek to show the extent of his misery. “There are so many undocumented supernatural affairs out there that we could search out and help with. We would’ve all appreciated it if someone had helped us out back in the day.”

“What? I’m not enough for you? Getting tired of me already?” Derek asks, referring to the first part of Stiles rant.

“Nuh-uh, this is not the time for a pity party. You know very well that if you just got over here and kissed me I’d be up for doing you in like 3 seconds flat but I just feel like there’s something-”

Derek has been leaning closer to Stiles but they both freeze when their phones beep simultaneously, in a tone that can only indicate one thing. Stiles grins and jumps to his feet. Derek rolls his eyes at him again but he’s right behind Stiles as they change, grab their things and head out to the office.

~

Jackson is waiting for them when they walk in through the front doors and greets them with a gruff, “Took you long enough.” Then he turns on an expensive designer shoe heel - some things never change - and walks away in long, fast strides. Derek watches a sly smile spread on Stiles’ face before he hurries to catch up to Jackson. He slings an arm around his shoulders.

“Hey, buddy. If only you know how much I’ve been /dying/ to talk to you,” Stiles starts. Jackson eyes him warily. “So I can tell you aaaaaall about the absolutely beautiful and amazing sex Derek and I had the last few days. He doesn’t talk much but boy, is he good with his mouth. He can do this thing with his tongue-”

“Stiles!” Jackson outright shouts, shoving Stiles away, who throws his head back with a laugh. They gain more than a few curious looks from around the halls. Derek just shakes his head as he follows behind them. “Unprofessional,” he splutters. “Totally and completely unprofessional. We have a serious matter on our hands.”

Stiles is still laughing to himself, looking to Derek for approval, who just shakes his head fondly.

“Are you sure your vacation is over already?” Jackson asks.

“I missed you too,” Stiles says. “So what’s this code red about? We don’t have many of those. I’m excited! Are you excited? I know Der’s excited, even if he won’t admit it.”

“Lydia said she’s never seen that type of magic before. No one in the department has. We have no clue what it is or where it came from,” Jackson explains, and Stiles can tell from the tone of his voice even he is intrigued. “We don’t know yet what the magic is doing either. We haven’t gotten any reports yet, so you guys are practically going in blind.”

Derek, for one, is frowning at this point, worried about what might happen. If this is some new form of magic, will they be able to figure it out before people get seriously hurt?

Stiles, on the other hand, has a determined twinkle in his eye. “Oh, finally something interesting!”

“Because of the severity of the circumstances, we’re calling in the whole team,” Jackson announces, timing his words with the opening of the gym doors to reveal the pack sans Lydia and Danny. They were both called in earlier for analysis and preparation, and would be the team’s referents here at Headquarters while they went out on the field - along with Jackson who supervised communications and execution of the mission, helping out wherever was necessary.

Erica, Boyd and Isaac wait for Derek and Stiles to join them on the mats, already dressed for training. Quick greetings are exchanged before they all turn to Jackson again.

“You have two, possibly three, days to get ready while we try to track down the exact location of the magical object or being and learn as much about it as we can. So far, there’s not much I can tell you about safety precautions or well, anything about what you’ll need. This isn’t going to be an easy one,” Jackson explains, meeting each of their focused gazes.

“Which is exactly why you called in the best team you have,” Erica says confidently, turning to Stiles for a high five as he supports her statement with a “Fuck, yeah!”

Derek nods. “We’ll start as usual; quick warm up, then divide into teams and practice hand to hand combat- no shifting. Then we’ll do some target practice, with and without firearms, and the faster you impress Stiles with gun power, the sooner you can join me for some shifted fighting.”

“No offense, big guy, but I think you’re the one who could use the most shooting practice,” Stiles interjects, patting his back.

“That’s why you’ll be staying here with me after hours to help.”

Isaac snickers quietly and Stiles shoots a playful glare in his direction. “I guess that’s the burden I have to carry for being such a desirable man.”

Derek has turned to Jackson again. “Keep us updated so we know what to continue with. Especially about the magic, so Stiles can prepare.”

“Of course. Stiles should go talk to Lydia soon either way,” Jackson says.

“Like I said, I’m a desirable man.” Stiles grins.

“So, are we getting started or what?” Boyd asks, clapping his hands together. Always the practical man, straight to the point and driving the team forward.

“You’re on,” Stiles calls and bounces on the balls of his feet.

“We’ll start with the two of us against you three. Call it a proper welcoming,” Derek decides and they split up in the gym, as Jackson heads back out.

“The two of you always sticking together is sickeningly sweet,” Erica coos. “But this time it’s gonna be your downfall.”

Stiles doesn’t know how he ended up being the only human amidst a bunch of werewolves, or why he never does a thing to change that situation. Then again, he holds his own pretty well amongst their speed and strength since he’s mastered the techniques. He is the one left breathing hardest either way though by the time Derek ends the first round, giving them a 3-minute break.

“Werewolves suck,” Stiles announces breathily as Derek and Boyd start one upping each other with push ups after about a minute, and Erica starts stretching and performing various flips. He’s kind of grateful for Isaac - though he’d still never admit it - because he’s the only one who takes use of the break and doesn’t show off.

Thankfully, Stiles totally outdoes them all at the shooting range. They all try but Stiles is a knife throwing expert, and well, he’d found a much easier approach to weapons since he didn’t have claws and fangs to resort to.

All in all, they make a damn good team, but there’s no telling what awaits them outside of the gym and what skills they’re going to need.

What do you think the team will find? What should their next step be? Which approach should they use, or what skill do you think they will need?

Comment or reply to keep the story alive!

[babylon-bitch]

Just Friends ~ In Sync (part 47)

A/N: This is probably one of my favourite chapters so far and i actually did the drawing part when I was a kid with my neighbour

Harper White is best friends with Luke Hemmings, they always have been. Not only is she friends with the rockstar, but with the rest of 5 Seconds Of Summer, as well as a really nice girl named Erika.

