#I hope some of y'all are interested anyway ^^;

[geminiwritten]

punishment ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore

notes: there are no words in any language (real or fictional) for how much i love this man, it's genuinely consuming... but anyway! have some fighter pilot fun! when i reread this, i felt like it didn't hit the way i hoped, but i can't keep rewriting bradley stuff just because i want everything about him to be perfect... so please be kind! and please, please let me know what you think! i actually worked super hard on this (lots of research) and i absolutely love hearing from y'all!

warnings: swearing, italics, hangman is a proper dick, the word 'cannibalism' is used (as a joke), kind of super cheesy, and it gets a bit horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: there is a lot more navy / pilot wording in this than i usually write. i do not claim that any of it is accurate or correct. i google things and i watch youtube videos, tv shows, and movies. as long as it sounds like it could make sense, i don't care. but please do not assume any of it is absolute fact, and please don't come for me if it's laughably incorrect or unfeasible.

word count: 13863

The bar smells like leather polish and beer. It sounds like a rowdy dive, full of off-duty naval officers and a few old veterans, but it doesn’t look like a dive. It’s clean and full of light, the sun pouring in through the beachside windows and bouncing off every shiny surface it can find. 

You tuck yourself onto the furthest stool at the bar, hiding behind a well-placed pillar to quietly sulk and sip your beer. You’re not interested in conversation today. Not after the ass-whooping you took last week, which landed you on this stupid island in the first place. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to check the text. It’s from Maverick: “0700 sharp. Don’t be late. Khakis.” 

You scoff and stuff it back into the pocket of your leather jacket. Does he really think you’re that dumb? That you’re not going to wear your service khakis on your first day? You’ve got a full day tomorrow of getting chewed out by a whole new slew of admirals. Why would you possibly want to piss them off? 

A smirk tugs at your lips, but you quickly hide it behind a sip of beer. Not that it really matters if anyone notices—they’d probably just think you’re a little crazy, smirking to yourself. No one here knows who you are—at least not by looking at you. Except Maverick, of course. Your new babysitter. 

Just because you pulled off a high-speed, low-level flyby mere feet from the deck of an aircraft carrier while some snooty admiral and a group of very important people were onboard for a very serious demonstration, you get booted from your squad and strapped with a babysitter. 

You didn’t even hit anyone. It was just a very close call. A few people toppled over. But it’s not your fault they didn’t see you coming and brace for jet wash. 

It was actually quite an impressive stunt. 

But the admiral didn’t see it that way. He sent you to learn from one of the Navy’s most notorious rebels about what happens when you break the rules. You’re still not sure why they stuck you with Maverick. Maybe they’re using the logic of ‘two wrongs make a right.’ Either way, that’s one part of this whole shitshow you’re actually relieved about. Maverick’s not a total stick-up-the-ass. 

A voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts and back to the bar. ���You here alone?”

Your head snaps toward your personal space intruder, bringing you face-to-face with a rather handsome man who is almost definitely too cocky for his own good. 

“That your big opener?” you ask, twisting on the stool to face him. “Because it’s giving more serial killer vibes than fuck-me vibes.” 

He smirks, unbothered by your prickliness. “Enlighten me, then. What would make you wanna fuck me?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you take a deep swig of beer, then glance back at him. “About fifteen more years of age and a nice, salt-and-pepper beard.” You slide off the stool and smack your empty pint glass down on the bar. “Sorry, pal. I’m only into DILFs.” 

He rears back, finally unsettled. You flash your prettiest grin and a wink before heading for the doors. 

You almost make it out without looking back—almost. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you spot the man rejoining his table of friends, all of them giggling like idiots. 

All but one. 

He’s got honey-brown hair that curls in the most mesmerising way, catching the sunlight like spun gold. His lips are tipped up at the corner beneath a moustache that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. And when you meet his big brown eyes, you can’t help but bite your lip like a shy little schoolgirl. 

Now, if that man had approached you, you’d probably be halfway to his bed by now. 

- 

You had your khakis dry-cleaned at the seedy little place next to the equally seedy fish and chip shop you found after sulking at the beach for most of Saturday. 

The studio apartment you’re leasing for your three months of punishment is in a block right by the sand—another small win in the grand scheme of things. At least you’re not stuck on base. 

You thought it was a small fuck you to the system to skip the official base dry cleaners and take your uniform somewhere else. 

But it wasn’t worth it. 

Now your khakis are super fucking itchy. They look fine, but every inch of fabric touching you—which is a lot—makes you want to peel your skin off. 

“What’s wrong?” Maverick asks, frowning as he watches you twist and turn in your front-row seat in the training room. 

You sigh, rubbing your back against the chair. “I took my uniform to a dry cleaner near my apartment. Now it’s fucking itchy.” 

Any other CO would rip into you for swearing, but Maverick just chuckles. “Serves you right.” 

Smug prick. 

You take a deep breath and try to settle, ignoring the prickling fabric scraping against your skin. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, shuffling through papers at the desk, “you’ll be in a flight suit soon enough.” 

Your eyes widen. You jump to your feet and step closer to where he’s hunched over the desk at the front of the room. 

“You’re going to let me fly?” 

He chuckles. “Of course.” 

“But-” 

“I cleared it with Admiral Simpson,” he says, flipping a page. “As long as the squad doesn’t know who you really are, and you don’t pull anything totally reckless, you’re cleared to fly.” 

For the first time in two weeks, it feels like you’re finally breaking the surface of the water. “Oh my God. Thank you, Mav.” 

He straightens up, finally giving you his full attention. “You don’t have to thank me. I trust you. Just don’t prove me wrong. And for the record—” he adds, a teasing glint in his eye, “—I know you’re a damn good pilot. In fact, you remind me of someone.” 

The cheeky grin on his lips is completely readable. 

You quirk a brow. “You?” 

He laughs—low, light, and smug. “How’d you guess?” 

You shrug one shoulder, slipping back into your seat. “Because I know Admiral Cain has it out for you. Why else would he saddle you with me if not to punish both of us?” 

Maverick sighs, but the grin stays on his face. “You’re not stupid, I’ll give you that. But you’re dangerous. And honestly, I’m not sure Admiral Cain really thought through what happens when you throw two dangerous people together.” 

You drop your voice low, just in case anyone else is listening. “Maybe Admiral Cain is the stupid one. Underestimating both of us.” 

Maverick tries—and fails—to hide his laughter behind the stack of papers, and you realize that maybe this punishment won’t be quite as punishing as you first thought. 

A few minutes later—and after completely shattering all professional boundaries by getting Maverick to scratch a spot on your back you couldn’t reach—the aviators who make up his special detachment start to arrive. 

You stay low and still in your seat as they file in, one by one, filling up the rows while Maverick stands grinning at the front of the room. Two aviators across the aisle glance at you curiously, like they almost recognize you. God, you hope not. 

“Good morning,” Maverick says, grinning at the room. “Apologies for the late start. I had a meeting with Admiral Simpson this morning because today..." He glances at you and nods for you to stand. “We have someone new joining us.” 

You plaster on a polite smile and scan the room—only to freeze when your eyes land on a familiar face. The guy who approached you at the bar last night. The one you all but told to fuck off. 

A snort of laughter escapes before you can stop it. 

He looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face turning redder by the second. You almost feel bad. Almost. 

“This is our new tactical training specialist,” Maverick continues, oblivious. But then he hesitates, glancing down at his paperwork before looking back up and saying your name—your first name, not your last, and definitely not your callsign. 

Just like Admiral Simpson ordered. No one can know who you really are. 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck when your gaze drifts a few seats over... and lands on the moustached sex god you locked eyes with across the bar before you left. The one you shamelessly eye-fucked before blushing like a fool, ducking out the door, and mentally writing a very detailed fantasy about that moustache between your legs. 

He’s even hotter in a flight suit. Shit. 

“Uh, anyway,” Maverick says, clearing his throat, “let’s get on with the briefing so we can fly.” 

You sink back into your chair, cheeks burning and heart thudding way too fast against your ribs. 

Maverick drawls on about a few mission updates, occasionally throwing in extra context just for you—over-explaining like you hadn’t already gotten the full briefing before being flown in. You’re still too stunned to speak—or correct him—so you just press your lips together and nod along. 

An hour later, when you’ve almost completely forgotten about your itchy khakis, Maverick dismisses the group and tells them to meet Hondo in the hangar. He calls on the woman seated across the aisle from you—Phoenix—before she can leave with the others, and asks her to show you to the women’s locker room. 

She nods, then turns to you with a small smirk. “It's Natasha, by the way. Feels a little weird calling you by your real name if you don’t know mine.” 

You return the smile—genuine this time—and keep your eyes on her instead of following the sex god in a flight suit walking out the door. “Nice to meet you.” 

She leads the way out, and you follow, assuming she's heading toward the locker rooms. 

“So, you fly?” she asks, nodding at the shiny wings pinned to your chest. 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“Where were you before this?” 

You hesitate, wishing you’d hashed out a backstory with Mav. “Uh… around. It’s… mostly classified.” 

She raises an eyebrow, sharp curiosity gleaming in her big brown eyes. “Or you've been ordered not to tell us.” 

You snort softly. “Yeah, something like that.” 

She guides you down a set of stairs and a short hallway before gesturing toward the women’s locker room. “Just in there. If they’ve assigned you a locker, your flight suit should already be inside.” 

“Thanks, Phoenix.” 

“Anytime.” She turns to go, but pauses, casting one last curious glance your way before smiling, nodding, and walking off. 

You like her. No bullshit. 

With a deep breath, you push the door open and step into the locker room. Sure enough, your flight suit is hanging beside a locker with your first name written in Sharpie on a piece of masking tape slapped across the front. It’s strange, seeing that instead of your callsign—but it confirms that Admiral Simpson is serious about keeping your identity buried. 

You’d heard your little stunt had made waves, but halfway across the country? If they’re hiding your name out here, then yeah—no wonder you’re in trouble. 

Your flight suit doesn’t have your name on it, either. Just a worn Velcro patch that reads ‘INSTRUCTOR’—the kind that looks like it’s been passed around longer than you’ve been in the Navy. Lovely. 

You peel off your khakis, relieved to shove the itchy green material into your locker, and slip your legs into your flight suit. You leave the top half hanging loose as you re-lace your boots and check your reflection in the mirror before heading out of the locker room. 

You turn down the hall without a second glance, awkwardly trying to shove your arms into your suit—only to carelessly bump into someone coming from the opposite direction. 

“Shit, sorry, I-” You choke on your words when you look up at the prettiest damn smirk you’ve ever seen. 

“You’re good,” he says—the moustached sex god. “Need a hand?” 

Normally, no. But right now, your traitorous body is practically catatonic, pretending it’s forgotten how to function just so the sexy man will help you into your flight suit. You’re supposed to be a tactical training specialist, not an inept fool who can’t dress herself. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you say, ignoring the screaming voice of feminism in your head. “I don’t know how I got so twisted up.” 

He chuckles—deep and warm, like smoke curling around you, pulling you closer. 

“I’m Bradley, by the way,” he says as he steps behind you. “Or Rooster.” 

Your brain completely short-circuits. You don't even think to respond as his fingertips brush your bare arms, sliding the suit up over your shoulders. Even through your thin t-shirt, the heat of his touch sends a riot of butterflies through your stomach. 

“Thanks.” You turn to face him, digging deep for the confidence that usually fools people into thinking you’re calm and collected. “I might need your number… in case I need a little help undressing later.” 

His face breaks into the most breathtaking grin you’ve ever seen. His cheeks flush pink, his Adam’s apple bobs with a soft chuckle, and when his brown eyes meet yours again, they sparkle so brightly you forget how to breathe. 

“Before I say yes, I need to know… do you usually ask your trainees to help you undress, or am I just special?” 

You laugh softly, your confidence flickering, and start down the hall—walking backward so you can still face him. “Right, because I’m technically an instructor.” You tap the Velcro patch on your chest. “And that would be highly inappropriate.” 

Bradley stands with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Highly.” 

“Good thing I’m not exactly known for my propriety.” You flash him your cheekiest smile, then spin around and quicken your pace down the hall. 

You make your way to the hangar—a little breathless from your run-in with the hottest man you’ve ever met—only to be intercepted by Maverick before you can reach the rest of the team. 

“Nothing fancy today, alright?” 

He hands you a dark green, slightly scuffed helmet. 

You frown at it. “But my helmet-” 

“Has your callsign on it.” 

He gives you a pointed look—a silent warning wrapped in patience—before shifting his attention to the squad. 

You roll your eyes as he walks off, then inspect the helmet in your hands, cringing at the cracked lining inside. At least it smells clean. 

After he picks the pilots flying the first drill, everyone heads to their jets. Your fingers twitch with anticipation as you climb into the cockpit, stomach flipping with that familiar mix of nerves and adrenaline. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lifetime. 

Once you're in the air, you follow Maverick’s orders to hang back, constantly reminding yourself that one more slip-up could ground you for good. 

First up: Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy. They’re good, but Hangman is cocky—and there’s a difference between cocky and confident. You’re confident. You know you’re good. And it’s borderline painful to fly like a rookie while he runs his mouth over the comms. 

“Hey Mav,” Hangman says, his voice crackling in your ear. “I’m curious—why do we need a tactical training specialist?” 

“Because you’re not good enough, Hangman. You need to be better,” Maverick replies coolly. 

“With all due respect, sir”—you can practically hear his smirk—“what are we supposed to learn from someone who flies like my grandma drives her Honda Civic?” 

There’s muffled laughter from Payback and Fanboy. 

“Maybe that’s her callsign,” Payback says. “Honda Civic.” 

“I was thinking Grandma,” Fanboy adds. 

More laughter—like they’re the funniest assholes in the sky. 

For a fleeting moment, you consider soaring up in front of them in an admittedly reckless inverted climb just to scare the smug off their faces. But you grit your teeth and bank slowly through a patch of low, cottony clouds instead. 

“Cut the chatter,” Maverick says, voice sharper now. “Or I won’t go easy on you.” 

You almost wish he’d let you off the leash. Let you show them exactly why you’re here. But he’s right. As excruciating as it is to fly like a grandma driving a Honda Civic... this is what you have to do right now. 

By the end of the day, you're bored out of your brain. You've heard so much trash talk from the pilots that you're not only feeling more defeated than after your reaming from Admiral Cain, but you're seriously considering punching one of them square in the face. 

You know it's just banter. They're not really trying to upset you—test you, maybe. Haze you. But it still grates, especially when they keep jabbing at your flying—the one thing you’re damn proud of. 

It sucks hiding your superpower. Is this how Clark Kent feels at the Daily Planet? 

When it’s finally time to hit the showers before Maverick’s afternoon briefing, you’re relieved. You drag your feet down the hall ahead of the others, not in the mood for post-flight chatter. You slip into the locker room, peel off your flight suit and underlayers, and step into the nearest stall. 

The water warms almost instantly, and you sigh in quiet appreciation. You’re just starting to relax when— 

“Get your shit outta my way, Fanboy.” 

You flinch at the voice—Hangman’s—closer than it should be while you're stark naked and dripping wet. Then you glance up and spot a vent high on the wall. It must connect to the men’s locker room. 

“You have a locker. Use it,” Hangman snaps again. 

You roll your eyes and duck back under the stream, letting the hot water drown him out. Or trying to. 

“So, what do we think the deal is with our new tactical training specialist?” one of them—Coyote, you think—asks. 

Hangman scoffs. “She’s no specialist. I’d be surprised if she’s even a fully trained aviator.” 

“She didn’t seem like she had any trouble flying,” Bob says, voice soft but clear. “She just seemed like she was hanging back. Laying low.” 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds—and your stomach does a little somersault. “Maybe she’s a total gun and just waiting to embarrass us all.” 

You smirk. He’s not wrong. If they ever take the leash off, you definitely plan to humiliate them. 

“I doubt it,” Hangman grunts. 

“She’s probably just here to babysit Maverick,” Fanboy says. “We all know Cyclone doesn’t trust him.” 

You snort quietly. 

“You’re not wrong,” Payback chimes in. 

“Probably some admiral’s daughter, too,” Coyote jokes. 

Hangman laughs—smug and overconfident. “I don’t care who she is. One way or another, I’m gonna find out why she’s really here.” 

- 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. You fly like a rookie, listen to Jake—yes, you’ve learned all their real names now—run his mouth like the class clown he insists on being, and endure Maverick assigning you to lead post-flight reviews breaking down the squad’s tactical performance. 

Your nights are spent reading, studying, absorbing everything you can about the thing you’re supposedly a specialist in. You already know your stuff—you like to think you’re pretty sharp tactically—but now that Jake is gunning for you, your cover needs to be airtight. 

The rest of the squad has been decent, if a little wary—not that you blame them. And then there’s Bradley. 

Bradley is nice to you. Like, really nice. Almost suspiciously nice, despite Jake’s constant digs. You catch him looking your way more often than not—though, to be fair, you’re not exactly subtle about your own ogling. He backs you up when Jake crosses the line, and so does Natasha—which only confirms why you liked her from the start. 

But Bradley? Bradley is a problem. The man is a walking, talking hazard to your mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Just hearing his voice over the comms is enough to make your heart skip. 

And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea how to act around him. Cool confidence is second nature when you don’t care what anyone thinks—but with him, you’re suddenly a fumbling schoolgirl with a colossal, deeply inconvenient crush. He’s kind. He’s hot. He’s got that easy swagger of a guy who knows he’s good—and he’s right. It’s not too much; it’s the perfect, dangerously attractive amount of confidence. 

Honestly? He might be the most punishing part of your punishment. 

You spend most of the weekend trying—and failing—not to think about what it would feel like to have that stupid moustache between your legs. Or worse: on the pillow beside yours, with his arms wrapped around you while you sleep. Just sleep. 

Dating seriously in the Navy—or any branch of the military, really—is notoriously difficult. You’ve made peace with casual, mediocre—often infrequent—sex. You’ve learned to ignore the craving for real connection, to smother it under adrenaline and the thrill of flying. But when you look at Bradley—stupid, hot, kind Bradley—you wonder what it would feel like to love him. And to be loved by him. 

Ugh. Gross. 

“You alright?” Maverick asks, brows pinched as he holds out a stack of paperwork. 

