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[skandhanshiinfra]

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[orchidyoonkook]

To What We Were Before, And All The Things After | JJK | Ch. 7

Title: Hard Goodbyes and Favourite Colours

Pairing: Prince!College Student!JK x Fine Arts Major!(F)!Reader

Series Rating//Genre: (M) | College AU, Mild Royalty AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff, S2F2L, Indiffernce to lovers, sloooowwww ass burn

Summary: Nel flies home, Yuri flies back, Jungkook can't stop thinking about the other night. And you? Gods, don't even get me started.

Warnings: T, language, fluff (?), angst, reader is ~not~ okay for a chunk of this, bye bye Nel! it was nice to meet you, Yuri being the bestie she is, playful antagonism, JK thinking a lot, some photography technical words but nothing scary, reader is painting again, shocker.

Word Count: 4,463

Release Date: July 9, 2024. 2:00PM

A/N 1: Hi this was supposed to be released like a month and a half ago but then i went to europe and my brain was anywhere but near electronics. Anywhooo here she is, as always thanks for waiting and I'll try to be more consistent now that post vacation depression has kicked in.

Series: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six

Sometimes life works out incredibly conveniently for you, like when Nel’s flight leaves a half hour before Yuri’s gets in at the same airport. 

But then it sucks again as your week with Nel flies by so quickly it feels like you’ve had no time at all while also having so much because of all the new memories you’ve both made. 

Currently in a rideshare and airport bound, because you will be in no way okay to drive back, your grip on Nel’s hand is strangling as you take in every last second of time you can get with him. He keeps giving kisses to your forehead, nose, cheeks, mouth; anywhere he can get access to really. 

He doesn't want this week to end just as much as you don’t. Fuck this fucking sucks so much.

The driver pulls up to the terminal drop off, and you both exit. Nel grabs his bag from the trunk, now filled with little mementos from your week as well as his clothes. A pressed flower from the greenhouse, museum postcards, a doodle you did for him while he was sketching, and more, all tucked away for safekeeping. All the only physical things he can hold onto until he sees you next. 

Walking into the airport, you make your way up to the check in desk, paperwork already in hand. Nel checks in and you request an escort pass, determined to spend every last moment together. 

There’s a lump forming in your throat that you’re trying to swallow. It’s thick, like a ball of unending peanut butter you can’t get down. And your chest feels like a black hole has opened inside of it, right where your heart is supposed to be. Every second that ticks away allowing another drop of the warmth you have with him to be sucked right out of your sternum.

Painful doesn’t even begin to describe this feeling. 

As beautiful as your week was, the reality of the present is setting in, and the closer you get to his gate, the closer you are to tears. You’re trying your best to blink them away, but you won’t be seeing him until winter break, and even then, that’ll only be for a day or two at most before you have to wait till summer to see him again. So it might as well be goodbye for those full 6 months.

It hurts. It hurts so bad to have to go through this over and over again, to have this separation from the one you love, even if it’s only temporary. Funny how temporary can sometimes feel like forever when you’re in the middle of it. 

Funny how the concept of temporary doesn’t make the gash in your heart open any less.

You don’t want him to go, but you know he has too. The faster he goes, the faster he can come back to you. 

You hate that he has to go in the first place. You just want him to stay. Please, just stay.

But he can’t. 

You reach his gate and before you know it, his flight’s being called to board and your tears refuse to stay inside any longer, the lump succeeding in its plot of victory. They spill down your cheeks in silent rivers, wet splotches on the neckline of your shirt forming as they flow. 

Maybe they’ll create a little lake in the hole he’s leaving you with. There’s certainly enough of them to fill it. Something to fill the void a little until you can see him again.

Nel takes one look before scooping you into a crushing hug, a desperate echo of the one from a week ago. His own tears now staining.

“I love you so much,” he says. You don’t see his eyes squeeze shut, nor do you see him memorizing your smell, as he kisses the top of your head. And his voice wobbles as he whispers, “It’s not forever, it’s just for now.” 

He says those words every time you two part, whether it was for a day or a year. Never goodbye or so long. Never see you later. 

They’ve always been a small comfort in otherwise shitty situations. 

“Just for now,” you get out through quiet sobs, gripping onto him even tighter as you shake. 

It takes you a couple deep breaths before you can say anything without breaking. “I love you too. Please be safe, message me when you land, and do well on your final exams.”

He smiles at that last bit, and your tears free themselves again. You’re going to miss seeing that smile in person.

Nel pulls you in once more, tighter. “It’s always harder when my good luck charm is halfway across the world, but I’ll manage.” Your sobs stutter with a broken laugh, and you’re pretty sure his sweater is going to have tear stains on it. “I promise I’ll message as soon as I can. And I’d wish you luck but you never need it. You always do well.”

The announcement for final boarding calls and both of you freeze in each other's arms. You don’t want him to go. He doesn’t want to go.

But he has too. 

You separate only enough to kiss. It’s messy and wet and gross, but you don’t care. It’s the last one you’ll have for a while and you never want it to end. 

But it does. 

Nel pulls away, and you reluctantly let him. He grabs his bag with one hand, the other holding onto both of yours as he backs away until he can no longer reach. Your arms drop to your sides with the traces of his warmth on your skin.

You watch as the boarding crew welcomes him on, and he takes one look back at you. 

You wave, mouthing ‘I love you.’

He mouths ‘I love you’ right back, and turns the corner.

You waited for Yuri at her terminal after dropping off Nel and taking five—okay ten—minutes to violently sob in the bathroom. 

She took one look at your half smile and puffy eyes and smothered you in a hug. Smelling like sunshine and ocean water, it was exactly what you needed. 

“It’s okay Sweets, you’ll see him again before you know it. This year will pass by so fast, just you see,” she tells you through your whimpers, the tears having returned the second her arms were around you.

They dry sometime on the way home. It was a thirty minute ride back to school, and they fell silently for a solid twenty before you even got in.

You hate goodbyes. 

But Yuri’s seen this three times now, and she always knew that a warm drink and junk food were in your immediate shared futures when she did. Screw healthy coping methods. It may be 9:30pm on a Sunday night, but that won’t stop you from downing a pint as you drown your sorrows in sweet, sweet cookies n cream. 

Yuri also knows you need a distraction, so she doesn’t hold back on telling you every detail of her vacation. 

The duke from a few weeks ago had been a dud. ‘Shit personality and even shittier sex’ according to Yuri. No consultation needed. 

But this new guy from the Ilcalos Islands sounds promising. He’s a Count of something she can’t remember but in her words, “big heart and even bigger dick.” 

That makes you giggle. And you’re happy for her. 

“Bitch, the second night he did this thing with his tongue and an ice cube and oh. my. god. I think I’m in love. That man could do whatever he wanted to me and I’d still say thank you afterwards,” she’s rambling at this point and you’re mentally apologizing to the driver for having to hear all of it. 

You, on the other hand, don’t mind at all; gladly welcome it actually. You want your mind anywhere other than the present right now. 

You don’t want to start crying all over again. By the morning you’ll be fine, you’ll have let out everything you needed too. But between then and now, it’s a matter of mentioning the wrong words or seeing an intriguingly designed building that could trigger those pesky tear ducts.

So you listen to Yuri go on and on about this guy, all his techniques and what she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since she last saw him. His number is already saved in her phone under a very inappropriate name, but you expect nothing less from her. 

You love her for it. For this. 

For knowing what you need to stay afloat right now and not allowing you to throw the anchor overboard with your leg chained to the end.

You really fucking hate goodbyes. 

You’re staring at him. 

Like, full on, no bars held, staring at him. 

And Jungkook’s pretending he doesn’t notice.

You’re sitting in your chair and he’s back in his beside you at greenhouse cafe. Your half done painting of pink flowers sits in front of you, his laptop screen’s filled with this week's newly assigned ‘Studio Portrait Techniques 1’ homework. 

His half finished coffee on his table. An empty pastry bag on yours.

His hands on his keyboard, yours gripping a brush.

And you’re staring at him. 

He’s hoping it’s because this is the first time you’ve seen him since Nel left. 

But it’s probably to do with the fact that he hasn’t looked at you once today. Or the fact that he’s barely spoken at all when he usually can’t seem to shut up when it’s been more than 48 hours since he last saw you. 

Because it’s also the first time he’s seen you since he was with Adaline, imaging she wasn’t Adaline.

“You’re acting weird,” you say.

“No I’m not,” he responds a little too quickly, eyes still focused on his computer.

Yes he is. He really, totally is. 

“Yes you are, you won't look at me and you’ve barely said two words since I got here.” Well your knack for observancy is still intact.

Normally that's a good thing, but right now?

“Did I do something wrong?”

No. No you didn’t.

He did.

He let his emotions get the best of him in a moment of weakness. He let himself become so overwhelmed with feelings he isn’t allowed to have. He let them win for a single night.

And now if he isn’t paying the goddamned consequences. 

After that night with Adaline, Jungkook had woken up filled with regret. He’d crossed a line he didn’t even know he should have drawn in very dark, very permanent ink.

For letting himself, just for one moment, imagine what it would be like to be with…

And things are harder than ever to shove down now. He can’t look even look at you without thinking about it. About what he did. What he wanted. 

Wants.

Fuck, he’s in over his head.

Jungkook forces himself to look at you, putting his years of social training and emotional masking to good use. It sure as hell came in handy during times like this.

Because you can never know. 

He can’t lose you because he's unable to get his shit together. It’s not your fault he feels like this. 

So he lies. Both to you and to himself, hoping it might help him believe it.

“Nothing’s wrong Dali, just focused on my work is all. We got assigned a big project on Monday and I’m planning out all my shoots.”

You look hesitant, like you can see right through his bullshit excuse that was only a half excuse because this project is massive. 

“If you say so,” your tone implying you don’t believe him, but thankfully, you let it go and lean closer to him to see. He pretends his breathing doesn’t hitch, “What’s the project?”

“It’s my final assignment for a class, I have to do a series of five portraits. Each one with a different style, capturing a different emotion, and they all have to be of the same subject to show the true versatility of my work. It’s easy to make things look different when it’s different people being photographed,” he explains.

Therefore, this assignment, and all of its working parts, is huge. He’s glad it’s due in the middle of December because it’s going to take him almost a month of planning to get it all together; backdrops, concepts, costumes, previsualization, focal lengths, props, equipment, lighting setups, etc. And then when the planning is over: to shoot, narrow down and edit. 

But that’s the point of it. To have the students demonstrate they know how to effectively expand on the definition of a ‘portrait’ instead of having one concept in mind and sticking to it. 

‘To broaden your creative approaches to seemingly simple constructs,’ as his professor would say.

He loves the way this professor does assignments. How she layers them so that not only does he learn how to shoot multi-concept ideas for the same project type, allowing him to add to his creative portfolio, but they also force him to break out of the expected conclusions for an idea and think outside the box. 

“Oh wow, that is a lot,” you say. Because you understand long running projects. 50 hour paintings don’t just happen in a day. “Do you have any ideas yet?”

“Yeah! I have them all already, actually,” he turns his computer towards you and you see a point by point list of summarized ideas.

- Bright and bold - happy, bright smile, colourful gels - Black and white, soft light: gel or bounce? Silk diffuser  - profile with water falling on face - relieved - Focused on passion - candid, regular colour. Diffuser? Or silk flag? - Normal colour profile, stark lighting - serious, front facing body, profile facing left, no visible clothing, “regal” _|(_*-*)>_. Flag.  - Mysterious - black background, white smoke, barely visible model, lower half of face painted black, upper half white, striking purple eyes (contacts?). Flags. Gels? 

“I’m really excited for this project,” he says, “it’s just the prep that’s going to take a while. Getting it all mapped and planned out. It’s mostly concepts right now.”

You nod, understanding once again. Though very different mediums, visual arts and photography are similar in many ways. 

“Adaline going to be your model?”

It doesn’t surprise him you think that, but he has no intentions of ever using Adaline for assignments or homework. 

“Actually, I… uhh…” he trails off. Jungkook’s trying to get the words out, he is. But they’re surprisingly difficult for some reason, and getting caught in his throat. 

Which makes his earlier anxious state come back in full force. 

It shouldn't be this difficult. It won’t be the first, second or fifth time he’s asked you.

Get the words out Jeon. Put on your professional face, this is nothing new.

He fails, instead, his voice comes out barely above a whisper as he says, “I was going to ask you if you would.”

You somehow hear him. 

“Me?” you look dumbfounded. 

“Yes, you.” He’s always used you for homework assignments before, so he’s not sure why all of a sudden this is surprising. Maybe because it’s a final assignment versus a weekly one? The effort will be greater? 

“But you have Adaline? I assumed that she would take up the position of model when you guys started going out.”

Oh. That makes more sense. 

But that is one mistake he won’t be making again, because he did ask Adaline. 

Once.

It was recent, Nel was still here and he didn’t want to disturb you because of that. Plus Jungkook was just trying to get a jump on his upcoming assignments anyway, taking a page from your book.

So he asked Adaline. And she leapt at the opportunity, like he expected.

What he didn’t expect, was when she essentially directed, staged, lit and posed every. single. shot. so that she would look her best. 

All he did was click the capture image button when she said too. 

And after the shoot, before he could even think to look at the pictures, Adaline was already there, holding his camera, going through them and deleting any picture she deemed ‘ugly.’

He was left with less than 20 images from the shoot where he was ordered to take over 200. And she even made him switch out one of the three he narrowed down for one she liked better. 

So no, he would not be asking Adaline to model. 

Ever again.

“Nah. You’re a lot easier to work with because you don't care how the pictures turn out, and let me do my thing. Adaline cares a bit too much, and has to have approval on all of them before I submit.”

You snort. “Seriously? Is she that self absorbed?” a quirked brow places itself on your face to match the smirk now on your mouth.

That’s new.

Your tone towards Adaline has always been neutral, if not a bit sharp when he talks about her. 

But this one? It’s like you know her, and knew she was like that, but didn’t know it was this severe. 

Adaline is very popular...maybe you two met and it didn't go well?

It certainly sounds like you don’t like her, if those six words were anything to go by. Which, he guesses they shouldn’t, but he knows you well enough by now to know the difference.

And if he’s honest, that wouldn’t shock him in the slightest. You two are nothing alike, and thank god for that. 

He covers for Adaline, like any boyfriend would. Though it stings a little bit.

“She’s just careful about what images could be leaked to the press. Can’t really blame her for that.”

Your face changes minutely, as if a second of understanding passes through before you turn to go back to your painting, and mutter, “no, you can’t,” placing a splash of pink on a flower. 

He returns to his work as well, switching the portrait assignment out for a different one. He needs to get his mind off it for a while before circling back. 

And the fact that you didn’t answer him. 

Deciding on a Design and Visual Culture assignment due next week, he dives in head first, resuming his earlier state of focus and avoidance.

Jungkook’s editing a picture when you stretch. 

You often hunch over your work, so you try to stretch every 30 minutes or so. Your arms are in the air and he catches a peek at the nearly finished floral study. 

They’re some kind of vibrant pink dangling flowers, and you’ve captured the likeness of them quite well, to no surprise of his, so he goes to compliment it but you beat him to the punch.

“Shots blurry.”

Jungkook does a double take at his laptop screen. He’d spent the better part of 40 minutes editing the image and hadn’t noticed that.

Because it’s not. It’s perfectly crisp and clear.

When he looks back to you, you have a shit eating grin on your face. 

Ah, he knows that look. 

You love to tease him about little things like that, giving him mini heart attacks. ‘Pay back for that first day,’ you claim. 

Well…

Two can play this game, so he plays off your comment.

“Oh, you're right. Thanks,” and he switches to another image. 

Your grin falters but you recover quickly.

“No problem.”

See, while you know how to playfully harass him about his pictures, Jungkook knows how…particular you are about your colours. How they need to be labelled correctly instead of by their umbrella terms like ‘blue’ or ‘red.’ Because blue or red could mean any one of the dozens of ‘sub colours.’

‘It’s not blue, it’s cerulean,’ you’d remark. 

‘That’s not red, it’s burgundy,’ you’d correct him.

You’re always correcting him, and it makes his pants tighten a little bit every time. But that’s on the other side of the line he does not cross anymore. A nice, big, fat, permanent, protective line. 

Jungkook settles for a more subtle method of attack. Using this little fact and your ridiculously extensive knowledge of flowers against you. 

He never thought the defense and attack lessons his father put him through would come in handy like this. But he’s glad for them now. It was the only time he could ever outsmart you.

He gestures to your canvas. “Those pink flowers are pretty, what are they called?” 

“Their common name is Lady’s Eardrop. And they’re magenta.”

Hook, line, sinker. 

He doesn’t even have to try, you walk right into it every time.

“Lady’s eardrop? That’s a weird name…do they come in other colours besides pink?”

You don’t look up as you reply. 

“Magenta, and yeah. Some are plum and magenta, some are a buttery white and magenta, and then some have this like, almost dark tangerine hue, but they’re a different type, longer. Not the same as those,” you point with the end of your brush to the greenhouse, where the fully magenta lady’s eardrop sits in the window. 

“And are these pink ones your favourite?” he’s really trying his best to keep a straight face as yours contorts with an eye twitch at every use of the word.

“They’re. Magenta. And sure, but the plum ones are pretty too.”

“Noted, the pink lady's eardrop are your favourite among eardrops.”

You break, turning to him, voice raising in minor annoyance. Jungkook bites his cheeks to keep a smile at bay.

“They are magenta. Not pink. Pink entails a lighter hue, there’s more titanium white in pink. That,” you point again, “is very clearly, magenta.”

He has to. 

He can’t help it. 

You’re sexy when you're assertive, he thinks. Tip toeing on that nice, big line.

But also hilarious. 

“Same difference.”

He can see the fire in your eyes blaze.

“No, not ‘same difference,’ they’re magenta!”

He’s leaning in. “Pink,” eyeing your lips as you speak. 

You lean in too, enunciating every syllable to prove your point. “Ma-gen-ta.”

Your noses are mere inches from touching. 

“They’re pink, Van Gogh,” he backs off before he does something stupid that he’ll regret, “Don’t get so invested.”

You back off too, sass still very evident when you reply, “They’re fucking magenta, asshat. Two completely different colours and you’ll label them as such around me.”

You’ve always had a mouth on you. One you aren’t scared to use when necessary, especially around him. So he doesn’t push any farther, knowing he’s already gotten what he wanted and then some. 

But also because sitting has become slightly uncomfortable. There was a stiff breeze, he tells himself.

Thank god for baggy, oversized hoodies. 

Returning once again to his work, he puts an elbow on the table and places his hand on the left side of his face to hide the massive smile that’s trying its best to turn into a smothered laugh.

Unfortunately for him, he lets his Princely guard down around you and so he forgets to force it down to an uncomfortable degree like he would at the palace. His laugh slipping out as a strangled noise and he quickly turns it into a cough, hoping you don't notice. 

But you do, because it’s you. Of course you do.

And the look on your face is priceless.

“You did that on purpose!”

“What?” he says way too high pitched. “Nooo, I would never, one hundred percent intentionally, say pink just to get back at you for pointing out the non-existent blur in my perfectly clear picture.”

He can see you trying to control your features, can see you failing and giving up by facing your canvas again, smiling to yourself.

“I was wondering how many times I could get you to say it. I think that was somewhere around ten? Gotta be a new record.”

You roll your eyes at him, but your quirked mouth remains. 

“You’re such a dick,” you quip.

“Yet, you like me anyways.”

You mumble something incoherent.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Awe, c’mon now. Fess up.”

A pause, before, “I said I just remembered I don’t know your favourite colour.”

No you most certainly did not, but he’ll let it slide.

“Black.”

“Ugh, boring.”

“What?”

“Boring,” you say again with absolutely no hesitation and proceed to grace his eyes with your own. “And technically not a colour. Black’s a shade.”

Jungkook offers up a non-smothered chuckle, saving his throat from further shenanigans.

“Whatever, Seurat, it’s still black. What about you? What’s Miss High and Mighty All Knowing of Colours’ favorite?”

“It’s still a shade,” you repeat.

“It’s still my favourite. Answer the question,” he presses. 

You give him an unimpressed stare. 

“Violet. Royal violet. The one your dad wears a lot,” your expression softens to one of wonder as you continue. Like you didn't just refer to the King of the nation you live in as ‘his dad’ so casually. “And when it’s not that, it’s this bright yellow. Like sunflowers or daffodils. Or the colour leaves turn in the fall when the light hits them from above just right.”

It’s Jungkook's turn to stare now. You look lost in your own head, envisioning the colours you describe, seeing them dancing in your eyes. And he can’t help himself, you glow when you speak about something you're passionate about.

“Why two?” 

“Why not?” you answer, still dreaming, colours swimming in oceans of thought. Your voice is almost whimsical. “Don’t you get bored of one colour for too long? It’s nice to switch things up every now and then.”

His reply brings you back down to earth, albeit slowly.

“Red.”

“Hmm?” you touch ground.

“If you won’t accept black, then red. The rich dark one, like blood.” He chose the first colour that came into mind, not really caring which one. 

He did like red. Red looked good in many ways. On cars, clothes, lips...

But he chose the first one that popped into mind because after hearing your favourite colours and the reasons why, he started to like them more than all the others too.

“Red’s a great choice, strong,” you say, allowing him the blanket term just this once.

“Thanks.”

There’s a moment of comfortable quiet between you before you break it.

“When do you need me for the shoot?”

Jungkook’s eyebrows find his hairline. 

That was a yes, right? You’re saying yes?

“Uhm…soon, I’ll let you know the specifics when I do.”

“Sounds good.”

He was going to leave it at that, but adds, “Thanks, Y/N.”

He hasn’t said your name since the assembly. 

Always nicknames when talking to you. Always. 

Never your name. 

Not once in two months. Almost three.

You—

An inhale.

You…like it.

The way it sounds coming from his lips.

Exhale.

Chapter Eight: Photo Shoots and Blasphemous Discoveries

A/N 2: She's shorter but chapter 8 is like 11k so far, so I hope that makes up for it!

A/N 3: As always, Thank you for reading, loves. Xoxo - Yoon <3

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[edelfie]

#𝓣𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘! seven evil exes.

in a cruel twist of fate, you appear to be living a trashy 2010s movie plot. your life seems like a bad knockoff of scott pilgrim vs. the universe, but it really wasn’t your intention! if you knew your exes would near-unanimously turn out to be selfish, narcissistic assholes, you wouldn’t have dated them at all…maybe. hey, what can you say? you stayed so long for a reason (and it wasn’t their mediocre personality).

or, a collection of all your exes, affectionately nicknamed the “seven evil exes” by tendou.

the pseudo-playboy, miya atsumu!

atsumu miya is as charming as he is finicky—which is to say, quite. you met him at an upscale bar in tokyo in the months leading up to the olympics. you don’t keep up with sports drama, much less volleyball drama, so how were you to know he was being flamed by the internet for breaking up with his on-and-off nepo baby influencer girlfriend, lia handa, just a few weeks prior?

even if you knew, it wouldn’t have changed anything. they were broken up now, and atsumu is so handsome and wild and vibrant. you both knew what it was going in—a few months of blissful provocations, and you’ll awake to your bed cold, number blocked, and a rumor of lia handa’s engagement. you knew he was no good, so why does it sting still?

“i heard you’re back together, and if that’s true—you’ll just have to taste me when he’s kissing you”

the wild card, oikawa tooru!

of all your exes, oikawa tooru may be the only one you don’t have problems with. unlike atsumu, who failed to mention your apparent open-relationship, you and oikawa both knew from the start that it was only short, blissful fun. having met him while you both were in brazil (you on vacation, him competing), you came to an agreement—one month, no strings attached, and absolutely no feelings.

after all, neither of you were successful yet, and neither of you were willing to budge on your dreams to be with the other. so as he dropped you off at the airport, he gave you a teary kiss and sent you away, never to meet again. so now that he’s an olympian, and you’re moving up in the world, the brunet flirt decides the time is now to shoot his shot again. and who are you to deny him?

“who’s the cute boy with the white jacket and the thick accent? like…maybe it’s all in my head, but i bet we’d have really good bed chem.”

the introverted entrepreneur, kozume kenma!

you were, quiet literally, at your lowest. it was during that time when you met kozume kenma—a friend of a friend, lev. while you began as acquaintances, you had made your intentions of pursuing him obvious from the start. it was only a matter of time until you were moving in with him and making nightly appearances in his videos and streams.

you can’t pinpoint an exact reason where it all went wrong. perhaps it was when you realized how empty you felt, or when you convinced yourself you needed to be alone to fulfill your dreams. either way, years later, you attempt to self-soothe by saying your lifestyles—you, really—were incompatible. it doesn’t ease the aching in your chest as you read another comment from a fan pleading you to get back together. how is it that you felt nothing then, yet everything now?

“don’t smile because it happened, baby, cry because it’s over”

the not-boyfriend, sugawara koushi!

after a slew of failed relationships and bad press, you desperately needed someone to “soften” your public image. it just so happened that sugawara koushi was just that person. a humble elementary school teacher, with a kind face and funny, affable personality, and no problematic past. surely there was no way you could mess this up right? and you won’t! you’ll successfully date for roughly 7 months before calling it quits shortly before the launch of your album—to focus on your career, of course.

if it were truly that easy, he wouldn’t be on this list now would he? except for once, it really isn’t a burden on your own conscious. for sugawara, he knew faking a relationship with his childhood best friend would be hard. what he didn’t know was that you’d leave him feeling like this. so as he watches you flirt with other guys, he can’t help but wonder if he’s on your mind. and as he goes to sleep in a cold bed once again, he has to wonder just what you’re getting up to—and who you’re getting under.

“i know you’re not the sharpest tool in the shed. we had sex, i met your best friends—then a bird flies by and you forget.”

the girl, so confusing, alisa haiba!

as far as the world is concerned, you and alisa haiba are friends and occasional coworkers. to your devoted super fans, however, there is a strong conviction that there is…something between the two of you. the gentle petting, sweet nicknames, and romantic gestures left many speculating. despite being labeled overzealous conspiracy theorists, they hold strong in their convictions of your secret relationship.

unfortunately, they will never receive an answer either way—you had long blocked alisa years ago. the details of it are murky, even to you, but one thing you know for certain—alisa haiba, for all the millions she’s worth, is a coward. so afraid of herself that she kicked you out of your shared apartment, stole your clothes, and ruined your life in one fell swoop. if you were to see her again, you may have to be restrained one way or another.

“it’s slim pickings, if i can’t have the one i love i guess it’s you that i’ll be kissing, just to get my fixings.”

the ordinary ghost, akaashi keiji!

the man across from you reminds you of someone. maybe it’s because of the blue hue of his eyes, or his introverted, soft-spoken demeanor. your brain scrambles to figure out just who he is, but that’s the thing—he’s a nobody. he is not someone back from the dead to haunt you, nor is he some clout chaser feeding off you for his 15 minutes of fame. he’s just…a guy. and you are so into that.

akaashi keiji, you learn, is a humble manga editor. he has many interests, including games, volleyball, and…you. but not you, as in the rising pop star, but you the stranger he met in a coffee shop. when is the last time you have been truly desired for who you are? there’s a thumping in your chest, a dangerous thing for a woman like you. you know it’ll only be a matter of time before he finds out—the fame, the controversy, the relationship you are already in. but you don’t seem to care that much, you just want to chase this feeling, and you’ll be damned if you have to let go.

“i know you want my touch for life, if you love me right then who knows? i might let you make me juno.”

the amateur rockstar, semi eita!

you loved semi eita once. it was when you were sixteen and high on endorphins, blood rushing to your face every time he glanced in your direction. you confessed during your graduation, and by uni you were officially an item. the two of you had amazing synergy, both in your relationship and work ethic—with his instrumental mastery and your vocals, you could’ve taken on the world.

you loathe semi with all your being. it started with small, petty disputes over the future of your little garage band. you wanted to feel more grown-up than your dingy two man team. semi vehemently disagreed and opposed all others getting involved. the tension was so strained it became hard to tell whether the two of you held any love for each other, despite never saying otherwise.

that was, until you caught semi with his pants down and fondling one of the maybe 3 groupies you had, in the backseat of your car nonetheless. that was the day semi eita died in your mind, and so you do not look at the billboards the plaster his face or answer prying questions about your previous relationship. you don’t say things like how he was your first boyfriend, the man you believed you’d marry, the one you still sometimes dream of. instead, you smile curtly and decline to answer.

