#then you throw all the times they were given up on or abandoned on top of it and it just feels like proof | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luveline · 2 years

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𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary steve harrington is your boyfriend now. your boyfriend. and having a boyfriend means doing lots of new things, like dinner dates and movies, cuddling on the couch and kissing — lots of kissing. but there’s one thing you guys haven’t done yet, and steve’s just asked you to spend the night. [17.3k words]

warnings SMUT 18+ only, fem!reader, fluff heavy, new established relationship, first time, an overload of intimacy and affection, p in v sex, pet names, steve being the most loving dork on the entire planet and r being equally infatuated, mentioned that r has stretch marks, proofread not perfect

this is a companion to have you seen her? you don’t have to read it to understand, but if you want to it’s here <3

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Inside a sea of flowers lies a girl. Her skin glows with colour, the reflection of pigments. Sunspots of darkest red buffeted by buttery orange, indigo stretching into magenta, whites; endless whites ranging from creamy ivory to the violet shine of snow in the nighttime.

It's as if the flowers themselves bloom over your skin. Steve blinks and everything settles, your skin returns to skin, the reflections fade from focus. You stretch your leg out absentmindedly and lean forward to follow the book resting against the top of your thigh, entirely distracted.

The room smells as bright and fresh as the florist's itself. The flowers he'd given you, more than he could ever name, permeate everything. Most remain in good condition two weeks later, where some wilt despite your dedicated care.

Your fingertips are pin-pricked by the thorns of a rose's stem, injuries sustained in the hours you've spent preening each bouquet. You bring one such fingertip to your lips and suck lightly for a moment like it'll draw the small pain from your skin.

He leans against the doorway and takes in your appearance indulgently. Plaid pyjama bottoms hug your thighs. Your socked feet wiggle along to the sounds of your Walkman, music loud enough that you've missed his entrance.

He doesn't want to scare you into flinching and ruin the content little bubble you're in but he's certainly not about to turn around and leave after waiting all day to see you, no matter how selfish it might be to disturb you. I'm only human, he thinks.

"Hey, beautiful," he says. You don't hear him.

Steve bends at the waist to unlace his shoes before stepping onto the plush carpeting of your room. He weaves between vases and skinny buckets, repurposed cookware and every mug you own, worried that one wrong move will domino your intricate arrangements and spill flowers everywhere.

You catch sight of him before he's made it to your side. You flinch as he suspected you would, only a small jump but a jump nonetheless.

Steve's face creases in sympathy as you pull off your headphones, orange foam padding around your neck. "I'm sorry," he says, expecting you to be at least a little peeved at his sneaking. "I knocked, I swear."

You abandon your book carelessly and are only slightly kinder to your Walkman as you tug the headphones from your neck.

"Steve," you say, smiling.

"That's me. Hey."

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, white sheets rumpled in your wake as you scramble to your feet. Steve doesn't know who does what first but he opens his arms and you've opened yours and you fit into the circle of his embrace like you were made to.

"Sorry to scare you," he says.

You're not as confident as he is. Where Steve throws his arms over your shoulders, quick to press his mouth to the skin of your forehead, your hands draw tentative lines up his back.

To be touched so carefully is numbing in the best way. Steve wonders how his affection for you can continue to grow, more when you laugh half-breathless into his chest and look up, pinning him with your bright gaze.

"That's okay," you say, your happiness to see him palpable. It makes his chest hurt.

Steve puts some space between you to hold you at arm's length, one hand clasping your shoulder and the other following the curve of your neck.

He feels almost too happy to speak, like the words won't come out right. You seem to feel similarly, smiling wide, your lips pressed together tightly.

"I missed you," he says finally. Your reaction emboldens him; your eyes crease with pleasure and he has to duck down for a kiss.

Just one, pressed chastely to the skin left of your cupid's bow. You lift your chin in reaction, your hands searching up towards his shoulder blades.

"I missed you too," you say.

He decides to push his luck and kiss you properly. Your lips are warm under his and your cheek is aflame under his hand as he cradles your face.

"Haven't been lying out in the sun again, have you?" he asks as he pulls away. Your eyes flutter open.

"Huh? No, I've been reading inside all day."

"Good. You'll get sick, you sunbathe so much," he chides with no real heat.

He squeezes your face mildly and you steal another quick kiss. Steve would let you steal as many as you want to no matter the duration, but you stick to just one.

"Are you hungry?" you ask. You don't wait for an answer, skirting around him.

His hands miss your skin as soon as you're out of reach. He follows you to the kitchen like a lost dog hungry for scraps – scraps of your voice in the shadow of your exhale, any small flash of your skin, the back of your wrist as you pull open the refrigerator door. Steve situates himself by the sink so he can see your face. Your arms quickly grow heavy with fresh vegetables and a precarious china dish, a familiar carafe slipping in your fingers.

"Here," he mutters, reaching for the glass carafe with both hands.

"Thank you," you say, giggling. "Thought I was gonna drop it."

You set everything down on the clean counter. The sun kisses your skin where it shines golden-orange through the window. A bouquet of tulips sits in the sill, thin petals translucent and bright like the bulbs are made up of sweet maraschino cherries.

"I would've caught it."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Super fast reflexes. LaRusso style," he says, putting down your carafe. Fruit slices and rose petals bob on the water's surface.

"The Karate Kid?" you ask, pushing up your sleeves.

He smiles as you walk towards him. "Exactly. You like that movie?"

You turn on the faucet and wash your hands without looking, your eyes drawn to his face. "I loved that movie. I've only seen it twice, though. Once at the movies, once with Dustin."

"You watched it with Dustin?" he asks.

Your eyes flit between the sink and his face as you turn off the faucet and shake your wet hands over the basin. "Yeah, and his mom. She's really nice, you know?"

"She's a real treasure. It's her kid I'm not too sure about."

You laugh and he loves it, less when you flick your still-wet hands at him and pattern him in tap water.

"Stop, idiot," he protests, leaning away from you.

"It's raining, babe. I don't control the weather."

"Sure."

You grin over your shoulder and flounce to the counter where your wooden chopping board resides. He's desperate to be close to you but doesn't want to look it.

It's too early to show her how much of a total loser I am, he thinks, turning to the sink and washing his hands so he can help you make dinner and steal some closeness.

"Did you have a crush on him?" he asks.

"Dustin?" you ask, horrified.

Steve laughs and rubs the slippery bar of soap between his palms. "No, weirdo, Daniel LaRusso. The Karate Kid."

"Nah, Mister Miyagi was more my type."

Steve drops the bar of soap into the basin and struggles to pick it back up, only pausing in his panic when he hears your self-satisfied giggling. It's infectious.

"That's so sick. Dude was ninety years old," he says, rinsing the suds off.

"I'm kidding!"

You're still laughing to yourself when he joins you. You've already chopped the inedible tops off of three long carrots and peeled them. You start to cut them into uniform batons, your quick peeling and knife work both impressive and daunting to Steve, who's only just weaned himself off of a steady high school diet of TV dinners and chips.

He shakes his hands at you. Flecks of water hit you and shine on your skin like the fine mist of morning dew, a dampened flower. You smell like one, though Steve supposes that's inevitable when you're sleeping surrounded by a crush of petals every night.

"Can I help?" he asks.

You blow a raspberry. "I should kick you out."

He flicks more water at you and you hide your face in your shoulder, the soft skin of your cheek pulled cruelly.

"Don't hide."

"Stop flicking me."

"It's raining, babe. I don't control the weather," he says dryly.

Finely spritzed, you open your eyes just enough to see him through your lashes, smiling like you wish you weren't. Steve holds his hands up in surrender, mostly because they're dry enough now that any flickage is negligent, and because you're much too pretty to be hiding away. The sun has begun to set, its descent marked by a gaussian blur spreading across the countertops and cabinets, your arms blanketed in a glow. Steve finds your face practically dietific to begin with – the light makes you something else entirely.

He wants to say something too heartfelt, say, Fuck, you're so pretty.

He's not that brave.

"You want a drink?" he asks.

"Yes please. You know where the cups are?"

He grabs two glass cups from the cabinet othweise pillaged for makeshift vases to your left and you cut the celery, a small lull in conversation filled only by the crisp crunch of your preparations and the slosh of Steve's pouring. The flower petals have bled their pigments into the carafe's cold water and turned it a transparent vermillion, something so quietly inordinate that he can't not mention it.

"The water's purple, babe," he says.

"Huh?" you ask. You hold the cutting board aloft, your knife guiding chopped vegetables into a shiny metal colander.

"The water," he says, punctuating his claim with a sharp click as he puts your glass down in front of you.

You discard your knife distractedly. "Oh. It must've been the rose petals."

"Can we still drink it?"

"Sure we can. Rosewater is really good for you. Though I'm not sure if this counts as rosewater, actually, I think you have to steep the petals in hot water first."

You shrug your shoulders and bring your glass to your mouth.

Steve frowns. "Are you sure?" he asks worriedly. He doesn't want you to get sick, especially from flowers he brought you.

You get a crease between your eyebrows, lips pursed quizzically. "I'm sure. You worry too much, Stevie," you say.

It's like being struck. You've never called him that before.

The nickname had sounded easy as breathing for you to say and had felt easier, felt right, like you'd used it a hundred times before.

He laughs, says, "Fine, but if you turn purple don't say I didn't warn you," and proceeds to work himself into a poorly contained frenzy.

He takes the colander to the sink and washes the carrot and celery sticks more thoroughly than he needs to whilst he composes himself. He listens with ears made keen by his racing heart as you turn on the stove. The fan hums. There's a loud crackling as you peel back the aluminum foil covering a medium sized casserole dish.

"I forgot to ask you, you like buffalo wings, right?"

He turns off the faucet and almost misses your question, too busy thinking So she called you Stevie, are you twelve? Get a hold of yourself, you-

"What?"

"I can make something else, if you don't."

Steve shakes the colander to drain any excess water as he reassures you. "No, that's okay. That's perfect. I love wings, and I'll love them double if you're the one making them." After all, you make a mean BLT.

The oven door swings open and he turns in time to watch you bend at the waist and insert the dish of chicken wings, your eyes narrowed. Adorable.

You straighten up and dust your hands off, bumping the door closed with your hip. "Awesome. Here, let me-" You take the colander from his hand like you're going to whiz away and then evidently change your mind, stuttering to a jolting stop. "Thank you," you tell him earnestly.

"You're welcome. You did all the hard work," he says, caught off guard.

"Super hard work, cutting up some carrot sticks," you say, mock-agreeably.

Steve reaches out to pinch your side. "Just because you made it look easy doesn't mean it is. It would've taken me double the time to make something, and it would've been, like, a grease fest," he says. "You already made the chicken, too, so that's more hard work you're not thinking about."

"The chicken marinades itself," you admonish lightly. You step on toes to kiss the high point of his cheek. "But thank you."

You turn to tip your veggie sticks into a bowl with a quarter inch of water at the bottom. Steve prods your kiss mark unthinkingly, the skin tingling from a combination of your gifted kiss and the affectionate tone you'd used.

"I got all kinds of dip. Hummus, artichoke and spinach, tahini, ranch. Do you like those?" you ask hopefully.

If he didn't he'd try and find a way. "Who doesn't like ranch?"

"I'll make fries too, okay?"

He really, really likes you.

Steve still looks kind of silly eating at your small kitchen table. You're in the seat that's crammed against the refrigerator and he's in the opposite. You're so close that your calves keep touching, often enough that you both forgo apologies in favour of sending the other a small smile. Less of an 'I'm sorry,' and more of a 'We touched again,' a confirmation that he's real and you're real and you're eating a home cooked meal that you made together.

He's so handsome, so ridiculously lovely, and the food is good but not good enough to keep your attention. Not when Steve takes a sip of water and his arm moves, the muscle beneath his skin shifts, pulls taut, and his shirt tightens around his bicep and you're just as hopeless as you were the very first time you'd invited him in.

He's saying something and it must be pretty funny because he's laughing, a chesty, giggling thing that sounds boyishly happy, like he just can't help it. You're not sure what he's laughing at but it's enough to set you off, infectious as it is.

"So Robin's in the back pretending to search for this movie that doesn't exist, and I'm thinking, shit, maybe I should call the police. Because he's got both hands in his pockets and, whaddya know, one pocket is like bulging out."

"Steve?" you ask, trying to sound forceful, befuddled that he's laughing at all. "Someone came into the store with a gun?"

His laugh peters off. "No," he says reassuringly. "Klondike bar."

He chews through a big mouthful of celery and you dissolve into giggles.

Cleaning up with Steve ends up being just as fun as cooking. He stands at your side with a hand towel wiping off dishes as you wash them, hip to hip.

"I can wash them," he says.

"That's okay."

You pass him a wet plate. He wipes it dry and sets it to the side. It could only be five minutes of this before you're done. Weirdly, you wish it had taken a little longer.

It's nice to spend time with him.

"I was thinking you could come over to my place tomorrow, if you wanted to."

Your heart flutters and you're hit with the realisation that you might get to do dishes with him tomorrow, and again, that today isn't a one off. That Steve likes you enough to kiss you and buy you flowers and invite you over.

"I've never been to your house," you say.

"I know. It's supposed to be really hot out tomorrow until seven. I thought you could sunbathe for an hour and I could keep an eye on you, you know. We can get takeout, listen to music," he continues, his voice soft, a melodic cadence to his suggestions.

Why is he trying to sell you on it? You hand him the last plate and twist, holding your dripping hands in the basin.

"I'd love to," you say, smiling. "Though I resent the idea that I need to be supervised."

"I just don't want all those brains to turn to mush." He puts the plate down on top of the others and reaches for your hands without saying anything, eyes on your face as he dries off your fingers gently. "Though you were super adorable when you had heat stroke. All clingy and giggly," he teases.

"Heat exhaustion," you correct. You feel like there's water in your ears.

"Mh-hm."

When your hands are to his satisfaction he swings the towel over his shoulder and takes them into his own, your fingers hooked gently over his. He rubs the fingernail of your index finger and then moves up, smoothing a path over your knuckles. He arrives at your pinky finger and wraps his index finger around it, massaging the length of it with the pad of his thumb.

"Are they still hurting?" he asks, hushed.

"A little bit. Not really, though. It's like after a splinter."

He holds your hand open, palm bared, his thumb pressed to the bottom of your last three fingers as he bends to look at your fingertips. Every touch, every detail, every movement he makes feels urgent to you, your heart racing fast as a mouse's.

"Poor girl," he mumbles to himself. He looks up and sees what must look similar to panic on your face. "Are you sure they're not hurting you? They look sore."

You're gonna say Yes, I'm sure, but he straightens up and brings your hand to his lips before you can muster the strength. He kisses your smattering of tiny injuries and grins when he's done, your entire body awash with a dizzying pleasure.

His hair is falling in his face. You take your kiss-warmed hand from his grip to tuck the longer strands behind his ear. Your heartbeat plays loud. You worry he can hear it.

You stall with your index finger shaking over his skin. Steve covers your hand with his, the look in his eyes unreadable, and you know he's going to kiss you.

You shut your eyes. His breath warms your lips as he closes in, his nose sliding against yours slowly. Your anticipation is a hand closing around your throat, at first a welcome touch and then dizzying breathlessness, an aching for the brush of his lips. He squeezes your hand where it cradles his cheek.

"Breathe," he whispers in bemusement. "Breathe, baby."

You suck in a breath and lift your chin as Steve knocks your nose with his and crosses the distance, his lips parted just slightly. Your head moves back under his kiss, your eyes screwed too tight. Steve takes your hand from his face and guides it over the slope of his shoulder until you're cupping his neck, his fingertips trailing down the length of your arm and moving under, palm to your shoulder blade. He pulls you in, makes the softest little sound against your lips that tickles madly and has a warmth like the setting sun filling your chest.

He kisses slow and sweet, his lips a softness against yours. You can feel as he starts to smile, as he takes your face into his hand, almost pulling at your skin in efforts to be impossibly nearer.

He laughs first, a huff that fans over your twin smile. You can't help but join in as you search up, ardent and excited, laughing into his open mouth until every kiss is a struggle.

"Y/N," he says. It doesn't even sound like your name. He could've said babe or baby or sweetheart and it would've burned the same.

"Do you have to go home?" you ask knowingly, reluctantly opening your eyes.

He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand.

It's getting late, a warm Thursday evening becoming night. The street lamps outside burn yellow-white in the darkening sky and the flowers on the sill have lost their shine. Steve is the brightest thing in the room.

He checks his watch and frowns. "I probably should."

"But I'll see you tomorrow?" you check.

"Did you wanna stay the night? I'm not working Saturday."

You have the first thought that most girls your age might have at a new love asking that question: sex. For a moment, a split second of a moment, Did you wanna stay the night? becomes Do you wanna have sex with me?

You give him a guilty smile and he mistakes it for something else. He says, "You don't have to, I can drive you home. And uh, you know, I would…" You bring your hand back to his face. "We wouldn't do anything you don't wanna do."

"I know," you say quickly. "Yeah, I wanna stay the night." Which is scary to admit. Scary to want.

Whether anything happens or it doesn't, you want to go.

You walk Steve out and he kisses you goodnight chastely. You watch him all the way to his car and wave as he drives away, standing in the doorway until his tail lights are a mere suggestion of white in the distance, small and bright as a pearly star.

Robin shrieks as her chair reclines back as far as it can. "Shit, why does it go back this far?"

Steve is more than tired from a full day of work and while he loves Robin to the point of dying for her, he can't handle stupid questions. His short fuse is further shortened by missing you, and he groans.

"You fucking reclined it all the way?"

Steve watches in the rear view as she raises her eyebrows and hugs herself with both arms. "It went down too easy, is all I'm saying."

"That's all?" he asks.

He knows exactly what she's implying and he refuses to feed into it, even when she hums to herself happily. Her happiness lasts for only a few seconds before she's springing up and giving herself whiplash.

"You haven't actually fucked in this seat, right?"

"Christ, Robin."

Her nose wrinkles. "Have you?"

"No! No, I haven't done anything in here… in a while. And me and Y/N haven't-" He bites his tongue.

"You haven't?" she asks. There's no teasing to be detected in her voice, only curiosity.

He keeps his eyes on the road but his thoughts travel elsewhere. You're so close he convinces himself for a second that he can smell your sweet floral scent, a hundred different flowers clinging to your skin. He lets himself sink further, imagining the feeling of your cheek under his hand and the softness of your skin and fine hairs, the shape of your eyes as he leans in.

"Loverboy?" Robin asks expectantly.

Steve clears his throat. "What?"

"Ew, you're being disgusting."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You didn't have to," she says, and then laughs. "In deep, huh?"

"Shut up."

"I'm serious! I'm serious, you like her. And it's nice," she draws the word out hesitantly, "to see you happy. I guess. After I broke your heart, and all."

He doesn't blush like he might have before. Steve had liked Robin, a lot, and it was easy to understand why: she's the first real friend he's ever had. He's more than over his crush now, platonic (with a capital 'P') suits them well.

"Thanks, Robs," he mutters, rolling his eyes.

"You're welcome." She whistles. "So, you haven't fucked?"

Steve turns his face. "Don't you think that's, like, a private thing?"

"I'm your best friend."

"Y/N is an entire other person who isn't your best friend."

"I'm not gonna tell anybody."

Steve knows that. He sighs to himself, conflicted. He doesn't wanna kiss and tell but he does need advice. "She's staying over tonight."

"Ah, huzzah!" Robin cheers. Steve worries his eyes might get stuck inside his head from all the rolling. "And you're gonna…"

He chews his lip. "I don't think so. I think I scared the shit out of her when I asked her to spend the night."

"I doubt that, she still said yes. But, you know. Not all of us lose our V-card when we're in junior year."

He hadn't even thought about that. "Shit. Having a girlfriend is terrifying."

Robin laughs and throws the seat back up. "If she's scared, it might not even be about hooking up. You've been together for, what, a week?"

"Two weeks today."

Robin nods thoughtfully and then shrugs. "Forget about sex and everything and just have fun."

"I'm not a nympho." He isn't. He doesn't care if you want to hook up or not (though care might be indelicate – he won't lie and say he hasn't thought about it).

"I know. I'm just saying, there's no point worrying about if you will or won't."

He takes the turn onto Robin's street. Her house comes into view, and he suddenly realises, "I wasn't worried until you brought it up!"

"Then forget I said anything!" she shouts back, laughing.

Steve laughs too as he pulls up at the curb outside of Robin's house.

"It's fine," he says decidedly. He's still worrying about it because if you do want to hook up he's not exactly in practice right now, but underneath it is that building anticipation, an excitement. "Fuck, she's so fucking pretty, Robin."

"Sure is, idiot," Robin agrees, unbuckling and kicking open the door. "Wear a rubber or your kids will be pretty, too."

She closes the door with a smug smile.

"You're awful!" he calls at her retreating figure. She waves over her shoulder and doesn't look back.

Steve drops his head into the wheel and startles himself when it beeps.

By the time he's pulling up outside of his house he's forgotten all his sex-related nerves, any anxiety occluded by a want to see you. He rushes to clean up the huge mess he's made over the week in the kitchen and the smaller mess in the living room, soda cans and take out and all the gross things he'd rather die than have you see.

He throws open every window and heads out to the back yard to make sure the pool is actually swimmable. The sun is high but falling. The day's most punishing heat is over. Perfectly safe for sunbathing.

He doesn't have anything fancy but he fills a jug with water and tops it with badly cut orange slices to cool in the fridge while he waits for you.

Steve stretches, smells himself, realises he smells like sweat and checks his watch in alarm. Your visit is fast approaching but if he does it quickly he can shower before you get here.

He's not right. He's still in the shower when you knock the door. Steve almost kills himself as he scrambles over wet tiles. He's still basically soaking as he drags his clean clothes on, hair sopping and quickly saturating the neck of his shirt.

You smile when he opens the door, though your smile quickly fades. "I'm sorry, were you showering? I know I'm early, I just wanted to see you."

You look like you always do – pretty, so pretty, your hair a little messy, your shirt crinkled at the bottom, the slit in your skirt showing a tantalising stripe of your thigh. A breezy, thin outfit for the hot weather.

Steve couldn't say why but he needs to kiss you badly. He takes your shoulder into his hand to hold you in place and kisses the corner of your smile, your cheek, the small stripe under your earlobe. He lingers there for longer than the others, feeling the ever-present heat of your skin beneath his lips. He presses a second kiss over the first and then pulls away.

"Don't be sorry," he says. He pats your face. "I'm glad you're early. I wanted to see you more, I swear."

"You make everything a competition," you grumble, though your eyes evidence your bliss.

Steve leads you into the living room and you drop your backpack onto the couch. The sight of it makes him fawn, because you really are staying the night and you look cute and you'd wanted to see him. It's enough to make him ecstatic. It likely shows on his face.

You turn on your heels, taking it all in. "You have a really nice house, Steve."

"I'd say thank you, but it's all my parents'."

"Where are they?" you ask.

Where are they usually? He doesn't really know. "Chicago, I think? My dad's on business and mom always goes with him, so…"

You turn your eyes from the open patio door and back to Steve where he stands in the middle of the room towel drying his hair. "Lucky me, I get you all to myself," you murmur.

"Do you wanna take your shoes off?" he asks. "There's water in the fridge. Are you hungry?"

You peek up at home where you've bent down to unstrap your sandals and smile. "I'm good, Stevie," you say softly.

When you've stepped out of both sandals you hold them by the straps and they dangle from your hand, swaying with your steps as you walk towards him.

You look up at him and tilt your head to one side. Always charming, Steve's fondness for sky rockets.

"Are you okay?" you ask, a murmur, raising your hand to his bicep. Your fingers slip under his sleeve. "You seem frazzled. Long day?"

It felt endless, knowing that you'd be waiting for him.

"I'm fine. I'm good. I'm great, actually. Got a whole night with my girl."

"And tomorrow, too," you say, sounding as happy as he feels.

"What are we gonna do with it all?" he says teasingly.

Again, a flash of that nervous smile. He hadn't meant to insinuate anything at all. He's about to clarify when you bring your hand to his collar and kiss him.

Steve really likes your hands, he's fascinated by them, the way you move them and the way they feel, their tentative but tender touch as you feel along the ridge of his collar bone. You come to a stuttering pause as he kisses you harder, the wet of your tongue addictive as he opens you up.

He takes your face into both hands and pushes your face to one side so he can move in closer, thumbs careless where they press into your cheeks. You taste like something sweet and the sound you make is sweeter as he dedicates himself to your top lip, a quivering breath as he slows.

He tries not to feel smug at the lost glaze in your eyes when they blink open.

Your bottom lip shines. He wipes it clean with his thumb. "You wanna go sunbathe now?" he asks mildly.

You nod like he thought you would, slow, but then there's a sudden clarity on your face. "I brought you something."

You move out of his reach and he follows. You're only stepping towards the couch where your backpack rests, unzipping it and in no rush as you pull your pajamas out and lay them on the cushion. He tries very hard to pretend he hasn't noticed your underwear, a pair of pink lacy panties, but he thinks maybe you can tell as you turn to him with a tupperware of cookies in your hands.

"More flower shortbread?" he asks happily. "You spoil me."

"I think you're someone who deserves to be spoiled."

Steve's mouth goes dry. He holds his hands out for the tupperware and hugs it to his chest, throwing a hand around your shoulders to tug you close. He presses a kiss to your forehead.

"Thank you," he says.

"You're welcome."

He takes your hand and pulls you out into the backyard. You beam, your head tilting back to take in the warmth of the fading sun.

Steve drags two sun loungers close together and you waste no time in stretching out on one.

You bloom.

There's no other word for it. You unfurl like the petals on your beloved flowers. Your body relaxes completely. Steve reaches across the gap to take your hand again and they hang between your languid bodies.

You're smiling as you balance your red shiny Walkman across your chest and click play, adjusting the volume until the feminine scratch of Cyndi Lauper echoes over the concrete space of his backyard. You close your eyes soon after, and Steve knows he might not get as much conversation out of you as he craves but it's worth it to see you like this, to hold your hand.

He struggles to open your tupperware with one hand but doesn't consider letting you go, eyebrows furrowing at the stubborn lid.

When it clicks it's loud and he inhales fast, worried the entire thing is gonna topple off of his chest and your perfect shortbread biscuits will be destroyed. Flower petals adorn the top. Steve picks them off while you're not looking – they're beautiful, of course, and don't taste like much, but the texture is super weird.

"How was work?" you ask.

He takes a big bite of shortbread. "It was fine. I mean, it was fucking boring as hell. We watched Back to the Future again."

"I've never seen that movie."

"Never?"

"No. Is it good?"

He squeezes your fingers and pushes the rest of the shortbread into his mouth. It's not too sweet. You've dusted the tops with fine sugar that melts in his mouth and the crumbly texture is awesome, better than any store bought cookies he's ever tried.

He swallows and lets his head fall back, greedy enough to pick up a second one. "Wanna hear a story?"

You turn your head towards him and your eyes crack open. "A good one?"

"Depends on your politics."

You close your eyes. "Tell me."

"The first time I saw Back to the Future was at the Starcourt mall with Robin. We were high out of our minds, total whitey's. And I had a concussion, so I was… worse."

Your eyes open fast. Your one shoulder lifts, like you might have to protect him from something. "What?" you ask, frowning.

He pulls your hand towards him, a tug, not to come closer but more in an everything is okay, kind of way.

"It's fine. Anyways, we laughed our asses off and left before the end. The first time we watched it sober I thought it was the wrong movie."

"Why did you have a concussion?"

He shakes the tupperware at you until you take one. Only when you've bitten into it does he answer, though he's not entirely truthful, "It was like, you know how there was a fire?" he asks. You nod. "Well, everything in starcourt was fucking janky, and we went down this one elevator shaft and- concussion." He explains without explaining. He doesn't lie.

No way is he ready to tell you about all the weird shit he's had to deal with. Not yet. He doesn't wanna scare you off or scare you at all, and the upside down shit is fucking terrifying.

You take his explanation without any suspicion and he feels a little guilty.

"You should get workers comp," you say, brows pinched.

He chuckles and rubs his thumb over the back of your hand. Being cared about like this is so weird, he thinks. How mad and worried you are over something that happened before you knew him makes him feel hot, something electric and melting on top of his chest.

"You wanna be my lawyer?" he asks, grinning.

You reach for another shortbread. "I wouldn't know the first thing about it."

"You'd look cute in a suit, though."

"Shush," you mumble. You roll your thumb over your shortbread until the flower petals fall off. "They're so pretty but they feel so weird. Maybe I shouldn't put them on there."

He looks at the scattered flower petals on the floor to his left where you can't see them. "Nah, I like 'em."

You glow. "If you like them I guess I'll leave them on there."

"That's generous. You'd never be a good lawyer."

"Lawyers can be generous! They do stuff for free, right? Pro-bono. Like that one movie last year, with the guy who kills his wife, but he doesn't kill his wife, but he totally does, um…"

"Jagged Edge."

"Jagged Edge! Exactly."

"Was she pro bono?" he asks sceptically.

"Maybe not," you say, and laugh. "That movie sucked."

