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the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling

warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 21143

your callsign is sunny

It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together. 

Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish. 

You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick. 

It was meant to be. 

Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease. 

And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch. 

A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand. 

“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms. 

Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.” 

She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open. 

“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.” 

Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.” 

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.” 

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.” 

Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?” 

He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.” 

You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.” 

Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.” 

You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side. 

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.” 

Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.” 

You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk. 

Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge. 

“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.” 

He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?” 

A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.” 

Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?” 

He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote. 

“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters. 

He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be. 

He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap. 

“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.” 

“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you. 

“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?” 

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.” 

You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels. 

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you. 

You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh. 

“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.” 

“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation. 

You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling. 

“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.” 

You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.” 

You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.” 

You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.” 

Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?” 

Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.” 

You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.” 

“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.” 

“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.” 

You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.” 

“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.” 

You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.” 

Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.” 

“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?” 

“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.” 

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.” 

Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.” 

Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.” 

You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?” 

“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.” 

You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.” 

“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.” 

“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds. 

“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.” 

You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks. 

“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.” 

“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.” 

You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer. 

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare. 

“So what, Mick?” 

He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?” 

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.” 

The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers. 

You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you. 

It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please. 

But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth. 

And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection. 

An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick. 

“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen. 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.” 

“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.” 

His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.” 

A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.” 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.” 

“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?” 

There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest. 

Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.” 

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.” 

Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?” 

Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.” 

“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?” 

“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.” 

Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.” 

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.” 

“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.” 

You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs. 

“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.” 

“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.” 

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?” 

Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.” 

Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.” 

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.” 

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.” 

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.” 

“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.” 

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.” 

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.” 

“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?” 

That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire. 

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum. 

“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.” 

“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?” 

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn. 

Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign. 

This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings. 

“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.” 

You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin. 

The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts. 

About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor. 

Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?” 

Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail. 

Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan. 

When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin. 

You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade. 

“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear. 

“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue. 

Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next. 

“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.” 

“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.” 

She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. 

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.” 

She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.” 

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him. 

Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it. 

“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing. 

Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.” 

You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead. 

Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory. 

Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work. 

By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose. 

You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha. 

Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?” 

Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.” 

“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk. 

“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.” 

“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!” 

The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic. 

Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view. 

“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.” 

“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look. 

The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket. 

“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.” 

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover. 

Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related. 

“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?” 

Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?” 

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.” 

“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.” 

“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.” 

You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing. 

“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.” 

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.” 

“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.” 

With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation. 

“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.” 

Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.” 

Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to. 

- 

“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.” 

She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear. 

Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister. 

You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should. 

Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business. 

“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times. 

A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot? 

“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside. 

There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him. 

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff. 

“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor. 

Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet. 

It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away. 

“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently. 

“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.” 

“What game?” Javy asks. 

Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.” 

Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up. 

“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing. 

“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become. 

“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?” 

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?” 

You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough. 

Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time? 

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip. 

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.” 

Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?” 

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip. 

“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.” 

Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?” 

Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig. 

And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud. 

The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through. 

“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.” 

But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?” 

You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. 

Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.” 

Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone. 

You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.” 

You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder. 

“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.” 

You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement. 

The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch. 

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.” 

A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter. 

Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!” 

You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset. 

You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger. 

God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive. 

The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it. 

You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being. 

“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?” 

You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier. 

“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency. 

Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.” 

Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason? 

You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral. 

“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit. 

She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.” 

He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.” 

Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare. 

“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room. 

Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering. 

He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him? 

Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could. 

“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned. 

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath. 

“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide. 

“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.” 

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.” 

“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch. 

“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.” 

Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends. 

Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it. 

“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other. 

Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-” 

“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.” 

Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying. 

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest. 

“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.” 

“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.” 

Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath. 

Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.” 

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator. 

“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth. 

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in. 

There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free. 

Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis. 

Then the room explodes. 

Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness. 

Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.” 

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin. 

It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner. 

Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen. 

By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.  

“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand. 

You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?” 

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?” 

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.” 

You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?” 

Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.” 

You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.” 

He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.” 

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face. 

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face. 

Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker. 

“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.” 

You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth. 

“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler. 

You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up. 

“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen. 

It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face. 

Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach. 

You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what. 

Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise. 

Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it. 

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants… 

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug. 

Stop staring, she mouths. 

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie. 

“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?” 

“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back. 

The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs. 

“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.” 

You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.” 

The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further. 

There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?” 

Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob. 

He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking. 

The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name. 

“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?” 

Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual. 

“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.” 

Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely. 

Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.” 

You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction. 

The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it. 

The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining. 

The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame. 

“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers. 

You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change. 

“Yeah?” 

Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers. 

The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave. 

You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room. 

It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations. 

On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins. 

A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob. 

And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves. 

You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together. 

You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear. 

You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks. 

Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle. 

Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen. 

Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others. 

“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen. 

You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO. 

Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face. 

He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. 

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer. 

You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked. 

“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing. 

“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him. 

“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.” 

Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.” 

“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?” 

Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly. 

“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?” 

Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?” 

Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?” 

Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest. 

You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd. 

“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.” 

The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top. 

“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.” 

He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room. 

You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you? 

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does. 

You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it. 

You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache. 

You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest. 

His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust. 

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out. 

"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag. 

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside. 

His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt. 

“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.” 

You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s. 

His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all. 

You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen. 

Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back. 

Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor. 

Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step. 

The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader. 

Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk. 

You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes. 

…Right? 

Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir. 

“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans. 

Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.” 

“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.” 

“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop. 

“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers. 

Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night. 

Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence. 

Too much silence. 

You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps. 

You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway. 

It doesn’t. 

Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen. 

The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin. 

“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?” 

You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight. 

Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest. 

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath. 

You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn. 

“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer. 

No. No, you’re not. 

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-” 

Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton. 

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you. 

He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin. 

You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you. 

He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks. 

You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching. 

When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard. 

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter. 

“Bob,” you whisper. 

Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. 

He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.” 

You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself. 

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath. 

You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton. 

“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now. 

He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.” 

“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm. 

You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying. 

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?” 

You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now. 

“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging. 

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin. 

You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap. 

But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath. 

“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock. 

You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away. 

It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin. 

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?” 

You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat. 

You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you. 

“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.” 

You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-” 

“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you. 

Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food. 

“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.” 

You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence. 

“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.” 

Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another. 

Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.” 

Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?” 

You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?” 

You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.” 

“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.” 

“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.” 

You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?” 

Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way. 

Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.” 

“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.” 

“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin. 

You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?” 

“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully. 

You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter. 

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.” 

You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...” 

She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.” 

- 

Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird. 

The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition. 

You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose. 

“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon. 

You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.” 

She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up. 

At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are. 

“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs. 

He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.” 

You snort. “Little?” 

Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.” 

You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth. 

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly. 

You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.” 

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?” 

You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?” 

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey. 

“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?” 

“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.” 

Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?” 

You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?” 

Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.” 

You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief. 

You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay. 

A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose. 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye. 

On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel. 

Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke. 

That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing. 

By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun. 

That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back. 

Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining. 

“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?” 

He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.” 

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out. 

Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column. 

“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?” 

Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.” 

“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?” 

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?” 

He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.” 

“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.” 

His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet. 

“I doubt it.” 

“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing. 

Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast. 

Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.” 

He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.” 

Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.” 

Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face. 

“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.” 

“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan. 

You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display. 

“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder. 

You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.” 

Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting. 

There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned. 

It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. 

“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.” 

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little. 

“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly. 

You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear. 

“You’re annoying.” 

He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles. 

When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder. 

“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth. 

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.” 

You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny. 

“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry. 

Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.” 

You frown. “Yet?” 

“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.” 

You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table. 

When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares. 

But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes. 

You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.” 

Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear. 

You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea. 

You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him. 

You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?” 

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?” 

“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.” 

Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.” 

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.” 

He frowns. “What?” 

“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.” 

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.” 

You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first. 

Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.” 

His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.” 

“Swear it.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.” 

You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.” 

You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details. 

“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.” 

His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk. 

“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.” 

You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink. 

“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.” 

He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.” 

“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.” 

“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.” 

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!” 

He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh. 

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like. 

“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer. 

You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.” 

He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there. 

But Bob notices. 

And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white. 

Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.” 

Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle. 

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.” 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.” 

“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.” 

“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.” 

Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.” 

Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel… 

You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat. 

“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers. 

You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.” 

She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.” 

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air. 

“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.” 

Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace. 

“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.” 

You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.” 

Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.” 

Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.” 

“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.” 

Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.” 

“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.” 

Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand. 

Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.” 

Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.” 

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?” 

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.” 

Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?” 

“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.” 

Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing. 

“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.” 

“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels. 

You frown. “What?” 

“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.” 

You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?” 

- 

The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee. 

Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.” 

“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield. 

“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone. 

Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?” 

He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.” 

You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red. 

“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs. 

Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.” 

You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you. 

“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.” 

You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin. 

You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies. 

“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face. 

“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.” 

Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.” 

“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt. 

You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far. 

“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?” 

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice. 

Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place. 

“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?” 

You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts. 

Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?” 

Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.” 

The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean. 

Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder. 

You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at. 

Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered. 

He’s furious. 

And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you. 

You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand. 

And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal. 

You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you. 

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin. 

You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore. 

You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.” 

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you. 

You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe. 

You freeze. “What?” 

She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned. 

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin. 

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you. 

But in the light of day? 

Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go. 

The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too. 

You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.” 

Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.” 

You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.” 

Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose. 

Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face. 

But it’s not a wave. 

You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you. 

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.” 

You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?” 

Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?” 

You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.” 

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-” 

“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.” 

Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water. 

When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges. 

You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching. 

Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter. 

Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer. 

“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces. 

Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement. 

“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.” 

You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?” 

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be. 

After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance. 

You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble. 

You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy. 

“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.” 

Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob. 

You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.” 

There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins. 

But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!” 

And the game is back on. 

The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares. 

You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate. 

“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.” 

He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent. 

And Bob sees everything. 

You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under. 

You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots. 

He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?” 

“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary. 

“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group. 

Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know. 

The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way. 

Bob. 

“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept. 

Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal. 

He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line. 

Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide. 

You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. 

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.” 

After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod. 

This is it. 

Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching. 

And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score. 

But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time. 

Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying. 

You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand. 

It’s just Bob now. 

He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan. 

You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both. 

The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat. 

You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist. 

You don’t move. 

You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in. 

Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put. 

“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline. 

His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes. 

You lean in just a little. 

“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?” 

His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours. 

They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation. 

Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time. 

Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe— 

He snaps. 

He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down. 

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second. 

You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him. 

His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” 

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second. 

His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable. 

You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in. 

You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost. 

There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered. 

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.” 

And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again. 

“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear. 

Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away. 

“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise. 

“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.” 

You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction. 

“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.” 

Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death. 

“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear. 

Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.” 

“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.” 

You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back. 

Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.” 

“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign. 

You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.” 

There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again. 

Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.” 

Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.” 

“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing. 

He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.” 

You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful. 

“Shit.” 

You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach. 

“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word. 

His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.” 

Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent. 

“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.” 

You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love. 

And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow. 

And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.” 

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you. 

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways. 

Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips. 

“Cooling off.” 

END.

[fanfictropesdotcom]

❝ HEART RATE HIGHS !! ❞ – azriel x reader

✭ pairing: gym rat ! azriel x archeron ! reader

✭ summary: you swear you only have a gym membership for self-improvement. it’s definitely not to see the cute guy you have a crush on.

✭ contains: modern au, f!reader, college au, but age is vague, anxious!reader who can’t see that azriel is already a little in love with you, gym culture, alcohol, meddling sisters, because reader is terrible at talking to guys, mutual pining.

✭ word count: 3k+ ✭ a/n: i absolutely love gym fics and i couldn't stop thinking about azriel in a compression shirt, so if i have to suffer, so do you <3

“wait, did i hear you properly? you’re going to the gym?” nesta’s voice cuts through the quiet murmur of the lecture hall. heads turn, and the professor pauses mid-sentence, frowning at the interruption. you cringe at the sudden attention and whisper an apology, slouching in your seat to avoid the stares.

“you’re acting like i’ve just sprouted wings,” you respond, trying to keep your voice low.

nesta blinks, her surprise melting into scepticism. “well, it is out of character for you. the gym, are you sure?”

“yes.”

“really?”

you nod.

you can’t blame her for being doubtful. among your sisters, you’re the most averse to exercise. even elain, thanks to her gardening, could likely outlift you. but –

“i don’t know if i should be offended that you’re so surprised.”

“hey, it’s not personal,” nesta replies, her voice softer as she glances around the room. the professor had resumed teaching and students were slowly returning their attention to their notes. “it’s just... unexpected. i mean, last time i suggested going for a jog, you looked at me like i’d grown a second head.”

“yeah, well, i just figured it’s about time i start taking better care of myself.”

“what brought this on all of a sudden?”

you shrug, trying to put your thoughts into words. “i guess i just realised that i’ve been neglecting my health lately. with school and everything else going on, i haven’t been feeling so great.”

nesta nods in understanding, letting you continue. neither of you really cared about this class, after all, and it wasn’t the first time you’d been called out for talking through a lecture.

“i just thought it might be a good way to clear my head, you know? like, a chance to zone out and focus on something other than deadlines and exams.”

“if you turn into a gym rat and only eat chicken and rice, i’m disowning you.”

“you’d have to pry ice cream from my cold, dead hands,” you say, nudging nesta with a grin. “nothing can take away my love of carbs and cheesy fries.”

“uh-huh, sure. that’s what they all say until they’re posting pictures of their meal prep on instagram.”

“you have no faith in me, do you?”

“none whatsoever,” she replies with a grin. “but hey, if this gym thing helps you feel better, i’m all for it.”

“if i ever mention a juice cleanse, you have full permission to stage an intervention.”

“deal. and if you lecture me on the importance of pre-workout supplements, i’m kicking you out of the apartment.”

after your year abroad, you found yourself back at the university of velaris, settling into a new rhythm with your three sisters. the four of you had decided to share an apartment, a decision fuelled by equal parts necessity and nostalgia. it wasn’t long before familiar routines took shape amidst the chaos of unpacked boxes and endless debates over furniture placement.

besides, feyre had been spending most of her time at her new boyfriend’s apartment, leaving a bit more breathing room for the rest of you. you hadn’t met him yet, but you’d heard he came from money and his penthouse had skyline views, so you could hardly blame her.

nesta wasn’t a fan, muttering something about “trust fund babies” under her breath whenever his name came up in conversation. but feyre seemed happy, and ultimately, that was what mattered most, even if a twinge of jealousy occasionally crept in.

“you should come with me.”

“i would rather die,” she snorts. “doesn’t mor work out? you should ask her.”

“no way, i’d look even more unfit next to her. i have some pride.”

“wow, so you ask me instead. you’re such a bitch,” she laughs.

as luck would have it, the gym was just a 10-minute walk away, conveniently offering a discounted price for students. the only downside was going alone.

“but i don’t know how to use the equipment,” you groan.

“and you think i do?” your sister retorts.

“well, no, but at least i wouldn’t look like the only idiot.”

“just find someone with muscles and ask them,” she suggests.

“right, of course, because i’m so great at talking to strangers.”

nesta raises an eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement. “so, what’s your plan then? to stand in the corner and hope the smith machine starts talking to you?”

“maybe,” you mumble, feeling a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. you didn’t even know what a smith machine was until this morning.

nesta lets out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. “stop being such a baby and put a cute workout outfit on. you’ll be fine.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you were very much not fine.

the blonde girl at the front desk, with her bouncing ponytail and bright smile that could probably power the entire gym, was very nice. she had given you a tour of the gym, showing you the rows of gleaming equipment and weight racks, and enthusiastically pointed out the array of classes available, from yoga and spin to high-intensity interval training.

she had, however, assumed you knew how to use everything, and you hadn’t been brave enough to correct her.

you had nodded along, trying to absorb the barrage of information she threw at you, but each machine seemed more complicated than the last, and you were positive some of them belonged in a medieval torture chamber. 

but you could do this. if guys who couldn’t even spell “midterm” could end up looking like greek statues, surely you could handle a single gym session. you were smart, you were pretty. everything was going to be just fine. besides, you had watched enough fitness influencers on social media to have a vague idea of what to do. with a deep breath, you reminded yourself that everyone had to start somewhere – or at least that’s what your therapist had told you.

deciding to start your session with something familiar, you made your way over to the row of treadmills. incline walking was hard to mess up. the downside was that it made you feel like you were dying.

thirty minutes later, you were profoundly regretting your decision as you clung to the handrails, legs burning with exertion. sweat had beaded on your forehead, and you couldn’t help but curse under your breath.

with shaky legs, you made your way to the weights, steeling yourself against the familiar wave of self-doubt. this part of the gym was always crowded with an excess of men flaunting their egos, their grunts and posturing only serving to make you feel even more out of place.

you think of nesta and how she would never let anyone make her feel small. she would have your head if she thought you would let any man intimidate you.

deep breaths. everything is fine.

as you attempt to adjust the resistance on the leg press machine, your fingers fumble over the pin that holds the weight stack in place, causing the plates to clang noisily against each other. flushed and annoyed, you would love nothing more than to slink away in embarrassment.

“here, let me.” he crouches beside you and effortlessly rectifies your problem as if you hadn’t been struggling for the past ten minutes.

oh god, he looked like he could go viral on tiktok or be on the front cover of a fitness magazine.

and he was helping you.

stay calm. just ignore the fact that this might be the most beautiful man you’ve ever met.

you couldn’t help but steal glances at the way his muscles flexed beneath the fabric of his black compression shirt, each movement highlighting the definition of his arms and chest.

he was so pretty. you just hoped you didn’t look like you were dying.

“thanks,” you say, your voice coming out a little more breathless than you intended.

oh god, just breathe.

he flashes you a soft smile, “no problem. we’ve all been there.”

you’d like to say you committed to a gym membership for self-improvement.

(you would be lying.)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

before ever stepping foot in a gym, your taste in men was somewhat predictable.

you liked nerdy computer science guys you could play video games with and pretentious english lit students who gave you good book recommendations – the indoor sort.

they all tended to look like a light breeze could push them over. not the kind where you could steal their hoodies. and that was fine. you didn’t care, honest.

but then the cute guy at the gym completely ruined your usual type in men. you never imagined you’d be that into muscles, but he looked like he could toss you around like a rag doll, and you soon realised that you actually quite liked the thought.

you initially thought your crush would be harmless – glancing at him from across the room and playing out scenarios in your head.

but then he started offering to unload your plates, and showed you how different machines worked when you looked particularly confused. he would ask you to spot him, despite you both knowing you would be of zero help, and would refill your water bottle when he noticed it getting low.

he would even help to correct your form so you wouldn’t injure yourself.

that, however, had you so flustered you couldn’t even complete the full set. his hand grazing your waist made your heart pound so loudly, you were certain he could hear it. you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

you told him you had to leave early to finish your essay.

and then, like the gentleman he was, he had asked you about it the next time he saw you, and let you ramble about your major for far too long. the worst part was that he seemed genuinely interested.

you didn’t even know his name and yet you were pretty sure you wanted to have his babies.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“are you sure you really need protein powder?” elain questioned, picking up a bunch of celery for her green juices. “you can get all the vitamins and minerals you need from real food, you know.”

“but it’s so much easier to hit my protein goals with it,” you whined, clutching the tub of powder defensively.

“she’s only doing this because her crush drinks the same brand,” nesta teased, a sly grin spreading across her face as she tossed a box of granola into the cart.

“oh my god, keep your voice down,” you groaned, glancing around nervously. it was 10 pm on a wednesday. the grocery store was practically deserted, but you think you might cry if anyone overhears. “besides, it’s not just because of him. it’s practical!”

“practical,” nesta repeated, her grin widening. “sure, that’s the reason.”

“what’s his name again?" elain said, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“i hate you,” you muttered, feeling your cheeks heat up. you tried to focus on the nutrition label in front of you, but nesta’s laughter made it impossible.

“come on,” nesta said, nudging you playfully. “you’ve been pining over him for months. when are you going to actually talk to him?”

“never?”

“you should accidentally bump into him and spill your protein shake all over his expensive gym clothes. it would be a brilliant conversation starter.”

“please don’t jinx me.”

“oh, and then you could do his laundry as an apology, and he’d buy you a coffee because he thinks you’re pretty!” elain chimes in.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you’ve been working out long enough now that you knew the basics of gym etiquette. namely, don’t be creepy. a simple thing, really, but too many people struggled to act like sane, well-adjusted human beings capable of basic manners. it was as if the gym was some bizarre alternate universe where leggings made men’s brains short-circuit.

so you try very hard to not stare at your gym crush doing pull-ups.

but his biceps are flexing, his shirt is riding up, and you never knew you could be so attracted to someone’s back.

you feel like you’re twelve again – you want to write his name in a heart in your diary and talk about him for hours on the phone.

for the first time, however, you’re grateful you don’t know any concrete details about him. you would’ve stalked his social media, found out he had a girlfriend or horrible political opinions, and then cried yourself to sleep.

you’d really rather not know. hopeless yearning is much more to your taste.

but then he notices you across the room and smiles, and you realise your gym crush is very much not harmless.

you decide that you’ll be brave and actually initiate conversation for once.

a horrible idea, really.

“hey.”

“hey,” he responds.

“what are you listening to?” god, you didn’t think you were this awkward.

“oh, i don’t listen to music when i work out.”

“right, yeah, i totally get that.” you actually don’t understand that at all. the idea of exercising with just your thoughts sounds like a special kind of torture, but he doesn’t need to know that.

you fidget with the hem of your shorts, desperately searching for something else to say.

“so, uh, how’s your workout going?” he asks.

“it’s going okay,” you reply, the words tumbling out. “you?”

you want to disappear.

“yeah, it’s good too.” you swear you see a hint of pink in his cheeks, though it’s probably just from finishing his set.

your mind is blank and you have no idea what else to say. “great.”

you hope you look like you’re smiling and not grimacing.

this was quite possibly the worst idea you’ve ever had. you’re never speaking to a man again.

even if they are very pretty and look like they could pick you up without breaking a sweat.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

getting ready with three other girls in a cramped apartment was always a challenge. you loved your sisters, but if feyre didn’t get away from the mirror, you would scream.

feyre, always meticulous with her makeup, was painstakingly perfecting her eyeliner, ignoring the sighs from nesta.

“can you possibly move any slower?” nesta hisses, leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms.

you exchange a knowing look with elain, who was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, scrolling through her phone. she had opted to stay behind, and you were growing increasingly jealous of her decision.

“why don’t we just take turns?” you intervene, hoping to avoid a fight before you even got to the party. “feyre, you finish up, then nesta, and i’ll go last. sound fair?”

feyre finally steps away from the bathroom and nesta wastes no time in taking her place, muttering something about how she could do a better job in half the time.

feyre had been persistent about attending one of rhysand’s house parties for weeks now, and despite your and nesta’s reluctance, she had managed to wear you down. it wasn’t so much her persuasive arguments as it was the promise of free alcohol that ultimately swayed both of you. plus, you were a little curious. feyre had been gushing about her boyfriend for months now. 

as you stood in front of the mirror, giving yourself a final once-over, you couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. feyre, radiant in her navy dress, was practically buzzing with excitement. nesta looked as though she’d rather be doing anything else, despite begrudgingly admitting that the three of you looked good.

you had opted for a short, tight-fitted black dress. shocking how regularly going to the gym could actually help your confidence.

feyre led the way, practically dragging you and nesta out of the apartment. elain, now comfortably nestled on the couch with a book, waved you goodbye. “be safe, and don’t drink too much!”

“it’s so cute that you think i could survive the night without being drunk,” nesta laughs. 

the cool night air is a welcome change from the stuffy apartment as the three of you step outside to wait for the cab. feyre was already chattering about rhysand and his friends, while nesta had shot her a look that could wither plants.

you really needed a drink.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

rhysand’s apartment ended up being a thirty-minute drive away, nestled in the wealthier district of velaris, and you could see why feyre spent so much time here.

you could hear the music before you even enter, and it smells so strongly of alcohol you already feel a little lightheaded.

it can hardly be called an apartment in all honesty, it’s nicer than most houses and certainly surpasses anything you’ve ever stepped foot in before. it’s spacious, with an open layout that flows effortlessly from one room to the next. plush couches and chairs face a glass coffee table that is currently covered in red plastic cups and half-finished bottles of vodka. luckily, all his furniture was black. you winced at the thought of cleaning the stains that were bound to appear after tonight.

you noticed the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a pretty view of the city skyline, the twinkling lights stretching out like a blanket of stars against the night. you weren’t the jealous type, but you had the sudden urge to strangle feyre.

she had navigated the apartment with ease, her eyes alight with familiarity as she disappeared in search of rhysand. left to fend for yourselves, you and nesta exchanged a glance before setting off in the direction of the kitchen.

as you weave through the throng of people, you catch sight of mor, effortlessly manoeuvring between guests as she pours drinks. she seems completely at ease, flashing dazzling smiles and looking stunning as ever.

mor’s eyes light up with recognition as she spots you among the crowd. with a beckoning gesture, she calls you over. “i didn’t think you two would be here!” she seems genuinely happy to see you, despite only talking to her after class a couple of times.

“our sister is dating the host, so naturally, we’ve been dragged along,” you reply. “she’s off hunting him down now.”

mor’s gaze shifts between you and nesta, realisation crossing her features. “rhysand is actually my cousin,” she explains with a smile. “so, i’ve met feyre a few times now.”

“that’s unfortunate,” nesta laughs. you’re pretty sure she’s only half-joking.

you elbow her. “come on, don’t be mean. i don’t want to be kicked out after five minutes of being here.”

“are you sure? we could go get pizza and ice cream and not wake up feeling like we were hit by a car?”

“are you seriously the voice of reason right now?”

“hey, if you’re going to the gym, then i can be a responsible adult.”  

mor perks up, her eyes brightening with interest. “you work out?”

you smile sheepishly, “i only started a few months ago.”

“you should join me sometime!” mor suggests eagerly. “i usually go with rhysand and a few others, but one of them hasn’t shown up in ages. it’d be great to have another girl!”

“speaking of which, i should introduce you to them,” mor adds with a grin before calling out, “azriel! cassian! get over here!”

and then you spot who is walking over.

“mor, what’s up?” a very familiar voice asks.

because, you realise, it’s your gym crush. it’s the guy you’ve been pining over for months.

your brain is really struggling to comprehend that he’s here, and he knows mor, and apparently rhysand?

has he met feyre too?

he’s wearing all black, like usual, and his biceps look even better in this lighting, and oh god, you want to melt into the ground before you somehow think of a new way to embarrass yourself.

your mind is racing a hundred miles per hour and you’re suddenly realising you’re going to have to avoid feyre’s boyfriend forever if he’s friends with him and – 

and as your eyes meet his, and realisation flickers across his features, you’re really wishing you had stayed at home with elain.

or vanish into thin air. that works too.

“az, these are feyre’s sisters!” mor’s voice breaks through your thoughts.

you’ve finally learnt his name, you suppose, but you’re pretty sure you’ll have to find a new gym.

[fanfictropesdotcom]

me! | george weasley x reader

song; me! [taylor swift, brendon uri(n)e] pairing; george weasley x fem!muggle!reader genre; accidental marriage, s2l, fluff, comedy word count; 7,8k timeline; post-second wizarding war (fred lives au) warnings; swearing, referenced alcohol consumption, references to hook-ups, references to sex, references to the war summary; after waking up in bed with a red-haired stranger and no memories of the night prior, you run off as quickly as you can. it isn't until months later when you're trying to buy a house that you learn that you can't just leave that forgotten night in the past

thought it would be ironic to have the song with the lyrics "i promise that you'll never find another like me" and "i'm the only one of me" with one of the twins lol

masterlist

"you're the kinda guy the ladies want."

————————————————

Typically, you were more responsible than this. You had always stayed away from drunk hook-up culture, hoping (perhaps too idealistically) to find organic love. Yet, on the night of your cousin's bachelorette party, you got so drunk that you found yourself in bed with a stranger the next morning. And you didn't know what to do.

All you could do for a few moments was look around the hotel room that you had evidently decided was necessary for the hook-up - and although you couldn't remember a single thing after your tenth shot at the club, the fact you were both naked gave away the events of the night prior.

He was red-haired, and quite nicely toned, but he also donned a partially missing ear. You couldn't see his face, so at that particular moment you couldn't judge whether or not drunk you had good taste. You pushed that thought aside - that was the least of your concerns. You needed to get out of there and forget that anything had ever happened, which shouldn't be too difficult thanks to the alcohol-induced memory loss.

So, with that, you slipped out of bed and scavenged for all your clothes around the room, and then quickly departed. You made it all the way down to the lobby without any human interaction, but it was there at the desk that you finally had to communicate.

"Heading out for a bit, Mrs Weasley?" the receptionist smiled at you.

You frowned, not understanding why they would address you as such - probably had mistaken you for someone else. But, you were in a hurry, so just grinned and nodded, leaving to never return.

***

Not many people were fortunate enough to buy their first home (alone) at the age of twenty-four without any help from their parents, but you had chosen a rather well-paid career path and had been meticulous with your money savings, so this was a reality for you. After a few months of working with a real estate agent to view houses and find the perfect home for you, you had finally come to a decision.

You had stumbled upon it really, when travelling from London to visit your family, you came across a road that you had sworn hadn't been there before. Curiosity had overcame you, and you had driven down it to find the cutest village named Godric's Hollow, which could also be described as peculiar. A lot of things in the village didn't make sense - like the fact they all seemed bewildered at the sight of your car - but the architecture was gorgeous. When you drove past an adorable rustic cottage with a 'for sale' sign out front, you didn't even have to think twice about viewing it.

It was a strange process, however, as the sign didn't have a number for the real estate agency, but instead read 'owl Cauldron Realtors for more details'. You asked around for information about Cauldron Realtors (a particularly strange name, comparable to the robes many of the older members of the village wore), and they pointed you in the direction of the realtor's.

From then on, the process to view the house and apply for a mortgage had been relatively normal, if not a bit old-fashioned in the lack of technology used. However, you reasoned that it was a small village and that they merely hadn't updated themselves like cities just yet.

