#and more the one of a white noise machine

[kunareads]

brat | track two

talk talk featuring satoru gojo

producer!suguru x popstar!reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 7.2k

content: best friend + safe zone!satoru!!! drugs (implied)/alcohol use, club-hopping / SMUT (so much of it but it's necessary i promise), studio sex, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected p in v, voyeurism, exhibitionism, threesome / soft angst if you squint

taglist is closed! 18+ please <3

Buzzfeed Music — COKE, CROP TOPS, AND COLLABS: THE WILD NIGHT THAT MAY HAVE GIVEN US THE SONG OF THE SUMMER

Page Six — BRAT PACK SPOTTED: GETO, YN, AND GOJO HIT THREE CLUBS IN ONE NIGHT, LEAVE TOGETHER

Fader — TRIPLE THREAT: YN, GETO, AND GOJO TURN HEADS ON A NIGHT OUT. COLLAB INCOMING?

the first club of the night is designed to be documented. manicured skyline, hand-selected crowd, the kind of party that wants to be watched.

you arrive on suguru’s arm, late and camera-ready. there’s a lull when you enter—a breath of recognition that follows the two of you like smoke. you’re barely past the threshold when you see him.

satoru, lit up like a match.

white hair glittering, sunglasses on at 10 PM, wearing the same grin he’s had since you were nineteen. he ditches whoever he was charming mid-sentence and heads straight towards you.

you don’t wave, but your smile gives you away.

“look who finally showed up,” he calls, already too loud.

“had to give you time to clear out the influencers.”

“you’re welcome.” he winks. “been doing your job all night.”

beside you, suguru’s already sipping on something clear and expensive.

“hi, suguru,” satoru drawls, eyes bright with mischief. “you miss me?

suguru takes another sip. pauses. “not even a little.”

“so yes,” satoru beams.

suguru just huffs a laugh in response like he knows how this goes.

satoru grabs your hand and spins you like you’re in a ballroom. “you look fucking hot.”

you lean in like it’s a secret. “i know.”

he grins, delighted, and the three of you dissolve into it—feeding off lights and noise and attention you didn’t have to ask for.

satoru waves at photographers, blowing kisses and posing for anyone who calls his name.

people gravitate to suguru despite how little he gives them, caught by that amused attentiveness that makes them forget their own names.

you pause at a branded backdrop. someone with a ring light asks if they can get a quick shot for socials. someone else holds their phone up, already filming: “fit check?”

“gaultier,” you say sweetly. “my bag is dior, but i’m not really sure where the jewelry came from—you’d have to ask suguru.”

a neon-lit photo booth glows near the bar. satoru sees it first and grabs your hand, already moving. you catch suguru’s wrist as you go. the flash pops three times: your tongue out, then suguru flipping off the camera, then them kissing your cheeks while you squeeze your eyes shut and smile so hard it hurts.

a cocktail appears in your hand—too fruity, not nearly strong enough. you slap satoru's hand away when he tries to steal it. “mine,” you say. he pouts, so you feed it to him from your straw. suguru mutters something about children.

the “dance floor” is mostly mood lighting, camera drones floating like ghosts overhead. satoru pulls you into it anyway. you dance for one song before passing him off to someone more eager. suguru mouths something sarcastic from where he stands—traitor, maybe—and you twirl your way back to him, grinning.

@/cultgeto (story) 📸 : satoru sipping your drink from your hand 💬 : @/cultyn @/gojos

the next stop is haze and bass that hits your chest before your ears catch up. low ceilings, red lights, fog machines in overdrive. no branded ice buckets or polite spacing between bodies.

you love it instantly.

the three of you are recognized on arrival—cheers, waves, a group of girls jumping up and down—but no one asks for photos or signatures.

satoru finds an empty stool at the bar and slaps his hand down, offering it to you like a throne. he’s already unbuttoned two more buttons than earlier, hair wild like he’s been in wind or trouble. probably both.

you take the seat with a dramatic curtsy and blow him a kiss. he catches it, fake-swooning into suguru’s shoulder like he’s just been shot.

suguru just looks at him, mildly debating whether to let him fall. he lifts a hand instead, rings brushing the back of satoru’s neck, almost affectionate. his mouth twitches like he might be smiling.

with all the subtlety of a fire alarm, satoru flags down the bartender. nine shots of tequila are lined up quick, glowing under red lights.

“we’re celebrating,” he shouts.

“celebrating what?” you ask, resting your elbows on the bar.

he shrugs. “being hot and alive?”

you clink your glass to his, then to suguru’s.

the first shot burns. the second fizzes. suguru kisses your head before the third, and it goes down too easy. your skin starts to hum, like your body’s picking up signal. the room softens at the edges, melting just for you.

satoru’s gone a second later, pulled into the crowd by something shiny or loud or both.

your stool spins—suguru turning it until your knees slot between his.

“he’s already drunk,” you say, trying not to laugh.

“so are you,” he says, planting a kiss to your cheek.

you don’t disagree. the music shifts—heavier, sexier. suguru’s hand steadies you as you slide off the stool. the crowd presses in and you let it, head tilting back and shoulders going loose. no room to be shy. suguru steps behind you, one hand at your hip as the other traces up your side.

you turn your head, looking for satoru. he’s ten feet away, tangled in a group of strangers and dancing with a girl in silver boots, pouring liquor into someone else’s mouth. of course he is. he’s laughing, putting on a show, but his eyes find you. you match his rhythm, grinding back into suguru.

suguru leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“if i told you not to let him touch you,” he starts, “would you listen?”

you look back at him—oh?—and giggle. he doesn’t need an answer. he marks you anyway, teeth catching skin on your neck. it’s a brand, not a warning. you smile at the feeling. you knew he’d like that.

across the room, satoru observes, lips curled up like he knew this would happen. you keep dancing, arms outstretched and fingers flexing like you’re calling a puppy. the crowd parts as he starts toward you, drink in hand, grin pulling wide like he knows he’s walking into trouble.

when he gets close enough, you snatch the glass from him.

“this for me?” you ask, sipping slow.

“obviously,” he says. “i’m a giver.”

you hum, handing the half-finished drink off to suguru. he downs the rest without blinking, sets the glass on a nearby ledge.

“so obedient,” satoru coos.

he raises a brow. “you say that like you’re not worse.”

“i am,” satoru agrees brightly.

you smirk and shake your head, fingers curling into his shirt like you might pull him in—but instead you twist, catching suguru’s wrist in the same movement.

“bathroom break,” you announce, already walking. “come on.”

@/gojos (story) 📸 : mirror pic of all three of you in a bathroom—satoru taking the photo with a rolled bill tucked behind his ear, you fixing your lipgloss, suguru tying his hair back 💬 : band meeting

@/cultyn (story) 📸 : blurry photo of satoru and suguru smoking while walking toward the car ahead of you on a sidewalk

there’s a line down the block for the third club, but the bouncer nods the three of you in as soon as you exit the car.

it’s more intense here. strobes flicker slow enough to warp time, fast enough to keep you disoriented. bodies blur into one another. the floor feels like it’s bleeding.

you’re not sure who’s leading anymore.

suguru’s flushed, and your earrings are missing (he pocketed them twenty minutes ago). satoru’s shirt is fully unbuttoned now. his pupils are blown wide. so are yours. so are suguru’s.

satoru leans in to say something—and nearly crashes into a speaker. suguru catches him by the collar, steadying him with one hand and wiping under his nose with the other.

“you’re not cute enough to get away with that on camera,” he says, not unkind.

“yes i am,” satoru beams, eyes sparkling.

then he spins away like he’s proving it. disappears into the crowd for all of five seconds before materializing behind the booth, arms flung around the current DJ like they go way back.

suguru’s slower, tugging you along with two fingers curled into your belt loop. someone offers him a set of headphones and a password. he nods like he already knows.

you and satoru are already dancing. you’re in his arms before you realize—twirled into him, caught at the waist with his hands all over you like he forgot how to be subtle. the bass kicks up behind you—suguru’s doing it on purpose.

you're not sure how long it's been when you both reach for him. he resists for a second, makes you pull, but you end up caught between them anyway—hands at your waist, your ribs, your throat.

the lights shift: red to blue to violet. suguru’s palm curves around your stomach. satoru’s thumb drags across your bottom lip, smearing whatever’s left of your gloss. you lean back into suguru and tilt your head toward satoru’s mouth, not closing the distance.

someone calls your name. a flash goes off. none of it touches you.

“we’re gonna start a rumor,” satoru laughs.

“let them,” suguru murmurs, fingers skating past the hem of your top like a dare.

the bass shifts. your hand finds satoru’s jaw. the other curls into the chain at suguru’s neck.

satoru’s eyes flick down. he looks like he might do it—close the distance, taste you, start something. suguru’s breath ghosts against your throat like he’s already imagining it. you hold your breath, the moment hums with potential, and then—

“we should go,” suguru says, low and even.

automatically, you let go of his chain and reach for satoru’s hand. his fingers thread through yours as suguru’s palm finds the small of your back, guiding you both through the crowd.

the air outside is warmer than you expect—balmy and unbothered by the hour. the street hums low around you.

suguru finds a barricade like it was waiting for him, leaning back with his usual ease to light a cigarette. satoru slots behind you like a missing piece, arms over your shoulders, still bouncing like the music never stopped. you close your eyes and tip your head back into his shoulder.

“parle-moi, chérie,” satoru teases.

you giggle. “absolutely not.”

he pouts, swaying you side to side like a lullaby. “habla conmigo?”

“only if i get to use my secret made-up language.”

“doesn’t matter,” he says with a smile. “just talk.”

suguru exhales smoke. “no one understands either of you.”

you both laugh, and for a moment, everything holds. the three of you in borrowed warmth. smoke curling into still air. the city too preoccupied to interrupt.

then your phone buzzes in your hand—once, twice, then all at once.

a flash goes off. shouting.

“they found us,” satoru says, grinning like it’s a game.

the crowd closes in fast: paparazzi, a few screaming fans, a handful of quieter ones hanging back with their phones half-raised, like they just want proof they were here. the boys don’t flinch. the car’s already waiting.

suguru flicks his cigarette away. satoru’s hand finds your shoulder, calmly steering you like this happens every night.

halfway through the crush, someone gets too close. not aggressive—just a man with a phone, angling for a shot. you barely notice, but suguru's hand is immediate, pulling you a step back into satoru’s space. he moves forward, stepping between you and the outstretched arm with a look that doesn’t invite argument.

“don’t,” he says.

the man stammers something—sorry, maybe—but the moment’s already over. the driver opens the back door. satoru’s hand finds the small of your back, guiding you in without letting go. suguru slides in after, the door clicking shut behind him.

“studio’s closest,” he says, settling.

“let’s go,” satoru echoes.

you sink between them, breath catching up to your body. a laugh escapes you—quiet, stunned, not entirely sure why.

that could’ve gone differently.

“that was cute,” you say. “you guys almost looked coordinated.”

@/ynswife: do they know we can see them???

@/gojojojo: yn and satoru being besties is terrifying because neither of them has ever faced a consequence in their life

@/suguruowned: satoru is fun hot messy and suguru is scary hot mean and yn is all of the above

the studio is humming when you arrive, LEDs casting everything in soft pink. the three of you spill through the door, glitter-streaked and flushed, riding a high that’s more chemical than natural and definitely not wearing off anytime soon.

you kick your heels off by the door. satoru tosses his sunglasses onto the nearest surface. suguru sinks into his chair like he’s been missing it all night, the backlight from the boards catching on his rings as he starts scrolling through files.

a beat kicks up under the speakers, then dies. another takes its place—lighter, too slow. he lets it breathe. scratches it, then moves on.

you grab two mics and join satoru on the floor, sprawling out across cushions and cables. a stack of paper scraps sits between you—lyric fragments, setlists, a crumpled parking ticket. you’re already giggling, trading nonsense into the mics like they’re toys.

“talk to me in spanish,” satoru says, chin tilted back like he’s communing with the ceiling.

“hay una fiesta en mi casa,” you purr. “vengan, será muuuuy divertido.”

satoru nearly chokes laughing. “wait, wait—j'ai perdu mon téléphone,” he adds, deep voice turning airy. “mais tu sais quoi, ça valait la peine—”

you’re both laughing too hard to finish the line. satoru drops the mic onto his chest, grinning up at the ceiling. you lean back onto your elbows, breathless.

and then—unserious and perfectly on-key—he sings.

“are we getting too close?”

you snort. “shut up.”

he just winks at you. “you’re leaving things in my head.”

a lazy finger comes up to point at suguru. “i’ll be honest, you scare me.”

“my life’s supposed to be a party.” he pouts like he means it.

you toss your head back, giggling. suguru finally turns, amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth. “you done?”

“almost.” satoru sits up to dig through his phone. “i actually brought something.”

you blink at him. “like… to share with the class?”

he hands the phone to suguru, already playing. it’s rough. recorded in the back of a car, probably, but it’s there.

the more i know you, the more i like you can you stick with me, maybe just for life? and say what’s on your mind?

you sit up and grab your mic again. your voice slices through the air.

talk to me in french, talk to me in spanish talk to me in your own made up language doesn’t matter if i understand it

suguru lifts a scrap of paper while you sing and holds it up: talk right in my ear, tell me your secrets and fears.

you grin when you see it, saying the words without breaking rhythm.

from there, everything just… clicks.

satoru moves into the booth and gets the post-chorus down quick, making faces at you through the glass. you improvise your second verse. a lot of it’s nonsense that you’ll have to revise later, some of it hits.

you twirl barefoot across the room as you sing, eventually dropping into suguru’s open lap. he doesn’t react, just adjusts you with one hand on your waist, the other still working.

it plays back. you and satoru throw harmonies over each other and ad-libs where they’re needed. somehow, it works.

your high melts into something honeyed and warm. you curl up in suguru’s lap, mic abandoned somewhere behind you as you listen to satoru record one last take. his voice is lazy on the mic now, edges dulled by laughter. when it ends, he peels off the headphones and wanders back into the room.

suguru spreads his knees a little wider under you and tips his head back, eyes tracing your profile like he’s thinking about what to do next. you shift slightly, gaze trailing to satoru as he drops onto the couch with no urgency, legs wide, glitter clinging to his collarbones.

his eyes are half-lidded, but they don’t leave you—not when suguru’s hand starts to trail up your thigh, or when he brushes your hair back to kiss the spot below your ear.

you exhale slow.

suguru’s palm presses low on your back, guiding your hips into a slow roll. he's warm beneath you, just hard enough to feel. you follow, like you always do.

“you’re being mean,” you whine.

“am i?” he replies with a smirk.

you grind again, filthier this time—enough to tempt.

“you want him to watch,” he says, dragging his teeth against your throat. “or join?”

you tilt your head like you’re thinking about it. his teeth catch your jaw as you rock again, a little deeper. a little more obvious, like you want to be seen.

his hand tightens at your waist, the other in your hair as he pulls you into a kiss—deep and addictive, tongue and teeth and something filthy at the edge. he kisses you like he always does: like he owns you.

like satoru should know that already.

and you don’t stop. don’t even flinch when you feel satoru’s eyes burn hotter from across the room. you let it feed you, kiss suguru slow with your hips in motion, more intentional now.

when you finally pull back, your rhythm has slowed to a lazy, taunting grind. your forehead rests against suguru’s, gaze sliding sideways.

satoru looks like he’s buffering.

you hesitate just long enough for suguru to catch it.

“it’s okay, baby,” he says, quiet against your jaw. “go ahead.”

you didn’t think you needed his permission. but the second he gives it, something in you loosens. you kiss him once—tender, grateful—then slip from his lap.

he doesn’t stop you. just reaches for your zipper, unfastening it with one practiced pull. your skirt slips down your legs and his hand trails after it, light and reverent.

then he leans back with his arms crossed, watching you walk away from him like a gift he’s given.

you hook your thumbs into your panties as you go. they cling for a moment—slick stringing between your thighs—before dropping to the studio floor.

satoru’s eyes track every movement. “you sure?” he asks.

“are you?”

that makes him laugh. “come find out.”

without breaking eye contact, he pushes his jeans down like he has all the time in the world. he’s already hard, heavy and flushed against his abs.

your stomach flips unexpectedly, and you pause. not because you don’t want it, but because this is satoru. your enabler. your softest place to land. your favorite.

he sees it, hands finding your thighs. “hey,” he says, catching your eyes. “we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

“i want to,” you say.

and you do. you trust him. you always have. and it’s easy—so easy—to give that trust shape now. to let him hold it.

“how do you want me?”

his eyes snap up to yours like you broke something in him just by asking.

but it’s suguru who answers. “turn around.”

you do. without hesitation.

climbing into satoru’s lap backward feels obscene—deliciously so. you like it. you like the way suguru sits up straighter when you do, like you’re the show now. nothing hides the way your ass fits satoru’s lap, or the way you reach between your legs to guide him in.

satoru groans as you sink down—one long, steady exhale like he wasn’t ready. like he didn’t expect you to take all of him. you gasp at the stretch, gripping his knee to steady yourself.

“oh fuck,” he pants.

you grin over your shoulder. “you sound pretty.”

“don’t start,” he grits out, but he’s smiling through it.

you settle with a shiver, feeling impossibly full. he’s so thick and so deep that you can’t help the whimper that slips out. his hands trace up your sides, firm but patient.

across the room, suguru watches—silent, eyes fixed on the way you take him.

so you move. each rock of your hips draws a sound from satoru’s throat and a matching one from yours. he meets every grind halfway like he can’t help himself.

you keep your eyes on suguru. not for his approval, just to show him: look what you made.

“jesus,” satoru groans. “he’s gonna let me die like this.”

you moan, breathless and giddy. you can feel slick running out of you, every drag against your walls, the ache where he's stretching you.

“he’s making me earn it,” you whisper.

he presses a kiss to your spine. “you never had to.”

and at that—finally—suguru takes his time crossing the distance. your body stills when he drops to his knees in front of you, heart tripping in your chest.

suguru spreads you wider, palms firm, fingers digging in. then, his breath against you. you moan before he even touches you. your head falls back onto satoru’s shoulder, chest rising and falling hard.

“easy,” satoru murmurs, one thumb stroking your waist.

“keep going,” suguru murmurs. it’s unclear who he’s talking to.

and when he finally licks—a slow drag of his tongue where satoru stuffs you—you cry out, whole body jolting forward.

satoru catches you, groaning. “jesus—”

“oh—fuck,” you gasp.

suguru doesn’t ease into it. he eats you like he’s been thinking about this all night. like this was the point. he’s confident, focused, working your clit between thrusts, letting your slick smear across his face.

“shit—she’s—she’s squeezing me,” satoru chokes out. and you feel how hips jerk up without permission, how he pulses inside you every time you moan.

you’re gasping now. your body gets caught in the rhythm—rocking forward and back as they take you apart in tandem. satoru fucking up into you like he needs it, suguru’s mouth locked between your legs like devotion.

your mouth falls open, silent at first, then full of noise—moans, whimpers, babbled nonsense.

“he’s—fuck—he’s—”

“yeah, princess,” satoru laughs, half-mad. “we know.”

suguru doesn’t let up. not until your whole body is vibrating, until your moans give out into sobs, until you’re clenching around satoru with your nails biting into his thighs and your head thrown back.

“oh my god, i—”

everything seizes, then lets go—a brutal, blinding pleasure ripping through you like a flood. you come hard. loud. body arching between them—into satoru’s chest, into suguru’s mouth, into the heat of being seen.

“fuck—fuck,” satoru breathes, arms crushing around your waist. “you’re—jesus, she’s fucking milking me—”

suguru groans low into you, vibrations rolling through you. he doesn’t stop, just eases you down until he catches the last tremors with his tongue. soothes you, like he’s not half the reason you just came apart.

you collapse into satoru, skin flushed hot. he’s panting hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder like he’s trying to stop the world from ending.

“fuck, i’m—” he starts. “don’t move.”

his voice cracks. he’s holding it in.

and you can’t do anything about it. not yet. your legs shake, head spinning too much to move, let alone help.

but suguru can.

his hands trail up your thighs as he stands. he leans in, close enough that it forces you even further back into satoru, and kisses you. slow, claiming. a filthy, reverent thing that tastes like you. it hits you again that he just had his mouth on you while you were full of satoru.

the thought makes you gasp into it. he strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“off, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “let me handle him.”

you nod and he helps you lift, easing you off of satoru. you and satoru both whimper at the drag.

“arms up,” suguru says.

you obey, let him tug your top off gently. he doesn’t even glance at your chest, just presses a final kiss to your temple before settling between satoru’s legs.

satoru stares at you now, eyes glazed. you’re still catching your breath, but you press close anyway—one hand on his chest, the other at his jaw. you kiss his cheek, trace the slick curve of his abs. suguru strokes him once, then again. his eyes flutter shut.

“don’t cum yet,” you murmur, lips brushing his throat.

his jaw clenches. “i’m not gonna last.”

“mm,” you hum, smiling against his skin. “you can take it.”

and then suguru takes him into his mouth.

satoru moans—loud, broken. his hips jerk, but suguru is already there, holding him still with one hand. he sucks him slow and deep, tongue pressing firm beneath the shaft. satoru tries to chase it, hips straining up against suguru’s hand, desperate for more.

“fuck—please—”

suguru pulls off. “stay still.”

“can’t,” satoru pants, flushed to his ears. “please—fuck, please, just—”

you lean in close, running a thumb over his lips. “you gonna cry for him?” you whisper. “gonna beg?”

his eyes flutter open to meet yours. they’re glassy. gone.

suguru licks the underside lightly. up and down.

“please,” satoru breathes, begging you now. “please let me cum. i can’t—i can’t take it, fuck, i need—”

you glance down, meet suguru’s eyes, and nod. “then go ahead,” you say to satoru, voice sugar-sweet. “let him taste it.”

suguru doesn’t hesitate. he sinks back down and takes all of him—and satoru’s eyes roll back, one hand flying to find your arm as he spills down suguru’s throat with a sound like he’s breaking.

you stay quiet, holding him through it, letting him fall apart the way you did. you stroke his chest and his hair. press slow kisses to the side of his face.

suguru rises slowly.

satoru's head is tipped back, still panting, lips parted like he’s tasting the afterglow. he doesn’t even flinch when suguru leans over him.

“open your mouth.”

satoru obeys instantly. suguru slides two fingers in, deep and smooth, curling just slightly against his tongue. satoru moans, eyelids fluttering.

“can’t believe how fucking good you look like this,” suguru mutters, shaking his head like he shouldn’t be surprised.

he pulls his fingers out enough to slap his cheek—once, twice—then pushes them back in, slower, watching satoru suck them down greedily, whining around them like he needs it.

and you can’t help yourself. you lean in and kiss him, right over suguru��s hand. hot and messy, tongues tangling over the taste of suguru’s skin. your moan gets lost in his.

suguru’s breathing goes shallow as he watches you pass him back and forth. you’re all too gone now to pretend you don’t like it—this quiet collapse into each other.

satoru lets go with a hum when suguru finally pulls away. you pull back too, heat pooling when you see him—flushed and debauched, white hair sticking to his forehead, blue irises intruded on by dark pupils.

and he’s staring at you like you hung the moon.

when you look up, suguru’s watching you too.

his gaze moves down your body like he’s replaying things—your moans, the way you came apart on his tongue, the way you kissed him after. and now, soft and open, you hold his gaze without flinching.

he hooks a finger under your chin. kisses you again—slow and sweet, like a promise—before stepping back to undress.

behind you, one hand finds your waist. when you turn to satoru with soft eyes, he opens his arms without a word. you crawl into him and he pulls you close, turning you in his lap until you’re comfortable with back to his chest and your thighs falling open.

“hi,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder.

your lips curve as you lean your head back. “hey.”

suguru steps forward.

his hand trails up your thigh, thumb circling your entrance, eyes stuck on the way it flexes under his touch. he strokes himself once, twice—then lines up and sinks into you with one smooth, claiming thrust.

you cry out from the stretch, head snapping forward before satoru’s hand finds your forehead to guide you back to his shoulder. “breathe,” he whispers at your ear. “you can take it.”

and you do. you take all of him.

he draws it out at first—deep, dragging strokes as he gives your body time to catch up. your hand drifts mindlessly to where he fills you, just to verify the ache.

“you missed him, huh?” satoru says, teasing and soft, pressing a kiss to your hair. “he missed you too.”

suguru groans, snapping his hips harder. the rhythm builds like ritual.

each thrust lands heavy—the wet slap of skin filling the room, obscene and constant. he fucks you like he’s putting something back where it belongs.

and he can, because he knows you too well. knows the spot that makes you gasp, the angle that makes you cry, the pace that makes you go stupid.

your thighs tremble where they’re spread. you can’t hold still—can’t even try. every thrust shoves you into satoru, rocking you like a ragdoll. your fingers claw for anything—his thigh, suguru’s wrist, the edge of the couch—but nothing holds.

“god, she’s taking it,” satoru groans, awestruck.

“she always does,” suguru growls. “she fucking loves it.”

and you do. you can’t say it, can barely breathe, but you do. every thrust punches a new sound out of you—choked moans, gasps, desperate little whines.

suguru spits into satoru’s hand. you barely register it until you feel it: slick fingers rubbing against your clit in tight, filthy circles that make your eyes roll back.

“don’t stop,” you pant. “please don’t stop—”

satoru’s mouth brushes your ear. “you sound so fucking sweet like this.”

you nod, frantic, but it’s not enough. you’re falling apart, and all you can do is clutch at them like they might keep you together.

