ichorkurt

[ichorkurt]

BABES THIS WAS SOO GOOD !!!!!! i'm so obsessed, i feel so privileged to have been able to read before it was published 🤭 SO excited to see how you develop the story more, your writing is so delish as always <3

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐊𝐘 - 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊

𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7,214

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: returning to the small wyoming town you were raised after a sharp fall from grace, your music career having turned into mindless pop you were forced to churn out by your manager and now ex, a return to home is just what you need, the perfect place to take a break from the life of a pop star, and also to meet some old faces.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of drug addiction, drinking, bad highschool memories, cheating, frustrating miscommunication.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: hey pookies, so despite only just finishing one series, i've already started another because im a glutton for self torture. not a huge amount of rhett in this until the end because i wanna get our reader established first, keep an eye out for part two and please message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist.

life was nothing but a series of twists and turns, followed by hard fucking drops.

from the moment of your ‘discovery’ by an agent of a recording company just after graduating high school, you’d been pretty damn certain life was going to be absolute roses from here on out. a promised escape from the country town in wyoming to the beaches and glamour of los angeles.

it was exciting, going from a nobody that occasionally sang in a bar or two in your home town to now having an entire team behind you, helping you pump out records and preen you for live performances across america.

maybe you should have known from the beginning it was too good to be true.

with the money that came from your bursting career, do too came the parties, the drinking, the endless supply of anything you wanted at your finger tips, any and all abuse of your health was brushed aside by everybody around you, to the point that as long as they were able to get you awake enough to sit in a makeup chair and put a coffee in your hand, it didn’t matter what you’d done before.

even with all of this, you’d managed to stay afloat with your manager by your side, the man you’d come to think you’d fallen in love with, he’d been there with you the moment you arrived in hollywood, it was only inevitable that you’d have fallen head over heels like an idiot.

he was just the same as the others, allowing you to put your body through hell every night as long as you were able to make him money in the day time, each time pushing you to harder and harder limits. more hours in the studio, songs written faster.

by the time you were four years into your blossomed career, your music had almost completely lost the soul it had started with, power anthems of love and loss reduced into standard pop that came with flashy music videos and tedious choreography.

it was bound to all come crashing down sooner or later in retrospect.

when you’d caught the man you loved in bed with your makeup artist, you’d thought at the very least that he might have at least tried to defend himself, cook up some half baked lie following the basic premise of “it’s not what it looks like.”

instead he’d only smirked at you, making a comment about how nice you looked, an evident jab based on the fact that your makeup was smeared from the night of partying and your glittery clothes were still on.

despite the fact he was your manager, he seemed to have no problem letting you crash completely.

with the tabloids pumping out images of you running out of the hotel looking the way you did, it wasn’t hard to out the pieces together about your issues, scathing headlines painting a picture of a washed up popstar going into a downward spiral.

maybe he hadn’t actually expected you to fire him, expected that you would actually have made sure you weren’t stuck in any sort of binding contracts from the beginning.

because when you’d opened the door of your hollywood home and saw your own father standing there, you couldn’t have held back the cry that left you.

you hadn’t spoken to him for at least a year, when he’d brought up concerns for your partying, the people around you twisted his words, making it seem like a personal attack in a convincing enough way that you’d cut him off entirely, believing in your heart of hearts that he was trying to jeopardise your career.

the day your father had driven almost three days out to LA to find you, when the tabloids had no doubt finally made their way all the way down to wyoming, that was the day you’d hesitantly allowed him to help you get the therapy you needed.

with a few final comments from your lawyer, the official word out was that you’d temporarily retired into rehab, and that you would be spending some time with family while you recovered.

you thanked the stars that you at least had hired a good lawyer, one that actually gave a damn about her job, you’d even dare say about you.

amanda was fresh out of law school when you’d hired her, a risky move, but one that paid off, considering that your ex was now almost penniless, save for the small settlement that had been offered in order for him to keep his mouth shut.

you’d damn well nearly cried all the tears out of your body when you gave her one final hug before getting in your fathers truck and prepared for the long drive back to wyoming.

you really, really didn’t want to go back home, with the embarrassment of public opinion of you, as well as just an overall dislike for the almost deserted town you grew up in, you knew you had to bite the bullet should you be able to recover, as well as try to salvage the damage to your career.

when your mother died, you offered to move your father to los angeles, more than enough money at your disposal to set him on a gorgeous ranch, but he’d refused, always proud; he’d always said he was born in this town, and he’d die in this town.

it was a pity you didn’t share the same sentiment in the slightest.

the long drive had been worsened by the fact that your body was still recovering from the detox you’d been forced to undergo, weak from the horrible sleep you’d been having, and exhausted from all the med’s you had to take afterwards.

you’d managed to almost entirely pass out within about 45 minutes.

even over the span of almost two days and one truck stop, your father had spoken very little.

there was much between the pair of you to be worked out, so much anger shared mutually that needed to be addressed.

when you hadn’t come back to wyoming for your mothers funeral, your father had never sounded more heartbroken over the phone, one of the only times you’d ever heard him genuinely sound like he was gonna start crying any minute.

in your barely sober state, you’d said some words you’d regretted the moment they left your mouth, the guilt eating away at you every day since then, and probably would for the rest of your life.

when you’d finally spotted the welcome sign for the small town you grew up in almost two days later, you couldn’t ignore the growing dread in your stomach, as the buildings came into view, you suddenly felt yourself becoming very conscious of the designer items you were wearing, having become so accustomed to such things that it became the norm in hollywood, but it was most definitely not the norm in wyoming.

the sunglasses pulled over your eyes couldn’t have helped either, considering the golden versace emblem present on the side of them.

intent on at least trying to hide yourself, you pulled your hood over your head and lowered yourself in your seat slightly, keeping your eyes on the road and willing yourself to not be seen by any locals that might remember or recognise you.

this entire town was filled to the brim with people that were proud, loyal; you didn’t have any doubt in your mind that they wouldn’t have the greatest opinion of the girl who ran off to hollywood and came running back home when it chewed her up and spit her back out.

“dad. can we go straight home. please.”

your pleading seemed to have little affect on your father, who only shook his head as the truck came to a stop outside of a diner you’d remembered from your childhood, fond memories of milkshakes and club sandwiches.

“no can do ducky, you remember what the doctor said.”

he held his finger up, reciting the strict instructions he’d been given when he became your official carer for the extent of your recovery.

“food every three hours, lots of greens and lots of protein, last time you ate was at that gas station, and i’d hardly call spicy beef jerky nutritious, you need a meal.”

you’d have been lying if it hurt your heart a little bit how much care he was putting into all of this, the man you’d always known to live off of steak and cornbread had taken the time to research all of nutritional information and requirements going forward.

and you’d treated him like shit and barely spoke to him for an entire year.

in no position to say no, you only pulled your hood further over your face, exiting the pick up truck and crossing your arms in the hope that your clothes wouldn’t be the deadest giveaway in the world, much less the fact that everybody here knew your dad, and by extent, you.

hopefully, a decent meal would at least do you the service of feeling like you actually had a full stomach for the first time in at least a day.

-

you were thankful you’d managed to keep the meal down, yet you were no less embarrassed when the waitress in the diner looked at you like you were crazy when you asked if they had anything avacado in it, a request you didn’t think was that crazy, seemingly reflecting just how long you’d been away from home.

when you’d arrived at your childhood house on the ranch your father owned, the sounds of horses in the distant pasture welcomed you, a familiar yet at the same time almost foreign sound to you.

one familiar sound however, caught your attention almost like a reflex, your head whipping back around to your father as he gave you a knowing smile.

“there’s no way.” you spoke with shock evident in your voice, only receiving a nod from your father and a shrug of his shoulders.

“i couldn’t find the heart to sell her ducky, you should have known that.”

with that being all the confirmation you needed from your father, you turned back in the direction of the neigh’s you could heard, allowing your feet to move on their own as you walked around the back of the house and to the fenced off area where the horses were kept.

and there she stood, her head shaking as she fussed, seemingly knowing your father was finally home based on the sound of his truck.

the gypsy vanner before you stood proud, her caramel and white colours practically shining in the sun. you thought your father would have sold her, you know how much he would have been able to pick up from selling such a beautiful horse, and with you gone, there was no one around to ride her.

aurora had always had an interesting temperament similar to your own, independent and stubborn, it was no surprise you were made for each other when she first arrived on your farm when you were only seventeen.

you were almost scared to approach the fence where she stood, terrified she wasn’t going to remember you.

even if she did, she gave little response other than staring across at you as you stepped closer, reaching out your arm and running your hand across her head with a visible hesitance.

if she hadn’t recognised you, you knew she would have tried to go for your hand by now, she always did refuse to let anybody ride her except you.

had you know that a reunion with your horse of all things was going to make you this emotional, you would have better prepared yourself.

-

the childhood pictures lining the walls of the living room in your home told a story that brought with it memories that were both happy and sad.

from the ones of you on aurora all the way up to your high school graduation, it was a colourful group of pictures that seemed to out forward a beautiful happy family.

until you seemed to disappear from the pictures suddenly, leaving pictures of your mother and father at barbecues with extended family, your own face very clearly absent.

already you could feel yourself dreading the emotional unpacking that was going to happen during your time home.

much less the actual unpacking judged by the suitcases that had been placed in your bedroom, the one that had barely changed since you left.

as much as you knew it would have been better to rip the bandaid off and unpack everything, you were so exhausted from the long drive you could hardly bring yourself to do anything except flop on the double bed with the bright purple sheets.

when a knock sounded on the open door, you raised your head to see your father standing there, a fluffy blue towel on his arm, and your various new med’s placed in a labelled container ordered by the days of the week.

“i thought you’d be pretty desperate for a shower huh? long drive.”

even with the overwhelming tension that seemed to remain permanent between you two, your fathers friendly smile and attempted crack of a joke had already started warming your heart just like it used to.

“thanks dad.”

it was all you could muster in that moment, the emotion seeming to take its hold finally as you rose from the bed to take the towel out of his hand and put the med’s on your side table.

“i’ll get started on dinner, then we’ll probably head in for the night, i got an early start tomorrow.”

even now in his older age, he worked hard as ever, with the limited hands on the farm because he was always adamant about not hiring more help than he needed, there was only so much one man could do after all.

nodding your head, you walked past him and headed in the direction of where you remembered the bathroom to be, saying nothing else and not looking behind you as you entered and shut the door.

at least the shower was a sanctuary where you could finally let the gravity of the situation finally wash over you, suddenly feeling so real that it came crashing down as soon as you stepped under the water and wet your hair.

your hand held over your mouth was seemingly enough to only let out silent cries, finally here in the cramped bathroom with the horrible water pressure, did you allow yourself to feel the emotion of everything that had led to you being here now.

putting your body through hell only to do it all over again fighting with detox and withdrawals, you could still feel how delicate of a state you were in, still finding yourself shaking on occasion or zoning out when you were trying to focus.

your war was hardly near over, that was the only thing you were absolutely certain of.

-

it seemed that your father had been more than happy to let you sleep in, because when you woke up and saw that the time in the clock read almost eleven in the morning, you were shocked you’d managed to get a solid nine hours of sleep.

maybe being back in a bed that was so familiar had done you a world of good already.

your meds were sat on the side table, along with the glass of water you had guessed your father left there for you, ready for you to take your first round of the day, a mix of tablets meant to stabilise both your body and your mind, a delicious cocktail of chemicals to try and make you feel even slightly normal again.

when you’d finally made your way down to the kitchen, a fresh set of lounge wear on, more designer, the fact made you cringe when you’d opened your suit case and realised that you owned nothing except designer, reminding yourself that you’d have to make time to go out to town to find some new clothes that didn’t cost a stupid amount of money.

with a kitchen that was usually left rather unsupplied, you were shocked to open the cupboard and see an array of healthy snacks and a multiple different choices of health foods, obviously your father had done enough research to stock up, even adding a few of your favourites that your certain amanda had been involved in selecting, because you knew for a fact that your father had no idea what matcha was.

only able to feel thankful for the support around you, you prepared yourself a drink for the morning as well as a small bowl of fruit and yoghurt, a nice light breakfast.

the sun practically called to you, the warmth against your skin being exactly what you needed as you placed your sunglasses on once more and sat at the outside table on the porch, beginning to slowly make progress on your breakfast.

when your father finally emerged and made his appearance from the barn across the dirt driveway, he waved at you and began to walk over, pulling off the gloves he was wearing.

finally walking up the small set of steps, he sat across from you and let out a sigh, the trucker hat on his head being enough to shelf him from the sun, as well as the cover over the porch.

“do you want me to make you a coffee?” you offered, partly out of politeness because you knew your dad always stopped drinking coffee after nine, otherwise he’d get jittery.

“i’m fine ducky, thanks though.”

the nickname was something you’d had all your life, seemingly originated from the fact that you’d always be found down at the creek as a child, trying to beat the heat by standing in ankle deep water and catching tadpoles.

nodding your head, you took another sip of your own drink, staring out into the coast field of your fathers property.

“i gotta go into town and try and get some new tools, just to the hardware supply, thought we could do a little window shoppin’?”

his offer was perfectly timed, as you’d managed to scrape down the last bite of your breakfast, nodding your head as you covered your mouth to avoid talking with your mouth full.

“i was gonna ask if we could go to town, that sounds perfect.”

with a satisfied smile, your father stood and told you to be readied up in about ten, giving you enough time to go back and wash your bowl in the kitchen.

-

town was bustling with life as it always did at this time, so many people going about their daily errands just the same as you and your dad.

while he’d taken the time to occupy himself at the hardware store, you’d excused yourself to have a look at the small boutique next door, opening the door which resulted in a soft ring of a bell.

before you’d had the chance to take a proper look at anything, you’d watched a head poke out of the back room, a smiling staff member greeting you before moving to stand behind the counter set up with a till and computer.

offering up a small smile, you kept your sunglasses on as you ran your hand over some of the pairs of jeans on the shelf in front of you, as well as some of the few leather pieces above them.

maybe they’d look nice with one of your sweaters back him in the-

your name being spoken directly behind you made you almost jump out of your skin, turning your head to see that same staff member standing behind you now, speaking your name out as if it was more of a question than anything.

as you finally turned, her mouth open led with a shocked smile as you finally got enough of a look at her face to recognise her as one of the girls you’d gone to highschool with, though you’d hardly call the pair of you friends.

“oh my god, i thought it was you!”

the southern drawl in her voice only seemed to grate across your brain as she reached forward and pulled you into a hug with no hesitation at all, your arms coming up uncomfortably as she let out a little sound of glee as she hugged you.

“i can’t believe it’s really you, big hollywood star back here! what’re you doin’ here?”

her questions were already putting you on edge, her peppy attitude and tight hug that you didn’t consent for enough to already send your anxiety going.

“i’m uh.. i’m visiting some family.”

your response only brought a look of sadness over her face, her hand flying up to your shoulder as she tried to seem comforting, only succeeding in making you more uncomfortable.

“oh i know, im so sorry to hear about your mama, when i found out i was just heart broken for ya’ sweetheart. it was such a shame to hear you couldn’t make it up for the service.”

the mention of that was enough to send you pulling back, almost bumping into the shelf behind you, your hand coming up in a stop motion which silenced her quickly.

“i’m sorry.” was all you could muster before you found yourself turning quickly, your anxiety to the point now where you can feel your head throbbing and your hands starting to shake.

your first attempt at integrating back into your home town was so far going horribly.

as you made your way to the exit and stumbled out the door, you collided with a passer by, only able to call out another apology as you kept your head low, a hand coming up to your face in some small attempt to alleviate the feeling of eyes in you that you weren’t even sure were real or just your mind tricking you.

finding your way back to your dads truck, you opened the door and practically fell onto the passenger seat, sliding down to try and hide yourself with prying eyes as you lifted your sunglasses to sit on your head, tears already beginning to flow.

you knew she hadn’t meant to upset you, that was what felt the worst about, she was just trying to comfort you and yet came on so strongly that it had sent you spiralling in a matter of seconds.

it hadn’t taken your dad long to get back to the truck opening the door and already beginning to chat to you before he saw the state of your reddened and puffy eyes.

“thought you’d have taken longer that that ducky! i wouldn’t have minded wait-“

as his eyes finally caught the sight of you crying, he quickly got into the seat and chucked the tools in the back, shutting the door as he put a hand on your shoulder.

“what happened? are you okay? did someone say something to you?”

his questions all came at once, leaving you only able to shake your head to alleviate his concerns, your hands coming up as you wiped your eyes.

“i’m okay dad, i promise, i just need to go back home.”

understanding but not pressing any further, your father responded by immediately turning the key and roaring the truck to life, pulling out of the parking space and making fast work of heading back to the house without breaking the speed limit.

-

It had been a good first attempt at the very least, even if it was ultimately a failure; you couldn’t blame the woman from the store, it was natural for people out this way to be overly friendly, it just seemed you’d forgotten that during your time away.

Home was a welcome sanctuary at the very least, a beacon of warmth and familiarity seeming to wash over you as you stepped back inside, wasting no time before going back up to your room and shutting the door, maybe you’d be able to just try again tomorrow, maybe it’d go smoother.

As you father spent the rest of the day tinkering away in the barn, you’d managed to keep yourself occupied with a book, reminding yourself to grab a tv next time you managed to get out into town, at the very least, with the your pride and wellbeing at a stand still you could remain thankful that you’d managed to get out of the lawsuit with your wealth and contract primarily intact.

The meds placed next to your bedside table were the first thing to catch your eye, your psychiatrists words echoing in your head like clock work, reminding you of all the little things you needed to remember, which ones you had to take with food and how many each day.

Your nighttime routine used to consist of expensive skincare, silk sheets and an hour and a half spent on going through your itinerary for the next day, all the appointments and interviews and recording sessions you’d be doing for hours at a time.

There was some part of you that almost felt as if you were in limbo, now all you had to do was take your meds and lay in bed reading, you hadn’t had this much free time in at least five years.

-

When your father had asked if you wanted to come out to the rodeo with him, you’d initially been hesitant, the idea of crowds only filling you with anxiety.

As much as you’d wanted argue, it was hard to deny his argument that it was a good opportunity to get out of the house, insisting he’d be by your side the entire time ready to go if it became too much.

His commitment was so strong, some part of you simply didn’t have the heart to say no, hesitantly agreeing with a smile.

A rodeo clown in his youth, your father was beloved by the community, well known on top of that, there was little doubt that you’d be stopped at least three or four times at the very least by people who knew your father, and by extension, also knew you.

-

With the stetson your father had managed to dig out of his wardrobe and a pair of true religion jeans, here you were, weaving through the crowd as the smell of fried food you’d never been allowed to eat by your personal trainer filled your nose, the sound of echoing rock music playing on the speakers.

Even now already, you were pushing yourself to keep your cool, letting yourself be put as ease by placing your fingers in the shallow pockets of your jeans, running them over the fabric to keep yourself grounded, occasionally bumping shoulders softly with your father.

All of this was something you’d been taught to do to manage your anxiety, even since you were only young, keeping yourself grounded by feeling and looking had always helped profoundly, especially now if ever.

Correctly predicted, it’d only taken about thirty seven minutes into arriving at the rodeo for your father to be stopped by a buddy, exchanging quick hugs and small talk, even allowing yourself to shake the mans hand and laugh at his comment about how he “hadn’t seen you since you were yeigh high!” and gesture with his hand to show how small you were.

After about an hour and checking out everything up for offer, saying hello to a few more buddies, your father led you to where you’d both be sitting in the stands, a corn dog covered in mustard sat in his hand, just as he’d always gotten from your memory.

It’d be hard to lie and say there wasn’t nostalgia to be found here, coming her with your mother and father so many times as a kid, whereas towards graduating highschool you’d attended less and less.

Your mind was interrupted by the sudden blaring of music, an announcer’s booming voice coming through the loudspeakers to hype up the crowd, eliciting cheers as a response when he’d asked the crowd if they were ready.

Unable to hide even the slightest of smiles when you watched your father cheer, you clapped your hands together in show fo excitement, even managing to let out a small cheer.

Each rider came out and received cheer’s from the crowd as their names were announced, some names sounding familiar, others not. A few people you could have sworn you remembered from highschool.

As time went on, even you started getting invested, at one point letting out a resounding ‘oooh’ with the rest of the crowd as one of the riders was thrown off his bull only moments before the buzzer signalled his eight seconds were up, laughing to yourself as he threw his hat to the ground, stomping back towards the gate.

Suddenly you were thankful for your father’s insistence, even if it had partly been due to the fact that he didn’t want to leave you at the house by yourself. For what felt like the first time in months, years even, you felt some semblance of peace, allowing yourself to enjoy something you’d stopped enjoying years ago.

One name out of all stood out to you only slightly more than others, only due to the fact that hid father had been a good friend of your own, even occasional business partner when it came to the sale and exchange of livestock, not exactly a friend as opposed to somebody you just saw a lot of when his father brought him round to your family’s ranch to give royal a hand.

You weren’t sure if Rhett had changed much since highschool, considering you hadn’t seen him since you left for Los Angeles, much less due to the fact you could hardly make out his features from where he was currently positioned behind the gate, sat atop of bull that already seemed to be sufficiently pissed off.

Personality wise, your opinion of royals youngest son had soured towards your graduation, the nickname he’d used to call you echoing in your head, the nickname that stuck so hard that almost everybody in your graduating class began to call you the very same thing.

When tweety bird first began to get thrown around, you’d only laughed awkwardly, hoping it would eventually fade, just like every other nick name did in highschool.

But even when one of Rhett’s own friends, the one you’d been crushing on hopelessly for months, had called you the nickname, hoping to be endearing, it only stung deep in your chest in a way that you couldn’t quite explain.

It wasn’t necessarily his spreading of the nickname that had caused you to dislike him so deeply; the nickname you could have brushed off as a teenage boy just being a bit of an asshole to make his friends laugh.

What he’d done that really twisted the knife, was tell the aformentioned friend of his, that you’d already found a date for the dance coming up later that year, only when you’d found out from a mutual friend that he’d told Rhett about his plans to ask you out, only for Rhett to shut it down immediately, for what reason, you still had no clue to this day.

It didn’t matter what the reason was, the damage had already been done; by the time you’d found out, the dance had already been and gone, a boring and melancholy event that had essentially been ruined for you by Rhett Abbot for absolutely no discernable reason.

You’d tried to reason with yourself and think of anything you could have done to Rhett in order for him to have some sort of vendetta for you, but there was nothing you could conjure up in your mind that could possibly be the reason why.

Whatever ill will he had towards you certainly hadn’t been helped when you’d spotted him in the hall with his friends, stormed over and told him to eat shit completely unprompted.

The last interaction you’d had with him before you took the final step and got on a bus to Los Angeles only a few days later.

There was a rational part of you reminding yourself that you were an adult now, that there was no reason to still be upset over something that happened when you were both teenagers, but to have had something that important ruined for you for no actual reason other then him just seemingly going out of his way to be an ass.

Well it was hard to call that water under the bridge.

The eighteen year old heartbroken girl in you had to pretend she wasn’t even the slightest bit satisfied when the cream coloured bull finally whipped him off rather unceremoniously onto the dirt ground, the buzzer ringing out only a second later, signalling that he’d failed.

At the same time, the adult that you were told yourself that it was unfair to celebrate the failures and possible physical injuries of a person you hadn’t spoken to in years.

“You remember Royal’s youngest, right Ducky?”

Your father had pulled you out of your own daydreaming with a hand on your shoulder, his other arm pointing to Rhett out on the small arena as he rose from where he landed, only able to quickly jog back towards the gate as the handler’s came in to herd the kicking bull back to its pen.

Nodding with slightly cringed smile, you watched him until he hopped the iron gate, disappearing from sight just as quickly as he’d been thrown out into the ring.

“We should go say hi after! I’m sure Royal’d love to see you!”

As much as you’d wanted to refuse, as much as you might have still had it out for his son, you couldn’t deny that Royal and his wife had ever been anything but sweet to you, inviting you around for lunches with your father a lot when you’d still lived in Wyoming, even Cecilia going as far as to add you on facebook when she’d seen you on tv for the first time, wishing you luck in your new career.

Even you couldn’t deny how good it would feel to give her a big hug for the first time in years.

It’d been a good amount of fun to watch the rest of the riders, to feel a kin ship with the rest of the crowd in the joy you all expressed when a rider successfully stayed on for the required eight seconds; how much you’d felt your heart soar when your father grabbed your shoulder excitedly, raising his arm and cheering with you.

When it finally finished up and everyone began to peel off of the stands, you gripped your father’s arm, letting him guide you out of the small arena.

As the pair of you made a turn towards the rider’s area, a gate marked with a rather large privacy sign that held remnants of familiarity for when you’d been backstage before a show, swearing for a second you felt yourself preparing to be bombarded by a makeup and wardrobe team just as you always had used to.

A tip of the hat to the guy at the gate had seemingly been all your father needed to be let through with you, his close relationships with most of the riders as well as probably their father’s as well carrying weight.

It had taken a bit of walking past lots of trailers and drifting past the chatter of lots of voices, some pleased with their wins, others audibly upset that they’d failed.

One voice that you instantly recognised as Cecilia made your heart jump a little bit, catching her in your vision just as you rounded the corner, standing with her arm’s crossed talking to somebody who you recognised after a few moments when you got closer to be Perry, the eldest of the siblings.

Your father’s voice called out to Cecilia, her head turning and her face forming into a gleeful smile as she waved the two of you over, your face slightly hidden under the stetson, your head downturned as you got closer.

“What’re you doin’ here?” she called out as she finally met halfway with your father, taking him in for a hug and patting him on the back endearingly, your arms crossing sheepishly as you stood slightly to the side.

“Thought you might wanna see who’s back in town!”

As your father, spoke, he turned and held his arm out to you, outstretched hand practically announcing you as you rose your head, only able to smile softly and wave with a hesitant hand, Cecilia’s face twisting for a moment before her eye’s widened and an opened mouth smile came over her features. “Oh my goodness!” she practically squealed out, her hands coming to her face before she stepped forward, opening her arms to place a hand on your arm softly, not quite pulling you in for a hug just for the moment which you silently were thankful for.

Reaching your own arm forward, you placed a hand on her shoulder, the soft fabric of her flannelete shirt being a great bit of texture for you to run your finger tips against for an extra little bit of grounding.

You could hear your father’s happy and satisfied chuckle, seemingly knowing how much it would mean to Cecilia that you came to say hello, considering how much she’d doted over you in your younger years.

“How the hell have you been, babygirl!”

Her voice was layered with a slight hint of emotion, a hand coming up to crush a strand of hair away from her face as she took a step back and put her hands on her hips.

You could only smile and nod, mustering up as generic of a response as you could.

“Takin’ it easy.”

Understatement of the century.

You wouldn’t have been surprised if she knew what had been happening with you, every tabloid in america had seemingly relished in sending your story across the country, all the details of your legal case and rehab.

Her face seemed to soften, her brows upturning as she nodded.

“Thats the way.” she spoke a bit softer, “You look beautiful, honey.”

Her kind words still hit just the way they always had, warming your heart to the core with her motherly nature.

Cecilia gestured to Perry, checking to see if he remembered you which Perry answered with a nod and polite hello, which you returned with a nod of your head.

Taking your arm in her head, it was as if you’d never been gone, Cecilia immediately going back to her old ways as she showed you around the rider’s area, making comments about how the two of had to go horseback riding together soon.

As the unavoidable finally made it’s way known, you felt Cecilia tap your arm, pointing in the direction of a trailer that must have been theirs, the door open and the light on, a figure stepping out with a fresh shirt and slightly damp hair. “There he is, Rhett! Get yer’ ass over here!”

When Cecilia’s youngest son turned his head to the two of you, he seemed indifferent, tired even, not surprising considering what he’d been through less than an hour ago, yet he still slowly began to walk towards his mother, running his fingers through his damp hair.

“You remember your father’s friend with the ranch down the road right?”

From where you stood, you could see Rhett nod, a polite smile coming to his face as he hadn’t seen your face yet, expecting his mother to introduce him to a stranger.

“Look who’s come back down for a visit!”

When you lifted your head, it seemed to take a few moments for him to recognise you, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked at you, your own face twisting into an awkward smile as you raised your eyebrows.

“How’ve you been Rhett.”

Your tone was formal, nowhere near similar to greeting an old friend, which of course you weren’t, seemingly putting off just enough stand offish energy for Cecilia not to pick up on it.

Clearing his throat as he wiped a hand across his face, evidently trying to catch himself and pretend like it hadn’t taken him a moment or two to recognise you, nodding his head as he placed his hands on his hips.

“Been good.”

It was clear that the both of you felt the awkward energy, not entirely sure where you stood with each other considering the last words you’d spoken to him years ago, clearly he wasn’t sure if you still hated him or not.

Nodding your own head back, part of you wondered if he’d seen the articles about you, seen the reports from TMZ; some anxiety settling in the back of your mind, if he still held a dislike towards, it definitely wasn’t helped by the paparazzi photos he’d seen of you drunkenly getting into limo’s, or the pictures of you leaving court.

“I watched you ride before.” it was all that you could muster out, your brain panicking when you realised it’d taken you a few seconds of silence to respond to him.

Pursing his lips slightly, he managed a small smile, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked over at his mother briefly.

“That bad, huh?” he joked with a chuckle, your brows furrowing slightly as he seemed to take it as snide remark straight away, your head tilting.

“I never said that.” your tone couldn’t be held back, unable to not feel just the slightest bit stand offish as he furrowed his own brows, visibly taken aback slightly by your response.

Just as he opened his mouth to say something in response, his facial expression tellin you it was probably something just as equally snarky as your own, only to be cut off by the sound of your own father’s voice calling you over, Cecilia’s arm twisting out of your own.

It seemed Rhett hadn’t changed much, still holding some sort of idea about you that made it seem like you were a bitch, at least that’s what he’d muttered when you’d walked away from him in the hall that day in school.

“Have a good night Cecilia, drive safe for me okay?” you spoke quickly, wanting to avoid any confrontation that could potentially be rearing its ugly head, turning on foot before she could respond and walking back over to your father who was waving you over.

“Ready to go home, Ducky?”

Your fathers arm curled in yours, a knowing smirk seemingly being exchanged with Cecilia before he turned to walk with you.

“Absolutely.” you responded, a satisfied nod on your head.

Continuing on through the crowd that was growing thinner and thinner as you approached the exit, you finally made it back into your fathers truck, opening your door and buckling yourself in as he got into the driver’s seat.

“I spoke with Royal while you were with Cecilia by the way.” he began, turning the key as the truck roared to life.

“We’ve been invited out to dinner with them tomorrow night.”

[ichorkurt]

THIS WAS SO DANG CUTEEEE AHHH

Cliché : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Summary: There's always a joke surrounding weddings that the Maid of Honor and the Best Man will end up falling in love; it's one of the oldest clichés in the book. When you're the Maid of Honor, though, Bob Floyd wouldn't have it any other way.

Warnings: insane amounts of fluff, insane amounts of pining (my god I couldn't stop), maid of honor and best man trope, kind of friends to lovers, language, Hangman is Hangman, female reader, reader is very creative and can dance, UCSD info might not be accurate I don't go there, suggestive and steamy but not explicit, language, probably incorrect descriptions of the Navy (my dad was a Marine, I'm doing my best lol)

Word Count: 13,515 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“Natasha Trace, my best friend…will you marry me?”

The Hard Deck erupted into a chorus of excitement the minute that Natasha told Bradley Bradshaw yes through a curtain of tears. Bob was cheering right along with them, elated for his two best friends and to know that Rooster had pulled off the proposal he’d been stressing over for weeks now.

The couple had made the rounds in the moments after. Maverick and Penny were the first to congratulate them both, and Bob could’ve sworn he saw tears in their Team Leader’s eyes as he hugged Rooster. Hangman had a snide remark under his breath, but gave the couple both his heartfelt congratulations, followed by Fanboy and Payback.

“Couldn’t have done this without you, Bobby boy,” Rooster clapped his best friend on the back, bringing him into a tight hug before letting Natasha hug her back seater. “Bob’s been helping me plan this for weeks, making sure everyone would be here tonight for the engagement party. The greatest future best man a guy could ask for!”

“Bradley, it can’t be an engagement party without our families,” Natasha had quickly argued back, shooting Bob a bright smile. “But thank you, Bob. It means the world to both of us.”

“It’s what you both deserve,” he’d told them wholeheartedly. “Seeing my best friends happy is all I want.”

“Going back to your engagement party comment,” Bradley cut in, shooting his now-fiancée a cheeky grin as he gestured behind her. “Don’t think I didn’t think of everything.”

Bob laughed along with Rooster the second Natasha turned around, shouting in glee at her family standing directly behind her. She’d thrown herself into her mother and father’s arms, given her sister a tight hug, and a whole new round of tears had sprung as they admired the ring on her finger. Bob nudged his best friend with a grin.

“You did good, Rooster,”

“Oh, this is just the beginning,” Natasha’s attention was turned back to Bradley the second she heard him say that, raising an eyebrow as she missed the sneaky smiles on her family’s faces.

“What else could you have possibly pulled off tonight-”

“Give your man props, Nattie. He knew if he proposed to you without me in attendance, one of us would likely kill him,”

It wasn’t the first time Bob had ever seen you, but it was the first time he’d ever seen you in person. Natasha had shown him many photos of herself and her childhood best friend, the girl she considered more of a sister than anything else, many times before in all their time knowing each other and working together. He’d seen the elementary photos, the awkward middle school photos, the prom photos, and the intermittent photos taken throughout adulthood, anytime the pair of you could find time to see one another.

He hated that, based solely on photos and stories of you, he’d grown the most schoolboy crush in the world on you. He wasn’t sure if there was an “unspoken” code about crushing on the childhood best friend of one of your own best friends, but he felt like it definitely crossed a line.

Rooster was laughing from Bob’s side as you and Natasha practically bounced around in circles together, talking a mile a minute as you admired the ring sitting snugly on her left hand now. With arms wrapped around one another, you’d both turned back to the boys as Bob watched you flash a smile in Rooster’s direction.

“Bradley, nice to finally see you outside of FaceTime screens. And nicely done with the ring, I’m glad you took my advice,”

“Who was I to question the advice of the master?”

Bob felt his breath catch for a moment as your gaze finally turned to him, and he could see you fully for the first time in front of him.

God, you were even prettier up close than in your photos. 

“You must be the infamous Bob that I’ve heard so much about,” Bob wanted to melt under your smile as you flashed your attention toward him. “Thanks for keeping my girl safe in the skies.”

“Well- I’d say she keeps me safe more…”

“Team effort, at least take half the credit,” you’d joked to him, before Natasha had quickly pulled you into conversation once more.

It was stupid, Bob thought, to have a crush on a woman he’d never even met before. He couldn’t help it the entire night as he watched you talk and joke with Natasha’s family, the way you so effortlessly made conversation with the entire Dagger Squad, even though it was the first time you’d met them all. Through photos, videos, and stories alone, Bob had gained a schoolboy crush. But now, as you animatedly explained a story of you and Phoenix from your childhood, he could feel his crush growing from seeing your personality shine.

Thankfully for Bob, he’d barely have to see you. You’d fly home most likely the next day, and the next time he’d see you would be for wedding preparations. That’d be plenty of time to get over his dumb little crush on his best friend’s childhood best friend.

“I’m telling you, it was the funniest night of our entire lives!” Natasha was practically in tears, and so were the rest of the Dagger Squad members as you choked out your words through your own laughter. Bob had a hard time looking away from you as you spoke. “I’m up there on that stage, sold out high school theater guys, ready to give my really intense monologue, and suddenly the set wall just comes CRASHING down with Nattie here clinging onto it!”

“I warned them during set construction that the wall was just begging to fall down!” Natasha laughed, leaning back against Rooster with a shake of her head. “That was immediately the last time I let this one here talk me into helping with the school musicals. Never signed up again, no matter how much she begged.”

“And wait, this was opening night too?” Fanboy chimed in from his space beside Bob as both women gave him a nod. “That somehow makes it even funnier. I can’t thank you enough for bestowing us with the gift of these stories tonight.”

“Yes, yes, consider them a tiny gift for all of Nattie’s friends here tonight,” you turned away from the rest of the squad to look at your best friend, though. “It’s your engagement party, though, so I think it’s time that I gave you your gift.”

Bob could see the smirk on Rooster’s lips as he watched the pair. Bob, along with the ret of their friends, watched intently as well as you dug a key out of your back pocket, dropping it into Natasha’s hand without another word. Bob’s front seater cocked an eyebrow, examining the key in confusion.

“A key…how…nice?”

“Well, I have to make sure someone in this city has a spare key to my place,” Bob felt his breath catch for a second, catching onto your words before Natasha did, as you beamed at your best friend. “To my apartment, over in Logan Heights! If I’m going to be the newest Professor at UC San Diego, I’m going to need a place to live-”

If there was a contest for trying to break the sound barrier with a scream, or even how much one person could cry in a single night, Natasha Trace was pretty close to winning them both. Between her shouts of “YOU’RE MOVING TO SAN DIEGO?” and a lot of loud crying, as Rooster smirked, letting his friends know he knew about this surprise, Bob knew this night had quickly become absolute perfection in both of his friends’ eyes.

Bob also knew that now, his plan to squash his little crush on you had failed before it even had the chance to begin.

He’d managed to avoid seeing you for a few days, but that didn’t mean that Natasha had shut up about you. Every day, while thousands of feet in the air, he’d listened to her ramble on and on about how the pair of you had always wanted to live in the same city together once you were settled in your careers, and she was finally getting her wish. She’d also run about a thousand ideas for how to help you decorate your apartment by him, and somewhere in there had tricked him into agreeing to help herself and Rooster set up your apartment.

“I can’t thank you all enough for the help,” you’d told the three standing in front of you one early Saturday morning, giving them all thankful smiles, before turning to the multitudes of boxes stacked around your living room. “I…frankly have no idea where to start. The boxes are all stacked in their corresponding rooms, and there are a ton of IKEA boxes that need to be assembled in just about every room.”

Rooster clapped a hand on Bob’s shoulder, bringing the attention of both women back to the two of them.

“Good thing Bob and I are masters of IKEA furniture,” Bradley put on an air of confidence as he said it. “When Payback and Fanboy got their apartment a few months ago, we were in charge of all the furniture assembly.”

“And given that we managed to build a bedframe upside down, I wouldn’t call us masters,”

It was the giggle you let out at Bob’s comment that brought his attention back to you, an involuntary flush spreading across his cheeks. You gave a mock salute to the pair.

