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its-the-pilot · 8 months

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Waves | Rooster x Reader

| Waves Masterlist | Masterlist |

My first Top Gun fic, please be nice and enjoy!

Summary: Fourteen years after leaving without saying goodbye, Bradley Bradshaw comes back into your life. (Mav's niece!reader)

Warnings: swearing, adult banter

Length: 2k words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Working on this as a series, let me know what you think and if you want to see more!

Message or comment to join the taglist!

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Chapter One

“Bradshaw, as I live and breathe.”

Bradley immediately recognized the voice behind him without needing to turn around. He shook his head before downing the shot of bourbon in his hand and throwing his next dart, scoring 13. He’d never claimed to be good, but the unwelcome distraction didn’t help. “Hangman. You look… good,” he replied flatly, turning to face his fellow aviator.

Both men were wearing their service whites, customary for the mixer held for TOP GUN students the night before beginning training. “Well, I am good, Rooster. I'm very good. In fact, I am too good to be true,” Hangman gave his usual smirk as he picked up Rooster’s last dart from the table and threw it, hitting the bullseye without even looking. “Didn’t think they let old timers in.”

They had met a few years earlier in flight school, and they instantly had a rivalry of sorts. Bradley had been several years older than the rest of the pilots in the program, due to not being able to attend the Naval Academy like he wanted. It took him years longer than it should have to become an aviator, and there was a bit of a chip on his shoulder because of it. Hangman, cocksure as ever, had instantly picked up on that weakness and exploited it to the best of his ability, pointing it out every chance he got. Some things never changed.

“Didn’t think they let assholes in either, but here you are,” Rooster shot back, taking a long pull from the beer on the table beside him before moving to gather his darts off the board.

The younger man chuckled, the insult seeming to roll off him like water off a duck’s back. “C’mon now, Rooster, we’re old buddies! Some older than others,” He smirked, sneaking in another jab as he patted him on the back. “Don’t take it so personal.” Hangman did a quick once over of the bar, his grin still firmly affixed to his face as he noted the number of women in attendance for the evening. “Plenty of delectable dessert options tonight, why are you holed up over here all by your lonesome?”

“I’m here to fly, not fuck my way through Coronado.”

A boisterous laugh escaped the tall blonde’s mouth. “Someone doesn’t know how to take advantage of a situation when it presents itself. Your callsign really is fitting.” Straightening his uniform, Hangman’s eyes locked on to a pretty woman approaching the bar. “If you can’t get laid in Whites, you just don’t know what you’re doing. Watch and learn, Rooster.”

Bradley rolled his eyes and turned back to his dart game, draining his beer as Hangman walked away. As fun as it might be, he had no desire to watch him make a fool of himself in front of an entire bar with his cocky attitude.

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

You recited the drink order for your table a few times in your head as you walked up to the bar, raising your hand to get the bartender’s attention. Your coworkers Kendra and Hazel had wanted to come out tonight, knowing that the new crop of TOP GUN candidates would be here, dressed to the nines. You hadn’t been interested but they wore you down, telling you they would pay for your drinks if you just kept them company for a few hours. You secretly hoped it wouldn't take them long to find a couple guys to take home, so you could get on with your uneventful evening of laundry and prepping for work.

“3 beers, 3 vodka shots,” you ordered, passing a $5 tip across the bar. Sliding onto a barstool as you waited, you made a cursory glance around the bar and groaned to yourself, shaking your head. You couldn’t understand what the appeal was, most aviators had more balls than brains and were just looking for a quick lay.

It only took a minute of waiting for your drinks before you felt a warm, solid presence accompanied by a pair of hands resting on the bar top on either side of you, covered in white sleeves. “Not interested,” you said in a sing-songy voice, not even needing to look up to know it was a new TOP GUN aviator standing with his chest pressed gently against your back.

“Not even gonna give me a chance?” He asked, his southern drawl coming out as he leaned close to your ear.

You turned as much as you were able with his body so close and gave him a look, your eyebrow raised. He was handsome, tall and blonde, with striking green eyes, but his uniform was enough to turn you off. “Nope. I don’t date aviators.” Lord knew you had a lifetime’s worth of experience with them.

Your uncle Pete “Maverick” Mitchell had raised you from the time you were eight years old, after your parents died in a car accident. Growing up around Navy pilots gave you an aversion to them, and in your line of work, that was more helpful than you could imagine. You worked with aviators day in and day out in your job as an Aerospace Psychologist, and getting personally invested with the pilots would have consequences.

He chuckled, leaning back only slightly to allow your movement as his eyes traveled over your body. You wore a cabernet colored maxi dress with wedge sandals tied to your feet with white ribbons, like pointe shoes, and you had never felt more exposed than you did right then as he licked his lips, looking at you like prey. “You’re in the wrong place then, darlin’. We’re all aviators around here.”

“Well aware,” you sighed, turning back to the bar and waiting for your drinks. When the bartender approached and set your drinks down, you smiled warmly at her. “Thank you, Penny.”

The older woman grinned back, always happy to see you. She’d known you most of your life, though she was in and out of it at the will of your uncle, a typical flyboy incapable of settling down. You would never understand why she kept coming back to him after he broke her heart so many times. “Who’s your friend?” she asked, looking him over briefly. Penny knew how you felt about Navy guys, but she enjoyed teasing you.

“Not my--”

“Lieutenant Jake Seresin, ma’am. Callsign Hangman.” He offered his most charming smile as he cut you off and lifted his right hand from the bar to offer it to Penny.

You immediately took the opportunity to duck under his arm, grabbing the drinks on the bar in front of you. Penny laughed as Jake watched you slide away from him and head back to the table with your coworkers. “Better behave, she’s the owner,” you called back, your hands full of glasses.

“A pleasure, Lieutenant,” she took his hand and shook it before wiping down the bar where your drinks had just been. His eyes followed you across the bar, and she snapped the back of his hand with the towel. “You won’t wear her down. She’s got a million reasons not to go anywhere near Navy guys. There’s plenty of other fish in the sea.”

When you got back to your table, you snuck a glance back toward the bar, watching Penny give Jake what she was sure was a warning about you. He didn’t look phased though, and within minutes he had moved on to another girl a few seats away at the bar, repeating the same move he had done with you.

“Predictable,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as your coworkers chatted, rating the various aviators in the bar. You largely ignored them as you took a long drink from your beer, looking out the window at the sun setting over the ocean when you heard the tinkle of piano keys interrupting your thoughts. The old upright in the bar hadn’t been played in as long as you could remember, usually the only time you heard it at all was when someone got too drunk and fell into it.

From your seat you could only see the back of the man playing, but you could tell he was an aviator. Dressed in his service whites, his broad shoulders were pulled back with perfect posture as he tapped away at the keys, getting the feel for the instrument before he started playing an all too familiar song.

“You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain, Too much love drives a man insane…”

The sound of his voice made your stomach flip as if you were in a F/A-18. “No fucking way…” you breathed, not taking your eyes off of the back of the man’s head as he played.

“What?” Kendra asked, stopping her conversation with Hazel to turn in the direction of the piano player, then back to you, confused as to your reaction.

You didn’t answer as you stood, your steps cautious as you made your way across the bar in his direction. It couldn’t be. It had been nearly fifteen years since you last heard from him, the night he left for the last time.

Without saying goodbye.

“Jesus, Bradshaw! Not this song again! Is it the only one you know?” Hangman complained, not far from the piano and chatting up what was probably his fourth girl of the evening. Hearing his name was all the confirmation you needed.

Bradley wasn’t deterred by Hangman’s whining, instead he just continued singing, the bar joining in. He had always been good at being the center of attention when he wanted to be.

“You broke my will, but what a thrill, Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!”

Moving closer, you slipped into his line of sight without a word, a combination of emotions you didn’t understand bubbling up inside of you. He looked just like his father from the pictures you had seen, but at the same time he was still the teenager you had known so long ago.

“I laughed at love ‘cause I thought it was funny, You came along and…”

Looking up, his voice trailed off and his fingers faltered on the keys, making a sour note as he made eye contact with you. There was a long, awkward moment of silence as the entire bar watched on, curious as to what was happening.

He couldn't believe you were standing in front of him. The last place he had expected to find you was anywhere near anything having to do with the Navy, even if it was just a bar. And now here you were, staring at him as if you were seeing a ghost. Though he supposed he didn't look too much different. “You look good, Dimples.”

Your breath hitched in your throat at the nickname, and before you knew what you were doing, your hand reached out and slapped him across the face as hard as you could. The same hand flew to cover your mouth as you gasped at the realization of what you did. He didn’t immediately turn his head back to face you, and it made you feel even more nauseous.

It was so quiet a pin could drop. Embarrassment flooded over you and your eyes moved around the bar frantically before landing back on Bradley. When you realized his eyes were still on you, a sob only muffled by your hand escaped before you turned and ran out the back doors to the beach, barely stopping to get your purse and tell your friends you were going home on your way out.

There was no way this wouldn't be the talk of North Island tomorrow.

It remained silent until the door to the deck slammed shut behind you, then people started whispering amongst themselves, stealing glances at Bradley. Hangman had a smug grin on his lips as he stepped up behind his fellow aviator, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he leaned down to speak quietly.

“Damn, Rooster. I thought I was the only one who could earn that level of ire from women. Kinda hot, right?”

He shoved Jake’s hand away and stood, grabbing his cover off the top of the piano before heading toward the door you had exited from. “Fuck off, Bagman,” he snapped, hoping you hadn’t gotten too far.

Chapter Two

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x oc #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley bradshaw fluff #bradley bradshaw fic #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #top gun fic

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garfield-mug · 5 months

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Can I request a Bob blurb? Maybe he has a really hot girlfriend and nobody believes him until they meet her? You can do whatever you want with this!

A/N: for the purposes of this story, the daggers are permanently stationed in san diego. idk if this really fits the request, but i look at bob and immediately think that man can dance, so....

also, the squad gives bob a bit of a hard time in this one, but i promise they love each other lmao and the length of this may have gotten away from me, but i had fun, so it's okay lol and this isn't proofread bc i'm tired so excuse any spelling errors (i'll stop talking now byeee!)

(p.s. see if you can spot the movie reference, 10 bonus points to whoever points it out)

Word Count: 2.2k

Content Warnings: none unless you don't like dancing ;)

Cheek to Cheek

Bob knew he wasn't really a "ladies' man." He was rather quiet and reserved, keeping to himself most of the time. He wasn't cocksure and forward, like Jake. He wasn't a goofy, shameless flirt, like Bradley. He didn't consider himself shy; he wasn't afraid to engage in conversation or make friends. Bob just preferred to sit back and observe. He liked to watch and listen, getting a good read of every room he walked into. Watching and listening was how he noticed you.

You were a sight to behold. Bob reasoned that you had to be new to the club because he would've noticed you before.

Bob doesn't get much downtime, but when he does, he likes to spend it at the San Diego Swing Dance Club. Since he was little, Bob loved to dance. He remembers his mother teaching him a basic waltz when he was about seven. Gliding and twirling around the living room on top of his ma's feet are some of his fondest memories. He started ballroom classes when he was around twelve (he wanted to impress his date to his very first dance) and fell even more in love with the art. His repertoire grew and grew, having meticulously memorized different styles (paso doble was his favorite). He still loved dancing as he grew older, able to turn on the charm as easy as he knew the moves. He loved the way dancing made him feel. Bob never felt more free than when he was drifting about the dancefloor, leading his partner. He thought it was the closest you could get to flying while staying on the ground.

That's why, when he noticed you, he knew he had to have a dance. Thankfully, his regular partner, Julie, understood and agreed to the switch for the night (she was a great wingwoman). For as often as he was in his head, Bob usually never got nervous. He was nervous approaching you. He remembers it like it was yesterday. It was Lindy Hop night and you were wearing grey striped slacks, a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up to your elbows, and an old, beat up pair of white slip-on vans. He was in his usual button down and slacks. One look at you and he knew he was a goner. You looked a bit disheveled, hair haphazardly put up and out of your face, making small talk with a few other members of the group. He thought you looked ever so slightly out of place and that it was so, so endearing.

Eventually, he worked up the courage to ask you for a dance. It did take more than a few pep talks from Julie to get him to go over to you, but she didn't have to literally drag him there, so it was a success. He asked for a dance, holding out his hand. You said yes.

One dance turned into two, then three, and eventually you'd danced the whole night away. You'd exchanged numbers before going home and then you weren't just meeting once a week at the dance club. You were making time to see each other whenever possible. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. It had now been six months since you and Bob made it official and you couldn't be happier.

Now, it made sense with his job and his general personality why the rest of the Dagger Squad hadn't known about you. They'd had conversations about their love lives often, but Bob had never really volunteered much information. You two had a good thing going and he liked to keep good things to himself for a while. Plus, the conversation rarely ever got turned his way. Bob was... very unassuming. The rest of the squad, except for Nat, never really inquired much about Bob's love life. It's not like Bob was purposely keeping you from his friends— it just never really came up. Nat was the only one who knew Bob was seeing someone and she was keeping it close to her chest out of respect for her friend and WSO, but also in the event that it spawned a bet. A bet she would surely win.

Eventually, one evening at the Hard Deck, the Daggers were all discussing their love lives once again. Mickey turned to Bob and asked if he was seeing anyone.

"I am, actually." Bob felt 5 more pairs of eyes snap to him, a collective "what?!" buzzing in the air at their inquisitive looks.

"You're seeing someone?" Jake asked, partially stunned. Bob wasn't offended, he knew he presented as a bit of a wallflower, and he was okay with that.

"What, you jealous, Bagman?" Bradley couldn't help himself. Jake's gaze snapped to the other aviator, challenging. Despite them both being on... better terms after the uranium mission, they still liked to jab at each other. Jake was usually better at it— slow, persistent needling while keeping a calm and collected facade. Bradley was more direct, favoring an immediate reaction over slow buildup.

Before Jake could respond, Bob cut in, turning the focus back to him.

"Matter of fact, I am," He sat a little straighter, dusting his pants of remnants of the peanuts he was snacking on. Natasha took a swig from her beer to hide the sly grin that was threatening to break across her face.

"Romantically? You're seeing someone romantically?" Reuben questioned.

"Sure am." Bob pushed his glasses further up his nose. He was thinking about you and how he wished you'd been able to come out tonight. You had talked to Bob about coming by to meet his friends, but scheduling conflicts always arose.

"What's her name?" Mickey asked.

"What's she look like?" Nat played into it, ignoring the pointed look Bob shot her way. He was still thinking of you, particularly about how darling you looked when you writhed underneath him, but they didn't need to know about that. Instead, Bob refocused, a dreamy smile taking over his features and a rosy blush creeping up his neck, landing on his cheeks. He couldn't help but look at the ground for a few moments, then he relayed your name. It felt so natural falling from his lips. The squad was eager for more information.

"She's just... perfect. She's smart and funny and so, so beautiful. She's got these eyes that just... and her smile?" Bob sighs, he actually sighs.

"I don't buy it." Jake is the first to burst the bubble. "I mean, we ask you what she looks like and all you give us is "oh, her eyes, her smile"? No way," Jake throws back the rest of his drink. Mickey and Reuben nod, signaling their agreement. Natasha smiles devilishly to no one but herself.

"C'mon, Bagman, he's clearly telling the truth. I mean, look at him. He's actually lovesick." Bradley chimes in. He knows what a man in love looks like.

"Yeah, it's kind of disgusting," Javy pipes up, firmly siding with Bradley.

"Well boys," Nat claps Bob on the shoulder. "Looks like we have a bet on our hands." She watches the men around the high-top table, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Hundred dollars in the pot says Bob's mystery girl is real. You in?"

Nat pulls out five twenty dollar bills, placing them in the middle of the table. Bob watches in amusement.

"Steep price, Natty, but I'll bite." Jake throws his wager in as well.

Eventually, everyone put some money in the pot, much to Nat's satisfaction, even if she would have to split the prize money.

"Alright, alright... When and where can we meet your lovely lady?" Jake asks Bob, who is glancing down at his watch.

"Uhh, this Thursday at the San Diego Swing Dance Club. Seven-thirty, sharp. Wear something nice, but comfortable." With that, Bob was throwing on his jacket and out the door, headed home to see you. He wouldn't have left so abruptly, but you'd sent him a text and he wasn't going to keep you waiting.

The Daggers were even more perplexed. Well, all except for Nat, but the rest didn't need to know about it.

"San Diego Swing Dance Club?" Reuben was taken aback. Jake was thoroughly amused.

"Oh I have got to see this now."

The week flew by, and eventually it was Thursday evening. You were excited to finally meet Bob's friends, he talked about them so often. You'd be lying if you said you weren't a bit nervous, fretting over your outfit and hair more than usual, not to mention your makeup.

"Babydoll, you'll look beautiful no matter what you choose." Bob had been sitting on your bed for the better part of an hour now, as you agonized over your outfit choice.

You sighed, coming to sit next to him. "I just want to make a good first impression." You rest your head on his shoulder.

"I promise they'll like you no matter what you wear." Bob presses a kiss to your temple. You take a deep breath and close your eyes.

"I'll go with the plaid pants then."

Bob huffs out a laugh, "Alright, baby."

The Daggers arrived at seven-thirty, sharp. Just like Bob had told them. Nat sent Bob a text, letting him know that they'd arrived. He excused himself from the group to collect the rest of his friends. He was excited, happy to share one of his passions with the people he called friends. He was also happy to finally introduce his girl to the rest of his friends. Bob made his way over to the rest of the squad, clustered awkwardly by the main entrance of the dance hall.

"Glad you could make it!" Bob pulls Natasha in for a hug and greets the rest of the guys in a similar fashion.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Bobby." Jake says, eyes sweeping the room for a lady to take home for the night. Bradley and Javy were doing the same. Mickey and Reuben had brought partners for the evening— a double date.

The group fell into their usual rhythm, easy conversation and a few friendly jabs here and there. Almost forgetting the reason why they were there. Almost. Jake was just about to bring up the fact that they still had yet to meet Bob's mystery girl, when the intro to Thurston Harris' Little Bitty Pretty One started playing from the bandstand. It was jive night, which just so happened to be your favorite. Scanning the crowd, your eyes found Bob talking with his friends. 'Well, it's now or never,' you thought, and you were beelining towards your boyfriend so you could make it onto the floor for the first dance. Bob was just telling Nat about this new recipe he tried out for dinner when he felt a tug on his arm. He turned to look at you and smiled.

"Bobby c'mon, can't miss the first dance!"

He looked back at his friends, "Be right back," and Bob was off to the dancefloor with you. The Daggers watched as he whisked you away, stepping into a seamless jive. You felt like you were positively flying, floating through the air, feet touching every cloud. The way you and Bob danced together was something special. You could read each other in a way most dance partners wished they could. Feeling the music, keeping in time with the rhythm, anticipating and adapting to every move the other made. Improvisation was the purest form of art, the amount of trust placed in your partner is unlike anything else. You and Bob had something special, there was no denying that, especially as you were twirling across the floor.

"Who knew he could move like that?" Javy had to pick his jaw up off the floor.

"They make it look so effortless," Reuben looked utterly amazed.

Jake had to admit, he was impressed. Game recognizes game and damn it, Bob Floyd had game. It really was always the quiet ones. You were pretty, and you seemed fun. You seemed like you'd be good for Bob, even though they hadn't technically met you yet. Jake couldn't even be mad that he'd lost the bet. What he needed now was to learn how to dance like Bob because apparently, that was a great way to meet a lady. You and Bob were out of breath when you rejoined the group, introductions going a smooth as ever. You like the squad and the squad liked you. By the end of the night, you and Bob had shown everyone how to do a basic jive. Reuben, Mickey, and Javy caught on quickly, feeling comfortable enough to join the people out on the main floor. Bradley and Jake needed... help. Nat was managing, wanting a bit more time to figure the steps out before trying them on the floor.

Before everyone knew it, it was ten o'clock and the band was saying goodnight. You and Bob were saying your goodbyes, ready to head home. Once you and him were out the door, Natasha turned to Bradley and Javy.

"Alright, we split this three ways and make sure to absolutely rub it in Jake's face." Nat divvies up the cash and Bradley and Javy take their cuts. Javy gives a curt nod and a smile before walking to his car.

Bradley turns to Natasha. "Can I walk you to your car?" He offers his arm.

"Sure," Nat smiles and accepts.

#robert bob floyd #bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd fic #bob floyd fanfiction #robert bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #robert floyd x reader #top gun maverick hangman #tgm #top gun: maverick #tgm fic #my fic

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sarahowritesostucky · 3 months

Text

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 3399

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains background/minor themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, self-harm, and alcohol abuse.

Series Masterpost for all chapters

2. Hazelnut Ganache Tart

Mary does sober up during her shift.

She feels kind of miserable, so she’s thankful that it’s a slow Monday. She’s also vaguely ashamed of how she’d shown up to work. It’s a new low, even for her. And then someone had seen her and called her out on it. It’s mortifying.

The encounter with Bucky preoccupies her thoughts all day, and she winds up burning a batch of croissants as she daydreams. She’s more careful after that, taking extra care with the assembly of her hazelnut ganache tarts.

Focusing on the intricate details of the pastries, on executing them perfectly, helps her to calm down and forget about the embarrassing encounter. For a little while at least. Alcohol would be better, and by the time she’s clocking out she’s already thinking about getting home so she can have the relief of a drink.

Or ten.

If anything, she throws back the first few even faster than usual, eager to wipe the memory of what’d happened that morning out of her mind.

Bucky, she thinks acerbically. What a stupid name.

And the nerve of him! To just assume those things about her. Has that loser never seen somebody hungover at work before? It's quite the presumptuous leap from that to … submissive.

‘Dominant’. Mary rolls her eyes. He could’ve just been making it up. Probably was. She’s certainly never met anybody who’s just come out and announced it the way he had. What a bizarre thing to do. It’s not like it’s something people go around broadcasting. It’s … well it’s a mental disorder, isn’t it?

They’d mentioned it in her Psych101 class back in college, but she’d dropped out before that semester was halfway through. Unable to help herself, she pulls out her phone and googles “Dominant,” then navigates to the Wikipedia page on “Dominant and Submissive Personality Disorder.” She winds up getting sucked into reading about it. But as soon as the article starts talking about the submissive subsection, she closes the browser in discomfort.

She remembers back to the encounter with that guy—Bucky. He hadn’t seemed like there was anything wrong with him (other than being bossy and intrusive as fuck). But where the heck did he get off throwing out psych diagnoses at total strangers? Mary's cheeks grow hot the more she thinks about his cocksure attitude and the pitying way he’d looked at her.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Doll.”

She remembers how he’d spoken to her, how he’d called her out on her behavior and spoken so assuredly, like he could see right into her. Like he knew all her secrets. It’d been unnerving.

