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avengxrz · 2 days ago

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rooster is not a leech (except when he is) ; bradley "rooster" bradshaw [part 1]

pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x reader

word count: 10.7k (oops)

summary: bradley bradshaw should’ve gotten the callsign leech with the way he stuck to you since college. he followed you everywhere, through the academy, every flight, every base. you never told him to stop, not really. until one day, you finally said the words—let go. and he did. he actually let go. but when he stopped trying, why did it suddenly feel like something was missing?

warnings: smut (soft, emotional, detailed, consensual), angst, slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, sunshine x grump dynamic, reader is cold and emotionally repressed, rooster is clingy and hopelessly in love, one bed trope, hoodie lore, crying rooster hours, yelling because she cares, post-ejection hospital scene, rooster chokes on jello, thunderstorm cuddles, power outage, forced proximity, quiet confessions in the dark, emotional intimacy, body heat science, rooster being annoying on purpose, reader slowly melting, unresolved tension, rooster finally letting go, second chances, heartache turned comfort, soft love after long silence.

note: english is not my first language, so please be kind. i wrote this in the middle of the night, raining heavily outside while “iris” by goo goo dolls was playing on loop. this is just something that sat in my chest too long and needed to breathe. thank you for reading.

part two

masterlist [part 2]

your call sign is sunbeam.

You knew fate was a smug little bastard the second you walked into the academy’s briefing room and saw him. There he was—Bradley Bradshaw, in the flesh, mustache thicker, smile cockier, and posture still carrying that same brand of infuriating confidence like the world owed him a high-five for showing up. He hadn’t seen you yet. You considered ducking back out. Honestly, if there’d been a vent large enough, you would’ve crawled through it. But your boots were already echoing against the tile, and his head turned.

The moment your eyes met his, the entire room fell away for him. He stood so fast his chair nearly flipped backward. “No way,” he gasped, as if God had delivered you straight to his personal wishlist. “Sunbeam?!”

You resisted the urge to sigh through your teeth. “Bradshaw.”

His grin widened, shameless and bright, like he was starring in some reunion special where only one of you had read the script. “You’re here! I can’t believe you’re actually here! I thought—well, I hoped, but I didn’t know—I mean, I put your name into that database search like five times just to—”

“Bradley.”

He shut up. Briefly. His eyes scanned you, like he was checking for damage, like the four years hadn’t just been years—they were famine, exile, and he was seeing light for the first time. And you? You just stared at him. Quiet. Blank. Letting the silence stretch in that wonderfully uncomfortable way only you had ever mastered. Because if you’d learned anything in college, it was this: if you waited long enough, Bradley would start talking again just to fill the silence.

You weren’t wrong.

“God, you haven’t changed a bit. Still got that resting glare, huh?” He nudged your shoulder like you were best friends reunited at a wedding, not two adults thrown together again by cruel chance. “Still wear those dead-inside eyes like a badge of honor. I missed that. I mean, I missed you, obviously. But that too.”

You didn’t answer. Just blinked at him. Long and slow.

“Right, sorry, I should shut up.” He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, and sat back down, clearly not shutting up at all. “I just… I can’t believe we’re finally gonna fly together again.”

And oh, did you fly. Every assignment. Every damn deployment. It didn’t matter if the mission was recon, escort, or hell-dive—you could bet your last ration bar that Rooster would be there.

You could’ve gotten assigned a WSO from a completely different squad, and somehow Bradley would pull strings or trade favors or “coincidentally” end up slotted as your wingman.

There were times you wondered if he bribed someone. Or if he had dirt on every CO.

Maybe he was the dirt.

It got to the point where you stopped asking how or why. You just accepted it. Like gravity. Like taxes.

Like the fact that every time you zipped up your suit, you’d hear his voice chattering from the locker next to yours, saying something like, “Your helmet looks good today. Real aerodynamic.” Or, “Did you sleep okay? You looked a little murdery this morning—more than usual.”

At first, you thought the others would question it. They didn’t. They just got used to it. Because by the time the Dagger Squad came around—years into this strange, lopsided partnership—Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw had cemented his role as the enthusiastic golden retriever to your chronically unimpressed house cat.

Phoenix noticed it first. “So, uh… does he always talk that much?”

You stared at the floor. “Yes.”

Hangman snorted. “And she always look at him like she’s mentally measuring his coffin.”

“Also yes,” Phoenix replied, eyes wide.

They watched, in horrified fascination, as Bradley launched into a detailed monologue about some new band he found on vinyl, how the drummer reminded him of you, how maybe you two should start a band—“You could be the bassist. You look like a bassist”—all while you slowly chewed a protein bar and stared blankly at the wall behind him. You weren’t even nodding. Just enduring.

It wasn’t love. Not on your end. At least not obviously. It was more like… tolerance. Deep, patient, bone-deep tolerance for the man who had once given you a call sign like Sunbeam and then made it everyone else’s problem.

“Why does he call you that?” Coyote asked once, during a long deployment.

You didn’t even look up from your maintenance checklist. “Because he doesn’t shut up.”

Across the hangar, Bradley was mid-ramble about constellations and how you once told him Orion was overrated.

“And she says it like she’s bored,” he said proudly. “But I know she’s secretly passionate about space. She just hides it like everything else.”

You didn’t correct him. You never did. Not once.

It became a game. For them. Not for you, obviously. You were simply trying to live your life in peace and silence and protein bars. But for the Dagger Squad, observing Rooster’s one-man devotion tour had turned into the squadron’s favorite reality show.

They started keeping score.

“He’s said her name fifteen times in the last hour,” Payback whispered, eyes wide, jotting something on a little notepad. “That’s a new record.”

“He made her coffee again,” Fanboy pointed out. “Three creams, no sugar. That’s love. Or a cry for help.”

“I think he’s nesting,” Phoenix added, arms crossed as she watched Rooster adjust your seat in the jet before you even got to the cockpit. “Like a bird. Bringing shiny things to the one he’s trying to mate with.”

You were aware of all of it. Every look. Every snort. Every dramatic reenactment of your interactions that happened two feet away, like they thought you were deaf just because you refused to engage. And still—still—you said nothing. Because saying something would validate their nonsense. And you? You didn’t negotiate with chaos.

Bradley, of course, was blissfully unaware. Or worse—he was aware, and just didn’t care.

One morning, he brought you a bagel. Not just a bagel.

A custom bagel. The exact one you used to get back in college from that one overpriced hipster café with the annoying tip jars labeled “Star Wars” vs “Star Trek.” That café had shut down five years ago. You had mentioned it in passing once, probably half-asleep and pissed off about the lack of decent breakfast on base.

But somehow, Bradley had remembered.

“Boom,” he said with a grin, holding out the bagel like it was a peace offering to a feral cat. “Sesame, toasted, cream cheese, pepper flakes, and a little honey. Just like old times.”

You stared at the bagel. Then at him. Then back at the bagel.

“Did you rob someone?”

He gasped, wounded. “Excuse you, I couriered that. Special delivery from San Diego. You’re welcome.”

You took the bagel. Not because you wanted to encourage him. But because you were starving and he was right. It was just like old times.

“You didn’t have to,” you mumbled, biting into it.

He lit up like a damn Christmas tree. “But I wanted to. Anything for my Sunbeam.”

Phoenix choked on her coffee across the room. You didn’t even blink.

Later that week, Bradley rearranged the locker room just so yours would be next to his again. You never agreed to this. You never asked for this. But there it was—your nameplate suddenly moved, your gear transferred neatly, and a sticky note taped to your helmet that said:

“i missed you. this is cohabitation now. ~r.”

You stared at it for a solid minute.

Then you calmly peeled the note off, walked over to Bradley—who was stretching unnecessarily in front of a mirror like some tragic Top Gun calendar shoot—and handed it back to him without a word.

He took it, smiled, and folded it into his wallet like it was a love letter.

Hangman witnessed the whole thing and immediately muttered, “I’m telling you, it’s like watching a wolf try to flirt with a statue.”

Phoenix nodded solemnly. “No. It’s worse. It’s like the statue lets him.”

You learned to accept certain facts as constants in your life. The sun would rise in the east. Gravity would do its thing. And Bradley Bradshaw would find a new, profoundly unnecessary way to remind everyone within a five-mile radius that he knew you first.

“Oh yeah, Sunbeam used to fall asleep in lectures with her eyes open,” he was saying one afternoon on the tarmac, while you methodically checked the flaps on your F/A-18. “Scared the hell outta me the first time. I thought she died. Turns out she just disengages from reality like a light switch. Isn’t that adorable?”

You didn’t even pause. You just yanked the panel open a little harder than necessary.

“I have not known peace,” you muttered under your breath.

“Did you say something?” he chirped, leaning his elbows on your wing like you were having a moment.

“She did,” Hangman answered for you, appearing with a smirk and a handful of popcorn. “She said she’s actively drafting your murder in her head.”

Rooster only laughed. “Classic Sunbeam.”

And then there was the base-wide Rooster Alert System—coined by Phoenix—because no matter where you went, he showed up. Like clockwork. Like taxes. Like glitter at a children’s birthday party.

You went for a run at six a.m.? There he was, jogging up beside you, too chipper for someone who hadn’t had caffeine yet. You went to grab a snack from the vending machine? He popped out of the hallway like some sort of clingy airman jack-in-the-box, saying, “You want my granola bar? It’s peanut butter. Just like you like.”

You hadn’t told him your favorite granola flavor in years.

“Do you have, like… a tracker on her?” Bob asked once, dead serious.

Bradley just smiled. “No. But her soul and mine are cosmically linked.”

You stared at him. “I will un-cosmically unlink us.”

He winked. “You always say that.”

The worst part wasn’t even the talking. It was the commentary team he’d unknowingly recruited. Dagger Squad started giving running analysis like it was an Olympic sport.

“Oh look, he’s fixing her helmet strap again,” Payback muttered, crouched beside Fanboy and Coyote behind a storage crate. “That’s the third time this week.”

“Still no ‘thank you,’ though,” Fanboy whispered, scandalized. “Do you think she’s gonna snap and shove him into the ocean?”

“Honestly, I think she’d miss him,” Coyote said. “But only in, like… a ‘this is too quiet now’ kind of way.”

You knew they were watching. You knew every move you made around Rooster was being documented like a wildlife special: Here we see the elusive Grumpus Sunbeamus in her natural environment, ignoring the over-affectionate Roosterus Clingicus.

“Hey,” Bradley said one morning during pre-flight checks, gently brushing something invisible off your shoulder, “you know, if you ever wanted to hang out outside of training, I’m down.”

You glanced at him. “We hang out every day.”

“No, I mean like... not at work. Like movies. Or drinks. Or mini-golf.”

“Mini-golf?” you deadpanned.

“Okay, bad example. But you’d look good swinging a putter.”

You blinked at him once. Then turned away without a word.

“...She’s thinking about it,” he whispered behind you.

“No, she’s not,” Phoenix called from across the room.

You were in the hangar, tucked beside your jet with the sun dripping low through the open bay doors. The golden hour light slanted across the concrete floor like a mood filter, softening the sharp edges of the world—not that you noticed. You were busy swapping out a busted nav panel, hands deep in wires, trying to make sense of a system that didn’t want to be understood. Peaceful. Focused.

Then came the footsteps.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to. You could tell it was Bradley from the rhythm. Always just a little too heavy on the heel, a little too eager in the pacing, like even his feet couldn’t wait to be near you.

“Hey, Sunbeam,” he said softly, like he thought if he said it quieter, maybe this time you’d say his name back.

You grunted in reply, not pausing your work.

He sat down cross-legged across from you, his back against a crate, like this was storytime and you were the campfire. A moment of silence passed. You savored it. It was rare.

Then, tragically, he began.

“I was thinking the other day,” he said, which was always a bad sign, “if we ever weren’t in the Navy, like, say we were just... two regular civilians, I think you’d run a bookstore.”

You stopped moving. Not because you were touched. But because—what?

He nodded seriously, gesturing with both hands. “Yeah. Like a tiny one. Corner lot. Dusty shelves, quiet jazz. You’d sit behind the counter and judge people’s taste in fiction. Maybe knit. Maybe glare at people who talk too loud.”

You stared at him. “You think I knit?”

He grinned. “You look like you secretly knit. Like angry knitting. Spite scarves.”

You went back to your wires.

Bradley leaned his head back against the crate and smiled up at the ceiling like it had the answers to everything. “And I’d come in every day and buy the weirdest books just so you’d roll your eyes and mutter something like, ‘That author’s a hack.’ And I’d be like, ‘Yeah, but I thought the cover was neat.’”

You didn’t respond.

“Then I’d ask you what you’re reading, and you’d pretend not to answer, but you’d leave a copy by the register the next day. Dog-eared. And that’d be your way of saying I’m not the worst.”

You slowly looked up. “Are you high?”

He laughed, full and loud, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just on life. And maybe jet fuel fumes. Hard to tell.”

You let your gaze settle back on the panel. “You’re a lunatic.”

“And you’re still talking to me,” he said, utterly unbothered. “Progress.”

Silence.

Then, casually, he pulled something from the inside pocket of his flight suit and held it out to you. It was a patch.

Not just any patch—your callsign, Sunbeam, stitched in your usual yellow and burnt orange, except this one had a small embroidered rooster just below it. Not his full patch, not Rooster, just a tiny little chicken, peeking out smugly like it lived there.

You stared at it. Then at him.

He raised his eyebrows. “What? I thought it was funny. And, you know... accurate. You may be a Sunbeam, but you’re my Sunbeam.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I will burn you alive.”

He smiled so bright it could’ve powered a damn aircraft carrier. “See? There’s that sunshine.”

You weren’t trying to make him jealous.

In fact, you weren’t trying to do anything beyond finishing your post-flight diagnostics and maybe, maybe, drink a bottle of water without someone appearing like a golden retriever with boundary issues. But Rooster had wandered off for a second—probably to go flirt with the vending machine or whatever it is he does when he disappears—and in that fleeting, blessed moment of quiet, Bob slid into the space beside you with a nod and a clipboard in hand.

“Your rudder inputs were clean,” he said, calm and matter-of-fact. “Flawless on descent. You clipped the throttle smoother than I’ve ever seen you do.”

You glanced up at him. “You were watching?”

Bob shrugged, faintly smiling. “You always fly tight. Makes it easy to watch. Hard to miss.”

It wasn’t a line. Bob didn’t do lines. He said it like it was a scientific observation. And maybe that’s why you let the corner of your mouth twitch upward, just for a second, before going back to your own list.

Bob tapped his pen against his thigh, hesitating a beat. “I was also wondering…” he began, voice low, “did you ever finish that book you brought on deployment? The one with the red cover. Looked like poetry.”

You blinked. No one ever asked about the books. Rooster always called them your “silent weapons” and then launched into his usual running bit about how your “resting murder face” should be studied by psychologists.

But Bob? Bob noticed the cover color.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Finished it last week. It was better than I expected. Kind of hurt, but in a good way.”

He nodded. “I like those kinds of stories. The ones that don’t try to heal you, just… sit with you in the dark for a while.”

That made you pause.

No one ever talked like that to you. At least, not without trying to attach a tracking device and propose marriage in the same breath.

“Yeah,” you said again, softer this time. “Exactly that.”

Bob smiled. Then, surprisingly, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, dog-eared paperback, holding it out like a peace offering. “This one’s like that. If you’re interested.”

You took it, carefully flipping through a few of the worn pages. The lines were underlined. Notes in the margins. A few faint coffee rings on the corner.

He read this. He lived in it.

Your fingers brushed the cover as you turned it over. “Thanks, Bob.”

That’s when you heard it.

The sound of a very specific, dramatic throat-clear. The kind that belonged to someone who absolutely could not stand being left out of a conversation for longer than two consecutive minutes.

“Wow,” Rooster said, standing behind you both with his arms crossed and his eyebrows fighting for dominance. “It’s, uh… real book club hours over here, huh?”

You didn’t turn around. “Go away, Bradley.”

“Funny,” he muttered, walking around to insert himself directly into your line of sight. “I leave for two seconds and suddenly Bob’s got you talking like you’re not legally required to ignore everyone on this base.”

“She talks to me all the time,” Bob said gently, still not picking up the battlefield tension radiating off Rooster.

“Oh I’m sure she does,” Rooster bit back, plastering on a grin that was two shades too bright. “Sharing books, huh? That’s cute. Real deep. Real emotional. I should’ve known it was the poetry that would finally crack her.”

You turned a page in Bob’s book. “It wasn't poetry. It was the silence.”

Rooster’s smile faltered. Just a flicker. Just a heartbeat. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels like a sulking toddler denied dessert.

Bob, bless his soul, remained oblivious. “I just thought she might like it,” he offered. “It’s kind of slow-paced. Thoughtful.”

“Oh yeah?” Rooster said, voice climbing an octave. “That’s cool. I’ve got a book too. It’s a graphic novel. About a fighter jet that turns into a robot. Very thoughtful.”

You looked up slowly. “Are you… jealous of Bob?”

He gasped. “What? No! Jealous? Me? Of Bob? Pfft.”

Bob tilted his head. “You sound kind of jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re pouting,” you said plainly.

“I don’t pout.”

You stared at him. He pouted harder. It was like watching a Labrador lose a game of fetch to a cat.

There was a long silence. Rooster shifted again, clearly realizing this wasn’t going the way he planned.

“I brought you jerky,” he tried weakly, holding up a sad little plastic bag like it was a peace treaty. “Peppercorn. Your favorite.”

Bob blinked. “She doesn’t like peppercorn. She likes teriyaki.”

Rooster’s mouth dropped open like he’d just been stabbed.

You took the jerky without comment and handed it to Bob, who pocketed it politely.

Rooster stared at you. “Et tu, Sunbeam?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Stop using Latin. You don’t know what that means.”

“I know betrayal when I see it.”

You stood, tucking the book under your arm. “You gonna cry?”

Rooster opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, he opened it again.

Then, with the grace of a truly defeated man, he muttered, “Maybe a little.”

And as you walked away with Bob, calmly discussing character development and sentence structure, Bradley Bradshaw stood behind you like a kicked puppy, arms crossed, muttering to himself about how the real emotional literature was found in comic books.

The book was only the beginning.

After that day, Bob started showing up more. Not in a clingy, leech-on-your-soul kind of way. Just… consistently. Quietly. He had a rhythm to him, like good jazz. Never pushed. Never demanded. Just offered something—an observation, a book, a coffee—and let the silence hold space instead of filling it with noise.

You liked that. And Rooster hated it.

You and Bob sat together in the ready room during briefings now. It wasn’t a planned thing. You just always seemed to pick the same seats. And when you talked—God forbid—he listened. Actually listened. Rooster, three seats over, always looked like he was trying to solve calculus in his head. Eyebrows furrowed, fingers twitching against his notepad, occasionally glancing over with the tragic longing of a romcom protagonist who’d just realized the girl next door was on a date with someone normal.

You caught him staring during debrief once. You didn’t say anything.

Bob noticed, though. Because of course he did.

“He okay?” he asked under his breath.

You didn’t look up from your checklist. “He’ll survive.”

“You sure?”

You shrugged. “He survived four years without me. He’ll manage four feet.”

Bob smiled faintly and passed you his pen when yours ran out of ink. You accepted it with a nod. Meanwhile, Rooster watched from across the room, gnawing on his highlighter like it had personally wronged him.

It only got worse from there.

You started spending breaks with Bob in the hangar’s quiet corner, the one where the breeze came through just enough to keep things cool, where the light slanted perfectly across the concrete and made everything feel a little less like a military base and a little more like… a place.

Bob brought crossword puzzles sometimes. Sometimes you filled them out together in companionable silence. Other times, you talked—about nothing important. Music. Stories. Flight technique. The exact point at which caffeine became counterproductive for mental clarity. Bob had theories.

One afternoon, you were halfway through filling in the word equilibrium when Rooster walked by with two coffees in hand and a bounce in his step that deflated immediately when he saw who you were sitting with.

“Oh,” he said loudly, pausing mid-stride. “You guys are here. Together. Again. That’s… great.”

You didn’t even look up.

Bob did, offering his usual warm little nod. “Hey, Bradley.”

“Bob,” Rooster said, voice tight as he dramatically sipped from one of the coffees. “Hey. You want one of these, Sunbeam? I brought options. Vanilla cold brew or, uh… hazelnut.”

“I already got her one,” Bob replied, lifting the cup next to you. “Plain black. No sugar.”

Rooster blinked. His whole world shattered in a single moment. “…She drinks it black?”

You finally glanced up. “Since college.”

“I—okay.” Rooster sat down on the bench beside you like he’d just been told Santa wasn’t real. “I’ve been putting cinnamon syrup in your drinks for years.”

“I’ve been pouring them out for years,” you replied evenly.

Bob choked on a laugh and turned it into a cough. Rooster looked devastated.

“You could’ve said something.”

“You don’t listen.”

“Yes I do!”

You leveled him with a look. “What’s my favorite author?”

“Uhhh…” He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Bob in betrayal. “Okay, that’s not fair, he’s a librarian in human form—”

“He’s a WSO.”

“And a book nerd. You’re emotionally cheating on me.”

“I was never emotionally dating you.”

“You’re emotionally something-ing me.”

You ignored him and went back to the crossword. Bob leaned closer, scanning the half-filled boxes.

“‘Eight-letter word for a balanced state of opposing forces,’” he murmured. “You already nailed it.”

“Equilibrium,” you said at the same time, writing the last few letters in.

Rooster slumped. “You guys even finish each other’s crosswords now?”

You didn’t answer. Bob smiled.

Rooster pouted so hard he could’ve powered a wind turbine off the force of his sigh.

“Fine,” he said, dragging himself up off the bench like gravity had it out for him personally. “I’ll just… go polish my plane alone. Like a sad, betrayed, caffeinated man.”

“Bye,” you said without inflection.

He paused mid-walk.

“…Love you too.”

Bradley was glaring.

Not just watching. Not idly observing or casually monitoring or curiously glancing.

No. He was full-on, arms-crossed, mouth-twisted, jaw-tight glare mode, posted up at the end of the Hard Deck bar like a tragic movie villain who’d been double-crossed by love and was now plotting world domination… or, at the very least, someone’s mild emotional inconvenience.

Because there you were. Again. With Bob.

Sitting in a corner booth with those damn low lights softening your edges, like the universe was putting a spotlight on how not miserable you looked without him. You were leaning in slightly, listening to Bob say something—something no doubt devastatingly intelligent and weirdly charming in that quiet way Bob had—and then, you laughed.

Bradley’s stomach sank like an aircraft carrier hitting a minefield.

“She’s laughing,” he muttered into his beer.

“She’s allowed to laugh,” Phoenix said beside him, not looking up from her pool cue.

“Yeah, but not like that.” He gestured vaguely, eyes locked on the way your shoulders shook with amusement. “That’s her real laugh. The one with the nose scrunch. I haven’t seen that laugh in weeks.”

Coyote leaned in on the other side, nursing his drink. “Dude. They’re just talking.”

“They’re bonding.”

“They’ve been bonding for months,” Fanboy added from across the table. “We all see it. You’re the only one acting like it’s a crime.”

Bradley groaned and thunked his forehead against the bar. “Why Bob, though? I mean, Bob? I’ve been trying to get her to laugh for like a decade and all it took was one poetry book and a crossword?”

“Bob listens,” Phoenix said.

“I listen!”

“No, you monologue,” she replied. “There’s a difference.”

He sat up, eyes wide. “Are you saying I talk too much?!”

Everyone just looked at him.

He deflated. “Okay, fine, yes, I know. I get excited. I have thoughts. And feelings. And deep emotional convictions about her, alright?! Is that a crime?”

“Bradshaw,” Hangman drawled as he approached with his beer, “I say this with love. You look like a golden retriever who just watched their owner adopt a cat.”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Bradley muttered, dramatically dropping his head into his hands. “She hates me now. I ruined it. I should’ve played it cool, should’ve just been normal, but noooo, I had to follow her around like a lost duckling for the past ten years, and now she’s emotionally defected to Bob.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Bob said calmly, appearing out of nowhere with an empty glass in hand.

Bradley shrieked. “JESUS CHRIST—how long were you standing there?!”

“Long enough,” Bob said, unfazed, as he slid the glass onto the bar and nodded politely at Penny.

Everyone stared.

“Where’s—where’s she?” Bradley asked, panic rising in his voice like a kettle about to blow.

“She went to the jukebox.”

Bradley practically jumped off the barstool. “She likes music.”

Bob nodded. “Yes. Most people do.”

“I could’ve picked her song,” Bradley said, borderline hysterical. “I have playlists. Playlists, Bob. For her. One’s called ‘Sunbeam Vibes’. It’s acoustic. It has themes.”

“That’s… a lot,” Bob offered carefully.

Bradley slumped back down, burying his face into his crossed arms. “She’s never gonna choose me,” he said, voice muffled. “Not like this. I’m just a background character in the Bob Show now.”

Phoenix patted him on the back. “You’re not a background character.”

“Really?” he sniffled.

“No. You’re like… the comic relief that accidentally makes people cry near the end.”

“I don’t want to be the comic relief! I want to be her main character!”

“You’re pouting,” Bob observed gently.

“I know!” Bradley groaned. “I hate it! But I miss her and she’s right there and she looks so happy without me and she laughed at your joke, which isn’t fair because I’m the funny one.”

“She didn’t laugh at my joke,” Bob said softly. “She laughed at yours.”

Bradley’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I just reminded her of something you said during a mission years ago,” Bob replied, casual, kind. “The one where you told the tower that ‘Sunbeam’s got it handled and I’m just here for moral support.’ She remembered it. Thought it was cute.”

The whole squad went quiet.

Bradley blinked. “She remembered that?”

“She remembers a lot more than you think.”

And then Bob turned, grabbed his refill from Penny, and headed back toward you—no rush, no smugness, just that Bob energy. Steady. Present. Unshakable.

Bradley watched him go. Watched you look up as Bob slid back into the booth. Watched the small smile you gave him. It wasn’t the one you gave Bradley, no—but it was real. It was warm.

He sighed and let his forehead fall back to the bar. “God,” he whispered. “I should’ve been quieter.”

Phoenix handed him a napkin. “You still can be.”

He stared at it. “It’s too late. She’s in Bob’s book club now. I don’t even know how to read emotions, let alone poetry. I’m a golden retriever in a library.”

“No,” Coyote said, finally breaking into a grin. “You’re a rooster in love.”

And for the first time that night, Bradley didn’t argue.

He just sighed.

And pouted.

And whispered, “Do you think she still wears that hoodie I gave her back in college? The one with the chicken on it?”

“Absolutely not,” Phoenix said. “Burned it.”

Bradley groaned again. But then—barely, faintly—he heard your laugh ring out again from across the bar. And he smiled. Just a little. Even if it hurts.

Rooster woke up that morning with a feeling.

Not a bad one. Not a gut-clenching we’re-about-to-fly-into-a-hurricane kind of feeling. More like a warm, fluttery, I’m-about-to-see-my-person-and-remind-them-we’re-destined kind of feeling. He even did his hair extra nice. Perfect swoop. Subtle cologne. Crisp undershirt. His callsign patch had been ironed the night before.

Because today? Today was training flights.

And historically—historically—Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw had always been paired with you.

It was a known fact. A sacred tradition. A celestial bond. Sunbeam and Rooster: light and feathers. Grit and chaos. Sugar and salt. He talked, you blinked. It worked. The whole damn Navy knew it.

So when Maverick started calling out the pairings for the day, Rooster stood tall with all the pride of a man seconds away from hearing his name next to yours.

“Sunbeam,” Mav said, scanning the list.

Bradley straightened his back. Smiled.

“You’re with Hangman.”

Rooster’s face broke.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Tilted his head slightly like maybe his ears malfunctioned. “Excuse me?” he squeaked.

Hangman, already walking toward you, shot Rooster a wink over his shoulder. “Try not to miss me too much, partner.”

You didn’t react. Didn’t even look at Rooster. You just nodded, grabbed your helmet, and walked toward your temporary jet like this wasn’t the biggest betrayal since Brutus took a dagger to Caesar’s spine.