“fuck,” you gasp. “fuck, please—please—”

you’re not even sure what you’re asking for.

suguru grits his teeth and drives deeper. satoru kisses your temple like a blessing, fingers unrelenting. your whole body writhes in their hands. too full, too raw, too much.

and satoru must feel it—how your muscles flex without rhythm, how your breathing breaks out of sync.

he looks up. “you got her?”

suguru doesn’t answer right away. instead, he stills. stays buried deep as he leans in, his chest pressed to yours, foreheads meeting.

the shift is jarring—your body clenches around him, desperate for friction, for something. but you freeze with him, pulled under. the world drops out as his breath brushes your lips. your chest heaves. your hands find their way around his neck like prayer.

when he speaks, it’s just for you.

“i got you,” he breathes. like a secret. like a promise.

and something in you cracks.

it’s rare, this softness between you.

and for a second—just a second—you almost pull away from it. not because you want to, but because that’s what you do with each other.

but he’s here, holding the tenderness. holding you.

because he knows. of course he does.

“hey,” he whispers, brushing his nose against yours. his thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to hold you there. “stay with me.”

you nod, barely. your eyes well up.

“say thank you.”

your throat tightens.

“thank you,” you breathe. quiet. shaking.

he hums, half-praise, half-moan. his hips roll once, just to feel you clench.

and then, so quiet you almost miss it, satoru whispers. “say it again.”

“thank you.” higher this time. fragile as you hold suguru’s gaze. “thank you, thank you—”

you’re not sure if you’re thanking him for fucking you like this, or for holding you here, or for the way he always, always, knows how to bring you back from the edge without letting you fall.

but it works.

suguru groans at the sound of it. kisses your cheek like you’ve ruined him.

then he moves again.

he fucks into you with intent now—like he needs to finish what he started, needs to feel you fall apart around him. his thrusts grow deeper as satoru’s fingers find your clit again, circling in perfect rhythm. they both know exactly how close you are. they’re pulling you under together.

“oh my god—”

“come on, princess,” satoru murmurs. “give it to him.”

suguru groans at the words. he’s close—so fucking close—but he’s holding it. waiting for you.

your breaths come short, whole body pulling taut now, like you’re being wound too far.

his hand finds your throat—not to choke, but to anchor. his thumb presses up under your jaw as he leans in, lips ghosting over your cheek.

“you’re right there,” he murmurs. “i feel you. give it to me.”

your heart squeezes. and when your head tips back, your mouth open in a moan—

satoru kisses him.

he slides his free hand behind suguru’s neck, pulls him down into it, and kisses him over your head. open-mouthed and frantic and needy.

it lands like a spark.

suguru moans into it. he kisses satoru back like he’s starving for it—biting at his lip, hips still slamming into you like nothing else exists.

your orgasm hits you so hard you go silent.

your body locks up—mouth open, no sound—until a sob breaks free from your throat, raw and desperate. tears spill over your lashes as you writhe, clenching so tight it nearly forces suguru out.

but he chases it. moaning into satoru’s mouth, fucking you through your orgasm and straight into his own. his pace falters, his breath catches, and then he’s spilling inside you, hips rocking through it like he can’t stop, like he wants to stay.

no one moves right away.

suguru's hand strokes your cheek. behind you, satoru exhales—his arms relax just enough to let you breathe deeper as his smile curves at your temple.

eventually, suguru pulls out slow, kissing you when you whimper. he stands, silent as ever, and slips from the room.

you melt fully into satoru, exhaustion settling as your eyes slip shut.

he brushes damp hair from your face and laughs quietly. “you two are so in love it’s disgusting.”

you swat at his chest, eyes still closed. “you’re projecting.”

“no, really,” he giggles. “you should see your face right now.”

“can’t,” you mumble. “sleepy.”

“mhm. poor baby.”

you would’ve hit him again if your arms worked.

the couch shifts. suguru’s back—barefoot, still shirtless—carrying three water bottles and two soft t-shirts over his shoulder. he sets them down, kneels beside you.

“gonna clean you up.”

he uses a shirt, dabbing gently between your legs like he’s done it a million times and will do it again. you flinch, but he hushes you immediately, murmuring praise you can barely hear. when he’s satisfied, he slides the clean shirt over your head, guiding your arms through like you’re delicate.

you slump back into satoru, half-asleep. suguru lifts a water bottle to your lips. you sip twice. he sits beside you, drinking the rest of his, and for a while, no one speaks.

then satoru, voice muffled in your hair: “we’re not sleeping like this.”

“we could,” you whisper.

“we shouldn’t,” suguru replies, already moving.

satoru stands and lifts you gently into the producer’s chair. you hear the soft clinks of the frame, the rustle of blankets pulled from the closet.

as soon as the couch is pulled out, you crawl into it. suguru slides in beside you, and you curl into him like you always do.

satoru groans dramatically when he joins, rearranging until he finds the perfect position: his head pillowed in suguru’s lap, one arm flung across your waist.

for the first time all night, everything is still.

you’re asleep first.

satoru’s not far behind—he mumbles something into suguru’s lap, then goes quiet. his breathing evens out quickly, mouth parted, fingers twitching once at your waist like he’s dreaming something warm.

but suguru stays awake.

he doesn’t know why. maybe it’s the weight of both of you on him. maybe it’s the part of him that always watches, always waits.

his fingers trace slow circles against your back. your cheek is warm against his chest, one leg draped over his. you look peaceful like this. like the sharp edges that usually cling to you have melted clean off for tonight.

part of him aches.

he doesn’t resent it at all. he knows how you are with satoru. he has for years.

how you lean into him without thinking. how you smile easier, laugh without checking yourself first. how your chaos and his collide in ways that never spark danger—only more light. you don’t guard yourself with satoru because you’ve never had to.

it’s not a competition.

he’s told himself that more than once.

but you’ve never given suguru that kind of ease without a fight.

and god help him, he likes it.

he likes that every soft thing you give him feels like a win. that you make him work for it. every laugh, every let-down guard, every tender moment—he’s had to fight you for those.

but tonight—

you gave it to him without the war first. like it didn’t cost you anything. he can’t stop turning it over in his mind, trying to understand what changed. what he did. and whether he can do it again.

his hand keeps moving along your spine, slow and steady. a silent tether.

because he can’t ask you. not without risking the quiet. and maybe he doesn’t need to.

because at the end of the day, you’ll flirt with the whole world. you’ll light up every room, throw yourself across stages and hearts. you’ll let satoru make you laugh until you’re gasping for air, let him be the reason you catch your breath instead of losing it.

but you’ll still end up here, in suguru’s arms.

you’ll still call him first.

that’s just the game.

he’ll keep playing for as long as you let him.

@/deuxmoi BLIND ITEM: a certain pop darling, a white-haired chaos agent, and your favorite producer’s favorite producer were seen stumbling into a studio after hours last night. security’s been posted up since 2 AM, and nobody has left ten hours later.

you wake slowly.

your body aches in that full, molten way—spent, sated, soft at the edges. you blink through the quiet, eyes adjusting to the haze bleeding through the studio’s curtains.

across the room, suguru is already up.

he sits in his chair, shirt on, sweatpants slung low. his hair’s messy, like he raked his fingers through it and gave up halfway.

he’s staring at his phone, thumbs moving: swipe. pause. tap. type.

you almost miss the tension at first. but then you catch it: something flashing across his face. gone too fast to name, but you saw it. not a frown, not quite surprise. more like confirmation. like he received something he knew was coming.

he doesn’t know you’re awake. tap. tap. type.

you stay still. your heart ticks up anyway.

it’s probably nothing.

probably some brand deal he doesn’t want. or an annoying scheduling conflict. some PR request, a time zone fuck up, a half-buried deadline. something normal.

you tell yourself all of that.

but it echoes anyway. lingers like static—soft but charged.

the spell breaks when satoru stirs beside you.

his arm flexes over your waist, searching until his hand finds the bare skin at your hip. his fingers curl there, loose and lazy, and he hums—eyes closed, voice rough.

“c’mere.”

you shift without thinking, curling into him. his nose nudges your shoulder, mouth brushing your skin.

suguru looks up. he softens at the sight of you relaxing, satoru smiling into your neck like he’s dreaming.

then satoru mumbles into your hair: “did we record something?”

you blink, your brain still syrupy. “…yes?”

suguru’s already moving. he sets his phone down—screen dark, face down—and reaches for his laptop. the screen wakes with a soft glow. a project is already open.

music bleeds through the speakers.

the intro is unfamiliar—then satoru’s voice, airy and laced with heat. a low beat that hits hard. your voice looping over it: talk to me in french, talk to me in spanish.

it’s better than you remember—sharp and sexy and fun. by the outro, you’re sitting up and grinning so wide it hurts.

“we sound fucking unreal,” you say, turning to face them.

suguru doesn’t look at the screen. he looks at you.

“you are.”

your stomach flips.

“get a fucking room,” satoru groans, dragging the blanket over his head like it personally offended him.

a laugh escapes you. and when you meet suguru’s eyes again, you’re still smiling.

so is he.

and the tension from before—whatever it was—doesn’t vanish. but it recedes.

[lollygaggingloser]

Restless Nights (more VAT7K headcanons)

During their travels to the Dark Kingdom, team radical had an unfortunate encounter with a pack of sneeze weasels who wrecked their campsite. In wake of their destruction, the team's sleeping tents were damaged beyond repair.

Thankfully, there's enough material left behind that Varian was able to stitch the pieces up with Nuru's help.

"I didn't realize Corona's Royal Engineer was a tailor," Hugo teased as Varian sewed another patch.

"It's a handy skill," Varian retorted. "One I recommend you pick up. Maybe then, your clothes wouldn't be so drab."

"I'm not taking fasion advice from someone who's current statement piece is a scuffed orange bandana."

Varian ignored Hugo to finish sewing. It was Rapunzel who taught him basic needlework. His stitches weren't straight, but they were strong enough to keep the fabric together.

"I'm done with this section," Nuru announced," but Varian, I think this is barely enough to make one tent."

Varian nodded.

"That's the plan. Those sneeze weasels didn't leave us with enough to rebuild the individual tents. But, there's just enough to build one bigger tent instead. So, until we get to the Dark Kingdom, we'll be sleeping in it together."

"TOGETHER?!" Varian's teammates exclaim; Yong out of excitement, Nuru from surpise, and Hugo in annoyance.

"I know, I know, it's not ideal," Varian continues, looking at Nuru more than Hugo. "But it will only be while we travel to the next trial."

"But that could take weeks," sighed Nuru.

"I think I'll take my chances under the open sky," mumbled Hugo.

"You're more than welcome to," Varian responded, having heard him. "But we are traversing through one of the most dangerous forests and sneeze weasels are the least of our problems."

The first night goes as well as you expect. The four take turns using the tent to change into their nightwear before rolling out their bedrolls in their claimed corners. Yong is the happiest about this development, treating the event as a sleepover than an inconvience. Him and Nuru are the first to knock out for the night. Hugo could easily tell when the two were deep asleep.

He already knew that Yong had a habit of tossing and turning, but now that they were in the same tent, he couldn't save himself from the kid moving over to his bed, shoving, and accidentally kicking him. It took so much willpower for Hugo not to kick and shove Yong back towards his corner of the tent when the kid would flop his limbs onto him throughout the night.

At the very least, Yong was silent with his moving around. Nuru, on the other hand, snored. It wasn't a soft demure snore either that could be ignored. She snored like an old man. Hugo swore he could feel the earth vibrate whenever she breathed in.

When Hugo told Nuru about it the next morning, she was insulted and refused to believe him, insisting that if she really did snore as he 'rudely' accused, the rest of the team would be complaining as well.

To Hugo's irritation, Yong and Varian noted they didn't wake up from any snoring through the night. The blonde couldn't believe he was the only light sleeper in the group, but spending each night huddled in their tent proved to him that when the three were asleep, they were dead to the world until dawn.

And then there was Varian, who did not snore nor moved in his sleep. Instead, their great leader would softly mumble incoherent alchemical equations and compounds as if he were conducting experiments in his dreams. In the beginning, Hugo would try to listen in on Varian's sleeptalk, but none of it ever made sense. One night, Hugo was struggling to get some shut eye when Varian, nestled safe and sound under a blanket, lurched up into a sitting position.

It made Hugo nearly jump, wondering what could have woken him up so quickly.

"mmph...nemkshhh," Varian slurred.

"...what?" Hugo asked him softly. Varian turned to look straight at him. His eyes were open, but the gaze in those eyes was cold and ghastly, as if Varian could see right through Hugo. It was so unnerving that goosebumps formed on the blond's skin.

"...chssh....chhhickems," Varian spoke softly, his voice more coherent.

"Chickens?" Hugo asked, trying to make sense. Varian nodded.

"Wh..where are theeey? Theeey needs sleeps...dad left me...in char-arge."

Hugo couldn't believe it. There was Varian, eyes open, lips moving, and still fully asleep. He considered smacking him awake to get him to stop looking at him with that creepy blue stare. The only thing stopping him was he exhaustion in his body from spending the last few nights getting little sleep. Varian's body slightly swayed as his head turned, searching worriedly for the poultry in his dreams. If he hadn't been scared half to death a second before, Hugo would have laughed at this. But he was too tired. Too annoyed. And just wanted to get some sleep.

"Where-"

"You already put them away," Hugo interrupted. Varian turned his gaze back on him.

"I..did?"

"Yeah, you put them back in the...uh....the hen house, remember?"

"Oh....yes..."

Varian slowly laid back down in bed, his talking subsiding back to soft mumbles. Once he went silent, Hugo sighed.

"Stupid farm boy," he grumbled, shutting his eyes and covering his ears with his pillow to try and fall asleep. "Stupid tent...stupid sneeze weasels..."

When Hugo awoke the next morning, he was alone in the tent. Everyone had woken up before him and was already having breakfast outside. After getting dressed and stepping out of the tent, all three teammates looked at him expectantly.

"Uh..I overslept, huh?" he asked, grabbing some food as they continued to gaze at him. "Why didn't you guys wake me?"

"Oh, we tried," Nuru answered, covering her mouth with her hand to hide her smile. "But you were so tired that nothing could wake you."

"Yeah," Yong giggled. Hugo raised a brow, wondering what was so funny. He looked over to Varian who quickly turned away from him. Varian stuffed his mouth with food quickly got up to start packing, avoiding Hugo's gaze.

Weird. Hugo thought.

When the team finished traveling that day and set up camp again, Yong walked over to Hugo to give him something.

"What's this?" Hugo asked, holding an animal plush that Yong pushed into his arms.

"This is Po, my panda plush," Yong explained. "I thought you would like to borrow him tonight."

"Uh, no," he replied, giving the bear back. "I don't need your teddy bear, Sparkles."

"Oh...you sure?"

"Positive."

Yong gave him a shrug as if Hugo was going to regret turning down the offer.

"Oookay then," the kid singsonged, walking away to get ready for bed. When the team settled in the tent, Hugo turned to see Varian handing him an additional pillow.

"I already have a pillow, Goggles," Hugo told him.

"Just take a second one," Varian huffed, tossing it over and turning away to fall asleep. Hugo wondered what the hell was going on. All day, Varian refused to talk or look at him. And the few times Hugo would address him, his ears would go red and he'd keep a distance. It was as if Varian was nervous around him, but what could he possibly be nervous about? Maybe Varian remembered waking him up about chickens last night? Yeah, that was embarrassing, but not embarrassing enough to be avoiding him, right?

Hugo rolled his eyes, deciding it was futile to waste another thought on it. Like the other nights before, it took a long time for him to fall asleep, but eventually, he was able to drift to dreamland.

Varian and Nuru woke up in the early morning to Yong shaking them awake.

"Pssst, hey, he's doing it again," Yong whispered to them. Nuru sat up and looked over at Hugo. Still asleep, Hugo was holding the second pillow that Varian gave him tightly. He hugged it close to his chest and had his face buried in it's soft fabric. As the three moved closer , Hugo yawned and cuddled into the pillow, making Yong and Nuru giggle.

"Looks like your pillow idea worked, Varian," Nuru whispered to him. "You must be happy."

"I'll be happy when we reach the Dark Kingdom and end this sleeping arrangement," he grumbled as the two smiled sheepishly at him.

"Awe, I think sleeping together like this has been fun," Yong confessed. "I think we should keep it this way."

"No way," Varian argued, getting up to leave the tent as a soft blush illuminated his cheeks. "You guys might like this, but the second we get a another tent, I'm out."

"Oh Varian, don't be cross," Nuru teased. "It's not Hugo's fault he's a hugger in his sleep. Just be glad it's the pillow that's stuck in his arms this morning instead of you."

[eclipixels]

AAAAHHHH TSYMMMM FOR THIS

OKOK I HAVE ANOTHER ONE 😓

[ProPlayer!Isagi] x [Ex-(Top)Idol!Reader](Bcs they both r gonna get asked for autographs🤞🤞) (Ex bcs she took a reaally looong break from her career since she got married to Yoichi, also bcs they moved to germany, but she's fine w/ that :D)

Soooo they had a baby son,, andd now that he's old enough to be on a plane, they're going back to japan bcs their families have been wanting to see their son with a burning passion (a very intense burning passion, actually)

Anddd when they boarded, one of the hostesses were playing with their son, keeping him entertained as reader and Yoichi settled down (their son was crying a lot) and thennnn when reader finally had the chance to be with her baby, he calmed down instantly

Basically Yoichi looking at her w/ affection, deep in love bc she is a ball of sunshine🤞🤞🤞🤞

Pls tell me this makes sense🥀💔

Coming Home

Yoichi Isagi x Reader

Content: Coming back to Japan to have your parents and parent-in-laws meet your baby for the first time

[2,025 words]

      The hum of the Munich airport was a strange kind of white noise. Soft footsteps, intercom chimes in German and English, the occasional crackle of a coffee machine. Yoichi Isagi wasn’t used to being off the pitch and still breaking a sweat, but here he was, clutching a diaper bag, baby sling, and a folded stroller.

      And you stood beside him, rocking your infant son in your arms, humming gently under your breath.

      The melody was familiar. He didn’t catch it at first, but then it clicked. One of your songs. From the tail end of your idol days just before you’d announced your hiatus. Just before you’d disappeared from the stage, the spotlight, and the pages of glossy magazines all to build something quieter. Something more lasting.

      Isagi muttered something under his breath, scanning the departure board. You looked up from the bundle in your arms and smiled. “How long until boarding?”

      “Forty minutes.”

      “Time for a snack, maybe? He might need a change, too.”

      “Already changed him ten minutes ago.”

      “Well damn, I don’t know. Maybe he might need another.”

      Still, even like this, half-asleep and balancing a baby on your hip, Isagi thought you were beautiful. More than when you were dancing on glowing stages or flashing perfect smiles at cameras.

      You sat down near the gate and bounced your son gently in your lap, cooing softly when his tiny fists flailed toward your necklace. Isagi watched, heart swelling in that overwhelming, aching way he still hadn’t gotten used to.

      Then, a voice.

      “Excuse me? Yoichi Isagi, right?”

      He turned to see two teenage boys hovering awkwardly a few feet away. One held a soccer ball in a drawstring bag, the other gripped a worn photobook of you.

      “Yeah,” Isagi said, smiling warmly. “Hey.”

      “Oh my god, it’s really him,” one of them whispered, eyes wide. The other stammered something barely tangible to you, but you managed to catch them naming one of your albums.

      Isagi stepped in, signing the boy’s ball and politely asking if they wanted a photo. You handed the baby over to Isagi so you could sign the photo book, giggling at the old idol pics inside.

      “I was so extra,” you said, cringing slightly.

      “You were a legend,” the girl replied. “You still are.”

      As they walked off, flustered and beaming, Isagi slung his arm over your shoulder. When the boarding call came, you both rose slowly, gathering your things and trying to juggle the baby, bags, passports, and sanity all at once.

      First class was a blessing thanks to Isagi pro league contract and the miles he racked up traveling across Europe for matches. The hostess greeted you both warmly, her eyes flickering to the baby with practiced politeness.

      “Would you like assistance with your luggage?”

      “Actually,” you said, adjusting your grip on the now-fussy baby, “could you hold him just for a second? We need to get the bags into the overhead.”

      The attendant nodded and took your son gently. He started squirming immediately, his little face twisting with uncertainty as he was separated from you. Isagi rushed to store the carry-ons while you hurriedly folded the stroller. You moved with quiet urgency, but the baby’s little sniffles were turning into pre-cries. Once everything was secured, you reached for him instantly.

      “Come here, baby,” you murmured, taking him back into your arms.

      Almost immediately, he settled. Not all at once but his breathing slowed, his fists unclenched, and his eyes fluttered shut as he buried his face into your chest. You rocked gently on your heels, humming again without realizing it. The same old tune.

      Isagi turned around just in time to see you like that, standing in the soft first-class lighting, hair tucked behind your ears, your cardigan sleeve pushed up from where the baby had clutched it. Your expression was calm. Full of warmth. Every bit the woman he came home to after grueling matches. Every bit the woman who had chosen him.

      He sat beside you once you were buckled in, watching you in quiet awe.

      You finally looked at him. “What?”

      “You,” he said, voice hushed. “You’re just…”

      “Just?”

      He took a moment, then leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth.

      “You’re incredible.”

      You blinked at him, then smiled. “That’s the sleep deprivation talking.”

      “No,” he whispered. “That’s love.”

      You laughed softly, resting your head on his shoulder. The baby breathed evenly in your arms, small and safe. He squeezed your hand beneath the baby’s blanket.

      —

      The airplane engine faded beneath the landing announcement, and as the wheels touched down on Japanese soil, your chest swelled with something you hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t quite nostalgia and not quite homesickness either. It was more like a quiet, persistent warmth. A reminder that somewhere beyond the stretch of the runway, family was waiting. You shifted in your seat and looked down at your son, now fast asleep in your arms, his small face relaxed and peaceful despite the long flight. Isagi was beside you, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, exhaustion written in the way his shoulders sagged, but he turned to look at the two of you and smiled the moment your eyes met.

      "Back in Japan," he murmured, voice rough from disuse.

      You nodded, brushing a thumb over your son's soft cheek. "It feels like forever, doesn’t it?"

      He exhaled slowly and leaned his head back against the seat, gaze flicking to the window where the sky had turned a pale grey with the early morning light. "It does.”

      The process of disembarking was slower than usual. Traveling with a baby meant adjusting to a new rhythm, one where every step took longer and every action required a free hand you didn’t always have. Still, the two of you moved in quiet synchronicity, a kind of practiced dance that only came from months of shared parenting. Isagi carried the stroller and your bags while you held your son close, murmuring softly whenever he stirred.

      The walk through the terminal was a blur of quiet chatter, rolling suitcases, and the occasional stare from someone who recognized either of you. Some remembered Isagi from the recent league victories, others recognized you despite the absence of makeup and the simple jeans-and-hoodie ensemble. No one said anything, but a few people smiled in passing. You were grateful for the unspoken respect that surrounded your little family like a bubble, one that held even more tightly once you reached the arrival gates.

      Your mother was the first to spot you, her hands flying to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. She moved past the crowd with urgency, almost tripping over her own feet in her hurry. Your father followed a few steps behind, trying to keep up while carrying a small paper bag of gifts. Isagi’s parents were just behind them, his mother holding a tissue already, his father unusually quiet as he stood off to the side, blinking too quickly.

      "Mom," you said softly, and that was all it took. She enveloped you in a hug, careful not to crush the baby between you, but her arms were trembling with emotion.

      "You’re here," she whispered. "You’re really here. Oh my god, let me see him."

      You pulled back gently and shifted so your mother could see her grandson’s face. Her expression crumbled entirely. She reached out but hesitated, looking to you for permission.

      You smiled and nodded. "Go ahead. He’s still waking up."

      She cradled him like something sacred, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Your father moved beside her and peered down at his grandson with wide eyes. "He looks just like you did when you were a baby," he said. "Except with more hair."

      Isagi chuckled behind you, then turned as his mother reached for him. She hugged him tight, almost too tight, and whispered something into his ear that made his shoulders stiffen briefly. Whatever she said, he nodded and leaned into her a little more. His father offered a firm handshake that turned into a one-armed hug, brief but heartfelt. There was something unspoken in the way they looked at each other, something both proud and emotional.

      Introductions followed. Grandparents passed the baby around carefully, each pair marveling at how small he was, how warm, how perfect. You watched as Isagi stood beside his mother, one arm around her shoulders, smiling at the sight of his father holding the baby like he was afraid he might drop a glass sculpture. It hit you then, harder than it had on the flight. This was what you had left the stage for. Not just marriage or motherhood or peace, but this moment. This feeling. The way his family and yours came together around something so simple and so pure.

      Afterward, you all piled into two waiting vans and made your way toward his parents’ home, where you’d be staying for the first few nights. The drive was quiet, your son napping in your arms while you leaned against the window and watched the scenery roll by. Isagi’s hand rested on your knee, thumb brushing absent circles against the fabric of your jeans. He didn’t speak much, but you felt his gaze on you more than once, lingering in that way he did when words weren’t necessary.

      At the house, his mother had prepared a small spread of welcome food. Nothing extravagant, just miso soup, tamagoyaki, grilled fish, and rice with pickled vegetables. But it was warm and fragrant, and the taste of the rice alone made you feel like crying. Your son stayed in his baby lounger beside the table while everyone sat around and talked, asked questions, shared stories.