“Well, how nice it is to know I have such capable young men on my side,” you gestured with your head toward the hallway behind you. “I’ll steal Bob for help with the dining room if Natasha, you and your man can handle my bedroom without putting my bedframe together upside down.”

With another laugh shared, Rooster and Phoenix were quickly moving down the hallway toward your bedroom, but Bob caught the over-exaggerated wink that Rooster sent his way before disappearing into what he assumed was your bedroom.

Trying to calm the blush evident on his cheeks, Bob joined you in the dining room directly off your kitchen. You’d already set yourself down on the floor, breaking into the IKEA box laid before you.

“Can you take that so I don’t lose it while getting all these pieces out?” you’d laughed, handing Bob the instruction manual. He took it from you with a nod, quickly flipping through the packet in his hands.

“A ‘GRÖNSTA’, because that’s not a mouthful,” Bob commented under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear as you laughed again. He took a seat on the ground opposite of you,, placing the packet off to the side and helping you take pieces out of the box, while also trying to calm the heat still prevalent in his cheeks. “Doesn’t help that the instructions don’t make any sense.”

“Right? You’d think the Swedes would learn that their pictures aren’t very helpful,” you both shared a laugh as Bob watched you flip open the instructions, grabbing the pieces needed for the very first leg of the table.

It was torture, almost, being around you with a crush that felt so middle school being harbored inside of him. He barely knew you, but every time you talked and joked, he knew he was already digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole.

“You said the other night you’re a professor?” Bob had settled on asking you about yourself. You were Natasha’s best friend, and now you lived here; getting to know you was going to be inevitable. You gave him a slight hum as an answer, intent on screwing in the leg of the table to the tabletop that Bob was holding in place. “What uh, what will you be teaching?”

“I’m a professor in the art department, there’s like a whole slew of classes I’ll be teaching,” you explained to him as Bob held the table steady so that you could screw in another leg. “Music, theatre, dance, and probably whatever else they throw my way.”

You passed the tools off to Bob as you stood, holding the table upright on it’s two legs so that he could screw in the last two from the ground below you. Truthfully, Bob was thankful for the table between you two, because the more he looked at you, the more he couldn’t stop thinking about just how gorgeous you were in person.

“Take it you’re a creative person, then?”

“After some lead roles in high school musicals, followed by a stint on Broadway fresh out of college…yeah I’d say creative is a good word to use,” Bob laughed, moving out from under the table slightly to grab the final leg from just a few feet away, glancing up at you.

“Broadway? My older sister is a big musical fan, she’d go nuts knowing I know someone who was on Broadway, now,”

“Well, you can tell her that I’d be happy to tell her all about it sometime. I’ve got a whole slew of fun stories from different shows,” you gave him another grin, still holding up the unbalanced table. “I’m surprised Nattie didn’t tell anyone about my Broadway stint; she talks about it like a proud mother to whoever will listen.”

Bob found himself locked in place as he laughed at your comment, fidgeting with the last table leg in his hands as he smiled up at you, finding himself locked in conversation easily. Despite his raging social anxiety that Rooster and Hangman desperately wanted to fix, Bob found it entirely too easy to talk to you.

“To be fair, when we’re thousands of feet in the air, we have a few things to focus on for the sake of our lives,” both of you shared a laugh at his comment. “She’d told plenty of stories about you, though. Showed a lot of photos and videos, too.”

“Good, because she’s told me plenty about you,” Bob could see your grin widen, no doubt because of the red flush overtaking his skin at your comment. “Her incredibly smart and kind WSO with raging social anxiety. Not sure I believe that last part, you seem to be doing just fine.”

“On the outside, maybe. Typically, on the outside and inside, I’m about as useful as a newborn baby deer,”

The laughter that you let out as his joke, Bob decided, was now one of his favorite things. He was so entranced by it that he hadn’t noticed you’d accidentally let go of the table until it had fallen back on him.

The gasp you’d let out rang through the room, but it was broken apart by the laughter that seemed to be flowing out of you even harder now. Bob took a second to adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose before shoving the table off of him. Your laughter paused for a moment as soon as the two of you locked eyes, before you both devolved into a fit of laughter that had Bob almost curled in on himself.

“I’m so sorry!” you had finally managed to get out words after a solid few moments, wiping tears from your eyes as laughter still broke through your words. “I didn’t mean to do that!”

“Good, because I don’t want to explain to Maverick that I died because of a ‘GRÖNSTA’,” the pair of you devolved into laughter again as you held out your hand for him. Bob took it, despite the full-body flush he felt at simply touching your skin, and let you hoist him back up to his feet.

“Alright, next time I see you, I’m buying you a drink as an apology,” you told him with a pointed look as you moved past him to grab the instruction book.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Ikea,”

“Hey!” Bob laughed as you gasped at his comment, whacking him lightly with the instruction booklet as you grinned at him. “There’s no way we’re making that my nickname!”

“I promise it’s better than any call-sign Hangman will come up with for you-”

“What the hell is happening out here?”

Bob turned on his heel to face the hallway just as you did. Rooster looked lost at what was happening outside the bedroom, as did Natasha, but Bob could see the slightest hint of a smirk on his friend’s face as she looked at him. Bob turned to look at you, just as you looked at him, and you both devolved into another round of laughter that had Rooster even more confused.

Bob Floyd hadn’t stopped thinking about you after that night. He thought about you constantly, how your hand fit and felt in his own, about your laughter, and about that beautiful smile on your face. He was in deep, and he knew it. You never left his mind until he saw you again at the weekly Hard Deck hangout with the rest of the Dagger Squad.

“Well, well, well,” Hangman’s Texan accent was heavy tonight as he turned his gaze away from the pool table before him, and the meaningless game he was playing against Coyote. “Phoenix brought her shadow along tonight!”

Bob turned his head, a smile crossing his lips at the sight of you walking up with Phoenix, two beer bottles in your hands as you rolled your eyes at Hangman’s comments, but Natasha was the one who spoke first.

“I was more so her shadow growing up, followed this one everywhere,” she nudged your shoulder before taking a seat at one of the high tops next to Bradley, smiling widely as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Figured, now that she’s settled in, it was time to start bringing her around to the weekly night out.”

The conversation continued, but Bob’s eyes and grin were glued to you. You made a beeline for his side, leaning against the high-top chair he was seated on and passing him one of the beers in your hand.

“Nice to see you, Lieutenant,” you teased him, clinking the top of your bottle to his own. “I did say I owed you a beer next time I saw you.”

“Thanks, Ikea, I’m sure it will numb the pain of that table falling on me,” Bob threw back, laughing as you lightly hit him on the shoulder the second he said that nickname. “Settled in well?”

“All thanks to you guys and that entire day full of furniture building,” you shot back at him, taking a swig of your drink as you turned to watch the pool game in front of you, still leaning against Bob’s chair. It had you close enough that Bob was overwhelmed by the scent of your perfume, and he decided in that moment it might be his new favorite scent.

He then scolded himself in his head for how weird that sounded. This crush was getting out of hand.

Coyote let out a groan as Hangman beat him once again, the latter letting out a loud whoop that had the rest of the Dagger Squad laughing. The pilot’s attention turned immediately to you, a frown appearing on Bob’s lips immediately as he recognized the flirty grin on Jake’s face.

“What do you say, little lady?” Hangman emphasized his accent even more, making a show of gesturing you toward the pool table with the pool cue in his hands. “Want to play a round?”

You hummed from beside Bob, leaning over him to place your own drink on the table as his face immediately flushed at the action. You didn’t seem to notice, stalking toward the pool table and picking up Coyote’s previous pool cue.

“8 ball or 9 ball?”

“9 ball, I’m all about making shots,” Hangman called back, gesturing toward his side of the table. “Payback can rack ‘em for us. What do you say, sweetheart? Ready to be partners with the greatest pool player Miramar’s ever had the pleasure of hosting?”

“Absolutely,” you shock back, and Bob paused in his sip of his beer as your gaze shot back toward him. “Let’s go, Lieutenant. You’re my partner.”

There was a collective laugh through the entire squad at the look of shock on Hangman’s face, that he quickly tried to wipe away and pretend as if your comment hadn’t affected him. Bob froze for a moment, but the inviting smile on your face drew him to your side within a heartbeat.

Hangman and Coyote were a good pairing, but somehow you and Bob managed to be just slightly better than them both. Bob let out a cheer as you sunk the final ball of the game, happily accepting the high five you sent his way as Coyote and Hangman groaned, having come so close yet so far from winning out.

“Nice shots there, Bob,” you shot at him, nudging his shoulder with your own as you placed your cue down on the table. Bob could feel the confidence he’d been feeling the last hour slightly fade at the close proximity to you, at the sweet smile you were sending up at him from your place next to him.

“Yeah uh- yeah, you too, Ikea-”

“Ikea?” Payback questioned as he and Fanboy hopped up to sit on the table next to the dejected Jake Seresin. He pointed between Bob and their newest friend. “Like…the Swedish furniture place?”

You laughed, your hand coming to rest on Bob’s forearm with a squeeze that had his heart fluttering in his chest.

“Inside joke, Payback, and it’s going to stay that way,”

Bob’s friend went to counter them with another comment when Natasha and Bradley returned to the group, an entire tray of beers in hand as Natasha whistled to get everyone’s attention.

“Alright guys, we’ve got another round of beers for the group,” most of them whooped and hollered as Bradley passed them all out, before Natasha turned to Bob and her best friend to hand them the two in her hands with a wide grin. “And two very special ones for our best friends.”

There was a beat of silence as Bob took his drink from Natasha, taking a swig before he felt something on the outside of the bottle. He turned it over in his hands, seeing a piece of paper barely attached by a thin strip of tape, Rooster’s handwriting scrawled across it:

You might be Phoenix’s back seater, but I want you to be my wingman this time: be my Best Man?

Bob almost felt tears in his eyes as he looked up at Bradley, who was waiting with a grin on his face. Overwhelmed with emotion, Bob simply nodded, standing up as he brought Bradley into a tight hug as the rest of the group realized what was happening before them and began cheering.

“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD, YES!”

Bob and Bradley both turned to see you flinging yourself into Natasha’s arms, the pair of you jumping and crying together. His eyes trailed to your bottle, long forgotten on the side of the pool table, with a piece of paper bearing Nat’s handwriting taped to the neck:

It was always going to be you: be my Maid of Honor?”

“You know what they say about the Best Man and the Maid of Honor, right Bob?” It was Bradley’s voice mumbled into his ear with a hint of teasing laced through it, his best friend’s hand clamped down on his shoulder with a squeeze. “It’s almost inevitable that they fall in love.”

Bob never had a second to truly process Bradley’s words before Natasha was getting the attention of the entire group once again, with you still glued to her side.

“It might also be a good time to tell you guys we picked a wedding date…we’re getting married in six months!”

The cheering of the entire group ceased for a moment before everyone seemed to shout all at once.

“WHAT?”

Planning a wedding was hard enough on the Bride and the Groom, and it was hard on the Best Man and the Maid of Honor as well. But to somehow turn it around in only six months, especially when almost everyone involved was a Navy fighter pilot who spent most of their time thousands of feet in the air, it made it even harder.

It was even harder for Bob, as he accepted his ‘schoolboy crush’ had grown into a full-blown crush on you, maybe even borderline infatuation, not even a month later than that night at the Hard Deck.

Bob had been a stumbling, blushing mess when you’d given him your number that night after the announcement. It made sense, given that it was going to be up to the two of you to plan most of the festivities leading up to the wedding. It was hard because, besides Bob’s growing affection for you, he couldn’t get the thought of what Rooster had mumbled to him out of his head.

He’d yet, though, worked up the courage to text you regarding ANYTHING other than wedding festivities planning…which were all conversations you had started first.

“Hard Deck, 6 p.m., don’t be late!” Phoenix called out to Bob as she walked away, tucked under Bradley’s arm as they made their way toward the latter's truck. “Hangman insists on that pool rematch tonight!”

“Let a guy shower first!” Bob called back, waving goodbye to his friends as he climbed up into his truck, wiping sweat from his brow. Another day that ended with over 200 push-ups from Maverick, and he refused to show up to the Hard Deck without showering first. Before he could put his car in drive, his phone went off, and his heart skipped a beat as he read your name across the screen.

Soooooooooo, huge favor to ask you here, Bobby…

Bob did his best to calm the hammering that his heart was doing inside of his ribcage. It was just a simple text, that’s all, asking for a favor. He’d texted you before, and while this potentially may not be wedding-related, he could certainly text you again.

Anything, what’s up?

Anything? God, could he make his pining any more obvious? He didn’t get long to mull over his own words before you’d already typed back to him.

My car is in the shop, and a coworker gave me a ride in today, but she had to leave early. I know I promised Jake that pool rematch tonight…any way you could swing by and pick me up from campus?

I know campus is WAY in the opposite direction from the Hard Deck, it’s totally okay if you can’t!

Was Bob freaking out inside? Absolutely. He knew you worked on UCSD’s campus, but he’d never been to your office; he had no need to go there. The last time he’d also been fully alone with you was building furniture and dropping tables in your apartment, and picking you up meant being alone with you…plus, it wouldn’t give him time to go home and shower, and the last thing he wanted to do was put you off potentially because he was sweating buckets in the San Diego sun all day.

Before he could psych himself out, as if there was a little Rooster on his shoulder coercing him, Bob replied.

Of course, send me your office address.

About a half hour later, Bob was forcing himself out of his truck and up to the doors of the building housing the Department of Theater and Dance, frantically trying to fix his hair so he looked semi-acceptable. He’d already had to convince himself that a fifth layer of deodorant was not needed, nor was a second spray of the spare cologne he kept in his car.

Walking through the doors and into the building you’d given him directions to, Bob realized fairly quickly that he was absolutely lost and had no idea how to get to your office. Spotting a receptionist off to the side, Bob made his way over to her and cleared his throat, asking politely for directions to your office.

“I didn’t think Siren had any meetings on the schedule for today…” the receptionist trailed off as she raised an eyebrow at him. Bob let out an awkward laugh, glancing to her nametag and making a mental note that her name was ‘Sydney’, before answering her.

“Uh, no ma’am, sorry for the confusion. I’m a uh…friend of hers. She asked me to pick her up,”

Sydney’s eyes seemed to widen as she smiled, happily sitting up now in the chair once he’d explained himself.

“Oh! You must be the Lieutenant. Bob, right?” he gave her a nod as she typed something at her laptop before turning back to him. “Siren told me you’d be dropping by and would probably need directions- oh, and don’t mind the nickname, it’s just kind of a little inside joke around here that stuck. Take those stairs up to the second floor, the right side is dance studios, and her office is at the end of the hall to the left!”

With a quiet thank you, Bob followed her directions up the stairs and down to the left, though he could hear the music blasting from the dance studios down the hallway. At the very end of the hall, he saw your name on the plaque outside the one door ajar in the hallway.

With a light push to the door, so as not to freak you out, Bob leaned against the doorframe as he saw you working away at your laptop, singing softly to yourself as your own music played. He smiled softly to himself at the sight, even though inside he was still freaking out over the entire situation.

“So…Siren, huh?”

You jumped slightly at the voice until you turned, seeing that it was just Bob standing in the doorway of the office. He watched as you gave a slight laugh, beginning the process of packing your things up as you explained.

“God, of course, Sydney used that in front of you,” you turned, shooting him another smile as you packed your laptop away. “Context to this stupid inside joke probably helps, doesn’t it? I taught a salsa class my first week here, and this one student of mine thought I was such a good dancer she explained that my ‘dancing was so captivating, like a Siren’s song,’ and the next thing I knew the entire staff was calling me that.”

“Not a bad nickname,” Bob tried to reassure you as you joined him at the doorway with your things. “Better than your callsign being your name…or Hangman turning it into baby-on-board instead.”

You rolled your eyes, taking hold of his arm in your hand and dragging him lightly from the office doorway to lock up behind you, hopefully unaware of the frantic beating of his heart at even the slight contact.

“I’d rather get called that than get named after leaving my wingmen out to dry,” you gave him a pointed look that he laughed at before your features softened into something genuine again. “Thank you for being my hero today.”

“Anytime, Ikea,”

It was only halfway through the night at the Hard Deck when you’d let slip to Penny your nickname at work, and like vultures, the rest of the squad was dying to hear the story.

It was that night that, after living in San Diego for a month and a half, Bob watched the rest of his team officially induct you as an honorary member of the Dagger Squad with your very own callsign: Siren. You were officially one of them, even though you basically had been since the moment you’d arrived in the city.

From that day on, something shifted for Bob. He’d chalked it up to the ease he felt around you, the way you made him feel like he didn’t need to be flashy like Hangman to be liked, and he’d found it easier to finally branch out and text you about things NOT related to the wedding. And slowly, but surely, he was stopping by the campus on his very few rare off days from work to bring you lunch, simply talk to you in your office, or offer you a ride to the Hard Deck, knowing full well your car was parked in the campus lot. 

Bob spent the next weeks slowly, but surely, falling in love with you in every way imaginable, and he knew it. It terrified him how easily you’d secured a place in his heart, and you weren’t even aware you had. Phoenix and Rooster had tried to pry the information out of him many times, wondering why he was so engrossed in his phone all the time or why he was suddenly so smiley, but he kept his lips sealed.

Besides, how was he supposed to tell the woman controlling the fighter jet that could kill him that he was kind of falling in love with her best friend?

It was one of those very rare off days that Bob found himself cleaning out his truck in his driveway, knowing that there were a few jackets and extra pairs of shirts, and pants to change into after leaving base that needed to come out of the car and into the wash. What he hadn’t expected was to find your jacket.

You’d worn it the night before to the Hard Deck, actually needing Bob to pick you up since your car was once again in the shop. The temperature was predicted to drop drastically that night, and since Payback and Fanboy had the bright idea to do ‘late night dogfight football,’ you’d told him that you wanted to ensure you were warm. You must have left it in his car when he’d dropped you off that night.

Bob hesitated for half a second before climbing into the driver’s seat of his truck. What if you needed your jacket? It totally wasn’t an excuse to see you.

Sydney knew him well at this point, simply waving hi to him as he entered the familiar campus building. He’d waved back, giving his thanks as she called out that you may not be in your office at this hour.

She’d been correct, but Bob had been by enough to know you had your class schedule written out on the board by the door of your office.

Contemporary Dance, 11:30 a.m. Room 149

The signs were easy enough to follow, leading him down the hallway toward the area he knew held the multiple dance studios. Your voice was easy enough to pick out as he stepped inside the room, catching you leading your class in front of the full wall of mirrors. He’d never seen you dance until now, but it only took a second to see why they all called you Siren.

You moved in a way that was graceful yet powerful, commanding and yet gentle all the same. Bob had to adjust the way he was leaning against the doorway, cursing himself for the fact that he was enjoying your dancing way too much, and the dirty thoughts in his head were fighting to come to the surface. You deserved more than being thought of in that way. You deserved a proper date, maybe over a nice meal with a walk along the beach. You deserved chivalry, for him to always open every door and walk on the outer edge of the sidewalk to keep you safe. You deserved more than his boyish, improper thoughts. What you deserved was the world, and Bob would give it to you if you just said the word.

You’d locked eyes with him in the mirror as the song and dance with your students came to an end, and his heart soared at the way it seemed your face lit up simply at seeing him. You bid a quick goodbye to your students, ushering them out of the room and onto their next class, before it was just the pair of you left as music still played over the room’s speakers.

“You didn’t text me and tell me you were coming?” you questioned the man, moving through the room to fix things up and put away anything your students had managed to move in the process of the class.

“You forgot this last night,” he held up your jacket. “Just figured I’d bring it back, sorry, I should’ve texted-”

“Bob, you’re more than welcome here whenever you want to come,” you cut in quickly, gesturing toward the far wall where your purse lay. “Thank you, just toss it over with the rest of my stuff.”

Bob did as you asked, now fully in the room with you, as he watched you fiddle with things around the room, moving them back to where he assumed they were before class had started. His hands found their way into the pockets of his jeans, keeping himself from wringing his hands together or from fiddling with the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel over and over again.

“I’ve never gotten to see you dance before…I get why they call you Siren,” he swallowed the small lump that seemed to form in his throat, slowly losing his nerve around you like he typically did. “Wish I knew how to do…all that.”

“Well, thank you, contemporary was one of the dance forms I primarily trained in during college,” you shot back at him, spinning on your heel to face him now as you tilted your head. “And come on, anyone can dance, it’s not that complicated.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen me try,” Bob laughed at himself, sheepishly rubbing at the skin on the back of his neck as he looked away from you. “I look like I have two left feet when dancing. Who knows how I’m going to survive this wedding in a few months.”

There was silence in the room before Bob heard you move. His eyes trailed back to you, watching as you grabbed your phone for just a moment, before the sweet sound of Kina Grannis’ voice overtook the room. His eyes stayed glued to you as you came to stand in front of him, holding out your hand with your palm facing the sky as you wore the prettiest, softest smile he’d ever seen.

“Dance with me?”

Bob thought surely that was the moment his heart was going to decide to give out on him, but in gazing at your kind eyes and smile full of affection, he placed his hand in your own and let you lead him.

God, your hand fit in his like it was made to be there.

He silently watched you, allowing you to wrap his one hand around your waist, giving it a squeeze before trailing your other hand to rest on top of his shoulder.

“Take a deep breath,” he followed your instructions as you gave a squeeze to his hand, still wrapped in your own. “Just follow me, I promise it’s not hard.”

Bob found his eyes glued to your feet as you slowly moved him around the room together, mumbling apologies every now and again as he stumbled or stepped on your toes, but you only ever gave him a comforting squeeze to his hand or shoulder. He never dared look up at you, afraid he’d lose all his cool if he had to look you in the eyes in this close proximity.

When he stumbled once more, you gave a small laugh, hand moving from his shoulder to his neck, gently tilting his jaw upwards to look at you.

“I promise it’s much easier if you don’t watch your feet,”

His eyes met yours, and it was like the entire world went silent in that moment, but the music playing through the sound system seemed to get louder.

But I can’t help, falling in love with you.

“There are those pretty blue eyes,” you teased as a blush coated his cheeks in seconds. It brought on another smile to see a similar one on your own, though. “Did Bradley tell you about their bachelor and bachelorette party idea?”

“He said they had an idea, just hadn’t told me yet,”

“Nat told me they thought a big combined party would be best, given that this friend group is just one giant pile of pilots,” Bob laughed, missing the feel of your hand on his jaw as it moved back to his shoulder. “Guess you and I have to get planning.”

“Maverick said Cyclone made it work so that we can all have a week off for it, just have to let them know when,”

“Perfect. Know what else is perfect?” Bob shook his head as your grin widened. “You are dancing perfectly since you stopped looking at your feet!”

Bob’s eyes widened as he looked down at his feet for just a moment, realizing you were right, before looking back up at you. It was like the world was throwing every sign in the world at him as the music seemed to feel louder once again.

For I can’t help, falling in love with you.

Swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat once again, Bob mustered the softest smile for you he could.

“Guess I just have a great teacher,”

The weeks passed, and the wedding was only a month and a half out. You’d flown home with Natasha to your hometown in order to wedding dress shop with Nat’s sister and mother, and every detail had been meticulously planned out for the wedding. The venue had been chosen, a gorgeous little venue in the heart of San Diego just big enough to house the 150 or so guests that had been invited, and just a few blocks walk for the wedding party and family members who would be staying at the Lafayette Hotel San Diego.

The Best Man and the Maid of Honor had finalized the plans for the joint bachelor/bachelorette trip: a week stay in a gorgeous home by the Colorado River and just an hour’s drive from Lake Mead and Las Vegas, plenty of options for relaxing and true partying, just as Bradley and Natasha wanted. It had taken a while for Bob and you to hammer out the details, many dinners had been held in your office after stopping by, and many phone calls that managed to devolve into late-night conversations having nothing to do with the party planning. But Bob wouldn’t have it any other way.

He was hopelessly in love, and he knew it. Unfortunately for him, Bradley had caught on, too.

“Let’s go!” Natasha called out to the boys as they hopped out of Bradley’s truck, already running through the parking lot toward the campus building housing your office. “I want to get on the road before Hangman and the others beat us there. I want the best pick of the bedrooms!”

“Sweetheart, we’re the Bride and Groom, I’m pretty sure we automatically get best pick,” Nat flipped off her fiancé as the boys both laughed. The second she’d turned around, Bradley threw his arm over Bob’s shoulder and tugged him in. “So…want to finally tell me what’s up with you and little Miss Siren?”

Bob shook his head, trying to fight off the flush on his cheeks. The questions from Bradley on the topic had increased tenfold over the last few weeks, and it was getting harder to lie to him.

“We’re in charge of handling a bunch of the backend shit of your wedding, Rooster,” Bob managed to remind his friend as they reached the doors of the campus building. “We spend a lot of time together, that’s all.”

“But you’re in love with her, are you not?” Bob groaned, opening the glass doors and letting Bradley walk ahead of him. “I’m just asking! We can all see it, the entire squad has money in the betting pool for when you two will finally buck up and figure it out. Phoenix has interrogated her so many times and gets nowhere on it.”

“We’re about to leave on your joint bachelor/bachelorette trip, there’s enough love in the air with the two of you. Don’t worry about me and my non-existent love life,”

Bradley made another comment under his breath, but Bob didn’t catch it. His gaze quickly found Natasha at the receptionist's desk, talking to Sydney.

“I’ve been here once, but the building still confuses me. I can’t remember how to get to her office,” Natasha explained to the girl as Sydney simply laughed, waving it off.

“I understand. I used to get confused here all the time. It’s just up those stairs-” she cut herself off as she saw Bob and Bradley approach, her face brightening up at the sight of the former. “Oh, Lieutenant! You guys don’t need directions, he knows where he’s going. I think she canceled her last class of the day, so she should be up in her office!”

Bob felt that flush return in full force as Bradley clapped him on the shoulder.

“Not in love with her my ass,” he gave his shoulder a squeeze after mumbling the words before moving to his fiancée's side, and Natasha was just watching Bob with a cocked head.

“How often are you here, Floyd?”

Bob stumbled for a moment, his hand immediately coming to rub the back of his neck as he tried to find the words. He wanted to say he wasn’t here THAT often…but he knew that was a lie.

Like always, you somehow managed to save the day.

“Oh! I told you guys you could’ve waited in the car!” you’d called out, descending the stairs from your office with your suitcase for the week in hand. You bid your goodbyes to the two students walking at your sides, coming to stand beside Bob as you glanced around the small group with a questioning eyebrow. “I could cut the tension with a knife here. What did I miss?”

“Just…learning some new information,” Natasha settled on, a grin lighting up her face as she hooked her arm through your own, dragging you away from the two boys who could only laugh. “IT’S PARTY TIME!”

An almost 6 hours drive to the booked AirBNB for the week was a slight pain in the ass, but the four of you managed as you all continuously joked that you hadn’t ended up delegated to ride in Hangman’s truck with him. Bob couldn’t help the fact that every so often, his gaze drifted to the backseat in the rearview mirror, to where you and Nat were engrossed in a thousand different conversations that differed from his own and Rooster’s. 

Without fail, you seemed to be looking back at him every time with a small smile that he treasured as if it were the sun itself.

Hangman, Payback, Coyote, and Fanboy had, sadly, beaten the Bride and Groom’s group to the house, but any bitter feelings surrounding it were forgotten as they’d gotten a look at the gorgeous home in person. Nestled in an area of the desert with barely any neighbors and gorgeous views for miles, including the Colorado River just down the hill from the long driveway, no one could harbor any ill feelings about anything as the sun was setting over the mountains and bathing the entire home in red, oranges, and pinks.

Bob had taken his own suitcase and yours, ignoring your protests, and brought them into the house. Everyone seemed to be running about, checking out the amenities, as some people put their claims on the bedrooms already. Natasha had dragged you off in the direction of the game room when Bob caught sight of Rooster whispering to Hangman and Fanboy, all three men watching him with a smirk.

“Hey, baby-on-board,” Hangman called out for him, smirk growing ever cockier by the second. “The rest of us have already staked claim on rooms, and of course, the couple has to share. Only room left is the sofa bed room in the back of the house…think Siren would mind sharing with you?”

If Bob’s eyes could pop out of his head, they would’ve. He shook his head, already knowing by the smirks on all three boys’ lips that this was planned well in advance.

“Guys-”

“Hey, Siren!” Fanboy called out just as you’d reentered the room. You stopped dead in your tracks, cocking an eyebrow at the guys as you waited. “Claims have already been staked on most of the bedrooms, perks of being the first ones here. You don’t mind sharing with Bobby boy, do you?”

“Guys, really-”

“I don’t mind,” you’d cut off Bob’s comment as he turned to you, eyes wide. He wasn’t sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, but he could’ve sworn he saw a flush cross your own skin as you looked at him. “Really, as long as it’s okay with you, I don’t mind.”

Bob looked back at the boys and their expectant smirks, then back to you, before finally taking a deep breath.

“Yeah…yeah, that’s fine with me,”

The truth was, Bob could barely focus on the entirety of dinner with the squad. He laughed, made jokes, and participated in conversations across the entire table the entire night, but his mind was stuck on the fact that he had to share a bed…with you.

Those nerves didn’t rest even as you both retired to your room for the night. The sofa bed had already been pulled out and made for the two of you. Bob had simply crawled into bed in silence, situating himself under the covers.

You entered the room moments later, having changed in the bathroom down the hall, and sent him a sweet smile as you crawled into your own side of the bed. Lying side by side, heads on their respective pillows, you both simply lay there and smiled toward one another.

“Sorry you got stuck with me,”

“I didn’t get stuck with you,” you’d rolled your eyes at his comment. “I’d take sharing with you over any of those Neanderthals any day.”

“Just promise not to drop any tables on me this trip, okay, Ikea?”

You’d laughed, even as you’d reached your foot out under the covers and kicked him lightly on the shin.

“If I managed to do that, I think I should get an award,” it was his turn to laugh as you flipped over, turning the bedside lamp off before tucking yourself into the covers. “Night, Bob.”

“Night, Ikea-”

“We’ve got to STOP with that nickname,”

He’d fallen asleep comfortably that night at your side, still laughing lightly to himself over that dumb little nickname he had for you that had found a way to stick. He wished his sleep had lasted longer, but it was quite the sight to see you leaning over him and shaking his shoulder with a grin.

“Get up!”

Bob groaned as you moved back to your side of the bed, reaching over to the nightstand to grab his glasses. The second his eyes focused, he checked the time on his phone. Slightly after 5:30 in the morning. Bob let out another groan when he saw the time.

“Why are you awake-”

“Just trust me and come on!”

He’d barely been out of bed and on his feet when you’d taken his hand in your own, dragging him down the dark hallways of the house. He wasn’t even fully awake enough to register your hand wrapped around his own.

The second you’d dragged him out onto the large patio deck of the home, he understood why you’d woken him up so early. If sunset had been pretty from this view, sunrise might’ve been even prettier.

The deep purple hues that crawled across the sky, blending into the fading night sky full of stars over the desert. The beginnings of reds and pink crawling out from the horizon, casting itself over the rolling desert hills and the Colorado River just barely in the distance, close enough he could see the colors reflecting off the water. He’d found himself leaning against the railing, gazing out at the colors for a moment before turning to you at his side, finding you already looking up at him.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”

You’d turned back to the view, but Bob’s eyes, full of wonder, stayed locked on you as he spoke.

“Prettier than anything I’ve ever seen,”

You’d stayed out there for awhile, small talk flowing through you, reminiscing on moments with the squad such as that terrible late night dogfight football, or the time you’d all watched on as Rooster handed Maverick’s ass to him in pool at the Hard Deck. Your hands sat on the railing next to one another, just barely touching, as your arms sat pressed up against one another. If Bob had more confidence, if he’d thought that maybe you felt the same for him, he might’ve taken the leap and reached out to take your hand in his own.

Neither of you had any clue how long you’d been out there admiring the view and simply talking. Bob heard a small noise behind you both after a while, glancing behind you both. Rooster simply stood in the patio doorway, a genuine grin on his face as he raised his coffee cup at his best friend with a wink, before leaving you alone together once more.

It was a week of memories that none of them would ever truly forget.

The entire day spent on the shores of Lake Mead was full of laughter, and what Fanboy had nicknamed ‘dogfight chicken’, though it didn’t have any different rules than a normal game of chicken did. You and Bob had reigned victorious through every single round, though Bob wasn’t sure how. His thoughts were flooded with you, and the impure thoughts he was having at the thought that his head was, quite literally, between your thighs as you sat on his shoulders, was driving him insane.

That next morning was worse for his thoughts, when he’d awoken early in the morning to you nestled in his arms, head resting against his chest, and his arms wrapped around you. He’d laid still like that for what felt like hours, both terrified of waking you up and freaking you out with the position you were in, while also savoring every second of it in fear it would never happen again. He’d pretended to be asleep when you finally woke up, letting you be the one to extricate yourself from his arms. Neither of you mentioned it to the other.

One full day and night had been dedicated to the Las Vegas strip and all it had to offer. Rooster was constantly nudging Bob in the side the entire day, reminding his friend that his eyes were supposed to remain on your face, not on the slit of the dress you wore running up and exposing your thigh.

No one knew who had drunkenly suggested it, but somehow they’d found themselves at a Magic Mike show. Plenty of videos had been taken as a form of blackmail as Hangman was subjected to a lap dance from the performers of the show, constantly telling Coyote to ‘piss off about it’ the rest of the night.

That next morning, Bob had woken up to you entangled in his arms once again. And the morning after that.

The Dagger Squad’s final day of the trip was spent together at the home, simply enjoying one another's company as more stories of everyone’s childhood had been shared across the board. Bob had even been roped into a story of him working on his parents' ranch back in Montana at one point, which prompted a whole discussion on whether Bob was technically considered a cowboy or not.

The WSO had found himself frozen in the kitchen that night, simply watching you from the window. You and Natasha sat on the patio together, pointing up at the light pollution-free sky as you seemed to be watching the stars, discussing what could be seen that night, hundreds of thousands of miles above your heads. He’d watched you throw your head back laughing, and that tug in his chest when he looked at you seemed to increase tenfold in that moment.

It wasn’t long later that Rooster was opening his bedroom door, coming to find that it was Bob standing on the other side of the door and knocking frantically.

“Bob-”

“You were right…I’m in love with her,”

“Well,” both boys turned, seeing Natasha had entered the hallway at just the right moment to join her future husband for bed and hear the conversation occurring. Bob’s blood ran cold, fearing the worst, but she simply smiled at him. “It’s nice to finally hear you admit the obvious.”

A long conversation with his best friends came with the feeling of a small weight being lifted off his shoulders, of finally having admitted his feelings out loud. They’d encouraged him to act on it, to tell you how he felt, but Bob couldn’t get rid of the nagging insecurity in the back of his head that he was never going to be good enough for you.

When he’d returned to your room that night and crawled into bed, you were still awake. You had both simply laid there in silence for a moment, staring at one another, and Bob could see the hesitation in your movements for just a moment. You seemed to throw your inhibitions out the window, moving across the bed and slotting yourself into Bob’s arms, curling yourself around him as you buried your head into the crook of his neck.

It threw Bob for a loop. Every night this week, you’d awoken like this, tangled together, but he’d assumed that it had just naturally happened in your sleep, that one of you reached out for the other. But you were awake, you were both aware of what you were doing, and yet you took the leap anyway. Bob chose not to push his luck, not to ask, and simply wrapped his arms around you, closing his eyes with you tucked right against him where he felt you belonged.

“Can I tell you something?” Bob whispered to you after moments of silence wrapped up together, neither of you addressing the compromising position you’d put yourself in.

“Always,”

“You…” Bob struggled for a moment, trying to find his words and the right thing to say. ‘Love’ was dancing on his lips, but his insecurities tugged it back in. When he spoke again, he knew he meant the words, even if it was not what he meant to say. “You’re my best friend. Don’t tell Rooster that.”

There was a pause, then a soft laugh, as you seemed to cling to him tighter, your words and breath ghosting over his skin.

“You’re my best friend, too. Just don’t tell Nat,”

There had been another shift in the relationship between you and Bob in those next few weeks leading to the wedding night, and everyone seemed to be able to see it. A simple confession, albeit not the confession Bob had wanted to say that night, seemed to change everything.

Anytime the group was out together, you both were glued to one another’s side. This time, unlike in the months prior, it was as if the pair of you had to be touching. If you were all walking somewhere, your arm was linked through his with your hand resting on his bicep. The entire group noticed the way that, as you all hugged one another goodbye at the end of a night, you and Bob seemed to linger in one another’s embraces longer than usual.

There was the night at the Hard Deck, laughing over some story Maverick was telling them from the glory days, that Bob felt your hand reach for his under the table, wordlessly slotting itself into his own. That moment replayed in his head every single day and night, even as he fell asleep late into the morning hours with you still on the phone with him.

They were the moments that he couldn’t help but replay constantly, even as he stood in the preparation room of the wedding venue, adjusting his dress whites to ensure that nothing was out of place.

“How are we looking over here, Rooster?” Hangman called out, moving through the room to check on the groom himself. 

“Ready to do this thing,” Rooster told him as Bob joined the pair across the room. Bradley placed a hand on each of their shoulders, his Best Man and his only other Groomsman, all standing together in their matching Navy dress whites, and gave them a thankful smile. “Thank you both for doing this. For being here with me.”

Bob grinned at his best friend as Rooster pulled them both into a hug, before it was go time.

Bradley was already stationed at the altar behind the double doors before them, leaving Bob to stand just behind the doors, ready to lead the charge down the aisle for his best friends to get married. He turned as he heard the voice of Natasha’s sister behind them, taking her place beside Hangman for the walk. His gaze then turned to you as you slotted yourself to his side, and it took everything in him not to whisk you off your feet the second he laid eyes on the form fitting, navy blue dress clung to your body, or the plunging neckline he was desperately trying to keep his eyes off of.

“She’s all set up with her dad back there,” you’d told him softly, winding your arm through his as your hand lay on his forearm, eyes never leaving his own. “We’re good to go the second the music kicks in. You ready?”

“Think Rooster would kill me if I wasn’t, he’s antsy down there,” you’d laughed, and Bob had smiled. His favorite sound in the world. “You…you look beautiful.”

“Right back at you, Lieutenant,”

There were smiles and tears throughout the crowd as you and Bob led the charge down the aisle, taking your places on either side of where Natasha and Bradley would stand. The second Natasha was escorted down the aisle by her father, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, Rooster and you included. Bob found himself watching you, though, as you happily took Nat’s bouquet from her hands through your tears.

They recited after their Pastor, they exchanged their vows, but Bob found his eyes betraying him and glancing at you more often than at his best friends. Every time he looked to you, he found you were already looking at him.

