#it curls guys. those are fucking spirals

[sicheslavchyk]

Oh okay, with right styling for three weeks it turns out that my hair is actually 2c-3a...

[geminiwritten]

short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...

notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)

warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t. 

Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t. 

But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you. 

You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar. 

And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering. 

“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?” 

Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?” 

“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily. 

Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.” 

Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him. 

“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.” 

Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you. 

“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?” 

Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.” 

Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?” 

Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer. 

“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?” 

Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.” 

“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.” 

“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.” 

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.” 

Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him. 

Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone. 

At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself. 

“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.” 

Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him. 

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business. 

Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever. 

It shouldn’t matter. 

But it does. 

God, it fucking matters—way more than it should. 

Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy. 

And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does. 

He lives for it. 

“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—” 

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.” 

“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.” 

Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing. 

But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a— 

“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer. 

Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.” 

“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly. 

Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them. 

The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you. 

The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains. 

And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight. 

- 

“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck. 

But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar. 

Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy. 

“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.” 

The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew. 

“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!” 

He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought. 

You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is. 

Where Bob is. 

You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served. 

“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar. 

You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer. 

“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.” 

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.” 

You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure. 

Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses. 

You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing. 

“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners. 

You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.” 

He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?” 

You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen. 

“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask. 

You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?” 

His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.” 

You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?” 

He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more. 

You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.” 

“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases. 

“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.” 

“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses. 

Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar. 

“Wow,” he chuckles softly. 

You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.” 

Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest. 

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.” 

You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?” 

He blinks fast. “No.” 

You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.” 

He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.” 

You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.” 

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in. 

“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.” 

You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away. 

He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.” 

Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good. 

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.” 

Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.” 

“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.” 

She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.” 

You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong. 

After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date? 

- 

Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides. 

Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops. 

It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive. 

“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.” 

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee. 

“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.” 

“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks. 

You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.” 

“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut. 

Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?” 

“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.” 

Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.” 

“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.” 

He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely. 

“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.” 

You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?” 

Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?” 

“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee. 

There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?” 

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side. 

“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.” 

Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.” 

Your brows shoot up. “That so?” 

He nods. 

You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.” 

His eyes snap open. “Huh?” 

“Want to fuck me?” 

He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?” 

Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy. 

Well... almost everyone. 

Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank. 

Which means he’s definitely listening. 

You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes. 

“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence. 

Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?” 

You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.” 

“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees. 

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks. 

Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.” 

“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?” 

Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?” 

You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank. 

“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails. 

“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?” 

“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?” 

You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.” 

After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob. 

The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals. 

Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up. 

By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark. 

Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there. 

You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when— 

“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close. 

You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet. 

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.” 

You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show. 

“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.” 

“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close. 

Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.” 

Your heart stutters. 

He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes. 

“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea. 

Bob stills for a beat. Just one. 

Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.” 

You swear your knees nearly give. 

But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something. 

“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?” 

You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.” 

He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word. 

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1. 

It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him. 

But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up. 

You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check. 

Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet. 

“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.” 

“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.” 

“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.” 

His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.” 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating. 

“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.” 

Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?” 

There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through. 

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.” 

Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!” 

More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops. 

“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.” 

“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.” 

You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order? 

“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.” 

You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.” 

“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution. 

“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest. 

“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.” 

You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature. 

“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?” 

“Copy,” Jake replies. 

You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical. 

You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn. 

“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?” 

“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved. 

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can. 

“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.” 

You and Jake return to formation without issue. 

“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.” 

There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel. 

Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.” 

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.” 

“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.” 

Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs. 

Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl. 

The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground. 

You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room. 

By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed. 

In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.” 

You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip. 

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.” 

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter. 

“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.” 

You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.” 

“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—” 

“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.” 

His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?” 

You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice. 

“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.” 

“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.” 

His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch. 

Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. 

“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—” 

“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?” 

Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses. 

You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life. 

“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?” 

He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.” 

Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.” 

You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.” 

Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?” 

Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?” 

He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.” 

Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes. 

“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?” 

Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha. 

You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?” 

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.” 

You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.” 

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.” 

You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place. 

“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.” 

- 

Unfortunately, later never comes. 

You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home. 

The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home. 

The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down. 

When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate. 

“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow. 

You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?” 

He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?” 

You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place. 

“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.” 

Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?” 

“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.” 

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable. 

“Wow,” he mutters. 

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugs. “Just never took you for a quitter.” 

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?” 

“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.” 

You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—” 

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.” 

He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps. 

And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him. 

“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.” 

“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.” 

“Trev!” 

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.” 

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room. 

Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling. 

Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them. 

But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest? 

Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take. 

All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance. 

At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word. 

The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot. 

“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley. 

Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.” 

Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.” 

“What am I?” she asks. 

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan. 

Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?” 

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles. 

“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.” 

You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?” 

They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away. 

You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes. 

When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.” 

“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?” 

You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing. 

“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence. 

He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.” 

There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over. 

Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?” 

You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest. 

You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him. 

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.” 

Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked. 

You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs. 

“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet. 

The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex. 

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.” 

Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame. 

“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?” 

Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try. 

“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.” 

Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing. 

“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.” 

Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing. 

Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing. 

“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?” 

Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside. 

By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin. 

“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.” 

“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.” 

You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.” 

Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile. 

You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.” 

He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting. 

“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.” 

You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.” 

There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins. 

“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.” 

There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t. 

You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention. 

Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder. 

You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you. 

When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather. 

Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.” 

Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.” 

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.” 

Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.  

You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him. 

“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.” 

You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.” 

The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round. 

You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night. 

And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket. 

You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return. 

This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands. 

You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back. 

You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion. 

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes? 

Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you. 

“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.” 

You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is. 

“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands. 

You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.” 

“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.” 

Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?” 

Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest. 

“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.” 

“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists. 

His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch. 

“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.” 

Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale. 

“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…” 

You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering. 

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.” 

He freezes. 

You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid. 

And then you feel it. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted. 

“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.” 

You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg. 

“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly. 

Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.” 

Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.” 

You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast. 

Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you. 

“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh. 

You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge. 

“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters. 

Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.” 

Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.” 

You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.” 

They all look at you, confused. 

“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply. 

The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief. 

You frown. “What?” 

“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.” 

You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look. 

“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.” 

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.” 

“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.” 

Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?” 

“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.” 

Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?” 

You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.” 

“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?” 

The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn. 

“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug. 

“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.” 

Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you. 

“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks. 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.” 

“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.” 

Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?” 

You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?” 

“She’s right, though,” Mickey says, thoughtful. “Bob’s got something about him.” 

The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief. 

“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group. 

Everyone falls silent. 

“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.” 

Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.” 

He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes. 

Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place. 

After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy. 

You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone. 

“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?” 

He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.” 

You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?” 

His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.” 

He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face. 

You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.” 

He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra. 

He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you. 

“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?” 

He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place. 

“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?” 

There’s a pause. An awkward pause. 

The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists. 

“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.” 

Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor. 

You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.” 

Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut. 

- Bob - 

“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. 

Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters. 

“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.” 

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.” 

Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat. 

Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car. 

As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him. 

“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?” 

Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.” 

There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad. 

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in. 

Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.” 

“I know,” Bob huffs. 

He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight. 

“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?” 

Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.” 

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.” 

“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.” 

Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.” 

Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.” 

Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.” 

Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.” 

They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest. 

He barely sleeps that night. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade. 

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick. 

Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him. 

After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’ 

An hour passes. Nothing. 

And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you. 

By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore. 

The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings. 

It’s worse—because it’s you. 

You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately. 

The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try. 

Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you. 

And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now. 

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island. 

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric. 

Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him… 

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times. 

His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs. 

The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you. 

“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.” 

His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination. 

“I—uh, Trevor?” 

Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead. 

He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—” 

“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep. 

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!” 

“What?” 

He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest. 

Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now? 

“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.” 

Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down. 

Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it? 

But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait. 

Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were. 

God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted? 

- You - 

“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back. 

You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.” 

Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?” 

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.” 

Trevor gasps—loudly. 

“But he said no.” 

He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?” 

“Because he has laundry to do.” 

Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.” 

“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.” 

He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?” 

You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.” 

Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought. 

You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face. 

“Trevor…” 

He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?” 

You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.” 

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.” 

You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop. 

You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all. 

But deep down, you know the truth. 

Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago. 

And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd. 

You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken. 

The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift. 

Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob. 

The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down. 

Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room. 

You give her a tight smile. 

“Feeling any better?” 

You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open. 

Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you. 

Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed. 

Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry. 

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated. 

It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers. 

You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve. 

“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.” 

Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room. 

You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule. 

Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it. 

Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves. 

You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded. 

Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before. 

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls. 

You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still. 

Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike. 

You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet. 

Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.” 

You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely. 

“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.” 

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration. 

It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race. 

You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle. 

“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.” 

You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it. 

“Vex—” he tries again. 

“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line. 

Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams. 

Your heart lurches. 

Terrain. Too close. Too fast. 

“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!” 

You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur. 

“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—” 

“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!” 

“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—" 

Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest. 

You’re not going to make it. 

Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard. 

The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below. 

Then—freefall. 

The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine. 

But you’re too low. Far too low. 

You don’t even have time to brace. 

You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop. 

White-hot pain detonates through you. 

Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream. 

And then… everything goes still. 

Muted. 

Quiet. 

Like the world took a breath—and left you behind. 

- 

You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet. 

It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it. 

The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital. 

The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture. 

You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace. 

“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible. 

There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement. 

A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath. 

“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier. 

“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile. 

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go. 

He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button. 

You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.” 

She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position. 

“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now. 

The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.” 

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets. 

He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you. 

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?” 

You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way. 

Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?” 

You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.” 

He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting. 

“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says. 

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg. 

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.” 

You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back. 

“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.” 

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—” 

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.” 

You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—” 

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—” 

The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.” 

Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.” 

Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out. 

His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back. 

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic. 

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air. 

You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable. 

But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist. 

When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate. 

The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse. 

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it. 

Great. Another win. 

Two whole days pass, and still no word. 

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t. 

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened. 

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it. 

Even if it kills you. 

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands. 

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door. 

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining. 

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment. 

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you. 

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode. 

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk. 

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan. 

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait. 

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment. 

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding. 

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out. 

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction. 

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him. 

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together. 

“What are you doing here?” 

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?” 

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.” 

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.” 

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance. 

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks. 

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?” 

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.” 

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible. 

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside. 

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place. 

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow. 

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you. 

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips. 

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet. 

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance. 

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent. 

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen. 

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.” 

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient. 

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible. 

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?” 

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves. 

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.” 

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks. 

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.” 

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time. 

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—” 

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal. 

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.” 

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?” 

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.” 

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso. 

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?” 

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.” 

His brow creases. “You do?” 

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—” 

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?” 

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.” 

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob. 

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?” 

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart. 

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.” 

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit. 

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?” 

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—” 

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back. 

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.” 

He laughs again, broken this time. 

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?” 

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting. 

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head. 

“Love?” you whisper. 

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath. 

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.” 

Your heart lurches into your throat. 

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—” 

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. 

He blinks. “What?” 

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.” 

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out. 

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.” 

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence. 

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down. 

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly. 

You nod. “Hangman.” 

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—” 

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?” 

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—” 

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?” 

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg. 

“I know I had no right,” he mutters. 

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—” 

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips. 

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall. 

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second. 

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in. 

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos. 

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in. 

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half. 

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going. 

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” 

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering. 

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch. 

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg. 

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.” 

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. 

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” 

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue. 

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?” 

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.” 

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.” 

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?” 

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.” 

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.” 

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury. 

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?” 

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening. 

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire. 

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally. 

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”

END.

[theeafterparty444]

Quiet Hours

Remmick x Reader

Summary: You and Remmick were supposed to be a casual thing—no strings, no feelings, just tension and release behind closed dorm doors. But when he shows up outside your room in the middle of the night, needy and jealous, it’s clear something’s shifted. What was once just sex has turned into obsession. He doesn’t just want your body anymore—he wants you. And tonight, he’s not leaving until he’s sure you remember exactly who you belong to.

Wc: 5.7k

He shouldn't be here.

That’s the first thought in your head when you see Remmick leaning against your dorm door past 1:30 a.m.—hood up, lips red, fists in his hoodie pocket like he’s trying not to knock again.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” he mutters. “You were with that guy. From class.”

You raise a brow. “Are you jealous?”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw flexes.

“I just don’t like people looking at you like that. Or you looking at them.”

A beat.

“’Cause I know what you sound like when you’re under me. Know how you taste when you’re shaking. And he doesn’t.”

Your stomach clenches.

You unlock your door and say nothing.

He follows you in like gravity, like he’s trying to stay chill—but his hands are already twitching like he wants to wreck you.

The second the door shuts, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours—hot, needy, a little reckless. You can taste the way he’s spiraling. His hands grip your face like he hasn’t touched you in weeks. Like you’ve been out of reach too long.

“You wore those shorts on purpose,” he pants against your lips, walking you backward. “The tiny ones. You wanted attention.”

“I wanted coffee,” you shoot back, tugging his hoodie off.

“Liar.” His lips move to your neck, biting just hard enough to make your thighs press together. “You knew I’d see.”

“Maybe I wanted your attention.”

He groans like it physically hurts.

“You’ve got it, baby. Fuck, you’ve got it.”

Your shirt is gone. Bra unclasped and flung somewhere. His hands are everywhere—palming, squeezing, thumbs rolling your nipples until you're arching under him.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmurs, voice like gravel. “Barely touched you and you’re soaked, huh?”

He drops to his knees and shoves your shorts down, mouth open and greedy.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, eyes locked on your dripping pussy. “You’re fuckin’ dripping.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh slow—then licks one stripe up your slit that makes you gasp.

“Shit, baby,” he groans. “You taste like everything. I could live down here.”

And he proves it.

Remmick eats like it’s his last meal.

Messy, hot, tongue deep inside you while his nose presses your clit. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open as he moans against your pussy like it turns him on more than it does you.

“Let me hear it,” he says between sucks. “Let them fucking hear you.”

You’re panting, hips grinding into his mouth without shame.

Then he slides two fingers in, slow, and curls them just right.

You scream.

“Atta girl,” he growls, fingerfucking you steady while licking your clit like a man possessed. “Come on. Give it to me.”

You unravel—loud, legs trembling, pussy clenching around his fingers.

But he doesn’t stop.

You gasp and writhe, trying to close your thighs.

He just growls. “One more. Be a good girl and give me another.”

He sucks hard on your clit and you snap—back arching off the bed as your second orgasm hits harder, messier.

You’re panting, dazed, but he’s already stripping—shirt gone, sweats shoved down, cock heavy and red and leaking against his stomach.

“Look what you do to me,” he pants, stroking himself slow. “I could fuck anyone on this campus and all I want is you.”

You crawl back on the bed, open your legs.

“Then come take it.”

He fumbles for a condom, but hesitates.

You blink. “You good?”

“I want you raw so bad,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “Wanna feel every fuckin’ flutter.”

Your pussy clenches.

You reach into the drawer. “Wrap it up. If you go raw, I’m not leaving you alone again.”

He laughs, breathless. “Bet.”

He pushes in slow.

You both groan.

“You always this tight for me?” he grits, voice strangled. “Fuck—feel like your pussy’s choking me.”

You wrap your legs around him, pull him deeper.

He starts slow. Deep. Rolling his hips until you’re panting.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “So wet. So fucking full. You love this, don’t you?”

You nod, whimpering.

“Say it.”

“I love your cock,” you gasp. “I love how you fuck me, Remmick.”

He curses and fucks you harder, hands gripping your hips.

You claw at his back, dizzy with the stretch.

“I’m the only one who gets to see you like this,” he growls. “Mouth open, eyes all dumb, begging for more. This pussy’s mine.”

You nod again, barely coherent.

Then his thumb presses your clit.

“Gonna come for me again?”

You cry out.

“Come on, baby. Cream all over me. Let me feel you soak this dick.”

You shatter, clenching so hard around him he stumbles into his orgasm seconds after, grunting deep in your ear.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m coming—Jesus—”

He stays buried inside you, trembling.

You both lie there, covered in sweat and each other, breathing hard.

Then:

“I hate seeing you smile at other guys,” he whispers. “Makes me wanna fight someone.”

You laugh, breathless. “You’re insane.”

He kisses your shoulder. “I’m obsessed.”

You stroke his hair. “I know.”

A pause.

“You staying?”

He doesn’t move. “Try and make me leave.”