Her pulse quickens as she thinks about it. The way his big hand had felt, wrapped so securely around her wrist. And how he’d squeezed her wrist—slowly, gently.

“Oh, honey. I think you are.”

Fuck, it’d made her knees go weak.

Sighing, she takes the bottle of vodka and her glass to the couch and plops down, using the remote to turn the tv onto YouTube. She starts up a playlist that she can lose herself in—music videos, stuff from all the tv shows she likes, edits, fail compilations, whatever. Maybe it’s pathetic that this is how she spends most nights, but there’s no one that she has to impress. And she can’t bear the feeling of being alone in her brain otherwise. At least this way everything is warm and entertaining. She pours herself a little more, throwing off the ratio of vodka to ginger ale, but the taste doesn't bother her nearly as much once she's on the third or fourth drink.

The bottle’s half empty, and she wonders if she’ll finish it. She’ll be drunk again at work tomorrow morning, if she does. Yikes. She’ll stop after two more. One more. Two more.

The bottle’s three-quarters empty and an Adam Lambert music video is blasting on the tv. He really is the most underappreciated vocalist of his generation! And he’s got such nice makeup, too …

Maybe she won’t even go to work tomorrow, Mary thinks manically. They don’t appreciate her there anyway. Maybe she’ll just stay here and drink the rest of this and enjoy herself until… until…

The bottle’s empty and the party’s in full swing. No worries though, she thinks, she’s got some of that nasty cheap rum in the back of the pantry. Blecgh. She orders DoorDash that she doesn’t really have the money to be wasting on, puts on makeup while lip syncing to the tv, and thinks about calling Chase to tell him what a loser he is and how glad she is that they broke up. Haven’t had to use this concealer to cover up anything but acne in over a year.

Rum isn’t so bad when you mix it with orange juice!

She gets on a depressing video kick. She bemoans the state of politics, then society, the world, her life. She goes through all the old pictures in her phone and gets pissed at the ones with Chase in them. She imagines running into her ex somewhere random, with a super hot new boyfriend on her arm. She imagines the dumbstruck expression he’d have on his face, and how she’d introduce her way-hotter new boyfriend to him.

Ohmygosh, Chase! How’ve you been?! Oh me? I’m doing great. This is Bucky, he’s a surgeon-slash-green beret-slash-musician. Ha! Yeah well we just got back from two months in the Bahamas, so that’s why we’re so tan.

It’s the rum, Mary decides. It makes her sad. She stops feeling fun and happy, and starts feeling lonely and morose. She finds the cardboard sleeve that Bucky had written that phone number on. Hell no, she’s not calling it. She’s got the internet. There’s tons of info online about this stuff that she can look up. Besides, it’s just curiosity. She’s not like him. She's not like that.

She googles BDSM disorder and clicks on the first search result, which winds up being porn. That’s a mistake, but then she decides to watch the porn anyway, because it’s sexy—plus, it's sort of educational, right?

The porn starts making her even more sad. She stares at the paper cup sleeve in her hand while some girl gets the tar beat out of her backside. The last video had been an over-the-lap spanking video—Mary had liked that one. But this doesn’t look nice at all. Especially when the guy switches to hitting her with a friggin’ stick.

Is this the sort of stuff Bucky likes to do? Jeez.

She has the receipt that Bucky wrote his own number on, too. On impulse, she pulls out her phone and starts to enter a new contact.

“Asshole Dom Bucky,” she mumbles as she types the words and saves the new contact number with a giggle. It takes more than one try, her fingers not hitting the right keys very often, but she gets it done.

She comes very, very close to calling Bucky, but winds up calling the hotline phone number instead at the last minute. She’ll whine and cry to them instead, she thinks. At least they’re strangers. She can tell them anything. It’s confidential, anonymous. They can’t tell anyone what she says.

A woman picks up the phone and greets her in a calm, friendly voice.

“Hello, my name is Sharon. I’m a volunteer counselor at the National Submissive Crisis Intervention Hotline.”

“Whatever,” Mary slurs. She is so drunk. She gulps more of her rum and OJ, thinks about going and getting the little razor blade that she only thinks about picking up when she’s wasted. Sometimes it feels nice to do something outrageous when she’s this sad. Nobody can stop her from it, and that feels nice, too. “M’not having a crisis,” she mumbles.

“Okay,” Sharon says, voice still so pleasant and accommodating. “What’s your name?”

“Mary.”

“Okay Mary. I’m glad you called. Would you like to talk to me about what you’re going through? We can talk about anything you’d like.”

“I’m not a freak,” Mary blurts out. “You know? Submissive, or whatever. I’m not. M’normal.”

“Okay,” Sharon says calmly. “Well just so you know, I’m not here to judge. I’m on the spectrum myself.”

Mary blows air through her teeth disdainfully—though deep down, she guesses it’s nice to know that. "So what," she mutters. "You're like, a submissive?

“I’m actually dominant, but I’m not going to do anything to try and boss you around or control you. I’m just here to listen to and support you.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her glass, feeling like she doesn’t even want to finish drinking it. She’s tired … And sad. “Kay,” she mumbles. “Well I’m not. Like that.”

“You don’t think you have a designation disorder."

Designation disorder, pfft. Mary scoffs again. “Yeah, no.”

“Then why did you call tonight? Do you need someone to talk to?”

She grumbles unintelligibly, then repeats herself when the woman on the phone prompts her. “Some guy just gave me this number. He said that I was.”

“He said that you were what, Honey?”

“… Submissive.” She says the word quietly, embarrassed of it. “But what does he know, right?” She huffs. “Fucking stranger. He doesn’t know me.”

“Okay. What are you going through tonight?” Sharon asks, still sounding kind but also mildly worried. “Do you want to talk about that? About what made you call the hotline?”

Mary sniffles, feeling stupid. She’s suddenly tearing up and she doesn’t even know why. She wipes her eyes hastily and takes another big sip of her drink. “I’m drinking,” she says tearfully, bluntly, expecting to be scolded for it. "M'drunk."

“Okay,” Sharon says. She doesn’t sound mad. “Okay Mary, are you by yourself right now?”

“Yeah. M’in my apartment.”

“Okay. Okay. … Do you drink alone there often?”

Oh. That hits hard for some reason, and suddenly Mary’s crying, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to hold back a sob.

“Mary? Are you there, Honey?”

Honey. Mary cries harder. That's what Bucky had called her. She likes hearing it, but also she feels desperately sad because it reminds her about how she’s all alone and doesn’t have someone to call her ‘Honey’ or ‘Doll’ or ‘good girl’. And nobody’s ever spanked her over their lap, either.

“Mary?”

“Yeah,” she says, voice all choked up. “Yeah, m’here.”

“Okay. Good.” Mary can hear the sound of typing on the other end of the line. “How are you feeling Mary? Do you think we could make a plan together? Maybe drink some water and get you ready for bed? It’s late. You must be tired, huh?”

Mary sniffles. “Um,”

“It’d make me so happy if we could make a plan, Mary. Would you do that for me?”

“... Yeah.”

“Oh, that’s so great. Good girl.”

Mary’s face crumples. She’s not a good girl. She’s not good at all!

Sharon hears her crying harder and asks worriedly what’s wrong. “Mary,” she says, voice sharper—stern-sounding. “Mary, you need to talk to me and tell me what’s happening.”

“Sh-sharon?” Mary cries. “What I tell you is private, right? You won’t tell anyone or report me, will you?”

“... The goal is to keep you safe, Honey. I’m here to help you do that,” Sharon says. “You can tell me anything you want to. I’m here to listen, remember?”

She sounds so kind and caring, so steady, and it makes Mary want to tell her everything. It’s been so hard, not having anyone to talk to. And anyway she’s already crying at this point, and it feels good in that way that crying sometimes does, so she might as well. It’s confidential.

She takes a deep breath, takes another big gulp from her glass, and starts spilling her guts to this stranger named Sharon over the phone.

Bucky’s phone rings early in the morning. He groans as he wakes up, grumpily reaching for it. He peeks at the red numbers of the alarm clock over on Steve’s side of the bed: 4:30 AM.

If this is a robocall this early in the morning, he’s going to be tempted to commit capital murder. “Hello?” he rasps.

“Hello. Is this, um … ‘Bucky’?”

It’s a man’s voice. Bucky squints blearily up at the bedroom’s popcorn ceiling. “Yeah? Who is this?”

“Sir, my name is Officer Santiago with the New York Police Department. I’m calling from Holy Cross Hospital.”

“Hospital?” Bucky says, more alert at hearing that. “You’re a cop?” Why is a cop calling him? Bucky can’t think of a good reason.

“Yes Sir.”

He sits up in the bed. Beside him, Steve starts waking up, too. “Mmph, who is it?” he asks sleepily.

“What’s happened?” Bucky asks, dread already curling in his gut, imagining who could be hurt or dead at the hospital that they’re calling him at this hour …

“We have a woman here,” the officer says. “She called a crisis hotline. The operator was worried about her safety, she contacted us.”

“Those hotlines are supposed to be confidential,” Bucky growls.

“She was making threats of self harm. We had to pick her up. We’ve got her down here at the E.R. at Holy Cross. Involuntary hold.”

“Wait a minute ... What was the hotline she called?” Bucky asks, as the thought occurs to him and he hopes he’s wrong. “It wasn’t a D/s hotline, was it?”

Beside him in the bed, Steve is grimacing and rubbing his eyes. “Babe?”

“Some submissive crisis line, yeah,” the officer says.

Bucky’s heart sinks. The woman from the coffee shop yesterday. “Mary,” he murmurs, remembering how neat and cute her handwriting was on her nametag and on the side of his to-go cup. “Shit,” he says.

“She’s stable. She has minor self-inflicted injuries but nothing life threatening. We found your number in her phone.” Here is where the officer starts to sound uneasy. “You’re listed here as her, um … her Dom.”

“I … am?” Bucky’s eyebrows climb his forehead. He hadn’t thought the girl would keep his cell number, let alone save him as a contact. He’d thought he’d pissed her off, that she was too proud, too mortified.

“Babe, who is it?” Steve asks, awake now and frowning at Bucky in concern. He can tell something’s wrong. Bucky shushes him with a gesture and Steve’s face flashes with annoyance. Bucky gives him an apologetic wince.

“Specifically, you’re listed under ‘Asshole Dom Bucky’.” The officer clears his throat uncomfortably. “She wouldn’t give us a number to call, and department policy is to contact designation partners, if possible.”

Bucky opens his mouth to tell the officer that he’s not Mary’s partner, that he doesn’t even really know her. But he stops himself, thinking about what happens to subs who get dragged into the E.R. and go unclaimed. “I … yeah,” he hedges. “Yeah, that’s me.” After an awkward pause and feeling guilty for the lie, he checks, “You said she’s okay?”

“Yes. She’s pretty upset, and intoxicated. But the doctor checked her out and said she’s okay. Well … physically-speaking,” he adds awkwardly. “They’re ready to admit her.”

“Psych unit?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky sighs. “No. That’s not good. It’d be better if I came and got her.”

“Okay.” The officer sounds relieved. “She uh, she’s pretty upset.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that,” Bucky says. “What does that mean? Is she frantic?”

“She’s angry,” the officer says, and it sounds like he’s trying to keep his voice low now. Bucky wonders if Mary is somewhere in the near vicinity of the officer. “Drunk and super pissed. Belligerent.”

“Is she restrained right now?” Bucky asks, worried.

“Yeah. Cuffed to the bed.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “She shouldn’t be restrained by a stranger. It’s not healthy for her. Can't you just watch her?”

“Sorry Sir, that’s our policy when we bring in the involuntary cases. We have to do it.”

Bucky is already up and heading to the closet to grab clothes. “Okay,” he says curtly. “I’m coming to get her. I’ll be there within the hour.”

The officer thanks him and Bucky hangs up. He looks back at Steve, who is propped up on his side and staring at him in something close to shock.

“Buck, what the hell?”

Bucky winces and goes back to the bed. He climbs up and takes Steve’s hand. Steve isn’t on the spectrum, but his dynamic with Bucky has always been more on the subservient side. Bucky sees that he’s not mad, is just waiting for an explanation, so he takes a breath and tells him, “You remember the woman I told you about? The one at the coffee shop?”

Steve nods. “The lemon tarts.”

“Yeah, her. She’s in the hospital. A psych hold, that was the NYPD on the phone. Somehow they think I’m her Dom, and she’s being difficult. Won’t give ‘em a name of anybody they can release her to.”

“Oh, man.” Steve is well-educated on the intricacies of Designated people: He’s married to one, after all.

“Baby.” Bucky rubs the back of Steve’s hand. “I have to go get her.”

“You don’t ‘have’ to,” Steve corrects. He looks at Bucky knowingly. “But you want to, don’t you?”

Bucky doesn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or not. “I … yeah. I want to.” He and Steve have talked about the possibility of bringing another person into their marriage one day, a submissive to meet Bucky’s needs. Steve has always been open to the idea, especially since they’re both bisexual.

“We gonna try and make that work out?”

Bucky scoffs. “That’s way down the road.”

“But it would be good for you too, wouldn’t it?”

He shrugs, and then admits, “Yeah, probably.” Bucky’s what’s known as a ‘high needs’ dominant. The condition affects him more severely than it does others. He tries to figure out if Steve is at all upset by what they’re discussing. “It’s crazy, I know,” he says. “Not exactly what we always talked about. We don’t even know her.”

“But she’s in trouble,” Steve says. “And you were drawn to her.”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah. I don’t think she has anyone else to go to. And they’re talking about admitting her to the psych unit.”

“That’s not good, is it?”

“No. They won’t have the knowledge to help her. Places like that tend to use meds first and ask questions second.” He sees Steve’s wince and nods. “It could definitely make things worse.”

“What’s wrong with her? Subdrop?”

“I don’t know. Cop said she was self-harming and drinking. That’s all I know so far.”

Steve nods. “Can I go with you?” he looks hopeful and ready to jump into action, and Bucky is surprised—even though he knows he shouldn’t be.

“Babe, you want to do this? Bring her home? Take care of her?”

Steve nods, stalwart. “We should try. It’s the best option she has. If it works out, great. And if not … well we can get her the help she needs, at least.”

Bucky nods. Steve is on-board. He doesn’t think this is stupid, or crazy. Bucky’s chest swells with affection for him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Steve leans over and kisses him on the mouth. “I trust you,” he says. “And I love you.”

Bucky smiles, stupidly in-love with his husband. “Love you too, Stevie.”

They kiss once more, and then Steve is pulling back and clapping his hands together. “Alright! Let’s get going if we’re really doing this.” He hefts himself out of the bed, moving with purpose. “She’s waiting for us.”

Us, Bucky thinks happily, realizing that it’s true: They’re husbands—soulmates, in his opinion. They’re partners, an inseparable unit ever since the day they got married, and they do everything together. So it’ll be the two of them taking care of this woman together. They’ll be a team, each giving her what she needs in their own ways. And maybe it’ll go somewhere, who knows? Thinking about it makes Bucky feel settled and satisfied inside, the barest ghost of the sort of feeling he gets from domming someone.

Impulsive as it is, he’s got a hunch that this is the right decision.

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watchfuldeer · 6 months

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tom, far from being a consistent logan mirror, is a culmination of everything logan loathes and deliberately so.

tom is a sensitive ivy league gen x’er constantly on the verge of tears whose only way of playing with the big boys is by clinging to their coat tails. he’s an efficiencies guy - a professional neurotic. he is not a dealmaker in the cut-throat world of business. he can schmooze, but even then not well. if logan had a dying wish, it would have been ��not tom’.

the contrasts drawn between lukas matsson, logan’s actual chosen successor, and tom make this obvious. despite being only a year apart in age and an inch apart in height, lukas is shot as this imposing, muscled giant at home atop mountains, his bodily integrity and virility never in doubt for a moment. he has blood to spare, whole blocks of it. tom by comparison is frequently physically humiliated, shown as submissive, diminished and soft despite his broadness, and cuckolded. endlessly worried about his own masculinity, tom’s attempts to play the role of powerful (heterosexual) businessman are undercut by how badly he performs it. when his actual personality asserts itself it is as anxious and homoerotic as lukas’ is cocksure (lol) and confidently homosocial.

this anxiety is evident in the finale, when it almost undoes him completely. when logan kicked someone, it was always a test of the love his children, his partners, and his colleagues had for him. it was manipulation, sometimes even subconscious, to specifically encourage dependency. tom on the other hand does not kick just to see if someone comes back. the person we see this with most is of course greg, whom he kicks when the strain of tom performance gets too much and it bursts out of him towards greg in ways he can’t control. it’s not because greg is an easy target, but rather because he cares about greg so much. afterwards, he is capable of apologising and of trying to make genuine amends. logan is not.

tom and greg’s fight in the finale is a distillation of the problems they have post-logan’s death, typified by a fearful tom not recognising that greg is all in with him and lashing out to pre-empt what he sees as the inevitable loss of greg. by america decides, they’re on better terms, which is likely a result of tom and shiv’s huge public breakdown of communication. greg spots his opportunity and does everything possible to reassure tom, up to and including betraying shiv to kendall, that he’s on board with their partnership. yet as soon as tom is put in a position of great stress and paradoxically ego (blesses shiv and lukas - gets offered the top job) on top of a week of insomnia, he returns to his baser instincts. the lie to greg is to try and prevent the one thing that is unlikely to have happened - a betrayal - and it causes greg to betray him unwittingly.

their fight is tom’s unstoppable fury at himself meeting greg’s immoveable stubbornness. the slap heard around the world is greg at last saying you don’t get to treat me like that, because i’ve done everything for you. greg knows he could hurt tom so, so badly and always chooses not to. the sticker meanwhile is both an apology and the admission of love that greg has been searching for all season. it’s ablution, confession and contrition from tom in one, and greg’s response to it is not simple relief or thankfulness. he will always be able to come back, and tom will always have him back.

tom doesn’t treat people like logan treated people, and i would say he is fundamentally incapable of doing so. this is a distinct weakness in the world he’s in, which he’s only been able to navigate with the help and attention of greg. logan barely tolerated tom’s campiness, his mannerisms, and even his affection, and tom is very far from embodying anything that logan did as a man.

#tomgreg #tom wambsgans #greg hirsch #logan roy #succession meta #succession #somehow couldn’t find anywhere to shoehorn in dog motif #but imagine it’s there. it was just a long post already #also i didn’t talk about the differences between logan lukas and tom’s misogyny #but i have thoughts on that too !!!#meta on meta

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autisticlancemcclain · 1 year

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fic rec friday 12

welcome the the tenth fic rec friday! where, on friday, i rec five of my favourite fics.

1. Hands Held Higher by @glassaliceart /orphan_account

For most of his life Lance has dealt with a confusing and hard to pronounce name. It all started in Elementary school with a mix up and now he can't seem to shake the name McClain no matter how hard he tries.

this fic is so underrated fr. yall know how much i love a good hunk & lance fic, and this one especially was so awesome. AND its hunk pov and hunk-centric, which is truly a treat. it’s also the source of my acronym-name lance headcanon!

2. Courting Your Pants Off by @bleusarcelle

The Prince takes a bite of the pastry and melts under the taste, eyes closed in pleasure as he chews. Being childhood friends with the town’s baker is not bizarre, if Keith has a say on it, especially when he gets these kinds of bonuses.

“Amazing, right?” Lance says, his grin turning into a soft happy smile, eyes softening as they stare right at Keith and Keith might choke on his favorite pastry if Lance doesn’t look away the next two seconds.

Being in love with the town’s baker, though? Now, that’s tricky in Keith’s opinion.

[Or the one where Prince Keith's finally gathers up the courage to start a courtship with the person he has known since he was five years old and prays that his feelings are returned from said baker best friend.]

friends to lovers my beloved. prince keith my beloved. bleusarcelle my beloved. all of this fic is truly my beloved like everything about it is so sweet and fun and flirty i just UGH i love it so much. i also love it when everyone knows keith and lance are in love except for lance its so so funny

3. beautiful and blue by spartana (faveour)

Allura frowns, her brow furrowing. “Shiro wasn’t the first person I brought back to life.” Everyone in the rooms turns silent, watching the Queen of Altea. “Did...did you not know this?”

Lance feels his throat go dry.

Pidge is the one to break the silence, their curiosity finally getting the better of them. “So...who was?”

The Altean blinks. “Lance.”

omega shield fics. yall know im obsessed with them like!! i will never ever understand why that was brushed over!! it is an unbelievably important scene. this fic does such a good job of addressing it honestly

4. His Prince In Chains by @bangbangbeefkeef [EXPLICIT]

Prince Lance's secret rendezvous with his bodyguard mean everything to him. Tonight, he wants to make a deeper connection, in more ways that one.

i will never get over galtean klance w prince lance and bodyguard keith like i am so obsessed with them. genuinely a peak dynamic. i love how smushy this one is and the royal speak and the devotion it just gets to me

5. Patience Yields Pleasure by @sleepea [EXPLICIT]

Lance looks Keith over, appraises the sight of him with a pleased smirk. Then, he presses the pad of his thumb into the soft skin of Keith’s lip, draws it down. Keith parts his lips in response, opening his mouth just so.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Lance breathes, punctuates it with a roll of his hips. Keith moans, low and rough and desperate. “And you can have it.”

i LOVE bossy lance. seriously hes so everything to me. i love bossy and cocksure lance and soft whipped flustered keith. its everything to me honestly

that’s it for today!! i’ll see y’all back next friday for the next fic rec post!!!

#this one is a little more klance focused than usual i think #oh well #fic rec #fic rec friday #klance #lance #lance mcclain #keith #keith kogane #soft klance #prince keith #galtean klance #hunk #hunk garrett #hunk & lance #langst #omega shield #team as family #longpost

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thevindicativevordan · 1 year

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What would you like to see in Superman: Legacy? Do you think James Gunn is the right person to ''bring back'' Superman on big screens?

My top 10 wants:

Don't use Lex or Zod as the villain

(Credit to David Jamison for the art). Take a look at all these guys, this doesn't even cover all of the options, there's a whole bunch of them we've never seen on the big screen. Pick one of them, preferably someone on the smaller end of the power scale so we didn't repeat MoS starting Superman's career with the entire city being destroyed, and advertise that it's a villain we haven't seen before. Right now Lobo remains the most likely choice for Legacy, but if instead they're using him for Supergirl, I want Metallo or Parasite.

2. Don't make Clark stoic, morose, or navalgazing

After how boring Cavill's incarnation was, I'm ready for a Superman who is assertive and aggressive. He's young and eager to prove himself, or he should be. Let him show joy in using his powers, more scenes like Cavill's First Flight where Superman is clearly having a blast being himself after all the years of hiding. Let him talk shit to bad guys, after the last two guys were self-doubting Jesuses, I'm ready for the new Supes to be more cocksure. Yes we get that Superman can be a burden, but it can be a pleasure too. Remind the public of that side to him.