You blink, realizing you’ve been zoned out. You’re not sure how long he’s been standing there. 

“Yeah, sorry. Mondayitis,” you mumble, shaking your head and reaching for the stack. 

He rolls his eyes and glances toward the spot you’d just been staring at—where Bradley is talking to a maintenance tech beside his jet. 

“Yeah,” Mav chuckles. “Sure.” 

You snatch the paperwork with a little more attitude than necessary, but at this point, you’re comfortable enough with Maverick to get away with it. He knows the difference between you being genuinely annoyed—usually whenever Jake is within twenty feet—and just being a smartass. 

“You sure you’re good to stay back tonight?” he asks after a beat. “It’s just a routine FOD sweep, but the techs like having someone around who understands the tactical systems, just in case.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, hugging the paperwork to your chest. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Honestly, I’ll take any excuse to speak to humans outside the hours of nine to five.” 

Maverick chuckles, but then tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really not doing anything else? You don’t even go out? Or, I don’t know… do Tinder?” 

You raise a brow at him, trying not to laugh. “No, Mav. I don’t do Tinder.” 

“Oh.” He nods like that’s good news, but then frowns. “Still, you should go out sometime. Grab a drink, meet someone. This is a Navy town—there’s plenty of-” 

“Are you seriously giving me advice on getting laid?” you interrupt, eyes wide with disbelief. 

A faint pink tints his cheeks, but he doesn’t backpedal. “Not explicitly. But I just don’t see the point in making this punishment even more miserable by ignoring the outside world.” 

“Punishment?” 

You both freeze. Bob is suddenly beside you, looking wide-eyed and flushed—like he knows he shouldn’t have overheard but absolutely couldn’t help himself. 

You turn to him, panicked. “He—uh, what Mav means is-” 

“Bob!” Natasha’s voice cuts across the hangar. “Move it or you’re walking to The Hard Deck!” 

He gives a polite nod and bolts before either of you can say more. 

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. 

Maverick waves it off. “It’s fine. Bob’s a vault. Even if he does say something, we’ll spin it.” 

You narrow your eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re the one trying to blow my cover, not Hangman.” 

He laughs, unbothered. “You need to relax. Seriously—go out with the others tonight. Let off some steam. Maybe meet someone.” 

You groan, stepping back. “Are we back to this already? I can’t go out tonight—I’m stuck here babysitting the FOD inspections so you can go on a date and get laid.” 

That earns you a devilish grin. “You could still go out after.” 

“It’ll be too late.” 

“Alright then.” He flashes that troublemaking smile, then strolls off toward Bradley. 

You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you see it. The mischief in Maverick’s eyes, the subtle glance Bradley throws your way, the small nod. 

“Rooster’s staying back with you,” Mav says when he returns. “He’s going to help start inventorying the night gear before next week’s night ops. Keep you company.” Then he winks. “You’re welcome.” 

Your cheeks flame instantly. You can feel the blush rising from your chest to the tips of your ears, especially as Bradley sends you one of those slow, devastating smirks from across the hangar. 

You never imagined this would be your biggest problem, but here you are—drowning in paperwork and feelings, stuck with one ridiculously hot pilot… all because your CO thinks he’s Cupid. 

You do your best to avoid Bradley at first—and it mostly works. He waves off his friends, all of whom are more than a little annoyed he’s skipping the bar, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind. You find a relatively clear table toward the back of the hangar to spread out your paperwork and start sorting through what needs signing for tonight’s special inspections. 

One of the technicians wanders over and spends twenty straight minutes mansplaining the FOD sweep and borescope process. Normally, you'd bite a guy’s head off for talking to you like you're five, but this time, you let him ramble. Anything to keep a buffer between you and Bradley. 

The night wears on, and the techs move through their routines with smooth, practiced efficiency. You answer questions when needed, sign off on paperwork, and try not to keep checking to see where he is. After a couple of hours, you find yourself staring blankly at your neatly reorganized stack of documents—for the fourth time. 

“You alright?” Bradley’s voice cuts in, low and warm. He stops a few feet away, arms full of night vision goggles. 

You snap upright and nod. “Yep. Just a little bored. Need help?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and your stomach does a full aerial twist when he smiles. 

“Yeah, actually. There’s more NVGs to go through, and I need to check we’ve got enough night-adapted flight helmets.” 

You nod again and follow him to the gear closet. It isn’t small, but it’s tightly packed with equipment that smells like age and dust. The doorknob is mottled with rust, and the door itself is being propped open by a bent prybar wedged underneath. 

“Wow,” you mutter. “Luxury storage.” 

Bradley chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, not exactly state of the art. But Mav avoids complaining—less time in the admiral’s office.” 

You laugh softly, running a finger along a dusty shelf. “Can’t argue with that.” 

He casts a glance your way, curious but unreadable, as he stacks the goggles beside you. Then he points to the shelf of helmets and tells you to grab what you can and bring them over to where he’s been cleaning and inspecting gear. 

It takes a few trips, but eventually you’ve got all the helmets laid out across the hangar floor while Bradley goes down the checklist on his clipboard. You drop into a cross-legged seat beside the gear, inspecting each helmet one by one—checking the straps, the fixings, the visor, making sure there are no cracks or faults. 

Bradley settles across from you, reaching for a helmet of his own. “So,” he says, casual and curious, “do you already have a callsign, or are we still workshopping?” 

You glance up through your lashes, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Classified.” 

He arches a brow. “That’s not a no. Should I be worried it’s something like Deathwish? Or Heartbreaker?” 

A quiet laugh escapes you as you trade one helmet for the next. “What if it’s closer to the second one?” 

He nods slowly, a smirk tugging beneath that damn moustache. “Then I’ll adjust my expectations.”  

“That’s your first mistake,” you say lightly. “Having expectations.” 

His gaze lingers a little longer this time, thoughtful. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. You’re not trying to be cryptic—it’s just that words get sticky around him. Being guarded feels easier than being obvious. You’re not that complicated, really… but for some reason, with Bradley, keeping your walls up feels safer. 

And maybe, if he’s curious enough, he’ll keep pushing. You kind of hope he does. 

More hours pass, and you fall into a comfortable rhythm. When needed, the techs call you over to check something or sign something off, then you return to Bradley with a sarcastic remark or a curious question. He doesn’t pry too much about why you’re here, but he asks simple things—where you grew up, what your favourite colour is, if you have any pets. The conversation stays light and easy, and you find yourself looking forward to hearing his voice again after every question you answer. 

“Alright, we’re just about finished up,” one of the technicians—Randall— says as he ambles over. 

You’re crouched on the floor with a few open night ops survival kits in front of you, checking for chem lights, strobes, and IR beacons.  

“Oh, that’s great,” you say, brushing your hands off on your pants as you stand. “Thanks.” 

He nods. “Security did a walk-through ten minutes back. I told ’em you two were in here, and they said they’d circle back unless you’re planning to leave with the rest of us.” 

You glance at Bradley, silently letting him decide—though you’re secretly hoping he chooses to stay. 

“We’ll be here a little longer,” he says, his eyes flicking to you. “I think.” 

You nod, and his cheekbones flush pink as a small smile tugs at his lips. 

Randall glances up, motioning vaguely at the walls. “Cameras there,” he says, pointing, “there, and there. Dead spots are that corner… or the gear closet. Y’know—if you don’t want to get caught.” 

Your eyes widen and heat floods your face. 

Bradley lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Thanks, Randall. I don’t even want to ask how you know that, but… good to know.” 

The older man grins and lumbers off, whistling. 

The second he’s out of earshot, you groan into your hands. “What is with old men today?” 

Bradley raises a brow. “Don’t tell me one of the other techs gave you a hookup tutorial.” 

“Nope,” you sigh, dropping your hands. “Mav. I think he was trying to give me dating advice. Told me I should ‘get out there’ more.” 

Bradley snorts. “Was it any good?” 

“Well,” you say, “he’s glad I’m not on Tinder—wants me to meet someone the authentically. But then he was annoyed I’m not going to the bar tonight. Never mind the fact he’s the reason I’m stuck with overtime.” 

Bradley opens his mouth, pauses, then squints at you. “Wait… was this right before he came and told me to start inventorying night gear?”  

“Yup,” you reply, popping the p and being careful not to look at him. 

“Right,” Bradley chuckles. “Maybe we should change Mav’s callsign to Cupid.” 

You roll your eyes, ignoring the blush blooming in your cheeks. “Or Stupid.” 

You quietly keep packing up the survival kits and carrying them back to the gear closet. A few of the techs call out their goodbyes as they leave, but most don’t. And then—it’s quiet. Too quiet. 

You’re not sure if the tension comes from being suddenly alone—or from the fact that Bradley now knows why Maverick asked him to stay. Would he have bailed if he’d known sooner? 

He didn’t look horrified. Didn’t flinch or recoil. Just made a joke. 

But what the hell is that supposed to mean? 

“We can finish up soon, if you want,” you offer, even though you don’t want to. 

But now you’re overthinking everything. What if he doesn’t want to be here? What if he thinks you expect something to happen—like you’re in on whatever matchmaking crap Mav is trying to pull? 

“Oh,” he says, following you into the gear closet. “I mean, it’s up to you.” 

There’s a beat of silence while you both stack kits onto the shelf. 

“I mean, if you’re trying to make it to the bar,” he adds, his laugh a little forced. 

You shoot him a flat look. “Yeah, right. With all my friends.” 

He shrugs, but it looks stiff. “Maybe you’ve decided to take Mav’s advice. Meet a guy or whatever.” 

You lead the way out of the closet, your brows furrowed as you try to decode his words. 

Is he encouraging you to go? Telling you not to? 

Why is this suddenly complicated? Why are you even thinking about any of this when you’re only here as punishment? You shouldn’t be worrying about boys and feelings. 

You shake your head and decide to ignore it, scooping up more survival kits to return to the gear closet. Bradley is right behind you, carrying the last of them. 

You’ve just reached the shelf and freed your arms when there’s a bang and a sharp screech. 

“Shit,” Bradley mutters, stumbling forward. 

He catches himself before dropping anything—but then a loud slam echoes through the space, and both of your heads snap toward the door. 

“No,” you mutter, rushing from the shelf to the door. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

The rusted doorknob starts to crack in your grip. It doesn’t twist or even budge—just crumbles like sugar in hot water. 

“Wait,” Bradley says, dumping the kits on the shelf. “Are we actually trapped?” 

“No,” you bite out, twisting the handle again. It snaps, and a piece of rusted metal—fantastic—sticks into your palm. “Fuck. Shit.” You whirl around, clutching your hand. “Okay, maybe.” 

Bradley doesn’t panic. He chuckles. It’s light, casual—and laced with something else. Satisfaction, maybe? 

“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer. 

You instinctively offer your hand. The cut isn’t deep, but there’s a decent smear of red pooling in your palm. 

“Lucky we just restocked the survival kits,” he says with a wink. 

You want to roll your eyes—but instead, you smile like an idiot. He’s so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your skin like a slow burn—and then his hand wraps gently around yours, sending a surge of electricity crackling up your arm and straight to your chest. 

“This is just my luck,” you mutter. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Technically, I’m the one who tripped on the prybar, so I think it’s my luck.” 

“Yeah, but I’m known to be a bit of a…” You trail off, clearing your throat, scrambling to find a word other than the one on the tip of your tongue. 

His head tips, eyes narrowing. “A what?” 

“Walking disaster,” you say quickly. 

That earns another chuckle as he turns to the shelf of survival kits. “I wouldn’t call this a disaster.” 

You scoff. “Really? We’re stuck in a dusty gear closet at ten o’clock at night, the techs just bailed, our phones are in our lockers, and security probably won’t even realise we’re in here.” 

Still facing away, he rummages through one of the kits. “I’m trapped in a closet with a pretty girl,” he says. “Not exactly a disaster in my books.” 

You press your lips together, trying to smother the grin threatening to break loose—but then he turns around, wearing the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label. It’s cocky and knowing, like he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on you—and worse, he’s enjoying it. Heat flares beneath your skin, and suddenly the gear closet feels about ten degrees hotter. 

“See?” he says, offering his hand for yours again. “Can’t argue with logic.” 

You let him clean and bandage the cut on your hand, silence stretching thick between you. The warmth radiating off his body fogs your brain, making it nearly impossible to focus on escape routes from this stupid closet. His hands are slightly calloused—evidence of years gripping the F/A-18’s control stick the way you’re now imagining gripping something else entirely. 

Fuck. This man might actually be the death of you. 

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your cheek as he stands so damn close. “You’re not claustrophobic or anything, right?” 

You shake your head, subtle and slow, your gaze locked on his lips, your voice nowhere to be found. 

“Good,” he says. “Because we’re probably stuck in here all night. No windows, no vents, and there’s no way we’re getting any of these radios on the same frequency as the tower. That door’s older and more stubborn than Mav—it was built to keep people out, which means it’ll do just fine keeping us in.” 

You sigh, eyes drifting down to your bandaged hand. “Great.” 

He quietly packs the kit away, head bowed over the shelf as he works, giving you a moment to just look. His long legs are braced slightly wider than his shoulders, making him seem even more solid, more commanding. He all but consumes the small closet space, his honey-brown hair dangerously close to grazing the low ceiling. His fingers move deftly, expertly, and you can’t help but wonder what else they’d be good at. 

“You’re staring,” he says suddenly. 

Your cheeks warm. “I’m calculating.” 

He gives you a sideways glance and that crooked smile—the one that makes your heart miss a beat. “Calculating what?” 

“What chance I have of overpowering you if the situation becomes dire.” 

He chuckles, but it’s lower this time. Rougher. A little dangerous. “Define ‘dire’.” 

You shrug and turn your back to the shelves, sliding down to the floor. “You know. Cannibalism.” 

You lean against the bottom shelf, packed tight with gear boxes—solid enough to act as a makeshift backrest while you stretch your legs out in front of you. 

“Cannibalism,” Bradley echoes, settling beside you. “Right. So, is it straight to eating each other, or are there warning signs I should look out for?” 

His arm brushes yours as he shifts, the heat of his body seeping through your flight suit. And the way he said eating each other? Yeah—that’s not helping. 

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat to redirect your filthy thoughts. “First comes shock and denial.” You lift your bandaged hand. “But I think I’m past that.” 

He nods, eyes on you, like he’s genuinely interested—or just waiting for your next move. 

“Then anxiety and panic,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips. “You might start crying, beating your fists on the door…” 

He snorts, and you catch him glancing at your mouth. 

“Then comes anger and frustration,” you say, letting your voice drop just a little. “We’ll start blaming each other. Arguing. And then…” You trail off, licking your lips, gaze moving slowly down his body with exaggerated interest. “Desperation.” 

“What happens then?” he asks, his voice soft, deep—almost reverent. Like you’re telling him a secret he already knows. 

You glance at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. His long fingers tangled with tension, as if he’s holding himself still. 

“We’ll probably give in to all the tension,” you murmur. 

There’s a pause—so brief it’s barely a breath—before he asks, “What does that mean?” 

You finally meet his gaze, smirking like you already have him cornered. “You know exactly what I mean, Bradshaw.” 

The tension snaps when he laughs softly, his cheekbones tinged pink as he looks away. 

“Well then,” he says, “if we’re going to be stuck in here until we both go mad, don’t you think I deserve to know who you really are?” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not a bad try. Still classified.” 

He tips his head back against the shelf, and your eyes catch on the long column of his throat as he speaks. “Oh, come on. You think I’m going to tell anyone?” 

“No, not really,” you murmur, gaze still fixed on the warm tan skin of his neck. 

You feel like a starved vampire, fixated on his jugular with something close to bloodlust. But really, you just want to sink your teeth in—hard enough to leave a mark. Claim him. 

God. Since when has a man made you feel this feral? 

Then he tips his head down again and pins you with those big brown eyes. “So why won’t you tell me?” 

You meet his gaze. “I think you already know more about me than most people do. Is it really that bad not knowing my last name or callsign? Ask me anything else.” 

His smile turns boyish, softening him, making him look younger than he is. “So you admit you have a callsign?” 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“When’d you get it?” 

“Flight school.” 

“Is there a cool story behind it?” 

You wobble your head as if weighing the answer. “Sort of. It’s not really a story—it’s more of a personality trait.” 

He nods slowly. “So I might be able to figure it out?” 

You shake your head. “Probably not. Not with the way Mav has me flying.” You don’t entirely mean to throw him a bone—some sliver of the truth behind why you’re really here—but it slips out anyway. 

His eyes narrow. “So you are holding back,” he says. It’s not a question. 

You don’t answer. Instead, you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down—hard. His gaze flicks to your mouth, and lingers there, watching you. Something in his eyes darkens, and you can see the flush crawl up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. 

“Okay, my turn,” you say, angling your body toward him. “This whole ‘prince charming’ thing. The cheeky smiles, the perfectly tousled hair—does it always work for you?” 

He frowns, but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the amusement threatening to break across his face. “What do you mean, ‘does it work’?” 

You shrug, trying—and failing—to seem nonchalant. The green-eyed monster in your chest rearing its ugly head. “I’ve seen you walking around like you own the place. Don’t tell me you haven’t left a trail of broken hearts across the country. I mean, I see the way you are with Phoenix, all the-” 

“Phoenix?” he interrupts, his eyes growing wide. “Phoenix and I are friends. Period. I’m actually pretty sure she’s hooking up with Bob, but she’s too scared to tell the rest of us because we’ll ruin it. Which, fair enough. Hangman can be a bit of a bitch.” 

“Oh, I know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “But don’t change the subject. You seriously don’t expect me to believe there aren’t a hundred women trying to beat down your door every Friday and Saturday night?” 

He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There might be one or two broken hearts in my past, but I can promise you, no one is beating down my door. And the ‘prince charming’ act...” He leans in just a little, his voice lowering. “That’s just for you.” 

This man is actually trying to kill you. 

You roll your eyes and feign indifference. “Smooth.” 

He raises his brows, that smirk still firmly in place. “You think?” 

“You know exactly what you’re doing, Bradshaw.” 

He chuckles, leaning back and resting his head against the shelf again. “Well, yeah. I know what I’m doing. But I can’t tell if it’s working or not.” 

You fight a smile, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah,” you mutter, “it’s working.” 