Rooster stood frozen. Still waiting. Still hoping. Still trying to comprehend what parallel universe he had just been dropped into.

“Rooster,” Mav said.

“Yes, sir,” he replied tightly.

“You’re with Coyote.”

Bradley nodded. Then turned directly into a wall.

Not on purpose. He just… misjudged. That’s how scrambled he was. That’s how personally wounded he felt. He ricocheted off the wall with a muttered “I’m fine,” and stomped after Coyote like a sulky six-year-old being told he couldn’t sit next to his crush on the bus.

The flight was fine.

Which is to say, it was technically successful, but Rooster flew like a man emotionally concussed. Missed a cue. Forgot to say “copy” once. Got called out by Mav for radio silence.

And the whole time, you and Hangman were in the sky above him, probably outmaneuvering clouds and swapping war stories like a functional pair of professionals. Disgusting.

Back on the ground, Bradley ripped off his helmet and tossed it onto the bench like it had personally orchestrated his heartbreak.

“Everything okay?” Coyote asked carefully.

Rooster slumped down, legs splayed, arms limp at his sides. “She didn’t even look at me.”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Coyote blinked. “You mean your flight partner for life who was assigned someone else for literally one session?”

“It’s the principle,” Rooster said, voice raw with indignation. “We have history. We’ve got muscle memory. Telepathy. I look left—she’s already flying formation. I tap the stick—she knows I want to be evasive. I say ‘Hey, I saw this cool vinyl shop last week,’ she says nothing, but she hears me.”

Coyote snorted. “You need a nap.”

“I need her,” Rooster muttered, head falling back against the wall. “I need her flying with me. Not Jake ‘I-do-barrel-rolls-for-attention’ Seresin.”

Hangman chose that exact moment to stroll in, still in flight gear, grinning like a cat who just got adopted by a lactose-intolerant mouse.

“Gotta say,” Jake drawled, “Sunbeam? Hell of a wingwoman. Smooth, precise, unshakable. No unnecessary chatter. Dream partner.”

Rooster’s eye twitched.

Jake leaned in a little closer. “She even said my turns were ‘efficient.’ I almost cried.”

Bradley stood so fast the bench screeched. “She complimented you?”

“I mean,” Jake shrugged, “she didn’t say much, but I felt it. Like… spiritually.”

Rooster made a noise somewhere between a growl and a wounded gasp. “She’s never complimented me. Not once.”

“That’s because you never shut up long enough to earn one,” Phoenix called from the other end of the locker room.

“I’m expressive!” Rooster snapped.

“You’re emotionally codependent,” she said. “And clingy.”

“Sunbeam doesn’t mind.”

“She paired with Hangman without blinking.”

Rooster looked like someone had just stolen the sun.

“…You think she’s tired of me?” he asked, voice suddenly small. “Like, actually tired?”

Coyote raised an eyebrow. “Like, hypothetically?”

“No. Like, in reality. What if… what if all this time I’ve been this loud, flappy goose honking around her while she’s just quietly praying for Bob or Hangman or literally anyone else?”

No one answered. Which only made the silence worse.

Rooster slumped again, defeated. “I peaked in college. I was the golden retriever who imprinted on a stray cat, and she’s been tolerating me like a recurring allergic reaction ever since.”

Hangman patted his shoulder. “That’s the most self-aware thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’m gonna change,” Rooster whispered.

Phoenix raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“I’m gonna stop talking.”

“…For how long?”

“Forever.”

“You won’t make it twenty minutes.”

“I will if it means she misses me,” he said dramatically. “I’m gonna be mysterious. Brooding. Emotionally distant. Like Bob, but with better sunglasses.”

They all stared.

“Watch,” Rooster said, dragging a hand down his face. “Next time she walks into the room, I won’t even look up.”

He turned and faced the wall. Silence.

And then the door creaked open, you walked in.

The room went still.

Rooster clenched his jaw. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

You walked right past him, looked at Coyote, and said, “Hey. You left your notes on the runway.”

Then, walked out.

Coyote blinked. “Thanks.”

Bradley slowly turned back to the group, face pale. “She didn’t even see me.”

“She did,” Bob said from behind a locker door. “She just didn’t acknowledge you.”

Rooster whimpered.

Bradley was dying.

Not physically. No, he was in perfect health. Heart rate steady. Vitals fine.

Emotionally? Spiritually? Existentially?

Gone. Absolutely obliterated.

Because you—his Sunbeam, his ride-or-die, his emotional support stoic—were laughing.

With Jake Seresin. In public. In the middle of base. In broad daylight with witnesses and everything.

Bradley was crouched behind a Humvee, sunglasses askew, clutching a protein bar he no longer had the will to eat.

“What the hell are they even talking about?” he whispered to Bob, who had unfortunately been dragged into this surveillance operation against his will.

Bob squinted from behind his own sunglasses, arms crossed. “It looks like Hangman’s telling her a story.”

“A story? What kind of story?”

“I don’t know, man. A funny one?”

Bradley squinted harder. You were leaning against the fence, arms crossed, lips twitching as Jake animatedly gestured like he was reenacting a high-speed maneuver. You said something. Jake barked out a laugh. And then—

You smiled. A real one.

Not the forced, strained kind you gave Rooster when he followed you around quoting Top Gun lines in his best impression of “charm.” No—this was casual. Comfortable.

Like you enjoyed him. Bradley felt like he was going to throw up.

“I have to stop this,” he muttered, standing abruptly.

Bob caught his arm. “What are you gonna do? Run over there and declare your eternal love? In front of Hangman?”

Bradley flinched. “No. I was just… gonna say hi. Casually. Like a guy who also exists in this general area.”

Bob didn’t let go. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I always sweat when I’m emotionally compromised!”

Bob sighed. “Bradley. Look. Maybe she’s just… being friendly.”

“Sunbeam doesn’t do friendly,” he hissed. “She does annoyed. And cold. And occasionally concerned when someone’s bleeding.”

“She was friendly with me.”

“That’s because you speak in whispers and smell like libraries!”

Bob blinked. “Thanks?”

Bradley ran a hand down his face and peeked again.

You were sitting now.

You were sitting with Hangman. Oh no.

Oh no.

Hangman said something else—probably something stupid and Texan—and you laughed. Not the nose-scrunch one, but a shoulder-shaking one.

Bradley staggered back like he’d been shot.

“She’s falling in love with him,” he whispered, clutching his chest. “I’m gonna die. I’m gonna be replaced by a man who wears cologne to flight training.”

Bob patted his shoulder. “She’s not falling in love with anyone. She probably just likes his stupid story.”

“What story could he possibly tell that’s better than the one where I saved her from a malfunctioning cockpit door and got a concussion?!”

“You also threw up on her boots that day.”

“That was months later! She knows that!”

Bob just gave him a look.

Bradley crumbled.

That night at the Hard Deck, Rooster didn’t sit with the squad.

He sat at the bar. Alone. Nursing a whiskey he didn’t even want, sulking like a man who just watched the love of his life be wooed by the human embodiment of a country song.

The worst part? You weren’t even doing it on purpose.

You weren’t leaning into Jake’s side. You weren’t flipping your hair or batting your lashes. No, you were just… listening. Occasionally giving him a rare smile. Saying a word here and there. Just existing.

And somehow that was worse. Because you never looked like that around him.

“Alright,” Hangman said, sliding up beside Bradley with that damn smug grin, “I gotta ask. You good?”

Rooster didn’t look at him. “Peachy.”

“Uh huh.” Jake signaled for a beer. “You’ve been glowering at me like a cartoon villain for the past hour.”

“I’m not glowering.”

“You look like you’re about to monologue about revenge.”

Bradley exhaled sharply. “What do you want, Seresin?”

Jake leaned on the bar. “Honestly? I just wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna, like, spontaneously combust. You’ve been watching her like a wounded Victorian husband whose wife dared to laugh at another man’s joke.”

Rooster side-eyed him. “So you are trying to steal her.”

Jake blinked. Then laughed. “What? No. Dude, I like her. Sure. She’s cool. Scary in that ‘emotionally unavailable assassin’ kind of way. But I’m not you.”

Bradley frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jake sipped his beer. “I mean you’re the one who knows what her favorite coffee is. You’re the one who follows her around like a love-sick puppy. And you’re the only person who’s ever made her roll her eyes and almost smile at the same time.”

Rooster blinked.

Jake leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. “She talks about you, you know.”

“What?” Bradley nearly dropped his glass.

“Nothing crazy. But she does. Usually when you’re not around. Usually like…” Jake shrugged. “Like she’s trying not to admit she misses you.”

Rooster stared at him, stunned.

Jake shrugged. “Anyway. Keep pouting if it helps. Just don’t let her walk away before you say something that matters.”

And then he was gone.

Later that night, Bradley sat alone outside the bar, legs stretched out, staring up at the stars.

He could still hear your laugh in his head. Still see the way you looked at Jake—open, relaxed, soft.

And for the first time, he wondered:

Maybe you weren’t drifting toward Jake.

Maybe you were just drifting away from him.

And if he didn’t speak soon—really speak—you might never drift back.

He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and whispered to the night:

“Please. Don’t pick him. Don’t pick anyone.”

And somewhere inside, he swore he heard your voice say:

Then stop waiting.

The next day, Rooster came back swinging.

Spirit fully revived, delusion fully reloaded.

Last night’s brooding on the patio? Over. Jake’s unsettling pep talk? Filed away for later trauma processing. This morning, he had a plan. A brilliant, foolproof, emotionally catastrophic plan:

Be normal.

Totally, perfectly normal.

Which for Rooster meant... being louder than ever.

So when you walked into the hangar, head down, clipboard in hand, face set to “resting war criminal,” Rooster popped up from literally nowhere with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever high on espresso.

“Hey, Sunbeam!” he called, jogging toward you like an idiot in aviators. “You’re five minutes early. I knew you were gonna be early. That’s so you. You’re always—y’know—early. Punctual. Military. Classic.”

You didn’t stop walking.

He kept pace beside you anyway.

“Anyway,” he continued, completely undeterred by your silence, “I was thinking, right, since we’ve got a break after drills today, we should go get food. You like food. I know you like food. Everybody likes food. Unless... do you not eat? Wait. Are you secretly a cryptid?”

You stopped.

Looked at him.

Expression flat. Voice monotone.

“Bradley. What do you want.”

His entire soul did a backflip at the sound of his name in your voice, even though you said it like it physically pained you to do so.

“I just—uh.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Wanted to see if you wanted to hang out. Like old times.”

“No.”

“Okay—cool—no’s valid,” he stammered. “But like, is it a no because you’re busy? Or a no because you’re emotionally allergic to me now? Because I can change—”

You blinked at him once. Twice. Then turned and walked away again.

He stood there.

Alone. Rejected. Spiraling.

“Okay,” Rooster announced to the squad at lunch, dramatically throwing his tray onto the table. “I am officially a burden.”

“No arguments here,” Hangman muttered, not even looking up from his sandwich.

“I’m trying, okay?” Rooster ranted, collapsing into his seat. “I’m being sweet. I’m showing up. I’m not even being clingy anymore—I gave her space. You saw it. I gave her like ten feet this morning.”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “And then immediately trailed her down the tarmac talking about cryptids and food.”

“I’m making conversation!”

“You’re monologuing again,” Bob said gently, sipping his water.

“She’s just—she’s so cold now,” Rooster whined, voice going full tragic lead in a sad rom-com. “She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t snark. She doesn’t even threaten to punch me anymore. I miss when she wanted to punch me. At least then I knew she felt something.”

Hangman rolled his eyes. “Maybe she’s just over it.”

Rooster looked like he’d been physically stabbed.

“Over it?” he choked. “She can’t be over it. We had a thing. A vibe. A deeply spiritual dynamic.”

“You mean the one where you followed her around for a decade and she occasionally acknowledged your existence?” Phoenix asked.

“Exactly! That one!”

Bob cleared his throat. “Maybe you just overwhelmed her.”

“I underwhelmed her,” Rooster moaned, banging his head gently against the table. “I took her for granted. And now she’s bonding with Hangman and laughing at his jokes and probably thinks I’m just some loud idiot who peaked emotionally in 2016.”

“I mean,” Hangman started.

“Not helping,” Phoenix cut in.

Rooster slumped. “I’m losing her.”

“You never had her,” Hangman said, then paused. “Wait. Is that why you asked Mav to reassign flight pairs?”

Everyone turned.

Rooster blinked. “I—what?”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “You asked Mav to pair you with her again.”

Rooster went red. “I—I didn’t—technically—”

“Oh my God,” Fanboy laughed. “You’re insane.”

“She flies better with me!” Rooster cried. “We have synergy! We have unspoken communication! And I missed her laugh! And her annoyed glare! And the way she corrects my jargon mid-flight like it’s a personal offense to naval protocol!”

“You need therapy,” Bob said calmly.

“I need her back,” Rooster replied, despondent. “She’s my Sunbeam.”

“And yet you treat her like she’s a houseplant you can scream compliments at until she grows toward you,” Phoenix deadpanned.

Rooster opened his mouth. Closed it. Sighed.

Back in the hangar, you were reviewing mission parameters on your tablet when the clomp-clomp of heavy boots approached again.

You didn’t even look up.

“Don’t.”

“I just—”

“No.”

“But—”

You lifted your eyes slowly. Your glare could’ve frozen the sun.

Rooster flinched. “You’re really not vibing with me right now, huh?”

“Nope.”

He ran a hand down his face. “Is it the talking?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the constant attempts to insert myself into your personal schedule?”

“Also yes.”

“Is it—”

“Bradley.”

He froze.

You lowered your voice, calm, sharp, quiet like a blade in the dark. “You talk too much. You try too hard. You act like we’re still in college. I’ve changed. You haven’t. And whatever we had—if we ever had anything—you need to let it go.”

The words hit like a missile strike.

He actually staggered back a little.

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just turned back to your tablet like it didn’t cost you anything to say it.

But it cost him everything.

And for the first time in forever, Rooster Bradshaw didn’t know what to say.

Rooster was lying on top of his plane.

Face to the sky, arms folded beneath his head, boots crossed like he was sunbathing on a yacht instead of brooding on cold metal in the middle of an aircraft hangar.

He hadn’t moved in over an hour.

No music. No phone. Just him, his self-loathing, and the sound of other people moving on with their lives without him.

He’d tried everything. The casual good-morning chats. The coffee deliveries. The dramatic Hard Deck monologues. The tragic, emotionally vulnerable pout.

And still—you treated him like he was background noise.

No, correction: you treated him like static.

And worst of all?

You were right to.

Because somewhere between college and now, Rooster had convinced himself that just being there for you was enough. That his love was this constant, obvious thing. That you’d just know.

But you didn’t want someone who hovered. You wanted someone who saw you.

And Bradley had been too busy chasing your orbit to realize he never learned your language.

He exhaled loudly.

“This is pathetic,” he muttered.

“I’ve seen worse,” a voice said below.

He flinched. Propped himself up. Squinted into the sun.

Maverick stood at the base of the ladder, aviators on, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Oh,” Bradley groaned, flopping back down. “Great. A pep talk. Just what I need.”

“Not a pep talk,” Mav said, starting to climb. “More of a… course correction.”

Rooster didn’t respond.

Maverick climbed up and sat beside him, swinging one leg over the wing.

They were quiet for a minute. Just metal, and heat, and that heavy silence between two men too stubborn to say what they actually felt.

Finally, Maverick spoke.

“So,” he said slowly. “She shut you down.”

“Like a government program with bad press,” Rooster mumbled.

Maverick huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Heard about that.”

“Of course you did. Everyone knows. I’ve been publicly humiliated at least three times this week. She barely looks at me, Mav. She talks to Jake now.”

Mav raised a brow. “You mean the same Jake she once threatened to kill mid-flight?”

“People change.”

“So do relationships.”

Rooster sighed. “Yeah. She changed. She’s... not the girl I knew.”

“No,” Maverick said. “She’s the woman you didn’t bother to get to know.”

Rooster sat up sharply. “Excuse me?”

Mav turned toward him, calm but firm. “Bradley. You’ve been so wrapped up in chasing her that you didn’t stop to see her. You think you’re in love with who she was ten years ago. Are you even paying attention to who she is now?”

“I—of course I am—” he started, then paused. “…I mean. Kinda.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Rooster’s jaw tensed. “She was my best friend.”

“Was,” Mav echoed. “You want her back? Stop being the version of yourself that needed her in college. Be the version she might respect now.”

Bradley looked away, throat tight. “She said I haven’t changed.”

“Have you?”

That one hit like a punch.

Because no—he hadn’t. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered.

He still talked too much. Still covered fear with jokes. Still loved loudly and clumsily and expected the people he loved to just get it.

But you were calm. Quiet. Sharp. You didn’t need a cheerleader.

You needed a partner.

“I just thought,” he said finally, voice quieter, “that being there for her all these years would be enough.”

Maverick’s voice softened. “Being there isn’t the same as being with someone. She’s not a planet you orbit, Bradshaw. She’s not gravity. She’s a pilot. You want to be in formation? Match her altitude.”

Rooster blinked, stunned. “That was... almost poetic.”

“I’ve had therapy.”

Bradley barked a broken laugh and stared up at the sky again. “It hurts.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“What if I already lost her?”

Mav was quiet for a second. Then said, “Then stop losing yourself too.”

Later that day, Rooster sat on the hood of his truck in the back lot, chewing the inside of his cheek, staring at nothing.

He wasn’t gonna follow you.

Not this time.

He wasn’t gonna corner you with twenty questions or drop some poorly disguised compliment bomb or ask if you wanted to “vibe.”

He was gonna sit there, for once, in silence.

And hope that maybe—just maybe—you’d notice the absence.

That maybe you’d feel the space where he used to be.

Because if Maverick was right—and damn it, he probably was—then it wasn’t about chasing you anymore.

It was about showing up right.

Being still.

And waiting to see if you ever looked back.

It started with the coffee.

Bradley always brought two.

One for himself—black, hot, usually with a dumb doodle Sharpied onto the cup. And one for you—how you liked it, never wrong, always on time.

You never asked him to bring it.

He just... did.

But one morning, it wasn’t there.

Your locker bench was empty. No cup. No sticky note with a sun drawn on it. No annoying rooster-shaped heart beside it.

Just the sterile scent of detergent and jet fuel and silence.

You didn’t say anything. Not out loud.

But it was the first thing you noticed.

The squad noticed, too.

Not right away. At first, it felt like peace. Like a blessing.

No Rooster singing “Highway to the Danger Zone” at full volume in the locker room. No long-winded stories about gas station burritos and near-death dogfights. No sunflower metaphors or rants about vintage vinyl.

The silence was strange.

Nice, maybe. For a day.

But then it kept going.

“Okay,” Phoenix said flatly, hands on her hips. “Who killed Rooster?”

They were all sitting around the Hard Deck’s usual corner table, and Bradley was nowhere to be seen.

Coyote raised a brow. “He said he was gonna skip tonight.”

“Skip?” Fanboy echoed. “Since when does he skip?”

“He’s probably tired,” Bob offered gently.

“He’s always tired,” Phoenix snapped. “He still shows up. He shows up with jokes and weird trivia and unsolicited karaoke. He’s Rooster. He doesn’t just... go quiet.”

Hangman leaned back in his chair, swirling his beer. “Maybe someone finally broke the golden retriever.”

Everyone looked at you.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

Just took a sip of your drink and kept looking out at the water like their suspicions didn’t hang in the air like jet exhaust.

The next day, Bradley flew like a ghost.

Sharp. Efficient. Silent.

He didn’t crack a joke over comms. Didn’t comment on your turns. Didn’t say “Nice flying, Sunbeam,” when you touched down on the tarmac.

He just parked his bird and walked past you without so much as a glance.

And still—you didn’t say a word.

“Okay, seriously,” Phoenix hissed, cornering you in the locker room later. “What the hell is going on with Bradshaw?”

You shrugged, pulling off your gloves. “I don’t know. Ask him.”

“I did. He just gave me a polite nod and walked away like we’re strangers at a dinner party.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like it!” she snapped. “It’s creepy. It’s not normal. He’s not normal. He’s not supposed to be—mellow. I saw him reading alone yesterday.”

“He reads.”

“He was reading in silence. Like a divorced English professor. And he didn’t even look up when I passed!”

You sighed. “Maybe he’s just growing up.”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “No. This is something else.”

You didn’t reply.

At briefing the next morning, Bradley sat at the far end of the table. Not beside you. Not diagonally where he could pass you dumb sketches. He didn’t look over. Didn’t make a single sound.

When Mav called for flight assignments, Bradley just nodded and took his orders with no protest, no rerouting, no desperate plea to be paired with you.

And when you turned your head—just a little—expecting to catch his eye, maybe out of habit—

He was already looking away.

“Dude’s in withdrawal,” Hangman said later, not even trying to whisper. “You see him? He’s like a sad country song in a flight suit.”

Bob glanced at you. “He hasn’t smiled in three days.”

“He hasn’t talked to me in three days,” Phoenix added, insulted.

“Do you think he’s broken?” Fanboy asked.

“Or maybe he’s just... tired,” Coyote offered gently. “Y’know. Of trying.”

The silence that followed was a little too loud.

You stood. Walked out. Didn’t say a word.

That night at the Hard Deck, Bradley showed up late.

Alone. Quiet.

He didn’t go to the jukebox. Didn’t talk to Penny. Didn’t find the squad.

He just sat at the bar, ordered a water, and sipped it slowly, like it tasted the same as every regret he hadn’t said out loud.

Phoenix watched him from across the room, arms crossed. “This is weird.”

“He looks like someone stole his dog,” Fanboy said.

“He looks like someone stole his person,” Coyote corrected softly.

Hangman leaned back in his chair. “I give it a week. Tops. Then he either snaps or confesses or flies straight into the sun.”

They all looked at you.

Again.

You said nothing.

But for the first time in a long time, you glanced toward the bar.

And you saw him there.

Still.

Quiet.

Distant.

And for some strange reason, it didn’t feel like peace anymore.

It felt like something you didn’t know how to name.

You didn’t notice it at first.

Not really.

Because silence had always been your armor. Your shield. Your sanctuary. You were good at ignoring things. Better at pretending you didn’t notice them. A masterclass in indifference. Eyes forward. Orders clear. Emotions compartmentalized into labeled folders, each locked tight and shoved to the back of your mind.

So when Rooster stopped talking to you, it was easy to keep your face neutral.

No change. No flicker.

Easy.

Except—

It wasn’t.

Not for long.

Because silence wasn’t supposed to be his thing.

It crept in like a shadow, slow and subtle, soft at first—like background music fading into white noise. But over time, the quiet grew teeth. It sat beside you during briefings. It hung in the air during flights. It clung to your skin like sweat in the summer, thick and uncomfortable and hard to wipe off.

And you started to miss him.

Not that you’d ever say it out loud.

God, no.

You still remembered what you told him. The sharpness in your voice. The finality in your words. “Whatever we had—if we ever had anything—you need to let it go.”

And he had.

He’d let go.

So cleanly, so completely, it stunned you.

No last-ditch effort. No arguments. No begging for one more chance.

Just—absence.

At first, it was peaceful.

You could move through hallways without hearing your name echo off the walls. You could sit through debriefings without a hand-drawn sunbeam doodle sliding toward you on a napkin. You could drink your coffee without seeing another cup next to yours, steaming and silent.

You told yourself you liked it.

You told yourself this was what you wanted.

But then—

Then the questions started.

Subtle things. Quiet realizations.

Like: when did the hangar start feeling so empty, even when it was full?

Why did your coffee taste blander, like something was missing, even though the recipe hadn’t changed?

When did the air feel heavier?

When did you start missing the sound of your name said in that stupid, smug, affectionate tone of his?

Sunbeam.

God, that nickname used to annoy you. Made you feel too bright. Too soft. Like he saw something in you you didn’t believe existed.

Now, no one said it.

And the silence in its place was unbearable.

You didn’t admit it at first.

Not when he walked past you without a glance.

Not when you caught him on the runway, talking quietly to Bob—quietly, not performing, not grinning, not telling stories—just nodding, listening.

Not when he sat across the room at the Hard Deck, not even bothering to try for your attention anymore.

It hit worst during flight drills.

You were paired with Hangman again. He was efficient. Skilled. He never overstepped.

But it wasn’t the same.

There was no rhythm. No instinctive trust. No push and pull that kept your pulse alive. No corny commentary over the comms. No soft-spoken “you good?” after a sharp turn. No whisper of “nice flying” when your boots hit the ground.

Just Hangman.

Just silence.

And the empty echo of someone who used to be in sync with you without even trying.

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #top gun maverick #top gun fandom #jake seresin #bob floyd #natasha trace #phoenix #avengxrz #pete maverick mitchell #glen powell

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ak319 · 3 days ago

Note

Reader has a cut or bad bruise on her shin and Arthur has to lift her skirt all the way up to her knee to look at it (How scandalous!! 🫣🫣)

🌹anon

Warnings/MDNI: Age gap (you are in early 20's and Arthur is 30-31), fluff, him being lovesick- b(￣▽￣)

┆ ⤿ ❀ m.list

You don’t even know why you’re walking funny.

Okay, you do.

You tripped.

On a bucket.

A stupid, traitorous bucket someone left by the horses. Now there’s a bruise blooming on your shin and a limp you’re desperately trying to hide.

But Arthur’s eyes track you like a damn hawk.

"You’re limpin’."

"No, I’m not. It’s jus' the ground’s uneven."

"You are."

You try to walk faster. He walks faster. You slow down. He slows down. You finally stop and throw your hands in the air.

"I tripped on a bucket, alright? I’m not dyin’. Go play lawman somewhere else."

He squints, already crouching down in front of you before you can escape. "Lemme see."

"No."

"Darlin’."

"I’m not pullin’ up my skirt in front of half the camp so you can stare at my legs."

Arthur smirks faintly. "Fine."

You blink. "Fine?"

Before you can ask what he means, his large hands are already guiding you backwards, firm but careful. You stumble slightly, and the next thing you know, you’re being sat down on an old crate like some misbehaving schoolgirl.

"Arthur-"

"Lemme take a look," he says calmly, crouching in front of you. One hand wraps around your ankle, steady and warm. The other slides up to your calf, rough thumb brushing your skin as he gently but firmly pushes your skirt up past your knee.

You freeze.

Scandalous.

Unthinkable-

"Arthur!-"

"Relax. I ain’t lookin’ at nothin’ you don’t want me to see."

But he’s focused now, all trace of teasing gone, eyes narrowed at the angry bruise blooming across your shin.

You freeze.

"Arthur-"

"Damn," he mutters. "That’s worse than I thought."

"Saw it? Happy now?"

You try to pull your skirt back down. He stops you with a warm palm on your knee.

"You really weren’t gonna tell me?"

"It’s just a scratch!"

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just breathes in slow, jaw tense, thumb ghosting around the tender skin like he’s scared to make it worse.

"You shouldn’t’ve been walkin’ on this," he murmurs finally, voice low and gravel-soft.

"I told you it's nothing, stop," you mutter, but even you know that’s a lie.

Arthur huffs through his nose , not angry, just... aching. Then, before you can react, he leans down.

His lips press softly to the edge of the bruise.

You stiffen, heartbeat thudding so loud you’re sure he hears it. But Arthur doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look up.

He kisses a little further up, where the swelling dips. Another kiss, right over the worst part. Feather-light, like he thinks love might mend what ointment can’t.

"You’re killin’ me," he whispers between kisses. "Walkin’ around like this... actin’ like you’re made of stone when I know damn well you’re not."

His hand smooths up the side of your leg, never straying, just holding you steady.

"I’d take this pain if I could. Hell, I’d take ten of ’em. Rather me than you."

You swallow, staring at the top of his head. "Arthur..."

He looks up at you, finally, eyes soft, lips still brushing your skin. "Next time you’re hurtin’, you tell me. I ain’t lettin’ you suffer in silence. Not when I’m here to do somethin’ about it."

He looks up at you then, expression unreadable. "It’s you. There ain’t such a thing as 'just' when it comes to you."