3. Draw on the animated Metropolises for inspiration design wise

The DCAU, the League of Super-Pets movie, the Tomorrowverse, they've all given us some great looking Metropolises. Look to them for inspiration in designing the DCU Metropolis. For all it's other failures, I thought Superman Returns had a cool looking Metropolis too with all the Art Deco architecture. It's totally possible to make a Metropolis feel like it's own character, same as Gotham, but it requires abandoning "realism".

4. Take inspiration from the Snyder fight scenes but reign in the collateral damage

youtube

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know how I feel about the DCEU. Doesn't mean there aren't aspects of that which I think are worth building on. If there's one thing Snyder did right it's showing that Superman fights can be just as thrilling and visceral as Batman and Spider-Man. Only problem is that the level of destruction was way too over the top. Don't vaporize downtown Metropolis and you should be in the ballpark for what's acceptable. While you're at it, instead of destruction porn, why not make Superman be the one who comes away looking like hell? One thing I miss from the Raimi Spider-Man films is that Peter and his suit always got torn up by the end to show how tough the fights were. Do that to Superman instead of the city this time around. Give Superman black eyes, bruises, and bleeding cuts, I assure you that would be more impactful to the audience than seeing another CGI building explode.

5. Make a new Superman theme and costume

Trunks, no trunks, s-shield on the cape, solid red cape, Fleschier s-shield, classic shield, something new, I don't care. I'm pretty open to Superman's suit being changed, and in fact I don't necessarily want a "classic" Superman suit. My only big grievance with Cavill's suit was the washed out colors and needing a thicker belt around his waist, but otherwise I thought his was fine. I would love to see the Gleason designed Reborn suit serve as the inspiration for DCU Superman suit. I've seen some people ask for the Williams' theme to be used, and that's a hard no people. Use it as a shorthand for Superman in general, but every new film Superman needs their own theme, just like Batman and Spider-Man.

6. Give me the Fortress of Solitude, Krypto, and the more fantastical elements

If Krypto doesn't show up in Legacy, then we know he will be in Supergirl's film at least. Gunn naming All-Star Superman as a big influence should hopefully ensure we get these fantastical elements, especially since Gunn himself loves this kind of obscure memorabilia (he's the one who introduced the Infinity Stones into the MCU after all). Since we're jumping into a Superman who has already started his career, I want to see the Fortress of Solitude with the Intergalactic Zoo, and the Phantom Zone projector, and the Kryptonian war suit, and all the crazy trophies Superman collects over the course of his career. Superman Robots are a must.

7. Use Jimmy

I know you've read Fraction's Jimmy Olsen mini Gunn, don't let me down! Go with Jimmy as Clark's surrogate younger brother and demonstrate why the two of them are good friends. Jimmy is perfect as the sort of comic relief character who still has emotional depth that Gunn loves.

8. Either kill the Kents off or keep them sidelined for now

We've seen his Smallville upbringing and the Kents giving him advice countless times already. Kill them both off this go around or at the very least keep them sidelined. I'd rather see Clark treat Jimmy as his confidant over his parents for this incarnation.

9. Keep the shared universe at a distance

I don't want Legacy to end up like The Flash, where the main character is just a vehicle to take us along for a trip to see other DC properties. I don't want Batman or any of the other DC characters showing up. Ideally I would prefer none of them were even referenced at all, but I recognize that's delusional. Sure you can have people make a passing mention of the freak in Gotham or a speedster in Central City, or a green guy in Coast City, but nothing more than that please.

10. Get Lois right... but don't put her and Clark together at the start

After the DCEU completely rushed the pairing, I'd rather see a slow burn this time around. Pairing Clark at the start with someone else would certainly upset quite a few people, but it's what I would do. Have him and Lois be rivals/competitors at the start, he dates others at first as does she, but ultimately the two will of course get together. I would put Clark and Leslie together, that would make things interesting for when she becomes Livewire. For Lois if they're not doing Metallo in the Legacy, maybe have Corben pursue her while she fends him off? That would be good build up for Legacy 2. Just make sure the Clark and Lois actors have good chemistry together because the Cavill/Adams interactions were so painfully stiff.

#superman #superman legacy #james gunn #dcu #all star superman #action comics

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terrence-silver · 8 months

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Terry’s reaction, in different eras, to beloved getting lots of genuine male attention

Contrary to popular fandom belief, I don't think Terry Silver would enjoy flaunting his beloved on his arm even while everyone else wants them and makes no secret of it. Like, he might appear cocksure, confident and nonchalant on the surface, but the man's a rollercoaster of emotions, schemes, trauma, violence, extremes and unhinged tendencies beneath all that.

---

― Like, for example, Twig might be beaming because for once, he feels like he's one of those cool kids dating someone universally well liked (and desired) even while he simultaneously might feel immensely slightly threatened beneath all that and might go to even more extreme lengths than usual to shower beloved with gifts, acts of service, material goods, his own affection and love and just stuff in order make sure their attention never, ever strays from him because he's just doing so much for them with an effort to cloud their eyes from everyone else pining after them. Because he's making sure to buy the assurance of their loyalty, if nothing else, because admittedly, there's a bit of pathological desperation involved on his behalf and the conviction that if he doesn't overcompensate with people, he'll lose them forever. Sure, he feels like he's hit a milestone. Graduated and grown from his awkward Vietnam years to someone who's won the heart of a person everyone wants but can never have, but deep down he has this bubbling, overwhelming anxiety that he isn't strong enough or just plain enough to keep beloved now that he actually has them, fueling his own paranoia and doubts even more so and pushing him into what he sees as 'building himself up to new heights' in every sense to be, as he sees it, tough enough to maintain what's his and not end up being a loser, kickstarting his trajectory into fanaticism, or rather, the fanatical pursuit of power, strength, control and dominance, because if you're the biggest, baddest shark in the metaphorical pond, Twig figures nobody would ever dare take what's yours. Right?

― Terry in the 80's would almost prefer, that in the off chance of beloved being a woman, that all this sexual and romantic attention stemmed from other women, because that's something he wouldn't necessarily view tremendously unfavorably, if you get my meaning --- hey, it's the 80's, after all. In fact, he might find it titillating and perversely amusing in a way he doesn't see other men, even though, irregardless of beloved's gender, genuine interest to someone his will always boil down to him viewing it as a declaration of open war no matter the combination of suitors that come forward and what their own respective genders and sexualities are. It is just that Terry Silver, with some era appropriate machismo added to the mix, might see other men as a legitimate threat to someone his, and so his pride in flaunting beloved on his arm could fester really quickly and he's capable of doing a 180 degree shift in no time at all and going from a worldly man of leisure freely showing off his paramour to a downright barbarian who is just as capable of shutting them inside of his mansion so nobody can look at them ever again. Nobody but him, of course. Such is his duality. Terry is capable of being as confident as he is absolutely and unbelievably volatile, so naturally, the realization that every man around them wants beloved quickly goes from a source of triumphant pride and cool poise to him just feverishly plotting revenge against everyone and everything while beloved's basically under house arrest. The general public knows Silver was seeing someone special at one point in time, but they haven't seen them in...oh, I don't know, years?

― For old man Terry, all these other guys surrounding beloved like so many vultures might be a reminder of some very sour topics that only serve to fuel his most destructive tendencies, like for example, the idea that he's past his prime. That he's no longer a young man and that he's contending, with possibly other younger men, even though, he simultaneously doesn't believe anyone measures up to him and as such, he's both extremely egoistic and yet extremely hard on himself at the same time. Terry might also be haunted by the idea of mortality. Time being fleeting and beyond his control. His desires to have met beloved sooner, when he was younger, tough, sharper, and when he would've made every would-be admirer cover from beloved even faster. When he would've been more of a threat. More of an alpha, if that makes sense. Viewing everything from a tribalist and slightly primal point of view, he might feel the reason why so many men surround and try to act way too friendly with beloved in the first place is because they smell weakness. Weakness from him. That they see it in every grey hair. In every wrinkle. That they smell blood and that they're moving in on his turf. After all, lions do it to each other in the wild when the leader starts getting old and losing authority over his pride, his young and his females. People are no different. As such, it only has Terry taking extra precautions to tuck away the thing he loves most in this life and that's beloved. That, or ensuring the lives of these assholes are destroyed one by one. How about both? Both is good.

#terry silver #kk3 #cobra kai #terry silver twig #twig terry silver #80's terry silver #old man terry #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #tw; fear of mortality #tw; era appropriate attitudes #tw; sexism #tw; jealousy #tw; control issues #tw; machismo #tw; toxic masculinity

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wyn-n-tonic · 2 years

Text

Invisible Strings - I

Word Count: 3.1k+ Relationships: Robert "Bob" Floyd/OFC!Georgia. Warnings: Hangman being a shithead. Author's Note: I fell into the Top Gun: Maverick fandom very quickly and was absolutely taken with Bob. I can't get him off of my mind nor do I want to. I had this idea regarding a sibling-like relationship between him and Phoenix, more than just a flight partnership, fostered by the friendship his girlfriend starts to build with her after they finally meet for the first time.

This is written in the third person, allowing me to write scenes for just Natasha, just Bob, just Georgia or any of these three with any of the others who make an appearance in this series. Feedback is forever appreciated.

Bars like this usually smell like shit but this is… something else.

People say sailors smell like fish but it honestly depends on what they sail for. Some smell like fish, others smell like a lazy day on the water. This, however, is the unique stench of stale bodies who have only bathed in recycled water and the sea for weeks on end.

For the unacquainted, it could be overwhelming. But when the port establishments count no the money—and trouble—brought in with it, it’s nothing more than the smell of a beer stained tin can. Something missed for the ones who are home too long and fidgety for the ocean again.

In the middle of it all stand the ones who take the air above the water, huddled around two ends of an old pool table and staring each other down—three against three where it used to stand five against five.

“So, what’s she like, Babyface?” The tall one, broad shouldered and cocksure, asks. “You never talk about her—hell, we’ve never even seen a picture of her”—he leans over the table and lines up his shot, eyes forward to the man in glasses—“is she even real, Bobby Boy?”

The rack breaks as the cue ball hits the others, scattering them around the worn green felt. “I mean”—he moves around the table, eyeballing his next shot—“she has to be on some level, it wasn’t just your mama calling you Bobby on the phone that night but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t shake hands on a bet with Coyote that it was probably a phone sex line—oh, don’t give me that look, there’s no shame in sex work, Babyface, this is the United States Navy.” He spreads his arms wide as his ball goes to pocket. "We’re the proudest sluts in America.”

Bob’s face is well past beet red at this point, approaching something closer to the color of blood that stained the snow somewhere they probably shouldn’t have been last week. For some reason, the mention of Coyote turned his stomach more than the mention of his sex life. That reason's the same one they’re home a week early: mission failure. Most of them go out on time but Rooster went after Coyote and Phoenix went after him, giving Bob no choice but to tag along for the ride.

The brunette to his left with a perfectly placed bun leans over the table beside him, eyes following the line of the shot in his sights. “She won’t hate me will she?”

Phoenix—Natasha. Five-foot-seven of nothing but hard lines, wit and incredible speed. Admiral once said that if she were Han Solo, Bob was Chewbacca, the most in-sync team he’d ever seen fly with something akin to a twin-like link allowing thoughts and intuition to flow between them. If she hadn’t dodged right and around the moment half a word left his lips, he’d have been the one laid up in the infirmary awaiting transport to a San Diego hospital at 30 knots per hour. Or worse. If it wasn’t for Natasha.

“No,” he shakes his head, scratching the shot entirely to look up at her. “There’s no way she could.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure,” he tells her. “Why the sudden questions?”

Phoenix throws a thumb back towards the door with a nod. “‘cause she’s been sizing me up from the door for the past five or so minutes.”

But when Bob follows her gesture, all he sees is a wall of khaki-clad broad backs staring back at him, three identical buzzcuts at varying height screaming that they’re not long out of recruit training.

Hangman steps to his other side, the sound of a sharp breath being pulled through tight lips and exhaled into a low whistle. “Is the future Mrs. Robert Floyd on the other side of that young, pent up, wall of seamen? Fuck.” He looks over at Bob and smiles, “better go save her before she hears something dirtier than, ‘gee willikers, sweetheart, you really butter my biscuits.’ You need assistance with it?”

She steps to the side of the men, a sweet smile on her face as she tries to move forward with a polite rejection, but the one on the far left blocks her path, prompting Bob’s feet forward with Jake not far behind him, whistling over to the piano for Rooster’s attention. The music stops as he pushes himself up from the bench, grabbing his half-drunk beer from the dusty top and taking long drinks in turn with every stride.

“—come on, sweetheart, just give us your name and let us buy you a drink. You can’t tell us you’ve got somebody waiting here for you, not done up like tha—“

“Seamen Recruits,” Rooster barks, the bottle hanging from the tips of his fingers. “Do we have a problem here?”

Three sets of flat, beady, bloodshot eyes turn towards the lieutenants, widening in realization as they shake their heads.

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

“No, sirs,” the last one finally says. “No problem here, sirs. Just offering to buy a beautiful woman a drink.”

“Really?” Rooster asks, arms crossed over his chest. “‘cause it’s looking a lot more like you’re harassing her—who, by the way, is a lieutenant’s wife. You know the rules, boys.”

“Sir, we can—“

“Beautiful, can is just the word we love to hear,” Jake claps a hand down on the shorter man’s shoulder. “Penny, my dear!” He yells over the crowd, silent as they watch the interaction. “Ring the bell three times, we’re getting several rounds on our generous crew mates here tonight!”

Cheers erupt as the bell rings out, the men deflating in stature with nothing more said as they walk away, Rooster following behind shouting orders to the bar to order the most expensive items on the menu.

“Hi, handsome.”

Seresin lets out a low whistle. “Hello, yourself, gorgeous,” he says back to the redhead in low-cut, yellow sundress. “It's no wonder Babyface didn’t want to tell us about you.”

“Babyface?” She looks to the man in glasses. “That fits.”

“Hi, Peaches.”

“Peaches? That’s one hell of a name, Mrs. Floyd.”

“You can call me Georgia,” she says. “You must be Hangman.”

Bob’s taken her hand in his as she moves closer, fitting the small weight of it against his own as his eyes dart back and forth between the two. Jake smiles and claps a hand on Bob’s back. “Your girl has a callsign before you, Bobby Boy. You think there’s anyway I can tempt her away from you?”

She scrunches her nose and squeezes tightly to the hand wrapped around hers. “Don’t set yourself up for heartbreak, I heard you’re not a big fan of being shown up.”

He stares down at her before releasing a breath on a laugh and squeezing the back of Bob’s neck. “You heard right, Mrs. Floyd. But I don’t think I would either way, you seem like just the kind of trouble our Bobby needs.”

Trouble? She mouths to Bob as the other man walks away. “Is that what you need?” She asks him, the gap between their bodies disappearing as he pulls her close to him, the hand he holds now angled behind her back.

“Yeah,” he whispers into her ear. “I think that’s what I need.”

“Or maybe a little less,” she suggests. “You’ve never asked me to pick you up in a bar before, Bobby. Don’t tell me they’ve got you drinking now.”

He lets out a breath, a shiver running down his spine as the index finger of her free hand drags up the bridge of his nose before meeting the bridge of his glasses and pushing them up to his forehead before leaving them to rest on top of his head.

The noise of the crowd drones out to a low buzz around them as she presses her lips to his, a soft, sweet brush.

“We have an audience,” she says when she pulls away, nodding over his shoulder to the ones around the pool table staring. “Is that Natasha?”

“Tall brunette? Looks like she wants to kill a man? Or five?”

“She looks scared shitless, actually.”

Bob laughs, pressing his lips to her cheek before letting his glasses fall back to position. “Come on,” he starts in their direction. "She's really nervous to meet you.”

Georgia pulls him back. “She’s nervous to meet me?”

“Yeah, she thinks you’ll hate her,” he says, eyebrows pinching as he watches her tuck her bottom lip beneath her teeth. “Do you hate her, Peaches?”

She shakes her head, wavy strands of red bouncing with her movement. “I don’t know her.”

“Well, come on.”

She tugs him back again as he steps forward.

“Bobby, what if she hates me?”

“Baby, how-uh”—he reaches out to push a strand of hair behind her ear—“how long has that been on your mind.”

“A while,” she says. “It’s not like I’m jealous, I just…” She trails off as she looks over his shoulder again to the pilot that holds his life in her hands day in and day out.

“Just what?”

Brown eyes dart back to his blue ones and she shakes her head again. “I just don’t know how to tell somebody I’ve never met that she means the world to me.”

That tight lipped, mouth closed smile of his spreads across his face, wide-eyed and ecstatic the way he was on graduation day or the first time he’d taken her to bed when they were not quite sixteen. Proud, like he’d done something right.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Phoenix saved my life the other day, that’s why we’re home early. Couple of our guys had to be taken for medical help, we got leave a week early because of it.”

“Why—“

“Peaches, I think she’s wondering something similar. You asked me once if I let any of them really see me. I let her because she, more than anybody, needs to know who and what I have waiting for me.”

On the other side of the crowded room, Jake leans over to Rooster. “Who the hell knew Floyd’s girl was so hot? I mean, you know, by my standards. What is he packing that he gets to go home to that at the end of a mission?”

“Respect, to begin with,” the only woman in the group responds, arms folded over her chest as she watches the couple walk toward them. Watches as Georgia loses her steam and clings closer to Bob with every step, her fingers intertwined with his.

“I’ll tell you what, though,” Jake leans in. “If my high school girlfriend looked like that, I’d be fine with her being the only one I ever fu—“ He loses the last word with an elbow to his stomach, breath punched out as the couple joins them.

“I-uh”—he clears his throat, looks from her to the group and back—“everybody, I’d like you to meet Georgia. Georgia, this is Rooster, Fanboy, Payback”—he points to each one individually—“you already met Jake and this is—“

“Natasha,” Phoenix says, stepping forward and putting her hand out. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Georgia.”

Georgia searches the other woman’s face, eyes darting from the outstretched hand and back to the brown eyes that stare back at her and then, finally, to Bob. Who she could’ve lost—never seen again, never hugged again.

She steps away from him then, forward toward the taller woman, and pulls her into a hug.

Phoenix goes rigid, a moment for her normal human functions to kick back in. She isn’t Navy Barbie Natasha in this moment and even if this type of interaction is weird for two strangers, they’re not really that—at all.

“Thank you,” Georgia says, letting go to step back towards the one she really came to see.

And then the night goes on. An hour passes with stories, each round of drinks bringing out the grittier and grittier details of the close calls and less than savory encounters through every directive received or port docked. Georgia’s eyes go wide with every one, especially with the things Hangman describes.

“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Floyd, your boy doesn’t ever get up to no good with us.” The toothpick between his teeth bounces with the words, dangerously close to falling before he finally takes it between his fingers to point across at Bob. “The only trouble Babyface over here gets into is forgetting to return a book he borrowed —still waiting to get my copy of the Kama Sutra back, buddy.”

Crimson creeps up the length of Bob’s throat, grip squeezing into Georgia’s hip as he swallows thickly. “I—“

“A picture book, Jake?” Georgia asks. “Why does that not surprise me? And all of these little statements you’re making, trying to embarrass him, or me, are really just making you look like an asshole.”

“Mrs. Floyd,” he holds his hands up in surrender. “I promise, that’s not exactly what I’ve been doing. I am pleased, however, to know that somebody in this relationship isn’t afraid of saying a bad word or two. Like I said, I think you’re exactly the kind of trouble our Bobby needs.”

Georgia looks around at the crowd, at the way it’s thinned in uniforms and grown in civilians, and then finally back at the one she came for. “Everybody and their loved ones here tonight,” she begins, eyes darting to Jake’s. “Out to dinner or making plans. And then there’s you, all alone and shitting on other people to make yourself feel big. That’s why they call you Hangman, right?”

A beat passes and then another, that shit eating grin on Jake’s face growing wider. He leans forward, hand on his chest. “I didn’t mean to get under your skin, sweetheart.”

“Baby,” Georgia turns to Bob while pushing up to stand, “I think it’s a good idea if I go, get some sleep before our flight tomorrow.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No,” she leans down and brushes her lips against his, hair falling to curtain them from view. “Don’t get marked AWOL, baby, I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, Natasha,” she looks up and over Bob’s head. “It was really nice to finally meet you.”

“And you.”

Bob looks to Jake as Georgia’s fingers slip out of his hand, eyebrows pinched as his eyes dart over his face.

“I like your girl, Babyface,” he finally says, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest. “She's snappy.”

He starts to speak, half a retort on the tip of his tongue as he raises his hand, but shuts his mouth when Phoenix elbows him. “Don't bother, Bob.”

Bob pushes himself up and walks after Georgia, halfway to through the crowd to the door already.

“You are such a dick,” Natasha rounds on Jake. “How do you go from standing up for her against harassment to being the one harassing her?”

“I'm hurt, Phoe,” he responds. “It wasn’t harassment, it’s not like I asked her if the carpet matches the drapes. All playful fun, I mean…look at them”—he gestures towards the couple now, Bob’s hand resting low on Georgia’s waist—“maybe he’ll fuck her hard enough that it makes room for a sense of humor in his body.”

“You're a pig,” Phoenix says.

She finishes her beer as she stands, slamming the empty bottle down on the table before skirting around it to follow the sounds of Hangman oinking in her direction.

“I said you didn’t have to come with me.”

“That's not fair, Peaches,” he tells her. “I haven’t seen you in months and you leave, obviously upset, and tell me I don’t have to come with you. Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you, Bobby?”

He looks her over, features washed in the dim light of the parking lot—looks for any new freckles or scars, any hint of change in her appearance. Nothing new, even down to the red rings of crying, covered with just enough concealer, around her eyes. Bob shrugs. “Because I’m not more like Hangman or Rooster?”

She laughs, holding onto the steering wheel to pull her leg beneath her in the seat as she turns toward him. “You think I want you to be like Hangman?”

Bob shrugs. “Yeah, you know… confident.”

“You are confident,” she says. “But you’re also not an asshole, the two traits don’t have to coexist. His bullshit is a mask just as much as your silence and reservation is when you’re on duty.” She leans across the center console towards him. “I honestly think it’s really cute that they think you don’t cuss.”

“That's because I only do it when I’m between your legs or”—his hands cradle her face, thumb rubbing across her bottom lip—“if you’re between mine.”

“Bobby, you can’t talk to me like that tonight,” Georgia says, leaning back. “You only have permission to be at this bar and the base until tomorrow at seven and I can’t fuck you in this car.”

His shoulders raise to his ears and drop down again. “Why not?”

“Because the last time I tried to do that, you freaked out thinking you’d get a citation or court-martial.”

