#and like fifteen assignments jesus

[natsstar]

tension.

pairing: natashaxfemreader

warnings: SMUT! / mommy! kink! / praise kink / restraint if you squint (nat’s just strong) strap! on! r receiving / fingering (r receiving)

summary: you and natasha had been engaging in some harmless flirting….. but what happens when the rest of the team starts to notice?

word count: 3,600

notes: this is filthy. also based on a lovely request. you’re welcome.

—-

“Jesus Christ,” you spit out, ducking out of the way as Steve hurls his fist at you.

“You never pull those punches, huh Rogers?” Natasha chuckles from outside the ring.

Sparring with Steve is well- not as easy as it looks. He’s a super soldier for fuck’s sake. You take a foot to the stomach and stumble back, clutching your torso as all the wind gets knocked out of you.

“Hit her harder,” Natasha says with a grin, her arm now dangling over the side of the railing.

“Shut up Romanoff,” you say, out of breath. You straighten back up, pouncing on Steve like a cat, only to be knocked to the side. You hit the ground with a groan, rolling over on your back and staring at the ceiling.

“Good job, Y/N,” Steve says looming over you. He extends a hand out to help you up, but you bat it away.

“Fuck off,” you say with a huff, rolling to the side with another groan.

“Meeting in fifteen minutes princess,” Natasha calls from the back of the gym as Steve climbs out of the ring. You get up slowly, wincing at the bruise forming on your rib cage. Climbing out of the ring dramatically, you stalk towards Natasha’s place at the equipment rack.

“Would ya,” you mumble, waving your hand at the cut on your lip.

“Yup.” She grabs a cloth and some antiseptic, motioning for you to sit in front of her. You sit down, straddling the chair and leaning your head up towards where she’s standing. She sprays the antiseptic wash on the cloth and then holds it towards you, lightly dabbing the cut. You wince, but stay still, your fingernails digging into the chair.

“He got you good, huh?” Natasha mumbles, her focus completely on your cut.

“Mmhm.”

Natasha puts a few small bandages on your lip, giving a light slap to your cheek when she’s finished.

“Still pretty?”

“Nope,” Natasha says, walking away.

You let out a huff, your eyes lingering on her hips and how they sway back and forth as she walks. The Black Widow- cold yet so, so hot. You get up, kicking the chair to the side and trailing after Natasha towards the debriefing room.

The meeting goes smoothly, Steve discussing the upcoming assignment and you biting your nails and sneaking glances at Natasha across the table. She sits there the entire time with her arms crossed, eyes boring into you. This isn’t an unusual occurrence- Natasha messing with you. She’s wearing a tight zip up, her cleavage spilling out the top. Fuck. Natasha’s hot, you’ve acknowledged that, but it’s not like you would ever do something about it. You could never really tell if the way she looked at you was in the same way you were looking at her: hungry, hot, horny. She’s just Natasha (terrifying.)

The meeting ends and you stand up out of your seat, gathering your things when you feel a hand brush around your waist. You look up and it’s Nat, her face completely expressionless as she leaves you and walks out the door. Rolling your eyes, you trail behind her. Steve catches your gaze, giving you a quirk of his eyebrow in question, but you just wave a hand at him, heading down the hallway to your room.

“What was that about?” he whispers nonchalantly behind you.

“I don’t know. Whatever.” You open the door to your bedroom and close it behind you quickly, falling face first on your bed and screaming into your pillow.

You quickly undress and turn on the shower, desperate to wash off the sweat and grime from sparring earlier. You remember how Natasha wiped the cut on your lip as you shampoo your hair- the close proximity the two of you were in. You find yourself growing flushed as you picture Natasha in your mind. Her figure, her hair, her lips.

“God fucking damnit,” you mutter under your breath, turning off the shower and shaking off the thought. You dry off, putting on sweats and a tank top before heading out into the shared kitchen to whip up something for dinner. All your teammates are scattered throughout the room. Steve and Tony are sitting at the table eating their food, Bucky’s watching something on the couch while Clint perches on the arm chair. Natasha’s spinning around the kitchen, seemingly cooking something on the stove while Wanda sits cross legged on the counter with a bowl of pasta. You wander towards the fridge, opening it up and jutting out your hip as you scan over your options. You eventually decide on some leftover rice, scooping it into a bowl and tossing it in the microwave. Natasha’s cooking erratically, spices and vegetables everywhere. The redhead flies past you every couple of seconds, darting to grab a different ingredient or utensil.

“Nat.” you say without looking up from the microwave, “What are you doing?”

“Cooking,” she says behind you. Wanda snorts from her place on the counter.

“Must you do it with so much vigor?” you retort.

You feel a firm hand on your back. “Don’t move, I'm grabbing a knife,” Natasha says, reaching around you to grab a knife from the holster.

“Stab me with it,” you mumble.

“Maybe later.”

You scoff as she skips away, pulling your rice out of the microwave and resting your hip against the counter as you watch Natasha. You eye her intently as you spoon food into your mouth, watching the way her shoulder muscles flex underneath her tank top every time she stirs the pot. She’s wearing a white wife beater and black leggings, her hair falling messily down her neck. You feel a tap on your shoulder, snapping you out of your trance as you whip your head around to look at Wanda perched next to you.

“What’s up?” she asks, cocking her eyebrow.

You flush a little, embarrassed to be caught raking your eyes over Natasha’s body.

“Nothing.” you say with a mouthful of rice.

“Just fuck,” Wanda says with a laugh.

“Huh?” you whisper yell, eyes going wide.

“Say it louder for the people in the back!” Tony yells from the table.

“Say what?” Natasha asks with false innocence, slowly turning her head from the stove.

“Good God.” you mutter, steering yourself away from the counter and out of the kitchen.

“Me and my rice are leaving,” you yell over your shoulder as Wanda cackles.

“Bye princess!” you hear Natasha saying, eliciting more laughter from Wanda. Annoying shit.

You get to your room, sitting down cross legged on your bed and opening up your laptop to watch something on Netflix. A little flustered from your previous interaction in the kitchen, you attempt to distract yourself, mindlessly shoveling rice in your mouth as you try to find something good to watch.

Natasha Natasha Natasha.

She’s in your head. She’d been messing with you since the first time she watched you lay your eyes on her. She knows. She has to. The two of you would flirt and banter, but it had never gone farther, at least you’d never expected it to. Would you sleep with Natasha? The question is daunting, your cheeks growing red just thinking about it. Fuck it, of course you would. You slap your laptop closed, and abruptly stand up. You’re not hungry anymore, at least not for the rice. You march into the kitchen before you lose your nerve.

“Where the fuck is Nat?” you say with a little too much force.

Steve freezes mid chew, “Uhhh.”

“She went to her room,” Wanda says quickly. She gives you a wiggle of her eyebrows and you turn around, rolling your eyes.

Taking a deep breath, you make a beeline for Natasha’s door, stopping just before you open it. You hesitate for a moment, noticing the shake in your hands and the burning in your cheeks. Fuck it. You open the door, striding in towards Natasha’s bed as it slams behind you. Natasha looks up from her bowl of stir fry.

“Hello,” she says, mouth full.

“Okay. So. Natasha.” you stutter, trying to find your words. She just peers up at you, continuing to munch on her veggies.

“Would you stop that? Put your food down.”

She does. Setting her bowl on the side table and putting her hands up in surrender.

“Okay. So. You, me-” she cocks her eyebrow at you. “Stop- don’t look at me like that.”

“Look at you like what Y/N?”

“You know what? Maybe this is a bad idea,” you turn on your heels, ready to chicken out when a hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back. Natasha had stood up in the process, and when she whips your body back towards her, you’re face to face.

“What’s a bad idea,” Natasha purrs, her thumb slowly rubbing up and down your wrist.

You watch as her fingers trail up your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your body feels like it’s on fire, your skin and heart responding to her touch. You drag your eyes up to look at her.

“Natasha.”

“Y/N.”

“Fuck it,” and with that you surge forward, your lips messily finding hers in a heated kiss.

Natasha lets out a surprised noise before composing herself enough to kiss you back, both her hands flying to your waist and gripping tightly. You groan as her fingers dig into your sides, pulling your body flush into hers. She coaxes your mouth open, wetly sliding her tongue between your lips. You open your mouth to accommodate her, your hands shakily weaving into her hair as the kisses become more heated.

“Natasha-” you mumble into her mouth.

“Quiet.”

And with that she pushes you down on her bed with enough force that you fall flat on your back. You scoot up towards the pillows before she’s back on you, straddling your lap and reattaching her lips to yours. She’s kissing you with so much passion- her hands running over your body as she begins to grind her hips down into you. If there’s one thing about Natasha it’s that she never does anything with half effort, and clearly this would not be an exception. You plant your hands on her hips, guiding her movements on top of you. She gives a light bite to your lower lip before removing her lips from yours and trailing down your jaw and to your neck. She sucks harshly at your pulse point and you moan. You feel her smirk into your neck as she makes a trail of love bites down your throat, knowing good and well that everyone will be able to see them tomorrow. She gives you a particularly hard bite and you yelp, her hands digging into your rib cage to keep you still.

“Fuck. I’m gonna ruin you so good,” Natasha mumbles into your neck.

The only thing you can muster in response is a whimper, Natasha’s calloused hands dipping under your shirt and lifting it up over your bra. Her mouth drags down to your chest, pulling the cups of your bra down and nipping at your exposed breasts. She laves at a nipple, sucking it into her mouth harshly and clipping it with her teeth before moving on to the other. All you can do is lie there and take it, arching your back into her and tangling your hand in her hair. Natasha has you pinned beneath her, her hips digging down into yours and her hands coming to push down your waist each time you squirm. Her thigh slips between your legs as she showers your chest with attention, eliciting a set of low whimpers as she pushes it further into your center.

“Natasha,” you whimper, “Please.”

She sits up suddenly, taking your jaw between her fingers as she straddles your hips. She grips you hard enough to leave a bruise, peering down at you with her pupils blown and lips slightly parted.

“You think you can tell me what to do, huh?” you try to shake your head no, but she grips you harder, leaning her face into you until your noses are touching.

“You’re mine now Y/N,” she whispers, “Now shut the fuck up and be good for me.”

You nod your head quickly, a flush creeping up your chest and neck. Natasha sits back up, quickly pulling your shirt off the rest of the way and unclipping your bra.

“No touching until I say so,” Natasha rasps out, lifting her own shirt over her head, her thighs still tightly straddling your hips. She unclips her bra and throws it to the side, leaving your eyes wide and your mouth watering.

“Hands up,” the other woman demands. All you can do is nod, completely silent as you lift your arms up over your head, gripping the bed frame behind you.

“That’s a good girl.”

Before you can even attempt a response, Natasha leans down, crashing her lips into yours. You moan as she sucks your tongue into her mouth, hooked on the way she kisses you with so much need. Her hand trails down your body, pinching your nipples before delicately running down your rib cage and stomach until she finds the hem of your sweatpants. Her hand slides into your pants, running over the hem of your underwear before lowering to cup your heat through the cotton. You arch into her with a moan, hands tightly gripping the headboard.

“Is this what you want?” Natasha asks teasingly, her fingers lightly rubbing circles around your clit through your panties.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Y/N?”

Your lip catches in between your teeth, giving her a dumb nod of your head as your entire body clouds over with lust. Your mind is hazy, completely consumed by Natasha.

“Words.” her fingers dig into you harder, your hips jerking up.

“Please- please fuck me Natasha,” you breath out.

Natasha’s eyes visibly darken at your request, her hands coming down to rip off your pants and panties in one fluid motion. You shiver as the cold air hits your body, but you forget the sudden change in temperature when Natasha unclamps her thighs from around your hips and removes the rest of her clothes. She settles back on top of you, tangling her legs between yours so that you can feel her own arousal on your thigh. When Natasha lowers her lips to yours it’s different this time- slower, more calculated. You moan softly into the kiss, your nails digging into the headboard as you ache to run your hands over Natasha’s body. You settle with wrapping your legs around her, grinding your hips in an attempt to seek friction. You feel Natasha smirk against your lips as her hands wander down your stomach and brush across your hips, entirely too turned on to get embarrassed at your need for her touch. Your mouth hangs open when her fingers finally find your clit, your hips jerking up into the woman on top of you.

“Stop squirming,” Natasha demands, removing her hand from your clit to push your hips down.

You begin to groan her name, but you’re stopped when she lifts two of her fingers to your lips, her other hand gripping your jaw open. You take them in your mouth, sucking your arousal off of them and moaning at the taste.

“That’s it,” Natasha whispers, “Be good for mommy.”

Your eyes go wide, but you nod, increasingly turned on by the title she gives herself. You whine when she removes her fingers from your mouth, but are quickly silenced as she rubs a harsh circle on your clit before pushing them into you. You throw your head back with a satisfied groan, Natasha curling her fingers deep inside of you before pulling them out and repeating the action again.

“That’s a good girl,” she praises, nodding her head in approval, “be loud for me.”

You meet her request, letting little noises escape your throat each time she pumps into you. The woman picks up the pace, the heel of her hand digging into your clit as she begins pounding her fingers into you. She’s giving it to you hard and fast, her red hair falling over your face as her body moves with the rhythm of her fingers. You feel your orgasm approaching quickly, your legs tightening around her body as you beg her not to stop.

“Nat-” you breathe out, “I’m gonna come.”

Suddenly she stops, pulling her fingers out abruptly as you cry out at the loss of contact.

“You come when I give you permission,” she growls out, landing a slap to the outside of your thigh. You whimper as she gives you another slap, your lower lip catching in between your teeth.

“Yes mommy.”

She gets up off of you, standing up and moving to her dresser. You’re left confused and mildly panicked, both overstimulated and under stimulated at the same time. She opens up her bottom drawer, taking out a harness with a black dildo attached to it. Your eyes go wide.

“Mommy’s going to fuck you with this, okay baby?” Natasha says as she turns to you, stepping her legs into the harness and pulling the straps up over her hips.

All you can do is nod and stare as Natasha tightens the straps and makes her way towards you.

“Be good,” she says, settling herself back on top of you, the dildo brushing your center. Natasha leans her face close to yours, your lips barely touching as her eyes bore into you. Her hand between her legs, she takes the strap, slowly running it up and down your clit, carefully watching each reaction you have. Ever so slowly, she pushes it into you, your jaw going slack and Natasha nodding in approval as you take the entire length.

“That’s a good girl,” she whispers, bottoming out.

She gives you a few shallow thrusts as you adjust, your eyes screwed shut and your knuckles turning white as you grip the wood above you.

“Eyes on me,” and with that, Natasha delivers a harder thrust, hitting deep inside of you, your eyes flying open to hold her intense stare. She pulls out slowly just to thrust into you hard, moans ripping through your chest each time she hits your sweet spot.

“Good?” she asks, and you just nod, unable to muster even a single sentence.

“Okay,” and she plants both of her hands on your torso, harshly gripping your waist as she picks up the pace. Your thighs clamp around her body, Natasha pumping into you with vigor. She leans her head down, capturing your nipple between her teeth, eliciting a series of whimpers from your throat as she nips and sucks. You’re a mess, grinding your hips up with every thrust, the sound of your skin meeting echoing throughout the room. Natasha shifts ever so slightly, one arm coming up next to your head as she props herself up on one of her elbows in a bid to keep upright as the harness rubs against her clit with each thrust. Your moans are becoming more frequent as you chant her name like a prayer, begging her to keep going.

“That’s my good girl,” Natasha pants out, “My good fucking girl.”

Your orgasm is creeping up on you quickly, a tight knot forming in your stomach as Natasha continues to pound into you. You see her bottom lip tremble as her own orgasm gets closer. The hand on your hip comes down in between your bodies as Natasha begins to rub your clit with the rhythm of her thrusts, and you think you scream.

“You can come,” Natasha says shakily, and you do just that.

Your walls clamp around the silicone toy, your legs shaking and your jaw hanging open as Natasha pushes you towards the edge. Your orgasm triggers Natasha’s as she bites down on your neck, a growl escaping her throat. She assists the two of you through your orgasm as she slows down, the pace becoming less harsh. After pulling a few more soft groans from your throat, Natasha pulls the strap out of you, untying the harness from her body and tossing it to the side before collapsing on top of you. You both pant together for a few moments, your hands coming down from the headboard and clutching the woman on top of you as you try to catch your breath. Natasha presses a light kiss to your lips before rolling to the side, looking at you as a small laugh escapes her lips.

“What?” you ask, still slightly out of breath.

“That was hot,” Natasha says with a giggle, clearly giddy in her post orgasm glow.

“Yea no shit,” you laugh out, your hand coming to wipe the sweat off your forehead.

“Round two?” Natasha asks, catching her lip between her teeth as her eyes darken once again.

“Sit on my face,” you respond immediately.

“Will do.”

—

You emerge from Natasha’s room a few hours later, tiptoeing into the kitchen to grab water and snacks. You left Natasha passed out in bed, both of you completely spent. The room is mostly dark, you pad your way towards the cupboard but before you can open it, the light flicks on. You jump, spinning around to see Steve and Wanda in the doorway staring at you. You look down at yourself, suddenly realizing that you’re in Nat’s t-shirt- nothing underneath, your neck and thighs covered in hickeys.

“Y/N?” Steve asks.

“Hey. Hello. How are you?”

Wanda doubles over with laughter, clutching her stomach as she cackles at you.

“Wanda I swear-” you groan.

“My God!” she says in between giggles, “You two were SO loud.”

You grab a bag of chips and make a beeline for the door, forgetting the water as you try to escape, running past your friends and back down the hallways towards Natasha’s room.

“Proud of you!” Steve calls behind you.

“Fuck off!”

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff #natasha romonova #natasha x y/n #wlw community #marvel #wlw love #wlwedit

[billlydear]

BASIC BIOLOGY - BILLY HARGROVE X READER (PART ONE) | PART TWO | PART THREE

word count: 4926 // masterlist | inbox (please request) | WIP list

Summary: you're paired with billy for a biology project. you only visit his house once, but it's enough for you to understand why he doesn't want you to come over again. when he starts showing up more and more in your life, you realize that it's basic biology: you were made for him, and he was made for you.

Contents: gn!reader (let me know if i made a mistake on that anywhere!), the climax is a scene that's based on 2.8 (?) where billy finds out that max is missing, and neil shoves him into the closet and slaps him. it's not word-for-word, it's about a different scenario, but it's the same fight. please don't read this if it'll trigger you. fluff, angst, eventual happy ending.

A/N: i hope that you enjoy this! it's been a brainworm of mine for a while, and i'm thrilled to have the first part finished. let me know what you think! I honestly think that this could just be read as a one-shot, so don't let the 'part one' deter you 😅

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

To say that you’re not thrilled about your partner assignment for this biology project is an understatement. Billy Hargrove, said partner, is smoking out the window, and you’re not even sure if he’s heard that you’re partners yet. The most he gives you is a steady glance from across the room, but you think that he might have just felt you burning a hole in the side of his head with your imploring gaze. 

When you’re all released to plan with your partners he makes no move to stand. He only curls his lips tighter around the cigarette and sucks down smoke.

You bite the bullet and stand, clutching your assignment sheet in your hands that are growing sweaty with nerves.

“Hi,” You supply lamely, taking the seat next to him that’s been vacated by his previous seatmate, “I guess we’re partners, then.”

“I guess.” He drawls, tilting his head towards the window to let smoke billow from between his lips. “So, what, you wanna come to mine?”

You freeze. He’s more forward than you’d expected. “Uh,” You thumb through the notes you’d taken, the project rubric, “Like- like today? After school?”

“Yeah,” He hangs his arm out the window to snuff the cigarette out on the sil, “My folks won’t be home ‘til late. We’ll have time to work.”

“Okay,” You agree cautiously, glancing over at his empty rubric sheet, concerningly devoid of notes, “Uh, what’s your address?”

“I’ll just drive you,” He glances at the clock, showcasing three minutes to dismissal, “I’ve gotta take my stepsister home too, though, so we’ll pull into the middle school first.”

“Oh. Thank you,” You blink, fingers curling tight around your papers, “I’ll, uh- go get my stuff.”

You rush back to your seat to pack your bag with a strange haze over your thoughts. Everyone knew Billy, what he wanted, what he did. He was notoriously forward, and though he had been straight to the point, you hadn’t felt like... prey. Still, something tugged at the pit of your stomach, a warning to be careful.

The bell rings and you turn, finding a pair of worn boots in your line of sight. You glance up at the wearer, finding Billy already waiting for you.

“Uh, sorry,” You stammer, rushing to stand and subsequently hitting your head on the desk, “Fuck-!”

“Jesus,” Billy chuckles, and you’re worried you’ll analyze the sound and find components of mockery in it, “Careful.”

“It’s fine,” You hiss, but before you can rub at the spot you’d hit, Billy’s hand is there, mussing your hair and pushing you forwards, towards the door of the class. It’s something you’d do to your clumsy younger brother, and it feels odd coming from the chain smoking California kid everyone talks about.

“My stepsister’s out in twenty,” He informs you, a presence on your left as you walk out the front doors of the school, “So we’ve got, like, fifteen minutes to talk about our plan, if you want.”

“That’s good,” You hum, trailing after him to an impressively flashy car, “I think we should just draw everything. I know she said we could use clay, but that costs more, and I’ve already got colored pencils.”

“Fine by me,” He makes for the passenger door first, throwing it open and gesturing for you to get in, “You can put your bag in the back.”

When you’re seated, he shuts the door for you, and you’re oddly grateful for the gesture. It’s kind, and once more, out of character for the stereotypes you’ve heard about him. There’s a tense few seconds of silence in the camaro as he crosses to the other side, and your cheek finds its way between your teeth. But once he gets in and starts the car up, the stereo blares to life with a mixtape you’re sure he’s made himself.

“Sorry,” He grunts, reaching for the dial, “We can talk.”

“It’s fine,” You shake your head, “I don’t mind music.”

Though he cranks the dial back up, it’s not all the way, and the music becomes background noise to the shuffling of papers in your lap.

“So,” You start, thumbing through notes and ideas, “Like I said before, clay is difficult to work with, and messy, plus we’d have to model it and let it dry, and I think leaving clay unattended in my house would result in a disaster. And if we just draw it instead, they’re simple shapes and there’s nothing too complicated to draw, whereas clay would be harder to sculpt. And-”

“Okay, okay! Let’s just draw it,” Billy chuckles again, checking his rear-view mirrors for oncoming cars as he peels out of the parking lot, “If you wanna draw it then we’ll draw it.”

“Oh. Okay.” You sit back with a huff, unsure whether to be indignant because you were cut off or grateful that you seemed to be getting along.

“If you don’t have your colored pencils with you I’m sure my stepsister has some,” He theorizes, “But maybe you should ask her. If I ask her I’ll get one jammed into my eye.”

You let out a breathy laugh, “She’s, uh- spirited, then?”

