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roosterforme · 6 months

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Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw Part 2 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: The collection of letters that Bradley received from the fourth grade class provides him with entertainment while deployed. He takes the time to answer their questions and send a package back to the United States via air mail. But he has your email address. He also has a bit of a crush and some questions himself.

Warnings: Fluff, language

Length: 4100 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female teacher!Reader

Check out my masterlist for more! Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw masterlist

A few days later, when Bradley was done with his training protocols for the day, he returned to his bunk with a different mission in mind. While he unzipped his flight suit, he eyed the box which was taking up most of his nightstand, and a smile found its way to his lips. He managed to find a notebook that nobody wanted along with a thick, padded envelope, and he was going to take the time to respond to the fourth graders who wrote to him.

He'd spent hours poring over the letters, laughing at some of the questions from the kids and frequently picking up that one photo. He couldn't stop going back for more. For another look at you. Just one more look. Okay, this really was the last one. He had to toss it across the small room toward his duffel so he could focus on something other than your smile and the fact that he might have a tiny crush on a fourth grade teacher who knew absolutely nothing about him. Yet.

The note from Jayden was on the top, and Bradley opened it up and started to jot down a response.

Jayden,

It was so nice to hear from you and the rest of your class. To answer your pertinent questions, I am currently stationed on the USS Theodore Roosevelt. The most disgusting food in the mess hall is easily the cabbage rolls (which taste nothing like cabbage... or rolls). The best food in the mess hall is surprisingly the meatloaf. And yes, I would love to see a photo of your Cocker Spaniel. Please send one next time. I hope you're studying and doing your best in school.

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

The next note he decided to tackle was the one from Violet who had the tiniest handwriting he'd ever seen. The page had at least fifteen questions written out, but he decided to answer just a few for her. He had to squint as he skimmed through them again.

Violet,

You seem very inquisitive. That's a great quality to have, especially if you want to be a pilot someday. No, I did not attend the Naval Academy. I went to the University of Virginia. Yes, the Navy is way better than the Air Force. Yes, I can hold my breath underwater for three minutes. Yes, they actually made me do it. No, I don't think I could make it as a Navy SEAL. Yes, I have been staying hydrated and getting enough sun, thanks so much for asking. Keep studying hard, because you have a lot of school ahead of you before officer training.

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

Okay, so this was actually a lot of fun. Up next was a response to the note from Oliver, which made Bradley laugh every time he looked at it.

Oliver,

Thank you so much for drawing the different Naval aircrafts for me. I hate to break it to you, but I actually do not fly the F-35 Lightning II. Yes, I know they look 'sickeningly cool'. Yes, I know it would be like 'slam dunking off the back of a dragon'. I guess I never knew I was jealous of those pilots until right now.... But I fly the equally cool if not quite as sickening looking F/A-18 Super Hornet. And yes, I would be more than happy to draw my own version of one for you. See below.

Lt. Bradley Bradshaw

The ten minutes he spent replicating his own aircraft to the best of his ability for Oliver churned out a pretty damn good result. He fished his phone out of the nightstand and took a picture to email to Nat when he had time, because she would find this whole thing amusing. Then he reached for the letters from Harrison, Nia and Jackie. He wrote his responses, and after a bit, he had a decent sized stack of letters all ready to go back to the fourth graders.

After a few more days, he worked his way through the entire class, and each kid would soon have a handwritten response on the way. He just needed to figure out what he wanted to say to you. The pretty teacher from the class photo that he now kept tucked in with his personal items. He worked on that one last, writing your full name at the top of the page and wishing you didn't go by the very non-specific Ms. which gave him zero clue as to whether or not you were married.

The package you sent was the nicest piece of deployment mail I have ever received. Thank you. I'm lucky it ended up in my hands. I'm impressed by how much all of your students have learned about aviation this year. I just hope I did them justice in regards to the questions they had for me.

I also hope you don't mind that I replied to each kid individually. They had some very amusing stories and questions, and I wanted to acknowledge all of them. But there was one question in particular that I was asked so many times, I thought I'd answer it here instead. My call sign is kind of a silly one, so it's okay if you all laugh. I go by Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, and my helmet is mostly red, yellow and black.

Your kids seem like a fun bunch, but I bet they keep you on your toes. Feel free to let them know they can write back to me again, but please include my name on the package this time. I don't know that I'd be lucky enough to have it fall into my hands again by chance. I'll just be here somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean for a few more months, ready to answer any questions you throw at me. Hope to hear back from you soon.

Yours Truly,

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

The following day, he packed everything up and dropped it off with the rest of the ship's outgoing mail. There was a rumor that a helicopter would be coming to pick it up in the next day or two, and he wanted to make sure it got back to California and those fourth graders as soon as possible. On his way back to his bunk, Bradley stopped by the lounge to see if there was an iPad free, hoping to send a quick email or two. He was in luck. He also happened to have your email address memorized.

--------------------------

You yawned at your desk and checked the time on your computer. Within the next ten minutes, your classroom would go from silent solitude to mass chaos, so you took a minute to clear out your email inbox. You had a few messages from some parents and a reminder about Spirit Week from the superintendent. And a random piece of junk mail that must have slipped through the spam filters. You didn't know anyone with a US Navy email address, and you didn't know anyone named Bradley Bradshaw.

As you closed your laptop, you gasped and tried to pry it back open again as quickly as you could. The Navy! The package you sent a few weeks ago! Maybe it was someone writing back to your class! Of course it could just be someone saying they were sorry that they didn't have time to engage with your students, but you figured even that was better than nothing.

"Come on," you whispered, entering your credentials again before your inbox reappeared on your screen. The email was just a few lines long, but it was addressed to you by name. You were smiling immediately as you read it.

I just wanted to let you know that I got the mail you sent to a deployed Naval Aviator. There's a package on its way to your school for your class. It should arrive in about a week or two. Your fourth graders provided me with several hours of entertainment, and I hope they find my answers to their many (and amusing) questions useful. Thanks for the laughs, and thanks for the photos, too. Can't tell you how much I've been enjoying them. Hope to hear from all of you again.

Yours Truly,

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

You squealed and pumped your fists in the air. Someone actually got the box! And he actually responded! The other, older teachers thought you were just wasting your time when you deviated from the lesson plans a bit. Literally all of them said there was no way anyone would write back, even though you took the time to go through the proper channels at Top Gun on North Island. But now you could rub it in their faces, all thanks to Bradley Bradshaw who sounded like he'd had as much fun with this whole thing as your class had.

Then your day really started as Violet and Oliver burst into your classroom, calling out your name with excitement in their voices. The rest of your kids followed behind them, already asking about the plans for the day and what kind of adventure you'd be taking them on in each subject.

When you clapped your hands twice and said, "Good morning," they all clapped and replied with their own greeting, and then they sat quietly with their gazes fixed on you. "Guess who I just got an email from!"

"The president!"

"My grandma!"

"My Cocker Spaniel!"

"Oliver's grandma!"

You just shook your head and tried not to laugh as you said, "None of the above. But do you remember when we wrote and packed up those letters for a real aviator in the military to read?" Most of the kids nodded, so you added, "Well, he emailed us! And he sent us some mail that should arrive in about a week!"

And telling them that was a mistake. Because you didn't know a moment of peace after that. Every morning, you had kids rushing into the room to see if the promised piece of mail arrived yet. Every day you had to disappoint them, but you were finding yourself a little disappointed, too. You wanted to know what this Bradley Bradshaw guy sent back.

You'd responded to his initial email letting him know you and the kids in your class were delighted to hear from him and that you would let him know when the mail he sent arrived at your school. He didn't respond, but you figured he was busy. Too busy to constantly muck about with your class while he was thousands of miles away on a deployment.

And that was what left you standing at your desk with your mouth hanging open in awe when the padded envelope did finally arrive one morning. Because when you carefully cut it open, you found not just one letter to the class but individual handwritten notes, one for each child.

"Wow," you whispered, pulling the note with your name written on the top out of the stack. This man seemed humble and sweet, and his letter made you laugh in more than one spot as you read through it. Then you read it again. He sounded apologetic about responding to each individual kid, but you felt like your insides were melting. Who would do that? Who would take the time to give individual attention to a bunch of nine and ten year olds besides you? And you were technically getting paid to do it.

Bradley Bradshaw seemed willing to continue to engage with your kids, and you weren't going to stop him. Because starting that morning, he became something of a legend to your class. A celebrity. A real lieutenant in the Navy replied to all of their silly questions, and their love of aviation just grew from there. You figured you were going to have to keep your lesson plans going a bit longer while their faces lit up as you walked around the room and handed them each their notes. You had taken the time to skim them beforehand, often laughing at his sense of humor which seemed to jump off the pages.

"Can we write back to him?" Jayden asked as everyone read their notes from Lieutenant Bradshaw. "I have more questions."

You smiled and nodded. "Yes, you may write back to him." Then you postponed your geology lesson until the next day and let them spend the next forty minutes writing some followup letters. You took some pictures of them diligently toiling away at their desks, excitement on their faces. Then you bit your lip and sat down at your own desk.

As you started to construct an email letting him know the envelope had arrived, your thoughts drifted to what he might be like. Humble and sweet, for sure. But he also made it a point to tell you that the box from your class was the best piece of mail he'd ever received while deployed. Maybe he was a little bit lonely. Maybe he was single. Maybe he was stationed on the west coast. Your thoughts started to get ahead of you, and it was hard to reel them in when you imagined him excited to see another email from you. Smiling when he was handed another box from your class during mail call.

Dear Lt Bradley Bradshaw,

We got the envelope from you today, and my kids are absolutely thrilled! I'm not sure if you know how hard it can be to wrangle eighteen fourth graders all at one time, but they are currently sitting quietly and working on new letters for you to read. Once again, please don't feel obligated to continue correspondence if you're too busy. I'm sure you have other people you could be writing to who want your attention as well. I just wanted you to know they are overjoyed that a Naval officer took the time to answer their questions about aviation.

I have attached some photos as proof that they are sitting still. Thanks again for making their day.

You signed your name at the bottom the way you always would from your work email account, and then you attached the photos. After a brief debate about adding the selfie you took with Violet where most of your face was visible, you decided to just go for it. Adding it to the mix wouldn't hurt anything. It wasn't like this semi mystery man would be up all night thinking about you.

But you found that you were still thinking about him when you went home to your silent house and made dinner that evening. Maybe he was a little bit lonely, but maybe you were, too.

-------------------------

It was amazing how infrequently Bradley found himself thinking about Vanessa. He was busier now with his duties picking up a bit more as his deployment wore on, but even when he was tired and in his bunk at night, his thoughts seldom settled on her like he was afraid they might. He didn't miss her or her half-hearted emails, and he wasn't craving the connection of reunion sex with her.

Instead, he was thinking about what a group of fourth graders were learning about this week and what their cute teacher was up to. It had been a few days since you emailed him, letting him know that his package was delivered to your school. You made it sound like the kids were excited that he sent it in the first place, and when he really thought about it, he supposed some officers would have just eaten the snacks and tossed the notes in the trash.

He didn't reply to the email yet, still thrown off a bit by the pictures you attached. Your classroom was vibrant, and the kids were absorbed as they worked on more notes for him to read whenever they happened to be delivered to the carrier. But the photo with you in it held his attention longer than it should have. The fact that you were working at a school that was just a handful of miles from his damn house made him feel warm.

But what would he do about it? What could he do about it? Nothing. He didn't want you to think he was creepy. He still knew essentially nothing else about you. The only thing he could do was keep it friendly if not professional. Unless of course you did something to push the boundaries of conversation into a more personal realm. God, if you did....he didn't think he would be able to handle it.

The next day, when he was heading out on deck to talk to the mechanics who were doing regular maintenance on the aircrafts, he took his phone. "Hey, you mind if I take a few photos of some of the engine parts? I want to send them to a class of fourth graders who will think it's cool."

"Go ahead, Lieutenant," the head mechanic replied. Then he smiled and asked, "You dating a teacher?"

Well. Wouldn't that be something? Bradley would never run out of curious pen pals. He would always have some fourth graders to take interesting photos for and to send notes to. He'd always have a classroom to visit as soon as he got home from a deployment.

He couldn't help but picture you as the teacher.

"Nothing like that," he replied, his voice a little gravelly. "Just writing to some kids who are learning about aviation."

After dinner, when he had a chance to use an iPad in the lounge, he did his best to put together a response to your email that would at least hint at the curiosity he felt.

If all it takes is mail from three thousand miles away to get your class to sit quietly, then I should probably be writing to you every day. But I'm sure you're a great teacher. That's a given considering how much your students learned and shared with me. And I can assure you that I'm more than happy to take the time to write to your class. And you. Please don't think I feel obligated, because I do not. I want to.

I have attached a few pictures of some F/A-18 engine components as well as some of my cockpit controls. Each photo is labeled, but please let me know if you have any questions.

It was nice hearing from you.

Yours Truly,

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

As soon as he hit send, he wanted to kick himself. Should he have included a photo of his face like you had twice now? Or did he already sound too desperate to hear from you and your class again?

"Shit," he muttered, looking around the lounge as if there was going to be someone here proficient in the art of getting to know a fourth grade teacher without sounding stupid. But it was too late now. All he could do was wait for the next mail call or hope you decided to write back to his ramblings by the next time he checked his email.

-----------------------------

You were going to have to scrape your jaw off the floor. You had no idea what this man's face even looked like, but his hands were... something else. And his thighs... well, they were pretty great, too. It must have been too long since you got laid, because you were sitting at your desk in your classroom staring at the set of photos in your inbox, currently unable to look away from his right hand. It was wrapped around the throttle of his aircraft. It was elegant with attractive veins and rough calluses. You were sure that you were supposed to be focusing on the cockpit controls, but all you could see was that hand and his thick, muscular thighs below.

The next photo was no better for you. He was holding up his helmet with his call sign Rooster emblazoned across the front, and you were able to see his left ring finger. There was no wedding band. There was no evidence of an outline where a wedding band would belong. There was just his big, strong hand.

You whimpered softly while your students worked on their math tests. You couldn't help it as you took one last look before logging out of your email account. And now you needed to know if his face matched the very attractive image you had in your mind.

When Jayden called your name, you rocketed to your feet like you'd been caught red handed. "Yes?" you squeaked, your voice sounding higher pitched than usual.

"I'm done with my test. May I have the hall pass and use the restroom?"