You open your mouth, something snarky ready on your tongue-

But he kisses your knee. And it’s not just tenderness now, it’s possession. A quiet, firm declaration:

Mine.

"Arthur, I---OH!"

Sean. Again.

"Didn’t see nothin’, I swear-"

Arthur doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just turns his head slightly, voice cold as a rifle barrel.

"You keep lookin’, Sean, and I’ll make sure you walk funny too."

The poor Irishman turns full-circle on his heel the moment he catches sight of Arthur crouched between your knees, your skirt hiked up to your thighs.

"Already gone!" Sean yells over his shoulder. "Didn’t see a damn thing!"

Arthur sighs, visibly restraining the urge to commit a murder. "I’m gonna kill him one of these days."

"Oh, perfect, I always dreamed of being camp gossip. Really, thanks, Arthur, you lumbering oaf."

Arthur smirks, brushing his thumb gently over the edge of the bruise. "Good. Maybe now someone’ll finally marry you."

You swat at his shoulder. He catches your hand, kisses the inside of your wrist, then the other.

"I ain’t lettin’ you walk ‘round like this anymore. You fall, you yell for me."

"I tripped over a bucket, Arthur."

He leans in, lips brushing the inside of your knee , "Next time you fall,” he murmurs, "I better be the one catchin’ you."

You think you're in the clear.

You think maybe Arthur’ll kiss your wrist one last time and let you limp off with whatever pride you have left.

But then he straightens up and, before you can react, hooks an arm under your knees and the other around your back.

“Arthur, NO---ARTHUR, what are you doing?!"

He lifts you off the ground like you weigh nothing, settling you against his chest while your skirt flutters traitorously in the breeze.

"Gettin’ you off that leg before it gets worse."

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU-"

"Relax, darlin'."

You glance around, and half the camp has stopped what they’re doing.

Karen drops her coffee. Tilly’s grinning. Charles doesn’t even bother hiding his chuckle. Bill looks confused, but that’s normal.

And Sean? Sean’s somewhere in the distance screaming, "I TOLD Y’ALL THEY WAS CANOODLIN"!"

You bury your face in Arthur’s shirt. "This is humiliating."

"Nah. This is me takin’ care of what’s mine."

Your heart skips. You don’t reply. You can’t.

He lowers his voice near your ear, tone suddenly soft again. "You think I care what they say? I’d carry you every day if it meant you didn’t walk a step in pain.”

You go quiet. Your hand slowly grips the fabric at his chest.

He walks you straight to his tent, ignoring every whistle, every stare, every amused comment.

You hiss again as he gently lowers you onto the cot like he’s handling glass.

"See? Not so bad," he says, brushing your hair from your face.

"I hope you know that I hate you."

He grins. "Love you too, pretty girl".

He props your foot on his thigh once more, knees bent as he kneels beside the cot. The warmth of his palm settles over your shin, and you watch in silence as he unscrews the bottle and soaks the cloth.

"This might sting," he says, voice softer now.

The first dab burns, and you tense , but his other hand immediately slides up to steady your thigh, thumb rubbing slow, absentminded circles into your skin.

"You ever think about being a nurse?"

Arthur chuckles low in his throat. "Only for you, sweetheart."

When the bruise is clean, he tears off a strip of bandage with his teeth and starts wrapping, slow and methodical. His hands are rough from years of gunpowder and rope, but he handles you like you’re something fragile.

He ties the knot off neatly, then rubs his thumb once over the finished wrap like he’s sealing it.

"You didn’t have to do all that," you sigh, thankful it's over.

"Course I did," he says, setting your leg down gently. "You’re my girl. Gettin’ hurt’s not just your problem anymore."

You don’t reply, you couldn't, not with the way your chest aches at his words. So instead, you let him lift the blanket back up over your legs, tucking it around you with the same care he’d give a wounded bird.

Then, without a word, he leans forward and presses a kiss to the bandage. One more to your ankle. And one just over your knee, slow and reverent.

"You rest," he whispers, brushing your hair back again. "I’ll be right here, darlin'."

And he means it. He doesn’t leave the cot, just settles beside it on the ground, arms folded on the edge, head resting close to your hip, watching over you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Because to him, you are.

AN: to be cared for like this-🤧

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lvmimis · 15 hours ago

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cw: fluff mostly. finger sucking is as nsfw as it gets.

It’s early morning, and you can tell Luffy’s already been awake longer than you from the way his fingers glide along the surface of your forearm, gentle enough not to wake you, but with enough fervor to hope that you’ll respond anyway. When you finally rouse, you turn to see him rested on his side, head propped up by his bent arm. His grin competes with the sun peeking through the high-set windows of the room.

“Morning!”

You rub your eyes and blink at him. He’s cheerful by nature, but there’s a little something extra behind the spark in his eyes, like he’s waiting to tell you something exciting.

Like he has a plan.

“Morning, Luffy…” your voice comes out more like a croak than you expected and you frown. You start to pull yourself up to a sitting position, but he gently eases you back down so that you remain face to face. You give up quickly, not exactly excited by the idea of getting up out of bed yet - it feels too early, you can feel it in your bones.

“What are you thinking about? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Luffy blinks.

“Like what?”

His hand slips to piece itself together with yours, and he brings it to his lips, letting them not exactly kiss but brush gently against the back of your hand.

“I don’t know. Like you’ve never seen me before,” you murmur. Bashful, you start to shift to turn over, perhaps shifting your body backwards to be the little spoon against him, but he’s still holding your hand.

“Maybe I like looking at your face.” He kisses your hand again. “I don’t get tired of it.”

Feeling your face warm gently, you let your eyes rest on something else in the room that doesn’t look at you like it’s seen every part of your soul, good and bad, and wants it all for themselves anyway. Luffy doesn’t redirect you though, contenting himself on looking at your side profile anyway, entertaining himself with the sensation of your fingers in his-

“Why are my fingers in your mouth, Luffy?” you suddenly exclaim, startled by the warm, wet sensation.

His oral fixation is unmatched, and he doesn’t look embarrassed at all, still looking at you with the tip of your index now surrounded by his lips, the rest of your hand held by his right wrist. No immediate answer, just a gaze that consumes you even more. A few more moments pass as something swells in your chest, until he lets it go with a pop then stares at your hand more.

“Nami said I should buy you more jewelry,” he says, almost to himself, not to you.

“I don’t need it,” you insist.

“No, you don’t,” he agrees, but then he shifts, and his hand finds its way along the undercurve of your jaw, then along your neck. “But it would look nice on you. Even prettier. Sparklier.”

You swallow something thick in your throat as he moves, followed by a slow inhale. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” he asks. Genuine. A hand wraps around your waist and pulls you closer, a leg parting the space between your knees pressed together.

“Whatever this is,” you say, through pursed lips, even though your leg now hooks around his waist, and you’re terribly close.

“I’m not doing anything,” his voice is low again, noncommittal. Two fingers are pulled into his mouth now instead of one, while he caresses your palm, then wrist.

“Rings… maybe bracelets…”

“Luffy,” you whisper his name, and he smiles.

“Anklets… or those things that you put on your waist.” He pulls your fingers out of his mouth with a pop, shifting downward to kiss your belly which makes you gasp in surprise.

“Yeah. Those too. They’d be fun to play with…” he repeats to himself. He stays down there for a moment and you feel your body tense in anticipation as his hands close around your waist.

Luffy’s eyes drift upward to watch you looking at him, your lower lip tucked between your teeth.

“Only if you want,” he reminds you. “I know you don’t care about treasure.”

You contemplate for a moment as he stays there, more idle kisses as seconds pass.

“I’ll consider it, if it makes me look more like a pirate queen.”

He laughs against your skin. “Like my pirate queen, right?”

“Like yours.”

More play ensues, just like this, before you wake up and seize the day.

#luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy x reader #mimi's notes #daydreams: op #lumimi

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wickcdmindz · 2 days ago

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danielle's gaze softened the moment cassandra bit her lip—that subtle flicker of hesitation, of hope, of trust. she could see it in the way the girl looked at her, in the way her shoulders had started to relax without even realizing it. and god, did she want to honor that. not rush it. not play it cool. but to mean it.

her thumb gave one last slow pass across the back of cassandra’s hand before she leaned in, not hurried but deliberate, letting her presence speak just as much as her words.

"oh, i do," danielle said, voice velvet-low, full of warmth with a little edge beneath. "very much."

she watched cassandra’s eyes a moment longer, making sure—really sure—and then she moved. smooth and confident, danielle shifted up onto the bed, slow and purposeful, giving cassandra time to say stop but not giving her space to doubt. one knee on the mattress, then the other. she guided Cassandra gently backward with a hand at her waist, careful but sure, until she had the younger woman beneath her.

danielle hovered just above her now, supporting her own weight easily, her thighs framing cassandra’s hips. her hands cradled either side of cassandra’s face, thumbs brushing lightly over her cheeks like she was something precious. something hers to protect and unravel.

"we take our time. i go as slow as you need—or not slow at all, if that’s what you ask for." her smile curved a little more, dark and promising but still full of care. "but tonight, you don’t have to think. you just let me show you, baby girl."

she pressed a soft kiss to cassandra’s forehead first. then her cheek. then hovered just above her lips, letting the weight of intention settle like a blanket around them.

"still sure, sweetheart?"

cassandra smiled, already feeling more comfortable now that she knew danielle wasn't put off by the fact that she was still a virgin. "oh, well that's good." she said, teeth biting against her bottom lip for a moment before she took a breath and thought about what she actually wanted.

"i do want to," she replied, "if you do of course." she added, but it was clear she was hoping that really was the case and this wasn't all some joke being played on her.

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holeodemony · 1 year ago

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PEOPLES I HAVE FOUND A THING!!!!

End of tmagp1. Sound effect after Johnny says thanks for listening.

ITS BACKWARDS FOOTSTEPS AND WHISPERES

Okay. Okay. Here is the link to ep.

HERE

If you listen to it backwards, you hear stuffs.!!

THOSE ARE WHISPERS AND FOOTSTEPS

I swear of those are just normal sound bytes of weird whispering i'm going to scream

This has to be sometihng. tThis is something.

Someone who has better audio editing skills, PLEASE FIND THE SECRET

I even tried with my tape recorder. I still can't unlock the horrors.

Go forth with this new idea information stuff. Do what I failed to.

Also please tag me when you unlock the horrors. I need to know what they say!!!!

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possibly-in-wonderland · 2 months ago

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>:( <- Tumblr ate my post. TO REITERATE:

"I did NOT realize how heavily we were breathing."

#⚔️.txt #evan myers fictive #emh fictive #I've been thinking about the events of this past week leading up to today #Just playing them over in our head like a VHS tape/DVD because that's how we store memories #Backwards and forwards and slowed down and sped up trying to really think about everything #And I guess eventually I snapped out of it and realized “Hey we need to piss” and also happened to realize:#“Hey we've been breathing super fucking heavily for the past few minutes because of these fuckass memories”#So that was fun

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x-heesy · 1 year ago

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😭

💃🏽

🕺🏼

Get up

Wherever you are

Towards the earth, towards the wind

Towards the end of summer

Towards the West, towards white

Towards the cold, cross

The nights, the anxieties

Towards the void or towards Mars

I will go to you

Wherever you are (oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, oh)

So you and I see each other

But most often, it's from behind

Up there, what do they think of all this?

What is love as the crow flies?

When things turn around

That time will erase the words

I will go towards you backwards

Backwards

Towards the earth, towards the wind

Towards the end of summer

Towards the West, towards white

Towards the cold, cross

The nights, the anxieties

Towards the void or towards Mars

I will go to you

Wherever you are (oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, oh)

So you and I see each other

But most often, it's from behind

Up there, what do they think of all this?

What is love as the crow flies?

When things turn around

That time will erase the words

I will go towards you backwards

Backwards

Because it’s the-, it’s the spirit of French sport

We could go for a drink. Looking at the Olympic basin

So there, gladly, that gives me... You see

And above all there is a fabulous sunset, with

There's already a boat that goes very fast, but it's not the most beautiful

The most beautiful is the one behind, with its sails, this little mountain

What a landscape

Quelle: Musixmatch

Songwriter: Julia Nadine Lanoe / Flavien Berger

Songtext von A reculons © Universal Music Publishing

𝙰 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚜 (𝙱𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜) 𝚋𝚢 𝙵𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚗 𝙱𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚛, 𝚁𝚎𝚋𝚎𝚔𝚊 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛

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killerplink · 4 months ago

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WRECKED

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Words: 9k

Plot: It's your first time with Jason. You thought you knew what to expect, until he ruined you. (yep, I'm officially a hoe, and my old crushes are coming back lmao)

It starts the second you're outside the bar. Jason's hand finds your waist, pulling you close like he can't bear the space between you any longer. His lips crash against yours—hungry, rough, possessive. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes full advantage, tongue sliding against yours as he walks you backward toward his bike.

You don't make it far. His hand cups the back of your neck, holding you in place as he devours you. His other hand grips your ass, fingers digging in like he owns you already. He groans when you grind into him, hips meeting yours with a delicious friction that has you whining.

"Fuck," he mutters against your lips. "Can't wait to get you home."

The ride to his apartment is a blur—his hand on your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles that make your pussy throb. The second you're inside, the door slams shut, and he's on you. His mouth finds yours again, teeth scraping your bottom lip before he bites just enough to make you moan. His hands slide under your thighs, and he lifts you like you weigh nothing, pinning you against the door.

You gasp, legs wrapping around his waist, feeling how hard he is through his jeans. He rolls his hips, grinding against you, and you whimper, clutching at his jacket.

"Jesus, listen to you," he growls, lips trailing to your jaw, then your neck.

His teeth scrape over your pulse before he sucks a bruise there, and your head thumps against the door. His big hands squeeze your ass, lifting and dropping you just enough to rub you against the bulge in his pants.

"Jason," you gasp, hips moving on instinct.

"Yeah, baby? Feels good?"

His voice is low, rough like gravel, and you can feel the smirk against your skin. He carries you to the bedroom effortlessly, tossing you onto the mattress with a grin. You barely catch your breath before he's climbing over you, tossing his jacket, kissing you like he's starving.

"You're so fuckin' pretty," he murmurs, fingers working at your clothes. "Bet you taste even better."

Your shirt goes next, then your bra, and shit, the way his eyes darken has heat flooding your cheeks. His palms—warm, rough—cup your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You arch into him, moaning when his mouth replaces his hands, tongue flicking before he sucks one into his mouth. His other hand kneads your other breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

"You like that, baby?" His voice is a growl against your skin. "So sensitive... fuck, I could play with these all night."

He trails kisses lower, teeth grazing your stomach, and your breath hitches. His fingers hook into your waistband, dragging your pants and panties down slow. His gaze never leaves yours—hungry, possessive.

"Fuckin' gorgeous," he mutters, spreading your legs. "Look at this pretty pussy."

"Jay," you whimper, hips lifting.

"I've got you," he promises, voice thick. "Gonna make you feel so fuckin' good, baby."

Then fuck, his mouth is on you. His tongue drags through your folds, slow and filthy, making your back arch off the bed. He groans against you like you're his favorite meal, licking you like he can't get enough. His tongue flicks over your clit—soft at first, then harder when you moan—and you feel the smirk against you.

"Goddamn, you taste good," he mutters, voice rough.

His tongue dips lower, fucking into you, and you sob, fingers tangling in his hair. He sucks your clit, tongue flicking just right, and your hips grind against his face, chasing the heat coiling in your belly.

"That's it, baby. Take what you need," he growls, tongue relentless.

Your legs shake, toes curling as the pleasure builds, sharp and hot. His hands—huge, strong—hold your thighs open, keeping you right where he wants you. You moan his name, voice wrecked, and he groans against you, the vibrations shooting straight through you.

"Fuck, Jason—"

You're close, teetering on the edge—your whole body strung tight, nerves buzzing—when one thick finger pushes in. It's slow, intentional, stretching you inch by inch. Your breath catches, walls fluttering around him, so full from just his finger.

"Fuck," Jason groans, voice rough. "God, you're tight."

His eyes—dark, blown wide with lust—stay on yours, drinking in every twitch, every gasp that slips from your lips. His free hand holds your thigh open, firm but gentle, like he wants you spread just for him.

Then, without warning, he adds a second finger. The stretch is intense, burning in that delicious way that has your back arching, hips tilting to take him deeper.

"Easy," he murmurs, soft, despite how wrecked he looks. "Gotta stretch this pretty little pussy out for me, baby. Can't have you strugglin' with my dick."

God. Your cheeks burn, heat flooding through you at his words, pussy clenching tight around his fingers. He feels it, and the groan that rumbles from his chest is obscene.

"You like that?"

His grin is crooked, cocky. His fingers curl—fuck—pressing right against that perfect spot inside you. Your mouth falls open, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as your hips jerk.

"There," he breathes, eyes locked on your face. "Right there, huh?"

His pace picks up—slow but deep, fingers fucking into you like he's got all the time in the world. He twists them just right, dragging along your walls with a rhythm that has your thighs trembling. The wet sounds echo in the room, filthy and soaked, each thrust squelching louder as your arousal drips down to his palm.

"Jesus, baby," Jason groans, gaze dropping to where his fingers disappear into you. "Look at this pussy, so fuckin' wet for me. I haven't even fucked you yet, and you're already drippin'."

Your head falls back, heat swirling in your belly, pleasure winding tight. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, precise circles that make your vision blur.

"That's it," he murmurs, lips brushing your thigh as he presses kisses between filthy praise. "Take it, baby. Just like that... fuck, you're squeezin' my fingers so good."

He leans down again, tongue flicking over your clit, and you cry out, hips jerking. The combination—his fingers curling deep, tongue working your sensitive bundle of nerves—has you unraveling fast.

"Jay—fuck—I—I'm gonna—"

"I know, baby," he growls against your pussy, voice wrecked. "Cum for me. C'mon, lemme feel you soak my fingers."

And fuck, you do. The coil snaps—hot and all consuming—as you cum hard, walls clenching around his fingers. Your whole body shudders, pleasure crashing over you in waves. You sob his name, hips rocking through it, chasing every last spark.

Jason keeps going, drawing it out, his fingers fucking into you through your orgasm. Your slick coats his hand, dripping onto the sheets, and the sounds—messy, obscene—only make the high hit harder.

"Goddamn," he mutters, watching you with a look that's part worship, part starving. "Look at you. So fuckin' pretty when you cum. Feels so good around my fingers... can't wait to feel you around my dick."

You're panting, body wrecked, but his mouth finds you again, fingers slipping out of you, and he's licking you clean, tongue dragging through your folds, tasting every drop you've given him. You whimper, overstimulated, but he groans, sucking your clit just to hear you whine.

"You can give me another one, baby," he murmurs against you, voice dangerous. "Haven't even started yet."

Your orgasm barely fades before Jason's mouth is back on you, tongue dragging a slow, wet stripe through your folds. Your hips jerk, thighs trembling from the overstimulation, but his hands—big and firm—press your legs open, keeping you spread wide for him.

"Jay—" you whimper, trying to close up, overwhelmed, but his grip tightens.

"Uh-uh, baby," he murmurs against your soaked cunt, voice rough and dark. "Told you, I'm not done. Not 'til I taste everything you've got for me."

Fuck. Heat swirls in your belly, a mess of pleasure and desperation, nerves alight. You try to squirm, try to close your legs again, but it's useless. His arms are strong, holding you open like you're nothing to him just something to devour.

And God, the way he eats you out...

His tongue moves slow, deliberate, fucking into you with wet, obscene strokes that make your head spin. It's messy, his spit mixing with your slick, dripping down to the sheets below. Every flick, every press of his tongue is precise, like he's studied your body, like he knows exactly how to pull those sounds from you.

Your back arches, hips trying to ride his face, and he groans, the vibration shooting through you. His hands grip your thighs, thumbs pressing bruising marks into your skin as he guides you over his mouth.

"You taste so fuckin' good," he mutters, pulling back just enough to breathe you in, his lips slick with your arousal. His eyes—dark, pupils blown—drag up your body, gaze heated. "Could eat this pussy all night."

Your mind reels. No one's ever eaten you like this before, ever. The guys you dated? Please. They'd barely been able to find your clit, let alone worship you like this, like you're the best thing Jason's ever had in his mouth. And God, the way he looks at you—like you're his. Like he lives for the way you moan, the way you fall apart under his tongue.

"Jay," you gasp, fingers threading through his hair, tugging but he just laughs, deep and hungry.

"You can pull all you want, baby," he grins against you, fucking into you with his tongue again. "Not lettin' you go 'til you cum on my face."

His tongue fucks into you deep, and fuck, your legs shake, your whole body strung tight. Pleasure coils low in your belly, building fast, dizzying. Jason knows. Of course he does. His gaze stays locked on your face, watching every gasp, every shudder. Loving how you fall apart for him.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, lips dragging over your clit before he sucks—hard, perfect. "Give it to me. I wanna feel you cum again, wanna taste it."

And fuck, you do.

The second orgasm hits hard, ripping through you with white hot intensity. Your thighs clamp around his head, but he doesn't stop, hands holding you open as he devours you through it. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, your body writhing, sobbing his name.

So good—too good.

Jason groans like he can't get enough, tongue dragging through your soaked folds, drinking down everything you give him. In his head, it's a mess of thoughts—she's so fuckin' beautiful, so tight and wet and perfect. Could spend hours between her legs, make her cum until she's cryin'—mine.

When you finally go limp, chest heaving, body wrecked, he pulls back with a filthy grin. His lips, chin—soaked. His eyes burn into you, warm and starving.

"Fuck," he breathes, kissing your inner thigh. "So good for me."

Your chest heaves, vision hazy as you blink down at him. His mouth is slick with you, lips curled into that cocky grin, but his eyes are soft, like you're the only thing that matters.

Then he moves up, muscles shifting beneath flushed skin, body radiating heat. His hand comes up, fingers threading into your hair, cupping the top of your head just right. The touch sends a shiver down your spine—gentle, but possessive. He tilts your face toward him, gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips, and then he kisses you. God.

It's messy, hot and filthy, your mouths sliding together. His lips are soft but urgent, tongue pressing past yours like he needs you. You can taste yourself on him, thick and salty, spreading across your tongue—fuck. Your fingers clutch his shoulders, nails digging into hard muscle as you suck on his tongue, drawing a deep, hungry groan from his chest.

He presses closer, crowding you against the bed, hand tightening in your hair. The kiss turns sloppy, wet noises filling the space between gasps and moans. His lips drag over yours, breathing you in, swallowing the soft whimpers you can't hold back.

Then, he pulls back. Barely. Just enough to look at you. His gaze roams over your face—flushed, lips swollen and slick from him—ruined. His thumb brushes your rosy cheek, tender amidst the heat.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful, baby," he murmurs, voice thick with something soft, something real. His eyes catch yours—burning, sincere. "Don't be shy."

Heat rushes to your cheeks. Fuck. You blush, lips parting to speak but words fail you. All you can do is nod, heart pounding.

And then you pull him back in.

Another kiss—this one deeper, needier, tongues tangling like you can't get enough. Because you can't. Not with the way he holds you, not with the way he tastes, not with the way his body presses into yours like you belong there, like this is where you've always belonged. And God, maybe you do.

Your hands are all over him: fingers dragging across heated skin, nails scraping over the hard planes of his back as you kiss like you'll die without it. It's frantic, messy, lips sliding, teeth clashing, tongues greedy. His hands are everywhere—gripping, squeezing, grinding you against him until you can feel how hard he is through his jeans, thick and aching.

Somehow, between kisses that leave you breathless, you fumble with his shirt, tugging it up. Jason breaks away just long enough to yank it off, tossing it aside—fuck.

God, he's all muscle. Broad chest, pecs firm, shoulders so wide they make you feel small. His abs are cut, ridges begging to be traced, and fuck, you do. Running your hands down his stomach as he groans, head tipping back. His skin is warm, stretched over powerful muscle and old scars, stories written across him.

Your gaze drops—oh God.

He's stripping out of his jeans now, pushing them down along with his boxers, and fuck. You knew he was big. You knew it from the way his hands dwarfed yours, the way his fingers stretched you open when he prepped you, the way his cock felt heavy against your belly when he first laid you out beneath him.

But seeing it, really seeing it, makes your throat go dry. He's long and thick, veiny, the head flushed and leaking. Precum beads at the tip, dripping down the shaft, smearing across your skin when he presses close again. You can feel it, sticky warmth spreading over your stomach—fuck.

Your legs are already spread, body pliant under his touch, flushed warm from how long he's spent kissing every inch of you. But now that you're here, staring down at that thick length, your confidence wavers.

"Jay," you breathe, voice softer than you expect—half awe, half holy shit.

He knows. Of course he does. His hands are already smoothing up your thighs, squeezing gently as he leans over you. Dark hair falls forward, that white streak that you like catching the dim light, casting shadows across his wrecked face. His eyes—fuck—dark, pupils blown wide with lust, consuming you.

"You still good, baby?"

His voice is low, thick with restraint, like he's holding himself back by a thread. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. Instead, your fingers flex against his shoulders, gripping hard. He's just... so big.

Jason lets out a quiet chuckle, dipping down to kiss your nose—sweet, soft. "You're lookin' at me like I'm about to break you."

You swallow, heart pounding. "You are."

His jaw flexes, something raw flickering across his face—heat, hunger, something tender too.

"Nah." His lips brush yours—soft, a promise in the wreckage. "Gonna take care of you." Another kiss, deeper this time, stealing your breath. "Gonna make it feel good."

He lines himself up, cock heavy in his hand, and fuck, you can feel it—hot and throbbing against your soaked folds. His other hand rests on your thigh, holding you open like it's the easiest thing in the world.

You're panting, skin flushed, every nerve lit up as he drags the thick head of his dick through your slick, smearing precum and arousal together until it's messy, sticky, filthy.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, voice rough, wrecked. "Look at this... look at how wet you are for me."

His gaze drops to where you're spread wide for him, cock nudging your clit—a jolt shoots through you, your hips twitching—but his hands hold you down, firm and unchanging.

"You hear that?" he rasps, rolling his hips just enough that the head slides against your swollen clit—slick noises filling the air. "Soaked, baby. Shit, you're fuckin' perfect."

Heat flares through you, cheeks burning, but you can't stop the needy little whimper that escapes when he teases your entrance again, tip pressing just barely inside.

His gaze lifts—hungry, dark, soft. Like you're his whole goddamn world. "You ready for me, pretty girl?" His thumb brushes your cheek, tender despite the weight of his cock poised at your entrance. "Gonna take care of you, yeah?"

You nod, breath catching. "Yeah... Please."

Jason's jaw tightens, like he's barely holding on. "Good girl."

And then—fuck—he starts to push in.

The stretch is instant, your pussy straining around the thick head of his cock. It's too much, too big, and your fingers scramble for purchase, gripping the sheets tight as a gasp rips from your throat.

"F-fuck—"

"Shhh, I've got you," Jason soothes, voice gentle even as his hips press forward. His hand slides up, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin. "Just breathe for me, baby. So good, takin' me so fuckin' well."

You try, you really do, but God, the burn. It's sharp, making your legs twitch, hips jerking. His cock splits you open, inch by slow, agonizing inch.

Jason groans, head dropping to rest against your shoulder for a beat, shaking. "Jesus, baby... you're—fuck. Squeezin' me so fuckin' tight."

His words send heat pooling in your belly, but it's so much, stretching you to your limit. You bite your lip, eyes squeezed shut as he pauses, hips still, letting you adjust. His hand cups your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone.

"You okay?"

His voice is soft, earnest. Like he'd stop if you asked. Like he wants you to feel good more than anything.

You nod, chest heaving. "Hurts... but fuck, it's so good."

"Yeah?" His lips brush yours, achingly tender. "You're doin' so fuckin' good for me, baby. So fuckin' tight, can barely—shit—barely fit."

And then he rocks his hips, just a little, just to test the water. White-hot pleasure sparks, the pain melting, shifting into something else entirely. Your walls clench around him instinctively, trying to pull him deeper, and fuck, your whimper slips out, soft, shaky, helpless.