“Mean-spirited.” Billy drawls, turning a bit harder than he should down a residential street on the way to the middle school, “She sucks.”

You’re sure that Billy wouldn’t be going out of his way to pick her up from school if she sucked. Or at least, if she sucked all the time. You’re well aware siblings have their feuds, but when she runs up to the car with a skateboard in her hands, you know he’s bluffing. If he really disliked her, she could have skated home. Now you know he’s softer than he lets on, but you keep it to yourself, smiling awkwardly up at her when she pulls open your door without looking first.

“Backseat, dipshit,” Billy scoffs, “I’ve got company.”

Company. It sounds like a dirty word, at least, coming from Billy who’s company typically consisted of girls spread eagle over the hood. But you reach for your seatbelt, “I can sit in the back, if you want?”

“No.” He pushes your hand away from the buckle, nudging it into your lap, “She’s younger and she’s annoying. Backseat, dipshit.”

With a huff she slams the door, and you’re suddenly not sure that you’ll avoid a colored pencil to the eye, either. Billy’s peeling out of the parking lot before she’s even buckled her seatbelt, and she sends him a nasty glare through the rearview mirror, one that you’re sure has the power to burn a hole through his head.

“So, uh,” You turn slightly in your seat, meeting eyes with the disgruntled middle schooler, “What’s your name?”

“Maxine.” Billy drawls, at the same time she snaps, “Max,”.

“Max?” You echo cautiously, and she snaps out of her glare at Billy to size you up. She seems relieved, almost taken aback that you’d listened to her instead of her stepbrother. She nods, and her lips curl in something that you’ll take as a smile, even if it’s barely perceptible.

“I think I’ve seen you around,” You muse, “You go to the arcade, right?”

“Yeah,” She nods, “You... you wear the green converse, right?”

“That’s me,” You laugh, raising your leg and lifting the hem of your pants to showcase the olive green sneakers.

“You know what shoes they wear?” Billy sneers from the front, glancing back at her through the mirror. 

Her face flushes as she ducks it down to stare at her lap, and you’re quick to swat gently at his shoulder, “Be nice!”

He looks at the hand you’d used bewilderedly, and Max bites back an amused smirk.

You’re nervous for a moment, afraid you’d cracked some ancient rift between the two, but Billy just clenches his jaw, shooting her another glare through the mirror and turning down a side street into a residential neighborhood.

Though he’s entered new territory, he doesn’t slow down. He’s going fast enough to pummel any unfortunate child playing in the street, and your stomach twists uneasily as he only speeds up.

“Billy,” Your voice is cautious, anxious even, “Can you... slow down? There’s too many kids here, it’s making me nervous.”

“I won’t hit anyone,” He assures you, though it does little to calm you, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Maybe you- don’t!” You tense as a toddler veers too close to the street where he’s playing with a ball on his front lawn, your heart racing as he wobbles safely back towards his house, “Please, Billy?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response, and honestly, you think you’re lucky he doesn’t snap at you like he does Max, but he eases up on the gas, finally within the speed limit as he curves through neighborhoods in pursuit of his own.

He pulls into their driveway with ease, and it makes you question how often his parents are gone. Surely their cars would take precedence over his in terms of parking, and you worry about him and Max being left alone more often than not. You’re so caught up in pondering the stability of their home life that you run straight into Billy’s back as he wrestles with his keys, stumbling backwards and apologizing bashfully.

“Clumsy,” He labels you, but it sounds more like a nickname than it does an insult. A mere observation, not a crack.

Max is off to her room before you even step over the threshold, and ignores Billy’s shouts of, “Maxine, we need colored pencils!”

She slams her door in response, and his shoulders slump.

“Shitbird.” He mutters, and an involuntary laugh slips from your lips. He looks back at you with a sly grin, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over a chair.

“Inventive,” You bend down to unlace your shoes, but Billy waves you off, so you keep them on. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“We’ve got a whole list of ‘em,” He boasts, and you admire the rare mention of the two of them as a duo instead of opponents, “I think her favorite is dickwad.”

“Oh, that’s even better,” You chuckle, “I’ll have to use that.”

“She usually pairs it with another insult,” He speaks as though he’s describing the plating process of a budding young chef, “Something like insufferable or shit-for-brains really gives it an extra kick.”

You fall into a comfortable silence while he points you to his room and while the rest of the house you can see seems lifeless and sterile, his room is definitely his. Posters on the walls, laundry on the floor, a discarded shirt, a belt, and- boxers, that you only notice as he kicks them into the depths of his closet. You try not to think about them as he tosses his bag on his bed, prompting you to do the same. You rifle through your papers again, watching as he arms himself with a single pencil.

“We should plan out what we’re drawing first,” You propose, hesitant to sit on his bed before he tells you that’s where you’re working. It feels too personal, you’d almost rather sit on the floor.”

“Okay,” He nods, taking the plunge and sitting on the bed with his back against the wall, “So we’re drawing…”

“Mitosis,” You freeze, glancing up at him apprehensively through your lashes, “Have you been paying attention in class?”

“I’ve been trying to dump enough ashes onto the flowers outside the window to kill them,” His head jerks upwards to look at you instead of your bag as he drawls sarcastically, and the earring in his left ear dangles, shining in the light streaming in from the windows. You heave a sigh with raised eyebrows, ducking your head to continue searching through your bag.

“Here’s a diagram,” You offer up a recent class handout, one that you’re sure he’d used to spit his gum out in, “This isn’t the order the steps are in, though. So we have to reorder them, then draw them all and write about them.”

“There’s only four,” He reasons, “That won’t take too long.”

You neglect to break the news to him that you’re a perfectionist. 

“You start with prophase,” You point to the corresponding picture, “And I’ll do metaphase. Then whoever finishes first can divide the last two.”

He nods once in acknowledgement, “I’ll get colored pencils from Max later. She won’t stab me if I offer her pizza first.”

You can’t blame him for his apprehension towards the redhead. She’s definitely fiery, but you have a sneaking suspicion she’s equally as sweet. You suppose siblings are always at each other’s throats, and Billy and Max are no exception. You get to work sketching out your diagram, and after it's formed, without a ruler to make straight lines, you attempt your own freehand ones. They’re supposed to be arrows, pointing to each part of the drawing to label them, but they come out lopsided and shaky. 

Billy glances up from his sketch when eraser shavings fly over it, peering concernedly at you as you nearly rub a hole through the paper with your eraser.

“Jesus,” He frowns, looking at the array of gray shavings on his comforter, “Are you trying to bury us?”

“Sorry!” You groan, sweeping the shavings away into your palm and dropping them into the trash can that he’s got by his nightstand, “I can’t get these lines straight.”

“Uh,” Billy straightens from where he’d been slouched against the wall, lost in his drawing, “I don’t think I have a ruler..”

“I figured,” You rub your eraser clean of pencil lead, “It’s fine, I can just-”

“Here,” He cuts you off, lunging for a record sleeve that he’s got propped on a milk crate by the foot of his bed, “You can trace it with this.”

You freeze with the sleek, stiff sleeve in your hands.

“Are you sure?” You glance cautiously at him, ghosting your fingers over the edges, “I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Don't, then.” He snorts, “Just trace the edge, you won’t get pencil on it.”

You carefully line the pencil up with the side of the sleeve, peering around his room once before tracing the line you need, “Do you have a record player?”

“Not anymore,” He shakes his head, his curls bouncing, “It got- uh, broken when we moved.”

You hum sympathetically, “That sucks. Maybe you can find a cheap one somewhere, like a yard sale, or something.”

“Yeah, maybe,” He glances up at you with a soft smile, but you don’t catch it, too immersed in your task. He takes the time to admire you curiously, his eyes tracing your features just like you do the arrow.

“There,” You breathe, handing the sleeve back to him once all of your lines have been drawn, “That’s perfect.”

“Mine’s done too,” He decides, tipping his folder so that you can see his final product, “That okay?”

“Looks good,” You nod, scanning the page for any possible mistakes, “That’s... A lot of detail. Wow.”

He chuckles, and you think it’s sheepishly, “Yeah. I draw fast, I guess.”

“I guess,” You parrot, “Okay, next?”

“Actually,” He slides the paper off of his lap, glancing at the clock on his wall, “It’s getting kind of late. If we want pizza delivery, we should call in now, that way it gets here before we get too hungry.”

“Oh!” You stiffen slightly, “Uh, I’m- I’m sorry, I don’t think I have money for pizza.”

“It’s fine,” He waves you off, “I got it. You’re probably the only reason I’m gonna pass this class anyways, I think I owe you more than two slices.”

“Bio’s hard,” You laugh lightly, “I think I’m doing worse in math, though.”

He groans, running a hand down his face, “Fucking math.”

“This unit is so confusing,” You gush, hearing the crunch of tires on gravel from somewhere outside, “I just can’t wrap my head around-”

“Quiet.” Billy demands, eyes wide.

“Uh- what?” You glance nervously at him. You’d started to let your guard down, to forget the rumors about Billy Hargrove, the basketball player with a whole lot of fire inside of him. You’d been comfortable on his bed, chatting about classes and drawing diagrams. But now, when he hears voices outside, he snaps.

“-parked in the damn driveway,” One grumbles, a man’s voice that makes Billy shoot out of his seat when it’s paired with heavy, thumping footsteps across the walkway.

Billy lunges for you, and you don’t have time to scream in shock before his hand, rough and large, slams itself over your mouth.

“Get in the closet,” He hisses, brow dipped in a ferocious frown, “Now!”

There’s no other way to describe how he moves you than manhandling. He grabs you tight by the arm with his free hand, dragging you up and off of the bed as you try fighting him on instinct. When you hear the front door open your brain catches up to you, and you rush to help his progress, not hinder it, so you stand from where you’d been limp in his arms and dart into the closet.

He’s barely able to slide the door shut on you before a series of knocks fall heavy on his door. They’re the type of knocks you’d only ever heard before in cop shows, the FBI banging on people’s doors ready to tackle them to the ground.

You’re petrified in the closet, squeezed between a series of shelves behind your back and the door pressed to your front. Your breathing is erratic, short, sharp intakes of breath warming your face as they hit the door in front of you and bounce right back.

“Yeah?” You hear Billy swing his door open, the hinges squeaking, “Oh, hi, dad.”

“Hi.” The same voice from before sounds, and it sends a shiver down your spine from how icy it is, “There’s a blue camaro parked in my spot. Any idea who’s that is?”

The question is sarcastic, of course, but your nose wrinkles at how unnecessary it is, not to mention condescending.”

“It’s-” Billy tries, but his dad cuts him off.

“It had better not be my son’s, whom I have told repeatedly not to park in the driveway. My driveway.”

“I’m sorry, dad.” Billy keeps his voice low, guilty, and you think it sounds earnest enough. Your breathing is calmer now, not normal but not panicked. Sure, it’ll be awkward listening to Billy get lectured by his dad, but you’d survive.

“The next time this happens,” Billy’s dad’s voice grows eerily venomous, “I will get your old baseball bat from our garage, and I will smash that car to bits, you understand? I don’t give a damn if you bought it, you’re parking it on my property and that means you’ll do it by my rules.”

“Yes, sir.” Billy recites, and your heart sinks at how impersonal their relationship seems. You’d had your concerns from the beginning, because everything about Billy’s home life seemed to indicate that it wasn’t the most conventional, but you pity the boy for his dad’s lack of human decency.

“Move it. And where’s Maxine?”

“She’s in her room,” Billy supplies readily, “She’s doing homework. And I was just about to order us pizza.”

You breathe easier knowing it’s over. That the danger has passed, that you’ll be out of the stuffy closet soon. But only silence ensues, there’s no acknowledgement from Billy’s dad. Not until-

“What?”

“There’s no spaghetti left,” Billy tries reasoning, “We finished it all last night. I just thought that pizza was-”

“Son,” Billy’s dad spits, “It is 6:30. That is well past our family’s dinnertime. And you haven’t fed your sister?”

“I was about to grab the phone, dad! To call the pizza place, and order so that they wouldn’t be later than seven. I know it’s later than we usually eat, I just thought that she’d tell me if she was getting hungry! And she hasn’t,” Billy huffs, “She’s been quiet since we got home from school.”

“You thought she’d tell you? Billy, it’s not her responsibility to run this household when we’re away, it’s yours. I’ve told you that time and time again. And she’s been quiet since you got her home from school? How do you know she’s even in her room? Do you? Have you checked on her?”

“No, dad,” Billy argues, “I haven’t checked on her. I’ve been doing my own homework, and you’re the one that left, so I don’t know why it’s my fault that-!”

You thought things were fine. Sure, it was an argument, but that’s all it was. Until it wasn’t. Until the door in front of you shakes, nearly snaps, as a colossal thud rattles its frame. You’re not sure how you managed to stay quiet, the door warping in its hinges and pressing tight against your front. You slam a hand over your mouth to muffle your newly-frantic breathing, eyes shut tight as tears bead in their corners.

“How dare you,” You hear that voice, the rough, hateful voice of Billy’s dad, only inches away from you. But he’s speaking to you, not away from you, and you come to the terrible realization that he’s slammed Billy into the closet door. You’d managed to keep up hope, imagining his stereo thrown across the room towards your location, but there’s no denying now that it’s Billy’s weight against your front, only a flimsy closet door between you.

“How dare you insinuate that this is my fault? How dare you tell me that I can’t leave my own home, and how dare you shirk your responsibilities to your sister. As if you’re not a grown man,” Billy’s dad spits, “You are more than capable of looking after a 13-year-old girl. You just choose not to, and I don’t know how else to get it through your head, Billy! This is your family, she is your sister, and when we are gone, you are her parent! She needs food, she needs attention, she needs care, she’s not a goldfish. Why don’t you care about her, Billy? Why do you keep acting like you are not a part of this family?”

There’s a moment of silence where Billy tries thinking of something to say. You use it to answer the question for yourself: because he isn’t. This isn’t a family, you realize, your chest still compressed by Billy’s weight, this is a broken home. The three of them, Billy’s dad, his stepmom, and his stepsister, they’re a family, but Billy isn’t. Not with the way they treat him, not with the things they expect of him. It’s no wonder he doesn’t like his family, because they really aren’t that.

It’s too late. Billy takes too long to answer (which you think is unfair with such a loaded question), and your stomach churns as you hear a sharp smack. You’re unfortunately certain that it hasn’t been Billy’s father on the receiving end, but your biology partner himself.

Thankfully, Billy’s dad doesn’t hear your gasp. Or maybe he does, but he thinks it’s Billy’s. Nevertheless, you know Billy hears it, and you hope that he takes some comfort in the fact that you’re still there, that you’re not selling him out and revealing yourself to get yourself out.

“You are her brother.” Billy’s dad breaks the silence, and you try matching your haggard breathing to Billy’s so that he doesn’t hear you, “You are responsible for her. And if you disobey me again, you will be punished. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” Billy mumbles, and you hate how thick his voice sounds in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Billy’s dad drawls, and you have the sudden urge to leap from the closet and punch him in the teeth, “I couldn’t hear you. What did you say?”

“Yes.” Billy repeats, voice strong this time, “Sir.”

“Move your fucking car.” Billy’s dad spits, leaving him with another shove to Billy’s shoulders that pushes you even further back into the shelves. Your back is going to ache tomorrow, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not while Billy stands petrified against his closet door.

The heavy footsteps recede, and there’s two pairs, a much lighter one there now, too. But Billy hasn’t moved, and you come to the sickening realization that Billy’s stepmom had been lingering in the doorway the entire time. Or just outside it. You must not have heard her light footfalls when they were so consumed by her husband’s earth-shaking ones. She had to have known what Billy’s dad was doing to him, why wouldn’t she stop him? Why wouldn’t she say anything?

You don’t have time to prepare for the closet door flying open, and for a split second, you’re afraid it’s Billy’s dad. But it’s not, it’s Billy, and he meets your eye for only a split second. It’s enough for him to notice the withheld tears in your eyes, and for you to notice his own. He gulps, swallowing a lump in his throat, and his eyes drop to the floor. There’s a glaring red mark on his cheek, one that looks like it stings.

“Climb out the window,” He mumbles, gruff and secretive, “Take your bag, it’s under my bed. Wait for me down the road, I’ll drive you home.”

You don’t have it in you to argue with him, not when he looks like he’s about to burst into tears. You creep past the open door carefully, even though the footsteps have receded, both pairs, down the hallway and into a different room. You don’t have a difficult time climbing out the window, and you shoulder your backpack after your feet are firmly on the ground. 

Billy shuts his window behind you, and you’re alone now, in the darkness.

The side of their house is somewhat overgrown, twigs and leaves snapping beneath your shoes as you trek off-property. You follow the path of the street until you’ve passed other houses, and don’t seem to be lingering near theirs. Then the roar of Billy’s car travels your way, and his headlights bathe your stiff form.

He’s gripping the wheel tightly as you open the door, and he doesn’t look at you as you get in. It’s awkward, tense, and you have to sit on your hands to stop yourself from fidgeting with them and setting him off.

The drive is quiet; he’s shut off his radio. He drives fast, and this time you don’t have the heart to stop him. You’re still worried, but you think you’ve figured out why he drives fast, and you’re not sure you blame him for it anymore. He’s controlling what he can, because he can’t control most things.

You’re only five minutes out from his place when you first speak up, clearing your throat experimentally beforehand, “Do you... wanna talk about it?”

You glance over at him subtly, watching his knuckles turn white on the wheel. 

“No.”

“Okay,” You breathe, and bite your tongue to stop from speaking for the rest of the ride.

He pulls into your driveway with a rough turn, and you’re sure he only knows which house is yours because he’d seen you getting the mail two weeks ago while he was cruising through your neighborhood. On a different occasion, you’d commend him for his memory, but it seems inappropriate now.

You unbuckle your seatbelt without prompting, careful not to annoy him. But you can’t stop yourself, before you shut the door you peer down at him. Of course, he doesn’t look at you.

“Billy,” You start, carefully, cautiously, “You don’t have to talk to me about it. Or- or anyone. But if you ever need a place to stay, a safe place for the night… you can come here.”

You think he’s going to yank the door shut himself and speed off. And you wouldn’t blame him, either. But to your surprise, his eyes shift, no longer on the road ahead but on you. He glances at you through the mirror, still too timid to meet your eyes unobscured, but his gaze shatters you. It’s broken itself, and inside of his pretty blue irises is a child screaming for help. Pain pools in his pupils and threatens to drip down his cheeks in tears you wish you could wipe away before they even start flowing. 

“I mean it,” You promise, “Anytime.”

He holds your gaze, lips parting to whisper shakily, “Thank you.”

You leave him with a soft smile, throwing your bag over your shoulder lightly. You shut the door and watch him leave, much slower and more controlled than when he’d peeled in. When he’s completely out of sight you turn with a sigh, trekking up your front steps and fumbling for your keys. It takes you a minute to get in the door because of how distracted you are, and in your frustration you slump against the wood, remembering the feeling of Billy’s closet door nearly choking you.

You’re shaken up, you can’t imagine how Billy feels. And there’s no telling how often his dad does this, after all, it barely took anything to set him off. You hope he’ll be okay for the night, and for his own safety you wish he’d stayed with you. You wish he’d parked his car on your driveway, without fear of anyone smashing it, and settled on your couch for the night. But he didn’t, and when you crawl into your bed that night, you hope he’s safe in his own.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

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[seoksgrl]

a little party never killed nobody, 1 : bts rich!bts x rich!reader

tws: implied smut, oral (m receiving)

m.list next

Taehyung always likes it when you make a show of wiping your smudged lipstick after blowing him in the boy’s toilets. Missing class is a small, insignificant price to pay when your boyfriend gives you that signature smirk that seems to light a fire between your legs. He loves the way your private university uniform clings to your ass when you kneel down in front of him, and he makes no attempt to quell his harsh gasps and deep groans whenever he hits deep at the back of your throat. His fist in your hair and his dark eyes watching you beneath a fringe of blonde hair is all you need to put the extra effort into pleasing him. Skipping lectures has become your favourite activity lately. 

“Jesus, baby,” He grunts, catching his breath as his hand drops from where he’d been gripping your hair with white-knuckle force, your scalp aching almost as much as the spot between your legs. His cheeks are flushed with relief, and his hair stuck to his temple, a little damp from the moisture gathered there, “You’re so good to me,”

A sharp, fleeting pinprick of panic runs through you before you push it to the back of your mind, the smile that had momentarily slipped from your face replaced with a pout, playing the perfect part of the good girl that your boyfriend finds so irresistible. 

“Get up here so I can have a taste of that sweet - “

“Are you two done fucking in there? I gotta take a dump,” A familiar, unwelcome voice as you yelping, hardly unaccustomed to being caught in compromising positions by your friends, but still startled by it. With a roll of your eyes, you stand, adjusting your skirt and now-uncomfortable underwear. 

“Fuck off, Yoongi,” 

“Don't be a bitch just cause you didn’t get off,” He calls through the stall door, and Taehyung just manages to finish zipping up his slacks when you flip the latch and open it to find your black-haired cousin smirking at you, “While I’d love to let my uncle’s goody two shoes daughter deep throat her boyfriend on the bathroom floor, I ate something nasty from the cafeteria and I need the two of you to vacate the area,”

With a hand on your waist and a middle finger planted in Yoongi’s dumbass face, the two of you leave the boy’s toilets and step into the empty corridor. It’s no more than two seconds before you feel your boyfriend’s fingers trail along the back of your thigh, dipping barely underneath the hem of your skirt, barely long enough to pass the campus’ uniform policy.

“I can take care of you here, classes don’t switch over for another fifteen minutes,” You feel rather than see Taehyung’s grin on the back of your neck and sigh, wishing you could do nothing more than to give into his tempting touch. 

Turning to face him, Tae’s hand moves to rest on your hip, his eyes glassy and relaxed from either the pills you caught him taking just before he swiped you out of the line for your class, or from his recent orgasm. Either way, he looks sexy as hell, and hard to resist, “If my pain in the ass cousin hadn’t totally killed the mood, I’d be more than happy to take you up on your offer,” you press a kiss to his lips, his hand tightening it’s hold on your hip, fingers pressing into your skin, just bordering on painful, but it only makes you throb deep below your belly button, “but I have an assignment I need to finish, seen as there's no point in me going to class now,”

“You really wanna spend your free period hunched over a book when you could be bent over a table?”

His words send a shiver running through you, but you have to stick to your guns. If you fail to get this assignment done, your professor will be on your ass about it all weekend. And you need to let loose at the cabin, “Hmm, very tempting, but I can't,”

“You're no fun,” He grins down at you, leaning in to kiss you anyway, softer than before now the haze of lust was beginning to fade. 

