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mnnuni · 10 days ago

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come back to me | b. barnes

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ synopsis: it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did.

-> pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

-> disclaimers: so much angst that it’s sickening, yearning, cursing, minor use of y/n, reader and bucky are exes, the thunderbolts are a found family and i make sure of it, bucky has relationship insecurity, unresolved tension, i got carried away with angst (peep word count), bucky and his beautiful dyson airwrap blowout, happy ending.

-> word count: 10k+ (BYEEEE)

-> song rec: cardigan by taylor swift

-> a/n: first ever fic on this blog and it’s angst. i thrive off of tense silence and painful longing. it’s long but worth it (this deserved length)

The knocks come close to midnight. You’re still awake, folding all of your laundry you’d tackled on your day off. You aren’t tired by any means, however, you definitely weren’t expecting the company behind those three even raps on the wooden door of your apartment.

You approach the door with rightful caution—something your years of fighting crime, aliens and evil villains had taught you—but nothing you’d faced before could have ever prepared you for what was on the other side of that peephole.

You almost didn’t open it, backing away with a heartbeat that pumped too quickly for you to keep up. Your breathing grew heavy, like the weight you’ve spent so long trying to lift off your shoulders came crashing down on you again. Yet, there’s a part of you inside that desperately wants to swing the door open, which only makes you angrier—that after all this time, your heart still fails you in the presence of him.

Despite the voices in your head screaming at you from every angle, your body betrays you. Fingers switch the locks and you’re pulling the door open, a small gust of wind following in its path.

Bucky Barnes looks different from the last time you saw him—in person, at least. You’ve seen the new prince charming hair and scruffy beard plenty of times on your television but after a while, his face grew harder to look at so you stopped paying attention. Something once familiar became foreign and you convinced yourself you accepted that.

But there he stands at your front door. Only he isn’t alone, because behind him are the rest of his team of bandits turned heroes; bruised, bloodied and battered.

For a second, you don’t think you’d be able to speak but then your mouth moves faster than your brain. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It’s silent, and you’re pissed. The goddam Thunderbolts are at your front door in the middle of the night and none of them have the decency to speak. Not even the man who brought them there.

“Is this a joke?” You say, blinking.

Bucky, as if your words snap him out of some sort of daze, raises his chin. “Hi Y/N.”

His voice was as gruff and deep as you remember and the sound of his name rolling off your tongue triggers something you thought you’d long gotten rid of.

When you don’t respond, out of equal parts shock and anger, Bucky continues, “We’re on a mission and it hasn’t been going well. We need,” He pauses. “We need some place to stay. Just for the night.”

There was no way, you think. Maybe you passed out and hit your head, hard enough for your brain to conjure up this sadistic nightmare.

“Seriously?” You breathe, fingers clutching the door with an effort that makes your knuckles turn white.

Bucky opens his mouth but is unable to come up with any words—shame and guilt flickering in every corner of his eyes.

You use the silence to glance around at the other five strangers standing at your front door. They look like they’ve all gone through the ringer; dirty and exhausted. When your eyes land on hers—Yelena’s—your breath falters.

She looks exactly like Natasha under the harsh fluorescent light of your hallway, with a deep gash on her lip and those same rich blue eyes. She stares back at you, tired in a way that makes your heart hurt.

Suddenly, you felt like shit for contemplating slamming the door right in their faces.

When your eyes meet Bucky’s again, that thumping in your heart is undeniable—the one that reminds you of just how much he’d once meant to you, of how you would’ve pulled him inside without question had he knocked on your door years earlier. It was yelling at you to let him inside. Them.

Because that part of you, the one that once loved him and everything that came with him, wasn’t entirely gone. No matter how much you tried to get rid of her.

With a sharp inhale, you step to the side for them to walk through.

Bucky hadn’t expected you to. Of course, he knew the kind of person you once were but he didn’t know the kind of person you are now—you had every right to turn him away and yet, your apartment door was wide open.

His feet feel frozen in place. After a moment of waiting for him to move, and sharing confused glances when he didn’t, the rest of The Thunderbolts begin walking through your door giving you murmurs of appreciation.

Bucky was the last one to step inside.

He feels the energy shift the second he walks through the threshold of your apartment. He hasn’t been inside since the breakup—since the day he practically ripped your heart out with his hand and tried to move on like nothing had happened.

You hate the way he doesn’t bother to look around like the rest of his teammates because he already knows the apartment like the back of his hand. More so, you hate locking the door behind him because that makes the situation all the more real.

Clearing your throat, you spin around despite the fact that your brain still feels as if it’s melting. “I’m Y/N.” You don’t know why you bother telling them your name when surely he beat you to it.

“Oh, we know who you are.” The big man—Red Guardian, you think—laughs, a smile stretching across his face in admiration. “You are Avenger. I see you fight on television. Big fan.”

You blink. “Well, I’ve seen you all fight on TV too,” Your words are laced with bitterness and you resist the urge to side-eye Bucky in the process. “The New Avengers. That’s taken some getting used to.”

Everyone in the room can feel the tension between you and the man who stands near the archway of the hallway, attempting to remain out of the way.

They know you and Bucky used to be a thing, the whole world does. The details of said separation are unknown to most but people have their theories and the creation of The New Avengers is rumored to be one of them.

“For us too, believe it or not.” The woman with a short brown bob and thick accent steps forward. “Thank you for opening your home to us. I’m Ava.”

You give her a simple nod of acknowledgement before the room falls back into quiet.

Then, John Walker who leans against your wall cockily, clears his throat. Your head shoots towards him and you resist the urge you have to drop kick him out the window of your apartment.

You knew him, of course. You’d been there when Sam and Bucky took down the Flag Smashers, and when the same shield that once belonged to Captain America was dripping with blood on live television at the hands of the very man standing in your living room.

“Ma’am.” He nods, offering a mock salute.

“Right.” Your voice is clipped when you look everywhere but at him, disregarding him sassily.

“Is this,” an unsure voice interrupts. It belongs to the brunette man with the shy face whom you hadn’t heard speak until now. He stands near the side table, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of intruding by just asking. “Is this you?”

He’s looking at one of the various picture frames on the table, stopped in front of one in particular—a slightly worn photo in a gold frame. It’s of you, sitting cross legged on a rooftop during golden hour. You were laughing, with your head thrown back happily and wearing his sweatshirt that was slightly too big for you. The city behind you was blurry but glowing, making your smile look radiant.

You swallow. The laugh in the picture still echoes in your head and you remember every second up to that photo being taken.

Years ago, Bucky and you sat on the rooftop of a building in Prague. The two of you had been on a mission, a long and exhausting one where you’d figured you both needed a moment of peace among the chaos. On the roof, you watched the sunset together and you practically begged him to take a photo with you to commemorate the night. He refused nonchalantly, and you teased him that he’s never in any photos. He joked that he can never sit still long enough to take them.

“Gives me cramps.” He smiled.

You’d thought that was the funniest thing you’d heard all day. Your laugh was genuine, pure and sweet sounding in his ears as it bounced off the rooftop of the building. At the sight of your easy smile, Bucky lifted up his phone and snapped the photo. You’d scolded him for taking the candid without giving you a warning, but he absolutely loved it.

“‘M gonna frame this,” He stared at it in admiration between your laughter. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Bucky.” You’d whined, a flush gracing your face.

“Seriously.” He turned to you, eyes softening. “Always so damn beautiful.”

The next time he’d come into your apartment, the first thing he had done was place the framed photo on your table, insisting you keep this version because he’d already printed out one of his own.

Now, the picture sat still and quiet, collecting dust because it hadn’t been appreciated since he left.

“That’s me,” You confirm to the man. “A few years back on a mission. Someone told a joke and I guess I laughed hard enough to be worth remembering.”

He nods, a gentle smile on his face. “It’s a good picture. You look happy.”

You blink, the photo staring back at you almost mockingly. “I was.”

Bucky shifts on his feet where he stands the farthest away in the living room. He knows exactly what photo it is without even having to see it because it’s still the lockscreen on his phone, only he never lets people get close enough to question it.

The younger man’s gaze flickers up to you like he can sense the sadness you feel by looking at the photo. He steps towards you, offering you his hand meekly. “I’m Bob.”

Maybe it’s something about his face, or the attentiveness with which he holds himself, but you smile back—small and sweet. “Nice to meet you, Bob.”

You’re still holding Bob’s hand when another voice speaks from behind you. “You’re a lot quieter than I imagined.”

You twist around and there she is, staring at you with sharp but exhausted eyes.

“Yelena,” She says, stepping forward and offering her hand too. “Belova.”

You take it, her grip steady, and fight the urge to say that you already know who she is. It appears she caught onto the fact that you recognize something in her.

“Y/N.” You nod your head back, taking the moment to analyze her face because it looked so much like the one you’d grown to miss.

She swallows, eyes flickering between your own, like maybe she wishes she knew you like her older sister had. “I like your place. It smells like coffee and books.”

The comment makes you huff, a quiet and gentle laugh. “Thank you.”

When you pull your hand away, you take a moment to scan the room full of standing guests, waiting to be told what was appropriate of them by you, who was now their host. You rarely have people over anymore so you aren’t entirely sure how to do this. Your eyes linger in the direction where Bucky stands for only a second, before you clear your throat and shake him off of you.

“Can I get you guys anything?” You ask no one in particular.

“Change of clothes.” Yelena.

“Water.” John.

“A first aid kit.” Ava.

“Snacks, please.” Bob.

“Tequila.” Alexei.

A small “oh” leaves your mouth as The Thunderbolts speak over each other, staring at you with hesitant grins and eager eyes.

“Yeah,” You nod your head. “Uh, the bathroom's down the hall and the kitchen’s through those doors. I don’t have any tequila but I do have snacks, water, and vodka in the top left cupboard.

Alexei practically threw his fist in the air with a joyous, “Yes!”

Bob almost did too at the mention of free snacks.

“There’s also blankets in that basket right there and the remote for the TV is on the coffee table,” You explain, motioning around with your hands and entirely unaware of the way Bucky’s softened eyes fixate on you and your natural hospitality. “I’ll go get the first aid and clothes, but uhm, help yourself to anything. Except if you’re Walker, which in that case, you can sit on the couch and not speak.”

It was a sarcastic joke—one that earns a snort from Yelena and a soft chuckle from Ava. Even Bucky, who remains behind you at a far enough distance, feels his lips curl up in a grin.

“I deserve that.” John nods, plopping down on the couch with an exhausted huff, ultimately just happy to have somewhere safe and comfortable to rest for a little.

Bob and Alexei remain still, neither man wishing to overstep boundaries, especially yours, though they so desperately want to get into that kitchen. Sensing their eagerness, you nod towards the kitchen once more in reassurance. Both of them immediately set off for it, seemingly racing each other to see who can get to the goodies first.

You blink, shaking your head in what was still disbelief before twisting around on your feet to head towards the hallway. Unlucky for you, Bucky still leaned against the doorway to the hall and when your eyes meet his, you nearly freeze in your spot.

You almost forgot he was there.

After so long of him being gone, you eventually got used to not having his physical being pressed to the couch or sleeping in your bed. However, his presence straggled in every corner of your apartment, haunting you in a way that kept you up at night because of how strongly you felt it—felt him. The fact that he’s back inside feels extremely surreal, but something you’d secretly imagined for years whenever you looked at a photo of him for too long or smelled the lingering scent of his cologne on one of your pillows.

You open your mouth, as if you instinctively want to speak, but shut it equally as quickly. You have nothing to say to him. Not right now.

You can’t pinpoint when it starts to feel normal. Not entirely, but just enough so that the silence in your apartment isn’t uncomfortable anymore. Just enough that their boots by the front door and empty water glasses on the table don’t feel like clutter but rather, signs of life.

Maybe it’s when you toss back a shot with Red Guardian, because he insists it’s his way of saying thank you, and his laugh almost physically shakes the apartment with how happy he is to be “drinking with an actual Avenger!” Or when Ava and John sit on the couch, fighting over the remote and arguing about what movie they should watch for the night.

Maybe it’s when you catch Bob carefully folding up one of your throw blankets into a comfy square, before plopping on the ground to eat a granola bar like it was a five star meal. Or when Yelena clamors all over your kitchen in search of microwave popcorn and shortly gets distracted in a conversation with you about your makeup routines, so the first batch burns. You both laugh about it extensively and even more so when Alexei insists you let him eat it instead of throwing it out.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s when Bob—sweet, innocent Bob—asks where your glasses are so he can get some water, and before you can even get up from your seat on the couch, Bucky’s already on his feet.

“Bottom cabinet, to the left of the sink.” He says over his shoulder, though he’s already halfway there.

You hesitate, lips parting like maybe you mean to say something but no words are capable of coming out. You merely watch him as he moves with ease–like he still belonged, like nothing has changed.

He doesn’t look at you either, not when he opens the cabinet and pulls out the glass without question. Not when he passes it off to Bob like it’s completely normal. Not when he walks right back to his seat on your arm chair in the corner of the room without so much as glancing in your direction.

Suddenly, you’re angry again–that same heat bubbling up in the middle of your chest and threatening to spew out with every second you spend staring at him.

How dare he? Your brain screams. How dare he float around your apartment after everything that happened? How dare he bring his team to the place where you live and just expect you to let them in? And how dare you be so completely and utterly helpless as to fall for it.

You curse yourself and your stupid heart; the one that still reserved a spot for him despite all that you’d done these past years to try and relinquish him. It was impossible to forget Bucky Barnes and you learned that the hard way. Even more so, it was impossible to unlove him. You realize this the more you look at him sitting, with his idiotically beautiful prince hair and uniform that he hasn’t bothered to change out of yet.

As if he could feel your eyes on him, he glances up from where he fiddles with a ring on his finger and your eyes meet for what feels like one too many times that night.

This time, though, you really can’t find it in yourself to look away. Not yet.

His breath hitches in his throat and you notice the way his body goes still under your gaze. He leans back in his seat, slowly but softly, like he’s tired and no longer wants to hide it from you. His tough, soldier demeanor falters for a second, his eyebrows softening at the distant expression in your face.

It was killing him inside, that he was this close to you physically, but so, so far away from you emotionally.

Bucky had been the one to call off your relationship around three years ago. After the whole ordeal with the Flagsmashers was over and Sam had finally gotten the shield back, you and Bucky had decided to move on together. He’d completed his book of amends, having made peace with all of the people he’d harmed and finally feeling like he’d made peace with himself.

The two of you were good–perfect, even—for months after that. You were settling down, taking things slowly, but beginning to live a life that didn’t always require missions every other day and constantly fighting off evil villains.

He’d practically moved in, falling asleep and waking up beside you in your bed, limbs tangled in the sheets like you could stay forever that way. He’d make you coffee in the morning after you’d smothered his face in kisses to wake him, then you’d spend all day together because you couldn’t bear to be a minute apart. You’d walk around town going to restaurants, or shops, or little book stores where he watched you scan the shelves with such admiration, you thought he might’ve jumped out of a romance novel himself.

He took you on dates and never once forgot flowers, no matter how many times you insisted you didn’t need that many bouquets of lilies. He’d stay up late with you while you binge watched one of your ridiculous reality shows, sitting behind you on the couch and pretending he wasn’t engaged though you knew he secretly loved it. He’d smile whenever you danced around the living room of your apartment while you were cleaning, and complained, but ultimately gave in when you’d tug him by the arm and insisted he slow danced with you too.

That was the life you’d dreamed of and just when the both of you started to get it, things began falling out of reach.

Bucky still struggled, hell, you did too, but adjusting to the simple life was a lot more difficult for him than it was for you. He’d still wake up with frequent nightmares where you’d then hold him until he felt safe enough to fall back to sleep in your arms. Sometimes he’d go silent, leave to get some fresh air and not come back for hours. When he did though, you’d always be waiting with a gentle hug and a warm cup of tea—ears open if he wished to speak about it, which he never really did.

Each time he felt like maybe he was getting better, he always fell back into old habits. You helped, of course. In fact, you were the only thing making him happy in his own life and the knowledge of that made Bucky overwhelmed with guilt.

He knew you wanted to settle down, wanted to slowly begin living a life of peace and quiet, with the occasional ‘saving the world mission’ here and there. Yet, he was worried you would never be able to achieve that tranquil lifestyle with him attached at your side. He was used to the chaos, to the noise and restlessness, so it was only a matter of time before he began feeling like one giant burden to you.

Your kindness, your hope, your ability to love without condition were all things that Bucky felt completely undeserving of—wonderful things that you were wasting on him. He’d felt selfish asking you to wait beside him while he tried to fix himself over and over again, so he convinced himself that letting you go was the most selfless thing he could do.

“Bucky,” You had stepped forward, with a frown and tears that threatened to spill over your waterline. “I just, I want to be here for you.”

“I know,” He nodded, trying his best to make you understand though he didn’t quite understand it himself. “But you shouldn’t have to. I don’t want to hold you back anymore. I don’t want you to keep bending yourself backwards for me, it’s not fair to you.”

“This isn’t fair to me,” You shook your head in disbelief. “I want to be with you. None of it bothers me, not if it means I get to have you, you know that right?”

“And what about the life you want to live?” He hummed, water brimming his own eyes. “I’m not going to be able to give you that–none of the peace or the quiet–not when I can barely go to sleep on my own without waking up from these fucked nightmares. There’s, just, so much more out there for you than this.”

Every word that slipped from his mouth was equivalent to someone taking a knife that was freshly sharpened and lodging it in your chest repeatedly. “So what,” You blinked up at him. “You’re gonna leave? After all of this, you want to leave because you think you’re too difficult?”

“Y/N, you don’t get sleep anymore because of me. You say it yourself, you’re so exhausted and it’s because of me. You stay up, waiting for me to come home and I feel like shit the moment I step through that door and see you still awake on the couch. It kills me that you feel like you have to do that, because you don’t and you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have to wait for me anymore.” He continued.

“That doesn’t matter to me. I’ll do it, I’ll wait for you no matter what.” Your words come from your gut—genuine and determined. “When we started dating, I told you that I’d be here to take care of you regardless of the circumstances. I meant that because I love you too much to let you do this alone.”

“And I love you too much to drag you down with me.” He blurted, just as a stray tear rained down his cheek.

Your body faltered and you paused at the feeling of your heart crack away in your chest. The reality of the situation had weighed on you, and you needed a moment to catch up—to understand that Bucky was being serious.

Sure you’d argued before, over little things that you resolved with a second of alone time, some communication and a shared kiss. However, this didn’t feel like the sort of conversation that could be fixed with a kiss. The expression on Bucky’s face started to make you think that he had already made up his mind.

“So,” Your voice cracked. “So what, this is it? You’re just gonna leave after everything we've been through, after all the time we’ve spent here? This is your home.”

“And it was your home first.” He breathed. “You opened your door to me and so I came in, with all of my bullshit and problems. I intruded.”

“You did not intrude–”

“I did.” He pressed, sternly. “I don’t want to ruin this for you, I can’t. Not when you’re so bright, and full of life, and good. God, you’re so good, that I don’t want to be the one responsible for taking that away from you. You deserve better than me, better than this.”

Had your knees not locked, you thought you might’ve collapsed right there on the floor of your living room. It was a horrible dream, a sick one even. Except, the more you stared into the depths of his, once, vibrant ocean eyes to find them darkened to a storm blue, you realized just how real this was.

Bucky approached you slowly, his gentle hands finding their places on the sides of your hips, holding you up and simultaneously closer to him. “I’m sorry,” He whispered, it sounded more like a whimper past his devastated lips. “I’m so sorry.”

You sobbed almost immediately, dropping your head and letting it fall against his chest. He didn’t push you away, only wrapped his arms around you and held you like it was the last time he was going to—which in this case, it was.

It didn’t feel the same though. His grip was tight around you but his hold was loose, like he had already checked out by the time he’d placed his chin on top of your head and ran his hand down your back in comfort. Regardless, you savoured the moment, melted into it for as long it took to commit his touch to memory. Unfortunately for you, the feeling of his skin on yours would linger like a tattoo for all the years that he’d be away.

Your sadness was shortly accompanied by anger, a feeling completely foreign to you, especially around the man you loved. You were wiggling out of his grasp, and pushing him by the chest to increase the distance between the two of you.

He watched with knitted eyebrows as you wiped the tears off of your face on the sleeves of the hoodie you wore—one that belonged to him. You tried to regulate your breathing, make it as leveled as you could so you could spit out the words, “Fine. Go.”

This time, it was Bucky who felt like he’d just gotten stabbed in the chest.

“If giving up on our relationship is easier for you than sticking around, there’s no reason for you to be here anymore.” You hiss, sudden resentment dripping off of your tongue.

You had every reason in the world to be upset about this, he knew this. He also knew that it was hypocritical of him to be hurt by your words because this was his doing, after all. He deserved this, he reminded himself, your anger and your hatred as opposed to your patience and love. Because Bucky’s days as The Winter Soldier had trained him to be unloveable–to be cruel, and sad, and lonely. That was all he knew and sometimes, he felt it was all he was made for.

“Go.” You snapped when he couldn't find the dignity to move his legs. “Please. Just, please get the hell out, and don’t come back.”

With an empty void where his heart should be, Bucky left that night, for good this time. He didn’t quietly enter again at two in the morning to be greeted by the love of his life carrying a warm cup of freshly brewed tea. He didn’t climb into your bed with you so you could comb your fingers through his hair and lull him to sleep. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t because he knew the distance was the only thing good for you. It was the only thing that would keep you free from him.

That distance held true for three years. No matter how many times you’d see him on your television, whether it was under the guise of Congressman Barnes or now, New Avenger Bucky, you never once ran back to him. It was something you’d thought about many times because god, you missed him more than you’d missed anything in your life, but you weren’t going to fall victim to your own heart.

Instead, he eventually ran back to you–standing at your front door with his new team, his new friends, his new priorities. None of which involved you. Up until the moment he needed a place to stay for the night.

Your attention finally flickers away as you turn back to the rest of The Thunderbolts that gathered in your living room despite the fact that it was well past midnight. Yelena, who sits beside you on the armrest of the couch, immediately jumps into storytime about what went wrong on their mission that resulted in them camping out at your place.

Alexei however, sprawls out on the floor with a small bowl of trail mix in his lap, tossing back peanuts into his mouth like a sport. His focus seems to be on Bucky. With a curious head tilt, he asks during a pause in Yelena’s story, “What’s up with this guy?”

The room falls into a beat of silence and all eyes flicker over to the super soldier, including yours, but you look away faster than any of them can notice.

“What?” Yelena hums.

“He has not said anything at all for the past hour.” Alexei continues.

“He doesn’t talk much, you know this.” Ava shrugs simply.

“Yeah, but he is talking a lot less than usual.”

Bucky inhales, leaning back in his seat and offering the room a small but sarcastic smile. “Just tired. Long day.”

The Thunderbolts nod in agreement, all except for Alexei who tilts his head between you and Bucky curiously. “Well, there is an elephant in this room and I think it is very big.”

“Dad.” Yelena hisses, nudging him in his foot with her own.

Your body tenses on the spot and you swallow the lump in your throat harshly.

“What? I am just curious,” He says genuinely. “They were a thing, no? Her and Barnes?”

As badly as you want to chuck one of your throw pillows directly at the Red Guardian’s head, it’s clear to tell that he was sincerely asking. He’s horrible at reading the room though, you’d give him that.

“There is a time and place,” Yelena mumbles under her breath. “We talked about this, remember?”

“I think this is the place,” he argues. “It feels so heavy in here, like I am crushed.”

You don’t want to look up to catch Bucky’s reaction to his teammate’s words, though you were sure it mimicked your own. Desperately needing to put an end to whatever this was, you straighten your shoulders in an attempt to be casual.

“It wasn’t really a thing,” You say lightly, like it’s not a carefully crafted lie. “We worked together for a long time, that’s all.”

A beat.

“So it was not anything more?” Alexei continues, in between crunches of trail mix. “Because I watched the news and the news said you were dating. But it can be wrong, the news can be wrong.”

Your stomach was churning quickly, like your ribs were bruising from the inside out. You hated talking about it because the wound was still fresh, like a cut that never scabbed over properly.

“We were partners who got close, but that's it. It was work, ” You respond simply, reaching for your glass of water like it would save you from this confrontation. “That’s all it ever was.”

And it hurts to say it like that—to minimize everything that once was between you, but it was the one thing you learned how to do since he left. It made the loss of him easier to manage.

Alexei, finally seeming to have caught on, frowns into his snack bowl and mutters something under his breath about Americans being too vague. Bob clears his throat, totally uncomfortable by the silence and tension, just like Ava and John who focus their attention on the television screen though it was obvious they were thinking about something else. Yelena gives you a small glance–not pitying, but knowing.

Bucky doesn’t say a word, but his hand is curled tight around the glass he sips from, so much so that his knuckles have gone completely white.

It pains him, so much more than he’d like to show on his face, to hear you diminish your relationship to simply business. Because he remembers it all; the early mornings and late nights, the dates and bouquets of unnecessary flowers, the slow dances in the very same living room you were gathered in. Despite having been the one to walk out, he thought about those moments every day of his life and it killed him to know that it was all just passing to you.

In your peripheral vision, you catch it; the way he gazes at the floor like if he stares at it long enough, he might just be able to sink right into it—the look on his face as if he’s watching the life he could’ve had disappear all over again.

The damage had been done and while it should’ve felt like a weight lifting off of your shoulders to say, it only makes your lungs close up even more. Your breathing begins to feel dense and the longer you sit in the living room, the more it feels like its walls are closing in on you.

You push yourself off of the couch to turn towards Bob on the ground and hold your hand out for his empty glass. “You want a refill, Bob?”

Truthfully, he doesn’t but he notices the desperation in your expression for a way out so he nods his head quickly.

You take his glass and set off towards the kitchen. The second you step inside, you immediately put the cup down to grip the edge of the counter. Dropping your head, you close your eyes and try to regulate your breathing but your chest is so heavy, it almost feels impossible.

You feel ridiculous for letting this bother you as much as it was, but how could it not? You’re trying so hard to fight the collapse of the walls around your heart but, god, they’re shaking. Buckling. Breaking. It’s only a matter of time before they crumble completely under the weight of every memory you’ve tried to keep buried.

Why does it hurt so much? Why does it still hurt so much?

You want to cry, your throat burning with the pressure of holding it all back. You inhale a deep breath, one that rattles on the way down. You keep your palms flat against the countertop, like maybe if you hold onto it hard enough, it might keep you from crashing to the ground.

A creak sounds from the floor behind you, soft and careful, indicating that someone has stepped into the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” Yelena’s raspy voice asks.

You don’t turn around right away, but open your eyes with a heavy breath. “Yeah.”

The lie was weak and perfectly unoriginal. Yelena doesn’t call you out for it. She just waits, unmoving.

Finally glancing over your shoulder, you see her—arms crossed over her chest as she leans against the doorframe, watching you with equal parts sympathy and intrigue.

“I feel like an idiot.” You admit, wearing your feelings right on your sleeve. “When I saw him at that door, it was like everything came rushing back and, and I couldn’t do anything but let him in. God, I’m so pathetic.”

“You are not pathetic.” Yelena tilts her head.

“Yes I am.”

“No,” She steps forward with knitted eyebrows. “You are not.”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment. When you can’t find the words to speak, she exhales a soft breath.

“We were in deep shit on this mission,” She explains. “Bucky told us he knew a friend who might be able to help but I had no idea that it’d be you. I don’t think he was even sure you would be willing, but you were the first person he thought of anyways. You didn’t have to open the door but you did because you’re good. Doesn’t sound pathetic to me.”

The admission makes your head pound and you nearly wince at the ache you feel around your temples.

Yelena watches you lean against the counter, your eyes darting around as if searching for an answer that wasn’t there. She swallows and asks cautiously, “What happened with you two?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, the sensation of lingering tears itching the back of your throat. You hate talking about it, but it’s been so long since anyone bothered to ask, that you think you might be able to get through it this time.

“It was his idea,” You say with a shaky breath. “To end things.”

Yelena doesn’t respond right away, doesn’t push—she just gives you room as your gaze fixates on the tiled floor, like it might offer you some clarity.

“He told me I deserved better,” You continue, the bitterness in your soft voice laced with sadness rather than spite. “That I was too good. Didn’t want to hold me back, or burden me. He said he wanted me to live a life where I wasn’t constantly trying to pull him out of the dark.”

Yelena’s gaze is quiet, unflinching as you move to sit across from her at the table with a sigh.

“The worst part about it is, I don’t even think I fought hard enough. I mean, yeah, I begged and I cried but, then I just got mad,” Your brows furrow as you recall the memory, like it physically pains you to do so. “I let him leave—I made him, and he did it like it was the easiest thing he’s ever done.”

You finally look up to meet her eyes.

“So yeah,” you say. “I’m still so angry. Angry that he left and found a new group of people to rely on, angry that I let him and didn’t fight harder for us, angry that I still—”

You stop yourself short, the words halting in your throat because saying them out loud terrified you.

Yelena blinks, softly nodding her head in understanding. “You still love him.”

Hearing her say the exact thing you were thinking makes the back of your eyes sting with tears that have been hiding themselves all night. You pause for a second, because she’s right, and you can’t stand it.

“I remember everything, Yelena. Every single fucking thing and I hate that I do.”

Yelena leans closer on the table, catching your eyes with sincerity. “He remembers too.”

You pause, breath tight in your throat.

“He never talks about it, but I can tell, we all can.” She continues gently. “There’s this bracelet—gold and braided with a star charm—you made that for him, didn’t you?”

Swallowing, you nod, remembering the one night where Bucky couldn’t sleep and you’d insisted on staying up with him, claiming you could do crafts to pass the time. He taught you how to make little animals out of origami and you taught him how to make friendship bracelets.

“He still wears it. Everyday, on every mission.” She explains. “The other day he forgot his phone on the kitchen counter. I tapped it to check the time and that photo of you, the one Bob saw in your living room, it’s still his wallpaper.”

You think your heart might give out right then and there. A single tear drops from your eyes and you dig your nails so far into the skin on your palm, it’s enough to make you bleed.

“Y/N,” Yelena speaks softly, reaching out to carefully place her hand on top of yours. “I do not think he has ever stopped thinking about you—loving you.”

This time, more tears fall before you have the chance to hold them back. Softly, you let Yelena unclench your fists so she can slip her hand into yours to hold.

“Then why did he leave?” You whisper between a small sob.

Yelena frowns, shaking her head. She didn’t have the answer.

You did though, so it was silly you even had to ask.

The night Bucky left replays in your head like a film reel, and his words echo in every corner of your brain.

“I love you too much to drag you down with me.”

It was ironic, you thought, because you’d only started drowning when you were without him. He was not your anchor but rather your life jacket—pulling you out of the deep end when you got too tired to swim. These last three years without him were the longest moments you’ve ever spent with your head submerged underwater.

When he left, you sank all over again.

The quiet chatter has slowly dissipated to a still, and the only noise comes from the gentle hum of the television.

From where you sit in the corner of the couch, you glance around the room at the silence. On the couch, Yelena lays with her head on your lap and her feet tangled with Ava’s, whose sleeping figure matches Yelena’s on the opposite end. Near your feet on the floor was Bob, resting comfortably on top of one of your throw pillows. The rest of the floor is occupied by Alexei and John, who sprawl out with outstretched limbs—Alexei face down as if he’d just passed out from a three day bender, and John using his backpack to rest his head because he refused when you’d offered him a pillow.

You let yourself glance briefly in Bucky’s direction, where he still sits on the armchair in the dark corner of the room. You can make out the silhouette of his fully clothed figure. His head leans back towards the ceiling, a tell he had to be sleeping.

While you don’t want to risk waking any of them up, you’re beginning to grow uncomfortable squished on the couch.

Gently, you lift up Yelena’s head just enough to tuck a throw pillow beneath it so she doesn't recognize your absence. Slipping off of the couch, you adjust her head atop it, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face to as she hums in delight before sinking further into the pillow.

Reaching into the wicker basket beside the couch, you unfold a fleece blanket and delicately drape it over Bob who’s curled up like a ball. He, too, makes a soft noise of satisfaction, and you swear he mumbles something under his breath that you can’t make you.

Of course he talks in his sleep. You can’t help but smile to yourself at the observation.

Twisting around, you step over John’s feet and over towards Alexei, whose snores are so deep, he seems to grumble with each step you take. With a hushed chuckle, you pick up the bowl of trial mix beside his body so he doesn’t knock it over in his sleep.

Backing away slightly, you falter in admiration at the scene before you. Your apartment has never been this full and you can’t remember the last time you had people over besides that time you hosted dinner for Joaquin Torres and Sam Wilson. Other than that, you’re always by yourself.

Except for tonight.

The team of heroes occupy so much space in your living room, it makes the walls feel less empty—less sad. Regardless of how you felt about them before they entered the threshold of your apartment, you knew how you feel about them now. They’re chaotic, and messy, and unbelievably new to this whole “working as a team” thing, but in the few hours that they’ve kept you company in your place, they’ve offered you more joy and comfort than you’ve experienced in a while.

Beside you, Bucky shifts in his seat. He’s been wide awake the entire time—enough to see you give Yelena the pillow and Bob the blanket, enough to watch you observe his team with a soft, longing expression. The same one he carried whenever he looked at you for too long.

It was endearing, to say the least. To watch you care for his team like they were your own, despite not knowing any of them at all. You’ve always been that way—sweet, nurturing, and just plain kind. It makes Bucky’s heart swell, knowing that at least you didn’t lose that part of yourself when he left.

At the sound of movement, you glance in his direction and, once again, your body tenses at the sight.

“I didn’t know you were awake.” You say quietly, before your brain really registers you’re speaking to him.

He replies, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Blinking, you nod quickly before moving to carefully pick up the empty water glasses from the table. “Me either.”

You struggle to gather all of the cups so Bucky pushes himself out of the seat and moves to help you—against his inner monologue that tells him you’d likely be much happier if he sat down and didn’t move at all.

“It’s okay,” You stutter. “I’ve got it.”

“No, it’s alright, I’ll help.” He answers, picking up the remaining cups that you can’t.

You try to swallow the lump forming in your throat but it’s nearly impossible as you spin around to walk towards the kitchen, and Bucky follows hot on your trail. It’s silent when you place the glasses in the sink and you hate how natural it feels to watch Bucky do the same.

“I can clean these when I get up tomorrow,” Bucky nods. “Before we leave.”

“No, it’s fine.” You shake your head.

“I’ll just do it real quick so you don’t—”

“Seriously,” You interrupt more sternly this time as you finally look at him. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

He visibly swallows at your harshness, but nods nonetheless.

Then the two of you fall back into an odd quiet, where neither of you know what to say to each other but both understand that a conversation was inevitable from the moment he walked inside.

Blinking, you motion towards the sleeping bunch in your living room. “They’re, uhm,” You say. “They’re really great.”

Bucky purses his lips at the casualness with which you speak. “Yeah, they try.”

“Even Walker,” You continue, grabbing a towel to wipe down the counter because you so desperately need something to do with your hands. “He seems different.”

“He is.” Bucky nods, watching you intently. “I think we all are.”

His words have double meaning, this you know, and you hate the way you want to press him for details. Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek and focus on the counter you were cleaning.

Bucky knows he has to talk to you—keep the conversation going—because he knows this is the only opportunity he might get. It really is now or never.

“I’m sorry for asking you that favor.” Bucky says suddenly, sincerity laced in his soft but gruffly voice. “For showing up unannounced.”

You nearly pause, your knuckles squeezing the towel in your hand like it was the only force keeping you on earth. “Would you have shown up announced?” You ask, your words holding a hint of hostility.

Bucky stills. “Y/N,” He breathes, his voice just above a whisper, like he can read all of the sarcasm you speak with.

He watches you intently with a burning desire to fix all of the wrong he’d caused that day he left—to mend what was broken between the two of you because he’s not sure he can live anymore knowing you’re angry with him.

You shake your head quickly because not only was it stupid to have this conversation in the kitchen where a few feet away, his entire team slept, but also, you were petrified of the words that were going to leave his mouth once the two of you finally worked up the courage to talk it out.

“Bucky,” You breathe.

He pauses, waiting for you to go on.

Only you don’t. Instead, your eyes flicker down to the uniform he still has on. With a sudden blink and a change of demeanor, you tilt your head. “Do you want to change clothes?”

He pauses. “I didn’t bring any.”

You don’t know why you suddenly cared whether or not he was comfortable in his clothes. A lot of things, you notice, got confusing when you were around him.

“I,” You pause, hating yourself for thinking of what you were. Deciding it would simply be way easier to do instead of say, you twist around on the balls of your feet and begin walking down the hallway towards your room.

Bucky blinks, until you glance over your shoulder at him.

“C’mere.” You say quietly, your suggestion soft in his ears, whether you intend it to be or not.

His feet move faster than his brain can even process. His head gets foggy as he maneuvers through the hallway. He knew exactly where he’s going because he’d been to your room so many times before in the past. It almost made him sick to his stomach when he realizes that’s where you’re taking him.

When you turn that corner into your bedroom, Bucky stops just outside the doorframe. He glances inside, immediately overwhelmed by the familiarity of it all. It’s practically exactly as it was when he’d walked out that day, reminding him of just how much he’d left behind—a happiness he’d pulled out from right under your feet.

He watches you rummage through your closet, reaching high onto a shelf in search of something. You mindlessly glance in his direction, chest clenching at the way he stands frozen outside of the threshold. He's too afraid to step foot inside which is so weird, because the Bucky you knew once took up space in this room like it was his own.

Tugging down two articles of clothing from the shelf, you twist back to him and hold them out. “Here.” You say. “You left these here.”

The navy blue hoodie and black sweats are folded neatly in your outstretched hands in such a way that almost makes them look brand new. Only they aren’t. You wore them for months after he left because it felt better to sleep in his clothes than it did your own.

Bucky looks from your face and back down to the clothes. He doesn’t want to step forward to grab them—feeling entirely undeserving of walking back into your room after all this time. But you aren’t going to him. So you stand frozen in the middle of your room, waiting for the moment he musters up the courage to come inside and retrieve them himself.

Eventually, his feet make their way slowly over to you, taking the clothes with a gentle ease. He can’t figure out what to say so he gives you a small nod of appreciation before turning back around, heading down the rest of the hall towards the bathroom.

Without him in the room, you’re finally able to take a deep breath. It’s shaky and long as it leaves your chest like you've been holding it all night.

You can’t stand it but somewhere deep down, this entire ordeal feels normal. You’re beginning to realize just how much you’ve missed it—missed him, and that thought alone keeps you wide awake because if being awake means more time with him before he leaves all over again, you’d have to take it.

Minutes pass of you bouncing your leg up and down where you sit on the edge of your bed, when the bathroom door clicks open and a newly changed Bucky emerges. It makes your stomach twist into a pretzel, to see him in the same hoodie you wore that day he left.

You press your hands into your knees, hesitating even more at how ridiculously good he looks in it. “Are you,” You hum. “Are you alright?”

Don’t ask that, I don’t deserve it, was what he wanted to say but he merely nods as he lingers in your door’s threshold again. “Why’d you keep them?”

Swallowing, you shrug. “I was gonna set them on fire, but the hoodie was too comfortable.”

For the first time that night, the corners of Bucky’s lips almost twist up into a smile. “Really?”

“Really.” You nod, glancing at him when he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “That and, I guess I always hoped you’d just come back to get them.”

Bucky falters with an expression that you can’t quite read. A silence washes over the two of you before he exhales, “I wanted to.”

“Did you?”

“I did.”

“Okay.” You hum sarcastically.

Bucky purses his mouth shut with a tilt of his head. “Y/N,”

“You know what,” You say with squinted eyes. “I don’t actually believe that, like at all, but it’s fine. Doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

“Why?” Bucky breathes. “Why don’t you believe it?”

“Because you left, Bucky!” You snap, your anger finally cutting through the surface after brewing all night. “You left and we never spoke again. I waited for you for months—to call or to text but you never did, so yeah, maybe I did believe you’d come back at some point but then I just got tired of waiting.”

“You moved on.” Bucky points out. “That’s good, that’s what you were supposed to do.”

“Yeah, except I didn’t.” You huff, pushing yourself off of the bed to glare at him. “You left because you wanted me to be happy but I wasn’t happy, I’m still not. The life you wanted me to live for myself was only possible if I lived it with you.”

Bucky’s face tightens in guilt as you let your words slip from your tongue.

“Then, I have to watch you on my television screen with your new team, the new people you have to take care of, and it kills me inside.” You don’t bother wiping away the stray tear that slides down your cheek. You look up at him, dead in the eyes and ask, “Are you happy?”

The question catches him off guard. He steps into your room with hesitancy, maintaining his distance but needing to be close to you to shake his head.

You nearly wince as you watch his face contort into a sadness much similar to your own.

“Not happy in the way I was when I was with you.”

The words are genuine, making your ears ring in disbelief. You swallow, but the lump in your throat feels like it might be permanently stuck.

“I have never been the same since the moment I walked out that day. I thought I was doing the right thing, I swore I was,” He admits. “I threw myself into work because I believed that somehow it would make up for what I was missing, but I learned right away that none of this could ever fill the gap that you left.”

You don’t seem to notice when you instinctively take a step closer, your body drawn to his as if your hearts were magnetized.

“You followed me everywhere, Y/N,” He exhales a defeated breath. “There were so many times when I just wanted to run back here, back to you, but I couldn’t because I figured you’d be doing better without me—without my burden.”

“You were never a burden.” You add, shaking your head with a furor you hope makes him understand. “Neither were any of your problems or trauma, and I hate that you think you were. I took care of you because that’s what you do when you love someone.”

Bucky takes a step closer too, though neither of you seem to notice with the way your eyes are trained on the other pair.

“Love someone?” He asks, his voice the most quiet and careful you’ve heard it all night.

It took years, and Bucky Barnes standing in front of you again, to finally admit it: you did still love him. What you felt for Bucky had never been surface level affection. You loved him desperately, like he was the air you needed to breathe and the light against all of the darkness that you’d hid from your whole life.

Loving him had never been easy. It came with deeply shared fears and anxiety of vulnerability and closeness. Though, you never desired an easy love anyways. You wanted a love that was complex and passionate, where obstacles were something you could leap over together if your relationship was built on a foundation of sincere care and respect.

Your love for him was so rooted in your veins, you always believed that your souls were destined to merge—surpassing time and change. You knew for a fact that you’d love him no matter how far apart the two of you were; your heart was his across states, countries, planets, timelines.

There was a vast multiverse out there, much bigger than your brain could even comprehend, and you were positive you loved Bucky Barnes in every single one of them.

“Love.” You nod, the most confident you’ve been about anything in years. “I’ve always loved you, James. I’ve never been able to stop.”

The sound of his name on your lips makes his heart swell, desperately wanting to jump out of his chest and towards you—where it knew it’d finally be at home.

Bucky can no longer deny the way he feels either, only he’s never really been able to. He loved you like you were the only thing on this planet of any importance. Sam saw it, Yelena saw it, hell, so did the rest of the goddamn world. He’d never been the same since he left and nothing ever felt right, not until he stepped back into your apartment where the walls remembered him and whispered stories of memories he’d never forgotten.

He lets out a shaky exhale. “I messed up so badly.”

“I did too.” You nod. “I shouldn’t have let you leave, I should’ve tried harder to-”

“No, hey, no,” Bucky shakes his head immediately, stepping forward so you two are the closest you’ve been in years. His fingers brush against yours, and when you don’t flinch away, he links his pinky with your own. “None of this was your fault, don’t blame yourself. I fucked up, I’m the one who left. This is not on you.”

You remain quiet, the small act of physical contact rendering you speechless.

“You were on my mind everyday. Whenever I got up to speak at congress, whenever I did press for the team, on every mission, every late night and early morning,” He whispers, eyes scanning your face like it was the first time he was getting the privilege of looking at you. “I hate myself for making that decision for you, for thinking we’d be better off. You were my world, still are.”

Everything comes flooding back, the walls around your heart breaking like a dam that was doomed to fall from the beginning. You want to cry, want to break down right there in his arms and hope the Bucky you still knew would be there to hold you.

“I can’t change what I did, but I can tell you what I want to do,” He goes on, hand coming up cautiously to cup the side of your face. “I want to love you all over again, the right way this time. I will spend the rest of our lives trying to rebuild what I tore down, if you’ll let me, and I promise to do better this time and give you whatever it is you want—”

“I want you.” You interrupt. “All of you. I want to know how you’re feeling or the things that keep you up at night because I want to be the one to help you through them. Don’t hide yourself from me.”

Bucky swallows at the desperation in your tone. How lucky was he to have your unconditional care once, and then all over again now, even if he still feels like he doesn’t deserve it. You’re still too good—far too good for him—but this time, he’s determined to be just the same for you.

“I promise.” He nods, his thumb rubbing your cheek like you’re a porcelain doll he’s afraid of breaking.

You place your own hand on his hand cupping your face, before running your other hand through his beautifully blown out hair. He grunts out a soft noise of delight, one that makes your stomach twist.

“God, I’ve missed you so much.” He says.