You handed it to him as the rest of your class finished working through the math problems. A few minutes later, when you collected the papers from them, Violet asked, "When is Lieutenant Bradshaw going to write back to us?"

It had only been a few days since you mailed him the second box of notes and some more snacks, but it made you happy that they were all so invested in learning more from him.

"It will probably be a few weeks before we get anything in the mail. However... he did email me some pictures of engine and cockpit parts from the aircraft carrier for me to share with you guys." When you looked around the room, the kids were on the edges of their seats, excited expressions on their faces. With a laugh you added, "I was going to wait until tomorrow and use the projector to show them all to you, but if you're very well behaved for the rest of the afternoon, maybe I could pull them up on my computer for you to see them today."

Not two hours later, you were just as excited as the kids were to look at the photos... again. As they crowded around your desk, you opened up the first one of the cockpit to a barrage of questions.

"Is that really his jet?"

"Is that the throttle?"

"What do all the buttons do?"

"Was this right before he flew it?"

Once again you were distracted, but you managed to click over to the next photo, and the kids gasped in delight.

"His helmet is so cool!"

"It says Rooster!"

"That's his call sign!"

"Red is my favorite color!"

You just smiled softly and laughed. "Should we go ahead and start working on another list of questions for him?" you asked as you slowly scrolled through the rest of the pictures. "He said we can write back to him as much as we want to." When everyone cheered, you handed Oliver a marker and pointed to the board at the front of the classroom. "Let's start making a list."

You listened to all of your students call out questions for Bradley while Oliver wrote them down. Then Violet asked, "Can he send us a picture of his whole jet? From the outside of it?"

You cleared your throat and added, "Maybe he could get someone else to take the picture so he could stand in front of it. For size comparison."

Violet nodded, but you knew you were a fraud. Sure, it would be great for the kids to understand just how massive the F/A-18s were compared to an actual person, but you were the one who wanted to see all of Bradley. You were itching for it now.

Later that night, you drank most of a bottle of wine and did something you promised yourself you'd never do. You logged into your work email account after nine o'clock. You skipped over the handful of unread emails from parents and clicked on the icon to compose a new message. With your liquid courage goading you on, you typed up a response to Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw and hit send before you could think twice.

Thank you for the photos. They were very enlightening. We especially liked the ones where you were showing off your cockpit. Or I did, anyway. The kids liked all of them and started on another list of questions for you. Good luck getting rid of us now.

We were wondering if you could have someone take a picture of you standing in front of your jet. For size comparison purposes. And also because my students would like to know what you look like. Hearing from you makes our day even better.

You couldn't believe how forward you were being with this man who you'd never even met in person, but you fell asleep thinking about his hands and what they might be capable of.

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This Bradley makes me swoon. I've never wanted to be a fourth grade teacher so badly in my life. There is something that's starting to blossom between them even though they haven't even met in person. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 3

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ichigo-dream · 1 year

Text

Leon - Squish - (SFW & NSFW)

Hi everyone!

We still can't get over the fact that this man is built like that and that he put on 40 lbs of pure muscle between RE 2 and RE 4. Honestly we've spent many hours discussing his squish so have some of our fav headcanons:

Every part of this man is rideable - thighs, biceps, throat, ab, face, doesn’t matter, any port in a storm and what a pretty, squishy port he is.

u love gently pinching and biting his cheeks bc he still has some of his lil baby face from his rookie days

his lap is the comfiest place to sit

your throne

Leon will grab you by the hips and pull you onto his plush thighs at any point

soft and pillowy but you can feel the muscle when he flexes

You love his little freckles that come out in the sunshine and the summertime - there’s one on the inside of his beautiful thigh scarily close to his dick and it makes him feral when you kiss or bite at it.

To Leon, the only benefit of working for the US Government is travel perks - when flying he always flies first class, and it's the only time he can be comfortable on public transport bc he’s a unit of a man

Any other time, he has to curl in on himself and crush his legs together to not take up more than his designated space.

can spread his thick delicious thighs as much as he wants

in the summertime he likes to workout outside

will do push-ups whilst shirtless

you try not to pass out at the sight of his muscles flexing + slick with sweat

sometimes you’ll sit on his back as he does this when he wants some extra weight

baby boy is so strong it makes u drool

Loves wearing shorts but gets self-conscious if he wears them in public.

Absolutely will steal your sunglasses to wear whilst he’s outside - (we couldn’t get the image of Leon shirtless in little shorts wearing heart shaped sunglasses out of our heads)

one day he wants to surprise you by wearing his old rpd uniform (cute play on all the times you would playfully call him “officer Kennedy”) but you hear him grunting in frustration from the bedroom so u go to check it out

shit does not fit this man

not even a little

trousers caught around his legs bc the material won’t fit over his juicy thighs + ass. You’re trying not to drool at the sight. waistband is fr about to snap

dick bulge bc the trousers don’t fit over that either

shirt also doesn’t fit - buttons are straining within an inch of their life against his broad chest, waiting to pop

only thing that does fit is the old bulletproof vest - barely.

“Never got to wear my summer uniform, and I didn’t want to buy a new one so… I tried to make my own but…”

baby boy is blushing in embarrassment at his failed attempt to be sexy

but oh he has no idea

what he’s doing to you rn

have to pick your jaw off the floor at the sight of him

he’s sweating a little too from the effort

you want him to choke you out with his thighs or biceps, you’re not picky

You tell him to turn around and you’ll try to help him pull them up at the back but this is a ruse - you just want to see his ass jiggle as he tries to force the trousers up.

“I’m sorry, I can't get them on..” he whines, annoyed that he can’t surprise you anymore.

“It’s okay, pretty boy, I need you to take them off anyway”

devouring this man like he’s a piece of cake on god

strawberry to be precise

When you’re fucking him, if you grab at his ass it’ll drive him crazy

You have to resist the urge to motorboat him when his bare chest is freely offered to your greedy eyes.

the juiciest tits u ever seen

Don’t be fooled tho - tho this man is a beast, he ‘s actually a puppy on the inside.

He absolutely adores getting to cuddle with you and lie on your chest and snooze - because he’s bigger than you he tends to worry about crushing you but you reassure him that it's okay (glory glory what a hell of a way to die).

We could go all day (much like Leon) but we’ll stop there for now!

Comment “Bingo!” if you made it to the end, and let us know if you’d like more!

Love,

Ichigo and Dream xoxo

#leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy headcannons #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy

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hotchner-edu · 2 months

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Hi! I saw you take requests and I love the way you write Aaron— the runner's stamina drabble was just *chef's kiss*. I was wondering if you could write a fluffy one shot where reader falls asleep on Hotch's shoulder while on the jet ride home from a case, and he secretly kinda thinks it's adorable even though the rest of the team teases him about it? :')

Sleepy Days (Drabble) | Aaron Hotchner

A small frown tugs at your lips as you rest your eyes for a second, feeling the alluring arms of sleep wrapping themselves around you. All the noise in the jet seems to drift further and further away as you are enveloped in darkness, nestled in the comfort that slumber was tempting you with.

You've been nodding off for well over ten minutes now, head tipping forward toward the table like an unrestrained bowling ball, catching the keen attention of your unit chief.

Aaron was sitting in the chair beside yours, having noticed your fatigue since the jet took off. He made a note to slide away the open book in front of you to mark the page, knowing you'd be annoyed with yourself if you lost your spot while falling asleep.

You were on the brink of completely slipping off the edge of consciousness now, and you could only curse your own inattentiveness for your predicament. The team's latest case had them flying out to Las Vegas, but instead of ending on a high note with popping bottles and slot machines, you ended up catching a small cold while surrounded by plumes of cigarette smoke.

It was to your luck that JJ always carried around medicine and first-aid supplies in her go-bag. Unluckily, you had grabbed a deceivingly orange bottle of cough syrup from her bag thinking it was DayQuil, not realizing it was honey-flavored NyQuil until it was already too late.

As you succumb to your sleepiness, the last thing trailing across your mind is the absolute pain you're going to have in your neck when you wake up.

Aaron can tell that you're no longer awake anymore from the way your shoulders completely sag down, and how your face melts into a relaxed expression— one that he can't help but steal another glance at. He leans over to insert your bookmark into your book, eyebrows jumping up in surprise when he feels your head tilting and falling onto his shoulder.

A hint of a smile crawls onto his face at the feeling of you leaning against him, and he has to ignore the heat creeping up his neck as he subtly scoots closer to you to let you rest easier on him.

The words on the file in front of him start to meld together as he isn't able to draw his focus away from the feeling of your warm body beside his.

"Hotch." Derek's voice grabs his attention, the other man's sharp whisper tinged with a bit of amusement. "You're a softy at heart, huh? C'mon, admit it."

Aaron raises an eyebrow and frowns at him, shaking his head. "You'd do the same."

Derek shrugs at that, still smiling as he puts his headphones back on. To Aaron's misfortune, the small exchange caught the attention of the rest of the team, and while Spencer is polite enough to just smile softly and continue playing chess with himself, the others are immediately smirking at him.

"Want me to take a picture?" Dave teases him quietly, barely suppressing a chuckle as he looks at you both fondly. "Who knows when it'll happen again."

"Yeah, I'll bet the mortification will be too much." Emily jokes softly, glancing at your slumped figure with a grin. Aaron knew she was right about that, he knew you'd be a bit embarrassed about falling asleep on your boss, and would probably be conscious about distance going forward.

JJ shakes her head and stirs her tea, chiming in with a lingering smile. "Let's not say anything about this. I already feel guilty about the whole NyQuil thing."

"Yeah, JJ, why honey?" Emily mumbles with a small snort, directing her attention to her blonde friend as they begin to engage in hushed conversation.

Dave snaps a photo of you and Aaron with a proud smile, probably already thinking of sticking it in his secret scrapbook.

"Dave." Aaron warns the older man with no actual heat. He puts his hands up and backs off with a smile, looking down to his phone again and typing on it.

Aaron has to suppress the small smile threatening to appear on his face, grateful for his team's high spirits despite their teasing. He looks back down to your peaceful face, unable to stop his eyes from tracing around your delicate features.

He's only drawn away from his gazing when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Drawing the device out from his suit pocket, he looks down at the notifications with an unimpressed frown.

Dave: *sent 1 photo*

Dave: stop drawing it out and just go get dinner together.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner fic #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds aaron

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ma1dita · 1 month

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have you been watching the paris 2024 olympics?? i just think luke castellan is so like athlete coded, i’m just imagining him like as the athlete from sweden (?) in pole vault who broke his world record and then ran to his girlfriend like imagine luke doing that to you AGHHHH i’m on a luke as an olympian (the athlete) brain rot

the alchemy

luke castellan x reader a/n: i absolutely loved this request. mando duplantis i dream of you and your girlfriend every night. wc: 612

Luke Castellan swears he can feel his heart beating out of his ribcage. That, or it’s the thunderous roar of the crowd—it must be one or the other with so many people here, a sea of faces and noise and….

Deep breath in… and out.

Luke doesn’t think he’s ever seen this many people in a single room, and his brain hurts to even consider the people watching this live. Gods, there weren’t even this many people at qualifying, and there’s so many people counting on him. Honey brown eyes scan the crowd for you, his good luck charm as he squints, getting on his tiptoes in hopes of catching a glimpse of your smile. Your presence does wonders for his performance and his nerves, the past few years of late nights at the facility, strength and endurance training, and the crazy diets you’ve joined him on to accommodate bulking and cutting.

You’ve been there through it all.

He’s got two more shots at breaking his own world record, and to most, they’d assume he’d treat it like a piece of cake. But his mother always taught him to be humble, and he reckons she’s whispering something similar into your ear right now, wherever you two are in the stands. You’re his biggest cheerleader after all, on the days he feels like he can walk among the clouds and even the ones where his feet seem stuck to the concrete.

Luke rolls out the crick in his neck before bending over to grab his grip tape and liquid chalk. Going through the motions of years of proficiency worth his blood, sweat, and tears, he zeroes in on the crowd, walking up to the runway.

Just like we practiced, he thinks to himself, hearing his name get called out by the officials.

LUKE CASTELLAN, REPRESENTING THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!

LUKE CASTELLAN, DES ÉTATS-UNIS D'AMÉRIQUE!

Two minutes start on the clock—-and he runs like the wind.

Sprinting, taking the air out of his own lungs as his feet pound against the pavement, his fingers tapping against your initials that he etched into his pole as he gives it his all.

And then the other end meets the vault box and he’s flying.

Soaring through the air, momentum swinging his legs like a pendulum and by the smile that grows on his face—he knows he’s got it even before his feet touch the ground, and the only thing running through his mind is you as he contorts over the bar effortlessly.

Like echolocation, the only voice he recognizes through the commotion is in tune with the blood rushing through his ears, a scream that could only come from the depths of your soul, “BRING IT HOME BABY!”

And he’s ecstatic now, suddenly unaware of the resounding smack his body makes against the landing mat because his joints spring up tirelessly as he propels himself in your direction like Pavlov’s dog running towards the sound of a golden bell. Luke can barely see at the speed he’s going at, launching himself over the stands but he knows you’re there to catch him and he knows he’s gotten gold as he smashes his lips against yours. This must be the alchemy that you do to him, pulling his heart into yours with just the glimmer in your eyes and the sheer love you show to accomplish his dreams—he’s a winner for sure, with you by his side. Flashes from cameras surround his peripherals and you both can’t do anything but chuckle.

Gold medal aside, he’s got all he needs in his arms right now.

Luke thinks he’ll be getting you your own gold hardware soon too.

#for my gn babies (づ ◕‿◕ )づ #luke castellan x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #made by ma1dita ♥︎#luke castellan imagine

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evilminji · 1 year

Text

Was Krypto Jor-El's dog? Or did their family have another pet?

Because think about it. Thanks to Cujo, we KNOW animals with unfinished business or strong attachments stay behind. We ALSO know from nigh COUNTLESS videos on the internet that pets get REALLY attached to pregnant moms and by extention, the new pack members.

Krpton was an Alien planet. Just because SOME of the animals there looked similar to earth animals, doesn't mean ALL of them do. Nor does it mean they ONLY domesticated dog like creatures or cat like creatures. They could have anything from vaguely bear-like to fox-ish to small moose but with more teeth.

It was a completely different ecology.