***

"Why have you asked me to come here?" you asked as delicately as you could upon entering Cauldron Realtors.

"We have had something come up," Mr Linseed said to you. He was an eccentric old man, constantly adorning a pair of half-moon spectacles perched on the tip of his nose.

"Like what?"

"You told us that you weren't married."

You frowned.

"And I thought it was a bit strange given your muggle situation, but honestly I had simply assumed that you were a squib."

He was using a lot of words that you didn't understand. You had heard the word muggle passed around in the time that you had spent in Godric's Hollow, but had been unable to find out what it meant online or in any dictionary. Everyone used it so commonly you had felt too embarrassed to ask.

"Obviously, this changes the process for you to apply for a mortgage. We need your husband to sign off either that he will partially own the house or have no claim over it."

"I don't understand- I'm not married," you said.

"No?" the man raised a brow at you, "When we searched for legal documentation of your name, we found that it hadn't been Y/N L/N for a few months, but instead Y/N Weasley. I didn't think much of you not having gotten around to changing your bank details yet since it hasn't been long, but going by your maiden name is a little strange. So, I assumed that the marriage was short-lived."

Why did Weasley sound so familiar? You wracked your brain for when you had heard it before.

"Heading out for a bit, Mrs Weasley?"

Your eyes widened.

The guy from the hotel.

"What did you say my husband's name was?" you said slowly.

"I didn't, but George Weasley," Mr Linseed replied, "You knew that, though, correct?"

You nodded, "Yeah... just making sure."

The man frowned at you, "He is quite well-known I suppose - the shop Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes is quite famous. Anyhow, here are the new forms that I need you to fill out and then we will be back on track."

You accepted them in a daze, but snapped your eyes up towards him again, "Where can I find Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes?"

"Diagon Alley, of course," Mr Linseed was clearly confused that you didn't know where your husband worked.

You had never heard of Diagon Alley, and he sensed that.

"You know? Through The Leaky Cauldron? On Charing Cross Road?"

Finally, a name you recognised.

"Oh, yes. Thank you, Mr Linseed, I'll be back soon."

God, what a process to get yourself a house.

***

You were pretty sure that in all your visits to Charing Cross Road, you had never seen that pub squeezed between those buildings before. But, you weren't about to complain, as you were desperate to find George Weasley and sort everything out. You couldn't remember his face, but you remembered his red hair and partially missing ear - that should be enough to identify him.

You hoped, anyway.

Upon entering the gloomy pub, you were met by quite a shocking sight - but one that wasn't entirely indifferent to Godric's Hollow. Except, you would describe the pub as having a more creepy ambiance, in a way. Beady eyes peered in your direction as you walked up to the bar, and you tried to hold your own as a woman with matted grey hair and disturbingly long fingernails smiled at you with missing teeth. You forced a smile back.

"Excuse me," you said to the bartender, who was similar to the woman in energy, "How do I get to Diagon Alley?"

He pointed to the door out the back.

"Just through that door?"

"You'll need your wand too," the woman who had smiled at you said, "To tap the wall."

"Wand?" you squeaked.

"I'll show you," the woman said eerily.

In any normal circumstance, you would have declined the offer, but you had already had so many new experiences you found yourself following her out the back.

"You're not one of us, are you?" she asked with a giggle of glee, pulling out a wooden stick from her pocket.

You didn't reply, watching as she brought it up and tapped some of the bricks on the wall. To your amazement, they then parted, presenting to you the most bustling and magical street that you had ever seen.

"Diagon Alley," she stated, "Although I prefer Knockturn Alley."

You thanked her, and hurried into the street.

***

The pet shops were strange: mostly having owls, cats and toads. The book shops were strange: having cages of moving books in the display windows. The clothes shops were strange: pretty much exclusively selling robes and pointed hats. All in all, Diagon Alley was the most eccentric place you had ever been.

There was a broomstick shop, a wand shop, and a place to buy cauldrons. You were so out of your depth that you decided you should focus on the task at hand.

It wasn't long before you found a bright and buzzing shop named Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, looking ten times more exciting than all the shops before it. You were almost overwhelmed with all the young people inside once you entered, and it finally became obvious to you that it was a joke shop. The numerous prank items on display were clearly enchanted in a way too, only furthering your amazement at this street.

You scanned around for a redhead, but it was really difficult to spot anything within the chaos. Eventually, you located a flash of red by the till and hurried over. The queue was unfortunately long, but you waited impatiently nonetheless.

When you finally reached the front, the red-haired man behind it looked at you, and you couldn't help but noticed he had two full ears.

"Are you buying anything, miss?"

"I'm looking for George Weasley," you said quickly.

He rose an eyebrow at you, "What for?"

"It's a long story, I really need to talk to him."

"I'll fetch him," he said, and disappeared out back for a few moments before returning with a man almost identical to him save for that all-too-familiar ear. He didn't look at you like he recognised you - maybe he drank so much he had memory loss too? That would make sense, considering he hadn't tried to find you either.

"Can I help you?" George Weasley asked, gesturing for you to move to the side so that his twin could continue at the till.

"This is gonna sound crazy, but," you took a deep breath, "You're my husband."

"You're right, that does sound crazy," he chuckled.

"You woke up in a hotel room a few months ago, right?"

His eyes widened, "I thought I hooked up with someone," he said, "Wasn't sure, though, because I woke up alone."

"Sorry about that. I don't really do hook-ups, I kinda freaked out and bolted."

"I don't really do hook-ups either," he shrugged, "No hard feelings."

"Anyway, as I said, it turns out we got married that night."

"Wow. I honestly can't remember anything."

"Me neither," you shook your head, "And we can't get an annulment - the cut off is three months. And we were way too efficient with sending off the marriage registration - we did it immediately."

He hummed, "That's quite a predicament. Divorce, then?"

You nodded, "Yes, obviously. But that will take ages, and I'm trying to buy a house for myself right now. I need you to sign off that you have no claim over it."

"That's no problem," thank God he was agreeable, "But what's your name?"

"Y/N L/N," you said, "Well, legally Y/N Weasley."

The man smirked at you, which admittedly made your stomach flip. Drunk you definitely had good taste: this man was gorgeous.

"Where's the house you're buying?" he asked.

"Godric's Hollow."

"Ah, my sister lives there," he hummed, "Nice village."

"Can I ask you a question - since you're my husband and all?" you didn't know why you added the last bit.

"Fire away."

"Why does everyone keep going on about muggles and wizards and witches and magic? I'm so lost, I don't know what's happening."

"Wait- you're a muggle?"

"As everyone apparently keeps saying."

He chuckled, "Oh, wow. My wife's a muggle."

"What does it mean?"

"I'll explain," he gestured towards the door to the back room, "But it'll be a lot to take in."

"I don't care, I just want an explanation."

And so, your husband, George Weasley, explained about the wizarding world that he was a part of. And how, by marrying him, you had automatically been granted permission by the Ministry of Magic to be an exception for all anti-muggle charms. Which was why you discovered the road to Godric's Hollow all of a sudden as a non-magic person, which you learned was what muggle meant.

At the very end of his explanation, you sat back in the armchair he had offered to you, "That explains so much. It's insane- but I'm relieved that it's not me going crazy."

"Must be quite a shock," he hummed, "I can't believe we got married. Are there any photos?"

"I mean, I suppose we could find the chapel we got married at and ask."

"Maybe it will trigger some memories of that night. I got drunkenly married - who knows what else I did?" he sighed.

"I don't know if I want to know."

George shrugged, "Better to find out that way than have a random woman come into your place of work and announce she's your wife."

You grimaced, making him laugh.

"I'm just teasing."

"Can I get your number? So I can contact you when I need to?" you asked.

George stared at you, "Number?"

"How do wizards and witches communicate?" you exasperated.

"By owl."

You blanked.

"You might want to get yourself one if you're moving into a wizarding village."

"How do they know where to go?"

"They just do."

You sighed.

***

"So, I phoned the chapel that we got married at and they confirmed that we signed the marriage registration and sent it off immediately," you said to George, taking a seat opposite him in your flat that you currently resided in, "They also posted this to me." You presented a large envelope to your husband and watched as he carefully opened it - even though it was already unsealed thanks to you.

He pulled out a marriage certificate: lettered in italic gold writing and clearly signed on the bottom two corners. As he pulled that out, another piece of card fluttered to the ground. You chewed your lip as you watched him pick it up.

"Wow," was all he said.

It was the same reaction you had when looking upon the photo of you and George at the alter: lips pressed together with smiles creeping on to your faces.

"We look so happy."

You hummed, "The photo hasn't triggered any memories for me."

You watched curiously as he waved it about. "It's weird that muggle photos don't move," he commented, "But- yeah- I can't remember anything more either."

"Maybe it's been too long," you reasoned, "Perhaps if we'd seen the photo the day after, it would've helped."

"Probably," he shrugged, "I can find a charm or potion that will help us remember - if you want to."

It hadn't occurred to you that magic was now a readily available tool.

"I'm not sure, to be honest," you said after a while, "I just really want to seal the deal on my house."

George nodded, "Of course, I'll sign the papers saying I have no right to it."

"Thank you for making this so easy," you said, giving him a warm grin, "When I found out I was married, I was so worried it was to a complete asshole."

"When I found out I was married, I thought it was simply a cute way a gorgeous woman had of flirting with me."

You felt heat rush to your cheeks at his comment. George was a stunning man: his damaged ear only added a rugged element to him, enhancing his beauty in a way that you didn't know possible.

He noticed your flustered reaction and chuckled a bit, "However, there is one problem with me signing those papers that your real estate agent really should've mentioned."

"What?" you filled with worry: that house was your dream house.

"If you're buying a house in the wizarding world, you're going to need a wizarding bank account."

"He kept going on about galleons," you thought for a moment, "But then he converted to pounds so I didn't think much of it."

George hummed, "Yes, but you're still going to need to pay in galleons."

"How do I get a wizarding bank account?"

"Only wizards, witches, squibs and muggles married to any of the former can access one. Oh, and muggles with magic children, even if they aren't married."

You realised what he was getting at. "So I can get one, but..."

"But it has to be a shared one with me."

You pulled your hands down your face, "But I love that house so much."

"I promise you I'm not trying to trap you."

"No, no- I get it. I just- that means I'd have to stay married to you until my mortgage is paid off. And that takes like thirty years."

"Even then, the bills would still need to be paid in galleons."

"Oh, fuck," you muttered, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

George watched you in silence.

"I'm sorry. I'll divorce you and forget about the house," you said eventually, "It's not fair for me to force you to stay in a marriage for the rest of your life - I mean, I can't force you."

"I didn't say anything about that."

You frowned. In your mind, there was no other option.

"I'm willing to do it."

"George, it's just a house, you really don't need to-"

"I will," he reiterated, "You realise that if you divorce me, you won't be able to access the magic world anymore?"

It had become something you were so excited to explore that you were disheartened by that fact.

"It would be cruel for me to take it away from you, I think."

"But-"

"So, I will set you up on my bank account, sign off on the house, and stay married to you."

Your mouth was opened wide as you stared at him, and in a flash you had leaped across the coffee table in order to pull him into a hug.

"You're so amazing," you mumbled, hugging him tighter as he returned the embrace, "Thank you so much."

"Hey, anything for my wife," he chuckled.

Your heart stopped.

***

"I've had to change my name on my driver's license and passport and bank account and everything else," you sighed, "Such a hassle for a fucking house."

George, who was walking with you throughout the empty house that you had just officially bought, chuckled, as he seemed to enjoy doing, "You must really love this place."

You shrugged, "The house, I would probably get over. An entire magical world that I would lose access to? Not so much."

He hummed, gazing around the place. You had decided that he at least deserved to see the property that he had given up so much for you to own.

"I can't wait to begin decorating," you sighed, "I have big plans for the downstairs rooms and the master bedroom."

"What about the other bedrooms?"

"I'm not sure, to be honest," you pondered, "I'll probably make one of them an office, but the other two, I honestly don't know. It'll be a while before I have any kiddly winks running around."

"How come?"

"I need to find a man to create them with first," you reminded, "And that will be especially complicated since I'm married."

"Not if it's with me."

You were pretty sure his words held a joking undertone, so you laughed.

"Well, I shan't keep you any longer," you said, "I guess we'll keep in touch?"

"Stop by my shop as much as you can," George replied, but you sensed a slight trace of sadness in his voice.

Nonetheless, you smiled, "Of course."

***

Was two days later too soon to take George up on his offer of stopping by? Maybe, but life was too short for you to not do the things that you wanted to do. Plus, you were exhausted from moving furniture and painting (since you were stuck doing it the 'muggle' way), so a getaway from your new home was needed.

After getting someone from the Leaky Cauldron to let you into Diagon Alley, you made your way down to the corner that Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes sat on. You couldn't help the fond smile that tugged on your lips as you pushed open the door and heard the tinkle of the bell above you. The last time you were there, you had been too nervous about meeting your husband to properly appreciate the joyful buzz of the shop; it was truly a marvel to witness. You wish you had grown up with access to such extraordinary things.

"Hello," a redhead popped up beside you.

You jumped a little, not failing to notice the fact this man, although initially appearing to be George, had two full ears.

"Hello... Fred?" you attempted to recall his name.

He nodded, "I must say, I wasn't expecting my sister-in-law to pop by today."

It hadn't occurred to you that George would have mentioned his marriage to his twin brother, but now it seemed obvious that he would have.

"Is my husband here?" you asked, adding a joking undertone. Nonetheless, you couldn't help but notice how warm saying that made you feel.

"Of course, he's out back."

"Should I...?" you trailed off.

"You don't need to ask permission to go out back," he chuckled, in a strikingly similar way to George, "You're married to one of the owners."

"Yeah, but-" but before you could finish your sentence, your brother-in-law had disappeared. With a sigh, you proceeded on your way to the staff-only space, unable to push aside how special you felt being able to freely enter the area.

It was only when you caught sight of George's back did you realise that you had nothing to say and had simply stopped by.

"Y/N!" he smiled, turning around upon sensing your presence, "What brings you here?"

You shrugged, "You said to stop by often."

His grin stretched wider, "That I did, I'm glad to see you."

You felt shy after hearing him say that, and avoided eye contact.

"How's moving in going?"

"Oh- well. Exhausting, though," you sighed.

"I can't imagine having to do everything without magic," he said, "If you want any help to speed up the process, I'm more than willing."

You shook your head, "You've done enough for me."

"I could never do enough for you," he half-mumbled, but you heard it. You couldn't believe it, but you heard it. "I'm free this weekend," he said at a more regular volume.

"I mean- if you're sure-"

"Of course I'm sure."

"I-" you stopped yourself, "Thank you, George."

"Georgie!" a voice called from the front of the shop, not long before a short plump woman appeared in the doorway. "There you are," she said with hands on her hips.

"Oh, hi, mum," he said, "I wasn't expecting you."

"I was just in town looking to pick up your father a new shirt - I don't know how he wears them out so quickly!" she sighed, "I thought I'd take the chance to invite you over for a roast on Sunday."

You smiled at the evidently kind woman.

"And who is this?" she asked.

"This is Y/N."

"How did you two meet?" this time she had a glint in her eye.

"Uh, funny story, actually," George scratched the back of his head, "We're married."

You were surprised at his honesty with his mother.

The woman's eyes widened, "And you didn't tell me!"

"No one knew, mum- not even us," he quickly added.

She seemed to ignore what the last part of his statement implied, and swooped you into her arms, "Welcome to the family, my dear, we have a lot of time to make up for! You'll be coming on Sunday too, yes?"

She didn't give you a chance to reply.

"I'll have to tell your father immediately - do all your siblings know? I expect Fred does. Probably Ron too." She paused, "I haven't even introduced myself! Molly Weasley - call me Molly, of course."

"Mum-"

"Godric- I have so many people to tell! I'll see you both Sunday at four o'clock, please don't be late."

And with a hug to both of you, Molly Weasley departed just as rapidly as she had arrived.

"I'm sorry about that- my mum can be very full on," George apologised.

"I think she's sweet."

A soft smile graced his face, "Yes, she's a very lovely woman."

You hummed.

"I'll get you out of the dinner."

You frowned, "Why?"

"Well, my family will think you're- well-"

With a shrug, you replied, "I don't mind."

"I have a big family."

"I know."

"Most of them are quite loud people."

"That's okay."

"They'll ask a lot of questions."

"George, I want to meet your family," you realised as soon as you said them what your words could potentially mean.

"It's just- I- I don't want them to scare you away."

"Scare me away?"

He nodded.

You chuckled, "I'd like to see them try."

***

Sunday rolled around quickly, and as promised, George showed up at your house to pick you up at five to four. You figured that his parents must live very nearby if he was picking you up so late, but you hadn't given it much thought. All you had done was focused on yourself, dressing up what you deemed the adequate amount for a family event.

A knock sounded on the door, and you quickly rushed to open it, smiling when you were faced with the red headed man that you could call your husband. He was wearing a knitted jumper and baggy jeans, which was a relief to you since you also sported a knitted jumper, just with a skirt instead.

"Hello," you said, almost shyly.

"Hey," he replied, "You ready to go?"

"Yep, let me just-" you hurried back inside to grab the bouquet of flowers that you had bought for his mother, you weren't familiar with the guidelines for meeting family as you had never been in a relationship long enough to reach that stage, but flowers had felt like the right thing.

"Oh, for me?" he said teasingly.

You shook your head, dramatically holding them away from him, "You would be so lucky."

He chuckled, "Right, let's get going," he held out his arm for you to take, "You're gonna want to hold tight."

You frowned, but took his advice nonetheless, taking a firm grip of his bicep which had a hardness that made your heart flip. But before you could dwell on that thought, you felt like you had been sucked into a vacuum and spat out again in a split second. Your stomach cramped up and you felt nauseous as you fell on to grass in a completely new location.

"Sorry, that often happens the first time," George quickly helped you up along with the flowers, which thankfully were unharmed.

"Did we just- teleport?" you asked, holding your stomach. Thankfully, the nausea was already dissipating.

"We call it apparating but yes, we did."

"Why couldn't I be born a witch?" you whined, following George as he began walking up the path ahead of you.

You could only be amazed when the strangest house that you had ever seen came into view: looking like it should tumble over instantly with the mismatched extensions stacked on top of each other. Not too long ago, you would have been worried about its sketchy looking state, but now you immediately concluded that it was kept steady by magic. Even at the distance you still were from the house, you could hear a lot of noise coming from it.

"I bet you anything Fleur and Hermione insisted on being early," George grumbled, "Making my brothers look like angelic sons."

You smiled to yourself: his relationship with his siblings was making you want to reach out to your sister.

George didn't bother knocking when you reached the door, simply throwing it open and grinning at everyone who was stood around the kitchen. You couldn't help but feel some level of nerves as you were faced with so many strangers.

"George! Y/N!" Molly beamed, pulling you both into a hug, "I'm so glad that you could make it."

You presented the flowers to her, "I got you these."

"Oh, they're gorgeous!"

You watched as she pulled out her wand and arranged them in a vase without even using her hands. You didn't think observing magic would ever get old.

"Thank you, dear," she said, before turning to the others in the room. There was Ron, who you vaguely recognised from the shop, with a curly brown-haired woman on his side. Then there was the most ethereal woman that you had ever seen next to one of the more rugged looking men that you had seen in your time. There was also an older, balding, red headed man, who you suspected to be George's father.

"Y/N, you might remember Ron here," George said, and you nodded, "And this is his fiancée, Hermione. This is my dad, and over there is my oldest brother, Bill, and his wife, Fleur."

"Our little shit of a son is running around here somewhere," Bill added.

"Pleasure to meet you, Y/N," George's father shook your hand, "You can call me Arthur."

"I didn't realise you were bringing a guest, George," Hermione said.

"Oh, she's no guest," Molly smiled, "She's family."

The only person who didn't exchange confused glances was Ron.

"I'm his, uh, wife," you said, feeling awkward. You didn't really want to say it, because it felt like you were lying to them even though you weren't.

What followed was an array of congratulations, and Hermione accusing Ron of not telling her when he clearly already knew. And then, upon being asked, you both finally revealed that it was an accidental marriage upon which you were both very drunk. Molly was new to this news as well, but nonetheless, before you could give any more detail on where your 'relationship' with George currently stood, she spoke.

"As irresponsible as that was, I think there's something beautiful in the fact that you're now happily married."

While you weren't unhappily married, you didn't know how to say that you didn't know you were married until a couple months later, and that you weren't in a relationship with George. He said nothing to clarify, either.

That was when a small boy tumbled into the room.

"Ah, zis is Victoire," Fleur said, "Our son."

He was just as red headed as his father.

God, your kids with George would probably end up redheaded.

You internally froze at that thought - why had it seemed so natural to imagine yourself having kids with George?

You were yet again distracted from your mind, as seemed common in the Weasley household, when more people arrived. It was Fred and his fiancée, Angelina, as you soon learned. Shortly followed by Harry Potter, allegedly quite a celebrity, who was dating George's only sister, Ginny.

The only person to arrive alone was Percy, who had a much less chaotic energy than the rest of his siblings.

"You'll meet Charlie at some point," Molly said to you, "But he lives in Romania for his work with dragons."

It was insane to you that George had five brothers and one sister; having six siblings seemed like such a hectic upbringing. That thought almost led you to brush over Molly's mention of dragons - dragons?

Once again, you were introduced as George's wife, solidifying you in their eyes as a sister-in-law. These were your in-laws, you realised.

"Dinner's almost ready," Molly announced over the noise of all the people.

Many people rushed forward to help the woman with the finishing touches and laying the table, and you felt like an ass for not assisting as well, but you would have been of no help. They were all using magic, which was ten times faster than you could complete any task.

"What year did you graduate school? I can't remember you," Ginny said, evidently assuming that her lack of recognition was because you had been in a different year at Hogwarts from her. George had told you how most witches and wizards in a similar age group knew each other because of there only being one magic school in the country.

"I didn't go to Hogwarts," you said.

"Oh, did you study abroad?" she asked, walking over to the table with you.

"No, uh, I'm a- I'm a muggle."

Her eyes widened in realisation, "Oh! I see," she hummed, "That makes sense now that I think about it."

"You're a muggle?" Hermione, who had overheard, said.

You nodded.

"I'm muggle-born," she said, "I was raised muggle."

"I was raised muggle too," Harry added on, "But I'm not muggle-born."

After that point, Arthur Weasley kept posing an array of questions to you, explaining that he was fascinated by muggles, and it was even what had led him to having the job that he did. Wanting to be liked, you answered all his questions as best as you could, and found his childlike curiosity quite endearing.

"Leave the poor girl alone, Arthur," Molly scolded her husband.

"I don't mind," you replied, and, really, you didn't.

The food was absolutely delicious, to the point you almost moaned when you first put it in your mouth. You didn't think you had ever eaten such delectable food before, and you made sure that Molly knew.

Once the first course was finished and dessert was being brought out, Bill and Fleur stood up.

"We have an announcement to make," the latter smiled, looking to her husband.

"Fleur's pregnant," Bill grinned, placing his hand on her abdomen.

"Oh, that's wonderful news!" Molly exclaimed, "How far along?"

"Twelve weeks, two days ago," Fleur said, "In ze clear zone, as zey say."

"We don't know the gender yet," Bill added.

"For your sake I hope it's a girl," Molly sighed, "It took me six tries."

"We will be happy eizer way," Fleur said simply.

You couldn't help but get the sense there was some level of tension between her and Molly, so you leaned over to George as everyone began chatting again, congratulating the expecting couple.

"Do your mum and Fleur get along?" you whispered.

"Well, yes, but they haven't always," he whispered back, "My mum thought she was vain at first, even thinking that she would call off the wedding when Bill got that scar." He was referring to the large mark on his eldest brother's face.

You hummed.

"They've mostly resolved their problems now, but I think there will always be a bit of tension."

After dinner, you wandered around the home, observing all the moving pictures of the family.

"Aw, you were so cute back then," you said to George, looking at a photo of him as a toddler on a mini broomstick.

"Are you saying I'm not anymore?"

You shrugged.

"And how do you know that's me and not Fred?"

"You may be a twin, but there's only one of you, George," you said in passing, not realising how much those words meant to your husband. As much as he loved being an identical twin, there were times where he didn't want to be seen as part of a package deal. Even his mother struggled to tell him and Fred apart before his ear injury, but you- you could recognise him instantly.

Your gaze moved up the wall.

"That's an interesting clock."

It didn't tell the time, but instead had a hand for all of Molly and Arthur's brood, all currently pointing in the direction of 'home' apart from who must be Charlie, which pointed at work.

"Even on Sundays, he works," George sighed, "You know, there was a time where me and Fred had the same hand."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but after he moved in with Angelina, mum had it altered."

Your eyes flicked over the 'mortal peril' section of the clock, and you didn't realise you had read it aloud til he responded.

"Thankfully that hasn't served a purpose since the war."

It was unbelievable to you that such a life-changing war had happened while you remained completely oblivious.

"I suppose we'll have to expand the guest list for our wedding," Angelina approached you, making you turn away from the clock.

"Oh, you don't have to do that," you said.

"No, no. An extra person is hardly anything," she smiled, "You're family, of course you're coming."

Family.

"Well, thank you."

"Of course."

***

As you and George said your goodbyes and departed, you couldn't help but let out an elated sigh, "Your family is so warm."

He smiled, "I'm glad you like them."

"They're like, everything I want my in-laws to be."

"Really?"

"Yeah! Loud, happy, there for each other - with the slightest hint of drama, of course. They're perfect."

"We've been through a lot together."

"Yeah, I expect so."

You both fell into a comfortable silence, one that had you feeling content with your life in the most heart-warming way.

"You ready to apparate again?" George broke the silence when you reached the end of the path.

"As ready as I'll ever be," you grasped his arm tightly, prepping yourself for what was to come.

You didn't fall to the ground this time when you appeared outside your house, but you did still feel nauseous for a few moments.

"I'm really glad you came," George said.

"I'm glad too," you smiled.

And then there was silence - tension-filled silence. The kind of silence that led up to what you had secretly hoped would happen this entire time.

His lips on yours.

You moved your hands up to his hair as the kiss got more heated, flashes of memories dancing through your brain.

You met at the bar your cousin's bachelorette party was at, and began chatting. He was charming, and funny, and you were both really drunk. You went on a walk together - you walked past a chapel.

You had suggested getting married - jokingly, but he had then said.

"Why don't we?"

And so you did, giggling and laughing the entire time, even when you kissed. The kiss held the same magical feeling as it did now, that's what had triggered the memory.

He had kissed all along your jaw and neck as you both filled out the forms, and it wasn't long before you both booked a hotel and by all technical terms, consummated.

"I remember," you parted from him breathlessly, only to kiss him again.

"Me too," he mumbled, pushing you back against your front door.

"Do you want to come in?" you asked.

***

This time, you were the one to wake up alone in bed, but that wasn't the only difference. You remembered every single moment and sensation from the night before - and from your wedding night, for that matter. A smile almost crept on to your face, but it dropped when the panic set in that George had upped and left like you had before. You scrambled out of bed, pulling a shirt and some pants on, and then rushed down the stairs to see if he was anywhere in your house.

And he was.

There your husband was, in the kitchen, cooking a full English breakfast - using magic, of course. You had electric appliances installed when you moved in, since most magic homes didn't generally possess them, but with George there, you supposed they weren't really necessary.

"Hey, love."

Love. That's what he had called you all of last night and your wedding night.

It made heat travel to your ears.

"Hi," you replied shyly.

"Take a seat, I'm almost finished."

You obeyed, deciding to let the wizard take care of you, even though he really had done too much for you ever since you met him - the second time, that was.

Your dining table was a temporary one, as your entire home was still a work in progress: it wasn't easy decorating an entire house by yourself, especially without the assistance of magic. Nevertheless, it did the job. George came over with the food and sat opposite you, gesturing for you to dig in.

"Thank you," you smiled, picking up the cutlery.

"I told you, anything for you."

"You're too perfect," you mumbled, making George chuckle.

"My ear may be injured, but my hearing's fine."

You looked up at him to make eye contact, feeling like he could read you with his gaze, "Your ear makes you even more perfect."

"I'm glad you think so, would be a bit upsetting for me if you didn't."

"I aim to please," you grinned.

***

"You didn't tell me the wedding would be quite so soon," you huffed, straightening out the pastel pink dress you adorned in the mirror.

George shrugged, tightening his tie, "Didn't think about it."

You were, of course, in reference to Angelina and Fred's wedding, merely two weeks after the dinner in which you met the former. Out of all the moving boxes you still had left to unpack, you had been forced to dig for a suitable outfit that fitted the colour scheme.

Aside from work, you and George had been practically glued at the hip in the days since he first stayed at yours - and he had been consistently staying at yours ever since. He had probably spent about three nights total at his own flat in that time span. So much to the point that when he came over the day prior, he had brought his suit for the wedding with him, fully anticipating that he would be spending the night.

You hadn't put a label on what you currently were, other than legally married, as it was.

"We have to be early," he said, "Since I'm the best man."

"I'm aware," you replied, sitting on the edge of your bed to pull your shoes on, "I'm pretty much ready."

"Alright, let's go."

***

The ceremony was a beautiful occasion: held at the Weasley house, The Burrow. The entire garden was decorated beautifully in shades of pink, purple and white, with bouquets of flowers adorning every table and chair. Obviously, a drastic difference from your own wedding.

You were sat in the crowd while George was up near the altar with the maid of honour, but he was not your focus. Angelina was a transcendent bride.

When it came to the meal, you were - to your shock - sat on the primary table where the newly weds were. You supposed that it made sense, since George was obviously going to be sat by his twin brother, and you were his wife. Generally, married couples weren't separated at events. You were certainly relieved, since you hardly knew anybody else.

The only other people on the main table were Molly, Arthur, Angelina's parents, and Angelina's maid of honour and her partner. There was a second table for the rest of the Weasley siblings and their partners, and so on and so forth for more distant relatives and friends.

Once the toasts were made, the meal commenced, and you hadn't realised how hungry you were 'til that moment.

"Slow down, love," your husband commented, "I'd prefer if you didn't choke."

You shrugged, your mouth full. Once you had eventually swallowed, you said, "Much grander event than our wedding."

"We could always renew our vows," he said, and even though he had made many comments about wanting to do anything for you, and had done many intimate things to you in the bedroom (and elsewhere in your house, for that matter), it felt like the first real confirmation that you were in a relationship. Even more, that you weren't just in a marriage out of convenience, but instead because you simply wanted to be.