This almost doesn’t feel real; his touch or the words that leave his mouth, but it is—he is. He’s unbelievably real beneath your fingertips and it suddenly feels like you’re falling in love all over again as you stare at him.

“You came to me first.” You hum, your voice just above a whisper. “Yelena told me.”

Bucky lets out a small chuckle but his eyes still hold traces of disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re running your hands through his hair the way you are. “She did?”

“Mhm.” A smile begins to curl its way onto your lips, one you can’t deny.

“She’s a rat.” He grumbles, his hands dropping to your waist to gently run his palms over your sides.

“She’s sweet,” You correct, reaching down to grab his non-metal arm and gently pull his sleeve up, revealing the bracelet on his wrist. “And she also told me you still wear this.”

Bucky watches your fingers run over the braided material before his eyes flicker back up to you. “I’ve never taken it off.”

Your gaze meets his soft blue eyes where you can read the longing all over them. It’s been so long since you've seen it and yet, it’s still capable of sending a cacophony of butterflies through your stomach like something out of a dream sequence.

“I love you.” He says out of the blue.

The three words have your breath hindering in your throat.

“I’ve loved you every moment I was here and every moment I wasn’t.”

You don’t know what to say, how to express how much you reciprocate that love, so before you have the opportunity to think about it, you stand up on your toes and press your lips against his.

Bucky wastes no time. He wraps his arms further around your waist and tugs you closer to his chest. With your hands placed on the sides of his neck, you sink deeper into the kiss.

Kissing him feels just like it had all those years ago. It’s warm just like you remember it to be but more passionate, if that’s even possible. For Bucky, kissing you is still sweet but delicate in a way that reminds him of just how lucky he was to be able to press his lips against yours.

You kiss each other with a burning desire to make up for all the lost time, to fill the gap of what was once missing between the two of you—not lost but something simply misplaced. The two of you wished to stay forever that way, and maybe now you would.

“I fucking knew it.” A voice whisper shouts from the frame of your open door.

Pulling apart, you and Bucky both turn your heads in the direction of the hallway. Yelena stands with her hands in the pockets of your sweatpants, a knowing smirk stretching across her face.

You look down like you just got caught doing something you shouldn’t have, all while biting back your smile. Bucky’s face turns red and he purses his lips with a small nod. He side-eyes you as you cover your mouth with your hand, suppressing your small hysterical giggles. Your laughter made him grin helplessly, and he squeezed your hand, gently moving closer to your side where he intended to stay for good.

Yelena smiles. “Ava owes me twenty bucks.”

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mnnuni · 12 days ago

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Just changed my aesthetic for the first time. Don't know how I feel about this.

It is what it is

AND started #nu's blab, I'm sorry for whoever's gonna read it but now that I'm starting feeling confident here it's over

✨

#nu's blab #easthetic #girl blog aesthetic

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mnnuni · 14 days ago

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#They knew they had to not use the glasses or everyone would have collapse in the theater

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mnnuni · 16 days ago

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at least we were electrified ⁃ jake "hangman" seresin

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x rival!reader (callsign: crash) word count: 23.6k words synopsis: you’re the only pilot who ever beat hangman in the air—and he’s been obsessed with you ever since. now you're stuck training together, sparring with every word, and pretending you're not seconds away from tearing each other’s clothes off. warnings: enemies to lovers, slight rivals to lovers, mdni, smut, bathtub sex, slow soft sex, emotional sex, face sitting, oral (f receiving), multiple rounds (3+), breeding kink, overstimulation, begging, praise kink, cockwarming, aftercare, bath aftercare, love confessions during sex, jake seresin is down bad and soft and obsessed, mutual pining resolved, this man will absolutely cry during sex and then keep going, soft dom jake, reader rides him, sleepy post-sex cuddles, taylor swift inspired, based on “dress” from reputation, both of them get emotionally wrecked in the most beautiful way flight log: after working on this for weeks, i finally published this unholy mess and honestly, i still can't believe i wrote this filth in the middle of work. but hey, you guys voted for this one to go up first, so keep an eye out for my rooster x rival pilot!reader fic coming next. thank you, truly, for enabling me once again. i love you all, even though jake seresin now lives in my brain rent free and refuses to stop being a menace. disclaimer: my works are not made using ai. every word comes from me, my thoughts, my hands, my time. do not steal, copy, or feed my fics into ai for any reason. fuck ai and what it’s doing to creative spaces. support real writers. ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ main masterlist

You hit the deck with textbook precision, wheels screeching against the tarmac before the jet finally hissed into silence. The canopy cracked open, letting the salt-thick wind in as you exhaled slow through your comms. Another clean run. Another win. The flight crew scrambled into motion below, yellow shirts waving you in, but you barely heard them over the rush still pumping through your veins.

Meanwhile, a second jet came in behind yours, less graceful, slightly late, and visibly annoyed. Jake “Hangman” Seresin touched down like the landing had personally offended him. You watched from the edge of the flight line as his Super Hornet taxied in, his moves tight and rigid, posture too stiff to be casual. You could feel the heat of his frustration radiating from across the tarmac.

Once your boots hit the ground, you pulled your helmet off, tucking it under your arm as you made your way toward the hangar. The late-afternoon sun beat down hard, and your flight suit stuck to your skin in places you didn’t want to think about, but the satisfaction of today’s victory dulled everything else.

Inside, the air was cooler, barely, and the metallic scent of jet fuel still hung heavy in your nose as you peeled the zipper down to your chest.

Then, his shadow stretched long across the hangar floor behind you.

“Hell of a move out there,” he drawled, voice slick with that Texas edge he sharpened like a knife.

You didn’t turn around right away. Instead, you leaned against the bench, unfastening your gloves with slow, deliberate movements. “You mean the part where I left you hanging in my six? Or the part where you stalled trying to catch up?”

There was a beat of silence, and then you heard his boots close the distance. Not storming. Not angry. Just… deliberate. Controlled. Like a predator who knew patience was part of the kill.

Finally, when you met his eyes, he was standing a little too close, heat rolling off him like he never left the sky.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jake muttered, jaw tight, voice low enough to make it feel private.

“Like what?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, giving him that slow, crooked grin he hated. The one that said I know I’m better, and you do too.

“Like you’re proud of it.”

You stepped in, just enough to make him flinch, not back, never back, but enough to make something in him lock up.

“Oh, I am,” you said, voice syrup-thick with challenge. “I’m very proud of it.”

Jake’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, quick, sharp, dangerous, before it came right back up. He was smiling now, but it was the kind of smile that came with teeth.

“Cocky, Crash,” he said, voice like a spark on gasoline. “Might wanna watch that altitude before you stall out next.”

But you didn’t answer. Not with words. Not yet, because you knew exactly how high you were flying.

And more importantly, you knew he was chasing.

Before either of you could throw the next punch, verbal or otherwise, the hangar doors groaned open again, letting in the rest of Dagger Squad with the kind of loud, casual chaos only they could bring. Payback was the first to speak, his voice echoing off the walls as he pulled his helmet off and shook out his damp curls.

“Well, if it isn’t Crash and Hangman,” he grinned, tossing a glance between you and Jake. “How’s the air up there, sweetheart?”

You smirked. “Clean. Unlike your record.”

Coyote let out a low whistle, already unzipping his flight suit. “Damn, she’s still got fire left in her and just smoked Hangman at ten thousand feet. Man’s gonna need therapy.”

Jake didn’t take his eyes off you. “I don’t need therapy. I need better wingmen.”

“You need humility,” you replied, tossing your gloves into your locker with just enough force to make a point.

Then came Phoenix, swaggering in with her usual post-flight strut and zero patience for testosterone-soaked one-liners. “Whatever this is,” she said, gesturing vaguely between you and Jake, “can it wait until after we all shower and don’t smell like burned jet fuel and fragile egos?”

Fanboy laughed under his breath, already halfway to stripping down. “You sure? This is better than Netflix.”

Harvard and Yale brushed past you on their way to the lockers, both nodding politely before catching on to the tension and exchanging a glance that said oh great, it’s happening again. You didn’t care. You didn’t exist to be anyone’s entertainment. Not even Dagger’s. Especially not Jake’s.

You made your way to the female side of the locker room, where a metal divider sectioned off the space, standard setup, rigidly enforced. No overlap. No excuses. You walked like you weren’t burning, even as you peeled out of your flight suit and let the cool tile of the shower area offer temporary relief.

Meanwhile, through the thin wall, you could still hear them, Jake’s voice louder than the rest, no doubt throwing around some snarky excuse for why he got beat again. You rolled your eyes under the stream of water, letting it scald your skin and wash away the sweat, but not the irritation.

Not the heat.

Then, as if summoned by sheer force of will, his voice filtered through the locker chatter again.

“Crash thinks she’s untouchable just because she got lucky once.”

You clenched your jaw, fingers tightening around the bottle of shampoo. Once? That was your third win in five days, and you both knew it.

Over in the male locker room, the conversation was shifting. Rooster’s voice cut through next, calm but edged in something sharp. “You’re obsessed, man. You’ve been spiraling since the first time she beat you. Admit it.”

Jake responded too fast. “I’m not obsessed.”

There was a short pause, and then Payback’s laugh bounced off the walls. “Sure you’re not. That’s why you talk about her in your sleep.”

You didn’t mean to smile, but it happened anyway, quick and gone, like turbulence.

By the time you emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around your neck and flight suit half zipped again, the squad had already started to head out. The locker room buzz had died down to a low murmur of sarcasm and soap. Phoenix passed you at the doorway, giving you a nod and a raised brow.

“He’s still pacing,” she said under her breath. “You’re in his head, Crash.”

You just shook your head, brushing past her without comment. Jake Seresin could burn through every ounce of pride he had and it still wouldn’t be enough to eclipse yours. You didn’t need to be in his head.

You were already in his airspace.

The corridor between the locker room and the flight debriefing room was narrow, lined with flickering fluorescents and the hum of vents that couldn't quite beat back the post-flight heat. You moved through it with practiced ease, boots scuffing against the tile in sync with your steady breathing, body still thrumming from the high of the sky. You’d flown clean, sharp, and unapologetically fast. Faster than him. Again.

Then, just as you rounded the corner past the exit hatch, you caught him.

Jake leaned against the wall like he belonged there, one arm braced high over a locker, hair still damp, towel slung lazy around his neck like it hadn’t been weaponized in half a dozen locker room showdowns.

His flight suit hung open to the waist, dog tags swinging with every shift of his frame. His eyes flicked up the moment he saw you, dark and unreadable, but not unreadable enough.

You paused mid-stride, giving him a glance sharp enough to cut through any lingering sweat-fog between you.

“If you’re waiting for an apology,” you said, tone dry as desert wind, “you’ll be collecting dust.”

Jake pushed off the wall, slow like it meant nothing, like he wasn’t waiting at all. “You think I want an apology?”

“I think you want something,” you replied, not bothering to stop walking as he fell into step beside you.

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound curling through the narrow hall like smoke. “You always this arrogant after a flight?”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to give him your profile. “Only when I fly better than the guy who won’t shut up about being the best.”

Jake’s grin twitched wider, but there was no warmth in it, just edge. “You don’t fly better than me, Crash. You fly dirtier.”

You stopped short, the words hitting a little too close to something you didn’t care to name. “Funny. I thought getting results mattered more than looking pretty for the scoreboard.”

He leaned in then, just enough to make you feel it. The space tightened. The air thinned.

“Keep talkin’ like that,” he said, voice low enough to make you forget anyone else even existed on base, “and I might start thinking you want me to bite back.”

You blinked at him, expression carefully blank, even as heat crawled up your neck. “Bite harder, Seresin. You’re already choking.”

For a second, you swore he forgot how to breathe. His jaw twitched, and his fingers curled at his sides like he needed something to grip. He stepped back before he did something stupid, or worse, something obvious, and ran a hand through his hair like it could tame what was already out of control.

Then, from the corridor ahead, Coyote’s voice rang out, oblivious and perfectly timed.

“Briefing room in five! Mav’s not gonna wait!”

You didn’t spare Jake another glance as you brushed past him, but you could feel his stare burning into your spine like afterburner exhaust. You walked faster, not to get away, but because you knew he’d follow.

And he did, because whatever this was, it wasn’t over.

It was just about to enter a new altitude.

You broke into a jog the second Coyote’s voice echoed down the corridor, knowing full well that if you were even a minute late, Maverick would make you run the entire flight line in full gear as penance.

Not that you’d mind the workout, but the humiliation? You weren’t about to hand that over, especially not with Jake Seresin breathing down your neck like a heat-seeking missile.

Behind you, you could hear his boots pounding against the tile, fast and cocky, like he was trying to pass you just for the hell of it. Typical.

Then, with the door to the briefing room coming into view and Jake gaining a little too much ground, you made a split-second decision. A barely perceptible shift of your elbow. A subtle, graceful move of your foot.

Not enough to trip a normal man.

But Jake Seresin was not a normal man. He was an ego on legs and pride in motion, and pride, as always, made people sloppy.

His shin clipped your boot. It wasn’t hard, it didn’t have to be. Momentum did the rest.

There was a sharp, stuttered curse, followed by the unmistakable sound of six-foot-something of Navy muscle stumbling mid-sprint. He flailed for half a second, arms windmilling, before regaining his balance, barely catching himself on the wall with a thud that echoed like thunder.

You kept running.

By the time you burst through the briefing room doors, your breathing was under control and your expression was as smooth as your landing had been earlier that day. Maverick was already standing near the front, arms crossed and brow raised in that unreadable instructor expression he’d perfected years ago.

“You’re cutting it close, Crash,” he said, nodding toward the clock.

You slipped into your seat with a shrug. “Better late than sloppy, sir.”

Just then, the door slammed open again.

Jake stormed in, hair even messier than before, dog tags clinking violently against his chest as he shot you a look that could’ve grounded aircraft. You smiled sweetly, already leaning back in your chair, hands behind your head like you had no idea what he was so worked up about.

He didn’t say a word, but his glare said everything.

Phoenix coughed into her fist, clearly holding back a laugh. Payback nudged Coyote with his elbow and muttered something that earned him a full-bodied snort. Even Rooster lifted his brows in mild concern-slash-amusement.

Maverick narrowed his eyes at both of you, clearly sensing the hostile weather front in the room.

“Glad you two could join us,” he said dryly. “Now sit. Down.”

Jake dropped into the seat across yours, still fuming, still wordless. You didn’t look at him, but you could feel it, every molecule of heat radiating off his body like his fury alone could melt steel. There was a tightness in his shoulders that didn’t ease, even as the briefing started and the screen flickered on.

Still, you leaned in just a little and whispered, voice barely above a breath.

“You should watch your step, Seresin.”

His jaw clenched. He didn’t look at you.

But you knew you’d just declared war, and you were already winning.

The lights dimmed as Maverick keyed the projector, the screen flickering to life with a grainy playback of the final dogfight of the day. The room hushed immediately, the air shifting from casual post-flight sarcasm to focused, near-surgical attention. All eyes faced forward, shoulders squared. Whatever rivalry burned beneath the surface would have to wait, at least for now.

“Alright, let’s start with the final engagement,” Maverick said, stepping to the side as the video played from the onboard camera of your jet. “North of Bravo Six, two thousand feet above deck, lead aircraft, Crash.”

A few heads turned toward you, though no one spoke. You didn’t need to bask in it. The screen spoke for itself. Your Super Hornet banked hard into a tight split-S, dodging Jake’s pursuit and twisting into a vertical climb that should’ve stalled you out if you hadn’t already throttled preemptively and calculated the airspeed differential in advance. It was clean. Precise. Dangerous as hell.

“Now that,” Maverick said, turning to face the room again, “was a bold move. Most pilots would’ve blacked out halfway through that climb. Crash here timed it down to the damn second and pulled out with two Gs to spare.”

You sat straighter in your seat, but didn’t grin. You didn’t have to. Instead, you nodded once, calm and composed, like it was exactly what you expected to hear.

Across the row, Jake stiffened, arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw ticked the way it always did when something didn’t sit right, aand apparently, you being right was what bothered him.

“Sir, with all due respect,” he started, voice clipped, “that maneuver wasn’t bold, but it was reckless. She dove straight into a negative pitch at a rate that would’ve flattened most pilots. If her timing was even half a second off, she would've stalled out and taken both of us down.”

You turned to him then, brow raised, calm as glass. “But I wasn’t off, Seresin.”

Jake didn’t back down. “That doesn’t change the fact that it was reckless.”

“Actually,” you said, tone even and deliberate, “it does. I factored in the barometric drop from the marine layer, calculated the drop-off in air density, and initiated the climb before your nose even cleared my tail. I had twenty-three hundred feet of vertical to bleed speed and an angle of attack set at precisely sixteen degrees. You were flying by instinct. I was flying by math.”

The silence that followed was almost smug. Payback muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “damn”, and Phoenix just raised her brows at Jake like you walked into that one, didn’t you?

Meanwhile, Maverick simply crossed his arms and nodded, clearly not surprised.

“She’s right,” he confirmed, glancing at Jake before turning back to the screen. “That was some of the cleanest risk mitigation I’ve seen from a junior officer. She knew her limits. More importantly, she knew your limits, too.”

The jab landed harder than any turbulence. Jake looked away, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his molars grinding.

You didn’t gloat. You just kept your eyes on the screen, watching as your jet pulled out of the maneuver with smooth, practiced grace while his frame lagged behind, sharp, but not quite sharp enough.

Then, without needing to be prompted, you added, “Also, that wasn’t a dive. It was an accelerated vertical escape into a high-speed climb. If I had pulled two seconds later, I would've clipped the wake vortex. But I didn’t. So maybe instead of calling it reckless, we start calling it what it was.”

Jake muttered under his breath, something just shy of a curse, and you smiled to yourself, small, barely there, but satisfying all the same.

Maverick exhaled like he was hiding a grin. “Alright,” he said, “let’s move on.”

Maverick clicked to the next frame, pausing on a still image of your Hornet mid-climb, the vapor cone beginning to bloom from your wings. He narrowed his eyes at the angle, thoughtful, and then turned slightly, directing his next question toward the room, but you could tell it was meant for you.

“Alright, walk me through this. You initiated the vertical afterburner climb here—” he pointed to the timestamp, “—but you didn’t switch to combat spread until two seconds later. Why wait?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Because I needed Hangman to commit.”

That earned you a few startled glances. Maverick tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “Elaborate.”

You sat up straighter, sliding your flight data tablet closer and tapping to bring up your own recorded metrics. The graph glowed pale blue on your screen as you began.

“He was tailing too close for a clean break. If I broke right into spread, he would’ve mirrored it and stayed locked in. But by delaying and keeping him in the pocket, I forced him to stay on my vector while I manipulated speed bleed through vertical gain. He was flying with nose authority, but not enough roll control at that angle to compensate for thrust lag.”

You tapped the chart, zooming in on the data.

“The second he hit ninety percent throttle and lost yaw stability, I banked left, just outside his field of correction. That gave me a clean line to reposition and full weapon sim lock before he could recover trim.”

There was a long pause. The room stayed quiet. Even the air vents seemed to hum a little softer.

Then Payback let out a low whistle. “She baited him.”

Phoenix blinked. “That wasn’t just instinct. That was textbook manipulation of enemy error.”

Rooster gave a single, incredulous laugh under his breath. “Holy shit, she played you like a violin.”

From across the room, you heard Fanboy mutter, “I’m not even mad. That was art.”

You stayed composed, unbothered, because it wasn’t the first time you’d outflown someone by outthinking them, but it was the first time you did it in front of all of them.

Meanwhile, Maverick just nodded slowly, visibly impressed in the way that meant something. “That’s the kind of situational awareness most pilots don’t develop until they’ve logged ten times your hours.”

You nodded, calm. “I’ve always liked math, sir.”

That got a few more chuckles, the kind laced with genuine awe and no small amount of respect. Even Phoenix cracked a smile, bumping her knee lightly against yours in a rare show of squad affection.

And Jake? Jake looked like he’d just been punched in the gut, stripped of rank, and made to salute you all in the same breath.

His mouth opened like he had something to say, but nothing came out. His jaw tightened instead, his grip on the edge of the table white-knuckled and furious. He stared at the screen like it had betrayed him.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t have to. Because this wasn’t just your win, it was your arrival. And no one, not even Hangman, could deny it anymore.

The briefing wrapped with Maverick’s final nod, and the squad filed out in clusters, boots scuffing, side comments exchanged, the occasional lingering glance in your direction. You didn’t need to hear the whispers to know what they were about. You had just executed a maneuver that would probably be added to training tapes, and you made it look like muscle memory.

Meanwhile, Jake didn’t say a word.

He stood slower than the rest, arms folded tight across his chest, that unreadable look on his face carved from pride, heat, and something just short of fury. You could feel it before you turned, his eyes dragging over your shoulder blades like a targeting laser. Still, you didn’t look back. Not until you stepped into the corridor.

Then, as if you’d conjured him, you heard his voice behind you. Sharp. Icy.

“Real clever stunt in there.”

You turned on your heel, facing him fully now. The hallway was quiet, most of the squad already vanished into other rooms, the locker halls, the mess. Out here, it was just you and him. Just enough space to make something dangerous feel inevitable.

“You mean the one that worked?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Jake took a step forward, his gaze locked on yours. “You humiliated me.”

You arched a brow. “I outflew you. That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he snapped, closing the distance again, “you calculated me. Used me. Like a move on a goddamn chessboard.”

You tilted your head slightly, biting back the smile that wanted to surface. “And you’re mad because I did it better than you?”

“I’m mad,” he growled, stepping in until the space between you could barely hold a breath, “because you’re not just flying dirty, you’re flying like you’ve got something to prove.”

“Maybe, I do.”

Jake’s eyes scanned yours, lingering too long on your mouth before he caught himself. He looked furious. He looked obsessed. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to fight you or—

“You’ve been gunning for me since the second you walked into this base,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. “What is it? You think you’re better than me?”

You leaned in just slightly, close enough to make him shift, to feel that tension coil between you again.

“I know that I’m better than you,” you whispered. “But it kills you more, because I’m right.”

He laughed then short, humorless, almost breathless. It didn’t soften anything.

“Careful, Crash,” he murmured, voice like gravel, “you keep pushing and one day I’m not gonna let you walk away with just a smartass line and a smile.”

You stepped closer again, toe to toe now, and stared him down like you were locked at altitude.

“Then don’t.”

The words came out low, clean, and lethal.

Jake’s breath hitched, and you watched the war play out behind his eyes, the one between pride and want, fury and restraint. His hand twitched at his side, like he didn’t trust it not to reach for you.

Then, from around the corner, someone’s voice called out; Rooster, maybe, or Coyote, you couldn’t be sure. The sound broke whatever fragile, electric moment was about to combust.

Jake took a slow step back. His jaw clenched again, but this time, he didn’t say anything.

He just turned and walked away.

And for some reason, that was worse than anything he could’ve said.

The Hard Deck was glowing with neon and noise, the jukebox throwing out some Tom Petty track while pilots crowded around pool tables, beers in hand, laughter spilling like spilled salt across the floorboards. You were leaned over the edge of the far table, cue balanced against your thumb, eyes narrowed in focus. Rooster stood beside you, arms crossed, already grinning like he knew you were about to win.

You made the shot, smooth, clean, corner pocket, and straightened with a cocky tilt of your head.

“Damn, Crash,” Rooster said, nudging your shoulder, “you’ve been on fire lately. What’d Jake do, give you all his luck?”

You laughed, passing him the cue. “If Seresin gave me anything, it’d come with a side of unresolved trauma.”

Rooster barked a laugh, lining up his own shot. “You’re not wrong.”

Meanwhile, at the bar, the doors swung open with a gust of salt air, and Jake strutted in like the devil himself had opened the door just for him. Coyote trailed at his side, followed by Harvard, Yale, Fritz, and Omaha; Jake’s usual entourage when he needed backup for his ego. He spotted you almost instantly. You didn’t look, but you could feel the shift in atmosphere the second he zeroed in.

Then he strolled over, beer in hand, the swagger turned up to eleven.

“Well, well,” Jake drawled, coming to a stop right beside the table, “didn’t realize you and Bradshaw were dating now. Should we start calling you Mrs. Rooster?”

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you leaned one elbow on the table, cocked your head, and shot him a smile so sharp it could’ve cut glass.

“Jake,” you said sweetly, “if jealousy had a face, it’d still be prettier than yours.”

The reaction was instant. Coyote howled. Rooster nearly choked on his drink. Harvard and Yale exchanged wide-eyed glances. Omaha laughed so hard he had to grip the edge of the table for balance.

Even Phoenix, just now walking over with Bob, Payback, Fanboy, and Halo in tow, caught the tail end of it and raised her brows. “Damn,” she said, sipping her beer. “Y’all starting early tonight.”

“Starting?” you said, turning to face her with a smirk. “I’ve been cooking him since he walked in.”

Jake’s jaw ticked, but he covered it with a smug shrug. “We’ll see who’s cooked when I wipe the floor with you.”

“In what, delusion?”

“Nope, the pool.” He stepped closer, snagging the spare cue from the rack and twirling it between his fingers like it was a weapon. “You and me, Crash. Best of five.”

Rooster set his drink down and gave Jake a look that fell somewhere between exasperated and knowing. “Hangman, you sure you wanna do that? She’s been on a streak.”

Jake didn’t look away from you. “I like streaks. Especially when I get to break them.”

You stepped forward, grabbing the chalk and spinning it slowly in your fingers. “Alright,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on, “but don’t cry when I make you look bad in front of your fan club.”

He grinned, sharp and wild. “Just don’t choke when the heat’s on.”

The squad began to gather around, drinks in hand, forming a loose circle around the table. Phoenix climbed onto a nearby stool with her beer. Fanboy leaned against the wall, already grinning. Bob stood a few paces back, quiet but invested. Payback and Halo threw down a few bills on the corner of the table, already betting on the outcome.

You racked the balls, slow and steady, hands precise. Jake stepped to the other side, chalking his cue like it was part of some ritual. Then you both leaned over the table, eyes locked.

Two apex predators in one room, each convinced they were the only one worth watching.

The air snapped tight around you, and neither of you missed.

Jake broke first. The cue ball cracked against the rack with a sharp, brutal snap, scattering the solids and stripes with precision that bordered on violent. One dropped, then another. You leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching him circle the felt like a predator sizing up terrain he already thought he owned.

He sank a third before he finally missed, barely, by inches. The crowd gave a collective breath, and then it was your turn.

You stepped into position like you belonged there. Your hips grazed the table’s edge. You lined up your shot, cue gliding through your fingers with practiced ease. One tap, clean, sharp, and the ball dropped.

“CRASH!” Rooster whooped from the sideline, raising his beer like a trophy.

“Let’s go, baby!” Phoenix yelled over the music.

“Hot damn,” Payback grinned. “She don’t miss.”

“Crash! Crash! Crash!” Fanboy and Halo chanted in rhythm, smacking their drinks against the bar in time.

You didn’t react to them, not outwardly, but your next shot curved with just the right amount of English, bouncing off the side rail and sinking your second with a casual kind of grace that looked like you were barely trying.

Jake’s voice cut through the noise. “Show-off.”

You smiled without looking at him. “Better than a sore loser.”

You nailed a third. Then a fourth. When you finally missed, only slightly, the cue ball grazing too far right, it was Jake’s turn again. He moved with fire now, slick and deliberate. He lined up three shots in a row, executing each with brutal efficiency. Coyote clapped like it was the Superbowl.

“HANGMAN!” he yelled, riling up Harvard, Yale, and Omaha into a full-blown cheer squad.

“Let’s go, Seresin!”

“Clean kill, baby!”

“Send her crashin’!”

The Hard Deck was fully invested now, drinks forgotten, crowd circling the table as people pressed in for a better view. The jukebox volume had been dialed down, not officially, but like the bar collectively understood something bigger was happening here. It was more than pool. It was battle. Banter. Bravado and blurred lines.

Your next turn had to be perfect, and it was.

You pivoted around the table, spinning your cue once before sinking a bank shot so clean the crowd actually gasped. Your corner pocket stroke after that was surgical, snapping the eight into position like you’d choreographed it in your head three plays ago.

"CRASH!" the crowd erupted again, louder now, voices echoing off the walls.

Rooster leaned back, hollering. “She’s cookin’!”

Phoenix threw both hands up like a ref signaling a touchdown. Bob even smiled—Bob smiled.

Jake didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch, but his grip on the cue tightened enough to make his knuckles white.

Then he stepped up, wordless, and went to war.

His next shot curved like poetry; sleek, exact. Another fell, then another. Harvard screamed his name. Yale slammed his hand against the nearest stool.

The scoreboard was nearly even.

You were two apex predators circling a kill neither one wanted to share, and the kill was glory. Admiration. Each other.

But no one in the room could miss the difference now. Jake was damn good, but you? You were unbothered.

You were better, and the whole damn bar was watching.

By the time you lined up your next shot, the score was dead even. One ball left for each of you, eight still waiting like a final dare. The crowd had gone near silent now, the kind of hush that happens when people realize they’re witnessing something unrepeatable. The jukebox kept spinning something low and slow, but even the music sounded like it was holding its breath.

Jake was posted up against the far corner, cue slung casually over his shoulder, but his eyes never left you. He watched you like a man waiting for a lightning strike, like he wanted to be hit. You felt the burn of his stare trailing down your back, across your legs, over your arms as you bent slightly to study your angle.

You didn’t look up at him. Not yet.

Instead, you backed up just a little, slow, measured, deliberate, and bumped into him with a subtle sway of your hips.

“Oops,” you murmured, not bothering to hide the smirk in your voice.

He didn’t move.

You shifted again, cue stick low in your hand, angling to line up, right as the tip of it just so happened to swing directly between his legs with a gentle tap.

Jake inhaled sharply, catching it with both hands as he flinched back half a step.

“Oh my god—” Fanboy choked somewhere in the crowd.

“Did she just—” Payback was laughing, doubled over.

Coyote barked, “Direct hit!”

Phoenix let out a low whistle. “She’s playing dirty tonight.”

You turned your head slightly and looked up at Jake over your shoulder, your smile sugar-sweet and fake as sin. “Sorry, Hangman. You were standing way too close to the danger zone.”

Jake was frozen, like he couldn’t decide whether to strangle you, kiss you, or throw you across the damn table. His jaw flexed. His eyes burned. And there was this twitch in his fingers, like every bone in his body wanted to grab you and do something about it.

You moved back to your shot without another word, leaned down, and sank the last ball with surgical precision.

The crowd exploded. “CRASH!” they screamed in unison, fists pumping, laughter and cheers flooding the bar like someone had just won the Super Bowl.

You didn’t look at Jake, but you felt him behind you. Still. Staring.

Like you’d knocked the wind out of him, and he was trying very, very hard not to beg for more.

Jake didn’t say anything after you sank the final shot. He just stood there for a second, cue slack in his grip, gaze locked on the pocket like he could will the outcome to change, but the eight-ball was gone. So was his win. And the cheers echoing through the Hard Deck were all for you.

You passed by him without a word, just a slow, deliberate glance that said everything he needed to hear. The crowd was still riled up, people clapping you on the back, offering drinks, showering you in affection like you were the patron saint of pool table warfare. And maybe tonight, you were.

Meanwhile, Jake drifted toward the bar, alone. He didn’t limp, exactly, but his pride definitely did. He ordered something sharp; whiskey, probably, then leaned against the counter, nursing the glass like it could drown the sting. His eyes flicked to you more than once, but you didn’t look his way again. Not yet.

That’s when she approached.

A tall brunette in a slinky black tank and heels too impractical for a place with peanut shells on the floor. She leaned on the bar beside him like she was in a perfume commercial, all breathy smiles and glossy eyes. Jake saw her. Of course he did. And predictably, his expression smoothed into that practiced smirk, the one that usually knocked people flat before he even said a word.

“Well hey there,” he said, voice lower now, just shy of sultry. “You lookin’ for something?”

She smiled, coy. “Yeah,” she said, dragging out the word with a lilt. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me get it.”

Jake leaned in slightly, shoulders shifting. He sipped his drink and gave her that full Seresin tilt-your-head-and-look-charming move. “Well now, that depends,” he said smoothly. “What exactly are you looking for?”

There was a pause. A beat. A little twist of the universe.

Then she leaned closer, cupping her drink between both hands, and said with a little wink:

“Crash’s number.”

Jake froze.

It was microscopic, but you knew him. The twitch in his temple, the sudden flare in his nostrils, the faint noise that might have been a strangled laugh or a dying breath, he was flabbergasted.

“Come again?” he asked, blinking once.

She laughed softly, tilting her head. “Crash. You know, the one who just smoked you on the table? God, she’s so hot. Like, I almost asked her myself, but—” she swirled the straw in her drink, “—you looked like you might have an in.”

Jake took a slow step back like she’d just hit him with a taser.

You, across the room, turned just in time to catch the moment. His eyes flicked toward you, burning with a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment. And you? You just smirked. Cool. Effortless. Like you knew.

Because you did.

His glare hit you like a storm cloud. You met it with sunshine.

And in that exact moment, the only thing more bruised than Jake Seresin’s ego… was his dignity.

The bar emptied in waves, laughter spilling out onto the parking lot like the tide receding after one hell of a storm. Most of the guys were buzzed or straight-up hammered; Fanboy giggling against Halo’s shoulder, Coyote yelling something about karaoke into the night, and Payback dramatically fake-snoring in the bed of someone’s truck. Bob, ever the responsible one, was helping Phoenix wrangle Rooster into handing over his Bronco keys before he could insist he was “totally fine” to drive with a beer still in hand.

You sighed, catching the jingling keys mid-air after Phoenix tossed them your way. “I’ll drive him,” you said simply. “He’s two blocks from my place anyway.”

“Crash for MVP,” Phoenix muttered, dragging Fanboy toward her Jeep like a tired babysitter clocking out.

You rounded the Bronco, throwing open the driver’s door just as Rooster plopped into the passenger seat with a dramatic groan, head already tilted back like he planned to fall asleep the second you hit the road. You reached for the door to close it behind you when—

A hand slapped flat against the frame, stopping it mid-swing.

You didn’t have to look. You knew who it was.

Jake Seresin stood there, still reeling from the night, still wearing that perfect mix of ego and frustration like a custom-tailored flight suit. His other hand braced against the Bronco’s roof, effectively caging you in with his arms and the dark and the heat rolling off him like summer thunder.

“What,” he said, low and sharp, “are you doing to me?”

You turned, leaned your hip into the seat casually, unbothered. “Driving a friend home. Want me to call you a cab?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

You tilted your head, gaze traveling slowly over his face. “You're going to have to be more specific, Seresin.”

Jake leaned in just a little closer, breath warm near your ear, voice dipping into something dark and quiet. “You’re under my skin. In my head. Hell, I dreamt about you last week and woke up pissed off and hard.”

You blinked once. Then smiled.

Calm. Controlled. Deadly.

“Must’ve been a good dream if it lasted long enough to piss you off.”

Jake exhaled like it pained him. His eyes searched yours, wild but tethered, and his mouth twitched into something between a grin and a grimace.

“You’re driving me insane,” he muttered.

“Good,” you replied, brushing past his shoulder deliberately as you leaned forward to grab the seatbelt. “Maybe that means you’ll stop talking for once.”

But just before you could buckle yourself in, his hand shot out again; catching the seatbelt strap right by your fingers. The movement was fluid, unfairly fast, and suddenly you were nose-to-nose again, your breath catching before you could stop it.

“You keep poking the bear, Crash,” he said, mouth barely moving. “You really think I won’t bite?”

Your lips parted, just slightly, just for a fraction of a second. You felt it in your gut, in your thighs, in the base of your damn spine. But before you could answer, before you could say something biting or kiss him or deck him—

He stepped back.

Fully. Cleanly. Smirking like the devil after a sermon.

“Sweet dreams, hotshot,” he said with a wink.

Then he turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire circulatory system with one sentence.

And in the silence that followed, you buckled your seatbelt, turned the key in the ignition, and stared at your own reflection in the windshield.

Because goddamn him… you were thirsty now.

The Bronco rumbled down the coastal highway, headlights cutting through the early a.m. haze like spotlights on a bad decision. The window was cracked just enough to let in some sea air, though it didn’t do much to cool the wildfire that Jake Seresin had lit in your bloodstream thirty minutes ago.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter, lips pursed, trying to focus on the road and not the fact that your pulse hadn’t slowed since the moment that smug bastard backed away like he hadn’t just whispered his way into your frontal lobe.

Meanwhile, Rooster was passed out in the passenger seat, limbs loose and tangled, head tilted back so far he was nearly kissing the ceiling. He snored once, then muttered something about "Mav's fault" before going limp again.

You almost laughed, until, completely unprompted, he shot up straight, eyes still closed, and bellowed into the night:

“YOU SHAKE MY NERVES AND YOU RATTLE MY BRAIN—”

You nearly swerved. “Oh, my God—”

Rooster slapped the dash like it was a piano and launched into the next line: “TOO MUCH LOVE DRIVES A MAN INSAAAAANE!”

You blinked at the road, deadpan. “Are you serious right now?”

But he was already gone again, flopping sideways against the window like someone had unplugged him. You stared at him for a beat, jaw slack, then back at the road with a slow, broken laugh. “You are a menace.”

Still, the second you hit the red light, your thoughts slid right back where they’d been since Jake cornered you. His voice. His eyes. That goddamn heat that crawled under your skin and made your spine twitch. You tried to shake it off, but your thighs had other ideas, pressing tighter like you could trap the thought and suffocate it before it reached your core.

No such luck.

Because it had been months since you let yourself think about anyone like that. Even longer since you touched yourself to the idea of someone who knew your name, let alone whispered it like a curse.

But now? All you could think about was his voice in your ear, hot breath on your neck, that smirk that made you want to throw hands and then straddle him right there on the Bronco hood.

It was disgusting.

It was shameful.

But it was so, so hot.

You sighed sharply, punching the gas when the light turned green. “God, I am so using my vibrator tonight.”

Rooster stirred beside you, one eye cracked open. “Did you say something?”

You kept your face forward. “Nope. You’re dreaming.”

He nodded solemnly. “Dreamin’ of piano bars.”

Then he passed out again. You kept driving.

And tried very, very hard not to pull over and scream into your palms.

Rooster blinked up at you with bloodshot eyes and a stupid smile, legs still tangled on the Bronco’s seat. “I’m just… I’m just gonna sleep here,” he mumbled, arms crossed like he thought he was making a strong case.

“No, you’re not,” you snapped, already half-dragging him out the passenger side door. “You're not dying of heatstroke in your own damn driveway, Bradshaw.”

He groaned dramatically, but let you help him stand. It was like guiding a baby giraffe in flip-flops, knees wobbling, weight shifting every direction but forward. Eventually, with a key dug out of his back pocket and a lot of grunting, you got him to the front door. Then inside. Then to the couch, where he dropped like a sack of aviation-grade potatoes.

You threw a blanket over him with a muttered, “Don’t puke on this, or I’m setting you on fire,” and turned to leave.

But not before locking the door behind you like a good friend. And then? Then, you ran.

Like full-on, boots-slapping-asphalt, Olympic sprinted down the sidewalk, because your place was only a few blocks away and every second between now and your own bedroom felt like torture.

The whole way, your mind was an endless loop of Jake’s voice; gravel and heat, laced with that godforsaken smirk: “You keep poking the bear, Crash… you really think I won’t bite?”

You fumbled with your keys when you got to your door, nearly dropped them twice, cursing under your breath like you were being hunted by the ghost of your own horny decisions. Finally, you got it open, stepped inside, slammed the door, and locked it behind you with a click that felt like salvation.

Then came the shower. A quick, cold rinse that didn’t even try to calm you down, just enough to wipe off the sweat from the bar and the shame from sprinting like you were in the Hunger Games. You didn’t even dry your hair. Just scrubbed your teeth, spat, wiped your face on a towel, and bee-lined straight to the nightstand.

And there it was. Your true co-pilot. Your vibrator.

You didn’t even hesitate. Pulled open the drawer, grabbed the vibrator like it owed you backpay, and collapsed on the bed with a groan that came from somewhere deep in your soul.

“God damn you, Seresin,” you muttered, flicking it on.

And then you let yourself finally, finally take the edge off the way only a desperate, pissed-off pilot with Jake Hangman Seresin living rent-free in her head could.

- Jake -

Jake Seresin was in hell.

Not literal hell, not the flames and brimstone kind, but the slow, grinding, full-body, carnal kind that made his brain short-circuit every time you so much as breathed in his direction.

And right now? You weren’t just breathing.

You were doing push-ups.

In the dirt.

Sweaty, flushed, jaw tight with focus, and wearing that goddamn fitted undershirt that clung to your back like a second skin. Every time your arms bent, your triceps flexed in the most unfair way imaginable, and every time you exhaled, he swore he could feel it in his spine.

Meanwhile, Mav paced behind the group like a disappointed father, barking out counts while the entire squad groaned under the weight of hangovers and regret.

“Push-up number forty-two! You wanna be late to my tarmac? You better be ready to earn it!”

Jake didn’t even care. Let him do fifty. Hell, let him do a hundred. He deserved it for the things he did to the mental image of you last night, things he was still recovering from.

Because after you strutted out of the Hard Deck like the devil in boots, all victorious smirks and slow blinks, Jake had barely made it home before he was jacking off with the desperation of a man trying to exorcise you from his bloodstream. He didn’t even bother putting on music or pretending it wasn’t about you. It was disgusting. It was shameful. And it was the only thing that got him to sleep.

But it hadn’t helped.

Not even a little.

If anything, it had made it worse, because now he knew what it sounded like to moan your name, even if it was just in his own head, and now here you were, doing push-ups beside Phoenix, sweat rolling down the side of your neck like a damn baptism, and Jake’s mind was already halfway to hell again.

He clenched his jaw, gritting through another rep.

God, the way your body moved, like you didn’t even know how distracting you were. Your hair was pulled back, messier than usual, little strands clinging to your cheeks. Your lips were parted just slightly, breath steady, focused, but your ass? Perfectly arched. Your back? Shimmering. And every time your chest lowered to the ground, he had to dig his fingers into the gravel just to keep from groaning.

“Fifty!” Mav shouted. “That’s the price for being a squad of hungover jackasses!”

The group groaned and collapsed onto their stomachs, catching their breath.

Jake rolled onto his back, arm over his eyes like it could block out the sight of you, but it was too late. You were burned into his retinas. Into his frontal cortex. Into the pulse in his pants that was now pressing insistently against his flight suit like it had any right to ask for round two.

He peeked at you from under his forearm.

You were grinning now, fucking grinning, and wiping your forehead with the hem of your shirt, revealing just a sliver of skin at your waist. Just enough to ruin his morning, afternoon, and potentially career.

God help him. He wanted you so bad it felt like a fever.

And the worst part? You feels like you knew.

Jake had survived missile lock, blackout spins, G-force trauma, and enough high-risk training exercises to make most people piss themselves.

But nothing, nothing, had ever tested his willpower like the way you stood in front of him now, chugging from your water bottle like the heat didn’t bother you, like your shirt wasn’t plastered to your skin, like your sports bra wasn’t visible under white cotton like the setup of a goddamn wet dream.

He watched a droplet of water slip from the corner of your mouth, trail down your chin, and disappear down your neck.

He blinked slowly.

Focus.

But there was no focusing. Not when the sun was kissing your collarbones, and sweat had turned your skin into something glistening and golden.

Not when your shoulders looked like they could cut steel and your legs were carved like a Roman statue, lean, powerful, flexed with every shift of weight as you leaned over to tie your boot. You didn’t even bend like a normal person. You bent like a temptation.

Meanwhile, Jake was standing next to Coyote, nodding absently at something about flight rotations, pretending he wasn’t one heartbeat away from turning around and walking headfirst into the ocean just to cool down. He clenched his jaw again. If he did it any harder, his teeth would break.

You tossed your water bottle into your duffel, then stretched your arms overhead, back arching just slightly, shirt rising with the motion. Jake caught a glimpse of the slope of your lower stomach and swore he saw God, or maybe the Devil. Whoever made it so that looking at you felt like a punishment.

You yawned next, like it was nothing, like the whole squad wasn’t already down bad, but Jake? Jake was on the edge of a breakdown. You rubbed your neck, turned toward Phoenix, and laughed at something she said. That sound? That laugh? Jake wanted to trap it in his hands and crawl inside it.

He shifted on his heels, forced himself to look away, but it was no use. Every time he glanced at you, every flick of your wrist, every cocked eyebrow, every stupid smirk, you just looked hotter.

Hotter than last night.

Hotter than when you beat him at pool.

Hotter than when you hit him in the balls with your cue stick and smiled about it.

He was so screwed.

And not in the fun way.

Every single part of you was a problem. From the way you stood with one hip popped, weight balanced like you were permanently ready for takeoff, to the way you looked in that damn flight suit, zipped down just low enough to hint at the curve of your collarbones, sleeves pushed to your elbows like you didn’t even know you looked like sex personified.

Jake knew that if you told him to get on his knees, he’d do it without thinking.

He hated that about himself.