"Better than Back to the Future."

You choke on a laugh and pull your hand out of his to dust yourself off. He misses your touch but doesn't complain, clicking the lid back onto your tupperware and hiding them under the lounger from the heat. The sunshine is amazing, not too suffocating but definitely warm enough to melt him into jelly. He'd been a little worried about wearing shorts rather than jeans but you hadn't mentioned anything.

He combs his hair out of his face and wonders if it looks awful. It probably does. Only the strands closest to his neck feel chilly with damp, half dried by the sunshine.

"Steve," you say shyly.

He turns back to you and you're sitting up, one leg off the lounger.

"What?"

"Can I… you don't mind if I take off my shirt, do you?" you ask.

He's quick to assure you. "No way, beautiful. Throw it off."

You huff a laugh and cross your arms. Steve's fascinated by the way you take off your shirt, how you've dragged the front over your face where he would've grabbed the back and pulled indelicately. Your back arches and your chest moves up as it comes off.

You're wearing some sort of animal print bikini top underneath, a cheetah or a panther or something. Steve watches the curves of your breasts rise as you breathe in and then snaps his gaze to your face, guilty. You aren't looking at him, busy fiddling with the Walkman in your lap.

"Do you have anything you wanna listen to?" you ask him offhandedly. "I brought this and A Night at the Opera, but if there's something else you wanted to-"

"Night at the Opera?"

"Queen?" you ask.

"Like Hammer to Fall?" he asks.

You turn to face him entirely, skirt ruffled by a gentle breeze. "That's their new one. Night at The Opera is from, like, '76? '75? It has that really long one. And there was," you start giggling, your words all jumpy and honeyed, "there's one called 'I'm in Love with my Car.'"

"Sounds like an album for me. I'll go get it."

You spring up, something he can't read on your face. You look fucking insane shirtless, all soft and shiny, the lightest sheen of sweat illuminating the hills and dips, the slope of your shoulder, the lengths of your arms. "No, I'll do it. I'll get the water at the same time."

He watches you pass back into the house from over his shoulder. "It's in the fridge!" he calls.

"I guessed!"

He wonders for a second why you'd sounded nervous before remembering your underwear. His cheeks go a similar colour as he tries not to think about it, only he can't not think about it. They had not constituted a great deal of fabric, and then he's wondering how much the current ones are made up of and feeling guilty for that too.

She's my girlfriend, he thinks. I can think about these things. Not, like, obsessively. But in passing. God, she's fucking beautiful. He descends into a panicked reasoning.

Steve scrubs his face with his hand and looks out over the pool. It's been a while since they used it. He can't say he wants to use it after last time, and he definitely wouldn't consider any night time swimming but if you want to splash around in there in the daylight hours he's not gonna stop you.

You flounce back onto the patio with the cold jug in your hands and two glasses hugged to your chest, the cassette in the other. "Here, Stevie, can you-"

"Yeah." He stands up. He takes the cassette and jug from you and you manoeuvre the glasses into your hands. "Swap?" he asks.

You swap one glass for the cassette and the two of you sit down in tandem. Steve pours water for you both as you take Cyndi Lauper out, the cold a blessing. He holds his glass to his face and sighs.

"It's still hot even though it's late," you say knowingly.

"Endless Indiana summer." You're struggling with the cassette, your lips puckered in confusion. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"I think I jammed it."

He watches you struggle with the lip that doesn't wanna open. "Pass it over?" he offers.

You pass it as soon as he asks, moving to sit by his side. He's very gentle with the small machine that you've once or twice affectionately monikered your 'baby'. He doesn't know a lot about tech and doesn't know why he offered. It had felt automatic. You had a problem and he just wanted to fix it.

The button that usually opens the door is pressed down, but the door is closed. He digs his fingernail under the button and pulls it up until it pops back into place and tests the play button.

The cassette starts to spin.

"Sticky button," he says easily.

Your thigh presses into his. "You're a genius, Harrington."

"That's Steve to you, babe."

You laugh and shift ever closer, until your arm is pressed to his arm, both perspiring lightly and too warm to really be touching like this. He should pull away, or you should. One of you should.

"Whatever you say…Harrington," you murmur through the corner of your mouth, smiling so nicely that he can't be bothered to argue.

He tucks his hand between your arm and your naked chest and pulls it toward him. You drop your head against his shoulder and turn the Walkman in your hand.

"How's your brain? Jello?" he asks lightly, flexing his fingers against the crook of your elbow and resting his head on top of yours carefully

"Jello pudding pops," you say wistfully. "You remember those? I haven't had one of those in years. Think they still make 'em?"

Your question is out of the blue. Enough to worry him some more.

He brings the arm furthest from you to your head and brushes his pinky finger up from your eyebrows to your hairline. "You feel warm."

"I'm perfectly fine, nelly."

"I'm allowed to be nervous. You were kind of out of it last time."

"We've barely been out here for thirty minutes," you argue with barely any heat.

His hand smooths down to your neck and then back up. He pulls your cheek back with his thumb and then drops his hand. "Just tell me if you feel sick, okay?"

"I promise I'm fine."

"Jeez," he groans, his lips barely parted. A fond annoyance. "Think a guy was asking the world."

You let your weight lean on him, the hand of the arm he's hugging moving around his back until you've found his side. You move it up and down sluggishly.

Like this, Steve has a perfect view of your lovely shoulder. One hidden behind, the other bared.

"You're beautiful," he says.

You tense up and he hates it, bringing his hand to your coveted shoulder. He rubs a line up the soft slope, the curve of your neck and then down again until you've relaxed.

"You… can't even see my face," you murmur. Your breath is a small hot patch into his sleeve.

"I don't need to see your face," he says, feigning a frustration he doesn't feel. "Think I haven't stared at you enough to know? And I was talking about your shoulders."

You laugh and drag your face up. "My shoulders?"

"Well I can only see one. But I assume the second is just as nice."

"You're weird," you say.

There's a certain weakness to it. He thinks maybe you need to hear him say it again. He doesn't hesitate.

"You have nice shoulders."

You shake your head almost imperceptibly. Steve takes the player from your lap and turns it down by half, putting it on the floor with the water jug.

Your legs poke into his as he encourages you towards him.

"Come on," he says, "I don't bite, babe. 'Less you ask me to."

"You'd like that, you sicko."

He laughs and really bundles you up, a too warm hug where your face presses to his shoulder and his hovers above yours. He squeezes and drags his hand down your arm, rough but not cruel.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Shh, I'm busy."

You've wrapped your arms around his waist loosely. Steve tugs your thigh over his until your legs are overlapped, as close as you can be while sitting side by side like this. He'd pull you completely into his lap if he thought you'd let him.

He can feel your smile.

His hand soothes a kinder path over your arm before he gives in. Shyly at first, Steve drops his mouth to your shoulder and leaves it there, barely a kiss.

Don't be a loser, he thinks.

Cautious but sincere kisses. He drops them in a uniform line down your arm, your sunned skin hot under his lips. Kisses not meant to be anything but kisses, little worships, a scattering of affection. Indiscriminately. His mouth passes over blemishes, beauty marks, the fine hairs at the top of your arm. You curl tighter around his waist.

He kisses back up the hill of your shoulder and his lips part. He sucks very, very gently, kissing the same spot until he's adorned your skin with shiny crescent moons. He doesn't know how long he kisses you for. He doesn't want to stop, or pause, or do anything but this.

His hands have moved to your back. One toys with the tie of your bikini top unthinkingly, the other rubbing your shoulder. You're limp in his arms.

He rubs his nose against your shoulder for long, quiet minutes. Perfumed by a thousand flowers and yet you still smell like yourself underneath it, your skin an indescribable scent and secret, something he selfishly doesn't ever want to share. Steve can't make himself move from you and you don't seem inclined either.

He groans. "Alright, you hungry?" he asks.

Your fingers stretch across his back. "Maybe."

"I'll call Mazzio's. What do you want?"

"Anything."

Steve pulls back to give you a fierce look. "Just tell me. I gotta know your favourite toppings. S'like, a boyfriend thing."

"A boyfriend thing?" you repeat, smiling wide.

You tell him what you like and he squeezes your shoulder, disappearing into the house to call the pizza place. When he returns you've laid out in his lounger, your eyes closed like you're sleeping. The worst of the heat has fallen away and cloud cover threatens to give you the chills.

"Come inside?" he asks from the doorway.

"No… come and give me another hug. It was nice."

"I bet it was," he mutters, a feigned irritation that's completely overturned by how quickly he does what you tell him to.

The lounger isn't big enough for both of you. Steve's already laughing as he climbs on top of you, careful but not really as he crushes the fabric of your skirt with his knees and thighs and wraps his arms tightly around your neck, rubbing your foreheads together roughly.

"This what you meant?" he asks through a grin.

"No."

Steve's bed smells of him unequivocally. You're trying to withhold from lying down and sniffing, wondering curiously if that's something you're 1) allowed to do, and 2) supposed to want to do. Is it odd to like the way he smells as much as you do? That familiar bergamot, the almost smokey undertone of lavender, cedar. It makes you feel doped up. Your happiness has you heavy-limbed.

"You head up, okay? I'm just gonna lock the door," he'd said.

So here you are, backpack at your feet. After greasy takeout and an entire movie holding hands you think you're probably as content as it's possible to be in this body and in this life.

You hear Steve's footsteps up the stairs and lie down flat against his pillows, turning your face to sniff indulgently, the fabric cold under your cheek.

He walks in and he's all rumpled clothes and smiles, his hair in total disarray like you've never seen. As soon as he's crossed the threshold he's pulling off his polo and you think Oh fuck, that was quicker than I imagined this happening. Your heart feels fit to explode but he's barely looking at you, his sights set on the huge oak dresser at the end of the room.

You watch his arms as he walks past, your heart a hummingbird as Steve says, "Did you pick a movie?"

You gawp at what you can see of his naked chest, the side of a pec. You've never seen him undressed like this. Your distraction leaves you quiet, and Steve turns to you with a soft looking t-shirt in hand.

"Baby?"

"I didn't," you say, your voice scratchy. "Uh, sorry. I just laid down and…forgot."

He bends forward a little before he puts the shirt on and his entire chest moves. You can't help but look at it. Steve has… Steve has pecs. Pillowy-

"Y/N?"

"Sorry," you say, blinking hard.

"Are you tired or something?" He turns back to the dresser and opens a different drawer and pulls out a pair of sweatpants. "Don't look," he says teasingly.

You avert your eyes.

"Do you wanna change?" he asks when he's done, leaning back against the dresser with his arms crossed.

You don't know what Steve wants, if he wants to hook up or if he doesn't, and you don't mind either way. (A bad lie – you really, really want to.) (But it's cool if he doesn't want to.)

You won't be upset if he doesn't make a move, but if he does you'd prefer to be less sweaty.

"Can I shower? Not to wash my hair, just…"

"Sure you can."

Steve holds out his hand and you take it, grabbing your backpack as he pulls you off of the bed and into the bathroom. He drops your hand as fast as he'd taken it to open the cabinet under the sink. "Listen, the shower doesn't work. Well, it does, but the hot water only gets lukewarm and I don't know how to fix it. But the bath works fine. Uh…" He pulls a basket of girly toiletries out. "You can use whatever you want, my stuff or my mom's, whatever."

You stand by the tub. "She won't mind?"

"It's fine. I'll have to get you stuff next time you stay over." He moves you to the side with his hand on your hip and you look up as he moves down, turning the faucet. He holds his hand under the stream and messes with the temperature until he's satisfied. "Sorry. I should've thought about all of this before I asked you to spend the night."

"It's okay," you say quietly. "I didn't think about any of that stuff either. It's like I said, I- I just wanted to see you. Wasn't thinking about shower gel."

You laugh awkwardly. It ebbs when he grabs your shoulder and gives you a little shake. "Half as much as I wanted to see you."

He ends the shake with a good rub of his thumb.

"Want me to get in with you?" he asks with a smirk.

You laugh and start shoving at his chest playfully. "Get out," you whine.

He puts his hands up in surrender and you close the door between you, unsurprised when his voice rings out against it. "You come here often?" he asks.

"Do you?" you ask. Your voice sounds loud.

You strip off your clothes and your bikini top and slip into the water.

"Every morning for the last twenty years."

"What do you recommend?"

"The three in one."

You gawp and giggle, horrified at his suggestion. You know he's lying, his hair's too nice to use something like that. There's a few seconds of silence where you shudder at the new heat and rub yourself down.

"Which shower gel is yours?" you ask, looking between bottles unsure.

"Just use whatever you want. What movie d'you wanna watch?"

"Can't you choose?" you ask, bringing each gel to your nose until you find the one that smells like him. You lather the soap between your palms and run it over your body.

"I picked the last one."

"And you're good at it!" You reason, laughing loudly at your own joke. Steve's reluctant chuckles echo from the other side of the door.

You go to ask, Why are you still standing there, dork? But you're afraid that asking will make him move, and you like him too much to want that to happen.

"You were half asleep, how do you know it was good?"

"You were rubbing my hand!" you argue.

"You liked that?" he asks. His tone is honest.

You cup water in both hands to wash off your shoulders. You don't want to answer and give yourself away. Of course you'd fucking liked it, is he kidding? Boys. No, you think, not boys. Steve.

And after the stunt he'd pulled in the back yard, too. The nerve.

Warm water laps at your naked stomach. You think about his lips running over your shoulder and how tenderly he'd held you. Suddenly the water feels scorching, and you climb out over the lip as Steve says, "How much longer?"

"Stop stalking me."

"You're taking forever."

It's barely been five minutes. You go dizzy with pleasure at the idea that he might miss you so badly, the implication that he likes you that much.

You wrap a towel around yourself and squat down to sort through the contents of your bag for your pajamas and underwear.

"I'm getting dressed," you inform him, putting your clothes on the counter so you can dry off.

"I've never been any good at that," he says.

You pull your underwear over damp thighs and laugh under your breath so he can't hear it and get spurred on. "At getting dressed?"

"Right. Just awful. You should see me in the mornings, it's like, what limb does this go on?"

You stop scrubbing the towel over yourself to ask, "Are you flirting with me?"

"I'm trying. You're dodging the punchline."

"Wouldn't you want me to teach you how to take them off, rather than on?"

"How presumptuous!" You can hear his smirk.

"What was the punchline?" you ask, eager to draw the attention back to his bad joke rather than your suggestion.

You pull your shirt over your head and step into your pyjamas pants, tying the strings into a neat bow.

"Well, because you're so ridiculously nice I thought you'd offer to teach me how to do it, and then I'd get to say something like, 'Baby, I'm a visual learner.'"

"That's awful," you mumble, bent at the waist as you hop into your socks.

He hears it anyways. "Say it to my face."

You look yourself over in the mirror. Fresh faced, shirt sticking to your damp chest, pajama trousers high on your hips. You tug your shirt over the waistband. An entirely normal outfit for a normal night.

You open the door and Steve falls onto his back into the bathroom, looking up as you look down. He must've been sitting with his legs hiked, too much weight on the door to fall in readily. You laugh guiltily.

"Are you okay?"

He blinks. His eyes look impossibly wide.

"Steve?" You tilt your head to the side.

"You look killer," he says.

You mime like a slasher over his prone body and try to do the sound effects. Steve giggles and you decide it's your new favourite sound. He covers his face with his hands, one shoulder lifting from the floor with the force of it. You've never heard him laugh like this, all high pitched and gasping.

You can't decide whether you want to kneel down and kiss him or kneel down and pretend to stab him to death. You think the latter will make him laugh some more and you'll do anything for that next hit, falling to your knees with a threatening hand poised above you.

When Steve laughs really hard his mouth opens in a big smile, all his top teeth on display and shining.

You drop your hand to his chest, having lost all steam. The need to tell him how handsome he is, pretty, lovely, beautiful, all of it, is maddeningly high. You don't want to ruin the moment and you won't, spreading your palm flat over his chest and leaning down.

"I'm gonna kill you," you murmur, lips barely parted as you look between both of his eyes, memorising their flush of dark lashes. You drag your hand down his torso. "Why are you laughing?"

"I mean, if I'm gonna die-" He blows a big puff of air up his face and his hair moves like sea grass. "I'm okay with it being you who kills me."

"You'd let me kill you, baby?" you ask, still quiet, bemused and endeared and on the precipice of something big.

"I'd let you do a lot worse," he says.

You brush the hair out of his face. "I don't wanna do any of that stuff."

"Good. I was getting nervous. Here, give me-" he lifts up off of the ground to kiss you once. A chaste peck that leaves you a smiling mess.

You climb off of him before he has to ask and put your hand out to help him up. He takes it but doesn't need it, surprisingly lithe as he stands and pushes you back into his room. You laugh when he encourages you none too gently into his bed again. He flips on the TV, swaps the VHS out for one you can't see and then joins you at the top, lying down with a suffering sigh.

He stretches and groans. You ogle him.

"What's the movie?"

"Don't laugh?" he asks.

"No, I won't."

He shifts so you're two halves of a heart curved towards each other. "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." You nibble the inside of your lip. "You said you wouldn't laugh!"

"Am I laughing, Steve?"

"Just about," he grumbles.

You don't know why but it feels more than natural to curl up towards him. Any insecurity is fixed quickly when he pulls you close, one arm behind your head and propping him up tall, the other coming over your waist loosely, his wrist to your hip but his fingers not touching you.

You have to turn your neck to see the TV across the room. After a few minutes it aches and you consider moving, then Steve manoeuvres to press his lips to your head and you forget all about it.

His shirt's ridden up. His stomach is soft from the way he's on his side, and you can see the dark trail of hair leading from his navel that disappears into the plaid of his pants.

You reach out to slip your fingers under the hem and wrap your arm around him, feeling the croft of silky hair at the small of his back. You trail up, your finger bumping over the smoothed ridges of horizontal stretch marks.

"Can you feel that?" you ask.

Steve slowly moves his elbow. His face level with yours, he asks, "Can you feel this?" He scratches his fingers lightly over your hip.

You giggle with your mouth closed. "Yeah, I guess it was a stupid question."

Steve moves back and you turn to look at him. You're very close. You're in bed.

"Wasn't stupid," he says quietly.

You raise your brows and incline your head to his until he's laughing.

"It was misguided," he allows.

"I don't know why- I mean, I have enough stretch marks. I know they're not-" you laugh, a bubble of sound that warms his lips, "not dead."

"Maybe yours are special," he teases.

"Wanna find out?"

He laughs and kisses you. Pressure that slowly builds, a chaste pressing of his lips to yours. It's miraculous how quickly your breathing syncs, how you're inhaling at every parting, how your mouths open at the same time. He takes in a big sigh that lights you up and pulls you in like it's nothing.

He dedicates himself to your top lip. There's urgency there that wasn't before, and you're feeling it too. His mouth a crescent of heat, he takes your lip between his and sucks gently. You gasp and your hand twists in his shirt.

"Shit, sorry," he says, "I haven't done this in-"

"It's okay. It's okay, I liked it."

"Yeah?"

You huff against his lips. He's smiling as he does it again. You shudder at the feeling of his teeth, his careless nipping, your hands searching for comfort.

Everything goes slow. He kisses slow, he touches slow. His hands move over your back, slip under your shirt and climb up. Not looking for anything, just looking.

Your hand climbs over his chest. You brush your fingers through the ends of his carefully before pushing up, weaving into the soft strands at the back of his neck. You rub his thumb over his skin in time with your kisses.

Steve encourages you onto your back. You feel a heat growing in your chest, somewhere lower, as he hovers over you, his lips pushing you down into a space that doesn't exist. Your fingers are busy learning the back of his head, fingertips moving over his scalp, scratching lightly as you trail back down to hold him in place.

You kiss up. Steve's hand knocks your shirt up your chest as he squeezes the skin just below your breasts, breathing hard.

He hesitates. His fingers pinch your shirt as if he's going to pull it back down.

"Steve," you murmur. "It's okay."

He kisses your cheek without looking at you, his eyes on your naked skin. "You sure?"

You bring your knees up until they brush his hip and push them away from him, petting the hair out of his face. "Yeah," you say, smiling.

More kissing. Steve ducks down and holds your face steady in one hand, giving you short-lived, wet kisses as his fingers approach your chest. He pauses, watching your face as his fingertips bump into the swell of your breast. "Okay?" he asks.

You lift your chin. "It's fine, Harrington."

"Steve," he corrects steadily, the pads of his fingers ghosting under your nipple to caress the side. His thumb rubs a quarter circle just underneath and you feel the soft skin perk up.

"Steve," you utter.

From there you endure some of the worst kisses of your life – worst as in, life changing, as in sticky, as in everything you've ever wondered about and more. You know you're hopeless. You feel yourself melt into nothing as he massages your peaking nipple, laughing into his mouth when he squeezes and hitching when he squeezes harder.

He pushes the small nub between his index and middle finger and his teasing stutters. He holds you like this and kisses you and you don't know how much time passes. With him, time feels implausible. Like a guideline you ignore.

When you think you might be more him than yourself he pulls away, leaving your lips hot and bruising.

"Can I take this off?" he asks, pulling the hem of your shirt over his finger. His eyes are so brown. You can't believe how brown they are.

"Please."

"Don't- You don't have to say please with me. Not with this, okay?" He rubs his hand over your breast and presses it deep into your heart. "Not with anything."

"You'll regret that," you say, heat like nothing you've ever felt in your chest and the tips of your ears.

"I don't think I will."

He kisses you again like he just can't help it and sits up enough to work your t-shirt from under your back. The excitement gets mixed up with enough insecurity then to make you nauseous.

Steve drops your shirt onto the floor and plants his hands on either side of you. "Oh, you're fucking pretty."

His eyes take you in. It surprises you when he spends half the time staring at your face, entirely too much of it at your eyes. "You know how pretty you are?"

"You tell me enough, Stevie," you mumble, aflame.

"Wanna hear it again?"

You don't say anything. His eyes bore into yours. His lashes kiss.

His grin is practically dietific as his lips curve up. "You're beautiful. 'So fine and pretty,'" he says, almost but not quite singing.

"You're just as handsome," you say, bringing your hands to his defined cheeks. You smooth your hands over his face and ears and hair, holding it all away from him. "You're…" You drop your hands to the curve of his neck and follow over his trap muscle. "You're amazing."

"Stop," he says. You take it for 'keep going'.

"Handsome sounds too formal," you mutter, almost to yourself, "but it's true. You're handsome. More than handsome, you're- you're funny and kind and-" You shake your head. "I think you're the first person I've ever wanted like this."

You don't mean to get emotional. 'This' comes out so rough it burns, and you swallow it all down, blinking fast.

"Like 'this'?" he asks.

He brings a hand to your face, holding your cheek like you're made of solid silver, like you might bend under his touch.

"Like this," you say again. "If you want to."

"I want to," he says, nodding happily. "Of course I do."

You laugh and he laughs. There's a gap where you're both thinking, Oh, we're doing this.

And then Steve's in motion.

He pulls his shirt over the back of his head and you're starstruck. His hair's a dark mess, the ends cast light by the TV. You reach up to smooth them down and it's too late, Steve's ducking down for a smattering of heavy kisses across your lips, one corner to the other. His nose taps into yours and you turn your face to accommodate him, his tongue a wet heat as he pushes it into yours. You reciprocate as best you can, eyes closed tight and hands all over the place. You start at his collar. One hand runs over the twisting of chest hair over his pecs and the other holds his face to yours. He curls his fingers around your wrist, the other paying some much needed attention to your neglected breast. He plays until both nipples are aching and then some.

He spreads your legs and your heart skips as he puts his knee between your thighs, lips starting a ruinous journey downward. He sets kisses like tiny sparks of heat against your jaw and under it, nose dragging down your neck as he turns. You cup the back of his head as his lips part, as he takes your flesh between his teeth and sucks tenderly.

"You smell like flowers," he says, kissing his half-hearted hickey.

"Some idiot bought me a florists," you tease.

His hand slides under your back. His knee presses to the bump of your cunt. "Best decision that idiot ever made," he says, words soaking into your neck, smothered.

You roll your hips shyly against his knee, a negligible friction as he rubs your back and scandalises your neck.

You lift your hips high and he gets the idea very quickly, fingers pinching at fabric until your thighs are out. He tries to move away and you hold him there, dazed by his ravenous attentions.

He laughs and strokes your arm. "I'm gonna take them off, okay?"

You drop your hands from his hair sheepishly and he moves back onto his knees.

"Pretty panties," he says. You don't think he's teasing.

"I thought you might like them," you tell him honestly.

"I do. They're dainty," he says, sliding your pajama pants off of your ankles. "Almost don't wanna take 'em off."

You feel a little bit nervous and decide to direct your attention to his own pants. There's a noticeable bulge at the seat of them. Your cunt twinges at the sight.

Steve's hands worship at your ankles. "Is everything okay?" he asks.

"This is the first time you're seeing me like this. I'm just nervous."

He pulls your foot onto his thighs and fiddles with the elastic of your sock. "If you could see what I'm seeing, I don't think you would be."

You try to imagine yourself as he sees you. Mostly naked and kiss mussed after a day of sun and fun and his affection, the dopey, slightly shy smile, with one arm crossed under your breasts and the other picking nervously at the lace of your underwear.

"You're fucking killer." He mimes a stabbing motion and you giggle. "I don't have to let you kill me, seeing you like this might just do it."

You let him keep your ankle in his lap but bring the other leg up, folding it across your thigh to hide your cunt from view. His eyes dip to the twin globes of your ass and he groans. Your ears strain to hear it.

"Are you gonna take them off?" you ask, eyes on the curve of his dick, eyebrows raised cheekily.

"You don't wanna take them off for me?" he asks. Your startled expression makes him giggle as he slides off of the bed and hooks his thumbs in the waistband.

He kicks them off, his boxers tighter than you'd pictured. You hike up on your elbows and bring your knees together, biting the inside of your lip as his hand drops to his cock. He readjusts the sizable length and a hiss of breath escapes him as he does.

"Fuck," he groans. "Shit, you're fucking- you're fucking everything."

You rub your thighs together coquettishly. "Come back and kiss me?" you ask. He takes a step forward. You tilt your head towards your shoulder. "Are you gonna take those off too?"

You had your suspicions, but the real thing makes your heart stop.

Steve kicks out of his boxers and holds his hands out. You spread your legs and he climbs on top of you, hands braced above your shoulders until he's negotiated himself into the gap. You feel the curve of his cock press into your stomach as he kisses you.

You try your best to be casual and let him kiss you, but you're curious and excited and you can't not think about it now that it's happening.

You stroke your hands down his back and leave them loose at his waist. "Steve," you whisper, breaking the kiss early.

"You wanna touch me?"

"Please?" you whisper.

"What did I say about please?" he murmurs. He doesn't sound very scolding.

"That I don't have to say it."

He leans back on his haunches. "So don't."

You sit up, hands between your laps and wringing. "Uh," you reach out. "Tell me if I do something wrong?"

He softens. "Sure, baby."

You lean in and Steve pulls you closer by the calves. Your hand trembles as you take his cock into your hands. He's thick. Fat. Girthier than you'd thought he would be and twice as hairy, though trimmed neatly at the outskirts, you slide your hand down to the underside of his shaft and pause.

When you align your hand, bottom of your palm to the very start of his shaft, the tip of your index finger misses the tip by two whole inches. You encircle him curiously.

"Spit in your hand," he says gently.

"Oh."

You spit into your hand and press it back into his cock, spreading it with loose strokes over veined ridges. The curls of his pubes brush your hand as you reach the bottom. The entire length of him jumps.

You're honestly dazzled. You laugh out of the corner of his mouth and look up at him with a happy smile. "You're packing a lot of heat here, Harrington."

He looks relieved. "Do you know how fucking scary it is when your girl has your dick in her hand and gets the giggles? I started second-guessing everything I thought about myself."

"I can see why you're popular with the ladies," you murmur, eyes bright with mirth as you dip down and kiss the tip where a dot of precum wells.

"Oh, don't, baby."

"Huh?" You sit up tall. "Do you wanna stop?"

"The opposite. I don't know how long I'll last, especially," he pulls you by the chin to his lips, "in this pretty mouth."

More giggles. He swallows them in their entirety, hand wrapped around your wrist to pull your fingers from his length. Your hands go limp, languid under his gentle kisses and featherlight touching.

You pull away from each other but fight to kiss anyways, cheeks aching with a smile as he steals one, another, a handful of sweet, catching pecks.

You pout as he pulls away.

"D'you wanna lie back?" he asks, hand behind his neck. He rakes his fingers through his hair.

You lie down with his pillows under your head.

Steve smooths his thumbs against the waistband of your panties.

"It's okay," you say, wiggling your hips from left to right encouragingly.

He drags them down. Over the slopes of your thighs and the hills of your knees, he slides them down to your calves. He pulls them off one ankle and they hang off of the other. You lift your leg and let the dampened pink fabric fall onto his rumpled sheets.

He crawls forward, hands hooking under your knee. "Lemme see you, babe."

You bring your legs up and spread your thighs, feet between his knees.

He takes his cock into his hand and tugs. "Fuck," he says, eyes heavy, "fuck, are you wet?"