He knew there was no going back the second Natasha Trace and Bradley Bradshaw were pronounced man and wife, that they’d pulled one another into their first kiss as a married couple, and his eyes had drifted to you in the celebration. All he could think in that moment was that he wanted that to be you and him, that he wanted to hold you and kiss you and call you his forever.

It felt like a blur to Bob what happened next. The entire Dagger Squad joined together to perform the Arch of Swords for their best friends, smiles never leaving anyone’s faces. Bob had sat right next to you during dinner, unable to keep his eyes off of you the entire time. Then, you’d rose to your feet and took hold of the microphone passed to you, preparing for the speech you’d spent your entire life writing.

“If you don’t know me, the truth is you probably indirectly do. Because any story that Natasha has told you from any point in her life? I was most likely at every single one of those,” you’d turned to Natasha the second you said that, and Bob could see the tears in both of your eyes. “Natasha, or as many in this room know you, Phoenix, you hit me on the head with a soccer ball in Kindergarten, and I knew from that moment on you would be my best friend. I watched you fall in and out of love with both soccer and softball growing up, witnessed you punch two middle schoolers who broke my heart, and watched you fall in love with the idea of someday flying F-18s for the rest of your life. I’m forever proud to say that I’ve watched you achieve everything you’ve ever wanted in life, and I’m so happy that I’ve gotten to be here for all of it. But most importantly, I’m glad your passion also brought you the love you have always deserved. Bradley, I’m proud to call you one of my best friends in life now, and I could not be happier to know that you two have found one another.”

You’d raised your champagne glass through your tears, as the room followed suit, even as Natasha silently sobbed from her place beside Bradley.

“They say that love is simply just a friendship that caught on fire,” Bob’s breath caught for just a moment, swearing that he saw your eyes flicker to him for just a moment, before you continued to talk. “May it burn bright for many years to come, and fly higher than you both do every day in the San Diego skies.”

There were still the remnants of tears streaming down your face as you took your place beside Bob once again, allowing Natasha’s sister to give her own speech. Bob watched you in silence before, in a leap of faith, reaching his hand out for your own. You took it without a word, squeezing onto it in a vice-like grip and refusing to let go.

The reception was in full swing, and everyone was in party mode. Natasha and Bradley were the stars of the show in their first dance, revealed in their speeches previously to have been taught by none other than you.

The bouquet toss had the entire Dagger Squad erupting into cheers, almost trying to carry you off the dance floor, the second Natasha’s bouquet seemed to find you among the young women in the crowd as if meant just for you.

You. God, you had consumed every ounce of Bob’s thoughts for weeks and months now, and tonight was no different. In the ever-changing landscape that was life, you were like the North Star in Bob’s eyes, his one constant since the moment you’d walked into the Hard Deck.

“As a wedding gift to us, could you just grow some balls and finally ask her out?”

Bob jumped, startled, as Bradley and Natasha appeared at his side from where he stood on the outside of the dance floor. He sighed, seeing the expectant looks on their faces, before glancing back to where you danced with the rest of the fighter pilots you’d grown so close to over the last few months.

“She’s, like, walking perfection on legs, guys. She could do better than the socially awkward fighter pilot that is…me,”

“Except she doesn’t want to,” Natasha cut in. She sighed, resting a hand on Bob’s shoulder before glancing out toward her best friend. “I’ve known her my entire life, Bob, and she doesn’t take to people the way she’s taken to you. She looks for you in every room, she talks about you constantly…she was dying to meet you just from the photos I’d shown you. I’ve never seen her act the way she does when she’s with you, Bob.”

The words sparked a small flame of hope in his chest, a flame just strong enough to push away the insecurities that begged to claw their way out. He looked back at his best friends, the glow of marriage surrounding them, with that flame of hope shining in his eyes.

“What if you’re wrong?”

“What if we’re right?” Rooster cut in, giving him a small shrug. “Maverick said it best to me months ago…don’t think, just do.”

Don’t think, just do. Maverick always knew what to say, didn’t he?

A slower song had begun on the dance floor, and Hangman could see Bob stalking their way. A smirk crossed the man’s face as he took hold of your hand, spinning you in Bob’s direction, before leading the rest of the Dagger Squad off the floor.

Bob stood in front of you, mustering every ounce of confidence he could find in him, as he held out his hand toward you, palm facing the sky.

“Dance with me?”

A smile might’ve been permanently etched into your lips as you took his hand in yours. Bob’s other hand immediately found your waist, his hand resting on your lower back as he tugged you into him as tightly as he could, your other hand resting on his shoulder as the iconic Berlin song played through the reception.

Watching in slow motion as you turn around and say…take my breath away.

Neither of you said a word for a minute, though your eyes never left one another as you simply swayed side to side across the dance floor, fully aware of the watchful eyes of your friends on you from the sidelines.

“You know…” you were the one to start the conversation, somehow managing to pull yourself even closer to Bob. There was a teasing tone to your voice, nose bumping against his for a moment. “I’ve been kind of waiting for you to ask me out for months.”

A weight seemed to leave Bob’s shoulders the second you spoke, his mind finally being calmed with the fact that you did, indeed, return his affections, that it wasn’t all a misunderstanding in his mind.

“Thought at first it broke some kind of friendship code to fall in love with your best friend’s childhood best friend. Then…I got scared you wouldn’t feel the same,” you laughed lightly at his comment, though Bob could see the way you brightened the second he’d said the word ‘love’ in his explanation. “How long…how long have you felt this way?”

“The schoolgirl crush started when I dropped that table on you, even though I thought you were plenty cute just based on the photos Nat had showed me before,” to was Bob’s turn to laugh as your hand traveled up to the nape of his neck, tangling gently in the hair now carded through your fingers. Somewhere behind them, he swears he could hear Fanboy cheer at the motion. “Somewhere in the midst of a bunch of mini lunch dates and dancing with you for the first time is when it changed.”

“I’ve got you beat there,” Bob countered with a laugh, looking down sheepishly. “After I picked you up from work that one time, when the rest of the guys started calling you Siren. It changed for me after that night.”

There was a slight tug on the hair threaded through your fingers, and Bob resisted everything in him not to let out a groan. His eyes flicked back up to you immediately, almost pleading with you not to do that again before he dragged you out of the reception, and he could see the amusement dancing in your eyes at the reaction you received.

“It's not a competition. We know now,” you slid the hand that rested in his own back up his arm, instead cupping his jaw in your hand as a shiver ran through his body. “Though, I thought I was being quite obvious with literally cuddling you in bed.”

Bob’s now freehand found your hip, eliminating any space between you both as if it were even possible. Given their surroundings, he wouldn’t be surprised if there were murmurs about how what was happening was far from appropriate for the setting they were in.

“It should’ve been. We can blame my insecurities for that one,”

He watched you in silence, still swaying to the beat of the song. Your eyes flickered, for the briefest of moments, down to his lips as Bob’s grip tightened from the sight.

Watching in slow motion as you turn my way and say…take my breath away. My love, take my breath away.

His eyes fluttered half shut, throwing caution to the wind now that he knew he had you, and leaned in. His lips were met with your finger pressed against them, though, and when he’d opened his eyes, your pupils may have been blown wider and your voice may have gained a slight rasp it didn’t have before, but there was clear amusement dancing across your features.

“Trying to kiss me at the wedding of our best friends? How scandalous, you know it’s their night to be the center of attention,” Bob groaned, even as his cheeks flushed, forehead falling to your shoulder. He felt your body shake with laughter before your lips ghosted over his ear. “We’ve waited this long, Lieutenant, what’s a little longer?”

Longer was torture, Bob had decided, but it was a torture spent with you still wrapped around his side. You’d danced the night away into the early hours of the morning with all of your friends, until it was finally time to end what was surely the best night of Natasha and Bradley’s lives.

The newly married couple had bid everyone goodbye before they were off to their own private villa for the night. The wedding party and family made the trek down the road together toward the Lafayette, Hangman and Coyote holding up a very drunk Payback who was belting Celine Dion down the sidewalk.

You’d thrown your head back laughing, hand intertwined with Bob’s as you brought up the rear of the pack.

The squad all said their goodbyes to Maverick and Penny, who’d essentially stood in as Rooster’s family, and to Natasha’s own family, before they’d made their way to the floor blocked off specifically for them. Everyone had thrown out goodnight, disappearing into the private rooms to sleep off their hangovers into the early hours of the morning.

Bob was the last the the Top Gun pilots to still be standing at his door. He’d fished out his own door key, before pausing before inserting it into the lock, glancing down the other end of the hallway.

There you stood, shoes in hand as you leaned against the doorway of your open hotel room. Your eyes never left his, and Bob’s room key found it’s way back into the pocket of his dress whites as he was across the entire hotel room floor in seconds.

Your eyes never seemed to leave one another as you both drifted into the room, Bob’s hand splayed across the edge of the room door, shutting it softly behind you both. The second it was closed, the room was only bathed in the soft, nighttime light of Dan Diego that poured through the curtains and the warm, yellowed glow of the single lamp lighting up the corner of the room.

Bob’s hands found your waist as yours found his neck, and he fell into you as if you were two atoms destined to collide with one another from the moment you met.

Your lips were soft against his, your lipstick already having been smudged off throughout the night from the many drinks passed between friends, but he could taste the cherry and vanilla Chapstick buried underneath. That simple taste elicited a groan from deep inside of him as his desire to simply feel you, to hold you, overtook Bob.

He backed you into the closest wall, right beside the door of the room, and your body immediately arched into him. His hand slid it’s way from your waist down to your thigh, digging into it as he hoisted it up around his own waist, the slit up the dress giving way to allow you to cling to him in earnest.

His hair was a mess as your hands moved into it, your lips never parting. He simply tilted his head, swallowing the moan you let out the second he gripped onto your waist tighter and tugged you impossible closer.

“Pretty sure Fanboy is right next door,” Bob had managed to mumble into your lips, unable to fully pull away from you. You nipped at his lower lip, this time a deep moan leaving him which had you giggling back into the kiss.

“I’ve waited long enough to kiss you, Bob Floyd. I don’t really give a damn if we keep him awake,”

Bob pulled back slightly in the dim lighting, hand leaving your thigh to instead cup your cheek, to simply observe and memorize everything about you. He loved you, he loved you more than he ever thought it was possible to love someone, and he never wanted to forget the look in your eyes right now as you looked at him through lust riddled eyes.

Your hand found his, removing it from your cheek and instead to your back. His breath caught for a second as it touched the zipper at the top, and one single look in your eyes had him tugging it down as slowly and sensually as possible.

Bob could feel your breath catch the second his lips found your neck, leaving a trail across your skin and down to your collarbone as the zipper finally came undone, the pool of navy colored fabric dropping into a heap on the floor.

You’d barely given him a second to truly admire the masterpiece he thought was you as a whole before you’d tugged him back into a kiss, your hands working overtime to gently undo the buttons holding his Navy dress whites together.

His hat was long gone on the floor, and soon every article of his dress whites joined it. He couldn’t help but smile as you laughed, watching him quickly lean down to grab the formal clothing of his and yours, folding it neatly into a pile in the corner. When he’d looked back up, you were standing just inches away, falling back into his arms without another word. His own breath caught, shiver running down his skin at the feeling of your soft, supple skin simply on his igniting a fire in him he’d never felt before.

Your hands came up, adjusting his glasses to sit on the bridge of his nose as they were meant to, and Bob wasted no time in pulling you back into a bruising kiss that had you falling back onto the lush, fancy bedspread behind you both.

As you’d crawled your way back up the bed, head hitting the pillows waiting by the ornate headboard, Bob simply hovered over you, taking you all in fully for the first time, memorizing every square inch of you that existed. He wanted it all committed to memory.

His eyes trailed back to yours finally, to the shining affection and adoration in them, and the words finally tumbled out of his mouth.

“I love you,”

Your hands cupped his jawline, bringing him back down to you to place a gentle, loving kiss on his lips that he sighed right into, leaning into the feel of you that he was already addicted to.

“I love you too,”

The pair of you stayed there for a moment, wrapped up in the sweetest and most loving of kisses that rivaled the passionate moment the moment you’d stepped into the room. Until Bob began to laugh lightly against your lips, the actions bringing a smile to your own face.

“What’s so funny, Lieutenant?”

He shook his head, backing up for just a moment to fully look down at you.

“It’s just uh…you know what they say about the Best Man and the Maid of Honor, don't you?”

Your laughter rang through the room immediately, and he knew Natasha must have said something to you along the same lines of what Bradley had whispered to him in the middle of the Hard Deck. Your hands ran down his shoulder, taking hold of his biceps with a small squeeze.

“Something about how they’re always destined to fall in love. God, how cliché of us,”

Every moment with you flooded Bob’s head in that moment as he looked down at you. From the moment you’d walked into the Hard Deck, to the moment he danced with you, to that fated trip where it all changed, and every moment in between. To now, as you laid almost bare before him, gazing up at him with love written across every inch of your features, as if you’d do just about anything he could’ve asked of you in that moment. And you would, just as he’d do the same for you.

So, his thumb ran across your lips for a moment, before he’d taken the back of your neck in his hand and tugged you upwards into another passionate kiss, pouring every ounce of love his body had into it.

“Yeah…but I wouldn’t have it any other way,”

[ichorkurt]

OOOH THIS IS DELICIOUS DUDE !!! I LOOOVE A GOOD HAUNTING BY THE NARRATIVE !!! your writing is sooo smooth and delicious, i'm obsessed !!!! so excited to read the next part :)

𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐚

𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3,424

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when she went missing, disappeared without a trace, it was almost like a deep seated black hole found it's way into rhetts chest, as he recalls all his time spent with her admist trying to find answers, the deep seated energy of the cursed lands they live on come apart to make way for lovers to find each other again.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: reader haunting the narrative, missing persons, religious themes, supernatural elements if you squint. narrative told through time skips and flashbacks.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: so the lewis pullman resurgence seems to have pulled me out of my cave, i can't promise ill be back to publishing on a regular occurence, but my ethel cain love has seemed to have pried this out of me. inspirations of a southern gothic nature, ethel cains music, and the movie lake mungo. if you guys get invested enough in this i'll release part two.

the dull hot wind is the only sound finding its way through the window opened only a crack, blowing the ripped white cotton curtains back and fourth softly, the peeling white paint around the window frame catching the early morning rays in a way that almost makes it look like a painting. 

even in the cramped single bed with a spring mattress that creak with every minute movement made, they’re so still that no sound emerges from its springs. in this moment, nothing exists outside of this old bedroom, nothing except the pair of them achieving what some might consider peace, or at least whatever semblance of peace they could find in between the hellscape of a small christian town they live in together.

she smells like bar soap and the old antique perfume she’s had for god knows how long that never seems to run out, the cotton dress splayed over her body practically soaking up the scent which he makes a point of resting his nose against, his eyes shut softly as he feel’s her fingers running across his scalp, his head resting on her chest as he feels the slow rise and fall of her breathing, the slow heartbeat seemingly matching pause with his own to create a song unlike any he’s ever heard before. 

maybe this is what they meant whenever they mentioned heaven, not some pair of pearly golden gates with a swarm of angelic choirs, maybe heaven was just this bedroom in her folks old farmhouse that they’d lived in for generations, maybe heaven was him resting atop her as she played with his hair absentmindedly and stared out the window to the field staring back at her with an overwhelming silence.

she felt like the mountains were watching her, like they were their own conscious being’s with such wisdom that would never match her own, guardians watching everybody live and die, countless stories they could never tell. 

his eyes finally opened to stare across at her, the concern on her face seemingly breaking him out of the trance he was stuck in; this is how it always was when he was with her, he’d spend hours in her arms only for it to feel like minutes, lying in the arms of a creature like her, sometimes it felt as if he was looking across at the face of god, yet he knew how much trouble such a statement could get him in with her ma and pa, if they even knew about the pair of them. 

so many nights climbing in and out of her window, fleeting moments and time spent together going down the drain quicker than he ever wanted it to, he wanted to get the fuck out of here, take her with him, go wherever his truck would take them. 

he could see the worry in her eyes, the way she stared out the window like she knew something was coming that she couldn’t stop, some unmovable and unchangeable fate that she couldn’t run from if she tried.

when her head finally turned to face him, he could see the look of concern in her eyes now changed to sheer horror, her mouth opening but no sound coming out as tears began to roll down her cheeks.

rising from his resting place on her chest, just as he lifted his hand to place a hand on her cheek, he felt his hand fall into nothing, darkness overtaking anything he could see as the sudden feeling of falling intruded upon his senses like a wash of ice cold water. 

-

4:02 AM

the red numbers across from him on his side table glared into his vision, the dull red light only filling up a small amount of his bedroom as he awoke with a soft gasp, his eyes looking around wildly for a few moments as he sat up quickly; trying desperately to find her in his bed where he could have sworn she had been only moments ago.

the reality of where he was came crashing down on him as his eyes flutter closed, the ramming thumping of his heart beat trying its hardest to crawl its way out of his chest as he lifted a hand to his face, the feeling of sweat across his skin bringing him back down to earth.

every time he had that dream, it always felt like he got closer every damn time, that maybe he’d finally be able to touch her and hold her.

maybe this time he’d be able to bring her back with him, out of his dreams and back into his arms where she belonged. 

everybody in town had tried to tell him that she’d skipped town, that she was probably my halfway across the country with a new name and a new identity. 

it wasn’t uncharacteristic of the people in this place to try and bury the memory of that they didn’t understand, try to pretend like it never even existed in the first place; they sure as hell never understood her, even he didn’t sometimes. sometimes when he’d look in her eyes, he had no idea what was looking back at him, what sort of secrets lied behind those pools and what was she trying to run from. 

the sheriff’s effort was minimal when it came to investigating her disappearance, extending as far as putting up a few missing posters with a photo of her standing smiling in the church choir, the smile on her face doing nothing to off set the look that was always ever present in her eyes, the picture always being more haunting than fond to him. 

it seemed that he was the only one who wasn’t content to just let her fade into obscurity, for the missing posters to just become another face in the crowd to be forgotten, the image of her continued to remain burned into his mind, his every waking moment taken up by questions of where she was, what happened, was she okay? 

it had been like this every day since she hadn’t shown up to church on sunday, concern seeming to rise with her folks when she’d remained gone since that morning, unsure if she’d even come home that night.

it wasn’t the missing church that had made rhett start to feel that pit of dread in his stomach, it was the fact that she hadn’t been to see him. 

as far as he’d been told, all her possessions were left behind in her room, nothing was missing save for the silver cross she always wore around her neck, the only thing she would never leave the house writhing, the cross he’d held between his fingers as she lay beneath him many a night, looking up at him like he was an angel. 

when she was officially declared missing, he’d be unable to hide his reaction, his jaw tensing when her ma had relayed all the details to him with a shaky voice when she’d come by to ask if he’d seen her, citing that she’d seen her chatting to him after church once or twice. 

if only her poor old ma had known just how deep their connection went, just how much her daughter’s disappearance was causing bile to feel like it was rising in his throat, a black hole growing larger and larger the longer she was gone. 

it like she’d simply ceased to exist, like she was there one moment and the next not. but he knew that didn’t happen, people don’t just fade out of existence and never return. she had to be somewhere out there, somewhere waiting for him. 

seven weeks later, and her absence was still a constant presence leering over him at all times, seeing her missing posters as he drove past the bus stop in his rusted truck, seeing her folks farmhouse up on the hill as he drove across the dirt road back to his own home. 

he’d taken the time to visit her folk’s every now and then, convincing himself he wanted to see how they were holding up, telling himself you would have wanted him to make sure they were doing okay; once every few weeks became once a week, which then became every three days. he’d bring them groceries when they needed them, even stayed to make sure her ma would actually eat, the grief of her lost daughter seeming to place her in a downward spiral. 

her pa wasn’t handling it any better, spending his every waking hour in the shed out back, isolating himself from everyone around him and refusing to speak to anybody save for a sentence or two, most of all rhett. 

he could make sure her ma was okay at the very least, even if it meant sitting with her in the kitchen as she showed him through photo albums looking over childhood photos of her standing ankle deep in the lake down the hill from her house, her face frozen in a laugh as she held her white church dress up away from the water. 

the pain was like a hot knife searing across his throat, keeping himself composed even as her poor mother shed her tears for her lost daughter, joining his hand with hers in a prayer even if he never thought of himself as a particularly godly man. 

yet even now, sending off his prayers to a god he didn’t believe in hardly seemed like a fool’s act, silently promising that if he could find his way back to her, that he’d never question again, never stop going to church till he was too old to walk, and even then, he’d damn well crawl. 

when he’d first seen her standing in the family graveyard across the field, he’d thought it was his own mind playing tricks on him, convincing himself that the lack of sleep from staying up all night with a grieving mother had made him so weary to the point he was now seeing the flow of her white church dress in the distant darkness of the night. 

when he’d blinked, turning his head completely to face the eerie site of the uneven headstones sticking into the ground, there was nothing there, only the reeds growing out of the hollow ground flowing silently in the cool autumn wind. 

as he’d climbed back into his truck and slammed the door shut, he taken a moment to rest his forehead on the steering wheel, a deep sigh emerging from his ribs as he tried to reason with himself, assure himself that he wasn’t going nuts, a trick of the light shining down on the farm by the half moon was all it was. 

the land around here had a strange way of playing tricks on people, sometimes it felt like the ground itself was breathing, like standing in the back of a giant. the tree’s were ancient the mountains even more so, some used to say that there were forces at play that would drive even the most sane man to do unspeakable acts. 

maybe the land itself had swallowed her up and stole her from him, claiming its pound of flesh in order to keep some undisturbed force at bay. 

if that had been the case, he would have gladly allowed himself to be swallowed up with her. 

he truly hadn’t mean to go looking, he’d insisted with himself that it was purely because the police weren’t doing enough, having essentially filed her away to the depths of a cabinet to be forgotten. he told himself that if he just went a little further, he might finally be able to have her back in his arms safe and happy just like he always had. 

sometimes going looking results in more questions than answers, even worse so, answers to questions you’d never think to ask. 

he didn’t know what he’d expected to find as he stalked through the tree line near her families home, his eyes peering from top to bottom as he searched for any sign of her presence, any little detail that could give him insight into where she’d gone. 

even if it had turned up with nothing, he could at least find some semblance of peace knowing there was nothing to be found. 

and yet, he had done so little to prepare himself for the possibility that something would find him. 

hanging across a branch in the distance, catching the sunlight in a way that had managed to catch his eye instantly, swinging softly in the wind, was that exact same silver cross, swaying back and fourth with a soft almost silent jingling as the silver chain collided with itself. 

moving in an abnormal way for the noticeable lack of wind, he took little notice of its almost unnatural movements, only able to let out a pained sound as he wrapped his hands around the chain and pulled it from its place hanging on a thin branch. 

from its placement, all the way to the harsh movements, he couldn’t help but feel like she was calling for him, reaching out of the darkness and pleading with him to find her, a silent scream for help. 

-

12:38 am 

Running the delicate silver chain along his finger tips, he’d made little effort to fight back the emotion of finding the necklace, his throat on fire with the tears he let fall, he couldn’t even tell himself if it was because he was grateful to finally have a piece of her back with him for the first time in months, almost as if her energy was practically radiating off of the metal, or if he was more terrified of the implications that came with it.

He refused to ask himself the why’s and the hows of the necklace ending up hung on a tree in the woods, only promising himself that he’d return to those woods again tomorrow, try and see if there was anything else to be found that might tell him even a little bit more about what happened to her. 

Staring up at the dull cream coloured ceiling of his bedroom, he could only pull the cross over his head and let it rest over his heart as he held his hand over it and tried to fill his mind with happier memories of her, anything that could alleviate from the horrifying images that his mind was playing back like a reel, swimming in a pool of all the things that could have happened to her, trying to believe they weren’t true.

-

It had been a muggy night in the summer when they’d first crossed path’s, even though it was late in the evening, the small town was still brimming with the occasional sound of children yelling out, finally allowed to stay out a little later in the evening to do whatever it is that the young ones did nowadays.

He was hardly excluded from a summer night of activities just like everybody else, seemingly wanting to take advantage of the warm nights while they still could, before they were sucked back into a cold dark winter that brought with it early sundowns and frostbitten mornings. 

The warm summer evening’s brought with it a populace of folk trying to beat the hot night air by venturing down to the lake just down the road from the church, a freshwater sanctuary hidden by tree’s that went barely touched save for the summer months.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he’d spotted the group of teens running down towards the church as he’d passed in his truck, headlights clearing the dirt road in front of him, revealing what the moonlight couldn’t. 

In his defense, he’d hardly ever needed to pay much attention to the road at hours as late as this.

The stream of white suddenly in front of him had him slamming his foot on the brake so hard that it lurched him forward, a painful reminder of the seatbelt he’d clipped in earlier which dug into his collar. 

With wide set eyes and his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white, he allowed to headlights to make the image in front of him clearer, his heart ramming in his ears so hard he could barely even hear the rumble of the engine.

She’d might as well have been a deer in headlights, her white dress flowing against the soft warm wind as she held a towel closely to her chest, almost as if it would have been a barrier between her and the truck had he not stepped on the break soon enough.

Her wide set eyes focusing on him were quickly moved to the other side of the road, the sound of amused screeches of other girls ringing out as one of her friends ran across to grip her wrist and pull her the rest of the way across the road, playfully calling her an idiot as she urged her to move. 

Her friends amusement at the prospect of her being hit by a car wasn’t as distracting as the fact that as she began to run the rest of the way across the road and towards the lake just down the hill, she turned suddenly and looked back at him through his passenger side window, an unreadable look crossing over her features as the world suddenly seemed to move in slow motion.

The truck didn’t start moving again until she was completely out of sight, disappearing over the hill and completely out of rhett’s field of view, seemingly entranced by the sight of her white dress shining against the field’s in the moonlight. 

The next time he’d seen her had been at the church at the top of the hill. Even if we wasn’t in attendance himself, he’d offered to fix the broken fence surrounding the almost decrepit building, something to keep him busy, probably didn’t hurt that it kept him in the church folk’s good graces, considering just how many of them were littered around the town. 

He was never one for religion, never saw much point in prayer, he’d been under the belief that life dishes out what it does, and that you could only move on and make the most of it for as long as he could remember. But it wasn’t his place to judge what people did to bring themselves any small comfort when it came to the ups and downs throughout, if somebody could gather any form of faith that made things make just a little more sense, he couldn’t blame them.

When that same white church dress came into his peripheral vision like a ghost, he couldn’t have not looked, almost like the wind was singing to him, urging him to look up from the particularly stubborn nail he was trying to pry out of the wood and catch sight of the angel stood at the entrance of the church.

The sounds of shuffling and footsteps seemed to signify that the service was coming to an end, the chattering sounds of voices beginning to grow louder and louder as people began to leave.

It was that same goddamn pair of eyes on him, just as they had been when she’d been stood in front of the headlights of his truck, only this time paired witha tilted head as she seemed to observe him from a distance, her expression once more unreadable, only before the soft smile came across her plush lips when they’d made eye contact. 

He’d stood from where he was kneeling like a reflex, taking a moment to adjust the cap sat on his head, never once breaking the eye contact shared between them, silent yet such an exchange of energy that speaking could never achieve, an unknowable interaction shared only between the two of them.

That was the day he’d finally learnt her name, when he’d heard the sound of her mother calling it from inside, finally causing a break in their eye contact as she turned her head to smile at her mother walking out and taking her daughters arm, the pair stepping down the small set of wooden stairs and onto the dirt ground. 

He’d made a point to look away, just as a matter of politeness, yet because he knew what church folk were like, especially with their daughters, and he could only imagine what it might look like if he was caught staring at her like a bobcat stared at jackrabbit. 

-

4:02 AM. 

[ichorkurt]

I'M DIZZYYYYYY THIS WAS JUST TOO GOOD ...

Odds are Stacked | Rhett Abbott x virgin!reader

In which Rhett loses a bet and you lose your virginity.

Warnings: reader is (as always) over 18, smut, p-in-v, unprotected sex (pls make good decisions), creampie (see previous point), fingering, oral (f receiving)

…

“You’re kidding. Right?”

“No, I’m — I’m serious.”

“Then you’re stupid,” Rhett answers as he folds his arms over his chest. “What kind of question is that anyway? — You don’t just go around askin’ people stuff like that.”

You shift awkwardly on your feet and push your hands deep into the pockets of your jeans, “Well, I’m not going around asking people, I’m asking you.”

“Exactly and you barely know me.” Rhett says. He leans back against the wall and looks around to make sure no one is overhearing this ridiculous conversation. “Somebody put you up to this, right? You’re fucking with me.”

“No, I-I-“ You look down at the ground and nudge the toe of your shoe against the gravel. “I didn’t know who else to ask.”

Rhett wants to smack his palm against his forehead. He looks around again. “You don’t ask someone something like this. That’s fucking weird, kid.”

You sigh softly and rub at your temples. Then, Rhett raises his eyebrows disbelievingly as you take a step towards him and look up at him, all stone faced and serious.

“Look,” He half wants to laugh in your face. He has to say, at least you’re original. In all of his experiences with women, he’s never had one corner him outside of the feed store on Main Street and ask him to take their virginity. “I’m moving out in a month. There is no way in hell that I’m moving to Seattle being a stupid little country girl virgin!”

“Keep your voice down!” Rhett grabs your elbow, furrowing his eyebrows at you. “The hell is the matter with you?”

You shake your arm out of his grasp and check over your shoulder, then look back into those pretty blue eyes. He watches you lift your brows and bat your lashes at him, sighing softly as he sinks further back against the wall.

“Well, why me? — You don’t even know me.”

That’s where he’s wrong. You do know him. Better than he thinks. Most girls in town either know Rhett personally, or have friends who know Rhett personally. Most people around town know a fair few things about Rhett. You’ve heard your father talk about him enough to know that this is the guy you should be speaking to.

Rhett has experience. You need experience.

“I’ve heard things.” You answer him. The corner of his mouth twitches. He almost smirks, then scowls once more.

“Can’t you fuck someone your own age? — Probably some altar boy out there just waiting to live out his own Virgin Mary wet dream with you.” You cringe at the crudeness of his words. You’ve been warned that he talks like this. Rhett lifts an eyebrow as he lifts one foot to rest against the red brickwork. You follow his gaze down to the silver cross hanging on your chest. Your cheeks burn furiously.

Now it’s your turn to fold your arms over your chest. He watches you curiously. Rhett looks you up and down. Tennis shoes, smooth skin, a pair of shorts that are most definitely hand-me-downs from your older sister. A pretty blouse tucked into those shorts. The silver cross disappearing under the opened top few buttons. That sweet little ribbon securing your hair back.

Looks aren’t the issue. Based on looks alone, you wouldn’t have had to ask him anything because he would’ve closed this apparent business deal a long time ago.

“Are you going to do it or not?” You sigh. This time he does laugh. At the ridiculousness of it. Of the seriousness to your tone. Of the fact that until now he was actually kind of considering it. You could cry sat the sound of his laughter.

“No.” He says coldly. Maybe he doesn’t mean for it to be cold, but it stings like the sensation of ice being held in the palm for too long nonetheless. Then you catch his eyes fall down to your chest. You realise that with his height, he can see a glimpse of your white bra under the material. He’s not even pretending like he isn’t looking. After all, you did just proposition him in the street — so what does he have to be embarrassed about?

Your brain tells you to cover up and your hand instinctively raises to clasp another button. Instead, you trail your fingers from the top button on the left side, down along the open seam, until it reaches the first button that is fastened. Rhett watches you hand travel along that fine line between smooth skin and soft linen.

“What if we made a bet?” You ask him. He lifts his gaze from your chest to meet yours. The weight of his gaze almost knocks you off of your feet, your knees trembling. The look in his eye is intrigue, but it’s something else too, something you aren’t familiar with yet.

“What kinda bet?” Rhett asks. His brows tighten closer together, but not with disbelief or slight discomfort this time. With genuine interest. Your heart soars. You should have led with this.

Rhett’s a gambling man just like every other cowboy in this town.

“The rodeo this Friday. If you win,” You know his chances are slim after he hurt his hand last week. He knows this too. “Then we go to the motel on the edge of town and you take my virginity. If you lose, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

Rhett studies your features. He lifts his chin, “If I lose, you get your Dad off my back about that bar fight a couple of weeks ago.”

“I can’t get him to drop aggravated assault charges, Rhett.” You frown. Rhett pushes off of the wall and stands up straight, looking down at you. It’s a stupid charge anyway. It’s this month’s talk of the town. Rhett turned around in church and punched Billy Tillerson in the mouth. No one knows why, Billy’s adamant he didn’t say anything.

The Tillerson’s are pressing charges and trying to sue the Abbott’s over it. Just the cost of Billy’s medical bills after Rhett broke his nose.

“Those are my terms. You have yours, I have mine. Figure it out and we have a deal.” It’s practically a done deal. As much as he would like to pretend he has a shot this Friday, he’s up against some of the best in the county with a fist that he can barely close, let alone grip on with. He gets his charges dropped and you’ll have to go ask some other poor son of a bitch to put their life on the line.

He smirks, holding his hand out toward you. You hesitate, knowing that in order to get your Dad to throw out his case, you’re going to have to do some major grovelling whilst also avoiding suspicion at the same time. The odds that he’s going to lose, in your head, are slim. The odd that he’s going to win, to him, are even slimmer.

But you only have a month before you move. And no one else that you would dare ask. You stick your hand in his, watching as his fingers curl around your palm and he shakes your hand. “Alright, it’s a bet.” He confirms.

You flinch and drop your hand back to the side as you hear your name. Rhett raises his eyebrows, just waiting for you to turn back into the obedient little door mouse he knows you to be.

“Coming, Daddy!” You call back, shooting Rhett a quick smile before you turn and round the corner back onto Main Street. Rhett leans against the wall and watches as you cross the road toward the police station.

Your father smiles and hugs you, asking you where you’d been hiding before he guides you inside with him.

“What were you talking to Sheriff Clark’s kid about?”

Perry’s voice makes him jump. Rhett turns his head quickly to his brother, now standing in the door way to the store, trying to juggle the four bags of heavy feed in his arms. Rhett rushes forwards to grab two before Perry drops them all.

“Nothin’.” He answers back, his eyes still lingering on the police station now that you’ve disappeared inside. He drops the feed into the back of the pick up and turns towards his brother. “She said good luck for the ride this weekend.”

Perry’s brows scrunch as he drops his bags of feed into the truck too. He closes up the back and leans his elbows against the metal as he turns to look at the police station too. “Huh… Didn’t think her Daddy let her go to those kinda things.”

Rhett shrugs his shoulders and slides into the passenger seat. After that conversation, he realises that you’re probably not too concerned with what your Daddy wants you to do anymore.

Friday rolls around all too quickly for Rhett’s liking. His hand is also feeling a lot better by Friday after the muscle soak his Mom made him stick his hand in for three hours the night before. As calming as that was, he barely sleeps at all the night before.

He just can’t stop thinking about how insane this is. Sure, he knows that he has made a little bit of a name for himself around Amelia County — he just hadn’t realised that it had gotten to the point that the Sheriff’s daughter would come up to him in the street and ask him to take her virginity as if that was a normal thing to do.

“Princess, we’re going to be late!” Your mother calls from the bottom of the stairs.

You adjust your outfit. Tucking your t-shirt into your jeans, untucking it again, whining as you look into the mirror, undecided.

“Coming!” You grab your coat and throw it on top, hoping that Rhett won’t leave you in your outfit long enough to critique it. You fiddle with your hands in the back of the car as your father drives. It’s freezing tonight. You’re early, like your father likes to be to everything. Your family sits near the back, high enough up in the stalls to have a good view.

The Abbott’s show up ten minutes before the competition is due to begin. Celia smiled back at your parents, but other than that, you’re invisible to them. Like you are to everyone around here. You refuse to start off the same way in Seattle.

Your grateful that your parents don’t notice your fidgeting through the competition, on the way that your breath catches in your throat when the announcer reads out his name. The way that your eyes shoot wide open as the clock ticks up to eight full seconds when he rides. The way that when it’s all over, you can’t take your eyes off of his name at the top of the list.

“I’m still allowed to stay at Caroline’s house, right, Daddy?” You ask as your parents begin to move from their spots in the stands. Your father grumbles uncertainly as he turns towards you. You had agreed this with him previously. Caroline has been your best friend since first grade, she’s the only one your father trusts you with.

“Alright, fine. Is she gonna come pick you up or shall I drop you off?” Your father asks.

“She’s going to pick me up. I’m going to go talk to Father Ames about Sunday service first, okay?” No you aren’t. Far from it.

“Alright, Princess, we’ll see you tomorrow.” Your father kisses the top of your head and watches you walk away. You wait until you’re out of their sight before you dip under the rope and walk into the rider’s area.

Rhett’s turning away from a conversation with another man that you don’t recognise when he spots you. He’s already back in his normal clothes, laughing about his win. His smile falters as he looks you over.

You stand up straighter and hold your hands behind your back, smiling. His lip quirks. He waves off the man that he was talking to and walks over to you until he’s standing close enough for you to smell his cologne.

“You serious about this, kid?” He asks.

He watches as your eyes look over his face. You nod at him, “A bet’s a bet.”

“Alright. Truck’s this way.” He expects you to back out. But you don’t. Not during the walk to the truck. Not during the forty minute ride out to the motel. Not once he’s been handed the keys to the room.

“Hope you weren’t expecting flowers or anything.” Rhett jokes as he motions for you to walk ahead of him, the key dangling between his index finger and thumb.

You smile and shake your head, “No.”

He furrows his brows as you reach back and take the key from his hand. Your head turns to examine each door number as you pass them. Finally, you reach 203 and push the key into the lock.

Rhett watches your hand curl around the handle and push the door open. He hesitates and wonders why you aren’t. Why you aren’t hesitating. Then, not wanting to be caught lurking in the hall, he follows you inside and swings the door shut behind the two of you.

He watches as you walk over and take a seat on the edge of the bed, lifting your chin to look at him. You shrug your coat off and toss it onto the chair in the corner.

Rhett stands by the door and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He watches as you lift your foot and untie your laces.

“I’m gonna need more information about all of this,” Rhett decides, shaking his head as he stands with his back to the door. You look up at him, shoe half off of your left foot. “Why now? Why me — why’s it such a big deal that you haven’t been fucked before?”

He watches the way your nose scrunches in distaste at his words. That baffles him even further.

“I have a list,”

Rhett’s face flashes with confusion. Interest. More confusion.

“Of things that I need to do before I move. Adult stuff, you know?”

He watches as you continue with your laces, kicking off the left shoe first then moving onto the right. It’s just so you don’t have to look into those blue eyes.