Worse, he was starting to like that about himself.

And the next time you smirked at him, like you knew exactly what you were doing, like you felt how hard he was trying not to think about what your thighs would feel like wrapped around his head?

He nearly groaned out loud. So, Jake tried to play it cool.

He shifted his weight, crossed his arms, squinted at the tarmac like there was something, anything, more important out there than the way you adjusted your hair with a slow, careless drag of fingers that damn near made him whimper, but the second he thought maybe, maybe, no one had noticed the mental gymnastics he was doing to stay upright—

“So… how’s that chastity belt feelin’, Hangman?” Coyote leaned in with the subtlety of a brick and dropped the line like a live grenade.

Jake’s head snapped to him. “What?”

“Oh, don’t ‘what’ me,” Coyote grinned, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he turned his whole body to face him. “You’ve been eye-fucking Crash since warm-ups.”

Rooster snorted from behind, slinging a towel over his shoulder. “Bro, he nearly passed out at push-up number twenty. Man was suffering.”

Jake scowled. “I was focused.”

“Yeah,” Rooster nodded. “On her ass.”

Coyote laughed loud enough to draw a glance from Halo and Phoenix. “Dude, you looked like a Victorian husband watching his wife show ankle. I thought you were gonna faint.”

Jake opened his mouth, closed it, and then pointed a finger in Rooster’s direction. “You were singing in your sleep last night. ‘Great Balls of Fire.’ In falsetto.”

Rooster just shrugged. “Yeah, and you were singing her name while holding your drink like it was holy water. So what’s your point?”

Jake flushed. Fully. From the neck up. A violent, betrayed shade of red.

Coyote leaned in closer, voice lower now, like he was trying to counsel a man who just lost the war. “Just admit it, Seresin. You got it bad. Like… ‘late night sock drawer’ bad.”

Rooster made a choked-off sound that was half-laugh, half-gag. “You think he cried after?”

“I think he cried during,” Coyote replied solemnly.

“Y’all done?” Jake muttered, jaw clenched like he was trying to chew through steel.

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Rooster grinned. “Because if you don’t do something about it soon, you’re gonna combust mid-flight.”

Jake rolled his eyes and turned away, desperate for a distraction, anything, but then he looked up—

And saw you again. Walking toward the hangar. Hair tied back.

Sunlight bouncing off your cheekbones like it knew he was watching.

He cursed under his breath and shut his eyes. Yeah.

He was doomed. And his so-called friends? Not helping.

The water was hot. Scalding, even. But Jake stood under the spray like he wanted to boil the memory of you right off his skin.

It wasn’t working.

He scrubbed a palm down his face, leaned a forearm against the tile, and exhaled slowly, hoping the heat would drown the ache that had settled in his gut since yesterday, but every time he closed his eyes, you were right there, smirking, sweating, stretching, tying your damn boot like you knew he was watching.

The worst part? You did know.

The water hit the back of his neck, rolling down his spine, but all it did was make him feel hotter. He clenched his jaw, tried to think about anything else. Flight schedules. Fuel consumption ratios. Maintenance reports. Hell, even Mav’s disappointed dad voice.

But then he remembered the way your shirt had clung to your chest during push-ups, and it was over.

He groaned low in his throat and thunked his head against the wall.

Get a grip, Seresin.

And then—

“Hey, Hangman,” Coyote’s voice echoed from across the shower stalls, loud and evil. “You better not be jacking it in there, man. We still got drills.”

Jake’s head snapped up. “I’m not, asshole.”

Rooster laughed somewhere behind him. “You sure? ‘Cause it’s been like ten minutes and we haven’t heard you breathe.”

“I swear to God—” Jake turned slightly, water still cascading over his back, face red from heat and humiliation.

“Hey,” Fanboy added, “if you are, at least aim down, alright? Shared pipes.”

Coyote coughed. “Dude, I’m begging you, not near the drain.”

“I will punch all of you.”

Then, like an angel dipped in irony, Bob’s voice drifted in—calm, diplomatic.

“Guys, don’t tease him,” he said gently.

Jake sighed in relief.

Then Bob added, “He’s clearly going through it.”

Jake tensed.

“Poor guy’s got a crush,” Bob finished, completely deadpan.

The showers erupted.

Laughter echoed off the tile, a few slaps ringing out as someone clapped the wall, someone else mimicking kissing sounds. Jake wanted to crawl into the drain and disappear.

He shouted over the chaos. “She’s not a crush! She’s a menace!”

“Yeah,” Rooster called, voice thick with smug, “a sexy, sweaty menace.”

Coyote chimed in, “Who lives rent-free in your right hand, bro!”

Jake groaned, turned the water off, and slammed his palm against the tile. “I hate all of you.”

Bob, towel wrapped around his waist, peeked around the edge of the stall with a perfectly innocent expression. “Need a minute, Hangman?”

Jake grabbed the nearest bottle of shampoo and chucked it at him.

The ramp buzzed with energy as Mav stepped back from the line of jets, arms crossed like he was about to scold a bunch of toddlers. He gave his usual pre-flight breakdown—\, tight formation, real-time targeting drills, and "keep your egos on the ground, I don't need another set of wings lost to pissing contests."

Jake stood next to his bird, helmet tucked under his arm, nodding along like he was listening. But really, his eyes kept flicking toward the jet two rows down. Your jet.

And inside it? Bob.

Because of course Maverick decided to pair the smartest WSO in the group with the one person guaranteed to send Jake straight into therapy. Just a casual “Bob, you’re with Crash today,” like it wasn’t the equivalent of handing a match to a man already drenched in jet fuel.

Jake bit the inside of his cheek, hard.

Meanwhile, you were tucked into your cockpit, already pulling your helmet down, adjusting your gloves like you were born for this. You didn’t look his way, not even once, but that somehow made it worse.

Because it meant you weren’t doing it to tease him. You were just being yourself. Just competent and composed and so goddamn hot in your gear he couldn’t see straight.

Then Bob turned, met Jake’s eyes through the open cockpit, and smirked.

Jake narrowed his eyes immediately, jaw tightening. He gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head, the universal sign for don’t you fucking dare.

Bob shrugged, then smiled wider.

And then he leaned into the cockpit and adjusted your helmet straps for you, gently, methodically, like a gentleman helping royalty with her crown. His gloved fingers moved with practiced care, and you?

You smiled at Bob; warm, soft, that soul-melting smile that Jake had never been on the receiving end of. And just to make sure Jake died fully and completely, you reached up and patted Bob’s cheeks.

Twice.

Like you were blessing him for his service.

Jake made an actual, audible sound, somewhere between a scoff and a choking cough, and had to take two steps back before he threw his helmet across the tarmac.

Coyote’s voice crackled in his ear through comms. “Hangman, your blood pressure okay, man?”

Jake growled into his mic, “Shut up.”

Bob gave a thumbs-up, turned toward the ladder, and waved at Jake on his way down.

Jake glared so hard he saw red behind his visor.

Then he finally climbed into his own jet, muttering under his breath the whole way.

“Touch her again and I will replace your shampoo with engine degreaser, Floyd.”

- You, Crash -

The hangar was still buzzing when the jets touched down, the echo of roaring engines slowly fading as everyone rolled out from their cockpits, adrenaline cooling into sweaty exhaustion.

You popped your canopy with a lazy grin, helmet under one arm, flight suit unzipped just slightly at the top to let some air in.

Meanwhile, Jake climbed out of his own jet like a man climbing out of a grave, every movement a little stiffer than usual, a little tighter in the shoulders. He didn’t say a word as he walked past you.

He didn’t have to. You’d smoked him. Again. It wasn’t even close.

You’d cut him off mid-roll, anticipated his throttle push like you were reading his mind, and pulled a counter-maneuver so fast and clean the tower had to replay it twice to confirm it was even legal. Mav’s voice had crackled through comms after the final pass, “Goddamn, Crash. That was art.”

Jake hadn’t said anything then, either.

Now, the squad was gathered in the debriefing room, still sweaty in their flight suits, the lights dimmed just enough to keep the projector screen visible. Maverick stood at the front with a remote in one hand, flipping through the recorded flight footage with a casual grace that always made him seem ten years younger.

The screen showed a slow-motion replay of your final maneuver, your jet slipping into a controlled stall, dropping altitude just enough to force Jake to overcorrect and shoot wide, right into your six.

“Alright,” Mav said, glancing back at the room, “Crash, walk us through that last move.”

Without missing a beat, you stood up and stepped toward the screen, eyes tracking the footage like it was muscle memory. “He went high on the third loop, which meant his velocity would drop faster on the vertical. I knew if I stalled into a break and cut my throttle just enough to slip into his blind spot, I’d force him to reacquire visual manually, but by the time he did, I was already behind him.”

You didn’t say it to brag. You said it like you were pointing out a weather pattern or explaining the laws of gravity. Calm, steady, with the easy confidence of someone who knew their craft inside and out.

Mav nodded slowly, visibly impressed. “That was textbook.”

Phoenix let out a low whistle. “Textbook, but ballsy.”

Rooster muttered under his breath, “That’s my girl.”

Meanwhile, Jake sat in his chair, arms crossed so tightly over his chest it looked like he was trying to hold his ribcage together. His jaw was locked, lips pressed in a tight line, and he refused to look at anyone, especially you.

Coyote nudged him. “She’s not even sweating, man.”

Jake didn’t respond.

Bob, bless his diplomatic heart, tried to lighten the mood. “At least you didn’t crash into the ocean.”

Jake glared at him like he was about to eject in the classroom.

You finished your analysis, stepped back, and gave Mav a small nod.

He smirked at you. “Nicely done, Crash. I’m running that clip for the next class.”

You shrugged, already sinking back into your seat. “It was just physics.”

Jake let out a slow, audible exhale that sounded dangerously close to a growl.

- Jake -

The Hard Deck was loud with end-of-day energy, pool balls clacking, jukebox humming, pitchers of beer sweating on every table. You were in the middle of it all, perched on the edge of the squad’s usual booth, laughing as Phoenix tossed a peanut at Fanboy’s head and Bob tried to explain the physics of beer foam to Rooster.

Everyone was talking over everyone, a storm of noise and movement and warmth that dulled the sting of today’s brutal flight.

Then, casually, you stood and stretched. “Gonna grab another drink,” you said, waving off Halo’s offer to come with.

None of them noticed when the man intercepted you halfway to the bar.

At first, it seemed harmless. Just some average guy, civilian, definitely, leaning in with that drunk, too-smooth smile, asking your name like he didn’t already know it.

You gave a polite nod, tried to turn toward the bar, but his body shifted to block the way. His voice dropped lower. His eyes dragged down and back up like you were inventory.

Meanwhile, across the bar, Jake had been half-listening to Payback and Harvard argue about jukebox etiquette, but his eyes had been on you the whole time. It wasn’t on purpose. Not really. He just always seemed to know where you were. And when your shoulders stiffened just slightly, when your smile flattened into something tight and fake, he felt it like a change in pressure.

Without a word, Jake stood.

The guy didn’t see him coming at first, too busy leaning closer, murmuring something that made you shift your weight back, but Jake saw it all. The way your jaw clenched. The way your arms folded, not relaxed, but defensive. And that was enough.

Jake crossed the floor like a storm, his presence immediate and hot, and then he was right there, between the guy’s shoulder and your space, voice low and sharp.

“She said move.”

The man glanced over, smirking like he was being challenged to a game. “This your boyfriend or something?” he asked, eyes still on you.

Jake didn’t even blink. “Walk away.”

But the guy didn’t. He chuckled, slow and ugly, and then leaned forward like he had something clever to say. “She doesn’t seem like she needs protecting, but if she does, hell, I’d volunteer.”

Jake’s fist hit the guy’s face before the sentence even finished.

The bar exploded into shouts.

You immediately stepped between them, pressing both hands flat against Jake’s chest, holding him back. “It’s not worth it,” you said quickly, voice low but firm, eyes flicking between Jake’s clenched jaw and the stunned man stumbling back. “Let’s just go back. Come on.”

Jake’s chest heaved beneath your palms, his eyes burning holes through the guy’s face, but he didn’t move, not forward, anyway.

Behind him, Rooster and Coyote were already out of their seats, Payback cracking his knuckles like it was a warm-up round. Phoenix stood halfway up on the booth, eyes sharp, while Bob muttered something that sounded like “oh boy, here we go.”

Then the man made his second mistake.

He sneered at you, lip split, ego bruised, and muttered, “Typical pilot bitch. Probably thinks flying makes her fucking special.”

The silence was instant.

Even the music felt quieter.

Then you turned.

And decked him.

Your fist cracked against his jaw so hard his knees buckled. He dropped to the floor like a sack of disgrace, and you surged forward, ready to land another, but Jake caught you around the waist, arms locking across your stomach, pulling you back just in time.

“Let me go!” you shouted, trying to twist free, face flushed with fury. “I’m not done!”

“You’re done,” Jake muttered, half-laughing, half-panicked, holding you tight as you kicked back lightly against his shin.

“Coward ass, limp-dicked, mansplaining fossil of a—”

“Crash,” Jake warned, barely restraining the smile breaking across his face.

The bar was chaos now; cheering, clapping, voices rising. Rooster and Coyote were already dragging the guy toward the door like bouncers, Payback holding it open while Penny stood behind the bar with a dishtowel and one raised brow. “Toss him,” she said flatly.

And they did.

Jake hadn’t said a word as he guided you out the back of the Hard Deck, his hand still warm against the small of your back. The door swung shut behind you, muffling the lingering chaos inside, cheers, music, Phoenix probably trying to convince Penny not to ban the squad for the hundredth time. Out here, it was quieter. The breeze off the water was sharp and salty, cooling your skin where it burned from the fight.

He led you past the deck, past the strung-up lights and weather-worn picnic tables, toward a row of old wooden lounge chairs facing the beach. They were half-sunk in sand, tilted like drunk old men, but the moment Jake eased you toward one, you jerked away from his touch.

You rounded on him, voice still tight with leftover fire. “Why’d you hold me back?”

Jake blinked, clearly not expecting the bite in your voice. “Because you were about to break his jaw,” he said, as if it was obvious.

“So?”

He exhaled, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a slow step back like giving you space might defuse you. “So, you already won. The guy was on the ground.”

You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing. The moonlight made your features sharp, feral, still coiled like a spring. “Yeah, and I wanted to finish it. You didn’t have to touch me.”

Jake ran a hand through his hair, his own frustration peeking out beneath the surface. “Jesus, Crash. You think I did that to what, control you? Embarrass you?” He scoffed and shook his head. “I was trying to get you out of a bar fight before you lost your commission. You punched him once. That was enough.”

Your jaw clenched, lips parting like you were ready to snap back, but the words got tangled in your throat. The worst part was that you knew he was right. The second worst part? He hadn’t been rough about it. He hadn’t dragged you out. He’d been gentle. Almost… careful, and for some reason, that made you angrier than anything.

You looked away, fists still tight at your sides. “I didn’t need saving.”

Jake’s voice dropped, low and soft. “Didn’t say you did.”

He sat down slowly in one of the lounge chairs, elbows on his knees, watching you with that same unreadable expression he wore in the cockpit. Somewhere between studying you and preparing to be burned by you.

Then he added, almost like a confession, “You scare the shit out of me sometimes.”

Jake laughed, but it wasn’t amused, it was bitter, tired, raw. “You think this is about wanting you?” he said, voice cutting through the night air like a blade. “You think that’s the whole story?”

You squared your shoulders, already bracing for whatever self-righteous bull was about to come out of his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I bruise your ego? Again?”

Jake’s eyes flashed. “No, what bruised my ego was busting my ass for two years at the Academy just to have you breathing down my neck like a damn shadow every step of the way. You wanted it more than anyone. More than me. I won, Crash. And you still made it feel like I lost.”

You stepped closer, chest tight, voice sharp. “Yeah, you won. Top of the class. Best scores. Best pilot. Everyone sang your damn praises like you were the second coming of Maverick. And I? I was second. Always second.”

Jake flinched, just slightly, but you saw it.

“I was second to you in every damn brief, in every damn report card. And you want to know what that did to me?” you continued, your voice rising with every word. “It made me better. It made me sharper. It made me come back swinging every time just so I could finally say that I beat Jake fucking Seresin.”

Jake's expression tightened. “So that’s what all this is? This whole time? You’ve been trying to settle a score?”

“You’re damn right I have,” you said, breath shaking now, “because no one talks about who came in second. No one remembers her name. And I knew, I knew, if I couldn’t be the golden boy, I was going to be the storm that beat him.”

The silence between you stretched, thick and electric.

Jake ran his tongue across his teeth, pacing a few steps before whipping around again. “You think I had it easy? That it was all just handed to me? You think I liked being put on a pedestal I didn’t ask for, being the one everyone expected to fly perfect every damn time or else I was a failure?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the crack in his voice. He wasn’t yelling anymore. He was breaking.

“They never gave me space to mess up,” he continued, quieter now, but more dangerous. “They just expected me to win. And when you came in second, you had something to chase. I didn’t. I had something to lose. Every second. And then you showed up again at North Island, all sharp edges and scars, and suddenly I wasn’t the best anymore. Suddenly you were beating me. Outflying me. Outthinking me.”

He stopped, looked at you.

“You think I hate you for it,” he said. “But I don’t.”

You swallowed hard. “Then what, Seresin? What the hell do you feel?”

Jake stepped closer, breathing hard, eyes burning.

“I feel like you’re the only person who ever made me doubt myself,” he whispered. “And I hate that I fucking need you because of it.”

You shook your head, scoffing as your arms dropped from your chest, hands balling into fists at your sides. “You think I wanted to make you doubt yourself? That was never the point, Seresin. You were already standing on the podium. I just wanted to prove I deserved to be there too.”

Jake looked at you like he didn’t recognize you. “You think I didn’t know that?”

“You didn’t act like it,” you snapped. “You never once looked back. Not when they gave you that medal. Not when they handed you command over a squad you didn’t even respect. You didn’t look back at the person who came in second, who gave you a run for your goddamn money every time.”

“I couldn’t look back,” Jake said, voice low and shaking. “Because if I did, I knew you’d catch me.”

You blinked.

And then he continued, stepping closer like every word was pulled from a place he’d buried deep. “I saw you every damn day after graduation, when you got posted to Fallon, when your name popped up on the ranking boards. Every time I turned around, you were climbing higher. You were everywhere. And I couldn’t breathe, because I knew the minute you got the same chance as me, you’d be better.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because hearing it from him, from the golden boy who never broke, felt like the world cracking open.

Jake let out a breath, almost a laugh, except it sounded like it hurt. “I hated you for it. And I hated myself for hating you, because no matter how hard I tried to outrun you, you kept showing up. Stronger. Sharper. Smarter.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper now. “So you tried to ignore me?”

Jake nodded slowly. “Yeah, because if I acknowledged you, I had to admit you were everything I wasn’t.”

That made your chest tighten, your mouth part slightly with something soft and unspoken, but the fire hadn’t burned out yet, it was just turning blue-hot, simmering low and dangerous.

“So what now?” you asked, tone still laced with heat, but not just the angry kind. “You wanna tell me I’m good enough and shake hands and call it even?”

Jake's eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and there was something dark and hollow in his voice when he said, “I don’t want even with you. I want everything.”

The words knocked the air right out of your lungs.

And still, you stood your ground.

Because for all the fury, all the tension, all the years of circling each other like predators in the same sky, this was the moment that stripped it all bare.

And you had no idea what would happen next.

“You think you’re the only one who sacrificed something?” you yelled, chest rising and falling so fast it felt like your ribs might crack. “I gave up everything to be here! My family, my fucking sanity, years of grinding just to prove that I could be better than the boy they called untouchable!”

Jake was shaking now, fists clenched at his sides, face red with anger and something deeper, something that had been boiling under the surface for years. “And I never asked you to! I didn’t make you chase me!”

“No, you didn’t!” you shouted, voice almost hoarse now. “But you sure as hell enjoyed knowing I was always behind you!”

That did it.

Jake surged forward, hands gripping your face so fast, so rough, it made you stumble back a step—and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic. It was a collision. A spark catching flame after years of dry kindling. His mouth crashed against yours like he was drowning in it, like kissing you was a punishment and a reward at the same time.

Meanwhile, your hands curled into the front of his flight jacket, dragging him closer, not because you wanted to be held but because you wanted him to feel everything he’d made you carry.

Then, he bit your lip.

And you gasped against him, nails digging into his shoulders as his hands slid from your jaw to your waist, gripping like he’d been starved for this exact contact. There was no space left, only the taste of anger and adrenaline and longing on his tongue.

And still, neither of you pulled away.

Not even for air.

His mouth was frantic against yours, all heat and teeth and helpless, frustrated longing. There was no finesse, no clever lines or slow lead-up. Just years of tension detonating between your lips. He kissed you like he hated himself for it. Like he couldn’t stop. Like the taste of you might ruin him, but he wanted it anyway.

You couldn’t breathe, because you didn’t want to.

Because the way his hands moved, sliding up your spine, gripping the back of your neck, then curling into your hair, it felt like a man trying to memorize you. Meanwhile, your fingers fumbled at his collar, bunching the fabric of his jacket like it was the only thing anchoring you. Your teeth clashed, lips bruised, but you didn’t let go. Neither of you did. Then, his tongue slid past your lips and you groaned into him; soft and guttural, like something sacred just cracked wide open.

Jake pulled back just barely, panting, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were wild, his jaw tight, voice gravel when he finally spoke.

“I hate how bad I want you.”

Then he kissed you again, harder this time, like the words had cost him too much, and only your mouth could take the sting away. Your body curved into his as you answered with your whole damn soul, kissing him like revenge, like release, like all the nights you’d laid awake thinking about this moment and hating yourself for it.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

Because the more you kissed, the hungrier it got. The more his hands explored your waist, your ribs, the way your flight suit clung to your body like a second skin, the more he knew he’d never be able to look at you again without remembering the taste of your mouth and the fire of your fury.

And he didn’t care.

He kissed you like a man gone mad.

And you let him.

Jake kissed you like he’d been holding back for years, because he had. Every sparring match, every smirk, every insult thrown across briefing rooms and bar tables, they’d all been smoke screens for this. And now that the dam had broken, he wasn’t stopping. Couldn’t.

Your back hit the nearest lounge chair, and he followed, crowding you against the weathered wood like the night itself was bending around the two of you. His hands slid down your waist, then up again, palms splayed like he was trying to cover every inch of you at once. You then curled your fingers into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan into your mouth, a low, feral sound that made your knees weak.

He kissed you like your lips held answers he didn’t know he was asking. Then he pulled back just long enough to breathe, his forehead against yours, his voice rough and breathless.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed him by the front of his jacket and dragged him back in, crashing your mouth against his again; faster this time, deeper. His tongue found yours, hot and messy and perfect. The kiss turned hungry, frantic, like you were both starving and the other was the only thing left to devour.

Jake’s hands slipped under your flight suit, fingertips skating across bare skin, and it hit you like a gut punch, how long you’d wanted this. How long you’d hated wanting it.

But right now? You didn’t care.

Because his mouth was on your jaw, then your neck, then back to your lips like he couldn’t stand being away for more than a second. Then he breathed your name between kisses like a prayer and a curse, and your nails raked down his back through his shirt, trying to get closer, closer, still not close enough.

And God, when he bit your lower lip and tugged, just enough to make you gasp? You almost lost it.

Your breath came in short, sharp pants, ragged and desperate. Your lips were red and kiss-swollen, smeared with the taste of him, your fingers still tangled in the collar of his damn flight jacket like you could anchor yourself there.

Jake’s hands were everywhere, your hips, your lower back, gripping you like he didn’t know where to touch first, couldn’t choose, so he chose all. His thumb dragged slow, filthy circles against the side of your neck, reverent in the most unholy way.

But you tilted your head back and let out a laugh, breathless and soaked in want, more of a whimper than a joke.

“Let’s not fuck on a beach chair like drunk teenagers,” you rasped against his mouth, voice wrecked and ruined.

Jake just looked at you, eyes wild, pupils blown wide. His mouth was parted like he wanted to bite down on the words you just said and swallow them whole. He blinked once, slow, like processing language took too much effort while his cock was already rock-hard and straining against the front of his jeans.

Then he exhaled, a groan caught halfway between frustration and reverence. He pulled back just enough to glare at you like you’d just suggested celibacy.

“My car,” he growled, voice hoarse and lethal. “Now.”

You didn’t even pretend to argue.

Minutes later, you were in the passenger seat of his truck, door slamming behind you. The inside was hot, day-warmed leather and sun-stale air, but it didn’t matter. Jake didn’t even touch the key. He turned, jaw tight, eyes burning like he could already see you bent over the console. He stared at you like a man seconds from snapping.

You stared right back. And then? You pounced.

Your knees straddled his lap before he could even speak, thighs spreading like a prayer turned sacrilegious. Your mouth crushed into his, all teeth and spit and hunger. The kiss was messy, obscene, more tongue than technique, more need than patience. Jake groaned deep in his chest as you rocked against the bulge in his jeans, hard and hot and already leaking.

His hands shot down to grip your ass, squeezing like he could mark his name there. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered, voice broken. “You gonna ride me right here?”

“Unless you want me dripping down your thigh instead,” you hissed, and he swore, low and guttural, fingers fumbling to shove your panties to the side.

The truck shook with the force of your bodies, seat springs creaking, windows fogging like sin was sweating from your skin. His hand slid between your legs, cursing again when he felt how wet you were. “Shit,” he groaned, pressing two fingers inside without warning. “So fucking ready for me.”

You moaned against his neck, hips rolling down on his hand like your body knew him, like it had been waiting on this exact moment forever. “Jake,” you breathed, and his name on your lips damn near undid him.

He dragged his soaked fingers back out and smeared them along your inner thigh, grinning like a bastard. “You’re fuckin’ dripping, baby,” he murmured, eyes dropping to watch it. “Gonna make a mess all over me, huh?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Let’s get out of here first, yeah?”

You nodded, nails digging into his shoulders, and he kissed you again, harder, dirtier, tongue deep in your mouth like he wanted to taste every filthy thought in your head.

And still, still, it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

He started the engine with a jerk, jaw tight, knuckles pale from how hard he gripped the wheel. You shifted in your seat beside him, thighs still spread from straddling him moments ago, breathing like you’d just finished a damn marathon. The heat between you? Still alive. Still feral.

Jake didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. His voice would’ve cracked or cursed or begged. Instead, he yanked the gear into reverse with a force that nearly made the whole truck shudder.

You sat there, smug and aching, dress bunched up too high on your thighs, no underwear in sight because he had shoved them into your jacket pocket like a trophy. His scent was on your neck. Your slick was probably still drying on his jeans.

The silence was thick, dangerous. Carnal.

Jake’s jaw was clenched so hard it could’ve cracked stone. His right hand gripped the gearshift, but you felt the twitch in his fingers. Like he was seconds away from pulling over and fucking you in the backseat instead.

You shifted again, slow and shameless, and let out a little sigh. Just to test him.

His head snapped toward you for a second, eyes dark, wild, starving, then back to the road.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “You trying to get me arrested?”

You smirked, dragging one hand slowly down your own thigh, deliberately, until it brushed over your knee. “I dunno,” you murmured. “You’re the one with the loaded weapon.”

He choked. Literally choked on a breath. “If I crash this damn truck, it’s on you.”

You leaned closer, voice all syrup and sin, whispering, “I’m soaked, Jake.”

His groan was primal, a sound pulled straight from the chest of a man two seconds from wrecking. “Keep. Talking. And I will pull the fuck over.”

“Then pull over.”

The growl that ripped from his throat was almost a laugh, dark and wrecked and barely human. His hand shot across the console, gripping your thigh, fingers digging into the skin hard enough to leave bruises. “You are not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” you purred.

The rest of the drive was a war. His hand stayed tight on your leg, dragging higher every few seconds, testing just how much self-control he had left. Your skin buzzed beneath his touch, your whole body humming with anticipation. Every red light was a goddamn curse. Every green one, a lifeline.

By the time he pulled into his driveway, neither of you had spoken in minutes, but the air was so heavy it could’ve been sliced with a blade. Jake slammed the gear into park, killed the engine, and turned to you.

No words. Just fire in his eyes.

And you? You looked right back at him. Still smug. Still aching. And so very ready.

The front door slammed behind you with a sound that echoed off the walls, low and final, like the starter pistol to something primal. Jake didn’t bother with the lights. There was no need, he knew this house in the dark, and he was already walking you backward down the hallway, one hand splayed across your lower back and the other gripping your jaw like he could keep you right there, right where he needed you.

Your breath hitched when your spine hit the cool wall, and he was already on you, mouth hot and unrelenting, tongue sliding past your lips like he owned every gasp he stole from you.

Meanwhile, your hands yanked his shirt up, impatient and clumsy, fingers skating over hard muscle and warm skin. He groaned against your mouth when your nails scratched lightly down his abs, but he didn’t stop kissing you.

If anything, he got rougher, teeth scraping your lower lip, then sucking it between his like he wanted to leave a mark. You kicked your shoes off blindly, one hand fumbling behind you for anything to hold onto as his thigh slotted between yours and pressed up, hard. Your hips rolled instinctively, a whimper escaping you before you could catch it.

Then Jake pulled back, just enough to look at you, his eyes glittering in the low light like something dangerous. His voice was low and hoarse, barely more than a breath. “Bedroom. Now.”

You didn’t hesitate. He let you lead the way, but only for a moment, his hands stayed on your hips, guiding you down the hallway like a man possessed.

By the time you stepped over the threshold of his room, he was already peeling your dress over your head and tossing it somewhere behind you. It hit the floor with a soft whisper, but the sound was drowned out by the rustle of clothing and the hiss of breath through clenched teeth.

Jake didn’t stop moving as he undressed you, didn’t slow down even when his fingers found bare skin and heat and soaked thighs. He cursed, soft and reverent, under his breath, then leaned in to kiss the hollow of your throat. “Fuck, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin with each syllable. “You’re dripping for me.”

You were. You knew you were. And still, you didn’t care. You just wanted him, on you, in you, wrecking you. His touch was rough now, greedy. He walked you backward again until the backs of your knees hit the mattress, and then you were falling, legs spread, chest heaving, completely bare under the sharp, hungry gaze of a man who looked like he was deciding whether to kneel or devour.

Jake dropped to his knees like it wasn’t even a question.

Then, with one hand on your thigh and the other spreading you wider, he leaned in and tasted you.

His mouth was hot and slick and obscene, dragging through your folds with a slow, deliberate hunger that made your hips jerk against the sheets. Jake groaned into you like your taste was the only thing he’d been craving for days, maybe years.

His tongue was relentless, flat and wide one second, then sharp and focused the next, circling your clit like he was memorizing the exact pattern that made you tremble. Meanwhile, his fingers bruised into your thighs, holding you open, holding you still, because you were already writhing, already on edge from the buildup that started the second he growled “my car.”

You gasped, back arching as he sucked harder, and that only earned you another moan from him, deep and guttural, vibrating straight through your core. The sound sent shivers down your spine and made your thighs try to clamp shut, but his grip was unrelenting.

Jake didn’t just want you to take it, he wanted to wreck you with it. He wanted your legs trembling, your breath caught in your throat, your voice reduced to nothing but curses and moans tangled in his name.

Then he slid two fingers inside you, slow and thick, curling them just right, and your cry was sharp enough to echo. Your hands flew to his hair, tugging, anchoring, not because you wanted him to stop, but because it was too good. It was too much.

He was fucking you with his fingers and devouring you with his mouth like the world was ending and this was the only way he wanted to go out.

“Jake, shit, Jake, I—” You couldn’t even finish the thought. Every time your voice rose, he doubled down, faster, deeper, filthier. His mouth was soaked, your slick coating his chin, and he didn’t care. He groaned into it, tongue flattening again as your thighs began to shake. You were so close you could taste it, breath catching, legs threatening to give out.

“Come on,” he growled, voice low and wrecked against your cunt. “Come for me. Right fucking now.”

And you did.

It hit you like a wave breaking loose, your entire body arching, gasping, clenching down on his fingers while your orgasm tore through you with vicious force. Your thighs shook. Your hands tightened in his hair. Your voice broke apart on his name as he kept licking you through it, slowing only when your legs finally gave out, twitching against the bed like you’d been electrocuted from the inside out.

But he didn’t stop. Not really.

Even as your body trembled, even as your breath stuttered in your chest, Jake was already rising, standing between your knees, dragging his shirt off over his head. His chest heaved. His mouth glistened with you. His eyes? Still feral.

And then he reached for his belt.

He yanked his belt free with a sharp snap, the leather whispering through denim loops like a warning. Then, without a word, he unbuttoned his jeans, the fabric straining around his thighs as he shoved them down just enough to free his cock, thick, flushed, already leaking.

He stroked himself once, slowly, eyes locked on your bare, trembling form sprawled across his sheets, your chest still rising and falling in the aftermath of his mouth. He looked like he wanted to savor you, stretch this moment out, but restraint was slipping from his fingers fast, unraveling with every second you laid there, slick and spread and waiting.

Meanwhile, you reached for him, your touch greedy as your hand wrapped around his wrist and tried to pull him closer. He let you, but barely, he resisted just long enough to press the head of his cock against your entrance, sliding it through your folds, dragging it slow, wet, and taunting. The sound alone was sinful, sticky and obscene, your slick coating him so thoroughly it made him shudder.

Then he pushed in, just the tip at first, then more, inch by devastating inch, and you both moaned at the same time, the kind of sound that was deep and guttural and torn straight from the soul.

Your walls stretched around him, velvet heat pulling him in, and Jake cursed under his breath as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, staying there for just a second, breathing heavy, hands on either side of your ribs, trembling with the effort it took not to lose it right there.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You feel, Jesus, baby, you feel like you were made for me.”

You couldn’t answer. You could barely breathe. You just nodded, wide-eyed, hands clinging to his shoulders as he started to move, slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust dragging against the most sensitive parts of you with precision. Meanwhile, your moans turned needy, breath hitching with every grind of his hips, every wet slap of skin against skin.

Then he sped up, and the rhythm shifted, less careful, more feral. He fucked into you with a purpose, hips snapping forward like he was chasing something with every thrust, dragging moans and curses out of you until all you could do was hold on.

One hand gripped the headboard above you for leverage while the other tangled in his hair, desperate for something to anchor yourself as your body rocked under the weight of his. Jake leaned down to press his mouth to your throat, biting just hard enough to make you cry out before soothing it with his tongue, hips still slamming into you with relentless force.

The bed creaked beneath you, headboard knocking against the wall in time with each thrust. Your skin was slick with sweat, your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to keep him deep, to keep him there.

And Jake? He looked completely wrecked, hair wild, muscles tight, sweat dripping from his brow as he kept chasing that high, as he fucked you like he wanted to leave an imprint on your soul.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

Jake’s rhythm started to falter, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer effort it took to hold back. His thrusts grew sharper, deeper, hips snapping forward with that brutal precision that made your breath catch every time he bottomed out.

Meanwhile, his eyes were locked on where your bodies met, watching his cock disappear into you again and again, coated in your slick and glistening in the low light like the filthiest fucking dream. His mouth dropped open with a growl that vibrated in his chest.

“God, you take it so well,” he hissed, voice low and wrecked. “Fucking perfect, so fucking tight for me.”

Then he leaned in, face flushed and hair damp with sweat, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow even filthier. “You ever think about what you’d look like,” he murmured, thrusting deep enough to make you cry out, “round and dripping, full of me?”

Your moan was instant, raw, involuntary.

Jake grinned, sharp and unholy. “Yeah,” he groaned, snapping his hips hard, making you jolt up the bed. “Bet you’d look so fucking good carrying me. All swollen, leaking for days, fuck, baby, I could make you mine. Over and over, till your pretty little body can’t hold any more.”

He was feral now, hips punishing, one hand reaching to grip your thigh and push it higher against your chest, folding you in half so he could get deeper. His cock dragged against your walls just right, brutal and perfect, making stars dance behind your eyes. You were gasping now, clutching at the sheets, fingers white-knuckled from how hard you were hanging on.

Meanwhile, Jake was falling apart right above you. “You want that, don’t you?” he growled, voice slurring with lust. “Wanna feel me come inside, wanna know I fucked you so deep, so good, you’ll still be dripping when you wake up.”

You couldn’t even form words. You just nodded, moaned, whimpered, anything to tell him yes, please, more.

Then his hand slid down to your lower stomach, pressing down lightly while he thrust, making you feel everything. “Feel that?” he whispered, completely wrecked now. “That’s me. All of me. Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up so good, baby. Gonna come so fucking deep you’ll feel it in your throat.”

The way he said it, like a promise, like a prayer, was enough to send another wave of heat crashing through you. Your second orgasm slammed into you with no warning, tearing a cry from your throat as your walls clamped around him, squeezing, milking, begging.

Jake snapped.

He cursed viciously, hips stuttering, and then he buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep as his cock pulsed, spilling into you with a low, guttural moan that sounded more like a man losing his religion. He stayed there, locked tight against you, hand still pressing your belly, like he wanted to feel his cum take root.

Even as you trembled beneath him, aftershocks rippling through every inch of you, Jake didn’t move. He just kissed your throat, your collarbone, your lips, slower now, reverent, but still with that edge of obsession burning in his touch.

And then? He pulled back just enough to look down between your thighs… and smiled.

The air was thick with sweat and sex, the room dim and humming with the afterglow of what you just did, but your pulse hadn’t slowed. Neither had your hunger. Jake lay flat on the bed, chest still rising and falling hard, face flushed and jaw slack, utterly wrecked from the way he’d come inside you. He looked dazed, blissfully fucked-out and completely unaware that you were far from satisfied.

You shifted beside him, still trembling a little, but a new kind of heat lit beneath your skin. Then, without a word, you swung your leg over his hips and settled yourself on top of him, thighs spread wide, still sticky from his cum. He blinked up at you, confused at first, but then your fingers wrapped around his cock again, slick and still rock-hard despite the fact he’d just finished inside you minutes ago.

He groaned, long and broken. “Fuck, babe, give me a second—”

But you didn’t give him anything. Not mercy. Not pause. Not relief. You just smiled slow, fingers stroking him deliberately from base to tip, your palm gentle at first, then tighter, then featherlight just to make him twitch. Meanwhile, your hips ground down against his stomach, heat rubbing into skin, body still greedy and dripping.

Jake’s hands flew to your thighs like he could steady himself, but his eyes were already wild. “Shit,” he muttered, head pressing back into the pillow. “Too much. Too, uh, fuck, I’m still—”

“I know,” you whispered, tilting your head, voice syrup-sweet and soaked in sin. “You said you could handle me. So… handle it.”

Then your thumb dragged over his tip, spreading his own slick around the head, and he jerked, muscles twitching like he’d been shocked. His breath hitched, chest stuttering, hands tightening on your legs.

“You’re killing me,” he gasped.

“Good,” you purred, eyes locked on his. “Then maybe you’ll learn not to think you can fuck me once and call it a night.”

You leaned forward, hand still working him slow, torturous, squeezing just enough to make him twitch and throb under your palm. He was sensitive, overstimulated, every nerve on fire, and you knew it. You thrived on it.

Jake was panting now, voice strained and begging. “Please, baby, I swear, fuck, stop teasing. Let me, let me come inside you again, please—”

But instead, you dragged your soaked core along the length of his cock without letting him in, slick smearing over him like temptation incarnate. You rocked your hips once, twice, just enough to let the head catch at your entrance, and his hands flew up like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you down or beg harder.

Then, with a smirk and no warning, you sank down onto him in one slow, devastating push.

His entire body arched. A sound ripped from his throat, something between a moan and a curse, utterly helpless.

“Fuck, fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last—”

“I don’t care,” you whispered, riding him slow and deep, your hands braced against his chest. “You’re mine tonight. I’ll take what I want.”

And you did.

You rocked your hips slow at first, taunting, grinding down until his cock was seated deep, then rolling your pelvis just enough to make him twitch beneath you. His hands flew to your thighs again, gripping hard like he was trying to ground himself, but you slapped them away, breathless and wicked.

“Uh-uh,” you murmured, grinding down harder this time, your cunt clenching around him so tightly it made him gasp. “You don’t get to hold on. You just get to take it.”

Jake looked up at you, eyes wild and pleading, sweat dripping down his temples. His mouth fell open like he wanted to argue, but no words came, just a broken moan as you lifted your hips and sank back down, slow and deliberate, making sure he felt every inch. He was already throbbing, overstimulated, your walls squeezing him like a velvet vice, and the way he whimpered under you only made you ride him harder.

Then you started to pick up the pace.

Each bounce made the bed creak under you, your thighs slapping against his as you moved faster, harder, chasing the edge with no mercy. Your tits bounced with every thrust, sweat rolling down your spine, and Jake was completely wrecked.

His head was tipped back, mouth open, eyes fluttering, and his cock pulsed inside you like it was trying to come again already, hot and aching and too much.

“Fuck, fuck, I can’t, I’m gonna—” he babbled, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other hovering like he didn’t know if he should grab you or pray.

You leaned down then, your lips brushing his ear, voice thick and filthy and pure control. “You’ll do nothing unless I tell you to,” you whispered. “You hear me? You don’t get to come. Not yet.”

Jake whimpered. He actually whimpered, and the sound shot straight through your core like lightning. You rode him faster now, chasing your own high, slamming down on him with every bounce, making his cock hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back. You clenched hard around him just to feel him twitch again, and he cursed, loud and raw, like it physically hurt to not come.

“Baby, please,” he begged, voice broken. “Please, I can’t—let me, fuck, let me come—”

But you didn’t slow down. You slammed down harder, faster, feeling him stretch you wide and full, every thrust making your thighs quake and your breath stutter. You were close, so close, and you wanted to drag him there with you. Not gently. Not sweetly. Ruthlessly.

You ground your hips in tight, punishing circles, your nails dragging down his chest, leaving red lines in their wake. “Beg for it,” you said, panting, your voice high and wrecked with pleasure. “Beg me to let you fill me again.”

Jake nodded, desperate, his voice nothing but air and agony. “Please, fuck, please, I need to, I wanna come inside you again, wanna fill you up, make you messy, baby, please, please, I’ll give you all of it, I swear—”

And with a final, devastating grind of your hips, you pushed yourself over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you so hard it ripped a scream from your throat. Your walls clamped down around him like a vice, fluttering, pulsing, and Jake snapped.

He surged up, hips lifting off the bed to meet yours one last time, burying himself deep as he came with a loud, hoarse cry, cock twitching violently as he spilled inside you again, even more this time, thick and hot, filling you until it dripped down your thighs.

You collapsed on top of him, bodies slick and trembling, his cock still twitching inside you as your breath mingled in the heavy air.

But neither of you moved. Not yet. You barely had time to breathe.

Jake’s cock was still inside you, still thick and hot, twitching with the aftershocks of his second orgasm, but he didn’t soften. Not even close. Instead, he gripped your hips in both hands and flipped you effortlessly, your back slamming into the mattress with a gasp before you could react.

The sudden shift knocked the air from your lungs, and before you could speak, he was already on top of you again, eyes dark, jaw clenched, sweat glistening across his chest like sin itself.

“Round three,” he growled, voice low and savage, dragging his cock out just enough to make your cunt clench. “You think I’m done with you?”

You barely had time to answer before he shoved back in, one hard, brutal thrust that made you wail.

“Do you have any fucking idea,” he hissed, pulling out again, slow and deliberate, “how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about this pussy?”

He slammed into you again, harder, deeper, making the whole bed rattle beneath you. You clawed at the sheets, head thrown back, thighs trembling from the sheer intensity of it.

Jake didn’t stop. “Every goddamn night,” he gritted out, thrusting in time with every filthy confession. “In the shower. In my room. On base. Anywhere I could get my hand around my cock and picture you moaning like this.”

Then his hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, just enough to keep your eyes locked on his. His hips snapped against yours, brutal and fast, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room.

You were already sore, already overstimulated, and yet you wanted more. You wanted it rougher. And Jake? Jake was giving it to you like he had a grudge against your body and worshipped it all at once.

“You made me wait,” he growled, fucking into you harder, deeper, your legs pushed back until your knees nearly touched your chest. “Made me suffer. Made me fucking ache for this.”

You tried to respond, tried to tell him yes, to beg for more, to say you were sorry, but all that came out was a strangled moan as he slammed into you again, making your voice catch and your vision blur. Your nails dug into his biceps, clinging to him like you were drowning in the heat and weight of him.

Meanwhile, he wasn’t letting up.

His pace stayed relentless, cruel even, the kind of rhythm that bordered on punishment. His cock pounded into you like it belonged there, like it had always belonged there, and his words spilled out in low, breathless curses between every thrust.

“You think riding me was enough?” he rasped, leaning down to kiss your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “You think I was just gonna let you get on top, get your pretty little orgasm, and walk away?”

He thrust harder, deeper, and your entire body jolted, the bed slamming into the wall.

“No,” he growled. “Now it’s my turn. And I’m not stopping until I’ve filled you again. Until you’re ruined.”