The next hour passes with random questions exchanged, both of you settling into an easy rhythm. He’s careful not to pry too much, slipping in the occasional question about your past or why you're really here. You answer with playful eye rolls and a quick “that’s classified,” but despite the walls you try to keep up, you find yourself telling him more than you expected. His presence is warm and easy, and there’s something about the way his eyes study you—genuine curiosity mixed with a hint of hunger—that makes you open up in ways you didn’t expect. 

Then, after a beat of silence, he asks, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” 

It’s a stark contrast to the casual questions you’ve been tossing back and forth. Your brows pinch, and you tip your head, a wave of exhaustion making your posture sag. You open your mouth to reply, but he jumps in again, voice laced with sudden panic. “Wait, you don’t have some secret boyfriend... right?” 

A soft laugh escapes your lips. “No, I don’t.” 

His shoulders visibly relax, his eyes blinking slowly, tiredly. “Why not? Aside from the stock standard military excuse.” 

You rest your head against the shelf, staring up at the paint flaking off the ceiling. “I like to blame the navy, but I think it’s mostly my fault. I can be... picky. I guess my standards are higher than they have a right to be. The last actual boyfriend I had... sucked. Monumentally.” You pause, biting your lip. “He scarred me. Haven’t really wanted to date seriously since.” 

There’s a flash of something unfamiliar across Bradley’s face—an emotion that’s gone before you can catch it, replaced quickly by curiosity. “Why did he suck?” 

You snort softly, remembering your last relationship with a sick feeling in your stomach. “Do you want the PG version or the real one?” 

His gaze hardens, anger flashing behind his eyes, though he masks it quickly. “The real one.” 

“Okay,” you say, steeling yourself for the uncomfortable memories. “Well, aside from just being a piece of shit...” You pause, taking a deep breath. “After almost two years together, he—uh, he had a hard time finishing... with me. Told me it was because he was bored, too used to me. Said I wasn’t good enough to, you know... get him there.” 

The silence that follows is suffocating, thick enough to make you choke. Your chest aches, but you can’t find the strength to breathe. Bradley’s expression has turned murderous. His eyes darken, his brows drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His cheeks are flushed, redder than before, and the colour crawls down his neck and disappears beneath his flight suit collar. 

“He told you that?” he asks, his voice rough, low, cutting through the silence like a blade. 

You nod, a bitter laugh escaping as you remember the moment. “Yep. Right in the middle of it.” 

His eyes narrow, and the anger in his gaze intensifies. “He said that to you while you were having sex?” 

You nod again, your lips pressed tight, bracing for whatever might come next. Bradley looks like he’s ready to explode, like a bull in a chute, and though it’s scary, it’s also... unsettlingly hot. 

“I broke up with him the next day,” you say softly. 

“Good,” Bradley growls, his voice tight. 

Silence settles between you again, but this time it’s softer—less charged, more intimate. You can breathe. And now that the adrenaline has faded, so has your energy. Your eyelids are heavy, your shoulders ache, but the hard clips of the gear boxes digging into your back are making it impossible to get comfortable. 

You shift upright with a quiet sigh, glancing around the cramped space for anything soft to lie on. But the only thing that looks remotely inviting is Bradley’s lap. 

He has his head tipped back, lids half-lowered, but there’s no missing the way he catches your gaze. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips—lazy and warm. 

“You can lie down,” he murmurs, voice husky and low, dragging heat across your skin. 

“You sure?” you ask, even though you’re already moving. 

He adjusts his posture, leaning back against the shelves to make room. The slight shift in his stance feels oddly like an invitation, like he’s preparing for you. Your heart pounds as you reposition yourself, curling toward him and easing your head gently into his lap. 

It feels too intimate for what it is—but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, his body goes still, and then he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to ground himself. 

The heat of him is immediate, seeping into your skin. Without thinking, you press your freezing hands to his thighs with a groan of relief. 

Bradley stiffens. “Shit. Uh... careful where you put those.” 

You glance up. His mouth is parted slightly, breath coming and going faster now. That faint pink flush has darkened, stretching across the bridge of his nose. His eyes—wide, dark, hungry—meet yours. 

“Oops,” you murmur, lips twitching. “Sorry.” Though you’re absolutely not. 

You try to focus on relaxing, but the feel of him beneath you is intoxicating. Your exhaustion is at war with the slow burn licking through your blood. You close your eyes anyway, willing your body to settle. 

Eventually, his breathing evens out again—and so does yours. You curl in tighter, tucking your knees up, and nestle into him a little more. His breath catches, barely audible, but telling. Then, after a beat, his hand rests lightly on your hip. Just that. But it sends a rush of heat spiralling through you. 

His other hand shifts near your face, and, emboldened, you ease one of your own free and find his. Your fingers slide into place between his, lacing together like it’s instinct. 

The spark that jolts up your arm is instant—sharp, electric, undeniable. 

Yeah. This man is a hazard. To your health, to your career… And definitely to your cover. 

- 

You’re not woken by your alarm or the sound of your neighbour—who also happens to be navy—slamming his door on his way out. You’re woken by something solid pressing into the back of your head. Something warm. Something insistent. Almost like… 

Holy shit. 

You sit up like a shot, as if a gun’s gone off, your body protesting the movement after a night on the floor. But the aches barely register. Not when you’re suddenly very aware of the very impressive bulge currently tenting Bradley’s flight suit. 

You press your lips together, partly to hold back your laugh—and partly to keep yourself from doing something absolutely unholy. Like burying your face in his lap. Mouthing him through the thick material. Slowly unzipping that khaki jumpsuit and devouring him until he forgets how to breathe. 

God. You’ve never woken up so horny in your life. 

You briefly consider nuzzling back into him, soaking up every drop of that delicious warmth—until you hear voices outside. And then you see it: a sliver of daylight spilling beneath the door. 

You scramble to your feet and tiptoe to the door, pressing your ear against it. You should be thrilled you’re getting out of this dusty closet, but disappointment prickles under your skin. You’re not going to sleep with Bradley tonight—not in any sense of the word. Which is stupid. Completely insane. You’d rather spend another night on a hard floor with him than go home to your own bed. 

You shake your head and focus on the voices. You don’t recognize any of them. Tech crew, most likely—starting early. 

You lean over Bradley, gently scratching the crown of his head. “Hey,” you whisper, keeping your voice low just in case. 

His eyes flutter, then snap open—briefly panicked before he remembers where he is. He looks up at you with a sleepy smile, soft and hazy. “Hey. How’d you sleep?” 

You laugh quietly. “Surprisingly well. Until I was woken up by your little lieutenant—well, actually, not-so-little, but anyway…” You trail off, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m going to shut up now.” 

His brows knit in sleepy confusion… until understanding hits. He glances down—and immediately covers his lap with both hands. “Shit. Sorry.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’d offer to help you out, but I think we should probably get out of here before the others show up.” 

His mouth opens, his gaze snapping to yours—hopeful and tortured all at once. Clearly debating whether it would be worth the risk. 

He sighs, defeated, and pushes to his feet. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” 

You both move to the door, listening for familiar voices. 

After a moment, Bradley murmurs, “I think we’re in the clear. Sounds like it’s just techies.” 

You nod. “Alright, do we start yelling for help now?” 

He glances down at himself and makes a face. “Can I get a minute first?” 

You snort softly, biting your bottom lip to contain your grin. But you can’t stop the way your eyes drift down, or the warmth that floods your chest. Whether it’s the lap-nap or the fact you’ve gone completely stupid for this man, you’ve never wanted to drop to your knees more in your life. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, brows drawn as he focuses on anything that isn’t you. “You’re not helping.” 

“Sorry,” you giggle, turning fully toward the door. “I’ll just wait here.” 

He chuckles, low and rough, his voice coated in sleep and something far thicker—undeniable desire. He paces the tiny length of the closet like a caged tiger, careful not to look at you. 

A few minutes later, he returns to your side and nods. “Okay. Ready now.” 

You smirk and nod, resisting the very strong urge to glance down. Then you both turn toward the door and start knocking. 

“Hello!” you shout, mouth close to the seam. “Help! Please!” 

There’s the sound of footsteps, muffled voices. Then a rough voice answers, “Hello? Someone in there?” 

“Yes!” you call back. “The doorknob’s broken—we can’t get out.” 

There’s a jiggle of what’s left of the knob on your side, but it doesn’t move. 

“S’not budgin’,” the man says. “Stand back, alrigh’?” 

“Okay,” you say just as Bradley grabs your arm and pulls you to the back corner of the closet. 

He cages you with his body, chest pressed to yours, shielding you like a human wall. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—his breath ghosting over your cheek, his thigh brushing yours, your mouth so close to his. One glance up and you know you’d be kissing. You want to. God, do you want to. But now isn’t the time. 

A bang. Then another. The door rattles, the hinges groaning. One final crash sends the door flying inward, half-torn from its frame. 

Bradley doesn’t move at first. Then he exhales and shifts away slightly—just enough to look—but his hand remains on your wrist, protective. 

“You alrigh’?” the voice asks, silhouetted in the sudden glare of morning light. 

You squint, the brightness stabbing at your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “We’re fine.” 

You both blink as your vision adjusts and step toward the opening. 

“Exactly how long have you two been in there?” comes a second voice. One you know far too well. 

Maverick. 

Your stomach drops. 

As your vision clears, the scene before you sharpens into a full-blown nightmare. Maverick, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, slap-worthy smirk imaginable. Behind him: Natasha, wide-eyed, biting her lip to keep from laughing; Bob, cheeks glowing red; Reuben and Mickey, snickering like they’re in middle school; and—of course—Jake, grinning like he’s just won the damn lottery. 

You're never living this down. 

Before you can even begin to defend yourself, Jake lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rooster. Didn’t know we were doing supply closet survival drills.” 

Bradley sighs. “It was locked, Hangman.” 

“Oh, I believe you,” Jake says, his grin wide. “But the rest of the hangar? Not so much.” 

Maverick raises a brow, smirk firmly in place. “Glad to see you both survived the night. Though next time, maybe just request a room.” 

You shoot him your sharpest glare—just shy of throwing a knife right at your CO. “That door needs to be fixed. You’re lucky I was stuck in there with Bradshaw and not one of these other idiots, or you’d have a dead body to deal with.” 

Your glare swings to Jake, cutting him off before he can open his mouth again. 

Maverick starts to reply but pauses, eyes flicking down to your bandaged hand. “Do you need to go to medical?” 

You shake your head. “No. But I could really use a shower.” 

He nods, then turns his attention to Bradley. “You need the day off?” 

“No,” Bradley says. “We slept.” 

Jake chuckles, wicked and bright. “That’s not what the security tapes say.” 

Your heart stutters. “Th-There’s no camera in there. Randall said-” 

“Randall told you about the camera blind spots?” Maverick cuts in, clearly amused. 

The group bursts into laughter, and even Bradley’s mouth twitches into a smirk. 

Jake winks. “Relax, I was kidding, sweetheart. But hey, good to know Rooster kept you safe. Always knew he was the gentleman type.” 

You roll your eyes and cross your arms, a physical barrier against the swarm of smug faces. “Unlike you, Hangman, Rooster is a gentleman.” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick says, waving a hand to dismiss the squad. “You lot suit up. And you two—hit the showers.” He starts to walk off, then glances over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Separately.” 

Your cheeks go up in flames, but there’s no clever comeback waiting on your tongue. You just take a breath and storm toward the locker rooms, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back at Bradley… and ask if maybe he would want to shower together. 

After a longer-than-necessary shower, you change into spare underclothes and slip your flight suit on over the top. It takes a little extra confidence to step back out of the locker room, but eventually, you do. You settle in the waiting room and do your best to pretend to work—analysing flight data and scribbling notes on tactical performance from Maverick’s current sky drills. 

No one speaks to you, but you don’t miss the way Jake smirks as he strolls into the room after his run. Or the way he leans toward Javy, whispering something just out of earshot. You ignore it. You’re too tightly wound to entertain his usual bullshit. 

When the day finally ends, you drag yourself home and go through the usual motions. But you can’t stop checking your phone. 

You know last night was a fluke—an accident that landed you in a supply closet with the man your heart has apparently chosen to obsess over. You know better than to expect a message or a call. To think he might actually take you up on that teasing offer from this morning. 

He’d been perfect last night. Soft, warm, protective—furious at your ex and almost wrecked with want when you’d touched him. 

But today? He didn’t speak to you once. Not in an obvious, pointed way. Just… didn’t. He didn’t sit next to you in the afternoon briefing. He didn’t chase you down before you left. 

Maybe he’s not interested. Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought. 

Despite how much your body aches and how tired you are, sleep doesn’t come easy. Your mattress is too soft. Your pillows are too cold. There’s no steady heartbeat to lull you into slumber. No warm hand to tangle your fingers with. The silence feels sharp in your ears, and your room feels colder than it did the night before last. 

- 

You’re awake well before your alarm, so you take your time getting ready. You shower even though you don’t need to, apply a little makeup even though you usually don’t, and secure your hair with more precision than normal. Breakfast is slow and deliberate, eaten in front of the TV as if you have all the time in the world. 

You’re still out the door early—even before your inconsiderate neighbour, Slammy Steve. You finally gave him a name for when you curse him every morning as his door slams shut. 

At base, you head toward the usual hangar, steeling yourself to face the squad again—to face Bradley. Your stomach twists at the thought. You’re far too hung up on a man who probably sees you as nothing more than a bit of fun to flirt with. 

You’re the first in the briefing room by a good half hour, but the time passes quickly as your thoughts spiral. Bob’s the next to arrive, and he gives you a polite smile before settling in with his travel mug and quietly watching videos on his phone. 

One by one, the rest of the squad filters in. 

“You know me, Coyote,” Jake’s voice rings out, smug and too loud as he strolls in with his wingman. “I’m a generous man. I can’t help myself.” 

You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you know it’s bullshit. 

You sink lower in your chair and roll your eyes, hoping he won’t see you. 

“Morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake calls as he drops into his usual seat just behind you. Then he leans in, his voice close to your ear. “What do we have here?” 

You don’t react. 

“Hangman,” Natasha warns flatly, “for once in your life, don’t be a dick.” 

“What?” he says, mock innocence dripping from every syllable. “Just trying to say good morning to our lovely tactical training specialist.” 

You glance at Natasha. She meets your eyes and offers a soft, apologetic smile—not that this idiot is any of her fault. 

“Good morning, aviators,” Maverick’s voice fills the room, and some of the nausea in your stomach eases. “How are we today?” 

There are a few mumbled responses—none from you—as he sets a stack of papers on the desk and powers up his laptop for the interactive display. He casts you a brief look and a small smile before returning to the task of setting up. 

Then another set of footsteps enters at the back of the room, and you can’t help but turn. 

“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “Overslept.” 

Maverick nods as Bradley takes his seat. No one says anything—until Jake does. 

A low, sharp whistle. Then, into your ear again, “Guess getting locked in a closet’s the only way you’ll ever get Rooster to spend the night, huh?” 

That’s all it takes to make the rubber band snap. 

You’re on your feet in an instant, eyes narrowed, anger simmering beneath your skin like wildfire. You’re nauseous again—burning from the inside out. 

“What the fuck is your problem?!” you snap, louder than intended—but you don’t care. 

You’re angry. You’re humiliated. A week of jabs and insults from a man who doesn’t even know you, and now this, after falling for another man who apparently wants nothing to do with you. 

Jake chuckles, condescending as hell. “Woah, settle down. It was just a joke.” 

“You’re a fucking joke,” you bite back, voice low and steady—deadly. “You talk a big game, but the only thing you’ve mastered is flying straight and fast. You burn fuel and pull Gs like it’s a dick-measuring contest, but the second a manoeuvre requires restraint, finesse, or actual tactical thinking? You fall apart.” 

You lean in, eyes locked on his like a missile. “You’re sloppy in a merge, predictable in a climb, and your cross-checks are lazy as hell. You fly like you’re invincible—which might be fine in a video game, but up there? That gets people killed.” 

You pause, just long enough to see if Maverick will step in. He doesn’t. 

“You’re not untouchable, Seresin. You’re just loud.” 

Then you turn back to the front and drop into your seat, arms crossed, chest heaving as you take a few deep, centring breaths. 

A low snicker breaks the silence, followed by a quiet, impressed whisper: ‘Damn… take that, Bagman.’ You don’t turn around, but you don’t have to—Jake’s probably still blinking. Pride simmers in your chest, and despite your best efforts, a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. 

“Well then,” Maverick says, rubbing his palms together with a smirk. “Let’s get started.” 

The morning briefing goes better than usual, mainly because Jake is too embarrassed to pipe up with his usual bullshit. Maverick talks through today’s drills, outlining what he’s looking for in their flying. He also mentions that you'll be up in the air today, analysing their tactical skills and reviewing their performance once they’re back on the ground. He gives Jake a pointed look as he says this, and you can’t help but bite back a giggle. 

About an hour later, Maverick announces that it’s time to fly, and the team starts filing out of the room. Jake casts you a quick glance—not lethal, just a small warning. Somehow, his stupidly cocky grin is already back in place. 

When you reach the door, you realise that Bradley has lingered behind, falling into step beside you just as you exit the room. 

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he says, glancing at you with that small smirk beneath that damn moustache, the sight of which sends a warm ache straight to your lower belly. 

You offer him a clipped smile, a brief glance before looking back down, focusing on the movement of your boots. 

“Unless... I already am,” he adds, his voice a mixture of question and statement. 

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of Bradley’s eyes on you—watching, soft and thoughtful. 

“I mean,” he continues, hesitating for a moment with a soft chuckle. “I know I should have called or something, especially after waking you up with my dick, but... I was honestly spent last night. Barely made it home before crashing out. But, if you’ll let me, I’d like to... you know... wake you up with my dick in a way that’s more enjoyable for the both of us?” 

You can’t help the grin that breaks across your face, a soft laugh slipping out before you can catch it. When you turn to look at him, his smile is sheepish and flushed, impossibly endearing, with a laugh hovering just behind it. His brown eyes are shining, warm and full of something that makes your chest ache—something you know is written all over your own face too. 

And damn. If this isn’t the man you’re supposed to spend your life with, you know you’ll be spending it alone. 

“Yeah, alright,” you sigh, feigning indifference. “I’ll allow it.” 