Jason's breath catches, body tense, every muscle flexing. He looks down at you, pupils blown, lips parted. "Fuck, do that again," he rasps, voice barely there.

Your mind swims, overwhelmed, but when he rolls his hips once more, your body betrays you, another whimper falling free.

Jason growls. Deep, rough, like he's losing it. He pushes in slow, cock thick and unforgiving as your pussy clings to every inch, stretching around him. There's a burn, sharp and intense, making your breath hitch, but fuck, it feels so good, hurts just right.

"Shhh," Jason soothes, voice low, thick with restraint. His hands frame your face, holding you steady, his muscles taut beneath your fingers. "Doin' so good, baby. Just a little more. Almost there."

He pauses, lets you breathe, lets you feel. His cock throbs inside you, barely halfway in, and you're already so full. You gasp, head tilting back, chest heaving.

"Fuck," you whisper, walls fluttering. "So big..."

Jason's jaw flexes, a soft groan spilling from his lips. "Yeah? You're takin' me so fuckin' well. Goddamn, look at you." His gaze drops, watching where his cock disappears into you, your slick coating him. "Messy already, baby. So pretty."

He eases in further, slow, careful, letting you adjust. Your cunt struggles to take him, every inch a stretch, a burn, but it melts, shifts into pleasure, thick and all consuming.

And then he bottoms out.

You gasp, a soft cry escaping as his hips press flush against yours. "Oh God—" so deep, so hot, so full.

Your pussy clenches, overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Jason leans down, kisses you. Slow, deep, hot. His tongue slides against yours, coaxing you into a messy dance that makes your walls tighten around him.

He groans softly into your mouth—low, rough, and fuck, you feel it everywhere. His tongue dances with yours, messy, heated, but not rushed, like he wants to savor you, to taste every little sound you make. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he leans into it, deepening the kiss until your lungs burn and your head swims.

Your pussy flutters around his thick cock, gripping him with every shift of his hips, the fullness inside you making your toes curl. Every swirl of his tongue sends sparks down your spine, feeding that deep ache between your legs. God, you're so full of him, your slick walls clenching like your body is begging to keep him there.

And underneath it all, that steady throb of him inside you, every flutter of your cunt making him curse softly against your lips, hips stuttering as your body squeezes him tight.

"Shit, baby," he groans into your mouth. "Clampin' down on me like that—fuck—feels so fuckin' good."

Your head spins, drowning in heat and him. When he pulls back, breaking the kiss, his eyes are dark, soft, wrecked.

"You alright?" he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nod, breath shaky. "Please... move."

That's all it takes. Jason pulls out almost entirely, the thick head dragging against your sensitive walls—your slick making a wet sound that has him groaning, hips trembling.

Then, he pushes back in. Slow. Deliberate. Every inch filling you perfectly.

Your mind blurs, overwhelmed by the stretch and heat. Fuck, he feels so good, so full, your pussy molding to him like it was made for this. And bare, skin to skin, it's different. Better. Raw. Intimate.

No barriers. Just him. You. Heat. Friction.

Your thoughts spiral, remembering how sweet he'd been, getting tested just for you. "You don't have to, baby," he'd said, so sure, so trusting.

But you had anyway. Wanted to reassure him. Wanted this. Bare. Real. And God, you hadn't known sex could feel this good. Jason's pace is slow, deep, torturous. His hips roll, dragging his cock against every sensitive spot inside you.

"Fuck, baby—" his voice is rough, wrecked. "Pussy's perfect. So fuckin' tight. So good. You hear yourself? Best fuckin' sounds I ever heard."

Your moans spill free, soft, needy, mixing with the slick sounds of him fucking into you. His lips find yours again—kissing you, worshiping you, every thrust measured, deep, making you feel every inch.

Jason moves slow, deep, fucking you with a rhythm that makes your whole body ache for more. Every thrust has him sliding against your walls, every drag of his cock making your pussy tighten like it never wants to let him go. And fuck, he feels it, feels the way you're so wet, so hot, your cunt pulling him in like you were made for this.

"Shit," he mutters, voice rough as his forehead drops against yours. "You're gonna kill me, baby."

His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, his breath ragged, every exhale heavy with restraint. "Sound so fuckin' sweet."

You can't hold still. Your hands scramble for purchase, gripping his arms, his back, nails digging into the muscle that flexes with every roll of his hips.

"Jay, I—"

"I know, baby," he whispers, voice strained, thick with want. "I know. I've got you. I've got you."

And fuck, he does. His hands are everywhere—one sliding down your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts your leg higher against his waist, adjusting the angle. And when he thrusts again—

His hips roll slow, deep, dragging pleasure through your veins, making your body tremble beneath him. You're stretching, adjusting, but it still feels like too much—too big, too deep—but you love it, love how he's holding you together even as he's pulling you apart.

"Fuck," he groans, voice shaking. "Look at you."

You barely have the strength to open your eyes, but when you do—fuck. He looks wrecked. His jaw is clenched tight, his eyes dark and hungry, but his hands—his big, gentle hands—stroke along your body, like he's memorizing every inch of you. And then he leans down, lips brushing your temple, voice low and possessive.

"Mine," he murmurs, rough and raw. "All mine."

Your breath hitches, body clenching around him at the gravel in his voice.

Jason grins, breathless, his nose brushing yours. "Love those little noises, baby." His hips roll again, slow, teasing, making your toes curl. "You gonna keep whimpering for me?"

You can't stop. Not when he has you like this, stretched out beneath him, held so gently even as he fucks you deep.

He groans, lips trailing down your throat, biting lightly at your shoulder. "Fuck," he mutters, voice rough, words punctuated by another deep, perfect thrust. "Gonna make you feel so fuckin' good."

Your body arches, thighs shaking, and Jason—God, he feels everything. How you clench when he kisses you, how your cunt squeezes him when he praises you.

You cling to him like you'll fall apart if you don't, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, pulling him down until his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is deep, sloppy, hot, all teeth and tongue, your moans spilling between his lips as he fucks you faster. His hips snap forward, each thrust deeper, harder, making you cry out against his mouth.

"Fuck—baby," he groans into the kiss, tongue sliding against yours, tasting every little sound you make. "So fuckin' sweet—"

His skin slaps against yours, the squelch of your slick coating him every time he bottoms out, his pelvis rubbing right against your clit—right there—and fuck, it's too much. Your fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, pulling him closer, tighter, like you can anchor yourself to him.

"Jay—oh my God—"

"Yeah?" he grunts, lips dragging down to your neck, biting, sucking, leaving marks that'll sting later. "That feel good, baby? Fuckin'—God, you feel so fuckin' good around me."

Your moans get higher, softer, desperate, your body trembling beneath him as he pounds into you. Every thrust hits that spot, the pressure building so tight you can barely breathe.

"C'mon, pretty girl," he pants, voice wrecked, hips grinding deeper. "Give it to me. Wanna feel you cum on my dick."

That pushes you over. Your orgasm hits like a fucking freight train, pleasure exploding through your veins, blinding, hot, overwhelming. Your back arches, mouth falling open in a cry that's half a moan, half a sob, your cunt clenching so tight around him it pulls a growl from his chest.

"Fuck, fuck, baby—"

He keeps moving, hips grinding through it, dragging out your orgasm until you're shaking, your thighs trembling around his waist. Every thrust makes you feel it everywhere, your clit rubbing against his skin, sparks of pleasure crackling through you with every squelching slide of his cock.

"Goddamn," Jason groans, head dropping to your shoulder, panting, his voice rough in your ear. "Pussy's squeezin' me so fuckin' tight—shit. Feels so good, baby, so fuckin' good."

Your fingers scrape down his back, desperate for more, even as your body twitches with aftershocks. His cock drags against your over sensitive walls, making you whimper, and he smirks against your skin.

"Look at you," he pants, fucking into you slow now, deep, making you feel every inch. "Takin' me so good, baby—fuck, love how you cum for me."

Your brain's mush, your body boneless, but you want more.

"Jay..."

It's half a moan, half a whimper, and fuck, the sound makes his hips stutter. His eyes snap to yours, brows furrowing with instant worry. Shit. His brain short circuits, thoughts racing—Did I hurt her? Push too far?

The last thing he wants is to hurt you, to ruin this. His heart twists, the rush of panic making his grip ease but then you lick your lips, breath shaky, eyes dark with need.

"H-harder," you whisper, voice barely there but wrecked, needy, and so fucking hot it punches the air from his lungs.

He goes dumb for a second—blinking, brain lagging—because holy shit.

"You sure, baby?"

His voice is rough, low, edged with concern but fuck, there's heat burning bright in his eyes. You nod, brows furrowed, lips parted, dripping for him, and God, he's gone. So fucking gone.

You have no idea how completely wrecked he is over you, how your face, your sounds, the way you look right now is burned into his soul. Fuck, he doesn't think he's ever wanted anyone this badly—no, not badly. Desperately.

"If something doesn't feel right," he rasps, leaning in, voice serious beneath the hunger, "you tell me, yeah?"

You nod again, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, and that's it, he loses it. His hips snap forward, harder, deeper, faster, dragging a sharp cry from your throat as your head throws back, mouth falling open. God, the sound, the way your tits bounce with every thrust—it's too much.

His gaze locks on them, entranced, like they're the prettiest fucking thing he's ever seen—soft, perfect, fucking begging for his mouth. He leans down, tongue flicking over a pebbled nipple, sucking, licking, his lips wrapping around it hungrily.

"Fuck—" he groans against your skin, teeth scraping just enough to make you shiver.

He moves to the other, sucking deep, leaving faint hickeys, marks he wants burned into your skin because you're his right now, all his.

"Look at you," he pants, thrusting deep, hips grinding against you, rubbing your clit just right. "So fuckin' gorgeous... bouncin' for me like that—shit, baby, you're unreal."

Your nails dig into his back, scraping, making him groan against your chest. His thrusts pick up, relentless, dragging wet, filthy squelches from where he's buried deep, your pussy clenching around him so perfectly.

"Fuckin' God," he grits out, "feel like you're made for me." His voice breaks, wrecked with pure need, hips slamming into yours, making the bed creak, skin slapping loud and obscene. "So tight, baby, takin' me so fuckin' good—shit, you hear that? Hear how wet you are for me?"

Every thrust makes your breath hitch, your body rocking with his. His mouth moves between your neck and chest, tasting, licking, biting, leaving you marked, claimed.

"Fuck, baby—fuck," he pants, hips relentless, his abs flexing against your stomach, body hot and solid. "You're gonna ruin me. Shit, you already have."

He pulls away, your nipple leaving his mouth with a wet pop, and fuck, the way your chest heaves makes him want to dive back in, but no. Not yet.

He sits upright, hands gripping your hips, and Jesus, the sight wrecks him. His gaze locks on the place where his dick slides in and out of you, slick and glistening, soaked with how fucking wet you are.

"Shit, baby—" his voice catches, rough and wrecked, "look at this."

Your pussy stretches around him, tight and perfect, swallowing him whole. Every thrust drags a filthy squelch, his cock gleaming with your slick, and fuck, you're making a mess—dripping down to his balls, coating him. His abs flex with every deep thrust, jaw clenched as he watches your cunt take him, take all of him.

"Goddamn," he groans, hips rolling, eyes glued to where you're joined. "Look at you takin' it—fuck, baby, you're takin' my whole dick—" He grits his teeth, pulling out slow, just to watch your pussy cling, desperate to keep him inside. "You're gonna kill me, baby. Shit."

You squirm, sheepish, a flush burning across your skin. "Don't... don't look at me," you whine, voice small, embarrassed by the intensity of his gaze, the way he's devouring you with his eyes.

His gaze snaps to yours, dark and hot, but there's warmth in it—soft, reassuring beneath the feral hunger.

"Hey," he murmurs, hips still moving, deep, slow, "don't do that. Don't hide from me." His thumb brushes along your hip, gentle despite the rough pace. "You're fuckin' gorgeous, baby, every part of you. Watching you take me like this—shit, it's the hottest thing I've ever seen."

His hand moves, sliding down until his fingers find your clit, puffy and needy. He circles it, slow, deliberate, just as his hips pound into you, dragging a choked whine from your throat.

"Jay—oh, fuck... too much," you whimper, hips jerking, trying to squirm away, but his grip tightens, holding you right there.

"No, baby," he pants, hips relentless, dick hitting deep, stretching you wide. "You can take it. You're my good girl, right? Gimme one more, c'mon, I'm so fuckin' close."

Your mind spins, thoughts scattered, every thrust punching pleasure through your veins. He's big—God, so fucking big—stretching you to the limit, filling you so deep it feels like you can feel him in your throat. Every thrust hits that spot, sparks exploding behind your eyes. This is the best fuck of your life, no contest.

And fuck, people call him scary, say he's dangerous, but not here, not with you. Not like this. Not when his touch is careful, when he's so mindful of your pleasure, his voice gentle even as he wrecks you.

"God," he groans, hips slamming into you, his thumb rubbing against your clit with every thrust, making your thighs shake. "You feel so fuckin' good. Tight, wet, takin' me so perfect. Baby—shit—you got no idea what you're doin' to me."

Your nails dig into his arms, desperate, overwhelmed, his dick dragging against your walls, making you see stars.

He pounds into you, hips slamming against yours with bruising force, each thrust dragging a broken moan from your throat. His fingers circle your clit, faster, harder, until you're falling apart, babbling, a mess of whimpers and cries.

"Fuck, Jay... oh my God, please—"

You can't think, can't breathe, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your back arching, body tightening beneath him.

"That's it, baby. Fuck, you're takin' me so good. C'mon,give it to me... cum for me, doll—wanna feel you squeeze me," he growls, hips relentless, cock dragging against your sweet spot over and over.

And fuck, when it hits, it's devastating. Your vision whites out, body snapping taut as your orgasm crashes through you, intense and shattering. Your pussy clamps down around him, pulsing, milking his cock, making him curse, a ragged moan tearing from his chest.

But he doesn't stop.

He leans over you, his mouth crashing against yours in a bruising kiss, messy, desperate. His tongue tangles with yours, claiming, consuming, swallowing your gasps and whimpers as he fucks you through your high. His hips drive deep, faster, rougher, chasing his own release, and you melt under him—helpless, wrecked.

"God, Jay, you feel so good," you whimper against his lips, voice wrecked, slurred with pleasure. "So deep, fuck... so good—"

His eyes flutter shut, hips slamming into you with single-minded focus, cock dragging against your sensitive walls. "Fuck, baby," he pants, voice rough, wrecked, "you got no fuckin' idea—shit—drivin' me crazy."

He moans—deep, guttural—right in your ear, making your whole body shudder. "Where d'you want me to cum, doll?" His voice breaks, hips still pounding, "Tell me—fuck—where d'you want it?"

You don't hesitate, eyes glassy, lips parted, "Inside me, God, please—"

And fuck, that's it—he's gone.

"Shit, fuck, fuck," he growls, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his hips slamming into you like a man possessed.

His dick throbs, swelling inside you, then he breaks, hips jerking, and he cums, hard, deep. Hot ropes of cum flood your pussy, the pressure blinding, making you cry out, pussy clenching around him.

God. His load is huge. You can feel it—hot, thick, endless. Spurts of cum paint your insides, flooding your pussy so much it spills out, leaking around his thrusting cock in wet, sticky streams. Each pulse of his dick sends another gush of cum deeper, so warm and slick you swear you feel it spreading, coating every inch of your clenching walls.

And fuck, your cunt's puffy, swollen from how hard he's fucked you, stretched so perfectly around him, gripping him like your body refuses to let him go. His cock's still thick, throbbing, buried balls deep as he grinds his hips, like he needs to push it all in, like he wants his cum everywhere.

The pressure's too much.

Your clit's throbbing, overstimulated, slick and sensitive from how he rubbed it raw, from how his skin keeps dragging against it. And with his cum gushing inside, with his cock pounding it deeper, it tips you over again, one last time.

Your orgasm slams into you like a fucking freight train.

"Oh, fuck, Jay... oh my God—"

Your back arches, mouth dropping open in a silent scream before broken moans spill out, babbling, wrecked. Your pussy clamps down so tight around him it makes him curse, hips jerking.

"Shit, baby, fuck—" as you milk his cock, your walls spasming, pulling every last drop from him.

Stars burst behind your eyelids—white hot, blinding. Your whole body shakes, overwhelmed, nerves lit up, toes curling as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you, relentless.

You can't stop shaking, can't stop moaning, a wrecked mess under him, drenched in sweat, skin tingling from how good—how fucking good—he makes you feel.

And he's still there, still grinding, fucking his cum into you, hips rolling slow, making wet squelches fill the air—filthy, messy, your combined slick and his cum making a sloppy mess between you. You feel it leak out, thick streams oozing past where you're stretched wide around him, warm as it dribbles down your ass.

"Look at you," he pants, voice wrecked, dark eyes devouring you. "So fuckin' pretty, makin' a mess all over me. Shit, baby, takin' me so good."

Your breath hitches, heart racing, head spinning. You're ruined. Destroyed. And fuck, you love it. Your body trembles, and you sob—not from pain, but from too much pleasure, from how overwhelmed you are.

"Shhh, pretty girl," he murmurs, voice soft, soothing, as his lips brush over your skin—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips—gentle pecks that ground you, anchor you to him.

His big hands roam your body, soothing touches that chase away the lingering tremors.

"It's okay, baby. Got you," he whispers, thumb rubbing soft circles along your hip.

His body's so warm against yours, chest rising and falling with steady breaths, damp with sweat. He's careful, so careful not to crush you with his weight, propped up just enough to let you breathe, but still close enough that you can feel him everywhere.

And fuck, his dick's still inside you, still thick, still faintly throbbing. The stretch makes you whimper, a soft, shaky sound that tugs at his heart. He smiles, leans down, and runs a hand through your hair, fingers gentle, comforting.

"You did so good for me," he murmurs, voice rough but tender. "So fuckin' good, pretty girl."

Your lashes flutter, heart pounding, and you murmur, voice wobbly, "God, that... that was... so fucking good."

He chuckles, low and warm, a sound that rumbles through his chest. "Yeah, baby?"

His dark eyes soften when you nod, your nose brushing his, eyes big and beautiful, looking at him with this adoring gaze that wrecks him all over again. Fuck, you let him fuck you like that—hard, deep, relentless—and now you're looking at him like he hung the stars, like he didn't just ruin you, like he's something good. And God, that does something to him. Warms him, unravels him, makes him want to kiss you again and again.

So he does.

He leans down, lips brushing yours, and the kiss unfolds slow, lazy, messy. His tongue slides against yours, soft moans mixing between your mouths. Your lips part, welcoming him, and he tastes you, deep and slow, like he's got all the time in the world. His fingers thread through your hair, cradling you, keeping you close as you melt into him.

Your breaths mingle, warm and shaky, tongues sliding together in a sloppy kiss that's all soft sounds—wet licks, gentle sucks, hushed moans. You cling to him, nails digging into his back, and he loves it, loves you like this—soft, wrecked, beautiful.

He breaks the kiss after a few lingering licks, breathing heavy against your lips, and slowly, he begins to pull out.

You hiss, a sharp, shaky sound, and your thighs tremble, cunt sore, swollen, molded to the shape of his cock. The drag of him leaving your puffy, overstimulated pussy has your eyes fluttering, jaw slack, as warm, sticky cum begins to leak out—his load, thick and hot, spilling down your messy folds.

And fuck, his eyes are glued to the sight.

Your pussy is glistening, wrecked, stretched from taking him so deep and so good, and there's so much cum, sticky strings connecting your swollen lips to his slick, flushed dick. His jaw clenches, fingers itching to push it back in, to watch you drip around his cock again. God, the urge is unbearable.

But then you whimper, soft and tired, and he shakes himself out of it, soothing a hand over your quivering thigh. "Easy, baby," he murmurs, voice rough but gentle, "I know."

He plops down beside you, muscles relaxing, and you instinctively snuggle in, nuzzling against his broad, sweaty chest. His heartbeat's steady, comforting, and without hesitation, his arms wrap around you, pulling you close. He presses a kiss to your temple, warm lips lingering as his fingers trace soft shapes along your damp skin.

"You okay?" he asks, voice low, concern threading through the roughness.

You nod, so sleepy, so fucked out, eyelids heavy. "Mhmm," you murmur, content.

He chuckles, that deep, warm sound rumbling through his chest, and god, it soothes you. His calloused fingers glide along your sweat-slicked skin, slow, comforting, as you breathe him in—warm, safe, so good.

You tilt your head up, blinking lazily, and pout, voice soft, "Can I stay?"

He pauses, brows knitting as he glances down. "What?"

Your cheeks heat, and you look away, suddenly sheepish. Fuck. He doesn't exactly scream cuddles after fucking. Not with the reputation that precedes him.

But then his fingers gently tilt your chin up, urging your gaze back to his. "Hey, talk to me, baby."

Your heart skips. You swallow, nervous, "I mean... I... can I stay the night?"

For a beat, there's silence, then he laughs, and it's a surprised, genuine sound, and cups your cheek, thumb brushing softly along your warm skin.

"I didn't know leaving was an option."

Your eyes widen, taken aback, and then you giggle, nose scrunching. "You like me that much?"

And God, you've only been together a few weeks, and yeah, maybe you thought he was just waiting to fuck you, toss you aside after, but fuck, he's been so good to you from the start.

You just believed the talk, like a moron. He's Red Hood, Jason Todd. He fucks and leaves. That's what everyone said. But he never made you feel like that. Not once.

"I do," he says, simple, honest, and it hits you right in the chest.

Your heart flutters, and you see it: the sincerity in those bright blue eyes, something soft and real that makes your throat tighten.

His hand trails down from your side, and then, he cups your ass, big hand kneading the soft flesh before giving it a playful slap.

You yelp, giggling against his chest, and he grins, "Couldn't help myself," he murmurs, teasing.

You almost fall asleep against him, nuzzled into his warm chest, surrounded by the steady beat of his heartbeat and the faint scent of his skin—clean, a hint of gunpowder, and something uniquely him that makes your head spin. God, he smells so fucking good.

His fingers trace soft patterns along your sweaty skin, gentle, soothing, and fuck, it's impossible not to drift. Your eyelids droop, breath slowing, body boneless against him.

But then he shifts slightly, muscles tensing as he moves, and you whine, voice small, "Nooo..."

He chuckles, the sound deep and fond. "C'mon, baby," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "We gotta clean up."

You pout, half asleep, mumbling, "M'tired..."

And fuck, he melts. Heart just gone. You're too cute, all sleepy and clingy, eyes heavy and lips pouty. "I'll clean you quickly, I promise, okay?"

You grumble, but when he pulls away, you whimper, instinctively clinging to him. His brows lift, a bit surprised. He's not that guy—not the cuddly type, not the one for soft aftercare. But for you? Fuck. For you, he is.

"Alright, baby," he murmurs, and then he scoops you up, effortless, like you weigh nothing.

His arms cradle you against his broad chest, warmth radiating off him as he carries you to the bathroom. The tile's cool beneath his bare feet, and the soft glow of the bathroom light makes everything feel hazy, dreamlike. He sets you down gently, but you cling, arms wrapped around his torso, cheek pressed to his skin.

"Jesus," he laughs softly, "you're really not lettin' go, huh?"

You mumble something incoherent, and he just grins, wrapping an arm around you while he reaches to turn on the shower. The pipes groan, and warm steam begins to fill the air.

"Just a bit more," he says, voice low, chin resting on your shoulder as you lean back into him, "and we'll go to sleep, yeah?"

You nod sleepily, and he presses a soft kiss to the curve of your neck, lips warm against your cool skin. The water heats up, steam curling around you both, and he guides you into the shower cabin. The first rush of warm water hits your skin, washing away the sweat and stickiness, and you sigh, body relaxing further.

He steps behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close. One of his hands spreads over your belly, rubbing slow circles.

"God," he hums, mouth brushing against your damp hair, "you did so good for me, baby."

Your heart flutters, but you just nod, too tired to do much else.

"Just a quick shower," he murmurs, reaching for his body wash.

He pours some into his hand—and God, his hands are so big compared to you—before he starts lathering you up. His fingers glide over your skin, gentle but thorough, slick suds sliding down your tired body.

He washes you carefully, every curve, every dip, soothing touches along your arms, shoulders, hips. He's fast but soft, intent on making sure you're clean without keeping you up too long.

When he finishes, he guides you under the spray, rinsing you off, and you just lean against him, boneless, letting him take care of you.

"See? Told you I'd be quick," he grins, fingers brushing along your waist.

"Mhmm," you murmur, sleepy satisfaction settling in your bones.

Then, it's his turn. He grabs the body wash, lathering up quickly, and you step back slightly, half lidded eyes drifting down his broad chest, strong arms, defined abs, water cascading down his tattooed skin.

God. You bite your lip, not even subtle about staring. His muscles shift with every movement, abs flexing as he runs suds over his chest, water tracing every dip and ridge. And when he turns around to rinse off—fuck.

His back is just as unfair, muscles rippling, tattoos stretching over his skin, and your gaze drops lower. His ass is perfect, firm and sculpted, like something out of a fantasy, and those thighs—Jesus.

Thick, powerful, covered in droplets that slide down to his calves. You can see the sheer strength there, thighs that could crush you without trying, legs that hold him steady when he wrecks you.

And then... yeah, he catches you.

"Caught you starin', baby," he teases, grinning, "like what you see?"

Your face heats, and you huff, "Shut up."

"Didn't hear a no," he laughs, water streaming down his face, blue eyes bright with amusement.

You pinch your nose just as he turns off the water, a little scrunch of your face that makes him snort softly.

"Such a drama queen," he mutters, grinning as he steps out first, water dripping from his tattooed skin.

He grabs a towel, gives it a quick shake, and then turns back to you. Warmth flickers in his blue eyes as he wraps you in it, pulling the soft fabric snug around your damp body.

"Gotcha," he murmurs, fingers brushing your cheek.

He offers his hand, and you take it, stepping out carefully. The bathroom tile is cool against your feet, and you shiver, but it's not from the cold.

Because holy shit.

Your eyes catch on him—the broad chest, water sliding down sculpted abs, and then... yeah. Your gaze drops. And even soft, his dick is huge. Like, what the fuck. Thick, heavy, resting against his thigh, and God, it's pretty.

Veins running along the length, flushed at the tip, and that happy trail above it? Dark, perfect, practically begging you to lick your way down. The kind of sight that makes your mouth water, heat curling low in your belly.

Your brain short circuits for a second, and all you can think is how the fuck did that fit inside you? No wonder you felt stretched to the brink, stuffed full, wrecked. God, he ruined you.

He smirks, noticing your stare, but says nothing, just grabs another towel and wraps it around his waist. Barely. It hangs low on his hips, dangerously close to slipping, teasingly casual.

"C'mon, baby," he murmurs, guiding you back to the bedroom.

The sheets are rumpled, still bearing evidence of what he did to you, and heat rushes to your cheeks. He tosses open his closet, rummaging for a second before pulling out a t-shirt.

"Here," he says, grinning, "this'll do."

It's worn soft, the fabric faded but smelling like him, that clean scent, mixed with cologne and something uniquely Jason. Your head spins, heart fluttering.

He gently dries you off, hands warm as he rubs the towel over your arms, shoulders, legs, taking careful time with your still sensitive skin. Then he slips the shirt over your head, and it swallows you whole.

Like, drowns you. The hem hits mid thigh, the neckline wide, slipping off your shoulder. The sleeves hang loose, practically devouring your arms.

Jason leans back, takes one look at you, and laughs. "Jesus," he grins, "you look like you're wearin' a damn dress."

You huff, slapping his chest. Which, of course, does absolutely nothing.

He's built like a fucking wall. Solid. Unmoving.

"Ouch," you deadpan, "my hand's broken now."

He catches your wrist easily, grinning, and then pulls you into him. His arms wrap around you, big hands sliding beneath the hem of the oversized shirt, and yep, they go straight for your ass.

He cups it, kneading shamelessly.

You huff, "You're obsessed."