“Like what?” It’s like he hasn’t decided if he’s going to go through with this yet. Like if he takes one more step into the room then it’s settled. Like he might still turn around and walk right back out.

He watches you kick the converse to the ground and then pull your knees up to your chest, hooking a thumb into your sock.

“Well, sex, obviously. Um, I bought my first car. Got drunk for the first time last week. Bought my own furniture. Rented a u-haul. I still have to figure out getting into a fight —“

“What?” Rhett laughs at you. “A fight?”

You pause with your sock halfway down your foot, looking up at him and pressing your lips together. You shrug your shoulders.

He steps forward finally, still shaking his head in utter disbelief. Decision made.

“You’re insane.” Hurt flashes across your face and he stops again, realising that that wasn’t what he was supposed to say. Rhett has a history of hurting women’s feelings, but he really didn’t mean to just then. “Not — sorry, I just — I don’t get it. Why the hell would you have to do all that stuff just to move out of town?”

“Because I’ve never been a grown up,” You explain to him, tucking your knees up closer to your chest. “Like, I’m an adult, sure. But I didn’t go to college, I’ve never moved out of my parents’ house. I’ve had the same job since I was sixteen. It’s time to grow up.”

Rhett seems to understand what you’ve just told him. He leans against the wall this time instead, tilting his head and looking at you like he’s waiting for you to continue.

“I want to feel like an adult by the time I move.”

He shrugs his jacket closer to his body. You tug your socks off and push yourself further onto the bed, waiting for him to finally cross the room.

“Kid, I really don’t think that me fucking you is gonna help you feel like a grown up.” He admits. You shrug your shoulders at him.

“Can’t hurt to try.” Rhett’s lips quirk softly at your optimism. You stretch your legs out, dangling them over the edge of the bed. “Besides, a bet’s a bet. I won.”

He nods his head as he finally steps forward, rolling his shoulders back and shrugging his jacket down to his elbows. “Right.”

You lean back on your palms as he drops the jacket off completely. He takes it in his hand and tosses it onto the chair in the corner of the room. Rhett crosses the room to stand before you. You push yourself to the edge.

“So, uh… how do you want to do this?” Rhett asks, reaching out and hooking a finger under your chin and lifting your jaw. You shrug your shoulders like this wasn’t all your idea.

“You’re the expert.” You answer, curling your fingers into the sheets just to have something to occupy your hands. He chuckles, then trails his fingertips from your chin to the curve of your jaw, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“How far have you gone before this?”

“What do you mean?” You frown at him. He sighs as he moves to sit at your side, laying back down against the mattress and looking at the ceiling.

“Y’know, like — third base?”

“That’s like… oral, right?” Rhett nods at you. You turn to look at him, curling one leg under you as the other hangs over the edge of the bed. He tucks an arm behind his head and raised an eyebrow expectantly at you. “No. I haven’t — I’ve never…”

“Second base?” He prods.

“I’ve never actually kissed anyone.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” He complains, grabbing his cap and pushing the brim down over his eyes. He groans out loud, squeezing his eyes shut. “Could’ve mentioned that earlier, kid.”

Your cheeks burn angrily. He’s stalling. Making excuses. A deal is a deal. Now he isn’t even looking at you, keeping his cap down over his eyes.

You lean down and press your mouth against his, feeling him tense up against you. He sits up quickly, brows furrowed.

“Now I’ve kissed someone.” You announce matter-of-factly. His lips part, like he’s going to say anything. Words fail him. “That’s all this is, Rhett. I’ve never had sex — that’s why I’m here. Do it and it’s done.”

His lips finally lift up into a real smirk. He shifts closer to you and slides a hand around to cup the back of your neck, brushing his thumb across the bump at the top of your spine. His eyes study over your features.

“You could do with some lessons on talking dirty to start with, kid.” He teases, pulling you back down and kissing your lips. You exhale a breath of relief through hint nostrils. He’s on his back, pulling you just slightly onto his chest.

Rhett’s tongue swipes across your bottom lip, his fingers sliding up into your hair, curling into your roots. He waits for you to figure out what comes next, to part your lips for him. Impatient, he tugs softly at your roots and feels your lips part in surprise. You hum softly into his mouth as he slides his tongue against yours.

“Ouch.” You complain against his mouth.

He reminds himself that he isn’t with some buckle bunny who does this every week, loosening his hold in your hair. You feel him tug you harder against him, caressing his tongue against yours. It’s easy to let him lead. He’s doing all of the work, moving his tongue against yours, taking your top lip between his — you’re just following his lead.

Rhett pushes against you, nudging his knee between your thighs as he guides you onto your back, lips not leaving yours. You’re glad that you’re wearing a thicker material, hoping that he can’t feel how much your heart is racing. He doesn’t need to feel your heartbeat to know that your nervous, he’s pretending not to notice the way your hands are still at your sides, curling into the sheets.

“I’m not gonna get hard if you just lay there like a damn mannequin.” He grumbles, sliding his hand down and uncurling your hand from the fabric. He knocks his cap off of his head and slides your hand around to the back of his neck, pushing your fingers up into his hair.

You’re embarrassed that he said that. That you might not be good enough.

“Just relax, you can touch me,” Rhett murmurs, sweeter this time as he speaks. He kisses your lips softly. “We’re just making out. People touch each other when they make out.”

His hand finds your chest, pressing his palm flat over your breast through your t-shirt. He squeezes softly over the material and rocks his crotch against your hip, feeling you gasp against his mouth.

“See? — Makes a difference, right?” He mumbles. Your fingers curl around the nape of his neck, pulling him tighter against you. “That’s it.”

His hand paws at your chest as he slides his tongue back into your mouth. Curiosity getting the better of him, he yanks your shirt from being tucked neatly into your jeans to a crumpled mess above your tits. You gasp softly as both of his hands slide along your bare stomach, up and covering your breasts with his hands over your bra.

“Now I’m more likely to get hard,” He murmurs. Your cheeks flush. Rhett tugs you forwards and manhandles you out of the shirt, leaving you in your bra before him. He studies the wide-eyed panic on your face. “Sorry. You have real nice tits.” You gasp as he kneads them in his hands. He catches the smile on your face. Pleased that he likes the way you look.

Rhett lifts his head and kisses you hard, sliding his hands down to grab at your thighs. He guides them around his hips, pressing his crotch forward against you.

“I can’t believe you never made out with anyone in high school.” He mutters, squeezing your thighs, kissing you hard. You’re dizzied with how fast he moved. How he’s all over you all at once. “Spent most of my freshman year doing this.”

“I - I had a pretty strict curfew,” You manage, curling your hand into the fabric of his shirt as his mouth presses open-mouthed kisses along the length of your throat. “My Dad was pretty strict.”

“No kidding.” Rhett mocks you, nipping softly at your throat with his teeth as he grinds his hips forward. There are two thick layers of denim between you, so you’re surprised at how exciting the sensation is when he drives himself against you.

He’s rocking back and forth, grinding himself between your legs as he teases along your collarbones. His hands slide up to grope at your chest once more, this time he groans as his hands move over your tits. It gives you a sudden surge of confidence, knowing that he likes them so much.

You know that Rhett has seen his fair share of women naked, so knowing that he finds your body appealing gives you unparalleled confidence after a lifetime of being told to cover up.

You moan out, pressing your heels into the bed and pushing your hips back against his. Rhett’s lips still at the base of your throat, moving slowly as he pulls back and squints, like you’re one of his horses and he’s trying not to spook you. Your entire face flushes, heat spreading down onto your body. Regret fills you. You wishes you could take the noise back.

Rhett sits back on his knees and slides his hand down to his crotch. Your chest heaves as you watch him. He grabs himself through the fabric of his jeans, curling his hand around his cock, watching amusedly as your eyes go wide. It occurs to you that he’s showing you that he’s half-hard.

“See? — When you stop being such a little church mouse, guys want to fuck you.” He breathes out. He squeezes his hand softly around his cock, watching your reactions.

“Do you want to fuck me now?” You ask softly, pushing yourself up on your elbows. His eyes fall down to your chest, they begin to move back up to your face, but then linger on the silver cross hanging between your tits. He hesitates.

You reach behind and unclasp your bra, sliding it off of your shoulders. You cup your breasts in your hands, half to cover yourself, half to try to do what he wants. He watches in intrigue as you press your tits together and squeeze, then let out the sweetest little sigh of contentment. The sound goes straight to his cock.

“That’s it,” He nods, grabbing the fabric of his shirt and tugging it over his head. Your lips part slightly as your eyes rake over his bare chest, tanned and muscled. “You touch yourself when you’re by yourself, kid?”

You smile up at him, then look down shyly, fiddling with your hands, “I…”

“Answer me.” He grabs your wrists in one hands and holds them above your head, rocking his hips forward against your clothed core. You gasp, feeling his cock straining against the denim as he grinds it against you.

“Sometimes.” You admit. You swallow hard as you meet his gaze, finding dark, blown out pupils in those pretty blue eyes. His fingers edge forwards until they find the button on your jeans, popping it open. He looks up at you.

“Yeah?” His voice makes you clench around nothing. You blink at him, taking your lip between your teeth. “How about you show me how grown up you are when you’re by yourself, huh?”

Rhett’s already dragging your zipper down and grabbing at the waist of your jeans. You nod dumbly and lift your hips for him. He tugs your jeans down your thighs, over your knees and off all together.

He eyes trail between your legs, over the white cotton patterned with soft watercolour blue flowers. He purses his lips. Your cross your legs and push yourself up on your elbows once more, embarrassed that you didn’t have anything more special to wear.

Rhett pushes hard against your chest, making your back hit the mattress once more. He stands up, grabbing your knees and parting your thighs for him.

“I asked you to show me, didn’t I?” He repeats, standing upright and lifting his foot to unlace his boots. You bite your lip. He watches your chest heaving. Watches a trembling hand lift from your side and slide into your panties.

You close your eyes, back in your room, alone, thinking of him. He doesn’t even remember it, you know he doesn’t, but that one time he wound up in the drunk tank on a night that you were at the station has been your inspiration for many times like this.

You were sitting at your father’s desk, chin resting against your fist. He was supposed to take you out for dinner, but there had been a domestic disturbance out at the Tillerson place involving a firearm, so the whole department had headed over there. It was just you and Rhett.

You sitting there, all dolled up and dressed for dinner in your pretty little dress, him still drunk and sitting on the floor of the cell.

He had let out a low whistle and lifted a hand, curling his finger for you to come over to him. His shirt had been ripped during a fight, so he was sitting there in just his jeans — exactly like he’s standing in front of you now.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” He had smelled like beer, but you hadn’t minded, too blinded by the attention and those pretty eyes. You’d dumbly stuttered out your name and he’d pushed himself up from the floor. Rhett had pressed his chest up against the bars and looked down at you.

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” He’d slurred his words a little, reaching through the bars to graze his knuckles across your cheek. “God spent a little more time on you, huh?”

You’d stood there, all flustered and silent like an idiot. He’d curled his fingers around your jaw, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip, groaning softly to himself.

“Open.” You don’t know why, but you’d opened your mouth for him. He pressed the digit between your lips, eyes heavy with lust as he watched your mouth wrap around it.

He had taken his bottom lip between his teeth, resting the pad of his thumb against your tongue. You had known what he had wanted you to do, sucking softly at the digit. He’d grinned at you, taking his other hand and wrapping it around the bar.

He had taken in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and then glancing down. You had followed his gaze all the way down to the straining bulge in his jeans. Then, your father had gotten back. You had jumped away from him and hurried back over to the desk.

Rhett groans softly as he watches your back arch off of the sheets, lips parted, brows raised softly as you pleasure yourself. All to the thought of him, and he has no idea.

He pops open the button on his jeans and yanks open the zipper. Your eyes open at the sound, stilling your hand between your legs. Rhett presses one knee into the mattress, grabbing at your underwear and tugging it down your legs. Your eyes fly wide open, pressing your legs together to cover yourself.

“Fuck me,” Rhett mutters, dropping to his knees beside the bed, burying his head between your legs. You gasp as he nips at your thighs, grazing his teeth against the untouched skin. “How the fuck have I never noticed you before now?”

The graze of his stubble between your legs makes you shiver as he sucks a soft purple mark into your skin. It’s like a claim — he might as well have marked his name.

“So fucking wet for me,” He trails two fingers along your core, gathering your excitement on his fingers. He groans out, pressing his mouth against you, covering your clit with his tongue. You gasp for air, arching your back up off of the bed, fisting your hand into the sheets. “Look at you, so fucking ready for it.”

You lift your head to look at him, propping yourself up on your elbows once more. Rhett sinks his middle finger into you, his cock twitching as he takes in how soaked you are for him. He works his finger in and out of you, curling it softly against your walls.

“Look,” He takes his other hand and grabs the back of your neck. You whimper softly as he pulls you forward, hunching closer, taking your lip between you teeth. He sinks his ring finger into you alongside the other. “Taking ‘em so damn well.”

Rhett lifts his chin and presses his lips against yours, working his fingers deep into you. You’re gasping and moaning against his mouth, digging your heels into the bed as his touch sends sparks through you.

“That’s it, kid,” Rhett groans out against your lips, biting softly at your lip. “Gonna cum all over my fingers, aren’t you, honey?”

He lowers his head between your legs again, pressing his lips over your clit and flicking his tongue expertly over the all too sensitive bundle of nerves. Your trembling arm gives out under you. You dig your heels into the edge of the bed, white-knuckling against the bed sheets.

Rhett palms at his jeans, adjusting the strain in his boxers as his fingers slow slightly inside of you. He presses his lips to your thighs, then your pelvic bone, then your hips.

“Fuck, I’m so hard right now.” Rhett chuckles breathlessly, like he can’t quite believe it himself, standing up and pushing his jeans down. He steps out of them and presses a knee into the mattress once more.

You’re panting, blinking up at him like your head is spinning. You whimper softly as he drops his mouth down to kiss hungrily at your neck, his stubble grazing over your smooth skin.

“I — I want to touch you first.”

Rhett’s so hard it hurts, he’s been straining against stiff denim for going on fifteen minutes now. He hesitates, then let’s out a soft breath.

He rolls off of you, planting himself on his back and hooking his thumb into the waistband of his black boxers. You roll onto your side, chewing at your cheek as you watch him push them down.

You don’t have much experience with the male anatomy, this is the first one you’ve ever seen in person. Maybe you’re biased, but you like his. Rhett wraps a hand around the base of his cock and lifts his eyes to look at your face. His lip quirks.

“Go ‘head.”

You realise you’re staring. Your eyes widen as you lift your eyes to meet his gaze.

“I-I don’t… I haven’t-“

Rhett takes your hand and opens your palm.

“Spit.” He instructs. Your brows knit together as you look between him and your hand. He nods to confirm that he meant exactly what he said. You lean forward uncertainly and spit delicately into your palm.

Rhett looks at the pathetic amount of spit in the centre of your palm, then back up at your face. He presses his lips together, lifting your hand and spitting hard into the centre of your palm. Your pussy clenches around nothing, a heavy pulse thrumming between your legs as you watch him. It’s all kinds of confusing.

“Like this.” He kicks his boxers the rest of the way off as he wraps your hand around his cock, guiding it from base to tip. He works the wetness in you palm over the tip of his cock and spreads it down the shaft.

You take your lip between your teeth, watching. He groans softly, pushing his hips up. He his hand holds yours steady, thrusting his cock into your palm.

His eyes rake over your body, lips parted slightly as he lets out soft groans. Rhett squeezes his eyes shut and rests his head back against the sheets. You take your thumb, swiping it across the leaking tip, letting him work your hand around his cock. He squeezes his palm around yours, grunting.

“Fuck,” Rhett pants out, swallowing hard and stilling both of your hands. He shakes his head and presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose. He lifts himself up, moving on top of you, “I need to be inside of you already.”

He tugs at your thighs, hiking them up around his waist, rocking the tip of his cock against you. “You ready?” He breathes gruffly. You nod furiously up at him.

“Wait, shouldn’t we use a—“

Rhett shakes his head and furrows his brows, “Don’t worry about it. I’m clean, I’ll pull out — feels better like this.” You take in a sharp breath as he pushes the tip into you and slips it back out once more. You nod at him. He’s the expert.

Rhett’s fingertips press so hard into your thighs that they begin to ache. He watches as your eyes squeeze shut the moment he presses into you. “Hey, look at me.” He murmurs, almost tenderly. You open your eyes and grab onto his arm, whimpering softly. He pulls back and pushes into you again, letting just the tip of his cock press into you again. “Gonna have to do better than that, kid. This is nothing.”

You whimper softly as you lift your head and press your forehead against his bicep. Rhett’s grip on your hips tightens as he thrusts softly into you, making you gasp out.

“Shh, shh, shh,” He kisses your temple like he feels bad — he doesn’t. “Just a little more.”

You both groan as he bottoms out, your walls being stretched to their limit. Yours is more of a desperate whimper while his is a deep groan. You adore that sound.

You nod softly against his arm. Rhett rocks his hips back and forth gently, feeling your nails dig into his shoulder as he drives himself as deeply as possible into you.

“It’ll stop hurting.” He promises, pressing warm kisses along the length of your throat as he fucks himself into you. He guides your legs tighter around his waist, eyes falling down to that silver cross as it rocks between your tits with each thrust.

“Promise?”

His cock twitches. He groans softly and nods at you, lips quirking as he brings a hand up to curl around your jaw. He turns your head and kisses your mouth, “Yeah.”

It takes a while, just a couple of minutes. The deep ache, the slightly uncomfortable stretch, it all fades whilst his lips work along your jaw. He feels you relax into him, walls clenching around his cock as you take in that first gasp of pleasure.

“Fucking hell.” Rhett mumbles into the crook of your neck, snapping his hips forward and driving his cock into you hard. You cry out, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you pull him closer. He looks down between your bodies, watching as his cock fills you over and over.

He grabs your thigh and pushes it back, angling himself so that he can drive himself into you deeper.

“Rhett!”

He groans, fingers curling around that silver cross. He tugs gently at it, pulling you forward and pressing a kiss to your mouth that’s just as filthy as the sounds spilling from your lips.

Rhett’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he meets your gaze. He drags his knuckles softly against your cheek, punctuating a sharp thrust with a grunt. He slides his hand around to the nape of your neck, curling his fingers tightly around the roots of your hair.

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist. His weight is the only thing keeping you still. He can’t help but notice what a squirming mess you are below him. It’s just stroking his ego.

“Rhett, fuck!” He smiles breathlessly at the proclamation and clutches that silver cross so tightly that it’s going to leave indents in his palm.

His hand was locks in your hair, tugging a little too hard. You yelp, then relax back into your soft mewls as he tenderly kisses your lips. Your soft whines underneath him are driving him crazy, sending him over the edge.

Those pretty eyes flutter up to look at him through thick lashes and lustfully hooded eyes. He snaps his hips forwards hard, then continues at the pace from before.

“I’m gonna cum.” You tell him. It’s a rare occasion that Rhett finds himself caring by this point in the encounter. He’s already gotten the girl off once, what does it matter to him if she gets there again? Only, tonight — he’s just about willing to do anything that’ll keep you making those deliciously sinful sounds.

Sounds that no one else in the world has heard you make except him. His hips stutter slightly. He groans, resting his forehead against the curve of your shoulder as he pounds himself into you. You can barely keep your eyes open, let alone focus on something. You’re trembling before he even makes you cum.

It’s even more intense than the last time. You muffle yourself against his bicep, quietening your scream against his skin. Your walls contract around him as you press your heel into the base of his spine, toes curling.

Rhett grunts out like you’ve punched him, tugging harder at your hair as his hips stutter into yours. His brows knot. He has every intention of pulling out. Last thing he wants on conscience is knocking up the Sheriff’s daughter. But then you’re coming hard around his cock, and you’re so tight, and you’re moaning his name.

You gasp, eyes flying wide open as you feel him spilling inside of you. He’s groaning hard against your throat, tensing as he drives himself deep into you.

He lifts his head and kisses your lips lazily. He looks down between your bodies as his cock slips out of you. He can’t pretend he doesn’t enjoy the sight of himself spilling out of you.

“Rhett!”

He pushes himself back and rolls off to lay at your side, waving you off, “You’re fine. We’ll get you a plan B in the morning,” He pants, trying to catch his breath. He stretches his arms up over his head. “Pretty grown up if you ask me — can check your first pregnancy scare off that little list of yours.”

You wish that you didn’t find that funny. You hit his arm as you lay on your back at his side.

“Do I look different?” You ask quietly. He lifts his head and turns to look at you, then chuckles softly, nodding his head as he brushes a hair back off of your face.

“Look like you just got fucked.” He announces, amused by that. You roll your eyes, cheeks burning as you shake your head at him.

“No, like — do I look… like I’m not a virgin anymore?” You ask. Rhett pushes himself up and looks you over completely. His eyes trail back down to the mess between your legs.

“I’d say so.” He smirks at you. Proud of himself. He stands up and grabs his boxers, then walks out to the bathroom. He’s wearing them when he returns, and tosses a roll of tissue paper to you for you to clean yourself up.

“Do you feel different?” He asks, grabbing his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and laying back against the pillows. You stand, walking to the bathroom to clean yourself up, not wanting to do it in front of him.

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror, fixing your hair and your mascara just slightly. “Don’t think so.” You call back to him.

“Maybe we should try it again, for good measure.” He calls back to you, only half joking. It’s after that you’ve fixed yourself up that you realise your clothes are still on the floor of the room.

Rhett’s still on top of the covers, sitting in his boxers when you come back. His brows scrunch as you shuffle towards him, covering your body as you lean down and grab your underwear first. He watches, amused.

You lift your head to look at him, catching him staring. He doesn’t make any effort to look away as you step into your underwear. You smile shyly.

“C’mere.” You slip his shirt over your head and slide under the covers, nestling in against his side. He plucks at the fabric with his index and thumb, raising his eyebrows at your boldness. He lets it go. “Figure your folks think you’re with a friend or something, right? — Don’t have to drive you home, do I?”

“No.”

“Good, didn’t want to have to track you down to drag your ass to the pharmacy tomorrow.”

Rhett makes up for a week of not sleeping well that night. He sleeps like a baby. Makes sense, giving how much he wore himself out. Helps having a pretty girl in his bed too.

He drags you out of bed at the crack of dawn, though, much to your annoyance. You’re still half asleep, resting your head against the window of the truck, using his jacket as a makeshift pillow.

“Here.” His voice startles you awake and the sound of the truck door slamming behind him makes you jump upright. He presses the packaging into your hand and a bottle of water into the other.

Another thing to check off the list. First time taking a plan B, hopefully the last. Birth control should probably be added to the list. As the thought crosses your mind, Rhett unzips the shoulder bag that you had brought to the rodeo last night.

“For next time.” He explains, dropping a box of condoms into the bag and zipping it. Your face flushes.

“Next time? — Presumptuous.”

He just smirks. Might’ve been the first time, but he’s sure it isn’t going to be the last. He drives you back to your parents’ house and parks his truck around the corner.

“Thanks for last night.” You tell him.

He nods, watching as your hand curls around the door handle. Then it occurs to him.

“Wait,” You turn to look at him again. He reaches out and curls his fingers around the silver cross necklace. “Can I keep this?” Not like you’ll be needing it anymore.

You glance down. The way his fingers have curled around it, it’s clear that he’s already decided that it’s his. You nod sheepishly. He grins and tugs at the chain, breaking it free and lifting it to examine it.

“Alright, pleasure doin’ business with you, sweetheart.”

Your face burns as you hop out of the truck and walk back up to your parents’ front door, feeling his eyes on you the entire way. Rhett hangs the cross from his rear view mirror — first trophy he’s ever received for losing a bet.

…

[ichorkurt]

actually completely changed my brain chemistry . oh my lordy lord this might've been one of the hottest things i've ever read ... it's been SO LONG since i've giggled and kicked my feet to a fic, AND reread lines over and over again bcs i couldn't get enough of it <///3

your writing style is SO GOOD op !!! you made everything so thick with sexual tension i was melting like butter forreal !!!!

the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 21143

your callsign is sunny

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

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

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

It was meant to be. 

Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.” 

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

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

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

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

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

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

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what, Mick?” 

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

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

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

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

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

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

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

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

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

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

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

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

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

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

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

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

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

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

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

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

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

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What game?” Javy asks. 

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

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

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

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

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

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

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

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

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

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

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

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

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

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

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

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

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

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

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

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

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

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

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

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

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

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

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

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

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

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

Then the room explodes. 

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

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

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

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

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

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

Stop staring, she mouths. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Right? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too much silence. 

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

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

It doesn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

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

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

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

No. No, you’re not. 

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

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

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bob,” you whisper. 

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

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

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

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Little?” 

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

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

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

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

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

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

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

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

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

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

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

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

“I doubt it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re annoying.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown. “Yet?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

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

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

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

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

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

He frowns. “What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Swear it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

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

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

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

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

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

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

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

But Bob notices. 

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

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

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown. “What?” 

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s furious. 

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

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

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

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

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze. “What?” 

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

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

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

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

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

But in the light of day? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not a wave. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the game is back on. 

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

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

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

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

And Bob sees everything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is it. 

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just Bob now. 

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

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

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

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

You don’t move. 

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

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

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

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

You lean in just a little. 

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

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

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

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

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

He snaps. 

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

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

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

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

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

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

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

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

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

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

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

“Cooling off.” 

END.

[ichorkurt]

falling to my knees screaming THE DOMESTIC LIFE WITH BOB AND KITTIES IS ALL I WANTTTT !!! your writing is sooo scrumptious op, i was eating it upp !!!

yawn | bob reynolds x reader

Word Count 6,400 Read on AO3 Warnings/Notes 18+ MDNI, AFAB!Reader. Slice of life, thunderstorms, cuddling, accidental superpower usage, lazy sex, just a lot of fluff, really. This was my sleepy version of a character study that managed to evolve itself into a proper oneshot. Synopsis As the storm rages on, you wrap yourselves in each other.

A white flash lights up the room. Lightning crackles in its footsteps, seeking vengeance for giving you a whole winter away from its blinding wrath. Thunder shakes the ground, the bed seeming to momentarily buzz around you. 

The bottle of melatonin on the bedside table is beginning to look like a better and better option by the minute. If you hadn't psyched yourself into a mind over matter agenda and tried to go without them, then maybe you would be sound asleep right now, wrapped up in a blissful, vivid dream.

But no. The clock reads 1:39 AM, and here you are rolling over for the umpteenth time, letting your eyes scan across the dark silhouettes of your bedroom decor, mind running rampant with thoughts of monsters and mythical cryptids. 

The pile of clothes in the corner is actually a stranger who has broken in and is waiting till the moment you look away to attack. That light reflecting off your mirror is the eyes of a monster never once witnessed by human eyes. Lightning flickers. The figure standing in the hallway is a trained assassin sent to—

"Holy—!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" The dark silhouette jumps, raising its palms to the ceiling. "I'm sorry!"

"Jesus Christ, Robert!" Somehow, you've wound up with your back pressed against the headboard, heart caught in your throat. How long has he been standing there? Why did you not hear him come in? 

"I'll...I'm sorry. I'll leave," his figure shrinks deeper into the hall, one hesitant foot after the other. 

"No," it comes out sharper than you intended, bordering something embarrassingly desperate. "Don't. Come back here." 

Like a fish, Bob reels back in, slowly creeping through the threshold. The room lights up once more, two, three, four, five flashes one after the other. It's there and gone in a matter of seconds, but you've already caught sight of the dark circles lingering beneath his eyes, messy hair poking in every which way. 

Sliding back down into the bed, you peel back the sheets, arms wide open for him. His feet quicken, audibly padding across the hardwood floor, and then he's falling into you. No grace or effort to be slow about it, too eager to wedge himself into you, tucking his head under your chin.

Your fingers comb through his hair, dragging your nails against his scalp. "Do you want to talk about it?"

His head shakes, squirming a little bit closer. A vicious boom sends something crashing down in the hallway. Bob grumbles. One of his legs slots between yours, coiling an arm around your waist, as if to try and meld himself into you. 

"I tried to call," he's so close that his voice vibrates up your neck. "I promise I did."

"Don't apologize for that," you pause, just long enough to press a kiss to his forehead. Instantaneously, his lips find your collar, always keen on returning them. "Just...say something before you start looming in my doorway like a damn ghost."

"Sorry," his mouth breaks away from you with a giggle. "I didn't realize you were awake until you jumped."

Lightning strikes something outside the window. An ear-splitting crack tears through the room. 

Bob jumps. 

Frankly, so do you. And maybe that's why he started squeezing you tighter, because that's exactly what you're doing, too, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and squirming the slightest bit closer. As if that will save you in the event lightning chooses your bed as its next, unfortunate target.

Morning arrives in the form of raindrops pattering against the window. Gloomy hues of gray serve as their backdrop, thick clouds masking the sunlight so seamlessly that you can't tell what time it is. It could be early morning, or the afternoon could be coming to a close; it all looks the same.

You've rolled over at some point and time, but Bob's arm still rests around you, his forehead nestled into your shoulder. He's so warm, damn near drawing you back into bed before you've clambered out of it, but the overwhelming desire for something to drink triumphs above all else. 

It was a picture frame that fell off the wall last night. Face down on the living room floor, in a pile of shattered glass that a future version of you will have to clean up.

That future version of you arrives within the next few minutes. You can only stare at it for so long before you're inclined to clean it up while the kettle boils. If you don't do it now, then you won't do it until either the end of the day or when Bob inevitably steps on it and cuts his foot wide open.  

You still don't know what time it is. Your phone sits on the counter, right where you left it, the little notification light blinking like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode if it receives one more text. 

And frankly, that's why you don't want to pick it up. 

A scratchy chin settles onto your shoulder, familiar arms once again coiling around you. "You left me."

"Only for a few minutes," you hum. It's like leaning into your own sentient blanket, one that squeezes you a little bit tighter and tilts his head to press a kiss into your cheek.

A shrill whistle dissolves the moment before you've had a chance to soak it in, the boiling water squealing with rage until you pour it into a tacky little mug. Hot chocolate mix rises to the surface, stubbornly refusing to mix until you stir it with the spoon.

"What did Yelena ever do with the rest of these?" You still don't understand what possessed her to buy that giant, hundred-dollar mystery box at the thrift store. Something something, 'you never know what you'll find!' only for her to cut the tape and unveil a museum of many, many ugly mugs.

It's hard even to remember them all. Tacky vacation souvenirs, bad jokes. Some had odd, novelty shapes, others changed colors at different temperatures, a few belonged to movies and TV shows that you've never heard of. There was even one from a 2007 art class hidden in there, a rough but valiant attempt at creating a cat. 

"Kept some for the kitchen, stashed the rest in Bucky's briefcase," Bob's laughter breaks through his yawn. "We crammed so many in there that we could hardly get it closed." He doesn't say anything, but you can feel his eyes follow your hand into the bag of mini marshmallows, watching as you drop a handful of them into the hot chocolate.

"Is Bucky aware of this?" Lifting a marshmallow to your shoulder. 

"Not yet," his lips brush your fingertips, and the spongy little treat is gone. You offer another. It suffers the same fate. 

You fully intend to step out of his arms for a moment; you're only heading toward the fridge, but Bob waddles along with you as if he's been permanently bound to you. Two ice cubes are all you're after, the final, necessary touch to keep him from burning his mouth again. 

For all intents and purposes, he should know this is for him; he only takes his hot chocolate one way. And yet his eyes go round when you offer it to him.

"For me?" As if the 'I heart Bob' cup could be for anyone else.

"Yes, for you," lifting it a little bit higher, insistent. 

You're convinced that the mug shrinks the moment he takes it from you. There's no other explanation for it, the damn thing is microscopic in his oversized hand, a thick, bulging vein sprawling up the back of it and into his forearm.

...you've got to quit staring. 

"Have you taken your medicine yet?" It's the first question that pops into mind. You should have asked this anyway.

He shakes his head, lifting the mug to his mouth. One sip is all it takes for the melted marshmallow to coat his upper lip. A twinge of gold colors the inside of his iris when he finds what he likes, there and gone in the blink of an eye.

Two pill organizers sit right next to the marshmallows, decorated with stickers and faces drawn in Sharpie, courtesy of a long, drawn-out power outage that lasted longer than your phone batteries could. The pale green one is his, emptier than you remember it being and definitely in need of a trip back to his apartment for a refill, but there's enough for today. 

"Three in the morning?" You think it was three. There are three in here, but his prescriptions are constantly changing, still trying to find the perfect concoction of medications that will work for him. 

"Two. I'm taking the green one at night now," his sleepy, lopsided grin is blinding. "Taking it during the day makes it feel like there's a tiny little man in my head who tasers my brain every few seconds." 

The gears in your head start turning, working to conjure a mental image of that evil little man he speaks of. 

Bob's grin drops into something meek. "That...doesn't make much sense, does it?"

With a hum, you drop the two pills into his empty palm, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "It was a great analogy." You just need a moment to process what he's said. 

Heading back to bed is tempting, but the potential hot chocolate spill risk is what ultimately lures the two of you into the living room, curled into the corner of the couch like a pair of otters floating aimlessly in the sea. Except your sea is composed of all the blankets Bob can get his hands on, topped off with a dalmatian plushie who, conveniently, is also named Bob.

Rain still patters against the windows, with tiny little 'tap tap tap's that merge into a lullaby of sorts, drawing your eyes to a close against their will. Bob isn't doing much better, his head settles onto your shoulder mere seconds after you hear his mug settle onto the coffee table. Half empty. 

Always half empty. 

Give it some time, and he'll mosey back to it, wrinkling his nose when he finds that his hot chocolate has had the utmost audacity to go cold on him. He'll pop it into the microwave and stand there, watching it spin around on the glass tray until four seconds are left on the timer, take it out, chug the rest, and then delicately place his mug into the back left corner of the sink.

"I can hear you thinking," he murmurs. Outside, lightning cackles, as if to agree wth him.

"I thought you weren't using your superpowers?" It's the same deflection every time.

But he lets you get away with it, too kind and too sleepy to press you on what is going through your mind right now. Instead, he nuzzles further into you, hiking a leg over your hip. "Is being able to read someone's face supposed to be a superpower?"

"If it is, then it's definitely in your arsenal," like a moth to a flame, your hand wanders into his hair, already beginning to toy with a curl.

"Millions of dollars and decades of research," a yawn wracks through him. "All to create a guy with the magical ability to know when his partner is thinking really hard about something."

And now you're yawning, too. "It's a scientific miracle."

The pitter-patter of the rain is what whisks you away once more. The soft rumble of thunder and distant, howling wind blends into a comforting white noise, only interrupted by the slightly louder purr of Bob's snoring. You no longer know where you begin and Bob ends; you've simply melted into a puddle, the cocoon of blankets is the only thing to keep you from spilling out and onto the floor below.

But a cozy nap doesn't prevent a storm from rolling in, and for the umpteenth time, your eyes open to the sound of lightning, striking something nearby. It's darker now, the living room cast into dark hues of gray and black, broken apart by the occasional blitz of light from outside. Your phone buzzes on the counter, either a phone call or an emergency alert, neither of which is worth picking it up.

What's the point of a cellphone when the only person worth talking to is blinking up at you with sleepy blue eyes?

"I'm gonna take a shower," you announce, after a long moment. Might as well get one in, just in case a power outage revokes the luxury of hot water.

Bob blinks, visibly processing what you've just said to him. A moment passes, and then, a thought comes to him. "Can I come?"

You nod, but nothing happens. You're not moving. He's not moving. Time has either stopped and let your consciousness reap the terror of being trapped in a frozen body, or you really just don't want to move. 

When your feet finally hit the floor, you're not sure, but at some point, you find yourself being greeted by a steady stream of warm water that nearly melts you on the spot. Like your shadow, Bob follows close behind, and you've never been more thankful to be blessed with this walk-in shower, because frankly, you don't think this would work if you were squeezing into a tub together. 

Not with those broad shoulders, that is. Composed of thick muscle that flex and collect tiny rivers that flow down the freckled expanse of his back, past the three circular scars along his spine. Experiment souvenirs. They're not very big, you can perfectly fit your fingertips into them like buttons, but in comparison to the sheer size of his body, they might as well be microscopic.

"Watcha looking at?" He's peeking over his shoulder, eyes sparkling. 

You've been caught. 

...might as well commit to it. 

"Nothing," coy as can be, you grab a handful of his ass. 

His mouth pops open, the tips of his ears twinging with pink, then red. But as quickly as the shock sprang onto his handsome face, it melts into something bashful, suddenly unable to meet your gaze anymore. The only thing that doesn't change is the soap bubbling in his hair, slowly but surely making its way down the back of his neck. 

He turns toward you, tilting his head back into the steady stream of water. There's only so much the water alone can do, and you're sure that he fully intends to do it himself, but you find yourself reaching for the shower wand, bringing it closer to help you and your one remaining hand to wash the soap from his hair.

"'s nice," he hums, his hands settling on your hips. "Are you washing all of me?"

"Washing you and myself?" Feigning shock. 

"Well, I can help with that," he blindly reaches out, first stealing away your wash cloth, and then feeling about for your body wash.

...you wonder if he knows that he's floating the damn bottle toward himself. Surely if he knew, he wouldn't still be patting around, looking for the shape until—

It lands in his hand. 

Yeah, he doesn't have a clue. He's so preoccupied with getting soap on your chest that he can't possibly be thinking of anything else, rubbing it into your skin in loose, lazy circles. For something so simplistic, it's shockingly difficult. Your arms keep bumping into his, he's trying to get a part of your back, but pulling you forward only ends in you accidentally spraying him in the face. 

"Hey!" Bob squeals, as if he didn't directly cause this by himself.

"Your fault!" Dodging an attack to the chin from the soapy cloth. 

Your wet hand futilely smacks him in the chest. He gets you on the belly. You tilt the wand to spray water at the nape of his neck. A glob of soap gets you in the cheek, you can only gather it so fast, but he already knows your game plan, dodging before you can get it on his nose. And then—

There are lips on yours. Soft and fleeting, there and gone within milliseconds, appearing again on your cheek, the bridge of your nose, and your forehead. You can't possibly keep up with them; Bob has gotten in two more attacks in the time it takes for you to retaliate.

"Bo!" Yelping, pawing at his chin. No dice. Nothing is getting between him and his vicious attack. "Damnit, Sentry!" 

"Don't 'Sentry' me!" His giggle is so loud that it echoes, ringing incessantly in your ears, so damn distracting that you fall victim to his finishing move. A proper kiss. It hits you so hard, so easily that you nearly fall backward with it, only held up by his big, steady hands. 