“and you’ve lost all common sense, what a coincidence”

BLIND ITEMS! —

## during their brief fling, the newly gold-medaled athlete and the controversial singer had a very public blowout at an izakaya because the athelte’s brother was being too friendly with the singer. now that the two are separated, the fly on the wall wonders if that friendliness will amount to anything. [revealed: miya atsumu, Y/N L/N]

## according to close sources of this home-born, now foreign olympian, he was not pleased about the news surrounding another olympian in his sport dating and old flame of his. apparently, he was hoping to woo her over once more at the 2021 olympics, but her relationship stopped him in his tracks. now that the games are over and she was suddenly broken up with in favor of his on-and-off influencer ex, the foreign olympian is furious. [revealed: oikawa tooru, miya atsumu, Y/N L/N, lia handa]

## the alliterate youtuber and ceo has turned down many offers from other creators to appear on dating shows such as “love or host”. fans believe this is because he has sworn off public dating, if not dating entirely, after the breakup between him and his anonymous girlfriend three years ago. [revealed: kozume kenma]

## the close circle of the rising pop girl have been seen cohabitating with a total normie, leading some to speculate if he is a friend or significant other of the star. [revealed: Y/N L/N]

## word of mouth says the half-russian model is in a queer relationship with her coworker. after briefly starring on the same show together, the two were spotted cuddling on a couch at the after party. [revealed: alisa haiba, jenna moreau]

## the editor of this famous manga and close friend of the mangaka is looking towards writing their own work within the next year.

## the faux-rockstar and his guitarist seem to be covertly flirting through songs and social media posts. whether it is genuine or just promotional for their upcoming album remains to be seen. [revealed: semi eita, kanna matsumoto]

jujuondatbeat. a love square between two olympians, lia, and some girl is not what i expected in my 2021 bingo card — nesayah. “some girl” put some respect on my queens name bro — jujuondatbeat. i think i’d die before i ever did that, sorry <3

cowsallover. am i the only one who wants to know who the editor is ??

junebuggg. it’s been 3 years (5 since they started dating) and the people NEED a kodzuken gf reveal! — devilishtears. orrrr you could leave him alone and mind your business ! they’re exes for a reason babes

sera_pent. PLEASE tell me it’s a pr relationship like i CANNOT cope with my husband semi being taken </3

elmosupremecy. miya atsumu when i catch you…

read more…

NOTES! —

As a college student and avid learner, education has always been a huge pillar of my life. That's why I take great personal interest in promoting this fundraiser. Ola is a graduate student from Al-Azhar University in Gaza. Before October 7th, she had graduated from her school with a Bachelors in Mathematics, a grade of distinction, and first class honors. She then began work as a seventh grade math teacher and took great pride in her work. However, in the midst of war, Ola has reached out to ask for support for her students, her family, and herself. Even sharing her story is enough, so please take some time out of your day to donate here or share Ola's story online and in person.

In a similar vein, I've started my own higher education. Thus, I can't promise any fast or consistent updates. I am blessed enough to have a flexible, light schedule this semester though, so I am hoping to write as much as I can for you guys! I'm a bit disappointed since I won't be able to take any English or Creative Writing classes in college unless I want to shell out the extra money and time wkwkwk, but I suppose it's for the best so that I don't get burnt out or overworked.

If I ever stop updating this fic before it's complete for, lets say about a month, feel free to yell at me through DMs or asks and I'll bust my butt to get something out! I work best under pressure LOL. Also plsss nobody mention how Kenma’s spam was made two years in the future 😭 I was tired and wanted to get it over with, tryst it will be fixed tho.

BUMPIN’ THAT? + MASTERLIST + ZERO

© all rights reserved—edelfie (2024) // do not plagiarize, modify, copy, use, translate, or repost my work on other sites without permission

[ch-4-eri]

Hi, I hope you had a good day

Can you write DI Jill x reader smut (age gap plz) that would contain SCISSORING (I'm tired of strapons I love pussies)

(Death island Jill is my favorite if she wont be in my bed on 14th February im gonna quit it)

Love your work!

I LOVE THIS REQUEST THANK YOU SOO MUCH!!

Jill X fem! Reader.

Warnings: mentions of trauma, slight angst, sad Jill, post death island Jill, scissoring, cursing. Smut, porn with plot, vanilla sex lowkey, Jill is much much older and reader is of legal age.

Word count: 1.7k

Guys I can fix her, I swear.

Your mom’s best friend had an almost near death experience at her job, which is almost every mission.

Jill Valentine has been your mom’s best friend for at least a good decade now, they both met at a support group and the friendship took off, surely a trauma bond lasts a lifetime.

As you both picked up the woman from the airport as she decided to unwind and forget about the horrible island she was talking about, in so little detail— knowing Jill for that long, she’s a woman of mystery, doesn’t say much but does say enough for you to grasp the full picture that lacks detail.

You were in the backseat as your mom drove— Jill staring outside the window with her beat up clothes, you’ve no idea if she liked ripped clothes or she’s just too busy to buy new clothes— either way, she was perfect, she smells nice and takes good care of herself, her almost greying hair perfectly trimmed and tucked behind her ear, she cuts her hair like a mother— not that she has kids, or even wants any.. which is fair.

Your eyes were taking in every detail about her, the way she was sitting, her hands calloused and placed atop her thighs as your mother was making conversation, dragging words out of her… barely so.

She turned to look at your mother which caused you to catch a glimpse at her nose, her blue eyes shining as the aging lines around her eyes were more prominent than last time you’ve seen, and before her visit to that island.

Jill felt eyes on her as she caught you staring, turning those to the backseat, giving you a half assed smile adults give to children and looking away, surely you’re no kid— but to Jill? It kind of doesn’t matter.

Deep down you’d take any kind of attention from her.

You always kicked yourself for thinking of that woman that way, Jill seems like the untouchable kind of woman— anyone’s lucky to even talk to her. you’ve no idea why she gives off that sort of energy… maybe because your mother is her only persistent friend outside of her job ones, and even so she barely talks, you’re curious, you wanna know more, and it grows to an attraction or even an obsession on your behalf.

Each time your mother brings her up, you’re tense, the hair on the back of your neck stands and your heart races, not even in fear, Jill was never threatening around you or your mother despite the training and whatever she’s capable of, and you know exactly what she can get away with.

But she’s a good person, and a good friend, and your mother loves her… so do you, except it’s a different kind of love, or maybe lust, a mere curiosity about the woman with decent intentions and morals, seeing it in her eyes as your mother insults a bad driver on the road and Jill just shushes her, she’s perfect, looks innocent even.

And you know she’s not, not even close.

You tossed and turned next to your mother in bed that night as you gave your room to Jill so she can rest on a bed instead of sleeping on the floor or the couch like she usually argues to do so.

And the thought of her sleeping on your bed is driving you crazy, your bed will smell like her, have her fucking perfect face on your pillows.

The overwhelming feeling made you sit up, not even in the mood to sleep at this point as your mind circled around the same thing, you wanted her.

To talk? Let her open up to you? Oh god she’s asleep on your bed.

And it’s like your legs had a mind of their own, you slowly got out of your mom’s bedroom, and closed the door— letting out a breath so heavy you felt your lungs shake.

Your room was right there, the door closed as Jill was right behind it, on your damned bed.

Your shaky hand was placed on the doorknob as you twisted the handle, allowing yourself to be creepy just this once as the desperation was eating you alive, making you feel smaller.

What if she gets mad? You never saw Jill angry, she’s incapable of being disrespectful like that, she’s too perfect, no matter how much she argues she isn’t.

You saw her awake and staring up at the ceiling, her gaze falling on you, and again; Jill would never be angry with you.

“Hi, sorry.. I just wanted something.” You lied, closing the door behind you.

“No worries.” Jill spoke up, the sound of her voice sending chills down your spine, you needed a fucking grip. “You alright?” You ask, not caring about the act of needing something from your bedroom at this point, what you wanted was her, to talk— to fuck— god anything.

“Just thinking.” Jill responds after a moment of silence, knowing she’s trying not to open up like usual, maintaining her secrets but still keeping a firm honesty— no matter how much it lacked, but you were so done with that, you wanted her to talk, say more, cry it out, anything.

You sat on the edge of the bed and faced her and she looked even more beautiful like this, wearing a gray tank top that barely covers anything, your eyes trying their hardest not to slip up, keeping them on hers instead.

“You can talk to me, you know?” You start, maybe just maybe this would get her to talk, it’s late and Jill looked vulnerable, worn out even. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Goddamn it, it was too close.

“Why not?” You found yourself arguing, were you that desperate? Perhaps, you absolutely were. Jill raised an eyebrow at your persistence, straightening back as she tilted her head. “Because, I don’t want to.” Jill replied, her tone firm like she needs you to stop arguing back if that’s what you were trying to do.

You gulped, you wanted to argue, wanted to tell her off, wanted to let her know she’s got you, that you were right here; anything.

“You should go to bed.” Jill ordered, her tone as firm as a moment ago, making you narrow your eyes in challenge.

“I don’t wanna go to bed, I know you wanna talk and I’m not leaving until you do.” You said, not sure what the hell’s gotten into you, and now Jill was starting to look pissed, a sight you haven’t seen before, maybe part of you was relieved you provoked her, maybe she’d say something, do anything.

She doesn’t say anything for now, you know she’s thinking something over in that head of hers, wishing you had a clue what the fuck it was. “Come here.” Jill gestured at you to come closer. Her fingers pointing at the bed, opening the blanket, her long legs exposed to your hungry eyes as you gulped.

“I said come here.” Jill repeats, her voice louder now, like she’s holding back yelling at you in the middle of the night. You obliged, unsure how you did so— all you could think about were her legs.

You came closer to her, crawling on the bed in front of her, watching the way her eyes studied you, her lips parted with anticipation as she grabbed your waist and brought you closer forcefully, feeling how strong her grip was, making you bite on your lip.

“Why are you suddenly so curious about it?” Jill asked, her fingers splaying themselves on your hip, keeping you close in such a strong grip and that’s just one hand.

“What do you want me to tell you?” Jill whispered, her other hand coming up to part your knees for her, gripping your thigh as she picked you up and brought you into her lap, like you weigh nothing. “That I’m so fucking tired; I’m so fucking sick of everything?” She whispered into your ear, her tone strained like she’s holding back the tears and the despair she’s felt for so so long.

“What do you want to hear?” Jill asked, her voice choked with tears. She wanted to cry but she refused to, her leg moving around your hip. Bringing you closer, her mouth placed near your neck. “I want you talk to me about it, maybe I could help—“

“You can’t help me doll.” Jill whispered, her breathing fanning your neck, her hands placed on your waist. “Nobody could.” She adds, positioning your middle on top of hers. Her hips slowly moving against yours, desperate for any kind of friction. “Jill—“ you gasped, catching a hold of her shoulders as you were both bumping against each other.

“Please doll just let me do this.” Jill begged, her hands gripping your hips hard as her clothed pussy was sliding up into yours, the fabric so wet as it bumped against her clit and made her bite into her lip, trying not to scream at the pent up feelings and frustrations, your eyes were glued to pussy, you wanted a taste, to feel her throb in your mouth, your pussy cumming at the friction as Jill moaned, her hands moving your hips with her full strength with both your panties soaked, Jill’s fingers moved in between you two and rubbed at both your clits, her breathing strained as she lifts her fingers up and shoves them into your mouth.

Seeking pleasure from the way you suck on her fingers, her other hand bringing your lower back closer as she chased her high, you had no idea your legs could do that, it was not a common position but it felt fucking amazing with your mouth full of Jill’s fingers and her pretty pussy fucking into your own, “come on— cum inside of me baby.” She urged, bringing your hip closer, pushing your pussy into hers. “Need you to cum inside of me.” Jill pants, too focused on her pretty eyes, mesmerised by her entire being, your noises were soft whimpers and whines as she got wetter at the sound of them.

“Jill—“ you called her name, your muscles spasming as you let out a choked gasp, your cum mixing with Jill’s as you both orgasmed at the same time, your foreheads pressed together and you both panted at the feeling, holding Jill’s shoulders while hers held your hips.

“I better not hear you ask anything else about me,” Jill requests, lifting your hips to get you off of her.

“You know enough doll, now trust me and get some sleep.” She says, slipping out of bed to get you cleaned up before you’d sleep. Leaving you dumbfounded and flustered.

[eeunoia]

ENHYPEN Series

sinag — psh.

chapter two

synopsis: waiting for a great plot twist in your life, the ruthless and powerful mafia boss park sunghoon forced his way in to it.

pairings: park sunghoon x reader

word count: 2.7k

warnings: a contains violence, guns, killings, abuse, obsessive love & other stuff. if you can't take this stuff, feel free to scroll away. let me know if i missed some.

note: not proof read. sinag’s chapter will usually have 2k-3k words. i'm sorry if there’s grammatical errors. enjoy reading and my ask are open for your messages. thank you so much!

© eeunoia 2023 — all rights reserved.

here ‹ chapter one | chapter three › here

“Calm down, Kwon.” a man wearing a formal attire focused his eyes at the scene beneath him, standing proudly in front of the big glass windows of his office. He holds a cup of whiskey on his hand, the other one inside his pockets.

“Calm down?” his tone frantic as he slightly slams the coffee table near him. His fists balled, jaw clenching feeling perturbed by the situation they’re tangled in.

“Your son is uncontrolled! This arrangement was long overdue! You know we already need to do something about this.” he added.

The man remained calmed and collected despite his opposite demeanor. He went here out of frustrations in hope to come up with a solution for their problem and all he gets is a couple words of consolement. If anything, that's the last thing he needs.

“I am doing my best to convince my son, Luis.” he slowly turns to face the raging man. The placid look on his face pretty much mirrors the same with the young mafia boss they are discussing about. The main reason of their distress and troubled affairs.

“You out of all people knows that convincing your son is already out of the choices.” the man stoods and stares straight to his eyes.

“He’s stubborn and proud.”

“Mainly why we shouldn’t act repulsively. Sunghoon knows when to play his cards and is not stupid.” he took a quick sip from his glass and pursed his lips into a thin line.

“He is unpredictable and moves only to his demand. He was never born to be controlled. He's my own flesh and blood afterall.” the proud smile spreads across his face that only adds to Mr. Kwon’s anger.

“But he’s now going crazy over some girl? Is this the same boy you are blabbering about?” the man scoffs that faded the smirk on Mr. Park’s face.

“If we cannot do anything with your son might as well start by getting rid of that girl.” the look on his face were shameless. The way he talks was too casual that you’ll think he’s just commanding a luggage to be discarded somewhere.

“We have to find her before he does.” he fixed his coat while still keeping his dark, serious gazes over Mr. Park.

“In order to solve the problem, we need go dispose the one causing them.” he stated with firmness to his tone indication of want on immediate action.

“I will expect a bigger progress soon, Steven.” he starts heading towards the door, one of his man held it for him. He stops from his tracks and craned his neck to the man by the windows, “I’m not a very forgiving and patient person. You know that.”

He left the room and Mr. Park was lost with his own thoughts. His emotions at a mess that rarely happens. The lack of sense in the current situation was very unusual of him. All he can think of is his son and the tangled connection link between the Kwon family.

From the plane to your way to the hotel, you are well taken care of. The stress and worries you’ve been feeling when you stepped at the airport hours ago were vanished into thin air. It was crazy and you can’t even believe that you’re actually thinking that this trip isn’t so bad at the moment. Like as if you aren’t the same girl in distress for being sent over for this.

“This way to your room, Madam.” one hotel staff guides you in this beautiful suite. It was a hug room with a breathtaking view of the city beneath you.

The streets are busy, people rushing towards somewhere, cars honking at each other but it didn’t spoil the ambiance of the place. You giggled and eyes shut for a couple seconds, embracing the breeze blowing towards you. It surely gives off a different vibe, the feeling of being new to the place slowly gets into your system.

Scary, but thrilling. You are feeling anxious and all but staying in a fancy hotel with a rowdy surrounding rather than secluded villa sure comforts you a thousand times better.

You are snapped out from your trance when you remembers the main agenda of your trip. Letting out a strained sigh, you walked towards your bag to fish out the well planned schedule that was prepared for you. It’s like a list of things to be accomplished along the trip. It sounds like something not of a big deal since this is a business trip afterall, but the amount is what’s gets you. Thankfully, they did left your first day vacant.

Another strained sigh liberates out from you, making your lungs feel more lighter. So much for enjoying this trip. You tried to find the brighter side of it. The things you will learn from the seminars and basically from the experience here will be much to your gain.

You ordered room service for lunch and decided to rest for a bit before roaming around near the hotel for the rest of the day. The next day, its work day so while waiting for your first agenda, you ordered food for lunch. If the place was great, of course the food was fantastic. It is expected and it didn’t disappoint. You enjoyed your meal and soon starts preparing for your errands.

Today’s task is an uncomplicated one. Pretty much a warm up for the upcoming busy two weeks of your stay here. You dress up cutely and comfortably before deciding on heading downstairs to ask the lobby for some directions.

On the other hand, multiple cars parked right in front of the hotel. People’s eyes darted curiously at the scene, some chooses to continue their day after watching for a while. Sunghoon went out of his black range rover and dominantly roams his eyes around, causing the lingering eyes of some individuals to tear away.

His intimidating aura just causes some to even stop at their tracks and give way to the handsome man. He didn’t give any care and went inside along with some of his men, tossing his car keys to the valley incharge without sparing him a glance. The boy bowed paying his respect, slightly anxious not to do any mistake.

Arriving at the hotel lobby, staffs bows as he walks by. It didn’t stop people to stare at him. His face is not one to be missed anyway.

His men clicks the elevator open and Sunghoon steps inside. After pressing the floor where his room was booked, the door closes. The people who's about to ride the elevator hesitates and decided not to join him.

As the door of the elevator closes, the one beside opens and you steps outside. Smiling to the people waiting just in front of it. They seem fazed about something that made you curious. Your eyes looks at the elevator beside you, but it was close and the lights above says its moving up the building.

Dismissing that matter, you shrug off your shoulders and walks towards the lobby to go ask for directions.

Sunghoon sighs and walks outside the elevator when he arrived the floor. The hallway was empty.

“What are you doing here?” his jaw clenches and his fist balled tightly at the sight of a man sat comfortably in the middle of the room.

He’s alone, at least here inside, and a glass of whiskey sat near him on a coffee table. The man smiles a little and opens his arms as a welcoming gesture.

Sunghoon furrowed his brows and kept his unamused expression.

“Is that how you greet your dad?” his Dad crosses his legs and gave him this stare.

Despite feeling so angry, Sunghoon grinned.

“Dad?” he scoffs. “Since when did you act like one?” his rude words pricks something inside Mr. Park’s chest, but he knew he was in no place to complain.

He took part on why Sunghoon became like this. He was part of his dark childhood that led him to be ruthless. He may feel sorry right now, but there’s nothing he can do about it anymore. All there’s left was to convince him over to do the arrangement and save him from any possible outrage of the Kwon family.

“Son,” he calls, tone longing.

Sunghoon face reflects disgust at what he heard. “Don’t you dare call me that.” he coldly rejects.

“What are you doing here? How did you know that I’m here?” his questions are full of suspicion for the older man. This isn’t the first time he did this, but its still so odd that he couldn’t help to not let his guard down.

“I’m here to talk to you.” he answers one of it, but leaves out one. It didn’t slipped off from Sunghoon and sure he isn’t someone to disregard it as well.

“There’s nothing to talk about with you.” he grunts, letting him know that there is no way he can expect him to cooperate.

He turns his heels and was about to head out when his father talks once again.

“Marry Luna.” his words were short and direct.

Sunghoon halt from his steps and the crease to his forehead disappears along the emotions in his eyes.

He slowly craned his neck to look at his dad.

“Didn’t Mr. Kwon told you what we talked about the last time he went to see me?” he smirks with no humor.

“Please, son. That is planned ahead even before you’re even born.”

“If you’re too desperate in making her marry a Park, why not you do it?” he suggests in complete taunt.

“Park Sunghoon!” his Father shouts.

Seeing his father lose composure and frustrated like this, sooths something in Sunghoon. It feels something accomplishing in some part of him. He smirks unbothered of his Father’s threatening tone.

“This will be the last time you and Mr. Kwon will bother me about this stupid marriage.” he states, back to being very serious. His eyes dark, almost mirroring his father’s.

“It will never happen. He can have a gun pointed at my head during the wedding and I still won’t say ‘I do’.” he smoothly puts his hands inside his pocket.

“Don’t make me do something you will regret. Stop pushing my buttons,” Sunghoon tilts his head. “... Dad.”

Mr. Park was lost of words. He felt shivers run his spine at how cold his tone was. He can’t remember when he became like this. What did he do for him to end up like the cold ruthless person he is right now?

His mind was occupied for a while before he snaps back to his senses. He sighed and rest his back on the chair before massaging his temple. He expects no easy way to convince Sunghoon into this. And as much as he hates how Mr. Kwon last resort of solution to their problem, he was left with no other choice.

He’s doing this for his son.

He fished his phone from his pocket and dials someone’s phone number. “Did you ask the lobby about a reservation under the name Aelia Choi.”

He waits for the response of his assistant from the other line. He received a tip that Sunghoon gathers info that the girl he’s searching for are booked in this hotel. He figured his son will come here to search for her so he decided to take the opportunity of talking to him.

“There’s none, Sir.”

His brows furrowed, a little confused. Disappointed for probably another false information. A part of him felt sympathy for his son, he’s been searching for her and still no concrete leads of her whereabouts. Another, felt relieved. He can’t comprehend what crazy things his son can do for this girl. He can only mean bad for him. If he’s this wreckless for her right now, what more if he found her.

“All right, ready my vehicle.” he commands and ended the call.

After asking for details and asking assistance for your ride to the city. Waiting patiently, your brows furrowed curiously at the sight of men in black appearing the hotel’s lobby. They aren’t that many, but enough to catch attention. Their black similar uniforms sure captures people’s curiosity.

The view makes you remember of a particular night of your life. It makes you nervous, pressing your lungs and light pinches to your heart. It wasn’t pleasant for you so you quickly glanced away and move towards a more isolated part of the hotel.

From a distance, you watch how they move in an organize manner. It was evident how disciplined and well connected they are to each other. Their built and postures sure insinuates how dutiful they are. It seems like they are there to protect someone. Someone very important.

Everybody went back to normal once they left the premises. You can hear some of them still talks about the said person that just left. Uninterested, you walks towards the lady at the front desk.

“Can I ask a room service once I get back?” you ask smiling. The lady returns and smiled warmly at you.

“Under what name of reservation?” she asks.

“Oh, under Mr. (boss name).” you pursed your lips as she tries to check something on her computer. Patiently, you roam your eyes around the hotel lobby.

You noticed another group of men wearing suits pretty similar to the ones from before. This time, you saw the man walking in between them. He seemed like a very powerful man. His hair perfectly fixed, some gray strands can be seen even from the distance but it didn’t make him look that old. If anything, he looks like a Dad of a very attractive offsprings.

You didn’t realized you’ve been staring too much. Thankfully, the lady at desk calls your attention. The moment you looked away, the man gazed at you. Both of you clueless about how each other will soon make a big change to your lives, missed the opportunity to meet due to uncertain timing

“What time will you be back for the room service, Ma’am?” she asked.

You gave her the time you possibly back from your errands. Thanking her softly before going on with your day, unaware of what lies ahead of you.

“Hello, Riki?”

He heard some muffled sound from the other line, “Yeah, hyung?” the younger one responds.

“I think there’s a rat in my men. They’ve been snitching on my Dad about my whereabouts.” he continuously says in a cold tone. He’s not yet sure if hes right, but what could possibly the reason of the unexpected appearance of his father?

He’s very strict on sharing infos of his life, specially when it involves about his search of you.

“I want you to find who it is and report back to me.”

“On it.” he replies and chuckles. “This is not free, hyung.” the younger one teased.

Sunghoon rolls his eyes, “Just send me the bill.” and he ends the call before resting his back on his chair.

He’s inside his private jet. He went straight here after the encounter with his dad. The pilot waits for his command to fly and go back, but for some reason he felt something’s stopping him.

The plan of searching for you at this place sure is already sabotaged. He hope what they received was just a false information or else he will make his Dad pay for missing you once again. He tries hard to convince himself that its also probably his father who tipped him so he can have time to talk. But he can’t get rid of the thought that you might be near him. It’s making him suffer.

He have no idea how many times he will feel this way in the future, but he doesn’t care. He will never stop looking for you, even if it means he have to spend his whole life hoping that you two will meet again without a definite certainty that it’ll happen.

here ‹ chapter one | chapter three › here

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Title: Not a Cyclone, But a Monsoon

Part 2 of 2 - Completed

Find Part 1 HERE, and my Master List HERE

A request based off of THIS prompt, from the lovely @inkandarsenic

Romantic Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader Past Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!Reader

Platonic Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x Fem!Reader

A few uses of Y/N

Word Count: This part: 14k+ Total Fic:20k+

Rating: R

Warnings: Talks of death, minor character deaths, labor, loss of a child in utero, abandonment, drinking, talks of God and destiny, swearing, general military talk and lingo, descriptions of food and eating, coughing fits, talks of violence, actual violence, blood, vomit and throwing up, mention of near death experiences. ANGST

---

I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE REPOSTED OR TRANSLATED

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. The weekend before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

A cellphone is tucked between Monsoon's cheek and shoulder, the line trilling. She carries her duffle bags and kit, feeling like a battering ram as she makes her way through the crowd of people. The airport is packed and she can feel just how humid it is form how sticky she feels.

The hallways of the airport wind as she follows the crowd out of the baggage claim. The people around her move just a bit too slowly as they wheel their bags behind them, just begging for someone to trip over them if they dare pass. If there is one thing Monsoon did not miss about being at Top Gun, it's the trip in.

Fuck flying coach.

Fuck PSC Season and all of the families taking all the seats on the military flights.

Fuck the crying lady sitting next to her, who wouldn't stop sobbing at the shitty romcom she was watching, and fuck when she decided to start it over, just to watch it all over again.

But the best thing about coming back has to be seeing her surrogate father, Beau Simpson. Their relationship has only grown stronger since that night at the bar. They have spent countless meals together, drinking at bars when they are in the same place and always sending 'check in' emails. Phone calls have always been a bit dodgy between time zones and deployments.

Neither one knew exactly what they were getting into when the bond between them grew, neither really sure exactly what a parent/child relationship looks like, especially when the child is really an unrelated adult. But as the days went on, and the email chain got longer and longer, things seemed to just make sense.

The pair talked about everything, from work to dating, friendships and recipes. Cyclone opened up about June and their baby, sharing his favorite stories of their marriage. From how they started dating, to the day that June passed, Monsoon heard it all. 

Calla lilies were June's favorite, the only flowers that Beau believes should ever be given to a woman, and Monsoon smiles at the memory of her graduation from Top Gun, and the way Cyclone smiled at her with the bouquet of lilies in his lap.

When Monsoon found herself in Vermont she carved out time to visit June and Baby Boy Simpson at the cemetery. She showed up with two bouquets of calla lilies and a speech to give them. Monsoon cleaned their headstones and laid the flowers delicately across their plots, speaking to them the whole time about herself, and Cyclone, and the world they live in.

Cyclone's phone buzzed in his pocket while in a meeting. When he snuck a peak, he was met with a photo of Monsoon, a light smile adorning her face as she sits just in front of the burial plots. The message read "With Mama June and Bubba, thinking of you, Pops". Cyclone had to excuse himself from the table with tears in his eyes.

As the years went on, the surfaces in Cyclone's office slowly began to fill with more photos of the two of them. The collection of frames started out sophisticated, it really did, but as time went on, the frames became more eclectic, more fun. 

It's juxtaposes the rest of Cyclones office in a way that is almost comical. As he is shouting at someone for their latest fuck up, there are shelves full of silly frames just a few feet away. Cyclone's favorite just so happens to read "Clown College Class President" while Monsoon's favorite is one of those irregular shaped ones, with an oval opening for the photograph.

There is a photo of the two of them tucked in the cockpit of Monsoon's jet. It catches the mechanics off guard every time, but no one dare says a word about it- mostly out of fear that word would get back to Admiral. The photo depicts the two of them at one of those giant truck stops, posing with the large dinosaur sitting out front. She is sat atop of it, like a cowboy, with Cyclone leaning up against it, his shoulder near her thigh. They both wear larger than life smiles as the sun beats down on them. It was a silly thing, really. Both stuck in at little forgotten Air Base in middle America for a flight test, but the pair managed to make the best of it, remembering to take photographs as they went.