You parted your mouth to reply, when some children from Angelina's side began causing chaos by running around. "Lord, our kids better behave," you muttered.

George turned to look at you, and it was then that you became aware of what you had said.

"Our kids?" he was grinning.

"Shut up," you mumbled.

"Never - just let me know when you want to start, love," he winked at you.

"A bit too soon, I think."

He shrugged, "We got married within a few hours of knowing each other."

"We were drunk."

"We can get drunk again."

You sighed, "We don't even live together."

"I can move in."

You didn't have anymore rebuttals.

"Are you out of arguments now?" he asked.

You reluctantly nodded.

"Perfect."

***

Instead of apparating directly to your house, you and George decided to take a late night walk around Godric's Hollow. It was such a pretty village, and you had yet to appreciate its beauty in the dark, with all the magical lamps glowing around you. But, you knew that you and George needed to have a conversation, especially after the kids talk from earlier.

"Are we together?" you asked him, even though your interlocked hands should have answered the question.

"We're married, love."

"Yes, but are we together?"

"I'd like to think we are - do you?"

You remained silent for a few moments, before nodding and looking at him in the darkness of the night.

"Then there you have it."

"I just don't get why."

"Why what?"

"Why you've done so much for me when you hardly knew me."

George chuckled, "I admit, I don't know exactly when I made the decision to do anything for you, but when you strutted into my shop, determined as ever, and announced that you were my wife, I just-" he paused, squeezing your hand, "You looked so cute and I knew- in that moment- that I would never meet someone else like you."

You felt like you were melting on the spot.

"It may have seemed selfless that I helped you get the house - but, to be honest, it was the perfect excuse for me to trap you to me- make it easier for me to pursue you, that is."

"I love you, George," you sighed.

"I'm glad, because I've loved you for quite some time now."

"Love at first sight?"

"You would be so lucky."

You let out a childish giggle at that.

"But, yes, I think it was."

——————————————————

masterlist

written; 18/08/2023 —> 03/09/2023 published;04/09/2023 edited; —/—/——

[fanfictropesdotcom]

Kink.com // Jake Seresin & Bradley Bradshaw

Part One Summary: You’re offered an opportunity you just can’t refuse ~ To shoot a kink .com video with Jake Seresin and Bradley Bradshaw, two of the worlds most renowned BDSM dominants.

Warnings: Jake Seresin x F!reader. Bradley Bradshaw x F!reader. SMUT!! BDSM type scenes. Unrealistic representation of the porn industry but it’s what you’re getting. Overstimulation, orgasm denial, anal, and double penetration.

Word Count: 6.6k

Author Note: This is strictly porn with a plot. There is no critically acclaimed literature here. But vibrators are encouraged!

The warmth of burnt oranges, bright yellows and deep amber reds cast a comforting ambience through your apartment. Cascading windows brought the natural beauty of central park into your living room. You held your phone held close to your ear as you sat wrapped in your bathrobe, hair masked up, drinking in the luxurious moisture of the organic hair mask your best friend had brought you for your birthday. A warm cup of tea cooling peacefully by your side, nestled on the coffee table as you tried not to bite your nails. Coming back into your own head as if you'd been off somewhere else at the sound of your manager's voice.

“kink’s offering $90,000, they really want you to sign on as the submissive in this video Y/n.” It was almost as if your manager knew by your deafening silence that you had your reservations. “At least think about it. Three of the top five porn stars in the world, working together? That’s a lot of revenue for the company and not to mention that 90k? besides! I wouldn’t throw shit your way.”

“I've just never worked with either of them before, I’ll definitely have to do some research, ask around, find out what the go is.” It was something your manager, Alex, agreed with, opting to let you do your research before accepting the deal you’d been offered by Kink and ask around the industry. Weigh up the pros and cons before making a commitment or passing up the opportunity to work with Jake Seresin and Bradley Bradshaw .

“At this stage.” Looking out across the park as trees blew leaves haphazardly across the pavement, you sighed. “I really need to do my research but I wanna say yes just because I know I won’t get this offer again anytime soon.” Alex agreed on his end. “Just keep that between us! It’s not in writing, but yeah, I guess it’s worth it.”

Jake Seresin and Bradley Bradshaw, two of the world's most renowned Dominants in the porn industry. A chance to work with them was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and surely one that doesn’t come around twice. You see, Jake and Bradley had a very unusual request, only one, and that request was–

They only ever work with a submissive once and once only.

So when Kink offered you the chance to work with two of the most well respected, very talented and downright jaw-dropping best friends how could you say no? Their careers as dominants had taken off around the same time you had started gaining recognition as one of the top female submissives in the BDSM community.

Although you were a switch at heart and could dish it out to both men and women just as much as you could take it – you could never resist the chance to be tied up and ‘tortured’ whenever the opportunity was handed your way. And what’s better than being denied an orgasm by a dominant? Being denied an orgasm by two incredibly handsome dominants. 

It took you, if you had to time it, a rough four hours to decide to take up the offer and work with Jake and Bradley. You rang around, asked the questions that needed to be asked. It really did settle your nerves asking those who had worked with Jake and Bradley in the past what they were like. It only took you so long to decide because the layout you received of the scenes looked pretty intense – maybe even the most intense video you’d ever shoot. Kink was trying to get you to branch out and they knew to offer you the gig with the duo would entice you even more, because, at the end of the day you were still human and there was not a doubt in your mind that you would let Jake Seresin and Bradley Bradshaw take you – with or without the money. 

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

As a professional, you did your research – well, by research I mean you sat at your desktop and binge watched any and all videos the dynamic duo had ever done. Especially for Kink, because they were brutal and you needed to know how they operated.

So you sat for hours, drinking your tea and teasing your sensitive bundle of nerves every now and again as you watched Jake fuck Rachel (Phoenix Trance, another very popular pornstar) with a dick stick as Bradley whipped her clamped tits. Oh, boy, did she look helpless tied up like that – hands tied with rope above her head as her toes just barely touched the ground. She was almost suspended. To the untrained eye, it really did look as if she was in pain, desperately trying to force her leg from Jake's shoulder as he thrust the dildo repeatedly into her soaking cunt.

But for you? a pro? You knew all the signs to look for and without a doubt in your mind – Phoenix was loving every second of the painful pleasure that was being inflicted on her body by Jake and Bradley.

At the same time as you were researching them, Jake was happily stroking his throbbing cock to videos of you being a submissive. 

“Ah fuck!” He sat on his bed, laptop just to the side of him, legs spread wide as he slowly pumped his throbbing length watching on as you took a paddling like a true champ. Your ass so raw as you bent over the bench, hands tied in true bondage style as you gaged around the cock that was face fucking you at the same time. “Such a good girl—“ Jake was thinking the same, you looked defenceless against the two burly men whose faces he couldn’t recognise. Unlike him and Bradley, most male dominants are off-screen as much as possible, whereas they like to show the whole world how they fuck their submissives. 

“You can’t take a lot can't you?” Jake was looking for signs of distress, looking for your tell-tale signs to ‘stop’ or ‘slow down’ and he only saw one. You would gag three consecutive times if you truly needed to breathe, not wanting to break character, the dominant would back away, slap your face with his cock a few times before going straight back to work.

Bradley was busy doing his own research, but unlike Jake? he was watching you be a dominant.

See when it came to being a dominant or dominatrix to be politically correct, you much preferred to work with women. Why? Because you knew how to work your way around a woman's body. And views were always ten times higher so with good revenue coming in for the company, meant a bigger paycheck for you. You enjoyed your job, truly you did but sometimes it was more about taking the biggest check so you could provide for yourself financially.

“Ohh fuck—“ Bradley watched as you held your submissive’s cheeks, her lips pressed out and puckered as you held what seemed to be a very high-speed vibrator to her sensitive bundle of nerves. With a hand wrapped around his length Bradley jutted his hips forward as he twitched in pure pleasure. “Such a tease.” 

You had her arms and legs tied together. Feet to wrist in some of the most professionally tied bondage Bradley had seen in a while. Almost as good as his own knotwork. Leaning over your submissive Bradley couldn’t help but noticed how much joy you took in pleasuring your submissive– Bradley was sure he’d fucked her once before but he couldn’t put a name to the fucked out face he was listening to scream for you to let her cum. It was safe to say Bradley was very much impressed with your abilities none the less but watching how you ‘torture’ your submissives just made him want to give you something to cry about. “Let’s see how you like your own medicine.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Nervous. That’s what you were when you entered the lobby of Kink’s headquarters in New York. Like a 5-star hotel lobby, it blew you away with its magnificent ability to be seemingly innocent in its disguise. Walking up to the ‘reception?’ you stuttered a bit before the lady typing away on the computer noticed who you were.

“Hi, um–I’m h-here to shoot a video for–”

“Y/n darling, we’ve been expecting you!” The lady confessed with a wide smile that was warm and welcoming. “I’ll show you to the room shall I?” Before you could even nod she was on her feet. Her pencil skirt was so unbelievably tight around her thighs and ass that you could clearly make out the thong underneath the thin fabric. Her red bottoms clicked against the marble flooring until you both reached the elevator. Stepping in, it felt awkward – so you prepared for the awkward silence. But to your surprise, she kept talking.

“This your first time working with us?”

“Hmm? Oh-oh yeah” You mumbled, pushing your hair behind your ear as you cleared your throat. “I’ve never shot in this building before, but I’m not a virgin to Kink – done maybe three or four soft bondage videos for you guys.” She smiled, generally intrigued by your conversation.

“I think I’ve watched a few of your videos actually, either that or I’ve mailed the check.” This time you both laughed, it made you feel really comfortable walking into such a compromising situation–but you figured that was a part of her job description. When the elevator dinged, signalling you had reached your final destination, she bid you a professional farewell.

“Well Y/n I hope you enjoy your day. Two doors down the hall to your right.” You nodded in response, still nervous but much more confident than you were just moments ago. As you walked down the hall, remembering the directions given, you stopped at the door that read “Seresin/Bradshaw x Lavender” on the front. It was common knowledge your last name wasn’t lavender, it was somewhat of a stage name, something to give you an extra boost of confidence. Your last name wasn’t public knowledge. 

Knocking three gentle times it wasn’t long before someone opened the door, and boy were you instantly smiling when you noticed it was Jake Seresin himself.

“Hi” Was all you said as he stepped to the side to welcome you inside.

“Hi? That’s all the guy who’s about to fuck your brains out gets?” You immediately knew Jake was joking by his tone of voice. You let out a sheepish laugh, biting your bottom lip as you tried to hide the smile growing on your somewhat nervous face. Jake turned, leaning against the door he’d just locked behind himself, arms folded over his chest as the black T he wore looked as if it was about to burst from his chest.

“Rumour has it you only want me for my body Seresin? Where’s your other half anyway?” Jake chuckled before running a hand through his hair, only to gesture over to Bradley who was helping the camera crew set up their stations and double checking they had all the toys the scenes required.

“He’s being pedantic, has to make sure everything’s perfect for every shoot we do.” Jake placed a hand on the small of your back as he walked you deeper into the dimly lit room. Blinds drawn and studio lights already shining. “Especially for such a highly anticipated collaboration - Who knows? Maybe if you’re as good as what I’ve seen we might have to see each other again?” You stood still, frozen in your tracks at the words that just escaped Jake Seresin’s mouth.

“You don’t work with people more than one time around? I know your rule, don’t be a tease.” You scoffed, somewhat flirting to ease your anxieties.

“Aren’t rules meant to be broken? M’not teasing Y/n, just letting you know that if you’re a good girl we might be able to come to a standing agreement.” Jake was smug in the way he spoke to you, clearly already very deep into his dominant character–a method actor for the camera. So you humoured him, trying hard to fight off the natural dominant within yourself as you would have to submit in less than half an hour.

“Well as long as you don’t break my rules Jake, I don’t think we’ll have a problem.” Confidence seeped from your pores, or maybe it was just the sweat beginning to build up from the heat being produced from the studio lights.

“And what would those rules be Y/n, hmm? does it have anything to do with the fact you gag three times in a very not so natural way if you can't take a dick down your throat?” Remember that confidence you thought you had? Yeah no, it was definitely just sweat.

“How did you kno—” Before you could finish your sentence, Jake spun you around so your back was against his chest, his hands pulling your arms behind your back, coming between the two of you as he leaned over to whisper in your ear.

“I do my research sweetheart, oh am I going to have fun with you today.” His hot breath fanned against your cool skin, causing goosebumps to rise wherever it fanned against. The heat between your legs already began to rise but maybe that was Jake’s objective to begin with, get you as naturally wet as he possibly could before filming commenced.

“Trust me I did my own, that stick thrust? weak at best.” You fired back, looking over your shoulder as Jake's grip around your wrist became tighter at the sound of your fiery voice.

“Oh yeah? We’ll have to see about that, won't we? God wait until Bradshaw gets a hold of those perky tits – you’ll be begging for a fucking orgasm.” Jake let you go as he stepped away. His pants had become increasingly tighter at the thought of what he was about to do to your perfect body. Your attitude just made it even better. He always loved a fight, loved some foreplay before really getting into it.

“Shall we?” Jake questioned, gesturing to the stool you would be sitting on momentarily, going through your safe words and restrictions.

“Only if you have something other than that belt hugging your waist to choke me with?” You teased, walking past him to the chair, smiling at Bradley who was waiting–arms crossed and smirking wildly as he watched you saunter over. You could hear Jake mumble under his breath but chose to ignore it so you could get the nitty gritty part out of the way so the three of you could truly have some fun.

“Trust me, the thing I'll be choking you with isn’t on my pants, it’s in them.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***

“Okay Y/n, are you over the age of eighteen?” Bradley asked as the camera’s focused themselves on you as you sat perfectly poised on the stool. Both Jake and Bradley sat just off camera for this section of the filming, just asking the necessary questions the audience would love to know when the video is finished and posted.

“I am.” You politely responded, crossing your legs as you held your hand over your knees. You were far too excited, probably more excited than you’d ever been to go to work. 

“Okay good.” Bradley was reading from a list of mandatory questions that needed to be asked, stuff Jake and himself had to know before they could even lay a finger on you – something Jake didn’t really consider before when he was making you cream your panties in the name of foreplay.

“what’s your safe word when not gaged?”

“Red.” You smiled, biting your bottom lip.

“And how about when you’re gagged?”

“Three consecutive uh uh uh’s, really quick, you’ll know it if you hear them.” Bradley nodded as Jake smiled, he already knew that.

“What do you say in response to a question asked if you are completely comfortable and enjoying yourself?”

“Yes sir.” You were getting squirmy, moving around the stool as your panties dampened, every question Bradley asked meant you were closer to getting fucked –and truthfully? You had never been so excited.

“How about if you need one or both of us to pull back but not break character or stop the scene?”

“Yes master.”

“Good, okay.” Bradley was checking off questions left and right, flying through the paperwork he had to fill out as he smirked at you, his eyes dark and full of lust.

“What are your restrictions?” Jake took over, eggar to know with a curious tone to his husky, deep voice. Giggling innocently, you looked at the two of them, the camera crew practically none existent in your mind at this point – you had done this too many times before to worry about a few extra men and women seeing you get fucked.

“I don’t like foot play and I really don’t care for electro stim –so don’t come at me with anything that shocks or zaps.”

“So overstimulation, orgasm denial, anal, and double penetration are okay? Just no prods or feet. Am I correct in my assumptions?” Jake was being more than professional for the camera, he knew exactly what to say and when to say it.

“More than okay.” It was the way Bradley coughed slightly to clear his throat, interrupting Jake before he could literally walk towards you right that second and start taking you as if you were all his to play with.

“Okay well, I think we have everything we need, I’ll have Jake quickly log this and I’ll help you get set up shall I?” Bradley stated as he smiled wildly, excited to finally get you out of your pretty sundress and into some restraints. He definitely hadn’t forgotten about the video he had watched of you ‘torturing’ you submissive – so he was very keen to have you screaming, begging to cum.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

Bradley was gentle with his hands as he hogtied you with the thick natural rope – talking to you naturally while off camera.

“This okay?” He asked as he tightened the rope, pulling your arms back the slightest bit more to meet your feet. Your stomach flat against the bench, exactly hip height to where Bradley stood beside you.

“Could be tighter if you want it for aesthetic but it’s okay Bradley.”

“I saw what Jake was doing before? Did it work?” He chuckled as he walked around the bench, making sure you were properly restrained on all angles.

“I don’t know, you tell me?” You teased, your legs spread and already bent – it would be so easy for Bradley to slide his hand down your ass cheek to see if his best friend really did get you nice and slick–which Jake had, but Bradley just groaned softly. He could wait, but the question on the tip of his tongue was could you?

“I would, but I’ve got something else planned for you first.” Placing a blindfold over your pretty eyes before giving you a quick and sharp slap to your ass before he left you hogtied and alone on the bench, retreating to get the camera crew and track down where Jake had wandered off to.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

It wasn’t long after Bradley left that you once again heard heavy footsteps in the room and you knew it was go time by the slow and steady way they walked. Your breathing became increasingly heavy with anticipation. Everything was quiet for a moment, the only thing that could be heard was your heavy breathing–until you felt a slight sting against your pussy.

“Ah!” You whimpered softly before you felt the sting again, it wasn’t a hand so it could only be what you assumed to be a soft whip one of the duo was working to flick against your slick, dripping pussy. You could feel a hand being twisted and interlaced in your hair, making a makeshift ponytail, pulling your head up from the bench.

“Open your mouth.” You heard the familiar voice of Bradley say – or maybe it was Jake? Without your visual to back you up, you weren’t entirely sure, but regardless of who it was you did as you were told when you felt the head of their cock glide against your soft bottom lip. Plump and ready.

“Good girl.” You heard him say before he slowly got himself familiar with the feeling out your mouth and throat. ‘Good girl’ You thought as you gaged around his shaft–definitely Jake. He didn’t give you much time at all to adjust to his size, beginning to face fuck you hard enough for your mouth to salivate like crazy, spit trailing from your lips to his tip whenever he would pull back to give the camera something nasty to film. 

“Do you like the way my cock feels in that dirty mouth or yours, slut?” Jake worked to slap your face softly with his wet, heavy cock as he asked you the first question of the day— testing to see if you remembered the responses. Starting with something mild.

“Yes s-sir.” You responded before his cock was being shoved firmly down your throat once again–thrust picking up speed and depth as Bradley continued his soft assault of whips against your pussy, tenderising the area so overstimulation would be quick and easy to obtain.

“Uh--!” You gagged around Jakes length, not only from him face fucking your mouth but from Bradley’s own whipping progressively getting harder–faster, not so soft against your sensitive clit that was beginning to throb from the sharp slaps it was receiving. Long strains of perfectly woven strings all working harmoniously to bring you pleasure in the hands of a master.

“Look at you.” You heard Bradley say from behind you as Jake never slowed his assault on your face. “Do you want me to make you cum?” You gagged, Jake only pulled out of your warm mouth to marvel at the sight of your swollen lips and chin glistening from your own saliva and his cock just covered– jerking himself off as he waited for you to answer.

“Y-yes sir!” You cried through gritted teeth, your breathing heavier than before as you tried catching your breath quickly before Jake shoved his cock straight back down your tight, contracting throat. With one last whip you whimpered around the length stilled in your throat before feeling a set of fingers spreading your lips apart.

“Look at how wet you are? I bet if I just blew on your throbbing clit right now you would cum instantly?” Bradley teased, a hand came down heavily on your left ass cheek – making you jump slightly before you felt something enter you. God, you wished you could see what they were doing to you.

It was the stick dildo, entering your tight fuck hole as Jake pulled away, finally letting your hair go as your head fell heavily to the bench.

“Oh fuck!” You moaned as Bradley pushed the dildo deep inside your pussy, so deep you swore it was in your gut.

“You want to cum?” Bradley asked as he began thrusting the dildo in and out of your slick cunt. Already making you a moaning mess. “Answer me, whore–” 

“Please! Please yes, make me cum sir!” You cried, begged as he fucked you so good with the dick stick, you couldn’t see but you had a feeling his face was right in front of your pussy, getting a front row seat as he kneeled behind you.

From the whipping stimulating your clit and the thrust filling you so good you were so close, so close to hitting your first high of the shoot.

“Please can I cum sir!” You cried, whimpering as you trembled, Bradley never slowed his pumps as he watched you take the dildo nearly as big as his own deep inside you.

“Hold it.” He ordered, a scream of pain leaving your lips as you tried so hard to stop yourself from releasing. “Beg for it you little whore.”

“Ah--! Sir p-please let me cum!” You begged, you were so close to not being able to hold back any longer, until you heard it, the words that made tears soak the blindfold wrapped tightly around your eyes.

“Not. A. Chance.” You felt the dildo leave your body, now empty you sobbed from the denial. Both Jake and Bradley left the room as you cooled down a bit– ready for the next intense scene to begin.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

It was pure torture—being denied of an orgasm. But you loved it, the feeling of being powerless yet having all the power at the same time. Because you see, it’s never really the dominant who’s in control. It’s always the submissive - especially during a bondage scene because, with one word, you have the power to completely shut it down. Being powerless in a controlled and safe environment is exactly what you were right now, having been tortured within an inch of an orgasm you didn’t think it could get worse. Oh, how mistaken you were.

Hands tied above your head with one leg planted firmly on the ground and another tied to a plank of wood. This time you could see and oh how thankful you were for such a blessing. You couldn’t just feel the clamps pinching at your sensitive nipples, but you could see the way your buds plumped under the pressure of the harsh clamps that brought you so much pleasure— slightly irritated from the pressure they found themselves under. Just enough but somewhat painful. If left to be still it felt as if nothing was there, move slightly and oh shit.

You heard the familiar sound of the duo’s footsteps creaking against the wooden floorboards—you could see them this time, both of them in all their glory. Right now you could only describe them as sex on legs, but you were sure you’d have to wait to feel them inside you another time, maybe being a good girl as Jake said could be your only chance at feeling his cock inside your cunt instead of just your mouth - but at a later date that would have to be discussed because right now they were both walking towards you dangerously slow. Jake holding a vibrator in his large hand and Bradley with his signature whip.

You tried to move, whimpering slightly as Bradley got close enough to pull on the nipple clamps that made themselves at home on your perky tits. The chain dropping between them.

“Miss us?” He asked with a cocky smirk, pulling your head to the side as you answered a simple “Yes sir” While he trailed harsh kisses down your neck.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and Jake will let you cum? Do you want Jake to make you cum?” Bradley’s eyes never left your beautiful face as he moved to the side of you– allowing a smirking Jake to drop to his knees before you, placing the currently off vibrator against your very stimulated, very sensitive clit.

“Yes sir.” You whimpered only for Jake to slowly but surely turn on the vibrator one setting at a time. 

“Ooh—! aauurrggg—--Yes!” You cried aloud. Your leg instantly shaking from the feeling. Bradley pulled and teased at the nipple clamps, his hands gentle in compassion to when he started to whip the soft whip against your exposed chest.

You tried running, but you had absolutely nowhere to go. The coil in your stomach tightening quicker than ever before as Jake effortlessly brought you closer to your orgasm - hopefully Bradley was right, hopefully Jake would let you cum.

“Aah-! Please, sir can I cum!” You groaned through gritted teeth as Bradley continued his assault on your now very raw exposed chest. Jake shook his head no, looking up at the desperation in your eyes he felt his cock throbbing.

“Why should I let you cum? What do I, well we, get out of it?” You really couldn’t think, barely able to speak as you held onto your orgasm for as long as possible.

“Anything, please sir just let me c-cum! M’begging” you cried out, at this point it was just pathetic how much you were crying out, begging to feel any sort of release. Wet tears streamed down your cheeks but everything just felt so damn good, like you were floating. 

“Ahhhhhhh please, please I need to–I’m gonna– !” You cried again as Bradley tugged hard on the nipple clamps that were oh so tight on your nipples.

“You can cum but say what you are?” Jake turned the intensity up to the highest setting as he worked his fingers into your pussy, curling his fingers into your velvet walls as he manoeuvred the vibrator just right.

“Ahah- uhhh, I’m a fucking whore!” You whimpered. Your body trembling as your eyes rolled to the back of your head - squirting all over Jake’s hands as he finger fucked and teased your overstimulated clit through your orgasm–Bradley still working his magic on your exposed raw tits.

“Yes! Oh my fucking god yes! Mmmmm f-fuck!” You were sure your moans could be heard from outside the room but you didn’t care–you finally came, granted permission. Still coming down from you high as Bradley grabbed your face and pulled you towards him.

“We aren’t finished just yet, just one more thing before you're free to go.”

Jake slapped your clit three times after pulling the vibrator away–you were exhausted. Once again both men leaving you alone to recover for the next and final shoot of the day.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

There was nothing normal about your line of work, however – what’s better than making money off the feeling of euphoria. That’s how you felt when you were about to start the next and final scene of the shoot today. Jake and Bradley going out of their way to make sure you had a good experience with them and considering they were already considering working with you again? You were more than happy to play along with whatever they had installed for you – already knowing it wouldn’t be anything to do with your only two restrictions.

This scene was different all together, you were kneeling on a double bed made to perfection. your hands tied behind your back while a ball gag was sitting comfortably between your lips. Silvia already making its way down your chin as you salivated at the thought of what was to come. 

When you caught the eyes of the two men, you were stunned to see them fully exposed and both rock hard. Their cocks bouncing freely as they sauntered over to you on the bed. Making sure to keep your cool so to not break character you eyed them both off as they sat softly on either side of you. Bradley must have had a fetish for your tits, because not only could he still see the lines his whip had left behind from the last scene, but he just wanted to feel his lips around your sensitive bud. So he did just that, diving head first into your chest to suck harshly on your nipple.

“Mmm–” You moaned as he sucked deep purple and red marks on sensitive buds – breaking some of your capillaries from the pressure. A pain you enjoyed and would marvel at the sight left behind in days to come.

Jake's hand diving straight for your entrance, making sure you were still slick as ever for him – and he wasn’t left disappointed. A smirk coming across his face when he saw you flinch from the overstimulation – so sensitive after being denied and tortured before. Jake grabbed at your face, his hand squashing your lips together as he came face to face with you.

“Are you going to take us both like the good girl you are?” Bradley finished his assault on your tits to come up and look at your face practically drained of all colour at the thought of having both their cocks buried deep inside you.

“Uhh huh” You moaned around the gag nodding your head with innocent eyes, Jake chuckled almost devilishly as Bradley rolled onto his back – bring you with him. pulling your chest down flat against his.

Bradley was quick to manoeuvre his cock to your entrance, unable to do so yourself considering your arms were bound behind your back in the same neutral rope used in both scenes before.

“Uhh-!” You cried out so beautifully in his ear, eyes rolling as he pushed himself further and further into your incredibly tight fuck hole. Bradley was biting his bottom lip as he lifted his hips just the slightest of bits to bottom out inside you, so snug and tight around his shaft–he could feel every pulse and shutter you made at the feeling of being so full, but not full enough.

As Bradley started a slow thrust into your pussy, Jake kneeled behind the two of you, stroking his own length with one of his hands and rubbing as much lube as he possibly could around your puckering tight ass hole. The feeling of Jake pressing his fingers around your ass made you want to cum then and there on the spot – but you knew what he was working up to, and you were so ready to feel so full. 

As soon as you felt Jake's hand come to rest on your bound arms and Bradley’s hands squeeze against your ass cheeks – you knew it was about to happen. Soon enough the feeling of Jake pressing his tip inside your ass flooded every part of your body and you let out the most pornographic moan you had ever done, even some of the crew who were filing were stunned to hear you moan so beautifully as Jake pressed his cock further inside your incredibly tight ass.

“UUHH--!” Tears of pleasure were now starting to roll down your cheeks and Bradley realised that he had achieved his goal in giving you something to cry about. Both Jake and Bradley now balls deep inside you, one cock inside your ass, another pressing against your cervix – it was a feeling like no other and you couldn’t control your moans and whimpers of pleasure.

Not being able to tell them how you felt due to the ball gag hindering you from speaking, you could only tell them through your cries of pleasure. And they could only say so much to you during the process as well, not able to take things to a personal level like calling your name. all Bradley wanted to do at the very moment he saw your eyes roll was tell you how pretty you looked and all Jake wanted to do when he felt himself bottom out was let you know how fucking amazing you are at taking two large cocks inside you at the same time – but they couldn’t, contractually. Because it's porn and there are no relations in BDSM.

“Do you like the way we feel?” Jake asked at the very moment Bradley spanked your ass.

“UHH!” You replied, spit dripping from your chin onto Bradley’s chest as they fucked you at different speeds. Jake slow and steady in your tight ass while Bradley went all in, thrusting mercilessly into your dripping cunt.

“Do you want that gag out of your mouth? Bradley asked as he looked over your shoulder at Jake who was literal milliseconds away from blowing his load in your ass. You could only nod furiously – no noise escaping past your lips as you felt the familiar coil within you tighten as you enjoyed being used by two of the most renowned Dominants in the porn community.

Jake unclipped the gag, throwing it away and you couldn’t hold back any longer, screaming out how much you wanted to cum, how good it felt to be so full and stretched and how much you wanted them to flood you with everything they had.

“Please let me cum!” You cried looking down at Bradley as you felt Jake's hand come down on your right ass cheek.

“No” Bradley hissed as he slammed into you, his hand coming to wrap around your throat as Jake continuously spanked your ass–causing you to let out tiny “Ah’s” every time his slightly calloused hand made contact with your raw sensitive skin.

“Please, sir! C-can I cum!” You begged again, begging to feel the release, the pleasure, the euphoria.

Jake looked down at Bradley with a nod of approval and Bradley did the same, both about to shoot their thick hot spurts of cum deep inside you.

“You can cum but tell us what you are.” Bradley ordered and without a second to think you were creaming around his cock, pulsing like crazy around his shaft as you fell even more lifeless into his chest.

“I’m a f-fucking cum whore!”

As you came Jake felt your ass tighten around his shaft and that was enough to throw him overboard, spilling his hot creamy mess inside your deep stretched out ass hole. Bradley doing the same, only into your tight cunt, his load mixing around with yours as you trembled between the two of them – completely fucked out and exhausted.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

As you got ready, covered your body in the coconut scented moisturiser you liked so much, fixed your hair and makeup after an extensive shower, you exited the studio bathroom only to be greeted by Jake and Bradley who were once again – fully clothed and staring intensely at you. You could only raise an eyebrow in confusion at their weird behaviour.

