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iznsfw · 4 months

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Lucid Dream

IZ Days of Christmas 2023: Day 7 - Kim Minju

IZ*ONE's Kim Minju x Male Reader Smut

8,525 words

Categories | married man!You, wife!Wonyoung, daddy kink, degradation, rough sex, OC is not a good person

Content warning | cheating, humiliation, Wonyoung slander (it hurt to write but I read "Gone Girl" by Gillian Flynn recently so I guess that went into the whole wife-hating thing)

Skipping again a bit (still will do Chaeyeon and Chaewon and everyone because IZ*ONE best girls). Expect a commission and an IZ Days of Xmas fics this month again <3 I love you all, you make me happy. And as always, sorry for the inconsistency!

Wonyoung is beautiful.

You stare at her as she undresses in front of the full-length mirror. She’s the kind of woman whose vanity seldom rolls eyes because her adoration for herself—smoothing down her dark hair, strictly adhering herself to that keto diet, doing her skincare with the dedication of one who prays nightly to god (pick any)—is wholly justifiable. Look at her. Anyone would understand.

The dress she wore for her hosting show slips off her body. Her abs reflect in the mirror, the result of hard work in the gym. Wonyoung’s waist is impeccable. Magazines have written over and over tips to attain it but it seems that the signature Bratz doll feature can only belong to Wonyoung. The makeup was cleaned up by her stylist but her eyes still shine, her lashes are still long, and her lips are still plump.

Wonyoung is standing there in nothing but her underwear, an attractive set of lace.

Wonyoung is the perfect female form, a goddess from above choosing a man from below.

Wonyoung is beautiful, a feat that no matter how amazing besides true, she remains the same old fucking bore.

“Did you like my MCing, babe?” she asks.

“Uh-huh.”

Her legs, long and thin, move in planned strides down the room. To the bed. You know where this is going.

Your feet are killing you. Recline, welcoming yourself into the softness of the expensive mattress and pillows your wife paid for all in all. “Wonyoung, I’m tired.”

She’s a celebrity. Of course, endless days filled to the edge with schedules chase after her. She ought to understand. The nights are her only rest hours, yet with this energy, it’s like Jang Wonyoung never gets exhausted. Always bubbly, always sweet, always so seductive.

All these are positive traits that any other man would adore and own had you not married her.

Wonyoung makes an adorable sigh. “But you say that everytime,” she replies sullenly.

She’s pushing her lips out into this cute pout while her brown puppy eyes beg you to give in like you used to. Once upon a time, you were putty around Wonyoung. Never could give an answer without your voice shaking. Never could come near her without blushing.

She’s the prettiest woman in the world.

You’re the most awful, undeserving man in the world, for all you could think, as you look at her, is: Fucking bitch.

“Well, maybe it’s because I’m always tired.”

“How about,” she puts a finger on her chin, “I do the job for you?”

Her knees are bruised. You notice this when she drops to them so she could pull your pants to the ground. So she’s been doing this for so long? Lowering herself for you? Sucking you off? You thought that she’d get the hint by now: you don’t want to have sex with her.

So instead, she uses her mouth. Better than her pussy anyway. What are you saying? She’s a tight woman. But it’s the same thing everyday: she gets on your cock and you hear her annoying voice straining as she rides you. Her cunt, soaked and useless, makes you want to call her its name. She’s always needy. It isn’t flattering when you don’t reciprocate it.

It’s a goddamned chore. Wonyoung’s throat welcomes you. The other way around, actually: your cock welcomes a claustrophobically closed passageway and has to deal with it until you cum. It’s an unwanted visitor. She rang the bell, said hi, and you let her in. Doesn’t mean you like her there.

“Doing so good, baby,” you say. Oh, yeah, doesn’t mean you mean it either—although you do feel Wonyoung smile happily. She’s happy when she makes you happy. When she makes you give her the illusion that you have any happiness in this worn-out marriage.

Her lips seal around you. You can feel them suckling. Your knees are tense. The moans are forced, though. Hearing them come out from your own mouth makes you want to place a pillow over your face and press it down as hard as you can.

She slides you down her throat. Admittedly, you love the way she chokes. Her eyes get all watery, like she’s crying from pain. That sounds appealing.

You’re a critically messed up man, you know. But they’re what make the world go ‘round. Why do you think they write romance books about them—the bad boy, the mafia boss, the killer? Plus, one of those “terrible” people inspires the biggest Korean celebrity to continue hosting, dancing, and singing. So who’s so terrible now?

To conclude, if anything, you’re the one responsible for Wonyoung’s success.

To conclude, you groan as desperately as you can then release in her mouth. Wonyoung gags. Another pretty sound. Her eyes look up while she attempts to swallow. Saliva sticks to her chin. Semen floods up to the roof of her mouth. It reminds you of how it ends up there more often than in her womb.

You would’ve made beautiful children with Wonyoung in another world where she wasn’t famous and you actually loved her. You would have been a softer, kinder man. She would have been a person who’s easier to love and make love with.

“Wonyoung, Wonyoung, that… was incredible.”

If you weren’t a director, you’d be the one on camera. You’re a great actor when it comes to your wife. Your incompetence in the house is masked by husbandly exhaustion; an artificial gaze of attentiveness hides your indifference to conversation.

She smiles coquettishly. “I try.”

The wide closet parts. She chooses a pair of silk pajamas that hang around her thin frame. She climbs onto the bed and wraps an arm around you. Her skin is always cold to the touch. Like she’s dead or something. How interesting.

You stroke her hair. “I’d return the favor but… I’m actually gonna pass out. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She kisses your forehead. Wonyoung’s a sweet girl. “Good night.”

You smile. Say it back. Her eyelids flutter closed. Her palms are flat against each other and are placed under her cheek. Cute, you guess. She sleeps.

You don’t.

You should have—nothing good ever happens after midnight.

2:05 a.m., more specifically.

Amazing how time slips through your grasp like air. You reach and reach, desperate for a return, desperate for a flash to the past. As always, your efforts aren’t fruitful. The seconds pour through the pinched waist of the hourglass and you can’t stand it on its other head. You’re unable to revert back to the moment you took your arm from underneath your wife’s skull. The moment you opened your phone. If you hadn’t, maybe things would have been different.

But it’s past two, and you’re resting your back on the pillowy headboard with your phone in your hands. The circumstances just play right into danger: Wonyoung’s asleep, the night is eerily quiet, and the screen is there, awaiting the secret routine. Which girls would you cum for today? Why aren’t your thumbs clicking over censored sites?

Your feed shows a naked woman, her eyes staring up and her mouth wide. Scroll past that—you prefer the amateur videos, where the expressions balance between exaggerated and naturally provoked. A ton of videos could help in the bathroom where you take your nightly “shower,” and it’s not one of those.

Maybe you need the real thing.

Look at Wonyoung. Perhaps you should have let her ride you just so you could cum in a warm pussy again. After all, it’s the least you could do when you were once a fan of her. That’s how everyone starts: puppy-like adoration. But she doesn’t have the star quality she once did onstage; the coy thoughtful princess you envisioned her as. That’s why you haven’t fucked her in weeks.

You’re about to wrap your hand around your cock and ready yourself for another night of conflicted pleasure. This video is perfect for that already. You could jerk yourself off then get a good night’s sleep. Simple. This is the safest option for a dangerous want. By just watching, you’re not cheating on your wife. It’s just porn. Jerk off, cum, cum again probably, then sleep. Nobody gets hurt.

“Fuck me… please,” whimpers the woman in the video. Her legs are spread open. Her partner’s swiping his cock at her lips while she looks at him with equal hunger, equal desire. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Then, a text message notifies you, peeking from the top of your screen. It dares you to click it.

And it says the exact same thing.

fuck me please, i cant take it anymore.

i miss you

You look around, like you’re afraid someone might see it. There’s only the dimness of your bedroom that greets you. It’s safe, but this message isn’t.

The number is familiar. Has one of your friends gone crazy? Or did they send a text to the wrong person? Take it for spam, a perfectly coincidental one, or a scam, a typical, preying-on-the-married, pwning message.

But why would a contact spam you at a time so strangely perfect?

Don’t bother. Your fist works on your dick as you watch the video. The woman’s so wet that although she isn’t squirting, her juices start to stick to the man’s thighs. Her mouth is wide open as he finally pounds her.

What you’d give to have good sex like that again.

XXX-XXX-XXX sent a video message.

Fine. Click it, you’re curious.

Oh, so apparently, the answer is your marriage.

The video shows a face that’s more intimate than familiar. The ebony-black hair already tells you who she is, as does her body. Her form is encased in a floral tank top and nothing else. Although her chest is covered, she’s still a little daring with how her nipples stamp the fabric. She turns herself around to let you admire the curve of her wide hips and her round butt.

There’s only one woman with a body so perfect. And she’s the one and only Kim Minju.

There are reasons for everything. This is yours for why you didn’t give this number a name:

No one needs to know just from a text that you cheated on Jang Wonyoung.

That was so long ago, back when you were still boyfriend and girlfriend. You were drunk and missed Wonyoung’s old self. Why did she have to be such a bitch? Why did she dedicate herself to work and leave you dry? It’s not like the industry would go bankrupt without her. Minju came over, listened to your complaints—every little whine about Wonyoung being busy, every little jab at her workaholic character—then said something along the lines of, why don’t you have a little fun while she’s away.

And you thought… yeah, that was a really great idea.

That was the beginning of the end. After multiple secret meet-ups and raunchy sex in alleyways, you didn’t contact Minju again. You forgot her. You thought she did, too. She should have understood that your infidelity, albeit alluring, would be a thing of the past.

But here she is, in your messages, with a pornographic clip of herself in a round-cornered bubble. She’s waiting for a reply.

Although you’ve long lost your aspirations to be a better husband, you type what a good man should. This man is proper, faithful, and loving. He loves his wife only and the only other people he loves with this deep of a bond is his family.

Stop texting me or I’ll block you.

It’s not enough. You’re not a good man. You aren’t proper or faithful or loving or any of that shit. You were about to masturbate to an internet celebrity after turning down sex with your wife. What about that makes you a good person?

:( you miss me sooooo bad it’s pathetic, Minju replies.

You look at her again. You may not be able to turn back time with your metaphorical hourglass, but you can turn this hourglass body into any position you want. You could push her against a window for all to see, perhaps fuck her to the floor, or slam her on a desk like a teacher would to a test paper. Minju would let you do anything to her.

Stop it.

She really has to. As much as you dislike Wonyoung, she’s your wife, and you vowed on your wedding day to only have eyes for her.

But you’re only one man against a body like Minju’s that curves in every right place.

Three circles float up and down in a contained bubble before she texts you back:

alright…what a pity :( i’m already outside!! i guess ill have to go back…

You’ve never bolted out of bed so fast.

You look back at Wonyoung as you stand in the doorway. She’s still in deep slumber. Now, are the curtains closed? The entrances locked? Scan the house thoroughly, until you inch your way to the front door.

Hesitate. You didn’t know you had a conscience but here it is. It tells you to wonder if Minju really is behind it, like she said. She knows how to use the privilege of being Wonyoung’s close friend. That’s how she came to your house like she used to with no worry for paparazzi or suspicion. Best friends don’t fuck their best friends’ husbands, right?

Open the door. This one did.

Minju grew more beautiful in her absence. Her hair is silkier this time and her shy smile is brighter. The long coat is smoothed by her fingers, and you wish you could be the brown piece of fabric her pale hands run down. What makes you guilty for thinking it, even when you’ve done it, is the fact that she looks so innocent. It’s like it would be a crime to even buy her a drink.

How could she be innocent with that photo she sent? The time you spent together: you folding her over a table and promising to fill her up? Fucking her while Wonyoung is busy and counting on you to welcome her home? Sending nudes like there’s no tomorrow? Nothing about Minju is pure, yet she acts like she could do no wrong.

“Minju,” you say. Your voice sounds fragile. She has a way of breaking you befote you’re breaking her into breaking another bed.

She blinks theatrically. Everything she does is angelic. “Glad you opened the door.”

The knob is cold in your fist. It chills your animalistic brain and urges you to consider the consequences. Right, it says, here’s what a human—a good one—would think. If Wonyoung wakes and sees you with Minju, she’d have a lot of questions. If paparazzi are somehow hiding in the forest that extends to acres before your house, everyone would know you’re cheating on her. Most of all, you’re married, monogamy and everything.

So what will it be? This is your last and only chance to send her away.

You know what you have to do. Take a few breaths. “You have to leave. I’m not joking, it isn’t right.”

In response, Minju unravels the ribbon of the layers sealed around her waist. It falls apart. You do, too.

She’s a real danger. As it turns out, the girl isn’t wearing anything underneath that trench coat. She’s an artist’s naked muse—bare long legs, wide hips, and a sizable bust that has sculptors carving something else.

The cold hardens her pink nipples. You notice how her breasts are much bigger than your wife’s. How her hips are more tempting to grab, so you do. How her body is meatier, a lot more enticing that you wouldn’t refuse a day without touching it.

Minju fuels your infidelity, and you won’t stop for it if it kills you.

She simpers, fingers curling into your work shirt. “Still wanna make me leave,” she asks, “when you can breed me all night long?”

You laugh, huffing it out as you pull her inside and close the door behind her. Minju looks gorgeous pressed to it. She looks gorgeous in whatever situation, actually. Her thighs squish against the carved design and look thicker as a result. More reasons to dive into that shaven cunt and abuse it.

“You’re not leaving until we make a fucking mess, Minju.” You take your shirt off. Throw it on the ground. “And we better make it quick.”

“Of course.” She nods. She’s slyer than a fox, but she submits to you without a second thought.

You lean in to kiss her. The heat is unbearable. You can feel it from Minju’s body transferring to yours. It’s the effect of her natural skills as your personal slut: trying to fit her tongue deeper in your mouth while you pull her close like she’d dare to run away.

You haven’t gotten this hard for anyone else. It’s always been Minju you fall for. You miss the way she kisses, the way she roams her hands all over your torso, the way she’s goddamned insatiable. Feeling it all now in one, heated moment makes you dizzy. You’re taking in too much of her, but without her, you’d go thirsty again.

Your fingers are in her hair; hers are on your waist. Your teeth are clamped down on Minju’s bottom lip; hers are apart and allow soft moans to pass through—one, two, three. You fit each other in so many wicked ways. They did say misery loves company.

Open your eyes. The dream doesn’t stop. Minju’s still pushing her mouth in your face and you’re letting her. You don’t know if you ought to be relieved or downright horrified. You’re cheating on Wonyoung again with a woman whose body is just a bit nicer. You should be furious at yourself. You aren’t.

You’ve made out with each other on the way to the dining room. You and your wife worked hard for its designed walls and sturdy, well-furnished ornaments. A lot of money was raked out to make this house the best place to call home. So, why do you want to ruin it?

Well, because of her.

Minju leans on the dining table with a funny smile on her face. “She really doesn’t do it for you, huh?” she asks.

It makes you wince how you know who she’s talking about. Who else is she referring to other than poor Wonyoung? Poor, skinny, ugly Wonyoung?

Nibble at her earlobe. Hear little gasps come out of her. “Don’t talk about her,” you say.

You don’t want to have any afterthoughts about fucking Minju. Besides, being reminded that you’re disloyal to a woman who loves you very much is painful, even to a man like you.

Wonyoung is an angel. Minju isn’t—but you run after her to darkness.

“Ohh, come on, I know I’m better than her.” Minju squirms with erotic moans. Your kisses are going south, and she loves their little detour. “You don’t fuck her like you fuck me.”

When was the last time you worshiped Wonyoung? Like what you’re doing to Minju now? Your lips haven’t passed over it in ages that you probably wouldn’t know where the bigs and smalls of her body are. Like there’s anything to know.

“Actually,” you snort, “I don’t fuck her at all.”

You stop chuckling. That was the wrong thing to say. That was the wrongest thing to say out of the millions of other cocky phrases you could’ve thrown to Minju. The look on her face, the one that’s of pride and submission and dangerous knowledge united, tells you to watch your mouth.

You’re five seconds minimum too late to listen.

Minju grins. There’s the answer she wanted. “That’s how it is? Just looking at a girl and thinking you wanna stamp a divorce approval on her forehead? Jesus. This is why I never got married.”

“First off, nobody put a ring on you because you’re a slut, Minju.”

“That’s only the third reason.” Her fingers drape the sides of your face and tugs you in. You’re invited to the sight of her infallible tits. “These are the first two.”

The girl isn’t as busty as that woman Wonyoung likes to call her industry mom, but you bet they’re better. No, it’s a matter of truth. Minju’s boobs aren’t too big or too small; just the perfect, filling size to hold onto when you’re railing her from behind.

You choose to suck on them for now. It’s like a trip down memory lane when you kiss down her neck and collarbone. You remember how good her smooth, soft skin feels beneath you, how her moans are a favorite tune. Minju bites her lip while you do so to her shoulder.

It’s crazy to think that she just so happened to be born with this. She was born to be a pretty face with a sex-defined body that you pull and push and pry apart. Best thing is, she’ll lay back down and beg for more. It’s like she knows her purpose, which would’ve shot down her dignity and humanity.

Her nipple pops in your mouth. Your sucking guarantees its hardness, and Minju starts whining. She arcs her body, wanting something rougher. Thus, you seize the span of her hip to rub her pearl with fierce speed.

“Oh, fuck, god—” What others might take for blasphemy, you take for praise. Minju’s already soaking wet. She would have had embarrassing laundry to do if she wore panties. Maybe it’s a good thing she arrived wearing nothing.

She’s still so sensitive. You caress her clit after a few kisses down her midriff. She fidgets needily like you aren’t already touching her. You’re nearly right—this touch is nothing when she needs something harsher. That something involves you treating her less than a human being, putting her down and tearing at her hair.

“Please just fuck me,” she whispers. “Breed me, breed me, breed me—”

Yeah, that’s what she wants.

You don’t need further motivation, not when you’re presented with the prettiest pussy you’ve ever seen. Her fat lips are soaked. They frame the clitoris you’ve been stimulating that shines with slick. Then there’s the tiniest hole below it that begs to be used.

Your digits shove past all tightness. Her wetness allows a deeper exploration, so you curl your digits like you’re beckoning the orgasm forward. You know how easily you can get it out of her. All it needs to get Minju cumming around you is a slap, roughness, and giving her what she wants anyway. You know your methods, she knows hers. It’s a recognizable cycle that despite this, you can’t break.

Part your fingers widely to spread her. She’s so wet that she soaks your knuckles. There’s an ocean inside her waiting to be waved to shore. A storm, too, brews from the base of her throat as Minju whimpers. Her body lifts off the table but you force her down on it. She isn’t going anywhere, not without a fight.

Oh, and fight she does. She was an idol before an actress, so her muscles still memorize the circling motions that repeat on your fingers rather than move onstage. She sang once. That was a long time ago yet her voice sounds perfect as it strains her moans. Every little thing she does is a reflection of her past.

That’s why when she leans back, pupils dilating north, and says “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” you get deja vu.

Your palm hits her clit, adding impact to your strokes. “There you go, little slut,” you snarl. “Are you happy now? Maybe even a little grateful?”

If Minju’s ass isn’t pressed down on the glass mantling your dining table, it hovers so her pink little hole receives you better. It’s not without the help of her weak hands clinging to the table for dear life, but she seems to be losing her balance. Her hips are shuddering. Her beautiful face is squeezed up into a blissful wince. Her breaths are becoming blunt little gasps that say none of the gratitude you want to hear.

You slap her boob. Red blooms from her pale skin that deepens when another impacts her bosom. The recoil dizzies you. If anyone’s getting the impression that you’ll slap her bouncy tits until you hear a proper word of thanks, they’d be right. First impressions are right just for once.

“T-thank you—” Her voice cracks, breaking like her. “Fuck, shit, thank you, thank you.”

Squeeze her cruelly and pull on the perky nipple. Your thrusts become mindlessly paced. Your hand returns to your cock while the other ruins her pussy. The pleasure is telepathic. It’s connecting you; her screams and squirms make you do the same. The electricity firing up in your veins is a shared network. When you point your fingers to her spot, she arcs her back in the same direction. How beautifully fucked up is that?

“That’s not enough. You didn’t come here for nothing. What do you want, Minju?”

Minju babbles. You got your gratitude but not a proper answer. To be fair, she can’t speak when you’re fucking her like it’s your dick inside her, and when your lips are all over her collarbone.

“And you better keep quiet,” you add, curling your thrusts, “or Wonyoung‘s gonna hear. Do you really want her to know her precious friend is a big slut?”

However, despite the rumors she starts, Minju could be a very good girl when needed.

“Need you to make me cum,” she whispers. Her midriff is fluid as water with the way it rolls, showing off the hourglass shape of her waist and a soft tummy. “Do everything to me you can’t with Wonyoung. P-please, I can’t take it.”

Even if she can’t (wrong by the way), you’ll make her. She asked for it. She walked up to your house with a purpose: to be used, to be treated like less of a human being. So it’s understandable that you slam her down the table and seal a hand around her neck.

She’s so light that the forceful push doesn’t break the fragile glass. But there’s something of hers instead that’s going to be broken.

“Oh fuck! It’s so–” Minju’s eyes roll back. “Ohh… oh!”

Little sparks of wetness shoot in the air. Your pace turns merciless. With just three fingers, you puppet her body. Strings are pulled—her arms raise and her long legs strain to pull you in. You push and she keens, you pull and she yells. You’re making her desecrate the place with her water.

“C-can’t breathe.” A squeeze of her beautiful features—eyelids wrinkling, mouth parting, cheeks filling with scarlet—occurs before she squirts again. She whimpers pathetically, sounding so pitiful you want to laugh. “Ah, fuck, daddy—”

Something stirs inside you. When men hear that name, it ought to feel purely platonic and familial. They’d hear it from their daughter and feel compelled to protect them from men who’d do to them what you do to Minju. But you much prefer hearing that two-syllable word when it comes from a naked woman squirting all over the floor, from whom once you register it, you’re urged to pin her down, tie her down, hold her down.

Ironically, you release her. That isn’t because it’s over though. “On your knees. Follow me.”

Minju releases a gasp, grateful for the oxygen. The color returns to her face yet she barely has the energy to get off the table. You’re a generous man, and hey, it still counts as helping. So you yank her hair and force her on the ground. She fucking moans, a feat deserving of a healthy spank to her ass.

You walk to the living room. She follows you withher hands and knees bearing the cold tiles. You lead her to the place where you spend your time watching movies, rehearsing, and hanging out with Wonyoung if she’s ever home.

Speaking of, glance at the door of your bedroom. It’s still closed. It’ll stay that way.

Look down after wondering why Minju’s noisier. She’s playing with herself on the floor with no care for the cold chill of the tiles or the little dirt wedged between them. She lightly rubs her abused clit, quivering at the contact. You expect that from her—she’s corrupted, an irredeemable cause. She’ll get herself off anytime anywhere.

But what’s unexpected is what those watery eyes are focused on: you, in a framed picture on the wall. You look younger, happier. You’re in formal garments standing next to Wonyoung in a church.

It was you on your wedding day.

You spit on Minju. “Filthy cumslut.”

The drool slides down her cheek like a tear. She darts her tongue out and licks it. One could’ve thought it was candy considering the lift of a smile.

“I’m sorry, daddy,” she says resolutely. Her fingers still toy with her entrance. They won’t serve her well when there’s a bigger, better thing behind your pants to do it for her.

Your pants are already off. “Get up. Get the fuck up,” you command, but you do it for her.

You grab her neck and force her up. The look on her face is addicting, the way the shock turns into carnal need, the way she bites her lip. You press her to the wall, right under the framed wedding pictures, and finally plunge yourself inside her.

“Oh, oh, oh!”

What did Minju do to get this tight? Her walls are squeezed closer around you than you remember. They’re still wet from her squirting, easing your burden of fighting against the tautness of her core.

Her groans are pitched just like how you pitch yourself in her and make her fight for it. She tries everything: gathering the strength she has to push her ass into your crotch, rolling her body, looking back to watch your cock disappear between her lips.

“So big, daddy!” she cries. With a lick of her lips, she turns to face you. “Mmm, d-do you ever get this massive when you’re fucking Wonyoung?”

That seals it. There’s no restraint in using her body. Her plump ass leading to her toned back is a temptation by itself. You’d burst all over it (maybe in it) if you weren’t already firm in breeding her. But dear god—it rises and descends into your angled pumps so effortlessly that you aren’t afraid to spank it like you’re angry at her.

“Keep your whore mouth shut.”

Spank after spank you bestow and you realize, oh, you and Minju are really made for each other. The more her ass reddens, the more hot pain sparks on your palm. She throws herself back hard, you piston her harder.

Your puzzle pieces stick together so perfectly that it’s a shame you didn’t meet under different circumstances. She could’ve been an adorable girl next door and you could have been a guy looking to slip her a love letter. She would’ve been your loving girlfriend, a beautiful wife, someone you’d actually enjoy touching, so different from the woman asleep in the bed upstairs.

But that’s never happening. Minju’s a slut through and through, and she’ll forever be a sin you won’t go to confessions for. She was made to be fucked then discarded of when she’s no longer of use. You see it in the way she’s in a mantra of craziness, the way she yells, the way she looks back at you like she’s daring you to hurt her.

You choose the dare rather than to tell her the truth. You curl her hair into a fist and pull her into you.

“God, I’m so close.” Minju’s trembling body grows warmer in your touch. “I’m gonna cum all over your big gorgeous cock. I can’t hold out longer, daddy.”