The End ❤︎

@001-side, here's your slightly needy Remmick.

[v1rtualsalvat10n]

𓆩♡𓆪 how to tell you goodbye

— weeks after his mysterious disappearance, lu shows up at your door with a message for you.

notes :: TW FOR DUBCON. uh yeah I find the idea of him apologizing for doing what he has to do very hot. f!reader sorry guys this is self indulgent

You don't remember how long it's been.

But you know it'd been long enough for you to stop wondering if he was actually coming back or not, and try to cope with that fact. He was gone - there was very little doubt in your mind about that. He'd stopped responding to calls and messages, his socials went cold, his friends, at least the ones you knew, hadn't heard anything either.

He disappeared. And the last thing you ever heard from him was that he was planning on doing something... real. But he never told you what. He could be dead for all you know, and there was nothing you could do about it.

It took a pretty big toll on you. He was one of the few friends you had, and just like that he was gone. Just when things were looking up for you, your support system just had to vanish into thin air. You missed him, fuck, you missed him more than anything. You missed your little coffee shop dates, the weekend parties, playing games in your apartment when it was lonely, sitting in the park together just talking for hours.

You miss those little looks he gave you when he thought you weren't looking, the way that some of your mannerisms made him smile, the nights where your conversations would get real and you'd cry on his shoulder when it was too much for you. You miss how he'd let you.

You missed the moment when he made you look at him, and wiped your tears with his thumb, letting the tension between you two linger for longer than it should. You missed his warm, shaky breath against your cheek. But you missed the most that moment when you felt his lips on yours, just for that few seconds.

You didn't miss the way he seemed to have regretted it after.

But you remembered that the clearest of all... watching the guilt in his eyes set in as he moved away from you, standing from your couch and rushing for his bags, saying that "it was getting late" or some lie like that. You remembered how he didn't even look back at you as he walked out of your door.

And that was the last day you saw him. He texted you the next morning.

"Hey, I probably won't be able to see you for a while. Working on stuff. Gonna do something real with my life."

What the fuck did that even mean? It made you angry, irrationally so. It probably only made you angry because you thought it was your fault. But god dammit, that felt valid! You felt like you had a fair reason to be pissed. It was no secret you liked him - it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out either! He'd do something like that so carelessly, and then just throw you out?

You hated it. Maybe you'd feel better with an explanation, but the truth of the matter is that he kissed you and then mysteriously disappeared, not to be seen again. And how were you not supposed to make assumptions in that situation?

And so you'd spend your days by yourself. With no more Luigi to rely on to keep you from spiraling, you'd been curled up in your room by yourself, scrolling through his social media posts, rereading your message logs to see if there's something you'd missed.

You had a jacket of his he left at your place, and every night you'd wrap a pillow in it and breathe in the mix of cologne and his natural scent until it lulled you to sleep.

It wasn't enough. You wish he'd come back, but even if he did, what was there to say? Even if he apologized, you didn't know that you'd forgive him.

That is, until he actually did come back.

No, surely that was just wishful thinking - that knock was probably a salesman or someone stupid like that coming to bother you. You dragged yourself up from your bed and slowly approached the door, groaning to yourself before putting on a fake smile to answer it.

And sure enough, there he was. Cold and scruffy looking, his clothes ruffled and his hair matted, bags under his eyes. He pushed you inside, and slammed the door behind himself.

He kissed you again. But this time he didn't hesitate, and he wasn't gentle - he threw himself onto you, your lips messily colliding with his as he leaned into it, diving his tongue into your mouth. His hands slid down to your hips, grabbing the waistband of your sweatpants so tight it was like he might fall off the Earth if he let go.

The kiss was sloppy and desperate, and he hungrily pushed it as far as you'd let it go, which was admittedly pretty far. But then the shock faded, and you pressed your hands to his chest, shoving him back. He was weak enough that he fell back into the door, leaning against it to prevent from fully toppling over.

"What the fuck?!"

You'd never yelled at him before. Never even thought about getting upset with him. His face turned fearful, as he steadied himself and tried to walk forwards again. You took a step back for the one he took forwards.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Who do you think you are, fucking with me like this?!"

His expression shifted. He just stared at you, blankly, either too tired or too numb to show any emotion anymore. And fuck, that only made you angrier. "You think this is funny? I was worried you could be dead, and now you just- show up, months later, looking like this? Why didn't you say something? You just- just-"

"I'll explain everything. Just... I really... missed you."

"Yeah? You didn't miss me enough to at least give me a heads up that you were alive!" You hid your face in your hands, sighing deeply trying to contain yourself. What reasonable explanation could there possibly be? You couldn't reason with him surely.

You hear him step forwards, and he places his hands on your hips again. You reach down to pull him off of you, but the moment you move your hands away from your face, he's pressing more kisses to your lips. He holds you tighter, his arms wrapping around you. "Get off me," you growl, but he doesn't listen.

He kisses your neck, his warm breath shaking profusely. "Luigi," you say, and he can't even look up at you. You yank one of his hands off, only for him to put it back on you with more force than the last time. "I said get off!"

"Let me make it up to you," he begs you, his gaze meeting yours as he walked you forwards, pushing you onto the couch. You try to stand, but he's quicker, and he straddles you, hovering over you and pushing you down by your shoulders. He stops looking you in the eyes, too embarrassed at what he was doing.

"Luigi, stop! I'm trying to talk to you, god dammit!" He doesn't listen. He can't. He's already straining his jeans, grinding his hips into yours. It's warm. He's warm, and fuck, you can't lie to yourself. You missed this feeling. You missed the feeling of something real being there with you. You missed him.

Your body betrays you, and you softly rock your hips forwards into his, swearing under your breath. He smiles softly, cupping one of your hips in his hand. "It's okay. I know you missed this." He looked at you, a weird sincerity in his eyes, considering what he was actually doing.

"I'm not messing around. This- this isn't funny. Let go of me." At some point you had stopped struggling without noticing, and you squirmed again, causing him to push more of his weight down onto you. He spoke softly to you. "Shh, it's okay... It's okay, I promise I won't take long. Promise, promise."

He muttered some words in Italian, something that sounded along the lines of a prayer as he rutted into you, yanking your hips up to get more friction. "Stop it," you say again, covering your face with one of your hands.

The truth is that you'd dreamed of this moment for so long. So very long. You'd dreamed of what it would feel like when he finally touched you, his skin on yours, giving you all he had to give. But fuck, not like this, not like this-

He finished with whatever he was reciting, and slipped his fingers under your waistband, along with the one of your panties and tugged them down. You pressed your thighs together, but he was stronger than you and pushed them apart, leaving you exposed for him.

"You're beautiful..." He stared down at you, leaving a crimson shade on your cheeks. "I'm sorry, I just... I felt like I had to tell you goodbye." Your eyes widened as he said that, and you shook your head. "What are you talking about? Luigi, I'm not going anywhere. You're not going anywhere either. You don't have to do this, please-"

By the time you finished, he was already unbuckling his belt, the sound of the buckle clinking against itself making you shiver. He unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down, rubbing himself against your folds. He was big. Bigger than you expected. Big enough that it looked like this might leave you sore.

You tried to scoot back, but he reached for you and pulled you closer than you were before, gasping at the feeling of your wetness against his cock. He'd longed for this forever, maybe even since the moment he'd first laid eyes on you. It felt like heaven to him, despite how dirty he felt - despite the fact that he knew it was wrong.

Something about you looking down on him for this only made him harder.

He lined himself up with your entrance and parted you with just his tip, his nails sinking into your hips as he did. "Fuck," he whimpered, "I'm so sorry, amore."

And with that, he slid into you slowly. You sighed in relief, only to cry out when he was so overwhelmed by pleasure that he slammed himself into you as deep as he could manage, rolling his hips into you.

Fuck. You could feel him pressing against your cervix. His breath shook as he panted heavily, shutting his eyes tightly as he pulled out nearly all the way, only to slam back into you. He swore, leaving bruises on your sides from how hard he was holding you. It hurt but you didn't care.

He kept up this brutal force, moving all the way out just so he could thrust deep into you again. It took him a while to speed up just because he was so overstimulated by it. But when he did, he fucked you like a wild animal, slamming his hips into yours, the obscene sound of his skin hitting yours filling your apartment.

You looked up at him, who still had his eyes closed out of shame. You couldn't help but imagine what he saw behind his eyelids, what he was imagining as he fucked you in earnest. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but he fought against them. "I'm sorry," he muttered, over and over again. He couldn't stop apologizing.

"It's- it's okay, it's okay... fuck-! I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you... oh god..."

That was too much for him. Your acceptance, that unconditional love of yours, the fact that he could do this, and you would still understand, pushed him over, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

His hands frantically slid up your sides as he leaned down onto you, both your chests pressed together, getting as much of his skin on yours as possible. He ran his fingers up and down you, committing every hill and valley to memory. "I'm sorry, I promise I'll make it up to you. I promise you. I promise."

He kept mindlessly apologizing as he used you, controlled by his own need. There was no stopping him now, and you didn't want to. He was beautiful even like this, even at his lowest point. You knew that you loved him in this moment.

"I'm gonna cum, please, please... I'm sorry, I need it, please, baby-" He kept babbling through his tears, which fell onto your cheeks. You closed your eyes softly, leaning into his touch, pressing your lips to his.

He devoured you in an instant, the kiss deeper than before, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he neared his release. "Perdonami, ti prego," he begged, speaking inbetween breaths.

"Lu," you cooed. "Go ahead. It's alright."

As soon as you commanded him, his eyes shot open and he threw his head back as he rammed into your cervix, spilling himself deep inside of you, his body shaking as he did. You tightened around him, the feeling of him finally letting himself go enough to make you cum too, as you called out his name.

He stayed tensed up over you for a moment, his arms struggling to hold his weight as his eyes shut, and he collapsed on top of you, his face in your chest. He started to sob, gripping you tight, one of his hands going down to entangle with yours. "I'm so sorry, amore," he repeated, over and over, "I'm sorry"s falling from his lips.

You pressed him closer, free hand stroking his hair softly as he crumbled in your arms. "It's okay. I forgive you."

"Please don't hold it against me."

"We'll figure it out, okay, Lu? We'll figure it out, together. Me and you. Because I love you."

"I love you too.... No matter what happens, remember that I love you."

[leashybebes]

Oooh #31 to help distract you and also, good luck!

single parent au, my beloved! and now i'm going to bed. more of these tomorrow, hopefully!

There's a voicemail waiting for Tommy when he lands after his first flight of the shift. It's only thirty minutes old but his heart sinks when he hears, "Hi Mr Kinard, this is Stephanie, I'm a receptionist here at Central Elementary."

He covers his other ear with his free hand trying not to spiral.

"I'm sorry to say that Lila was involved in an altercation with another student - "

"What the hell," he murmurs. Lila's a little sassy - blame him for that, sure - but an altercation?

" - no one was hurt, but emotions are running high so we're asking the parents of both those involved to come pick the girls up for the day."

Tommy groans and heads towards his captain's office.

—

Buck stares disbelieving at his phone after he ends the call with Robbie's school. His baby girl, fighting? He can hardly believe it. She - alright, she may have inherited some of his more over-dramatic qualities, but she's a little angel.

"Uh, Bobby?"

"What's up, Buck?"

"I'm gonna need to take off for like…half an hour. Apparently Robbie got in a fight at school?"

"A fight?!"

"An altercation," Buck says, sounding the word out doubtfully. It sounds like a lot for a five year old. "They said she isn't hurt, but. Yeah. They want me to pick her up for the day."

"Okay, well just take her home," Bobby says. "We'll manage without you, and you know the firehouse is a treat."

"Thanks, Bobby," Buck calls over his shoulder, already jogging towards the parking lot.

—

Tommy hits traffic and the normally short drive to Lila's school takes him twice as long as it should. By the time he gets there, the pick up lot is empty aside from a Jeep, whose driver side door is just opening to reveal a tall, good looking guy in - Tommy blinks as he pulls his truck into an empty spot a few spaces over - an LAFD t-shirt with BUCKLEY stamped across the back.

Tommy gets a sinking feeling when the guy heads for main reception. Tommy catches up to him as he reaches the desk and hears him say, "I'm Roberta Buckley's dad, is she okay?"

"Oh, Mr Buckley, hi! If you can wait right here, I'll fetch the principal."

"Before you do," Tommy interjects. "Stephanie, right? Got a feeling we might be here for the same reason. Lila Kinard's dad."

Buckley glares at him while Stephanie disappears into the office. Tommy raises his eyebrows.

"What?"

"Can't believe your kid started a fight with my kid," Buckley grumbles.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise you'd already spoken with the principal," Tommy says, hackles rising.

"Robbie's a good kid!"

"So is Lila!"

Buckley scoffs and Tommy bites his tongue. Much as he would love to right now, he's not going to start a fight with another parent at the school reception, so he folds his arms and looks away.

—

Lila's dad is a fucking asshole, Buck decides. Thinks he's sooo superior just because he can fold those huge arms over that broad chest and look away when Buck's working up for an argument. Thinks he's sooo great with the cleft in his chin and his stormy blue eyes and the stray curl on his forehead, like the jackass is cosplaying as Superman or something.

He's distracted from stewing in his own frustration when the door opens and the school principal - a friendly but steel-cored woman who he only knows as Mrs Jonas appears, Robbie on one side of her and Kinard's demon spawn on the other. He does have to grudgingly admit it's very cute when Kinard goes onto one knee to catch his kid as she flings himself in her direction with a cry of daddy!

He sets his big hands on her shoulders and looks at her seriously.

"What's this I hear about fighting, huh?"

"We made up!" Lila insists.

"We did," Robbie chimes in. "We did, daddy!"

"That so?" Buck asks, scooping Robbie up in one arm to look her over. Her braids are a bit of a mess and she has that redness in her cheeks that means she's been mad or crying or both recently, but she looks otherwise okay. He has to admit Lila's in the same condition, nothing too bad, but a little rumpled.

"Gentlemen," Mrs Jonas interrupts. "My office, if you would?"

—

They wind up taking the girls to the playground after their joint interview-slash-dressing down from the principal. Turns out Buckley - Evan - isn't so bad. Tommy can't really fault him for going a little all guns blazing where his daughter is concerned. Actually, he kinda likes it.

They'd both struggled to keep straight faces when the reason for the altercation was made clear to them - can firefighters fly? One strong vote for yes, one equally strong vote for no, two stubborn little girls both equally devoted to their dad's good name, and boom. Tinderbox.

The girls seem to be firmly over it now though, chasing each other around the playground and shrieking in excitement at having the place pretty much to themselves. It's maybe not the most effective parental response to fighting in school - 'fighting' in this case mostly meaning yelling and a little shoving - but Tommy can't bring himself to take it too seriously. He'll talk to her more later about using kind words and keeping her hands to herself, but the conflict resolution skills of a pair of five year olds seems to have gotten them past the worst.

Evan arrives back at the bench where Tommy's keeping an eye on the girls, with a takeout coffee in each hand. He passes Tommy one and sits next to him, giving Tommy a soft smile before he turns his attention to where the girls are whispering together intensely.

"Looks like we might have playdates in our future," Tommy suggests.

"Looks like," Evan says, with a sunny smile.

[pascalispunkczechia]

Touch me smooth

Summary: You lock the office door. He watches you. That soft-ass shirt, half undone, practically begging to be grabbed. You’ve been craving him since day one and today, you’re done playing it safe. He’s always been cocky. Always in control. But not today. Today, you ride agent Peña into the fucking ground.

Warnings: 🔞, explicit smut, office sex, dominant!reader, subby!Peña (but just a little), blowjob, handjob, deepthroating, overstimulation, vaginal sex, creampie, soft shirt kink (yes, that’s a thing now), no protection, kissing, horny tension, edging

Word count: ~ 4.1k

It’s fucking hot. Like, stupid hot - even for Colombia. You’re half-ass fanning yourself with some random papers lying on your desk. Stechner from the CIA dropped them off earlier, being his usual annoying self.

Shit’s been tense around here lately, DEA shoved into the same damn building with like ten other agencies, all tripping over each other. You started here with Messina as her assistant. You’re not tight or anything, you just do your job, and right now, you’re mostly trying not to sweat through your fucking blouse.

For the past few months, you’ve been fetching her coffee, hauling files, sitting in on her meetings. She’s in charge of the DEA mess - mostly the two biggest headaches: Murphy and Peña.

Yeah. Those two.

They basically did whatever the fuck they wanted before Messina showed up. She was sent here to make sure they’d finally get their shit together.

You? God knows what exactly you’re doing here. But you’re not complaining.

Because… Peña.

Yeah. Peña.