“Do we need to redo a shot?” You couldn't for the life of you fathom doing a reshoot after how taxing today had been on your body, not that you hadnt enjoyed it. “I swear if that’s what you're asking me we’ll have to do it another time because–” 

“Take this” Jake Interrupted you, handing you a piece of paper that had both Bradley and Jake's personal numbers written down. “I’m a man of my word and you were a very good girl Y/n.” You couldn’t stop the smile from plastering itself across your face or the feeling of heat rising in the apples of your cheeks.

“I already have the company’s number? Why would you give me your personal numbers?” you asked, still confused – most likely from being exhausted and ever so sore.

“I never once said we wanted to work with you again – you made that assumption on your own, I just went along with it.” Jake explained, but you still didn’t get it and that’s where Bradley stepped in to clear things up.

“What Jake's trying to say is we’d love to see you again, maybe on a personal call next time – just us three and no sets?” You looked at Bradley, your jaw almost hitting the ground.

“Mouth closed Y/n, you’ll catch flies.” Jake chuckled at your reaction. You instantly turned to face him more as you answered.

“Oh bite me Seresin.” You hissed jokingly as you giggled.

“That a yes though?” Bradley asked inquisitively – waiting for your response as your mind pondered the potential ramifications of a personal relationship or whatever this could be outside of the professional environment.

“You don’t have to ask me twice.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Part Two Coming Tomorrow

Tags: @phoenix1388 @avaleineandafryingpan @bradshawseresinbabe @cherrycola27 @bradshawbabes @desert-fern @jstarr86 @a-serene-place-to-be @sweetlittlegingy @teacupsandtopgun @marvelshauntedhouse @weirdothatwritess @darkheartcherry @elijahmikaelsonbitch @je-suis-prest-rachel @untoldshortsofthefandoms @chunkiwhunki @whatislovevavy @roosters-girl @endofdays56 @ccristata @emorychase @averyhotchner @xoxabs88xox @krismdavis @creativitybeware @afterglowsb-tch13 @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @ladscarlett @onlyheretowastetime @sometimesanalice

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Faking It | Part VIII

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

A/N: AHHH WE ARE AT THE GRAND FINALE!!! Y'all, I'm so sorry it took a galactic year but I hope you're still with me and that you enjoy this final episode of trope city. Thank you so much for all the support <3

Summary: Fake dating your friend, Bradley Bradshaw - what could possibly go wrong? Your sister is getting married and you need a date. You enlist Bradley's help and the rest is history.

CW: brief allusion to self-harm, swearing, making out, ANGST GALORE, fluff (not in any particular order)

Start from the beginning: Part I

Masterlist

“Are you cold?” Steven goes to take off his jacket.

“I’m fine,” you say impatiently. “Just get on with it, will you?”

Steven shrugs his jacket back on while you wrap your arms around yourself, holding in a shiver. The morning is much cooler than you expected it to be and there’s a white mist hanging over the surface of the placid water. Steven watches you pretend to be comfortable in your sundress under the moody skies. You’ve been pretending a lot lately.

“Today, Steven,” you say through gritted teeth because you’re clenching them to avoid them chattering.

He lets out a resolute sigh, looking down at the ground. He seems anxious. “Your boyfriend,” he says with a grimace, peering up at you briefly before reverting his gaze to the dock underfoot. “How well do you know him?”

You furrow your brows. “Excuse me?”

Steven purses his lips, kicking a stray pebble into the water. It makes a dull plopping sound before disappearing into the lake. “I suspected something was off the night of the bachelor party.”

“Not again.” You sigh irritably.

“He had very little to say about you,” he states. “Mostly just random trivia. Said you don’t like chocolate.”

You raise your eyebrows calmly without responding.

“When the guys asked how you got together, he clammed up. It was weird.”

You’re starting to regret your decision to talk to him. And you’re certainly no longer feeling sorry for him. “Do you have a point?”

Steven nods. “Then I went to see you. And you didn’t deny that this fling with your little aviator wasn’t all that serious.”

You find it ironic that Steven refers to Bradley as little considering Bradley is half a head taller than him, but you let it slide. “Your five minutes are almost up,” you respond coldly.

Steven watches you soberly, but something about the quirk of his eyebrow makes you think he might be enjoying himself. “He has a girlfriend,” he says.

You stare at him mutely, waiting for the air to return to your lungs. Slowly, everything inside of you begins to slide out of place, as if you’ve forgotten how to hold it all together. “What the fuck are you talking about?” you whisper. Meanwhile, every single moment you’ve ever experienced with Bradley Bradshaw filters through your mind as you desperately try to pick out the details that might have, in hindsight, served as clues. The hesitation to participate in your scheme; the reluctance to sleep in your bed; the aggravating lack of communication – isolated, these events might have been meaningless but, put together, they are questionable at the very least.

“Wasn’t difficult to figure out,” Steven continues, unaware that your brain is scrambling to put all the pieces together. “He’s all over her Instagram.”

“He doesn’t have an Instagram –”

“He’s not tagged, but it’s him alright. Some of your other pilot friends are also there, so…” Steven shrugs smugly, as if he’s performed a feat and is expecting commendation. When you don’t say anything, he decides to rub salt in the wound. “You know whose Instagram he’s not on?” he asks proudly. “Yours.”

You don’t bother looking up at him again. The bobbing dock starts to augment your vertigo and the gentle sway of your body in the breeze makes you feel strangely detached. You’re not thinking about Steven’s annoying tone, or his smug face, or even the gentle nudge he’s giving you to recapture your attention; you’re devising a plan of action for the next five hours, because that’s how long you will need to coexist with Bradley Bradshaw. After that, you will never have to deal with him again.

…

You make your way across the lawn unhurriedly, not keen on spending brunch pretending to still be enamored with your fake boyfriend. The escalating number of deceptions in what was originally a straightforward plot is making your head spin.

You see him leaning over the railing of the terrace, a beer in his hand. He’s staring out into the distance with a bit of a squint despite the dreary day. You hate how good he looks in his jeans and light, button-up shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up to his elbows; you hate the languid movement of his arm as he takes a sip of his drink; the slow, graceful fashion with which he rests it back over the rail; the relaxed bend in his wrist. Everything about him suddenly seems despicable.

When he sees you, he gives you a smirk – the kind that sets your insides ablaze despite your growing resentment – and pushes off the railing to start in your direction. You let out a wavering sigh, trying to extinguish whatever lingering feelings you may have. You’ve resolved to omit the true purpose of Steven’s visit; you can’t imagine a worse time and place to air your dirty laundry than at your sister’s wedding brunch with an audience of your closest family members. So, you smile back at him as he skips down the steps – you’ve become quite proficient at pretending; what’s another few hours of faking it?

Bradley’s pace quickens as he cuts across the yard until he’s nearly running and, when he arrives, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into an embrace. He leans down to kiss you, but you inadvertently turn away and he ends up pecking your cheek. Mistake number one.

You give him another tense smile, taking a step back because his hands are much too casually exploring your rigid body. Mistake number two.

“So,” you say, nearly taking a chunk out of the inside of your cheek as you bite into it forcefully. “Cheat on anybody lately?” you ask tersely. Mistake number –

“Excuse me?” he says, taken aback.

So much for pretending. You watch him coldly as his expression transforms but, as it turns out, you have nothing else to add.

“What did he say to you?” Bradley asks, eyes darkening under his converging eyebrows.

You let out a derisive laugh.

“What did he say?” he repeats.

You glare at him. “You know exactly what he said.”

Bradley bristles. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

You watch him impassively, as if his betrayal has had zero effect on you. “Are you fucking serious, Bradley?”

Bradley’s offended expression turns to hurt as his eyes sweep over your features. “You’re not even going to let me explain?” he asks in a grating whisper.

You scoff, his words confirming that there is, in fact, something to explain. “Does she know you’re here?”

Bradley shifts his jaw, his eyes narrowing. He studies you quietly for a few moments.

“What baffles me,” you say. “Is how easy it’s been for you to just lie about it.”

“Wasn’t that the whole point of this?” he asks coolly.

You chuckle although his words sting. “You’re right. This was all an act and I’m just the idiot who fell for it.”

Bradley eyes you contemptuously but says nothing.

“You almost slept with me,” you whisper, your lips trembling as you concentrate on keeping your voice steady. “Don’t tell me that that was your objective this whole time.”

Bradley’s eyebrows crease as he tries to follow your line of reasoning. “You think I agreed to this ridiculous stunt just so I could possibly have an opportunity to fuck you?” he hisses. “Why would anyone put that much effort into one – not even guaranteed – fuck?”

You watch him angrily although he does make a valid point. “Why are you here, then?” you ask, trying desperately to keep your volume down. “You have a girlfriend!”

“First of all,” Bradley says stonily. “Had.”

“When?”

He lets out a sigh.

You shake your head at him with a disdainful smile and raise your eyebrows expectantly. “Yesterday? Last week?”

“I broke up with her after you asked me to come here.”

“Why?” You shrug indifferently as though you really couldn’t care less.

“You begged me to come.”

“I didn’t know you were seeing someone!” you bite back.

Bradley lifts his eyes to nod politely at your grandparents as they pass the two of you toward the stairs leading up to the terrace. Then he hooks his arm through yours and starts dragging you away from the venue toward the docks by the lake. You struggle against his grip, but he doesn’t let go until you’re far enough away from the crowd to be out of earshot. “So what?” he rounds on you in a low voice.

You stare at him in disbelief. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It didn’t come up.”

You scoff incredulously.

“You didn’t tell me about Steven.”

“That’s not the same thing. Steven and I haven’t been together in months.”

“This wasn’t supposed to be anything, Y/N,” he says roughly. “It was all fake. Why would I even think to tell you about her?”

You look down at his brown dress shoes as they sink into the red clay of the bank, feeling the unmistakable pressure of tears as your eyes begin to well up. “It was all fake, wasn’t it?” you mutter.

“No, that’s not” – the brown dress shoes take a step forward – “you know that’s not what I meant.”

“How long have you been with her?” you ask, cutting him off.

“What does that matter?” he says wearily.

“It matters,” you respond.

Bradley sighs and looks out at the lake over your shoulder. “Six months.”

You close your eyes and take a breath. “That’s a long time.”

He nods, sucking his cheeks in as his jaw shifts forward. He’s studying your face thoughtfully. “Your turn,” he says.

“What?”

He licks his lips. “How much of it was fake?”

You scoff again, shaking your head. “I’m not doing this.”

“So, it’s fine putting me on the spot, but you can’t answer a simple question?” he says irritably.

“I put you on the spot because you lied.”

Bradley watches you coldly. “When did it stop being fake, Y/N?”

“I don’t know!” you shout in frustration. “When did it stop being fake for you?”

Bradley stares at you blankly. He runs a hand over his face, looking down. He furrows his eyebrows before glancing back up at you with a bewildered expression, as though he can’t believe you’ve just posed exactly the same question he had asked you. “It was never fake for me,” he says hoarsely.

You stare at him as a flurry of emotions does a nauseating dance in the pit of your stomach. His answer has taken you by surprise and you can’t think of anything appropriate to say in return.

When you don’t respond, he adds, “You can’t possibly not already know that.”

You slowly shake your head, wanting more than anything to believe what he says. “How would I know?”

Bradley watches you in amazement, exhaling with a small laugh as he takes a couple steps toward you. He lifts his hand and places it tenderly on your cheek. “Two months ago,” he says. “I walk into the Hard Deck, just looking for a cold beer and a night off. And the first thing I see is you behind the bar.”

You feel yourself melting right into the palm of his hand, lulled by the smooth rasp of his voice.

“You’re new,” he says, and then chuckles. “You’re definitely new because you can’t tell an ale from a lager.”

You wrinkle your eyebrows. “A what from a what?”

Bradley grins briefly before continuing. “You’re fucking stunning,” he says in a throaty whisper. You feel his face drift closer to yours just as the wind picks up. He brings his other hand up to tuck your hair behind your ear. “And I come up to the bar and you haven’t even said a word to me yet, all you do is look up with these wild, frantic, most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, as you’re desperately trying to figure out the exact ratio of gin to tonic in somebody else’s drink.” You bite your lip sheepishly, remembering your first night working the bar. Bradley smiles at the memory. “You’re meticulously measuring out the two ingredients – which tells me, right off the bat, that you’re an extremely conscientious person – and, after you’re done, you look me right in the eye and say, ‘You look thirsty.’”

You laugh through your tears. “I did not say that.”

Bradley chuckles. “You did. And I was,” he adds.

You snort at the insinuation but then Bradley’s hand begins to trail down your neck, disrupting your train of thought. His touch is disarming and you try your best not to sink into him despite every impulse to just give in. The truth is, there’s nothing he can say that will change the fact that he played both you and his ex. So, you bring your hand up and wrap it around his wrist, pulling it away from where his fingers are resting over your heart. “Doesn’t matter,” you say quietly. “None of it matters anymore.”

“How could you say that?” he asks, his breathing ragged.

You sigh mechanically, expertly keeping your emotions in check. “This changes everything,” you say. “I feel like I don’t know you, Bradley. I mean, I don’t know you.”

Bradley shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

You close your eyes as if not looking at him might make it easier. “You need to leave,” you whisper.

“Look at me,” he pleads.

You open your eyes and focus your gaze on the greenest grass you’ve ever seen. Only, today, it’s grey. Must be the weather.

“Y/N,” Bradley urges, his voice cracking in his desperation. “Look at me. Please.”

“No!” The force of your response surprises even you. “You have to go,” you say resolutely.

But as you start to walk away, you hear him calling out to you. “You owe me!”

You turn around in confusion. “What?” you say under your breath.

“You heard me,” he says, marching toward you with purpose. “You owe me. Anything I want, remember?”

You stare at him incredulously. “You can’t possibly –”

“I know what I want,” he says, taking several final strides toward you before clutching your hands and holding them in between his chest and yours. “I want you – I need you – to hear me out.”

You wince as his face nears yours. “That’s not fair,” you whisper.

“Please don’t do this,” he mutters. “Please don’t. I – I’m” – his face contorts uncomfortably as he searches for the right words – “I messed up,” he says. “I’m sorry. Please.” He rests his forehead on yours. “Please forgive me.”

The irony of suffering through a real breakup with your fake boyfriend is not lost on you. It’s absurdly painful considering you’ve only realized you had feelings for this man mere days ago. But it’s not just Bradley’s towering build; not just his sculpted arms and chiselled chest that give you pause. It’s every little thing he’s ever said and done. It’s the pepper spray, the heels, the pillow wall; it’s the dancing, the kiss; it’s the way he looks at you. It’s Bradley.

You taste the salt of your own tears as they slip into your parted mouth. You want to kiss him so badly, just a little, just for a moment, just one last time. And as his lips hover hesitantly over yours you realize why. It’s simple, really. You’re in love with Bradley Bradshaw. How reckless of you. How wildly inconvenient.

…

You wipe at the spotless counter aggressively as your mind wanders once again to that fateful day three weeks ago when you did not, in fact, get to kiss Bradley Bradshaw just one last time. Not even for a moment, not even a little bit.

“It’s clean, I think,” you hear a voice at the other end of the bar. You glance up to see Jake Seresin slide out a barstool and take a seat at the counter.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” you respond, glancing at the clock. It’s barely eleven and the place is deserted. You walk toward him reluctantly, having encountered neither Bradley nor any of his friends since the day of the brunch. “Lost another bet, Seresin?” you ask, eyeing the wide brim of his tan cowboy hat.

He smirks, lifting the hat off his head and setting it down on the bar. “Funny.”

You toss your towel under the bar and place your hands on the counter. “What can I get you?”

“Oh, I’m not here to drink,” he says.

You sigh quietly, reaching for your towel again. The truth is, you haven’t gone a single day without thinking about what could have been if you hadn’t stopped the kiss. If you hadn’t pushed Bradley away. If Bradley hadn’t hurled Steven into the lake.

You glance up at Jake as he fiddles with something in his hands. He eyes you pointedly. “I think you know why I’m here,” he says.

…

“Why are you still here?”

The booming voice of your ex-boyfriend rouses you, effectively disrupting the moment you’re having with Bradley. You withdraw from the embrace, separating your hands from his as you step away.

Bradley is shaking his head. “Don’t listen to him,” he begs.

You blink up at him with a sniffle and wipe your eyes. “He’s not the problem,” you say.

Bradley juts out his jaw as Steven steps into his field of vision. “I asked you a question,” Steven says forcefully.

Bradley watches him coldly. “Don’t start with me, Steven,” he says quietly.

“You’re not welcome here anymore,” Steven continues, bringing his shoulders back as he tries to tower over Bradley.

“Steven, stop” – you try to intervene, but Bradley cuts you off.

“I said,” Bradley hisses as he straightens his back to reciprocate the gesture. “Don’t start with me.”

Steven chuckles. “What are you going to do? Hit me?”

Bradley turns away. “You’re not worth it.”

Just when you start to think that the matter will work itself out peacefully, however, Steven shoves Bradley in the back, sending him stumbling slightly downhill. Bradley regains his footing just as Steven comes after him and blocks his subsequent attack, pushing him away. “I’m not fighting you!” Bradley roars.

“Steven, stop it!” you shout, running after them as Steven continues trying to provoke Bradley.

“What’s the matter?” Steven asks nastily. “Did I blow your cover, hotshot?”

Bradley narrows his eyes and his hands curl instinctively into fists. He looks like he’s about to snap. “Bradley!” you scream.

…

“Bradley,” you say calmly, meeting Jake’s gaze.

Jake nods. “I’m going to have to be honest,” he says. “Living with him has become unbearable. And, well, we blame you.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s not my problem.” You drop the dishtowel onto the counter and start wiping anew.

Jake’s hand lands over the cloth and he yanks it out of your grasp. “Listen here,” he says. “I don’t know how he fucked this up because he won’t say a goddamn word about it. But you’re gonna tell me what happened because I’m tired of this mess y’all made.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you say.

“I highly doubt that,” Jake says with an insincere smile. “The guy’s fucking in love with you, there’s no way he left you of his own accord.”

“The guy had a girlfriend of six months he didn’t think to tell me about,” you lash out at Jake, wiping the grin right off his face. “He’d been coming to the Hard Deck almost daily for two whole months without even mentioning her existence. And then he had the audacity to tell me he liked me from the moment we met? Either he was the shittiest boyfriend ever or he wasn’t as into me as he claims to have been. In any case, he’s a liar.”

…

“I didn’t lie about anything,” Bradley says steadily, watching Steven advance toward him once more. “There was no cover to blow.”

“Please!” Steven cackles. “The two of you fabricated an entire relationship!”

You close your eyes, much too tired to pretend any longer. If Steven is hellbent on divulging this particular secret, you aren’t going to be the one to stop him.

Bradley glares at Steven. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turns to look at you somberly. “I love you! I have been in love with you since day one,” he says. “I don’t even remember what not loving you feels like.”

“But you had a girlfriend,” you say agonizingly.

He nods, his eyes filling with tears. “Yeah,” he admits. “I did.”

…

“He’s not a liar, he’s a victim of circumstance,” Jake reasons.

You blink at him skeptically. “Is the circumstance that he’s an asshole?”

Jake snorts. “Maybe I will have a drink,” he says, scrunching up his nose.

You sigh and reach for a tumbler. You set it down on the polished counter and, giving Jake a pointed look, reach to grab a second one. He chuckles as you pour the whiskey.

“Neat,” he comments. “Just the way I like it.”

You sigh and down the glass with a straight face. “Why didn’t he just end things with her sooner?”

Jake sets his drink down after taking a swig. He narrows his eyes. “Wait, he didn’t tell you?”

…

“Tell him, Y/N,” Steven says forcefully. “Tell him to get the fuck out of here before I beat the shit out of him.”

“Steven, stop it!” you cry. You turn to Bradley with a frown. “You should go,” you say quietly.

Bradley shakes his head. “I’m not leaving.”

“You heard her!” Steven yells, lunging forward to give Bradley yet another push.

But Bradley completely ignores the attack. He continues watching you miserably as though he hasn’t just been unceremoniously displaced by an angry meathead. “You don’t want me to go,” he pleads with you.

You drop your head, closing your eyes. “I do,” you lie.

“It doesn’t matter what she wants,” Steven steps in between the two of you obnoxiously.

“Steven, for fuck’s sake, just leave!” you scream.

Steven rounds on you aggressively. “I’m trying to help you, you ungrateful cunt!”

But before you can respond with a few choice words of your own, Steven is yanked from the spot and launched into the lake like a frisbee. You gasp as he hits the water while Bradley just folds his arms and watches the ripples, waiting to see if Steven can swim.

…

“He tried breaking up with her,” Jake says, watching you cautiously as though he’s unsure whether he should be sharing this information with you.

You furrow your eyebrows. “When?”

Jake sighs and adjusts his posture, getting more comfortable in his seat. “They were on the rocks way before you came into the picture,” Jake says. “He’d tried breaking up with her several times actually, including the night he met you.”

“What do you mean ‘tried’?”

Jake narrows his eyes. “Why didn’t he tell you this?”

“Tell me what?”

…

“Are you happy now?” you yell over the lapping of the water.

Bradley turns to look at you wearily. “Less annoyed,” he says stoically.

“Well, now that we’ve managed to completely ruin my sister’s brunch,” you say, glancing up at the crowd of spectators gathered on the edge of the patio, “you’re free to go.”

You hear some sputtering near the dock as Steven tries to drag himself out of the water. Bradley nods, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I would’ve told you about her,” he says. “I would’ve told you everything.”

…

“She wouldn’t let him break up with her,” Jake says, carefully studying your reaction.

“What do you mean ‘wouldn’t let him’?” you ask.

“Pour another round,” Jake says.

You sigh sharply. “Just spill it, Seresin,” you grumble impatiently, grabbing the bottle of whiskey.

“She threatened to hurt herself.”

You freeze mid-pour and look up at him in shock.

“That’s enough for me, thanks,” he says, reaching for the bottle still tipped in your hand.

“I’ll have it then,” you say, sliding the full glass of whiskey toward yourself. Silently, you lift it to your lips and take a giant gulp.

“Easy,” Jake says with a cringe, pulling the tumbler out of your hand.

“So,” you breathe, staring blankly at the bar. “He was stuck.”

“He was stuck,” Jake confirms.

…

“I’m stuck!” Steven calls from the end of the dock.

You huff in frustration and give Bradley one last menacing look. “Just go already, will you?” you say tiredly, heading out onto the dock to help Steven out of the water. By the time Steven is on land and you turn around, Bradley is gone.

You glance over at the terrace where the crowd has started to disperse while Steven wrings out his clothes. You consider for a moment running after Bradley; catching him before he packs to leave. But then you feel Steven’s cold hands snaking around your midriff and you squirm.

“What are you doing?” you yelp, jerking away.

“Baby, just admit that you want me back,” he says lazily. “I just saved you from that asswipe. Don’t be a bitch now.”

You turn around in outrage and, just as Steven flashes his phoney grin, you push him back into the lake.

…

“So, how was he finally able to do it?” you ask, plopping a couple of ice cubes into your drink.

“He got lucky,” Jake replies. “He caught her cheating.”

You scoff. “Lucky.”

Jake shrugs. “Well, under the circumstances. He just wanted out.”

You stare at the ice melting in your whiskey. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.”

“Did you give him a chance?” Jake asks, gulping down the rest of his drink and rising from his seat.

You look up at him guiltily.

Jake clears his throat and places several bills on the bar. He taps on the counter a couple of times with his palm and then says, “He’s distracted in the air, Y/N. I’m worried about him.”

It makes you sick to think of Bradley unfocused in the cockpit, and you’re repulsed that it’s never occurred to you before, considering how often you daydream about the events of that unfortunate weekend. Of course, he’s been thinking about it. Of course, it’s been distracting him. You close your eyes and lower your head.

“Just talk to him, will ya?” Jake says.

You swallow uneasily, wondering what the fuck you could possibly say to Bradley after having completely blown him off, but you nod anyway. The least you could do is apologize.

After Jake leaves, you notice a folded piece of paper together with the bills he’s left behind. You pick it up to examine it. It’s your list – the one you’d given Bradley so that he could learn to be a more convincing fake boyfriend. You unfold it to find that he’s added his own notes to accompany yours. Things like, ‘this is absurd and you know it’ in response to ‘I don’t like chocolates but I love chocolate cake’ and ‘sounds like somebody else I know’ in response to ‘steer clear of Aunt Barb – she’s very pushy’.

You smile grimly, realizing how badly you’ve fucked up.

…

The next morning, you get permission from Penny’s boyfriend, Maverick, to visit the hangar while the squad trains. You’re sitting at one of the desks, listening to the boom of military aircraft as you nervously twiddle your thumbs in your lap. When you hear the unmistakable yelps of excited pilots just outside the hangar, you let out an anxious sigh and stand up.

As you’re rising from your seat, you see Bradley amidst the group of cheerful aviators, smiling and nodding as one of them claps him on the back. When he notices you, however, his smile falters and he slows to a halt, staring at you in disbelief. He’s got his helmet tucked under his arm and a chute bag slung over his shoulder and you realize that you’ve never seen him in his flight suit and that perhaps, if you had, you’d have fallen for him much sooner.

The other aviators look on as he starts removing his gear while walking toward you. The expression on his face is so intense that your already galloping heart feels like it might spring right out of your body. He sets his helmet down on a desk and approaches you slowly, his dark eyes searching yours carefully.

You gulp uneasily when he nears; the relief of having him stand right before you is something you hadn’t expected. Even given the currently ambiguous status of your relationship, being close to him feels right.

“Uh,” you utter. Good strong start. You close your eyes and try again. “Umm.” You shake your head and blink up at him.

Bradley lifts his eyebrows sympathetically but doesn’t say anything.

“Can I talk to you?” you blurt out breathlessly.

Bradley drops his gaze and your heart sinks. He hates you, obviously, and you’re an idiot for coming. But a moment later, he looks up from under his winkled brows and nods.

He places a couple of fingers on your arm and, as you try to suppress a shudder at the subtle contact, he nudges you softly, leading you toward the back of the hangar where you could have a private conversation behind a couple of parked jets undergoing maintenance.

Once you’re alone, you find it hard to look him in the eye. Bradley’s hand drops away from where he’s holding your elbow, but his fingertips trail down your arm and catch briefly on your fingers before he lets go.

“Bradley,” you say quietly. “I don’t even know where to start,” you admit.

Bradley moves closer, his head so low that you can feel his breath on your cheek. The torment of being this close and not touching him is probably exactly what you deserve, so you decide to suffer through it in silence. Until, that is, he brings a hand up, lifting your chin with a couple of fingers. His eyes glance over your face before meeting your gaze. “Let’s just start over,” he says.

You look at him in wonder as his hand glides up your arm. “How?” you whisper. “I’m already in love with you.”

For a moment, Bradley is completely still, watching you intently. The look of sheer want on his face absolutely paralyzes you because the concept of mutual desire where Bradley is concerned is something you’re still struggling to accept. You blink at him mutely, forgetting altogether that you came here to apologize, not ogle him in his flight suit and mentally undress him without a moment’s respite.

Bradley lowers his face, furrowing his eyebrows as he glances down at your lips. You notice the tightening grip on your arm as his breathing grows heavy; the slight incline of his head as his other hand drifts weightlessly up the back of your neck.

He makes you weak and he muddles your thoughts and how could you possibly be expected to remember something as superfluous as an apology when his eyes are begging you to just kiss him already? You let out a breathy whine, twisting your hands into the material of his flight suit and pulling yourself into him until your lips meet his.

Bradley exhales sharply, bringing his hands up to your face as he steps forward. You let him steer you into the wall in behind, clinging onto his wrists as he cups your cheeks. His tongue pushes into your mouth as his hands drop down to your waist and slip underneath your tank top, squeezing your flesh.

You melt into his touch; you want his hands all over you, clutching you, catching you, holding you. A soft moan travels from your mouth into his as his fingers dig into your body, and he presses you into the wall with a shaky sigh.

“Bradley,” you murmur as he grasps your ribcage.

“Baby,” he breathes, his thumbs gently stroking the band of your bra. His ‘baby’ is so soft, so different than Steven’s, it’s like an entirely new word. And you don’t want anybody other than Bradley to ever call you ‘baby’ again.

“Bradley, I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry that I wouldn’t listen to your side of the story.”

“Baby,” he mutters again. He lifts his eyes to look at you achingly. “I’m so fucking in love with you.” He takes your hands and brings them to his lips, holding them against his mouth. “I don’t care about anything else.”

You smile at him, grateful that he isn’t holding a grudge. “Kiss me again,” you say, pulling on the collar of his flight suit.

Bradley grins, towering over you as he brings his arms above your head and around your back. He kisses you gently this time, like he’s finally confident that you won’t vanish the moment he lets go. It’s warm and sensuous and lingering, it’s his lips pausing to appreciate every taste and every breath and every texture. It’s the rhythm of his tongue, excruciatingly slow, searching for ways to make you moan.

He pulls you closer, tighter; holds you firmer. You sigh into his mouth, you whine for more, you claw into the fabric of his suit. He reciprocates your urgency, driving you back into the wall with force and pressing his mouth hungrily to yours. You gasp, throwing your head back as his messy kisses trail down your neck, as his hands grope every part of you with fervor until you’re almost too weak to stand.

“Y/N,” he pants into your neck. “If we don’t relocate in the next few minutes, I’m going to end up being dishonorably discharged for indecent exposure.”

You giggle as he kisses you repeatedly along your collarbone. You would like nothing more than to relocate so that the two of you can be indecent together. “It’ll have to wait,” you say, stroking his hair as he growls in response.

“I’m not waiting any longer,” he mutters into your neck.

You laugh and shake you head.

“Come home with me. I just need a minute to grab my things.” He pulls insistently on your waist.

“I’ve got work,” you say mournfully. “My shift starts in half an hour.”

Bradley looks at you in alarm, as though the prospect of spending the next several hours apart is unacceptable. “Take the day off.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Sure, you can. Tell Penny you’re feeling sick.”

“I’m not feeling sick,” you respond disapprovingly.

He squints his eyes at you with a mischievous smirk. “Fake it.”