This is what you've been missing. 

Every shred of tension melts from your body, washing away, swirling down the drain, and into the abyss. You're nothing but a limp mess in his arms, collapsing into his chest, helpless to do anything but chase the sweetness of his lips, molding against you so wonderfully that it borders on unfair. 

He steps forward, and your back finds the bathroom tile. Cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warm body that closes the gap between you. Hands nudge at your thighs, pressing into the fat of them until you get the hint and jump. His hips slot between your legs with such ease that it nearly causes you to short-circuit. 

Kissing Robert Reynolds, frankly, is an otherworldly experience that ought to bring out the sun and banish every dark cloud from the sky. Perfection exists, and it's this. The delicate way that his kiss draws you into him, lips tangled in a dance that you're far from mastering, taking the wrong steps, yet somehow managing to avoid stepping on the other's feet.

Your hand rises to his jaw, feeling the subtle flex of the muscle there, far too innocent for how he grabs a handful of your ass. Payback, you suppose.

"Robert," you don't mean to sound so desperate, you really don't, but it's too late, you're mewling like a cat in heat. 

"Bedroom?"

"Uhuh."

You're either developing a memory loss problem, or Bob is tapping into another unknown super power, because you don't remember what happens from there. One moment you're up against the wall, the next, you're being greeted by the familiar comfort of the bed, curving perfectly to your frame.

Bob's forearms brace themselves on either side of your head, caging you in as his warm body slots against yours once more. You haven't the slightest clue how much time has passed. Don't really care, either. It's hard to give a damn about anything when the tip of Bob's nose traces along the side of your cheek, guiding himself back to your mouth.

The storm protests with a vicious cackle, the bedside lamp flickering with a wordless threat to plunge you into permanent darkness. Wind squeals around the corners of the apartment, shrieking a threat that you don't care to listen to. The whole building could collapse for all you care, so long as this doesn't end. 

Bob's hips tilt forward, his heavy cock rubbing against the inside of your thigh, "this is still okay?"

"I would have told you if it wasn't," and if that's not convincing enough, your legs wrap around his waist, clinging to him like it's the only thing you know how to do.

And oh, does he let you. If anything, he's ushering himself closer, his firm belly flattening against yours, erasing every bit of space that dares put itself between you. One of his hands are cradling your face, and your fingers are in his wet hair, and—

The kiss breaks with a mutual gasp. 

Again, he rocks his hips forward, thick cock slipping between your folds and rubbing against your clit. How you didn't feel him lazily rutting between your legs, you have no idea, but you are so not complaining. 

"I've missed this," he blurts, speaking against your lips. 

It takes a moment to find your voice, one of the many controls lost to the mindboggling distraction that is him grinding into you. "It's been like a week," and it sounds like it's been a week since you've had anything to drink, too.

"A week too long," Bob nips at your bottom lip. You don't respond. He nips again, whining at you like an expectant puppy, eager for something you can't deny him any longer. Lips part. Tongues meet in an instant. 

It's a losing battle before the fight has even started; he's already licking into your mouth, swallowing the whine he draws out of you. So unfair. You didn't even stand a chance, helpless to do anything but follow his lead. On their own, your hips twitch, and pleasure shatters the kiss once more. 

In its place, appear kisses on your cheek, trailing along the side of your jaw, and to your neck. They linger in the space behind your ear, gently sucking on the skin there, enough for you to feel the pressure of it, but never bruising. If someone were to catch sight of a hickey on you, he might spontaneously combust. 

"Robert," you don't know why you're whispering his name, lifting from your tongue like a sacred prayer. 

He hums, peering up at you through his lashes, working his way down the side of your neck. One kiss after the other, his wet tongue leaving a faint trail in his wake. There's nothing you can do but cling to his shoulders, fighting to stay still as he kisses along your chest. 

"Tickle?" He knows the answer to that question, grinning like a cat who got the cream. 

A breath strangles out of you. "No."

"You're squirming," and he's got the audacity to laugh while he says it, like he's not also reaching to cup your breast, swiping his thumb over a soft nipple. 

You've got no response to that, quietly watching him lean in and swirl his tongue around it. The warmth of his mouth is more than welcome, drawing your back up off the bed, chasing his touch, but...there's something else that you want a whole lot more.

Your hand darts to the bedside table, where the lube rests on the nearest corner. The tips of your fingers brush against the plastic tube, gaining traction, only for it to scoot beyond your reach entirely. 

The bottle jumps into your hand. Suddenly sentient.

Bob stiffens. "Oops." 

"I thought you weren't using your powers?" You're trying to sound serious about it, but you lose this battle, too, your own laughter causing you to struggle to even open the cap.

"I didn't mean to, I—!" The color drains from his face by the second, shocked as can be. "I wished it would go to you and it just...did!" He sits up, looking at his hands as if he thinks the Void is already taking over.

But he remains unchanged, just like any other time that he's subconsciously done this, whether he's realized it or not. Leaving you ample time to pour a generous amount of lubriant into your palm, so much that it nearly spills through your fingers as you reach down and wrap your hand around his flushed, pink cock. 

"Ah—!"

Aside from his hair, this is the darkest part of his body, cock head flushed a deep crimson that contrasts so beautifully against the rest of him. Precum spills, swiftly collected by your thumb, spreading it and the lube across his length in one, practiced motion. You know you're doing it right when he tries to chase your retreating hand. 

A pout etches itself onto his face, "mean." 

"Would you rather stick to just a handjob?" It's a genuine question laced into your best, teasing tone. 

"No, no, no," Bob is already on top of you again, before you can begin to take your playful suggestion seriously. "I'm just...being..." His brow furrows, something self-deprecating visibly forming in his head.

"Being cute?" You fill in the blank before he can, reaching to squish his cheek with your clean hand. 

There he goes. Smiling at you like the world's sweetest fool, borderline shy about returning to the task at hand, guiding himself between your legs. The wet tip of his cock dips between your folds, brushing past your clit, and then—

Familiar pressure greets you. It's all you can do to keep from impatiently pushing yourself onto him, hanging onto what little self-control you have left while he takes his time, slowly pushing in like it's the first all over again. But this time, he slips in much, much easier. 

Lord, have mercy, you've already forgotten about the sheer width of him. You should have known from the start that those doe eyes were compensating for something, but how the hell could you have predicted...

You shouldn't have looked. 

Now you can't tear your eyes away.

There's something mesmerizing about the sight of Bob's cock gradually disappearing inside of you, your pussy visibly stretching to accommodate him and his obnoxious girth. Bob follows your line of sight, hips stuttering when he finds what has your attention. 

"I can feel you clenching, baby," he mutters, breaking you from your hypnosis. 

Yeah, that might be why he's moving so slowly. But just because you're telling your body to relax, doesn't mean it's going to mindlessly obey. Not this part of you, at least, stubbornly clamping down around his fat cock like you're trying to catch him in some kind of obscene chokehold. 

Fingertips trail up your sides. Featherlight kisses work their way up your chest and into your neck, tickling. You're giggling before you know what's going on, pawing at his hands as he all but lays his weight on top of you. 

Heat races up your belly, the side of his cock rubbing against sensitive nerves. Oh, and the stretch of him aches, but you can't...you can't focus on anything other than how full you feel. It's all that you can think about, how he sinks into you bit by bit, gradually opening you up around him. 

A fragile gasp breaks through the air; he's bottomed out. 

"Bo..." You don't know why you're using that silly little nickname, mindlessly speaking everything that comes to mind. 

Bob's nose nuzzles into your temple. "Are you okay?" 

"More than okay," you breathe. 

Thunder booms, and you're sure that the lightning is putting on her greatest show yet, but she doesn't have an ounce of your attention. No, that's all reserved for this. 

Experimental, Robert begins to move. 

Slow. Not in any rush to pull out of you, once again taking his time as he gradually pushes himself back in. It's easier this time, a wet little noise punctuating the meet of your bodies. There's nothing heated about it; you've got no reason for it to be. It's just you and your ridiculously superpowered boyfriend, taking all of the time in the world. 

"There," sparkles light up behind your eyes. "Oh my god, right there."

Shit, how is he already rubbing into those nerves? Usually, it takes him a minute to find them, but today—

"Right there?" Only Robert Reynolds can manage to sound so innocent when he's fucking you, like a damn earnest puppy looking for his treat. But he's doing exactly what you've asked of him, and if you had a treat, you'd give it to him.

Your arms loop around his shoulders, pulling him even closer, noses bumping. Gold laces his irises, washing over their usual blue, there and gone with a simple blink of his eye, but you know what you saw.

"I love you," he mewls, and you can practically see the hearts in his eyes. 

Mouths collide like two galaxies, stars and planets exploding behind your eyelids like fireworks. A once-in-a-lifetime showing, and you've got front row tickets. The universe itself ceases to exist. There is nothing else, only you and Bob Reynolds himself, tangled so deeply that eternity herself can never hope to unravel you. 

"I love you, too," you can't hear yourself over the incessant thump of your heart, loud in your ears, as if it doesn't have a designated place to be. 

But you wouldn't be shocked if Bob's fat cock was so big that it entirely rearranged you, because that's certainly what it feels like. There's no other word for it, other than full. Stretched to your limit, your cunt struggling to even flutter around him as he sinks into you. 

That so-called little noise of your bodies meeting is growing louder. Fuck, its so unfair, he's so big that he hits everything and you're absolutely soaked. The very sound of it is far too obscene for the moment, so loud that the neighbors can probably hear your pussy practically weeping around his damn cock. 

Bob's hand tucks beneath your thigh, pushing it up to your belly, opening you even more and—

"Oh my god!" You wail. He's hitting it. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh. "Fuck, Robert—!"

He sucks in a sharp breath of air, his head almost tipping back at the sensation of you clenching around him. The rhythm he so carefully built is dissolving by the second, and frankly, so are you, unraveling like a loose thread.

"Keep squeezing my cock like that, shit," Bob's groaning, irises flickering with gold, just like the lightning in the window. "Your pussy feels so good."

What's louder, the raging wind or the two of you panting, like dogs in the hot sun? You don't have the answer. You're too busy focusing on pressing your fingertips to your swollen clit, massaging it in a tune that definitely does not match the sway of Robert's body. 

But it doesn't matter. The heat is already coiling in your lower belly, burning into your thighs and winding you impossibly tighter around Bob's length. Your back is trying to rise up off the bed again, and your hand has somehow gotten in his hair, and he's kissing you again.

"I'm gonna cum," he blurts. Ragged. 

Your lips are moving. Nothing comes out. All you can do is nod.

"Please cum on my cock," Bob all but collapses into you. Whispering into your ear. Begging. Pleading. "Please, can we come together? Please? Oh my god, please."

A noise blurts out of you. Close. You're so close. Hanging onto him for dear life, his blunt tip keeps kissing that spot over and over and over and

"Oh my god, cum for me please, please—!" Bob cries out. The final snap of his hips shoves you up the bed, pulsing with an orgasm so intense that you can feel him twitch with it, and...you're cumming with him.

It washes through you in one big wave, beginning with a delicate twitch down in your toes, rolling up into your thighs, up your belly, and following your spine, swirling in your head. The world itself is a distant memory. All you can comprehend is the pleasure of cumming around him, fuel poured into an already raging fire. 

Reality flowers in the form of cool air, rushing in from the vent like a medic, here to valiantly chase away the beads of sweat that have collected on your skin. But nothing is quite as warm and grounding as the big, burning body on top of yours. Robert, with his messy hair and pink cheeks, snuggled on you like you're his personal pillow.

"Hi," he chirps, with a yawn. 

"Hi," you're yawning too, now. Must be contagious. 

He does, ultimately, roll off of you at some point, though you're not sure how much time passes before that happens. The sheets are beyond saving; the valiant efforts of a wash cloth can't remedy this, only the washing machine and its humble sidekick, the dryer, can save the day now. You've practically slept the day away, you should have energy to get up and deal with it, but...

Bob's arms are distracting. 

So are his hands, for that matter, absently wandering up and down your skin, going as far as he can comfortably reach. In return, you trace the hard lines of his belly, following the grooves of his abdomen like a maze, with his veins functioning as a shortcut to his chest and lower belly, stopping just shy of his soft, oversensitive length.

But then, he freezes.

"Bo?" Did the air conditioning cause him to turn into ice? 

"I forgot to feed the cats," he says it in such a way that it sounds like he's committed a federal crime. Which, as far as the kitties themselves are concerned, may be valid.

"The stray cats who live outside of the Avengers building?" You know which ones he's talking about. The small but humble colony of kitties who fuss at local reporters while they're on the air, determined to get their side of the story on television. 

You're beginning to suspect that the silver tabby is nothing but a gossip. She has crashed at least five news networks by now.

"They're not strays, they're official employees." There's no way he isn't making this up on the spot, just to get a laugh out of you. 

And it works. You're giggling about it even when you're standing in the living room, trying to squeeze your shoes on without untying them first. Official employees. Representatives of the company. Paid interns. Soon enough, the New Avengers will be fully feline run.

"What made you start feeding these guys, anyhow?" You ask, watching him lift the forgotten mug to his mouth. 

His nose wrinkles. The hot chocolate has once again dared to become cold. "I accidentally dropped a box of leftovers and watched three of them run out to steal everything that spilled out."

The story continues as he walks away, heading for the kitchen. "They still looked hungry, but I couldn't, you know, feed them a half-eaten burger and some fries, so I went and got them their own kibble." Three beeps. The microwave begins to hum. "Now I can't stop, because they expect it from me."

You don't need to see what happens next. The microwave stops, chased by a moment of silence. The water runs, and then, the cup audibly settles inside the sink. Back left corner. 

Night has already fallen on the outside world, washing the city in hues of black and blue, broken apart by headlights and stubborn, LED signs that all clamour for your attention. They don't know that their competition is Robert Reynolds, world's most distracting man, who uses his thumb to rub circles into the back of your hand. 

A small swarm of felines resides in the alleyway outside of the tower, adorable, screaming balls of damp fur and rage. Most of them are friendly, trotting at Bob's heels and meandering between your feet, but others dart further down the sidewalk or dodge behind a dumpster, looking for any good spot to hide from your prying eyes. 

Bob only leaves you for a moment, returning with plastic bowls and a bag of cat food that he nearly spills on top of a particularly bold, orange cat. Why wait for the bowl to be filled when you can shove your head right into the stream of kibble? 

The final bowl is placed, and...

Silence. No more meowing or endless screaming, only the soft crunches of tiny jaws chowing down on dinner. 

The orange cat, despite being first to his bowl, moves on to the next as soon as he's run out. There is a reason why he's beginning to look closer to a bowling ball than a feline, the fuzzy glutton. His deadly sin runs another cat off from the bowl, a calico who is content to rub herself against your leg, rather than fight over a meal. 

"Oh," Bob has wandered away from you, standing over by the dumpster now. "Oh!" 

"What?" You squint, but you can't see what he's picking up. 

Whatever it is, he's using both hands to cradle it under his chin, a precious little thing that he's found. "It's a baby!" 

You can't see it until he's right in front of you. A tiny, bite-sized ball of fluff, marked with even tinier stripes, another tabby, this time in the smallest form possible. Its mouth opens with a faint, but mighty "mew!" 

And then promptly bites Bob's finger. Ferocious.

Oh god.

Oh god, there are big, expectant eyes looking at you now. He's already pouting; you know what he's about to ask, and he knows what your reply is. He can't keep it in the tower; the chances of someone leaving a door open and it getting out onto the streets are astronomical. 

But that little kitten is another mouth to feed. A very expensive, tiny mouth at that. There's no way that little bitty thing can eat hard food, its eyes aren't even open! And the cost of buying kitten formula? In this city?

Lightning silently flickers, casting a strange, monstrous shadow. 

...

It's last night all over again. The ongoing storm. A creepy, unexpected sight created by a momentary burst of light. Robert and his pleading eyes, with his new kitten tucked against his neck, if not identical to how he fit himself beneath your chin. 

The last-ditch effort begins, scanning each and every cat, looking for a recently pregnant momma who might have left her baby unattended for a meal. No kittens, no dice. The closest thing to pregnant is that damn orange one. 

"Do you think we can—"

"Yes." 

There's something else you plan to say, something about custody rights and who is feeding it and when, but the thought dies before it gets to your mouth. You can feel something...

Oh. Now, why did you go and wear the gray sweats? They're already showing off every rain drop they've absorbed, and now...

"Come on," you're taking Bob by the arm, careful not to jostle the tiny thing from his hand as you pull him along. "We're finding a bathroom, and then we're off to the pet store."

He tilts his head. "Why the bathroom?"

Now that you've felt it, you can't unfeel it. Why must there be consequences to your actions? "Because I've got your cum running down my leg."

"Oh!" He squeaks. Then, lowering his voice. "Well, I can help...with that...?" Bold, until he loses momentum mid-sentence.

"Not with a child in your hands, you're not." 

The kitten mews. It's starting to sound like Bob already. 

[ichorkurt]

this was soo cute oh my godd !!!

Sneaking Around

Bob doesn't mean to be sneaking around. But he can't help it. He's got a secret, and he wants to keep it that way. Too bad he's best friends with Yelena Belova.

Warnings: Thunderbolts* spoilers, minor (and i mean MINOR) talks of addiction

Part two

"Bob."

Yelena watched as he stopped in his tracks. He looked cosy in his sweater and trousers. Not like the rest of them, ready in combat gear.

"Where are you going?"

She didn't mean to so closely keep tabs on him. He was a fully grown man, after all. Not some child that couldn't be trusted. But she still worried.

His sleeves were rolled up slightly, stopping them from falling over his hands. "Out," he said, eyes darting between Yelena and Alexi (the only other person in the room with them).

Yelena raised her eyebrows. "Just... out?"

"Just out." He shook his head slightly, raised his hands and smiled at his shoes.

Yelena looked him over once more. There was nothing remarkable or out of the ordinary about him. Nothing to suggest anything was wrong. "Okay," she said.

"Okay?" The way Bob asked it, it was like he was asking for permission.

Yelena let her expression soften. "Come back safe."

"I will."

With that, Bob left. His hands entered his pockets as he stepped into the elevator and turned around. Still smiling at Yelena as the doors slid shut.

"Okay," Yelena said as she stood up. Moving her heard from side to side, she listened to her neck click before she started towards the window.

"Yelena, where are you going?" Alexi asked, more nosey than anything else.

Yelena ignored him as she opened up the window and jumped out.

***

There was something about the way Bob walked. His steps were kind of bouncy, his head held high. It was something you wouldn't notice, unless you knew what you were looking for.

Yelena knew what she was looking for.

Following Bob was all too easy. He had no idea anybody was behind him, couldn't fathom the idea that someone was following him.

Nowadays, Bob was so content. He wasn't looking over his shoulder, wasn't over thinking every move he made. He wasn't scavenging for his next fix.

He was happier, now. He still had his dark days, sure, but he was overall happier.

Yelena was three steps behind him. She made no move to weave around the New Yorkers walking past her, didn't need to be elusive and sneaky when it came to Bob.

But then Bob stepped into a cafe.

It was just a normal cafe, Independently owned, serving a variety of hot and cold drinks. Cakes were in the display case in front of the counter, three baristas wiping down the space behind it.

Bob went straight over to the counter. Yelena watched from the window as Bob looked up at the chalkboard above the coffee machines. His mouth was open, Yelena could hear the 'uhhhhhh' he was probably letting out.

But then he chose.

One barista began making the coffee. Another barista began making something in the blender. A mixture of milk and ice and some sort of syrup from a pump.

Once they were made, the baristas put the drinks on a tray and passed it to Bob. He thanked them both and headed over to an empty table.

And Bob sat there, alone. He took both drinks from the tray and placed the tray on the empty table beside him. He didn't drink the milkshake in front of him, didn't touch the coffee opposite him.

After a few moment, Yelena stepped towards the door of the cafe. He was waiting for someone, someone who wasn't going to show up. All she had to do was sit opposite him and he wouldn't be so alone.

But then somebody rushed in front of her. They pushed open the cafe, the bell above the door chiming, and walked over to Bob's table.

"I'm so sorry I'm late!" She cried as she sat down.

The tips of Bob's ears became red. "You're not that late," he mumbled and picked up his milkshake.

Grabbing two cubes of sugar from the pot between them, she dropped them into her drink. "Still," she said, stirring her sugar in. "Next time I'll run."

Yelena furrowed her brows. Who the hell? She wondered as she watched the two of them.

Bob must've said something funny, something that had her laughing and him giggling at himself. Of course he did, that was what Bob did. On his good days, he was a light.

But Yelena watched as she reached across the table and placed her hand on top of Bob's. It was a sweet move, her thumb brushing over his wrist. Bob didn't withdraw from her. No, he moved closer.

The two chatted as they drank their drinks. As soon as their cups were drained, she shook up and offered her hand to Bob.

Bob took it. He looked down at her like there was nothing else in the cafe, nothing else in the world.

Linking her arm through his, she dragged him out of the cafe. Well, she didn't need to drag him; he was happy to trail after her.

Yelena had to admit, she was cute. But that didn't make her trustworthy.

Bob was much more than a super weapon. Yelena knew that, she knew that better than anyone. But that was still one of the fears that flashed through her mind as she followed them.

They disappeared into a bookshop. Two seconds later, Bob emerged. Yelena ducked down the side of the building next door to the bookshop. The building Bob entered.

He left the florists a few moments later, a small bouquet in his hands. The flowers were all soft, pastel colours. Baby blues and pinks and whites. It was gorgeous. It was obvious Bob didn't pick it out himself.

It was then that Yelena realised what was happening. Bob had a girlfriend.

As soon as the flowers were in her hands, mystery girl kissed him. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Yelena backed away. She'd completed her mission, made sure Bob was okay. He was better than okay.

He was in love.

[ichorkurt]

so good oh my god. the writing. the silent blenders moment. their dynamic together. the stupid tweets. alpine. the rest of the avengers teasing them. UGH i'm sooo obsessed :(

unsolved masterlist

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or any shits left to give, to make things even worse.

(Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: cursing, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, horror/paranormal elements

Disclaimer: no plot just vibes <3 it's just another banger dynamic that i loved and therefore had to write a garbage fic about. This is, in no way, a literary masterpiece so just be warned.

Here’s my Ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

to keep up with updates for this fic and others, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14

[ichorkurt]

WE NEED MORE BUCKY CHARACTER STUDIESSS 📢📢📢

ugh this was so well-written, it's so painful diving into bucky's perspective :( loveddd reading this, so excited to see future parts dude !!! especially excited to see his healing journey and how he deals with the grief !!!

Nobody's Soldier - bucky barnes, ch.1

chapter 1

summary: The Soldier rolled and got up on his feet. The mask lay forgotten on the asphalt. He turned around to face the Captain.

The blond man paused and straightened. Eyebrows furrowed, he seemed shocked.

“Bucky?” The man stumbled over the word, barely getting it out of his mouth.

“... Who the hell is Bucky?”

words: 2,504

warnings/includes: bucky character study, canon-typical violence, angst, blood & injury, PTSD, physical disability, memory loss, brainwashing

a/n: forcing myself to post this chapter so i can force myself to write more. i'm so excited for this bc this guy has been living in my head for too long with lots of headcanons so finally putting words to paper (?)

read on ao3

“Longing. Rusted. Seventeen.” 

Gloved hands loosened the thick straps that dug into his forearms. Another pair ripped the mouth guard from between his teeth. 

“Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. ”

The straps tying each of his legs to the chair were removed next. The metal around his head, touching the side of his face, is removed. 

“Benign. Homecoming. One. ”

Cold, rubber-covered hands gripped him and shoved him up. He stumbled forward and caught himself. 

“Freight Car. ”

He stiffened, ice crawling up his spine. A sharp inhale and, “Ready to comply. ”

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

He was laying down on his front, hands steady and gripping the sniper tightly. The cold was seeping in through his leather jacket from the hard bricks below. His target was in the apartment opposite the roof, it was his final chance to complete the mission. The Winter Soldier does not fail. 

His eyes remained trained on the window of the apartment, waiting for his opportunity to see his target. Suddenly, he saw a faint light turn on through the window only to turn off again seconds later but it was enough to gain his focus and confirm the presence of his target. Moments later he saw faint movement at the edge of a window with what vaguely seemed like an arm being raised. It was enough for the Soldier to determine the location of his target. 

So, he pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times. 

50 seconds later, he fled the scene. He ran across the roof, away from the targeted apartment building. As he made it halfway across the roof, he heard glass shattering on the floor below him. And so the chase began. 

He picked up the pace, feet slamming down on the rooftop as he raced to leave before any altercation with his pursuer. All he could hear was the pounding of his own two feet and the faint sounds of the person a floor below as they tried to catch up with him. It sounded like furniture being smashed and doors thrown off their hinges. The Soldier continued running and sped up as he neared the edge of the roof. He jumped onto the roof of the lower building in front of him and landed in a roll. 

Glass shattered as his pursuer jumped through a window onto the roof. He heard a swish and he caught a red and blue shield with his left arm and he threw it back at his blond pursuer. The Soldier then disappeared. 

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

The Soldier had been fighting on the freeway for longer than he had prepared for. His targets were two alleged ‘superheroes’ who were putting up too much of a fight, making the Soldier impatient to complete his mission. 

He tore his cracked goggles off his face and emptied his machine gun towards the Widow’s flitting form as she quickly weaved between abandoned vehicles. He jumped off the bridge, crushing a car on the street below in pursuit of the Widow while the other Hydra operatives dealt with the Captain. 

Having lost sight of her, the Soldier cautiously weaved between cars with his machine gun at the ready. Faintly, he heard her voice meters ahead. He reached back into the pocket of his vest and retrieved a ball grenade and slowly rolled it beneath a black SUV where the Widow’s voice was coming from. 

She wasn’t there. Now the Soldier was irritated. 

A heavy force crashed into him from behind, kicking his gun out of his hands. Legs wrapped around his shoulders, and a wire coiled around his neck, choking him. Stumbling backwards, the Soldier tore at the Widow, but she tightened her legs around him. He continued backwards and slammed her into another car. He struggled to get her off, but just as he pushed her off of him, she slapped something onto his left arm. 

Electricity surged up his arm, burning the nerve endings in his shoulder. The plated metal seized. The feeling was too familiar from similar weapons used against him but also from his handlers. He quickly reached over and pulled off the taser-like disk. For a moment, he stood there, slowly stretching out his fist to relax his stiff muscles. The Soldier then reactivated his arm, picked up his machine gun, and took off chasing the Widow once again.  

She wasn’t far ahead of him, where she was shouting at bystanders to run. As she moved behind a car, he aimed and shot her. Her smaller frame crumpled to the ground, red hair trailing behind her. The Soldier ran closer to her to complete his mission. Just as he aimed his gun again, a figure rushed at him. 

It was the Captain. The Soldier swung his metal fist at him, but the Captain blocked it with his shield. The metals struck and reverberated. The impact twisted the Captain’s arm, allowing him to kick the blond to the ground. The Captain skidded back and raised his shield to meet the Soldier’s incoming bullets. He kept moving as he blocked more and more bullets.

Now that they were close enough to lock eyes, the Captain threw a right hook at the Soldier and swung the shield, using the edge to target his exposed throat. The Soldier took the full brunt of the Captain’s fist but managed to block the shield, holding it aside. He was becoming winded from the fight, but threw punches at the blond’s unprotected side. He gripped the shield with both arms and twisted it, flipping the Captain and taking the shield off him. 

The Soldier threw the shield at the Captain who dodged, leaving the shield embedded in the van he had stood in front. The Soldier grabbed his knife from his pocket and attacked. 

The fight continued with the Captain blocking the Soldier’s attempts at stabbing and slashing him. The Captain managed to punch the Soldier, throwing him off balance. As he slammed into the van, the knife slipped from his hand. The Captain flew at him and kneed him in the chest. They continued tussling, with the Captain flipping the Soldier over his shoulder. The scuffing of their clothes and their labored breathing filled the little space between them. 

The Soldier swiftly rose and grabbed the Captain by the throat, tightening his metal fist. They both heard the bionic arm whirring. The Soldier then threw him over the hood of a car and jumped after him, slamming his metal arm down. 

The Captain narrowly avoided the flying fist. The two men were locked again in hand-to-hand combat with the Soldier pulling out another knife and the Captain grabbing his shield again. The fight continued for what felt like ages to the Soldier. They were too evenly matched. 

Metal on metal clashed as the coloured shield hit the Soldier’s metal arm repeatedly. The shield hit the juncture of the Soldier’s shoulder and the Captain took the opportunity to grab the Soldier's head and flip him over. His hand caught the Soldier's mask. 

The Soldier rolled and got up on his feet. The mask lay forgotten on the asphalt. He turned around to face the Captain. 

The blond man paused and straightened. Eyebrows furrowed, he seemed shocked. 

“Bucky?” The man stumbled over the word, barely getting it out of his mouth. 

“... Who the hell is Bucky?”

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

In the yellow lights of a damp underground room, the Soldier sat in a familiar chair. It was hours after his failed mission to kill Captain America and Black Widow and he was now back at the building he’s been based in for the past months. His shoulder was aching from being propped up as a Hydra engineer drilled and soldered the inside mechanics of his arm to repair the damage from Captain America’s shield. 

A tingling sensation crawled up his shoulder like thousands of ants climbing up him. His eyes darted around the room filled with doctors in white coats. The sound of the drill was incessant in his ear, the constant buzz making his muscles twitch. The Soldier blinked, “Sergeant Barnes,” the familiar face of a scientist he’d seen before said. He rolled his shoulders back and tried to shake the memory away.  

A train steamed ahead to the backdrop of snowy mountains. The tracks went on for miles over bridges and into tunnels. The Soldier inhaled quickly. A hand reached out to him from inside the train through a blown-off door. A familiar blond man shouting, “Bucky!” The scene changed in seconds. Biting cold wind rushed past him, whipping his clothes around. The snow-covered ground was getting closer and closer as he continued falling. 

Pain spread all over his left arm. Strange hands grabbed his shoulders and more on his icy feet. A soldier in a fur hat flickered into his vision. That uniform was not like his. Isn’t this the enemy he was fighting? He looked down as he was being dragged in the snow. His blue uniform was stained red. His left arm… His forearm was gone. The flesh of his arm cut up, skin hanging loose in places. Hard, pale bone poked out from the mangled limb. Sweat beaded at the Soldier’s hairline and trailed down his neck. Were these his memories? Why was he remembering this? 

“The procedure is already started,” that familiar accented voice echoed. He was strapped down to a cold operating table. His vision was hazy from the pain, barely making out masked-up doctors holding large needles. A high-pitched whirr filled his senses. Agonising pain he’d never felt before spread through him. They were hacking at what remained of his arm. He remembered trying to move and sit up, but there was a foreign weight pulling down on his shoulder. He raised his arms and saw it. The shiny reflective metal of the hand replacing his butchered left one. They removed what had remained of his arm up to his shoulder. 

He clenched his new fist and relaxed it a few times as a doctor moved closer to him. The doctor moved to touch him. He grabbed him by the neck, squeezing his fist. A sharp stabbing pain, then darkness. Phantom pains returned all throughout his left arm, leaving his nerves frayed as if they had just taken the saw to his arm. “You are to be the new fist of Hydra,” the accented doctor says, smiling at him. “Put him on ice.” He was inside a metal chamber with no room to move and barely any space to breathe. A small window showed him the lab outside this chamber. In a split second, a scientist pulled a lever and ice spread around him. The temperature dropped rapidly inside the chamber. The window became frosted over with ice. With the biting cold spreading, so did the darkness.

Pain and cold, that’s all he felt, jerking out of the series of memories. Moments he’d forgotten and now wished he couldn’t remember. His ragged breaths surrounded him, heartbeat echoed in his ears, deafening him to the sounds of doctors tinkering about. He was still trapped in his head, reeling from the memories, when a cool, gloved hand suddenly gripped his scarred shoulder. The Soldier tossed the man across the room. Chaos erupted in the room, and doctors ran away from him, trampling over tables and dropping equipment. The barrels of multiple guns were pointed straight at his face. No one moved. The Soldier remained strapped down, catching his breath from the sudden loss of control. The armed men in the room surrounded him and remained on guard. 

Moments later, a door swung open and an older man in a gray suit strolled into the room followed by more armed men. The man took off his glasses and signaled for the men to put their guns down. The metal door was shut once again. The Soldier felt these movements around but was still reeling from what he had remembered. 

The suited man put his glasses away and moved closer to the Soldier, “Mission report.” The buzzing in the Soldier’s head drowned out all the sounds around him since he woke. He just stared in front of him, unseeing. “Mission report, now,” the man repeated, still unheard by the Soldier. 

He moved closer to the Soldier and bent his knees, lowering to the Soldier's eye level. The man inhaled and backhanded him. The sound echoed in the sterile room as the Soldier’s head snapped to the side. Hair in his face, he slowly looked back at the man in the suit. He whispered, eyebrows furrowed, “The man on the bridge. Who was he?” He thought back to the blond man, Captain America. 

“You met him earlier this week on another assignment,” the man responded, eyes trailing over the Soldier’s face. 

The Soldier paused, then said, “I knew him.” 

The man pursed his lips and reached behind him, grabbing a stool and sat down. The Soldier’s eyes met the man’s, finally focused and present. “Your work has been a gift to mankind,” the man stated, “You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time.” The Soldier’s eyes darkened and looked away. 

“Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning we’re going to give it a push,” the man continued. All the eyes in the room were trained on the Soldier, watching him and his furrowed brows process the man’s words. The Handler stood behind the man, arms crossed, watching. “But, you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine. And Hydra can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.” 

The Soldier looks back up at the man. “But I knew him,” he frowned. The man sighed, eyes darting over the Soldier. Abruptly, he got up and turned to the doctors still standing in the room. 

“Prep him,” the man said to the doctors. 

“He’s been out of cryofreeze too long,” one of the doctors stated.

“Then wipe him and start over”

The doctors sprang into action, pushing the Soldier back into the chair. The machine around him hummed to life while the screen by his head flashed colours. One of the doctors shoved a mouth guard between the Soldier’s teeth, and another tightened the straps on his arms. His breathing turned ragged in anticipation. The machine’s metal braces clamped down on his arms, and wide metal pieces lowered down to the sides of his head. He instinctively strained against the clamps. High-pitched whines filled his ears as the machine powered up. The crackling and popping of the growing electricity could be heard across the room. 

The machine clamped onto the Soldier’s face, covering his right eye and left cheek. The electricity pulsed through his skull, burning and burning and burning. His guttural screams were muffled but still ripped his throat raw. He convulsed in place, constrained by the machine. His uncovered eye strained open, staring unfocused at the blurring ceiling. When will the pain stop? While his mind did not remember, his body did. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. 

The darkness welcomed him home. 

[ichorkurt]

so so good !!! the dynamic between a targaryen and a lannister is always soooooo fun and interesting to explore! we got aerys and tywin, cersei and rhaegar, and now this reader and jaime, so the parallels are really paralleling !!! i'm so happy i got to beta read this for you :)

My Honor | 281 A.C.

wc: 22.6k

pairing: jaime lannister x targaryen!reader

summary: "Go away inside" Jaime would repeat like a mantra when it all became too much. He’d retreat into the depths of his mind where he could find you; you who haunted his every thought like a ghost of gentler days.

cw: fem!reader, reader has silver hair and purple eyes, pre-GOT, slow burn, no smut, hurt/comfort, targaryen madness, Aerys II as his own warning, implied/referenced domestic and child abuse, violence, misogyny, angst, incest, canon compliant ages (jaime and reader are stated to be 15), the typical ASOIAF stuff.

a/n: Ty to @ichorai for beta reading this. My love letter to Jaime was fueled by you and your awesome fanfic <3

281 A.C: The Year of False Spring

You could not help the sigh which escaped you for the umpteenth time as you lightly swiped away the stray silver strands which fell onto your face. With bleary eyes, you wish to roll over and whine rather than be woken up. The journey to Harrenhal was one you didn’t enjoy to any degree, travel by wheelhouse the most unpleasant method by far.

The trip from the capital was enough to bore even the most jolly of court jesters near death. Though the moment the carriage came to a halt, you found the will to force your eyes open and register the signs of an actual destination rather than just the other wagons and horses of the procession you’d been subjected to for days now.

If the gods were gracious, you’d be free soon enough. After a minute and then a few more, your hopes were answered with the sound of a knock on the door.

Without a moments hesitation, you leapt from the carriage on to the sweet earthen ground, disregarding the hand outstretched to assist you.

The glint of golden armor in your peripheral practically glows as the reflection of the sun refracts off of it, the sight of a glove-adorned hand shooting out to steady you if need be. With a wide smile, you regard Ser Lewyn Martell -a leal member of your father’s Kingsgaurd- looking back at you with a kind expression.

“Eager to be done with your accommodations, princess?” He grinned.

Bringing your head up to make a show of smelling the fresh air you close your eyes with a dreamy sigh.

“Eager doesn’t begin to describe it. I loathe being stuck by myself, and I'm famished and desperate to see Rhaegar. I was promised he would be here when we arrived, please tell me you bring good news.”

Where the sun pleasantly caressed your skin, it seemed to have the opposite effect on Lewyn as he shifted uncomfortably in his heavy attire.

“You worry for naught,” He squinted his eyes, the knight quickly surveyed the surrounding area. “Rhaegar is inside. I can take you to him if you’d like, though-” Lewyn points at the growing crowd of people striding towards the inbound royal party, “I’d wager it’ll be hard to navigate. You may be called on before we even reach the doors.”

You surmised it would only get worse the longer you stayed put. You could only imagine how you might look with the journey taking its toll on your pretty dress and previously complicated hairstyle which was now a mess of loose hair. 

“I’m in no state to entertain lordlings. Let them run themselves ragged trying to appease my father. We shall find a different way, right?” The last sentence more of an issued challenge. “Your princess commands it.” You smile and the knight chuckles while trying to find a path forward, through the throng of people and carriages.

With an obedient nod Lewyn escorts you, artfully weaving through each obstacle sure-footed, while you trailed closely behind. By some miracle you go undetected now outside of a dining room where your elder brother Rhaegar supped.

The entrance was pushed open and you were met with the crown-prince in all his glory. He stood regally with a chalice of wine in hand, yet the moment you came into his sights he freed his palms to embrace you with a steady grip. 

“Brother!” You exclaimed, curling your fingers into the lavish material of his clothing. Uncaring of the way his own silver locks spilled into your eyeview from the closeness, you beamed up at Rhaegar.

With a smile similar to your own, he was pleased to see your enthusiasm. Dragging his long slender fingers along your hairline, causing a small shiver to run down your spine as you sink further into the gentle caress. You feel the tickle of his breath as his nose presses against your scalp, savoring your familiar scent. 