Bob nods. “I do have a perfect record.”

“You smell like twice baked tin foil.”

His shoulder presses into the back of the seat, elbow planted beside the headrest and he rests his own head against his palm. “The last time you tried to fuck me in a car off base, I was living in the barracks with all the enlisted men.”

“Robert, watch your mouth.”

“I guess you didn’t hear me, Peaches,” he continues. “I only have one roommate now and he’s out to dinner with his partner, got special permission to leave tonight.” He holds her gaze, midnight blue eyes barely reflecting in the light, watching her put together this suggestion.

“O-or not,” he finally says, reaching down to adjust himself over his pants as he turns forward again. “We can wait, sweetheart. Another day won’t kill us.”

“What about your perfect record?” She asks. “What about your promotion?”

He shrugs. “Cyclone's been pretty easy on us lately. It’s not like we’re stealing one of the planes, the others have done worse.” He looks back at her, smirk playing on his lips. “I reckon if we get caught, the most I’ll get is a slap on the wrist. Maybe a lecture about how I haven’t made you an honest woman yet.”

“I thought we decided we didn’t need a piece of paper to prove our relationship to anybody?”

“Are you coming back with me or what, honey?”

Interested Parties: @pilothusband @green-socks @justjaclin @marvelousmermaid

#tgm #tgm fanfiction #jake 'hangman' seresin #robert 'bob' floyd #original female character #ofc #bradley 'rooster' bradshaw #natasha 'phoenix' trace #robert 'bob' floyd fanfiction #robert 'bob' floyd/ofc #top gun: maverick fanfiction

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regrettablewritings · 2 years

Note

Hi! May I request 2, 9, 12 and 13 for Poe?

Absolootely!

2) Who they want to please the most: Those boyish good looks and cocksure attitude make it easy to assume that the Resistance’s Gold Boy has nothing and nobody to prove himself to. However, this isn’t entirely true. Sure, he can be confident to the point of foolhardiness at times but it must be clarified that nearly everything Poe does (or attempts to do) is rooted in one way or another to his desire to see a task through and assure that whomever he’s doing it for is satisfied. Of course, the problem with that sort of ambition was just how stable it was; it was almost always assured to come back and bite the poor fellow at some point.

This was especially in cases where Leia Organa was involved.

Poe made no attempts to hide how much he admired the general, both as a leader and as a second motherly figure to him. And while his occasionally reckless attitude towards turning the tide would often be a thorn in her side, Leia knew deep down that this behavior was born out of love: The young man just wanted to see the war end and help to bring about a new era of peace and potential. It was admirable on a data pad, of course, but in practice . . . Suffice to say, she’d made it abundantly clear that she didn’t approve of it.

It might’ve taken longer than what she would’ve liked for the lessons to stick, but Poe did eventually yield and start acting more like the person she needed for him to be: A real leader, and not just some ace pilot who could fly in and out of problems. And for that, he was grateful: Leia Organa might not’ve been the one to teach him to fly, but it was through their bond that she was able to direct him towards a new purpose, one that the child version of him never would’ve imagined.

But with Leia gone, who was left?

His people, of course: Friends, chosen family, all one and the same to him after all they had endured together. He wants, no – he needs to protect them, to give them the life he knows they want and deserve. It pains him to know that it won’t be easy and that tough decisions have to be made in the face of it but at the end of the day, Poe genuinely wants to help bring people to happiness. He just can’t be the only one to deliver it, as much as he wishes he could.

9) What calms them when they're upset: If there was to be one word to describe Poe Dameron, the most apt would arguably be “passionate”. After all, it could be used in both the positive and the negative.

For the positive, it captures his dedication to whatever he puts his mind to; his smile that burned with the brightness of a golden sun; the infectious enthusiasm he tried his damndest to project to his crew. But for the negative, it carried just as much weight: The hits the Resistance took always seemed to hit even harder for him; the stress he bottled up was tenfold when compared to most others’ intake; and whenever that bottle finally cracked or straight up broke, how he’d respond could be fiery. He hadn’t done it as much as he marched onward in his adult years, but there had definitely been times in the past where his stress and anger got the better of him.

A mission he failed, a flight maneuver that resulted in more damage to his ship than what could be easily dealt with, grave news, and so on: His language becomes snappy and those gorgeous eyes of his would become icy cold. Occasionally, something would get damaged, be it something tangible or the overall vibe of the room in which he chooses to hover around in. Not helping his mood would be when someone (usually Leia) would have to pull him to the side and give him a firm reminder that he’s not the only one suffering. This wouldn’t be to diminish his feelings, but to instead remind him how he’s not alone in them: Everyone is just as upset as he is, and everyone wishes they could do more. He’s not alone in this. But he can’t keep acting out or else he will be, and people are relying on him.

They need to be sure that they can count on him. Leia needs to be sure that she can count on him.

Admittedly, he’d feel a bit ashamed upon grounding himself. Definitely embarrassed. But it’s something he keeps in mind whenever he feels the pressure inside rising.

This somewhat transforms once Leia passes, meaning that he relies more than ever on his peers to help ground him when he feels himself beginning to metaphorically rise to the atmosphere. In addition to this, however, he also tries to look more inward. That is, after all, where memories of what Leia and his own mother, Shara’s, voices are.

He can hear Leia, in her own brusque way, telling him to slow his ride and calm down. He can hear what he remembers his mother sounding like, reminding him that he needs to keep moving forward because if he dwells in whatever’s bothering him, he’ll never make it out. And while it may not necessarily calm Poe so much as it does motivate him to progress in spite of everything, it’s still a mechanism he turns to when he’s by himself.

In short, what grounds this high-flyer is being reminded of those whom he loves and knowing that he can count on them because they count on him.

12) How they sleep: When you are fighting in a war and especially are considered an enemy of the (tyrannical) state, you’re not exactly in a position where you can be especially picky about your sleeping arrangements. Not that Poe has ever been picky about such a thing. He’s not the most immediate of sleepers when compared to some, but he’s capable of eventually falling asleep if given an appropriate amount of time. Heck, give him enough time and he’ll eventually claw some rest out of a nap on top of gravel. It’ll be a very light sleep, of course, but that’s still a rather impressive feat all things considered.

When it comes to positions, he tends to sleep on his back. He usually has an arm tucked behind his head like a secondary pillow (or flat-out pillow if he can’t roll up a jacket). Light snores. If he’s tired enough, though, his mouth hangs open just enough to reveal his cute, crooked teeth.

13) What kind of parent they would be: When I use the phrase “Fun Dad”, what I’m referring to is Poe Dameron.

This guy is The Dad. In a modern setting, he’d be the guy to pick up his kid from kindergarten, buckle them up in the minivan, and go, “This is your captain speaking, prepare for lift off in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1!” And then safely pull out of the carpool lane while his kid gleefully squees and waves their hands in the air like their daddy is actually flying at the speed of light. The kind of dad who’ll take his kid to grab ice cream after the first day of school so they can tell him all about their day. The kind of dad who’ll bribe his kid into going back to bed if he lets them have half of a cookie while Mommy isn’t looking. (Mommy knows.)

But in the current setting? You know this man is teaching his kid how to fly as soon as his spouse says gives the okay (though he’s definitely reading them manuals and flight routines as bedtime stories before then). If flying isn’t their thing, he’ll be a bit saddened, but he’s not going to let that get in the way of them bonding. So then what are they into? He wants to know! They don’t know yet? He’s gonna help them find out!

I think part of what contributes to this enthusiasm is that as optimistic as Poe tried to be throughout the war, he still didn’t necessarily picture his life being like this. Or maybe he did, but it wasn’t until it actually happened that the weight of it all truly hit him. Either way, his kid is the absolute light of his life – the very best thing he ever did (and he only gives winning the war somewhat of the same credit because if he hadn’t, they might not’ve existed).

Speaking of, stories about the past are going to play a big role in his child’s life, be it from Poe telling them about his youth or about their late-honorary grandmother, or from their slew of aunts and uncles telling them about how Poe was during the Resistance. They’ll hear all kinds of stories about how brave their dad was, the crazy schemes he would get involved in – and unlike most kids, they would find it rather easy to believe, given that Poe would still hold most of the enthusiastic outlook as portrayed in the stories. Of course, he’s grown since then and doesn’t want his kid making the same reckless decisions he made.

However, that doesn’t mean he'll go overboard and shelter them: Mistakes, he’s come to accept, are a necessary part of growing up, and he doesn’t want his child to resent him for denying them the right to explore both the world around them and themselves. But if they wander too close to the edge, they can be assured that he’ll be there to pull them back into safety.

And, depending on how bad they messed up, scold them. (After which, it would hit him mercilessly that “Oh, sweet Maker, I’m becoming Leia.”)

Aaaaa sorry this came out so late but thank you so much for your patience!!!!

#poe dameron imagine #poe dameron imagines #regrettablewritings #character headcanons #poe dameron headcanon #poe dameron headcanons #Star Wars imagine #star wars headcanons

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justfranzz · 7 months

Text

A Ledge and the Sun

Ledge Gorman wasn't special.

Everyone knew that, most of all him.

His name wasn't really Ledge - it was Shawn. When he was sixteen years old, feeling insane with anonymity, he climbed out the window of his high school science class and walked along the concrete lip that jutted out of the wall.

His science teacher yelled at him to come in. His classmates, who didn't know his name (no one ever remembered his name), just watched.

Gray Meder smiled, punching another student in the arm and taking the two twenty dollar bills that were reluctantly offered. "Told ya the pushover would do it."

Shawn reached the edge of the lip. His fingers dug into the cracks in the brick wall, blood leaking from his fingertips where the skin scraped off.

His science teacher was still yelling, sounding almost in hysterics; he threatened to call Shawn's parents, call the cops, fail Shawn in the class, something.

Shawn gazed down at the ground below. He was only on the second floor, and the sports equipment shed was right below where he perched. It was only about a seven foot drop. He'd survive for sure, just might break a bone or two if he landed wrong.

Logic didn't make him any less terrified.

He glanced back one more time. He saw Gray's cocksure grin, the way the boy casually flicked his hand as if to say, Go on. Do it.

Shawn took one deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and jumped.

For a moment, he felt like he was flying, like the wind had swept under his armpits and lifted him into the sky. For a moment, he was a leaf, swirling and dipping and rising with the breeze, making the world his plaything.

Then he was falling.

Too late, much too late, Shawn realized that he had jumped too far. He was going to miss the shed entirely.

His foot just grazed the tin roof of the shed, jerking his ankle to the side at an odd angle.

Hot asphalt raced up to meet him.

Sharp, lancing pain as his arms shot out to brace his fall.

Hello, the asphalt said. So nice of you to join us. Won't you stay a while?

His head slammed into the black tar, and he was out.

When he woke up in the hospital, they told him he had broken his right wrist and three of his fingers, fractured his radius in two places, twisted his ankle, and gotten a mild concussion to boot. Everything hurt. For the first time, at sixteen years old, Shawn thought, I want to die.

His father picked him up. They didn't speak the whole car ride home.

When they arrived, his father spoke, his voice a harsh whisper. "Don't ever do something so foolish again," he said, eyes firmly locked on the front door, unable to look at his son.

His stupid, un-special failure of a son.

They didn't speak of it after that.

Three days later, when he returned to school, Gray slid a five dollar bill across the desk to Shawn. He stared at it for a moment, flexing his unbroken fingers, trying to ignore the aching pain that had wrapped itself around him like an old friend.

"You said twenty."

"Oh, did I? Must've changed my mind." Gray leered at him, greasy hair plastered to his forehead. "You didn't jump far enough, Ledge Boy."

No one remembered his name after that, either. He became Ledge, the crazy kid who had jumped from the second story for a measly five bucks.

They were right, he thought, staring out the window. He was a ledge. He wasn't a person. He was a decoration, just another brick in the wall, held together by glue and mortar.

He felt some kinship for the ledge he had jumped from. We're the same, you and I. See your cracks, there - look, we match. And he thought of the x-rays they had shown him in the hospital, the splinters and cobweb cracks in his bones. He was just another old, forgotten piece of concrete, forever fading into the background, never to be noticed.

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Two years later, at eighteen, Ledge was rejected for the first time. Her name was Mary Crosh. She had short dark hair, striking green eyes, and freckles like a constellation across her skin. Mary loved history, and she had a mind like a whipcord, quick and always ready to strike.

She did it gently, kindly - she had always kind of seen him as a brother - it wasn't him, she just didn't have time for a boyfriend right now - they could still be friends if he wanted? - he seemed sweet but she just didn't feel the same - it just wasn't the right time - maybe after they graduated…

Ledge wished she had been cruel. He wished she had taken the heart he offered and thrown it to the ground, spit on it, crushed it beneath her heel. Then, at least, he could hate her, could resent her; then he could say, "I dodged a bullet on that one! She wasn't worth liking at all."

Lying curled under his blankets at three a.m. that night, dried tear tracks heavy on his skin, Ledge thought for the second time in his life:

I want to die.

Two weeks later, when he walked in on her making out with the quarterback of the football team, Ledge lost a little piece of himself, a piece he would never get back.

But he knew, he had always known, that she would reject him. That she would end up kissing some football player.

Because he was Ledge. The kid who nobody remembered except for jumping out of a window, and even that was forgotten eventually. The kid who was as un-special, as anonymous, as generic and forgettable as anyone can be.

He was as lovable as the concrete ledge just outside the window, and every bit as cracked and broken.

—--------------------------------------------------------

Mary wanted to go to Southern New Hampshire University. They had a good history program, she said. She wanted to be a history teacher.

Ledge would be a teacher too, he decided. He would go to SNHU, and maybe he would have classes with Mary, and maybe then the time would be right. Maybe then she would love him.

There was lots of history in architecture, after all, and he was the oldest piece of walking concrete he knew.

She wouldn't love him. Not now, not after he got a degree, not ever. He knew that. But he didn't know where else to go. Bricks of concrete don't have dreams. Support beams don't make goals, cornerstones don't join clubs, wooden floors don't have career plans.

He didn't care much for kids, didn't know the first thing about teaching, but he could learn. He had to learn. He had nowhere else to go.

So he would follow Mary, and he would become someone who was more than architecture, and if she never noticed him that was fine, at least he would have a clear path. At least he would have a goal. At least he would have a degree and a job.

He looked up guides for writing college applications, pretended he knew what he was doing, that he was a normal high school kid applying for a normal school with normal hopes and dreams.

With an anticlimactic click of his mouse, the application was sent in. He let out a quiet breath, slumped back in his chair, stared at the little box that said "submitted."

He was a ledge, he was a shitty college application, he was a pile of dirty clothes in the corner of his room, he was a forgotten, half-drained can of soda.

Ledge turned off his computer monitor and went to bed.

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A week before his nineteenth birthday, Ledge got a letter in the mail from SNHU. He opened it with trembling hands, the scars from his once-broken fingers itching with adrenaline.

Dear Mr. Gorman… Thank you for applying to Southern New Hampshire… we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you… this year's selection has been competitive… cannot accept every applicant… honored that you considered us as one of your choices… respectfully…

Ledge didn't cry. He just tossed the letter in the garbage, all of his hopes and dreams going with it. He packed a duffel bag with his clothes and some of his favorite books, grabbed his phone charger, and left.

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At nineteen, he got his first job.

Working as a convenience store cashier all night - the graveyard shift paid better - no one else was willing to work it - reading whatever books he could get his hands on by day - cleaning his uniform at the laundromat - sleeping in his car because he couldn't drag himself up the stairs to his apartment - he dreamed of a shed he had missed once - maybe he could have fallen in love with it instead - green eyes and freckles haunted him - then he was waking up, putting on his uniform, going to guard the pretzels and the Coke Products and the shitty cheap sandwiches.

After three months, they hired a new guy, one who was willing to work the night shift. They didn't talk much at first, but there's not much to do for eight hours straight while the rest of the world is busy courting their dreams.

His name was Ben, and he was twenty-three, and he always smelled like cigarette smoke. They quickly found out that they were nothing alike. Ben was someone special - he played in a band, not a big one but they made some money from shows, not enough though, that's why he worked here, he had a girlfriend he wanted to propose to, but he didn't have the money for a ring or a wedding, that's why he got the second job.

Ben talked a lot. "Momma says I came outta the womb talkin'," he would say in lieu of an apology. "Jus' up n' babblin', right from the start. Ain't never been able to shut me up since."

After a few days, he finally asked.

"What's up with your name, kid? Didja get 'Ledge' from your momma, or did it find you?"

Ledge didn't answer. Ben waited in silence for a few minutes before a wordless agreement passed between them. The older man jumped into a story - something about a duck and a can of spray paint - seamlessly, as if the silence had never happened.

Ben didn't ask any more personal questions after that.

They spent their nights like that - Ben talking all night, Ledge just listening.

It saved him, in a way, all of the words. At first they were just that - words. But slowly, over months, they built up a little hearth in his chest, warming him from the inside. Ben was like the Sun, giving and giving and giving every day and never taking anything in return. He never expected anything back, didn't even expect Ledge to listen most days, and his carefree warmth restored something in Ledge that he had lost when he was sixteen years old.

For just a few hours every day, stuck in that cold, unforgiving convenience store, Ledge relaxed. He was no longer an impersonal slab of concrete, a pothole on the side of the road, a decrepit stop sign on an upaved back road.

For exactly eight hours, Ledge was a person. He was a boy, he was a book nerd, he liked the color red, he missed his father, he wanted to be loved, he wished he had gone to college, he wanted to play sports and be a jock and have sex and get married to a woman with a whipcord brain.

For the first time since he jumped, Ledge thought, I don't want to die.

The first time Ledge laughed, Ben froze, just for a split second. He jumped right back into his story as if he'd never stopped, but he didn't even try to hold back the huge grin that stretched across his face.

They became sort of friends, after that. They hung out after work - Ben would smoke a cigarette or five and talk about his girl, Delilah, and Ledge would just sit and listen, imagining short dark hair and green eyes.

"You can't even get it, until you've seen 'er," Ben would say. "She's somethin' else. Taller n' Mount Everest - six-foot-three - legs that go on forever, I mean forever, you could look at 'er for ten years and never get to the bottom - kisses like lightnin' man, lightnin' - don't even get me started on the sex - I'm gonna put a ring on her finger n' love her forever - I'd give 'er every star in the sky if she asked…"

Then, a month and a half later, they broke up.

"I was gonna propose, but she said she wanted to talk before I could. I thought, 'It's okay, I'll tell her after. S'prolly somethin' about the vacation we were plannin'.'" He paused, sniffled weakly.

"She wanted me to leave the band," he whispered, seeming dim for the first time since they had met. "She said she needs me to stay in one place. Wants t' settle down, for good. Says she can't handle me bein' on tour all the time, always bein' away from 'er… she even thought I was cheatin', man."

For the first time in the six months they had known each other, Ledge saw him cry. Not nice, pretty, quiet tears; ugly, sobbing cries that wrenched right from his heart and out his chest.

"I loved 'er," he gasped, face twisted like he was in unbearable physical pain. "I still love her. I wanted t' build my life on her, man. I wanted to give her everythin'. But… she… she asked for the one thing I can't give. I can't leave the band. Those guys are my family, man, they're my whole world. She asked me to choose between my heart n' my lungs, and I just couldn't do it."

They sat in the back for another hour like that, Ben crumpled in on himself like a withering flower, Ledge just sitting next to him in silence.

Finally, Ben grew silent, too exhausted to cry any more. He gazed dully at the polished floor beneath them, fingers running over the ring he wore, the one he had almost given to his heart.

"Thank you," he murmured into the space between them, red eyes meeting Ledge's. He nodded, opened his mouth, closed it. He didn't know what to say.

"My name is Shawn," he finally said. Ben sat up a little, and Ledge bit his lip, trying not to look at him out of the corner of his eye. If he thought too hard, or moved, or looked at the man next to him, he would lose his courage.

Ben waited.

"I jumped out of a window. Second story. I was in tenth grade."

Ben blinked, fingers stilling on the ring. "You- what? Why?"

Ledge pressed his lips together, reminding himself that it was okay, this was Ben.

"I… was desperate." He sighed harshly, and suddenly the words were bubbling out of him, and he couldn't stop. "My dad doesn't love me. He never has. Or, maybe he did when I was little, but he doesn't now. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted someone to remember me.

"This kid, he was stupid, it was stupid, he bet me twenty bucks I wouldn't jump out of the window. I… I thought my father would talk to me, if I did. I thought he would punish me, at least. So… I climbed out on the ledge outside the window and I jumped. That's- that's why they called me Ledge. It… stuck, I guess. Maybe with me most of all."

He told Ben about flying, and about Mary, and about how he was a ledge and a pothole and everything else, and about Southern New Hampshire University, and about not being able to cry, and about everything else he could think to say. By the time he was done, he felt full, like somehow instead of leaving his mouth the words had tunneled backwards down his throat into his chest.

Ben was quiet for a bit, before he offered a small, genuine smile. "I don't think you're a ledge, man. For what it's worth. I think you're a person."

For the first time in three years, Ledge cried. Ben cried again too, this time for his friend, wet sobs that sounded almost painful.

Ledge silently thanked whatever god may or may not be out there for giving him the Sun, for giving him this bright, warm friend who didn't care that he wasn't special.

As they cleaned up at the end of their shift, Ben sighed. "I'm gonna quit here," he said, staring down at the mop in his hands. "I was only here for Delilah… jus' to save up for the ring n' the wedding. I stayed here longer than I was plannin' cuz, well. You're here."

And he offered up another smile, the barest glimmer of his usual radiance shining in it.

"But now, I mean… I just don't got any reason to stay longer."

Ledge was silent for a few minutes, just taking this in. He had always known Ben would leave eventually. He was going to leave from the start. It was like he had said - he was only there to save for the ring.

Ledge sighed. Why was he still there? He had enough saved up to move to a better part of town, get a better job. But… he didn't want that. Not really. There was nothing waiting for him there but more work, more sleepless nights, more of being a ledge.

But still, maybe it would be better than staying here for the rest of his miserable life, rotting in one place like an old, forgotten tomato.

"I'll probably quit too," he murmured aloud. Ben stilled, looking very thoughtful for a moment. He continued to mop, slower now, every stroke full of intent.

"How would you feel about joining my band?" He offered it casually, like it didn't matter, like he didn't care what the answer was. The set of his shoulders gave him away, poorly concealed tension revealing what he wished the answer would be.

Ledge blinked. "I- me? Join a band? I can't play a kazoo to save my life."