Your teeth dig into her earlobe. You could make her bleed and she’d still find a way to make the pain heavenly. “I thought I told you to be quiet. Is Wonyoung waking up and ending your life worth it for this?”

“What if I say yes?”

“Fuck.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice, making her see you’d give her away to get a night with me? You’ll give up all this stupid shit t-to be my daddy. Because Wonyoung’s just sooo worthless, isn’t she?”

Savage her cunt and shove your fingers down her mouth just so she could shut up. You love this. Minju’s always so ready for you.

No, actually—now that you think about it, you hate it. You hate how she’s curvier than your wife, how she’s more alluring than she could ever be, how she moans despite the blockage in her throat. Everything about her is so sexy that the sound of her choking up spit makes you throb.

This is the wrong time to have a conscience. You’ve already split her apart. You’ve already got your fingers in her hair that pull hard to the point that damage is highly likely. You’ve already—

—got Minju screaming, biting down on your skin as her legs spread. What a strange thing to have as a natural reflex. That’s all she knows to do: spread her legs, hope her innocent face attracts a guy into her home and his dick into her pussy. Her skin, white as snow, has become impure with red blemishes. You see her purple-bruised neck flex when she yells into your hand.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Minju yells. Her fingernails leave fine scratches on the wall. “Fuck, I’m squirting so much I don’t know what to do—oh fuck!”

You bump the manic girl up on your knee before spreading her legs. A godless squirt of her juices hits Wonyoung’s face, the savior being the glass protecting the picture. Others bless their homes with water blessed by esteemed priests; you like to stand out. Choose to have Minju’s unholy juice flood the photo you once held dear.

Did something possess you? An evil spirit, a god of fertility? All are clichés but you can’t help but think so when you notice how fast you’re pumping Minju. It’s like greed’s finally reigned you. It’s difficult to resist. Minju just wrings your cock perfectly dry with her tight cunt, keeps you speedy with her desperate moans. You’re vandalizing her with your climax and she doesn’t want to be clean ever again.

“You think you’re special, Minju?” You press her to the ruined picture. Her side profile mashes on the glass. “You’re nothing, only a useless hole, just like that bitch. Now clean it up.”

Her eyes light up in shock. Excitement? “What?”

You pull her head back in order to have her full lips pressed against Wonyoung’s face. The clear squirt is still dripping from it. Minju’s face is red, and although your cock left her moments ago, she insists on tensing like it’s there. Is that how she lives? Her way of bonding is riding on the high she got the night before and the night before that. She always has sex in her mind that thoughts of it occur to her as they would to an animal.

That’s right; she’s an animal. Perhaps even a dog would have more self-control than her, ironically.

“Lick your mess,” you command. “Now.”

Minju whimpers. You bury your fingernails in her scalp until she loses her fake hesitance. Her tongue glides on Wonyoung’s face and relieves her of the mess. Her lips part and close, taking in her own taste.

She looks like she’s making out with your wife. Her pretty face smudges the other pretty face in the picture and it’s so much hotter than it’s got the permit to be. Wonder how it’ll look if she’s actually kissing the real Wonyoung—picture them with their legs locked together and tongues coming out to play—and you’re hard enough for another round.

“That’s right. You want to be Wonyoung so bad? You want to be the one I drive into the bed everyday? So fucking make out with her.”

“Y-yes, daddy. Oh.” Minju’s moans fog the glass. “I taste delicious.”

It’s probably a hygienically reprehensible thing to do. But her mouth is dirtier than the picture anyway. You force her lips deeper into it until you pull her away, satisfied.

Not quite.

Rub her clit a few more times. Hose her squirt all over the floor. You’ll have a mess to clean up. Oh, there’s all the evidence: her squirt on the floor, her lipstick in the shape of a languid kiss on the picture frame, the mess she made in the dining table where you ate her rather than your food.

But it’s all worth it. An evil idea plants and sprouts in your mind. “Bedroom.”

Minju pants. Her hands are flat on the wall. She turns to you, saliva and lipstick smeared on her chin, and asks, “W-which one?”

“You know exactly where.”

Her wide eyes tell you wordlessly that she got the point. She’s well aware of what room you want to use her body next. It’s not even supposed to be a question given the ways and moments you fucked her there.

“But daddy—if, if she hears us?”

You grin. “Then you’ll have to be pretty fucking quiet.”

The best thing about Minju besides her body is her passiveness. She may act up sometimes but she still needs your cock, and she’ll do anything to get it. So when she hangs her head to hide her smile, you spank her. It speeds her steps to the staircase. Continue doing so all the way.

It’s funny how she struggles to even lift a foot. Streams of your cum and hers slide down her legs, staining the carpet. You’ll have to wash that out, too. If you have the maid do it, she’s likely to put two and two together.

Even from the back, Minju’s body is beautiful. Her reddened ass twists from side to side and brings attention to her wide hips. The deep line on her spine is a path you trace your fingertips on. She quivers.

“Daddy,” she whines.

Hit her butt. Let it fill your palm. “Keep on walking.”

It’s borderline dehumanizing. You’re treating her with a ferociousness a woman like her should never have to go through. The eyes of the painted men and women on your walls lock on her. It’s like their hard stares are real. Minju bears the blows to her cheeks during her walk of humiliation up the stairs. Tiny yelps are caused by each one. It’s in her to be quiet now that Wonyoung is quite near, although not as close as she is to another heavy orgasm.

You slap her pussy, making her shake, then lead the juices mingling in it up to her asshole. She chews on the inside of her cheek to hide her moan. She reaches the last step with a huge sigh of relief.

The finality of the torture doesn’t last long. Fuck, it doesn’t even exist. You collect the semen and wetness from her legs, then drag it right back to her pussy.

You shove your fingers deep in her cave. There. Now your cum stays inside her. After that, it’ll drip all the way to her womb. She screams through pursed lips.

Push her hard against your bedroom door. Her stomach’s flatness goes up to the point that it’s the only thing engendered into the wood. Minju’s tiny gasp is already loud for you. Her beautiful side profile is mashed deep into the solid barrier between the two women.

Minju whimpers. Is she scared or heavily turned on? The thing with her is she likes both. So, yeah—she’s wet at the thought of being caught with you, being fucked within a distance of your wife wherein she could finally pin down your infidelity.

The little angel closes her eyes when your words hover near her prone ear. “Shut up,” you warn, “unless you want to lose your career. Or this dick.”

You slip your shaft between Minju’s shapely thighs. A friction is nurtured and grown into rough, pant-accompanied humping that leaves both of you breathless. Her pussy lips splay warmly on you and you’re allowed to rub yourself on her clit.

Minju tenses up. Her breaths are kept to a hummed volume yet their huskiness gets you to fuck her legs faster. The core between them is so warm and you haven’t even welcomed yourself in it again.

You carefully open the door. You don’t know what you’re expecting: Wonyoung crying with her face in her knees? An anger you never knew she could have? But what shows calms you. There’s your wife who remains asleep on the bed. From the soft snores, it’s easy to tell she’s deep in a dream.

“Wonyoung’s so pretty, daddy,” whispers Minju. You push her to the footboard where she holds on tight. “Do you think she’ll want to join if she wakes up? Or she’ll leave you for me?”

“Are you sure you want to act like that?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Depends on what you’re gonna do to me.”

Everything. You’re planning on doing everything to her.

Push her to the small pole of the wood. You’re forced to shove your fingers in her mouth again to keep her from yelling. The contact it makes to her clit is already overwhelming. But she’s all for overwhelming—she wants the kind of sex that leaves her beaten and bruised, the kind that leaves her sore and not knowing if she should tell you to keep going or halt.

You know what she’d choose.

Minju grinds on the pole. She’s dancing her hips again. Somehow, things of the past don’t leave her. Her idol days still leave an impact on her. The guy she made cheat on his wife a long time ago returned to her life to cheat again.

No, you’ve never been one for sentimentality, but things have somehow stayed the same. The slut that is Minju today was a slut all those years ago, too.

Grab her hips and force her to hump the ball of the pole. She soaks it instantly. Minju is corrupted to no hope of return. There’s your cum, leaking from her pussy and to the bedsheets. Her juices wet the pole and increase the creaking noises that would wake Wonyoung up if not for whatever dream she’s having.

“Oh, daddy! Oh, daaaddy—” she stammers, words bitten and broken in the major need to be quiet. “Just… fuck me. Please?”

“As long as you—”

“Be a good quiet girl, yes. I’ll do anything, daddy. Anything for this cock.”

She kneels down. Her tender mouth seals around your left testicle. You nearly shout right there and then. Minju’s running her lips on the underside of your swelling dick. She feels so good, and she is so good. She has all the tips and tricks to keep you hard memorized, if her brain wasn’t too full of other dirty thoughts.

The rasp in your throat materializes and makes her squirm her legs together. She puckers her lips then slips your cock through their joined entrance. Her almond eyes look wider tonight. Your tip pokes the back of her throat. She lets it rub there for now. You find pleasure in the texture that makes you leak. No, you can’t cum. Not yet.

Take a last look at Wonyoung before diving your rod to the depths of Minju’s throat.

It’s funny that the girl still has a gag reflex. Sucking dick is second nature to her. So is getting throatfucked. The walls of her oral hole flex to keep you in. She makes sharp inhalations only to take in the musky scent you thrust on her. In her?

Choking comes after. The orifice grows tighter which makes you fuck it harder. Saliva’s slick liquid state sheens your erection. Minju’s lost her breath a long time ago but she’s lost more than that now. The regular beat of her heart is gone. You can’t search her face for any color other than the palest white.

“You have to stop gagging, Minju,” you say. Don’t help her though; keep ruining that throat. “Maybe you really do wanna get caught. Makes you really wet, doesn’t it?”

She nods. Your hard tip bobs in her mouth as she does. Her pretty eyes, with their long lashes and big pupils that always seem to gleam with innocence, fill with watery tears.

“How cute.” You’re surprised that her hair is intact to her scalp after you pull it back. “But I make the rules around here. And I need you to seal that mouth shut and use it for good.”

There’s a possibility that, like Minju, you’re a dancer as well. But the upward grind of your body has no grace in it. It’s a rough, punked up beat that renders the girl humming and screaming. This roughness is nowhere close to natural.

You dip your cock in her just to see how far you could go, how far is needed to keep her quiet. Feed her more than she could suck. Every sensitive spot of yours is on fire thanks to Minju’s dutiful tongue and hard sucking. Your sack slaps her chin so hard it’s surprising it doesn’t hurt.

But, like you iterated, Minju isn’t normal. She takes the pain for pleasure and doesn’t give a damn if she gets wounded because of it.

The tears finally fall from her eyes.

The lines blur. Who is she—the woman asleep on your bed or the woman you fucked to be disloyal to her? Minju’s beautiful; so is Wonyoung. Jang Wonyoung is beautiful but there’s a category of beauty wherein the girl you’re destroying right now falls in. That’s the section for women who look pretty when they cry, who’ve accepted they’re as fucked up as whoever finds them and takes them in for who they are.

Your wife is pretty. You guess. But Minju is a beauty who lets you do everything to her, and that makes her a little bit more important.

Defile, defile, defile. Wonyoung wouldn’t let you get cum in her hair—(”I have a photoshoot, babe, you can’t!”). Semen sticks to Minju’s locks right now. Wonyoung wouldn’t let you be this rough with her—(“And what if they see? I shouldn’t look dirty to the fans.”) Minju is sitting there taking it like she’s just a cum dump. Wonyoung wouldn’t let you tear off her clothes because “they’re couture so it’s not really mine.” The coat Minju wore coming here lies discarded on the first floor.

Wonyoung doesn’t let anyone defile her. It’s her most fatal flaw. It’s the flaw that makes her husband see all the tiny imperfections she doesn’t allow the camera to see and chase highs in another woman’s throat.

So when Minju cries, gags, chokes—you realize it’s all so simple.

Slip out of her. The delusions clouding your head make you steal a look at the bed. Oh, now it’s unbelievable. Wonyoung is still asleep.

Not that it’s any inconvenience to you.

You prop Minju up to the vanity table. The counter carries the heave of her small chest. She can barely lift her head up. It makes her carry a look of humiliation that’s not at all true. She’s the most shameless woman you’ve ever met.

“Daddy… daddy…”

Twist her chin so she can look at herself in the mirror. Her body is amazing despite the handprints and bruises peppered on her stomach, butt, and neck. She flusters but your finger presses on her lips before she can look away.

“Not a single sound,” you remind her.

She nods. Good girl.

Minju’s a capable girl. Well, mostly. She offers those amazing dicksucking lips, shapely curves, and sometimes, her ass for ruining its own tightness. But nothing beats the feeling of her cunt. It’s all the right things: wet, tight, and perfectly quivering as they wrap around your shaft.

Minju closes her eyes. Bites down on her lip. She fights to be true to her promise of silence. Being a good girl and bad girl simultaneously is one of her versatile traits. The table creaks louder than expected. You would’ve shot another look at your spouse again, but Minju’s pretty face is in the way. Her cheeks are scarlet and her brows bead with sweat. She really is a beauty.

Your strokes are ceaseless. The thing that shocks you the least is the fact that her legs look as if they spread wider and wider. She splits while you split her apart. Place a hand on her tummy to muffle the sounds of skin colliding and wood creaking, and reach a better end: your cock is hitting her guts, making a bobbing print on her flat stomach.

“Look how deep I am, Minju.” You grin wickedly at her reflection. “You call me daddy anywhere, don’t you? How about I become a real one?”

Minju bounces herself on you. That’s a yes. A definite, enthusiastic yes.

Your penetration is rougher, gliding on places she can’t even imagine. If you cum right now, and this far in, you’ll live up to your name of “daddy.” Minju isn’t the only one who has to keep promises.

Corner a pulse point on her neck. Her core squeezes and although its resistance is tough, your pumps are more so.

“You’ll be my secret good girl. Daddy’s gonna put a fucking baby in your stomach, and no one has to know it’s mine. No one has to know you’re mine.”

Minju pouts, not out of sadness but of the orgasm that’s creeping from her feet to her center. It’s so close she could reach for it, taste it like a strong wind. You allow the tiny breaths and pants that leave her to be exemptions from your bedroom law.

“Wonyoung would be so happy for you.” You lick the sensitive spot behind her ear. “‘That’s so great, unnie! Come on, tell us who’s the lucky guy.’ And you’ll have to stop yourself from telling her that I did it. Can you do that?”

Minju emphasizes each repetition with a responding throb and push of her cunt. “Yes, yes, yes—”

Allow that, too. Burst inside Minju. Flood her insides with cum that shall infiltrate her fertile womb. Soon, that tummy would be round rather than flat. It’ll be your baby.

Minju got what she wanted in the end.

The next day, Wonyoung will wake up crying.

It’ll happen early in the morning, when the moon is still up and sheets still wrap your exhausted form. But she’s sobbing so loud that it’ll rouse you.

“What’s wrong?” you’ll say.

She’ll tell you about a dream she had. Wonyoung’s going to narrate a complex dream of Minju, her beloved former member and best friend, seducing you. It happened right in the house and in front of her. You dared to do it to her while she was sleeping and thought she didn’t know.

And you?

You’ll take her in your arms, kiss the inside of her trembling wrist, and say, “Oh, honey—it’s okay. I’m here, baby. I’m here. I’m here.”

1K notes · View notes

exhaslo · 1 month

Note

Hellooo!! I was wondering if you could do a part 2 to the Sugardaddy!Miguel story? 🫶🏻🤍

Sure thing!!!!!

Part 1

Warning: MINORS DNI, some smut, language, Sugar Daddy/Daddy kink? What would that go under??

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It had been a year since you and Miguel made that deal at the strip club.

Miguel was going to be your Sugar Daddy in exchange for a few dates.

It lasted two months before you asked him to further your relationship with him. Miguel was young, hot, kind, charming and just perfect.

The two of you were in a happy relationship. Miguel still spoiled you as if he was still your Sugar Daddy. You didn't complain as much because you had told Miguel it was all going to be used for your education.

Miguel was fine with it, but he loved to take your shopping. Buying you everything you looked at, everything you wanted, it felt too much sometimes.

Luck was truly on your side to have taken such a risk that night. Not only had you paid off all your bills, but you were finally going back to school. Miguel was so understanding and supportive of you that you couldn't help but fall more in love with him.

Miguel was amazing at everything. Once the two of you became an official couple, he was more honest with you.

The man was the son of the CEO of Alchemax.

The man was SPIDER-MAN!

The later secret was told just recently. You had found Miguel injured and grew extremely worried as you helped heal his wounds. It made sense why he was so rich, so strong and so goddamn good in bed. The stamina he had was inhumane.

Honestly, you were surprised how Miguel hasn't put a baby in you yet. There had been times where Miguel would fuck you so good that you couldn't move for the next few days.

Speaking of numb...

"Migueeeeel, I have an exam today. I told you," You said with a soft whine, laying flat on the bed.

"Aye, sorry mi amor (my love). I did restrain myself just a bit," Miguel said with a hum as he kissed your head, "I can swing you over to the building."

"But then I have to walk inside," You said with a pout, "I don't wanna be charged the missed fee."

"If that's what you're worried about..."

You squealed as Miguel flipped you over and pinned you against the bed. His smirk growing wider,

"I can handle as many missed fees as we need."

"But Daddy~" You giggled, causing Miguel to kiss you.

If there was one thing about having Miguel as a young Sugar Daddy that was good...was that Miguel LOVED being called 'Daddy'. It was a kink that you got used too as well.

"Ah~ D-Daddy! R-Right there~" You moaned, arching your back as Miguel held your hips.

"Does my good girl like that?" Miguel hummed as he thrusted into you again, "You want Daddy to take care of everything?"

"Y-Yesh! Yes! I-I'm a good girl!" You cried out, feeling your orgasm approach.

"Don't worry, I'll take....nh...good care of you." Miguel groaned as you tighten against his cock, "You want Daddy's milk that bad?"

You gripped against the bed sheets, begging for Miguel to unload inside of you. You gasped and moaned as Miguel gave you exactly what you wanted.

"Such a good girl," Miguel grunted as he kissed your neck, "My good girl,"

"Hah...hah...Miguel, I know...you're rich, but I can't keep...mhm...abusing you like this." You muttered. Miguel raised a brow as he picked you up from the bed,

"(Y/N), You know well that I don't mind. I have too much money to know what to do with. I will gladly always spend every penny on you."

"Hehe, a true sugar daddy."

"You're daddy." Miguel said with a chuckle as he carried you to the bathroom, "You've worked too hard your whole life to allow me to let you continue. I want to make sure you are always comfortable."

"You're always working hard too, Miguel. You have to live comfortably too."

You closed your eyes as Miguel gave you a deep kiss. He turned the water on and laid in the large bath with you. His arms firmly around your waist as the two of you laid in the tub. Your hands stroking his scars on his arms.

"Why don't we go on vacation? To celebrate me graduating soon. You could use the week off."

"Hm?" Miguel nuzzled his head against the crook of your neck, "How about three weeks? Any country of your choosing."

"Oh, you spoil me, Daddy."

"Anything for my good girl,"

It was a good thing Miguel was paying that fee for missing your exam...

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Hope you liked it~

#miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara smut #across the spiderverse #miguel x you #miguel x fem!reader

211 notes · View notes

pigcowboys · 9 months

Note

part 3 where percy confesses plss😭

pairing: percy jackson x gn! reader

summary: percy finally explains the reason he's been acting so weird.

warning(s): awkward conversations, mutual pining (pls they're very slow..), cursing, love confessions, kisses.

a/n: UGHH THIS TOOK FOREVER IM SO SORRY. tysm for all the notes on both parts !! :) i finally managed to pop out the final part even if it took a minute.. truly trying my best to clear up all the requests in my inbox, just give me a minute!!

part 1 part 2

school was slow - as always.

you watched out the window intently, trying your best to tune out the teacher's nonsensical chatting as you focused on the small robin that was seated outside on the arm of a tree.

you were so bored you were watching a bird.

seriously, school had to be some kind of legal torture method.

the bird flapped around like he was looking for something, tweeting eagerly when he seemed to get his hands onto a random stick.

hmm..must've been building a nest.

he rushed forward to place it, the twig dropping from his mouth as he hopped around, trying to find it almost nervously.

you watched with amused eyes, bracing your head in the palm of your hand as your mind started to wander. school was back in session and because of that, you had made the crushing decision to leave camp half-blood in order to pursue an education.

of course, as per request of your mother. she cared about you - a bit too much you'd guessed because for whatever reason she'd decided to put you in a school that was so strict they cut down on students if their shoelaces were so much as a tad bit too eye-catching.

you tore your eyes away from the bird to focus on your teacher who was still very much into the lesson she was teaching.

only a few more minutes till class had ended - you just had to hang in there..

“and so..” the loud ring of the bell cut your teacher off, simultaneously alerting your body to make the swift action to pull your backpack into your lap, sweeping all your things inside as you hauled yourself up, rushing out the classroom door.

one more day here and you might just throw yourself out the window, you thought.

your scruffy shoes dragged against the polished and shiny marble floor of the hallway as you pushed past the sea of people that were flooding out of each classroom.

you didn't hate this school - well, it was the only school you hadn't accidentally destroyed so, there was no room to complain. it wasn't any camp half-blood though, as bitter as you were about being a demi-god, you still missed being in a community where you all had at least one thing to relate to.

at this school you'd be lucky to find a person who had the same music taste as you..

you pushed past the last person, stomping down the stairs as you spotted a figure in the distance standing just a few ways near the front entrance of your school. you quirked an eyebrow at the fellow, a smile pulling onto your lips as you approached the person closer.

“so, are you stalking me now?” you asked, slightly amused.

percy smiled back at you. “yeah, sure, you wish.”

you pulled him into a gentle hug despite the emotions inside of you being anything but things of that nature, pulling away to exhale dramatically. “gods, if i stay one more second here i might end up maiming my english teacher.”

"between me and you, i can't tell who has a worse school - i got like, 6 pages of math homework today."

you stifled a laugh, causing percy's face to shift to one of unamusement. “thanks for that, makes my life seem a lot less horrible.”

percy stared right ahead at you, expression not changing.

you'd be a goddamned liar if you said you hadn't thought about percy every second you spent away from camp half-blood. i mean, how could you not? this summer was so..weird.. for no reason too. not that you hated it - it was amazing! suuper fun. well, spending like 4 days in the infirmary wasn't very fun but - you digress.

you hadn't seen percy or honestly, really anyone for a few months since summer ended. despite all the phone calls and texting, you'd never had the pleasure of seeing him in real life. you were both so busy too the idea of planning a hangout was completely out of picture.

it was until now, at least.

so, seeing percy jackson parked outside of your school on his beaten blue bike with slightly rusty handle bars on this random autumn afternoon was not apart of your plan. in fact, you were thinking of passing out when you got home and sleeping like a log.

he looked the same, for the most part except his hair was a bit more grown out now, bangs slightly overgrown on his face. you were sure he hadn't gotten a proper haircut in a minute or two. he looked more mature now too - to you at least. his shoulder were broader and his awkward voice that cracked unexpectedly was replaced a more..raspy and warm voice that tickled your ears whenever he spoke.

“what're you doing here?” you asked, offering him a confused smile. he tucked his hand into his pocket

“i wanted to take you out,” he replied, avoiding eye contact.

you eyed him curiously, grabbing the straps of your backpack. “like...on a date?” you joked.

“do you want it to be?”

you paused, slightly stunned by his newfound confidence. a smile unknowingly made it’s way onto your face as you snorted, pushing him playfully as you hid your burning face.

“are we riding over?”

percy smiled, hopping onto the bike as he slid his helmet onto his head. he scooted over to make space for you. “if you're not too scared..”

you smiled back at him, laughing as you threw your bag into the small basket in front of the bike, plopping down behind him. you hesitated to wrap your arms around him, goosebumps growing on your upper arm as you braced against his back.

“you alright back there?”

“mhm..” you mumbled out. “let's go.”

"how'd you get the money to pay for all this stuff?"

you tried your best to keep as much good inside your mouth as you could as you and percy walked side by side. you hadn’t had a proper unhealthy meal in weeks — all thanks to your mom’s newfound obsession with kale and all things vegetarian.

“saved up,” he replied nonchalantly. “nothing too important.” you hummed in response as you tended to the oversized slushee cup that was clutched in your right hand.

“so, what’s the real reason you decided to come find me?” you asked suddenly, catching Percy off guard.

“you’re not a very good listener.”

“and you’re not a good liar,” you quipped, a suspicious look on yo ur face. “why’d you suddenly decide you wanted to hang out?” you didn’t mind that percy had came to visit you — really. it’s just, you two didn’t live near each other at all.

so, for him to suddenly appear outside of your school on a whim seemed too peculiar to just be as simple as “wanting to hang”. percy analyzed you silently before shrugging. “well..i guess I just missed you then?”

you offered him a teasing smile. “is that so?”

“so.”

you laughed to cover up the hard pattering of your heart as your stomach fluttered. was Percy..flirting with you? like..flirting, flirting. you sneaked a glance at him as you continued to work on your slush, jumping when you felt Percy’s hand interlock with yours.

he didn’t look at you, only continued to walk at a neutral pace beside you. moments like these made you question your status with him, like isn’t it slightly weird for friends to be walking hand and hand down the street? is that..normal? well, it is for you two.