“Dear sister,” He chuckled. After another moment, he pulled back to get a better look at you, still cupping your back. “It hasn’t been so long since our last meeting? You hold me as if you’ve suffered my absence.”

“I? Tell me, how does my perfume smell? Since you’ve taken to smelling me like a hunting dog. But no, of course it is I clutching on to you.”

You roll your eyes, smoothing the already helplessly wrinkled material of your dress. 

Smiling down at you, he skimmed the material of your skirts with a soft touch before stepping back to give you space.

“You smell of the outdoors and sweat, I didn’t know you could find that in a bottle. I was under the impression girls preferred to smell sweet and nice.” He chuckled.

A scoff escapes you as Rhaegar practically tells you that you reek from here to the high heavens above. You bring the ends of your hair to your nose, only proving your brother’s point further. You scrunch your face in disgust, “good gods!” The sudden feeling how dirty you were making itself more apparent than before, the reality of days upon days of travelling becoming clear. 

What you would do for a soak in a bath.

“Don’t be dramatic, I only jest. It smells like you after a day in the sun. Raw, real.” Rhaegar said in earnest to fix his words as you began to feel the nonexistent prickles of crawling and dirt hiding between fingernails, tresses, and fabrics.

“That’s not the flattery you think it is.” 

Wanting to get away from the displeasure this was clearly causing you, Rhaegar attempted to switch the topic.

“Or is it you who doesn’t know how to accept the attention?” 

The notion of attention did little to please you. In fact, the idea of others' scrutiny -no matter the intent- irked you. Marrying you off wasn’t a concern yet and you were more than content to stay tucked away as long as you could. Courting, being pursued specifically, the thought made you feel like less of a dragon and more a gazelle being hunted down by a lion.

With a sigh, he doesn’t let you answer before posing another question. “How has everything been? How are you?” 

Rhaegar was unfortunate to be on the receiving end of his own inquiry, the tidal wave of your grievances overriding anything you wished to say before.

“You’ve left me with no one to keep my company! Mother, as resolutely as she tries to conceal it, is more dull of energy as of late. I don’t wish to burden her with my presence.”

Jabbing a finger to his chest you muster your best stern expression, as hard as it may be when faced with the overwhelming relief of seeing your brother.

“And you have whisked away your good-wife Elia and my beloved niece Rhaenys away to Dragonstone. Leaving your poor sister behind! You’ve no right to speak on the utter disparity you’ve caused me.”

A little dramatic, but it was the least he deserved.

Brushing aside a loose strand of hair, your brother sighs in defeat at your accusations. 

“I didn’t realize this was such an affront, you miss my wife and daughter more than me-“

“you don’t deserve my longing”

“-I recall days you would sit in the sun, hiding from your septa, while watching Ser Gerold and I spar. What happened to my sweet sister, hm?” Rhaegar quirked his brow.

“As I said, you turned heel and ran to Dragonstone.”

There was a relatively amicable tone to your voice, but also thinly veiled truth to your words.

Rhaegar retreated to Dragonstone with his lady-wife and daughter. You knew this was for the best, your fathers presence more unbearable by the day. That did not quell the jealousy which swelled in your chest at the fact your brother was able to just… leave.

Gesturing the table with a bounty of food from roast boar to the sweetest of honey cakes, he responds “Well, my sincerest apologies, sister. I have been assailed with my duties and did not realize my time away would be abandonment in your eyes.”

“Yes, you did.” You stared back as you took your seat, the mocking edge to your voice gone.

You want to let out a dry laugh, though the flagrant meal set in front of you proved to be more appealing. You settled for yet another roll of your eyes while reaching for a honey cake. 

Both of you conversed in between your bites, Rhaegar’s being never demanding your usual refined conduct. All who were beholden to your brother could divulge he was not born with the innate dreadfulness your father King Aerys wielded like a weapon. You need not keep your noble bearings in discomfort, just as you did in your home, while you prattled on about all which has happened.

Rhaegar couldn’t stifle the question which itches at his throat. Catching your attention with the small clang, you meet his gaze with a raised brow. 

“Nyke pāsagon kepa emagon… mirre se peace while nyke istan qrīdrughagon?” I trust father has kept the peace while I was away?

A part of you wanted to scoff at the question. He switches to the mother tongue because he knows that is not the case. Aerys Targaryen, the kind, doing anything towards keeping peace? Never.

“lo ondoso se dārys, ao imply se council, se udligon would iēdrosa sagon daor. Tywin teptan bē zȳhon gaomilaksir. Varys se rest hen zirȳ whisper naejot kepa. There is your answer,” you said lowly. if by the king, you imply the council, the answer would still be no. Tywin resigned as hand. Varys and the rest of them whisper in father’s ear.

Taking another bite, Rhaegar simply continues to look at you. “Dōrī ivestragī kepa, nykeā anyone, rȳbagon ao vestragon things raqagon bona. Gaomagon daor ȳzaldrīzes raqagon bona skori nyke’m daor konīr,” he reminded. Never let father, or anyone, hear you say things like that. Do not talk like that when I am not there.

“I’m well aware,” you retorted.

At two-and-twenty, your brother was seven years your elder. He had taught you many things, read to you the histories of your family, spoke to you in the mother tongue, and always played your favorite games with you. It was a sum of nine years before your mother’s womb would fruitfully grow large with child again, birthing a second living son. 

A brother who you loathed to leave behind. Always finding yourself bringing the boy wherever you went with commitment rivaling that of the nursemaids in his service. You loved Viserys dearly, however there was no one you could trust more than Rhaegar. Your brother shared the understanding of what a child of five years could never comprehend, what everyone whispered throughout the seven kingdoms of King Aerys’s waning mind since the incident of 277 A.C.

“Defiance of Duskendale” the maesters have dubbed it, you recalled.

“It angers me. All of them I mean,” you piped up. 

Tilting his head, he waits in expectation for you to carry on. Setting down your fork, empty plate cleaned of the honeycake you so eagerly served yourself, you take to running your fingers through the ends of your tresses while chewing your lip. 

“It is plain as day to see father becomes more and more unstable. Now, the only man who kept everything running is sitting on his rock on the other end of Westeros. This tourney is the grandest the kingdoms have seen in… decades, yet he is not here. Don’t you find that strange?”

Changing to High Valyrian, you continue. “Pōnta udrāzma isse zȳhon īlva dārys rūsīr perzys. Zȳhon zūgagon mērī bē se ziry issa.” You gritted through your lightly clenched teeth, pale lilac eyes meeting Rhaegars. They all rule in his stead while our king plays with wildfire. His paranoia only grows and it scares me.

The prince gives a weary breath and his eyebrows pinch into an expression which says do not push this any further. 

“The council is made up of ambitious men who have served loyally. Some before you were even born. And as for Tywin, don’t worry yourself. Matters of the kingdoms aren’t worthy of your attention, I'm keeping an eye on things for all of us. Have faith.”

“I’m not a child anymore, I don't need to be shielded. This isn’t a matter of having faith or not, it’s about our king.”

You sighed. Flexing your fingers then curling them into a fist. “Syt nyke se Tywin, yn nyke vēdros kepa’s ñuhoso hen udrāzma tolī.” For gods sake I despise Tywin, but I hate father’s way of rule more.

You spoke your grievances to Rhaegar not in hopes of change, but as a younger sibling looks to their elder in confidence. He always had a certain melancholy which softened his eyes whenever he thought too deeply on matters far from his control. It was always then you would find him plucking at the silver strings of his harp with heavenly grace.

At Rhaegar's grim and tight lipped expression, you sigh, deciding to drop the matter entirely. 

“... Let us move past this, it sours my mood without need. Tell me brother, are you prepared for the joust?”

The next day had come and gone, far less plain than the last. You spent your afternoon clinging to Rhaegar's side, only separating when stolen away by Lord Whent’s mellow daughter and her companions. You had been patiently listening to one girl or another chatter on about the events of the day, excitement for the tourney, giggles of the handsome participants who milled about.

You had little familiarity in how to comport yourself around those your own age. Your presence felt more oppressive than graceful to the delightment which buzzed among the girls, like a shadow tacking on awkwardly placed commentary in attempts to compensate. However much you desired to be aligned with the rest, it had not been enough to make up for the clumsy interaction, ending in you retreating back to the safety you found in your solitude.

Though, it hadn’t been for long as you were called away later in the evening to tend to your social duties in feast. Only this time, you sat at ease in the presence of your dear-sister Elia Martell while Rhaegar was off gods know where.

Every Lord and Lady of the seven kingdoms was present, the echoes of laughter ringing loudly in your ears. It was a wonder Lord Whent was able to foot the hefty bill such an event would cost.

It was joyous and bright and beautiful.

Your father always had a talent for dashing away lovely things.

Like being submerged in a tub of water which had long gone cold, a hush fell over the hall unnervingly. A chill went down your spine as the king entered, muttering unintelligibly while dragging forth. His nails -claws- picked at the putrid sores lining his skin from the obsessive scratching.

All those he passed bowing low to the king while that gods awful smile graced his face, his warped glee only came before something cruel.

It was only a moment after a boy no older than five-and-ten was beckoned forward that unease crept into your heart. He was tall, broad for his age with a flowing golden mane and eyes a shining verdant hue. He wore gleaming armour which only served to enhance the elegance of knighthood he possessed.

Jaime Lannister.

He marched with dignity, anticipation pushing him step by step to the menacing king. When he knelt before King Aerys, you caught sight of the pride which fired behind his eyes, tilting his head down.

Your breath seized as Ser Gerold Hightower waited at a distance, white fabric clutched between his fingers.

Your father was descending into madness, however, he was most skilled at kindling other’s ire. He had no sense of loyalty, no sense of gratitude to Tywin Lannister for the years he spent in service of the crown. But this? Would he really dare to rob the proud Lannister of his legacy?

King Aerys chose this place for a reason. Settled this festering enmity in the eyes of all those who mattered in the realm, to make a great show of the young knights investiture.

Jaime was the same age as you if your memory serves you correctly. With a profuse sense of certainty, you concluded that Aerys meant to replace the vacancy left by the sleeping lion Ser Harlan Grandison with a roaring one.

Your innards twisted at the thought of someone so young made to swear an oath to protect and honor your father of all people. It was a lamentable thing with so much life left ahead of him. 

Jaime was in high spirits now, no doubt. But he would learn quickly what this really was. 

As Jaime was raised by Ser Gerold, white cloak strapped on to his armor-clad form the crowd lighted with noisy jubilation. The sound of loud clapping and cheers for the new Kingsgaurd.

There was nothing to cheer, it was a shame really. But in the presence of everyone at your table, you clapped at the farce nonetheless.

The rest of the afternoon had turned out pleasant. After ravaging the banquet before you, you danced with several people much to your amusement. Two comely lesser lords, your brother Rhaegar, and finally kind Baelor Hightower.

Of course, such good spirits could never be maintained with your fathers nefarious plans are allowed to run amuck. His intentions unraveled before night's end. Your handmaids were in the process of freeing your tightly bound hair from its intricate stylings when you received word you were summoned to appear before the king.

You did not like being in the presence of your father without Rhaegar or your mother, the mere thought made your heart patter a bit faster in disquietment. Even so, you did as you were bid and made your way.

The weather was still pleasant during the dark hours to help ease your senses. You entered the courtyard to be met with the sight of your snarling father, Ser Gerold Hightower, and the newly appointed Ser Jaime Lannister. 

The three turned to look at you as you approached. The formers calmly watching on compared to the pinched brow Jaime dawned. It only took a few hours for him to sour.

Dipping into a low curtsy in front of your father you speak a short “Your grace” and turn to his companions. Tipping your head to Ser Gerold who offers a small smile and then to Ser Jaime who merely returns the gesture.

The young lion's shoulders were set back, he stood with a strong posture. With an impressive stature he dwarfed your fathers hunched form, almost making Aerys look little. 

But you knew better than that. Jaime was a boy and your father was a king, no amount of poise would change that.

Your father gnashed his teeth like a dog before waving you forward. With unsure steps you dawdled towards the king. The chatter of the bugs in the grass and the wisps of wind hitting your ear went silent, all of them going mute to take in the sight before them. 

Your mind buzzed trying to find what purpose you could serve which warranted your fathers summons. For he scarcely regarded your existence, calling for an audience with you could only be an ill-omen. He had anger and control for Queen Rhaella, delusions of betrayal for Rhaegar, and shallow contentment for his spare heir Viserys. But for you, his only daughter, there was not rage or joy, nor was there sorrow. It was indifference which swirled in his plum colored irises when they met yours. 

Though, when you found yourself dry out of luck, occasionally something else would cloud those misty, bloodshot eyes like now. Thrill for finding a use for his “unremarkable” spawn. 

Aerys wrapped his bony fingers around your arm when you were close enough. The mere sight of the scabs on his sickeningly pale skin against yours made a vile repulsion wrack your body, as if in defiance of your own blood's touch.

“Come girl!” Aerys barked, yanking you forward, cross at your slow-going pace.

Stumbling to his side, the show of force causes you to choke on your breath. You scramble to even your footing on the soft grass, now directly in front of Jaime. You could feel Aerys’s nails prickle at your arm, like needles about to pierce your skin.

The Lannister’s eyes widened briefly before his expression went tight. 

“He’ll win no glory here. He’s mine now, not Tywins, he’ll serve as I see fit! I am the king and he will obey.” Aerys declared with a derisive edge. 

“Tywin wanted union between you and my daughter,” His hand began to dig in. You winced, and though your gaze met Ser Gerolds, the both of you pointedly turned a blind eye. You knew better than to interfere, lest you wish for worse than discomfort.

“Said the same for that sister of yours with Rhaegar! You know what I told him? I told him I'd never marry one of mine to a servant’s whelp.” Aerys’s lip curled into a sneer.

“I’ll have you swear your vows just as he wanted. Yes. Not to wed, but as her sworn shield.” He cackled feveredly.

You knew your father had scorned Tywin by rejecting two marriage proposals. It wasn’t as if you had been upset to not marry Jaime, you had been a child at the time. But your fathers pride on the matter always flummoxed you. It had been a key strain on the relationship between the former friends and a pointless one at that. You were a princess, an important piece for arranging favorable political matches between the crown and other great houses. And which other family could match the fortune and army of the Lannisters?

The thought of a life on Casterly Rock skittered through your mind fleetingly. You’d have a wardrobe of the finest crimson silks, babes with tendrils the same color of beaten gold as Jaime, and above all else; you would have been far away from King's Landing. 

Instead, here you were. A conduit to this folly as a means to further spite the former Hand. Jaime’s jaw clenched as he looked to be doggedly resisting the urge to counter the degradation.

Without thinking your mouth moves before you can stop it. “Your grace I hardly think that’s necessary. Ser Jaime would be better suited to other duties, surely?” you blurted.

One scathing glare from Aerys causes you to clam up and go still. “Shut up, girl. You are not here to give your opinion on the matter, you will take any knight I give you,” he snapped, causing you to jerk away. To your luck, his vicious gaze had settled back on to Jaime instead of tightening his grip on your wrist.

The young knight hadn’t gotten the chance to say a word about the new task he was presented, nor would he when Aerys continued his rampage.

“The boy will do just as his father does. He will gratefully serve the crown. It’s in his blood to serve, just like that damn Tywin.”

Jaime sucked his teeth, eyes narrowing in offense. The king knew nothing of paying attention to others. While Aerys continued to be the sole person to find this situation amusing, Ser Gerold almost imperceptibly nudged Ser Jaime, a gesture meant to remind him of his place.

The Lannister’s sight slid to you. You drew in a breath as he witnessed a scene he had no right to. Puffing out your chest, you turn your cheek.

After a beat Jaime’s words came, “If that’s what you command, your grace,” he said with contempt.

“It is. One scratch on her and you’ll see what happens. Let’s see if you’re as good as your father says.”

The king looked to you with hazy purple eyes and yellow tinted teeth which grinned at you. Nodding along cautiously, eager to wrench yourself free as quickly as you could, you gave a tightlipped smile in response. “Thank you father. I’m sure this will be-” You’re interrupted as Aerys throws away your arm, scratching the length of it as a result of the overgrown nails.

“Away with you both! I won’t hear a word of you participating in the tourney boy, you will stay your post.”

You staggered forward at the unexpected force, but nonetheless, felt lighter being out of arms reach from your father. 

“You have my gratitude, your grace.” 

You curtsied and without bothering to wait for a response you hurry away with remarkable speed, uncaring to the way your shoes sink into the soft dirt. You wanted to rip the damned things off of your feet and sprint to Rhaegar, weep of your father’s callous nature and unforgiving touch. In spite of the urge, you’d have no sense to do that. Rhaegar could not do anything.

Instead, once you’d put a sizable distance between yourself and the courtyard, you pressed your back to the stone wall with a huff. In the quiet hallway, your sadness washed away with the anger that simmered beneath. 

The steady drip of water leaked from gods know where. It splashed into a puddle two paces in front of you, yet another sign of what had been done to this place so long ago.

Targaryen monarchs had a tendency to do as they saw fit here, the half-seared towers which stood on these grounds bearing the marks of Balerion and Aegon I three-hundred years later. It was said that the stone had flowed like lava, red and hot, roasting Haren the Black, his sons, and his ironborn. Haranhall had once been mighty, now reduced to something that half-resembled a keep, and half-resembled a dilapidated relic. A reminder on how all of Westeros was brought to its knees.

But your father was no Aegon nor were his reasons as rational.

You didn’t know how a king was meant to act, but surely it wasn’t like this? The greatest Targaryen monarchs had been wise, prudent, and merciful when need be. The dragon kings of old like Daeron the Good or Jaehaerys the Conciliator, now they were true kings.

Crows squawked outside, the cracks in the walls carrying the sound through the stone. Harrenhal was riddled with ghosts if the stories were to be believed. It was not well kept here, and the groans and creaks the castle made would almost fool you into believing the myths.

If Haranhall had ghosts, it would be spirits who despised the blood of the dragon, surely? It was the Valyrian invaders who brought about their demise. But would it only be the dead within these halls who wanted to purge your family from this place?

Will Rhaegar go down as one of the greats when he ascends, you mused suddenly.

The people would sing songs of the noble son of Aerys. It will be a joyous day, you think. When the crown is placed upon his brow.

No more than a brief instant had gone before the metallic clink of steel veered closer. You snapped to attention and turned to the noise.

“Ser Jaime.” You called upon being intruded on.

His lips curled into a small, sharp smile; akin to the blade which rested at his hip. Yet his emerald iris’s did not hold the glimmer of pride you saw during the feast when he was raised as a white cloak. They didn’t reflect anything in particular really.

“Princess,” he greeted back.

As he stood in front of you, you became very aware of the fact you stood before a Lannister in an undone state. No jewelry or rouge on your lips or accessories decorating your freed silver locks, you must look plain to a golden lion.

After all, the Lannisters are a family of finery and expensive tastes. You had seen the way Cersei had been styled when she was at court with Tywin.

“You ran off quickly. I’d be a rather poor protector if I lost you already,” he said dryly. His comment went without reply leading to an awkward silence. 

Gods be good this felt like the times when you’d find yourself in the company of his sister. Clipped words and feeling those beady eyes on you whenever she thought your attention was elsewhere. You don’t think the girl liked you very much and to her discredit she wasn’t skillful at hiding it. 

You wondered if Jaime was close to her. You can’t imagine someone being fond of that harpy, but if it was anyone, it would be the one she shared a womb with. It may even be that Ser Jaime was similar in character. 

You really hoped that wasn’t the case.

“Well you’ve found me. It wasn’t too much of a struggle I hope? It should be well within your abilities as a kingsguard. If you don’t fare well here I can’t imagine how you’d manage in the Red Keep,” you unintentionally snarked. When his jaw ticked you realized your words may have come too blunt.

“Rest assured I'm competent enough. I must say it’s fascinating you're able to gauge the ability of a knight. Perhaps you can give me some advice tomorrow, you seem so knowledgeable on these things.” Jaime’s voice was even when he responded, but a simpleton could decipher the petty sarcasm.

Your visage morphed to hold a twinge of shock. You didn’t mean it like that. It was then you discerned that Jaime not only looked like Cersei, but his personality reflected the same arrant nonsense as her. Were you to be made its victim whenever someone with those awful golden locks came forth?

Luckily for him, your pity, as a result of the show the king had put on, outweighed any annoyance you felt so you wouldn’t judge him too harshly for this. Spinning the ring on your finger, the ruby embedded in the metal, you stare him down. The once smooth and cool band now warm from your constant fidgeting, tugging your skin with the motion of each turn. 

The flames danced on the walls while lighting the way, warding off the shadows shrouding the halls of Harrenhal. You felt sluggish as the dread of being called upon ebbed away, leaving only exhaustion and impatience to sink into your soft mattress in its wake.

Huffing, you let your arms drop to your sides and give Jaime an expectant look. 

“I don’t know how knights do things in the Westerlands, but here, when the hour is late and a princess is tired, she’s escorted back to her room.”

A beat of silence.

“Well then, we should be off to your chambers princess,” he replied as his eyes narrowed.

“We should.”

“Right.”

Clearing your throat, you whip around to go in the direction of your chambers. You listened to your own footsteps out of sync with Jaimes. The click of your pinchy shoes and then his own heavier footfalls, high brown boots hitting the floor agitatedly. 

He lagged behind in silence. Gods was the silence oppressive. It ruled with an iron-fist and you dared not defy it. You had not a single idea on how to break the dull overtone, nor a resolute decision on if it was wise to break it at all.

Compulsively, and instinctually, you fiddle with the jewelry on your finger again. Side to side, up and down, gliding it to your fingertip. A beautiful piece gifted to you, which you greatly enjoyed admiring.

It made you feel almost prideful, almost strong. No difference between staring at your dainty ruby ring and the rubies Rhaegar had encrusted into his armor.

…

Armor. Knights wore armor. 

The most skilled knights were raised as white cloaks. Kingsguard. 

Jaime was a Kingsgaurd. Jaime was also behind you, quiet as ever. 

Oh how you hated this type of quiet. And hated how your mind led you back to it.

Unable to tame your curiosity, you peer over your shoulder slowly. You had tried to be inconspicuous, but the Lannister’s attention had already been on you. His eyelids were heavy as the muscles of his jaw constricted with tension.

Oh.

You would have turned right back around if not for the distinct chime of metal echoing out, the subsequent lack of weight on your forefinger. 

“No!” you called, as if that would will that damned thing back to you.

The ring hit the floor and rolled away with such speed it was as if you had scorned it. At the midway point between two warm bodies, it began to spin and spin until it rotated a final time and unnervingly plopped onto the stone.

Unsure on whether it was the mortification of being so frazzled at being caught by Jaime, or your newfound aptitude for making a mess of things, you don’t think before pouncing.

And neither did Jaime.

It was not your gem which you made contact with, but the back of your knight's hand. His bare knuckles bit into the meat of your palm, flesh-to-flesh. Though you hurtled towards him, you had just enough control to narrowly avoid bumping headlong into his armored torso. Pushing off of his fist, you instead, and ungracefully might you add, fall flat on your rear, your billowy skirts breaking your landing.

“Shi- blast it. Are- are you okay?” he asked in what you perceived to be worry.

Winded, a soft whimper left you as you hurriedly nodded. Mustering your courage, you glance upwards at Jaime.

The torchlight casted a long shadow of him over you. Even knelt like this he loomed overhead, his shoulders broad, the pauldron and breastplate enhancing his size. The knight had made no move backward, too shocked to realize most like, and as a result you were able to feel the puffs of his breath ever so faintly hitting your cheeks. It was cooling compared to the heat that began to prickle beneath.

“I’m… fine,” you assured him. Your eyes traced the whole of the Lannister before settling back on to his hand which was clenched into a fist. Your eyebrows shoot skyward and you straighten yourself back up.

“My ring. Is it ruined?” you queried calmly.

Reminded of the jewelry in his grip, he brings it close to his face and examines it closely. He shakes his head as he reaches out to your outstretched palm, grazing the soft skin and dropping the metal band on top.

“Not a scratch, rubies are tough. You could drop them off a set of stairs and they’ll be fine, I know from personal experience,” Jaime added before rising.

Turning the ring once and then twice over, you slide it back to its rightful place. Your distraction was cleared when in the periphery of your vision Jaime offers you a hand. It was steady and sure, unlike your mind which was buzzing at the gesture. You’ve never been one to react quickly, not the way Jaime seemed to. But his hand was right there, in front of you, expectantly bidding yours forward.

And who were you to refuse?

Placing your hand in his, he pulled you up in a single swift motion, his strength unwavering as evidenced by the relative ease in which he was able to hoist your weight up.

Jaime’s grip remained on yours for a moment until he was sure you had steadied yourself, the gesture leaving a warm feeling in your chest.

Pulling away you cautiously look at him.

“You didn’t have to do that… thank you, Jaime.”

He shrugged in response. “It was closer to me, no need for thanks. I almost knocked you over, and I don't think his grace would be happy if I broke your nose on the first night,” he said plainly.

Your expression fell slightly before you hummed in agreement. After a moment more, you turn and continue the journey to your chambers.

This wasn’t an arrangement you would have chosen for yourself, but it would have to do. If your father wished to wound Tywin’s pride more than he already has, then that is what would happen.

But it was still a shame that a knight of five-and-ten needed to be wronged in the process, no matter if he bleeds Lannister red and gold.

Thinking on your feet, you discern a topic that may pique the young lion's interest.

“To be knighted by Arthur Dayne is an honor many have never experienced… if I may, how did it come to be that a squire impressed a knight so revered?” You asked slowly and suddenly.

Jaime’s eyes met yours as he shook himself from his stupor. He thought on your question for a moment before settling on an answer.

“I suppose saving Lord Crakehall from meeting the hammer of an outlaw would do it. A show of valor.” He stated with an easy bearing, the tension dissipating from his shoulders, albeit slightly.

You made a hm sound at his words. The crown’s victory over the Kingswood Brotherhood was hard-fought. Thieves the whole lot of them, harassing all who tried to make the journey through the Kingswood. A true hindrance to court in the Red Keep when all those of high birth could not travel such an imperative route. 

“I recall how much of a nuisance they were. Rhaegar would speak about all the trouble the brotherhood gave. Satisfy my wonders Ser Jaime, was the smiling knight as unsettling as they say?”

“The princess wishes to hear battle stories? Such scary tales may be a bit much for you before sleep.” He grinned pompously.

His arrogance was tangible as he dared insult you after you made the effort to converse. You didn’t take him for a presumptuous type, nor someone who feared girls having night terrors over the mere mention of a skirmish. Your face began to twist in vexation and that seemed to amuse the Lannister, eliciting a laugh from him. Before you could begin to speak your scoldings, he fell into step beside you.

“I jest, princess. Apologies, I suppose that’s not something you enjoy.” His smile remained, displaying the perfect row of teeth. It’s your turn to grin incredulously and scoff.

“I suppose not ser. I am a steely girl, could you not tell? I never smile nor laugh, and I only chuckle when I see children trip and fall.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a statement in itself.

“And I most certainly don’t laugh at things that aren’t funny.” Your nose upturned as you said this.

His face mocked a look of scandal as the two of you approached the entrance to your chambers. “People think I'm very humorous. But I suppose I’ll have to hold my tongue around the realms terror from now on.��

“For fear of my cruelty, surely.”

Quirking his lip upwards, he looks at you from the corner of his eye. “Surely.”

You stood outside of the door, a prudent gap between yourself and Jaime as the conversation died down. He wet his lips in a quiet motion and crossed his arms.

“The smiling knight was mad, with a name that fit him. I only crossed swords with him for a brief time, but it was eerie. Ser Arthur handled him fair and just.”

You answered with a nod and another silence ensued. Pushing open the door, you entered and twisted your body back to the Kingsgaurd whose gaze had remained firmly on yours. He did not appear to be wholly there, part of his mind held captive by whatever troubles plagued him.

“Will you… be standing guard tonight?” you questioned quietly.

Jaime’s brow rose as if the answer was obvious. “I was commanded to ‘stay my post’, was I not?”

You felt your cheeks warm at his blunt words, a reminder of why the knight was here in the first place.

“Yes... yes you were. Must have um- slipped my mind.” You mumbled in embarrassment. Without another glance, you bid the knight a hasty good night and grabbed the door handle, closing it with a slam.

After a moment, the noise of shifting armor sounded throughout the empty hall indicating Ser Jaime settling in for his duty.

You do not know why you went to sleep with a feeling of guilt in your heart when thinking of the Lannister outside your door.

The tourney of Harrenhal would be regarded as one of the most eventful for years to come. Throughout the ten days of celebration, your ward was at your side from the time you woke up and dutifully guarding your door until you succumbed to sleep. Despite his unfamiliar and constant presence the Lannister would often be caught in the tangle of his own thoughts, never giving you more than a wisecrack before beginning to brood again. As both the melee and joust progressed his mood only soured further. 

Boredom has once again got the best of you as you move to open the windows again. You only pushed them open a little bit. Just to take a peek. The thoughts of your golden knight getting the better of you when you searched for his hard to miss stature. Low and behold, the knight was not far. Even so, he did not notice you as he was absorbed in a conversation with his fellow brother of the kingsguard Ser Lewyn.

What a fine protector he is. Very attentive. 

It was not only his spirit turned foul as the tourney wore on. You scowled at the thought once more, your body swaying with carriage as the sounds of the gravel crunching under the wheels sounded throughout the empty space. 

You had cheered your brother on as he beat Lord Royce, ever the loud supporter. You had sat yourself next to Elia, the two of you speaking of one thing or another. When Rhaegar defeated Brandon Stark, your heart swelled with pride. He was talented with lance and it always brought you joy to watch him bring glory to your house. The days had passed and the dragon prince unhorsed Ser Arthur Dayne in the next match, earning a boisterous roar of approval from the crowd.

On the final day of the tourney, Prince Rhaegar faced Ser Barristan Selmy in the final tilt of the joust. You had gripped the princess's hand as his horse charged forward. Rhaegar had emerged victorious to the joy of many but when presented with the queen of beauty’s laurel, your noble brother trotted his horse past his wife, the delicate beauty, Elia Martell. Instead, laying the crown of blue roses onto the Lady Lyanna Stark's lap. 

He had the gall to look into your eyes, to give pause as his gaze flickered between you and his lady-wife, the usual melancholy written over his face replaced by something resolute. He had looked at you as if already asking forgiveness for the wrong he was seconds away from committing, looked at the winter roses in his grasp, and trotted to her.

The memory of Elia’s hand going slack against yours threatened to bring a frown to your lips yet again. The royal departure from Harenhall followed the next morning and you tactfully avoided Rhaegar, you did not know what you would say to him.

Your brother whom you loved so dearly, causing so much strife. And for what? You didn’t wish to understand his reasoning. Not now, at least.

The motion of the wheelhouse coming to a halt elicits a sigh from you. Yet another break to feed and water the horses. Scooching over, you unlatch the metal holding your window closed and push the wooden panels ajar. The feeling of fresh air gently blowing at your face calmed you. Knights and servants begin to dismount and go about their tasks. You poke your head out a bit further and are quickly spotted by your knight only a few paces behind this time.

“Lovely day out princess,” Jaime called, guiding his mount towards you. You had not made so much as a peep since entering the carriage, opting to sleep away your festering displeasure instead. Your face heated at the thought of your ill-mannered behavior, though there was no use in retreating now.

Steadying yourself on the windowsill you bid him a good morning, mustering a small smile. “It is a fine day. A shame it must be spent travelling.”

Jaime’s horse whinnied and fussed at the stop causing him to tighten his grip on the reins. 

“Struggling are you?” you chortled. “Be still horsey!” Pushing yourself practically half-way out the window, you outstretch your palm with a wide smile. In quick reaction, the knight’s eyes widened as one of his arms untangled itself from the leather to steady you.

“Careful!”

Waving away his hand, you land yours to the steeds muzzle. You cooed and rubbed at its fur, “Oh enough of that. You needn’t worry, I think it likes me better anyways.”

Jaime slowly lowered his suspended hand to focus on steadying the beast so it didn’t threaten your balance. “There’s a simpler way to do this, you know.” He huffed.

“This way seems to work just fine.” You giggled as the horse blew a heavy breath, giving it a final pat.

“Just step out. You’d feel better if you didn’t lock yourself away in your little box. The air is fresh, the company is good. Great, some may say.”

Your gaze fell upon him as you pulled your body back into your seat, “You attempt to coax a princess out from the safety of her carriage?” Your brow lifting teasingly. 

He shrugged and tapped at the hilt of his sword. “Oh you wound me. I prefer ‘suggest’ and if it's thieves or murderers you fear out here, I feel hurt you think I'm incapable of handling them.”

You could not tell Jaime you did not have any trepidations to unsavory characters, the area was swarming with guards, and not to mention the finest swordsman in Westeros prowl about to stifle any worries. You couldn’t tell him it was your gloomy and pensive state caused by an act you yourself didn’t commit.

“I don’t doubt your ability,” you respond, purple eyes flickering between his sharp face and crown of golden tresses which seemed glisten in the sun's light.

“In that case I assure you my company is far superior than the walls you’ve been staring at. For starters, I can actually respond.”

You let slip a soft, amused laugh. Jaime’s face swirled with a realization you couldn’t discern before lifting his voice again. “See. Now do us both a kindness and join me.”

“... A kindness? And what do you suffer from today Ser Jaime? Too much fresh air or too many tales of glorious battle from Prince Lewyn.” You remarked sarcastically. 

“Keeping an eye on me now? You know that’s my job, right?” He diverted from the question.

“You make it sound as if I was tracing your every step! It was a glance, that's all. I just happened to see you.” You would vehemently deny searching out for him, even if it was fueled by curiosity.

Making a noncommittal mhm sound, he pauses.

“I’m…” He takes a breath before covertly casting a glance to a group of knights, a familiar flash of the Kingsgaurd golden armor in the center of them. “You’ll feel better. Just a quick walk about.”

Perhaps your feelings were not so concealed.

“Well I will need help getting down.” You relented.

You pulled the wooden panels closed again and outside you hear the soft thud of boots hitting the ground. Grabbing your skirts, you open the door to Jaime giving you that smug look of victory you’ve begun to think never leaves his face.

“I’ll make sure those bandits don’t get you.”

You take the hand he offered, “I would hope so.”

You landed with a thud. Jaime rescinds the limb and quickly juts his head towards the back of the procession. Jerking the reins of his horse forward, the knight simply gestures you to walk in front of him saying a quick “Come on.”

As the two of you progress further back, he hands off his steed to a squire to be tended to. The two of you continued on and it felt good to be outside. You’ve always been partial to a bit of sun to lighten the mood. The two of you aimlessly talked for some time before the familiar figure of Ser Gerold came into view. Your attention ripped away from Jaime as you smiled at the older knight.

“Ser Gerold! A pleasure to see you.” Your brighter disposition bled into your words from the little time you had spent outside already. The lord-commander gave a bow, then nodded in acknowledgment to your ward.

“The pleasure is mine princess. I trust the journey has not been too hard on you?” He questioned.

“Dull. I eat away my boredom with whatever remains of the honeycakes i’ve bought from Haranhall. I sleep hoping that when I wake up we’ll be at the city gates, but whenever I do, it’s yet another break.” You complained.

Jaime snorts at this, to which you turn to him with a raised brow. What could be so comical about your utter suffering!

“And who was it who wanted to stay in the ‘safety of her carriage’ again?” He fired. You orient yourself towards the knight with a sneer, crossing your arms.

“That was a jest!”

“I thought you did not jest?” He teased back, a subtle reference to the words you spoke many nights ago of having a ‘steely disposition.’ 

Had this been over a century prior and you had been blessed to claim a dragon of your own, like many of your ancestors before, you’d forgo travel by wheelhouse entirely. You’d sit atop your mount and leave Ser Jaime in the dust. He may try to shout his taunts from the ground, then.

“You’re right, twas mere banter then. Even the cruel must humor their knights.” You declared.

Ser Gerold had watched on in amusement at the back and forth, at the mention of cruelty he chimed in. “You have a sweet spirit, my lady. Don’t let this lad tell you otherwise.”

Bashfully, you look at the older knight. “If you reveal my secrets, how am I meant to instill fear into my sworn shield?”

“Fear is a bit of a stretch-” Jaime’s protest was interrupted by a horn being blown, sounding the departure of the royal party. 

Ser Gerold responded with ease to the call, bowing once more. Before withdrawing, looking to the both of you.

“A pure heart isn’t easily hidden, princess.” He nodded his head towards the front. “Take her back. We’ll be on our feet a few more hours before we reach Kings Landing.”

Jaime dipped his head in agreement and the two of you watched as the white bull disappeared into the distance. Your mood darkened in an instant and suddenly you regretted playing the game of cat and mouse with Jaime, precious time that could have been spent outside instead.

“Must we go back? It was just starting to get fun.” You huffed.

Your knight surveys the area, the rush of everyone eager to keep pace with the schedule, a timely arrival back home.

“Well we can’t leave until you're tucked away. Come on, it won’t be so bad, not much longer left.” He conferred.

“Won’t be so bad. If you can lie and say that, I can say I'm the king of the world,” you grumbled.

“Then I would say your chariot awaits you, your majesty.” Jaime began to walk and you followed only after he shot you a questioning look.

Your eyes wandered from the people, the wide expanse of swaying grass on either side, various luggage being pulled around. That was until, of course, your gaze seemed to pull itself to one thing in specific whenever you let it.

You’d find a lovely plank of wood to catch your attention for a breaths length before roving over your knight's angular profile. His face looked as if it was carved from the finest slab of marble, honey colored curls to contrast.

House Lannister has stirred quite the reputation in the time of Tywin’s rule over the Westerlands. Of course, their exorbitant wealth remained as it always has, but the influence, that was something the Lord Paramount brought back himself if the stories of House Reyne’s demise were any proof. 

Then there were his golden twins. Both who carried themselves with arrogance, majestic like the lion of their sigil. You think you would credit the late Lady Joanna more so than Tywin for that, even if you couldn’t remember how she looked having only met her once, a time ago. You knew she was supposed to be quite the vision herself. She who had two comely children before passing away birthing the third. A dwarf you recalled.

You must have stared a moment too long as Jaime’s keen instincts alert him to your admiration. A faint smirk materializes on his face before his attention falls onto you.

“Something the matter? Or are you disappointed that the carriage sings your summons?” 

Realizing you’ve been caught, you turn away with a scoff. “I’m simply radiating with merriment at the prospect, could you not tell?”

He chuckled and somehow even that sounded charming. 