"You've been kissing me for hours," you say bashfully.

"I'd kiss you longer if you're gonna let me. Can I touch you?"

You push your palm down to your cunt and spread yourself just slightly, more to get used to it than to tease him. "Yes, please."

Steve crawls until you're close and you settle your legs either side of him. He does as you'd done, pushing his thumb to the small well of slick at your entrance and spreading you open with his fingers. "Fuck," he says again. "Shit, baby. Look at you…"

He pushes his slick-wet thumb into the waiting bead of your clit. "There?" he asks.

You remember to breathe. "Yeah," you say, eyes drifting closed as he familiarises himself. You drop your head into his pillows, neck aching. "Right there."

"Aww," he says sympathetically, free hand pressed flat to the inside of your thigh, holding you open. "You have the cutest fucking pussy ever. Shit, i'so wet, you must have such a crush on me."

You smile to yourself and hide your face in a pillow that smells like him. "A huge one. It's kind of embarrassing."

"I bet it is."

His fingers probe your clit. It pulses under his touch, swollen and sensitive to every brush of skin.

"Can you come kiss me some more?"

He looks like he wants to argue.

"Please, Stevie."

Steve reaches over your chest and pulls open his nightstand, procuring a new box of rubbers. You flick his chest. "Is that a new box?"

"Maybe."

You kiss his shoulder and he rips one open with his teeth. "How many's in there?"

"Enough, you minx." He rolls it on.

Kissing. His weight pressed over you, his cock against your mess of slick. You whine as he grinds down into you hard, his tangle of dark curls a blessed friction.

His hips jerk back and the tip of his dick hits into your clit.

"Are you gonna tease me all night?" you ask.

"Hmm," he pretends to think about it, dropping his head next to yours, his arm wrapping around your neck. You turn your face to his. His eyes are closed and his smile is nearly peaceful, though the crinkle between his brows speaks to his growing desperation. It's as casual as any cuddle with him before. "I could."

"But you won't."

"No, I won't."

Steve gives you one last kiss and situates himself between your legs at full height, pushing your legs back until the tops of your thighs kiss the bump of your stomach. He takes his cock into his hand and guides the tip down the length of your crease. His head bumps your entrance.

You let one leg fall to the side, arm crossed under your rising chest, looking at Steve with bright, adoring eyes. He's beautiful above you, pumping his cock with one hand. The other plays at your weeping hole, fingertips dipping inside two at a time.

You clench around his fingers as they ease in.

"Shit, you're tight. You okay?"

You nod voraciously.

He spreads his fingers wide, his eyes rolling back showfully. "Fuck, babe… Gonna spread you wide open, yeah? Is that what you want?"

"Want you inside."

"Yeah?" His eyebrows are furrowed, a certain stress to his voice.

"Are you gonna make me say please?"

He takes your thighs into both hands and lines up. His grin is both salacious and adorable, a familiar mischief adorning his pretty features. "Never."

The stretch is a lot but he takes it slow. Really slow, his hands on your skin and constantly measuring your reaction. Which must be a super ego trip for him, because your face goes slack with pleasure and you have to focus a lot of energy on smiling rather than frowning; there's somethingwonderful about being this close to him. His cock pushes into you and you gasp with every gentle intrusion, every half inch of space he takes until he's halfway inside and staying there.

He bends over you and takes your face into his hand. You hadn't realised before you met Steve how often your face could be held by someone, and how safe it could make you feel. How the brush of someone's fingertips over your cheek could tickle and somehow you never want to move away. He pulls his hips back, rolls in, and your eyes crease with pleasure, lashes touching as you squint.

He smells like everything you're used to. He must be thinking the same thing as you, because he smiles, and says, "You might as well be a flower for how much you smell like one."

Bergamot. He touches something sensitive, gummy walls stretched around him. You whine under your breath.

Lavender. "Make that sound again?" he asks.

Cedarwood. The murmur of the TV fades away entirely. The only things you can hear are you and Steve. You; your panting, the high warping of every breath as his thick cock works you open. Steve; a panting all his own, a scratchy roughness. You try not to make too much noise in efforts to hear him.

The slightest hint of citrus. An impression. Maybe his breath, something lingering from the orange-infused water you'd sipped on earlier. His breath fans out over your collar as he bottoms out, a sound like a hiccup ripped from him.

You wrap your hands around his back. "Oh my god, Stevie."

"How's that feel? That okay?" He stays very still. "Pretty baby, taking all of me right now." He starts to move his hips in leisurely circles.

You pull him down for a kiss, a world away from being able to answer intelligibly. You're so full it aches, so full – the blunt tip of his cock pushes into your sweet spot and you have to break the kiss to gasp for air.

"Feels so good," you whisper, rubbing his back unhurried.

A shiver courses down your spine as he pulls out to push in again. The sound is filthy, an erotic slapping as his thighs hit into yours and he moans. He fucking moans.

"Fuck, Steve. Can you go faster?"

Steve forces his forearms under your shoulder blades and his forehead presses to your collar, lips sluggish as they kiss your chest. He pulls your nipple into his mouth as he starts to thrust into you rhythmically, sucking and nibbling and twisting, his ministrations sending little bolts of pleasure down to your throbbing cunt.

He kisses hickey after hickey into your chest. You're too busy getting fucked out to notice, lavished by his mouth and numbed by his cock. Every thrust starts to hit deep, and every thrust pulls an unintelligible sound from you. Panting turns to moaning, moans turn to mewls.

"Hear how wet you are? Do you hear that?" Steve asks as he pulls away. He flicks at your bruising nipples and pouts when you jump. "Sorry, I'm sorry. Not my fault you have the cutest rack ever."

"Steve!" you cry, flushing with an embarrassed heat.

"What? It's fucking true." He takes your hips into his hands and hits in hard, cock prodding your spongey g-spot unapologetically. "Cutest pussy, too."

He brings his hand down to your cunt and slows his pace, thrusts shallow and eyes wide as he spreads you open. You can feel your hole shaping around him, the stretch as he opens you up. His thick fingers press into the bead of your clit and he starts to draw, tight messy circles in time with his thrusts.

"Taking me so well, babygirl."

You cup your aching tits and feel them sway with every thrust, every hit of his thighs into yours. A sticky mess grows between you that leaves your clit wet with slick. Steve fights to find purchase as he spreads your lips, thumb coming up to pinch at it.

He moans and looks up at the ceiling, his throat bared as he rolls his hips and pulls you onto his cock. "Fuck…" he groans, beggy and out of breath.

You stare at him, unabashed in your rabid attraction.

"Fuck, Steve," you say between hitching breaths, "I'm lucky you're mine."

His gaze jumps to yours. He snaps his hips and you squeal happily. "Say that again."

"I'm lucky you're mine," you say without missing a beat. It's true.

He holds your hips in an iron grip and ruts into you, deep-seated and unrelenting. He's barely a half-inch back when he's rubbing back in, moulding you to the shape of his cock. Dark curls press into your clit as he leans forward.

"You wouldn't believe how perfect you look on my dick." He grinds down, pulls out and thuds back in.

Your face screws up.

"You like that, baby? You want me to do it again?"

You nod and open your arms. Steve falls into them, letting you wrap him up in a grip so tight you can feel the suggestion of his ribs, his chest hair scratching your chest as he repeats the motion. You squeeze your eyes closed and whimper into the top of his head, hands pulling at his back as he rocks in again and again and again.

"Y'making such a mess on me."

You're not surprised. Every thrust into your sopping heat sounds loud in the quiet of his room, and your slick is everywhere. Wetting the thatch of pubes around his cock, the insides of your soft thighs.

"Steve, can you- can you-"

He presses his fingers back to your clit. "This? Sorry, you're just gripping me tight, I had to hold onto something," he apologises, sounding a short fall from reverential. "I got you."

Your sticky thighs start to shake as he fucks into you, the quick rub of his fingers against your clit tightening the coil inside you until it's snapping hard. You can't even warn him, chasing the circles he's making with your hips as you force your face into his pillow and fall apart.

You want to hate the sound that you make. It's an embarrassing combination of a squeal and a breathless gasp, only partially muffled by the fabric under your lips. You find yourself unable when Steve chokes on his words, stuttering, "F-fuck, oh fuck, sweetheart, you sound like- like heaven. You fucking feel like it, clamping down on me."

Steve fucks into that extra snugness and you can see on his face that he's close.

You blink out of the haze of your climax and cover Steve's hand where it teases your overstimulated clit, pulling it up and around your neck. You slide your arms around him and scratch up his back lightly, his hips staggering into yours as you say, "You gonna cum too, baby? Please?"

"Fuck," he groans through gritted teeth.

You clench your walls down around him and the drag is insane, better when he gets his final burst of energy and fucks into you with big, rough thrusts, your knees clamped around his hips. His teeth close around your shoulder and he bites you, maybe harder than he means to, a white hot pain that lasts a split-second, his hitching breaths hot in your skin. His hips slow and his entire weight falls into your tummy, wrought with post-orgasm aching.

You rub his back, damp with perspiration.

He kisses an apology over his cruel hickey.

"Fuck," he whispers.

His kisses move up and he moves too. You both hiss – disturbed, sweaty, blood still pumping fast. He's only adjusting for the height advantage, his mouth at your ear.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." You have a lot more to say, but you need a second.

Steve makes a humming sound at the back of his throat. "Can I go get a towel? I'll be right back."

"Yeah, Stevie. Whatever you wanna do," you say lightly, rubbing his back and hoping each pass of your palm implies the depth of your fondness.

Steve is cautious as he climbs off of you. You close your eyes and bring your hands to your sweaty face, fingers over your eyes before pushing them to either side of your forehead to stare at his ceiling, entirely blissed and in disbelief.

Steve climbs over you with a towel in hand. You can feel the warmth coming off of its wet corner.

He drops it onto your stomach and you go to pick it up. He grabs your hands in both of his and holds them, joined, against your shoulders. "I'll do it, but just-" He ducks his face to yours. "Let me kiss you."

You smile happily and close your eyes, fingers flexing in his grip as he brushes his lips against yours, at first gently and then with an enthusiastic pressure. You're worn out from everything and can't respond how you want to, but if Steve minds he doesn't say anything, hands squeezing your hands and his lips all lazy and curled up against yours.

Your chest hurts.

Steve keeps a hold of one hand as he breaks the kiss in favour of cleaning you up though quickly drops it to take your shaky thigh into his hand. Spread wide, he wipes every trace of slick he can find, especially kind to your centre.

He's already discarded the condom and wiped himself down. You reach out to stroke the start of his damp snail trail as he throws the towel on the floor next to your discarded clothes. Pulling the sheets where they'd fallen to the bottom of the bed over your naked bodies, Steve slouches onto his side.

"Come here," he says, pulling you into his chest with infinite tenderness.

You turn into his hold and ram your face into his skin, hand searching for the tempting curve of his bicep.

He drops a kiss into your temple and then another. You feel surprisingly awake, his body a hot and heavy thing beside you.

"Do you feel like talking?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," you say, giggling. "Yeah, sorry. God, Steve."

He bends at the waist to cuddle you like he's shielding you. "I know."

You lie there in his embrace and you can't stop thinking about it. That was perfect. That was fucking perfect. Right? You want to ask him. You'd never felt that pretty or pleased before in your life.

"God, that was fucking perfect," Steve says.

You rub your nose against his chest and giggle, an overabundance of joy bubbling messy at the surface. "I was just thinking that."

"Yeah?"

"Oh my god."

"I'm kind of pissed off. Like, if that's the standard, how am I gonna live up to this every time?"

Every time, you think.

"Maybe we just got really lucky. We're never gonna have sex that good ever again," you theorise.

He starts laughing, big, contagious chuckles that boom from the centre of his chest and catch you by surprise. He sounds as happy as you feel.

"Don't jinx it." He rubs his hand over your shoulder blades.

You kiss his chest lazily and he slinks down under the sheets with you, dragging you up until your face is eye-level with his. His eyes are closed and you close your own, moaning as he crushes you to his chest and starts to pat your back.

It's an immense domestic pleasure. You couldn't explain why, but the continuous, steady rhythm of his firm patting makes it easier to calm your racing heart.

"You look really beautiful," he says.

"Your eyes are closed."

"So? You looked beautiful when I closed them. I just want you to know. And your sounds… God, I'm gonna be touching you all the time if that's what you sound like."

"I love how you sounded too." You rub his chest with your knuckle. "I love that you sounded like that for me."

"Because of you."

"I meant what I said. I'm really lucky."

Steve pushes his hand behind your ear and draws your face from his. You open your eyes and find him already looking at you, eyebrows raised. "Thanks for telling me?"

"Shut up! You know what I mean. I'm lucky to have you."

"If you're lucky I'm fucking blessed."

"I've never heard you swear that much."

"And it's entirely your fault," he jokes.

You're okay with that.

You tuck yourself into Steve's neck and trace the lines of his body. The small roundness of his Adam's apple and the ridges of his collarbones, the small dip between his chest muscles and the line underneath his pec. You go to just below his ribs before needing your hand between his torso and his arm, hugging him like he's hugging you.

The hickey he'd given you on your shoulder twinges, reminding you of his maltreatment. You place your lips against his throat and mouth lazy kisses until he sighs in content. When you know you've lulled him into a false sense of security, you take his skin between your teeth and nip.

"What's that for?" he asks in bemusement.

"You tried to take a chunk of me."

"Shit," he says.

You kitten lick the tiny welt you've bitten into his pale skin and he tenses. Your eyebrows jump in surprise, wondering if he likes that, and deign to give him a smattering of wet, sloppy hickeys to find out.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, fingers brushing over the small embeddings of his teeth in your shoulder.

"Not really," you say, mouthing up until your nose is to his cheek. You close your eyes as he turns his head. You can feel his breath against your lips. "No, I like it, anyway."

Your arms slide over his back as he pulls back to take you in. You stare at each other, not sure how to say anything that hasn't already been said or anything that hasn't been felt. He looks pretty and ragged, perfect hair mussed and dainty brown lashes in damp triangles. The dim lighting shadows his face, the lightest brightness under the well of his eye.

"I wish I was one of the old masters."

He smiles. "What's that?"

"Like, the great artists. Painters, masters of their craft. Like the guy who painted The Girl with a Pearl Earring."

Steve starts to shift onto his back. You lay your arm across his chest and hold your weight off of him. He doesn't like that very much, pulling you in with one arm crossed over the small of your back, the other held high but loose. He brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, fingernails sliding over your skin. "Is painting something you like to do?"

Your heart melts at his genuine interest and his willingness to listen to something seemingly tangential. "I wish I could paint like they could. I would paint you."

"Yeah?" he asks, clarity brightening his face. His eyes are lined with pleasure.

"I would. The," you raise your hand to his face and start to trace each feature as you go, "bridge of your nose. The slopes here," his brow, the dip underneath, careful of his eye, "your cheekbones. Your lips. This line here, and this one. This one, too."

"Are you trying to tell me I have wrinkles?" he jokes.

"Only this one." You smooth the pad of your thumb between his eyebrows. "Though I think it's inevitable."

"Oh you do, do you?" he asks, abruptly loud. You're startled into giggling, dropping your hand over one of his eyes in your shock. He kisses your palm.

You fall silent. You take your hand to his jaw and press the invisible remains of his kiss to his cheek as you lean in.

"I think… I think I'd want to paint you. Just so people know," you murmur, touching your forehead to his, "that you were this handsome."

You wait for him to laugh and he doesn't. Like the trepidation of a sneeze that doesn't come, you feel off-kilter.

"Steve?"

He shushes you and kisses you for the hundredth time tonight. You could happily take another hundred, eyebrows pinching up at his silence.

He kisses you until you forget what you'd been saying, until the aching in your abdomen can't be ignored.

"I need to go to the bathroom," you announce regretfully.

"Yeah, okay. Want me to come with you?"

You laugh and climb off of him. His hand reaches for you as you go, his fingers catching yours until you pull away. You grab the damp towel and your sleep shirt off of the floor, slipping it on as you walk away. Steve acts like he's been grievously injured.

In the bathroom you clean up properly and pull on the spare underwear you'd had the foresight to bring. You stretch until you moan.

"You okay?" Steve calls.

"Stop listening to me in the bathroom, perv."

You can hear him stand. His footsteps in the bedroom. You shiver in the cool bathroom and smile at yourself really hard in the mirror.

When you return he's done the same as you, changed into new boxers. You stare at his thighs unabashed as he steps into his pyjama bottoms, yours rescued and folded on the end of the bed. Steve holds his hands out at your approach and tugs you towards him, not hugging but close. He pushes your shirt up to your ribs and you struggle to see what he's doing, craning your neck.

"What?" you ask.

He follows the impression of a stretch mark down your skin. "Did you feel that?" he asks genuinely.

You'd more than felt it. He pulls up the waistband of your panties thoughtlessly and traces another stretch mark. "You're pretty," he murmurs.

You hug him hard enough that he has to take a step back to avoid falling over. His hands stop their studying, braced at your waist and walking you backwards toward the bed. He pushes you down and you fall onto your back, clinging to him as he tries to pull away.

"Come on," he says, laughing, "I'm gonna get you something to drink. Let go."

"Whatever," you grumble.

Steve disappears downstairs and you sit up, eyes bright like you're seeing his room for the first time all over again. Fast Times at Ridgemont High looks to be nearing its end. You switch off the TV with a triumphant smile and move your attention to his dresser, where the cassette player you'd 'loaned' him sits. You're half hoping Van Halen II will be inside but it must still be in his car. Your disappointment ebbs quickly when you see what's really inside.

Steve has the good graces to blush when he returns. You've clicked play and sit with the tape deck in your lap, beaming. "American Pie?" you ask knowingly.

"It's a good album."

He presses a cold glass of water into your hands and you sip feverishly, best pleased when he sits beside you, thigh to your naked thigh.

"Softie."

He dips his fingers into his glass and flicks you. It feels good and you move back encouragingly. He indulges you, flicking cold water over your face and neck until you're finely misted as a flower in the morning dew.

The best part of American Pie starts to play. You gasp as Steve pulls the glass from your hand and sets them heavily on the dresser, hands wet with condensation as he sews your fingers together and pulls you up.

"What are you doing?" you ask curiously.

His shoulders move back. "Dancing?"

"You wanna dance?" you ask. Your legs are tired – his must be double.

"You're old enough," he says, encouraging your hands from side to side.

You were gonna give him what he wanted anyways, but that small smile toying over his pretty pink mouth spurs you on. You jump on toes and follow his lead.

Steve digs a short fingernail into the deep orange skin of what he thinks is a tangerine and watches as citrus spritzes into the air. It leaps from the fruit with every slice of rind he pulls away, and his hands quickly smell of it.

You lay in the grass with his sunglasses perched over your nose. Steve worries you might be sleeping, your smile demure and your arms still where they've crossed over your chest. Your cotton dress blankets the grass around your thighs, the hem waved as the thin edge of a peony petal.

"You better not be sleeping, Y/N," he warns.

You'd definitely been dozing. You hide it well, your hand hardly trembling as you stretch it across the grass towards him. "I wasn't."

"You know what happened last time."

"You're here to protect me."

He can't argue with that. Orange juice stains his fingers as he splits the segments apart, pulling white pith from the flesh until each slice is clean. He drops two into your hand. "For you."

"Thank you," you say, sounding genuinely excited. You sit up slow and your dress falls down enough to expose the top of your breast where Steve had hickied at a risk of excess the night before.

He moves across the grass until your knees knock together and presses his hand to your forehead. You're definitely hotter than you should be but not about to burst into flames. Steve ushers more tangerine into your hand and reaches for the grocery bag to grab your drink and put it in your lap. You gasp at the sudden cold and gasp again when he pulls the strap of your dress up your shoulder. There’s no hiding the worst one at the meeting of your neck and shoulder. Every time he looks at it, he blushes.

"Was I flashing?" you ask worriedly through a mouthful of fruit.

"Not really? But, uh, you know. Hickey."

"Ohhh," you say knowingly. "Well, that's your fault."

"Did I say otherwise? Have some water. We're gonna have to go soon, it's too hot."

"Steve."

"I'm serious."

"Let's just go buy one of those little hand crank fans."

"So I can crank it all day? No way."

"You'll dictate-"

"Dictate!"

"-my sunbathing but won't crank a little fan for me? What kind of relationship even is this?"

"Stop it," he says concisely.

Your lips pull into a self satisfied smile and you drink your drink like he'd asked you to. "What are we gonna do after?"

You'd woken Steve up early, before the sun had really come out, a vision and perfect and everything he'd known you would be in the mornings. Hands on his shoulders, you'd kissed him until he'd stirred, skipping kisses over his neck and chest.

"Ba-by," you'd whispered, dragging the last syllable, your voice croaky with tiredness, "let's go get breakfast."

Breakfast at a sticky diner that consisted of pancakes with too much syrup and whipped cream on strawberries. You'd dragged him into the fancy grocery store across the street and filled a basket with fancy drinks, pretzels, lip balm and a net of tangerines.

Now, hours later, sweaty from the outpour of ultra-hot sunlight and your company, Steve doesn't know what's left to do that could be any better than this.

He spread his legs and tucks a rogue lock of hair behind his ear. "What do you wanna do?"

You twist the cap back onto your drink and push onto your knees, grass crushed. "I don't know. Anything. I don't have anything to do tomorrow, so you can keep me as late as you want."

He doesn't feel bad when he says, "Could I keep your for the night again?"

You hesitate. He doubles down.

"I'll take you to your place and you can get some more clothes. And I'll make you something better than takeout, if you want," he promises, thinking of your home-cooked meals, the evident love poured into each one.

"No, it's not-" You smile at him, your eyes soft. "Of course you can keep me. But I'm not staying up to dance with you again." You yawn to drive the point home.

He breaks grass between his fingers. "Fine, no dancing."

You nod in agreement and take his shoulder into your hand, throwing your leg over his to straddle his thigh. You look comfortable despite the 'w' shape you're in, settling down with a harrumph of breath.

Steve tries not to think about the silk of your underwear against his leg, but of course he does. The pink colouring his cheeks isn't from the sun.

You look shy but happy as he grabs your hands, stroking your knuckles with his thumbs. "We can make something cool for the weather," you suggest lightly, the skirt of your dress ruffled by the breeze. "Sanwhiches. And something sweet for dessert 'cos we didn't have any yesterday."

"I don't know about you, but I think I had more than my fair share of dessert."

You drop the top of your head into his chest. "Sicko."

"A little. When it comes to you."

You start to fiddle with the bottom of his shirt, humming something very quietly. The Waterboys or something like that, your lips pressed together tightly. You lashes flutter and you rub your cheek with your shoulder.

"What?" he asks.

"I'm just really happy," you confess.

What's he supposed to do? Not kiss you silly? He wraps his arms around your back and pulls you in.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

#steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington one shot #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things #stranger things 4 #x reader #steve harrington x fem #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x you #steve harrington smut

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vacayisland · 6 months

Note

hiya!! can i req a short of king trollex getting injured while in barb's captivity? hurt or hurt/comfort, thanks for considering!

@!; Isolation for the soul (this isn't what I wanted) Trollex / Reader

"Summary"! Have you ever had to sit in a deafening silence? The torturing type of silence. All you ever wanted was some sort of peace, a moment of silence away from the noise. You never thought your wish would be answered in the cruelest way. "Tags"! Hurt / Comfort (a little lest comfort), y'all got the better version of the two stories in my head <3

@!; You always wanted some sort of silence, for an hour, thirty minutes, a minute, a second. It had never been quiet in Techno Reef, it had never been… quiet. And god, you had always wished for some sort of silence, but not silence like this. Not the deafening kind of silence, not the dreary silence, not the alone, abandoned, self-hatred fill silence that creeps up on you and holds you captive. The type that taunts you, haunts you, as you can do nothing but sit and be all consumed by it, encompassed by it constantly. No remorse will find you at the deepest depths of the ocean. You were alone, utterly and wholly. It was only meant to be a quick swim, one to get away from the noise of everyone and the noise of the rave that had been happening at the time. You had told Trollex this, having gone to his side and tapped his shoulder. Even while DJing, he had turned to you with the brightest grin. He had cupped your cheeks, he had given you such a big kiss and then a bigger hug as he softly told you to be careful; to get home soon, to not do anything too dangerous. You know he meant it more then than when he had told you before, after all you both were splitting egg-holding duty. Trollex had one of the twin eggs in his hair, safely tucked away and hidden, and you did too. You had brushed off his warning, giving him a playful look and quipped back he should be careful with the speakers more than anything. He had laughed, gave you one last smooch before you pulled away laughing and rushed off for your swim; yelling at him goodbye, that you would see him later. Later. How much later?

You sat at his DJ booth, sunk down on the floor as you held the only part of Trollex you still had; The egg, which was still warm yet slowly becoming cold due to the ocean. You know you should keep them in your hair, keep them warm so they will hatch yet… you were too alone, too afraid to be alone, to do that right now. Hugging the egg close, you pressed your cheek against the top as you tried to choke back your sobs. Funny, how silence was now the last thing you wanted. Ironic that the only thing you wanted now, more than ever, was the loud blaring music of the Techno reef; to hear your lover shout to the crowd, hyping them up louder than need be. Yet, all you sat in was a cold, silent reef; Having come back to nothing but silence, nothing but destruction, nothing but… nothing. It had been deserted, lettering spelling out ‘Rock’ etched into the side of the reefs and the coral. At first, you had thought it was a tasteless prank pulled by Trollex and the others; He had always been a prankster, had everyone pretend they forgot your birthday so he could throw you a big party and then a smaller one with just you and him and your friends at the end of the day. You had called for them, searched for everyone for hours before you realized you were alone. That feeling hit hard. Even more so when you stood in the center of the rave spot, seeing everything desolate, destroyed, and powered off. It felt strangely empty and cold. You felt strangely empty and cold.

And you panicked, laughing a little as you called out for people. Called out for everyone, anyone, anything! You threw things around, overturned rocks, checked buildings and hiding spots and everywhere you could think, yet no matter how hard you searched you were alone. And you didn’t know why. Why did they leave you? Did you do something? Did no one want to be around you anymore? Was the rave just a ploy to get you to swim away so everyone could pack up and leave? Leave without all their things, pack up and move to a new palace, rich. You didn’t think you had been rude to anyone or did anything to upset anyone, yet now you rethought all of that. Sitting alone, abandoned and utterly cold, you rethought everything you had done; All the words you had said, all the reactions you had given and all the ones you didn’t, all the gifts, all the yeses and nos, all of it. All at once it made you homesick and deathly lonely. It made you think, wonder, if you had shown even just a little more interest, if you had tried a little more, you wouldn’t be in this situation. You wouldn’t be alone, sitting by Trollex’s turntable with nothing but the silence you now wished would go away and be filled with deathly loud blaring music. Even if it was just for a short amount of time.

@!; A week, that’s what it took for Queen Poppy to save the day with the help of her friends. For everyone to restore their sense of music without the need of strings, singing from their hearts and letting music just be. No more Rock-apocalypse. No more feuding and isolation of tribes! Everything was right together again. “This is amazing!” Queen Poppy exclaimed, her arms extending as she watched all the trolls in the crowd interact with each other as though there were no differences; Showing each other their music, chatting and laughing, giggling too. Even the tribal leaders were interacting among the stage. As Poppy turned towards her new found friends, the biggest grin across her face, she paused. There was a small group crowded around the Techno tribe’s leader, who had fallen down onto the stage; He was coughing harshly, tears brimming at the corner of his eyes as a hand was balled against his chest. Poppy, at first, thought it was due to his coughing fit and had rushed over while shuffling around her hair for some sort of cough drop. “Poppy! Poppy, stop-” Yet Branch stopped her, grabbing her shoulder and pulling Poppy back as she sputtered out some sort of yell. “Branch I have cough drops I can help-” Poppy would spew out, rushing around in her hair to find something, anything, to help her new friend. Yet, Branch only cupped her cheeks and turned her attention over to where Trollex was sitting, forcing her to take a second look. That’s when she spotted it, seeping and clumping up under Trollex’s hand was blood.

That’s when Delta’s shouting for a medic began to ring in Poppy’s ears. That’s when Baarb had stopped on stage, her breath hitched as she realized what she had done. That’s when a hush fell over the stage as looks were passed around, unsure what to do about the current situation. Half weren’t even sure how this had happened, or how it went unnoticed during the whole song and dance number performed minutes earlier! “Medic, Y’all we need a medic!” Delta shouted as she extended one of Trollex’s fins, noting the other gash that ran down his leg. Trollex tried shaking his head, trying to say how he would be fine, yet he was only hushed when Delta had applied some disinfecting cream (which she got from Branch) around his flipper gash. “Uh-huh,” Delta mumbled sarcastically as Poppy and Queen Essence tried to get a Techno medic to help, “Pumpkin, you’re as fine as a horse who’s broken his leg! Stop playin’ the hero, you’re hurt.” But Trollex only shook his head again, knowing there was only so much time he had, “I have to get back home! I-” Though he was only interrupted again as he kicked his flipper towards Delta, feeling the disinfecting cream again. “Hey, we’re all safe and here, right? There’s no rush to get back home! So just stay here and let us help you,” Branch tried to reason with Trollex, yet this wasn’t his speciality. This was something more in Poppy’s area, yet she was off trying to get a medic from the Techno tribe to help Trollex.

