#you already know i had to put top gun somewhere in this

[gloomwitchwrites]

First of all, I 100% know this is an overused trope... but still....

What If 141 2 people 1 bed trope

Who cares that it's an overused trope? It's a classic for a reason!

I will never tire of a one bed trope. It can be steamy and sexy. It can be angsty. It can be tense. It can literally be so many things at once. It's also a wonderful canvas to play around, and I had a lot of fun with this one. I know you've waited for this one for a while. I hope you enjoy it! :)

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x TF141 Female Reader

Content & Warnings: swearing, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, multiple positions, rough kissing, vaginal fingering, oral sex (male & female receiving), admission of feelings, pretend sex, fake dating/married

Word Count: 6.3k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“Fuck,” mutters Price.

You glance over your shoulder. Captain Price stands near the hotel window, the gauzy blinds closed but the thicker ones bunched to the sides, allowing in natural light. He’s staring at something happening in the parking lot.

“What it is?” you ask, starting to walk over to him.

“They might have found us.”

Dread flares hot, clenching the muscles in your stomach until it hurts. “Are you sure?”

Price nods, and then backs away from the window. “There’s no way they saw our faces during the infiltration. We wore masks. Might have tracked the stolen car.”

“We need to leave,” you say, but Price shakes his head.

“There’s too many of them, and they’re likely watching all exits on the main floor.” He sighs. “We need to play this right.”

The two of you are freshly showered, and the clothes you wore for the infiltration have already been discarded. Burned—actually, somewhere in the deserts of Arizona. At the moment, the two of you look like civilians.

“They can’t search the building, John. Not without bloodshed.”

He runs a hand through his hair, his gaze darting across the room as his brain works something over. You fidget, picking at your nails. It’s a terrible habit. One you do when you’re nervous.

Price glances at you and your heart drops. “They look official, and that’s probably all that matters. The scrawny teenager at the front desk isn’t going to put up a fight if the credentials appear legitimate.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, striding toward the window to look for yourself.

Captain Price is right. They do look official. They also look fucking terrifying which would scare anyone into compliance if you don’t know what to look for.

“We’re on the bottom floor,” you say, stepping back.

“I know,” growls Price. He pivots, examining the entire room.

He goes for the car keys and shuts them inside the safe. The only other thing in the room is a duffle bag full of plain clothes and generic toiletries. Price pushes clothes aside and then draws out the pistol hiding beneath it all. He checks the clip and then preps the barrel.

“Take off your clothes.”

“What?” you ask, startled.

Price walks over to the singular bed in the room, tucking the gun beneath the pillows. “Do you trust me?”

“Absolutely,” you affirm.

“Then take off your clothes,” repeats Price, reaching behind his head with one hand to grab the collar of his shirt. He pulls it over and off, tossing it aside.

“Spread it around. Make a mess,” he instructs as he goes for the belt on his jeans.

For a moment, you’re stunned, staring at Captain Price’s bare chest. While he’s muscular, it isn’t from a life in the gym. He is thick in all the right places. A solid wall with a beautiful dusting of dark hair that travels downward.

The belt is gone, and that too is tossed aside.

Without removing your gaze, you tentatively discard your shirt, but keep your bra on. It’s a barrier. A safety net. Price isn’t even glancing at you, but you do notice some color at the tops of his cheeks. A soft pink that makes your thoughts spiral outward to imagine if this gentle blush is the same color as the head of his cock.

Price’s jeans go next, already discarded before you move on to the next article of clothing. He’s only in socks and black boxer briefs. There is so much of him on display that you’re starting to forget yourself.

He glances at you, and that color in his cheeks darken. “You’re still dressed.”

You open your mouth to answer but then you hear a shout from down the hall and sharp banging on a door. They’re far too close.

This urges you on, moving with faster intention, and once you’re down to just your bra and underwear, you finally glance at Price again.

Price—who is naked. Completely bare. And you have a full view of what he’s been packing underneath all that.

Fuck.

He approaches the bed, and tugs back the sheets. The muscles in his arms and back tense as he crumples the bedding to sexed perfection—as if the two of you have been going at it for hours.

Price sits down on the edge of the bed and slides underneath, his legs parting enough that you get a glimpse of everything. This man isn’t even fully hard but from what you can see, it would be a tight fit if you actually sat on him.

Lifting a pillow, Price checks for the pistol and then sets it back, settling into the sheets. He frowns slightly when his attention returns to you.

“All of that has to go.”

“Does it?” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest.

There’s another thunderous pounding on a nearby door followed by shouting.

“It does if we’re going to make it out of here alive.” Price shrugs, and then smirks. “Could help you.”

Sighing heavily and you reach behind your back, unclasping the bra. You hurl it at him and Price catches it out of the air. Crossing your arms over your chest, you hurry toward the bed. But you don’t make it beneath the sheets.

“Everything,” repeats Price.

Reaching out, Price snags the thin cotton fabric and pulls down, revealing you to him and the room. Instinct as you grasping for control, hands splayed over his large forearms as he gives the fabric another yank.

You cannot form a response. Words leave you as Price drags you into the bed with him.

“Sorry about this,” he grumbles, that color returning to his cheeks in full force. It’s cute actually—how sheepish he looks.

You swallow, and lick your lips. “It’s fine.”

Price leans back against the pillows, guiding you with him. “Get on top.”

Straddling his hips, you settle yourself over him. You try—and fail—to not notice the way the hard length of him nestles against your pussy. You keep one arm crossed over your breasts but all it does is hides your nipples from him. Your other hand is splayed wide and pressed against his chest.

“We’re married,” he says, staring into your eyes. “That’s the story. I’ll do the talking. You act like the scared wife when they come barging in.”

You nod, and Price releases a deep exhalation. His hands rest on your thighs. They’re a brand. Warm. All you can think about. They move upward to settle on your hips.

“Pretend you’re riding me,” he murmurs.

With a gentle hand, Price grasps your wrist, drawing your arm away from your breasts. You don’t resist, and he brings your other palm to rest against his chest.

“Pretend,” he reiterates, hands returning to your hips. Price creates the motion by dragging you back and forth, imitating a rocking motion. Though you’re stationary, your pussy still drags against the length of his cock.

You notice the tremor in his jaw as your bodies rub against each other. This is affecting him as much as it is you.

“Pretend,” you say back to him.

Price nods and then grabs for the television remote from the bedside table. He turns it on and then ups the volume. You imitate the motion he created, rocking back and forth, sliding yourself along his cock, pretending you don’t notice how wet you’ve become over the course of the last few minutes.

His hands return to your hips, and then Price sinks back completely into the pillows, his eyelids softening as he gazes up at you. It’s far too intimate of a stare, and it’s only compounded when one of his hands meander upward to slide over your stomach and then between your breasts. You gasp as his thumb traces the underside of your breast.

Head tilting back, you grind downward, finding yourself diving into the warmth that’s starting to pool low in your belly.

A sharp pounding at the door has you snapping to attention. Every muscle tenses. Seizes.

“You’re fine,” coos Price. “We’ll be fine.”

The pounding comes again and then a yell from behind it. The voice is muffled. Not only by the door but from the television.

Swallowing, you try to connect into it again, rolling your hips, imagining that Price is your husband—that you love him—and this is simply an exploration of that love.

When you roll your hips again, Price sits up slightly, his warm breath brushing against your breast. A tingle shudders through you, and Price groans before his tongue grazes over your nipple, bringing it to a point.

“Knew you’d taste sweet,” he says softly at the same moment the hotel door bursts open.

One second, you’re atop Price, and the next his arms are around you, turning you away from the door to hide you from sight. You’re not on your back but Price has shoved you toward the bed as he sits up, creating a barrier between you and the intruders.

The tactical-clad trio entering the room—with a hotel worker nervously trailing behind—

don’t even get a word in before Price starts going off on them.

“Get out! Get the fuck out!”

His accent is gone, replaced by an American one. It’s incredibly good, and his feigned anger even more so. The men entering faulter under Price’s tirade. They likely weren’t expecting this, and Price uses this opportunity to push the advance.

“We’re fucking busy in here. Fuck off!”

The man at the head of the trio clears his throat and holds up a hand, but Price chucks one of the water glasses at the man. The guy ducks and it shatters against the wall. The hotel worker at their back squeaks and pushes forward.

“We’re so sorry. Just a search for some prison escapees. We’re clearly in the wrong room.”

Prison escapees? You want to laugh but think better of it. Instead, you press your face against Price’s arm, feigning sheepishness.

Price’s lips turn into a snarl, and the hotel worker blanches.

“We’ll give you a complimentary stay for the inconvenience,” the man babbles before waving his arms to usher the other men out.

For a moment, you don’t think it’ll work, but they go.

You and Price don’t sigh with relief until the door shuts. His forehead presses against yours, chest heaving.

“Nice accent,” you whisper and this draws a smile from his lips.

“Like it more than this one?” he asks, his regular accent returning.

“Nope,” you say. “This one suits you fine.”

Price’s gaze draws over your exposed body and then lands on your face. It’s soft. Sensual. You’re frozen beneath it, breath catching as his fingers brush along the line of your jaw.

You’re not sure who moves first but his lips are on yours and then you’re moaning. Price rolls you onto your back, each kiss more demanding and fiercer than the last. He tastes of the mint toothpaste he used earlier and smells of soap.

Reaching between your bodies, you find him hard, and there is no other need within you but the one that craves for him to be inside. To fuck you ceaselessly.

You stroke him and Price groans into your mouth, his hand wrapping around your throat. Hooking your legs behind him, you guide him to your entrance. With a light press of your heels, Price takes your meaning.

There is no gentle pretense. No soft kisses or playful coaxing. Price goes all in, and you break the kiss to gasp aloud, nails digging into his back. Price is thick and having him inside you is a deliciously painful stretch.

It is all desperate the way he moves. Price isn’t gentle. It’s skin slapping against skin. It is sweat and groans. A savage hardness that borders on hysteria.

Your hand reaches behind you to press against the headboard as Price fucks you into the bed, but even that is shaking, banging loudly against the wall. It’s clear even over the drone from the television. The people next door will know exactly what the two of you are up to.

Price is relentless. A man starved. He nips at your bottom lip. Sucks it into his mouth. And when that isn’t enough, he goes for your neck and then your breasts, making your nipples smart and throb under his teeth and tongue.

The orgasm comes sharp and hot, bursting forth like a wave. And when you squeeze around him, Price is right there with you, his cum coating your insides as he too finds his end.

The two of you are all heavy breath. Sweaty limbs.

Price nuzzles the side of your neck, placing soft kisses there until he travels up to find your lips again. These are gentle. Not desperate like before.

When there’s a moment to speak, it is you that breaks the silence.

“So much for pretending.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

It’s the middle of the day but you wouldn’t be able to tell.

A storm is raging—the rain thick and heavy. It falls from the sky in large drops that soak clothes and slick the skin. It’s a bit cold, too. A little chilly. The kind of wet chill that hardens the nipples and brings a shiver to your bones.

“Here. You’re soaked.”

Kyle presents a towel. It’s off-white and a bit frayed. But what can you expect from a motel in the middle of nowhere? Having a towel at all is nice. At least it isn’t threadbare.

“Thanks,” you reply softly, gently dapping the rough-textured material against your face.

Kyle strides over to the heating unit. It’s dirty and barely anchored to the wall. He hits a few buttons and then the thing turns on. It’s loud. Clunky. But heat starts to seep from the slats, warming the room.

After drying your face, you begin to remove outer pieces of clothing. Kyle might be your teammate, but there isn’t really anywhere to hide but the bathroom. Knowing the state of most motels, you don’t really want to find out either.

Kyle has the same idea. He dries off with his own towel, removing soaked articles of clothing as he goes. You try not to look—to be discreet—but it’s hard not to steal a peek. Kyle is all toned muscle and firmness. There’s a light dusting of hair on his chest. It’s a bit thicker around his navel. It trails downwards, and your mind wanders to a place it shouldn’t.

You glance away but not fast enough. His gaze roams upward, finding you, and there he pauses, observing you as you did him.

Pretending is best.

You attempt to act like you don’t notice him at all, turning your back like you’re incredibly interested with the wallpaper that likely hasn’t been replaced in years.

It’s his heat that draws your attention—that steals your breath, and makes every muscle in your body tense with anticipation.

“You’re shivering,” he murmurs.

Kyle is so close. Close enough that his breath brushes against your bare shoulder. You’re just in your bra and underwear, the only items that aren’t completely soaked from the rain.

He inhales, and that exhalation teases your flesh again. Giving in, you close your eyes, sinking into Kyle’s presence.

When you open them again, you notice a mirror hanging on the wall. It’s great if you were trying to plan an outfit, but that isn’t what you notice.

Instead, you see yourself. And Kyle.

The backs of his knuckles lightly caress the side of your arm. His head is tipped forward and turned inward like you’ll turn around any moment to kiss him.

The urge is there. Tugging. Wanting you to do just that.

The two of you are always walking around the other, seeking comfort and closeness but never seizing it. Maybe you should. Maybe—turning around is the best thing you can do for yourself.

“Kyle,” you breathe, and his little hum in answer tightens that string.

Without hesitation, you do turn.

Kyle’s lips are right there. They’re parted slightly. Inviting.

His arm drapes across your waist, hand splaying wide against your stomach, pressing until the two of you are sandwiched together.

It’s not like you don’t want this. You do. You want Kyle. Have since the moment he introduced himself to you. But the two of you have always remained professional in every space you occupy.

And now there is no one around.

No one to see.

No one to know.

Your head tips back in answer, and Kyle leans into it, pressing his lips to yours. It is sweet. Gentle. More of an ask than anything else.

And you reply, meeting him in equal measure. The pressure on your stomach increases just as Kyle’s other hand wraps around the front of your throat, holding you still. Each kiss is a claiming, one you freely submit to.

Kyle is all sugared-warmth, and you want to rot your teeth.

Draping your arm around the back of his neck, you pull him closer. Kyle nips. Bites. Sucks your bottom lip into his mouth before soothing the burn with a few tender kisses. Heat blossoms in your core before morphing into an aching slickness.

You’ve been putting him off—brushing him aside.

Why wait any longer when Kyle is all you crave?

“Fucking hell, love,” he groans against your mouth.

Your lips part, and Kyle slides his tongue inside. His taste is everything, but you want to know him everywhere.

Your hand seeks, brushing against his hardness through his boxer briefs. When you slip your hand beneath the elastic band, Kyle’s only response to kiss you harder.

Wrapping your fingers around him, you start to stroke what you can with the little room you have. Your thumb brushes over the head of his cock and Kyle draws back.

“I’ve wanted this since I met you,” he says, voice a bit rough.

Twisting in his grip, you turn to face him. “Can I show you how much I’ve wanted you, too?” you ask, pressing your breasts against his chest.

Kyle loosens his hold and you drop to your knees, taking his boxer briefs with you. His cock is gorgeous. It curves upward slightly, and a pearly bead of precum blooms in the slit.

He whispers your name, and then you have him in hand. Stroking once. Twice.

You lick off that bead. Savor his taste. Go back for more.

Kyle grabs the back of your head, drawing you to him. You open your mouth. Swallow him down. Throating him until you gag.

“Fuck,” he groans, elongating the vowel.

You work him with hand and mouth, keeping a steady rhythm that has him weak and wanton. You have all the control—until you don’t.

“Let me fuck your mouth, love. Please.”

The please is what does it. You release his cock, placing both hands on his thighs. With a pleased growl, Kyle keeps your head stationary. You anticipate the first thrust, and it is sinful. The movement goes straight to your pussy as you imagining him fucking you there like he fucks your mouth.

Fingers dig into muscled thigh. You want to touch yourself, to tease your clit while he does it. He is a god above you—Adonis.

“Can’t wait to taste your cunt, love,” rasps Kyle. “Can’t wait to make you drip for me.”

His desire fuels your own, and you urge him on, gently cupping him with one hand, thumb lightly rubbing the sensitive strip of flesh there.

Kyle’s hips stutter, and you relax your throat, humming around his cock as your lips meet the base. He holds you there, and you take it all, thighs chaffing from the friction of you rubbing them together in anticipation.

You blink up at him, and Kyle wipes away a tear with his thumb.

“My turn,” he murmurs.

You’re on your feet and then on your back in seconds. All the wind is knocked out of you, and then Kyle’s tongue is there, sliding through your slickness. Parting. Teasing the opening of your vagina before trailing upward to circle around your clit.

Gasping, your hands reach for him. Kyle grabs both wrists, keeps them planting on your stomach as he fucks you with his tongue. His shoulders dig into your thighs, keeping them wide. He’s stronger than you even as your thighs quiver, wanting to close, wanting to shut.

Kyle groans against your pussy, and then he’s on your clit, moving in such an easy, languid way that everything explodes outward. A shudder passes from the tips of your toes to the top of your head. Your pussy clenches. Unclenches. Clenches again.

Kyle doesn’t let up. He doesn’t cease. Every stroke strikes true and then your body betrays itself, overstimulation setting in, and the urge to wiggle away is paramount.

But just as you push at him—just as your body draws back. Kyle is releasing your wrists, pushing himself up and over you, spreading those legs even wider to slide inside.

The bed creaks beneath you, and then he’s thrusting.

Your moans of pleasure become one with the rain.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Single lamp. Lone bed.

Peeling paint. Dusty corners.

“Something’s on your mind.” Your voice is the only sound in the room other than the AC unit.

Soap’s sigh is soft and small as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

It’s the last night before the potential end. Before victory or failure. Just the two of you now with the plan to meet up with others later.

He nods, and you take a tentative step forward. “We attended the briefing. You know the details.”

“Aye.”

“Then what has you worried?” you ask, taking another step in Soap’s direction.

A warm, orange glow emits from the singular lamp on the bedside table. It’s not enough light to illuminate the cheap peeling paint or the dirt in the corners of the room. It only gives life to the bed and the side of Soap’s face.

It’s not like you have an unlimited budget. A motel room is the best the two of you could manage for some rest before moving on. The man at the desk didn’t even glance up when he asked if they only wanted a room for an hour.

You had asked for two beds. The man at the desk replied that no one who stops here asks for that.

One bed it is.

One bed.

Somehow, you’ll have to sleep beside Soap while simultaneously shoving down the urge to reach out to him.

Sighing, Soap leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. His gaze drifts slightly as if he’s not focusing on anything in particular. Running his fingers through his short mohawk, he tugs on the ends, mussing the freshly washed strands, creating a wavy mess.

Just that one movement as you leaning forward, nostrils flaring to inhale that clean scent.

“Adaptability,” he answers. Finally.

Instead of sitting on the bed beside him, you sink to your knees, resting your arm on the bed, and your chin on your arm.

The two of you have been on missions before but never together like this.

Never alone.

Keeping your gaze downward, you notice just how close you are to him—and how Soap leans in your direction, the edge of his knee brushing against the side of your hand.

It’s a small contact, but he’s warm, and that warmth is transferring into yourself, unspooling outward. It’s a difficult thing—because all this time you’ve harbored feelings for him, and yet have never acted on them.

“You’re quick on your feet, Soap,” you murmur, one finger absently extended to brush over the curve of his knee.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You can call me Johnny.”

Johnny. You’ve never called him that. Soap, sure. Sergeant MacTavish? All the time.

“I thought Ghost only had that right.”

Only Ghost calls Soap ‘Johnny.’ That’s understood by everyone.

Soap shrugs. “He did.” He glances at you, his smile widening. “But I’d like to hear you say it.”

Something swirls in your stomach, twisting like a knife.

“How would you like to hear it?” you reply.

Johnny’s smile, which is so wide and teasing, softens into a sultry smirk. “I have options?”

“You do.”

Johnny’s usual playfulness emerges. “Say it like you’re angry with me.”

“Johnny,” you say, deepening your voice to sound like Ghost.

He bursts out laughing, falling back onto the bed, clutching his stomach. “Oh, aye. I’ll give you that.”

“What else?” you tease. “I demand more.”

“Say it like you’re annoyed with me.”

You do just that, and Johnny sits up, turning on his side.

“Again,” you prompt.

The middle of Johnny’s brow creases and then his hand cradles the side of your face. He closes the distance, kissing you deeply—as if you are his lover and not a friend.

But you don’t pull away. You indulge yourself, kissing him back just as sweetly.

You’re not sure how much time passes, just that it does, and his small retreat after it’s done is all you have in acknowledging its passing.

The withdrawal is short. Johnny doesn’t move away. He keeps his hand on your cheek. The tip of his nose nearly brushing yours.

“Say it now,” he breathes, voice raspy.

“Johnny,” but it’s not what you intended to say.

He sighs. “Again.”

“Johnny.”

This time he groans, and then your lips are fusing, becoming one. You’re dragged off the floor and into his arms, tangling in his heat, forgetting yourself completely.

“Johnny,” you repeat, and then your shirt is gone, followed by your bra.

He nips at the curve of your breasts before sucking your nipple into his mouth. His teeth graze flesh and you say his name again until it becomes a strangled moan.

The front of your jeans is open, and his hand is there, cupping your sex, fingers dragging through your wetness.

“Johnny,” but it’s to stop him, to remind him that this cannot go on.

“Fucking hell. Love the way you say my name.”

This melts your resolve. Makes your legs spread wider. Makes you shove at your pants and create plenty of space.

Johnny knows. He understands.

He yanks them down even as he peppers your breasts with little nips and kisses. Your fingers drags through his hair as he sucks the other nipple into his mouth, bringing it to perky attention.

One finger slides inside, and you groan loudly, legs falling wide as Johnny settles himself between.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, claiming your mouth and pumping his finger. You whimper as he inserts a second. “Wanted you so bad.”

Your pussy flutters, squeezing around him. It is Johnny that groans this time, and it is a primal sound.

“Can I fuck you?” he asks. “Please.”

“Johnny,” you breathe. “Johnny.”

“Need a yes or no. Tell me. Do you want me? I’ve wanted you.”

You answer by finding him—guiding him to the place you need him to.

With a low growl, Johnny pins your arms above your head, slotting his pelvis against yours, the head of his cock sinking in until you’re taking all of him.

“Johnny!”

“That’s what I want to hear,” he croons, starting to thrust.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“I can’t tell what blood is yours and what isn’t.”

“Can fucking do it myself.”

“Ghost—”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Simon,” you snap, and he stops fidgeting.

Behind the plain balaclava, you see the fire in Lieutenant Riley’s eyes. This man is your superior. At least, right now he is. But the mission is done. It’s over. Yet the two of you are stranded, and making contact with Price is going to take time.

Not to mention that Simon is injured, and you have no fucking idea where at.

“Let me help you,” you say as soothingly as possible.

You don’t want to fight with him. All you want is to help Simon, to clean him up, and get him into bed. Rest and healing are what he needs right now. Contacting Price can wait. Base can stew for a while longer.

The two of you are in a motel room in the middle of fucking nowhere America. It’s shit overall, but it will have to do. There’s no way anyone is searching for the two of you out here. You drove until you nearly ran out of gas, and then you refilled and drove some more. Simon was in the back of the car, covered in blood.

But he was awake. Moving. Not a head injury, and not enough to get him immediate medical treatment. Not like he would have allowed you to take him to a hospital anyway. Lieutenant Riley is fucking stubborn. Sometimes infuriatingly so.

Simon stares, hard, his dark eyes intense behind the balaclava. He blinks, and then pushes up from the chair, keeping his gaze trained on you.

“Lieutenant,” you mutter, annoyed.

As Simon stands and attempts to take a step forward, his left leg wobbles, and he nearly topples forward. Your arms go out to catch him, holding him steady. He’s a big guy, and he seems to know this because he tries to prop himself up using the chair.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” you snap.”

“Listen—”

“I’m not arguing with you Simon Riley.”

Using his full name shuts him up. It’ll likely earn you a reprimand later, but fuck it, you’re over this.

“Stay there.” You shove him back down into the chair and head into the bathroom.

There is a single overhead light. Flipping the switch turns it on and the fan. It’s a tight space, but thankfully the shower isn’t also a tub. That would be a nightmare getting him in. Instead, there is a sink, a toilet, and a dividing wall that cuts the room in half. It’s more like a locker shower but it’ll work.

Reaching in, you turn the handle. You jump back as cold water shoots out of the shower head. After waiting for a few seconds, steam starts to rise.

You take a deep breath, knowing what you have to do. “You got this,” you murmur, heading back into the room.

Simon leans forward in the chair, forearms resting on his knees.

You hold out your hand. “Let’s go.”

Lieutenant Riley’s head swivels in your direction. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” you reply, holding firm. “Come on.”

With a deep sigh, Simon reaches out and slides his hand into yours. It’s warm. Calloused. You squeeze it and step forward, extending your other arm to wrap around his torso. Simon stands. Wobbles. But you snake your arm around him, and then it’s a slow trek into the bathroom.

Simon is limping, but he’s showing no other signs that his injury hurts him. Might be minor, or he’s just good at covering up the pain.

Once the two of you are inside the bathroom, you realize just how small the space is. Maneuvering Simon to the shower is difficult, a weird dance to wiggle around the door and toilet to the opening of the shower.

You retreat slightly, and Simon leans against the wall, his eyelids closing as he takes a deep breath.

“You good?” you ask, concern creasing your brow.

Simon nods. “I’ll manage.” His eyelids open slowly and then he stares into the shower. “You want me in there?”

“You’ll need to remove a few things first,” you reply, gesturing toward his uniform.

Simon snorts. “Trying to get me naked?”

“You wish,” you retort, even as your cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Need help?”

At first, Simon doesn’t say anything. He just reaches for his belt, removing it slowly with one hand.

“I’ll leave you to it,” you mumble, starting to turn away.

“Wait.”

You freeze, and then glance over your shoulder. “What is it?”

Simon shrugs. “What if I slip? Might need you to catch me.”

This bastard.

“Then I’ll stay,” you reply cooly, pretending that this doesn’t affect you.