Walking you to the locker, you grab a few of your things, taking the quiet moment between classes to admire the silence of the boarding school you’ve spent the last two years. Coming from wealthy parents with more money than time when it came down to raising their children, you were a tender fourteen years old when your parents enrolled you at boarding school, so you’ve become accustomed to living in dorms and walking through the academic halls of whatever old building you move onto next. Shipped off with a tiny pink suitcase, you settled in quicker than expected once you met your friends, your cousin Yoongi introducing you to his circle soon after your arrival. Together with him and the rest of your friendship group forged at that first boarding school, you moved to Silver Oak University. Being members of the richest families in the country, your circle of nine has stuck together through the years, founding your own little club born out of popularity and, of course, money. 

Money makes the world go round, and despite your intelligence, you’re more than aware of the fact that your life will be comfortable no matter how you spent your time on campus. Whether it be pissing away your grades and allowance like Jeongguk and Jimin, or powering through your studies in business or economics like Namjoon, you have the luxury of freedom. However, you choose to meet in the middle; keeping your grades high enough so you don't engage your parents in rare, stale conversations about your future, and letting loose when you need to. Dabbling in illicit activities comes with your place in society, and your hierarchy on campus. You and Taehyung are somewhat of a popular couple, and with that popularity comes pressure. 

And rich people only have a few vices when it comes to releasing pressure: gambling, drugs and sex. And, you have indulged in all three during your time on campus. 

“I have class,” Taehyung murmurs into the back of your neck, his hands spanning the space of your waist, “I’ll see you later,”

Spinning around, books in hand, you grin up at him, noses bumping briefly before your lips find each other again. The familiar rush of feet in the corridors came just as Taehyung groans and presses you back into the lockers with a thud, forced to pull back as the corridors start to fill up. “I’ll see you at lunch, baby,” 

Taehyung nods, his hand softly swatting your behind before he pulls away and begins walking towards his class. You watch him, eyes locked on his back before they drift towards another figure in the corridor. Your smile falls from your lips, landing as a heavy lump in your gut, and you nod a greeting towards Hoseok before you turn around to lock your belongings back up and shuffling through the crowd towards the library. 

Watching your back, Hoseok sighs in frustration and runs a hand through his hair, smiling at Taehyung as he stops to talk to him.

The lodge owned by your family was the scene of many parties during your time at boarding school and, now, at university. An hour long drive from the campus, and over three hours away from your parents, it’s a great place to take part in the debauchery and mayhem that often follows your group of friends. 

When the parties escalate, crowds of classmates and socialites from neighbouring cities coming to join the fun, the remote location means nobody calls the cops. Though you’re secure in the fact that Jimin’s mother is secretly fucking the chief of police, preventing them from actually accepting any complaints that come their way, unless - as Jimin had put it the first time - the chief wants his wife to find out. Not above casual manipulation in order to get what you want, the group often takes advantage of your status and the collective wealth of your families. 

Decked out in the latest gadgets, stocked floor to ceiling with beer and alcohol, the get together is ready to begin - though tonight, it’s a quiet get together with friends. Being that the nine of you are rarely seen apart and that you happen to be the most popular people on campus, many other students at the school yearn to be a part of your little group. For years, Jimin and Taehyung had been at the centre of finding impressionable students who were eager to be included, and you would all put them through ridiculous initiations until they inevitably backed out and left. It always remains the nine of you - and you’re pretty confident in the fact that things will never change, hence why you allow the latest recruit to be brought to the lodge. 

“He’s a junior,” Your best friend Mina informs you, perched on the counter in the kitchen where you begin fixing yourself a drink, “Cute, excitable. Depending on what the guys decide to do with him, maybe he could be a refreshing addition,”

“Now, you know full well that kid will be screaming for the hills within an hour,” You snort, pouring yourself a shot of tequila alongside your rum and coke, “This is Jimin and Tae we’re talking about. They like to have their fun,”

Mina shrugs, oddly quiet about the whole situation. Your week has been too rough to care, however, and you throw your head back as the liquor scorches a path down your throat. You wince, slamming the shot glass on the marble counter and popping a slice of lemon in your mouth.

“Here are my girls,” Jimin’s voice bellows as he enters the room, his arms outstretched and a grin on his face as he walks towards the two of you. With Mina looking a little awkward as Jimin approaches, once more you ponder on what had happened between them. Jimin and Mina always had a little thing going on between them - Jimin always called them fuck buddies, but the way Mina has been acting since her trip to France makes you wonder if she’d caught feelings along the way.

After wrapping her in a hug, he walks over to you, orange hair bright as a flame, “Ready to ruin this kid’s life?”

“He’s a baby,” You chuckle, slapping Jimin on the chest before burrowing into his familiar embrace, “Don’t go too hard on him. He probably won’t even stick around,”

“Not if he’s smart,” Taehyung enters soon after, brandishing a bag which is promptly settled on the counter. His sly smirk finds you, along with a wink, and you preen under his attention while he unpacks a few of his essentials; aka, as many drugs as he could sneak out before his dad saw him.

Taehyung is the only one of the group not born into money - his father had become a politician when he was a toddler, quickly smashing through the polls and making it into a pretty high-ranking role in government. If his only child was caught with illicit substances, his career would be trashed. Along with what little exists of Taehyung’s father-son relationship. 

Jimin, on the other hand, is just like you. His parents are wealthy socialites; years of good breeding and multiple high-profile connections means your friend is currently heir to a multi-million dollar empire. Not that he acts like it; Jimin is currently on his way to fucking every person in the country, likely the world, if his mile high activities are any indication. You’ve lost count of how many air stewardesses he’s seduced within a two hour flight home and back. According to him, it’s the only reason he doesn’t use the family jet. 

Despite their different backgrounds, Jimin and Taehyung are the closest of the friend group, and take major roles in planning most of the parties and get-togethers held at the lodge. They’re also usually the cause for things getting rowdy - they like to party, just like any other guy their age. It's just that they have the money to take things a step further. 

“How long until the others arrive?” Mina asks, and Taehyung glances at her, and then you, before replying.

“Hobi and Joon are just pulling up outside. Jeongguk is on his way with Seokjin,”

Your chest tightens a little, though you shake it off, smiling at Taehyung who’s had his eyes fixed on you this whole time. The look in his eye tells you he intends to finish what the two of you started earlier today sooner rather than later. Sipping at your drink, you meet his heated gaze with one of your own, moments away from walking over and suggesting the two of you head to your room when four broad figures turn into the kitchen. 

“What’s up fuckers? Let’s get this shit started,” Jeongguk hoots and hollers, pulling the cork off what you can only assume is some expensive-as-shit tequila and tipping the bottle to his lips as Joon and Seokjin follow close behind. The last person to enter the room speaks, and you let your eyes fall on Hoseok, his eyes finding yours before quickly looking away. Once more, guilt flames in your gut and you swallow a hearty mouthful of rum and coke before he speaks to Tae. 

“Goes without saying that Kook started partying way before the rest of us,”

Mina laughs, her shoulder bumping Jimin’s before she moves slightly closer to you instead, “Did you even go to class today?”

Jeongguk scoffs, setting his bottle down on the counter to rummage in the pocket of his leather jacket, “Fuck no. I needed to procure the goods for tonight,” he finishes his reply by brandishing a small bag of white powder, the guys cheering in a chorus of laughter and spilled alcohol. He saunters over to Mina, pouring a little of the powder on the back of his hand, “Eat up, pretty girl,”

Mina giggles, leaning forward to sniff up the coke from Kook’s hand, and you can’t help but let curiosity get the better of you, glancing over at Jimin as his jaw clenches slightly, his fingers gripping the neck of his bottle of beer before he takes a long swig. 

Hoseok approaches, keeping a wide bearth from you before he’s forced within your space by Jeongguk jostling Mina around in a playful dance. His arm brushes your stomach and he flinches like you burnt him, “Sorry,” he murmurs, unable to look at you, and for good reason, because you can’t look at him either. You step aside, allowing him to fix a drink as you walk to Taehyung.

Your hand smooths over his back, “Hey, baby,”

His dark eyes flick over to you, and he stares for a second or two before he smiles. His pupils are wide, dilated and glassy, so you know he’s already taken something, “Hey, how was class?”

“Boring,” You lean in close, your teeth grazing his ear as you speak, “spent my whole business seminar wondering how many times you’re gonna make me come tonight,”

He huffs a harsh laugh, his body turning so he can lay his large hands on either side of your waist, “Oh, you have no fucking idea, baby,”

He drops his face into the crook of your neck, his teeth biting the sensitive skin there, hard enough to have a sharp shock of lust racing through the pit of your stomach. You smile, head lolling a little before you open your eyes to find Hoseok watching the two of you over his drink. You swallow hard, turning away and pulling free from Taehyung’s embrace. He frowns slightly, a bemused smile on his lips, but you kiss him before he can ask questions. By the time you’re done, he’s high on you just as much as whatever pill he popped. 

Seokjin and Namjoon join in with the rest of you, making themselves a few drinks and doing a couple lines of the high quality coke Jeongguk brought. You settle for a joint for now as Yoongi emerges from upstairs, one already rolled for you. You like the soft high that marijuana can give you, and knowing your plans with Tae later, you don’t like fucking when you’re too far gone. Tae, however, loves it, and you know he gets extra mean and nasty with you once he’s popped a couple pills. The thought makes you shiver. 

Jeongguk pauses the chatter that’s fallen amongst the group, a wicked smile on his face, and you already know what he’s about to say before he speaks, lifting his phone to show the screen to you all. On the camera, it shows the entrance to the cabin, and you spot a nervous looking kid standing in front of the gate. 

“The sacrifice has arrived,”

please let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist!

#bts fic #bts x reader #bts smut #bts angst #bts fanfiction #bts scenario #taehyung x reader #jin x reader #namjoon x reader #jimin x reader #jeongguk x reader #jungkook x reader #hoseok x reader #bts x you

[adiduck]

oooh this is very fun

trope: alternate setting - professor au first sentence: "if anyone had bothered to tell Mav earlier in his career that the less words he assigned the less words he would have to read, he wouldn't be in the situation he was in today."

LOL another academia au! Let's see what I can do...

If anyone had bothered to tell Mav earlier in his career that the less words he assigned the less words he would have to read, he wouldn't be in the situation he was in today.

To be entirely fair to him: "Who the fuck writes fifteen pages on the first assignment?"

He drops the document on their coffee table, staring at it in horror. "We've had six classes, Ice! Six! Three of them were entirely about equations!"

Over at the island, glasses on and his own first grading of the semester spread out before him, Ice looked unimpressed.

"You assigned them a minimum of five pages. If you wanted them to stick to five pages, you should have said that."

"Did he read ahead?" Mav continued, ignoring his partner thoroughly. "Who the hell does that in a physics 101 class?"

"Someone who wants to learn physics, I'm assuming."

Mav flipped open the first page. The font was definitely smaller than 12pt. "Jesus, I think he finished the textbook," Mav said, scanning the first paragraph. "He's complaining that the question was simplistic!"

"Was it simplistic?" Ice asked.

"Yes," Mav said. "Because it was the first assignment!"

"This still sounds like a you problem," Ice said, and turned unceremoniously back to his grading.

"Ice, he's quoting me!"

"Still not my problem."

"Ice," Mav said. "He's quoting you."

Ice paused. "How?" he asked.

Mav read further. "Cherry picked from your thesis."

"Asshole," Ice said, and pushed his stool back. "Let me see."

Mav grinned. Finally, he thought, as he passed the paper to Ice. Some goddamn support around here!

#adi is a writer #ask game #icemav

[wintervalewritersecond]

bus and bed buddies - rowan laslow

masterlist

requested: yes! requests: open! HII!! If you can of course, can you make some some of rowan laslow fic where it’s like enemies to lovers and only one bed tropes!:)) Thank you so much and i love your fics🤍

A/N: OOOH MY GOOOD i never knew how much i needed rowan fics and especially one like this!! i hope i did it justice, thank you for your request and enjoy! its not proof read and i wrote this when i was kinda tired, but i hope its still good :)

wordcount: 3.796 warnings: she/her reader, reader has the same powers as xavier, one bed trope, xavier is mentioned, cursing

Having to go on a mandatory school trip is already bad enough. Something to make it worse is being stuck in a room with Rowan Laslow.

"All right everyone," Principal Weems smiles as she stands at the Nevermore gates. "We will all be taking the school shuttle, so make sure you have someone to sit with you! We will be leaving in fifteen minutes."

Some people around you groan. You didn't even know what the trip was for - maybe the principal will abandon all the students before driving back herself. All you knew was that it was going to be an hour and a half on the warm bus, then be at the destination, and then finally return. Once you turn around, you see that most people have already formed a duo, including Devina and Kent. Those sneaky Sirens.

"Ah, Y/N," Weems smiles sweetly. "I see that you do not have a seat buddy yet?"

"Oh, no," you shrug. "Everyone I know already sits together."

The tall lady hums, looking through the crowd. She is certain that there is an even number of students that will go on the field trip. Her eyes finally fall on another lonely figure.

"Well, there is one more person!"

She calls Rowan over, and you immediately take a deep breath, closing your eyes before saying a quick prayer in your head. Everyone but Laslow.

"Rowan," she greets the boy. "As both you and miss Y/N have not found a bus buddy yet, I will assign the two of you together."

Before either of you can protest, she already walks off, leaving the two of you awkwardly standing next to each other.

For as long as you can remember, there was something going on between the two of you. There was never really a big fight that started it all - it just began one day. Rowan and you often disagreed on the smallest things, bickering about it until someone would finally split you up. He would use his telekinesis to cause minor inconveniences such as undoing your shoelaces or making your pen fall out of your hand as you were drawing.

"Everyone," miss Thornhill had also joined on the random trip. "To the bus."

You give Rowan a look before walking off. As long as you did not have to talk to him, it would all be fine. You really can't quite put your finger on when it started. You thought about it sometimes, but no answer came to mind. Maybe it started because he became your best friend's roommate, or maybe you once made a comment that didn't suit him well.

Whatever the problem might be, you aren't quite looking to resolve it.

Sure, you would not lie and say that he is ugly. To you, he is quite the opposite. The freckle underneath his eye, his neatly styled hair, and the way his fingers move when he flips the page of a book. It just sucks that he is an asshat sometimes.

"Are you going to get in, or what?"

You get pulled out of your thoughts as you stand in front of the bus, Rowan waiting behind you impatiently as his hand rests on the strap of his backpack. He looks annoyed.

"Jesus, ever heard of patience?"

You quickly step in, finding the last two bus seats before sitting in the window seat. Rowan looks at you blankly for a second before shaking his head.

"I want to sit in the window seat."

"Okay?" You shrug. "Too bad."

He debates if he wants to get into a fight now, but principal Weems tells everyone to buckle up, ready to drive to whatever the destination is. He plops down with a slightly defeated look, fastening the seatbelt as the bus turns on.

"I am getting the window seat on the way back."

You only roll your eyes, fishing your headphones out of your backpack before turning it on. If you were going to have to sit with him, then you needed some distraction. All the sound of the bus and chatter gets blocked out the second you turn your music on. Finally.

The ride was not that long, but definitely too long. The fabric of your jacket started smelling like the perfume that Rowan always wears. You hate how it smells. It smells like wood, flowers, and it even has some citrus and fruit undertones. It fits him - it's classic and elegant. You hate it.

When you glance at the boy next to you, you see that he has started wearing headphones as well, his eyes stuck on the book that he is reading. Reading in a moving bus? You wouldn't be surprised if he ends up throwing up. You would. After some short seconds, you avert your gaze to the window again, leaning your head against it before closing your eyes.

"Hey, idiot," you feel someone elbowing your ribs. "Wake up, we're at... Wherever we are supposed to be."

You rub your eyes. Have you fallen asleep? When you sit straighter, you see that everyone else has already left the bus, leaving you with Rowan. You give him a look before quickly getting your bag, following him out of the vehicle. Principal Weems stands in front of the crowd, a big smile on her face. Everyone only looks at her, asking themselves where they are and what exactly they will be doing.

"So," she starts. "Today we are in a place that once was a part of Nevermore grounds. It actually is the place where Nevermore was going to be built, but it got moved to Jericho. We are here today to go on a tour, see the beautiful nature, and there is a small assignment you have to finish."

Miss Thornhill hands out pieces of paper that have the instructions for the assignment. Of course, you couldn't just have gone on a normal field trip. Always some work that is attached to it.

"The building has now been transformed into a beautiful museum. Feel free to explore, but make sure to be back at five. Stick with your Buddy, as most of the assignment has to be made in pairs!"

You follow the rest of the group, trying to sneak in with others, but Rowan quickly calls you back. When you slowly turn around, you see him waiting with a grin, his arms crossed. He will do anything to get under your skin.

"You trying to get away from me, Buddy?"

"Shut up, Rowan," you shake your head. "I am not in the mood for your shit today."

"Well, you will have to," he shrugs. "Assignment is not going to make itself. I refuse to drop my grades just because you run off."

And so you were stuck with him for the entire day. You had tried to sneak off a few times, yet he always found you within thirty seconds.

"What is this?"

You stop after you see a small hallway, one that is barely lit. You had gone all the way to the end of the museum, kind of curious as to what every room had to offer. Now, you had ended up in an empty room. At least, empty of people except for you and Rowan. There are paintings on the walls and a big glass case in the middle of the room, showcasing some items.

Rowan follows your gaze, looking down the hallway. There is absolutely nothing - it must be an employee area. Maybe it leads to the exit.

"I see nothing special."

"Then you won't mind if I go check it out."

He looks at you blankly yet again.

"We are not going in there."

"Did I say we?" You raise an eyebrow. "I am going to check that little hall out."

The two of you are bickering again as you try to find reasons to go in there, but Rowan keeps pulling you back. You just want to be away from him for even one second. You have been stuck to his side the entire time, and most of the assignment has already been finished.

"There must be something there!"

You fish your phone out of your pocket, wanting to turn on the flashlight, but stop in your tracks when you see the time. 5:17.

"Shit."

You immediately push it back into your pocket, hurrying out of the room with Rowan following you closely. You had been arguing for so long, that you now were too late. Why is this museum so big? Where is the exit?

The doors finally come into view as you burst outside. The entire parking lot is empty, including the bus that had brought you to the museum. Did they really leave without you?

Rowan also exits the museum, almost dropping his bag as he stops next to you. He also noticed the bus missing as he lets out a groan.

"If you just had not tried to go into that stupid hallway, then we would not have missed the bus!"

"What? How is this my fault?" You point to the building behind you. "If you had just left me alone, then we would have been fine!"

Another ten minutes of bickering pass. The Nevermore bus had not returned yet, and the sun was slowly going down.

"Let's just walk," Rowan sighs. "The drive was like, thirty minutes. It can't be that far."

Oh, how he was wrong.

You had now been walking for thirty minutes, and the sun had hidden behind the trees even more. Clouds had collected above you, ready to burst open at any time. Your phone was on the brink of dying and there was no possibility of using Google Maps. Absolutely no service out here.

Both you and Rowan were quiet, saving your energy for the walk instead of just bickering. You are both tired and just want to sleep, but you feel like you are not even close to Nevermore yet. Why did they not check if everyone was there? You let out a sigh as a small drop falls on your nose. Shit.

A drizzle - not quite rain. But it was enough to make you feel even colder than you were before.

"Hey, look over there," you point. "Is that a town or something?"

"I think you might be right," Rowan mumbles. He had seen it on the way to the museum. "They must have someplace to stay and wait for the rain to pass."

The rain slowly gets a bit heavier as Rowan grabs your arm, pulling you with him as he starts running. The rain is now soaking through your shoes and socks, your hair clinging to your face. The town gets closer and closer, and you and Rowan hide under the very first place you can find. A closed grocery store.

You are quiet for a second, trying to catch your breath as you look up at Rowan. A laugh escapes your lips as he soon follows, taking his glasses off to clean them off. He barely saw anything - he just followed the faint lights he saw in the distance.

"That looks like a place to stay?"

At the end of the street is a small building which, you think, is supposed to say 'Hotel', though the H is not lit.

"Otel," you just nod. "Better than rain."

You quickly check your phone, seeing that the service is way better here. You type in 'Nevermore' as you gasp at the result.

"We are a two-hour walk away!"

"Jesus," Rowan groans. "Yeah, hotel it is."

The two of you run through the rain again, both annoyed at the feeling of wet shoes and sticky hair. The door of the 'otel' opens as you both step in, leaving a trail of rain droplets behind you. It is already close eight, though it is so dark outside, that it could be mistaken for three am.

"Hi," you smile at the person behind the desk. You barely get a reply, except for a lazy look and an eyebrow raise. "Uh, we would like to get two rooms, please."

"Okay?"

The man slowly starts tapping on his keyboard, clicking a few times before shaking his head.

"I only have one room available."

You look at Rowan for a second, raising an eyebrow as you await his answer. Bunking with someone who you dislike is not quite what you imagined, but neither of you wanted to walk through the rain for another two hours.

"Yeah, we will take it."

After paying, you both sling your wet backpacks over your shoulder again. Rowan leads the way, the key in his hand. He insisted on paying, not even reacting when you said you should at least split the cost. After all, you were both staying in the room.

"Room five," he mumbles before sticking the key in, unlocking the door. "I can't believe this place only has eight rooms."

"Small town," you shrug, flicking on the light switch as you walk inside.

The room doesn't look too bad. A bit cold, and the view might not be spectacular, but it's warm and dry.

"Hell no," you hear Rowan say.

You follow his gaze, seeing only a singular bed in the middle of the room.

"You gotta be kidding me," you react to him, dropping the bag on the floor. "This is a joke, right?"

"You heard him, dumbass. Only one room available."

You roll your eyes, shaking your head before pulling your jacket off and draping it over the chair.

"See, this wouldn't have happened if you didn't-"

"Oh, because it's always me, isn't it!"

"As a matter of fact, yeah! It is! It has been you since the very beginning," Rowan hisses.

The comment makes you quiet. What does he mean by that? He just sighs, placing his backpack on the floor before pulling everything out of it, hoping his notebooks and everything are still dry.

"I'll just ask for another room or sleep on the floor or something," Rowan grumbles, something that makes you confused.

He paid for the room, and now wants you to sleep in the bed? Sure, the bed is not huge, but it fits two people at least. Not only that, but you were not the one to pay for anything. And, as far as you understood, Rowan blamed you for missing the bus.

"You know that you paid for everything right? Why in the fuck would you let me sleep in the bed if I am the so-called reason that we are even here, to begin with?"

The boy shrugs, standing up straight before throwing his jacket on the ground.

"Guess my mother raised me well."

You stay quiet yet again, only nodding before sitting down at the edge of the bed. The room is deadly quiet, though it doesn't make you feel uncomfortable or unsafe.

"You should shower."

"Why? If you say that it's because I smell bad," Rowan walks closer to you. "Then it's a bad joke. Besides, you might smell worse."

"No, dipshit," you roll your eyes, almost regretting being nice to him. "You get sick if you even think about sneezing. A walk in the cold rain can't be too good for you."

It is his turn to be at a loss for words. He only nods, disappearing into the small bathroom.