"You wouldn't have to play! You could be like a sort of… manager. Our last one jus' quit recently, n' we've been lookin' for a new one. Are you any good with numbers?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Then you'll do fine! You'll jus' be manager in name, we'll do all the heavy liftin'. You can live in the studio with us - little building we bought last month, a bit cramped but it's home - and we'll give you a cut of every cent we make, can't always promise consistent payments but by god we'll pay you when we can - you can work a second job, all of us do - if you want you can help us get new gigs, you look like a good persuader - you can stay with us as long as you want - I don't have no one else but you now that Delilah's gone… please, Shawn-"

The sound of his old name, so foreign to him now after so many years, struck Shawn somewhere deep inside him, in a place he didn't even know existed anymore. He stood in silence for only a moment more, weighing the pros and cons, seriously considering the offer.

"Alright," he finally said, watching Ben's face light up like a light bulb. "Okay. I'll join. Where do I sign?"

Ben jumped into the air, pumping a fist with a loud "WHOOO!" The mop clattered to the floor unnoticed, forgotten in the excitement.

Shawn found the man's enthusiasm contagious, and soon they were grinning at each other madly, already making plans to pack and move Shawn's stuff to the studio.

"We're gonna make it big, man," Ben said, shining like the Sun in mid August. "I promise you, we're gonna make it. We're gonna live like kings, man. And everybody's gonna know our names."

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When he was twenty-one years old, they got their first major gig. They had survived so far on playing at small bars and open mics, taking tips where they could, even busking on the street when things got really thin.

Shawn found that he rather liked being the band's manager. Organizing the schedule was soothing for him; he had control over something for the first time in his life. Working out the financial side was easy too. The numbers never lied, even when they were depressing, and math had never been a struggle for him.

After two years of raising awareness - passing out flyers, creating a social media page, and taking whatever openings they could - Where We Were finally, slowly but surely, began to pick up more followers.

In May, Shawn opened the email he had created for the band. He made it a habit to check it at least once a day. Usually the page was depressingly empty, but today, there was an email from an address he didn't recognize - "bhrofficial." Curious, Shawn clicked on the message.

As he read through, he felt his heartbeat quicken. It couldn't be real. It couldn't. They only had two thousand followers on their Instagram and Twitter accounts, less than that on Spotify. There was no way it was real.

Please be real.

A few minutes and a quick google search later, he was rocking back and forth in his chair, unable to stop the smile that split across his face.

"Benny," he called urgently, shooting up from his chair. "Benny, you gotta come look at this. Ben!"

The older man ducked into the room, holding some old equipment. "Hey man, what's up-?"

Wordlessly, Shawn moved aside and pointed at the computer screen, practically vibrating with nervous excitement. Ben carefully set down the equipment, then bent over the table to read.

His jaw dropped open just slightly as he scanned over the email. He looked to Shawn, eyes wide, disbelief etched across his face. Shawn just nodded excitedly, lost for words.

"Is it real?" Ben whispered, as if afraid speaking too loud would make the email magically disappear.

"Yeah, I checked the website and that's their official email. It's real. We have a real gig."

They just grinned at each other for a moment, filled with excitement that had nowhere to go. Then, Ben was hugging him, and he was hugging back, and then they were spinning around the room in a crazed dance, laughing wildly.

"We got a gig!" Ben shouted. "Oh my god, we got a- I don't even-"

He took Shawn's face in his hands, kissing him soundly on the lips. Shawn could only grin up at him in response, and then they were dragging each other out of the room, racing to the kitchen, yelling for the other members.

Over the time they had lived together in the studio, things had changed between them. It had happened slowly but surely, the space between them shifting from friendship to brotherhood to… something else. They hadn't put a label on it, hadn't talked about it, but they both knew it was there. This wasn't the first time they had kissed - Ben would get excited, overwhelmed with emotion, and it would just kind of… happen.

The first time, Ben had immediately frozen, looked guilty and a bit afraid. But Shawn had laughed, and leaned in to give him a tentative peck in return, and Ben knew it was okay, that they were okay.

For the second time in his life, Ledge had thought, I don't want to die.

Ever since then, it was almost routine. Shawn found that he looked forward to it every time, found himself hoping for it.

He expected to have a crisis over his sexuality, but it never came. He liked Ben. Loved him, even, maybe. That was all that mattered. He didn't care what it meant or didn't mean about him, because it was Ben, and he was the Sun, and he was warm and soft and kind and messy, and Shawn was just grateful that he got to love him.

The rest of the band knew about it; it was hard to keep something like that secret when you've lived together in close quarters for almost two years. They'd never officially announced it, never put it into words, but somehow Shawn just… knew. A well timed pat to his shoulder told him he was accepted, a fist bump and a slap to his back said that he was a part of the band, no matter what, always and forever.

"We got a gig at the Blue Hill Resort," Ben said excitedly, hands constantly moving from his hips to the air in front of him to Shawn's shoulders, unable to stay still. His energy was contagious; soon they were all laughing, slapping each other on the back, cheering.

"How soon?" Jane, the drummer, asked. She was a thin slip of a woman, but she could knock a grown man flat on his back in ten seconds. Shawn had quickly learned to both respect and fear her.

"Three weeks."

Abu whistled, long and low. "That's a bit tight. We'll have to rehearse every day… but we should be able to make it."

Abu was tall, built like an ox, with broad shoulders and big hands. He played the bass with surprising precision and tenderness, rarely ever missing a note.

Abu was the oldest of the group at thirty-five. Once, when he was nearly passed out drunk, he told Shawn that he didn't have anything left except for the band. All of his dreams were spent, too far out of his reach, left behind with his twenties. This group, this family, was all that was left for him.

"We've got it in the bag," Mark jumped in, flexing his fingers in anticipation. He could draw sounds from a keyboard that Shawn never knew existed - odd, discordant notes somehow blended together into eerily beautiful harmony. "We're gonna blow this out of the park!"

"We'll have to decide what songs to play." That was Drea - best rhythm guitarist in New Hampshire, Ben would always say. She was always the most focused of them all. She kept them on track - without her, they probably would have fallen apart ages ago.

"I, uh. I actually wrote a song… if- well, I was thinking maybe we could have it on the roster?"

All eyes turned to Shawn, surprise written on most of their faces. Only Ben was unaffected, having known about the secret project for a while.

"S'good," he commented, slinging an arm around Shawn's shoulder. "I give it my vote."

Abu grinned. "It's settled then. Show us this new song of yours, kid."

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

Shawn took a deep breath in, let it out slowly. This was it. This was the day. They had practiced like mad, twice a day for the last week straight, but he didn't feel the slightest bit prepared. He wasn't even the one going up onstage, but he could feel knots forming in his stomach like balls of lead, heavy and cold.

Ben clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a confident smile. "We're gonna knock them offa their fuckin' asses, man. Jus' you wait."

Shawn didn't feel even a bit less anxious, but he smiled anyway, leaning up to kiss Ben softly on the cheek. Ben froze, flushed - Shawn had never initiated before.

"For good luck," Shawn whispered, unable to hold back a smile.

Ben rubbed the back of his neck, flustered, then rewarded the kiss with a blindingly bright smile. "Yeah."

"C'mon, lovebirds, we gotta get set up," Jane drawled, leaning against the wall with a teasing smile. The two sprang apart, and she laughed heartily.

"You go on ahead n' sit in the audience," Ben said, giving him a look that said everything they didn't have time to put into words, probably couldn't even if they did have time. "We'll take care of everythin' back here."

Shawn nodded, hoping Ben could see the response in his own face. The older man smiled softly, and he knew the message had gotten across.

He found his seat in the front row and prayed to whatever was or wasn't out there that they would do well.

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

It was a huge fucking success.

When the band finished their song roster, the crowd cheered wildly, calling for not one but two encores.

Finally, Ben had to take the mic, waving a hand for the crowd to quiet down. "S'been a pleasure playin' for you all, but I'm afraid our time's up-" the crowd booed loudly- "I know, I know, I wish we could stay too! But we gotta go. Thank you, we've been Where We Were. Have a great night and stay rockin', everyone!"

The roar of the crowd was deafening, noise that felt like it shook the room all the way up to its rafters. Shawn cheered along with them, winding through the surging crowd to the backstage area, meeting the band there.

Ben kissed him on the lips, right in front of everyone, and Shawn kissed him back. He didn't even care if the backstage techs caught them. He didn't care about much of anything but Ben, at that moment.

They stumbled to the dressing room, the rest of the band still putting away the equipment and rolling their eyes at the two, and then they were pressed against each other, kissing, and it wasn't like before, it wasn't a quick stolen peck in the studio, it was hard and hungry and real. It said we fucking did it, it said I love you for forever, it said a million other things they couldn't put into words.

Shawn smiled, he couldn't help it; and then they were both grinning, far too wide to keep kissing. Shawn laughed, feeling light and free and alive.

"We got lucky, huh?" He said, curling his hand around the back of Ben's neck. At the questioning look sent his way, he continued, "that your previous manager quit when they did. Otherwise, I never would have joined the band, and we never would have ended up here."

Ben smiled, the mischievous kind of smile you give when you have a secret.

"What?" Ben just kissed him again, and Shawn laughed, pulling back. "Benny, spit it out, what is it?"

"We never had a manager." He had the conscience to look at least a little sheepish, but mostly he just looked proud.

"You- what? But you said-"

"I needed you to join the band, man, I didn't know how else to get you to say yes. And it wasn't entirely a lie! We had talked about hiring someone for the position before, we had just... Never found the right person. Not until you."

Shawn lightly punched Ben's shoulder, giving him a faux look of disapproval. It only lasted for a moment, though, before they were both bursting out laughing, too high off of their victory to stay serious for long.

Then they were pressed against the counter, and Ben was tugging on his shirt and kissing his jawline and murmuring, "is this okay?" and Shawn was nodding, because it was Ben, of course it was, and he'd been waiting for this for so, so long without even realizing it.

Shawn's shirt was halfway off, Ben's lips on his neck, when there was a knock on the door, and Abu called in, "All decent in there, kids?"

"Finish this at home?" Ben asked, and Shawn wanted to say you are my home, but he knew what Ben meant, so he just nodded and touched the older man's face gently instead.

And Ben laughed, and said yes, get the fuck in here, Abu, and he pulled Shawn out with him past the ox who played the bass, and out of the dressing room and through the halls and out the front door, all the way to his car.

They got in, Ben laughing and Shawn crying a little because they had made it, god damnit they had made it, and in the agreement with the Blue Hill Resort they were promised seven thousand dollars, and Shawn had a future, and he knew where he wanted to go and who he wanted to go there with.

They were still laughing, and flirting, and celebrating when they pulled out of the parking lot. Shawn decided to be brave, decided that Ben was worth it, so he put his hand tentatively on the older man's thigh.

Ben looked surprised for a moment, and then he was smiling, and he was looking at Shawn like he was the only thing in the world, and he didn't see the semi barreling towards them, the tired driver who didn't process that he was drifting into cross traffic until just a few seconds too late.

Ben was smiling, and then he was lurching to the side as the semi hit just behind his door, and then the windows were shattering and his head was hitting the dashboard and then they were rolling, and Shawn's vision was blurring, and he was hitting the pavement all over again, black asphalt coming up to say it missed him, and where had he been, and why had he waited so long to jump again?

And suddenly he was sixteen again, with a broken wrist and broken fingers and a fractured arm and a concussion and a sprained ankle, and he was back on the ledge, and he had never really left, he had been there ever since the moment he climbed out of that window, and Mary was telling him the timing wasn't right, and SNHU was sending him a cold, impersonal rejection letter, and then he was lying in a ditch in a mangled car, his seatbelt digging painfully into his ribs.

Ledge forced his eyes open. Everything hurt. Something smelled like it was burning, but he couldn't think, couldn't tell what.

He managed to tilt his head sideways just a little, earning himself a sharp jolt of pain.

Ben lay sprawled over the steering wheel, a large shard of glass from the shattered windshield punched through his right eye and out the back of his head. Blood dribbled down his face and onto the dashboard. He wasn't smiling anymore.

It looked like some weird cartoon, it was such an odd angle, and Ledge was laughing, and then he was sobbing, and then he was throwing up, and then he saw the fire, and it was on the hood of the car, and it was moving steadily towards him, and he couldn't move, he couldn't move, he couldn't move.

For the third time in his life, Ledge thought, I don't want to die.

But the fire inched closer still, and his heavy limbs refused to move, and then it was in the cab of the car, and then it was catching his pant leg, and then it was on him, and he was screaming, agony grating through his veins, and then it was going dark, and he couldn't force his eyes to stay open any longer.

As his consciousness faded away and his mind blanked out into white noise, a thought occurred to Ledge.

Surrounded by fire, breathing out his last, he thought that he had always been a ledge. It hadn't started when he was sixteen. It had started much, much earlier. He couldn't say when.

He thought what cruel irony it was that he was born a ledge, and now after everything he would die as one. Or maybe… he had never stopped being one, even in the in between moments. He was doomed to be un-special forever. He had always known that, from the very start.

He knew, deep inside, that no one would remember him. The news would cover the crash briefly, and then life would move on. The band would find a new manager. The world would continue to march on without him.

Everything faded to silence.

#written by me #my work #do not repost #give cred if used #writeblr #writing #original story #short story #original work #5798 words #tw depression #tw suicidal thoughts #tw mild gore #franz writes

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prince-septimus · 3 years

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bathroom break

pairing : rick flag x bartender!reader

summary : a team of criminals and a colonel wearing a cowboy hat walk into a bar.

word count : 2.4k

warnings : smut, 18+, minor spoilers for the suicide squad

You had spotted them the moment they walked in -- they stuck out like a sore thumb. The rag-tag group of men and the woman with the rat on her shoulder.

Nothing surprised you anymore, so you paid them no mind.

Not until the man in the cowboy hat stepped up to the bar.

It was a while after they arrived -- all crowded into a table not meant to fit the three giant men in the group, let alone all five of them. They had started off slow, a couple of shots, and then they were all splitting off. You could see a few of them on the dance floor, all clearly lost in their own little world.

The bar isn’t particularly crowded tonight. There’s a few regulars, but nothing that keeps you too busy. That’s why you’re able to spot him stepping up to the counter, a beer bottle in hand as he offers you a cheap smile.

He’d be hard to miss even if you had been distracted.

“What can I get you?” you ask, your hands toying with the rag in your hands as you watch the man carefully. There’s something about him that puts you on edge, and you’re not quite sure yet if it’s a good or bad thing.

“Another beer,” he tells you, his teeth flashing in the neon lights of the bar. There’s a faint drawl to his voice, and you can tell the alcohol he’s drank has caused it to drop. “And a one-way ticket out of here.”

“Not the party type?” You take the bottle from his hands, quickly replacing it with another. “Could’ve fooled me.”

His lips turn up. “It’s the hat, ain’t it?”

There’s a slight hint of a smile on your face.

He shakes his head as he takes a pull from the fresh bottle. “Ladies love the hat.”

You busy yourself with wiping down the counter, trying not to think too much into his words. “What’s your name, cowboy?”

Another smile, this one cocky and full of confidence. “That’s classified.”

You make a face. “You really think I’d tell on you?”

“No, but I do think you could get me into quite a bit of trouble.”

The heat courses through your body so quick, and you’re suddenly very aware of everything about this man: the arrogance with which he wears his combination of a cowboy hat and ratty t-shirt, the cocksure smug he sports across his face, and the way he’s looking at you right now.

Something about him reminds you of men you’ve thrown out before, ones who had gone a little too far and had gotten a little too handsy, but there’s something that tells you this man wouldn’t do either of those things unless requested.

Another swig of his beer, and then the bottle is empty.

“Rick Flag.”

You raise a brow. “Flag? How patriotic.”

“There’s more truth in that statement than I’d like.”

“You’re a soldier?”

“Used to be.”

“And now?”

It’s the first time you see something other than his brash personality show through. There’s something almost like regret etched into his features. “Something like that.”

You frown, feeling the conversation taking a turn that you don’t like. Conversations with bartenders are meant to be pleasant -- something to calm your foggy mind and fuel your drunken desires.

You briefly wonder if he’s drunk.

“Had enough?” you ask, motioning to his bottle.

That smug look returns. “It takes a lot more than a couple of shots and a few beers to get me drunk.”

He gives you a knowing look and you flush at the realization that you had been caught in your motives for asking.

“Do you want another?”

“I think I’m good.” A pause. “Wanna get out of here?”

“I’m working.” You feel dumb when you say it, but it’s true.

It makes Rick laugh. “Okay. What about the bathroom? You do get bathroom breaks, don’t you?”

You glance at the restrooms in the corner. “Anybody who knows better knows not to use our bathrooms.”

“Even better.” Rick grins. “Then they’ll know it was an emergency.”

You feel your mouth fall slack, trying to take in Rick’s sudden forwardness. You know there’s a possibility at losing your job over this, but you couldn’t be the first employee to fuck a patron, right?

Maybe the first to fuck one in the bar’s bathroom.

The space is stuffy and smells faintly of stale piss -- a good sign that you won’t be disturbed. One of the overhead lights is busted, its bulb shattered and littered across the tiled floor. You’re not sure who last cleaned in there, but in no way is anything sanitary and up-to-code.

That doesn’t stop Rick from lifting you up onto the bathroom sink and kissing you so hard your head smacks into the mirror behind you. You let out a groan at the quick pain that courses through your head, but Rick swallows the sound and attempts to pull something sweeter from you. The brim of his hat tips back as you kiss, and you absentmindedly push it off, letting it fall to the floor before his shirt follows.

You push him away just enough to admire his exposed skin -- his broad chest and tattooed arms. When you meet his gaze you can see that confidence still hidden there.

You reach for his jeans, yanking on the button and zipper and trying your best to push them down. Rick takes the opportunity to attach his mouth to your neck, sucking a bruise into the underside of your jaw as he takes over for you, kicking his shoes off and pushing his pants down in one quick movement.

“You’ve got too many clothes on,” he breathes against your skin, “not fair.”

You push on his chest again before yanking your own shirt off, throwing it into the growing pile on the floor. Rick reaches around you, deftly releasing the latch of your bra and pulling the fabric from your body. As his lips land on your bare shoulder, light kisses pressed into your skin, Rick reaches down to undo your jeans.

The next moment is the most awkward, and there’s laughter from both of you as Rick deftly pulls your shoes off before you try to lift up enough for your pants to follow. He struggles to pull the tight fabric from around your waist, but finally gets them off. It’s awkward and clumsy and there’s something oddly intimate about it.

And then Rick’s fingers are against the growing wetness of your panties and you’re crying out against his mouth at the stimulation.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he drawls against your lips, “so wet for me already.”

His fingers smooth up and down the fabric, giving enough stimulation to make you feel something, but not enough to get off. You push a hand through his hair, trying to coax some sort of sound from him to mix with your own, and with a slight yank on the hair at the nape of his neck, Rick is groaning out loud. His eyes shut as his hand against you picks up speed, rubbing more earnestly now.

Just as you feel the hint of something start to grow, Rick pulls his hand away, a smirk painted across his face as he looks at your disheveled state.

“You bastard,” you breathe out, resting your hands on either side of you as you try to catch your breath.

Rick laughs. “I’ve been called worse.”

There’s a lull in the action then, and it takes you a moment to figure out why.

“I don’t have a condom,” Rick says softly.

You smile, wiping at the sweat gathering on your forehead before pointing to the machine in the corner. You’re not sure when they had last been changed out, but you’re sure they’re good enough to use still.

It’s another slightly intimate moment -- you watching Rick fumble with the machine before finally producing a condom and holding it up in success. It’s cute, the grin that forms on his face when he turns back to you.

“Still okay with this?” he asks, unwrapping the condom before pushing down his briefs to put it on.

You bite your lip at the sight of him, almost forgetting that your own underwear are still on. When you reach to take them off, Rick reaches out to stop you.

“Keep ‘em on,” he tells you gently. He steps back up to the sink, standing between your legs as he reaches a hand down. His fingers skim across the fabric of your panties before he’s hooking into them and pulling them to the side.

There’s something about the action that turns you on so much you forget to breathe for half a second, and it catches you off-guard when he finally slides into you -- slowly filling you to the brim.

“Good?” he asks, panting slightly, and all you can do is nod as you let the feeling of him inside you completely wash over you.

The first moments are slow, both of you trying to get used to the feel and the position. And then his arms are hooking under your thighs, changing the position slightly and causing him to go almost deeper. You let out a small cry at the sensation as he begins to pick up the speed.

The mirror shakes with the force that he’s fucking into you with, and it leaves you breathless with each stroke. He’s pressing his lips against yours, but it’s nothing close to a kiss, just two mouths pressing against each other as you both try to get a hold on the feelings.

It’s all so overwhelming, and you whine into Rick’s mouth as his hands grip your hips and use that hold to push you against him. You can feel the beginnings of your orgasm returning, a little quicker than normal due to the previous stimulation, and you put a hand on Rick’s chest, trying to steady yourself.

“Almost there,” he tells you, his pace turning sloppy.

When you look at him, his pupils are blown out. He moves his hands up to grab your neck, pushing you back against the mirror. The position is more clunky, a little harder to manage, but Rick never stops moving against you as he swipes his tongue into your mouth.

He’s kissing you when your orgasm hits, swallowing your moans as he sets a frantic pace, trying to get himself off. The overstimulation hits like a truck, and you’re practically crying out against Rick’s mouth.

When his orgasm hits, he falls against you. You absentmindedly wrap your arms around his shoulders as he buries his face into your shoulder, groaning out as he finishes inside the condom. You hadn’t noticed a chill to the bathroom before, but now you can feel it creep up along your skin and you try to use Rick’s body against yours to keep warm.

“You were right about these bathrooms,” Rick says a few minutes later when both of your chests have stopped heaving. He lifts up slightly from you, glancing around the dingy bathroom before carefully pulling himself out of you. The action causes both of you to let out a hiss at the sensitivity, and then you’re making a choked noise when Rick lets his fingers brush across your slit before he pulls your panties back into place.

“Cheeky,” you breathe out, “very cheeky.”

“I try.” He gives you a quick wink as he reaches down to grab at the pile of clothes across the floor. “You think they’re still clean enough to wear?”

“They’ll have to be,” you chirp, taking your clothes and shoes from his arms.

It’s the last intimate moment of the night, the two of you getting dressed beside each other in a dirty bar bathroom. Rick bumps his shoulder against yours as he pulls his shoes back on and you offer him a giddy grin. You snatch his hat from the floor, pretending to brush the dirt off the brim and placing it atop his head. Rick smiles at you, a smile that’s less cocky and more saccharine. You reach for the door after the two of you finish getting dressed, carefully pushing it open to look around the bar. It’s slowly emptying as the night goes on, but there’s still enough people to not make it so obvious when the two of you slip out from the bathroom.

“It’s not the worst walk of shame I’ve done,” you comment, taking pleasure in the way Rick’s brows shoot up as he follows you back to the bar.

“I’m shameful now, am I?”

“More like shameless.” You take your position back behind the bar as Rick takes the seat across from you. When you look out into the dimly lit room, you spot the group Rick had originally come in with. “I think your friends are onto you.”