But it does. It’s reshaping you, and Simon’s slow undressing isn’t helping things. He keeps his gaze on you the entire time, and you purposefully keep your eyes averted, when really you want to look. You want to know what he’s like under all that.

The belt goes. So does his tactical gear and jacket. Next is his shirt followed by his balaclava. You sneak a peek then, and Simon grins at you like he knew you’d look eventually.

“I’ll need some help with these. Getting them down that is.” Simon gestures towards his pants and you feel your face grow so hot you fear it might explode.

“Sure.”

You reach for him, silently chastising your shaking fingers. This is too much, even though you like it, and want more from it. You undo the button and zipper. Sliding your hands beneath the band, you shimmy Simon’s pants to the floor. He kicks them away and all that’s left are his boxer briefs. They’re tight and you notice the massive bulge in front.

Fuck.

“You can do the rest,” you reply, glancing away.

Simon removes them, and then he starts forward, arms outstretched to balance himself as he enters the shower.

“Fucking hell,” moans Simon as the hot water hits his body.

The groan that comes after is deep, and so sultry you feel a bolt of pleasure spike from your pussy.

“Should join me.”

“No thanks,” you say, averting your gaze away from Simon’s muscled backside.

One moment you’re facing the wall, and the next you’re under the spray of water.

“What the fuck,” you shriek, stumbling backward as Simon chuckles. Muttering under your breath, you stare down at your soaked clothing. “Goddamn it.” You start removing articles of clothing, the wet fabric peeling away from your skin.

“Fucking fine, Simon.”

You shed everything and storm under the spray, only for Simon to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you against him. There is no pause between then and the moment his lips find yours. It is sweet, and warm. You instantly melt, enjoying every second.

But it’s fleeting.

You draw back, heart hammering in your chest.

“You’re covered in blood. Remember?”

Simon shrugs and then offers you the soap. “Clean me then.”

You do it, and when you’re done, he does the same for you. It’s far too intimate, and Simon’s gentleness is surprising. Once finished, you dry and bandage the wound on his leg. It’s not terrible—and will likely need stitches—but it’s not bleeding anymore.

The singular bed in the middle of the room is far too small. Not with Simon in at, spread out and naked under the sheets.

You slide in beside him, not knowing where you should settle. Simon is large, taking up most of the best. The only place is curled up next to his side.

Turning your resolve to steal, you settle in. You begin to turn away from Simon, but his arm shoots out, grasping your waist. You’re yanked across the bed, only to find yourself in Simon’s arms.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Stop pretending, love. We both know what’s going on. Don’t deny it.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Simon—”

“We’ve been making eyes at each other for fucking months. And now we’re alone. You think I don’t see the opportunity?”

Simon’s hand slides over the curve of your ass, and then dips beneath your shirt. You’re not wearing underwear, and when his fingers brush over your pussy, you gasp, pressing into him.

“You’re already wet for me,” growls Simon as he drags a finger through your folds. “So fucking wet.” He presses in, and your pussy parts for him.

“We can’t, Simon. You’re injured.”

“Not so much,” he coos. “Especially since I can do this.” On this, Simon drags the tips of his finger along the inside your pussy, hitting that sweet spot.

You moan, fingers digging into his chest as your back arches to press you further down on him.

“It’s just my leg that’s injured.” Simon’s lips brush against your cheek and then the edge of your ear. His breath is warm against your skin. “I can still fuck you. Have you on top. Bounce you on my cock.” Simon gives the curve of your ear the faintest kiss. “Would you like that, love? Do you want me to fuck you?”

“We—we—”

With his other hand, Simon grasps the back of your neck, drawing you against him, silencing whatever it is you’re trying to say. He seizes your mouth in a fierce kiss. You open for him, and his tongue slides inside. He tastes nice, and you want to sink into the feeling. Have him devour you completely.

“Let me in,” he murmurs against your lips.

You push up, doing exactly as he wants you to do. You settle on his lap, his hard cock pressed up against your thigh.

With a low growl, Simon removes your shirt, leaving you completely bare to his gaze.

“Much better,” he says, cupping your breasts as you lean on his chest, lifting your hips.

His cock slides through your folds, and then you start the descent, moaning as he splits you in two. The stretch is intense—nearly sharp with pain, but laced with pleasure. Simon’s eyelids flutter slightly, and his groan is pure sin.

Simon lightly squeezes your breasts one more time before his hands find your hips. He lifts you up, and then back down, bouncing you on his cock. You cling to him, allowing him to use you, to fuck you in whatever way he wants.

Each grunt and growl from him only makes you wetter. Hungrier.

“I’m gonna come inside you.”

It’s not a question. There is no other option, and you wouldn’t take anything else even if there was.

“Please,” you whimper.

Simon’s hands tighten, his hips thrusting upward to meet every downward movement. He sits up, his mouth clamping around a nipple to nip and suck. Your orgasm roars up from nowhere, and then you’re clenching around him, milking Simon’s cock as his own end greets him.

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[punkshort]

somewhere to run | 2. book club

Pairing: sheriff!Joel x f!reader

Chapter Summary: An incident at the diner causes you to get shaken up, and Joel is there to help.

Chapter Warnings: language, slow burn, mutual pining, PTSD type symptoms, flirting, jealousy, attempted robbery, reader gets mildly injured

WC: 6K

Series Masterlist

"So you see why it's so important you keep on top of your oil changes, yeah?" Mr. Connor finished saying as you set down his plate of waffles and sausage. You nodded enthusiastically while you filled up his coffee.

"I was never really any good at car stuff," you admitted, but he shook his head.

"If you take care of it, that car'll last you five more years and save you boatloads of money," he told you, wagging his finger. "You come by my shop any time and I'll take a look at that beater you're drivin', won't rip you off, either."

You laughed as you heard the bells above the door ring and Maria greet the next customer.

"I'll hold you to it," you said with a wink before turning to put the coffee back on the burner.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the familiar outline of a man settle into Joel's usual seat at the counter, and you felt the butterflies stir up in your stomach. You glanced up to make sure there wasn't any food getting cold in the window before pulling out your notepad and walking over. As you approached, you mentally braced yourself for the onslaught of his cologne, but as you got closer, you couldn't smell it. In fact, all you could smell was soap and maybe a faint hint of oil from his gun.

When you paused in front of him, the realization dawning on you, he glanced up from the menu with a smirk. A slow smile spread across your face when you looked him in the eye.

"Better?" was all he said, and you couldn't stop the giggle from escaping your lips.

"You didn't have to do that for me," you said, suddenly feeling bashful and looking down at your blank notepad.

"I know, but I wanted to," he said, leaning back and closing the menu. He didn't even know why he looked at it anymore, he knew it by heart already. "Thought maybe it'd make you stick around long enough for me to get to know you better."

You definitely felt your cheeks flare at that comment, and it must have been visible because Joel just grinned, clearly very pleased with himself.

"Where are you from?" he asked, determined to try to make some more progress with you today.

"Pennsylvania," you said, finally looking back up at him with a smile as you tapped your pen on the pad.

"Northerner," he said with feigned disgust. "And what brought you all the way to Texas?"

"The incredible job opportunity, isn't it obvious?" you said, and he laughed. A real laugh, one you hadn't heard before, and it did something to you. Uh oh.

"You're funny," Joel said, almost as if he were saying it to himself. You grinned and decided to steer the conversation in a different direction: away from you.

"What about you? Have you lived here your whole life?"

"Born and raised," Joel said with a nod. "Our pop used to be the town sheriff, before he passed 'bout ten years back or so."

"So, you followed in your father's footsteps?" you asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Suppose I did," he told you, leaning forward. "But can I tell you a secret?"

You hummed and leaned forward as well, trying to bite back your smirk.

"Kinda wishin' now I was the one who bought this place instead of my brother," he said quietly and so close to your ear that it sent a shiver down your spine.

Still leaning in, you dropped your voice to match his and said "then who would stop those teenagers from drawing phallic images on street signs?"

He laughed again, the same deep, throaty laugh as before, and you felt your stomach clench at the sound.

"You heard that, huh?" he asked, smiling and leaning back. You shrugged.

"Lee isn't as quiet as he thinks," you told him. You wanted to say you had to learn early on to eavesdrop, that listening and anticipating danger became second nature to you, but you caught yourself.

"Howdy, brother," you heard Tommy's voice boom from somewhere behind you. You took the opportunity to sneak away and check on your other customers while they talked, but you made sure to set Joel up with coffee before heading towards the other end of the counter, his eyes trailing after you and staring a moment too long on your bare legs.

"You givin' her the business?" Tommy asked, nodding in your direction, and Joel nearly choked on his coffee. Tommy raised his eyebrows.

"She's, uh... she's a nice girl," Joel finally managed to get out after wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"He's got the hots for her," Betty whispered to Tommy as she ambled by. Joel cleared his throat loudly and gave her a stern look, but she just laughed and kept walking.

"Oh, Joel, I'm beggin' you, don't screw this up for me. She's a real good waitress, I don't wanna lose her - "

"Would you keep it down?" Joel whispered, his eyes darting around to make sure you weren't within earshot. "I ain't gonna screw anythin' up for anyone, don't worry. She's just... nice."

"'Nice'," Tommy repeated, clearly not buying it. He was about to say more, but Joel straightened up in his seat and averted his gaze, trying to wordlessly warn him you were heading over.

"Sorry to interrupt. Are you ready, Joel?" you asked him, your pen and paper in hand. He looked up at you and it was hard to fight the goofy look on his face now that you didn't regard him with such disdain.

"Yeah, sure. Let's put this guy to work, huh?" Joel said, pointing to Tommy, and you giggled. Behind you, Tommy rolled his eyes. Nice.

Joel told himself he was only allowed to think about you on his walk back to the station after lunch. You had told Betty you weren't interested in dating anybody at the moment, but he could wait. He wondered if he could change your mind, if he could make you come around to the idea of being with him, or at least give him a chance. You definitely seemed much warmer towards him today. He must have been wrong yesterday, you really must be sensitive to smells if all it took was for him to stop using that obnoxious cologne Sarah got him that he felt too guilty to throw away.

"Hey boss, how was lunch?" asked Bobby, the town's deputy and Joel's right hand man.

"Good. Anythin' goin' on here?" Joel asked, shrugging off his blazer and hanging it on the coat rack outside his office.

"Not much. I was 'bout to let Ollie outta the drunk tank. His wife was callin', askin' after him," Bobby said before rising to his feet with a groan. Although the man was ten years younger than Joel, his joints seemed to be ten years older.

Joel glanced at the time on his watch with a nod.

"Yeah, go ahead. Third time this month, though. Next time it happens, I'm keepin' him longer."

"Alrighty," Bobby said over his shoulder as he pulled the keys from his pocket and headed back towards lockup.

Joel sighed and began flipping through the papers littering his desk before giving up and leaning back in his chair to stare out the front window, watching people as they walked past. Before he could stop himself, his mind had already wandered back to thoughts of you, and it took him five whole minutes and Ollie's hungover ramblings to snap him out of it.

Maybe Sarah would want to get pizza for dinner.

It was nearly seven at night as you made your way back home from work, your feet aching and your head throbbing. At the very least, it was a cool, summer night. The breeze was enjoyable and the sun was still peeking out just enough to keep your skin pleasantly warm. All you could think about was getting home and running a bath to soak your sore muscles. It had been a long time since you held a job, let alone a job that kept you as active as this one.

Patrick didn't like the idea of you working. When he first suggested you quit your job and stay at home, you thought it was sweet. You took it to mean he wanted to provide for you so you could relax and be a homemaker, maybe even a mom one day. But after a few months, you quickly realized he just didn't want you around other people, or more specifically, other men. Without even knowing it, you trapped yourself at home without a lifeline, and it was exactly what he wanted.

Even though you were sore now, you felt good. You were taking care of yourself. Providing for yourself. And you never felt more proud.

You were juggling your keys, trying to find the right one that opened the door to the sidewalk, when you heard a familiar voice exit the pizza place.

"Well, look who it is," you heard Joel say, and you let the keys dangle at your side as you turned around with a smile.

"Evening, Joel," you replied, your eyes quickly drifting down his body. It was the first time you had seen him in casual clothes. Every other time you ran into him, he was in his work uniform, which usually consisted of some type of suit. But tonight, he was wearing dark blue jeans and a beige button up shirt with short sleeves. As he strolled over to you, balancing a pizza box in his hand, your eyes were immediately drawn to the way the muscles in his arms strained against the fabric of the shirt, making your mouth go dry.

"Tommy finally let you leave, huh?" he joked, and you had to remind yourself to laugh, your mind still too fixated on the way he looked in that shirt.

"Dad?" you heard a girl's voice call behind him, and you both turned your attention towards the voice. You remembered your brief interaction at the pharmacy and realized that she must be Sarah. Her eyes flickered from you to Joel, then back to you, clearly waiting for Joel to introduce you, but he seemed frozen in place. So, you stretched out your arm and introduced yourself with a smile, which she reciprocated.

"You look familiar," she said, tilting her head to the side the same way her dad did.

"I think I saw you at the pharmacy a couple days ago," you reminded her, and she snapped her fingers.

"That's what it is," she said, giving you another smile. "Are you working for Uncle Tommy?" she asked, looking at Joel again, who was still standing there, unmoving, watching the two of you interact. She frowned slightly at him, picking up on his strange reaction as well, before giving you her attention again.

"Yeah, at the diner. He hired me earlier this week, brand new," you told her, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. Joel's silence was deafening at this point and starting to make you uncomfortable, so you held up your keys and pointed to the door.

"I won't keep you guys. It was great to meet you, Sarah," you said with a wave, but before you could turn towards the door, she stopped you.

"Why don't you join us?" she asked, shooting Joel a mischievous look as if she finally realized the reason for his behavior.

"Oh, no, that's so nice of you, but I'm just gonna jump in the bath and go to bed, it's been a long day," you replied. Joel's body stiffened next to you when you announced your plans.

Finally, he managed to clear his throat and speak.

"We'd love to have you join us, we were just gonna grab a picnic table out back," he said, and you swore his cheeks looked a little pinker than usual.

You were struggling to find another polite way to turn down their offer when he added "c'mon, why don't you lemme serve you for a change?"

Sarah smiled as she watched the two of you. She couldn't wait to tease her dad about it in the car later.

"Alright," you said slowly, lowering your keys once again. Joel's face broke out in a huge grin before leading you and Sarah down the short alley to the small courtyard behind the building, where there were a few picnic tables and string lights draped overhead.

"Are you sure I'm not intruding?" you asked again, and they both vehemently shook their heads.

"No way," Sarah said, licking the sauce off her fingers after she picked up her piece from the box. "It's nice to have another girl around for a change."

"Sarah," Joel said warningly under his breath.

"I just mean it's nice to hear about something else other than work and football," she said to him with a grin, and he rolled his eyes, choosing to sit on your side of the table instead of hers.

"So, you live above the pizza place? That seems pretty cool. Pizza whenever you want," she said, covering her mouth as she spoke. You swallowed your food before responding.

"Yeah, it is pretty convenient. And they actually have good pizza," you said. "I think I'm finally getting used to the smell."

Joel's knee accidentally knock against yours under the table and you had to fight the urge to jump away, the contact startling you.

Sarah asked the same questions everyone in this small town inevitably asked you when you first met: where are you from and why are you here? The first question was easy, the second one always gave you pause. It wasn't until Sarah asked that Joel suddenly realized you never really answered him when he asked the same question earlier that day, so he stopped chewing to pay attention.

"Just looking for a change," you said with a shrug, taking another bite of pizza. Sarah considered your answer for a moment before following up.

"Have you ever been here before?"

"Nope."

"So you just got in your car and ... drove?"

"Kind of," you said with a nervous laugh. Joel frowned slightly.

"That's so cool," Sarah said, a smile stretching across her face. "Dad, doesn't that sound so cool?"

"Yeah," he said with a nod, finally joining the conversation. "Do you got family down south or anythin'?"

"Uh, no," you said, shaking your head. "Just always heard it was nice down here so I thought I would see for myself."

"You think you're here for good, then?" he asked, his voice a little more hopeful than he wanted to come across.

"That's the plan," you said to him with a smile.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Sarah asked out of the blue, and your eyes darted back to her in surprise.

"No," you replied slowly, heat creeping up your neck and guilt dancing in the back of your head while Joel hid his grin behind his pizza. "Do you?" you deflected, raising your eyebrows at her with a smirk, and she giggled, shaking her head.

"You better not," Joel said, and the two of you laughed.

Over the rest of the hour, you listened to Joel and Sarah crack jokes and argue over what movie they would end up watching later that night and you felt the smile slowly begin to slip from your face as you came to the sobering realization that the type of dynamic they had, one that was so obviously built on love and trust, was something you never truly experienced before. It wasn't just something you saw in the movies or read in books. People in the real world actually got to experience it, and you couldn't help but feel a little jealous. Why not you? What did you ever do to receive the type of life you got?

After parting ways and thanking them over and over for dinner, you finally headed upstairs and collapsed on your small sofa. You untucked your work shirt and unzipped your skirt, but that was as far as you got, exhaustion winning the fight.

You closed your eyes and wished you had the energy to get up and run a bath, but you just couldn't bring yourself to do it yet. Instead, you let your mind wander, imagining a life where you could call out to someone who cared for you in the other room and ask them to run the water. Maybe they would surprise you and light a few candles and mix in some soothing bubble bath. You knew that would never happen. You could never let yourself be honest enough with anybody to allow them into your life, but it didn't stop you from wishing for it, anyway. And right before you drifted off to sleep, you imagined that certain somebody had dark brown eyes and soft curls on the top of his head that you were itching to run your fingers through.

As hard as you tried to keep to yourself, the town was very small, and eventually you found it was nearly impossible to keep from making connections with people. Whether it was through work at the diner or striking up a conversation with someone at the store, you were quickly becoming interwoven in the lives of the people who graciously accepted you as one of their own.

You were particularly becoming fast friends with the girl who worked the register at the pizzeria below your apartment. Her name was Hailey and she was a couple years younger than you, but you had a lot in common, one of which was a shared taste in the same movies and books, so you were excited when she invited you to join a book club she and a couple other women in town started. As much as you enjoyed talking about books, you found you also very much enjoyed listening to all the town gossip that inevitably came out after everyone had their first glass of wine.

"So, Nikki, did I hear Sam asked you out on a date?" an older woman named Martha asked. Nikki blushed when the group turned to her, some women poking her in the side and others murmuring excitedly under their breath.

"Yeah, but it's not a big deal," Nikki said, flicking her long, dark hair over her shoulder. She looked to be a little older than you were but it was hard to guess her age.

"Not back in town for two weeks and she's already got a date," Hailey said, rolling her eyes next to you playfully. "Some girls got all the luck."

"Oh, stop it," she chided with a smirk, then paused as if she were rethinking her next statement before blurting out "kind of wish someone else woulda asked me out instead."

That got the whole group's attention, even your own, and you barely had any idea who most of these people were. But you supposed any amount of gossip paired with alcohol is good gossip.

"Oh, please, you don't gotta say it, we all know who you've been chasin' after all these years," another woman chimed in with a giggle. Fortunately, you weren't the only person in the dark.

"Who?" Hailey asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"Joel, obviously," the other woman replied, and while the rest of the group groaned, everyone tossing in their two cents and offering up their favorite things about him, you remained frozen in your chair, blood running cold.

"Lord, he came into school last week to pick up Sarah, and the way his ass looked in those jeans..."

"Did I ever tell you about the time I nearly slipped on the ice and he caught me? Had to go to confession the next day..."

"... and I swear, I've considered committing a crime just so he would throw those handcuffs on me..."

"I don't know how that man has been single for so long..."

Part of you wanted to laugh at some of the things the women were saying about Joel, but the other part of you felt hot and angry. You wanted to scream shut up, don't think about him like that, don't even look at him. And through your alcoholic haze, you realized you were jealous. Jealous of all of these women, young and old, barking out comments about the town sheriff you had no business feeling jealous over.

The next day when he came into the diner for lunch, your head was still swirling with all of the comments the women in town made the day before. Distracted, you dropped your pen and pad on the ground as you made your way over to greet him, cursing under your breath.

Joel grinned when you finally approached, looking every bit as frazzled as you felt.

"Tough day?"

"Huh? Oh," you said nervously, tucking your hair behind your ear and shaking your head. "N-no, not really. Well, maybe - shit," you said when you knocked over a box of straws with your fidgeting.

Joel laughed and leaned back in his chair.

"What's got you all worked up?" he asked, and you felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Nothing," you said, shaking your head again, trying to focus. "What can I get for you?"

"Nuh uh, darlin', not so fast," he said with a tsk, and you sighed. "What's goin' on? You can tell me, y'know. I am a man of the law."

He meant it to be playful, but with your history, it had the opposite effect. You winced and swallowed the lump in your throat, and trying not to make matters worse, you caved.

"I went to a book club last night," you mumbled, and he raised his eyebrows.

"Book club, huh? Sounds like fun," he said, watching you carefully. "Maybe had a little too much fun?"

You finally dragged your gaze up to meet his and saw he was grinning at you, and you managed to force out a small laugh.

"Yeah, you could say that," you said, hoping that would be enough, but he wouldn't let it go.

"Can you get me a coffee? Then when I get back from the restroom, I wanna hear all 'bout your little book club," he said with a wink, then stood from his chair and turned around, heading towards the bathrooms while your gaze landed on his ass. It didn't look too bad in dress pants, either.

You tried to steady your breathing while you flipped over a clean mug and filled it with coffee, your mind racing and wondering what lies you could come up with to prevent telling him the reason you were so distracted.

Lost in thought with your head down, you didn't even notice when another customer took a seat at the counter until the man cleared his throat. You glanced up and apologized before bending down to grab another mug and set it down in front of the stranger.

You were pouring his coffee and telling him about the specials, your eyes glued to the counter, when he slid the barrel of a pistol across the table and into your line of sight. You froze, your hands gripping the coffee pot fiercely as you broke out into a cold sweat. You flicked your eyes back up to him. He didn't appear to be much older than you. He had his unkept hair hidden underneath his black hoodie, and you noticed his eyes looked bloodshot, his skin clammy. You knew that look. You've seen that same look one too many times.

"What do you want?" you whispered, your voice shaking.

"Open the register, gimme all the cash in this bag," he said quietly, tossing a tote bag across the counter at you. You nodded, grabbing the bag while your fingers fumbled with the buttons, desperately trying to remember how to open the drawer without a sale. You could sense he was growing frustrated with how long it was taking, and you felt the tears welling up in your eyes.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed quietly. "I-I'm new, I can't remember-"

"Hurry the fuck up," he growled, and you blinked rapidly, trying to clear your vision, the tears falling down your cheeks.

"Drop the fuckin' gun, Marcus," you heard Joel's voice call out, and a wave of relief coursed through your body. But Marcus got startled, and instead of doing as he was told, reached across the counter and grabbed you by the throat, pulling you against his chest to partially shield his body, the gun pressed against your temple as your fingers clawed at his arms.

You couldn't move. You couldn't breathe. Tears just streamed down your face as you locked eyes with Joel. They no longer carried that playful glint, his lips no longer turned up into a grin. His brow was furrowed deep and his gun drawn, cradled expertly in his large palms as his eyes shifted back to Marcus.

"I'm not lookin' to hurt anyone, sheriff. Just lemme walk outta here," Marcus rumbled behind you, his sour breath invading your nostrils and making your stomach roll.

"Now, you know I can't do that," Joel said, taking a small step forward. "But put down the gun, let her go, and we'll talk."

The grip around your throat tightened and you let out a small, pained squeak. Joel's jaw clenched when he heard the noise, his patience running thin. You hadn't noticed at the time, but the entire diner had gone quiet, some patrons slinking down in their seats, others craning their necks to get a better look.

"Goddamnit, Marcus, don't test me today," Joel growled, his eyes ablaze. "I don't wanna call your mama and tell her I had to spray her only son's brains all over the floor, but I fuckin' will." The tone in Joel's voice sent a shiver down your spine as you stilled, waiting for the stand off to be over.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the grip on your throat loosened and you no longer felt the cold metal pressed against your head. Joel locked eyes with you again as you coughed and shakily fell down to the floor behind the counter, curling yourself into a ball while you heard Joel reading Marcus his rights, the jingle of his handcuffs rang like bells in your ears.

Once Marcus was restrained, you heard Tommy bolt out of the kitchen and rush over to you. He knelt down on the ground, asking if you were okay, if you needed a doctor, concern lacing his voice but when he reached out to touch you, you flung yourself backwards violently, knocking the back of your head against the counter.

"Shit," you muttered, rubbing your head as fresh tears fell down your cheeks.

"Hey, easy now," Tommy said soothingly, glancing over the counter as Joel spoke on the phone with Bobby, ordering him to bring a car to take Marcus back to the station and book him.

"I'm fine," you whimpered, still rubbing your head as you shakily forced yourself to your feet. You watched as Joel marched Marcus to the front of the diner, his knuckles white from how hard he was gripping his shoulder as he directed him through the door. A few patrons clapped weakly as the two disappeared outside, and the diner filled with excited chatter once again.

"You alright, sugar?" Betty asked, suddenly appearing beside you, face etched with worry. You flinched and brought a shaky hand to your sore neck.

"Yeah, I just need to use the restroom," you said, and before anyone could say anything further, you tore off your apron and made a beeline for the women's room.

You locked the door behind you and slid down to the grimy floor, burying your face in your hands as you sobbed, the adrenaline wreaking havoc on your nerves.

It was too much. It was all too much. The look in Marcus's eye was one you saw too many times. A junkie in desperate need for a fix. A drunk who would say or do anything for another drink. The fingers around your neck were no longer there, but you still felt them squeezing every last bit of oxygen from your lungs, every tear from your eye until you could hardly breathe.