Harper has a few secrets, she can play all the instruments the boys play and many more. It’s a talent she has kept hidden, only very few people know.

What will happen to the six teens, wondering around the world together?

***

Slamming my door closed and collapsing on my bed, not having enough energy to take anything in, just staring up at the ceiling, where there is a faint sign of pen on the ceiling. I thought it’d be a good idea to colour my ceiling so it wouldn’t feel left out.

“Do you ever think the ceiling gets lonely or feels upset because the walls get more attension?” Little Luke asks.

“Yeah, I think so, I would, although I think it might hurt to have pins pushed into you.” Harper points out.

“What if you used blue tack?” I suggest.

“Yes! You’re so smart Lucas!” She exclaims. “Why don’t we colour in the ceiling?”

“Oh my God yes!” I stand up and jump on my bed in excitement.

“Okay, so we need somthing for us to stand up on.” She says.

“Yeah I’ll do that, whilst you pick a colour.” I order.

After a while, I come back with a washing basket and my washing hamper. “I got these, take your pick.” I tell her.

“I want the hamper,” she points to it, “I got loads of pens, I even got one of my glitter pens.”

“Really? You only use those for special things.” I say with a bubbly voice.

“This is special, we’re making art.” She seriously states.

I put the washing basket and the hamper on the bed, before standing on my designated podium.

“Luke, I don’t think I can do this.” Harper quietly whines.

“It’s fine.” I tell her.

“Your’s is smaller than mine!” She cries.

“It’s alright Harp, I’ll hold your hand.” I bribe and hold my hand put.

“Are you sure?” She asks and stares at my hand with an unconvinced look.

“Yeah, I pinky promise.” I hold my pinky up.

“You won’t let go?” She asks.

“No.” I shake my head and we link pinkies. “Ready?” I question.

She nervously nods her head and takes my hand, I help her up and help her stand up steady. “You okay?” I ask.

“Yep.” She nods and I let go of her hand once she is stable.

“What colour first?” I ask.

“Red!” She squeals.

“Okay, you do that and I’m gonna do green.”

We begin to colour the ceiling, switching colours when we’re satisfied with our work. When suddenly the door opens making us both jump and we freeze.

“What are you doing?” My Mum asks, trying to suppress a smile.

“Uh, nothing.” We both say in unison.

“Okay, that tells me you did something.”

“It was Harper’s idea,”

“It was Luke’s idea,”

We say at the time and she shakes her head with a sigh. “Luke! Harper! We’re never gonna be able to cover that up!”

“That’s the idea.” Harper deadpans and my mum shakes her head, before helping Harper get down again.

Harper’s P.O.V.

I’ve brought the box of pictures into my room so I could cry I alone. I’ve done way too much crying for my liking recently. Holding a picture of Luke and I to my chest, as I sob, trying to remeber what it feels like to be happy. That seems like such a life time ago when everything was okay.

I sometimes wish this all never happened and I never dated Luke, then again, I’m glad I did, because he was the first person I loved and your first love is always gonna be special, and I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather share that experience with. That being said, that’s what’s made this all harder than it needs to be; it’s Luke. If I didn’t have such a long and happy past with him, this would be so much more less painful.

But your first is always gonna be hard to let go of.

I still have his hoodie, despite the zipper being broken, and the cigarette burns from when Calum and him were messing around, it makes me feel closer to him although I don’t want to see him; at least that’s what I’m telling myself. I somtimes wear it on an especially bad day, it kinda helps me, it kinda makes it worse. Then I want to laugh and cry at myself because I’m getting sentimental over a piece of clothing that belongs to my ex boyfriend.

I’ve still got a few of his clothes here at my family house, a few shirts, a pair of socks as well as a lone sock, and for some reason a belt. I’ve got some random stuff left behind from when he’d stayed the night or somthing along the lines of that, a nearly empty pot of hair wax, a few of his bracelets, a pair of shoes, his hairbrush, and a ring.

I put his ring on a necklace at one point, but I had to take it off because it just reminded me of him every time I looked down. Which I find myself doing a lot, because of the sympathetic and pity stares.

I want to give this all back just so I can see him again, but I don’t think I’d be able to handle seeing him again, I’d just turn into a fucking bigger mess that I already am in front of him.

I’ve not got a clue how Luke’s dealing with this all, I’ve seen a few fan/paparazzi pictures the few times I’ve even on my phone and he looks fine, got faint bags undr his eyes, but that’s probably because he’s tired, he also could of just plastered on a fake smile, and I know how good he is at that, but I could be wrong. I was in some random shop on my way back from a lecture to pick up some stuff for my lonely dinner, when I strolled past the magazine section, and I saw a picture of Luke and I plastered on the front cover of some teen magazine, with a huge cartoon tear down the middle where hour hands were intertwined. I wanted to buy the whole stack and throw them off a cliff, burn them, tear them into shreds, anything to destroy that shitty magazine that was probably filled with fake articles.

Pulling his hoodie closer to me so I can feel closer to him, his scent is still on it, it’s faint, but I can still smell it, filling me with a sense of safety and sadness. A few tears slide down my cheeks like a sad, vicious snake and onto my sweater paws, which are easily made because the sleeves are too long for me, but that’s what makes it feel better.

“I miss you Luke.” I whimper.