      You told his mother how he was already trying to roll over and how he liked being held upright against your chest while you danced in the kitchen. She smiled with wet eyes, her hands folded in her lap, and told you how Isagi used to cry whenever he wasn’t being held as a baby. His father added that he would scream whenever he saw a vacuum cleaner. You laughed, and Isagi turned a little pink.

      When the baby started to fuss again, you excused yourself and took him into the small guest room to nurse him and rock him gently. The sliding door clicked softly behind you, muffling the laughter in the kitchen. You settled into the chair beside the window, your son tucked into your arms, eyes fluttering with drowsy protest. Outside, the garden was quiet, sunlight slipping through the trees like a soft veil.

      A few minutes later, the door creaked open and Isagi stepped inside. He didn’t say anything at first, just walked over and knelt beside you. His eyes were warm and full, like he had been waiting to exhale all day.

      "You okay?" you asked.

      He nodded, resting his arms on your knee and looking up at you. "I just wanted to see you."

      You smiled, brushing your hand through his hair. "You’ve seen me all day."

      "So?" he murmured.

      You looked down at the baby, who was finally full and falling asleep again. His face was relaxed, mouth slightly open, one hand resting on your chest like it was his whole world. Your body was tired. Your hair needed washing. But in this moment, you were still the most beautiful person Isagi had ever seen.

      You blinked, breath catching a little. "I’m exhausted and half-functioning and worried he’s going to wake up screaming on the plane back."

      Isagi shook his head slowly. He leaned up, kissed your cheek, and then your temple, lingering there with his forehead against yours.

      "Marrying you was the best decision I ever made," he whispered.

      You laughed softly, closing your eyes and letting your fingers trail over his knuckles. He smiled, pulled your hand to his lips, and kissed your wedding ring.

      Outside, the wind rustled through the garden trees. Inside, in the still warmth of the room, your baby slept in your arms, and the man you loved watched you with the kind of affection that no crowd or spotlight could ever compete with.

[upside-down-forever]

Haunting.

Summary:

When the Thunderbolts are forced to navigate each other’s worst memories in the psychic storm known as The Void, their darkest traumas come to light — memories buried, rewritten, or hidden for survival. As trust breaks and guilt resurfaces, the Thunderbolts must decide whether they're still just weapons — or something more.

Bob’s Void was tearing itself apart.

Cracks split across the sky like shattered glass, veins of lightning bleeding across a sea of black. Bob’s memory fragments collided mid-air—faces from different pasts, dissonant voices whispering through one another. Yelena sprinted through the chaos with blood pounding in her ears.

Behind her: Bob. Ava. Walker. Alexi. Bucky.

They ran toward the rift they’d torn open — a last-minute backdoor engineered by Ghost’s tech and raw willpower. The team had each been trapped inside their own psychoscape, forced to face guilt-laced memories, reliving sins they buried deep. The Void was collapsing now, its foundation unravelling as too many minds brushed too many truths.

Only one way out.

And it went through each one of their voids.

-----

The stepped though and fell.

Not down, exactly.

Not through space.

Through themselves.

The team dropped into an overwhelming field of static. White noise buzzed in their ears. The world shattered around them into broken mirrors — hundreds of cracked reflections showing pieces of Ava Starr: Screaming. Running. Phasing. Vanishing.

“Where are we—”

Alexi didn’t get to finish the question before version of Ava blinked past him, twitching like a skipping record.

Suddenly The Void stabilized just enough for them to breathe.

They stood in an empty hallway. Cold. Clinical. Clean.

S.H.I.E.L.D. white.

Glass windows on either side looked into rooms that weren’t there — they flickered, glitching, sometimes showing sterile labs, sometimes the charred wreckage of an explosion. Sometimes showing simply nothing.

At the far end of the corridor stood a child, maybe just seven years old, curled into a corner, her body flickering in and out of visibility like a dying lightbulb.

Ava.

Bucky took a slow breath and looked at Ava. “Your Void.”

Walker blinked. “Where’s the trauma?”

Yelena looked at him.

“This is the trauma.”

The child in the corner phased, curled tighter, blinked again.

Suddenly, one of the doors behind them slammed open and they were thrusted through.

An older Ava — barely a teenager now was strapped to a chair, wires embedded in her arms. Machines hummed. A scientist, face obscured, made notes while she convulsed in pain.

“No sedative,” the voice said. “It interrupts the phase state. She must remain aware.”

Ava stood a few feet away frozen, watching herself suffer.

The lights flickered. The scene changed once more.

The now adult Ava, mid-mission, phasing through a wall and snapping a guard’s neck without a sound. No expression. No pleasure. Just execution.

The world phased again to a younger Ava, being taught to hold a knife — not by a parent, but by a man in a suit with a S.H.I.E.L.D. patch and a stopwatch.

“Two seconds. That’s all you get. In, out, vanish.”

He held onto a stop watch with a stern loom on his face, no kindness, no compassion.

The world flash once more.

Ava alone, sitting in the dark. Phasing in her sleep. Crying without sound.

And then— absolute stillness.

The corridor vanished.

They stood in a void of nothing. White mist. No sound. No walls. Just a Ghost.

The real Ghost.

Ava.

She stood barefoot in the silence. Not phasing. Not twitching.

Just breathing.

“This is where I go,” she said softly. “When I don’t want to feel the pain.”

No one moved.

A looked around them. “I used to think if I completed enough missions, they’d fix me. Stabilize me. Let me rest. But it was never about that. It was always about using me until I broke.”

Her hand lifted. It flickered once. But didn’t phase.

“I don’t dream. I don’t sleep right. I feel like I’m burning inside my own skin every day. There’s no peace. Only motion. Only tasks.”

Bob stepped forward gently. “But this place… you made it. You carved it out.”

Ghost nodded. “I needed somewhere still.”

The little girl version of her reappeared. Sat beside her. Both stared out into the nothing.

“I don’t know who I am.” Ava said. “But I want to find out. I want to be still.”

Yelena crossed her arms tightly. “We all do.”

Ava turned her head.

“Then maybe we start with surviving this.”

The child disappeared.

The mist began to tremble. The white turned to grey.

A door formed behind them — a glowing exit.

Everyone made their way towards it but Ava lingered.

Then she stepped forward. Just once.

And didn’t flicker when she did.

They stepped into the black.

------

But not true black. No — this darkness had a heartbeat. Red. White. Blue. Flashing like sirens. Loud.

A faint whistle. Then—

BOOM.

They flinched as a gunshot cracked the silence.

Suddenly, they stood in the centre of a city square. One they all vaguely recognized from the news years ago. Cobblestones. Flags. Bystanders frozen in mid-scream. A viral nightmare caught on camera.

The shield was in motion before they could orient themselves.

SLAM.

Blood sprayed across the pavement.

SLAM.

John Walker — in the full Captain America suit, the cheap knock-off version — stood over a lifeless body, screaming through gritted teeth as he raised the bloodied shield again.

Yelena’s breath caught in her throat. Even Alexi didn’t move.

The blood glistened red on the white star. A trail ran into the cobblestones like paint across marble.

Bob murmured, “This is—”

Walker stepped into the scene.

The real Walker, not the one wielding the shield.

He looked at the memory in front of him, jaw clenched so tight it might snap.

“Don’t watch this,” he muttered.

But no one looked away.

Ava stood silently at his side. “We’ve all seen it already. The world saw it.”

John swallowed hard. “Not like this. They didn’t see it.”

The Void twisted. A memory flashed before them as if it was being relived in this exact moment.

John’s memory.

Suddenly they were inside a military base.

The sounds of mortar fire thundered in the distance. A younger Walker shouted into a radio, dragging a wounded soldier behind cover. Blood soaked through his sleeves. Two men already dead beside him. His best friend, Lemar, still alive — but not for long.

The explosion that took Lemar blinked across the scene like a dying memory.

Back in the square. The screaming returned.

The man he killed was unarmed, terrified.

Walker’s doppelgänger raised the shield again.

The real Walker shouted across the scene, “He killed Lemar! He killed my brother!”

But the words rang hollow here.

No one responded.

Yelena stepped forward slowly. “That was your excuse. Not the reason.”

Walker turned on her. “He did. He was part of the ambush.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But that’s not why you did it. You didn’t kill him because of Lemar. You killed him because you had the shield. Because the world was watching.”

Walker looked down.

“That’s what you can’t face,” she added, quieter now. “You were angry. You had power. And you wanted everyone to see you use it.”

The red sirens continued to pulse.

Walker dropped to one knee, face twisted. “I wanted to be him.”

“Captain America?” Alexei asked, bitter. “Join the club.”

“No. I wanted to be someone. I thought the uniform would make me good. I thought the shield would make me right.”

He looked at his hands.

“I held it like it meant something. And I stained it forever.”

Yelena crossed her arms, watching the loop — the moment Walker struck again and again, the blood never stopping.

“That part’s true,” she said flatly. “You did.”

Walker didn’t deny it.

“You came back from this Walker. You didn’t have to. You could’ve vanished. Hid behind another uniform.” Yelena’s voice tailed off. John looked up, something like despair upon his face.

“You stayed. You joined us. You take hits that don’t get you headlines. You’re still trying.”

Walker stood slowly.

The shield vanished from the scene. The body on the ground faded into shadow.

Only silence remained.

Then a chime — a glowing tear forming in the air behind them.

The way out.

Walker lingered one last second, looking at the empty space where Nico had died.

“I remember his face,” he said quietly. “I always will.”

No one said anything.

They followed him out.

----

They arrived in a ruined stadium — wide, crumbling, ancient-looking but familiar. Soviet banners flapped lazily in a wind that didn’t exist. The stands were empty, rows of seats shattered and rusted. Graffiti scrawled across every surface: slogans, mockery, faded propaganda. A torn poster fluttered on a wall nearby — Alexei’s face, painted in bold, heroic strokes, red star on his chest, jaw set in courage.

Except someone had drawn X’s over his eyes.

Yelena was the first to speak. “What is this?”

Alexei didn’t answer.

At the centre of the stadium, facing a younger version of himself.

The younger Alexei stood tall, proud and barrel-chested in a crisp Red Guardian suit. His arms crossed, a glimmering shield at his side. He looked like a hero from a comic book — clean lines, impossible confidence.

“You again,” the older Alexei muttered.

His younger self sneered.

“You should have stayed in the cold, old man,” the younger version said in perfect English. “You were a myth once. Now you’re a joke. They remember Captain America. They remember the Avengers.”

He gestured to the decaying stadium.

“This is all that’s left of you.”

The real Alexei stood his ground, but he looked smaller somehow. Beaten before a punch was thrown.

“I tried,” he said. “I did what they told me. I followed every order.”

“You let them lock you away,” his younger self snapped. “And you liked it. You liked hiding behind stories of your glory. You tell tales in prison while the world forgets you existed.”

Alexei’s voice cracked. “They erased me.”

“They didn’t have to. You did it yourself.”

The young Alexei stepped closer.

“You let Dreykov win. You let him take those girls. Your girls. And you called yourself father?”

Yelena flinched. Her jaw tightened.

Alexei bowed his head. “I didn’t know what he was doing. Not really. Not until it was too late.”

“But you suspected. And you let it happen.”

The younger Red Guardian threw his shield. It slammed into the wall behind the team with a resounding clang. No one moved.

“You weren’t a father. You were a mascot. A sad punchline.”

Alexei turned away, shoulders hunched. “I believed I was helping my country.”

“No,” the echo said, stepping right into his face now. “You believed you mattered. And when the country forgot you… you started lying to yourself.”

Yelena’s voice cut in, cold and sharp.

“That’s enough.”

The projection looked toward her — and smirked.

“You should hate him, little one. He let them break you. Broke your sister. He failed you in every way that matters.”

Yelena didn’t flinch.

“I do,” she said. “Sometimes.”

She looked at Alexei.

“But I also saw him drag his broken body into Dreykov’s sky fortress to get us out. I saw him bleed trying to make it right.”

The younger Alexei faltered.

Yelena stepped closer to the real Alexei.

“You’re not the man on the poster,” she said. “You never were.”

Alexei looked at her.

“But you’re trying.”

Behind them, the stadium began to shake. Stone cracked. The false image of young Alexei blurred like a bad signal, flickering.

“You don’t deserve to forget,” it hissed. “You live with it.”

“I do,” Alexei whispered. “Every day.”

His ghost dissolved.

The stadium split down the centre, a golden rift opening in the sky.

“Let’s go,” Ava said quietly.

They crossed the threshold,the first step into the Void was like being plunged underwater.

No sound. No time.

Just a sudden pressure in the chest.

Then snow.

-----

The Thunderbolts emerged into a forest clearing buried in white. The kind of deep Russian winter that muffles everything. No wind. No birds. Just snowfall in slow motion, thick and quiet.

Yelena was already ahead of them.

She wasn’t leading. She was drawn. Walking through the trees like she had no choice.

“Yelena—” Bob called out.

She didn’t hear him. Or couldn’t.

Because she was back there again.

A child’s boots broke the silence ahead — small, hurried footfalls, crunching through the snow.

Yelena saw her.

The girl.

Nine, maybe ten. Pale blue coat. Dark braids bouncing as she ran. A red scarf slipping from her shoulder like a stream of blood. She didn’t look back.

Yelena’s mouth moved soundlessly. She wasn’t breathing.

“Bring her to him.”

The voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere. Dreykov’s voice. Cold. Mechanical.

Yelena turned sharply toward it, but there was nothing behind her.

Just silence.

The girl in the snow tripped. Fell. Scrambled to her feet again, terrified.

Crunch.

Someone else stepped into the snow behind her.

A tall figure.

Face unseen. Head obscured by blur and shadow and movement that didn’t make sense. Like trying to remember a dream.

Yelena stared at the figure, her whole body shaking.

She’d seen this before. Lived it. But her mind had protected her. Shoved it into a corner she couldn’t reach.

Until now.

The man raised a gun.

“Don’t—” Yelena whispered.

Her voice cracked.

“Please don’t.”

The gunshot rang out like thunder.

The girl dropped. One motion. No scream.

The snow drank it quietly.

Yelena collapsed to her knees.

“I tried to stop them,” she choked. “I told her not to run. I thought she might make it.”

Bob moved to her side, slowly. Carefully. Like she might break apart if touched too quickly.

The others followed. Alexi. Ava. Walker.

Because now the figure was turning.

The gun still smoking.

And even though his face was a blur, there was something about the angle of his shoulders. The slow, pained gait as he turned away. The hesitation. The human beneath the weapon.

But Yelena never saw his face.

She didn’t need to.

This was the day she stopped believing she could save anyone.

A tear froze on her cheek.

“I remember thinking I hated him,” she whispered. “But I never knew who he was. Never saw.”

The Void began to fracture.

The trees faded. The snow dissolved into floating dust.

The girl was gone.

But the red scarf remained — fluttering gently in the still air.

Bucky picked it up.

No one said a word.

The portal ahead pulsed again. The next Void waited.

Yelena stood slowly.

She didn’t look back.

-----

It was silent.

Fresh snow blanketed the ground, untouched and perfect. The trees were skeletal, brittle-looking, their branches cutting into a grey sky. The air was cold enough to bite. But the chill that gripped Yelena had nothing to do with the temperature.

They knew this place.

Too well. They had just been here.

“No,” she muttered. “No, no, no—”

Her boots crunched in the snow as she turned in place, eyes darting, breathe shortening.

Alexi frowned. “Did we make a wrong turn? Where are we?”

“My void,” Yelena said tightly. “We’re still in my head.”

The team fell quiet as a figure appeared ahead, trudging slowly through the snow.

Yelena’s younger self stepped out from behind the tree as she always did. But this time the figure behind her that was always obscured in Yelena’s own void was clear as day.

He was familiar but not the man they knew — this version moved like a machine: precise, silent, colder than the landscape around him. He wore black tactical gear. His expression was blank.

They followed him with instinctive caution, watching the memory unfold from the side-lines like silent ghosts.

That’s when she saw her again.

The same girl.

The same pale blue coat and red scarf.

“No,” Yelena said, her voice strangled. “No.”

The girl tripped centre of the snowy street, unsure where to run. She turned, eyes wide.

A breath.

A flash of movement—

An arm raises. A gun fires.

The girl jerked forward, face-first into the snow. Blood bloomed.

Yelena stared, unmoving.

The silence in her chest broke into a roar.

She shoved past the others, stumbling into the snow, staring at the fallen body like it would rise again if she got there fast enough. Her knees hit the ground next to the girl.

It was her. The girl from her own Void. The girl she failed.

And the shooter…

She turned, slowly.

Bucky.

No.

The Winter Soldier.

It was him. Not an arm. Not a shadow. A person.

He stared at the girl’s body like it had just begun bleeding. Like he’d never stopped seeing it bleed.

“You,” Yelena whispered. “It was you.”

The rest of the team froze behind her.

Bucky didn’t move. “I know.”

Yelena stood, the weight of it crushing her.

“You’re the one I see every time I sleep,” she said, voice rising. “You’re the arm in my Void. You killed her. I watched her fall. And I didn’t even know it was you.”

“I didn’t either.” Bucky said, his voice thick, ragged.

Her jaw clenched. “She was a child.”

“I know,” he said again, quieter. “She’s the one that broke through first. Her face. I didn’t know her name. But I remembered the way she looked at me.”

Yelena’s fists trembled at her sides. “She was my test. She was an innocent. She was my first assist before my first kill.”

He said nothing.

The team stood back, giving them space, unsure whether to intervene or bear witness.

Yelena stepped closer, inches from him now.

“You don’t get to be sorry,” she spat. “You don’t get to remember her like she meant something to you.”

“I remember them all. I don’t know her name, but I remember her.”

The snow kept falling. Time twisted strangely here — no urgency, only truth.

Yelena stared at him, hatred and grief warring in her chest. But she also saw the raw pain in him, the tremor in his voice. The way he hadn’t tried to explain it away.

She turned, stared back down at the girl’s body.

The void scene began to crack. The memory breaking down.

The exit was opening.

“We go now,” Walker said, low and urgent.

Yelena didn’t move for a long moment. She looked back at Bucky.

And finally, she said, “I’m glad you carry her with you. At least I am not alone with it. ”

She walked through the crack of light.

They emerged from the last Void into dead silence.

-----

Not just around them—within them.

Each of the Thunderbolts stood motionless in the battered hallway that served as the Void’s final exit chamber, eyes hollow, breaths uneven. Alexei was muttering something to himself. Walker leaned back against a wall, jaw clenched like he was chewing through memory. Ava paced without sound.

But Yelena…

She didn’t move.

Her boots were still planted where the light spat them out.

She stared forward. Past everyone. Through the wall.

Like she was still there.

In the snow.

In her- no. In Bucky’s memory.

The same girl. The same trees.

The same crack of the gun.

Only this time, the face had been clear.

Him.

The man who had been walking beside her. Watching her back. Sharing silent glances across briefing tables and dark missions. The man who knew something about guilt, about pain, about hands that didn’t feel like yours.

He was behind her now, a few paces back.

But he didn’t dare move closer.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally. His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it in hours. “Not until the Void showed it to me.”

Yelena turned, slowly. Not fast enough to look like anger.

Worse.

Deliberate. Controlled.

“You didn’t know?” she repeated, her accent a razor.

Bucky met her eyes. He didn’t flinch.

“I got wiped often. I knew but I didn’t know.”

Her breath hitched. “I was ten.”

“I know.”

“No,” she snapped, stepping forward. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to say I know and stand there like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I never pulled the trigger!” Her voice cracked open, raw and hoarse. “I was told to bring her back. I told her to stop running. I tried to—”

She broke off. Turned away. Bit the side of her palm until it went white.

Bob stepped forward, hesitating. “Yelena…”

She raised a hand to stop him.

No one else moved.

Finally, Bucky said, softer. “Then why did your Void end there?”

She froze.

He went on, like he was pulling barbed wire from his throat. “That’s the moment you live in. Not the missions. Not the escape. That girl. Her blood. Her death. You carry it like you pulled the trigger. That’s what I saw. What I felt in your Void.”

She turned back slowly. Tears in her eyes now — not falling, but held there. Defiant. Controlled. That Widow training didn’t break easily.

“So what? You want forgiveness?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then why are you talking?”

“Because I think the people who made us into this want us to stay broken.” He took one step closer. “And I don’t want to give them that.”

The silence between them was unbearable.

“You killed her,” she whispered.

He didn’t argue. “I did.”

“I needed her to mean something,” she said. “And now all I’ll ever see is your face when I remember her.”

Bucky’s voice was almost gone. “I’m sorry.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then, softly—almost inaudible—Yelena said:

“I don’t forgive you.”

He nodded.

“But I don’t hate you either.”

His eyes met hers.

Yelena turned and walked past him. Not touching. Not looking back.

Bucky stayed where he was, rooted in place, letting the weight of it settle.

Because he understood now.

He stilled hadn’t earned it, there was still work to do.

[isthiscoinsidenceorasign]

She's Theirs: By Your Side

Title: By Your Side

Summary: Nick experiences Sub-space for the first time.

Word Count:  12,310

Warnings: Sub-space, fluff, light flirting, some suggestive dirty talk. A teeny bit of praise kink if you squint.

Tags: Smut 

Author Notes: Hey y'all! Here's chapter nine. This chapter I feel is more emotional than some of the others. But I feel like it really moves the story along and further solidifies Nick, Jake, and Bradley's bond. If you'd like to be tagged in future chapters let me know. And if there's anything you'd like to see in the story don't hesitate to tell me. Maybe I'll be able to put it in!

Nick stared at the flight simulator data scrolling across her screen, the numbers blurring together like runway lights through fog. Last night with Jake and Bradley had been... transcendent. The way they all connected on a more deeper and romantic level.The way they made her feel so loved, so cherished, so safe. But now, sitting in her ergonomic chair at the Naval Air Systems Command facility, she felt hollowed out, a fighter jet running on fumes.

"Boss, these thrust calculations from Jones look off by at least three percent," One of her subordinates said, dropping a stack of papers on her desk.

"So fix them," she mumbled, reaching for her fourth coffee of the morning. Her hands trembled slightly, not from the caffeine but from the emotional crash that had been building since she'd woken up alone in her apartment. Jake and Bradley had needed to report early—some classified briefing they couldn't get out of. They both gave her kisses and told her to go back to sleep. She did but when she woke up her mood had only gotten worse.

“Are you okay Boss?” Her coworker asked out of concern.

"Fine, just tired," Nick replied, forcing authority into her voice. Her colleagues didn't need to know she'd spent half the night with her body tangled with two of Top Gun's finest pilots. "I'll look at the thrust data after I finish the stabilizer analysis."

She turned back to her screen, but her mind drifted to Bradley's hands, calloused yet gentle, holding her own soft ones. To Jake's mouth against her neck, whispering promises that had made her gasp and arch against him. To the way they'd taken care of her, the way they wiped her tears away when she became emotional.

Thinking back to last night and how vulnerable she became brought tears to her eyes. She tried to blink them away yet they still threatened to fall. Something had to be done to get her emotions in check.

Nick hastily dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, grateful that most of her team was focused on their own work in front of them. The vast room hummed with the sound of dozens of engineers working, the tap of keyboards, machines running, and low murmurs of technical discussion creating a white noise that usually soothed her. Today, it felt like static against her raw nerves.

She glanced at her phone, sitting face-down beside her keyboard. The device seemed to pulse with an energy of its own, a tether to the two men who had systematically dismantled her carefully constructed walls. Nick had always prided herself on her compartmentalization skills—it was what made her such an effective engineer. Emotion in one box, intellect in another, never the twain shall meet. But last night, those boxes had been thrown open, their contents scattered like clothes across her bedroom floor.

She knew they agreed to keep a healthy distance from each other on the base, as to not draw suspicion. But right now all she wanted was to be near them.

Without second guessing herself she turned her phone over and pulled up there group text.

Nick: Hey what are you guys doing?

A few minutes passed before Jake and only Jake responded.

Jake: Just some paperwork Darlin’.

Nick: Can we find a place on base to meet?

Jake: Is everything okay?”

Nick stared at Jake's message, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Was everything okay? No. She felt like she was spiraling out of control, like a jet with compromised ailerons. But how could she explain that in a text?

Nick: I just need to see you both. Please.

She set the phone down and tried to focus on the stabilizer analysis again. Numbers and equations that normally made perfect sense to her now seemed like hieroglyphics. Her phone vibrated against the desk.

Jake: Maintenance hangar 4. 15 minutes. It's empty until 1400.

Nick felt a rush of relief so intense it made her dizzy. She quickly saved her work, smoothing down her navy-blue blouse as she stood.

"I need to check something in the test bay," she announced to no one in particular, grabbing her security badge and phone. "Back in thirty."

Once she stepped into the hallway, she nearly sprinted toward the hangar. Like Jake had said—the place was deserted.

The cavernous space of Hangar 4 swallowed her footsteps as she slipped inside. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching dust motes in golden beams that cut across the concrete floor. The massive doors were sealed, leaving the hangar in a strange limbo—not quite dark, not fully illuminated. A perfect metaphor for how she felt.

"Nick?"

Jake’s voice came from behind a partially disassembled F/A-18. He stepped into view, flight suit unzipped to his waist, white t-shirt underneath. His brown eyes swept over her, immediately registering her distress.

"Hey," she managed, her voice smaller than she intended.

"Is everything okay?"

Nick opened her mouth, but all that came out was a strangled sob.