And God, you were. You could feel the mess between your thighs, the raw ache of your pussy from being used and stretched and filled again and again, and still, it wasn’t enough. Still, you wanted more. And Jake? He wasn’t even close to finished.

Jake pulled out suddenly, and you whimpered from the loss, from the aching emptiness he left behind, but he didn’t give you a second to mourn it. Instead, he grabbed your hips, flipping you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing, and hauled your ass up into the air.

Your knees barely hit the mattress before he had you positioned how he wanted, spine arched, face pressed into the sheets, and cunt on full display, flushed and dripping with the mess of everything he’d already given you.

“Stay just like that,” he growled, voice so low and rough it scraped through your spine like a knife. “Fucking perfect.”

Then he shoved back in, one hard, vicious thrust that made you scream into the pillow. He didn’t ease in. Didn’t rebuild the rhythm. He just fucked you, raw, hard, and punishing. His hips slammed into your ass over and over, the sound obscene, echoing off the walls with every brutal snap.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets, mouth open in a silent gasp, tears pricking your eyes as the pace pushed past pain and straight into ecstasy.

Meanwhile, Jake was groaning behind you, loud and ragged, hands gripping your hips like handles. “You hear that?” he growled, slamming into you harder. “That’s how fucking wet you are. You did this. You made me like this.”

He reached forward and grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back just enough to hear the broken sob that slipped out of you. “God, I’ve waited so long to ruin this pussy,” he spat, driving into you deeper, harder, until the mattress shook and your legs started to give out. “All those nights with my fist wrapped around my cock, thinking about bending you over like this, fucking you so deep you can’t even stand after.”

Then his hand slipped between your thighs and found your clit, already swollen, already throbbing, and rubbed it in tight, merciless circles. The double stimulation made your back arch, a high, helpless moan ripped from your throat as your walls fluttered around him again, already spiraling into another orgasm.

Jake felt it. Saw it. And it only made him fuck you harder.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Come again. Milk my cock. I want to feel it, want to feel you break around me.”

And you did. Your climax hit you like a lightning strike, white-hot and blinding, your thighs shaking violently as your pussy clenched down on him, tight and relentless. You screamed into the sheets, body going slack beneath him as wave after wave ripped through you, each one more devastating than the last.

But Jake didn’t stop.

He kept going, chasing his own end like a man possessed, fucking you through your orgasm and into another, his moans turning into curses, then into praise. “So fucking good. So tight. You were made for this, fuck, baby, I’m gonna fill you up again. Gonna breed you so full it leaks out of you for days.”

His thrusts turned erratic, deep, savage, hungry, and then he buried himself one final time, cock throbbing as he came hard inside you, spilling deep with a loud, wrecked groan. His hips rocked through it, dragging it out, grinding into you as his cum filled you again, hot and endless, dripping down your thighs before he even pulled out.

You collapsed beneath him, completely destroyed, gasping and twitching, skin marked with sweat and teeth and everything in between.

Jake dropped forward over your back, breathing heavy, cock still twitching inside you, and murmured against your shoulder:

“…still not done.”

Jake didn’t give you a chance to recover.

Even as you collapsed into the mattress, your limbs boneless and your cunt aching from how hard he’d just fucked you, he stayed buried inside you, hard again before he’d even finished panting into your neck. You felt the twitch of his cock still lodged deep, felt the drip of his cum leaking down your thighs, and just as you sucked in a breath to beg for a pause, he growled low and dark right in your ear.

“Get back up.”

You whimpered, shaking your head, legs trembling beneath you, but he didn’t ask twice. He dragged you up by your hips, repositioning you like a ragdoll, ignoring your protests, your stuttering cries of Jake, I can’t, because he knew. He knew your body better than you did by now. Knew you’d take it. Crave it. Come again before you even realized you could.

Then he started to move.

This time, it was brutal from the start. No buildup. No mercy. Just pure, punishing rhythm, deep, raw thrusts that had your voice breaking open in cracked sobs. You were already overstimulated, your clit throbbing with every slap of his hips against your ass, your walls fluttering weakly around him as he shoved his cock deeper into you, harder.

“You think I’m done?” he snarled, grabbing a handful of your hair and yanking your head back again, your spine arching beautifully beneath him. “Nah, baby. I’ve barely fucking started.”

He slammed in again, hard enough to shove you forward on the bed, and your hands clawed uselessly at the sheets, legs struggling to hold your own weight, but Jake caught you, kept you upright, one arm wrapped under your stomach as he fucked you harder, faster, the wet slap of skin-on-skin growing downright filthy.

“Feel that?” he groaned, grinding deep, cock twitching. “That’s the third load dripping outta you. Gonna make it four. Gonna pump you so full, it’s all you can smell. All you can feel.”

You sobbed into the pillow, throat raw from moaning, and still, still, your body rocked back against him, desperate, greedy, utterly ruined. You didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t know your own name. All you knew was Jake. The way he filled you. The way he broke you.

Meanwhile, his hand reached down again, fingers working your clit with ruthless speed, rubbing tight, fast circles that made your entire body seize. “One more,” he muttered, voice barely a breath now. “Give me one more. Milk my cock again, baby. Show me you can.”

You didn’t even have time to answer.

Your orgasm tore through you like a goddamn explosion, loud, vicious, legs giving out as your pussy clamped down so hard around his cock, it made him curse. Your cry was sharp and raw, the kind of sound that came from deep inside your chest, and Jake rode it out like a man starved, fucking you through it, into it, until you felt yourself tipping into a haze that was almost too much.

He came again, loud, wrecked, fingers digging bruises into your hips as he spilled another hot, endless load inside your already used cunt. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t slow down. He pressed in, grinding, as if trying to force every last drop as deep inside you as he could.

Then he collapsed over your back, panting against your spine, chest heaving, body shaking from the sheer force of it.

And still, the only thing he could say, raw, reverent, filthy, was:

“…fuck.”

The room was quiet now, just the heavy rise and fall of breath and the soft hum of night air spilling through the open window. Your body was still trembling, skin slick with sweat and streaked with the rawness of everything he’d done to you, but the moment his arms wrapped around you from behind, the chaos softened.

Jake didn’t speak at first.

He just held you tight and sure, like you were something precious. His lips pressed into the curve of your shoulder, a kiss so gentle it almost made you cry. And then, when he finally moved again, it wasn’t with hunger or force. It was careful. Reverent. Like he knew he’d already ruined your body and now he wanted to worship it in the wreckage.

He rolled you onto your back, slow and easy, his hand smoothing over your thigh as he settled between them again. His cock was still hard, of course he was, this was Jake, but there was no rush in the way he reached for you. He cupped your cheek, thumb dragging along your bottom lip, and whispered:

“You okay?”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat, heart aching from how tender he sounded. And just like that, Jake leaned in and kissed you, really kissed you. No tongue. No teeth. Just slow, deep pressure. Lips brushing. Breaths mingling. Like he was pouring every filthy confession back into your mouth in the shape of love.

Then he entered you again, slowly this time.

Your breath caught. You were sore, still so swollen from everything that came before, but the stretch was familiar now. Comforting. Home. He sank in inch by inch, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other pressed against your lower stomach, grounding you, holding you open for him.

And when he was fully inside you, deep and still, his hips flush against yours, he rested his forehead against yours and just breathed.

“Fuck,” he whispered, almost like he was in awe. “You feel like heaven.”

Then he started to move.

It wasn’t rough now. It wasn’t fast. It was slow, aching, like he wanted to feel every pulse, every squeeze, every breathless whimper you gave him. He rocked into you gently, hips rolling with that practiced ease that spoke of pure control, his gaze locked on your face like watching you fall apart beneath him was his new religion.

Meanwhile, your arms wound around his shoulders, dragging him closer, your chest brushing his with every deep, dragging thrust. The sounds now were softer, the wet glide of his cock inside you, your breath catching, his low, broken moans melting into your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

And he meant it.

Every touch, every kiss, every deep, slow stroke of his cock inside your raw, used body, meant something. This wasn’t just fucking anymore. This was his heart, bared and messy and desperate to be felt. His lips pressed to your jaw, your eyelids, your throat. Like he couldn’t get enough of you. Like he wanted to kiss every part of you that had just taken him like that and now still, somehow, loved him enough to hold him this way.

He reached down between your bodies again, fingers ghosting over your clit, not fast, not rough, just soft circles, teasing and devoted. Your hips twitched, breath catching, and he whispered, “Give me one more, baby. Just one more. Let me feel you like that again.”

And you did.

You came slowly this time, quiet, shaking, moaning his name like a prayer, like you were unspooling thread by thread. Your walls fluttered around him, warm and wet and full, and Jake groaned as he followed you over that edge, coming deep again, but this time with a soft, aching moan, one hand curled into your hair as he buried his face in your neck and just breathed you in.

You held each other there, still joined, his cum leaking down your thighs, your heart thudding steady against his chest.

And in that silence, in the aftermath, Jake kissed your temple and whispered,

“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

Jake didn’t rush. Didn’t pull out right away. He just stayed there for a few more seconds, cock still nestled deep inside you, chest pressed against yours, his breath warm where it fanned against your collarbone. You could feel the aftermath, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body trembling with leftover pleasure, your heart beating so hard it hurt. You were used, ruined, absolutely undone.

And he kissed you like you were holy.

Then, finally, he pulled out slowly, so careful, so gentle, and sat back on his heels, just watching you for a second like he couldn’t believe you were real. His thumb brushed over your swollen bottom lip, and then he whispered, voice rough but soft, “Don’t move, baby. I got you.”

You heard the soft pad of his bare feet on the floor, the rustle of water running. A second later, the lights in the bathroom dimmed low, and the sound of the tub filling made your already-tired limbs melt deeper into the sheets. You could barely lift your head when he returned, one arm sliding beneath your back, the other under your thighs, and he carried you, completely naked, completely spent, into the bathroom like you were something fragile he’d accidentally broken and now wanted to piece back together.

The tub was already half full, steam curling in the air, and Jake had dropped a few drops of something into the water, lavender-scented, soft and floral, the kind of thing that told you he cared. Really, truly cared.

He stepped into the tub first, sitting down with a grunt, and then gently lowered you in with him, your back to his chest, his arms wrapping around you the second you hit the water. The heat enveloped your sore muscles, the ache between your thighs soothed by the softness of it, and you sank into him with a breath that sounded like the first real inhale you’d taken in hours.

Meanwhile, Jake’s hands never stopped moving.

One cradled your thigh under the water, thumb tracing lazy, slow circles over the bruises he’d left. The other brushed over your stomach, then up to your ribs, then back down again, just touching, just being.

You felt him shift, reaching for a soft cloth, and then he began to wash you, starting at your collarbone and working down. It wasn’t sexual. Not now. Not after what you’d just done. It was… intimate. Reverent.

“I made a mess of you,” he said against your shoulder, lips barely moving. “Gotta take care of my woman now.”

You hummed, eyes closed, breath hitching just slightly when the cloth brushed between your thighs. Jake slowed, soft as anything, cleaning you up with such care it almost made you cry. He kissed your shoulder again, then your jaw, then nuzzled into the side of your face with a low, satisfied sigh.

“God, I love you like this,” he whispered. “Soft. Safe. Mine.”

You turned your head just enough to kiss him. It was slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that doesn’t beg for more but just is, like a heartbeat. Like breathing.

And then the two of you sat there, soaking in the warmth, his cum floating between your legs, your bodies tangled and still, like nothing existed outside the walls of that steam-heavy room.

The bathwater had gone a little cooler, the lavender bubbles clinging to your skin in soft ribbons, and your back was still nestled to Jake’s chest, his arms loose around you, lips brushing every so often against your temple like he couldn’t help himself. The chaos of the night had finally calmed, but under the surface, there was still want. Not lust. Not hunger.

Need.

You’d tipped your head back, resting it on his shoulder, fingers lazily trailing over his thighs under the water when you murmured, “You remember that Taylor Swift song?”

He huffed a little against your cheek. “You’re gonna have to narrow that down.”

You smirked, voice low and barely a breath. “Dress. The part that goes: I’m spilling wine in the bathtub, you kiss my face and we’re both drunk.”

Jake froze, then let out the softest exhale, like something in his chest cracked. “God, yeah.” Then quieter: “That’s what this feels like.”

You turned, slow, just enough to see his face, wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead, eyes soft and ruined. You kissed him, and it tasted like salt and lavender and exhaustion. You were both drunk off it. Drunk off each other.

Jake shifted behind you, adjusting, and you felt the way his cock stirred beneath the water, half-hard, barely there, but responding to the heat of you, the softness of you leaning into him.

Your hand slid down without thinking, curling around him gently beneath the bubbles, and he groaned quietly into your mouth, his hand tightening just a little on your waist.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded, and instead of answering with words, you lifted yourself just enough to turn around and straddle him, knees pressing into the slick porcelain, water lapping over the edge. The shift made the whole tub creak beneath you, but you didn’t care.

Jake looked up at you like you were something out of a dream, his hands finding your hips again like they belonged there, fingers brushing over the bruises he’d left earlier with reverence now.

And when you sank down onto him, slow, so achingly slow, it wasn’t frantic or desperate. It was like melting. Like coming home.

His head dropped forward, forehead pressing to your chest, arms wrapping tight around your waist as you rolled your hips with gentle, fluid rhythm. The water sloshed with every movement, bubbles slipping down your back, and the whole thing felt suspended in time, like if you stopped breathing, the world would too.

Jake’s lips found your throat, then your collarbone, then the valley between your breasts, pressing kisses there like he needed them to live. And when he looked up at you again, eyes glassy, mouth parted, he whispered, “If I get burned, at least we were electrified.”

You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, your hands tangled in his wet hair. “We are,” you breathed. “We always have been.”

The rhythm stayed slow. Sweet. Every thrust was deep, gentle, intentional, your foreheads touching, lips brushing, his hands slipping down to cup your ass under the water as he rocked into you with that aching, all-consuming kind of tenderness. Like he didn’t just want to come inside you again. He wanted to leave a piece of his soul behind.

“Everyone thinks they know us,” he murmured, his voice cracked open now, his thrusts growing slower, more reverent.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “But they know nothing about us.”

Jake moaned quietly as your name slipped from his lips like a promise, and your hips stuttered as your orgasm built slowly, sweet, soft, warm like honey melting in your veins.

You clenched around him, your breathing shallow, and Jake was right there with you, coming with a low groan that vibrated against your chest, his cock pulsing inside you, thick and hot, lost in the warmth of the water and the mess of both of you.

You stayed like that; panting, connected, tangled up in each other, water cooling around your bodies and steam curling in the air like a sigh.

And when he finally spoke again, it was so quiet, you almost didn’t hear it.

“I’d drown in you a thousand times,” he said, kissing your shoulder. “Just to feel this.”

The water had gone quiet again, soft ripples fading around your bodies as you rested on his chest, your heartbeat finally slowing. Jake’s arms were still around you, one hand lazily gliding up and down your spine, and your cheek was pressed against the slope of his collarbone where it felt safe, sacred, even.

The air was heavy with lavender, and the only sound left was your breathing and the occasional creak of the tub when either of you shifted.

Jake hadn’t said much since the last kiss. Just held you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

But then, soft. Almost too soft to hear, he whispered, “Can I tell you something without you laughing?”

You tilted your head, brows furrowed gently. “Jake, I’d never laugh at you.”

He paused. Swallowed thickly. His throat bobbed against your temple. Then he exhaled a shaky breath, and everything about him shifted, no swagger, no cocky grin, just Jake. Raw. Honest. Terrified.

“I think I’m obsessed with you,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “Not in some unhealthy, possessive way. Not like that. Just, fuck, like I think about you all the time. You’re in my head even when you’re not trying to be. When I fly, when I sleep, when I’m laughing at something dumb on my phone, I’m wondering if you’d laugh too.”

You blinked. Your heart fluttered. And he didn’t stop.

“I’ve replayed every time you’ve touched me. Every sound you made. Every look you gave me. I think I’ve imagined kissing you in more places than I can count. Not just the sexy shit. I mean, like… the back of your hand. The corner of your smile. Your shoulder when you’re falling asleep.��

His hand was trembling slightly where it rested against your back, but his voice kept steadying the more he spoke. The more he gave.

“I wanna know every version of you. I want the quiet mornings and the late-night breakdowns. I want to kiss you when you’re angry and hold you when you’re too tired to talk. I want all of it.”

You could barely breathe.

And then he leaned his head back against the porcelain edge, looking up at the ceiling like the weight of what he was about to say might crush him.

“But none of that matters unless you want it, too,” he whispered. “So I’m asking. Just once. No games, no pressure. Will you let me? Let me love you? All the way? Because I swear, I won’t fuck it up. I won’t let you down.”

He turned back to you then, eyes glassy but so clear, like he was laying down every weapon, every mask, every part of him that pretended not to need.

“I’ll be whatever you need me to be,” he said. “Just… let me.”

And there it was.

Not just love. Not just lust. Not just obsession, but devotion. Willing, reverent, forever kind of love. The kind that sits quietly in the bathroom at 2AM, holding you in a bathtub that smells like lavender and memories you haven’t even made yet.

Your voice came soft, trembling, nearly swallowed by the gentle ripple of water around your bodies. “Yes.”

Jake froze.

You felt it in the way his chest stopped moving, in the way his hand clenched ever so slightly at your hip. Your head was still against his shoulder, cheek damp from bathwater and emotion, but when you tilted your face up and looked at him, really looked, his eyes were already glassy.

Not from lust. Not from tension, but from the sheer weight of being seen.

“Yes,” you whispered again, surer this time. “Love me, Jake. Please.”

His breath caught, like you’d just ripped the last bit of air from his lungs and replaced it with something sweeter. And then his hand came up to cup your jaw, slow, gentle, almost reverent, as he leaned down to kiss you.

Not rushed. Not rough. Just everything.

His lips moved over yours with unspoken promises, his thumbs brushing away the dampness on your cheeks, and you melted into him, soft and slow and safe. The water shifted around you, warm and quiet, wrapping you both in a kind of hush that felt sacred. Jake’s mouth broke from yours only to kiss your jaw, your cheekbone, the tip of your nose. Every touch was a vow.

Then, barely audible, he murmured against your skin: “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

You climbed into his lap again, this time not out of hunger or heat, but closeness. Wanting to be so near to him you didn’t know where your body ended and his began. You settled over him gently, your knees on either side of his waist, your arms looped around his neck like he was the only thing anchoring you.

When you sank onto him this time, it was slow. So slow. Like you needed to feel every inch of him stretch you, fill you, remind you that this? This was what love felt like. His cock pressed deep, and you both let out shaky, stunned breaths, like the fit of it was just as emotional as it was physical.

Jake buried his face into your neck, his lips parting on your skin as he whispered your name like a prayer. “So good,” he breathed. “So fucking good. You’re everything.”

You rocked against him in slow, lazy rolls of your hips, bodies slipping and gliding beneath the water, skin against skin. It was gentle, loving, like every thrust was a heartbeat. A reminder. He held you close, his hands traveling up and down your spine, over your ribs, his thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts in quiet reverence.

Meanwhile, your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as your lips found his jaw, his cheek, his temple. “I’m yours, Jake,” you whispered, lips grazing his skin with every word. “I always was.”

That made him shudder, a full-body reaction, like the weight of your words had sunk right through his bones. His hips bucked up a little harder, a little deeper, and his mouth found yours again. It wasn’t frantic. It was full, and his tongue gliding against yours like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted when you gave him your heart.

“I want this,” he murmured between kisses. “Every night. Every morning. I wanna wake up with you like this. I wanna hold you when you're tired. I wanna, fuck, I wanna make love to you until you're too full of me to ever forget it.”

You whimpered into his mouth, your body trembling with the slow, warm build of pleasure that came not from force, but from feeling. The way he touched you. The way he kissed you. The way he looked at you like you were the only real thing he’d ever known.

He was close. You both were, but neither of you rushed it.

Because this time? It wasn’t about release. It was about belonging.

Jake’s breathing hitched as you rocked against him, his hands splayed wide across your lower back, fingers sifting through the suds to hold you steady. He was so deep inside you, and yet he kept whispering like it still wasn’t close enough. “You feel like… everything,” he breathed. “Like I’ve been chasing this without even knowing.”

Your head dropped to his shoulder, the crook of his neck warm and slick beneath your lips. You pressed soft kisses there, one after another, until you felt his pulse jump under your mouth. He was trembling now. So were you.

That quiet build between your thighs, that familiar ache curling in the base of your spine, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t brutal. It was tender. It was yours.

“I’m gonna come,” you whispered, voice breaking. “With you. Like this.”

Jake’s hand slid to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you forehead to forehead. His nose brushed yours. His eyes were wide and aching as he nodded, as he begged, “Yeah, baby. Please. Come with me. I need to feel it. Just you and me.”

And when you did?

God, it was gentle, but devastating. Like something cracked open inside you. Your body went still, legs trembling around his waist, head falling back slightly as your orgasm swept through you like warm rain, waves, slow and shattering, moans slipping past your lips like prayers.

Your walls clenched down around him, and you felt him let go too as his breath caught, his whole body shuddering as he came deep inside you, thick and slow, his arms locking around you like he’d fall apart if he let go.

There were no words for a moment.

Just panting. Soft cries. The sound of water sloshing as you both stayed tangled, still joined, not ready to let go.

Jake buried his face into your neck, whispering, “I love you,” like it was something he’d been dying to say. “I fucking love you.”

You cradled his head to your chest and kissed his temple.

“I love you, too.”

He eventually stood, the water cooling now, and carried you out of the tub like you were made of silk and sunlight. He dried you off with that same reverent touch, one towel for you, one for him, and tucked you beneath the covers with care, as if the warmth of your body might flicker out if he moved too fast.

In bed, he curled behind you, bare chest pressed to your spine, his hand slipping to rest low on your belly, where his warmth lingered inside you still.

There were no more words left. Only silence. Soft breathing. The sound of your hearts syncing under the hush of the night.

And as your eyes fluttered shut, as the moon spilled soft light over your tangled limbs and tear-streaked cheeks, you felt it again, that current between you. Not fire. Not thunder.

Just electricity.

Because maybe the world wouldn’t understand what you were. Maybe they’d never know how much you’d given each other. How much you’d bled to arrive at this place, naked, vulnerable, utterly seen.

But at least?

At least you were both electrified.

737 notes · View notes

mnnuni · 18 days ago

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Spring Fling - Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader (Part Nine) (18+) / SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: You should have known the ‘no refunds’ detail on the website for Spring Fling was a red flag. But you paid no mind to it, eager to be assigned a quick fuck for spring break. When the man that walks through your cabin door is none other than Jake 'Hangman' Seresin, your wildly infuriating fellow pilot, you have two choices: bicker the entire time and have a miserable spring break, or fuck.

Contents/Warnings: smut, minors dni. fem!reader, pilot!reader, enemies/rivals to lovers, lots and lots of arguing, could these two people be any less cooperative, sex seven ways to sunday and then some, seriously like so much smut it'll make your eyes bleed, makeouts, rough sex, oral (m+f receiving), penetrative sex, will add as i post

WC: 13k / navigation / inbox / summer of series

A/N: the longest chapter yet!! i can't believe i ever finished this behemoth. i wrote most of this in a dazed frenzy which i think is exactly how i should have written it because that's exactly how they're feeling in the story. this one's juicyyyy >:))) i can't wait to hear what you think! and the next chapter is the one you've alllll been waiting for ;)

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

You’re really starting to wish you’d packed for functionality and not attractiveness on this cruise. The bikini you’re sporting today had become irrevocably tangled in your beach bag, and now presents you with a challenge: untangle it here, in the grimy public restroom just off the beach, or snorkel in your lingerie.

“Are you alright in there?” Jake shouts through the door, and you envy the way he’d worn his swim trunks as shorts. This bathing suit is nice for catching eyes, but really wouldn’t offer you any support to wear as an outfit.

“My suit’s tangled,” You call back, the ocean air nipping at your chest and perking your nipples as you struggle with the ties. You quickly realize that you’re going to lose this fight, and eye your lacy lingerie where it hangs on the door. You could redress yourself, struggle through a push-up bra and a romper, give up the bathroom, and beg Jake for help. Or…

“Jake?” You shout, undoing the lock and quickly clasping your hands over your bare breasts, “Come in here?”

He does, and most definitely doesn’t expect you to be standing there nearly naked. Your bikini bottoms are on, but nothing else is, and he has violent deja vu to just yesterday when he’d had to either puzzle out your bikini’s straps or flash your tits to the world.

“It’s tangled,” Your eyes jerk towards the suit on the counter, and Jake is quick to shut himself into the bathroom with you, locking the two of you inside. It doesn’t feel predatory at all- it feels safe. He knows you’ve trusted him to see you like this, and he’ll make sure no one else does.

“I’ll get it,” He hums, tearing his eyes away from your frame as you stand there, clutching at your chest, “I have to admit, I didn’t think you’d let me see you anywhere close to naked.”

“I needed help,” You admit reluctantly, but you notice the way he keeps his gaze strictly on the bathing suit, miles away from the way he’d have eyed you up mere days ago. There’s something about the expression you find in his eyes that makes you think. You watch him, and you see the way his eyelashes flutter slightly, his attention solely on the mess in his hands and not your naked flesh mere inches away from him. You’ve asked him for help and he’s giving it to you, even if there’s other things he could be doing. Other things that he would be doing, if he were his old self.

You’ve been really, truly struggling to maintain your conviction that nothing has changed within him. Repeating it over and over again has only gotten you a headache. It only makes you seem childish and stubborn. But now, in this light, you understand, and really believe this time, that you’ve been right all along. You’ve just been looking at it wrong. The Jake you know is the Jake he wants you to know, and this one is what he keeps locked away for when it matters most. But this is the real one, and this- you… matter to him. The most.

Maybe this is who he’s always been, and yesterday in the pool wasn’t an outlier, maybe he hadn’t been replaced by an imposter at all. Maybe this is just Jake. This is him- he’s sweet, determined, and caring, but only if he wants you to see him like that. Only if you won’t use it against him, and even if he’d started your feud all those years ago on the tarmac, you’d fired back at him, and he’d closed himself off for fear of being wounded.

You realize all at once that you and Jake are the same. You’re both trying to win, you’re both trying to survive. You’re trying to stay wary about this, trying to keep your armor on but it’s damn near impossible now that Jake is letting you strip his down. He’s letting you peel back the layers of his own defenses, you’ve stripped him of his cocky persona and now you’ve got him behaving even if you’re near-naked.

It’s now that you can really see him as a person, not the machine he pretends to be. He does everything in his power to take his own humanity away, and even if he’d proved himself caring once, long ago, he’d fallen right back into old habits. And you’d let him- you’d known somewhere in the back of your mind that he was capable of being a good man but you’d let him disguise himself again, and you’d let him goad you into taking more stabs at him. He’d drawn you back into your war, and you’d let him fight you because he’d let you fight him back. He does a good job at convincing people that nothing touches him, but standing here with him, seeing the humanity in the way he shifts on his feet, noticing his tongue peeking out from between his lips you remember that he pushes himself to appear so untouchable because he doesn’t trust anyone to see him otherwise.

You understand that, and even if your fear manifests itself in different ways, you can’t deny that you and Jake are one and the same. You’re both flowers, tightly coiled centers surrounded by layers and layers of petals that you’re plucking off one by one. Each dig, each glance, each silence takes one away, he loves me, she loves me not, and you wonder who will peel away each petal first. And once you do, once someone reaches the vulnerable little bundle protected at the center, will you wilt? Or will you bloom again together?

“Jesus, could they make these things any more confusing?” Jake asks, breaking your epiphanic silence by unwittingly untangling the final straps, “How are you supposed to get this on?”

It’s said in his old voice, with his old cynicism, but you see him the way he really is. You see his frustration, you see his vulnerability, you see Jake.

“Wait-” You stop him as you see the top take shape, your fingers still pressed into your chest, “That’s how it goes! Leave it, you got it.”

“This?” Jake’s face scrunches into a grimace, looking at the fabric in his fingers, “This is how it goes?”

“Hold it like you’d put it on a hanger,” You instruct, your own hands occupied, “The straps are supposed to cross each other in the back, so just let them hang over one another like- that.”

The suit falls perfectly into place, and he quickly realizes you’ll have to let go of your breasts to slip it over your head.

“Okay. Uh- where do you want it?”

“If you let go it’ll get tangled again,” You frown, looking at his thick fingers holding up the suit, “Just- close your eyes?”

They flutter shut without any further prompting on your end. Jake’s fingers are still extended, your suit hanging off of them, and you wait a mere two seconds to make sure he doesn’t open his eyes again before releasing your grip. That’s all you need- you know he won’t look.

It’s cold, briefly, but to Jake’s credit, he doesn’t bat an eyelash while you’re changing. It’s a test, even if he doesn’t know it is, but he passes because you knew he’d pass from the second you’d offered it. He feels you pluck the suit out of his hands but he doesn’t budge, and when you’ve got the top situated correctly on your shoulders you heave a sigh of relief. He looks nice like this, not cocky, not brash, just nice, his brown lashes resting delicately over his cheeks and his mouth pinched slightly where he’s biting the inside of his cheek. You run your eyes over his tranquil face, his caramel-tanned skin and his square facial structure that looks sturdy and handsome. You study his nose, his eyebrows, his ears, all under the guise of adjusting your bathing suit. You study him, for clues, for answers, for red flags but you find nothing, only crow’s feet and laugh lines. He looks like a man you could very much fall in love with, and that realization makes you step back, something nervous and afraid simmering in your gut. If you keep thinking of Jake as a person instead of the dick you’ve been arguing with for years, you’re going to fall in love with him.

“Open.” You demand anxiously, and when his lashes part, his irises meet your eyes, not your chest.

“You really need to get some clothes that aren’t just dental floss tied together.” Jake informs you, and your trance shatters, prompting you to lunge forwards to shove at his gut. It’s familiar, but it’s not mean, it’s the push of friends teasing friends, not an attack launched on enemy forces. It’s something that draws upon your constant bantering but doesn’t sting like it, something old made new by the way you duck your chin to your chest to cover your grin. He covers himself between the legs on instinct, but because you’ve shoved Jake and not Hangman, for once you’ve chosen to attack his vulnerable belly instead of what comes beneath it.

“Ah! I mean it,” He almost wheezes, his breath caught short in his chest from your brutality, “This is the second time I’ve had to untangle your outfits for you. Not to mention the way your bathing suit decided to float away yesterday because there’s only one string tying the thing together.”

“I thought I was gonna get fucked on this cruise,” You remind him, “I was supposed to look incredibly sexy.”

“Well, you do.” Jake admits, and that’s what it is- an admission. Not a tease, not a jab, just an observation. One that isn’t accompanied with a grating smirk but a softness in his eyes and a neutral expression. You wet your own lips cautiously, the change in his tone striking your chest like an axe and giving another hefty cleave to the walls surrounding that chasm in your chest, the one you’ve been ignoring since nearly kissing Jake last night. The space full of ‘what-ifs’ and romantic violin music that blinds you to the danger of letting Jake in- The danger of falling in love with him.

Everything, every difference you notice, every comment from Danica presses the wedge further and further into your psyche and you’re certain it’ll split soon if you’re not careful.

Will it be worth it to let Jake tear the two halves apart? Will you have to piece the splintered fragments back together later?

“You have to promise me you won’t go braindead like this in the water.” Jake frowns at your distant expression, your eyes lingering on one of his feet as you chew against the inside of your cheek, “It’s gonna be really hard for me to cover this whole fiasco up if you drown out here, and I’m the one investigated for it.”

Right, fiasco. That’s what this is, it’s one big mess with no way out. It’s almost-kisses, it’s dragging Jake away from a vendor’s booth where he’d been acting as your guard dog, it’s dreaming about a man with Jake’s face who was meant to be someone else, it’s knowing that you’re on the precipice of something you can’t crawl back out of if you fall. You shake off your cryptic thoughts and start towards the door of the bathroom, murmuring a near-silent apology to the person waiting for their turn just outside.

You don’t wait around to see if they send you a look of distaste for having been in there together.

You’d envisioned something a little more opulent for a snorkeling excursion, but what you’re led to is a short expanse of beach with a ‘no diving’ sign planted in the sand. You cast Jake a wary glance as he wades into the water, feet, ankles, and thighs quickly being submerged as he shuffles through the sand so as not to startle any possible sealife lingering in the shallows.

“Water’s nice,” He hums, and once he’s standing where the gentle waves lap across his broad chest he offers you a hand, “Come on in, darlin’, I’ll make sure you don’t step on anything.”

True to his word, your feet sink into sand, and you don’t feel any fins trapped beneath them.

“They probably stay away from the shore,” You muse, almost nervous as you wait to see something darting around in the crystal-clear water beneath you. You hike your snorkel mask onto your nose and Jake very kindly doesn’t mention how silly it must look, grappling with his own as he tries getting it to cover his nose without squishing it.

Logically, you’re sure a killer turtle isn’t going to spring from the depths of the sea and nibble at your achilles heel. But you’re expecting to see animals, and the stillness of the water beyond the gently lapping waves is unnerving. You realize with a start that you’re still clutching the hand Jake had helped you in with, and when you drop it the water rushes against your skin with a chill the rest of your body has already adapted to.

Your phones hang awkwardly against your chest, wrapped in a water-tight bag that the company had lent to you. You hope they work, because you’re intent on getting pictures of some of the sealife without ruining your phone.

“Let’s swim out that way,” Jake suggests, towards a deeper portion of the sea, opposite from the boat you’d sailed in on, “Maybe we’ll find something worth looking at.”

“Lead the way,” You sink lower into the water so that you’re up to your neck, fitting the mouthpiece in front of your teeth.

Tilting yourself forwards and planting your face in the water offers you a view like no other. Even if the waters are free from critters, the sand shimmers beneath the sunlight that filters through the waves, and the water is so delectably blue that it looks dyed that way. It’s all things tropical, and you find yourself staring wide-eyed at nothing but sand and buried shells.

You almost forget Jake is there too, but then one of his abnormally large feet drifts into your field of vision and you shove it away. He falters where he’d been trying to float on his belly, nearly dunking the end of his mouthpiece into the water and rendering it useless.

He’s wise enough not to start an all-out splash war in what’s meant to be a tranquil zone, but you’re sure he’ll chuck you into rowdier waters later.

For now, he drifts to the left, and lets you gain speed on him, your head now aligned with his own.

Your first animal sighting comes in the form of a tiny fish- you hadn’t read through the brochure on the local wildlife, but you’d say it’s about the size of a minnow. It darts beneath you, shadowed by your body until it swims beneath Jake instead. He points at it, like perhaps you’ve missed the only moving thing you’ve seen so far besides him, and turning your face to look at him gets you a glimpse of his grin around the mouthpiece.

You find out quickly that the little fish travel in schools, because another one flits by, then another, and soon the ocean floor is nearly obscured as what you’re certain is the entire population of that fish in the sea blanket the sand.

This, you’ll test out your waterproof phone pouch for. You’re able to pull up your camera with only minor difficulties, the thick-walled plastic pouch keeping your phone dry even if you can touch the screen through it. You snap at least a dozen photos of the tiny fish, even getting a shot of one that grows curious and darts upwards to see what your phone is. You’re sure all you’d managed to capture is his eye, but it makes you laugh and you wonder if it’s an odd sound above water where you’re sure it’s coming from your snorkel’s mouthpiece.

Jake hears it, though you’re sure it’s muffled for him, and he takes your phone where it’s hanging around your neck, angling it towards you as the small fish investigates your hand and fingers. You draw it up towards your face, the glee on your face restrained only by the fit of the mouthpiece in front of your teeth. You let the little fish flit between your fingers and brush the end of his tailfin against your palm once, then watch as he darts away to rejoin his friends.

Your grin must be infectious, because there’s a matching one on Jake’s face as he films you. You’re not sure whether he’s been taking pictures or videos, but you’re careful not to get his face in frame as you take your phone back.

The more you drift away from the dock, the more sea life you encounter. It’s admittedly funny to watch Jake nearly scream when a turtle drifts beneath you out of nowhere, but you manage to get a shot of it that isn’t blurry from your shoulders shaking.

You also manage to get a shot of the bird that Jake flips you beneath the water as a direct response to your laughter, and you decide to keep it even if it’s of him. His face isn’t really in it, and it’s funny, and it’s something you can save as your own personal memento of the trip even if you don’t show it off to anyone. You let your phone drift back down towards your chest on the lanyard, the camera still open for easy access.

This makes it all-too-easy to snap a picture of an angelfish that glides through the water, and you point ecstatically at it while Jake slows himself before he startles the poor creature. You watch as it flits through the water, inspecting the terrain this way and that, failing to realize or care that there’s two gargantuan people floating above it. It drapes itself in your shadows, and you must take at least a million photos of it before it eventually darts away.

You brace a foot on the sand after it's out of sight, finally coming up for air that isn’t through a plastic tube.

You spit the mouthpiece out and breathe like you’ve been deprived of it, but your grin gives away that you’re merely excited.

“That was so cool!” You gush, and Jake smears his wet hair up and off of his forehead, similarly out of breath.

“That was a pretty one.” He agrees, his voice slightly nasally from the way the snorkel mask fits him, “‘Really thought that turtle was gonna kill us, or something.”

“Turtles aren’t murderous,” You scoff, bracing your hands on your hips in the shallow water, barely fifty feet from the shore, “I got a few good pictures of him, but I think you were in some of them.”

“I should be taking some too,” He glances down at his own phone hanging from his neck, “But you beat me to the good ones every time.”

“I can send you mine,” You offer, “It’s not like I don’t have your number.”

“You act like you don’t. You barely ever use it,” Jake grumbles, “Unless you forgot something in my car.”

“I don’t always have much to say to you.” You blurt without thinking, and the way it tangibly brings down the mood surprises you- it’s a stark difference, something that makes Jake’s shoulders deflate slightly as he stands dripping water from his fingertips.

“-that isn’t- y’know, mean.” You finish, though it doesn’t heal the wounds you’ve reopened. The ones that are just starting to heal, the ones that had barely clotted and now bleed again.

It does, though, make Jake’s lips twist thoughtfully, one corner lifting as he bites the other, “Right. Well, now you have turtle pictures.” He shifts his feet in the sand, glancing sharply towards his ankle when a bold fish brushes against it, “Back in?”

“Back in,” You agree, easing onto your belly in the water so as not to startle any timid critters.

You spot fish of all sizes, shapes, and colors, some pretty and some that you don’t take photos of. You’d only booked an hour of snorkeling but you’re fairly certain you’re over that limit now, and you’re half expecting to be wrenched out of the water by your mouthpieces. You are grabbed by the hand, but after you startle you realize it’s only Jake. You turn away from the seashells you’re peering at, beautiful dusty pinks and peaches half-obscured by the sand, and glance at where he’s pointing.

It’s a stingray.

Jake drags you closer by your hand, keeping away from the business end of the animal while admiring its fluid movements. Every twitch of its body is graceful, and you try to emulate it as you stay perfectly still, your hand interlocked with Jake’s.

The stingray isn’t in a hurry to leave. It’s drifting along the seafloor, but so slowly that you and Jake manage to follow it without creating ripples that chase it off. You manage to gain the lead over Jake, and you carefully reach for your phone to take photos of the ray before it decides it has better things to do.

You don’t realize you’ve done it, but you’re using your free hand to hold your phone, and your opposite stays snugly nestled against Jake’s own. He notices, though, and that’s what he takes a photo of. He hasn’t felt the need to capture the sea life swimming around you, not when you’ll send him your own photos. He’ll let you be the trip’s photographer, but this- this he has to have. The way your hair drifts through the water, each strand separated and swaying with the gently lapping waves. You’d had it in a ponytail earlier but you’d wrenched it out the second the water had weighed it down, and now the rubber band rests on your wrist. The way your interest and curiosity shines through the clunky snorkel mask, your eyes wide and inquisitive, your teeth pinching against the mouthpiece in a grin. The way you’re floating there, suspended in time, clutching his hand- that’s the photo he deems worthy of capturing.

You don’t notice that he’s snapped a picture of you, which Jake thinks is best, for now. You’re coming around- he knows you are, he knows it simply in the way you’re still holding his hand, your fingers curled around the back of his own. Three days ago you’d have drowned rather than take his hand, and now you’re floating together, fingers interlocked.

But still, it might be better for now if you don’t know you’re the only thing Jake’s cared enough to photograph on this entire trip.

You make the mistake of resurfacing after the ray swims into deeper waters, and you’re waved back to shore by the employees who had fitted you with your masks. Perhaps you’d have been able to evade suspicion for longer, and gotten a few more free minutes of snorkeling, but you give in, and you and Jake traipse slowly through the sludgy sand back to dry land.

Your belongings had stayed safe and dry in lockers you’d rented from the facility, but you realize as you’re tucked away in the bathroom again that you hadn’t accounted for what you’d do with your hair. The ponytail was supposed to be your failsafe, but your hairbrush is back on the ship, and now that it’s been flowing freely through the water you know it’ll be impossible to wrangle your hair into something that looks nice without a brush. It’s grown longer in recent months because you’ve been too lazy to cut it, and admittedly it does make the regulation bun easier now that you’ve got more to work with. But more length means more hassle now that it’s wet and stringy, perpetually wetting the back of your neck and seeping through your shirt.

You’d swapped out your bathing suit for your lingerie, letting the wet fabric sit in the bottom of your beach bag. You resolve to just let your hair air-dry, but you attempt to detangle it with your fingers so that it doesn’t mat. It’s what Jake catches you doing when he finds you outside the men’s bathroom waiting for him, and he winces in time with you as you hit a particularly tight knot in one of the strands.

“You need a hairbrush?” He asks, and you know he doesn’t have one, so you shake your head.

“I’ve got it.” You grumble, “I forgot to pack one.”

You manage to separate the knot, but it has a twin on the opposite side of your head. You’ve no sooner freed one strand than caught another, and you groan as your arms begin to ache from holding them to your head for so long.

“Easy, Hercules,” Jake grabs your hands, tugging them out of your hair, “You tryin’ to rip it out?”

“Jake, I know how to brush my own hair.” You stare exasperatedly at him from beneath your lashes, pulling your hands from his grip, “Just- grab my hairtie from my bag?”

You let him wrestle one of the straps down your arm, and he fishes around inside for the ponytail. Once he’s grabbed it you try to take it from him, but he rears backwards, holding it over his head.

“No, I want to do it.”

“Jake,” You huff, but he won’t even let you finish.

“No. You’re being too rough with it.” He insists, pointing to a bench beside a cluster of palm trees, “Sit down there, and let me braid your hair.”

“Braid? You know how to braid?” You ask, and he nods firmly.

“Remember, I got about a thousand tiny little nieces,” Jake explains, “The longest hair you’ve ever seen. In the summers it gets real hard to handle, so they always wanted me to braid it for ‘em before they went swimming or riding horses.”

“That’s- cute.” You have to admit, and you realize you’ve been disarmed, drifting over towards the bench that Jake directed you towards, “Fine. Just- be quick, please? I don’t want to waste our time here.”

Don’t fall in love. Don’t fall in love. Don’t fall in love.

“I’ll be fast.” He promises, and his fingers get to work right away on your tangled tresses.

His hands are exceptionally gentle. And skilled, too, as he undoes knots in your hair with precise tugs that don’t rip any strands out of your scalp. You’re surprised, really, that you’d let him have free reign of your head because you’d never trust him not to break out a pair of scissors and butcher your hairdo. But that’s because three days ago he was your enemy, and now you’re realizing he’s just as vulnerable as you are. That was old Jake, and new Jake separates your hair into three sections and gets to plaiting before you even realize he’s managed to undo the tangles.

“M'kay,” He pinches the bottom of the braid, tucking a strand tighter behind your ear, “Give me back the ponytail.”

You offer your wrist without thinking, and your other hand hastily reaches to meet it mid-air, but Jake’s gets there first. You feel his rough-tipped fingers scrape delicately at your skin, pinpricks of contact that make your free hand freeze where it hovers uselessly. It’s like each spot he touches fashions a pressure point, and all five combine to short-circuit your brain.

It’s why you’re silent as Jake slips the rubber band off of your wrist, circles it four times around the end of your braid, and then places- not drops, places it against your back.

With care. With intention. With thought.

“There,” He hums, and you’re discovering now that there’s a third type of silence you find yourself caught in with Jake. First had been tense- the prayer that his grating voice wouldn’t be heard, the hope that you could flee before he figured out his next jab. Then there was comfortable, when you’d finally calmed down enough to remember that you’d make it out alive. But now you’re not so sure about that for entirely different reasons- you’d nearly kissed- on purpose ! - and Danica seems to be haunting your every waking moment with how frequently you think about her convictions.

Don’t fall in love. Don’t fall in love. Don’t fall in love.

You’re not sure what to call this kind. Awkward, maybe, but the tense ones had been awkward, too. These are softer, not comfortable, but something… hopeful. Tentatively so, like keeping an ear out for the mailman but waiting until he’s gone to venture outside. You’re nervous, intensely so. Your stomach pulses with energy like it’s being lit up, and your limbs feel like they’re submerged in thick, sticky molasses when you try to speak or move forwards from the silence. But you’re excited, too, maybe just a little bit, even if you’re never going to tell Jake.