Tall. Lean. Strong arms. That hair - always this half-mess, like he barely even tries, but somehow it looks fucking perfect anyway. And the mustache? A little 70s, sure, but you’ve always had a thing for Burt Reynolds, and Peña? He’s got that exact fuck-me vibe nailed down.

First time you saw him light a cigarette, you swear you almost got wet just watching him do it. Stupid attractive. And the worst part? He fucking knows. The cocky bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. Which just makes all that raw, filthy sex energy pour out of him even more.

“Hey, can you bring this to Murphy? I need him to check it out with Peña,” Messina snaps you out of your little 70s DEA agent thirst spiral. “Preferably like, now,” she adds.

“Yeah, sure, got it,” you say, grabbing the file from her hand.

You head straight to their office - the one they got when Messina finally trusted them a bit more. It’s shoved all the way down the hall, dark, barely anyone ever goes in there. Like some weird little shrine for the two of them.

Your thin blouse sticks to your skin, your bra kinda showing through. Whatever. Murphy doesn’t do it for you, and you’re pretty sure you don’t do it for him either. Married guy. And he’s definitely not oozing that kind of sex energy Peña’s dripping with.

You knock, fix your messy bun, and wait.

“Hm?!” Comes from inside.

You walk right in… and there he is. Peña. Sitting at the desk. No Murphy. He looks up, and yeah, his eyes drop right away, straight to your chest. Fuck. That damn bra.

“I’m supposed to give this to Murphy. You two need to check it out,” you say, looking straight at him.

That fucking hair again - perfect messy, like he doesn’t even try but still ends up being the hottest motherfucker in every room. Cream-colored shirt today, top three buttons popped open. He leans back in his chair, still holding a half-burnt cigarette. Thin smoke curls around him, those big brown eyes locked on you, and holy fuck… suddenly it’s even hotter in here.

“So?” he says low, raising an eyebrow with a smirk. “You just gonna stand there, or you gonna bring me that file?”

You walk over, file in hand. You set it down gently on the edge of his desk. He doesn’t even look at it. Doesn’t pull it closer. Like he couldn’t give less of a fuck about it. Unlike you - who he’s clearly very interested in. Which is kinda weird, considering he’s barely spoken more than three words to you since you started here: “hey,” “don’t know,” and “no.”

You start to turn around, ready to leave - his gaze is getting way too intense, and your body’s reacting more than it should. It’s too fucking hot in here. You’re already at the door when you hear him: “You leaving already?”

Your hand lingers on the handle for a second. Then (and you don’t even know what the fuck gets into you) you make a different choice.

You grab the key and turn it.

Click. Locked.

You turn back around, suddenly a lot more confident.

Peña raises one eyebrow, still studying you closely. But he doesn’t say shit about the lock. Doesn’t even look surprised or worried. Something’s definitely snapped in your head but seeing him sitting there all casual, half-reclined, that half-unbuttoned shirt…

Your brain instantly started playing out all the things you could do with him like that.

Fuck! Maybe you read too many trashy romance novels.

You walk toward him, only his desk between you now. He’s in his chair behind it, you’re standing right in front of him. The way he’s staring - he’s not even pretending to avoid looking down your shirt anymore.

You reach up, undo your clip, and let your hair fall, even though it’s hot as hell. A bead of sweat slides down your neck. You notice him noticing it. His arm twitches slightly, he shifts in his seat, jaw tightening. There’s something burning inside him but his eyes never leave you.

“You know… we’ve actually never really talked,” you start. “I kinda got the feeling you never even noticed me.”

He swallows. “I noticed you. Very well,” he says, adding your name at the end. His voice drops lower, rougher. And honestly… you’re pretty sure no one’s ever said your name like that before. “I was actually hoping you’d walk in here one day. Run into me instead of just Steve.”

“Oh yeah?” you say, dragging it out lazily.

The way he talks, the way he looks, his whole fucking body language - you know you’ve got him. Right now, you’ve got him exactly where you want him. You don’t even know how the fuck this happened but suddenly you feel like you can let that little wild thing inside you loose on him. And he can handle it. And you want it. So fucking bad.

Is it weird? Twisted? Yeah. But maybe that’s exactly what you’ve been secretly craving.

“Is that really what you were hoping for, agent Peña?” You circle the desk slowly, standing right in front of him now. He’s still leaning back in his chair. You lean down, grab the arms of the chair, and turn him to face you fully. He doesn’t resist, lets you pull him however you want.

You’re closer to him now than you’ve ever been. You can smell him - that cheap-ass cologne, the tobacco, the fresh cigarette still burning somewhere nearby - and then something else you can’t quite name.

Something so fucking masculine. His own damn scent, probably. Jesus fuck. Sexy as hell.

You keep your hands where they are, leaning in, face close enough you can fucking see the edges of his irises. Same dark chocolate brown as the rest of his eyes. You could count the little lines on his forehead if you wanted to. His lips are a bit parted, pupils blown, staring right into your eyes like he’s waiting for you to kiss him.

Inside? You’re fucking spiraling. None of this matches the cool version you’ve been playing ever since you locked that damn door.

“Yeah,” he finally says, voice low. “I was hoping. Didn’t expect you to lock the door but… honestly, this is better than what I pictured.”

Pictured? You’ve pictured this? So it’s not just me who’s been losing my shit over you? Your brain’s fucking screaming.

You drop your eyes down. The collar. The open buttons. That goddamn fabric. It looks stupid soft. What the fuck kind of fabric is this? You need to feel it.

So you do.

First, you rub the collar between your fingers. Then your hand slides down his chest.

Fuck! It’s even softer than it looked.

Like, what the hell is this soft-ass shirt doing on this cocky little fucker with those goddamn eyes that could seduce a fucking corpse?

You feel his heartbeat pick up under your palm. You press your hand harder on his chest. There’s a faint smell of detergent. Freshly washed.

His breath hitches. He swallows.

Perfect. He’s fucking gone for you. You didn’t think you’d get this far. But here you are. And you know exactly what to do.

“What is this fabric?” you ask, your voice a little shaky.

It takes him a sec to register what you’re even talking about. “Fuck if I know. Some fancy-ass soft shit. You like it?” His eyes drop to your hand on his chest.

“Fuck it,” you exhale and in one quick move, you swing your leg over him, straddling his lap and grabbing his shoulders. “I want you. I wanna rip this shirt off you but I also wanna touch it. I’ve been fucking craving you since the first moment I saw you.” It just spills out.

Peña narrows his eyes, loving every fucking word. Of course he does. He’s a goddamn womanizer. Everybody knows that.

He swallows hard. Those dark eyes aren’t just narrowed anymore, they’re full-on fucking dark now, thick with lust. That look he gives you when you know he’s barely hanging on. “Yeah? Then fucking take it off,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. He starts to sit up a bit, trying to pull you even closer. His breathing’s already uneven, voice raspy. “Or you want me to rip it off for you?”

No fucking way. You want control. You don’t want him to fuck you… you want to fuck him.

That’s the part that’s been playing on a loop in your head every night before you fall asleep whenever his face pops into your brain. And besides - you want that shirt to stay on. It’s too damn soft.

“No. Keep the shirt on,” you tell him, your voice dropping lower.

His pupils blow even wider. You can see it click in his head - he’s not gonna be the one in control today. And for some reason, he looks like he’s fucking into it.

You stare straight into his eyes. “Kiss me.”

He leans in - you feel his breath on your lips - and his tongue slides into your mouth. Hesitant at first, but you let him in deeper, matching his kiss. Hungry. He moans softly into your mouth. You’ve still got your hands gripping his shoulders, straddling his lap.

His kisses burn against your lips and yours must be doing the same to him, because you can feel him starting to get hard. His bulge is pressing right up into you.

You’ve noticed it before - the man’s always packing, even when he’s soft, it’s obvious through his pants. He’s gotta be big.

You slide one hand down and grab his cock through his pants, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Holy shit. He’s hard.

“Oh fuck,” he groans into your mouth.

The longer your hand stays there, the more you want him. You break the kiss, silently sliding off his lap and dropping to your knees in front of him. From the look on his face, he knows exactly where this is going. He leans back in his chair, eyes already completely fucking gone.

You gently spread his legs apart, hands running up his thighs. Jesus, you want him so bad. You can feel the muscles in his legs tense up, and his cock is practically screaming to be let out.

When your hands move up his thighs again, you don’t waste any time. You undo the button on his jeans and go for the zipper. It’s a bit stiff, but you stay patient. Once you get it all the way down, Peña lifts his hips a little to help you pull his jeans down to his knees, giving you full access to his cock.

And the second you start pulling his pants down… you notice. No boxers.

“Oh really?” You glance up at him.

He gives a little shrug, cocky as fuck, and drops back into the chair, pants bunched at his knees.

So this motherfucker doesn’t wear underwear, huh?

Now you finally get a full look at him. Long. Thick enough. And holy fucking shit, that vein running along the side. You let out a soft little gasp before you can stop yourself. You hope he didn’t hear it. But the faint chuckle he lets out tells you otherwise.

To shut him up, you grab his cock. He instantly goes quiet, his abs twitch as he sucks in a sharp breath. You wrap your hand around him, tight.

He’s fucking hard as a rock. Perfect.

You start stroking him… slow, steady, long pulls up and down.

He grabs your arm with one hand. Not hard enough to hurt but it’s obvious what this is doing to him.

You pick up the pace a little. Peña presses himself harder into the chair, his other hand gripping his own thigh. After a few strokes, you slow it back down.

“Fuck,” he breathes, already starting to lose it.

Good. You don’t want him to come from just your hand.

You lean forward, let go of his cock, brace your hands on his hips, and take him into your mouth. He tastes good - a little salty, but clean. Everything about him smells good to you - his dick is no exception.

Peña groans, moving the hand from your arm to your head. He doesn’t push, just holds you there. His other hand grips the armrest tight. He’s fully surrendered to you right now and you both know it.

You also both know if he wanted to, he could flip this whole thing in half a second. He’s definitely got that dominant streak in him. But today, you want him on his fucking knees - metaphorically.

You run your tongue around him and take him deeper, as far as you can go. It’s driving him fucking insane. “Oh fuck… baby, you don’t even have a fucking gag reflex,” he groans, tilting his head back.

You glance up at him, just as he’s looking right back down at you. Your eyes lock while you’ve got his cock buried in your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip, right over the most sensitive spot. His hand’s gripping the armrest so fucking tight you’re worried the damn thing might snap.

But you want to drive him even crazier.

You slide one hand down and gently cup his balls, massaging them softly. Careful, you don’t want to hurt him, just push him right to the fucking edge.

Peña starts shifting under you, squirming, while you alternate between sucking the tip and taking him deep again, occasionally grazing him lightly with your teeth. His hips lift off the chair, like he’s trying to chase the release. Trying to cum.

And you want that. You want him to cum in your mouth.

You pick up the pace, stroking and sucking him faster. Your hand keeps gently squeezing his balls, and his grip tightens on your shoulder. Hard.

“Fuck… ohh fuck… baby… I think I–” He doesn’t even finish the sentence.

You suck him harder, as deep as you can take him. His free hand shoots from the armrest to your other shoulder, like he needs something to hold onto. His hips lift again, trying to bury himself deeper down your throat.

That’s when you slide your finger down behind his balls, gently massaging that spot - right between his balls and his ass. The fucking male G-spot.

You don’t dare push a finger in, Peña doesn’t strike you as the type who’d let you go that far. Even as wrecked as he is right now. But the gentle massage? That’ll break him. And you want him fucking wrecked.

You keep rubbing him there while sucking him even deeper, not letting him sit back fully. His knees start shaking. “Oh my god– yes, fuck…” he cries out, digging his fingers into your shoulders.

And then you feel it - his cock starts pulsing hard in your mouth, thick hot streams shooting straight down your throat. Even as he cums, you keep massaging his male G-spot, holding him tight in your mouth, making every wave of his orgasm even stronger. He’s writhing under you but you don’t let go.

“Fuck– baby… you’re fucking killing me…” he groans.

After a few more intense pulses, it finally starts to slow down. You pull your finger back, both your hands now running softly up and down his thighs as he slumps hard into the chair. Completely spent.

You swallow everything he just shot down your throat, and after a moment, you finally let his cock slip from your mouth. He’s still half-hard, breathing heavy as hell.

And you want him inside you. Like - right fucking now. Even though he just came.

You stand up in front of him. He’s still a little breathless, but he’s starting to focus on you again, eyes locked as he watches every move.

You unbutton your blouse, slowly pulling it off but you leave your bra on. You’re not giving him everything. Not yet.

You start moving your hips, slow, like a little private tease, just enough to keep him worked up. You’re not fucking leaving this at a blowjob, no matter how good it was.

You undo your skirt, sliding it down over your thighs until it drops to the floor. Standing there now in nothing but your underwear.

Peña watches you, clearly starting to realize this shit isn’t over. He slides his hand over his cock, lightly stroking himself, hissing through his teeth because he’s still sensitive as fuck from just cumming.

Which turns you on even more.

While he’s softly stroking himself, trying to get fully hard again, your fingers trail along the waistband of your panties.

His eyes are locked on you. You watch his hand. You’re getting wet. You don’t show it, but fuck!, you want to climb on top of him so bad.

You slip your panties down, letting them drop to the floor. Step out of them and slowly make your way closer to him. He looks up at you, hand still wrapped around his cock. You gently push his hand away, giving him that ‘mommy’s got this’ look.

You stroke the tip lightly, enough to make him hiss, his hips twitching, stomach flexing hard. His shirt’s still open at those goddamn three buttons. Fuck that shirt. That fucking shirt started all of this.

You move in closer, standing between his spread knees. He reaches out, wanting to touch you right where he shouldn’t. You gently push his hand away again, shooting him a sharp look. You don’t even know where this side of you is coming from.

“Who just made you cum?” you ask, voice sharp.

He watches you, eyes wide, totally into this little game. “You did.”

“So who decides what happens next?”

He swallows. His hand fully drops now. “You,” he whispers.

You give a tiny nod. Then step back just enough, standing wide-legged directly over him. He’s fully hard again, like he didn’t even just cum a few minutes ago.

You line him up with your entrance, guiding him right where you want him. And then you sink down… all the way. You can feel every fucking inch of him filling you up.

He’s big. Thick. You feel him everywhere, hitting every nerve ending inside you.

He hisses under his breath. “Fuck…” he exhales.

You wrap your legs tight around him, brace your hands on his shoulders, and start rolling your hips. Slow. Smooth. You clench your muscles around him, making sure he feels every fucking squeeze.

He tilts his head back, hands moving up to your chest, gripping your tits through the bra. He looks a little frustrated, like he wants them fully in his hands but can’t because of the damn bra.

But it’s fair. He’s still got that fucking shirt on too. And you want it that way. You run your palms over his chest, feeling the soft fabric under your fingers. You tug on his collar while riding him, bouncing slowly.

As you start picking up the pace, Peña’s breathing gets heavier, sharper. “Fuck… baby… oh fuck… s-stop– shh– no, don’t stop, fuck…” He’s babbling, falling apart under you. You know he’s still crazy sensitive, and every movement’s fucking killing him in the best way. You grind faster, wanting to ruin him. But then you slow down again… not ready to finish him off just yet.

His hands are all over you now, running down your back, grabbing your ass, pulling you tighter against him. You roll over his chest, that fucking shirt driving you wild. It’s so soft you can’t stop touching it. It turns you on even more and you start bouncing harder.

You can feel his heartbeat pounding under your hands. His breathing quickens. “Fuck… jesus christ… baby–” he moans, eyes squeezing shut. “Jesus… I can feel every inch of you, every fuckin’ inch.”

“That’s exactly what I want, agent Peña,” you whisper into his ear. You pick up the pace again, a little faster this time.

“Fuck… don’t stop, just– slow, slow–”

But you know he doesn’t really want you to slow down.

You can feel yourself getting closer too. He’s so fucking big and full inside you. You pause for a second, clenching around him, squeezing him tight. And it fucking wrecks him.

You lift his chin and kiss him. Deep. He kisses you back - his tongue everywhere, yours everywhere - messy, hungry, desperate.

You start riding him again, breaking the kiss, hips moving faster, faster…

You run your fingers through his hair - it’s soft but thick - swipe his sweaty bangs off his forehead. Then you grab a fistful at the back of his head, tilting him back so he’s forced to look at you. “I wanna see your face when you cum,” you whisper.

He groans, desperate. “You tryna ruin me huh? Fuckin’ ruin me…”

You smile. And slam your hips down against him.

Hard. Again. And again.

You can feel he’s close, he’s barely holding on. You grip his hair tighter and keep fucking him hard.