Jake closed the distance in swift, unthinking steps, reaching her before she could fold in on herself completely. The scent of him wrapped around her—coffee whiskey and warm vanilla, rich and grounding, like late-night conversations and steady hands on cold mornings.

"I got you," he murmured against her hair, one hand cradling the back of her head. "What happened, darlin'?"

Nick clutched his flight suit, burying her face against the solid warmth of him. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she choked out. "I can't focus, I can't think straight. I keep thinking about last night, and—" She broke off, unable to articulate the storm inside her.

"Where's Bradley?" she whispered, hating how needy she sounded but unable to stop herself.

"I don't know. Haven’t seen him since our briefing this morning. Did he not respond to the group chat?" Jake’s thumbs brushed away her tears.

"No. Can you try him? I need both of you."

Jake nodded, pulling his phone from his pocket while keeping one arm firmly around her. "I'll call him."

The ringing echoed in the empty hangar, unanswered. After several rings, it went straight to voicemail.

Jake slipped the phone back into his pocket and guided her toward a small alcove where maintenance equipment was stored. He cleared space on a workbench and lifted her onto it, positioning himself between her knees, hands steady on her waist.

"He didn’t answer," Jake said as she sniffled. "Probably in a test flight." His thumbs made soothing circles on her hips. "He'll be here as soon as he can."

Nick nodded, trying to steady her breathing. The trembling wouldn't stop. She felt pathetic, falling apart like this—over what? A night of intimacy? What kind of aerospace engineer, what kind of Maverick’s daughter, unraveled because two men had shown her tenderness?

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "This is stupid. I shouldn’t have pulled you away from work."

Jake’s eyes narrowed. "Don't. Don't apologize for needing us." His voice was firm but gentle. "Talk to me, Nick. What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

She inhaled shakily. "I woke up alone and I just… spiraled. Last night was…" She struggled as more tears spilled.

Jake sighed. "Do you know what sub-drop is?"

Nick nodded.

"I’ve read about it," she admitted, wiping at her eyes. "But I didn’t think… we weren’t even doing a scene. It wasn’t like that."

Jake’s expression softened as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "From what I read, it doesn’t have to be a formal scene, darlin'. Any intense emotional or physical experience can trigger it. And last night was pretty damn intense for all of us."

Nick leaned into his touch, craving the contact like oxygen. "I’ve never felt like this before. Like I’m coming apart at the seams."

"That’s because you’ve never let yourself be this vulnerable before," Jake said, his usual cocky grin momentarily replaced by something softer. "You let us see all of you last night, Nick. Not just the brilliant engineer or Maverick’s tough-as-nails daughter. The real you."

Fresh tears welled in her eyes. She lowered her head, a sob overtaking her.

Jake pulled her closer, pressing his forehead to hers. "Hey, hey… I’ve got you."

"It’s just—" Nick’s voice cracked. "I’m not supposed to be like this. I’ve always been independent, in control. And now I can’t even make it through a morning without falling apart because you two aren’t there."

Jake’s hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs gently wiping away her tears. "You know what I think? I think you’ve been in control for so damn long, you’ve forgotten what it feels like to let go. To trust someone else to catch you."

Nick closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. "It’s terrifying."

"Scarier than flying supersonic?" His voice

held a hint of teasing.

A small laugh escaped her. "Way scarier."

The hangar door creaked open, and they both froze. Nick's heart pounded against her ribs as she instinctively tried to pull away from Jake, but he held her firmly, his body shielding her from view.

"It's just me," Bradley’s deep voice called out, and Nick sagged with relief.

He appeared around the corner of the alcove, his face lined with concern. Still in his flight suit, his hair was slightly mussed, as though he’d been running his hands through it.

"I got your messages as soon as I finished my flight," he said, his eyes sweeping over Nick’s tear-stained face. "What’s wrong?"

Jake kept one arm around Nick’s waist. "Our girl’s having a rough morning."

"Sub-drop," Nick murmured, her voice small. "At least, that’s what Jake thinks is happening."

Understanding dawned on Bradley’s face.

Without hesitation, he stepped closer, settling at Nick’s other side. His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing away a fresh tear.

"I should’ve checked in earlier," he said, his voice rough with regret. "We shouldn’t have left you alone this morning."

Nick leaned into his touch, drawing comfort from the warmth of his palm. "It’s not your fault. You had to report. I just… I didn’t expect to feel like this."

"Like what?" Bradley asked gently.

"Empty. Shaky. Like I’m free-falling without a parachute." Her voice trembled as fresh tears welled up. "I can’t focus on work. I can’t stop thinking about last night."

Jake and Bradley exchanged a look over her head, a silent conversation passing between them.

"Come here," Bradley murmured, guiding her off the workbench and into his arms. His broad chest was solid against her cheek, anchoring her. Jake moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist just below Bradley’s. She was completely sandwiched between them.

"We’ve got you," Bradley whispered against her hair. "You’re safe with us."

Nick closed her eyes, surrendering to their hold. The emotions she’d been trying to keep at bay surged forward, spilling out in uncontrolled sobs.

Bradley’s steady heartbeat thumped against her ear, while Jake’s breath warmed the back of her neck. Neither of them rushed her or hushed her tears. They simply held her, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety in the cold, echoing hangar.

"That’s it," Jake murmured, his lips brushing her hair. "Let it all out, darlin’."

As her crying ebbed, Nick became aware of Bradley’s hand making slow circles on her back, matching her breaths. Jake’s fingers traced soothing patterns along her hip, grounding her further in their presence.

"I don't understand why this is happening," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I've had sex before. I've had relationships. Why is this happening.” She asked, still finding fault with there earlier explanation.

"It's not just sex," Bradley said softly, his voice resonating through his chest against her ear. "What happened between us last night was more than physical."

Jake’s arms tightened around her waist. "We connected on a whole different level, Nick. All three of us."

She sniffled, her breathing still uneven. "I've never… felt so much at once."

"That's why you're crashing now," Bradley said, his fingers threading gently through her hair. "Your body flooded itself with dopamine, oxytocin, adrenaline—and now those levels are dropping. Your system is trying to recalibrate."

Nick pulled back slightly, looking up at Bradley with red-rimmed eyes. "Is that the pilot talking, or did you actually research this?"

A faint smile touched his lips. "It was Jake actually. After you said you were into BDSM he did some research and passed it along to me.”

Nick blinked in surprise, turning slightly to glance at Jake over her shoulder. "You researched this? For me?"

Jake’s usual cocky smirk softened into something genuine. "Of course I did. The moment you mentioned it that first night, I wanted to know everything." His fingers traced a slow, reassuring path along her spine. "I wasn’t about to mess this up by being uninformed."

A fresh wave of emotion swelled inside her. These men—these impossibly strong, skilled pilots—had taken the time to understand what she needed before she even fully understood it herself.

"We both did," Bradley added, his deep voice rumbling against her. "Jake sent me articles about the lifestyle—sub-space, aftercare, sub-drop, all of it. We wanted to..."

"Be prepared," Nick finished for him.

He nodded. "For when you were ready."

Nick’s eyes welled up again. "That’s so sweet of you both."

"Shhh, it’s okay," Bradley murmured, pulling her closer.

Jake’s hands slid up from her waist to her shoulders, kneading gently at the tension there. "You need aftercare, darlin’. Even if we didn’t plan a formal scene, what happened between us was intense. We should’ve stayed with you longer this morning."

Nick swallowed hard, hating how right they both were, how much she needed this. "I've never let anyone see me like this before," she whispered.

"Like what?" Bradley asked, his fingers still threading through her hair.

"Weak. Needy." The words felt sharp against her throat.

Jake’s hands stilled on her shoulders. "Is that what you think this is? Weakness?"

She nodded against Bradley’s chest, unable to meet their eyes.

Bradley gently tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. His gaze was steady, filled with concern—and something deeper.

"This isn’t weakness, Nick. This is trust." His voice was quiet but unwavering. "Do you know how much strength it takes to let someone see you like this?"

Jake moved to her side, his hand resting protectively on her lower back.

"Most people spend their lives building walls, never letting anyone in. But you trusted us enough to let us see you."

Bradley’s presence against her chest was grounding. "Trust requires more strength than independence ever will."

"He’s right, darlin’," Jake added, his breath warm against her ear. "You think we don’t need this too? That we just walked away this morning and went about our day like nothing happened?"

"You didn’t?" Nick blinked away fresh tears.

"Hell no," Jake said fiercely. "I was distracted all morning. Couldn’t focus worth a damn during the briefing."

Bradley nodded. "I nearly botched a routine landing because I couldn’t stop thinking about you—about us."

Nick searched their faces for any hint of dishonesty but found none. "Really?"

"Really," Bradley confirmed, gently brushing away a tear. "I kept checking my phone between flights, worried about you. When I saw your messages, I told the flight instructor I had a family emergency."

Jake’s lips quirked up. "Which isn’t far from the truth, if you think about it."

The word _family_ lingered between them, heavy with implication. Warmth unfurled in her chest, pushing back against the hollow feeling that had threatened to swallow her whole.

"Family," Nick echoed softly, testing the word on her tongue. It felt right, even though what they shared was so new—so undefined.

Bradley tightened his arms around her. "Well, maybe not family exactly. More like—"

"Boyfriends and girlfriend?" she asked, hopeful.

Jake and Bradley exchanged a look over her head, another silent conversation.

"Is that what you want, darlin’?" Jake asked, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. Gone was the cocky fighter pilot who strutted across the flight deck like he owned it.

Nick took a shaky breath. "I… I don’t know what this is between us. But I know I don’t want it to end."

Bradley cupped her face, his calloused thumb stroking her cheek. "Neither do we."

"So, you're both my boyfriends?"

Jake chuckled softly. "I think we’re a bit beyond conventional labels, but yeah—if that’s what you want to call it."

Bradley’s eyes softened. "Boyfriends. Partners. Whatever you want to call us, we’re yours, Nick."

The declaration settled something deep inside her, a restless part of her soul finally finding anchor. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against Bradley’s chest, reaching back to grip Jake’s flight suit.

"I’ve never done this before—a relationship with two people. I don’t know the rules."

Jake caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "We’ll figure them out together. Make our own rules."

"Right now, though," Bradley said, voice gentle but firm, "we need to take care of you properly."

Nick nodded, suddenly aware of how drained she felt. The emotional storm had passed, leaving her exhausted but lighter somehow, as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. "I'd love that, but we all have work to get back to."

Jake’s thumb traced the delicate bones of her wrist. "Work can wait. You're more important."

"I can't just disappear," Nick protested weakly, though the thought of returning to her desk and facing those thrust calculations made her stomach clench. "I told them I’d be back in thirty minutes."

Bradley reached for her phone. "Text your team. Tell them you’re consulting on a mechanical issue with the F/A-18s. It’ll buy us the rest of the afternoon."

Nick hesitated, torn between duty and the undeniable need for comfort. "I shouldn’t—"

"Nick," Jake said, gentle but firm. "You wouldn’t fly a jet with compromised systems. Don’t try to function when you’re emotionally depleted."

She relented, typing out a quick message to her team lead. When she finished, Bradley took her phone and slipped it into his flight suit pocket.

"What did you have in mind?" Nick asked, her voice small but steadier than before.

Jake’s smile was warm, lacking its usual edge of cockiness. "First, we’re getting you out of here."

"And we’re going to make sure you eat something," Bradley added, his arm still protective around her shoulders. "When’s the last time you had a real meal?"

Nick realized with a start that she’d skipped breakfast, too wound up to eat. "I… had coffee?"

Jake shook his head, exchanging a concerned look with Bradley. "That settles it. Food, hydration, rest, and touch," Bradley said softly. "Physical contact helps with the drop."

"Won’t it look suspicious if all of us leave?" Nick asked.

"I already told them I had a family emergency," Bradley said. "That’ll cover me."

Jake’s hand slid to the small of her back, his touch firm but gentle. "I have to meet with your dad and Cyclone, but as soon as that’s done, I’ll be out of here."

"So how about I take you back to your place, get some food and rest into you, and Jake meets up with us later?" Bradley offered.

Nick leaned into Bradley’s solid warmth, considering his suggestion. The thought of being alone again made her chest tighten, but having Bradley with her sounded like exactly what she needed.

"Okay," she whispered, nodding against his chest. "That sounds good."

Jake stepped closer, tilting her chin up with his finger. "I’ll be there as soon as I can, darlin’. I promise." His green eyes were intense, searching her face. "Two hours, tops."

Nick nodded, feeling steadier than she had all morning. "I’ll be okay. Bradley will take care of me."

"Damn right I will," Bradley affirmed, his arm tightening around her shoulders.

Jake leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. The tenderness of it made her eyes sting with fresh tears. "No more crying," he murmured against her mouth. "I hate seeing you cry."

She sniffled and lowered her eyes. "I’m sorry."

"Don’t be sorry," Bradley murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "It’s not weakness to feel things deeply."

Jake reluctantly stepped back, his hand lingering on her arm. "I need to go before Cyclone sends out a search party, but I’ll be thinking about you both."

Nick watched as he straightened his flight suit, slipping back into his Hangman persona. But his eyes—soft when they met hers—betrayed the man beneath the callsign.

"Text me when you get to her place," Jake told Bradley.

Bradley nodded. "Will do."

Jake was about to turn away when Nick called his name. He paused as she detached herself from Bradley and rushed to wrap her arms around him.

"Thank you, Jake."

Jake closed his eyes as he held her, one hand cradling the back of her head. "Anytime, darlin’," he murmured against her hair. "That’s what boyfriends are for, right?"

The word sent a warm flutter through Nick’s chest. She pulled back just enough to look up at him, surprised to see vulnerability in his usually confident gaze. Rising onto her tiptoes, she kissed him again, pouring her gratitude into it.

When they separated, Jake’s eyes had darkened. He cleared his throat and glanced at Bradley. "Take care of our girl."

Bradley’s gaze softened, the weight of the moment settling over him. "You know I will."

With visible reluctance, Jake stepped away, his hand trailing down Nick’s arm until their fingertips parted. He gave her one last look before slipping out of the alcove, his footsteps echoing across the hangar floor.

Bradley sighed, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "Why don’t you grab your things? I’ll meet you at my car."

Nick nodded, drawing a deep breath. The emotional storm had passed, leaving her drained but somehow lighter. "Okay. Give me ten minutes."

Bradley’s hand cupped her cheek one last time. "I’ll be waiting. And Nick? It’s going to be alright."

She managed a wobbly smile before stepping back, straightening her blouse and running a hand through her disheveled hair. "I know. I know, and it’s all thanks to you and Jake."

Nick's apartment welcomed them with cool silence, the afternoon sun filtering through the partially drawn curtains. Bradley guided her inside with a steady hand at the small of her back, his presence solid and reassuring.

"Go change into something comfortable," he said, his voice low. "I'll make us something to eat."

Nick nodded, suddenly aware of how constricting her work clothes felt against her skin. She padded to her bedroom, the emotional exhaustion making her movements sluggish. After closing the door, she leaned against it for a moment, taking a deep breath.

Once she was out of her work clothes, she rifled through one of her drawers for something clean and soft to wear. Her fingers landed on Bradley's TOP GUN sweatshirt, and a small smile tugged at her lips. She had worn it after the rainstorm ruined their picnic, and the next morning, she had refused to take it off.

Nick slipped the sweatshirt over her head, inhaling the faint scent of Bradley that still clung to the fabric—a mix of clean laundry and the smoldering spice of his cologne, rich with black pepper, tobacco, and vanilla. It was sharp yet warm, unmistakably him, settling around her like an echo of his presence. The oversized garment swallowed her frame, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. She paired it with soft sleep shorts and headed back to the kitchen, her bare feet silent against the hardwood floors.

Bradley stood at the stove, having shed his flight suit jacket, leaving him in a white T-shirt and uniform pants. The sight of him moving so effortlessly in her space sent a wave of warmth through her chest.

He turned at the sound of her approach, his eyes softening as they swept over her appearance. "Nice sweatshirt," he said, a small smile playing at his lips. "Looks better on you than it ever did on me."

Nick tugged at the hem self-consciously. "It's comfortable. And it smells like you."

Bradley's expression warmed further as he turned back to the stove. "I'm making grilled cheese and tomato soup. Nothing fancy, but it's comfort food."

Nick slid onto one of her kitchen barstools, watching his sure movements as he flipped a sandwich in the pan. There was something unexpectedly intimate about watching him here—not in the cockpit of a fighter jet, not suited up for training—but standing at her stove, completely at ease in her home.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For being there for me today."

Bradley glanced over his shoulder, eyes steady. "You never have to thank me for that."

He slid the perfectly golden sandwich onto a plate and ladled steaming soup into a bowl beside it. After placing the meal in front of her, Bradley brushed a strand of hair from her face, his calloused fingers gentle against her skin.

"Eat," he encouraged, his voice soft but firm. "Your body needs fuel, especially after an emotional drop."

Nick picked up half the sandwich, suddenly aware of the hollow ache in her stomach. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until the rich aroma of melted cheese and butter hit her senses. The first bite nearly made her moan.

Bradley moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, making his own sandwich and texting Jake as promised. Once his food was ready, he settled onto the barstool beside her, their knees touching.

"Better?" he asked after she'd eaten half the sandwich and several spoonfuls of soup.

Nick nodded around a bite of her sandwich. “Not one hundred percent, but definitely better.”

Bradley went to dunk his own sandwich in t

he hot soup when his phone vibrated.

Bradley checked his phone, a smile playing at his lips. "Jake’s getting ready to head into his meeting. Just wanted to see how you're doing before it starts."

"Tell him I'm okay," Nick said softly, watching Bradley’s fingers tap out a response. "Tell him I miss him."

Bradley’s smile deepened as he typed. "Already did."

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the simple meal warming Nick from the inside out. With each bite, she felt more grounded, the shaky, hollow feeling gradually receding.

"I feel so stupid," she finally admitted, staring into her half-empty soup bowl. "Breaking down like that at work."

Bradley set down his spoon and turned to face her fully. "Nick, look at me."

She reluctantly raised her eyes to meet his.

"What happened today was a physical and emotional response to something intense and new. It wasn't weakness. It wasn't stupid." His voice was firm but gentle. "It was your body and mind processing everything that happened between us."

Nick swallowed a lump in her throat. "I just hate feeling like this. I used to get panic attacks a lot, and this felt very similar. I always felt ridiculous every time I got one."

Bradley’s expression softened, his brown eyes warming with understanding. "There’s nothing ridiculous about your body's natural responses. Panic attacks, sub-drop—they’re both physical reactions to emotional states."

He reached over, taking her hand in his. His thumb traced gentle circles against her palm, the callouses on his fingertips creating a delicious friction against her skin.

"You know what pilots learn in training?" he asked, his voice low. "That our bodies will react to stress whether we want them to or not. Fighting those responses only makes them worse."

Nick leaned into his touch. "So what do you do instead?"

"We acknowledge them. Accept them. Work with them instead of against them." Bradley’s fingers intertwined with hers. "The strongest pilots aren't the ones who never feel fear—they're the ones who feel it and fly anyway."

Something about his words resonated deep within her.

Bradley’s fingers tightened around hers. "When I get up in that cockpit, I feel afraid sometimes. So does Jake, though he’d probably rather crash than admit it."

Nick’s lips quirked up slightly. "Yeah, that sounds like him."

"The point is," Bradley continued, "we don’t overcome fear by pretending it doesn’t exist. We acknowledge it, respect it, and then make it work for us instead of against us." His thumb traced the delicate bones of her wrist. "Same goes for what you're feeling now."

Nick stared at their intertwined hands, processing his words. "So I should just... accept that I had an emotional crash?"

"Accept it. Understand it." Bradley’s voice was steady, reassuring. "And know that Jake and I are here to help you through it."

She nodded slowly, finishing the last of her soup. "That was perfect. Thank you."

He smiled. "What would you like to do now? I can run you a hot bath, set up the hot tub, or tuck you into bed with some TV."

Nick considered his suggestions, the warmth of the food in her belly making her realize just how physically and emotionally drained she truly was.

"A bath sounds amazing, but..." she hesitated, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"But?" Bradley prompted gently.

"Would you join me?" The vulnerability in her voice was unmistakable. "I don’t want to be alone right now."

Bradley’s gaze grew tender as he reached for her hand, squeezing gently instead of tucking her hair away. "Of course I will."

He stood, gathering their empty plates and placing them in the sink before leading her toward the bathroom. Nick let him guide her, watching as he moved with practiced efficiency, turning on the faucet and testing the temperature with his wrist.

"Do you have any bath salts or oils?" he asked, glancing around the ne

at bathroom.

Nick pointed to a cabinet beside the sink.

Bradley opened the cabinet, revealing a small collection of bath products. He selected a bottle of lavender bath oil, pouring a generous amount into the running water. The scent immediately filled the bathroom—herbal, calming, familiar.

"Lavender helps with stress," he said, catching her questioning look. "My mother used to swear by it."

Nick smiled softly at this glimpse into his life. "Your mom sounds smart."

"She was," Bradley said simply, a flicker of old grief passing across his features before he turned back to the filling tub.

The intimacy of the moment struck Nick—not the physical closeness they were about to share, but this quiet emotional openness. Bradley rarely spoke of his family, of the mother he'd lost too young and the father whose shadow still loomed large over both their lives.

Steam curled into the air as Bradley turned to her. "May I?"

Nick nodded, lifting her arms slightly as Bradley’s hands found the hem of his sweatshirt. He pulled it over her head with gentle efficiency, his gaze steady. There was nothing heated in his expression—just tenderness, quiet care, something that made her chest tighten.

Instead of tucking her hair behind her ear, Bradley smoothed his palm down her arm, reassuring in its warmth.

When his fingers brushed against the waistband of her sleep shorts, Nick caught her breath. Bradley paused, his eyes searching her face.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice low.

"Yes," she whispered, trusting him completely. "It's okay."

He slowly slid the shorts down her legs, his touch reverent. When she stood before him in just her underwear, Bradley pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

"You're beautiful," he murmured against her skin.

Nick's eyes stung with unexpected tears. Not from embarrassment or vulnerability, but from the simple, honest care in his voice. Bradley seemed to notice, his thumbs gently wiping away the moisture before it could fall.

"No more tears today," he said softly, echoing Jake's earlier words.

Nick nodded, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt. "Your turn."

Bradley allowed her to undress him, standing still as her fingers worked at removing his clothing. Unlike their passionate encounter the night before, this disrobing was unhurried, tender. When they both stood naked, Bradley tested the water once more before stepping into the tub and holding out his hand to help her in.

She took his hand and let him help her into the tub. Once her feet were firmly in the water they both sat down, letting the warmth envelope them.

"This is nice," Nick murmured, her head resting against his shoulder.

Bradley's hands moved in slow, soothing circles across her shoulders, his thumbs working at the knots of tension there. "You're carrying a lot of stress here," he observed, his touch gentle but firm.

Nick closed her eyes, surrendering to his ministrations. "Hazard of the job. Staring at screens, blueprints, and leaning over engines all day."

"Hmm," Bradley hummed against her hair, his breath warm against her ear. "And the emotional crash probably didn't help."

She sighed, sinking deeper into the water. "No, it didn't."

Bradley's hands continued their gentle exploration, working down her arms, then back up to her shoulders. His touch was therapeutic rather than sexual, focused entirely on her comfort and relaxation.

"You know," he said softly, "what happened between us last night wasn't just physical for me and Jake."

Nick's eyes remained closed, but she tilted her head slightly, listening.

"I've never experienced anything like that before," Bradley continued, his voice low and intimate in the steamy bathroom. "Not just the sex, though that was... incredible. But the connection. The three of us together."

Nick felt a flutter in her chest at his words. "Me neither," she admitted. "It was like... like flying, but better."

Bradley chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest against her back. "Better than any flight I've been on that's for sure.”

Nick laughed softly, the sound breaking the tension that had lingered around her all day. "That's saying something, coming from one of Top Gun's finest."

Bradley pressed a kiss to her damp shoulder, his lips lingering against her skin. "I mean it, Nick. What we have—what we're building together—it's special."

The sincerity in his voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket. Nick leaned back further into his embrace, letting the water lap gently around them. For several minutes, they simply existed together in comfortable silence, the only sounds the occasional drip from the faucet and their synchronized breathing.

"Bradley?" Nick finally whispered, her voice barely audible over the quiet splashing of the water.

"Hmm?" His fingers traced lazy patterns along her upper arms.

"I'm scared." The admission fell from her lips before she could reconsider it.

“About what beautiful?”

Nick swallowed hard, gathering her courage. "About this. Us. What happens when everyone finds out? What happens when my father discovers I'm dating not one, but two of his pilots?" She shifted slightly to look up at Bradley's face. "What if it interferes with your careers? With my job?"

Bradley's arms tightened around her, his expression thoughtful. "Those are valid concerns," he said, his voice low and steady. "But we'll figure it out together."

"My dad would lose his mind," Nick whispered. "He's always been so protective, and this... this would be beyond anything he could have imagined for me."

Bradley's thumb traced gentle circles on her shoulder. "Mav loves you. It might take time, but he'd come around."

"And what about the Navy? The fraternization rules—"

"Technically," Bradley interrupted gently, "you're not apart of the Navy. And Jake and I aren’t dating each other. We’re just dating you.”

Nick considered Bradley’s words, chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully. "So... just to make sure I understand—we're not two separate relationships happening at the same time. This is something different. Something that's ours."

Bradley met her gaze, his expression steady. "Exactly. It’s not about being separate. It’s about the three of us building something together."