You’re excited- maybe, because you’d thought changing meant you and Jake up until now. You thought change meant Jake was going to transform into a gentleman, and you were going to have to become his prize. But what’s changing is your bad habits, the way you both shield yourselves from being known. Now it clicks: you’re not becoming new people, you’re finally letting the people you really are see the light of day. That makes you more confident, in both yourself and Jake, because you hadn’t wanted to change to love him, and you hadn’t wanted him to change to love you. But that’s not what has to happen- you’re not losing the parts of yourselves that you like, you’re losing the ones that keep those hidden away, the walls you throw up to hide the glittering city behind them. It’s your behavior that’s changing, not your essence, and maybe if you’re having trouble drifting with this tide, Jake will take your hand and pull you along with him to look at wayward stingrays.

“Braided your hair so good I put you to sleep,” Jake teases, but it’s not a malicious tone he uses. You’re far too accustomed to that one, you’d know it from a mile away. No, this one’s sweeter, almost endeared- and that’s nudging you further and further towards that leap of faith you’ve finally come to terms with but aren’t quite ready to take yet, so you stand and nearly tip forwards in your hurry.

“Let’s go-” You urge, heading down the street without looking back at him, “Let’s- we can find a snack or I can finally get a hat or we can get-”

“Massages.” Jake interrupts, his voice stopped dead a few feet back, “We can get massages.”

You turn on your heel, finding yourself faced off with him in front of an open massage parlor. Your stances read like a wild west shootout, and you wonder what’s engraved on the pistols Jake’s come holstered with.

Wit and deviancy, of course, as he turns towards the signage outside, the grin that blooms on his face something akin to the enemy of whoville.

Mud Spa 20 Minutes - $25

Massage 1 Hour - $75

Massage + Mud Spa - $90

Couple’s Massage + Mud Spa - $150

He strides in before you can stop him, and you’ve barely stepped through the doors before he’s slapping his card onto the reception desk, “One couple’s massage and mud spa, please. How long do we get?”

“Twenty minutes in the spa,” The woman at the counter is already swiping his card, giving you no time to protest, “And couples get an extra thirty minutes of massage treatments.”

Jake reholsters his smoking guns with a devilish grin towards you.

You’d been so focused on Jake and his antics that you’d missed the employees behind you, standing on either side of the entryway and moving to action the second your payment is processed. They each grab bathrobes and come up behind you, one heading towards Jake and the other slinging the robe around your shoulders.

“Go change,” They point you both towards a room with nothing but the number three on it, and you wonder if there are two other actual couples in here that you’ll have to put up with. You’ll have a hard enough time wrangling Jake in here, and you’re not even together. You can’t imagine staying civil with someone you really wanted to go wild with.

“Speedy service,” Jake notes as the door clicks shut behind you, leaving you stranded in a large space, decorated as opulently as possible while leaving the open floor space occupied only by two massage chairs.

There’s dried flowers on the walls, numerous babbling fountains lining the walls and brown wooden accents that make the space feel relaxing like a deep breath. It’s calming to be there, as is the floral scent that floats through the air, taking up so much of your airways that there’s little room for pure oxygen.

Calming, of course, until you remember you’re meant to be stripping.

To Jake’s credit, he hadn’t looked earlier. But you’d asked him not to, and now he’s shimmying out of his wet swim trunks, the soaked fabric clinging to his skin. You don’t get to finish your thought because he perks up, ears nearly straightening like a dog’s, as he cranes his neck to look at you despite being bent in half.

“Sorry, I forgot about our agreement earlier.”

At first, you think he’s going to turn around, and let you have your peace. But perhaps New Jake isn’t fully formed yet, because he blinks at you, faux-innocent, “Do you want to see my penis?”

There’s a million things you want to say to him. And you’re formulating all of them, your hands fumbling with the straps of your romper, trying to separate them from your bra. But evidently your brain is taking too long, because your mouth decides it’s got this one, and your own traitorous voice comes from your own traitorous lips, “Do you want to see my tits?”

Out of the million things you wanted to say to him, that wasn’t even one of them. That wasn’t anywhere near one of them, and hearing it come from your mouth makes your spine straighten like a rigid lightning bolt had pricked at each disc. But you think about taking it back, about griping at him for being so pushy and you realize that perhaps you’re starting to… enjoy this. Maybe you’re offering now because he’d listened earlier when you’d told him to shut his eyes. You’re not giving in, you’re not letting him have you, you’re not tarnishing your reputation but since you’ve both been fighting to kill for your entire lives, maybe you’re going to torment him the same way he keeps trying to torment you. And maybe it’s not torment at all, maybe this is the way Jake is, and this is how you meet him in the middle. You’re giving him a chance, being open to changing your own behavior if he’s going to break his back trying to fit himself against your edge.

If he’s going to play your game, you’ll play his.

His brows raise, intrigued, “Not two hours ago I closed my eyes so you could take ‘em out.”

“And that was kind of you.” You hum, slipping the straps of your romper off of your shoulders, “And I like kind, Jake. Kind is why Daniel got to kiss me.”

His eyes flash with something dangerous, a glint you assume you’d see in a bull staring down a red cape. He finishes stuffing his swim trunks down his thighs, standing up straight and unabashedly showing off his cock that you’re still too proud to openly stare at, “Yeah? That’s how he won you over?”

“Yeah.” You nod, teasing him with merely the tips of each bra cup as you shimmy out of your romper, “Well- that and the beard. You notice it’s lighter around the mouth?”

Jake rolls his eyes, cocking his weight onto one hip. You don’t dare look, but you know it makes his cock swing slightly where it’s hanging between his legs.

“Yeah, I saw that.” Jake notes, “I eat too, y’know.”

Daniel, at this point, feels like a distant memory. But he’s fresh enough in Jake’s mind to do some damage, and you can tell his name riled Jake up like a coiled spring.

You wind it tighter, finally shucking your romper off of your torso and letting it fall in a heap at your feet.

Apparently, Jake thinks you’re as stunning in your lingerie as you’d thought just this morning. His eyes flicker downwards, but before they can go too far they glance up at your face, his jaw tightening.

“You really want this?” He asks, something sobering in his tone despite the hormones you’d both ridden up to this moment.

“No touching,” You scoff, “Just- you can look. This time, you can look. Because you were nice enough not to last time. Because you’re nice, Jake.”

That’s all you want, really. All you want is to know you’ll be safe with Jake. You know that on a basic level, you wouldn’t be injured or belittled around him. For all he belittles you himself, if anyone else tried, he’d end it quicker than it could begin. And there was the night you were blackout drunk- you knew you’d be safe then. He wouldn’t have taken advantage of you, and he never will. You’ve known for a while that somewhere, on some deep, basic level, Jake is a good man. But now that he’s acting the part, you can make sure he stays that way.

As soon as you let him, his eyes drop. He rakes them down your body, and you watch them pick up every detail on your lacy underthings. They flicker like flames, licking up the curves and contours of your near-naked frame until he remembers he doesn’t have anything on himself.

“Get after it,” He grunts, his voice an octave huskier than the last time he’d spoken, “Take your own look.”

It’s- big.

It’s really, truly big, which you won’t tell him, because it might flip whatever switch had been disabled somewhere along your voyage and bring back egomaniac Jake. He’s tan all over, but there’s a slightly paler portion where a different pair of shorts have cut his bare skin from the golden-brown patches. You note that the tan lines look a lot like briefs, and you wonder if Jake lays out in the sun in his tighty-whities. Before you can laugh at the image your eyes catch back on his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs. He’s got hair above it, a trimmed patch that isn’t unruly but isn’t clean either. It’s somewhere in between, something musky you can bury your nose in- you won’t be doing that, but hypothetically, though, you could. This is just looking, this is just gratuitous staring, but seeing the length, the thickness and the tapered, rounded head and imagining what it might do to you- it brings heat to your core that you squirm at, shifting your weight to just one leg.

“You gonna take ‘em off, darlin’?” He asks, nodding at your lingerie. You see where his eyes are pointed, straight between your legs where the pad of your underwear gets swallowed by the pillowy flesh of your thighs.

“No,” You smirk, “Not for you.”

“What- why the hell am I naked?” He asks, reaching for the robe. You try to ignore the way his cock swings, thick and hefty.

“You just stripped,” You shrug, fastening your robe around your lingerie, “I didn’t ask to see your penis, if you recall.”

“I was promised tits,” He counters, eyes rolling skywards, “Does your word mean nothing?”

Actually, he’s right. You had offered, even if the words that had come from your mouth were from some other part of you you’d never set free before. So you sigh, unfastening the robe’s tie just as soon as you’ve cinched it, “Fine, I’ll take it off.”

“Really?” Jake asks, too enthusiastic, his head snapping in your direction, but he calms himself, “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

“I know.” You nod, reaching behind your back for the clip of your bra, “That’s why I’m going to.”

The pressure around your chest relaxes, and the fabric falls to your feet. You have to dip your arms forwards, but the movement doesn’t cheapen the experience for Jake, not with the way his eyes dart towards your now-bare chest, widening and dancing with the flames you’d seen earlier.

It’s a maddening experience, teasing someone.

Especially teasing someone like Jake, someone who makes himself seem untouchable, someone who’s teased you for your entire career. Here, now, as your lacy bra hits the floor, he’s completely at your mercy.

He stares blatantly at the swell of your breasts, and doesn’t seem to mind at all that they’re not pushed together anymore. They sit lower on your torso now without the bra holding them together and boosting them up but he seems just as entranced as when he’d seen them pinched together beneath your chin. He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he clears saliva that had pooled beneath his tongue. You watch him watch you, and he inhales deeply through his nose, his jaw squared and shifting.

He lets out a low whistle, taking a half-step forwards that makes you tense where you stand. He notices, throwing his hands up in a placating gesture, “I know, I know. No touching. Are you gonna take the bottoms off too, darlin’?”

“I only said tits,” You remind him, a note of devilish glee in your voice, “Turn around, Hangman.”

He does, and you allow yourself one moment of ogling his ass before you drop your panties and fit yourself into your robe. He’s- firm, the skin a shade lighter than his back and thighs, and you wonder if he’s always been this nice to look at from behind, or if you’ve just never noticed through his uniform.

When you’re robed, you call him to turn again, and he takes his sweet time putting his robe on, leaving his dick on display for as long as possible. Maybe you look, and maybe he notices. Maybe.

You make good time, because as soon as he’s cinching his robe shut the attendants walk back in. They knock, but don’t wait long before barging inside the room, and you’re grateful you’d managed to tuck your clothes into a neat pile instead of leaving them strewn about the floor.

“We’ll be showing you to our mud spa first,” The attendant nearest you explains, “It’ll loosen and relax your muscles for the massage later. We’ll go down the hall, come with me.”

You follow single-file after the woman, glancing around at the neatly-decorated massage parlor. It’s elegant and cozy all at once, and the warmly-lit room they lead you into hosts a large tub of mud that you presume you’ll be stripping before entering.

The attendants confirm your hypothesis, “Please derobe, and you’ll soak in the mud for about twenty minutes. After you’re out, you’ll shower over there,” She points to a row of shower stalls, “And we’ll head back over for your massages.”

“Thank you,” You hum gratefully, and Jake echoes your sentiment, eyeing the mud bath with wary intrigue.

“First mud bath?” You ask, untying the robe easier this time, more confidently. It catches Jake’s eye, and he reaches for his own tie.

“First spa-grade one. I used to get covered in mud all the time as a kid, but I bet it didn’t have the same healing properties.”

You laugh at the image of little Jake coming inside from a long day of play, covered in mud with bugs in his pockets and hair. It’s such a distracting thought that you don’t realize you’ve now exposed your bare lower half to Jake, but when you cast a semi-panicked glance his way, his eyes are drawn towards the floor.

He knows, and he’s not looking.

The next breath of air that you take seems to fill your lungs deeper, fuller.

Don’t fall in love. Don’t fall in love. Don’t fall in love.

The mud is warm, almost hot when you dip your toes in, but lowering yourself carefully into the bath does nothing but heat you to your core. It doesn’t burn, and Jake watches carefully, respectfully as you sink into the thick, earthy substance.

“Is there a step?” He asks, and you point him towards it, watching as he submerges himself across from you. You settle on the shelf that runs the perimeter of the spa, the back of your neck hitting the edge and prompting your head to tilt backwards against the floor.

“I think there’s mud in my asscrack.”

Your lips part in a toothy grin before you can stop them, but your eyes stay firmly shut, bliss curling peacefully in your belly like a cat tucking in for a nap. You breathe a sigh, long and deep as Jake settles in opposite you.

“Is it supposed to go on my face?”

Your eyes drift open, and you peer at Jake, close to irritated, “Remember the hot tub yesterday? Quiet zone.”

“Right,” He scoffs, his foot brushing against yours beneath the mud’s surface, leg following as he crosses his feet beside your lap. You wonder if you’d be able to stretch your legs across the entire length of the hot tub yourself, or if Jake’s legs are just impossibly long.

You let him melt, you let his muscles loosen and slump into the wall of the tub for almost a full minute before you sneak up before him and smear a muddy hand over his cheek.

“It can go on your face,” You grin, as his eyes snap open and he jolts forwards in his spot. His incredulous laugh is breathy and the huff hits your face, and it’s only then when you realize you’ve spread your legs to fit his between them, and you’re standing naked before Jake, inches away from his face.

“Alright, missy.” He gripes, a splotch of mud sticking to his cheek, “Where should I put yours, huh? Up your nose? In your ear?”

“Don’t!” You plead, but it’s too late, and he’s already latched his hands around your wrists like cuffs. He bends you to his will, ignoring your shrieked laughter and tucking you sideways into his lap with thick layers of sticky mud between your bare skin and his. He keeps you pointedly away from his groin, but you can feel both his torso and his thighs touching your hips as he lets you float bridal style in his arms.

It pushes your chest out of the water, and you’re nervous for a moment before you remember there’s a sludgy layer of mud covering any sensitive material. Besides- you suppose it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, something you wouldn’t have been able to say before merely an hour ago.

“You’re a menace.” He decides, his eyes on your own, mud caked up to his neck, nearly painting his chin, “I finally shut up and let you have some peace and quiet, and this is what you do to me?”

“That’s why I did it,” You nod, your head nearly submerged in the mud with the way he’s holding you sideways against him, his muddy hands against your bare skin, “You did what I asked, so I let you have it.”

“I don’t understand you,” He chuckles, but the sincere, slightly dim look in his eyes speaks volumes to you.

“I understand you, I think.” You admit, your voice lowering as he keeps you suspended just above the mud’s surface. You’re turned sideways to face him, and your sobering tone reminds him that he’s still got you held captive in his grip. He rights you, his movements slow and his eyes piercing as he stares at your own. You’re set on your feet, now standing between his spread legs, staring down at him with your muddy chest exposed. The substance begins air-drying on your skin almost instantly, covering you even if Jake’s attention is still trained on your face.

“What do you mean by that?” He asks, and the question makes your heart skip a beat. When it resumes it’s pumping wildly, fast and furious and flighty.

“I mean,” You start, blinking rapidly to shield your eyes from his own, though you don’t cast them elsewhere, “I- I mean that,” You think, long and hard about the past three days, about the way Jake had drifted to your side while Daniel had stormed ahead, the way he’d carried you home on the first night and hadn’t left you alone to prowl for a quick fuck around the ship afterwards, the way he’s begun looking at you like you mean something more to him than just a number of training exercises to best.

And you know the way you’re looking at him is shifting, too. You’re seeing him as a person, you’re seeing his humanity, you’re seeing the man he is beneath his cocky, untouchable armor. You’re both laid bare now, not just physically, and there’s only one layer of mud left to scrape away until you see each other in your rawest forms.

Your lips try forming words, whichever ones would wash clean your souls and send the last, viscous layer of protection flowing down the drain.

But it’s too much, the dry mud chafes against your skin as you heave in a breath, and it rattles in your chest as you shut your mouth.

“I don’t know.” You conclude, attempting to back away with hasty, rushed steps that will put you as far away from Jake as possible. But he doesn’t let you, and his hands close again around your wrists, muscling them to your sides and holding you in place.

“Jake-”

“No, don’t- don’t do that. Don’t say things like that and try to walk away.” He pleads, “We’re stuck in this hot tub for fifteen more minutes, say what you wanna say.”

“I don’t wanna say anything,” You breathe, nearly crumpling under his gaze as you try squirming out of his grip, “Please? I shouldn’t have started the thought, I- I can’t finish it. Not yet.”

“When?” He asks, his eyes tired. You wonder how he can look like that when he’s only been trying for three days, when he’s spent every day up until this cruise needling his way under your skin. You wonder how he can act like this is taxing to him, like you’re exhausting him by being cautious. Before you can grow angry about it he strokes his muddy thumbs over your wrists, his grip tight but not bruising.

“I don’t know.” You admit, and he sighs through his nose as his shoulders slump.

“Fine. Alright.” He makes a good effort of keeping his voice void of any ire, but you wonder if he’s already grown tired of this back-and-forth.

You’re trapped in a whirlwind. You’re spinning this way and that, convinced one moment that he’s a playboy and the next that he’s your boy. You wonder if you’ll ever find steady ground, if your world will ever stop shifting, or if you’ll give in and he’ll continue to bounce back and forth between new and old Jake. That’s been your fear from the start, and when he releases your wrists you back up until your calves hit the shelf of the tub and you fall to your ass on the seat.

“Sorry.” He mumbles over the gentle humming of the spa’s motors, churning the mud constantly so it doesn’t harden, “You said no touching.”

It’s not inflammatory, it’s not meant to poke or to prod, and you let him lead you down a safer path.

“I smeared mud on your face first,” You shrug, your eyes roving over the bubbling muck beneath you instead of across his mud-streaked face, “No harm done.”

“Good.” He hums, perhaps more meaningfully than he’d meant to. But the outer side of his foot finds your own beneath the surface of the mud, and he leans his head back against the side of the tub before closing his eyes, letting his skin rest against yours.

It’s silent for the rest of your time in the spa. Jake keeps his eyes closed, but every time you do you see his face, inches away from yours, and muted music from the lounge you’d been outside of the night before begins playing in your mind. The memory taunts you, and opening your eyes only grants you a real view of Jake’s face. It’s set in a serene mask, but you can tell he’s tense beneath it. Now that you’ve taken one facade off of Jake you seem to be an expert at them, and you can see a protruding lump in his jaw that means his teeth are clenched. You feel guilty for ruining his relaxation, and you grab your phone from the pocket of your robe to distract yourself.

You ignore Natasha’s earlier messages, prying questions you can’t answer without giving something away. Instead, you swipe your finger over the screen, selecting all of your snorkeling photos and sending the batch to her. It’s something to do with your hands, and you stare at the cover photo while the message processes.

Your restless fingers barely have to wait a minute after sending the photos to receive a response from her. Your thumbs twitch against the screen, ready to type, but her message reads ‘I’m not looking at the damn fish, whose thigh is that?’

You realize all too late that you’ve sent her photos with Jake in them. Not his face, not his swim trunks that she’d recognize from your many team beach days, but his foot, his arm, his leg, his back, his fingers reaching for yours. Your stomach threatens to liquify and drip into your feet but you steel yourself, typing back, ‘That’s my roommate.’

‘He looks like he goes to the gym.’

You don’t have the guts to tell her he’s gone to the gym with her before.

‘He’s pretty muscular, yeah.’

‘And you HAVEN’T had sex yet?’

‘Remember? Complicated.’

‘Girl, if you don’t hit it…’

That’s the last message you dare to read. You’re sure she’s got a thousand colorful threats for you, but you shut your phone off when you hear the door to the spa open again.

“How was the mud bath?” The attendant asks, and Jake’s eyes open, avoiding your figure.

“It’s great.” He nods at the woman, “Are we being evicted?”

“Shower off in the corner,” She chuckles warmly, “Then meet me outside!”

You and Jake traipse towards the showers leaving muddy footprints in your wake. It’s silent as you each approach a different faucet, but when Jake’s turns on and you can’t get your muddy fingers to grip the handle of yours, he steps out of the warm stream of water he’s stationed himself beneath.

“Here. Take mine,” He offers, “I’ll get this one.”

“Thank you,” You hum quietly, letting him nudge you out of the way. You shuffle over to the already-running showerhead, taking a clean washcloth and soaking it in water and the soap they’ve set out for you. You get to scrubbing, chancing a glance at where Jake’s showering beside you and getting another view of his ass. This time it makes you blush- it’s a stolen thing, something he hadn’t offered you, and you turn to face the opposite wall while thinking about the way stripping for him had made you feel.

Powerful, for sure. Like for once, you were in control, you were leading, you were holding the reins. And he’d stayed respectful, never once trying to touch you.

At least, until you’d incited a wrestling match in the spa and been held captive against his chest. And then you’d opened your mouth, and promptly closed it before you could let yourself say too much, and Jake had reacted like ‘too much’ was all he’d ever wanted you to say. Even though he’s only started acting that way for a couple of days. Even though this is all the most unprecedented, complicated situation you’ve ever been in, and it makes you want to tear your hair out and scream, letting it echo along the tiles.

“Are you mad at me?” Jake’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you turn like it might help you hear the words better, even if they’ve already evaporated with the steam rising from the tiles.

“What?”

“You heard me. Are you mad at me?” Jake asks again, throwing a glance over his shoulder where he’s still turned away from you. When he notices that you’re facing him he pivots, standing unabashedly naked before you the way you do before him.

“I’m not mad.” You promise, “I’m- confused. And afraid, a little. No- a lot.”

“Why are you afraid of me?” He asks, his eyes vulnerable and sweet. Like he’s hurt by it, like he really doesn’t know.

“I’m not afraid of you,” You sigh, running a hand over your belly to wash away the mud still sticking to it, “It’s- not like that. I’m afraid of… everything changing. Because I can’t control how it’s going to end, and I don’t like that.”

“How do you think it’s gonna end? Who says it has to end at all?” Jake’s eyes narrow towards you, and you rear backwards slightly, a scoff escaping your mouth.

“Don’t talk like you’re gonna marry me.” Your voice hardens slightly, sharpened to a steel edge, “This is a sex cruise, and you’re trying to get into my pants.”

“I’ve already done that,” Jake reaches for the towels set beside the showers, rolling one up and whipping it towards your thighs, “You gave me a whole strip tease just a few minutes ago.”

“But no touching,” You remind him, falling back into old habits as your voice takes on a teasing lilt, “You’re not there yet, Hangman.”

“Yet,” He takes your bait, his grin sharpening wolfishly. It feels good to banter, even if you’re both trying to be someone kinder, someone less jagged and sharp, “Does that mean I’ve really got a chance? It’ll happen later?”

“If you’re lucky,” You huff, “And I mean- really lucky.”

“I like those odds,” He follows you in shutting off his shower, and you walk side-by-side with him towards the robes you’d left abandoned by the spa. It’s strange, parading around a spa with Hangman, completely naked, but he seems to know just what to say, just what to do to keep you from getting lost in your head, even if it means taking a few steps backwards and teasing you again.

But now you’ve discovered you can tease him, too, and you pull your robe on slowly, cinching it around your waist and covering up the last bit of bare skin his eyes had been glued to earlier.

He doesn’t say anything about it, but his footsteps behind you are heavy when the attendant leads you back towards the massage tables, and he takes his cues from you, reaching around your waist to untie your robe for you before you can do it yourself.

You turn your head to the side, nearly running into his own that’s slotted over your shoulder. He meets your gaze head-on, and you feel tension growing like thick vines over you and him as you stand together, nearly flush. He drags the robe off of your shoulders, but walks away with it instead of ogling what’s beneath. You rush for the massage table, letting the attendant fit your bare body into its contours with a knowing smile.

“Lots of couples have a hard time keeping their hands off of each other,” She murmurs conspiratorially into your ear, “If you don’t mind me saying this, you’re a lucky woman, and he’s a lucky man.”

Jake’s grin as he settles down on the massage table, face turned towards your own, tells you that he’s betting on that luck.

You have a million things to think about while your eyes slip shut on the massage chair, but the second your attendant digs her hands into your stiff back they all float away into static. Your brain goes numb, and you let out a startled gasp at the shooting pain that travels up your spine. It’s quickly replaced by bliss as your muscles loosen where they’d been tensed, but it’s going to take her a minute to warm you up.

“Just relax,” She hums, and Jake’s masseuse gets to work on his back, spreading lotion over his palms before digging into the aviator’s own stiff back, “We’ll have you turn over later, but for now, just close your eyes and let all of your tension go.”

Tension. You wonder if she’d seen what was really going on, that your ‘tension’ isn’t born of a couple forbidden to touch each other for a few measly minutes, but of two springs coiled so tight they’ll snap if they’re not released soon. You let out a shaky moan as the masseuse wrestles out a particularly large knot in your lower back, and Jake clears his throat from across the room.

You refuse to be embarrassed about enjoying yourself. You’ve been so tense lately- sure, because of work, but just the past three days alone have put you closer to a heart attack than you’ve ever been before, you’re sure of it. All of your worries, all of your struggles, all of the times you’ve wanted to pitch yourself overboard melt away in the wake of this woman’s hands kneading through your back, and when she dips down to your thighs and pinches at the seldom-stretched muscles there, you let out an even louder grunt.

“That’s a pressure point,” You can hear the smile in her words, “It feels good, doesn’t it?’

“It feels amazing.” You mumble, your face squished against the massage chair, “Can I pay for a second hour-and-a-half?”

“It might melt you beyond repair,” She laughs, throwing a glance at Jake who’s similarly blissed out, “I want you two to be able to walk back to your ship tonight.”

“She won’t be walkin’ right tomorrow morning,” Jake grunts, a sleazy drawl in his voice that reminds you you’ve both elected to take a step safely back from each other, for fear of repeating the mud bath incident, because it’s easy, and you’re just not brave enough to change things yet, “Just do whatever she wants and I’ll drag her back to the ship by her braid.”

“Dick.” You accuse, flipping him the bird though you’re not sure if his eyes are open to see it or not. He responds only with his own elaborate, drawn-out moan, and you resign yourself to an hour of hearing him grunt and groan, not that you’ll be quiet yourself.

You don’t fall asleep, but you drift somewhere close to it. Perhaps another plane of existence, where you feel the woman’s hands digging into your flesh and you hear Jake’s guttural moans but you don’t have to think about them. It’s such a wonderful thing, not having to think, and you silently thank the employee nearly elbow-deep into your back muscles for her service.

When your blessed hour and thirty minutes is up- far too soon, you sigh one last time into the massage chair, and look at the masseuse like she’s heaven-sent.

“I love you,” You hum at her, eyes ten times more adoring than they’ve ever looked at Jake, and she grins at you as she passes you your robe.

“Everyone says that to me,” She laughs, her voice clear and melodic, “But no one ever comes back for a second session.”

“I’m getting at least two more,” You promise, “And I’m bringing you some wine off of the ship.”

“I’ll be expecting you tomorrow,” She grins, and Jake’s masseuse smirks in your direction, though he makes it clear it’s at your dialogue and not your bare body by keeping his eyes strictly on your face. You admire their respect, meekly covering your figure with the robe without putting it on.

“Go ahead and leave the robes on the floor,” Jake’s masseuse gestures lazily towards your discarded clothing, “If your payment’s already been processed, you’re free to go. If not, just stop by the desk on your way out. Enjoy the rest of your vacation,” He tilts his head towards you and Jake, a knowing glint in his eyes, “And enjoy not being able to walk tomorrow.”

“This is all your fault.” You glare at Jake when the door shuts behind the man, and once again Jake is standing proudly naked before you. You’ve got your robe in your lap, and Jake’s kind enough to hand you your underwear when he reaches for his swim trunks.

“They know we’re on a sex cruise,” He scoffs, “And they thought we were a couple anyways! I bet everybody in here thinks we’ve been banging for three days straight.”

“It probably didn’t help that you kept trying to moan louder than me,” You slide your panties on carefully, hoisting them up around your hips while holding the robe in front of your bare lap. Once you’re clothed on bottom you gesture towards your bra, but when Jake takes it in his hands he doesn’t offer it to you.

“You want this?” He asks, and the challenge in his voice makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

“Jake…” You warn, “Give it.”

“Take it.” He sets his jaw squarely in a smirk, reaching his hand over his head and letting it dangle from his fingers, “You were teasin’ me like crazy earlier, doin’ that little strip tease. Now it’s my turn. If you want it, come and take it from me, darlin’.”

You wish you could say it’s not fair. But he’d given you your panties, let you cover the one part of yourself you hadn’t yet been bold enough to share with him, and you suppose you had shucked your bra off only to stir something between his legs. Once again you’re powerless against him, but this time it doesn’t feel so horrible.

You stand from the massage table, topless and covered only by your panties. He watches, his eyes hungry as you approach carefully, then you spring to your tiptoes and test the reach of your arm against his.

He darts backwards, keeping the garment out of your reach.

“Weak,” He criticizes your attempt, “You’ve gotta try harder than that.”

“You’re horrid,” You laugh, a sound you wouldn’t have expected to come out of your mouth in this moment, your bra being held hostage by Hangman, but it is, and it’s a freeing sound as you dash after him.

Your chest bounces as you dart around the room, chasing the strap of your pretty, lacy bra as he dangles it just out of your reach. You jump against his side and nearly manage to grab hold of it, but he swaps hands and it’s out of range again. You lunge for it without jumping around again, your feet clumsily stepping on his own and stunning him just enough to where he stays still, your fingers finally closing around the strap.

“Got it.” You breathe, panting slightly as you stand on Jake’s toes, your bare chest against his.

It’s cold with almost no clothing on, and your nipples have stiffened in the chilly air. They brush against his toned chest, sending pinpricks of stimulation through your body straight down to your core. It’s a thrilling position, your tits slammed against his pecs, his eyes alight with something dangerous as he stares down at you. You’re both still holding onto your bra, his predatory gaze never dropping from your face even if you know it wants to.

His free hand clasps onto your side. Not your hip, not low enough to touch your panties, but beneath where your breasts hang freely. It makes you gasp, a sharp inhale into lungs that suddenly seem too small. You freeze instead of fleeing, your weight still digging into his feet where you stand on them.

His head inches a fraction towards yours, and yours towards his. It’s lustful, it’s not like when you’d breathed each other’s air last night, it’s not sweet or sincere or gentlemanly. It’s his bare hand against your bare side, it’s your bare chest against his, it’s his lips parting, aiming to press against your own.

It’s frenzied, even if it’s slow, one of you a lit match and the other a pool of gasoline. You’ll burst the second your lips come into contact, you know it, and muffled voices behind the door act like a gust of wind that extinguishes the flame and blows the gasoline towards the gutter.

You barely get to fasten your bra before the door opens again, another pair of employees coming to clean up after you, you presume. Jake shields your near-naked form with his broad body, letting you struggle with your romper behind his impressive build.

“We’re not quite done yet,” His voice is kind, but stern, “Give us one more minute?”

“I’m sorry!” The closest employee yelps, and you feel bad for him- you won’t cause any problems, you won’t get him fired, “Let me- let us leave, We're so sorry. We didn’t know there was anyone in here!”

“That’s okay!” You call after them, your voice rough from the haze you’d fallen into during your massage, but the panicked employees are gone before they can hear you. The door shuts again behind him, but you’re already dressed, and the moment is well and truly over.

“You ready?” Jake asks, and you nod, your bag on your shoulder and your phone in your pocket. Neither of you speaks about the explosion you’d narrowly avoided, the way your blood had simmered beneath your skin at being so close to each other. The way your perked nipples had raked over his chest, the way his head had ducked towards yours, the way you’d wanted to fuck him-

The daylight outside of the spa nearly blinds you. You curse yet again that you don’t have a hat, but the sun is making its way towards the horizon again, and it promises a more orange hue than a bright white one as you make your way quietly back down towards the beach, towards your ship, towards your bed where you can roll over and go to sleep without inciting another incident with Jake.

He walks beside you without comment, and another one of those silences grows between you. The ones that are almost hopeful, the ones that make you think maybe you could throw your doubts to the wind and take your leap of faith, even if it petrifies you.

Jake’s hand tugs briefly on your elbow, and you slow your steps towards the shore.

“Look.” He motions to a booth beside you, and you notice a string of airborne gondolas stretching over your heads, loading just to your left, “Do you want an aerial view of the village?”

It looks sturdy, not like a tourist trap, though you’re sure that’s how they make all of their money. You nod, traipsing across the sandy stone beneath your feet, and grab cash for the both of your rides before Jake can even touch his wallet.

“Enjoy,” The operator nudges you both hastily towards an open gondola that descends mere seconds after you step up, and Jake helps hoist you into the tram before it can take off again without you.

You’re rocked a bit by the abrupt boarding, and you fall against your seat with wide eyes. You suppose you understand why they can’t stop the system for every passenger boarding, or it’d never run smoothly, but you’re lucky to have made it inside without falling back to the earth.

“Damn,” Jake notes, and you nod your agreement. You turn your head towards the window of the gondola, peering out over the ocean as you slowly and steadily rise above it.

The view is breathtaking.

Your eyes rove over the sea, sunlight glinting across its waters and shining with the reflections of palm trees. The water is so crystal clear that you wonder if you’ll spot any of the sea creatures you’d seen while snorkeling earlier, but you’re momentarily distracted by the overhead view of your ship as you begin circling the village you’re docked at.

The only sound is the whirring of the sky trams’ motors, and it’s nothing but a quiet hum, leaving the inside of your gondola a vacuum for sound. Jake shuffles in his seat, and it sounds louder than it should because of the silence you’re suffocating in.

“Pretty view,” He notes, and your eyes drift to where he’s watching you with a soft gaze.

“It’s gorgeous.” You back off from where you’d been unwittingly pressing yourself up against the side of the gondola, your feet stretched out and tangled with Jake’s on the floor of the small tram, “Jake?”

“Hm?”

“Are you still having a good time?”

Your voice is nervous, self-conscious, and it makes Jake’s brows furrow. Not entirely, but you can see the concern written on his face as he leans towards you in the gondola.

“I am. When you’re not running away from me, that is.”

You remember the mud bath, and your cheeks flare.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” You hum regretfully, “I’m sorry. I’m- not trying to make this complicated.”

“It’s already complicated.” Jake laments, biting the inside of his cheek.

“It is,” You nod slowly, your hands clasped together, “But- I’m glad you’re not… miserable. I don’t want you to be.”

“Are you?” He asks, tilting his chin towards you, his voice just as worried as yours is.

“No. I’m not miserable,” Your gaze falls towards the floor, “Not- not because of you. I’m making myself miserable, I think. I’m thinking too much.”

“You know what Mav says.” Jake smiles, and even the soft curve of his lips is enough to send your stomach twisting, even if its not his usual shit-eating grin, “Don’t think, just do.”

No. Don’t. Don’t fall in love. Don’t fall in love. Don’t fall in love.

“If I did that,” Your voice is raw, wry, “I’d spiral out of control.”

There’s a beat of that thick silence in the air before Jake speaks again, “I asked earlier if you were mad at me.”

“I said no,” You remind him, glancing up guiltily at him through your lashes, “I’m sorry if I’m acting like I am.”

“Do you hate me?” He asks, and the way he says it makes you wonder how long he’s wanted to ask you that for.

You hesitate before answering, but not because you have to think about it.

“No.” You state, meeting his eyes so he knows you mean it, “I don’t hate you, Jake.”

“Do you love me?”

That’s the harder question to answer.

Sitting there, in the tiny, windowed gondola, bathed in the orange hue of the setting sun, you ask yourself: do you love Jake?

You’d have reluctantly agreed before now, that yes, even if he’s a dick, he’s your friend in some capacity, so yes, you suppose you love him.

But you know that’s not how he means it, not as a friend, not as a teammate, not as a drinking buddy, but as something far more. And the worst part is that you can’t say no with the same conviction as you had earlier, even if you desperately want to.

It’s no use telling yourself not to fall in love with Jake Seresin over and over and over again, because you have a horrible, sinking feeling that you already have.

“I don’t know.” You manage to scrounge up, and it’s the most damning thing you’ve said all week. Your eyes drop from his, and you try to forget the expression you’d seen in them, scarily akin to hope. Your answer weighs heavy on the gondola, and it dips downwards for your slow descent back to the beach. You shift your eyes back towards the sunset for the remainder of your trip, watching it disappear behind the palm trees that line the shore as you finally touch down.

“Get ready.” Jake reminds you, and he takes your hand in his only to tug you out of the tram before it rises again. You stumble a few steps away from it, and keep your head ducked towards the ground as you mumble a thank you towards the operator. You start a slow, silent trek towards the shoreline, feeling frighteningly devoid of any control you thought you’d gained over the situation earlier. You’re spinning out again, lost in your own head, and you feel your knees threatening to buckle beneath your weight as you cross the cobblestone streets.

A brush of Jake’s pinky finger against your own stops your spiral, and your eyes dart to where your hands bump gently together as you walk side-by-side towards the beach.

Another step, another brush, another step, another brush, until Jake’s hand drifts through the air towards yours, his palm finally catching your own and his fingers curling to seal the deal.

You take a deep breath, close your own fingers into the embrace, and lift your head so that you can see the sunset as you walk hand-in-hand with Jake.

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

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mnnuni · 19 days ago

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Issac dragging-your-claws-across-the-lockers-while-chewing-gum-in-a-leather-jacket you will always be famous 🙌

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mnnuni · 23 days ago

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thinking about my beloved Bradley and… guys, GUYS

this man grew up drenched in legacy. from day one it was Goose’s son, not Bradley. his world was flight suits and aviators and sunday barbecues with Ice and Mav and the ‘86 legends like it was completely normal. of course flying was the only path. what else was there?

he grew the mustache when carole got sick not because he liked it, but because she’d smile and say “you look just like your dad”

and then suddenly everyone was saying it. you really are Goose’s boy

so he stared in the mirror and tried to see himself, but all he saw was what he was supposed to be

that’s why when maverick pulled his papers, it HURT

because without the navy, without flying, without that version of himself… who even was he?

so yeah, he makes it to Top Gun. he survives. he says “yeah okay, I did it” like it means something and it SHOULD

until one day Jake—stupid perfect Jake with his dumb green eyes—asks him what his favorite color is

or maybe it’s his favorite movie. or sport. something ridiculous.

and Bradley just blanks full 404 error

because is his favorite sport really golf, or was that just what Ice would drag him to?

is his favorite beer actually that brand, or was it just the one Maverick handed him at fifteen with a wink?

and Jake sees it

he sees him

and from that moment on, he makes it his personal mission to take Bradley to every weird restaurant, every random hobby class, every indie concert and baseball game and cooking course just to show him there’s more

more than legacy. more than ghosts.

that he gets to choose

and one day Bradley tries a raspberry sour beer and lights up

and Jake’s like “that’s it. that’s your beer. we found it”

and for the first time, he’s not being Goose’s son

he’s just Bradley

and he likes raspberries.

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mnnuni · 24 days ago

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couldn't agree more with what you said about it getting harder to tell when something’s written by ai!! i've been a reader on here for nearly six years now, and lately it's honestly been making me so paranoid and stressed, like i'll be reading something and the whole time i'm second-guessing whether it was written by a real person or not. and it's not even just about the style or the grammar or whatever but it's this awful feeling like the heart of it is missing, like the warmth and the soul have been stripped out, and i hate that i even have to wonder that now.

sorry i'm rambling again, i always do this, but truly, ai is ruining so much of what used to feel sacred. fanfiction has always been about emotion and chaos and vulnerability, it's about people pouring all the things they can't say out loud into a character they'll never meet, and now it feels like all of that is being flattened into nothing. i want to read things that feel alive, things that feel like someone cared too much, stayed up too late, wrote something that scared them to post. i don't want to fall in love with words that were never really meant. it's just so disheartening sometimes!!

again i’m so sorry for rambling, bee!! i just care a stupid amount and have too many feelings at all times 😭💙

you don't have to apologise for rambling!

i have a lot of feelings about this too (clearly, haha) and it's getting so hard to tell. i hate that it's limiting what i can enjoy, and i hate that i'm sus on SO many blogs on here. i feel like i can't even scroll for very long without getting paranoid or feeling like i've read some ai generated crap that just ruins my day.

it is VERY disheartening. and i know it's just fanfication, my partner says that all the time, but it's something i've used to escape since i was literally 10 years old... that's 16 years... and now it feels violated. so i feel like i (we all) have a right to be upset with stupid fucking ai users and ai generated crap.

never apologise for rambling or feeling! 🖤

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mnnuni · 26 days ago

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just one ; clark kent

fandom: superman 2025 (dc)

pairing: clark x reader

summary: you and clark have been best friends since college, and you know everything about each other—including his superhero identity—but tensions have risen since you started working with him at the daily planet, and after superman is exposed to a 'truth telling toxin' you decide to take a little advantage of the fact that he can't lie

notes: a little late to the party, but have a clark kent fic! sorry this is late (and i've been m.i.a.) i've been busy watching the film eight times, crying about the film, and having an existential crisis about the fact that i'll never love another man the way i love david corenswet... but anyway! i struggled a little with this, hence it taking so long, so i'm sorry if it sucks? but regardless, i always love to hear what y'all think, so please let me know!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, it has some corny moments, some jealousy, brief mention of a dating app, lots of tension, very minor miscommunication, clark jokes about eating kryptonite, jimmy is a well-meaning meddler, italics, clark says 'gosh' a lot, and SMUT (making out, f oral receiving, fingering, unprotected p in v, dirty-ish talk, also it's a few thousand words of smut oops) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 21621

- Clark -

“It’s kind of pathetic if you think about it,” Jimmy says.

Lois rolls her eyes. “Don’t start, Jimmy.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he says, gesturing toward Clark with his coffee mug. “Just look at him. He’s like a golden retriever waiting for someone to throw the ball.”

Lois tries not to laugh, but a soft snort slips out before she can hide it behind a sip of coffee.

“I think it’s sweet,” Cat says, perching on the edge of Jimmy’s desk. “Being in love with your best friend is so… early-two-thousands romcom coded.”

Lois swivels in her chair to give Cat an incredulous look. “What does that even mean?”

“It means Clark is a nerd who’s hopelessly in love with a girl way out of his league, and it’s adorable in a tragic, pathetic kind of way,” Jimmy says.

“Jimmy!” Cat smacks his arm. “Stop calling Clark pathetic.”

“I’m not calling him pathetic,” Jimmy insists, still grinning. “The pining is pathetic. There’s a difference.”

“You’re still being a jerk,” Lois mutters into her coffee.

Their teasing continues, but Clark barely registers it. He hasn’t heard a word since the moment you walked through the door—hair mussed from the wind, a binder hugged tight to your chest. Perry intercepted you immediately, stopping you at the front desk to talk about the article you submitted late last night. Clark only knows this because he can hear every word from across the newsroom—the warmth in your voice, every shift and cadence he’s memorised over the years.

It’s not an accent or a twang. It’s just you.

The voice that lingers in his dreams, that echoes in the back of his mind whenever he’s flying through the sky, wondering if you’re thinking about him too.

It’s always you.

“Morning, team!” you greet cheerfully, dropping your bag and binder onto the desk opposite Clark’s.

Jimmy smirks, his gaze flicking toward Clark before settling on you. “Good morning, hot shot. What was all that with the boss about?”

Clark is staring—he knows he is—but he can’t help it. You’re just so goddamn beautiful. You have been since the day he first met you, and no amount of superhuman restraint has ever dulled the way you affect him. If kryptonite is his greatest weakness, you’re a very close second.

“Didn’t you hear?” you tease Jimmy. “I’m the new headliner.”

“Front page?” Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Already? Wow. I’m impressed.”

You grin, pretending to flick your hair off your shoulder with mock dramatics—and that’s when Clark notices it. The change. The subtle way your body reacts.

Your heartbeat picks up, quick and sharp against his ears. He can see it now—literally see the steady thump of your heart beneath your ribs, see the way the muscles in your chest tighten and your breath catches ever so slightly.

But why?

The question lodges in his mind like a splinter. Is it Jimmy? Is it something Jimmy said? Does he make you nervous? Does he make you excited?

Do you... like him?

Clark’s brow furrows. He tracks the heat rising under your skin, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hand as you lower it to lean on your desk—and then he freezes.

Oh, God. He’s staring directly at your chest. Through it, technically, but from the outside no one else would know the difference. His face heats, and he blinks hard, forcing himself to stop—to look away before someone notices.

“Better watch out, Kent,” Lois says, smirking over the rim of her coffee cup. “You might’ve just convinced Perry to hire your biggest competition yet.”

Clark clears his throat, pulling his gaze up to your face where it belongs. “Yeah, I think I did.”

You give him that cheesy little smile—the one where your nose scrunches up, your cheeks flush pink, and his heart stops—the one that slips into his dreams every damn night. He loves that smile. He loves your face. He loves you—and God, he hates that he’s too much of a coward to say it out loud.

He wishes he wasn’t.

He wishes—of all the powers in the universe—that he had the ability to rewind time. Then, he’d go back to college, back to the late-night study sessions and coffee runs and the years of friendship and banter. Back to that night, right before graduation, when he told you the truth about who he really is.