Tag List:

The rest of the tag list is in the comments! Might take me a little while to tag everyone and, if I miss you, I'm sorry!

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the ride!

Muah!

@lonelywitchv2

@fanboyluvr

@marrianena

@anotherr-fine-mess

@mrs-obrien

@living-in-my-imagination88

@kindablackenedsuperhero

@whitewolfsbitch

@beebslebobs

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@moony-artemis

@my-secret-life-1

@roostereads

@currentlybradshaw

@whisperofsong

[fanfictropesdotcom]

Line of Sight

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader

Masterlist

Summary: You're almost certain that Jake Seresin could care less about you, that is, until you're in a tight spot and the one guy you assume will hang you out to dry, instead comes to your rescue.

Warnings: language, creepy club dudes, hangman being a little cold but actually he's just shyyyyyy

Notes: this is for @ussgallifrey who let me bang on about the feelings this man has given me <3 honestly this might turn into a mini-series because i havent even begun to resolve all my emotions about this whole vibe yet

“Wait, is that Rooster?” you frown, trying to duck your head to see around the crowd of people at the club bar, your straw falling away from your lips as you do. “And Payback, and–” you cut yourself off, now certain of who and what you were seeing, and turn to look accusingly at your companions. Next to you, Phoenix follows your line of sight, but shrugs, seemingly unbothered about the impromptu appearance of the rest of Dagger Squad. Across from you, Halo winces guiltily, and lowers her brightly coloured cocktail away from her face.

“I may have mentioned our little soiree, and extended the invitation…” she admits, before hurriedly placing down her drink altogether and lifting her hands in a surrendering motion. “Look, in my defence, we’re all friends, and whatever you think about Hangman–”

“–It’s not what I think, Cal! It’s him who clearly doesn’t think much about me!” you stress, a little frustrated that your carefree girls night was now going to end up like all the other weekend nights you’ve had since befriending Dagger.

You loved Dagger, you really really did. They had welcomed you unofficially into the squad with open arms after Phoenix and Bob had adopted you one night at the Hard Deck. You’d been stood up, then dumped unceremoniously, and after crying off all your makeup in the bathroom, you’d been comforted by Nat, who had then introduced you to all her friends, all of whom seemed to dedicate the rest of their night to cheering you up. 

It was funny now to think that that was how this all started, but soon enough you were close with all of them. Well, almost all of them.

Hangman had been nice enough that first night, but after that it seemed as though he could care less about your presence at all. He wasn’t ever actively rude or mean to you, not at all, instead it was like you were just perpetually a stranger. Him snarking at you would be a step up, in your opinion. At least then you’d feel like he saw you as a friend, but as it stands now, his tight smiles and quiet chortles felt like a slap in the face compared to the mega-watt grins and regular peacockish behaviour he’d display with his other friends.

You hate yourself a little that it affects you so much. You know it shouldn’t, but you can’t help it. You liked Hangman. Although a little prideful and pricklish, you could see yourself getting along with him quite well, could exchange banter with him nicely, if he’d ever actually give you a chance. It certainly didn’t help that you weren’t immune to the way he looked, perfect in every single sense, smoulderingly hot even when he wasn’t trying. He was exactly your type, right down to a T, including, you suppose, the fact that he didn’t want you at all.

It had been bothering you more and more recently, and where once you would just shrug him off, now you realise, you’ve been actively avoiding hanging out with your friends, just to sidestep the kick in the guts that came every time he fixed you with a level, seemingly emotionless pity-smile. This week would mark one year since the night you’d been dumped and subsequently picked up again, and if you’d thought about it for longer than five seconds, you’d have agreed with Halo that you should have been celebrating with all your friends.

Phoenix easily waves down the boys, and soon enough your tall standing table is filled out with the rest of the team, and you let yourself relax for a moment as you accept several hugs, the longest of which is with Javy, who shakes you a little as he does, before he reaches for your drink and finishes it off in one.

“Happy one year, bay-bay!” he announces cheekily in the face of your protest, and you playfully swat him away. Coyote relents, but leans back just enough, with his mouth open, and you roll your eyes, before plucking the maraschino cherry from your now empty glass and placing it between his teeth.

The display is enough to make you laugh genuinely, and you watch with a far more relaxed and happy grin as Javy pushes back from the table, pointing at you, Phoenix and Halo.

“Another?” he asks, quickly gathering everyone’s orders and announcing the first round was on him as he disappears toward the bar. Unfortunately, that is when you realise his empty spot at the table is stepped into by someone else, and despite yourself, you can’t help but look.

If you hadn't known that he’d only just arrived, you might have fooled yourself into thinking Hangman been here all along, with how natural he looks leaning with one arm against the table, his eyes scanning the club behind you over your head as you take him in.

You refrain from cursing at just how good he looks in civvies. It was rare you’d see him in anything aside from either his flight suit or his tan uniform, and you’re fairly certain the only other time you had was at one of Dagger’s many beach parties, where he’d been barely dressed at all. Now though, Hangman is filling out a pair of dark wash jeans and a silk jade-green button down like nobody's business, his hair for once not slicked back and styled for work, and he has what you can only assume must be several days worth of stubble.

He looks goddamn good, and you almost vibrate all the way across the room because of it.

Bright green eyes suddenly lock on to yours, and you most hope he calls you out for staring, teases you relentlessly, but after a moment, he simply nods at you, and turns inward to the table.

“You look great,” he says simply, and after letting out a quiet sigh, you choose not to let this ruin your night.

“Thanks, so do you,” you reply, maybe a little sadder sounding than you intended. Hangman glances back over at you and your heart skips just a little when he lifts his chin at you.

“Same dress you were wearing the night that asshole dumped you, right?” His voice holds slightly more humorous inflection than usual and you hate yourself a little bit more for living for the crumbs he gives you.

“Yeah. figured it was thematic or whatever. Look at me now, and all that,” you wave a hand, and really try hard not to sound so glum this time, but you’re not sure it works. Hangman cocks his head, and you swear you see a playful glint spark in his eyes just as he opens his mouth, but unfortunately you never get to hear what he has to say, because Javy chooses that moment to reappear, placing down an armful of drinks and beers right between you.

With the reappearance of his friend, Hangman seems to go back to ignoring you, and you go back to pretending that it doesn’t bother you.

—

Five minutes ago you had been dancing wildly and laughing with Rooster and Phoenix, three drinks down and getting your giggle on. Now though, you’d managed to lose both your friends in the crowd, which had been okay at first, you weren’t exactly a wallflower and didn’t mind getting your flirt on with a stranger or two, but now, you were wishing hard that at any moment either Rooster or Phoenix might show back up again and save you.

While you weren’t a wallflower, you also weren’t anywhere near as cock-sure as Halo or Phoenix, you weren’t the type of girl who felt comfortable stamping on a creep’s foot and telling him to fuck off and that you weren’t interested.

Which is exactly what you wanted to do right now.

You were trying to be polite still, for some reason, but the drinks in your system prevent you from really reacting as necessary, even as you attempt to move the hands of the guy you're dancing with back to your hips and away from your ass.

“Hey, look, I’m going to get a drink!” you yell over the music, trying to extract yourself from this guy, but just as your luck would have it, he nods happily and makes to move with you, his hands still trying to feel you up.

You move anyway, hoping that at least you might be able to lose him in the crowd, but your new shadow seems determined to stick with you. You really don’t know at this point how to shake him, and as a last resort, you desperately begin scanning the edges of the crowd for any of your friends, so you can try and make eyes for them to bail you out.

Strangely, all your friends seem to have disappeared from the table you’d left them at, even Rooster and Phoenix are nowhere in sight, but you do catch sight of something familiar toward the bar. For once you don’t dread the sight of Hangman and his expressionless gaze, and for once, you attempt to maintain eye contact with him as he glances almost dismissively over at you.

Maybe it’s the look on your face that causes him to doubletake back at you when he briefly looks away, but whatever it is, you’re glad for it, because the next thing you know, the blond is frowning at you, his eyes flickering between you and your unwanted companion. You watch as he straightens up from leaning against the bar, his face filled with the kind of determination that you had only seen on him during the more heated rounds of pool at the Hard Deck.

You could almost let out a cry of joy when he pushes away from the bar and begins beelining towards you, seemingly making sure that he doesn’t lose sight of you even despite the throng of people that he has to weave in and out of. When he’s only a few metres away, his expression shifts from almost angry, into an easy cocky smile that he’s never directed toward you before. It nearly throws you off step, but even if it had, it wouldn’t have been an issue. In a few short strides, Hangman is in front of you, his arm smoothly slung around your shoulder and he uses it to tug you a few steps into his side, and away from your prior dance partner.

“There you are,” he says sweetly, actually sounding glad to see you for once. In your sheer relief at his rescue, you let your hand fall to his chest, your fingertips gliding over the soft silk of his shirt, which doesn’t go unnoticed by him. You blink up, mouth open to utter a soft thank you, and get ready to excuse yourself from the other man’s company, but a tugging at your hand cuts you off.

“Uh, I thought we were getting a drink,” the other guy interrupts, looking accusingly between you and Hangman. The blond barely even looks at him, an insult you know well, before he’s focused back on you, and arm around your shoulder pulling you even closer into him, and forcing your dance partner to release you.

“I’ll take it from here,” Hangman says to him, though he’s gazing at you, doing a damn convincing job of seeming lovesick. “You thirsty, sweetheart?” he adds as he begins to turn you, lead you away from the scene, and you find yourself embarrassingly speechless, only able to nod at for once being on the receiving end of Hangman’s notorious charm.

“Whatever, just so you know man, she didn’t say she was taken,” you hear from behind you. 

“She shouldn’t have to.” Hangman doesn’t even stop moving as he turns his head to shoot back, though his voice is filled with more annoyance than you’ve ever heard from him before. You could almost trick yourself into thinking he was actually mad on your behalf.

“Fucking slut.” The words are just loud enough for the both of you to hear, and even though you tense up at the accusation, you expect the both of you to keep moving, at least until you’re away from this guy. That doesn’t happen though. Hangman does stop this time, though unlike before, you don’t see a trace of anger on his face. Instead, he takes a step back toward the other man, his arm dropping from your shoulders to wrap snugly around your waist. He smiles wide and full, completely infuriatingly, and you see him size up the creep, look him deliberately up and down before he tips his head and opens his mouth.

“And yet, she’s still not going to fuck you,” he stays smiling, wide and cheshire-like. You feel yourself drop into a pool of complete and utter enamour with him, as at last he pulls you away again, leaving your unwanted partner behind, mouthing dumbly at the killer of a takedown he’d just endured, now totally forgotten by the both of you.

You’re still recovering from the utter annihilation when you finally reach the bar, and at last Hangman lets his hold on you drop, and he comes to stand next to you at the bar. He’s still grinning, though it looks like it's to himself, but it widens ever so slightly when he glances down at you while motioning for the bartender. He orders himself another beer, and the same cocktail Javy had stolen from you earlier before you’re finally able to get your thoughts straight again.

“Thanks for that,” you say, nodding towards the dance floor. Hangman looks almost surprised for a few seconds before he shrugs and pays the waiting barman.

“S’nothing.” he waves you off, but fixes you again with a slight frown moments later. “Are you alright? You looked pretty upset when you were trying to shake him.”

You think this might be the most genuine emotion the man has ever shown you, and you’re too far gone to question why, for now you simply want to bask in it.

“I’m no good at telling guys to piss off. Mostly they get the hint, but sometimes… that’s why I always stick with Phoenix or Halo,” you explain a little bashfully. You know how confrontational Hangman can be, you’d seen it for yourself tonight, so you know he likely sees your lack of assertiveness as some kind of weakness. Maybe that was why he didn’t like you?

Hangman frowns again, deeply this time, and hands you your drink. For a while he doesn't say anything, but it makes you anxious the way he doesn’t stop staring at you even as he takes a good long drink of his beer. After a moment he relaxes somewhat and glances away. You’re hoping maybe he’ll drop it, or maybe some of your friends will come along and spare you whatever comes next, but he doesn’t, and they don’t.

Hangman points back toward the dance floor with his beer hand and fixes you with a hard, intent stare.

“You feel like that again, you come find me, alright? I’ll tell them where they can go,” the blond tells you firmly, making you blink and splutter, but he holds up his hand and waves you off before you can deny him.

“Halo doesn’t always come out with us, and Phoenix and Rooster are currently eating face, so,” he takes half a step toward you and leans lower into your space, almost making you stumble back. “Next time,” he slings his arm across your shoulder again and grins almost maniacally. “Let Hangman sort them out for you.”

For the first time you really feel like perhaps Hangman is warming up to you. No longer were you feeding off the crumbs of attention, now you see the man revel in your sputtering embarrassment, fully teasing you like you’d wish he would for the past year. You were in his sights now, and you feel your whole body trill with satisfaction.

[fanfictropesdotcom]

celebration

pairing: Mickey Garcia (Fanboy) x reader

warnings: alcohol, implied sex

summary: everyone in the dagger squad has tried to get your number, but the last lieutenant to approach ends up being the winner

word count: 1,275

Your friend had begged you to go to The Hard Deck with her. She told you it was a bar where Navy men and women frequented and it would be a good place for her to find a fling. She was just getting out of a relationship and needed to get back into dating. You reluctantly agreed to be her emotional support, but she’d been whisked away by some pilot within minutes of your arrival. You were left sitting alone at the bar being interrupted every few minutes by a different pilot or WSO introducing themselves to you with a callsign instead of a name. Another man approached. He sat down beside you and then turned his head to face you.

“I’m Mickey,” he said, as he held out his hand. You turned to look at him. You were tired of the introductions, but you didn’t want to be rude and you were pleasantly surprised at this lieutenant’s decision to tell you his name and not his callsign. When you looked at him you noticed that he was one of two in the large group that had not approached you that night. The other was a bespectacled man who you had noted didn’t talk much at all. You were mildly glad that this Mickey had come to talk to you. When you saw the table when you walked in, he had been the one you found most attractive. Quiet but smiley. Handsome but not arrogant. He stuck out among his friends.

“Are you and your friends doing a challenge to see which one of you gets rejected the fastest?” You asked. Mickey chuckled.

“Rooster said Hangman wouldn’t be able to get your number and when he couldn’t the rest of them had to try,” he said. “I actually wanted to apologize for all of us bothering you.” You were surprised. This man was being very honest with you.

“No need to be sorry,” you said.

“Can I buy you a drink on behalf of all of us?” He asked. You smiled.

“Only if you stay while I drink it,” you said. Mickey blushed a bit but smiled.

“I’d be honored,” he said. He got Penny’s attention and you told her your order. “What’s your name?” He asked.

“Y/N,” you told him.

“What’s your call sign? Or is Mickey your callsign? Is it like the mouse?” Mickey chuckled.

“No, Mickey is my real name. My callsign is Fanboy,” he said.

“Fanboy? Are you into K-Pop or something?” You joked. Mickey smiled.

“Star Wars,” he said. “I was wearing underwear with Chewbacca on them on my first day and now I’m Fanboy forever.” You laughed and Mickey grinned. He knew he wouldn’t be satisfied if he didn’t get to hear the sound of your laugh every day.

“At least it’s not ‘Coyote.’ That was the worst one,” you said. Mickey smiled.

“Coyote’s the worst? And which one of us has the best callsign?” He asked.

“Phoenix,” you said. “Fanboy is a close second though. Rooster doesn’t even make sense. Roosters can’t fly.” Mickey chuckled.

“Payback said the same thing when we met Rooster,” Mickey told you.

“You’ve known Payback longer than the others?” Mickey nodded.

“He’s my pilot. I’m a weapons systems officer,” he said. “We went through Top Gun training together,” he finished.

“You’re not training at Top Gun right now?” You asked.

“No, ma’am,” he said. Your cheeks warmed and you held in a smile. You hadn’t realized just how charming military men would be. “We just got back from a mission. We’re celebrating.”

“What was the mission?” You asked.

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s classified, ma’am,” Mickey said. His tone was light and teasing. You chuckled.

“A man of mystery,” you said as you took a sip of your drink.

“No mysteries. I’m an open book,” he said.

“Really?” You asked. You leaned forward as did Mickey, the two of you both proudly in one another’s personal space.

“Ask me anything.” You smirked.

“If your friends hadn’t been bothering me, would you still have come over here?” You asked. Mickey blushed but smiled.

“Probably not. I’m not the most confident when it comes to beautiful women,” he said.

“Hmm. I’m glad I endured all of your friends then,” you said. Mickey smiled.

“I am too,” he said.

“Were you flying one of the planes on your mission?” You asked.

“I don’t fly them, but I was in one of them,” he said.

“I’m sure I owe you a ‘thank you’ then. Whatever classified business you were doing has kept me safe,” you said.

“No ‘thanks’ necessary, ma’am,” he said.

“No?” You asked.

“No.” Mickey said as he shook his head. You reached forward and put your hand on his thigh.

“And what if I want to thank you anyway?” You whispered into his ear. His breath hitched.

“Let me go grab my jacket,” he said.

“I drove my friend here. I have to give her my car keys,” you said. Mickey headed back over to the pool table that the Dagger Squad had monopolized to grab his coat.

“Where’ve you been?” Hangman asked. “I thought you were going to get us another round.”

“I was talking to y/n,” Mickey said. Hangman and Rooster chuckled.

“Bob’s gotta go now. We all have to get rejected by her,” Coyote piped in.

“I couldn’t get her number. Did you really think you could?” Hangman mocked. Mickey smiled to himself.

“I didn’t try to get her number,” he said. Phoenix rolled her eyes.

“Right. That’s why you were over there for twenty minutes and came back without any drinks,” she said.

“I am taking her back to my place right now,” Mickey added casually as he grabbed his jacket. Hangman choked on the beer he was drinking. His eyes shot to Mickey.

“You’re bluffing,” Hangman said. Mickey glanced over his shoulder. You were standing at the end of the bar with your eyes on him.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he said with a smile. He pulled his jacket on as he walked towards you. He rested his hand on your lower back as he led you out of the bar and towards his car. The whole dagger squad exchanged shocked looks as they watched their beloved Fanboy be the one to take you home.

Mickey dropped you off at your house the next morning. You kissed him shyly, but he quickly deepened the kiss, pulling you close to him. He promised to call you and bid you a goodbye, backing away to keep his eyes on you as you closed the door.

When he got back to his car he finally looked at his phone for the day. He was greeted with a myriad of text messages in the Dagger squad group chat from the night before.

Hangman : DID U DRUG HER FANBOY?

Rooster: Tell the truth

Payback: He must’ve paid her. He couldn’t get anyone during Top Gun training

Phoenix: it makes sense to me.

Hangman: TF ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT PHOE?

Phoenix: she’s obviously not into muscly guys.

Coyote: LMAO

Rooster: That’s gotta be it

Hangman: It’s the only explanation.

10:36 AM

Fanboy: whatever she’s into, it wasn’t any of you

Rooster: Bragging isn’t classy

Fanboy: wasn’t bragging, just pointing out the truth.

Hangman: Whatever, she’ll never call you back.

Another text came in.

Y/N💕: last night was fun. wanna hang tonight?

Mickey: yes 🥰 come over at 7:00?

Mickey chuckled. He switched over to the Dagger Squad group chat.

Fanboy: maybe you’re right.

Fanboy: anyway, can’t come to the bar tonight. i have plans 😏

[fanfictropesdotcom]

Can you do some Christmas fluff with rooster? 💕

Sure! Thank you for the request <3 Hope you like it :D

Christmas On Deck

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

Summary: You're stuck at the airport on Christmas Eve and, naturally, you meet a pilot. What's his name, again?

CW: Fluffity fluff with a smidge of angst

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, are you kidding me?” you groan in response to the latest flight delay announcement over the airport intercom. The gate is packed with equally irritable travellers whose flights have been postponed on account of the blizzard. You let out a weary sigh and plop down into the only available seat in your vicinity, which happens to be right next to some dude with a pornstache who’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt – even though your destination is Vermont – and Ray Bans – even though you’re indoors.

“What a nightmare,” you hear him mutter under his breath, his lip curling sideways underneath his bizarre facial hair. He’s got several scars running down the side of his face.

You eye him inconspicuously as he pulls a book out of his backpack, partly because he smells nice but mostly because you’ve got nothing better to do. When he leans back into his seat, his shoulder brushes against yours accidentally. He looks up at you apologetically.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

You give him a tight smile, wondering if he’s going to keep his sunglasses on while he reads. “It’s cool,” you respond. “It’s not your fault we’re all cramped in here.”

He chuckles, trying to squeeze his broad shoulders inward, but his arms still manage to extend beyond both sides of his seat. Finally, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs, and opens his book.

For some reason, the low rasp of his voice and the way he seems greatly unfazed by the prospect of being stuck at an airport on Christmas Eve makes you weirdly interested in striking up a conversation with him. “Is it a little bright for you?” you say cheekily, noting that he hasn’t removed his shades.

The man turns his head slowly to look at you over his shoulder. He straightens his back slightly, a small smile forming underneath his ridiculous mustache that, you hate to admit, is becoming increasingly attractive with every passing minute. He lifts his hand to tap on the frame, letting the glasses slide a touch down his nose as he squints at you, studying your face. Instead of answering your question, he poses his own: “You going somewhere special for the holidays?”

“Home,” you say. If you ever get there. “You?”

He takes off his sunglasses and hooks them into the collar of his white undershirt. “Some friends are going skiing,” he says, shrugging.

You nod, not really sure where to take the conversation next, when there’s another announcement indicating that all flights have been cancelled for the rest of the night. You close your eyes in disappointment as the rest of the terminal groans in response to the news. “Great,” you say. “Christmas Eve and Christmas morning at the damn airport.”

The man watches you sympathetically for a few moments before saying, “Yeah, bummer.” His eyes scan your face for another several seconds and then he shoves his book back into his backpack and stands up. “Come on,” he says, motioning with his head for you to follow.

You furrow your eyebrows at him suspiciously, not at all eager to accompany a strange man to an unknown destination, regardless of how good-looking he may be.

He senses your hesitation and extends his hand. “It’s not far,” he says. “Promise.”

You swallow uneasily, putting your hand in his. His warm fingers curl around yours and he gently pulls you out of your seat. He doesn’t let go of your hand once you’re up, holding onto you instead while he navigates the crowd of angry passengers at the gate. He draws you out of the horde and down one of the largely empty corridors of the airport. “Where are we going?” you ask cautiously.

“Here,” he says, turning a corner into a dimly lit room with large windows exposing the flurrying snow outside.

“Wow,” you breathe, taking a step forward when he finally lets go of your hand. You walk toward the window spanning the entire wall from the floor up, watching the storm blanket the terminal, snowing in several parked planes.

Mustache walks up behind you. “It’s the observation deck,” he says, looking out onto the apron with a smile.

You glance up at him, admiring the shape of his jaw, and his neck, and his broad shoulders, and his mustache, goddamnit, and wonder if he’ll ever tell you his name because, at this point, it feels awkward to ask. You grin to yourself and then sit right down onto the carpeted floor, crossing your legs. “In that case,” you say. “Let’s observe.”

The man chuckles lightly and takes a seat next to you on the floor. He unzips his backpack and pulls out a bag of chips. “Salt and vinegar?” he offers, ripping the bag open and holding it out to you.

You laugh. “This is dinner, isn’t it?”

“This,” he says, and then pulls out a box of Ritz crackers. “And this.”

“Yes!” you exclaim, grabbing the box out of his hands.

“And, for dessert…” he adds, digging his hand back into the bag and pulling out another box.

Your jaw drops in your excitement. “Oreos!”

He nods. “I’ve got a lot of Oreos,” he says, pulling out several packages of the cookies.

“Amazing!” you say. “I hit the jackpot sitting next to you, didn’t I?”

He grins, his teeth grazing over his lip as he curls it in. “I was thinking the same thing about you,” he says.

You glance up to meet his gaze, blushing slightly.

He reaches out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. “You’re really fucking pretty,” he says.

You smile at him, deciding that being stuck in an airport on Christmas Eve isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.

You spend the next couple of hours eating and chatting. You find out that he’s a pilot in the Navy, that his father died when he was just a boy, and that his mother passed away when he was a teenager. He tells you about Top Gun, about his squad, about how he’s indifferent when it comes to Christmas because he doesn’t really have anybody to spend it with. He even tells you what his favorite food is. What he doesn’t tell you is his name. And he doesn’t ask for yours.

You don’t bother either; what the point? After tonight, you’ll never see him again, so there’s no sense in getting attached. It wouldn’t be the first time you spent the night with a stranger without so much as exchanging numbers. Unfortunately, besides being exceptionally cute, the guy is actually boyfriend material. He’s genuine, and funny, and considerate, and you’re finding him especially easy to talk to. Perhaps it’s because both of you know that, by this time tomorrow, the stranger you’ve shared all your secrets with will be out of your life for good.

This is great. This is therapeutic. This sort of transient camaraderie is what travelling is all about. You don’t build lasting relationships with random people you meet at the bus stop, or at a train station. Why should an airport be any different?

There’s a chiming in the distance and you look down at your phone. Midnight.

“Merry Christmas,” he says.

You look up at him with a small smile. “Hopefully Santa knows where to find us.”

He chuckles while you rub your hands together. “Cold?” he asks, pulling a blanket out of his backpack.

“Is there anything you don’t have in there?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I like to be prepared.” He hands you the blanket.

You unfold it and move closer to him, trying to wrap it around both your shoulders and his.

“Here,” he says, shifting to lean his back against one of the seats and spreading his feet so you could sit between his legs.

You stand up to walk around him, and then lower yourself in front of his body. His hands are on your legs the moment your knees bend, helping you down. His touch sends a shockwave through you, and you glance back to see him looking up at you lustfully. You gulp as you sit down, his hands sliding slowly up the sides of your thighs. You lick your lips, sliding backward until you feel your hips align with his, and then you slowly lean your back against his chest and pull the blanket over both of you. His arms close around yours under the fleece and he lets out a sigh. You rest your head on his shoulder and he lowers his face to press his cheek against your hair.

“This is nice,” you mutter, already warming up as his large hand closes around your arm. His thumb begins to brush your skin as he makes a soft humming sound in agreement.

…

You wake up to the hot sun radiating through the giant windows of the room. You’re lying on the ground with the man you met last night beside you under the twisted blanket, his extremely heavy arm crushing your shoulder. You don’t mind it, though; his sculpted arms kept you warm all night.

You rotate onto your back and he stirs, lifting his hand to rest it over your abdomen as he nuzzles his face against the side of your head.

“Good morning,” he whispers, his fingers gently stroking your stomach.

You smile at the ceiling, your eyes still adjusting to the brightness of the room. “Merry Christmas,” you say.

He sighs and his hot breath bathes your neck. “It is,” he murmurs, his hand tangling in the blanket as he grips your waist to pull you closer.

You shut your eyes, enjoying the very best Christmas present you’ve ever received. But, just when you’re about to turn your head and finally give your companion a kiss, a loud beep followed by an announcement indicating that flights have resumed interrupts the moment.

You exhale slowly, not bothering to conceal your disappointment, and Mustache chuckles into your ear, tickling the side of your face. “I wonder if Santa found us,” he says quietly.

You glance over at his mischievous smirk and sit up. There’s a Christmas tree in the corner of the room that you hadn’t noticed the previous night because it was too dark. Under the tree, there are an assortment of snacks – including more Oreos – that he must’ve gotten from the vending machine overnight. You giggle as you make your way toward it. There’s also a small package of travel socks, a neck pillow, and an airplane keychain. You pick it up, observing that the plane doesn’t resemble any commercial airline.

“It’s a Rhino,” he says, and you look up at him in confusion.

“It’s an airplane,” you respond with a smile, dangling the ring from your index finger.

He chuckles. “F-18,” he clarifies. “It’s the jet I fly.”

“They sell these here?” you ask, although you already know the answer.

He shakes his head and then shrugs. “Just something to remember me by,” he says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pants.

You blink at him without responding, thinking that his name might also help. But you’ve already decided that it’s best not to know. “Thanks,” you say finally, closing your hand around the tiny plane. “I, uh, didn’t get you anything.”

He grins. “Yes, you did,” he says. “You gave me the best Christmas Eve and morning I’ve had in a very long time.”

You smile back at him. “We should do it again some time.”

He chuckles but his face falls slightly, as though he’s not optimistic about the likelihood of an encore. “Same time next year?”

You hold his gaze for a moment before the intercom blares, declaring that you have ten minutes to get to your plane. You gather the snacks, dispersing them between your carry-on bag and his, and make your way back to the gate.

The attendant calls on the back rows to start boarding and you give Mustache one last look. He squeezes your hand, and you don’t want him to let go, but he does anyway.

“I bet you have a really pretty name,” he says. It must have occurred to him also that there would be no point in knowing it.

“Have a safe flight,” you say.

He nods. “You too.”

Your mouth is taut when you give him a final smile and turn away, but before you make it past the checkpoint, you turn back to look at him again. He waves at you but you step out of the line anyway, going against the stream of bodies desperate to get onto the aircraft. He gives you a questioning look when you arrive before him. “Uh,” you start, unsure how to express what you mean to say. “Not just this flight.”

“What?” he asks.

“You’re a pilot,” you clarify. He narrows his eyes. “So, I just wanted to say, may all your flights be safe.”

He watches you solemnly as you chew on your lip. Then, you throw your hands around his neck just as he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you off the ground in a passionate embrace. He kisses your neck as you sink your head into his shoulder. When he puts you down, his mouth is still trailing up the side of your face, leaving in its wake a string of delicate kisses. He brings his hands up to take you by the shoulders, resting his forehead on yours. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Bradley. It’s nice to meet you.”

You smile, watching the lower half of his face transform when you respond. “Hi, Bradley. I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he whispers, his lips hovering over yours. “I knew you had a pretty name.”

You chuckle briefly, but then his hand starts gliding along your shoulder and up your neck and, suddenly, you’re not in a laughing mood. “How long are you going to be in Vermont?” you ask, closing your eyes.

“How long are you going to be in Vermont?” he responds.

You smile as his mouth connects with yours, as his fingers trace swirls into your cheek, as his tongue drifts along your bottom lip before he catches it gently between his teeth.

“You taste like Oreos and Coke,” he murmurs.

“That’s what you gave me for breakfast,” you respond against his lips.

“I’ll have to do better next time.”

You look up at him after pulling away. “I thought it was perfect.”