***

“ You’d probably think I was psychotic (If you knew) What I still got in my closet (Sad but true) I slip it on over my shoulders It’s something I’ll never get over It makes me feel a little bit closer to you

I can’t keep your love I can’t keep your kiss Gave you everything and all I got was this

I’m still rocking your hoodie And chewing on the strings It makes me think about you So I wear it when I sleep I kept the broken zipper And cigarette burns Still rocking your hoodie Baby, even though it hurts Still rocking your…

I used to put my hand in your pockets (holding on) The smell of your cologne is still on it (but you’re still gone) I slip it on over my shoulders You’re someone I’ll never get over It makes me feel a little bit closer to you

I can’t keep your love I can’t keep your kiss Gave you everything and all I got was this

I’m still rocking your hoodie And chewing on the strings It makes me think about you So I wear it when I sleep I kept the broken zipper And cigarette burns Still rocking your hoodie Baby, even though it hurts

Still rocking your hoodie And chewing on the strings It makes me think about you So I wear it when I sleep I kept the broken zipper And cigarette burns Still rocking your hoodie Baby, even though it hurts Still rocking your…

If you want it back If you want it back I’m here waiting Come and take it back Come and take it back

If you want it back If you want it back I’m here waiting Come and take it back Come and take it back

I’m still rocking your hoodie And chewing on the strings It makes me think about you So I wear it when I sleep I kept the broken zipper And cigarette burns Still rocking your hoodie Baby, even though it hurts

I’m still rocking your hoodie And chewing on the strings It makes me think about you So I wear it when I sleep I kept the broken zipper And cigarette burns Still rocking your hoodie Baby, even though it hurts

Still rocking your hoodie And chewing on the strings It makes me think about you So I wear it when I sleep I kept the broken zipper And cigarette burns Still rocking your hoodie Baby, even though it hurts Still rocking your (hoodie).”

Finishing the final words attempting to swallow the lump in my throat and hold back my tears, but completely failing and the tears come cascading down my cheeks.

“Fuck you,” I whisper to myself, trying to mean it but I can’t find anything in me to state it as a true emotion.

***

Luke’s P.O.V.

“I drove by all the places we used to hang out getting wasted I thought about our last kiss, how it felt, the way you tasted And even though your friends tell me you’re doing fine

Are you somewhere feeling lonely even though he’s right beside you? When he says those words that hurt you, do you read the ones I wrote you?

Sometimes I start to wonder, was it just a lie? If what we had was real, how could you be fine?

‘Cause I’m not fine at all

I remember the day you told me you were leaving I remember the make-up running down your face And the dreams you left behind you didn’t need them Like every single wish we ever made I wish that I could wake up with amnesia And forget about the stupid little things Like the way it felt to fall asleep next to you And the memories I never can escape

‘Cause I’m not fine at all

The pictures that you sent me they’re still living in my phone I’ll admit I like to see them, I’ll admit I feel alone And all my friends keep asking why I’m not around

It hurts to know you’re happy, yeah, it hurts that you’ve moved on It’s hard to hear your name when I haven’t seen you in so long

It’s like we never happened, was it just a lie? If what we had was real, how could you be fine?

‘Cause I’m not fine at all

I remember the day you told me you were leaving I remember the make-up running down your face And the dreams you left behind you didn’t need them Like every single wish we ever made I wish that I could wake up with amnesia And forget about the stupid little things Like the way it felt to fall asleep next to you And the memories I never can escape

If today I woke up with you right beside me Like all of this was just some twisted dream I’d hold you closer than I ever did before And you’d never slip away And you’d never hear me say

I remember the day you told me you were leaving I remember the make-up running down your face And the dreams you left behind you didn’t need them Like every single wish we ever made I wish that I could wake up with amnesia And forget about the stupid little things Like the way it felt to fall asleep next to you And the memories I never can escape

‘Cause I’m not fine at all No, I’m really not fine at all Tell me this is just a dream ‘Cause I’m really not fine at all.”

Stepping away from the microphone and letting the tears freely fall down my cheek, not bothering to suppress them.

“Fuck you for ever being in my life.” I whisper to myself, not meaning a single word of it, I’m not even gonna try to convince myself to believe that.

Fuck me for putting myself in this train wreck of a situation.

***

Harper’s P.O.V.

Quietly closing the door behind and keeping my head down, hands shoved in my pockets, kicking a small stone, scuffing my shoes in the process.

I don’t exactly have a destination, I’m just going where my heart takes me; which could be anywhere really.

I notice a familiar figure on the other side of the road, nearly mirroring my actions. I can’t quite recognise who it is, but my mind might be so messed up that I’m just imagining that I recognise them, I mean, who would be out at 2am?

Ignoring them and pulling my phone out, deciding to text the group chat, because some of them must be up.

Me: Hello

Tori: hi

Juliet: heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

Me: how is everyone?

Juliet: alright, I guess.

Tori: same, you?

Me: fine

Jake: where have you even been?

Me: places

Tori: are you even alive?

Me: debatable

Not in the mood for their questions, I plug in my earphones and put my playlist on shuffle, and it just so happenes to be a really fucking sad one.

After 10 minutes of randomly walking around, I end up by boulevard view. The person that was on the other side of the road left me a while ago, they went down an alleyway that Luke and I used to go down to get to boulevard view quicker. I got a little worried a couple times, because it’s late and they just so happened to follow me for a while, but that went away as soon as I lost him. They didn’t even look back at me once, so I don’t even know why I got so anxious, at least I didn’t seen them look at me.

Turning right and entering one of my favourite places in the world, it’s just so calming to look down at everything, it all looks so small and for some reason that makes me calm. Especially at night when everything is lit up, the clear skies with planes going over every now and then, and the very faint sound of traffic.

Noticing a silhouette very similar to the person earlier makes me freeze. Suddenly recognising that posture and hair anywhere, causing my breathing to hitch.

Holy shit, how?

My feet take me to his direction and I don’t even stop myself.  

Shuffling over and sitting down next to him in the dusty dirt, leaving a gap between us.

“What are the odds.” We say in unison after 10 minutes of silence.

“Oh my God.” I chuckle quietly.

“So, uh, how have you been?” Luke questions.

“Alright.” I mumble. “How about you?”

“Fine.” He nods his head.

“Good.” I nod my head and lean on the railing with crossed arms.

“How long are you here for?” He asks.

“I’ve got two days left, well one full day.” I answer. “How about you?” I question.

“I’ve got 5 or 6 more days left, I’m so jetlagged I don’t even know anymore.” He bitterly chuckles.

“How’s tour treating you?” I ask.

“Great, it’s been so fun. It can somtimes be hard to experience it, because my mind is somewhere else. I often feel as though I’m not really there, physically I am, but mentally it’s hard to actually focus on it and thoroughly enjoy it.” He explains and I nod. “How’s university going?”