“He’s right, you’re going to sit your ass here and not move!-” Started Delta, her adamant tone apparent as she gestured for Branch to hold down Trollex’s fin. If Trollex was involuntarily kicking her for applying disinfecting cream to his fin, she did not want to know how hard he’ll kick once she tried to disinfect the gash on his chest. As Delta carefully moved Trollex’s hand away from his chest, Barb (nervous and almost paralyzed with uncertainty and guilt) tried to jump in to ask how she or anyone could help; Knowing she had accidentally taken things a little too far after the whole rebellion Trollex tried to start to get back the strings—which Barb didn’t exactly appreciate at the time, even if he was the only one who actually had to courage to try and face her. She also regretted threatening the egg that Trollex had been hiding in his hair. Not like she was actually ever going to attack it, that would be going too far, yet… Barb stopped mid-way through her apology as she saw the expressions the others were giving her. She gave a, what looked to be, sheepish smile. “Yeah, maybe you should have cut it off before you started spewing about threatening to attack a baby troll.” Delta pointed out, flabbergasted that Barb would even act upon such a thought; even if it was an empty threat with nothing behind it. “Yeah…” Barb agreed, rubbing the back of her neck.

Luckily, no one had to sit on this subject for long as Poppy rushed back while waving her hands and shouting that they had found a medic from the Techno tribe. The medic had paused at first, a look of terror crossing their face as they saw Trollex. That was, until they were nudged by Poppy to go help and in which they instantly got to work; Pulling out bandages made from a mixture of seaweed, seagrass, and kelp to help stop the bleeding while the salt will help disinfect the wounds. “How’s the little one?” The medic would ask as he made quick work of tightened up the bandages around Trollex’s torso. Carefully, not wanting to ruin the bandages, Trollex reached up into his hair and produce the warm egg; it was slightly colder than it should be, as the ocean temperatures help regulate Techno eggs as much as the parents' hair does—due to the unfuzzy nature of Techno trolls’ hair, the extra warmth from the ocean is needed to stimulate growth within the egg. The medic passed the bandages off to Delta, who got a bit confused upon seeing the bandages but shrugged and went to work bandaging his fin, as the medic stood up. They held out their hands, a silent request to take the egg. Yet, Trollex looked weary passing the egg on. He brought it to himself slightly, a look of confliction crossing his face. And that’s when the medic grew a somber look, knowing the reason behind his hesitation. They haven’t seen you since the attack, and Trollex was sure you had come back before it all.

“What? What’s wrong?” Poppy jumped in on a chance to try and help, noticing the frowned eyebrows and the somber looks that the two trolls shared. Yet, she received no response. Which clouded the others with nerves, unsure what to do or what to say or how to help with a situation they had no information on. “Excuse me, Barb…” The medic would turn to Queen Barb, who stiffened a little at the sudden addressment. She looked at the two, glancing between them, as the Medic glanced down at Trollex with an unreliable expression for a moment. Trollex would only shake his head, in which the Medic would take a step away from everyone; Creating some sort of space that seemingly was needed for this situation. Trollex was careful as he tried to push himself onto his fins, Delta and Branch helping to support him back up as Trollex held his egg. He kept his eyes down at it for a while, a silence fogged over the silent stage as chatter from other trolls in the crowd could be heard. And despite that, it seemed overly quiet. “Barb,” Trollex started cautiously, trying to pick and choose his words. His eyes narrowed, a pained expression flashed in his eyes as he glanced up at Barb, “Did you ever harm someone from my Tribe?” “Yeah…?” Barb started, cautiously and a little nervous at the look she was getting. “You!... by accident.”

“No, not me! I mean another Techno troll who happened to be, like, this tall and also had an egg with them that looks like mine?” Trollex hugged the egg tighter in effect to try and show he was crossing his arms in some sort of way. Yet the worry that crossed his face was more than enough to show he wasn’t playing, if anyone had even thought that in the first place. And the panicked look that crossed with realization that flashed across Trollex’s face the second that Barb had said “no” freaked the others out more. Yet, in Trollex’s mind, all he could think about was you. You; Who could possibly be all alone at this moment. You; Who was most likely left in the desolate and destroyed Techno reef. You; Who didn’t handle abandonment well. You; You consumed his thoughts as worry began to boil over him, flooding every single vein on his body as horrible images flashed through his head on what you could be facing right at this moment. None of them he liked. All of them lead to one conclusion; He had to get back to you right now.

@!; A week of isolation was not the best for a Troll; Nevertheless a week of isolation with self deprecating thoughts without something to stop them while having to take care of an egg was absolute torture. At times you wanted to smash the egg, hatred boiling over your body at the isolation, at the fact that you had been left, at yourself; Yet you had always managed to catch yourself before you did so and you always felt so much shame for acting in such a way. How could you try and kill your own child, who had done nothing wrong? How could you even think about taking their life before they had even been able to experience the world? How could you be such a monster? You sometimes grew so disgusted with yourself that you couldn’t touch your egg for hours; Simply taking to stare at it after having wrapped it in a kelp blanket as you replayed the terrifying scene in your mind. So many times you had been close to snapping, so many times you had almost smashed the egg or decided to leave it alone and pray it got eaten. So many times you thought about leaving it entirely and going on your own way, to leave this all behind instead of sticking around with some sort of sickening hope that someone, anyone, would come back and help. Something kept you here though, caged you in your own torture. Trapped you in isolation with a choking self hatred that you couldn’t shake no matter how much you tried. You weren’t sure how long ago you had the color sucked out of you, you hadn’t been counting how long everyone had been gone. You hadn’t slept well since that day, so you couldn’t even attempt to judge the days.

You hadn’t even realized when Trollex had returned, even despite the group of people he had following him (due to his injuries). The ringing in your ears blocked out the shouting, the fuzz in your brain made it hard to think of anything anymore. “Starfish?” Trollex shouted, panicking as he zipped around Techno reef. He turned over every building, trying to find any place you could be isolating yourself at. “Dude, hey!” Synth tried to follow Trollex, “You’re injured, slow down!” He shouted, glancing back at other leaders who had decided to follow. He just had to make sure they were good in the air bubbles they had blown for them before he zipped off towards Trollex, just to make sure he didn’t make his injuries worse. Yet, Trollex couldn’t care less about everyone else. He needed to find you, scratch that he was going to find you before anymore time could pass. “Starfish? Love?” And that’s when he found you at his DJ station, back resting against his turntables as you stared at the kelp-wrapped egg in front of you. Something in Trollex made him stop, despite the feeling that made him want to lunge at you and tackle you in a hug. He knew you were bad alone, even more so horrible with overthinking, and he had expected you to be in a bad shape when he found you yet… not this. Not gray. He had promised you wouldn’t hurt when you started dating and he had failed.

Trollex was more careful to approach you this time around, slowly swimming around his turntables to sit down next to you. He wanted to do nothing more than to hug you, to reassure that he was back and he didn’t mean to leave you. That all those nasty thoughts in your head were nothing but lies, yet he wasn’t even sure where to start; You were so out of it that you hadn’t even acknowledged him yet. In the background, Synth had finally caught up with Trollex enough to see what was happening. He had paused himself seeing the scene, even backing up a little to give you both some sort of privacy; stopping the other tribe leaders as well. They couldn’t see much from where they floated, yet they could make out Trollex carefully taking the second egg into his hands and storing it in his hair along with the first, before turning to you—all gray and desolate. The silence was deafening, it was so deafening all you wanted to do was to cover your ears and forget sound existed at all. Yet, as you tried to cover your ears your hands were caught by Trollex’s; His familiar hands, the way your hands fit into his, and the warmth. It made you crumble, despite everything that circled in your mind like a tornado and you were pulled into a hug instantly. A warm hug, a familiar one. Most importantly one that could cloud all the silence with a simple ‘thump’, ‘thump’, ‘thump’.

.ᐟ this work is published and owned by @vacayisland. please do not plagiarize, copy, or steal this work; like, reblogs, and saves are appreciated :D

#trollex x reader #trolls trollex #trolls band together #trolls x reader #dreamworks trolls #trolls #trolls 3 #trolls dreamworks #trolls fandom #king trollex #trolls world tour #queen barb #poppy #branch #delta trolls #synth trolls #trollstopia

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wordbreaker · 9 days

Text

The Red Wolf ★ Prologue

For centuries, the Gods⏤Old and New⏤have flipped coin after coin to decide the fate of the Realm. Now that all seems lost, for the Dead are too strong, the Long Night, too thick, the Winter, too cold, it is now men's turn to play this terrible game. May the Red Wolf bend Time and Blood, Fate and Death before Winter comes and swallows the Dance of Men.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x GOT!Snow!FemReader* & Aegon Targaryen x GOT!Snow!FemReader*

*Y/N does have a given name at some point in the story, being a bastard and all.

Word count: 5.2K

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, brief allusion to SA

Note: In honor of Season 2 dropping in a few hours... Enjoy a good ol' time-traveler fic from yours truly. As always, English is not my first language. I do apologize if some typos and grammatical errors managed to sneak into this.

HIDDEN BEHIND the few battlements where bodies were not yet piling up, you whispered a prayer to the Old Gods⏤your eyes closed to avoid seeing the battlefield that had become of your childhood home. Desperation made people do funny things. Stupid, naive things, like praying. The Gods had abandoned you long ago, for what kind of Gods would destroy their creation in such manner?

The Long Night had plunged Winterfell into a bath of fire and blood, with the singular smell of Death emanating from it and turning stomachs inside out. You had been soaking in the puddle of your own vomit for several minutes.

It was too much. Too much for you. Death was coming for them all. An unstoppable Death. A Death that walked, that fought, that killed without ever tiring.

You tightened your grip on your sword, Endbringer, forged from the blade of Ice, the last memento of your father, Lord Eddard Stark. It would not be long before you joined him. He and Catelyn and Robb and Rickon. The Stranger had feasted on the Starks without mercy. Soon he would taste your frightened flesh. Would you find them on the other side? Or did Hell reserve a particular place for bastards?

A roar pierced the deafening din of the battlefield and the ringing of your ears. Up there, far from the burning barricades and piles of bodies, Jon, your twin, was riding Rhaegal and burning the White Walkers.

But Death always came back.

Winterfell, seat of the North, was ablaze with dragonfire. The irony would have pleased the rhapsodists, had they been there to sing the fable.

The bards will sing no more when Westeros is but an open grave, a voice whispered to you. You buried it⏤along with everything else⏤under the smell of burning flesh and the clash of swords.

You stood up on wobbly legs. A white strand of hair blocked you vision but you did not care, for nothing could be clearly seen anymore. The smoke from the dragon's fire, the bodies throwing themselves on top of each other, the Dead leaping into the courtyard, the cannonballs flying over the ramparts, the arrows whistling through the air, the buildings exploding. It was all chaos. You dived in it head first, sword in hand.

You had lost sight of Arya an hour earlier. Your little sister was probably fighting for her life in the corridors. You prayed for her. You prayed for Jon, who was fighting the Night King. You prayed for Theon and for Bran. Most of all, you prayed for Sansa, imprisoned in the crypt, perhaps the only place in the North where the dead did not yet walk.

Your thoughts drifted to your father, whose remains lay among the women and children, the weak and the new, the Ancestors and Descendants. As foolish as it sounded, seeing him reborn, even for a moment, in the skin of a White Walker, would give you the courage to fight.

The Old Gods knew you sorely needed it.

You shut out your memories and stumbled to the entrance of the tower. Above your head, arrows pierced the wind and stuck into the ground made of flesh and blood. Enemies, allies, the dead, the living, all merged into one agonising, shapeless mass. Miraculously⏤perhaps the Gods had heard you⏤you managed to reach the tower and immediately rushed down the stairs. You stepped over the fallen bodies, for Death had already stained the stones of the castle, and counted the remaining steps.

It would only take a few minutes to reach the lower rooms.

Of Winterfell, you remembered everything. Seven years had not been enough to erase the precious memories of your childhood. It had gone too quickly, tainted by the horrors and scheming of the South. For a long time, you had wondered what had killed your carefree spirit.

You had first thought your childhood had been crushed along Bran's legs but⏤forced to flee King's Landing at a mere four and ten because you were seen not just as a bastard but as the bastard of a traitor⏤you had soon realised the truth.

Your innocence had died the day Jon Arryn had been murdered, for Death brought naught but bad omens and destruction.

The Starks had gone South and, in doing so, had sealed their doom.

You longed for the years before Robert Baratheon had visited and destroyed everything you knew and held dear. You⏤eager to forget the ravaging war⏤closed your eyes and let yourself be basked in what had been and would never be again.

Sheltered by the porch at the entrance to the Great Keep, Vayon Poole, Maester Luwin and Father were discussing the affairs of the people. You, seven years younger and sitting next to Arya and Sansa, were trying to embroider a flower without pricking your fingers and lamenting over the fact that you could not join the boys who, further down in the courtyard, were practising their swordplay with Rodrik Cassel. Bran was still walking. Robb was breathing and Theon had not yet betrayed them. Familiar faces were everywhere: Hodor, Mikken, Farlen, Hullen, even Gage the cook. House Stark was alive, far from the shenanigans of the Lions and the capital that had damned them.

In the distance, a frail voice mumbled tales from another age.

Old Nan would always knit far-fetched stories.

Except they were anything but. The Long Night had well and truly begun again and, in its darkness, it would swallow up everything you loved: your family, your friends and your people, if they were not already walking with the dead.

A growl echoed through the corridor. You raised Endbringer, ignored the trembling in your hands and continued forward⏤to stop was to die, you told yourself. In silence, you plunged in the darkness of Winterfell's corridors. You squinted your eyes, trying to make out a silhouette, a noise, anything, but the dead entangled on the floor remained dead.

For how much longer? you thought darkly.

Another growl, close by. You swallowed and turned. Two sparkling blue eyes were staring back at you. Shivers ran down your spine. Your hand trembled around your sword⏤your lifeline and perhaps your only chance of escape. You thought of Old Nan and, with only fear and adrenaline for a brain, attacked.

The White Walker let out an inhuman scream, somewhere between a shriek and a hiss.

The sound of Death.

It was tolling your bells.

It put so much force into its blow that you had to take several steps back when you parried it. For a brief moment, you wondered whether Endbringer would resist. Was Valyrian steel mere iron in the face of Death?

Your years of combat training seemed to disappear. No reflexes, no tactics, just your survival instinct to guide and defend.

You did not stand a chance.

The pack survives, a voice whispered to you. But where was Sansa? Arya? Jon? You were the only one in the corridor⏤a Lone Wolf against Death.

You raised Endbringer and brought it down hard on the Other's shoulder. It split the air and the putrid remains of flesh. Its arm fell to the ground, but it began to twitch and reached for your ankles. Its fingers snaked to avoid your heavy sole and came dangerously close to your heel.

A kick and the arm disappeared further away, entangled in a pile of bloody limbs, but you knew it would be back, disturbing as that thought was.

Exhaustion made you heavy and slow. Your blows grazed the creature in front of you without ever bringing it down. Death never wavered. It delivered blow after emotionless blow, the only evidence of the soul that once resided in its body being those two big blue eyes, too bright to be the work of the Gods.

A guttural howl split your throat. Then came a stabbing pain, which burned through your flesh and blood.

The Other had thrust its sword into your shoulder.

You felt the blood trickle down your collarbone, colonising your flesh and armour.

Then you heard it. Above you, a desperate voice screamed.

Dracarys.

You stumbled to the wall and snatched the nearest torch, throwing it at the White Walker. Immediately, the creature writhed in an agony that might have been pleasurable had you had time to admire it, for you seized your only chance of survival and, ignoring your heart pounding against your temples, ran.

You ran and never looked back. To look back was to die, you repeated to yourself. And you, Y/N Snow, were not done with Life yet.

Death would have to wait.

The thick walls of Winterfell were not enough to drown out the shrill cries of the dragons. They shook the centuries-old walls around and above you. The smell of burning flesh tickled your nose and stirred your stomach. The terrible smell reminded you of funeral pyres.

Winterfell was nothing but a pile of rumble and dead, you realised as you passed the disjointed body of a young soldier, too young to fight. You prayed to the Old Gods to spare your twin, your other half, and continued your journey to the lower halls. You passed the library, stepped over more disfigured bodies and made your way through the burnt carcasses of the Others. Everywhere, fire and death embraced in a touch that gave you goosebumps.

The journey from the tower to the halls took an eternity. Fear and fatigue slowed you down, as well as the weight of your armour on your slumped shoulders.

Your body was giving up.

At the turn of yet another corridor, you finally came across a small room, which you hastened to enter. Glancing around, you realised it was meant to be used by servants. The mattress still retained the shape of a body, which was probably no longer breathing.

A sudden howl ripped through the corridor and startled you. Someone banged on the door but you threw yourself against it and held it shut. With a trembling hand, you closed the latch, then the chain, and kept your shoulder pressed against the wood.

"Help me!" someone screamed. "Please! There's too many! I've got a wife... A boy… My boy… Please! Have mercy! Let me in!"

Already, the cries of distress had mingled with inhuman gurgling. You turned your head and closed your eyes before sliding back against the door and bringing your hand to your trembling mouth.

Valar morghulis.

You soon lost track of the minutes, as you weaved your agony through the darkest hours of Westeros.

Other soldiers pounded on the door, but all died at its threshold. Their bodies, still warm, rose up immediately, animated by an evil and ancient force. You ignored their nails scratching against the wood and the inhuman growls that shook it. Blood stained the stone-floor and snaked its way up to you, further staining your already-crimson armour, but you kept your eyes and lips closed. The black behind your eyelids was only slightly different from the Long Night, but it gave you an illusion of protection you could not refuse.

With a trembling hand, you wiped your face, bathed in tears, blood and mud, but the wounds on your cheeks remained open and your tears, wet. The ringing in your ears continued to torment you.

"Pull yourself together, damn it," you whispered angrily.

But already your vision was blurring. The adrenalin had left your muscles, leaving you paralysed with pain and fear. Soon came the sobs that shook your shoulders and tore at your lungs.

At last, your body and mind were coming together to cry out their agony.

A whistle pierced the din of your sadness and put an end to it. You raised her head, frowning. You turned and, just in time, avoided the axe that suddenly slashed the door.

You screamed.

The blade disappeared, leaving a hole large enough to see blue eyes, and came down on the wood again. A hand reached into the hole and tried to grab you, but you threw herself to the floor and crawled away. You clung to the mattress. Behind you, the growling intensified and sent shivers down your spine. No human could make that noise.

The walls of the room closed in on you.

The Old Gods had exhausted their mercy.

It was time to die.

The axe whistled through the air and lodged itself in the mattress⏤a mere centimetre away from your hand⏤scattering strands of straw and bits of flesh on the floor.

How many men had lost their lives on that blade? How many throats slit? Decapitated heads? How many mutilated bodies?

Your hands fluttered around your belt. Your fingers brushed against all the weapons within your reach without ever grabbing one. You looked up. The door wouldn't hold for long. The White Walker was pounding on it relentlessly.

You grabbed the dragonglass dagger Jon had given you⏤I won't be there to protect you. Come back to me alive, he had told you, unaware of the years you had spent defending yourself alone in Westeros. Trapped in the cold at the Wall, how could he have known? How could he understand what had happened to you?

You shook off these thoughts and took a deep breath before standing up on trembling legs. The biting north wind blew through your armour and chilled you, but the sweat dripping down your back still clung to your skin.

You had to leave, but where? Your childhood home, reduced to a graveyard of endless rebirth, was falling into ruin. Soon, the White Walkers would have invaded every room and soaked the stones in blood. How many of your brothers in arms had already joined the Night King’s ranks?

On the other side of the door, the Dead was going mad, his movements, more abrupt. You clamped your hands over your ears and curled up on the floor. You let the dagger drop. Your breathing quickened. You were going to die. Like all the others.

Robb was dead. Rickon. Father. Uncle Benjen. Catelyn. Was Arya still alive or had she abandoned you too? What about Jon? What was the point of staying alive when everyone else was dying?

Another knock rattled the door. You jumped and stepped back, but your shins collided with the mat.

You did not stand a chance.

The door burst open.

The wood exploded in deadly splinters.

The White Walker pounced on you.

An unparallelled smell enveloped you. You screamed and struggled. You clawed at mouldy flesh, struck fragile bones and tore off dirty rags. Blood beaded on your fingers as you deflected a blade from your throat, which the creature's rotten teeth lunged at. You pushed against it with all your might.

The Other fell to the ground and stopped moving.

Your breathing was all you could hear as your heart raced. For a second, you thought it was over, but the White Walker suddenly stood up and crawled towards you.

Death never tires.

You tried to fight it off, kicking it wherever you could reach: on the head, on the shoulders, in the neck... but the creature kept moving. Axe in hand⏤when did he get it back?⏤its skeletal arm split the air and scraped your ankle. You fell to your knees screaming and, in a desperate move, plunged your dagger into its accursed blue eye.

The creature exploded into fragments of ice. A few of them grazed your face.

You swept them away with a wave of your hand.

Down here, caught between your Ancestors and the Dead, victory had a bitter taste. You limped out of the room and wandered through the corridors, which you did not recognise. Winterfell was becoming unknown before your eyes, ravaged by Death and the despair of the unlucky Survivors.

Several times, lone White Walkers blocked your path. You managed to get rid of them, but never escaped unscathed. Their dull blades always pierced your armour and flesh, leaving you aching.

It was not until you reached the west wing of the castle that the screaming stopped and, at last, the calm of the North enveloped you in its thick cloak. The silence made you shiver. How it contrasted with the din of war... It was almost terrifying.

Finally, at the end of a staircase, a new door.

You wasted no time in entering and barricading the room. You slid the wooden palisade into its notches and stepped back, frightened to see a new axe appear.

When you turned round, you gasped at the awful sight the Gods had painted for your eyes. The fireplace at the back of the room lit up a pile of tangled bodies in one corner. The shadows played and illuminated the severed arms, the decapitated heads, the men turned into trunks. Nothing on the canvas was complete; everything had to be put together to become human again.

You staggered back, nauseous and swore before pressed one hand against your stomach. The other covered your mouth in a last-ditch effort to save you but the smell of decay, so characteristic of death, delivered the fatal blow. You turned your head and bent down to vomit your guts out.

"A Wolf far from her pack," a seductive voice said. "Snow seems to have numbed the blood."

You spun around and squinted but could only make out a red cloak. The flames swirled and licked at its ends, but always left the fabric intact. The stranger stepped forward and revealed a familiar face, a worrying face. Her eyes sparkled, hiding secrets that made you shiver. Stories of New Gods and diabolical powers, everything you hated⏤for you were a child of the North and the North prayed to nameless Gods.

You placed one hand on Endbringer's pommel, sat down against the wall⏤opposite the bodies⏤and wiped your lips. The steel of your armour was an icy kiss against them. You relished in the sensation and remained silent. You no longer had the strength to answer riddles. You no longer had the strength for anything.

You just listened to the Living and the Dead killing each other, head against the wall, eyes closed to ignore reality.

Minutes passed, until finally you grew tired of the sound of swords and the agony of men. You opened your eyes and immediately met the gaze of the red witch. Melisandre, you remembered. Ser Davos had said that name with such that you could not have forgotten it even if you wanted to.

You jerked, your armour digging painfully into your ribs, and cleared your throat, but the witch's gaze never wavered.

In the distance, a man screamed for his life. You winced and finally broke the silence.

"I hear the clamour of battle, the cries of pain, the prayers shouted over the blows of swords, but the Night does not give way and the Dead still march. We won't win," you murmured.

You met the witch's eyes but quickly looked away, towards the fireplace where the flames were still dancing, untouched by the torments of men.

"Can't you ask your Lord to save us from this hell?" you mocked.

"The Lord of Light does not interfere with destiny," replied the sorceress, who chose to ignore your blatant irony. "The New Gods weave everyone's prophecies and they have seen just to–"

You scoffed. Your chapped lips stretched into a smirk. You shook your head and laughed. Your lungs hurt like hell but the hilarity made the pain sweet.

"The Gods," you giggled. "Old... New... Seven or one... The Gods abandoned us to our fate a long time ago. Perhaps this is our punishment... to die here without even the comfort of Faith. Our shroud shall be neither prayer nor forgiveness, only the putrid smell of death and the warm bodies of our fallen brothers. Isn't it time to just give up?"

"Why aren't you out in the courtyard then? Among the corpses, looking for Death you so desperately seek? Why are you hiding in this room when your sister and twin are fighting hard against it and heading off to their destiny?"

You looked up at the witch.

"Arya?" you whispered hoarsely. "Did you run into Arya? Is she alive? What of Jon? Why is he here? Wasn't he riding Rhaegal just a few minutes ago?"

The witch sighed, suddenly so human, as terrifying as it sounded, and knelt down in front of you, who watched her with teary eyes. The red-haired woman took your hand and clasped it in hers. Her cold skin sent shivers down your spine, but you made no attempt to free yourself from the embrace.

"Rhaegal is no more. Even dragonfire is no longer enough against the Night King. The darkness is already feasting on his scales."

You pressed your hand against your chest. A nameless agony seized you and tore at your heart. Poor beast, you thought.

There was a time when dragons would only fly from verse to verse in the history books you loved dearly, the ones recounting the fables of the Targaryen dynasty. How many times had you told their fables to Arya, when your sister could not yet read?

Dragons had danced in your imagination throughout your childhood.

Then, miraculously, they had danced over Westeros, brought back to life by Daenerys Stormborn, whom your father had spared. You had not believed the tales at first and had regretted it when the dragons finally danced over Winterfell.

Tonight, dragons no longer danced. Like everything else, they were dying. A tear rolled down your cheek. You wept for this majestic creature, who had also fallen victim to the War of Men.

"No one is immune to the vicissitudes of fate, Rhaella, not even dragons."

You blinked, frowned, and tore your hand away from the witch's grip before grabbing Endbringer.

"My name is Y/N," you corrected, your voice sharp.

"Are you quite sure? Didn't your twin tell you? Of his discovery? Of his destiny? I've told you. No one is immune to his vicissitudes," the witch repeated. "Not even you."

"I don't understand..."

The witch moved closer and took one of your hair, wrapping it around her finger. You clenched your jaw but made no move to interrupt her. Don't struggle or it'll be worse, a snarling and masculine voice whispered. You closed your eyes and tried to bury the painful memories that were clawing to the surface. Hands on your body and in your hair. On your lips and cheeks. Under your dress...

"Did you never wonder where that colour came from? Such white…. You don't see hair like this in those parts. Even your grey eyes, no doubt those of the Wolf, can't hide the warm blood that runs through your veins. Your twin was luckier in that respect, I must admit."

You violently shook yourself off and stood up, your eyes raging, vile memories once again buried deep.

"You do not know what you’re talking about, witch," you spat out the last word. "Flames make your head spin. My father was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Hand of the King. My mother was but a whore whose true name was lost when that cunt Joffrey Lannister killed my father. Stop this nonsense, or I'll not hesitate to kill you."

"And this fiery rage, this bloodlust? Does it come from the Quiet Wolf, whose honour and calm cost him his head?"

You growled and grabbed the woman's hair. You drew your dagger and pressed it against the woman's milky throat, ready to draw blood. Would it be the singular colour of flames or the common red of mortals?

The witch grabbed the dagger with her bare hand and deflected it. Her fingers remained intact. No blood spattered against the flesh. You blinked, but the skin remained white, immaculate.

Impossible, you thought.

"I can show you. The truth, first. Your destiny, then."

You did not understand at first. It was only when the witch moved towards the fireplace that your eyes widened. You sheathed your dagger and took three large steps back. Your back hit the wall with the sound of steel and for that you were thankful.

"I have no use of your false God."

The witch ignored you and pulled a coin from her cloak before turning to face you once more. It looked like a Gold Dragon, worn and battered.

"Perhaps you would prefer to play a game, then. A game the gods have been playing for centuries, long before you were born."

The witch threw the coin at you. You caught it by reflex and turned it over to look at it. For a while, you caressed it and enjoyed its rough surfaces. The dirt, which the endless passing of hands had collected, masked the King's head, but you knew it was neither that of Robert Baratheon nor of Cersei Lannister's Bastard. Frowning, you began to scrape the coin with the tip of your fingernail. It first revealed a notched crown, then a lean neck, long hair and, finally, a name.

A familiar name, engraved just below the royal silhouette.

A series of shivers ran down your spine as your lips formed the cursed name.

AERYS II.

The Mad King.

"What are you waiting for? Flip it," Melisandre asked.

You opened her mouth, ready to insult her and demand her to stop jesting, but growls cut you off. You turned around.

In the corner of the room, bodies were stirring.

The coin was soon forgotten.

You unsheathed Endbringer, but the sword had lost its frightening glint. It was a miracle of the Gods that it did not slip from your weak and trembling hands. You could feel the burns and wounds that lacerated your palm and weakened your grip.