“Fuck baby, I’m gonna…” He gasps, and with one final thrust, he cums. His eyes flutter shut, moaning as his cock pulses wildly inside you.

You clench around him, squeezing him harder, milking every last drop. The moment you feel that final deep spurt inside you, it sends you right over the edge too. Your orgasm crashes through you. You squeeze him tight around his cock. You let go of his hair, but his eyes are still locked on you.

You grab onto the collar of that fucking soft shirt, pressing yourself against him, your hips rocking gently one last time as the waves of your orgasm slowly fade.

You stay on top of him for a moment, feeling his body finally relax again. And after a few seconds, you feel him start to soften inside you.

Peña looks wrecked - like he could pass out right now - and honestly? You don’t blame him. Except he still has half a workday left.

You slowly lift yourself off him. The second he slips out of you, you both hiss quietly.

You can feel the wet mess between your thighs… his and yours both. Still, you bend down, grab your panties from the floor, slip them back on, and pull your skirt back up. You grab your blouse in your hands and walk up to him.

“Well, Javier,” you say, calling him by his first name for the very first time. “I delivered the file. My job here is done.”

“Wait,” he tries to stop you, still sitting there, jeans down, dick out. He looks helpless now. Exhausted. “When am I gonna see you again?” he asks. “You know what I mean.”

Of course you do. He wants to fuck again.

And you? Yeah, you want it too. But you’re not giving it up that easy.

You don’t answer right away. You button your blouse first, then lean in close. Your hand trails over that goddamn soft shirt one last time.

“Say hi to Murphy for me,” you whisper into his ear. Before he can say anything else, you’re already out the door.

So yeah… subby Javier Peña 🫠 Something I haven’t really written before, the idea literally hit me today.

Obviously I usually picture him being very much the one in charge, but this? This dynamic? Honestly… I kinda loved writing it. Might revisit this side of him again sometime.

Anyway… this is just a one-shot. No real plot, no continuation planned. I just wanted a short filthy scene where I fully abuse him because of that stupid fucking soft shirt 👹

Yes, it’s because of that photo! Zoom in, you’ll see it - that shirt really does look insanely soft. And here we are 🎀💦

🩷 THANK YOU FOR READING 🩷

FOR OTHER/MORE FICS -> MASTERLIST

[concretejunglefm]

Oh god imagine the Bad Omens crew catching you masturbating when you thought you were alone on the bus or smth

Smut under the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

Everyone had gotten off the bus to go for lunch, and you had decided to steal those sacred minutes to finally relieve yourself of the built-up tension you'd been feeling.

It was only natural, especially when around so much testosterone and innuendos or flirty jokes, you were only human and not immune to the obvious beauty and charm each of them possessed. It's not as if you would ever act on your actual feelings, so what harm was allowing yourself to indulge in something fantastical?

With the bus to yourself, you slipped down onto the couch in the main area, aware of how quick and easy it would be for you to get caught, though that always added a type of thrill for you.

You didn't undress, instead unbuttoning your jeans and pulling the zipper down enough for you to slip your hand down the front of them and into your panties.

With your free hand, you began going through your favorites on Twitter, searching for something that would help get you going, though always finding yourself spiraling down the same path, the pages dedicated to the same boys you'd go on tour with and porn clips depicting hypothetical scenarios. You knew that on some level this was wrong in numerous ways, but you couldn't help but be drawn in as you swiped between the videos.

One titled 'Folio Slowly Eating You Out' was a 2-minute clip of a young couple where a girl’s boyfriend lay comfortably between her thighs, taking his time as he teased her pussy with his mouth. The sounds from them both alone made you moan under your own breath, added with the thought of it being Folio. Your sensitive clit throbbed against your fingers at the thought of him taking his time with you, giving you the absolute princess treatment.

You continued scrolling.

The next video was of a girl who had been tied up, another rope bondage one which people associated with Nicholas. The way she was suspended, with her legs spread and pussy being whipped, made your thighs twitch to close and your fingers dipped a little further as you pressed towards your wet entrance. You wanted to dive your fingers in now and bring forth your climax, but you decided to tease yourself a little longer.

You continued scrolling through until you hit one which had been retweeted and titled 'Jolly talking his virgin girlfriend through it' and when daring yourself the opportunity to listen, your eyes rolled back in your head at the voice being deep enough for you to associate it to him, the idea of the tall Swede whispering such soft and gentle instructions in your ear and guiding you through anything, pushing you right towards the edge.

The final video you came across consisted of two men and a girl spread between them, one using her mouth while the other fucked her. There was no denying what the tweet had been titled as 'Matty and Noah love to share'. That was the final sight and thought you needed, which caused you to plunge your fingers deeply into your cunt, curling them until you hit that sweet spot which always made you see stars, and as you pumped your own fingers inside you, you ground your hips and pressed your clit right to the heel of your palm, pushing yourself closer until you finally came with a loud cry.

You remained still for a few moments after, riding out your high and twitching against your own fingers and hand in your sensitive state, soft whimpers leaving you until you opened your eyes as you heard someone clearing their throat.

You panicked as you were face to face with the same five guys you had just been idly fantasizing about thanks to Twitter, opening your mouth to speak but unable to say anything. You hadn't even pulled your hand from your underwear before you realized and quickly did so, climbing out of the couch and running towards the back of the bus and into the small bathroom to both clean up and hide in your humiliation.

Back in the main area of the bus, the boys remained quiet, still in shock over the visual of you coming undone unknowingly in front of them like that, and it was Folio who spoke up first. "So when I jack off out here, it's a problem, but when she does, you say nothing?"

[mixelation]

✨blood covenant✨ fic preview ->

for those of you that missed it, @tozettastone, @waffliesinyoface and i all agreed to do a blood covenant challenge where we write OC/character fics.

here's the potential first chapter of mine, which is OC/Minato

****

I’m going to fuck up that guy’s whole life, is the only thought in my mind as I leap through the trees. 

Every time I come down on a new branch, my right thigh screams in protest. It screams again as I come back up, hurling myself as ungracefully as a new genin to my next landing. WHat’s left of the fabric of my leggings is hot and sticky with blood. 

But, dear reader, I have advice for you: if you want to kill a medic, make sure you make a killing blow. Don’t just leave her for dead and assume she’ll crawl off and die like a good girl. I know, if you’re a megalomaniac with an ego the size of Hokage Mountain, this will seem tempting, to leave her to wallow and suffer while you go off to do something more important. Do not do it. 

I’m not Shisui, I thought furiously, pausing in my sloppy run as the temple I was aiming for came into sight. I’m not just calling it quits and giving away my eyes. Fuck off, Danzo. 

I lean against the trunk of the tree, panting heavily. Through the branches, I can see the curving roof of the temple. There are a lot of old abandoned buildings out here, dotting the forests of Fire Country, and this one doesn’t stand out as special. I only knew where it was because I’d previously found it by happenstance, and I only recognized it as important by chance knowledge. I have never been inside before. 

Pausing my run was a mistake. The loss of momentum means that I am abruptly and painfully aware of how shaky and weak my legs feel. I make a clumsy jump for the forest floor and have to turn my landing into an embarrassing roll. 

If anyone is following me, they’re far enough behind that I can’t sense them. I can see the spiral emblem on the door of the temple, the carved wood smoothed and faded with time. I limp forward confidently, using my left hand to push more healing chakra into the hole in my leg, which I would generously describe as “gaping,” but is definitely less gaping than when Danzo had stabbed me. 

I’ll get both his legs, I think as I push open the temple door. Ugh, it’s going to scar!

The movement of the door tosses an enormous amount of dust into the air, making my eyes water. The air smells stale and musty. The windows are boarded up, and only a few sickly strands of moonlight illuminate the innards of the Uzumaki temple. 

I have to stop my healing to activate my sharingan. I can usually do both at once, obviously, but I’d been running on nothing but adrenaline and spite for too long, and my body currently doesn’t contain nearly enough blood as it should. I’m starting to get dizzy. 

The sharingan does nothing to enhance color vision, but with it I only need the smallest source of light to make out the contents of the temple clearly. There are some hanging scrolls and abandoned, rotting furniture, which I ignore. My eyes go straight for the rows of masks hanging across the back wall. 

I limp into the temple. When forming this half-made plan on the way over, I’d had some trepidation about identifying which mask is the one I want, but looking at them, I know instantly. 

It’s not that the mask looks extraordinary or that my sharingan can pick up something special. The mask appears to be nothing but wood: paint peeling just slightly with time, a grinning demon’s face with curling horns, a jeering smile on its lips. Nothing is peculiar about its craftsmanship, and my sharingan can detect no jutsu or chakra on it. 

And yet, to look into its eyes, is to see the inevitability of your own death. 

A hint of fear tingles up my spine. A bad omen, my superstitious mother would have said. A warning to my most primal senses that this is a power not to be taken lightly. 

I step limp forward anyway. 

It’s fine. I’ve been staring down the inevitability of my own death for over two decades. The feeling still makes my blood run cold with terror, but it’s a feeling I’m used to. This is my last chance at defying fate. 

I pull the mask for the wall and lift it to my face. 

If you kill me, I think at the mask, make sure you bring those assholes down with me, will you?

xXx

Dear reader, here is what you need to know about me.

My name is Uchiha Renka. I was raised by a great aunt after both my parents died in the Second Shinobi War. My hobbies include reading, baking, and dabbling in make-up and fashion. After a lot of study and hard work, I have passed most medic-nin competencies and work mainly in the hospital. 

I am a painfully normal sort of young woman, as you can see. At least for a ninja. I work my shifts, and I treat myself to a new book once a week. The most scandalous thing I do, aside from occasionally going out on state-mandated missions that sometimes include various types of murder, is that every once in a while I go out drinking with my girlfriends, and even that isn’t too scandalous. The rowdiest I get is wearing unique shades of lipstick. We even have a three drink maximum. I did not do anything to merit the fucking headhunt after me except exist as an Uchiha. 

And… well, okay, I’ll admit something, just between us. Another thing you should know about me is that, even if my main goals in life are to not die, to help people at the hospital, and then to go home and read a good book over some hot tea on my balcony, I do have a bit of a fatal flaw. It’s nothing more than a basic Uchiha family trait, really:

I am just a teensy-weensy bit vindictive. 

It got me into trouble a few times growing up, but it’s really nothing too bad. It definitely wasn’t enough to make me deserve the absolute clusterfuck you just read about. You make one mistake, and next thing you know, your boss is calling you a vile woman and a disgusting, cowardly failure and trying to kill you. 

Well, fuck him, honestly. I’d survived everything up until him, and I’m not going down without a fight. 

I wasn’t one hundred percent sure how the shinigami mask worked when I put it on. When I’d decided to try it, I thought I could maybe use the shinigami to chuck Danzo and-slash-or “Madara” into the afterlife for good. My second choice was to bring back Tobirama and have him tell off my enemies and maybe my clan for… whatever the hell they were doing. 

Honestly. All I want is to sit in my patio chair with a blanket and read…

I vomit up the Fourth Hokage instead. 

I know. It sounds gross. I know. But I’m not making any of this up. I put on the mask, and it’s like the shinigami is inside me, and then inside of the shinigami was this horrible squirming feeling. I want it out. I need it out. 

I throw up. It feels awful, worse than any vomiting session I’d had before, my whole body retching. The mask falls off my face. 

Then the Fourth Hokage is standing in front of me.

Reader, I assume that you are coming into this story with certain expectations for how pulling a soul out of the shinigami’s stomach should work. Well, toss those expectations. You’re basing them on people who knew what they were doing. I’m just one innocent little Uchiha. 

Namikaze Minato appears before me in a white funeral kimono, folded neatly right side over left, a white band with a triangle over his forehead around his head. Clearly instead of a fighting-fit Hokage like I expected, I’ve grabbed him… right out of the grave…?

He turns to me and blinks rapidly, like the sun is in his eyes, despite it being the middle of the night. Reader, this man is handsome. With this wide, dazed expression, he looks like a confused male model, not the most lethal ninja in history. 

My throat feels raw. I open my mouth to speak but can’t. His eyes move away from me like he hasn’t quite registered that I'm there.

He pats himself down absent-mindedly, his hands going down his chest and stomach like he’s surprised they’re there. I watch as his brows furrow a little as his hands approach his hips. Then he reaches down to his right thigh, his fingers moving toward the inner part of the front. He presses down. 

I scream. It’s like someone has stuck their fingers directly into my thigh wound. Pain completely cuts off all my thoughts and I finally topple over completely. 

I’m aware he’s moved over to stand over me, although my vision has gone white with pain. His gait is uneven, something of a limp. I fumble for my wound, pressing numbing chakra into it. Danzo had clearly been aiming for the femoral artery to make me bleed out, and I’d fixed it up enough to not endanger my life, but it still hurt. 

There’s no new damage to my wound, even though that definitely felt like that should have ruptured something. 

I feel the Fourth Hokage squat next to me, and his hand comes down over mine, pressing gently against my wound. It’s not enough to hurt this time, not with the help of the healing chakra numbing the nerves, but it increases the pressure over it markedly. 

“Huh,” he says. 

“What the fuck,” I croak out, and dust on the floor gets in my throat and eyes and makes me have to fight back a cough.

He removes his hand. Then, even though he’s clearly not touching me, I feel a pinch on the back of my hand. 

“Ow,” I say accusingly, and then give into the coughing fit. 

“You can feel that?” he asks, sounding surprised. 

He waits patiently while I sit back up, coughing again. He seems completely unrushed and unbothered, watching me with extreme interest. He doesn’t have the slightest idea what’s going on. 

I stare back at him. I’m clearly a wreck. There’s dust all in my hair now, flooding my nasal passageways and making me sneeze. Between the sharingan and having to use Mystical Palm again, my head is swimming and my arm is barely strong enough to hold me up. 

He holds my gaze despite the active sharingan, studying me like he’s never seen another human face before. Brave man. But maybe being dead for eight years makes one brave. 

Or… who am I kidding? He’s the Yellow Flash. He probably thinks he could kill me before I could cast a genjutsu. 

(I think he couldn’t. But I’m obviously not going to test this theory unless I have to.)

After a few moments in which I let out several unsexy, wheezing breaths, he turns away from me and picks up the fallen shinigami mask. 

“So that’s how you did it,” he says, flipping it around in his hands. “I’m remembering now… I think I was hoping someone would come for this, at first, or another tool to let me pass on properly. But then… I forgot…” He frowns, deeper this time. “I forgot a lot of things. How long has it been?”

“Since you died?” I say. “Eight years.”

“Only eight?” he repeats and absentmindedly scratches the side of his face. I cannot feel this on my own face, I notice. Perhaps we can only share pain. “It felt so much longer, with nothing to see or feel or do…”

His head turns up, and it takes me a few moments of concentration to realize Danzo’s cronies have finally caught up with me. He hadn’t immediately sicced any on me, as he’d confronted me himself and then left me for dead. But likely he’d sent a team to confirm I’d actually died, and I hadn’t exactly covered my trail. 

The Hokage doesn’t look worried, just mildly curious. 

“They want to kill me,” I say, unsteadily getting my feet under me in preparation to stand. “I… you have to help me. You have to help Konoha.”

He turns his eyes back on me, and they still have that look of mild curiosity, like he’s watching a television show he doesn’t understand the plot to. 

“Why do they want to kill you?” he asks. 

“It’ll take too long to explain,” I say. “Please.”

I had thought that summoning the dead meant you got to control them. This doesn’t appear to be how it works. Instead of getting up to kill the team of ROOT agents outside, Minato tucks the shinigami mask into his white kimono and then leans over me to set his hand on my shoulder. A second letter, we’re on Hokage Monument, overlooking the village. 

“Wow!” Minato says, standing over the village with hands on his hips. “It’s been so long… look at all those lights…”

“Can we please focus?” I ask. I’m still squatted on the ground, and I don’t have the strength to stand casually. I fall back on my butt. 

Minato looks pained as he pulls his attention away from the view. 

“Right, right, the fate of Konoha or whatever…” he says, sitting cross legged in front of me. He smiles widely. It’s a beautiful, inviting smile. “Now you have time to explain it to me.”

xXx

When I graduated the Academy a little over ten years ago, Konoha was still at the height of war. I’m sure you’ll hear more about that if you stick around. 

Back then, I knew of Namikaze Minato because he was one of the Jounin sensei for our cohort. I never spoke to him, but I’d seen him talking with my sensei sometimes. Sometimes I had to talk to Obito about Uchiha related things, and he’d waved at us once or twice from a distance. 

My very first real impression of who he was came from an Iwa-nin. 