"Yeah," he says, zero shame, grin widening. "I am."

Jason grabs a pair of boxers, slides them on, the waistband snapping against his hips. He picks up both towels, tossing them into the laundry basket.

"Hang on," he says, waving you off as you yawn. "These sheets are trashed."

You flop face first onto the bed anyway, muffled, "Don't care. Tired."

"Yeah, I know," he grins, peeling the sheets off on his side.

They're ... yeah. Destroyed. Wrinkled, soaked, and holy shit, he really did a number on you. You roll to the side, watching him wrestle with the fitted sheet like it's personally offended him.

"Need help?" you mumble.

"No," he grunts, "I got it. Fucking—goddamn thing—"

He finally manages, cursing under his breath, and throws on fresh ones. Then, without warning, he turns, grins, and scoops you up so he can fit the sheet on your side too.

"Jason!" you squeal, legs kicking weakly, "I can—"

"Shhh," he teases, "you love it."

He plops you onto the fresh sheets, and you bounce, letting out a giggly little noise. "Asshole."

"Yup," he agrees cheerfully, dropping down next to you. His arm snakes around your waist, dragging you in, and you go willingly, curling against his chest.

"God," you yawn again, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

His skin's warm, smells like him—that clean soap mixed with his natural heat. One arm drapes over his waist, your fingers splaying over solid muscle.

His hand finds the back of your head, gentle, fingers threading through your damp hair.

"You okay?" he asks softly, voice rumbling in your ear.

You nod, murmuring, "Mhmm... just tired."

"Sleep, baby," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You melt, mumbling something incoherent, and he chuckles, pulling you closer.

And as you drift off, Jason just... lays there. Holds you. He wasn't expecting this. Not the clingy post sex cuddling, not you nuzzling into him like he's safe, like you trust him.

Not the way his chest feels tight, not in a bad way, just... fuck. He's not soft. Not really. Not supposed to be. But you curl into him, and it's like his body knows what to do, like holding you is instinct.

You're small against him, your breathing evening out, little puffs of air against his neck. And shit, he could get used to this.

Your leg hooks over his, possessive even in sleep, and he smirks, shaking his head.

"You're somethin' else," he murmurs, so quiet you don't hear.

But yeah... he's already all fucking in.

P. S: I didn't forget about your requests, guys. I have the Nightwing one you suggested, imma post it these days 🤭 I'm just a slut for both Dick and Jason rn ✋🏻

4K notes · View notes

solxamber · 7 months ago

Text

And I Pick...

In which you choose the club that caught your eye

Part 1

After much contemplation you've finally decided to pick the:

Basketball Club

The basketball court was quiet for all of two seconds after you announced your decision.

Then Ace exploded.

"HA! I knew you’d pick us! I called it!" He was practically doing laps around the court, pointing at nothing in particular. "Ace Trappola: the ultimate recruiter, the club MVP, and now the guy who brought you on board! This is the best day of my life!"

"Eh, it’s about time," Floyd drawled, stretching lazily. "Took ya long enough to figure out where the fun is." His sharp-toothed grin widened. "Now we can play my version of full-contact basketball. Hehehe."

"Absolutely not," Jamil cut in, but Floyd wasn’t listening.

"Don’t worry," Floyd said, throwing an arm around your shoulders like you’d been lifelong teammates. "If you survive the first practice, you’ll survive all the practices. Probably."

Ace jogged back over, breathless but triumphant. "I told you we’re the best club! No boring rules, no endless laps like in Deuce's lame track team, and best of all—" He struck a dramatic pose, arms wide. "You get to hang out with me every day!"

"Please don’t make them quit on the first week," Jamil muttered, giving you a look that seemed to say, Are you sure about this?

"Quit? Nahhh!" Ace grinned. "They’re gonna thrive here. I’ll even teach them my signature moves—like my no-look, backwards, mid-air layup."

"You can’t even do that," Jamil said flatly.

"Not yet," Ace shot back. "But it’s the thought that counts."

Floyd leaned in closer, his grin somehow growing wider. "You better keep up, shrimpy. Otherwise, I might have to… spice things up a little."

"Spice things up?" you echoed, immediately suspicious.

"He means doing things like replacing the basketballs with watermelons," Jamil deadpanned.

Ace snorted. "Or throwing the ball at the hoop so hard it breaks the backboard. Oh wait, that actually happened. Twice."

"It was fun," Floyd said, completely unrepentant.

Jamil sighed like a man who’d aged a decade in the last five minutes. But then, to your surprise, he turned to you and offered a small, genuine smile. "Still… I’m glad you’re here. Welcome to the team."

The words were simple, but coming from Jamil, they felt like a warm endorsement.

Ace clapped his hands together, clearly ready to move things along. "Alright, enough talking! Let’s get you on the court and see what you’ve got!"

"Or we could start slow," Jamil suggested, but Ace was already dragging you toward the center of the court, Floyd trailing behind with a basketball under one arm.

"Don’t worry," Floyd said, tossing the ball up and catching it effortlessly. "If ya mess up, we’ll just laugh at ya a little. No big deal~."

"No one’s laughing at anyone," Jamil said firmly, already pinching the bridge of his nose.

Ace threw an arm around your shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. "Ignore him. We’re gonna have a blast! First practice starts now!"

You weren’t sure what you’d gotten yourself into, but judging by their enthusiasm (and Floyd’s maniacal laughter), you were in for one chaotic ride.

Track and Field Club

The moment you declared your allegiance to the track and field club, Deuce’s face lit up like someone had just told him he passed his midterms.

“You’re… really joining?” he asked, like he needed double confirmation. When you nodded, his grin widened, the kind that made him look both relieved and excited. “That’s awesome! Uh—welcome to the team! Seriously, it’s great to have you.” His usual earnestness shone through, and he scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m still kind of learning the ropes, but we can figure things out together. It’s gonna be great!”

Jack, standing beside him, gave a firm nod of approval. “Good call. Track and field’s a solid choice. You’ll fit right in.” His tail wagged just enough to betray how happy he was, even if his tone stayed calm.

"Yeah!" Deuce agreed. “And, uh, don’t worry about keeping up or anything. It’s all about improving at your own pace. Right, Jack?”

“Sure,” Jack replied, glancing at you. Then he added, almost casually, “We’ll work on your stamina. You’re gonna need it.”

It took you a second to catch the faint glint in his eye, and then you remembered—oh no, the fridge comment. Jack had been disturbed ever since.

Deuce, oblivious to the subtext, chimed in, “Yeah, Jack’s great at that stuff! He’s got this crazy endurance. Like, he can run forever. I’m still working on it, but, uh, you’re in good hands!”

Jack’s tail swished again. “Just be ready to push yourself. But don’t worry—we’ve got your back.”

“Exactly!” Deuce said, his fists clenching like he was ready to run a marathon right there. “This is gonna be awesome. I mean, not that it wasn’t already great, but now it’s even better. Right, Jack?”

Jack gave a small, satisfied smile. “Right.”

As they led you toward the field, you couldn’t help but wonder what you’d just signed up for. One thing was certain, though—Jack’s still thinking about that fridge, and he will make sure it’s not an issue anymore.

Board Game Club

The moment you declared your allegiance to the board game club, Azul adjusted his glasses, looking smugly pleased with himself, like he'd just negotiated the deal of the century.

"An excellent decision," he said, his voice as smooth as the perfectly polished board games stacked behind him. "With your addition to our club, I foresee a new golden age of strategic victories."

Idia, sitting half-hidden behind a pile of unopened game boxes, choked on his energy drink. "W-Wait, you’re serious? They actually chose us?" His hair flared a brilliant shade of pink for a moment before he pulled his hoodie tighter around himself. "Th-this isn’t some prank, right? Like, I’m not gonna look up and see them bolting out the door laughing, right?"

"Nope," you replied with a grin. "I’m all in."

Ortho, ever the enthusiastic hype man, zipped into the room with his jet thrusters. "Welcome to the club! Now we have a full party for dungeon raids. This is amazing!"

Azul cleared his throat, waving a hand. "Ahem, while cooperative RPGs are certainly an option, I believe we should start with a game of strategy and wit to introduce them properly. Perhaps a round of Chess of Betrayal?"

Idia groaned, sinking further into his hoodie. "Ugh, that game takes, like, three hours. If you’re gonna scare them away, at least wait until they’re too deep in to quit. Why don’t we start with something easy, like Goblin King Gauntlet?"

Ortho clapped his hands. "Ooh, I love that one! It has a random trap mechanic! Let’s play that!"

Azul raised an eyebrow, his smile shark-like. "Trap mechanics are hardly a proper welcome. It would be far better to demonstrate the finer nuances of strategy, wouldn’t you agree?"

Idia muttered something about Azul turning everything into a power play, but you interrupted before they could spiral into a full-blown debate. "Honestly, I’m fine with anything. Just deal me in."

Azul’s smirk widened. "Very well, then. I shall prepare the game board. And don’t worry, I’ll make certain you’re fully equipped for our upcoming campaigns. You’ll find we offer more than just fun—we offer victory."

Idia peeked out from his hoodie, a small, hopeful smile creeping onto his face. "You’re not bad at this whole club thing. Maybe this won’t be so terrible."

As they started setting up the game, you felt an unexpected warmth. Sure, it was just a board game club, but there was something endearing about their chaotic enthusiasm.

Though one thing was clear—Azul would probably try to sell you game tokens at some point, and Idia would absolutely try to teach you how to min-max your dice rolls.

But hey, you were ready for it.

Film Studies Club

When you announced your decision to join the film studies club, Vil paused mid-sip of his herbal tea, one elegantly arched eyebrow rising. For a moment, he looked like he was considering whether he had heard you correctly. Then, with a practiced air of nonchalance, he set the teacup down.

"Hm. Acceptable," he said coolly, though his tone betrayed a slight uptick of satisfaction. "It’s rare to find someone with enough taste to appreciate the art of cinema. I suppose your presence will be… useful."

But the slight curl of his lips gave him away.

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his coat, and gave you an appraising look. "We have much to discuss. If you’re serious about this, you’ll need to commit entirely—no half-measures, no excuses. The camera is unforgiving, and I have no intention of allowing this club to falter under subpar contributions."

You opened your mouth to respond, but he was already pacing, gesturing dramatically like the star of an avant-garde production. "Lighting, blocking, composition—they are all integral to creating art, not merely entertainment. I trust you won’t embarrass yourself, or me, for that matter."

Despite his words, you caught the faintest hint of pride in his gaze as he turned to face you fully. "And, if for some reason, acting isn’t your strength, there are other roles. Cinematography, set design, editing… Perhaps backstage work would suit you, should you fail the audition."

He didn’t say it to be harsh; this was Vil’s version of encouragement. And as he continued outlining the club’s vision—"a modern renaissance in storytelling"—you realized he was genuinely excited to have you there, even if he’d rather gargle poison than openly admit it.

Finally, he stopped and gave you a small, approving nod. "Welcome to the film studies club. Don’t make me regret this."

Translation: I’m glad you’re here.

Science Club

The moment you announced your decision to join the science club, Rook’s eyes lit up like you’d just declared him the ruler of the universe.

"Ah, mon ami! What a magnifique choice!" he exclaimed, sweeping you into a theatrical bow so deep you thought he might topple over. "You possess the soul of an explorer, a true seeker of knowledge! Together, we shall unlock the mysteries of nature and celebrate its beauty in all its forms!"

"Uh… don’t scare them off, Rook," Trey interjected, though he was smiling. He adjusted his apron, clearly relieved that you hadn’t bolted under Rook’s enthusiastic greeting. "We’re glad to have you. Really. It’s nice to have someone else around who won’t accidentally set the lab on fire."

You raised an eyebrow. "That’s a low bar."

Trey shrugged. "You’d be surprised how many fail to meet it."

Before you could respond, Rook was already spinning grand plans. "Imagine the adventures we will have! Scaling mountains, crafting elixirs, nurturing delicate blossoms—ah, the poetry of science!" He clasped his hands to his chest, radiating so much joy that you were worried he’d break into song.

Trey, ever the grounded one, sighed fondly. "What he means is: we do a little bit of everything. Growing plants, chemistry experiments, cooking—you’ll fit right in. Assuming Rook doesn’t scare you off first."

Rook turned to Trey with an exaggerated gasp, as if the very suggestion of him being overwhelming was the greatest insult he’d ever received. "Chevalier des Roses, how could you wound me so?" He turned back to you with a theatrical flourish. "Fear not! I shall be your guide, your companion, your—"

"Assistant," Trey cut in, giving you a knowing look. "We'll assist you. Don’t let him take over your projects."

You grinned, feeling oddly at home already. Between Rook’s boundless enthusiasm and Trey’s steadying presence, you realized the science club might just be the perfect balance of chaos and calm.

Pop Music Club

When you announced your decision to join the Pop Music Club, Lilia was the first to react. He shot up from his chair with a dramatic flourish, his cape—where did the cape come from?—billowing as if on cue.

"Ah, an excellent choice! Welcome to the most electrifying club in the entire school!" Lilia declared, his voice reverberating like an arena announcer. He played an imaginary riff on an air guitar, complete with sound effects that you were almost certain were magically amplified.

Kalim clapped his hands, beaming as brightly as the sun. "This is going to be so much fun! We can sing duets, make up dances, throw a party for every new song we write—oh! We should have a welcome party for you right now!" He was already halfway to grabbing balloons out of thin air before Cater stopped him.

"Easy there, Kalim," Cater said with a laugh, pulling out his phone to snap a picture. "We haven’t even started jamming yet! Gotta document this first—‘New Member Alert 🚨🎶! Welcome to the coolest club at NRC!’” He posed next to you, flipping through filters. "Ooh, should we do a pastel vibe or go all-out neon?"

"Why not both?" Lilia suggested, somehow holding a tambourine he hadn’t been holding two seconds ago. He shook it with gusto, the jingles creating an impromptu beat.

Kalim joined in instantly, dancing around the room with energy that could probably power a small city. "This is going to be amazing! Do you play any instruments? Can you sing? Or maybe you’ll write the songs? Wait, can you do all three?!"

Before you could answer, Lilia leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. "Don’t worry, even if you’re terrible, I can teach you. After all, I’ve had centuries of experience."

"Centuries of experience at what exactly?" you asked, though you weren’t entirely sure you wanted the answer.

"Everything," Lilia replied cryptically, shaking the tambourine once more for emphasis.

Cater gave you a wink. "Don’t let him intimidate you. He’s mostly harmless. Mostly."

As the chaos swirled around you, you realized joining the Pop Music Club was probably going to be as much about managing everyone’s energy as it was about making music.

But looking at their genuine excitement, you couldn’t help but feel you’d made the right choice. It was going to be loud, unpredictable, and—most importantly—a lot of fun.

Equestrian Club

When you chose the Equestrian Club, Riddle’s reaction was immediate and deeply Riddle. He straightened his posture, cleared his throat, and gave you a small but dignified nod, though his ears turned the faintest shade of pink.

“A wise decision,” he said primly, but his voice wavered just enough to give away his excitement. “The Equestrian Club values discipline and care, and I trust you will uphold those values. Welcome.” He paused, then added with uncharacteristic softness, “I’m glad you chose us.”

Sebek, on the other hand, reacted with his usual intensity, which was to say, very loudly.

“AS EXPECTED OF SOMEONE WITH DISCERNING TASTE!” Sebek bellowed, saluting for no discernible reason. “THE EQUESTRIAN CLUB IS A PLACE OF HONOR AND DILIGENCE. YOU HAVE MADE THE RIGHT CHOICE, AND I, SEBEK ZIGVOLT, SHALL PERSONALLY ENSURE YOU MEET OUR HIGH STANDARDS!”

“You’re going to scare the horses,” Silver muttered, patting a dozing mare who didn’t even flinch at Sebek’s volume. Clearly, she’d built up an immunity.

Silver turned to you with a sleepy but genuine smile. “Welcome. It’ll be nice having another person around who actually seems calm. I’ll show you the best places to ride, and we’ll make sure you’re comfortable with the horses.”

“And with the rules,” Riddle interjected, already retrieving a stack of laminated pages. “Equestrian care is not something to take lightly. You’ll need to memorize these guidelines to ensure both your safety and that of the horses.”

Sebek leaned over your shoulder to inspect the stack and immediately saluted again. “AN EXCELLENT INITIATIVE, HOUSEWARDEN ROSEHEARTS! I, TOO, WILL MEMORIZE THESE IN CASE THEY EVER REQUIRE REINFORCEMENT!”

“I think they’re fine,” Silver said. “We don’t need to make this harder than it needs to be.”

Riddle frowned. “Standards exist for a reason, Silver. Though I appreciate your enthusiasm, perhaps we can—Sebek, stop shouting—perhaps we can go over the basics first before overwhelming them.”

As Riddle and Sebek debated, Silver handed you a carrot to feed one of the horses. “Don’t worry,” he said, as the horse happily munched away. “It’s not as intense as it seems. Usually.”

You glanced at the stack of rules in Riddle’s hand and the fervent look in Sebek’s eyes. It was definitely going to be an adjustment. But seeing how genuinely happy they all were to have you—yes, even Sebek—you felt like this would be worth it.

Magift Club

When you announced your decision to join the Magift Club as their manager, the reaction was instantaneous and… surprisingly chaotic.

Ruggie let out a whoop, immediately dropping to the floor in a mock bow. "Ayo, everyone, bow to the boss! Finally, someone who can keep this circus in line!"

Leona, lounging on the sidelines, cracked open an eye and smirked. “’Bout time. Herbivores usually flake out, but I knew you were better than the rest.” He stretched lazily, like he’d personally orchestrated your decision. “Just keep the snacks coming, and we’ll get along fine.”

Epel looked between them and grinned, his enthusiasm much more grounded. “It’s great to have ya! With you around, maybe Leona will actually show up to warmups... or not just sleep through it.” He shot a pointed glance at their captain, who was, of course, ignoring him entirely.

“Eh,” Leona drawled, flicking his tail dismissively.

“You could work on that attitude,” you muttered, earning a low chuckle from him.

“See, I told you they’d fit right in!” Ruggie said, gesturing at you dramatically. “They’re already roasting him. This is gonna be great!”

Epel, suddenly inspired, added, “And they’ll keep Ruggie from stealing the fresh apple juice we get after games. That’s worth it alone.”

As the reality of your new role settled in, you felt a bit like a lion tamer walking into a den of mischievous cubs and one very lazy big cat. But their enthusiasm—expressed in their own peculiar ways—was endearing.

Ruggie threw an arm around your shoulder. “Alright, boss, first order of business: snacks! Let’s discuss our game day budget and whether I can convince you to sneak me a sandwich before practice.”

Leona snorted but didn’t argue, which you took as a sign of approval. Epel pumped his fist. “We’re gonna crush it this year!”

Maybe managing this bunch wouldn’t be so bad after all. If nothing else, it’d definitely be entertaining.

Mountain Lovers Club

When you joined Jade for a hike to "test the waters" of the Mountain Lovers Club, you had your doubts. You were prepared for a lot of things—maybe getting lost in the wilderness, maybe Jade pulling out his eerie cryptid knowledge, or maybe just a weirdly formal lecture about moss. What you weren’t prepared for was… actually enjoying yourself.

Jade led the way with an unhurried confidence, pointing out various wild plants, their uses, and fun facts about the environment. He wasn’t his usual enigmatic self, either. He seemed lighter, almost enthusiastic, as he described a tiny wildflower you would’ve missed entirely.

“This particular species only blooms during the autumn months,” he said, crouching to show you. “Quite fascinating how it adapts to the cooler temperatures, don’t you think?”

You nodded, trying not to stare too hard at how his face lit up when he spoke. Jade was… cute? When he wasn’t talking about mushrooms in a way that made you question your mortality, he was actually kind of charming.

By the time you reached a rocky outcrop with a gorgeous view of the campus, you realized you’d been smiling for most of the hike. Jade noticed too.

“It seems I’ve made a decent impression,” he said, turning toward you with a soft grin. “I’m pleased to see you enjoying yourself.”

“It’s… relaxing,” you admitted, surprising even yourself. “I didn’t think it’d be this fun.”

Jade tilted his head. “Does that mean you’d consider joining the Mountain Lovers Club?”

You hesitated for a moment, but as you looked at the breathtaking view and the rare, genuine smile on his face, the answer came easily. “Yeah. I’ll join.”

For a split second, Jade’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly schooled his expression into his usual composed smile. “Wonderful. I must say, I wasn’t expecting this outcome, but I’m glad. It’s not every day someone sees the beauty in what I love.”

There was an odd warmth in his voice that made your heart skip a beat. As he turned to lead the way back, he added, “Now that we’re a team, I look forward to our next adventure.”

Jade Leech was genuinely happy. And, you realized, so were you.

Gargoyle Research Society

When you told Malleus you were joining the Gargoyle Research Society, his reaction was almost imperceptible at first. A slight widening of his eyes, a pause as though he was waiting to see if you were serious, and then—pure, unfiltered delight.

"You have an interest in gargoyles?" he asked, his voice both surprised and reverent, as if you'd just confessed to enjoying a rare and ancient art form.

You nodded. "Yeah. I think they're fascinating. The designs, the history… They’re like stone guardians with stories etched into them."

For a moment, Malleus simply looked at you, his emerald eyes shimmering like the light of distant stars. Then, as if unable to contain his joy, he smiled—a soft, genuine expression that sent a wave of warmth through the chilly Ramshackle evening.

"This pleases me greatly," he said, his tone unusually light. “Not many share my appreciation for gargoyles. Often, I speak of them, and others… how do I put it? Pretend to listen.”

“Well, I’m definitely not pretending,” you said, grinning. “I’m in for real.”

Malleus clasped his hands together in what could only be described as regal excitement. "Then I must share something with you. Sometimes, I create gargoyles myself."

“You what?” you asked, laughing in delight.

“Yes,” he replied earnestly, his eyes alight. “Carving stone requires patience, but there is a certain satisfaction in breathing life into something lifeless. Well, not literal life, of course, but a soul of sorts.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again, the image of Malleus with a chisel and hammer popping into your head. “I never would have guessed. That’s… really cool.”

“I can show you some of my creations, if you’d like,” he offered, almost shyly.

“I’d love that,” you said, genuinely glad to have joined him. “I think I’m going to enjoy this club.”

The glow in his expression was impossible to miss. It wasn’t just that you had joined his club—it was that, for once, someone truly shared his passion. “And I am glad to have you,” he said softly.

In that moment, under the watchful eyes of the stone guardians scattered around campus, it felt like you had chosen exactly the right place.

Masterlist

tags: @techno-danger

a/n: it completely slipped my mind that ortho is a part of film studies sorry :(

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starl1ght444 · 2 months ago

Text

jason todd x reader

── .✦ fluff

[ jason admiring you at a family barbecue, catching baby fever ]

[ 4k word count ]

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

the sun sits gentle in the sky, soft gold washing over the green lawns of wayne manor. it’s the kind of day that feels like it was carved out of a dream—blue skies, laughter echoing through the gardens, the scent of grilled food riding warm breezes. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker—something summery and old-school—and kids are running barefoot over the grass with juice-stained smiles.

you’re standing on the back patio, watching as your dad and bruce try to out-barbecue each other. there’s a mountain of food already stacked high on one table, and another being filled with cold drinks and desserts brought by both sides of the family. it’s not a holiday, not a birthday—just a weekend that seemed perfect for something soft and good.

jason finds you like he always does. like his compass only points to you. he slides up beside you with a drink in one hand, the other immediately brushing against your lower back like he can’t help it. he leans in, kisses your temple without even saying hi, and you smile.

“you smell like smoke and sunscreen,” you murmur, teasing gently. — he grins against your skin. “you say that like it’s not my most attractive combo.”

you glance at him. he’s wearing a plain white tee, sleeves rolled just enough to make your stomach flip, and a backwards baseball cap that he stole from dick earlier. his smile is easy, bright—one of the rare kinds you only get on days like this, when nothing hurts and everything feels safe.

“you having fun?” you ask. — “yeah,” he says, looking out over the lawn. “it’s weird. not used to this many people being this… happy. all at once.”

you nudge him playfully with your shoulder. “that’s the whole point, jay. just good vibes today. no patrols. no emergencies. just your family and mine, stuffing their faces and pretending they’re not competitive as hell.”

he laughs. “i saw your aunt arm-wrestling alfred. i’m afraid to ask who won.” — “don’t,” you whisper dramatically. “it’s a sensitive topic.”

you both laugh, and then you fall into a comfortable silence, leaning into each other. there’s something easy in the way you fit together, like puzzle pieces that just… make sense. and even though the day is just beginning, jason already feels something new blooming in his chest. soft. slow. a warmth he can’t name yet.

then, you get pulled away.

your sister’s baby, a sweet baby girl— barely a year old— is in a fit of giggles and reaches for you as soon as she spots you. you don’t hesitate. you scoop her up, nuzzle into her cheek with a bright laugh, and she squeals in delight. jason watches, something catching in his throat that he doesn’t fully understand.

you hold your niece like it’s second nature, hips swaying slightly as you bounce her. you tickle her ribs until she squeaks, then press a kiss to the crown of her head. she clutches at your shirt with chubby fingers, and you don’t even seem to notice how natural it looks.

jason notices

he watches you sink to the grass with her, both of you barefoot and smiling. the babygirl crawls all over you, laughing like you’re the best jungle gym she’s ever seen. you laugh, too—head thrown back, hair catching the light, eyes crinkled in pure joy. and suddenly, there’s a slow ache in jason’s chest.

he’s never thought about it before. not really. the whole kid thing. the whole… family thing.

he’s always been the kind of man who saw himself on the sidelines of that world. the one who sends birthday gifts but doesn’t show up to the party. the one who says “uncle jay” and brings the cool toys but leaves before bedtime stories.

but watching you like this—hands soft, voice sweeter than he’s ever heard it—something shifts. something opens. he thinks about you with a baby that’s yours. his.

a little mess of dark hair and your eyes, giggling just like your niece is now. he thinks about you holding them, soothing them, loving them the way you love everything. he thinks about tiny socks and bedtime songs and learning how to braid hair or teach someone how to ride a bike. and he doesn’t feel afraid.

he feels something else. — a need. — a want.

he blinks, heart hammering like he just ran a sprint. it’s new. it’s overwhelming. and it’s entirely because of the way you look right now, sitting in the grass with a baby curled against your chest, humming something soft as you rock her gently.

“oh, shit,” he whispers under his breath.

you glance up, like you felt him watching you. your smile is soft. inviting. you tilt your head and wave him over.

he doesn’t think—just goes.

you don’t even have to ask. when you pat the grass beside you, jason’s already lowering himself down with a groan that’s mostly exaggerated, even though he makes a show of cracking his knees. “god, i’m getting old,” he mutters, shooting you a playful glance.

your niece immediately perks up at the sight of him. she blinks those wide baby eyes and then grins—huge and gummy—and points at him with all the excitement in the world.

“dat!” she squeals. you laugh, warm and real, looking between her and jason. “that is not your dad, little lady. that’s jason.”

she doesn’t care. she clambers right onto his lap like it’s the most obvious place to be. jason freezes. his eyes go wide like she’s a lit stick of dynamite, and you watch as he carefully, so carefully, adjusts his hands to steady her. he looks at you like he needs instruction, a manual, a lifeline.

you just smile. “you’re doing fine sweetheart.”

he swallows, then looks down at her. she’s patting his chest with both palms, babbling nonsense with the kind of confidence only babies can get away with. she tugs at the collar of his shirt, pokes his cheek, then leans forward to bonk her forehead lightly against his. he blinks.

“uh… hi?” he says softly. you bite back a grin.

she squeals again and snuggles in like he’s the comfiest spot in the whole wide world. one tiny hand clings to his shirt. the other reaches up and gently touches the brim of his cap.

jason goes absolutely still.

you watch the exact moment his heart breaks open. it’s subtle—just a shift in his expression, the way his arms curl instinctively around her like he’s afraid to let her go now. his voice drops into something even softer.