There is a postcard folded up in Cyclone's wallet. Once upon a time, it read the catchy saying "Why Not Minot?" printed across the front of it, with a cute little photo of a town square, a little forgotten town in North Dakota. It's one of those bases that people dread being stationed at, that much has always been true, but the little photo on the front of the post card sold a different tale. It wasn't the cutesy saying or the photo that made him keep it, the edges now worn and fibrous. On the back, written in neat blue ink, underneath a little blurb about how there is absolutely nothing to do in North Dakota, the sentence "I love you, Pops" sits next to a scribbly little heart.

The staticky, tolling, phoneline picks up after a few rings as Monsoon pushes around a family with one too many screaming toddlers. They have on those little backpack leashes and Monsoon almost gets close lined as a little dark haired child bursts in front of her without warning. She dodged, but she catches one of those damn rolling bags with her toe. Monsoon barely notices the glare the lady sent her way, but the lack luster wrath of a stranger isn't going to stop her.

"Hey, Kid," Cyclone greets over the line, the smile on his face evident through the sound of his voice. There is no need for an official "hello" to begin the conversation, both knowing full well that Cyclone had been watching the flight itinerary like a hawk to make sure Monsoon wasn't going to be delayed. The call upon landing is just expected at this point, though neither of them have mastered the cool,casual, its good to see you.

"I just landed," A woman walks right into one of the duffle bags hanging off of Monsoon's shoulders, throwing her completely off balance. She hikes the bag higher up on her shoulder, trying to rebalance the hefty weight she is carrying. Monsoon sways like she is at sea, attempting to get her balance back. There is something so familiar about the way she sways a bit, just like the jet carriers do as the waves bash against the metal of the hull.

"Fuck" she curses under her breath, steadying herself once again. For a Seaman, one might think Monsoon would have better balance. Cyclone rolls his eyes on the other side of the phone. "I'll be over for dinner tonight, if that's still the plan,"

"Sure is, I'm making your favorite,"

"Steak and potatoes are your favorite," Monsoon corrects.

"You can correct me without the side of guilt, you know," Cyclone is chuckling through the phone, earning him a roll of the eyes.

"I only meant to tease," There is a nonchalance to her voice, though she is the furthest thing from cool. Cyclone isn't either. His kid is coming home and they get to sit down for a meal for the first time in months and he is beyond excited.

"I'm going to drop my stuff off at my rental, then I'll be headed your way, you better be ready for me to eat enough for a small village," Monsoon heads right for the exit, ready to look for a taxi. "And Pops, maybe think about adding a-" The word "vegetable" fails to make it's way out of her mouth as Monsoon looks up as the double doors in front of her slide open. Cyclone is standing on the other side, a large sign reading "WELCOME HOME KIDDO" sits loosely in his hand, the other holds his phone up to his ear.

It's like one of those cheesy scenes from a movie, both wearing matching grins and laughing. Cyclone knew the whole thing would be a surprise; he took a leave day to make sure he would bet there to pick her up.

"Pops!" The name still makes Cyclone's heart swell, even if he had been responding to that very name for the past few years. It's funny, really, how easy it was for the pair to adjust to the name, though Monsoon waited for him to acknowledge it first before she actually said it.

The acknowledgement came from a recorded phone message, shortly after her first move after her Top Gun Graduation. Cyclone got stuck in on the highway with a dead car and no cellphone. The call came in from a payphone, an unknown number. Cyclone left a message, "Hey, kid, it's Pops, my car died and I am stranded. I could use an assist. Do you know anyone in Missouri?". That message is still saved on Monsoon's phone to this day.

"Hey, Kiddo!" And then Monsoon is stumbling closer, her bags swinging her center of gravity all over the place. He reaches a hand out to take one, ready to throw it over his shoulder, but instead, each one hits the pavement with a hard thud. Monsoon is quickly wrapping her arms around his body, one over his shoulder, one under his arm, meeting around his back and squeezing him hard.

The hug is returned in kind, both damn near trying to squeeze each other to death. It's playful, as they share "good to see you's" and "I've missed you's" .

"I hope you don't mind, Kid, but I invited another one of the recruits to dinner tonight," He speaks the words into her hair. Monsoon pulls back to look up at her Pops with furrowed brows. She doesn't have to say a thing, he already knows exactly what is going through her mind.

"I know it's unorthodox, but, Kazansky said it might be a good idea, and when the good Admiral says something like that, you set another place at the table,"

"Yeah, unorthodox is definitely a word for it," Monsoon is pulling out of Cyclone's embrace, dipping to grab her discarded bags from the pavement. Cyclone grabs one before she can, which earns him a roll of her eyes.

"Be nice, would you?"

"To you or the mystery guest?" Her words are dripping with sarcasm.

"Preferably both," Cyclone chides, poking her in the side with the welcome home sign. She swats it away with a quick hand, both laughing.

"I'll see what I can do,"

---

The sun is setting over the horizon, painting the sky orange with wisps of pink the lower it sinks behind the curve of the Earth. Monsoon is spread out on one of the lawn chairs, relaxing, well, more like waiting out her Pops' little outburst. She had opened the grill to check on the steak, making sure the edges wouldn't be too crispy, and Cyclone all but snapped the lid shut in the middle of her investigation. He banished her to the other side of the patio to wait for the food to finish cooking. Then, and only then, would she be allowed to touch the grill again.

If there is one thing to be true, Cyclone has a method when it comes to grilling. Monsoon had it all explained to her the first time he grilled for the pair of them. He has it down to a science, all from the temperature and the kind of charcoal to use, to the length of marinating time and spices to make even the worst cut of meat from the Commissary the most perfect dinner.

And Monsoon couldn't exactly tell him he was wrong. After all, every single thing Beau had ever placed in front of her tasted delicious, delectable even. Not only that, but Monsoon really couldn't have done it better if she tried. Her Pops wouldn't let her try, either, but that is beside the point.

Soon, everything is pulled off the grill and the pair are inside, Monsoon tasked with setting the table. All of the windows are open, the evening breeze cooling the inside of the house. As she places another fork down, Monsoon takes in the way the breeze dances across her skin. Goosebumps threaten to crest over her exposed arms at the chill the air carries. In that moment, she is thankful for the California air, the smell of the freshly made sides sitting in the center of the table, and the fact that she is setting the table in her Pops' house.

It has been too long since the pair got to sit together and share a meal. Cups of coffee over video chat were no where near as nice and Monsoon couldn't lie, she missed Cyclone's cooking. As she sets down the last knife, Cyclone is bounding down the stairs. His causal jeans and t-shirt have been replaced by a nice pair of brown slacks and a cream polo shirt, tucked in with a belt. He's even sporting loafers.

"Hey Pops, there is something I want to talk to you about tonight," Monsoon shouts down the hall. She tries to shake the bit of nerves rumbling through her chest like a handful of loan bees.

"Okay, kiddo," Cyclone calls back as he is rounding the corner into the kitchen, "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine, promise,"

"Okay," It's a simple response as he walks further into the kitchen. He pats her on the shoulder as he passes, a loving gesture.

"Got a hot date?" Monsoon chides as she looks him up and down. She sets the bundle of flatware down on the table, crossing her arms over her chest.

"No," Cyclone is shaking his head, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at her words. "We are having company tonight, remember?"

"Oh, I remember, but I didn't think some random Lieutenant, that is only coming over because the good Admiral all but ordered him to, was someone worth dressing up for."

There is a shrug of her shoulders as her head sways down nonchalantly. Cyclone crosses his arms, mirroring his kid, with a stern look on his face. It's a look that Monsoon isn't used to seeing out of uniform. Maybe it should worry her, but the vein that would usually protrude from his forehead is nowhere to be seen.

"Remember, kid, you too are just 'some random Lieutenant'" Those words stir a bit of anger within Monsoon, but it dissipates as fast as it came.

"Well then, Admiral Simpson, sir," Monsoon stands up a bit straighter, dropping her hands to her sides, "Let me find something more presentable to wear for the strange man who's crashing out family dinner," She grimaces a bit, but they both laugh. Beau is just laughing, in that way that make's his whole body shake, his eyes scrunched closed while whole hearted giggles escape his lips.

"Go on, kid," He waves in the general direction of the hallway, towards the front of the house where she dropped her bags by the front door.

The zipper of her duffle bag slide open easily, the separation of the teeth vibrating her fingertips. Monsoon fishes out a sun dress and a cropped sweater, something to keep her warmer as the sun sets below the horizon. It's a nice enough combination, something that will surly look like she gives a fuck about her appearance without looking like she planned too much. Monsoon changes out of her sweat shorts and t-shirt in the half bath, emerging looking like a brand new woman, though the feeling  of the plane still lingers on her skin.

Just as she is stuffing her travel clothing back into her bag, the doorbell sounds throughout the house, the bells tolling just a bit too loud.

"Jeez, Pops, could that doorbell be any louder?" Monsoon is yelling just as she reaches for the door. She pulls it open with a swift movement, a smile on her face. Then it falls as soon as she sees who is standing on the other side of the threshold.

Clad in a button down shirt, one with a pattern that would rival any rodeo clown, with one too many buttons undone stands Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw; a man she hasn't seen since a deployment five years ago, about six months after she graduated from Top Gun.

There is a gold chain hanging around his neck. It's just long enough to graze over the tops of his collar bones. His shirt is untucked, the bottom a bit wrinkly, like he has tucked and untucked it a couple of times trying to decide which looked better. He made the wrong choice, by Monsoon's calculation, the patterned shirt covering the top of his dark khakis. He looks a bit silly, really, from the chain down to his boat shoes. The thing that catches her the most off guard though, is the fucking mustache he has decorating, no, vandalizing his upper lip.

Her own mouth hangs open just a bit, her hand tightening it's grip on the door handle. Bradley shoots her that mega wat smile, that million dollar, dentist office poster smile- the one that made her swoon all those years ago. But now, now it makes her fucking angry. Or maybe it's resentment that she feels boiling up inside of her, steaming her insides with a sort of sick feeling that she hasn't felt in years.

The last time this strange, queasy feeling flowed through her she was wrapped up in the white sheets of her mattress on an aircraft carrier, somewhere out in the pacific. Her naked body feeding off of the warmth of spot that Rooster once occupied. When she awoke, there was a feeling of contentment that spread over her skin, until she reached over to find the spot next to her cold.

Their deployment relationship ended with a fucking post it note, "Duty Calls" is all it read, scribbled down in a mess of black ink, the pen itself skipping. Hell, the pen couldn't even bother to work long enough to get a complete message through- their relationship simmered down to nothing more than steamy nights together in a twin size bunk while the ocean waves rocked against the carrier.

The contentment drained from Monsoon faster than than the anger could take over, and for a moment there was nothingness in the spaces between her ribs.

And now, Bradley fucking Bradshaw is standing on her Pops' front porch, smiling at her like nothing has ever happened between them, holding a bottle of wine, and somehow she is just supposed to let him in!

"Hello," He scratches at the back of his neck, his brows pinched together just the slightest bit. "Is this Admiral Simpson's house?"

Words are caught in the back of Monsoon's throat, each individual letter sticking her in the esophagus. Monsoon stands there looking at Bradley, each growing a bit more uncomfortable as the seconds go by. But, she is on the inside of the doorjamb, she has the upper hand. Just as she goes to slam the door in his fucking ugly mustache, Cyclone catches the door.

"Mr. Bradshaw!" Beau booms, his tone friendly as he sends Monsoon a what the fuck look. She pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, though it does nothing to relieve the rapidly growing headache that's taking over her skull.

"Come in, come in!" Cyclone practically ushers Bradley into the house. "This is my daughter, Y/N Mitchell, she is in the new Top Gun class as well!"

Beau is doing his best to defuse the tension in the room, between Monsoon's anger, and Bradley's overall discomfort from being in an Admiral's house, the vibes are askew. Bradley crinkles his brows at the information and Beau quickly jumps in with a chuckle, "No relation, but I claim her anyway. Introduce yourself, Son,"

"Brad-"

"We already know each other,"

The pair speak at the same time. Monsoon's tone is full of distain, like the words taste bitter and unforgiving on her tongue. She pushes past Bradley's outstretched hand and past Cyclone. Bradley can't help the fact that his face twists up in confusion as he wracks his brain trying to figure out where exactly he knew her. 

The woman's definitely too upset to be a recent fling- hell, Bradley hasn't even managed to bring a girl back to his place in such a long time. Deployment really limited his prospects and she sure wasn't on the mission he just finished. 

"Please, this way," Cyclone guides Bradley back to the kitchen, taking the bottle of wine from the younger man. They follow the path Monsoon took, down the hall and back to the large kitchen. She is standing at the sink, her hands braced on the counter top.

"Make yourself at home, Mr. Bradshaw. If you'll excuse me, I have to speak with my daughter for a second." Cyclone is moving before Bradley can acknowledge him. So, Bradley pretends to be very interested in the view just outside the kitchen window.

"What the hell, kid?" Cyclone carefully grabs Monsoon's elbow, leaning in just a little bit closer to fake some sort of privacy. He sets the bottle of wine on the counter. With all the tension blooming in the air around them, Cyclone decides alcohol is the last thing they need. 

"It's complicated, Pops, just leave it be, okay?" Monsoon is running a hand through her hair, a shallow attempt to ground herself. "I can play nice for one dinner,"

"What the hell happened between you two? And it's not just one dinner, it's the next few weeks."

That fact is met with a grumble from Monsoon. It took her only a few seconds to convince herself that she would be able to make it though a dinner, but the idea of having to see Bradley fucking Bradshaw every day for the foreseeable future had a mixture of nausea and frustration swirling through her. 

"Pops, trust me, this really isn't something you are going to want to hear about, nor do I feel like discussing it in your kitchen, at a whisper, while the man who doesn't even seem to fucking remember me is only a few feet away! No thank you," Monsoon pushes past Cyclone once more, picking up the bowl of salad from the kitchen island and bringing it over to the table. Cyclone is hot on her tail, speaking lowly after her.

"Y/N" That gets her to stop, Beau never uses her first name, "We are not finished discussing this,"

"After supper then," The words leave her tongue sharp, but they are met with a nod of approval. Then Cyclone is moving, ready for the night to move on as planned. 

"Mr. Bradshaw!" Cyclone is turning his attention back to their guest, a makeshift smile plastered to his face, "Please, take a seat, I am just going to grab the food off the grill,"

And then Cyclone is disappearing out the back door, leaving Monsoon and Rooster alone, the room already threatening to burst from the rapidly accumulating tension. Monsoon chances a look at Bradley as she finished setting out the flatware that had been left abandoned earlier, suddenly a little bit glad that her Pops hinted at her to change clothes. She looks good, that much she knows, if only it mattered at this point.

Maybe, if it mattered, Bradley would look at her and realize just how much he walked out on. Maybe he would see the way Cyclone cares for her, and their little family that they've created and know that he threw away his chance to be apart of it. If only he could see just how happy she is now- yet he doesn't even fucking recognize her, and that makes her heart burn like cheap kerosene. It's like gulping down saltwater, the feeling of being forgotten, drowning right out in the open for everyone to see.

As Monsoon is drowning in thoughts of Bradley, he is just trying to remember her.

Bradley takes in the slope of her nose and the freckles that are smattered across her legs. His eyes wander over the frizzy bits of her hair, down the line of her shoulder and ending at the tips of her fingers. The way that she glances at him, her face still turned down as she adjusts the table settings, strikes him as familiar- but in a far off sense of the word. Familiar in the way his own face is reminiscent of his father's. 

His father, Goose, and Maverick... Pete Mitchell... Mitchell!

"Mitchell?" Bradley breaks the silence, his gaze  a bit wider, still locked on her downturned face. Monsoon's eyes shoot up at the name, locking with his dark brown eyes. They bore into her the same way they always had and a part of her aches. 

"Are you-" The breath he sucks into his lungs burns a bit with hazy memory, "Are you Pete Michell's kid?"

An audible, pained groan leaves Monsoon's throat at the question. 

"Not anymore," Are the only words she can manage, the flames of anger licking at her legs.

"But you were, once?" There is almost a ribbon of hope laces somewhere in his tone, but Monsoon pays it no mind. She walks away from the table, keeping her back to Bradley as she attempts to calm the heat of rage that's licking at her legs. 

Why couldn't Bradley just ask her about normal things? Why aren't they talking about work, their partners, their friends. Hell, he could hit on her at this point and it would go over better. 

If he wanted to talk about Maverick- Pete Michell, there were countless times when they were tangled up together in blankets, in the dark save for the crack of light breaking into the room from under the doorway.

He could have asked as they scurried up the stairs of the carrier, their gear smacking against their chests as they ran. Bradley could have asked then, as they bounded out into the early morning, salt soaked air.

Hell, Bradley could have asked over coms, high in the air as the wind whistled past their wings. They were just test flights after all, no enemy to contend with. He could have asked her then.

But he didn't.

"That was a very long time ago," She's turning to the fridge, pulling a pitcher of lemonade out. The sigh that leaves her lips is nothing but tension attempting to escape from the confines of her chest. It doesn't work, and Bradley doesn't catch the hint to just shut the fuck up and leave it be.

"We knew each other, right? When we were kids?" The question catches Monsoon off guard, almost as much as his initial presence did. She wants to laugh, really she does, at the ridiculousness of the situation. 

He didn't remember that fact when they met on the carrier five years ago, and Monsoon tried not to let that bother her, especially when he was buried inside of her, moaning filthy things into her ear. But now? Now he remembers. But somewhere, the memory of their torrid love affair escapes the great mind of Bradley Bradshaw.

"Oh, for fucks sake,"

Though the whole thing is laughable; Bradley isn't laughing. He's holding his breath, too caught up in the scene in front of him, in the soreness of his chest and the way his heart thrums against the backside of his ribcage. 

Fuck how his chest aches. 

There is this part of his past, this piece that he once knew like the back of his hand, that's just in reach now- again, and Monsoon is laughing at him. The memory of her was erased with the sounding of artillery, the three volley's fired into the air. And now, he craves this memory like he craves the memory of his father, the pieces of his innocence having crumbling into his hands like ash.

It still stains his hands that sickly blackish gray, gritty against his skin, though he is the only one that can see it.

The sliding door opens once more and Cyclone is slipping though, holding a large platter of steak in his hand, the meat is grilled to perfection and he looks proud. Bradley looks at Monsoon with furrowed brows, questioning the words that she let slip past her lips. Cyclone steps between them, setting the plate of meat down on to the dinner table, more than enough food to go around.

"Please, Y/N, come and join us," Cyclone is pulling out a seat right next to Bradley, offering it to her. Reluctantly, she pads over, taking a seat next to Bradley who can't seem to take his eyes off of her face. He runs his hands up and down his pant legs, more out of anxiety than anything else. Cyclone takes a seat across from the pair, a tight smile on his face. 

In any other world, it may look like a child introducing their significant other to their father, the way the tension hangs in the air between the trio. Cyclone awkwardly dishes himself servings of the food before passing it to Monsoon, who does the same before placing it down next to her, leaving Bradley to fend for himself. It's petty, that's true, but to Monsoon, it's a small act of defiance. A small fuck you for not remembering her, or the nights they spent together.

The Admiral knows something is going on right under his nose, just out of his understanding. He can see it in the way Monsoon shifts awkwardly in her seat while Bradley's gaze gets overly friendly with the plate in front of him. There's a question on the tip of his tongue, "kid, is Bradley your boyfriend?" but he knows better than to ask it. As he observes longer, he takes in the way his daughter tilts her shoulders just a little further away from Bradley, the arm closest to him resting elbow down on the table. The moment Cyclone notices the unpassed dishes sitting between the pair, he just knows. 

"So," Cyclone clears his throat, "Are you two excited to be back at Top Gun?"

It's a reasonable question, very middle of the road. Monsoon opens her mouth to answer, but Bradley beats her to it.

"Yes, sir. It's good to be back stateside. Hell, it's good to be back on solid ground. I've been stuck on a carrier for the past nine months and I was beginning to lose my mind!" He's chuckling now, and Beau joins in right along side him, the deep chuckles of the men filling the air. "But you know how it can get on the carriers. It's hard to pass the time, no going to the bar with friends, no dating,"

Then, Monsoon's fork hits her plate with a metallic clank against the glass. No dating, yeah, right. Out of all of the things Monsoon pegged Bradley to be, a liar was not one of them, but then again not much could surprise her after the way he left. 

"How about you, kid?"

"To be determined, Pops," The answer is genuine, spoken through grit teeth. 

Maybe she shouldn't be so upset with Bradley's lack of remembrance for her. After all, it's not always the wrong time with the right person. Or the wrong place. Sometimes it's wrong, maybe he just didn't like her that much- more a deployment fling to get him through the lonely nights than a future. 

"Well, I am excited you're back," Cyclone returns her direction, but Monsoon just shoves a fork full of salad into her mouth.

"Sir, can I ask what exactly they called us back for? And are there more of us?" Bradley asks between bites, his fork and knife busy against his plate.

"I am not obliged to share much, but I can tell you that fifteen of you have been called back, from varying Top Gun classes." The explanation leaves something to be desired, but both recruits are nodding on the other side of the table. Bradley eats another bite of steak, complimenting Cyclone on his grilling; Monsoon is just pushing the food around on her plate with the tines of her fork. It's easier than finding the appetite that was lost somewhere between the front door and the kitchen after Bradley's arrival.

"Are you teaching us this go around, Pops?" Monsoon's question is spoken quietly, in the middle of Bradley's sentence about his own grilling technique- there is no remorse for the interruption.

At her words, Cyclone visibly stiffens, his fork stilling on his plate. Then he's setting it down, eyes still locked with his plate. With a huff and a lick of his lips he looks across the table, met with two pairs of curious eyes. He knew this was going to be hard, but he didn't expect it to be quite like this. 

"No, I'm not teaching," Cyclone takes another breathe, unsure who to make eye contact with, knowing the words he's about to say are not going to be received well, by either one of them. "We- Top Gun has decided to bring in-"

The doorbell is ringing loudly through the house, startling Cyclone in his seat. It breaks though the tension like a fucking bullet, the whole thing blasting apart on impact. The trio trade glances that last milliseconds, like someone just knows whos going to be standing on the other side of that door.

"I'll get it, Pops," Monsoon is already pushing out of her seat, placing her napkin next to her plate. She is a bit too eager to get away from the tension surrounding that table, not only from her question but from the way Bradley is basically staring out of the corner of his eye. Though she can't exactly see it happening, she can feel it- the way his eyes are boring into the side of her head, almost burning. She will take anyone being on the other side of that door if it means she doesn't have to sit in Bradley's swimming gaze any longer. 

"No, you stay, I'll get it," Cyclone corrects, "You stay and chat,"

Then, Cyclone is pushing away from the table, heading right for the front door. He gives his daughter no time to protest. Cyclone leaves the slowly rebuilding tension behind him, and Monsoon is stuck having to sit back down, next to Bradley, left to simmer in it.

"We did know each other, right?" Bradley is quick to ask the moment Cyclone rounds the corner. It's a speed he's not used to- too used to sitting and waiting for the perfect timing that just doesn't come. But this isn't something he's willing to wait on, it's just something he has to know.

"Yes, Bradley, we knew each other. But that was a long time ago," Monsoon is shrugging, avoiding his eyes. The words should have hit him harder, from the way they all but flew from her lips, but the impact is almost gentle, like the comfort of them bore the brunt of it all.

"Do you remember my father?" The question is so innocent that it almost hurts; and Monsoon knows just how much throbbing pain there is inside Bradley. After one drunken night while on the carrier, he poured his heart out about his father, about how much he missed him and how he wished- hoped that Goose would have been proud of him. Monsoon sat and listened the to the whole thing, through the tears and drunken hiccups, reassuring Bradley that Goose would be proud of him.

After all, she knewhim, even if that was a million years ago- even if Bradley didn't know it.

She knows he would have been, because Goose was a good man.

A trait that seemed to have skipped over Bradley.

Good men remember their lovers. They remember their old friends. They remember the people who showed up to their mother's funeral- and have the decency to show up to their friends' mother's funeral.  

Good men don't leave women in the dead of night, a break up message scrawled on a sticky note. They don't leave their friends to grieve alone. They don't forget. 

"Yes, I remember him," Monsoon chances a glance at Bradley, unintentionally meeting his eyes. God, he's looking at her like she holds the fucking secrets to the universe and all she can feel is a sort of twisted up sickness, like her sternum is bound together with poisoned ropes. Bradley can see the stars that cling to her fingertips, the secrets to the cosmos, but can't seem to find the words to beg for their translation.

Cyclone is walking back into the room a second later, accompanied by another set of footsteps. Neither Monsoon nor Bradley look up when they walk in, both too busy staring at each other. Bradley looks curious, Monsoon looks hurt. 

She looks away first. 

A tall blond walks in behind Cyclone, his gaze focused on a set of files in his hand. He's reading over the top file carefully, running his free hand through his cropped hair. There is a toothpick in his mouth, resting between his teeth. Dressed in his tan uniform, his biceps are straining against the cuffs.

He's a Stetson model type, clean cut and masculine. The line of his jaw accentuated by the clean lines of his uniform. His jaw ticks with frustration as his brows furrow at the paperwork. There appears to be a word on the tip of his tongue by the way the toothpick bobs between his plump lips.

"Hey, guys, sorry for that, this is-" Cyclone swings his hand, introduction interrupted by twin gasps.

"Jake?!"

"Hangman?"

Hangman isn't sure who to look at first, but his eyes meet Bradley's form first, his eyebrows knitting together at the familiar face before shooting to his hairline when his eyes land on Monsoon sitting next to Bradley.

"Y/N, Doll! What are you doing here?"

Cyclone is whipping his head around in the way he might flip a jet. And Monsoon is pushing out of her chair again, ready to round the table and throw herself into the arms of the strong, blond man who just walked in, but her eyes meet the bewildered look on Cyclone's face, causing her to halt her movements. Hangman sets the paperwork down on the kitchen island, his eyes still locked on Monsoon, that damn smirk of his playing on his lips. Monsoon can tell he is holding himself back, fully aware of exactly who's house he is standing in, and the relationship between Monsoon and the Admiral.

It's been months since they've seen each other. Their goodbyes were said on the front porch of his little rental outside of Lake Hurst. Neither of them relished being in New Jersey, but they had each other and that's all that had mattered. They fostered a brand new relationship over a year, neither of them brave enough to label the nights spent together in that house. 

Then new orders came down the pipeline, on a TS Need-To-Know. The pair were being separated with the flick of a pen. So, they labelled their year long relationship through tears standing on his stoop, the night the orders came down the channel. 

They packed Jake's small house, and Monsoon's apartment, neither one knowing just what was to come. In the name of a temporary duty station, they got storage units next to each other, the closest thing to living together they'd be able to swing. 

That was six months ago. 

Monsoon did a little time in Pensacola while Jake got sent to Oak Harbor. Thousands of miles apart, their dates turned from late night dinners to quick conversations over the phone just to hear the other's voice. 

Neither of them expected their reunion to be here, in Admiral Simpson's kitchen, with Bradley Bradshaw and the Admiral watching the whole thing, confused expressions written into their features. 

"I got recalled to Top Gun!" Monsoon giggles a bit, her gaze still trapped with Hangman's.

"Me too!" The words leave Jake's lips and the pair are smiling. It's taking everything for them to hold themselves back from embracing each other, after months apart. Then, Cyclone is clearing his throat.

"Pops," Monsoon begins, clasping her hands in front of her, "God, this is weird. Remember earlier this evening when I said I wanted to talk to you about something?"

She had fully been intending on telling her Cyclone about her relationship with Hangman, in fact, she had been working up the courage for the past few weeks. But, Jake comes with a record, a reputation, and a respect problem, things Monsoon knows her Pops won't approve of. 

"What's going on? Is everything okay?" The words are leaving Cyclone's lips almost too quick, but Monsoon is quick to reassure him that it is.

"Well, this isn't exactly how I saw this going, but, Pops, I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Jake Seresin," Monsoon is gesturing to Jake now, a worried smile on her face. The pair know each other, of course they do. They had met the first time Hangman went through Top Gun. Cyclone was on instructor duty and Hangman didn't take overly well to being instructed; though he did finish top of his class. 