“Allow it?” he echoes, his voice rich with laughter. “Wow. I’m a lucky guy.” 

Warmth spreads through your whole body as the two of you continue into the hangar. You feel like you’re standing next to the sun—but it’s not burning you. It’s keeping you warm, keeping you alive. 

You can’t help glancing at him every few seconds, even while Maverick shouts instructions and assigns the first flyers. You find it hard to tear yourself away from Bradley when you’re called to your jet, waiting for ground crew instructions. Your mind is foggy with thoughts of him: his eyes, his smile, the little laugh he lets out, and that adorable crease between his brows when he’s confused or offended. 

Fuck. You’re so gone. You haven’t even kissed him yet, and it might kill you when you do. 

At least you’ll die happy. 

When the jet starts to rumble and your hands move over the controls, you pull your thoughts in. You focus on the here and now—the cockpit, the sky, the mission. Even the idea of flying like a grandma all day doesn’t kill your mood. Because you’ll see Bradley when you're back on the ground, and that’s enough to keep you grinning like an idiot behind your oxygen mask. 

The sky is clear—perfect flying weather—and the wind is barely a whisper. You feel like a horse champing at the bit, waiting for the gate to open. But that’s not what you’re here for. So you settle, banking slow beneath where you know Maverick is flying, waiting for instruction. 

“All right,” Maverick says, his voice crackling over comms. “Hangman, you’re mission lead. Payback, Fanboy, don’t let your wingman down. Fly the profile in your system. Deviate, and you’d better have a damn good reason. Watch for enemy aircraft.” 

“Sorry, Mav, my comms are a little fuzzy,” Jake replies. “Did you say enemy or grandma? ’Cause from where I’m flying, I can only see a Honda Civic.” 

Maverick’s irritation bleeds into his voice. “I’m the enemy aircraft, Hangman. Watch out for me. Our tactical specialist will be monitoring, and you can explain your mistakes to her when you’re back on the ground.” 

“I don’t make mistakes,” Jake says, that smirk practically audible. 

“We’ll see about that,” Maverick shoots back. 

You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath and tamping down the irritation rising in your chest. 

The others take off, and you track them—eyes sharp on the HUD and the sky. Maverick is flawless. And unfortunately, so is Jake. He’s a damn good pilot. Cocky, but predictable. You already know what he’s going to try next. 

The drill plays out. You listen to the comm chatter as you stay low and out of the way, observing. The team gives Maverick a decent run for his money, nearly finishing the nav route before he takes out Reuben and Mickey. Jake claims victory anyway—but Maverick shuts him down fast. 

“Fail,” he says. “Your wingman’s dead. Put the cocky bravado away, I’m done with it.” 

You’ve never heard Maverick so sharp. He actually sounds like a CO—calm, stern, commanding—as he orders everyone back to base. 

You keep low, banking through a few fluffy clouds, weaving like you’re bored. But your eyes stay trained, watching Jake flying just above, at your six. 

“Hey, tactical specialist,” Jake’s voice cuts in. “Just watching your cross-checks from up here. I can practically see the superiority from miles away.” 

You bite your tongue, suppressing the sarcastic retort clawing at your throat. 

He adds, “Oh wait. Nope. That’s just your nose in the air.” 

You roll your eyes and surge forward, jaw tight. 

“That’s it,” Maverick says, voice stern. “Back to the nav route. Now. You’re flying it again. And I’m not the enemy this time.” 

Jake snorts. “Mav, come on. You’re really gonna embarrass her like this?” 

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Maverick snaps. “Follow your orders. Stick to your waypoints. And good luck.” 

The way he says those last two words makes your pulse spike. Adrenaline kicks in, fast and sharp. 

Your limbs feel light. Your chest is buzzing. Your breath hitches, and a wicked smile spreads beneath your mask. 

“Alright,” Jake drawls, still clueless. “Come on, boys. Let’s show this Honda Civic how real men fly.” 

You’re practically vibrating now. Locked in. Focused. You follow the others back to the route��Maverick hangs back. You’re a bull in the chute, about to blow the gate. You’re going to kick this cowboy into the dust. 

All you need is the green light. The words. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Grandma,” Jake says, smug as ever. 

You take a breath. Narrow your gaze. 

You’re not just going to shoot them down. That’s too easy. You’re going to humiliate them. Drag it out. Make them suffer before they burn. 

Then Maverick speaks—low and clear, straight in your ear. A spark struck to gasoline. 

“Flip the switch, Jinx.” 

You’re gone before they can take their next breath. 

They can’t see you. You know it. You’re good at disappearing. Now you wait—watching from the shadows, letting them scramble. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben mutters, disbelief thick in his voice. 

“Who the hell is Jinx?” Jake asks, a beat behind. 

Reuben groans. “She is, idiot.” 

“Wait—where have I heard that before?” Mickey pipes up. 

“Jinx is the pilot Admiral Cain just grounded,” Reuben replies, his tone shifting fast toward panic. “Fastest low-level flyby of an aircraft carrier—barely two feet from the deck. And she’s the highest-scoring TOPGUN grad in twenty years. She’s fucking legendary.” 

“No,” Jake breathes, full of denial. “No, she’s not Jinx. She can’t be.” 

“You just had to run your fucking mouth, didn’t you?” Reuben says, voice deadpan with defeat. 

“Oh, we’re fucked,” Mickey declares. 

You slip beneath them like a shadow—silent, smooth—so close you could kiss their undercarriage with your canopy. But you don’t rush. You wait. Calculating. Cold. Planning the most humiliating move you can pull. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to dominate. 

“Payback,” Jake says, still cocky, still smug. “You’ve got a shadow on your six.” 

“What?” Reuben’s voice spikes. “Where the hell is she? Fanboy, talk to me.” 

“Negative radar contact,” Mickey answers. “I don’t see anything.” 

You throttle back just enough to hover beneath them, then slide up—then down again—dancing through their blind spots like smoke in a breeze. 

“Hangman,” Reuben snaps, panic rising, “get her off us.” 

“Relax, Payback,” Jake drawls. “I’ve got eyes on her. She’s not as good as she thinks.” 

You breathe deep—steady, focused. The smile on your face is razor sharp. 

“Alright, Hangman,” you murmur, voice low and lethal. “Want to see how a real man flies?” 

You yank the stick back and rocket toward the sun—fast, blinding, gone. They lose you instantly. 

“Where’d she go?” Jake barks. “Fanboy, where the hell did she go?” 

“She’s too fast,” Mickey replies, frantic. “She’s over—wait—no, she’s—shit. I can’t get a lock!” 

Leveling out, you catch a glint of sunlight off a wing at two o’clock—Jake, hanging wide. Sloppy. 

You grin and dive—clean, silent, deadly. 

Back behind Payback and Fanboy, you slip into their six like a phantom. One breath. Then you float up, nose aligned perfectly. 

“Boo,” you whisper. 

“Shit!” Mickey yells. “She’s on us!” 

“Break, break, break!” Reuben shouts, yanking the stick. But you’re tighter than their turns, reading every move. Mickey’s calling positions, but it’s useless—you’re already there. 

Tone lock. Missile fired. 

“Damn it!” Reuben groans. 

You peel away quickly, climbing high and vanishing back into the sun. 

Then you wait. 

Jake’s climbing now, banking, twisting. Scanning. You can feel it—his nerves crackling across the sky. You disappeared, struck, and disappeared again. And now it’s just him. No backup. No noise. Just the slow, sinking realisation. 

“Where the hell is she now?” he snaps. 

“She’s hunting you,” Mickey says, voice laced with amusement. 

Jake loops, banks, scans his six. He’s getting desperate. But it’s too late—you’re already behind him, tracking every flick of his wings like you're inside the cockpit. 

Then you dive. 

Fast. Precise. Dead-on. 

He doesn’t even hear the tone until it screams. 

“Splash two, Hangman,” you say, smooth as silk, smug as sin. 

“Fuck!” he barks, pulling hard. 

You stick with him and surge upward, wings slicing through a cloudbank. Then you roll cleanly inverted—and drop. 

You hover over his jet, canopy to canopy, just feet apart. Perfect. Effortless. Deadly. 

Jake looks up. 

And you salute him—with one elegant, deliberate middle finger. 

“No fucking way,” he mutters, eyes wide. 

“Mission failed,” Maverick says, the smile audible in his voice. “Nice work, Jinx.” 

You right your jet, throttle back with surgical control, and leave Jake spinning in your jet wash—stunned, smoked, and thoroughly outflown. 

The comms are silent on the way back to base, and you can’t stop grinning behind your mask. Your cheeks are starting to ache. You feel like a caged bird finally stretching its wings. Like yourself again—confident, alive—and almost as smug as Jake probably feels every morning when he looks in the mirror at his stupid, pretty-boy face. 

Then Reuben’s voice crackles through your headset. “Is it true you once locked three bogeys in a single sweep during a TOPGUN exercise?” 

You laugh, quiet enough that your mic doesn’t catch it. “Yeah. Second fly drill. Some guy was running his mouth, so I unleashed hell. Got an earful for it, though—reckless flying and all.” 

Feeling a little cocky, you bank up beside their jet, then roll cleanly over—canopy to canopy. You give them a polite little wave before settling beneath them, then punch the throttle and streak ahead toward base. 

“Dude,” Mickey says, awestruck, “I think I’m in love.” 

You grin and surge forward, barrelling up beside Maverick. You sweep past him—closer than regulation, jostling his jet just enough to rattle him. His laughter fills your headset as you rocket ahead, heart pounding as he closes in behind you. 

You chase each other through the sky in a tame game of cat and mouse until it's time to land. Following instructions from the ground crew, you ease into a holding pattern, waiting your turn to descend. 

It’s not long before you’re popping the canopy and tearing off your helmet, still grinning as you climb out of the jet and drop to the tarmac—light on your feet and high on adrenaline. 

“Holy shit!” Natasha storms toward you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “You—you’re Jinx! I can’t believe—oh my God.” 

Bob is right behind her. “You pulled a Cobra manoeuvre during a mock dogfight at a showcase event to evade missile lock. I was there.” 

Laughter bubbles from your lips, heat blooming in your cheeks as the squad quickly surrounds you. 

Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. “The navy hasn’t seen a pilot like you since-” 

“Me,” Maverick cuts in, stepping up beside you with his helmet tucked under his arm. 

You glance at him, noting the proud grin on his face, before turning back to the others. Natasha and Bob are front and centre, Javy just behind them, with Reuben and Mickey lingering in the back, still wearing their helmets. But you don’t see Bradley. 

“Listen up,” Maverick says, his tone turning serious. “As most of you know, Jinx was grounded for a particularly dangerous stunt—well, she should be grounded. Admiral Simpson agreed to let her fly on the condition that only need-to-know personnel are made aware of her identity. I’ve just made you all need-to-know. Now you have to prove you can be trusted with that.” 

Jake steps forward, falling in beside Natasha, his expression unreadable. You and Maverick both turn toward him, and your stomach twists. If he wanted to, he could unravel everything. 

Jake meets your eyes, and for the first time, there’s nothing but sincerity behind his. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re... you’re fucking amazing.” 

A grin breaks across his face—and yours follows. The squad erupts in cheers as Maverick claps a hand on your shoulder. You offer Jake a fist bump, and he accepts it with a laugh. 

“You know,” he says, that cocky smirk firmly back in place, “if it doesn’t work out with Rooster, I’m always-” 

“That’s enough, Hangman,” Bradley cuts in, dropping a hand on Jake’s shoulder and nudging him aside. 

You giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush. Your cheeks are on fire, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. 

Bradley turns to you. “Hey.” 

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking on his stupidly handsome face. “Hi.” 

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his own cheeks tinged red. “That was—uh, you’re even cooler than I thought.” 

You snort, unladylike and unbothered. “That so?” 

He nods and steps closer, just a few inches between your boots. 

“Does that intimidate you?” you tease. 

He laughs again and glances up, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath that sun-kissed skin. The world falls away—it’s just the two of you now, the rest of the squad, watching and waiting, have all but disappeared. 

“No,” he says, eyes back on you. “It kinda turns me on.” 

You don’t think. You just move. 

Your hand slides up the front of his flight suit, fingers curling into his collar as you tug him down before he can say another word. 

And then you kiss him. 

It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all the tension, the smart-ass remarks, the stolen glances and breathless moments that led to this. 

You rise onto your toes and his hands catch your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth claims yours like a promise, like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. And when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips, you don’t hesitate—you part for him, and it’s like striking a match. 

There’s laughter in the background, noise and movement, but it all fades beneath the roar of your pulse and the heat of his mouth. All you can feel is him—his body, his breath, his hands. You want the flight suits gone, burned, anything that dares keep him from you reduced to ash. 

It takes everything you have not to absolutely devour him right there on the tarmac. But you’re still at work. And people are watching. 

So you part—eventually—grinning like idiots and panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile in full gear. 

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters from somewhere behind Bradley. “Even I’m hot and bothered after that.” 

“All right, you two,” Maverick chuckles. “Save it for the supply closet.” 

You roll your eyes and drop back onto your heels, shooting him your best unimpressed glare—which, admittedly, isn’t very convincing when you’re high on adrenaline and kissing Bradley Bradshaw. 

“We’re never living that down, are we?” 

“No,” Maverick replies with a grin. “Never.” 

You groan and turn back toward Bradley, letting your forehead fall against his chest. 

“I’m still not convinced you two didn’t fuck in there,” Jake says, striding past toward the briefing room. 

A chorus of half-laughs and agreement follows him. 

Bradley’s chest shakes with laughter beneath your cheek, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. 

“If they’re going to assume we did it in there,” he murmurs, just for you, “maybe we should just go do it in there.” 

You glance up at him, eyes flicking to his mouth, already picturing that stupidly hot moustache between your thighs. 

“Don’t fucking tempt me.” 

He laughs again and drops his hand to yours, fingers tangling as he tugs you toward the briefing room. Your eyes fall to his ass—shameless, hungry—watching the way it moves with each step just ahead of you. Teasing. Taunting. 

Being assigned to Maverick’s special detachment isn’t your punishment. Flying like Jake’s grandma in her Honda Civic isn’t your punishment either. No—the real punishment is spending ten hours a day, five days a week with Bradley fucking Bradshaw, pretending to be professional. Just waiting for the evenings when you can drag him to bed and completely, unapologetically devour him. 

END.

[quasarwake]

Mentor Starscream x seeker!Reader, Ch. 23

Cadet AU belongs to @radioactiverats, Echo belongs (mostly) to me. I say mostly cuz, well, we've really been cooking with grease when it comes to Seeker stuff. I hope you guys like Echo!

Trining instincts are hard to deal with, especially when there's a big Warframe that needs his wings preened.

I suck at summaries but this is about 3500~ words of horny wing-preening for Cadet au, I hope y'all enjoy~

Close Quarters Preening

It had started off as a simple annoyance, you seeing Echo looking so...

Unpolished.

Literally, it looked like he had flown through some kind of tree, leaves and moss clinging to his plates. And yet, there was Sunstorm, quite obviously flirting with Echo. You see a green flier roll his optics and feel some level of validation for your frustration.

And that buzzing energy hadn’t ever gone away- you felt your hackles raise every time you saw Echo, nowadays, every time he brought you the reports you had told him to bring. Dreaming in the night had you drawing claws down the berth hard enough to scrape it- Starscream ordering you to buff it out yourself and very obviously trying to conceal his annoyance, his concern at your actions.

You could feel it whenever Echo looked at you. His eyes would still trail over your wings, but it was... different, than the looks had been before. More appraising, cherry optics following the lines over your wings before roving them to your shoulders, following lines up to the points of your audials. He wasn't even subtle about it, his own wings rolling, twitching, stopping as he allowed himself to look.

You felt the join of your wings on your back and they felt… less heavy, each time you see him. This fire beneath your plates didn’t feel unpleasant, either- there was something to it that wanted you to fuel it, breathe more life into it.

Seeing Sunstorm talking to him in the energon bay, visibly flirting with the larger mech? That felt like fuel enough.

It seemed that Sunstorm had inherited some of his source-code's tastes in larger bots, standing like some harsh parody of Starscream against the wall as his optics dragged lazily over Echo’s frame. The loading bay is filled with all kinds of cons doing their work, unloading energon cubes after a hard mission, and Sunstorm is speaking with him, fluttering his wings in a way that was uncannily similar to Starscream's.

But there was no real edge to his smirks or smiles, the loose way he held himself not coming from self-practiced ease or bitterly won survival, but a harsh imitation.

And he was fluttering at Echo and you couldn't really understand why it made your panels burn.

Why it had you storming up to the two, the air shivering with the noise of your EM field as you look at Sunstorm, your optics bright enough that you can see them on his polished canopy.

Fire.

Twin suns in a blue sky.

You can feel the way Sunstorm’s EM field fluctuates in surprise, see his intake open to speak-

But you turn sharply on your heel to look at Echo, your back to the brightly coloured mech, and latch a servo onto one of those prettily rolling wings, wings that showed the hard work of a flier of the field.

Fluttering away like that, and your wings look like this-

Shaking your helm, you tug at Echo's wing, feeling the other mech allow for that grip, that surge of rightness between your fields as he moves with you.

"Do you realise what your wings look like? You look like you flew through a swamp." It came out harsher than you'd meant for it, and you felt a wash of self-disgust at that anger, a wave of guilt, before tamping it down as solidly as you could. "You're due your reports on the energon mines anyways. You're coming with me."

You also can feel the rise in radiation from Sunstorm, his bright wings flaring at you, and you can feel his interest in waves. And there was that annoyance you felt rise in you that you felt less guilty over, looking over your shoulder as Sunstorm moved his servos while he talked.

"Cadet," he intoned smoothly. He was so careful, to hold in his Vosian accent, wasn't he? You found it more than a little annoying. "So nice to see you again... how have you adapted to your wings~?"

You feel his optics on them and flare your wings indignantly, deliberately, and nearly say something-

But Echo simply turns a wing on Sunstorm, his focus on you, his frame towering over both you and the other mech.

Unimportant.

That brushing of his EM fields- your optics brightened with surprise, feeling Echo’s active disinterest in Sunstorm- the way it so calmed you, your wings shifting more comfortably on your back.

His optics weren’t just looking for details in your wings anymore.