And Jor-El? Him and his wife had a CHOICE to make. They had A pod. Singular. Tiny. Not a ship, not an escape pod, not even a refurbished shipping container. Just a pod with life support and all the information about Krypton they could fit. A guidance system that, gods willing, would see their son to a safe and sympathetic planet to be raised by kind people.

THEY couldn't even fit.

How in the gods name would a large pet? Even a mid sized pet. Let us assume, for this prompt, that being scientists of high position? Pays or allocates pretty well. They have the room. The resources. When they got married, Jor-El's wife REALLY wanted a cub or pup or what have you, of some large-ish animal breed.

The equivalent of an earth mastiff dog. Just an Absolute UNIT. Used to be gaurds and working beasts, now more athletic pets then anything. Known to be great protecters of Their People.

And well... Jor-El WAS already starting to notice some things that were making him Less Than Popular... probably nothing (he had naively hoped, at the time.) But better to have a Just In Case. Sure, honey. Let's get one!

And they LOVED Snookums.

Snookums ADORED them AND the baby! Kal-El basically NEVER left Snookums sight. He slept beneath Kal's crib. Followed them everywhere they went, when they were holding Kal. Planted himself like Kal's Sworn Protector as the baby drooled all over his fur. It was the cutest thing EVER.

But then?

No. Dear Gods No. Please... Please let him be wrong!

He's not. He never is. He is too careful with his calculations. To the point of near paranoia. Maybe they can stop it. If they DO something. Act IMMEDIATELY...

But...

Well, we all now how that story ends. Two people, standing on a launch pad, tears streaming down their smiling faces, trying to memorize the last moment they'll ever see their son. Praying this will be ENOUGH.

That they aren't trading one terrible death for another.

Watching their son disappear into the sky. Flying home as the ground groan as shakes, trees toppling and people screaming. Panicking. Dying pointless deaths that could have been stopped.

Walking into the home that should have been where they spent their whole live. Where, in a way, they WILL.

Knowing they won't grow old.

Sitting on the floor with their confused, frantic, pet as fire starts to light up the horizon. As the ground shakes violently on last, terrible time. Knowing the lethal heat will hit them before their ears ever register the sound.

It's Over.

But! Where is Snookum's Baby Kal!?

They are scared, confused, and everything is LOUD AND RUMBLY. Very Bad. Don't like that. Their ADULTS come back home. BUT NOT THEIR BABY. Where is Baby Kal?! Snookums is a GOOD Boy and a GREAT Protector. It is in his blood.

Something BAD is happening.

Has? Happened?

Everything is GREEN.

But that does not MATTER. Snookums can not REST. Can not stay here! They must Sniff and search and hunt! Look for Kal! Who is SMALL and needs to be protected! What if he is HURT? How will he SLEEP!? With no Snookums to cuddle for nap time!?

But the universe is large. And there is no smell in space. (Well, there ARE. But they are Stinky Gasses and those do not help Snookums.) So it takes lots and lots of time. Until! He meets a glowing blue dog!

A hopeful corgi? What is a corgi? Irrelevant! The hopeful one knows of Snookums' Kal! Oh, thank you small friend! You indeed DO give hope! We shall go at once and Kal shall be safe and with family once more!

Meanwhile? Danny? Wakes up to a sticky note on his forehead from Clockwork. "Bring Cujo with you to meet the Justic League"? What? WHY? He loves the pup, but Cujo has never behaved himself in a formal setting ONCE in his doggy LIFE. Danny is trying to make a good first impression!

But... Clockwork doesn't Post-It lightly...

Guess he's breaking out the doggy bow ties. Great. Wonder what THIS is about...

Four and a half hours later? Watching Cujo playfully wrestle with the ghost of what HAS to be a Kryptonian... gonna saaaaay.... Bear-fox? Which nearly TACKLED Superman, freaked the ENTIRE Justice League out, and nearly got him STABBED by Etrigon. Yeah. That was a good call.

Congratulations on your new ghost pet, Superman. No, he's not leaving. It just kinda happens sometimes. It's how Danny got Cujo. Wanna do pet playdates?

@hdgnj @ailithnight @mutable-manifestation @dcxdpdabbles @nerdpoe

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #Kryptonian pets can be ghosts too #snookums is a LOYAL maybe bear ghost

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vidavalor · 1 year

Text

This is the face of an angel who just realized that his oppressors are afraid of him and his friends because, together, they are a force that threatens the regime.

This is the face of an angel that just realized all of this Metatron nonsense is to separate them and keep him-- the best strategist-- from starting a revolution. If they are split up, The Second Coming goes off without a hitch... but if Aziraphale unites them, then Heaven will fall. Crowley & Aziraphale alone are enough trouble together to stop Armageddon. Crowley & Aziraphale with the eons-long leaders and commanders of Heaven and Hell in Gabriel and Beezelbub, though? That is a coup.

How little would it take to overthrow it all at this point? How long until it's Crowley & Aziraphale & Gabriel & Beez... & Muriel & Eric & Furfur? How til they get Michael and Dagon on their side? How long until it's actually most of the demons and a sizable portion of the angels teaming up against what's left of Heaven?

Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death. Aziraphale took the coffee. The Metatron thinks it means subservience. He thinks it means he's tricked Aziraphale and that he's won and he was almost right, so is the level of trauma these beings have suffered. He didn't know, though, that coffee is already coded as liberty. He handed Aziraphale a cup of symbolic freedom and didn't realize how so very true that was going to be. Just like a certain empire once did when they gave some of their people the option to form some colonies, thinking that the empire would always remain in control, and now we call those colonies not part of Great Britain but The United States of America.

"Out of his mouth go burning lamps, and sparks leap out"-- the Job quote on the matchbox. The matchbox containing the fly, containing Gabriel via Beez. Out of Gabriel's mouth goes burning lamps-- Gabriel lights the way. He's the path forward. He is first shots fired in the rebellion...

...and sparks leap out.

Some Boston Tea Party stuff afoot, you guys.

That is the face of an angel that just realized that he and Crowley were both wrong: the solution isn't running away but it's also not taking over a broken system that doesn't want to be fixed... it's fanning the spark that Gabriel lit into a flame and then into an inferno and burning this entire mother to the ground.

Aziraphale is no longer headed to Heaven to run it.

He's headed to Heaven to *overthrow* it.

He's headed to Heaven to *liberate* it.

No idea how much of a chance he will get to succeed alone but this is Aziraphale. He will give them hell if it's the last thing he ever does-- for Muriel and all the angels like them. For all the persecuted demons. For the humans Heaven wants to destroy. For Gabriel.

Most of all, for what they did to Crowley and the 6,000 years of fear and pain they've put them through.

That is the face of an angel who just realized that he had almost been drawn back into Heaven's web of darkness again, only to hear that Heaven wants him to oversee the destruction of 8 billion people and the Earth he calls home and the stars the love of his life built and he has reached his absolute last remaining straw.

They've taken his home and hurt his friends and they took *Crowley* and at this point, Aziraphale no longer gives one flying fuck what it might be that God wants because God can go fuck herself if this it is. The elevator scene is Aziraphale saying Crowley was right:

That angel is *untethered* with barely controlled rage. They nearly played him for a sucker. He might die doing this and they fooled him and he broke Crowley's heart and they've taken too. Fucking. Much. It's just utter destruction. There will be no system of Heaven and Hell done when Aziraphale is through with it.

Aziraphale is about to go from not sure if he should stop Armageddon in S1 to being the angel that destroys the system of Heaven and Hell in S3.

Yes, you can save everyone, Aziraphale, but not alone. You need Crowley's imagination and Gabriel's leadership and Beez's intelligence. That's what they're afraid of. You finally got it in that elevator, so get up there now, get your gang back together, and make some trouble.

#ineffable husbands #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens s2 #good omens 2 #good omens meta

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transformers-synergize · 5 days

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Can Smokescreen fly with those wings?

(if that's what they are. Love your art btw)

No, he can't. He doesn't have flyers or seeker modification. He could have gotten them if he wanted back on Cybertron, but he can't now since the earth-stranded bots don't have the proper resources to perform that type of modification.

No cybertronian can naturally fly and require modifications to do so, there are two main types of flying modifications. Flyers who can only fly in their alt mode, while seeker/root mode flyers that can fly in root/robot mode and their alt mode. Flight is also not a natural instinct for cybertronians, and even if a bot is given additional code to help with flying, they still need to learn how. It's not second nature like driving or walking alts

Already had the stuff below written down, but feel like this ask a decent enough excuse to share my flyer and seeker lore

The process is very unintrusive for gaining a flying alt mode, only requiring a few modifications depending on frame type. Most require an engine change modification to the t-cog housing and additional metal that can be used for wings or blades. Not all bots are compatible with flying modification, but most can be it just requires different levels of modifications.

Seekers, otherwise known as root mode flyers, are able to fly not just in their alt-mode but in their robot/root mode. It requires several extreme modifications, and only certain specific frame types are even viable to be converted into seekers. A Failed seeker modification is usually deadly, but all Seekers are prone to malfunction, often related in some way to overheating, Even with successful upgrades. Seeker frame upgrades require several intrusive modifications. Their engine is replaced with an extremely powerful one; these engines burn an extreme amount of fuel and are known for constantly overheating, which leads to seekers having to have most of their proto-metal removed along with adding a lot of extra vents and upgrading their cooling systems legs are restructured and given thrusters nonvital parts to functioning get removed even if they do serve a purpose if a bot can function without it gets removed to both bring down weight and fuel consumption another reason why most the proto-metal is removed, Bots with flyers modifications can still take on a ground base alternate mode while tripled changers with flying mods are able to take on both a ground and flying alt at the same time, bots with seeker modifications can only take on flying alts . Seekers can't take on ground alt modes, and triple changers with seeker upgrades can only use two flying alt modes. The decepticons sizable seeker units are often credited with their success in the later half of the war, and complete domination of aerial combat to the point most autobots avoid any form of air confrontation. seeker are able to dominate the skies in way a that regular flyers simply cant along with Decepticon habit of combining powerful experimental weapon modification with seekers it no wonder why these bots haven been referred to as flying death. It's no quintessence that most of the remaining Autobot strongholds are underground titans or in locations that make flying difficult. "I'm not a fan of heavy modification unless absolutely necessary, especially when it comes to modification for war, but the seeker modification has to be one of the worse out there other than flying in root mode, and a little extra flight speed it's got no real benefit to the bot themself while carrying all kinds of side effects, with how much energy their frame burns it cut their lifespan in half, that's if the various complications don't kill them first, whenever I get one these bots on my table I always question who would allow something like this, especially something like this to just be an accepted part of life thank to the war At least the ones who were modified early in the war or by autobot look somewhat functional on the inside I have had ex decepticons come to me with interiors that look more like mutilation than any kind of upgrade" Ratchet's thoughts on seekers.

#here some lore and the thing you actually asked for #if you saw my old seeker desighn those are vary out of date my new seeker conceptes look vary vary diffrent and kinda creepy #also 5 new pages coming this weekend or at the latest monday #transformers #transformers fan continuity #tfs #transformers synergize #text post #maccadam

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wordywarriorwrites · 5 months

Text

Assignation

Title: Assignation | AO3 | Rating: M | Masterlist

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F! Reader

Summary: You meet Frankie on your dream vacation and sparks fly...

Warnings: Language. Smut. Alcohol consumption.

The all-inclusive, adults-only resort is undeniably luxurious.

Clear-blue skies. White-sand beaches. Glorious accommodations. It’s an absolute dream vacation destination, and you – long overdue for a break – fully intend to spend your time in paradise eating food you’ve never tried, sleeping in as late as you want, and testing the limits of your liver.

The patio outside your suite offers a panoramic view of the Atlantic, along with a private pool, and gated access to the beachfront. Nearby, you can see people dancing and eating and playing games. You’re far enough away from the noise for it not to be bothersome, but close enough that you can join in any time you like.

Feet in the water. The apples of your cheeks slathered in sunscreen. You let your senses take in the salty air and chlorine, the echoes of laughter and revs of water skis, the sleep-inducing heat, and the chilled-to-perfection cocktail. The buzz in your veins has kickstarted your appetite, and your nose guides your gaze toward the tiki hut across the way, the delicious scent wafting from it prompting you to pocket your room key and make your way onto the sand.

You sip as you precariously swerve and dodge, mindful of your step and the revelry of the other vacationers. You’re being extra careful, so, it’s not your fault when the collision happens. In fact, you were well out of the way of the group of men drinking beer and playing volleyball, but the safe distance you kept wasn’t enough to stop the collision from happening.

The glass in your hand goes flying, the ice and tequila splashing on your face and chest just seconds before you’re entangled with muscled limbs. A blur of a hat and dark eyes, and then, it’s all hops and sweat and the unmistakable scent of coconut. Everything goes tilt-a-whirl, and you roll a few times before your back eventually meets cold water and wet sand. Waves rush forward, and the only thing that prevents you from swallowing a mouthful of brine is a broad-shouldered body blocking the spray.

“You alright?” a deep voice pants, low-timbered and tinged with concern.

A large, warm palm cups your cheek, prompting you to look up and drink in the sight of the man hovering above you. Dark, decadent brown eyes squinted against the bright, late-afternoon rays. Water drip-dropping from the tip of his sun-burned nose, the lobes of his ears, and his lush curls. Plush mouth, lips parted to take in gulps of air. A mustache. A patchy beard.

Christ, he’s beautiful, you think.

“There’s ice in my bra,” is what you say.

His handsome face is completely transformed by his smile. A rich laugh follows, revealing lines around his eyes and mouth that show he’s a good-natured man with a sense of humor, and something about that warms your insides better than any liquor ever could.

When he flops onto his back, exposing your now too-curious gaze to his throat and torso, your belly swoops and your heartbeat kicks up a notch. After a series of slow, deep breaths, he gathers himself, groaning slightly as he sits up and brushes his hair from his face with his forearm.

“Sorry about that,” he says, getting to his feet and offering you a sand-covered hand up. “Guess me and the boys got a little too into it.”

With a flex of his bicep, you’re standing, watching as he deftly retrieves his hat and plops it back onto his head with practiced ease. A moment later, the boys he referenced appear; three grown men, each possessing auras of calm authority as they introduce themselves and ask if either one of you needs a medic. He, who you discover is named Franscisco but-everyone-calls-me-Frankie is quick to wave them off, and so are you.