Monsoon bobs up and down on the balls of her feet, the nervous energy flowing through her body. If she could push all the energy out of her and into the floor she would. Her soles grounding the electric current flowing through her, unapologetic and lightning hot. Monsoon would stand there in front of the three men who have played such a large roll in her life, back straight and eyes forward like the Navy trained her to do, if only she could coral that fucking energy and send it straight through the floor.

Monsoon bounces instead.

If she had the time, she could have prevented the look that crosses Cyclone's face. That look of you're not good enough for my kid that is so evident on his features. She knows that Jake saw it, clear as day from the way he almost winces. Everyone in that room knows the reputation that Hangman wears like a neon sign. The "voted biggest player" social life with the stellar callsign, the pilot known for leaving his wingman hanging, acting alone- selfish.

So much for putting off telling Cyclone; so much for easing him into the news. 

Bradley is watching the whole exchange from his seat with his eyebrows raised, like a fucking soap opera but the whole spectacle's happening in real time. He lets his eyes shift from person to person, taking it all in. Monsoon looks hopeful, though she is waiting with baited breath for her Pops to blow a fucking gasket. Jake, on the other hand, looks absolutely cool. Though he is the reason for the interruption, and for the impromptu introduction, he is impossibly collected. Then, Bradley's eyes shift to Cyclone, who has backed up a few steps. He keeps looking between Monsoon and Hangman, like he is playing some sort of invisible game of connect the dots.

Hangman and his fucking reputation are courting his daughter, and Cyclone really isn't thrilled about the news. 

Though Bradley isn't exactly thrilled to see Hangman here either, he's taking the whole thing in stride, as opposed to Cyclone, but the younger man can't exactly blame him. If it were Bradley getting this major bomb dropped on him, he wouldn't be sitting pretty, either. Bradley is bringing his glass up to his lips, his eyes still flashing between the trio.

"Monsoon-" Cyclone starts, but the sound of coughing interrupts. Bradley is coughing, choking on his water. He attempts to wave a hand, letting everyone know he's okay, but in reality, he's far from it.

Monsoon. The woman he left asleep in her bunk five years ago stands next to him now, and not only that, they fucking grew up together, at least for a little while. And she remembers his Dad, and she's Maverick's kid. And fuck, she's dating Hangman!

Things are moving just a bit too fast, and Bradley can't quite catch his breath between coughing fits. 

The glass is quickly set back onto the kitchen table, but is sent over the edge as Bradley reaches for a napkin. The glass falls in faux slow motion, the liquid flowing from the cup as it hits the hardwood, shattering like a pinprick galaxy upon the floor. Bradley, still coughing, searches the new formation of cosmos on the floor for the answer to all the mixed up bullshit he has found himself in.

"Rooster?" Monsoon pats him harshly on the back, right between his shoulder blades. Then, she is rubbing his back, her hand full of warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt. His skin burns under her touch as he struggles to return his breathing to normal. There's still a knot in the back of his throat made of unsaid words and new revelations that he can't seem to swallow down. 

"Rooster, are you okay?"

Hangman and Cyclone are quick to circle around the table, Hangman taking a knee next to Monsoon, his hand quickly finding her lower back. Cyclone is on the other side of Bradley, the glass crunching under his expensive leather loafers. Bradley is red from all the coughing, but an embarrassed blush still floods his skin from all the attention.

"Mons?" The nickname comes out all scratchy as Rooster wipes a newly formed tears from his eyes. The concerned expression morphs to hold a bit of shock before settling on some sort of mix of frustration and downright sadness. Monsoon tries to school her expression but her eyes still swim with emotion as they are locked with Bradley's.

"Yeah, Roos," Monsoon shoots his nickname right back, a confirmation that all but shakes the world around Bradley. She brings a tender hand up to squeeze his shoulder before pulling back, subconsciously leaning closer to Hangman, into the warmth of his hand on her back. She finds safety in her boyfriend's touch, the warmth of his skin pooling against her through the fabric of her dress. 

The lack of contact makes Rooster feel cold, but the feeling is short lived as Cyclone is grasping at his other shoulder. A swivel of his head and Bradley is met with the furrowed brows of the Admiral.

"Are you okay, Mr. Bradshaw?"

"Yes, sir," Bradley responds, adjusting the collar of his shirt. "I'm so sorry about the glass, please, let me clean it up,"

As Rooster stands, he is pushed back down gently by Cyclone, his hand still on the younger man's shoulder.

"Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it, please," And so Bradley is sitting again, in the center of the standing trio, feeling completely out of place. "As for the two of you, take a seat, we have some things to discuss,"

The sound of chairs being pulled out against the hard wood floor is accompanied by the intense ringing of the doorbell once again. The group look from person to person, once again looking for any clue as to who could be at the front door this time. Cyclone is padding over to the door, the crunching of glass less evident the further away her gets.

Bradley attempts to clear the lump in his throat, now without the luxury of his glass of water. Monsoon takes her untouched glass and slides it closer to Bradley, a barely there smile on her face. Her expression holds more sympathy than anything. Bradley takes the glass with both hands, a little too careful as he brings it up to his lips. 

"Let me get you a plate, okay?" Monsoon speaks to Hangman, her smile clearly wider, brighter, more full of life when it's directed his way. "Pops will give me so much grief if he comes back and that spot isn't set,"

So, Monsoon excuses herself from the table, leaving the men sitting in apprehensive silence. 

With a strong tug from Cyclone, door swings open and there is no time for a 'hello' as the man on the other side is pushing in, a wild look in his eye, a vein on his forehead bulging with frustration.

"We need to talk Simpson," The tone holds misplaced authority. Beau runs cold at the sight of Pete "Maverick" fucking Michell standing in his entryway, looking pissed off enough to catch a charge.

"That's Admiral Simpson to you Captain," Cyclone's teeth are grit so hard they might crack under the pressure of his jaw. "You cannot be here right now,"

The raised hand does nothing to stop Maverick from pushing further into the house. There's a folder in his hand, wrinkling under the closing of his fist. Sweat clings to the Admiral's brow, a vision of the crown of thorns, droplets running down the side of his face. It might as well have been blood from the way his stomach twists as Maverick steps closer to him, pushing the paperwork, right against the center of his chest.

"Do you know who got recruited for this mission, huh?" The words are dripping with venom, "Do you realize who you've chosen for this fucking death wish of a goddamn mission?"

Captain Michell's tone is all accusatory and full fury. He's pushing into Cyclone's chest harder, his knuckles white under the pressure. Cyclone grabs at the older man's wrist, his own knuckles paling as he squeezes.

"Captain, I will not repeat myself, you cannot be here,"

"Who is it, Pops?" Monsoon is calling from around the corner, her voice full of curiosity. Cyclone isn't a praying man, especially after what happened with June and their sweet baby boy, but now Cyclone is praying to every god, every deity that crosses his mind, even those who's names he cannot recall, that his daughter will not walk around the corner to see Pete Mitchell standing in his entry way.

"Nobody, kid, I'll be there in just a moment," He calls before turning his attention back to the man in front of him. He tightens his grip on Pete's wrist before he's wrenching it away from his chest. He pushes it back into Pete's own chest, leaning in close, "My daughter is not to see you here, leave. Now."

One might think Maverick would get the hint, since he pulls his hand from Cyclones grip. But then, Maverick is throwing open the file, pointing at the first page's photo. There is so much frustration in the action, it bounces between the two men like they're sounding boards, building and building.

"See this? Jake "Hangman" Seresin? You really want to send somebody in the sky who has a pension for leaving their wingman? You want to send someone into the air with a guy like him when the mission is already guaranteeing a loss of life?" 

That catches the attention of the trio in the other room. All motion stills as they strain to hear more. 

Wide mouthed, pointed tongue, Maverick is yelling without a care in the world. It doesn't matter who hears as long as Cyclone is hearing it too.

"And how about this," The paper tears as Maverick turns the page, "Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw. You know about his father. You damn well know about Goose and you want to send his son to an early grave too?"

Jaws tick, fists tighten. Cyclone breathes deeply, thinking- choosing his words carefully as the older man continues to scream. It's not beautiful or noble like books would describe. There is no gift from God, no blessing, no one anointed with the ability to see into the future, to see just how this is going to play out. Instead, it's just words exchanged between mortal men, both too damn stubborn to back down with knives to each other's throats.

"And check out these two," Maverick is laughing now, leaning in closer to Cyclone, his breathe reeking of whiskey. Cyclone can see the way Maverick's eyes are bloodshot and weepy as he pushes him back. Sweat coats his skin leaving him clammy to the touch. 

"Natasha "Phoenix" Trace and Robert "Bob" Floyd," Another strangled laugh escapes Captain Mitchell, "You really think this scrawny kid and a woman are up to the task at hand? Really? I can think of at least five better pilots and Wizzos who are better qualified than these two. And look! She's the pilot! Hell, I don't even know how they made it through Top Gun the first time around! The fucking Navy is getting soft."

"It's time for you to go, Captain Mitchell. Sober up. We will discuss this on Monday," Cyclone puts a hand to the older man's shoulder, attempting to usher him out without too much force. Cyclone can't risk Maverick being in his house any longer. He has already been gone too long and his guests are likely getting curious. "Time to go, Pete,"

"But, Cyclone, you haven't even heard the best part," Maverick can barely get the words out through drunken laughter. He's turning the page with clumsy fingers, the paper tearing under his touch.

The trio, Rooster, Monsoon, and Hangman round the corner as Cyclone is attempting to usher Maverick out the front door. They watch as the Maverick stumbles out of Cyclone's grip and further into the house.

"Pops?" Monsoon speaks as the strange man hits the floor, laughing as he does. The file has fallen open, scattering pictures of the newest Top Gun brain child called The Dagger Squad. They sit scattered all over the entry way like freshly fallen snow. Her eyes go to the paper that falls near her feet. 

"Well if it isn't the prodigal child," Maverick speaks, pushing himself further off the floor. "How many strings did you have to pull to get your own daughter onto the squad? Are you trying to send this kid to an early grave like the last one?"

The three Daggers stand speechless. Monsoon is quickly folded under Hangman's arm, her face pressed into his chest. Rooster stands just off to the side of them, his eyes flashing to Monsoon. 

The arguing doesn't stop.

"Shut your mouth," Cyclone spits, "You don't know a goddamn thing,"

Maverick stumbles to his feet, standing up at straight as possible to get into Cyclone's face, just to taunt the younger man.

"See, Admiral, that's not true, now is it? You and I both know that she isn't actually yours and this would be an easy way to get rid of her, right? Send her back to-"

His words are met with a swift punch to the face, the cartilage of his nose crunching under Cyclone's knuckles. The punch feels good, like it had been coming for a long, long time. Like it had been building within Beau Simpson for years, every single time Maverick missed out on a celebration of the amazing life Monsoon is leading. For every birthday, every graduation, every reenlistment and promotion ceremony, Maverick missed it all, and the rage built inside Cyclone. Now, it finally came out, popped like a Champaign cork, blood instead of the fizzy alcohol dotting itself over Cyclone's entryway.

A warm hand slips into Monsoon's; Bradley stepped closer, clutching onto her. He recognized Pete Mitchell the moment he got a clear view, both his anger and anxiety flaring. Bradley squeezed her hand once, nice and strong, before dropping it once more, stepping in front of her and Hangman.

"Captain Mitchell," Bradley begins, his voice firm, full of hurt.

The words make Monsoon's head spin. She leans away from her boyfriend's chest to get a better look at the bloody faced man and it sends a chill down her spine. Her Dad who she hasn't seen in years is now standing in a room full of people who can't fucking stand his existence. It's a fucking miracle that all he has is a bloody nose.

"Bradley," Pete spits a little bit of blood as he speaks, looking up at the younger man. He reaches a hand out, but it's dodged. "It's good to see you, son,"

"I'm not your son. It's time for you to go," Bradley is ready to grab Pete Mitchell by the collar and haul him out of the house. He's ready to throw him onto the lawn and leave him there to spit blood and sober up enough until he can walk himself home. Bradley has his own selfish reasons, his own grudge against the Captain, and now would be as good a time as any to feed into that frustration that he's been stewing in for years.

"I'm calling Admiral Kazansky," Cyclone declares to the room, then he's spinning on his heel the moment Bradley takes a step closer, clearly putting himself between Maverick and Monsoon.

The Admiral is ordering Hangman to move, to take his daughter anywhere else so that she doesn't have to see any more of the disaster that the night has turned out to be. He doesn't want her to see him throw Maverick out- hell, he didn't want her to see him punch the older man, but there's no going back in time. 

As much as Cyclone wishes he could have protected her from this, he couldn't. One can't stop a speeding bullet, as they say, and the shot had already been fired the moment he pulled open the front door. And as much as he doesn't want to, Cyclone has to trust Hangman with his daughter, he just has to, now. 

So, Hangman is all but carrying Monsoon away as she fights to stay put. She misses the order from her Pops, her blood thrumming too loudly through her ears. Hangman takes her through the house, dodging the pile of glass still glittering on the hardwood in the kitchen, hauling her out the backdoor and right to his truck. Monsoon flights the whole time, though it's unclear as to her reason to want to say behind.

The pair are pulling away from the house as Bradley and Beau are hauling Maverick out to the front lawn, his nose still pouring blood.

Jake drives in the direction of his apartment, holding onto her hand the whole time. He squeezes it reassuringly though there isn't much he can assure her of at the moment. Neither of them know what's going to come of Maverick, or of Cyclone's heated action against him. They don't know if Bradley is going to get caught in the crossfire, or if they are going to get called into the MP's office sometime in the middle of the night.

There is no clear answer, so, Hangman squeezes her hand and drives.

And drives.

And drives.

As far away as he can get from that house, that situation, the feeling in his chest spurred on by the broken look in Monsoon's eyes.

He drives until the sun crests over the horizon. Pulling off onto the side of the highway, Hangman kills the headlights, the world around them just beginning to come to life. That's when the tears come, falling fast and hard from the pools of Monsoon's eyes. Hangman just holds her there, inside of the truck.

The world around them awakens as Monsoon's falls apart, crumbling like unquenched Earth between her fingers. Maybe that's what the whole situation is, after all, how many times have the great authors related relationships to gardens, to plants, to life. Without nurture, without care and tending, the soil dries out, the plants die. The whole garden becoming a wasteland for the decaying plant matter; the soil turning to clay as the days roll on.

But isn't decay an unescapable fact of life?

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. Two weeks after the organization of the Dagger Squad.

Hangman had completely expected to pretend like the whole fight at the Admiral's house didn't happen when he met up with the other recruits at the bar, save for Monsoon. He took a little too much joy ordering drinks for the team on Maverick's tab- the older man not seeming to remember him from the incident, even after Hangman sent him a wink and a "thanks, Pops,".

When Bradley strutted in like the world was full of golden promise, Hangman took it upon himself to act like it was the first time they had seen each other in years. Bradshaw was quick to get the memo: last week didn't happen.

There's no surprise that Maverick got thrown out of the Hard Deck that night, either. Hangman sure as hell wasn't expecting to be the one to throw Maverick out of the bar, but that part gave him a sense of pride that he can't quite put words to.

The feeling bloomed in his chest as he watched Maverick hit the sand. A wide smile spread across his face as he yelled for him to "come back anytime," if that meant getting more free alcohol and the chance to throw him out again. Then, as Hangman closed the doors behind him while Rooster began one hell of a rendition of "Great Balls of Fire", everything felt like it was going to be okay.

Oh boy, how wrong he was.

Tensions are high now, Hangman and Rooster's rivalry is back and stronger than ever. They have been at each other's throats since that night at the Hard Deck, though the reason wasn't the mission or the usual dick measuring contest, even if the other recruits would say that it is.

They have been battling it out over a woman. Monsoon, specifically. The team doesn't know about her involvement with Hangman, and the pair try and keep it that way. So, she sits in the back of the classroom, right behind Yale and does her best to pay attention. The mission seems more impossible by the minute, the deadline has been moved up, and nobody has been successful.

Rooster and Maverick argue about the plane vs the pilot and how he had been the only one to make it to the target, though it was a minute late.

Then, Hangman opens his fucking mouth, living up to that reputation of his. "It's no time to be thinking about the past,"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rooster's expression is unreadable, though his brows twitch.

"I can't be the only one that knows Maverick flew with his old man!" Hangman continues through Maverick's pleas, "Or that he was the one flying when-"

Rooster is out of his seat in a matter of seconds, launching himself at his fellow Lieutenant. Hangman took it too far this time. Rooster gets one good push in before the rest of the squad are separating the two hot headed men from each other, everyone yelling for the fighting to stop.

Everyone but Monsoon, who sits in the back staring at the fight in front of her and can't seem to make herself move.

"You son of a bitch!"

"Hey, hey, I'm cool, I'm cool," Hangman reassures, pulling out of the arms of his teammates.

"He's not cut out for this mission, you know it... You know I'm right." He gets up into Bradley's face, a fucking smirk on his lips. The others are still holding Bradley back as he calms down, but it's that fucking smirk that spurs him on.

Bob's hands slip from Rooster's shoulders as he gets into Hangman's face. "You think you can talk shit about my family when it's your girl that's got the most fucked up situation of all," Bradley keeps his eyes trained on Hangman, but the blonde's eyes tick to the side, in the direction of Monsoon, who is still in her seat. It's Bob who notices the way Hangman's eyes shift, and he's the first person to look in Monsoon's direction. Then, Bob's nudging Phoenix. 

They watch as Monsoon tenses in her seat, her jaw ticking. Her hands grip the arms of her chair, knuckles white. Then, Bob and Phoenix turn their attention back to the men as the screaming match continues. 

"I'm not the one who broke up with her on a goddamn post-it note, Rooster," Hangman points out with a raise of his brows, that stupid little smirk still evident on his lips. Rooster is bringing his hands up to his temples, his expression scrunched.

"You son of a bitch," Rooster is cursing at him through grit teeth, his voice low.

The crowd of Aviators are still gathered around the two men watching them fight, Maverick's eyes flicking between them as words are exchanged. His mind flashes back to two weeks ago, when he broke down the Admiral's door and saw them standing there with Cyclone. He suddenly flashes his eyes back to Monsoon, only to be met with her piercing glare.

"What? Was taking her father for yourself not good enough for you? Did you have to break her heart too?" Hangman questions, watching as Bradley's face contorts, "You're just pissed because not only could you not keep your shit Rio of a father around, you couldn't keep the girl, either,"

"That's enough!" Monsoon shouts, her eyes finally leaving Maverick. The Daggers' eyes are locked on Monsoon at the back of the makeshift classroom, anger evident on her features. Then, with her hands firmly planted on the table in front of her, she is pushing up from her seat.

"Seresin," Monsoon begins, turning her eyes to him, "First, you will not speak about my uncle that way. Goose was a good man and a damn good Rio. Uncle Nicky would have moved the fucking Earth for Bradley, or for Maverick, or for me and my Mama, don't you dare think anything different."

Monsoon is moving closer to the group now, taking each step slowly, methodical as her words. There is a large, yellow envelope tucked under her arm as she approaches. She had been sitting with that envelope since their first class, no one having even the slightest idea what's tucked inside.

"Secondly, Rooster, my relationship with Jake is not your business, not now, not ever. What we had was over the moment you wrote that post-it and walked out the door. You didn't even remember the fact that we grew up together, for fucks sake. I get it, I was your little deployment fling, and that's all. Now, you get to live with the fact that's all I'll ever be. Hangman put you in your place, now say in it."

The crowd is too stunned to speak, but there is a rumble of laughter that escapes Maverick. He doesn't even try to hide it, thinking the tension in the air would be enough to cover it. But then, Monsoon is turning her pointed gaze to him.

"Finally, Captain Mitchell," There is a sick little smirk on her lips as she says his name, "I wouldn't be laughing if I were you. After all, Bradley had to get his pension for forgetting women from somebody."

Monsoon is standing toe to toe with Maverick now, eyes locked in on his, "After all, I've been in this class for what, two weeks, and I know you have had the roster for longer than that, considering that little stunt you pulled at my Pop's house. You think it's funny to forget someone when your own flesh and blood is standing right in front of you?"

Maverick furrows his brow, head cocking to the side. Monsoon can practically see the gears turning in his head with the way his eyes move across her features. She breathes deeply a couple of times, letting his mind piece the puzzle together.

"I asked you a question, but go ahead, take your time," Monsoon leans in just a fraction further, "After all, I'm told I look more like my mother, anyway," Wide eyes from the man in front of her stir out a strangled giggle from her chest.

"Wha- bu-" Maverick flounders, his mouth opening and closing, no words forming on his lips.

"Hi, Dad," The name is said with so much venom as she pushes the envelope against his chest with enough force to make him stumble. Monsoon doesn't wait for him to recover before she is turning to walk down the aisle of the makeshift classroom, paying no attention to the stares, the eyes burning holes into the back of her head. Instead she focuses on the momentary feeling of lightness that washes over her as she leaves the hanger.

It isn't until Monsoon rounds the corner that the tears begin pricking at her eyes. She takes off running as soon as the first one hits her cheek, the only thing she can hear over the rushing of blood in her ears is the thunking of her heavy boots on the pavement.

The Daggers stand looking at Maverick. He's holding the envelope to his chest, unsure of the emotions wracking though his body. Then, with a quick hand, he's crudely tearing at the envelope. The contents pour out over the floor of the hanger, looking just like that night at Admiral Simpson's house. Maverick tries to push that thought from his mind as his eyes focus in on the papers covering the floor.

Birthday Cards. Children's birthday cards.

The same ones he wrote to her for her first ten birthdays. He can't even get himself to bend down to pick one up, his neck aching from the way he stares down at them. He notices the little circles of wrinkled paper from long dried tears and his heart fucking breaks. 

The image of Monsoon at four, at seven, that he can see clearly in his mind, but there's a gap missing. Still, Maverick imagines her sitting and rereading the cards at seventeen, at twenty-two, crying over them and the father she could barely remember. Tears prick at Mavericks eyes and he lets them, making no attempt to wipe them away. 

It doesn't take long for the Daggers to figure out that the pile of cards is noticeably small, no more than nine or ten cards on the ground, though no one is near brave enough to say anything.

Moments like this remind Maverick he's still just a mere man. No matter how many records he breaks, aircrafts he tests, or brushes with death he encounters, Maverick is nothing more than a man with a skill set. He has flaws. He makes mistakes. 

That fact is almost too much for him to take. 

The memory of Goose flashes through his mind, the moments leading up to the failed ejection birth the feeling of ocean water weighing down his flight suit, soaking into the padding of his helmet as the water washes over them. So much blood where there should be none. And then Maverick is thinking about cleaning the scraped knees of his daughter, the blood bubbling up through the road rash. The tears, then, were hers as she begged, "Daddy, not the ouch-y cleaner, I don't like it,". But Maverick cleaned her wounds with the alcohol anyway, only to end up holding her against his chest in the same way he would hold Goose in less than a year. 

Maverick's mind is a patchwork quilt of shit memories; stuck reliving them all, fragment by fragment. 

"Class dismissed," Maverick manages, his eyes still glued to the floor. The sounds of fourteen pairs of boots, first loud then quieter as they go, leave the hanger, leaving him standing there, looking at the past he threw away illustrated simply in faded and forgotten birthday cards.

The hands of the clock circle once before Maverick moves. He walks right over the pile, his boots leaving angry, dark tread marks across the colorful paper. He doesn't look back once, not at the pile of cards, not at the hanger, not at the base. 

He drives straight for the Hard Deck. It's the only thing he can think to do, and after all, maybe Penny has some sort of advice. She's the only person he actually knows with a kid- a daughter.

Maverick only makes it half way before he has to pull over. Quickly, he throws himself off his bike, his knees hitting the dirt as he empties the contents of his stomach. As a pilot, he should have a stronger stomach than this, but a choice he made almost eighteen years ago is coming back to haunt him. 

He can still see Monsoon's eyes in the forefront of his mind. They haven't changed a bit from when she was a kid, Maverick realizes, as he's sat back on his haunches trying not to puke again. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing at the feeling of his swirling stomach. 

Maybe he should have stuck around, or at least circled back when he wasn't on deployment. After all, Maria left messages on his machine for almost two years after he up and left. It started with her begging to call which slowly turned into begging him to at least send a fucking birthday card. So he did. 

Then, she stopped calling, and he stopped writing. Monsoon grew up. 

It would be so easy to blame Maria. When she stopped calling, he stopped remembering. Between deployments and missions, flight tests and ceremonies, Maverick could pretend that it all got lost in the shuffle. But then, he remembers Maria and the way she always seemed to flawlessly manage her Naval carrier with raising their daughter, how she could juggle it all without his help when he was deployed and it was all okay. At least that's what he told himself. 

So, he thought if she could do it alone already, no harm could come from putting in for extra duty. That turned into extra deployments, more time away from home. He knew it was all a lie, but he had to tell himself something to justify it. 

It did get easier after a while, as his daughter slowly slipped to the back of his mind. It wasn't until one day, six years after he left that the realization hit him. Maverick hadn't thought of his daughter in months. He should have felt more guilty; he drank himself sick at the thought.

Two years later Maverick didn't even realize he missed her eighteenth birthday. 

Or her twenty-first. 

Over the years he convinced himself he did the right thing. That part of his past became a distant memory that he told himself he didn't miss. Maverick would be lying to himself if he still believed that to be true in this moment, sat on the side of the road after having been faced with the consequences of his long forgotten actions. 

Maverick kept one constant reminder playing on repeat in his mind all those years, You can't be a bad father if you aren't there to be one at all. 

And for the first time since he walked out, Maverick thinks he may have been wrong. 

He sits on the side of the road until the sun sets, stewing in his misery. When he manages to pull himself back up onto his bike, he heads for home, knowing that if Penny knew the whole story he would be on the outs with her, too. And so, he drives slowly, back to an empty house, wishing for the first time in years that it wouldn't be empty when he got there. 

---

When Monsoon finally reached Cyclone's office, eight blocks from the hanger, she almost collapsed in the entryway of the building. But, she pushed through the crowd, ignoring the calls of his assistant who insisted that Cyclone could not be interrupted while he was in a meeting. Monsoon couldn't find it in herself to care. 

When she pushes the door to his office open, she is met with three pairs of eyes. Iceman, Warlock, and Cyclone's eyes meet her frame. She is breathing heavy from the mix of running and sobbing, though it's unclear as to which is causing the redness in her cheeks. 

"Excuse me, recruit, but you can't-" Warlock starts, closing the file sitting in his lap. There is an edge to his tone, not taking too kindly to being interrupted. 

"Hey, kid, what's wrong?" Cyclone is cutting off Warlock without a second thought. The moment he moves out from behind his desk, Monsoon is throwing herself into his arms, her barely contained tears now overflowing. Without a second thought, Cyclone is folding her into his arms, doing his best to hold her shaking form. 

"I'm sorry, sir, I tried to stop her," Cyclone's assistant huffs, running a hand through his hair. Cyclone waves the younger man off, the door closing behind him with a click. Then, Cyclone is wrapping his daughter tighter in his arms, one hand coming up to rub between her shoulders while the other is wrapped securely around her waist. 

"I'm sorry, gentleman, but the meeting will have to be continued another time," Cyclone speaks, his tone clear, unwavering. Warlock shakes his head but gets up to leave anyway. Iceman follows after him, nodding a sort of good luck to his fellow Admiral before closing the door behind him. 

"Tell me what's wrong, kid," Cyclone is pulling back, his hands squeezing at her shoulders. Monsoon is rubbing at her cheeks, smearing her tears over the expanse of her face. It's the same ugly cry she had when they first met, and the connection make's Cyclone's heart twist. 

"I-" She starts, sentence interrupted by a hiccupping gasp, "Everything is falling apart," 

Monsoon tries to wipe at her face again with her hands, but Cyclone plunges a hand into his pocket only to offer her a green pocket hanky a second later. She takes it with unsteady fingers, her heart still thrumming a mile a minute. 

"Hangman and Rooster got in a fight in class. Jake said a shitty thing about my uncle Nicky, Goose, you know?" 

"Bradley shoved Jake, which isn't exactly a surprise, but then he told everyone that my family situation is all kinds of fucked up, which it is, but it's nobody else's business. God, Pops, I know now that I made a mistake when I started seeing Rooster while we were on deployment together, but God, that was five years ago! It's in the past!"