Rick follows your gaze, offering a small wave to the group when he spots them. “They’ll be fine. Everyone’s got to use the bathroom once in a while, right?”

The look Rick gives you then sends you into a fit of giggles. “Bathroom break. Sure.”

Rick waits for you to settle down before he’s giving you that sweet smile from earlier.

You look at him strangely. “What?”

“I had fun,” Rick tells you, “wouldn’t mind doing it again next time I’m around.”

You scoff playfully, “I bet you wouldn’t.” You still reach for a pen and scrap piece of paper, quickly scribbling your name and number down and handing it to Rick.

Rick stares at the paper for a second before he says your name, a small twang in his voice. It occurs to you that you previously hadn’t given your name, and he's grinning at you like a mad man. “At least now I know who’s name to call out next time.”

Rick leaves you with that, heading back to his friends who all give him a pat on the back as he passes. There's a heat in your face from his words that you’re not sure will ever go away.

#an alternative ending to that bar scene in the suicide squad #aka my attempt at giving rick some fucking happiness #its what he deserves james gunn #rick flag x reader #rick flag #rick flag imagine #the suicide squad #the suicide squad imagine #the suicide squad spoilers

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heshoes · 3 years

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Mo's Masterlist 👹

Hello! So I've been on tumblr for years and literally am just now posting my work, but better late than never. I do love love LOVE writing Harry as he is generally the main, character love interest etc in my fanfics just like he is in real life. I'll post things here like Drabble of fics that I post (if you'd like), old one shots that I've posted on my wattpad (I'm polisson on wattpad by the way) and some ideas that you guys give if any? Please do not translate my fics please do reblog and share if you like them. Please do enjoy message me send anons whatever you want to do to let me know you're invested. Tah tah now whores, enjoy xx

If you see [xxx] there's smut involved read at your own risk

⚠️I will also give you trigger warnings as a lot of my shit do be angsty sometimes.

Let's dive in.

AU fics

Uni Daze [long fic] [xxx] College Student!Harry (This was written in 2014 so please keep that in mind when you read)

She was his best friend and they shared everything together already anyway. What difference would it make if it were a hat, shampoo, or the same bed sometimes?So what.That's what the Uni Daze were about, having fun, traditions, getting serious, new relationships, friendships, heart ache, break-ups, make ups, secrets, the occasional/casual bajingo here and there, and possibly, just maybe, finding the love of your life and hoping that it all works out.

Virgin Skin [xxx] Tattoo Artist!Harry (Split Tongue!Harry)

“Oh he took a liking to you cause of your virgin skin, but the serpent didn’t know you’d committed mortal sin.” In which you hope to start a clean slate away from where you’d become notorious, but the tattooed adonis and owner of Scarred Styles shows you why sometimes foul play is the best kind.

Verses/Blurbs/One shots

Rooted [word count 11k] S/M!Harry [xxx]

In which Harry is quite literally the strong silent type and y/n was taught that not speaking when spoken to is impolite. When you run into each other in the most unexpected of places you start to wonder is he just rude or is there something else going on that’s deeply rooted.

Virgin Skin Verse

VS1 [ word count 5.6k] Tattoo artist!Harry (Split Tongue!Harry) [xxx]

When a change of plans means Y/N's friend can't do the tattoo promised, but the cocky owner of the most popular tattoo shop in the city has free time a decision must be made. Do you reschedule your appointment completely, or do you let the arrogant owner of Scarred Styles ink your virgin skin?

VS2 [ word count 5.3k] Tattoo artist!Harry (Split Tongue!Harry) [xxx]

Two weeks have passed meaning that it’s time for Y/N to return to the tattoo shop so that Harry can finish what he’d initially started, however, something more than just finishing up the tattoo piques your interest. Though Harry is more than willing to accommodate your requests do you allow him to do more or do you save yourself from the potential salacious discomfort that comes with his artistic flare?

VS3 [word count: 6.1k ] Tattoo artist!Harry (split tongue!Harry) [xxx]

It seems that you’ve graduated from Scarred Styles to lHarry’s personal home to finally finish the tattoo that the famed owner and artist stared over 2 weeks ago, however, when it’s all said and done and the permanent ink has settled will your lust for the cocksure owner settle and die down as well?

*********

Twin Telepathy [word count: unknown but short] Twin!Harry ⚠️ Angst Main Character Death.

❝And I never thought it would be true that one day I'd have to live without you.❞ In which a connection started at birth remains strong until the bitter end.

#harry styles master list #ongoing masterlist #harry styles writing #harry style fic rec #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #Harry Styles

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calaofnoldor · 3 years

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What’s Mine

Characters: Sam x F!Reader, Dean

Words: 7,595

Summary: The secret you and Sam are hiding from Dean is threatened by your inability to keep your hands off each other.

Warnings: 18+ no actual smut but plenty of implied smut, pre-smut, and smut adjacency lol, secret dating, enemies to lovers, jealousy and possessiveness (exhibited by both sam and reader), slight obsession with sam’s big ass hands (i blame this largely on @walkerboy290‘s glorious hand porn gif sets), and language

A/N: inspired by and written for @thinkinghardhardlythinking bc she’s been bugging me to write smut and using her birthday as a bargaining chip, so i hope you’re happy sai. happy (belated) birthday babe! i suppose in my subconscious need to truly honor you, this became the longest one shot i’ve ever written... that and this is now also a little birthday gesture for the brilliant and beautiful @sams-sass (damn your close birthdays!) even though she never asked for smut (if you hate it, i’ll write you something else!) happy birthday to you too, darling!

also written for @superbadassnatural‘s 333 badass followers celebration with the prompt “___ and I are together.” “Yeah, right, and I’m Santa.” and @writethelifeyouwant‘s 300 follower fic challenge with the prompt “All the pretty girls like Samuel” (both prompts are bolded in the fic) i’m sorry i’m so late! congratulations to both of you and thanks for letting me enter your challenges!

[basically i have a lot of people to blame for this disaster 😂]

Square Filled: Secret Dating for @spnfluffbingo and Enemies to Lovers for @girl-next-door-writes Make Me Feel Bingo

MASTERLIST

The waffles on your plate are surprisingly good for a sketchy, 50’s-themed diner, but unfortunately your attention is elsewhere. In fact, the two distinctly masculine voices behind you have been obnoxiously impairing your ability to savor the buttery, syrup-doused carbs since their owners sat down in the adjoining booth. It’s the topic of their discussion that disturbs you, and nips at your conscience until you realize you can no longer take off without imparting a few words to your oblivious colleagues.

Turning your head subtly to the side, you try to catch a glimpse of the men you’re about to confront in your peripheral vision. From what you can see, they’re both rather burly, a little rough around the edges, and from what you’ve heard, recklessly cocksure. You know the type all too well. Being a lone hunter of the fairer sex for most of your life means you’ve long since learned that the best way to combat their kind is with a steadfast façade of thick skin and unwavering confidence.

So you sigh and put on your best smile before turning around, crossing your forearms along the top of the booth seat, “Listen fellas, I hate to interrupt, but I really wouldn’t bother with the bamboo dagger and Shinto priest if I were you.”

“And who the hell are you?” the one with shorter hair demands. He’s a bit stockier than his companion and has a face that looks like it was designed by Abercrombie and Fitch - well that explains the arrogance.

“I’m the person who’s about to save your asses evidently,” you respond with a smug grin, trying not to let their absurdly good looks deter your act.

Abercrombie’s partner, the Fabio wannabe, releases a quiet scoff, “And how are you gonna do that?” he questions dubiously.

“By letting you in on a little secret…” Throwing him a tight smile, you lean forward and lower your voice, “That ōkami you’re after? It’s not an ōkami, it’s a ghoul.” Sitting back, you await the outrage.

“What?! But that’s not possible, I checked the lore. And it’s obviously got a type.” Fabio’s glossy chestnut locks fall across his delicate features as he shakes his head in disbelief, and you almost snort out loud. How did this amateur expect to hunt with hair like that?

You look him over, taking in the broad shoulders and muscled arms, as well as the obvious height advantage he’s got over Abercrombie even whilst they’re both seated. To be honest, you’re surprised he’s referencing lore at all. Guys his size always assume they can either outman or outgun whatever obstacles cross their path, and they almost never take women like you seriously, despite your ample years of acquired knowledge and invaluable experience. It’s this experience that surmises a bit of antagonism here is inevitable, so you might as well get a head start.

“Yeah well maybe you should check again, big guy,” you glance down at his hands, your first mistake as their sheer size render you speechless and subsequently agitated at yourself for the momentary lapse of visceral lust, but the show must go on, “Make sure those giant, lumbering hands of yours don’t fumble over anything important or you might miss the connection to Isabelle Harding. You see it’s not ‘a type’; it’s revenge.”

“Wh- Bu- I looked through the files. I wouldn’t have missed that,” Fabio insists.

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you type ‘Isabelle Harding’ and ‘1987 school bombing’ into your search bar and see what comes up?” you gesture towards the laptop on their table with a raised brow. Minutes later, both men are dumbfounded by the revelation on the screen, staring between it and you with their mouths agape.

You chuckle silently at their faces, “Don’t worry, there’s no need to thank me. Although you rookies might wanna go home and let the more experienced hunter finish up here.” As you’re about to bid them farewell, you dip back in to add, “Oh and a word of free advice, maybe don’t discuss supernatural monsters quite so loudly in public spaces next time. It might invite unwanted attention.”

With that, you turn around and slap some cash down next to your unfinished waffles, before grabbing your jacket and strutting out the door.

Sam is left in utter confusion. The sudden animosity you had spouted his way seems completely baseless and unwarranted. Had he somehow offended you? Sam generally considers himself a highly respectful and fairly easy-going guy, not quite as hot-blooded as his brother, and thus not as likely to provoke such antipathy from a complete stranger. To make matters worse, he certainly can’t deny that something about you had registered within his subconscious as inexplicably attractive, despite the way you’d embarrassed him. In his flustered and slightly aroused state, it had been all he could do to remain awestruck in his seat and stare blatantly at your ass as you walked away.

The next time Sam sees you is only twelve hours later and no less humiliating. You’re mid-swing in the killing blow against what you had accurately predicted to be a ghoul as he and Dean tumble in. Despite the low lighting, Sam is once again stupefied by your raging beauty, augmented by the incredible skill you’re displaying in a much more physical sense this time around. Before he can drag his eyes away, there’s a collective shout of “watch out!” and suddenly you’re right in front of him. In a blur of events, you somehow manage to push Sam out of the way and successfully decapitate the unexpected second ghoul that had been sneaking up behind him, with only a slice across the arm to show for it.

“Didn’t I tell you two to go home?” You’re panting from the exertion and Sam’s gaze lands on the neckline of your shirt, skewed from the fight and revealing a good amount of cleavage. He quickly averts his eyes. What is happening? Sam can’t remember the last time anyone had evoked such a staggering reaction from him. He feels as if he’s a mere spectator in his own body.

Across from him, you press your hand against the wound and curse when it comes back covered in blood. At your groan of pain, Sam finally finds his voice again, “Shit. I’m so sorry! I don’t know how I missed that other one. I- that normally doesn’t happen.”

“Yeah, I bet that’s what you say to all the girls, huh?” you reply offhand, still a bit out of breath.

It’s easy for Sam to dismiss your mocking given that he feels terribly guilty for being the cause of your injury. From where he’s standing, the cut looks deep. “Here, at least let me stitch it up for you. It’s too awkward a position for you to do it yourself,” he offers, holding out his ginormous hands to you like he’s waving a white flag.

“I think you’ve done enough damage for one day, haven’t you, big guy? At this point, I’d rather Abercrombie over there be the one behind the needle.”

“Who- what?” are the first words Dean speaks since the action has died down.

You turn to face the shorter guy, “Oh don’t look so surprised. You might as well be the model for a slightly older Ken doll. Are you up for it or not?”

Dean’s mouth hangs open as he tries to determine whether he should feel flattered or insulted.

“Uh- actually, I’m better at stitches than my brother,” Sam butts in.

“With those jumbo, fumbling hands? Yeah, sure you are, big guy,” you decline skeptically.

“It’s Sam,” he states through a clenched jaw.

“OK, Sam. Since I just saved your life, you mind making yourself useful and burning those bodies while your bro puts my arm back together? You know, as a ‘thank you’ perhaps?”

Sam is stunned for the third time that day. No one has ever belittled him (whilst gratuitously attacking his size) insofar without any apparent reason. It seems as though his very existence upsets you and the arbitrariness of your contempt has caused an anger to stir beneath him, but beyond that lies bewilderment and irritation. How had he managed to accomplish two such massive mistakes in front of you in the span of so short a time? Perturbed and bitter, Sam silently sets to work on the bodies.

Meanwhile, you’ve come to a surprising realization as Dean begins to cut the fabric of your flannel away from your damaged arm, the name ‘Sam’ and the words ‘my brother’ resounding in your head, “Wait a second- there’s no way… you’re not… the Winchesters, are you? Sam and… Dean?”

“The one and only, sweetheart.” He sends you a dazzling smile that is as perfect as you’d expect, but within his eyes is an underlying poignancy that you recognize as clear as day: an indication of a traumatic past and a lifetime spent plastering on tough veneers. You notice as well how gentle his touch is and how his stitches are practiced and prudent. Perhaps you had judged him too hastily.

Through an incredulous chuckle, you retort, “Well I can’t say I didn’t expect more from you, but at least this’ll get me a free round of drinks at the hunters’ pub tonight.”

Dean laughs with you before sobering at the thought of how his baby brother must be feeling, “Hey listen, take it easy on Sammy, alright? I don’t know what’s gotten into him today but he’s not usually like this. He’s actually the smart one, believe it or not.”

Scoffing, you can’t help but smile back at Dean and soon find an easy rhythm with the older Winchester, despite your awkward introduction.

From several yards away, however, Sam looks wistfully back to see you smiling lightheartedly at something Dean’s said, the two of you huddled in close proximity as his brother’s hands drift across your bare skin. Something akin to envy bubbles within his chest although he’s aware it makes no sense, so with a frown, Sam does his best to shake it off and get back to work.

But it’s not easy to forget you. And just as Sam is beginning to think he’s rid that awful day from his memory, you pop back into his life three months down the line.

“Well, if it isn’t the overgrown hunter extraordinaire Sammy Winchester.” The sarcasm that oozes from your otherwise beguiling voice has him gritting his teeth in no time.

“It’s Sam.”

“So you here to mess up my hunt again, Sam?”

Although he wishes he could have been the bigger man instead of surrendering to the resentment you roused within him, after a couple repeated hatchet burying attempts fall through, Sam just can’t resist the little game you’ve started.

Over the next few months, you and Dean form a fortuitously close bond and the older Winchester develops a habit of calling you up when faced with a troublesome hunt, and vice versa. Despite Sam’s fabricated displeasure, a show he puts on mostly for Dean (since any other emotion would seem illogical given the way you treat him), Sam is peculiarly and begrudgingly excited to see you every time. But the match never ends. In fact, Sam lets it intensify each time you work together, always astounded by how you manage to get him so worked up.

“I’m telling you, it’s a rugaru!”

“Right, because the last time we listened to you, things worked out so well,” you remark sardonically.

“The lore says-“

“Ooh, quoting the lore again now are we, Mr. Know It All?”

At this point, Sam is about as huffy and puffy as the big bad wolf and if he were a cartoon character, there’d surely be steam erupting from his ears. “Look, Y/N, this isn’t about who knows more or who’s right; this is about saving those people’s lives!”

“You think I don’t know that? Was I not the one who saved your life the first time we met?”

“OK, alright, just shut up you two!” Dean finally shouts above you, “Would it kill you to just get along for two seconds?”

“No,” Sam admits.

“Probably,” you say at the same time, causing Sam to shoot you his overly perfected bitch face.

SIX MONTHS LATER

“What the fuck?!” Dean’s booming voice echoes throughout the bunker and moments later you and Sam come flying into the kitchen to answer his call, guns at the ready.

“What? What is it?” you ask while Sam scans the room.

A whimper is the only the way to describe the sound of Dean’s reply, as he points toward an unseen object on the floor. Edging toward him, you lower your gun in the direction of his finger until you discover the source of Dean’s distress.

With a sigh, you look toward Sam who is also exhaling in relief at the sight of the entity in question. The two of you share a moment of wordless conversation before simultaneously dropping your guns with a conclusive nod.

“Why does this feel like déjà vu?” Dean’s tone is still timid and appalled, and you nearly laugh at the idea of a grown-ass man looking so aghast because of a used condom.

“Because it kinda is…” you supply unhelpfully, earning yourself a small glare from the man beside you.

“Dean,” Sam begins with a deep breath, “There’s something we have to tell you… Y/N and I are together.”

The snort that escapes Dean is full-bodied and borderline psychotic, “Yeah, right, and I’m Santa!”

You wait till his snickering subsides, “No, it- it’s true.” Your voice is hesitant yet hopeful, “We’re not joking. We’ve kinda become… a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah, well you know, I don’t wanna have to put a label on it or-“

“Y/N’s my girlfriend,” Sam declares with conviction as he reaches out to curl his long fingers around your waist and lasso you towards him.

“-Buuuut, that is the one I’d use if anyone asks,” you quickly affirm with a stiff pat to your boyfriend’s abdomen, wincing at the unversed attempt of PDA and missing the dimpled grin that crosses Sam’s amused features.

“Well, I don’t buy it. I don’t believe either of you.” Dean’s sturgeon face comes on strong as he shakes his head and points a challenging finger at you, “Kiss him, right now,” he dares with perked brows.

The eye roll you respond with is so dramatic your entire head moves with it. But then, without a moment of pause, you turn your body into Sam’s, reach up to grab the back of his neck and pull him down for a searing kiss. Now this is something you’re well-versed in. The reunion of your lips starts off relatively slow, but it doesn’t take long to escalate into something more fiery that involves tongue, the eager push and pull movements of your bodies, and Sam’s enormous hands cradling your head.

After a moment of shock, Dean objects, “Alright, alright, I get it! That’s enough of that!”

Unwilling to recede just yet, you linger in the kiss for a little longer, delaying your separation by nibbling down on Sam’s lower lip and tugging gently, only releasing it as you pull away torturously slow. When the two of you finally open your languid eyes, it’s to stare into each other’s dilated pupils and ponder the moment for an indiscernible minute.

“What th- I said, I get it! Now could please stop ogling each other before my lunch comes back out the wrong way?!”

But the way Sam’s smiling at you is addictive and you can’t bring yourself to look away until he forces a break by leaning in to plant a tender kiss upon your forehead before tucking you into his side as he faces his brother again.

Dean’s face is covered by his hand, “I’m gonna need a minute. I just-“ His features leap through a range of expressions as he tries to find the right words, “When the hell did this start anyway? I thought you two couldn’t stand each other?”

“Yeahhh, that was mostly an act. Although we bought it at first too,” you explain with a shrug.

“We weren’t pretending the whole time. It just kind of happened and we didn’t really know how else to act around each other by then,” Sam adds.

“Right, basically it turns out there’s a fine line between love and hate... and that line is hardcore yearning.” Your words bring a chuckle to Sam’s lips but his brother still looks out of sorts.

Shaking his head with closed eyes, Dean sighs, “Alright, can someone just explain to me exactly how this happened, because I’m still not computing here. But spare me the details and try to keep it PG-13,” he emphasizes with adamant hand gestures.

“How do you know it’s not PG-13?” you inquire with a held-back laugh.

“Ha. With the way you two were playing tonsil hockey just now, I can tell you’ve been around the bend way more than I wanna know. My little brother doesn’t kiss like that on the first date.”

It’s impossible to hold back a giggle at the memory of your ‘first date’ and the way Sam had kissed you, “OK well, that would be hard, considering the story involves a lot of sex... You wanna give it a go, big guy?” you pass the ball over to Sam with a quirked brow and lowered voice, to which he responds with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, a little warning glance that you’re well aware means ‘save it for the bedroom’ but you simply smirk up at him.

‘Big guy’ used to be a term you called Sam in contempt, but when the feelings between you evolved and a sexual relationship developed, it became an innuendo, such that calling him ‘big guy’ in front of Dean or in public almost always results in glorious sex. In fact, sometimes you believe the nickname has held a slightly obscene connotation for you since the beginning.

Afterall, your carnal longing for him has been present from day one, although at the time you had believed it to be purely physical. Sure, you had dreams about having him in various positions in your bed, but you figured those were merely betrayals of your subconscious mind. That was until one day, a heated argument in a rare moment alone had ended up in a violent make out session, after which the two of you had just barely gotten the last of your clothes back on before Dean walked in. One look at your worked up and frenetic states alongside the disordered condition of your surroundings, and he immediately assumed you’d been fighting again (which wasn’t terribly far from the truth), chortling as he asked if you would have killed each other had he returned a bit later.

With a clearing of his throat, Sam begins to recount the tale, “Uh, well it started in that motel in South Carolina, while you were out getting food…”

“Look, all I’m saying is there is no way he’s using the hospital as a dump site! It’s just not feasible!”

With complete disregard for the peace and quiet of the other residents within this thin-walled motel, you and Sam once again find yourselves in a shouting match.

“Oh right, I forgot! You’re Sam Winchester! How could you POSSIBLY be wrong?! Mister ‘look at me, my IQ and LSAT score match my fucking height! Oh and I also happen to have the physique of an Adonis without even owning a gym membership!’” you roar bitterly, gesticulating with your hands to help better communicate your pent-up indignation.

“Right and you’re Y/N Y/L/N, so how could YOU possibly be wrong? Miss ‘look at me, I never went to college but I’m a genius AND I can kick ass! Oh and I also happen to look effortlessly stunning through it all!’” Sam suddenly seems bigger than ever as he towers over you, that panty-soaking deep voice emanating from his diaphragm and infusing itself throughout the entire room until all you can see, hear, and breathe is Sam.

The fury takes over and you don’t notice your feet taking you closer to him, “Oh yeah because you don’t make EVERYTHING you do look so unnecessarily hot and make me wanna rip your clothes off all the damn time!”

“Fuck! And you don’t always drive me crazy when we have these stupid arguments and your chest starts heaving and you look so insanely delectable I just wanna pick you up and fuck you against the closest surface!” By now, the distance between you is essentially nonexistent and your brain is no longer run by reason.