He must take after his mother, for none of Tywin Lannisters harsh severity lingers upon his face. You do not think he would be so dashing if he did.

No.

You chided your own musings. He was brooding and cocky and always responding with some clever quip to every damned thing you or anyone else has said the past ten days. Besides, no one can have an alluring laugh and if they could, it would most definitely not be a Lannister. 

Opening the door for you, his watchful stare stayed locked until you were comfortably sat. After you tossed a cushion over your lap Jaime began to duck away, though before he could do so you called out.

“A timely rescue ser Jaime… you have my thanks.”

“I couldn’t leave a maiden in distress.” He grinned, sparing you one last glance before firmly closing the door.

Arrogant. As you stretched out your legs, creating your comfortable space, a wave of contentment washed over you at the thought. Your guilt forgotten for a short time, you leaned your head back in slight ease.

The wheelhouse began to move and minute by minute it pulled forward at a fixed pace. You sighed, the noise loud in the silence of your solitude.

It was far too quiet now. You preferred to be in Jaime’s presence rather than on your own, you realized. Even if you suspected he somewhat -perhaps wholly- resented his circumstances. He may be inconspicuous, but you were raised more to be more attentive than most, at least in seeing others discontent.

When the sound of hoofbeats approached closer, you waited a few moments. You pushed the windows open again. Making eye contact with the golden knight, he raises his brow in curiosity.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Resting your arms on the windowsill, you gave him a small grin. “Oh nothing. I just didn’t want to leave you without company again. My charitable act for the day if you will.”

And so it went, you yammered on for the hours remaining to your knight. His horse trotted alongside you until the city gates came into view.

Jaime Lannister was many things. He’s been told he was striking, a lively spirit, and had a knack for swordsmanship. Quick to anger and perhaps a bit headstrong according to others’ admissions. Most notably, he was son to Tywin Lannister and the heir to Casterly Rock.

At least he was.

He had been a fool to think his new position was based on merit. To think that he was so skilled to make it on to the Kingsguard at five-and-ten solely based on his, albeit impressive, prowess. He had been proud when Aerys called him forward and when Gerold Hightower raised him as a brother of the Kingsguard. To be in leagues with people like Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, Jonothor Darry, Oswell Whent. 

Until he saw that look in the king's eyes, glaring down at him like he was a possession. “He’s mine, not Tywin’s” Aerys had squaked. A tool to insult his father was all he was to the king he had realized.

Gods he wanted to rip the cloak from his shoulders, but the damage had already been done. Oaths were sworn. 

Jaime rode along the kingsroad, horse going at a steady pace as he basked in the silence. He found himself contemplating often. Replaying that moment over and over and over again as if that would change a damn thing. 

It wasn’t like him, but he couldn’t help it. Not when everything served as a reminder. His gold armor, the white cloak, and most importantly you.

You, the living and breathing embodiment of his new duty. You who was always outfitted in the black and red of your house, with all the jewelry one could need- almost entirely rubies from what he’d seen so far. 

It reminded him of Rhaegar’s armor, the black breastplate adorned in the gemstone. 

If that parallel was intentional, he’s sure you’re not fond of it now. Jaime had been too aggrieved to properly enjoy the tourney. As if the world (and the king) wished to twist the knife further, Jaime had been forced to accompany you to every tilt. 

Too irritated to keep his gaze locked on either the tourney he was forced to sit out of, or the princess whose fault that was, he chose to rotate between the two. If he was feeling adventurous, he would look at the dirt collecting on his leather boots.

Though, it was hard to look away when Rhaegar pulled that stunt. Unexpected to say the least, Jaime knew little of the prince and less of Lyanna Stark. 

What he did know was the heir to the iron throne seemed to have upset his sister, you had been in a particularly foul mood since the incident. He saw the way Rhaegar had looked at you before turning away. Where Rhaegar’s eyes left yours, Jaime’s didn’t. 

Your face twisted into something akin to distress, lip quivering in gods know what, it was hard to not look.

The one who he was meant to protect with your silver hair and purple eyes, taking such heart in your brother's scandalous choices. How it must’ve stung for you to react in such a way, clutching on to the Dornish Princess’s hand as if that would soothe anyone being publicly humiliated so shamelessly. He wouldn’t know of your true feelings of course, just as your eyes had begun to narrow the wind had blown your hair in the way, obscuring his view.

Aerys Targaryen shared these physical characteristics with you, the reclusive hermit who hadn’t made any appearances until the tourney. The mad king who looked like a wraith in the flesh, with his near translucent complexion. The mere existence of the man diminishes the very traits Targaryens have prized over the plain Andalosi appearance for almost three centuries.

From where Jaime stood, Aerys looked like a drowned man washed up on the shore. Rotting and ghastly.

Targaryens had often been described with “otherworldly” qualities. After seeing his king, he wondered if those who wrote the accounts meant it in a backhanded way.  

Jaime tried to shake his annoyance by taking a deep breath and letting his gaze wander to your carriage. He knew it was misplaced, childish even, but he didn’t know whether he resented you for merely being his responsibility or everything which surrounded you.

“Ser Jaime!” a voice yelled from behind. Jaime shifted in his saddle to watch as Lewyn Martell steered his horse into step with his.

Jaime squinted as the sun went into his eyes. “Ser Lewyn.” He nodded, curious as to why the knight was approaching him. Perhaps he’d be tasked with something other than tailing behind your wheelhouse. “What brings you up here, too dull in the back?”

“We’ve got a job to do, boy. Who gives a damn about bored.” Lewyn gruffly chuckled. He watches the man -a prince of Dorne- leisurely trot alongside him. Even he looked more regal than Aerys, spine as straight as the sword on his hip, thick black hair with a few grays tangled in falling down to the nape of his neck. He looked less aged than the white bull, but still much older than Jaime.

“I assume that means you’re not here for idle chatter then? A shame really, this is all beginning to be a bit repetitive. Grass and trees and more grass.” He began to ramble, letting his tongue go loose with nothing better to say.

Shaking his head, the knight sets his sights forward. “I wouldn’t call it idle, no. I do want to talk to you though.”

“Go on then.” Jaime nodded while focusing his attention on the Martell. Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, Lewyn looks around before meeting Jaime’s curious eyes. Tightening his grip on the reins, he juts his head to Jaime.

“You’ve been quiet, eh? Not much time for quiet when we get back to Kings Landing. The place is full of people who always want something from you, always something needed. Gerold told me you squired at Crakehall, wasn’t it?” He asked, the Dornish lilt clear in his words.

Jaime hummed in agreement, body swaying in his saddle.

“The city is no Crakehall. The Kingsgaurd is nothing like squiring. Tell me Lannister, what is it you see when you look at all of this?” Lewyn drawled.

Jaime quirked his brow and exhaled heavily, looking in front. “People, horse shit, luggage?” He began to list. What a redundant question to ask.

“Wrong.” Lewyn said resolutely. Gods, were knights going philosophical now?

This vaguely triggered memories of when his father used to ask these ridiculous things, as if he wanted to prove just how foolish Jaime could be at times if he didn’t answer with exactly what he wanted. To attack him, always saying that he didn’t have sense.

“What? Did you want me to say the green grass, the birds in the sky?” he couldn’t help but quip back. 

His father would have told him he was being stupid. Lannisters aren’t stupid Tywin would shame him.

Side eyeing the younger, Lewyn fires back. “No need to get smart with me Ser Jaime, I only mean to understand why the cub neglects his duty. Still daisy fresh, yet tiring so early on. Don’t tell me our princess has worn you out already?”

Anger rises in Jaime at the belittlement from the older knight. It’s as if all people seemed to do as of late was kick shit at him. Neglecting his duty. You were still alive, were you not? Not a scratch on you, just as he was threatened to do.

“I’m a Kingsgaurd just as you are. I’m no cub.” Jaime glowered.

“And I am still talking.” Lewyn smirked, unbothered by Jaime’s critical look. 

Dornishmen.

“I’ll tell you what all of this is,” Lewyn continued, making a circular motion, gesturing at all which surrounded them. “It’s all our duty. More specifically, that is your duty.” He pointed straight at the princess’s carriage.

Jaime’s grin was curt and dry, concisely communicating both mock amusement, and irritation. Because of course the constant reminder of you could not only be in his own head. No, he had to have outside voices blathering on about it as well. 

“I haven’t forgotten, it’s near impossible to.You’ve yet to tell me what exactly it is i’m neglecting. The king made it clear-”

“You’re not listening,” the Martell interrupted. Slowing his steed to a stop, Lewyn blocked Jaime’s path forcing him to follow suit.

The Lannister’s eyebrows pinched together while his mouth was almost slack in both confusion and exasperation. Was he being… scolded?

“Respect the king, obey the king above all else, but that is not why you serve the princess, Lannister,” Lewyn said lowly. “You serve the princess because it is on your honor that she is protected, that she may seek your counsel when wanted.”

The two knights go silent for a moment as Lewyn looks at Jaime with a clear harshness to his features.

“When you took those vows you gave up your right to lands, titles, and legacy. You have a higher responsibility now.” His words smooth and unwavering.

What a mighty purpose it was to follow you around like some dog while you ate, shit, and slept. To ‘stay his post’ outside your door day in and out. Poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue, Jaime waits for Lewyn to continue his monologue.

“She’s our princess and the king has named you her sworn shield for whatever reason. She laughs and weeps and angers like any other girl. Don’t be fooled into thinking she needs no comfort, all men need comfort. Even if such sentiments go against your own needs.”

Jaime faltered at that. He was meant to keep you safe, not mother you. And what of his own needs, he himself didn’t know what his needs were anymore.

“I’ve kept her safe. I’ve done what she’s asked. What else is there that I could possibly do?” The Lannister questioned brusquely, holding back his impatience for either the answer to Lewyn’s cryptic words or the conversation to be done with entirely.

“She has a kind heart. A knight, a man, is meant to protect such things. That happens in plenty of ways. You’re a man of the Kingsgaurd now, what you feel and want for is an afterthought. Don’t forget that.” Lewyn’s eyes slid back to your carriage when he noticed motion coming from that direction. “Go. She grows bored.”

“What- wait! What do you…” Lewyn began to fall back, ignoring Jaime’s calls as he receded back in formation. 

He would think about the anger simmering within him, but apparently that should be an “afterthought”.

He huffed and looked up ahead.

His “duty” was now poking her head out of the carriage restlessly, wheeling past the plains of dancing grasses. It was a rather mundane scene if he set aside the fact the focal point was a princess of the seven kingdoms. 

He did not know much about you besides the fact that you were daughter of Aerys and sister to Rhaegar. All the fine beauty expected of a Targaryen, though nothing compared to his sister Cersei.

Jaime led his stallion forward on the beaten dirt path with no sense of urgency.

He had hardly found it in himself to try and strike up more than brief conversations with you the past fortnight. What could he even say to you? He doesn’t think you’d be all too eager to speak of fighting and weaponry nor hunting dogs and horseback.

Would he have to indulge you by listening to your rambles of the latest court gossip, or perhaps compliment one of your dresses for their opulence?

Was this what was expected of him? To entertain you? 

In the distance, your eyes flutter closed to savor the wind which prickled at your skin while thinking you’ve gone undetected. 

He had met you once, long ago. Jaime had only been a boy of six years, his father still hand. A tourney had been hosted in honor of Aerys’s tenth year sitting the iron throne. A small thing you had been. 

Jaime couldn’t recall whether you had even once left your brother Rhaegar’s side. You were attached at the hip to the boy, leaving little opportunity for anyone to approach you. His mother Joanna had still been alive, a former lady-in-waiting to your own. She had ardently pushed her children to make nice with the pair of you.

He remembered trying to peer past your brother to look at you, wanting to see a princess with his own two eyes, but being too scared of the then thirteen year old Rhaegar to approach on his own. When he finally did get a glimpse of you, it had been hard to look away from someone with such a foreign color palette.

His memory failed to bring anything else to mind, besides the fact you scarcely said anything else besides the occasional comment to tack on to whatever Rhaegar led with.

The bashfulness of youth seemed to be long gone judging from what little time he had spent with you. There was always a passing word between the two of you, typically initiated by you. It was no use trying to draw some conclusion of who you were from times past. Not that he could if he tried.

He didn’t know you then, he didn’t know you now, and he still didn’t know how to take Lewyns oh so helpful advice.

Jaime had only Cersei as a reference to what noble lady’s took interest in. The problem was that Cersei would never want a knight to keep her company let alone speak to her. She had a fierce independence and he enjoyed her as such. 

After all, it was with that independence she found her way back to him. Dressed as a serving girl at the inn on eel road. 

A wonderful night, but an oversight on both their parts. The thought of her soft skin, her pink lips, it all caused a hazy cloud to shadow his mind. He shivered at the memory of how she had felt in his arms after so much time spent apart, only to be ripped from him once again.

He was in this predicament because he wanted to be closer to Cersei, only to be left alone in court with his father’s resignation as hand, as a result, bringing his twin back west.

His stubborn mind couldn’t imagine talking to another woman who wasn’t her. He didn’t know how to. To flatter and charm ladies of the court was one thing, but to spend so much time with one was another.

You didn’t seem like Cersei… and he couldn’t pretend like he truly cared for speaking with any girl who wasn’t his sister.

Was this the personal sentiment he was meant to brush aside? The desire to be peevish to everyone who tried to speak with him, including you?

Jaime couldn’t help but let out a chuckle watching you “secretly” peer around, as if you didn’t have the most identifiable appearance of anyone else here. 

…

You… were good. And you were nothing like your father. Always trying in your own way. Quiet words growing louder when it was only the two of you, even if he wasn’t so willing to listen.

With a sigh, he shook his head and led his horse forward. Perhaps it was his turn to try, even if it was disingenuous. 

Apparently this was his duty

“Lovely day out princess.” He voiced from a distance. He watched as you paused, and then smiled back at him. 

Apparently this was a matter of his honor.

Much time had passed since the tourney at Harrenhal. The false spring had only lasted two turns before the winter had come back with vengeance. Though the outside was cold and bitter, your knight's company was welcomed as anything but. The temperature dropped, yet Jaime thawed.

No longer were there awkward stretches of silence, rather pleasant interactions to fill the spare time. You began to look forward to leaving your chambers, spending less time in your bed, and more time out and about. It was so sweet to have someone of your own, to have something comparable to a friend.

You sorely lacked companionship these days as if your circle could get any smaller. Where you gained a knight, it felt as if you had lost a brother in some regard. Since the tourney, Rhaegar seemed to be too preoccupied in his own world. In a moon's length, the only correspondence from Dragonstone you had received was when you were with your mother, containing that Elia found herself with child once more.

You worried for the princess, she had a difficult labor with Rhaenys. Though she loved her girl so fiercely, you worried how easily a second babe would come along. You had sent a raven, though not once did you think to include anything related to Rhaegar except your congratulations for the both of them. You would not use Elia to probe for information on your absent brother.

But where a bond with one brother suffered, the other continued to thrive. With familiar ease, you and your knight walked the route to the library to whisk Viserys away from his nursemaids and lessons to spend time with your beloved sibling.

“Gods where were you when I was younger. If I had someone like you, I would've gotten away with so much.” Jaime tittered. 

“And what is that supposed to mean?” You asked incredulously. Jaime loved to chime in with one thing or another. You don’t know when this switch occurred but gods you're thankful for it. You’ve come to enjoy it very much in fact.

“When I was younger my father used to sit me down for hours! He would yell and scold me at a desk until my legs were numb and my eyes hurt. I’d always flip the letters, read too slowly according to him.”

“Aw no! I can see it now, you begging to go outside. Poor you.” You giggled. “But I do not interrupt his lessons that often! Besides, even if I did, would that be so bad.” You smiled.

“Would it be so terrible if he simply stayed a silly little boy?”

Jaime shakes his head slightly. “Not terrible. A little selfish maybe.”

“Well I’m no saint.”

Good thing you never claimed to be selfless. Viserys was your source of unfettered joy. Untouched by courtly intrigue and schemes, by your fathers hand. Just little Viserys with his big eyes and endless curiosities which made it all the easier to love him.

You pushed open the double-doors to the library and watched as Viserys’s head shot up immediately, as if he had been waiting for your entrance.

The sound of his book slamming closed causes you to startle and the prince ignores the objections of his teacher in favor of rushing towards you with unprecedented speed.

“Sister!” he shouted before crashing into your midsection, his arms wrapping around your waist as he craned his neck up to look at your face. You laughed, shining your brightest smile down to your younger brother and brought a hand down to his forehead to brush aside the unruly silver strands which threaten to block his view.

“Eager are you little brother? Perhaps I should leave you here to finish your book, hm?” You teased, to which you felt a thump on your side accompanied with a whine of protest. 

“Please no! It’s boring, sister! I wish it no more.” Viserys continued. He was never one to be denied when it came to you and it manifested quite brattily at times. Once when he was younger, he had refused to let you retire for a nap after spending the entire afternoon with him. He had clung to your leg and shouted at any maids who tried to sway him away from you.

Viserys’s instructor took rapid steps towards the two of you with a scowl, used to this playing out by now but nonetheless annoyed you continued to pull away the prince from his lessons.

“Princess! If I may-” His tone was frustrated and loud before suddenly the sound of Jaime’s armor shifting became prominent. He interrupted the older man with a mocking voice.

“You may not. You should consider lowering your voice when you speak to the princess. I’d like to think one has their rights to spend time with their own kin, no? Unless you're staking your claim over the young prince, asserting control over the boy, hm? Is that it? Do you think your authority is greater than hers?” He had a mischievous smile as he continued to prattle on about disrespect and authority to the point the man flushed in anger. Nonetheless it shut him up effectively.

“No, of course not! But I-” Jaime raised his brow and stood up straighter, ready to open his mouth again to spew more nonsense gladly. Upon seeing this the man's shoulders go slack as he pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath.

“Apologies princess… just be sure to give us more time to effectively go over more material next time.” The teacher gritted in annoyance at Jaime’s spiel, not wanting to listen to the continuation.

You have to hold back the laugh which threatened to escape you. Hugging Viserys a little tighter, you graced the man with a sincere and smug smirk feeling emboldened by Jaime’s presence. “Why thank you. I’m glad that’s sorted. Now, excuse us, but we have much to do! Shall we be on our way, Viserys?” you asked, sparing the instructor one last glance before looking at the prince.

“Let's go already!” Viserys shouted before separating from you and charging forward through the open doors.

Whipping your head around, you yell after him. Without looking back, the boy keeps on running as if you were going to change your mind and leave him there instead.

Picking up your skirts, you rushed as fast as you could behind your younger brother with Jaime keeping pace on your right. “Viserys! Viserys- Gods, Jaime get him!” you yelped as your knight had made little effort to catch the runaway.

Jaime snickered and sped up snatching your brother's wrist with ease. Viserys lets out a shrill giggle as the knight holds him still while waiting for you to catch up. 

“Come on, let go!” the prince said in a fit of laughter trying to pry the knight’s fingers off of him.

Tightening his grip, Jaime shoots you a triumphant smile as if catching your brother of six years was a grand accomplishment. 

Did he wish for praise you wanted to tease.

“I think your sister would be terribly angry with me if I did,” the knight responded, to which Viserys groaned in return.

Standing in front of the two, you took a moment to catch your breath while your brother wiggled around in Jaime’s grasp to no avail.

“You just say that because you think she’s pretty. You probably loooove-” Viserys began.

“That’s enough from you!” you squeaked while hastily putting your hand over his mouth, the rumbles of his voice muffled beneath your palm. 

Damn Viserys, where he learned the half the things he says, you wished you knew. 

It was dumb, the way your face heated up at the ignorant words. Your brother was young and rarely understood what he was saying himself half the time. Even so, you weren’t going to risk meeting Jaime’s eyes. That would be begging for ridicule.

Unluckily, Viserys began to shake his heat and went so far as to lick your hand. Recoiling, you grimaced at the feeling. 

“Stop it!” he hissed. 

“Fine, fine! Jaime,” You motioned for the knight to let go. Your younger brother promptly stuck his tongue out at him upon release. 

“I want to go to the training yards, sister. I want to watch all the guards fight, can we please? I won’t run again, promise,” Viserys pleaded. Always quick to make a fuss over the next thing, rarely dwelling on the chaos he initiates. As are children you suppose.

“I was thinking we could spend some time in the gardens today…” You gulped.

You could already see his face crease in an unpleasant manner, clearly unsatisfied with your idea.

“But I want to watch the guards train! I don’t want to sit in the boring gardens! I want to see soldiers!” The prince grizzled.

“But Viserys, they're all so busy. We cannot get in their way!” You tried to reason.

Stomping his little foot to the ground, he stood firm. “I. Want. To. See. Soldiers,” he exclaimed.

Instinctually you looked to Jaime for help. 

When did you start doing that?

With a bewildered look, the knight shrugged. He didn’t seem the placating type. He gaped for a moment before bending his knee, lowering himself to your brother’s eye level.

Catching the boy’s attention, he gives an easy grin.

“What if we go to the gardens today. I can show you a few of my tricks?” Grabbing the hilt of his sword, he slides a portion from its scabbard to emphasize his point. “It’ll be good fun. I’m sure I’m much more skilled than those other men anyways, half their age too.”

You rolled your eyes briefly at his words. Ever prideful he was. Thankfully, they seemed to work as Viserys’s eye lit up at the prospect. Nodding eagerly he grabs on to Jaime’s hand.

“Oh yes! Yes! Hurry, c’mon!” Viserys excitedly begged, trying to drag your knight towards the gardens.

Jaime’s body swayed as Viserys yanked, and he still managed to boyishly grin at you.

“Look how fast I've solved this” the grin told you.

“Just you wait and see,” your reluctant smile replied.

Deciding to join in the fun, having gotten your wish of visiting the gardens, you walk to Jaime’s other free hand and grab it with uncharacteristic familiarity. 

“You heard your prince Ser Jaime, make haste!”

Jaime’s hand subconsciously squeezes yours at the touch. Standing up, he allows the both of you to tug him along to the gardens.

The biting wind whistled through the courtyard as the three of you stepped outside. The sun’s light touched everything in its reach, counteracting the frigid cold which had been merciless the past few days, the beauty of the outdoor courtyard enhanced. The birds chirped in the large tree, hiding from the cool chill in the air.

Letting your hand fall slack against Jaime’s, you let go. Trudging over to the tree, sitting against the strong trunk. You pat the space beside you, silently calling your little brother. Viserys plops on to the ground with excitement clear on his face.

“Well, go on and show us.” Viserys demanded to which you stroked the back of his head placatingly.

“You must say please zaldrītsos.” You reprimanded, only to be ignored as your brother stayed encapsulated, practically drooling over the gilded sword on Jaime’s hip. Little dragon.

“You know, in real battle you’ve got to have a little patience. Have to wait for the right moment to strike” Jaime pulled the blade from its sheath and gave it an experimental swing. You could hear the way the blade cut through the air and it sent a tingle down your spine to watch him.

“You have to let your instincts take over, fight like the sword is a part of your arm.”

Even in the serene atmosphere, the way which he held the sword commanded power and attention. You’d never seen Jaime fight, nor had you watched anything more violent than a melee, but even you could tell he could put strength behind his craft.

You clapped in awe at the Lannister’s slow yet precise movements, to which Viserys let out a cheer.

“What an audience.” He snickered. Putting the tip of his blade to the crumbling dirt, he leaned on it like a cane. “I’m good at playing performer, no? I think such a show deserves a reward.” Jaime smirked.

“Other than my applause and favor? What a greedy, dare I say, sycophant you are!” you taunted.

“I would have said arse-kisser, but-”

“Jaime!” 

“-that could work too.” Jaime finished.

His head slowly cocked to the side as you gave him a stern look. Harshly jutting your head towards Viserys, the knight didn’t have enough time to process what you implied before your brother cut in.

“Arse! You said arse, you said arse-kisser! You’re not supposed to say that!” Viserys wheezed between laughs, holding his little belly hysterically.

Throwing an exasperated sigh into the mix, you glare at Jaime before tugging on your brother's ear.

“Don’t say such obscenities Viserys! You know you’re not allowed to repeat such things. Jaime was just being silly. Right, Jaime?” you threatened.

Snorting and then covering it up with a cough, Jaime acquiesced to your admonishment.

“Your sister is right, listen to her.” He paused. “More importantly, back to the victory laurels I deserve, the mass glory.” 

Scoffing, you hold the urge to laugh again. That mouth of his loved to talk. You would have doubted his ability to be serious had you not met him under the circumstances you did, truly.

Looking down to the hand which rested on the ground, you noticed a winter weed prickly and ugly as ever growing next to it. Grabbing it from the stem you ripped it from the dirt and held it up for all to see.

“Ah, look at that! How lucky, victory laurels as pretty as you right here.” Not true.

Jaime’s mouth went agape as he blankly stared at you for a moment.

“Teaching the prince to lie now? I think most men would agree it’s worse to be a liar than vulgar. Shall I chastise the princess now instead, my prince?” Jaime fired back at the utter insult of being compared to the green-grey plant.

Viserys squealed in agreement which seemed to goad your knight on. Stepping closer to the two of you, Jaime switches his sword to the side furthest from the little prince, bending at the waist slightly, only an arms length away. It wasn’t so close as the night you had met him, practically leapt into his arms, but close enough that you could see the tip of his nose which was red from the cold.

“You know-”

Before he could begin, you brushed the dirt away from the weed and leaned forward, arm outstretched. Jaime flinched, jerking back only a bit to catch a glimpse of what you were doing. 

Miraculously, where you expected him to fall back, he stood perfectly still as you gently tucked the winter plant amongst his curls.

“Cruel.” He said softly, eyes roving over your face surprisingly unbothered.

“I did warn you, Ser Jaime. Take your laurels and go off.” You retorted, no bite in your tone. Retreating back, it was only when Viserys began to cackle did Jaime resume.

He was so graceful with a longsword. Agile. It was soothing to watch.

Viserys looked on in amazement as the knight performed a difficult looking maneuver. “Have you ever killed someone?!” Viserys marveled aloud and Jaime stopped himself for a moment. You lightly nudge his shoulder and tell him off.

“You can’t just ask people that Viserys! Where did you even learn of such things?” You questioned with sternness. 

“You’re no fun, I was just asking!” 

Relaxing his sword arm, Jaime shifts his weight from one foot to another. Waving you off, he answers the question. “I killed a man once before. Cut his head from his shoulders when I helped rid the kingswood from the brotherhood.”

Viserys nodded along attentively while you stared at the hand which gripped on to the pommel of the weapon. You would have chided Jaime had you not told your little brother worse stories. 

Oh how the nursemaids had glowered at you with venom when they told you of how the young prince kept them occupied all night, refusing to go to sleep after having a nightmare about the Field of Fire his sister had told him all about.

“Wow…” Your brother said, admiring the knight towering over the two of you. Digging his fingers into the grass, Viserys moves to speak again.

“May I… May I hold it? Your sword?” He asks in a trance-like state, mouth in a line of determination with wide eyes that screamed a childlike quality and most definitely not befitting a little boy who pleads to hold a sword his height.

Before you could hound him with refusal and reasons as to why that will not happen, Jaime shoots you a reassuring look and casually shakes his head, mouthing don’t worry.

“Only on the condition that you let me help you.” Jaime countered. Gods that is not what you would call a compromise, but before you had the chance to speak up Viserys was already bolting to your knight’s side.

“That is not as reassuring as you think it is Ser Jaime!” You scolded while sitting up a bit straighter, tensing at the sight of your brother's grabby hands already trying to reach for the hilt of the blade.

“Relax, he’ll be fine. I’ll try not to let him take off a finger.” He winked to Viserys who’s eyes had widened at the words. “Come on, then. Both hands.” 

Moving one hand to the upper part, he waits expectantly for Viserys to place his on the lower. Cautious, the boy makes a fist around the handle looking to Jaime for further instruction. Jaime put his free hand over the prince’s and grabbed placed Viserys’s other hand under his at the top, keeping a firm hold of the blade while allowing you brother to wield the sword as well. It took a moment for Viserys to say a word as he was preoccupied grinning ear to ear, no doubt feeling every bit the little warrior. Turning to you, his eyes rapidly move from the sword to you in excitement.

“Look! Sister, look at me! How do I look?” He shouted with glee. Seeing the way Jaime had the situation under control, no chance of Viserys accidentally running himself through with the metal, your heart's pace slows to normal and you let out a breathy chuckle which borders a sigh.

Your gaze softens a fraction watching Jaime hunched over your brother who toothily smiles at you. A prince showered with everything he could possibly want, yet holding the sword of your sworn shield brings on a smile like no other.

“... Perfect. Like a true warrior,” Lifting your eyes to Jaime a spark of mischief shows on your face, “Careful ser. You might hurt yourself standing so close to Viserys the Bold.”

Jaime smirked, “I’ll take my chances.” He said before guiding the prince’s hand up to take a measured swing. “See? Slow and controlled. You try.”

Still keeping a hold of the sword, Jaime visibly slacks his grip to allow Viserys a bit more control and the boy takes a deep breath before he let the weapon fly. You immediately began to clap as you had for Jaime with a giggle. “Bravo Viserys! Well done. You're ready for your knight spurs.”

Pivoting towards you with an exasperated arch of his brow, it astounded you that someone so little could be so full of fire. “Stop it, you’re making such a spectacle.” He hissed. You’d think the boy enjoyed fighting from the way he seemed to take issue with everything you said.

Crossing your arms, you watch as Jaime begins to pull the sword away and Viserys exhales sharply in disbelief that his grubby little hands were already being revoked access. “What happened to my sweet little brother, hm? The one who used to trail behind me saying how nice and pretty I was?”

“Stop!”

You got up and inched closer as he reared back. “You were such a cute little thing. And you were so sweet, not all annoying like now.” Jaime stepped to the side and the moment he did you rushed for Viserys with both arms outstretched. He didn’t have time to process what was happening until it was too late. He struggled and tried to free himself from your hold to no avail. He may be older now, but he was still too small to resist the kisses you pressed to his cheeks as he frantically turned his head back and forth to avoid it. “Quit it!” he objected.

“Never-” you squished the soft skin gently, “you’re my baby brother, don’t think a bit of swordplay will change that. You should just stay like this forever, yes?” You picked him up and watched as his face went red with anger. Pressing your cheek to his and forcing him to still as you turned to your knight. “What do you think Ser Jaime? Isn’t my babe just precious the way he is?” You smiled with a pure radiance while presenting the young prince to Jaime.

His words seemed to linger in his throat for a heartbeat worth of stillness while he looked upon the two of you. The pair of you melding together at how tight you had pushed yourself to Viserys in order to keep him unmoving, pale lashes kissing your under eyes as you batted them towards the knight.

Jaime gave a soft throaty noise before responding coolly, “...He looks like he’s about to burst into tears. Don’t you know crying children seldom make good company?” 

“Now you’re being no fun.”  You gave a derisive snort and allowed your brother to drop from your arms. 

The rest of the afternoon went by in a blur between Viserys’s constant energy and your sheer determination to keep up with him. The three of you played games in the garden until your legs went wobbly from the exertion. Ending the outing in a heap on the ground, cradling Viserys while Jaime prattled on about various warriors he liked best.

It began to grow colder and you had tugged the cloak around your shoulders tighter, making sure to pull Viserys close to you, cradling him gently. He had only calmed down when you forced him to sit through the same tune you’ve sung to him many times before, Six Maids in a Pool. Gently shifting around, you move the arm which begins to grow numb. When you turn towards Jaime you find him staring back.

“A fan of Jonquil?” He uttered softly.

You perked up and hummed in agreement. 

Everyone knew the song, a favorite of nursemaids and mothers all throughout Westeros. It was a funny juxtaposition in your head, your lionhearted knight who was always in armor and sword in hand and once too been a boy, like Viserys. Perhaps even forced to bed with the same song.

The tale between Jonquil and Florian the Fool was one from the age of heroes. The fair Lady Jonquil bathing in a pool of water with her sisters, a knight by the name Florian looking upon her and falling in love at first sight. Of course Jaime would know such a renowned story.

“I know the tale by heart, the song too. My nurse read it to me as a child and after that I would just… beg her to read it to me every night, again and again.”

The rustle of the leaves could be heard, the gardens gaining back their peaceful quality now that Viserys’s shouts and complaints couldn’t be heard. Jaime had long since sheathed his sword and now stood at a fair distance, white cloak fluttering against the breeze.

“It was always such a sweet tale. I asked more than a dozen times to be taken to Jonquils pool.” You laughed reminiscing at the memory, “I don’t think I understood that a great love wouldn’t await me there. My Florian wouldn’t be in Maidenpool.” 

You paused briefly before continuing, “You want to know something interesting?”

“I fear you and I have different opinions of what constitutes interest. For example, I’ve watched you read a book the size of your head and call it interesting. I’ll tell you now, I would’ve had less fun reading it myself than I did watching you read it for four entire hours.” Jaime chuckled, the timbre rich and deep from how long the two of you had been quiet for.

“Oh, shut it. I was just going to tell you that Queen Alyssane had a sworn shield named Jonquil Darke. They called her the Scarlet Shadow. Which is ironic seeing as they likened Jaehaerys and Alyssane to the Jonquil and Florian from the song.”

Laying your cheek on the top of Viserys’s head, you stroke his cheek.

“See? That was interesting,” you asserted.

“More interesting than if I would’ve had to learn that myself, I suppose. Tell me, is Alysanne one of your heroes too?” Jaime probed. It wasn’t for love of knowledge he asked, but what you think is him finally yielding to the fact you will continue to aimlessly overload him with facts of history.

One point to Targaryen, zero points to Lannister.

“How could I not! She was a strong woman, everything a ruler should be. A dragonrider! She was the Conciliator's equal in every respect, it’s almost unheard of to have not only a good king, but a good queen too.”

“Very interesting indeed.” He mocked you with the same smile which always tried its hardest to make you swoon.

Entangling a hand in Viserys’s hair, you listen to the puffs of his breaths. “It is! I’m just saying they were gifts to the realm as far as monarchs go. And they loved each other, dearly too. It must be nice… to hold such endearment for another.”

A flash of understanding crossed Jaime’s otherwise neutral visage. He would probably think it was idiotic if he knew how you daydreamed of your Florian every now and then, in armor made of motley. In armor made of gold.

Instead, Jaime doesn’t say a thing before looking up carefully. 

“It is sometimes. Not so much at others. The bards sing their songs of love, poets sing its praises, but it’s not nearly sung enough about how hard it can be.” His sharp countenance warped into something softer, more vulnerable.

“I can imagine. But still, it’s a pleasure to find someone to care for like that,” you suggested cautiously, slowly.

Did Jaime have someone he loved…?

“Aye, what a dream, a pleasure, to have your chest ache all prickly and tiring. You don’t get to decide for who, or to feel like that, but you can’t stop it either.” His brow furrowed as he cleared his throat. It seemed he realized his mistake, seemed to notice your rounded eyes showing that you realized too.

“... Jaime?”

“I… I’m going to keep guard at the entrance, princess.” Jaime began to amble towards the archway of the courtyard. 

You were left dumbfounded as the knight trudged away, eyes tracing his form as it grew further away. His hand came to rustle at his hair agitatedly, the winter weed falling from where it had been previously nestled.

Strange.

Many evenings had been spent together like that, albeit happier, especially as the weather had finally begun to warm. Viserys had taken to playing his new favorite game ‘maid in the tower’ with you and Jaime. Your knight would take on the role of barbarian keeping you captive while Viserys the Valiant (a name he fashioned himself) would come to your rescue. You couldn’t count how many times you cringed and winced when Viserys would wack Jaime at full strength, with a wooden training sword your knight had thought was a brilliant idea to give him. His teeny cords of muscle working hard under the strain of the surprisingly intensive game. The two of you might’ve been creating the next Dragon Knight with all the running and hitting and whatever else it is warriors do.

Thankfully, Jaime took each strike in stride, barely budging before finding some way to send your little brother running. A subdued smile took residence on your face as you looked in your mirror. Brushing through the ends of your hair, you remember the way the knight would prowl around you while goading Viserys on.

…

“I guess you don’t actually want to save the princess… I wonder what I'll do with her?” Jaime shouted.

You had gasped in feigned shock, voice taking on a disbelieving tone. “Never monster! Viserys the Valiant will rescue me!”

Once your brother had retrieved his oaken weapon -which Jaime had thrown into a bush- his face was one of determination. He charged Jaime with an unprecedented speed and swung hard. The Lannister met him halfway with a grunt, taken off guard by the surprise attack. Wood clashed against wood, Viserys relentless in his attempts to win the game while your knight met each blow with a single handed grip on his play-sword.

“I’ll keep her forever, locked away in my tower.”

“No! She-” another hit, “-is MY sister!”

It had been hours of this running around and the air turned more suffocating the higher the sun climbed, the heat had caused for sweat to pool uncomfortably under your heavy layers. You were dead sure if you suggested going inside before your brother could win, he would pitch a fit.

To make things worse, Jaime was amused by the way Viserys lunged at him. He seethes not being able to land a hit on the knight more than ten years his elder and Jaime seemed content to bask in the humidity and sweat, but you certainly weren’t.

“Boys! While I appreciate the vigor which you both have on my behalf, why don’t we all just make peace? Lunch sounds a lot better than beating each other with sticks, and it’s dreadful out here. Any longer and I'll melt into a puddle.”

The both of them didn’t spare you a glance as they continued. 

“No! I don’t want to go inside, I want to win!” Viserys yelled furiously, still on the attack. Dodging a particularly forceful jab, Jaime caused your brother to stumble forward as he sidesteps him. An a-ha came from the knight as he evaded yet again.

“I would sooner risk my honor protecting you then let you go free, princess,” Jaime said, wholly absorbed into his villainous role.

“What honor?! You’re meant to be a barbarian!” you exclaimed incredulously.

“Fine, my horse or my sword. I’d sooner give those away than lose.”

“That’s not the point I was trying to make Ser Jaime.” You huffed.

This was enough you concluded. You’d be your own savior. Looking around you spot a convenient branch lying on the ground, waiting for the perfect warrior to wield it.

Bending over, you pick it up. It had blunt edges and the bark was peeling as a result of weathering. Clutched in your fist, you approached the two with agile speed. Before either of them could realize what was happening, you plunged your makeshift weapon just just under Jaime’s armpit.

An oomph sound slipped past the knight's lips at the sudden force. He craned his neck backwards only to come upon your countenance of victory and smugness. The corners of his mouth twitched with the beginnings of a baffled smile.