Cyclone nods at her, listening intently while trying to keep calm. So much new information is being thrown at him with each sentence that leaves her lips and it makes him angry. 

"Worst of all, though," Monsoon wipes at her nose with the hanky, "Maverick knows,"

"He knows?" 

"I told him," She confirms with a whimper and a nod, not daring to meet Cyclone's eyes. If she managed to meet them, she would have been met with nothing but rage boiling behind his irises, red hot flames behind the dark brown of his eyes. 

"I had to, everything was already coming out anyway," She laments. 

"What did he have to say for himself?" The question is asked through grit teeth as he pulls her body tighter against his, a move meant to feel protective but does nothing to quell the flames burning Cyclone from the inside out. All Monsoon can do is shake her head "no" as she sobs against the denseness of his chest. 

"I'm gonna kill him" is all Cyclone can think as he rests his chin against her hair. His jaw ticks as the flaming feeling overtakes his body. If he could, he would strip Maverick of every single one of his achievements, his medals, his rank. He would cut the older man down so far that he was nothing more than a civilian with a dishonorable discharge. 

But he can't.

So instead, he holds his daughter as she cries. He lets her tears soak the tan fabric of his uniform top, the buttons scraping against her skin. He rubs her back and whispers into her hair, promises that everything will be okay. 

---

Somewhere in the Pacific. The Uranium Mission. Three weeks after the organization of the Dagger Squad. 

Moments after the Uranium mission is completed, the team piled on the aircraft carrier, all grateful to be alive. Monsoon and Hangman got sent up to shoot down the enemy aircraft, saving Maverick and Rooster. The whole thing left nothing but swirls of confusion and gratitude in Monsoon's heart. 

On one hand, she is so thankful that everyone made it back home. There will be no funerals, no folded flags and no Taps to be played. Instead there will be celebrations, beer and cheering and one too many speeches for a job well done. The whole thing should be liberating as their impending doom has been starved off for the time being, however there is still a feeling of anxiety sitting heaving in her chest.  

Now, Monsoon is stuck watching the pair climb out of the museum piece that they managed to land on the carrier. The wind is whipping past them as she watches the team embrace the two men. Her strangled feelings clog her chest as she makes her way into the fray, first approaching Bradley. 

"Glad to have you back on the ground," Monsoon shouts over the crowd.

"It's good to be back, even if it's not quite the ground," Bradley attempts to joke, "But seriously, we owe everything to you and Hangman," 

"Nobody left behind," Monsoon holds her hand out to Bradley, a gesture of good will. 

"Nobody left behind," Rooster echoes, taking her hand in his own. 

As they shake hands, a sort of understanding forms between them. They share a look, one that reads no hard feelings and Bradley almost tears up. Then, they are pulling back from each other, sharing one last smile. 

Monsoon watches Bradley disappear into the crowd, his tall frame quickly swallowed up by the sea of uniforms. She catches him shake hands with Hangman a moment later, the scene bringing a small smile to her lips. 

Then, Maverick catches her eye, standing a few yards away. There are tears shining in his eyes, but he makes no effort to move forward. They share eye contact for a moment as people move between them. Monsoon offers him a half smile, her brows lifted just slightly. Before Maverick can return it, she nods at him. He nods back, then it's his turn to watch her disappear into the crowd.

It's not quite an understanding, but maybe it's a truce.

At the risk of breaking her own heart, Monsoon chances a look over her shoulder. She watches as Maverick pulls Bradley into a hug, or maybe it's the other way around, it's hard to tell with the swarming of bodies. Either way, the pair wear bright smiles as they embrace and Monsoon doesn't even try to fight off the tears that make their way to her eyes. They aren't tears of anger, no, they are tears of gratitude. Grateful that they all get to live another day, grateful that Maverick and Bradley are giving each other a second chance, and grateful that there isn't a looming cloud hanging over her head anymore. 

She no longer has to wonder about her father, because now she knows he's exactly where he is supposed to be, and both of their lives are better for it. Instead, she has Cyclone, the best father she could have ever asked for, and that is more than enough. 

Cyclone breaks through the crowd, pulling his daughter into his arms, more than thankful for her safe return. He shouts at her, over the crowd, about how well she did and how happy he is that she made it back. The pair hold each other tight for another few moments, neither ready to let go. 

Maverick takes one more look at Monsoon, who's now folded into Cyclone's arms. It's an unfamiliar sight but not an unwelcomed one, for Maverick. One thing's for sure, she is exactly like her Pops- disciplined and talented in the cockpit of a jet. Even more, though, beyond being a good aviator, she is a good person and that's something that Maverick can't regret. 

---

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. One year after the completion of the Uranium Mission and the organization of the Dagger Squad.

A year later, Cyclone and Monsoon find themselves sitting in The Flight Line Bar, her hand thrust out in front of her, ring glittering under the amber lights. 

"You're going to give me away at my wedding, right?" There is a sort of apprehension to her voice as she sips on her beer. 

"It would be my honor, kid," Cyclone slings an arm around her shoulders, pulling her sideways into him. He holds her there for a second before letting her sit back upright, a large smile on her lips. 

"Y/N Seresin has a good ring to it," Cyclone adds, bringing his beer up to his lips. 

"About that," Monsoon starts, causing the Admiral to set his beer down, "Jake and I had a conversation, and we thought that having two Aviators in the same squad with the same last name would get confusing, so it's going to be Y/N Simpson, if that's okay with you,"

The Admiral's eyes flood with tears before he can say a single word. They quickly spill down his cheeks and all he can do is look at his daughter, tears of her own overtaking her eyes. 

"I take that as a "yes"?" Monsoon chuckles, wiping her eyes with a shitty bar napkin. 

"Of course it's a yes, kid," Cyclone grabs her hand, holding it on top of the bar. 

The pair sit, hand in hand , tears still wet on their faces and all Cyclone can think about is how fucking lucky he got, how blessed his life is. He finally has a daughter who is happy and in love, a daughter that he will get to walk down the aisle on the most important day of her life. 

When he chances a glance over to her, Cyclone can see the frizz of her hair highlighted by the neon sign buzzing behind her, her cheeks bright red. For a moment, he can see June in the roundness of her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes. Cyclone thinks back to all those years ago, when he and Monsoon first met sitting in this same bar, but he doesn't entertain the memory very long, after all, he has so much to look forward to. So instead, he squeezed her hand. 

"I love you, kid," Beau tells her earnestly, smiling though a few stray tears. 

"I love you too, Pops," Monsoon returns, leaning her head on his shoulder, "Now and always," 

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[the-authoress-writes]

Up Where We Belong

Part One

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell x Writer!reader

Up Where We Belong Masterlist

Synopsis: When a writer experiencing horrible writer’s block goes to the Apple Valley Airshow for inspiration, she meets a certain older, daring naval aviator, leading to maybe a little more than just inspiration.

Warnings: Mentions of hospice and family member deaths, age gap (reader is in their late thirties to early forties).

But really, this is just fluff.

Author’s Note: The plot bunnies have reproduced at an unholy rate, and I am so stupid for writing this, especially since I have another chapter of “Wherever You Go”, to write, the first chapter of “Safe and Sound” and a MavDad story to finish.

The second part and another Mav story is lined up, but at this point, I’m not going to complain, because at least I’m writing, and Mav is finally getting more of my writerly attention.

We’ll see what gets finished next, 😂.

#writerlife

Again, I name a story after a song, from another movie about the Navy, funnily enough.

(Only three of my stories on my masterlist are not named after songs—I can’t stop, apparently)

So here we go!

She had always been somewhat interested in planes—it was hard not to be, when most of her family was in commercial aviation.

Her father had flown for nearly thirty years for American, her younger brother was currently a first officer coming up on his command upgrade with Delta, and her grandfather, whom she affectionately called PopPop, had flown for Continental.

Some of her fondest memories were looking over her grandfather’s maps and airport diagrams, and sitting on his lap while he taught her how to use an analog flight computer.

But one day, when she was home from her freshman year of college, where she was taking her degree in English, her grandfather took her up to the attic to show her something.

It was a footlocker from World War II, the faded paint on the outside reading “USAAF”.

“This was your granduncle Joseph’s—my eldest brother.

He was a P-51 pilot.

He ran many successful missions in his aircraft until he got shot down saving his wingman’s life, near the end of the war.”

PopPop opened the footlocker, revealing a faded American flag folded into a tricorn lying neatly atop several dark greenish-brown uniforms.

PopPop gently lifted the flag and uniforms out of the footlocker, uncovering yellowed, brittle-looking maps, a compass set, and a thick stack of letters, tied together with a black ribbon.

It was the stack of letters that PopPop lifted out, and held out to her. “Look at these, and read them.”

She did, and the story the letters contained was beautiful and heartbreaking.

Her granduncle had fallen in love with a woman who was a member of the French Resistance, named Céline, whom he’d met during a covert resupply mission, and they even had plans to marry after the war.

But she’d died in a skirmish with German soldiers in Paris, leaving him so bereft that he’d taken to writing letters to her specter, just to have an outlet for his grief.

The last letter in the pile was heartwrenching, where her granduncle Joseph talked about how he was only living because she would want him to, only being careful in the air because she’d want him to.

She’d cried reading the letters, and she’d asked PopPop why he’d wanted her to read the letters.

“I wanted someone else to know their story,” he’d simply replied.

“No one else knows?”

He hummed, considering his answer. “Sometimes you keep some things to yourself until the right person to tell comes along.”

A few years passed, and when PopPop was on hospice, the two of them were watching “Band of Brothers”, when she remembered Uncle Joe, as she’d taken to calling him in her head.

“What’s going on in that bright head of yours, darling?” PopPop’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Oh, uh, nothing much, I was just remembering Uncle Joe.

Thinking that he and Céline deserved better.”

“They did.”

She shook her head, “I wish I could write them a happier ending, you know?”

PopPop hummed weakly. “Well, why don’t you?

If anyone could do it, it would be you.

If you do that, I’m sure in a few years, those English professors of yours would be saying that they taught a great American author.”

She was shocked and touched. “Wha—I—well, I guess I could, but, are—y-you’d be okay with that, PopPop?”

He laid a cold hand on hers, “I wouldn’t trust it to anyone else, my dear girl.”

“Okay,” she smiled tearily, and nodded, the two of them returning their attention to the episode.

A week later, PopPop passed, and many things happened over the ensuing years that caused the idea of writing about Uncle Joe to be put on the back burner.

In fact, she forgot all about it, until she was sitting on her couch a couple of weeks after having been let go from her job as an English teacher at her local high school.

She was mindlessly watching an episode of some show she couldn’t even remember the name of, when her eyes landed on the footlocker which PopPop had given to her in his will.

The memory of PopPop encouraging her to write about Uncle Joe came back to her, and she paused the episode, strode over to the footlocker, carefully opened it, and drew out the letters.

Madly, over the course of the next several hours, she reread the letters, numerous research-related tabs quickly opening up on her phone, tablet, and laptop.

As months passed, she made good progress on her first draft, but somewhere along the way, about slightly less than halfway through her intended story beats, she hit the dreaded dead end, writer’s block in full force.

Rereading the letters did nothing—every line she wrote, she deleted; she felt lost, and like she’d completely lost Uncle Joe and Céline’s voices.

She felt right back at square one.

Then, one day, as she was looking at her brother’s latest Facebook reel from his layover in Korea, she saw an advertisement for the Apple Valley Airshow, which would feature an aerobatic demonstration with an actual, airworthy P-51.

Maybe seeing the aircraft her Uncle flew would shake something loose in her brain so she could move forward.

She didn’t even hesitate—she immediately booked a ticket, and prepared herself to take down a lot of notes.

The airshow was absolutely wonderful, and even though she never got as into aviation as the rest of her family, it was still something which fascinated her, and seeing the planes made her marvel all over again at the miracle that was aviation, how humankind had successfully taken the skies for itself through brutally elegant means.

Finally, it was time for the reason she’d come—the emcee began, “Now, everyone, you’re all in for a treat, because up next, we have a nearly eighty-year-old aircraft, a P-51K named Bianca, and she’ll be giving us an aerobatic demonstration!

So let’s give a warm Apple Valley Airshow welcome to Bianca and her owner and pilot, US Navy Captain Pete Mitchell!”

She clapped along with everyone else, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the P-51.

Soon, the sound of a propeller engine grew louder and louder, and then, there she was.

Bianca was gorgeous, gleaming silver with red markings, the American star roundel on her side.

The shining aircraft got closer and closer to the ground, towards the crowd, and just as she was about to worry that the P-51 was in an upset condition, the plane pulled up slightly, buzzing the transfixed people.

Laughing in awe and delight, she clapped with everyone, and watched as the daring pilot put the plane through a series of hair-raising spirals, rolls, dives, and elegant, breathtaking passes with such precision, skill, and ease, just knowing that whoever was flying that old girl had aviation in his blood as surely as it ran in hers; it made her wonder what her granduncle would say about how the venerable fighter was being flown.

Before she knew it, the demonstration was over, and with another low pass and wing wave, the P-51 flew off to land.

It actually took her a moment to come back to herself, she was so stunned by what she saw, and she knew she had to see Bianca up close.

After asking for directions to the flight line, she scanned the row of planes, eventually spying a flash of red.

She walked over, catching sight of a tall, mustached man a few years younger than her, standing in front of the aircraft, wearing a borderline-obnoxiously-loud Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned over a white tank and jeans, stereotypical Ray-Bans pushed up onto his head.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes?” the man replied.

“Is this the P-51 which flew a few minutes ago?

She is a P-51, right?”

“That’d be a yes to both questions, ma’am.”

She chuckled grimly at the idea that her age was maybe showing enough for her to be ma’am-ed by someone only a few years younger than her. “Are you the owner?”

He scoffed, good-naturedly. “Nah, that’ll be my dad.

Hey Dad, someone wants to talk to you!”

A moment later, a man stepped out from under the P-51, and she’d absolutely be lying if she said her breath didn’t catch.

First off, if she had to guess, he was older than her, but there was something about him which made him seem younger than his age.

Then there was the fact that he was absurdly good looking—ridiculously so, in fact; impossibly raven-dark hair, mischievously sparkling, brilliant green eyes, and a physique that people half her age would kill for, all sinewy muscle, visible with the snug white t-shirt and jeans he was wearing.

The final nail in the proverbial coffin was his smile—God, it belonged in a museum, because it was a work of art, and coupled with his roguish air, everything about him screamed the most delicious kind of trouble, sending echoes of Whoopi Goldberg’s voice saying, “You in danger, girl,” through her head.

“Hi,” he began, extending his hand.

Luckily for her, she was quick on the draw, and extended her own hand, proffering a “Hi,” of her own, though she kicked herself at the fact that the next words out of her mouth were, “Are you the owner?”

Oh, well—couldn’t win them all.

His grip was firm and calloused, but gentle, without the cool metal band she expected on his fourth finger, quick eyes observing the lack of even a pale band of skin on the same finger, and she shook herself from the observation in time to hear his, “That’s me—Pete Mitchell, you can call me Mav.”

At her quizzical look, he continued, “It’s short for my callsign, Maverick—I’m Navy.”

She nodded, “The emcee did say you were Navy, and that tracks; judging from that impressive demonstration, you don’t strike me as the kind who blends in.”

“Thank you—I aim to please,” he grinned.

Miraculously, she managed to ignore his brilliant, beautiful smile, somehow mustering a “Well, you certainly delivered,” before she introduced herself.

A cough from the younger man, Pete’s son, made her realize that she hadn’t let go of Pete’s hand, and vice versa, which caused the two of them to practically spring apart.

“Oh, uh, this is my son, Bradley,” Pete introduced the younger man, reaching nearly comically up to wrap an arm around Bradley’s shoulders.

“Nice to meet you, Bradley,” she replied, trying to recollect herself while her mind acted like it was the first time she’d interacted with a good-looking man.

“Nice to meet you too, ma’am.”

“I look that bad, do I?” she chuckled.

“Just the way he was raised,” Pete proudly said, patting his son on the back.

Embarrassingly, she just then remembered the reason she was here. “Oh, I—I actually had a few questions for you, Pete, about the P-51, because I’m writing a book, and I wanted to get some details.”

His eyes lit up. “Details about this old girl, huh?

I can do that; come on, let me show you around.” He moved to the side of the aircraft and gestured grandly. “Bianca here’s a Dallas-built North American P-51K, with a Packard V-1650-7 engine and an 11 foot diameter Aeroproducts propeller.

She was donated to the Civil Air Patrol in 1946, and I acquired her in 2001.

I’m not sure if she ever saw combat, because her military flight logs were lost, but I know for a fact that she routinely patrolled the California skies way back when.

Let me show you the controls.”

He nimbly boosted himself up to the wing and held his hand out to her. “Come on up.”

“Uh, is this a wise decision?” she asked, glancing between his hand and the wing. “She is nearly eighty-years-old.”

Pete laughed, “She’s stronger than she looks, and these girls were made to withstand this sort of thing, come on.”

Deciding to trust his judgment, she took his hand and jumped up to the wing at the same time as he pulled her up, causing extra momentum which propelled her body into his.

He caught them on the edge of the cockpit, and after a second, she realized that she was pressed up against his body, both hands resting against his…very solid chest.

She prayed that her suddenly pounding heart and the burning flush on her cheeks could be discounted as a reaction to her stumble.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed, scrambling back to put some distance between them for her sanity’s sake, while trying not to fall off either wing edge.

“Eh,” he waved off, “that’s my fault, I should have said I’d pull you up,” as he shifted to kneel on the wing. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied breezily, “I believe you were about to show me the controls?”

“Mm-hmm, come here.”

They slowly adjusted themselves into a configuration that enabled them both to see into the cockpit, and he pointed out the many gauges—explaining each one—and the literal stick stick, which looked nothing like the controls of any aircraft she’d seen in person or in the movies, as well as her general flight capabilities and technical specifications.

A further glance to the right showed something she didn’t expect to see. “I thought the P-51 was a single seat aircraft?”

Pete absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck, “They are—I made a… few modifications.”

“Oh.”

“You want to sit in her?” he offered, gesturing to the pilot’s seat.

She was not about to pass up an opportunity like that. “I—wh—sure!”

He carefully helped her into the cockpit, and once settled, she breathed in and out while she absorbed this moment, and imagined her granduncle sitting in a seat similar to this one, looking out at the boundless sky. “Wow,” she reverently murmured.

“I know, right?”

“This is amazing, that aircraft like this is still around and still flying, I mean—this is history,” she said, getting slightly emotional.

“It is; she is.”

After a few beats longer, she sighed, and reached for his hand so she could get out, and he carefully eased her out of the cockpit, onto the wing, then both of them back onto the ground.

“Thank you, for showing me around, this was really helpful, Pete, I think this really helped me.”

“You’re welcome,” he nodded easily. “If I may ask, what kind of book are you writing?”

For the briefest second, she instinctively recoiled from the idea of telling the story, but then, some part of her heart said that Pete Mitchell was someone she could tell this story to. “It’s uh, a fictional version of my granduncle Joe’s love story; he was a P-51 pilot during World War II, and he was in love with a woman in the French Resistance named Céline.” She turned to look at Bianca’s gleaming fuselage. “But they both died in the war; she was killed by the Germans, and he got shot down saving his wingman soon after.

I never even knew until my first year of college, when my grandfather told me the story through the love letters my granduncle and Céline wrote.

When my grandfather was dying, I told him that I wished they had a happy ending, and… well, he told me to write it for them, since I was an English major.

So here I am,” she shrugged, turning to face Pete.

He looked grave and touched. “That’s… that’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, I have to admit, I’ve wondered if what I was doing was disrespectful.”

“I know quite a few people who deserved happy endings that didn’t get them,” he glanced into the distance, a wistful, pained look in his eyes. “If I can help at least two people who didn’t have their happy endings in this world get it somehow, I’m more than willing to help.”

She sincerely replied, “Thank you for the validation,” wondering what his story was.

“You’re welcome.

And uh… you know what?

Gimme a second.”

He leapt back onto the P-51’s wing, and rummaged through the cockpit, pulling out a flight log book and a pen, hastily writing something on a page, before he tore it out, and leapt back down.

“Here, it’s my number—if you had any more questions, feel free to call, I’d be happy to answer them.”

If she had been placed in a similar situation as this maybe twenty years ago, she’d have probably done something to embarrass herself, because this—things like this didn’t happen to her—they only happened in movies, but here she was.

He gave her his number—yes, it was if she had any research questions, but still.

‘Get a grip, woman, just because you didn’t see a ring doesn’t mean he isn’t in a relationship,’ she told herself, trying to project “Respectable Professional Woman”, while her inner adolescent was trying its level best to come out.

“Th—thank you,” she managed to get out, with only a minute stammer on the first syllable.

“I’m serious, call if you need anything—I mean—there’s not a lot of people out there who can tell you what it’s like to actually fly one of these beauties.”

“Be careful,” she chuckled, already determined not to call unless it was absolutely dire, “You don’t know if I might take you up on that offer.”

“It’s what I gave you my number for,” Pete winked, and she commended herself for keeping it together.

Deciding to quit while she was ahead, and while she still seemed like a normal human being, she came in for final approach, as her dad would put it, with, “Alright—I better go, I’ve already taken too much of your time.”

“It’s fine, it’s always a pleasure to talk to someone about this girl.”

“Thank you again,” she stated, honestly grateful, feeling the creative juices flowing and simmering in the background.

“You’re welcome.”

And with that, she walked away, exhaling evenly for so many reasons.

That night, she wrote and wrote just as she expected, and the story was flowing.

That is, until she hit another wall just before the next weekend.

And this one was even more stubborn than the first.

It didn’t help that she had written herself into a corner with this dogfight scene she was on—she had no way of knowing if the tactics were sound, and she was thinking of completely cutting it, but it seemed so stilted without it, and she had no idea of how to avoid writing this scene.

But one part of that thought, she realized, wasn’t true.

Her gaze landed on her coffee table.

The sheet of flight log paper with ten numbers written on them stared tauntingly back at her, daring her to call Pete.

“Nope, no, I am not going to do it,” she told herself. “No—absolutely not.

I’m sure he has better things to do than answer stupid questions.

No—I will not call him.”

The paper raised a nonexistent eyebrow.

“No!” was her battle cry, and she turned back to her laptop screen, but it offered no relief.

The depressing reality of her blinking, unmoving cursor cackled at her in harmony with the flight log paper.

It was like that healthy cereal ad from years ago, with the little girl in a prim uniform, enticingly calling “Donuts?”

However, after ten more minutes, the dictatorship of the blank page grew too cruel and harsh, and she folded like a house of whatever was more insubstantial than cards.

“Fine,” she muttered, snatching up the paper. “I’ll call, but if he doesn’t answer, it’s no skin off my back—I’ll manage… somehow.”

At least that’s what she told herself.

She dialed the number, heart pounding as the phone rang…

And rang…

And rang…

And rang.

She was just about to breathe a sigh of conflicted relief and hang up, but then the line clicked, and she heard a slightly breathless “Pete Mitchell.”

“Hi,” she blinked, cursing herself for not thinking through what she was going to say. “I don’t know if you remember me, we met at the Apple Valley Airshow—”

“__, right?

The writer.”

“Yeah, that’s me, you said I could call if I had any questions,” she scratched her head.

“Uh-huh.

I’m guessing you have one,” she could hear the smile in his voice.

“More like a lot, really.

I’ve unfortunately written myself into a corner, it’s this dogfight scene, and there’s no way I can currently remove it without sacrificing practically all of my progress since last week.

I just need to know if the tactics are sound.”

“Huh.”

“I—you know, I can figure it out myself, if it’s too much trouble—”

He interrupted, “No, it’s no trouble, I’m more than willing to help, in fact… uh, this might sound—weird and uncomfortable—or—both, really, but if you want, why don’t you come out to my hangar tomorrow, we can talk about this, rework your scene if we need to, without having to do video calls or text or email.”

“Oh,” she breathed, eyes wide.

“I promise I’m not a serial killer or anything,” he chuckled.

“I—thank you for the reassurance, by the way—but I mean, that’s a lot of confidence in how well I can write a dogfight.”

“It can’t be all that bad,” he assured.

“I’ll just prepare to be ripped to shreds,” she half-teasingly replied.

Pete snorted. “Even if it were that bad, I wouldn’t rip it to shreds—I save that for my new students.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know what’s worse, being torn apart or the porcelain treatment.”

“How about a balance, then?”

“I’d be very happy with that.”

“So… is that a yes to coming out to my hangar?”

“I… suppose it is,” she replied, before she could convince herself otherwise.

She was a mature, responsible adult, and she was capable of being said mature, responsible adult.

(And if time permitted, she was even capable of looking respectfully, when he wasn’t watching.)

(She was only human, after all.)

“Perfect, I’ll send you the address; I have to warn you, it’ll probably be a bit of a drive, is that okay?”

“That’s fine, after all, where else will I find someone with experience flying the P-51?”

“You could always try the local VFW post,” he joked.

“What are the odds my local VFW has a former P-51 pilot?

I’ll go with the expert I’ve already met.”

“Alright, alright, I already agreed to help, no need to butter me up,” he lightly said, humorously.

“Just send the address,” was her amused response.

And that was how she found herself on US-395 North making the three-and-a-half hour drive from her apartment in San Bernardino to the Mojave, praying that she wouldn’t somehow make a fool of herself today.

To be continued…

Next Part

Was part of this story inspired by Atonement?

Maybe.

I didn’t really have the movie in mind when I wrote the plot device, but I realized the similarity after the fact.

Analog flight computer

USAAF

Band of Brothers

The Apple Valley Airshow takes place every year in the town of Apple Valley, located in San Bernardino, California.

(I considered setting this story at the annual Miramar Airshow, which takes place at MCAS (formerly NAS) Miramar, but I imagine that Mav would probably want to avoid going to MCAS Miramar for obvious reasons.)

Roundel

I don’t think that most pilots would do very daring aerobatic stunts in a plane as old as the P-51, just because she’s a darn P-51, and she’s a flying piece of history, but this is Mav, he absolutely knows what his girl can handle, I’m sure he knows how to make something look more crazy than it actually is, and bottom line, let’s just suspend our disbelief, 😂.

Did I introduce Mav in that way just so I could use that gif?

Probably absolutely.

It’s a great shot, and I do not blame me.

“You in danger, girl.” Timestamp 1:35

All the information about the P-51 is taken from the information available about the model and history/registration of Tom’s P-51, except for the details of her name and the military flight logs being missing, as the history available for N51EW never mentions if she saw actual WWII combat.

She is registered in the FAA database with the serial number 44-12840, and her name since 2006 has been “Kiss Me Kate”.

(I know why she’s named this, and it hits something in my heart that Tom never bothered to rename her.)

Her name in this story will be explained later, but those who follow me on my main blog, @oh-great-authoress, might have a hunch as to why I named the P-51 “Bianca”.

The ad I mentioned was a real Kellogg’s Special K ad.

VFW

The travel time between San Bernardino and Mav’s hangar is estimated using the travel time from San Bernardino to NAWS China Lake, and then a further hour and twenty minutes from there.

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[alwaysonthemend]

Author’s Note: Hello my horny friends. I hope this fic finds you well. Have some vulgar Jacob smut. This is self-indulgent, as it usually is. Jake makes me question my sanity… this fic is merely a glimpse for you all into my madness. This is a little on the shorter side but when it's literally just porn and no plot that's what happens. Also VERY minimally edited so apologies in advance. 

Once again, this fic wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for @jakeyt I hope you know that I love you so much and I’m so glad I have you in my life. Your constant encouragement means the world. 

Content Warnings: Fem!reader, oral (f rec) p in v sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, cussing, dirty talk, Jake being cocky. 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI

Word Count: 2927

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

The thing is, it never really gets easier – the whole long distance thing that is. You get better at it, sure. But it never actually becomes easier to deal with. If anything, you only miss him more when he’s gone than you used to. Jake has this… aura about him that draws you into him – pulling you into his orbit whether you want to be or not. Though he’s not known to his fans as the loud one (that title remains firmly on Josh), Jake’s personality when he’s with you is anything but subdued. He’s sweet like no other man you’ve ever met, and can make you laugh harder than anyone else, and the comfort that he radiates is unparalleled. And so his absence is only made all the more painful the longer you’ve been with him. 