He returns after only a few minutes, his hair now damp and his wet shirt still draped over his torso. That can't be comfortable.

"What if we get our own side?"

You look up from your sketchbook, looking at the boy.

"You stay on that side," he points to the bed. "And I stay on this side. Both get the bed."

"You know what," you shrug. "Sure. As long as you don't pull the blankets in your sleep."

You had turned the small tv on after he went to get a shower, filling the room with some background noise. All of this made you think. Where did it really start? When did the teasing and comments start? All the bickering? Him using his telekinesis to pull your chair away from behind you, or you animating a mouse to scare him during class?

"What are you thinking about?"

Rowan almost hits himself in the head. Why is he curious about it? You only shrug in response, shaking your head.

"I just..." You push the sketchbook away from you. "When did it all start?"

He sits down on 'his' side of the bed, pushing the blanket away a little bit before propping the pillow up, leaning against it.

"Did what start?"

"Us being shitheads to each other?"

"You don't remember?"

You shake your head, leaning back onto the pillow. You look up at the ceiling, the texture of it keeping your mind occupied.

"From all that I know, it just suddenly started one day and then never ended."

"I mean, kind of," Rowan hums. "I remember it clear as day."

"You do?"

You turn to face him, seeing him nod as he looks down at you. His eyelashes look even longer from this angle, and even though the room is only dimly lit, it still makes his eyes shine.

"Yeah," he lets out a breathy laugh. "It was during class once. You sat next to Xavier, and he asked you why you were staring at me and joked about you liking me."

The memories slowly return as you furrow your brows.

"And you only responded with, and I quote, 'I don't like him, he is ugly'. I guess it just kind of got to me," he mumbles softly, fiddling with his hands. "So, I acted like an ass as well."

Your head rested on your hand as you dreamily looked at one specific point in the classroom. Rowan Laslow. He has been your classmate for a while, though you never really spoke to him. He was not the most talkative person, but he was absolutely mesmerizing to you.

"Jesus, Y/N," Xavier let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Why are you staring at my roommate? Do you like him or something?"

You get pulled out of your daydream as you quickly shake your head, regaining your posture as you let out a cough.

"Who? Rowan?" You let out an awkward laugh. "No, I don't like him. He's... ugly."

You regretted the words the second they came out of your mouth. He wasn't ugly - you never thought he was. The opposite, actually. The way his eyes shimmered in the light, the freckle underneath his eye, the way his arms look when he rolls up his sleeve. But you couldn't tell Xavier. All he would do is just make fun of you.

"Oh, shit," you mumble, sitting up as you look at Rowan.

He looks so different. Not different as in his face or hair, but his body language has changed. He looks more... Open. He doesn't seem like the cocky asshole anymore but instead looks a bit more insecure. He doesn't even dare to look you back in the eyes.

"Call me stupid, but I actually used to have a crush on you back then."

Rowan Laslow. A crush. On you.

"No way."

"Yeah, yeah," he rolls his eyes, crossing his arms as he now looks up to the ceiling. "You can laugh about it. The outcast of the outcasts likes- liked you."

You almost fall off of the bed in shock. Rowan actually liked you? You barely remembered the comment you made of him before, but now, you remember it all.

"No! No, I-" You shake your head. "I- Oh, this is going to sound so dumb."

Rowan frowns as he does not hear any insult yet.

"It's just," you sigh. "Xavier caught me staring, and I didn't want him to find out I liked you. I said that to get him off my back, but then I thought you didn't like me back because you only made comments from then on."

All secrets have been spread out. They are laid out right in front of the two of you, open for both to read.

You and Rowan had stayed up for hours after that, talking about everything and everyone. You laughed, even shed a tear, and then finally laid down on your backs, the lights off, but the tv still on.

"Rowan?"

You sounded like you were already asleep. Rowan softly chuckles, laying on his side to look at you. There is still a distance between your bodies, but you were facing each other. Your eyes were almost closed, but there was something that needed to be said.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled. "You're not ugly. I'm sorry I said that."

"It's fine," he just whispers back.

"It's not. I-I lied and you aren't ugly at all."

Another laugh escapes his lips as he looks at the small clock on the bedside table. Two in the morning.

"Go to sleep, we have to catch the bus early tomorrow."

-

It is 7 am, and both you and Rowan are already waiting at the nearest bus stop. In only a few minutes, the first bus of the day would arrive, one that will stop right next to Nevermore. The bus ride is only thirty minutes, and though it isn't raining anymore, you would rather sit in the bus than walk for two hours.

Your eyes are almost still closed as you wobble on your legs, almost falling asleep while you stand. Rowan is surprisingly well-rested as his arm seems to be the only thing holding you up. His hand is resting on the small of your back, your backpack resting on the ground. You barely even notice getting on the bus until Rowan sits you down next to him.

"Weems is going to be so mad," you mumble.

"Yeah, well," Rowan shrugs, "Shouldn't have left without her students then."

This evokes a giggle out of you as you nod, rubbing your eyes. Man, it is way too early to be up already. You breathe in deeply as you contemplate getting your headphones out of your bag. Not this time. You want to actually talk to Rowan. Even more, than you did yesterday.

You barely get the chance. Your eyes feel heavy and before you know it, they are closed. Rowan doesn't notice as his eyes are looking outside. As promised, he is sitting next to the window. He jumps a bit when he feels something drop on his shoulder, but calms down when he notices it's just you. Your eyes are closed and your hand is clutching the strap of your bag.

Rowan does nothing except for let out a soft laugh, slowly undoing your hand from the strap before running his thumb over your knuckles. He would do it all again.

The museum, the rain, the crappy hotel.

All of it all over again, only if it meant that he would be with you.

#rowan laslow imagine #rowan laslow x reader #rowan laslow oneshot #wednesday imagine #wednesday oneshot

[wibixthecowboy]

Play the Song: Chapter 13: Sweet like Candy

Task Force 141 needs a new sniper and despite their complaints, they're assigned Flash, a joke-making, ABBA-listening, 20-year-old sharpshooter with better aim than the whole team combined. In other words, Ghost is practically handed the love of his life but he needs time to adjust because she's a firecracker.

Warnings/Tags: !graphic depictions of panic attacks!, references to suicide attempts (no descriptions), references to SA (no descriptions), Age gap (20/30-32), gore, descriptions of injury/blood/wounds, justified angst, tooth rotting fluff, slow burn, protective ghost, family dynamic, big brother soap has an attitude problem, father figure Price, wholesome brother Gaz, touch starved Ghost, eventual smut, praise, choking, thigh riding, unprotected (wrap it up people), size kink, oral f receiving, ghost will do anything to get his dick sucked, idk I’m sure it will get dirtier as I go, shifting POV  

A/N: Holy Fuck. Excuse my language but jesus. That last quarter literally gutted me. BUT I PERSIST. Here is what I think is the longest chapter by far? idk I haven't checked. Thank you for sticking around for so long. Smooches for everyone, enjoy! Also! I know the chapter links are broken :( , I'll fix them asap!

Words: 7.8k

Side note: All of these characters are fictional! Please don’t be weird about their real life actors, leave them out of this and be respectful!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

@urfavsunkissedleo@butskii@abbiesxox@itsasecrets-things@thatonewriterthatnooneknows@copiasratscheese​ @Sheviro-blog @Simonsslvt

★Flash

Dust swirls up into a small cloud, forced into motion by Flash's incessant kicking. It travels a few feet before dissipating into the bitter morning wind. She shivers again in the thin cotton of her pajama shirt and sweats and debates going back in. Debates sliding the small phone back into her pocket, shoving off the single stair in front of the base doors, and throwing herself back into her sheets. They'd be cold by now, it's been nearly an hour since she'd tossed back her blanket, dug the phone out of her duffel bag, and sat herself down outside to call her sister. Well, attempt to call her sister. It's been over five years since they'd last talked, when she'd stuck fifteen-year-old Flash on a transit bus to Arizona with a small backpack of keepsakes and photocopies of her registration papers for the Safford Advanced Military Academy. She’d sent a few letters, from the cramped desk in her first dorm but had never gotten any back. The constant schoolwork was a good distraction but it still stung.

Filling her lungs to a near painful capacity, Flash double checks the faded sticky note her sister had slipped into her pocket so many years ago and then the glowing numbers on her phone before shutting her eyes and jamming her thumb into the call button. Flash's breath is stuck in her throat, stilled in anticipation almost as if its waiting alongside her as the phone rings. Much to her surprise, she picks up by the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

She sticks her head between her knees, absolutely convinced last nights dinner is about to come up but after a few breaths her vision clears and she answers in a rush of air.

"Sarah?"

"Who is this?"

Flash tries to swallow back the disappointment building in her stomach and then,

"Grace? Is that you?"

The dinner does come up now and she barely manages to make it to the sad cluster of shrubs before the sting of bile burns up her throat. The world caves beneath her, sucking her chest through the souls of her feet. It ricochets through her brain, slamming hard at each turn. Grace Grace Grace. She gags again, wiping her mouth on the cold skin of her forearm. 

"Hi." She manages, the sound of her voice echoes between her ears. "Yes its me."

"Are you okay- did you just throw up?" Her sister's voice is calm as always, despite not hearing it for several years, the cooling affect is just the same. Sarah was- is the personification of winter. Cold, calm, and biting if you stayed with it for too long. But she's the only person who's ever been there every time Flash really needed her.

"Yeah, I uh," a burning gasp breaks her words and she realizes she hasn't been breathing. "I don't know I think I ate something funny."

"Okay." There's an awkward pause and when Sarah realizes Flash isn't going to say anything she continues. "Did you need something?"

It's at this moment that Flash remembers why she hadn't ever called. Sarah was an expert at talking people off a ledge. Every time Flash got into a fight, Sarah was able to smooth things over with a carefully plated store-bought box of cookies and a sweet smiled promise. But when it came to dealing with Flash and her inferno of a temper, Sarah chose to sit on the sidelines and watch as Flash burnt herself over and over. If it wasn't causing harm to others, Sarah didn't bother. But years of burning herself meant Flash had developed calluses. 

"Is Taryn there?" The words are bitter, whether from the bile souring her mouth or the stinging disappointment, she doesn’t know.

Taryn was Sarah's on-and-off girlfriend and the only woman in Flash's life that gave her the softness she so desperately craved. If Sarah was winter, Taryn was Spring. On the days she came over, windows were opened, wildflowers were picked, neatly arranged in vases, and dinner was always something with potatoes. Taryn had made their small two-bedroom crash pad into a home. How Taryn and her sister had made it work was beyond her.

"Um- yeah, she's here. One second."

There's a rustling as Sarah drops the phone from her ear and then a murmuring of voices, even through the lowered phone she can hear the way Sarah's voice softens as she speaks to Taryn. She'd never spoken to Flash that way.  

"Gracie?"

"Hello?" Flash's response comes out broken and half-whispered and with all the heavy emotion that she’d secretly hoped she’d feel when speaking with her sister. 

"Gracie! Hi!" Taryn's sweet honey voice pours from the speaker, still soft from sleep and the tears building behind Flash's eyes begin to burn. "How are you, sweetheart? It's been forever."

"Good- good. I've been good." She presses her knuckles against her eyes until colors bloom against the backs of her eyelids, unshed tears wetting her fingers. "I just had a question."

"Oh?" There's another round of rustling and Flash can picture her sitting up in bed, blindly grabbing at her side table before fixing the round pair of tortoiseshell glasses she wore over blinking eyes. 

"And what's your question?"

"When you met Sarah," Flash rubs a hand roughly down her face before glancing around, "how did you know?"

"How did I know what?" Taryn's interest has clearly been piqued.

"You know." She hesitates before sighing and feeling five years younger, mutters, "That you liked her."

"It took having a crush for you to finally call me?"

"I don't know, maybe?" There’s another silence, but unlike with Sarah, Flash know’s it’s Taryn waiting patiently for her to find the words that sometimes tangled themselves when making the journey from brain to tongue. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize honey. I'm glad you did, it's nice to hear your voice." Then she continues on, like it hasn’t been five years, and when she closes her eyes, Flash can see the pink sundress Taryn had worn the last time she’d seen her. The hem had been stained burgandy the week before by Flash’s impatient blackberry painted fingers. "It was kind of love at first sight.”

Flash, either in a desperate attempt to hear to a story not about the plight of terrorists, or simply because Taryn’s voice made the world brighter, listened to her whole story. How when Taryn had met Sarah, she’d been enthralled, and even more so when Flash had threatened to break her arm if Taryn broke Sarah’s heart. How she’d so quickly decided that Sarah was the one for her despite Sarah’s supposed lack of interest and to both Flash and Taryns dismay, her complete and utter denial of being at least bisexual. 

Another kick sends more dirt floating along the breeze and Flash struggles to find a way to ask for advice. ‘I’m actually talking about my lieutenant.’ ‘Oh, you didn’t know? I’m not fifteen anymore, I’ve actually killed several people.’ ‘Anyways, I want to fuck the life out of him but when I touch him he looks like he’s either going to piss his pants or bend me over the counter.’ or maybe just ‘How do I get over the deeply rooted fear of love that my dead father and might-as-well-be-dead sister instilled in me at a young age?’. She’s debating rephrasing the last one when a sharp cry cuts through Taryn’s retelling of her and Sarah’s first date. 

“Is that a baby?” Flash’s voice is sharper than she meant it to be. “Do you have-”

She’s cut off by a fake laugh and a breathily muttered ‘no’. Taryn never cut her off.

“No don’t be silly.” Another nervous laugh. “I have to go, Sarah needs me. But do call again! Let me give you my number so you can call my cell next time.” 

Flash listens numbly as she prattles off a long list of numbers, more focused on the static noise around her words. Waiting to hear another cry. When it doesn’t come Flash just shakes her head and tunes back in just in time to hear Taryn mutter another ‘goodbye’ and the quiet buzz of a dead line.

She blinks a few times, simultaneously overwhelmed and underwhelmed by the call. And then the last few sentences Taryn had left her with slowly start to trickle to the front of her mind. In a rush, Flash flies through the front doors of the base, nearly dropping her phone in the process, grabs a pen from the table and scribbles the number along her forearm, hoping to god she’d remembered it correctly. Hoping she could survive another icily quipped sentence from her sister if not. 

Its then, mouth still gross and breathily reciting Taryn’s number in a desperate attempt to recall the sequence, that the sound of footsteps pulls her attention to the hallway. It’s the team, minus Price who’d left an hour earlier, and only gave Flash a fleeting worried look and a head shake as he passed her on the front steps, to get a headstart in traveling Alejandro’s farmhouse. 

Soap leads the group, hands tucked neatly into the front of his cargo pants. Behind him, Gaz is nearly identical in both stature and clothing, but unlike Soap, his hands fall confidently at his sides. Ghost, seemingly the odd one out, trails a few feet behind, dressed sharply as usual, but there are two distinct purple smudges under his eyes. They pass through the poorly crafted living room before each settling in their respective spots at the table, like an aged high school clique. She’s about to make a remark on this when Soap raises a brow at her. 

“And what are you doin’ lookin’ like that?” His hand waves up and down her body, at it hunched over the table. “We leave in like-” He glances down at his watch, “An hour?”

Ghost sits down heavily in the chair across from her and his eyes almost immediately fall to the messy set of numbers scrawled on her skin. His dark gaze narrows just the slightest bit and Flash can already see him jumping to conclusions. 

“I called my sister.” She blurts out, both to answer Soap and to stop whatever train of thought is starting in Ghost’s head. She’s not sure why she feels the need to defend herself. The three men sitting around her freeze, stopping their respective tasks to listen. “I uh- yeah.” 

“How did it go?” Gaz asks smoothly when the silence has stretched just a few seconds too long. “I didn’t know you had a sister.” 

He slides into the seat next to her, leaning on his arm and giving her just a tad too much concentration. It was times like these when Flash wondered if Gaz operated a black market of gossip, too eager and always asking the right questions. 

“We don’t talk.” Flash’s eyes flick up to see Ghost watching her warily. “Not for five years at least.” 

Gaz raises his brows but doesn’t say anything, just pitches his mouth down in the corner, enough that Flash know’s he’s no longer fishing for details. Part of her wonders just how much he knows.  

She looks across the table at Soap, sitting silent in his chair, picking at his nails, and suddenly becomes aware of the space left between him and Ghost. Now, after hearing Soaps late night confession the day before, the signs are obvious, like Soap has the words ‘I fucked my superior and now we don’t talk about it’ scrawled across his forehead in bright red pen. She clears her throat, 

“It was fine, I just called for-” She hesitates, still not quite sure why she’s telling them this. Maybe Taryn’s sweet tongued optimism rubbed off on her too much. “I just needed some sister advice.” Flash finishes with a shrug, hoping the burn on her cheeks isn’t too obvious. 

“I get that.” Soap starts, and Flash almost jumps at his voice, deep and raspy from sleep. “I’ve got my own sister. She can be annoyin’ as shit but she’s got some good advice.” 

“And what are you getting advice for.” Gaz teases, “You haven’t had game for the last year.” His words falter at the end and Flash doesn’t need any explanation to know he’s talking about Ghost and Soap’s relationship, or whatever the hell Soap had called it. In a quick attempt to smooth things over, she looks expectantly across to Ghost. 

“No. No siblings.” He says, and Flash watches the way his eyes fall to the worn table in front of him.  

“That's too bad.” Flash says, kicking him lightly under the table, “They’re a pain in the ass anyways.” This time, when he glances back up, she smiles at him with her teeth, remembering the way he’d so carefully parted her lips in the bathroom the night before. Something in his gaze shifts and his mouth moves under his mask, pulling up at the corners. But before she can see the full thing, he’s standing and moving towards the kitchen. Glassware clinks around, he pulls one of the bowls from the cupboard and stands at the sink, waiting awkwardly. She catches on a moment later and sits up.

“I’ll go back to my room while you guys eat.” She says, trying not to let the gesture sting too badly. “I’ve got to pack for the trip anyways.” 

As soon as she turns her back, even though she know’s its impossible, the rustling of Ghost pulling off his balaclava echoes through the concrete room. Just incase she has a sudden loss of self control and turns to see him making his breakfast unmasked, Flash speeds up her pace and practically throws herself through her door. 

Leaning against the foot of her bed is an empty duffel bag and next to it a small, half-filled laundry sack. In it are the clothes from that night. Just underwear, a tank top, and her favorite pair of cargo pants. All her other layers had either been torn or cut through. They’d been sent through the wash five times now, but every time she’d braved the task of opening the synched bag, a staggering fear grasped her so tightly that she would pull it shut and give it back to Price. He took it wordlessly every time and they would both pretend. Her muttering something about there still being blood and him nodding while sending it along with the rest of the laundry. Both of them knew the clothes were clean, practically washed thin, but she could smell the brine of the sea, the gory mess of the man as he splattered across her shirt without even opening the bag. 

So instead of kicking it to the side, or ignoring the sad, knowing look in Price’s eyes as she shoves the unopened sack into his hands again, she picks it up and sets it on the unmade sheets of her bed. Her hands shake violently and it almost makes her laugh, how they vibrate when the canvas whispers open.

On the top of the neatly folded pile is a small scrap of notebook paper. When she leans in closer, she can make out a single line of familiar scratchy handwriting ‘you’ve got this kiddo :)’. Tears burn behind her eyes as she picks the note up and sets it aside, reading it one more time before her eyes are too watery to see, and reaches into the bag to pull out the tank top. Her hands still shake, and the fold is done horribly, one strap sits higher up than the other making the whole thing a bit lopsided, but she finishes. The pants follow suit, folded neater this time. She picks them both up, along with the underwear, and shoves them into their respective drawers before leaning heavily against her dresser.

Taking a shaky breath, Flash turns to slide down the side of the solid wood, wedging herself between the wall and dresser she lets her head fall between her knees. There, away from the view of the laundry bag and clothes, she lets the adrenaline drain down her limbs and through her fingertips that rest on the cold floor. It shakes her body and looses a few broken sobs, but she’s alive and the clothes are folded. 

★Ghost

He waits outside of Flash’s door, hand half raised, fingers curled in a fist to knock. Soap had sent him to give her a thirty-minute warning which would now end up being a twenty-five minute warning. Shaking his hand out one more time, he raises his fist, and right as he's about to knock, the door swings open.

Flash stands in front of him, looking down at the duffel bag in her hand. She jerks back when she sees him. Just for a moment, in the few seconds, it takes for her to recover and slide back on her happy-go-lucky smile, he can see the crease at her brow and a small frown tugging the soft shape of her lips down.  

“You ready?” She asks, and Ghost nearly forgets that she is the one they’re waiting on. 

“Yeah.” He starts, and all the confidence he had built, all the words he’d carefully laid out for hours the night before wash away at the sight of her. “We uh- Gaz took the Jeep.” Flash nods for him to continue, and he does after another deep breath. “You, me, and Soap will be taking the truck with the rest of the equipment.” 

Flash watches him carefully, eyes flicking over every inch of skin his mask leaves uncovered. It’s this hungry gaze of hers, the one that scares the shit out of him, that she gives him before responding. Completely ignoring his words. 

“You didn’t sleep?” She says but doesn’t wait for him to answer. “Me neither.”  

Flash shoves her bag into his hand and jogs towards the front door, already arguing with Soap about her “perfectly valid” license. He carries both their bags in one arm and decides that it's the weight of their bags that is slowing him down. Not the fact that Soap reaching the truck first meant he and Flash would be stuck in the back together, strapped to a single bench. He wanted to thank whatever officer had replaced the passenger seat with a now out-of-date comms system.

_____

An hour in, Flash’s cheek is pressed hard into the knuckles of her fist and a shiny patch of drool starting at the corner of her mouth. He both envies her sleep abilities and fears them. 

When his eyes drift back to the landscape outside the windshield, his gaze catches on Soap watching them through the rearview. He struggles to remember if the mirror used to be angled down that far or if Soap had intentionally moved it to watch them. 

“So things are getting pretty serious?” He asks, not taking his eyes off the poorly paved road in front of him. Although he says it jokingly, Ghost can see the underlying curiosity, maybe even a twinge of jealousy. 

“We’re not doing this right now Johnny.” Ghost grumbles, keeping his arms tight over his chest, as if they could create a barrier against Soap’s prying eyes. He knows better. Years of using little to no communication during deployment meant that learning each other's body language was critical, especially in cramped bunks. 

Soap just shakes his head, still not taking his eyes off the road. Ghost can practically watch the countdown until his next snarky remark. A slow scrunch of his brow, followed by a slight downturn of his mouth, before- right on the mark, Soap drags a rough hand down the left side of his face before finally speaking. 

“Has she seen you without your mask?” 

Ghost’s eyes snap to Soap’s, still waiting for biting words to follow, to snap at a tender spot only he knows how to find. Instead it’s something much, much, worse. 

“Just remember what happened last time.”