The door handle jiggled and you jumped, wiping furiously at your face before shouting out a shaky occupied!

"Hey, it's me," you heard Joel's voice say from the other side of the door. No longer did he have that hardened edge to his tone. The warmth and softness in his drawl had returned.

"I just need a minute," you said quietly after a long silence, and you heard him shift his weight.

"I know, but I - can you let me in?" he asked, and you could hear the concern in his voice. You slid your eyes shut as fresh tears drenched your face once again. You ached for comfort. You wanted it so badly you would do just about anything for it. But every other time, you've been let down. Over and over and over again.

"I just need a minute," you repeated, just a whisper, not even sure he could hear.

"Then I'll be right here til you're ready, alright?" his voice came back, even softer this time. You nodded, even though he couldn't see you. You heard him sit down against the door with a tired sigh, and you let your head tilt so it rested against the door. There was a small bit of comfort to be had when you knew only an inch separated you from him.

"You were real brave," he said after a few minutes of silence. You scoffed and wiped your nose.

"Is that why I'm crying on the floor of a bathroom?"

"Please don't cry," he said, his voice strained. But you didn't say anything in return.

"He wasn't gonna do nothin'. He's got troubles, is all. Bad habits get the best of him, but he's harmless," he said, trying to make you feel better.

"I don't know, these bruises on my neck say differently," you replied, and you heard his breath hitch. Then you heard his shoes scuff on the tile floor.

"Lemme see," he said, his voice firmer now. He was standing, his voice above you, waiting to be let in. You hesitated, the tone of his voice putting you on edge, but you knew you couldn't hide in there forever. With a trembling hand, you reached up and unlocked the door, then scurried backwards so you were pressed up against the opposite wall as he swung the door open and stepped inside. His gaze fell on you and his eyes went soft at seeing your wrecked state before clicking the door shut behind him.

He rushed forward and you flinched. A bad habit of your own. He paused and slowed his movements, crouching down in front of you instead. He lifted a hand to pinch your chin but you turned your face away.

"Will you show me?" he asked gently. You gazed up at him with red rimmed eyes, your knees pulled tight against your chest. Finally, you lifted your chin. Again, he reached a hand out, but you stopped him.

"Please don't touch," you whispered. He looked at you and nodded slowly, dropping his hand again, examining your bruises with only his eyes.

"Maybe you should see a doctor," he said after a few minutes, but you shook your head.

"I'll be fine, it's just sore," you said, and his gaze flicked up from your throat to your eyes. His lips parted the longer he stared at you, and you felt the tremor return to your hands. You couldn't look away, his gaze too magnetic.

"Don't like seein' you cry," he murmured, still gazing deep into your eyes, trying so desperately to read you.

"I cry all the time," you said without even thinking. He blinked and frowned. He was about to say something else when a gentle knock on the door interrupted him.

"You okay in there?" Maria called out. You sighed and stretched out your legs, standing up and waving off Joel's helping hand.

"We don't gotta do it today, but I'll need you to come by and give your statement sometime soon," he said, glancing down at you with a sympathetic look.

"Okay," you replied, your voice cracking a bit. You looked at one another, both of you wanting to say more but neither of you could. So you reached out to open the door, forcing a smile for Maria.

"Sorry," you told her meekly, and she laughed.

"You're sorry? You just had a gun pointed at your head and you're sorry?"

You laughed weakly, then stopped short in pain, your fingers brushing against your throat.

"I just wanted to bring you your purse so you could sneak out the back," she said, lifting your purse up and handing it over to you.

"But my shift-"

"Oh my god, take the day off," Maria said, shaking her head and grinning. "Think you earned it."

"Okay," you agreed, then turned to walk through the kitchen where you could leave out the back so no customers would gawk at you.

"Lemme walk you home," Joel's voice said, startling you. You had just assumed he went back out front.

"Don't you have to, you know... work?" you asked, floundering for the right word.

"He ain't goin' anywhere," Joel said, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he walked by your side down the sidewalk.

The two of you walked quietly for a few minutes.

"I've never seen you like that before," you said, breaking the silence. He turned his head towards you, raising his eyebrows.

"Like what?"

"Like, all... cop-like," you said, chuckling at your terrible choice in words.

Joel grinned and glanced down at his feet.

"Yeah, well, job's not all inappropriate graffiti and speed traps."

You hummed in agreement as you kept walking.

"Do you have to unholster your service weapon often?"

"'Service weapon'?" he repeated, surprised at the term you chose. Although it wasn't wrong, it typically was not something most people said. You just looked at him, not acknowledging it, so he let it go.

"Uh, no, not really," he said, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Oh," was all you said, taking a deep breath and continued to stare straight ahead. He watched you from the corner of his eye for a moment.

"When I came outta the bathroom and saw - " he stopped short, then rubbed his lower lip with the pad of his thumb as he collected his thoughts. "You were scared. And I... reacted."

You glanced his way again, but he kept his eyes focused straight ahead. What was he trying to say?

"Thank you," you said softly, but he was quick to shake his head.

"Not lookin' for you to thank me," he said, finally allowing his gaze to drift back to you, giving you a small smile.

When you finally reached your apartment, you took out your keys and turned to him, ready to thank him again, even though he told you not to, but he spoke first.

"Here, why don't you take this," he said, holding out a small white card between his index and middle finger. You gingerly took it and flipped it over, reading the text on the other side.

"It's my card. Call me when you wanna stop by the station," he reminded you, and you nodded.

"My cell's on there, too. If you ever, y'know," he said, half a smirk playing on his lips as he nervously shifted his weight. "You ever wanna talk 'bout anythin', really. 'Bout what happened today, or... book club," he said, and you laughed. He grinned, relieved to finally see you smile again.

"Okay," you said with a nod, and turned to put the key in the lock.

He watched as you made your way all the way up the steps, and didn't leave until he saw the second door at the top of the stairs close firmly behind you.

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[betterbooktitles]

"I’m certain I’m not the only millennial who feels we as a nation have taken a dizzying turn when it comes to drugs. I remember a uniformed police officer showing up once a week in 5th Grade (a year before Sex Ed) to explain how to avoid buying and taking drugs. Luckily, I already knew the dangers of the drug trade because I had seen The Usual Suspects. I knew cocaine was a bad thing to buy, sell, or steal, especially from a drug kingpin. The D.A.R.E. program, however, let me know how important it was to say no to anything fun, including alcohol. At least until I understood a little algebra first. We did role-playing exercises where we walked one by one toward the portly police officer and he casually asked if we wanted to hit a mimed joint with him. All we had to do was say “no” and walk to the other side of the room, defying the only rule I knew about improv. We wrote essays about how important it was to preserve our pristine bodies and minds, obviously unsullied since we had yet to take the class teaching us how puberty was going to defile them both. I’m still mad that my friend Nicole’s essay beat mine in a contest, and she got to read hers in front of the whole school all because she had the benefit of an older brother who took too much acid and sat in her room all night talking about why the existence of light proved God was real. My essay about a time I saw my friend’s dad drink a beer and then drive his truck somewhere was also good! We signed pledges to enter the new millennium drug-free. We took the red pencils that said “Friends Don’t Let Friends Do Drugs” and sharpened all of them down to say “Let Friends Do Drugs,” “Friends Do Drugs,” “Do Drugs,” and simply “Drugs.” Despite that little rebellious act, my friends and I spent a solid six months swearing we’d never put any harmful substance into our bodies besides every form of candy available.

Imagine how I feel now as a D.A.R.E. graduate becoming my dad’s drug dealer. It’s less thrilling than I thought it would be. Between my father’s warning not to hang around one specific neighborhood in Cleveland as a kid and nearly every TV show about drugs, I thought I’d always be buying marijuana from an intimidating dude who definitely had a gun and would use it immediately if he thought I was wearing a wire. Instead, I now buy marijuana from a well-lit storefront that looks like the Apple Store. I’ve even gone to a place where a guy with an iPad explained what each available strain would do to me. I buy what sounds good with all the confidence of a man pointing at items on a menu written in a language he can’t read. I put it all in a cardboard box. I place a book on top. I mail the box to my dad from my local post office. I tell myself the book is to hide the contraband crossing state lines, but in truth, the book is what clears my conscience. I want to send my dad something edifying while also sending him the drug that all of America worried would make me unable to read if I tried it once. The unrequested book is a red herring to distract from the vice, like when you were young and didn’t want to buy condoms outright at the store so you cushioned them between a pack of peanut M&Ms and a magazine. Hmm, what else did I need, — right, while I’m here — might as well pick up a few condoms.

Right as marijuana becomes legal in most states, I’m about done with the drug. I’ve had three good times on edibles, and one of them was when I felt nothing and fell asleep at 9:30 PM. I’m flabbergasted that my dad likes edibles. He seems to be a man free of anxiety. Case in point, I once brought him some THC lozenges to our summer holiday in Chautauqua, and around dinner time I told him “You might want to only take half of what I gave you” to which he replied, “I took it hours ago.” He was stoned and no one noticed.

While I’m stuck in my head, stoned or sober, wondering why I didn’t take some acting gig 15 years ago, wondering if I’ll ever make enough money, worrying I’m doing everything wrong including in this moment as I write this sentence, my dad is enjoying himself.

Judith Grisel, the author of Never Enough: The Neuroscience And Experience of Addiction, describes using marijuana as throwing “a bucket of red paint” on your brain. She was approaching the stimulant clinically in terms of how it differed from the laser focus of other drugs (THC reacts with many receptors in the brain, cocaine focuses on one), but now every time I smoke, I think of the red paint metaphor. While other people seem able to crank an entire joint and do insanely complicated stuff like function at their jobs, I am reduced to a gelatinous blob, on top of which my eyes and brain are navigating a dream state that, like many dreams, isn’t all that interesting the next day. Mostly, I get high and can’t decide what I want to watch on TV or what video game I want to play, I realize how hungry I am, and then I fall asleep with cereal still stuck to my teeth. Pot, for me, is like the squid ink hitting the screen in Mario Kart: I can still see where I’m going, but everything gets a little harder to do, and the panicked half-blindness makes everything slightly more chaotically fun."

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Other articles include:

An essay on Claire Dederer's book Monsters and movies made by monsters.

Writing inside a Toyota Service Center.

Writing mistresses.

[vivwritesfics]

Jester Stole His Thorny Crown

Chapter Thirteen

He never had a choice in his life. His dreams were nothing more that that. Dreams. But then he met a lounge singer at his brother club and everything changed.

Mafia!Au

1.8K

warnings: guns, violence, shooting, killing, injury, blood (we have a happy ending i promise)

Series Masterlist

Max knew this was wrong. He knew everything his father did was wrong. And he wanted no part of it.

He couldn't meet Charles's eyes as dinner was served. Dinner that Charles didn't eat. But Max couldn't blame him, he wouldn't eat anything put in front of him if he was in his position.

His father was a tyrant, he knew that. He was a cruel man, the reason Max's mother and sister had disappeared.

Once upon a time Max and Charles had been friends. If it had been anybody else, he might not had wanted to displace his father. If Jos hadn't pulled the pianist into things, if he'd left her alone, Max wouldn't have wanted his father gone.

She was shaking as Jos stood. He grabbed something from his plate and walked over to her. "Open up, pretty thing," he said and she desperately shook her head.

With Jos's back to them, Max pulled a gun of his own. It was so quiet as he slid it across the table, towards Charles.

But Charles wasn't looking. No, he was watching as Jos covered her nose, waiting until she opened her mouth for deep gasps of breath to shove something inside.

It was food, just food. Food from Jos's plate. It was safe, Charles knew, he'd already seen Jos eating from it.

Something touched his arm. Charles turned away from the piano. He looked across the table, looked at Max, looked at the gun he was passing him. Max was pleading him using nothing but his eyes. Almost immediately, Charles got the message. He took the gun from the table and hid it in his lap as Jos turned back around.

"Haven't yet got her trained, have you, Leclerc?" Jos called with a barking laugh.

She pressed the wrong key and a sob sounded around the room.

Charles tried to remain inconspicuous as he grabbed a hold of the gun in his lap. "How do I get you Monaco without harming my brother?" He asked as he leaned forward, one hand on the table. The other was holding the gun at the ready, pointing it at Jos.

"You're giving Monaco up far too easily," Jos replied, eyeing him suspiciously.

But Charles sat back. Unless he could make sure that his gun was pointed somewhere fatal, he wouldn't pull the trigger. "I just want to know my options," he said, jaw clenched.

Jos let that booming laugh sound around the room. "I have you and a have her, Leclerc," he said, nodding towards the piano. "Your options are get me Monaco, or watch her die."

Time seemed to slow as Jos pulled out his revolver and pointed it at her. But Charles got there first. He shot before Jos had a chance.

The bullet lodged itself in his arm and Jos dropped the revolver with a cry. The moment he was down, Charles shoved the gun in the waistband and rushed over to the piano.

"Fuck, chérie," he breathed as he pulled her up from the piano. Her hands were shaking and tears rolled down her cheeks as Charles turned her towards him, tucking her against his chest. He could have cried, could have let himself crumble, but he held himself up and kissed the top of her head as she shook against him. "I've got you," he said, eyes falling shut.

Her shaking hands gripped his shirt. His hand moved up and down his her back as she reached beneath his shirt jacket, hand hovering over the gun. Her fingertips brushed it, but she flinched away.

Charles pulled away from her. His touch was gentle as he tipped her face towards him. She's okay, he told himself. His thumb moved over her cheek, wiping away tears as they fell. "Talk to me, chérie," he said and placed kisses to her forehead.

She shook her head and buried her face against his chest. Charles just squeezed her tighter. "Let's get you home, yeah?"

Another shot rang out.

It was loud, so much louder than the gun Charles had used moments earlier. The moment she heard it, she grabbed the gun in Charles waistband and shot it blindly. But the bullet hit it's target and Jos's body slumped.

But so did Charles. "Cha," she gasped as his body fell against her own. She fell against the piano bench as she tried to hold him up.

"My fucking leg," he groaned.

Now, you have to understand. Jos wasn't aiming for Charles's leg. No, he wanted to put that little shit six feet under. But he was shooting with his non-dominant hand, and that gave him shitty aim. He didn't expect the pianist to grab Charles's gun and shoot him right back. And now, Jos was dead on the floor.

"Shit," came Max's voice as he stepped over to his fathers body. He grabbed a groaning Charles and pulled him away from him, holding his body up. "Shit, shit, shit."

Her eyes were wide and panicked as she looked at Max. "Are you gonna help him?"

Immediately, Max was reaching for his phone. He gave her a nod as he held it up for his ear and dialled for an ambulance.

Max left Jos's body on the floor as he dragged Charles through the house. Groans left Charles's lips as Max pulled him to sit by the door. Staff ran past them, heading into the dining room. But Max kept going, leading her to the front door with Charles still on his shoulder.

The ambulance was there in minutes. Max placed an unconscious Charles on the stretcher. He patted his uninjured leg and let them take him away.

"Come on," he said as he turned back towards her. "I'll drive you up to the hospital."

But she stood firm, unmoving as her eyes followed the ambulance. Why hadn't she jumped into the back with Charles, holding his hand as they took him to the hospital? As soon as the ambulance was gone, she looked at Max. "Why are you helping us?"

His hands were in his pockets as she shrugged his shoulders. "My dad was a monster. He deserved what you did to him, but you didn't deserve what he did to you. You and Charles. I'm just trying to make up for all of that."

She stared at him for just a minute more before she gave a nod. "Yeah. Yeah okay, let's go to the hospital."

Max led her to the garage. He helped her into a Ferrari of his own and set off, taking her to the hospital. Things were quiet as they drove. The radio wasn't playing and they weren't trying to make any conversation as they went. She was grateful for it, her mind on Charles.

They got into the hospital, but she couldn't see him right away, not while he was in surgery, getting the bullet removed from his leg.

Her knee bounced the entire time. Her hands were clasped together and she kept her eyes trained on the door of the operating theatre. That stupidly short red dressed she was wearing was long gone from her mind, but Max still pulled off his suit jacket and placed it around her shoulders.

"Thanks," she mumbled as she pulled it closer.

Max didn't respond. He sat back, hands in his pockets as they waited to be let into the hospital room with Charles.

And then, they were. Well, she was. She kept the suit jacket around her shoulders as she rushed into the room.

There he was, looking like an angel. His eyes were shut as he laid on the hospital bed, his leg wrapped up. "Cha," she whispered as she brushed his hair back from his forehead.

There was a small seat to the left of his bed. She sat herself down in the chair and waited.

***

It was hours later when Charles woke up. His body was numb as he looked around the room. There was a moment when he registered nothing, not where he was, not that he'd been into surgery.

He looked to his left. There she was, looking so uncomfortable as she curled up on that tiny, plastic chair, covered up by a suit jacket. She'd been the one to save him, hadn't she? She'd taken his gun and killed Jos before he could harm them any further.

He tried to sit up in his bed and let out a hiss. "Shit," he grunted as pain in his leg flared.

She was up in seconds, racing over to him. "Charles," she gasped as she fell down by his bedside and grasped his hand. "Holy fuck, you're awake."

A weak laugh left his lips and he reached up to brush his fingers through her hair. "Oh, chérie. My chérie," he whispered as she reached up to kiss him.

She stayed with him until he was discharged from the hospital. Max was kind enough to grab her clothes, and she got changed out of that awful red dress.

She brought him food, something other than the hospital dinners he'd been fed so far. Even while he was bound to the hospital bed, Charles was doing work. He was on the phone to his brother, setting up meetings between Lorenzo and Max, the new head of the Verstappen family.

As soon as he was discharged, they were heading back to Monaco. Him in that damned chair that she was more than happy to wheel around.

She sat beside him on the plane, the both of them taking up one seat. It was the closest she'd been to him since Jos had first shot him in the leg. She'd been so afraid to get close to him since he'd first woken up in the hospital. And now she couldn't physically get closer (without touching the left side of his body, the side that had been shot).

"I need to retire," he mumbled as he squeezed her closer.

She kissed the underside of his jaw. "You don't need to retire, Cha," she said, fingers against his chest. "Retire if you want to retire, but not if you don't want to."

He kissed the top of her head. "If it's what will keep you safe, chérie, I'll do it."

She tipped her face up to kiss him. "Do you think you'll finally get onstage in front of a crowd with me now?" She asked with a giggle.

Charles let out a hum and squeezed her shoulder again. "If that's what my girl wants, that's what my girl will get."

And that is my charles series done! thanks for everyone that's been along for this ride

If you enjoyed this, please feel free to buy me a coffee

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[fawnpires]

LOCKED & LOADED — SIMON "GHOST" RILEY.

꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ synopsis: ghost loves two things the most; you and his pistol, but there was nothing better than the two combined. (AKA - ghost fucks you with his pistol.)

꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ contents: gunplay, weapons, gun kink, slightly mean!ghost, oral sex (female receiving), pussy-slapping, dirty talk, edging, use of pet-names, mild degradation.

"You're fuckin' depraved you know that, don't you, sweetheart?"

His voice heavy of an accented tone sends a shock down your laid spine, your body quivering with tiny non-visible motions. The only lasting separation from your bareness and his lingering eyes were your bra and panties full of lace — with his difference, he had been fully clothed, draped in his military gear and tactical cloth considering his return from a month-lasting expedition a long couple of minutes ago. Through the front door and trudging towards your shared bedroom; your body laid already half-naked on the mattress — as if you in preparation for him — the view causing him to practically drop everything from his hold — duffel bags and a few of his more heavier rifles.

In the band of the utility belt, only a single rifle and a pocket of ammo to it — which is how you ended up with his much more towering, heavier frame suspending over you; the muzzle of said pistol to your clothed cunt, circulating in small and sensual gestures. He squints his eyes at how your panties leave a stain where the gun traces, a smirk pressed to his lips at the sight from underneath the skull of his mask.

"Gettin' off on my gun, huh?" he rasps to your ear, "You take anythin' I fuck you with, don't you, love?"

Your thrown-back head lifts itself from the pillow, staring right into the sockets of the mask. "Mmhm — waited so long for you, missed you s'much."

"I know, baby, I know," he said while his free-hand caresses the flesh of your clammy stomach, "Missed you too. Couldn't stop thinkin' about you and this pretty pussy." his eyes drift to your stimulated cunt, the confines of his tactical jeans growing tighter at the erection that bulges through the material.

"Please!" you whine, "Fuck. I need you so bad, can't wait anymore, Simon."

His edging maneuvers latch onto you, but they just weren't enough to your liking. For the duration of his absence away from you, you had craved more than just a gun running at the exterior of your cunt; some fleshy, physical portion of his body — not just the solid metal of a weapon running into you. It had just seemed to lack your needs — not to be demanding, but there had just been some missing addition that would peak up to your arousal. Your bottom lip was teared from the constant bite of your top teeth, nearly broken of the skin at the repeated sensations at the front of your panties; needy hips grind against your only source of pleasure, the muzzle of the unpredicted pistol — it could've been loaded, a hazard to your safety, or unloaded due to the amount of care that Ghost holds for you.

"Don't worry, sweet girl," he straightens himself back up and holds his stance between your bare legs which he spreads for you, resting them at both sides of his kneeled figure. "Won't torture you that much."

Your mind is left to ponder at his phrase, slightly curious and wanting to poke more at the topic of 'torture' he has in mind.

With his pistol still clutched at the handle in his right hand, he puts his left hand to use and wraps his fingers to the waistband of your panties, tugging at the elastic before slowly ragging it down your thighs. From your knees, and down to pool at your ankles until they were eventually shrugged off to be abandoned somewhere on the floorboards of the bedroom's ground; you were almost unconditionally bare, minus the lace of your bra cushioning your breasts that were nearly spilling out from the position the man above held you captive in.

The embarrassment of your cunt stripped of its fabric finally hits you, causing you to press your thighs together in an attempt to give some shielded cover. It had possibly been the span of time he had left you all alone but his usual superior disposition had left you a bit intimidated, meek to his eyes. He strips himself of his tactical jacket, then the black of his thinned shirt — somewhat equivalently bare to you.

"What'cha hiding from, baby?" he aims the point of the gun to one of your thighs, one hand brushing to a single side of your waist. "Seen you naked so many times for me, no reason to be so shy."

His words label an impact on you — warming up to his characteristic nature and steadily parting your legs wider for him, situating them back to the sides of himself. He can't help but bring himself to smirk at the act, pinning the bottom of his balaclava to the end of his nose and folding the blemished material for it to stay in place. "That's a good girl, openin' all up for me. Just like how she always has." he praises, his hand no longer at your waist but brought down to between your thighs — landing a flattened slap on the puffy lips of your glossy cunt.

Your body jerks at the impact, vibrations sent straight to your stimulated clit as a muted whine draws from your throat. You feel yourself pulsating from the cruel action, just about swollen and pigmented red. Ghost elicits a shallow, stifled chuckle at the reaction in which he extracts from you; directing the muzzle of his forgotten pistol to your cunt, nudging at the lips and placing it still there �� no movements, motionless in place. Body engulfed in shame, yet you left yourself to do the disgraceful; revolving your hips at the muzzle, grinding onto the object much like the first time he set it into place — only more needier, more faster and desperate in each circular move. A shiver comes down onto your body at the cold of the firearm, but immediately warming up once the metal bumps at your swollen clit.

"Are you going to take this, huh?" Ghost graces your ears with the inquiry, watching as you hump yourself against his gun, slick drooling down the muzzle and all the way to the barrel — glistening and shined down to each portion of the weapon. He reaches a hand to your face, his large palm fondling at your features with fingers kneading into the skin. "You gonna let me fuck you with my gun, baby?"

"I- I dunno," you whine out, loudly and more extended, "but, Simon-"

"C'mon, don't be like that," he said, grim in tone, "don't'cha wanna be my good girl like always? Takin' what's given to her?"

You gasp as he presses the the gun further against you, prodding right at your clit; the new sensation of cold, hard metal causing your lips to part and your body to instinctually press yourself harder on it. Your left no choice but to nod swiftly — the only way you could really get further into the pleasure he edges you with. He feels his lips curve into a small grin, the grasp on the handle of the gun tightening.

He doesn't hold himself back anymore, no boundaries to stop him from slowly pumping the cooled pistol into the entrance of your drippy cunt. Your breath hitches, body squirming as one of his hands is pressed down onto one side of your waist; preventing you from breaking free of the stimulation. A shattered sound — something between a squeal and a moan — forces from your mouth at the operation of insertion. Your back arches, body tensed and moderately uncomfortable; still getting used to the feeling of a literal gun being shoved into your cunt.

"There you go," he said, eyes widening at the sight in which he gives power to. The abnormally loud squelching of your cunt while taking his gun and the released whines of your mouth were placing him into a personal paradise. "See? I knew you could do it, honey. Just for me."

Your body no longer writhes under the gun when it is at the limit which you can only take it in; right to the bottom of the barrel, slick painting the material.

"M' gonna start moving now, stay still for me honey. Just like this." he warns, leisurely pulling the weapon out of you before thrusting it back in a more quicker maneuver. Your hips lift themselves before being pushed back down into the mattress with the hand at your waist, a whimper pulling from past the teeth and tongue. "Love this slutty pussy s'much, sweetheart, you likin' this?" he questions, "You like — no, — love bein' this much of a slut for my gun?"

Through the continuous whines and towed moans, you can only manage a non-verbal response — another agreement from the nod of your head. He only grins, leaning down to your face to press a sloppy kiss to your forehead, kissing down the soft expanse of your chest and stomach before settling where his gun quickens in pace at your cunt, a delicate kiss from his lips places at your clit. The object pumps up into you more quickly now but is joined with his tongue giving one long, wet stripe up your lips past the gun. A high-pitched moan is plucked at the new sensitivity, back curved off the creaking bed, hips bucking and pressed down onto his face.

"Simon, fuck!" you moan, nearly coming out in a scream.