This time especially, going on almost two months without getting to see him, you’re physically aching to be near him again. Daily texts and FaceTimes only satisfy you so much, and at this point you’re desperate. He’s coming home tonight and your body is practically vibrating with your excitement as you tidy up things around the house in order to pass the time. 

He’d said he’d be home around 7pm and god have these past few hours been the longest of your entire life. You’ve showered and shaved – making sure to use the body wash that Jake loves the smell of; and you’ve slipped into the little lingerie set that always drives him nuts, coupled with nothing but one of his old t-shirts. The two of you had phone sex a few times throughout his absence, but the action only ever leaves the both of you aching and missing the other even more. Jake has always been a tactile individual, loving the feeling of you and the feeling of the two of you together. So you know that as soon as he gets home he’s going to be all over you. That at least, is one positive of his long absences. Fuck is the welcome home sex incredible.

Taking a seat on the sofa, you glance up at the clock for what feels like the millionth time. 

7:07pm 

You clench your thighs in anticipation as you watch the front door. You’re almost embarrassed by the way you're literally sitting here waiting like a dog for its owner to come home. But it really has been so long so you figure you’ve earned the right to be this desperate.

You glance up again. 

7:16

Furrowing your brow, you check your phone to see if he’s texted you. Nothing. 

Sighing, you click your phone off and place it back down on the table. 

Another five minutes. 

You check your phone again. Then the clock. Then your phone again. You fix your hair. Check the clock again. 

And just when it hits 7:45 and you’re about to pick up your phone to call him, the front door practically slams open and in steps Jake – looking frazzled and annoyed but no less handsome than he had the last time you saw him. 

“Fuck, I hate airports.” His voice is the same as you remember it too – deep and soft as it envelopes you like a warm hug. 

Rising from your seat quickly, you stride over to where he’s standing, surveying his appearance for a moment. His hair is slightly longer, the ends resting just below his shoulders. He’s shaved since the last time you FaceTimed, but the barely there dusting of hair that adorns his top lip lets you know that maybe he’s thinking of growing it out again. 

You both stand there for a second, eyeing the other in a strange dance of anticipation. Finally, you reach out and grip his wrist, tugging him in close to you. Almost as if the action broke the seal, suddenly he’s on you, shoving you backwards until your back slams into the wall. 

“Jake.” You whine, but he silences you by sealing his lips over yours, immediately plunging his tongue into your waiting mouth. It’s all teeth and tongues and there’s nothing but desperation behind it as he practically devours you. The both of you moan as his bulge presses against you. 

“Missed you so much, angel.” He breathes out between kisses, and all you can do is whimper in response as his plush lips trail down to your throat, nipping and biting as he goes. 

You bring your hands up to tangle in his hair, tugging on it hard to get a reaction from him. Never one to disappoint, a groan rumbles through his chest at the sting. 

His strong hands grip your hips and lift, effortlessly picking you up and you wrap your legs around his waist to steady yourself. His mouth doesn’t leave your skin once as he walks the two of you over to the sofa before he unceremoniously deposits you onto it.

Still trapped between your thighs, Jake sinks to the floor onto his knees. 

“Missed you too. So much.” You tell him, gripping his shoulders and digging your fingers into the hard muscle that lies hidden beneath his button down shirt. 

He pulls away from you for a moment and his eyes look practically black as he stares at you. His chest is heaving and his lips are already swollen and slick with spit. You’re sure that you probably look even worse off than he does as your desperation for him grows with each passing second.

“I’ve been thinking about this for days.” He admits, splaying his palms out on your thighs and spreading your knees apart. His eyes trail downwards and you watch with rapt attention as they widen slightly as he sees the deep green lace of your panties. A wolfish grin spreads across his lips. “These are my favorite.” 

“I know.” Your voice comes out quiet, almost a whisper. “Put them on just for you.” 

“You spoil me.” His finger trails across your clothed center, just barely pressing into your clit through the fabric. 

You whine and spread your legs wider, begging him to finally touch you where you need him. 

“And as gorgeous as you look in these…” He says, hooking his fingers in the elastic and tugging. “You look even better without them.” 

He slides the lacey fabric down your legs, allowing you to kick them off onto the floor. His eyes rake across you, greedily taking in the sight of your drenched pussy for the first time in weeks. 

“Fuck.” He whispers, licking his lips and running a calloused finger through your folds. “Even prettier than I remember.” 

Sweeping his eyes up to yours, Jake grips your thighs again tightly before diving into you, sucking on your clit and drawing a loud moan from you. 

“Jake!” Your eyes slam shut at the immediate relief of his mouth on you. 

He’s eating you out like it’s his job, plunging his tongue into you roughly as his nose presses into your swollen bundle of nerves. Your moans and whines are interrupted by his own sounds – tiny little groans and grunts as he diligently brings you closer and closer to the edge of climax. 

Embarrassingly fast, that coil in your belly begins to tighten and you reach down to tug on his hair in warning. Instead of drawing away, Jake only renews his efforts and the coil snaps as your orgasm tears through you. He laps up your release without pause, moaning at the taste of you before pulling away.

“That was fast.” He grins, a smug smirk overtaking him. 

“Fuck off. It’s been too long.” You tell him, trying to catch your breath. 

“Or I’m just that fucking good.” 

You shake your head at him, fighting a grin. 

“Mmm. Missed you being a cocky little shit.” You tell him, sarcasm clear in your tone. 

“Did you now?” He hedges, narrowing his eyes at you playfully. 

“Oh yeah. I really miss- Oh!”

Without warning, Jake plunges a finger into you, immediately finding that spot inside you that drives you fucking wild. 

“What was that?” He asks, adding another finger. 

You can’t answer, too focused on the heavenly feeling of his fingers that you missed so much. 

“I’ll tell you what I missed.” He says, fingers picking up their pace as he fucks you with them. “I missed this pretty pussy. And I missed those lovely sounds that you make when I hit that special little spot inside of you.” He punctuates his sentences by curling his fingers upwards and brushing your g-spot, drawing a loud cry from you. “Like that one. Fuck, I missed that sound.” 

“Jesus Christ.” You moan, overcome with pleasure as he presses his thumb into your clit, rubbing tight circles over you. 

This is so much better than all those nights on the phone with him – nights where you lay there wishing that it was his fingers pleasuring you and not your own. But now he’s finally here, and the combination of having him after so long coupled with his stupidly talented fingers has your second orgasm approaching just as quickly as the first. 

“Come on, angel.” He encourages, eyes glued to where his fingers fuck in and out of you. “Give it to me.” 

The band snaps for the second time, and this time the feeling is white hot and overwhelming, leaving you with shaky legs and a brain completely absent of any conscious thought. 

“Jacob!” You whine, body left reeling as he pulls his fingers from you. “I need your cock. Please. Fuck, I need it.” You beg, reaching out to him to pull him in closer. 

“I know. I know, angel.” He mutters, extracting himself from your grip and standing up. He quickly unbuttons his shirt and tosses it to the ground before turning away from you. You furrow your brows for a moment as you watch him start to leave before realization washes over you. 

Condom your brain finally supplies. He’s going to get a condom. 

As if acting on its own accord, your hand darts out to wrap around his wrist, stopping him. He turns back to you, confusion clouding his eyes as he takes in your expression. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shake your head at him. 

“No condom.” 

“But-” he starts, turning back around to face you fully. “You’re not on birth control.” 

“I know.” You say as you stare into his eyes, silently begging for him to catch on to what you mean. 

He does, and his mouth parts in surprise as your meaning finally hits him. 

“Y/n.” He hedges, taking a step back towards you. “You-” he stops himself, unsure and afraid of reading the situation wrong. 

“I miss you so much when you’re gone, Jake.” You admit, pulling him even closer to you. “Want something of yours to keep with me when you leave.” 

Jake groans, dropping his hand downwards to palm his hard cock. 

“Fuck, are you sure?” He sounds fucking wrecked – voice broken in a way you haven’t heard it before. 

“Very.” You assure him, biting your lip as you glance up at him. “I’ve been thinking about it since you left. I want it so bad, Jake.” 

“I need to hear you say it, Y/n.” His eyes are dark as he watches you, chest heaving as the weight of your words seem to finally sink in. 

“Jake,” you start, willing him to see just how serious you are. “I want you to fill me up. Put a baby in me. Please, Jake.” 

He moans loudly and he looks almost pained as you speak. Without hesitation, he practically rips the button of his jeans open before shoving them downwards, yanking his boxers down with them. His cock springs free, slapping his stomach and weeping with precum. You’ve never seen him so hard before – the velvety skin shiny and red. You spread your legs and scoot backwards, pressing your back into the arm of the sofa. He all but collapses onto the sofa between your legs and a fresh wave of slick gushes from you as you see the slight tremble of his shoulders. He’s fucking shaking. 

“Say it again.” He demands, grabbing his length and sliding his tip through your folds, gathering your wetness and spreading it over himself. 

“Put a baby in me, Jake. Fill me up. I want it so bad.”

“Fuck.” He whines – an honest to god whine, before he plunges into you. 

You let out a loud wail as he finally enters you, stretching you deliciously. 

“I missed your cock so much!” You cut yourself off with another moan. You reach upwards and hook your hands behind his shoulders to pull him into you, capturing his lips with yours as he pounds into you. 

“Fuck, baby.” His voice is deeper than it ever has been before and it cracks slightly on the last word. “You wanna know what I think about when I’m up there on stage?”

You nod, dropping your head backwards and wrapping your legs around him to pull him in deeper. 

“God.” He starts, moaning loudly before continuing on breathlessly. “I think about you. Every fucking time.” He grabs your ankle and tosses it up over his shoulder, making his cock sink even deeper into you. “I imagine you like this. Beneath me. I get so worked up just thinking about it. Like I could just fucking explode right up there on stage."

“Jake.” You whine, but there’s nothing to follow it up with. It’s like you’re in a fog, aware of nothing beyond the man on top of you and the delicious feeling of his cock pounding into you so fucking deep. 

“It gets me so hard, angel. So hard it hurts. All those people screaming my name but it’s you that I’m thinking about.”

"Is that why you hump your poor guitar?" You manage to stutter out breathlessly.

Jake chuckles and nods his head.

"Can't fucking help it "

You lean upwards and kiss him again, biting his bottom lip between your teeth. Your brain can’t seem to create words anymore and all coherent thought has long since flown out the window.

Jake groans into the kiss before dropping his chin to press his forehead into yours. His hips snap into you at a bruising pace and you know that you’ll be sore tomorrow. 

“M’gonna cum, Jake." You warn through clenched teeth. "Fuck I’m cumming!” Your climax is sharp – slicing through you with reckless abandon as Jake keeps fucking you through it. Your entire body trembles and the wet sound of Jake’s length slamming in and out of you is fucking obscene. 

Roughly, Jake grabs your waist and turns you over and your hands scramble to try and catch yourself from face planting into the arm of the sofa. Grabbing your hips in both hands, Jake pulls you back into him to meet each thrust. The room is filled with nothing but the sound of his skin hitting yours and the moans and whines spilling from the both of you 

“Oh my god. Oh my god, Jake. Fuck!” You practically scream. “Right fucking there!”

“You’re mine, angel.” He growls into your ear. “Gonna fill you up. Get you fucking pregnant. Show everyone that you belong to me.” 

“Fill me up, Jake. Sir, please.” The ‘sir’ slips out of you on instinct, and you can feel Jake starting to lose his control. He’s fucking you harder than he ever has – his movements practically feral.

“God, the fans...” He starts, reaching his right hand up to tangle in your hair and pull – causing you to arch backwards into him. “They’re gonna fucking lose it seeing you all big and round with MY baby. Jesus.” 

“I want it so bad, Jake. Knock me up! Please!” Your words are starting to slur together and you can feel it as your body starts to tremble and shake. It feels like your nerve endings are on fire. 

“You’re gonna be so fucking sexy when you’re pregnant, Y/n.” He growls, his pace beginning to falter. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” 

“Give it to me, Jake.” You beg, tossing your head back with a moan as he reaches his hand around you to circle your clit. 

“Gonna give it to you, angel. Get you fucking fat and pregnant. Fuck!”

A high pitch moan escapes you as you cum again, and the feeling of your walls clenching around his length has him spilling into you. 

He groans loudly as he finishes – louder than you’ve ever heard him as he rocks his hips into you, making sure to get every last drop of his release deep inside of you. 

Finally, he collapses into you – utterly spent. You both lay there in silence, the sweat covering both of you causing your skin to stick together, though both of you are too tired to care. 

Eventually, he pulls out of you, hissing as he goes. You roll over onto your back, taking in the fucked out expression on his face. 

“Hi.” You say, grinning up at him. 

“Hi, baby.” His smile back to you is soft and his eyes practically glitter as they look at you. “Think it worked?”

You giggle softly. 

“I hope so. If not, we’ll just have to try again.”

“We should probably just go ahead and try again tomorrow anyway. Just to be safe.” 

That draws a real laugh out of you, and he leans down to press a sweet kiss to your lips. 

“Y/n.” He says suddenly, pulling away from the kiss with wide eyes. “I’ve just realized something.” 

“What?” You ask, taken aback by his abruptness. 

“Your boobs are gonna get so big.” He says with a wolfish grin, and you sigh at him dramatically. 

“Jacob Thomas Kiszka, you are a menace.”

--------

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[brrrkdslek]

WOOYOUNGIE MISSED YOU!><

❒ jwy x male! reader

❒ porn w plot (idk)

❒ you come back to korea after a few long months of filming your new movie. your darling wooyoung fills you in on everything you missed, and how much he missed you.

❒ raw sex, dry humping, creampie

❒ first smutfic!!

❒ 1.7k

wooyoung bounced in his seat excitedly as he waited for you in the airport. you were coming back from china after shooting a drama for five months. could you believe it? five months without you by wooyoung's side.

since you were coming back today, wooyoung decided to pick you up from the airport while the others prepared your party back at the dorms.

he looked around the crowd of people as they leave the airport, searching for you. he turned his head in all the directions but never seeming to find you.

suddenly, a pair of arms wrap around his waist. "looking for me?" wooyoung swore he almost let out a moan by how you whispered in his ear.

he turned around and hugged you tightly, "hyungggg! i missed you so much... you were gone for way too long!" wooyoung whined and complained about how much you missed out when you were gone.

as you two got in the backseat, the driver began to drive back to the dorms.

during the ride, wooyoung talked about all the fun performances, interviews and how much he wished you were there too.

you actually watched all their performances on tv to catch up on everything. you were proud to see your members do so well.

wooyoung had his legs swung across your thighs as he continued talking about their most recent performance. you smiled and watched him, his pretty eyes, adorable smile, and oh that little mole under his eye you were dying to kiss.

you and wooyoung actually share feelings for each other, but never reciprocated. since the both of you were flirty by nature, the two never made moves through the years.

you listened to wooyoung talk as you gently rubbed his legs, humming and replying every now and then. as you arrived to the dorms, wooyoung held your hand in his as he dragged you back.

"c'mon, faster! everyone's waiting!" wooyoung said excitedly. you almost guessed that they were throwing a party for your return but decided to keep it to yourself.

as you opened the door, a confetti popper popped from above you, sprinkling your hair with confetti. the members all screamed "surprise!"

everyone partied and drank until 11pm. they had gotten a bit too drunk since they had a one week break.

you had a high alcohol tolerance so you were fine. the members slowly moved back to their rooms as you went back to yours, which you share with wooyoung of course.

you rubbed your eyes and lay down as you slowly drifted to sleep before he cuddled up beside you. holding wooyoung in your arms, you drifted to sleep.

you smile as you felt your neck tickle and itch. your thigh also felt- wet? wait what, why am i wet? you crack your eyes open and immediately feel wooyoung's mouth on your neck.

"hyung, hyung, hyung!" he mumbled as he humped your thigh. he licked and kissed at your neck as he buried himself deeper into your neck.

you held his waist, stopping his movement. you leaned down near his ear, "what are you doing, wooyoungie?" he jumped and looked up at you with a red face.

he stuttered as he tried to explain himself, "uh- i was, um, i don't- uh..." you felt his cock twitch against your thigh. letting out a breathy laugh, you stroke his hair with your hand.

"did you miss me that much?" you pushed your leg into his crotch as he moaned in a high-pitch. with the hand holding his waist, you kneaded at his skin and flexed your thigh,

"aren't you gonna answer me, hm?" he looked up at you with heart-eyes and drool leaking down the corner of his mouth. "mmh, missed you s' much..." you cooed at the boy as you captured his mouth in yours.

he moaned as he pulled you in closer by wrapping his arms around your neck. he let out a high-pitched whine as you pushed your tongue into his mouth, exploring every corner.

you pulled away, a string of drool connecting at your lips. you held his jaw between your hands as you stared at him, all dumb already.

"i only made out with you and you're already fallin' apart,—" you brushed his hair back, "—maybe we shouldn't continue?"

his eyes widen as he pulled you close, "no- nono! hyung, pleasepleaseplease-! i can- i can keep going..." he said with tears in his eyes, as if he had been waiting for this his whole life. which he had.

wooyoung always yearned for you, for your touch, your love. for some reasons he was always shy when he was around you, only you. you made him all hot and bothered, and he loved every second of it.

he buried his face into the crook of your neck as he sniffled and whispered softly, "don't go..." your heart swelled at the cute boy.

"awh, 'm not going anywhere love. you know that." you cooed as you held him in your arms. you felt his hard cock press against yours, only the fabrics of your boxers and his shorts separating you.

you kiss his head as you started moving your hips. letting out a soft moan, wooyoung followed. hot, sweaty bodies stuck together as you two humped against each other.

you flip wooyoung so he laid on the bed and got on top of him, kissing him deeply. you moved to take off your his shirt, never breaking the kiss.

you got rid of his and your clothes, except for your boxers. you reached towards your drawer, pulling out a small bottle of lube and squeezing a nice amount on your fingers then his ass.

he flinched at the coldness and let out a whine. "do you wanna hold onto me?" he nods eagerly and opens his arms, almost like a baby.

you hold him in your arms as you slowly start to push one finger in, to which wooyoung moaned whorishly. you licked and bit at his ear as you pushed your finger deeper and deeper by the second.

this was so good. you were so good. wooyoung loves it, his body burned as his vision became hazy, this was dizzying, but he fucking loved it.

he moaned out as you put a second finger in, scissoring his insides. he let out a yelp and arched his back before falling back onto the bed.

"hey, hey, hey... shh, we gotta be quiet love," you curled your fingers and pumped in and out expertly. wooyoung shut his eyes as he whined, a tear slipping out from the pleasure.

you cooed at him, kissing the tear away as you put another finger in. wooyoung gripped your arms, seeing stars. his toes curled as his entire body shook, "oh- faster... please!" you did as told and pumped in faster and faster.

wooyoung wrapped his arms around your head, pulling you into his chest. you sucked and licked at him chest, biting down making him moan. "'m c-close..."

you kissed him lovingly as he came, moaning into your mouth. as you pulled your finger out, his body twitched and shook with every little touch. "so cute..." you mumbled as you brush the hair sticking to his forehead.

for a second you hesitated, "are you sure we should keep going? you look kinda- uh, how should i put this?" he laughed as he pulled you in for another kiss.

"hehe, i wanna keep going... i want you to fucking ruin me." he whispered with heart-eyes. god, you were so easy to sway as you immediately lined your cock up.

"this'll hurt, okay?" you peck his cheek, right under his mole. you held his hips steadily as you slowly pushed in. wooyoung put a hand over his mouth as he moaned, "can i?" he nodded reassuringly as you pushed in in one go. wooyoung threw his head back as you started pushing in and out at an agonising pace, he moaned and gripped the sheets, "o-okay... you can go faster."

your hip immediately snap forward, hitting his prostate. "o-oh! right there- oh my god..." you began fucking him at an inhumane speed. kissing him every now and then.

"hyunggg~ yeah, faster!" you pressed your forehead against his as you pounded him with all your might. "i-i can't believe you're actually fucking me right now..." he smiled sweetly at you.

"oh darling, i'll make you believe it." you put his legs over your shoulders, folding him in half, before fucking him again. with each thrust, the tip of your cock hitting at his prostate.

wooyoung moaned wantonly over and over, he couldn't believe this. you were actually here, fucking him. he never thought he'd get laid, and mostly not by you. he made grabby-hands at you as you leaned down, capturing his mouth in a hot make out.

he pulled away and held you close, "fuck! i'm gonna cum soon-" "me too, woo." you groaned as his walls clamped down on you, it felt so fucking good. "should i pull out-" "no!" he pulled you in,

"cum inside me! fill me up, fill me with your babies-!" he stuck his tongue out, drool dripping from his mouth as you kissed and sucked at his neck, squeezing out more moans from the boy.

"o-oh! i'm gonna cum-" just then, you squeezed his cock with your hand, "no, you'll wait until i cum too." you smirked evilly as he cried out, nails trailing down your back. "please, hyung-! let me- let me cummm!" wooyoung whined before you spoke,

"'m close, baby..." you kissed him hungrily as he clawed at your back, you smiled into the kiss, that better leave a mark. after a few more thrusts, you released your hold on his cock as you came inside him,

he followed as his came in thick white ropes across his chest. "y-you're still going!?" wooyoung's eyes widen in shock at your never ending cum. he moaned as his stomach became swollen, soon after you pulled out.

you laid back beside wooyoung as he curled up against you happily. you kissed his forehead, and pull the covers up.

"can we go again?"

©BRRRKDSLEK 2023

[cwritesforfun]

Art Donaldson x Fem!Reader: Soulmates

I haven't written a soulmate fanfic in a while and wanted to... so you and your soulmate can hear each other's thoughts starting at the age of 18. You can only communicate back and forth if you're within 3 miles/5km of each other. Idk why I used 3 miles/5km, but I did. HEHE Y/N = Your Name SOULMATE'S THOUGHTS ARE IN BOLD ITALICS - if they're back and forth, it'll have their initials:) ** I do not own any of the Challengers characters or plot

Masterlist

Y/N's POV

The day after you turned 18, the thoughts of your soulmate filled your brain. You could hear his voice saying the thoughts and the stress he seemed to be under.

After two weeks, you know a lot about him. He has a best friend named Patrick, flirts with a girl named Tashi, goes to Stanford, and plays tennis. His name was something you hadn't figured out yet. It's too bad he doesn't think about his name lol...

You go through 3 years hearing his thoughts and you like him a lot. He seems sweet and caring. His name is Art. He went through a positive affirmation stage and he would say his name in his brain like Art, you are good and kind. It was kind of funny.

Your parents would think you were crazy if you flew to Stanford for him. But you don't care... you want to meet him... your only hope is that Art stays on campus for spring break.

You arrive at the San Francisco airport, rent a car, and drive to Stanford. You see a grocery store and run in to grab flowers to give to Art. Men deserve flowers too... or at least you think Art deserves them... your thoughts may change after you get to know him, but maybe not.

You look up where the campus tennis courts are and you drive over there. You find visitor parking nearby and rush over to the courts.

(A = Art)

A - I hate today. Y/N - Wait can you hear this, Art? A - Uh Y/N what? Why can I hear you? Y/N - I'm at Stanford outside of the tennis court. You think about Stanford tennis a lot and I'm on spring break. So I flew here. A - Where are you exactly? There are so many people. Y/N - Not by the college tours, but I can see them! I'm by one of the doors and I have flowers.

One of the guys that has fluffy blond hair looks directly at you and smiles.

A - Walk over. You can sit over here by my stuff until I'm done. I have to finish this practice with my Coach or he'll be mad. Y/N - Ok.

You walk over to where Art is, he smiles at you as you sit down on the bench, and he returns to playing. You watch him as he plays. He's fascinating to watch and he's cute.

A - Stop thinking about how attractive I am. It's throwing me off. Y/N - Oh shit sorry, but you're cute. A - Thanks, you're cute too.

You open the book in your bag and focus on that instead.

You hear, "Hi Y/N." You look up and see Art smiling down at you. You smile, stand, and say, "Hi Art. I brought you these flowers. I think you deserve them." He smiles and his cheeks flush bright pink. It makes you smile as he takes them. He says, "I've never had a girl buy me flowers before. It's nice. Thank you. If I had known you were going to be here, I would've had some for you." You reply, "That's okay. There is always next time. I'm surprised Tashi hasn't bought you any. You seem to like her." He asks, "Are you jealous? You weren't in my life yet... She no longer matters though. Only you do." You reply, "I was a little jealous, but I understood... should we leave the tennis court or should we stay here all day? He laughs and answers, "Come on, let's go eat lunch. Are you hungry actually?" You answer, "Yeah I am." He grabs his bag, holds his hand out to hold out my hand which I take, and then we walk to his on-campus dining hall. He tells me about these chicken burritos and churros that he likes, so he gets me lunch. The campus is pretty empty, so the dining hall is only half full. You both sit next to each other near a window and you start eating.

Art asks, "So what made you decide to fly out to see me?" You answer, "I don't know. I hear everyone talk about their soulmates or dating. I just wanted to meet you because I wasn't doing anything for this break and I've been saving money up for travel in general. So I chose to spend my break here trying to find you, which I did fairly quickly." He replies, "That's kind of crazy, but I would've done the same thing to find you one day... I like having your thoughts in my head, but I was hoping we just miraculously ran into each other on a random day." You reply, "I can leave the building and re-enter pretending this is random." He laughs and says, "Please don't. I like spending time with you and that would mean you leaving." You smile and reply, "I really do find you cute by the way, sorry for thinking that while you were playing tennis." He smiles and says, "Yeah it was distracting hearing about my hair bouncing in the wind and my piercing eyes as I played." You smile and say, "It was nice to watch. I've never really watched or played tennis before." He asks, "Oh I'm glad you liked it. What sports did you play growing up or now?" You answer, "I did track and field for a while. Now I run for fun without competition or stressing out over my run time." He replies, "Cool."

You & Art talk for a while. You give him your number before you head to your hotel. He offered for you to stay with him in his dorm room, but you just met him and you like your alone time.

You take a shower and put on a different outfit. You relax and watch TV. Art said he had something he had to do this afternoon, but he wanted to take you to dinner.

Art texts you when he is on the way and you wait in the lobby until he texts that he arrived. You see him leaning against his car smiling and holding flowers.

Y/N - He is so cute. A - Thanks, you look beautiful.

You reach Art, he hands you the flowers, and you give him a side hug. You notice a box of chocolates and a bag of chips in the passenger seat. Art says, "I wanted you to have a few snacks for the week. I've heard you think about these both. You do like them, right?" You smile and say, "Yes I do."

You arrive at an Italian restaurant and you're seated outside. You enjoy the time talking and just getting to know each other better.

You hear, "Art? Are you on a date?" You see a girl staring at you with a guy next to her. Art says, "I am, Tashi. I see you're on one with Patrick."

Y/N - So this is the famous Tashi. A - I swear I don't like her anymore like that. Y/N - She's really hot. A - You're hotter. Y/N - You're hot too.

Patrick asks, "When did you start dating? And why are you blushing like that, Art? I thought you would've introduced us to someone that makes you feel like that." Art answers, "This is my soulmate, Y/N. She flew here to meet me and we're dating, yes. Y/N, this is Tashi and Patrick. Tashi is on the Stanford tennis team as well. Patrick has been my best friend for years and he also plays tennis." You wave and say, "Hi, nice to meet you both." Tashi replies, "That's crazy. How did you find him?" You answer, "Uh well Art has thought about Stanford tennis quite a bit so I assumed he was on the team. I flew here and just hoped he would be here for my spring break. I bought him flowers and I found him on the tennis court." Patrick replies, "What a coincidence that he was here and you knew that... flying here feels like something loverboy Art would do." You laugh and ask, "Is that like a nickname you have for him?" Patrick answers, "Art just gives his all in relationships and buys flowers all the time. It's nice to see that already being reciprocated." Art says, "Thanks, Patrick. That's actually really kind of you to say." Patrick says, "Oh also Y/N, he likes physical touch a lot. He will get very clingy. That is my warning to you now." You laugh and reply, "Ok thank you."

Patrick and Tashi head out... you and Art finish your dinner.

You spend the next week together when Art is not practicing. You explore parks, restaurants, coffee shops, and other random places. You enjoy getting to know him and Patrick was right, Art loves physical touch. Once you told Art that holding your hand was okay, you hold hands almost every minute you're together. You go out dancing with Tashi and Patrick where Art has his arm around your waist the whole night. You check out of your hotel early and stay with Art in his dorm room the rest of your break... it only took you three days to cave to Art's puppy dog eyes begging you to stay with him. He doesn't have a roommate, which thank goodness... He cuddles with you and he always is holding you. He's cute.