The words slither through the air between them, squeezing around his ribs before sliding down to stoke the coals of fear burning in his stomach. The cab of the truck is too small and suddenly the heat of Flash’s body pressed so close is so present in his mind that if he doesn’t back away he might just- stop. Stop.

“Pull over.” He mumbles, staring into the dead space between horizon and road. 

Soap obliges wordlessly, slowing the truck to a slow roll before stopping in a cloud of dust on the shoulder. Ghost steps out, stumbling over the edge of the pavement as he braces his hands against his knees and heaves great breaths of warm desert air. 

The sound of a door opening behind him has his shoulders raising to his ears, a poor imitation of hackles. 

“Stop!” He clears his throat before lowering his voice and trying again. “I’m fine. Get back in the truck.” 

But the sound of footsteps persists, light and barely audible, despite the thin layer of gravel coating the road and landscape around them. When he turns, Flash is standing behind him. Her face is pink with sleep, an impression of the seatbelt running from her mouth to her ear, and one side of her hair has been rubbed upward, making her braided hair lopsided. When her eyes fall on his hunched shoulders, the freckled bridge of her nose scrunches. 

“Whats going on?” She asks suddenly, growing more aware. “Are you getting sick?” 

When he doesn’t answer, she steps closer, resting a hand between his shoulder blades. Ghost can't help the low sound that pushes from his chest. She keeps it there, rubbing circles into the expanse between his shoulder blades. 

“It’s okay,” Flash starts, still soothing his hunched shoulders back down. “I get sick too, just on plane rides. I don’t know what it is.” She laughs once, bright and musical. “Maybe the forty thousand feet in the air bit.” 

Ghost’s breaths come easier now, in through his nose and streamlined from his pursed lips, the way his psychiatrist had shown him. The small pouch of his pills sit comfortingly in his breast pocket, but he lets them stay there. Finally, he turns to face Flash, reluctantly letting the warmth of her palm fall from his back. 

“Yeah.” The word comes out staticky, like when the comms are just a bit too far apart. “That part is pretty shitty.” He doesn’t know why he’s agreeing with her. He’s never once felt an ounce of fear flying on a plane. There’s no point when everything is already so far out of his control. But when her lips split and reveal an amused smile he understands why. 

“C’mon.” Flash grasps his hand, pulling him back towards the truck. He hadn’t realized just how far he’d stumbled. “I’m sure we have something in the truck for nausea.” 

Ghost just nods and follows her lead, sliding smoothly onto the bench of the truck and shutting the door behind him. Flash carefully slips her pinky finger around his, squeezing tightly. And that single act sends a rush of heat through his chest both pleasant and burning. She knew. She knew damn well he wasn’t car sick. Soap says nothing.

Instead of folding his hands underneath his arms like usual, Ghost lets them be. One gently grasping the safety handle, and the other tucked neatly under Flash’s tracing fingers. And does his best to ignore the eyes watching them from the mirror. 

★Flash

Flash, in a desperate attempt to get out of the truck, barely manages to let it stop before bursting out and jogging a few short laps around the vehicle. 

“Jesus kid.” Soap swears, stepping out of the cab and stretching his arms overhead. “Weren’t you just sleeping like-” a disbelieving glance at his wristwatch, “three minutes ago.” 

“Four fucking hours.” She bites as Ghost slides from the back. “That’s basically abuse.” 

In a desperate attempt to relieve the cramping behind her thighs, Flash bends forward, slipping her hands under her sneakers. A relieved moan splits her lips, muffled into the fabric of her pants. Careful not to go light-headed, she slowly straightens out before reaching her hands above her and pushing her chest out. It feels fucking amazing.

When she finishes and turns to the two guys behind her, she can’t help but laugh. Ghost’s face is turned away, eyes downcast in a way that promises Flash his cheeks are burning hot. Soap glances between the two of them before laughing loudly and stalking off toward the large building that, in Flash’s humble opinion, does not look anything like a farmhouse. If it weren’t for the large yellow barn nestled into the field next to it, the large concrete building would probably look like a prison. 

Flash is about to follow after Soap, both eager to get to the briefing, and much to her annoyance, nervous to see Alejandro and Valeria, when a gentle hand grasps her elbow. She turns to find Ghost, still hovering near the car, one hand held behind his back. 

“Whats up?” She asks, eyeing his hidden hand and taking a few curious steps towards him. 

“I uh-” Ghost stutters in a way that two days before would leave Flash shellshocked, but after seeing him so vulnerable the night before, she just nods for him to continue. “I have something for you.” 

“Ooh a gift?” Flash says, trying to peek around his body, but the bulk of his shoulders easily blocks her vision. 

“It’s nothing, really. Just something small. I didn’t think you had one and you were looking at it. Then there was that guy.” He rambles, ducking his head slightly. 

Flash has to squeeze her hands into fists to keep from grabbing his face and kissing him. Even through the mask would be better than nothing, but the few moments of silence that lapse between his rambles and her watching the way his hand endearingly fidgets at his belt helps her somewhat regain her self control. 

“If it’s important to you. It’s important to me.” She says softly and steps closer. “Now let me see.” 

He hesitates for one more second before pulling his hand from behind him and showing her a folded blue square in his hand. Flash’s heart stops for a moment and then starts back up so fast that she nearly passes out. It’s the cerulean scarf she’d seen at the market.

“Ghost-” Her voice catches as she reaches up and pulls the silk from his hand, mouth suddenly dry.

“I just thought it would help, the dust is bad and- I think I got the right one, the blue right-” 

He’s cut off with a huff as Flash throws herself against him. She wraps her arms around his chest squeezing hard. The rough velco of his vest scrapes her cheek, and something is pushing painfully against her ear, but she doesn’t let go. 

“Thank you.” She says quietly. 

The words, muffled into his chest, are barely audible. He doesn’t respond, but a few moments later, she feels a hand rest lightly against her shoulderblades. When she doesn’t let go, his other hand slides up, pulling her into him.  

“Let's head in,” Flash says, reluctantly pulling away and sliding her hand into his, before tugging him towards the "farmhouse". 

They make it just a few paces before he slides his hand from hers and takes two measured steps in front of her. Flash is about to question him, but leaning against the open door of the farmhouse is Alejandro, handsome as ever.

"We've been waiting." He nods to Ghost, shifting out of the doorway to let him pass. Flash watches him go with a confused glare. "Everything okay Rubia."

"Yeah," She breathes, brushing past him without looking at his face. "Everything's fine."

_____

Much to her disappointment. The briefing is not as entertaining as she’d thought it would be. Both Alejandro and Price would be making final decisions tonight. This briefing was only to go over the information they already knew. But she still listened diligently and took her notes at appropriate times. Alejandro didn’t do so much as glance in her direction as he spoke, both he and Valeria remained impassive during the meeting. It made Flash wonder how many of the people sitting around her had shared a bed with them. Her eyes land on Gaz, who seems to be a little too focused on Alejandro's hands as he retraces a path on one of the topograph maps. She glances over to Ghost, hoping to point his attention to Gaz and his drooling mouth, but he stays facing the front of the room. Even when she stares at him, practically burning holes into the back of his masked head, he doesn’t turn around. So when the lights shut off and the projector whirs to life, she grabs the pen resting next to his paper, making a point to doodle little hearts at the corner of her paper when he finally looks her way. Instead of shaking his head and laughing like he usually does in response to her minor thievery, he pulls another pen from his pocket and holds it in his hand. 

Annoyed at Ghost's sudden coldness and bored out of her mind, Flash turns to Gaz to whisper in his ear, 

“Do you think if you stare at his crotch enough, you’ll see through his pants?” 

His face goes bright red and a stuttered cough cuts off the briefing. 

“You okay Gaz?” Alejandro asks, raising a dark brow as Gaz hits his chest with a fist, still coughing.

“Yes, sir. Fine.” Gaz mutters. 

Alejandro continues on, using a meter stick to draw an invisible line down a projected image of a warehouse. 

Flash leans back to Gaz’s ear again, feeling malicious. “Is that what you call him in the bedroom? Sir?” 

This time Gaz chokes, coughing wildly as Flash bites back a smile and forces her brows to pinch in concern as she pats his back. 

She does get Ghost's attention this time, but much to her disappointment, yet again, it's just a small shake of his head. Flash glares pointedly back.

“What is going on. Are you sure you’re okay?” Alejandro asks again. 

“I’m going to go grab some water and air, I’ll be right back.” Gaz bites out between coughs. 

Flash lasts another two and a half minutes after he leaves before muttering something about checking on Gaz and wandering out of the room and down the hall. 

It’s here, with fists shoved deep into her pockets that she passes a set of double doors propped open to reveal a small training room. It's modest compared to the one back at their base. The back wall is decorated with an assortment of real and fake weapons and a thick green mat covers the stained cement. A bright red sign nailed to one of the doors threatens suspension to anyone who brings the weapons out of the confinements of the training room. She's about to walk by, wanting to slip out of the building and explore the barn. But her curiosity wins over and she hovers in the dim hallway.

Once Flash is there, watching the fighting pairs, she's surprised it took her so long to hear the grunting and unmistakable thud of bodies bouncing off worn foam. One of the men leaning against the back wall, who'd been intently watching a rather unfair match play out, starts towards her in a slow prowl. The challenge is clear, confidence leaks from him like a poison, and his eyes scan her body, lingering for a few seconds on her chest. She recognizes him from the meeting, but can't quite remember his name. Liam? Larson?

"Get er' Lucas!" One of the guys calls, following with a series of whooping howls. She sends him a withering glare and is about to stalk away to find Gaz when her drifting eyes catch on a brightly colored package peaking from Lucas' pocket. Maybe just one match and then she'd find him.

"What do you say Rubia? Just you and me?" He stops just a few feet from her, close enough that she can smell the sweat that sticks the front of his shirt to his muscled chest.

She has to bite back a laugh at the stuttered way Alejandro's pet name falls from his lips. A far cry from the other man's smoothness. It's not that Lucas isn't attractive, his body is well-shaped and thick dark hair falls into a pair of bright hazel eyes. If she wasn't so busy at the academy she might have even gone for a guy like him. But all she can think of is Ghost's kind eyes and if she's being honest, the shape of his ass in one of the heli harnesses. She doesn't have to see Lucas's backside to know it'll pale in comparison.

"I don't know." Flash looks him up and down, letting the boredom in her eyes shine. "You look a little," she waves one hand around as if it will pull the word from thin air "small."

Lucas flinches back, obviously not used to being rejected. 

"Then it should be quick, no?" His smile is back now, and just as flirty as before.

She relents, “Rules?” She prompts, stretching her shoulders and removing the belt from her waist, doing her best to ignore the pinch as her stitched skin pulls taught.

“Clean fight. First one to tap loses.” 

Flash nods and smiles widely, more than eager to move after sitting for the past five hours. Lucas smiles wide, almost looking feral with a pair of pointed canines.

She follows him to the mat and they square up, him guarding high over his jaw and her standing still, hands at her side. Someone behind them shouts a command and Lucas is lunging, striking hard and fast towards her exposed midsection. She easily sidesteps him, having seen the flex in his exposed calf muscle just a moment before. Childs play. 

Flash lets him lunge, easily dancing around his brutally thrown fists and elbows as he tires himself out. She can already tell he’s used to using his weight as an advantage rather than a tool. Much like every other man she’s fought.

After a particularly poorly timed left hook, Lucas lets out a frustrated growl. Taking pity on him, Flash sighs before darting towards him. In just under two seconds, she’s slipped her leg behind his knees and with one shove of her elbow has him sprawled on the mat, blinking widely. In another second, she’s locked her bicep over his neck and tightened her legs around his chest in a breath-squeezing grip. 

When he doesn’t stop squirming, her bicep tightens around his throat, "Tap." She orders, calm and unwavering. "You've already lost."

Nails scrape at her grip leaving angry red scratches against the back of her hand and wrist. She winces but doesn't relent. His gasping lips have turned pale and the veins at his forehead bulge against sweating skin. If he doesn't tap he'll pass out, she's sure of it. His fingers scratch at her hand again, but this time they’re fumbling and slow. The men surrounding her are shouting at him to fight back and Flash wonders if they're too ignorant to see that the lack of oxygen has left his limbs useless, or if they're just that dumb.

Just as his eyes start to roll back, there's a weak tap against her outer thigh. She immediately releases and Lucas scrambles back against the mat, shoving her to the side in the process, and hunches over, violently coughing between gags.

"What the fuck." He spits out, still curled into himself, red face inches above the dirty mat. "What the fuck is wrong with you."

Pushing herself to her feet, Flash stalks towards him and jabs a finger at his sweating glare. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" She wasn't about to let him make her feel guilty, he'd started it, she just saw it through.

Lucas just stares at her with bloodshot eyes and the room around them stays silent. Nosy Bastards.

"I'll tell you what's wrong with you." She continues, stepping forward to rub the dirty tread of her shoe against the white of his shirt before leaning down, their faces just inches apart. "You're too slow."

He says nothing, even as she reaches over and snatches the cellophane bag of sweets from his pocket.

_____

Happily picking through the bag of candy she’d so fairly won, Flash wanders the property kicking rocks and half-assedly looking for Gaz. Just before she's about to turn and head back, she stumbles upon a smell that she can only describe as animal.

When Flash stops in front of the open barn doors, her jaw drops. One of the biggest horses she’d ever seen stands before her, lazily chewing on a mouthful of hay. She has to crane her head upward to see the ginger mane falling in neat tendrils over a huge, muscled neck. It's as beautiful as it is terrifying.

The horse's nose is soft like plush velvet when she runs a single finger across it, and surprisingly warm. The deep chestnut of its eyes stays relaxed and half-lidded so she strokes it again, this time with her palm. When she does, warm puffs of air blow against her hand and she jumps back, heart racing. The horse seems to sense this and with its long, nimble legs, lowers itself to the ground, nestling into the dry hay bed at her feet. Following it down, Flash drops to her knees and sits back against her heels, feeling braver now that they’re nearly face to face. Well, face to muzzle.

“You aren’t so mean. Huh?” She speaks softly, pressing her palm between the dark, watchful eyes and feeling the warmth of its skin. “Are you a boy or a girl?”

“She’s a girl.”

Flash falls backward, feet slipping from under her in the slick hay when a deep voice calls out from behind her. But large hands are under her arms in seconds, pulling her up and to her feet.

Ghost stands in front of her now, mouth quirked into a small smile under the cotton of his mask. “That’s the second time I’ve had to keep you from knockin’ yourself out.” His hands linger, squeezing her biceps reassuringly before dropping to his sides. “How often does this happen when I’m not around?”

“I- what?” Flash’s heart still beats wildly in her chest, partially from nearly cracking her head off the paved ground, but mostly from the looming presence in front of her. “What?”

“She’s a girl.” Ghost continues, choosing not to repeat his question. “Maple I think. One of Alejandro’s first girls. She’s a sweetheart.” He steps closer to Flash and for a moment she thinks he’s about to grab her, but then he’s reaching past her to rest a hand on the patch of cream-colored fur her own had been resting against just minutes before. Maple's eyes close and she pushes against his hand, moving to nose his palm. Ghost responds by loosening each finger of his glove before pulling it off and tucking it in his waistband. Flash watches intently as he returns his hand to the spot and smooths it upwards, following the patch of cream between her eyes.

“Do you still have that candy?”

Ghost's voice snaps her back and with burning cheeks, she pulls the small plastic bag from her pocket, feeling a pinch of shame at being caught but called out. “How did you know?”

“One of the guys was complaining.” He starts before turning to look at her, his brow furrows slightly at the scratches covering the back of her hand and forearm, but it eases when he glances up at her face. “And your mouth is bright red.”

Handing the bag to him, Flash uses the back of her other hand to wipe at her lips but it’s no use. “Horses can have candy?” She asks, now scrubbing her mouth with the sleeve of her fleece.

Ghost responds by pulling one of the round, brightly colored candies and placing it on the flat of his bare palm before extending it to Maple.

“Some.” He speaks lowly and in a calming tone that Flash knows is for the horse's sake, but she can't help but melt all the same. Maple picks the candy up with the soft skin of her lips before crunching it between a powerful set of teeth. “This stuff is just dyed sugar. They sell it everywhere.”

Then he’s grabbing her hand, flattening her fingers with a gentle swipe before setting a purple one on her palm. It's only when he starts to move her arm towards Maple's giant mouth that she jerks back, closing the candy tight in her palm. It’s sticky and in just a few seconds starts to melt against the heat of her skin.

“Keep your hand flat.” His hand curls around her forearm to grasp her wrist. “I promise she won’t bite. Open.”

At his command, Flash opens her palm and with shaking fingers, lets him guide her arm outwards with his hand wrapped reassuringly around her wrist. At the last moment, Flash shuts her eyes tight, not wanting to see the grisly sight of her fingers being ground to a pulp. But she’s only met with Maple’s warm breath and the tickle of whiskers as her soft lips take the sticky candy from her hand. A nervous laugh bubbles up from her own mouth, a mix of relief and joy at the strange feeling.

“See,” Ghost's voice vibrates from a warm chest, nearly pressed against her back. His hand still grips her wrist, “I told you she wouldn’t bite.”

“I trust you.” Flash says to their hands, “I just don’t trust the horse.”

“Give her another. This time with your eyes open.” She doesn’t ask how he knew her eyes were closed.

With open eyes, Flash lets Ghost set another candy, a bright orange one, onto her palm. Her wrist, still encompassed by his gentle hand, moves on its own accord towards Maple’s brown muzzle. She takes it just as sweetly as before, in a soft kiss of whiskers.

Flash does laugh this time, a sweet laugh that has her falling back a step with the effort, right into Ghost.

When she turns to apologize, still laughing, the words die on her tongue. He stares down at her, eyes wide and burning with so much emotion her breath catches in her throat. His own breath comes shakily through his nose as he brings a hand up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear before dropping it back to his side.

“Do you want to ride her?” He whispers, still staring intently at her face.

“Fuck no.” Flash breathes. But she doesn’t stop him as he pulls a saddle off a post and begins to strap it to a now-standing Maple. She doesn’t stop him when he lifts her like a rag doll and places her in the saddle, or when he gracefully swings himself up to sit behind her. And she doesn’t stop him when he reaches around her to hold the brown leather reins and guide them out and onto a dirt trail. She could have, but she doesn’t.

She’d severely underestimated the proximity that riding a horse with someone requires. Every inch of their bodies molded together, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. It’s glorious. She can’t help but settle back a bit, reveling in the way his arms wrap around her shoulders.

The setting sun shines orange and yellow across the tan field, turning it into an ocean of waving ochre honey, and the rest of the green flowing forest into a golden meadow. It seeps into her very bones, dragging her heartbeat to a dull thump that sounds in time with the gentle rocking of Maple's steps. She shifts further back, now laying entirely across Ghost's chest and nestling into the warm spot between his neck and shoulder. It smells delightfully of sweat, oranges, and dirt. He stiffens at first, she doesn’t know if it’s surprise or discomfort, but he relaxes just a moment later, resting his chin gently atop her head. And there, nestled in the warmth of his embrace and lulled by the swaying steps of sweet Maple. Flash closes her eyes and wills her mind to remember every detail, begs her body not to forget the gentle shift of muscle against her back as Ghost directs them down a rough path he seems to know so well.

“You’ve done this before?” Her question is quiet, spoken through a drowsy fog.

Ghost moves the reins to one hand and uses the other to gently knit their fingers together, the way she’d done in his truck. Here in her sleep-drunk state, the effort it takes for him to fit his fingers between her own smaller ones is too comical. “Yes,” His thumb rubs up and down the ridges of her knuckles, no doubt soothing his own nerves, “I’ve spent a lot of time here. Alejandro has done a lot for me.”

“With the horses?”

“Well,” he starts, hesitatingly, “A few years ago, I was having a rough time. Things were not going my way.” A large breath presses his chest tightly against her back “Alejandro let me stay with him for as long as I needed.”

“So you became a cowboy?” She teases, squeezing his hand tight.

“Not right away,” he laughs lightly and Flash involuntarily presses back into the sound, “I was scared shitless. Alejandro had to practically force me into the barn. But then I learned more about them. How compassionate and loving they are. Did you know they can have a whole conversation with just their ears?”

Flash hums encouragingly, hoping he’ll keep talking, if only to feel his voice against her back.

“They can love too. They’ll bond to someone, and love them the same way a human would. Real love.” An eager note shifts his voice, something Flash had never heard before.

“And did you bond with Maple?” Flash speaks into the soft cotton of his jacket.

“No,” a sigh tickles the soft hair at her nape “though we did get close. I have another horse. Her name is Rose.”

“Pretty name.” Flash hums “Where is she?”

Ghost stiffens again, and this time it takes him a few more beats to settle back and even longer to respond.

“She’s being cared for by my neighbor.”

“What’s she look like?” Flash’s voice is drifting, and the lids of her eyes seem impossibly heavy. She starts to imagine his home. A cupboard filled with chipped mugs and a wooden drying rack next to a deep basin sink. She’s decided that he’s not one to use a dishwasher.

“Golden hair,” his hand reaches up to tug at a strand of her own and she bats a hand at him, completely missing through her half-lidded gaze. “Blue eyes.” He’s brushing his hand along her cheekbone now and the feeling is like a magnet, tugging her eyes closed with a final drag down the bridge of her nose. “And a fiery temperament.”

“Are you calling me a horse?” Flash mumbles, half incoherent. But Ghost manages to decipher it and laughs breathily.

“No, I’m just noticing some similarities.” His hand reaches up to smooth the hair at her temple. Its awfully delightful.

“You keep doing that I’m going to fall asleep.” She threatens, even though they both know she’s far past salvation.

“That’s okay.” His hand drops to wrap around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer. “I won’t let you fall.”

“Okay.”

And for the first time since the incident, Flash falls asleep without the anxiety of what she’ll miss, what will pull her from her sheets, screaming and clawing. For the first time in weeks, she falls asleep in the sweet embrace of safety.

A/N: You cannot tell me that Flash isn't an ass woman. She's going to be grabbing handfuls soon. 

Also the idea of Ghost hyper fixating on horses AUGGHH HES TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD

Anywaysss, thank you for sticking with me through all of this. I love all of you and will talk to you again very soon!

#Ghost x reader #Ghost x female oc #SImon riley #Cod fic #Simon Ghost Riley #Alejandro Vargas #Valeria #Modern Warfare 2 #Ghost stories #Headcannons #John soap mactavish #John Price #MW2 #Gaz Garrick

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 4

Previous // Next

CW: bbu, bbu-adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, dehumanizing intent by using it/its pronouns, ableism, food mention, starvation

[A/N at the end of the chatper]

Rowan spent fifteen minutes pacing in his hallway before he settled on who he would call. A lump lodged in his throat every time he passed by the box the boy arrived in - what was he even supposed to do with it now? - and his heart fluttered whenever his finger hovered over his chosen contact. 