If he’d been half as brave as everyone thinks he is, he would’ve said—

I’m Superman. And by the way, I’m in love with you. Wanna make out?

Maybe then things would’ve been different. Maybe if he tacked it on to the big reveal, you would’ve fallen for him too—charmed by the whole ‘superhero’ thing.

And maybe by now you’d be doing everything and more than just making out. Because yeah, he wants to do a lot more than that. A lot more. Which is a real problem, because just thinking about having you—really having you—makes him dizzy enough to fly straight into a building.

He isn’t joking when he says you affect him like kryptonite. He doesn’t know why, but when it comes to you, he’s helpless. Powerless. He’s always felt things more deeply than most—because he isn’t like most—but with you? It's something else entirely.

He knows for a fact he couldn’t live without you. That’s why he convinced you to stay in Metropolis after college. Why he’s never stopped being your best friend. Why he got you the job at the Daily Planet—because weekends with you weren’t enough. He needs you every single day.

And that’s also why he’s never told you how he really feels. Because the way he loves you scares him—and if it scares him, what would it do to you? Probably terrify you. Maybe even drive you away. And he can’t risk that.

He can’t risk losing you.

So here he stays, hopelessly stuck in the friendzone, listening to you chat animatedly with Cat about some loser you met on Hinge who you’re going out with tomorrow night.

“His profile says he’s into hot yoga and smoking meats,” you say, holding your phone up for Cat to see.

It takes every ounce of—superhuman—self-control for Clark not to scoff.

“Baby girl, it also says he collects limited edition knives,” Cat points out, her brows drawn. “Are you sure you want to go on a date with this guy?”

You roll your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, but he’s the only half-decent match I’ve had in weeks.”

Cat blinks at you. “Seriously? But your profile is perfect. I made sure of that myself.”

“I know,” you sigh, your gaze sliding toward Clark—who’s very conspicuously looking anywhere but at you. “But I left my phone unattended on my desk a couple weeks ago, and someone thought it’d be funny to change everything so the only matches I got were Arkham escapees.”

Jimmy snorts at his desk, but his eyes stay glued to his screen like he isn’t blatantly eavesdropping.

“Clark,” Cat says, her glare narrowing at him. “Messing with her dating profile? Really?”

Clark’s head snaps up—blue eyes wide and full of faux-innocence. “It was Jimmy’s idea.”

“Dude,” Jimmy says, swivelling in his chair, “you really don’t want to start pointing fingers. Because I won’t hesitate to—”

“Okay!” Lois cuts in, standing from her desk with her empty mug in hand. “I’m going to need you all to shut up and get some actual work done before I lose my mind.”

Jimmy chuckles and turns back to his desk. Cat sighs, handing your phone back with a dramatic shake of her head. Clark glances toward Lois, mouths a quiet thank you, then lets his gaze drifts back to you—only to find you already watching him.

You’re wearing a that half-scowl, half-smirk look that makes his stomach flip like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He feels seen. Exposed. Almost like you’re the one with x-ray vision. Or worse, maybe you can read his mind.

He raises a brow. “What?”

“No snide comment about my hot-yoga-loving, knife-collecting, entrepreneurial date?”

His lips twitch. “Oh, he’s an entrepreneur? That’s impressive. Really sounds like you found a winner.”

“Entrepreneur is just code for broke,” Jimmy mutters.

You ignore him, your eyes staying locked on Clark. “So, you’re not going to warn me against going on this date?”

Clark shrugs, leaning back in his chair like he’s not affected. “Why would I? He sounds great.”

“He collects knives, Clark,” you say, tilting your head just enough to make it feel like a challenge. “Doesn’t that seem a little… murder-y?”

Clark smiles, leaning forward again until his elbows rest on the desk. “For your sake, I hope he’s not.”

“But if he is...” you press, voice dropping low. “You think there’ll be anyone around to save me?”

The way your lips curl, the glint in your eyes, that soft, sly note in your voice—it’s enough to make Clark feel uncomfortably warm. He always runs hot, but looking at you now? Teasing him like this? It feels like you’re daring him to lose control.

God, the things he’d do if you weren’t looking at him like that in the middle of the goddamn newsroom.

“You mean Superman?” he asks, his voice low now, matching yours. “I’m sure he’s got better things to do on a Friday night.”

Your brows shoot up. “Better things?”

“Maybe,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, but his throat feels tight.

“Well,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair, “you’d know. Considering how close you and Superman are. All those exclusive interviews…”

Jimmy snickers quietly, but neither of you spare him a glance.

“I hope he doesn’t, though,” you add, tone light but loaded, your smile lingering as your gaze slides toward your computer screen. “I hope he’s got nothing better to do. I hope he’s hanging around, just in case my date is a psycho and I need saving.”

Clark opens his mouth to reply when Steve walks by, cutting in like a brick through glass.

“Haven’t you been saved by Superman, like, five times already?”

Your cheeks heat, and Clark hears your heart pick up—a sound so sweet it nearly undoes him. Because he knows it's for him. Well, Superman technically, but Clark Kent is taking this win.

“It was once—maybe twice,” you say quickly.

“Actually,” Jimmy chimes in, “I think it was more—”

“Oh my God,” you cut him off, flustered. “Why is everyone so chatty this morning? Can we please just work?"

Steve rolls his eyes and keeps walking.

Jimmy frowns. “You and Clark were the ones—”

“Jimmy,” Clark says, his voice clipped in a way that makes Jimmy blink. “Seriously. Work.”

Jimmy throws his hands up in surrender and spins back to his screen. Clark waits a beat, then glances up over the low partition between your desks. The second your eyes meet his, he can’t help the small, smug curve of his mouth. You roll your eyes but can’t hide your own grin, and suddenly it feels like the whole newsroom has faded into background noise.

Because you’re looking at him like that—with those eyes—and lousy date or not, you still know exactly who’s going to show up if you need saving.

The rest of the day goes by like any other. Everyone gets lost in their work, debates flare and die out, coffee is chugged like it’s oxygen, and Perry yells at someone for a misspelled headline at least once. It’s fair, though—journalists should at least know how to spell. At least.

By three p.m., Clark can tell you’re deep into that afternoon slump—when the sunlight pouring through the big glass windows feels too warm, your last coffee was too long ago, and you’re one sigh away from curling up at your desk for a nap.

Clark secretly loves this time of day. He doesn’t get the same crash as everyone else, so it’s the perfect time to spoil you without you—or anyone else—raising an eyebrow. He lives for the way you give him that sleepy, dopey smile whenever he drops a chocolate bar on your desk, grabs something from the front desk for you, or—his favourite—when he walks down the block to get you a real coffee from your favourite café instead of the sludge in the breakroom that Perry insists on calling coffee.

He’s just about to do exactly that when he sees you drag your tired feet into the printer room and start stacking cartons of paper reams like some kind of reckless architect.

He stops at the doorway, brows furrowed. “What are you doing?”

You glance over your shoulder as you drop a third box onto the wobbly stack. “Building. What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re five seconds from filing for workers’ comp,” he says, stepping into the small room.

The space is cramped, mostly taken up by the oversized printer and a few sad piles of paper—some blank, some the casualties of misprints. The back wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with office supplies and random junk that no one has bothered to sort since, well, ever.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say with a small smirk. “I can still type with a broken neck.”

Clark is about to argue when you bend over and press your palms flat against the top box to test its stability. His words die in his throat. His eyes—traitorous, shameless—drop to the curve of your ass, barely two feet in front of him. He’s staring—again. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop—because apparently, all it takes to unravel Superman is you in a pair of fitted grey office pants.

Then you plant one foot on the unsteady tower like you’re about to climb Everest, and something in him snaps.

“Woah, no way,” he says, stepping forward in a blur.

Before he can think better of it, his hands are on your waist—warm, firm, and holding you steady as he pulls you back down to the floor like you weigh nothing.

The heat of you bleeds through the thin fabric of your shirt, and it’s dizzying. You’re too soft, too precious, and he has no business touching you like this. His breath snags in his chest, sharp and unsteady. He’s hugged you before—plenty of times—but this? This is different. This feels dangerous.

Then, of course—

“What’s going on in here?” Jimmy asks, grinning like an idiot as he leans against the doorframe.

“I was just trying to—” you start.

“She was just—” Clark says at the same time.

And then he hears it—your heartbeat, skipping once before it kicks into overdrive. Your body grows even warmer beneath his hands, and you step away quickly, like his touch was too much. His stomach twists.

You’re flushed. Flustered. Because of Jimmy?

The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. It has to be. What else could it be? You’ve never looked at him like that. Not Clark. Not the way you look—the way your body reacts—when Jimmy appears, always wearing that lazy grin, the one that apparently drives women wild.

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Jimmy says, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. “The printer room is a classic. Just don’t let Perry catch you—he almost had a coronary when he found me in here with someone.”

Then he winks and walks away, strolling across the newsroom toward his desk.

For a second, Clark just stands there, jaw tight, the faint sound of your too-quick heartbeat still humming in his ears like static. He wants to say something—ask why you get all warm and pink every time Jimmy walks into a room—but he swallows it down. This isn’t the time. He doesn’t have the right.

Instead, he clears his throat and turns back to the shelf, reaching easily for the toner cartridge on the top shelf.

“This what you were risking your life for?” he asks, holding it out to you.

You sigh dramatically as you take it. “Yes, that. Don’t look so smug just because you’re freakishly tall.”

“Sorry,” he says, tone dry, “next time I’ll let you make the ER trip.”

You scowl up at him, lips twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “Well, not all of us can be eight feet tall and built like a Greek god.”

A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “Seven and a half, tops.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are still pink. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re reckless,” he fires back, soft but certain.

There’s a beat—a pause thick enough to feel. Your eyes hold his, that half-challenging, half-teasing look that makes his pulse thud a little harder. Clark’s not sure if you know what you’re doing to him or if you’re just being you, but it’s suddenly too much. Too warm.

Jimmy’s stupid grin flashes in his mind. He can still hear the way your heart had jumped when he appeared, the way you’d flushed—warm and flustered in his hands, but not because of him.

Clark clears his throat and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for you again. “Try not to give yourself a concussion while I’m gone,” he says, trying for light, but it comes out a little too clipped.

You blink. “Gone?”

“Coffee run,” he mutters. “You look like you could use it.”

“Oh. Thanks,” you reply, with that soft, tired smile—like it’s just another small kindness between friends.

And it kills him. Because he doesn’t want to be just friends—not when Jimmy’s grin gets that kind of reaction out of you. He wants that reaction. He wants to be the one who makes you smile, who sets your cheeks on fire, whose presence throws your heartbeat off balance.

By the time he’s back out in the newsroom, his chest is tight and his jaw aches from clenching so hard. Jimmy is laughing with Cat at his desk, and Clark can’t help but picture you grinning at him like that. Laughing like that.

He swallows hard, grabs his jacket, and heads for the elevator before he does something stupid. Like break the sound barrier just to get to your favourite café and back, because apparently, that’s the only way he knows how to compete.

The walk helps. A little. At least enough for him to stop replaying the printer room in his head like it’s a crime scene and he’s looking for evidence of when, exactly, he lost his mind. He forces himself not to rush, because it’s not like you’re going anywhere. Most of the Planet’s staff will be chained to their desks until well after sunset—you included. Then he’ll walk you home like he always does, listening to you rant about something dumb Perry said or the latest atrocity the breakroom coffee has committed. God, he loves your voice when you’re like that—sharp, alive, unfiltered.

It’s pathetic, he knows—just as Jimmy had so graciously pointed out this morning—but Clark couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. Because aside from saving the planet and doing as much good as one man—one Kryptonian—possibly can, he lives for you.

He hasn’t thought much about what he’ll do when you inevitably find someone. Someone who isn’t him. Maybe he’ll move to a red sun planet and sulk until he withers away. Or move to the moon and mope for all eternity. Or, hell, maybe he’ll just swallow a chunk of kryptonite and be done with it.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t think he’d survive it. Losing you to someone else would tear him apart in ways nothing else could. It’s the second-most painful thought in his head—the first being losing you in the other sense. The permanent, irreversible sense. Which is exactly why he should be trying to keep his distance. Why he shouldn’t need you like this, so badly it scares him.

But every time he’s tried to warn you, every time he’s told you that being close to him is too dangerous, you’ve just looked him in the eye and said you don’t care. That you need him.

And God help him, because hearing you say those four little words—I need you, Clark—is enough to bring Superman to his knees. In more ways than one.

“Uh, Clark?” Lois asks, head tilted, one arm holding the elevator doors open. “Plan on moving any time soon?”

Clark blinks, hard, and realises he’s back at the office. In the elevator. Holding your coffee in one hand and a paper bag with two warm pastries in the other.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Daydreaming.”

Lois smirks as she steps aside. “Wonder what about.”

Clark steps out of the elevator and—of course—his eyes go straight to you, all the way across the bullpen. You’re at your desk, typing away with that little furrow between your brows, the one he could sketch from memory.

“I swear you’ve got a sixth sense just for her,” Lois says as she steps into the elevator. “Doesn’t matter where she is—you always know. Like your compass doesn’t point north. It points to her.”

Lois is a journalist, Clark knows that. Words are her weapon. But the truth of them still hits him square in the chest. He doesn’t mind the teasing, but he hates how transparent he is—how anyone can look at him and just see.

“You should just ask her out,” Lois adds lightly. “Put us all out of our misery.”

Before he can find an answer, the elevator doors slide shut and she’s gone—taking her sharp words and knowing smirk with her.

Clark waits a moment, draws a deep, steadying breath, then crosses the newsroom toward you. He can see the exposé you’re working on, the one you’ve ranted about a hundred times, and he can practically feel the focus radiating off you. It almost makes him hesitate—almost.

“Coffee,” he says, placing the cup on your desk. “And pick a pastry. Or we can split them both.”

You flinch slightly before glancing up at him with that dopey, tired grin. Your bottom lip is swollen and raw from chewing on it, and the sight alone makes something stir in his chest—and lower.

“Where’s my coffee?” Jimmy calls, spinning lazily in his chair.

Clark hears it again—your heartbeat, stuttering once before racing fast—and his chest tightens. He doesn’t want to regret getting you this job, but he’s starting to think he might have been better off leaving you at Metropolis Mail. You hated it there, but at least you didn’t have a crush on any of the old, sleazy men you worked with.

“Clark doesn’t like you like he likes me,” you tease, eyes narrowing at Jimmy.

Jimmy snorts. “And you know what? I’m grateful that he doesn’t. Otherwise, we’d have to—”

“Jimmy,” Cat interrupts from across the bullpen, “don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to staple your mouth shut.”

Clark settles at his desk, watching as you reach for the bag of pastries. Your cheeks are still pink—flustered, again—and he can hear your pulse humming too fast.

“Okay, we’re halving these,” you declare. “I’m not choosing between a chocolate croissant and a cinnamon roll.”

He smiles softly as you tear open the bag and flatten it on your desk. You split the croissant, then the cinnamon roll, eyes flicking between the halves before—like always—you pick the smaller pieces for yourself. He knows you do this every time you share food, even when it’s something you love. He’s only asked you about it once, and you’d just shrugged, saying he’s bigger so he gets the bigger piece.

But no matter how many times you do it, it still makes him feel special.

Then—before Clark can even think about standing up to grab his halves of the pastries—you lick your fingers. Slowly. A low hum vibrates from your chest, the sound unexpectedly loud in the unusually quiet newsroom.

Clark’s breath catches. His eyes flick up, locking on to the way you drag your fingers between your lips. It’s a simple gesture—intimate but mundane—except somehow, it’s not. It’s you, and suddenly the air feels charged—thick with something electric, something that has Clark’s body reacting before his brain can catch up.

He shifts in his chair, suddenly aware of how uncomfortably tight his trousers have become.

Jimmy snorts quietly at his desk, barely suppressing a giggle. Even Cat, a little further away, throws Clark a knowing smirk, eyebrows raised like she’s watching a sitcom.

Clark clears his throat, trying to focus on his screen but failing spectacularly. This—this slow, deliberate lick of your fingers—is a distraction he doesn’t want but absolutely can’t resist.

And today is the longest Thursday ever.

- You -

It’s not often you’re at work early, especially on a Friday, but this morning you woke up at six a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. No matter how many times you tossed and turned or fluffed your pillow. So here you are, chewing on the cap of your pen and glaring at the empty desk across from you—Clark’s desk.

He’s not always on time—extracurricular activities and all—which is something you should be used to by now. But you’re not. You still worry every time he’s not where he’s supposed to be, and you know it’s ridiculous, but you just can’t help it.

“Relax,” Jimmy says, startling you as he drops his bag onto his desk. “He’s just late, not dead.”

You shoot him a glare. You want to say you don’t know that, but you also don’t want to put that kind of energy into the universe. So you settle for sticking your tongue out like the mature, well-adjusted adult you are.

Jimmy chuckles. “Seriously, I don’t know how you two keep this up. It’s exhausting.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to your computer, not yet caffeinated enough to have this argument. Again.

“Why won’t you believe me?” he presses. “He’s into you. I know he is. Why would I lie—”

“Would you keep your voice down?” you hiss, brows pulling together. “I don’t need the entire bullpen hearing about my pathetic crush on my best friend slash coworker.”

Jimmy snorts. “But you’re fine with the entire bullpen seeing it?”

Your chair squeaks as you whip around to face him. “What do you mean, see it?”

“The way you two are constantly falling all over each other,” he says, eyebrows raised as he drops into his chair. “I mean, come on. The man brings you coffee—good coffee—twice a day, gets you snacks, picks up your mail, walks you home every night, gives you his jacket when it’s cold or rainy. And newsflash—most friends don’t hold each other by the waist in the printer room.”

Your cheeks go hot, your pulse skipping once before slamming into a frantic rhythm. The memory of Clark’s hands—big, warm, wrapped around your waist like they belonged there—flashes through your mind. The press of his fingers, the solid weight of him so close, the ghost of his breath against your neck. It’s enough to make you squirm, thighs squeezing together as you hope to hell that Jimmy doesn’t notice the way you shift in your seat.

“That’s just… Clark,” you argue. “He’s nice. He was raised well. He’s a gentleman, Jimmy. More than anyone can say about you.”

Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Okay, I’m ignoring that insult because I know you’re just deflecting, and you know I’m right.”

“I know you’re delusional.”

“Why are you so stubborn?”

“Because,” you say, sitting up straighter, “Clark knows I have a crush on him. Okay? He knows. So if he liked me as anything more than a friend, he’d ask me out. But he doesn’t. Obviously. And I’m fine with that.”

Jimmy frowns, leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out. “He knows?”

You nod. “He knows.”

“How do you know he knows?”

Well, that’s… complicated.

You can’t exactly say oh, because I’m pretty sure Superman can hear my heart go feral whenever he so much as looks at me. Or that he can probably see it pounding and feel the heat rushing through your veins. Or—hell—you wouldn’t even be surprised if he’s picked up on other… reactions. Like that first time you saw him in the suit up close. Or the time he came over to help you move furniture wearing just a tank top and shorts, and—okay, you need to stop thinking about that before you pass out in the middle of the newsroom.

“I just know,” you mutter. “Intuition. Or whatever.”

Jimmy groans and tips his head back like he’s talking to the ceiling. “You know, for journalists, the two of you are really bad at using your words.”

You glare at him—eyes narrowed, jaw tight—wishing you could come up with something snarky to snap back with. But you can’t. Your brain is a mess of Clark’s big hands, his broad shoulders in a tank top, and the way that goddamn suit hugs his thick thighs.

So, with a frustrated huff, you turn back to your computer and try to focus on work. You finish your first cup of the Planet’s signature sludge by the time Cat breezes in, giving you a wink and a smile before settling at her desk. Lois is next, muttering to herself as she drops into her chair and starts furiously typing whatever it is she’s afraid she’ll forget.

Your eyes flick up to Clark’s desk every few minutes, and occasionally, you make the mistake of glancing at Jimmy, who is watching you with a very amused grin. He raises his brows, smirking, like he’s daring you to admit that he’s right. You try to ignore him, but after the third look, you can’t stop yourself from scowling and mouthing at him to fuck off, when—

“You’re very late this morning,” Lois says.

Your head whips back toward Clark’s desk—eyes wide, heart thudding—and there he is.

You think you’d be used to him by now. Those bright blue eyes, the unruly curls, the dimples framing those full, stupidly pretty lips. But somehow, every time you see him—which, by the way, is a lot—you feel like you can finally breathe again. Like you’ve been holding your breath without realising it, and now that he’s here, smiling sheepishly and looking perfectly dishevelled, your lungs remember how to work.

“Yeah, I overslept,” he says, voice low and still a little rough with sleep.

Your heart stutters when his gaze lands on you, and it’s moments like this that make you wish you could control your own damn body—because how could he not know? Your entire nervous system launches into full red alert whenever he’s within fifty feet of you. And you know he can see, hear, feel everything.

“Overslept but still had time to pick up coffee?” Jimmy asks, grinning as he swivels in his chair.

Clark’s eyes flick to him, his brows drawing just slightly, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs one of the two coffees he’d set down and steps toward you, holding it out.

Your fingers brush his as you take it—just for a second—but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. His skin is warm, steady, and now yours feels like it’s buzzing. You pull back quickly, your traitorous heart hammering like it’s trying to tell on you.

“Thanks, Kent,” you mutter.

He smiles—soft and quiet, blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses—and you try not to melt. Or stare. Or do anything suspicious, like sigh wistfully and start fanning yourself with a stack of misprints.

“So,” Jimmy says, still grinning and clearly unperturbed, “excited for your date tonight?”

You take a sip of coffee—good coffee—and sigh. “Nope. Cancelled.”

“What?” Cat pops up at her desk, frowning. “Why?”

You shrug. “Apparently something came up.”

Clark raises his brows, but his eyes stay glued to his screen. “Like a prior conviction?”

You give him a flat look. “Funny.”

His gaze flicks up, lips twitching. “I’m just saying. Your taste in men is—”

“Very inconsistent,” Jimmy cuts in, smirking at you.

Your cheeks heat—you know what he’s trying to say—but you ignore him. Your eyes stay locked on Clark. “What’s wrong with a guy who sells hand-forged artisanal blades?”

“Where? From the back of his van?” Clark asks, the corner of his mouth curling. “Nothing wrong with that. Sounds very entrepreneurial.”

You narrow your eyes, running your tongue across your top teeth as you fight back a smile. Because how is it fair that he looks this goddamn cute while mocking you? While teasing you for getting dumped by some knife-collecting ex-con you met on Hinge.

“At least you’re giving Superman the night off,” Steve mutters, appearing beside your desk with a half-eaten bagel and a mug that says World’s Best Grandma.

You turn to him, brows drawn. “Okay, for the last time, I have not been saved by Superman that many times.”

“Um,” Jimmy says, “yeah you have. You’re Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen.”

Lois spins around in her chair. “Yeah, what are we up to now—like, five or six?”

“I thought it was five,” Steve says around a mouthful of bagel.

“Actually,” Cat pipes up, “I think it’s more than that.”

“It’s not that many!” you argue. “I counted last night—it’s only been four.”

Everyone stops, eyes flicking toward you.

There’s a beat of silence.

Lois frowns. Jimmy raises a brow. Cat giggles. And Clark looks... smug.

You blink. “What? What’s everyone looking at?”

“You counted?” Lois asks.

Clark smirks—he actually smirks. “You keep track?”

Your eyes go wide. Your whole face catches fire.

“Oh God,” Jimmy sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve got some weird crush on Superman.”

“No,” you reply, too fast. “What? No, I—obviously not. Why would I—?”

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “That’s real convincing.”

You groan and drop your face into your hands. “I do not have a crush on Superman.”

“Oh, come on,” Cat says brightly. “There’s no shame in it. The guy’s built like a Greek statue and has the jawline of a god.”

“And the thighs,” Steve adds. “Don’t forget the thighs.”

“I’ve never even looked at his thighs,” you lie, still mumbling into your palms.

There are a few snickers. Jimmy mutters something to Steve about, “Thighs? Really, man?” And then—

Clark coughs. Once. Loudly.

You swallow hard and peek through your fingers, just in time to see him lift his coffee to hide a smile.

“Wait,” Lois pipes up, her tone light but undeniably playful, “didn’t you say the other day when we were watching that live feed of him saving those puppies that you needed to go home and take a cold shower?”

Clark chokes. Your heart stops.

He coughs into his fist, turning away slightly like that’ll help disguise the pink creeping up his neck—and the ridiculous grin stretching across his lips.

Jimmy bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, that’s right. I heard that.”

“It was a joke,” you say quickly. “I was joking. And I only said it to Lois—”

Lois grins. “You also said, and I quote, ‘he could break your back and you’d say thank you’.”

Your eyes go wide. Your pulse spikes. You feel like you might faint.

And across from you, Clark is coughing harder.

“Oh no,” Cat gasps, rushing toward him. “Clark, are you okay?”

He’s hunched over now, still trying to hide his face. “I—I’m fine,” he manages. “Just... swallowed wrong.”

“Wow,” Jimmy sighs, leaning back in his chair with a wicked grin. “I guess you don’t really have a type then.”

God. If only he knew.

“It was a joke,” you say again, sharper now. “It was late, we were all mad about staying back, the breaking news started playing and I made a joke to lighten the mood, okay?”

Steve snorts. “Then why are you so defensive?”

Your eyes snap toward him. “Why are you still here?”

He holds his bagel up like a white flag and turns back to his desk.

Then Perry’s voice booms across the newsroom, calling Jimmy into his office, and the buzz of conversation quickly dies. Lois spins back to her desk, Cat returns to her phone, and the bullpen slips back into its usual rhythm—paper rustling, keys tapping, the occasional frustrated sigh from someone fighting a deadline.

With a deep breath, you sit up straighter and try to focus on your inbox. But it’s hard. Because across from you, Clark—apparently recovered from his dramatic coughing fit—is sipping his coffee like nothing happened, eyes fixed on his screen... but there’s something suspiciously smug about the set of his mouth.

When his gaze flicks up to meet yours, you lift an eyebrow. “You good?”

His lips twitch. “Didn’t realise Superman made that kind of impression on you.”

Your breath catches. There’s a spark behind his glasses, barely-there but undeniably real. A little teasing. A little warm. A little dangerous.

You clear your throat and look back to your screen. “I really was joking.”

“I know,” he says softly, but you’re not convinced he means it.

Because for the rest of the morning, his eyes keep finding you. And you can feel it. The weight of his gaze is heavy—too deliberate to ignore—and you can’t help but meet it. Every time. Even when you’re halfway across the newsroom chatting with one of the copy editors, or heading to the breakroom for your third—or fourth—cup of coffee.

By lunchtime, you feel wired. Not from caffeine or overtiredness, but from the way Clark Kent hasn’t let your heart settle all goddamn morning. And if he smirks at you one more time, you’re pretty sure you’re going to go into cardiac arrest.

“You busy?” Perry asks, startling you as he appears beside your desk.

You clear your throat and glance up at him. “Always.”

“Good. Then you’ve got time to help me.”

You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t. You haven’t been here as long as the others, but you’ve pretty much clocked Perry—and when he’s in one of these moods, it’s best not to argue.

“City Council’s pulling the same shit they tried back in ’07, and I need ammo,” he says. “Go find Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign exposé. Should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back. Try not to get lost in there.”

Then he’s gone, and you’re left staring blankly across at Jimmy—who is chuckling and shaking his head.

“Right,” you mutter, pushing up from your chair. “And I’m assuming he means second shelf, far back... in the archives room?”

Jimmy nods. “Yeah. Down the hall, past the printer room, last door on the right.”

“Great. Thanks.”

You tuck your phone into your pocket—just in case you do get lost—and head toward the archives room, without looking back at Clark.

You reach the end of the hall, just as Jimmy had instructed, and push open the last door on the right with a loud creak. It’s dim inside, with no windows and only half of the overhead fluorescents working—some of them flickering ominously. Metal shelving units packed with labelled boxes line the room, everything smelling faintly like dust and yellowed paper.

You take a deep breath—then immediately regret it, coughing softly as you start down the first aisle. Your eyes skim the labels on the boxes, your brain trying to decode whatever terrible filing system is in place. It’s not alphabetical, not by date, not even by section. You can’t make any sense of it—

“It’s chronological.”

You yelp, spinning around just as you reach the end of the aisle.

“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “Why would you sneak up on someone in a creepy room like this?”

Clark chuckles quietly. “I wasn’t sneaking.”

“You didn’t knock.”

“I figured you’d hear me.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

He tilts his head, lips curling, dimples creasing. “Probably because you were muttering to yourself.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to the shelves, trying to ignore the way your pulse is still climbing. “Whatever. It’s not chronological, though. These dates don’t make—”

“Based on when the reporter started the investigation, not publication date,” he says.

Your jaw drops. “You’re kidding?”

He shakes his head, chuckling again. “Nope.”

“Oh my God,” you sigh. “Whoever decided that is evil. Why doesn’t Perry fix it?”

Clark turns toward the shelves and shrugs, his arm brushing yours—just barely—and it takes everything in you not to flinch, or lean in, or breathe weird.

“I think he secretly enjoys torturing us,” he says, glancing sideways. “Plus, who has the time to reorganise the entire archives room?”

Your traitorous eyes drop straight to his mouth, watching his tongue drag across his bottom lip. Your breath stutters. You’re not even standing that close—it’s just too quiet in here. Too dim. And he’s far too pretty to be looking at you like that.

You clear your throat. “Yeah—uh, I guess. I mean, we could volunteer Steve. Not like he does much anyway.”

Clark huffs a laugh. “Hey. Steve does an excellent job of eating other people’s lunches and leaving greasy fingerprints on things.”

“That’s true,” you say with a soft laugh. “I mean, he’s kind of a catch. Don’t you think?”

You turn and continue around the shelves into the next aisle.

Clark follows. “So, Steve is your type then?”

You give him a flat look. “Don’t.”

He presses his lips together to contain whatever smug grin is threatening to break free. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t bring up the goddamn Superman thing,” you say, turning back to the shelves in the hopes that he can’t see the colour crawling into your cheeks. “It was a joke. And Lois… ad-libbed. She made it sound way hornier than what I actually said.”

He lifts a brow, leaning his shoulder against the shelf. “What did you actually say?”

You pull out a box and blow the dust away to read whatever’s scrawled across the top. Not that you’re really paying attention. Your brain is fried—too aware of the huge man standing beside you, watching you with such intensity you feel like his stare could brand your skin.

And, well, it could—technically.

“I said that half of Metropolis is going to need a cold shower after seeing Superman save some puppies,” you lie—through your teeth. “You know, the female half—and gays. I mean, anyone who is attracted to men, really. Because Superman is a man. A big man. And he was saving puppies, so… yeah.”

You peek out the corner of your eye as you pull out another box. He’s full-on grinning now—that cheeky grin he gets when he thinks he’s said something hilarious, or knows he’s winning one of your petty arguments.

“What about the back breaking?” he asks.

You fumble the box in your hands and it falls to the floor, papers scattering everywhere.

That is not something you ever thought you’d hear Clark Kent ask you. And those words—in that voice—have completely short-circuited the connection between your brain and your motor function.

“Shit,” you mutter, dropping to your knees.

Clark crouches beside you and starts gathering the papers just out of your reach.

“I meant—” you start quickly, keeping your eyes on the scattered pages. “The back-breaking thing wasn’t, like... literal. I meant emotionally. You know, like... he could ruin me—anyone, he could ruin anyone… metaphorically.”

He pauses, then glances at you. “Metaphorically?”

“Yeah. Like, Superman, the idea of him, this gorgeous—” you hesitate, almost choking on your words, “objectively gorgeous guy who’s too good to be true. I mean, he could ruin anyone, right?”

Clark frowns. “Right.”

“Besides,” you add quickly, “I have to try and say things that make it seem like I don’t really know Superman because he’s saved me so many goddamn times.”

He chuckles quietly. “That’s just because you’re near him all the time, and he has to get you to safety before all hell breaks loose.”

“Okay,” you mutter, stacking the pages with unnecessary focus, “but you don’t need to mention it in every article you write.”

He shrugs, handing you the papers he’d collected. “Superman likes talking about the people he’s saved.”

“Clark,” you sigh, reaching for the stack of pages.

Your hand brushes his, and your breath catches. You both freeze.

You swear you feel a pulse of heat where your fingers touch—and you know it’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop your heart from thudding, or your skin from flushing. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

And then—

“Hey guys,” Jimmy’s voice cuts through the tension. “I hate to break up whatever’s going on in here, but Perry’s about ready to rip heads off if he doesn’t have those notes soon.”

You jump up so fast you nearly knock another box off the shelf. “Shit, I—um—”

“Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign, right?” Clark asks, his eyes scanning the room.

You know what he’s doing, and it’s at times like this that you’re incredibly grateful for his superhuman abilities.

You nod. “Yep. Perry said they should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back.”

He steps away, walking along the back of the room before disappearing down a far aisle.

Jimmy grins and wriggles his eyebrows like an idiot. “The archives room, huh? Pretty cozy in here. Tall stacks to hide in.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, shoving the box you dropped back onto the shelf.

Clark returns a few seconds later, holding up a file. “Reynolds’ notes, ’07.”

“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “No one can find anything in here except this guy.”

Clark just smiles, and you roll your eyes. Jimmy takes the file, shoots you a cheeky wink—as if he has any clue about what’s going on—and heads back out the door.

You turn to Clark, brows raised, lips twitching. “How do you do it, Clark? How do you find things in this terribly organised filing system?”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Dumb luck?”

“Hm,” you narrow your eyes playfully. “I think you’ve got a secret, Kent.”

You can almost swear you see him blush, but the room is too dark to tell—and you have to look away from his stupidly gorgeous face before you forget how to act like a normal human being.

He doesn’t reply, he just follows you out of the archives room—flicking off the barely-working lights on the way—and up the hall toward the newsroom. You’re just passing the printer room, trying very hard not to think about the way his hands had felt on your waist, when he finally speaks.

“I was thinking,” he says, “movie night tonight, at my place? You know, since your date bailed.”

You glance over your shoulder at him. “Sure you don’t have better things to do on a Friday night?”

“Nah,” he replies with that small smirk—the one that makes your heart stutter. “Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen is giving me the night off.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, for that comment, you’re paying for takeout.”

He chuckles. “I always pay for takeout.”

“Yeah?” You stop just outside the breakroom door. “Well, I’m ordering extra this time.”

“Extra food that I’ll end up eating because you always order too much,” he teases. “Of course. It’s tradition.”

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. “Whatever. I’m still ordering it.”

And then—before he can see just how much he’s affecting you—you slip into the breakroom and let the door fall shut behind you.

You turn, grip the edge of the counter, and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten straight minutes. Because what the fuck is going on? His voice, his smile, his face, his everything—he’s not even trying, and you’re already halfway to a heart attack.

You’ve known Clark for years—you’ve been best friends for years. And yeah, he’s always had… an effect on you. But this? This is something else entirely. Being around him this much is starting to feel dangerous. Like the longer you stay in his orbit, the closer you are to coming undone. Every glance that lingers. Every touch that means too much. Every smile that knocks the air clean out of your lungs. You keep pretending it’s fine—but something has shifted. And whatever it is, it’s getting harder to ignore.

Jimmy’s words echo in your head, and for one traitorous second, you almost believe them. Almost believe that there might be something real behind the way Clark looks at you.

But no. Surely not, right? That’s not how this works. He’s Superman. He saves cities before breakfast. He could have any woman he wanted.

And you? You’re just the friend. The one who gets takeout with him on Friday nights because he feels bad that your date bailed. The one he teases in the bullpen. The one trying not to fall apart every time he gets too close.

You press your palms harder into the counter, as if you can steady yourself with pressure alone. But your heart’s still racing, and your lungs won’t quite fill.

You cannot keep doing this. Not like this.

Because one of these days, you’re going to look at him and forget how to pretend.

You never thought you’d be happy about a hectic Friday afternoon, but today, the distractions are doing a better job than your self-control ever could.

Perry is hell-bent on nailing this latest City Council scandal, and he’s got the entire bullpen scrambling to publish before the end of the day. Cat is helping Jimmy track down incriminating photos, sift through old campaign trail shots, and monitor social media for real-time fallout. Clark’s stuck on the phone with whistleblowers and trying to pin down a statement from any councilmember who’ll take his call. Steve’s out on the street gathering public reaction—loudly complaining the whole time that his Knicks column is getting bumped. And you’re at Lois’s side, helping her fact-check quotes and comb through timelines while she tears through the main exposé like a woman possessed.

It’s chaos—in the best way. Because everyone here does their best work under pressure, with ten empty coffee cups on their desk. And the best part? You’re too busy to risk another lingering moment with Clark. Too distracted to spiral. Too occupied to feel anything.

It’s perfect.

Right up until five p.m., when Perry signs off, Lois hits publish, and everyone starts packing up for the weekend.

“Coming straight over, or are you going home first?” Clark asks, shrugging into his jacket.

From the corner of your eye, you see Jimmy’s head snap toward you—and your cheeks heat immediately.

“I’ll head home first,” you say, trying to keep your voice quiet. “Change into something comfortable before I come over.”

It’s no use though—Jimmy hears everything.

“You know I’ve got a whole drawer of your clothes at my place, right?” Clark says, blue eyes flicking—just briefly—toward Jimmy, who is inching closer on the wheels of his chair.

You let out a small, nervous laugh. “It’s not a whole drawer. Is it?”

“Oh, it is,” Clark replies. “Though I think half of it’s just my old college stuff. Pretty sure you stole more than Ma ever got the chance to donate.”

Jimmy gasps—he actually gasps—like a dramatic little asshole watching his favourite soap opera play out live.

Both you and Clark turn toward him. He’s still sitting in his chair, halfway between his desk and yours, glancing between the two of you with wide eyes. You’re scowling. Clark just looks mildly sceptical.

Then, after a beat, Clark shakes his head and turns back to you. “Anyway. You want me to walk you home?”

“No,” you say—way too fast. “I mean, I’m good. I’ll catch a cab.”

He nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re on your way?”

“Okay,” you echo, giving him a tight smile.

He tucks his chair under his desk, gives Jimmy a polite—but vaguely curious—goodbye as he steps around him, and walks off through the newsroom toward the elevator. You watch after him until the doors slide shut and the numbers above begin to light up as the lift descends.

Then you turn back to Jimmy, who has now scooted right up to your desk. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed like a man who’s just connected the final thread on a conspiracy board.

“You’re pranking me,” he says flatly.

You close your eyes, breathing deeply. “Jimmy, just… don’t.”

“You have a drawer. Of clothes. At his apartment.”

You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand.

“No—no. Don’t talk. I need to process. I’m having, like, a full-on event.”

You frown. “An event?”

“You wear his clothes!” he hisses, loud enough to make your pulse spike. “You hang out at his place constantly. You’re going over tonight, after your date bailed—on a Friday—and you just casually told him you were gonna ‘change into something comfortable’ like that’s not the sexiest sentence ever uttered in this newsroom!”

Your face burns even hotter. “It’s not—I didn’t mean it like—”

He gasps again—loudly. “Do you have a drawer of his clothes at your place? If you say yes, I’m pitching Cat a column on office romance and you two are going to be my lead sources.”

“Well—I mean, yes, but—”

“Oh my God. You’re basically a couple without the sex!”

You scowl. “Jimmy—”

“I’m just saying!” He throws his hands up, wheeling backward like he needs a full-body reset. “You’re over there more than his landlord. You do Friday night takeout. You have drawer rights. He gives you heart-eyes every time you speak. And you’re both still pretending this is all just… platonic?”

You stare at him, mouth dry.

“Please,” Jimmy says, softer now, scooting forward again and leaning his forearms on your desk. “Don’t make me live through an unnecessary slow burn. I’m too young to suffer like this. Just jump him.”

You groan and cover your face with both hands. “Oh my God.”

“You don’t even deny that you want to,” he says, grinning now. “You’re just too scared to actually do it.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “Can you please shut up?”

“Nope,” he says brightly. “I’m way too invested now. I’m not going to shut up until I have proof that you two have finally boned.”

You drop your hands from your face with a sigh and push back from your desk. “Okay,” you mutter. “I’m leaving now.”

Jimmy just watches you—arms crossed, smug as hell, like he knows something you don’t. You pull your jacket on, pack your bag, and sling it over your shoulder.

“Just do yourself a favour,” he says. “Stop pretending this isn’t exactly what it looks like.”

You give him a look. “Jimmy—”

“Trust me,” he says, rolling back toward his desk. “You don’t end up with a drawer at someone’s place and standing Friday night plans by accident.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure it’s not,” he chuckles.

You huff and hitch your bag higher. “I’m leaving now.”

He turns to face his screen, still grinning. “Have fun, and don’t be shy. You might be… surprised.”

You stand frozen for a second—heart pounding, thoughts tripping over themselves—then spin on your heel and walk away before you can say something you’ll regret. Before Jimmy’s cryptic nonsense makes your brain explode.

He’s just messing with you, obviously—he’s teasing, making things up. Because there’s no way a drawer and some clothes and a Friday night movie night means anything more than friendship.

Right?

It’s just takeout. Just TV. Just Clark.

You jab the elevator button harder than necessary, tapping your foot impatiently while you wait for the doors to open. The second they do, you slip inside and start digging through your bag for your headphones. You need distraction—a podcast, an audiobook, something. Anything to stop thinking about Clark fucking Kent before you’re sitting beside him on the couch.

A breath apart. Bodies warm. Pulse thrumming.

God. You are so monumentally screwed.

As soon as you get home, you head straight for the shower, hoping the hot water might help rinse away all your spiralling thoughts. You take your time washing your hair—twice—and exfoliating everything before simply standing under the spray, trying to remember how to breathe. How to be human. How to stop over-analysing every little thing Clark has ever done for you.

Curse Jimmy Olsen and his stupidly smug words and overly supportive encouragements.

By the time you step out, you smell like coconut, vanilla, and just a hint of panic. You quickly dry off before picking out a soft pair of sweats and your favourite movie night hoodie. Then you open your underwear drawer—and pause.

You stare at the unorganised mess of cotton and lace for almost two full minutes.

It’d be ridiculous to put on something cute. Right? This is just movie night. With Clark. The same Clark who’s seen you eat popcorn off your hoodie while ugly crying over Marley & Me. There is absolutely no reason to wear something small or uncomfortable or even remotely pretty.

Tonight isn’t special. Nothing is going to happen.

But then Jimmy’s stupid voice echoes through your head, making everything feel a little less certain.

“Ugh. Fine,” you mutter, grabbing a pair that could generously be described as a little nicer than usual.

They’re not scandalous—or over the top—just better than the ones you wouldn’t want found on your body if you got hit by a bus. Which, honestly, is a pretty low bar, but whatever.

After getting dressed, you quickly pack your bag—keys, wallet, snacks—and slip on the first pair of shoes you can find before heading out the door.

You’re halfway across the lobby when your phone buzzes with a text—from Clark:

Something came up. Spare key is under the mat. Won’t be late.

Before you can question it, a breaking news alert flashes across your screen:

BREAKING: Robot Attack in Downtown Metropolis

Authorities are responding to a violent incident involving an unidentified mechanical threat near the 6th & Hadley tech district. Witnesses report strange gas emissions and widespread damage. Superman has been spotted at the scene. Officials urge residents to avoid the area until further notice. More to come.

You quickly hail a cab, fall into the backseat, and bring up the live feed of the attack downtown. There’s not much to see from the helicopter camera—just the blur of scattered civilians, crumbling storefronts, and a distant flash of red and blue cutting through the smoke.

Your chest tightens. Your heart starts pounding harder. You know he’s Superman, and he literally does this kind of thing at least twice a week—but still, every single time, you worry.

What if this is the one time things go wrong?

What if this is the time he doesn’t get back up?

What if you lose him before you ever get the chance to tell him how you feel?

Thankfully, you don’t live far from Clark, and it isn’t long before the cab pulls up just outside his apartment building. You pay the driver, slip out, and hitch your bag higher on your shoulder as you approach the front door.

You’re here so often that the lobby staff don’t even bat an eye as you walk past. You slip into the elevator, ride it up, and walk the hallway like you know this building better than your own. Then you stop at his door, lift the welcome mat, and spot the little silver key that had been tucked beneath it.

Of course Clark Kent is naive enough to leave a key under the mat—like that’s not the first place a burglar would look. He’s lucky he doesn’t live in Gotham. You know for a fact he’d have been robbed at least once by now—probably more.

You step inside and try not to breathe in too deeply like a total creep, but it’s hard not to when the whole place smells like him—familiar and clean, with the faint, crisp edge of cold air from his frequent trips to the Antarctic.

You kick your shoes off, drop your bag on the kitchen counter, and head into the lounge room to flick on the TV. You settle on the couch and flip through channels until live news coverage of the attack pops up.

“We’re receiving confirmation that the area has now been cleared of civilians, and that Superman has successfully neutralised the mechanical threat responsible for tonight's attack,” the female news anchor reports.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding.