You could feel them trailing your audials, too. Watched them, as they circled your helm, before settling back to look you in the eye.

"We’d stay to chat, but… the energon mine reports are due, sir," Echo stated, voice soft but tone firm, grounding you back into the moment. It occurred to you- he and Sunstorm couldn't be too different in rank, could they? Sunstorm was bristling, the radiation… unpleasant, prickling at your plates. But you stand your ground, cocking a brow-plate at the taller mech as he forced a smile onto his face.

“Of course,” he dripped. “And I only hope that Starscream receives them well.” You were reminded of the exact ugly tone used by Starscream on Megatron.

You felt the bubbling of anger and frustration build up in you, your plates visibly flaring, and nearly snap back-

And then there was that wave of Echo’s EM field, brushing against, around yours, his servo on your back. The tips of his digits were careful, finding a spot between your wings, extended clawtips working gently into the grooves.

No need.

No need, it felt like that wave of energy was saying, to get so annoyed over Sunstorm- and his touch felt good, deft digits finding their way into a spot that had been sore for Primus knows how long.

You see and feel Sunstorm’s optics drawn down at the contact. Your grip on Echo’s wing tightens, and you feel your EM field flare, but not with the same rage as before, Echo’s own energies flowing into yours and smoothing those sharp edges, a communication of frustration and gentle assurance. He wanted to leave with you, so why not leave with him?

Was that a settling sensation in your spark? Something you hadn’t felt in weeks without exhaustion, overstimulation, a blanket over your head to block out all light and sound-

Your frame creaks slightly at the change in temperature as you in-vent, cooling quickly, before turning to Echo again. “Let’s go, then.”

~

Starscream was not yet back at your habsuite, busy with collecting reports from other mechs around the ship. You’d feel guilty not helping more if the last mission hadn’t gone so well- and there was something of another need you were trying to fill right now, anyways.

And at least it gave the two of you some… privacy.

It was almost comical, the difference in size between you and Echo. Your wing-spans were fairly comparable, but he did have to sit on the floor in front of you while you sat on the berth to reach his wings properly.

In spite of his size, this almost felt… easy. Soothing, to work your claws into dark grooves in metal, feeling the way his frame shivered while cleaning grime out of spoilers, scraping moss from a plate to a pleased shudder. His finish was matte, but there were fine details both etched and painted into him, smooth indigo lending to hints of purple and navy over the otherwise stealth-black. You feel yourself calm as you clean through patterns, optics trailing over them as he ex-vented softly, wings shifting into your touch.

Your digits work carefully into his plates- it’d been so hard to retract your claws lately, anxiety and frustration keeping you too on edge to relax them back in. But right now, they were perfect for scraping away that bit of debris lodged in Echo's wings, panels lifting to your careful touch. You could still feel that flair of annoyance towards Sunstorm, towards everything, towards yourself and towards nothing-

But Echo was harder to be frustrated over, his EM field flowing back towards you in soft waves, the air humming with the low thrum of you both in the low-frequency communication. Your legs settle on either side of him as he leans back, and you get to appreciate the feeling of his frame against yours, moving from the rudders that fluttered at the base of his spine up to the wings proper, your knees pressing to either side of his waist between them and feeling every little motion. For a moment, you let your servos lay flat against his wings, watching them, feeling them move- he was huge, a different size-class, wings built to cut smoothly through the sky.

Your optics trail along the long spikes along his spinal strut, and you remember your dream. You remember how you had trailed your glossa along those spikes, and heat spikes through your EM field, Echo’s only reaction a small twitch in his shoulders. You don’t quite notice how your legs tighten against Echo’s sides, but you do feel how he shudders between them, his wings flicking high before he very deliberately stills them.

“...you can get closer, you know,” he murmurs, his voice only low but not quiet, the sound of it thrumming through his whole body. With how you were nearly pressed against his back, your frame shivered at the vibrations it caused.

And you remembered your dream again.

Those spikes on either side of his spine twitched almost invitingly, their own motion rippling down through his wings.

And that flare of heat in your spark felt less like anxiety, and more like…

Excitement.

Clearing your vocals, you try to take control of your free-wheeling processor, shaking it slightly, before firmly gripping his wings.

You feel your jaw clench with the urge to bite arise as you lean closer.

“You’re sure?”

Your tone is sharper than intended, but he doesn’t flinch- his wings pressing closer to you, closing you off from the rest of the room.

“Sure enough. You said it looked like I flew through a swamp.”

Not so much anymore, he didn’t. You’d done a good job- a pile of detritus and debris on a tarp on the floor the only evidence that his wings were ever the mess you’d found them in. What was left behind was the artwork beneath, the dark matte black that blended in with his frame, the smell of the solvent you had used in tougher areas.

His chassis is warm against your frame. Warmer than it had been when you’d started. And his wings were moving beneath your servos, as still as he tried to keep them.

And there was the slightest- the faintest brushing of his EM fields against yours.

Please?

It was hard to feel that anger that edged your energies when somebody so gently asked you to touch them.

It pulls you in, as much as the need to claim had drawn you in in that dream- and you press your intake gently to one long spine, digits gripping into his ailerons as you run your lips along it. You hear the way he draws in air through his intake, the soft whirring of fans as he ex-vented, and feel your own wings twitch. Your lips close against the sharp accent to his wing, and you let your optics shutter, letting yourself take in the feeling of smooth metal in your mouth.

More?

Your processor buzzes, and you feel your canopy press against Echo’s air-brake, your servos sliding down his wings to grip at where they joined to his back. His EM field brushes against yours insistently as you gently drag denta over his spines.

And you could feel your own, like a closed servo opening, weaving together into his energies slowly. Your claws draw lines down his spinal strut, your legs tightening around his waist as you press yourself firmly to his back.

More.

A feeling less than a word, shared between the two of you as Echo’s wings began to roll, flick, flutter slowly, fanning out on either side of you and drawing in more of that warm air around you. They move you against him, and you feel your own wings- heavy, but not unwelcome- roll in a slow mirror of Echo’s, their weight pushing you closer to him. Your flick your glossa out against his neck, working it firmly over the mesh, and you hear him sharply in-vent, his wings jolting upright-

And there’s something soft, a whining whistle to his ex-vent, his legs jolting slightly, the surge of warmth and then heat and then good washing over you, collecting in your canopy.

Primus, this had been just a preening, hadn’t it? And now, you were pressing your face against Echo’s neck, nipping and biting along the mesh of it as he panted in front of you.

More!

Your wings twitch with the electricity of it, and you feel the heat that builds behind your array panels, clawtips digging into his wings as your denta sink further into the mesh of his neck, savouring the way cables give way beneath your fangs. Echo presses back- and you feel his whole frame jolt when your overheating array panel settles into the base of his spinal strut.

Contact.

You shudder against his back and you can feel the way his body jolts, a low moan slipping from his intake before he could stop it, and you can’t ignore the spread of heat up your chassis, gripping into your spark. The way that Echo’s soft voice bounces in the room fills your audials, your processor buzzing with the soft roll of low vibrations. It was good, it felt good, to have something to hold, wrap around, your EM fields merging at the edges as you press your panels into the ridges of his spine. You push closer, intake opening wide over his wing as your glossa finds new grooves to work into, your denta finding panels to catch against. You start to roll your hips against his back, hot array panels finding that dip against his spinal strut between his rudders, feeling how it slid right into place, locking together into the grooves of his back.

You hear him cry out- at first, wordless, before his helm falls back with a soft cry of “Yes!”, his EM field flaring and spiking in waves, and there was something different-

Like there was something in your very spark that responded, burning down your chassis as you rolled your hips into his back.

Yes.

Heat burnt paths down from your hips as you tighten your knees against his waist. You sink your denta into his wing, uncaring of how harshly you bit this time, only feeling the way that heat spread through your chassis, your wings flaring wide behind you as all of that frustration and anger and rage you had felt bled away into excitement, claiming-

The singing warmth of pleasure coursing its way through your frame as the two of you moan together, your intake firmly on his wing, denta sinking into derma, energon staining your tongue as his frame shudders against yours.

You nearly don’t hear the door slide open, barely reacting to it anyways, optics brightening lazily as they flick up-

And of course, it’s Starscream, a pile of datapads in his arms.

You immediately still, but there was something about the burning in your chassis that had you tightening your hold on Echo, the other mech venting heat loudly, your own fans adding to the noise in the room.

There were a dozen expressions that flash across Starscream’s faceplates, and you could read only so many-

Shock, astonishment, you got that easily enough, and could understand. What you hadn't expected, though, was how Starscream's face seemed to settle, his intake pulling smoothly into a smirk, his optics narrowing slowly as his helm angled to the side.

In front of you, Echo’s wings continue to roll, his venting quieting slowly.

And as Starscream watched, your jaw tightened on Echo’s wing, metal creaking, your processor buzzing to come up with something, anything for an explanation, an excuse-

But the smile on Starscream's face remained, and before you can say anything, he's already stepped back over the threshold, servo on the doorframe as he leaned against it, hip popping. Red optics find yours, and you do your best to hold his gaze even as Echo's shoulder, your denta still sunk firmly into his wing.

Your spark pulsed, your wings flared high- and as you watch Starscream, your claws tighten ever so slightly on Echo’s wings, a possessive buzzing running beneath your plates.

"...I think I forgot a few datapads," he stated, his voice taking on that whistling accent that was shared between the three of you, the air humming with the satisfaction in his EM field. “Cadet, make sure you’re finished by the time I return, yes~?”

You feel Echo’s wing jolt in your intake and let go- finally seeing the way your denta had dented the metal. Nothing that would impede flight, nor transformation- and there was something that looked right about it, like until now-

Until now, he had been missing something you had seen in other Seeker’s wings, other trine-bound Seeker’s wings.

You feel a trembling in your frame, your wings, as you pull back from Echo, feeling the stain of energon against the corner of your intake.

“I. I think we’re done,” you manage, staring over the marks you had left with a feeling of… satisfaction, of rightness. But your buzzing processor was growing overwhelmed with sensation, your hips pulling back from Echo’s body, your EM field retreating from his. You feel his confusion for a moment- his disappointment.

But it’s quickly smoothed over as he stands, saluting quickly to Starscream.

“I can retrieve them, sir,” he stated, his voice more level than you’d expected possible- his fans having quieted. He tosses a glance over his shoulder to you, and there’s a wave of gentle, sincere sympathy that you feel oddly privy to-

His wings roll at a soft angle towards you, open, giving you room, giving you space to move yourself.

Stepping out of the room, he’s followed by Starscream’s surprised optics- all three of you had known he was lying about other data-pads, Echo’s own resting neatly on Starscream’s desk, and Starscream turns his puzzled look to you.

It didn’t occur to either of you that you and Echo had just shared a private communication between your fields.

He pointed down the hall. “Shall I call him back?” He asked, but you were shaking your helm. He then pointed at the tarp covered in debris on the floor- mostly, on the floor, some leaves having shifted in your… activities, with Echo.

“Then I suppose you’ll be cleaning that up, Cadet?”

Your vocal processor yet to properly reset, you nod your helm weakly, moving to stand on shaky struts.

There was a scent in the air, where Echo had been-

It soothed your racing spark, just a touch.

~

"Did you know what you were doing?"

It was later, the two of you in berth together, the habsuite tidied of all mess from the preening. You feel that rise in irritation, tempered sure, but it still prickles beneath your plates. That you were new to something, and everyone else around you was so privy to all of this secret language. "...no. I just. Did what felt... good." Starscream's thoughtful hum beside you had your wings twitch, before he tightens his arm ever so slightly around you, his chassis pressing to the space between your wings. "I think the big guy thought it felt good too~"

You try to squirm away at first, a growl in your throat, but he laughs- the sound warm in your audials, his EM field washing over yours in that oddly deep way it had been recently.

“...his name is Echo,” you mutter, letting that little bit of defensiveness win out, your servos resting over Starscream’s arms.

He rests his helm against yours and you let that warmth blend into your field, your wings losing that stiff feeling to them as he hums against you.

“Echo, eh? I hope I haven’t scared him off~”

Pleased.

He was pleased with you, with… whatever he had seen, the realisation of it prickling under your plates.

Your claws sink into the grooves of his arms, and you hear that comfortable purr behind you.

“...I don’t think he’s that easily scared off,” you murmur back, relaxing back into Starscream.

And his arms were wrapped so tightly around you.

Previous/

[frogsinflannel]

🦸 Some more superhero AU please!

raaaawr I am actually going to write this. I WILL get it done, I WILL finish. Thank you for this ask, I need the encouragement! I hope you enjoy this snippet. I'm letting y'all in on a very minimal little surprise plot point here, too, ha ha.

~

Buck has to pause and rewind what he’d just thought.  Not a date.  It’s not a date.  Pilot is offering him a chance to ask some questions off the record, take a photo, maybe set up a time for a real interview later.  And sure, yeah, they’re having dinner together and the city skyline is laid out before them bright and buzzing.  It could be considered romantic.  Maybe.  If Pilot was interested in him like that.

He picked at the lettuce in his sandwich, kicking his legs over the edge of the balcony.  “You could uh… you could catch me if I fall right?”

Pilot turned his head to look at him, one brow raised in question.  Quickly he chewed the bit of sub he had in his mouth and swallowed, then gave Buck a bemused smile.  “Are you planning to fall?”

“No,” he says with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck.  “But, uh.  Y-you can fly.  So if I did fall, then.  Couldn’t you… Uh, wouldn’t you try to catch me?”

“Sure,” he says with a shrug.  His smile turns sly and he holds up the remains of his dinner, still wrapped in foil.  “This is too good to waste, though, so I’ll only have the one hand.”  Buck laughs, liked he’d obviously intended, and Pilot looks pleased with himself over it.  “Don’t worry, Evan,” he says.  “I would catch you.  I wouldn’t let you get hurt.”

“Yeah.”  He looks away, focusing on the food in his lap, feeling his cheeks heat up.  It’s… silly, to be embarrassed.  He clears his throat and tries to ignore how red he knows he is.  At least it’s dark.  “Cool.  That’s… that’s cool.”

Pilot just nods and smiles and goes back to dinner.  Buck wonders idly if the strength of his powers means he’s got a higher burning metabolism.  

It’s not awkward as they sink back into silence, at least it shouldn’t be–but Buck certainly feels awkward.  It’s not a date and he’s not thinking about Pilot catching him mid-air in his huge arms and all this is off the record anyway so it doesn’t matter, right?  That’s what Buck’s telling himself.  It doesn’t matter.

But that doesn’t stop him from trying to break that quiet.  “So, uh.  Since this is off the record… I feel like I can’t keep calling you The Pilot.”

“Or The Hot Pilot,” he interjects.  “I’ve seen that, too.”

Buck rolls his eyes but it’s not like he’s wrong.  “O-okay, sure, but.  Can I at least get a name?  That I could call you?”

That earns him the bitchiest look and he lets out a breathy chuckle before he even realizes he’s doing it.  “Not your secret identity,” he assures Pilot.  “Though, uh, I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“You have a secret identity.”

“I guess it’s not… it’s not an identity, exactly, or.  A-at least it’s not another one.  I only have the one.”  He swallows, suddenly nervous.  “You know they all me Buck, right?  It’s for my last name.  Buckley.”  He waits.  “As in—”

“As in Buckley.  Margaret and Phillip Buckley?  The billionaire philanthropists.”

He can’t stand seeing what might be on Pilot’s face, so he keeps his eyes fixed on his knees.  “Yep,” he says, popping that last ‘p.’  “Those are my parents.”

~

MAKE ME WRITE

[silvertherogue715]

Made a spoilers warning JUST in case someone scrolls without meaning to ( I felt bad for not including one last time :( )

Anyway more art/doodles of the O' Medusa fic by @naffeclipse

These are not in order at all but if you know then you know lmao

love shitposting edit: Previous art 1 - Previous art 2

[14dayswithyou]

💖 EVEN MORE DAY 4 SNEAK PEEKS! 💖

[thelivingautomaton]

i started playing max payne 2 and was immediately so put off by how he no longer has sam lake's face that i decided to put together a collection of some of the max payne 1 panels that i really liked. enjoy <3

[optiwashere]

So, I've been meaning to write a Gauntlet & Nightsong sequence fic for Asheera and Shadowheart, but it's taken me far longer than I intended. I normally don't write a lot of "game moments from this OC's perspective" fics, but this one intersects with Asheera's paladin oaths (Oath of Redemption) in an extremely compelling way for me.

It turned out a little longer than I expected at ~11k words, but I think things went all right.

Anyways, here's Shadowheart/Asheera in the Gauntlet of Shar.

Rating: M for canon-typical violence and themes (see tags)

Category: F/F

Ship: Shadowheart/Trans Fem Tav

Tags and AO3 Summary under the break.

Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Angst and Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gauntlet of Shar, Paladin Tav, Paladin Oaths, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Conflict, Trans Female Character, Half-Orc Tav, Developing Relationship, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Dissociation

Summary:

Within the darkened halls of the Gauntlet of Shar, faith and love are tested in equal measure. Two women whose ideals cannot align, two women whose care for one another is fresh in the face of suffering. Shadowheart believes her faith is steadfast enough to withstand what she's already endured. Asheera thinks her oath strong enough to stand by what she believes.

[eldritchamy]

What the shit. Fighting a god in hand to hand combat as a gold dragon using immovable rods goes so fucking hard and it’s the backstory for a character that’s just in the main backstory???????? AMY???

You know how a lot of people, when making DND characters, make the mistake of having their level 1 PC have an elaborate backstory where they're super badass and already recognized as a hero?

When I made Ash I did the opposite. Her backstory is elaborate, yes, but in very mundane ways that inform her personality and how she perceives the world around her, and build up the logic of how she makes decisions.

I made everyone AROUND my PC a super powerful character who had done incredible things, and I gave Ash anxiety about it.

She feels, constantly, that she is inadequate by comparison. Her entire frame of reference is shaped by a bunch of women in her life that are outstandingly powerful, and she's just a quiet girl who makes leather goods and sells them for a living. She thinks of herself as the NPC in other people's more impressive lives.