“where are we going?”

percy glanced at you. “somewhere..”

you quirked an eyebrow at him. you trusted his judgement — of course but it was starting to get late, that sentiment being heightened by the dimmer sky and the fact you were starting to see more and more street lights power off.

your mother was sure to worry about where you were in a few hours. just what did Percy have to show you? your head was telling you to leave and catch a bus home while the rest of your body told you to shut up and go wherever this sea eyed boy led you.

“just through here, okay?” percy reassured as he stepped to the side, allowing you to go ahead of him. he seemed to of led you to some secluded forest area that was a few ways away from civilization. it was beautiful — amazingly so considering this was New York you two were talking about.

“percy what is this pla—”

your questions was cut off as percy placed his hands over your eyes, earning a nervous giggle from you.

“shh,” he cooed in your ear. “just follow my lead.”

“kind of hard to when I can’t see anything..” you replied, tripping over something that was seated on the floor of the forest. percy was quick to steady you, slowly walking you deeper into the forest.

you mind went numb as the sensation of his own warm skin against yours overtook your receptors. his skin seemed just as warm as it was that summer he spent in the infirmary with you. almost as warm as his hand that clasped your own as you sat on his bed, watching in confusion as he attempted to tell you something.

whatever that something was..

percy stilled behind you as he exhaled shakily. “okay, i’m gonna remove my hands now.” he said, slightly nervous. “don’t like..scream or anything, alright?”

“no promises.” you joked, earning a nervous chuckle from him. you waited expectantly as percy slowly removed his hands from your eyes.

you blinked your eyes open as you admired the scene in-front of you. the heart of the forest was decorated with various different fairy lights and other small lights, and at the center there was a small picnic basket with a picture of you seated next to it.

you recognized the picture from the first day you and Percy had met. you were attending the same school at the time and that day the school had planned a trip to six flags, one that you both attended.

seated knee to knee, you two ascended the tracks and despite all your mutterings about rollercoasters being boring — you still felt your heart jumping as you made your way up. then, right at the drop, your throat closed and you started to grow sick.

yeah..it wasn’t hard to imagine what happened next. percy was nice enough to check up on you after the trip despite being traumatized himself. held all your stuff for you while you threw up the rest of the your breakfast into the six flags public trash bin.

and your teacher, oh, your sweet caring teacher, caught the whole thing in a image that consisted of your sickly looking face attempting to throw up a peace sign and percy’s terrified looking face that was stained with your throw up who hugged you awkwardly, shooting a weak looking thumbs up.

you hated that photo — he knew that. it was probably why he used it.

your breath caught in your throat as you turned to face percy. he looked back at you with a warm smile on his face as he approached you hesitantly. you stood in place, watching him approach you. what should you say? what could you say?

“i’ve.. not been the best with my words..recently..” percy said, slightly embarrassed. “but, um..i don’t think i’d really forgive myself if I didn’t tell you this..” his face was flushed to capacity as he stood in-front of you. your lips trembled as you opened your mouth to say something to no avail.

Percy exhaled, stepping forward as he clasped your hand in his, bringing it to rest against his chest. your eyes casted down to look at your hand which rested there, the pattering beat of his heart loud as ever.

“i really like you.” percy admitted. “more than..more than i’ve ever liked someone in my life.” he stared into your eyes intensely as he tightened his grip on your hand. “and..i want to know if you feel the same way..” he paused. “please?”

you were at a loss for words. i mean, how could you have gaged this was what Percy had planned for so long? and how stupid were you for not seeing it all? everything that happened between the two of you at camp half blood..was he..? no, he was. he was trying to confess to you.

he felt the same way as you.

you slithered your hand out of his touch, bringing it to your side. percy’s face grew slightly alarmed, sadness growing on his face.

your stomach fluttered as you leaned in slightly, tongue darting out to lick your lips before you closed the gap between the two of you, pressing a kiss to percy’s lips. his eyes widened at the contact, freezing before kissing back hesitantly.

Percy wrapped his arms around your neck, holding you tightly as you pulled back from the kiss, a embarrassed look on your face.

“i couldn’t find anything to say.”

percy blinked at you, slightly shaken up. “you’ve said plenty.”

“clearly not enough since you genuinely thought I wasn’t going to like you back.” you huffed. “gosh, and while we’re on the topic — can we talk about how stupid I am?”

“let’s not,” percy mumbled. “we’d be stuck on it for hours.” you nudged him playfully. silence fell over you two again as you stayed still in each other’s arms, having an unspoken staring contest.

“i like you too, percy.” you mumbled. “i always have.”

a smile formed on Percy’s face as he nodded slightly. “yeah, okay..I’m glad.” he cleared his throat. “…do you have like, a specific amount of time you have?”

“shut up and kiss me again.” you replied with a smile, pulling Percy into you as your lips pressed against each other again. for a moment you almost forgot all about where you were and how late it was. all that mattered at the moment was the fact that you and percy were finally together.

well, it was for a moment.

you jumped as percy’s phone went off in his pocket, causing you to pull away from Percy immediately as he searched through his pocket for his cell. You eyed percy curiously as he brought the phone to your ear.

“mom! what’s..going on?.” he replied into the phone with a hushed tone. “yeah..they’re here..” he turned to face you to which you waved at him with a lopsided smile.

“uh, okay — we will..yeah we’ll be there.” he said before ending the call. Percy turned to you with a frown. you titled your head in confusion.

“are you up for dinner at my place? my mom wants to meet my new girlfriend.” he said, wars growing red.

huh. dinner sounded good right about now.

#percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson fluff #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson x you #x reader #x reader fluff #pjo fluff

592 notes · View notes

lacroixqueen · 1 year

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made your mark on me, a golden tattoo tattoo artist sevika x reader AU (18+)

Summary: you are getting your very first tattoo and sevika just so happens to be your tattoo artist. flirting and sexual tension ensue.

Pairing: tattoo artist sevika x reader AU

Word Count: 3357 (she's LONG)

Tags: soft sevika, unresolved tension, useless lesbians, gay panic, tattoo artist, tattoos, tattoo parlor

You shifted around the seat in the waiting room of the tattoo parlor for what felt like the hundredth time in the span of a single minute. For some reason you were a lot less nervous on the way here than you were literally waiting for your tattoo artist to set up the room and look over your art samples. You told yourself that this was something you were going to get done if it was the last thing you did.

I mean, for God’s sake, it was a brand new year, and you wanted your first tattoo to be something special, to carry meaning that only you will understand. Kind of like a little inside joke.

Apparently the tattoo artist you selected.. Sevika was it? Was quite well known throughout Zaun for several amazing masterpieces. She was attentive to detail, cared about each and every single one of her customer’s needs, and really wanted to make the best product possible for her clientele.

You crossed one leg over the other, folding your arms across your chest and heaved out a little sigh. She better damn well be. The waiting list for her business was about three months long. You made sure to do plenty of research before committing to something as permanent as a tattoo. I mean, it will stay on your body for the rest of your life. Perhaps even into your death.

You shuddered at the thought. Whatever. No matter what, it was far too late to turn back now. You already submitted your deposit, gave the artist the design you had in mind and for crying out loud, you were already here at the goddamn place. So might as well get this over with and try to have as few regrets as possible.

“Y/N?” a low and raspy voice called out from the back of the tattoo parlor. “I’m ready for you. You can come on back now.”

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. She was ready for you. Okay. What does that even mean? You stood up, dusting off your skirt and took a final big deep breath.

Just stay calm, you reassured yourself. Everything will be alright in the end. And if it isn’t, heck, maybe there is a surgeon in town who can remove it altogether and you can forget this even happened. Maybe that’s a bit of an overexaggeration.

You were greeted by what you could only describe as one of the most beautiful women you have ever seen. Sevika was tall. And just by the looks of her right shoulder and arm muscles bulging from underneath her black tank… you could tell she worked out. Like a lot. She was also smoking a thick cigar between her lips, so her already godlike silhouette was wrapped around in a dreamlike haze.

You muttered a little curse under your breath. As if matters couldn’t get possibly worse, your tattoo artist was hot. As in, very very very hot. This was going to be a long afternoon.

“You can take a seat right here,” she said with confidence, slapping the tattoo bed with a resounding echo.

“Oh, uh, yes okay,” you stammered, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear before hoisting yourself up in a less than dignified fashion.

“Are you nervous, Y/N?”

Oh no. From the corner of your eye, you could see she was smirking quite noticeably. Her eyes flicked over you just slightly. Shit. Was she checking you out? You didn’t even do your makeup properly today because you had no idea what she even looked like. If you had known earlier that she was this drop dead gorgeous piece perhaps you would have put in a bit more effort. You win some, you lose some, you suppose.

“J-just a little bit!” you squeaked out. “It’s my first tattoo, so I have no idea what to expect.”

“Well, let me just tell you that you have absolutely nothing to be nervous about, Y/N,” Sevika chuckled as she slid closer to you on her artist chair with your designs in either hand. “If I ever hurt you, you can always tell me to stop and I’ll go slower, okay?”

“Thank you!” Oh god. She smelled so good too.

“Of course. Sooo.. I got to take a look at your ideas last night and I honestly think they are great.” You watched as the thumb of her mechanical hand peeled back a page to glance at the alternate design.

“Really? You think so?”

“Absolutely. Although I think for this bottom part right here, we might need to make a small color adjustment since there might be some shading issues. And for the top corner here where it gets a little bit more complicated? I think I might do a little bit more dotwork to really flesh out the details. But uh, other than that, the stencil is essentially done.”

“Wow! Then, yes, perfect, let's just keep going then,” you gulped. Your eyes casually glazed over the extensive tattooing Sevika had all over her arm and neck.

“Excellent. So, I’ll just have you lay back and.. you wanted it on your side, right? Just lift up your top for me so I can have easy access to that part.”

“Oh um, sure!” You did as you were told, carefully unbuttoning your sweater and shrugging it off your shoulders. You then laid back, and lifted up your cami to reveal the right aspect of your body.

“Lovely,” she replied. “And.. may I?” Her mechanical fingertips lightly grazed over the top of your skirt.

You nodded vigorously. “Of course!”

With the most gentle touch you have ever felt, Sevika gingerly tugged your skirt down a little bit more so it rested comfortably on the roundest part of your right hip. She did the same with the pink lacy fabric of the thong you had on underneath. You tried to take a small breath as quietly as possible.

“Cute panties,” she commented almost a bit too nonchalantly before turning her back to you to slip on some latex gloves and ensure her work tray was all in order.

As if you weren’t already flustered beyond belief, now you might as well have been an uncontrollable mess. “Th-thanks! It’s from um, the store.”

She laughed ever so slightly. “Yeah, I figured as much. Sooo.. for the design. Were you thinking of having it more..” She trailed her gloved fingertip from your pantyline to the top of your chest. “Or more like here?” She ran her other hand over the curve of your waist all the way down to your hip.

“Uhm.. maybe kind of like.. both? If that makes sense? Like it can sort of spread from..” You gently took her wrist and guided her finger from your belly button all the way to the divot in your waist. “Like that?”

“Hmm.. yes. That should be perfectly fine.” She smirked a bit when you immediately released her arm from your grasp as if you were overstepping a boundary.

Without another word, she quickly sprayed some isopropyl alcohol into a wipe and proceeded to sanitize the area. “This might be a bit cold, I’m sorry babe.”

Babe? Did she just call you babe? Does she call all her clients babe? Or is it a little pet name that she only has reserved for you?

“I-it’s totally fine!” you yelped. But she was right. It was quite cold. She could tell you were lying through your teeth when your tummy suddenly clenched up.

“You can’t tense up just yet, doll. I haven’t even gotten the needles out,” she chuckled, lightly slapping your hip. “I need you to loosen up a bit, I don’t want you to be too tight.”

“R-right!” you replied. “Definitely don’t want that.” After a brief pause, you struggled to figure out if there was any sort of double meaning in her words. Or maybe you were just overthinking again.

She let out another hearty laugh and proceeded to massage in some warm lotions into the side of your body. “Just try to relax, hun.” You did as you were told, closing your eyes and making a futile attempt to count numbers. But she wasn’t making your life any easier with all these pet names. And why did her fingers have to feel so goddamn good simply by rubbing cream into your skin. It felt like it was working some type of dark magic, undulating in soft, round circles and moving rhythmically over your waist.

You could have melted into her hands right then and there.

“Okay, and now the stencil. This will feel a little bit wet, alright?”

You nodded your head, biting your lip so you wouldn’t accidentally yelp out. For some odd reason, even though you two just met, you felt very safe with Sevika. Like you could entrust your entire body and soul to her and she wouldn’t hurt any of it even if she was fully capable of doing so.

She smoothed out the stencil exactly over the part of your stomach and waist that you pointed to. She gently kneaded it into your skin, taking extra caution not to be too rough with you.

With one smooth motion, she removed the stencil and quickly leaned over you to ensure no detail of her handiwork got disrupted. That no stone was left unturned.

“Looks… just about.. perfect,” she muttered quietly. You could tell her tone has shifted slightly from the flirtatious one she took on earlier. Suddenly she was laser focused, ensuring that nothing, absolutely nothing would disturb the intricacy of her artwork.

“Great!” you chirped awkwardly, craning your neck over to see the stencil art. Good god. It looked absolutely breathtaking. Her line work was truly something out of this world. And she really did pay attention to every single request you made in your design. “Wow.”

She looked up, locking your gaze with the utmost intensity. “Yeah.” A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She was quite pleased with herself.

She turned around to power on her tattoo machine.

“This part is going to hurt just a little bit, okay?” she spun around in her artist chair to check on you.

You nodded your head and exhaled ever so slightly. “Okay.” A giant lump was starting to form in your throat and you could feel yourself getting a bit worked up.

Sevika immediately held onto your hand and gave it a light squeeze. “If it ever starts hurting, just let me know and I will stop right away.”

“O-okay.”

“We’ll start with the first line. Take a deep breath and count to three for me, alright princess?” Sevika said as she positioned the tattoo gun at an angle to your skin.

Oh my god. Princess?! She definitely does not call all her clients that. Alright. Big deep breath. One.. two.. three-

The searing hot needle pierced into your skin like a knife.

“Ah~!” you let out a small cry and Sevika immediately stopped midline.

“Too fast?”

“A little bit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll go a lot slower this time.”

You nodded and took in another breath. You felt Sevika’s gloved hand slide over the curve of your waist as she positioned herself to gain a little bit more control over her line. By god did her cologne smell amazing. When she leaned over your body, a few short pieces of her bangs would fall out and just barely graze over your exposed tummy. It was definitely getting a bit difficult for you to concentrate on your breathing and counting.

Sevika proceeded to carve out the central line of your tattoo design. She worked slowly and methodically, usually in complete silence. But for some reason when she was around you, she felt the urge to keep pushing the envelope and testing your limits.

“Good girl,” she would coo gently when she noticed your stomach beginning to relax.

“That’s my good girl..” she would say again when she finished a piece of detailing while you stayed quiet and still.

You would moan softly every now and then when you felt the needle dig into your skin and Sevika would respond by going just a touch slower and smirking to herself. Secretly, she loved hearing how adorable and helpless her clients sounded when she sank the tattoo needle deep into their skin. Her sadistic nature was one of the primary reasons she decided to go into tattooing as a prime business.

To have someone completely in her control, at her disposal. To leave a permanent mark on their bodies that would forever remind them of their experience with her. To watch them writhe in pain, or sometimes even pleasure. It was like a drug she simply could not get enough of.

And you. Something about the way you squirmed was extra fucking enticing and she couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

In fact, she could feel you wriggling ever so slightly even now. “Stay still for me, angel.”

And you would immediately stop. Her voice was soft, but also definitively commanding. She needed to focus. To have you moaning and writhing was too much even for her. Her mind would begin to wander to dangerous places.

Like how it would feel to start ramming into your cunt right then and there and watching how your sensitive body would react to her thrusts. How irresistible and beckoning your moans would sound as they ricocheted off the walls, encouraging her to pound into you so rough and so hard you just couldn’t take it anymore. How cute you would look clutching onto your sweater for comfort, or holding onto the sides of the tattoo bed for dear life.

You would be lying if you said you weren’t fantasizing about a million hypothetical scenarios in your head.

Having Sevika press her bicep over the top of your stomach to hold you still just did something to your psyche that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Your eyes danced over the detailing of her own tattoo. It looked to be very intricate and well-thought out… wait a second. Was that supposed to be Zaun?!

“Um, I-I like your tattoo!” you chirped meekly. “It’s really beautiful.”

“Thanks baby,” she smirked to herself. “I designed it myself, actually.”

“Do.. you call all your clients that?” you asked out of the curiosity that was beginning to kill you slowly.

Sevika suddenly paused in the middle of her tattooing to glance over at you.

“Only my favorite ones,” she said with a wink before returning to her work.

Oh my god. Why does she keep doing that? It’s starting to become unfair. Like she was getting off the high of torturing you and watching your pathetic reactions. And what did she mean by “favorite ones”? So she flirts with all her clients she finds attractive? What does that even mean?!

Every now and then, Sevika would sneak a glimpse over towards you. She loved the way your chain necklace rested so comfortably over the top of your collarbone. Or how plump and kissable your lips looked in the dim lighting of the parlor. Or how your legs were beginning to spread instinctively the closer her tattoo work moved to the top of your skirt.

Sevika had to fight every last urge in her body to not reach down into your panties and start pleasuring you the way you deserved right then and there on top of that tattoo bed. But she knew she had a job to finish, regardless of how damn adorable you looked and sounded as she drew on the finishing touches of your tattoo.

“Okay.. almost done,” she said. “You are doing so good, sweetheart.”

You winced a little bit when you felt the needle dig just a bit deeper than usual at the last pattern. Was she trying to tease you back there? Or was that absolutely necessary to finish off the line? Whatever. You tried not to overthink it, even though you have been doing so this entire time.

“Alright..” Sevika hummed. “Why don’t you step off the bed and take a look in the mirror over there?”

You did as you were told, hopping off and hobbling over to the full-length mirror across the room. You tilted your head to the side, gently lifting up your cami again to look over the tattoo. Wow. She really did a stunning job. You were a bit surprised, given the fact that she was flirting with you half the time. But holy.. every single piece of line art and dot work flowed so evenly with each other. The design came out exactly the way you had imagined it.

Sevika gave out a low whistle of approval from behind you.

You jumped a little bit out of surprise. Sevika had snuck up on you without you even noticing. And god. Just by looking in the mirror she was already towering over you.

“It’s… beautiful,” you said softly. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”

“That’s wonderful,” Sevika replied. “Now, can you take your cami off for me, Y/N?”

“M-my cami?”

Sevika chuckled and raised up the medical grade bandage she had in her hand. “For this.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. Absolutely.”

You gently tugged off your shirt and tossed it onto a nearby countertop to reveal a pink lacy bra. Sevika tried not to comment on it but she did in fact take note of how good you looked in it. And how badly she wanted to take it off you right then and there.

Sevika stepped forward so she placed her thigh between your legs and carefully laid the clear bandage over the top of your tattoo. She gently rubbed it in with her thumb and index finger, making sure to smooth out any uneven edges or creases. She smiled a bit to herself when she felt how hard and fast your heartbeat was pounding against your stomach, or how much warmer your skin felt compared to before.

“Perfect,” she said, quickly removing her gloves and handing you back your shirt. “So, for this bandage, think of it as like a second layer of skin that offers extra protection. Leave it on for the next few days. Then I would rinse it off with some warm water. Oh and, definitely moisturize.” Her tone shifted from flirtatious to professional and matter-of-fact in what felt like a split second. How did she keep doing that?!

“Y-yes ma’am!” you sputtered out, returning to the tattoo bed to shrug on your sweater and gather your belongings.

“And the payment is already taken care of since I saw you submitted your deposit in advance, so I believe you are all set,” Sevika said.

“Great! Um.. thank you Sevika. I was super nervous going into this but you definitely made me feel a whole lot better afterwards.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” she replied, giving you another flirty grin. “Oh, and uh-” The tattoo artist went behind the front counter to dig around a bit until she fished out a slightly bent business card and handed it over to you. “Call me.”

“C-call you?! As in like- Oh my god. I’m.. not sure if I would feel.. I mean, isn’t this kind of fast?”

“I meant to update me on your tattoo healing,” Sevika chuckled. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself, princess.”

“Right, right, no yes that makes total and complete sense,” you responded, folding the business card nervously into your palm. “Um.. well I guess I’ll.. call you.”

“Yeah.” She had already followed you to the doorframe and you were standing in the streets of the undercity at this point. “I’ll see you around, alright Y/N?”

“Okay! Yes. Um. Bye! Thank you!” You quickly scurried off into the busy crowds of Zaun, disappearing into the darkness once more.

You were quite certain that if you didn’t act, that you would barely see Sevika again, save an occasional run-in at the liquor store or maybe a random night at The Last Drop. So you didn’t want to take any chances.

874 notes · View notes

drabbles-mc · 7 months

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It'll Get Done (Pt. 2)

Richie Jerimovich & F!Reader

Carmy Berzatto & F!Reader

Find Part 1 Here

Warnings: 18+, language, alcohol, canon-typical vibes

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: My writer's block has been brutal lately because of lift things, which is deeply unfortunate because I wanted to NaNo this month. But! I did write this for these guys. I just want to put them in rooms and let them talk to each other forever.

The Bear Taglist: @garbinge @withmyteeth @narcolini @hausofmamadas @ashlingnarcos @darqchilddaydreamz @justreblogginfics (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, plesae let me know!)

Richie didn’t make it back before the end of the day. You only noticed because the kitchen was a little quieter. Not quiet, of course, but quieter. There was one less person that Carmy was yelling at and arguing with. It was amazing how much it cut down on the noise level.

Every now and then as Carmy raced back and forth between the front and the back of the house, you could feel him lingering behind you. The kid exuded stress in a way that you didn’t know was possible. You understood why, because most people if they were thrown into his position would’ve jumped off the sinking ship rather than trying to scoop the water out with a soup ladle, but sometimes you still felt like you should strap him to the chair in the office and force-feed him some of Richie’s Xanax.

You empathized with him. Or you empathized with him at least more than Richie did, which was a low bar these days. But despite the compassion you were dredging up to give him, there were still plenty of times when you felt him standing behind him and all you wanted to do was spin back around to him and ask him what his fucking deal was. It was easier to refrain from doing that on days when Richie was there because he would say it for you.

Carmy came all but skidding back through the kitchen towards the register, going back and forth between muttering and shouting, “Behind,” as he made his way through.

“Calm down, Jeff,” Tina said with a laugh as she went to take her pot off the stove.

You felt your jaw clench on Carmy’s behalf. Tina was knowledgeable about a lot of things and one of those things was, most definitely, how to get under Carmy’s skin. It wasn’t a difficult code to crack but there were so few people in the world who could do it with such expert precision. Her and Richie were two peas in a pod that way.

“It’d be easier for me to calm down, Tina,” Carmy snapped as he kept walking, “if we were able to pay our goddamn vendors!”

She was shaking her head at him—you caught it out of the corner of your eye. But you also noticed that she didn’t say anything more about it. Content to go back and lie in wait for something else to pop up that she could nettle him about. The end of the day might’ve been approaching quickly but you had the feeling in the pit of your stomach that she would be able to find something else before she clocked out without having to work too hard.

When Carmy came back into the kitchen a little while later, he was walking at a much slower pace than he had been before. You were sure that some of that had to do with the fact that the last of the customers had left, and presumably whatever vendor that had showed up looking for money had also left.

He looked on as everyone slowly but surely worked through their cleanup processes. He wasn’t looking at you, but you still asked him, “All good?”

His head snapped in your direction. “What?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out of you. It wasn’t funny per se, but if you didn’t laugh about it you’d end up crying. “What can I help you with, Carmen?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. N-nothing. No one can help me with,” he let out a huff, raking his hands through his hair, “fuckin’ anything.”

“Little dramatic,” you replied honestly, sarcastic but kind, “but alright.”

It got a weak chuckle out of him. “You know what the fuck was going on in Mikey’s head with all that shit?” he asked as he gestured to the office.

You didn’t have to turn and look where he was pointing to know how bad the mess was. You’d seen it while Mikey was making the mess. You’d been seeing it as Carmy made almost no headway in cleaning any of it up. You didn’t blame him for that. If you’d been in his position, you wouldn’t have any idea where to start either.

“Thank fuckin’ god no,” you finally answered him.

He pressed his lips into a thin line for a second as he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah that seems to be…yeah.”

“You should—”

“You can head out, Chef,” Carmy cut you off, and you didn’t know if he even realized that he’d done it. “I’ll finish cleaning up.”

You shook your head. “I can clean up my shit.”

He motioned for you to leave. “It’s fine. I got it.”

“Carm…”

“Seriously,” he reiterated. “Go.”

You looked at him for a moment, and that’s when you could see it in his eyes, the silent plea to just let him have some time to himself. You knew that feeling—it was the whole reason you’d shown up as early as you had that morning in the first place anyway. You knew better than to tell him that he should leave. He wasn’t going to and all it was going to do was turn into an argument. You didn’t need another one of those.

“Fine,” you said with a nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You ditched your apron and switched back into your casual shoes, stuffing everything else into your locker while you grabbed your bag and your jacket. Neither you nor Carmy spared each other another goodbye, or any other words in general as you headed out.

There was no point in getting your car keys out of your bag, not when the bar you went to with Richie all the time was within walking distance. The couple blocks felt way longer when it was cold out, but it wasn’t that bad yet.

The bartender recognized you when you walked in, giving you a smile and a nod as he moved to start pulling your drink together before you even sat down. He waited for you to get situated before asking, “Flying solo tonight?”