“Nothing broken,” you insist, tagging along with the group as they start walking as a unit toward dry sand. “Enjoy your game.”

They wave. You wave. Adrenaline waning, you’re a bit wobbly as you move toward the restaurant, and promptly collapse into the first vacant seat you find. A kind attendant brings you a towel and a bottle of water, and after you catch your bearings, your stomach reminds you of your original mission.

Spiny lobster. Yaroa. You’re pretty sure you eat your weight in both, washing it down with a nice, full-bodied chardonnay before topping it all off with bizcocho that is criminally delicious. The journey back to your room is uneventful – though this time, when you pass the volleyball pit, they halt their play, and Frankie nods at you rather sheepishly.

After a quick shower to rinse away the sand and lingering stench of alcohol, you fall into bed and are asleep almost as soon as your head hits the feathered pillow. When you wake, it’s to an unfamiliar ringing and a darkening room. A bit disoriented, you fumble around for the bedside lamp, clicking it on before leaning over to grab the receiver of the room telephone.

“Hello?” you croak.

“Good evening, madam, this is the concierge,” a polite, feminine voice greets. “Sorry to disturb you, but a delivery has arrived for you. May I have it sent to your suite?”

You rub sleep from your eyes and sit up slowly, “Uh, sure. That’s fine.”

There’s no time to ask what it is or who it’s from because all you hear is a cheery thank you, followed by a chirped goodbye and a click as the call is ended. You hang up and take note of the time, and the knock announcing the arrival of the delivery comes a handful of minutes later. Still bleary-eyed and fuzzy-minded, you stumble out of bed and forget all about checking the eyelet before answering.

And to say you’re surprised to find Frankie just beyond the threshold of your hotel suite is an understatement.

Sporting cargo shorts, a maroon-colored t-shirt, and a soft smile. Curls on full display. Sunscreen traded for fabric softener and deodorant. He’s casually, disarmingly handsome, and the bouquet of wildflowers in his hand, coupled with that strong jaw and charming smile that makes you feel all gooey-in-the-middle?

Christ, you’re going to swoon.

“Were you sleeping?” he wonders, tone curious, if not entirely innocent.

You blink slowly. He looks right back at you, now fully smirking, revealing a dimple you hadn’t noticed before – one that somehow insinuates that your appearance has sparked both a keen interest and great amusement. It’s then that you remember how you’d crawled into bed earlier in just a t-shirt and underwear, and now, your bare legs, unsupported cleavage, and unkempt hair are currently on display for him.

“You can see all my cash and prizes, can’t you?” you blurt.

Frankie laughs, but it’s not cruel. He’s also not crude, insisting nothing X-rated is visible, and when he holds the flowers out toward you, you take them without hesitation. Face on fire, you bring the bouquet to your nose and inhale slowly.

“These are lovely,” you murmur, holding them to your chest. “I take it you’re the delivery the front desk called me about?”

“Yeah, Benny charmed the clerk. Got me your room number,” he confesses, left shoulder shrugging. He clears his throat. Rubs his hands on his shorts. “Look, I just – I wanted to say I’m sorry. And make sure you’re okay. I feel bad, you know, for earlier.”

Taken aback, you trace a fingertip along a petal on one of the blooms and swallow hard. It’s a beautiful array. Pale pink, red, yellow, and orange – traditional for the area and likely bought at one of the many on-site gift shops. It’s a kind gesture that flummoxes you because it’s so unexpected and completely unnecessary.

And you don’t know what to say.

You’re a take-charge kind of gal – firing on all cylinders, always ready with a solution or an answer. You’re fully capable of having a conversation with an attractive, amiable man. One with broad shoulders that strain against the seams of his shirt. One who has a bedroom voice, even in the middle of a brightly lit hallway. One who makes you keenly aware with every passing second in his presence that you’re a woman – not just some high-paid, high-powered, pencil-skirt-wearing cog in a corporate machine.

Frankie fiddles with his watch before shoving his hands into his pockets. Effortlessly gracious, he’s forthcoming with another apology – this time, for interrupting your sleep. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating his intention to leave you be, and you watch him take a few steps toward the elevator before you find your voice and rediscover your spine.

“Hey, you, uh, want to get a drink?” you call after him. “With me? Or some food?”

He stops. Turns around. That smile and that damn dimple are back, and you just can’t help but grin at him in return.

“I dunno,” he murmurs playfully, thumb rubbing absentmindedly at his chin. “You gonna put some pants on?”

You shrug, “Maybe. And if you’re nice, I’ll might even brush my hair.”

Fannkie’s deep chuckle prompts you to insist that you can be ready in five minutes. Content to wait in the hall, he lifts his wrist, and pointedly eyes his watch.

“I’m timing you, gatita,” Frankie says.

You hurry back into the room, dropping the flowers into the bedside water pitcher before digging frantically through your suitcase and putting on a clean bra and a sundress. You multitask and push your feet into a pair of sandals as you wrangle your tresses. An oversized claw clip saves the day, and after a dab of perfume and a swipe of deodorant, you’ve got your handbag, and are stuffing your phone and room key into it as the door clicks shut behind you.

Leaning against the wall near the elevator, arms casually crossed over his chest; Frankie straightens when he spots you, all smiles as he jabs the button with his thumb, prompting the doors to slide open.

“Four minutes, thirty-three seconds,” he remarks, stepping in after you. “Cuttin’ it close, gatita.” You arch a brow. Purse your lips. Jab the button for the ground floor. You’re amused and failing to hide it, and Frankie knows it, but he doesn’t say anything – he just stands close enough to you to make the butterflies in your stomach go frantic, the teasing wink he tosses in your direction perfectly timed with the doors reopening.

The two of you disembark, walking side-by-side out of the lobby and onto the hotel grounds. Guided by spine-shaking music, past a colorfully lit dance floor, and into the restaurant area proper. Bass and cheering are traded for clinking utensils and quiet conversations, making it easier for the two of you to chat as you peruse. There are menus to be found outside the door of each place, and you and Frankie are quick to agree on a spot about halfway across the property.

The roar of the ocean is smothered by the chatter of guests, who are strategically seated throughout the wide-open, dimly lit space. Frankie hones in on a relatively quiet spot toward the back, and once he’s guided you into a chair, it doesn’t take long for the tiny, modestly set table to become invisible beneath a smorgasbord of food and drink.

A couple of shots of Mama Juana. A cocktail for you. A beer for him. La Bandera and Sancocho. Cassava dumplings and tostones. Spanish flows naturally from Frankie’s mouth, and somehow, it all tastes better when he’s the one ordering and explaining what’s in each dish.

Time passing. Chairs inching closer. Idle chit-chat easing into an interesting conversation. A touch to your forearm. A squeeze to his shoulder. He takes from your plate, and you take from his. The two of you – laughing just a little too loudly, sharing a bottle of wine, and then, a bottle of champagne. Splitting a plate of fresh fruit, with warm, dark chocolate for dipping. Furtive glances, morphing into lingering looks…

“How long are you staying?” you wonder.

“Fly out tomorrow night,” he says, popping a piece of pineapple into his mouth. “You?”

You reach for a slice of mango, “Three weeks. I got here two days ago, and I’m already thinking of ways to stay longer.”

He hums and nods, “I’ll drink to that.”

Glasses raised, the two of you clink and sip, finishing off the bottle with ease. Frankie’s attentive, and quick to offer a top-up, or to order you something more, but you shake your head and decline. You’re comfortably full, pleasantly buzzed, and you let him know it.

“It’s a nice night,” you remark, eyes searching for the waves in the dark. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

Frankie sits back and tosses his napkin on the table, “Want some company?”

You nod, and the two of you set out, meandering down and beyond the main drag, strolling by fountains and decorative greenery before hitting the gardens. The two of you stick to the lit paths, strides matching, easily picking up where you left off.

“My ex and I – we split up about five years ago,” he says without a trace of upset. “And I told you about my daughter.”

“Maya, starting first grade in the fall, hates crunchy peanut butter,” you recite.

Frankie chuckles. Goes on to say that she’s the reason he stays in Florida. That work (helicopter tours) is easier to come by in a state with a lot of tourism, and it’s heavily populated by impatient people with disposable incomes, meaning he makes good money on chartered flights as well.

“Makes sense,” you agree. “And the guys – you said you’re all from the same unit?”

He nods, “We do this once a year – pack up and go somewhere to blow off steam. We made it a thing after… Well, anyway. Enough about me. What about you?”

You shrug, “I work. A lot.”

“Family?”

“Either dead or out of state.”

“Friends?”

“Believe it or not, I do have a few,” you insist.

Frankie makes a sound of skepticism, and you swear you have friends – that you were, in fact, a bridesmaid at a wedding last year, and present for a baby shower a few months ago, but he doesn’t believe you. You prove it to him, showing him a video of your gift being unwrapped, followed by several snaps of the wedding party, all donning western-themed garb.

“Look,” you point out. “I even wore a bonnet and petticoats.”

“You most certainly did,” he half-laughs, half-snorts.

A playful swat to his shoulder, and then, he’s grinning and hooking his pinky around yours. A nonchalant thing – a flirtatious, silent request to touch, to get just a little bit closer, and you like it. By the time you’re headed back toward the resort, your fingers are intertwined, and the steps the two of you take become progressively slower as you approach a discreetly hidden path lit up by tiny, white lights.

Frankie gently, carefully, pulls you into his arms. You go, all too willingly, goosebumps spreading at the heat and proximity of his body so close to yours. He crooks a finger under your chin, prompting you to tilt your head back and lift your eyes up so you can witness his intentions for yourself.

“Are you going to let me kiss you, gatita?” he wonders.

“I was hoping you would,” you reply.

Another smile – this one slow and sweeter than syrup. Then, your face is cupped in his warm hands, and he’s closing the little distance that remains. Frankie kisses you like he means it – unbridled, but not unskilled, tongue dipping and teeth nipping in such a way that you’re left reeling, unable to anchor yourself as he slowly retreats and rushes in for more. You know this time with him is finite, that tomorrow, he’ll be gone, but for now, in this moment, he’s yours.

A pause – quiet and searching, but still seeking, his mouth eager to return, as if he can’t help himself, lips chasing even though you’re not running. Hands now gripping your waist, squeezing, throat bobbing as he swallows hard and lets out a ragged breath against your neck.

“Do you – I want – I’ll stop,” he rasps. His actions immediately contradict his words when he brings your hips together, pressing up against you as his mouth runs along your jaw and the shell of your ear. “I’m – shit. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

You shake your head and dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders, “Don’t stop.”

A groan, and then, he’s kissing you again, and the ache that’s begun to settle between your legs is becoming an insistent, unbearable throb – one you want Frankie to alleviate with a passion that’s bordering on desperation. You pry yourself from him, pressing a hand over his mouth to hide his tempting, kiss-swollen lips from your view.

“My room,” you insist. “Let’s go.”

Hand-in-hand this time, the two of you practically jog back to the resort. Frankie stops off at a shop near the entrance, emerging a few minutes later with a bag containing a package of condoms, some gum, and a touristy-looking baseball cap.

“I’m sure the clerk has no clue what we’re about to get up to,” you deadpan.

Frankie grunts and swats your ass. You yelp and hiss at him, but he just grins and unceremoniously shuffles you toward the elevator. The doors shut, and he doesn’t hesitate to crowd you, eyes never leaving yours, the tension palpable as his gaze sweeps over you like a caress. The other passengers either don’t notice or don’t care, and the anticipation builds even more as you disembark and head to your suite.

“Can you just – let me – Frankie,” you whimper, keycard bumping up against the lock for the umpteenth time.

“What?” comes his reply, all cheeky, feigned innocence, hands and lips exploring every inch of you he can reach. “Trouble with the door?”

Anticipation wreaking havoc, you groan when he thumbs your nipple through your dress, his actions deft, but doing absolutely nothing to help matters. By the time you manage it, and the light on the lock goes from red to green, you’re writhing and so turned on, it’s almost shameful. When the door shuts again, the do-not-disturb hanger is on the outside, and the security latch is firmly in place.

“Say it,” he insists, tossing the bag onto the bed. “Say that you want this.”

You toss your purse aside and kick off your sandals, “I want this.”

“Because we’ve had a lot to drink,” Frankie continues, fingertips seeking out the rounds of your shoulders and the line of your collarbone. “And I’ve been thinking about this since the moment I crashed into you on the beach, but I gotta – you gotta be sure.”

Tongue heavy and throat tight, you twist your fingers into the skirt of your dress, pulling it up, up, up, until it’s high enough to guide one of Frankie’s wandering hands beneath it. Beyond the fabric of your panties and between your legs – the proof of your want, of your desire, is unmistakable. Frankie inhales sharply at what you encourage him to find and exhales a baritone-deep sound that can’t be mistaken for anything other than approval.

His rough, whiskered cheek against yours. His heavy palm slides up your spine, seeking, until the clip in your hair is removed and sent clattering and bouncing against the tile. A tug to your tresses. A nip to your jaw. Swirling fingertips that breach deep and curl just right. Gaze fixated, expression ravenous in the ambient glow of the pool light, Frankie’s the epitome of a quick study – learning you like a flight plan, mapping out the quickest route to what will make you take off and fly for him.

Knees trembling and calves burning, you’re being coaxed toward a precipice, and it feels so good that it’s overwhelming. Spine-bowing pleasure rushes forward, impossibly fast, and with a pointed strum to your clit, you’re lost to it. The muscle of his forearm flexes as he guides you through a heady surge of bliss, and while you fall apart, Frankie watches you – lower lip tugged between his teeth, head slowly nodding as if he agrees with your complete and utter surrender to your climax.

“More of this?” he murmurs, voice a gravelly rumble against your hairline. “Or do you want me?”

Quicker than lightning, the word ‘you’ slips out from between your lips, and your answer, filled with unmistakable, unreserved eagerness, prompts the reappearance of his smile. Only this time, it’s all cat-got-the-canary as he eases his hand out from between your legs and unflinchingly slips the pleasure-soaked digits past his lips. Lashes fluttering, his expression becomes reminiscent of how he looked at dinner, all appreciative, as if the flavor of you is just as satiating.

“You taste good, gatita,” he murmurs.

“Jesus, Frankie,” you breathe shakily.