“How are you supposed to help this victim recover if you can’t even make a phone call, you idiot?” Rowan chastised himself as he rubbed his palm against his brow. Rationally, making a call was the best way to get himself and his new houseguest some help. Rationally, Rowan knew that this had to happen sooner or later. But rationality hadn’t exactly been governing Rowan’s choices over the past two days. 

It took another two minutes of anxious pacing before he sat at the kitchen table, hit the call button, and heard the phone ring once, twice, three times and-

“Hey there, Rowan,” the familiar and ever-cheerful voice said, and it hit Rowan like a ray of golden sun. “What’s up, man? You doing alright after the liquidation event yesterday? I know those are hard on you.”

Rowan paused, took a breath, and closed his eyes. Now or never.

“Listen, Grey, I might have done something a little impulsive when I was there.” The entirety of his admission wasn’t quite ready to come to Rowan’s lips. All of a sudden his throat was dry, and his knee bounced beneath the table. 

“Please don’t tell me they clocked you,” Greyson groaned. Greyson - just Grey to Rowan - was the current Vice President of the Pet Liberation Front, North American Division. Greyson also happened to be Rowan’s best friend. They’d known each other since they onboarded at PLF together more than a decade ago, and although their paths had diverged, a common mission still united them. Grey had taken on pet liberation as his full-time job, and Rowan had stuck with the weekend volunteer gigs. 

“No, nothing like that,” Rowan said hastily. “No cops, no drama, no one suspected a thing. I even got all the footage you asked for. But I uh… I saw a victim there. He was just different, okay? I can’t tell you what it was, not exactly, but there was something about him that I’ve never seen before. I looked at him and I just- I couldn’t say no, so I- I rescued him. Cash upfront for a lifetime contract, signed on the warehouse floor, delivered this morning. He’s in my spare bedroom right now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Grey muttered, and Rowan could picture his exasperated face from hundreds of miles away. The other man only continued after releasing a deep sigh. “You aren’t trained as a rescuer, you haven’t been assigned a rehabilitator, and there’s no way we can get him in for a medical work-up on such short notice. You're in way over your head with this.”

“I know, I know.” Rowan could concede that he fucked up, just a little, or maybe more than a little. But the boy was alive in that spare room rather than being burned to ash in the industrial cremator. That had to count for something, right?

“What’s wrong with him, huh?” Grey asked this over the sound of distant keystrokes, the frustration in his voice already dissipating. “You purchased him at a liquidation event, which means there's something they determined was defective, so this isn’t even a standard rescue case. Give me some details and I can try to connect you to a rehabilitator for emergency intervention. If you send me scans of the purchase papers - they should be in his box with the instruction manual - I can also open a rescue file in our system for him.”

Rowan let out a soft breath of relief. Grey had shifted into his rescue-oriented mindset, which meant that if he intended to continue scolding Rowan, it would at least come at a later time.

“I- I don’t know why he was sent for liquidation. He’s only been here for a few hours, and I’ve been too focused on not making a mess of things to figure it out. The WRU agent said that he had stopped listening to direct commands, but that’s all the information I got. He hasn’t reacted to a single thing I’ve said this whole time. Physically, he seems to be in decent shape. Walking, kneeling, any kind of movement, he had no problem. There’s the usual scarring and some fresh wounds around his cheeks, ears, and neck, but that’s it.” Rowan thought back to the deep wounds gouged into the boy's head, and again wondered what sort of torment would cause such persistent injuries. A shiver crept up his spine, but Grey cut in before Rowan's imagination could get the best of him.

“Hmm. Alright. It looks like our roster has one volunteer rehabilitator about five miles from your address, an Allison Herrera. She’s been with the PLF for four years now, and she’s assisted in more than ten successful rehabilitations with different rescuers in your area. I’ve sent her your contact information, and she doesn’t have any other cases at the moment, so you should expect to hear from her soon.”

“You are a miracle worker, Grey.” Unlike just a few minutes ago, Rowan was no longer in this alone. Help was on its way. Of course, as the rescuer, he knew he would have to do most of the work. The most a rehabilitator could offer him was guidance, advice, assessment. But by god, Rowan was going to take it.

Grey gave a soft, strained chuckle. 

“No, you’re the miracle worker today. You gave that boy a second chance at life, and that’s worth more than all the money in the world. I wouldn’t ever recommend doing what you’ve just done, but I know you did it with a good heart and good intentions.”

“Yeah. I just… I couldn’t let him go. Not this one, not this time.” 

Grey sighed again, and Rowan liked to imagine that he was smiling.

“Now get back there and try to settle your new houseguest in. Remember, it's firm suggestions, not commands, are the best to begin the transition process. Conversational tone, soft voices, lots of praise. Read through the PLF rescue manual, and then read it again. Allison will tell you more when you end up connecting.”

“Alright, I’ll do my best. Thank you, really. I promise I’ll try to call you at some point when I’m not in crisis mode.”

“Not holding my breath, bud. You just take care and keep me updated.” And with that, the line went dead, and Rowan was back on his own. 

---

Pet almost let one tear fall down its face as it soaked in the newness of everything around it. Kneeling was hard after so many hours in the box, but that was okay. Pet had done things that were so much harder. These floors weren’t even cement, so it thought maybe it could even kneel all day without its knees bruising. 

The food Master left was still just out of reach, and Pet's stomach was filled with the daggers of hunger, but Pet remembered Master’s words with gospel-like reverence. Don’t eat. So it didn’t. If this was Pet's first test in its new home, it would prove itself to Master, it would show just how obedient it could be.

Usually it was easy for Pet’s mind to grow empty, for it to submit to the nothingness, to surrender wholly to a place without pain. It wasn’t meant to think, it was trained not to. But today, Pet was struggling not to think. There was too much new. It was more frustrated than ever that it couldn't quite hear its new Master’s voice. It couldn’t tell if it was a scratchy voice, or if it was a soft one, or if it was a warm, deep roar. All Pet knew was that there were distant, muted words that floated beyond its grasp. 

If Pet was going to be good, it had to learn fast. Even if it didn’t have the exact words, it had to learn what Master wanted, and what Master expected of it. The better Pet anticipated its Master's needs, the less it got punished. A reliable pet was a good pet.

Even when it got hard to hear its old Master’s commands, Pet knew him well. Pet knew what time breakfast was to be prepared, how Master liked his floors cleaned, and which tools to offer up for punishment when Master was angry. It was routine, predictable, and even if it couldn’t hear every exact command, it was comforting to Pet. Every day was the same. There were no guesses, no surprises. Days and pain all bled into one another as the silence grew. Every day was the same, every ache anticipated. 

That was, until it was dropped back off at the facility for re-training. Discarded.

Not all of this new was bad. New Master smelled like no other Master that Pet had ever had - he smelled almost like bread fresh from the oven. The house had soft wooden floors, not cold tile, and the light came from soft, yellow bulbs. It was warm here, and the space was snug with narrow halls and close walls. It wasn’t particularly clean, at least not as clean as its old Master would have expected, but Pet didn’t mind. 

And since it hadn’t heard its new Master yell, then Pet thought that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t suffer much more pain today. The idea of punishment made its heart flutter uncomfortably in its chest. 

Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t flinch. Don’t think. Calm down. You belong to Master. Master can do with you as he pleases. You are Master’s property. Your only concern is to listen to Master, please Master, obey Master’s every command. 

Before Pet could try to escape to blissful nothingness once more, Master’s feet appeared in the doorway. They sidestepped the plate - still untouched - and came closer to Pet. It braced its muscles as subtly as possible, preparing for the inevitable strike. There was another mumbling of words, just as indistinct as before.

Pet stopped breathing when a hand touched its chin, ever so gently, and titled its face upwards.

---

A/N: Wow! Thank you all so much for the outpouring of love I have received for this story. I must admit I abandoned it back in October as my life got busy, but I have a total of fifteen chapters currently written, with more on the way. So yes, this work is continuing!

Reading the kind tags and comments so many folks have left genuinely brought tears to my eyes. Your kindness has been overwhelming in the best possible way. Thank you, and I hope you continue to enjoy!

I think I got everyone who asked to be tagged for this, but please ask if you would like to be added! Please let me know if you have been added in error, and you will be promptly removed.

Taglist: @honey-is-mesi @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @tragedyinblue @clairelsonao3 @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @peachy-panic

#bbu #whump #pet whump #whump community #whumplr #whump writing #tw dehumanization #hear no evil #chapter 4

[jamneuromain]

T-minus...

Steve Rogers x You (Reader), no use of Y/N

Alternate Universe - Musician AU

Summary: Steve is about to be late for his recording. Luckily, you're there to drag him out of his bed.

Warning: Fluff, pouty man-child Steve (yes that's a warning), BAMF Reader, excessive swearing

A/N: A contribution to the Week Four Slumberparty @the-slumberparty. Thank you @rogerswifesblog for helping me with the plot <3 (kith kith kith)

With the loud noise of yanking his curtains, Steve was brought back to the real world. From his sleep.

He simply rolled over, covering his face with pillows, not even caring a single bit that the sunshine burned his bare skin after someone popped the window open.

"Get the fuck up, you need to be there in the studio in fifteen, that's five minutes to dress and ten minutes en route." Someone conveniently pulled his covers off too, throwing his pillow, the one he was pressing to his ears, to the other side of the bed, having him exposed in the crisp April air. “Jesus, you reek of beer.” “Someone” muttered.

Steve made some noises in an attempt to cover his eyes with his arm, but that “someone” shook his body.

“Wake up, Steve!”

“But it’s earlyyy-” He whined, reluctantly squeezing an eye open, scrunching his face together for that effort, “what time is it?”

“Seven forty-five.” You checked your watch, “forty-six. I suggest you get up right this moment and still have four minutes to get dressed. And I'm hauling your ass out in four minutes, whether you have your pants on or not.”

His eyes snapped open. Those particularly cute sapphire eyes widened in panic.

Oh no.

OH NO!

NOT YOU!

The reality kicked in. You, his manager, his agent, his second-hand woman, whatever he calls you, were here to wake him up.

NONONONONONO.

He had been assigned to you for three years, and he knew what would happen if you don’t get what you wanted.

Or worse, when he was the cause.

“Three minutes and fifty seconds.” You reminded him, opening his wardrobe and starting to pick outfits for him.

OHNO!!!

“YES MA’AM!”

He scrambled out of bed in a blink of an eye, dashing to the bathroom, brushing his teeth and splashing water on his face. He didn’t care about his nudity, or his modesty, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs, as you had seen numerous times before.

When he was out of his bathroom, you had already selected his outfit today: black T-shirt and jeans. They were lying on his unmade bed. You, on the other hand, took the chance to open all the windows of his apartment to clear out the smell of beer and … well, a grown man’s sweat overnight.

You handed him a bottle of bubbly water under your arm – it always helped with his headache after a night’s lack of sleep, plus the alcohol – and cursed in your brain because the cool bottle left a small patch of water between your elbow and your waist on your beige suit jacket. You had a meeting at nine, which meant you hope it wouldn’t stain.

He was jumping on the bedroom floor, trying to get his leg through the jeans, after gulping down almost half a bottle.

And a long burp came out.

Which nearly had him fallen off balance.

That’s what you get when you mix a bottle of bubbly with a jumping man-child. It’s like shaking the coke bottle after putting in a whole tube of mentos.

Scratch that “man” comment. He’s such a child sometimes.

At exactly one minute and six seconds to the countdown, he finally made himself presentable. His blonde hair still unkept, sure, but nothing a baseball cap wouldn’t solve.

You didn’t want some paparazzi waiting in front of his apartment building and catching his messy hair on camera. Again.

Though you doubt they still had any interest in him.

You headed out of his apartment after him, not forgetting to take his keys - which he conveniently forgot on the coffee table, buried under sheets of music, again - for him, before shutting the door.

“Ohhhh burger!” Steve picked up a packed bag from his seat, having a large, satisfactory bite before putting on a pouty face for you, who sat next to him, “it hath biffles.” He said while munching reluctantly, as the car started to drive onto the main road to the studio.

“That’s my breakfast. I like pickles, thank you very much.” You pointed it out, “yours is with Maggie, she bought you something to eat on her way to the studio. And don’t talk while you’re eating, you could’ve choked.”

Maggie, the assistant you hired for Steve two years ago, could manage almost everything.

Except waking Steve up.

That’s why with an early booking for the album recording, you showed up to hassle his ass instead of the more early-riser Maggie.

“I don’t like pickles,” Steve whined. Yet he took another bite, pushing the pickle slices out of his mouth to spit in the wrapping paper when he thought you were not looking.

“Then don’t take my breakfast?!” You roll your eyes, “make your own.”

“… I’ve slept over…”

“Just eat.”

“Yes whaam... ma’am.”

Still talking with food in his mouth.

Now you’ll go to your nine o’clock meeting with an empty stomach, thanks to Steve.

“Your 2 pm shooting got canceled. There has been a mix-up at the site, we’re going there tomorrow at 8 to finish the last couple of shots for your new album.” You pulled up his schedule, talking to him, hoping he’ll remember the rest of his day, “you have four hours in the studio. I’m not asking you to finish recording all those songs but I’m gonna have your top three demos to present to my boss, and that’s the bottom line for today. No out-of-the-blue insta stories, unless approved by Maggie or me, but you can take selfies, or ask Maggie to take a couple of pictures, just in case we might need them later, understood?”

He nods frantically, with two chicken nuggets stuffing his mouth full.

“The afternoon, go hang out with your buddies, or go to the gym, or play video games, I don’t care. No twitter. No Instagram. Maggie will be there with you to make sure you don’t say anything on twitter. If you want to twitter about politics, ask Maggie for a spare account.” You cleared your throat, “there’s a live session arranged on Youtube at seven pm, go talk to your fans, sing some songs from your previous albums – no disclosing your new album!” You stared at him to make your point clear, “more importantly, don’t answer the questions you don’t like. If the fans asked about your family, I don’t give a shit, don’t answer that. Don’t answer any bizarre questions, they might be some sneaky reporters behind those accounts trying to get a comment or something. Maggie will tell you about the details, but that’s all for today.”

The car pulled up in front of the studio. You got out of the car, holding your hand onto the car door because you were going to be late.

“Are you not going to be with me during the live session?” He got out of the car too, pursed his lips into a small pout, the pink plump lips complimenting his blue eyes, having you take a deep breath.

“I’ll try. I have a meeting at 6.30, and I probably couldn’t make it.”

“Please? Pretty please?” He whined, “you know I’ll behave better when you are around.”

You laughed, handing him his water bottle, “behave, Steve. I’m going to be late.”

“Not the slightest chance?”

“You’re going to be late too!”

“Maybe a goodbye kiss?” He asked hopefully.

“I’m going to kick your ass if Maggie doesn’t see you in thirty seconds.”

Steve made a face, acting like he was actually scared of you.

“Twenty-nine.” You started texting Maggie, who was waiting in the studio already.

“Yes ma’am. Love you miss you see you bye!” He gave a funny salute, before dashing off at lightning speed.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers #navy and roo's sleepover #weekly writer challenge #navy and roo sleepover #musician!steve #manager!reader

[banannabethchase]

matt jackson/adam page, meet cute AU where adam is matt's kid's teacher

...Anon you found my kryptonite. Any school AU will take me down.

~

Meet the Teacher - Also on AO3

~

Adam's got a parent teacher conference with one of the trickiest parents in the district: Mr. Jackson.

This became over 2k words. I. Okay. This might as well happen.

~

Adam takes a deep breath and peeks out the door to his classroom again. No sign of anyone coming down the hallway, no indication of Bailey’s dad.

“Page!”

Adam jumps and almost crashes into his bookshelf. “Jesus, Silver, what is wrong with you?”

Mr. Silver, the P.E. teacher, grins at him. “You looked tense.”

“I am tense,” Adam says through gritted teeth. “And thanks, by the way. Scaring me definitely helps.”

Silver shrugs. “Happy to help.”

“Thought that was you.”

Adam rolls his eyes. “Oh, god, not you, too.”

Mr. Cole swaggers down the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets. “What, not happy to see me?”

“I’m not happy to see anyone right now,” Adam admits. “I have a parent/teacher conference that I’m pretty worried is going to suck.”

Cole pauses, leaning against the bulletin board across from Adam.

“Watch my kid’s personal narratives,” Adam says, trying to sound stern. Cole does shuffle out of the way, though.

“Why are you so freaked out?” Cole asks. “The parents love you. Moms want you to fulfill their weird little fantasies and fuck them on your desk, all that.”

“Okay, well, I wish I’d never heard that come out of your mouth,” Adam grumbles. “No, it’s – it’s a Jackson.”

Cole’s face falls. “Oh, dude. Good fuckin’ luck.”

“Right?!” Adam half yells. “His kid is in second grade and he’s already been to fifteen goddamn school board meetings. I didn’t even know there were that many to go to.”

“Talking about Bailey’s dad?” Ms. Shida says, poking her head out of the art classroom. “Good luck is right. When she was in kindergarten, he asked me why she didn’t get an A on all her assignments.”

Adam stares at her. “Don’t you grade on demonstration?”

“Yeah. E, S, N, U. She was getting E’s and he didn’t give me enough time to explain it before he was yelling at me.”

Adam whines a little and drops his forehead against the wall. “Oh, god, it’s only the fourth week of school. How am I already getting harassed by a parent 18 days in?” He exhales and jumps a little. “Okay. It’ll be fine. I’ll stay calm, and it’ll be fine.”

“Sure, buddy,” Cole says, clapping Adam on the shoulder. “Take it from the greater Adam. Survival is the goal.”

“I – shut up,” Adam says, pushing off Cole’s hand. “But. Uh. Thanks? I guess?”

In the hopes of ignoring the rest of his colleagues, Adam shoots a text to their receptionist to walk Bailey’s dad to his door when he gets there. He does a terrible job of getting paperwork done as he waits. The clock ticks on until 4:00 on the dot, when Adam hears a knock on the door and sees the receptionist, Mr. Schiavone, peek his head in.

“Hi there, Mr. Page,” Mr. Schiavone says, betraying none of the anxiety in his voice that Adam can read in his eyes. “Mr. Jackson is here?”

“Bailey’s dad,” comes a voice from behind him.

And in steps a man who doesn’t even remotely match the person Adam had conjured up in his mind. Long hair tied back in a half bun, tight white jeans, giant brown eyes, and a hesitant smile. Nothing like the half balding whiner in a lumpy sweater and khakis he’d imagined.

Adam is in trouble.

“Hi there, Mr. Jackson,” he says, standing up from his small group table. He always does parent conferences back at that table. It feels more personal. He sticks out his hand as Mr. Jackson comes by. “So great to meet you. We missed you at meet the teacher night.”

Mr. Jackson shakes his hand firmly, smiling. “Bailes was sick -trust me, you did not want her puking all over the floor.”

“Been there, done that,” Adam laughs.

He nods to Mr. Schiavone, who quietly slides out of the room.

“Please,” Adam says, sliding into one of the kid chairs at the back table, “have a seat. I should probably get some adult sized chairs, but, for now, enjoy the wiggle seats.”

Mr. Jackson perches expertly on the seat, then spins a little. “Oh, I like these,” he laughs. “Bailey likes them, too?

“Actually,” Adam says, and he can’t believe how quietly the conversation opened up, “that’s one thing I’d like to check in with you about.”

Mr. Jackson’s face darkens. “Did you bring me here to tell me my kid’s doing something wrong?”

“No!” Adam says. “Absolutely not. Bailey tries hard all the time. In everything. I can see how hard she’s trying, and that’s why I wanted to speak with you.” Adam takes a deep breath. These conversations never get easier. “I’m noticing that Bailey is having some difficulty transitioning from activity to activity, interacting with her peers, and comprehending texts.” He waits a second.

“Are you – you see it too?” Mr. Jackson’s face drops all the tension. “You think my Bailey might be Autistic?”

“I – yes,” Adam says. “She has some many characteristics, and I want to make sure we can help her –”

“Finally!” Mr. Jackson says, throwing his hands in the air as he leans back and half falls off of the wiggle seat. He catches himself before falling, like he knew it would happen. His hands are going everywhere. “Mr. Page, let me tell you, I have spent the past two years trying to get somebody to hear me when I’ve told them something is up with my girl. She’s – Bailey’s amazing, but I can tell she’s struggling when she comes home. I can tell. And the doctor told me Autism is only in boys, and Principal Khan told me it was too early to make that decision –”

Adam frowns. “Principal Khan said what?”

“I asked about it last year, around November,” Mr. Jackson says. He’s calmed down a bit, but his eyes are just the tiniest bit wet. “I told him I was seeing something with her, but her teacher disagreed with me. Principal Khan said we needed to wait.” He wrinkles his nose. “He and the teacher said she was too young to make any decisions.”

Adam pauses. The next question needs to be carefully asked, expertly angled so no one could say he disparaged a coworker.

“That Ms. Baker’s a real douchebag,” Mr. Jackson continues. Adam doesn’t even get a chance to get a word in. “And I know it’s probably, like, not cool to speak that way about your kid’s teacher, but, god, what a jerk! She literally said Bailey was fine because she wasn’t a behavior concern. That we needed to prioritize.”

Adam’s the one to half fall off of his seat at that one. “She said what?”

“I know, right?” Mr. Jackson says. He shakes his head and his hair is, well, unmissably soft. Adam feels like one of the kids with the way he wants to reach out and touch it. “Like, and in front of the principal. He looked so baffled about it that he just sort of ended the conversation with the plan that we would look into it in second grade.” He shrugs. “So, when we got that first progress report back, I asked for a conference.” He sheepishly pulls out his phone and presses a button. “I, uh. I kind of was recording this whole conversation. I was scared you were going to be another person here who was writing off my girl.”

Adam stares at the recording and runs back everything. He didn’t say anything negative, did he? Just asked questions?

“Sir,” Adam says, “I fully understand how frustrating that may have been for you. Is there a chance, though, that you could delete that recording?”

“Oh, duh, of course.” He turns the phone toward Adam and selects the only recording dated today, and hits delete. “I wasn’t actually going to use it against you unless you were awful.”

“Thank…you? I think?” Adam says.

Mr. Jackson nods. “So, um. What are you thinking for Bailes?”

The two of them speak for half an hour, coming up with a support system for Bailey until the referral process goes through, and Adam finds Mr. Jackson moving closer and closer.

“Oh, and can you add something about how to handle friendships?” Mr. Jackson asks. When he reaches over to point at it, he lets his arm fall right against Adam’s. “She’s having trouble understanding that she has to ask a friend to play, that they might not know she wants to if she’s on the other side of the playground.”

“Of course,” Adam says, nodding. His heart is racing, just a little bit. He can smell whatever shampoo Mr. Jackson uses. It smells like green apples. Like candy.

“Perfect,” Mr. Jackson says. “God, Mr. Page, I don’t know what I would have done if Bailey had gotten somebody else for a teacher.”