The water lapped gently around them as Nick let his words settle. "And you two are okay with… sharing me?"

Bradley’s grip on her tightened slightly, reassuring. "It’s not about sharing, Nick. It’s about us being what each other needs. Jake and I—our connection is different. Not romantic, not sexual. But we trust each other, and we’re both committed to this."

Nick tilted her head, watching him carefully. "So you’re... becoming friends?"

Bradley huffed a quiet laugh. "I don’t know if I’d go that far."

Nick smirked. "You sure about that? Because from where I’m sitting, you seem like friends."

Bradley's lips curved against her temple in a slow smile. "Maybe you're right. Maybe this thing with you is changing everything."

Nick felt a flutter in her chest. "And what exactly is this?"

Bradley’s voice softened, his thumb tracing lazy circles against her damp skin. "It’s something that matters. Something worth protecting, worth caring for. Something worth fighting for."

The sincerity in Bradley’s voice made Nick’s throat tighten. She turned in his arms, water sloshing gently over the edge of the tub as she shifted to face him. His brown eyes were warm, open—revealing a vulnerability she rarely glimpsed beneath his composed exterior.

"I feel the same way about both of you," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "And it terrifies me how quickly this happened. How intense it feels."

Bradley brushed his thumb across her cheek, his touch grounding. "Some things don’t follow a timeline, Nick. What we have... it may have happened fast, but that doesn’t make it any less real."

Nick leaned into his touch, the warm water enveloping them like a cocoon. It made voicing her deepest fears easier. "What if I’m not enough? For both of you?"

Bradley’s expression softened, his gaze never wavering. "That’s not possible. You’re more than enough."

"But what if—"

"Nick," Bradley interrupted gently, his hands framing her face. "The way you connect with each of us is unique. What you share with Jake isn’t the same as what you share with me, and that’s exactly how it should be. You don’t have to be everything to everyone."

She closed her eyes, letting his words settle. "And what if it all falls apart? What if we can’t make it work?"

"Then we’ll face that together too." Bradley’s voice was steady, grounding. "But I believe this—us—is worth the risk."

Nick searched his eyes, finding nothing but sincerity. Slowly, she nodded, allowing herself to believe in the possibility of them—this unconventional trio navigating uncharted waters together.

"The water’s getting cold," she murmured, suddenly aware of the dropping temperature.

Bradley pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "Let’s get you dried off and into bed. You need rest."

The water was indeed cooling, breaking the spell of their intimate conversation. Bradley stood first, water streaming down his muscular frame as he reached for a towel. He wrapped it around his waist before grabbing another and holding it open for Nick.

"Come here," he said softly.

Nick rose from the bath, suddenly feeling shy despite their intimacy the night before. This vulnerability was different—emotional rather than physical. Bradley enveloped her in the towel, his movements gentle as he patted her skin dry.

"Let me take care of you," he murmured, running the soft fabric over her shoulders and down her arms.

Nick allowed herself to be tended to, Bradley's careful ministrations soothing something deep within her. When he'd dried her thoroughly, he reached for his discarded sweatshirt.

"Arms up," he instructed softly.

Bradley's hands were gentle as he guided the sweatshirt down over her body, the soft fabric falling to mid-thigh. The tenderness in his movements made Nick's heart constrict. This wasn't the rushed passion of last night, but something equally intimate—a quiet demonstration of care that spoke volumes.

"Better?" he asked, his voice low.

Nick nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion. The emotional rollercoaster of the day, combined with the warmth of the bath, had drained what little energy she had left. Bradley seemed to notice, his arm coming around her waist to steady her.

"Let’s get you to bed," he said softly, guiding her toward the bedroom.

The cool sheets welcomed Nick as Bradley helped her settle in. She expected him to join her, but instead, he tucked the comforter around her and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Aren’t you going to lay in bed and watch TV with me?" she all but pouted.

Bradley’s expression softened at her tone. "Of course I am. I just need to grab my phone, see if Jake messaged us."

He disappeared briefly, returning with his phone in hand. After quickly checking the screen, his expression warmed. "Jake’s meeting is running longer than expected. He says to tell you he’ll be here as soon as he can escape Cyclone’s clutches."

Nick smiled sleepily, lifting the comforter in invitation. Bradley slid in beside her, now wearing only his boxers. The heat of his body immediately warmed the space as he reached for the remote on her nightstand.

"What do you want to watch?" he asked, his arm coming around her shoulders.

Nick nestled against his side, her head finding the perfect spot on his chest where she could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. She watched as he scrolled the guide, speaking up when he landed on a show she liked. "I love The Big Bang Theory. Can we watch that?"

Bradley smiled, clicking on the episode. "Sure."

Nick snuggled closer as the familiar theme song played, the warmth of Bradley’s body and the soothing hum of the sitcom lulling her into a state of peaceful relaxation. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her shoulder through the sweatshirt, each touch grounding her further.

"Thank you," she murmured against his chest, her eyelids growing heavy.

"For what?" Bradley’s voice rumbled beneath her ear.

"For today. For understanding. For being exactly what I needed." Nick’s words were slightly slurred with approaching sleep.

Bradley pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You never have to thank me for that."

She fought to keep her eyes open, wanting to savor this moment of perfect contentment, but the emotional exhaustion of the day was catching up with her. The last thing she remembered before drifting off was the steady sound of Bradley’s heartbeat beneath her cheek and his voice softly humming along with the TV theme song. His fingers continued their gentle exploration, tracing idle patterns across her arm and back. The sensation was both comforting and intimate, lulling her deeper into relaxation.

"Sleep if you need to," Bradley murmured, his lips brushing against her hair. "I’ll be right here when you wake up."

Nick wanted to respond, to thank him again for his unwavering support, but exhaustion pulled her under. Her breathing deepened as she surrendered to sleep, secure in Bradley’s protective embrace.

She drifted through layers of consciousness, vaguely aware of Bradley adjusting the blankets around her, of his phone vibrating with incoming messages, of his voice—low and soothing—as he spoke to someone, presumably Jake. The familiar sounds anchored her as she floated into a peaceful slumber.

The soft click of the front door roused Bradley from his thoughts. He glanced up from the living room, where he’d been quietly unpacking the last of Nick’s boxes while she slept, to see Jake entering the apartment. Jake had changed into civilian clothes—dark jeans and a fitted white Henley—with his Wayfarers perched atop his head.

"How is she?" Jake asked immediately, his voice low as he set his keys on the counter.

Bradley nodded toward the bedroom. "Sleeping. She was wiped."

Jake’s usual cocky demeanor had softened, concern flickering in the lines around his eyes as he peered through the partially open bedroom door. "Has she been out the whole time?"

"Pretty much," Bradley confirmed, folding the empty cardboard box and setting it aside. "She crashed right after our bath."

Jake raised an eyebrow. "Bath, huh?"

Bradley shot him a look. "Not that kind of bath, Hangman."

Jake smirked but shook his head. "Sorry—force of habit." He reached up, pulled his sunglasses from his head, and set them down next to his keys before running a hand through his hair. The casual gesture did little to mask his concern. "How bad was she when you got here?"

"Better than at the hangar," Bradley said, moving to the fridge and pulling out two beers. He offered one to Jake, who accepted with a nod. "The food and bath helped. She opened up about some of her fears."

Jake twisted off the bottle cap and took a long pull. "Fears about us? About this… thing between the three of us?"

Bradley leaned against the counter, nodding. "Mostly about her dad finding out. And how it could affect our careers."

"Valid concerns," Jake admitted, his tone unusually serious. "What did you tell her?"

"That we’d figure it out together." Bradley’s gaze met Jake’s over the rim of his beer bottle. "That this is worth it."

A slow smile tugged at the corner of Jake’s mouth—nothing cocky, just something real. "Good answer."

He took another swig of beer before setting the bottle down and heading for the bedroom doorway. "I’m gonna check on her."

Jake moved quietly into the room, his footsteps barely audible on the carpet. Nick lay curled on her side, her face peaceful in sleep, Bradley’s oversized TOP GUN sweatshirt swallowing her petite frame. Like this, she looked younger, vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be when awake.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her. His hand hovered over her shoulder before brushing a strand of hair from her face with unexpected tenderness. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back—but Nick stirred just as he moved to stand.

"Jake?" she murmured, voice thick with sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, slowly focusing on his face.

"Hey, darlin'," he said softly, his usual swagger replaced by something gentler. "Didn’t mean to wake you."

She reached for his hand, fingers curling around his. "You’re here."

Jake’s smile warmed. "Course I am. Told you I’d come as soon as I could."

Nick shifted, making room for him on the bed. "How was your meeting with my dad?"

"Boring as hell," Jake admitted. "Cyclone wanted to go over new protocols for a possible mission. Even Mav looked like he wanted to bolt."

"Sounds awful," she slurred.

"Go back to sleep," he murmured. "We’ll wake you when it’s dinner time."

Nick stared at Jake through half-lidded eyes, her exhaustion winning out. "Mkay," she whispered, drifting off once more.

Jake watched her sleep, her features relaxing as unconsciousness reclaimed her. He stayed there for a long moment, simply observing—the way her lashes fanned across her cheeks, the steady rise and fall of her breath. Something unfamiliar tightened in his chest—an emotion he wasn’t quite ready to name.

When he finally returned to the kitchen, Bradley was leaning against the counter, nursing his beer with a thoughtful expression.

"Still out?" Bradley asked.

Jake nodded, retrieving his own beer. "Like a light. Woke up for a second, but crashed again." He took a long pull from the bottle. "Never seen her like this."

Bradley exhaled, rolling the bottle between his palms. "Sub-drop hits everyone differently, I guess. I never even heard of it until you sent me that article." He took a sip. "Today was the first time I actually saw it happen."

"Me too."

Jake settled onto one of the barstools, his usual swagger momentarily set aside. "You know, when I first met Nick, I thought she’d be just another conquest. A challenge." He shook his head, a rueful smile playing at his lips. "I had no idea…"

"That she’d get under your skin?" Bradley finished, his expression knowing.

"Yeah." Jake ran a hand through his dark hair. "Or that I’d be sharing her with you, of all people."

Bradley raised an eyebrow. "Having second thoughts?"

"Hell no," Jake replied without hesitation. "What we have… it works. I don’t know how, but somehow it just does."

They fell into a comfortable silence, the hum of the refrigerator, TV, and Nick’s steady breathing the only sounds filling the apartment. Despite their initial rivalry, despite the unconventional nature of their situation, they had become close. Maybe even friends, though neither would say it outright.

Jake’s gaze drifted toward the bedroom door. "What do you think about ordering dinner? She’ll probably be hungry when she wakes up."

Bradley nodded, setting his beer down. "Good idea. Thai? She mentioned liking that place on Third Street."

"Perfect." Jake pulled out his phone and started scrolling through a delivery app. "Pad Thai for her, green curry for me, and…" he glanced up at Bradley. "What about you?"

"Red curry, extra spicy," Bradley supplied.

Jake’s lips quirked up in a half-smile. "Should’ve guessed. Always gotta one-up me, don’t you, Rooster?"

There was no bite to the words, just the familiar rhythm of their banter. Bradley shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Not everything’s a competition, Hangman."

"Says the guy ordering his food as a test of endurance," Jake muttered, his eyes still on his phone as he placed the order. "Food will be here in forty-five minutes."

Bradley finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the counter. "Should we wake her when it gets here?"

Jake glanced toward the bedroom, his expression softening. "Let’s see how deeply she’s sleeping. If she’s still out, we can always reheat it for her later."

He stood, stretching his tall frame. Bradley’s gaze flicked toward him briefly, noting the effortless strength in his movements. For a moment, neither spoke, something unspoken settling in the space between them. They were different in nearly every way—Jake with his cocky confidence and impulsiveness, Bradley with his steady pragmatism and careful thought. Yet somehow, they had landed in the same place.

"I never thought I’d say this," Jake admitted, his voice quieter, "but I’m glad you’re here, Rooster. For her. She needs both of us."

Bradley nodded, a flicker of surprise passing over his features at Jake’s sincerity. "She does. In different ways, but yeah… she needs us both."

Jake exhaled slowly. "When I saw her crying in that hangar today… I’ve never felt so damn helpless."

"I know," Bradley said quietly. "That’s why we need to be better prepared next time. Make sure she never crashes that hard again."

Jake met Bradley’s gaze, something unspoken settling into place between them. "Agreed. Whatever she needs, whenever she needs it."

Bradley extended his hand, the gesture simple but weighted. "Partners?"

Jake grasped it firmly, his green eyes steady. "Partners."

The word lingered between them, carrying more weight than either had expected. Not just partners in caring for Nick—but in figuring out what this meant for all of them.

The moment was interrupted by a soft sound from the bedroom. Both men turned as Nick appeared, Bradley's oversized sweatshirt hanging to mid-thigh, her dark hair tousled from sleep. She blinked in the kitchen light, looking between them with groggy curiosity.

"Hey," she murmured, her voice still husky. "What are you two plotting?"

Jake's trademark smirk returned as he released Bradley's hand. "Just ordering dinner, darlin’. Thai food from that place you like."

Nick padded barefoot into the kitchen, drawn by the casual domesticity of the scene—her two pilots, relaxed and chatting as if they'd been doing this forever.

Jake sat back down and patted his lap. "Come here, sleeping beauty."

A sleepy smile curved her lips as she crossed to him, letting Jake pull her onto his lap. She settled against his chest, legs draped across his thighs, and sighed as his arms wrapped securely around her waist.

"How are you feeling?" Bradley asked, standing beside them, his hand resting gently on her shoulder.

Nick leaned into his touch while remaining nestled in Jake’s embrace. "Better." She looked between them, her expression soft with gratitude. "I really mean it—thank you both."

Jake pressed a kiss to her temple. "No thanks needed, darlin’. That’s why we’re here."

Nick traced a lazy pattern on Jake’s sleeve, voice tinged with curiosity. "Did you two have a heart-to-heart while I was sleeping?"

Jake chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest against her. "Something like that."

"We've come to an understanding," Bradley added, his hand still resting on her shoulder.

Nick raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"

"Not at all," Jake assured her, arms tightening slightly around her waist. "Just making sure we're on the same page about taking care of you."

"I don’t need to be taken care of," Nick muttered, though there was no bite to her words.

Bradley brushed a strand of hair from her face, his expression soft. "Everyone does sometimes. Even the strongest people."

"Especially the strongest people," Jake added, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Because they’re usually the last ones to admit it."

Nick looked between them, these two men who had somehow become her anchors. The day’s emotional turbulence had stripped away her usual walls, leaving her too raw for pretense.

"I’m not used to this," she admitted quietly. "Letting people see me when I’m not… together."

Jake’s thumb traced small circles against her hip. "Well, get used to it, darlin’. Because we’re not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

Bradley knelt before her, taking her hands in his. "Promise," he echoed, his voice steady. His dark eyes held hers, something in them making her breath catch. "You don’t have to be strong all the time, Nick. Not with us."

Jake tightened his hold around her waist, his chest solid against her back. "What he said," he murmured against her hair. "We’ve got you."

Nick felt a prickle of tears—not the overwhelming storm from earlier, but something gentler, warmer. She blinked them away, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"I guess you’re stuck with me then," she said softly.

"Wouldn’t have it any other way," Jake replied, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

The warmth in their voices settled around her like a security blanket, replacing the hollow ache that had consumed her earlier.

"So," she said, clearing her throat, "you ordered Thai?"

"From that place on Third you like," Jake confirmed, fingers tracing idle patterns against her hip. "Should be here in about half an hour."

"Perfect," Nick murmured, leaning back against Jake while keeping her hands linked with Bradley's. "I'm starving."

Bradley smiled, giving her hands a gentle squeeze before rising to his feet. "Good. You need to eat."

"Yes, sir," she teased, some of her usual spark returning.

Jake chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest against her back. "There she is. Our girl’s coming back to us."

"All thanks to you two."

Jake kept his arm around Nick's waist, his fingers playing idly with the hem of the oversized sweatshirt she wore. "You know, that's becoming my favorite look on you," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "Bradley's clothes, bed-head, and that sleepy smile."

Nick felt a blush creep up her neck. "I must look a mess."

"You look perfect," Bradley countered, leaning against the counter as he watched them, his gaze warm and appreciative.

Jake nodded, his hand sliding to her thigh, just below the sweatshirt’s hem. The touch was possessive but gentle, his thumb tracing small circles against her skin. "Exactly what I was thinking."

Nick smirked, tilting her head slightly. "I bet I’d look just as good in something you own."

Jake’s eyes flickered with interest, the corner of his mouth tugging into a familiar smirk. "Darlin', you’d look incredible in anything of mine." His fingers traced higher on her thigh, just beneath the sweatshirt's hem. "Though I gotta admit, seeing you in nothing but my dog tags would be something else."

Nick's breath caught at the image, heat blooming low in her belly despite her lingering exhaustion. Bradley watched them, his expression warming as he observed their interaction.

"I think that could be arranged," Nick replied, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. The emotional rawness from earlier was receding, replaced by the comfort of their easy banter.

Bradley moved to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water. He uncapped it and handed it to Nick. "Which we can save for another night. Tonight should be all of us, especially you relaxing."

Nick accepted the water gratefully, taking a long sip. The cool liquid soothed her throat, reminding her how dehydrated the emotional day had left her.

"You're right," she admitted, leaning back against Jake's solid chest. "I don't think I have the energy for anything more strenuous than eating Thai food and watching a movie."

Jake's arms tightened around her, his chin resting on her shoulder. "Whatever you need, darlin'. We're just happy to be here with you."

The sincerity in his voice, so different from his usual cockiness, made something warm unwind in Nick's chest. She glanced at Bradley, finding the same genuine care reflected in his steady gaze.

"How about we move this to the couch?" Bradley suggested, nodding toward the living room. "More comfortable than kitchen stools."

Jake stood with Nick still in his arms, lifting her effortlessly as she let out a surprised squeak. "Show-off," she mumbled against his neck, though she made no move to protest as he carried her to the living room.

"You love it," Jake replied, his voice warm with affection as he settled onto the couch with Nick in his lap.

Bradley followed, carrying Nick's water and his own. He sat beside them, close enough that his thigh pressed against Jake's, Nick's bare feet naturally coming to rest in his lap. Without thinking, his fingers began to massage her arches, drawing a contented sigh from her lips.

"That feels amazing," she murmured, her body gradually relaxing further between the two men.

Jake's arms remained securely around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder as Bradley continued the gentle foot massage. The three of them fit together with surprising ease.

“I never realized til now what tiny feet you have.”

Nick wiggled her toes under Bradley's touch, a small smile playing at her lips. "Are you saying I have dainty feet, Rooster?"

Bradley's fingers worked magic on her arches, his touch firm yet gentle. "I'm saying they're perfectly proportioned to the rest of you."

Jake nuzzled against her neck, his breath warm against her skin. "Everything about you is perfect, darlin'."

Nick rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress the warmth spreading through her chest at their words. "You two are incorrigible."

"Big word for someone who just woke up," Jake teased, his lips brushing against her pulse point.

The doorbell rang, interrupting their moment of domestic tranquility. Bradley gave her foot one final squeeze before standing. "That'll be dinner."

Nick made to move from Jake's lap, but his arms tightened around her waist, keeping her firmly in place.

"Where do you think you're going?" Jake murmured against her ear, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine.

"To get plates?" she offered, though she made no real effort to escape his embrace.

"Bradley's got it," Jake said, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Your job right now is to stay right here and keep letting us take care of you."

Nick relaxed back against Jake, watching as Bradley paid for their food and brought the fragrant bags to the coffee table. There was something mesmerizing about seeing these two skilled pilots—men trained for precision and control—engaged in something as simple as unpacking dinner.

Bradley opened the containers, releasing the spicy-sweet aroma of Thai food into the room.

He went to hand Nick her meal, but Jake took it instead, flicking open the container and grabbing a fork.

"What are you—"

"Open," Jake interrupted, his tone casual but firm.

Nick blinked at his sudden command, but the tenderness in his expression made her comply. She opened her mouth, and Jake carefully fed her a bite of pad Thai. The flavors exploded on her tongue—sweet, salty, tangy, with just enough warmth to settle deep in her chest.

"Good?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Nick nodded, swallowing before speaking. "Perfect." A blush crept up her cheeks as she glanced between Jake and Bradley. "But I can feed myself, you know."

Bradley settled beside them, opening his own container of red curry. "We know," he said simply. "But tonight is about taking care of you."

Jake offered her another bite, which she accepted with less hesitation. There was something unexpectedly comforting about being fed this way, cradled in Jake’s lap while Bradley sat close enough that his presence grounded her.

"But what about your food? Won't it get cold?"

Jake chuckled, taking a bite of his own curry before offering Nick another forkful of pad Thai. "I can multitask, darlin'."

Bradley watched them with a soft expression, his usual intensity mellowed in the relaxed atmosphere. "We both can."

Nick accepted the next bite, gradually surrendering to their care. The Thai food was exactly what she needed—warm, flavorful, soothing. The three of them ate in companionable silence, the only sounds their quiet appreciation of the meal and the occasional clink of utensils against containers.

"This is nice," Nick finally murmured, leaning back against Jake’s chest. "Weird, but nice."

"Weird how?" Bradley asked, raising an eyebrow.

Nick gestured vaguely with her hand. "Being fed like I’m a toddler."

Jake chuckled, the vibration rumbling through his chest against her back. "Not like a toddler, darlin'. Like someone precious."

"Someone who deserves to be taken care of," Bradley added, his gaze warm as it met hers.

Nick felt her cheeks flush at their words. She’d always prided herself on her independence, on never needing anyone. But here, nestled between these two men, she found herself surrendering to their care with surprising ease.

"I’m not used to this," she admitted softly, accepting another bite from Jake. "Being the one who needs taking care of."

"Get used to it," Jake murmured against her hair. "Because we’re not stopping anytime soon."

Bradley reached over, his hand finding hers. "Not ever, if we have anything to say about it."

The simple declaration settled something in Nick’s chest, and again she wanted to tell them she loved them. But just like last night, she kept it to herself.

Nick’s heart skipped a beat at Bradley’s words. The intensity in his eyes matched the quiet certainty in his voice. She glanced back at Jake, finding the same conviction in his expression, though tempered with his characteristic playfulness.

"So this is really happening," she said softly, more statement than question. "The three of us."

Jake’s arm tightened around her waist. "Oh, it’s happening, darlin'. Has been since that first night."

Bradley nodded, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her palm. "I think we all knew it then, even if we couldn’t name it yet."

Nick took another bite of pad Thai, using the moment to collect her thoughts. The emotional rollercoaster of the day had left her raw, exposed in ways she rarely allowed herself to be. Yet here, nestled between these two men, she felt strangely protected.

“Do you want anymore?” Jake asked.

Nick shook her head, setting the half-empty container on the coffee table. "No, I'm full. Thank you."

Jake pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering against her skin. "Good girl."

The simple praise sent a warm flutter through her chest, different from the heated desire his words usually evoked. This was comfort, security—a feeling of being treasured.

Bradley finished his curry and set the container aside, his hand returning to rest on her ankle. His thumb traced idle patterns against her skin as he watched her with those steady brown eyes.

"What do you want to do now?" Jake asked, his voice low and gentle. "We could watch TV, or just talk, or if you're still tired..."

Nick considered the options, acutely aware of the warmth of Jake’s chest against her back and Bradley’s steady hand resting near her ankle. The emotional exhaustion had faded, replaced by a comfortable relaxation.

"We could watch the Dodgers game in bed," she suggested, settling deeper into Jake’s lap. The storm had passed, leaving behind a peaceful calm that felt both foreign and familiar.

"You heard the lady," Jake said to Bradley, his voice warm with affection. "Dodgers in bed it is."

Bradley gathered their empty containers, clearing the coffee table with efficient movements. "I’ll clean up dinner while you two get settled."

Jake tightened his arms around her waist. "Ready for bed, darlin’?" he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

Nick nodded, allowing him to lift her effortlessly.

Jake carried Nick to the bedroom, her arms looped around his neck. The intimacy of the gesture wasn’t lost on her—this cocky pilot, known for his swagger and bravado, cradling her with such quiet tenderness.

"You don’t have to carry me everywhere, you know," she murmured, though she made no move to pull away.

Jake’s lips curved into that familiar half-smile as he set her down gently on the bed. "Maybe I just like having you in my arms, Mitchell."

There was something in his voice—a vulnerability beneath the teasing tone—that made Nick’s heart flutter. She watched as he moved around her room with unexpected familiarity, finding the remote and fluffing pillows against the headboard with one hand while the other rested lightly at her side.

Jake adjusted the pillows behind her, movements careful and deliberate. "Comfortable?"

Nick nodded, pulling Bradley’s sweatshirt down over her thighs as she leaned back against the headboard. "Perfect."

Jake's eyes darkened as they swept over her, taking in the sight of her bare legs and tousled hair. "You have no idea what you do to me, looking like that."

Before Nick could respond, Bradley appeared in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space. He was dressed casually in a t-shirt and boxers, his gaze sweeping over them. "Everything okay in here?"

"Better than okay," Jake replied, his eyes still on Nick. He straightened, moving to the other side of the bed. "Our girl's all settled in."

"I just need my boys to cuddle me."

Bradley's expression softened at her words. In three easy strides, he crossed the room and settled onto the bed beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. Jake was already kicking off his shoes and shucking his jeans, leaving him in a fitted henley and boxer briefs.