"What's going on?" you asked as panic ran up your spine.

Fear had already taken hold of your soul and made your knees buckle. Your stomach churned but you swallowed down the nausea.

"The Dead are waking up," the witch simply said.

You could not find the strength to scream. A feeling of despair crawled through your body and numbed your mind. There was no respite from the horror. How much longer would they have to fight? How much longer before everything died and was reborn as something evil?

The flames in the fireplace were still dancing. You glanced at the witch, but she was muttering unknown words, her hands clasped around her necklace.

She wouldn't be of any help, you realised. Already, legs and hands were emerging from the hill of flesh. They charged at you. You stabbed them with your dagger and ran to the fireplace. Growls rose up behind you but you ignored them and buried your fear deep inside before glancing over your shoulder. One of the Walkers was already hopping on one leg in your direction. Melisandre still hadn't woken up from her lethargy.

You did not have much time.

You turned back to the flames, which seemed to whisper incantations to you. They glowed brighter, twisting in a hypnotic dance and brushing against your armour.

Dracarys, they screamed at you.

You did not think, for there was no time, and plunged your hand into the fire, grabbed a burning log and turned to throw it into the pile of Dead. You clenched your fist and watched as the flames engulfed the rag of one of the bodies before spreading to the rest of the pile, turning it into a pyre.

The Dead began to sing out their agony.

You begged them to shut up but they never did.

Several creatures managed to escape the deadly embrace of the flames but, each time, you were there to stab them with your dagger or sliced them with your sword. You defended yourself for what seemed like hours, throwing torches and firewood at the crawling corpses, stabbing the few spared with your dagger and even decapitating the rare bodies that were still whole.

The Dead stopped singing after several long minutes and, at last, the pile of bodies came to rest. This time for good, you hoped. A naive thought, really.

Down here, the Dead never stayed silent for long.

You turned frantically towards the witch.

"We must lea–"

Air ran down your spine. You met Melisandre's wide-eyed gaze, fixed on a much lower point, and followed it. A blade was protruding from your armour. Not your dagger. Not Endbringer. A rusty, broken blade. You frowned and looked up at the witch.

"What is–"

"Do not speak," she ordered.

You touched your lower abdomen, suddenly dizzy. A warm liquid stained your fingers. It was only when you brought them into view that you realised what it was.

I was blood.

Then came the pain.

Everywhere.

Unprecedented.

"J... Jon..." you hiccuped. A wet cough shook your lungs. Drops of blood stained your lips and the witch's porcelain face. "I want... Jon."

Before your frightened eyes, the witch picked up the coin from earlier and placed it in your palm. She closed your fist and enveloped it in hers. You watched her do it, eyes blurred by the pain. Your body was already giving out on you. It was cold, too cold…

Winter is coming, your father said.

My father is dead, you replied.

"Āeksiō ōños."

A voice pierced the fog that was gradually inhibiting all your senses. You blinked.

"W-what are you...?" you managed to whisper between coughs. "... doing?"

Your breathing quickened. Your knees buckled. You tried to free yourself but the witch dug her nails into your hand.

"Stop!" you screamed, terrified.

"Āeksiō ōños. Āeksiō ōños. Āeksiō ōños!"

In your grip, the coin caught fire. The flames devoured the Mad King's head and, with it, your palm. You screamed, feeling your skin getting torn apart by the fire. Nausea turned your stomach. You choked on a mixture of blood and bile and staggered backwards, but the red witch did not let go.

"Obūljagon se jēda se ānogar. Kostagon se mele zokla lilagon isse vīlībāzma se ērinagon toliot vējes. Lord of Light! Come to us in our darkness. Cast your light upon us. For the night is dark and full of terrors!"

Everything went up in flames.

When you opened your eyes, the dead were no longer singing. An entirely different cacophony resounded. Swords and screams deafened you. You tried to speak but your body, numb, remained motionless, your mind, confused, your lips, closed.

Had the Long Night ceased?

The lights were blinding.

There was no light in Winterfell.

Nausea turned your stomach in waves. Too weak to lift an arm, you let yourself drown in it and choked on your vomit before closing your eyes.

"...ko...b…sa?"

Someone was talking to you, you realised, but you did not have the strength to find out who.

"Skoros aōha brōzi issa?"

Your voice faded in your throat. The metallic taste of blood colonised both your palate and tongue. You coughed, the wet sound hurting your chest, and tried to sit up but could not find the strength to do that either.

"Stomach... Blood..." you managed to stammer out before everything went black. Again.

#hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond fanfic #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond series #aemond angst #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon x reader

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pedropascallme · 1 month

Text

Celebrity Crushes

Pairing: Damien Haas x gn!Reader

Summary: "He had never said it was for a video, though maybe at this point you should’ve been able to guess that being asked for a list of three top choices was for this series."

Warnings: Brief mention of being drunk but otherwise none :)

AN: Hi guys!! I wrote this in 20 minutes so it’s…rough around the edges….but you’ve been so sweet and patient with me while I get my shit together now that I’m back from school!! I have many many WIPs that I plan on publishing soon that will have much more substance than this, but I still hope this helps hold you over for another week or so <3

You delayed your own emergence from sleep. Your bed was comfortable, warmer than usual, maybe thanks to the open blinds that let sunlight dapple the room. It was so easy to fall back into the snug embrace of slumber as you stretched against your sheets. You rolled over, eyes still heavily lidded and blinking to avoid the light as you felt around for your phone on the nightstand.

You yawned, stretching again; you let your back arch off the bed, feet poking out from beneath your blanket as you let your ankles crack—a quiet, congenial noise, and an even more satisfying feeling.

There were several messages waiting for you when you unlocked your phone.

Ang: UM??

Ang: New games vid????

Ang: 😵‍💫😵‍💫

You: What?

Ang: Dude🫠

You: What??

You: Isn’t it a Shayne guesses

You: I just woke up

Ang: Hold on

They were not the messages you’d been anticipating on a peaceful morning off from work. Angela’s texts woke you up immediately, her words burying themselves in your head as adrenaline took hold, muscles tensing, and you felt something pull at your stomach.

Had someone said something? Had you said something? Had you been somewhere you weren’t meant to be? Did it even involve you? Was she simply acknowledging something fucked up or funny that you had played no part in?

You held your phone in a vice grip, white-knuckling it and waiting to hear how exactly the new upload pertained to you—if it pertained to you—and whether you’d still have a job or any friends by the end of the day.

You felt a soft buzz on your fingers and snapped your attention to the screen, hoping to see Angela’s name.

Court: Was the new video planned or…

You: What is happening

You: Angela texted me too

You: I literally just woke up

Court: omg🥹

You felt hot. Not in the cozy way you had been when you woke up, but in a burnt cheeks and stomachache way. This was not something you had ever woken up to before, it was not at all routine, and you worried that your time at Smosh was up based solely on the manner in which your friends were texting you.

Another buzz. Kiana this time.

Kiana: I told Spencer not to keep it in the final cut

Kiana: But it’s really cute actually

You wanted to throw up. Shakily leaning back in bed, you tried to type out a response to Kiana that would help you wrap your mind around what exactly it was that you should be worried about.

Another buzz alerted you to Angela’s late reply, and you abandoned the message you had been drafting for Kiana.

Ang: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzUs87BMpsc

Ang: 26 minute mark & then watch to the end

Ang: 🥴🥴🫶🏻

You had been right. It was another installment of Shayne Guesses, but you had no recollection of sending in a formal submission of…

“Can I identify someone, based on their top three celebrity crushes?”

Your heart jumped to your throat.

If this was going where you thought it was, you’d send in your letter of resignation by tonight.

You found the timestamp Angela had sent you, and immediately grimaced, folding your body into itself. You wiped a hand over your face, as if rubbing your eyes hard enough would make this all go away, leaving you to wake up fresh and unabashed.

“Ok—ok, I can work with this,” Shayne’s eyes darted over the screen, shouting a laugh when he took in the options given to him. “So Pedro Pascal—expected—Cillian Murphy, and he looks younger there. Is that what he looks like now? No…”

“No, that’s from like, 2000-something,” Spencer responded off camera, “I did not choose that picture.”

“Ok, 2000s Cillian Murphy, Pedro Pascal, and Damien Haas.” Shayne paused to stifle a chuckle. “This is the second time you’ve broken your own rule!” He stared pointedly at Spencer.

“Bro, that’s Shez from Fire Emblem!” Spencer argued, still out of frame, and Shayne bit the inside of his cheek.

“I mean,” Shayne looked at the list of names in front of him, “I feel like, you know, maybe it’s not…maybe it isn’t super obvious to people watching, but I think it’s a pretty easy guess for anybody in the office.”

“So what’s your answer?” Spencer asked.

“Oh, come on, like you need to ask,” Shayne crossed his arms before triumphantly declaring your name. “Final answer, look—” He clicked to the next page, and there was your headshot.

Your headshot.

Because Damien was one of your celebrity crushes.

One whom you worked with, and were friends with, and hung out with, and ate lunch with.

You felt your eye twitch.

You paused the video in a huff, too mortified to follow Angela’s instructions and watch it to the end.

You might’ve laughed if you weren’t so besides yourself with embarrassment. You were deeply confused as to how that list had even made it into the upload when you hadn’t sent it in.

You racked your brain, trying to remember if you’d drunkenly sent an email, or given an ok when you were only half awake.

You could recall, vaguely, a text exchange with Spencer a few weeks ago, where he had asked, out of the blue, about your top three celebrity crushes. And you gave your answers, sent a few googled pictures, all in good fun, to your friend.

He had never said it was for a video, though maybe at this point you should’ve been able to guess that being asked for a list of three top choices was for this series.

You: Charles.

You: What happened to confidentiality.

Spence: I CNA EXPLIAN

Spence: CAN

Spence: EXPLAIN

You: 🤨

Spence: LISTEN

Spence: I THOUGTH YOU KNWE

Spence: I THOIGHT IT WASSON PURPOSE

Spence: I THOUGHT HE KNEW??

Spence: BECAUSE HIS??

Spence: Please don’t kill me I have a family.

Spence: And I’ll buy you lunch.

You: You’ll buy me lunch for a month.

Spence: A week

You: Two weeks

Spence: Deal🤑

Spence: I love you❤️❤️

Spence: And I’m sorry I went over y’all’s heads

You weren’t mad.

Honestly, you couldn’t bring yourself to be genuinely angry; it was hard to be mad at one of your dearest friends over something that was so clearly a misunderstanding. Especially when it had no real bearing on your career or public image.

This just meant that people would now be fully aware that you had the hots for a coworker.

And said coworker would also be fully aware of it. You tried to push down the shame.

You: Accepted

You: I love you too❤️

You: I want Thai tomorrow

Spence: Would you settle for shirt?

You: I'll kill you.

Spence: Don’t you have another smosh man to bother🧐

You smiled at your own reassuring words, and Spencer’s acknowledgement of his fuckup was equally as helpful in improving your mood, as was his casual banter. For a moment that was enough to make you forget why your stomach was still in knots.

It could be argued that it was an open secret, it certainly seemed as though your friends were more shocked to see your list make it into the final cut of the video than they were to see the list itself. You counted on your fingers: who had you told, who figured it out like a child's simple jigsaw puzzle, who had asked point-blank after seeing you interact with Damien.

You ran out of fingers.

Still, you felt that you’d been cautious enough about it, to the point that Damien himself, at least, hadn’t seemed to figure it out, despite the amount of time you spent together, and the large portion of that time that you spent with a dopey grin on your face and a blush creeping up your cheeks.

Maybe he hadn’t seen the video. Maybe he’d never see the video. Maybe he wasn’t even planning on being online today at all.

Or maybe you could change your name and disappear for a while.

Maybe you’d be in the clear.

You took deep breaths, trying to settle your brain and your heart and the shakiness of your hands.

And then Damien’s name lit up your phone screen, and the results of your impromptu meditation were immediately gone, thrown out the window with your composure.

Damimen: Very interesting list

You: I’m so sorry

Damimen: What?

Damimen: Why?

You: I didn’t mean for you to find out this way

You: Very publicly on a Wednesday morning

Damimen: Who said I was just finding out?

You: Shut up

You: I’m good at keeping secrets

Damimen: I know

Damimen: Angela and Chanse aren’t tho

You: Oh god dammit

Damimen: Which is why I knew not to tell them anything about my list

Damimen: And I mean

Damimen: Stuff that I'd generally like to be kept under wraps

You: So the launch codes are safe?

Damimen: Are they safe if they're with me?

Damimen: 🤯

You: MR PRESIDENT!!

You: Wait

You: Joking aside

You: What are you talking about

You: Wdym “not telling them about your list”

Damimen: Did you not watch the whole video?

You: Got kinda distracted

You: Needed to make Spencer fear for his life a little

Damimen: ???

Damimen: Watch til the end

Damimen: And then come over?

Damimen: If you want?

You furrowed your brow, questions still unanswered, but pleased that he wasn’t upset with you.

You found your way back to the video, clicking forward again until you saw Damien’s headshot and then rewinding to see his list.

Pictures of you.

Three pictures of you. Pictures he had taken when you were together; at the ren faire, getting coffee, in the office.

And now the texts from everybody remarking on how cute the video was made sense. They hadn’t been referring to your list, they’d been referring to Damien’s more than forward response that worked in tandem with yours.

“Not a lot of variety to this one,” Shayne laughed into his hands, “I don’t really have to guess cause there’s only one name left on this list, but even if there wasn’t…This is Damien. Yeah, no, this is Damien. Final answer.”

“How do you know?” Spencer pushed.

“Well I mean, I, y’know, I received these pictures from Damien when they were taken,” Shayne spoke as if it should’ve been apparent, “But also. Come on. I know. See,” he clicked to the next page, where Damien’s name and picture appeared. Shayne raised his arms in triumph.

Your mouth fell open and your lips curved up into a subtle smile.

If you hadn’t been obvious, you’d certainly been oblivious.

The pictures of you that Damien had taken lined up on the screen paired with Shayne’s assurance in his answer, the knowing chuckles from off screen, it all made your heart skip. You felt it sinking from your throat and back into your chest where it belonged, thrumming contentedly.

Damien’s handle on your heart didn’t worry you. If anything, it relaxed you, made you feel safe, collected despite the rollercoaster of a morning you’d had. The discovery of a crush requited made you feel giddy; young and in love.

You: On my way

You: Gimme 20 minutes

You: And send me those pictures

You: 😘

Damimen: 🫡🥰

#damien haas #damien haas fic #damien haas fanfiction #damien haas x reader #damien haas x you #smosh #smosh fic #smosh fanfiction

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ladykailitha · 5 months

Text

Staking My Claim Part 5

We are almost done just one more after this one! I thought about posting this on Tuesday to give the first chapter of the second book of Boy With a Bat some love.

But with this one literally two chapters away from being finished it didn't seem fair to postpone this one.

Here we have Nurse Jeff and sweet Eddie.

Pt 1| Pt 2|Pt 3| Pt 4|

@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @emly03

***

Once they other three were gone Jeff turned to Steve and Eddie.

“Right the real reason I’m here is because I’m going to make you two don’t jump each other before Steve is well enough.”

Steve and Eddie looked at each other and blushed.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jeff said, crossing his arms and leaning back on one foot.

“Eddie go get us some lunch and I’ll make sure Stevie here isn’t going to throw up again.”

Eddie nodded and grabbed his keys. He gave Steve a kiss on the cheek and dashed off, leaving Steve alone with Jeff.

Jeff turned on the light in the kitchen to better see Steve’s face. He held Steve’s chin and turned his head gently to the light and away from it.

“Your dilation is a little slow,” he said. “That’s not good.”

Steve nodded. “I’ve had concussions before. It feels a bit like that. The dizziness, the nausea, the pounding in my head.”

Jeff nodded. “I think I still have some anti-nausea medication and if I don’t, we can try some Pepto, okay?”

Steve nodded. “I wouldn’t have done anything,” he said softly.

Jeff raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“With Eddie,” he whispered. “Not before we got back to Hawkins, anyway.”

“Oh?”

Steve nodded again. “I’m bit too romantic for my own good. And having the chance I might ruin our first time with puking is the last thing I’d want.”

“First time?” Jeff asked over his shoulder as he went to the bathroom.

“I meant it when I licked him, he’s mine now.”

Jeff chuckled.

He came back out holding two bottles. “Looks like I have two kinds of anti-nausea meds. One is very heavy duty, so we’ll try the other one first. We don’t want to mix something heavier if the knock out drug is still in your system.”

Steve nodded.

“In fact,” Jeff muttered. “I should call my mom.”

He set the two bottles on the counter next to Steve and went to the phone.

After a brief conversation Jeff picked up the heavier medication. “She actually recommended the tougher meds to counter whatever was given to you. She even wants you to stop by on your way home so she can look you over.”

Steve blushed. “She doesn’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.”

Jeff raised an eyebrow and Steve ducked his head. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. My sister is a lot like you, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“She’s the oldest,” Jeff murmured, “so she was brought up that she had to take care of everyone else and couldn’t ask for help.”

“Oh.”

Jeff rubbed the top of his head. “Look, man. I get it, I really, really do. If your parents are as half the shit the rumor mill makes them out to be, you’ve been abandoned and neglected all your life. Somehow, someway you became the defacto older brother to the weirdest group of latchkey kids I’ve ever seen and you think you have to do everything for them because you didn’t get to have that. But thinking like that will only wear you down and out.”

“It’s hard,” Steve admitted. “They’ve been through so much.”

Jeff let out a sigh. “I get that too. You and those kids have been through some heavy ass shit. I also get that you think that because you’re the oldest you can’t tell them what you’re feeling because you don’t want to burden them.”

“You’re Robin and Nancy’s age,” Steve said quietly.

Jeff frowned, not quiet understanding the comment. Then it dawned on him. “Eddie isn’t.”

Steve’s head shot up. “What?”

“I know it’s hard to remember because he graduated with me and the other guys,” Jeff said. “But Eddie is older then you. He was supposed to graduate in ‘84.”

Steve blinked. “Oh. Yeah.”

“So lean on him,” Jeff said. “Yeah, you’re attracted to him. And you definitely want to fuck. But let him in emotionally, too. I think you’ll find he’s as a great a listener as he is a talker.”

Steve blushed.

Just then the door swung open to reveal Eddie with a large bag of McDonald’s.

“I didn’t know what you would like,” Eddie said with a grin, “so I got a little of everything I could think of.”

Steve smiled. “I’m sure I’ll find something I like then.”

They all dug in and polished off most the bag of fast food.

“Seriously,” Steve said, “why does greasy food always the best hangover cure?”

Eddie cocked his head to the side. “I don’t know. It defies all logic. You would think it would be stuff that was easy on your stomach like toast and rice would be better, but nope!”

Steve took Eddie’s hand. “Thanks for taking care of me. I appreciate it.”

Eddie blushed to his roots. “You don’t need to thank me. I just did what the next person would have done.”

Jeff snorted. “Bullshit. You went above and beyond and you know it. There is no shame in accepting his thanks. You did good, man.”

Eddie shoved his hair in front of his face to hide his embarrassment. “You’re welcome, Stevie.”

“I think you should go lay back down,” Jeff suggested to Steve. “We’ll be here if you need us.”

Steve nodded and wandered back to Eddie’s room. He closed the door and laid down, sure that he wouldn’t sleep as he had already slept a lot. But it appeared he needed it more than he thought as he drifted back to dreamland.

***

Part 6

Tag List: @spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @artiststarme @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence @i-must-potato @danili666 @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @justforthedead89 @bookworm0690 @vecnuthy @bookbinderbitch @littlewildflowerkitten @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @scheodingers-muppet @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @genderless-spoon @anne-bennett-cosplayer @irregular-child @lololol-1234 @monsterloverforhire @mugloversonly @live-the-fangirl-life @hellfireone @lublix @breealtair @croatoan-like-its-hot @f0xxyb0xxes @jamieweasley13 @r0binscript @confuseddisastertm @sleepdeprivedflower @thedragonsaunt @dissociatingdemon @dragonmama76

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #corroded coffin

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saltsicklover · 8 months

Text

Title: Not a Cyclone, But a Monsoon

Part 2 of 2 - Completed

Find Part 1 HERE, and my Master List HERE

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

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

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

A few uses of Y/N

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

Rating: R

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

---

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

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

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

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

Fuck flying coach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Be nice, would you?"

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

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

"I'll see what I can do,"

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Everything's fine, promise,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Brad-"

"We already know each other,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn't.

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

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

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

"Oh, for fucks sake,"

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

Fuck how his chest aches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How about you, kid?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A trait that seemed to have skipped over Bradley.

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

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

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

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

She looks away first.

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

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

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

"Jake?!"

"Hangman?"

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

"Y/N, Doll! What are you doing here?"

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

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

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

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

That was six months ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monsoon bounces instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rooster, are you okay?"

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

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

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

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

"Are you okay, Mr. Bradshaw?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The arguing doesn't stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And drives.

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

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

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

But isn't decay an unescapable fact of life?

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

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

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

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

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

Oh boy, how wrong he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You son of a bitch!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Birthday Cards. Children's birthday cards.

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

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

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

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

That fact is almost too much for him to take.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or her twenty-first.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He knows?"

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

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

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

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

But he can't.

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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solar-wing · 11 months

Text

⚣ Primal 💉

⚣💉 A/N → The fic that pretty much started me down my Conner path. Let it be known dis is my man and that alien hoe and any other bitch feeling froggy can meet me anywhere in Happy Harbor! Anyway, the beginning of all the smutty shenanigans of our favorite half-Kryptonian and Wildfire. Also, can someone explain to me how the fuck in the process of me editing and revising this, it got 1000+ words longer? like girl what da hell😭someone take my computer away from me. WARNINGS: INTERSEX Reader. Canon-Typical Violence. Minor Dub-Con. Slight Steamy Action. Ass smacking, Second-hand embarrassment vibes, but it's still hot. animal chase but like there are no animals

⚣💉 Summary → Codename: Wildfire. You've been a part of the Team for some time now, which has given you ample time to get to know all of your comrades. Of course, there's one specific teammate you'd love to get to know on a more personal (and physical) level, but he's not into you, at least that's what you think. One certain mission is going to open an entire can of worms, and what else can you do but rely on your primal instincts? That's apparently what he's doing already.

⚣💉 Words → somehow we went from 5.1 to 6.5k, but whatever🙄

REBLOGS and replies are greatly appreciated, please! 💛

⚣ ENJOY 💉

“Wildfire, on your left!”

You quickly turned in time to see three MONQI robots coming right for you, dodging out of the way just in time, but they were quicker than you expected. They swooped back around in your direction and jumped on you before you could even fully turn to face them.

“Get off of me!” You yelled, reaching behind to throw the robot off your back. The other two on your sides grabbed your arms and hands, trying to twist them into painful positions.

“Ow, you little creeps! I said GET OFF!” You shouted as flames grew around your body in a bright flare, effectively toasting the robots. Shaking the remaining parts off you, you looked up to see each of your teammates engaged in battle with the MONQIs around the abandoned warehouse.

Artemis & Miss Martian were on top of the metal walkways. Kid Flash & Robin were closer to the back while Aqualad & Superboy were at the entrance. You and Zatanna were in the middle of the giant room and you could see she was starting to get overwhelmed. Before you could intervene to help, you heard that creepy laugh from behind you and turned just in time to throw up a fire shield as the crate exploded.

Your shield managed to burn the debris before it hit you, but it didn’t do anything for the sense of dread you could feel in your gut.

‘Um, is it just me or is anyone else starting to think this is a little weird?’ You asked over the shared mind link Miss Martian had established.

‘It is not just you, Wildfire. All the MONQIs are coming from these boxes and the warehouse is full of them. This isn’t just an ambush, it’s a trap.’ Aqualad replied as he sliced through two robots with his whip. ‘Okay, but a trap for what exactly?’ asked Kid Flash.

‘Or who…’ Robin said.

That made the bubbling in your guts more intense as you saw a group of MONQIs flying toward you from the box that just exploded. With quick thinking, you released your shield into two long tendrils of fire that sucked right into your hands. A fiery hue started to creep up your arms as you consumed the rest of the energy from the shield before you tucked your arms into your body and whipped them out, releasing the fire into two arcs that cut right through the cackling robots.

You brushed your hands in victory before feeling multiple tiny metal hands grab at your suit, yanking you down to the ground. That sickly laugh was in your ears as they crawled all over you. They held your arms back, trying to prevent you from using your powers. You struggled to build a heat wave, but the little pesky androids kept breaking your focus with that annoying laugh as they poked and pulled at your face.

When you could barely move anymore, you were about to give up when you felt the ground shake and rumble next to you, like it was about to give in from something heavy that dropped on it. You felt and saw the robots holding down your arms get knocked off.

As your vision cleared with less green and black, you looked up to see Superboy standing over you, punching and pulling more of the robots off of you. Now, that you could focus more, you shot some fireballs from your hands, blasting the other ones off you.

“I hate monkeys,” You heard him grunt before he reached out to help you up. “You alright?”

“Fine. But, I’m never watching Curious George again.” You replied as you took it and got back on your feet, dusting yourself off.

Your comrade looked confused for a second before he just gave you a small smile, choosing not to ask.

The sound of a door opening caught both of your attention, turning just in time to see the villain himself, Doctor Ivo, running out the side exit of the building.

“There’s Ivo!” You pointed seeing a few of his MONQIs trailing right behind him.

Superboy’s smile quickly turned into an angry snarl as he was about to go after him. That is until a MONQI flew right at his face, wrapping its arms and leg around to prevent being pulled off.

“Superboy!” You shouted going to help. But, you hesitated since you didn’t want to throw a fireball right at his face and risk burning him, even if he was invulnerable. You really needed to stop letting this crush you had on the Kryptonian cloud your judgment.

But, you didn’t even get the chance to do anything when another group of MONQIs grabbed you from behind, this time lifting you off the ground. If this was the universe’s subtle way of saying you were very light to carry, it wasn’t cute.

“What the heck?! Put me down you banana-loving freaks!” You shouted as they carried you away in the same direction toward the door Ivo was headed.

Aqualad looked over in time to see the robots carrying you off and he turned to see Robin and Kid Flash fighting off the last few around them.

“Robin! Kid Flash! They’ve got Wildfire.” He shouted, pointing in the direction you were being taken. They nodded, quickly going to follow in pursuit until Superboy finally managed to tear off the robot on his face and threw it at another box.

“Superboy! Watch where you throw those things. As if we didn’t have enough to deal with already.” KF yelled as he and Robin got surrounded by a new group of the hysterical monstrosities.

The Kryptonian didn’t even pay attention to him though, immediately going after you.

They’d already pulled you out through the door, just before you managed to burn off one of them that was holding your left arm. Before you could fire the rest off, they decided to drop you right at that moment, letting you fall to the ground. Even though you could fly, your reaction time wasn’t fast enough before you hit the ground.

“Ugh, I’m gonna feel that one tomorrow,” You groaned, rubbing the back of your head.

“Oh, you will indeed.” A voice suddenly spoke in front of you.

Your vision was blurry from the fall you took, but as it came back together, you saw Dr. Ivo standing in front of you with a smug grin.

“Ivo,” You growled, attempting to get off the ground to blast the bastard, but your body was entirely disoriented from your fall.

The Doctor chuckled at your struggling before both of your attention was pulled by the sound of a loud boom from behind you. You both looked back towards the building to see Superboy who had launched through the wall of the factory, heading straight for you.

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!” He shouted, landing a few feet next to you before immediately grabbing Ivo by his shirt, lifting him off the ground. The few MONQI robots surrounding you tried to come to their creator’s defense, but were smashed apart by Superboy’s free fist.

“Oh, that was a bit excessive, don’t you think? And those were my favorites.” Ivo mocked, still grinning for whatever reason.

While watching the encounter, something in your peripheral caught your attention. You looked up to see a MONQI bot sneakily moving behind your teammate holding a syringe with some kind of purple liquid inside.

You shouted at your teammate as you quickly realized what was happening and who the trap was for.

“SUPERBOY, MOVE!”

He turned to look back at you, seeing the MONQI move towards him. But, he was too late as the robot dashed forward and plunged the syringe right into his neck, causing him to yell out and freeze in shock from whatever was in that syringe.

“No!”

You summoned everything you could at that moment and shot a fireball at the robot destroying it before it could inject all of the liquid into him. As the syringe fell out of his neck and the shock wore off, Superboy let go of Ivo as he seemed to lose his balance swaying from side to side before falling to the ground.

“Well, that was fun,” Ivo mocked, getting up from the ground and wiping himself off, “Now, we'll get to watch him tear all of you apart.” A smirk plastered across his face as he looked at the unconscious half-Kryptonian. He was marveling at the success of his plan when his eyes ran over the syringe which still held some of the purple liquid inside.

“No! The entire dosage must be administered for it to take full effect.” Ivo exclaimed, immediately running for the syringe.

“I don’t think so.” You muttered, raising your hand and shooting out a blast of fire that formed into a circle around the syringe preventing Ivo from getting to it.

The doctor growled as he backed away not wanting to get burned.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Get the syringe!” Ivo yelled out to his robot minions.