He smirks against your cunt, surrounding his lips around your clit and sucking on the bud. Ghost continues to thrust his gun into you, the rate of it violent and in carnal. With the supplement of both his pistol and mouth at your cunt, your mind is invaded of a stupefying cloud of haze. The muscle of his tongue repeats long, prolonged stripes at your puffy lips; occasionally putting time into lapping at your clit. Your brows furrow, collecting beads of created sweat as your chest rises with each heavy breath you take.

"Doin' so good for me, pretty thing." Ghost murmurs, his fingers wrapped at the handle for more leverage and pounding his gun to the warmth of your walls with that same violent pace.

His saliva coats your inner thighs, as well as the thrusting pistol; piling with the surface of your slick. Drool dribbles down the structure of his chin, using his utmost stamina to put strength into both fucking you with his gun and tongue. Your vision is blurred of tears, head in spirals while your left to leave your mouth expanded — no longer giving attempts to even muffle any of your noises, or suppressing right at your throat. An organization of heat begins to birth in your abdomen, threatening to spill of itself any second; any move of either his tongue or gun would be the root of that release.

"S'close, Simon!"

"Go on, then, love." his eyes flow to arching anatomy then to your fucked-out face, "I know how badly you were waitin' for me to come home, take care of this achy lil' cunt of yours," he cooed, "Want you to make a mess of my gun, of me."

The hastened blend of a pistol and his tongue vitalizing your cunt was enough for your head to be fully sent into a stage of dumbification and the birthed heat at your abdomen to be overturned; streams of rapture flood every crevice of your body as you gushed all over both the the gun and his tongue, covering both parties. The hand at your waist caresses your skin in gentle gestures, one last press of his lips to your clit before he lifts himself up — his mouth left to hang open, catching breaths. His gun positions still inside you for a minute longer before you feel the now-warmed metal of it being withdrawn from your sticky cunt.

When it's pulled out from you, almost the entire thing was submerged in your arousal; the liquid glinting from the illuminance of the bed-side table lamp. Your head leans up the pillow, staring at the stained object; then to him, with his alluring lips now smeared of all you.

"Shit, baby," he breathes, words ending in a chuckle while he stares down the slick-painted weapon, "You really did stain my pistol."

You dumbly smile up at him through your remaining orgasm, all lips, no teeth. "Don't you want a reminder of me when you're away?"

"Yeah," he replied, moving to your side and "and you were so desperate to make it happen."

You bite at the fleshy wall of your cheek with tearing teeth, more warmth rising to your face at his statement.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing, honey," he confirms while taking note of the silence you leave, bending himself down and caging you in with his body and two arms; one holding the pistol right above your head. His lips press to yours in a deepened, messy kiss before smaller ones are peppered to your face in comfort. "I like when you're desperate anyways, you get all pretty and fucked out."

[winterchimez]

Bad Blood | Lee Hyunjae

SUMMARY: you and Hyunjae were the best duo the FBI has ever had, well at least, you used to be. so when you finally meet the man you once loved face-to-face after everything that has happened, you're now left with the question if he is worth putting your faith and trust towards him again.

PAIRING: agent!Hyunjae x f!reader

GENRE: angst, crime

WARNINGS: nc-17, mentions of weaponry (guns, bombs), mentions of blood, violence, action scenes, betrayal (but not really ish; you'll find out as you read it), the tension in this is whew 😮‍💨, minor character deaths, kissing, petnames (sweetheart, princess), cursing

WORD COUNT: 2k

A/N: and so winterchimez makes her writing comeback 🫡 happiest birthday to my sweetest @hcuyk i look up to you a lot and im so so glad that we became close & i hope this is worthy for you my vae vae 🥹 and a big shoutout to @kyaroscuro for hyping me up and beta reading it through i cherish you loads too 💗🫶🏻

You absolutely detested the situation that you were placed in.

It was past midnight when you received an alert about the criminal that you and your team had been tracking down for the past few months and decided to resurface into the light. All agents on duty were given clear instructions to hunt the man down, even if it meant that any of you had to open fire. 

But it seemed as if your agents had underestimated what he was capable of, and there was a good reason why he was placed on the FBI’s top most-wanted list—he was a mastermind at setting up traps, specifically in hiding bombs throughout the city. 

Unfortunately for you and your team, half of your men had already been wiped out and poorly injured only ten minutes into the chase. However, as one of the elite members of the force, you refused to stop and kept moving forward—chasing the criminal up to the docks.

Loading your gun while you were running to aim and shoot at the criminal was a challenge since you also had to avoid harming any of the pedestrians.

Multiple times, the criminal himself has either taken some innocent people hostage or inflicted minor injuries upon them, which only ticked you off even further. You were mentally cursing and wanting just to land a bullet on the guy anytime now. 

It was finally when the criminal himself had moved to a dead-end, and he was taking a few steps back one at a time before he realised that he would fall straight down into the violent waves that would wash one away into the deep ocean. 

Aiming your gun right towards his forehead, you finally took in a deep breath before announcing out loud the consequences of his actions if he were to try anything funny further. 

“It’s over. Quietly turn yourself in, and your life will be spared.” 

Instead of raising his arms, the criminal responded by lowering his head before chuckling—his laughter getting louder and more sinister by the second.

“What’s so funny?” You retorted.

“I’m sorry, princess. It’s time.” 

Right there and then, he pulls out a remote and quickly taps on the red glowing button. An explosive goes off under the bridge, causing the waves to rise rapidly. The last thing you see with your eyes is the waves crashing down upon you.

It was too late for you to run as the waters dragged you down into the ocean, and the current quickly shifted you far away towards the sea. As much as you tried to paddle and stay above the waters, you were buried rapidly by the waves, and little did you know you were deep down in the dark, freezing waters. 

That was it. You failed the mission, and god knows what will happen to you. 

With the last few seconds you had before you knew that you were going to pass out, you could only pray that you would end up somewhere and that your fellow FBI agents would find you and take you back to the headquarters within the next 24 hours. 

But it seemed that help arrived much quicker than expected. 

As you felt half-unconscious, your body was quickly lifted from the waters, and you were back at the docks again. Whoever was carrying you was quick yet gentle, carrying you bridal style before heading towards a dimly lit area between the cargo boxes and placing you down to catch your breath. 

Your saviour wasted no time and quickly performed CPR on you, causing you to spit out a large amount of water that had gotten into your passageways and helped you to steady your breathing again so that you were able to at least talk. 

The moment you tried to focus your vision to get a glimpse of which of the FBI agents came to your rescue, your eyes immediately widened, and you quickly took out your other spare gun that you kept safe and intact behind your bulletproof vest and rested it on his temple. 

You weren’t expecting to see him again. 

“Sweetheart, can’t we just exchange a few words before you decide to pull a gun on me? I even saved your life, you know,” Hyunjae sighed as he slowly lifted your pants to reveal an injury you had neglected while you were on the chase for the criminal. 

“As I’ve said, the next time we meet, I will not hesitate to pull the trigger and kill you off, traitor,” you deadpanned.

That’s right, Hyunjae was a traitor—an ex-FBI agent and your former partner-in-crime.

Both of you were inseparable for years. You trained and deployed on countless missions, and for five years, you were grouped as a duo. Hyunjae was the best marksman, and you were his right-hand-woman.

Together, no criminal out there was a match for you two, no matter how dangerous or well-equipped they were. In reality, whoever dared to provoke you two would not have a great outcome the moment that they were captured and brought back to headquarters. 

He was a soulmate you never knew existed, and the both of you were always together no matter what. At some point, all of your colleagues were convinced that the two of you were a thing, but neither of you wanted to label anything. You both were fine just the way you were, and as long as the bickering and childish acts went on, you were fine.

Until you ran into Hyunjae killing off one of your superiors in his office a year prior. 

This was someone you trusted your whole life with, but at that moment, he was a complete stranger—with splatters of blood all across his face and clothing and those deep, lost eyes as he looked down at the lifeless body on the ground.

As an instinct, you loaded your gun with your trembling hands and moved it up to aim at him, causing the male to direct his attention towards you.

There were no words exchanged for a solid ten seconds, and you could tell that tears were about to stream down your face as your vision blurred. 

There was this bittersweet smile plastered across his face, and he only stood there, not moving an inch, before he finally decided to break the news to you. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” 

Those were his last words before he leapt out of the broken windows, running deep into the forest before the entire building was alerted and a wide manhunt began to capture your ex-partner.

However, the FBI should’ve known that he was one of the top commanders at that point and would not be easily located.

After a few months had passed, the news came to light when it was revealed that Hyunjae was leading a double life—not only was he an FBI commander, but he was also the CIA’s top informant. 

With that, you have distinguished that you two are now on different pages and that things will not end well for either of you the next time you see him again.

So here you were, pointing your gun at his temple, ready to pull the trigger anytime. 

Part of you wanted to surrender so badly and just interrogate the hell out of him instead of resorting to violence, but you knew that being an agent meant that there was no room to let any personal feelings get in the way. 

But it seemed as if Hyunjae wasn’t bothered by your actions in the slightest, and instead, he took out a clean cloth from one of his pockets to clean the wound before wrapping it well to prevent any infections that may happen. 

No. There’s no way you’re going to back down now. “You’re going to get yourself killed if you keep this up; you know that, right?” You pushed the gun forward and added some pressure, but he was not alarmed in the slightest. 

“Alright, the cloth isn’t going to last for long, so I highly suggest that you treat the wound as quickly as you possibly can-”

“Stop playing games with me, Hyunjae. You know you’re part of the FBI’s most wanted list now, don’t you?” You warned. 

There were a few seconds of silence before the male sighed and wrapped his fingers around your gun, yanking it down forcefully. “You’re so gullible, Y/N.”

“What the actual fuck? You sure have the audacity to say that right to my face after what you’ve done-”

“What I’ve done a year prior-” he raised his voice slightly and finally turned to meet eye-to-eye with you for the first time in a while. “-it’s all part of the plan to patch things up and to eliminate any potential harm to the FBI.”

You scoffed. “Bullshit. You’re with the CIA; why bother about the FBI when you killed Chief-”

Before you can finish your sentence, Hyunjae uses one of his arms to push you against one of the cargo boxes, causing you to yelp silently with the sudden force. This time, he rests his forehead against yours, trying his best to tell you something while lowering his tone. 

“Y/N. You can hate me all you want, but I’m not doing all of this for the CIA. No matter what, my heart is always with the FBI, but most importantly, with yours.” 

Wait a minute. 

Did he mean what he said during that last sentence? 

That can’t be true, and you were certain that you were probably hallucinating since you had lost quite a bit of blood and you were literally drowning ten minutes ago in the waters. It has got to be a side effect of all of those. 

But Hyunjae wasn’t done. 

“I’ll tell you right now that you’re in great danger, and you have attracted quite the attention from multiple organisations out there. But I’m not going to let them lay a finger on you, and it will always be a top priority to keep you safe first and foremost.” 

“Hyunjae. I’m not in the mood to be playing games with you-”

“And neither am I, Y/N.” Hyunjae slightly pushes you back against the box, this time moving in close until both of your lips are mere inches apart. “You’re mine, and forever will be.” 

In the blink of an eye, he presses his lips onto yours, devouring them as if there was no tomorrow. It was the first time you exchanged kisses, and you never realised how soft his lips were, and he knew how to cause butterflies in your stomach. He slowly moved his hands up to your neck and held it firmly, allowing him to deepen the kiss even further. 

As much as he wanted for it to last as long as he could, he pulled away and kissed your temple softly before whispering into your ear. 

“You wanted the truth, and I have given it to you. It’s up to you to do whatever you want with the information. But know that I’ll always be lurking in the shadows, keeping you safe from any harm before we can finally meet face-to-face again,” Hyunjae whispered. 

When he finally let go of his grip on you, a soft, sincere smile was plastered across his face before he disappeared into the darkness of the night, leaving you confused as hell as you laid your head back on the box. 

As the sound of the choppers began rumbling in the sky, indicating that the FBI had sent back up to rescue any of the surviving agents, you knew it was time to get up and head straight back to report at the headquarters. 

Before you did any of that, you decided to turn your direction right towards where Hyunjae had run off one last time before a single teardrop fell straight down onto the ground. 

“You have never once left my mind, Hyunjae. And now, you’re just making me go insane with whatever you have up against your sleeves.” 

A/N: i haven't written in months so this might not be the best but i tried 🥹

masterlist

taglist: @deoboyznet @kflixnet @k-films @flwoie @gluion @kyusqult @tinkerbell460 @sulkygyu @jaerisdiction @lngwayup @djidfk @daisyvisions (join my permanent taglist here!)

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

thinking about "twenty-five going on fourty-seven" dbf!jake where they're hooking up at it at his house when her dad comes in from the open backdoor and almost catches them together

HFGAGZFGAK YESYESYES THIS IS MAKING ME GO CRAZY OMFG- i swear the amount of times those two must've almost been caught!

Twenty-Five Going on Forty-Seven | top gun masterlist

i imagine this is two, three months into your 'relationship' already? like, at least. and jake and your dad are at the "back door's open any time for you" stage of their friendship already, so it's not uncommon for your father to just appear in his living room. but also he's at work, as far as you're concerned, and your mother's away with friends, so when jake gets home, you're already planted on his couch, your clothes discarded somewhere in his bathroom and a towel wrapped around you, fresh out of the shower.

there's no reason at all to use the spare key he'd given you to walk over to his house and shower there. no reason except for the face he makes when he sees you, which is worth every ounce of strength it takes you to put on an innocent expression.

maybe he hasn't had the chance to actually touch you in a few days. maybe he's been coming home later than your parents and the closest things to sex he'd gotten are dirty chats and a sneaky kiss in the hallway.

so he's on his knees within seconds and has his mouth on you before you've said much more than hello, his hands tugging away your towel and palming at your skin.

you're close quickly, almost embarrassingly quickly, and you're just about to reach that high when your father's voice rings out from the back door.

the adrenaline rush would be unbeatable, let's be honest. horror movies pale in comparison.

jake leaps to his feet within nanoseconds and stands just in time as your father steps in, but you're still busy throwing the towel back over your body.

jake's voice is coarse and shaky as he greets your dad, who frowns at the sight of a woman on the couch before you finally secure your towel with trembling hands and turn around to him.

he'd be perplex, of course, because it's an incredibly strange situation to walk in on - but, thank god, you manage to swallow hard and then come up with some kind of story about the shower water in your bathroom having been ice-cold and not having warmed up even after five minutes of standing there and freezing up, so you'd just come over here to ask jake to take a look at it. literal five seconds ago.

you really don't fucking know how your father actually believes that, especially because you can't possibly have sounded sure of yourself in even the slightest. but thanks to whatever higher power out there, he does, and even lets jake take a look at the utility room. magically, jake fixes the problem before your father can even walk up the stairs and assess it.

you take two showers that day. and don't get to come once.

[valerieisunavailable]

Simon x Reader: "Who You Belong To"

Listen y'all, you know the deal. NSFW. MDNI below this point, please and thank you. 🔞

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

You were talking to a few new recruits within the hallways of the barracks. Of course, with you being a woman and a slightly higher rank than them, they started flirting with you. Pretty normal stuff, right? Or so you thought. From a glance, you could see Ghost not too far away, leaning against a wall and glaring bullets at the recruits. It wasn’t like you were flirting back with them. You just wanted to hear the clever things they could come up with while rolling your eyes in the process. But obviously, Ghost was not having it at all, which was surprising, considering how he liked to shit-talk the recruits and complain how bad they were. You didn’t figure he’d be the jealous type. You sighed, before waving the recruits along.

“Hey, I gotta get back to my duties. But it was nice talking to you three.” You said.

The recruits whined, before one of them was brave enough to ask you out for coffee.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m already taken.” You reply.

The recruits groan in disappointment, before nodding and walking off. You smile, before turning around. But to your surprise, Ghost was now behind you.

“Oh, Gh–” you tried to say, before being rudely interrupted.

“Damn right, you’re already taken.” He growled.

He then grabbed you by your waist, pulling you into a tight embrace. You stared into his sapphire eyes, giving him a smirk as he grumbled to himself.

“Who do those damn recruits think they are…. Trying to toy with what’s mine..” Ghost mumbled.

Ghost then partially lifted up his mask, removing yours to give you a deep, passionate kiss. You leaned in, kissing him back and trying to explain your reasoning to him in between kisses.

“I just like–” Interrupted by another kiss.

“What they-” Another kiss.

“Come up with.” She manages to say. Ghost stops.

“I don’t care.” He says.

As the two of you stop to catch your breath, Ghost notices that the other soldiers are beginning to laugh and stare at the two of you. He groans, before looking back over at you.

“Let’s go somewhere.. more private. Yeah?” He suggests.

As you nod, you follow him back to his dorm room that’s located within the barracks. Once the two of you walk into the room, he closes and locks the door, before pulling you close once more and pushing you on top of the bed, before getting on top of you and smothering you with passionate kisses.

“Maybe it’s time for a little reminder of who you belong to.” Ghost remarks.

“Gh-” You try to say, but he puts a finger in between your lips.

“It’s Simon. Don’t you forget that, love.” He corrects.

Then, without wasting any more time, he starts slowly removing your clothing. You stare at him, almost impressed at how quickly he’s able to remove your clothes. In between this, your staring at the tattoos on his arms that make you that much more turned on. Simon seemed to have sensed this as he started flexing his muscles, and then slowly tracing his arms up and down your sides, so that you could get a better look at his arms. You glance at his arms, noticing the various skull and gun symbolled tattoos that he had all over his body.

“Take a good look, love.” He says with a smirk, continuing to flaunt his arms, tracing his hands up and down your sides, causing shivers down your spine. He then lowered his head to your thighs, before spreading your legs. He teasingly pulls your underwear down, before he stops. He’s met with a surprise. Something new. Something he hasn’t seen or noticed before. Looking down at your freshly shaven pussy was a tattoo, with Simon’s name on it. He stared almost in awe, before a grin was plastered on his face.

“What’s this, love?” He asks, gently grazing his fingers over the tattoo.

“Well, you know I’m not one for tats, but I figured that you’d like it. Besides, it isn’t that easy to find, well, unless..” your words trail off.

“My good girl did all of this for me?” He asks with a grin. You smile, giving him a nod. You know that this is about to be the best night ever for you.

Simon then lowers his head down in between your thighs, putting them up over his shoulders as he starts licking up and down your folds, causing you to immediately moan. You can feel his tongue piercing draw circles around your sensitive clit as you whimper in response. Your legs quiver as he digs his face in deeper into your pussy. You can hear slurping sounds in between his praises.

"Good girl…" He praised.

"Simon..~" You moaned, holding the back of his head as you pushed his head deeper.

"Mmm… That's right love, say my name.." he says, continuing to lick you up and down while his piercing rubbed your sensitive clit.

"Simon..~" You said once more.

"Good girl.." he praised.

But then he stopped, before looking back up with you. Your juices were dripping off of his face.

"Are you close?" He asked, seeing how quick and desperate your moans were becoming.

You nodded, spreading your legs wider.

"Please, Simon…" You begged.

Simon groaned from hearing you beg for him.

"Say it again, love…" He asked.

"Please, Simon… make me cum.." You begged.

This time, he groaned louder, his eyes almost going into his head.

"Fuck… Such a good girl girl for me.." he growled.

Simon then put two fingers up, showing them to you with a smirk. He teasingly rubbed circles around your clit with his fingers, before feeling your folds and feeling how wet you were. He smirks, before entering his two fingers inside of you. You gasp, before your body relaxes. He starts at a slow pace, before he starts thrusting his fingers at godly speeds. You let out a loud moan, almost screaming his name as your orgasm hits you.

"Oh, fuck! Simon!" You yell, gasping for air at the intensity of the orgasm.

He chuckles, watching you scream from your orgasm.

"That's what I like to hear, love." He says.

After he lets you relax for a few minutes, showering you with kisses and praise, and of course tasting those exquisite juices of yours, he groans as he stares at you. As you look at him, you can see a bold imprint of his hard cock through his gray sweatpants.

"Fuck… I need this good girl right now.." He groans.

He then removes his sweatpants and boxers, before revealing his pierced cock. You stare down at his fully erect and fully pierced cock. He stares down at you, slowly giving himself a few strokes, before growling and staring down at your body.

Simon then places the tip of his erect cock on your clit, slapping his cock against your clit as he groans. You could feel the heavy weight tapping against your sensitive clit. You gasped slightly, before feeling him press the tip against those pretty lips that were between your thighs. He groaned, already feeling how tight you were. It took all of his willpower to not just slam his entire cock into you, because it just felt *that* good.

He slowly started pushing himself inside you, inch by inch. You could feel the piercings going inside you, going alongside your walls. You gasped as he groaned.

"Fuck, you're tight.. such a perfect fit.." he moaned.

You gasped, holding onto his muscular arms as he continued going inside you inch by inch.

"Shh… You're doing so well, love… Taking me so well.." he says, groaning.

As he pushes his last inch inside of you, you can not only feel his cock inside your stomach, but you can feel the piercing on his shaft just barely hit your cervix.

"Simon…" you moan.

"That's it, love. Nice and slow.. Such a good girl for me…" he says.

It was almost too much for you, the feeling. Everytime he did this it felt like you were going to break.

"Simon…" You moaned once more.

He groaned, absolutely loving the feeling of your walls clenching around him, but he let you get used to the sensation before he started moving and thrusting against you at a slow pace. The way your body was clenching around him, and the way you were moaning his name was all enough to drive him crazy. You let out a sudden gasp, moaning as you felt him spank you as he continued thrusting at a moderate pace. His eyes glanced back down at your tattoo that had his name on it while he fucked you.

"That's right… All mine.. this pussy's all mine.." he moaned, spanking you again before moving at a faster pace. You could feel the piercing on his shaft repeatedly hitting your cervix. You moaned his name once more, continuing to hold onto his arms that hold a firm grasp on your thighs, all while they were still placed over his shoulders, allowing him deeper access.

You could feel yourself getting closer to your orgasm each minute as you moaned his name.

"Simon, I-I'm gonna–" you say. He groans in response.

"That's right love, cum for me. Cum for me." He says, still thrusting into you at a fast pace as he repeatedly starts spanking you. You let out a loud moan as you feel your intense orgasm. He gives a few more thrusts, before you feel the piercings on his cock exit your body. As you look up at him, you glance down to see his cum leaking out of his cock as he groans.

“Fuck…” He moans, covering his mouth slightly.

As you see his body quiver, you slowly sit up, before squeezing his balls tightly. His breath hitches as he looks down at you. More semen leaks out of his cock, dripping along his piercings.

[alientee]

To Live Mauga x reader

I wrote this after reading a agnst Mauga fic it made me sad so I changed my past idea from slice of life to a fluffy moments with taking care of Mauga (gender neutral reader)

You didn’t ask Mauga a lot about his past, but you know it made him into the man he is today. As long as you’ve known him, he’s always had a carefree outlook on life. You’ve seen him angry, happy, horny, and even embarrassed.

But you had never seen him sad; nothing could wipe the usual smirk off his handsome face. To have a face of complete shock or dread was not something you were used to seeing. Mauga, the unshakable mountain of a man, was trembling, and you didn’t know what to do.

He came home distressed, covered in bandages. He took one look at you and instantly went to the bedroom, cooping himself up without saying a word. You made your way to the room to see the man you loved on the bed, slightly curled up, as if it would hide him from the world.

You went over to him and put your arms around him. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t even move. But somehow, you knew he didn’t want words; he just needed you. You continued to hold him, rocking him back and forth. And after an hour of that, he finally spoke.

“I almost died today." Your blood ran cold. Those are genuinely the last words you ever wanted to hear from him. You knew working for Talon would come with trouble, but being prepared for it was a whole different issue. You didn’t speak, deciding to wait and see if he’d continue.

“We had a mission to capture this dude. He owed Doom first a lot of cash. I should’ve known it would be bullshit when he sent the whole team. The guy we were chasing had us trapped like rats, trying to pick us off one by one. He had a lot of goons, too, until we finally caught up with him. The place was already torn down and still coming down on top of us. That asshole knew he couldn’t make it out, so he set himself off.”

You look at him, confused. “Set himself off?” Mauga nodded.

“He had bombs on his body, saying he wouldn’t give doom shit. He said he reached his goal, and he'd die knowing he did it with no regrets. I knew he was crazy, but I didn’t think he’d off himself before we could even capture him.”

Mauga leaned his head onto yours; he stayed quiet for a moment before placing his face on your shoulder.

“The whole building was coming down, and because I was the tank, I took the blunt hit off it. I was trapped behind the ceiling debris that fell. The whole building was falling apart; shit was on fire, and I was trapped. I thought I wasn’t gonna get out. When more of the ceiling fell on top of me, it broke open the floor. I fell through, but I had a chance. I had to crawl most of the way and use my guns to break whatever was blocking me off. I reached dead end after dead end, and I didn’t think I could get out. Shit was falling down on me, and I could barely breathe, and by the time I made it somewhere else, I thought it was another dead end until I dug through the debris and made it outside.”

You hugged him tighter, kissing his face all over. He had bruises all over his face. You kissed each of them softly, giving him an Eskimo kiss.

“I’m so glad you made it out, darling. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost you. My poor baby."

Mauga leaned into your touch, snuggling closer to your warmth. He kisses your cheek, finding his way back to your neck.

“Wanna know the most fucked up part when I got out. They were flying away, and the only reason they came back was because Sigma saw me and started waving, and Sombra came to look. They left me for dead, and I’m not even fucking surprised.”

You scowled “I’m not surprised either; I really wish you never joined Talon in the first place, but I know that as a mercenary, you have to do what you need to.”

He nodded while kissing your shoulder. He pulled you into his chest, and you rubbed your fingers over his bandaged arms.