You laughed as you pulled your phone out of your bag. “That’s an excellent question. Let me call—” The rest of the sentence died on your tongue when the door to the bar flung open and Richie strode through. You instantly let it drop right back into your bag, eyes fixed on Richie even though you were talking to the bartender. “I’m not flying solo tonight, no.”

“Can’t believe you came over here without me!” Richie said as he walked over to you.

“Yeah, well,” you looked up at him from the stool you were sitting on as he clapped his hands down on your shoulders, “least I ordered you a drink.”

He laughed, leaning more onto you. His tone shifted completely as he spoke. “Have I ever told you that I love you?”

You rolled your eyes. “You can always tell me again.”

He kissed the side of your head. “I love you.”

“Damn right,” you said with a nod as Richie plopped down on the seat next to you. You waited until he was comfortable in his seat, leaning forward with his arms braced against the edge of the bar with his breathing evened out, before you tried to have anything resembling a real conversation. “Where the hell did you go all day?”

“What do you mean?”

“You expect me to believe that it was guys and places all day?” You were only bringing it up because, much to Carmy’s dismay, Richie usually was at the restaurant all day every day the place was open. He’d pop in and out briefly for whatever errands he assigned himself, but other than that he was present and accounted for. Being gone all day was noticeable, at least to you if no one else.

It was written all over his face that he was thinking about not elaborating. You saw the shifts in his expression as he tried to come up with a joke, or a lie, or anything besides getting into the reality of it all. But then when he looked you in the eyes again, all he could do was be honest with you. “Tiff called. Had to go pick Eva up from school.”

You nodded. “Got it.” You paused. “Wanna talk about it or—”

“No, no,” he laughed, shifting back into his usual demeanor. “We’re not doing that. You don’t get to do that.”

You let out a confused laugh. “I don’t get to do what?”

“You don’t get to try and use Eva to get out of telling me what the fuck your dumbass boyfriend did!” He paused as the bartender set both your drinks down, taking a moment to thank him before shifting his attention right back to you. “You first.”

You huffed, wishing that you could get out of it again. Even with things that were much lower-stakes, there was only so long that you could dodge Richie and his endless line of questions. You took a long sip of your drink as you tried to figure out what you wanted to say, how you wanted to try and say it. There was no way that you could tell the story that would end with him being anything but pissed off about the entire situation. You couldn’t blame him for that, either. After all, you were still pretty pissed off about it yourself.

“It’s nothing new,” you said, a cop-out you knew that he wasn’t going to accept.

He shook his head, looking down at the glass in his hands before looking at you again. “Tell me the old news, then.”

“I’m done being angry about it, Richie.”

“I’m not,” he replied with no hesitation.

It got you to laugh, at least. “That’s because you’re never done being angry about anything.”

He waited for you to look at him. “You’re really not gonna tell me what he did?” He paused, and when you didn’t say anything, he added on, “That bad?”

You shook your head, drumming your fingers on the outside of your glass. “That pointless.”

“Ah,” he waved you off with that same smirk you’d seen from him so often over the years, “another drink or two and I won’t be able to get you to stop talking shit about him.” He missed the look on your face as he looked back down at his drink and shook his head. “Fuckin’ jagoff.”

You chuckled, nodding. “Yeah—that we can agree on at least.”

“Speaking of which,” he gestured towards the door of the bar, “how was the fuckin’ executive toddler chef the rest of the day?”

You smiled, rolling your eyes. “An absolute gem once you walked out the door.”

For a split second you could see it on his face that he almost believed you. Then he smartened up and gave you a playful bump against your shoulder with his own. “Fuck you.”

#the bear #the bear fx #the bear hulu #the bear fanfiction #richie jerimovich #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #richie jerimovich x reader #richie jerimovich x you #my writing #it'll get done #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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mrsaltieri-real · 8 months

Text

Sam Carpenter as a Girlfriend (SFW and NSFW)

Sam Carpenter as a girlfriend (with fem!afab!reader)

A/N: Just realised this will be my last post as a 22 year old as it’s my birthday tomorrow and I’ve never written anything for my best girl before. Disgraceful. So let’s start off with some Headcanons!

SFW

Initially, it takes her a while to trust you

She wanted just a fling to start with but found she couldn’t stop thinking about you and it was driving her nuts

Eventually plucks up the courage to ask you out and is just so relieved when you say yes

She’d be very hesitant on dates and try and avoid talking about herself as much as possible

Is still on edge after everything with Richie and his family, she doesn’t know if you’re just using her

She has really bad trust issues, will need a lot of reassurance that you’re in it for the long run

Will take her a few months to begin to open up about herself

Once she does? Oh boy.

Honestly the sweetest girlfriend ever

She’ll open doors for you, pull out your chair for you, kiss your hand

She’s just a sweetie

Loves taking her girlfriend on dates to the movies so she has an excuse to hold your hand or put her arm around you

Likes to lie down with her head in your lap and just chat to you about the most mundane things, enjoying the normality

ADORES it when you play with her hair

She’s just so SOFT with you

But extremely overprotective

Considering what she’s been through can you blame her?

Anyone looks at you the wrong way she’ll immediately get defensive

She’ll honestly square up to a 6ft5 boxer if they made you even a little uncomfortable

Will honestly knock a bitch out for you and have no regrets

She likes it when you cook for her

Even if you’re an awful cook she’ll eat every last bite of it

Likes to get stoned and laugh with you all fucking night

Works overtime at her job just so she can treat you to date nights, jewelry, clothes, everything

When you tell her to stop she’ll shut you DOWN

Loved to cuddle, more in private

Gushes about you to Tara

Will watch you sleep for hours on end just asking herself how she got so lucky to find someone like you

Her main love languages are words of affirmation, gift giving and quality time

She’s seriously an amazing girlfriend

NSFW

Sam is a FREAK I don’t make the rules

She’s a dom, a goddamn top

Has a high sex drive for sure

Channels her inner rage and bloodlust into fucking you stupid

She’s an ass and thigh girl with a soft spot for tits

But HEAVY on the thighs

She’ll tie you down and grind her clit on your thigh till she cums

And make you do the same to her, literally manhandle you into her and force your hips to move

Owns a strap, scratch that, she has an entire collection of sex toys that she’ll use on you

Treat her strap like it’s her own cock

She’ll make you gag on it, beg for it, fuck your hand with it

Really really gets her going when your sucking her off, looking up into her eyes

Her hands will be on your head, forcing it down your throat

Likes to finger you. Like, REALLY likes to finger you

Then force her fingers into your mouth and make you taste yourself

Same when she’s eating you cunt, she’ll make out with you hard afterward

Likes you to know how wet she’s made you

Her favourite positions with the strap are missionary and doggy

Doggy because she likes the view and it allows her to spank you (she loves spanking)

Missionary because it allows her to kiss you, choke you, rub your clit

A big dirty talker. Not much on degradation but has a massive praise kink on both ends

Likes when you tell her how good she feels, likes to tell you how good you are, how amazing you taste, how good you feel

Really loves phone sex, hearing you get off to her words is just such a turn on for her

She does enjoy scissoring but she prefers thigh riding

Likes when you scratch her up with your nails hard enough to draw blood

Expect to be marked up to holy hell when she is done with you

She really loves to leave hickeys everywhere

You neck, chest, stomach, thighs

Everywhere

Has a big ol’ blood kink that she can’t help

Same with a knife kink

But she’s very calculated with how she incorporates that, the last thing she’d want to do is scare you away

Can and will go down on you for hours, overstimulate the hell out of you and not stop till SHE is done with tasting you

But she loves to receive just as much

She’ll literally fuck your face till your a whimpering, drooling mess

Likes to make you ride her face, will die happily suffocated by your cunt

Sometimes it’s like she a woman possessed and she just can’t control herself when she’s around you

But this is all when she entirely trusts you

After Richie and how he treated her it took her a while to let someone see that side of her

The aftercare is sweet

She’ll clean you up, leaving kisses on every mark she left and just be so gentle with you

Likes to take showers with you and help you clean yourself up

You’ll fall asleep to her tracing her fingers over the hickeys she’d left scattered across your body

#my wife #my girlfriend #i love her so much #she’s so fucking HOT GOD #i gotta write her #i gotta #last post as a 22 year old let’s GO #scream #scream 6 #scream headcanons #sam carpenter x reader #sam carpenter smut #sam carpenter x female reader #sam carpenter

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gretagerwigsmuse · 2 years

Text

and even when we’re wrong in every way, we come out the other side okay (part 2.1)

Summary: in which lieutenant commander bradshaw is getting honored with an award and behaved like an absolute idiot when he didn’t initially ask his girlfriend to be his date even though she’s the best goddamn thing to ever happen to him

OR you take on the pacific fleet’s awards gala

Pairing: Rooster x Fem!Reader 9.8k

Warnings: 18+, explicit language, explicit sexual content (p in v, vaginal fingering and slight dom/sub and praise and rank kink elements), and shower sex and soapy titties

[Part 1] [Part 1.5] [Part 2.1] [Part 2.2]

A/N: this was really fucking long, so i split it up. the final final part will be posted soon! but i just want to thank everyone so so so much for all the absolutely amazing support i’ve gotten on this entire series including my little bradley and smart aleck drabbles and the respective lore about the two of them. i have so many people to thank for reaching out and leaving the absolute sweetest comments and replies and messages, but i’d be remiss if i didn’t call out sol, may, cass, ava, giza, and kylie for all their help and encouragement and listening to me complain via dms these past few weeks! so without further adieu...

and all these situations we go through, we come out the other side brand new

Bradley couldn’t believe it had almost been six months since the two of you had gotten together. Nearly six months of dinner dates, movie nights, cooking at each other’s places, beach trips, hikes (begrudgingly on your part), and even a couple jaunts down to Tijuana just for Caesar salads - all to say nothing about the sex.

“…God, you’re so fucking smart. Keep going, one more time for me…” His voice trailed off, turning into a groan.

You bounced on his cock, balancing one hand on his chest, while brushing your hair out of your face with the other. “…even with inflation slowing, we should expect to see - oh, god, Bradley - in-interest rates will - will still rise - they’ll still rise - I’m so close, bubs.”

“Fuck.” He dug his hands harder into your hips. “You look so good taking my cock like that - now put your hands on those gorgeous tits of yours - just like that -”

“- I don’t think I can last - fuck oh oh oh -” You clumsily grabbed your breasts with one hand and threw your head back.

Bradley stilled and you whined. He could feel you clenching around him. “- Can’t cum until you finish that presentation - don’t want my girl acting all dumb at work tomorrow -”

“- Fuck you - you should’ve - ohhh should’ve paid attention the first time.” He slapped your ass. “Mmmmmm, oh-okay Congress should stabilize - price caps to reduce inflationary pressures - please, bradley - oh god oh oh fuck - pressures through selective price caps -ohhhh god - fuck!”

Sure it was a delicate balance and mix of personalities sometimes, but it worked. Bradley thought it worked. Seemed like it did. His life with you was entirely separate from his life with the Navy. And he liked that.

He liked that he could come home from a really long or hard day at work and you would both just talk about your days in the simplest terms and work through your shit together while eating dinner and then watching TV. Because work was work, no matter what field you worked in - coworkers were still assholes, your bosses still gave you shit, and deadlines still loomed.

And so, Bradley just kept things separate. He still hung out with his friends, you still hung out with your friends, you both still had your separate apartments (though you had spent far more nights together than apart), and yeah sometimes you’d hang out with each other’s friends, but Bradley hadn’t wanted to bring you back to the Hard Deck.

He hadn’t wanted to relive that night when he was an asshole and Hangman had made you feel less than. And so meet ups were on neutral ground, drinks downtown and even a dinner party at his place once.

But it worked. He thought it worked. Seemed like it did.

Because Bradley knew that you adored him. He knew you loved him, obviously - he was pretty sure he had had a perpetual smile on his face for two days after you had told him, all nervous and sweet and endearing one morning. But more to the point, he knew that you adored him - figurative warts and all.

You had taught him that he was more than his rank or his callsign or his military ID number or - hell - even his last name - he was just Bradley. And for so long he hadn’t been living as Bradley. He’d gone through the motions, sure. But he hadn’t really let himself just be until he had met you.

Even Phoenix, who you had gotten close to, had said something similar to him about you. Much like Bradley, she saw you as an amazing person, while also liking the ability to exist as just Natasha - not Phoenix.

So yeah, maybe he wasn’t giving you enough credit. Instead of confronting it head-on, Bradley tried to remove anything that would remind you of his other life in the Navy and in doing so probably wasn’t being fair to you - or to himself. And he knew he would have to confront it sometime (maybe, eventually, like when you got married or something - maybe), but he didn’t think it would happen so soon.

“What’s this?”

You slipped the thick card stock invitation off Bradley’s fridge, a teasing smile on your face. He had forgotten it was there - but he hadn’t forgotten that he hadn’t told you about it. The smile on your face spread further as you read on and he tried not to shift on his feet.

You glanced up at him. “Bradley, this is next weekend?”

“Is it?” He leaned over your shoulder to read the invitation, all while knowing full well when the gala was to be held.

“Yeah, next Saturday.” You kept reading, a crinkle appearing on your forehead. “No way! It says you’re getting an award, too? Bradley, that’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugged and avoided eye contact - fuck, you looked so proud of him. “It didn’t seem - important, I guess?”

“It sounds pretty important…” Your face fell suddenly. “Wait, you - do you not want me to come? Is that why you didn’t mention it?” you whispered.

“No, no, I - I just - I just didn’t know if it was something you’d want to do? Like it’s a Navy thing and I didn’t think you’d want to go -”

“- Oh.” You glanced down and seemed to shrink in on yourself even though Bradley had his arms around your waist. “I mean, my boyfriend’s getting an award, seems like kind of a big deal - but it’s cool. I can - I can always see what the girls are up to that night, maybe see that new-”

Fuck. Shit. It wasn’t that he didn’t want you to go, he just - shit - he tried to back track, but barely got a chance to get the words out. “- Sweetheart -”

You shook your head and stepped out of his arms, leaving the invitation on the kitchen island. “It’s okay, really. I think I’m - I’m just gonna shower and get ready for bed. I have that early meeting tomorrow morning, so…”

It wasn’t even ten yet, but Bradley didn’t push it. He knew he had fucked up and you deserved to have some space to think things over.

“Oh. Yeah, I’ll just finish cleaning up then?”

You paused to give him a kiss, which was far too brief for his liking, and dashed out of the kitchen. Once he was sure you were gone, he leaned his elbows on the kitchen island and then hung his head in his hands. God, he fucked up. He really fucked up.

In his attempt to not want you to be embarrassed of him, he had irreparably hurt your own feelings. He had made you feel less than. With a groan, he slapped his hands on the granite countertop and finished cleaning up.

The two of you didn’t fight often - was this a fight? He had really just fucked up, you hadn’t done anything. And even when the two of you did fight, it was normally over trivial stuff like not cleaning the stove correctly (which Bradley did not do) or sometimes not telling the other what time either of you would be home or when Bradley had offered to watch Fanboy’s dog for the weekend even though you were terrified of any dog over thirty pounds.

He should’ve just been honest with you from the start - he wanted to invite you, but he didn’t know if you would have been comfortable? Because, to be fair, events like these were sometimes even a little too gung-ho for Bradley and his friends - Hangman notwithstanding, the man loved to work a room like a drunken Kennedy, often saying you gotta network to get work, baby.

Galas and other naval ceremonies were mainly for the old brass who were still into tradition and setting an example and having their wives fawn over them all night. It was all about the spectacle, not the actual service men or women they were honoring. Sure, it was nice to be getting an award for saving Maverick last November during the uranium enrichment plant mission - but that wasn’t why Bradley had done it. That was never why Bradley would do anything.

He did it because it was the right thing.

And right now, as much as it hurt him, it was the right thing to give you some space.

You would both talk about it in the morning with fresh eyes and a good night’s sleep and Bradley would beg for you to forgive him for being so callous and unfeeling, even though his intentions had been good.

Once he finished cleaning up, he made sure the front and back door were locked before turning off all the lights and heading to his room. Figuring you were already in bed, he opened the door slowly, not wanting to startle you, only to find his bed empty. You were still in the shower. He glanced at the old fashioned alarm clock on his nightstand and frowned - you’d been in there for almost thirty minutes.

Bradley crossed the bedroom and opened the bathroom door, only to be greeted by a thick cloud of steam. The shower was still running, though he didn’t hear the telltale signs of you washing your hair or face. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“You okay in there?” he asked, stepping closer to the shower, itself.

Just when he had been about to draw back the curtain, you called out: “Yeah, fine. My uhh - my shoulder just hurts. Wanted to keep it under the hot water for a bit.”

Your shoulder had never bothered you before. If anything, you were more prone to knee pain - a bad lacrosse injury in your youth sometimes flared up if you took too many classes a week on your Peloton. But not your shoulder.

“Okay. Well,” he stuttered, “I’m just gonna brush my teeth…”

God, he sounded like an idiot. Why couldn’t he just go in there and tell you that he wanted you to come? That he wanted to dance with you all night, have you cheer him on as he accepted his award, see you sitting with Maverick and Penny and smiling at Bradley and talking with all his friends?

You took a moment to respond. “Okay, I’ll be out in a few.”

Fuck - did your voice sound thicker than normal? Were you crying? God, he really hoped you weren’t crying. Shit, now he was going to start crying.

Bradley stared longingly at the shower curtain while brushing his teeth. As much as it hurt, he had to give you some space, at least for now. But he couldn’t stop his own insecurities from popping up either; why was he so worried you wouldn’t love this other part of him? Why had he chosen to hide it from you, especially when getting the award actually did mean a lot to him?

He loved you. He loved you so much.

And you loved him. You loved him so much.

With a sigh, Bradley spit the excess toothpaste in the sink, rinsing his mouth and then the porcelain bowl. He completed his basic nighttime skincare routine and then glanced around the bathroom, trying to prolong his time there. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed your pajama shorts and t-shirt neatly folded on top of the toilet tank. Before he even realized what he was doing, he hung them both up on the hooks next to your fluffy white towel, knowing you hated dripping water on the floor when you got out of the shower. He figured it was the least he could do; just something so you knew he was there.

He snuck out of the bathroom a moment later, shutting the door behind him with a click and then mindlessly went through the motions of putting on his pajamas and throwing his dirty clothes in the hamper. By the time he had gotten into bed, the shower had turned off and he sat up, leaning against the pillows, waiting for you.

When you finally came out of the bathroom some twenty minutes later - only after he had turned the light off, mind you - Bradley noticed with a sinking heart, and even in the darkness, that your eyes were puffy, only confirming his suspicion that he had heard you crying in the shower. He felt like the world’s biggest asshole. Just as he had been about to say something - what he didn’t know - you wordlessly crawled into bed beside him and burrowed your face in his chest, wrapping your body around his. Your wet hair tickled his arm and he could smell your shampoo and complementary lotion.

Neither of you said anything, you just laid there, holding each other, listening to the rise and fall of each other’s breathing.

Eventually, you dropped off into a fitful sleep, but Bradley kept you close, idly running his hands through your hair, hoping tomorrow he would get the chance to explain himself.

---------

“What the fuck did you say to her?”

Bradley turned around to face Phoenix and sighed at the expression on her face. “What did I say to whom and when?”

He was being purposely difficult, but he had been in a mood all morning and lunch was currently the only thing getting him through the day. They were serving grilled cheese on that thick bread Bradley liked so much and tomato soup and he had been looking forward to it after leaving his lunch in the refrigerator at home - that was until Phoenix had ruined it with her interrogation.

You’d left before Bradley had even gotten up - a rarity in and of itself - texting him that you hadn’t liked the outfit you’d brought over for work that day and had to swing by your place to change before your eight thirty meeting with the east coast team. You hadn’t even woken him up for a kiss goodbye.

(However, you had texted him your Wordle score - 2/6. He still couldn’t figure out how you managed that with twang, but he figured that meant all hope wasn’t lost between the two of you.)

“Don’t be an ass. She called me this morning - yeah, she called me - asking me if the event I wanted a date for was the same awards gala you had been invited to or not? Said she wasn’t sure since mine sounded like a date thing and you hadn’t mentioned it. So, now I feel like an asshole because I’ve been talking to her about finding me a date for this thing, only to find out her own boyfriend hadn’t even invited her? The fuck, Bradshaw?”

The pit that had already been forming in Bradley’s stomach all morning only grew as Phoenix kept talking. “It’s not that I didn’t want to ask her, I just didn’t know if she’d want to go…”

Phoenix looked at him like he had seven heads and stole his grilled cheese right off his tray. He grabbed another. “That’s bullshit. That girl adores you, Bradley, of course she would want to go! God, you should’ve fucking heard her on the phone, she sounded so sad and just - small, which is never a word I thought I’d use to describe her but...”

His stomach dropped. Small. You had felt small. Bradley had made you feel small.

“I didn’t want her to - I know she - look, I know she isn’t super keen on the whole Navy thing and I didn’t want her to have to pretend for my sake or put up with shitty comments all night or whatever.”

That one’s got quite a mouth on her.

“I don’t think you’re giving her enough credit.” As always Phoenix was right, repeating what Bradley had told himself last night. “Like I said, she adores you and I know she respects you, why else would she still be with you?”

She adores you and I know she respects you. He knew that stuff too - obviously - but sometimes it was nice to hear it from someone else. That someone else could tell how much you and Bradley meant to each other and loved each other even without seeing some of your most private and intimate moments - whether changing the sheets on Saturday mornings to preparing the next day’s lunch after dinner every night.

Little stuff like that. Stuff that made a relationship - that made a life together.

“...And I shouldn’t even have told you all that because she’s my friend, too. But you have to make this right.”

Phoenix’s words were said with an edge to them that Bradley had only heard once before. And it had been directed towards Hangman of all people.

“We’re uhh - we’re talking tonight - well, we’re supposed to, but I don’t know if she’ll -”

A hand on his shoulder cut him off. “- It’s going to be fine, just be honest with each other.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, yeah,” he rambled. “Just be honest.”

Phoenix nodded, seemingly content with his response. They made their way over to an empty table and started eating.

“Good,” she said through a mouthful of grilled cheese, “because I need to get some shoes for my dress and as much as I love Halo, she’s a DSW girl and I have some civvy to impress, so I need your girl’s help.”

Bradley chuckled. Though it went against protocol, the women had been granted leave of wearing their formal dress uniforms, provided they had the rest of their regalia pinned on a formal sash. When the change in protocol had first been announced while the team was at lunch, Phoenix had let out an uncharacteristic squeal at the news, citing that while you all - well some of you - look handsome in your formal dress uniform, it was definitely designed by a man who hated his female colleagues; so yes, I’m excited to wear a pretty dress for once.

It was sweet. She had been so excited that she had even asked Bradley and Halo for their opinion on her dress last week. He had, of course, thought it was well suited to her, but it had only worsened the pit in his stomach that he hadn’t told you about the gala yet. But maybe, to make up for not going dress shopping with her, you could discuss shoes with Phoenix. Provided you actually still did want to go to the gala with Bradley.

Once he groveled and all.

“I’m sure she’ll text you to make plans - provided she says yes and still wants to come with me,” he couldn’t help but mutter.

Phoenix kicked him under the table and he let out a yelp. “Stop being annoying, your self deprecation is putting me off my lunch -”

“- The same lunch that you stole from me…” She glared at him. “Fine, I will try to keep the self deprecation to a minimum.”

“But the groveling should be at a maximum - hey, have you thought about going down on her until your old man knees crack - oww!”

It was his turn to kick her in the shin. “Oops, sorry…”

Bradley wasn’t old. Well, not that old that he was above subtly flipping Phoenix off for the rest of the day.

---------

Later that day, Bradley hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he saw your dark grey Q5 pull into his driveway around six-thirty. Over the course of your very brief text conversation after lunch, you had mentioned you’d be stopping by his place after work, but he hadn’t wanted to get his hopes up.

As it was, he had been waiting on his front porch - still in his work khakis - since getting home around five-forty-five. He watched you take a deep breath before turning your car off and then gradually make your way up to the house.

He noticed you didn’t close the final distance to where he was still standing on the front porch. And he also noticed you didn’t have your overnight bag in your hands. His heart dropped - god, he fucked this up so badly.

You gave him a hesitant smile, clasping your hands together at your stomach. You looked pretty in your work clothes. But you always looked pretty.

Bradley cleared his throat. “Hey…”

“Hey…” you said, matching his tone. At least you were both a little nervous.

He said your name and then took the initiative to bridge the distance between the two of you and started down the steps to the front walk. “We should talk -”

“- Me first, please?” You rushed out and Bradley nodded hesitantly.

You took a step towards him. “Look, I’m really sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have made it into such a big deal. Obviously, you had your reasons for not telling me and I shouldn’t have pushed and made you uncomfortable. I don’t know a lot about the Navy, but it seems like being up for an award is a really big deal and I just - I guess I just wanted to be there for you?

“And I don’t - god, I don’t want you to be scared to bring me places or to meet your other friends because you think I’ll say something to embarrass you - so, I will happily support you from the sidelines that night, waiting at home for you with some champagne to celebrate.”

God, you were so wrong? How could you be so wrong? Fuck. You thought he was embarrassed of you? Clearly, you’d given this some thought, he had to have done it before. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Bradley placed his hands on your waist. And tried to catch your eye.