Adam couldn’t prove it, but he’s pretty sure Mr. Jackson is fluttering his eyelashes at him. He’s got gorgeous eyes. “Sure thing,” he says, clearing his throat.

“Right.” Mr. Jackson pushes back.

“You can call me Adam, though,” he says automatically. “You don’t – Mr. Page is for the kids. You can call me Adam.”

Mr. Jackson’s face breaks into a grin. He’s so goddamn pretty. “Alright then, Adam. You can call me Matt.” He reaches out to shake Adam’s hand, and their fingertips linger just this side of too long as they pull away.

“It was good to meet you, Matt,” Adam says. He feels…anxious. In a very good way. “Glad to be of help.”

~

The next morning, Adam finds himself primping a little bit. There’s no reason, none at all, that he would run into Mr. Jack – Matt at school today. Bailey takes the bus. He won’t see Matt.

But he can’t help but add a little extra effort to his morning routine.

“Looking good, Mr. Page,” Silver says. He wiggles his eyebrows as Adam makes his way into his spot at the bus ramp.

“Oh, shut up,” Adam grumbles. “Why can’t you be normal?”

“Not my vibe,” he says, shrugging. “How’d it go yesterday with Jackson?”

Adam relays the events, leaving out the smell of Matt’s hair or how warm it was when their arms touched.

“You’re a parent whisperer,” Silver says, shaking his head. “You got through to the scariest dad in the area.”

“I know, dude,” Adam says, sipping his coffee. “It was like night and day. Jackson was totally – well, he wasn’t chill, on any level. But he’s just been worried about his kid and Bailey was stuck with Baker last year.”

Silver winces. “Well that’d fuck up any kid, wouldn’t it.”

Adam nods, sipping his coffee. At least the coffee is cold, out here in the summer heat as he waits for the bus riders to come in. “I just hope he likes me.”

The first bus opens his doors, and they hear “Mr. Page!”

A tiny brunette ball of energy careens into Adam before he can focus, and only just manages to angle his tumbler full of coffee away from the projectile before it spills.

“Is that Miss Bailey,” Adam says, hugging around her shoulders. “Missed you all weekend, munchkin!”

“Daddy says to give you this.” Bailey, like always, gets herself tangled in her backpack straps for a second before calming down and pulling it off. She dives into her backpack and pulls out her weekend folder, then pauses, looking a bit confused. “Give you now?” she asks.

“Not right now,” Adam says gently. “Let’s wait until weekend folder time.”

“Okay.” Bailey continues to dig until she pulls something out of her bag with a Jackson-style dramatic, “Aha!” She shoves a Starbucks gift card, a crayon art project, and a decorated stapler that says, “Mr. Page” on the top. “Don’t tell him I said this, but he was singing his happy songs all the way to school, so I think he’s really excited that you get this.” She beams up at him. “Do you like ‘em?”

“I love them, Bailes,” Adam says. She dives at him again and hugs him tight. Adam holds the crayon project. “Did you make this?”

“Me and Daddy,” Bailey clarifies. “I got to use Daddy’s special hair dryer!”

“Wow!” Adam says. “What a day!”

“Okay, I get breakfast now,” Bailey says. “Later gator, Mr. Page!”

Adam watches Bailey skip into school and sees Silver eyeing him.

“So, uh, Page,” Silver says, and Adam is deeply concerned with that smile, “looks like Jackson likes you a lot.”

“Shut up,” Adam grumbles, blushing. But he’s already planning the thank you letter he’ll send home with Bailey that afternoon.

#This was not supposed #I didn't mean #TWO THOUSAND WORDS?!?!?!? #in which Sara writes #I have never been succinct a day in my goddamn life #HangMatt #anxious millennial dreamboat #Matt Attrackson #wtf i like wrestling now???

[xerospaced]

So it's taken me a ridiculous amount of time to attempt this course that should have been completed in 12 weeks. And I've only just finally submitted the assessment of my second unit (2 of 4). I did actually submit it initially on schedule but I was asked to add some info. And then after doing that was asked to add yet more info to another question! Ma'am!!

Anyway. This is not really anything to be proud of (to most anyway) but I am proud. I have attempted to get back to work on this course for a HOT minute. And each time I have sat down or tried to sit down to work on it I have ultimately failed and done, nothing.

Today, I actually REMEMBERED that my tutor had given today as a deadline to add this additional info as it was only a small amount required. Thankfully I remembered coz I had no reminders set, nor did I note it anywhere.

But, after having less than three hours sleep due to my period crippling me late into the night and a contractor turning up first thing to work on my en suite (which he didnt finish til about 1), and then - when I was finally thinking about decompressing in my space alone for a grip before approaching this task - I had to take my ma to the doctor on a last minute urgent thing.

I handled both disruptions incredibly well. Brought my ma home and went out to cop me some energy drinks and a couple snacks coz I'm still trying this maintaining glucose levels thing and I knew I needed to work.

I very almost started gaming when I got back in coz I cant stand going from external thing to focused thing without a transitional period. But I knew I was running the risk of getting sucked in.

Instead, I kept in my ear buds, danced around, started on my energy drink (and a cheeky glass of moscato) sat down to work - laptop tried to beef me so I got myself prepared for the task I had to approach while it sorted itself out. Got distracted by a linkedin email and found myself on the app job searching. Yes, productive. No, not conducive to the matter at hand.

Hennyway, I managed to shift my focus back to the assignment. Did one part and was gonna take a one song break (coz pressure from Encanto came on shuffle and I'm not gonna work through that coz like I NEEDS to belt) but ended up pausing it while I prepared the second part. Then ended up just completing the second part and submitting and now I'm done.

And sure, all in all, it was about ten to fifteen mins of work. And yeah, it's a relatively minor thing in the grand scheme of things. But still! I did something and focused when I intended to and stopped myself getting distracted and stayed on task.

I will add that part of what helped the transition was D asking me if I'd submitted my poems for the competition yet just before I headed to the dr. [As established, deciding to work on my poetry was that THING I needed to get excited and motivated] It set me in a space where I was wanting to be productive. I sent him a few poems for his insight. He doesn't do poetry and all that so it was an odd choice but he is also not afraid to be critical and won't just tell me everything is great (also he gave v positive feedback to the poem which is like... the crux of me and the manuscript I'm gonna put together so omfg YES)

Long long long ass post coz I'm typing on my surface and not as limited as when I'm on mobile, plus typing speed lord jesus.

Anyway, I'm proud of myself. And even tho D didn't provide any overt or particularly hands-on application of accountability/responsibility, he did put my attention on a worthy task, and the best one he could've to kick me into gear.

#mine #Good things are coming #Even if I'm only productive for like an hour or two a day to start #I can do a LOT in a short time #So I'm excited for how this momentum will build #First monday I've had in forever where i've actually got off to an effective start. #So YAY #Also I'm pretty sure I've figured out which three poems I'm going to submit so that's awesome #But I would like to try to write something new as two are from 2020 and one is from 21 #So like... Yeah. #cc rambles

[qvid-pro-qvo]

school in session

pairing: bradley bradshaw x jake seresin x natasha trace

word count: 2221

rating: general, for nicky being his own form of energizer bunny and the trio's love for their son. cw for food mentions!

the power of this family. they have fully possessed me. i am overwhelmed with their love. i hope you all enjoy these pieces, because there are more to come!

link to ao3.

-

Ever since they’d announced Field Day, Nicky hasn’t been able to stop talking about it. Never once have they seen their kiddo so excited about something, including when they’d gone to the Paw Patrol movie in theaters. He chatters and runs around and tells them every event, until the whole family has the schedule memorized. 

This evening is no different. Nicky’s so excited Bradley’s sure he’s not going to sleep a wink, and much to their chagrin he hasn’t eaten much, either. 

“And then there’s gonna be a bouncy castle and Bobby said we could jump together and then we’re gonna run so fast on the track we’ll be just like the Flash and then we’re gonna throw the big sticks and —”

“Nick. Breathe. Eat,” Natasha says lightly, a firm hand on his shoulder as she hands him his fork. “You won’t be able to do much of anything if you don’t get some fuel in your body.” She shoots a look toward Bradley, who simply grins at her as he lowers to his knees to plug something into the wall. 

“Can we get pizza tomorrow? Lily’s getting pizza. She invited us,” Nicky says instead of eating, fork immediately down as he spins to face Bradley. 

“We’ll talk with Lily’s parents,” his dad tells him, eyes narrowed as he sets up the webcam. 

“Is Grandpa coming?” 

“He said at the very least he’d meet us after,” Bradley tells them. “He’s been pretty busy this week.” 

“For pizza?” 

Natasha chuckles. “Maybe pizza.” 

All of a sudden Nicky’s eyes go wide. He looks at Nat, who raises a brow, then at Bradley who curses under his breath when the connection doesn’t go through. 

“When did Papa say he’d call? Are we gonna be here?” Nicky always knows when there’s a call coming. Perhaps the thing he’s always the most excited for, even over Field Day. 

“Fifteen minutes,” Natasha relays. “It’ll be okay.” She sits with Nicky, her own dinner in front of her as the both of them finally eat. “Whatever you don’t eat now we can put in the microwave so it stays warm.” 

The next fifteen minutes is a gentle reminder to chew with mouth closed, but the prospect of Papa calling gets Nicky devouring his food so he can sit front and center. Luckily Bradley figures out the plug-ins, and when the screen pops up he smiles. 

“There. All big on the TV for us.” 

As if on cue, the Skype call starts beeping, and Nicky leaps from his chair and does something like a roll on the floor. 

“Oh, Jesus, careful!” Bradley laughs, moving to pull Nicky into his lap on the ground. “C’mon, don’t want to hurt yourself.” 

“Answer, answer, answer!” 

Nat comes over. Presses the big green button. And there, for all of them to marvel and smile at, is Jake. 

Immediately Nat and Bradley reach over to hold onto each other, once Nat makes it to their side and takes her seat next to them. Jake looks tired, if the dark circles are anything to go by, but he still grins at the sight of them and immediately brightens when he sees Nicky. They can’t see much behind him, and both his partners blame it on the time zone difference as he sits up and leans close so they can hear him.

“There’s my boy,” he says fondly, before looking at Bradley and Nat. “Hey, sweethearts. How’s my family doin’?”

“Papa!” Nicky shouts, shooting from Bradley’s lap and getting close to the webcam. “Papa, tomorrow is Field Day!” 

To say Jake’s disappointed once the details are given over is putting it mildly. After being on assignment in the Atlantic since the beginning of the year, it always hurts to hear what’s going to be missed, and when he hears how delighted Nicky is, the pain is that much more potent. But he makes sure to keep a smile on, especially once they tell him how big his face is in their living room. 

“They always have cornhole,” he allows himself to complain. “How am I supposed to prove myself to the other parents?” 

“I think they already know you’re from Texas, baby,” Natasha laughs. “You don’t have to prove much else.” 

“Papa, I’m gonna win the biggest and best trophy!” Nicky promises. “All of the trophies!” 

“Well, that’s a mighty big deal. I can’t wait to see what you bring home,” he says warmly, and then kisses his fingers to push them toward the screen. “But no matter what, win or lose, I want you to have a good time, okay? Promise me that.” 

“I promise, Papa,” Nicky says, gazing up at awe before catching the kiss and smacking it against his chest. “Are you flying all the big planes?” 

The call ends too soon, as they all do, but it ends with goodbyes, and love, and see you laters before he hangs up. Bradley and Nat make sure Nicky finishes a good chunk of dinner before he brushes his teeth, and then they both kiss him goodnight and tuck him in before making their way to bed. 

“Mav might not come?” Natasha says to him. Her frown is distinct, and she pulls out a big shirt to sleep in. One of Jake’s, like she always does when he calls and missing him feels that much stronger. “That’s not like him.” 

“He’s just been hard to get a hold of,” Bradley clarifies, stripping down, grabbing a shirt for himself. “I’m sure he’ll come at some point, but him and Ice have been working on something that’s kept them both busy.”

“Personal project?” 

“I don’t know. They’ve been really tight-lipped.” 

Natasha finally cracks a smile, moves to her side of the too-big-for-two bed and crawls under the covers. “I thought they said retirement would mean slowing down.” 

Bradley chuckles, shaking his head. “When has Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell or Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky ever slowed down?” 

-

“What did we sign up for again?” Natasha asks, eyes narrowing at the other pairs lined up along the track. Nicky bounces in front of them, almost on Nat’s toes, jumping out of his skin as they wait for the referee. 

“I don’t remember signing up for anything,” Bradley murmurs back, looking at the Brooks family at the other end of the track. They wave. He waves back. “I think we were coerced.” 

“Coerced. Tricked. Bamboozled,” Natasha agrees. Her lip quirks up. “And now I have a seven-year-old with me in a burlap sack.” 

Bradley laughs. Reaches down to ruffle Nicky’s hair, who grins up at him so wide he shows off newly missing teeth. “Well. You did say you wanted to win something.” 

“All right, everyone! Places!” 

The voice of the principal through the megaphone goes off. Nicky starts bouncing with renewed vigor, and Bradley realizes he’s practicing. 

“Do not show this to Jake,” Natasha threatens, pulling the sack up and around them. 

Bradley kisses her cheek, immediately pulling out his phone to video. “You got it.” 

“On your marks!” 

“Bradley, I will fall!” Natasha yells, and Bradley takes three steps back before giving a thumbs up.

“Get set!” 

“You got it, baby!” he shouts, pushing the record button. 

“Go!” 

The air horn blares. 

Suddenly, Bradley’s yelling and screaming and cheering with the rest of them. He’s possessed by the spirit of Field Day, of seeing his partner and son move with purpose toward the other finish line. 

Everyone else fades to the background. Nothing else matters. All he cares about is Natasha and Nicky, and the sight of them heaving themselves forward in leaps and bounds. 

“Go!” he shouts. “Go, go, go, go, go —”

They hop as one unit, and it looks so ridiculous he starts laughing, too. Nat’s eyes are wide as dinner plates as she does her best not to fall onto Nicky, and Nicky’s so focused his nose is scrunched up. Until they cross the finish line, and Nicky collapses forward in a little heap, chest heaving as he dramatically sprawls on the grass. 

“And our winners, Team Nicky!” 

First. 

Oh, god. They got first. 

“YES!” Bradley shouts, fist pumping. “WOO!” The camera in his hand turns off as he drops his hand and rushes toward his family, scooping Nicky up to kiss his cheek and then laughing as Nat leans against him. 

Natasha’s panting a little, too, but she looks up at Bradley, eyes sparkling. “Next time, you’re doing the hopping,” she complains, but her cheeks are flushed with pride as she glances toward the stage. 

“C’mon, Nicky,” their principal says, gesturing toward the stage. “You wanna come get your prize?” Nicky immediately squirms out of Bradley’s grip, and then he’s marching up the too-big steps, clambering up to stand next to a couple of teachers. 

“Now, some of you may not know, but there was a special prize for the sack races,” their principal remarks. “Something special for a special family.” Her arm goes around Nicky’s shoulders, who looks up at her with confusion. 

Nat and Bradley glance at each other, tension immediately washing over them. Special family? 

“After all, Nicky’s family is very proud to serve our country – often one or all of them go off to fly fighter planes for the U.S. Navy.” 

“Like Papa!” Nicky pipes up. The principal smiles, something delighted in her look. 

“Exactly. So for our special winner of today’s sack race, we have a very, very special prize.” 

Suddenly, there’s a familiar sound, one that earlier had been lost in the cheers and Bradley’s own screaming. A familiar engine rattling as it rides up alongside the stage, Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell and Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky in the front seat of Jake’s old truck. 

“What the hell?” Bradley mumbles. His eyes go wide as he sees them step out, barely registering Nicky’s excited shout of “Grandpa!” when he sees Mav and Ice. “What’re they –” 

“I don’t know,” Natasha whispers back, and her voice is tight. “With Jake’s truck…” 

“All the way back from his post in Pensacola, thanks to the help of Captain Mitchell and Admiral Kazansky, let’s give a big round of applause for Lieutenant Commander Jake Seresin!” 

The truck door opens. The cheers of the crowd are uproarious. And there, in perfect dress uniform, Jake steps out, as he looks up at his son on the big, big stage.

Nat’s knees almost give out. She falls against Bradley, who does his best to hold her up, shocked into stillness and tears springing immediately to his eyes. 

But it’s Nicky’s delight that takes the cake, as he screams out what must be Papa and leaps off of the stage, landing with an oof and then sprinting full speed toward Jake. When they collide, Jake’s hat gets knocked off, and he does not hesitate to wrap his arms around his son, squeezing him so tight as the boy sobs into his shoulder. 

“Oh, my god,” Natasha whispers. “Oh, my god, oh, my god.” 

“Go,” Bradley mumbles, “we have to, holy fuck –” 

And then they’re both running, too. Natasha at a full sprint, Bradley in a dazed jog. The cheers are muffled in their ears, blood rushing through them instead as the two of them collide with their partner, wrapping him up and surrounding Nicky in a tight, tight embrace. 

When they pull back, the commotion has died down a little bit, the principal gesturing for the next event to start and to give them some space. But Bradley still can’t believe his eyes, and Natasha looks livid and ecstatic in the same breath.

“You bastard!” Nat says, tears choking her voice. “All of you are bastards.” She turns to glare at Mav and Ice, who simply smile at her with their arms around each other’s waists. “Why didn’t you say you were coming home?” 

“What, you think I’d miss Field Day?” Jake laughs, hugging her tight against him again, kissing her temple and her cheek and every place he can reach. “I was told there would be cornhole.” 

Nicky’s tears have subsided at this point, and he clings to Jake’s body and neck like a vice. Jake doesn’t seem to mind one bit, in the same motion kissing Nicky’s forehead right after he leans to kiss Nat’s, and then leans over to kiss Bradley’s, who finally crushes Jake in a hug once Nat manages to step away. 

“What d’you think, Nicky?” Pete suddenly pipes up. They all glance over as he grins. “Do you like your Field Day surprise?” 

The boy in question simply blinks, head on Jake's shoulder, eyes big and wide and owlish as he looks over at Bradley and Nat. “Does this mean we can get pizza?” he finally asks. “Lily said everyone can come.” 

There’s a smattering of laughter, and then the tidal wave of children hit. Ones who have heard about Nicky’s parents from Nicky himself, about the three bravest people in the world who fly the big, big planes. The rest of the day, Nicky’s hand doesn’t leave Jake’s, even for cornhole, and Bradley and Nat get to watch as their partner showers Nicky in the love he hasn’t gotten to from miles and miles away. And to end a great day, they do end up with pizza, all of Nicky’s family with all of everyone else’s to celebrate a Naval aviator coming home.

#sereshace #pilot trio #bradley bradshaw x jake seresin x natasha trace #bradley bradshaw #jake seresin #natasha trace #rooster #hangman #phoenix #nicky (the kiddo) has my whole heart and soul #bradley rooster bradshaw #jake hangman seresin #natasha phoenix trace #my fic #my writing #top gun: maverick #tgm #qvo ships tgm

[wolint]

LABEL UNCLEAN

LABEL UNCLEAN

Acts 10:1-18

 

Labelling serves as a form of branding that facilitates product identification and informs our decision-making process regarding a product. Different products have different labels that help us make the right decisions.

People are labelled in much the same way as products. We’ve been labelled by some based on their perceptions of us, and similarly, we label others based on our perceptions of them.

God encourages us, though, to look beyond superficial labels and truly see each other as unique individuals with inherent dignity and worth. In 1 Samuel 16:7.

Peter, in his carnal mindset, labelled God’s creation as unclean. In response, God showed Peter a vision to prepare him for His plans for the conversion of the centurion and all of humanity.

Like Peter, we look at people and decide they are not qualified to hear and receive the gospel. We label them unclean and therefore not good enough for the gift of salvation. But we never know who is ready, willing, and open to the gospel.

It’s sometimes intentional, and sometimes not, but most often, we label people without ever uttering a word. Noah was a drunk, Jacob was a deceiver, Gideon was a scared coward, Samson was a womanizer, David was an adulterer and murderer, Elijah was suicidal, Jonah, the unnamed woman with the alabaster box was a sinner, Job was bankrupt, Moses was a murderer, and Paul was a religious terrorist.

Today, we label people as drug addicts, drunk, prostitutes, too many tattoos, other religions, race and much more. In our self-righteousness, we decide who deserves to hear the message of the cross, but Jesus said in Luke 5:32 that he came for these (the sinners).

There are no exemptions to the command in Matthew 28:19-20, the great commission is for all nations, all the peoples of the earth, regardless of who they are, where they are from, looks, profession, and race. God labelled them as His and they should be allowed to come to Christ.

But the voice spoke again: 'Do not call something unclean if God has made it clean, declares verse fifteen.

Peter finally understood the vision when he met the centurion and had to step into the office of a priest to offer salvation to the gathered group, an office which he conferred to us all according to 1 Peter 2:9, as royal priests whose responsibilities and duties is to bring the lost to salvation.

What God has cleaned; God first made the distinction between Jews and Gentiles here showing Peter and all believers that labels should not stop anyone from coming to Christ.

The Lord has pronounced all to be clean and in need of salvation, He has the right to do so. God has purposed that the gospel reaches the Gentiles also: what God has made clean, do not label unclean. Otherwise, we as Gentiles would never have received the gift of salvation and the command in Matthew 28:19 would go unfulfilled.

If we look around us, we will realise how many labels we have stuck on friends, families, and neighbours, because of who, what, and how they are, they are not likely to want to know and follow Christ. We labelled them, not the Lord.

We must learn and avoid labelling people superficially, even as we reject worldly labels. While the world may assign superficial labels based on appearance, status, or background, we should identify ourselves and others primarily by the labels given by God.

The four lepers at the city gate in 2 Kings 7:3, who were labelled unclean and unfit to live in a “clean, normal and acceptable society” were the ones the Lord used to bring salvation from famine to the Israelites.

We cannot label people as unfit for salvation and God’s kingdom. Despite our feelings and thoughts, we must act as priests and offer Christ to everyone.

PRAYER: Father, I overcome every demonic and evil labelling on me and by your mercy I chose not to label others in Jesus’ name. Amen.  

Shalom

WOMEN OF LIGHT INT PRAYER MIN.

#spotify #devotional #christianpost #women's ministry #biblestudy #biblestudy christianpost women's ministry #biblestudy christianpost 'women's ministry #conference #family #prayer meeting

[steele-soulmate]

Tattooed Wings, CHAPTER 589, Peter Steele & OFC, Soulmate AU

SUMMARY: Mary Claire Bradley meets her soulmate- literally- the famous Peter Steele of metal group Type O Negative. But will obstacles including trauma, stalkers, and toxic family members get in the way of their life?