“For the first time in a long time, I was afraid of dying. I promised myself after the heart surgery I’d live every day like it was my last; I just never thought that day would come as quickly as that. I was actually fucking scared of dying. I didn’t want to die that way, trapped and alone."

You held him tighter, and if you felt your shoulder getting wet, you didn’t say anything about it.

“I thought about you, how I couldn’t leave you, and how I had to get back to you. All I wanted to do was get back to the one person who gave a damn about me.”

“And you did. I’m so proud of you, my love.” You run your fingers through his hair and console him. "You're so strong. I know I worry about you a lot when you go on missions, but I never doubted that you would always come back to me."

You both hold each other while sharing sweet kisses and longing looks. Putting your foreheads against one another, Mauga squeezes your hips, bringing you closer.

“How about we take a bath together? I could look at your wounds, and after that, I’ll warm up dinner for you.”

Mauga nods, kissing your lips softly. “I’d love that, baby."

You got to the bathroom and ran the bath water. You can hear Mauga behind you getting undressed. You turn around and help him take off his wraps. He runs his hands through your hair, kissing your forehead as you slowly remove his bandages.

You couldn’t help but flinch at some of his wounds. You lift his hands, kissing each one of his knuckles. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You both stepped in the tub, but this time you got behind him. You take the shampoo and conditioner and start with his hair. He growled when you scrubbed his scalp; he always loved it when you played in his hair.

He growled and leaned his head back. As you rinsed his hair out, he leaned into you, kissing your jaw and neck. You softly push him away. “Let me wash your back.” He turned back around, letting you wash him.

“Wanna wash all of me?” You roll your eyes at him while he snickers.

“I’m not washing your butt, you dork," he playfully splashes you, causing water to get in your face and all over the floor.

"Oops"

After you both finish up, you dry off his hair, then clean and rewrap his wounds. He holds your waist the whole time, not giving you much room to move. “Do they hurt really bad?”

He gives you a pout, nodding his head. "Yup, kiss em for me?” You laughed at his foolishness. “You know what? Yes, I will.”

You lean in, kissing every one of his bandaged wounds. Mauga runs his fingers through your hair. He brings your face up to his, bringing you into a slow, passionate kiss. Your tongues caress each other, and his hands cover your face while rubbing your temples.

You lean back and kiss his chest, where his two hearts would be. “Let me warm your food up, then we could watch a movie."

He nodded. You both headed downstairs, and while you got his food ready, Mauga didn’t let you go. You are used to him being affectionate, but not this clingy. You didn’t mind, though he almost lost his life. You almost lost him. No matter how long it took, you’d be by his side, spoiling him until he was comfortable.

“Common Mauga I promised you cuddles and a movie."

And that’s how you both ended the night, cuddled up in each other's arms, sharing kisses and light touches. Mauga hands never left you. He nuzzled himself into your chest, and you played in his hair. Laughing at his cute antics.

“Gimmie kiss,” you lean down, kissing his lips.

"Another.” You start laughing; the sight of the giant man pouting and giving you puppy dog eyes was so adorable.

When you kiss him again, Mauga bites your bottom lip, sucking on it. Once he lets you go, you can’t help but ask something that’s been on your mind.

“You’re not going back to them, are you?”

“Don’t know"

You sighed, not really liking the answer, but not questioning it.

“Just know you don’t need them to make a living."

He looks up at you, kissing your nose.

“I know; all I need is you."

And after that, you couldn’t help but give Mauga all the kisses he wanted.

[persephone11110]

rain is a good thing

Jake‘Hangman’ Seresin x Reader

PROLOGUE

warnings: breaking up, asshole jake seresin, pre-tpg.m, past child abuse, hurt people hurt people—NOT DEFENDING HIM, lack of communication skills, both oc and jake have self esteem issues, hurt no comfort, bradley is mentioned , mentions of alcohol->drinking and being slightly drunk, set in 2018-2019

author note: prologue and unfortunately please expect spelling errors, I want to make sure everyone knows that the prologue m is set atleast 2yrs before top gun maverick and the actual of chapters are before and after the uranium mission . Also i might tweak the ending a lil bit i cant tell If i I like it Thank you for reading— enjoy :)

WC: 900

Next

Series Masterlist

–

“I’d never a break promise darlin, especially not to my girl”.

You sheded more tears than any human ever has, you sat at the table watching the clock on the stove hit 11pm. The candle you once had lit was now out along with the patience you had for Jake this was the third time he’s broken his promise, he assured you he’d be home three hours ago for the nice meal you made.

The two of you would finally have the chance to just be girlfriend and boyfriend. The worry about work and stress would be put aside for once, Jake even promised you he wouldn’t bring up Bradshaw and how much he hated him.“Fucking hate him”.

You tried to not doubt your boyfriend word, you knew how much Jake worked and you knew he deserved the biggest break. Yet you couldn’t help but realize how much time he’s been spendin at the hard deck instead of the apartment you both shared.

Was this Jake way of telling you that he didn’t love you anymore, you tried to think of a time were theres been so much distance between you and him, and you couldn’t think of one.

Maybe your mom was right, maybe you weren’t destined for the love.

Why didn’t Jake Seresin love you anymore?

You were to busy wiping at your face to hear the door slam or him slurring your name. “Y/n I’m home!”.

You were ripping clothes off the hanger throwing them into a bag you found on the floor. You really thought he loved you—you should’ve know better a man like Jacob Seresin doesn’t love, he just takes and takes until the shadow of what used to be you is left lingering.

“Baby you okay?” he startles you out of a bubble of self-pity. “Y/n we can eat now…I’m home”. He goes to wrap his arm around your waist and you move from him.

His eyes widened at the bag of clothes on the bed.“What are you doing baby, are we going somewhere?”.

He’s looking down at you and your staring at those piercing green eyes that made you falling in love him in the first place. The green eyes he used to get himself out of trouble with.

“I’m going somewhere not you”. Already turned around you miss the way his mouth replicated a fish blowing bubbles.

“C’mon baby just let me heat the up food and it’ll be fine”. He trys to touch you again on but on your shoulder, and again you jerked away from him.

Drunk or not Jake realized you weren’t happy with him again. “I’m really sorry Y/n my phone died while I was there”. He throws a lame excuse at you hoping you take it like you did the last two times.

You pressed your tongue into side of your cheek. Not wanting to cry again, you shrugged him off instead. “Its okay Jake Its just I can’t keep doing this with you.”

He nose wrinkled in confusion,“Y/n what are you talking about you can’t keep doing this?”.

You let the shirt fall out of your hand before turning back around to him. “All I asked for was a dinner with the man I loved, I didn’t ask for a luxurious gift— I didn’t ask for a expensive vacation— I just wanted to be with the man I loved”.

The color drained out of his face.

“Y/n you can’t walk away from me just because it got hard”. His voice laced with anger,“Look I’m sorry I’ve been stressing over being a possible candidate for top gun”.

You frowned instantly,“I’m not walking away because it got hard, I’m walking away because you already walked away first from the relationship Seresin”.

“Y/n please….”. You already made it up your mind that Jake didn’t deserve a chance to explain more.

“I thought you be different— you promised me you different from the men that hurt us”. tears filled your eyes,“You just broke my heart in a way I didn’t think was possible”. You watched the sadness appear on Jakes face.

“Y/n please let me make it up to you I know the last two times I’ve broken my promise but give me tonight and you can watch me choose you”.

You stared at him as he put your bag at the edge of the bed. You allowed him to drag into the bed you both shared, “I love you Y/n please forgive me”. He whispered in the dark.

You were up before him, staring at him as he slept.

Jake how no idea what he was expecting when he woke up the next morning. Reaching our for you he felt a crinkly paper -he also noticed your bag wasn’t were he put it last night. “I’m sorry Jake looks like we both broke a promise”.

The rain hitting the windows lulled him back to sleep as Jake cried, he just lost the girl he loved and he couldn’t blame anyone but himself.

You laid on your ole crappy couch with Jakes Texas sweatshirt in your arms. The smell of him lingered around in your apartment, the sheets and the comforter, and now the sweatshirt you accidentally stole from him.

Watch me lose you.

[winchester-24]

Imagine You couldn’t save everyone on the last hunt, and Dean is there for you.

You and the boys had been tailing this Shtriga for two weeks. You would get close to it, then it would escape, and then it would hop somewhere different. It has already put a total of 14 kids in the hospital, and you were hoping it would be greedy and try to get one more kid before it disappeared again for who knows how long. It was now in a small town and had already taken the younger sibling of two girls, and you are betting it would be going after the oldest tonight.

At the motel room, you, Dean, and Sam were finishing up packing the gear you wanted to take and going over the plan one more time. You were acting as a detective earlier that day and were able to set a camera up in the girl’s room. You three would sneak in and wait for the Shtriga to come and then kill it before it could escape again. Everyone was on edge; this thing has been escaping you guys for the past two weeks, but everyone is determined not to let it get away this time.

“You okay?” Dean asks as you look out the motel window, lost in your thoughts as they load up the car. You turned to your boyfriend of just about six months and smiled at him.

“I’m good; I just really want to get this son of a bitch and go home.” Dean came over and wrapped his arms around you and then gave you a quick kiss on the lips, which you returned to him immediately. You wrapped your arms around his neck as he hugged you.

“We will get him, and then 15 kids will wake up, and we will get to celebrate a job well done.” You smiled at him before Sam coughed and muttered, “We are good to go.” You giggled and kissed Dean one more time before hurrying out to the Impala after Sam.

Hours after you guys arrived at the house, you finally noticed movement in the window. You hit Dean softly on the arm and pointed to where you were seeing the Shtriga. All three of you took the safety off of your guns and were waiting for it to start feeding. Your heart was beating, and nerves were beginning to kick in. There was an 11-year-old girl in the room, and her safety was a top priority. Your job was to get to her while Sam and Dean would shoot at the Shtriga. You would have to crawl quickly, but you would be able to make sure she stayed down and out of harm's way.

Dean squeezed your hand before letting go and slowly standing up, and you and Sam followed suit. You were the first to go in that way. You didn’t have these two men blocking you from getting to the girl. You three watched as the Shtriga began feeding.

“Now, now!” Dean whispered and yelled. You hustled to the door, slammed it open, and quickly dropped to the floor to get to the girl. The Shtriga looked up as Sam and Dean let off rounds. The girl screamed, and you pulled her down to the ground with you.

“It’s okay; I’m going to get you out of here.” You say to the shaking girl. “I need you to stay low to the ground and crawl with me, okay?” The girl crying nodded, and you two began to make your way across the room. Something grabbed your ankle and pulled you back; you let out a little scream and tried to turn to face what was pulling you.

“Y/N!” Dean yelled. You tried to kick at the Shtriga, but it wouldn’t let go of you. It grabbed your shirt and flew you against the wall. Your vision got hazy as you hit your head. You heard the little girl scream for her dad while you tried to stand up. Between trying to focus your vision back, you see Dean on the other side of the room groaning, holding his side, and Sam knocked out by the door. You see the Shtriga quickly move towards the little girl, pin her down, and start to retake her life force. You groan and try to get up quickly.

You hear a new voice. “Hey! Get off my daughter!” The dad comes in, trying to push the Shtriga off of his daughter, who takes hold of his shirt and flings him into the other room. You hear a bunch of clattering and hope the dad is okay.

On your feet, you yell for the Shtriga gun already raised. “Hey, bitch!” You yell. The Shtriga slightly turns towards you, still feeding on the girl. You shoot. The Shtriga’s head jerks back as you shoot straight in the forehead, and it stumbles away from the girl and falls on its back on the floor. You run to the girl and immediately put your fingers to her neck, trying to find a pulse. It’s faint. You let out a shaky breath; she is safe. You look up to Dean to celebrate this, but he isn’t in the room. You look around frantically, thinking something happened that you missed, but you catch a glimpse of him in the other room. He is kneeling by the girl's father. A pit forms in your stomach. He looks up and makes eye contact with you, then shakes his head. Fuck.

The ride back to the hotel room was quiet. The death of the father weighs on everyone. For you, you take it personally more than the boys. It was your job to get the girl to safety. If you did your job and got her out of the room like you were supposed to, then there was no reason for the dad to be there. He would be holding his little girl right now instead of a paramedic trying to tell her that her dad is never coming back. Were you being irrational with yourself? Of course. But this is what you do. You take it personally when you can’t save everyone- especially families. Dean’s jaw was clenched the entire time back to the motel; you knew he was upset. You couldn't guess whether he was upset at you or the hunt in general, but if you were him, you would be mad at you, too. You messed this up; you couldn’t do the one thing you were supposed to do, and a father paid the price. Sam kept glancing at Dean and you. He was upset, but he knows how you and Dean are when a hunt is not perfect. You either take it out on each other or yourselves. Sometimes both.  It was one of the many things you had in common, but this trait was the most toxic one you two shared. He was waiting for the bomb to blow because the fuse had already been set.

Dean got out of the Impala quickly and quietly. Sam waited a second to see if you would do the same, but when you didn’t, he turned around to face you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked you. You looked up at him.

“No, Sammy, I’m good.” He knew arguing with you would get nowhere, so he just nodded his head and got out. You sat there for a few minutes alone in silence, letting the demons take over your thoughts about how you fucked this up. It was your fault that family is torn apart now and that their lives are changed for the worse because you couldn’t manage to kick an old hag’s hand off of your ankle. You tilted your head back, not daring to let one tear fall, and let out a shaky breath. You closed your eyes, trying to regulate yourself, when the back door on the other side of the impala opened. You smelt him before he was even in the car.

Dean slid in the back and looked at you. There was tension as you both waited to see if this would be a conversation or an argument. You made the first move.

“I fucked up, I know.” You said, finally looking over at him. His gaze on you was intense as if he were trying to read you to figure out what he needed to be and do at that moment. When you said that, his gaze softened, and his shoulders relaxed.

“Sweetheart, this isn’t on you.” He said.

“It was my job to get her out of there. If I had done my job right, the dad would have never come into that room,” you said.

“You don’t know that; he could have come back in there to try to take care of the three intruders in his house for all we know. He was protecting his child, something any good father would do.” You looked out the window and mumbled.

“It’s our job to protect them.” Dean grabbed your hand, and when you didn’t pull away, he laced your fingers together. You looked back over at him, tears threatening to spill, but you'll be damned if you are weak right now; you don’t deserve it.

“I know I’m a hypocrite saying this because I do the same thing,” Dean started, “but we can't save everyone; you did everything that you could do at that moment, and when you didn’t get up at first, I was scared for a moment that you hit your head a little too hard, and I lost concentration on what we were there for. My only thought was to get to you and ensure you were okay. I could have grabbed the girl and taken her out, but in my moment of weakness, it grabbed me and threw me. I am as much to blame for that father as you and Sam. We take this blame together, learn from it, and move on. You are a damn good hunter, but it's insanity to think that we can save everyone from everything.”

You let one tear slip, then another, then another, until you were full-on crying but not daring to make a sound.

“Oh, baby,” Dean said, pulling you to him. He twisted himself on the seat so you could lean your head in his chest as he held you close. He rubbed your back with his hand as he kissed the top of your head. You two sat there in this position until the tears stopped, and the only thing you could hear was each other’s breathing. You looked up at him.

“Thank you.” You said as you wiped your runny nose with your sleeve. He gave you a soft smile.

“I know I’m not perfect, but I promise I’m always going to be here for you, sweetheart. You mean everything to me.” You leaned up and gave him a soft kiss on his lips.

“Let's go inside and get some rest, okay?” You say as you scoot away from him. He nods his head, and you both get out. You meet at the front of the Impala, where he grabs and holds your hand as you walk to the motel room.

Not every hunt will be perfect, but at least you have the best comforter to help you through it.

[zombiigrll]

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INSECURITIES. ⋆｡°✩ carl grimes x reader .ᐟ WORD COUNT .ᐟ ⭑ 1.1K ꩜ .ᐟ WARNINGS ⭑ hurt to comfort, use of y/n, spoilers for twd 6x9, carl and reader are already in a relationship .ᐟ SUMMARY .ᐟ ⭑ you help carl after he gets shot. ꩜ .ᐟ A/N .ᐟ ⭑ ive been rewatching the early seasons of the walking dead and seeing everything carl went through again makes me SOB HYSTERICALLY. so ofc i needed to write this and make you guys feel my pain 😈 my creative juices have also been flowing a little bit more recently... but its also a little short too......... hope u dont mind 🙏

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────────────────────────

he never showed any of his insecurities to you before. he always made sure that you felt comfortable telling him things, but he would never fully open up to you.

you were aware of his mother passing, that his dads friend died, and just how he's experienced so much death. but he never told you how anybody died. he wouldn't tell you no matter what.

that was until the walkers flooded the streets of alexandria.

as always, you were by carls side. you held his right hand in line as you two along with rick, michonne, jessie, ron, and sam walked through the herd in gut-stained ponchos, attempting to lead them to the quarry nearby.

but everything went downhill. fast.

sam saw something in the herd. no one was sure what, but he freaked out. his cries were loud, and gave away his position.

the walkers killed him, then they made their way to jessie, who had refused to let go of sams hand.

and if it wasn't for you using your machete to cut her arm off, carl would've died, too.

you thought that was it, that you would just have to slash through some more walkers to get somewhere safe, but not yet.

you looked to the side and noticed ron pointing his gun right to you.

but right as he shot, michonne stabbed him.

you were supposed to get shot. but due to the timing...

"dad..?" you heard carl from your left.

you turned to face him, and you immediately noticed his eye.

it was gone. a trail of dark crimson leaking from his socket. you caught him before he could fully fall.

"no.. no, no!" you cried trembling as you held him.

rick runs over and picks carl up. you and michonne pull out your weapons and begin clearing a path with adrenaline coursing through the three of you.

you guys eventually make it to the infirmary.

rick places carl onto the bed. the rest of that night, a loud ringing played in your ears.

your mind raced wildly. thinking of all the possible outcomes, but you were sure he was going to die. i mean, he was shot in the face.

after the nurse helped patch him up the best she could, you sat on the opposite side of rick. rick held one of his hands, you held the other. you rested your head on top of his shoulder, sobbing.

rick was crying, too. praying for carl to be okay.

that's when you felt his hand hold yours back, tightly.

you lifted your hand up to look at rick, and he had the same expression. he was holding both of your guys' hands.

your sobs turned hopeful as you began to smile.

...

a few days had passed. carl was awake, thankfully. he tried to get you to leave the room, but you refused.

"i don't want you to see me like this." carl strenly spoke, his voice cracking slightly as he attempted to hide his face.

you walked over to his side, putting your hand up to his face to carefully cup his now scarred cheek. you turned his face so he could look at you. "i'm not going anywhere."

he sighed and closed his eye, knowing he wouldn't be able to make you go away. "i don't understand you."

"what?"

"after everything i've done.. you're still here with me." he lightly chuckled. "i'm really not a good person, y/n. theres so much you don't know about me."

"nothing you could tell me would make me believe that." you shook your head, moving your hand down to his and holding it tightly.

"you say that now.." he turns his head away. "if i told you what i've done, you'd think i'm a monster. you'd hate me."

"you're not a monster, carl. what are you talking about?"

"i've killed people. a kid i didn't know the name of, my dads friend.. my mom." he kept his eyes shut as he spoke, his voice and body trembling.

you held his hand tighter, looking at him softly. "i'm sure there were reasons to all of that. i don't believe you're a monster."

carl stayed silent.

you brought your other hand up, moving his hair behind his ear before holding his face.

"i love you. no matter what." you smiled at him with your eyebrows furrowed. "no matter who many people you've killed or hurt, no matter if you've done shitty things in the past, no matter how many scars, i don't care. because i love you."

he opened his eye to look at you, he quickly sat up and put his arms around you, putting his head in the crook of your neck.

"hey.. be careful for your eye." you put your arms around him carefully, your hand on the back of his head.

"i love you, too." he silently mumbled. "i don't understand how i got so lucky with you."

you laughed, kissing the top of his head. "i've done bad things too, carl. it's just something we can't avoid now. it doesn't make us monsters." you pushed away from the hug, leaving your hands on his shoulders. "i got lucky with you, too. in my eyes, you're an angel."

his eye moves all over your features. you knew he had been adjusting and learning how to see without his other eye, but seeing it happen right in front of you was a bit difficult to witness.

"i should've been the one that got shot. you saw me kill jessie." you sighed, your gaze turning down to the floor. "he was aiming at me."

carl shakes his head. "it's not your fault. it's no ones fault. if he had shot you, i think he would've really killed you. but i got shot, and i'm alive." he smiles at you, tilting his head as he continues taking you in. "i'm glad it was me."

you tilted your head, pursing your lips slightly. "i guess either way, no matter who got shot, no one would be okay with it." you laughed, trying to make light of the situation. "...you should get some rest."

"i know." he moves away and lays back down, looking back up at the ceiling.

you stand up, leaning down to give him a quick kiss on his forehead before turning back away to the door. "goodnight, carl."

"wait."

you turned back around. "hm?"

"...could you stay?" carl asked, his voice softened.

your lips curved up into a smile, walking back over to him. "of course." you sat back down next to him, holding his hand again, similarly to when he was first shot. "get some sleep, okay?"

he nodded, closing his eye. "alright. i love you."

"i love you too, carl. always."

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[almostgenerallyalways]

to absent friends and those at sea

Pairing: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x fem reader Category: angst / fluff Word count: 6,2K CW: language, don't know how the navy works, maybe workplace bullying, this is a 'there's only one bed' fic that got out of control

Summary: Through seven years and almost as many deployments he’s carried this torch, the flame low but always burning somewhere in a condemned antechamber of his heart, one he tried hard to forget the route to.

2023

“Your flight is about to get canceled.”

You start, thrown by the appearance of Hangman at your side, interrupting your intense scrutiny of the departures board where another forty minutes have just been added to the already considerable delay of your outbound flight to Seattle.

“What are you still doing here?” You eye him suspiciously, adjusting your duffel bag over your shoulder.

“Nice to see you too, Mir.” He smiles, completely unperturbed as always. “I stayed back to hang out with Coyote. Haven’t seen him much since he was transferred. He left this morning.” He pauses for a moment, indifferently examining his fingernails. “You?”

You sigh. “I thought I’d take advantage of being in the Rockies to hike.”

The man next to you smirks. “In other words, you got drenched.”

“More or less.”

Two days ago, Saturday, had been a beautiful, sunny day for a wedding: Every circumstance had been perfect to reunite most of your Top Gun class, gathered with assorted family, friends and colleagues of the happy couple, to watch Halo say yes to her wife.

You’d enjoyed yourself immensely; the majestic scenery of Halo’s remote hometown in the Colorado mountains, the beautiful venue and decorations, and best of all: being with one of your best friends on the happiest day of her life.

Then the next day, as you’d rolled out of bed bright and early, only slightly hungover, you’d opened the curtains of your hotel room to unannounced streaks of rain.

Not put off by a little change in weather, you’d checked if there were any safety warnings for the trail you’d chosen, and set out in spite of the adverse conditions. The experience had been less enjoyable than anticipated: the beautiful views over the Rockies obscured by a thick layer of fog, you’d returned to your room early last night, chilled to the bone, every stitch of clothing you’d been wearing soaked through.

Another announcement pings over the speakers, interrupting your reflections. The status next to your flight number and destination now blinks in bold, red typeface: CANCELED.

“Told you.” Your unwanted companion grins helpfully.

Around you, people are starting to move, expressing their panicked complaints. You groan as you realise you are going to be stuck here overnight: it is almost 8 PM, and with the rain and mist not letting up, there’s no way another flight is leaving this small airport tonight.

“Listen, Mir,” Hangman says, expression more sober now, “My flight to San Diego was canceled, and I just stood in line for two hours to get a room for tonight. You’ll be here for hours if you have to get one.”

He considers you, any trace of mockery gone from his face for once. “You wanna crash with me?”

Pressure starts to build behind your temples, as you quickly consider your options. On the one hand, you are tired and cranky and in desperate need of sleep: having been one of the last guests shutting down the wedding in the late hours of Saturday night, and having spent most of your Sunday hiking up a non-rewarding mountain in the pouring rain, you’d love to avoid spending hours in the line that you see the crowd of weary and pissed-off people scramble to form, leading up to the United desk.

On the other hand: Hangman.

He smiles tentatively, as if he can read your thoughts on your face. He probably can. “It’s a double.”

You close your eyes, feeling like you might live to regret this decision: “Okay. Fine. Thanks.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------

2016

Top Gun is a dream and an outright nightmare.

Brought in two weeks after the start of the program to replace someone who was summarily discharged, you’re determined to prove your worth.

When you are first introduced to the men and women (woman, singular, you correct yourself) who are to be your classmates and competition, it’s clear the group dynamics have already been cemented. Some eye you suspiciously, leaning back in their chairs, trying to get a read on the late addition. Some don’t even bother to look.

A blonde pilot in the second row scoffs when the instructor reads a short overview of your scant accomplishments, and another man sitting next to him laughs in response, poorly covering it up with a cough.

It takes everything you have to tough it out. They’re throwing you in the deep end, barely allowing any time or grace to make up for the hours and hours of valuable technical and practical training you’ve missed.

On day eight, though, you execute your first successful stealth manoeuvre, getting the upper hand over one of the instructors. As the details in the move are analysed in front of the class, for the first time, you feel a begrudging respect from some of them.

Not everyone, though. Two seats to your left, Seresin makes a show of studying his cuticles.

* * *

Halo is your lifeline. As the only two women in the class, you gravitate towards each other, finding some respite from the hyper-masculine bullshit of the rest of the group.

Or maybe she’s an angel, as her recently coined callsign suggests.

You’re lounging on the rec room couch with Halo’s feet in your lap, debriefing the day’s hop, when Seresin and two of his usual hangers-on walk in. (Their names are Miller and Wozniak. Halo and you have taken to referring to them as Crabbe and Goyle.)

“Ladies.” He grins, flashing you a smile with no warmth behind it.