“Fine, kinda hard to focus on schoolwork when all this other stuff is going on, but besides that it’s going well, I guess.” I shrug.

“I saw you’ve been going out a lot, are you being careful?”

“Why would you care?” I ask with a little temper.

“I still care about you, I’m always going to, no matter how mad you are at me.” He says.

“I’m fine.” I huff. “You’ve been out a lot too.”

“I know, and I’ve been out whilst with friends.”

“And you think I’ve been going out alone?” I ask.

“I didn’t say that.” He sighs.

“It’s what you were implying.” I repeat his tone of voice.

He huffs and leans on the railing as well, resting his chin on his arms.

Silence clouds over us and it’s a little awkward but mainly it’s comfortable, and I didn’t know how much I craved this moment until I experienced it.

“Remember the time we did this on Christmas eve when we were 15?” Luke speaks up again.

“Yeah, you almost fell out the window when we were sneaking out.” I chuckle at the memory.

“It’s not my fault I have legs.” He exclaims.

“Then who’s is it?”

“My parents, they made me.”

“Luke!” I hit his shoulder. “Ew, now I’ve got a mental image, something I’ve never wanted to picture.” I cry out.

“Sorry.” He laughs.

“They’re your parents!” I tell him.

“Really? I’d never of known.” He replies.

“Don’t come at me with your sarcasm.” I playfully glare at him.

“You love it.” He smiles and pulls me into him and I rest my head against his shoulder, almost like a reflex.

I think I need this, this closure, I’m not entirely sure what this is closing, but I need this. Maybe it’s reducing the wound on my heart.

I wonder if he needs this as much as I need it.

This isn’t awkward or uncomfortable, it feels normal almost right, even if this hurts right now. I might regret this later, and I might be digging myself into a deeper hole, but I need to feel home again. I’ve felt homeless ever since we broke up, and I don’t care if I get evicted after this moment is open.

“Do you hate me?” Luke questions.

“I don’t hate you, it just hurts too much to be around you right now.”

[3one3]

The Sequel - 816

L’Aveugle Par Amour

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

“Walking into the lobby.”

“Stay there. I’ll come down.”

“I need to put my bag in the room anyway. And...other stuff.”

“322”

Juan picked Hotel Zoo for his expedition to Berlin. The boutique hotel was in the same neighborhood as the actual zoo, but not technically associated with it. The historic building did feature a courtyard full of safari animal statues and topiaries though. It was also really pretty, and cool. Christina liked it as soon as she walked in, and thought of it as art deco but with a modern luxury twist. Everything was shiny, and the dark colors were broken up with vibrant purples, greens, and reds. There was tufted velvet furniture all over the place, under glitzy chandeliers. She had planned to look at Google Maps on her phone in the car between the train and the hotel to figure out where to go with Juan- what to check out, where to eat, and what neighborhoods might reward explorers with interesting finds. Instead her eyes were glued to the windows. Berlin was still foreign to her. Fortunately, or perhaps logically, Juan’s chosen accommodations were right on the Ku’damm- the premier avenue in the western part of the city, lined with high end shopping, independent restaurants, other hotels, and car dealerships. The area was a major destination for artists and the Bohemian set pre-World War I, and was still a big culture center. The sights appealed to the rider. The wide boulevard felt nothing like London. It was more modern than that, and more open, even with some very old facades. She couldn’t wait to go wander around. But there was something else she couldn’t wait for either, and it required waiting for Juan to open the door to his room.

“Hey baby gir-“ He almost got a whole greeting out before Christina stood on her tippy toes to offer her own greeting. Both styles involved lips and tongue but only his involved words, and only hers involved kicking the door shut.

“Hi,” she smiled after the 4-second kiss.

“Hi. You look great.” The Spaniard didn’t miss a beat, and used her lingering nearness to hold her waist and her neck. His smile matched hers. They were rather happy to see each other. “I like your jacket.”

So does your girlfriend, the new German resident thought, remembering when Taylor complimented her red leather Givenchy moto jacket. What she couldn’t remember, however, was the last time Juan even mentioned Taylor. Not that she cared. All that mattered just then was the way the happiness she felt was reflected back to her in his cool blue eyes, and the effect of his cologne. That Gucci scent evoked in her many recent memories of intimate engagements. It was the trademark scent, if you will, of being very naughty or very nice with him, and like the smell of cinnamon rolls made her ravenously hungry, made her crave the intimacy.

“Thanks.” She maintained her smile and started unwinding the heavy knit scarf from her neck, forcing the player to let go. He offered to take her quilted nylon overnight bag, and she followed him up three tiny dark wooden steps into the rest of the room.

It was much like the lobby, with brick accent walls, white paint, tufted everything, stylish lighting. The bathroom was all white, clean lines, smooth surfaces, and expensive looking products. Juan said he went for the nicest level room under the suites, since they weren’t going to be spending a lot of time in the hotel. The thing was, his friend had designs on spending some time there right away, before heading out in search of culture and novelty. As soon as she was finished surveying the comfortable space, she toed off her black slip-on sneakers, took her little bag over her head, stripped off the jacket, and hopped backwards onto the bed in the spot where it looked like he’d been sitting on the nice white comforter.

“I need sex and 10 minutes of snuggles and forehead kisses afterward, and then we can go on an adventure,” Christina explained, hoping to sound alluring. She was already unbuttoning the skinniest of black skinny jeans. You know what’s funny, she asked herself as an aside. I had to lay down to get these suckers on in the first place.

“I like you this way,” the Spaniard chuckled. He reached for her right foot, prepared to help pull the tiny pants off from that end. There was no way to know if he’d been eagerly desperate to rip her clothes off and go at it or if he was turned on by her completely uninhibited desire, or if he was simply willing to humor her. She knew though as soon as the jeans were off and she felt the course denim of his only moderately skinny jeans brush against her knees and thighs as he crawled over her that he was definitely down to provide the services she was looking for. His lips were possessive and predatory when they landed on hers the second they could reach her. The rider loved that. It turned her on of course, but it also just made her feel great. She was wanted, and there were no relationship complications to diminish or confuse that the way there was with André, and André was noticeably too afraid of alienating her or offending her when they were together over the weekend to kiss her like that. She figured he was afraid that she’d think he wasn’t interested in the connection- only the sex. It didn’t bother her. Experiencing her other sexual partner’s lust for her just highlighted that it had been missing. It filled a vacuum.