He nods, his eyes perusing your face as his hand slips down to grasp yours. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks.

You grin. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

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[fanfictropesdotcom]

The Third Amendment

“No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.”- Third Amendment to the U.S. Constitution

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x reader

Masterlist

@spn-marvel-nerd Here you go. Hope it’s everything you wished lol:

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t one for one night stands. You were a relationship kind of girl. As soon as he rolled off you, regardless of having a nice time with him, you still felt icky. It was then that you decided he needed to go. How were you going to play this off though? You felt weird being like, “Hey, thanks for the orgasm now if you could kindly please leave.”

He had stepped into the bathroom, it was a pretty sight watching his ass, and called back to you asking if it was okay to use one of your hand towels and you said sure. He came back out with it in his hand and cleaned you up. Hmm. A gentleman. Makes this a little harder.

“Hey Hangman?” You say and he looks up at you with a grin. What kind of a name is that?

“Yeah darlin’?” He asks.

“I don’t know if I mentioned this but I’m a teacher and it’s Thursday so…..” you trail off.

“Promise not to keep you up, baby, unless you want me to,” Hangman says with a smirk. God this is harder than you thought.

“Okay but like I’m not going to sleep well with you in my bed and I have to give a test and so technically the third amendment says I don’t have to quarter you. You know because of the Navy thing,” you ramble.

“Yes, I know what the third amendment says, sugar,” Hangman says gathering his things. “You could have told me to leave.”

You blush and pout, “But that’s rude!”

He chuckles and kisses your forehead after dressing quickly, “Not rude. I wouldn’t want to do anything you were uncomfortable with. I had a great time with you, darlin’. Hit me up anytime you wanna have a second go.” He winked as he walked out of your room then from down the hall you hear, “Lock your deadbolt!”

You giggle. Maybe you judged him a little too soon.

That Saturday your friends had dragged you out to the beach for some day drinking and sun. Oh that beach there so happened to be some sort of football game happening with a bunch of muscular men and a couple women. Sunbathing and a show? What a fantastic way to spend an afternoon. Your friends and you were all watching the game from behind your sunglasses and discussing the various players.

After a while one of the girls came over to you and your friends, “Hey! Does one of your names happen to be Y/N?”

You sat up and pushed your sunglasses on top of your head, “Yeah? That’s me.”

“Oh my God! This is the best day ever!” She said as she started to laugh.

You gave her a funny look and all of your friends all sat up too.

“So you slept with Bagman the other day?” The stranger asked.

You shook your head, “No, I didn’t sleep with anyone named Bagman.”

“Oh did he go by Jake?”

Again you shook your head.

“Oh shit right I always forget. Hangman?” She says with another laugh.

You nod still looking at her funny.

“Bradshaw! Floyd! Come here!” She yells and two guys came jogging over. “I’m Phoenix by the way.”

“Umm nice to meet you I think?” You say.

As soon as the two guys come over she turns to them, “Guess who I just met?”

“Who?” The one asked. When he got closer you noticed the well manicured pornstache he was sporting.

“That’s Y/N!” Phoenix said.

“Oh my God! You’re my hero!” Pornstache said.

You looked at him confused, “Uhhh thank you? I guess?”

“So, you really did that?” The other man, who was wearing glasses, asked. “You really said he needed to leave because of the third amendment?” All of your friends start laughing. They of course had heard the story but it was still funny to hear again.

You groaned, “I don’t do hookups. That was literally my first one. It was all very awkward and I was rambling and I didn’t know how to ask him to leave politely. I teach third grade and we went over the Bill of Rights and I thought it was funny.”

“Oh it’s very, very funny,” Phoenix said laughing. “I can’t wait for him to get here.”

“Hangman is gonna be here?!” You say, eyes going big. “Oh goodness. I gotta leave. This is embarrassing.”

“No!” All three of the random people shout along with your friends.

The one in glasses shakes his head, “Please don’t. Plus he said he had fun so you should stay.”

“You seem to like making fun of him so why would you want that?” You ask.

“Because as much as we like teasing him we also want good things to happen to him, I guess,” Phoenix says.

You shake your head and then shrug, “Fine. I guess I will stay.”

You didn’t have to wait long until you saw a familiar face walking towards the group that had been playing football.

“Hey Hangman!” Phoenix calls out. “Found your girl!”

Hangman looks at her funny then comes jogging over and grins when he sees you, “Well hello darlin’. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Hey Hangman,” you say and wave.

“We were just asking Y/N here about the third amendment,” pornstache said with a laugh.

Hangman shrugged, “She was just exercising her rights. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Yeah pornstache! I was just exercising my rights!” You cross your arms over you chest.

Hangman starts laughing hysterically, “She….. she called you….. you pornstache!”

“It’s not a pornstache!” Pornstache says.

“You know that’s exactly what a person with a pornstache would say,” you retort.

Pornstache flips you off and you happily do it back.

“Rooster you kinda walked into that one,” Phoenix says with a chuckle.

“Rooster? Really? Do you have a big cock or something?” You ask.

“Darlin’ you’re not checking it,” Hangman drawls.

A friend of yours raises her hand, “I volunteer to find out! You know for science.”

You roll your eyes, “Sure. So she can find out but I can’t?” You ask Hangman.

He nods, “If you’re in need so badly, you already know I can make you cum.”

The friend closest to you shrugs, “He’s not wrong.”

You sigh, “I mean I guess. But no staying over!”

Hangman laughs, “Third amendment. I got it.”

You ever have one of those long standing jokes that even when other people find it less funny you still hang on?

After dating for two months Jake did not find it funny for you to shove all of the things he left at your house in a bag with a note on the front porch after he left the seat up again. The note just said “Third Amendment” on it. You found it hilarious.

He did not find it funny after a year of dating for you to do it again when he fell asleep at his desk at work and missed date night. You still found it hilarious.

He didn’t find it funny when you did it because he ate your last ice cream bar two years in.

He definitely didn’t find it funny after you were engaged and just bored one day.

Throughout your four year relationship you had exercised your third amendment right sixteen times. Jake was never as amused as you were.

When you got married, Jake’s vows were first. He had such sweet words to say about how kind and beautiful you are and how he couldn’t have imagined a better woman for himself. He saved the best part for last.

“Now darlin’ I know out of the whole Bill of Rights your absolute favorite amendment is the third. You know now you’re going to have to pick a new one, right? Because the Navy was nice enough to give us a place to live together now and so you can’t kick me out.”

You smile sweetly at him, “I plead the fifth.”

[fanfictropesdotcom]

the lakehouse — b.b.

pairing: bradley “rooster” bradshaw x afab!simpson!reader (no use of y/n) reader’s callsign is Venom.

warnings: age gap (reader is 26, bradley is 35), smut, pwp, drinking, cursing, dirty talk, unprotected sex (p in v), fingering, oral sex (m recieving), praise kink, lots and lots of pet names, general filth, a little fluff here and there, possible military inaccuracies. idk what came over me but i actually used the word cock for once, so there’s that.

18+ MINORS DNI.

word count: 5.6k

summary: the dagger squad takes a group vacation to the reader’s family home on lake tahoe for a couple days of relaxation and fun before the holidays. the reader, rooster’s backseater, gets to know him a bit better on this trip. (wink wink)

a/n: this work is not yet proofread, so disregard any spelling errors.

this is purely a work of fiction.

There was simply nothing that could compare to the peace of watching the sun rise over Lake Tahoe.

You'd spent your younger years moving around quite a bit, being your father was military. Finally, you settled down here your sophomore year of high school. The house was your mother's parents, passed down to them by their parents and so on. Your parents spent a year or so renovating it before moving in fully. The house was something out of a dream, you thought. It almost felt like you were on an endless vacation whenever you were home.

None of your fellow pilot friends had ever visited the infamous lake. So, when the idea of the group taking a vacation together sparked, you were happy to offer your home as a place to stay. After all, your parents would be gone on their anniversary trip.

Being as the drive from San Diego would be just short of nine hours, you'd all taken a flight to Reno and from there, split up in two rental cars to drive the rest of the way. You ended up driving one since you knew the way home from the airport.

It was around nine in the evening when you finally arrived, as everyone had preferred an evening flight out of San Diego.

"Holy shit, your house is nuts." Phoenix leaned forward, admiring what she could see of the house as you pulled into the driveway.

"Damn, Venom." Hangman, who sat in the backseat with Bob, agreed.

You chuckled, giving them a condensed story of how the house had been in your family for years.

The other SUV that was being driven by Rooster pulled into the driveway behind you. Everyone piled out of the cars and started grabbing their luggage from the trunks. As you all did so, your parents were finishing up packing their car.

"Welcome, everyone!" Your mother greeted, hugging you first, then making sure to hug everyone else. It was her first time meeting most of the pilots, but not hearing about them. Your father was next, giving you a quick hug before starting to give everyone a overly-professional handshake.

"Admiral Simpson." Hangman greeted, a proud smile on his face. Jake was such a kiss-ass sometimes.

Your father was as serious as he always was, and not very talkative. You all chatted for a minute or two before your parents said their goodbyes and wished you all a great couple of days.

Everyone piled into the house, randomly claiming their rooms. There was plenty of room for everyone, but some of them had to use air mattresses which ofcourse they didn't mind. Once everyone was settled in, you locked up the house. It was getting fairly late so most everyone was relaxing or getting ready for bed. You watched about half of a movie that Hangman had turned on downstairs before you retreated to bed yourself.

You felt content as you fell asleep, happy to have all of your friends near and spend a couple of days with them. Drifting off to sleep was easy, and you slept pretty hard until you woke up at around two in the morning. You groaned to yourself, reaching for your phone that sat nearby.

You spent the next little while aimlessly scrolling, hoping you'd naturally get tired again. Usually reading would do the trick but you were not in the mood to pick up the book sitting on your nightstand. You decided eventually to head downstairs for a while, maybe grab a snack or something. Anything. You were tired of tossing and turning.

"Can't sleep?" Bradley's voice startled you as you crept out of your bedroom. He sat nearby in the upstairs den, which had a plain view of your bedroom door.

"S' not looking like it." You grumbled, glancing at him with tired eyes. He half smiled, patting the spot next to him on the couch.

He sat under a blanket, legs kicked up on the coffee table. The tv played quietly before him.

"Can't sleep either?" You asked, taking a seat next to him.

"I slept a lot yesterday so my sleep schedule is a little wacked out, I reckon."

You nodded, glancing up at the tv. Bradley shuffled a little closer, adjusting the blanket to cover your legs. You relaxed, letting out a yawn.

You and Bradley were pretty close. Being his backseater, you obviously spent a lot of time together. He was older, by nine years. That however, never hindered your friendship. Bradley was confident in himself, but never cocky. He was gentle and kind, being sure to reassure you whenever you needed it. Not only that, but he'd taught you alot— being as he had more years of experience. You always appreciated him. Truthfully, it was hard to imagine flying with anyone else— even if you'd only been his backseater for just shy of a year.

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as you both focused on the tv. You lost interest after a few minutes being as Bradley was watching ESPN highlights.

"Anything you wanna watch?"

"Doesn't matter." You said quietly, watching him flip through the channels.

You moved in your seat, leaning to absentmindedly rest your head on his shoulder, which you didn’t think much of. He didn't seem to mind as he settled on a random movie. Glancing at you, he noticed your eyes were closed. He moved, casually slipping an arm around you and letting you fall into his side. You blinked, taking in his scent. You'd always had what you considered to be a microscopic crush on Bradley Bradshaw. Maybe it was a little more than microscopic, but you hated to admit that to yourself. However, he never gave you an ounce of notion that he felt the same way. It was always strictly business between the two of you, Bradley often calling you 'kid' which you couldn't stand.

You kept your cool, nestling into his side and focusing on the tv again. You hadn't the slightest clue what movie he'd picked, but you knew that it wasn't entertaining. He also didn't seem the least bit interested. “Want me to turn on Netflix? There's probably something more entertaining on there—" You reached across him for the remote, clamping your eyes shut when you realized what you just accidentally brushed your hand over under the blanket. Bradley had tensed up a bit, grabbing the remote for you and handing it your way.

"I'm sorry— I didn't mean to." You stuttered, starting to sit up.

"S'alright." He cleared his throat, keeping his arm around you.

Your cheeks were burning as you fiddled with the remote. Embarrassment filled your entire being and you felt as if you could crawl out of your own skin. Bradley looked over at you, sensing how uncomfortable you were.

"Venom, it's okay." He chuckled. Ofcourse he wasn't the slightest bit phased. Unlike you, Bradley was far better at keeping his cool in certain situations.

"Okay." You whispered, unable to actually look at him.

You managed to type out your Netflix log-in, handing the remote back to him after. Settling back into his side, you had to stop yourself from squirming. You'd hoped that he couldn't feel your heart nearly beating out of your chest. It took everything in you not to panic and run downstairs. You'd started mentally preparing excuses. I'm thirsty. Need some fresh air. Want a snack. Hell, anything would suffice at this point.

"Stop squirming." Bradley muttered, placing a hand on your leg. "Everything is okay." He didn't look at you as his fingers brushed against the delicate skin of your thigh, stilling afterward.

You were sure you were going to explode. You were unsure of where your shyness was coming from. Usually, you kept Bradley on his toes— which was one of the many reasons he admired you. You'd been deemed Venom, being as you were what everyone called a "little shit talker". You'd surprised yourself, not being able to manage getting a word out. Maybe it was because you'd never been in such a close proximity with Bradshaw.

Your skin was practically burning under his touch as you mentally repeated his words to yourself.

Bradley knew damn well why you were squirming. He'd spent enough time with you to know you pretty well, or atleast he felt that way. You were easy to read in his eyes.

"Venom." He spoke, turning to look at you this time and deciding to bite the bullet.

"Hm?"

"You tell me if you want me to stop." His voice was deep, filling your senses. You swallowed hard, nodding at him as he moved to separate your legs, still sitting next to you. You were sure you looked like a damn deer in headlights, but the absolute last thing you wanted him to do in that moment was stop.

"Okay, Venom?" He pressed, not recieving a clear enough acknowledgment from you.

"Okay." Your voice was already failing you, sounding scratchy and pathetic.

You weren't sure that you were breathing, or actually awake for that matter. You swore this was a dream and you'd wake up in a cold sweat alone in your bed any minute now.

He reached to hold your cheek before he kissed you gently, testing the waters. You hesitantly kissed him back, feeling as if you were about to melt at the realization. He pulled you closer, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck. You laid a hand on his leg, starting to crawl in his lap. He stopped you, pulling away.

Bradley watched your teeth sink into your bottom lip as he reached to slide his fingers under the hem of your sleep shorts. You sat still, watching his hand— your chest rising and falling at an elevated rate. This was absolutely not happening on the first night of vacation. His fingers slid down the lace of your panties, coming to a stop over your covered hole. "Honey.." He cooed, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear. "What's got you so worked up, huh?"

You whimpered, watching as he tossed the blanket to the floor and started taking off your shorts.

"This okay, baby?"

"Yes, Bradley." You whispered, suddenly not caring that Hangman and Coyote could come out their shared room at any minute and witness the unthinkable.

He stayed beside you as he ran his fingers along you again, this time pulling the flimsy lace to the side. Your eyes fluttered shut as he rubbed soft circles over your clit, your slick making it easy for him. "You're so fucking wet, honey." Bradley groaned, undeniably rock hard underneath his shorts now. He moved down, slipping two fingers into you with ease. You let out a long whine, breath ragged. "Shh shh." He coaxed, thrusting his ring and pointer finger in and out of you at a intoxicating pace. A lewd sounding squelch bounced off of the walls, the sound going straight to Bradley's dick. Thankfully, it wasn't very noticeable. You clenched around his fingers, eyes still glued to where his hand was working. "Cum around my fingers, sweet girl. I know you can." You squirmed beside him, hands gripping at the couch cushion beneath you. Turning your head, you met his gaze as you leaned up— so badly wanting him to kiss you. He caught on, lips meeting yours with an undeniable sense of hunger. A small groan left him as you placed a hand over his clothed cock, giving it a subtle squeeze. "Cum for me so I can fuck you properly." He begged, thrusting his fingers impossibly deeper and curling them into you. You reached up, gripping a fist full of his tee shirt as you felt yourself start to unravel. "Bradley— Roos- please." You managed to spit out, voice barely above a whisper. "I know, honey." He said into your ear, holding onto you as your walls fluttered around his fingers. Bradley watched as you came undone, your face contorting so beautifully and lips just barely parting as you gasped for air. It was the most glorious thing he'd seen in a long time.  "That's it, that's my girl." He cooed, riding you through it. As you came down you opened your eyes, watching as he pulled his fingers from you and stuck them between his soft pink lips. Your taste coated his tongue, driving him absolutely crazy. He was a goner.

Your doe eyes alone were enough to make him want to lose every ounce of control. He grabbed your panties from the floor, shoving them in the pocket of his shorts before he reached down to pick you up.

"Y' alright, Venom?" He looked at you with a smile as he walked the short distance to your room with you in his arms. You let out a small laugh, still the slightest bit embarrassed.

"I'm good, Roos." You confirmed. "Better than good."

He laid you down on your bed, flicking on the lamp on your nightstand afterwards. Bradley wanted to see what he was about to experience, not just the darkness of the night. As he turned the lock, he looked back to you. You laid in the center of your bed, body surrounded by your plush white comforter— your hair a beautiful mess. You still had on your tee shirt, which Bradley worked quickly to remove next. Then, you were left in your panties, the lavender lace taunting Bradley as he pulled off his shirt.

You gave him a genuine smile as you raked your eyes across his chest and toned abdomen, your cheeks still a burning pink. He returned it, sitting still for a moment as he looked at you fully. "You're so beautiful honey. Breathtaking." He breathed.

"I want to touch you." You spit out, pulling Bradley from his stare and making his cock twitch yet again. You were bound to be the death of him, he thought.

"Honey, you don't have to—"

"Please." You sat up, watching him move to sit on the end of the bed. You took to your knees, shyly pulling at the top of his shorts and working them down his legs before placing a few soft kisses to his clothed length. He was big, which you'd figured. You'd thought about it more than a couple times, unashamedly. Bradley watched your fingers pull at the hem of his briefs and he lifted his hips, letting you pull them off. You couldn't help but stare as you took him into your palm. He was rock hard— the tip a furious red and beading precum. You licked at it, earning a shudder from him. Bradley leaned back onto his elbows, giving himself a better view of you as you took him into your mouth. He let his head fall back and eyes shut, a beautiful sounding groan falling from his lips. One that only spurred you on. You swirled your tongue around him, taking him as deep as you could and relishing in the sounds he made he hit the back of your throat. "Goddamn, baby." He reached down, holding your hair back as you worked him, your spit dripping down to his balls. "Just like that." You kept up your pace, working your hand over what you couldn't fit into your mouth. After another few moments, Bradley was a mess, hips stuttering and teeth grinding. You pulled off of him, noticing he was getting close. He swallowed hard, pupils dilated. "Shit baby, you're so good at that." He pulled you up and into a sweet kiss, brushing your hair from your face. Your tongue danced against his, a gasp leaving your mouth when the tip of his cock brushed against your clit.

All you could think in the moment was you needed more. Needed all of him. You were nearly breathless as you gently pushed him back onto the bed. He chuckled lightly, a little surprised. You reached down, lining him up before you started to sink down on him. He held onto your hips, fingers digging into your skin. Every noise you made, every facial expression— Bradley knew they'd be engrained in his memory forever. He couldn't think straight and neither could you, both of you too far gone, tangled up in pure euphoria. Your palms pressed to his chest as you slowly let him fill you, a delicious burning stretch. "Holy fuck." He gritted as he bottomed out. "You were fucking made for my cock." You involuntarily clenched at his words, starting to move. Quiet whines fell from your chapped lips, growing more continuous as you picked up a pace that had you seeing stars and had Bradley about to lose his shit. He held tight onto your hips, starting to thrust up into you. "F-fuck, Roos" You cried, as quiet as possible. Your legs were tired, but you didn't give up, still moving yourself on his lap. "Look at you." He teased, running a hand up and down your back. "Pretty baby— working so hard to cum." You whined, eyes threatening to roll back in your head if he muttered another word.

Bradley noticed your legs giving out and gave you a sweet pat on your ass. "C'mere." He said, urging you to let him turn you over.

You did as he asked, your limbs feeling useless as you buried your face into the soft sheets. Bradley gripped your hips again, raising your ass up for him. He watched your legs shaking, and ran a soothing hand over your back again. "Doing so good, honey." He reassured, running himself along your entrance. He pressed the tip in, smiling to himself at the whine you let out. Your breaths were ragged as your teeth dug into the sheets in a desperate attempt to quiet yourself. Bradley started up a delicious pace, mumbling a bunch of sweet nothings that you were too fucked out to comprehend. Your fingers twisted into the sheets, knuckles white and hands shaking. You had never been this much of a mess for anyone. Truthfully, you don't think you've ever had sex quite like this. Your embarrassment was long gone, as it was far too late to be shy under Bradley's stare.

You were grasping for any sense of self as he tore you apart, leaning forward to press wet kisses to your spine. "Such a sweet, tight little fucking cunt baby." He huffed. "Taking me so good."

It was all toe curling, white hot pleasure. The kind that takes your breath away and hinders you from coming up with a coherent thought.

"Look at you, Venom— So fucked out." He said, teasingly. "Ain't much of a shit talker anymore, huh?"

"Fuck— Roos.." Your words were drawn out. "Please." You didn't have the will to say anything smart back to him.

Before you could spit out another word, his fingers were around your waist toying with your clit. You were absolutely wrecked, skin damp with sweat and your hair stuck to you. Tears starting to drip down your cheeks as you chanted his name over and over and over like it was all you knew. Without any further pursuasion, you fell apart underneath him.

"Fuck yes, honey— such an angel" His thrusts were sloppy as he drove you through what quite possibly was the most earth-shattering orgasm you'd ever experienced. Your head was spinning, world falling apart. It would truly be a blessing if nobody heard what the hell was going on in your room. Realizing you didn't exactly have time to notify him earlier, you muttered a quick "I'm on the pill" to Bradley, earning a groan from him.

"Such a good little fucking girl— M' gonna cum for you baby."

"Pl-ease, Roos, s' so good." Your whimper was enough to have him falling apart, hips stuttering and the most beautiful sounds, along with your name, falling from his lips.

You laid there as he stilled, walls fluttering around him, welcoming his hot release. Sounds of heavy breathing circulated the room freely as you both came to. Bradley pulled himself from you, placing a hand on your side and turning you over to look at him. Your cheeks were a pale pink and tear stained, an adorable look of satisfaction on your face.

"You sweet little thing." He sat down, leaning against the headboard and holding you against his chest. As you laid on his warm skin, your mind flashed to what's next? You knew you'd never be able to look at Rooster the same, nor him you. You only hoped in the peaceful moment that things wouldn't be weird. That you wouldn't regret what'd just happened. You hoped he felt the same.

Fingers gently touched your chin, lifting your face— eyes meeting his. He didn't say anything, just looked at you with a smile before his lips were placed on yours. You instantly relaxed, kissing him back for a few seconds before he pulled away.

"Y'wanna take a shower with me?" You nodded at his words, crawling off of him.

So, at 3am on a Friday morning there you were, getting into the shower with Bradley Bradshaw.

Bradley crawled into bed with you that night, holding you close to him until you fell into a delicate sleep. He admired you for a while. How relaxed and at peace you looked in your sleep. The way your lips were just barely curled into a soft smile. He slipped out while later, returning to his room.

When you woke up hours later the sun had risen completely. You just laid there for a moment, trying not to fucking self destruct and put on your best poker face. Finally, the irresistible smell of what appeared to be hazelnut coffee pulled you from the warmth of your bed. As silly as you felt about it, you spent a few minutes trying to look presentable— as presentable as you could look in a hoodie and sweatpants. It was the week before Thanksgiving and the house was chilly, so you did your best to accommodate.

As you descended the stairs, you met the eyes of Phoenix who stood in the kitchen. "Good Morning." She greeted with a smile. You replied with the same, making a beeline to cut the heat up.

You made small talk with her, agreeing on what you should make everyone for breakfast. Both of you went to work, Bob joining you soon after.

"Where's everyone at?"

"Well," Natasha started, flipping a pancake as she spoke. "Jake and Javy went for a run, and Rooster, Mickey, and Reuben are still asleep, I think."

Bob nodded, thanking you as you slid him a cup of coffee. He offered to help with breakfast, but you and Phoenix had it under control.

As you had your back turned, Bob greeted Rooster who'd apparently made an appearance downstairs as well. You cut off the stove, turning your head and greeting him, Phoenix doing the same. He also offered to help, but was turned down too.

You and Phoenix placed everything on the dining table that sat nearby, your eyes meeting Bradley's as you did so. He gave you a warm smile before turning to switch on the tv. You smiled back, biting the inside of your lip as you looked away. Thank god it wasn't awkward. You did, however, feel like a giddy ass teenager— which you found funny.

Shortly after you called down the remaining sleeping folks for breakfast, Hangman and Coyote returned from their run. Everyone gathered around the table to eat and chat about what the plans were for the day. Being as it was cold out, you obviously had limited options.

Unfortunately, there was also a fairly decent chance of snow that evening, so you decided to make the most of the day since you could possibly be stuck inside tomorrow.

After breakfast, everyone parted ways once again. You decided to drag Phoenix to the grocery store with you, while the rest of the group headed outside to hike, kayak, etcetera.

It was almost a bitter cold, but thankfully the sun was shining.

You and Phoenix wandered through the isles of the grocery store, pushing a cart and collecting items here and there.

"So." She started, dropping a pack of paper plates in the cart. "Wanna tell me why you were making googly eyes at Bradshaw during breakfast?"

You scoffed, starting to laugh. "Was not."

"I knew you had a crush on him, but damn."

"You knew this how?" You pushed, making her laugh with you. Part of you was relieved that she didn't see right through your bullshit. You were close with Natasha, but not ready to share any confidential information with her. Not yet. Not until you figured out what the hell was going to come of the situation.

"It's so obvious, atleast to me." She smirked, continuing down the isle with you walking next to her.

"Okay well, yeah. I have a crush on Bradshaw. Sorry." You raised your hands up, smiling.

"So you should tell him." She said, watching you almost drop the cereal box you'd picked up.

"What, no!" You looked at her incredulously. Oh, Phoenix. If you only knew. "I am not telling him."

She chuckled. "Why though? Bradshaw is a good guy. He's been through so much shit— he needs someone like you."

You wondered silently why Bradley didn't have a girlfriend. He was everything you could ask for in a partner, and you knew that. A lot of people could see what he brought to the table. Girls always flocked to Bradley. That's just the way it was. Maybe he was picky, you thought. Scared of commitment possibly.

Either way, it would just be a small bumb in the road for someone.

"I'm probably too young for him."

"Oh so what— you're twenty-six. You're past halfway to thirty. You're not that young. He's only thirty-five anyways."

"Gee, thanks for reminding me that I'm nearly a grandma." You joked, placing some more items in the cart.

"No need to be scared, Venom. Who knows what he'd say back."

"First of all, for me to say anything to the man about my feelings I'd most definitely have to be intoxicated, So there's that."

She laughed with you, continuing your journey through the store. You'd accumulated nearly a cart full of items, mostly because you'd planned to cook for the next few days instead of going out for dinner, since you weren't sure about the weather.

Phoenix continued to poke at you and tease for the entirety of the car ride back to the house, weighing the pros and cons for you. Bringing up things you hadn't even had a chance to think about. You played along, not cracking under her watchful stare.

Upon your arrival back to the house, Bob and Rooster were sitting on the back porch and made their way around the house when they heard the car doors close. They helped you with the many grocery bags, Phoenix ofcourse nudging you in the side when Bradley walked away.

"He stayed here so he can spend time with you." She said, earning an eye roll from you in return.

"Or he's tired, or it's to cold outside, or-"

"You're no fun." She replied.

It took a while to take everything out of the bags and put them in their correct places. After you'd finished, Phoenix ofcourse ditched you, taking Bob with her. Bradley cleared his throat as he neared you, leaning against the counter as you closed the fridge. 

"Let's take a walk?"

You nodded, letting him know to give you a minute so you could go upstairs to grab a coat. He did the same.

Descending down the stairs again, you met his waiting eyes. He stood at the back door, bundled up and waiting— oh, and smirking.

"Stop looking at me like that." You chuckled, walking past him and out the back door. He was ofcourse close behind.

"Looking at you how?" He smiled.

"Like you've seen me naked!" You whisper-yelled, nudging your shoulder against his arm when he caught up and started walking beside you.

"Can’t help it." He laughed.

You started walking towards the water, smiling when the sun hit your face, filling you with needed warmth.

"I don't want you to think that last night was just a one time thing." Bradley said, looking at you as you stopped near the shore of the lake. “I don’t want to make things complicated between us since we work together, and maybe we can separate ourselves from that— I just don’t want you to think that was some hookup.”

“I trust you, Bradley.” You smiled, shading your eyes from the sun.

“We can take things slow, figure out what works for us naturally.” He added. “I don’t think I can keep my hands off of you, though.”

Your lips quirked, teeth gently gnawing on the inside of your cheek.

“You don’t have to.” Your voice was sweet, and for the first time in a while Bradley Bradshaw felt content. Exhilarated.

He shook his head with a laugh, wanting badly to touch you. Looking around for anyone, he pulled you close, earning a soft squeal from you. The kiss was short, but still raised chill bumps on your covered skin. He pulled away first, stepping away from you with a smile on his perfect lips.

Bradley surely never pictured himself in this situation. For as long as he’d known you, he surely enjoyed you being a friend and appreciated your kindness, work ethic, and ability to give him advice he needed in whatever situation presented itself. Ofcourse, there was attraction— but he simply never acted on it. It was risky, to say the least. Relationships with coworkers were not really ideal. But this, he didn’t regret one bit. Infact, he’d replayed those pretty noises you made the night before in his head over and over, doing a great job of torturing himself for a better part of the day.

The two of you walked around for a solid half hour, admiring the sights you’d grown very familar with over the past few years of living on Tahoe.

With rosy cheeks, you both walked back towards the house. It was a relief to be enveloped in the warm heat of the indoors. You shedded the coats, toboggans, and gloves, tossing them onto a table near the door.