A feeling of dread gathers in your stomach.

He casually picks an apple out of the fruit bowl and pretends to inspect it as he comments: “Poor showing out there today. You’re gonna have to do better than that if you wanna play in the big leagues with the boys.”

Halo, laid back on the couch, rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Jake.”

He grins at her and takes a bite, crunching loudly. “You know, Halo, it’s not so much you I’m worried about. But this one-” He gestures at you with the piece of fruit. He has never referred to you by your name. “Is on thin ice, I hear. Heard they’re regretting calling her up.”

At this, Halo sits up, looking like she wants to give him a piece of her mind, but you stop her with a touch to her arm. “Forget it, Callie.”

* * *

You’re breathing heavy, blood rushing in your ears as your body is pushed to its physical limits, your F-18 protesting as you accelerate into a sharp turn curving around a particularly treacherous stretch of the San Jacinto mountains.

Your gamble has paid off, though, as you come out right on top of your prey. You can taste bile in the back of your throat as you lock tone on Fanboy’s jet.

It tastes like victory.

Back on the tarmac, peeling off the top half of your sweat-drenched flight suit, Halo throws her arms around your neck as Fanboy shakes your hand, a bemused smile on his face. “Nice work out there. Never even saw you coming.”

Later, at the Hard Deck, one pilot after another buys you drinks as you finally earn your callsign: Mirage.

* * *

It gets easier from there on out, and it doesn’t.

On the one hand, you don’t feel like you constantly have to defend your place anymore. After you score big in the mountains, Hangman finally has the decency to shut his mouth around you. You’ve found a natural understanding with most of the other pilots – the competition is fierce, but nights at the bar bring everyone back on equal footing.

Yet as the program ramps up to its conclusion, so does the pressure. Some mornings you can’t choke down breakfast, your stomach seized up into a knot of nerves and anticipation.

In week ten, you’re having so much trouble with a simulation that you, your wingman and his backseater get shot down six times in a row. Your arms burn with the hundreds of push-ups you’re grinding into the blistering tarmac, your CO never running out of the torrent of abuse he’s heaping onto your back.

You can’t sleep that night, keep seeing the disappointed look on your wingman’s face as you’d fucked up again and again. Around three in the morning, you give up on sleep and head to the on-base gym.

You crank a treadmill up to high and you run, run, run until your lungs are burning and your mouth tastes like metal. Rivulets of sweat drip down your back, down your face, mingling with tears you didn’t realise you’d been holding back, until finally your legs are screaming at you to stop, and you sit down at the end of another treadmill, your shoulders shaking, cradling your face in your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, but you know it’s not fully morning yet when a pair of white sneakers appears in your line of vision.

“Mir?”

Of course it had to be him, of all people, seeing you at your worst and most vulnerable.

“Go away.” You manage to grunt.

He doesn’t. Instead, he sits down next to you, hovering at a distance – still too close.

“Are you alright?” He asks, and if you weren’t burning with embarrassment and rage, his hesitant tone might give you pause.

You lift your face from your knees, steeling yourself. You must look ridiculous, you think, a sweaty heap of a girl having a mental breakdown at the bottom of some exercise equipment. You refuse to look at him. “I’m fine.”

He reaches out tentatively, trying to brush away a strand of hair that’s plastered to the side of your face, and you all but jump back: “Goddamn it, Seresin, don’t touch me.”

Finding the strength to push yourself up, you turn to him: “Don’t touch me, don’t talk to me, don’t come anywhere near me.”

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

2016

When Koehler is discharged, Jake Seresin feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under him.

They came up together through the Academy, and while Jake isn’t sure he would’ve called him a friend in any other circumstances, at least… At least he was an ally. Familiar. Someone who saw through his cocky bullshit and gave as good as he got.

The chances of both of them getting into Top Gun were astronomically small – and then Koehler immediately went and fucked it up. Jake cannot comprehend it.

He feels off-kilter, his only confidant having made a spectacularly embarrassing exit from the program. He can feel the rest of the class watching him, like sharks who’ve smelled blood in the water, waiting for him to make a deadly mistake too.

But Jake didn’t come here to screw up. He came here to win. So he does the only thing he knows how to do – he ramps it up, builds his walls higher, needles people harder – gets under their skin before they can get under his.

He knows it’s not making him many friends – but it works. People don’t question him. He takes no prisoners, flies like he’s the only one out there, puts himself first always – and is ranked near the top of the class for doing so.

When you’re introduced as Koehler’s replacement, he can’t believe it. It feels like adding salt to the wound, bringing in someone who didn’t even make the cut-off on their own merit. So if you get it a little worse than the others – well.

He sees you struggling, those first weeks, and it only confirms his thinking.

One scorching afternoon, after a long series of dogfights ends in embarrassment for half the class, he’s in the rec room pressing a cold compress to his face, discussing the day’s events with Wozniak: “I mean, did you see her out there? That’s what happens when you pull the B-team off the bench. She’s got no business being here. She’s dragging everyone down.”

Wozniak doesn’t immediately respond, and Jake looks up to find you standing in the doorway, looking caught off guard. You recover after a second, straightening your back, and grab a water from the cooler, studiously not looking at him.

You never look at him, after that.

But he looks at you.

* * *

You have bags under your eyes. The line of your jaw has gotten a little sharper. You get a little quieter, even more so than before.

He notices these things just like he notices the redoubled resolve stiffening your spine.

You start creeping up in the rankings, slowly, point by point, and while he doesn’t like that, he respects it.

After the mountains, where you pull a trick out of the bag that takes him completely by surprise, he lines up to congratulate you. Fanboy takes it on the chin, he’s a good guy, and Jake claps him on the back before turning to you, Halo still at your side. But you won’t look at him, and ignore his outstretched hand.

He supposes he deserves that.

* * *

A few weeks later, he wakes up earlier than usual after a night of fitful sleep, his body still processing the adrenaline from an open-sea simulation the day before. Jake came out on top, though he ditched his wingman to do so. Several others didn’t manage to complete the exercise, a crucial barrier for the last stretch of the thirteen-week program.

After tossing and turning for twenty minutes, the light outside his cracked window starting to shift incrementally from pitch black to indigo blue, he decides to head to the gym.

When he steps into the cavernous, air-conditioned room, he immediately senses someone else’s presence, though he can’t see anyone using any of the rows and rows of equipment. It’s not until he rounds into a stretch of treadmills that he spots you, hunched over into your bare knees.

“Mir?” He approaches hesitantly, noting the flushed skin of your back, your hair matted with sweat.

“Go away.” He gets in response, but he can’t, not when you’re sitting there trembling.

“Are you alright?” He asks, even though he can clearly see that you’re not.

You lift your face, surreptitiously swiping at your eyes with your palm. “I’m fine.”

Still not looking at him. Never looking at him.

He reaches out a hand, tentatively; he wants to make this better –

He has to make this better, make you feel–

- but you recoil from him, and he sits there for a long time after you’ve banged the door shut behind you like you couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

Sits there for a good long while, with the ghost of your presence.

* * *

Jake wins the trophy.

It’s a raucous night at the Hard Deck and he feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders. Sure, he doesn’t know where they’re shipping him off next week – but for now, he has won and no one can take that away from him, not the pilots giving him sideways glances at the bar, not his father, no one.

Fanboy bumps his shoulder and hands him what must be his fifth or sixth beer of the night. Over on the jukebox, Son of a Preacher Man starts playing and he glances over to see you throw your arms around Halo’s shoulders, laughing, dancing her around the crowded room a little unsteadily. You look lighter, happier than he’s ever seen you.

He watches for long moment, transfixed, until he realises Mickey is talking to him.

Mickey turns around, trying to follow Jake’s line of sight, and finds you. “Oh, dude.” He turns back, clinks Jake’s beer with his own. “I’m sorry to tell you, I think that ship has sailed, man.”

Right, Jake thinks, taking a long pull of his beer. And why should he care? He’s got what he came to North Island for.

No one can take that away.

* * *

2018

He doesn’t see you again for two years. Two years of him being shipped from base to base, coast to coast and back again, the Navy’s prize pony, getting new orders every few months.

He shows up in Oceana, papers in hand; greets familiar faces at The Admiral’s and trades stories over the sound of classic rock and the clicking of pool cues.

Then he turns around and bumps into – you.

It puts him on the back foot, coming face to face with you unexpectedly. You look like you’re caught off guard, too, but you recover quickly. “Hangman.”

“Mirage.” He smirks, defences slotting into place. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You look a little bit older, sharper in ways, your watchful eyes clearly on guard as he leans against the bartop, giving you a once-over. It’s a tactical mistake, on his part – it only serves to ignite something warm deep inside of him.

“Gonna be here for a while. Think we can kiss and make up?”

You shoot him a withering glance, like you expected better out of him. “In your dreams, Bagman.”

The bartender brings you your drink, and you smile sweetly at him. “Terry, put one of whatever he’s having on my card, will you? Fucking new guy’s gonna need it.”

* * *

And it’s fine, it’s perfectly fine. You work perfectly well together. 

It’s just that –

No matter how much he needles and cajoles, flirts or tries to rile you up, you only ever treat him as –

A colleague. Which is what he is, sure, but –

He doesn’t ever get that part of you, the part that laughs easy with Fanboy or does shots with Bambi, the part of you that bodily holds up Halo after she gets the call that her childhood dog has died, the part of you that sits next to the radio, fists clenched with anticipation when someone is flying a tough hop, the part of you that envelops them into a full body hug after.

The part of you that has your eyes light up when you look at someone, instead of straight through him.

And no matter how many times he tells himself to move on, he never quite stops wanting it.

* * *

2021

Deployed in the South China Sea, he flies one of the more difficult, harebrained missions of his life with you.

He finds you, after, where you’re slumped against a steel wall on deck, your flight suit half off, trying to catch your breath; and hands you a Sprite.

You consider him for a moment before taking the soda. It feels a little like you’re really looking at him for the first time.

“This is my favourite.”

He sits down, not close, exactly, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from your skin. “Yeah.”

A beat passes. You open the can with a hiss, and he exhales: “Nice work back there.”

“You too, Bagman.”

The wind whips across the deck, but you’re sheltered from it by the structure, leaving only the noise.

“Do you know where you’re headed after this?” he asks.

“Back to Bahrain, still got another fourteen months there. You?”

“San Diego.”

You give a little quirk of your mouth. “Lucky.”

“I thought you’d be stateside. I thought you might have…” He holds up his right hand, indicates his ring finger. “That guy in Fallon. Search & Rescue with the dark eyes.”

You take a sip of your drink. “You noticed his eyes?”

Jake shrugs.

You look at the wide expanse of ocean churning beyond the flanks of the carrier. “No. He was… He wanted to settle in Nevada, have kids.” You give him a wry smile that doesn’t quite make it to your eyes. “Wasn’t ready to give all this up.”

“Ah.” Jake says, his throat a little dry. It feels like the realest conversation he’s ever had with you, and yet, he can’t think what to say.

You sit there for a while, in what feels like something close to companiable silence, until it’s time to debrief.

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

2023

The receptionist looks up apologetically from her sleek desk. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Seresin. Because of all the delayed passengers, we’re getting a lot of demand for double rooms for families. Is there any way you would take a single? We can offer you complimentary breakfast.”

Jake looks at you hesitantly, shifting the strap of his backpack over his shoulder.

You rub your temples, doing nothing to alleviate the increasing pounding in your skull. Of course this was going to happen. “It’s fine. Let’s go.”

* * *

“I can, uh,” You see him looking around for a sofa, but there isn’t one.

You sigh, letting your bag drop onto the plush grey-green carpet. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve shared worse sleeping arrangements.”

These have usually involved a barracks or an aircraft carrier, and between twenty to two hundred of your coworkers, but who’s counting.

“I suppose that’s true.” He replies, staring at the bed.

At least it’s big, you think, and you can’t wait to plop your head down on one of its crisp white pillows. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

* * *

After your shower, you’re in bed, waiting with no small amount of apprehension for Hangman to emerge from his turn in the bathroom.

When he does, in boxers and a t-shirt, his normally slicked-back hair slightly peaky and darkened by the water, he looks younger than he is. He looks a little like he did when you first knew him.

He pulls back the covers and settles against the pillows on his side, the mattress dipping with the weight of him. He’s heavier than he looks – you’re always a little surprised by the lean, solid mass of him. It’s a byproduct, you suppose, of years of studiously not looking at him when you can avoid it.

“I guess that’s goodnight, Mir.”

You look up at him, facing you. The proximity of him is unfamiliar, and a little unnerving.

You have to close your eyes against it.

“Night, Hangman.”

When you open your eyes again, he considers you for a moment with an expression you can’t place.

“I wanted to talk to you, you know, at the wedding, but you kept disappearing on me.”

You don’t really know what to say in response. “I didn’t realise we had much to say to each other.”

His face shutters, and you feel a little pang of guilt. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”

He shifts onto his back. “You looked beautiful. Just wanted to say that.”

You can’t help but be a little taken aback, and it takes you a second to reply, guardedly: “Thanks. You didn’t look too bad yourself.”

But then he never does, does he? Jake Seresin, golden boy, never a hair out of place.

He doesn’t respond, and you burrow into your pillow, determined to let sleep take you over as soon as possible.

* * *

You wake from a fitful sleep to movement beside you. It takes you a second or two to remember where you are, and with whom, before you realise that the man next to you is breathing in wheezy stops and starts, a low, panicked murmur emanating from his throat.

You hesitate for an instant before propping yourself up on your arm, using your free hand to lightly shake his shoulder. “Bagman. Hey. Seresin, wake up.” He’s breathing hard, radiating heat. “Hey. Jake.”

He comes to, slowly, gasping for air, as if emerging from deep below the surface of a rough sea. His skin, where you are holding onto him, is overly hot, the fabric of his t-shirt damp. He scrambles to prop himself up, causing you to pull back your hand, but he grabs your wrist hard before you can fully pull away.

“What,” He manages, the look in his eyes still wild and unfocused, roaming over you. It takes a second, two, three, before realization dawns, and he starts to calm down. His tight grip on your wrist eases slightly.

Despite the low light of the dark room, you see a flush start to creep up the skin of his throat. “Mir. I’m sorry. I was…”

For the first time, you feel something akin to tenderness for him. You try to sweep some of the sweaty strands of hair off his forehead, hindered by his continued grasp on your arm. “It’s okay. You’re fine.” You pause, feeling a little awkward. “Could’ve just as well been me.”

At that, he lets go of your wrist, letting himself drop back onto the pillow. He stares at the ceiling, and you let yourself settle back onto your side, watching the steadily slowing rise and fall of his chest.

Just as you wonder whether you should just go back to sleep, let the both of you pretend this never happened, he says, “They’re always the same. Me, trying to save one of you, and failing. It’s getting better, they used to be much more frequent, I’m talking to someone, but…”

“I stop sleeping.” The words are out of your mouth before you realize you’re saying them. “When it gets really bad.” 

You have never shared this broken, faulty part of yourself with anyone, but somehow, looking at the shadowy form of Hangman’s shoulder two inches from your face, it tumbles out.

“I can’t sleep, I can’t function, I fly like a zombie. Sometimes I genuinely worry they’re going to ground me.”

You see his little smirk appear, even in the dark. “I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever seen you fly badly.”

“Oh, fuck off, Bagman.” You say it without venom, thumping his stomach lightly. “That’s certainly not what you used to say.” On the rebound, he catches your hand, cradling it just below his ribs.

You don’t pull it back.

A few minutes go by in silence, and you just when you start thinking he may have fallen asleep, he says: “Mir.”

“Yeah?”

“Will you ever…?” He exhales a puff of breath. “Will you ever forgive me?”

You fold your arm under your pillow, wary, and consider your answer for a moment. “I forgave you a long time ago.” You pause, scared to say too much. “I just… don’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’m twenty-three again, always having to prove myself because I’m not good enough.”

You watch his chest rise as he inhales, fall again with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry I ever made you feel like that. I can’t excuse it. From the beginning I blamed you for replacing Koehler when it had nothing to do with you.”

His voice drops a little bit. “To be honest, I was scared I wouldn’t make it without him.”

Now it’s your turn to smirk. “The great Hangman Seresin, scared?”

He turns onto his side to face you, his expression solemn. “Seriously, Mir. I was insecure and I covered it up by being a dick. Maybe I still do, to some extent.”

His eyes turn downwards, to the space between your bodies. “But I feel like I’ve been trying to make things right with you for a while.”

You can’t deny this. You’ve always rebuffed any attempt on his part to approach you beyond what was strictly necessary.

“I guess I’m a champion grudge holder.”

He looks back up to meet your eyes, a crooked smile appearing on his face. “Seven years and two entire deployments together, though?”

You scoff, realising how ridiculous this sounds, but you can’t help it – it felt very personal to you. “You don’t know what it was like. I didn’t make the initial cut. By the time I got to San Diego I was two weeks behind everyone, one of only two women, and on top of that you, the class golden boy, hated me being there.”

You pause, inhaling to steady yourself. “I felt like I was under so much pressure, it fucked me up.”

When you meet Hangman’s eyes again, something in his face has softened.

“I’m sorry.”

He squeezes your hand, the skin of his palm rough.

You take in the sharp lines and smooth planes of his face, hair in disarray from a sweaty, restless sleep. He’s very close, and you don’t know if it’s the weird, suspended-in-time quality of this darkened room, or the weight that’s been lifted off your shoulders through this little exchange, weight you hadn’t even realised was there; but for the first time you feel like you might like Hangman.

Not Hangman, Jake, brass and bravado stripped away, looking at you like you’re something precious, something he’s a little bit afraid of.

It's a lot of things to feel, in the middle of the night, after seven years of cold war.

You clear your throat, but your voice still comes out a little raspier than you intend to: “Alright then, Bagman. Détente?”

Out comes that crooked little quirk of his lips again: “Alright, Mirage. Détente.”

He’s still holding on to your hand, and he pulls it a little closer into his body.

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

Jake wakes up to the frantic buzzing of his phone and reaches for it on the nightstand, the endeavour complicated by your head weighing down his other arm. The crisp first light of day is seeping through a gap in the curtains, framing a picture of you sleeping curled into his chest so pointedly he almost has to assume he’s still asleep.

After a second or two, this assumption is dispelled by a very chipper United rep talking away at him, informing him that he’s booked onto a flight to San Diego at 10:45.

“Okay, uh, that works,” He manages, trying to keep his voice down so that you don’t wake up, but it’s too late: already you’re looking up at him, blinking sleep out of your eyes.

He ends the call, puts the phone down, and after a second’s hesitation, returns his arm to its place around your waist.

He looks down at you, not even sure what he’s asking: Is this okay? Do you still hate me?

Do you realize I’ve wanted this for years?

Through seven years and almost as many deployments he’s carried this torch, the flame low but always burning somewhere in a condemned antechamber of his heart, one he tried hard to forget the route to.

You shift slightly, and he reflexively tightens his fingers into the fabric of your shirt. He sees your pupils go wide, and it’s stupid, the jolt he feels at that – it goes straight to his gut.

Then your phone rings, too, and the moment bursts like a soap bubble. You prop yourself up, pulling away from him to answer it.

When you’re done arranging your flight, he can feel the atmosphere has shifted. You don’t look at him when you say: “We should probably start packing up, huh?”

“Mir, wait,” He says, and he knows he sounds a little desperate, but there’s so many things he wants to say, finally, if this is the best chance he’ll get.

“Jake,” you interrupt, and the pleading tone of your voice shuts him up.

Later, on his flight, he’ll think about falling asleep with your hand in his, and his heart will break a little.

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

Halo calls you, ten days into the honeymoon, to exalt Jess, marriage, and Hawaii, in that order.

You’re at home, cooking dinner, a Motown playlist on in the background while she details all the kayaking, wine tasting and gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes they’ve been doing. Your heart swells at her happiness. “I’m so glad you guys are having a great time.”

She asks how your hike went, and you end up telling her what happened – the canceled flight, Hangman, all of it.

Halo snorts. “Oh, poor guy. I’m not sure his outsize ego will recover from this.” She pauses to say something to Jess. “Though I’d feel more sorry for him if he hadn’t literally waited for an adverse weather event to try to tell you how he feels.”

You plop down on the couch with your plate of pasta. “Wait, what do you mean?”

“Come on, dude. He’s been in love with you for years.”

“Huh.” You say, eloquently.

* * *

You book a ticket to San Diego. You take four days’ leave, and you’re not even sure Jake is there. If he isn’t, you think, clicking to skip the seat selection, you’ll take it as a sign.

Which is stupid. You don’t believe in that kind of thing. Maybe this entire idea is stupid, you consider, as you board your flight at SeaTac.

When you walk into the Hard Deck on Friday night, it feels a little like the first time: You’re nervous, your hands clammy as you run them down your shorts. Penny waves you over and pours you a tequila soda, which you accept gratefully. People you know start noticing your presence, coming up to catch up at the bar.

You’re talking to Fritz, who’s already a little worse for wear, when Jake comes in. He catches sight of you and stops short. You forget what you were saying mid-sentence.

Fritz turns around and clocks him, shooting you a wide grin. “Ah. Guess that’s my cue to leave.”

He comes up next to you at the bar, taking the place Fritz vacates. “Hey. No one told me you were gonna be in town.”

He looks good, if a little tired: sun kissed skin and slightly deeper lines in the corners of his eyes when he gives you a smile that feels perfunctory. He’s wearing his khakis, in pristine condition, though he looks like he hasn’t been sleeping well. Penny has already put a beer in front of him, and he takes a long pull on it before really looking at you.

The look in his eyes feels like the confirmation you needed.

“Last minute decision.” You say, inclining your head in the direction of the back exit. “Would you mind if we talked somewhere quieter?”

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t question it, and he follows you out to the back porch.

It’s a warm night, late summer – the kind you love.

You set your drink down on the railing, suddenly nervous, and turn around, leaning back against the salt-weathered wood to face Jake. The music filters out from the bar, muted by the windows – a moody Tom Waits song.

“I’m sorry.” You start, “For leaving the way I did in Colorado. I think I was overwhelmed, by you, by what I was feeling- I got scared.”

“By what you were feeling,” He says, like he needs to repeat it to be sure.

You nod, willing yourself to be brave this time. “Yeah. I spent seven years keeping up my defences around you and then I wake up once with your arms around me and I’m like oh, fuck and-” You stop yourself, looking out at the calm ocean waves in the distance, the sun just beginning to dip into the horizon. “Fuck, I’m not explaining this very well.”

Jake’s face shows the beginning of a smile. “I think I understand what you’re trying to say.”

He steps in closer to you, and your hands go to his waist. You feel a little lightheaded with him so close, but you’re determined to continue. “And I didn’t know what to make of it. You looking at me like that. I told myself it wasn’t real so I could go back to where I was comfortable – not thinking about you.”

He closes the gap between you, an arm around your shoulder, tucking his face into your hair. “I assure you, Mir, that the way I feel about you is very real.”

His voice in your ear feels like a balm, and you tighten your fingers into his shirt, bringing your body flush with his. It’s still overwhelming – how he’s familiar and new at once, the scent of his warm skin and pressed uniform, the feeling of his lips against your temple. “Yeah, well. Not thinking about you wasn’t going very well.”

He lifts you up to sit on the railing, bringing your face level with his, and steadies you with his hands on your waist. “Mir. Did you come out here for me?”

You place your hands on his shoulders, running your thumbs up the sloped curve to his neck, and smile at the visible reaction this has on him. “Yes, Bagman.”

He kisses you then, and it feels like the solution to a problem you hadn’t even realised had been weighing on you – tangling your fingers into his hair, drawing him in closer between your knees. He keeps repeating your name, like he can’t quite believe you, and you keep answering him with more kisses, needing him to know – what?

That you’ve caught up with him. That you’re here now.

You both slow down when you simultaneously become aware that there’s a small crowd on the other side of the windows, gawking at you. You think you see an open-mouthed Mickey, pool cue still in hand. At the moment, you don’t have it in you to care.

“How long are you staying?” Jake murmurs into your neck, his arms around you.

“Monday.” You breathe, resting your chin on the top of his head. “But I’ll be back soon.”

*******

end notes: omg sorry i didn't write anything for so long - life's just been A LOT. i hope you enjoyed it. check out my masterlist <3 title from the royal navy toasts

[sapphic-coded]

I Swear That I Don't Have A Gun

You grew up in Ohio with your father, brother, and sister. Your family was small and strange. Because of that, you were picked on relentlessly at school. Until another weird kid showed up. Her family moved in across the street from you. It wasn't long until the two of you became friends. Your friendship became the light in your life. Until it ended suddenly. Rumors followed your friend's disappearance. Russian spies. You didn't see her again until you crossed paths at work.

Series Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff x fem Reader

Warnings: Violence. Reader is a messed up assassin and did not choose her codename. Childhood trauma hanging out in the background. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 5.3k

Author's Note: When writer ADHD hits, it hits. Sorry for the wait friends. Been working on this for a comically long time. Thank you for all the love and support for this series. I love that you love this. Enjoy!

Taglist: @natsxwife @iliketozoneout @newawakening9 @natasha-1million @ilovemcuff @taliiiaasteria @alowint @yerisdumbass @natashasilverfox

Chapter Seven: You Don't Know Me

Mount Vernon, Ohio – 1993

You counted the small rocks in your black gloved hand. Neither one looked the same. All were varying shades of gray. A few were smooth and round while others were rough with sharper edges. It was the best of what you could find around the neighborhood. You looked up when you heard the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. 

The ends of Nat’s blue hair spilled out of her dark gray knitted hat. Her black puffy jacket swallowed up most of her body. In her white gloved hands was a single stick. It wasn’t very long. Hardly more than four inches. Some pine needles still hung off of it. You watched as she approached while the chill that hung in the air after the first snowfall stabbed at your cheeks. 