I don’t really like talking about this part of my life, but I want you to trust me, so I’ll be open. When I was thirteen, my team was captured by Iwa. Everyone but me was killed. I was only spared because I had some medical training, and they agreed to let me live in exchange for healing their wounded. 

One day I was treating a man with a nasty burns across his entire body, and he suddenly grabbed my wrist, which was all bruised up from being tied when I wasn’t actively healing people. 

“You’re one of those Konoha floozies?” he asked. His eyes were unfocused from pain. 

I didn’t say anything. Speaking rarely ended well. His grip on me tightened and I winced. I’m always surprised by how strong some people can stay, even when they’ve been beaten half to death. 

“Do you know the Yellow Flash?” he asked. “My whole platoon… all of them, gone in an instant…”

He gibbered on and on for several moments, eyes wide. He’d been towards the outskirts of his platoon’s camp when Minato had showed up, which was why he’d had the few precious seconds to realize what was happening. 

“We’re supposed to flee on sight,” he said, his whole body shaking. “What they don’t tell you is that once you see him, you’re already dead.”

“You’re alive,” I said diplomatically. 

“I used a suicide jutsu, tried to blow myself up,” he said. “I should have died. I would have preferred it, if he’d killed me…”

The man did eventually pass from his wounds. There hadn’t really been much I could have done. Even Tsunade herself probably couldn’t have saved him. 

They punished me for it anyway. When I was sitting in the prisoner’s tent, cheek smarting from where the commander had slapped me and stomach growling from reduced rations, I thought about what the man had said. 

Once you see him, you’re already dead. 

That was the first time I’d really understood the sheer power that a singular ninja could have. 

xXx

One reason I think Konoha loved their Fourth Hokage so much, is that he’d go out and kill countless enemies, and then he’d come home and look and behave like the protagonist from a shoujou manga. He was devastatingly lethal, but in everyday interactions, he just had a way of making you feel safe and valued. 

Sitting in the cool breeze breeze on Hokage monument with him smiling back at me, it’s not hard to confess to him what had been happening. The planned coup, the proposed counter massacre, the way I’d been caught up in it all. I cry a few times. Beautifully, I might add. I’d practiced in the mirror. 

I might be… a little vane. That’s not important right now, though.

Minato nods along with a thoughtful look on his face, more like he’s watching a TV show than listening to a poor woman explain that his village is exploding. It feels off. I hope he’s appreciating my show, at least. 

“There’s also…” I turn my face so he can see my flawless profile, staring out over the village. The lights below twinkle in the night like always. There’s really no sign of my entire family— including me—  potentially being wiped out tonight. 

“There’s also the masked man,” I say. 

Minato blinks, his expression suddenly snapping into focus. He frowns at me. 

“The masked man?” he asks. 

“He claims to be Uchiha Madara,” I say. “He’s obsessed with me. He approached me, saying he’ll help me if I volunteer for the massacre–”

Minato stands, turning towards the village again. In his white kimono fluttering in the breeze, he almost looks like a Hokage again. 

“I think…” he starts. “I think I want to kill him. I was angry about him, before. I can’t quite remember…”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, a twinge of hysteria teasing at the edges of my mind. I try to stand, but my head is dizzy and my injured leg gives out. 

Minato turns to me, absentmindedly patting at his own leg. 

“This is really annoying,” he says. “Why are we connected?”

“I don’t know,” I snap back, the hysteria bleeding into my voice. “Of course you want to kill the masked man.” I want him to kill the masked man! That’s the whole point! “He’s the one who killed you and your wife.”

His eyes widen. 

“Ah…” he says. He sticks out his bottom lip. “I really missed Kushina, the first hundred years…”

“You’ve only been dead for eight!” I screech back at him. Honestly, what was the point of summoning the deadliest ninja in history if he’s a basket case?

I get to my feet for real this time, grasping at the loose pieces of his kimono to pull myself up. He makes no move to intervene, but he also doesn’t help me. Instead he pouts down at me, wincing when I put my weight on the injured leg. 

“You have to help,” I say. “Or I will throw myself off this cliff, and we’ll both find out how much pain an undead man can feel.”

He catches my elbow as if to stop me, face still all pouty. It’s a cute look, except that I want him to be a cool leader fixing all my problems!

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Look, I’ll help you. I spent hundreds of years with nothing but the dark pit of the Shinigami’s stomach, thinking about how I wanted to kill the masked man.”

I don’t correct him on his time period. 

He smiles brightly at me. “And the Uchiha coup is an easy fix!” he says. “I’ll just do what I did last time.”

“Last time…?” I repeat. I had no idea there’d been a “last time.” What on earth…?

“Mm, they tried this when I was Hokage,” he says. “What did I do again… wow, look at this tree…”

Red autumn leaves flutter off a scraggly tree a few meters away. Minato watches them in the breeze intently, like he’s never seen leaves before. 

“Hokage-sama,” I half yell, yanking at his kimono sleeve. “You can look at all the trees you want later.”

“Oh,” he turns back to me. “Right. Last time, I just put one of my Hiraishin markers on their heir. Fugaku’s son… what was his name… anyway, I put a marker on him, and said if the Uchiha tried anything, I’d simply kill their precious child.”

He beams at me. I stare back, mouth unfortunately gaping. It has to be a very unsexy look, but I can’t help it. I’d assumed… I’d assumed there had been no problems under the Fourth, that the Uchiha had been fine and at peace under him, and that he’d be able to make them see reason… 

“We can just do that,” he says, cutting through my anxiety spiral. His smile gains a reassuring quality. “I already have the marker in place. We can take the child hostage to make them back down, easy-peasy.”

“N-no,” I sputter out. “We can’t do that. Uchiha Itachi… Fugaku-sama’s first son is dead.”

[fallendev0tionvn]

delivering some angst cause why not !! ‹/𝟹 how would he react if mc were to push him away, not because they don't love him, but because at the end of the day... he's an undead. they look at him and see the remnants of a tragedy, a ghost of what should've been, and it just hurts too much. they love him so much it aches, the thought of building a life with someone who's already dead feels impossible. they can't bear the weight of it anymore, can't bear the guilt, can't bear the unnaturalness of it all. after all, in their head, it's their fault, their fucking fault he's like this. and yet it's all they fantasize about.

you just unlocked the dionysian spirit⚰️ (also christ, do you guys hate him HAHDNAJ)

His heart doesn't just break- it shatters.

The second you push him away, when you tell him this can't work, something inside him snaps. There's no room for reason anymore, no careful words, no half truths.

So he spirals.

If you remind him he's "dead", if you tell him you can't love a ghost, he'll rip the soil apart with his bare hands, tearing through dirt and roots and decay until his old body is there, lifeless, consumed. But he's not, he's alive, he's right in front of you.

He doesn't care if it's disgusting, nothing matters anymore- he's tried to be rational, to be less impulsive, but his efforts slip through his fingers like sand, he can't stop it, he can't control it.

His breath comes in ragged gasps, his barely visible pupils blown wide, body trembling with exhaustion and something feral. He stares at his own remains, at the undeniable proof of the past you refuse to move beyond, then looks up at you with wild, frantic eyes.

"See?" His voice is choked, hoarse.

"It's there. But I'm here." He presses a hand to his own chest, fingers curling against fabric, against warm, living flesh.

"I never fucking died."

And yet the way you look at him- god, it makes him sick.

Like he's tragic, like he's only someone to mourn over.

No.

He grabs at his own skin, nails digging into his cheeks, then into his arms, as if he could rip it all away and start over. "Is that it? Is that why you won't look at me the same way? If I wasn't me- If I was someone else, would you love me then?"

It's a desperate, ugly thought.

Because even if you did, it wouldn't be him. Even the idea of you loving another version of him, makes him fucking jealous.

If none of this convinces you- if you still look at him like he's some tragic thing, some ghost of the past you can't bear to touch- then there's only one thing left.

Rationality slips through his grasp, drowned out by something primal and reckless- Dionysian.

A madness that has always robbed him of his self preservation, that makes his body feel too hot, too much. If he can't have you, if he can't make you understand, then he'll restart.

The eternal return.

If his life is ruined, if this version of him isn't enough, then he'll end it and begin again, relive it exactly the same way. He'll take the same steps, say the same words, breathe even the same air. He'll relive every moment the way it did before- every laugh, every touch.

Even if it hurts, even if it kills him over and over again, he'll endure it just to have those moments with you again.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Habits 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, power dynamic, age gap, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Andy Barber, Cole Turner (Professor AU)

Summary: your life is thrown into chaos after a night out goes awry.

Part of the Bad Professors AU

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all. 

The room is electric, colours glare and glimmer, music thrums, bodies writhe. You ride the wave of the rhythm, balancing your cup in one hand as you wave the other above you. You giggle and smile at Mercedes. It’s starting to hit, whatever it is she gave you. 

Your eyes roll back as your head dips and you sway to the pulsing beat. You gyrate and hum beneath the wall of sound all around you. You spin and gulp back the last of your mixed vodka. You flick your lashes up and search for somewhere to leave the empty. 

Mercedes is gone. Hm, she’s probably just off the restroom or the bar. Hopefully she brings back more. You find a table and slam the empty cup on it. You shimmy around as a cute guy presses past you. Hey, you know him. 

“Colin,” you slur, catching his hands as they creep up your hips. 

“Hey baby,” he speaks over the music as he leans in, “you’re looking loose. Like the music?” 

“Sure, I like the music,” you put your palms to his chest, “but I can’t stand you.” 

You stick your tongue out and shove him away. He’s such a slimy fuck. He huffs and drops his grip. That’s it. The shift. One minute, the smarmy smirk and the next, that evil fucking glare. 

“See ya. Try not to traumatize anyone, bud,” you slap his arm and carry on past him. 

“Slut,” he calls after you. 

He says so but you never lowered yourself to his level. Or under him. 

You stand on your toes, searching the crowd for Mercedes’ spiral curls. It should be easy enough to find her. She has those fuzzy pom poms pinned into her hair.  

You mutter to yourself and check your phone. Your balance isn’t exactly comforting but you have enough for another drink. Fuck it. You’re getting blitzed. 

You get to the bar and lean on it as you wave at the bartender. You nearly slip as you put your foot on the metal rod that trims the bottom of the bar and you cling to the edge. You smile and correct yourself. 

“Vodka soda,” you call above the hue. 

He squints at you and shakes his head, “no way. You had enough, sweetheart.” 

“What? I’m fffinnneee,” you whine. 

“Step away from my bar or I’ll call the bouncer,” he warns. 

“Damn, geez,” you put your palms up defensively, “fine. Don’t have to be nasty.” 

You spin and your legs tangle. You stumble and collide with someone else. You catch yourself against them. Oh, gosh. You can feel their muscle through their shirt. Mmf. 

You follow the body up to short stubble and recoil. Bit older than you expected. As much as you admire an older man, you didn’t come here to hook-up. You learned your lesson last time. 

“Excuse me,” he touches your hip lightly then rescinds his hand, almost shyly. 

“S-sssorry,” you laugh, “I’m a bit tipsy.” 

“Can’t be mad at a pretty girl running into me,” he grins and you notice his throat bob. That’s cute. He’s nervous. Kinda makes sense since he’s a bit out of place with the coed crowd.  

You keep your smile on, “that’s sweet.” 

You try to move past him but he sidles in the same direction. You end up bumping into each other again. He raises his hands helplessly. 

“Ah, sorry, I keep--” he gets in your way again. “Keep running into you. Maybe it’s a sign I should buy you a drink.” 

It’s almost smooth. Almost. He’s trying. It’s kind of endearing. And you won’t complain for a top-up, especially on his dime. 

“Sure, can I have a vodka soda,” you push your shoulders up and bat your lashes, “I’ll, er, go wait over there.” 

You peek behind you. The bartender is thoroughly distracted. The man peers back then at you again. 

“Sure. I’ll grab us drinks.” 

Your eyelids sag and you shimmy your shoulders, “you’re a real sweetie.” 

You flit off through the crowd and go to wait at the small corner table. You bop and keep your eye out for Mercedes. Come on. If she ditched you for another guy... 

The man approaches you, balancing the drinks with a wary look to those dancing around him. He breaks free of the crush and swiftly sets down the glasses. He shakes the excess of his fingertips and wipes a hand on his jeans. 

“Oh, by the way, I’m Cole,” he introduces himself with a handshake. That’s adorable. 

“Coral,” you say back. “Thank you soooooo much.” 

You take the vodka soda and slurp through the straw. Oof. It’s stronger than you expect. Or maybe you really have had enough. 

“Are you a student?” He asks. 

You dribble a bit over your lower lib and dab it with your knuckles. You swallow a belch and nod, “oh yeah. I’m in Communications. Fun times.” 

“Fun?” He echoes. 

“Sure, it’s all nonsense. I just need a degree to get me in the door but it’s nothing special,” you shake your head. “I’m gonna be a PR specialist. I wanna work for fashion brands.” 

“Fashion,” he nods as his eyes fixate on you, “you enjoy it?” 

“Yeah, if I could sew I might try design but I can’t draw either,” you garble and pause as your tongue sticks. Oof, are you even speaking clearly right now?

“That’s cool. Driven young lady,” his eyes drift down and you suddenly feel exposed. “Pretty too.” 

“Ah ha, yeah,” you blink and shake your head. Ooh, okay, the pill is really kicking you in the teeth right now. “Can you excuse me? I’m not... I gotta... pee!” 

You scramble away as your head spins and your limbs turn to sand. You can hardly push through the invisible waves holding you back. You search for the bathrooms and finally see the sign. You run into another girl coming out and quickly dip behind the door. 

You barely stagger into the stall as your vision begins to speckle. Something’s not right. What the hell, Mercedes? You might be careless for taking the pill but she also didn’t warn you it was that potent. You sit on the toilet and lean forward to cradle your head. You don’t sit back up as the darkness beckons you down and down. 

[bvidzsoo]

Love you, forever

❀Boyfriend!Mingi❀

TW: nothing, except angst and then fluff *cries*

Word count: 2,4k

A/N: Am I okay? Not really. Did Mingi's IG post send me into a spiral of depression? Kinda yeah. Did writing this help? Abso-fucking-lutely not, I'm even more in shambles, I don't even know what life is anymore guys, I'm hurting, bye. I'm fine, don't y'all worry, at least I'll be fine tomorrow lol Mingi's IG post really destroyed me, I'm a libra, I'm dramatic okay? Your feedback is appreciated! This little piece is for all of my fellow Mingtis' who are hanging on by a thread, love y'all! And please listen to Tunnel to get the feels even more going, trust me! *cries again*

            I couldn’t help but sigh for the nth time as I squeezed my eyes shut tightly, chest tightening the longer I stared at my notebooks. It felt like nothing was going my way anymore, like everything was falling apart. I couldn’t define the tipping point of it all, but everything was starting to become too much. The stress, every new day brought more challenges without an obvious solution. The assignments felt like they were only adding up more and more, overtaking every thought of mine and only inducing more stress. Things started to become overbearing, I started feeling like a failure. There was a constant pressure on my chest, threatening, about to burst just at a simple innocent glance thrown my way by a stranger. I ignored it as best as I could, the thoughts and emotions, but it was getting harder day by day. It didn’t help that after a misunderstanding, my boyfriend wasn’t talking to me…everything just felt too much. Like I was overstimulated without a concrete reason, and not even my friends could help anymore. It felt lonely, it felt cold, and it felt downright depressing. It was fine as long as I wasn’t at home, as long as I wasn’t left on my own with my loud thoughts making me feel even more miserable.

It's been three days since we’ve spoken, Mingi and I, and it was maddening. I knew this didn’t mean the end of our relationship, but I never took it well when he was upset because of me. Especially when he was the one to pull away, to give me the cold shoulder. Especially not right now, when all I wished for was to curl up by his side and inhale his familiar cologne, closing my eyes and relaxing into my boyfriend’s arms. I needed him here, and I knew he needed his space when upset, but I felt like being selfish and just texting him. If the tears in my eyes weren’t proof enough that I was seriously on the verge of breaking, then I don’t know what else was. I sniffed loudly and pushed my notebooks aside, blood boiling just at the simple sight of them. It’s those damned notes which were making me feel like this, and the impeding feeling of failure, of failing another important class and never finishing this wrenched course and university altogether. It was frightening, and I didn’t want to be alone anymore. My friends were always a text away, but my body was craving the warmth of my boyfriend, my soul was yearning for his. I didn’t want to be alone anymore, and I didn’t want to drown and wallow in this horrible feeling anymore. I needed the love of my life next to me.