Two of them immediately flew right for it before they were blown apart by two fireballs you shot at them. A third one you didn’t see almost swooped in and got it but was struck through the chest by one of Artemis’ arrows.

You heard a giant explosion from behind and turned to see your friends running from the warehouse that just blew up, taking all of those other MONQI robots inside with it.

“Robin,” You figured, sighing in relief.

“No! My babies…” Ivo cried. He tried to make a break for it, but you were finally back at full strength.

Getting to your feet, you blasted yourself into the air, your eyes glowing a bright ember as the anger you felt for the Doctor and whatever he did to your friend fueled the fire inside your chest.

You flew around Ivo, flying in a circle leaving a trail of fire in your path, effectively trapping the Doctor inside.

“No! No! NO!” He cried frustratedly, realizing his defeat. He desperately looked around trying to see if there was a way he could escape. But, as he came to realize, unless he wanted to be cooked like a summer barbeque, there was no way he could get out of your trap.

You had a satisfied smirk on your face listening to his cries before you turned toward the rest of your team who were gathering around Superboy.

“What happened?” Miss Martian asked as she knelt over him.

You looked at your knocked-out friend and the syringe that was on the ground a few feet from him. You dissipated the ring of fire around it, hopefully having not tampered with or boiled it from the flames.

“I don’t know, but we need to find out.”

You returned to the Cave with the Team, M’Gann carrying Conner with her telekinesis.

“Report.” The ever-brooding tone of Batman spoke as he stood at the center of the room with Red Tornado, his cape covering his body.

“It was a trap,” Kal immediately started, being the last to come through the Zeta tube, “Ivo planted those crates in that warehouse knowing we would show up. The crates were full of his robots, but they only served as a distraction so Ivo could execute his real plan.” He finished, turning to look at the Kryptonian.

“And that was…” Batman questioned.

Holding out your hand, you revealed the syringe with the purple liquid inside, “Ivo wanted to inject whatever this stuff is into Conner. He almost did, but I stopped him. He mentioned something about getting to watch him tear us all apart.” You explained leaving out the part where it only happened because you got careless and got captured by those pesky robots.

You couldn’t tell if your teammates felt the same way, but it didn’t stop the pang of guilt you felt every time you looked at Conner.

“Hm,” Batman uttered as he took the syringe from your hand to examine it more closely

“Apparently, it won’t work though. Ivo said the entire dosage needed to be administered for it to take effect. Effect of what exactly? That’s the only thing he didn’t let slip.” You added as the Dark Knight continued observing the liquid.

“I’ll send this to the Watchtower to have it fully examined. In the mean tim-”

Before the superhero could finish, Conner suddenly awoke, sitting straight up with a grunt.

“Conner!” M’Gann exclaimed, rushing to his side.

Apparently, he didn’t like being airborne as he started flailing out of control, letting off sounds of frustration as he tried to get his feet on the ground.

“Um, I think he wants to get down,” Wally pointed out.

“Oh! Right, sorry.” She said, releasing him as he fell on his butt.

You all cringed as he hit the ground, hearing him groan in pain before looking towards M’Gann with disapproving looks.

She blushed in response, letting out an embarrassed laugh, “Oops.”

Everyone turned to look back at Conner as he got to his feet. He slowly looked around, looking as if he didn’t recognize where he was. That’s when you noticed him twitching his nose as if he was just smelling everything around him.

You remembered reading something about Kryptonians having extremely heightened senses compared to regular humans when you were studying the heroes in the League and had gotten to the chapter on Superman.

It seemed that statement was true as Conner looked around at everyone, not really reacting to anything, but he was clearly on guard as he took in the sights and smells mainly from around him.

“Conner?” M’Gann called his name.

He turned his head towards her, which got you somewhat relieved. Okay, at least he still knew who he was. Or at least you were hoping, since it was very possible that he only turned since she was the first voice that spoke since he got off the ground.

Twitching his nose again, he let out a very disapproving noise before backing away from her and covering his nose.

M’Gann began to panic as she looked confused, “What? What did I do? I didn’t do anything!”

“I think it’s your smell? He doesn’t seem to be taking kindly to it.” Robin theorized.

“But, I showered this morning!” M’Gann said.

“And, you also just came out of a dusty and dirty warehouse after fighting a bunch of rogue crazy monkey robots.” Zatanna pointed out.

“Oh, right.” She said, blushing again and scratching the back of her head.

It seemed what the magical apprentice said was true, as Conner backed away from everyone while still covering his nose until he looked in your direction.

He paused for a moment, sniffing still under his hand before hearing one of the most aggressive animalistic noises you’d ever heard in your life. And you’ve literally battled some very aggressive animals.

Conner’s eyes went wide before rushing toward you, causing you to jump in shock as he stood in front of you with his towering frame. He grabbed you by your arms, holding you in place before you could move away from him. You could see him staring at you with the most piercing gaze ever, like he could see right inside your mind and was reading your thoughts. Which, the literal terror from that thought alone was enough to have you seizing up in his arms besides the stare. The things that went through your mind concerning your team’s resident Kryptonian were nowhere near pure, even on a Sunday.

Though, the longer he stared at you without saying anything, the more nervous you got.

“Uh, hey Con? Feeling better buddy?” You asked, not knowing if you should try and make sudden movements as the boy just continued to stare at you. Then, he tilted his head, and it seemed as if instead of staring, he was studying you. What he could be studying, you’d rather not let the delusional fairy in your mind get any ideas.

Leaning your head to the side, you called out to your teammates and leaders, “Uh guys, shouldn’t we be trying to do something here?”

None of them moved or said anything, as they all just stared at you and the Kryptonian in confusion. Well, except for Batman and Red Tornado whose expressions never changed.

Then, it got weird.

Something you did had apparently pleased the Kryptonian as he grunted in what sounded like satisfaction before he dived head first (literally) into the open angle of your neck, sniffing at the junction between above your shoulder.

Your eyes went wide as your body immediately tried to retract (you’d never mentioned to your friends that you were extremely ticklish, especially Conner who had a habit of always trying to find ways to mess with you) from the tickling sensation as you attempted to hold in your laughs.

Though, the Kryptonian thought you were trying to get away from him which he wasn’t pleased about at all, if the angry growl he let off was anything to go by. He released his initial hold on you before wrapping his arms around you and forcefully tugging your body against his as your friends all looked in shock, not knowing what to say or do.

Heck, you didn’t know what to say or do!

Your teammate and friend was basically holding you forcing you into his grip while sniffing your neck like you were a freshly baked pie sitting on a window seal with its aroma basking in the wind

And worst of all, you liked it.

This was so not helping your crush on him.

“Ookay, so I guess that confirms that it was our scents that were weirding him out,” Robin said, not hiding how uncomfortable he felt watching what was happening.

“So, he basically just said we all stink and Y/N smells like a field of flowers,” Artemis said, trying to find something else to look at than the weird display of…affection (if you could even call it that) in front of her.

“Well, that makes no sense. If anything, Y/N should be the stinkiest out of us all. The man literally can surround his entire body in fire. I refuse to believe that doesn’t smell even remotely disgusting,” Wally said, breaking the awkward atmosphere in the room, somewhat…until you realized what he said.

“Hey!” You yelled as the Kryptonian kept trying to dig his nose further into your neck. From whatever angle you look at, Conner probably looked like a vampire having a full-on feast on your neck. And you couldn’t decide if the image of what you guys looked liked was weird and concerning, or hot as fuck.

In fact, you chose to not think of it at all in hopes of preventing a situation down south from arising.

“Sorry Y/N, not personal. Though, this is still weird.” He replied, waving his hands towards you and Conner and whatever this was that was going on.

You were gonna respond with a witty comeback, a good one too. But then, you suddenly felt Conner licking and biting at your neck. Apparently, he really was getting into this vampire role since you could literally feel the blood in your body freeze (if that were even possible) and thaw in a matter of seconds. Only to end up with a tingling sensation in the front area of your pants.

Alright, this needed to end before it got even more embarrassing.

��Uh guys, a little help.” You said, wiggling in an attempt to free yourself from Conner’s grip. But, the boy was literally Superman’s clone, or half clone at least, which meant your struggling was barely doing anything IF anything at all.

But, all it did was aggravate Conner even more as the last thing he wanted was for you to get away from him apparently. He growled in your neck with a harsh bite as a warning, before tightening one of his arms around your body even more while using his other one to grab at the back of your head, tugging on your hair to yank your head to the side and open your neck even more.

You cried out in pain as he bit and licked on your neck harder, even starting to suck on it. You heard a deep and felt the noise of what you figured was satisfaction he let out, figuring he liked the sound of your cries, taking them to be from pleasure instead of pain.

Alright, enough was enough.

“Guys!” You yelled, struggling to loosen his hold as he kept his arm as tight as he could around you, seemingly trying to force you into a more submissive hold.

Damn it, that thought went straight to your pants.

“Dude, just burn him!” Wally yelled.

Oh, that’s right. You do have powers.

You let the heat inside your body build, feeling the fire start to dance off the skin of your suit. Conner could feel it too as it started to burn through his clothes slightly while he maintained his hold on you. He tried to shove you forward, attempting to knock you off your feet and press you against one of the walls where he could definitely have a better chance of keeping you in his grasp.

You groaned from the sudden movement, which he definitely liked as he bit into your neck again letting out a yelp of pain just before a torrent of fire blasted between your bodies.

Conner growled in discomfort but didn’t let go, huffing in your ears as he pulled on your head again, this time forcing your head backward as he stared into your eyes, his expression screaming out for you to submit. He leaned down to lick at the new area of exposed skin to him, while you did everything you could to not let out the most horniest of moans in front of your friends and mentors.

What did you do to deserve this kind of hot, but embarrassing torture? It was literally like the universe was dangling your deepest desires in front of you while you stood on a stage in your underwear in front of your entire school or job.

Because everyone’s had that nightmare at some point in their lives right?

Without even realizing it at first, you managed to create a bit of space between you and the Kryptonian, which was enough for you to move your arms from your side to place your hands against his chest, doing your best to ignore how firm and strong his muscles felt under your touch.

“Oh, dear lord, forgive me for my sinful thoughts.” You muttered in a sort of breathy moan. Thankfully, your teammates didn’t hear it, except for the one who was still feasting on your neck as his eyes traveled back up to yours, that dominating gaze almost putting you in a trance as he helped himself to your skin.

“Alright, buddy boy, it’s been fun and all,” You breathed, letting another well of energy build from your core, “but it’s time to LET. GO!” You yelled, emphasizing each word louder and louder as the fire began to blast off from your body.

The initial discharge was enough for his hold to weaken and put even more space between you. This was just the opportunity you needed, pushing him forward as much as you could (which frankly wasn’t much but you’d let yourself have this moment) while raising your feet off the ground to push and kick off his stomach, breaking his hold.

You cried out in victory and slight relief as your body broke out of his arms. Before he could get his bearings, you took your hand and placed it over his that was holding on to your head, blasting off enough heat to burn his hand and force him to release you with a scream.

Launching yourself in the air, you put as much distance between you and Kryptonian as you could. He yelled out in frustration at the realization that you had gotten away. When his eyes landed on you, you’d almost thought he’d somehow gotten heat vision with the way his eyes were burning at you. That look had you both terrified and insanely horny at the same time.

Conner stared at you for a few more seconds before moving his hand out to point at you, then taking that same hand and pointing at the ground just in front of him with a grunt. He was ordering you to return to your original position, which you definitely didn’t plan on doing.

When you didn’t follow directions, he just growled out loud at you before pointing down at the ground again in a firmer stance. Somehow, he got the idea in his head that you were supposed to do what he says or orders, and when you didn’t do just that, he got angrier. His face was not one of appreciation at your open ‘defiance.’

But, how could you be defiant if you never took orders from the Kryptonian in the first place? So, you just raised yourself higher into the air, figuring as long as you stayed out of his reach, you were safe from another ‘intimate’ session.

But, this was Superboy we were talking about. And while he couldn’t fly, he could still jump high enough to reach you. Something, you had remembered just as he bent down and launched himself at you, screaming out in his usual Conner fashion. But, they weren’t screams of anger, at least from what you assumed.

They sounded more like frustration. You were avoiding the word you knew it actually was. Corny but with an ‘H’.

You moved out of the way in time as he shot past you into one of the cave walls, flying to the other side to keep space between you two. But, it seemed you forgot he could launch himself from walls as well.

That ‘H’ word was clouding your mind.

You felt him reach out to snag you and thinking fast, let yourself drop to the ground before he could. At least, your reflexes weren’t totally out. You watched as he just landed on another cave wall, digging his fingers into the rock to hold himself up, seeing your friends just continue to stare at you in confusion and weirdness.

“Okay, is it just me, or is he acting like a- like uh…” Artemis said, confusion holding onto her brain still as she watched the situation unfold.

“Like a monkey?” Wally answered, also watching this in weirdness and slight amusement. This kind of thing doesn't happen every day. Even for him.

“Yes. He seems to be exhibiting the traits of a wild animal.” Kal pointed out, also watching the madness as you flew from different sides of the cave, managing to avoid the Kryptonian’s numerous attempts to apprehend you.

“Hmm, it would seem that whatever Conner was injected with has amplified his most primal instincts. I assume that Doctor Ivo was trying to take advantage of his prominent urge to fight and destroy from his earlier ‘programming’, and use it against us. But, without the full dose, he only managed to strengthen his other ‘aggressive instincts’.” Red Tornado theorized.

“And those would be…?” M’Gann asked though she had a feeling she didn’t want to know.

“To find and mate with a desirable partner. And, it seems he has chosen Y/N as that partner.” He answered.

To say your friends felt more than awkward and disturbed was an understatement.

Robin and Zatanna went pale, Aqualad started choking on air, M’Gann got even greener than she already was, and Artemis started gagging like she was gonna throw up, even Batman shifted a little. Wally, however, seemed perfectly fine as he just started laughing.

“Oh! Well, what’s so bad about that? He just wants to find a friend!” He exclaimed, feeling sentiment towards his super friend until Zatanna tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear what ‘mate’ actually meant, “Wha- OH GROSS! GET A ROOM YOU TWO!”

Yeah, your friends and mentors were witnesses to your other friend, teammate, and crush (though they didn’t need to know that last part (especially after he & M’Gann literally just broke up), trying to fuck you.

You rolled your eyes at the speedster’s comment, focusing on avoiding another one of Conner’s attempts to capture you. Though this time, he wasn’t trying to just merely grab you, but instead trying to knock you out of the air.

This became clear too late when he launched off the side wall at you with a shout, but instead of holding his arm out, he had his arm tucked in and was aiming his shoulder at you.

You tried to duck out of the way but were just a fraction of a second too late as his body collided with yours, knocking you both toward the ground. You braced for a hard fall but felt Conner once again encircle you in his arms, pulling you around and tucking you into his body just as you both landed with him taking most of the force from the fall.

You felt yourselves sliding until eventually coming to a stop against one of the walls in the hallways.

“Yep, gonna feel that in the morning too.” You groaned, your head falling forward to rest on his chest. His shirt was slightly burnt and torn from your little game of cat and mouse, so you were feeling some parts of his bare skin which did not help the situation in your underwear at all.

Feeling his body vibrate as he grunted again, you looked up to see him looking down at you in amusement.

“You find this funny sir?!” You shouted at him before you felt him leaning up and raising you both off the ground, his arms once again holding you tight against him. Conner pushed you up against the wall, trapping you between, well a literal rock and a hard place. You let out a groan as the air escaped your lungs from the force, the Kryptonian grunting his satisfaction from your noises.

Huh, what do you know? Guys really do enjoy the chase, well, at least not you. You preferred being chased, but this situation may have been a bit of an exception if it weren’t for the circumstances and the audience you had.

Conner pressed his body against yours, letting you feel what probably had to be the most prominent bulge in the history of bulges against your abdomen. The same hand that previously gripped your hair found its way there again as he grabbed a whole fistful of it, pulling your head back as you gasped. His other hand reached around and grabbed a handful of your ass, which poked out nicely from your suit as Zatanna liked to point out sometimes in teasing.

“Hey! Watch those hands, mister,” You warned before letting out a gasp, as he ground himself into you.

He looked down at you, a sinfully prideful smirk on his face as he ground his large bulge against your own crotch. You squirmed in his hold reaching your arms up and pushing against his chest trying to escape again, but it only excited him further as he leered down at your efforts while still grinding against you.

You tried to let balls of fire build in your palms, but Conner had quickly learned your tricks. He took the hand that was groping your ass and snatched both of your wrists together with it, placing them against the wall above your head while moving his other arm around your waist so he could continue to grind your crotches and abdomens together.

He effectively had you trapped, and for some reason, all you could think about was earlier when you trapped the Doctor in that cyclone of fire. Is this how he felt when he realized he had nowhere to go?

You were hard and wet in your set, something the Kryptonian immediately took notice of, as you felt his bulge throb harder and his chest rumbled with an ungodly loud growl. He leaned down to begin his assault on your neck again, not satisfied with his work from earlier apparently.

You whined out, feeling so hot but embarrassed at the same time by the fact that your team was watching this whole thing play out in front of them.

Speaking of which…

“Guys! You gonna intervene now or what?” You yelled out, Conner harshly biting your neck for that as a reprimand. You got away from him once, he wasn’t planning on letting it happen twice.

It was like the Kryptonian could understand everything you were doing and saying while still acting like an animal in heat. Every time you struggled or you tried to burn him, he yanked your head again to break your concentration. The more you whined and groaned, the harder he sucked on your neck, trying to evoke more noises from you. And if you screamed out for help, he’d bite down on your neck with a growl, like a warning.

‘Shut up and submit or else…’

This was literally something straight out of one of your hottest wet dreams, though, if only it wasn't in the presence of others.

Speaking of again…

“GUYS!” You shouted at your friends, who were all just stuck, not knowing what to do.

“Oh right.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, our bad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My apologies.”

“Hm.”

“Interesting.”

“This is so weird.”

They all moved towards you, still clueless about what to do in this situation. How strange does a situation have to be for you to stump two grown adults, not to mention members of the Justice League? Your friends, you could understand as you were all teenagers and this wasn’t something you dealt with every day.

Of course, Batman and Red Tornado also probably didn’t deal with this every day, but they’re the adults in this situation which means they need to act like they’ve dealt with this before!

Everyone moved towards you, slowly, not trying to alert Conner as he continued his ‘ministrations’ on your neck. Though, it seemed that it wasn’t only you who kept forgetting the extent of the Kryptonian’s abilities, one of them being his Super Hearing which was also amped up by whatever sex juice he was injected with.

You felt a low and deep growl come from him, as he turned towards your friends with a threatening look towards them, warning them to not get any closer. Everyone paused for a second, reconsidering getting closer as Conner started to act more like an animal being cornered.

“I’m not sure if this subject matter is taught in your schools, but I do not think it wise to approach Conner in this sort of state. Wild animals are known to be extra dangerous and violent when cornered, especially if they are defending what they believe to be their territory.” Red Tornado suggested as Conner’s eyes seemed to get more wild from your approaching comrades.

Oh, so now you were basically property? This was doing great things for your dignity.

By this point, Wally had had enough by this point.

“Okay forget this then! What are we doing?! There are 6 of us and one of him. Let’s just rush the guy. Super strength and all, he can’t hold us all back..” He suggested.

Note for the future. Never listen to Wally ever again.

The second one took a step to close, Conner went into full defense mode. He pulled back from you, which you thought was a good thing, and almost sighed in relief.

Thought and almost being keywords here.

Conner took the hand that was holding your hands above your head. and grabbed one of the metal panelings of the cave and actually ripped it free. Pieces from the wall including other panels and wires fell out from the exposed part of the wall as he chucked the metal slab in his hand at your teammates.

They ducked out of the way in time, but it provided the Kryptonian with the distraction he needed to grab a smaller piece of metal that was smaller but longer for what he planned off the floor. He took your wrist off the wall (where he felt a sense of smug pride from the fact that you never moved your hands) and bent the metal tightly around your wrists, wrapping them together. Once your hands were tightly bound, he leaned down to wrap his arm around your legs, throwing you over his shoulder.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ You thought to yourself as you hung off Conner’s shoulder which was surprisingly not as uncomfortable as you thought it would be.

How no one managed to swoop in with the time it took him to bind your wrists and put you on his shoulder was beyond you.

These people could avoid lasers, energy blasts, and projectiles shooting at them in a matter of seconds, but, one slab of metal was enough to throw them off their game?!

Okay, truth be told, you were off your game as well.

It’s been a weird day.

“Guys! I could really use your assistance,” You pleaded from your perch, legs wiggling back and forth as you tried to shake and force your way off his shoulder.

Your friends tried to rush Conner as Wally suggested, but that didn’t work out as he just launched himself over them. You watched the ground get farther and closer as he landed. At least you could see your friend's ridiculous looks on their faces as they watched you being hauled off like a caveman holding on to his prize.

Alright, who’s really the ridiculous looking one here?

Batman tried to shoot one of his electrical tasers at him to stun him, but he just grabbed the string before it could touch him and yanked it, knocking the Dark Knight off his feet.

“Yeah, tried that one before too. Didn’t work out well.” Robin said, as his mentor got back on his feet.

Conner screamed out at your comrades, holding his arm around your thighs as you continued to try and wiggle your way off his shoulder. Which, all you were doing was rubbing your hard-on in a back-and-forth motion on his shoulder, giving him the wrong (or right) idea while creating friction against your crotch that was not helping you feel less hot in the slightest.

“This is so not how I expected my day to go.” You groaned before yelling out as you felt a hot sting on your ass from where the Kryptonian just slapped it.

“Are you kidding me?!” You cried.

“Didn’t need to see that!

“Oh, my god…”

“Oh dude, seriously!”

“Now, that’s just rude.”

“I did not need to see that.”

“Hm.”

“Interesting.”

“Okay, that’s just dehumanizing.”

You heard your friend's complaints and groans as Conner continued to avoid their attempts to rescue and subdue him. Eventually, you just accepted your reality.

“I’m so getting torn apart today.”

Conner seemed to agree with that, adding another smack to emphasize it.

“I thought you all were supposed to be heroes!”

☀️ | Conner Kent/ Superboy | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

🔥 | Part Two | 🔥

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no-saints-around-here · 1 year

Text

Milk

Yandere Leona Kingscholar & Nursemaid Darling

Masterlist

‎‎

just a random short based off of these HCs I did for Leona because i’ve been in a really bad boredom

tw: boobs, bit of smut, dubcon/noncon, reader has female parts, I only know the bare minimum about twisted wonderland so fair warning

Milk? The thought flashed briefly across Leona’s mind as he lounged, sprawled comfortably across his plush chaise lounge, emerald green eyes partially closed as they followed you hurrying around his room with piles of his things bundled up in your arms. He hadn't thought about milk or drinking milk for years now, not since he abandoned the drink for something more 'grown-up', or whatever that meant to a younger him. But if he was being more honest with him, Leona would admit that he hadn't thought about milk since you were relieved of your nursemaid duties by his family the moment the second prince was old enough to care for himself. You had been with him for as long as he could remember, the only person who had been by his side and been on his side, the only soul who gave enough of a shit about him to watch over and teach him.

A flash of your underwear from under the short skirt of your custom staff uniform caught the corner of his eye, and a lazy smirk quirked his lips - it wasn’t like you would have known that Leona had you all but cornered back into uniform. With the help of his parents to pacify their second son of course: all he had asked for in return for him to attend Falena’s crowning ceremony was you, but that part mattered little. What did matter was that you were back in your old job, and that you were once more by his side. Within his grasp where he could keep watch over you, keep you safe from the outside world, just like you did for him when he was young.

A twitch of his ear as he heard the drag of a drawer opening, though he was too lazy to turn and look - by the sound of it, you were folding and putting away his piles of clothes that had been abandoned and strewn in various locations across his enormous room. No surprise that it was one of your top priorities, given that you preferred your things in order; Leona refused to allow any of the regular servants to trespass and dirty his room, though it did help to serve as an excuse for you to spend more time in his territory. His long brown lion tail swished as long forgotten memories washed over the young prince once more, helped along by a whiff of your familiar scent that caught his sensitive nose when you once more crossed more in front of him, this time humming an old tune under your breath with what looked like jewelry in your arms.

‎‎‎‎

‎‎

"Milk?" Leona remembered the innocent sleepy question from his toddler-self years ago, one small chubby fist clinging onto your skirt with the other rubbing at his eyes. The sky outside had already been dark for some time, long past his bedtime, but your charge still refused to go to sleep. You had been gone from the palace earlier that day for a few hours on personal business, but for little Leona it had felt like forever; after all, he had never been apart from you for so long before, and was inclined to make up for lost time when you returned. Sighing, you leaned down to scoop the prince into your arms, resting him against your hip - he was getting heavier every day, though fortunately not yet to the point you couldn't carry him.

Goodness only knows the fit Leona would throw when that day came.

“If I pour you a glass of milk, will you go to bed?”

"B-But you were gone earlier," he complained, this time yawning. No doubt Leona had been looking forward to showing you the little ball of light he could summon all day, but with this slipping consciousness, it was beyond what he could manage at the moment. "I wanna play more."

You smiled that brilliant, kind smile at him, snuggling him to your chest as you carried him down empty hallways, the sound of your footsteps against marble floors the only sound that echoed almost hauntingly through the night. "We can play more tomorrow okay? It's late already."

"Y-you promise? You're not going to leave me?"

Crossing your heart with your free hand, it was enough for the young lion prince to be content. The kitchen door slid open noiselessly, and you sat Leona atop one of the counters as you looked in the cupboards for his favorite cup, before turning to show it to him. "This cup okay?" You pointed at the cute print of dancing animals.

But instead of the enthusiastic agreement you had expected, the tanned boy only furrowed his eyebrows at your question. "Why do I have to drink from a cup?"

You blinked. "Sorry?"

"Why do I have to drink from a cup?" The child repeated sullenly. Reaching out to grab the hem of your shirt, Leona pulled it towards him with as much strength as a toddler could manage - not stretching the fabric by much but enough to reveal the top of your bra. "Falena says he always drinks from Mummy. I wanna too."

The world seemed to stop, falling silent as you stared back blankly at the boy, the gears in your head clearly turning as you tried to process what Leona had just said. Your heart pounded away in your ears, jaw slackened - not that the second prince to the Sunset Savanna would know, those emerald green eyes peering back up at you, his tiny fist still wrapped around the fabric of your clothes. You knew he had always been cast to the side in favor of his older brother and crown prince Falena, but how do you go about breaking the news to a child that he had to drink from a cup because his own mother didn’t breastfeed him? It took a minute, but you did manage to compose and pull yourself together, lightly prying those chubby fingers from your shirt. “A-ah, Leona, see I’m not a mummy, so I don’t have milk for you okay?” Your face was completely red and burning as you said that, yet you pressed on. “Can you be a good boy and drink your milk from your cup?”

A crestfallen look instantly washed over Leona’s face, enough to bring tears welling to your eyes despite you not being able to do anything for him - how could anyone not be sympathetic? A small child, abandoned. Instead, biting down your emotions and forcing a smile to your face once more, you offered the cup of milk to your small charge, leaning over to kiss him on the top of his head. “Come on, once you’re done drinking, how about I read you a bedtime story?”

‎‎‎

“-ona. Leona!” Said man blinked, looking up to find you standing mere inches away from him, waving one hand right in front of his face. “Anyone home?”

Those emerald eyes instantly focused back on you as he was drawn out from his daydreaming. “I’m here,” he drawled, the start of another smirk once more quirking the corner of his lips as he stretched across the couch he was still sprawled on, looking much like a cat would in the moment.

“I’m done with packing for today, so I’ll be leaving now,” you told the prince, a gentle smile and kind eyes facing him as you withdrew your hand - so small and delicate compared to his now. They had seemed immovable when he was younger. Yet before you could even turn to leave, his own hand shot out to wrap firmly around your wrist, and you paused at the sudden contact, turning to look quizzably at him. So fragile; the Savanaclaw housewarden imagined he could snap it in two with just an ounce more pressure. “Leona? Did you need something else?” A tinge of concern flashed across your expression, and you leaned in closer to press the back of your hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

That care again. You were on his side. You had always been on his side. You lived to serve him and only him. Only he could say when you were leaving.

With his daydreams still plaguing his thoughts, in a single definite pull, Leona yanked both your shirt and bra up in a swift sweep of his arm, your naked breasts tumbling out from beneath your clothes. There was a pause, a silence that swept across the room as you stared down at your lifted shirt baffled, as if even neither you nor the world couldn’t believe what had just happened, what he just did.

Then you started to scream. “L-l-leona??” You seemingly were flushing from head to toe, having been exposed in front of the second prince - your prince. “What are you doing?” But your struggles were for naught as Leona instantly caught both your wrists in one hand in a single smooth move, preventing you from concealing your body from him and pulling you close, though the tanned man didn’t seem as interested in stopping you from screaming. Scream all you like, but the rest of the palace knew better than to step even a toe into his domain. “Let go!”