“So why don’t you then?” are your famous last words, prompting Sam to grab you wildly by the back of a thigh, lifting slightly and driving you to climb up him like a spider monkey fleeing from a grounded predator, while his other hand pushes your hair aside to gain better access to your face. Your mouths clash in a fierce battle and before you know it, Sam’s huge hands are cupping your ass as your legs wrap around his waist and you rut into him, hands flying from his shoulders to his hair. Those divine chestnut locks that you’ve always dreamed of running your fingers through. They’re somehow even softer than you imagined and the revelation, in conjunction with the way Sam’s tongue is becoming increasingly aggressive causes a fresh surge of libidinous energy to rocket through you. As a result, you give his silky strands an irresistible tug and drink in the moan he makes, the sinful sound reverberating straight down to your core as you clench around nothing.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam groans as he grudgingly forces himself to pull back as much as he can, “Are you sure? Is this what you want? Cause I can’t- Y/N I won’t be able to stop myself if we keep going.” His eyes squeeze shut as if the notion of stopping or the act of keeping his lips away from yours is causing him genuine pain, and the entire gesture moves you.

“Fuck, you really are the opposite of everything I thought you would be,” you make a quick mental note to apologize later for your initially presumptuous behavior although you can’t find it within yourself to feel any remorse right now, “Yes, please Sam, fuck me. I want you so bad… I think I have since we met and I saw those gorgeous hands of yours,” you confess, biting your lip lightly.

Sam breathes out a low incredulous laugh, “What, these?” he asks, removing one of the aforementioned hands away from your butt to bring it into your line of vision.

“Yes, fuck they’re so big and beautiful and strong and-“

“Alright, I don’t need to know about your weird hand fetish!” Dean hollers abruptly, rubbing his fingers across his eyes as if he could somehow erase the image of you and his brother together out of his retinas. “OK, but that was like… four months ago. You mean you’ve been sneaking around behind my back this whole time?”

“Well at first we didn’t want to tell you because we weren’t even sure what it was ourselves,” you divulge.

“Yeah, we didn’t want to try to explain something that we didn’t understand yet,” Sam supplements, hoping his brother will understand the motive behind your secrecy.

You nod along, “But then… it got a little harder to hide.”

The apprehension behind Dean’s emerald eyes is unmistakable as he reluctantly inquires, “That’s why this felt like déjà vu?”

It’s with a grimace that you reply, hesitantly, “Remember the time you found those panties in the backseat of the Impala?”

Dean’s eyes grow comically wide and Sam ducks his head in preparation of what’s to come.

“Yeah, there’s a story behind that…”

The click of her heels against the porcelain-tiled foyer irritates you as the three of you stride through her front door. You’re posing as detectives sent to question this overdressed young woman about her late husband, but the moment she lays her eyes on Sam, you reckon she’s forgotten her beloved’s damn name.

“Oh my… lord and savior. Well aren’t you a tall drink of water?” she beholds breathlessly with a seductive bite of her painted ruby lips.

You cough loudly and Dean sniggers, thinking you’re annoyed about Sam getting such commendation and attention during a serious case.

“I know this might be the grief talking, but I would climb you like a tree,” she purrs, sauntering up to Sam with an exaggerated sway of her hips. With her half-lidded doe eyes adorned with dark, fluttery lashes and low, sultry voice, you have to admit she’s quite attractive.

Grinding your teeth as your nails dig into your palms, you glower at the woman unreservedly. She, however, takes no notice, running her hands along Sam’s forearms before gripping at his bicep to lead him toward her living room. “Please, come have a seat, detective. You can ask me whatever you want.” The wink she appends is somehow the final nail in the coffin.

It’s with zero hesitation that you feign the reception of a notification on your phone before declaring, “Oh would you look at that, the uh… Sheriff needs us back at the station, Sam. He says it’s urgent.” You try to keep your tone even, thankful that you all maintained your real first names for these aliases, “Dean, you’re good to conduct this interview on your own, right?” Without waiting for an answer, you trample over to snatch Sam’s other arm and ignoring the horny widow’s gaping mouth, proceed to haul him away.

Dean sends you a strange look but relents, “Uh, yeah I guess, OK.”

As soon as the door closes behind you, your hand shifts down to lace your fingers with Sam’s, marching him towards the Impala with a staunch and mighty purpose. Even Sam’s elongated legs stumble to keep up.

“So uh… when did you give the Sheriff your number?” There’s an edge in his voice that normally disappears when it’s just the two of you.

“Wha- I didn’t. Sam, I just made all that up,” you tell him as you reach the car and open its back door. Pushing Sam inside, you climb in swiftly after him, wasting no time as you straddle his thighs and begin to undress him, only pausing when he looks up at you in adorable, puppy-like confusion.

“Wait, what? Then what are we doing?”

That’s when it finally dawns on you, “Hold on a sec, were you… jealous?” You can’t help but smile, finding it amusing that he’s stewing in his own envy after what you just witnessed.

“No, I just- He was kinda all over you this morning.”

“You mean like the way Mrs. My-Husband-Just-Died-But-I-Wanna-Climb-You-Like-a-Tree was in there?”

“Oh, that’s what this is about?” Sam perks up, the hint of a smug grin ghosting across his lips.

“She was practically holding your hand!”

“That’s what bothered you the most?” He dips his head to catch your eyes and those variegated irises burn into you with an intense, questioning gaze, alight with mischievous curiosity.

“They’re my hands to hold,” you contend with a pout, subconsciously clenching your thighs around his as you seize one of his large hands with two of your much smaller ones, “Just like you’re my tree to climb.”

Sam’s head falls back in bright laughter, “I thought you said they were ‘oversized’ and ‘ungainly’?” he teases, quoting your previous slights.

“You know I only said that cause Dean was there.”

“I’m pretty sure you called them ‘fumbly’ and ‘lumbering’ the first time we met.”

Staring at his fingers as you play with them, you shiver at the memory of how they feel all over you. “That was cause I used to think all hunters with a Y chromosome were cocky, misogynistic assholes who needed to be knocked down a peg or two.”

“But I proved you wrong, right?”

“Fuck yes you did. So, so wrong. And now you’re mine, and I don’t like seeing other people touch what’s mine,” you growl before returning to your earlier task of removing his clothes, pouncing on him when your fingers finally land on bare skin. You kiss him fiercely, swallowing his surprised grunts with glee, and as his hands start travelling from your hips up to your back, holding you tight against him, your lips move down to his pulse point, sucking, licking, and nibbling, “Mine.”

“Fucking Jesus Christ on a cracker! You goddamn rabbits!” Dean squawks in protest as he begins to pace the floor, “Have you no decency?! And in my poor Baby! While I was busy doing all the work, saving lives!”

You roll your eyes at his melodramatics and can feel the tension in Sam’s abdominal muscles as he attempts to restrain his laughter. As if Dean had never taken a break during a case for a stress-relieving quickie before, or hadn’t been at least somewhat grateful to be left alone with a beautiful woman.

His next comment confirms your point, “Although, if I remember correctly that lady was a fox.” After a brief pondering pause and an introspectively appreciative smirk, Dean’s whining resumes, “But seriously! I can’t believe you two! Here I was feeling bad for forcing you to work and live together, hoping you’d eventually learn to get along when this whole time you were shacking up like animals and casually defiling my Baby just because what? Some girl touched Sam’s hand?!”

Feeling emboldened by the catharsis of this long-overdue airing of your dirty laundry, you decide to add to Dean’s exasperation, “Yeah and in the spirit of honesty, that might’ve happened more than once.” Sam tries to hold back his snort as he gives your hip a playful cautionary squeeze while Dean’s feet come to a full stop as he turns to give you a death glare. “Hey, it’s not my fault all the pretty girls like Samuel! And I’m pretty sure we wiped her down after.”

“I don’t even-“ Dean purses his lips and quirks his head with a dynamic expression of unbearable vexation, “You better be getting me pie every day of the week for what you did.“ He takes a deep breath before circling back, “Wait, OK so you’re telling me that a used condom ended up in our kitchen because- what? You two couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough to find a bed? You know what, forget I asked. I don’t wanna know. Did you at least sanitize the place after?? No, of course you didn’t, you left a fucking condom on the floor… I think I’m gonna throw up.”

But you hardly hear Dean’s rambling because you and Sam are far too wrapped up in each other, smiling as you recall the events of that morning.

Your eyes slowly drift open to find the most exalting sight in all the world: Sam Winchester’s sleeping face, blissful and serene. Lifting a hand to gingerly cup his cheek, the corners of your mouth curl up when he leans into your touch. It’s moments like this that make you wish you could wake up next to him every morning.

Only after you’ve traced his every feature and planted a soft kiss where his dimple would be if he were awake and smiling, do you carefully peel yourself from his side, slipping out of his hold as you quietly climb out of bed. Sam rolls over a bit and you freeze with bated breath, watching as his big arm extends out in your direction as if trying to reach for you in his sleep, before stilling again.

Mornings like this are rare and you want him to soak up all the restful sleep he can. Once you’re sure you haven’t woken him, you scan the room for something to cover your naked figure, until your eyes land on the flannel he’d worn the night before. Picking it up, you bring it to your nose and inhale deeply to revel in the residual scent of Sam. Another glimpse at his peaceful, sleeping form has you smiling fondly. God, you are such a goner for that man. It’s becoming hard to reserve your soft looks toward him for private moments alone.

You can barely remember how it happened, but over time, you’d come to learn that Sam is nothing like you originally imagined him to be. He’s kind-hearted and open-minded, the type of soul that can find hope and beauty in even the darkest of places, a far cry from the shallow macho man silhouette you’d expected him to fill. In fact, Sam routinely defies the expectations others have enforced upon him, proving his worth time and time again as he’s persisted through some of what must be the toughest challenges to ever face a single human. Yet through it all, his spirit remains intact, never once yielding to cynicism or resentment or apathy or even the building of walls as you and Dean have resorted to. He is truly the bravest man you know and infinitely more competent than your first fluke of a hunt with him had mistakenly suggested, both in the field and in bed.

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you wrap yourself in plaid and head out the door. Dean never questions your use of Sam’s shirts because ever since Sam firmly insisted on giving you his flannel after your second encounter with them resulted in Dean cutting your own top apart, you’ve grown into a habit of borrowing Sam’s clothes. You always claim they’re more comfortable than your own and Sam’s feigned annoyance over you ‘stealing’ his belongings tides Dean right over.

Half an hour passes before Sam approaches the bunker kitchen to find you with your back towards the entrance, busy prepping breakfast in nothing but his plaid. He pauses in the doorway to stare at you for a minute, licking his lips with an irrepressible smile. For some, this may seem like a stereotypical morning after, but for a couple of hunters, it feels like a dream come true.

After finally returning to the bunker last night following the completion of a series of successful hunts, you’ve got no solid obligations and very little on your to-do lists today, although Sam’s got more than a few ideas about how to pass the time, and a couple more come to mind when you stretch up on your toes to reach for something, causing the hem of his shirt to glide up until its corner reveals just slightest hint of your incredible ass. Sam can’t suppress his little grunt of approval, which catches your attention and makes you turn your head, peering back at him over your shoulder.

You smirk at the blessed view of him standing there in nothing but the pair of thin grey sweatpants you’d bought him a month ago when you discovered the viral online phenomenon, “Hey, big guy. You just gonna stand there and gawk or do you wanna make yourself useful and grab another plate from the top shelf?”

Chuckling at your false animosity, Sam stalks toward you, “Good morning to you too.” One of his vast hands falls upon your hip as he presses the maximum possible length of his body into your back side, while his other hand reaches up over your head to snatch the plate you’d asked for.

“Good morning indeed,” you concur with a silent gasp when you feel the generous bulge in his pants.

“Oh that’s not morning, baby girl,” Sam husks into your ear, “That’s all you.” His powerful arms slink around you and his lips find their way down the side of your neck, lingering in that tender spot just behind your ear whilst you tilt your head and close your eyes, contentedly surrendering yourself to the moment. “I ever tell you how good you look in my shirts?”

Wiggling your butt back to tease him a bit, you’re pleased with the hiss it elicits. “No, but you made it very clear how bad I look in Dean’s,” you counter playfully.

The man behind you scoffs, “I didn’t say you looked bad; you could never look bad. I just… don’t like seeing you wear his clothes.”

“Oh, I know,” you turn around in his arms, “I just don’t understand how Dean doesn’t know yet. I mean, I think you’ve been very obvious.”

“And you haven’t?”

“I’m not the one who leaves hickeys in very visible places all over your body!”

Sam’s eyes glaze over in lust, an idea clearly forming in his head as he glances down at you. “Dean’s a hot-blooded guy; he needs to know you’re off-limits,” he alleges before attacking your throat with his mouth.

“So why don’t we just tell him?”

Without pausing his efforts, Sam reminds you, “Because you said you thought it was kinda hot, all the sneaking around. Mmpf, and because you said you wanted to see how long it would take him to figure it out.”

You nod while running your fingers through his silken strands and leaning back to give him more purchase, “That’s true. But in my defence, we always have this conversation when we’re doing stuff like this and I can’t think straight when your hands and mouth are on me.”

“Kinda like how I can’t think straight when you’re wearing nothing but my shirt?” His kisses travel down from your neck to your collarbone and shoulder as he slides his loosely buttoned flannel off to one side, “Fuck, you’ve got me so hard.”

Without warning, Sam seizes your waist and hoists you into the air as if gravity were an absolute joke, before plopping you down on the edge of the steel counter, his thumbs digging lightly into your ribcage.

“Sam! This is where we eat!” you protest with a laugh.

“Exactly. Which is why I’m gonna devour you here.” He dives back into your neck, continuing his work on a little pink mark that’s already beginning to form.

“Oh fuck… Wait, what if Dean walks in?” It’s through a great struggle that you manage to push him back an inch.

“He’s got a date with the Impala. He’ll be in the garage all day, trust me.” Sam’s gaze sweeps over your body suggestively, “Now are you gonna let me taste what’s mine?”

With an equally lewd survey of his extensive frame, you reply, “As long as you let me impale myself on what’s mine later.”

His eyes darken and the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person he’s ever wanted ignites a confidence within you, so in a rather swift motion, you grasp him by the shaft through his sweatpants – the delicious groan he emits at your touch is enough to turn your pussy into a slip and slide – and pull him back towards you until the clothed length of him is resting against your folds and your noses brush, while his hands settle naturally on your thighs.

Shivering, your breath stutters and for an instant you can do nothing but bask in the closeness of him. Sam seems to enjoy it too because he closes his eyes as he rests his forehead against yours with an elated sigh. For the second time today, you marvel at his beauty, whispering a string of gasping kisses along his lower eye socket and exquisite cheekbone, simply dying to breathe him in. All of him is so immaculate and sublime. Each time the two of you reconvene, you want to savor every fucking inch of him, but there are a lot of inches, so the task often overwhelms you. Still, you must try. Locking your ankles behind him, you use your legs to pull him even further into you and the friction makes you lose your mind.

“Fuck, baby girl, you keep that up I’ll be making a mess in my pants,” Sam grunts with his lips upon your cheek.

Your breathless laughter fills the air, thinking of the stain you've undoubtedly already left on his charming grey sweatpants. Nimble as he is, Sam takes advantage of your open mouth and plunges his tongue inside. After so much preamble, the kiss is heavy and full of need. When the pressure of his lips pushes your head back, your hands fly to his wrists for the sake of your balance.

From there, they journey upward across his vascular forearms to his bulging triceps, fondling his massive shoulders before sliding along his traps and up the gorgeous length of his perfect neck, until you finally reach the treasure trove of his impeccable locks. You tangle your fingers into the lush mane and yank, gently but zealously, making Sam growl into your mouth. His voice is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard and the sounds he makes always drive you insane.

Never breaking the kiss, Sam’s colossal moose paws roam up to your back as he slowly lays you down on the counter, his member somehow still notched at your entrance and the new angle rousing a quiet moan from you. When he ultimately pulls away, you pitch forward to chase after his lips, but Sam only grants you a devilish grin and a quick peck to the corner of your mouth before moving down to your jaw and neck. While one palm kneads at your breast through his shirt, the other begins pushing and pulling at fabric to uncover more of your skin for his wandering lips.

“Sam! Augh!” you cry out as your head falls back.

“I got you, baby. I’m all yours. Gonna make you feel so good.” As if to attest his words, he rolls his hips into yours and a needy whimper escapes you. With your fingers still twisted in his hair, Sam leaves no part of you untouched as his mouth travels down your body. But upon reaching your navel, he pauses, those vivid, color-changing eyes peeping up at you to check for any signs of discomfort or objection. Finding none, his thick tongue pokes out to lick a deliriously winding path from your belly button to your exposed clit. Then, pushing down tenderly on the insides of your knees to open you up to him, Sam directs you one last look that is both hungry and reverent, “I still can’t believe this is mine.”

Dean had stopped you halfway through your recollection, but it appears that was still too much for him, “What did I do to deserve this?! I feel like I need to go bathe in holy water for a week.”

You and Sam both open your mouths to respond but Dean cuts you off vehemently, “Ba-da-da-da!” His vocalized outcry is complete with animated gestures featuring an accusing index finger. “OK, before you two tell me another traumatizing story, that’s enough of the who, what, when, where, and how… I just need to know why. I mean, is this- are you- …?”

Sensing the protective wheels turning in his head, you decide to put Dean out his misery, “I’m not just with Sam because he’s an incredible lay if that’s what you’re wondering. We can skip the fatherly ‘what are your intentions’ talk. Yes, Dean, I am in love with your little brother… although ‘little’ is not exactly the word I’d use to describe him.”

“Sammy, could you please control your woman?”

“My woman?” Sam sounds mostly amused but you’re almost certain you can hear a hint of pride in his voice.

“Yeah, I admit I’m surprised I didn’t see it until now. You two are kinda oddly perfect for each other, you know, in a weird, kinky way.”

“To be honest, we’re pretty surprised too. I mean, he doesn’t look it but this guy is kind of territorial,” you quip whilst cocking a thumb in Sam’s direction.

“I don’t need to- Wait a minute, so all those bruises you told me were from hunts?” Dean’s eyebrows soar towards his hairline.

Chewing on your lip, you confirm his hypothesis with a miniscule nod.

“Yeah well that time you saw my back,” Sam chimes in vengefully, casting you a handsome grin full of mischief as he reveals, “that wasn’t a werewolf, that was Y/N.”

With eyes as round as dinner plates, Dean frantically shuts you both down, “OK, that’s it. Torture Dean time is over. I don’t wanna hear any more about your depraved sex lives! Look, I guess I’m happy for you guys, although mostly cause I don’t have to play referee anymore, but I’m gonna need you to follow some ground rules around here. Like rule number one! No sex in public places!” he starts counting with his fingers, “Always put a sock on it when you’re busy! And most importantly, no sex in Baby!”

Your laughter follows Dean as he wearily saunters out of the kitchen, an exhausted expression on his face. Turning to your newly outed boyfriend, you petition excitedly, “Does this mean we can have shower sex now?”

“Not while I’m around!” comes Dean’s snappy answer.

In contrast, Sam gives you the same look he did on that dreamy morning, “Oh trust me baby girl, I’m gonna get you wet somehow.”

“Still within hearing distance! I think I liked it better when you guys were at each other’s throats.”

As you’re giggling, Sam leans down to whisper in your ear, “For the record, I’m in love with you too.” And just like that, you’re tempted to re-enact your previous kitchen escapades.

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abizarreyodelingincident · 3 years

Text

Braaaaaaains...

Jason Todd is legally – and biologically – dead. His family noted his lack of pulse at three in the morning, inside the cave, his body laid out on a table with medical instruments.

No, really, tell him something he doesn't know.

What else crawls out of a grave moaning and groaning?

Or, Jason thought his family full of the world's greatest detectives was smarter than this. Apparently not.

****************************************************************

It had been an ordinary night. Calm. The stage for very little costumed crime and barely more regular, non-insane crime as well. Half the menagerie that made up Dick's loving ragtag bunch of younger siblings had even taken the night off.

Nothing should have make him arrive to silence this thick, to this faint echo of sniffling.

He sprinted after the noise.

Damian's fine, left before me. Duke didn't go out, nor did Steph. Babs spent the evening with Cass in the cave, Tim swept the bowery and said he was going to stop by Jason's place to-

He collided with a shaking, tear stained Tim right outside the medbay.

There was a body on the closest table. Others around it, crying, pacing, muttering in denial.

Dick couldn't look.

No, no, please, please no. I can't do that again. I can't!

Scarred skin, too pale – to be Duke or Cass – by death. His breath hitched. No. He. Fuck.

He knew those scars. Those arms. That chest and that fucking Y from navel to shoulders.

“Dick! Jason... he was... I found him in his apartment. And I brought him to the cave... but... Jason doesn't have a pulse. He's... cold...”

Dick stumbled.

No.

No, no, no, that... that couldn't be real.

He caught himself on his little brother. Brought himself into a hug too tight, as painful as the arms gripping his ribs and back. A grip meant for a lifesaving light at sea. For a safeline over a ravine.

Twice. He'd lost the same brother twice. And this time, he didn't even have the excuse of inexperience and unstable situations. He... he patrolled the city whilst his brother was dead, completely oblivious to the fact. How could he? How dare he not know?!

“Shh, Tim, I'm here. I'm here.” But not for Jason, whispered a vicious part of him.

“What's all this?”

Dick's heart just about stopped.

Damian stood at the entrance to the lockers' room, uniform folded under one arm, hair slightly damp from a shower and Bat-themed pajamas worn without shame. His mild annoyance was proof he had no idea of the drama that had happened not twenty feet from him.

With reluctance, he let go of Tim, a gentle hand lingering on his shoulder, before he took a few steps toward his youngest, most vulnerable brother.

“D-Dami, I... ” Damn it, he had to be the one to tell Damian about this. Because otherwise, the person to break the news would be Bruce, and-

Shit.

Bruce.

Oh God. How could they possibly tell him- ? After all their fights, the goddamned shattering that had broken the man he had been, and their last conversations even being more admonishment about protocols that Jason had flippantly disregarded. Bruce would never recover. That was it. The end of Batman.

...But first, God he hated himself, wanted to just curl up in a corner and forget everything, first he had a young brother he needed to talk to. One... one little brother less than just this afternoon.

“Jason... ” He swallowed, his throat tight, his heart in denial, the words so damning, but needing to be said. “Jason did not make it. He... he's dead.”

Damian stayed thoughtfully silent.

Not... not the tearful reaction he had expected, but Damian had grown up surrounded by so much death and horror that he would obviously be guarded. And oh, Dick's heart went to his baby brother, and he truly wished he could

“I do not understand. Why such theatrics for the zombie?”

Dick gasped, knowledge warring with the flash of anger.

“Damian! He's our brother!”

“Did he lose his head?” Damian demanded, and Dick's mind buckled.

“Huh, no, but that doesn't have anything to d-”

“Then, why are you acting so weirdly emotional, Richard?”

Before Dick's temper could catch up to his mouth, the longest and most painful-sounding gasp erupted from the medbay, where, to the general shock of all, Jason's gray-ish body shot upward with both his arms raised.

Electroshocks didn't make you jolt like that.