“you like me, huh?” your niece, as if understanding, lets out a happy coo and rests her cheek against his shoulder. you’re not sure you’ve ever seen jason todd speechless.

he looks at you over her head, and for once, there’s no witty comeback. no smirk. just awe. you can almost hear the thoughts racing behind his eyes. he rocks her slightly, like he’s testing the motion, and when she settles, sighing in contentment, he smiles. — a real one. — quiet. tender. completely unguarded.

your chest pulls tight. “she likes you,” you say quietly. “a lot.”

jason glances down at her again, brushing one hand over the back of her little head. “yeah,” he says, voice rough. “i like her, too.” — and he means it.

he doesn’t know how to explain what’s happening inside him—how just ten minutes ago, the idea of holding a baby seemed like a distant maybe in a far-off future, and now he can’t imagine letting this little bundle go. she fits against him like she belongs there. like he was made for this in a way he never considered.

you lean your head on his shoulder. “you’re a natural, jay.”

“i don’t know what i’m doing.”

“you don’t have to. she trusts you. that’s enough.”

he doesn’t say anything for a minute. just holds her. breathes. lets it sink in. his heart has been through war. it’s been broken, stitched together, burned down, and rebuilt more times than he can count. he’s spent years convincing himself that love like this—soft, slow, steady—wasn’t for him.

but here you are, curled beside him in the grass. and here she is, asleep on his chest. and here he is, completely and utterly undone. — he wants this.

maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but someday.

he wants little hands and big hearts and quiet afternoons like this. he wants tiny sneakers by the door and messy drawings taped to the fridge. he wants the life he thought he’d never deserve, because you make it feel possible.

you glance up at him and find his eyes already on you. “you okay?” you ask.

he nods. “yeah. just… didn’t expect this.”

“what? a baby nap attack?”

he shakes his head. “no. this… feeling.”

you smile, soft and knowing. you thread your fingers through his where they rest on the grass. “it’s okay, you know,” you whisper. “to want things.”

he squeezes your hand. “you’d be a really good dad,” you say, almost like it’s a secret. “one day.”

jason doesn’t answer right away. he just looks down at your niece again, sleeping so soundly on his chest, and something in him settles.

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

the sun starts to dip low in the sky, painting the world in honey. that soft hour between afternoon and evening when everything feels a little more tender. the grills have been turned off, the music turned down, and the lawn scattered with half-empty cups and abandoned shoes from kids who always manage to lose one.

you and jason walking, this time near the big round table where dick and tim are already lounging, paper plates balanced on their laps. stephanie is there too, smiling, peeling grapes for herself like a queen, while damian pokes at a pile of roasted vegetables with an expression of deep suspicion.

you plop down with a plate of grilled chicken, a caesar salad and some fruit salad aswell. jason’s got two burgers stacked high and a lemonade that you swear is more sugar than anything else. he’s still got some baby drool on his shoulder and hasn’t noticed yet. — you don’t tell him.

instead, you nudge your knee against his and start eating, leaning just a little into his side. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift—just stays steady. solid. warm.

“so,” dick says with a grin, looking pointedly at jason, “when were you gonna tell us you had a kid?”

jason chokes on a bite of burger, coughing into his elbow while you burst out laughing. he shoots dick a glare, wiping his mouth. “very funny.”

“no, seriously,” tim chimes in, smirking. “i thought that baby was yours. the way she was clinging to you? textbook toddler imprinting.”

stephanie hums. “she liked him.”

“clearly,” damian mutters. “he was the only one she didn’t scream at.”

you grin, glancing sideways at jason. “she does have good taste.” he mumbles something into his burger and keeps his eyes on his plate, but his ears are pink.

dick leans forward on his elbows, teasing grin still firmly in place. “you ever think about it, jay?”

jason pauses. you hold your breath. he shrugs, then glances at you. just for a second. then back at his plate.

“i dunno,” he says quietly. “today kind of made it hard not to.”

the table goes quiet for a beat—not awkward, just thoughtful.

you rest your hand on his thigh under the table, give it a squeeze. he covers it with his own without looking, thumb brushing slow across your knuckles. it says more than words ever could.

then, as if summoned by the power of chaos and barbecue sauce, a group of kids comes barreling toward your little circle.

there are four of them—your younger cousins plus, the neighbor kid alfred watches sometimes. they’re sticky and sun-kissed and full of energy they absolutely should not still have.

“jason!” one of the older boys shouts, skidding to a stop in front of him. “can you play tag with us? please? we need someone fast!”

“yeah!” another chimes in. “you look like you’d be really good at it!”

jason blinks, halfway through another bite. “uh—”

“pleeeaaaase?” they all whine in unison. steph giggles behind her hand. tim’s already pulling out his phone to film this. even damian looks vaguely amused. you nudge jason again, smirking. “come on, tough guy. they’ve challenged your honor.”

he groans, tipping his head back like he’s praying for strength. “you’re all monsters.” but he sets his plate down anyway. stands up. brushes his hands off on his jeans.

“all right, gremlins,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “you asked for it.” the kids scream in delight and scatter.

you watch, heart full and aching, as jason takes off after them with a grin that makes him look years younger. he’s surprisingly agile for someone full of burgers, weaving between kids and dodging tiny arms like a seasoned pro. he scoops one up over his shoulder, spins them until they squeal, then sets them down gently.

you can’t stop smiling. “he’s a goner,” dick says beside you, voice warm with something like pride.

you nod, eyes never leaving jason. “yeah. he is.”

“you know,” steph says, “he’s softer with you than i’ve ever seen.” you swallow around the knot in your throat.

“i feel like he’s starting to let himself want this,” you say softly. “really want it.”

tim smiles. “about time.” you finish your plate, set it aside, and watch as jason lets the smallest kid tackle him dramatically to the ground. they all pile on after that, laughing and shouting, and he just lays there, pretending to be defeated.

he catches your eye across the lawn, still buried under a dogpile of kids, and winks. you think your heart might actually burst.

cass, duke and barb start making their way over, everyone making room for eachother even if it is a little tight. “man jason is getting beat out there” duke laughed taking a drink of water.

you don’t last long on the sidelines.

as soon as you see jason get swarmed by kids and give in with the most exaggerated groan of defeat, your legs are already moving. you drop your plate off at the table, kick off your sandals, and make a run for it across the grass.

“hey!” you shout, cupping your hands around your mouth. “what’s this i hear about a tag game with no rules?”

jason sits up, eyes lighting up the moment he sees you. he lifts an arm like he’s going to catch you when you get close. “you sure you can handle this?” he calls. “these kids are relentless.”

you smirk. “so am i.” the second you’re close enough, one of your cousins tags you with a high-pitched “you’re it!” and bolts away shrieking. — and that’s all it takes.

soon, you’re both running wild with the kids—ducking and dodging and laughing so hard your stomach hurts. jason’s just as competitive as you expected, blocking kids for you and taking fake dives when someone “catches” him. at one point, you tackle him into the grass, both of you breathless and tangled up, and he’s laughing—really laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkled at the corners.

you think you might be in love with every version of him. eventually, the chaos slows. kids drop off one by one, panting and grinning, collapsing on picnic blankets or into folding chairs with cold juice boxes pressed to their faces. you and jason end up near the big patio table again, sweaty and flushed and glowing with joy.

that’s where you find the adults and half of your side of the family.

your parents are sitting with bruce and alfred, a mix of lemonade and wine glasses on the table between them. the grown-ups have that relaxed energy that only comes after a full meal, a successful gathering, and nothing left to do but watch.

“you two looked like you were having fun,” your mom says, smiling fondly. — “we were,” you reply, still catching your breath. jason lingers behind you, a quiet shadow at your back.

“you’re good with kids, jason,” your dad says, and it’s not just polite—he means it. there’s a note of surprise and respect in his voice.

jason rubs the back of his neck. “they’re good with me. i think they sense that i was once a menace, too.” — everyone laughs.

even bruce looks slightly amused, eyes soft as he watches jason from behind his glass. alfred, always the most composed, nods. “you have a calming presence with the younger ones. despite your… usual demeanor.”

“i’ll take that as a compliment,” jason mutters.

just then, your sister approaches with your baby niece balanced on one hip. the little one looks sleepy and bashful now, her curls a bit messy, thumb in her mouth. “she’s been looking around for someone,” your sister says, eyes twinkling. “pretty sure i know who.”

the sweet babygirl blinks once… twice… then holds her arms out, very clearly and very purposefully, toward jason.

he freezes. — the whole table watches as he steps forward, gentle and quiet, and reaches for her. she practically melts into him as he lifts her into his arms again, head tucking under his chin like that’s where she belongs. jason holds her like he never wants to let go.

you can feel it from where you’re standing—that shift in the air. like everyone around you sees something unspoken settle into place. like puzzle pieces clicking in without anyone needing to name them. “she doesn’t do that for just anyone,” your sister says softly.

jason presses a kiss to the top of the baby’s head, one hand running along her back in slow, comforting circles. “she’s got good instincts,” he says, and it’s half a joke, half a truth he hasn’t quite let himself feel until now.

your mom and dad share a look you can’t quite read, something soft and knowing between them. bruce smiles faintly behind his glass. alfred gives you the barest nod, like he sees it too.

you walk back over and stand beside jason, brushing a curl out of the baby’s face. “she’s got you wrapped around her tiny little finger,” you whisper.

jason huffs out a quiet laugh. “yeah. i’m in deep.” — you lean against his arm, heart full. and in this moment, with your family and his all gathered around, with the sun casting golden light over the lawn and your niece tucked safely against his chest, you realize you’ve never felt more at home.

and jason? — jason’s realizing something too. he doesn’t just want to be a part of this someday.

he wants this. with you.

the backyard gets quieter as the sun sinks behind the trees, painting the sky in soft lilacs and golds. kids have all been rounded up, shoes found, goodbyes whispered through tired yawns. the grill’s cold now, the music little more than a low hum in the background. you watch your mom hug cass, your dad laughing at something dick says, and the rest of the evening melts into a kind of dreamy haze.

babygirl is curled up in jason’s arms again, barely awake, tiny fingers tangled in his shirt. your sister and brother in law approaches with an apologetic smile.

“let me take her in, jay,” she says softly. “you’ve done more than enough.”

jason doesn’t look ready to let go. but he nods, brushing one more kiss over the crown of the baby’s head before carefully passing her off. “she’s perfect,” he murmurs.

“so were you,” your brother in law says holding his daughter. the baby shyly smiling, making jason wave bye, you blowing a kiss.

a few minutes later, most of the family is saying their goodbyes. the waynes linger, always the last to leave, and you stand off to the side with jason as your parents pack up their cooler. your fingers are laced with his, and he hasn’t let go once.

“you wanna go for a walk?” you ask quietly, once the yard is nearly empty.

jason nods, gentle eyes on you. “yeah. i’d like that.”

you walk in slow steps across the grass, barefoot, side by side under the darkening sky. there’s that soft hum of crickets starting, the scent of charcoal and lemonade still floating in the air. everything feels still. for a while, neither of you says anything.

then, jason breaks the quiet with a voice so soft it almost gets lost in the breeze. “i didn’t think i’d be good at it.”

you glance over. “what?”

“any of it,” he says. “kids. the whole… warm and safe thing. didn’t think i had it in me.” — your heart tugs

“but you do,” you say, gently. “i saw it today. everyone did.”

he looks at you, and the weight of the day sits in his chest like something holy. “when she fell asleep on me… i didn’t wanna move. like, ever.”

you smile, stepping closer. “you didn’t have to. she was right where she wanted to be.”

jason stops walking. his hand slips out of yours only so he can cup your face instead, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s memorizing you. like he already has, but needs to do it again just in case.

“i never thought about it before. like—really thought. what it might be like… to have a little girl with your eyes, your laugh. a kid who knows nothing but love.”

your breath catches. — “but today… watching you hold her watching you smile at those kids… it just—something clicked.”

you rest your forehead against his. “yeah?”

“yeah.” his voice is quiet. certain. like a promise.

“it scared me,” he admits. “but in a good way. like… like maybe i finally want something real. something i never let myself imagine.”

you curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “you can have it, jason. you deserve it.”

he laughs softly. “do i, though?”

“absolutely.” he kisses you then, slow and warm and deep like he means it. like everything he’s feeling today is pouring out through that one perfect moment. the kind of kiss that tastes like sunlight and cotton candy and something brand new being born right in your chest.

when you finally pull back, he still looks dazed. “i think,” he says, clearing his throat, “i’ve got a little baby fever.”

you grin. “a little?”

“okay. a lot.” — you wrap your arms around his waist, leaning into him. “we don’t have to figure it all out now. we’ve got time.”

he rests his chin on top of your head. “yeah. but just so you know—i’m thinking maybe two.”

you look up, eyes wide. “two?”

“or three,” he says, smirking. “a little chaos. just enough to keep things interesting.”

you laugh, and it echoes across the empty lawn, bright and real. and as the stars come out one by one above you, jason todd holds you like the future is already here, folded gently into the arms of the person he loves most.

he never thought he’d want this. but now?

he can’t imagine wanting anything else.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

BONUS — ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

the sun’s almost gone now, just a sliver of orange on the edge of the horizon. the yard is quieter—paper plates stacked, folding chairs being packed up, empty cups tossed into bags. and for once, alfred’s not lifting a finger.

“sit, alfred,” bruce had insisted, nudging a chair under him like it was an order from the batcave. “we’ve got this.”

and so he sits, arms crossed, watching as the rest of the family—grown vigilantes and honorary siblings alike—start cleaning up what looks like the remains of a small festival.

“i feel like we’re one mariachi band away from calling this a wedding,” dick says, stuffing plastic forks into a bag while balancing a tray of leftover burgers on his hip.

“you mean a baby shower,” tim mutters, dragging a trash bag behind him. “give it a year.”

steph raises an eyebrow, looking amused. “a year? you’re being generous.”

damian states “my money’s on six months. tops. did you see the way jason was holding that baby?”

“like she was made of gold,” dick agrees, dropping the tray on the patio table. “he was glowing.”

“i’ve never seen him smile like that,” tim adds. “like… actually smile.”

“we should start a pool,” duke says, hands clapping together. “fifty bucks, winner takes all.”

“i’m in,” barb says, cass nodding, already pulling her phone out. “my bet: christmas announcement.”

bruce, who’s been quietly gathering napkins from the lawn, clears his throat. everyone turns. “new year’s,” he says calmly, straightening up. “and i think i’ll be a good grandpa.”

a pause. — then all of them lose it—laughing, shouting over each other, mock gasping like bruce just admitted to watching daytime soaps. “you can’t just drop that!” dick yells, pointing. “you want grandkids?”

“i’d like to think jason’s happy,” bruce replies, folding another chair with ease. “and if he is… i’ll be happy, too.”

cass nods slowly, like it makes perfect sense, barb saying “you’d be a good grandpa. quiet. dramatic.”

steph’s cackling. “and rich!”

“what are you all talking about?” jason calls from across the lawn, finally reappearing with you tucked into his side, both of you glowing in that soft post-chaos calm.

the group goes still. then dick turns around and whistles casually. “nothing. just cleaning up.”

you squint suspiciously. “you’re all acting weird.”

“what else is new?” jason mutters, tugging you closer.

as you both disappear inside to help pack up leftovers, the family watches you go. and bruce, standing at the edge of the patio, just smiles to himself.

maybe soon. — maybe not.

but when it happens, he’ll be ready.

even if that means learning how to baby-proof the manor.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

i love writing sweet moments for jason ☹️ he deserves them!!

i wanna write a part two soon!! this was one of my favorites stories i’ve wrote so far. :3 i love writing jason being expressive and openly sweet— because it’s something you don’t see alot, and for good reason. he’s been through soooo much!!

i enjoy writing angst don’t get me wrong, but fluff i think is more my territory! :3 tell me if you’d like a part two!!

lmk if you’d like more angst stories — or more smut — or more fluff :)

also DM’s are always open <3

PT. 2 link HERE PT.3 link HERE

2K notes · View notes

bananastarlo · 2 months ago

Text

I see you

childhood friend yandere x shy reader

You two are in the same daycare. He is the complete opposite of you — a loud, confident boy who charms both the adults and the other kids with the big grin he always enters the room with.

You, on the other hand, didn’t stick out too much. Always a bit more hesitant and shy around new people.

One of the things on the agenda today was a field trip.

Having arrived at the destination, the caretakers gave you instructions:

“Okay, little stars. Today is a wonderful day to play a game, don’t you agree?“

The others cheered in agreement.

“We hid clues that you’ll be able to find in this area! So get in pairs, if possible with someone new!“

As the childcare worker claps in her hands, the children scatter around, most of them sticking with their usual friend groups.

However, you stayed back. Nobody came up to you, and you were too anxious to approach the others, fidgeting with the sleeves of your shirt while focusing on the ground with your head low.

The caretaker took notice of your little form and exchanged worried glances with the other adults, slowly drawing near and crouching down to your level.

“Hey, have you found a partner yet?“

You shook your head no.

Reaching out her hand, she kindly offered to find a partner for you.

Yet, before you could take her hand, he appears in front of you — scraped knees, a backwards cap and messy hair — flashing you a boyish grin.

“Come on, let’s go together!“ he chirped, eyes glistening with fondness while yours lit up with happiness.

He took your hand and led you to where his friends were. They couldn’t understand why he refused their offer to pair up, until you showed up, shielded by his body.

As you both were hunting for clues, you felt yourself growing more and more relaxed in his presence.

He always protected you from slimy bugs and held your hand so that you wouldn’t get lost without him.

“You’re now my best friend.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question, because he wouldn’t accept you saying no.

And you smiled.

“I like that.”

And the smile you gave him was so genuine, he felt his own heart beating a little more than usual.

You spent the rest of your childhood years sticking to him like glue. You admired him and his presence.

One day, when you were older, you spent time at his house. It was basically yours as well, with how much time you spent there.

Lying next to each other, you faced away from him while he stared at your back, too scared to move.

At times, he could be quiet. He could be soft. But only you were allowed to see this side of him. Only you deserved it.

As he listened to your slow, rhythmic breathing, you turned around.

You weren’t expecting him to be so close — your noses almost touched.

And your stomach flipped at the sight of his half-opened eyes that now widened as much as your own.

He saw it — your pupils, dilated.

His heart began hammering against his ribcage, and he pressed his face into the mattress.

“What?“ you murmured softly.

“N-nothing! You just threw me off guard.”

His response made you chuckle. It was cute to see him without his usual confident tone.

As older teenagers, you both started to see each other differently.

Behind his golden-boy personality and sheepishly handsome face, there was something deeper, a protectiveness directed at you.

He saw you as a woman now. And you, well—

You planned a movie night. Just the two of you.

You’d both been so busy lately, you started to miss his annoying voice and the way he always made you feel right.

As the movie played, you became bored and decided to mess with him a little, just enough to get a reaction.

“Heeey,” you utter, laying your leg on his.

He grinned, showing the dimples you adored so much on him.

But as you started to snuggle up even more and chose to playfully ruffle his messy hair, he became serious.

His hand gently gripped your wrist halfway, and your smile dropped.

“Do you not realize what you’re doing to me? That’s not fair,” his voice croaked — low, with a dangerous hint.

You became nervous and replied, laughing the awkwardness off.

“What do you mean? I’m just playing with you.”

He sighed, propping himself up on top of you, which knocked the breath out of your lungs.

“I’m not the little boy anymore who took these things as innocent gestures. Please acknowledge me as a man. And if you were to do that with every man while being so oblivious… I would rather keep you locked up. Do you understand?”

You couldn’t deny the way that made you feel — more than it should.

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marscardigan · 1 month ago

Text

some protector

ellie williams x female!reader

main masterlist

summary: being mute wasn't easy. especially in a cruel world like this one. but meeting ellie made it easier. it made everything easier.

word count: 9.7k

BY THE TIME they arrived, everything had been reduced to ashes.

Smoke hung heavy in the air, and the screams had long since faded into silence. Half the village's population laid dead, and most of the survivors were critically wounded. Tommy and the others from Jackson had tried to offer aid, but it was futile. There was no saving what remained.

Ellie arrived at dusk, accompanied by other members of the patrol sent to assist. Her stomach churned at the sight. The village was a graveyard. The smell was unbearable; blood, char, and rot. The auburn haired girl stood just behind Tommy, her face partially hidden by the scarf wrapped around her mouth and nose. Her eyes scanned the broken skyline, resting briefly on each ruin, as if trying to memorize every scar the city now wore. They were here to help—if that was even possible anymore.

Jackson's people moved between rubble and collapsed storefronts, pulling out the few who were still breathing, if they could be found. The silence was worse than the screams, it made it feel like the world had already ended.

Tommy looked over his shoulder at her. “Ellie,” he said, voice rough from smoke and exhaustion, “check the perimeter. There might still be people hiding. God knows I would be.”

She nodded without a word, shouldering her backpack and tightening her grip on the rifle slung across her chest. She didn’t need to ask where. She knew how these things played out. Survivors fled to the woods if they could—out of instinct. Somewhere, anywhere, away from fire.

She passed the last burned building and moved through the tree line, her boots sinking into damp, scorched soil. The deeper she went, the quieter it became. Just wind and trees, the faint whisper of smoke following her like a ghost. Then she saw something, some odd movement, just barely.

Ellie froze. “Hello?” she called out softly, not too loud to startle anyone, or anything.

No answer. Just the rustle of leaves. Cautious now, she took a few steps forward, her eyes narrowing at the form ahead, curled up beside the base of a tree, almost camouflaged by dirt and blood.

That was when Ellie found you. Filthy, bruised, covered in cuts—some old, some fresh. Your clothes were torn, bloodied, and your skin had a ghostly paleness that made Ellie stomach twist. She dropped to her knees beside you, reaching out carefully with trembling fingers.

“Shit,” she breathed, kneeling. “Hey… Hey.” She gently pressed her fingers to your neck. Nothing. She pressed again, harder this time. There, a faint thrum. Weak. But it was there. Ellie exhaled in relief. “Holy shit,” she whispered.

But the moment her hand lingered a second too long, your eyes shot open. And then the screaming started. Or... at least, it should have been a scream.

Instead, your mouth opened wide, terror erupting in a voiceless shriek, body convulsing in panic. Arms flailed, and your fists struck weakly against Ellie’s jacket, lips moving rapidly in a silent scream that clawed at Ellie more than sound ever could.

“Hey, hey—no, no, no—” Ellie backed off slightly, raising her hands. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I swear, I’m—”

But you weren’t hearing her. Your mouth moved in desperate gasps, and your hands jerked in odd, frantic patterns—almost like you were trying to say something. Something important. But there were no words. You clawed backward until your body was pressed against the tree trunk, chest heaving, and tears running down your cheeks, blurring your vision.

Ellie’s heart pounded. “Shit… okay, okay, slow down.” She lowered herself into a crouch again, moving like someone approaching a wounded animal. “I’m not gonna touch you, alright? I’m with good people. We came to help. We’re not the ones who did this.”

You were desperately shaking, head darting side to side, as if still expecting the attackers to leap from the trees. Your lips moved again, but still, no sound. Only tears now. And those trembling hands.

Ellie noticed it again. Those movements. Your fingers twitching in repeated, frantic motions. Not erratic. Repetitive. Intentional. Were you trying to speak?

“You’re—” Ellie hesitated. “You’re not talking. Are you mute?”

Your wide eyes locked with hers. Your hands stilled. Then, slowly, you nodded.

Ellie let out a slow breath, her voice gentler now. “Okay. It’s okay. I got it.”

She moved closer, keeping her body low and her hands visible. “I don’t know what you’ve been through,” she said. “But you’re not alone anymore. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

You looked at her—really looked—and something shifted. You didn’t flinch when Ellie reached into her bag, pulling out a flask of water and setting it on the ground between you.

“I don’t know sign language,” Ellie admitted, her eyes never leaving yours. “But… we’ll figure something out.”

You blinked slowly, still tired. Your hands twitched once more—this time slower, more careful—but Ellie still couldn’t understand.

“It’s okay,” Ellie repeated, voice quiet and steady. “You don’t have to talk. Just… nod if you trust me, alright?” A long pause. And then, finally… a tiny, hesitant nod. Ellie smiled. “Good. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

She gently wrapped her jacket around your shoulders, ignoring the flinch that followed, then reached for her radio.

“Tommy,” she said, pressing the button. “I found someone. She’s beat up bad. Young. Alone. Looks like she’s been out here a while. Prepare a medic or two.”

“Copy,” Tommy’s voice crackled back. Ellie looked back at you, who now sat curled beneath her jacket, eyes glassy but no longer wild with panic.

She crouched beside you again, softly: “You’re safe now. I promise.” And for the first time, you didn’t recoil when Ellie reached out.

THE ROAD back to Jackson was long. Too long.

The snow had picked up again, dusting the road ahead in cold silence. Smoke still curled in the sky behind, faint against the horizon, like the town they’d found you in was still screaming. Even if no one could hear it, not anymore.

You sat bundled in the far corner of the transport vehicle, if you could call it that. It was an old military truck with benches bolted to the inside, just enough room for the wounded survivors Tommy had ordered to be brought to Jackson. Ten of them. Mostly women. A few kids. One old man who hadn’t stopped crying since they pulled him from the rubble.

They all needed help. Badly. And yet somehow, you looked like the worst of all of them. You hadn’t looked at anyone. Your hands gripped the blanket Ellie had given you like it was your lifeline, fingers white-knuckled around the fabric. Blood still crusted on your face and arms. Dirt smeared your cheeks. But every time someone tried to touch you—to help—you flinched, trembling so hard your teeth chattered, and recoiled like they were going to burn you alive.

Tommy had tried once. He’d crouched beside you, speaking gently. “You’re alright now. You’re with us.”

But you didn’t look at him. Didn’t move. Your eyes stared ahead like you weren’t even there. Like your body had made it out of that place, but your mind was still buried somewhere near the ash and the blood. Tommy stood back up, exchanging a glance with Ellie. He didn’t say a word, but the worry was clear on his face.

Ellie never left your side. Not for a second. She didn’t try to talk much. She didn’t push. She just stayed close. Always between you and everyone else. Like a silent promise that whatever had happened before—no one here was going to hurt you again. Not on her sight, at least.

The closer they got to Jackson, the more tense everyone became. The survivors were coughing. A child had developed a fever. One woman was clearly suffering from internal bleeding, her skin pale, lips cracked. They weren’t going to make it much longer without help. When the gates of Jackson came into view, Ellie finally exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. You didn’t even lift your head.

At the gates, Maria was already waiting. She scanned the truck as it rolled in, taking in the bloody, battered survivors. Her mouth pulled into a tight line.

“What the hell is this, Tommy?” she asked as he jumped down from the front. The man grabbed his wife’s arm gently and pulled her aside. Still, you could hear their conversation perfectly.

“People,” Tommy said simply. “What’s left of ‘em.”

“I can see that,” Maria snapped. “But we don’t have room in the medical wing. We’ve got our own people who need care. You were supposed to be bringing back supplies.”

Tommy stepped closer, voice low but firm. “Maria. These people are dying. Kids, too. We couldn’t leave them. They need our help.”

The blonde’s jaw clenched. Her gaze flicked toward you—slumped in the corner, unmoving—and for a moment, just a moment, her expression softened.

“Alright,” she said finally. “Triage in the rec center. I’ll talk to the medics. But if anyone from Jackson dies because we couldn’t spare the meds... this is on you.”

Tommy nodded. “I can take that.”

As people started helping the survivors down from the truck, Ellie reached out gently, touching your shoulder. You didn’t flinch—not from her. Just stared down at the floor.

“She’s with me,” Ellie told Tommy, her voice lower now. “I’ll make sure she gets looked at.”

Tommy frowned, watching the way your eyes still hadn’t moved. “What’s goin’ on with her?” he asked. “She hurt or…?”

Ellie hesitated. Then she replied, “I think she’s mute.”

The word hung heavy in the air. Tommy didn’t press. He just nodded and stepped aside.

Later that day, the rec center looked more like a war zone than a gym.