He didn't even like you that way. Despite what his recent actions seemed to indicate, your once-toddler charge could never see you in any other way than his loving nursemaid, his substitute parent, the only soul that cared about him and that brought him up as your own, even if you were a child yourself then. But it was exactly that that drove the lion prince to his current actions, his fingers, calloused from years of Spelldrive competitions, lifting to harshly pinch one nipple. You yelped, instantly halting your attempted escape.

“Still no milk for me huh?” The prince tsked, though the approval in his voice was enough to completely mask his disappointment. As expected, his hard work had not gone to waste - all those time he spent sneaking about the Sunset Savannah, threatening and roughening up anyone who dared to even breathe your way, pulling strings to have his parents intervene, it had all paid off. You were untainted, pure - you were completely his. “Not even if I rub it like that?” He purred, pulling lightly at your sensitive bud, all the while your face burned more and more, your breath catching as you struggled to come to terms with what was going on.

He could see you bite down on your lips in an attempt to suppress whatever it was that was bubbling up in your throat. Instead, the tone of your voice seemed to have gone up an octave as you pleaded with the unmoved man. “L-leona! Let me go, t-this is extremely inappropriate!”

But what was once scolding words fell on deaf ears; and instead his ears simply twitched - he liked it. He liked the slight desperation in your tone, the horrified look of shame that washed over your face, doe eyes shiny with unshed tears, unable to hold his gaze for longer than a few seconds: he liked this side of you. A far cry from the position of authority that you once held over him - the Savannah prince couldn’t think of anything better than getting to know every side of you. Getting to know all of you. Releasing your now-sore nipple from his grip, Leona instead moved to gently massage one breast with his free hand, eyes fixed on you, carefully studying your expression. No matter how you tried to avoid his gaze, tried to wriggle free from his grasp, there was nowhere left for you to hide from him.

The wind rattled open windows as it circulated freely across the vast room, bringing a relief to the scorching afternoon just outside. But he knew that to you, it was but a mocking reminder of the situation you were trapped in as opposed to being one of the simple pleasures you used to enjoy.

There was nothing more that Leona would like more than to finally have the opportunity to taste your milk, like what he had wanted to do all those years ago. In his mind, this was your duty to him: you were his real mother after all. Sighing, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to your other breast, your perked-up rose bud grinded softly between his teeth. Your body froze beneath him. “Shhh, it’s alright,” the tanned man cooed, large, strong hands now trailing down the side of your body. He didn't like you that way, but the young man didn't think he'd mind much if you were his wife. At least he wouldn't have to worry too much about filthy grubby hands soiling someone he held so dear. “I won’t hurt you.” His words were like silk, smooth, strong and deceptively delicate. “Don’t move now.”

Not that he needed to say those last three words out loud - you wouldn’t dare disobey him, given he was royalty and you were not. A particularly hard nibble, and you couldn’t stop the moan that slipped your lips, and the horror immediately followed as your two gentle hands flew up to cover your traitorous mouth, eyes quivering as the tears finally started to fall, rolling and burning down hot cheeks.

Even if you still don’t know it yet, your life was already in his hands. One word, and things fall apart.

Your tight, short skirt was the first to go, slipped down and carelessly tossed aside, leaving you standing in front of him in just your panties and lifted top. Curious fingers carefully touched between your legs, a drastic departure from his normal crass self and his rough handling of you from just minutes earlier, gently caressing the thin cotton that separated him with his goal. “I just need to make you a mummy, huh?” Leona muttered to himself under his breath.

You obviously caught his words loud and clear in this otherwise lifeless bedroom, flinching as your words from all those years ago rolled off his tongue, back to haunt you like a tormented soul. “Le-Leona. You don’t have to do this.”

He hummed, a solitary, almost haunting note. "I must." A clink, followed by the sound of leather rubbing over fabric, the prince’s belt falling to the floor. You couldn’t look away as he unzipped his pants, pulling it and his boxers down just far enough to allow his length, thick and heavy, to spring out from beneath his clothes. Patting his lap with one hand, the other moved once more to take your hand and tug you to sit, a flash of a memory from long ago overtook his senses.

And for just that heartbeat, he saw his tiny hand reaching up, wrapped lovingly, comfortingly in your larger one.

Leona shook his head, and the memory was gone. “Come.” He ordered, forcing your shaking legs apart and pushing aside the crotch of your panties. One way or another, he was getting the milk he was due.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x y/n #twst x reader #twst x you #leona kingscholar #yandere leona kingscholar #leona x reader #twst leona #yandere leona x reader #yandere leona kingscholar x reader

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sunlightmurdock · 2 years

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Our Final Night Alive | Jake Seresin x virgin Reader (18+)

Synopsis: Reader is having a really hard time the night before a particularly scary mission, Jake shows his true colours and stands by her side.

Warnings: smut, angst, themes of loss / grief and fear

Please DNI if you’re a minor!!

…

“You’re gonna have to write me some kind of manual,” Jake muses as he puts an olive between his teeth and bites down on it. You raise an eyebrow at him, waiting for the explanation that will inevitably accompany this request. “On abstinence, I mean. I have no idea how you do it.”

You roll your eyes and look back down at your drink, stirring it with your straw. You rarely dignify Jake’s allusions to your sex-life (or lack of) with a response.

It’s the night before deployment. He should be with the others, drinking and revelling in their last moments of guaranteed safety. You should be with them too. They’re gathered around the piano, singing melancholy lyrics to an upbeat tune. But, Jake’s here with you, in a booth at the back of the Hard Deck.

You’ve always struggled with the night before deployment. Maybe it’s the distance — deep down you know that it’s the not knowing. Even if you knew that this deployment would be your last, you just would rather know. It’s the fear of not coming home, or of coming home without the people you’re closest to in the world.

This mission isn’t simple. It’s going to be a miracle if everyone makes it back alive. It’s practically a suicide mission. And you’re team leader.

You turn your head to look at them all. Rooster’s cheeks are flushed warm and red, he’s grinning as Javy drums on the top of the piano. They’re all singing, but Fanboy is laughing so hard he can barely get the words out. Something that Bob had whispered to him moments earlier that he just can’t get over.

It feels like you’re watching them in slow motion. Just looking them over, seeing the flush of life — of joy — in their faces.

The thought of having to explain to one of their families why their loved one isn’t here anymore makes you feel sick.

“Come on, you’re not gonna bite?” Jake teases, drawing you back to reality. You turn your head back toward him. “You always bite when I joke about your virtue.”

You pick up one of the olives and throw it at his face, your lips quirking slightly as it bounces off of his cheek and rolls onto the floor.

Jake grins at the small but certain success of finally getting you to smile. Even if it’s at his expense.

The relationship you have with Hangman is complicated. It started off as hatred. You hated his stupid Ken-doll looks, his smug remarks and his reckless abandon when flying. Then it became rivalry. All about being the best. The best at flying, at schmoozing Admirals, about your planes being up to standard.

Somewhere in between, it had almost become a friendship.

You still don’t quite get him. You don’t always get his need to make a joke of things. He doesn’t always get your need to worry. There are days when Maverick would just want to knock your heads together to get you to quit bickering. And then there are days that the two of you were as thick as thieves.

That is, when he isn’t joking about your ‘virtue’, for lack of a better word. Three months ago, thanks to a slip up from your high school best friend when she was in town, Jake had discovered that you hadn’t yet had sex. Since then, he had used every given opportunity to bring it up in some way or another. He was perplexed by it.

You understood the confusion. You were an adult. A pilot. You had a successful career and a pretty face. Jake had been guessing at why exactly you hadn’t had sex — but he had been miles from the truth with each guess he had made.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t had ample opportunity through your life. There had been plenty of men who would have been more than happy to become a notch in your unscathed bedpost. But it just wasn’t that simple.

“Really though, I’m about to spend the next week sleeping in a bunk below Rooster,” Hangman took a sip of his beer and looked past you at the piano, shaking his head disapprovingly, yet smiling. “Don’t exactly want to wake up hard and the first thing I see is that fucking moustache. Y’know?”

You smile slightly as you take a long drink. Jake always has such a way with words. Your thought makes you laugh slightly. Jake’s smile widens, he thinks he’s cheered you up a little.

“So, what do you do? — to stop yourself from thinking about sex?”

“Can’t miss something you haven’t had.” You answer him simply, smiling as he rolls his eyes at you. He looks particularly perfect tonight, annoyingly. The night before deployment, everyone’s in their dress whites. You know Jake secretly loves wearing them. Why wouldn’t he? — He looks like he was born to be in them.

“C’mon, I know you get horny like the rest of us.” Jake squints his eyes at you, gauging your reaction for any hint of agreement.

“Sure, sometimes.” You watch his eyes light up. He’s right. You’ve just admitted he’s right, maybe for the first time ever. It makes you laugh, the excitement on his face.

“I was starting to think you’d never admit it.” He grins. “So, bestow your wisdom upon me, Ace.”

You shake your head at him and take another drink, “No wisdom. Just more self-control than you have, I guess.” Jake chuckles against the rim of his beer bottle.

You turn your head as something smashes across the bar. Just a drunk patron knocking a glass off of a table. But then something else catches your eye. Maverick and Penny standing together outside. They’re staring at the waves, her hand gripping his tightly.

You watch them just standing together.

You don’t even notice Jake following your gaze, once he realises that you aren’t listening to a word he is saying. His brows scrunch slightly as he looks them over, then looks back to you. It’s been years now, and he still doesn’t have you figured out.

Each time he thinks he’s getting close, something else comes up, always keeping him an arms length from really knowing you.

“Ace?” You barely hear him. It’s like you’re dreaming and he’s trying to wake you up. Mav and Penny aren’t even doing anything, they’re just standing together, but you can’t make yourself look away. “Ace? — You okay?”

His fingers curl around yours, startling you. You look back to him and let out a breath. He’s concerned, features hardened as he looks at you, waiting for some kind of answer.

It’s then that you notice the tears that have brimmed in your eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” His voice is soft as he squeezes your hand in his. Your brows furrow slightly as you quickly wipe the tears from your eyes. You know you must look ridiculous if he’s worried for you and not making jokes.

You shake your head quickly and sniffle, “It’s just been a long day. I think I’m gonna go home, get some rest.”

Jake’s lips part, brows knotting even further in confusion as you begin to slide out of the booth.

“Wha — wait, Ace, what the fuck?”

You hear him behind you but the pounding in your chest keeps you moving. You leave out of the side entrance, not wanting to interrupt Mav and Penny on the beach. The door takes a few extra seconds to slam after you’re out of it, confirming that Jake is still following you. You curse under your breath.

“Will you wait up?” He calls to you.

You make it to your car before you realise that your keys are still inside, along with your bag.

“Fuck!” You kick the tyre. Jake reaches you and puts his hand on your shoulder, turning you to look at him, baffled at your behaviour.

“D’you want to tell me what’s going on?” He breathes, shaking his head slightly as he looks you over. You shake him off of you and kick the car door,

“I left my fucking keys inside.”

Jake knows how much you love that car. You once threatened to shave his head for hitting it with his duffel bag on accident when you had picked him up for the airport. Yet, here you are leaving a mark in its pristine white paint job with the bottom of your shoe.

You turn and look back towards the bar. At your friends. You can’t bare to go back in there and be amongst all those smiling faces. Jake looks between your and the Hard Deck, still completely lost.

“Well, alright — stay here, okay? — I’m gonna be right back.” Jake starts towards the door you had both just exited through, “Don’t move.”

You fall back against the car, trying to regulate your breathing as Jake takes off inside. He’s only gone for a few seconds. As he returns, he sees you staring at the stars. There are tears rolling silently down your cheeks.

He stops in the doorway and observes. Jake has seen you take bird strikes, upwards of 7G’s and even a fractured eye socket without so much as a whimper. He’s never seen you cry before.

You hear his shoes on the ground and try to compose yourself. He’s standing beside you by the time you’re wiping the tears from your cheeks, taking in shaking breaths.

“Look, Ace,” He’s not looking at you. He’s staring down at the ground between your shoes. You appreciate that. “Why don’t you let me drive you home? — I’ve had like half a beer, I’m happy to do it.”

Just that afternoon, you had threatened to break Hangman’s hand if he considered touching the wheel of this car. Yet, you nod now. You let him open the passenger side and you let him take the driver’s seat.

In another circumstances, Jake would’ve been grinning like the Cheshire Cat. He has been bugging you to let him take this thing for a spin since you had got it. A pristine condition white 1962 Corvette convertible. Now, he admires it silently as he takes the wheel.

You turn the radio on, just so that he doesn’t have to listen to the sound of you sniffling as he drives you back to your place. You’re pissed that you’re in such a mess in front of Hangman, of all people. Something in his demeanour tells you that he won’t tell anyone about this, though.

As he pulls up outside of your apartment, it’s clear that there’s no doubt in his mind that he’s coming inside. You resent it slightly as the two of you walk up to your front door — the fact that he feels that you shouldn’t be alone.

“Look, I’m just probably gonna,” You pause and sniffle as Jake turns the key in the front door, “Just gonna take a shower and head to bed.”

Jake nods, then opens the door for you, “Alright. Well, I’m gonna hang out in the living room for a bit… if you wanted to talk or anything.”

You don’t argue, leaving him to it as you brush past him and walk straight to the bathroom. Jake’s brows furrow slightly as he watches the enigma that is his co-worker head down the hall.

He shuts the door behind him, locks up. He grabs himself a beer from the fridge, figuring he’s probably going to spend the night on your couch. He settles in, kicking his feet up on the coffee table in your absence, watching Ice Road Truckers.

He listens to the water turn on three minutes into his first episode. Makes sense, you had to get completely out of your dress whites and also out of that slicked back, Navy-Mandated, bun.

He isn’t paying much attention to the television. Jake’s thinking the night over as he nurses his beer. He wonders what it is about seeing Maverick and Penny just holding hands that was enough to make you freak out like that.

He considers for a moment that maybe you’re in love with Maverick, but then rules that out.

It’s not until a few minutes in to the second episode that Jake thinks to check his watch and realises it’s been forty-five minutes since you got in. Having three sisters, Jake knows that girls can take their time in the shower — but he doesn’t feel right about you taking so long. He sets the beer down on the coffee table and pushes himself up, heading towards the bathroom.

“Ace?” He knocks softly at the door and waits twenty seconds for an answer before he knocks and calls your name again. “Ace, you okay?”

He gives you longer to respond that time.

“Ace, you’ve got three seconds to answer me or I’m coming in.”

He waits five seconds, just in case you’re doing this to be difficult. Then, he turns the handle and lets himself in.

“I’m fine.” You sniffle from behind the shower curtain. Jake sighs in relief. He steps into the room and sits on the floor, his back resting against the side of the tub, “Don’t scare me like that.” He chastises.

You’re standing under the stream of borderline too hot water, exactly like you have been since you washed your conditioner out thirty minutes ago. You consider what he’s just said. Then you consider the fact that he’s sitting on your bathroom floor and that the only thing separating him from your naked body is the shower curtain.

It doesn’t make you uncomfortable. Oddly, you do feel a little better with him here.

“Are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on? — because you’re freaking me out.” Hangman bends his knees and rests his forearms on them, shaking his head slightly.

You rest your forehead against the tile. He waits for a while in silence. The lump in your throat is back. You’ve been crying for thirty minutes, and questions like that make you just want to start all over again. Jake listens to you take a shaking breath behind the curtain.

“My mom died.”

His features contort, confused to the point that you can almost hear his expression when he asks, “What?”

You swallow a sob, wiping the water and tears from your face as you try to regulate your breath. “When I was a kid. She was a cop, she died on duty.”

Jake closes his eyes as he realises what an asshole he’s been.

“It ruined my dad’s life. Seeing him like that-“ You don’t finish your sentence but he knows what you mean. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the lump in your throat.

Jake thinks of all of the time he has spent over the last three months joking, teasing you and making guesses as to why you had never had sex. He wishes you had just hit him or something.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is gentle. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him be serious for this long before. He is sorry. He’s sorry for all of it all at once.

You aren’t sure what makes you do it, but you turn off the water and pull back the curtain. Jake doesn’t really even have time to respond before you’ve dropped yourself into his lap and thrown yourself against his chest. His arms wrap around you instinctively as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

“Hey,” He trails his fingertips along the length of your bare spine, bringing his other hand to cup the back of your head, holding you against him. “It’s okay.”

You’re trembling against him as he holds you.

“I’ve never wanted to let anyone close, but—” Your voice is half muffled by his shoulder, but he can still hear you, even through your cracking voice. “Fuck, aren’t you scared of dying alone?”

He wraps his arm around your waist and holds you closer, his features serious. “You’re not going to die, Ace.”

It feels like his arms around you, his heart beating against yours, are the only things keeping you grounded in reality right now. You grab the back of his neck, pulling yourself closer against him, “You don’t know that, no one does.”

Jake brushes your hair back off of your shoulders, not caring that you’re soaking wet, “I know that. You know me, I’m right about everything.” He squeezes you in his arms.

“I’m so scared of never loving anyone like he loved her,” You whisper. “I’m even more scared of loving someone like that and losing them again. Or them losing me. How could I put someone through that?”

He turns his head and kisses your temple, “Letting someone love you is scary stuff.” He agrees softly. His fingers brush softly along the your back.

“But,” He breathes, “You’re the best pilot I know. Besides me. Nothing bad is going to happen if you let someone in.”

You pull back to look him in the eye, your cheeks tear-stained and blotchy. He wipes your cheeks with his thumbs, holding your face in his hands.

“You can’t be sure of that.” Your voice cracks slightly.

He shakes his head, “No one knows when it’s gonna happen. There’s more chance of you getting eaten by a shark than something going wrong on a mission, you’re incredible up there. When have you ever let being scared of something hold you back before?”

You look him over, wondering where Hangman went, and why you hadn’t been looking at Jake all along. Jake with three sisters and a mother who he respected more than he respected the Navy itself. Jake who is here, now, when he should’ve been drinking with his buddies.

It happens quickly. You have no idea what you’re thinking, but you just do it. You lean forward and press your lips to his, his hands still holding your jaw as he lets you move in.

It’s when you pull back from the kiss, both of your eyes equally wide, that it occurs to you that you’re naked. You glance down, then back up, finding that his eyes have dropped to also look you over.

“Ace,” Jake swallows, shaking his head, “I’m sorry. I- We shouldn’t.”

“Please.” You say it without meaning to. You press your palms against his chest and shift, swinging one leg over his hip. He stares at you, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind all at once.

You make the decision for him as you lean forwards again and kiss him. He relaxes against you, sliding his hands down to hold your waist. You’re not surprised that he’s a good kisser, you know he’s had a lot of practice.

It should feel weird. Doing this. With Jake, of all people. But you don’t find yourself minding at all. You push your fingers up into his hair, humming as he slips his tongue into your mouth.

You feel his hands begin to wander. His hands slide down over the curve of your ass as his hips rock forward against yours.

“Take me to bed.” You murmur against his lips.

He hesitates, eyes closed as you lower your head and press your lips softly against the length of his neck — what’s visible of it over his white collar, anyway. You leave a few kisses along his throat, feeling his hands squeeze softly against your ass.

Then, against his better judgement, he stands. Jake guides your legs around his waist as he does so, pressing his lips to yours softly and then carrying you to your room. He’s been here before a few times. You live close to base, so you have your friends over when you can.

He doesn’t let you go as he lowers you onto your mattress and covers your body with his, brushing your hair back gently off of your face. You taste the beer on his tongue, you smell the soft cologne on his neck, you feel his hands on your skin. You’re here with him.

Your fingers find the golden top button of his jacket and pop it open as he kisses your neck. You hum softly, pushing your head back against the mattress as his lips work against you.

He’s settled between your legs. He lets you unbutton his jacket, but it’s as he’s shrugging it off of his shoulders that he pulls back and looks at you with concern.

“Ace — are you sure you wanna do this?”

“Please, Jake.” You whisper.

It’s now, that he’s on his knees between your legs, that he takes a moment to look admire what’s before him. You watch him, your heart thundering out of your chest as he reaches out and trails his fingertips along the centre of your body, from your collarbones to your pelvis.

“You’re so beautiful,” Jake murmurs, stroking softly along your thighs. “Can I touch you?”

You know what he means. His eyes fall shamelessly to look at your core. Part of you wants to press your legs together and kick him out. But, you nod.

If feels almost ridiculous, that he’s completely dressed before you and you’ve been naked in front of him for a while now.

But, as he moves forwards and captures your lips in a soft, borderline romantic, kiss — it’s all forgotten. You tense slightly as you feel his fingers move between your legs, but Jake knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t move too fast. He spends a moment just teasing his fingers along your folds until you subconsciously part your legs a little further for him.

“That’s it, baby.” He coos, and the reaction your body has to that is surprising to both of you. It’s like he can feel when you relax into him. Jake’s middle finger finds your clit as he kisses your shoulder. Then he kisses your chest, your collarbones.

He works his way down, just gently grazing his fingertip in circles over your clit. He’s barely applying any pressure at all, yet you’re whimpering softly.

It’s when his hips roll forward as he’s leaving open-mouthed kisses on your chest that you find that he’s rock hard. You hips push eagerly against his hand.

Jake can’t help it. The girl that he’s been obsessed with for months literally fell into his lap tonight, and naked too. You watch as he adjusts himself over his pants, his cock straining uncomfortably against the white material.

He applies some pressure between your legs finally, groaning softly as he massages your breast with his other hand. You jolt slightly as his tongue dances across your hardened nipple.

“Jake…” You breathe out, lips parting as you’re met with concerned blue eyes. He stops, worried he’s done something wrong. You push yourself up and kiss him, confirming that you’re whispering his name for all of the right reasons.

Spurred on, Jake slides his finger down and presses it into you. You’re half-distracted by his tongue caressing yours, so you’re surprised when you moan against his lips.

“I’ll take care of you, baby, don’t you worry.” He promises, watching your features as he slides a second finger into you. You swallow hard, then whine, pushing your hips against his hand.

He takes his bottom lip between his teeth as he curls his fingers gently inside of you, his eyes focused on yours. Your arousal coats his fingers, you arch yourself up into him slightly.

He works you open for him, eyes on you the entire time. Your eyes are closed. You don’t see the way that he studies you, observes your sensitivities. You don’t see the list in those ice-cold eyes as he brings you to an orgasm with just his fingers, his thumb grazing softly over your clit.

You’re hurrying him out of his clothes next. It’s all so desperate. You’ve seen Jake’s body before, he’s constantly wearing shorts and flexing his muscles. But, as he slides out of his boxers and kneels before you in nothing but his dog tags, you’re reminded that this is one of your closest friends in front of you now.

You swallow hard. His delicate touch makes it hard to believe that him and the guy you had wanted to punch so many times are the same person. He covers your body with his flawlessly tanned and muscled form, kissing your lips sweetly and brushing some hair back from your face.

“You’re sure?” He whispers, rock hard against your thigh. You nod at him feverishly, skimming your fingertips along his sides, pulling him closer to you.

You both take in soft breaths as he pushes into you, your eyes meeting. He catches your jaw, holding you still as he presses his length further in.

You can’t remember the first time you noticed how annoyingly blue Jake’s eyes were. But, as you’re staring at them now, you notice the softness of them for the first time. Usually they’re sharp, twinkling, mischievous. Now, they’re just pools of calm blue water — safety on the horizon.

Jake swallows, glancing down between your bodies. You watch his Adam’s apple bob and push forward, pressing your lips to the side of his throat. His eyes close gently, he presses his lips to your temple.

You notice the stretch as his hips press flush against yours, but you aren’t phased by any kind of pain. Especially not when he groans softly against your temple and presses himself closer to you. All you care about is that he’s here.

“Feels like you’re fucking made for me, baby.” He murmurs, curling his fingers against your roots, letting out a shivering breath as he begins to roll his hips forwards. He’s not quite thrusting, just rocking his hips softly to get you used to the feeling.

You inhale him. He smells like the cologne he picked up in the airport last year — the one he only wears on special occasions. He smells vaguely of jet fuel. He smells like your soap. Each breath you take, you’re trying to push yourself closer to him.

Your indication of comfort creates something deeper. It becomes desperate all of a sudden. You’re both panting against each other’s lips, he’s driving himself deep into you, his cock filling you in the most perfect way. His heart is thundering in his chest, so much so that you feel like you can almost hear his pulse.

You’re dizzied by him, your hands are all over the place. In his hair, along his back, digging into the backs of his biceps.

He ruts himself deeper into you at the feeling. His hands are in your hair, his lips find yours, he’s moaning softly against you. You surprise yourself when you moan for him as his cock brushes a particularly sensitive spot. It’s a confident sound.

“Sound so fucking pretty, Ace.” Jake whispers, nudging the tip of your nose with his until you’re looking at him again. His gaze anchors you, it keeps you here with him. It’s just you and him, the curtains are open and a blue neon light from somewhere outside has tinted his skin.

You curl your fingers around the back of his neck, his curl around your jaw. You observe each other’s vulnerability up close. Jake is the one to close his eyes first, to move forwards and kiss you deeply. He guides your leg up higher around his waist and drives himself deeper into you.

“Fuck…” you whisper, watching his lips quirk up into a soft smile. He never could resist a stroke to his ego.

He rests his elbow beside your head, his other hand still cradling your jaw as he kisses you once more. Reminded of his strength as you catch sight of his flexed bicep at your side, you skim your fingers along each toned ridge of his stomach.

“I-I’m really close.” You admit, your breath shaking as you look down between your bodies. Jake nods softly, curling his fist tightly in your sheets, “That’s it, darling. Go ahead.”

His voice is deep and that southern accent that slips out sometimes — that one that you’ve made fun of him for so many times — inexplicably might be what pushes you over the edge.

Jake’s lips part softly at the sound you make, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you as he makes you cum. He bottoms out erratically, breathing hard against the base of your neck. You grasp at his back, digging your nails lightly into his skin.

“Fuck, Jake.” You whimper, pushing your head back hard against the mattress. He grunts softly, leaving feverish kisses along your collarbones. You curl one leg around his waist, leaning your head back as far as you can against the mattress to give his lips better access to your throat.

“I’m gonna cum.” He pants against your jaw. You’re so enamoured in him that you don’t find yourself caring in the slightest. In fact, whichever part of your brain that’s in control right now, guides your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him closer.

Jake’s knuckles whiten around your sheets, his other hand remains gentle and steadfast on your jaw. You gasp softly, taking your lip between your teeth as he fills you. He seeks out your lips and kisses you hard, desperate.

Your legs, trembling, relax slightly as he rolls off of you and pulls you into his arms. He kisses your forehead and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, then holds you against his chest. You kiss his chest gently, reaching out and taking his dog tags in your palm.

He moves his head back and watches you examine them.

“This isn’t the end, Ace.” He promises, trailing his fingertips delicately along the length of your spine. He kisses the top of your head and rests his chin against you.

You wonder what he means. Whether it’s the end of things between you and him, before they’ve even really begun. Or the end of everything.

“Can you stay here tonight?” You whisper softly, brushing your thumb over the engraving in the metal. Jake nods his head quickly. “I don’t wanna be alone.”

He nods. Jake understands. For once, he feels like he finally gets you.

…

#jake seresin #Jake Seresin smut #jake hangman seresin #hangman x reader #hangman smut #hangman top gun #hangman x you #glen powell

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insomniumstella · 1 year

Text

ego’s one hell of a drug (6) | bucky x avenger!reader

summary: Steve’s silly joke happened to inspire the best, or possibly the worst, idea Wanda had ever come up with — send James Buchanan Barnes and y/n on an all-expenses-paid honeymoon in Hawaii. the problem? they cannot stand to be around each other.

warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, explicit language, alcohol consumption, sarcastic!bucky, but also a bit of asshole!bucky and sweet!bucky strangely

word count: 6,205

taglist is down below (please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list!)

WHERE DREAMS GO TO DIE masterlist

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author's note: before writing WHERE DREAMS GO TO DIE i always thought that chapter six would be my favorite and … it is haha

The royal blue hue of the vintage Chevy Corvette glimmered underneath the bright sunlight. James was clad in a short sleeve linen shirt with the top buttons undone, exposing the smooth muscle of his upper chest. She could peep the collage of flesh and metal from where she stood outside the hotel’s glass entrance doors, observing the carefree strokes in his expression and the Ray-Ban sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. It was an unusual sight; the first time she had ever seen James wearing sunglasses.

She smiled at him, bewildered by the soldier’s newfound attitude, “is this the surprise?”

“No,” the corner of his mouth quirked up as he gripped the steering wheel with the metal hand, “it’s an apology.”

“An apology,” it was a statement hidden underneath a hint of curiosity — she let it die on the tip of her tongue, suspending the silent wonder in the humid air of Hawaii.

James leaned over to open the passenger’s door without abandoning the vehicle and nodded his head, “an apology for the last however many years I’ve been more than an asshole.”

“It’s bordering on six.”

“It’s bordering on six,” he repeated when y/n plopped into the seat, throwing an Iron Man tote bag Tony had given her as a joke last Easter on the floor and kicked it to the side, “but yes, it’s also the surprise.”

“How’d you know I love Chevys?”