“Aren’t we supposed to use a carrot?” you asked as she came to stand next to you. You were also pretty sure that you were supposed to use coal instead of rocks. 

“My mom already cut up the one we have,” Nat replied. 

You certainly didn’t have any carrots lying around at home. Your refrigerator and Nat’s were so different that it was jarring the first time you saw it. You hadn’t realized how much food one refrigerator could hold when you didn’t have to make room for your father’s weekly experiments. 

You looked at the headless snowman in front of you. You had spent the better part of the last two hours alongside Nat and her younger sister building the snowman in front of their house. The snowman’s base was large, round, and a bit lopsided. But it supported the slightly smaller packed ball of snow on top of it. You and Nat had done your best to brush off any dirt or blades of grass that stuck to the snow. Now you waited for Yelena to return with the snowman’s head. 

You heard Nat shift next to you while you stared at the empty spot where the snowman’s head will go. You wondered what kind of person this snowman would be. It was a shame when your brother told you years ago that snowmen don’t actually come to life after they are built. There’s no singing or dancing. It was as your father put it when he overheard your conversation:

“It is a byproduct of man’s lust for godhood.”

But maybe they did come to life. In secret. Perhaps at night. You read about all kinds of supposedly fake creatures coming to life in secret in your sister’s books. If it was possible, would this snowman end up being a good person or a bad one? Would the lack of a carrot make a difference? 

“Are you going somewhere?” Nat asked. 

You looked at her and found her looking across the street. You followed her gaze. Outside on your driveway was your father. The trunk of his station wagon hung open while he shoved a couple large bags into it. His back remained toward you and you hoped it would stay that way. The freshly plowed street put enough distance between him and you that you felt like you could breathe normally without him noticing. 

Your gaze landed back on Nat. “My father is attending a convention. It’s a tradition.” 

“What kind of convention?” she asked. 

You shrugged. “One for people like him.” 

He would come back giddy from talking with his fellow scholars. You knew that when he returned you and your siblings would be forced to spend at least three hours trapped at the kitchen table with nothing to eat but plenty to listen to. If something particularly interesting happened, you would definitely be trapped at the table for five hours. 

“You’re not going with him?” she asked. 

You heard the trunk of your father’s station wagon slam shut. You looked over your shoulder and watched as your father started back up the driveway. You looked at Nat and shook your head. “Kids aren’t allowed.” 

Yelena hurried around the house from the backyard carrying a mostly round snowman sized head. It was pretty impressive when she reached you guys. Since you both were taller, you and Nat carefully took the soon to be snowman head and set it on top of its cold, round body. You pushed one smooth light gray rock into the snowman’s left eye socket and then pushed a square black rock into its right. You let Yelena help you set the rest of the rocks into a wide smile. Nat pushed the stick into the middle of the snowman’s face. Then, all three of you stepped back to admire your work. 

“We should give him a name,” Yelena said. 

You tried to imagine the snowman’s rock eyes blinking. You imagined puffs of white mists slipping from between his rocky lips. You tried to imagine him with a carrot for a nose. “He looks like an Ian.” 

You heard Yelena giggle and when you looked at Nat you saw the beginnings of a smile curling her lips. 

Triskelion, Washington D.C.  – 2012

Being part of a team sucks. There are rules you have to follow. Sure, there were rules back when you were working for your father. But those rules were different. You could bend and shape them into whatever you needed. As long as the job was done, your father was content. Maybe he’d nitpick if the job got messy. But you had the freedom of choice. There were so many ways to kill people. Some days your imagination would run wild with new possibilities. You had yet to surprise a target in their bathroom and drop a toaster into their bathtub while they were bathing. Then there was the old classic you had yet to try. This idea demanded the perfect costume, but tying a target to train tracks and watching a high speed train obliterate their body into nothing more but tiny bloody chunks would be great fun. 

You loved that part of the job almost as much as you loved watching your target’s life drain from their eyes. But now that freedom is gone. You don’t get to decide how you are going to do your job. You are told. Ordered. The worst is when you’re not even allowed to kill your target. You remember the first time you were given that bizarre job. You remember how punchable your target’s face was. You remember how easy it would have been to just push the ridiculous man over the edge. No one would have known. But you couldn’t. You watched that opportunity pass you by and you wanted to scream. 

You did scream. At Rumlow. You cornered him and demanded to know why. Why did they keep fucking with your head? 

He reminded you of your role. The chains that kept you bound to these nonsensical rules. You work for SHIELD. You don’t kill targets unless SHIELD wants you to kill them. You keep to your role and you don’t raise suspicions. You live out the story Rumlow crafted for you. He found you on one of his missions. He saw your potential and peeled you up off the ground like some frozen, sick, dying, abandoned mutt. He molded you into the weapon you are now. A weapon he happily handed to SHIELD. 

You hate that story. You hate it more than the stupid suit he forces you to wear. The black tactical suit covers every inch of your body from your neck down to your feet. It had taken a while to get used to the added weight of the black body armor attached to the suit. You still don’t like it. It makes you feel as if you are a child running around with pillows tied to your chest and a foam sword in your hand. But it’s the mask that feels the most suffocating. Despite being able to hear clearly from within the black helmet, you feel cut off from the world. The black tinted visor that conceals your face is full of fancy technology that often gets in the way when you are just trying to watch your target die. You hate the stupid suit. You hate that you can’t do anything without having to wear it. The only time you can strip the stupid costume off and breathe in lungfuls of air conditioned air is in your bunk buried beneath all the levels of SHIELD and fake SHIELD and real HYDRA. 

But if you could choose, you’d stick with the stupid suit if you could craft a different story. Preferably one that didn’t include anyone molding you into anything. But that freedom is gone, and all you have is a boatload of memories to distract you from how angry you are. That anger burns deep inside you. It fuels your every step as you walk alongside Rumlow down a bright, busy hallway. You ignore all the data that blinks across the inside of your visor screen with every SHIELD agent that hurries by. In the beginning you had been curious, but now all the data was familiar and boring. Mostly low level clearance agents with spotless records because they never did anything but sit at their desks or hurry around places looking busy. 

You walk out into a large hangar and board one of the waiting Quinjets. You spy two empty seats in the cockpit and a black duffel bag resting on one of the seats in the cargo bay. Rumlow hands you a small, black flash drive. You roll your eyes despite knowing that he can’t see your face. If he let you take off the damn helmet you could read the mission briefings perfectly fine. You didn’t need to clog up your visor’s hub with all the unnecessary tidbits of information on your targets. You hate this role. 

“This one is routine,” Rumlow begins as you insert the flash drive into the slot along the backside of your helmet. Almost instantly, information clogs up your interior visor screen. “Your target is Tomek Sikora. He’s an arms dealer that SHIELD has kept an eye on.” The picture of your target fills up your visor. Tall, muscular build. Short, dirty blonde hair. Blue eyes. Mid thirties. “We have good intel that he’s operating out of an abandoned storefront in Bardstown, Kentucky. His main clientele is HYDRA.” 

Your visor floods with images of your target standing with or shaking hands with other important looking men and women. A few of the faces look familiar, but the images scroll too quickly across your visor for you to be certain. 

“Your objective is to shut down Sikora’s operation,” Rumlow says. “SHIELD would prefer Sikora alive, but if you have no choice, do what is necessary.” 

The coded orders hidden behind his words brings a small hint of relief. A nice simple kill. You know that if you read more into the file scrolling across your visor that you could piece together why real HYDRA wants Sikora dead. But you don’t care. All you care about is watching your target die. All you care about at this moment is that you won’t be forced to watch your target walk away breathing. A straightforward mission is exactly what you need. Something easy. Sikora will probably put up some kind of fight. You’ll engage and end it when it feels right. 

You pull the flash drive from the slot at the back of your helmet. Your visor clears. 

“Rollins will accompany you on this mission,” Rumlow says. 

Eh. It could be wors–

“Slight change of plan.”

Both you and Rumlow turn towards the open cargo bay door. You see her clearly through your visor screen. You feel the chains of your boredom lift. That familiar energy that buzzes right beneath your skin awakens. You haven’t seen her since you put a bullet through Erik’s head. Even then, you can’t count that as your official last parting. You were buried beneath your costume. She didn’t know you were there. Because if she did, she wouldn’t have let you go like that. 

The weight of the costume you wear now feels heavier as you watch her ascend up the Quinjet’s ramp. She’s dressed in civilian clothes. You love the black, leather jacket that she wears over her red shirt. Dark denim jeans cover the length of her legs, and a gun sits in a black holster strapped to her right thigh. You’re envious of her clothes. You want to look into her wardrobe. You want to strip out of this stupid suit and wear anything else. 

“Agent Romanoff,” Rumlow greets. 

Nat. Your teeth bite into your lower lip. You know you can’t say anything. The rules of your role have been drilled into your head. You don’t speak. You only act. If anyone asks questions, Rumlow has your pathetic sob story ready to share. You know all this. You know you must comply. But you really want to say something. 

Her olive green eyes settle on you as she steps into the cargo bay. You instantly miss the recognition as she looks at you. Her eyes travel up and down the length of your body, taking in your forced getup. You want her to see right through it. You want her to say your name and rip the damn mask from your face so the chase can resume. 

“What’s the update?” Rumlow asks. 

Her attention shifts to him. “Rollins can’t make it. He’s in medical. I’m filling in.” 

Now you really really want to say something. You watch as she walks over to where the black duffel bag sits. A smile stretches across your face. You had wanted to start slow. A coffee date scheduled on a day that neither one of you needed to even think about work. But if you can’t have that, then you will happily take this. 

“That’s not necessary,” Rumlow replies. 

Your smile drops away, and you turn your head to give Rumlow the most threatening glare he will never see. He ignores you as Nat zips up her duffel bag and looks over at him. 

“I’ll get one of the other guys to fill in for Rollins,” Rumlow continues. “It’s a routine operation, and you’re needed for more Avenger missions.” 

You wonder what would happen if you punched Rumlow in the face. If you swing hard enough, there is a good chance you could knock him out. That would give you a couple seconds to say something to Nat before all hell breaks loose. You’d definitely apologize for the stupid thing you said before. And if Rumlow didn’t go down in one punch, you could always follow it up with a solid kick. 

“Fury disagrees,” Nat replies. 

The name sparks two recent memories of the Director of SHIELD. Both memories consisted of you standing in this stupid suit and staring at the bald man with an eyepatch while he interrogated Rumlow about you. You played the part of a lost puppy well enough despite wanting to smash your head into the closest wall. 

“Besides,” Nat looks first at you and then back to Rumlow, “I’ve been dying to meet your new sidekick.” 

Oh god. That one hurt. 

“They’re not much of a talker,” Rumlow says. 

You have so much to say. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Nat replies. 

Rumlow shakes his head, but finally relents. He looks at you. “Stay focused. I expect results.” 

You watch as he steps out of the cargo bay and descends down the jet’s ramp. For a moment, you can’t believe your luck. You thought that Rumlow would have done just about anything to rip you away from Nat. He had made sure to keep you as far away from her as possible. But the reality of your amazing luck settles when Nat comes to stand next to you. 

“Has he taught you how to fly one of these?” she asks. 

You shake your head. 

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll fly. You fill me in on the mission.” 

This is the greatest day of your life. 

The Quinjet, Kentucky Sky – A Short Time Later

You pull the flash drive free from the tablet’s port. The tablet’s screen goes blank while the hub screen built into your interior helmet visor lights up with a selection of unnecessary data about the tablet. Battery at 68%. No security update needed. Software version 3.8.27. You don’t understand why you are forced to tolerate the random extra tech. Rumlow told you it was to make your story more realistic. You still didn’t understand how something only you see makes others believe you more. 

You look up from the tablet, and the extra data clears. Bright sunlight floods the cockpit. The sky outside is so blue that it is almost painful to look at. You are sitting in the co-pilot seat. The various buttons and screens stretched across the dashboard mean nothing to you. Nat has been doing all the flying. All you’ve done is find a SHIELD issued tablet and plugged in the flash drive so Nat could review the details of your mission. So far she’s asked you easy questions about the mission. Your answers are simple nods or a shake of your head. You want to say more. You need to say more. But you stay quiet. You comply with your role. 

But there is sweet happiness in your forced silence. You look over to the empty pilot seat next to you. Nat left a few minutes ago to change after switching on the autopilot. You are tempted to lift up your helmet and sniff the pilot seat. You want to know what she smells like. You want to peel your black gloves off and touch the cushions of the seat. Feel the warmth left behind by her touch. A couple different scenarios float through your head and each one is far more entertaining than sitting in silence. But at least you get to be near her. You don’t have to hurry off and leave her. Despite all these stupid rules, you’ve discovered a piece of freedom that kept eluding you before. 

You turn your gaze forward when you hear Nat emerge from the tiny bathroom directly behind the cockpit. She settles back into the pilot’s seat. Her casual clothes are gone. You miss the leather jacket, but the black catsuit is a warm familiar memory. You tuck the flash drive into one of your suit’s many pockets. 

“Shouldn’t be long now,” she comments as her green eyes dart across the various screens and lit buttons. “About fifteen minutes out.” 

There’s a moment when you taste that bitterness of disappointment. You don’t want this to end. The two of you up in the sky without anyone else to distract you. But that moment ends when you remember what’s to come. For the first time you won’t be on opposing sides. Sort of. Not exactly. But it sends a thrill through you. 

“So,” she looks over at you, “Silent Type.” 

You frown at the stupid codename. You know she can’t see your face, but she sees something because she starts to smile. The tablet’s screen comes back to life as you navigate to the application you need. A virtual keyboard pops up along the lower half of the tablet. Your gloved fingers are quick as you type your message. You turn the tablet around so she can read it. 

Rumlow’s idea. Not mine. 

Your answer seems to amuse her more as she nods. 

“That does sound like a name he would come up with,” she says. 

You turn the tablet to face you again and delete what you wrote. Your fingers are quick to tap out another message. 

Did you choose your codename? 

Her smile falls a bit as she reads your question. “What did Rumlow tell you about me?” 

It doesn’t take you long to delete your question and type out your reply. 

Avenger. 

“That’s it?” she asks. 

You lower the tablet and nod. It’s not entirely a lie. Rumlow had spent most of his time preparing you for this stupid role. That meant filling your head with a bunch of random bullshit about fake SHIELD and real HYDRA. He trained you to remember your story. He did his best to polish off the grime of freelance and make you seem more refined. He rarely brought up Nat. And when he did, he never let you think about her for long. 

“I guess we’ll need to get to know each other better after this mission,” she says. 

More time with Nat? This day just gets better and better. Your fingers tap against the tablet’s digital keyboard again. When you lift up the tablet, you are very interested in her answer. 

What did Rumlow say about me?

“You’re his pet project,” she says as her smile returns. 

You frown. You want to somehow clarify that you are nobody’s pet project, but one of the buttons on the dash lights up and steals Nat’s attention. You watch as she turns off the autopilot and takes control of the Quinjet. 

“We’re approaching our target,” she reaches up and flips a switch. “I’ll set us down somewhere close. With our stealth systems engaged, they shouldn’t be able to spot us.” 

You turn your head and look out at the bright blue sky. While you love the quality time with Nat, you also need to come up with a plan for this mission. Rumlow’s coded orders had been clear. Kill Sikora. If Rollins had joined you on this mission, you wouldn’t have needed to do much thinking beyond when to kill your target. But Nat’s fantastic presence complicated things. You doubt that she’s part of fake SHIELD. Which meant putting a bullet in Sikora’s head outright wouldn’t go over well. Especially if your target decides to surrender. 

Your plan starts to take shape within your mind as Nat guides the concealed Quinjet towards the ground. It’s a simple plan. Draw your target away from Nat and kill him where it is just you and him. It would ruin the foreplay. You probably wouldn’t have much time and would need to kill Sikora quickly. But you’d get to talk to Nat later which seemed like a generous trade. 

The bright onslaught on sunlight fades as Nat sets the Quinjet down in a clearing surrounded by eastern white pine trees. Based on the data you had skimmed earlier, the abandoned storefront your target is operating out of is just north of your location. When the Quinjet’s engines fall quiet, you stand. You leave the tablet on your seat as you head for the cargo bay. You approach a metallic box bolted onto one of the walls. Your gloved fingers type in a code on the keypad fixed to the front of the box. The front panel unlocks and opens to reveal a small armory. 

Smaller than usual. No fancy explosives. Your usual selection of guns has been paired down to one: a single black Glock. You suspect your limited selection is thanks to Rumlow. You figure this has something to do with your training, but you don’t really care. You’re more disappointed in how the gun feels in your hand. You miss your Beretta. You don’t feel the same without it. 

You slide the Glock into the empty holster at your right hip and turn when you hear Nat enter the cargo bay. She holds the tablet you left behind. Her finger slides across the tablet’s screen, and you watch the way her head tilts slightly as she reviews the mission data. You imagine that she looked exactly like that whenever information on you ended up in her hands. Your smile starts to return as you grab the tactical knife left in the armory and slide it into place on your belt. 

She turns off the tablet and sets it down next to her black duffel bag. She lifts her hand and speaks into her wrist. “Comms check.”

You hear her voice flood your helmet and you don’t want it to stop. When she looks over at you, you nod. Her smile threatens to break you. You want so desperately to say something. You want her to look at you like she knows you. Like she did before whenever she appeared on one of your jobs. But your mouth stays shut. You comply. 

It’s quiet when you both exit the Quinjet. As you make your way through the cluster of trees, you can’t help but think back to your last freelance job in the middle of nowhere. The sound of gunshots ripping apart tree bark. The smell of sweat and blood on your target’s body. The feeling of her hand around your wrist. 

You stop when you reach the treeline. Roughly fifty yards ahead of you is the bland backside of the abandoned storefront. The back door is unguarded. You don’t see any cameras either. It’s no wonder why HYDRA wants Sikora gone. The lack of security is almost offensive. It’s as if your target is inviting you inside. 

“We’ll split up and sweep the area,” her voice is low and when you look at her, you nod. 

Perfect. As long as you find Sikora first, this mission should be easy. 

“I’ll take the upper floor while you secure the lower,” she says. 

As you nod, you hope that you’ll find Sikora in the storefront’s basement. If you don’t, you don’t know exactly how you’ll get your target far enough away from Nat. 

You both step out of the treeline and make your way towards the storefront’s back entrance. By the time you reach the back door and press your back against the wall, you notice that both you and Nat have drawn your guns. You bite your tongue to hold back a laugh at the thought that instantly springs to life within your mind. This must be the first time you both have a gun in your hand and you’re not pointing them at each other. Now would be a great time to take your helmet off. 

Nat reaches for the door handle, and it’s unlocked. You decide that it’s your target’s inflated ego that left the door unlocked and not stupidity. Or a trap. You try not to let that last thought get you too excited as you follow Nat through the backdoor. 

You enter a narrow hallway. Directly ahead of you is a wide open doorway that reveals a large empty room. Remains of what was clearly a counter mark the worn looking floorboards. Dark colored wallpaper peels from the walls. The room itself is lit only by the light that spills out from the hallway. Large, thin boards are nailed across the windows. Littered about the floorboards is trash, random dark wet spots, and the occasional clothing hanger. 

To your right is a set of stairs leading to the upper floor. To your left is the remains of another door. You see the hinges, but the door that clearly once occupied the space is gone. Beyond it is another set of stairs leading down towards the basement. You turn to your left and start to descend the stairs. You hear Nat ascending the stairs behind you. You force yourself not to look back as you lift your gun and keep going. 

Your footsteps are quiet on the stairs. When you reach the bottom, you find yourself alone in an empty room. The lights are on. Boxes and crates are stacked against one of the walls. On the other side of the room is another doorway, but this one still has a door attached to it. As you walk further into the room, you hear a loud thud shake the low ceiling. You feel a tiny spike of jealousy that Nat found her targets while you are alone in a basement. Another loud thud shakes the ceiling again. That lingering spike of jealousy flees when the door on the other side of the room opens. 

You pull the trigger the second you see someone fill up the space in the doorway. You see the person drop and no one else comes out. You move towards the open door. One quick look down at the man dying on the basement floor at your feet confirms that they are not your target. You step over the dying man and into the room. It’s a small break room with a fold out plastic table that eats up most of the space. Sitting on the table, directly in the middle, is a small, square television. It’s on and playing an old western. 

When you return to the dying man laying in the doorway, you find him dead. The man’s lifeless eyes stare up at you. His mouth is slightly parted. His hair looks greasy. He looks about as old as any average college student. The sounds of the western playing on the television fills up the quiet as you stare down at the dead man. The sounds of shouting pulls you out of your odd stupor. 

You step over the dead man and hurry back towards the stairs. You quickly climb back up into the narrow hallway and start towards the stairs that would take you up to the upper floor when you see it. You are standing at the base of the stairs when you see a body falling. You see their arms first as they come up, and you see how their legs trip over each other. You notice a mop of dirty blonde hair right before it smashes into the first uppermost step. The body falls hard down the stairs with a series of sickening crunches. You take a few steps back when you notice the body picking up some speed. When the body finally reaches the bottom of the stairs, it rolls over once and stops. 

Sikora lays at your feet. His neck is bent at a terrible angle. His blue eyes are wide open. You see a piece of bone poking out from his forearm. Your gun lowers at the sight of your target’s still body. You feel numb at the sight of it. No satisfaction. No sense of pride. Not even relief. You don’t know how to feel when you step over your target’s body and ascend the stairs. That strange feeling persists as you find Nat standing near a table. Littered across the floor are six bodies. You can’t tell if some are alive or not, but you feel the corners of your lips curl into a smile. Nat doesn’t have a scratch on her. None of the bodies scattered across the room were a challenge for her and you just want to run up to her and kiss her and hug her tight because it makes sense. One piece of your life hasn’t changed. She’s still your friend even if you can’t act like hers. 

As you walk further into the room, carefully stepping over fallen bodies, Nat closes up a black laptop that is sitting on the table. Her smile melts away any lingering numbness hanging on from seeing your target’s body. 

“Good work,” she says. “SHIELD will be here in ten to clean up.” 

You savor her praise before looking at the laptop again. 

“Just a little side project,” she says after following your gaze. She picks up the black laptop and moves towards you. “You ever have bourbon from here?”   

You shake your head. 

“Then we’re making a quick pit stop before we head back,” she says. 

You follow her, and you can’t help feeling like you are back in Ohio. It’s as if school is finally letting out and you two have the rest of the day ahead of you. You want this day to last forever. You’d rather her know it’s you, but if this is all you can have, then you’ll take it.

[catt-leya]

Omg hi!

Could I request something?

Could it be something like reader being super shy ( like rlly shy) but also super horny. And Rick just knows and decides to act upon it- arghqufnekxwn

God I can’t with this man😩💕

Ur writing is so good💕

Yes, Daddy || Rick Grimes 18+

Hey sweetheart 💗 don't worry we're all horny for him hihi 👉🏼👈🏼💗 thank you for your kind words and I hope you like it 🤭💗 it's a mix of your request an THIS one 💗 they go so well together that I couldn't resist 🤭💗

Warnings: daddy kink, age gap, dirty talk, degrading, fingering, praise kink, masturbation and my usual smutty stuff (I guess Rick is slightly darker than normal❣)

"Come on!", Rick's voice echoes across the yard and can be heard well above the groans of the walkers. 

The situation is completely out of control and you don't see half your people at all, only Rick you somehow notice on the periphery.

You dodge a rotting dead man and now lose sight of Rick completely.

A small stab of panic floods through you and you frantically try to find him in the jumble of bodies.

Everywhere a walker tries to grab you and you fight your way inch by inch to the spot where you last saw your leader.

Panicking, you chop off a walker's hand with your axe, and that's when one grabs you from behind and you lunge with your leg to free yourself.

"It's me," Rick is out of breath and instead of letting go of you, he lifts you up, half dragging you with him as he pushes you through the masses of walkers.

Though you're still not safe, you feel much calmer now that you're back with Rick and no longer in danger of drowning alone in the crowd.

Like a doll, he pushes you toward the fence that surrounds everything and growls, "Go."

His hand is low on the small of your back as you grab the top of the fence and pull yourself up.

Rick is taking this all way too slow and he shoots into the collection of walkers one last time before putting his hands on your plump butt and pushing you over the fence before throwing his gun over and launching himself to the other side.

His ungentlemanly push that sends you to the other side of the fence has you landing inelegantly and now sitting on the ground breathing heavily as Rick immediately picks himself up.

Now that you're reasonably safe and your friends surround you, the thought that Rick carried you and had to push you to the other side as well brings a blush of shame to your face, and you dare not look at Rick, who reaches out his hand to help you up.

Waiting, he looks down at you and has to stifle a grin as he sees you getting redder and redder, staring at the floor as you grab his hand and let him pull you up.

It's so easy for him to tease you, and he has to admit that unfortunately he also gets great pleasure out of making you blush.

At first it's always just your cheeks, but the further he goes, the more the blush always spreads down your neck to the pretty base of your tits.

He bites his lower lip and leans forward so that you can feel his lips against your ear.

Your wince, only makes his voice deepen with satisfaction and he murmurs softly, "You look pretty with flushed cheeks."

That's all it takes to make you blush like you've been out in the sun for days, and a quick glance at your cleavage gives him confirmation that your tits have taken a beating, too.

He straightens up again, but his hand slides from your hand to your back and he pushes you forward as he says to the others, "We need to get to the bags."

Not too long ago you were tied up and practically on a slaughter bench to be eaten, and now Rick is already shooing everyone through the woods again.

You can barely catch your breath and you have to admit you're glad Glenn is able to talk Rick out of it and no matter what other ideas Rick might have come up with, he's then interrupted by Carol.

Now that you've actually lost everything, you also have little choice at this point but to wander the woods until you find somewhere to settle down to live.

Even now, as you stare at Rick's back, you can see the tension, and with each step you all take deeper into the woods, it becomes clear how much Rick resents not having wiped out every last asshole of the people in Terminus.