Hands trembling, you reach for his shirt, and he allows you to help him out of it. This time, he guides your touch, prompting you to splay your fingers across the expanse of his chest and down his stomach. Eyes hooded, he watches you slip his belt open, pop the button beneath his naval, and ease the zipper down. The shorts fall away easily, and a careful tug at the waistband of his boxers is all it takes to see him free from the confines.

Reaching for him, taking the heft of him in hand, you find him hot and hard for you. You grasp. Squeeze. Experiment until he starts to kick in your palm, letting you know with each groan, with each involuntary thrust of his hips, that you’re doing it right. Tip leaking furiously, precum easing the way, you cup and fondle his heavy sac until he’s cursing against the seam of your mouth.

“You’re gonna,” he huffs, voice muffled around your tongue. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Want me to stop?” you wonder.

You nip his chin. Twist your wrist. Frankie’s brow draws tight, face warring with conflicting desires, but eventually, he pulls himself back from that ledge. The straps of your dress and your panties suffer for it, though, as he practically tears at them to get at you. A tangle of limbs and laughter, the two of you fall onto the messy bed, the bag with the condoms snagged just before it can be crushed beneath your combined weight.

Hat and gum discarded. The condom box torn open. The package crinkles, and then, it’s tossed aside. You offer to help, but Frankie insists on doing it himself, and the strained edge in his voice lets you know that his control is hanging by a precarious thread, and it’s all because of you.

“Still with me?” he checks, thumbs rubbing your kneecaps.

You nod and squeeze his wrist, “Yes.”

A deep, languid kiss, and then, you’re guiding him to you. Body sensitive, nerves alight, you tilt your hips up in anticipation. And Frankie’s careful – so, so careful – forehead pressed to yours, all wide-eyed, as if he’s anticipating – practically expecting – the exact opposite of the welcoming sound you make when he eases forward and begins to rock his hips.

“More,” you plead, voice needy – even to your own ears.

The request soon becomes a demand, one he doesn’t give in to until you promise him you can take it – that you can take all of him. Only then does Frankie roll you onto your stomach. In a display of strength and prowess, he gets you up on your hands and knees, and guides you back onto him with a thrust-and-roll that has you keening.

“Good?” Frankie pants against the hinge of your jaw.

“Yes,” you insist, the warmth of your impending orgasm spreading through your body and loosening your tongue. “Want you to fuck me, Frankie.”

“Greedy,” he grits out sharply. “Codicioso, pequeño gatito…”

It’s impossible to answer with your chin grasped hard in his hand and your neck craned to the side. Frankie’s kiss is sloppy, all carnality, and absolutely no finesse – still, it takes your breath away and makes you feel desired. There’s an edge to his touch, now; a bite in the way his fingertips pinch at your nipple, sending a zing of pleasure directly to your core. Caresses turn into gropes and heavy-handed squeezes until he’s pressing your spine into an impossibly deep arch that forces you to take him just a little bit deeper, the tip of him bumping, bumping, bumping the parts of you that make your bones rattle.

“Want you to come,” Frankie grits out, voice a breathless, strained thing as his teeth dig into the round of your shoulder. “Come for me again.”

You’re already there, but you can’t formulate the words because it happens slowly, and then, all at once. He seeks out your clit, drawing circles with the pressure and ruthless precision of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. You hear your heartbeat thundering in your ears, and then, it’s a free fall. You’re soaring, high above the clouds, euphoric beyond all comprehension. And he’s right there with you – pulling you back and up against his chest, arms banding around your waist as he grinds into you, prolonging your release and taking pleasure in his own.

A careful parting, followed by twin sighs of satisfaction. Frankie makes quick work of the condom, and then, you’re back in his arms. He’s soft again, sleepy eyes finding yours in the dark, fingertips lazing over your brow, your cheeks, your lips. He lingers and you bask in it, but you know what this is.

This is the goodbye.

And a twinge of something – not pain, not regret, but something – fills your chest and makes your eyes sting. Your lower lip wobbles and it’s stupid. Stupid enough to prompt you to roll onto your back to put a bit of distance between yourself and this beautiful, beautiful man stretched out next to you. You stare up at the ornate ceiling fan and cough lightly in a vain attempt to clear the tightness in your throat.

“Two hours and thirty-five minutes,” he says.

You furrow your brow, “What?”

“A flight from Illinois to Florida,” Frankie explains. “Assuming average speed accounting for eastward headwinds… Yeah, two hours and thirty-five minutes.”

You take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Frankie’s pinky finds yours amongst the sheets, and you turn onto your side to face him. There’s something between you. An attraction, to be sure, but now, an unexpected, mutual desire to see each other again. To not let this moment be the last moment. Even if it doesn’t make any sense, even if it’s crazy, even if you don’t know him, he doesn’t know you, and neither one of you knows where it’ll lead…

“I’ve never been in a helicopter before,” you tell him. “What’s it like?”

“Amazing. Loud. Windy,” he replies, lips twitching. “You might need your bonnet.”

You smile. And Frankie smiles back.

#frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fic #frankie catfish morales #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction

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sarahs-library · 10 months

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Come to Solstice with me?

A/N - This is a cheesy Christmas movie trope Az/Reader fic that absolutely nobody asked for that I just couldn't help myself from writing.

Word Count: 1700

Part Two

Your POV

You tapped your foot in time to the beat, eyeing the patrons as they swept across the sticky floor. You raised a hand to the bartender when he looked in your direction, motioning to your empty glass before turning back to observe the room as he began making you another drink. You’d only been waiting fifteen minutes, but the room was stifling from the heat of so many bodies packed inside. The bartender set down a glass of wine next to the tumbler of whiskey, ice already beginning to melt, and you slid a few coins across the counter and thanked him, words lost mostly over the raucous music.

Craning your neck towards the open doors of the patio you tried to find seats where you wouldn’t be jostled every time someone tried to order a drink. You spied an empty table and began to move, weaving in between the drunken revellers on the dance floor whilst trying to keep the drinks in your hands from spilling. Crossing the threshold into the cool night air was a relief. Solstice celebrations were in full swing, even if the day itself was still over a week away, and most bars and restaurants in the Day Court were packed late into the night. You settled down onto the bench to wait, pleasantly surprised that the magic that heated the bar seemed to extend to where you were sitting. You sipped your wine and watched the fae mingling in the streets under the festive lights.

“Sorry I’m late, I got tied up. Were you waiting long?” The voice came out of the shadows behind you as a gloved hand squeezed your bicep in greeting. You turned, smiling up at Azriel as he moved around you to take a seat on the bench opposite. You nudged the tumbler of whiskey across the table to him as you shrugged.

“Long enough to be a drink in Az, next round is yours.” He inclined his head, a small smile on his lips as he sipped at the whiskey. You’d only seen him a handful of times since the war, he stopped by whenever he was passing through on business for Rhysand, if his schedule allowed it. You’d enjoyed the opportunity to rekindle your friendship, almost fifty years of no contact during Amarantha’s reign had left you missing the shadowsinger’s company.

Azriel gestured to the table and the glass in front of you. “I’m surprised you didn’t just get a bottle, no plans of dancing on tables this evening?” You rolled your eyes at the jibe but couldn’t help the smile that bubbled to your lips.

“I blame Rhys for that.”

“As you should, he’s always been a bad influence.” Under the fae light Azriel’s face looked relaxed, something you hadn’t seen in centuries. He certainly looked better than the last time you’d seen him, broodier than usual and knocking back whiskies almost as fast as you could pour them. He hadn’t said much that evening, just enjoying the companionable silence you’d provided before falling into a deep slumber on the sofa.

“How is everyone?”

“Good, Nyx is getting so big now, he’s becoming a bit of a handful. It’ll get even worse once he can fly by himself.” He smiled as he recalled some memory of his nephew. You’d met the babe once, and even though you weren’t a fan of children when he fixed you with a toothy smile you’d been smitten. You’d joked with Rhys that he was going to be even more successful with the females than he’d been in his youth.

“And the others?”

“Cassian and Nesta are making real progress with the Valkyries, they’ve even got a few of the females from the camp taking part in the training sessions.” You smiled at the thought, Cassian had been championing for an aerial unit of female Illyrians since Rhys had become High Lord, it seemed with Nesta at his side he was finally making the progress he’d always talked about. “Mor’s still in the continent, enjoying playing emissary but from her letters it seems she’s mostly just indulging the sights and local cuisine.”

“That sounds more like her.”

“She’s coming back for Solstice, everyone is. Even Lucian and Elain.” You nodded, not sure if you should push on that particular door yet. He’d told you what Rhys had said, how he’d ordered Azriel to stay away from the middle Archeron sister in the name of Court relations. She’d fled the city, after calling him a coward for not fighting for their budding relationship, ending up in the human lands and the waiting arms of her mate.

“And you? How have you been?” You knew Azriel well enough to see through his blatant diversion but didn’t comment.

“Good, we’ve been making some real progress Under the Mountain. Amarantha had all kinds of tomes hidden, some of them not even from Prythian. I enjoyed getting my hands on those very much.” Azriel nodded, draining the last of his drink. “I think we’ve finally found the last of it though. There’s still so much missing, but it hasn’t been as bad as we originally feared.”

“And your research?”

You sighed, swirling the last of the wine at the bottom of your glass. The thesis you’d been writing before Amarantha had turned Prythian upside down and the war had come had taken a backseat. Especially with the death of your family, you hadn’t found the enthusiasm to continue your work.

“I haven’t thought about it much. There’s still time though.” Caramel eyes watched your face, always assessing. You didn’t sound convincing, even to your own ears. But he offered you the same courtesy and allowed you to change the subject without prying.

“Will you see your mother this Solstice?”

Azriel shook his head; a gloved finger traced the rim of his glass. “Her and Clay have decided to spend Solstice with his family this year.” You knew he was happy for her, to find her partner all those years ago, especially as he’d helped her get out from underneath his father’s thumb whilst Azriel had been sequestered away in the war camps unable to visit.

“Do you have plans?”

“I’ve got a few offers, nothing concrete yet though. I might just spend the opportunity to get ahead with work.” You’d had a few invitations from various friends to spend Solstice with them, and an invite to Helion’s annual ball, but you’d struggled with the holiday since the death of your family. It had been easier in the aftermath of the war, everyone still grieving in one way or another, but now that the people of Prythian seemed intent on celebrating with excess at every given opportunity you weren’t sure if you could stomach the celebration.

Azriel adjusted himself in his seat, leaning a little closer across the table. His wings flared slightly behind him before he tucked them closer to his back. You considered him, waiting for him to speak but he just continued to watch you.

“What?” He opened his mouth, seemingly unable to get the words out. He shook his head, leaning away from you again. You stopped watching him, instead looking over his shoulder and into the street below.

“Actually I-,” he paused, noting your empty glasses. “I’ll grab another round.” He stood abruptly, shadows trailing in his wake as he headed for the door back into the bar. You watched in amusement as the drunk fae inside scrambled out of the path of the hulking Illyrian figure and his teeming shadows. He’d certainly have more success getting to the bar than you did earlier.

He returned quickly, shadows brushed against you as he laid the fresh drinks on the table and took his seat again. He gulped down his drink, setting his empty glass down before you’d even clutched at the stem of your own.

“I need a favour.” His face was serious, barely visible through the throng of shadows caressing his form, roiling up his shoulders and coiling like a second set of Illyrian tattoos on the skin of his neck.

“A favour?” You tried to keep the shock from your voice, it was very uncharacteristic of Azriel to ask for anything so openly. “Name it.” He pursed his lips, shaking his head. A gloved hand rubbed against his temple.

“You don’t even know what it is.” You leaned forward to snatch at the hand he’d left on the table, squeezing the warm leather underneath your fingers. You were so close that you could see the veins of green that ran through the brown of his eyes.

“Doesn’t matter Az. We’re friends, I’ll always do whatever I can to help you.” He smiled at that, a genuine smile. Something so rare from Azriel that the flash of his teeth in the fae light made your heart clench.

“Come to Solstice with me.” You smiled back at him then, bemused at the request.

“That’s it? Az, you don’t need to call in a favour for me to spend time with you all.”

“It’s not just that,” for a moment he seemed to disappear into the shadows entirely before he reigned in his emotions. “Mor and Emery will be there together, Elain’s bringing Lucian. And of course, there’s the others. I’ll be the only-“ his throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly. But you heard what he didn’t voice.

“You’ll be the only person there alone.” You understood that, not just the desire for companionship but to feel a sense of belonging and acceptance amidst the festivities. You were searching for that too. You knew that attending the holiday celebrations your friends were throwing would leave you feeling alone, in a room full of people who were something more to each other.

The silence before his answer felt like it would swallow you.

“Yes.” His eyes met yours. Under his gaze you’d always felt like he saw through every façade you hid behind. Like he could see into the darkest parts of you, that he saw them as was your friend anyway. Because you saw them in him too.

“I suppose I’ll have to do more gift shopping then.”

Please let me know what you all think! I'm planning out part two of probably three but I'm not sure exactly how they'll play out until I'm writing them.

#azriel x reader #azriel x female!reader #azriel x oc #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #acotar #acotar series

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rambleonwaywardson · 3 months

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Clegan Olympics AU - Beginnings Part 1

A properly written version of these Paris Olympics headcanons. Gale is on the U.S. equestrian eventing team, Bucky is a U.S. gymnast, and they meet on the plane to Paris.

Author's note: I didn't really intend to write this, but of course I couldn't help myself. It also got a lot longer than I meant it to so I split it into 2 parts. I probably won't make a real full length fic out of this, but if I have the time I might make it a little disjointed series or something.

---

Falling in love was not on Gale Cleven’s Paris Olympics bingo card. It is, in fact, the absolute furthest thing from his mind, City of Love be damned. It’s his first Olympics, and he’d like to focus on nothing other than his horse, his riding, and trying to bring home a medal for his team. So it’s a shame that that plan is already falling apart.

As a member of the United States equestrian team, Gale really should’ve been on a plane two days ago with the rest of the equestrian athletes, the horses, and the massive support team and quite frankly excessive amount of “just in case” equipment that travels with them. He should be in Paris already, walking Whiskey around the grounds, ensuring she has everything she needs, and settling their training schedule for the days before the Games begin. Instead, he’s anxiously waiting to board a different plane, by himself, in a mad dash to get to France.