“Steve,” Bucky shrugged nonchalantly, as if it was the most casual of responses, “and perhaps Natasha, too.” The sergeant admitted, pushing the Ray-Bans higher.

She sat in the vehicle dumbfounded. James Buchanan Barnes was the woman’s finest enemy, the man she had despised for five consecutive years without questioning whether the war between her and Bucky ever had a true reason, and he had just admitted to knowing that her favorite cars were vintage Chevy Corvettes.

“Steve tell you anything else?”

“He might’ve,” the smallest of smirks danced on his lips, “Natasha surely did.”

“What’d she say?” She questioned, leaning to increase the volume of the refurbished radio.

“Mentioned you love peaceful rides and hidden coffee shops,” he twisted the ignition key to start the car, the smirk on his mouth refusing to falter, “beaches and happy hours.”

“Oh, how I love happy hours,” y/n agreed, detaching her own pair of sunglasses from her tank top and planting them on the bridge of her nose to shield herself from the blazing light.

Maui’s sun was unforgiving in early summer mornings.

“Good, because we’re going on a real nice drive to search for the best sandwiches and iced lattes Maui has to offer before ending the day with a drink or two.”

The Maui Resort soon disappeared out of y/n’s view as James stepped on the gas, pursuing a narrow road, and she perched her feet on the leather seat, the sandals long forgotten.

“Should I open Apple Maps,” she teased, “Google Maps,” her voice faltered for a moment, “Waze?”

Though the woman had listed plenty of options for navigation, James could only chuckle at her instinctive response, “you genuinely do not trust me, do you?”

“I say this with all of the love and respect my heart holds for you,” she teased him yet again, “I absolutely do not.”

“Outstanding,” he shook his head, eyes focused on the road, “makes the journey that more fun.”

The soldier had been awfully quiet after they had abandoned the SPA for a speedy lunch, and she had chosen to bite her tongue about Nancy, Elijah, and Mark. To James, that was. She had texted Sam as soon as she had reclaimed her iPhone from the locker, crafting a message capable of turning The Falcon into a vigilant agent but harmless enough to keep his fears at bay.

The gala and the plan had been the lone thing she could focus on. Concern must’ve been visibly engraved into her features because, by the time dinner came, James had forged an awkward yet friendly persona, attempting to devise jokes and distract y/n from her inner turmoil. The man had not been successful, but she was appreciative of his struggles.

“You wouldn’t drop dead if I slept in the bed tonight, would you?” James had asked once the sun had fallen and the moon had appeared.

The woman had been too exhausted to argue, and though she hadn’t admitted it out loud, his presence in the bedroom had brought eerie comfort. She had been almost elated he had abandoned the couch for the soft cushions of the suite’s bed.

Last night, they had not discussed the couple’s massage, which was strange but not stranger than sleeping in a bed together. And sure — the piece of furniture in the lovers’ suite was massive, more than comfortable for two people, and both James and she had plenty of space to move around without making contact, except they had woken up in a tangle of limbs, y/n’s face nestled into James’ chest.

She had decided to avoid thinking about it too much during breakfast. Instead, her mind had returned to the only legitimate conversation the two had in the prior hours before the night had the chance to border morning. James had suppressed his pride and admitted his faults. To say it had come as a surprise—and a delight— would be an understatement.

She had nearly sworn the soldier’s words had been a bizarre hallucination because the James she had conceptualized, the mural of a man she had been painting in the past five years, would’ve never willingly confessed to mistakes and defeats.

Except, if Barnes had been able to acknowledge his crimes, she could’ve imagined herself declaring that she had been harsh, too. He had promised y/n a surprise, and she had silently pledged to act visibly grateful about it. Perhaps, sweet even.

James hadn't mentioned much more of the surprise, but he had succeeded to distract her from it, ripping out a laugh from the woman after presenting the stream of angry messages from his last date, Jennifer, and permitting y/n to read through the furious words.

She had forgotten about Nancy and the gala then, cackling at James’ exaggerations of the milk switch-up, “I was chained to the godforsaken bathroom for the entirety of the night, y/n.” The disappointed tone in his voice had roughly disguised the honest amusement. “Lonely and drained, and defeated.”

“Oh James,” she had subconsciously leaned her head on his shoulder, “the texts almost make me want to switch out the almond beverage for whole milk again.”

“The promise,” he had reminded, “I nurtured you after Jordan’s party, and you swore to cease mischievous milk activities.”

The woman had laughed, the booming sound of it saturating the lovers’ suite, “mischievous milk activities, huh?” James had remained silent, and she had teased him for the ludicrous comment, “you deserve to be punished for using such lines.”

“Innocent until proven guilty,” he had shrugged.

“As a woman of great authority,” y/n had angled her face to stare into his eyes, “I pronounce you guilty and decide upon a decade-long sentence.”

James’ pupils had been blown-wide as he gazed at y/n through hooded eyes, “your honor, there is too little evidence to convict me.”

The woman had cocked her head to the side as a faux expression of distaste painted her features, “you used a phrase mischievous milk activities, and call me insane, but if that alone wouldn’t get you a ten-year punishment, I have zero clue what would.”

“Oh, please,” James had leaned against the headboard, “allow me to tell you a story of a ghost they call the Winter Soldier.”

She had shifted positions, sliding close enough to the man that their thighs had touched, “you’re such a bastard,” the outrage had only been slightly fictitious, “why would you bring that up?”

“What?” He had rested a single arm on the woman’s shoulders. “Does it raise negative connotations?”

“Yes,” she had nodded, surprising him, “for one, the Winter Soldier has stabbed me, which took months to heal and recover from, and two,” silence had fallen upon the room for several, drawn-out moments, “the ghost has been replaced with James and I’d hate for you to associate yourself with the assassin.”

“Doll,” he had sighed, “I was the assassin. There is no way I could ever forget, it has been engraved into my existence. The title of the Winter Soldier will forever haunt me, no matter how much I run.”

“You’re quite big,” she had assessed, seemingly off-topic, “not that great of a runner.”

“Alright,” he had chuckled, maneuvering under the covers and turning off the night light, “goodnight.”

James’ tone had not held resentment or annoyance and she had allowed sleep to steal her away from the world of the conscious and into the world of the dormant without saying anything else.

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: the gala is this Sunday.

The woman raked her eyes over Sam’s words. At the beginning of the week, she would’ve been more than happy to abandon the honeymoon in exchange for a mission, but as she stared at the phone screen, the Falcon confirming y/n’s uncertainty, she couldn’t help the eerie sadness from slithering its way into her heart. The two were set to leave on Monday, and Friday had sneakily crept in, drawing the end of the vacation closer than she would’ve enjoyed. A coin has two sides, she reminded herself. It was not the time to wallow in self-pity over the loss of two blissful days.

The unexpected encounter with Nancy had created space for an opportunity to save Steve and bust Elijah, bringing the remains of HYDRA, Mark, and perhaps other operatives, with him. She could enjoy today and leave as early as tomorrow morning.

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: I managed to get us on the guest list.

BEST AVENGER: thank you.

She hoped Sam wouldn’t think of asking further questions.

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: are we going there to bust HYDRA officers, or is there another reason you won’t say?

The spy’s prayers were not heard.

BEST AVENGER: no other reason:)

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to be on that stupid phone the whole day?” James’ voice was a lost sound in the unruly wind. “I didn’t drive an hour for nothin’, doll.” He shouted.

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: you’re aware the smiley face makes the text seem highly suspicious?

Somewhere amidst the fabricated stories and his genuine feelings, the soldier had gotten comfortable using the nickname for the girl, as if it had always belonged to her and as if the couple’s history had not been riddled with petty fights and strange hatred.

BEST AVENGER: whaaaaaat:)

“It’s Sam!” She yelled, shutting the passenger’s door and sprinting to meet James where he stood on the shore. The sand clawed at her feet, attempting to swallow y/n’s every step, and she was out of breath by the time she reached the soldier. The look on Bucky’s face begged for an explanation. “Sam wants us to attend the charity gala.”

“It’s this Sunday, right?” James questioned.

“Mmmh,” she hummed in agreement, paying very little attention.

Eyes glued on the screen, y/n awaited the Falcon’s response.

SAM THE MIGHTY AVENGER: Steve wants to train in 5.

SAM THE MIGHTY AVENGER: should I inform the Captain of our plans?:)

He might’ve been teasing y/n, but she wasn’t willing to take risky chances.

“No,” James shook his head in annoyance, “tell Sam we’re not attending the gala because our flight leaves on Monday,” his hand encased her wrist, stopping y/n from typing, “and for the love of god, put this away.” There was no doubt his tone implied that her phone would soon end up in the ocean if she didn’t hide it.

“Bucky,” she snatched her wrists away from his hold, “all I need is a second,” only the word desperate could’ve been used to describe her voice.

The man towered over the girl dumbfounded. Did y/n just call me Bucky?

She stood with her face buried in the glass screen, accidentally shielding herself from James’ flustered expression. The woman very rarely, if ever, called the soldier Bucky. It had always been limited to James or Barnes, or asshole if he had done something particularly malicious to anger her, but never Bucky, and especially never Bucky willingly. On a scarce occasion, y/n would address him as Sergeant, respecting the title he had earned in the forties, but Bucky was reserved for Steve, and Sam disappointingly, who oftentimes used the name to mock the soldier, jealous of the Captain’s favoritism. Even Tony had used the nickname several times, or Natasha, but y/n was weary of it, afraid it bounded on the territory of friendship.

BEST AVENGER: DON’T YOU DARE.

BEST AVENGER: Sam, I’m BEGGING.

BEST AVENGER: those smiley faces do look suspicious, though.

Pink had crept onto his cheeks, yet James remained nonchalant on the outside, counting second after second, “six, seven, eight—“

SAM THE MIGHTY AVENGER: I trust you, but I’m not an idiot, y/n.

Sam was right. It was outlandish to believe he wouldn’t see through her dishonesty, except she couldn’t bring herself to put Elijah’s plans into visible words, and so the message was left blank. The moving dots on Sam’s screen vanished as she removed her fingers from the glass, turning the iPhone off, and shoved it into the back pocket of her denim shorts.

“The counting was unnecessary,” she forced a laugh, “besides, I’m all yours now.”

“Good,” he nodded, forcing the words I’m all yours to vacate his head, “because the coffee shop is a fifteen-minute walk away, and I was hoping to enjoy the scenic view together.”

She took a step back, glancing around. If her nose had not been buried in the gadget, she would’ve noticed the golden sand and crystal waters. “It is beautiful.”

“Yes,” he shrugged, the smallest of smirks dancing on his lips, “it’s Maui.”

“New York City can be spectacular,” she argued, half lightheartedly, “but one wouldn’t say it’s scenic because it’s New York.”

“Is it possible,” James was ready to call out her bluff, “you’re picking an unnecessary fight because you’re uncomfortable with my friendliness?”

She stared at him in disbelief before her gaze dropped to his lips and the smirk upon them, “no,” she narrowed her eyes, “maybe,” y/n’s gaze returned to his amused face, and she suddenly admitted defeat, “yes.”

“Should I insult you?” James cocked his head to the side. “Leave you on the beach in the middle of nowhere?” His hand had slithered its way to her waist as an invitation to start walking. She didn’t make an effort to remove his touch. “Make you pay for our sandwiches?”

The last question took her by surprise, “that doesn’t sound terrible. Tony forgot to reclaim his credit card after he let me use it, so technically our lunch would be on him.”

“We’re in Hawaii,” he reminded, “the food’s expensive here.”

“Are you threatening me with …. the cost of living, Barnes?” She threw a puzzled look his way, traces of merriment clawing at its edges. “Officially color me confused.”

James suddenly paused, beginning to walk just as quickly as he had halted. “I want the hostility between us gone, but you’re not exactly the easiest person to make amends with,” he admitted.

She had managed to restrain herself against a sarcastic remark. James desired an end to the interminable war between a soldier and a spy, and though she would decidedly miss the petty arguments, y/n was exhausted. Exhausted from the nasty fights, and the murderous comments, drained from the burden of clashing with James in parallel with actual missions, which mattered because they saved lives, and on unusual occasions, the world, too. She liked to tell herself that, anyway.

“Amends, it is.”

“This building does not resemble the photos whatsoever,” James snickered, peering at the woman.

The soldier had paid for the sandwiches and the coffee despite y/n’s finest attempts at convincing the man to use Tony’s card. The two had argued about it, as they often would, but she had been left without a bitter taste in her mouth afterward. It was strange, yet pleasant. Amicable James was far better than mean James.

“Mmmh,” she reluctantly agreed, staring at a dive bar at best and an abandoned hut at worst, “but Google says it has great desserts and round-the-clock happy hour.”

The wooden sign outside helped solidify the statement. Though the chalk had almost disappeared, she could read Aloha’s offer.

What’s better than $4 Margaritas? $6 Mai Tais!

“I trusted you,” James shook his head, following y/n inside, “and this is what you led us to?”

They had spent the morning at the beach, indulging in iced lattes and fluffy bread. James had packed their swimsuits, which had both shocked and terrified y/n, as he had managed to sneak into her underwear drawer without detection, but she had surrendered to his request of a swim after he had driven the two to a secret waterfall he had learned about from a random local.

The swim had been refreshing, and as she allowed the cool water to caress her skin, she had found herself forgetting about Mark and Elijah's plans. Maui’s nature had turned HYDRA into a distant memory she’d soon have to remember but could briefly ignore. There was consolation in understanding that she’d never be truly alone, for she would always have mother nature by her side.

“Stop whining,” she playfully hit Bucky in the shoulder and immediately regretted it as her flesh hit metal, ouch, “this is great.”

It was not great, judging by James' inflated expectations, for which she might've been at fault, as she had described the bar to be ritzy and delightful, but y/n found herself falling in love with the space. Granted, it was barely past two in the afternoon, and yet the establishment was peculiarly empty, creating an opportunity for unrestrained conversations.

Everything had been touched by age, too. The woman could’ve run her fingers across the heavy tables, observed the intricate light fixtures, or flipped through a stack of books in the corner — the bar had been well-loved through generations. Even the menu, stained and peeling at the corners, seemed eerily familiar as if Google had led them to a place of forgotten coziness by fate.

“Aloha!” The sound of a man’s voice rang through the space. Judging by his boyish features, she had decided the bartender couldn’t be older than twenty-one. “What can I get you?”

“A pitcher of Margaritas,” James cut straight to the chase before angling his body toward her, “what did Google say the best dessert here was?”

“Grilled pineapples and cheesecake,” the employee answered before y/n had the chance to speak, smiling at the couple.

“Right,” she threw him a friendly grin in return, “let us get that, too.”

The original pitcher had turned empty an hour ago and as y/n leisurely, but assuredly made her way through the second jug alone, she had found herself listening instead of talking.

James had noticed her peculiar silence and had tried to compensate the awkwardness with random stories, dancing around the particular topic they should’ve discussed. The memory hung in the atmosphere, so heavy it was almost suffocating.

The soldier’s next words were a breath of poisonous air, “we cannot ignore the couple’s massage, y/n.”

She paused mid-chew, raising her eyes to meet his, and loudly swallowed the bite of cheesecake, “I’d prefer if we did.”

“Look,” his speech halted as James rummaged through his brain, the visions of y/n, bare and vulnerable underneath his rough palms, igniting a traitorous fire within his heart, “I could’ve stopped,” Bucky stared at her, observing the nervous habit of pushing food around the plate rather than eating it, “you could’ve stopped me,” the sentence died on the tip of his tongue, remaining unfinished.

“I could’ve,” she agreed, licking the fork clean, “you could’ve, it’s pointless to wonder what could’ve been.” The fork hit the ceramic dish with a booming sound when it slipped from y/n’s fingers. “The massage happened, and we cannot change the fact it did.”

“Yes,” James nodded, neck sizzling hot with approaching frustration, “but that’s the thing — we never had to go through with it in the first place.” She pursed her lips together, and he continued speaking. “We chose to attend the activity, and we did it willingly.”

She shook her head, sighing. James could feel the annoyance clawing at the entirety of his body, rearing its ugly head as it often did if he spent time around the woman. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

It doesn’t mean anything, he scoffed at the foolishness of y/n’s words, does she think I’m that naive?

James settled into the chair, perching his clasped hands on the wooden surface. If she wanted to mistake him for an idiot, he’d give into the woman’s game. “Why’d you return the favor?”

“What?” She gawked at him in incredulity.

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards, “why’d you massage me?”

The spy had caught on, narrowing her eyes, “I wanted to learn.”

“Lani had left the room long before,” he snickered, “there was little learning for you to do, doll.”

James was correct. She couldn’t deny that the masseuse had abandoned the space, leaving the two entirely alone, way before James had kneaded her thighs and buttocks, and before she had offered to return the favor, sliding her gentle hands across his smooth skin. It had been therapeutic, almost, to melt away the knots in his shoulders and biceps, and when he had shifted to lay on his back, y/n had found herself concentrating on his defined Adonis belt far longer than she should’ve if she desired to retain her lust for the man a secret.

A low groan escaped from y/n’s throat, “it was educational,” she lied.

“Educational?”

“Mmmh,” she hummed, toying with the edge of the dessert plate they had shared, “I’ve never, umm, intimately touched the Winter Soldier, or, you know, anyone with a … metal arm?” y/n had not craved for her tone to convert into that of a question, and she silently cursed.

“You’ve never caressed the Winter Soldier, huh?” He chuckled, leaning back in the woven chair. “C’mon, you have always been an exceptional liar.”

“OK,” she averted her gaze, hoping to find comfort in the dirty menu.

The Rumors Are True — our $12 nachos are back!

James didn’t entirely desire to pester her. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he had remembered Steve’s words, and Steve was a righteous man with great judgment. Bucky trusted Steve, honestly and endlessly, and depended on the Captain’s help to navigate the future he had suddenly reclaimed.

Except, what could Steve, a person too shy to invite Natasha on a date, understand of James’ intricate emotions and desires towards y/n? Steve belonged to a world without gray. Details had always been either good or bad, black or white, and the space in the middle had never existed to the hero.

James was no hero, no, he resided in a world full of gray. The two might’ve been best of pals, but they were of different genetics. Once upon a time, James too had lived during simpler days, where the Red Skull was a villain, and he had been the savior without an opportunity for doubts, but that perfect world had slipped from his grasp, and whereas Steve had remained the same, Bucky had changed. He had taken lives just as he had saved them. He had been a devil just as he had been an angel, and if pestering y/n would scratch the bothersome itch of curiosity underneath his skin, so it’d be.

“We’ll always have Maui,” a smirk waltzed on his lips as he curved the conversation in a slightly different direction.

The reference puzzled her, “what?”

“We could have a lot more than memories though.” It was bold, and it was terrifying, and he had allowed the words to roll off his tongue without much consideration.

“James,” she closed her eyes, frustrated by his perseverance, “would it make you feel better if I admitted to enjoying the massage?” The woman questioned without an ounce of sarcasm in her voice. “What is it that you want from me, sergeant?”

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: Steve was informed of our gala plans.

“Honesty,” James confessed, “because our lives are riddled with lies, so yes, for once, all I yearn for is honesty.” Traces of annoyance stained his tone, and y/n’s nose, buried in the iPhone, managed to fuel his irritation.

BEST AVENGER: plans as in Steve knows we will attend or plans as in Steve knows about Mark?

SAM THE FALCON: plans as in Steve knows we will attend.

BEST AVENGER: is he angry?

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: no.

Though she was startled by Sam’s message, she had managed to detect the change in James’ body language and the gruffness in his voice. It only ignited her own irritation further.

Perhaps the soldier was correct — the faux honeymoon had destroyed the space of comfort they had once shared, and perhaps, yes, she had noticed an absence of useless arguments and death stares, but it couldn’t mean anything. She’d betray herself if it did. A woman doesn’t fall in love with a man who had belittled, discredited, and crushed her. James had been pleasant to be around lately, sure, bringing breakfast and ordering champagne before she even had the chance to ask during their late-night sessions of cracking Elijah’s case, but a couple good deeds cannot undo the five prior years of maliciousness. She had to convince herself his newfound attitude could never erase their past, and she had to do it quick, for she was terrified of letting go the last bit of control she had been holding on to.

“I enjoyed the massage,” she shrugged, pursing her lips. The sentence was short and sweet, and she had nothing else to say, diverting her eyes back to the phone screen.

BEST AVENGER: good.

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: he’s excited we’re taking initiative to mingle with government officials, but he wanted to know what spurred our sudden change of heart.

BEST AVENGER: what’d you tell him?

James dragged the flesh palm across his face. Undoubtedly, he had not been the best at expressing his thoughts ever since the accident. HYDRA had contorted the man into an emotionless assassin who destroyed everything in his path with a simple command. Those days were behind him, and if he allowed himself to dream, even a little, he’d dream for y/n in the entirety of who she was. The woman’s mind, heart, and body. It hurt because it had always taken two to tango; he had never been solely responsible for the war between them. She was wicked smart, and she could see through his attempts of candor, eagerly ignoring James’ troubles to play the fool’s part.

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: we heard rumors about the reimplementation of the Sokovia Accords and want to speak with Thaddeus Ross to ease our concerns.

BEST AVENGER: did he believe you?

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: no.

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: we’re going there for the Miley Cyrus performance.

She chuckled at his response. It was not until that moment that y/n realized how terribly she had missed Sam and his calming presence.

BEST AVENGERS: it’s a good thing we blasted her Plastic Hearts album on repeat for the last three months.

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: about that, I might’ve promised Steve we’ll stop if he won’t alert Tony that we use his credit card without permission.

“What does Sam want again?” The sovereignty had returned to James’ tone as he abandoned the hardship of a sincere conversation with the woman. It was difficult enough to watch y/n switch into a friend for the Falcon.

BEST AVENGER: I’m willing to take that loss.

“James,” she sighed, turning the phone off and placing it screen down on the table, “there’s something I need to tell you.” The spy swallowed the lump in her throat, toying with an empty Margarita glass.

“I’m all ears.” He cocked his head to the side as the walls around him suddenly shattered.

James stared at her, eyes wide and curious, and stupidly hopeful she’d confess she had fallen for him, too. Stop dancing around the topic, woman.

She had almost dropped the act, guilt settling at the pit of her stomach. Respectable women couldn’t allow themselves to fall for men who had treated them as meanly as James had treated her, but respectable women wouldn’t engage in frivolous wars, and she had; both were to blame for the history between them.

It wouldn’t matter. The words threatening to escape would soon hold no weight because she had bitten her tongue after she had overheard Nancy, choosing to bust Elijah alone. She had stolen James’ goals of demolishing HYDRA’s remains, and she had lied the prior night when he had fervently boasted of serving the politician the justice he deserved. They’d soon return to their old ways, visiting the border of nemeses and co-workers, and the honeymoon would turn into a dreadful memory. We’ll always have Maui, y/n reflected on his sentiment.

“HYDRA is gone,” she blurted out.

James had very little time to ponder over his crushed hopes, “that’s not possible.”

“Yes, it is.” She leaned back in the chair as if to escape the intensity of his scowl. “Sam and I were texting because Elijah plans to eliminate Steve at the charity gala,” she paused, briefly closing her eyes, “with Mark Basso, a former HYDRA operative.”

James forced a laugh before drawing his lower lip between his teeth, “why would Elijah want Steve dead?” The tone of his voice stunk of mockery.

“HYDRA is gone,” she repeated, hoping the words would register in his thick skull, “except for a few independent members whom Elijah works with.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that,” his expression hardened, “but it’s a stupid theory.” It had taken a single moment for James to revert back to his old ways of discrediting y/n’s abilities.

“It’s not a theory, James,” she huffed out in annoyance, “I’m leaving this evening to attend the gala.”

“If you wanted to cut the vacation short, you could’ve just asked.”

The woman pursed her lips together, dropping her gaze to the menu.

Made fresh, always.

Bucky’s words stung more than they should’ve.

The pretend honeymoon had forever ruined y/n, for she had gotten a delicious bite of an authentic James Buchanan Barnes, and she desired another taste. The woman had realized she needed the man just as the moon needed the sun, but if betraying James was to save Steve's life, she'd betray him once more in a heartbeat.

Whispers of guilt and sorrow colored her tone, "I'm sorry."

The simple words obscured an unspoken secret, and James' illusion of a truce shattered. The spy had pursued the goal of revenge alongside James, it had not been a mistake, it had been ignorance to overlook the blazing fire to demolish HYDRA within him. Bucky had hoped she trusted him, but not only had she just ridiculed his opinion of the organization's existence, she had obtained a crucial piece of information and unabashedly hidden it.

The sergeant suppressed his anger, swallowing the lump in his throat, "how'd you find out Elijah plots to assassinate Steve?"

"It was after the massage," she slid to the edge of her seat, facing Bucky head-on despite the remorse prickling at her skin, "it was overwhelming, the gentle caresses of your hands and the scent of your cologne, I needed fresh air to clear my head," y/n admitted.

"Mmmh," James urged y/n to continue the story despite the wave of unrecognized emotions crashing over him, but hastily spoke before she had the chance to, "didn't Wanda request you give her a call?"

The woman's silence replaced the word no. She ran her tongue across her bottom lip, deciding whether a raw confession would do them any good after the heap of lies, "it was you whom I needed to escape because your touch had me utterly too hot and troubled, and hell," she drew in a shallow breath, "it was terrifying to accept that I might've started crushing on the Winter Soldier, and so I wandered around the SPA, and—"

James sighed, placing a hand on y/n's forearm, "inhale, please."

She took in a breath, much deeper than the last, "Lani guided me to a terrace, it was empty besides a random woman, she was in a formal conversation before it turned into gossip," his touch was simultaneously comforting and poignant, "the cocoon chair shielded her face, but it was evident the woman was Nancy."

"Nancy?"

"Yes," the clench of his jaw didn't go unobserved by y/n, "I haven't got the faintest idea of who she could've been chatting with, though. Nancy mentioned Elijah's gala plans to murder Steve, and I abandoned the area soon after."

A moment of tense stillness settled upon them.

"Why the fuck wouldn't you inform me of this last night, y/n?" James' words dripped with poison.

"James—"

The sergeant abruptly prevented y/n from speaking further, "you cannot hide shit like this, we had a promise to unravel fresh leads together."

"James!" She raised her voice to match his sound level. "In that stubborn mind of yours, do you truly believe HYDRA continues to exist?" She spoke again when his silence confirmed her concerns, "HYDRA is gone, and I understand it might be hard for you to concede, but it doesn't change the fact."

The spy and the soldier could never be friends, and they could never be lovers, for James would always disregard her abilities, and she would always turn to bitterness as a coping mechanism. Neither Bucky nor y/n craved change; it was uncertain. The bubble of mutual dislike was safe, and it was comforting. She shouldn’t have hidden her intentions, she understood, but she had to conceal the suspicions because James wasn’t the easiest of people to trust. The man had lived through countless wars and was too stubborn to admit his battle plans could ever have flaws.

"Elijah wouldn't kill Steve," he dryly chuckled, "he isn't bold enough for such a crime, which, assumingly, discredits the theories you've created."

"Mark would," she shrugged nonchalantly, "he's HYDRA's fallen agent." James averted his gaze away from y/n's prying eyes. "Mark Basso had been erased from history, discarded after the organization fell. Did you know the man's identified as deceased in every fucking one of our files, James? The same fucking man, whom we had just conversed with on the godforsaken boat, is identified as dead." James hated y/n's habit of emphasizing certain words during arguments.

Perhaps she was right, and HYDRA ceased to exist, but he wouldn't admit defeat. Doubtfulness had always been easier to express than trust.

"We're partners, doll," his remark surprised her, "we have worked on Elijah's case for the past four days, not to mention the eight months we had slaved unraveling his personal and professional endeavors, so why would you withhold the information about Mark Basso?"

"Alright," she drummed her fingers on the wooden table, "to be frank, I assumed you recognized him just as I did."

"Oh," he emulated the woman, "because I'm the Winter Soldier?"

"Yeaaaah," the sound was drawn-out and squeaky, "that is actually the exact reason," she grimaced in faux discomfort.

James raked his eyes over her face, briefly dropping his gaze to y/n's pursed lips, "I will not be attending the gala," he declared, standing up.

She remained seated, neatly placing a fifty-dollar note on the table, "wouldn't have guessed you would."

"Elijah Williamson is collaborating with HYDRA to reimplement Project Insight," he shrugged, gawking at her as if the intensity of his stare would miraculously compel y/n to accept his rusted, empty-of-solid-evidence, theory.

She didn't falter, and he turned to evacuate the bar.

The sergeant didn't check whether she trailed after him, and y/n swiftly leaped from the chair — James could slander her instincts for all she cared, but she'd suck on Tony's dirty toes before she would tolerate Bucky abandoning her in the middle of nowhere.

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: Attachment: 1 Image

James had started the car when Sam's text lit up y/n's phone screen. She perched her bare feet on the dashboard, much to Bucky's dismay, yet he was too distracted by anger to form an audible complaint, and eagerly clicked on the notification.

BEST AVENGER: a simple gown would've sufficed.

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: for an ordinary guest, yes.

SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: a prize in the charity auction demands a spectacular dress, though:)

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