But like a good leader does, he's listened to the group's plea and is hopefully leading you all to a good home rather than a Terminator action where maybe one of you would have died.

Rick can feel your gaze on him and without turning around, he calls out, "Come here, sweetheart."

He could really use a distraction or he might just turn around and slaughter all of these sick bastards after all. 

As you come up beside him, he sighs contentedly and gently teases you, "Didn't think you'd react when I called you 'sweetheart'."

And there it is again. Your cheeks turn so gorgeous pink and you stammer, "I...uh...didn't you mean me? I...I can go again, too. You know, I really should go." 

Rick rolls his eyes and pulls you close to put an arm around your shoulders, "Relax. I've talked to you. Who else would I be talking to?"

It's definitely not all his weight that he's putting on you, but still, his arm is so heavy on your shoulders that you can't help but think of how he might just bury you under his body.

Just the thought of how he might feel over you makes you go all horny.

When you don't answer, Rick looks over at you and raises an eyebrow. 

His eyes slide to your hands digging into your thin shirt and then back up to your chest where he can clearly see your nipples through your shirt, "What are you thinking about?"

With the question he snaps you out of your dirty thoughts and you squint at him for a moment still, "Nothing special."

How you hate that your voice always sounds so squeaky around him and you try to pull away from him but his grip tightens, "Stay here."

He's way too close to you and you can barely think straight, let alone look at anything but your clasped hands.

"I like having you with me."

Oh god your hands get all sweaty at his words and you gasp embarrassingly loud as he slides his arm over your shoulders a little further and reaches over your shoulder with his hand to tug at the low-slung collar of your top, "Don't you, sweetheart?"

Silently, you nod and wince as his knuckles graze your bare skin. 

You're never sure if Rick is actually flirting with you, or if you're just imagining it because you so wish he were.

Many times you've wanted to make the first move or more than hint at it, but you just don't dare. The fear is too great that he would just laugh at you, especially since he's almost twice your age and might not even look at you the way you always look at him. 

Even now, when he's barely touching you in a pretentious or lewd way, you notice how you'd like to reach between your legs.

Shit, it's been forever since you've had enough peace to slide your own fingers into your pussy and imagine it was Rick's cock. 

Your cheeks turn pink again and Rick lets go of your shirt to grab your chin and turn your head in his direction.

God, how easy it is for him to direct you and how obedient you are to him.

With huge eyes you look at him and his eyes slide to your plump lips as he says softly, "Relax, it’s just me."

You've known each other for a long time and he knows full well not to look at you that way. Even though you're of age and a whole woman, it feels dirty and forbidden when he jerks off thinking about your little body.

But on the other hand, that's exactly what attracts him to you so much. You're soft and young and crushing on him that it's hard to miss.

Your voice is soft and high, "I know, Rick." 

And it trails right into his cock.

He lets go of your chin and calls over his shoulder, "We'll find a place to sleep here and go on tomorrow."

Not for a second does he leave your side, and you always feel his presence. 

Whether you're leaning down to spread a blanket on the floor and he's standing close behind you, calling out to Daryl to take first watch, or you're walking over to Maggie's to pick up your food.

His presence makes you all jittery and wet as hell between your legs. 

You blame this intense reaction on the long dry spell you've been on and groan in frustration.

Somehow, it's perverse how much Rick enjoys getting on your back so much that you squirm once your eyes meet.

His eyes slide over your ass as you kneel down to get comfortable on your spread blanket. Your every curve stands out through your clothes and as you sit down, he can't stop looking at your pretty tits that are literally screaming for his mouth.

Fuck, if someone would have told him a few years ago that he would be camping in the woods after stabbing a few cannibals and then wanting to fuck a 20 year old dumb, he would have called them crazy.

But here he is, still staring at your boobs as you hoarsely mumble, "Rick?"

You're so incredibly anxious and dependent on him that he can't help but take some advantage, "Move over."

Your whole body freezes and you chirp, "What?"

In disbelief you watch him set the rifle down on the ground and look to you through his curls that have fallen into his face, "Sweetheart, I think you heard me."

Sluggishly you slide to the side a bit and he drops onto his back with a sigh, "Good girl."

A whimper slips from your lips at the praise and Rick looks at you impassively. 

You can't look at him without starting to rub your pussy on the floor, you're sure of it. 

That's why you stare at the floor in front of you and squeeze your legs tightly together.

God, you're so incredibly horny for him and you're way too shy to do anything about it and then instead of at least avoiding him when you're already too scared to be honest, you're now sitting inches away from him and you feel his big hand on your hip, "Lie down."

You pull your head in, "Rick-"

"Do as I say, sweetheart," his voice is sharp and doesn't tolerate back talk, so you let him pull you onto the blanket before he spreads a second one over you.

Even though it's incredibly cold without the sun, you're on fire and you can feel Rick's heavy arm on your stomach abundantly.

You won't be able to fall asleep like this or even relax.

Rick tries his best not to laugh out loud as he looks at your panicked face that you're stubbornly pointing toward the sky, and he pulls you a little closer so that your shoulder is pressed against his chest and he can stay on your side to continue watching you.

He wonders how far he'd have to pull himself up before you'd admit you wanted him.

Gently he squeezes your soft hip and you almost jump up because it feels so good.

Shit, he should do this more often.

He's taller than you and lowers his head a little to bury his nose in your shoulder and growls, "Just sleep."

Easier said than done.

Your whole left side is pressed against his body and his warm, steady breath keeps hitting your neck, causing goosebumps after goosebumps.

Even when Rick has long since fallen asleep next to you and there's nothing he could actively do to drive you out of your mind, he turns you on so incredibly that you could cry.

His soft snoring reaches your ear and his beard scratches your shoulder as he moves a little, unconsciously sliding his hand a little lower as well.

You squint your eyes, trying to think of dead puppies but your pussy is treacherous, dripping in anticipation that Rick's hand will find a way into its damp walls after all.

No, you correct: wet walls.

Your stupid cunt just won't stop throbbing and pulling, no matter how hard you try to suppress it, which is solely because of Rick's proximity and how good he feels against your body.

With a quick glance to the side, you see that Rick is deep asleep and the others are barely moving either. Besides, the blanket is over you, so no one should see it anyway if you just very briefly....

You reach over Rick's arm to your pants and hesitate for a moment.

It's incredibly inappropriate while Rick is sleeping pressed up against you, but he'd never know, and masturbating while he's touching you is still a very different thrill than just thinking about him.

As carefully as you can, you slide your hand between your legs and bite your lip hard to stifle a moan.

Your panties stick wetly between your thighs, and the soft sound of you pushing the wet fabric aside resounds in your ears far too loudly in the forest.

Your breath catches as you slide your finger through your wetness and Rick presses his chest firmly against your arm as he takes a deep breath.

You shouldn't, but you can't help it and slide a finger into your slippery hole.

Your body tenses and you push the air out of your lungs, panting.

Holy shit, does that feel good.

Rick's hand is still low on your hip and as you slide your thumb over your clit you have to press your other hand firmly over your mouth to dim the soft, "Rick" that you can't hold back.

Asleep, he presses his nose harder against your neck again and his lips gently graze your pounding pulse.

Moving slowly, you imagine Rick's weight settling between your legs and moan his name again.

After all this time it feels so incredibly good and in your head you hear him ask harshly, "Are you fingering yourself babygirl? I can help you."

Your legs twitch and your cunt leaks as you still moan through your hand, "Yes, Daddy."

You hear a suppressed giggle and it runs ice cold down your spine.

No, no.

Please don't.

Oh, God, no.

You don't even dare to look. 

Maybe a hole in the ground will open up and swallow you.

You'd do anything to avoid the humiliation of looking Rick in the face after he asked you, not just in your mind, if you were fingering yourself and of course you had to answer, "Yes Daddy."

Getting caught is bad, but saying that to him is a whole different kind of ordeal.

You keep your eyes closed and pray that you'll just vanish into thin air, avoiding even the slightest movement and keep your hand between your legs, perhaps not to draw attention to it after all.

You stop breathing as he deliberately slides his lips over your neck now, "Have you been thinking about me, babygirl?"

No sound passes your lips. 

Maybe Rick will forget you're there.

"Tell me," his soft tone is deceptive because he bites your neck in response and you whimper, "Yes."

"Hmmm," he licks over the spot he had between his teeth earlier and slides to your tense jaw, "Go on then."

His hand that was on your hip slides to your hand between your legs and he grips your wrist almost painfully tight, "Go on."

Tears gather in your eyes from humiliation and you cry softly, "Please don't make me do this."

The leaves beneath you rustle softly as Rick props himself up on his elbow and purrs, "Look at me, sweetheart."

You shake your head and want to pull your hand out of your pants, but his grip is too tight and your bottom lip starts to tremble.

You look so pathetic and small as you duck your head and refuse to open your eyes, as if it's all just a dream.

Sighing, he leans forward and takes your lower lip between his teeth and gently pulls on it.

A jolt goes through your whole body and you tear your eyes open, making him chuckle softly again, "There you go. It's not that hard."

Your whole face is hot with embarrassment and you stare into his abnormally blue eyes as you mumble in intimidation, "Please, Rick."

You're not sure what you're actually asking him to do. To replace your hand with his? Or to let you go so you can wallow in self-pity and shame?

But he just tilts his head a little and grumbles hoarsely, "Try again."

You shake your head and he squeezes your wrist tighter in warning, making you cry "Please, Daddy."

His bright eyes slide over your face and you see the mischievousness in them, "Didn't think you were into that. But I don't mind it."

He leans forward until his lips are hovering over yours again and you can barely breathe: "Is it because I'm so much older than you?"

God, you wish he'd stop talking about it, but your prayers aren't being answered in the last few minutes anyway, "I...please...can we pretend nothing happened?" 

Your cheeks burn like fire and he breathes a kiss on one cheek, "Why? Don't you want to make me proud?"

Your pussy responds to his words and he knows it for sure because your hand twitches between your legs.

Shit, it's so humiliating that his choice of words alone turns you on so much, but some primitive part of your brain forces your head to nod.

It has nothing to do with being an emancipated woman or willpower anymore that he says "Pull down your shirt. I want to see your tits" and you, breathing heavily, do exactly what he asks.

Your boobs bounce in the cool air and he looks greedily at the little peaks that form as you tremble.

"Now pick up for me where you left off"

Completely blinded with arousal you beg, "You do it please."

Just the thought of his hand between your now even wet thighs makes your eyes flutter shut and he kisses you softly on the lips, "If you're a good girl and do what I want now, I'll help you later."

Sluggishly you blink up at him and slide your fingers back into your throbbing cunt.

Immediately you push through your back and gasp.

"That's it, babygirl," his sleeping presence was already arousing but this? For God's sake, it's tearing you apart.

Slowly you fuck your pussy and when Rick is sure you won't pull your hand away, he lets go of your wrist and reaches for your tits.

Your eyes look like they're about to pop right out of your head, and he watches as your mouth hangs half-open and you press your body further and further against his.

Like you need every inch of him.

"Needy little girl," teasing you is so incredibly easy and your reaction to him makes his cock harden so much that he presses his pelvis hard against your thigh to ease the pain.

Your hips on the other hand circles against your palm and you bring out a hoarse, "Please, Rick," to which he pinches your nipple warningly and you cry softly, "Oh God, I mean Daddy...Daddy," you gasp breathlessly, "I need you...oh God, I need-"

By then his lips are on yours and you try to press against him so you can slide under him, but he just growls, "I got you. Easy."

Your pussy tightens around your fingers and you bite his lower lip so hard that he groans harshly.

His moan completely shuts down your brain and you pant as your legs shake, "Closer...please."

Your whole hand is slippery and wet between your legs, but you can't bring yourself any further than to keep clenching around your fingers.

He's sucking on your jaw when he finally complies with your request and pushes himself between your legs.

His hips press heavily against your hand, pushing your fingers deeper into you again, "Keep going."

His free hand slides lower from your chest and your heart skips a beat.

Maybe he would...

You whimper loud enough for him to lift his head, and with the best puppy-dog eyes you can muster, you bat your eyelashes begging.

Your eyes look way too big in your face, and with those puffy lips, you look like you've stepped out of his personal porn movie.

Rick knows exactly what you want and shit, looking at him like that he would give you anything, "Do you need my help to cum for me babygirl?"

Hectically you nod and might burst into tears as he pulls your hand out of your pants and slides his between your thighs in return.

"Fuck," his curse resounds loudly in the silence of the forest, but you don't care because rough fingers finally brush over your pussy and you grab tightly at his neck to pull him back to your lips.

"You're so fucking wet. Shir, you'd take my cock so good," he's also breathing much harder now and has to pull himself together to keep from rubbing against you like a teenager.

He doesn't do more than stroke through your wetness, but you're already squirming and shaking all over.

Gently he taps your leaking entrance with one finger and again you moan his name.

He applies minimal pressure and you thrust your hips against his hand, but he doesn't penetrate you a bit and your clit throbs as it is ignored.

He can tell how much you need it and as you tug on his hair much harder than necessary he growls, "You want the fingers of a guy twice your age inside you? "Pathetic, babygirl."

Willy-nilly, you nod and whine, "Yes, Daddy."

It's the exact words you used at the very beginning and as a reward, Rick slides his finger inside you very slowly.

Immediately you clench around him and he has to push harder to get his thick finger between your tight walls, "Fuck, you're tight. I would have to squeeze my cock inside you to even fit. Is that what you want? Would you let me fuck your hole?"

In circular motions, he moves his finger inside you and you dig your nails into his neck as you snort, "Yes...Oh God, yes."

You grind down on his hand and then as he forces his second finger inside you, you press your boobs against his torso and your whole body tenses.

You're so close. 

If only he would touch your throbbing clit.

In slow movements he fucks your tight cunt and with each thrust you suck his hand in more and more.

He has never touched a cunt that was that wet.

And fuck yes, it turns him on that it's just for him.

With your eyes half closed you look at him and he lowers his lips to yours.

The moment they touch he presses his thumb against your clit and you rebel.

In rhythmic pulses you clench his fingers tighter and fall.

You fall so incredibly low.

"My good girl. Cum for me," a final praise blows in you and your insides explode, "Yes, yes, yes...I'm Daddy's good girl. I'm your good girl...I...Rick."

A long drawn out moan comes from the depths of your body and it would have been way too loud if he hadn't put his mouth back on yours to swallow it.

With each squeeze of your pussy it feels like you're trying to pull his fingers deeper inside of you and he growls, "That's right. I'm proud of you, babygirl."

Your eyes roll into the back of your head and with one final jerk your body collapses and your head goes blank.

With a soft smack, Rick pulls his fingers out of your abused cunt and rolls back onto his side.

You don't even see him lick his fingers clean and his cock twitches in protest at the taste on his tongue.

Sluggishly, you turn your head in his direction and stare into his handsome face.

The thought of what just happened immediately makes you hot again and you want to turn your face away, but he grabs your chin and shakes his head, "It's all good. I promise. Just come here."

Uncertainly, you slide a little closer and he pulls you half onto his chest with a sigh.

With your ear pressed to his pounding heart, you murmur shyly, "Is there anything you want me to do? I'd do anything."

Your soft words almost make him groan, but Rick pulls himself together and brushes your hair out of your face, "No."

You tense up at the rejection and tears come to your eyes, but he's already continuing, "Not now, but believe me I'm far from done with you, babygirl. My cock will be fucking your tight pussy. Don't worry."

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[50calmadeuce]

Ch. 37: Back to Wyoming

Warning: Mention of miscarriage. Some chapters have sex.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Top Gun: Maverick world, trademarked by Paramount Pictures Corporation. I do not claim ownership of the characters and the world that I am borrowing.

The story and situation I am creating are a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This work is for entertainment only and is not a part of the storyline.

I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story, but I do hope it gives you happy thoughts.

These stories are my own, so please do not take them and use them for yourself without my permission. If you see them somewhere else, please let me know. :)

The next morning, your flight left early for Wyoming. By the afternoon, you were sitting on the couch in the rented cabin, wearing lounge pants and a t-shirt, with your hair up in a messy bun. A nice fire crackled in the fireplace, and your laptop rested on your belly that had seemed to have grown overnight as you read emails. Every once and awhile the baby kicked it, and you had to adjust it, since he apparently didn't like to be used as a table.

Max had taken the rental truck to grab some food, and as he left, it had started to snow gently.

As you sat on the couch, the warmth of the fire provided a cozy contrast to the chilly weather outside. The gentle snow falling outside added a serene touch to the peaceful atmosphere of the cabin. You adjusted your laptop once more as the baby gave another kick, making you smile.

"Alright, little one," you murmured softly, rubbing your belly. "I get it. No laptop table." You set the laptop on the coffee table.

Just then, your phone buzzed with a new message. You picked it up and saw it was from Jake, checking in to see how you were doing.

Jake: Hey darlin', how are you and the little one holding up?

You smiled and quickly typed a reply.

You: We're doing well, just enjoying the cozy cabin. Baby is practicing his karate moves on my laptop. How's everything with you?

A few moments later, Jake's response came through.

Jake: Sounds like he's got a lot of energy! Everything's good here. Coyote and I caught up, and we're just about to head out for some training. Miss you already.

You felt a pang of longing but reassured yourself with the thought of seeing him soon.

You: We miss you too. Stay safe out there. We'll be here waiting for you.

As you put your phone down, you heard the sound of the rental truck pulling up outside. A few minutes later, Max walked in, carrying bags of groceries.

"Hey, how's it going?" he asked, setting the bags on the kitchen counter.

"Good," you replied, closing your laptop and setting it aside. "Just catching up on some emails and texts from Jake. How was the drive?"

Max shrugged, starting to unpack the groceries. "Not bad. The snow's picking up a bit, but the roads are still clear."

"Perfect for a cozy day in before the crazy court room tomorrow," you said, stretching your arms. "Thanks for grabbing the food."

"No problem," Max replied with a smile. "Thought you might appreciate some fresh supplies."

As he continued unpacking, you got up and joined him in the kitchen, helping to put things away.

Once everything was put away, Max looked at you. "Anything specific you want for dinner?"

You thought for a moment, then smiled. "How about something simple and comforting? Maybe a hearty soup or stew?"

Max nodded. "I can do that. How about beef stew with some fresh bread?"

"That sounds perfect," you agreed, feeling a wave of gratitude for Max's support and friendship. "Thanks, Max. You're a lifesaver."

He chuckled. "Just doing my part. Now, you relax, and I'll get started on dinner."

You headed back to the couch, the comforting sounds of Max preparing dinner filling the cabin.

Just then, your phone rang. Glancing at the screen, you saw it was Mr. Dunby. You quickly answered.

"Mr. Dunby. How are you?" you asked.

"Hello, Y/N. I'm doing well, thank you. How are you holding up?"

"I'm alright," you replied, trying to keep your tone light. "Just settling into the cabin and getting ready for some much-needed rest."

"Good to hear," Mr. Dunby said. "I wanted to update you on a few things regarding your case."

"Oh?"

"The psych evaluation has been done and he has been found competent for tomorrow."

Your heart sank a little at the news. "Competent? So, the hearing is definitely going forward tomorrow?"

"Yes," Mr. Dunby confirmed. "Given this development, we need to be prepared. I know it's short notice, but I need to go over a few things with you to make sure we're ready."

"Of course," you said, trying to steady your voice. "What do I need to do?"

"First, I'll need you to recount the timeline of events in Wyoming, as well as your relationship with Jake. It's important that we clearly establish the context and your side of the story."

"Alright," you said, glancing at the fireplace. "I can do that."

"Second, we need to have any and all documentation ready. I've already gathered most of it, but if there's anything specific you can think of—emails, messages, anything that could support your case—please send it to me as soon as possible."

"I'll go through everything tonight," you replied. "And I'll make sure to have it all ready."

"Good," Mr. Dunby said. "And lastly, I know this is difficult, but try to stay calm and composed. The more straightforward and clear you can be, the better."

"I understand," you said, taking a deep breath. "Thank you for everything, Mr. Dunby."

"You're welcome. I'll see you tomorrow at the courthouse. We'll get through this together."

After ending the call, you set your phone down and rubbed your temples, feeling the weight of the situation settle on your shoulders. Max walked over, a concerned look on his face.

"What's going on?" he asked gently.

"The hearing is definitely happening tomorrow," you explained. "And he's been found competent."

Max's expression hardened with determination. "We'll be ready."

Just then, you heard the sound of another vehicle driving up to the house.

Max looked at you. "Is that Chuck?"

"If it's another F-150, then yes."

Max walked over to the window and peeked out. He watched as an older gentleman got out of the black F-150.

"Yup. It's him," he confirmed, walking over to the door and opening it.

Chuck walked in, dusting the snow off his flannel jacket. He nodded at you when he saw you. "Doc."

You smiled at Chuck. "Hey, Chuck. How was the drive?"

"Not too bad," he replied, hanging his jacket on the coat rack by the door. "Snow's starting to pick up, though. Figured I'd get here before it got too heavy."

Max closed the door behind him and turned to Chuck. "Good timing. We were just getting settled in."

Chuck glanced around the cozy cabin, taking in the crackling fire and the relaxed atmosphere. "Nice place you've got here. How are you holding up?" he asked, looking directly at you.

You sighed, running a hand over your growing belly. "It's been a bit overwhelming, but we're managing. Just got off the phone with Mr. Dunby. The hearing is definitely happening tomorrow."

Chuck's expression grew serious. "I heard. You need anything from me?"

"Actually, yes," you said, feeling a sense of relief. "Max said he was going to attempt to make a stew. Do you think you could help him?" you asked jokingly, trying to lighten the mood given the seriousness of the upcoming day.

Chuck chuckled, nodding. "I suppose I can lend a hand. Let's see what kind of mess he’s made in the kitchen."

Max raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Hey, I can cook! Just not as well as Chuck, apparently."

Chuck grinned and patted Max on the back. "Don't worry, we'll get it done right."

You smiled, appreciating the moment of levity. "Thanks, guys. I think we could all use a good meal tonight."

Chuck and Max headed to the kitchen, and you listened to their banter and laughter as they worked. It was comforting to have them both there, making the cabin feel warm and full of life despite the impending seriousness of the next day.

You turned your attention back to your emails. Last night you had sent Jason an email asking him for the notes from last Wyoming study and he sent the large file.

You opened the email from Jason and clicked on the attachment. The file began to download, and you took a deep breath, ready to dive into the research data. As the file opened, you scanned through the notes. You weren't exactly sure how this was going to help you except for jogging your memory, but you glanced through it.

A little while later, the delicious aroma of stew began to fill the cabin. Chuck called out from the kitchen, "Dinner's ready!"

You made your way to the kitchen, feeling a sense of camaraderie and gratitude for the support you had. The three of you sat down at the small dining table, enjoying the hearty stew and each other's company.

"Chuck, when we were in Wyoming four years ago, what did you see about Dorian that I missed? I mean, was I really that naive?" you asked.

Chuck looked at you. "You weren't naive, Doc. You were heartbroken and vulnerable from what happened."

You nodded, feeling a mixture of gratitude and sadness. "I just wish I had seen it sooner."

Chuck took a deep breath, leaning against dining table. "Dorian had a way of masking his true self. He was charming and convincing, which made it easy for people to overlook the red flags. You were focused on healing and getting your life back on track. It's not your fault for not seeing through his facade."

You sighed. "I guess I wanted to believe in the best in people, especially after everything that happened."

Chuck nodded understandingly. "That's a part of who you are, and it's a good thing. It just means you're compassionate and hopeful, even when faced with difficult situations. Sometimes, people like Dorian exploit that. But that doesn't make you any less strong or perceptive."

You looked up at him, appreciating his words. "Thanks, Chuck. It helps to hear that."

He gave you a reassuring smile. "You're welcome, Doc."

You looked at your bowl of stew and started moving the spoon around in it, your thoughts drifting as you stirred.

"Not hungry?" Max asked.

You looked up and saw him watching you. "No. It's fine." You took a spoonful of the stew and put it in your mouth.

You had changed into your pajamas and walked slowly to the bed in the room, dimly lit by a small lamp. As you sat down, you glanced at your cellphone, and the picture of you and Jake lit up the screen, bringing a bittersweet smile to your face.

You sighed softly, the weight of the day’s events pressing down on you. Looking at the photo, you felt a mixture of longing and love for Jake. You missed him deeply, especially during times like these when everything seemed overwhelming. You scoffed. It wasn't that long ago that you handled everything yourself for four long years and now...that man had come back into your life.

You placed the phone on the nightstand, crawled into the bed and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The sound of the gentle crackling fire from the living room provided a comforting background noise. The baby gave a small kick, reminding you of the new life growing inside you and bringing a smile to your face.

Taking a deep breath, you tried to focus on the positive. You were surrounded by people who cared about you, and you knew you were stronger than the challenges you faced.

As you lay there, the memories of the past few years washed over you. The struggles, the loneliness, the moments of doubt—all of it seemed distant now, like a shadow that had finally been cast away by the light of Jake's return. His presence had brought back a sense of wholeness you hadn't realized you were missing.

The baby kicked again, a little stronger this time, as if to remind you of the future ahead. You gently placed your hand on your belly, feeling the reassuring movement.

Just then, your phone buzzed with a text notification. Reaching over, you saw it was a message from Jake:

Jake: "Hey darlin', just wanted to check in before I hit the sack. I miss you. Hope you're doing okay. Love you."

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you. You quickly typed a response:

You: "Miss you too, Jake. Everything's fine here. Get some rest. Love you."

After sending the message, you put the phone back on the nightstand and snuggled deeper into the blankets. The combination of Jake's love, the support from Max and Chuck, and the promise of the new life growing inside you gave you a sense of peace.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, but for now, you allowed yourself to relax and drift off to sleep, feeling a sense of hope and strength that you hadn't felt in a long time.

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