“Missed you,” she whispered innocently when Juan pulled back a bit to look at her, a playful smile mostly in her eyes. Her hands held onto the arms holding him up. His physical form was beginning to feel like her property in a way it never did even when they were together exclusively. The soul within it belonged to her off and on but mostly on. Only on those occasions when he demonstrated real closeness with another girl did Juan feel out of her grasp, and those usually turned into misdirected temper tantrums or hidden sadness. In contrast, the body only ever seemed to belong to him. She never thought of any of his other girlfriends, or his fiancé for that matter, as having ownership- having the right and freedom to sit on, touch, poke, kiss, lick, move, or otherwise manipulate the player’s body. Christina had ownership of André’s. She was never entirely sure if she even wanted or needed the same with the other player. As she got a taste for that privilege- for whatever reason it was changing- she grew into wanting it.

“You’re wearing a tiger shirt.” The person with literal ownership of the body in question did a kind of double take when he spotted the roaring tiger on her t-shirt. The Gucci garment was apparently surprising, and caught his attention.

“Brilliant observation.”

“What does “L’Aveugle Par Amour” mean?” he asked, reading the large words on top of and below the tiger head when she let go of his arms to spread the white shirt out.

“Blind for love. Can you stop checking out my shirt and take it off? Or take your pants off? Or stop asking unnecessary questions and kiss me instead?”

Juan took the hint. His friend’s urgency amused him enough to keep a pleasant little smirk on his mouth while he switched to one elbow and reached under her shirt to squeeze a breast, first through the soft cotton cup of her bra, and then without it when he shoved it up out of the way. Christina wanted to get in his jeans. At the very least, she wanted to get to the button and zipper. She couldn’t reach and he seemed to be deliberately trying to make it difficult. His right hand shuttled up and down her side, from pushing her underwear down her hip a little ways to uncovering her breast from her shirt too instead of just the bra inside it. His kisses were at her neck.

Literally everything is perfect, she concluded, her hands in the hair at the back of his head since evidently that was all he was going to allow her to touch for the time being. I was in a hurry because I know he wants to go out and see things, and I do too, but he isn’t in such a hurry. He’s not slow but he’s not frantic either. He’s just the right side of “I am ridiculously turned on by you being horny enough to demand that I fuck you 90 seconds after you got here”. This is perfect. The rider closed her eyes and lived the excitement inherent in being able to turn someone like Juan from sightseeing mode to sexing mood with a few gestures and a couple of words. There was no question by then that he wasn’t just humoring her, or doing a favor. He wanted her just as badly as she wanted him. That gave her all the flutters and twitches and electricity of early-relationship sex, and the ease and nonchalance of the forehead kiss she got after he finished in her mouth gave her the melting insides feeling of the love of an established partnership. It was like having all of the different feelings of a whole relationship from about the third or fourth date through the third or fourth anniversary in 30 minutes. And it was all highly energizing.

“Which way do you want to walk first?” Christina asked the Chelsea man while he installed a knit beanie on his head and she cocooned herself in the oversized scarf.

“To the left out front. We can walk on the main street for a while and then double back on the side streets. There is this music club I want to go to later. Walking and dinner first.”

“Where do you want to eat?”

“I don’t know. We’ll find something,” he shrugged, checking his pockets to make sure he had his essentials. She interrupted his inventory with a cheerful smooch.

“I’m so excited to be a tourist and not have plans.” I hate plans. Plans suck. Everything at home is about plans. Plans to be home. Plans to go out to eat. Plans to do things with Lukas. Plans to do things with friends. Plans to do stuff that’s supposed to make us reconnect. The German girl mentally rolled her eyes at what she perceived as the oppression of André’s misguided belief that he could improve their home life with these plans. She thought he was always trying to plan things because he couldn’t just sit still and let their situation play out. He needed to do something about it. He thought plans were solutions. Christina liked having plans for things like her workday, or for running errands. His plans often felt like plans for the sake of having plans, rather than plans for accomplishing something, be it an objective task or a subjective goal, like “fun” or “relaxation”. Juan’s only plan was to see where their interest took them, and then check out a club whenever they made their way to it. His friend wasn’t exactly sure how to define the difference. She just knew it was there.

“Are you in-the-street-famous in this country?”

“Huh?”

“Do people recognize you on the street here?”

“Oh. I dunno. I don’t think so? People recognize me in Dortmund, but literally everyone in Dortmund is obsessed with football.”

“I meant because you’re Christina Schürrle, not because you’re Mrs. André Schürrle.”

“I doubt it. Are we hiding?”

“No.”

“I need a coffee for adventuring.”

“Okay, but I’m not carrying your shopping bags because your “hands are full”.” The Spanish player leaned over to peck her cheek, and started for the door. Smartass, Christina thought, smiling and following after him. They were in search of culture and sights. They both knew Christina couldn’t pass up retail though.

Berlin turned out to be colder than expected in terms of ambient temperature, and warmer in terms of pretty much everything else. The city was new to both of them. Christina had visited for specific functions, just never to actually walk around. Nothing had ever brought her companion there before. He told her about his stop at the headquarters of a social charity partner that endeavored to use football to improve the lives of children, particularly in poor urban areas. It was quite nice for her to hear about something other than herself, or horses, or Borussia Dortmund. Too many of their regular conversations were getting sucked into the hole that was her transition period. Juan was supposed to be the sunshine outside of that, and so he proved to be once again. It helped that the city provided alternative topics for discussion. They found small art galleries, independent artisans’ shops offering everything from soap sculpture to handmade journals and paper goods, random reminders of history, record and book stores that seemed in abundance compared to London, and a gallery selling nothing but architectural photos from places around the world. That was a favorite stop. Rider and footballer both picked out a couple of prints to take home, and the proprietor helped them choose frames and mats too. The photos were to be shipped to their respective homes.