The night before they were scheduled to fly, one of Gale’s younger prospects had started showing colic symptoms. His groom called him around 8pm, and Gale had abandoned his frantic last-minute packing to rush right on back to the stables. At first the symptoms ameliorated with some banamine and a lot of walking, but Gale spent the night in an uncomfortable cot, waking periodically to monitor the young gelding, damned if he was going to abandon one of his horses when they were sick no matter how much he trusted his care team. When symptoms worsened again in the wee hours of the morning, the horse had to be transported to a veterinary facility for further testing and observation. Gale spent his morning pacing white, sterile halls with his head in his hands, eyes bloodshot and clothes rumpled.

He’d called Benny, his good friend and Olympic teammate, the moment it was no longer inappropriately early for that kind of thing. “The team will get Whiskey ready to go, but I don’t think I’m gonna make it to the airport,” he told him. Benny swore, but assured Gale that he’d keep an extra eye on his mare for him. Then Gale called Neil Harding, one of their coaches, to update him and begin the process of finding a new flight to Paris.

By early afternoon, the veterinarian told Gale, who was getting jittery from a lack of sleep and too little food, that the gelding would be okay, but needed to be kept for further observation. Gale thanked him profusely, but by then, the Olympic horses and riders were already prepared for take-off, including his own mare. And he is forcing himself to believe that he can trust his grooms to take good care of her.

He hadn’t managed to find a new flight for another two days, and their departure time is so early in the morning that it should be illegal. So now he’s here. Still exhausted and staving off starvation with nothing but an airport muffin as he stands in line to board a plane out of Washington, D.C. All around him are athletes, kitted out with team USA jackets and bags. The flight is filled with red, white, and blue, like a walking “I want you for the U.S. army” poster, except it’s the Olympics instead. Gale blends right in and yet knows he sticks out like a sore thumb. Most of the athletes here are traveling with their teams, or at least with friends or other people competing in their sports. Gale is alone, quiet, just trying to get through the day.

He’s looking forward to being able to doze on the plane, even if he never can fall asleep on these flights no matter how long they are. That’s what he’s thinking about as he walks down the narrow aisle, lugging his team USA duffle behind him, hoping maybe he’ll be the first person in his row to sit down since he has the window seat and he just does not have it in him to go through the awkward shoving-past-a-stranger song and dance. But, of course, he can’t even have that tiny luxury.

The man assigned to the aisle seat is, for lack of a better word, huge. He’s at least as tall as Gale from the looks of it, but unlike Gale, he’s all shoulders and strong thighs, looking almost comical in these economy seats. Gale tosses his duffle into the overhead compartment and clears his throat, prepared to ask the man if he could please stand up so Gale can get to his seat. Except when the guy looks up, Gale forgets every word that was about to come out of his mouth and he ends up spluttering like an idiot.

John Egan. That’s his seatmate on this plane. John Egan, the poster boy of U.S. gymnastics on his way to his second Olympics, with his messy curls and his dazzling eyes and a winning smile that could charm the pants off just about anyone no matter which way they swung.

And that smile is pointed right. At. Gale.

Gale just blinks and tries to smile back, but his mouth won’t listen because his brain is just too tired and apparently being seated next to the most beautiful man he’s ever seen in his life was the last fucking straw. So he just tilts his head awkwardly, motions to the seat assigned to him, and hopes that’ll get the point across.

“Oh, sorry man,” John says, standing up to step into the aisle, except the aisle is packed with people still trying to get to their seats and so he can’t go very far. Instead, Gale has to try to slip between John Egan’s hulking form and the seats in front of them, nearly stepping on the man’s foot as their arms bump awkwardly, before he unceremoniously collapses down into his seat with a grunt.

“Thanks,” he says quietly as John sits back down beside him. And then because he just cannot deal with today any longer, and he knows he’ll make a fool of himself if he so much as tries to say anything to the man on his right, he shoves his earbuds into his ears and squeezes his eyes shut.

John Egan was, to be polite about it, startled when he looked up to see his row-mate standing beside him, asking for access to his seat. To be less polite, John Egan was overwhelmingly shocked and very pleased when he saw how fucking hot the guy was. Once he’s settled back in his seat again, he turns to his left, intending to ask the blonde his name and what sport he’ll be competing in. But said blonde has already shoved some headphones into his ears and is turned away, his head resting lazily against the seat as he stares out the window at the plane’s wing. Disappointed, Bucky still finds himself staring at that messily coiffed blonde hair, the little bit of stubble on the man’s chin, the hint of startling bright blue that Bucky can see in his eyes from his side profile, reflecting the rising sunlight spilling through the window.

Bucky frowns and forces himself to look away. Fine. This guy doesn’t want to talk, Bucky doesn’t have to talk. Sure, they’re both wearing Team USA jackets and perhaps the polite thing to do would be to introduce themselves to one another if nothing else. Seeing as they have a seven hour flight to the Olympic Games, which they will both clearly be competing in. And this man is absolutely gorgeous and Bucky wants to learn every single thing about him. But it’s fine.

It’s fine.

He’ll just watch a movie or something instead.

That idea lasts him all of about two and half hours, at which point he’s watched Top Gun: Maverick in its entirety and does not at all feel like watching another movie. He can’t stop himself from sneaking glances at the blonde beside him and is tapping his fingers incessantly on his arm rest, stuck in a fancy tin can 30,000 feet above ground with nothing to do with all his pent up energy. He’s bound and determined not to let his tendency for spontaneity get the better of him, even if he so badly just wants to wake the man up and try to strike up a conversation. Because this guy seems done with the world and that’s a sure-fire way to make sure he doesn’t like Bucky at all.

But as Bucky tries to get himself to stop obsessively looking over at the guy, who has his eyes shut even though Bucky is 98% sure he isn’t sleeping, he notices something sticking out of the pocket on the seat back in front of him. A boarding pass. Honestly, what person under the age of 40 still uses physical boarding passes instead of just having it on their phone? But Bucky will happily accept this turn of events because he is not beyond craning his neck forward a bit to try to read the name.

‘Cleven.’

Okay, that’s not a super common one. He can work with that.

Sure enough, typing ‘Cleven US Olympics’ into his phone – thank god for on board wifi – yields immediate results. Gale Cleven, 2024 Olympic athlete, equestrian/eventing. There’s countless photos of him: portraits alone, portraits with various horses, and action shots. They’re enough to make Bucky involuntarily smile and glance over at the man once again, comparing this eye-catching real life visual to these equally eye-catching professional photos, but he forces his eyes back to his phone.

This is Gale Cleven’s first Olympics – along with best friends Benny Demarco, also on the eventing team, and Marjorie Spencer, who is on the jumping team – but he’s argued to be one of the best riders on team USA. He’s put in stellar performances at every one of his events in the last couple years and is projected to medal, at the very least. He and his horse, Hundred Proof, lovingly known as Whiskey, have quickly become fan favorites (Bucky has no doubt that this is in part due to how beautiful the man is, and add to that how beautiful his horse is).

Realizing he hardly even knows what eventing is or how it’s different from the other equestrian disciplines at the Olympics, Bucky spends the better part of half an hour reading up on the basics before returning to an article about Gale Cleven, which links to a highlight video of their recent experience at the Olympic trials just weeks ago, where he and Whiskey placed first. Dressage, jumping, and cross country. Bucky finds himself completely fascinated by all of it.

He has vague memories of watching this event during the last Olympics. Vague memories of watching several riders take hard falls during the cross country portion. He wonders about Gale, if he’s ever been hurt doing the sport that he loves. God knows Bucky has.

He doesn’t want to imagine that pretty face in pain. And honestly, what is he doing even thinking about it? The guy hasn’t said two words to him, literally. He could be a dick.

Except, by all accounts online, he’s not. Everyone loves him.

Okay. Bucky can’t take it anymore. They have four hours left on this plane. He needs that man’s attention on him. Needs to see those eyes focused on him. Needs to find out if his voice is as intoxicating as the rest of him.

As if the world is on his side, they hit some turbulence right then, making Gale open his eyes and glance around groggily. Panicking, Bucky attempts to be inconspicuous as he lets his complementary bag of pretzels drop to the ground, landing by Gale’s feet. He watches as Gale notices it, leans over even as he’s getting bumped around by the rough air, and snatches the bag between long, slender fingers.

He peeks up at Bucky with the tiniest hint of a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile and holds the pretzels out. Bucky smiles lopsidedly back at him and thanks him.

Gale has every intention of just closing his eyes once again after that. That brief moment of eye contact alone, that goofy grin and those eyes, were enough to make his heart flutter all funny. Not only does he not need that right now, but he can’t think of a single thing to say to this man. Should he say something funny or sarcastic about the pretzels passing from hand to hand, their fingertips brushing just the littlest bit in a way that jolts Gale’s system? Or should he ask John about… well, about what? It feels so unfair that he knows who John is, even if he doesn’t know shit about his sport, but he knows that John probably doesn’t have the slightest idea who he is.

Maybe he should introduce himself? But they’ve been sitting beside each other for at least three hours now and Gale has pointedly ignored him like a fucking asshole and… oh no. Oh no.

John Egan, two time Olympian and the most beautiful man he’s ever set eyes on, is going to think he’s an asshole. All because Gale, exhausted and frustrated and nervous as he is, couldn’t figure out how to speak to an attractive man and chose to just… what? Not acknowledge him for seven hours? Like an idiot.

And then Gale sees John’s phone, which is sitting face up in his lap. John is staring down at it intently, chewing on his thumbnail. It’s a video of cross country. It’s a video of Gale.

“Bold of you to watch a video of someone you’re sitting next to,” Gale muses.

John looks up at him, but he doesn’t look startled or cornered or caught in the act like Gale might’ve expected. He just looks at Gale, completely sincere, and shrugs. “Well, I had to look you up so I could figure out what the hell to say to you.”

Gale arches an eyebrow. He doesn’t know if he’s flattered? Or… something else? “How about ‘hi’?”

John’s smile twists into a smirk. “I tried that didn’t I? You didn’t seem too interested in introductions.”

Gale feels himself blushing and he hates it, but John’s expression doesn’t change. His eyes are still staring right at him. “Sorry. I, uh…” Gale rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s been a really, really long couple days.” He sighs and attempts to hold out a hand to shake, but immediately regrets it in this weird small space where he and John are already shoulder to shoulder. “Well, I’m Gale Cleven.”

John takes his hand anyway. “John Egan. Everyone calls me Bucky, though.”

“I know who you are.”

“You watch gymnastics?”

Gale shakes his head. “Not really. I don’t know much about it. Everyone’s talkin’ about you though. It’s hard not to know your name.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to blush as he lets go of Gale’s hand. Even if it’s true, he never really gets used to it. He’s always liked getting people’s attention, but he never knows how he feels about that attention being nationwide. Much less global. “We’re even then. I don’t know shit about horses.” He motions to his phone. “Hence why I had to look up eventing and all.”

This man sat here for who knows how long, looking up Gale and his sport, just to have something to say to him? Suddenly, Gale doesn’t feel tired for the first time in two days. “What kind of nickname is Bucky? What is this, the forties?”

“What kind of a name is Gale?” Bucky retorts smoothly, and Gale doesn’t even know what to say to that.

“Mine.”

Bucky looks at him like he doesn’t know what to make of him, and Gale tries not to squirm under that gaze. But Bucky just tilts his head, looks Gale up and down. “I suppose it is.” Then, after a pause, “you know, you remind me of a buddy back home where I grew up. Everyone called him Buck.”

“Seriously? Buck and Bucky?”

“You got it, Buck.”

Gale turns away momentarily to look out his window, hiding a smile behind his hand. What even is this guy? “‘Buck’ is something I’d rather my horse not do.”

Bucky can’t help the grin that breaks out over his face, and he doesn’t bother hiding it when Gale turns his head to look at him again. And Bucky was right, after all. Having this man’s attention on him is like basking in the sunlight. And that southern drawl is like a drug. He needs it not to stop.

For all the not-talking they were doing before, now they barely shut up for the rest of the flight. Bucky learns that Gale missed his original flight because of one of his younger horses getting sick, and that he’s barely slept in two days. He learns that Gale has been riding horses since before he could walk. He grew up in Wyoming, surrounded by ranch land, where he learned to ride western as a young child. But his mom always loved English, and soon Gale fell in love with it, too. The way jumping made him feel like he was flying, the way cross country tested his mental and physical limits, and most of all, the beauty and elegance of dressage. Gale couldn’t get enough. Horses were his escape from an unpleasant home life that he won’t elaborate on (and that Gale is shocked at himself for mentioning at all).

He spent as much time as possible at the nearby stables, taking summer and after school jobs doing farm work in exchange for ride time. He trained green horses from the ground up, substituting a can-do attitude and a saintly patience for his ragtag hand-me-down clothes and tack. He left Wyoming first chance he got, moved to the east coast on a need-based college scholarship and settled in Maryland to get better access to the training he knew he needed if he wanted to make a name for himself. He’s had his lovely mare – a stunning 17 hand chestnut Hanoverian – since she was just two years old. She’s 9 now, and Gale brought her along from the beginning.

Bucky is in awe of how soft Gale gets when he talks about her. How much he so clearly loves her, not just as an animal, but as an athlete, a partner, a best friend, a child. Gale shows Bucky a photo of her, but Bucky can’t help but look at Gale instead. Can’t help but wonder how much he’d have to do right to get this perfect human beside him to look at him like that. A ridiculous thought, but this is the happiest Bucky has felt in a while. And it’s all happening while he’s sitting on a plane over the Atlantic.

Gale learns that Bucky has been a gymnast since he was just four years old. His sister somehow convinced him to do it with her, and so he did, even though his child self thought it was a girly sport, because he always wanted to please his big sister. His sister ended up dropping it, as children do, jumping from hobby to hobby like a wildfire. But Bucky kept going. It was the perfect sport to keep his mind and body occupied, to still his incessant fidgeting and make him focus on something productive. He’s always loved the floor exercise the best – the combination of power and strength and elegance. It’s one of his best events, along with rings.

He’d always been good, but when he hit puberty and shot up like a beanstalk, packing on the muscle, he became unstoppable. People told him he’d be too tall to ever make anything of it, but he sought to prove them wrong, finding ways to adapt his height to the events, ways to make his size work to his advantage. He went to college on a full scholarship for gymnastics and ended up with one of the top gyms in the country, located in D.C. He went to the Tokyo Olympics and is now back for more. His sister died suddenly before she ever got to see him become an Olympian, but he feels her there with every tumbling pass, every high bar routine. He does it, in part, for her. Even when he broke his leg in a freak accident two years ago (which he won’t elaborate on), he kept on pushing, came back with a vengeance. Not only because he needs gymnastics, but because he didn’t want to let his sister down.