"Your boys, huh?" Jake repeated, a pleased grin spreading across his face as he slid under the covers on her other side. "I like the sound of that."

Nick found herself enveloped between them—Bradley's steady warmth on her left, Jake's lean strength on her right. She sighed as Bradley reached for the remote, finding the Dodgers game already in the bottom of the first inning.

"Who's winning?" Jake asked, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her closer.

"Dodgers up by two," Bradley replied, his hand closing gently over Nick’s, holding it against his chest.

Nick nestled between them, the familiar hum of the baseball game creating a comforting backdrop to the quiet intimacy of the moment. Bradley's thumb traced lazy circles on the back of her hand while Jake’s fingers idly played with the hem of her sweatshirt. The ease of it struck her—how quickly they'd fallen into this pattern of casual touch and shared space.

"This is nice," she murmured, her head finding the perfect spot against Jake’s shoulder.

"Mmm," Jake agreed, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Though I never pegged you for a baseball fan, Mitchell."

Nick smiled, watching as the Dodgers' pitcher struck out another batter. "My dad and I used to watch games together when I was growing up. It was our thing, especially after my parents divorced."

Bradley's grip on her hand tightened slightly. "Maverick doesn’t strike me as a baseball fan."

"Oh, trust me, he is. Whenever the Dodgers needed some extra luck, he'd bring out his lucky bat."

"His lucky bat?" Jake laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest against her. "Captain Mitchell had a lucky bat? Now that’s something I never expected."

Nick smiled at the memory, sinking deeper into the comfort of their embrace. "It was an old wooden thing from when he played in high school. He’d wave it around during crucial plays, convinced it channeled good energy to the team."

Bradley’s thumb kept tracing soft patterns against her knuckles. "Did it work?"

"Sometimes," Nick said with a quiet laugh. "But I think it was more about us believing it worked. Those were some of my favorite memories with him—just the two of us, eating hot dogs and waving that ridiculous bat around."

Jake’s arm tightened slightly around her waist. "You two really are close, huh?"

"We are. Not that my mom and I aren’t, but I was always a daddy’s girl," Nick admitted, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "Even when he was deployed, he’d send me postcards from every port. Sometimes just a line or two, but I kept every single one."

Bradley’s expression softened as he listened. "That explains a lot about you."

Nick turned slightly to face him. "What do you mean?"

"Your determination. Your loyalty." Bradley’s voice was gentle. "The way you never back down from a challenge."

Jake’s fingers traced idle patterns near her hip. "And your stubbornness," he added with a

smirk. "Definitely got that from Maverick."

Nick jabbed Jake playfully with her elbow. "Watch it, Hangman."

"He's not wrong," Bradley added with a smirk.

Nick scoffed. "He's going to kill you both when he finds out about this, you know."

Jake chuckled, though a flicker of genuine concern passed beneath his bravado. "Worth it."

"Absolutely worth it," Bradley agreed, his voice steady.

Nick lifted her chin. "Well, if he or anyone tries anything, I'll protect you both."

Jake laughed, eyes crinkling with amusement. "You'll protect us? From Maverick? That's adorable, darlin'."

Nick narrowed her eyes, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. "I'll have you know, I can be very intimidating when I want to be."

Bradley’s arm curved around her shoulders, pulling her in. "Of course you are, baby."

Nick huffed, a petulant frown crossing her face. "Okay, so maybe I couldn't physically intimidate him. But I have other weapons in my arsenal."

Jake arched a brow, clearly intrigued. "Do tell, darlin'."

"Emotional manipulation," Nick said, her grin mischievous. "I've been wrapping my father around my little finger since I was born. One tearful 'Daddy, please,' and he melts like ice cream in July."

Bradley chuckled. "I can actually see that working. The man who never backs down from anything, completely defenseless against his daughter's tears."

"It's my superpower," Nick confirmed, nestling deeper between them. On the television, the Dodgers scored another run, but none of them were paying much attention anymore.

Jake stifled a yawn, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry," he murmured. "That meeting with Cyclone and your dad drained me."

Nick studied his face, noting the faint shadows beneath his eyes. "You're tired. Both of you probably are after dealing with me all day."

Bradley’s fingers threaded through her hair, his touch soothing. "We're fine. Tonight is about you."

"No," Nick said firmly, surprising both men with the sudden authority in her voice. "Tonight is about us. All of us." She shifted, pulling the blankets higher around them. "You’ve both been taking care of me all day. Let me take care of you now."

Jake shook his head. "I'm fine, darlin'."

"No, you’re not," Nick countered. "You should get some rest."

Jake looked ready to protest, but Nick pressed a finger to his lips. "No arguments. You’ve been up since dawn, had a full day of flying, sat through hours of meetings with my father and Cyclone, then rushed over here to take care of me. You’re exhausted."

The gentle authority in her voice seemed to catch Jake off guard. He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, a tired smile playing at his lips.

Nick reached for the remote, lowering the volume on the game. She adjusted, making herself the center point between them, and guided Jake’s head to her shoulder.

"Rest," she murmured, her fingers threading through his dark hair. "I’ve got you now."

Jake’s resistance crumbled under her touch. With a soft sigh, he nestled against her, his arm still draped protectively across her waist. Bradley watched them with warm eyes, his own exhaustion becoming more evident as he allowed himself to relax.

"You too," Nick told him, extending her other arm in invitation.

Bradley hesitated only briefly before settling against her other side, his head finding the perfect spot on her shoulder. The weight of both men against her was comforting rather than overwhelming, their solid warmth anchoring her in a way she’d never experienced before.

Nick pressed a gentle kiss to each of their foreheads, a tender gesture that felt both new and strangely familiar. "Sleep," she whispered, fingers tracing soothing patterns through their hair. "Let me take care of my boys for a change."

Jake mumbled something against her neck, already drifting off. Bradley lasted a bit longer, his hand still holding hers, but soon his breathing deepened as well. Nick found herself the only one awake, cradled between these two men who had shown her such unwavering tenderness throughout the day.

The baseball game continued on the television, the distant cheers and the announcer’s low commentary creating a soft backdrop. But instead of watching the game, she found herself watching them.

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[missjessefantastico]

who's surprised? nobody!

[twimbler]

my laptop has started loading images like it's the 90s because he's ✨ aesthetic ✨ not because he's 11 years old

[hrhprincerichard]

Ha! Not exactly but also kind of. Usually just when the subject of dating, sex, or anything that could lead to those topics comes up. Though most of my fact sheet is sanitized by the palace to omit any possible offense. I wouldn't say I like bad boys, though you certainly could qualify ;) I don't think you're bad taste. Just bad for me. It was mostly that it's inconvenient. Though I wouldn't qualify my previous experiences as all being near the peak of good taste either. If you're going to call it pasty this is all you're getting

[Attached: Richard rolled over on his side taking a selfie of his pajama clad booty, his free hand giving Grant the British bird V]

Yeah? I can certainly do that. Technically I am, I'm just not turning it in. I had too many thoughts, it's what I'm doing in the literature department archives in the middle of the night. Also why I was rather antsy the first time we ran into each other outside the building. I'd been reading some of Byron's gayer correspondence. Would you really? I've got lots. You might regret that. I feel like I should make some narcissistic joke here but it does make sense. I'm glad it wasn't girls you were thinking of. Would it be weird for you if I confessed to trying to find ones that made me think of you. Some were just ones I thought you might like. But I chose all of them with you in mind.

So you just have to act like the most boring human alive so no one will think to ask you about girls? That must suck. I never really thought about how you didn't talk about girls, at least not since we talked about how it's hard to date. Which, okay, now I'm realizing all over again you weren't talking about girls when we talked about that stuff. Wait, so does that mean you like bad boys? You said you have bad taste, didn't you? Or was that just your way of saying the people you do like (guys) is inconvenient for you. You better not think I'm bad taste. I am the peak of good taste, actually. Pls send pics of that pasty ass.

Oh? Maybe you should re-share those ones with the explicit parts left in. Just a thought. Wow. That sounds like it'd be really cool. Sucks you can't write that. I'm always game to hear your thoughts on gay authors. Just, like, if you want someone to share them with. Okay, this might sound kind of weird, but I don't think I was really thinking about girls when you shared them. I mean, I wasn't explicitly thinking about guys either. It was more just that the words and the sentiment behind them were really hot? Like, the thought of someone saying that stuff to me was really hot, more than I was thinking about naked girls or guys or anything. Idk if that makes sense.

[screampied]

i saw this on my feed and how about sextherapist!sylus and virgin!reader that struggles with making themselves orgasm? you can go from there 🤗

warnings. — ☆ fem! reader, sēx therapist sylus, virgín reader, praise, dirty talk, semi public, first time squírt, fıngering, mdni.

“oh, so you really weren’t kidding—were you, kitten?” sylus hums, feeling you writhe around his lap in anticipation. you’re so up close to him as your back’s facing the opposite way of his chest. in the far distance, you hear a plethora of noises coming outside of his office. meaningless chit chatter from his coworkers, loud stomps echoing down the hall, his annoying fax machine that forevermore continues to spit out those same clicking cries, and so on. you’ve been attending sessions with sylus for quite some time now, and you just needed to know how to orgasm properly. you tried everything and nothing would work. according to you, it was dire and you wanted to know if it was as good as people say. “daydreamin’ again?” he coos huskily, hot breath colliding near the twitching shell of your ear. a veiny hand of his softly trails down your inner thighs, glancing at your slid to the side panties. “ah, look at her. she’s so gorgeous.”

“sylusss,” you hiss out his name, gingerly wrapping your clammy fingers around his broad cuffed wrist. “hurry up.”

the white haired man snickers at your agitation, and once he teasingly ghosts two thick fingers over your throbbing protected entrance—his chest rumbles from wry laughter. “my, you’re so impatient. but fine, fine. spread these pretty legs, let me see what we’re workin’ with.”

right away, you sprawl your legs out even further then before and you hear him whistle.

“what a sight,” he purrs, and your head slumps back against his chest. it was almost half past ten at night and sylus was technically off work. your session ended about an hour ago but you just persisted that you needed one more thing.

an orgasm.

your nostrils smell his musky scent of loud rich leather and sandalwood that’s smothering all over his clothing. he brushes a thumb over the lace fabric of your panties before feeling just how soaked you were. “cute, bet you were soaked like this the entire time we were chattin’, hm?”

“f- fuck,” you swallow, and a plump tip of his finger gradually pulls at the string of your underwear. you remain laid back against his lap, gnawing at the bars of your enclosure.

the two of you were sitting on a fat cushioned sofa that’s dipping inward from the heavy pounds of weight. sylus was slow — painfully slow, he knew what he was doing. he lets out a raspy chortle, hearing your slow needy breaths featuring each exasperated gasp that leaves from your lips. “sylus, please.” you moan through gritted teeth, the wait just becoming unbearable.

sylus shushes you, pressing his soft lips up near the sloping nape of your neck. “there there,” and he talks over your whines before within seconds, a finger slowly inserts its way inside. you gasp, feeling your tummy heave. his finger was long, not only that but it was very very thick. you started to hear your heartbeat dramatically thump through your ears as he continues to speak. “pay attention now, this right here?” and you whimper, feeling his middle finger swirl around inside of your pussy. he taps against a spot that makes you feel almost every nerve shoot your body. “this is the clit, kitten. and this,” and you moan, hearing the sloshing sounds of your own mess fill the room. sylus gradually plugs in another finger - his pointer finger, and it fully extends immediately, reaching a spongy spot. “this is my favorite, your pretty g-spot.”

“s- sylus,” you suck in a frustrated breath, realizing that he had not one but two fingers inside. he’s very gentle regardless . . gentle and undeniably slow. oh, the wait was killing you. with your flapping lashes fluttering back against your hooded eyelids, you couldn’t help but gnaw at your quivering bottom lip. this was so much better than your own fingers. his was far longer and experienced. his plump lips starts to kiss near your neck this time, softly lolling his tongue down your skin, craving more of your sweet taste. “more, f- finger me.”

“yes ma’am,” he jibes, and it takes him a few dreadfully long seconds before he’s finally making haste. the tone of sylus’s voice was so deep that it nearly shakes you to the very core—you feel his exact rough vibrato against you. he hears the irregular changes of your breathing whilst his fingers continue to roam inside of your cunt.

“mhm, there’s about over ten thousand pretty little nerves stored up in here,” and he’s just casually talking over your babbling whines. the tips of his fingers were now already so soaked with your sappy slick. it’s gluing against his digits effortlessly — sweet like honey. your folds were just drooling, and every so often, he pulls his fingers out just to stare at the slippery sloppy mess. “how’s it feel? talk to me, sweet girl.”

as your body resumes to tingle from the circular maneuvers of his two fat digits, you let off a loud moan, peering at your left thigh that’s starting to mercilessly shake. “good—fuck, so good,” you whine, the stimulation making you merely bite down on your tongue. sylus hums in amusement, noticing how your thighs would just fail to stay still—it’s cute, you’re a jittery mess but your hand finds it’s way wrapping around his wrist again. “faster,” you plead, and your eyes nearly roll back once he’s just repeatedly toying with your precious g-spot.

again, and again, and again.

your gummy walls accepted sylus’s fingers freely and it was so snug, your mouth can’t help but start to salivate once you realize you’re coming close. he’s quick, plummeting such inches of just two simple digits in and out of you at such a maddened pace. he’s using his entire wrist, his finger work had your toes curling in awe.

“ah, easy now kitten. just relax and bare around ‘em. there’s no rushing a pretty pussy this sloppy,” and he’s speaking right up against your ear again. if you weren’t throbbing then, you definitely were now. sylus even licks against the edge of your ear, giving it a playful nibble. “c’mooon, give me that orgasm, uh huh. make me proud, sweetie.”

“hngh, s-sylus,” you whimper out loudly, your entire body growing tense. sylus’s free hand creeps toward your tummy, softly caressing against your bare skin that’s loosely tucked underneath your blouse. this was so risky. anyone could just walk in and see you - you and him, but you didn’t care—you didn’t care, especially when you were so close to making a mess all his sofa. “fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

“let go for me,” he whispers, and his tone was so soothing. it’s almost as if he wasn’t inches deep inside of your swollen pulsating cunt with two thick fingers. in and out, he’s shoving them in and out of you, twisting them around and curling them all throughout your gripping walls. fuck, your toes were scrunched up, feeling such rippling waves surge through you. you were almost positive that if it wasn’t for the help of his hand holding you steady in place against his lap, you’d fall right from his grasp. sylus brings one final kiss toward the back of your collarbone before humming. “atta girl. just give it to me. c’mon, all on my fingers.”

but abruptly, right as you’re coming undone, you feel yourself spraying your translucent slick all on his pumping fingers. a shrieking scream dies from the back of your throat and he finds it oh so cute.

sylus feels you pulsing around him and he grows quiet—you huff out heavy heaving breaths, realizing that you’re squirting. it only lasts for a few seconds but it felt like nothing you’ve ever felt before. “oh my g- godddd.” you collapse back against his chest, his fingertips delicately plying with your prodding g-spot for just a few seconds longer before he pulls them out. slowly, sylus retracts his digits out of your puffy cunt, watching how it’s now glistening with your honeyed sap.

“aw,” he breaks the silence, hearing your pussy squeal again with numerous squelches as he’s dragging out his two drenched fingers. you’re still so sensitive, it’s like your entire body was burning up with fiery scorching hot heat. it’s intense, your thighs shamelessly try to squeeze themselves shut whilst you’re just rigorously shuddering on his lap. “would you look at thaaaat,” and his arms wrap around you. “such a good girl. although you’ve made quite the mess.”

in the midst of him sweet talking, praising you and all, you’re panting heavily. your sighing chest’s raising up and down as you’re just laid out on his lap, exhausted. as you’re chasing your own scurried breaths, sylus kisses the top back of your head. “again,” you moan, a strain in your voice. despite how your legs were still shivering—you craved more, you wanted to orgasm like that over and over. “t- teach me how to do again.”

“to squirt?” sylus raises a snowy white brow, turning you around to face him. his crimson eyes bore into yours and there’s that same sly smile stretching across his lips once you desperately nod. “hm, alright. but this time, i just might have to teach you with my tongue,” and you feel yourself throb once he’s slowly making you recline yourself back against his velvet-colored settee. “now lie back kitten, doctor’s orders. .”

[alpha-dash1998]

A Breath of Fresh Air: My Experience with the Breezy+ Air Purifier

[mephisto-reporting]

The Engineer's Gravity - Yandere! Caleb

Plot: You're a biomechanical engineer in Caleb's fleet, incharge of repairs of prosthetic parts. What happens when you become the subject of the Colonel's obsession? Based on this request. Pairing: Non MC Mechanic! Reader x Yandere! Caleb Note: This story is with slightly darker themes. I do not want people to come at me saying Caleb isn't like this. Yes, I know. This is a Yandere! version of Caleb. Please keep that in mind. If you want to be a part of my taglist, please let me know in the comments, DMs or inbox. Content warning: Yandere male, implied deaths, mutilation, mentions of blood, possessiveness, gaslighting, voilence

CALEB'S POV

The faint hum of the Farspace fleet’s engines was a constant background noise, a rhythm that Caleb had grown accustomed to. It filled the silence as he walked down the dimly lit corridor toward the engineering bay, his gloved left hand flexing instinctively while his right hand remained eerily still. It wasn’t the arm itself that unnerved him anymore. No, he’d gotten used to the weight, the cool touch of the synthetic skin against his chest when he rested his hand there. What grated on him was the maintenance—the vulnerability of needing someone else to keep it functional.

The first time he’d come to the mechanic for maintenance, he had been indifferent, as he was to most things in his life. The arm was a tool, no more. Just another part of the machine that was Caleb, the Colonel. She was just another cog in the vast machine of the fleet, a means to an end. He barely remembered their first meeting beyond her clinical efficiency and soft voice, far removed from the barked commands of his officers or the detached drone of his superiors. She’d introduced herself simply, a name he didn’t bother committing to memory at the time, and had begun her work without wasting a second.

He’d sat in silence, his arm stretched out on the diagnostic table, his gaze fixed on the wall as she meticulously checked the connections and replaced worn components. She’d asked him questions—about the arm’s performance, any discomfort he’d noticed—but he’d only answered in monosyllables. He wasn’t trying to be rude; he just didn’t see the point.

She had been… different.

No. She spoke with compassion, with a voice that held an undercurrent of something human. When she’d first touched his arm to inspect it, there was no clinical detachment in her touch—no cold professionalism. Instead, there was a softness, a care.

But she kept showing up, week after week, her presence a constant thread in his routine. She didn’t just maintain his arm; she paid attention. She noticed when he was tense and adjusted her tone accordingly. When she worked, she hummed under her breath—a tune he couldn’t place but found oddly soothing. And unlike the professor who saw him as little more than a prototype for their next experiment, she treated him like a person.

Caleb first noticed it when she spoke to the other fleet members. The soldiers and officers with Toring chips embedded in their bodies, their minds augmented for efficiency but stripped of their individuality, were often treated as tools. Most of the crew barely acknowledged them, but she… she smiled at them. Asked about their day. Made sure they were comfortable during her examinations and modifications.

It wasn’t long before Caleb began to see her differently.

Their interactions changed subtly over time. He found himself lingering in the engineering bay longer than necessary, watching her work under the sharp white lights. She was focused, hands deft as they manipulated wires and micro-tools, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“You’re due for recalibration next week, Colonel.” she said during one session, not looking up from the neural interface she was fine-tuning.

“I’ll be here,” he replied. Then, after a pause, “You’re good at this.”

She glanced at him, surprised. “I’ve had a lot of practice.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not just the work. The way you… treat people. You’re good at that, too.”

Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, he thought she might dismiss the comment. But instead, she smiled—a soft, genuine thing that made something unfamiliar stir in his chest. “Everyone deserves to be treated like they matter.” she said simply, turning back to his arm.

He didn’t respond, but those words stayed with him long after he left the bay. Caleb watched her closely, taking note of every smile, every laugh, every time she showed kindness to someone else. It made something dark curl in his chest.

The first time Caleb intervened on her behalf, it was almost instinctual.

He was passing through the mess hall when he heard the sharp edge of Lieutenant Varro’s voice. “You know, for all your compassion, you take forever with repairs. Maybe stop coddling the freaks and do your job faster.”

Caleb froze, his blood turning cold. He rounded the corner to see Varro towering over her, his expression smug. She was holding a tray of food, her shoulders tense but her expression calm as she replied, “I do my job thoroughly, Lieutenant. If you’re unhappy with my work, you can file a complaint.”

Caleb’s steps faltered, his jaw tightening. A cold, simmering rage filled him as he turned to look at the man. He wanted to snap his neck right then and there, but he couldn’t let her see this side of him. Not yet.

So he smiled instead. A cold, calculating smile that sent a chill down Varro’s spine.

“Lieutenant,” Caleb said, his tone deceptively calm. “A word.”

Later that night, Varro didn’t return to his quarters. Whispers spread through the fleet about an "incident" during a routine maintenance check. Caleb made sure it looked like an accident—a malfunction in Varro's own bionic enhancements. No one questioned it, least of all her.

She remained blissfully unaware of the lengths Caleb went to for her.

As the days turned into weeks, Caleb’s obsession deepened. He found himself lingering in her workshop longer than necessary, watching her every move. She would smile at him, her eyes warm and kind, and Caleb would feel something he hadn’t felt since he left home for the DAA. A strange, aching need to keep her close.

“You know,” she said one day, her voice light, “you don’t always have to come here for repairs. You can just... visit, if you want.”

Caleb froze, his gaze locking onto hers. Did she know? Had she figured out how much he craved her presence? But her smile was so genuine, so innocent, that he realized she didn’t suspect a thing.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, his voice steady.

He told her about his family one evening, when the workshop was quiet and the rest of the fleet was asleep. He spoke of the girl he had grown up with, her fiery spirit, and the way she had  carved a place for herself in Linkon.

“She is strong…” Caleb said, his voice low. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

She listened intently, her expression soft. “You must miss her.” she said gently.

Caleb hesitated. Did he? The memory of that girl felt distant, overshadowed by the woman sitting in front of him.

“I don’t think about her much anymore.” he admitted. “There are... other things on my mind.”

He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t press.

But Caleb couldn’t stop thinking about her. He thought about the way her hands moved over his arm, the way her laughter echoed in the workshop, the way she seemed to light up the cold, sterile corridors of the fleet.

And when he saw other officers talking to her, laughing with her, something in him snapped. He didn’t like the way they looked at her. He didn’t like the idea of anyone else getting close to her.

Caleb began to manipulate things behind the scenes, ensuring that no one spent too much time with her. He assigned officers to tasks that kept them far away from her workshop. He spread subtle rumors, casting doubt on the intentions of anyone who showed too much interest in her.

She never noticed. She never questioned why the workshop seemed quieter, why fewer people came to her for help.

And Caleb made sure it stayed that way. In the privacy of his quarters, Caleb would sit in the dim light, his bionic hand flexing involuntarily as he thought about her. She was his. She didn’t know it yet, but she belonged to him.

And he would do whatever it took to keep her safe. To keep her close.

Even if it meant destroying anyone who stood in his way.

YOUR POV

Lately, you’d noticed something strange.

The crew didn’t treat you the way they used to. At first, it was subtle—an officer averting his gaze when you greeted him in the corridor, a technician hurriedly ending a conversation when you approached. Then it became more blatant. People gave you a wide berth in the cafeteria, whispers died the moment you entered a room, and the occasional sidelong glances you caught were laced with something unspoken.

Fear.

It didn’t make sense. You’d always prided yourself on being approachable, on treating everyone with the respect they deserved. Sure, your work was demanding, and your position as the fleet’s biomechanical engineer meant you often had to be firm when it came to protocols, but you weren’t cruel. Far from it. You treated the crew like people, not machines.

But now? It was as though you carried some invisible aura that screamed danger.

And then there were the... incidents.

The first time, you brushed it off as coincidence. Lieutenant Gregor had been reassigned to another fleet without warning, just days after he’d mocked you during a team briefing. You’d chalked it up to bad luck or his own poor behavior catching up to him.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Officers and fleet members who dismissed your concerns, who snapped at you during high-stress missions, who made snide comments about your methods—they all disappeared. Some were reassigned to far-off posts, others were suddenly discharged for disciplinary reasons, and a few even suffered freak accidents that left them unfit for duty.

The pattern was impossible to ignore.

The only constant in all of this was the Colonel.

Or just Caleb, as he’d asked you to call him when it was just the two of you.

“Colonel” felt too formal, too distant, he’d said one evening as you adjusted the fine motor controls on his bionic hand. He’d leaned back in the chair, watching you with an intensity that made you feel both self-conscious and oddly comforted.

“Just Caleb,” he’d said, his voice softer than usual. “When we’re alone.”

You hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Over the past few months, he’d become a steady presence in your life, someone you found yourself looking forward to seeing.

And lately, he seemed to be around you more than ever.

It wasn’t just during maintenance sessions anymore. He’d stop by your workshop for no apparent reason, lingering by your workbench as you tinkered with your tools. He’d accompany you on supply runs, his tall frame a protective shadow at your side. When the fleet docked at Skyhaven for shore leave, he invited you to join him for coffee or walks through the market district. He’d cook for you and bring you meals to your residence in Skyhaven, unprompted.

It felt... nice.