Her mother, Lailah, is a nearly seven foot tall divine warrior created in Elysium to destroy Pit Fiends. She's an angel of lightning built like an MMA fighter, and she wields a weapon like piece of a lightning bolt (not stylized, I mean a real, glowing crackling arc of electricity that she holds like a staff and can be used like anything from a polearm to a spear to a whip, and when thrown it acts like a Lightning Bolt spell). She is built, both narratively and in game stats, to be an unkillable holy destroyer, capable of fighting MULTIPLE PIT FIENDS simultaneously, and winning. She's a CR 10+ magical creature (she's a homebrewed mix of Deva and Erinyes stat blocks with some unique flavor) with eighteen class levels, 16 in Zealot Barbarian and 2 in Fighter. She has a strength of 27 and a constitution of 25. She's designed to deal HUGE amounts of damage, tank unfathomable amounts in turn, NOT DROP WHEN SHE HITS ZERO HITPOINTS, and keep swinging until every devil in her way is a pile of dust, then use bonus action Second Wind to bring herself back above 0 so she doesn't incur the auto-death caveat on Zealot Barbarian's Rage Beyond Death ability. One of her attuned items is also the very simple uncommon item "Periapt of Wound Closure" which automatically stabilizes you at the start of your turn, thereby resetting the death saving throws she would theoretically have to make each time she gets hit below 0. Also, as an angel, she's innately immune to auto-death effects like Power Word Kill, which closes almost all loopholes that get around her build. She is UNSPEAKABLY badass. I ran a simulated round of combat with her once, and she could potentially one-shot a CR 15 Skittering Horror (228 HP) in a single turn. Her theoretical maximum damage output is like, 456 damage in a turn (granted this assumes all crits and rolling max damage).

So that's Ash's mom.

Aria is interesting. She was always strongly attuned to the forces of nature, and her magic grew quickly. Where Ash grew up with someone she knew would always be there to protect her from anything, Aria did NOT have that safety net, and spent her formative years learning to be more self-sufficient in terms of relying on her own power. So eventually she got sucked into an adventuring party consisting of herself (a tiefling Witch subclass with very strong druid flavor), a tiefling zealot barbarian, and a couple of elf twins who were an Arcana cleric and a Celestial Warlock. Sometime after they had made a name for themselves, they were tasked with stopping a suspected fledgling vampire who had been kidnapping girls and killing a bunch of people. When they arrived, they met Cass, who was very much NOT a new vampire. She was almost 150 years old and had been protecting women from abusers and overzealous debt collectors, and things had gotten a little messy with one or two of them, leading to a lot more attention than she normally got. They start off fighting Cass (Aria polymorphs herself into a dire wolf and lunges directly for the throat, which Cass found amusing and impressive) but realize in the banter that Cass wasn't the real problem, and she ends up being a sort of a lesson for the group in terms of whose word they trust and who they take jobs from (YES THE BACKSTORY'S BACKSTORY HAS NARRATIVE ARCS AND MORAL LESSONS THAT LEAD TO LONG TERM CHARACTER GROWTH OKAY I CAN'T HELP MYSELF). Cass, having a particular rapport with Aria, ends up joining their party as a dhampir Soulknife Rogue/Shadow Monk.

Yes, that's all backstory that I made up for an imaginary campaign that exists entirely as a set piece for Aria as one of Ash's story NPCs. This doesn't even touch on the fact that I liked Cass so much as a character that I gave HER an entire backstory of her own. I DON'T HAVE A PROBLEM.

Anyway the team only makes a bigger name for themselves for handling things that other groups can't. Eventually, they just happen to be in the Tenth District when the War of the Spark happens (major established event in the MTG canon), and I basically added some extra "scenes" to it that didn't violate existing canon so I could have that be the climax of their imaginary campaign. One of Aria's partners was a new planeswalker at the time and her spark got harvested by the Dreadhorde, specifically by the god eternal Bontu.

Gods in Magic The Gathering aren't honestly that special? They don't seem to have THAT much power, all things considered. Ravnica's gods are mostly powerful magical animals, and in the most recent Magic Story one of their gods (Anzrag the Quake Mole) was captured in an "evidence capsule" (basically Magic's version of a Pokeball). The most powerful god in MTG is probably the Ur Dragon honestly, unless you count the Eldrazi, but that's a whole other conversation since neither of those actually have the "God" creature type.

Anyway, Bontu was one of the gods of Amonket (basically a plane based on ancient Egypt), which had been conquered by an Elder Dragon planeswalker named Nichol Bolas. HE was the one who actually killed all but one of Amonket's gods, and then another planeswalker named Liliana Vess (extremely powerful necromancer) raised them as zombies for his army, because Bolas had a ton of complicated leverage over her (magical contract that he could invoke to kill her if she betrayed him). So Bontu was a god zombie.

Here's a reference:

Well, Aria was a level 18 Witch at this point since this was the climax of their campaign, so she had access to the Shapechange spell, a 9th level transmutation that lets you become any creature with a challenge rating equal or lower than your character level. And the best candidate for that was an Adult Gold Dragon (CR 17). So Aria goes full berserk and stands up on her dragon hind legs and picks a fight with a dead god that she's determined to make deader, and has a Godzilla vs King Ghidorah standoff with her.

So how do you fight a god that can suck your soul out and instantly kill you with a single touch? You don't let it touch you.

What Aria did was basically inspired by this gif of a Wildebeest trying to charge at a lion:

Or this:

And to be clear, yes, I'm saying Aria was the lion in that situation. She basically did a big dragon threat display to get Bontu's attention, and used the Gold Dragon's weakening breath to give Bontu disadvantage on Strength checks and saves. Bontu charged at her, and at the last second Aria dropped to the ground and then shot back up, clamped her teeth around the god's throat, and used her weight to throw Bontu around and knock her off balance, and her superior strength to grab her by the wrists and wrestled her to the ground so she couldn't get a grip on Aria. She had every part of the god that could have killed her pinned, and used the claws of her wings to pull Bontu's armor apart and tear at everything she could reach while thrashing her around. It was Fen, the Arcana cleric, who thought to use Immovable rods to pin Bontu down so that even if Aria lost her grip, Bontu wouldn't be able to immediately one-shot any of them. So Athena (barbarian) and Cass (rogue/monk) as the two martial classes were the ones who got close enough to handle that while Fen and her sister (Gwen) used whatever holy magic they could to help from a distance.

Now CASS had a problem, because she's a DEX based martial class, not a strength based one. She needed a boost to be able to get this job done. So she drank some of Bontu's blood from one of the wounds Aria had left on her arm to give herself a burst of strength. Except. She had to get real close to do that. And Bontu managed to get a loose grip on her, and tried to suck out her soul.

The magic that makes Cass what she is is very old and very powerful. It binds her soul to her body in a much stronger way than any living creature, fusing the two together to prevent her from dying (i.e. by having her soul separated from her body; Cass can recover from almost any conceivable physical injury as long as there's life energy, in the form of blood, for the magic that keeps her alive to feed on and maintain the seal between her body and her soul). BECAUSE SHE WAS FEEDING ON THE BLOOD OF A GOD AT THE TIME, the magic holding her together basically fought against the magic that was trying to rip her soul out, and it had enough fuel to hold on until Aria's thrashing forced Bontu to let go. So Cass survived the Elderspell thanks to a very weird and unrepeatable set of circumstances (which allows something narratively impressive and legendary to happen without being gamebreakingly overpowered and violating the established rules of the world).

Because of how her magic draws energy from other things, though, there was a side effect: she also accidentally took in one of the planeswalker sparks that Bontu had harvested. So when Cass had healed enough for her soul to no longer be dislocated, her spark activated and she became a Planeswalker. (I imagine a soul is connected to a body mostly through the nervous system, because that's how a brain holds consciousness in it, so a "dislocated" soul is like something glued to every nerve ending in your body being pulled on with an enormous amount of force, trying to sever that connection; imagine trying to pull yourself off the ground when every nerve ending in your body is superglued to the floor by something akin to the Strong Nuclear Force. It SUCKED.)

The team ended up being forced to retreat because of Cass' injuries, so Aria didn't actually manage to kill Bontu personally (or die trying, which in her grief-rage she was fully open to). Right about this time, my bottle scene ends and Magic canon comes back into play: Liliana betrays Bolas and turns the Dreadhorde against him, and Bontu ends up being the one who bites him and rips out HIS spark. Due to the enormous rush of energy of consuming all of Bolas' stolen Planeswalker sparks (tl;dr he was trying to become a god), and with the added bit of lore that it was Aria's team that heavily injured Bontu just prior to this, Bontu exploded in the process.

This resulted in Ravnica playing a game of telephone in the chaotic aftermath of the War. Aria fought a god. She's still alive and that god is dead. Rumors spread and now Aria is misremembered as the one who killed Bontu. Half the plane thinks of her as the "god killer." All she wanted was to avenge her lover or die trying.

Neither outcome happened, and now she's credited with the very thing she sees as her greatest failure. And that trauma has haunted her ever since.

[polle-club]

also, i'm getting a sense that heaps of folks are new to Tumblr RP ( as someone who's been into the scene for a while, it's delightful to see ! ); would it be helpful to make/find resources to help folks navigate Tumblr RP etiquette, or would that be redundant ?

Etiquette encapsulates a lot of things; terminology ( ie. 'muse' is commonly used for 'character'; the difference between an independent and an affiliated blog; etc ), different types of rp, standard manners ( trimming/tagging posts ), and so on.

[just-miru]

y'all look at this

[astardewresident]

Huf... Hey guys.

So, uhm, to put it short. They're searching the valley right now. ...The peacekeepers. From my home.

So, I've been, kind of, on the run. I'm hiding in a space I'm sure they can't find right now, so I'll stay here for the coming days.

Don't worry! After a few days, they'll think I've fled the valley and give up. I can return then! ...I just hope they leave soon. At least I'm safe at the moment, and have my device!

[sysig]

Your Weekly TV Guide

On Monday you can expect:

2:30 PM: Star Control II - Helix

And Tuesday:

2:30 PM: SCII - Helix

Wednesday:

2:30 PM: SCII - Helix

Thursday:

2:30 PM: SCII - Helix

Friday:

2:30 PM: SCII - Helix

Saturday:

2:30 PM: SCII - Helix (blood warning)

Sunday:

2:30 PM: SCII - Helix

Thanks for tuning in! (Patreon)

[digitald0rk]

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* NERD ALERT ! [ 1 ]

pairing — mark grayson x gn!reader.

synopsis — in which mark falls for the new comic book store employee who matches his nerd [ and he hopes his freak too :3 ] and realizes he wants that effing cookie SO BADD.

warnings — super duper self indulgent! mark being mark, mention of blood like once. sappiness overload RAHHHH. not proofread.

w.c — 2.1 k.

a/n — this is part 1 btw, the second part's gonna be focused y'all's relationship. this is SO SO SLEF INDULGENT LMAO. i am that annoying little fly that keeps buzzing when it comes to my interests, my ass keeps going, "holy shit is that xyz reference???" :0 like GIRL STOP PULLING THESE REFERENCES OUT YO ASS 🤓 if you're like this too just know i think you're super based and awesomesauce gang :D BE ANNOYING ABOUT YOUR INTERESTS!! it's honestly so refreshing, anyways :p lemme know what you think of this!

taglist — @vm4879bb-blog [ lemme know if you wanna be added too ]

READ PART [ 2 ] HERE.

it was another normal ordinary day, he was just binging the new volumes of seance dog in his favorite little comic book store because being a superhero leaves no time for that, thank god he has some time off.

it was another normal ordinary day, that is until you walked in.

well more like look insanely good behind that cash register.

he asks himself, mind racing a mile a minute, how has he never noticed you before? are you a new employee? why the hell is his heart beating so fast? are you single?

the moment he sees you smile at some customer, he's doomed.

he has to talk to you. he has to-

oh god wait. he's been staring, hasn't he? no no no! what if you think he's some loser or worse a creep. [a weirdo what the hell am i doing hereeeee sorry had to lol]

and when your gazes meet for a split second, he whips his head away way too fast, if he wasn't a viltrumite he definitely would've gotten whiplash, his eyes immediately zeroing on the comic in his hand, which is actually upside down. not that he realizes because he's too busy thinking about how he'd love to get lost in your pretty eyes, he needs to get a grip, what is he fourteen?

it's just some dumb fleeting infatuation and-

then he hears a laugh. peeking up from the still upside down seance dog volume, hoping to god it's not your laugh because if it is, he longs to hear it again.

it was your laugh. oh he's in deep.

and he swears he's never heard a more beautiful thing. sap.

he needs to be the reason to make you laugh.

oh shit he's holding it upside down, hopefully you didn't notice (*_*;)

it takes him a whole ass week to muster up the courage to talk to you, he'd only check out with his new additions and issues when it wasn't your shift.

he's checked himself in the mirror a gazillion times, his hair looks okay, maybe he should've worn the blue shirt, it makes his eyes pop out-

he's mark grayson, he's invincible for fuck's sake.

still his palms grow sweaty as he approaches you to check out, little do you know he already has these volumes, he's just desperate to talk to you okay.

"hi." and great, his voice cracks.

but your sweet smile makes him forget about it. he watches you as you scan his items, typing away as you do so.

he kind of wants to hold your hand. is that bad?

"so, seance dog huh?" oh shit you're making conversation with him? oh my god calm down calm down calm down-

"yeah, it's uh one of my favs." he flashes a small smile, a nervous one.

"no way! same!" you beam at him, sheepishly showing him the small seance dog hair clip holding your hair in place like it's some sort of national treasure.

you're telling him that you, the cute comic book store employee he's been crushing on for weeks now, likes seance dog?

he's dreaming.

he has to be.

right?

then you say something, something only a huge seance dog fan would know.

and he swears he hears wedding bells, he can already see walking down the aisle.

it takes him a ridiculously long time to recover, eyes widening comically as he processes that this is infact not a dream.

"you okay there?" you ask slightly amused.

your voice breaks him out of that little trance you just unknowingly put him in, his eyes flitting to the name tag on your shirt-

he can't help himself from muttering your name, soft and reverent like a prayer.

a little flustered giggle leaves your mouth.

oh.

oh.

he made you laugh? he feels like he's on top of the world, he introduces himself, his smile widening when he shakes your offered hand.

william's gonna have a field day with this one.

after that one conversation, he's grown comfortable around you over the past few weeks.

and he's fallen even deeper in love.

he's less tense and awkward around you, rambling about everything and anything, conversation flows easily between you two now.

you'd call him the second you'd read the new volumes of your shared favorite comics to talk to him about it, he does the same.

he puts you on his favorite comics, you put him on yours along with whatever you're big into. it's a win-win really.

he's never been happier.

you make him feel so seen.

he doesn't feel the need to hide parts of himself from you. he loves when you buy him matching merch or just little trinkets of his interests.

rex made fun of mark's little italian charm bracelet once, because what do you mean the strongest man on the planet has a matching charm bracelet with all the things he loves on it that he always wears?

it actually broke the first time he wore it to a fight because obviously, what was he thinking? gets very sad when he can't find all the pieces to put it back together, asks cecil to remake it with some metal that won't break from the impact of alien attacks or whatever decides to mess with the peace of earth the next time. he gets all pissy when he gets blood on it :(

"aw that's adorable!" rex would tease him, but mark would just get all excited because he gets to talk about you <3

cue him rambling about all the things you made for him or got for him that align with his favorite pieces of media and interests, rex does NOT understand half of those words but hey as long as invinciboy's happy.

rex is not making that mistake again lol, also he thought you were dating mark because of the way his eyes turn into literal hearts whenever you're mentioned, so imagine the look on his face when mark's all bashful like, "nah i wish :(" rex goes, "man you two are so fucking oblivious." and he's right.

even outside of your little nerdy conversations and hang outs, when he comes to you for comfort, he feels safe.

and that — feeling safe, not being on edge 24/7 isn't easy for him, but you make it easier than breathing.

he feels loved when you hold him, rub his back and make some dumb joke when he's having a bad day.

he lives for the references you make out of nowhere.

"holy shit is that-" you start excitedly.

"i was just gonna say that!" he laughs.

pointing out things that he thinks are references to his favorite media and you joining him, this has to be love.

"why does that cloud lowkey look lik-" he starts and you finish his sentence for him, he laughs at how you two are almost always on the same wavelength.

once the secret is out that he's invincible, he'll literally just fly to some foreign country to get you what you want, oh what's that? a new figurine of your favorite anime just dropped? it's only available in japan? it's already yours <3 anything for you, he's whipped. [ god bless his bank account i imagine it's in negative LMAOOOO because his ass is definitely not letting u pay :( ]

and when you oh so sheepishly hand him the seance dog plushie you crocheted for him as his birthday present, muttering something along the lines of how "it's not good enough" or "it looks a little funny", i mean yeah seance dog has seen better days for sure where his eyes are the same size, he has to physically stop himself from kissing you senseless, because how dare you be this thoughtful and sweet.

yeah he's in love alright.

after a lot of restless nights and convincing from william, he finally decides to ask you out after six months of longing and yearning.

you two are currently in your room, hanging out. you had invited him over to watch the new reboot of your favorite sci fi series, although the internet seems to have a different plan as the video keeps buffering and loading.

you groan in annoyance, refreshing the page, still nothing.

so when you give up and let it do it's thing, aka the good ol "pretending not to care so it'll load faster", mark takes this as a sign.

"hey uh-" he opens his mouth, he's going to piss himself, he can't do this.

"yeah?" you reply. he sounds awfully nervous.

he stares at you, holding your gaze, lips slightly parted before taking a deep breath.

he ends up immediately blurting out the words he'd practiced a thousand times, "iloveyousomuch", his words are hurried as if he's scared you'll leave him if he's not quick enough.

he pauses, realizing this isn't exactly going to plan. he has just confessed his feelings, it's done now. there's no going back from this and that scares him.

he's also considering just making a run for it, or well fly for it, your window's open afterall.

he avoids your gaze like the plague, the ground suddenly very interesting.

he hesitantly adds, "i have for awhile now actually", might as well serve his heart on a silver platter to you it's all yours anyways, it beats for you, he thinks.

his cheeks are flushed a pretty pink. he can't stop his mouth, it moves on it's own, "im sorry if- if this ruins our friendship i just-"

"i love you too mark", you can't help yourself from confessing back, feeling your cheeks heat up.