Quickly wiping my tears clean from my eyes, I adjusted my glasses on the bridge of my nose and unlocked my phone, noticing that I had gotten a notification from Instagram. At the beginning of our relationship, which was quite a few years ago, Mingi and I had set each other’s accounts to send notifications when one of us posted, being madly in love and eager to see what the other was up to. Despite the passing of time, and of our emotions only deepening, we never turned the setting off, and I was surprised to find a notification from his personal page. With another sniff, I clicked on the app and was presented with ten images of my boyfriend, out and about, enjoying his day. His black hair was fluffy and not necessarily styled, but the messy look always fit him extraordinarily. His bare face looked healthy, and it had a nice shine to it under the lightning of the place he was at, and I couldn’t help but sniff again as I scrolled through the pictures, trying to ignore the fact that the blue and greyish sweater he wore was a gift from me for his birthday two years ago. And perhaps the tears wouldn’t have sprung free from my eyes if it weren’t for that video in which he was dancing to the music softly playing in the background, locking and popping in tiny as he grinned and chuckled. Mingi was a dance major with a minor in music, and he was living his best possible life at the moment. He was happy and content with where he was at, and it always brought so much joy to my soul, but seeing him enjoying himself while I was wallowing in self-pity certainly set off an uncontrollable amount of tears and ugly gasps for air. It made me happy that he was doing okay, but seeing him made me miss him terribly, and I couldn’t help but close my phone and lay down on my bed, curling up into a ball as I cried into my pillow.

This crying session was really due time, the emotions bundled up for way too long now, but it still felt horrible that I had to try and push the feeling of loneliness away and comfort myself, while foolishly trying to smell Mingi’s cologne since I was wearing his oversized blouse. The only problem was that I had stolen it from him a long time ago and it didn’t carry his cologne anymore, it had my scent, and that just made me gasp for air as my heart clenched more, making me miss him even more. And perhaps if it weren’t for the sobs increasing in volume and the self-wallowing I was so focused on, I would’ve noticed or heard the jiggle of keys and the opening of the front door. But I was too busy ripping my glasses off my head and throwing them behind me, rubbing the heels of my palms roughly against my eyes and trying to calm my irregular breathing as my throat finally seemed to ease up, my chest somewhat lighter than before. But I knew the crying session wasn’t over, it was just a matter of time until another strong wave of sadness and yearning would hit me, sending me into another fit of ugly sobs. I just couldn’t help it, it felt like the world around me was falling apart and I couldn’t do anything about it, just let it ruin me in the process.

But as I pushed myself back up into a sitting position and rubbed the snot off my face with the sleeve of my blouse, I heard footsteps outside of my door, startling me. Very few people had keys to my apartment. Like my parents, bestest friend and…well, Mingi. We didn’t live together yet, we were planning on moving in together soon, but both of us had keys to each other’s apartments. And I knew it couldn’t have been my parents as they live five hours away and never visit on weekdays, neither could it be my best friend as she was away on a two-week business trip with her work colleagues. And that could only mean…that it was Mingi. And almost as if sensing my confused state, the door to my room opened and Mingi stood in the doorway, dressed and looking the same as in the pictures.

“Hey, I—baby?” His raspy voice was quiet and his eyebrows furrowed when his eyes fell on me. I sniffed loudly, frozen for a second, until another wave of yearning and loneliness hit hard, making me cry again as I stared at my boyfriend helplessly, “Oh my God, what’s wrong?”

He rushed inside, almost tripping over his feet, but made it to the bed safely and before he could really as much as reach out for me, I sprung forward and jumped on his lap, wrapping my limbs around him like a koala. Mingi grunted in surprise due to the sudden attack, but his arms were instantly wrapped around my middle as I held onto him tightly, hiding my face in his warm neck as I tried to control my breathing and stop the tears. He was here now; I wasn’t alone anymore. I had him and I would always have him, no matter what. His body was warm and soft against mine, so familiar as it engulfed mine into his, Mingi’s nose nuzzling against the top of my head as I slipped my fingers through his soft hair, sighing contently at the feeling of being held. In his arms, it was always as if the world disappeared, like it was just the two of us, like nothing and nobody could hurt us. He’s been the one and only man to ever make me feel like that, and it made me think quite often how lucky I was to have found such person. And Mingi’s sweet, yet musky scent finally made my sobs settle into loud sniffs, arms tightening around his neck involuntarily as if I was afraid he’d leave.

“Baby?” Mingi’s voice was small, almost afraid, as I felt a kiss pressed against the top of my head as he shifted, bringing us higher up on the bed as he held me close against himself.

“I missed you,” I croaked out, lips trembling slightly, “so much, Mingi.”

“I’m sorry.” Mingi whispered, letting out a heavy sigh, “I shouldn’t have ignored you for three days, that was shitty of me. Why are you crying? What happened?”

I sighed and shrugged lightly, “I don’t know, I just—”

I chewed on my bottom lip, letting the silence stretch on as Mingi carefully cupped my cheeks and raised my head up, our faces close to each other as we stared in each other’s eyes. Mingi’s sharp eyes were soft and filled with so much worry, that it made me pout as I tried to put my jumbled thoughts into words, “I don’t know. Things got too much; I suppose. The classes and assignments, the fear that I won’t finish my dissertation in time, and you then getting upset…I’ve been feeling under the weather for quite a while now, actually. I guess I just broke today.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mingi’s expression was sour and it made me feel guilty as I looked away from his eyes, following the sharp bridge of his nose, well defined and tall. I shrugged, getting comfortable in his lap as I laced my fingers together around his neck, Mingi’s warm and big hands settling on my hips.

“You worry a lot about me, Mingi, I didn’t want to burden you again with something so insignificant—”

“Your wellbeing is very significant to me, Y/N, and you know that.” His voice had an edge to it as his grip slightly tightened against me, his own lips forming a pout. I stared at him for a few seconds before sniffing again, eyes taking in his tan face, his dark and warm eyes, the mole under his eye and on his jaw, and his plush lips. I had missed him dearly.

“I know.” I mumbled and looked back into his eyes when Mingi pulled our bodies flushed together, leaning ahead to nudge his nose against mine, his breath tickling my face. I couldn’t help the small smile that appeared on my lips, and I averted my eyes shyly as Mingi chuckled.

“I’m not upset anymore.” He said, licking his lips before bopping his nose against mine again, “And you’re too stressed to study more today.”

My lips pulled into a tight line as I hummed, shoulders sagging a little, but Mingi suddenly grinned incredibly wide, his uneven and protruding front teeth showing, a little ‘imperfection’ I adored way too much about him. His eyes suddenly held an exited glint in them and I couldn’t help but feel intrigued, raising my eyebrows in question at him.

“I brought you your favorite cake, as an apology.” He bit his lower lip as his cheeks lightly flushed, “But the weather is really nice today and I think some fresh air will do you good.”

“What are you suggesting?” I asked as I leaned forward, resting my chin on his left shoulder as I hugged him tightly.

“We drive out to our favorite spot by the waterfall and have a little picnic, we can pick up some food on the way, and then drive around aimlessly after the sun sets.” There was a short pause and a low hum coming from deep within Mingi’s chest, “How does that sound?”

New tears gathered in my eyes, but not for the previous reasons I was crying about not even twenty minutes ago. My chest was filled to the brim and my heart was beating fast and loudly in my ears, filling me with warmth and so much love that I felt like I would burst. Mingi always knew what I needed, he was always there for me, he always provided whatever he could best. I chuckled quietly and sniffed loudly again, nodding my head wordlessly before I pulled back and looked him in the eyes, a smile stretching onto my lips.

“I love you.”

Mingi’s giggle was deep and low, rolling his eyes playfully as if he tried to brush off those words, but unable to do so, “And I love you.”

I closed my eyes and leaned forward, closing the small gap between our lips as I pressed a soft, but lingering kiss against Mingi’s soft and warm lips. He tasted like the watermelon chapstick I have given him while we were on vacation, his lips chapped from the salty ocean air. And everything suddenly felt in place, I found serenity within myself as Mingi kissed back eagerly but softly, his lips capturing mine between his as his large palm melted into my lower back. Being in his arms and feeling him against myself brought a sense of security and contentment, of acceptance, and want that only Mingi could provide. His teeth lightly grazed against my lower lip as he nipped at it before just slightly pulling back, pressing his forehead against mine as he nuzzled his nose against the skin of my cheek, making me flush at the endearing gesture.

“I assume that’s a yes, then.” I chuckled and pressed a swift kiss against Mingi’s lips again.

“Yes, love of my life, let’s go.” I knew the nickname always flustered Mingi, making him call me cheesy. But this time he said nothing as he giggled quietly, scrunching his nose and squeezing his eyes shut in a cute manner, making my cheeks hurt from how widely I was smiling at him.

God, I have missed him, the love of my life. Song Mingi.

Masterlist

[doomgurlfics]

SOMEBODY

©doomgurlfics .ೃ࿐

Synopsis: After graduation, you treat yourself to a solo getaway in Hawaii. Just you, the ocean breeze, and zero drama. That is, until a flight seatmate from hell, Taehyung, somehow ends up being your next-door neighbor at the luxury resort. Thanks to a reservation mix-up, your private suite dreams crash and burn, leaving you and Taehyung in separate rooms… with a shared connecting door.

What starts as petty arguments and awkward run-ins quickly escalates into teasing, tension, and heat you can’t ignore. And when the line between enemies and something much more finally snaps? Let’s just say, paradise gets a whole lot hotter.

Pairing: Non Idol Taehyung x Reader

Warnings: Cursing, Suggestive Language, Eventual Smut, Possible slow uploads

Word Count: 4,554

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 (coming soon)

A/N: Hi beautiful people!🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ I’m so exited to share part 2 with you all. I feel like the story is progressing well. This part is also way longer than the first. I planned for this fic to only be three parts but we will see how it goes! I hope you guys enjoy!!

PART TWO

A bright stream of sunlight slips through the blinds, warming your face and gently waking you from your sleep. You stretch, arms overhead, muscles loose and relaxed in a way they haven’t been in weeks. For a moment, everything is still.

You sit up slowly, taking a deep breath as the remnants of your dreams melt away. Padding across the room, you wince at the chill of the floor under your feet, then pull open the blinds.

And there it is. Hawaii in all its glory. The ocean sparkles under the early sun, waves curling lazily onto the shore. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

This is why you came.

Today’s plan is simple: sunbathe on the beach until your skin feels kissed by the sun, crack open that new book you’ve been meaning to read, and maybe check out a few of the beach shops just outside the resort, if you’re up for it.

You begin your morning routine, brushing your teeth and pinning your hair back as you mentally map out the hours ahead. But no matter how hard you try to focus on the present, your mind keeps drifting… back to last night.

Back to him.

The two of you blink at each other, frozen in disbelief, until your brain catches up and you spin around so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.

“I’m so sorry!” you blurt, one hand flying up to cover your eyes as you fumble your way back toward your side of the suite. “Oh my god—I didn’t know anyone was— I thought—!”

You don’t wait for a response. You stumble through the connecting door and slam it shut behind you like you’re sealing off a crime scene. Then you lock it.

Your heart’s racing. Your face is on fire.

And worst of all… you can still see everything in your head.

The print beneath the towel was so… big.

Your face heats all over again as the image burns itself into your memory. You shake your head violently.

It’s just the champagne, you tell yourself. Nothing more.

But before you can fully collect your thoughts a sharp knock rattles the connecting door.

“Fuck,” you whisper, eyes wide, contemplating every life decision that led to this moment.

You scan the room like there might be hidden cameras. Maybe this was all a prank. A secret episode of one of those cheesy sitcoms your mom used to binge. Because stuff like this? This doesn’t happen in real life.

Another knock, louder this time, snaps you out of your spiral.

You groan softly, then march to the door and swing it open.

He stands there, clothes haphazardly thrown on, shirt inside out, damp hair sticking to his forehead.

“So,” he says, deadpan, phone in hand. “You want to explain why you’re stalking me, or should I skip the convo and call the cops?”

You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. So you just blink at him, eyes wide, hand still clutching the doorframe like it might steady your pride.

“I—I wasn’t stalking you,” you finally manage, voice about two octaves higher than usual. “The rooms are connected. Your room is connected to mine.”

He raises a brow, completely unimpressed. “And you just…walked in?”

“I thought it was a closet!” you snap, heat rising to your face. “God, believe me, if I knew you were on the other side, I would’ve bricked it shut.”

His lips twitch, just barely, but it’s enough. He’s enjoying this.

“Oh, so you accidentally wandered into a half-naked man’s room?” he muses, glancing down at his still-damp torso. “Right. Happens all the time.”

“You had a towel on!” you argue.

“Now that sounds like an admission.”

You throw your hands up. “Okay, you know what? Let’s just go to the front desk. Maybe they can explain why the hell our rooms are connected.”

He shrugs, stepping back. “Lead the way, Peeping Jane.”

You glare at him but grab your keycard anyway, tossing on a hoodie before storming toward the elevator. He follows, annoyingly relaxed for someone who just accused you of stalking.

—

Ten minutes later, the two of you are standing at the front desk, facing a too-perky resort employee who’s somehow still chipper despite it being past 10 p.m.

“I’m really sorry,” she says after tapping away on her keyboard. “It looks like the previous guests were a large family split between both suites. The connecting door was supposed to be sealed after their checkout, but… housekeeping must’ve missed it.”

You blink. “So the door just… stayed unlocked?”

She winces. “It happens sometimes, unfortunately. But since we’re currently at full capacity, we can’t offer a room change. What we can do is send someone up to lock the door from both sides tonight.”

“Please do,” you say flatly.

“And the name on the reservation?” she asks, glancing between the two of you.

“Kim Taehyung,” he says smoothly.

“And yours, miss?”

“Y/N.”

She types a few more things, then smiles brightly. “Alright, someone from maintenance will be up shortly to seal the door properly.”

Taehyung leans on the counter, glancing your way. “Nice to officially meet you,

Neighbor.”

You don’t reply.

You just walk away, praying this is the last time the universe throws the two of you into the same room.

As you think back on the whole incident, all you can do is shake your head.

It doesn’t matter. It’s over. You’ve locked the door, literally and figuratively.

Today is a new day and you are not going to let anyone ruin your plans.

This morning is for peace, sunshine, and uninterrupted tanning.

You made it out to the beach a little past eleven. It felt borderline criminal to tan on an empty stomach, so you stopped for breakfast first.

Now, you’re perched on a lounge chair, sunglasses on, sunscreen applied, and book in hand. The waves crash in a steady rhythm nearby, the sound serving as white noise as you immerse yourself in your book.

This is exactly what you came for.

Surprisingly, you make it halfway through your book before deciding to call it quits. The sun is high, your skin is warm, and the thought of wandering the beach shops feels too tempting to pass up, especially with the hope of finding a cute cover-up or two.

Back in your room, you shower quickly, throw on a fresh outfit, and head downstairs. You reach the resort shuttle just in time, thanking the driver as you hop on.

It’s crowded, just as you expected. There’s only one open seat near the back.

You start down the narrow aisle, scanning for your spot, then pause mid-step.

Taehyung, oblivious to your presence, sits in the seat right beside the empty one. He’s leaned slightly toward the window, earbuds in, expression unreadable as he stares out at the scenery like he belongs in a travel ad.

For a split second, you consider turning around. Maybe the cover-up can wait.

But then you remember who the hell you are.

You’re that bitch.

So you keep walking, head high, and slide into the seat beside him without hesitation. He glances over briefly, then does a full double take.

Ripping an earbud out of his ear, he smirks.

“Well, Y/N, it seems the universe keeps finding ways to bring us together,” he says, tone light but eyes locked on you.

You pointedly look forward, pretending not to notice the way your stomach flutters at the sound of your name on his lips.

“Or maybe the universe just has a sick sense of humor,” you mutter.

He laughs under his breath, deep and unbothered. “Could be both.”

You don’t answer. You’re too focused on keeping your expression neutral.

“Have you been enjoying your day so far?” he asks, attempting small talk.

“Yes,” you reply curtly, hoping that ends the conversation.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him start to say something, but then stop himself.

A small pang of guilt tugs at your chest. You weren’t raised to be rude.

You sigh softly, then shift to face him a little more. “What about you?”

He leans back slightly, eyes squinting against the sun pouring through the shuttle windows. “I slept in, then wandered down to the bar for a drink—”

“At what, noon?” you interrupt, raising a brow.

“Eleven-thirty,” he corrects, unbothered. “It’s vacation. Time’s fake.”

You shake your head, lips twitching despite yourself.

“Then I realized I completely forgot sunscreen,” he continues, lifting the collar of his shirt. “Pretty sure my shoulders are halfway to medium-rare.”

You glance at him, tan skin, a hint of sunburn already starting to peek through, and shake your head again. “That’s what happens when you dress like a tourist cliché.”