John and Gale are strangers, and yet they’ve told each other things they only ever say to their closest friends. And neither of them is really even sure why. Why it feels so easy between them. Why it feels so natural, like they were always supposed to end up right here.

But eventually the plane lands. The athletes disembark. And Bucky is devastated to realize that he’s lost Gale in the crowd of red, white, and blue. He’s even more devastated to realize he forgot to get his number.

—

“Who the hell are you lookin’ for?” Curt asks, shaking his head at Bucky, who keeps looking frantically over the crowd with a lost and hopeful expression all over his face. They’re at the baggage claim, dragging their luggage away from the conveyor belt and towards the exit doors.

There’s not much Bucky won’t tell Curt, to be honest, so he doesn’t even hesitate or act the slightest bit shy about it. “The guy I sat next to on the plane.”

“I’m gonna need more than that.”

“Tall, blonde, horseback rider. Fuckin’ beautiful.”

Curt blinks at him. “You talkin’ about Gale Cleven?”

Bucky spins around so fast he whacks Curt in the chest with his duffel. “You know him?”

Curt shrugs. “Sorta. We’ve met a couple times. Went to school together.” WHAT?

“Do you have his number?” Bucky pleads desperately, and Curt just chuckles and shakes his head at him.

“Sorry, man. Don’t know him like that. Why are ya actin’ like he’s your one true love and you’ve gotta run through an airport to make sure he knows before he flies away?”

Bucky freezes, stares somewhere that isn’t at Curt’s face. “I just- He’s-”

Curt breaks out into laughter, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Hell, Bucky, only you would fall in love with a stranger on a fuckin’ plane.”

Hold on. Back up. “I’m not in love-”

“You know what,” Curt interrupts him. “I’m not even surprised. What did I really expect when I made you sit on your own?”

“Oh fuck off,” Bucky snaps halfheartedly, resigned to the fact that Gale has disappeared, maybe never to be seen again.

“I mean, at least it’s Cleven and not your usual.”

“My usual?”

Curt nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, like, at least Gale is a nice guy.” Okay, Bucky supposes Curt might have a point. He’s not exactly known for having good taste in the men he dates and their general… personalities. “And he’s like, adorable.”

Bucky laughs. Adorable. Yeah, that’s one way to describe Gale, he supposes. Good looking, hot, beautiful, perfect. “He looks like a literal fucking angel,” he laments.

“A pretty puppy that you just wanna hug.”

Bucky groans as he sets his bag down by one of the exit doors, where they’re waiting for some of their teammates. “Shit, I can’t believe I didn’t even get his number.”

“Oh, did Bucky fall in love with the pretty boy he was sitting next to?” Croz joins them at the door, dropping his bag at his feet with a heavy thunk.

“Real shocker, right?” Curt jokes.

Croz whistles and shakes his head. “Jesus, the way he was looking at you. I think it’s mutual.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky pouts. He halfheartedly kicks at his duffle. “I didn’t get his number.”

“Bucky,” Curt says, with a look that says you’re fucking ridiculous, as if Bucky doesn’t already know. But then he points out, “We’re at the Olympics. He’s probably stayin’ in the Village, just like us. And you know what events he’s gonna be in.”

Right. Right right right. Yeah, there’s plenty of ways he could possibly track this guy down.

“Yeah, simple,” Croz agrees. “Operation Find Bucky’s Soulmate is a go.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and shoves Croz, but all three of them are laughing as they grab their bags and head out of the airport.

“You better not let this get in the way of the Games,” Curt warns. He doesn’t think it’ll come to that, but he also knows that Bucky can get… distracted.

But as much as Bucky wants to find Gale again, as determined as he is to do it, the Games are too important to him. He vows to himself that he won’t let anything get in the way of seeking that gold medal, but Hell, he can do both, can’t he?

–

Turns out, for all the time Bucky spent his first night in Paris trying to figure out where Gale might be when – where is he staying? When are his events? His ride times? Where are the Team USA horses stabled? How to get past security at said stables? – it was all pointless. Bright and early the next morning, as he wanders the dining hall and ogles the muffins he knows he probably shouldn’t have too many of, he slams right into someone else.

“Oh, fuck, sorry,” he mumbles, but then he looks at the guy and his breath catches. Gale Cleven is in front of him, rubbing his chest where Bucky just collided with him and spilled coffee all over his bright white polo shirt. “Oh fuck,” Bucky says again, this time with significantly more alarm.

Gale just looks back at him with an amused, endearing sort of smile that Bucky cannot sort out the meaning of. “Bucky.”

Bucky is mortified. He is not a person who is easily mortified, but if a black hole opened up at his feet right now, he would kindly accept that fate over whatever embarrassment this is. “Buck.”

“Still with the nickname I see.”

Bucky isn’t focused on that right now, though. “I’m so sorry. God, I can’t believe I did that. Maybe we can get it out?” He reaches awkwardly towards Gale, rubbing his fingertips over the coffee stain before he realizes that he’s just casually feeling Gale’s rock-solid chest in the middle of the Olympic Village dining hall and there are, in fact, other athletes swarming about, having to part around them.

And yet, Gale doesn’t seem to care one bit.

“It’s fine,” he says calmly, like he’s trying to placate a nervous child. Bucky can’t really even care because that voice will be the death of him anyways. “I’ll just change after breakfast,” Gale rationalizes. “It’ll come out in the wash, no problem.”

Bucky nods dumbly before motioning towards the dining area. “Have breakfast with me?”

Gale’s smile shifts to something sweeter, shyer, more genuine and oh Bucky wants to make that happen as much as he can. “I’d like that. Let me just finish getting some food.”

Bucky nods because, right, of course, Gale doesn’t even have anything on his tray yet. So he says he’ll save them a seat and they part ways and Bucky tries not to wonder if Gale only said that to get him to go away and won’t actually come back. After all, what would a beautiful, charming, level-headed guy like Gale see in a cocky, awkward mess of a guy like Bucky?

But a few minutes later, he looks up to a shadow standing beside the table, and there he is. He didn’t leave. Gale doesn’t quite smile with his mouth, but it’s in his eyes, the softness of his face. He sets a cup of coffee down in front of Bucky before taking a seat across the table from him.

“You got me new coffee?”

“It was the least I could do, since yours ended up all over my shirt.” Gale motions to the stain right over his left pec.

“I ran into you,” Bucky insists. But he takes the coffee gratefully and sips it with far too much need.

“I think we kinda ran into each other.” Bucky is about to say something sarcastic or funny in response, but Gale is already moving on. He really just doesn’t care that Bucky ruined his shirt. Okay then. “Thank God I found you,” he’s saying, and he actually looks relieved. “I got to the baggage claim and realized I couldn’t see you anywhere, and I forgot to ask for your number cause I’m an idiot, Jesus-“

A laugh bubbles out of Bucky’s mouth, because he genuinely can’t believe that the disappointing feeling of devastating loss he’d experienced in the airport was mutual. “It’s okay. I did the same thing.” He shrugs. “But it looks like fate just keeps bringing us together.”

“Looks like it, huh?”

And they fall into the same easy conversation that they did on the plane. Gale tells Bucky that Whiskey is doing well. She arrived safely and is already strutting around the stables like she owns the place. The equestrian facilities are located nearly an hour from the village, so being there will take up a lot of his time, but his friends, Benny and Marge, keep insisting that he needs to socialize, whatever that means.

Bucky tells Gale about Curt, and Gale is surprisingly excited to hear about his old classmate, saying he’d love to see him again. Bucky promises him that he’ll make it happen. Tells him about all the wild shit they get up to when they travel, about how close they’ve become over the years.

Gale promises him that he’ll get to meet Whiskey sometime, if he wants (yes, John very much wants).

They tell each other about their sports, about the events and the rules and everything they love (and hate) about them. Bucky tells Gale about some of the skills he has planned, which includes a skill or two that he himself actually introduced to the world stage, meaning they’re named after him in the FIG Code of Points.

“Wait,” Gale stops him mid-sentence. “You have your own skills named after you? There’s a skill in the code book called ‘the Egan’?”

Bucky nods, like it’s not a big deal. “Yeah,” he says. “Three.” Gale is stunned.

Gale tells Bucky about flying all over the world with his horse and how much effort goes into just shipping her from place to place. He tells him about how much this Olympics means to him. How he’s, you know, a normal amount of freaking the fuck out about riding at Château de Versailles. He’s done his share of major international events, but shit, nothing has ever come close to riding in an arena set between beyond-perfectly manicured gardens in front of a palace.

Both of them lose track of time, and neither of them can really remember what they’re supposed to be doing this morning instead of sitting here, lost in conversation with someone they just met but might as well have known their entire lives. Lost in pretty eyes and perfect smiles and contagious laughs, leaning across the table towards each other and giggling like schoolgirls, so close Gale can smell the coffee on Bucky’s breath.

Bucky keeps spinning around in circles in his head, trying to decide if he’s imagining the way Gale is staring at him. Trying to decide what those facial expressions mean. He decides right there and then that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if Gale is gay or straight or if they can be friends or if they could ever be more; John just wants this man in his life. He wants to make him smile and hear the sound of his laugh and just be in his presence. He wants to know who Gale Cleven is, and he wants Gale to know who he is. In a way that he’s never cared about with anyone else.

He’s been trying to play this cool. Sure, he may be failing miserably, but he at least tries not to push too much too fast. Tries to just enjoy talking to this wonderful person. Because he’s actually crazy for feeling so much so quickly. But then again, that’s kind of how he’s always been: a little crazy.

What he doesn’t know is that Gale is thinking the same thing. He’s drawn to Bucky like a moth to a flame, and he’s terrified because he knows he might get burned. Because what would such a good-looking, self-assured, and captivating guy like John Egan want in a reserved, awkward mess of a guy like Gale? It feels actually insane, the way he wants John’s attention. It’s so out of character for him and he doesn’t know how to make it stop. Doesn’t want it to stop.

So he finds himself saying, “I have some free time this afternoon. Do you wanna check out the village or something?”

And Bucky says yes with such enthusiasm that Gale thinks maybe he feels it, too.

—

Part 2

#clegan #clegan olympics au #olympics au #clegan fic #masters of the air #mota #gale cleven #john egan #bucky egan #buck cleven #gale buck cleven #john bucky egan #buck x bucky #bucky x buck #mota fic

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eyeofnewtblog · 11 months

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Things that happen at home:

So, husband had surgery on his hand today (related to the stroke he had on January Friday the 13th…can we all agree that while tragic and devastating and painful, this is also peak comedy and it’s really hard to keep a straight face with Serious Medical Professionals who are trying to give Important Medical Care Information)

Notable hilarity:

The nurses and doctors all have badges to get them through certain corridors. Once you are inside the hospital, they badge you through to certain areas. As part of their job, as part of the medical process, etc. They are focused on the patient, so if you just happen to be memorizing all the turns, they aren’t going to notice.

They also don’t get paid enough to stop you when you barge in randomly.

My husband’s surgery took two hours but they held him until the anesthesia wore off so my reasons for barging in were “he just got out of surgery and he needs his phone” (the phone did not get left with him, he was way too groggy for that) “I went home and brought the dog back with me, this is Zelda” (huge success, one nurse said it was a “great Halloween surprise”)

Got asked by a random woman how I made it past the doors, as she was in the same predicament (husband in the recovery ward) and I was like “just flag down someone who doesn’t get paid enough to care” and since I was currently holding the door open for her to “illegally” access her husband, she just did that whole face scrunch shrug thing of “I don’t want to or dislike breaking rules/medical advice, but I’m on a Husband Caregiver Mission, sooo…through the door it is.”

My husbands very drugged and groggy reaction to Zelda being there. Lots of “Oh, this is my baby. Have you met my baby? Hi baby!” He introduced the same nurse to the same dog 2.5 times. I stopped the third one halfway through because she was unhooking him from the machines and it was time for him to put his Real People Clothes back on.

Have you ever dressed your spouse while they are very very drugged and you are sober? Drunk counts.

Like, he knew it was me doing the dressing, but the conversation you have to have leading up to putting on a shirt…my siblings are so drastically younger than me that I Know How To Dress Another Person Efficiently…but having to explain to a drugged spouse that shirts go on first, sitting down, then ALSO SITTING DOWN underwear and pants get put on one leg at a time, and we pull them up together.

I think “don’t forget the fly, pull the fly up, I don’t wanna flash the nurses” has got to be my second favorite drugged up spouse line. He had full underwear, there was no risk of flashing.

My absolute favorite drugged up spouse line is when I barged into the recovery unit the first time (so no dog) and the nurse was like, “he’s still pretty out of it, it’s probably going to be another hour,”

And I’m not the best wife, okay, so in front of my drugged up husband who absolutely HATES having his blackheads or pimples popped, I say out loud “so, basically he can’t run away or fight me at all right now if I go after the blackheads on his face?”

And my husband swings his good arm at me vaguely and with zero force and says “NNgh! Fight. Nnnnnno.” And then sort of collapses and gives the nurse his giant puppy eyes and says “Don’ ledder. Plesss.”

And me and the nurse both look each other in the face and recognize that I’m really just testing how out of it he is and agreeing with her.

Also I started a frozen lasagna when I went back to get the dog…my recommendation going forward is that you should add at least a half hour onto your time if you want fresh food waiting for whatever patient you’re helping. Also it’s hard to juggle sides, so having lasagna and Texas toast with cheese shreds is…not ideal.

#humans are space orcs #fuck #we all fuck up #but sometimes it’s funny #things that happen at home #surgery

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charliemwrites · 7 months

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I’ve been thinking about “mean” (okay no they’re mean) characters.

Specifically, I’m thinking about Rook “Duke” Alistair being best friends with Actual Assassin and meanest bastard around, Velikan.

They’ve known each other since her early days back in the Air Force. Maybe Duke, freshly nicknamed and bright-eyed, got caught up in some sort of ambush with a shiny new unit.

And maybe Velikan was going to kill her as collateral, but for reasons not even he knows, he didn’t.