"i just can't do this, i can't be friends when everytime i look at you i want to ki-" wait.

it's actually adorable the way he looks at you all wide eyed when his brain finally processes what you said.

did you just say you love him back?

nope, that's just his terrible hearing that comes with being a superhero, all wishful thinking.

but the way you're looking at him tells him otherwise and your words only confirm that his hearing is perfectly fine.

"you were saying?" you tease him, daring him to finish that sentence.

thank god the teasing is back, this is familiar territory. his nerves calm down a bit.

a minute of silence passes before he speaks.

"so that just happened", he chuckles, he wants to be all suave and cool and say something that'll make you blush, but he can't.

he doesn't need to.

because that's not him, he's mark grayson, he's awkward, a sweetheart and a big nerd. he just needs to be himself to make you swoon.

you know this, he knows this.

he knows you accept him for who he is, so he doesn't think twice about leaning in when you reach out to cup his face, leaning in as well.

your acceptance, your love, you. that's all he needs.

and the moment your lips meet his he realizes those six months were worth it.

he gently pulls you closer by your waist, his touch hesitant, it takes all his power to not just pull you flush against him and show you just how much he adores you.

when you pull him closer by the neck, his toned chest brushing against yours, he has to stop from letting out a small pleased groan.

you're just as desperate as he is.

kissing you like this is dizzying, he can even taste the sweetness and slight tang of the strawberry dessert you two had shared earlier on your lips and it only serves to drive him crazier.

his body practically aches when you pull away, chasing your lips. he can't get enough.

"easy alien boy", you chuckle, trying to catch your breath — resting your forehead against his, nose scrunching a little when he kisses the tip of it, nuzzling his own nose against yours afterwards.

his smile is sickeningly sweet and contagious. "i love you", he whispers.

and when you whisper it back he giggles happily, pressing a kiss to your head - he pulls you in his warm embrace. relishing in the feel of your body against his, fitting like a missing puzzle piece.

it's like you were made for him.

a scream from the tv ruins the intimate atmosphere, ah so now it decides to load. you two stare at each other, a collective look of "are you seeing this shit" is exchanged before you two burst into laughter.

both of you could care less about the show playing on the tv, too busy indulging in long passionate sweet kisses.

"the new issue of batm-" you jokingly start against his now swollen lips.

"baby! we're kinda having a moment here", he scoffs playfully, the dumb lovesick smile on his face only widening.

"no but seriously the new issue sucked ass. they mischaracterized him sooo bad and-", he complains, not moving a centimeter away from your lips.

"and you're a nerd" you cut him off, pulling him close by the collar of his shirt for another kiss.

"hey that's friendly fire!" he hopes you'll always shut him up with a kiss <3

© digitald0rk 2025. do not steal any of my works :[ thank you for reading, interactions are always appreciated and welcome! want more? click here ★

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

comfort ☄. *. ⋆

summery: you fall asleep while lando plays video games

༯ ln x reader ༘⋆

༯ fluff ༘⋆

masterlist ☾☼

honestly, you hadn't planned it. lando had been playing some video game in the living room, connected to the tv, after dinner. and you just wanted to be close to him. so, you'd done the normal thing and laid your head on his lap, and watched him die a million times in the game.

the two of you had laughed and giggled and exchanged kisses. it was a chill night, and the two of you were just happy to be in each other's presence.

you hadn't realised when your eyes began to close. the sounds of the video game and lando's muttering was comforting, and it put you to sleep.

it took lando about forty five minutes to even notice that you had fallen asleep. he was surprised you hadn't woken up during the few times he got slightly louder than normal.

"babe, i died again," lando whined.

upon receiving no response, lando leaned over to check and noticed that your breathing was even and you had fallen asleep.

making a guilty 'busted' face, lando quickly switched off the video game. the two of you had plans to watch a movie, but clearly, you were too tired for it.

lando's fingers shifted back and forth on your cheek softly, making sure that you stayed asleep as he looked around for the blanket. realising that he had the blanket wrapped around his neck, he quickly removed it and opened it up to its full length, before covering you with it.

he tried to make sure that every part of you was covered, but with your head on his lap, he couldn't move much.

"i promised we would watch a movie. i'm so sorry," lando whispered as he covered you with the blanket.

"i'm addicted to this stupid video game, im so sorry," he continued.

knowing you, he knew that your unicorn stuffed toy would be near, and found it behind your back. gently taking it, he tucked it under your arm, making you stir.

he shushed you softly. "just your unicorn," he whispered. you fell back asleep quickly.

"rest, my love," he whispered as he caressed your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear, "i'm a little exhausting, i know. i promise we'll spend the whole day tomorrow watching movies,"

"i love you," he whispered, before leaning down pressing a kiss to your forehead.

you continued sleeping peacefully.

✩ ♬ ₊˚.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

this had absolutely nothing but vibes. anyways, i hope you like this! im sorry it took me so long to write this one! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @greantii ; @anamiad00msday ; @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @justaf1girl ; @peterholland04 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry

[dilf-docs]

You're a Daydream, Stay A While

jackson!joel miller x younger!reader

summary: you're jackson's designated bartender. well, your dad is, but after the arrival of a new face in town, maybe the inspiration to finally step up to your obligations kicks in.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, p. in v., oral (f. receiving), fingering, foreplay (mostly breasts), creampie, breeding kink (kinda), angst/comfort, insecure!joel (love touch etcetc starved), needy!joel, pov switch mostly joel (he's down bad as well), collected shitty puns from across the internet like thanos collected the infinity stones

word count: 6,136 words

side note: yk what's worst than simping for old men? simping for old men who don't exist. since y'all know, tlou II trailer dropped, which got me searching for joel's ***** to brace/prepare myself. umm so, why did no one tell me jackson!joel is the hottest thing ever? can´t wait to see pedro being senior citizen level of hot and dying (again) on his bday month! 😍 anyway, this is based on this request and well, yes! i too would flirt with an old ass if he looked like that™ hope u like it bc for some reason I'm not sure of it JSJDLKDFK also 400 followers GUYS STOP (pls don't)

The truth is simple: you hate working.

An apocalypse later, you figure there are more important things. But on Jackson, it feels like the world before fungus and violence, and everyone's got a role to play. As the daughter of Tipsy Bison's owner, yours is to help around the bar, something no matter how much your dad scolds you, you don't seem to care enough to even do a decent job.

Of course, it could be worse: patroling, keeping the cattle or crops, but not even then you're moved enough to give a shit about it.

Enter Joel Miller.

He, who made sure his arrival in Jackson didn't go unnoticed, making heads turn at it, not only because of his emotional reunion with Tommy, the little girl with him, or the fact that he left yet still returned. But also (mainly to you) because he was hot. Very hot.

Joel was the type of handsome that was rough in the edges, his closed-off demeanor and overall mystery adding to the thrill. His face seemed to be in a perpetual state of grief and darkness, sprinkled with grey and wrinkles, that in your opinion, didn't mean about age but just something that made his features all the more attractive.

It was a lie to say there weren't any boys your age in Jackson, good-looking too, yet you felt yourself gravitate towards Joel's musky presence. Yes, he could be your dad, but again, it's the apocalypse, and there are plenty of things to worry about than some age gap.

That doesn't stop the talking, anyway. It may be the end of the world, but gossip is just like cockroaches: it never dies.

The Tipsy Bison owner's daughter is in love with Tommy's older, much older, brother.

It didn't bother you, thought. You were pretty open about it, giving Jackson more to talk. Whenever Joel arrived at the bar, all heads would turn in your direction, ready for the shameless flirting and compliments you showered the oldest Miller in.

Maria had warned you, of course. She was the closest you had to a friend―sometimes being like a big sister, and she seemed to know what he was up to before, at the QZ in Boston, thanks to Tommy. Safe to say, you didn't care, despite listening to every word she had said.

Joel could break your heart, yet in a dying world, you weren't afraid to live.

Which is why now, as he enters the bar, you offer your dad to take his place.

"Go rest, I'll take this client" you offer with kindness, but he knows better. You're his daughter: in the end of the day, he's aware Joel is here, your shift in attitude warning him about Miller's incoming presence.

"If you will take this client, take the rest too" and before your dad can throw a speech about everyone being equal in Jackson, you're accepting to do the job properly, despite your grumbling and lack of interest to anyone who isn't Joel.

"Joel" you greet as soon as he sits, one of the many flirty smiles you have for him only adorning your face. He nods, avoiding your eyes that look at him like he could give you the world. He can't, so he keeps focused on the glass you're pouring in front of him.

"See? Didn't even need to ask. I already know" you seem proud of it, and the ghost of a smile brushes his lips.

"Well" he raises the glass, "it's an easy drink"

You feign hurt, "is that how you treat your bartender? I could poison your drink" Joel now truly smiles, knowing you could never, "or I could just strip you of your my favorite customer rights"

Now he feigns hurt, playing along for the first time in ever.

"Copied" he raises his arms in surrender, not before taking a gulp. You watch hypnotized the way his adam's apple bobs, the liquid sliding down his throat until it looses itself in the peak his two buttons undone give, of what looks to be a broad soft upper body, blessed with a patch of greying messy hair.

"Have they ever complimented you before, Joel?"

You. He refrains from answering, scared as to where little encouraging had led you and your shameless mouth to. He can feel the rest of the people behind him whispering, holes burning his neck. He can't let you win again: make him seem a pathetic excuse of a man who can't say no to a sweet doe-eyed delusional girl.

But you don't stop, despite his silence and the growing pit on your stomach.

"I'll take that as a no. Wanna know why?" he takes a much needed sip, "because all the good pick-up lines are taken"

This he can handle, Joel thinks. It's silly, proper of your age-

"But you aren't"

Ah, of course. Hasn't he learned?

You have the nerve to laugh, free as a wind chime softly carresed by the wind. His face burns, and even thought he's heard plenty of worse from you ("No pen, no paper but you still draw my attention", "Well, here I am. What are your other two wishes?" "You must be a dog person because you look fetching"), nothing had affected him this much.

Which is why he tries to pull the mask that had accompanied him since he first knew what grief was, so no feeling would ever made him weak again in a world hardened with pain. He's so good at it, wearing it like a second skin that doesn't scrub off no matter how much he wastes Jackson's water supply away, he sometimes sees the way your face is crestfallen at his indifference.

But you're young and stubborn, as so was he, before all the suffering and broken dreams.

So you won't listen to the past or doubts: the moment he stepped a foot into the community, you knew it was over, beating so loud you could barely hear your own breathing or him, when Maria introduced you and he shook your hand with his much bigger one.

"Joel" he'd said, with the sexiest voice you'd ever heard. His hands were covered in gloves, but despite that and the cold winter, the warmth that pooled from his palms had spread across your cheeks and chest. It had taken you a while to realize you hadn't said anything.

"Y/n" you hate the way your voice sounded small.

He nods, a way of saying Nice to meet you in his withdrawn nature. Then walks away, with Tommy and the girl, who looks curiously at you, Joel completely oblivious of how he's just turned your world upside down.

"Welcome to the museum!" you had said.

He tilted his head in confusion, Ellie's stare intense. "I thought this' Jackson?"

"This is a museum, because you're a work of art"

The tip of his ears instantly reddened, and the laugh Ellie was containing bursted like a bottle of champagne.

"Look at you, old man!" she laughed at him, making you wonder their relationship and how closer they seemed to be, despite initial assumptions. "Can't believe a girl gets the big, grumpy, scary Miller to blush like a boy"

You think that's the reason behind his apathy towards you, barely reacting to your pick-up lines or "subtle" flirting. It's probably not a reason as childish as that, but you'd rather be wrong than accept he may never feel the same way you do.

Because for a moment, despite the times you lived in, life made sense.

So no matter the stares, Joel's guarded posture and lack of reciprocation, you'll always be there, waiting: riding the roller coaster, enjoying the high.

The speed brings you closer, even if that means you'll crash.

Unfortunately for Joel, he knows who you are.

He's not even ten patrolling jobs closer to owning a bottle of whiskey of his own (he thinks earning it is bullshit, hasn't he done already enough?), so he's forced to go to the only place where he can get it.

And of course, there's you: a name and face he couldn't place upon his arrival, even if you had introduced yourself with your shitty line (which made him blush and Ellie laugh, so maybe it was a grudge what made him bent on removing you from his head) yet now is ingraned into his mind.

He doesn't know what's worst: your flirting or the fact that you seemed genuine about it. Or maybe it's the fact that he can tell you apart from the rest now, with a face full of life, always ready to give him your best smile and serve his glass the way he likes.

He needs to be the bigger person in this mess and stop it, Joel thinks. He isn't one to care about the talking, years of being brutal hiding any possible feeling that isn't rage. But then Ellie smuggled her way in his life, he found Tommy again, and Jackson was a reminder of old days when he would allow himself to feel anything else. So, in a way, he's become a bit susceptible to the talking behind his back.

How could he entertain a girl that could be his daughter? hushed, behind his stool. But then your fingers brush "accidentally", and his dick twitches between his legs when you bite your lip, pronouncing a Sorry like no one has said before: a tone so low and sultry, he's convinced wasn't even possible. Then you bat your eyelashes, and laugh (a sound both as delightful as addictive) before you're saying: "Don't mind them. They're just jealous you've got all my attention" and for a brief second, Joel let's himself believe he's special and worth of your time.

It's now a while since he's been there in Jackson, slowly settling into a life that doesn't involve running and fear.

If he thought your little crush was a phase, he's wrong.

You're still giving him time.

He's not supposed to get attached to you, Ellie, Tommy and Maria (future nephew in the way) more than enough. But then, when he's alone in a house too big for two people, Joel misses the way your loud voice fills the eerie silence that's followed him since death has been tracking his every step. Or how your interest on his life doesn't seem an act, listening to every word he says with tender eyes and soft smile, sometimes even making the effort of bringing things he's said before into new conversations; remembering. His heart flutter at your compliments, no matter how dumb they are, probably because he's not used to that stuff. As he lays awake at night, brain clogged with wounds too deep to bear, he finds comfort in things he has a feeling he's too old to get worked up about.

"Joel" you had said one day. God, he loved his name on your lips. The way you say it so sure, as if you'd follow him wherever he'd go.

He coughs. "Yeah?" and you smile, because at least he's looking in your direction.

"The chance of meeting a person like you is the only reason I talk to strangers"

The way your tone was straight, not flinching or faltering scared him. How something akin to sincerity dancing in the sparkles of your eyes, that now seemed to waver not out of whimsy but out of vulnerability, perfectly hidden in what could pass as another one of your attempts to woo him, but Joel's lived and seen enough to know it means much more.

So now, whenever there's darkness, he finds light on replaying those small moments on his head.

Dear God. What's he become? Ellie can't find out or he'll never hear the end of it.

But this things you don't know. All you see is a wall, and you're getting tired of hitting it.

The few words he spares your way are now a punishment you endure, cruel reminder that it's all you'll ever get.

Could you be in love forever? Could you even love?

It was a new feeling. Foreign, in fields of inexperience, but familiars in others. You may have never felt it, but the way your beat was steady when he showed up, worn out boots against the wood creaking under his weight, makes you believe when you know, you know.

"Hello, Joel" your father greets before you speak. Today, no matter how much you tried to shoo him away, he stayed.

You send a small smile his way, but he doesn't return it. You feel small, like a kid, undeserving of his attention. There's a bit of relief knowing your dad's there, so you let him take Joel for you.

There's always a first, and when both your dad and Joel notice, the latter feels a little sting on his chest.

But he's caused this, he thinks. It's what he wanted, after all: for you to stop chasing a man with scars in and out, bearing sins and blood where you had innocence and love.

"We're having a party tonight" he comments, making Joel quirk an eyebrow as he sips.

He gives you a brief glimpse, lost in the curve of your ass in those tight jeans, you giving him your back. He dryly scoffs on instinct at your deliberate choice to ignore him.

"Why's that?"

"My daughter's birthday"

He sees your body tense in the corner of his eye, wiping the glass in your hand with a bit too much force.

"Happy birthday" Joel speaks up, and you mutter a weak Thanks.

That's all he gets? No smile, no looking his way. Just a dry thank you that sounds more like something he would say.

Oh.

Was this how you felt?

"Time sure flies by" your dad sighs nostalgic, completely oblivious to the whole thing. "I feel if it was yesterday we came home from the hospital with you"

You smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes, despite the obvious adoration for your dad.

"Don't get sappy on me" you sound embarrassed.

"I don't care. Twenty-one years later and an apocalypse in the mix, you're still my baby"

"Dad!" your cheeks heat up, and Joel almost forgets he's there, his body back to life when your face goes back to its normal color and happiness.

"Which means" your dad goes back to Joel, "you're invited"

Your laughter dies and Joel's chest tightens.

"You need to stop saying that. All Jackson is invited" you respond, making him flinch. The bite is obvious.

You're not special, is what you try to say in between lines.

"I'll be there" tone daring, and your father feels something has shifted in the air.

You don't answer after that. What are you supposed to say? Don't come? I hate you for making me feel small? He doesn't owe you anything, but it still hurts.

"It's at seven" there's a sharp edge to your tone when looking at him.

"I'll be there" he repeats, still, but it sounds more like who he really is trying to convince is himself.

Joel is there, as promised. You don't know why, but after what happened earlier, for the first time ever, seeing him brings you dread.

He catches you in a corner, sipping on some drink.

"Hi" it's soft, the tone new, and it doesn't help the pit in your stomach.

"Hey"

"Why are you here?" he's curious., "ain't this supposed to be your party?"

It's funny, really. The way everyone else mingles around you, laugh and talk, yet here you are, bitter inside the shadows of your corner.

You raise your glass and chuckle dryly. "Well, cheers to that"

"You shouldn't be here" he insists, and you roll your eyes. Then, his voice goes soft. "Is... Is this because of me?"

You scoff, venom falling out of your bitter laugh. "Wow, big ego you got there. Newsflash: the world doesn't revolve around you"

He's so used to your pinning, it's hard to bear the change.

"I wasn't saying that, I just-"

"Please don't" you cut him off. "Don't ruin my birthday more than you already have, thanks"

You decide to walk away, but Joel won't let you.

"I don't want that" he insists, blocking your steps. "I want you to be happy"

"Don't bullshit me" your tone is icy, cutting like daggers. "Please, leave me alone"

"Not until you're fine"

You scoff at his incomprehensible behavior.