“Authorities remain on the scene, working to identify the strange gas released during the incident. While it appears to be non-lethal, several sources—including a spokesperson from the fire department—have confirmed that individuals exposed to the gas are experiencing some unusual side effects.”

You lean forward, the curious journalist in you coming to life.

“In what can only be described as one of the stranger developments this year, witnesses and responders alike seem to be... unable to lie. More than that, they’re being compelled to speak—blurt out personal details, opinions, even long-held secrets.”

You frown. “Like... a truth serum?”

“We now go live to Darren McMillan, reporting live from the scene. Darren—what more can you tell us?”

The feed cuts to a man in a plain surgical mask—which you doubt is doing anything—standing outside a half-burnt bakery.

“Thanks, Elsie. I’m just outside the perimeter, where hazmat teams and emergency services are still assessing the area. The good news is, no major injuries have been reported. And while the gas remains unidentified, officials say there’s currently no evidence of toxicity or long-term danger.”

The camera pans out slightly.

“That said, the psychological effects are harder to pin down. One first responder told me he hasn’t been able to stop talking about his childhood hamster for twenty straight minutes. Another admitted—without prompting—that he once embezzled over four thousand dollars from his mother-in-law. And personally, I—uh—”

The reporter freezes, eyes wide as he makes uncomfortably direct eye contact with the camera.

“—I think I might be in love with my barista. Also, I’ve been cheating on my girlfriend with someone from accounting.”

There's a split-second of stunned silence, then the camera wobbles—and the feed cuts back to the studio.

“We... seem to have lost Darren for the moment,” the anchor says awkwardly. “We’ll continue following this story as it develops. In the meantime, residents are advised to avoid the area until the all-clear has been given.”

You snort a laugh as you push off the couch and wander back into the kitchen. You reach for a wine glass from one of the higher cupboards, then spot a bottle of red sitting by the stove—Clark might be immune to alcohol, but he always keeps a bottle around just for you.

You crack the lid and start to pour—only to somehow misjudge the angle and splash red wine all over your hoodie and down the front of your sweats.

“Shit,” you mutter, quickly setting the bottle back down on the bench.

With a sigh, you peel off your hoodie and make your way toward Clark’s bedroom, ignoring the way your heart does that annoying little flutter when you step inside—even though you’ve been in here a hundred times before.

You go straight to the second-top drawer of his dresser, where he keeps the clothes you usually wear, and grab a pair of old sleep shorts and a threadbare Metropolis University shirt—both clearly his. He wasn’t kidding when he said you’d stolen most of his college wardrobe.

You change quickly and throw your wine-stained clothes into the hamper by the door on your way out. You know he won’t mind. He never does. Then back in the kitchen, you mop up the spilt wine before pouring yourself a generous glass and leaning back against the counter to scroll through your phone.

You’re mid-sip when you hear the soft thud of feet on the balcony.

You glance up, heart hammering, and see Clark step inside. His face and suit are streaked with ash, hair wind-tousled, eyes dark and unreadable. He’s looked better, but he’s definitely looked worse—and for the first time since that breaking news alert popped up on your phone, you feel like you can breathe again.

“Clark,” you say, stepping forward. “Are you—”

“Wait,” he says—not loud, but firm.

You freeze.

He takes a breath, jaw tense. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You blink. “What? But you told me to—”

“I mean,” he says quickly, “it’s not that I don’t want you—” He cuts himself off, mouth twitching like the words are fighting their way out. “It’s... not advisable.”

“Clark,” you say slowly, “are you okay?”

He nods—then immediately shakes his head.

“Are you hurt?” you ask, setting your wine down on the counter.

“No,” he replies. “But the gas—the stuff from the attack—it has... some kind of neurological effect. I don’t know how long it’ll last.”

Your brows lift. “Wait... it affected you too? But you’re—”

“I know,” he says with a small, strained smile. “I’m trying to fight it.”

“Oh. So,” you step forward, lips twitching, “you’re telling me you can’t lie right now?”

He nods again. “Yes, but it—it’s more than that. I—” His voice catches, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I want to say things. I want to just blurt everything out.”

Any trace of amusement falls from your face, and your eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. Like—you feel like you’re just going to fly out there and tell the world that Clark Kent is Superman?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Not exactly what I’m worried about—”

“Wait,” you cut him off. “Okay, first, we need to lock the doors. I know you’re you, so it doesn’t make much of a difference, but I’ll still feel better if they’re locked, okay?”

You don’t wait for him to reply—you just start moving through the apartment, slamming shut every window, locking the balcony door, then the front door, and double-checking each one. Twice.

When you return, he’s still standing exactly where you left him—caught between the lounge room and the kitchen, jaw tight, shoulders stiff.

“I swear I’m going to do everything I can to help you,” you say, your hands starting to tremble. “I know I can’t actually stop you from flying through the window, but—I’ll try.”

He lets out another soft laugh, low and a little tense. “I’m not going to—”

“How do we get this out of your system?” you ask, stepping in close and crossing your arms over your chest.

Clark opens his mouth—then hesitates. His eyes flick down, and his brow furrows, like he’s only just noticed what you’re wearing.

“That’s—um. That’s my shirt.”

You glance down. “Oh. Yeah. I spilled wine on mine.”

He nods, slowly, jaw clenched like he’s physically holding back the rest of the words—but then his eyes drop lower, and his voice slips out before he can stop it. “You look good in my clothes.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

He visibly winces, because he definitely hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I mean—you always wear my stuff, I know that, I just—” He stops and takes a deep breath. “Forget I said anything.”

You take a step back, flustered, hoping he’s too distracted to notice the heat creeping up your neck. “Okay. Um. What do you need? Should you eat something? Try to sweat it out? Or—I don’t know, take a cold shower?”

He doesn’t answer. He just keeps standing there, stiff and quiet, like if he says even one word, the rest might follow whether he wants them to or not.

Your arms fall to your sides as you let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Well... at least we don’t have any secrets.”

Clark huffs—one breath, sharp and low. “Just one,” he mutters.

You blink. “What?”

But he’s already turning away, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m gonna take that shower.”

And then he disappears into his room without another word, leaving you dazed, confused, and—yeah—a little horny after seeing him in that goddamn suit.

As soon as you hear the shower start running, you turn and scull the rest of your wine—wincing as it burns your throat. You set the glass back down on the counter with a soft clink, then brace your palms against the cool marble and draw a few deep breaths, trying to stop your thoughts from spiralling.

Just one.

Just... one?

What does that even mean? What kind of secret? Something big? Something small? Something life-ruining? Oh God—what if it’s something serious? What if he’s dying? Or secretly married? Or, like, used to be evil?

You groan and drop your forehead to the counter.

No. You need to stop. This is ridiculous.

It’s normal to have secrets. Everyone has things they keep to themselves. That doesn’t make it shady—or bad—or dangerous. It’s probably just something awkward. Or embarrassing. Or, knowing Clark, so deeply uncool that it makes him cringe to even think about it.

Yeah, that’s it. That’s definitely it.

He’s not dying or secretly married or evil—he’s just Clark.

And he doesn’t owe you everything. He doesn’t even owe you anything.

You’re lucky to have as much of him as you do. You don’t need to know every little thing. Besides—he’s got a secret. So do you. And despite Jimmy’s encouragement, you’re pretty damn sure you’re never going to tell him.

Okay. You need to stop freaking out.

You need to focus on helping Clark through whatever this is before he accidentally tells all of Metropolis that he’s Superman. You need to find a way to flush this toxin—or whatever it is—out of his system.

And if you can’t do that?

Then you need to distract him until it wears off.

By the time Clark’s bedroom door cracks open, you’re back on the couch. The news is still playing, volume low now. The anchor is saying something about clean-up efforts and eyewitness accounts—but you’re not listening. You can’t. Not when Clark Kent is walking toward you in a pair of low-slung dark blue sweats while he’s halfway to pulling a shirt over his head.

It’s not like you’ve never seen him shirtless before—you have, occasionally. When you went to the beach together. During that horrible June heatwave. That time he spilled hot soup on himself.

But still. Seeing him like this, fresh from the shower, curls damp and clinging to his forehead—it hits different. It makes your breath hitch, your skin flush, and that spot behind your hipbones ache.

“Hey,” you say quietly. “Feeling better?”

“I feel cleaner,” he mutters, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch—as far from you as it’ll allow.

You swallow hard and shift a little, turning more toward him than the TV.

“Okay,” you start, “first—I just want to say, I totally respect you having secrets. It’s normal. I mean, Lois and Jimmy are always joking that we’re too close, but we still have things we keep to ourselves. Not full-on secrets, but—like—it’d be weird if we knew every single thing about each other, right? No—wait, that’s not a question.” You let out an awkward laugh. “I swear I’m going to respect your privacy. I’m not going to ask any questions you don’t want to answer. And I’m sorry—I know I’m rambling. But—” you take a breath “—I was thinking, if you can’t just sweat it out or whatever, then we need to keep you distracted. Stop you from flying out there and announcing your secret identity to half the city. So… what if we just talk? Anything. Everything. No secrets. Just... stuff I might not know. Like—I don’t know—when did you first figure out you could fly?”

Clark just stares at you for a moment—unblinking, brows raised, the slightest twitch pulling at the corner of his lips. He looks a little less wrecked than he did earlier, a little amused, and there’s something else in his eyes you can’t quite place. A look you only catch sometimes—fleeting, private—one he’s usually quick to hide.

But not tonight.

“Uh,” he says eventually, voice a little hoarse. “Okay. Flying was… weird. At first.”

You tilt your head. “So, you just—what? Floated off the ground one day?”

“Pretty much,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was in high school. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Hard to say—everything was happening at once.”

You snort softly. “Puberty was a little rougher on you, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “It was.”

“Do you know what triggered it?”

“The microwave,” he mutters.

Your brows rise. “The microwave?”

“It kept burning my popcorn.” His expression turns sheepish. “I yelled at it and then, next thing I knew, I was on the ceiling. Ma screamed so loud I thought I’d broken something. Which—I did. I crashed into the dining room light trying to get down.”

You bite your lip to hide your grin. “That’s actually adorable.”

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m pretty sure I cried. I, uh… cried a lot back then.”

Your throat tightens and that soft ache in your chest sharpens. “Clark.”

“No, really. I was a very emotional child. Also, kind of flammable,” he says with a tight smile. “The heat vision was a nightmare. Powers come first, control comes later.”

“Oh my God.”

“There’s a reason I was homeschooled for two years.” He pauses, his smile softening. “Well. That, and I had a crush on my tenth-grade teacher and Ma said I was dangerously distracted.”

You laugh again—quietly—and drop your eyes to your lap, hoping Clark doesn’t notice the way your body flushes with heat. Because seriously, who gets jealous of their best friend admitting he had a crush on his teacher over a decade ago?

“Okay,” you say, eyes flicking back up. “This is good. Is it working?”

“Yeah,” he says. “A little.”

“Good. Next question, then.”

He lets out a low, quiet laugh and leans back, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Alright. Hit me.”

You clear your throat, shifting to face him more fully. “What do you think about when you’re flying? Just flying—not in the middle of a fight or racing back to your fortress to heal. Just... in the air.”

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Closes it. Opens it again. His expression twists, jaw tightening like he’s trying to hold it in—like whatever he’s trying not to say is fighting its way out.

You open your mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to answer when—

“You,” he says, voice strained.

You blink. “What?”

“And—and my parents,” he adds quickly. “When I can see Kansas. I think about work, too. A lot of things. But I think about you a—” He cuts himself off, hands curling into fists in his lap, brows furrowing. “I think about you a lot.”

Your breath catches. The room feels suddenly very, very still. Your pulse is loud in your ears—too loud—drowning out the sound of the TV and your own uneven breathing.

He thinks about you. A lot.

What does that even mean—and what the hell are you supposed to do with it?

“Ask me another question,” he says abruptly, almost desperate. “Please.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Just—change the subject. Anything else.”

You panic. Your thoughts scatter. Your mouth opens, closes—opens again, and then—God help you—you blurt out the first thing that hits your tongue.

“Are you a virgin?”

Clark makes a sound halfway between a cough and a gasp. “What?”

“I don’t know!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. “I panicked! And—and I’m just curious because... you’re Clark. I mean, you’re so kind, and sweet, and polite—and you’ve never even had a real girlfriend the whole time we’ve been friends, so I just—”

“Yeah,” he mutters, tone dry. “Funny, that.”

You frown, heat creeping up your neck. You want to ask what the hell he means by that—but you know you can't. Not right now.

“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” you say instead, softer now. “I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s a thought I’ve had for a while, and it sort of just... slipped out.”

“No,” he says, voice steady. “I’m not a virgin.”

You nod, lips parting like you might say something—maybe to apologise again, maybe to change the subject—but nothing comes out. Your brain short-circuits. You feel warm all over. Too warm.

Clark clears his throat. “Still trying to distract me?”

“Yeah—” you reply, blinking fast. “Yes. Of course.”

He gives you a lopsided smile—shy, but trying. “Then ask another question.”

You hesitate, voice catching as your conscience flares to life. He seems almost normal now—still a little flushed, a little off—but mostly back to himself. Maybe his metabolism is quickly burning off the effects of the gas. Maybe he’s not feeling so compelled anymore.

Maybe you should take advantage of this while you still can.

No secrets. Just one question. The one that’s been burning a hole in your chest for years.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Have you ever been in love?”

The second the words leave your mouth, you want to take them back. Clark stiffens—not in a sharp, startled way, but more like someone trying to hold back a shiver.

“Yes,” he says, immediately—because he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.

Your mouth goes dry. You want to ask who, but you’re not sure you could survive the answer.

“What about you?” he asks.

Your breath catches. “Me?”

He nods.

“I—I’m not the one in the hot seat right now, I—”

“Is it Jimmy?”

Your eyes go wide. “What?”

“Are you in love with Jimmy?” he presses, brows pulling tight.

You just stare at him, stunned, voice caught somewhere in your chest as your brain struggles to catch up.

“It’s fine,” he says, gaze dropping to his lap. “I get it. You spend a lot of time with him. You’re always talking about him. He makes you laugh. Your pulse goes crazy whenever—”

“Clark,” you cut in, sharper than you mean to be. “I’m not—what? No. I’m not in love with Jimmy.”

Clark blinks at your denial like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like maybe he wants to—but can’t.

“Wait,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes. “You said—my pulse. You listen to my pulse?”

He tilts his head. “I can’t really help—”

You frown. “I know you can hear it, Clark, but I’m asking if you actively listen to it.”

“Yes,” he mutters—even though it’s obvious he didn’t want to say it.

Your cheeks burn. “How often?”

“I don’t know.” He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Some—most of the time.”

You blink. “What? So you just... tune in? Like I’m a podcast or something?”

He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”

“No,” you fire back. “I’m not stopping. Because you just accused me of being in love with Jimmy fucking Olsen. And then you admitted you listen to my pulse like it’s your own personal metronome. And before—” You stop, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. “Before, you told me I looked good in your clothes. Clark, I’ve been wearing your clothes since college, and you’ve never said that to me.”

He meets your stare—eyes wild, jaw tight, brows drawn. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. And maybe that’s exactly what you need him to do.

“I know we’ve always been close, but—but working together—” Your voice shakes. “It’s different now. We’re too close. Something’s shifted, and I don’t know what. Yesterday in the printer room. Today in the archives. You’re acting weird. I’m acting weird. Everything is weird. And now, somehow, you think I’m in love with Jimmy?”

“Your heart beats like crazy whenever he’s around,” he says, the words falling out fast, like he’s been holding them in for too long. “You—your whole body flushes. Your hands start trembling. I can see it, hear it, feel every reaction you have when he’s around and it—it—” He cuts himself off, raking a hand through his still-damp curls.

You watch him for a beat—heart racing, skin burning. The silence stretches between you, taut and heavy. It feels like the same tension that clung to the air in the printer room. And in the archives. Palpable. Suffocating.

“Jimmy?” you say softly. “Whenever I’m around... Jimmy?”

He nods, stiff and careful. Like opening his mouth might let too much out again.

You take a deep breath, shifting a little closer on the couch. “Then tell me, Clark…” Your voice drops, quieter now. “What am I feeling right now?”

His eyes flit over your face, searching. You watch him track your expression, the set of your mouth, the line of your shoulders. Like he’s trying to solve you. Like he already knows—but doesn’t understand.

“You’re... flushed,” he says first, voice low. “Your skin’s hot. Your pupils are huge. You’re... you’re breathing hard.”

He swallows, brow furrowing in concentration.

“You shifted closer, too. You do that when you’re comfortable, or—or trying to be comforting, but—” His gaze flickers downward. “Your hands are shaking.”

You don’t answer. You just watch him. Let him keep going.

“I can hear your pulse in your throat,” he says, eyes there now. “It jumped the second I started talking. And it hasn’t slowed down. Not even now.”

He shifts, clearly flustered, and you swear his gaze flicks to your mouth before he catches himself and looks away—back to your lap, your hands, your shoulders. Anywhere but your eyes.

“I—I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says finally, and he sounds so lost—so completely confused—you almost feel bad. “I know what your body’s doing, but I don’t know what it means.”

You blink at him. “You really don’t?”

He exhales, voice dropping low. “I don’t want to get it wrong.”

That’s it. That’s all it takes for your last thread of patience to snap. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—your whole body humming, trembling—and still, he just sits there blinking at you like he’s never once considered the most obvious thing in the world.

“God,” you mutter, pushing to your feet with a frustrated huff. “Clark—it’s you. It’s not Jimmy, it’s not even Superman. It’s you. I react like this around you.”

His eyes widen—just slightly. He blinks up at you—once, twice—like his brain is buffering, trying to reboot.

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “I cannot believe after all these years, you’ve only just figured it out. And you thought it was because of Jimmy?” You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut to keep the emotion from spilling over. “I thought you fucking knew.”

“You thought I knew?” he asks, his voice low, rough—a little wrecked.

You look at him again, expression tight. “Yes, Clark. I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious—because every time you look at me, my heart races and my whole body gets hot and—Jesus Christ. It doesn’t even matter, okay? You’re you, and I’m me, and none of this makes sense, so just forget it.”

You move past him—but his hand catches yours before you can get too far. It’s gentle, but there’s tension in it.

You freeze.

“Wait,” he breathes. “Please.”

You take a breath—but before you can fully turn around, he tugs. Hard.

Suddenly you’re off balance—caught, pulled, guided down into his lap like gravity made the decision for you. Your knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs, your hands braced against his chest, and the space between you disappears.

Your breath catches. His does too.

You’re so close you can feel the shape of his next exhale against your lips. His hands hover at your waist like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you.

“I’m not lying,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that matters. “I mean—I can’t. I just… I never thought you could feel that way about me. Never even considered it. Not after all these years. Not until thirty seconds ago when you told me—because I’m an idiot.”

For a moment, he just stares at you—like he can’t quite believe that you’re real. That you’re here, straddling his lap, flushed and breathless and saying all the things he never let himself hope to hear.

And then—

He grins.

Not the awkward, bashful one you’ve seen a hundred times before. Not the polite press of lips he gives strangers on the street or the sheepish half-smile he shoots you across the bullpen when you catch him watching you.

This one is brighter. Slower. Wider. It blooms across his face like a sunrise—like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time and can’t quite handle it. His eyes crinkle at the corners, blue as heaven, and the dimples in cheeks deepen in a way that makes your stomach flip. It’s the kind of smile that punches you in the gut. The kind that says you are everything.

It steals the breath from your lungs.

You don’t even realise you’re leaning in until his hands finally cradle your waist—steady, warm, reverent.

“Can I—?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

But you’re already nodding. Already closing the gap.

And then he kisses you.

It starts soft—tentative, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. But it only takes a second for instinct to take over. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you in closer, tighter. His mouth moves with yours like he’s learning, adjusting, finding his confidence with every brush of lips, every quiet breath shared between you.

You feel him exhale through his nose—shaky, relieved—like he’s never been this close to peace before. Then his hands glide up your sides and back down again, broad and warm and possessive. The kiss deepens. The tension that’s been wound tight between you for years finally begins to unravel.

His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, and you open for him without hesitation. A soft moan breaks from you—and a ragged one answers from him. He kisses you harder, needier. His fingers flex at your hips, anchoring you, dragging you impossibly closer.

“I used to dream about this,” he breathes against your mouth. “Every night. You. This. Just… you.”

You whimper—actually whimper—and grind down against him before you can stop yourself, chasing the pressure, his voice, his hands, him.

He groans—loud and helpless—his grip tightening until you gasp.

He pulls back, just barely, his lips parted and kiss-bruised. His eyes scan yours like he’s checking for damage, guilt flooding in.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, breath hot against your cheek. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Clark.” You cup his jaw. “Tell me what you want.”

He stills beneath you, swallowing hard.

Your voice drops. “The truth. Say it.”

His breath catches—your thighs tight around him, your chest rising and falling against his. His fingers dig in again.

“I want…” His voice cracks. “I want you to stay right here. I want to kiss you. I want to feel you—all of you. I want you to keep grinding on me just like—”

You do—grinding down, slow and precise.

He groans—chokes on it—his head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “Gosh.”

You lean in, lips brushing the line of his jaw. “What else?”

“I want to touch you,” he breathes, helpless. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want—”

You press your hips down again.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Tell me.”

He looks at you—eyes blown wide, voice nothing but want. “I want to fuck you.”

You gasp, your mouth falling open in stunned silence.

Clark Kent just said a bad word.

Your brain stalls. It short-circuits. You blink down at him, lips parted, heartbeat pounding somewhere in your throat. In all your years of friendship, you’ve never heard him swear. You’ve barely heard him curse—maybe the odd Jesus Christ or damn it—but a full-on fuck just fell from those perfect, full lips.

“Did you just say… fuck?”

His cheeks turn pink—he actually blushes—and he ducks his head with a low groan, hiding his face against your neck like he might disappear into your skin. You feel the grin spreading slowly across your throat before his lips press there—soft and reverent, trailing heat as he speaks again.

“I—” He lets out a breathless, choked laugh. “I can’t lie right now. It’s not fair.”

You bite back a grin, drunk on the heat of him. “Are you accusing me of taking advantage of you, Kent?”

His mouth finds your neck again—slow and sure, like a secret—and he hums against your skin. “You’re absolutely taking advantage.”

You laugh—quiet and shaky—and curl your fingers into his hair, gently tugging until he looks up at you again. His eyes are blown wide, dark with need, but still soft around the edges—Clark, always Clark.

And you love him for it.

You want him for it.

You need him.

“Come on, then,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Show me what you’ve been holding back, farm boy.”

His breath catches. His hands tighten at your hips.

“You sure?”

You barely have time to answer before his hands slip lower—and then he’s moving. Effortless. Strong. He rises to his feet with you in his arms like it’s nothing, like you weigh nothing at all.

You yelp, startled, arms flying around his shoulders. “Clark!”

He grins again—that Clark Kent grin—bright and wide and unfairly charming, even with kiss-swollen lips and pupils so blown you can barely see the blue. “I thought you liked being carried by Superman.”

You narrow your eyes. “Do not start.”

His smile only widens as he carries you toward his bedroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What? I think it’s cute that you have a crush.”

Your mouth drops open in mock outrage. “I told you that was a joke.”

“Oh, come on.” He’s laughing now—full and warm—and you hate how much you love it. “What was it you said? That he could break your back and you’d say thank you?”

You slap his shoulder. “I cannot believe you’re bringing that up right now.”

He just shrugs, eyes sparkling. “You said it. In front of several witnesses.”

“You’re the worst.”

“And you,” he murmurs, voice dipping low as he nudges the bedroom door open with one foot, “have been in love with me this whole time.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. He’s still grinning—but it softens the second he lays you down, slow and careful, like you’re something priceless. Then he settles between your legs.

Your breath catches at the sight of him. On top of you. And then—

“Favourite colour?” you blurt, just to feel steady again—just to see if he still can’t lie.

He blinks. “Blue.”

“First thing you ever noticed about me?”

“Your laugh.”

“What’s your biggest fantasy?”

He groans. “You. In this bed. Right now. Can you—can you not?”

You smirk. “Ever jerk off thinking about me?”

He flushes scarlet. “Yes. Obviously.”

“Say something filthy.”

He makes a strangled sound, then mutters, “I want to come with your thighs around my head.”

You blink, stunned—and a little breathless.

He groans again and buries his face in your neck. “Stop taking advantage of me,” he mumbles against your skin.

You laugh—helpless, delighted. “I literally can’t. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

His mouth finds the curve of your throat again—hot, open-mouthed, worshipful—and his hands tighten where they’re splayed across your hips. The teasing slips, melts away, becomes something quieter. Something serious.

“I mean it,” he whispers, lifting his head, his gaze burning into yours. “I want you. Not just right now. I want you. Forever.”

The words hang in the air between you, soft and searing, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him—this man, this impossibly good man—whose weight is pressed heavy and solid between your thighs like he belongs there.

Because he does. He always has.

Your fingers slide up his neck, into his hair, pulling him down again until his mouth finds yours—hot and slow, like he means to burn the shape of it into his memory. His body moves with yours, a slow, rolling grind of heat and muscle and want. There’s no rush in it. Just need.

He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime. Like he’s going to spend the rest of it making up for lost time.

When he breaks away, it’s only to press his lips to your cheek, your jaw, the hinge of it, then lower—trailing kisses to your throat like he’s tasting every inch, like he’s been starving for it. For you.

“I used to lie right here and imagine this,” he breathes, voice cracked and close, hot against your skin. “You. Under me. Wanting me.”

You gasp when his teeth graze your pulse, when he suckles gently at the spot. Then he soothes it with his tongue and lifts his head—eyes dark, full of heat and something more dangerous now. Something utterly undone.

“I have to get you ready for me,” he says softly, almost apologetic—but his hands are already moving, slow and sure, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Your breath stutters. Your thighs squeeze tighter around his hips.

God, Clark Kent is going to ruin you.

“Take your time,” you whisper, voice barely there. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiles—something small, crooked, adoring. And then he leans down, kissing you again, deeper this time, while his hands begin to explore.

He pushes your shirt up inch by inch, his palms dragging over your ribs, your sides—careful and reverent, like he’s learning, memorising, all of it. Like this is something sacred. His breath hitches when he bares your chest—and the lacy, nothing bra you’re wearing—and for a second he just stares, like he just can't believe you’re real.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Gosh, you’re—”

You pull him back down to kiss you, fingers fisting in his hair, and he moans into your mouth as your hips rock up, seeking friction. His hands bracket your ribs, firm and warm, steadying you—grounding you—and when he pulls back again, it’s just far enough to press his lips to the centre of your chest.

“I want to make you feel so good,” he says, kissing lower. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want to watch your face when you come.”

You shudder, eyes fluttering closed.

“And I want—” He kisses your sternum. “To take my time.” Another kiss, lower. “So slow you beg.” One more, right above the waistband of your underwear. “So deep you scream.”

You gasp, your whole body arching up into his mouth—and he smiles against your skin, sweet and filthy and so, so in love it makes your head spin.

One of his hands slides under your thigh, lifting it gently, while the other tugs your shorts—his shorts—and panties down with aching care. He kisses the inside of your knee. Then the top of your thigh. Then a little higher.

You can barely breathe.

When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up—blue eyes blown dark but still so brilliantly, impossibly Clark—and the heat in them nearly knocks the wind out of you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. The only thing he’s ever needed.

“Okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.

You nod—frantic. “Yes. God, yes.”

And then he lowers his mouth to you.

You cry out, fingers flying to his hair, hips jerking before you can stop yourself. His tongue moves slow at first, like he’s savouring the taste, mapping you out, learning every reaction. You feel his groan vibrate against you—feel the subtle roll of his hips into the mattress, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

Holy shit.

Clark Kent is between your legs. Clark Kent is making you feel like this. You can barely comprehend it. You’d laugh if you weren’t already half-shaking.

He hums again when you tug at his hair. His hands tighten on your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he needs you to stay still so he doesn’t lose control. You can feel it now—just beneath the surface—something wild and aching in him, restrained only by the thinnest, fraying thread.

And when you look down again, his eyes are still on you—bright blue, locked with yours, so full of hunger and wonder and want that you can’t breathe around it.

“Clark,” you whisper, almost a prayer.

His eyes flutter shut. He groans into you like the sound of his name on your lips might be his ultimate undoing.

And then he starts to really eat.

There’s no other word for it—he devours you. All soft lips and filthy tongue and low, guttural sounds that vibrate straight through you. His hands are everywhere—steadying you, spreading you open, holding you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You feel like you might pass out. Like your whole body has been waiting years for this—desperate, unsatisfied, quietly starving—and suddenly it’s too much. He’s too much. Too strong, too good, too fucking Clark.

You’re gasping his name on a loop, tugging at his hair, barely holding on—and then you feel it—the sharp, sudden snap of your bra giving way.

You startle. “Did you—?”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters against your cunt, voice rough with need. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

And then he’s back at it, moaning into you like he needs this more than the goddamn sun. Like he might die without it.

Your head tips back, a choked sound leaving your throat. You’ve pictured this. A thousand times. In a hundred different ways. But your imagination was subpar at best—because nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the reality of Clark Kent between your legs.

Those bright blue eyes flicker up at you—needy, glassy, reverent—and the second your gaze locks, he groans again, fucking into you with his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you. The sight of him like this—desperate and devout—makes you shudder.

And then he gives you more.

One of those impossibly large hands curves up over your chest, thumb brushing your nipple, and the other slides between your legs—slow and careful, but sure. His fingers are thick, coaxing, stretching you open with gentle precision, and the pressure of them alongside his tongue makes you keen, hips lifting helplessly into the rhythm he sets.

“You feel…” he breaks off, voice muffled against you, breath ragged. “You feel so good. You’re so perfect.”

You can barely think. His mouth is relentless, his fingers maddening, and he’s everywhere—too much and not enough all at once. He groans again, this time deeper, more desperate, like he’s unravelling by the second.

“You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the words slipping out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried. “I need you to be ready for me. I—I’m trying to take my time, I swear—”

He’s losing it. You can feel it in the way his hand tightens on your breast, in the way his hips grind slowly down against the mattress, seeking friction. Superman, falling apart. Big, strong, godlike Clark Kent on his knees for you, coming more and more undone with every breathless moan you make.

You thread your fingers through his dark curls, tugging, trembling. “Clark—oh, fuck—please—”

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I’ve got you. Just let go for me.”

And with his fingers curling just right, his mouth wet and hot and hungry, you do.

You come with a gasp and a full-body jolt, your hands in his hair, your thighs clamped around his head—but Clark doesn’t stop. Not even a little. His tongue keeps moving, slow and thick and dizzying, and his fingers never falter. You're writhing under him, trembling, oversensitive—but he’s got you. One hand bruises into your hip, fingers curling, holding you down like you weigh nothing at all, and his other forearm braces across your pelvis, anchoring you to the mattress as your body bucks helplessly against his mouth.

“Clark—please—” you gasp, too gone to string anything else together.

He’s whimpering into you now, low and desperate, hips grinding down against the bed like he needs something—anything—to keep from falling apart completely.

“Gotta get you ready,” he mumbles, voice deep, breath hot against you. “Need you open for me. You taste so good, sweetheart—so good—”

Another breathless moan spills from your throat. You’re shaking under him, thighs trembling, vision going a little white around the edges—but his mouth is still on you, relentless, adoring, starved.

You twist a fist in his hair and pull—hard—and he groans at the sting, finally lifting his head.

“Clark.” Your voice breaks—your whole body is flushed and ruined, but still you want more. “You said you wanted to fuck me.”

His eyes flicker—wide and dark and frantic.

“So fuck me.” You tug again, urging his face up toward yours. “I’m begging you. Fuck me.”

His restraint snaps with a full-body shudder, and suddenly he’s surging up over you, mouth crashing into yours, and it’s wild. Nothing soft about it. It’s teeth and tongue and groaning, desperate need, like he’s been holding this back for as long as he could—and now there’s no going slow.

He pulls back just enough to look at you—barely—but his hands are already moving. You can see them tremble as he pushes his sweats down his hips and kicks them off, like he’s barely holding on to enough control to get undressed. You glance down and instantly gasp.

“Oh my God.”

He chokes on a laugh—flustered, flushed scarlet—but it doesn’t slow him down. His chest heaves as he settles between your thighs again, mouth brushing yours with a shaky sort of reverence.

“You—you okay?”

“Take your shirt off,” you whisper, dizzy with need. “Please.”

He fumbles it over his head, tossing it aside in one swift movement—and you’re left blinking up at him, dazed and desperate, with nothing but his bare skin and broad chest and huge arms above you. He’s gorgeous. Flushed and beautiful and too damn much, and he’s yours.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, a little breathless.

“You’re massive.”

His breath stutters at that, and he grins—but it’s helpless, strained, the kind of grin that says he’s one second from losing all control. “Yeah, I—should’ve warned you.”

“You kind of did,” you murmur, legs wrapping around his waist. “You said you had to get me ready for you.”

“I did.” His voice drops to a rasp as the head of his cock drags against your slick. “You feel—gosh, you feel like a dream.”

You blink. “Gosh?”

He groans, forehead dropping softly against yours. “Sorry. I’m—”

“Say it dirtier, Clark.”

“What?”

You grin, wild and breathless. “Come on. Tell me something filthy. I know you can do it. Just let go.”

He hesitates, clearly fighting every instinct in his wholesome Kansas-raised body—but then he curses under his breath and mutters, “You’re so fucking tight, I’m gonna lose my mind. I want to fuck you so deep you forget your own name.”

Your breath catches. “See?” you whisper. “That’s more like it.”

“I blacked out a little,” he mutters, still flustered.

“Say something else,” you breathe.

He groans again—almost a whine—his whole body practically trembling with restraint. “You’ve tortured me for years. Every time you smiled at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you fell asleep on my shoulder—I wanted this. You. All of you.”

And then he’s reaching between you, holding himself against your entrance with shaking fingers. You both gasp when the tip pushes in—just that—and it’s already too much.

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, clinging to his shoulders, the stretch impossibly intense even before he’s really in. “You’re not gonna fit.”

“I—I can stop—”

“No.” You’re shaking your head, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare. I want you. I want all of you.”

He lets out a soft, strangled moan, almost losing it then and there. “I’ll go slow. Just—just breathe.”

And then he starts to push in. Inch by slow, burning inch. His hands firm where they cradle your hips, his breath ragged against your cheek as your body tries to take him—tries to stretch around something impossibly thick, impossibly deep, impossibly Clark. Because of course this gorgeous, sweet nerd has an enormous cock.

You keen, nails digging into his back. “Jesus Christ—”

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he pants, voice cracking. “Tell me to stop and I will. Just—ugh, you feel so good. So perfect. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not,” you whisper, eyes glassy. “You’re ruining me, but you’re not hurting me.”

He lets out a shuddering groan and kisses you—soft and aching and full of so much love you could cry. “I don’t want to ruin you.”

“Too late.”

You both laugh—helpless, breathless—and then he slides in just that little bit deeper, and the sound turns to a moan. You’re gasping, trembling, stuffed full, but you don’t want him to stop. Not for anything.

He kisses you through it—your mouth, your jaw, your throat—whispering apologies between every shuddering breath. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to worship it, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of your skin, your warmth, your everything. One hand splays across your ribs, thumb brushing the curve of your breast, the other grips your thigh, gently coaxing you open as he sinks deeper.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, wrecked. “You feel so good, I can’t—I’m trying—gosh, I’m trying—”

You can tell. Every inch he gives you is slow, reverent, but barely leashed—like his self-control is hanging by a thread and the only thing keeping it intact is you, trembling beneath him, arms locked around his neck, whispering please into the shell of his ear.

His nose nuzzles your cheek, your temple, his breath hot and uneven. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You’re not,” you gasp, even as you clench around him, every muscle taut and trembling. “You’re perfect. Just—just keep going.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, a soft groan rising from his chest as he finally presses all the way in.

Your body tries to adjust around him, stretched and aching and overwhelmed, but all you can feel is him. Every solid inch. Every trembling breath. Every whisper of your name like a prayer. And then—he stills.

Buried to the hilt. Inside you.

Clark Kent, inside you.

You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. Feel him shaking, still trying not to move.

And then, in the quiet between two shared, ragged breaths, you realise—he’s crying.

Just a little. Just barely. But it’s there, glittering at the corners of his impossibly blue eyes as he looks down at you like you’re something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.

“I love you,” he breathes. “I’ve always loved you.”

Your heart cracks open at the sight of him—this incredibly strong, impossibly good man trembling above you, full to bursting with love. You reach up, fingers brushing the corner of his eye, wiping the tear before it can fall.

“Clark,” you whisper, your own vision blurring. “I love you too.”

His breath hitches again, and for a second it feels like the whole world stills—just the two of you, wrapped in each other, like everything is finally aligned.

You cradle his face in your hands and press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Then another. Then you press your forehead against his and whisper, “Now fuck me like you promised, Kent.”

His eyes flutter closed, and a groan tears from his chest.

“I can take it,” you murmur, arching into him, your body already pulsing around the impossible stretch of him. “You’re not going to hurt me, so stop holding back.”

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, gaze wild and reverent all at once. “You—you’re sure?”

You nod, fingers threading through his hair, grinning now. “Fuck me.”

And just like that, whatever thread of control he was clinging to snaps.

He moves—finally, fully—and the sound he makes is feral, low and broken in the back of his throat. His hips snap forward once, then again, rough and barely restrained, and your whole body jolts beneath the force of it. He’s huge, maddeningly deep, the stretch still toeing the edge of unbearable—but you don’t want him to stop. You want more.

You rake your nails down his back, gasping as he fucks you with slow, jolting thrusts, like each one is him trying not to break—but the way his breath catches says he’s not going to last much longer. He’s flushed and wrecked and shaking, sweat collecting at his temples, strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead.

And he’s so fucking pretty.

That face—those big, blue eyes gone half-lidded and dazed, those kiss-bruised lips parted with every gasping moan he tries to bury in your neck. The muscles of his back flex beneath your hands, corded with tension. His shoulders shake. His grip bruises—literally—where he holds you.

He’s trying. Trying so hard to be careful.

But you don’t want careful.

“Clark,” you gasp—and his head lifts instantly, eyes locking with yours like he needs you to ground him, to steady him, to keep him from flying apart.

Your hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly over sweat-slicked muscle, and the sound he makes is barely human. The stretch still burns—you’re trembling, gasping—but you love it. You love him. You dig your heels into the backs of his thighs, pull him deeper. But it’s still not enough.

You lean up, mouth brushing his ear.

“Stop being careful,” you whisper. “Stop pretending you haven’t been dying to fuck me since the day we met.”

That’s all it takes.

He shudders—like the breath has been ripped from his lungs—and then he really snaps. Gone. Whatever shred of control he had left disintegrates, and he drives into you like it’s instinct, like it’s prayer, like he’s been holding this back for too long and can’t any longer.

“Sweetheart—” he chokes, forehead falling to yours as his hips pound into you, rough now, relentless. “You have no idea. I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long I thought I might lose my mind.”

His voice is thick, shaking. And his hands don’t stop moving—sliding up your ribs, cradling your breast, gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks like he still can’t believe this is real.

And all you can do is take it. Take him. Let him love you like this—with every shattered breath, every desperate thrust, every reverent inch of him finally, finally letting go.

He’s everywhere. Surrounding you, filling you, pressing you so deep into the mattress you don’t know where you end and he begins.

His mouth finds yours again—hungry, open, all tongue and teeth and need—but there’s nothing rushed about the way he kisses you. Even now, even like this, he still tastes you like you’re precious. Like you’re some kind of miracle.

And he won’t stop touching you. His hands roam your body like they’re mapping it, like he’s waited a thousand lifetimes to commit every inch to memory. One cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your whole body arches into him. The other drifts down your side, over your thigh, then back up again, everywhere at once, like he can’t bear not to be touching you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked—soaked in worship and disbelief. “You always have been.”

He thrusts deep, a little slower, and your breath catches. His name tumbles from your lips again, desperate.

“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he confesses, hips rocking into you with aching precision. “But nothing… nothing ever came close to this. You—” he groans, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat “—you feel like heaven.”

You cling to him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around his hips. “Clark,” you breathe. “You’re gonna make me—”

“I know,” he whispers, kissing the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. “Me too. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

And then he changes the angle—just barely, just enough—and you both feel it. You cry out, clutching at him as your whole body starts to shake. His rhythm falters for a second, stutters with the force of how much he’s holding back.

“I—I’m not gonna last,” he pants, burying his face in your neck. “You feel too good. You feel too good.”

“Don’t,” you whisper, heart pounding. “Don’t hold back.”

He lifts his head to look at you—his face so full of love it hurts—and then he kisses you like he’s saying goodbye to every year he had to pretend that he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you.

And then he starts to move again—harder, rougher, deeper—and the heat builds sharp and fast, curling low in your belly as the whole world narrows to him. His body. His mouth. His voice rasping your name like it’s a holy thing.

You’re close. So is he. And you can both feel it.

But then he shifts—sits up on his knees, never slipping out of you—and the new angle punches a gasp from your throat, your back arching hard against the mattress.

“Clark—”

His hands find your waist, and his breath catches. For a second, he just stares—like he’s not sure he’s seeing right. Then one of his palms flattens against your lower belly, fingers trembling.

He can see himself—a thick, impossible bulge stretching you from the inside out.

“F—fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, voice wrecked, “I—I didn’t think…” He trails off, too far gone to finish. Too undone by the sight of what he’s doing to you.

The thrusts are deeper now, angled just right, and every drag of him against your walls you makes your vision go white. You’re a mess beneath him—head thrown back, hands tangled in your hair, then palming at your own breasts, too overwhelmed to know what to do with yourself.

And he’s watching all of it.

“You’re gonna break me,” you gasp, almost sobbing on a moan. “You’re gonna—Clark, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he pants, dragging his thumb over your nipple, thrusting harder, faster, like he’s chasing something just out of reach. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect—look at you—look at you.”

Your body starts to lock up, the orgasm barrelling toward you like it’s being pulled from your soul. You try to fight it—try to hold on for him—but he hits that perfect spot again and it breaks you.

You shatter around him with a scream, legs shaking, fingers digging into your thighs to ground yourself, and he feels it. Feels the way your body clamps around him, fluttering and pulsing, and it sends him reeling.

His thrusts lose rhythm. His hands clamp down hard—one gripping your hip, the other braced behind him—and he’s trying to hold back, trying so hard.

You force your eyes open just in time to see it happen.

His mouth falls open. A breathless moan rips from his chest. And his eyes—his bright blue eyes flare molten red for a half-second before he squeezes them shut and throws his head back, like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he keeps looking at you.

A raw, animal sound tears out of him as he comes—deep inside you, again and again, his whole body shaking with it.

He’s trying not to break the bed. Trying not to break you.

And the heat of it—him, all of him—it feels endless.

Then finally, he stills.

You don’t know how long the silence lasts.

Long enough for your pulse to slow, your body to stop trembling, for your senses to crawl their way back into place—though you still feel wrecked, in the best possible way.

Clark leans over you, his body a trembling wall of heat. His arms are braced on either side of your head, eyes still squeezed shut, and his jaw is slack, like he’s still riding the aftershocks.

Then he exhales a shaky breath, nuzzles into your cheek, and whispers, “Are you okay?”

You hum, blinking up at him. “I think I saw God.”

That makes him laugh—soft, breathless, a little stunned. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “I was trying really hard not to… you know. Lose control. Burn a hole through the ceiling.”

You smile, boneless and glowing beneath him. “I think you did great.”

He kisses you again, then slowly, carefully, pulls out—and you both gasp. The stretch, the ache, the sudden emptiness—it makes your hips jolt, your fingers curl, and Clark wince in concern.

“Sorry—sorry—” he breathes, already reaching to cradle your waist, pulling you gently into his arms. He shifts you both onto your sides, wrapping around you protectively, like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world.

You melt into him, sighing as your limbs tangle together, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand stroking lazy circles over your belly.

After a minute, he presses a soft kiss behind your ear. “I think the gas has worn off,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean—” he trails off, then grins against your skin. “I still want to say filthy things, but I'm not being compelled to.”

You giggle, turning in his arms to face him. His cheeks are flushed pink, his hair a mess, his blue eyes so soft you could cry. Again.

“You’d say them anyway?” you tease.

He brushes your hair back from your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “If you asked nicely.”

You pretend to consider it. “What if I get on my knees and beg?”

A groan vibrates in his chest. “You're a dangerous woman,” he murmurs. “I’m in so much trouble.”

You lean in and kiss him—slow and lingering, tasting the smile he can’t seem to get rid of. And then you whisper against his mouth, “I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes wide, like he still can't believe what you’re saying.

He cups your face, forehead resting against yours, and whispers, “Good. Because I’ve been in love with you for years.”

You blink up at him, smiling. “Years?”

“I told you,” he breathes. “You’ve been torturing me.”

You kiss him again, a little giddy now, your whole body aching and your heart so full it might burst.

And then, nestled against him, sleep starts to pull at you, but you fight it long enough to mumble, “Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think it’s too late for pancakes?”