And now he’s got this duckling (she’s even blond and fluffy like one) that’s practically imprinted on him. Every time they cross paths (and they keep crossing paths for some fucking reason) she lights up and waves, babbling updates about her life. She doesn’t mind his gruff tone or his short temper, or the absolute mauling she receives when he finally acquiesces to spar her.

It’s not that she doesn’t know he’s an assassin. Oblivious as she can be, she’s not stupid. Just the opposite, in fact. She recognizes that approaching him at any point is like sticking a hand in a tiger cage. And yet she still does it, even when they’re out in the field.

How she’s not dead yet, for pure annoyance alone, he’s not sure. But he figures that she’s spent so much time being an inconvenience to him specifically that he’s earned the right to put an end to her.

And then he’s not sure how she isn’t dead from natural selection.

“I thought you were military,” he hisses, brushing dirt off her shirt and pants. Why is he doing so? Because he’s annoyed that she slipped on pile of wet leaves.

“I am!”

“You have no discipline, no coordination, and no sense of self preservation.”

She beams. “I think that last thing is something they encourage, actually.”

He stuffs her into a good hideout and tells her to stay while he takes care of their his tail.

It’s not just the slipping, tripping, and falling. If anything would make him believe in luck, it’s Duke having the worst of it. Falling objects and loose floorboards, changes in a guard rotation or a light coming on at the worst moment. She’s smart and quick enough to watch out for herself, but only just.

Maybe he lets her live out of pure bafflement. Morbid fascination with someone so smart and yet so—

“Stupid,” he growls, dunking her head in the rain barrel.

She comes up sputtering, but giggling. “This isn’t how you’re supposed to treat acid exposure.”

He dunks her under again for good measure. She shakes off on him like a dog afterwards and he genuinely tries to strangle her. But then she gets her sharp little teeth in his arm and bites, proceeds to inform him that he’s going to need antibiotics with a bloody smile.

Is he going to personally bring about her violent, gory end? Yes.

Is she also his best friend? Somehow.

“Do you think cinnamon floss or mint floss is better for improvised stitches?”

“I think you should just bleed out.”

“It’s not for me, dummy…. Yet.”

He’s not relieved when she gets the position with the CIA, but something close to it.

They hire him for their dirty work often enough that he sees her regularly. Her ridiculous, cluttered desk and her grotesque stash of snacks and her constant rotation of injuries because they still let her near machinery.

“You stink,” he scoffs, lifting her right out of her chair as she squeals. “You are taking a shower.”

And because she has the attention span of a fly, he goes in with her. She fusses when he gets soap in her mouth or eyes, but he just tuts that it wouldn’t happen if she were capable of doing it herself. And dignity? Long forgotten as he scrubs her down from head to toe, pinching when she complains about being babied.

“Do not act like a child, then,” he gruffs, throwing a towel in her face.

Honestly, Laswell should be ashamed.

“When was the last time you ate?” He demands, squishing her cheeks with a little shake. “Eh? When was the last time you had something other than blue candy?”

“‘S raspberry.”

“Are raspberries blue? No. They teach this in school. All that sugar has rotted out your little brain.”

It turns out the answer to his food question was “too long.” He trades her potatoes for carrots, but only after holding her nose closed until he could force peas in her stubborn mouth.

Ridiculous, really.

#I don’t… know #I just needed to write something and post it to get out of this block I’ve been having #it’s not necessarily good but…#ta-da #velikan #cod Velikan #rook ‘Duke’ Alistair #cod oc #my oc #cod #thoughts™️#my writing #weird friends #dom friends

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isa-ah · 1 year

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Last Push for Immigration

We're slated to leave at the end of November, and for everything we've managed to save, it's all going to travel expenses. We need help putting a down payment on somewhere to stay!

$455 / $3000

Kofi • Commissions • $ruckusthekid

I'm more than happy to work for it, and any help is appreciated. We're applying for asylum (where might be changing, Portugal resources are getting really slim), & our goal is to help other trans kids out of the country once we've figured out the process.

Thank you so so much for the support we've already received, and I'm honestly really excited to show y'all how it all goes down.

See ya soon!

More information about us, if you want it:

As a trans couple, my husband and I are really feeling the pressure to get out of the United States. We thought we could skim by where we are until we could leave, but he's been goaded by local police as they humiliated and condescended him in a back room for being trans, and I had my ID confiscated for saying male, and upon trying to get it reissued as female, I was kept after hours in the state trooper's office and surrounded by all residing cops left in the station as it was processed. We don't feel safe, if you can believe it.

We've flown by the seat of our pants a lot. We've been kicked out, homeless, manipulated and hurt by a lot of fucking people over the last five years, and we've always managed to make it work. I assume the same can be said for this; even if we don't get the money we need before we leave, we'll figure something out when we get there.

It's not ideal, having to do things like this, but we're in the middle of nowhere, in a food desert, and I have a highly restrictive diet that's really difficult to afford as it is. We've been trying to save for over a year now and only scraped up $2k with help. It's on par, if not over $1k each for us to fly, with our baggage & cats.

I'm doing my fuckin best and I'm willing to work for anything we make here, I'm just floundering to support us and get this together too with how absolutely shithole rancid the economy is.

No one owes us anything, there's no pressure to donate or commission me, but it would be an enormous pressure off of us to get this put together before we leave. Please.

#be mindful of what you tag this tumblr likes to kill dono posts #its so. embarrassing to have to do this but were disabled what else can we do #wait until the fake fictional fantasy time period where we suddenly have all of the money spoons and resources to move abroad?#i want to get a job as soon as were there and acclimated like im willing to do it but theres nowhere to work where we are right now #were in the middle of nowhere and everyone is already broke and trying to find work

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crying-fantasies · 10 months

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This is a life... (3)

Masterlist

Procreation is the way your people live on, how they ensure their existence out of their own short and sometimes futile lifeline, they keep their species alive, passing down not only genetic information but also in some beliefs that can be learned by the next generation.

Procreation it's an almost foreign and forgotten word for his people, they don't interface with creating a new spark in mind since it can hardly happen, you can spike whoever and not get any results, let alone carry, almost no mechs or femmes have functional gestation chambers to get a spark to end inside their bodies and it has been way too long since a new spark was given life from another bot, you want to know how long? Way before the war, that long, but with Vector Sigma and their supposed peace no bot was concerned about their numbers for a millennia and half.

At least before the war and the end of it, that's it.

Now, numbers are minimal, worst and nowhere near to the numbers they had once even in their most terrible energon lack that is dated back to when Kup wasn't even online, you ask him how long was that and Prowl answers you saying that not even the sea of rust existed then.

So, a very, very long time ago.

And so, Prowl wants to take your worry away when he goes on his day without recharging for 10 cycles straight, he tells you how important this is and how important is to have him be responsible to make this spark make it, the ones in New Cybertron and the ones in Luna-1 are ripe and trying to get their own bodies, but protoform metal is scarce and he may need to make it happen even when he doesn't know how, he will make it anyway.

You worries make him feel bad even when he tries to tell himself this is his job, wearing his usual stoic nature and acid comments, occasionally returning to your shared living unit from time to time when he really can't keep hearing Pyra Magna never ending claims on how the sentio metallico is scarce and how her blacksmith team is beyond exhausted with the continuous work or how the Senate pressure him, saying he needs to get Rodimus back with his whole ship to bring more energy to the whole operation even if Prowl has to tear apart that ship with his own servos or how the survivors of the functionalist world still need help adapting to this reality and-

"Prowl"

And then there is you, little and unafraid you that has waited for him to return home, strange human word, for Primus knows how long, he can feel and see his terrible physical situation everywhere there is a glass like structure but can't afford to see your tired eyes when you caught him trying to get some basic energon down his intake after so long without a break.

"Oh Prowl" you say his designation like it hurts you, he finally takes seat where he can, you hurry to move around even when he tells you to leave him alone, the message and plead of going to sleep on your own almost forgotten when he catches how you, organic little you, tries your luck with a concoction of energon he has only showed you how to make once when he really had enough of take outs in hopes of getting him something warm and not flying away by an explosion.

It has been a while, since someone took care of him, and he doesn't like it, not even the strange attraction this simple act places upon him, because this makes him remember how all started.

He shouldn't have been weak at that moment, he shouldn't have.

You should take care of yourself, he should take care of you, not the other way around when only the attempt of filtering energon can kill you with a little mistake, that's all it takes, he doesn't care how his spark hums, he doesn't care he feels strange fuzziness when you try to get the cube near to him, Prowl quites down the growing sound of his engine revving with sheer willpower and a stoic face plate.

How does he look to you right now? Probably a mess, absolutely destroyed to some point, his wing doors are falling to his sides because he doesn't have the strength to keep them up in the familiar ground your home is, he doesn't let you do everything, getting on his pedes to take the cube and downing it on one go, is messy, hardly different from basic energon really and the rust flakes you put to add some flavor are still on the bottom, he just takes you on his servos after discarding the cube away, smiling tiredly and as non threatening as he can when you ask if it was good.

"Passable"

You look angry, you really aren't, just so tired, just like him, it has been long road and a tiny smile doesn't catch you by surprise anymore, only getting near to his servos and hugging what you can, you clothes do little to keep you warm in the cold planet that Cybertron is with the temperature regulator out in another electric failure in your part of the city.

Prowl really needs to hunt down Rodimus and get his ship even when his scientifics tell him they are near to a new energy source, he just wants it to be fast and even if he gets it the former Primer will hear a piece of his mind.

His usual terrifying and murderous train of thought is cut short when he feels the now cold fingertips of yours pass near his transformation seams, if that isn't a clear indicator of your needs then the hormones and pheromones his nostril and HUD recognized when he put a pede back home really are, it has only subsided a little when you saw him, drained and in need of recharge.

"If you are too tired it's fine"

It isn't, because he is supposed to take care of your needs.

Interfacing with you, having sex or making love with you, is strange in more ways than he really thought to begin with, apart from the names you and your people gave to the act of sexual intercourse, he knows is a way of showing affection or a deep connection, just like cybertronians did before the war.

Still, it doesn't stop the annoying bug in the back of his brain processor.

It's a stupid idea, one as ridiculous as the image of Jazz, one of the few bots he keeps considering a friend and keep contact, totally mass displaced and holding a way too young and sleepy human infant with a smile on his faceplate that goes from one audial to the other, "The name's Pauline" Prowl has to make a double take, process this slag and then ex-vent, asking to himself who let this happen, "quite the servoful, but boy, it's a delight" Jazz does look at the end of his energies too but the smile he keeps on is giving away so much happiness, the infant look at him with those curious little eyes before looking at Jazz again, neck still too weak to support the head and Jazz helps the infant to look at the screen, "Hi there uncle Prowl" he makes a childish voice while moving the infant hand, which is slowly sleeping now, he doesn't have the energy for this and he tells Jazz so even when he laughs wholeheartedly before ending the call.

And now, he can't stop thinking about it, because it's in his nature and programming to be inquisitive, how did Jazz get a human infant? Did it come from the human he is courting? Prowl doesn't know how to answer that because there is the necessity of two to create new life.

Even as one of the best mechs he has ever meet, he knows Jazz wouldn't be thrilled to share a prospective mate, since it's impossible for a cybertronian to copulate and impregnate a human, well, he realizes once again that knowing and doing are two different things while you call out his designation, bent over in search of more contact that have almost been lost with his unnecessary thinking.

You seem to think otherwise, telling him that is okay, you'll take care of things from here, Prowl doesn't want you to tire out but he can't deny you while the lays on the berth, losing himself on your kind words, talk about him in a way he doesn't even believe while his spark pulses painfully inside his chamber, you take him again, going slow, telling him to power off his optics and he does so without a second thought, your fingers dragging along his armor and derma, leading his ventilation system to near failure with the slow pace you keep, he is worried for a moment, are you already tired? Are you bored of this? He is fast to seat again and power on his optics, he stops mid movement when he notices what you are doing.

Now, Prowl wasn't the most friendly with humans back on earth but he saw them on a regular basis, especially the ones that found their way inside the ark or the ones that roamed the streets when he was patrolling, Prowl knows what you are doing, entertaining an image, a thought that was only passing by, an idea of what you two could have if you were of the same species, he needs a minute to consider why are you doing this now, why are you doing this to him.

You are touching your soft flesh, just where he can reach without inflicting damage inside your body, you look dazed before noticing the glow of his optics on you in the middle of the night cycle, blue light shinning over heated skin, beads of sweat dragging along your body.

"It's nothing" you say while returning to move and don't look back at him, he has to take a moment, decipher what's going on, his HUD taking notice once again on the chemicals in the air and giving him an answer that leaves him blank in the processor before he totally understands what is going on with you.

When he does, his spark chamber opens without his consent, almost making you fall back by the surprise if it wasn't for the quick action of his leg armor where your back impacts, it gives a new angle that rips a moan out of you and makes him clench his dentae hard while his servos hold you near his open spark chamber and keeps you in place, you both know what is going on to some degree, he let's you do what you want and doesn't even say a word out of the hard movement and sound of his cooling fans as you start to kiss his spark and the sensible cabling around, his vox start to glitch and static fills the air in an idiom he knows you don't understand, it gives him some privacy, at least to some degree, he would be more embarrassed if you could know of the promises he says than the way his servos hold you flush against him when your flesh is nothing but restless while taking from him and all he is worth.

Prowl promises a whole future even if he knows it's futile, his logic refusing every glyph spoken but that doesn't stop him, he promises new life that comes from you, he promises he will give it to you.

If others can have it; why not you? Why not him?

It's mere fantasy, one you want to indulge and one he will let you have, computer working on four thousand options in where he can give you what you want, hearing pleas for your release, which he can give you, your fingers scratch on sensitive transformation seams and your dull, sharp less teeth bite on a cable near his spark.

Prowl tries to cool down his burning frame, difficult task when he takes a glimpse of his transfluid on you, his system is about to shut down and reboot next, internal computer showing him that all his options can't be possible and there is no way for him to help you if not to let you reproduce with another human.

The idea makes him grunt in anger.

This anger dies down quickly, feeling your lips on his, hands giving loving caresses on his cheeks, and with it is that he let's his system shut down on recharge that he needs so much.

@dundeey here is your offering, let go of the knife in @montyuh throat slowly... Let them do their Hound content (because I also want some) while you get this.

#reader insert #x reader #angst #tf mtmte #transformers x reader #transformers #transformers idw #idw prowl #prowl x human reader #prowl x reader #tf prowl

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