Having to give their separate addresses made Christina a little sad inside. She kept it there- kept it from showing. As few as 8 days earlier, she was still thinking about their futures converging in perhaps one shared address. There was still a desire for that within her. It didn’t go away just because her future at her current address, with André, was looking more tenable than it did a week before. That duopoly felt like it had the potential to be really confusing and difficult. It begged questions such as: What happens if I want to be with both of them? She thought about a fantasy life while the Spaniard spied through the windows of a restaurant across the street from the photo gallery- a fantasy life in which she split her time between the two midfielders, with separate families even. Obviously it wasn’t realistic, and she didn’t even want a situation like that, but there was no stopping her mind from wandering down that path until the player she was with asked her to translate the menu by the door.

The place was called “80 Days”, as in “Around The World in Eighty Days”, and fittingly offered culinary delights from all over. Juan was after something interesting and uniquely Berlin, rather than looking for whatever the hottest, hippest, trendiest spot in town was at the moment- that would be for the next night- so an eclectic looking establishment with everything from Wiener schnitzel to country fried chicken salad with Georgia peaches was perfect. They shared falafel balls and hummus, a roasted lamb dish with fries, and traditional currywurst. That last part wasn’t so much shared as eaten by just Juan. Christina never went anywhere near currywurst, no matter who was trying to share it with her. There was a debate over whether or not to have two big glasses of German beer with their meal. The idea was rejected because of their next destination. They wanted to save their alcohol calories for the jazz club.

Just in case the more recently crowned of the two World Cup winners forgot how impossible a fantasy life with two separate partners would be, the jazz club offered up an opportunity to remember. The space was pretty small and pretty modern for a jazz club, but with nostalgic nods to more authentic venues, like tall lamps that belonged in an old lady’s parlor, and the cliché drop-shape red candle glasses for the tables. The furniture definitely came from yard sales or thrift stores. None of it matched. There were a few sets of chairs that went together, but not with anything else. Seating options included two recycled sofas on the side of the room, sturdy wooden chairs at round tables, dainty upholstered chairs right up close to the drums and piano, and tall-backed patio chairs around tiny tables meant to serve as end tables in what would have been a very stylish living room in the late 1970’s. Counters lined the two longest walls, with mismatched wood stools. The club was in a retail space, so the acoustics weren’t ideal for a music venue. There was a lot of glass window to contend with. Two mustachioed and bowtied men served the drinks behind the small bar with the establishment’s name in neon above. Despite the aforementioned, it was known as one of the best spots in Europe for classic jazz. The real problem with the club was that Christina couldn’t sit under her jazz advisor’s arm, or hold his hand, or make out with him when the mood struck her. Even if she could split her future between a partnership with him and a partnership with her husband, in different countries, she could only be a partner to one in public. That didn’t matter so much since it was all fantasy and imagination and not something she really wanted. Still, it was no fun to resist instinctive urges while she enjoyed good wine and nice music.

“Are you ever going to get more tattoos?” Juan asked her inquisitively after she got some hair caught in the button that held a fishtail-braided cotton string bracelet on her wrist. He had to help free a wavy lock from the little piece she’d been wearing 24/7 for a few weeks, and the presence of the inked fox beneath it must have made an impression.

“I don’t know. I don’t have any plans. I actually kind of wish I had put my raven somewhere else.”

“Like where?”

“I dunno. Somewhere I don’t have to see it in the mirror,” Christina shrugged. She felt compelled to scratch at her side near the tattoo, even though it didn’t itch. “You should tattoo my face on your neck. Neck tats are so hot right now.”

“Can I tattoo your lips on my backside?”

“I mean, you could but...nobody would know they’re mine.”

“Do you like the piano player? If you listen to just him and cut out the other instruments, I think he’s pretty good.”

“I guess. I dunno. This music isn’t my thing. To me it’s like being in Bergdorf’s in Manhattan 15 years ago.”

“We can go soon if you want,” the footballer yawned. He didn’t take offense to her opinion. He wasn’t really into the music either. They shut their mouths and paid attention when the musicians got really into their craft and everyone in the club got caught up. Otherwise they were just chatting about things they saw and places they went, other people sitting near their table, and pictures on their phones, mostly of each other, taken by one another that evening. There was no big headline act to perform. The pair of friends, and indeed the other patrons, treated the music as background for their socializing rather than something to be quiet and observe.

“Are you offering me a reprieve because you think I’m bored,” his ex-girlfriend smiled back. “Or are you just tired and ready to go back to the hotel?”

“We’ve been here 90 minutes and two glasses of wine. I think that’s enough. We’ll take a taxi back, yes?”

“We’re miles from the hotel, so yes. I’m trying to treat my ankle well since, ya know, I have a World Cup Final next week and everything.”

“Are you excited for it yet? You haven’t talked about it much since you had to scratch Dirk.”

“D’ya know what? I’m not excited anymore. Not even because of Dirk. I had a look at the entry list on the train this afternoon,” she explained with a sour note in her voice. “Almost nobody great is even going. It’s going to be me and Marcus and Ludger, a handful of other top Europeans, less than a handful of the top Americans, and then a bunch of grid filler! It’s so lame! I guess because it’s in the States and it’s an Olympic year, nobody wants to bother with it. Also, there is nothing else to show in while you’re there. At least when they have it in Europe at a normal show, you can take three, four horses and do other stuff. I’m kind of annoyed now,” she complained. “Maybe I wouldn’t have even bothered fighting to qualify if I knew it would be like this. I could have qualified like four shows early. Or maybe I wouldn’t go at all. Tom says I have to go anyway to try to defend my title since that doesn’t happen much, but it actually does happen a lot. I looked it up. There have been 5 back to back winners in my lifetime, including Rodrigo Pessoa’s three-in-a-row, and several of them used the same horse, so I can’t even pretend it’s for Riri.”