Most everyone was inside now, cracking open drinks. With the assortment of alcohol everyone brought for themselves, you practically had an open bar. Everyone’s taste in drinks was very different throughout the group. So, everyone picked their poison and took a seat on the couch. Football was on, so ofcourse the guys were having a field day. You and Phoenix could care less, but still stayed to hang out.

The ‘what’s for dinner’ discussion came to an end rather quickly after it started. Jake had opted to grill, with Bob being his helper. Hangman was an amazing cook, and Bob was a close second. The others could cook, you included— but not like those two.

“Holy shit— what the hell is that?” Hangman said, grimacing after trying Phoenix’s drink. Rooster, who’d conveniently sat next to you, let out an adorable laugh. Phoenix grabbed her drink back, giving him a roll of her eyes. “It’s a blueberry jalapeño moscow mule.”

“No way.” Bradley pushed your hand away as you held your drink, the same as Phoenix’s, towards him.

“You guys are fucking boring.” You chuckled. “Men and their nasty beers.”

“You are so obviously in your twenties, Venom.” Hangman smirked, giving you a teasing look.

“Oh shut up.” You huffed, taking another sip of your drink.

“I’m surprised your daddy even let you have this many guys over.”

The other guys laughed at Jake’s words, some of them calling out a “Damn!”. You laughed yourself, shaking your head.

Yeah, and daddy would sure love that you fucked one of them on the first night here.

“Alright, Alright.” Bradley cut everyone off.

“Oh, cmon. She knows I’m teasing her.” Jake took another sip of his beer, looking back to the tv.

Bradley hadn’t put much thought into how your father would feel if and when he found out about the two of you. He knew if the time came, you’d talk to him about it the right way. Simpson had always been a fan of him, but Bradley knew this could change everything. Either way, you were a grown woman capable of making her own decisions. That didn’t mean your father had to like said decisions, but Bradley couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d probably never really like any man you chose. Bradley could see himself being the same way as a dad. Protective. Demanding respect. Wary of any men trying to sweep his daughter off her feet.

Two moscow mules later, most of the guys were out by the grill. You and Phoenix stayed in, prepping some of the sides for dinner. Both of you were a laughing mess. Natasha may have put a double shot in the drinks you’d both had. You were by no means drunk, but you were pretty damn close to it.

“Please don’t chop any fingers off, I can’t do all the blood.” She begged, watching you chop up an onion.

“I’m fine!” You chuckled.

Silence fell over the kitchen, and your thoughts started eating you alive. The alcohol flowing through your veins let the next couple of words slip out far too easily. She was your bestfriend anyways. She deserved to know.

“Can I tell you something without you freaking out?” You asked, voice low.

Phoenix squinted her eyes at you, starting to smirk.

“Shoot.”

“I fucked Bradshaw.”

part 2 coming soon.

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join my new taglist!

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g.u.y

i’m in @jostystyles​​​ 2.6k top tracks writing challenge. I’m sorry this is so, so late, Emmie. But I hope you enjoy and thanks for letting me participate! there are def some lyrical easter eggs in here.

the usual warnings, friends - smut, angst, fluff, angst, smut, angst, language. 18+. incredibly nervous to be posting again, I’m fed with comments and reblogs, please share if you enjoy xx 7.2k words.

“i just want it to be hot, because i’m best when i’m in love and i’m in love with you”.

But you’re not in love with him. It’s just the things he can do to your body, and the way he talks, or how he flits in and out of your life with no chance of any kind of commitment –

Vice Admiral Simpson stood before you, the usual lack of humour gracing his handsome features as he waited for your attention.

“Sir,” you acknowledged, looking up from his calendar on the screen before you, a surprising marking of private meetings popping up from the office of Rear Admiral Bates.

“The boarding list for the detachment that arrives tonight,” he dropped a file on your desk.

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chapter 3 - heartache and heartbreak (lt. bradley “rooster” bradshaw)

a/n: this was written in a willful act of ignorance of my midterms. enjoy. as always this is all for @struggling-with-nsfw​ as she lets me word vomit half my outline on discord. almost every part of this was fueled by “everything i wanted” by billie eilish. flight risk always gives me so much trouble but i finally reached a place where I’m happy with this

summary: In which Bradley and Sunshine have two hard conversations, for vastly different reasons.

main masterlist | top gun: maverick masterlist | flight risk masterlist | story description | chapter 2 - no such thing as a white lie | chapter 3.5 - what used to be

folks who wanted to be tagged: @justanothermagicalsara​ @fangirl-316​ @herladyshipxx​ @kyramaximoff @pulisvertz​ @lass-that-is-gone​ @frenchtoastix​ @coco-loco-nut​ @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy​ @torresbarnes​ @skyes-universe @supernaturaldawning​ @you-had-me-at-dead-welsh-kings​ @katiemcrae​ @gretagerwigsmuse​ @the-winter-marvel33​ @some-lovely-day​ @unordinare​ @hotch-meeeeeuppppp​ @annedub​ @hope-love-equality2​ @coyotesamachado​ @hopefulinlove​

warnings: divorce, swearing, this is just your reminder that Iceman lives cause I said so,

word count: 2,784

You sigh, tossing the stapled articles back onto the top of the pile as the doorbell rings. You glance at the clock as you make your way toward the front door, the sound of the shower echoing through the home. 

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Party of Two - Hangman x Female OC (Rooster’s Sister) - Part 2

When they passed, Nick and Carole Bradshaw left behind not just one, but two children in the care of Pete “Maverick” Mitchell. Unlike her older brother, Dani Bradshaw chose to go the civilian route - and thanks to her talent and connections, quickly became a sought-after analyst at the Office of Naval Intelligence.

Her specialty? Adversary air warfare tactics and techniques.

Her current job? Making sure her godfather pisses off a minimal amount of senior leadership, especially in his new assignment at North Island.

It’d just be a hell of a lot easier without a certain blonde pilot in the way.

Chapter 2 Summary: After years being surrounded by aviators, she’d grown accustomed to dealing with egotistical men who thought they were invincible. She’d learned to ignore them, to work around their egos. And yet Hangman had an unnerving effect. She couldn’t quite figure out why he was able to get under her skin so much. And for some reason, she couldn’t seem to walk away.

Masterlist | Characters | Part 1

Pairing: Hangman (Top Gun Maverick) x Female OC (Rooster’s Sister) 

Tag List: Comment or message if you want to be added!

Warnings: Mild Sexual Tension, References to Parental Death, Angst

Word Count: 6700+

A/N: I posted Part One and then things really hit the fan at work, so getting this part out took a lot longer than I expected. Unfortunately work still hasn’t let up but I’m going to try to write as much as I can - hopefully it is worth the wait and you still enjoy the chapters! A few notes - I thought about how I wanted to fit Dani into the story as best as possible, and I’ve decided that the best way to do so is to remove Hondo’s character from the plot. Think of Dani as a cross between the roles of Hondo and Charlie from the original film - so the story will just be the tiniest bit of AU, but 95 percent grounded in what happens in the movie. As always, reblogs/comments/likes are appreciated - hopefully I can make this series as enjoyable as the previous two!

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Faking It | Part VI

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

AHHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE LOVE YOU GUYS!! This chapter took a lot out of me for some reason, but I'm pretty content with where we're at. Hope you like it!

PS. You will like it.

PPS. I promise you, you will like it XD

Summary: Fake dating your friend, Bradley Bradshaw - what could possibly go wrong? Your sister is getting married and you need a date. You enlist Bradley's help and the rest is history.

CW: swearing, minor angst, FLUFFITY FLUFF

Start from the beginning: Part I

“Chicken is good,” Bradley says to his dinner plate.

Across the table, your aunt makes an enthusiastic sound in agreement and continues chewing.

“Delicious,” you respond curtly.

Bradley looks over at you, so you turn your head to meet his gaze. “Yours is better, darling,” he says, feigning a cordial tone, but you can see past the charade. He’s just as angry with you as you are with him.

“Her mushroom stuffed chicken is divine,” your mother chimes in.

“It’s her specialty,” Bradley says, quoting a line from the notes you’d given him to prepare for the weekend because, obviously, he’s never had your mushroom stuffed chicken. He presses his lips together although the smile he aims at you is acerbic.

You try your best not to roll your eyes at him.

“Does Bradley cook?” your aunt asks, watching the two of you with interest.

You glance at her in alarm, unsure how to respond since you don’t know the answer. You could make something up; nobody would know any better, but somehow that seems more dishonest than pretending he’s your boyfriend.

“I do, actually,” Bradley intervenes. You look at him gratefully and he returns your gaze with a slight nod. “Y/N is particularly fond of my shepherd’s pie.”

Your mother cringes at Bradley. “Y/N hates ground meat. She won’t even eat burgers.”

Bradley stares at your mother, speechless for a moment, while you try to keep your composure despite the rapidly encroaching panic.

“It’s uh… vegetarian,” he says quickly.

“Vegetarian shepherd’s pie?” your aunt asks. “Never heard of such a thing.”

“Mm-hm.” You start to nod vigorously. “It’s so good.”

“What do you make it with?” your mother asks and everybody at the table seems farcically fascinated with the concept of vegetarian shepherd’s pie.

You feel like the air is being sucked from your lungs as you watch Bradley purse his lips while he stalls. “Bradley, I totally forgot to bring my shawl from the chalet and I’m cold,” you say.

Bradley raises his eyebrows at you and you know exactly what he’s thinking: that it’s about a million degrees in this place. “Here.” He starts shrugging off his suit jacket and you nearly groan because he must know that you’re not actually cold.

You give him a pointed look as he starts to drape the jacket over your shoulders. “I’d really prefer my shawl,” you say, trying to keep the severity out of your tone.

“Oh, don’t make him go all the way back to the rooms, Y/N,” your aunt says sympathetically. Then, she adds, “He still has to tell us about this shepherd’s pie. I wouldn’t mind grabbing the recipe.” She beams at him.

“It’s uh,” Bradley says, “exactly like the one with meat. Except, you know, without it.” Bradley responds uneasily, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

“There’s got to be more to it.” Your mother narrows her eyes. “Is it a secret?”

“What? No, of course not!” Bradley chuckles. Then, he says, “Oh! I love this song!” He jumps up from his chair. “Come on, Y/N. Let’s dance!”

You stare at him in horror, trying to determine exactly what song is playing over the hum of dinner conversation. The dance floor is empty because everyone is still eating. “I’m actually not a huge fan of” –

But Bradley doesn’t let you finish the sentence because he grabs your hand and pulls you out of your seat so quickly that his jacket flies off your shoulders.

“Don’t you worry,” your grandmother says, leaning down to pick up the jacket and hanging it over the back of your chair. “Go have fun, you two.”

You let out a sigh as Bradley drags you out into the middle of the dance floor, already grooving to the music as he walks. Now that you’re closer to the speakers, you recognize the song that apparently Bradley loves.

He tugs on your hand, forcing you to turn toward him, and you catch his eyes sweeping over your face before meeting your gaze. He lifts your hand, drawing you closer while taking you by the waist. He’s shimmying his shoulders to the beat, his lips curling into a smirk when you start to move your hips reluctantly.

When the chorus kicks in, Bradley starts to sing along. “Ooh baby, I love your way.” His voice is a little raspy and a lot sexy. You feel the now familiar turbulence wreak havoc on your organs, but Bradley continues his serenade, completely unaware of just exactly what it’s doing to you.

You feel your scowl dissolve as Bradley tries to engage you in the dancing by moving your arms around. You start to laugh when he twists you this way and that as he sings at the top of his lungs. Before long, you forget exactly why you’ve been upset with him, and your irritation seems hardly relevant at all, especially considering the lengths to which he’s going in order to keep up appearances.

Bradley extends his arm out and spins you before bringing you flush against his body. Your hips align with his and the two of you sway together from side to side, his hand clutching yours to his chest as he sings, “I wanna tell you I love your way, everyday. I wanna be with you night and day.”

When the next song comes on, other guests begin to step out onto the dance floor. “Might be safer to just stay out here,” he says, shrugging.

You nod. “Chicken wasn’t very good anyway,” you say, thinking of your half-finished dinnerplate.

He laughs. “Here’s hoping the cake will be chocolate,” he says, already dancing to the next song.

You chuckle, starting to move more freely to the upbeat music.

Bradley smiles at you appreciatively, grabbing your hand to swing you to the side while you grin, admiring his dancing skills. The DJ is playing all the old classics and you are both thoroughly enjoying the familiar melodies.

Several songs in, when the two of you are moderately out of breath, you feel a hand on your shoulder. You turn to see your sister’s smiling face. She leans in to whisper in your ear, “You guys look super cute together!”

The words send a bittersweet ripple through you because, on the one hand, it means your ruse has been a success but, on the other, it’s all a farce. Your feelings toward Bradley might be genuine, but Bradley is here as your friend. And he’s faking the rest of it. Nevertheless, you shoot your sister a wide grin, grateful for her support.

A few minutes later, Aly shows up to claim her dance with Bradley. You step aside and watch on as Bradley takes the girl’s hands and starts twirling her around with a giant smile on his face. He seems pleased that she’s remembered to find him. You laugh when he picks her up and swings her, feet first, on either side of his body. Aly is giggling merrily and, as he sets her back down, Bradley glances up at you briefly, giving you a lopsided grin and a wink.

The night seems to fly by as you and Bradley spend the majority of it on the dance floor. When your sister goes to do the bouquet toss, your mother pushes you into the throng of single women gathering eagerly behind the bride. You eye your mother crossly but, when you catch the amused smirk on Bradley’s face, you suddenly want to catch the damn bouquet.

The battle for the flying flowers is unexpectedly aggressive. There is a lot more elbowing than you’d expect, as well as a fair amount of shoving, kicking, and toe stomping. But, for some reason, you are determined to win. You end up catching the bouquet despite the numerous hands obstructing your view, and you turn back to your table and do a little victory dance as you walk back toward Bradley. He laughs at you, shaking his head.

“You’re such a goof,” he mutters in a low voice as you approach him, but the expression he wears is something reminiscent of fondness.

You drop your eyes because his gaze makes you blush. “Your turn,” you say in a sing-song voice, and he passes a hand over your stomach as he proceeds to join the rest of the bachelors awaiting the toss of the garter.

Your aunt cozies up to you as you watch Bradley approach the group of men on the floor. “I like him,” she says.

You turn to her in surprise.

“Don’t look so shocked,” she says. “I think he’s perfect for you.”

“More perfect than Steven?” you ask pointedly.

“Eh,” your aunt shrugs. “I never cared for Steven.”

“But he’s a doctor!” you exclaim in mock outrage, trying to emulate your mother’s tone when she’d learned of your decision to break up.

Your aunt chuckles. “Steven is a pompous ass.”

“Can you tell my mother that?”

Your aunt turns to face you. “I’ve never seen you look at Steven the way you look at Bradley.”

You bite your lip, wondering if she might also have noticed the way Bradley looks at you when you aren’t paying attention. But you can’t ask her that, so you turn back to observe the garter toss in silence.

You see that Steven has stepped into the crowd where he and Bradley promptly exchange menacing glares with one another. Bradley then turns his head to glance back at you over his shoulder. You wave at him just as the groom throws the garter and, by the time Bradley looks back, Steven jumps up to grab it.

You hold your breath as Steven dangles the garter in front of Bradley’s face and, for a moment, Bradley looks like he might punch him for being an idiot. But then Bradley lets out a long breath and turns to walk back toward you with a scowl.

“What does it mean?” he asks as he approaches you.

“Well,” you say. “Obviously it means that Steven and I are meant to be and that we’ll be getting married and having a bunch of babies.”

Bradley watches you impassively. “You’re funny,” he says. You smile at him mildly and he steps closer, wrapping his arm around you. “He’ll have to get past me first,” he mutters, and his words inspire yet another flutter in your gut that leaves you feeling buzzed.

But the sensation is interrupted by Steven’s arrogant drawl. “Shall we?” he says, and you turn to see him standing right behind you. “They’re waiting for us.”

You narrow your eyes at him as Bradley’s grip tightens on your hip. “Who’s waiting for us?”

“It’s customary for the woman who catches the bouquet and the man who catches the garter to dance,” your aunt says with a grimace.

You blink at her defeatedly and then glance up worriedly at Bradley. He lifts an eyebrow and squints his eyes, his hold loosening around your waist. “It’s just a dance,” he says, seeing the discomfort on your face. “Don’t let him get to you.”

You nod, releasing a wavering sigh, and turn toward Steven. “Let’s get this over with,” you say.

Steven grins at you. “That’s the spirit,” he says, taking your hand to lead you out onto the now empty dance floor. He glances over his shoulder as the two of you make your way to the center, a faint smirk materializing on his face when his eyes lock on Bradley.

Steven places his hand on your side and pulls you closer when the song starts. As the two of you slowly rotate, you can see Bradley watching you from the sidelines, a hard expression coloring his features.

Steven brings you into an embrace. “Feels like old times,” he says.

“Not really,” you respond coldly, trying to regain some space between your bodies.

“Don’t tell me you’re serious about this aviator,” he says.

You glance up at him indignantly. “Of course, I’m serious about him. I wouldn’t have brought him to my sister’s wedding if I weren’t.”

He chuckles. “You forget that I know you very well,” he says.

You swallow, wondering what he’s getting at.

Steven eyes you with a devious smirk. “He’s not your boyfriend,” he says.

“Excuse me?” you say, offended and anxious in equal measure.

He chuckles. “Sure, maybe he’s a friend,” he says, shrugging. “But that dude is not dating you.”

“What are you talking about?” You want to ask how he could tell, but you don’t want to give anything away.

“The closest you have gotten to each other is a quick hug here and there. You look like you’re afraid to touch him,” he says. “So, the question is, why did you feel the need to bring him? You didn’t know I’d be here, so it wasn’t to make me jealous.”

“You’ve got it wrong,” you scoff.

He raises his eyebrows. “It’s your mom, isn’t it? She’s pushing you to start dating again. She’s always been a big fan of mine.”

You roll your eyes. “Stop talking, Steven.”

Steven brings his face closer to yours. “Making me jealous is just an added benefit, isn’t it? Well, I’m here to tell you that it worked. Even if you aren’t actually dating the guy.”

“I couldn’t care less how you feel about my relationship,” you respond, gritting your teeth.

Steven chuckles. “‘Relationship’,” he repeats, using his right hand to make air quotes.

You’re seething so much that your head starts to hurt and, just as you’re about to walk away from him, you feel a soft touch along your shoulder blade. Bradley steps around you, giving Steven an icy look. “I can take over from here, Steven,” he says casually, as if interrupting a traditional slow dance in front of an audience is regularly scheduled programming.

Steven stares at him in astonishment, completely lost for words. Bradley doesn’t wait for him to respond; he takes your hand out of Steven’s and leads you away.

You raise your eyebrows as Steven stands alone in the middle of the floor, looking around awkwardly. Meanwhile, you feel Bradley’s hand slide up your waist and pull you in, swaying you gently to the music. You gulp as Steven glares at you before turning on his heel and making his way toward your table, where your aunt and mother are standing and watching the action unfold.

“Bradley,” you say quietly.

“Hm?”

You glance up at him anxiously. “He knows,” you say. “Steven knows.”

“Knows what?” he asks.

You bite your lip. “That you’re not really my boyfriend. That all of this is fake.”

Bradley makes a skeptical face. “Did you tell him?”

“Of course not! He guessed.”

Bradley chuckles. “How?”

You shrug. “Apparently, we’re not affectionate enough.”

Bradley narrows his eyes, one corner of his mouth curling upward slightly. “What are you proposing?”

“I’m not proposing anything! I’m saying, the jig is up and we’re fucked,” you whisper feverishly. “Oh god, he’s talking to my mother. He’s going to tell her!”

Bradley lets out a slow sigh and pulls you a tad closer. “Hey,” he says. “There’s nothing to tell. Remember what I said? Don’t let him get to you.”

You glance up into Bradley’s eyes and, for a single moment, the background fades into nonexistence and your troubles with Steven seem a million miles away. But then, you shift back to reality, suddenly aware of the entire room watching you dance with your supposed boyfriend whom you can’t even kiss him.

As if on cue, Bradley says in a low voice, “You know, there is a way we can be more convincing as a couple.”

You stare at him for a moment while he watches you carefully, probably analyzing your reaction. His gaze drops down to your lips and you instinctively crane your neck before you can stop yourself. Bradley’s eyebrows twitch as a mystified expression passes fleetingly over his features. You note the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows uneasily; the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his face nears yours.

“What do you think?” he mutters, so close now that the tip of his nose brushes against the tip of yours.

There’s so much commotion in your chest, you feel like your ribs might rupture trying to keep it contained. “Uh,” you breathe, not confident you can articulate a more complex sound. You hope that his question is rhetorical in nature and that he’s not actually expecting a response.

Bradley steps about a millimeter closer, the hand he kept on your hip now sliding slowly up your side. You can feel his fingers clasp around your bent elbow, lingering there for a moment before trailing up your arm, its trace along your bare skin electric.

You let your lips part when you feel the heat of his breath as it mixes with yours, your slow dance coming to a near standstill as the two of you waver in uncertainty. You know that kissing Bradley Bradshaw will be the ultimate annihilation of whatever chance you might have had at restoring a platonic friendship with him once the weekend is over. Perhaps not for Bradley, but certainly for you. You also know that kissing Bradley Bradshaw is the best method of proving the authenticity of your relationship to your mother and Steven.

But before you can continue to contemplate the risk-reward ratio of kissing him, you feel Bradley’s bottom lip skim over your top one, and you could swear that your body might shatter upon impact. If Bradley, by some chance, determines to kiss you kiss you, you might not survive it. But despite the ever-present possibility that you may die if you were to actually lock lips with Bradley Bradshaw, you are now convinced, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are willing – nay, aching – to hazard it.

And just as you begin to wonder whether Bradley is on the same page, his mouth closes around yours. For a moment, neither of you breathes, giving you ample opportunity to acknowledge the fact that you aren’t dead but, on the contrary, extremely alive. You are submerged in sensation, baffled by how many things in your body can feel.

And then Bradley breathes out forcefully, taking a step into you, his arm curving around your back to keep you steady as he presses his body against yours. His lips begin to move, inviting yours into a desperate, delirious dance.

You let your hand travel up his chest and behind his neck, your fingers grazing his skin as he leans closer. Meanwhile, his hand is suddenly in your hair, contending with the mass of bobby pins as he attempts to rake his fingers right through. Instead, he resolves to grip a chunk of it by your ear, interrupting the kiss for a moment to let out a low chuckle against your mouth. At that, you slide your hand to the back of his head, pushing him toward you again.

Bradley resumes kissing you eagerly, both his hands now arriving on either side of your face, his thumbs brushing tenderly over your cheeks.

Somewhere beyond, one song ends and another begins. There is movement on the outside, some shuffling, and you finally open your eyes just as your glorious kiss comes to a conclusion.

Bradley rests his forehead on yours, breathing heavily into the small space between your faces while neither of you dare to say a word.

There are others on the dance floor now. Dancing, laughing, not paying the two of you the slightest bit of attention. And why would they? You’ve just done what any normal couple would do. Nobody knows how the moment transported you, how it has altered you.

Then, Bradley speaks. “Do you think they’ll miss us?”

“What?” you breathe, your foreheads still together as you watch his mouth move.

He bites into his lip. “If we leave now,” he says. “Will they notice we’re gone?”

Your heart starts to hammer once again. “What about the cake?” you ask.

“The cake?” he says, and you feel the skin of his forehead wrinkle as he furrows his brows.

“What if it’s chocolate?” you ask.

Bradley’s mouth curls into an amused smile. “Could be diamond for all I care.”

“That would be tough on the teeth.” You make a grimace to lighten the mood but, on the inside, you’re crumbling. Bradley wants to leave. He wants to leave so he isn’t forced to kiss you again.

Bradley lets out a steady sigh and takes a step toward you, the movement bringing your bodies together. You close your eyes because you’re far too close to see anything meaningful anymore anyway. “I could give a fuck about the cake, Y/N,” he says hoarsely.

Tag List:

I will try my best to tag the rest of this list in the comments! Might take a while bc I can only tag 5 at a time, so I might finish tagging in the morning. If I don't get to you, I'm sorry!

XOXO

@lonelywitchv2

@fanboyluvr

@marrianena

@anotherr-fine-mess

@mrs-obrien

@living-in-my-imagination88

@kindablackenedsuperhero

@whitewolfsbitch

@beebslebobs

@gretagerwigsmuse

@mak-32

@strangunddurm

@desert-fern

@maverick-wingman

@jamielovesbucky

@n3ssm0nique

@misshoneypaper

@roosterscockpit

@jakexfmc

@wintercap89

@gracielou0518

@averyhotchner

@bxwitched

@yeetzel

@xoxabs88xox

@cynisarmy

@kwanimations

@onlygetaway

@hope-love-equality2

@shanimallina87

@ijustwantedplums

@oliviah-25

@gayforsteve

@gingerbreadandpaper

@vemonbby

@sebastianstansimp

@alexxavicry

@spn-marvel-nerd

@army24--7

@emmy626

@criminalyetminimal

@candid-confetti

@avoirlecoupdefoudre

@thefandomimagines

@moony-artemis

@my-secret-life-1

@roostereads

@currentlybradshaw

@whisperofsong

[fanfictropesdotcom]

Pursuit | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader (18+)

Synopsis: Two days into a group ski trip and Rooster has torn his ACL and is stuck on the couch, feeling sorry for himself. Someone has to stay back and take care of him — lucky you. Rooster hates trivial pursuit, and takes this as his opportunity to turn your friendship into something more.

Warnings: pwp, pinv, unprotected sex (make good decisions)

…

“You must think I’m an idiot.” Bradley mumbles as you fiddle through the board games under the book shelf. You glance back at him over your shoulder, and laugh. For his sake, you shake your head.

There are times in your friendship, more often than not, where it’s appropriate to make fun of him. This isn’t one of these times. Rooster’s feeling pretty sorry for himself right now, and he doesn’t need any salt on his wounds.

He does look pretty ridiculous, though. He’s stretched out along the sofa, a bag of frozen peas on his knee and a compression bandage under that. Wearing sweatpants that are a size too big to allow for the swelling, and a sweater that’s a size too big because that’s how he likes his sweaters to fit.

It’s day two of your week long trip to the mountains with your closest friends. This was what you had been most excited about when Phoenix had told you she was marrying Dani. Dani’s family had an incredible lodge up in the Rockies.

For Phoenix’s birthday this year, she invited you and your closest friends up to the lodge. Everyone else is out on the mountain right now. You’re sitting in the living room with Rooster, trying to find something that’ll make the time pass.

Yesterday, on the first day of the trip, Rooster was being Rooster and Hangman was being Hangman. Rooster — who had never been snowboarding in his life before this week — wanted to keep up with Hangman, who has spent a month in Aspen each winter since he was six.

Now, he’s on strict bed-rest (well, couch rest) and will be for the next two days. Feeling sorry for himself with a pulled hamstring and a torn ACL. Considering that he can’t move from the couch without support, someone had to stay back and take care of him. Today, it’s you.

“Could’ve happened to anyone.” You soothe. Anyone that tried to go down a red slope on their first day on a board. Bradley tucks one arm behind his head as he watches you rummage through the variety of old board games.

It’s snowing pretty hard outside and has been since you arrived. Kind of foggy too. Not exactly ideal conditions for someone who has spent maybe thirty days of his entire life in the snow to learn how to board. Especially not when he’s surrounded by already fairly proficient boarders.

“Oh — Trivial Pursuit!” You gasp, tugging the box out from under the monopoly and dusting it off. Rooster groans and leans his head back against the arm rest.

“Or we could just watch paint dry.” He mumbles, a testament to how boring of a game he feels that trivial pursuit is.

“Shut up. I love this game,” You push yourself up and walk over to the couch, setting the box down on the coffee table. You sit down on the floor with your back to the edge of the couch. “And it’s your fault we’re stuck in here so it’s only fair that I pick the game.”

“Yay.” Bradley says dryly.

You lift the lid off of the box and set it to the side.

“Could we at least get drunk while we play?”

You muse with the idea for a moment and shrug. That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. You take the box and press it into his hands, “Fine. You set up. I’ll make us some drinks.”

Rooster has to grit his teeth as he pushes himself somewhat upright and cranes his torso forward to set the game up on the coffee table.

You have to take a moment to watch in amusement as he struggles to set the game up. You love that idiot. He’s been one of your best friends for going on eight years now. You’ve been on a couple trips together, countless missions — you’ve become great friends. Which is why you don’t mind caring for him while he’s in pain.

He helped you out when you dislocated your shoulder at Hangman’s pool party that one time. It’s only fair.

You pad dutifully to the kitchen, ready to embrace the carer role to its fullest extent. Maybe a good nurse wouldn’t have topped the hot chocolates up with a little too much Baileys — but you know Rooster, he’d prefer it this way.

“This is incredible.” Rooster groans as he settles back comfortably against the coach and warms his hands around the mug. It’s already plenty warm in the living room with the fire that Bob got going before everyone headed out about an hour ago.

You settle down onto the floor, pleased to find that Rooster has actually set the game up correctly.

“The person who invented this combo deserves the best head.” He adds, letting out another groan of pleasure as he takes another sip.

You wish you invented it. Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t had sex in a while, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re sitting on a faux fur rug, in front of a log fire, snow outside and a gorgeous man behind you — but the sound of that groan hits you right between your legs.

Your eyes widen slightly.

There had been a few intimate feelings towards Rooster when you had first met him. He’s an attractive guy. It had almost happened. But it hadn’t. There had been this tension in the beginning.

There were so many almosts. So many almosts that you had just given up. Clearly the universe was giving you a sign that it wasn’t supposed to happen. You had stopped trying to make it, and fallen platonically head over heels for Bradley Bradshaw.

You had been comfortable as just friends for a long time now. But shit, does that guy sound pretty when he moans. You scold yourself for things like this regularly. You shouldn’t think that your best friend sounds pretty moaning.

“Alright. I’m going first.” You decide, feeling the need to quickly change the subject.

“Aren’t we supposed to roll to decid-“

“It was my idea, I’m going first.” You insist.

“I’m injured — I should go first.”

You end up going first. You smirk as you shake the dice in your hand. He swats playfully at the back of your head.