You couldn’t deny that you enjoyed his company. Caleb had a dry sense of humor that never failed to catch you off guard, and there was a steadiness to him that you found grounding. Still, there was something about him—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

The way he always seemed to know when someone had upset you. The way his gaze lingered on you just a little too long, as if he were memorizing every detail. The way his voice dropped when he said your name, like it was a secret only he was allowed to keep.

You tried to push the thoughts aside. Caleb was your superior, your colonel. He’d never given you any reason to distrust him. And yet...

One evening, as you recalibrated the sensory feedback in his arm, you decided to bring it up.

“Have you noticed how people have been acting lately?” you asked, keeping your tone light as you adjusted a tiny screw. “It’s like they think I’m some kind of... I don’t know, threat or something.”

You glanced up at Caleb, expecting him to shrug it off with one of his usual dry remarks. Instead, his body tensed, just for a moment. If you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might have missed it.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“It’s just a feeling.” you said, turning back to his arm. “People avoiding me, whispering when they think I can’t hear. And then there are the reassignment orders. It’s like anyone who crosses me is... gone.”

There was a long pause.

“It’s nothing.” Caleb said finally. “Tensions have been high since the last Deepspace tunnel exploration. People are on edge.”

You frowned but didn’t press the issue. Maybe he was right. The fleet had been through a lot recently, and stress had a way of making people act strangely. Still, something about his explanation didn’t sit right with you.

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a smile. “That makes sense.”

But it didn’t. Not entirely.

Still, you knew better than to poke your nose where it didn’t belong. You’d learned long ago that asking too many questions could lead to trouble, and trouble was the last thing you needed.

So you stayed in your lane, focusing on your work and pretending not to notice the way Caleb’s presence seemed to permeate every aspect of your life. You told yourself it was fine, that his increased attention was nothing to worry about. After all, you trusted Caleb. He’d always been kind to you, always treated you with respect. And if his gaze lingered a little too long, if his touch was a little too gentle when he handed you a tool, if his smile held a hint of something darker—you ignored it.

Because Caleb was the only person who hadn’t changed. The only person who still treated you like... you.

The ship was silent at night, the hum of its engines a low, constant thrum beneath your feet as you walked through the dimly lit corridors. You’d been restless, the bitter taste of Lieutenant Reese’s words still fresh in your mind. The new Lieutenant had been transferred to Caleb’s fleet three weeks ago and was already causing tensions within the hierarchy of how things ran in the fleet.

“Guess even engineers need quotas filled, huh? They really let anyone take up space on this ship these days,” he had sneered during a systems check earlier. “Bet you’ve only kept this position because someone up high likes the way you look.”

His smirk had twisted into something crueler as he leaned closer. “Face it. You’re not here because you’re good—you’re here because you’re convenient.”

The humiliation burned as much now as it had then. You clenched your fists at the memory, your footsteps echoing softly against the metal floor. You’d worked too hard, poured too much of yourself into your work, to have it dismissed so callously. And yet, his words lingered like a stain, refusing to be scrubbed away.

You were so lost in thought that you almost didn’t hear the sound.

A muffled grunt. A crash.

And then—a sickening crunch.

You froze. Every instinct screamed at you to turn back, to return to your quarters and pretend you hadn’t heard anything. But your curiosity—or perhaps some misplaced sense of duty—compelled you forward. Quietly, you padded down the corridor, following the noise until you reached a maintenance bay.

What you saw made your breath catch in your throat.

Caleb stood over Lieutenant Reese, who was slumped against the wall, blood smeared across his face. The lieutenant’s arm hung at an unnatural angle, his body trembling as he let out a pained whimper. Caleb’s hand was clamped tightly around Reese’s throat, his grip firm but not enough to choke.

Not yet.

“You thought you could get away with it?” Caleb said, his voice low and steady, each word laced with venom. “Insulting her. Undermining her. Disrespecting her.”

Reese tried to stammer out a response, but Caleb’s hand tightened, silencing him.

“You signed your life away the moment you opened your mouth.” Caleb continued, his tone almost conversational, as if he were discussing something as mundane as a supply requisition. “She’s worth more than you’ll ever be. Do you even understand that?”

Reese’s legs kicked weakly, his breaths ragged. Caleb tilted his head, his expression shifting from cold fury to mild disappointment.

“Pathetic!” he muttered, releasing the lieutenant’s throat. Reese crumpled to the ground, wheezing and coughing. Caleb watched him for a moment, then raised his foot and brought it down sharply on Reese’s hand. The sound of bones breaking echoed in the bay.

The lieutenant went limp, his body a lifeless heap. Caleb crouched beside him, his expression one of disdain. “Weak,” he said, his voice barely audible.

And then he turned his head, his gaze locking onto you.

The moment seemed to stretch, the air thick with tension. Caleb’s expression shifted from cold to shocked in the blink of an eye, but his eyes—the ones that had always been so warm towards you—now seemed empty, calculating.

He stood still for a moment, then took a step toward you, his movements slow, deliberate. His voice was a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

“Don’t be scared,” Caleb said softly, though there was an edge to his words. “I’m just protecting you. I would never let anyone hurt you, never.”

Your mind raced, your pulse quickening. You’d seen this side of Caleb before—quiet, intense, protective—but this? This was something else. He was different.

“Protected me?” you repeated, your heart pounding. “From what?”

“From him,” Caleb replied, gesturing to Reese’s motionless form. “He disrespected you. He questioned your worth. He hurt you.”

His gaze softened, and he took another step closer. “I won’t allow that. Not from him. Not from anyone.”

“This—this isn’t right,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Caleb interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “And I will. You may not see it now, but this is what’s necessary.”

You stared at him, searching for any hint of remorse, but there was none. Only conviction.

“I’ll always protect you.” he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Even when you think you don’t need it. Even when you don’t understand why.”

You took a step back, your mind racing. But even as you tried to process what you’d seen and heard, a cold realization settled over you.

He closed the distance between you, his steps soft but purposeful, until he was standing right in front of you. His face was close, too close, his breath warm against your skin. “You’ve been through so much,” he continued, his voice soothing, almost affectionate. “You don’t need to worry about the people who don’t understand you. I’ll always protect you.” He repeats. “Even when you don’t ask for it.”

You swallowed; your throat dry. You should have been afraid, terrified even. But you weren’t. A part of you was frozen, caught in the web of his words, of his gaze. He was so sure of himself, so confident, and it was hard not to believe him when he looked at you like that.

His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re mine,” Caleb whispered, his words not a command but a promise. “No one will ever take you from me. Not ever.”

You should have questioned it, should have asked him what he meant, why he was doing this. But you didn’t. Because in that moment, you realized you couldn’t escape.

Not really.

You knew who Caleb was. You knew what he was capable of. And you knew that the resources of the Farspace Fleet, the professor, and Caleb’s power meant there was no running, no hiding from him. You’d seen what happened to those who crossed you. And now, you didn’t doubt for a second that Caleb was behind it.

But what unnerved you most was the way he looked at you now. Not with malice, not with cruelty, but with something softer. Something almost tender.

“Stay.” he said, his voice coaxing. “I’ll keep you safe. You don’t need to worry about anything else.”

You swallowed hard, your mind screaming at you to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there. And yet... you nodded.

Because deep down, you knew he was right about one thing.

Caleb would never hurt you.

As long as you stayed.

He would never let anyone touch you. He would never let anyone harm you.

You were his, and he was yours.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you stood there, the weight of his gaze heavy on you.

And as Caleb stepped back, his eyes softening, a reassuring smile tugging at his lips, you knew one thing for certain: you were far past the point of no return.

And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so bad.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom

[pomefioredove]

need overblot boys with epel, and floyd with a reader that randomly lore drops as if they're an old dad like "yeah lol my old school had a shooting once....anyways *SNOREE*" and when asked they just agree and walk away and never elaborate whatsoever💀 if you feel uncomfortable feel free to delete or ignore‼️love ya pookie💥

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ a reader with a backstory

I got u 🫡🫡

summary: wacky reader lore type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, azul, floyd, jamil, vil, epel, idia, malleus additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

you find new ways to raise Riddle's blood pressure every day

little guy is worried enough as it is

you've already got your school work, taking care of Ramshackle, taking care of Grim, taking care of all the other freshmen, taking care of-

well... you get it

the last thing he needs is to hear another one of your stories

"oh, yeah, that's like the time I got stabbed"

"????? WHAT??"

what's entertaining to you and ADeuce is mortifying to Riddle

if you're not careful you'll end up sleeping on the floor in his room

where he can keep a close eye on you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you're like Leona's little court jester

and he takes you with him everywhere

it's not easy to get a genuine laugh out of him, after all

besides, what's so bad about a little dark humor? it's not like you died or anything

he knows you're a resilient little thing

and you seem to love telling him about "that time you crawled into a drainage pipe", anyway

you make him laugh; he likes you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Azul indulges you

his white noise machine stopped working last month and you make for excellent background ambience

so, he lets you talk yourself in circles about your school work, your friends, Grim, Grim again

and then you drop the most HEINOUS bombshells in the middle

"blah blah blah Grim, blah blah Crowley, blah blah, that one time I got lost in the woods for a day, blah blah-"

he loses his train of thought every time

now, Floyd is the complete opposite

he will hyperfocus on the most mundane details

and ignore the bombshells

will give you an, "oh, that's cool" to your ghost story but will find you the pair of socks you mentioned liking three months ago

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Jamil is just fascinated by you

you as a person, of course

but also the fact that you're still alive

one night, he's explaining the reason he makes all of Kalim's food and you're like

"oh, yeah, I get it. I got mold poisoning once and hallucinated for a week"

?????

then you go right back to asking him about the recipe

sitting on the counter, as happy as could be

"HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE!!!"

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Vil is used to this

he knows that look on your face

he will shush you with a finger to your lips before you even start

"don't tell me, I'm stressed enough as it is"

he's going to break out if you keep at it

he finds you quite... macabre

which is entertaining until he sees you going down a flight of stairs without holding onto the railing and remembers all those stories you'd told him

he's just... concerned for you, that's all

and he does NOT appreciate Epel for encouraging it

"tell us more about the time you fell down that hill into that pile of rocks, Prefect!"

:D

like a kid in a candy store

learning new Lore is like the highlight of his week

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

"talk about having a high luck stat..."

Idia is more entertained than anything

he thought these kinds of things only happened in anime, but...

...there you are

it sounds like you experience more in a single month than he has in his whole life

and you know what?

GOOD

you can keep your freaky real-world experiences!

he'll just live vicariously through you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

poor Malleus

he's been putting so much effort into learning and blending with human culture, and now here you are with your terrifying stories

you tell him in such earnest, too

you seem so... unbothered by it

perhaps humans are less fragile than he thought?

of course, he shouldn't have underestimated you in the first place :)!

then you come over for dinner one night

"hahah, yeah, last time I was at someone's house their grandma threw a lamp at my head and I got a concussion"

Silver and Sebek both go >_>

Lilia goes <_<

and then Malleus is there like, "ah, another fascinating tale :)"

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP Fic Idea: Online Siren

Danny makes a mistake. Or maybe he struck gold. Depending on the perspective you were looking through.

It starts one night when Sam, Tucker, Danny, and Jazz get together for a private party on Tucker's birthday. Mr. and Mrs. Foley had let them have the whole house to themselves on the agreement that it would only be the four of them. They would be keeping an eye on the security camera and motion detectors around the property. At the slightest hints of Tucker having a house party, the pair would return from Mr. Foley's sister's house to shut it down.

The group of teenagers were more than happy not to invite anyone. It's not like anyone would show- at least not with good intentions. They had an entire night plan- coffee drinks based on their types, video games, boardgames ones, painting hour, karaoke, movies, and cake after presents.

They all pitched in for pizza, and Sam offered to buy everyone breakfast in the morning. The party started at four and would end at ten the following morning. The boys would sleep in Tucker's room while Sam and Jazz crashed in the guest room together.

Danny hadn't had that much fun in such a long time that he didn't even shy away from Sam's video camera while singing. The youngest Fenton has always had a fantastic singing voice, but his stage fright has stopped him from showing off his skill in front of anyone who was not close friends or family.

The following morning, while eating at Tucker's favorite breakfast restaurant, Sam checked her phone after noticing all the buzzing. Danny could catch her face turning pastly white at whatever was on her screen. She taps aggressively, nearly frantically, which gains the attention of Tucker and Jazz.

"Sam? Everything good?" Jazz asks gentely.

"I..no..I'm sorry, Danny," She whispers after staring hopelessly at her screen. "I meant to save it in our private share, not...the anonymous one."

"What?"

"I...post poetry anonymously on this voice website. It's audio recordings only." She explains, placing the phone on the table. Her voice is hesitant. "Last night....I accidentally posted the video of you singing from the Karaoke machine I saved. The one from the Realms. And some of my followers saved it and shared it. It's trending."

Danny feels his stomach drop into his legs. "What?"

"No one knows who you are!" Sam blurts as Tucker quickly pulls out his own phone. A few seconds later, Danny's voice blares out of his speaker, the melody blending well with his singing. The Karaoke has a recording option that deletes background noise, making it far more professional than four teenagers dancing around the Foley's coffee table.

"Dude, this sounds amazing," Tucker says after a moment. "I can't believe I finally have a recording of your singing. Just look at these comments!"

The song is an open domain in the Infinite Realms, telling the tell of the first King's fall. It's rather popular for its revolutionary themes and near musical lyrics that blended with the rapid flute melody, so finding a ghost willing to share a Karaoke version took nearly no effort. People online think Danny was the songwriter.

The song on Sam's page had ninty-thousand listens, with just as many downloads- each download places ten cents in her account. So far, Danny's singing has made nine thousand dollars. It's only been twelve hours!

It got so much traction because Damian Wayne had made an edit with a popular anime and posted it on his personal account. His small usage had exploded Danny's song in only a few hours.

"Take it down!" Danny hisses, slapping a hand over Tucker's screen and glancing at nearby tables. "Sam, please take your post down."

"I did! I swear! But it's too late to stop it from spreading on the WorldClip." She tells him, and Danny's heart feels like it will explode until Jazz gently speaks up.

"Sam, can Danny have those nine grand?"

His best friend blinks momently, thrown by the question before she nods, "Of course! It's his money."

"Hmm." Jazz taps her fingers under her chin before turning Danny's face towards her. It's not until her gentle pats on his back that he realizes he is hyperventilating. "You should post more on that anonymous website. Sam can write the songs, Tucker can make the music, and you can sing."

"What!?" He choked, shocked she would even ask him. Tucker and Sam are eyeing them with wide eyes, frozen in their seats. No one knew where the fear had come from, but the two knew how badly Danny reacted to the idea of performing.

Tucker first met Danny when the boy panicked in the music room. After it was announced, the students would be singing Twinkle Little Star in the first grade. It was the first time Tucker had ever called nine-one-one, too.

He was praised as a hero, while Danny was scolded for overreacting. Tucker had held his hand until the sobbing boy's parents came to pick him up and has never left his side since.

"Danny, this fear has always left you in shambles. I think it would help you. This could be a form of exposal therapy," She says, then shrugs her shoulder. "Think about it. No one will know who you are, but your music could reach thousands without you ever having to show your face. You could pay for the college you wanted to go to in Gotham this way. All of you."

Neither Danny's nor Tucker's parents could afford to send them to Gotham University despite it being their dream school. Sam's parents refused to pay for a "useless" degree such as Botany. They had been growing uneasy with the realization dreams were not always promised as the end of the senior year approached in only a few short months.

They would never ask it of him, but Danny could see the genuine hope tucked in their eyes as they waited for his response. He licked his lips, feeling his heart still beating a mile a minute under his rib cage.

He didn't like being this paralyzed by an irrational fear. He also really wanted to help them reach their dreams.

So Danny opens his mouth and whispers, "Only until we can get to Gotham to find jobs"

Jazz's smile is bright.

________________________________________________________

A few months later, Damian practically runs Tim over in his rush to connect to the game room's surround system. Jon is hot on his heels and has the decency to shout an apology as the pre-teens rush by.

"Hey! Watch it!" He still screams at their backs, irritated. "I could've dropped my croissant!"

"Sorry again Tim!"

"You're fat anyway, Drake!"

Tim rolls his eyes, adjusting his hold on his plate as Dick rounds the corner that the children had appeared from. "What's got them rushing?"

"Online Siren just dropped a new song." Dick laughs. "Dami is a bit of a fan."

"Online Siren?"

"That's right, you were in space for five months. Online Siren is this anonymous singer that everyone is going crazy over on the internet. He's an amazing singer, but because no one knows anything about him. Not even Babs."

Tim raises a brow. "He could be using autotune."

"Maybe, but Tim, I'm telling you. Listen to his music, and you'll find you can't stop. Siren is a fitting name."

"He can't be that good," Tim mutters, following his eldest brother into the game room, where Damian and Jon have blared the speakers to the loudest setting and dancing around.

Tim draws up short at the sight of Damian Wayne actually crying as he sings along to the lyrics, acting as if the singer was right there in front of him and he was a long-time fan.

Then, the music invades his ears, and Tim feels like he is ascending on a different plane. The smooth, near silk-like voice glinds into his chest, rattling his bones, and his knees shake when the man holds a soft, seductive "Oh" for a few seconds longer then necessary.

It sends shivers down his spine.

"What is this!? It's so good!" He screams at the dancing Dick, who laughs.

"I know, right!?"

"It's too good. I think this is a real siren." Tim continues, pressing his hands over his ears. His mind flashes back to the few months he spent with his team, running for a mind-controlling alien that had nearly trapped them in the third space sector. "Dick, we're in danger! Get around from the speakers! Mind control!"

Dick stops dancing with a sigh, muttering under his breath as Tim rushes to the control panel of the speaker system. As soon as he slams it off, Damian releases a screech of an angered cat and launches at him, demanding his music back. Jon flouts nervously on the side as the two youngest Waynes brothers roll on the ground, yelling insults and taking dirty shots.

"I wish I could enjoy things with my siblings without them ruining it." He mumbles, striding forward to break up the fight, only to scream when Tim pulls out pepper spray, yowling like a madman.

"Mind control! Mind control!"

"My EYES! "

"Drake, stop!"

"You'll never get me Siren! Never!"

".I'm going to go get Mr.Wayne!"

"Make haste, Jon! Bring my father to stop this baffoon-my eyes! Drake, you bastard!"

[fanaroff]

DP X DC Prompt: It’s In The Cave

There’s an animal in the cave. At least, that’s the closest approximation. It cannot be caught on the cameras and any noises made only translate into static. Dicks says it’s green. Tim says it’s black. Stephanie insists it’s white. But Damian knows it’s all three.

The others can’t see it as well as Damian can, for the moment. It’s not a cat, but cat-like. It’s not a snake, it’s snake-like. There’s big, shining green eyes with their color not dissimilar from the Lazarus Pits. Tufts of flowing white hair white a body black body that trails off into a tail and pointed ears that flatten and raise. It looks alien. It looks like an animal. It feels familiar. Damian keeps it.

When it first appears, it’s only noticed at first because a few things are moved around in its haste to find shelter. That, and the little spots of green that trail after its first entrance inside. The green spooks them all, at first, thinking it’s Lazarus water. There are similarities, but it’s not quite the same. After a time, the green fades to red. There’s no recognizable DNA from any creature in it. They settle on it being an “alien.”

It’s always watching, always peeking. Snacks left for it are eaten quickly and sometimes vanish into thin air right in front of them. The longer they go without attacking it or trying to root it out, the more it seems to become comfortable with them. (Not for Damian’s lack of trying anyways.)

Dick tells him to “pspspsps” at it like a cat once, softly patting at the ground. When no one is around, he tries it while crouched between the cave wall and a piece of machinery he saw a movement between. The little thing “pspspsps” right back. He even sees a tiny paw with tiny claws mimicking his motions from under the machine. Damian decides right then and there that this thing will be protected.

Eventually, it starts getting comfortable enough to start showing itself more and soon they’re having to scoot it off of the keyboards in the Batcave. It’ll drag itself about, climb, and sling itself around their shoulders and gnaw with little teeth and claws on their gloves. (They go through gloves much quicker once this starts.) even Batman melts when it starts purring.

Originally, they were worried it was injured but after the time it was there, hidden, it seems to have healed from whatever it was. (Or they get to fawn over the little injuries and fix them up best as they can.)

It will only take food from Damian’s hands though and he lords this over the others with immense pleasure. Often, it can be seen wrapped around one of his hands and forearms like a snake, wiggling away and batting at its own tail-tip. Its growls sound like little blips of static and gargled nails.

Damian names him Phavadi (Marathi meaning that could mean a pickle or a mess, let me know if this is incorrect, it’s not my language.)

They aren’t able to find out what Phavadi is, at first. The Green Lanterns don’t recognize it. Martian Manhunter has never seen it and states that he is unable to read its mind. Like there is nothing there to grasp. (This starts a round of the birds cooing at Phav, calling him brainless, no braincells between them big ‘ol eyes, no thoughts head empty.) Starfire doesn’t know what he is, but is absolutely enamored.

It starts floating. That’s surprising, but also not. They knew Phav has some powers, it could go invisible after all. Gravity has no hold and now it happily makes its nests on top of their heads. When Phav somehow floats his way into the manor, this starts a frantic chase through the mansion to catch it and Phav thinks it’s a game. Winking in and out of existence, waving its tail from a chandelier. When Dick makes it up there to grab it, Phav just plops to the ground scaring the shit out of everyone. Uninjured, thankfully. Phav scoots off into the kitchen and is caught by a heavily scolding Alfred.

Sufficiently cowed, Phav is returned to Damian and the little thing starts sleeping in his room.

They don’t know that this entire time Phav has been following them on their patrols. Staying out of sight but watching with glowing eyes to make sure they’re all safe. An in-grained confusing feeling.

It’s when there’s a big-bad that things come to a head. The entire Justice League is called in and eventually Justice League Dark. The Robins insist on helping as well, they need all hands on deck.

Mid battle, Damian is about to take a hit he can’t dodge.

This can go one of multiple ways—

Angsty: little baby man Phav takes the hit and gets pretty injured. Left limp and unmoving to the distress of everyone. Constantine, seeing this thing is like “Oh. Oh shit. That’s a baby eldritch. That is an INJURED baby eldritch we are so FUCKED.” Because he knows that with this happening, its momma is about to come soon. Phav’s form starts to destabilize, little body starting to goop into a puddle of green. Damian is distraught. All he’s left with is a light blue, cold, glowing orb the size of a marble.

Ghost King: Suddenly, tiny Phav isn’t so tiny anymore. He’s grown to the size of a two story house, hunched and hissing. Eyes wildly glowing, claws out and very large, teeth dripping green, tail long and curled around his bats and robins. Constantine, upon seeing this, shouts “YOU DIDN’T TELL ME YOU HAD A BLOODY FUCKING ELDRITCH??!”

Feel free to add more or use this!

[pineconepie]

This was an ask I got a while back, but either I can't find it or accidentally deleted it. But to the anon who asked for a scenario like this, here you go! :D

TW: Amnesia, parental/platonic yandere, forced infantilization, drugging, implied kidnapping, manipulation

"Help! Please help!" you cry, running as fast as you can throughout the dense forest. Branches and sharp brambles scrape your cheeks and catch onto your clothes.

You stop for a brief moment to pick the twigs out of your disheveled hair. The small cuts sting horribly but it doesn't deter you from pushing onwards.

Sweat beads down your forehead and you wipe at it furiously. Your chest is heaving, desperately trying to take in more oxygen.

"(Y/n)! Stop!" His booming voice echoes throughout the forest.

He's getting closer to you. You have to keep running, keep moving, keep—

Something hits you, something cold and metal. You barely have enough consciousness to realize it was a car, on the dirt road path. Your vision swims, and your head feels ready to burst.

Your ears ring incessantly. All you can hear is that horrible noise, but it doesn't completely drown out him calling for you.

And suddenly there are strong arms around you. "Oh! My baby! What have you done?!" Someone picks you up. They yell to someone else, but their voice is fading out.

Your vision fades to nothing.

...

When you wake up, there's the sound of something beeping. It's a comforting constant rhythm, steady and predictable. You think you know what it is, but your head feels all muddled and foggy.

Something cool and soft presses against your forehead, and you lean into the soothing touch.

"That's right, honey. Nice and easy," a voice speaks above you. Its light, with a subtle hint of an accent you can't recognize. A thumb gently rubs at your temple, massaging it with care and ease. "That must've been a pretty bad fall you took. Don't worry, I've got you."

You open your eyes. Hovering above you, is a man with long messy brown hair, light brown eyes, and a slight stubble of facial hair. He looks to be in his early to mid forties or so.

There's something familiar about him. You should know who this person is... but your brain cannot come up with a name.

"There they are!" the man coos. The corner of his eyes crinkle. He has crow's feet around them. You think those mean someone smiles often. You stare blankly back at him, mind still groggy from what happened earlier. He hums a melody, and gently brushes his fingertips along your arm.

"What..."

"Hush now, don't talk just yet," he murmurs. His other hand is behind your head, propping you up in its palm. "Had quite a nasty fall there. Scared me half to death!"

"Where am I?" You blink, still slightly disoriented.

"Shhh..." He kisses your bandaged forehead. "You're here in the hospital, sweetie. Just got done doing x-rays on your head." The room around you is stark white. There are various machines around you and one is beeping at a constant rhythm. It smells of chemicals and medicine. "I know you hate being scolded, but (Y/n), you know better than to play in the forest so late at night..." He scrubs a hand over his face tiredly.

You squint at him, trying to jog your memory as to who this guy even is. Is he perhaps someone important? Someone you're supposed to know?