“Be careful, cariña, or you’ll psych yourself out,” the ever-cool footballer advised. “If you go in thinking it isn’t a big competition, then you ride like it isn’t a big competition. When you point out that not all the top riders are going, you have no excuse not to win. Those two things don’t go. You’re going to disappoint yourself.”

“As long as I don’t embarrass myself, then I don’t care how it goes,” the defending champion shrugged before taking the penultimate sip of her Burgundy. “I wanted Dirk to win. Now...meh. I have bigger priorities.”

“You’ve had a good week.”

“How do you mean?”

“You’re in a good place. You sound good.” Juan looked away, and Christina was left puzzled. Is he pointing out that I’m relaxed and not whiny for a change because he’s happy for me, or because he was on the lookout for signs of how a whole week in my new home with my Schü is really making me feel, without the filter I naturally apply, intentionally or otherwise, when I talk to him about stuff? Was or is he worried that I’m going to pull away from him if things are all better at home? Or was it nothing to do with any of that, she wondered. Is my mental health just noticeably better today? My point of view is improved? Differently focused? Does he like that I sound better, or no? I sound strong about- “Let’s get the bill.” Hmm.  

The pensive equestrian picked up the tab, and studied her suddenly quiet date. He seemed weirdly fixated on his phone while they waited for the waitress to return her card, and then in the car on the way back to the hotel with their shopping. She resolved not to take it personally, or to keep trying to read deeper into his behavior. She wanted the easygoing and engaging Juan back, and there was something in her duffle bag that she thought might help restore him. After wiping off her makeup and changing into a black tee for bed, she padded out with the object from her bag and a pump-top bottle of lotion discovered in the bathroom.

“Can I show you something?” she asked the silent player with two mobile devices in his hands and the comforter on his legs.

“Is that a photo album?” His curiosity was certainly piqued by the navy blue leather book in her hands.

“Mhm. It’s my mom’s but I stole it from her when she asked me to find something in the boxes in her basement. This was what my family was like before ponies and horses, when we were a real, happy-ish family.” Christina presented it to him and climbed into bed with the lotion to rub some into her dry spots while her friend got to explore the photos of her early childhood. There was a specific and considered reason why she wanted to share the album with him, and she intended to explain it to him after he looked through. A warm, “awww” smile spread across his face as soon as he opened it.

“This is you? Did you go to Hawaii?” He zeroed in on a picture of Christina in a Hawaiian floral print bikini, with a tiny grass skirt and a colorful lei. She was standing between her parents, each holding one of her hands.

“No, we went to my uncle’s Hawaiian-themed backyard BBQ,” she chuckled. “I was like three.”

“That’s your mom in the bathing suit? Wow.”

“Ew don’t go there, Juanin.”

“Your hair was so blonde, so curly! I don’t think I’ve seen pictures of you this young. Look at this one! Your birthday cake was pink?”

“Yeah. Mom made it. She made the same funfetti cake for me and Aidan every year. His had chocolate frosting with dinosaur sprinkles and mine was pink vanilla when I was little, and then chocolate later on. I didn’t like anyone sitting at that plastic table with me except the girl in the white dress. Everyone else was related to me, and I hated them all. I don’t think I had other friends when I was that age.”

“Who is the girl in the white dress? This is her too, no?” The amused footballer pointed to some other photos on the next page, with precious moments from other family parties and occasions, and dance recitals.

“My neighbor. We were best friends but I also hated her a lot of the time. Her mom was super glamorous though. Mrs. Case. I used to be jealous of how cool she was. She told me when I was like 17 that she was always envious of my mom when I was growing up. She said my mom went to the grocery store every day to buy fresh ingredients for dinner. Mrs. Case didn’t cook. If I ate at their house, we had macaroni and cheese from a box, or Mr. Case grilled hamburgers and hot dogs. He was a judge, and a stockbroker. And an alcoholic, and a total dick. They split when I was 8-ish. He then blackmailed my parents into getting me to go to his second wedding as moral support for his daughter when I was supposed to be at an SAT prep class and- well, it’s a long story. I’ve told you about them before.”

“Yeah, I remember. The girl who made the opera record?”

“Mhm. This one of all of us on the dock was in Newport, Rhode Island. I don’t remember anything about the trip, but we took one of Dad’s friend’s boats up there. Notice how my dad was always wearing those ugly too-big baseball caps with the huge brim, like Donald Trump?” Christina laughed at the memory of her dad’s caps. By “always” she meant whenever he was out in the sun, which wasn’t actually that often. He wore them for golfing, and for boating and fishing. They didn’t do a whole lot of other things outside.

“This is a great picture, cariña. You are the spoiled baby!” Juan had his biggest laugh at an image of Mrs. Martin sitting on Mr. Martin’s lap, with Aidan sitting on hers, and Christina sitting on Aidan’s, back when the kids were small enough for all of that to work. Mr. Martin was kissing his wife’s cheek, his wife was kissing his son’s, and his son was trying to smooch Christina too, but Christina was scowling and trying to get away. “Beautiful family.”

“Yeah, we were a perfect, happy family. And then I turned into a professional pony rider and we weren’t a family anymore, and once we weren’t a family anymore then nobody else was happy anymore.” The grown up iteration of the scowling little girl keeled over onto a pillow on her side, the enjoyment of sharing something with her best friend and seeing him react to it gone. He’d already gotten to the crux of why she brought the album with her to see him. “We stopped doing things as a family when Aidan and I started going away to horse shows every weekend, and riding after school. The three of us were together, but never with Dad. Then Aidan quit riding and it was just Mom and I. Once we weren’t together as a family, my parents weren’t happy together anymore. It can be traced that far back. I’m starting to wonder if horses and family happiness are mutually exclusive. What if you have to devote everything to horses to be good at it, and there’s nothing left to give to your people?”