“No, no. God, no. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Listen, I should be the only one apologizing here. I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable all night and - I don’t know, have to put up with all the Navy shit and everything? I saw how uncomfortable you were when you picked me up after the Speaker’s visit and I didn’t want you to have to go through that again at the gala. It’s a lot - even for me sometimes - and I guess I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable or embarrassed of me? But I wanted - I want you there with me. And I shouldn’t have taken the choice away from you just because I want to protect you.”

Because you asked questions. Most other people didn’t ask questions. They took the orders, did the job, and came home. There was nothing wrong with asking questions. It was just that other people really didn’t ask them.

They knew that no matter what questions they asked or answers they received, that an order was still an order. So, your questions came off as probing and condescending without that necessarily being your intent. You were curious and critical when need be, sure. But Bradley would never classify you as condescending. Ever.

You nodded and then tipped your head up to look at him, the beginning of a smile on your face, though you still seemed a little reserved.

“You’re right, you shouldn’t have…” He squeezed his hands around your hips. “But I was really - god, Bradley, you really hurt my feelings.

“I thought you were embarrassed of me or something? Like you didn’t want everyone to know your girlfriend is a stone cold pacifist or a bitch or - no, let me finish. And that really hurt because I love you - so much - and if something’s important to you, I want you to tell me and let me share it with you, no matter what.”

“Sweetheart - I was embarrassed, but not of you. I didn’t want you to have to - I don’t know, fake it through the entire thing and pretend like you’re -”

“- Bradley,” you said sternly, “I would never pretend to be excited for you.”

He sighed. “I know - I mean, I should’ve known that, but I guess I was just feeling insecure and took it out on you. It’s just - I like that with you, I don’t have to be all this,” he gestured down at his khakis, “Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw stuff and I can just be Bradley - which I know sounds dumb -”

“- It does not sound dumb, okay? You’re totally valid for what you’re feeling, just the same as I am, alright?”

His cheeks flushed, knowing you were right. “Yeah, I guess this award and all this top one-percent bullshit they throw at us just makes me feel like I’m someone I’m not sometimes? And with you I just feel like me?”

You gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “And that’s what I love about you, that you’re unabashedly yourself with me - weird stove cleaning routine and all. You’re my Bradley.”

He smiled and pulled you in for a hug. You wrapped your arms around his stomach in response, squeezing him tight. “And I love you and I want you to share all parts of yourself with me, alright? I’m a big girl, I can handle it - even though sometimes I still think you should just be an astronaut,” your voice came out slightly muffled against his chest.

“I love you, too.” You pulled back and he gave you a kiss on the forehead. “So,” he said your first and last name, “will you go to this slightly pretentious Navy gala with me and whisper snarky comments in my ear all night and dance with me until our feet hurt?”

You giggled, the action lighting up your entire face. “Yes, of course I will, Bradley.” He threw his arm around your shoulders and the two of you started making your way up the front steps, finally ending the free show Bradley had been giving his neighbors for the last few minutes.

“Wait,” he said suddenly, “you didn’t bring a bag with you - do you still wanna…” He tried not to let the hurt show on his face.

You tucked your hair behind your ears. “Oh, err - I actually just left it in the car…didn’t want to seem too eager if you didn’t actually want me to stay over…”

The two of you didn’t spend too many nights apart - baring when the other was traveling for work, but Bradley hadn’t even considered not wanting you to stay over that night - fight or no fight. In response, he wordlessly held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. A smile crept across your face and you got your car keys out of your dress pocket for him.

“Silly girl,” was all Bradley said before he unlocked your car and got your leather overnight bag and work tote out of the passenger seat.

With his other arm thrown over your shoulder, the two of you made your way into the house. He handed you your tote before putting your overnight bag in his bedroom. When he was just outside the kitchen, he saw you leaning against the doorframe in the hallway waiting for him.

“You know, I do think you’ll look handsome in your uniform…”

Bradley smirked. He had only worn his dress blues around you once before, to say nothing about his formal dress blues. “That so…”

You shrugged, clearly trying to come off as nonchalant. “Even though some may consider it a symbol of imperialism.”

“And there’s my girl.” You ducked your head.

The two of you made your way to the kitchen and you let out a gasp once you saw what was on the island.

“You got me flowers?” You sounded pleasantly surprised, which brought a smile to his face. You fingered the petals. “You didn’t have to…”

Normally, Bradley got you flowers just because. Just because he got out of work early that day or just because you looked particularly pretty the day before or just because you had made him laugh. Which is all to say, he got you flowers quite frequently. And he always kept track of when to get the next ones by slipping one stem out of the bouquet and keeping it in his office on base; if the flower in his office died, then it was time to get you some new ones.

But the flowers sitting on his kitchen island - a gorgeous arrangement of white tulips and pink peonies - were most definitely apology flowers. Because Bradley had been an asshole and had made you cry and doubt him and feel less than. And he had made a promise to you after your first date that he would try his damn hardest to never make you feel less than ever again.

And while he knew flowers wouldn’t solve everything, they would surely bring a smile to your face and that was a pretty good start. The flowers had been why he couldn’t shower between training and his afternoon class - he had to dash out to get them.

“I might bring them to my office, that way I can stare at them all day.”

He walked over towards you and wrapped his arms around your waist. “You’re not gonna leave ‘em here? Kinda like how they look on my counter…”

“Hmmm, but this way I can think of you while I’m at work - oh, god no. Nevermind, that was corny as shit,” you finished with a grimace that had the two of you laughing.

“You know, I never told you why I’m getting an award - or why I’m part of the group getting an award…”

You tensed beside him and he turned to face you. “So help me god, Bradley, if you’re getting an award for killing someone or endangering civilians in the name of god and country -”

“- Nah, that’s one of the other guys,” he teased and you leaned your forehead against his chest, letting out a groan. He was only slightly joking.

You leaned back to look him in the eye. “Well, what’s it for then?”

“You know that mission I originally got called back here for last November and how Mav and I made up?” You nodded, remembering the couple times Bradley had mentioned it. “Well, it was kind of a big deal -”

“- So you’ve told me…”

He probably shouldn’t have - classified information and all - but you had been impressed with him and it was the one time you had really leaned into the whole Navy thing - at least sexually. My hero, you kept calling him in an only slightly condescending manner while Bradley took you from behind.

“Well, I don’t think I told you the part where I may have gotten shot down after saving Mav and we had to steal a plane...”

“Wha-what?! Shot down? Like out of the sky? And you - you just said you guys got picked up by search and rescue after there was an issue with your planes?”

Bradley shrugged. He had told you stuff about work, like why he sometimes woke up with nightmares - you never pushed for him to tell you any details, though you always asked if he wanted to talk about it - and that he’d had a couple bad scrapes over the years. But he never told you too much about the uranium enrichment plant mission.

It was six months before the two of you had even started dating, so Bradley never thought to bring it up. And he knew that if he ever wanted to open up and tell you about it or any other past deployments then you’d listen and be a good sounding board. But he didn’t want to sound like a whiner - or worse, that he was bragging.

Bradley hadn’t gone back for Mav because he wanted the praise or an award or anything like that. He had done it because he loved him - plain and simple. He loved his godfather and couldn’t bear the thought that he had sacrificed his life for Bradley just as they were getting towards an understanding again. Because though he had originally said otherwise, there would be someone to mourn Maverick if he burned in - Bradley.

The fact that Bradley had been projecting when he had originally said that to Mav was something he had only brought up with his therapist - and it would remain that way.

Because Maverick was the one who played catch with Bradley on the weekends and taught him how to drive and brought him up in a plane for the first time and told him how to talk to girls and that Bradley was good - that he was a good person and someone his dad would be proud of and respect not only as his son, but as a man, as well.

And that’s why what Maverick did hurt so much. Because Bradley thought Maverick respected him, as well. And to find out he didn’t and that he pulled his papers from the Naval Academy just proved that. Or at least it did. Bradley thought it did - had, he thought it had.

“Mav got between my plane and a SAM and got shot down and I wanted to go after him - it was like, I’d just gotten him back after eighteen years, I wasn’t going to lose him again - and I went against orders to go back and get him - which kinda makes this whole award thing a bit of a surprise - and then I got hit and we had to make our own way back to the carrier. So, yeah - Mav and I are getting an award for it. Bagman, too, actually.”

He kept the details of Hangman’s heroics out of it. Bradley had been content to let bygones be bygones about their whole rivalry thing and the two were amicable for awhile, but then Jake had insulted you, so they were back to being polite enemies. Plus, Jake had been on special assignment in Japan and Bradley hadn’t seen him in about five months.

“How could you think I wouldn’t be proud of you for that? Bradley, that’s - that’s fucking wild and a really amazing thing and we should definitely celebrate that? What the hell?” You lightly shoved his shoulder. He didn’t budge. “I’m kinda mad at you again, actually.”

“Oh, yeah?”

You nodded, trying to look serious. “Thought we were going to be more open with each other about stuff like that?”

“We literally just made the promise!” You shot him a teasing glare. “Fine, next time I save my godfather from enemy fire you’ll be one of the first to know.”

“That’s all I ask, bubs.”

He gave you a quick kiss on the lips. “Back to bubs, am I?”

“You’re always my bubs.”

The nickname had first slipped out when you had been dating for two months. It had snuck up on the both of you, like you hadn’t even realized what you were saying the first time: hey, bubs, can you get me my phone? Bradley instantly melted.

Bubs.

It was so simple and stupid and probably didn’t even stand for anything, but he loved it. Loved hearing it fall from your lips, whether as you teased or taunted him or as you mumbled it against his skin in bed at night.

Bubs.

“You hungry? I have plenty of food in the fridge or we could get take out? Your call?”

You tapped your index finger against your chin. “Hmmmm, let’s do take out? Pad thai?”

He pretended to consider this while he kneaded his thumbs into your hips. “I could do pad thai…”

“You could also do with a shower, flyboy.” You kissed him, across his cheeks, on his nose, and up and down his jaw before settling on his lips. “You smell like your fancy cologne, but also like,” you leaned in to smell his shirt and scrunched your nose once you pulled back, “burnt rubber.”

Bradley made a similar face and pinched your hip causing you to giggle. “I flew this morning for a bit, but had a class this afternoon - hence all this…”

In response, you rolled your eyes and pushed him away slightly, going over to the other side of the island and getting out your phone. Bradley didn’t wear his khakis too often, but it wasn’t quite a practical class and therefore required more than his flight suit.

“Well, I’m gonna order,” you tapped on your phone, “and it should be here by the time you get out of the shower.”

“Awww, you’re gonna pay for me?” He laid a hand on his chest.

You didn’t even look up. “Don’t read too much into it - I mean, if either of us should be paying, it should be you…”

“But sweetheart,” he leaned his elbows on the island and gave you a hammy smile, “you’re my sugar mo -”

In return, you shot him an unimpressed look. “- So help me god, if you finish that sentence, you’re not getting crab rangoon or sex tonight - you really shouldn’t get either, but you did get me flowers and were very sweet when you apologized - so don’t ruin it by saying…that.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll be quick.” He winked.

“Aren’t you always….”

Bradley chose to ignore you, knowing he’d get you back later and made his way to his bedroom. He never was quick for the record. If anything you were the quick one - always babbling incoherently as you took his cock or fingers, desperate to cum from the slightest touch.

He strode across his bedroom to the bathroom where he turned on the shower to let it heat up, preferring it to be nice and toasty when he hopped in. Then he went back out to the bedroom and stripped out of his clothes, neatly placing them in the hamper. By the time he finished and walked back into the bathroom naked, the shower was the perfect temperature.

He stood underneath the spray for a few moments, letting the hot water wash over him and soothe his tense shoulder muscles. This week’s training had been absolute murder on his body - he’d gotten shot down twice earlier in the day and unfortunately Payback was still into that stupid pushup bet, even nearly a year later, and they’d pulled almost 10 G’s.

Bradley rubbed his hands over his face and let out a groan. Fuck, he was getting old. While not nothing exactly, four hundred pushups normally wouldn’t have had this much of an effect on him, but fuck - he was sore.

And then, even over the stream of the water, Bradley could hear the bathroom door open. He turned his head, waiting for you to call out to him, to say that you were just washing your hands or had to pee or were getting some lotion. But you didn’t say anything.

He stood there under the showerhead, under the steam waiting for what felt like eternity. And then - and then there was the rustle of clothing, and he heard that gorgeous, ruffly, flirty dress of yours fall to the floor and saw you pull back the curtain. Through the slight gap you looked up at him, eyes wide, as if scared he would turn you away.

“Can I come in with you?”

Without a word, he held his hand out for you, helping you step over the lip of the tub to stand in the shower beside him. For a while, the two of you just stood there, taking the other in as your hair got wet underneath the spray.

“Here,” you reached over his shoulder to get his bottle of shampoo off the caddy, “let me.”

Bradley watched you flip the cap off and squirt some shampoo into your hands. You jutted your chin in his direction, which he took as his queue to lean over slightly so you could reach.

“Your hair’s gotten lighter in the sun,” you said mildly, before lathering some shampoo through it. Your fingers kneaded at his scalp and he let out a sigh.

The two of you didn’t do this too often. Sure, Bradley would normally sneak up on you in the shower as you were finishing up or you’d both clean the other off after having sex every now and then. But this was different. This was intimate and tender and raw.

He could feel you styling his hair into some sort of half-assed mohawk. “Do I want to know how ridiculous I look?” You giggled. “Think I’ll take that as a no. Just wait till I get my hands on you, missy.”

“I wish you’d get your hands on me. This is about the least sexy shower I’ve ever taken…”

“Then tell me what you want?”

You bit your lip and then glanced down at the rest of his body as he did the same. God, you were so gorgeous and pretty and soft and wet. So fucking wet.

You cupped his cheek, gliding your thumb over the scar he hated so much, and then leaned forward to kiss it briefly. Without wasting another moment, Bradley groaned your name against your ear, before chasing a droplet of water down your neck with his lips. He wanted to follow it all the way down your chest, over your breasts, across your stomach, down to your cunt that he knew was wet from reasons beyond the shower you were currently sharing, but instead you tipped his chin up to capture his lips in a kiss.

All too soon, you pulled back and grabbed the showerhead to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. “Hmmmm - first, we gotta get you clean, sick of you smelling like planes…”

Bradley tilted his head back as you worked. “No, I’ll just smell like that fancy shampoo and soap you forced me to buy.”

“I did not force you, I only said I would not shower at your place if these were my only -”

“- But you knew the prospect of limited sex at my house would make me cave, hence you forced my hand to buy this thirty dollar shampoo and the conditioner.”

The annoying part was that it smelled really good and Bradley’s hair had never felt softer or healthier, but he’d be damned if he told you that. Bob and Fanboy had even made fun of him for it once.

You raked your fingers through his now sud free hair. “Well, it still beats the Head and Shoulders crap you used to buy.” You hung the showerhead back up and then got the loofah off the hook before lathering it up with the bougie soap that Bradley had also bought last week and started cleaning him.

Bradley reckoned he really loved you if he was spending this much on shower products - probably too much to be honest. But his thoughts strayed to the way your hands were roaming over seemingly every part of his body that he forgot all about overpriced bar soap. You looked so focused as you worked, your tongue peeking out from between your lips. Your breasts dangled free as you crouched in front of him, causing his already half hard cock to rise fully. He needed to touch you - now.

“Here, my turn…”

He took the loofah from your hands and briefly rinsed it and himself off before putting more soap on it. The showerhead went back up in the bracket. He started first with your shoulders and back, watching the suds drip lower as they got to your ass, making for the prettiest sight. Next, he worked his way up and down your arms, placing the occasional butterfly kiss, before lathering them up. Then came the legs - placed one at a time on the lip of the tub so he could get from the apex of your thighs all the way down to your ankles.

“Bradley…” you kept sighing his name throughout.

But then - then came his favorite part. Or parts, really.

“Turn around,” he said gruffly.

You complied, wordlessly, putting your back against his front. You sighed against him and he pulled you even closer. Slowly, he rubbed the loofah across your breasts, caking them in soap suds and watching as your nipples hardened with each pass.

“Such a pretty girl.”

Your back arched, jutting your breasts out to attention, as the remnants of the soap Bradley had just lathered across them slid down your body.

God, he loved soapy tits. Next time he was on a deployment, he was just going to ask you to send him pictures of your breasts lathered in soap suds. Soft and pretty and wet. One arm underneath them pushing them up slightly.

Fuck, he could get lost just staring at them. The soap made them look even bigger than normal, if that was possible - and all he wanted to do was play with them. While his hands were large, your tits were still too big for him to grasp one handed, but he tried to make do while his other hand laid firmly against your stomach, pressing your body against his. You wiggled your ass against his cock, forcing a moan out of you both.

Bradley was getting sick of it - of you teasing him. With your soapy tits and soft skin and pretty fucking smile. He wanted to tease you, make you be at his mercy. Put the proverbial shoe on the other foot, if you will. Slowly, he slowly slid his hand down your stomach, closer and closer to your cunt. You let out a whine when he stopped his fingers just before they got to his intended target - he had an idea.

Instead, he reached up and grabbed the showerhead with his right hand, taking it off the bracket and bringing it over towards the two for you. He started first rinsing off your shoulders, then your arms, breasts, and stomach. Until finally, he turned down the water temperature and placed the showerhead where his fingers were teasing you moments ago. Your body practically jumped at the sudden sensation.

“Bradley…” you sighed, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “Wha -”

“- Shhhh, s’alright.” He started you off slow, at a lighter speed, just enough to rile you up and keep you wanting more. Once he got comfortable with maneuvering the showerhead, coupled with holding you against him, he really started to have some fun. First, he propped one of your legs back up on the lip of the tub. Then, he kept moving the showerhead to different lengths away from you, watching to see how you reacted each time. And by the blissed out expression on your face, he could tell he had you right where he wanted you.

“Bradley,” you sighed prettily, “Please…”

He clicked his tongue. “Please what?”

“Plea-please, oh god…” You let out a moan when he changed the setting. “I - can you - I want -”

You couldn’t even get your words out as Bradley spread your pussy lips wider, the jets of water hitting all the right places. You moaned his name. Every time he pulled the shower head away for even a moment, you chased it back with your hips. Again and again and again he repeated the action until you were whimpering in his arms.

Bradley loved hearing you babble. He loved when you talked smart to him and sassed him. But he really liked when you babbled incoherently. Because to have you - the smartest, wittiest, most capable girl he knew - be unable to form any words because you were so lost in him was the hottest thing in the world.

“What do you want, sweetheart?”

“Wanna cum, please. S’close.” You were squirming against him, so desperate to find your release.

“You gonna be my good girl?”

You whined, but managed to nod and just barely reply: “Always - good - ohhh.”

Bradley hummed. “But good girls don’t cum from a showerhead playing with their clit, now do they…”

This time a cry escaped your lips. All he’d have to do was say a few more words, angle the jet just right and you’d crumpled in his arms. So warm, so tight, so wet. He slid a finger, then another inside you and you squealed.

“Thought you were gonna be my good girl -”

“- Ple - promise I - ahhh.” He crooked his fingers inside you, cutting off whatever you had been about to say.

“Hmmm,” he nipped at your neck, “too bad you’re acting like such a little slut, clenching around my fingers so hard, don’t know if you deserve to come…”

To further vex you, he turned up the pressure one final time with his thumb - he was oddly impressed with himself for doing it one handed, but the vice grip you had his fingers in made him loathe to remove them, even if it would make you beg for them back. Once the new speed of the jet hit your clit, you cried out and keened.

“Bra - Bra - bubs, please, please,” you babbled, not stopping until his teeth dug into your neck. You always complained about him leaving marks, but tonight he was allowed. “Wanna - ple - plea - oh, oh, oh…”

He changed the angle on the shower head one final time and you came with a cry. It was hard to tell if you were louder than normal or if it was due to the echo from the shower, itself. Your body buckled against his, like your legs had given out.

“Shh, shhh, good girl, that’s my good girl,” Bradley muttered, this time pressing butterfly kisses to your neck and shoulder. “Such a good girl for me.”

Slowly, and with a whimper from you, he pulled his fingers out of your cunt, before he rinsed them and you off with the shower head. You could hardly take it, still overstimulated and working through the end of your orgasm.

As you were still a little unsteady on your feet, Bradley carefully turned you around to face him, and the two of you got used to being under the stream of the water again. He tipped up your chin just slightly and captured your lips in a kiss.

“You good, sweetheart?”

You nodded, still a little dazed after your orgasm. Bradley always found it endearing that you always got a little sleepy after you had an orgasm or two. Well, maybe not endearing - he took it as an ego boost even though it was a bit primal of him - but it was always good to know how well he took care of you.

“No one’s ever made me come from a showerhead before - at least not like that…”

“Who else has done that?” He couldn’t help the little flare of possessiveness that spread through him.

You tucked your wet hair behind your ears and focused on the scar on Bradley’s neck. “Me - in high school and college before I got my first vibrator…”

Bradley exaggerated a gasp. “You dirty girl. You think you know a person and then you find out she’d been fucking herself on a showerhead after studying for AP Euro every night...”

“Guys have it easier, all you need is your hand - or a sock.” To convey your point, you grasped his aching cock with your left hand. “Want me to take care of that for you?”

He pretended to consider this, but knew he was about a minute from spending himself on you. “Can I cum on your tits?”

You bit your lip in thought before you nodded. “You can even fuck them as long as you clean them off when you’re done, but I don’t know if that’s more of a reward for me or for you, lieutenant…”

Bradley groaned. Fucking your soapy tits? Jesus Christ. He really didn’t deserve you. Even such - “You know it’s lieutenant commander…”

You started stroking his cock, your hands already plenty wet and lubricated from the shower. “Doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as nicely.”

Fucking brat.

“On your knees, sweetheart.”

By the time you two had finished, the water had run cold and your Postmates had sat on Bradley’s front porch for forty five minutes.

---------

Both exhausted from long weeks at work, the two of you spent the weekend together hanging out at your place, watching movies, cooking dinner, and swimming in your building’s skyline pool. While Bradley did love how homey his place was, he couldn’t help but be a little envious of the amenities in your high rise.

It was nice to just have time together - especially after such an emotionally and physically exhausting week - and to go to bed early and wake up late, wrapped in each other’s arms, and plan out the day.

Because there was something so inherently satisfying in the domesticity of running errands with someone and combining your routine with theirs. After swimming and reading in the sun on Saturday, you both spent that evening finishing the HBO show you had been binging. You shared a cart at Whole Foods, knowing you’d both eat all the food inside of it together anyways. Bradley picked out snacks he’d want at your apartment and you picked out the ones you’d want at his. You got fresh strawberries at the farmer’s market in Little Italy for him to make strawberry shortcake for dessert Sunday night.

It was nice. It was easy.

But whenever you weren’t focused on each other, you had either your phone or iPad out - sometimes both - looking at dresses. It seemed like you had a ready arsenal of websites at your disposal - department stores, e-commerce sites, everything. Yet, by Sunday afternoon, you still hadn’t found a dress to your liking. You were sitting at the kitchen island watching Bradley make dinner and he was now progressing along to prepping dessert.

“Don’t women rent dresses for stuff like this? Like that’s a thing, isn’t it?”

“Like Rent the Runway?” That sounded right and he shrugged. “I’m not going to wear a rented dress!”

Bradley chuckled at your response. “My apologies for suggesting something so egregious.”

You propped your chin up in your palm. “I bet you $10 I’ll be able to pick out five of them at the gala.”

“Sweetheart, you’re looking at,” he glanced over at your screen, seeing the shoes you were thinking of buying, “eleven hundred dollar shoes, I think you can afford to bet more than $10.”

“I’m gonna wear them again!” He held his hands up in surrender. “I don’t know - I just want to look nice. I know it’s important and I haven’t really met a lot of these people before and I want them to like me,” you said, sounding increasingly shy. Your fingers idly swiped across the screen of your iPad and you refused to meet his eye.

Bradley put down the paring knife and wiped his strawberry stained hands on his apron. He said your name and you glanced up at him a moment later.

“Everyone’s going to love you, alright? Nat and Mav already do and I know the rest of the team will feel the same way - hell, you already met most of them before and that wasn’t so bad, right?”

“No,” you admitted.

Granted, it hadn’t been flawless per se, but drinks and the dinner party you’d both thrown had gone relatively well, baring the incident with Harvard. Luckily, Bradley hadn’t seen him since then - he’d been on the same assignment as Hangman.

Bradley walked over to the other side of the island and wrapped his arms around your shoulders. You leaned back against him and peered up at him.

“And if for some ridiculous reason they don’t like you - which they won’t - fuck ‘em. You’re my girlfriend and I want you there beside me, alright?”

“Okay…”

He started rocking you back and forth in his arms. God, how could you not see that you were all he wanted? That you were perfect for him?

“You’re going to look beautiful in whatever dress you decide on and whatever stupidly expensive shoes you wear - that I’m sure will make Nat unfathomably jealous - and you’re going to be wonderful.” You giggled. “See, it’s gonna be fine - and if you want to leave at any time, just say the word and we’re out of there.”

You twisted around to face him. “I’m not gonna make you leave early…”

“Sweetheart, like ninety percent of this event is going to be networking, which you know I hate more than you do, it won’t be that great of a loss.”

“True,” you considered this, “but you said there’s dancing and stuff?”

“Yeah, after dinner.”

“Then we’ll just do that,” you said simply. “I’ve never danced with you before anyway.”

He exaggerated a gasp and you smiled. “Do our kitchen dance parties mean nothing to you?”

“You know what I mean.” You got up from the stool and stood in front of him, putting your hands on his chest. “Like in front of other people, all formal and stuff?”