WARNING: mentions of child rape (nothing graphic) PTSD, milk kink, soft smut, grinding, assault, fingering, hand jobs, blow jobs, 69, P in V sex, blood, noncon rape, violence, death, vandalism, graffiti, attempted kidnapping, break-ins, wild animal attacks, terrorist attack (sabotage) consensual impregnation, bareback, impregnation kink, creampies, terrorist attacks (shootings) hit and run pedestrian accident, precipitous labor, neonatal death, abandoned baby, child intoxication, death of a minor character

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORESS:

Okay, so a quick little question for my readers- what would little girl’s name sign be? A name sign is similar to a signature- from Google, "Name signs" in Deaf culture provide a unique, personal way to identify someone without fully spelling out their name using American Sign Language (ASL). These names often reflect the person's character and are usually devised by someone within the Deaf community. Let me know down below in the comments what you think her’s would be!

WORDS: 1249

“Black black black black number one!” Peter screamed into the microphone as he strummed his bass. “Black black black black number one!”

“We want JeeJee Chris!” someone screamed just then. “Bring out the babies!”

“The babies are at home tonight,” Peter laughed, being met by a resonating BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO from the audience. He turned to face me as I stood in the wings with an absolutely comical expression on his handsomely bearded face. “Sweetheart?”

I giggled, bouncing on the balls of my feet. For tonight’s concert, I wore a sexy LBD with long sleeves and a mock turtleneck cut bodice. I wore lace leggings, ankle booties and my trusty leather jacket. All in all, I looked like a little sex bunny, and I knew what my handsome silver daddy was going to do the very second intermission rolled around.

“I will fuck you to death,” he swore to me before flipping his long locks out from his eyes and then strutting onto the stage to kick off the concert.

I honestly couldn’t wait.

“Jesus Christ looks like me, Jesus Christ, oh,” Peter sang as he played his bass. “Jesus Christ looks like me, Jesus Christ, oh, Jesus Christ looks like me, Jesus Christ, oh, Jesus Christ looks like me, Jesus Christ, oh, Jesus Christ looks like me, Jesus Christ, oh, Jesus Christ looks like me, Jesus Christ, oh, Jesus Christ looks like me, Jesus Christ, oh.”

He finished the song, announcing a short fifteen minutes long intermission before leaving the stage, picking me up and rushing us both into his assigned dressing room crushing needy kisses to my face as his finger scrambled to free his impressive length. And with an elongated “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK…” he pushed himself deep within me, bypassing my crotchless tights and pantiless form as he collapsed onto a chair.

I gasped and whimpered and moaned as he guided me in a haphazard cowgirl position, the both of us determined to pull as many sweet orgasms out from each other as humanly possible for the next fifteen minutes.

~xoXox~

Over the next fifteen minutes, I found sweet orgasm nine times while my gentle manner husband cummed three times. By the time intermission was about over, the dressing room stank of sex and sweat, and I knew for a fact that everyone in the backstage area knew exactly what my handsome older husband and I had been up to.

Peter cleaned the both of us up with a loving smile on his bearded face, being careful not to overstimulate my wildly pulsing pussy lips.

“Good girl,” he purred, carrying me out and back over to my station next the wings. He settled me up on top of a castaway speaker, performing a quick check in with me by pressing our foreheads together and placing her hands on my hipbone and around the back of my neck.

I love you daddy.

“I love you sweetheart,” he murmured softly, pulling away to gift me with a whiskery kiss before leaving me to return back onstage once more.

Peter was right in the middle of Wolf Moon when it happened.

“Hey wolf moon, come cast your spell on me, hey wolf moon, come cast your spell on me,” he was singly right before an earsplitting BOOM made everything come to a screeching halt. The heavy vibration that accompanied the exploding sound made my legs fizzle as Peter removed his bass and rushed over to me.

Are you alright?

“I can’t hear anything.” It was true- I could not hear anything- I could not hear the panic of the crew working the sound equipment, nor could I hear the clatter of the security team working overtime.

Peter immediately turned to use his hands to communicate with me, asking me if I was alright.

I don’t know. What happened?

Josh came over just then, saying something to Peter. He nodded and responded before turning back to me.

One of the speakers exploded. I’m taking you to pay Ryley a visit- the fact that you cannot hear is concerning.

I could only hold my arms up in a silent request for him to carry me, which he complied to at once, whisking me off into the parking lot behind the concert venue. He settled me into the passenger seat, buckling me in and shutting my door before looping around to get into the driver’s side.

The silence was unnerving- my anxiety was at an all-time high, and I could tell that Peter was also worried as he skidded into the parking lot of Mercy Memorial. He did a slap hazard job at parking before rushing me off inside. We were taken back at once to be seen by my soulmate’s doctor niece.

Peter translated the entire way, retorting to fingerspelling for words that he did not know. Ryley took a look into both ears and very quickly declared my hearing loss as temporary. She wrote a prescription for eardrops to be taken three times a day for ten days or until I regained use of my ears once more.

It's nothing too serious, but I would advise you to go see your primary doctor if you hadn’t regained full use of your ears by the end of ten days, she told me through Peter, who’s tense shoulders had long since relaxed tremendously.

My love, can we go home now? I asked him, completely at ease using ASL to communicate with one another. I’m exhausted and just want to go to bed.

In response, he lovingly tapped my petite sized nose with a finger, a gentle smile etched across his face.

As my wife commands of me.

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN/ ASK BOX IS OPEN/ REQUESTS ARE OPEN/ PLOT BUNNIES ARE WELCOMED

If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE It only costs $3!!!

PETER STEELE TAGLIST

@rock-a-noodle

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#Real person fiction (RPF) #Tattooed Wings #Peter Thomas Ratajczyk #Type O Negative #Vanessa Rose Pickings/ little girl #Special needs baby #Aria Bradley #Evie Bradley #Deaf #American Sign Language (ASL) #Elizabeth Ratajczyk #Alopecia #Thomas Joseph Ratajczyk/ Baby Tommy #Autism #Katie Ratajczyk #Down’s Syndrome #Baby Violet Marie #Neonatal death #Baby Eve Lynn Ratajczyk #Abandoned baby #Matthew James Ratajczyk/ Baby Mattie #Brandon Edward Ratajczyk/ Baby Teddy #Josephine Rose Ratajczyk/ Baby Jojo #Matching tattoos soulmate AU

[jdgo51]

The Power of Connection

Today's inspiration comes from:

Praying the Scriptures for Your Life

by Jodie Berndt

I am the vine; you are the branches." — John 15:5

"People used to say my father and I favored each other.

They said I had my dad’s smile (which made me happy), as well as his nose (which made me less happy). We shared many of the same interests and skill sets, including the ability to play only mediocre tennis but get a varsity-level suntan if we parked ourselves in a beach chair for an hour. Dad loved comparing forearms at the end of the day to see who was darker — a contest that he always won.

For better or for worse, children are image bearers, a connection that reflects our relationship with our heavenly Father. Remember what God said when He was creating the world?

Let Us make mankind in Our image, in Our likeness.

And then, having created Adam and Eve, God gave them a job:

Be fruitful, He said, and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it.1

I can’t help but think that Jesus had the creation story in mind as He issued a similar charge to His disciples.

I am the vine; you are the branches, He said. I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit — fruit that will last.2

Just as we bear the image of the Creator, so a branch bears the image of the vine. And just as God told Adam and Eve to be fruitful, so Jesus says we’ve been chosen — appointed — to bear fruit.

I don’t know about you, but I find these twin fruit-bearing assignments, one from Genesis and the other from John, as intimidating as they are inspiring. I love the grand vision — the idea that we are in a living relationship with the Creator who intends for us to impact the earth — but I wonder how we are supposed to go about doing the job. What role can I play? What role can you? Can we really be difference makers in the world?

Thank goodness for Andrew Murray, who explains how the vine-branch union works in the fruit-bearing process.

“Without the vine,” Murray writes, “the branch can do nothing.”

As branches, we get that. We know we need the vine to nourish us and equip us to produce fruit.

We know we need God. But there’s a flip side, Murray says, to the fruit-bearing process: “Without the branch the vine can also do nothing.” He goes on:

A vine without branches can bear no fruit. No less indispensable than the vine to the branch, is the branch to the vine. Such is the wonderful condescension of the grace of Jesus, that just as His people are dependent on Him, He has made Himself dependent on them. Without His disciples He cannot dispense His blessing to the world.3

It’s okay. I’ll wait while you read that one again. (I had to.)

What Murray is saying, in a nutshell, is this:

Without the disciples — without us — God cannot provide good things for people.

That’s... astounding.

God could have chosen to work around us (or even in spite of us), but He didn’t. He chose to work in us and through us to bless other people. God chose us — His image bearers — to reflect His love and be the channel through which His power is unleashed in our world. And the way this works — the way we open the chute for God’s power and provision — is through our prayers.

We see the link between prayer and provision played out over and over again in the Bible. God gave the barren Hannah a son, provided rain for Elijah, opened Peter’s prison doors, and added fifteen years to King Hezekiah’s life.4

God moves when His people pray.

And when Jesus tells us to “ask,” it’s not just an invitation. It’s a command:

Ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. This is to My Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit.5

When we pray, we bring glory to God. He wants us to plow the field with our prayers so that He can provide an incredible harvest.

And all I can think, as I consider how a mighty God could entrust us with such a high calling, is that it is because of how much He loves us. Not because we are clever or well-behaved or (thank goodness!) athletic, but simply because He is our Father — the Father who loves us and longs, as Jesus reminds us, to “give good gifts to those who ask Him.”6

My earthly father died, way too young, from brain cancer. As I look back on his legacy — on all the ways his life left an imprint on mine — the gift I cherish the most is the introduction he gave me to Jesus. Dad came home one day when I was just eight years old and confessed that he’d had it all wrong. He had spent his life trying to earn God’s approval (teaching Sunday school, working hard at his job, playing second-rate tennis with a big grin on his face) until someone told him it wasn’t about being a “good guy.” Being a Christian was about realizing you were not good, after all, and that you needed a Savior.

All of which made complete sense to me. Even as a child, I knew I was a sinner. The idea that God’s grace could cover my failings came then, as it does now, as a major relief — and I was only too glad to (as John 1:12 puts it) receive Jesus, believe in His name, and receive the right to become a child of God.

And today, as I slip my hand into my heavenly Father’s and consider the fruit He has already produced and the harvest yet to come, I am reminded of the blessing, and the privilege, that comes with being an image bearer.

I am reminded of the blessing, and the privilege, of prayer.

God moves when His people pray.

READ

➢ See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are! (1 John 3:1)

➢ “This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be My disciples... You did not choose Me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit — fruit that will last — and so that whatever you ask in My name the Father will give you.” (John 15:8, John 15:16)

➢ We are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things He planned for us long ago. (Ephesians 2:10 NLT)

REFLECT

➢ God created you with a longing to live a life of purpose and impact. He has put desires in your heart that He wants to satisfy in above-and-beyond ways. And as you receive Him and believe in Him, He calls you His child. You are His masterpiece.

➢ Ask the Holy Spirit to open your eyes to the work God wants you to do, the prayers He wants you to pray. Where do you long to see fruit in your life? How might your prayers in this area bring glory to God? What, if anything, is holding you back from asking “big”?

➢ Allow yourself to envision your life as a vine-branch union with Christ, one that brings glory to God, produces much fruit, and marks you as one of His own. Surrender any thoughts or fears (I’m not good enough... I don’t pray very well... I already have too much on my plate) that may keep you from flourishing in your role as a fruit bearer. Rest secure in God’s presence today, knowing you are extravagantly, lavishly loved.

RESPOND

Heavenly Father...

➢ Thank You for creating me in Your image. I receive You and believe in You; thank You for welcoming me as Your child. (John 1:12)

➢ Give me the power to understand how wide and long and high and deep Your love is, and fill me to the measure of all Your fullness. (Ephesians 3:18–19)

➢ May I gradually become brighter and more beautiful as You enter my life and make me more like Jesus. (2 Corinthians 3:18 MSG)

➢ Teach me to pray. (Luke 11:1)

➢ May my prayers bring You glory, bear lasting fruit, and mark me as one of Your disciples. (John 15:7–8)

➢ You created me in Christ Jesus to do good works. Show me how to pray about ______ so the good things You have planned will come to fruition. (Ephesians 2:10)

➢ When I feel weak or ill-equipped, remind me that Your grace is sufficient and Your power is made perfect in weakness. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

➢ Thank You for choosing me and appointing me to bear fruit. Teach me to focus my efforts, and my prayers, on fruit that will last. (John 15:16)

➢ No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Keep me attached to You. (John 15:5)

➢ I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made... All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be. (Psalm 139:14–16)

➢ When I am anxious or uncertain, remind me that nothing can separate me from Your love. (Romans 8:39)

➢ You live among us, Lord. Take delight in me; calm all my fears; rejoice over me with joyful songs. (Zephaniah 3:17 NLT)"

Genesis 1:26, 28. John 15:5, 16. Andrew Murray, Abide in Christ (1888; repr., Apollo, PA: Ichthus, 2014), 25, http://ccbiblestudy.net/Topics/74Union/74Union-E/740101《Abide in Christ》(Andrew Murray).pdf. See 1 Samuel 1:10–20; James 5:17–18; Acts 12:1–19; 2 Kings 20:1–7. John 15:7–8. Matthew 7:11.

Excerpted with permission from Praying the Scriptures for Your Life by Jodie Berndt, copyright Jodie Berndt.

[globalworship]

‘Some Children See Him’ a cappella jazz carol

This beautiful Christmas carol, from 1951, has a fascinating history - read it after the performance video by Accent, a popular singing ensemble with 6 men from 5 countries. https://www.facebook.com/AccentVocal

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This vocal arrangement is adapted from Dave Grusin's arrangement for the song on James Taylor's album "At Christmas".

Some children see Him lily white, the baby Jesus born this night. Some children see Him lily white, with tresses soft and fair. Some children see Him bronzed and brown, The Lord of heav'n to earth come down. Some children see Him bronzed and brown, with dark and heavy hair. Some children see Him almond-eyed, this Savior whom we kneel beside. some children see Him almond-eyed, with skin of yellow hue. Some children see Him dark as they, sweet Mary’s Son to whom we pray. Some children see him dark as they, and, ah! they love Him, too! The children in each different place will see the baby Jesus’ face like theirs, but bright with heavenly grace, and filled with holy light. O lay aside each earthly thing and with thy heart as offering, come worship now the infant King. ‘Tis love that’s born tonight!

Some Children See Him by Wihla Hutson & Alfred S. Burt 1951.

TRO © Copyright (renewed 1982) and 1957 (renewed 1985) Hollis Music, Inc., New York, N.Y.

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History of the carol:

Alfred Shaddick Burt (April 22, 1920 – February 6, 1954) was an American jazz musician who is best known for composing the music for fifteen Christmas carols between 1942 and 1954. Only one of the carols was performed in public outside his immediate family circle during his lifetime. A tradition that Alfred Burt’s fahter had begun in 1922 was the creation of a Christmas card, which he sent to family members and parishioners (he led an Episcopal church). On these cards were original Christmas carols, with both the words and music by the Reverend Bates Burt. For the family Christmas card in 1942, Bates asked his son to write the music for that year’s carol, “Christmas Cometh Caroling.” From then on, Alfred would write the music for the family’s Christmas cards, and the “Alfred Burt carols” were born. The 1947 Christmas card was the last collaboration between Alfred and Bates Burt; Bates died of a heart attack early in 1948. Alfred and his wife chose to continue the family Christmas card tradition in his honor. Over several years, as the Burts’ circle of friends grew, the Christmas card list grew from 50 to 450 people. But still, the carols remained unknown outside the Burts’ mailing list. That changed with the 1952 carol, “Come, Dear Children”. Burt finished writing the music during a rehearsal with the Blue Reys, the vocal group with Rey’s orchestra. He asked them to sing it so he could make sure the harmonies worked; they liked it so much that they asked Burt if they could sing it at the annual King Family Christmas party. It proved to be a hit among the partygoers, and served to introduce Burt’s carols to Hollywood, even as his health declined. James Conkling, at that time the president of Columbia Records, was informed of Burt’s failing health and organized a recording project, assembling an all-star choir of Hollywood singers to perform Burt’s four-part harmonies. Recording sessions for the carols took place in late 1953, and the record was released in 1954. To fill the album, Burt was assigned four new carols. One of them, “O Hearken Ye,” was sent on the 1953 family Christmas card. Burt finished the last of his carols, “The Star Carol”, on February 5, 1954. Less than 24 hours later, he died. “The Star Carol” would be used on the final Burt family Christmas card that holiday season. Capitol Records artists Tennessee Ernie Ford, Fred Waring and His Pennsylvanians and Nat King Cole recorded Burt’s carols during 1958-1960, and they started to become popular. More recent recordings of Burt’s carols include Simon and Garfunkel’s 1967 recording of “The Star Carol,” Kenny Loggins’ version of “Christmas Cometh Caroling” and James Taylor’s 2004 recording of “Some Children See Him.”

Information above summarized from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred_Burt

#Youtube

[cpmbumba2020]

November 11 | Memorial of St. Martin De Torres, Bishop

Saint Martin of Tours was born in in Savaria, Pannonia in either the year 316 or 336 AD. That region is what is today the nation of Hungary. His father was a tribune, which is a high-ranking officer in the Imperial Horse Guard. Martin and his family went with his father when he was assigned to a post at Ticinum, in Northern Italy. It is here that Martin would grow up.

Just before Martin was born, Christianity was legalized in the Roman Empire and the bloody persecution of Christians soon came to an end. It was not the official religion of the State, but it could be practiced and proclaimed openly. The Gospel message soon flourished in ancient Rome, transforming the empire. Martin's parents were pagans, but at the age of 10, Martin chose to respond to the call of the Gospel and become a Christian.

At the age of fifteen, Martin was required to follow his father into the cavalry corps of the Roman military. By the time he was 18, Martin is believed to have served in Gaul, and also eventually Milan and Treves. Scholars think he served as part of the emperor's guard.

As a young soldier, Martin encountered a beggar in Amiens. The beggar was unclothed and it was very cold. Martin removed his cloak and with his sword, he cut it in half. He gave this half to the beggar and dressed himself in the remnant. That night, Martin had a vision in which Christ appeared to him. The vision spoke to him, "Martin, a mere catechumen has clothed me." A catechumen is one who is being instructed in the Christian faith. In the early centuries of Christianity, that was a long process of instruction - and Martin was deeply dedicated to it.

About the age of 20, Martin made clear to his superiors that he would no longer fight, following his formed Christian conscience. He refused his pay prior to a battle and announced he would not join in the combat. He became the first recognized conscientious objector in recorded history. His proclamation occurred before a battle near the modern German city of Worms. His superiors accused him of cowardice and ordered that he be imprisoned. Martin offered to demonstrate his sincerity by going into battle unarmed. This was seen as an acceptable alternative to jailing him, but before the battle could occur, the opposing army agreed to a truce and no conflict took place. Martin was subsequently released from military service.

Now out of the military service, Martin could fully dedicate himself to service of Jesus Christ and the Church. He traveled to Tours where he began studying under Hilary of Poitiers, who is now recognized as a doctor of the Church. Martin's studies lasted until Hilary was forced into temporary exile, likely because of his refusal to participate in a political dispute.

Martin then traveled to Italy. According to one account, Martin was confronted by a highwayman and led him to faith in Jesus Christ. Another account tells of Martin confronting the Devil. While on this journey, Martin had a vision which compelled him to return to his mother in Pannonia. He did so and led his own mother to faith in Jesus Christ. Martin attempted to persuade his father to embrace faith in Jesus Christ, but as far as we know, his father refused.

After bringing his mother to the Church, Martin then turned to confronting a growing heresy which was afflicting the faithful and sowing confusion. He became involved in countering the Arian heresy, which denied the divinity of Jesus Christ. The reaction against him was so violent from the Arian leaders that he was compelled to flee. Martin took up residence on an island in the Adriatic where he lived as a hermit for a time.

Martin's teacher Hilary returned to Tours from temporary exile in 361 so Martin traveled there to work and study. Hilary gave Martin a small grant of land where he and his disciples lived.

Martin established a monastery which would be inhabited by the Benedictines. Established in 361, the Liguge Abbey was destroyed during the French Revolution, then reestablished in 1853. The abbey remains to this day. From the site of his abbey, Martin worked to bring people to faith in Jesus Christ and Baptism into His Church in the surrounding areas. He was an extraordinary evangelist.

In 371, the city of Tours needed a new bishop and the people decided to call Martin to the office. Martin did not want the job so the people decided to trick him into the office. The people insisted he was needed to administer to someone sick, so he came out as quickly as he could. He did not even bother to improve his appearance. When he learned it was a trick to make him a bishop, Martin actually tried to hide. He was quickly discovered and the people called him forward to be ordained to the office of Bishop. Even though he did not really want the office, he was ordained - and he became a holy and hardworking Bishop.

As a Bishop Martin established a system of parishes to manage his diocese. He made a point to visit each parish at least once per year. In addition to his appointed rounds, Martin combated paganism, particularly the Druid religion which was still prevalent at the time. He passionately and faithfully proclaimed the Gospel of Jesus Christ and won many to the Christian faith.

Yet, he longed for more prayer and wanted to pursue a monastic life. In the year 372 Martin established an abbey at Marmoutier so he could retreat there and live as a monk with the many disciples he had attracted.

In the following years, a heresy broke out in the church. An aesthetic sect called the Priscillianists after their leader, Priscillian, had developed in Spain and Gaul. The First Council of Saragossa condemned the heresy, but the Priscillians did not change they practices. This prompted one bishop, Ithacius of Ossonoba to petition the Roman Emperor Magnus Maximus to put him to death. Martin was opposed to the sentence of death, and was joined by Bishop Ambrose of Milan in his opposition. Martin traveled to Trier where the Emperor held court. Martin was able to persuade the Emperor to refrain from putting Priscillian and his followers to death. However, after Martin left, Ithacius persuaded the Emperor to change his mind again and Priscillian and his followers were executed in 385.

Martin was so upset by Ithacius, he refused to communicate with his fellow bishop until the Emperor pressured him to resume communicating with his colleague.

Martin died in Candes-Saint-Martin, Gaul in 397.

The Hagiographer Sulpicius Severus, knew Martin personally and wrote about his life. Many miracles and the casting out of demons were attributed to Martin during his lifetime. According to one account, Martin, while trying to win Druids to follow Jesus Christ and renounce their pagan beliefs, was dared to stand in the path of a sacred tree that was being felled. Martin agreed and was missed by the falling pine, although standing right in its path. This was widely seen as miraculous and a symbol that the message he proclaimed about Jesus Christ was true. Many were converted to the Christian faith.

Veneration of St. Martin became popular in the Middle Ages, and was popular with the Frankish kings.

Saint Martin is the patron of the poor, soldiers, conscientious objectors, tailors, and winemakers. Many locations across Europe have also been placed under his patronage. His feast is on November 11. He commonly appears on horseback and is shown cutting his cloak in half with a sword.

Source: https://www.catholic.org/saints/saint.php?saint_id=81

Photo and caption by: Simon Tanjutco