He gasps in mock offense. “This shirt has personality.”

“It’s loud.”

“So am I.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now, just a little.

“What are you getting from the shops?” he asks, eyes locking onto yours with casual curiosity, or maybe something more.

You blink, caught off guard by how direct his gaze is.

“A cover-up,” you say simply, shifting your attention back to the front. “Something light I can wear over my swimsuit.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Let me guess, neutral tones, maybe a pop of color. Practical but still cute.”

You glance at him, surprised. “That’s… oddly specific.”

He shrugs, smirking. “You just seem like the type who packs logically, but still wants to turn heads.”

You narrow your eyes, unsure whether to be flattered or annoyed. “And what exactly do you need from the shops? A new dad shirt?”

He grins. “Nope. Aloe. Lots of it.”

That earns a small, genuine laugh from you, quick, but real.

And when you glance over again, he’s already looking at you, like he’s cataloging every shift in your mood.

And for the first time, you don’t immediately look away.

The bus lurches to a stop, jolting you out of the moment. You’ve arrived.

As you step off, you and Taehyung naturally part ways, each heading off in search of your respective shopping missions.

You’ve got a two-hour window before the shuttle leaves, which means you’re browsing at double speed. Light work, really. A few shops, a couple impulse buys, and by the end of it, you’ve got way more than a cover-up in your bag.

But whatever. You’ve decided every bad financial decision you make on this trip is in good taste. It’s a graduation gift.

Girl Math.

As you board the shuttle for the ride back, your eyes instinctively flick toward your previous seat.

And there he is—Taehyung, sitting by the window again.

But this time, not alone.

A pretty brunette sits beside him, the two of them deep in conversation, heads tilted close. Laughing.

A small, unwelcome pang tugs at your chest. Annoyance? Disappointment? You frown.

Seriously?

You just met him. And he was kind of an ass at first. There is absolutely no reason for you to feel anything right now.

You brush it off and keep walking, choosing a random empty seat toward the front without so much as a second glance.

Back to reality. No distractions.

Especially not ones wearing pineapple shirts.

The next time you see your neighbor is at the luau the following night.

You’d taken your time getting ready, slipping into a flowy dress that sways with every step. Gold accessories catch the light just right, and your hair—fluffy, soft curls you managed with a no-heat method and a lot of prayer—actually held up, despite the humidity.

You were worried your bundles would betray you in this weather, but they’ve shown out. You mentally make a note to reorder the brand once you’ve returned home.

You’re seated at a round table near the stage, sharing space with a young family, two parents, a squirmy toddler boy, and their daughter, who’s maybe five and dangerously cute. Full cheeks, curious eyes, and a sparkly flower clip in her hair.

You spend the first few minutes cooing over her, asking her name and complimenting her clip, which earns you a shy smile and a handful of goldfish crackers in return.

Honestly? It’s peaceful.

Until you feel that familiar prickle on the back of your neck. That tiny shift in the air that says you’re being watched.

You glance behind you, and there he is.

Taehyung, dressed in all white linen, standing across the lawn with a drink in hand.

His eyes are already on you.

You turn around, not wanting to give the impression that you were staring first. You hated to admit it, but the man looked good in everything.

You refocus on the menu in front of you, trying to decide between the grilled mahi-mahi and the kalua pork, when a familiar hand lands on the chair beside you.

“Good evening. Is anyone sitting here?” he asks the table, voice smooth and polite.

You open your mouth to answer, but the mother beside you beats you to it.

“No! You’re welcome to sit,” she says brightly.

You smile along, tight but polite, while Taehyung slides into the empty seat without hesitation.

His cologne hits you immediately. Warm. Clean. Expensive.

For the moment, the two of you sit in silence, pretending to study the menu like it holds the secrets of the universe.

The family chatters around you, laughing, passing around crayons and wet wipes, existing in their own little bubble that you don’t dare interrupt.

You sneak a glance at him from the corner of your eye.

He’s calm. Too calm. Like he’s waiting you out.

Eventually, you break the silence.

“So,” you say before you can stop yourself, “how did the aloe turn out for you?”

The words leave your mouth, and you instantly regret them. Really? That’s what you went with?

Taehyung glances over, clearly amused. “Worked like magic. Turns out, I’m not as indestructible as I thought.”

You hum, nodding like that somehow justifies your comment. “Good. I’d hate to see you burst into flames.”

“Really!” he exclaims, hand to his chest in mock shock. “My, how the tables have turned. At first, I was sure you wanted to be the one to set me on fire, with your stare alone.”

You give him a dry look. “I’m not into arson.”

He leans in slightly, eyes twinkling. “Shame. I think you’d look great with a lighter.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “That’s deeply concerning.”

“Is it?” he grins. “Or is it just… chemistry?”

You shake your head, fighting a laugh at his corny joke just as the waiter appears beside your table.

He takes everyone’s orders, kalua pork for you, something grilled and spicy for Taehyung, then disappears with a practiced smile.

The lights around the stage begin to dim, a soft hush settling over the crowd as island drums echo faintly in the distance.

Palm fronds sway under the warm night breeze, tiki torches flickering to life as the emcee welcomes everyone to the luau.

You relax into your seat, ready to enjoy the show.

Beside you, Taehyung leans back as well, his arm resting casually along the back of your chair, not touching you, but close enough that you’re suddenly very aware of how warm the night has become.

Neither of you says anything.

But for once, the silence doesn’t feel awkward.

It feels… easy.

Your food arrives midway through the show, and as expected, it’s heavenly. Rich, savory, and exactly what you needed after a long day in the sun.

You’re just finishing the last few bites when one of the hosts begins circling the audience, microphone in hand, scanning for their next “lucky” guest.

They’ve been calling people up to the stage all night for an impromptu hula lesson, and while it’s made for great entertainment, it’s also your personal nightmare.

As the host inches closer, you immediately avert your gaze. You straighten your silverware. Check your napkin. Pretend to be deeply interested in the dessert menu, even though you already know you’re getting the pineapple cake.

Taehyung notices, of course.

“Wow,” he murmurs, amused. “That’s some real elite-level avoiding-eye-contact going on.”

“Don’t,” you mutter through your teeth, eyes still focused on your lap.

He laughs softly. “What, afraid you’ll get picked?”

“Afraid I’ll embarrass myself in front of the entire resort, yeah.”

The host is getting closer. Too close.

Then you hear it.

“Oh, this one looks like she has the rhythm!” she says into the mic, stepping closer. “And, oh my goodness, look at her partner! What a beautiful couple!”

You practically choke on air.

“Oh, we’re not—” you begin, shaking your head rapidly, holding up your hands.

But before you can finish the sentence, Taehyung is already standing, flashing that easy, charming smile of his like this is the best thing that’s happened to him all night.

“Thank you,” he says smoothly, reaching down to grab your hand. “We try.”

You glare at him. “Taehyung—”

“Come on,” he whispers, already tugging you up from your seat. “Can’t let our fans down.”

And just like that, you’re being led to the stage under flickering tiki lights, the host clapping delightedly as the crowd cheers.

You want to be mad. You should be mad.

But you can’t help it, you laugh. The whole thing is ridiculous.

Within minutes, you and Taehyung are both up on stage, swaying side by side in matching grass skirts. A flower crown rests slightly crooked on your head, and someone’s auntie from the audience has already yelled out, “Shake it, girl!”

The instructor stands in front of the group, hips moving effortlessly, her voice cheerful and upbeat as she guides everyone through the steps.

“Right foot out… sway… and smile!” she sings.

You try your best to follow, your hips slightly out of sync, your laugh bubbling up every time you glance at Taehyung, who somehow, is not half bad at this.

“You’ve done this before,” you accuse, shooting him a look.

He grins. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

“You mean a man of no shame.”

“Tomato, to-mah-to.”

The crowd cheers as everyone on stage gives their final pose, hands in the air, hips popped to the side.

You’re still catching your breath when the host thanks the volunteers and ushers you back down to your seats, but the warmth in your chest lingers.

You’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline, the tiki torches, or the hand that still casually brushes against yours, but for a moment, it’s easy to forget why you ever found him annoying at all.

Just for a moment.

Later that night, you’re jolted out of your sleep by a loud banging, followed by laughter.

You sit up, way too fast, immediately regretting it as a wave of dizziness hits. What the hell is that?

Another boom echoes through the wall, followed by more laughter. Male voices. One of them unmistakably Taehyung’s.

You grab your phone and squint at the screen. 3:02 a.m.

You scowl.

The laughter crescendos into another thud, like someone just fell into a wall, or onto furniture. You can practically feel the bass of their bad decisions vibrating through the floorboards.

You throw the covers off and stomp to the connecting door, half-asleep and all the way annoyed. You’re just about to knock when you remember it’s been locked.

Which means if you want to deal with this, you’ll have to go to his actual front door.

You pause, debating it. Is this really worth getting out of bed for?

You almost turn back.

But then another thud rattles the wall, followed by a high-pitched burst of female laughter that grates on your last nerve.

Nope. Not sleeping through that.

Sliding into your slippers and snatching your keycard off the nightstand, you storm out of your room, padding down the hall until you reach his door.

You knock. Firm. Twice.

Then wait.

The music lowers, and the door creaks open a moment later, revealing Taehyung, lit by the soft glow of the hallway light.

He looks… surprised. His shirt is gone, this time replaced by a low-hanging chain and a pair of joggers. He blinks, clearly not expecting to see you.

A beat passes before his mouth tugs into a lazy smirk. “Couldn’t sleep without me?”

Your jaw clenches. “It’s three in the morning, and it sounds like you’re filming an episode of Love Island in here.”

Taehyung scratches the back of his neck, still leaning lazily against the doorframe. “Never seen it. But sorry, we were just dancing. Got a little tipsy and decided to see who’s the better breakdancer.”

You stare at him, unimpressed. “At 3 a.m.?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t sound like the brightest idea now that I say it out loud, but that’s what the tequila does to you.”

You don’t even dignify that with a response. Just keep glaring.

He stares back, lips twitching like he’s fighting a smirk, until his eyes drop slightly, casually scanning over your form.

It’s subtle, but you catch it.

And suddenly you’re hyper-aware of your outfit: a silky camisole and shorts set that felt cute and breezy in your room. But now, with the cool hallway air and your nipples pressing against the fabric, you wish you had on ten more layers.

You cross your arms on instinct.

Glancing through the crack in the door, you spot two women and another man lounging inside. One of the girls exactly like the one from the bus.

“You can come in, if you want,” Taehyung says, pulling the door open wider. That signature smirk tugs at his mouth again. “Show us some of those hula moves you did earlier.”

You can’t tell if he’s teasing or flirting. Maybe both. Either way, you’re not biting.

“No thanks,” you say flatly, voice laced with dry sarcasm. “I left my grass skirt and shame at the luau.”

That earns a low laugh from him, and one of the girls inside turns toward the door, eyeing you curiously.

You don’t wait for a follow-up.

“Goodnight, Taehyung.”

You turn on your heel and walk away, ignoring the amused “Night, neighbor,” that follows behind you.

You don’t look back. You don’t have to look back.

Because you know he’s watching.

And damn it, your skin is still buzzing like he touched you.

Today was excursion day and you were beyond excited. You were going snorkeling in the Hanauma Bay and you could not wait!

Checking, once more to confirm, everything is in your bag, you head out the door. Simultaneously as Taehyung apparently.

“Morning. I’m surprised to see you up this early after all the partying last night,” you say, smirking as check to make sure your door is locked.

Taehyung lets out a soft laugh, adjusting the strap of his small backpack. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

You glance over at him as the two of you fall into step down the hall. He looks ridiculously good for someone who hosted a 3 a.m. breakdancing competition. A crisp white linen shirt, swim trunks, and that damn straw hat that makes him look like a K-drama lead on vacation.

He catches you looking and raises a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re checking me out, again.”

You scoff. “Please. I’m just trying to figure out how someone with such terrible sleep habits still manages to function.”

“Natural charm and electrolytes,” he replies, flashing a grin. “Where you headed, anyway?”

“Hanauma Bay. I’m doing the snorkeling excursion today.”

His eyes light up a little. “No way. Me too.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” he says, pressing the elevator button. “I guess fate really doesn’t want to give you a break from me.”

You roll your eyes as the doors open. “Or maybe it’s trying to test me.”

As you step inside, the playful tension between you sizzles just a little stronger.

The space feels smaller than usual. Or maybe it’s just the way Taehyung leans casually against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, watching you with a grin that’s far too amused for this early in the morning.

“You sure you’re ready for snorkeling?” he asks. “Water’s pretty unforgiving to people who talk as much trash as you do.”

You raise a brow. “Please. I’ve got better lung capacity than you think.”

“Is that so?” he teases, stepping a little closer. “Wanna bet?”

Your breath catches slightly at the proximity, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you smirk, lifting your chin just enough to meet his gaze.

“Tempting,” you murmur, “but I’ve got a full day ahead of me. Don’t want to embarrass you too early.”

The elevator dings before he can reply, but his quiet laugh follows you out into the lobby.

The lobby is packed, filled with a mix of excited families and tipsy retirees. There’s a chorus of voices, clattering flip-flops, and the scent of sunscreen lingering in the air.

It takes a few minutes to locate the right shuttle, everyone’s buzzing about luaus, hikes, or boat tours, but eventually you and Taehyung find your group.

Once aboard, the two of you settle into a pair of side-by-side seats near the back. The windows are slightly fogged from the humid morning air, but the ocean view as you drive along the coast is more than enough to distract you.

The ride goes smoothly. You trade light conversation and occasional laughs, both of you surprisingly at ease. Somewhere between teasing him about his floral dad shirt and him asking if your snorkel mask would ruin your lashes, it starts to feel… natural.

When you arrive at Hanauma Bay, the real excitement kicks in. You grab your gear and follow the group down to the shoreline. The water is impossibly blue, the kind of postcard-perfect scene that makes you feel like you’re inside a dream.

You and Taehyung drift toward the edge of the group as the guide gives a brief safety talk. Afterward, you both wade into the water together, slipping on your fins and masks.

“Last chance to back out,” Taehyung says, flashing you a grin as he pulls his goggles down.

You roll your eyes. “Try to keep up, rookie.”

Then you both dive in.

Beneath the surface, everything feels surreal. The ocean cradles you in silence, broken only by the bubbles from your breath and the flick of fins slicing through water. You and Taehyung move in rhythm, weaving through schools of fish and coral beds like you’ve been doing it for years.

It’s peaceful—until it isn’t.

You surface for air, adjusting your mask, but something feels… off. You can’t get a full breath. You try again, inhaling sharply, but it’s like sipping through a clogged straw.

A flutter of panic builds in your chest.

You rip your snorkel out of your mouth and gasp, but instead of relief, it only brings on more confusion. You cough, but it feels like the air just won’t come. Your vision swims as you try to stay afloat, but your limbs are heavy.

“Y/N?” Taehyung’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp with concern. He’s treading water beside you now, reaching out.

“I—” you start, but the word doesn’t make it out. The world tilts, blurring around the edges.

And then everything goes black.

A/N: And we reach the end of part 2!! If you made it this far, thank you so much!! I truly appreciate all the love on part 1 and I will try to get part three up by early next week. But I do have work so that make get in the way… Anyway I love chatting with you all so please share your thoughts!!

©doomgurlfics .ೃ࿐

[hangels]

oh, and happy birthday.

summary : happy birthday, who knew those words could cause such chaos? Definitely not art. A birthday gift from Patrick would truly change everything.

note : hii! this is my first fic. I wanted it to be something deep and so I hope you guys enjoy this! always looking for mutuals to add to my taglist. :), also this is not 100% accurate to the timeline..I just wanted to write something like this. 🥹🥹

Art Donaldson stared at the ceiling of his dark room, the steady hum of the city outside barely reaching his ears. It was his birthday. The quiet wasn’t exactly comforting. it was heavy, thick with memories he thought he’d buried. Tashi, his girlfriend, was asleep beside him, her soft breaths steady and calm. But Art couldn’t sleep. Not tonight.

Months ago, things had spiraled out of control. He never meant to hurt Patrick, never meant to take his girlfriend away. But it had happened, and it had shattered something between them, something that even time couldn’t fully mend. Patrick hadn’t spoken to him since, had kept his distance like a wound too raw to touch.

Until tonight.

The phone vibrated softly against the bedside table. Art’s heart stuttered when he saw a new message received on the screen. A message: Happy birthday. Meet me at The Lantern? Tomorrow night? Celebrate? From Patrick.