“And stuff?” You glared at him. “Well, since you wanna dance all formal and stuff, maybe we should practice?”

Without waiting for a response, Bradley went back over to the other side of the island and swiped through his phone until he pulled up the song he was looking for on Spotify. The ELO song from the speaker abruptly cut out and transitioned into Begin the Beguine.

Your nose scrunched in thought as you tried to place the song, but you still took Bradley’s hand when he offered it to you.

“Ella Fitzgerald, good choice.” He spun you out and got a giggle from you. “You’re too smooth, lieutenant.”

Once the chorus hit, he dipped you for good measure and - god - the smile on your face made him feel about ten feet tall. The two of you eventually settled down from your more ambitious dance moves to just swaying in each other’s arms. You looked up at him suddenly.

“I love you, you know?”

Bradley never got tired of hearing you say that. I love you. He’d heard it and said it before, but it never had carried as much weight as when he had heard it from you for the first time. I love you.

And Bradley knew that you were going to be the only person he ever said it to again.

“I love you, too, sweetheart.”

He bent down to kiss you, pulling your body as close to his as possible. You whined in protest when he eventually pulled away and he chuckled.

“Don’t you want dinner?” As if on queue, the chicken pot pie Bradley had cooking in the oven let out a hiss as the filling hit the broil element. “Don’t want another shrimp risotto incident…”

“That was not my fault - okay, maybe it wasn’t all my fault…”

Bradley pressed a kiss to your forehead and begrudgingly let go of you. “Well, I gotta check this before your apartment almost burns down - again. Be a real pity if you had to stay at my place from now on…”

“Oh god, the horror! I’d be stuck with you all the time!”

You said it jokingly, but Bradley could tell you weren’t entirely opposed to the idea.

Neither was he.

---------

A/N: oh damn oh damn they’re so fucking cuuuuuute ahhh anyway full gala events - including some fun lil angsty moments - ft. mr jake seresin and a special guest 🫣 - and of course more smut (and dancing so much dancing) - coming soon in part 2.2 🥰

Taglist: @sunderlust @seasonsbloom @ticklish-leafy-plant @ponyboys-sunsets @lass-that-is-gone @2fabul0us4 @daniellef89x @double-j @hufflepuffprincesse @bradshawswife @cloudycluster @thedarkinmansfield @sithbelova @mavencalorers @fav-rooster-fics @thebeautifullydamnedone @unordinare @callsign-valley @pricklepearbloom @browneyedboys @cherrycola27 @whatblogisthis216 @agentofkrypton @lcahwriter @kyliesalvatore @noellreadfiction @coyotesamachado @heartsofminds @jocsrecs @notroosterbradshaw @milessmilesstuff @smokey102 @roosterschanelslut @iblogtopassthetime @karateperson @nessrin @frenchtoastix @piceous21 @princessphilly @notanordinaryprincess95 @spideyngwen @mrsjobarnes @calmpunker @softspiderling @softspiderlingmain @feralforfrank @fivsecondsflat @theghost1345 @sexualparkour @greenorangevioletgrass @howdysebby @sexygaypalpatine @moonyscardigans @carousallie @liveholland @supernaturaldawning @melancholyy-hill @whisperofsong @currentlybradshaw @summ3rlotus @seesaw-jk @cool-ultra-nerd @roostereads @oababy @milestomaverick @some-lovely-day @steadfastconviction @victoria-magic-tribute @gothicwidowsworld @lexhalstead3 @unstablecaffeinatedmind @obsessedasusual @zombiedeathsworld @sydneyhlove @tellergf

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw #rooster imagine #top gun imagine #top gun smut #bradley fic #bradley and smart aleck #writing #SORRY IF I FORGOT TO TAG ANYONE

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mintaikcorpse · 5 months

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You know what? I'm bored, so here's a list of my favorite ship names

I bully ship names, but I like a lot of them because some of them sound really pretty and are genuinely creative, and some are just funny, and I like the way they sound. Imma try to be multi fandom here, but my hyperfixations will show, since ill obviously know the ships in my own fandoms better. I'll also be explaining them here. There's also no order here, it's by the order I remeber it by.

Honeymoon (Beelzebub x Loona, Helluva Boss)

This shape name is super cute and super pretty, and I love it, and it also makes sense. Bee is a honeybee, and Loona is designed to look like the moon.

Dragonfruit (Mei x Red Son, Lego Monkie Kid)

I didn't get it at first because the fruit at the end didn't make sense, but apparently it takes the first characters in their Mandarin names which can be combined with other characters to make it translates to dragin fruit, and their color schemes also resemble one, which I think is pretty neat. Also, draginfruitsblook pretty

-Stolitz (Stolas x Blitzø, Helluva Boss)

A combination of their names that sounds like 'stole it', which is what Blitzø did with the grimoire. I love it

-Bluetooth (Caine x Moon, The Amazing Digital Circus)

The ship was named by @dovewingkinnie and has been growing in popularity, and I love it that I got to see a ship name being born. They're named Bluetooth because Moon is blue, the blue moon cycle, Caine is dentures, and Bluetooth is a way to connect wifi, which makes sense in a digital world.

-Amourshipping (Ash x Serena, Pokemon XY anime)

It's simple, but I like it. It's called Amourshipping because Amour means love in French, and Kalos (the region the series takes place in) is based on France

-Lumity (Luz x Amity, The Owl House)

It's another combination of names, but it sounds super pretty! To me, it sounds like illuminate, which fits because Luz's name means light and Luz literally showed Amity a light glyph when they were first becoming friends.

Goldengarden (Hunter x Willow, The Owl House)

It sounds so pretty omg

BurningLeafshipping (Red x Leaf, Pokemon [adventures manga])

The name sounds so pretty actually I love this name sm

Royallectureshipping (Cheren x Lear, Pokemon Masters)

Because Lear is a royal and Cheren constantly lectures him. It's litteraly perfect

Verbie (Barbie Wire x Verosika Mayday, Helluva Boss)

It's a combination of names. It sounds like furby. I will be bullying this name later.

Trainwreckshipping (Emmet x Volo, Pokemon)

This is such a perfect name for them. A lot of the fanon interactions stem from Emmet finding Volo to try and get revenge or force him to help him find Ingo, and then they have a whole enemies to lovers thing. It's called trainwreck shipping because ITD BE A GODDAMN TRAINWRECK. And Emmet's a subway boss, and Volo wanted to destroy the world

MedievalStoryShipping

(Gardevoir x Gallade, Pokemon): I didn't even know this ship had a name until I found a blog dedicated to it a couple of months ago. They were names MedievalStoryShippimg because Gardevoir was based off a princess and a knight and gallade was based on a prince and a knight. Also, not to put my own opinions, but I have such a sentimental attachment to this ship because I shipped it so hard in 5th grade and made so much (very bad) fanart of it

-Goldenheart (Ballister Boldheart/Blackheart x Ambrosious Goldenloin, Nimona)

It's another combination of names, but it sounds super cute and very angelic.

-Vorbee (Vortex x Beelzebub, Helluva Boss)

It's a combination Bee and Vortex's name, but it sounds like Vore, and considering Bee's whole thing with eating to excess, I can see that

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nepenthean-sleep · 1 year

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griddlehark fic recs, part 3

hi, it has been 8 months since my last fic rec post and there have been a lot of new fics in that time period so: welcome to griddlehark fic recs part 3! this fandom has so many amazing authors, and i absolutely love every one of these fics. all fics here in this part are rated G or T, and tumblr usernames have been added if i could find them (sorry for the notification!). here is part 1. here is part 2 and part 4 (forthcoming).

A Handsomely Dangerous Thing T - zoicite short oneshot set during gtn. harrow's perspective on gideon's duel with naberius, featuring copious amounts of pining.

never exhale all the way G - pigflight short oneshot set during gtn. homoerotic face-painting; need i say more. harrow is so down bad for gideon in this one.

Saltwater T - Raxheim / @theriverbeyond short oneshot, kiriona speculation set between htn and ntn. kiriona meets nona in her dreams about the saltwater pool. lots of wonderful (?) kirianthe interaction as well.

A Simple Charm G - pipistrelle short oneshot set during gtn. gideon bandages harrow's hand and harrow gets flustered. the banter in this one is so good.

salt on the rim T - lifevoid short oneshot, modern au. harrow gets a bit drunk and calls gideon pretty. this fic kinda lives in my mind rent-free; the prose here is lovely.

We Have Always Lived In The Apartment T - labyrinthineRetribution / @thatneoncrisis long multi-chapter modern au, currently unfinished. (deep breath) sorry to be biased but this is probably my favorite fic on this list, if not one of my favorite tlt fics of all time. not to spoil anything, but the writing reminds me a lot of tamsyn's own writing style: there's weird identity shit going on, there's weird homoerotic shit going on, there's weird mystery shit going on. the girls are Heinous and there's bones. what more could you want from a tlt fic.

said the spider to the fly T - mutterandmumble short oneshot, modern college/uni au. harrow's having a bit of a rough time, so gideon comes over to help cook food (neither of them can cook). it's both funny and a bit bittersweet.

mune ga hachikire-sodē [my heart seems to burst] T - nosecoffee / @nose-coffee long oneshot, ntn canon-divergence where kiriona ends up rooming with pyrrha, nona, and cam & pal. this fic takes a really interesting premise and absolutely goes wild with it, and i love it.

never saw you coming T - igneousbitch oneshot, modern college/uni au. a very funny fic where griddlehark pull off a "heist" to put a fish in (professor) john's office. featuring such award winning dialogue as:

“This is my nightmare blunt rotation,” Gideon told her. “And you’re just my fucking nightmare,” Harrow said.

Intern the Sixth T - apocalypticTaco / @notedchampagne long multi-chapter pre-canon au, currently unfinished. a half-epistolary fic about the sixth going on an academic exchange trip to the ninth house, taking place about five years before canon. this entire fic is so goddamn funny and i love how much detail and attention the author pays towards necromancy, necromantic theory, and worldbuilding regarding the sixth and ninth houses.

#gideon the ninth #harrow the ninth #nona the ninth #griddlehark #the locked tomb #fic recs #neph.txt #neph tltposting

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luvtonique · 2 months

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I wanted to address all of the controversies about me and put some explanations on them because unfortunately we live in a day and age where people just see the dirt without ever wondering how the dirt got there. They think "Man that guy never washes his car look how filthy it is" because I just fuckin went offroading 10 minutes ago but they didn't know that.

Aight let's start with numero uno, the thing I'm called the most, the big word for good ol Jay: Transphobe!

This is the one with the most hilarious backstory of them all which to this day baffles my goddamn mind.

I used to be a hated artist because I drew violent shit, I was known for Lil Miss Rarity which is a super violent comic. Naturally this lead to people saying that I was "killing children" because I was drawing violent (and sometimes pornographic) images of a children's cartoon show (My Little Pony).

So in my quick rise to stardom, I had a lot of hateful people attacking me as well, and I had fun with it. I called them out, called them stupid, etc.

Well, one of them was Dumbo. Dumbo spent 6 full months making posts about me that are still on their blog to this day. Every single time I made a post, they reblogged it or reposted it, to call me a shithead, call me an ass hole, wish I'd kill myself, etc.

One day I was doing a fundraiser to put away money for a potential emergency because my mom had hurt her spine really bad and was in the hospital. I had a goal of $300 and raised $1200.

Dumbo, of course, was saying hateful shit about me still, and said, I quote, "I hope that whore dies in the hospital lmao"

So, I looked into who Dumbo was. The Brony fandom was, at the time, all about Love and Tolerance, so I did some sleuthing and found out they were an artist on DeviantART taking full color commissions for $10. I commissioned them on my DA account, and asked them to draw Lil Miss Rarity. They and I had a very polite conversation, and since they drew the picture very quickly I tipped them 100% and told them to up their prices because their art is very good.

They thanked me, not knowing it was me (despite that it was literally my main account), and I walked away.

Then, they checked my gallery, found out it was me, and went into a rage, making a post that says, "LMFAO, Jay just begged for money and then turned around and used it to commission an artist for double their asking price, what a shithead!!"

So, I took the screencaps of all of their death threats over 6 months, compiled them all, and showed my massive Tumblr following in a huge callout post against them. In the middle, I referred to Dumbo as "he/she/it/clown" and everyone (AND I FUCKING MEAN EVERYONE) completely ignored the 6 months of death threats and how consistently polite I was to them, and sided with Dumbo in a moment that labeled me "Transphobic" for the rest of my life.

Another instance is I called Kris from Deltarune he/she, and was called transphobic for that, and got the amazing quote "That's a real-ass child and you're misgendering them deliberately," to which I replied, "That's not a real-ass child that's a fictional character you fucking retard"

NEXT UP: ABLEIST.

I grew up in Los Angeles in special ed classes and have a mentally retarded brother, I have the pass to say retard, fuck off.

NEXT UP: RACIST.

I grew up in Los Angeles with a father who called himself "N*gger Bob" (he's white) because he was a super racist who believed being asked to help take the trash out was "akin to slavery." He also beat my retarded brother half to death for having a black girlfriend.

I was in LA during the Rodney King riots, I was in LA right in the middle of the Crips and Bloods trying to kill each other and having fuckloads of gang shootouts that I overheard when I was chilling in the Ceritos (spelling) mall.

I know what racism looks like.

A white boy saying the n-word while playing Fortnite is not what racism looks like.

A white boy singing along with Busta Rhymes (hi that's me) on a livestream and casually dropping n-bombs because I'M SINGING ALONG WITH BUSTA, BITCH, is not what racism looks like. I had three black friends growing up, Davion, Julian and Smalls, and also Undrier but Undrier was retarded and I didn't consider him a friend he just followed me around and called me "Day" because he couldn't pronounce J's. But me, Smalls and Davion would stand on Davion's aunt's porch and eat zucchini cornbread and listen to Woo Haw and headbang and sing along til the fucking cows came home.

But now that I'm grown up, my upbringing apparently doesn't matter, my FUCKING SKIN COLOR DOES (you know, racist ideology!) and I'm no longer allowed to say the n-word despite having casually spent my entire childhood surrounded by black friends who were completely okay with me saying it. I grew up in the hood, motherfucker! Bellflower born n' raised, bitch! Wes' Side!

But I'm <skin color> and since <skin color> isn't allowed to <thing that's designated for only other skin color to do>, I'm racist.

NEXT UP: PEDOPHIIIIIILE

I was molested when I was 13, which thankfully didn't leave too much emotional scarring on me. Anthony Sevarino, the dude's name was, and he shoved my hand in his pants and showed me his dick during a camping trip and said he was gonna fuck me in my bed. I was so shocked by this happening that I didn't even tell my parents who were in the same motorhome literally asleep 10 feet from me.

Growing up, I always had a really emotional trigger to seeing harm come to children, I hate it. I cry and shake uncontrollably when I see children getting hurt, no matter what. It's the only thing I have I'd call a "trigger."

I saw that episode of Rugrats where Tommy cuts his finger and then he's scared to do anything anymore because he might get hurt, and that made me fucking bawl, it still does, seeing Tommy cry super fucking hard over seeing his finger bleed- holy shit it's making me teary eyed right now just typing that.

So, naturally, I don't want children to get hurt and am extremely against pedophilia, child predatory behavior, MAPs, grooming and these FUCKING PEOPLE WHO KEEP CASUALLY TALKING TO 13 YEAR OLDS ON DISCORD FOR FUCK SAKE.

"But Jay! You drew foalcon! Those fictional ponies are underaged!"

What, you mean that tag that's still extremely popular and always has been in the brony fandom?

Yeah can't imagine why I, a very popular artist in the brony fandom from 12 years ago to 10 years ago, would ever draw something so insanely high demand and so insanely popular. Can't fucking imagine.

Never mind that I haven't drawn it in 3 years, removed all my old images of it, and even announced I'm not drawing that shit anymore, I'm still losing friends when they find out I did once, because "I can't associate with a pedophile I'm sorry." (See: "I can't differentiate fiction from reality and also can't allow a person to move on from a troubled past that they had.")

Also never mind that the few crowdpleaser foalcon moments in Lil Miss Rarity were officially written out entirely (the part where Twist and Sweetie Belle kissed).

But you know what's amazing? Being part of the brony fandom and being an artist willing to draw anything meant that people would come to me and literally confess that they're in possession of the "real shit" and wanted to know if I was interested. Seven of them, seven, are in prison now because of me and my buddy "Z" contacting the FBI with their confessions and the shit they shared with me thinking that I was a "safe person" to admit that shit to.

My position in the fandom as an artist who gets to know their commissioners personally and was willing to draw that type of shit was literally fishing out real actual predators and putting them in prison, but I was still getting called a pedophile, and still get called it today. It's fuckin great man.

NEXT UP: TRANSPHOBE (PART 2)

I was trans. Shaved my hair half off, dyed it blue, called myself Jynkx, cussed out my family, moved to Ohio with a guy who wore diapers around the house (with his brother living there) and collected loli figurines, and dated a transgirl who was catfishing and manipulating me for 9 fucking years. I have a Discord server to this day with pronoun selection roles, my best friend is trans (I met her when she was cis and helped her come to the decision to transition and it has since improved her life and happiness), and almost every mod in my Discord server is trans.

The problem, of course, is that the trans activist community hates itself more than any other, which makes perfect sense if you think about it. This is a group of people who encourage hating cisgendered people, and encourage people to hate the body they're in and to transition to a "different body." It's been proven multiple sources that there are entire "Femboy Cults" (search that on YouTube) who are actively seeking out depressed people to manipulate them into starting HRT, and cutting off their family.

WELL GUESS WHAT HAPPENED TO ME?

Bridget, as you all remember her, was a manipulator who lied to me for 9 years of dating to make me depressed, hate myself, hate my family, give her thousands of dollars, and kept promising we'd meet some day while turning down every opportunity (such as conventions we were both already going to) to meet (yes, I went to conventions she was at and didn't meet her).

I was a victim of manipulation, was surrounded by horribly manipulative and narcissistic pieces of shit who warped my mind and made me believe I was depressed because I was "an egg" and needed to go get on HRT and change myself. And I almost did! I came within a hair's reach of shoving a hormone-altering drug into myself in hopes it would cure my depression, and then went "Wait a second, I'm not depressed because I'm a woman trapped in a man's body, I'm depressed because femboy-obsessed manipulative pervert rapists want me to turn myself into their fetish." I broke up with Bridget, I moved home from Ohio, I waited for my hair to stop being blue, and I became proud of myself for escaping that horrible situation and bettering myself mentally.

So how's this make me a transphobe?

I DON'T FUCKING KNOW, YOU FUCKING TELL ME YOU FUCKING INSANE BOOGEYMAN-BELIEVING ASSHOLES WHO BLAME EVERY OTHER PERSON FOR YOUR OWN INTERNAL LACK OF FUCKING SELF WORTH.

WAKE THE FUCK UP. YOU'VE BEEN MANIPULATED BY THESE FUCKING TRANS ACTIVISTS WHO ARE JUST SICK FETISHISTS WHO WANT TO TRANSFORM LONELY MEN INTO "FEMBOYS" UNDER FALSE PROMISES THAT IT WILL FIX THEIR MENTAL PROBLEMS. GET OUT WHILE YOU FUCKING CAN. I DID AND I'VE NEVER BEEN HAPPIER IN MY LIFE.

Next up: HOMOPHOBE

I draw LGD (Lesbians Getting Dicked) because I think it's hot when girls who like girls have sex with guys. I've drawn some pretty offensive pictures of it such as a pic of two lesbians being told "Pride month's over, ladies, time to be straight again" while being surrounded by hard dicks and looking scared.

Why'd I do this? Well because a lesbian friend of mine also likes that shit and we did that as an art trade.

But why do I draw it on my own sometimes? Because it's hot. It's fucking fictional porn, it's not real, it can't hurt you. I tag it LGD and only post it in servers you need accounts to see. You don't like it stop going out of your way to look at it, and if someone slams it in your face in your private "We Hate Jay" Discord server (which there are many of. I have moles who tell me.), that's not my fault y'fuckin dipshits. I properly tag and hide my stuff so only people who want to see it can see it. If someone showed you a picture of my spread asshole, you should get mad at them, not me. They're the one who SAVED IT TO THEIR COMPUTER AND SHOWED IT TO THEIR FRIENDS UNSOLICITED, YOU MORONS.

Anyway.

Next up: AN ASS HOLE.

I've spent 13 years being called all of the above names no matter how much I've catered to their activism and was even part of their activist movements directly. Fuck you.

Next up: A NAZI

Lmao.

I said on Twitter, "I hate that no matter what you say on this site, someone somewhere will get mad."

And that, without any further comment from me literally at all, turned into a massive amount of people including "Wootmaster" (Added note: I talked with Woot in private and he gave me the okay and apologized, we cool) calling me racist and a "Bootlicking Nazi." I literally did not add to it. I literally just said the opening line and left it for 3 days.

That's why I deleted my Twitter.

That's why people think I'm a Nazi.

Because I said "I hate that no matter what you say on this site, someone somewhere will get mad."

Next up: I DON'T FUCKING KNOW I BET THERE'S MORE.

You see why I make angry rant posts like this one?

Because this is how I've been treated for 13 fucking years.

I've been attacked, called names, labeled evil, told I'm phobic against the movements I was literally part of and being an activist for, had money stolen from me by perverts who got arrested for drilling a hole in the bathroom wall at a brony convention to jack off to his female roommates (he pretended to be trans and bullied them into letting him room with them in their "Safe Women's Hotel Room" and then did that shit and got arrested. But not before he stole money from me! Six thousand fucking dollars!), lived with a fucking probably actual child predator who would show me his loli figures and foalcon posters every day and try to convince me to like them and showed me his dick multiple times...

I literally was smack dab in the middle of super ultra liberal activism and trans activism for over a goddamn decade, right down to blue hair half shaved off and calling myself Jynkx.

And I come back, snap out of it, and get cussed out and called transphobic and "the reason trans people are being killed" because I don't like the flowery 1-dimensional LGBT representation in World of Warcraft and have a 9 year running best friend I went to multiple conventions with decide instantly that I'm a Nazi racist communist because I didn't disown my mother when she voted for the orange guy, and because I called one of their friends "Insane" for identifying as fae/fie and thinking they're a goddamn gaelic woodland sprite. (Btw he was my most frequent commissioner for loli shit and used to jack off while I was drawing it for him.)

You see, people.

I've spent 13 years surrounding myself with and getting personally connected with the lives of my commissioners as a brony/furry artist who was deep into LGBT and Liberal activism.

And in those 13 years I've come to realize that I surrounded myself with the most fucking disgusting and evil people on earth, who no matter how much I would shill for them and do what they asked, I would still be the label-covered punching bag whose reputation is now so utterly in the trash that literally no matter what I draw, say, or do today, I still have people on shady Discord servers n' shit calling me a fucking lolcow and a pedo and a transphobe and a Nazi and a racist and a homophobe and an ass hole.

I have learned in 13 goddamn years that you can't appease these fucking lunatic psychopaths.

And so I don't anymore.

So who am I really?

I'm an incredibly easy to talk to artist, I'm a dude, I love roleplaying and drawing pictures for people, I like writing song lyrics, I love hearing about new inventions and innovations, I love goats, I love dogs, I think cats make bad pets but I don't mind cats, I'm making a video game about an elf girl, and I want you hateful people who I've lived rent-free in the heads of for over a goddamn decade to leave me and my fanbase the fuck alone.

Love you all.

~Jay

#Long #Long Post #Jaytext

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wardenparker · 1 year

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Down the Rabbit Hole - ch 7

Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When Jack accidentally shoots a civilian on a mission he takes on not only the guilt of the man’s death, but inherits his soulmate as well. To you, it’s a dream job with more perks than you can imagine - but for Jack it’s a nightmarish complication. Even more so when he starts to develop feelings.

Rating: Explicit for violence Word Count: 11.4k Warnings: *Blanket warnings - mentions of deceased spouse, a lot of food and alcohol consumption, family recipes, age gap, cursing.* Canon typical violence. WARNINGS CONTAIN SPOILERS! Kidnapping, torture, burning victim with cigarettes, broken bones, a whole lot of gun pointing and talk about murder, medicine by injection. Summary: When the divide between you and Jack becomes big enough that a well-intended question causes an explosion of anger, you decide to get out of dodge for a while. Unfortunately, this decision has consequences that neither of you could ever have anticipated. Notes: I cried writing it, I cried editing it, I cried putting this post together. Consider yourselves warned.

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10 ~ Ch 11 ~ Ch 12 ~ Ch 13 ~ Ch 14 ~ Ch 15 ~ Epilogue

It's been a month and Jack Daniel's is a miserable fucking bastard. You've been told about the marks being detrimental to his job and refuse to get rid of the tattoo or the scars. Claiming that it wasn't your problem, and he considers that to be true, even if it pisses him off because he can't escape you. Stuck here at Statesman and being a firsthand witness to you dating. He swears he's seen half a dozen different men picking you up from your cabin and every goddamn time his stomach churns with jealousy until there's nothing left to do except get blindingly drunk.

There have been good days and bad ones, of course. You and Jack don’t ignore each other but you don’t ever do anything more intimate than having an occasional drink or taking a break from your day to have lunch together if he stops by the restaurant. Your staff has been hired and menu set, interior painted and linens picked out. Now that opening is just a few weeks away, it’s about finalizing and finesse, and your staff has been amazing.