He chuckles softly, tugging you closer. “You really are perfect.”

You spend the entire weekend at Clark’s apartment. Mostly in his bed—sometimes on the couch, or the kitchen counter, or in the shower. And once in the hallway, because you simply couldn’t make it any further without having him inside you.

By Sunday night, you finally tear yourself away—because you know you can’t show up to work Monday morning wearing a pair of his old boxers and a threadbare Metropolis U shirt.

You make it exactly twelve minutes at home, by yourself, before you’re packing a bag and heading right back to his place—relieved to find he’s just as desperate to have you back in his arms.

On Monday morning, you both wake up with every intention of being on time for work—but it doesn’t quite happen. Because when Clark steps out of the shower, fresh and steamy and completely naked, you can’t help yourself. And you’re starting to realise that he has a very hard time resisting you too.

So, after yet another mind-blowing, back-breaking orgasm, you both finally force yourselves to get dressed and head into the office.

“They’re going to know,” Clark mutters as the elevator doors slide shut.

There’s only one other person inside—an intern whose name you’ve forgotten.

You glance up at him. “How will they know?”

His lips twitch. “Well, for one, you’re limping.”

You bite your cheek to keep from grinning. “I can’t help that. Blame your Kryptonian physiology.”

“Now you’re blushing,” he murmurs, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Your heart’s racing. Your pupils are blown.” His eyes flicker down. “Your hands are trembling, and you’re—oh.”

His breath hitches slightly. You’re not sure if he can see it, feel it, maybe even smell it—but he knows. He knows exactly what you’re feeling right now. And if this poor intern weren’t in here, you’d probably both be halfway to naked already.

Your eyes lock—those ridiculous glasses framing that stupidly gorgeous face, blue eyes dark with want—and the moment stretches taut between you. You’re staring so hard, so heavy, that the soft ding of the elevator startles you.

Clark chuckles, stepping aside to let you exit first.

You try not to limp through the newsroom—but it’s hard. Your thighs are shaking. Everything aches. And you can feel every single bruise his mouth and hands seared into your skin.

“Well, well, well,” Jimmy says, scooting back from his desk with that stupidly wide grin. “Look who finally decided to show up—together.”

You roll your eyes. “We live in the same neighbourhood.”

Jimmy snorts. “Right. And I’m Superman.”

Clark coughs into his fist, clearly trying not to laugh. You shoot him a warning glance.

“I’m serious,” you add, dropping your bag beside your desk. “Same subway line. Total coincidence.”

“Mmhmm.” Jimmy swivels to follow your path, eyes tracking you like a hawk. “And the coincidence wore off on both your faces.”

You frown. “What does that even mean?”

You wince as your ass hits the chair—too fast, too sore. You try to cover it with a cough, but it’s too late. Clark is biting back a smile, and Jimmy’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline.

“You’re blushing,” he says. “Kent is glowing. And unless my hearing’s gone, you just whimpered when you sat down.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Please tell me I don’t have to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“You didn’t hear anything,” you mutter, shifting awkwardly in your seat.

He’s about to respond when he pauses—squinting at something. His grin widens, eyes locking on to something near the collar of your shirt.

“Oh my God. Is—is that a hickey?”

You slap a hand over your neck. “No.”

Clark chokes on nothing.

“It is!” Jimmy exclaims, jumping up from his chair to get a better look.

“No,” you say again, firmer. “It isn’t. It—it’s a burn. I burnt myself.”

Cat pops up from her desk, squinting. “Looks like a hickey to me.”

Lois spins around in her chair, smirking, arms crossed. “You burnt your neck?”

“It happens,” you mutter, fumbling for your phone to check the damage.

Clark gives you a helpless look over the top of his glasses, mouth twitching with a suppressed smile, cheeks red. And if he didn’t look so goddamn cute, you’d probably hurl a pen at him for leaving a mark so high.

“You’re seriously denying this?” Jimmy asks.

“I’m not denying anything,” you say. “I don’t have to deny it, because it isn’t anything. It’s just a bruise.”

Lois tilts her head. “You mean burn?”

“Yes—burn,” you say quickly. “Whatever. It’s still nothing. Now can we please—”

“Kent!” Perry’s voice booms across the bullpen. “My office. Two minutes. Bring your notepad.”

Clark nods once and scrambles to grab a pen and paper. Jimmy sighs—giving up for now—and collapses back into his chair. Cat drops down at her desk. Lois flicks her gaze from you to Clark, then slowly spins back around.

You sink lower into your chair as your monitor wakes up. You can see Clark collecting his things, tucking in his chair. He starts toward Perry’s office—then stops beside right your desk, and leans in.

You glance up just in time to catch the soft smile on his pretty mouth, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. Then he reaches out—one hand gently cupping the back of your head—and presses a kiss to the top of your forehead.

It’s so sweet, so simple, it makes your chest ache. You almost—almost—forget where you are.

Until—

“I knew it!” Jimmy shouts.

Cat’s head pops up again. Lois spins around. Even Steve cranes his neck from across the bullpen.

“I was right,” Jimmy goes on triumphantly. “You two finally boned!”

“Olsen!” Perry shouts. “Watch your language.”

“Sorry, Chief,” Jimmy says—though still grinning like the smug little shit he is.

Your face burns as the bullpen erupts around you—laughter, gasps, even a slow clap from Steve. You sink deeper into your chair, wishing it would swallow you whole. And Clark—that traitor—just gives a soft chuckle, his shoulders shaking as he walks off toward Perry’s office, not even trying to hide the smug little smirk on his face.

You glare daggers into his back. He doesn’t turn around, but you swear he knows—you can feel it in the satisfied roll of his stride.

“I knew it,” Jimmy says again, practically vibrating with glee. “I called this weeks ago. Honestly, I feel vindicated.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Jimmy, please.”

“I’m just saying!” he says, unrepentant. “You two have been doing the will-they-won’t-they tango since the Reagan administration. It was painful.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “You're being dramatic.”

“You weren’t even alive during the Reagan administration,” Lois states dryly.

“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “It’s been that long.”

You drop your hands, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

He shrugs. “It’s a gift. Besides, I had a bet going with Cat, and this definitely means I win.”

“You didn’t win,” Cat calls. “You bet that we’d catch them making out in the office, and that was a forehead kiss.”

You groan again. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” Jimmy leans forward, cocking a brow, “I’m still your favourite.”

You open your mouth to argue—but hesitate.

His grin softens. “Seriously, though? I'm happy for you. Both of you.”

You blink.

“Clark’s a good guy, and you…” He nods at you meaningfully. “You deserve someone who looks at you like he does.”

Your throat goes tight, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You swallow.

“Thanks, Jimmy.”

He gives you a mock salute, then leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Superman’s gonna be crushed, though. His favourite civilian, officially off the market.”

You snort. “I think he’ll survive.”

“Will he?” Jimmy muses, hands clasped behind his head, feet up on the desk. “I don’t know. He always seemed very invested in your wellbeing.”

You shake your head, cheeks still pink as you turn back to your monitor, heart thudding a little too fast in your chest.

Across the bullpen, just before Perry’s office door swings shut, Clark glances back at you.

And smiles.

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

5K notes · View notes

mnnuni · 27 days ago

Text

Just husbands behaviour, don't mind them kids

hangman: “every time you open your damn mouth, i want to shut it.”

rooster: “with your hand or your lips?”

126 notes · View notes

mnnuni · 28 days ago

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Orbit ☽｡⋆

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x GN!Reader

Summary: You loved solitude, so, naturally, you end up with one of the clingiest boyfriends to ever walk the Earth. You wouldn’t change him for the world.

Warnings: None, very fluffy, very domestic, he is so incredibly babygirl to me.

Navigation | Prompt List | Requested

You’re the kind of person who thrives in silence. Not the eerie, heavy kind, but rather the weightless hush of early mornings before the world has had its coffee. The kind of quiet where you can hear your own thoughts echo back at you, and everything makes a little more sense. You like the way solitude fits you like a well-worn sweater. A space to breathe, to think, and just to be.

So, naturally, you fell in love with a man who treats personal space like a shared resource. Joaquin doesn’t just walk into a room. He enters like he’s always belonged in it, like it’s never been quite right without him. And somehow, he always manages to make it better. Warmer. Lighter.

You’ve never met someone who operates like gravity the way he does. Like you don’t even realise you’ve started leaning towards him until you’re already in his orbit.

It used to drive you a little bit mad. The way he’d end up pressed to your side on the couch, full of casual affection. The way he’d slide into the kitchen behind you just to rest his chin on your shoulder and say ‘whatcha making?’ even when the answer was very obviously toast. The way his knees bumped yours under the table like it was his version of Morse code.

Joaquin Torres is a barnacle. A charming, golden-hearted barnacle. And you, reluctantly and then all at once, grew fond of the barnacle life.

Saturday mornings are Joaquin’s favorite. He’ll never say that out loud, not in so many words. But, it’s more than obvious in the way he lingers in bed just a little too long, humming under his breath, nosing at your shoulder like some overgrown, needy cat. It’s in the way his arms snake around your waist when you try to get up, anchoring you back to him with a lazy groan of protest.

“Stay,” Joaquin mumbles into your shirt, muffled and warm.

“Baby, I need to pee,” you laugh, gently prying at his arms.

“Betrayal,” Joaquin whispers, dramatically. “Is this what our love has come to?”

You untangle yourself with all the grace of a tired octopus, padding to the bathroom while Joaquin turns and flops face-first into your pillow like the world’s most dramatic boyfriend.

By the time you return, Joaquin has commandeered your side of the bed entirely, limbs sprawled like a starfish, blanket kicked off halfway. The sun’s made a golden square across the sheets, and his hair, ever disobedient, is sticking up in odd angles. He looks up at you when you climb back in, all slow-blinking affection.

“Mornin’,” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

“Good morning,” you reply, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw, just because.

Joaquin grins, eyes closing again, and that’s how you spend the next twenty minutes, with your limbs tangled, skin warm, the world held at arm’s length.

You’ve never been a morning cuddler. You’re the type to wake up and immediately crave space. Clarity. A cup of coffee in silence, maybe the gentle sound of birds through the window. You used to slip out of bed like a ghost, careful not to wake anyone.

But, Joaquin changed that.

Now, you find yourself lingering. Letting yourself be pulled back into the gravity of him. You’ve learned to love the way he holds you like something precious and irreplaceable. Like your heartbeat is something he needs to sync his own to in order to keep it steady.

The kitchen is your sanctuary. Everything in it is arranged by you, from alphabetised spices, stacked mugs in their allocated corners, cutting boards cleaned and leaned against the backsplash at perfect angles. It’s not about control, exactly. Just peace. Order. A quiet kind of joy.

So naturally, Joaquin makes it his mission to invade it at every opportunity.

“You don’t need to be here,” you tell Joaquin one evening, as he looms behind you while you stir pasta.

“I want to be here,” he says, resting his chin atop your head with an exaggerated sigh. “You smell like garlic and joy.”

“You’re bothering me.”

“Am I?” Joaquin asks, arms wrapping around your middle, lips grazing your ear. “Or am I enhancing the experience?”

“You’re going to get hot oil on your face.”

“Worth it.”

You elbow him gently, but don’t tell him to leave. Because, the truth is, you kind of like the way he’s always there. It’s maddening and sweet and weirdly grounding. He makes the space feel alive, like the scent of basil and the sound of his laugh belong together. You pass him a spoon to taste, and he dips it into the sauce with great ceremony.

“Mmm. Yup. That’s marriage material right there,” Joaquin declares, eyes sparkling.

“You say that every time I cook something edible.”

“And I’ll keep saying it until we have a courthouse date, beautiful.”

Your cheeks heat, even though he’s said it a dozen times before. You roll your eyes, and he beams like he’s won something.

You’re curled up on the couch that evening, legs tucked beneath you, a book open in your lap. Joaquin flops down beside you, entirely uninvited, entirely unsurprising

You’re three chapters in and doing your best to focus, but it’s hard when he keeps scooting closer in tiny increments. First it’s a knee brushing yours. Then a shoulder leaning in. Then an arm slung casually over the back of the couch.

Joaquin doesn’t say anything. Just orbits. Eventually, he rests his chin on your shoulder and sighs dramatically. You glance at him from the corner of your eye.

“Yes?”

“I’m bored.”

“I told you to watch your show.”

“It’s not fun without you.”

You close your book with a resigned sigh. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m adorable,” Joaquin corrects, eyes wide with feigned innocence.

“You’re both.”

Joaquin grins, triumphant, and curls into your side like a loyal puppy. You stroke his hair absently, and he hums like a man thoroughly pleased with his life choices.

You used to think you needed solitude to feel whole. That space was sacred. A kind of armor. Joaquin never tried to break it, he just made room for himself inside it. With patience. With laughter. With all the warmth of someone who never needed to be invited because his love was always soft and sure and certain. You didn’t know how much you needed that until he gave it to you.

One afternoon, you catch Joaquin reorganising your bookshelf. It should set off alarm bells. You’re territorial about your books. They’ve been curated with the kind of precision normally reserved for museum exhibits.

Joaquin is squatting on the floor, tongue poking out in concentration, rearranging them by vibe of all things.

“I’m switching it up,” Joaquin says when he notices that you’re stood there staring. “This shelf is books you’ve cried over but keep recommending anyway. This one is things that feel like late autumn in New York. This one is sapphic yearning with a lot of trauma.”

You stare at him incredulously.

Joaquin just grins. “You like it?”

You open your mouth to argue. To say something about spines being even or the sanctity of the color gradient. But, then you see it. The way Joaquin’s fingers linger on the cover of your favorite novel. The way he’s handled your books with the same delicate care he gives to old flight gear or archived Falcon wings.

You close your mouth, cross the room, and kiss him stupid.

Joaquin blinks up at you afterward, dazed. “So, that’s a yes?”

“Touch them ever again and you die,” you reply, deadpan, but unable to suppress a loving grin.

“Fair. Noted. Love you.”

“Love you more,” you say, and mean it so hard your ribs ache.

You wake up one night and find Joaquin on the balcony. He’s leaning against the railing, barefoot in one of your oversized sweatshirts, hair tousled from sleep. The city hums softly below, streetlights blinking, a distant siren wailing, the quiet heartbeat of something bigger than both of you. You step out beside him, arms crossed to ward off the chill.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Too quiet without you.” You bump your shoulder into his. He reaches for your hand without looking, fingers intertwining easily.

“I used to love my own space,” you murmur.

“Used to?”

“Now I just love sharing it with you.”

Joaquin smiles, soft and sleepy and full of something that feels like forever. “I promise I’ll always make room for you too,” he says.

And in that moment, with the city below and the stars overhead and Joaquin’s hand warm in yours, you believe him.

You still love your space. The quiet. The stillness. The little sanctuaries of your mind that no one else gets to see. But now, they’re filled with pieces of him. A hoodie slung over your desk chair. A mug with his initials beside yours. You wouldn’t change it for the world.

809 notes · View notes

mnnuni · 29 days ago

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secrets in the bureau

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader ✩ 6.5k words

summary: you and Aaron are really good at hiding your relationship, or are you? or 5 times the team suspects you're together and 1 time they know for sure.

cw: fluff, typical criminal minds violence and topics

an: ahhh first hotch fic everrr, gonna have to write more cm stuff to get characterisations down but this feels like a nice first go

"...so what do you think?" you ask, looking at Aaron – Hotch, technically, it is working hours – from across his desk. He glances up from his notes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, an amused glint flickering in his eyes.

"You know the answer is yes, honey. Why are you even asking?"

"It's good manners," you say, your smile tugging wider as you inch forward in your chair, the toe of your shoe brushing his under the desk.

The truth is, you're both long past the need for politeness in these matters. If you want to stay over at Aaron's place, he's rarely, if ever, given you a reason to think he wouldn’t want you there.

He shifts in his chair slightly, setting the file aside to give you his full focus. The look he gives you is equal parts exasperated and soft, which is just how he loves you: half amused by your formality, half undone by it.

“You could come over unannounced and I’d still find a way to make it feel like I’d planned for you to be there all day,” he says, voice low and steady, like everything with him is. “You know that.”

You do. You know it in the way his fridge is always stocked with the oat milk you like, even though he won't touch the stuff. You know it in the extra toothbrush in his drawer, the way your laundry ends up folded at the foot of his bed after a weekend, neatly nestled between his dark t-shirts and pressed slacks.

Still, you like asking. You like that you can.

Hotch watches you for a beat, the silence stretching warm between you. Then he leans back in his chair, a slow breath leaving him like he's reluctant to shift back into Unit Chief mode, but he does because he’s nothing if not disciplined.

"You know something else, too," he says, eyes flicking down toward the folder on his desk before sliding back to meet yours.

You tilt your head, curious, a smile still ghosting on your lips. "What’s that?"

"That your break is over," he says, holding out the file across the desk, tone smooth but with the tiniest lilt of playfulness only you would catch. “And you need to go back to work.”

You glance at the file, then back at him, lifting a brow like you’re considering the offer. He’s in full supervisory mode now, except for the way he’s watching you too closely, his expression too fond.

You lean forward slowly, drawing it out, your hand hovering just short of the folder. "I think I’ll be alright," you murmur, feigning confidence, "my boss seems to have a soft spot for me."

The moment your fingers brush the edge of the file, he pulls it back with the smallest shake of his head, his mouth twitching again at the corners. Not quite a smile, not quite not, either.

"That might be true," he says quietly. "But don’t push your luck."

Aaron holds your gaze for a moment longer. Then, as if he just can’t help himself, he pushes up from his chair and rounds the desk in one fluid, practiced motion. You track him with your eyes, but your body stays still, waiting.

He stops in front of you, close enough that the scent of his cologne settles into the air between you. With that same maddening composure, he places the file in your lap, fingers brushing your thigh just enough to make your pulse skip.

“You’re not above paperwork,” he says softly, but the words are barely finished before he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your lips.

It’s the kind of kiss that feels like it costs him something to keep it brief.

But you aren’t finished. You tilt your face up before he can pull away fully, catching his jaw with your fingertips. You press back into him, just a little longer, a little deeper. His breath hitches, hands tightening against the arms of your chair like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to stop or pull you closer.

Hotch barely has time to blink before the knock comes.

You spring apart like teenagers caught in the act, both of you straightening instinctively—him taking a full step back, you smoothing the front of your shirt as you rise from the chair, face composed but pulse racing. You know you're standing too close, close enough that the air still feels warm between you, and for a second, neither of you moves.

Then the door creaks open.

Emily leans halfway in, eyes flicking from Hotch to you. She's not smirking, not yet - but her brow does lift, just enough to say: Interesting.

You clear your throat lightly, stepping aside as if you hadn’t just been kissing your boss at his desk. “Thanks for going over that file with me, Hotch,” you say, voice clear, maybe a little too deliberate. “Really helped.”

“Of course. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Emily’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer. “JJ’s rounding everyone up in the conference room.” she says lightly.

You nod, making your way to the door with a quick “Got it,” and Emily steps back to let you pass. She waits a beat, then glances back over her shoulder at Hotch.

“Everything alright in here, sir?” she asks, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth now.

Hotch’s expression doesn’t shift. “Just going over case material.”

Emily hums noncommittally, clearly unconvinced but not pushing it. “Right. Very thorough, I’m sure.”

You catch the look she shoots you as you walk side by side down the hallway. You don’t say anything, and neither does she. But you know she knows. Or at least suspects.

The case, as a lot of them are, is long and hard.

Cruelty that sinks into your bones and stays there, no matter how many hours you spend scrubbing it out under fluorescent lighting. You found the unsub and you brought him in, but no one really feels like they won.

The jet is quiet on the way home, lit only by the occasional blink of overhead lights and the low hum of the engines beneath your feet. You sit in the back corner by yourself, turned toward the window, cheek pressed lightly against your knuckles. It's dark out, nothing but clouds and sky and your own reflection staring back at you, tired and smudged at the edges.

At first, it was the usual: Morgan with his headphones in, head nodding slightly to some beat no one else can hear. Reid halfway through a dog-eared paperback. Emily curled sideways with her jacket for a pillow, Rossi sipping quietly at a scotch.

Aaron sat at his usual spot, paperwork spread neatly across the table in front of him. His pen scratched steadily for a while, methodical as ever. But even that faded eventually.

Now it’s just you and him.

Everyone else has drifted into sleep, slumped shoulders, legs stretched awkwardly into aisles, exhaustion settling over the cabin like a soft blanket. You hear Reid murmur something in his sleep and shift, but otherwise, the silence is heavy. Restful.

You’re so deep in thought you don’t hear the soft creak of leather as Aaron rises from his seat. Don’t notice the subtle hush of movement as he crosses to the kitchenette. The sound of a mug being set down, water pouring, the paper rustle of a teabag unwrapped – all of it folds into the white noise of the flight, lost beneath the whirring engines and the thick fog in your mind.

He moves the way he always does, like he knows time will wait for him. Like even gravity might hold off for a second, if he asked it nicely.

When he finally comes back, you only register him when the cushion beside you shifts under his weight. The faint scent of chamomile and citrus drifts upward, followed by the gentle clink of ceramic placed on the small table in front of you.

You blink, slow, as you turn your head.

Aaron’s watching you – not with concern, exactly, but something gentler. Something steadier. A softness in his eyes that no one else on this plane ever gets to see. You’re not sure they’d believe it if they did.

He glances at the tea, then back to you.

“I thought it might help,” he says, voice low, barely threading through the quiet.

You look down at the mug then back at him. “Thanks,” you murmur. Your voice is hoarse. You hadn’t realized how long it had been since you spoke.

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again, even more gently this time.

“You alright?”

You nod instinctively, but then shake your head, just once.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just reaches over, his hand brushing against yours. When your fingers curl around his, his thumb sweeps across the back of your hand. He doesn’t ask for more. He never does. He just holds you like that, quiet and steady.

You both sit there for a while, the silence stretching long again.

You sip the tea slowly, the heat grounding, the taste comforting. His shoulder rests against yours, warm and solid, and neither of you moves away.

“I hate that it still gets to me,” you say finally, not looking at him. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

His hand squeezes yours.

“I hope you never do,” he says, quiet but steady. “The day this stops getting to you is the day you’ve lost the part of yourself that makes you good at this, sweetheart.”

You don’t respond, but your grip tightens slightly around his, and he feels it. You know he does.

The tea is still warm in your hands when your eyelids start to slip. You don’t fight it. Not when his shoulder is right there, solid and warm.

You’re barely awake when he leans in, the press of his lips to your temple so light it could almost be imagined. But it’s not.

So you sleep.

When you wake, the world feels dim and weightless, the hush of descent in your ears, cabin lights low but brightening gradually. You blink against the dry air and shift slightly, realizing two things in the same breath.

Aaron is no longer beside you.

And you're warm. Too warm, actually.

You glance down to find his suit jacket draped across your front, heavy and crisp and unmistakably his. It’s folded in that way he does everything: precise, considered, like the act of keeping you comfortable matters more than anything else. The scent of him clings to the fabric – clean laundry, faint spice, and something uniquely his that you could pick out of a crowd without trying.

You’re reaching to smooth it over your lap when movement draws your attention. He’s walking back to the front of the jet, toward the files he’d left abandoned hours ago. The light overhead catches against the curve of his jaw, the familiar line of his shoulders. And just before he sits, he turns.

His eyes find you instantly.

You hold it for a second, that look, storing it somewhere behind your ribs where all the quiet, important things live.

Then you catch motion from the corner of your eye.

Spencer’s awake, sitting sideways in his seat a few rows ahead, blinking blearily behind his glasses. His book is open in his lap, but it’s clear he hasn’t read a word in a while. He’s looking between you and Hotch, his brows slightly furrowed, like he’s working a problem he doesn’t have all the variables for.

Thank god his genius brain takes a few minutes to start up after a nap.

You straighten a little, clearing your throat and nudging the jacket higher on your lap like it’s perfectly normal for your boss’s clothes to be draped over you mid-flight. Then you turn to Spencer with the airiest voice you can muster:

“Spence, what have you been reading?”

It works, somewhat.

He blinks, focusing on you as his brain shifts tracks. “Oh. Um.” He lifts the book like he’s only just remembered it’s there. “It’s a comparative analysis of the evolution of moral frameworks in isolated societies. There's this fascinating case study–”

You smile, nodding as you listen, letting his words fill the space. It’s enough to distract him, at least from whatever observations he was starting to piece together. And it's more than enough to keep your thoughts from drifting back to the warmth still lingering on your skin, or the weight of that kiss you’re still not entirely convinced you didn’t dream.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Aaron settling back in with his files, expression calm but unreadable again.

It starts with a lull in the afternoon, one of those rare moments in the bullpen when the cases are filed, reports are done (mostly), and the coffee's gone lukewarm but no one wants to get up to fix it. The low hum of keyboards and the occasional rustle of paper fills the air, a kind of peace, however temporary.

You're halfway through your third report of the day, pen uncapped and mouth twisted in concentration, when Morgan leans across the short wall of your desk, drumming his fingers lightly against the divider.

"So, what’s the deal with you?" he asks, casual but too pointed for it to be offhand.

You blink at him, glancing up from your paperwork. "Clarify, please."

He grins like he’s been waiting for you to bite. “I’m just saying. We’ve known each other how long now? Three years? And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even flirt with anyone.”

“Maybe I’m just selective,” you say without looking up, though the smirk tugging at your mouth threatens to betray you.

Emily’s head pops up from the other side of her monitor like a meerkat. “Selective or nonexistent? Because Morgan has a point. You’re attractive, smart, not a serial killer—what gives?”

Across from you, Reid glances over with a tiny frown, clearly confused as to how this became the topic of conversation. "Are we ranking coworker eligibility now?"

“No,” you say, “we are not. They are.” You gesture at Morgan and Emily with your pen. “And I don’t date because I’m too busy.”

“Too busy?” Emily echoes, incredulous. “Come on, you make time for what matters.”

You give a noncommittal shrug and flip a page in the file you’re reviewing. “Maybe nothing’s mattered enough.”

Morgan huffs. “You’re telling me no one’s even caught your eye lately?”

You barely have to think to keep your expression neutral, your tone light. “Nope.”

There’s a rustle of movement behind you, a door opening at the far end of the bullpen. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Hotch stepping out of his office, file in hand, brow furrowed with that familiar look of concentration he always wears when he’s mid-thought. He glances around the room, then straight to you, like instinct. Like muscle memory.

You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel the moment he finds you. You feel it like a current, like the way your shoulders relax half a degree before you can stop them.

“Really?” Morgan presses, watching you too closely now. “No one?”

You glance up, keep your voice calm. “You ever try scheduling a date between a cross-country manhunt and a twelve-hour flight delay?”

“You think we haven’t?” Emily snorts.

Hotch’s footsteps pause just outside the group’s periphery, and you feel him hovering there — listening. You’d bet money on it.

“Well,” you say, flicking your pen across the page as if it’s just any other day, “I'm perfectly happy as I am now.”

Hotch moves finally, continuing toward the conference room, his voice low and even as he passes.

“Briefing in ten.”

He doesn’t look at you as he says it, not directly, but his hand brushes the back of your chair lightly. So lightly it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t already watching too closely.

You don’t move. Just nod. “Got it.”

The moment he’s out of earshot, Morgan narrows his eyes at you. “That was weirdly… cordial.”

“Maybe he’s just in a good mood,” you reply, deadpan.

Emily mutters, “Which would be weirder.”

But they let it drop, mostly because the briefing’s about to start, and because the day’s quiet never lasts long. Still, Morgan gives you one last look before turning toward the conference room.

The morning sunlight filtering through Aaron’s bedroom is soft and pale. It falls in golden streaks across the sheets, the hardwood floor, and the line of his bare shoulder where the covers have slipped down during the night.

You shift slowly, your leg sliding along his under the covers, your face still tucked into the space just below his collarbone. His hand is still resting low on your back, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin like he’s mapping you in his sleep.

“Are you awake?” you whisper, voice thick with sleep.

“Mmm,” Aaron murmurs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into your cheek.

You smile, eyes still closed. “Five more minutes, Handsome?”

“That’s fine,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice even before you feel him press a kiss to your temple. “You got it.”

You shift again, curling closer, and he chuckles quietly at the way you practically climb on top of him. He smells like sleep and shampoo and the detergent you’ve secretly switched his sheets to without telling him — because the old ones smelled like hotel soap and starch. These smell like home.

“God,” you mutter, “can’t believe we have to work today.”

Aaron hums, his hand still steady on your back. “We can’t be late again.”

“We won’t be, you’re so dramatic.”

“We won’t be,” he repeats, more teasing now. “Yeah, right.”

You lift your head, finally, meeting his sleepy brown eyes and a smug smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here you are,” he says, tugging you forward by the back of your neck, slow and easy, until your lips meet his.

The kiss starts soft – sleepy and unhurried – but quickly deepens, his hand sliding up under your shirt, the weight of it grounding you. You sigh into his mouth, shifting to press him deeper into the pillows, and he lets you, his other hand sliding along your waist like he’s not ready to let go yet either.

Eventually, unfortunately, he does pull back, eyes flicking open again.

“If we don’t stop, we’re going to be very late,” he says, voice low and a little ruined now.

You kiss the edge of his jaw in retaliation. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He groans, but he’s already sitting up, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

He tosses you a look over his shoulder and leans down for one last kiss, slow and deliberate, before he gets up and heads to the shower. He pauses in the doorway, looking at you swaddled in his sheets like you’ve been dropped there by some vengeful sleep deity.

“I’ll be ten minutes.”

You whine softly, rolling over dramatically. “You’re abandoning me, cruel man.”

“You’ll survive, honey,” he says, smirking as he disappears into the bathroom and flicks on the water.

You stay in bed for another few minutes, eyes closed, completely content. You can still feel the press of his lips on your neck, still smell the citrus of his aftershave lingering in the sheets.

And then his phone rings.

You groan again, dragging yourself upright. The screen lights up—JJ.

Your heart skips, just slightly.

You let it ring out.

A few seconds later, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You don’t even look before answering.

“Hey,” you say, clearing your throat. “What’s up?”

“We’ve got something,” JJ says. “Need everyone here, as soon as possible.”

“Okay. I’ll be ready in fifteen.”

“Thanks. I already tried Hotch, but he didn’t answer—can you try calling him?”

You blink. “Oh—yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll let him know.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough.

JJ’s voice is too casual when she says, “Thanks.”

And then, just as you’re about to hang up, you hear it.

“Honey?” Aaron’s voice, muffled but unmistakably clear, drifting out from the steamy bathroom. “Do you know if I left my belt on the—?”

You fumble to hang up the phone.

Too late.

There’s a beat of silence on JJ’s end. You can practically hear the way her eyes narrow.

You clear your throat again, face hot. “I—um. I’ll pass it along.”

“…Sure,” she says slowly. “See you soon.”

Sure enough, when you get to the office later that morning, JJ barely glances up from her folder.

“Morning,” she says sweetly. “You two sleep well?”

You don’t answer.

Aaron – your ever-collected, ever-disciplined Aaron – freezes just long enough to give the entire game away.

JJ just smiles.

And keeps reading.

You’re hunched over a map of the city, elbows on the edge of the conference room table, red and blue pushpins scattered across the surface like confetti from a very grim party. Spencer leans over your shoulder, pointing at the area just north of the river.

“I’m telling you,” he says, tapping the map with the end of his pen, “the pattern holds if you factor in the population density from the census before the most recent one. It’s consistent with a comfort zone radius, even if it doesn’t look like it at first glance.”

You nod, squinting at the outline of streets and intersections. “So the unsub’s older, maybe? Operating off memory instead of current data? That would explain the anomaly in the last dump site.”

“Exactly. I mean, he might even be—” Spencer pauses, leaning closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “—using a mental map that hasn’t updated since he lived here, assuming he moved away and came back. Like visiting old haunts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s depressingly poetic.”

He grins. “A lot of serial killers are.”

You’re just about to reply when the conference room door swings open harder than necessary.

Hotch.

His expression is tight, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and tired in that dangerous way that means he’s too deep in it. His gaze sweeps over the map, the markers, and then the two of you. His eyes linger on the way Spencer’s leaning in, innocent enough, but close..

“Is this part of the profile?” he asks, voice clipped.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“The conversation,” he says, straighter now. “Does it have anything to do with the case? Because if not, maybe we can stay focused.”

Spencer pulls back immediately, blinking. “We were just discussing—”

“I’m not interested in discussion. I want results.” Hotch doesn’t raise his voice – he never really does – but the tone alone is sharp enough to make Spencer recoil slightly. You feel your spine stiffen automatically.

“We are working,” you say, slower now. “We’ve been narrowing the comfort zone down to two square miles. The pins—”

“I don’t want excuses,” he cuts in. “If you’ve got something, put it on the board. Otherwise stop wasting time.”

Then he turns on his heel and walks out, the door snapping shut behind him like a slap.

The silence he leaves in his wake is thick. You glance at Spencer, who’s looking down at the map like it just personally betrayed him.

“Okay,” he says quietly, “that was… intense.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, pressing a palm to your forehead. “He’s been like this all day.”

It’s not a lie. The second the briefing started, Hotch had been on edge, pacing too much, correcting people mid-sentence. You knew the case was getting to him, and you knew what it meant when he got like this – when his control frayed and he lashed out not because he was angry, but because he was terrified of making the wrong call. Of losing someone.

But knowing that didn’t make it easier to be on the receiving end.

Especially not in front of everyone else.

You’re still rubbing your temple when Morgan appears beside you.

“Hey,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “You got a second?”

You nod, rising slowly as Spencer gives you an apologetic look and turns back to the map. Morgan leads you out of the conference room and down the hall, away from the rest of the team.

When he stops, he crosses his arms and leans against the wall like he’s gearing up for a talk. You groan internally.

“I know that look,” you say. “And I don’t like it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Then stop making me use it.”

You fold your arms, mirroring him. “What?”

“You know what,” he says. “Hotch is being a dick. To everyone. And I know he’s stressed, I know this case is brutal, but it’s getting in the way.”

“I agree.”

He tilts his head. “Okay, so talk to him.”

You blink. “What? Why would I—”

“Because he listens to you.”

Your stomach flips. You hope to God it doesn’t show on your face.

“I’m not magic, Morgan.”

“No,” he says, voice low but pointed. “But you’re the only person he hasn’t completely snapped in half yet.”

You snort. “He just bit my head off in there.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “but he look too happy with himself after.”

You roll your eyes, trying very hard not to let your expression crack. “That’s a stretch.”

He just gives you a look. The kind that says don’t bullshit me, I have eyes.

You stare at him, exasperated. “Why does everyone assume I can fix it just because I—”

You stop yourself before you say love him.

Morgan doesn’t blink. “Because you calm him. He has a soft spot for you”

You sigh, slumping against the wall beside him. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. But no promises.”

He smiles, finally, clapping a warm hand to your shoulder. “I’ll take it.”

You wait until he disappears back into the conference room before you head down the hallway, toward the local precinct’s makeshift office where you know Hotch has holed himself up.

You’re already rehearsing what you’ll say: something about how his tension is bleeding into the team, how he needs to remember they’re on his side, how he can’t fix this case by destroying himself from the inside out.

But when you reach the door, it’s cracked just slightly – and inside, you see him.

Elbows on the desk. Head in his hands. Shoulders tight.

You stop. Because for a second, he doesn’t look like the man who barked orders ten minutes ago. He looks… tired. Scared. Like all of this has sunk too deep under his skin.

You raise your hand, knock softly.

His head lifts instantly. The second he sees it’s you, something in his face softens. He sits back slowly, composing himself, but it’s too late. You’ve already seen the unraveling.

You step inside and close the door gently behind you.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

He looks up at you, exhausted. “If you’re here to tell me I’m being an asshole, you don’t need to. I already know.”

You blink. Then let out a slow breath. “Okay. Well, that saves me a speech.”

He leans back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Or Reid. Or anyone.”

“I know,” you say gently, stepping closer. “But they don’t.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue. Just looks at you like maybe your presence alone is enough to let him breathe again.

After a beat, he says, quieter: “I’m afraid we’re going to miss something. That someone’s going to get hurt. And I’m pushing too hard because I don’t know what else to do.”

You step in front of him now, between him and the desk, and crouch just enough so you can meet his eyes. Your hand slides over his where it rests on his knee.

“Then let us help you,” you say. “Let me help you.”

His eyes search yours, and for a second, there’s nothing but the space between your breaths. Then he nods, barely.

You squeeze his hand once. “Come back in. Apologize. Let’s get this guy.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”

“And I’m always right,” you reply, and lean in to press a fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It lingers a second too long.

You pull back and then you hear it.

A cough. Somewhere behind you.

You turn just in time to catch Rossi in the doorway, brows lifted, a coffee in each hand.

He arches an eyebrow. “This is cozy.”

You freeze.

Hotch just sighs and mutters, “Dave...”

Rossi grins. “Learn to lock a door, Aaron.”

He winks and disappears down the hallway before either of you can respond.

You look back at Aaron.

He looks like he’s aged ten years in ten seconds.

“He already knew, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, honey.”

+1.

The call comes in fast. Too fast.

One minute you’re clearing a low-rise apartment complex with Morgan and Emily on your six, the next, there’s shouting, an unexpected backdoor escape, a scuffle, the unsub slipping through hands you thought were ready to catch him. You see the knife before anyone else does.

You don’t think. You move.

And then–

White-hot pain.

It's sharp and sudden, flaring across your side as the unsub lashes out and the blade sinks in just beneath your ribs. You hit the ground hard, knees scraping against cracked linoleum, and your breath punches out of your lungs before you can even process the impact.

You hear shouting again – Emily’s voice, Morgan’s, someone barking for medics – but it’s all underwater now. Muffled. Warped. The adrenaline is already fading, replaced by a nauseating chill that starts at your fingertips and crawls inward.

You press your hand to the wound and it comes away slick.

Shit.

Morgan’s face looms above you next, eyes wide, voice sharp. He’s pressing down on your side with both hands, trying to slow the bleeding.

“Stay with me,” he says. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, you hear me?”

You want to answer. Want to reassure him. But your lips feel slow, and your mind is already spinning sideways.

Then there’s another voice. Quieter, rougher, but sharper than a knife through fog.

“Aaron—she’s hurt bad.”

You don’t see him at first. You only feel the way Morgan shifts to let someone else take his place, the way the air changes as Aaron drops to his knees beside you, one hand immediately replacing Morgan’s at your side.

He’s pale. Jaw locked so tight it looks painful. But his eyes, his eyes are wild.

“Hey,” he says, too calm, too quiet. “Stay with me.”

You blink up at him, trying to smile. “Wasn’t... planning to go anywhere.”

His expression cracks. Just barely.

You feel his hand slide up, cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he blinks.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a promise. It sounds like a plea.

Your fingers twitch, reaching for him. He catches your hand like it’s instinct, like he was already halfway there.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Aaron shakes his head once, fierce and immediate. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

But you’re already fading, the pain morphing into something floaty and distant. You don’t know when the medics arrive. You don’t hear the sirens. You just feel Aaron’s hand in yours, tight and shaking slightly.

And the last thing you register before your world goes black is the sound of his voice – no longer calm, no longer careful – shouting your name.

You wake up to beeping.

Soft, steady, mechanical. A rhythm that feels like it’s been there forever, lulling you in and out of something thick and dark.

It takes a minute before your eyes crack open.

The hospital ceiling is blurry, too white, and the lights overhead are too bright. Your mouth is dry, your throat worse.

You shift, barely, and that’s when the pain comes.

Dull but deep. A throb just under your ribs, blooming out slow and insistent like a warning bell. Your face twists in a grimace, and a sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.

Instantly – instantly – there’s a hand on yours.

Not a nurse. Not a doctor. Not one of those brisk, impersonal touches meant to check your vitals and vanish again.

No. This is different.

This hand is warm. Familiar. Fingers wrapping around yours like an anchor.

You blink again, and your vision clears just enough to see him.

Aaron.

Slumped forward in the hospital chair, suit jacket discarded on the back of it, tie loosened but still intact. There’s stubble on his jaw, more than usual, and deep bruises under his eyes, like sleep gave up on him days ago. His hand is clasped in yours like he never left your side.

Because he didn’t.

He feels your fingers twitch and bolts upright, the chair screeching slightly beneath him.

“Hey,” he breathes, and it sounds like the first time he’s spoken in hours.

You try to smile. It’s weak. Pathetic, probably.

“Hey,” you rasp.

His eyes flick over your face, wild with relief and something else, still settling behind his ribs.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, voice thick.

You squeeze his hand—or try to. “I scared me.”

That gets a half-laugh out of him. It’s broken, but it’s there.

You take a shallow breath, testing your lungs. “What happened?”

“You lost a lot of blood. The knife missed anything vital, but barely.” He swallows hard. “You were in surgery for two hours. They had to give you a transfusion. You’ve been out for almost a day.”

Your brows lift slowly. “Wow. Overachiever.”

Aaron exhales, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You’re quiet for a second, watching him. The tightness in his shoulders, the rawness in his voice. You reach for him again, slower this time.

“I’m okay,” you say softly, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand.

Aaron doesn’t move at first. Just watches you like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, like if he lets himself believe it, the universe will punish him for the audacity.

You blink at him again, taking in the state of him now that your vision’s steadier. The wrinkled shirt, the undone top button, the half-drunk cup of coffee sitting cold on the bedside table. The dark smudges under his eyes make him look so sad.

“You haven’t left,” you murmur.

It’s not a question.

Aaron shakes his head once. “Didn’t want to.”

You arch a brow. Or try to — it feels more like a flutter of effort than expression. “Aaron... have you even gone home? Or... showered?”

His silence is damning.

“Have you slept?” you push, and your voice cracks halfway through, too dry, too rough.

“I don’t want to leave you here by yourself,” he says simply.

“Aaron.” You pause until he meets your eyes again. “I’ll be fine. Just for an hour. Go... sort yourself out.”

His jaw twitches. “What if you sleep and wake up again and I’m not—”

“Then I’ll be annoyed for five minutes and then I’ll fall asleep again,” you cut in. “Seriously. I don’t need a guard dog.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

So you lean your head back against the pillow and muster your most unimpressed tone: “If you don’t go, I’m going to ask Rossi to make you.”

As if summoned, there’s a knock at the door and a familiar head peeks in.

Rossi.

Followed by Morgan. Then JJ. Emily and Reid right behind. Garcia’s holding a bouquet that’s half her height and bright enough to sear through the fluorescent lighting.

“You rang?” Rossi says with a knowing look, already striding toward the bed.

Aaron stands stiffly, caught in the headlights.

“Perfect timing,” you murmur, letting your gaze flick toward Hotch. “Rossi, can you do me a favour?”

Rossi crosses his arms. “Of course.”

“Make him leave for, like... forty-five minutes. An hour. Long enough to eat and shower. Or sleep. Whichever comes first.”

Aaron huffs through his nose, not quite a protest, but not agreement either. Rossi doesn’t wait.

“You heard the patient,” he says, already taking Aaron by the elbow like it’s a done deal. “Come on. I’ll even buy you real coffee.”

“I’m not—” Aaron starts, but Rossi just tightens his grip.

“You’re not doing anyone any favors walking around looking like that. She’s safe. We’ve got her.”

And somehow, it’s that —the weight of trust in Rossi’s voice— that finally gets Aaron to nod. He squeezes your hand once more, like he’s leaving behind something vital, and then lets go.

“I’ll be back,” he says.

“I know,” you whisper, and you mean it.

Once he’s gone, the rest of the team crowds in, careful and gentle.

JJ brushes a hand down your arm and gives you a smile that’s equal parts motherly and relieved. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Join the club,” you rasp, eyes flicking toward the IV in your arm. “Ten out of ten. Would not recommend.”

Morgan chuckles and drops into the chair Aaron vacated. “You still managed to take the guy down. Stab wound and all.”

“I just slowed him down. You all did the rest.”

“You gave us the opening,” Emily says softly. “That’s more than enough.”

Garcia sets the flowers down by the window and nudges the edge of your blanket with uncharacteristic caution. “When you’re better, I’m throwing a movie night. And you’re not allowed to say no.”

“I’ll be there,” you whisper.

Emily clears her throat and tips her head toward the door, where Aaron disappeared minutes ago.

“For what it’s worth...” she says carefully, her voice low and sincere, “we’re really happy for you both.”

JJ nods, smile gentle. “Seriously. It’s not exactly shocking.”

“We’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Garcia adds, her voice half a stage whisper, half delighted confession.

“You should’ve seen him when they wheeled you into surgery,” Morgan murmurs. “He looked ready to rip the whole ER apart just to stay with you.”

Your heart trips a little. You shift your gaze to the doorway, even though he’s long gone from sight.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you say softly. “It just... did.”

“No one ever means to fall,” Rossi says from the hallway, returning with two coffees in hand. “The good ones just catch you.”

You smile again. This time, it doesn’t hurt quite so much.

“Thanks, guys.”

JJ squeezes your arm again. “Rest. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

And as you drift back down into the syrupy quiet, surrounded by the warmth of your team and the promise that he’ll be back —soon, always— you believe it.

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