Masterlist

[tabithatwo]

i'm all the way in my jackie nat feelings, so if anyone wants to take a walk down alive milf natalie and alive milf jackie lane, here's a contextless snippet from chapter 18 of my post s1 divergence, surpise, jackie was alive the whole time but only lottie and van knew, adult timeline fic called always be my baby. if you haven't read but you need a jackienat conversation, i think you should be able to follow along well enough. if you're planning on reading, this doesn't really spoil much plot. they're so fucking special to me it hurts!

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3

She was making her way down the hall opposite Van and Tai’s room to make sure the large picture window at the end of it was latched tight when she heard it.

A muffled cry from behind a closed door. Jackie paused and listened—gasping breaths, quiet sobs.

Natalie.

Fuck.

Jackie sent a quick text to Shauna—Checking on Nat real quick, will be up soon. Don’t worry xx—and knocked gently on the door.

The cries stopped and blankets rustled.

“Natalie?” Jackie’s hand was still raised, hovering near the doorknob. She was going in no matter what. She’d use the master key that hung on the door of the pantry if she had to, she wasn’t leaving her to cry alone after she took a fucking rifle to herself last week, but she’d much rather Nat invite her in. “It’s me…can I come in?”

A loud sniffle and an exasperated exhale.

“It’s open.”

Nat’s voice was strained, her words slurred. Jackie pushed the door open slowly, peering around it to get an idea of what she was walking into.

Nat hadn’t washed her makeup off—black rimmed her eyes and trailed down her cheeks. There were gaps in it, finger marks where she’d smudged it as she tried to wipe it away. She was still in her clothes, a worn band tee and black jeans that clung to her thin frame, and she was laying with her head toward the foot of the bed, her legs extended straight up against the wall. She looked at Jackie upside down, the top of her head digging into the mattress and her chin tilting into the air.

Her right arm hung off the bed, her fingers absently grazing the neck of an empty bottle of chardonnay that sat abandoned on the persian rug. There was a nearly-empty roll of toilet paper next to her left hip and used tissues littered the nightstand and the floor.

“I’ll never get used to seeing you walk through the fucking door,” Nat rasped. “Like looking at a goddamn dream.”

Jackie stepped inside, shutting the door behind her.

“I don’t think you’re the only one who feels that way.”

“Mmm, bet not,” Nat agreed, relaxing into the bed again, her face obscured by a tangle of dark brown hair. One-dimensional—a box-dye job, one Jackie had given herself in gas station bathrooms and airport hotels.

Jackie walked around to the other side of the bed and slipped in, mirroring Nat’s position, their feet next to each other against the light green wall. She looked at Nat, cheek resting on the thick blanket, and Nat did the same, one brow arched.

“Are you okay, Natalie?” Jackie tried to keep her tone casual. Tried to sound more like hey, what’s going on than are you going to off yourself?

Nat chuckled, but the laughter in it was overpowered by the thick, painful sound in her throat.

“I’m not gonna kill myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Well.

“Happy to hear that,” Jackie gave her a small, sad smile, “but I’m asking about more than just that, y’know.”

“Yeah,” Nat sighed, shifting her gaze back to the ceiling, “I know.”

She smelled like alcohol and cigarettes and heady, earthy perfume. Jackie traced one of the black lines on her cheek with her eyes, following it all the way to her earlobe, and she waited. Waited like she had with Shauna last night, like she had with Taissa moments ago. Sometimes silence was what they needed—these beautiful, tortured, stubborn women who hated communicating their fucking feelings more than just about anything else.

A fresh tear followed the path of the black streak. Natalie’s lower lip twitched. She threw her arm over her face, burying her eyes behind her elbow, just in time to hide the sobs that wracked through her. Jackie wanted to hold her. She wished she could wrap her up and squeeze her tight, but this was Nat. There was no fucking way she wouldn’t get shoved off the bed.

“I just liked knowing he was out there somewhere,” Nat said suddenly. “He was a fucking…asshole—” she choked on the word, “but he was…just fucking there, y’know?”

Nat’s hand laid flat on the bed between them. Jackie brushed it with her own and, when Nat didn’t flinch away, she wrapped her fingers around Nat’s.

“Yeah,” Jackie whispered, “I know what you mean.”

“And Lottie is just…God,” Nat laughed, something close to a bark, “fucking crazy Lottie. I had them, though. And now he’s dead and she’s out of her goddamn mind and Tai is…Tai. She’s always fucking…busy working or…or cutting her dog’s fucking head off and I—”

Nat’s whole body shook with effort as she took a slow, controlled inhale.

“He was the last one I was connected to and he’s dead and maybe I’m a selfish cunt but it just…fucking sucks.”

Natalie uncovered her face, snatching her hand out from under Jackie’s to tear off a wad of toilet paper. She blew her nose roughly and tossed it aside. They looked at each other again, Jackie’s eyes glassy with sympathy.

“I’ll be connected to you,” Jackie said quickly. “I know it isn’t the same. But…I’ll be connected to you. I want to be, I mean. I’m…I care about you, Natalie. So much.”

I love you, Jackie finished in her head. I love you and I missed you and I understand you and I’m so fucking sorry I wasn’t there for you.

Nat blinked at her a few times.

“God, you’re a lot,” she said, lips pursed to hide a grin.

“I know,” Jackie smiled.

Close enough. This was close enough to reluctant acceptance for now. Jackie would take it.

“What’re you doing up, anyway?” Nat asked, running a flat palm roughly over her cheek.

“Nightmare,” Jackie answered, giving Nat the information she’d withheld from Tai and Van, offering her some vulnerability. “Shauna woke me up because I was…loud, I think. Talking and crying. Came down for something to eat.”

Nat nodded silently, giving Jackie a once-over.

“You’re in Shauna’s shirt and no fucking pants,” she smirked, rolling her eyes. “It’s really like we’re living out what our twenties would’ve been.”

Nat didn’t have to specify—Jackie knew exactly what she meant. All of them together, packed into cars and hotel rooms and vacation homes, drinking and laughing and arguing and fucking. If you stripped it down, took out the murder and the mess of it all, it was what they would’ve been. No crash. Or maybe…maybe post-crash. Post-crash, if they got rescued before everything went to absolute shit. Trauma bonded. Connected. Them against the world.

“Yeah,” Jackie sighed. “Do you think we would’ve been friends?”

Nat looked guarded—she hit Jackie with that suspicious look, the one that said she felt like something was expected of her. Too much at once. Jackie opened her mouth to smooth it over, but Nat’s expression softened. Her eyes went soft and hazy. She looked heavy with booze, suddenly, like she’d stopped pretending to be more sober than she was.

“Yeah. I think so.”

Jackie chewed her lip.

“I’m sorry. For…I’m sorry for hurting you. For being a…well, a total fucking bitch to you, really. Back then. It wasn’t fair.”

Nat snorted and shook her head.

“That water is so far under the fucking bridge, Jackie,” Nat scrubbed a hand over her face and let her arm fall above her head. “Stupid fucking kid shit. I wasn’t exactly an angel. But thanks.”

“I think you kind of were,” Jackie shrugged, “all things considered.”

Nat shook her foot back and forth quickly, black nail polish showing through a worn spot in the blue wool of her sock, her pinky toe hitting the wall and rebounding steadily.

“You think that about everybody. You’re in love with fucking Shauna.”

“That doesn’t mean I think she’s an angel,” Jackie laughed, “trust me.”

Three quiet knocks. Jackie and Nat both tilted their chins up, eyes on the door, like Nat had when Jackie first came in.

“Yeah?” Nat called.

Shauna pushed the door open and stepped inside, a tray in one hand. Unlike Jackie, she’d actually thought to put pajama bottoms on. She hovered in the doorway for a moment.

“And if you’re like a fucking dream walking in,” Nat grumbled to Jackie, “this one’s a nightmare.”

“Natalie,” Jackie snapped, slapping her shoulder gently before sitting up and turning around.

“A nightmare that cooked your ungrateful ass dinner,” Shauna sat down on the bed in front of Jackie and Nat swung herself up to face them, “and brought you dessert in bed.”

She set the tray between them, three forks laying on the edge.

“Alright,” Nat said, picking up a fork and tearing away a particularly large slice of apple, “you can stay. But only until this is gone.”

“Wow, so generous of you.”

Shauna handed Jackie a fork purposefully, without breaking eye contact with Nat. She was trying not to draw attention to it—to deal in subtleties and keep Jackie’s confidence. Shauna had always been good at that.

Jackie took steady bites, timing them with Natalie’s and Shauna’s, lifting her fork as one of them did, chewing with them, swallowing it down in tandem—something she learned to do with Van years ago.

Jackie mostly listened, chiming in only occasionally, while they each made snide comments and biting jokes at the other’s expense. As Shauna and Nat pretended not to care about each other, the mood in the room lifted. It felt safe. It felt like home, watching them spar lazily with their forks, like they were fighting over a particularly sweet bite, when really Jackie knew they were stalling, making sure to leave more food for her.

When they were finished, Nat waved off Jackie’s foolhardy offer—one that Shauna didn’t protest, one she went momentarily quiet and supportive and serious for—to have her come sleep in the large bed upstairs with them.

[fcundaticnsofdecay]

status: closed

pairing: every & ezra

based: things we plotted

@darkwants

it was almost funny how one small thing could impact the trajectory of your life.

something was simple as a single phone call could crack the world wide open and turn it upside down. a friend of hers from culinary school had some kind of family emergency. the issue was that he had a restaurant that still needed to be run. he had called everly begging her to come help him and she had agreed. she had booked herself a flight and promised to be there as soon as she could. everything had been so fast and she hadn't even realized she hadn't let ezra know. she had been rushing through the airport in order to make it. it had been by the skin of her teeth that she got there before they finished boarding.

flying was something she had done time and time again. especially when she had finished with culinary school. she figured that nothing could go wrong. she had been trying to figure out how she was going to approach the whole situation at the restaurant. eventually landing on just reading a book before she ended up drifting off. when she woke it was to the older woman sitting next to her, trying to get the mask onto her. in an instant she was glancing around to see the chaos going on around her. people were screaming and crying. she could see a man clutching at his wife and son a few rows up on the other side. the first person who had come to her mind was ezra and how she wasn't ever going to see him again.

the plane ended up going down in what seemed like the middle of no where. there was nothing but trees and she had been knocked out upon impact. again she woke only to smell smoke and hear more screaming. the woman who had been beside her was no longer there. she was scrambling to undo her seatbelt and rushing to get out. yet the moment she moved, her left leg screamed in protest. she cried out as she looked down only to see a piece of glass lodged into the meat of her thigh. yet she forced herself to keep going, yelling to see if anyone was near.

that had been a matter of nine months ago. nine months of struggling to survive and thinking help would never come. out of everyone on the flight only a handful had survived. the black box had been destroyed in the crash. no one had any idea where they were. each day had been a struggle to survive, find food, fresh water etc. the day the helicopter showed up everly had been half certain it was a dream. she remembered being carried onto a gurney, someone telling her she was going to be alright. her first instinct was to fight, trying to push away at the hands while crying out for them to stop.

the clean white walls of the hospital were the next thing that she was greeted with. that and the sight of her grandmother who was perched on the chair beside the bed. there were so many machines all around her and she realized that she was in a hospital gown. for the first time in months she felt clean. yet that was when it all registered and she quickly began to look around for ezra," grandma? wheres-where is ezra? where is he?" her voice was hoarse but that didn't stop her from screaming. the panic hitting as she realized the one person she wanted wasn't there. her grandma was trying to shush her but the doctors were getting in the way in order to adiminster a sedative.

hours went by and while she was knocked out, her grandmother found a phone to use. cell phones were too much of a bother for the old woman. ezra had given her, his number and in an instant she was demanding he get back to the hospital. he had been the one to drop her off which everly didn't know. the next time she woke, she still saw that the room was empty save for her grandma. the panic hit again and there was no stopping her from screaming again. her grandma was instantly snapping at the nurses and everything seemed to go in slow motion the moment the door was pushed open. a sob bubbled up her throat as she tried to wipe at her face," ezra-ezra! you-you weren't-you weren't here!"

[hxzxrdous]

WAitt omggg how about a student working as an apprentice or smth at CIA and Lorraine is her mentor ???

Atomic Blonde

Platonic Lorraine Broughton x teen!reader

TW: A smol panic attack, :) maybe a warning that I was trying to be funny but failed?

Summary: Basically the plot of the whole movie except the reader unknowingly saves the day, yaay ‼

THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT

"Well, ladies, I hope you're ready for this," The MI6 superior, Eric Gray said, taking a deep breath as he began to brief Lorraine and you on the situation in Berlin and the death of Gasciogne.

"...We promised Spyglass immunity in exchange for a document on microfilm, code-named The List." Gray spoke, pointing behind him at the projected images.

"Hidden in a Swiss watch, no less." Head of MI6, James Faulkner added, shifting in the leather armchair.

"The list contains every active clandenstine officer, all their shady deals. It's an atomic bomb of information that could extend the Cold War for another 40 years. You two will fly over to Berlin and connect with our man, David Percival. Get the list, bring it here and trust no one."

Lorrained looked over at you and back at Gray. "What's the deal with the kid? She'll have to go with me?"

"Indeed she will. Y/N's fresh out of high school, she applied through the new undergraduate scholarship program we're offering. She's going to be your intern and you're going to be her mentor." Gray replied giving Lorraine a file.

"You should know that sending somebody so young and inexperienced into a job like this puts all our lives at risk, especially hers. She's not ready to be here and I won't have her anywhere near me, especially while I'm working." Lorraine spoke in her distinct British accent, her grip tightening around the file. "And I didn't sign up to be a babysitter."

Gray maintained his composure and replied, "She may not have extensive experience, but she received training from her father, Emmet Kurzfeld." He gestured for Lorraine to open the file, emphasizing the information contained within.

"Y/N Kurzfeld?" Lorraine mused and lifted her eyebrow as she glanced at the file. "Nepotism on a whole another level." She muttered. You gulped down nervously, your eyes fixed on the floor.

Lorraine sighed, pointing to you with her index finger. "You're going to watch me while I work. You are not going to get involved and you are not going to do anything without my explicit permission. Is that perfectly clear? I need to know you understand what I'm saying, Y/N."

"Yes, ma'am, I understand. I won't cause any troubles, I promise," you quickly replied, nodding your head.

"You're Elizabeth Lloyd, a Cambridge-educated lawyer sent by James Gasciogne's family." Gray handed Lorraine the forged ID and passport and then turned his attention towards you.

"You, Y/N, you will recieve your cover documentation tomorrow. You'll go to Berlin two days after agent Broughton, you'll communicate with eachother only if necessary. Your role will be to observe her activities from a distance."

"And keep an eye out for Satchel, a KBD double agent who has been MI6's problem for years." 'C' added, tapping the armrest in frustration. "An absolute pain in the ass."

Two days later; location: Berlin - airport

Arriving in Berlin in the evening, Lorraine picked you up from the airport. "Brown suits you, ma'am," you remarked, admiring her wig. "Thank you, Y/N. And feel free to call me Lorraine," she replied, raising an eyebrow. "Come along now, I'll arrange for a taxi to take us to the hotel," she added, taking hold of your suitcase. "Will I have my own room?" you asked as you got into the taxi. "Certainly. But don't get too excited; it's right next to mine. If you cause any trouble, I'll be the first to know," Lorraine responded, casting a stern look your way before adjusting her sunglasses.

Upon entering the hotel, Lorraine immediately parted ways with you in the lobby. You glanced around, taking in the surroundings, while she headed off. Your gaze fell to the vibrant green carpet, marred slightly by the presence of an eye-catching orange couch. "Um, I have a room reservation under Monika Weber." You showed the girl at the front desk the forged ID, offering an innocent smile. The receptionist handed you the room keys, her feet finding their way back up onto the desk. "Enjoy your stay," she replied, her attention drifting back to the Bravo magazine, or more accurately, the captivating image of Modern Talking gracing its cover.

Walking down the hallway and into your room, you closed the curtains and began unpacking your suitcase. Startled by a knock at the door, you called out, "Who's there?"

"It's me, Lorraine," came the reply from the hallway. "Oh, right," you responded, opening the door and finding yourself taken aback by the sight of Lorraine in an elegant black dress.

"Are you going out? Can I come with you?" you asked, hoping for a positive response. "No, pumpkin. The club I'm heading to is strictly for those above 18 years old," she explained, placing her room keys behind the red lava lamp on your table.

"Haha, so funny... I thought people can't drink while working." You replied sarcastically. "Besides... I'm not really into partying anyway. Maybe you could at least read me a bedtime story before you go?" you suggested, crossing your arms and adopting a sarcastic tone again.

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" Lorraine smirked before turning and leaving. Rolling your eyes, you moved the lava lamp when something caught your attention—Lorraine had forgotten her room keys. Observing her blonde hair disappearing swiftly out of the hotel, you contemplated for a moment before deciding to seize the opportunity. Quietly, you tiptoed towards her room, clutching the keys.

"I bet she has a rad wardrobe." You thought to yourself. With a sense of curiosity, you opened the closet, tempted to try on some of Lorraine's coats. The black ones, in particular were really bitchin', bad to the bone. You chose the first one that caught your eye, slipping it on and relishing the feel of the fabric against your skin. However, as you explored the coat's pockets, your hands accidentally came into contact with a wire-like object, causing it to snap. Panic coursed through you as you hurriedly returned the coat to its place, desperately hoping that Lorraine wouldn't discover the damage you had caused to her spying equipment. With a sense of guilt, you retraced your steps back to your room, carefully returning the keys to the spot where Lorraine had left them, before climbing into bed.

As you were beginning to drift off to sleep, several hours later, you heard the sound of Lorraine entering your hotel room and retrieving her keys. "Goodnight, Y/N," she whispered softly before leaving.

Next, morning; location: Your hotel room

You awoke early in the morning, still battling with jet lag and feeling a lingering sense of tiredness. As you opened your eyes, you were greeted by the sight of a brown-haired woman standing at the foot of your bed. "Jesus, Lorraine, barf me out." You sat up, rubbing your eyes.

"I apologize, dear. It's just force of habit," Lorraine responded, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. She placed some snacks and money on your bedside table. "I brought you some snacks from the lobby. If you get hungry or thirsty, just call for room service."

"Do you have brown eye contacts?" You squinted at her, tilting your head curiosly. "Yeah, I have to go see what I'm up against in the east, therefore the disguise." She explained with a smirk. "That's really not fair. Everything suits you," you remarked, a tinge of envy in your voice.

"Um... Lorraine- would you be angry if I like... accidentally... broke... the wire in your coat?" you finally mustered the courage to confess, averting your gaze and staring at the floor.

"The wire? What wire?" Lorraine inquired, raising an eyebrow. However, after a moment, she sighed. "Well, no, I'm not mad. Accidents happen. I'll be back in the evening. Stay here, watch some TV, or maybe go chat with that girl at the front desk. I think she's around your age," she suggested before leaving once again.

"Internship, bullshit. More like boringship. Scam. Bogus." You muttered under your breath. You walked into the lobby, sitting down beside the front desk girl who was listening to her walkman on the tacky orange couch.

"Want a gummi?" she offered, extending a red pack of Hitschler's bubble gum to you. With a shrug of your shoulders, you nodded and accepted. "My name's Klara," she introduced herself with a slight smile. "So, what brings you here all alone?" Klara inquired, her German accent coloring her words.

"My father's side of the family is German, but due to the Cold War, I haven't been able to see my grandparents for a long time. I decided to... you know... get to know Berlin before they come to pick me up next week," you explained. "Get to know Berlin," she echoed, blowing a bubble with her gum and popping it. "Berlin ist eine Stadt, verdammt dazu, ewig zu werden, niemals zu sein," she said cryptically. "Thank God we have music." Klara stood up, offering you her walkman. "Need Your Passion by Sweet Connection." She pointed at the walkman before you listened to the tape. You spent your whole day talking about music with Klara, while enjoying the snacks left behind by Lorraine, and watching MTV in the lobby.

Morning; location: Still your hotel room, hun

You woke up in the morning with a pounding headache. "Hey, Lorraine, I think I have a migr-" Your words trailed off as you took in the unexpected sight before you. Your hand flew to your mouth in surprise as you saw Lorraine in bed with a young woman. "Uh... I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry... Please... continue?" you stammered, your face flushing with embarrassment. You quickly closed the door, berating yourself for your poor choice of words, and retreated back to your room. Anticipating an uncomfortable conversation, you locked the door, hoping Lorraine wouldn't bother you.

"Y/N?" you heard her call after you. "I don't want to talk!" you replied from inside the room, your voice laced with frustration. "Y/N, please..." Lorraine's voice carried a mix of sternness and tenderness. "Is this some new spying technique or something?" you couldn't help but inject sarcasm into your words.

"I... Her name's Delphine Lasalle. She's a new French agent. We can trust her," Lorraine explained. "You know, I'm not bothered by her... I just feel embarrassed that I saw..." you began, your voice trailing off.

"It's fine. It's not your fault. I forgot to lock the doors and change the 'do not disturb' sign. It just happened so quickly... and... yeah," Lorraine interjected, understanding the mix of emotions swirling within you.

"Could you at least introduce me to your new 'source'?" you asked, deciding to open the door and unlock it. Lorraine smiled and nodded. "I'm meeting with your father later. If you want, you can come with me?" she offered.

"Good for you, but I'd rather stay here," you replied, choosing to remain in the room.

"That's alright. Tomorrow, I'll be busy again. I have to get Spyglass across the border. The Russians are after him because he memorized the whole list." Lorraine ruffled your hair before saying goodbye.

 

Next day; location: Hotel lobby

Amidst your daydreams, Klara's voice jolted you back to reality. "East Berlin peace leaders have organized a demonstration today at Alexanderplatz. Want to come with me?" she asked. "Sure," you nodded, grateful for the distraction. Klara noticed your pensive expression and inquired, "What's on your mind, Monika?"

You paused for a moment, contemplating your response. "I don't know... I guess I can't wait to see my grandparents again. I miss them so much," you hated lying, but that was your work. You can't trust anybody. Sensing your longing, Klara offered her support. "I'm just about to finish my shift. Let me distract you and help you get ready for the protest," she suggested, standing up from her desk.

Later, the same day; location: Alexanderplatz

"So many people-" you looked around the crowded street. "I don't like it one bit, I can't see sh*t." You said to Klara when you noticed the familiar blonde a few meters before you, walking along with Spyglass. Suddenly, a piercing whistle cut through the air, prompting everyone to open their umbrellas. You sensed that something was about to happen, and your anxiety began to rise. The crowd seemed to close in around you, intensifying the feeling of being trapped.

"Not now- not now- Christ-" you thought to yourself, your vision getting blurry from the tears that threatened to fall when you bumped into a guy, recognizig him as Percival. "I'm so sorry, sir!" you blurted out, realizing that he was aiming the gun towards Spyglass, you noticed hus gun had fallen out of his pocket. Overwhelmed by panic, you made a split-second decision and decided to run in the opposite direction, making your way back to the hotel.

"What the f*ck," you whispered to yourself, trying to steady your breathing, but finding little success. You picked up the lava lamp from the table, fixating your gaze on it as a means of distraction. Sinking down to the floor, you leaned against the wall, hugging your knees tightly. Exhaustion washed over you, and before you knew it, you drifted off to sleep right there.

"Y/N?" Lorraine knocked on the door, entering inside when she didn't hear your answer. "Y/N?" She crouched down infront of you. "What happened, Lorraine?" You asked, lifting your head up, rubbing your eyes. "I'm fine. You saved Spyglass from a bullet, I was able to get him across safely. You're going to tell MI6 he is dead, alright? But now it's my turn to ask: what happened to you?"." Lorraine expression turned to worry.

You shrugged your shoulders, unsure of how to put your emotions into words. "A friend invited me to the protest, but I started feeling overwhelmed by the crowd and the umbrellas," you explained.

Lorraine's concern deepened as she assessed your well-being. "Are you feeling better now?" she inquired gently.

"Yeah, I think so... You should go retrieve The List. I think we both know who has it," you responded, mustering determination. Slowly standing up, you added, "Maybe I'll go spend some time with Delphine in the meantime?"

Later in the evening; location: Delphine's apartment

"Um- where's the toilet, Delphine?" You asked, clutching your lower belly. Feeling a chill, you closed the window that was wide open. "Right there on the left." Delphine replied, pointing the way. As you entered the toilet, the realization dawned upon you, explaining both your migraine and emotional state.

"Um, Delphine, do you have any pads!?" you called out, feeling a slight blush creeping up your cheeks.

"No, I'm sorry. Want me to go to the store to buy them for you?" She offered. "Yes, please, I'll just wait here..."

About hundred years later; location: Still in the WC-

"f*cking sh*t..." you cursed under your breath as you waited in the toilet for God knows how long. What was taking her so long? Finally you heard Delphine come back, with Lorraine. You cracked the door open enough for Delphine to pass the pad through.

"I've got the list. Percival is dead." Lorraine said, her voice carrying through the hallway as she spoke with Delphine.

"And I can provide you with the photos and tapes that prove Percival was Satchel." Delphine responded. You rolled your eyes, knowing damn well who the true Satchel was.

"I would have never guessed it was Percival," you commented as you stepped out of the toilet. "Can we leave Berlin now?"

Lorraine considered your question before nodding. "Yes, it's time to get out of here. We have what we need, and it's best to make our move."

 A week later; location: MI6 headquarters - interrogation room

"Percival was Satchel." Lorraine said. You observed the tense atmosphere in the interrogation room as Gray pressed Lorraine about the whereabouts of The List. "Where's the list? Where's the list Lorraine?" Gray asked. Lorraine remained defiant, responding with a simple "I don't know."

Faulkner, stood up, stopping the recorder, entering the interrogation room. "We're choosing to bury this one, Lorraine," Faulkner declared firmly. "Your mission never took place. This conversation... never happened. We're putting you on leave. We'll start the next decade well rested... And as for Y/N, she informed us, she'll get a new internship elsewhere."

Three days later; location: Paris - plane

"No way- you killed Bremovych and his henchmen, and you managed for MI6 not to get The List?" you asked, looking out of the porthole, down at Paris and back at Lorraine. You couldn't help but reflect on the events that had unfolded. "Yes I did. You weren't that bad either." Lorraine spoke in her American accent. "She must've gotten that after you, boss." The blonde turned to your dad.

"Breaking the wire that Percival planted in my coat and saving Spyglass and Delphine." She smiled.

"Huh? I know about Spyglass but-" You tilted your head in confusion. "Percival was infront of Delphine's building, trying to get in throught the window, but he saw she wasn't inside. Percival had been on the hunt for Delphine, waiting for an opportunity to strike, knowing she was collecting proof that he was a traitor. He was waiting outside when I found him. Delphine arrived right after I killed him, told me they were out of 'lady products' in the store so she had to drive with her motorbike to a different one." Lorraine explained.

Delphine's unexpected detour to another store for supplies had unknowingly spared her from a potentially dangerous encounter. It was a reminder of how unpredictable and interconnected events could be, and how small actions could have significant consequences.

"That's rad... I still hate womanhood, though." You crossed your arms, frowning.

Lorraine chuckled softly at your comment. "Well, womanhood can be challenging at times, but it also comes with its own strengths and advantages," she said, her voice filled with a hint of wisdom. "You've already shown great courage and resourcefulness, Y/N. Don't let the challenges of womanhood discourage you. Embrace who you are and use it to your advantage." She spoke. "Like you." You added.

Notes: Need yourr passionnn, need yourrr loveee

[lovecolibri]

SaL anon here bestie and its Friday, I may or may not have had a few after work drinks, we got approximately 2 million stills today and a beenado is happening so its time for Unhinged Season Opener Theory Based on a Micron of Evidence. The best part?? I can do it for the most part without turning the opening disaster into Copaganda 2.0. So buckle up for some absolute nonsense my friend, I've got this opening disaster all figured out 😉.