The dating has been…touch and go. You had gone out with Ginger’s brother Lewis on almost every night of his visit, enjoying each other’s company much more than you had expected. Apparently he was just getting out of a relationship and had accepted Diana’s attempt to fix the two of you up gratefully. Without any kind of stress as to whether or not the relationship would be perfect – or even lasting – you and Lewis were able to have fun and relax on the nights you went out together.

With Jack not wanting to have anything romantic to do with anyone else especially and including you, you had no reason to say no to most of the invitations you got after that. A concert or a dinner or a movie or a special event - they were all nice things and the men were equally nice about half the time. Sometimes they stayed over and sometimes they didn’t, but none of them ever saw you more than twice. The guilt and the regret would creep in, reminding you that you have a soulmate and that he’s a good man, even if the two of you are at odds. The fact of the matter is, even with the casual and extremely platonic time that you spend with Jack, you do find yourself falling for him a little more every day. Whether that’s because you’re bound to him or because you just do love him, you really can’t be sure. And it wouldn’t do you any good to say anything anyway. So you do what Statesman employees do best and drink away the guilt.

******

Jack sighs, rolling his shoulders back before he opens the door to his house and steps outside to face the day. This time of year seems to weigh heavily on him and it doesn't help that he had watched you disappear into your cabin with some man last night while he sat on his porch. Not seeing either one of you emerge when he had finally gone to bed well after midnight.

Catching sight of Jack as you leave your house in the morning isn’t uncommon, but today when you do, guilt pools deep in your gut. Waking up with someone other than your soulmate is a special kind of self-torture, and the green-eyed, blonde-haired man curled around you this morning definitely was not Jack. This morning when you glance toward his house, you accidentally catch his eye and end up awkwardly waving as you leave your house alone. The blonde had been politely kicked out before breakfast.

Jack sends back that half-hearted wave and tries to keep the scowl off his face for your sake. Knowing that you will think that it's directed towards you instead of towards the man who had snuck out of your house this morning with a jaunt in his step that Jack certainly recognized.

A thought has been gnawing on you for a while now, and you hustle to catch up to Jack on the sidewalk that leads away from Statesman housing and heads toward the main area of the company’s campus. Trying to maintain a friendship with Jack has been agonizing for you, as you realize the actual depths of your feelings for him, but you’re also trying to respect his wishes. If he doesn’t want to be anything but a platonic pair, you aren’t going to forcibly change his mind. Either he wants to be with you or he doesn’t. End of story.

He hears your quick footsteps behind him, the effort for you to catch up to him and Jack sighs to himself. Not in any kind of mood to play nice, not when he's going to see that 'freshly fucked' glow that you seem to get when you bring someone home. Acid churns in his gut and he wonders if he's developing heartburn for how often he's eating antacids to keep it moderately tolerable.

He slows down only slightly, but you catch up to him by just the last few steps that land much harder like a schoolgirl trying to casually match the stride of her upperclassman crush. It’s a fairly apt comparison for how you feel about him sometimes, but that’s not a thought you want to have to nurse today. “In a hurry today?” You ask, knowing he isn’t late for his usual day. His 9-5 is the same as yours.

"Just wanting to get my heart pumping." Jack doesn't look over at you. "Not getting much exercise being stuck behind a desk." He tells you. "Champ still won't clear me for field work."

That’s your fault. You know it is. You’ve had full conversations about it. But as long as Jack insists on acting like you mean nothing to him, you’re going to maintain the same behavior. If he doesn’t want a soulmate, then he doesn’t get any of the benefits of you being that person. Including, but not limited to, an understanding heart.

“I had something I wanted to ask you,” you admit, shoving your hands in your pockets as you walk. Something that is very much above and beyond the call of a normal friend, but you’re telling yourself that that doesn’t mean anything. He’s not the only person you’ll be asking about this, so it’s fine.

"What do you need to know?" Jack rolls his eyes, noticing that you are avoiding him mentioning the fucking tattoo, but he didn't expect you to.

“I know it’s not really your thing…” He looks annoyed, and you wonder if he didn’t get enough sleep last night or if he skipped breakfast. The fleeting thought that he might be jealous of your date is flicked away with the reminder that he doesn’t want to be connected to you. He’s probably glad you’re finally leaving him alone. “But I’m asking my friends, which you did say you wanted to be,” the reminder comes with an awkward smile that you drop when he doesn’t respond. “Gabriella’s birthday is coming up, so it jogged my memory. I’m just asking my friends what they want their birthday cakes to be this year so I can plan ahead.”

"I don't celebrate my birthday." Jack manages to say the words without anger or devastation in the inflection in his voice. "Don't worry about it, sugar."

“I know you had said that, but I thought…sometimes it’s worth revisiting an old tradition. Who doesn’t like cake and presents, ya know?” Walking beside him, you feel like you ought to be clutching your textbooks and twirling your hair or something equally ridiculous. But all you want is to show him that you’re not the enemy.

Jaw clenched, Jack stops short and whirls towards you, obviously startling you from the way that you jump but he doesn't give a damn. You just push and you push and you push, not giving a damn what someone else might want. "I don't fucking celebrate the day my goddamn wife and baby boy died." He growls furiously. "Forget the goddamn day exists."

You feel knocked over even though all you've done is freeze on the sidewalk, wide eyes staring at him in shock while you're not sure if your jaw is trembling in shock or dropped fully open. "I—" The way your chest clenches, it feels like you might dissolve inwardly. "I didn't know. I'm so...I'm so sorry..."

"You didn't know because you didn't give a fuck." Jack sneers. "All you care about is yourself, what you want. What you think is best, damned what anyone else might think."

"Where do you get that from?" From bottomless sympathy, you bounce back to shock in a very different way. "I was trying to do something nice for you!"

"I told you I don't celebrate and you couldn't let it go." He shouts. "You won't get rid of the fuckin' tattoo so I can do my goddamn job. Maybe if you did, you wouldn't hafta worry about a fuckin' soulmate because I would be dead like I deserve to be!"

"This is the first and only time I've asked since the day we met." This time you know for certain that your lip is trembling, and that it's from oncoming tears. Being screamed at is never something you've been able to take, and this is...it's Jack. Someone you want to make happy so desperately that you're doing things you actively hate in order to do it. "You didn't want a soulmate. You wanted to be friends. So that's all I've done."

“I do want a soulmate. I want my soulmate.” Jack fumes, eyes flashing angrily. “I want the woman who fucking died on my birthday because she was going to get the fuckin’ candles she had forgot to buy for my cake. For me. She died because of me! That’s the soulmate I want!” His own agony makes him blind to the fact that he is crying, tears rolling down his face and his heart about to fucking bust apart, but not because of Abigail, it’s from hearing you say that all you’re trying to do is be friends.

With both of you crying it's almost an exercise in futility to make sense of anything, or to try to hold a reasonable conversation, and you can feel yourself shutting down faster than lightning. The words are there, ringing in your ears, never ever to leave again. I want my soulmate. Not you. Never you. He wants his wife back and you're just standing in the way and insulting her memory purely by existing. "Right." You barely croak out the one syllable, nodding vaguely and already backing away from him while you try not to shake where you stand. "Th—that's...you..." Whatever sentence you were trying to form isn't happening, to the point where all you can think about clearly is how badly you don't want him to be upset with you anymore. And the only way to do that is to walk away. "I'm sorry." Are the only coherent words you manage to murmur, fleeing in the opposite direction as soon as you get them out.

Jack stands there for a few minutes, only moving to wipe away the tears when his breathing is relaxed. Dread curling in his stomach as he replays the cruel things he had said to you in his anger and sorrow. “Shit.” He hisses quietly, wondering if you would talk to him now, but he doubts it.

You have to get yourself under control before you make it to the restaurant, you know that. But the tears rolling down your cheeks are thick and angry and making it hard for you to think, and when you pull out your phone to send a text you can barely read the screen. Hopefully, even if it doesn't make sense, your brother will understand enough to call you later. It's Friday and you need to be anywhere but here this weekend. Hopefully his guest room is free.

******

Jack pauses outside the restaurant, knowing that he needs to talk to you again, but he can’t make himself go inside. He’s fucked this all up. He’s hurt you and his heart aches from that. Instead, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials a number that oftentimes he avoids like the plague. “Hey doc.” He greets the Statesman therapist when the call is picked up. “Do you have some free time? I need to talk.”

A two-hour flight to New York is nothing, but by the time you land it’s late and the sight of your brother standing at the gate waiting for you nearly brings you to relieved tears.

******

It’s not unusual that he doesn’t see you at night. His therapy session opening his eyes and making him see that he’s been very wrong, very cruel to you. Sighing, Jack pushes off the swing with his foot, the tall glass of Statesman in his hand as he watches your dark cabin. He knows you’re in there, the pinging on his phone showing that you are.

There’s no sign of you all the next day, or even the one after that. No movements from your house, no lights turning on or off, no television flickering or even anyone else’s car in the driveway. It’s like you’ve shut yourself inside and locked out the rest of the world.

Jack tries to go about his weekend, but his eyes still wander over to your place. Hoping to see you, not having enough courage to go over and knock. He knows you won’t answer the door and it’s not like he’s given you any reason to. So he waits for an opportunity to bump into you.

But when Monday morning comes, you aren’t there. The bracelet he gave you - the one that was presented as an apology for an argument but actually contained a tracker so he can keep an eye on you - hasn’t moved. According to that tracker you’re still in your house, but it’s 8:40 on Monday morning and you are never late. You should be closing your front door behind you right now to walk to work, but there isn’t any trace of you in sight.

“Fuck this.” Jack slaps his thigh and stalks across the small courtyard to march up your step and - it’s probably a little more forceful than necessary - he starts beating on your door. “Come on, sugar! Open the door!”

There’s no answer. No movement from within at all. A peak through the garage door shows your car sitting there as usual so it’s not like you’ve decided to break your walking tradition and drive to work.

“Damnit.” Jack shakes his head and presses the button on his watch. “Ginger, unlock cabin 6.” He orders, worry starting to curl in his gut though your marks are still on his skin.

“Roger.” Ginger’s voice comes through his com loud and clear and the locks on your front door click open obediently to allow him entry.

His search is quick, getting more and more hurried as he rushes through the space until he’s convinced you’re not here. “Shit.” Jack hisses, sweeping his hat off his head in a panic. “Shit!”

“Agent Whiskey. Report.” Ginger had left the com open when she unlocked your house, knowing Jack would never want her to do something like that for anything less than an emergency.

“Where the fuck is she, Ginger?” There’s an undercurrent of panic in his voice and the bracelet firmly in his fist. “‘Cause she ain’t here.”

"Come into the office," she urges him, knowing that tone in his voice after years of working together. "I'll see if I can track her down in the couple of minutes it takes you to get here."

“Find her now, Ginger.” Jack flies out of the cabin and his boots thump on the walkway as he makes for Statesman at a dead sprint.

The door to the lab slams open with a violent rattle five minutes later but Ginger barely moves in her seat. The control panel in front of her gives her domain across the myriad of screens mounted on the wall, most of which are showing traffic cam footage, sidewalk security footage, or even in-building security footage of you over the last two days. A flight itinerary is pulled up in one corner and the far-left monitor shows a string of text messages. "She went to New York City," Ginger tells Jack, her hands flying across her keyboard. "It looks like she went to see her brother after your last fight."

“How did— you know about that?” Jack huffs, slightly deflated as he catches sight of the texts that you had sent your brother and winces at the stark harshness of his words written out. “Shit. Can you track her phone? Where is she now?”

"I tracked her phone to a hotel in Times Square." That fact makes Ginger cringe, but she glances up at Jack cautiously. "She didn't get on her flight last night and she didn't change her ticket, either. When I called the kitchen with the pretense of wanting to invite her to lunch today, her sous-chef said she hadn't heard from her either."

“Fuck.” Jack shakes his head, pointing at her as he starts rushing for the door. “Get Pony Express fueled up and on the tarmac when I get there!” He orders as he dashes out of the room. In his gut he knows something is very wrong.

Jack dashes out of Ginger’s office right before she gets another ping on your information - something more than cell phone records between your family members like she’s seen this morning. This is a missing person’s report, filed by your brother with NYPD just a minute or two ago. “Shit.” Ginger mutters, furiously clicking at her control panel to notify the hangar to have the Pony Express ready so she can call Champ immediately.

Jack has never run so fast in his life. Breathlessly changing into his flight suit and bolting for the fighter jet. He knows something’s wrong. You would never let your kitchen be kept in the dark, no matter how upset you were with him. No, this is dangerous and it’s all his fault.

******

There are some things television is very informative about: interior decorating, cooking, fashion, even nature or manufacturing. But in no way, shape, or form does it prepare the unsuspecting person for what kidnapping might really be like.

The men who approached you after you left your self-indulgent solo dinner had been overbearing and pushy, asking for your number and where you were going, trying to get you to go with them willingly to their next destination - a bar you had never heard of. When you had politely refused so many times that you had to go from polite to insistent, the one standing directly in back of you had pushed the muzzle of a gun into your back while the leader ordered you to do as you were told so you wouldn’t have your spinal cord severed. In terror, you had obeyed.

The duct tape, zip ties, and blindfold were not enough, apparently. You had been gagged and starved, left tied to a chair in a room you could only describe as drafty and damp, and generally ignored excepted to be threatened periodically or violently interrogated whenever one of them got frustrated. You’re fairly certain that you now know what waterboarding actually is, but you’re grateful they haven’t done worse. The thing is — what they want? Is Jack. And there is no way you’re going to give them that. Even as angry as you can be with each other, if you didn’t realize that you loved him before now, this would have proved it. Literally willing to die for his safety, you haven’t said one coherent word to these mongrels since they shoved you into the back of an SUV in Times Square.

“Come on sweetheart…” The slow, condescending roll of the words come from your left where a man of middle-aged years is watching you, leaning back in his chair as your head swivels towards him. “All you gotta do is make a phone call. One thirty second call. You can be as damsel in distress as you’d like.”

With a gag in your mouth, you shake your head once to signal ‘no’ and raise your head again, determined not to cry this time. You have no idea how long you’ve been with these degenerates, but it feels like days - and you’ve definitely cried a lot during that time. So much that you’re starting to finally feel numb.

“Fuckin’ ridiculous,” mutters someone on your other side. The voice sounds younger. Angrier. And familiar. “She’s fuckin’ useless.”

“No, she ain’t.” There is a low, evil chuckle from the other man. “You said she’s his soulmate.” He hums, pleased with himself. “If she doesn’t want to cooperate, we’ll start shippin’ pieces of her back to him.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. You blink back the fear, cut between the fear that that kind of stunt either wouldn’t work at all because Jack hates you so much, or that it would bring him straight into danger on Champ’s orders. Whoever that man is, he can’t know what Statesman really is - or is that exactly why they came for you? If you could fucking place his voice, that would be a huge goddamn help.

“Aw, look.” One of the other men snickers nastily. “Bitch is gonna cry again.”

There’s a round of chuckling, generally enjoying your fear and upset, “I bet it’s gonna eat him alive.” The older man snorts. “Buryin’ a second soulmate. Another one he couldn’t save.” There’s another round of amusement, harsh and cold. All of them in on a secret you don’t know.

“Go get some dinner.” The first man tells another. “I’m hungry. I’ll watch her, see if she’ll give in.”

There is a general sound of chairs scraping and boots on concrete, the sound of heels clicking so similar to the now-familiar sound of cowboy boots on the sidewalk. They keep you from responding with the gag, and the blindfold keeps their faces hidden, but they always want you to hear. It keeps you afraid, and fear is what they’re banking on. That fear will make you cave. What they don’t know is that your fear has more to do with not knowing whether or not Jack will even care that you’re gone.

“Has he fallen for you yet?” The question comes with a hint of irony in his voice. The need for information that would twist the knife deeper. “Or is he runnin’ from it to keep from gettin’ hurt?”

You can’t help that that brings a fresh set of tears. It seems to be the part of your body you have the least control over. Fucking tear ducts. But this guy’s seemingly endless need to talk and talk and make you as miserable as humanly possible has made you pay more attention to his voice over however long you’ve been here. Some of the others have slightly different accents - but this one is a cowboy.

“Mhm, running.” The deeply satisfied tone settles back slightly as he sits back in his chair and watches you, “just so you know it’s not personal.” He tells you conversationally. “I just want to see the poor bastard’s face as he holds another dead soulmate.”

Without this fucking gag in your mouth, you might have said something that would give you away. That would hurt Jack somehow or prove that you actually are useless to them. They don’t know that you’ve fallen for him despite your very best efforts, and they don’t know that he despises you simply for existing. He’s not running from anything – but you’re not Abigail, so you’re an insult to her memory.

“Oh hell, I’ll tell you since you aren’t leavin’ this room.” Alive is left off the end of the sentence, but the threat is clearly there. “I was the one who arranged for good ol’ Jack Daniels to lose his first soulmate. Her and the kid she was carryin’. Cherry on top of you ask me.”

Your eyes open wide against the blindfold, head snapping in the direction of the voice as he chuckles. The evil bastard is so goddamn pleased with himself. You could scream if you had breath, but the best you can do is fight against bindings that will never break.

“Bastard never even knew it, either. Dumb son of a bitch.” He huffs. “Bought the story of it being meth heads, robbing the store. Can you believe that? But it allowed me to attend the funeral. Watch his grief firsthand.”

Why? Is all you can wonder, as your mind races to try to figure out what the hell Jack could have done to warrant such a vast conspiracy before he was ever even a spy. Diana said Jack hadn’t joined Statesman until after his wife and son had died, so why the hell would anyone want to ruin his life when he was just a normal man?

“Jack Daniels is gonna fuckin’ pay,” the chair scrapes back and the sound of boots slowly comes towards you, ominous in how measured the steps are. “Maybe I’ll stage it for him. Write a note sayin’ how you couldn’t take being his soulmate.” He chuckles and his hand caresses the side of your face. “Pretty neck of yours will look good stretched out on a rope for him to find.”

You grunt, jerking your face away from his touch and wishing you could just scream at him. The muffled noises of frustration that do make it past your lips seem only to amuse him and you twist in your chair in a vain desire to lash out.

“Oh don’t be that way…” he tuts and bends down, smirking directly in your face even though you can’t see it. “You’d even be my type if you weren’t tied to that bastard. Maybe we could have some fun before your usefulness is done.”

That’s a line too far, and you instinctively start screaming, not like you’re trying to call for help but like you would call him every horrible name in the book if you could speak. There’s no way you can move but you take a chance, even knowing it’s a long shot. Reeling back as quickly as possible, you hit your head forward and manage to connect – head butting the bastard and making him stumble and fall backward into some nearby furniture, from the sound of it. Bastard.

“Bitch!” he growls, rushing forward and raising his hand. Bringing it down against the side of your face and slapping you hard enough to nearly knock your chair over. “Fuck with me and I start chopping you into pieces now!” He bellows.

Muffled and muted, the "Fuck you!" you scream as loud as you can is just clear enough to understand. You've gone from terrified to pissed, and it feels like a light switch has turned on inside you. These fuckers aren't getting shit from you. Not even another tear.

******

Honestly, Jack doesn’t remember a time when he’s pushed the Pony Express so hard. Finally setting down on the runway, he ignores the curious and awed looks of the grounds crews of the airport and starts looking around. “Where are my wheels, Ginger?”

"Rye is in the black SUV on the edge of the runway." Ginger fires back immediately. Champ had authorized the rescue mission immediately and sent one of the senior agents from the New York office to be at Jack's disposal.

“Goddamnit this is all my fault,” Jack spots the car and starts running, not bothering to change out of his flight suit. “She should be in her kitchen!”

"I've combed the security footage from Times Square." In his ear, Ginger is clicking through countless screens with images of you from all angles - a large number of them featuring a group of seven men and a large SUV that you appear to get into willingly. "She got into a slate gray SUV with a group of seven men on West 51st between 8th and Broadway."

“Who the fuck are they?” Jack demands, ripping the door open and jumping inside the car. He spares Rye a nod as he waits for his answer. “And did you track the SUV?”

“I’m working on the car. It drops off the traffic cameras after the Williamsburg Bridge.” A few clicks can be heard in the background and Ginger hums. “I have records on four of the seven men. Domestic, drug charges, firearms, breaking and entering, the usual gamut of ‘goon’ crimes. But…” she muffles a groaning sound. “Jack. Some of these guys are from your hometown…”

“What?” Jack slams his fist on the dashboard, sick that his suspicions are right. This is all his fault. “Give me their names.”

"Hank Rollins, Ben Jeffrey, Andrew Kelly, and Sean Perring. All from Lloyd, Montana." Ginger bites her lip, sighing at her screen. "On the sidewalk footage she appears to be going with them willingly, but from your reaction I'm guessing that isn't the case."

“Rollins.” Jack growls out, pissed off to hear the name after so long, thinking that he’d escaped the fucking family feud unscathed. “Haven’t heard that name in a long time. Hoped to never hear it again.”

“They’ve had her for nineteen hours now.” Ginger swallows, not liking how high that number is. “And we haven’t had a ransom note or a phone call of any kind.”

“Shit.” Jack shakes his head. “Take me to where she was taken. Now.”

Rye doesn’t hesitate, throwing the car into gear and heading for the road at a full tilt. Getting close to Broadway at any time of day is a task, but if they have to, he can pull any number of public safety tricks to be able to block off part of the area. Being a Statesman agent in New York City means having a few tricks up his sleeve. “What can we be expecting?” He asks Jack, wondering if the other agent might have an idea now that he knows some of what is going on.

“Anything.” Jack’s teeth grind together. “This is personal. A family feud over land disputes dating back to the fuckin’ 1800s.” Jack hisses, shaking his head. “I left the goddamn valley for a reason.”

“They grabbed her over a two-hundred-year-old land dispute?” Nothing should surprise him at this point, with what he’s seen as a Statesman agent, but Rye still huffs. “What the hell do they want you to do? Time travel?” It’s the absence of a ransom demand that makes him nervous. They took an agent’s soulmate and it’s not money they’re after.

“When my daddy died, I put the land in the hands of the ranch board.” Jack tells him. “I didn’t wanna fucking ranch, not after Abigail died. Rollins wants me to sell to him, but I can’t. It has to be passed down to blood.”

"So what's the idea?" Speeding through the streets as fast as possible without causing an accident, Rye keeps his eyes on the road but frowns. "Make sure she's out of the picture so there's no blood to pass it down to?"

“Did I mention that the entire Rollins family is as crazy as a fuckin’ loon?” Jack huffs, shaking his head and even more worried about you now that he knows that bastard is behind your disappearance. “Who the hell knows? Tried to claim I’d stolen his soulmate at one point.”

“Jesus.” The other agent huffs, continuing to weave their way through the thick New York traffic. “It’s up to you how you want to approach this,” he tells Jack honestly. “She’s your soulmate.”

“She doesn’t get hurt.” His answer is immediate, almost growled out. “Not a fuckin’ hair on her head.”

“Copy that.” His tone says everything, and Rye doesn’t ask any more questions. “We’ll get her back.”

Finally, the SUV comes to a screeching stop at the spot where you were forced into a vehicle. Jack throws open the doors and bolts out, eyes scanning the ground for something – anything. It's a long shot, but there's got to be something here that would show that you were here. Some marker. Anything.

Any street in New York City has trash and debris to a certain extent, and there are traces of people having been through the area just because of how much car and foot traffic moves through Broadway every single day. Broken bottles, cigarette butts, tissues, all the normal bits of peoples' lives that go by the wayside are littered about on steps and in sidewalk cracks. Candy wrappers or coffee cups by the curb. Rye combs the area for specialized clues – a name on a cup or a wrapper from a list of the favourite snacks listed in your file, but frustratingly finds nothing.

“Come on, there’s gotta be something here!” Jack huffs, kicking a trash can and there is the tiny clink of something metal being launched against it. “Fuck, what’s this?”

Rye bends over, swiping up the item as it glints in the sun. "Looks like a bracelet." He inspects it carefully, not finding a serial number or any indication of a designer, except for a small engraving in the tip that looks like a maker's mark. "Maybe Ginger can track down the manufacturer? It's a long shot that it will help, but it's something."

“It’s hers.” Jack stares at the inscription on the inside of the bracelet. “Beautiful girl, you can do hard things.” He reads aloud. “She—she showed me this. It’s a quote her grandmother would tell her.” His mouth is dry and he takes it from Rye to put in his pocket, determined to put it back on your wrist himself. “Let’s hope she can hang on. Just hold on, sugar. I’m comin’.”

"Whiskey. Rye." Ginger's voice in their ears makes both men's heads perk up, listening for a report from their eyes and ears. "The car registration belongs to a shell corporation owned by the Rollins family. They also own a shipping company with containers in the Brooklyn Navy Yard." She clears her throat pointedly. "Right off of the Williamsburg Bridge where we lost the car."

“Get us there now.” Jack points at Rye and starts running back to the Statesman SUV like his heels are being nipped by the hounds of hell. “Ginger, I need you to get me the specs of that building.”

"Sending them now." Her voice is accompanied by the sound of keyboard clacking as Rye and Whiskey jump back into the car, peeling back out onto Broadway to head toward Williamsburg. The heavy traffic doesn't part for them easily but Rye was chosen for this assignment specifically for his abilities as a driver.

“Ginger, is there any indication on how they know that I have another soulmate?” Jack demands, tensing the closer that he gets with every mile to the shipyard. He knows he will kill them; he’ll kill every last one of them to protect you. “They don’t seem to know I’m a fuckin’ spy.”