Medics moved between bodies, and in the corner, on a thin mattress with a frayed blanket, you sat curled up. Ellie was nearby. Sitting in a folding chair, elbows on her knees, watching you. But you hadn’t glanced at her way. At least you stopped shivering, and you finally agreed the medics to check on you, to run a few tests.

Still, her knee bounced. She couldn’t stop staring at you. You looked so... small. Not just physically. You looked like someone who had been shrinking for years.

The door opened, and Joel walked in. Dusty from the road, beard longer than usual, with Dina trailing behind him, scarf around her neck and bow slung across her back. They both looked tired. Patrol had taken them out past the rivers this time. Almost a week gone.

“Jesus,” Joel muttered, taking in the scene. “What the hell happened?”

Dina’s eyes swept across the room—until they landed on Ellie. Then you. She moved toward them quickly. “Ellie—hey. You okay?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her jaw was locked tight. Joel followed her gaze, landing on you in the corner. “She one of the survivors?”

Ellie nodded, slowly. “She was alone when we found her. Barely breathing. Beaten up, bruised.”

A medic passed by, glancing at the group. “The girl in the corner? She’s the one with the damaged vocal cords.”

Joel frowned. “What do you mean?”

The medic lowered her voice. “We ran tests. She’s not just mute—she’s been that way a long time. Her vocal cords are scarred. Chemical burns, maybe. Poison. Acid, even. Could’ve happened years ago.”

Ellie felt it all hit at once—revulsion, fury, heartbreak. The kind that rises like bile in your throat. She looked at you again, your back still turned. Your shoulders hunched. Your silence now explained, and still unbearable.

“She never had a chance,” Ellie whispered, mostly to herself. “Not even to scream for help.”

Dina stepped up, arms folded tightly. Her voice broke the silence.

“My sister taught me sign language,” she said gently. “She worked with non-verbal kids in New Mexico.” Ellie turned to her, startled. Dina gave a small nod. “I could try talking to her.”

Ellie didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she nodded. Grateful. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Joel stood silently, staring at you. Something heavy behind his eyes. Something haunted. “Whatever she went through,” he said, his voice low, “we make sure it ends here.”

Ellie looked at you again. You hadn’t turned. But now… maybe they were finally close enough to reach you.

THE MORNING LIGHT in Jackson was comforting. The storm had passed, but everything still felt heavy.

You sat curled in a chair near the window of the medical wing, blanket pulled around your shoulders. Someone had brought tea. It had long since gone cold on the little tray beside you.

You weren’t shivering anymore. You weren’t flinching when people walked by or whispered. You were just quiet. Still. Like the air before snowfall.

When footsteps approached, you didn’t turn.

“Hey,” Ellie’s voice came from the doorway. Softer this time. Less like she was afraid of scaring you, more like she didn’t want to break whatever fragile moment you were wrapped inside.

You turned your head slightly. Just enough to see her standing there with Dina.

“Mind if we come in?” the brunette asked.

You hesitated. Then gave the smallest nod. They moved in quietly, settling on the bench near your chair. Dina took the spot closest to you, while Ellie sat beside her, leaning forward, hands between her knees.

Ellie tried first. “How are you feeling?”

You blinked. Looked down at your lap. Then, slowly—almost unsure—you raised your hands. Your fingers moved with care, like it had been a long time since someone had truly watched you speak this way.

Dina leaned in. “She’s saying... she’s better today,” she translated, glancing at Ellie. “Tired. But not scared.”

Ellie smiled, just a little. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

You watched her for a moment. Then signed again, slower this time.

“She wants to tell us something,” Dina said. Her voice dropped. “She’s going to tell us what happened.”

Ellie’s posture stiffened. She glanced at you, her chest already tightening. No survivor have had the guts to explain what happened. A man tried once, but panic overtook him before he could finish.

You began signing. Dina translated, her voice quieter now, more careful. Like she was laying out pieces of you with every word. “She says… after her father died, she lived in that village for a few years. Alone mostly. The others… they knew she was there, but no one really asked her about it. She couldn’t talk, so they just… let her be. She fixed broken things. Helped tend the crops. People were kind enough, but it wasn’t home.”

You paused. Your face was blank, but your fingers tightened before moving again.

Dina continued. “She had a place at the edge of the houses. Close to the woods. Far enough that she could sleep without hearing people at night.” Your hands kept going. “She says one morning, a group of men came. Not infected. Just people. They looked like they’d been traveling for weeks—scarred, armed, desperate. They claimed they were traders at first. But they started asking about supplies. Ammunition. Medicine.”

Your hands stopped briefly, fingers trembling, then continued.

“They found out the village had nothing to offer. No luxuries. Just the basics. So they… they took what they could. Someone had hidden away rations, alcohol, painkillers—things scavenged over the years. When the men couldn’t find more, they got angry.” Dina paused, her throat tightening. “They lit the houses on fire.”

You looked away now, your shoulders hunching inward. “She tried to help. Tried to pull someone out of a burning home. But one of the men hit her—hard. Threw her against a wall. And when they noticed she couldn’t talk, they took her to the forest. The men—uh—”

Dina stopped talking. Ellie didn’t need to hear the rest of it. You didn’t look at her, but you heard it. The room went quiet. You finally looked at Ellie. And signed, slowly: “And then you found me.” Dina translated it. But she didn’t need to. Ellie understood that one.

Ellie’s eyes met yours, and something cracked inside her. Not pain. Something warmer, something painful but… human. She didn’t say anything. She raised her hands awkwardly, fingers a little stiff. Then, slowly, clumsily, she moved them. “You. Safe.”

It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. But you understood it. Your throat tightened. You gave her the smallest nod.

A WEEK had passed since your arrival.

The snow had finally started melting around the outskirts of the town, revealing muddy patches of earth where winter had gripped too tightly for too long. Ellie stood near the wooden gate, arms crossed, watching the group of survivors getting ready to leave.

The ones from the burned village were chattering quietly, packing up what they'd been given. Fresh food. Blankets. Maps. A promise of an escort back to whatever scraps of family they still had waiting. They were smiling. Everyone was grateful. Excited, even. All except you.

Ellie spotted it immediately. You were off to the side, near the stone edge of the wall, body drawn in tight, like you were trying to disappear into yourself. Your arms were shaking. Your fingers twitching against your thighs.

She took a step toward you just as Dina’s voice called from behind her, “They’re almost ready to head out. Maria’s gonna do the final check-in.”

But Ellie wasn’t listening. Her eyes hadn’t left you. You looked like you were about to vomit. Then it happened: a sharp shake of your head. Violent. Repeated. Your breath caught. You stumbled back, and then you were trembling, hands raised, desperate to sign something, anything, but your fingers were sloppy, frantic. You couldn’t get the shapes right.

Ellie was already moving. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” she said, dropping beside you.

Dina and Tommy were just behind her, closing in. Maria walked fast from the other side of the gate, frowning. Tommy crouched, reaching gently for your arm. “It’s okay, kiddo. We’re gonna get you back to your people—”

But you yanked away like his hand burned. The panic boiled over. Your eyes wide, breath sharp, and you were signing in quick bursts now, so messy even Dina had to pause before translating.

“She says—she says she doesn’t want to go back,” Dina murmured. “She says there’s nothing left fot her there. No family. No one waiting. It’s… it’s bad there. She says she can help here. That she wants to help. Please—she’s saying please over and over.”

Maria frowned. “We agreed Jackson doesn’t—”

“She can stay.” Ellie’s voice cut clean through the air.

Everyone looked at her. Maria blinked. “Ellie.”

“No, listen.” Ellie turned to her, stepping between you and the others. “She’s not sick. She can learn to help here.”

“She needs care—” Maria started, but Ellie didn’t flinch.

“—so give her care,” she said. “You did it for me. For Joel. You do it for people all the time when it’s the right thing. This is the right thing.”

Maria looked like she wanted to argue. But Tommy stepped forward, hands resting on his hips. “She’s right,” he said quietly. “Let her stay.”

Maria turned to look at you then. You were still shaking, eyes wide and full of raw, silent fear. But you weren’t signing anymore. You were just… watching. Waiting. And something in Maria’s face cracked.

She exhaled slowly. “We’ve got one unoccupied space down by the south end. It’s small, but it’s clean. I’ll clear it with the board. But this is your responsibility, Ellie. If it doesn’t work—”

“It will.”

Maria nodded, tight-lipped, and turned away.

The space wasn’t much more than a glorified shed.

An old maintenance room near the edge of the farming district, with one small window and thin walls. The mattress was clean, the oil lamp on the table was half-full, and someone had left a knitted blanket at the foot of the bed—blue with crooked stitches.

You sat on the edge, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor.

Ellie knocked once and stepped in.

“You, uh… you decent?” she joked half-heartedly.

No answer, of course. You looked at her slowly, eyes rimmed red from earlier. She walked in anyway, looking around. The room was bare. White walls. No posters. No clothes. No books. Just a silent girl and an untouched space.

“No pressure or anything,” Ellie muttered, “but this place kinda sucks.” Your mouth curled, barely. Just enough for her to notice.

Ellie reached into her jacket and pulled something out. A folded square of paper.

She handed it to you and waited while you unfolded it. A sketch— rough pencil strokes, smudged shading. A moth, wings spread wide, drawn on the corner of a windowsill.

You traced the wings gently. “I dunno,” Ellie said, fidgeting with her fingers. “Figured maybe you could put something on the walls.”

You didn’t sign anything. But you nodded. It was the first nod you’d given all day.

Ellie stayed until the sun dipped low, and the light faded into that soft blue shadow you only get in the mountains. When she stood to leave, you reached out—not to stop her, but to hand her the drawing again.

She shook her head, smiling at you. “It’s yours now.”

You didn’t smile. But when she left, you pinned the drawing to the wall above your bed. And for the first time since you’d arrived, you slept through the night.

YOU WEREN’T used to peace.

At first, it made you feel anxious. Like quiet was something dangerous. But days passed, and nothing shattered. No fires. No screams. No alarms. Just the thump of boots on snow-soft ground, the whinny of horses, and the occasional dog barking across the fencing.

And people? They weren’t what you expected. No disgusted stares. No cruel whispers. No pity in their eyes. Just… quiet nods. Respectful distance. Some even smiled when you passed. They didn’t expect you to speak. They didn’t press. They just treated you like a normal human being.

It felt strange. But not bad. You kept yourself busy, anyway. Staying in your room made the silence loud again, so you found ways to fill the hours.

At the stables, you brushed and fed the horses. At the medical wing, you helped sort herbs, stitch torn blankets, organize kits. The nurses didn’t talk much, but they smiled in thanks when you caught their mistakes. You were good at reading patterns. Noticing things.

And at the storage barn, you worked beside Dina. She didn’t say much at first. Just stacked crates with you, passed you water, bumped your shoulder when you looked tired. But by the second day, she started moving her hands in a way that caught your attention.

Sign language. Half of it wrong. You raised a brow. She laughed, shrugging. Then signed: “My sister taught me, but lost practice.”

From then on, every time you worked together, she practiced. She corrected herself when she got it wrong. You teached her simple phrases that could be useful for patrols, like— “Are you okay?, help me, stay quiet, Danger.”

Sometimes, Ellie joined you both during free time and watched, arms crossed, pretending she wasn’t interested. But you caught her mouthing the words. Her fingers twitching, trying to mirror yours.

Still, there were people who found odd your… limited vocabulary, to say the least. You were mute, but not deaf. The elders sometimes offered fake kindness, and a couple of teens treated you like you were a sideshow. Whispered jokes behind your back. Laughed when you turned, knowing you couldn’t call them out.

You were at the stable, finishing your chores for the day, when a group of young teenagers snuck inside. As you stepped into the storage room to grab some tools, the door slammed shut behind you. The door slammed shut behind you. At first, it was just the sound. The thud of it. Then came the click of the latch. And then, darkness.

You froze. No light. No cracks in the wood. No way to see the space around you.

And just like that, it hit you. The woods. The smoke curling up into the treetops. The cries. The screams. The pain. Your body limp and bloody in the snow. Now here you were again. Trapped. Powerless. Alone.

Your breath caught. You pounded your fists against the door, over and over. You wanted to scream. Your body tried to scream. But nothing came. Just air and desperation.

You crumbled against the wood, nails scratching at it like an animal. Tears blurred your vision, heart hammering. You were shaking. Falling back into yourself, into the dark part where the only thing that existed was fear.

Time slipped away. You didn't know how long you were in there. Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour? It didn’t matter, because it was long enough. Long enough to collapse into the floor, fear and guilt eating you alive.

Ellie noticed you were gone the moment she got to her room.

Your notebook was still on the table. The blanket was folded the way you always left it when you planned to come back. Something was wrong.

She went to the medical wing first, and asked if you'd stopped by to help with the supply run. Then the town hall. Then Dina’s greenhouse. Each time, her voice got tenser, sharper.

“No, haven’t seen her.”

“She was supposed to help with the stables today, wasn’t she?”

Ellie froze. The stables. Of course. You always stayed late there. Shimmer was like your therapy, your comfort. If something had happened—

She was already running. By the time she got to the stables, the sun had dipped low, and the place was nearly empty. Most of the horses were asleep in their pens, the lights dimmed to a faint amber glow. It was quiet.

Too quiet. Ellie’s stomach dropped.

She walked past the rows of stalls, listening. Nothing. Nothing but the quiet huffs of horses and the creak of old wood. Before she could leave, she heard a sound. Muffled. Faint. Almost too soft to notice.

And it was coming from the supply room.

Ellie rushed over, her heart now pounding in her ears. The door was closed. No light leaked from under the crack.

She pressed her ear to it. And heard a whimper. A cry. Shaky, broken. Yours.

“Shit—”

She threw herself at the door. It didn’t budge. Again. And again. On the third try, the old hinges groaned, and the door burst inward.

The sight stopped her breath.

You were huddled in the corner, back against the wall, arms wrapped around your knees. Your chest was heaving. You were soaked in sweat. Your nails had blood under them. You didn’t even look up at first— just shook violently, stuck in the loop of whatever memories had come rushing in.

“Hey,” Ellie said, dropping to her knees. “Hey, hey—look at me. It’s me. I’m here.”

Your eyes flicked up, wide and full of terror. Then softened. But the tears kept falling.

You reached for her. Barely. She pulled you into her arms. She held you so tightly, you could feel her heart thudding against yours.

“You’re safe,” she whispered into your hair. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

She stayed there with you until your breathing slowed, until the shaking lessened. Until the memory began to dissolve just a little. She didn’t let go.

Later that night, wrapped in a blanket in Ellie’s garage, you sat beside her on the old couch. Your eyes were red and tired. Your hands moved slowly, shakily.

“I thought I was back there,” you signed. “In the woods.”

Ellie nodded. “I know. I know.”

“It felt the same.”

She reached out and gently brushed your knuckles with her thumb. “I should’ve been there. I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “It was not your fault.”

Ellie sighed, then moved closer. “You're here now. That’s what matters. You're safe. And I won’t ever let anyone do that to you again.”

You let her lean her forehead against yours. You exhaled softly. Your fingers moved once more.

“I was scared.”

She pulled you against her side, her arm around your shoulders.

“I was scared too,” she admitted quietly. “When I couldn’t find you. I thought—” she stopped, swallowed hard. “I don’t want to lose you. Ever.”

You nodded, slowly. Then leaned your head against her shoulder.

Outside, Jackson carried on with its usual rhythm. But in that garage, all that existed was the hush of breath, the warmth of touch, and the unspoken promise that Ellie would never let you fall into the dark alone again.

She couldn’t wait to speak to those kids and show them real fear.

THE GARAGE Ellie had turned into her room was dim and quiet that night.

Her guitar sat in the corner, dusty but cared for. A pile of comic books sat untouched next to her bed. And pinned to the wall beside her drawings was something new.

A sketch. It wasn’t finished, but it was clearly you. It was you, brushing Shimmer’s hair. A gentle expression on your face, eyes closed in focus, hair loose around your shoulders. Ellie had started it the night before, couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how peaceful you looked.

She didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

“You drawin’ again?” Joel’s voice broke through the stillness.

Ellie jumped, stuffing the sketch under her pillow in one sharp motion. “Jesus—don’t sneak up like that.”

Joel chuckled, arms crossed. “I knocked,” he said. “You just didn’t answer.”

Ellie shifted, awkward. “Just… sketching. Helps me sleep sometimes.”

Joel looked around the room, taking in the quiet. He nodded toward the pillow.

“That her?”

Ellie’s face went red. “None of your business.”

He smiled, soft. Not teasing, just… knowing.

“She’s a good kid,” he said. “Saw her helpin’ over at the stables this morning. Gentle hands. Real focused.”

Ellie looked down, playing with her fingers nervously.

Joel leaned against the workbench. “Listen. I was talkin’ to Maria. Said some patrol members were askin’ about hand signals. Quiet communication. Stuff you can use when there’s infected close and you don’t wanna make a sound.”

Ellie blinked. “Like… what Dina’s teaching me?”

Joel nodded. “Exactly. She told me the new girl has been helpin’ with that.”

“She’s smart,” Ellie said quietly. “Learns fast.”

Joel gave a low hum. “Sounds familiar.” Ellie shot him a look, but he was already walking toward the door. “She keeps it up,” he said, “it might be worth havin’ her on patrol. Not now, but down the line. Could teach the others what she knows.” Before he left, he added, without turning. “You’re good with her, kid. She trusts you.”

And then he was gone. Ellie exhaled. She pulled the sketch back out from under the pillow. Then pinned it to the wall.

IT WAS A Thursday when Ellie showed up at your door holding something behind her back. You opened it slowly, a blanket still draped around your shoulders, hair messily braided from the day before. You blinked sleep from your eyes.

Ellie grinned. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not a bomb or anything.” You tilted your head. “I brought you something,” she said, stepping inside without asking—because by now, she didn’t need to.

From behind her back, she pulled out a CD player. A real, beat-up, scratched little thing, with worn buttons and cracked volume dials. But it had a soul. And inside it, she'd already loaded the first disc.

“I figured… I dunno. You’ve probably never had time for music. Not real music, anyway. Not the stuff that doesn’t come from a panic radio signal.” You reached out, gently touching the top of it. Ellie was already kneeling, plugging in the cord to the wall, twisting the dial.

A click. A soft whirr. Then the warm crackle of static turned into music. Not loud. Just enough to fill the room. The guitar riff was old-school. Something from the seventies, maybe. You didn’t recognize the song. But Ellie was tapping her foot and mouthing along.

“Fleetwood Mac,” she said with a smirk, glancing at you. You gave a ghost of a laugh. Silent, but real. Then nodded. You liked it. Ellie watched your face carefully.

She sat down cross-legged beside the little player, then reached into her coat and pulled out three more CDs. She fanned them out on the floor like they were cards in a game.

“This one’s The Police. This one’s the Talking Heads. And this—this is my personal favorite.” She held it up proudly. “Aerosmith: Greatest Hits.” You squinted, amused. “Don’t give me that look,” Ellie muttered, clearly flustered. “I know the covers are cheesy. But it slaps, okay? You ever heard Crazy? No? Oh man, you’re in for a ride.”

You reached out slowly. You didn't sign anything, but your eyes said enough. This meant something. Ellie just smiled at you, cheeks red but eyes proud.

“Press this button to open the tray,” she explained, showing you patiently. “And this skips tracks. Here’s the volume. And if it makes that grinding noise again, just smack the side like this.” She did it and immediately winced. “Okay, maybe not that hard.”

Two days later, Ellie woke up to a soft knock on the garage door. When she opened it, no one was there.

But lying on the step was a gently folded note, creased twice, smudged in the corner where a thumb must have pressed too hard. Ellie’s heart jumped. She recognized your handwriting immediately. It was small, tidy, with the slant of someone who’d taught themselves without anyone ever correcting them. She unfolded it slowly. Inside, in careful words, was a list:

CD 1 – Fleetwood Mac: Landslide CD 2 – The Police: Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic CD 3 – Talking Heads: This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody) CD 4 – Aerosmith: Dream On

At the bottom, just beneath the last line, was one more word, written in smaller script: “Thank you.”

Ellie stared at the page for a long time. She read it once. Then again. Then a third time, tracing her fingers over each song like they meant something more now. Like they were your voice. Oh. Your voice. There wasn’t a day she didn’t grieve your voice. She was sure it was the best melody of all. Above from every track. Above from any music note.

But maybe, just maybe, this was enough. Ellie sank down into the chair near her workbench and smiled—really smiled, one of those rare, crooked things that made her freckles stand out and her nose scrunch just a little. “She likes Dream On,” she mumbled to herself.

From that day on, music became part of your language. There wasn’t a day when your small cabin wasn’t flooded with melodies from decades ago.

Ellie would bring new CDs each week—stuff she bartered for, stuff she found on abandoned shelves, anything that might work. And every time, two or three days later, she’d find a note on her doorstep. Your handwriting. Your picks. Sometimes you’d even underline lyrics. Other times you'd draw a little doodle beside a title—a heart, a star, a tiny sketch of Shimmer or a cassette tape.

It wasn’t long before you started leaving music playing in your room when Ellie visited. The sound would greet her before you did, like a secret message. One day, she walked in and found you swaying slightly in your chair to David Bowie, and she nearly dropped the water canister she was carrying.

“You're gonna give me a heart attack,” she muttered, trying not to smile too big.

And you? You just gave her a thumbs up and kept dancing.

Ellie wasn’t sure when it happened. The shift.

She’d always liked being around you. She liked the quiet, the lack of pressure. But somewhere between the notes and the signs, something deeper started to bloom. Something that made her stomach twist in weird, ridiculous knots.

She caught herself watching you more.

Not just because she was worried or curious. But because she liked the shape of your laugh, even if it was silent. She liked the way your face lit up when she remembered something you didn’t think she would—like how you always skipped track three, or how you preferred peppermint tea over chamomile.

She liked how your eyes crinkled when you teased her with hand signs, “slow down, you talk too fast.”

And she really, really liked when your fingers would brush hers while passing a note, and you didn’t pull away.

WHEN spring came, you were a completely different person.

Gone was the ghost of the girl who’d arrived trembling and blood-soaked on the edge of Jackson’s woods. The one who wouldn’t let anyone near. Who flinched from a soft touch and couldn't fall asleep without checking the windows five times.

Now, you stood taller. You looked people in the eyes.

Your hair had grown longer and shinier, often braided back with a little green ribbon Ellie found in the trading post. You’d gained weight, enough to make your clothes fit better, and your eyes look less sunken. You looked healthy. You looked present. And you looked happy. Words weren’t necessary to notice it. They never were.

By now, sign language had spread across Jackson like wildfire.

Dina had started it—volunteering to teach lessons in the evenings at the town hall for anyone who wanted to learn. What started as a curiosity quickly turned into something vital. Because once people realized how useful quiet communication could be during patrols, it was no longer just a gesture of kindness. It was about survival.

There were stories—a team who spotted a runner too close thanks to a signed warning. A pair of patrol members who navigated around a horde without making a single sound, all because they could speak with their hands.

You became the unofficial teacher, alongside Dina.

Some nights you’d stand in front of the room with a small notebook, writing down sequences and watching the crowd mimic you. Kids learned fastest—teenagers who liked how slick it felt to talk in silence. Old folks struggled with the finger speed but didn’t give up.

And Ellie? Ellie learned just for you. She still fumbled sometimes. Signed something completely wrong and ended up telling you she was a “sad fly” instead of “feeling tired.” But she always made you laugh. And the look she gave you every time she got something right? Pure gold.

It was early, the sun still low behind Jackson’s rooftops, when someone knocked gently on your door, The Cure making everything softer. You opened it to find Maria, hands in her jacket pockets, eyes kind but serious.

She waited a beat before speaking. “You’ve been doing real good around here.” You tilted your head, unsure where this was going. “You’ve been… helping. At the stables. Organizing supplies. Teaching.” She paused. “We’ve been watching. You’re steady. And smart.”

“Thing is, there’s a patrol scheduled tomorrow,” she continued. “North route. We could use someone with your skills. Think you’re ready to head out there?”

Your heart pounded. Ready? You hadn’t left the gates since the day you were brought here. You looked down, fingers twitching slightly, signing the word for yes, slow but certain.

Maria smiled softly. “We thought you might agree to that.”

Ellie was the first one to volunteer. The only one, really. The next morning, you stood by the gate—nervous but prepared. Bow slung over your back. Hands steady.

She grinned when she saw you. “Got your game face on, huh?”

You signed “fuck off,” and she burst out laughing.

“You’re too good at that, it’s not fair.”

You rode side by side out into the woods. The snow had mostly melted. Green was returning to the world, shy and slow. Birds chirped above you, and the air had that damp, earthy smell of thawed soil and new beginnings.

Ellie showed you how to spot tracks, how to tell the difference between deer and runners, where to look for broken branches and disturbed dirt. You, on the other hand, taught her how to signal danger in complete silence, how to hold up a closed fist to stop, how to sign clicker or infected or hide in seconds.

You worked like you'd been doing this together for years.

And when a pair of clickers stumbled too close to a creek where you rested, you didn’t panic. You touched Ellie’s shoulder and signed two, right, close— and she nodded instantly, pulling her knife free. It was very effective, to say the least.

That patrol became two. Then four. Then a dozen. You and Ellie became a team. Every time your name was on the board, so was hers.

The rhythm of riding out, scouting, signing small jokes, and sharing your rations. Watching the sun rise over misty hills. Sitting in watchtowers with your boots kicked up and her shoulder brushing yours.

Sometimes you caught her staring. Sometimes she caught you doing the same. Neither of you said a word about it. But everyone else could see it.

IT HAD STARTED like any other patrol.

The clouds were heavy that morning, hanging low and gray over the mountain ridge. You rode out alongside Jesse and another scout, Cal, toward the outskirts of an abandoned rail line two hours away from Jackson. You were tracking a runner sighting someone had reported near the water tanks.

Ellie was on a separate route that day. She’d offered to switch with Jesse when she saw your name on the roster, but Maria insisted she stay on her scheduled path to cover more ground. You kissed her knuckles before separating at the gates, your silent way of saying, be safe.

She signed back, “always.”

You felt something wrong about five minutes before it happened.

Cal had to take a break a few minutes ago, staying by the station, leaving you alone with the other man. Jesse walked ahead, scanning, his rifle slung over his shoulder. You stayed back, close to the train tracks, half-swallowed by grass. You were just signing to Jesse that you thought something was off when a gunshot cracked through the trees. Then pain. The next few seconds blurred into chaos.

You hit the ground, hard. Your ears rang. Two masked men came out of nowhere—one of them slammed Jesse’s head into the ground with the butt of a rifle. You tried to pull your knife, but a boot pinned your wrist to the mud.

They weren’t infected. They weren’t raiders looking for supplies. They were looking for you. Sudden flashbacks of that one night came running through your mind as more hands grabbed your arms. You kicked and thrashed, but they hit hard and fast, knocking the wind out of you. You reached for your belt, trying to scream for help. But nothing came out.

Just air and silence. Your throat pulsed, desperate and useless.

They laughed when they realized you couldn’t scream. One of them leaned down close, breathing in your face. “That’s new. Ain’t that something?” He shoved your face into the mud. “Try to scream. Come on. Do it.”

You gasped, silent, your body wracked with panic.

They started to beat you then. Not enough to kill you, but almost. One of them held your arms while the other kicked your ribs, again and again and again. Another hit your face with a rifle stock, splitting your lip, knocking your head sideways.

“Let’s see what sounds she makes when we break her.”

You couldn’t scream. So they kept going.

By the time they dragged you into an old barn nearby, Jesse was still unconscious, and you were barely breathing. Where the hell was Cal? Did they got them too? Blood trickled down your jaw and pooled in your shirt. You tried to sign for help, your hands shaking uncontrollably. The tall man laughed and tied your wrists.

And that’s when they brought Ellie in.

Tied. Kicking. Bloody from a fight of her own.

Her eyes met yours across the barn, and she screamed.

“NO! No, no— DON’T YOU DARE TO TOUCH HER!”

They slammed her into a beam and tied her arms above her head. One man punched her gut hard enough to make her gasp, but Ellie barely flinched. Her eyes were locked on you, face contorted in pure rage.