As hard as you try, no answers come to mind. And now that you're thinking about it, you really can't remember much at all besides your name and general sense of self.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" you awkwardly ask.

The man freezes. His eyebrows raise up in surprise before furrowing with concern. "Wh—(Y/n), sweetie," he looks at you. "Can you tell me who I am?" You shake your head. He stares at you for a moment, like frozen. Only when you awkwardly look down, does he do too. "The doctors mentioned possible memory loss, but..." He looks so torn; eyebrows twisted up sadly. You almost want to reach out and hug him.

The only thing that stops you is the IV, and the fact you don't know him, despite what he says.

"What's the last thing you remember, baby?" he asks again.

You wrack your brain. "I don't know. I know my name... and that's about it."

A flash of pain shoots through his gaze, though he seems to keep himself collected. "Okay. So, sweetie... I'm your dad." He reaches out to clasp your hands. "My name is Hugo Harrison. You're (Y/n) Harrison."

"You... don't look very much like me..." You realize that might be a rude thing to say. "Sorry, I didn't mean that in a mean way."

Hugo chuckles. "It's okay, there's not a mean bone in your body, kiddo." He pauses, like contemplating his next words extra carefully. "I'm your adoptive dad. Now, we could go into a lot more detail, but let's not strain that noggin of yours for today, hm?" He tenderly touches your wrapped forehead. You must have injured it severely, which explains the splitting headache and memory loss.

"Oh, that makes sense," you murmur. You take in his appearance more. He has a tattoo peaking from below his collar shirt, and looks a bit rugged, with muscular arms that have a few scars. He even has an eyebrow piercing on his left.

Despite that, he seems so... sweet.

"Do you have any photos of us?" you ask. Part of it is genuine curiosity, but mostly just because you don't know what else to say.

His eyes soften, and he pulls out his phone to immediately show you his lock screen.

Sure enough, there the two of you are, smiling at the camera. It doesn't look like it was too long ago. You're both indoors, wearing some kind of brown and periwinkle uniforms.

Noticing your confused expression, he explains, "I own a cafe, sometimes you help out. That's where this photo is from. One of my favorites."

He scrolls through his camera roll and shows another picture of the both of you. In this one, you're sleeping on his lap, his hand covering the side of your face in an apparent attempt to block you from seeing the flash.

You nod mutely, trying to soak it all in. All you know of this man is from these two images.

So far, there's nothing overtly suspicious. Nothing that triggers alarm bells or raises red flags. At this point, you have no reason not to believe him.

So why do you feel so unsettled?

"How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Not good," you mumble, bringing a hand up to your head, cringing from the pain.

He presses a kiss to your hair, holding it for several seconds before pulling away. "Oh, sweetheart..." His voice wavers with emotion. "I'll talk to the doctors again. For now, you rest up, okay?"

With such a splitting headache and sore body, you have no trouble obeying his commands. Your eyes flutter shut, and the last thing you hear is a sigh coming from him, as well as something about wanting to take you home.

...

"Easy," Hugo soothes, letting you lean on him heavily as he walks you to his house. Everything hurts from your body to your head. The medication from earlier wore off halfway to his home.

Speaking of his house, it looks pretty much like a standard home, if not kind of cute, almost reminiscent of a cottage. It's beige with dark brown trimmings. Ivy climbs around the windows.

Flower beds line along the pathway to the front door and a vegetable garden sits near the shed in the back. There's wind chimes hanging near the entrance.

"I wish I could remember any of this," you mutter as he situates you on the couch. "Sorry."

"No, no," he reassures, rubbing your upper arm. "Don't apologize, okay? It's not your fault that this happened."

"What was I doing out in the forest, anyway? You mentioned something about that... is that something I typically do?" you ask.

Hugo looks confused for a moment, then nods. "Ah. Well, it was something you'd usually do, but hopefully that will be the last time. Sometimes you get... impulsive. You do things that are reckless. That's why I'm so protective of you. This isn't the first time you got injured like that." He shakes his head and laughs. "Stubborn kid you are..."

"I see." What else can you say, really? You wish your brain would hurry up and recall something. Right now it just feels blank. All you have to go off of is Hugo. "I know I can't remember, but I'm still sorry. For what I did. Or, uh, do."

His gaze softens even more, looking like the definition of fond. "Like I said, sweetie, you don't need to worry about a thing. It's all in the past now. What matters is that you're here now, safe with me. How about I take you up to your room? You can get a nap in while I make dinner. Sound nice?" He brushes his thumb over your temple.

You wordlessly lean against him. He chuckles and helps you back up, mindful of your injuries, and leads you upstairs.

Again, it looks like a completely normal household. Nothing stands out to you besides perhaps the large number of photographs littering the walls.

Your bedroom has pastel blue wallpaper with stars decorating the top half of the wall.

There's a bunch of stuffed animals lining the bed, as well as pillows with galaxy themed pillows. The carpet is plush and your feet sink slightly in them.

"This was... mine?"

"Yes!" He seems less happy about it when he sees your expression. "Do you not like it? You decorated it yourself..."

"Isn't it kind of, uh, childish? Nothing wrong with that, of course, just doesn't seem like something someone older would want," you lamely explain.

Hugo takes another moment to mull over his words. "Well... you've always been a bit childish for your age, sweetie. I think it's adorable, and you seemed content with this room before... but if you really want to change it up, I don't mind at all." His strained smile tells you that he does, in fact, mind it.

"That's okay. I think I do like it, now that I've seen it longer," you reassure him. Part of it might be because you feel bad. You hobble over to the bed with his assistance, and watch him choose a cutesy beige pajama set. The sleeves are longer than your arms and the pants are covered in sheep patterns. "Do I normally wear that to bed?"

"More like just your typical lounge wear," he answers. "Do you need help, or can I leave you to it?"

"Um, you can leave me to it." You watch him open the door to leave. "Oh, by the way... what do I call you? By your name? Dad? Papa?"

A large smile stretches across his lips. "You call me 'Papa', but really anything works with me. Just want you to feel comfortable, bud. Oh, and dinner'll be ready soon. Tomato, chicken noodle, or cream of mushroom?"

You look down at your lap, where your pajamas lay. "What ever I liked most, I guess."

He hums in affirmation. "Sounds good."

Before long, you've changed and situate yourself on your bed, the stuffed toys huddled around you like a cocoon. Though everything seems fine and cozy, it all feels too new, too strange, for it to feel exactly right. It's supposed to be yours, you know this. And yet, it feels so... foreign.

This should make sense. Logically, it does. But your intuition keeps whispering doubts, despite Hugo giving you nothing but warmth.

...

Two weeks pass, and go by pretty uneventfully. He cares for you like you are a toddler, but he assures you this is how he used to act around you.

Still, your memory seems stubborn in recovering, and each night you pray for the morning to finally reveal a clue as to your past.

So far, nothing has shown up.

And being confined within the house doesn't help, either. Hugo refuses to let you go outside unsupervised, claiming how he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if you wound up in danger again.

And really, who are you to refuse him? You don't have any memories, any other friends (he's told you they've moved away years ago), and you have no money to sustain yourself. He's all you have.

"Where are you going?" you ask one morning, to see him slinging on a jacket. His hair is also tied up, which you've gathered he only does when he's going out somewhere.

"The cafe," he replies, though you can tell something is off by the way he smiles. "There's leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry, okay? Stay inside, and I mean it."

"Can't I go with?" you suggest. Maybe seeing the place could bring back some recollections. Plus, sitting alone all day isn't fun at all, especially when there's nothing to distract you with besides watching TV or reading. Neither of those interests you that much, not to mention a majority of the books and shows catered to people less than half your age.

"Not with those injuries," he chuckles, but there's some firmness in his tone.

"I feel fine! My ankle isn't sprained anymore, and my ribs hardly bother me," you counter. Your face isn't bandaged anymore, either. Instead, only faint scars remain.

"Honey, the answer is no."

"I just want to leave the house!" you blurt. His eyebrows raise up at your outburst. "It's boring staying cooped up all day! I don't want to watch cartoons again or read a comic book or play with action figures."

He purses his lips. "But you love doing those things..."

"Yeah, sure. I don't doubt that I like those activities. But maybe sometimes I'd like to do something more, I dunno, mature." It's not that you hate the stuff Hugo's given you, but you aren't mentally ten years old or whatever age he's assuming you are. So reading picture books and playing with kiddie games get dull real fast. "Please? I don't have to do any physical labor, just wanna get outside the house..."

"(Y/n)..."

Maybe it's a tad bit manipulative, but you've found it works pretty well on him. "I just wanna spend time with my papa... if I can't remember old memories, I was hoping we'd have more time to bond..."

Hugo looks torn for a split second, before giving you a gentle grin, reaching out to pinch your cheeks. "Allllriiight," he drawls. "Wear something warm. It's chilly out."

"Why not my uniform?"

"Because I don't want you working, silly."

The drive there is an hour long, and has you wondering how on earth he makes these long treks there and back five times a week.

By the end, you're yawning and leaning against the window. He laughs, shaking you awake, helping you walk inside the cafe.

In the break room, he situates you on the couch. "I'll get you something to snack on soon. Banana bread, blueberry muffin, brownie, or chocolate chip cookie?"

You weakly smile. "What ever was my favorite?"

He snorts. "Gotcha. I'll be back soon. Don't leave this room, 'kay?" He doesn't wait for a response, quickly busying off towards the counter, throwing his apron back on.

When he's out of view, you try to relax, but as time passes on, you get bored with the things he's given you.

A coloring book, a children's storybook, and crayons litter around you. Sure, they're fun for a little while, but then you're back to square one.

You briefly contemplate if this is the reason why you kept running off to the forest often.

If he's been anything like this normally, you can imagine why you've been searching for more fun things to do.

You peak your head from the break room, to see him tending to another customer, making conversation.

"Oh, (Y/n), that you?"

You look to see one of the customers. He's a person about your age, smiling at you like you guys are friends. When you return the look awkwardly, it morphs into confusion.

"Hey, you alright?" he asks, walking closer to you. "Don't tell me you're working. Hugo told me you had a nasty fall, dude."

"Oh, I'm just here while he works," you shrug. "My memory is a bit weird, still. Who are you...?"

He blinks. "Oh. I'm Weston. We're friends. You must have it pretty bad if you can't remember me."

This is all so confusing. Hugo told you that you didn't have any friends... "Oh. Well, I'm just in the break room while Papa works." You cringe at your own wording. Still feels a bit weird, despite having grown more accustomed to calling him that now. "After he's done, we're probably just gonna go home."

Weston frowns. "Your dad? Are you talking about Hugo?" When you nod, he gives a dry laugh. "(Y/n), he's not—"

"What are you doing?" The deep voice startles you both. You turn around to see Hugo staring between the two of you, jaw tensing with some suppressed emotion. He forces a smile at Weston. "Hey, Weston, sorry, they're going through a lot as you can tell. Still in a state of constant confusion. Sorry. Did you want your usual? Croissant and cappuccino?"

He takes a small step back, but is still clearly defensive, like he's waiting for something to happen. "Yeah, no worries, Mr. Harrison. I know they hit their head hard."

Hugo nods. "I'll get started on that in a sec." He drags you back to the break room, almost slamming the door shut behind him. "Kiddo. What did I tell you?"

"I didn't technically leave... I just poked my head to see if you were busy, and that guy... Weston, I think, recognized me..." You realize his breathing sounds labored. "He said he's my friend."

"That kid?" he says incredulously, laughing. It doesn't sound humorous. It's dry and cold. "No, no, no. Sweetheart, I know everyone in this town and he most definitely isn't friends with you. (Y/n), look, you really can't trust your judgment right now." He grips your shoulders. "You gotta understand that you're hurt. Your head's not working correctly. Okay?"

You wish you could let it go, but something else he said makes you anxious. "He sounded like he was about to say you aren't my dad..."

"He's misinformed. Don't let him fill your head with lies. Now, I gotta get back to work."

"But—"

"For the love of God, just shut up, will you?" he snaps. "I barely let you come along! I should've followed my instincts, why do you have to make everything so damn difficult?"

The glint in his eyes scares you. It reminds you of something terrible, even if you can't remember. You flinch so hard you fall off the couch.

As soon as Hugo's anger came, it dissipated when he saw you trembling, backing up. You shield yourself away with your arms, expecting him to explode.

Even though you have no memory in your head, it's like your body remembers, judging by the way you recoil away from him. It's all instinctual. Even when his expression turns from angry to worried, to guilty.

"Oh no..." He kneels beside you. "Oh, I am so sorry, baby. I don't know what came over me. Here, take my hand," he offers. You reluctantly take his calloused, scarred hand. "Shh... I know, Papa can be scary, huh? I shouldn't have yelled like that. It's just that you made me so mad, scaring me like that... he's a bad person. This town is filled with them. That's why I'm so protective of you."

He's always making up excuses.

"I just wanna be left alone," you rasp. "Please."

"Okay. That's fair. If that's what you want." You expect him to fight it, but instead he gets up slowly and leaves after mumbling one final apology. After the door closes, you exhale, burying your face into your hands.

Something about what happened triggers a flashback.

"You just never know when to stop, do you? How many times have I asked you not to hang out with them?"

"Hugo, come on, you can't dictate who I hang out with. I can handle myself just fine. Now please, let me just do my job. People are staring."

"Keep up with this attitude, (Y/n), and we'll have problems."

"If you're going to fire me, might as well do so. I'm close to quitting myself."

You don't remember anything after that.

But whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

The ride home is relatively silent. Not that it's much different from his normal quietness, but it's a different kind of quiet. Deafening. Tense.

All because he lost his cool earlier. Your shoulders hunch as you try to avoid eye contact.

Finally, Hugo speaks. "Still upset?"

"Why do you care?" you mumble.

His fingers tense against the steering wheel, before relaxing. "Of course I care. I care about you more than anyone else." His eyebrows furrow with concern. "Just because I got a bit snappy back there doesn't mean I love you any less. If you weren't so reckless... but even then, I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that." He sighs deeply. "I'm sorry."

Something tells you if you don't forgive him now, he'll give you hell about it later. "It's okay."

That seems to quell his stress immensely, and he breathes out shakily, like a huge weight was taken off him. "Thank you," he murmurs. "We'll do something special tonight, okay? Movie night, maybe a pillow fort?"

"Sure." You're too tired to argue.

...

The next day, he leaves to get groceries, taking another day off work. You take that as an opportunity to snoop around, for the two hours or so he'll be gone.

Maybe something is fishy about Hugo; the way he keeps trying to keep you restrained from leaving the house is suspicious enough. And the lack of communication to the outside world, even before the fall.

No computer, internet access, cell phone... maybe your memories won't have to return for you to discover some clues.

Searching his bedroom provides nothing useful, so you continue towards his desk area.

Opening drawers, there's lots of random papers inside, which you flip through and scan through as carefully as you can.

That's when you realize one of the letters is a letter of resignation... from you, addressed to Hugo. The date isn't too long ago; in fact, it's the day before you remember having the accident.

You read through it, each sentence causing you more and more distress, until the paper is trembling in your grip.

Hugo,

I appreciate everything you've done for me since I first started working with you, but unfortunately our differences are causing more trouble than it's worth.

The incident last week truly opened my eyes. I didn't realize how toxic and controlling you were. You have isolated me from society, refused to allow me freedom, and tried to control who I hang out with and what I do.

You're my boss, but you insist on acting like my father, despite how many times I've told you that is crossing a boundary of mine.

Therefore, I regretfully inform you I will no longer work with you. This will be my two weeks notice. I'm sorry.

(Y/n)

The paper flutters to the ground. You're sweating. Isolating, controlling, manipulative behavior... it fits to a T of what Hugo's been displaying to you since the accident. Except it started long before that.

You glance around the hallway, suddenly feeling like you're in enemy territory rather than your home. But can you even call it that anymore?

All's you know, is you need to get out of here.

Running back downstairs, you begin planning what supplies to bring with you, but movement from outside catches your attention.

Rushing to the window, you see a familiar figure walking up the driveway. Your blood runs cold.

It's Hugo, carrying bags from the grocery store.

You must've lost track of time. You stumble to your room and pretend to be asleep.

Listening carefully to the noises coming from downstairs, he brings in the bags and rustling follows.

Now that you know the truth, every tiny noise causes anxiety. Why is he doing all this? Was this really all an elaborate lie, this entire situation?

And the most chilling part... was he responsible for your accident? Has it ever been an accident in the first place? As these thoughts race in your mind, your ears strain to listen to what he's doing below you.

Footsteps approach the staircase. Your heartbeat quickens and you burrow further underneath the covers. They ascend slowly.

Eventually they're right in front of your bedroom. Then, it sounds like they turn and head towards his room instead. You have to stifle a relieved sigh when he doesn't enter your room.

The relief doesn't last long.

Did you put everything away where you found it? Did you shut the drawers properly, did you cover up your tracks?

A few minutes go by, until there's a knock on the door. "Sweetheart, I'm getting started on dinner. How does mac 'n cheese sound?"

"Sure," you say, so quiet he almost doesn't hear you.

You wait until you hear his footsteps descend, then sneak into his room to make sure you put everything up.

To your relief, it looks like it, so you shuffle back downstairs, trying to put on the best neutral expression you can manage.

The last thing you'd want him to suspect is that you're onto his twisted game.

"There they are! Come sit at the table. Almost ready." He ruffles your hair gently when you take a seat. It takes everything in you not to squirm away from his touch. To keep pretending that you're blissfully oblivious. "How long were you napping for?"

"Not too long." The less you talk, the better.

"That's good." Hugo serves you a bowl full of macaroni and adds a glass of juice next to it, sitting across from you. Something about his demeanor seems different. You're sure that's just the anxiety talking. "Is something wrong, buddy? You're quieter than normal," he notes.

"Just... still kinda tired." You pick at the macaroni, hoping he doesn't press on about this.

"Awww... well, eat up, okay?"

Despite the lack of appetite, you force down the food. Every bite tastes like mush.

But if you don't finish it, you have the sinking feeling he'll know something's up. So, you force everything down, as well as the juice, which washes it down easier.

Within moments, a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. "H...Hugo..."

Hugo gives a lopsided smile, somewhat apologetic. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I didn't want to do that, but found you messed with some of my stuff. My fault, I've been putting off getting locks for it. I swear, I'd lose my head if it weren't screwed on!" He laughs. It borders on hysterical. "All I want is to be your dad... for you to let me care for you." He reaches out, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead. "But no need to worry. I doubt you'll remember any of today, anyway."

"No..." You try to stand, but end up collapsing forward. In the haze, you register being pulled upwards.

"You just can't help but be stubborn," he chastises. "Guess you got it from your old man."

"You aren't..." Your tongue begins to feel heavy, just like the rest of your body. "Not my..."

"Sleep, baby. Sleep. When you wake up, this will all just be a silly nightmare. Papa's got you. He'll always have you."

And despite your desperate attempts to stay awake, sleep eventually claims you, as black engulfs your vision.

The last thing you sense is your head being tucked underneath his chin, and hearing him hum the same melody he hummed in the hospital.

[kingkaisen]

彡 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐍 — 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐆.

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: a nurse finds a man visiting you, her unidentified coma patient. It’s your husband, Satoru Gojo.

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 18+ only. heavy angst, mentions of death, injury, hospitalization & thoughts of suicide. brief smut mention.

♡ — 𝐀/𝐍: I was bored last night, eating pasta, and decided to write this because why not (: dividers by @/firefly-graphics!

The young nurse was around thirty exhausting minutes into her twelve-hour night shift when a figure sitting beside her coma patient caught her attention.

She glanced up from her medical binder and peered through the interior window of your hospital room, her head tilting questioningly at the sight of the white-haired man she hadn’t recognized.

“Is a stranger bothering my patient? Should I call for security? How did he get into her room without anyone noticing in the first place?”

Those were the questions that circulated throughout her mind when she swung your door open.

With a frown, the young woman asked, “Excuse me, can I help you, sir?”

The man didn’t answer — his soft sniffles filled the silence.

Softly, he stroked your cheek, his fingertips gracing the straps that secured the intubation tube down your throat; the tube that was breathing for you.

His other hand was draped across the pages of an open book lying beside your leg. A few wet splats from fallen tears soaked the inked paper.

“Was he reading to her?” The nurse thought, clenching the door handle.

“Sir?” She called out yet again. “Are you able to help us identify this patient? She’s a Jane Doe. Any information would be-“

“She’s my wife.”

The nurse’s eyes widened, and those wide eyes darted down to the wedding ring on the man’s finger.

“O-Oh, okay.”

“Her name’s Y/N,” the miserable man looked over at the nurse for the first time since she stepped into your room. “I was just reading her the rest of her book. She wasn’t finished with it, and I don’t know if she’ll . . .”

The man’s body trembled a bit. A noise escaped him, seemingly a combination of a sob, hiccup, and a sigh — it was the sound of heartbreak, a sound that drowned out the repetitive, dire beeping from the machines attached to the countless amount of tubes going in and out of your wounded body.

“But, um, her name’s F/N Gojo. She’s my wife. She’s my . . .” One hand gripped yours, while the other ran across his teary, bloodshot eyes. “Has anyone been talking to her? She gets lonely easily, and I don’t think she has enough blankets, she could be cold.”

���Yes, I’ve been talking to her, sir. Everyday.” The nurse smiled sadly. She had gotten used to witnessing tragedy. It was as normal to her as brushing her teeth in the morning. Even so, see the man’s guilt-ridden face prickled at her heart. “Unfortunately, too many blankets could make it more difficult to treat her if something goes wrong. They could get in our way if we need to get to her quickly during an emergency, but, um, maybe an extra one wouldn’t hurt. Um . . . I have quite a bit of paperwork for you to fill out, I’ll be right back. Can I bring you anything? A cup of coffee? Tea?”

The man wiped a tear away from his reddened waterline, though it was pointless, as his pale cheeks were wet enough already. He slumped back in his chair, ran a trembling hand through his messy head of white hair, and returned his gaze to you, away from the rambling nurse.

“I don’t deserve a damn thing,” he mumbled. “This is my fault. I was on a work trip. If I was at home, we would have had dinner together. In the kitchen. I would’ve cooked. But I wasn’t home, so she went to get her own food. She was turning into a drive-thru, right? When another car slammed into hers, right?”

The nurse gave a little nod.

“She was in a coma for two days and I had no idea. I wasn’t here. It’s all my fault. I left her alone,” Satoru bit the inside of his cheek, thinking about the obstacles he had to face just to be by your side right now.

He was on his way home around 24 hours after you stopped responding to his messages and calls. Screw his work trip; you were his only priority. During that time, he had to deal with shitty cell service and horrific weather delaying flights for hours to days. Even now, his days-old attire was covered in rain droplets.

“I’ll be right back, Mr. Gojo. And I’ll go fetch her doctor for you. He can tell you more about your wife’s condition.”

The man didn’t bother speaking or nodding. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have bothered with breathing, either.

Why should he? You couldn’t breathe. You had machines doing it for you. And he blamed himself. He always would.

He gently stroked the skin of your hand.

“Baby?” Satoru said softly once the nurse left your room. “I’m gonna keep reading. I know how much you wanna get to the ending. But I just wanted to say that I wish this happened to me instead. It should’ve been me, not you.”

He wanted to speak more, but grief had formed a lump in his throat that made it too difficult to vocalize how much he needed you. Tragedy had taken his voice away from him.

Those glistening eyes of his glanced up at your bandaged face, and he couldn’t help but picture it; you, his sweet wife, driving to a local restaurant, perhaps while listening to your favorite songs on the radio. All it took was one incorrect turn from another driver. One wrong turn flipped your car.

One wrong turn resulted in devastation.

One wrong turn.

Next, your beloved husband pictured the happy memories shared between you both. Eating ice cream on the couch while watching a Netflix show together. Making pancakes from scratch on Saturday mornings, turning the kitchen into a mess of batter and dirty dishes. Laughing together over the memory of Satoru asking you to marry him during your first time together, three months into your relationship. He blamed his embarrassing ramblings entirely on the sheer pleasure of getting to fuck you. It made him delirious, so he said.

And, god — he couldn’t help but think about your laugh. He loved it more than anything. Satoru was smiling sadly as he thought about you laughing over a silly kitchen mishap that nearly led to a grease fire last year when suddenly, the alarming machines surrounding you started to beep rapidly.

A staff of medical workers rushed in, and Satoru was rushed out — or, at least, they tried to force him out of your room as they reclined your bed and attempted to perform a medical miracle on your comatose body, but he wouldn’t budge.

He couldn’t.

He would never leave your side again, he made you that promise, and there he was, right by your bedside when the defeated doctors pulled away from your lifeless body.

“Time of death, twenty-thirty-two,” a man said somberly.

And Satoru didn’t break down. He didn’t cry, not yet. He hadn’t realized that his legs seemed to have a mind of their own, that his body was guiding him out of your room and down the depressing, illuminated hallways of the hospital. The only thing on his mind was the fact that the hospital accepted patients via helicopter, which meant he could gain roof access.

Satoru stepped into an empty elevator. His finger pressed a button: the highest floor.

A floor accessible only to employees with ID, or, in his case, grieving family members who stole dangling badges from distracted doctors attempting to revive you.

He hadn’t figured it all out yet. Not the logistics of it. After all, concerned medical staff with their eyes narrowed and voices brimming with concern were already trying to follow him and see what he was up to.

But Satoru knew one thing for certain: he’d see you soon.

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