"I'm working on it." It isn't something that has been advertised, obviously, and Jack has kept his marks from you hidden since they first appeared on his skin. There are few people who know, most of whom have priority clearance. She's gone through all the background checks on the new Statesman employees and the places you frequent, all the men you've dated, even all the way back through the staff at The Whitney months ago who might have seen your marks on your first soulmate before the accident. Not a single red flag had risen, but Ginger hesitates for just a split second as she tries to think through more connections. There was one - just one – the newest line cook for The Rabbit Hole that makes her hesitate. "Have you ever heard her mention a man named Tripp Tanner?" Ginger asks, pulling up the file on the man once more. It's too pristine. Too squeaky clean. Too pitch-perfect. Like it's been manufactured.

Jack is ashamed to say that you’ve not been doin’ a whole lot of talkin’ around him. It’s not like he’s really encouraged close conversations. Keeping things as surface level as he could to not make it more difficult. Even though every day he aches and he hates that he aches. “No.” Though he recognizes the name, he can’t place it. “She hasn’t mentioned him. Why? Is he one of the ones she’s been…uh, seein’?” His ears burn slightly, noticing the way Rye’s eyes cut from the road to look over at him but he tries to ignore it.

"No, he—" Ginger hates that it makes her stammer, feeling like your dating is partially her fault because it started with her brother. "He's on her staff. The background check is clean and his resume is spotless. But it's too clean, so it's the best lead I have. I'm running him through Statesman facial recognition now." The Statesman database is far more complex and complete than any government or criminal database. If her gut feeling is right, it might kick up a result.

“Send me a picture of the boy.” Jack grunts, having already looked at the blueprints of the building where you might be. It’s better than you being in a random shipping container. They might never find you if that’s the case.

"His employee ID photo is coming through now." More taps come from Ginger's end of the conversation before a muffled shriek of dismay. "Shit. Jack— Tanner is from Lloyd, too. He changed his name from Rollins two years ago. Stephen Stuart Rollins the third - nickname Tripp - has a rap sheet a mile long."

“Son of a bitch.” Jack hisses, his grip on the dashboard nearly about to put an indentation in it. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t been avoidin’ her, I woulda recognized the bastard.”

"We'll fix it on this end, Jack." She promises him. "Just go bring her home."

“She hates me.” Jack murmurs quietly. “I was— I wasn’t very nice to her.”

“I’m pretty sure she’ll forgive you after you save her life.” Ginger sighs, watching the dot on her on-screen map that represents her two agents speed toward the warehouse where she’s figured out you’re being held. “Stop these assholes first, apologize second. She— she thinks you hate her. That’s what she told Gabriella, anyway.”

“I don’t hate her.” Jack grumbles, feeling guilty as hell because he knows that’s what it looked like.

“I would suggest telling her that.” Even though Ginger’s voice goes soft, she’s following their movements and watching the Navy Yard security cameras. “There’s movement at the building. I don’t see her, but I’m counting…six men outside the building.”

“Good.” Jack’s voice is grim and his brows are knitted together. “Every single one of them is going in the ground, Ging. This feud ends today.”

******

There is a group of men milling about around a large brick building with the number 31 painted above the bay doors. Cars parked haphazardly nearby with doors flung open present as frustratingly casual, but the large, dark gray van from the sidewalk cam footage is nowhere in sight.

“So what are we doin’ here, Whiskey?” Rye demands, slowing the vehicle down so it doesn’t look like they are barreling into the place. “Are we run in guns blazing or using some stealth?”

Every instinct inside him is screaming to run in guns blazing, but he can’t risk another man inside hurting you. “Shit.” He hisses. “Turn down the service road and park the fucking car.” He grunts. “We’re sneakin’ up on the bastards.”

The service road runs behind the old abattoir buildings and Rye tucks the car out of sight so he and Whiskey can arm themselves out of the trunk before coming up on the group of abductors. “Three doors on the blueprint.” Rye murmurs, tucking a Bowie knife into the sheath on his belt. “Those buildings are big, we gotta be methodical.”

Jack finally shucks the flight suit, changing into his standard jeans and a button up with a sports coat. His double six shooters tucked into their holsters and his electric whip and lasso tucked into his belt. “They are going to keep her somewhere small, like an office. Probably have her tied to a chair, the bastards.”

“I’m followin’ your lead.” Tucking a few throwing knives into the hidden pockets of his jacket for good measure, Rye nods for Jack to step out first. This is his operation and Rye will do what he needs to keep him covered.

He moves silently, deciding that he will pull his weapons later to get as close as possible without seeming suspicious. Crouching low enough that his knees protest, Jack skirts the edge of the loading docks and edges towards the northeast door. The one farthest away from the group out front.

There is no guard at the northeast door. The bastards obviously are either overconfident or underprepared, and Rye picks the padlock in record time to let Jack get inside with minimal noise. No alarm sounds, no person is alerted. It looks to be a storage room, and the two men pass through it easily to find a claustrophobic hallway waiting for them beyond the interior door.

There’s a muffled sound, Jack tensing and hisses under his breath when he recognizes the sound of screaming through a gag. “Fuck.” He murmurs, imagining all sorts of horrible things. “That way.”

The room where the noises are coming from is non-descript now, empty except for some card tables and chairs, and the remains of a meal spread out with some discarded firearms and a bag of who-knows-what open on the ground. Two large men are hunched in the center of the room. Deep, rumbling laughter rolls from them and cigarette smoke is pungent in the air as the muffled shrieks get slightly more panicked. Still blindfolded and gagged, the front legs of the chair that you've been zip-tied to almost constantly your arrival in this place have been broken, leaving you kneeling on the cement floor between the two of them. One who has decided to turn your shoulder into his ashtray, and the other who is deciding which fingernail to pull off with the pliers in his hand. Presumably to send to Jack.

“Shit, shit.” Jack hisses under his breath, the urge to rush in there nearly overwhelming but he doesn’t want to give them a chance to anticipate. Stealth is needed and he slowly starts to pull his pistols out but decides against it. He wants this to be more personal, so he reaches for the whip and lasso.

“I know, I know.” Rollins drawls, holding onto your left hand to inspect your fingernails. “Jack likes his girls done up, so not being able to have all your nails painted is gonna disappoint him.” He tuts, finally deciding that your pointer finger mail is long enough to get a good grip on with the pliers. You’re screaming and crying again after a few hours of putting on a brave face and he’s enjoying it. “If ya like I could just cut off the whole finger? That might be more fun for everybody.”

“More fun if you get the fuck away from her and face me like a man, Rollins.” Jack bursts through the door and squares up, his eyes not even looking at you as he focuses on the man responsible. “Always knew you were a chickenshit, but this is low even for you.”

Jack? You would know his voice anywhere, even as often as you’re at odds you’ve still memorized the tone and tenor. He came. He actually came. As fast as your heart was beating before, the pace doubles now and the tears soaking your blindfold are relief. He came for you. It might not say ‘love’, but it doesn’t say ‘hate’.

The deep, rolling, evil laugh that bubbles out of the man beside you is so pleased that it makes you physically ill just to hear. Rollins, as Jack calls him, drops your hand but stomps on the back leg of the chair you’re tied to for good measure - breaking it and sending you crashing to the ground with another scream. There is no way you can see what’s going to happen with the blindfold, but at least the two men have lost interest in torturing you for the moment.

“Daniels.” The game is up and if Rollins is surprised that Jack has found out that it’s him, he doesn’t show it. Too deep into his madness and he sneers at the man in front of him. “You came with a whip?” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Always knew you were a fucking idiot.”

The man who had been standing in the other side of you drops his cigarette beside you - probably hoping to burn your clothes in the process - and squares his shoulders like he’s planning to make a run at Jack but isn’t sure he’ll win.

“I’m begging you too.” Jack growls out, wanting nothing more than to have them strike first. Give him a reason to cut them into pieces with his tech. Rye moves past the door behind him, intent on taking out the others while he saves you. “Do it.”

“Begging.” Rollins laughs again, taking a step forward. “Tripp, don’t fuckin’ move. Keep a gun on the bitch until I say otherwise.” The sound of the safety of a gun clicking is now intimately familiar to you and you squirm on the ground, trying to push your chair away from it even a little, but a pressure on your ribcage stops you. It’s unmistakably a foot. And you’ve only heard the name Tripp once in your entire life - meaning the jackass you hired to your kitchen to bolster numbers now has his goddamn boot in your side. You knew you recognized that fucking voice.

“It’ll be the last fucking thing you do, Tripp.” Jack hisses, keeping his eyes on the older, more unhinged brother. “Finally gone off the deep end, huh? What’s this all about?” He doesn’t know why the Rollins boys are after you to get to him. Doesn’t understand it. He’s not run the ranch since he was in high school.

"You're a hard man to get through to, Daniels." Hank tells him, smug smirk still painted across his crooked face. "Last time I had to talk real loud to make you listen. Figured I'd have to do it again."

His head tilts, eyes narrowing slightly as he tries to figure out what he means by that. “Well, I’m here now. Whadya gotta say?”

"Y'all got something I want." And even after fifteen years, he hasn't figured out a way other than this to get it. Something that isn't criminal. "Now, the last time I made myself heard, you went off and skipped town with your tail between your legs like a spurned schoolgirl on prom night." Hank Rollins takes out his own gun, the pistol pointed directly at your head when he stretches out his arm. "But I'm sick and tired of a whole world that thinks the sun shines outta Jack Daniels' ass crack."

Jack’s entire world narrows and focuses on his words, taking them and twisting them in his mind. “The last time…” He growls. “My wife died in a fuckin’ robbery.” He hisses, fingers twitching on the whip and hovering over the button that would turn it deadly.

The way Hank Rollins laughs - the wicked, pleased, loathsome way he chortles at Jack's pain - almost makes you physically sick. "I love that you bought that," he gloats, taking another step toward the senior Statesman agent, ignoring his backup altogether if he's even taken a long enough look to see Rye in the room. "Hook. Line. And sinker. Goddamn beautiful."

“What did you do, you bastard?” His knuckles are practically white and he curls his lips back in disgust. “A pregnant woman? Why? What evil did I do to you?”

"You took what was mine." His free hand moves to his sleeve even as Jack watches him more carefully than a hawk. When Rollins rolls up his shirt sleeve, there is a scar there that is burned into Jack's memory as clear as day - Abigail was bitten by the neighbor's dog as a little girl and wore the scar for her entire life. "You brainwashed her against me. And you paraded my soulmate around town like your fucking prize, Daniels. That boy should've been mine, too."

“I wore her marks.” Jack hisses. “Every goddamn one of them and you know it! They would be gone if she was your soulmate.” He always thought Hank was insane, and this just proves it. The marks would have disappeared. They wouldn’t be there, just like they disappeared from Jack when she died. “But you mean to tell me that you murdered her because I had her and you wanted her?”

"I saved her!" Rollins snaps back, waving his gun in your direction as the rage builds in him. "The wife of some city-slicker pretty boy without the sense to keep a single fuckin' eye on the most important woman in the world. She would have been miserable bearing your heathen children and picking up the pieces of everything you ever broke."

Jack scoffs, knowing it won’t make any use to point out that he grew up in the same small damn valley Hank did. That they both worked and lived on ranches. The Daniels spread was more lucrative thanks to his Grandaddy being a smart man and the Rollins have always been a little unhinged. Hank and his younger brother being the worst of them all. “Point the gun at me, not her.” As devastating as it is to hear him talk about Abigail that way, you are the one in danger right now. His heart bursting with the need to see you safe.

"Now, c'mon." Rollins drawls, throwing his brother a smirk from a few feet away. "Don't start pretendin' you like her now. She already knows why you can't look her in the eye. Lyin' piece of shit."

Jack wishes he could see your eyes, but they are covered. All he can hear is the panicked breathing and sobs from your poor body. “Your issue is with me. She ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

"Cryin' over a man who can't ever love her." Tutting as he shakes his head, Rollins moves his gun temporarily from pointing at your head to Jack, but goes back again. He's having too much fun watching the man he despises twist. "You been treatin' this one even worse than my Abigail."

It’s in his chest to scream out that Abigail was his, but she’s dead and you’re here, alive and depending on him. His heart clenches and he rocks his jaw. “If you know how I’ve been treatin’ her, why take her? Why not let her go? I’m here now. You’ve got my attention.”

“You want me to let her go?” Hank Rollins scoffs to his brother and seems to weigh his options. As far as he’s concerned there’s no reason this can’t be as much fun as he likes. “I could see my way to lettin’ that happen,” he concedes with another contemptuous chuckle. “You got two options, Daniels. One is I shoot her in the head right now and you walk free knowin’ you’re the reason two innocent women are dead. But two? Two is you take her place. Right here and now. I’ll let her walk right out on outta here. Yer friend there can even get her home safe. Either way, yer signing over that ranch land and the whole business operatin’ on it over to me first.”

“Done.” The word is out of his mouth so fast he’s not even sure if he actually said them out loud. Maybe he just thought it. But then Rollins’ face cracks into a wide grin and he looks like he’s struck gold. “Let her go, and I’ll take her place.”

It may not be discernable words, but the hoarse screams coming from you now are crystal clear - pleading with him not to take your place. As much as this is the very last circumstance you would ever want to be in, as much as you cannot fathom how this absolute basket case Rollins thinks his 'plan' could ever succeed, Jack is worth far more to the world at large – and to you. So if either one of you is walking out of here, it should be him. Thrashing as much as your binding will allow, trying to toss off the foot of the man standing on you or else wiggle away from the pressure, probably a move that will end in broken bones, but you couldn't care less. Just as long as Jack stays far away from this chair.

“Let her go.” That’s all that matters to Jack right now. Getting you far away, keeping you safe. “Now.” Hank huffs and rolls his eyes, pointing the weapon at your head once more for the sheer pleasure of watching Jack’s face drain of all life. “Fine.” He grumbles, motioning to Tripp. “Get her up and hand her over to whatever city boy he has with him.” He doesn’t get to watch you die, which is disappointing, but he gets Jack Daniels and the land his family stole. It might even be better this way.

Tripp grumbles, on the verge of protesting, but he does as he's told...mostly. All he really does is kick you - still attached to the chair - over to the man a few feet away. Rye immediately drops to his knees, murmuring to you quietly who he is and that he's going to untie you, Bowie knife out of its sheath and slicing away at the ties and tape that bind you to the chair that has been your prison for the last God only knows how many hours. As soon as your ankles are free you kick your legs, trusting that this other Statesman agent is here to help but wanting desperately to get to Jack to stop him from giving your literal kidnapper what he wants. As soon as your wrists are free you shove the blindfold off your eyes and drag the gag out of your mouth, shrinking away from the light in the same breath that you scream for Jack not to give in with everything you have left in you. Which, after countless hours screaming, crying, and very nearly choking on a ball of knotted cloth, is hoarse at best.

Finally looking over at you, Jack is furious by how swollen your eyes are, how raw your voice is. He doesn’t say anything about it though. Knowing it would give Hank a thrill to know how much he pissed Jack off. “Get out of here, sugar.” There’s a lot that Jack wants to say, but there’s no time. He needs you away from this room. “You’ve got a restaurant to open, remember? Go with Rye.”

Like the nail in the top of the coffin, you reel back at being ordered away. Not a moment of gentleness or sensitivity after being fucking kidnapped by the man who is still as obsessed with his wife as Jack is. After being convinced he wouldn't come for you only to feel such soaring hope at hearing his voice, the desolation of realizing that he only came because you're a complication and that he never felt any kind of tenderness or care for you at all. It's almost reassuring, in a way. To know that you at least had the right level of expectation in the beginning is something, at least.

It isn't hard to bundle you up into his arms when you deflate, but Rye doesn't say anything about it. Only tucks you against him and helps you shuffle toward the door on weak legs. "Come on, darlin'," he murmurs, glancing back at Jack. "We'll get you fixed up right. Let Jack handle it from here."

"Sure." Even one word makes you cough, but you don't put up a fight or try to get back to him. To your fucking soulmate. After all - you have a restaurant to open. God forbid you get behind on your commitment to Statesman for any reason.

He wants to call you back, to talk to you. His heart aching with every step you take away from him, but it’s safer. He sees the glint in Hank’s eyes, he knows he’s looking for another reason to strike out. Possibly waiting until Jack talks to you to shoot you. He can’t risk that. He can’t risk you. No matter what, his soulmate – you – needs to survive.

After about four steps, Rye stops your shuffling and scoops you up, not wanting you to walk on any injuries or aggravate anything. He nods to Jack and carries you out the back door, planning on bundling you into the backseat of the SUV and then taking out the stragglers out in front of the abattoir. But you need to be safe, first.

It feels like you’ve cried every tear in your body, and this bitter disappointment is met with stony silence and efficiency of movement. It doesn’t take long to get you out of there but Rye does it carefully, promising you in low tones that everything is going to be okay from here. That you’re safe. That Jack’s going to take care of you. The last part just makes you feel hollow as you nod.

“Now you stay right here,” Rye croons, buckling you into the backseat and tapping a few times on his watch. “Ginger, I need your eyes in the car. Our girl is safe but I gotta take care of somethin’ before we clear out of here.”

“Copy.” Ginger acknowledges the request and as soon as Rye closes the doors, the entire vehicle locks and a red light above the rear-view mirror flashes on. The built-in screens in the headrests come on and you can barely see Ginger’s concerned face. “Honey, I need you to listen to me.” She urges. “It’s Astrid. The Statesman cars come equip with medical facilities for injuries. I’m going to scan you now.”

Talking hurts, with how hoarse you are, but you nod at Astrid’s face on screen and only shrink away from the bright lights - What are those? Lasers? - for a second before you remember she has never done anything to hurt you. “Everything hurts.” It’s just a whisper, but it’s there.

“I know, I’m going to make sure that you feel better, okay?” Sorrow and rage fill the Statesman tech as the images comes back to her. Multiple contusions, burns - obviously from cigarettes - two broken ribs and a fractured ankle. All of them evidence of the horrific torture you endured at the hands of those madmen. “I can have a shot administered.” She tells you through the screen, trying not to show her emotions. “Just a tiny prick and then you will feel so much better. Can I do that?” It’s important right now for you to feel like you have control. That nothing is being done to you anymore and she wants you to be comfortable.

“Sure.” You murmur, hoping it’s something like morphine or stronger so you don’t have to think or feel anything. “A-Astrid?” Right before whatever happens happens, you look up to find her eyes watching you on screen. “How…how long have I been gone? Does my family know?”

Pausing for a moment, Ginger nods. “Your brother filed a police report, this morning. After Jack went to your house when you didn’t leave for work this morning—”

“Jack came to my house?” You practically whisper it, but Ginger hears you loud and clear. “He did. You’d been missing for seventeen hours when Jack jumped into the jet to come to New York.” She confirms softly.

“Will you just…let them know I��m okay?” Whatever lie Statesman tells people, you’ll go with it. It’s just that right now you can’t wrap your head around the idea of Jack giving two shits about you enough to check on you at home - let alone rescue you. It’s too much.

“As soon as I get you feeling better, I will have the local police contact them to tell them that you are safe.” She promises, knowing that you wouldn’t want them to worry. “We’re going to bring you back to Statesman to put you in our hyperbaric healing station. Six hours in it and you will be completely healed.”

“Okay.” As long as they tell your family you’re okay, you could care less what else happens. Everything hurts, there are no more tears to cry, and it’s possible that you feel even more hopeless about Jack ever sparing you a second glance ever again. Soulmates. Fucking laughable. Whoever Abigail was, she was clearly more important and more wonderful to multiple people than you’ll ever be. “Astrid?” When you look up again she’s still watching you intentely. “Can…can you get rid of my tattoo while I’m in there?”

“Are you sure you want that?” She asks quietly, her eyes searching your face through the screen to try to get an inkling of what you are thinking. “You don’t have to make any big decisions now.”

“The scars, too. You said you could erase scars.” Let him be free. Is all you can think. Obviously nobody was exaggerating about the danger you were in, but it’s more than that. It’s how, when Jack barely spared you a single glance, it hurt more than anything the Rollins brothers ever could have dreamt up.

The silence lingers in the air, suspended between the two of you for a long moment. Ginger sighs softly. “Of course.” She murmurs, hating how broken you appear. “We will get rid of them all.”

Gunshots, unmistakable now that you’ve heard them up close and personal, ring out from multiple directions and you sink down in the back of the car you know for a fact is bulletproof - all Statesman vehicles are - out of instinct. “And Astrid?” You watch the automated needle release from the door handle of the SUV and make sure your arm is in line for the injection. “Remind me to fire Tripp.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that.” Ginger promises you softly. On another screen in her lab, she can see the feeds from both Rye and Jack, and the justice that is being delivered is swift and brutal. They messed with a Statesman’s soulmate, and Jack grunts in pleasure as he retracts the whip on the left screen, pieces of Hank and Tripp Rollins scattered around the room.

A clean up team will be deployed from the New York Statesman building to scrub the site. Body removal is a necessary evil of the job and Statesman has some of the best. By the time footsteps can be heard running back toward you in the car, Ginger’s injection is starting to take hold and you’re finally feeling drowsy. Adrenaline and fear have had you on high alert since you were taken, but having Astrid’s face and voice to reassure you is soothing.

Shouting your name, Jack rushes towards the SUV. The only thing in his mind has been to get to you. To make sure you are okay. He knows Rye will be alright and he needs to see you. He manages to get to the rear door before Ginger deactivates the locks and security, yanking on the handle. “Let me in! Let me in!” He yells frantically.

“She’s out, Jack.” Ginger’s voice in his earpiece comes with a sigh as she deactivates the locks and lets him into the car. “She’s hurt pretty badly so I gave her a sedative. When you get back to Statesman, get her in a medical chopper and bring her to my lab asap.”

“Oh my god.” Jack rips open the door and climbs into the back seat, finding you slumped against the other door. “What— what did they do to her?” He demands, panicked because he’s never seen you like this. Angry at himself that he let this happen. Gathering you against him, he runs his hands over your body as he pulls you into his lap.

“Nothing I can’t fix,” she promises him, not wanting to give him the full rundown of your injuries when he’s still visibly upset enough to lash out. “She’ll be okay, Jack. But I don’t want her to go into shock or accidentally aggravate an injury, and she said she was in pain. That’s why I needed to medicate her.”

“Tell me what they did to her, Ginger Ale.” Jack demands again, turning towards the screen even as he is cradling you and stroking your face.

Ginger sighs, softly again, and looks down at her diagnostic pad. Avoiding Jack’s eyes while she reads this off will probably be better. “Two broken ribs, fractured ankle, superficial burns clearly from cigarettes. Bruising, contusions, and internal injuries consistent with being beaten, waterboarded, and kicked multiple times.”

“Motherfuckers.” Jack hisses, tightening his grip on you to where you whimper in your unconscious state. Immediately relaxing his hold on you and petting your face to soothe both of you. “I should have made it take more time. I should have beat him to death with my fists.” He growls. “I’m gonna burn their fucking legacy to the ground and piss on the ashes.”

“Jack.” This time Ginger’s tone is a warning. It’s not frequently that she hears this kind of rage from him – usually only in relation to his late wife. “She’ll be okay,” she repeats. “But she’s going to need support. Mentally. Emotionally.”

“It’s my fault, Ginger!” He hisses, his own emotions beyond rage finally surfacing from the compact box he had shoved them in to be the agent he needed to be in order for both of you to get out of that building alive. “She would have been at home— it’s my fault. She asked…she asked me about my birthday and I lashed out at her.” He chokes back a sob and looks down at your face. “I didn’t protect her.”

“Then you’ll apologize. And you’ll make sure it never happens again.” Jack isn’t a man who breaks down unless the stress is truly unbearable, and as his friend Ginger has seen only a bare handful of these moments. “She wants me to remove her marks when she gets here,” she tells him carefully. “Just so you know.”

Jack closes his eyes, absorbing the meaning behind it. “She wants to be rid of me.” He whispers, knowing it’s his fault when he had pushed you away and kept you at arm’s length. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry sugar. I should have been keepin’ you close. Keepin’ you safe.”

“You can talk to her when she’s awake,” Ginger murmurs, watching Rye finish with the last of the goons on the video feed from his glasses. “I’m deploying Delta Team to sweep up. You and Rye get back to the New York building and you get her in a chopper first thing. If she wakes up before you get back, you can talk then. If not?” Ginger watches Rye running back to the SUV, so much more composed than Jack for having no personal stake in this mission. “If not, then it might be tomorrow morning. After she’s done at the lab.”

He’s not happy, but he nods. Holding you and refusing to let you out of his arms as Rye comes climbing back into the SUV. “Where’s the chopper, Ginger?” Jack demands, knowing he needs to get you home and mended.

“There’s a helipad on the other side of the Navy Yard. Five minutes from where you are. I can have them meet you there.”

“Copy that, Ginger.” Rye takes the suggestion as absolute, seeing the condition you’re in, and the car comes roaring to life a second later.

“Goddamnit, sugar.” Jack huffs, his hand smoothing over your hair as he tries to look past the damage inflicted on you to see the woman who had intrigued him from the start. “You gotta hang on. You gotta get better.” He murmurs. “I gotta lotta grovelin’ to do when you’re up for it.”

______ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @hardc0rehaylz @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73

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My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Jack Daniels #Jack Daniels x reader #Jack Daniels x you #Jack Daniels x female reader #Jack Whiskey Danels #Agent Whiskey #Agent Whiskey x reader #Kingsman Golden Circle #soulmate au #canon typical violence #graphic depictions of violence

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