“What the fuck did she ever do to you?! HUH?! You cowards!”

“Leave her alone!" Ellie shouted. "She didn’t do anything!”

They laughed. One of them stepped close to you. He grabbed your face, turning it side to side. When they saw how Ellie screamed for you, cried for you, they smiled. That was the fuel they wanted.

They pulled you forward again, cut your shirt open, and shoved you to the floor. Ellie thrashed wildly in her restraints.

“Stop it! STOP—PLEASE!”

“STOP! YOU FUCKING COWARDS!”

You couldn’t scream. You could only gasp, your body shaking violently, your lungs burning as you tried and failed to make a sound.

And when they got tired of you, they started hurting her.

One of them stabbed her leg. She howled in agony. Another one broke a rib with the heel of his boot. You could hear the sickening snap. And you couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t save her.

Until something inside you twisted. The man pinning you laughed as Ellie cried your name. Something feral surged through your chest. You watched as his arm pressed roughly on your throat. And you bit it down. Hard.

So hard, you tasted blood and tendon.

He screamed and tried to jerk away, but you didn’t let go. You bit through him until he fell back, blood pouring down your chin. You grabbed the knife he dropped in panic, and before the others could react, you plunged it into his neck. Once. Twice. A third time. Screaming silently, stabbing again and again, the blade punching through soft flesh and cartilage.

You acted fast. One of the others lunged toward Ellie. He had no time to react. You tackled him and drove the blade into his chest, over and over, until your hands were slick with red, and his body stopped moving.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not until Ellie—barely conscious, bleeding out—whispered your name. “Hey. Hey, it’s me. It’s me.”

Your hands trembled as she reached for you.

Her fingers were slick with blood— her own. You dropped the knife, gasping in silence, eyes darting across her wounds.

“Blood. Blood.” You signed frantically. “Blood. You. Blood. Bad.”

Ellie reached up, her touch featherlight.

“I’m okay. I’m okay. You saved me. Look at me. Look at me.”

Her voice cracked with emotion as she whispered, “We’re okay. You did good. You did so good.”

You curled into her, hands clutching her jacket like a lifeline, heart pounding against hers. Ellie, still bleeding, still aching, pulled you closer like she could protect you from everything.

You sobbed without sound. And she held you until the others found you both.

THE RIDE back to Jackson was a blur.

You didn’t remember mounting the horse. You didn’t remember Cal helping Ellie stay upright in the saddle, or Jesse—bruised but alive—riding close behind.

You didn’t remember the whispers. Or the way people gasped when they saw the blood all over you, sticky and dried in layers.

You kept your eyes on Ellie the whole way. Her head leaned against your shoulder, barely conscious, breath hitching with every step the horse took.

You’d already cleaned the blade before anyone found you. You didn’t know why. Maybe instinct. Maybe shame. Maybe you didn’t want her to see how much you enjoyed it— how much of yourself you'd left in that abandoned building.

They took Ellie straight to the med bay.

You refused to let go of her hand. Even as Maria shouted for you to step aside. Even when they pulled back her jacket and revealed the cuts, the bruises, the deep gash along her thigh. You stayed. Not a single nurse tried to fight you on it.

You sat beside her as they stitched her up, cleaned the wounds, reset the cracked rib. She didn’t flinch once. She kept watching you the whole time, her green eyes tracing the dried blood on your cheeks, the tremble in your fingertips.

“...You okay?” she whispered, voice hoarse.

You nodded. But you weren’t.

Later that night, when the sun dipped behind the mountains and Jackson returned to its soft yellow haze of warm lights and guarded walls, Ellie knocked at your door.

She looked tired. Wrapped in a blanket. Her face was pale, the bruises starting to darken. A strip of gauze around her arm, another across her ribs. But she was walking.

And she was alone. “I can’t sleep,” she said quietly. “Wanna come to mine?”

You nodded and followed. The garage was dimly lit, smelling faintly of old leather, music, and a little bit of her. Posters lined the walls, drawings pinned in uneven rows.

You’d been here before—but never like this. You sat cross-legged on her mattress, across from her. Hands tucked in your lap, still trembling a little.

The silence stretched long. But it didn’t hurt. You watched the way she stared at her hands. The gauze on her fingers. The small cuts beneath her chin. The melody of Take On Me was caressing the walls of the garage. Ellie knew how much you loved that song.

You smiled sadly. Then your hands moved. “I’m sorry.” Again. “I’m sorry.” Your signs were shaking. Urgent. Repeating. Over and over.

Ellie moved to sit beside you. Close enough to touch. She placed a hand gently over yours. “Stop,” she said, softly. “I’m not sorry. Not for what you did. Not for any of it.”

Your breath caught. You looked at her. Her fingers trembled as she raised her hands.

She signed—slowly, carefully, but certain. “I love you.”

No stutter. No mistake. The motion was clear. Firm. Honest.

Your lips parted. Not for sound. Just for breath. You stared at her, eyes wide. And then, you smiled. For the first time since the barn, a full, real smile. And you leaned forward. Ellie met you halfway.

Her lips were warm, soft, trembling against yours.

She tasted like peppermint and tea, and the metal tang of healing wounds. Her hand cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing the bruise on your cheek. She was careful with you, and you were careful with her.

When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “Not ever.”

You nodded, and your fingers rose again. “Me neither.”

A FEW WEEKS had passed since the attack.

Your injuries had healed for the most part. The bruises faded, the cuts scabbed and softened to scars. But the ache lingered. Neither of you spoke about it anymore. Not in words. Not in signs. But you both knew. You always did.

Ellie had promised you one thing the night she kissed you, forehead to forehead in the garage: that someday, she’d take you somewhere no one else knew about. Somewhere quiet. Safe. Yours.

And one morning, when the sun broke through the trees in soft shafts and the air smelled like early spring grass, she showed up at your door with a half-smile and a bag over her shoulder.

“Come with me,” she signed.

And you did.

It was a three-hour hike outside the west perimeter of Jackson. Off patrol routes, through pine forest and over mossy, half-rotted logs. The deeper you went, the quieter it got. Just birds and your boots and the sound of Ellie humming under her breath, almost unconsciously.

By the time you reached the lake, your chest ached with how beautiful it was.

It wasn’t large, but the water was glass-clear and edged by smooth, sun-warmed rocks. Pines framed it like watchful giants. A single wooden dock jutted out near one edge, old and mossy but still solid.

You smiled, wide and open, and turned to Ellie in a flash of excitement.

She was already looking at you, grinning.

“Told you it was worth it,” she said, brushing a curl behind her ear.

You nodded, signing, “Beautiful.”

Ellie shrugged, bashful. “Yeah. You are.” You blinked, and she coughed. “I-I mean—yeah, it’s beautiful. It. The lake. Shut up.”

She scratched the back of her neck, trying not to look at you directly as you began to pull your jacket off. You stripped down to your underwear slowly, mostly because the sun felt good on your skin and your bruises no longer hurt. Your scars caught the light, silvered now. You stood barefoot at the edge of the lake and glanced back.

Ellie was very visibly trying not to stare. Her face was beet red. You smirked at her.

“Come on,” you signed, beckoning her.

She cleared her throat and peeled off her flannel, boots, and jeans until she was in her tank top and boxers. When she joined you at the water’s edge, she couldn’t meet your eyes.

Then you both dove in, gasping at first, then laughing breathlessly, flailing for a moment before adjusting. You swam circles around her, light and weightless in the water, while Ellie trod with a smile so big it almost looked painful.

You splashed her. She splashed back harder. You dove under and tugged at her ankle. She yelped and nearly went under, laughing.

It was like time slowed down. The world, so often filled with tension and noise and pain, had simply fallen silent. The only sounds were water ripples, quiet laughter, the distant call of birds.

At one point, you floated on your back beside her, arms out like wings.

Ellie watched you, eyes soft. The cut across her nose had faded, but her lip still had a tiny scar where the stitches had been.

You signed to her lazily, hands moving across the water’s surface. “So pretty.”

She blinked. And then she realized you meant her.

Her cheeks flushed deep red, like the sun had suddenly turned up just for her.

“Oh,” she muttered, blinking fast. “Um. You too. I mean—not that you didn’t already know that. You’re, like—yeah. You’re a lot.”

Later, you both climbed out of the lake, dripping and shivering but grinning. Ellie laid out her flannel and you both sprawled on it in the sun, half-dried, steam rising from your clothes.

Your hair was damp and tangled. Her arm was loosely draped over your thigh, fingertips idly tracing the old scar above your knee. You were still. Safe.

You’d been practicing something all week in your cabin, when you arrived at night after doing your daily chores. Ellie had shown you a few times, patiently, her fingers in her mouth, her whistle sharp and clear.

It had taken days to figure it out. You couldn’t hum or sing or shout. But this—this was yours. So, you puckered your lips and whistled. A little shaky at first. But then steady. A tune Ellie liked—one she’d played on her guitar months ago. Future Days.

She froze, and looked up at you.

You kept going. The little melody warbling gently into the air.

Ellie stared, eyes wide, lips parted just slightly. She leaned up on one elbow, and her hand stayed on your leg.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “You are the best.” You tilted your head, a questioning smile. She just shook hers. “You don’t even know, do you?”

You shrugged playfully. She leaned in and kissed your shoulder. Then your cheek, and finally your chapped lips. Then rested her head just below your collarbone, eyes closed.

“Stay here a while longer,” she murmured.

You wrapped an arm around her. Fingers tangled in her damp hair.

The sun was warm. The water glinted. And for the first time in what felt like years, the world didn’t feel cruel.

Before the sun set, you were already packing to go back home. Ellie was checking Shimmer when you nervously opened your bag. Inside was a folded-up piece of paper. You chewed your lip and stared at it for a second before finally walking over and nudging Ellie’s shoulder gently. She turned, and you held the drawing out with both hands. Immediately shy.

Ellie sat up straighter. “What’s that?”

You didn’t sign. Just pushed it gently into her hands, already starting to blush.

She unfolded the page slowly, and her eyes widened the moment she saw it.

It was her. A little smudgy in some areas, sure. Maybe the proportions weren’t perfect; her jaw was a bit too square, her nose slightly off-center, but it was her. Sitting under a tree with her guitar in her lap. Her brows furrowed in focus. Hair curling beneath her ears. A little crease at the corner of her lips like she was about to smile.

She stared at it longer than she probably realized.

When she looked up again, you were biting the inside of your cheek, shoulders hunched slightly, like you were bracing for her to laugh.

Instead, Ellie smiled. Soft. Real. Almost awed.

“Are you serious?” she said. “You drew this?” You nodded, sheepish. Ellie looked back down at it. “Holy shit. This is awesome. Like— actually awesome.”

“You're just being nice.”

She looked up, scandalized. “I am not just being nice!”

You signed with a playful grin. “Says the girl who draws like a professional comic book artist.”

Ellie huffed. “Okay, rude. Yours is just… different. It’s good. Like, warm, you know?” You tilted your head. “Like,” she continued, waving the paper, “you didn’t just draw me. You got the way I sit. That stupid thing I do with my fingers when I’m thinking.”

You lifted your brows. “Stupid?”

She gave you a look. “Yeah, you know, the thing where I— okay, you’re making that face again. Stop!”

You laughed silently, shoulders shaking. She carefully placed the drawing in her pocket, smoothing the edges.

After a few moments of quiet, you signed again. “You’re my favorite thing to draw.”

Ellie’s ears turned red. She didn’t say anything for a second. Then, shyly, “...Will you show me more sometime?”

You looked up at her with a small nod. Ellie leaned in and kissed your forehead.

“I wanna hang that one up,” she whispered. “Right next to our music notes.”

“You’re such a loser”

“Yeah.” She signed back, now more smoothly. “Just for you, baby.”

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nhmkhnh · 20 days ago

Text

FRAT RULES, FUCK HARDER.

PAIRINGS: dom!frat girl!vi x sub!fem!reader

PREFACE: you’re the pretty girl she swore she wouldn’t fall for… and now she’s showing up to your 8am class in yesterday’s hoodie and a hickey the size of zaun.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: uhmmm i don’t even know what’s up with me lately, guess i’ve officially entered my smut era hahaaa 😭 like... who would've thought?? there was a time i literally didn’t know how to write smut at all—if past me saw what i’m writing now, she’d be absolutely shooketh 😭💀

WARNING(S): lowercase, explicit content (minors & men dni) TAGS: strap-on sex ;; hoodie kink (?) ;; possessive!vi ;; cocky!vi ;; party sex ;; mirror sex ;; jealousy sex ;; overstimulation ;; public teasing ;; pet names (r: baby/princess) ;; vi has a strap collection don't ask me why. navigation.

1. vi meets you at a mutual party and makes it her life mission to get your number by the end of the night. she’s obnoxious about it too—grabbing the aux, playing some sexy slow jam, leaning on the doorframe with a red solo cup like,

“this one’s dedicated to the girl in the corner with the skirt i’m tryna take off later.” you swear you’re not into her. and yet.

2. she’s the type to crash your sorority movie night just to sit beside you, smelling like weed, cheap perfume, and danger. she’ll whisper things like:

“this plot’s shit… bet i could give you a better night in twenty minutes.” and you hate how your legs press together every time she smirks.

3. she wears crop tops with her frat letters, loose sweats slung low, calvin’s peeking out, and a backwards cap. tongue piercing glinting. she chews gum like sin. she knows exactly what she looks like when she sprawls across the couch and says,

“c’mere, i’ll make you forget your gpa.”

4. she rizz texts at 2am like:

“u up?” “u want sum chaos or sum comfort?” “im outside. bring ass.” and when you open the door? she's shirtless under her zipped-down hoodie, biting her lip, eyes red-rimmed and so so needy.

5. frat girl!vi always smells like beer, cologne, and sweat—but like… in a way that makes you insanely feral. her room's a disaster, but her bed is soft and warm and always has a hoodie of yours she "accidentally" stole.

6. she calls you “princess” and “baby girl” in public, throws her arm around your shoulder at parties and growls in your ear,

“bet none of these fuckers know what you sound like when you’re begging.” you shove her but your face is burning.

7. vi fights anyone who flirts with you at a party. straight up pushes a guy back by the chest like,

“back off, bro. she’s not single—she’s mine.” you haven’t even officially dated yet. that doesn’t stop her from marking you up every damn weekend.

8. she drives you to 8am class in her beat-up bike, still in her boxers, still buzzed from last night. one hand on the throttle, the other on your bare thigh, saying,

“why don’t you skip today and let me fuck that pretty brain right outta your head?” ma’am. please.

9. her tattoos peek out of her tank top when she’s lifting weights in the frat basement gym, smirking when she catches you watching. she drops the barbell and says,

“wanna ride something heavier, sweetheart?” the girls' bathroom has never recovered.

10. she makes you sit in her lap at every frat bonfire. she’ll wrap her arms around you and kiss your neck in front of everyone like it’s a damn claiming ritual, while whispering,

“tell me who you belong to, baby. c’mon. say it.”

11. frat girl!vi has zero impulse control when she’s drunk. she’ll pull you into a closet during a party, lock the door, and say,

“seven minutes in heaven? nah, we’re staying until your knees give out.” you emerge half an hour later. hair a mess. nobody questions it.

12. vi loves taking you to parties just to show you off—hand on your waist, other hand low on your back. she tells everyone,

“y’all can look, but if anyone touches her? you’ll be drinkin’ outta a straw ‘til graduation.” and then she turns to you and grins like the devil.

13. when you're studying in the library, she slides in beside you, unzips your hoodie just to leave hickeys on your collarbone. says,

“you’re doing great, baby. just needed to leave my signature, y’know?” you’re late to lecture. again.

14. she gets banned from your dorm after sneaking in one too many nights, but she still climbs up your window with the dumbest grin.

“romeo who? let me in, babe. i brought snacks and strap.” and you always let her in.

15. she gets absolutely feral when you wear her frat hoodie and nothing else. throws you on the bed and growls,

“you’re reppin’ my name now, huh? let me show you what it means to wear those letters.” and babe… you don’t walk straight for two days.

ཐི❤︎ཋྀ smut bonus:

1. vi has a whole-ass drawer labeled “emergency strap kit.” no, seriously. it has lube, multiple harnesses, cute pastel-colored toys and an engraved one she calls “the finisher.” if you're ever alone in her room too long, she’ll lean in with that low rasp and go,

“pick your poison, sweetheart. we’re not stopping ‘til the sun’s up.” she means it too. you’ve cried on that mattress more times than you can count—always in the best way.

2. she’s obsessed with eating you out while you’re still wearing her clothes—especially those loose-ass sweatpants that hang off your hips. she’ll tug them down slow with her teeth, spread your thighs and groan,

“fuck, baby… always so wet for me. look at this mess. i haven’t even touched you yet.” and when she does? you’re shaking. she pins your hips down. makes you say her name over and over like a prayer.

3. she moans when you moan. vi’s a vocal dom—gritty growls, filthy praise, shamelessly unhinged. she’ll be balls-deep in you with her strap, sweat dripping down her chest, hair sticking to her forehead, and she’ll pant:

“you feel that? that’s all mine. you were fuckin’ made for me, princess.” then she’ll grab your jaw and say, “say it. tell me who you belong to.” and if you hesitate? she slaps the inside of your thigh and starts going harder.

4. frat girl!vi loves mirror sex. like, she’ll drag you to her full-length mirror and bend you over in front of it, whispering,

“look at you, baby… fucked-out on my strap, droolin’ on yourself. that’s my good girl.” she holds you by the throat sometimes. not to choke—just to keep you watching. and when you come? she grins, proud as hell, and doesn’t stop.

5. she has this thing where she fucks you on her frat letters jacket like it’s a ceremony. drapes it under you on the bed and says,

“you’re mine now. no one else gets to touch you like this. say it.” and when you do, breathless and ruined, she just goes, “good girl. now scream my name.”

6. vi adores overstimulation. she’ll edge you at first—multiple times, licking you and pulling back, teasing your clit with her fingers and saying,

“you want my strap, babe? then beg. crawl into my lap and beg like a pretty little slut.” and when you finally get it? she makes sure you take all of it. hands on your hips, body flush to yours, murmuring, “you wanted this, didn’t you? be a big girl. take it all for me, baby.”

#vi x reader #violet x reader #vi arcane #arcane #smut

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heavenlybodies333 · 1 month ago

Text

Ain’t Karma A Bitch? -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader | fwb |

You shouldn’t have kissed the IT guy.

It was innocent—technically. One drink after a successful case. A slightly too-loud laugh at his joke. And a kiss in the parking lot under Quantico’s flickering lights. But Spencer Reid saw it.

You felt it in the way his gaze dropped the moment you walked in the next morning, in the way his mouth turned up into that smug, unreadable curve when he passed you in the hallway, fingers tucked into his slacks like he was restraining himself from something—maybe strangling your little tech rebound.

You hadn’t even realized the genius profiler could get jealous.

"You know his credentials are fake, right?" Spencer murmurs from beside you during the briefing, eyes on the screen but voice slick with venom. "I ran a background check."

"You’re insufferable."

"You’re transparent." You don’t dare look at him. Not with the way your stomach twists at the low rasp of his voice.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you whisper, eyes on Hotch’s presentation even though you haven’t absorbed a word. “You don’t know everything.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the slow turn of Spencer’s head. His expression is unreadable. But you feel it.

“Wrong again,” he mutters. “I know enough.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s not even looking at you, but there’s a slight twitch in his jaw, and his fingers flex like he’s counting backward in his head.

“You ran a background check on him?” you whisper, trying not to move your lips too much with Hotch three feet away. “Are you kidding me?”

“He listed his alma mater as MIT, but he misspelled Massachusetts on his résumé. Twice.”

“Oh my God—”

“Statistically, liars tend to embellish their education because it's the easiest detail to bluff without risk of immediate exposure. He also doesn't understand secure socket layering. It's not my fault if incompetence turns you on.”

You glare at him, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. He’s smug. Smug and unreadable and furious in a way you’ve never seen before.

The rest of the day is hell. He’s everywhere. Passing you coffee—without asking, of course. Standing too close at the crime board. Brushing past you in the hallway, the edge of his jacket catching your thigh, deliberate. Calculated. Like he’s daring you to say something.

You don’t. Not until the end of the night, when most of the team has left and the bullpen hums with quiet.

You storm into the file room, heart pounding. “Reid—”

He’s already there. Like he knew you’d come. Like he planned it. “Shutting the door?” he asks without looking up, flipping through a stack of folders like it’s any other Tuesday. “How suspicious.”

You do shut it. Hard. “What’s your problem?”

He sets the file down. Finally looks at you. “You kissed him,” Spencer says simply, like it’s fact. Like it’s already been dissected and labeled and filed away under Reasons She Deserves To Be Punished.

Your jaw tightens. “So what?”

He takes a step toward you. Then another. Until your back is pressed against the wall and he’s so close you can see the flecks of hazel in his eyes. “So,” he started, “I read somewhere that jealousy activates the same neural circuits as physical pain.” He takes a step closer, and suddenly his voice is lower, his tone less teasing. “It’s almost addictive. Like a drug. Your pupils dilated when you laughed at him.”

“That’s none of your business.”

A smirk plays on Spencer’s lips, sharp and knowing. His hand lifts, ghosting over your jaw but never quite touching. “Then why did you look for me when it happened?”

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, and his voice dips, slow and deliberate like he’s reciting a quote. “Right after. You looked up. Scanned the parking lot. Like you wanted someone to see.”

The heat that burns under your skin is immediate, prickling with shame and something far more dangerous. You want to deny it—but you had looked. Stupidly, instinctively. Like you were waiting for a reaction.

“Is that what this is about?” you snap. “You think I kissed him for your attention?”

He doesn’t blink. “Didn’t you?”

The silence chokes between you. He takes another step—closer, closer—until you’re hyper-aware of every inch between you, every uneven breath.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you say, but it comes out weaker than you mean.

Spencer’s eyes flick down to your mouth. His voice is almost a whisper. “And yet your heart rate’s at least 120. Fight or flight?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d rather you did.” He says it like it’s an equation solved, a foregone conclusion. His pupils are blown, lips parted just slightly like he’s waiting to be proven right.

And maybe he is.

Because when you surge forward, fisting the collar of his cardigan and dragging his mouth down to yours, he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. His hands are on your waist in a second, you gasp when he bites your bottom lip—not hard, but just enough to make you feel it—and he groans, like that sound alone snapped whatever thread of restraint he had left.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he mutters against your mouth, breathing hard. “You really think you’re subtle?”

You shove him back a step, just enough to catch your breath, but he follows—of course he follows. His hand grips the back of your neck and he presses you into the wall again like he needs you there, like he can’t stand the distance.

“You’re not exactly subtle yourself,” you snap.

“He touched your ass,” Spencer growls, and the raw possessiveness in his voice makes your thighs clench.

You laugh—sharp, breathless, too aware of the way his fingers are now drifting along the hem of your blouse. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Reid.”

He tilts his head, slow and dangerous. “You sure about that?”

Then he drops to his knees. Your heart stutters. “Spencer—”

“Shh.” He doesn’t look up as his hands glide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up with practiced, unshaking intent. “Just proving a point.”

You suck in a breath as his palms part your legs. His fingers are nimble, precise—like everything else he does, methodical but maddening. When he drags your underwear down your thighs, he does it slowly, eyes finally lifting to meet yours like a silent dare.

You grip the shelf behind you like it might keep you grounded, like the feeling of Spencer Reid on his knees in front of you isn’t about to send you spiraling into orbit.

He leans in. Presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—soft, almost reverent—and then one just a little higher. You squirm.

“Don’t tease,” you whisper, voice already frayed.

His eyes flick up, impossibly dark. “Don’t kiss other men.”

You don’t get a chance to retort—his mouth is on you in the next breath.

And God, he’s good.

Not good in the way most men fumble and hope for the best. No—he studies you. Remembers the way you gasped at the soft flick of his tongue. Adjusts. Experiments. Executes. He licks into you like he’s trying to rewrite your molecular structure, like he wants to ruin you for anyone else—and it’s working.

Your hand tangles in his hair before you can stop it, pulling hard, and he moans into you. You feel the vibration all the way up your spine.

“You’re such a fucking showoff,” you breathe, hips bucking.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips wet and swollen. “Statistically speaking, making a woman come from oral alone—”

“Spencer.”

“—requires precision and patience.” He licks a slow stripe up your center, eyes still locked on yours. “Luckily, I have both.”

And he proves it. You come fast and hard, your moan muffled in your own arm as your legs nearly give out. He holds you through it, mouth insistent and merciless until your body twitches from overstimulation and you beg—literally beg—for him to stop.

When he finally stands, there’s something almost unhinged in his eyes. A wild, unspoken want. His hands are already working on his belt, but you beat him to it, fingers slipping into his waistband like you’ve done it a hundred times in your head.

“I’m not finished with you,” you mutter, dragging his pants down just far enough.

“Good,” he pants. “Because I want you to remember this the next time some fraud in IT buys you a drink.”

You grip his shirt, yanking him down to your lips again. “Fuck me, Doctor Reid.” you moan as he slides through your slick. The noise you make is shameful—something between a gasp and a whimper—and his hand slams against the wall next to your head, bracing himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “You feel—fuck—”

Your head tips back, and he takes the opportunity to drag his mouth down your throat, sucking bruises into your skin with zero apology. His thrusts are slow at first, rough but controlled, but that doesn’t last long. Not with the way you grip him. Not with the way your nails dig into his back like you’re trying to brand him there.

“You shouldn’t have kissed him,” Spencer grits out, fucking you like it’s a correction. A lesson. “You knew I was watching.”

You whimper, helpless under the weight of him, every thrust a punishment wrapped in possession. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Liar,” he snaps, and the hand on your waist tightens.

His mouth crashes to yours again, messy and uncoordinated now. He slams back into you so hard you bite your lip to keep from crying out. The file room walls feel too thin, the glass door too close, but neither of you cares. He thrusts harder, deeper, desperate, like he’s trying to replace every trace of anyone else. And God, it’s working.

His hand curls around your thigh, hiking it over his hip, and the angle makes you whimper.

“Yeah?” Spencer grits out. “Right there?”

You nod—too breathless for words—and he groans again, pounding into that spot over and over until you’re shaking,

“Fuck, I’m—” he chokes, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-damp curls brushing your cheeks. “I’m not gonna last—”

You pull him closer. Wrap your legs around his waist and drag him in, lock him there. “Then don’t.”

He comes with a groan muffled against your shoulder, his body jerking against yours like it’s been short-circuited. You hold him through it, hands in his hair, nails raking gently against his scalp as his hips stutter and still.

You both stay like that for a moment breathing heavy. He finally lifts his head. Blinks at you, dazed. And for the first time all night, he looks awkward. Flushed and boyish and just a little bit unsure.

Then he leans in, brushing a kiss—soft, shockingly gentle—against your cheek.

“You shouldn’t have kissed him,” he murmurs again, you huff a breathless laugh. “Noted.”

His nose brushes yours. “Next time,” he whispers, “I’ll show you what it feels like to beg.”

You blink at him. “Next time?”

He smiles. That unreadable, smug little curve again—but this time, it’s softer around the edges.

“Oh,” he says, buttoning his pants like he didn’t just fuck you senseless against a filing cabinet, “there’s going to be a next time.”

You shake your head, biting back a grin. “Aren’t you going to cite a study about post-coital bonding or something?”

He pauses. Tilts his head. “Actually, oxytocin levels increase significantly after orgasm, which tends to promote attachment and trust—but in this case, I’d argue correlation, not causation.”

You laugh—genuine and bright—and he watches you like it’s his favorite sound. You pull him in by the front of his cardigan and kiss him again, slower this time.

when you pull away he has a mischievous glint in his eye. “I deleted the footage,” he says softly.

You blink. “What?”

He smirks. “File room security. You’re not the only one who’s reckless.”

You gape. “You planned this?”

He shrugs. “I’m a profiler.”

You shove him. “You’re a psycho.”

a/n: down baddd for Dr Reid

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

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