This is how you have always showed affection. Gentle bullying. You’re a very affectionate pair. You had to tone it down last time Rooster had gotten a girlfriend. You understood why she was mad, you would be too. It was a shame she didn’t stick around long — you liked her.

Since then, you had been a bit less open with touching each other. Especially around others. People thought your playfulness was sometimes flirting. Of course, it wasn’t. You didn’t let yourself do that anymore.

After he smacked your head, Rooster brushes his fingers over the top of your hair, brushing it back off of your shoulders. You feel no urge to shrug his off as he trails his fingers along your shoulders. He toys with your hair, curling a loose strand around his finger and unwinding it.

“You have to ask me the purple question.” You pass him back a question card without looking at it. There’s a disappointment that fills you as his hand leaves your hair. He sighs softly and lifts the card.

He chuckles the moment he reads it. “How many movies did Sean Connery play James Bond in?” He asks. Bradley knows for a fact that you don’t know the answer to this question because you’ve consistently refused to watch any of the James Bond movies with him for as long as he’s known you.

“Mm… seven?”

“Lucky guess.” Bradley mumbles. He hits the back of your head again. ‘Accidentally’, as he’s passing the card back to you.

You turn and bite his leg. You’ve always had a very playful friendship. You bite his shoulders, his hands — whatever’s in your way or within your reach when the necessity strikes. Now, it’s his thigh.

He flinches, then stills. It’s only once you’re pressing your teeth into his thigh, looking up at him, that you realise how compromising of a position you’re in.

He’s wearing grey sweatpants. Your eyes flicker down and you know exactly where his dick is under the material. Luckily, it’s resting against the other thigh. His lip has quirked when you look back up at him.

You withdraw quickly. Turning and taking a large gulp of your hot chocolate before picking up the dice again. You got your question correct, you get to keep rolling. You make an eight question winning streak. Rooster finishes his hot chocolate before it’s even his first turn.

“Could I have another one?” He asks you, resting his empty mug on your shoulder like he’s going to leave it there to fall on you. You sigh, dramatically, as you push yourself to your feet. You finish off yours and nod, heading for the kitchen once more.

“Fine. But if you need to pee then I’m not holding it.” You answer back.

“My leg is fucked, my hands work just fine. You just like thinking about my dick in your hands.” He calls to you. You’re glad you’re in the kitchen where he can’t see the way that unnerves you. You bite your cheek and go about making each of you another drink.

Rooster has to lean forward to roll the dice on the table. He really can’t move much. Any movement on his knee still really hurts.

“Thanks, honey.” He smiles sweetly and purses his lips like he’s going to blow you a kiss as you hand him a drink that’s almost as much liqueur as it is hot chocolate. Just the way he likes it.

“No problem, princess.” You answer back, settling back in on the floor and grabbing a question card as you sip at your own.

One of Rooster’s primary issues with Trivial Pursuit, is the length of time it takes. He makes a ten question correct streak before it’s your turn again. Two hours and three more drinks later, Rooster is tired of questions.

He’s barely lifting his head as you tell him what to do. Roll. Ask me the blue question. Answer the red question. Roll again.

He’s staring at the wooden beams above his head. The architecture really is beautiful in this place. So is the mountain, and there’s a great view of it from the living room but he still would rather be out there, rather than stuck in here like an idiot.

He drums his fingers on his stomach and looks towards the book case. His eyes scan over the other board games over there. Looking for something else. Anything better than this. Nothing that he can stand to spend another three hours doing.

He’s bored.

“Okay, ask me purple.” You hand him another question card. He sighs softly as he takes it. Even reading the question takes too much effort at this point. He looks at you. You’re facing the board, your back to him as you wait to get another question correct.

Rooster looks towards the fireplace, watching the flames crackle and rise. Then he looks towards you again. A thought crosses his mind and he squashes it instantly, then hesitates. No harm in asking.

“Can I see your tits?”

You turn, dice still in hand, and blink at him. He’s looking back at you like he had just asked you how your day was going. Like that was the most normal thing in the world to ask his best friend of eight years.

“It would make me feel a lot better.” He adds. Your lip quirks slightly at the fact that he’s playing the sick card. You aren’t sure how boobs cure knee pain, but you know that at this point in your friendship, questioning Rooster’s strange brain is pointless.

He looks so cozy. Somehow perpetually tanned, cheeks flushed slightly from the warmth of the fire, his hood resting around his shoulders and his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. He smiles softly at you.

“Are you serious?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at him in disbelief. He nods his head, tucking an arm behind it like he’s settling in to watch his favourite movie. He smiles at you, then nods again for you to go ahead.

“You’re such a teenager.” You scoff. Humour is the only way you know how to handle this. You still aren’t quite sure if he’s fucking with you.

“Please? — I’m bored, I need something to help me refocus.” Rooster smiles. Fuck, he’s so pretty. You shift slightly, half turning to face him and resting your elbow on the couch cushion. You scrunch your brows at him, trying to suss him out.

You’ve known him for long enough now to know that he’s serious.

You debate it. Debate just nut-tapping him and calling him a pervert. But it really is just your boobs. He’s seen you in a bikini a hundred times. Seen you in some pretty risky clothes when you’ve gone out drinking together. You know he knows what your boobs look like — what difference does it make for him to have also seen your nipple?

He’s watching you expectantly.

“Just for a second.” You agree.

“Seriously?” He wasn’t expecting you to say yes. Honestly you were expecting to try to hit him in the nuts. He pushes himself up onto his elbows. You’re half tempted to tell him no. The other half of you wants to see if he finds you as attractive as you find him.

Just for the validation.

You shrug your shoulders at him, twisting yourself up onto your knees. You grab the bottom of your sweatshirt, watching his eyebrows lift in anticipation.

There’s a split second where you hesitate. Sure, he’s your best friend. But after this, he’ll just be you best friend who has seen your tits. You think about it as he stares expectantly at you, still pushed up onto his elbows. Lots of your girl best friends have seen your tits — it makes sense that he would too. Fuck it.

You lift your sweatshirt and the loose fitting t-shirt that you’re still wearing under it. You’ve forgone a bra, considering that the plan was just to sit beside Rooster all day and make sure he didn’t die of boredom.

His lips part slightly as you lift the sweatshirt up and expose your chest to him. He stays there, propped up on his elbows, that stupid bag of probably thawed out peas still on his knee as he just stares at you. His lips quirk, ever so slightly, like he’s going to smile.

Every time you get drunk, you’re possessed by this overwhelming urge to tell Rooster what gorgeous eyes he has. It’s not your fault that he looks like the prettiest thing in the entire world when he’s blinking at your with those big brown eyes. You watch those pretty eyes now.

Men amaze you. He’s truly so mesmerised by what’s before him. You give him a while to just stare. Maybe twenty seconds. It certainly feels like longer. Then your cheeks are starting to redden. You scrunch your nose, feeling suddenly anxious by his lack of reaction.

“Say something, you freak.” You demand. Yet, you don’t drop your sweatshirt back down. Rooster’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. He swallows and lifts his eyes to finally look at your face.

“Can I touch them?” His voice is low, serious. His gaze flickers back down for a moment before he reminds himself to be respectful and looks back to your face.

You purse your lips.

“Mm… don’t you think that would be crossing a line?” You ask gently. This is not only your best friend, but also your wingman. You have to go to work with him after all of this.

“I think I already crossed that line.” He nods downward. You follow his line of sight to his half-hard cock straining against his grey sweatpants. Damn grey sweatpants. The sluttiest of men’s clothes. You’ve heard that Rooster is well endowed, and you’ve always been curious. You aren’t disappointed by what’s in front of you now.

You want him to touch you. In fact, you can’t think of anything else right now worse than denying him. Than denying yourself this.

“Just for a second.” You agree once more. You can’t pretend you don’t want him to touch you. He scoots over to make room for you to sit on the edge of the couch cushion. Your ass is half hanging off of it when you sit.

“You could just… it would be easier.” Rooster gestures for you to straddle him. You take one more look at the bulge in his sweatpants.

“I think that would be too far.” Truthfully, you don’t think you have the necessary self-restraint to be sitting on his dick and not take this far enough to ruin your friendship.

Rooster nods. You lift your sweatshirt once more. He lets out a soft breath. This time you notice his Adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat.

He reaches out tenderly, hand cupping your left breast. He squeezes softly, swipes his thumb delicately over your nipple, then brings his other hand up to cup your other breast.

He groans softly, just like he did when he first tasted his hot chocolate, kneading your breasts in his hands. Bradley’s lips quirk up into a soft smile, content for the first time all day.

His eyes flicker up to yours as he shifts slightly more upright. It’s then that you realise he’s going to kiss you. Alarm bells. Every brain cell you have is screaming that once those stupid, perfect, pouty lips touch yours — there is no more friendship.

In the interest of preserving the relationship with the best friend that you’ve ever had, you drop your sweatshirt and move away from him to sit on the floor again. Bradley adjusts himself against his sweatpants. You don’t see him frown.

“It’s your turn to ask me a question.” You announce, handing him a card without looking at him. He takes the card and settles back against the couch with a soft sigh, then clears his throat.

You can hear that he wants no part in continuing this game. But if you stop playing now then there’s nothing to do but sit here and think about how badly you want him to fuck you. So many almosts. You can’t take another one.

“Red. Okay. Uh… how many years did it take Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel?” In Rooster’s defence, you can hear him trying to hide his bored he is for your sake. Still, you don’t turn to face him.

“Six.”

“Four.” He corrects you. He tosses the card back onto the coffee table and gently strokes your hair back off of your shoulder. You hand him the dice without meeting his gaze.

He sighs softly, toying with the dice for a moment. He shifts a little. Adjusts his half-hard cock. Looks down at the board. Thinks about how much longer this is going to take.

He rolls a five, then watches as you move his piece. You grab the question card. He trails the pad of his thumb from your jaw to the collar of your sweater. You’ve never played a game of Trivial Pursuit with this much sexual tension before.

“W-What is the literary term for a word describing a sound?”

“I truly couldn’t care less if I tried.” Rooster admits. After all, honesty is the best policy. You can’t turn to look at him. You don’t have the restraint. You want him so fucking bad that’s is almost pathetic right now.

So, you sit and wait patiently for him to just spit out the fucking word onomatopoeia. Just answer the question, Rooster.

He reaches out and slides his fingers around the base of your neck. He squeezes softly and strokes his thumb affectionately against the skin of your neck. He guides you back until you’re turned to face him.

He looks at you, his eyes hungry with lust, the intensity in those pretty, brown eyes sending shivers up your spine.

You let out a soft breath now that you’re staring at him. He can tell that you’re doubting this. That you’re starting to overthinking it. That the clock is ticking down quickly before this becomes just another almost.

He leans quickly forwards and captures your mouth in a kiss. Before you have a chance to freak out. You melt against him. Again, he groans, this time into your mouth. The sound vibrates through you and propels you into his arms.

You push up and swing one leg over his hips, straddling him without breaking the kiss. You take extra care to settle in delicately against him, not wanting to worsen his injury. He slips his tongue into your mouth, holding you against him with his hand on the back of your neck.

From here, you can feel just how hard he is. Rock hard and pressing into you. You grind down ever so slightly, feeling the tip of his cock graze you. The realisation strikes that he isn’t wearing underwear for the exact same reason you don’t have a bra on — you refuse to be subjected to such discomfort on a day of promised laziness. He’s made for you.

“Aren’t you…” You pull back, breathing hard. It’s like he can’t stand not having his mouth on you. His lips are on your throat the moment they leave your mouth. “Aren’t you kind of incapacitated from the waist down right now?”

“Don’t worry about it.” His hands are already slipping under your sweater, pushing it up your torso. You lift your arms up obediently and let him strip you of your hoodie and t-shirt. “Fuck me, you’re perfect.”

You can’t pretend that that compliment didn’t go straight to your head. Your ego is inflated and you’re suddenly feeling much more confident about this encounter.

He lifts his head and kisses your shoulder, both hands sliding up your torso and grabbing at your tits. Rooster groans, peppering soft kisses along your skin. You’ve always wondered what that stupid moustache would feel like against your skin. The answer is that it’s actually surprisingly pleasant. It tickles just enough to make you shiver but not enough to be irritating.

Rooster wraps his lip around your nipple, pinching the other between his fingers, making you gasp softly. His tongue flicks over the sensitive bud, pulling away, grazing his teeth just lightly over the tender flesh. He watches your head roll back. He groans more urgently this time, squeezing your tits in his hands as he turns his attention to the other nipple.

The line has been well and truly crossed already. There’s no way you can look him in his stupid, beautiful eyes again and pretend that he didn’t have you soaking through your panties with just his mouth on your tits.

You grind down against his cock, moaning softly at the friction. Your thin pair of leggings and his sweatpants don’t separate much. You can feel exactly how rock hard he is. You grind desperately onto him as he sucks a faint purple mark into your skin — just a light one that’ll fade within a couple of hours. Just enough that when he pulls back, he can admire the teeth marks on your skin.

His hands find your hips as he guides you, he presses his good leg down and uses the leverage to drive his cock up against your core. He pauses, holding you still, rocking the tip of his cock against your clit through your clothes. Your mind goes blank. Through your clothes. He found it through your fucking clothes.

You’re rocking your hips, grinding desperately against him through your clothes. He groans, taking just a moment to rake his eyes over your shirtless body, skimming his fingertips along your side.

“Fuck, I need to see what I’ve been fucking missing.” He breathes out, tugging at your hips. He slaps your ass, lifting his head and kissing you hard. You moan into his mouth. Your fingers slide down his chest, pushing under the hoodie, sliding it up his chest. He has to sit slightly, grabbing a fistful of fabric from behind his head and tugging it off.

It’s more than warm enough. The fire and your body heat is more than making up for the snow outside.

You stand up to rid yourself of your leggings and socks, embarrassed suddenly that you’re in a skimpy thong in front of your best friend and he’s laying there with one arm tucked behind his head, just smiling.

He shifts his hips slightly to get comfy. Your eyes fall down to the straining bulge in his sweats. Your lips part slightly. He brushes his palm over his cock, adjusting it slightly to ease his discomfort.

“I’m just really excited that I’m winning.” Bradley jokes breathily, nodding towards the game. You have to giggle. His fingers curl around your wrist as he tugs you back down to him again. You lay on top of him this time, your knee resting between his.

His hand grabs at the back of your neck as he guides your mouth against his, his tongue curling into yours. He pushes his hips against yours.

You’re both shifting, the couch is a little too small for both of you to fit comfortably. Your foot knocks his leg just slightly. He gasps, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He takes a moment, then let’s out a strained breath.

“Oh shit — I’m sorry.” You gasp, sitting up quickly to make sure he’s okay. He grabs the bag of peas digging into his side and tosses it across the room. You look down at his bandaged knee, brows scrunching. “Rooster, maybe we should wait until you can move again.”

“Already waited eight years.” He grabs you and kisses you again before you have time to process what he has said. The knowledge that he has wanted you just as badly as you have wanted him creeps into your heart and makes itself at home there.

Your ego really can’t take much more of this, you’re going to be insufferable if he continues with all of this flattery. But equally, you don’t want him to stop.

“I can take care of you,” He promises, nudging his nose against the crook of your neck. “Whether I can move or not. I’ve got you.”

You can’t resist. Your hand wraps around his cock over the soft jersey material, palming over his length as his tongue caresses yours. His hand slides between your bodies and nudges your panties to the side.

“You’re fucking soaked.” He murmurs. You roll your hips against his fingers.

“You’re fucking huge.” You reply. He smiles against your lips. He pushes harder against your hand, trailing his fingertips between your folds. You slide a hand up into his hair, humming softly as you tug at his curls. You’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.

He grabs your leg and adjusts your position to give him easier access to your pussy, slipping a finger into you. You hmm softly, tugging at his curls again. He groans into your mouth. His ring finger slides into you alongside his middle. He curls them both into you.

You feel his cock twitch in your palm as your walls clench around his fingers. There’s an urgency to this now. You’re in the living room of the lodge, about fifteen feet from the front door. It’s been a couple of hours, everyone will be back soon.

“That feels good, huh?” Like he already knows that it does. Because it does. All you can do is breathe, soft whimpers spilling from your lips as he works his fingers into you. It feels better than good. You wish you had the words.

Your fingers curl around his wrist, rocking yourself down onto his fingers. Excitement pools in your stomach as you fall forward slightly, bracing yourself onto his shoulder.

All Rooster can think about is that one time he was so drunk that you tried to do the nice thing and let him sleep in your bed. The plan was for you to take the couch. But then he had been so heavy, and so uncooperative — literally dead weight — that you had just left him curled up on the floor in your room.

He’d woken up the next morning while you were in the shower. The soft moans spilling from behind the bathroom door. The two of you had been completely alone in your place. He’d thought of those sweet sounds of you touching yourself constantly since then.

You sound even better now that he’s touching you. He groans softly against your lips, he’s enjoying this just as much as you are.

“Ah… fuck.” You sigh contentedly, swallowing hard. “Rooster. I’m so close.”

Music to his ears. Truly. He grabs the back of your neck with his free hand and pulls you close, eyes locked on yours as he works his fingers into you with his other hand.

If this is him injured, you’re mad at yourself for denying yourself all of him for all this time. You don’t have much time to be mad at yourself.

Your head lulls back, muscles tensing, fingers curling around his shoulder tightly. You’re whimpering, moaning, fucking yourself on his fingers.

“Look at you,” Rooster coos, half-teasing. You don’t have the words to bite back, breathing hard as you try to steady yourself in your post-climax haze. “Christ, you’re so good. So good.”

You can’t wait any longer. The moment your world stops spinning, you push at the waistband of his sweats. He obliges, pulling his fingers from you and pushing the sweats down to his shins. You can see the discomfort on his face. The pain he’s trying not to let you see.

“Rooster…” You frown.

He shakes his head, “I’m fine. Seriously. Doesn’t even hurt.” Actually, his leg is throbbing because it hurts so bad. But, his cock is throbbing too and he knows which one he’s more likely to listen to. You wish you had the strength to argue with him.

You shimmy out of your panties and lean down to kiss him. Your hands held his shoulders as his own squeezed softly at your ass, then grabbed his cock in one hand. He lined himself up with you as you dripped in wetness. His eyes meet yours as you rocked yourself against his tip.

Rooster shivers, even with the heat from the fire. He grabs your thighs with both hands, raking his nails against your skin. A muscle in his jaw ticks.

“So, you don’t want me to make you feel all better?” You tease. Voice soft and feigning concern. You even bat your lashes and squeeze your tits together for him. Then, you sink your hips down slightly, letting his tip nose at your entrance before you lift away again.

Rooster swallows. He manages to nod his head as his hands find your hips. Those pretty brown eyes look up at you, expectant and eager. His hands squeeze around your hips. Your grind yourself along his length, just letting him feel how worked up he’s got you.

“Fuck, of course I do.” Rooster rushes out, his hands finding your hips, giving the skin a firm squeeze. He ruts his cock against you, grinding it against your clit.

You slowly sink down on him, taking in his tip. A soft squeak slips your lips. He squeezes softly at your thighs again. His eyes shut, preventing himself from grabbing your hips and forcing you down to take him in all at once.

Bradley pushes himself up onto his elbows and lifts his chin, lustfully hooded eyes looking up at you as he grabs the back of your neck and guides your mouth to his. He kisses you softly, caressing his tongue against yours. His other hand strokes at your hip.

“You alright?” He whispers against your lips. You have to grab his shoulder tighter, worried for a moment that the sound of his voice alone might send you over the edge. You’re still, just hovering there, with him just barely inside of you.

“Mhm.” You breathe back, resting your chest against his as you sink the rest of the way onto his length. Rooster grabs your hips with both hands and pulls you tight against him, driving himself as deep as he possibly can.

You hit his shoulder, then grab his chin. His brows furrow slightly, confused as you lean in and look him in the eye.

“Hey. Let me.” You demand. He loosens his grip on your hips, smirking softly as he nods for you to do exactly that.

You lift yourself just slightly, rocking back down once again, finding a soft rhythm. Sinking up and down on his length. More full than you’ve ever felt. Head lulled back.

The pain of him stretching you out soon fades. Rooster feels it when it happens. Feels you relax, your walls fluttering around his cock. Each bounce filling you with strong surges of pleasure. You pick up speed, your bodies sloppily colliding.

Sounds of your breathless pleasure filling the empty lodge. Maybe even the forest outside. You couldn’t care less at this moment in time.

You arch your back, grabbing onto his thigh for support as you fuck yourself on him. He squeezes softly at your hips, sliding his hands down to your ass instead. Trying to take a backseat and give you full control.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He groans, throwing his head back against the cushioned arm of the couch. Rooster’s brows knot together, his eyes fluttering shut. Your palms rest against his chest, unashamedly checking him out while he isn’t looking.

You set the pace, taking care of him exactly like you promised to. Fucking your self on his cock, moaning his name like a pornstar. Rooster groans, lip between his teeth. He doesn’t feel sorry for himself anymore. Fucking up his leg is worth it. He’d sit through this pain six times a week if it meant he got to experience this as a result.

His cock twitches, you feel him squeeze your hips tight and slow your pace. He whimpers softly, lifting his head and taking your nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue expertly against the sensitive bud.

His hands grip hard at your ass, pulling you towards him as he squeezes your cheeks between his fingers. He growls lowly, shifting his hips, changing the angle. Letting his cock hit your g-spot each time you come down on him.

Your desperate moans fill the air, mixed with each of his soft grunts. The sounds of your pleasure make him twitch inside you. There’s nothing he loves more than knowing how good he makes you feel.

“‘M not gonna last. You feel so fucking good.” He pants, fingers pressing so hard into your hips that forensics might be able to take a fingerprint sample from your skin later.

“I’m almost there,” You pant, leaning down to kiss his jaw. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He smacks your ass, half-playfully, guiding your hips as you ride him. He presses his heel into the couch and drives his hips up into you as you’re coming back down on him. Just once.

You cry out, then gasp in. He took his lip between his teeth, grabbing both of your hips, guiding you as you bounced on his cock, his eyes on your face as your brow furrowed in pleasure. His eyes glance down to your tits, watching contentedly as they bounce.

“You’re so beautiful,” He groans out, breathing hard. “Look so fucking pretty when you’re all full like this.”

“Yeah?” You breathe out, lifting your hips until his tip is the only thing filling you, then sinking down until he’s nestled fully inside of you, grinding your hips down against him.

“Fuck. Yeah.” Rooster grabs your hips. “Wanna fuck you. Gonna take it like a good girl for me?” You crash your lips hard against his, nodding feverishly.

His hands slide down to your ass, his palm connecting hard with your right cheek, then squeezing at the soft skin with both hands. He presses his heel into the couch for leverage, mouth falling down to kiss at your chest as he fucks into you from below.

You grab onto his shoulders. You take him perfectly, your walls squeezing around his cock as he pounds into you. You fall against his chest, moaning desperately into the crook of his neck as his cock drives into you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You aren’t sure, and you’re glad he can’t see your face because you know he’ll never stop teasing if he knows that your eyes just rolled back in your head. His name pools off your tongue like liquid gold.

His hands squeeze at your ass, smacking at your cheek, groaning breathlessly.

“I’m gonna — I’m-“ You can’t manage real words right now. He grabs a handful of your hair and tugs as his other arm tucks around your waist and keeps you steady as he pounds into you.

Earth shattering. It’s the only way to describe it. His soft groans in your ear as he fucks you through potentially the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. Toes curling, eyes shutting, voice faltering. You’re glad you fell against his chest before, because you know you would have outright collapsed if you hadn’t already.

You’re clenching around him, kissing lazily at his neck and whimpering as your sensitive pussy contracts around him.

In a loud groan, you felt him begin to spill into you. You mewled over him, your legs shaking as he kept his speed, his cock sending spurts of hot liquid into you. You whimper as his cock pulses inside of you.

His hands are all over you, not able to focus on any one thing — not able to touch enough of you at once as he comes. Your name spills desperately from his lips as he gives one last, deep spill into you. His thrusts falter, slowing until they stop all together.

He holds you there, against his chest, his cock still in you, until you’ve both caught your breaths. He kisses your temple softly.

“Onomatopoeia.” You say against his throat. You press your lips tiredly to his salty skin.

“Huh?” He clears his throat then swallows, his voice hoarse from moaning your name.

“Onomatopoeia. Literary term for a word describing a sound.” You breathe. He chuckles, his laughter rumbling in his chest and vibrating through you.

“Fuck off.” He scoffs, pushing at your face until you’re barely resting against his shoulder anymore. You smile as you push yourself up, shooting him a playful wink.

You both groan softly as you lift your hips and let him slip out of you. Both of you look down at the cum that drips onto his pelvis as you lift off of him.

“Phoenix would kill us if she knew we fucked on her mother-in-law’s couch.” You whisper, as if it’s suddenly important to keep quiet. Rooster nods his head in agreement as you push yourself up and step into your panties.

“Could you grab me some tissue?”

“Yeah, I’ll be right-“ Your leggings are halfway up your legs, your top half still completely bare when you’re silenced by the sound of a car door slamming. Your eyes go wide.

You grab your shirt and hoodie in your hands and sprint for the bathroom, leaving poor, injured Rooster to fend for himself.

“Wait — where the fuck are you- dammit.” He struggles back into his sweats and rushes his hoodie back over his head. The door to the downstairs bathroom locks behind you. You can’t face your closest friends right now.

Luckily, there’s plenty of gear to get out of the car. They take a good couple of minutes. Rooster stares at the ceiling. He can’t believe you ditched him in his hour of need, with his pants literally around his ankles.

That reminds him, he fixes the compression bandage on top of his sweats that had gotten all messed up during the rush.

“Bradshaw, how’s the knee?” Hangman calls as he swings through the front door, carrying two boards over his shoulder. Rooster pushes himself up on his elbows and peers towards the door over the back of the couch.

“I’m — Yeah. It’s the same.” He calls back.

“Where’s your nurse?” Coyote teases, following right behind Jake. Bradley is reminded of your betrayal.

“Peeing, I think.” Rooster answers. Phoenix and Dani head in. Then Bob and Payback. Then Fanboy, who’s not carrying anything. Mickey walks around and shrugs his coat off, tossing it onto the arm chair.

He looks at Rooster and scrunches his brows, then looks towards the fireplace. “You want me to put that fire out? — You look kinda warm.” Fanboy offers. The sweat beading on Rooster’s forehead gives him away, but Mickey doesn’t suspect anything.

Rooster presses the back of his palm to his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had gathered. He nods his head gratefully. The door to the bathroom unlocks and you step back out, dressed, composed.

Your eyes meet his. Rooster smiles softly, it’s a sweet enough look. But something in those pretty, brown eyes says you’re going to get it once I can walk again.

…

Tag List:

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[fanfictropesdotcom]

Party of Two - Hangman x Female OC (Rooster’s Sister) - Part 1

When they passed, Nick and Carole Bradshaw left behind not just one, but two children in the care of Pete “Maverick” Mitchell. Unlike her older brother, Dani Bradshaw chose to go the civilian route - and thanks to her talent and connections, quickly became a sought-after analyst at the Office of Naval Intelligence.

Her specialty? Adversary air warfare tactics and techniques.

Her current job? Making sure her godfather pisses off a minimal amount of senior leadership, especially in his new assignment at North Island.

It’d just be a hell of a lot easier without a certain blonde pilot in the way.

Chapter 1 Summary: She knew he absolutely would see her again tomorrow, but playing with his ego in the moment was too good to pass up. Part of her felt bad for being unfair, but a quick glance at the ribbons on his chest brought her back to reality - the pilot could clearly fend for himself.

Masterlist | Characters 

Pairing: Hangman (Top Gun Maverick) x Female OC (Rooster’s Sister)

Tag List: Comment or message if you want to be added!

Warnings: Mild Sexual Tension, References to Parental Death, A Lil Angst

Word Count: 5600+

A/N: Sorry it took so long to get this first part out, I’ve been trying to keep the chapters a little shorter with this series (we’ll see if that lasts), and I did a few rewrites as I was struggling to figure out which POV to tell it from. This first chapter mostly sets things up, and I got to have a little fun with it using some personal experience ;) As always, reblogs/comments/likes are appreciated and hopefully you guys enjoy this one as much as you did the other two series!

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[fanfictropesdotcom]

chapter 2 - no such thing as a white lie (lt. bradley “rooster” bradshaw)

a/n: yeah i know everyone and their cats have written dogfight football into their fics but i eat that shit up nom nom. enjoy. also, i’m dead serious that divorce in the military is really fucking complicated. s/o to @struggling-with-nsfw​ for forever listening to me complain about it and helping me struggle my way through. if you asked to be added to the tag list but don’t see yourself on there, i am so sorry! some of the asks got lost in the sift of notifications so please just shoot me another message!

summary: “Why is a divorce in the military more complicated than regular divorces?”

“I don’t know, because it’s the military? Just give me these.”

-

The idiots realize they’re up against way more than they originally anticipated. In the meantime, there’s time for shenanigans and some good ol’ dogfight football. 

main masterlist | top gun: maverick masterlist | flight risk masterlist | story description | chapter 1 - how did we get here? | chapter 3 - heartache and heartbreak

folks who wanted to be tagged: @justanothermagicalsara​ @jake-h-ngm-n-seresin @fangirl-316​ @herladyshipxx​ @callsign-valley​ @parker-natasha​ @myhomeworksnotdone​ @kyramaximoff​ @pulisvertz​ @lass-that-is-gone​ @frenchtoastix​ @coco-loco-nut​ @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy​ @torresbarnes​ @skyes-universe​ @supernaturaldawning​ @you-had-me-at-dead-welsh-kings​ @katiemcrae​ @gretagerwigsmuse​ @the-winter-marvel33​ @some-lovely-day​ @unordinare​ @hotch-meeeeeuppppp​ @annedub​ @hope-love-equality2​ @coyotesamachado​ @hopefulinlove​ @deidreexx

warnings: swearing, angst, flashbacks, Bradley’s an idiot, y’all asked for a flirty Hangman and jealous Rooster and I’m more than happy to deliver, the movie had one job and that was explain dogfight football obviously, is this even good idk

word count: 4,478

“You’re up bright and early.” You turn from where you’re making pancakes to see a half-asleep Bradley, still in his pajamas. You try not to let your eyes trail down to where his sweats hug his waist. You bring your gaze back up to meet his eyes, where he’s rubbing the sleep out of them. You shrug. 

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