Electroshocks, in fact, remained in their kit on the other side of the medbay, unused. Because Jason had seemingly been dead long before he had been brought to the cave.

That was roughly the moment when Dick's brain caught up with the first of many hints. Latched onto it with a fool's hope.

“... Damian... When you were calling Jason a 'zombie', what did you mean?”

Damian's brows scrunched up together, a look he meant to be intimidating, but had more in common with a disgruntled kitten. “Exactly that, Richard. Do we not have files on zombies in the computer? Dead bodies walking about animated by unholy powers?”

Jason's not- Dick forced the half formed thought to a halt. For once, he rather wanted to be very, very wrong in how he perceived his family.

“What's with all the noise? Can't someone try to sleep like the dead without screaming?” Jason groused. “Should have gotten myself buried ag-OOF!”

“JASON!” screamed the hysterical teenager that had launched himself at a very lively dead body.

“Huhh? Hi, Timmy?” Jason said blearily, ruffling Tim's hair, eyebags suspiciously prominent. “... Fear gas?”

The blinking slowed, the fog of sleep drifting away as he silently begged the rest of them for an answer.

Happily provided by a still crying Tim. “I thought you were gone!”

“What is dead may never die,” Jason quipped, his mouth twisting in that cocksure grin from his Robin days.

And Dick wanted nothing more than to stop right there, pass out from the relief and joy of his little brother being alive and kicking, but...

But...

That joke. One of many morbidly unfunny jokes and puns.

Bone-deep fatigue crushed his back. A bitter curse for whatever higher forces messing with them echoed strongly inside his skull, before he gave in to the inevitable and inhaled a few times for patience.

“Jason. We thought you were dead-dead.”

With prickly, hedgehog style affection, Jason pushed Tim back and stood up, stretching. “Come off it, Goldie. I wasn't even decapitated. I mean, if you were really worried, you could have just called a necromancer or something.” His expression hardened. “But if you ever call a necromancer on my ass, I'll shoot your perfect glutes.”

Yup, yup, yup, this is happening.

Tim finally wiped the rest of the tears away, helped by one of Stephanie's handkerchiefs, when he froze. “Wait. Your skin's still pale as a corpse.”

The flicker of amusement in Jason's eyes killed it for Dick.

God, how could they have all been this idiotic? If Wally ever learned about this – Shit, did Roy and Kory know before him?!

They were going to laugh their asses off at him.

Jason, unaware of the world recalibration happening in his poor big brother's mind, shrugged and rolled his shoulders – who creaked suspiciously loudly, more like rusty hinges than normal body parts. “Eh, I'm just a bit hungry. Nothing a meal or two won't fix and get some blood flowing back under my s-”

“You're a zombie.”

They turned toward him.

“Way to cross the finish line on time, Mister Rabbit,” Jason drawled.

Barbara, for once, looked completely unprepared. “A zombie,” she repeated, dazed.

Stephanie's nervous giggle died out when she noticed the lack of humor. “... No!”

Cassandra furiously looked down, muttering in her fist. Duke, by contrast, had the expression of a person stuck in a very awkward nightmare.

Even Jason's good-natured ribbing faded in when faced only with the distant screeched of bats. “... Hm, guys, bats, roostery, parasites and octopi? This is old news. What's with all the... ”

He vaguely gestured at their faces.

“Old news?” Tim rasped like he was being strangled.

“I came back from the dead years ago! Come on! Am I in a parallel universe? Hey, Demon Brat,” Jason called, baffled, “you knew, right? I didn't imagine that, right?!”

“Of course, Todd. Mother informed me of everything. Besides, Grandfather's interest in your state of being was of interest for a few weeks. How could I have been ignorant about your zombified state of being?”

In the corner of his eyes, Dick noticed Tim's, Barbara's and Cassandra's expressions all pinching in displeasure. In a way, Dick was reassured. He hadn't been the target of a family-wide hoax to discredit him as an attentive and loving eldest brother. No, he was just naturally blind, apparently.

“He knew?” Tim growled, like it was a personal failing of the fabric of time and space.

Damian's tone was the exact opposite. “And none of you realized...?”

Dick squirmed. “I... huh... you see...”

His baby brother eyed him, completely unimpressed, and for once after years of partnership, Dick felt he deserved every single ounce of it.

“I see... I shall reevaluate the value of this 'detective training' I've been given if this is the result then,” he said, the nearest thing to completely disavowing his older siblings without saying so.

In other circumstances, perhaps the others would have demanded that Damian stay and explain, but he suspected the quelling look it would have deserved prevented them. Not one of them spoke until Damian had disappeared upstairs and the elevator doors had closed.

“Jason, since when have you been a zombie?”

Jason blinked, jaw hanging. Juuuust enough for some of the scar tissue on his face to stretch past normal. Why did Dick only notice that now?

“Wait, you're all serious? How could you not know? I told you guys!”

And there was Dick's pride rearing its ugly head, because no, no he had not been told and maybe his deductive skills needed a very complete overhaul, but his memory was still excellent!

“You never said that. Heck, we weren't even talking until two years ago!”

“I literally told you all that I crawled out of my grave by myself, groaning the entire time. No experiment, no Lazarus Pit, just a body waking up in its own coffin and deciding to breathe fresh air. Does that not scream 'zombie' to you?”

They cringed.

“Not the only one that returned from beyond,” Babs mumbled. He could see her pull up the mental list right there.

“I greeted you all last meeting with a 'What's up, my bat folks? It's me, your favorite zombie!'. What did you think that meant?”

“That you're an asshole with a morbid sense of humor?” Stephanie quipped, and Jason momentarily paused his indignation to high five her. Fair's fair.

“Okay, but what about that time I got shot in the chest and I told you all not to worry about it?”

“I just figured you were going to get stitched up by Leslie or yourself, you know, regular bat neuroses,” Tim confessed.

Dick made a mental note to keep a much closer eye on Tim's patrols for the next few months.

“From a bullet chest wound?” Jason asked with an incredulousness that was not at all earned, because he was a freaking zombie!

“I thought your armor had blocked it! The hole wasn't bleeding!” Tim protested, cheeks red and tone defensive.

“Well, yeah,” Jason replied. “I don't bleed. It's like some fruit pulp or something. Ain't coming out if you don't press. My heart's not pumping.”

That's a 'nevermind' on the smoothie I saved for after patrol.

“Well, I know that now,” Tim said.

“I feel like I should write it down on the plaque or something,” Jason still sounded amazed, and might have pinched his arm just to be sure he hadn't been daydreaming, “Like, 'a good soldier AND A VERY DISCRETE ZOMBIE!' in big flaming letters. With a spotlight. And a dictionary opened on 'Zombie' or 'Undead'. You know, just in case the next batbrat to come along needs a few subtle hints about my true nature. What'd you think, Dick?”

He could not have been blushing harder than he currently was. “I think shut up.”

“Of course. What about when I shoved my deadly cold toes at Tim under a blanket?”

“Cold feet.”

“Never eating around you guys?”

“Daddy issues with Bruce,” Barbara deadpanned, and got a sock thrown at her for her honesty.

However, Duke, poor kid, turned green. “Wait, so when you offered me some jellied brain... was that not a death joke?”

Dick's stomach spontaneously shrivelled.

By the grimaces and sharp inhales all around, that was a common reaction.

Then the worst possible thing happened: Jason grinned.

He strutted, all confidence and brashness, and viper-quick, snatched an arm around Duke's shoulder. “Narrows, Nightlight, my tiny bitsy bro, everything I do is a death joke. My very existence laughs at death.”

Inside the batcave, the groaning was long-suffering and shameful.

“But that was actually brains,” Duke countered.

“Yeah. Calf brains. It's a delicacy.”

Tim massaged his forehead. What a mood.

Duke narrowed his eyes. “It was purely for the joke, wasn't it?”

Jason patted him on the back so hard Duke faltered. “One tragically wasted on your obtuse mind. I prefer me some Tête fromagée instead. Less like grainy jello.”

Stone-faced, Barbara wheeled herself toward the batcomputer. There, upon a series of quick clicks, she opened up the Bats's files. “Alright, you had your fun. Do you need to eat brains or are you just the world's least funny meathead?”

“I'm the world's most misunderstood vigilante!” Jason loudly protested, milking their pain for all it was worth. And then some. “But yeah, I do. No grey matter in there” -- he tapped his belly -- “no thinking up here.” -- his skull.

“Need some better quality brains then,” Tim stage-whispered to Stephanie.

Cass pointed the finger at Jason. “No killing for brains.”

Jason's good humor flickered with a flash of green. “Ain't ever done it, never will. It's a matter of morals, not hunger, Cass.”

Dick swooped in that minefield before it exploded.

“Great! Proud of you, Jay! You're the good kind of vegetarian zombie,” he said, putting an arm around his ginormous little brother's shoulders.

Wait a minute...

“Hey, you're older than when you died! Zombies don't age.”

“No, I was thrown into a Lazarus Pit, and the evil waters cured the malnutrition-induced delay on my growth. Haven't aged a day since.”

“I just thought you had a weird babyface thing going on,” Tim said.

Jason's grin turned sardonic. “Quite the opposite, Timber.”

Dick put his head in his hands in some vain attempt to prevent his brain from leaking through his ears. With his luck, his little brother would 'playfully' eat some of it. “There's no way you look this rugged at biologically sixteen! I refuse to believe that.”

“Can you imagine my power if I'd been allowed to reach my full potential?” Jason leered, eyebrows waggling like waves in a sea at storm. “So many heart attacks.”

Barbara and Cassandra exchanged a silent look, and, after a solemn nod, Cassandra reached up to slap Jason upside the head.

“Thank you, Cassandra,” Barbara told her. “Jason, never do such a thing again.”

The disgruntled groan that followed must have been on purpose, because Jay was indeed an asshole.

“Besides, it's not like the world will ever know,” Tim said, cutting, a smirk hiding by his hand.

Dick really thought his little brother was far too relaxed upon learning that Jason was one with the undead. Sure, they had all encountered various levels of zombies during their missions, from all sorts of oral traditions and cultures, alien viruses and hidden nanobots piloting meat puppets. It wasn't even classified as a nation-wide crisis to encounter free-roaming zombies. But since the chronically unalive individual in question was one of their own, Dick felt he was owed at least a whole evening of frazzled panic and incomprehension for once.

“Oh?” Stephanie instead asked, sensing blood.

Tim shrugged. “Well, you know, no pulse, no blood flow,” he said with an angled eyebrow nodding at Jason's crotch

Stunned silence followed, their expressions varying from disgust, horror, unholy glee and, from Jason himself, wide-eyed shock that his shrimp of a little brother had had the balls to assimilate the zombieness fast enough to mock him for him.

Dick prayed for patience. For fortitude. And for an alternate timeline where he was an only child.

Why, for all the love of cotton candy and professional uncriminal clowns, did Tim put THAT image of Jason inside their brains? What had he done, him, a loving model for all of society, to suffer like this?

Maybe if he asked nicely, Jason would eat the image out of his head. He owed Dick that much after this clusterfuck of a conversation.

“Ooooooooh,” Stephanie crooned, miming getting dunked on. With acrobatics.

Jason huffed. “Like I was ever interested in the first place. I ain't Dick.”

“Okay, no slut shaming or virgin shaming, in fact, no shaming at all, please. In this house, we accept all sexualities, but we don't give out raunchy details about any of it, I only have so much brain bleach.”

“Share?” Duke pleaded in a whisper.

Oh, I wish I could, you young innocent soul.

A few beeps turned their attention back to Barbara and the batcomputer. “Well, that's one long overdue update to Jason's files. Anyone else want to share their 'obvious' medical condition?”

“Excuse you, being dead is not a medical condition.”

“I will make you wish for the peace of the grave, Jason.”

Droplets dripped from nearby stalactites.

A few bats flew overhead.

Jason turned to them like nothing had been said.

“Right. That was fun. Best night of my month. Can't wait to tell the Outlaws.”

Dick resigned himself to a series of unflattering texts by the absolute dickheads that were his second family. He could already tell the messages would blow up his phone to the Moon. 'You didn't know your brother that came back from the dead is a zombie?!'

“Have mercy and wait tomorrow morning?”

That smile could have been great or terrible. “You're lucky I'm in a spectacularly good mood, Dick.”

He had lifted his leg over his bike's seat when Duke was struck by genuine worry.

“Wait. Does Bruce know?”

Jason barked out a laugh.

“Of course he does! God knows he's got some massive blind spots, but he's obsessive, paranoid and I find subcutaneous trackers on me every week. No way he didn't get the hint before now.”

But, as his gaze went over the rest of them, his good cheer dimmed, his grin slipping off his face as surely as a bit of decayed flesh.

“... Right?”

#fanfic #Jason Todd #Zombie Jason Todd #Dick Grayson #Batsiblings

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wolveria · 3 years

Text

Inside Your Wires - Ch 6

Pairing: Human!Connor x Android!Reader

Series Warnings (18+ only): Eventual smut, slow burn, fantasy bigotry, violence, brief noncon elements, angst with a happy ending

Chapter summary: Connor gets his new assignment. He's not thrilled.

AO3

Story moodboard by @uh-kitty-got-wet

Chapter 5 art by @semains (18+ only)

November 6th, 2038

Saturday 09:56AM

There was a time when Connor didn’t have to come in on Saturdays. He remembered the days when mandatory overtime was few and far between.

Not anymore. 2038 seemed to be the year shit just kept happening, and now that he thought about it, quite a few of it seemed to be because of androids. Ones gone missing. Disobeying orders. And now, homicidal.

Connor rubbed the bridge of his nose after putting his car into park, regretting how enthusiastically he’d hit the bottle last night. It wasn’t too bad this time, just an annoying throbbing behind his eyes, but it made it more difficult to see and he’d had to squint through his windshield.

Whatever. The reason for his shame-drinking was no longer relevant. Connor just had to survive until lunchtime, and if he were lucky, Hank would let him go early. He tried not to itch at the butterfly bandages on his cheek, applied himself after he’d woken up in a haze with blood on his pillow having completely forgotten the injury existed.

Connor kept his head down as he walked through the lobby of the station and through the security checkpoint to the bullpen proper. He tried not to be completely antisocial, however, and sent weak smiles at the coworkers who bothered to notice he was there.

Helen, Alexander, and Rupert all acknowledged him with various degrees of warmth, some colder than others, and all pretty much deserved. Ralph gave Connor a nervous smile from his chair, though it quickly faded as his eyes flickered to something across the room.

Frowning, he followed Ralph’s eye line across the bullpen and scowled when he spotted Colin leaning casually against Connor’s desk, talking to… someone. He couldn’t see who, Colin’s figure blocking them from view.

Against his better judgement, Connor drew closer, pressure building at the back of his neck, an uneasy feeling of dread that increased with each step.

“Con’s just gonna love this. But seriously, if he bitches about it too much, or gives you a hard time, you can always partner up with me. I won’t mind one bit, promise.”

Connor would have rolled his eyes at his brother’s typical cocksure demeanor, but instead, he went stock still at the familiar voice that answered.

“While the offer is appreciated, Lieutenant, my instructions stipulate that I must assist Detective Anderson with his new, specialized caseload. I’m sure you can understand that CyberLife only wishes to cooperate with the DPD and does not want to interfere with police procedure—“

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The YN800 model blinked and turned its head to meet Connor’s eye, its little blue light blinking for a moment before solidifying again.

It was sitting in Connor’s chair.

“It’s good to see you again, Detective,” it answered, chipper as ever as a fake smile graced its features.

Connor looked the prototype over, his nose crinkling at its appearance. The suit must have been brand new, there were no stains or bullet holes, and her—its hair was once again pinned upwards into a perfect knot.

He felt his insides churn at the near slip, at thinking for even a split second that this thing was a person. Shoving down the crude thoughts of the night before, Connor gave the order through gritted teeth.

“Get. Up.”

The prototype did as it was told, for once. It rose out of his chair, not even having the decency to look chagrined as it straightened its jacket of nonexistent wrinkles.

“I’m sorry, Detective, but I tried to call your phone and left you a message. It was not my intention to surprise you—“

“Oh, no, it’s never your intention to do anything, is it?” Connor snarled back. His headache was in full force now, and he swore he could see the bright lights of the station brighten in time with his heartbeat.

“Aw, c’mon!” Colin slapped him on the shoulder. “Be nice to the temp.”

“Temp?” Connor answered, voice pulled as taut as a wire.

“Yeah, you know. The temporary assistant. The new girl. The—“

He shoved Colin’s hand off his shoulder, leveling a glare at both of them. Colin merely shot him a shit-eating grin while the YN800 stood there, hands clasped behind its back at parade rest, polite and perfect as ever.

“Connor!”

All three of them turned toward the voice booming across the room.

“Get in here!”

Connor glared at the android, as if Hank’s shouting were its fault, which was probably the case.

He turned without a word and stalked to the captain’s office, shoulders hunched as his heart raced and his hands shook at his sides. He let the glass door fall shut behind him, but when he didn’t hear the whoosh of it close, he glanced over his shoulder to see the YN800 had followed him inside.

Great.

Connor stood in front of the desk with his arms crossed.

Hank sat down in his chair, pointedly looking at the chairs in front of his desk. Connor remained standing.

The older man glared, answering Connor’s attitude with a look and a heavy sigh.

“Bet you’re wondering what that’s about.” Hank jerked his chin over Connor’s shoulder. The prototype had taken a spot at the back of the office, observing politely with its hands clasped in front of its hips.

“Yeah, I am.” Connor was a little too cranky this morning to try a more diplomatic approach. “What the hell is it doing here?”

“I’ll get to that. First on the docket, I got a shit ton of android-related cases filling up our database every day and I’m at wit’s end.” Hank took a deep breath, bracing himself as he met Connor’s eye. “Which is why I’m assigning all of these cases to you.”

“You’re what?”

Connor stared at him, dumbfounded.

“You think that case last night was a one-off? We’ve got more android-related crimes rolling in, including assaults and homicides just as bad as the Ortiz case, and right now, you’re the one with the most experience.” Hank leaned his elbows on his desk as he leveled a formidable glare his way. “Is that going to be a problem, Connor?”

“Yeah, it is a problem, Hank! Why the hell do I have to do this? What about Colin? He was with me at the crime scene and was there for the interrogation!” Connor shoved a finger at the glass wall to prove his point.

Hank’s jaw tightened. Connor had seen that behavior enough times to recognize how he was pushing his luck.

“CyberLife asked for you specifically.”

“What?” Connor blinked, dumbfounded once again, racking his brain but coming up empty. “Why?”

“The hell if I know!” Hank barked back, rising to his feet as he pointed a finger at Connor, “and frankly, I don’t give a damn. Colin’s got enough on his plate—“

“—and I don’t?” Connor interrupted, scowling. Hank sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, and Connor almost felt guilty for his outburst.

Almost.

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you implied.” He tried not to sound like a hurt child, but, well, that’s exactly what he sounded like.

“For fuck’s sake, Connor! There are more people that are gonna start dying from this!”

“Yeah, I know, but—“

Hank lifted his hand, palm forward, effectively shutting Connor up.

“You saw what one of those deviants was capable of last night, and that was with three of you and another android trying to get it under control! You think the average person stands a chance against one of these fucks? That a little ol’ grandma can defend herself against the murderous robot gardener coming at her with a pair of shears? What the hell happens when a nanny bot decides to take a human kid for itself? Oh, wait, that’s already happened, and you would know that if you checked the goddamn case files I sent you!”

Connor was silent as Hank deflated. The older man leaned back against his desk as he looked through his glass wall out over the bullpen. His voice was rough but much quieter for the next round.

“We’re totally in the dark, Connor. We don’t know how bad this is gonna get and how many androids we’re dealing with. This has the potential to turn into a fucking nightmare with Detroit as ground zero.” Hank’s gaze drifted over Connor’s shoulder to the elephant, or the machine, in the room. “CyberLife was gracious enough to send us a state-of-the-art prototype until this issue is contained. It’s gonna be your partner until such a time that these androids are no longer a threat, and then you’re free to go back to being a misanthropic son-of-a-bitch as much as you like.”

Connor was thoroughly shamed by the end of Hank’s speech, that old familiar feeling of disappointment making his gut roil with nausea, but his anger hadn’t entirely flagged. He clenched his hands tightly to his thighs, fingers desperate for either his coin or his cigarettes.

Connor hadn’t felt the need for one in months. This was bad.

“Hank,” he tried again, his voice soft and pleading in that way he knew Hank couldn’t ignore. “I’m not saying this just to be a pain in your ass. I understand the stakes, but I genuinely believe I’m not qualified for these types of cases. I’m not a CyberLife technician, or an AI specialist, or a computer engineer. I’ve never even owned an android.”

That last one was technically true but only in the barest sense, and Hank gave him a knowing look. It wasn’t without sympathy, and his own answer was given with more kindness than he probably deserved.

“I know, Connor. I also know you’re the sharpest pair of eyes on the force, not to mention the quickest brain and the best instinct. You see shit other people don’t, even Colin, and you’ve got this creepy knack for taking one look at a person and knowing what makes ‘em tick. I’d say you’re almost like an android yourself, but I know how much that’d piss you off.”

Connor gave him another narrow-eyed scowl, and Hank immediately put up his hands as a sign of surrender even as a smirk played on his lips.

“My point is, I need you on this, son. I know it’s not ideal, hell, it downright sucks, but I know you can do this. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

And there it was. As effective as Connor’s pleading expressions could be, they were nothing in comparison to his need for Hank’s praise. The old geezer knew it, too.

And throwing a “son” into the mix was a goddamn dirty move, but Connor couldn’t even muster up annoyance. He just sighed, gave Hank the smallest hint of a smile, and said, “All right. But only until these cases are solved. Once the deviancy issue is addressed, the prototype is going back to CyberLife and you never give me an android case again.”

“I’ll pay for the postage to ship it back myself,” Hank said, smile wide and pleased as he patted Connor on the shoulder before returning to his desk. “And I want daily reports on the progress you and your new partner are making. Gotta make sure CyberLife’s best is pulling its weight.”

“I can assure you, Captain Anderson, I am worth every penny. And considering it took a small fortune to build me, I—“

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank interrupted the prototype, using that catchphrase that Connor and all of his brothers had picked up years ago. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

The android blinked almost comically before giving a slow nod. It then turned to face Connor, straightening its back at attention, and he rolled his eyes. He was still being handed the shit end of the stick, but he couldn’t deny that the cases were piling up and Hank really did need the extra help.

But why, out of all the androids in the world, did it have to be one like that.

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Connor turned and left Hank’s office, not waiting to see if the android would follow, knowing with a sinking feeling, it would.

Next Chapter

#connor x reader #human!connor x reader #human!connor x android!reader #connor x android!reader #inside your wires #my fanfiction #my writing

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