“Don’t be silly. Haven’t you ever considered that perhaps the reason your mother was willing to give so much time to you and your riding was that she was already unhappy with your dad, and just trying to stay away? You might have the cart before the horse. Forgive the pun.” Her moral and intellectual sounding board kind of furrowed his brows at her suspiciously, and then returned his blues to the book. There were Easter egg hunt, skateboarding, tennis, golfing, Christmas, and baseball game outing memories to take in, including a disturbing number of photographs of the world class rider eating ice cream from small plastic batting helmets at Shea Stadium in New York, the home of the Mets. The private school that she and Aidan attended in their earliest years hosted an annual outing to the park to take in a game from the bleacher seats, with a party in the “[Insert Title Sponsor Here] Picnic Area” reserved exclusively for the students and their families, and Mr. Martin usually took the kids on their own a couple of times each season. She only liked going to baseball games to eat hot dogs, soft pretzels, and ice cream sundaes. The baseball was of no interest whatsoever, though even as a wee toddler, Christina could recognize and appreciate how much her dad liked to go to the games. What she didn’t know at that age was that he only enjoyed going to the games because he got to see the kids have fun, so really, nobody cared about the baseball.

“No, because my mom would do anything for us, pretty much. She didn’t have friends. All she wanted to do was help Aidan and I do whatever we were into. She took him all over to find new skateparks. I got to go to the zoo or the aquarium whenever I wanted. If I said I wanted to go to The Plaza Hotel for food at the Palm Court like Eloise, we went. We went to Broadway shows. We got our hair and nails done all the time. We went shopping at Lord & Taylor a lot because apparently I really liked the chicken noodle soup and plain frozen yogurt served in the pretentious cafe on the 8th floor. Mom totally lived to hang out with her kids. Once I started riding for real, that meant barn stuff aaaaaaall the time. Not just taking me to the barn to ride, or to the horse shows. When we weren’t doing that, I wanted to go to the different tack shops to browse and pick up the new magazines, or go to other barns to see friends who moved, or who I knew from showing. I wanted to go to the big events I wasn’t good enough to ride in yet, or go back at the end of the week after my classes were long done so that I could see the feature Grand Prix. Instead of going to The Plaza Hotel, I wanted to go into New York City to visit the Miller’s flagship- that was a huge saddlery. While we were off doing that, she and Dad were drifting apart, I guess. By the time I was old enough to even notice, they had no relationship anymore beyond like...not even roommates, but maybe coworkers. And make no mistake. I was the best pony rider on the block because all I thought about and cared about was horses and riding. You can’t be good at this sport if you treat it casually. You can’t be great at it if you don’t treat it like a lifestyle. As I look at what I want to do with the horses now, and the schedule I feel I need to pursue, and everything else...I’m like, “What if you can’t do this and have a good family life?” And that’s a question that exists whether I want that life with Schü or with you.”

“Your parents had their own problems. You’ve said many times that your dad was always working anyway. Not all relationships can only work when the people in them are together constantly.” Juan peered down at her with an expression that actually made her think of her mom. That’s the look she gave me when she was sympathetic about whatever I was having a tantrum about, but thought it was ridiculous. Hmph. “You have to ask yourself sometime if you want your relationship to work or not. You’re always making excuses for the problems, or looking for reasons why it’s doomed to be difficult. You have to ask yourself why that is. Are you really just looking for a way out of it? And if you are, is it because you’re afraid of fighting through the hard parts, because you don’t believe there should be any parts that are that hard, because deep inside you don’t want that future, or because what you really want is something with me? Why are you always looking ahead and saying “This is going to be a disaster”? Either stop doing the things that make it a disaster, or start having more belief in yourself. It’s the same as with the World Cup. You go in thinking the competition isn’t top level and it doesn’t even matter to you, and you’ll ride that way. You go into difficult situations thinking that they’re impossible, or that you’re guaranteed to suffer, and then you end up making yourself suffer.”

“I didn’t get the eternal optimist gene.”

“So you pretend. Tell yourself what you want is possible, that you can have it, and that you will have it.”

“Yeah, no, my brain doesn’t operate that way, babe. I just feel even more uncertain because I know my faith is fake.”

“What do you want me to tell you then? You always ask me these “what if” questions but your mind is already made up.”

“Okay. Never mind then,” Christina sighed, giving up. She brought the photo album to try to get clarity or perspective on the idea that her life goals were incompatible with one another, and her counselor was correct- it was difficult for her to accept his guidance when it went against what she’d already decided was true. “You can just go back to enjoying the photos for their comedic value and not as evidence supporting my damaged worldview.”

“Do you remember many things from these photos?” Juan wasn’t succumbing to her melodrama or sympathy-seeking. He didn’t treat her like she was contemplating serious things. He remained casual- nonchalant, even- and maintained a thoughtfulness about his manner that was neither deep nor absent. It was just somewhere in between. It was level. It was steady. He was steady. That was something she relied upon him for without even knowing it. The Spanish footballer was like horizon. He helped her find levelness when she pitched too far one way or the other.

“I remember a moment here and there. Like I can remember the places I found Easter eggs, and I sort of remember a very early Christmas, but mostly, no. I have no recollection of my parents being a happy couple.” She nodded against the pillow, and he studied her for a moment without giving away anything about what he was thinking. Instead, he eventually scooted down the bed and twisted to use her tummy. On his back with his knees bent and feet flat on the mattress, he angled over to use her as a prop for his head so he could continue browsing her non-memories in the photo album upright in his lap. Despite not remembering much, his headrest could still explain the context of most of the pictures, or relay what she was told about them. They went through the book and cycled through laughing, teasing, taking offense, expressing confusion, and “aww”-ing.

“You should post some of these on Instagram,” Juan suggested after closing the book at the end. “All your fans would like to see small Christina in her ballet costume.”

“You should turn off the lights and snuggle with me and talk to me about something nice, in your sleepy bedtime voice.”

“It’s like you think you can order services off a menu.” He shook his head as if to rue her demands, or perhaps how easily he acquiesced. “Same as earlier.”

“I just have very specific needs that have gone unfulfilled since last we said goodbye.”