So we know/expect that beenado is eventually going to become a problem for flights inbound to LA, which includes the one Athena is transporting a prisoner on. I'm guessing that's what the hanger of what looks like every LAFD station is about, all hands on deck to deal with whatever fate befalls the many incoming planes, including the 118's hands. But what if Athena's plane isn't among them?? What if in subduing her prisoner from whatever nonsense (obligatory 10 minutes of copaganda), he takes out the controls and the pilot and they're off course and nowhere near where the LAFD is expecting the majority of the planes to land?? Well there's one person not yet accounted for in this and that is Captain Bobby Nash.

So we know Bobby is trying his best to keep a fake firefighter show grounded, but how would that translate to an plane emergency?? So, hear me out on 3 points: 1) Tim has referenced paying tribute to another 70's disaster film and the film Airport 1975 involves landing a plane with no pilot. 2) Modern planes barely need a pilot, most of them fly on autopilot these days so if you can get that working in theory, and as far as the GA knows, life is good and landing will be safe more or less. 3) Tim may be referencing the 70's, but Hotshots is coincidentally also the name of a 90's movie that was also a spoof, specifically of Top Gun, so *mumble mumble* planes!! So while the LAFD is too busy to rescue Athena, Bobby has access to a fake firefighter show with budget enough to afford their own "rescue" plane (so meta indeed!!) and willing to indulge Bobby if they get both the credit and a few choice shots. All they have to do is get close enough to give some critical god-knows-what to Athena (maybe they use a drone, no idea) and have Bobby give the actors a few inspirational speeches to get through some minor rough patch or another and all ends well with the heads of the LAFD so impressed by Bobby's resourcefulness the beg him to come back (I mean, he looks like he's back in the captain's seat pretty early on).

Is any of this going to happen?? Highly unlikely. But if Tim's gonna resurrect every pre 80's movie out there to come up with his plots he can't expect me to take any of this seriously. So instead I'm gonna have some fun and come up with plots I truly hope aren't more sensible than what we actually get (but not holding my breath on this). Cheers friend, Happy Friday 🍸!!

Hello my friend! I'm a day late since we (for once) had people over for game night list night, but this was such fun speculation! I'm loving the other movie references, and all of that is better than the (unfortunately far more likely) scenario I envision playing out. Mostly I'm just bummed that the show hasn't learned it's lesson about opening disasters and gone back to what works, but who knows! Maybe I'll be proven wrong, but I'm not holding my breath.

I DO want to see Bobby, after being an absolute nightmare of technicalities on set, take over when an actual emergency happens and maybe commandeer some equipment. Bonus points if the actors he's been harping on actually work together with what he taught them to pull of a rescue.

NGL, I think Bobby's stuff is the only thing that's been mentioned so far that I'm actually excited to see. I think then Madney/Henren stuff is going to be good but painful, as is the Eddie stuff, and I'm still feeling very 🙄 about them promoting Buck being the center of the Gerrard shit. Which could play out well, but I'm WELL past giving this show the benefit of the doubt. They lost that privilege several seasons ago. So with all the angst, I'm legitimately excited about the Bobby stuff as it looks like it might actually be some fun.

Cheers, friend! We're almost there!

[deada55]

The Clicking of the Chain (The Silence of the Lambs Parody) (#1 of 2)

for kloktober day 11: horror movie crossover

It's a parody, not a crossover, and I used a lot of the original script for this sequence to make sure it 'accomplishes' similar things for the main plot. I've always wanted to do this sort of thing... I like doing kloktober pieces that are for me more than the audience, but I hope you enjoy this retelling of one of the most quoted scenes in The Silence of the Lambs featuring Charles Offdensen and Magnus Hammersmith.

tws: body fluids, sexual harassment

At the bottom of the stairs was a left turn into a dingy cream-colored space kin to a car rental window at a crusty regional airport. A bulletin board held seven year-old thank you cards and a sign-in sheet for personal visitors. From a slim staff door came a short man in his sixties in an Orioles ball cap and white coveralls and an extended hand.

“Hi, I’m Mashed Potato Johnson. He told you, don’t get near the bars?” Damien Cornickleson’s footsteps were still volleying down the stairwell.

“Charles Offdensen.” He took the handshake with a bit of a dip. ”Yes, he did.”

“Okay. Past the others, he’s in the last cell. Stay to the middle, now. I put out a chair for you.” He pointed through the door to the gray wall of the corridor, where there was a security camera mounted to the wall. “I’m watching. You’ll do fine.”

His even steps echoed down the dim corridor, lined on one side with cameras and the other with iron bars holding back men of all sorts of shapes and sizes and muttering. Right before he’d reached the end of the hall, a green, black, and white blur threw itself against the bars, bearing wet, darkly streaked, yellow teeth. The white cast on his face rubbed off on the iron, and his crudely-colored green mane of matted frizz was trapped in his grip on the lock. 

“Cocaine!”

Charles flinched hard enough to set his glasses off-kilter, but he only stalled on a single step before he was standing squarely in front of Magnus Hammersmith behind bars.

His cell was kept more lit, and had the addition of nylon netting on the exterior side of the bars. The inside of Magnus’ cell was covered in swaths of butcher paper decorated with black and white modern art patterns of various scales, with or without interlocking phantograms of all manners of polygons. 

Charles cleared his throat and lowered the briefcase in his hands. “Mr. Hammersmith, my name is Charles Offdensen. May I speak with you?”

Magnus looked up from his magazine, eyes shining behind the tight waves of his hair. His ankles stretched at least a foot past the hem of his hospital pajamas and his skin, historically photographed to be a warm medium tone, was bleached and dusty from the windowless basement floor. Despite the menacing angles of his face, his voice was indignant, not commanding.

“And good morning to you, too,” he sneered, then went back to his reading.

Charles took another step forward.

“Magnus, we’re having a hard time with a case, and we believe you might have some guiding information. Do you mind answering a short questionnaire?”

“ ‘We’ being the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico… But what’s a suit like you doing there? Huh? Fraud investigation wasn’t the thrill you expected?” He chuckled at his own joke and tossed the magazine on the floor with a resonant slap. “You’re one of Roy Cornickleson’s, I expect.”

“I am, yes.”

“Show me.”

Charles whipped his wallet out of his pocket and opened it to his IDs, holding them out in front of them.

“Closer, Charles. I have two eyes, but only one of them works.”

Charles clenched his teeth so he wouldn’t make a face and inched closer each time, but didn’t dare lean.

“Expires in a week. You’re not real FBI yet, are you?”

“I’m still in training at the Academy.” Charles pushed his glasses back up to his nose and squared his feet.

“Old Roy’s showing me off to a trainee? Well-”

“We’re talking about investigation, Magnus. You can decide for yourself if I’m qualified.”

“Smart, Officer Offdensen. Sit down.”

The rusted hinges of the chair bent when he sat down. If he were any heavier, he’d have been tipped into the floor. Magnus mirrored him and sat back down on his cot.

“Now, what did Rockzo say to you? Don’t look stupid– Dr. Rockzo, the Rock n’ Roll Clown in the next cell. He lunged at you. What did he say?”

“He said, uh, ‘cocaine’.”

“Of course he did. He does cocaine. Or did. Whatever. But you… you don’t have that kind of money, do you? You brought your best briefcase to see me today, didn’t you?”

Charles pulled at his tie before he remembered to stop himself. “Sure.”

“It’s better than your shoes, but not great. Not the cocaine type.”

“Not now, no.” Just like that, Magnus was out of things to say, and started to bounce his leg. The movement of his subway-sized foot was comical… if he had a pair of spoons in his hand, they’d click together nicely. The nervous bouncing on such a long, flimsy frame made him look like a dancing toy.

“Did you do those drawings?”

“Yes. Do you care much for contemporary art?”

“I’m not familiar… they allow you to keep a compass?” One of the works was a system of interlocking circles, some of them chained together in links, and others that looked like they were out of a spirograph.

“No. The scratching of the pen is what I have instead of a tune. Can’t let me get a hold on wood or string, can they?”

Charles looked down as if bowing his head in church before taking out a questionnaire from his briefcase. He held his chest higher.

“Magnus, if you’d please…”

“I’ve had my fair share of shrinks and investigators, Offdensen. You’ve been courteous, you’ve established trust and complimented my art, but this segue into your little survey is a bunch of bullshit. It’s boring, it’s stupid, and that’s not going to cut it.”

“I’m asking you to look at it. Either you will or you won’t.”

Magnus snorted and stretched his legs out in front of him, ankles crossed. “Roy Cornickleson must be strapped for time hunting down the ‘Metal Masked Assassin’ if he needs help from the likes of amateurs like you. Did he send you here to ask me about him?”

“No, I-”

“How many people has he used up so far, that Assassin?”

“Five, so far.”

“Flayed?”

“Partially, but that’s an active case, and I’m not involved, s–”

“Do you know why he’s called the Metal Masked Assassin? The newspapers don’t say.”

“I’ll tell you if you look over this form.” Charles passed it into a metal hatch which opened on Magnus’ side when the door to the outside was closed. Once Magnus picked it up, Charles began…

“It, uh, started as a joke, about wearing their faces, like that one movie…”

“And you can’t remember the title.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Right.” Magnus set the questionnaire on the cot beside him. “Show me what you have to offer. Why do you think he takes their skins, Officer Offdensen?”

“Uh, well, most serial killers take a trophy, sometimes for excitement or-”

“I didn’t.”

“You ate them.”

“So it would seem.” He smirked and picked the forms back up, only to begin tearing them in a frenzy that exploded out of nowhere but the air around them. As he struggled, his grunts and the struggling, shearing sounds of ripping copy paper volleyed in the stony ward.

“You think you’re so clever, so ambitious, don’t you Chuck? You’re a fraud dressed like a bourgeois bagman. Good nutrition has given you well-fleshed features, but you’re not more than one generation from salty white trash, are you? That New England accent you prune so delicately to hide all the junkiness of Maine fishmarkets– What was your father, huh? Did you have one, or did he roll from his bed into the sea like every other frozen drunk on his lobster boat? I bet the other boys without fathers found you just fine in locker rooms, with wound, wet towels and cracked lips, while all you could think about was a less physical path of being, of being at all… and power. Powerful as the F.B.I…”

“You see a lot, but are you strong enough to look at yourself? Write it on the piece of paper.”

“And you’d love it, wouldn’t you?”

“If you weren’t a coward.”

“You think you’re tough one, aren’t you?”

“... I decline to comment.”

“Oh, but you’d hate if I thought you were anything but superior! It’d break you to little fucking pieces. Don’t worry, Charles. If you hold your head high enough, everyone will assume you’re tall someday soon.”

“And the questions?”

Magnus turned his back. Charles leaned forward in his seat and slammed the door of the meal hatch open and shut again. Magnus was up and snarling at the bars in a flash. 

“A census taker once tried to test me, Charles. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti. I hope a degree from Harvard will help you piece together that fucking around making noise in a ward of prisioners and psychos won’t give you a bigger dick! Go back to school. The boys miss you!”

He retreated from the bars to stand in front of one of his works, and Charles took his invitation to leave.

“Ooh, hoo, hoo, hoo!… Dr. Rockzo don’t feel so good. Ohh, it hurts, it’s all infected, shit all over this mess, ooh-hoo! K-k-k-lookit-”

When Charles paused at the cry, he took half a load of semen into his face from Rockzo’s hand. While he howled, Magnus bellowed, “You stupid fucking clown!” Charles fumbled in his pockets for a frayed pink tissue and tried not to let the clown’s cum anywhere closer to his eyes and mouth. Just when he’d passed Dr. Rockzo’s cell and saw the light streaming in from the room he was in before, away from the din rising up in the corridor, he heard Magnus shouting above them all.

“Officer Offdensen!”

With burning eyes and sharp features as contorted and pinched as the acid-trip Devil that leads partygoers to slit their wrists or jump out of bedroom windows, Magnus stood again at the bars of his cell. Charles hurried himself back over, although he couldn’t see further than his armspan while he carefully wiped the body fluids off the lens of his glasses. 

The veins in Magnus’ neck were thick as snakes. “Look, I didn’t want that for you. Excretions are disgusting to me, and bad manners-”

“Then do the survey for me.”

“No, but I’ll do you one better. Advancement. Go to Split City, check on an old bandmate of mine, Ravenwood. Just like you think it’s spelled. Now leave. I don’t think Dr. Rockzo could manage again so soon, even if he is crazy. Don’t wait around to see– Go!”

[slashingdisneypasta]

MultiVillains x Reader || Drabbles

Plot: You know you shouldn’t be with them, but you cant control yourself when they're near. You’re Addicted (Kelly Clarkson).

I'm hooked on you, I need a fix, I can't take it Just one more hit, I promise I can deal with it I'll handle it, quit it, just one more time, then that's it Just a little bit more to get me through this It's like I can't breathe It's like I can't see anything Nothing but you

Includes: Bill Sykes, 2002!Captain Hook, Mayor Buckman and Scar (Colours coincide with warnings so all blue warnings are for the Sykes drabble and so on)

Warnings: Dark themes throughout. References to his Mafia/Gang/Crime group, use of guns, inability to leave a bad situation, fingering and teasing, AFAB reader wearing a dress, this one the smutty one tho is probably the least dark, gore, public execution, yandere character and activity, manipulation, not letting you leave a relationship you're not comfortable in, allusions to smut. Lemme know if theirs more!

Bill Sykes:

It didn’t feel like this at the start, when you first met Sykes. So lost and… stuck. You thought he was so interesting, and he made you feel like an adult for once in your life, like a full person- he treated you like one. And for someone just out on their own, freshly grown up and all alone… it was special.

It made you think he was special. Like he was more than the nasty, lowlife criminal he really is. Which you know that he is- you’ve been at the business end of his pistol enough times to realise that, now. But now you’re in love with him, somehow. Yes, in love. With Bill Sykes; Bill Sykes, with his cigars and his money and his penchant to send men in slow driving cars to watch you walk home. Not to protect you, not to make sure you’re okay. Just to make sure you’re faithful to him, or something. You stopped believing he was just overprotective when your friend, Rick went missing after you stayed over in his apartment once. Sykes never said anything about the incident, or Rick, but the next time you saw him after Rick’s body was found he had opened a particularly expensive bottle of win and convinced you to finish the whole thing with him.

And that wasn’t the only friend you believe Sykes to have killed, it’s just the only one you’re sure of. But no one really loses 5 friends in a year, do they? Not unless something sinister is going on.

Despite all that, though… you’ve stayed with him. Why?? You don’t know. All you know, is that you can’t leave. Every time you even think about it, your chest starts to constrict on you and for some reason all these different excuses start to pop into your head. Like how Sykes really can be lovely, to you. He still makes you feel special, like you’re the most important thing to him. And he loves you.

And… you love him.

That doesn’t mean you don’t want to leave, though. You’ve packed your things and gone to the airport so many times. Made plans with your parents to stay with them for a while until you find a new job, somewhere else, so many times. But every time your boarding number is called you can’t seem to get up out of your seat.

You always end up calling your parents to tell them you changed your mind on visiting, and then going to see Bill.

He always welcomes you with a sly grin and your favourite place in his lap, where he can hold onto you tight and you know you couldn’t escape him even if you really, truly tried. Not against his size and strength, never. Which is where you are now, resting your head on his wide chest and breathing in second-hand smoke. You’re both silent, just enjoying each other’s company and listening to just the sound of Bill’s pen scrawling across paper.

Your eyes slide slowly to the gun on his desk, the pistol he’s pressed into your forehead, your temple, and even pushed gently into your mouth before- all foreplay, he would say. But you recognise the look in his eyes from when he really has killed people. In front of you.

So you would know what he was capable of, probably.

Now though you give consideration to picking it up yourself this time, wondering what he might look like staring up the barrel over those glasses. Would he be scared? Would he stutter and beg? The idea sends a little thrill through you. Your fingers itch to reach out and grab it, to see for sure how he would look, but the comforting feeling of him breathing against you has you looking away from the gun again.

Instead you look up at his face, glasses perched just under his eyes and a cigar bitten down between his teeth as he focuses. You feel the familiar desire to press kisses to his neck, his face- and know you couldn’t shoot him. You love him.

It’s fucked up and you know this whole relationship was one huge giant mistake, one you absolutely regret, but you can’t help the way he makes you feel. Like you’re capable of killing someone- of killing him. Like you could do it, enjoy it, and move on. And you like that feeling.

“… you okay?” He asks shortly with the cigar still between his teeth, noticing your staring.

“… I’m good.” You quip back cutely, snuggling into his body again.

Bill then puts down his pen, and you get a cold feeling in your chest as he pulls the cigar down to rest in his hand against the edge of the desk. What does he know? What does he need to talk to you about? You know his cues, and this will be bad. “Y/N, I’m gonna ask you something- you’ll tell me the truth, right?” You don’t look at him, but you nod. “… Where were you before you came here tonight?”

Sucking in a deep breath, you close your eyes. “Don’t you know? You’ve got a tail on me most of the time- “

“… Y/N.” His voice is gentle and quiet, but the tone he uses is dangerous. Your heart begins to hammer in your chest, and you take another deep breath.

“I… was at the airport.” At this, you look up at him- needing his reaction. You see his nostrils flair buts that’s absolutely it. “I was going to leave you.” You add, for clarities sake.

While his fingers tap on the wood of his desk, making an actual sound for how heavy they are- how strong they are- Bill thinks. Finally, after a few torturous minutes in which you’re terrified and aroused at the same time, waiting for him to just do something about it - shoot you with that pistol and bring this whole damn thing down to its inevitable end, or tell you to get on the floor and let him destroy your throat, whatever, - he finally speaks again. “Why’d you come back?”

“I love you.” The words come out without hesitation, the electricity that Bill brings into your life lighting up inside you as you’re faced with his wrath. “I really do. I couldn’t leave you- not ever, Bill.”

At this his eyes actually soften, and your mouth nearly falls open with surprise- that’s how receptive you are to him, that’s what he’s done to you. You’re connected, now. His reactions create reactions in you, and you reactions make him feel things the man hasn’t experienced… maybe ever, in his terrible, scummy, sociopathic life.

He lets out a relieved breath and reaches a giant hand up to your neck, tucking his fingers in beneath your hair and brushing a thumb over your lips.

That’s that. He loves you, and you love him. The end.

2002! Captain Hook:

God, you want so badly to stop wanting this man! He’s mean, he’s ruthless, and never surprises you, except for when he loses his every-loving mind out of freaken nowhere.

But you can’t leave him.

Because of moments like this, when he’s so alive and electric that you feel alive and electric- the only times you feel those things in this hollow little world, Neverland. These are the only moments you have to live for, with the brim of Captain Hook’s hat scraping your forehead and your shoulder blades digging into the wall. With his namesake leading down the delicate skin of your throat and his mouth planting desperate, needy kisses on yours.

His good hand gathers up your skirts and catches them against your stomach so they’re out of the way before it goes right ahead and slips beneath your underwear, fingers slipping into you almost out of muscle memory. You rip your mouth away from his, turning your head with a hiss and he smirks; Leaning into the side of your head. “My dear… you’re resisting again~… “

“Well you’re foul- “You snap in explanation, trying to not let on how turned on you are by him - him and his voice, his whiskery face, the evil smirk on it, - but the leisurely pace at which he chooses to pump his fingers within you draws a whine out of you; Muffled only by you biting down onto your bottom lip.

“Oh really?~ You seem rather certain of that and yet… “There’s that hook, that terrible hook that’s done terrible things, dragging down your cheek at the same time as you feel his lips moving against your ear. He’s too close, he’s smothering you- and you’re enjoying it. “You allow me to befoul you like this, and you moan for me… Its rather confusing, my dear, and you know you can’t have everything you want so tell me; Do you want me, or would you like me to stop? Speak up, stop biting your lips- it’s not good form. “

As his fingers slow to an even more ridiculously slow pace, crawling against your walls even while you throb and need him, you shudder and shake your head. “- I hate you and I need you to continue.”

“Oh, that’s not going to do it my dear.” Now his lips are really on you, leaving warm kisses all over your neck, across your throat, and then up the other side of your neck.

“Ughhh… that’s the truth… ” You’re throbbing and needing so terribly that your hips actually give an involuntary buck towards him, and a gasp slips out of you.

“That was a lovely sound, why don’t you make it again for me?” Now he actually takes his fingers out of you, and instead just brushes his knuckles against the flesh of your mound and god- fuck- its awful. Its torture. You find yourself up on your tip toes just trying to get them back down where they were.

“Hook- “

“Do you have something to say?”

“No.”

“Then, my dear- I’m afraid we’re done here.”

With that Captain Hook breaks off rom your body entirely, taking his lips and his hook and his fingers with him- your skirts fall down to your feet once again and you feel cold in his absence. He gives a smirk at the dishevelled appearance he’s leaving you in, before turning around to leave his quarters-

But at the last second you catch him, wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him. “I want you. I want you, I want you. Please, please ta- “

“Oh now dear,” Before you can finish your sentence, the man has got his hook against your lips with an ah, ah, ah sound. “There’s no need to give up all your dignity, yet. Piece by piece, will do.”

You’re a little rougher with him this time round than usual. You’re always a little rougher.

Mayor Buckman:

“No!” You cry, wriggling against the restraints that wicked man put you in; Ropes binding your arms behind you, your shoulders to the back of the chair and your thighs to the seat. "No, no- " And they’re tight, you can barely move under the strain, and you think your blood circulation must be cut off because you feel so cold. All around you are screaming Pleasant Valley folk, chanting for him to do it.

Kill him, slice him up, create a corpse and leave it out for days while you watch.

Hurt him, torture him, skin him alive strip by strip.

Stab him, spit on him, rub dirt into his wounds.

"No! St- Stop! ... Please... " You scream until your throat's sore, but all it does is spur them on- they get so loud you cant even hear yourself and you ears ring and eventually you're just sitting there, aching and exhausted, watching Buckman kill the man you love.

God- you didn't know, is what you keep thinking. You didn't know, you didn't know! You didn't know Buckman was this way, this utterly insane. So absolutely crazy, that he would do this when you found someone else! If you had known you never would have-

A gasp catches in your throat when Buckman drops the head into your lap- you hadn't even realised it was over, or he was approaching. Now the head bleeds out onto your dress and the ropes, a mangled mess of what used to be a person you thought you could finally be happy again with, and Buckman hangs over you with a dirty, cruel grin on his face.

You refuse to look at him, turning your face, damp with tears and grubby from dust kicked up by the mob around you... going quiet now. So quiet that you can hear the blood pumping inside your ears.

"... there. Now Y/N- darlin'?" He gets a handful of your hair and drags your head back so you have to look at him. "I'm sorry I had to do that, darlin', but it had to be done- how am I supposed to trust you again with that old ratbag hanging around, huh?"

You don't say a thing in response to that, preoccupied fighting a battle inside- because the moment he touched you, this foul, wicked, loathsome, evil person- you felt those same butterflies you always felt when he would pay attention to you... before all of this.

How?... How could you feel like this?? After everything he just did-

Warily, you look at him now; Teeth grit and a weak glare in your eyes. "Wh... why?" Your voice is cracked, quiet and frail from all the screaming before and the dirt caught in your lungs. "George we... George we were over... Before anything... happened... with- "

"Don't say his name~ " Buckman says quickly, giving you a stern look to which you close your eyes a moment and turn turn your head. The rest of the mob still surround you, watching the two of you like starved wolves, so you look back to him. "Your voice must be killin' you." Is all he adds to that, grinning in an awfully pleased sort of way about it.

"George- " Answer, please!

"Sweetheart- of course I had to kill your little beau." He sighs dramatically, looking up to the heavens for a moment as if they would have anything to do with him. "Dontcha know? I'm in love with ya, Y/N. And you love me- that little asshole back there was just unpleasant detour in our relationship!"

"You're... crazy." You spit, despite those butterflies persisting- every time that he looks at you.

"Oh sweetheart... I for sure am." Now he lets go of your hair, letting it fall and your scalp relax again as he kneels down in front of you. "Which I why I'm thinkin' you wont be pulling this shit again. I'm all you need and you know that now, because if you do try it again... " One blue eye slides down to the head in your lap- the blood and the stink, you're sure, moulding itself into your legs at this point. "Well," He chuckles. "You get it, yes?"

"I- I... " For the last time, you think to argue, to fight- but some reason you cant do it. And its not because you're tired, or beaten, or weak.

Its because at some level you know that if you really truly prove to Buckman that you don't love him back, that you want nothing to do with him, then he really will be done with you and that feeling... stops you. You don't know why, you don't understand it as you stare at him, but you just know that you don't want to lose him. You cant.

You should, you should want to. You know that. But, god, now you cant help wondering if the man whose head in your lap died not because you loved him... but because you needed a good reason to leave Buckman.

Oh god. Oh god, oh god. Save me. Save me save me save me-

Finally, you bow your head; Totally defeated by your own twisted feelings. "... yes."

Making a little, victorious hm, Buckman reaches up and curls a hand around the back of your neck and presses his forehead to yours. "... that's my sweetheart... "

Scar:

Every time you go over there to his secluded little cave, you think this is the last time. You're going to say goodbye to this loser and clear your conscience.

But then Scar greets you, rubbing up against your side and licking a kiss across the side of your face while intertwining his tail with yours and your mind goes totally blank. What were you doing? You had something to say...

"How are you today, pumpkin? This way... " He leads you to a cool, dark corner of his cave and the two of you cuddle into each other; Him resting his chin on your head.

"Same old, same old, Scar... " You yawn, ready to slip into your regular nap with him as he does the same- when suddenly your thoughts come crasing back to you from before and you gasp. Wrenching yourself away from his body, you get up and back away. "Actually!- "

"What?" Scar looks totally unamused, having been ready to sleep. "Cant whatever this is wait? I am rather sleepy- "

"No- I- Scar, I think we need to stop doing this."

... Slowly, he raises his brows. Like, oh... Deliberately he pushes up off the ground and stalks around your back. "Stop what?" He asks dangerously when he appears close at your side, causing you to flinch and look away from him- those eyes, are dangerous. "We just rest together, my dear!..." There's such unadulterated innocence in the way he says that, because its true, but... you and he both know there's more to it then that. There's a connection. A connection you should not have.

Not with him.

"Then you wouldn't mind my leaving," Taking a turn, you go to leave right away, while you can bring yourself to do it, but Scar pounces in front of you and you're stuck inside those eyes venomous green eyes. You part your lips to speak, but you're too slow- its like he's hypnotising you.

"Y/N... I never sleep as well alone as I do with you... I thought you enjoyed our naps?"

You do! "I do, but... the, uh, the others are starting to wonder where I am during the day... "

Scar gives a shrug, aloof and unsympathetic. "So tell them. Its not as if we're doing anything particularly scandalous, my dear. Though, we could- "

Snapping your eyes closed against him, you turn your head away and take a deep breath. "No, its just... we cant- ... you're not- ... Ugh, I just have to go!- " When you attempt once again to swerve around him, Scar places his paw over one of yours and steps in closer to you- your noses just about touching.

There are his eyes again, half hooded and cheeky. You recoil from him but he just leans his further, before licking another sloppy kiss to your cheek and rounding you again; You feel his eyes on you all the way around and try not to flinch. Don't let him know you have such a reaction to him. He heaves a great sigh behind you, before setting down in front of you again. "... I know, I'm not big brothers favourite person, am I? Hence why I live out... here... " After giving the dank little cave he lives inside a grimace, Scar quickly regains his pleasant, care free persona and grins; Offering a quippy little shrug. "Oh well. That shouldn't affect us, should it? Not unless you're a very shallow person, Y/N... after all I never did anything to you, did I? You really mustn't judge a person because of what other people may say, dear."

"I- I know that! But you- "

"What?" His eyes go wide, and innocent again- just waiting for your big excuse. "What have I done that was truly so terrible?"

"... " Your mind's blank. Oh, fuck. Of all times!- "Everyone says that you're bad news, Scar. That has to be for a reason."

"Pah,' He rolls his eyes and looks away from you; Totally unimpressed. "Shallow."

Gasping, you shake your head in defence. "I'm not!- " Suddenly Scar lunges, then, pushing you back so that you're on the ground and he's on top of you. Your jaw drops once again. "Hey!"

"... Prove it."

"Excuse me?"

"Prove it, my dear... You say that you're not shallow." A crooked smirk slides over his sharp teeth... before he leans down and nuzzles your nose. "So,...prove it."

Your heart is pumping absolutely wildly inside your chest- the familiar feeling of Scar's body against yours in a completely different way then your used to, those terrifying eyes drilling holes into yours, that devilish smirk doing sinful things to your insides...

God, this male sucks.

"Fine."