Art hesitated, fingers trembling. For months, he’d convinced himself Patrick was gone from his life for good. But a flicker of something — hope, guilt, longing — made him type back a simple.. “Yeah.”

The next night, Art told Tashi he was going out with a few of his boys. He kissed her gently, the apology in his eyes. Outside, the air was crisp with spring’s first chill. The streets hummed with distant laughter and neon light. He walked towards The Lantern, heart pounding like a war drum.

Patrick was there, standing near the entrance, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes wary but unmistakably alive. When their eyes met, the years of silence collapsed between them like a fragile bridge finally touched by footsteps.

“Happy birthday,” Patrick said quietly, voice rough with emotion.

“Thanks,” Art replied, voice breaking slightly.

They talked. awkward at first, words stumbling over old wounds and unspoken apologies. But beneath it all, the spark was undeniable. The flickering flame of what had once been something raw, real, and fierce.

As the night deepened, the city around them blurred. The past didn’t vanish, but for those stolen hours, it didn’t matter. They found each other again in the cracks between hurt and forgiveness.

When Patrick finally pulled Art close, whispering, “I missed you, kinda.” He awkwardly laughed, the weight of everything lifted for a moment. The flickering romance, the friendship between them wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs.

Art’s breath hitched as Patrick’s hand found his, rough fingers curling gently around his wrist. The noise of the city faded completely, swallowed by the pulse between them — quiet but insistent. Patrick’s eyes, dark and searching, held a question Art didn’t want to say out loud but felt deep in his bones: “Is there still a place for me?”

Art stared him right in the eye, almost as if he knew what was being asked. “oh stop, you already know the answer to that, fucking asshole.” He laughed, earning one from Patrick..

Patrick chuckled, “I know, you just can’t ever seem to get rid of me. Huh? I bet it bothers you.” He murmured, art lightly shaking his head with a small grin. “Like gum on my damn shoe.” And after that, the atmosphere around them went quiet.

The space between them dissolved with a shaky laugh and a desperate, aching kiss. soft at first, testing, like both afraid to break what fragile thing they were rebuilding. Then, slow and sure, like coming home after being lost in the dark.

patrick then pulling away, a small grin as he was preparing to leave. Art softly furrowing his eyebrows.

“oh, and happy birthday.” He murmured before leaving.

leaving art to just sit there, eventually going home. He just couldn’t get that out of his head. A new message received now flashing on his screen once again.

From Patrick: it was nice to see you again.

[chaifootsteps]

Do you mind giving a recap for those of us who dropped the show ages ago?

Episode begins with Millie happily coming in to work.

Blitzo is spiraling hard over the fact that his rapist wrote him off, blowing all the company's money/M&M's pensions on taxidermy owls (that he makes Loona burn) and horse plates while gorging on cheese whiz and TV in his office. This has been going on for a month.

Millie hasn't been paid in a month. Moxxie's melting down trying to make the numbers add up.

Client who was killed by a ghost comes in, Millie says humans only go to one of two places when they die and ghosts don't exist. Blitz is super jazzed for it though, so Blitz and Millie take the job.

Blitz dresses and larps as the sexy ghosthunter from the show he likes. About a million unfunny sex jokes ensue.

Blitzo uses a vibrator as a ghost tracking device. I wish I was kidding.

Rolando, the guy from the leaks, works at the hotel. He's voiced by John Waters.

Blitz runs around the hotel in ghosthunter drag with a "ghost sucker" machine, disturbs a naked elderly couple who swear at him, a poorly done Scooby Doo chase scene ensues.

I can't stress enough how unfunny the first half of this episode is.

Millie just kind of takes all of this because "he needs this", eventually snaps and she and Blitz split up.

John Waters attacks Blitz with black goo and visions of people from his life telling him he sucks, including his mother.

Blah blah blah nothing happens, Millie finds Blitz curled up sobbing and a flashback ensues.

Millie used to be a total fucking badass assassin from Wrath until Blitz walked in, grappled with her, and in a scene that feels vaguely ripped off from Firefly, hires her. This is how she met Moxxie.

The fact that Blitz worked for himself is unprecedented, shame how little it's come up over the course of the show.

We see Blitz moving them all into their current headquarters, Millie says they don't deserve it, Blitz tells her to knock it off because he's poured blood, sweat, and sex into this and yes they do.

Millie's got some hangups over only being the hired muscle but fortunately doesn't try to hang herself on screen over it like in the leaks.

Millie relies on Blitz, looks up to him, was surprised to see him brought so low by the fact that the guy who coerced him into a sexual deal while listening to him be shot at doesn't want to date him anymore.

No, they don't address that last part. Of course not.

They realize their guy is a "fester demon."

Something something whatever.

Ronald McDonald possesses Blitz, makes him watch more footage of himself "ruining peoples' lives" ala A Clockwork Orange. This mostly consists of Stolas having his feelings hurt by being rightfully called out for his sexual abuse of Blitz.

I guess Cash was the one to tell Blitz Fizz didn't want to see him in the hospital but it's a blink and you miss it scene.

Millie pounds the shit out of Rolaids because she knows Blitz can take it, Blitz horks him up into the pool, then electrocutes him.

They get out of there because "hotels suck." It's not funny.

Millie calls Blitz her best friend. No indication of this has ever appeared in the show before.

Blitz has never had a friend he didn't want to fuck before. The show's words, not mine.

Blitz is done trying to muscle in on M&M's relationship.

Blitz is still sad over his rapist.

Moxxie thought he balanced their books but didn't.

The end.

Viv is still transphobic.

[catsukiiee]

# LINK UP.

౨ৎ prohero!hanta sero x fem!reader

౨ৎ pov: sero cannot stop thinking about you after a recent argument between you two, getting to the point where he’s out of his bed and driving to your house, knowing damn well he has patrols later.

wordcount ; 766

paragraphs ; 16

sentences ; 34

songs used ; link up by avenoir

tropes ; friends with benefits, messy love.

content ; makeup sex.

note ;

hanta sero is nineteen here instead of his canon age of 24.

japanese and hispanic mix sero <3

The last conversation you had with Sero ended in tears, your throat raw from the screams you unleashed at him for being a jerk and toying with your emotions. You still felt a twinge of embarrassment over that outburst, but deep down, you believed your anger was warranted.

You weren’t officially a couple; you just spent time together and occasionally fucked each other.

Unfortunately, those casual hangouts and fuck sessions led you to develop feelings, those feelings causing you to spiral and crash out whenever Sero posted pictures of himself with other girls at UA college parties.

In retaliation, you began doing the same—hitting up parties and posting yourself with other guys. Sero’s response was always predictable: he’d flood your phone with messages and calls, asking where you were, then he'd show up at your place to argue, then it would either end with you kicking him out your house or his head between your legs.

Now, you stood in your dark living room, your phone's brightness being the only source of light as you reread his messages, the word "mama's" making thighs clench. He knew how to break down your defenses in an instant.

He was barely a foot inside the front door when you wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning forward on the tips of your toes to reach his lips, roughly pulling him into a kiss. “Fuck, hello.” he chuckled into the kiss, pressing you against the now-closed door. One hand grabbed a handful of your ass, the other tangled in your hair, pressing his body into yours.

No words needed to be spoken; this was a toxic cycle that both of you were far too familiar with. “Hey, mamas.” He groaned, moving his hand from your hair to grab at your throat, pulling you from the kiss.

“Missed me?”  

“Fuck yes.”

He was on his knees as soon as he got the answer he was waiting for, slinging one leg over his shoulder. You had made sure to take off your underwear before he arrived. All he had to do was raise your shirt and jump straight in, his tongue lapping at your clit, his tongue piercing dragging on it every time. "Fuck, Sero." With a gasp, you removed your shirt completely to look at him better, running your fingers in his hair, combing back his dark curls.

He continued to eat your pussy until you came against his tongue, your nails dragging through his hair, almost pushing his face away completely when he kept going. Groaning loudly against you, he finally let you push him away; even in the dark, you could see how dilated his pupils were. “You’re such a whiner, I was just eating your pussy.” He teased as he stood up, grinning down at you widely. You wanted to smack that grin off his face so bad.

“Come here and get a taste.” He grabbed you by the nape of your neck, towering over you once more, slamming his lips against yours. The kiss was nothing more than a kiss of teeth and tongue, messy open-mouthed kisses as his hands roamed all over your body, breathy moans fueling throaty groans.

"Did you come here to kiss me or to fuck me, Hanta." There it was, the sass that always turned him on much to your annoyance.

Sero was quick to get your ass up those stairs and face-first into your pillows, pushing your face deeper into them when you started getting loud. He loved how your body reacted, how your back arched and your pussy clenched when his hands came down on your ass, hitting the same spot until it was all bruised. “Damn, you sound amazing, mamas.”

This was what he loved: no back talk, no attitude, no eye rolls when he said something that annoyed you—just your shaky moans and cries. “Yeah, baby?” He laughed when you complained that he was going too deep, grabbing your hand when you tried to push against his hips. “Nah, just take it.” He teased, moving your hand away.

"Look at you, mamas, creaming all over my dick." He slowed down, pulling out just enough to see the mess you two made, then pushed back in deep, making you squirm. "Ugh, don’t do that," you gasped, reaching back. "Don’t do what?" he teased, grabbing your hand and pinning it behind your back, going balls deep again and staying still, grinning as your legs quivered, your body tensing as you gasped and moaned out into your pillows. "Did you just cum from that? Am I fucking you that good ma?"

He's such a fucking asshole but goddamn is his dick good.

strong believer of japanese and hispanic sero 🫶 i was giggling a bit too hard writing this.

MESSAGES WERE DONE BY MEEEEE!! I do NAWT have an iPhone unfortunately so I used an app for these messages. 😞✊...

[lavenderrmidnightss]

Safe & Sound part 2 - Billy the Kid

Pairing: Billy x fem!reader 

Summary: Part 2 - Safe & Sound

Content: Fluff!!! Some cursing, 

Word Count: 1.4k

SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG - here is part 2 to safe & sound!! If you haven’t read part one yet, here is it!! Safe & Sound Part 1

The morning sun’s blaring rays did its daily job in stirring you from your sleep. You cursed the sun under your breath as you began to stumble awake, afraid you’ll lose track of the dream you had. Your mind was on loop last night, thinking of Billy. How he seemed to be there in perfect timing to sweep you away, come to your immediate defense. You dreamt of his profound gaze driven by those cerulean eyes. You fantasized of those brunette, soft curls on display and imagined a life of getting to know him. You feared this was all you had left of him. 

Knowing there was no use in mourning your long gone dreams, you finally found the courage to step out of bed. You grabbed the soft robe hanging on your door to bring your body comfort. Admittedly you found yourself wondering how it would feel to have Billy hold you like this. A few steps later, you finally found your way to the kitchen. On your way to the fridge, you caught a glimpse of a shadow from your peripheral vision. You couldn’t place what it was. You rubbed your eyes, wondering if it was just an illusion due to your sleepy state. Nope, still there. You stepped closer, peeking out the window to determine what it was.  A hat? No, not just a hat. A  man. A man on your porch, wearing a hat. What the fuck? Your heart sunk, fear settling in. Who was this man? Why was he on your porch? Was it the guy from last night? What did he want? How long was he there? All of the questions you could have possibly asked began flooding your senses as adrenaline began pumping through your body. After last night, you knew you could not be too careful. Yet, after taking a third glance, you slowed your breathing down. Maybe you didn’t have a dream last night after all - maybe it was more of a preminicion. Beneath the cowboy hat appeared some loose curls. The longer you looked, you realized there was no mistaking it. It was Billy. 

The door creaked as you slowly pushed it open. Despite  your best efforts not to lure Billy out of his sleep, you watched his eyelashes separate to expose his sapphires. “Now I can’t decide if this is admirable or alarming, findin’ you out on my porch this morning. You sleep here all night?” you asked, engulfing your body with your robe tighter across your chest. “Just what’re you doin’?”

Billy stirred himself from his sleep, the sight of an angel luring him from his light sleep. He wanted rest but refused to let his body fall into a deep sleep over the night. He was on standby to protect you, afterall.

 “Sorry, darlin’, didn’t mean to startle ya.” His western accent alone could send you down a spiral, but intermingle the grogginess from just waking up, and you could have melted there in the palm of his hand. “Just figured after last night’s scare you could use some extra security is all.” 

“Mm, so it’s admirable then,” you decided aloud, a soft smile tugging on your lips. 

“Glad to hear it,” Billy spoke, standing up. “I guess I’ll be on my way then.” Billy didn’t want to leave, yet he’d never be the type of man to invite himself into your home. Not initially. Not until you gave him the go ahead, to which he would happily oblige. You see, Billy was enchanted by you. Yet, despite his courage to stay on your porch overnight, he didn’t want to pressure you into spending time with him.

At his last statement, you weren’t able to control the twinge of pain that dipped to the pit of your stomach. Your body reacted before your mouth could. Your hand clung to his wrist gently. Your faint yet secure touch immediately caused Billy to stop in his tracks, turning back to gaze down at you. “Wait, don’t go.” You didn’t want to come across as needy, yet, you most definitely were and couldn’t resist it. “I mean..stay a while. You’ve already stayed the night, right?” you teased. “Let me make you some breakfast, yeah? Put on a pot of coffe if you’d like. Anything for you, just, please stay for a while.”

“Alright, alright, darlin’,'' Billy chuckled. His ego was through the roof at the sound of your innocent pleas to simply spend time with him. “Would be a fool to say no to a pretty lady like yourself.” Billy boldly manuevered his hand from your wrist so his colossal hand held yours, his fingers dipping between yours. You were melting beneath him, wondering to take this as a sign that he was just as curious about you as you were him. Without further explanation  or begging, you guided him into the house and closed the door. 

“I don’t mean to sound desperate, but it’s the least I could do for you looking out for me. Taking such good care of me,” you said as you turned around to look up at the man hovering over you. Something about the way his pants hugged his thighs, his shirt squeezing his biceps, his eyes blazing bright blue that enticed you. Billy was far aware of it, how he made you squirm, how your eyes couldn’t stay off him for too long. He had no issue admitting he was quickly developing quite the attraction for you. 

Billy took initiative and reached up, brushing your hair out of your face and tucked it behind your ear. In a fluid motion, his callused yet gentle, soft hand moved to cup your face to steady your gaze on him. “Listen here, darlin’, you don’t owe me a damn thing. Only thing I want from you is your time, to get to know ya.” His thick accent sent your palpitating heart even further into a frenzy, let alone the sound of his thick drawl. You were left speechless, unsure of what to say. You were simply blown away. “I know I just met ya, but I can’t let you go after what I saw last night, pretty girl. Let me be the one to keep you safe, protect ya ‘round these parts.” Billy paused in his words, leaning in so his lips were grazing over  yours in a soft feather touch. Close enough to feel, far enough to leave you wanting more, dying to lean in just centimeters closer to feel his kiss. “Though, I don’t think I’ll have to do much convincing.” Billy’s smirk immediately pulled a hum of agreeance out of you. 

“Mhm, I really think I’d like that,” you finally spoke. 

“I figured so,” Billy confidently yet gently said. His lips were still grazing just above yours, driving you insane. “So,” he began. “You mentioned breakfast? I’m a damn good cook. Let me help you.” 

With that, you gladly guided Billy into the kitchen and began pulling out ingredients to make pancakes. Flour, milk, eggs, vanilla. As you began stirring the batter, Billy helped pour in some additional flour. In the process, it puffed up in the air before decorating part of your face. You gasped, Billy chuckled. “Sorry, angel.” 

With that, you took the opportunity to throw a bit of flour back at him. You watched the white patch appear on his black shirt. “So that’s how it’s gonna be then,” Billy laughed. Before you two knew it, the kitchen was coated in flour, spread all across the counter. 

Your laugh filled the kitchen, bouncing off the walls and filling the room’s acoustics musically. “Gah, I haven’t laughed that much in a while,” you sighed. However, your mood shifted as soon as your eyes landed on him again, finding him. Billy was admiring you. Admiring the way you lit up, soaking in your smile and magical laugh. He made his way closer to you, picking you up and placing you on the counter. One of his hands rested on the counter just outside of your thigh, the other hand reaching up to brush the flour off the corner of your mouth. The padding of his thumb caught your bottom lip, a shiver cascading down your spine. 

“Billy..” you whispered his name. It sent his heart pounding to hear you desperate for him just as he was you already. 

“Darlin,” he whispered in response before killing any more curiosities either of you had and finally let his lips find yours. The kiss was slow, delicate, cautious. Yet, there was no hesitation on either end. You were never the one to jump so quickly into another person, to be so needy for another man before. Billy changed that though. You were absolutely enthralled by him, and he felt just the same.