"Oh, now you care? Drop the act; you're just angry I'm not stroking your ego anymore like a lovesick puppy. Truth is, you don't owe me anything, Joel"

He looks like you've slapped him across his face.

"I know" his voice darkens, filled with tension. "But-"

You get tired at Joel's sudden insistence, overwhelming you with confusion. This is the same guy that has uttered less than fifty words your way, indifferent to your flirting and special treatment. Of course, it may have been a little silly of you to expect so much from a guy older even than your dad, but his apathy was borderline rude, and that you can't excuse. Or understand. Or let go.

So yes, you're being petty. And yes, it also feels good to have him begging to have your attention, the roles reversed.

"But what, Joel? Is there anything you can say, really? It's not that serious" you empty the glass in a chug, feeling dizzy. "Live a little and stop being so obssesed with me"

He shoots you a look hard to decipher. There is hurt: from all the emotions available, he chose the one thing you didn't think he'd be capable of feeling. Hell, he looked rather more like the cause than the affected on the other end. But then auburn fires flash behind his eyes, and the circle repeats itself, the danger and rage Maria warned you about.

"Obssesed with you?" his eyes carry a wild light in them. "If anyone is obssesed, well, it ain't me"

"I need air" you push past him, done with his shit.

"I'm sorry-"

The cold wind hits your face as you storm outside the bar. Is this a lesson to be learnt? Was this how heartbreak felt? The only thing you know is you need to get the farthest you can, even if your footsteps feel heavy with the weight of the snowed streets and frigidness of your heart.

"Y/n, wait!"

You turn around. Unbelievable: Joel Miller is running after you.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Joel?!" you shout, "why can't you just leave me alone?!"

"Because I-"

"There's nothing for you to say" you counter, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. "If this is some sort of guilt thing, I need you to let it go. What I did- I mean, you should probably forget about the whole thing. It's my fault, and I'm sorry my reaction is immature and what not, but I should've known to read the signs. You're simply not interested in a girl who hasn't truly lived or known what pain is"

After you confession, you hear a laugh. You raise your eyes, anger and hurt flashing in tears.

"And you have the nerve to fucking laugh?! Fuck you, Joel" you want to walk away to save yourself from further embarrasment yet your feet seem to be stuck.

"Oh, sweetheart. I'm not interested?" you roll your eyes, but he pins you by your shoulders, as if knowing you'd walk away. "Listen, I need you to know somethin': I'm not who you think I am"

"I don't care" you interrupt, defiant. "You're right, I don't know who you are. But I want to. Who you where outside this walls... It doesn't matter, not to me. You did what you had to do to survive, and that brought you here. Jackson... think of it as a second chance. You can still be happy, you know?"

With me, dies in your throat, not wanting to give more of yourself away.

"It's better this way" Joel insists, "hell, you'll even thank me one day. There's plenty of young boys here who'd love to be with you, trust me"

"I don't want them, Joel. What's so hard to understand?" what makes you get closer to him, you don't know, but in a sudden rush of force, you find the courage to look at him, body standing still as you exhale, fears condense in the air. "I only want you"

"You don't" you should roll your eyes again at his stubborn character, but his voice comes out so small, almost as if resignated, that it tugs your chest.

"I do" you reply firmly, cupping his cheek with tender care. He leans in your touch, despite it revealing his true desires when it comes to you.

"Why me?" Joel whispers, bigger hand covering yours, as to prove it's real and the warmth isn't a joke. "Why not a younger, charmin', happy boy your age? Why a broken violent older man?"

His voice breaks after the admission, quietly seeping into heavy silence that falls like the snowflakes in his hair.

"Joel" you call his name softly, making those sad brown eyes look at you. You gulp, nervous at the storm of emotions inside them, "is it so hard to believe you can be loved?"

Your words make him falter, his grip loosing strength as he tumbles back.

"Love?" he repeats with disbelief, as if you'd just say some kind of tale. "There isn't love in this world left for me. Men like me don't deserve good things, especially if they comin' from a pretty girl as yourself"

You shouldn't be blushing at times like this, but the maroon splash on your cheeks betrays you, warm as the drink from before and red as the dim lights casted by Jackson's Christmas tree in the middle of the town.

"Joel" you call again, and he's surprised you're still there. That you hadn't turn your back on him, or looked into his eyes and saw the monster in him, running away to never come back.

"If you let me" you hold his hands to steady him even as they tremble, "I could"

I could love you.

The promise hangs unspoken in the air, the wind now barely above a humming.

"You'd take me" his voice falters, "with all I've done, knowing I've hurted people?" Killed people, but he can't bring himself to say it when you look at him like that: like he could learn to love you.

"Yes" your voice doesn't waver a bit, "every part of you"

"And you'd take me knowin' that I'm years ahead in hurt, age and life?"

"Yes, Joel" you giggle. "Are you making me do an exam on your life? Because that's not fair, you've barely spoken to me, or anyone else for the matter!"

He chuckles, shaking his head.

"I s'ppose life ain't fair, sometimes"

"But it could be" the moonlight of the now clear sky shines over your eyes, and Joel is sure that the stars would be jealous.

"It could" he repeats, as to believe it himself.

Silence settles again, but it doesn't feel suffocating anymore.

"You know, we should probably get inside"

You dissmiss his words. "Nobody has even noticed we're gone"

"What about the cake?"

Your chest feels warm at his concern. He may not believe it, but the old-world Joel, the one who was a contractor in Texas and had a daughter, is still there, somewhere.

"Jackson is real, but miracles not" you laugh, "we don't have those. The party really is just an excuse for dad to drink with his friends during labor hours"

"And yours?" Joel inquires, "where your friends at?"

"Left early" then you lean to his ear, hot where skin meets cold. "I told them to"

He tries, but all words die on his throat.

"Wanna know why I did it?" your fingers wander to his tense jawline, tracing your sharp nails until they descent to his neck, sprinkled with loose hairs from his beard.

"Why?" voice barely above a whisper, his cock painfully hard between his legs. That you don't know: just the glint of dark on his hazel eyes.

"Why don't we find out?" and your hand takes his to lead the way. When he doesn't move, you try other way.

"I'm the birthday girl" you tease softly, but your orbs sparkle with something akin to dangerous. "You better make it up to me"

You've walked this road so many times, yet it's never felt longer.

The house is alone, you'd say, and Joel followed you because well, he'd follow you anywhere. He notices you said 'house', an indicator you still live with your parents. He wonders if you're embarrased, but by the way you smile, inviting him inside, to a part of you intimate and unknown until today, he knows he's chosen right.

When you open the door, cold creeps in through the cracks of warmth. You lead the way to your room, and once you're inside, he thinks it's very you.

"Very me?" you giggle, taking a seat in the bed. Joel watches from the doorframe, his bulky arms crossed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It's cute" and you think it's not a frequent word in his vocabulary, thanks to the pink dusting his cheeks.

"I'm cute?" you repeat delighted, and the shade of pink turns darker.

He just nods, avoiding your gaze.

"Joel" you call, then pat the spot next to you "why are you so far away? Are you scared?"

He grumbles something under his breath before walking over to where you showed. The bed creaks under his weight, and now that he's closer, you hear the wavering beat of his heart and ragged breaths.

"You are scared" you repeat, a statement now. He thinks you're mocking him, until your sure hand grabs his. "It's okay"

Before he can add on that, your face is too close, your breath tickling over his nose. He feels the moist of your lips press over the brigde of it, with a tenderness that brings ghosts of tears he has since long shade to his eyes.

Then they smoothly move to catch him in a kiss. He lets out a shaky gasp against your mouth, letting himself loose on the whiskey drops inside, an intoxicating mix against his own. His hands find your waist, gripping the soft skin with calloused fingers, refusing to leave it. He squeezes your curves while infiltrating your mouth with his tongue, until he pulls to breath, making you whine.

"Fuck, sweetheart" he nips your lower lip, "ain't you the sweetest thin' to ever exist?"

The kiss gets more heated, his hands now traveling to your face as they hold onto you for support, rough digits meeting peachy skin. Just the mere act of kissing makes him groan against you, too old to be shameful about the needy sounds coming out of his mouth.

"Joel" you whimper his name. He stops and takes the time to bore his gaze over your flushed face, your own dazed eyes mirroring his.

His fingers find their way to your hips again, pulling you closer. The moment caughts you and the bed off guard, the furniture creaking while your eyes move to the hardness visible on his worn-out jeans. You move your head to free your mouth to talk, but that doesn't stop Joel, who hungrily kisses the trace of your jaw and the road starting in your neck and finishing on your collarbones.

"Is that because of me?" Joel whines against your lips, yet you can't stop staring at the very big silhouette. "Oh, happy birthday to me"

Joel whines when you tear way from him, his hands loosing grasp on your body. You move up against the headboard, spreading your legs for him to put himself in between them.

You take off your clothes, and his eyes don't leave your body as if it's a show for him. He can drool at the sight of your breasts, rosy skin waiting for his tongue and teeth to sink on it. He leans closer, eyes looming at moles he could beg to kiss.

Now you, your expectant eyes plea. Joel's posture adquires a guarded air, as he grows self-conscious.

"Stop staring at me like that" he nervously chuckles.

"Is there something wrong?" your sweet voice inquires, laced with concern. He gulps, kind of afraid and embarrased of what you would say.

"I'm..." his voice comes out strained, "I just-"

His mind briefly wanders to Tess, how she never said anything, rather busy seeking the warmth of his body without commenting about it. The act mattered over the feelings, which where in her eyes but not his heart. But now, his heart beats in a different sound, one where he wishes you won't judge a body crossed with the roughness of scars yet the softness of extra weight.

"M' just warnin' you, doll" the nickname brings butterflies in your stomach, "this body's seen better days"

He removes the layers of clothing: flannel first, and then tight white long sleeved shirt. He's left in his jeans, unbuckling his belt that falls to the floor with a thud. His breathing turns to panting, afraid to meet you in the eye.

"Joel" you repeat his name, bringing him back to reality. "Look at me"

He's killed people, faced raiders as much as infected, and other countless things, so he dares himself to look up, breath hitching when he finds you eating him with your eyes.

"Fuck, Joel. I didn't know you were so pretty under those dirty ass flannels"

You knew he'd be handsome; that's literally the reason why you chose to flirt with him. But now that he's completely stripped off his layers of warm clothing, it's even better. You can't stop your hungry eyes from roaming his body, lingering on the soft swell of his stomach, hanging over the waistband of his underwear. A scar that looks deep is near his belly button, and you wonder if he'll ever tell you why. There's a patch of hair over his soft chest your tongue wants to lick. And of course, his strong arms packed with broad shoulders that make you want to scream.

"Stop lying" he chastises, but there's a smile adorning his features. A true smile on Joel fucking Miller's face. What a rare sight; you need to see it more.

"W-where your condoms?" he asks, nervous.

That catches you off guard, too busy cooing over how a man so big and sturdy could fold that easily, looking and sounding small.

"I'm not sure. I mean, maybe on my parents room but I-"

You cut yourself. Joel's concerned gaze finds you. "Yes?"

"I want you, Joel" the intensity of your stare terrifies him. "All of you"

He falls closer to you, forehead against your own. He can't bring himself to look at you, so he closes his eyes and dares to ask:

"Are you sure you want this?"

Are you sure you want me?

"Don't you trust me?" you're all smiles, even if your voice is soft. "I want you. I truly do"

He's hiding his face into your shoulder until you feel his lips pressing against your now bare skin, making you shiver.

"Where you want me, birthday girl?" he says between kisses. "Tell me, sweetheart. I'm all ears"

"Please, Joel" you unhook your bra, letting your breasts free. His lips begin to kiss his way to your breasts, tongue teasing the skin before nipping it. Joel's teeth catch the hardened nipple, grazing it lightly.

"S'pretty" he sounds drunk, and you love the way he looses himself in the pleasure haze.

He continues kissing your breasts before positioning himself right so he can hover above you. The kisses turn wet and sloppier, as if all his energy was to be spent into the rosy skin.

"Can I taste you, sweetheart?" he lowers his head to your entrance, already soaking wet with your arousal. "Fuck me, if this ain't a meal"

"The best in all Jackson" you joke, but the laugh dies in your throat when Joel's nose ghosts over your throbbing pussy.

"I- fuck, Joel" you moan when he licks your folds, his tongue an expert. For a brief moment, you think of who came before you, and if this is what they got or you're getting the best version. His saliva mixes with your dripping juices, making you whine as his tongue licks your swollen folds. His fingers then slowly inserted themselves inside at the same time, moving in and out of your puffy walls. His groans mix with the sound of your whines and the furniture creaking, the sounds obscene and feeling so far from the outside world.

"You're so good at this, baby" his sweat mixes with the blush on his face because of the nickname, nose pressed against your clit as he keeps up the ministrations. "D-don't stop"

"This pussy's so pretty" he says, "and s'only for me, yeah?"

"Yes, Joel. Only yours" you whine, your orgasm approaching. All of your body feels on fire, every touch inching the burn in your stomach closer as his head remains between your legs, tongue insatiable. You come all over his face, your hands digging into his damp locks as you scream his name to the air.

Joel raises his head to capture your lips on a wet kiss, the taste of you inside your mouth and dripping from his coated beard.

"Ain't you sweet" you open your legs further. "You're such a tease, sweetheart. Gon'be the death of me"

"I just like seeing you like this" you admit.

"Means?"

"So fucking needy"

A borderline primal grumble births from his throat. "You've a filthy mouth on you, sweetheart" he chuckles while wrapping your legs around his waist and lining himself up. Joel's tip runs up and down your folds, grazing your clit long enough to make you gasp.

"And you're s'fuckin' tight" he mumbles under his breath. You gasp for air as you try to adjust yourself to the huge size of his girth, afraid you bit more than what you can chew. His pace starts slow but gradually picks up a rougher and quicker pace. Joel grunts between thrusts, yet takes his time to make sure his lips kiss every mole sprinkled across your face and chest, his favorite just above your left eyebrow.

"I want ya' to come first, like a present" blush crosses through his face again. He leaves teasing kisses against your face, as you wail, finally hitting you.

"I'll wait for you" you whisper, your hips aiding you to sustain his sloppy thrusts, "want you to come too. Inside"

You feel his softening dick twitch, suddenly rock hard again. Oh, so he was into that.

"Don't worry, I have a pill" you explain. "So go ahead, pretty boy. Show me if the size matches the talk"

"Bet" his voice acquires a darkness to it. "Gonna fill you with all of it, until you milk my cock dry. Gonna fill this pretty pussy until it's full of my seed and it leaks for days"

He follows right after, groaning into your shoulder, where he bits the skin. His tongue wets the area, to relief the pain, yet you like it. Thick ropes of cum paint your puffy heat creamy, Joel panting as he stares down at you.

"What?" you chuckle.

Maybe Jackson was a safe haven. Heaven incarnate. Maybe second chances were real, and for the first time in years, he feels safe.

"I don't deserve you" he voices his thoughts, forehead pressed against yours as he tries to even his breathing, yet each breath seems more labored than the last.

Your hands travel to his face, cupping it with tender hands. He leans on the touch, because despite his crimes and past dawning upon him, he's a man: one seeking comfort on a pretty face and anything that'll remind him of distant emotions that can still exist despite what the world has become. Joel's hands travel to yours, thumb brushing skin free of scars and pain. He envies and loves the beauty in your face, eyes full of something akin to affection looking back, blurring the pain mirrored on his own. You kiss him again, and he can feel the emotions in the tip of your tongue.

"You're wrong" your voice holds a quiet determination. Time was a precious gift, but in Jackson, time could be, and the resolve longing tells him you'll be there. I'm not going anywhere, Joel. Not without you. "We all deserve love, Joel"

Joel Miller is a man who finds it hard to trust, yet, when he takes a look at your eyes―warm as rum, he allows himself to believe in you.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @loregifs

[thecassafrasstree]

Had a few folks interested in how I made the patches I posted for Solarpunk Aesthetic Week, so I thought I'd give y'all my step-by-step process for making hand-embroidered patches!

First, choose your fabric and draw on your design. You can use basically any fabric for this - for this project I'm using some felt I've had lying around in my stash for ages.

Next, choose your embroidery floss. For my patches I split my embroidery floss into two threads with 3 strands each, as pictured. You can use as many strands in your thread as you prefer, but for the main body of my patches I prefer 3 strands.

Next you're going to start filling your design using a back stitch.

First, put in a single stitch where you want your row to start.

Poke your needle up through the fabric 1 stitch-length away from your first stitch.

Poke your needle back down the same hole your last stitch went into so they line up end-to-end.

Repeat until you have a row of your desired length (usually the length of that colour section from one end to the other). Once you have your first row, you're going to do your next row slightly offset from your first row so that your stitches lay together in a brick pattern like this:

Make sure your rows of stitches are tight together, or you'll get gaps where the fabric shows through.

Rinse and repeat with rows of back stitch to fill in your patch design.

When you're almost to the end of your thread, poke your needle through to the back of the fabric and pull the thread under the back part of the stitching to tuck in the end. Don't worry if it looks messy - no one's gonna see the back anyway.

This next step is fully optional, but I think it makes the patch design really pop. Once your patch is filled in, you can use black embroidery floss to outline your design (or whatever colour you want to outline with - it's your patch, do what you want). I use the full thread (6 strands, not split) of embroidery floss to make a thicker outline.

I use the same back stitch I used to fill the piece to make an outline that adds some separation and detail. You could use most any 'outlining' stitch for this, but I just use back stitch because it's just easier for me to do.

Once you're finished embroidering your patch, it's time to cut it out!

Make sure to leave a little border around the edge to use for sewing your patch on your jacket/bag/blanket/whatever, and be careful not to accidentally cut through the stitches on the back of the patch.

If you have a sturdy enough fabric that isn't going to fray, you can just leave it like this. If not, I recommend using a whip stitch/satin stitch to seal in the exposed edges (I find that splitting your embroidery floss into 3-strand threads works best for this).

And then you're done! At this point you can put on iron-on backing if you want, or just sew it on whatever you wanna put it on. Making patches this way does take a long time, but I feel that the results are worth it.

Thanks for reading this tutorial! I hope it was helpful. If anyone makes patches using this method, I'd love to see them! 😁