“I didn’t know it would be so easy to best you. I think you’d make a far better damsel next time, it’s getting awfully dull for me with all this waiting around. You’ve got the hair for it, prettier than mine own.” You smiled cheekily. Further nestling the sword in the crook of his arm. The rustle of metal sounded as the stick prodded into him, and Jaime’s ears perked up in confusion. His eyes slid from yours, to where he was being “impaled”, and then you again.

A loud, amused laugh came from Jaime as that charming grin of his was brightly on display. Your heart stuttered when the melodic sound chimed in your ears.

“You crafty little maid,” he guffawed. Taking the tip of the stick he ignored your brother's quibbles, raising concern over your improper manner of play.

“Jaime-” you began.

He forcefully retracted your weapon and spun on his heel to face you, only separated by the length of the wood. You kept your finger tightly laced around, trying to imitate how Rhaegar taught you to hold a longsword a time ago. One hand at the top of the “hilt” and the other at the bottom, not letting your wrists to lock in place.

Jaime lightly shook the end making you sway with the motion. He observed your form while he came down from the shock of your surprise attack.

“Very underhanded, I like it. They should just thrust the sword in your hand and outfit you in mail, I'm sure you’d do a fine job as your own knight,” he mused while tugging the stick closer to his chest, bringing you along with it. You staggered forward, only an arms length away now, and the closeness caused your insides to melt with warmth.

“This is not how you play the game!” Viserys shouted attempting to bring the attention back on to him and his anger

His blaring voice could not pierce the moment as the two of you pointedly refused to acknowledge his cries. Your mind went fuzzy and you assured yourself it was the sun's blistering rays which clouded your senses.

“Though…” The pads of his fingers reached out out out until they grazed your knuckles. “You might need to practice your hold on a blade first.” He gently untucked the thumb which hid beneath the meat of your palm and slid the entire hand farther down the stick. Your limbs went slack as you allowed him to readjust your grip.

The sun made your cheeks heat so viciously. Terrible sun, horrible heat, nothing else.

Squeezing you once, he let go and stepped back to appraise the correction he made and with a hum of approval he looked back to you. 

“I suppose I'll have to keep shielding you until then. It’s not so bad protecting you… I like to think it suits me.” His voice lowered at the last part, surprised to have said such a thing.

At this moment, the thing in your hand was far more interesting. All its ridges and jagged lines, the tears in the hard bark, the… brown-ness. The bark, did you mention the bark already? You were positively enamored by the piece of nature rather than the big golden fool in front of you. 

Yes, that is so. The whole of it, the truth of the matter.

“Will you guys stop it! I was meant to save you from Ser Jaime and he was meant to be hit by me, not you sister! This isn’t fair and you mean people won’t listen. I don’t want to play anymore!” Viserys interrupted once again.

The sound of cacophonous raucous your brother produced was like being doused in cold water. You briefly peered over at Jaime once more before turning to Viserys. With all the love of a sibling vexxed, you swiftly poked your stick to your brother's little chest right where his heart rapidly beat.

“Oh, hush, Viserys, dead boys can’t speak. Now, I've beaten the both of you and we’re all going inside, I won’t hear anymore of it.”

You snatched the back of your little brother's shirt and dragged him along while he kicked and thrashed. You purposefully averted your gaze from Jaime, as if he was some grotesque sight to not be seen.

…

You had long rid your hair of the knots riddled throughout. Now it was aimless brushing as you repeated the motion on your head. You had bid goodnight to Jaime some time ago, even listened as he exchanged a few words with the guard posted outside of your door, and slinked off to his own chambers in the White Sword Tower. The slender structure with its whitewashed stone walls overlooking the Blackwater Bay.

It was strange to wonder what your knight did with the little time he spent away from you, he was a man grown, his duty was to follow your every move not the other way around. 

You pushed the chair away from your embellished and ornate vanity, your bare feet soft against the hard floor. 

Did he drink the time away by indulging in barrels of Dornish Red wine? Or perhaps he preferred Arbor Gold? Your sworn shield by day and a drunkard by night to cope with his duty.

…No. Jaime didn’t seem like the type. He wasn’t one to idle, wasting away who knows where sunken into a cup. He was too restless, hot-headed to mellow himself out like that.

All men had their vices. Which meant even the Lannister had something wicked he enjoyed. Too impatient to gamble, not interested enough in silks and frills to beggar himself (not that he could if he tried), and it was simple and plain to tell his hands were solely meant for your safeguarding; he was not a man to inflict cruelty on others for mere amusement. 

One step and then the next, your nightgown swished around your ankles as you paced the length of your room. 

Perhaps a paramour of sorts?

…

No. That wouldn’t be right. He himself had admitted to carrying a candle for another woman.

He had let his tongue go loose, said it by accident, his breath freezing and misting in the frigid air of the harsh winter which had overcome the false spring all those moons ago. Your fingers, nose, cheeks, and ears had gone numb, but your mind was still as sharp as the crack of a whip. It was a wonder his words still plagued you after all this time, but sometimes, when your room was still and the events of the day faded into the periphery, you thought of those words.

“Aye, what a dream, a pleasure, to have your chest ache all prickly and tiring. You don’t get to decide for who, or to feel like that, but you can’t stop it either.”

Who was it, you wondered, that made his heart thump brokenly? Was she beautiful and noble? Eyes as black as coal or bright and blue as the sapphire waters of Tarth? Something else entirely?

You flopped belly first onto your bed, crawling up the soft silken sheets to the head of the mattress, pulling one of your many pillows into the crook of your shoulder and resting your head on the plush cushion. 

Clutching on to the fabric filled with goose down, you’re no closer to figuring out a damn thing about your knight. Jaime who was mysteriously in love with another, who had mysterious hobbies, and mysterious whereabouts. All of which utterly are unknown to you, and for some gods forsaken reason you can’t help but be irritated by that fact. 

For someone who talked as much as him, there were a lot of particulars you weren’t privy to. You once believed you could coax the name of the girl he cared for out of him one quiet afternoon, to which he didn’t respond kindly to. It was the only time, save for the tourney at Harrenhal, he spoke to you so brusquely, shutting you down with an uncomfortable looking glare and coughing up some excuse of needing to watch the door of the solar instead of staying seated with you as he had been. Just as he had that day in the gardens.

Turning in your bed, you lean over your side table poised in front of your candle. The wax had dripped down the sides into the holder, its flames flickering so meekly while illuminating your surroundings. 

What a lucky wench she was, and you convinced yourself it was seldom the fact she was loved in such a way at all, nothing to do with it being Jaime who longed for her.

If you had the nerve, you would have told him there was a name for what he was feeling. Se prūmi jaelagon, The hearts want, yearning. That was what he felt.

Oh how you understood that. You knew all too well what it’s like to want something so far out of your reach. He mourns the woman he will never have and you pine for the life you may never live.

Such outlandish ideas you have while watching the flame of your candle flicker. It burns blue at the base and yellow at the tip, wispy and wobbly as each breath you take threatens to snuff its light entirely. Your nursemaid once told you that it was the blue flame which scorched the hottest and your childish mind had wondered if any dragons had set keeps and forests aflame in an azure blaze. The blue of the seas crashing against coastal towns engulfed in the inferno.

There was something intoxicating about the way the fire moved, like it was its own entity. It calls to you with a small and captivating voice, like a lover's whisper urging you closer. You ran the tip of your finger so close to the little flame, it was almost painful.

It felt pleasant on your skin, the heat. It tickled your senses in a way which felt right. The witless whisper how Targaryens are mad for fire and perhaps they were half right. The flame felt like life itself and on occasion even you wished to be consumed by it, until you were nothing but ash blowing in the wind, soaring in the sky as dragons once did.

If fire was life and to live is to love, was it really mad to grasp at life and love in its earthly form?

You were Fire and Blood, it ran through your veins sustaining you just as your lifesblood did. If being a fool was to accept what your heart sought after then you were a bigger dunce than the court jester. You, Jaime, and everyone else with a feeling soul.

With one blow, your room went dark and you waited for the slow lull of sleep to pull you into its embrace.

“All men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned.” - Florian the Fool

Jaime was never one to pass the time in a library. He didn’t understand the satisfaction of lingering between rows of dusty shelves, hunched and fussing over a book like a maester. Not when he could be out in the fresh air burning his abundant energy either training or, to his unexpected pleasure, trailing behind you while you spoke in great lengths over the flora and fauna which you most enjoyed in the gardens.

Unfortunately, you were not in agreement with his perspective on your quest for knowledge between the yellowed, aged pages. 

Which is how the young knight finds himself sluggishly shuffling after you, lugging around two cumbersome tomes; history writings from the Citadel. Fire and Blood was what read on the spine of the first, the second plainly titled 132-250 A.C.

“I could have sworn I watched you finish this one cover to cover already. A bit heavy on the reading, no?” Jaime teased lightly. He knew you had an affinity for anything related to your family's dynasty, well versed in anything with the briefest mention of Old Valyria.

“More than once,” you replied absentmindedly, eyes skimming the various titles in the aisle.

“Really?”

Quirking his head, he watches as you ignore him in favor of concentrating on finding the elusive Rebellions, 1-170 A.C. 

This was boring, yes, but it’s not entirely dull perusing so long as you kept entertaining him with your occasional remarks on the works you drifted by, passing your judgements based upon the countless hours you’ve spent reading them. 

Jaime found no pleasure in libraries, but he found no displeasure in carrying around your reading material while you repeated yet another fact about House Gardener, the Blackfyre rebellions, or Nymeria, anything that caught your fancy. He’d listen, far more than he had ever listened to any of his tutors in youth, he would wait for you to need him, and he’d stare at the back of your head more contented than he would have imagined while doing nothing at all.

Shifting around he double checks a few spots you went over too quickly while periodically glancing back at you. 

A hush came over the pair of you like a wet blanket and Jaime no longer alternated his focus between you and the books. Instead, he opted to keep his attention solely on you. Given the choice between hunting down a chronicle and observing you, he’d choose you without fail. 

Strangely, as of late, it seems to be his preferred option.

His footsteps thudded behind while you peacefully browsed, a composed expression uniform with the stillness of the room. There were days like this on occasion. Days where you said little more than ‘good morrow’ after emerging from your chambers before leading him to this place. 

You’d weave through the busy halls like a mouse scurrying along, attempting to go to your burrow unremarked. He’d be hot at your heels, unsure whether you’d notice and slow down if he lagged behind. Servants and nobles alike would tip their heads as you passed, your mere presence enough to demand notice, and if that wasn’t enough, the silver of your hair was anything but negligible.

Jaime never lost you in the hallways, of course. At the beginning of his assignment, he’d simply look for whoever stuck out like a sore thumb. He had believed your color palette to be the most identifiable thing about you.

Slowly, he’d learned that to be untrue. 

He didn’t know when it happened, but he was granted the ability to find you in any room, anywhere. Through the sounds you made, like the irritated click of your teeth when something didn’t go your way. By your silhouette, like the slope of where your neck met your shoulders. By your scent, like the Lyseni perfume you loved.

Jaime watched and watched until it became too apparent he wasn’t helping. You craned your head in his direction with a look on your face, waving toward the shelves, your eyes holding a speck of judgement.

“Why, you have my gratitude, Ser. I had no idea you were as impatient as me to find this book,” you said, the sarcasm clear in your words.

Meeting your eye he stands a bit taller, the sudden urge to not appear as if he was slouching under the weight of the books he held. 

“You’ve already read it, the words will still be the same. That’s the whole point of keeping all this around,” Jaime quipped in response.

And then there was that click of your teeth. You turned to him fully, popping your hip outwards and resting a hand on your skirts.

“Nice of you to join me back here, I was worried you forgot about me.” Jaime subtly grinned and you rolled your eyes.

“How could I? I can hear you thinking, stomping behind me like you're marching off to war,” you complained. “Which is ironic seeing as-” You cut your own voice off abruptly and clamped your mouth shut, into a straight line.

Shaking your head, you turn your gaze to a behemoth of a tome to his right.

“Nevermind,” you sighed.

Now this piqued Jaime’s curiosity. You sounded, in truth, bothered.

One step forward and then the next, he closed the gap between the two of you with ease. His eyes momentarily flickered to where his occupied and extended hands could reach out and touch you if he tried, little distance between the two of you. His heart rate quickened almost immediately, imperceptibly, and he cleared his throat.

He could hear the audible gulp you made and just as your lips began to shape into the beginnings of his name, he interrupted.

“You can say it. I know what you want to say, I don’t mind, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” Jaime said, recomposing himself.

“I’m… I'm not going to do that.” You persisted.

Jaime could resume his post at the door, leave you with your strange mood, yet he finds no inclination in himself to do so. Alternatively, he could stay right where he was.

He liked the latter best.

“I think what you meant to say was that I don’t think before I speak. Am I right?” His head cocked to the side. 

His mind takes him back to Casterly Rock for the briefest of moments. A little Cersei, no older than a girl of five, puffing her cheeks in anger for a daft remark he could no longer remember making as she said that very insult.

It wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

Your brows knit together as speckles of indigo swirl within your iris’s. Eyes meant to be studied under close inspection and captured in their glory by a master painter.

“Those are your words, not mine. I didn’t say such a thing,” you mumbled, body tensing under his scrutiny. You try to take a step back, only to be met with the hard wood of the furniture. 

Reluctantly, Jaime realizes he’s physically backed you into a corner and falls back.

“But you were thinking it.” He smiled, a small distance between the two of you now.

You glare at him lightly and he knows it’s insincere. He’s seen how ridgid your face goes when Viserys does something naughty, or when you’re forced to sit through a dreadfully long dinner, and this wasn’t comparable. 

“My sister would agree with you. My father too. I’ve been told I have a penchant for running my mouth, though I've never understood the problem with that. I like to keep people enlightened with my sentiments. Being clever comes with a bit of… well,  gall, wouldn’t you say?” he joked, only somewhat. 

“Oh, I feel very enlightened right now.”

“Good, at least you do. A shame my father never does. No, Tywin Lannister is no nonsense. If I recall correctly, he called it being ‘juvenile and stupid-”

At this you promptly perked up and interrupted his droning, your visage going from irate to one of both mild offense and slight bewilderment.

At him or on his behalf?

“You’re not though,” you asserted, as if the notion was ludicrous.

“I never said I was.”

…

You had taken to twisting the ring on your finger while the two of you locked eyes, a strong posture as you watched him critically, wistfully.

“Ao ȳdra daor rȳbagon.” You sighed in pause. High Valyrian.

Your mother tongue always left a rather bittersweet feeling within him whenever he had the pleasure of hearing it. It resonated in his mind as one could only describe as a divine call, the foreign dialect falling from your lips so naturally. It was the language of conquerors and empire, and the way in which it echoed through the cavities of his mind, subjugating his every sense to be beholden to it was the evidence.

The bitterness came from the mystery which it held. When he would be made to wait outside the doors of Queen Rhaella’s chambers while you spoke to her in code, when you’d make comments in passing to Viserys, when you’d whisper under your breath in the Essosi-speak. 

To say it bothered Jaime wouldn’t be right, rather, it mystified him in a way. He was your protector, he who spent every day, nearly every waking hour with you. But the intimate language, fluently known by so few in Westeros, was akin to a secret which you shared with only those closest to you.

A secret which he wasn’t in on. Why this troubled the young lion so, he did not know.

“I can’t understand you. My understanding of High Valyrian is limited to… ‘rytses’?” Jaime breathed, irritation inching into his tone.

Your fingers pinched the bridge of your nose while you chuckled a bit at his last words. It was airy, hard to catch unless you really listened.

Jaime listened… a knight's duty and whatnot.

Lifting a brow, your laugh elicits a small smile of his own and his face all but asks ‘What?’

“Rytsas. Not ‘sess’, it’s an ‘ahhh’ sound. Rytsas,” you said, a lighter expression gracing your face, “and hello to you too ñu-ha azan-tys,” you added, enunciating the last bit clear for his untrained ears.

He had long disregarded the way his arms began to feel like jelly, continuing to stand firm under your watch. Jaime dared not push you by mentioning how long you’ve been trying to find that gods forsaken book, not when your lips quirked upwards ever so slightly. A little more and he reckoned he could coax that wide smile from you, which, he believed suited you much more than the long-faced, crotchety thing you had going on.

“There’s a dangerous line between thinking and doing. Spend too much time strategizing, behaving, and you do not act. I know you’ve no interest in court intrigue and politics, but you’ve managed to make a truehearted ally in a princess… and I think that’s proof enough of your ability.” You stated with such conviction he knew you meant it in earnest. 

Your little smile had disappeared, replaced again with a more somber appearance. Jaime didn’t intend on evoking flattery from you. He had no want for sympathy which he didn’t need. He knew he was a born fighter, knew he wasn’t apt in strategy and planning like his father was. 

But, he had to admit it felt… nice to know you, specifically, didn’t think that.

Though, Jaime could not shake the internal nagging he would have favored watching your laugh lines grow deeper, a guileless giggle, instead of your return to this unusual stoicism.

You deflated with an exhale and slipped past him. A beat later, you crane your neck to him once more.

“What I mean to say is you are, at times, candid, but never unkind. Not without reason, at least.”

With the rustle of your dress and the spin of your frame you make your way from the thick of the bookcases. You’ve seemingly relented on the pursuit for your book, sparing not even a last glance behind you.

“Come Jaime, we shall make due with what we have.” You drawled. 

“Giving up already?” 

“māzigon kēlītsos.” You voiced leisurely, a hand coming up to beckon the knight forward. Again you spoke your recondite words, but it was little and less obvious by the shift in your tone you took amusement in whatever it was you said. A jest, perhaps?

You were quite humorous with your little jokes, whether you thought it or not, and Jaime wasn’t partial to the idea of missing one because of a mere communication impediment.

“I already told you I can’t understand what you’re saying.” Jaime stated as he sped up to fall into pace with you.

Your lips raised unevenly, ever so slightly, as you kept your stare fixed ahead.

“I know. That’s the point.” A teasing lilt soft in your voice. You teetered on the edge of engaging in your usual banter, and subjecting him to the torture of your silence all over again. You need only be gently guided to the former, and Jaime was more than willing to light the torch and lead the way.

Both of you stood over a large desk, no doubt meant for a group's use rather than independent study. The books hit the center with a bang, to which you cast a glare at Jaime for, to which he gave a hollow apology accompanied by the same grin that had made girls swoon in the past for the young lion.

…Or maybe it was just a smile which craved a response in kind. 

You cracked the pages open and before Jaime knew it, the words tumbled from his mouth.

“Read. Read me your best-loved tale in the book, I mean.” Jaime proposed, grasping for any way to keep listening to your voice, to keep you blathering on to him.

“You’re out of your mind if you think I can decide on only one. No, that would take too much time.” You explained, but Jaime had no want for your excuses.

“You’re the one who boasts about how fascinating all of it is. And we both know I won’t page through that on my own,” placing a hand to the hard leather cover, Jaime cracks it open and lets the book fall to a random page, placing it to the table gentler than he had before. “... so fascinate me,” he offered, issuing a challenge he knew you couldn’t refuse.

Your nostrils flared subtly, your lips pursing, making you look… bullish. A much prettier bull granted.

“Fine. But I’ll hear no complaints from you!”

“None.”

Grazing your hands on the words in front of you, you shake your head and begin thumbing through each page, steadfastly trying to find that which you looked for.

“Well… we can start with the First Quarrel.. Or the Great Council of 101.. Mayhaps the conquest of Dorne…” You trailed off, purple eyes narrowing as you slowed your flipping, latching on to something of interest. 

Peering over, Jaime can read the legibly written ‘King Aegon “The Unworthy” IV’.

“Ah. The king who earned a fitting moniker because of his own foolish impetuousness. Or perhaps that was his intention, I can imagine having a brother like the Dragonknight would bruise one’s pride...” You finally stopped on a page which in a flourished hand read ‘Queen Naerys Targaryen’.

At the mention of Aemon Targaryen, Jaime thought back to how he had almost thrown himself at the White Book when Ser Barristan escorted him through the white sword tower’s halls his first night. He had scoured each and every page with near reverence, taking extra care when he reached the deeds of your aforementioned ancestor.

“No one alive or dead could be like Aemon, save for Ser Arthur perhaps.” Jaime chimed, admiration for the knight evident.

“Of course not. The man was hung naked in a crows cage, over a pit of vipers, and still never cracked!” you trumpeted.

It was hard to believe when he looked upon your mild countenance that the same blood which once flowed through men like Aemon now resided in you. You had a touch of ferocity in your own way he had come to learn, but it nonetheless baffled Jaime that he was the one who protected a dragon.

“I should have guessed you enjoyed warrior stories as well. We could have been discussing this ages ago. I thought you preferred myths and all?” Jaime queried. 

“His is a story everyone knows, Jaime. It’s just that, as of late, I like it a little more.” You shrugged. Your eyes flitted to his shoulder before hastily going back to the paper.

Jaime’s brows furrowed in confusion at the subtle action before tracing your sights. Upon inspection, he was only met with his own white cloak.

“Their sister, Queen Naerys, was supposed to be beautiful and pious. You know, they say he cried when she married. That’s not true though. According to this-” You brought your finger to a line halfway down, “-it was Naerys who wept during the bedding, and Aemon quarrelled with Aegon during the feast.”

“The stout fellow probably nearly crushed her during.” Jaime snorted.

Your eyes widened and your jaw went slack. Scandalized, you chastise the Lannister.

“Jaime!” And the sweet chorus of your laughter followed, eyes alight. The sound was worth more than a thousand praises, he thought. “He wasn’t so… gluttonous yet if we’re being historically accurate. They were married before he was even king, he was very handsome at the time apparently. Still, Naerys was said to favor Aemon long before. A shame they’re remembered as a doomed love simply because of tradition and duty. It always thwarts things, does it not?”

Your family’s longstanding tradition of wedding brother to sister wasn’t lost on Jaime. Of course the first thing he thought of was his own connection to Cersei, but he quickly dashed it away, not wanting to sully this moment with the living ghost of his sin sister.

“I suppose you’re right, it does get in the way. We all have things we want, things we can’t have-” His heart stuttered annoyingly, something unknown stirring beneath the surface, “-including someone as honorable as him. Even so, he still died for the brother who married the woman he loved and tried to smear his name even in death. I guess it’s just… what’s meant to happen.” Jaime offered, little consolation it was, but the truth nonetheless. 

It was what all good knights before him preached, what people like Sword of the Morning and the White Bull upheld righteously. It had to be the truth.

“If that’s so, tell me, what is duty and honor compared to what’s right? Good has many faces… and I don’t think all of them are as honorable as men have made them out to be.” You said, the book long forgotten as the two of you face each other, like two waves in a storm-tossed sea.

Jaime contemplates your answer, a thoughtful expression adorning his face as his fingers fiddled with the hilt of his sword. 

“I agree.” He hummed. “But you can’t leave honor behind as a whole. What’s a man meant to do without it? He’d be jeered for the rest of his life, no one would trust someone who goes against his duties. What would be so good about that?” He acknowledged. He didn’t think you were wrong in what you were trying to say, but it certainly wasn’t something many would entertain. Westeros was built off of oaths and honor, to challenge that was to challenge a system much older than either you or him.

“I find it’s more oft than not, in my family, it’s them who tie the noose around your neck before hanging you from the family tree. What good is duty when you’re dangling from your branch?”

That made Jaime clear his throat uncomfortably.

“You’re not an ornament,” he tried to joke.

“I will be, one day, you just watch.”

He didn’t want to hear anymore of this. He suggested you read these stories to move away from whatever melancholy stubbornly clung to you, not exacerbate it. No more talk of duty or hanging or responsibilities, all you should have to worry about was what book you’d read next and how to defend against his subsequent taunts.

“You shouldn’t talk like that. Of course you’d be overwhelmed if-”

“I’m not,” you assured him. Seeming to realize the tension present in his shoulders, the pinched expression on his normally relaxed visage, you smile flatly.

“I don’t scare easily. And that’s because I've figured out the secret to endure,” you revealed, pridefully so.

Jaime cautiously asked what he knew you wanted him to. A simple ‘that is?” He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the answer, but the curiosity still lingered.

“When it all becomes too much, you need only look without seeing. You go away inside, into the depths of your mind and think of whatever it is that makes you happy. I think of my favorite sweets, the daisies in the gardens, my mother. You retreat into what you love, and there, no one can touch you. Not even that which you fear most.” 

Jaime felt his stomach turn at your words, nauseated he could only frown, bereft of any humor he had attempted to kindle.

“Nevermind me, Jaime, I’m just rambling. Let us carry on,” you ended, filling in the void of silence he left between the two of you, shocked at your aforementioned method.

Your words had struck the knight harder than any man carrying sword and shield could, for that was the very first time his mind splintered from the cold truth that maybe, just maybe, the newfound fears he had come to harbor on your behalf had been festering in you for far longer. Fears which he could not protect you from.

[ichorkurt]

this is INSANELY written well. oh my god ??? i didn't think this would be so hot i'm actually astonished HAHAHA op how you managed to write roman in character as a gyno is absolutely beyond me, but it was so perfect!

Doctor’s Orders

You can't cum, so you visit Doctor Roy.

Tags - gyno!roman, abuse of power, dubcon, sexual frustration, finger fucking, finger sucking, pap test, breast exam, titty play, medical kink, gyno kink, morally bankrupt roman, also. anyway, don't worry babies, you will fuck doctor roy later. but not tonight :) A/N - YEP I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW. STEPDADDY, ROOFTOP FUCK. I had to get this out of my system, okay? I love you. It’ll be okay.

You hate waiting rooms. Medical offices, whatever. Everything is sterile and smells like alcohol and hibiclens, which isn’t an unpleasant smell on its own, but it’s sort of aggressive and sharp and…

Whatever, doesn’t matter. It’s just the context. Nobody likes the doctor, right? All the needles, the being poked and prodded at by blue hands. The invasive questions that you know are asked for the sake of your health, but still. How much do you drink? When was your last period, and describe in detail the texture, color, and smell of your menstrual blood. Are you sexually active? Do you smoke? You shouldn’t, you know. 

It’s just an unpleasant experience. But part of being a healthy human.

You tap your nails on the clipboard after filling out your paperwork - date of birth, current address, billing address, insurance, emergency contact - all that shit - while listening to the music playing from the tinny, staticy speakers. Doctors’ offices always seem to play the worst songs from eight years ago, for some reason. The thought tickles you. Like that’s universally appealing, or something. 

A nurse opens a door and calls your name. You collect your things, then join her as she takes your paperwork and leads you down a long hall, your shoes squeaking on the linoleum flooring. She has you slip off your shoes then stand on a scale to jot your weight, then leads you to an examination room. 

“And what brings you in for your visit?” 

“Uhh…” You fidget with your nails, picking away the chipping nail polish you painted on a few days ago. “Struggling to reach orgasm,” you murmur.

Your nurse nods as she types your response into her laptop, and you’re thankful she doesn’t show any judgment. Maybe she is judging you, but so be it. She hides it well. And,  she’s not the one you have to worry about. 

She bends over and opens a drawer, then hands you a paper gown and a large paper sheet. She shows you how to wear the gown, then instructs you to lay the paper sheet over your lap. The doctor will be in shortly, she says, then leaves and closes the door behind herself. 

The cool air has your skin erupting in goosebumps as you strip bare. This part always feels…awkward. Putting your clothes into an awkward little pile on the chair across from the examination table, putting that awkward, baggy paper gown on, covering yourself with that awkward paper sheet. It could not be less flattering on you, and makes you feel sort of dehumanized. Just not yourself.

You hope this will be over soon. You’ve already been sitting on the examining table for about fifteen minutes, legs dangling in the air as you wait for your doctor to show up. While toying with the paper sheet, crumpling it and smoothing it out again, you notice a few stray hairs you missed shaving on your legs - fuck. You hope he doesn’t notice. Or worse, say something. He totally fucking would, too. 

Good god, you feel nervous. Do other people feel this nervous, usually? Or is it just you? You’re looking at all the sterile, scary-looking tools on that little metal table covered in a blue sheet thinking–

Knock knock. Doctor Roy doesn’t give you time to say anything before he’s opening the door and waltzing in the room, and there’s a rush of cool, moving air that prickles your skin. 

“Hey, hey, if it isn’t my favorite fuckin’ patient,” Roman announces. “How the fuck are you?” You open your mouth to speak, but Roman cuts you off, “Cute panties,” he interrupts, pointing to your pile of clothes. The comment makes your cheeks heat up, and Roman laughs. 

Roman Roy, MD. He’s a rather unorthodox gynecologist, and that’s putting it generously. He’s got no bedside manner whatsoever - which likely contributes heavily to his abysmal two-star rating online. He’s very rude, very short and impatient with people. Lewd. Inappropriate. Everything you don’t want your gynecologist to be. Oh, god, people are so fucking sensitive now, right? What, can nobody take a joke? 

He was the only doctor in your insurance network when you started visiting the gynecologist, and you’re stuck with him. Feel like you’re stuck with him, at least. You’ve thought about going elsewhere, but Doctor Roy knows you, and he knows your medical history. Being so fucking unpopular amongst patients due to his terrible demeanor, there’s only seldom a wait to see him. If you get a yeast infection or a UTI - or, shit, even strep throat, he’ll write you a script quickly and easily, no jerking you around. You just have to put up with his dirty jokes, and stuff. Things could be worse. Right?

Roman gets right to it. He sits down on the leather-covered rolling stool and opens his Macbook to read through your chart. “Buh-buh-buh…” he hums absently, scrolling through your records. “Oh - okay. Great. Fuckin’ nurse didn’t ask you anything or take your blood pressure or any of that shit. Jesus fuck, I have to do everything around here.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah, sorry. She’s new. Fresh out of nursing school and fucking useless,” he mutters, his eyes still glued to his scream.

Roman stands up and switches on the blood pressure machine to your left, and it whirs to life. He unsticks the gray, Velcro cuff from itself, “I’m gonna take this, thank you,” he murmurs, taking your left arm in his hand without your permission, and raising it up so he can wrap the cuff around your bicep. Roman presses another switch and the cuff slowly fills with air, squeezing you. “Sorry,” he says. “Fuckin’ thing is slow as shit.” 

“It’s okay,” you whisper. You study Roman’s face as he watches the numbers on the display. He’s growing a little bit of scruff - you like the look on him. In the bright, sterile room, his hazel eyes lean slightly green. His hair has grown out a little, and you find it interesting how it’s darker and lighter depending on the season. He’s got the softest, most beautiful strands. 

Being honest with yourself, part of the reason you still visit him is because he’s so fucking handsome, and you just can’t help yourself. That has to be true with his other patients, too. On no other fucking planet would his antics and lack of ethics fly if he weren’t so attractive. 

Looks really do get you everywhere. 

The machine hisses as the air is let out of your cuff, and then Roman’s taking it off of your arm. He grabs his stethoscope next and puts the two little earpieces in his ears. He flicks your paper gown to the side and presses the cold metal bell against your bare chest, brows furrowed as he listens to your heart. Then, he smirks. 

“Heart’s beating a little quick today, huh?” he muses, teasingly. “What’s up with that? You nervous?”

“A little,” you admit. Fuck, you can smell him - his cologne and the almond-scented soap he washed his hands with. His breath is warm on your face as he moves the stethoscope around, listening intently to your heart. When he’s done, he shuffles and  moves the bell to your back. 

“Deep breath in,” he instructs, voice softer and more measured. You inhale deeply. “And out. Good. Again. In,” he guides, “And out. Goooood.” 

Roman notes your shaky breaths. Nothing to worry about, he concludes. They match your pounding heart. You’re just a little nervous, is all. And fucking turned on, if your dilated eyes are any indication - Roman’s not stupid. He knows you’re attracted to him. He guesses that the minute you put your feet in the stirrups and your cunt is on display for him, he’ll see you dripping down the examination table. Whatever, though. He’ll make his nurse do the grunt work. 

Roman sits in his stool again. “When was your last period?” he asks you. 

“Uhhh, the twenty-eighth.”

Roman types that into his computer. “Still on the Nuvaring?” Roman looks at you, eyebrows raised. 

“Yep.”

“Any side effects? Still workin’ out okay?” 

“Still working out okay.” 

“Any pelvic pain or discomfort? Are you sexually active?”

“No and yes.” 

Fuck Doctor Roy and that stupid fucking smirk he wears. “Latex allergies?”

“No, Doctor Roy.” 

“Good, good.” Roman ruffles a hand through his hair, using the other to scroll back up to the “reason for visit” section of your chart. “So you’re here because…” Roman’s mouth drops open. “‘Patient can’t reach orgasm’. Oh shit,” he laughs. “Seriously?”

“Well, yeah,” you answer quietly, embarrassed, and heat creeps up your neck. It’s one thing to talk to your friends about this. They’re shocked too, but sympathetic, at least. “I know how you feel. My boyfriend never makes me cum.” As if that’s the same thing.

“The fuck am I supposed to do about that?” 

Your jaw drops. You feel so embarrassed, but you’re fucking pissed now, too. 

“Chill. I’m kidding, okay? It’s a j - it’s just a joke. The doctor is on the case, or whatever.” Roman crosses his ankle over his knee and clicks a pen. “So how long’s this - y’know. Been a thing?”

“Mm…forever, I guess.”

“Oh, fuck. You should’ve come in earlier,” Roman says. “Maybe you need a new partner, huh? ‘Cause like, you can achieve orgasm on your own at least, right?”

That comment pisses you off too. It’s one thing to be on the receiving end of some dirty jokes and Roman’s foul mouth, but you don’t need to be shamed and made fun of by your doctor. “No,” you answer, then grit your teeth together. 

“No? How do you fuck yourself, huh? Sorry - how do you stimulate yourself, honey?”

“Just - I usually just use my fingers—”

“Uh huh. You should try a vibrator, sweetheart. Doctor’s orders. There’s a sex shop nearby - the girls are real nice there. Tell them Doctor Roy’s got a script for you, huh?” Roman winks. Gross.

You sigh, frustrated. “I have tried toys, Doctor,” you explain. This is demoralizing. Is he gonna tell you to drink a glass of wine, too? Smoke a little weed the next time you fuck yourself? “Something - something’s just wrong with me,” you huff. “I just can’t do it. I can’t fucking cum, and please stop clicking that pen.”

Roman makes an amused face at your little outburst, and makes a show out of putting his pen down. He smirks to himself - it’s probably, you know, all your pent up frustration. “There’s a lot wrong with you,” Roman says, “But not that. You can cum.”

“How do you know?”

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at you. “Uh, because,” he scoffs, then smiles with his tiny sharp canines on display, “I am a fucking expert in vaginas, thank you very much. Never met a pussy that I couldn’t make cum.”

Ugh, he’s fucking disgusting. You don’t doubt he’s telling the truth, though, and the thought of him pleasuring a woman makes you throb despite yourself. You open your mouth to speak, but Roman speaks first. 

“Anyway–” He claps his hands, a look of something…something, in his eye as he wears a teasing, sickening sort of smirk. “It’s your lucky day, did ya know that? You, my dear, are due for your pap.” 

“Oh.” That’s it? Just…whatever. Okay. No orgasms for you, probably ever.

“Yeah, oh. I’m gonna start with a breast examination,” Roman says, squirting a bit of sanitizer into his palms. He rubs his hands together, then stands next to you at the examining table. “It’s not always routine, but breast cancer’s on the rise in young women, so y’know. Gotta feel you up a little. I’m gonna have you lie back–” Roman puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you backward, walking the line between forceful and gentle. “Do you ever check your breasts, sweetheart?”

“Not like - not really, I guess.” 

Roman hums. “Well, you should,” he tells you, reaching for your hand. “Arm goes up, hand behind your head like this, right there.” Roman bends your right arm into place and then opens the side of your gown, exposing your right breast to him. “Ready?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer, he just touches you. You take a shaky breath as he walks two fingers over the flesh of your breast, up, down, and around again. He touches near your armpit and you jerk a little. “Oh, ticklish, are we?” Roman murmurs, now doing little circular massages, working his way from the outside in. You swallow hard. “Any pain here? Discomfort?” 

“No, it feels–” you gasp as his fingers touch your nipples, and Roman does a little hum as they pebble up under his touch.  

“Feels what, honey?”

You close your eyes, searching for the words as Roman covers your chest again. “Uh - doesn’t hurt.” 

He chuckles as he rounds the table, and repeats it all with your other breast. Hand behind your head, lightly and firmly pressing into your breasts with the pads of his fingertips. You keep your eyes closed, breathing heavily. You hope it passes off as anxiety, but Roman knows better. Thoroughly versed in female sexual health, he knows an aroused woman when he sees one. Good, he thinks. 

“You can sit up now,” Roman says, giving you a gentle squeeze on your shoulder. He helps you up and then stands in front of you, and opens the front of your gown to visually assess your breasts, apparently. They look good. No abnormalities in shape, texture, color. Healthy. Roman quite enjoys the look of your breasts, too. There’s a lot of things to love on a woman’s body - her ass, her curves. Her cunt (fuck, how he loves a pretty fucking pussy). But Roman’s always loved breasts. The soft, yielding flesh as he massages and gropes that flesh, the way nipples rise and harden with a practiced flick of his thumb, or tongue. 

Now finished with your breast exam, Roman covers your chest with your gown. He sits in his stool as you sit on the table, legs dangling over the edge, bouncing your mismatched sock-covered feet against the metal. He rolls his stool over to you, dragging his instrument stand a little closer as well. 

“Alright. Say ahh.”

“What?”

Roman laughs. “Your legs, genius. You know, say ahh? Open up?”

“O-oh. Okay.” 

Roman pulls out the stirrups from the table, and takes the liberty in assisting your feet into them. First one, then then the other. His hands are strong and cold, fingertips pressing gently into your skin. You can still feel them after he lets you go. “I mean, I guess you could open your mouth, though. Vagina, mouth. No real difference there, huh?”

He’s so unfathomably unprofessional and inappropriate fucking…rude, but you’re still throbbing for him. You wonder if he’ll notice your pulsing cunt, if it’s as visible as it feels. 

You feel awkward as the cool air ghosts over your exposed center, listening to the sounds of Roman getting ready for your pelvic examination. He rolls up his sleeves past the elbows first, then takes the two blue latex gloves on his instrument stand and puts them on, snapping the elastic on his wrist each time. “Ready?” Roman asks, tugging the material down as he wiggles his fingers. 

“Uh - yep. Yeah, I guess,” you breathe.

“Oh, fuck off. You’ll do fine,” Roman tells you, patting your leg. “You always do, right? C’mon. Scoot your ass down, sweetheart, you know the fuckin’ drill.”

You scoot a little down the table, holding your breath while looking up at the ceiling. Roman scoffs and rolls his eyes before standing up, sliding both of his gloved hands under your paper gown. He lifts you and situates your bare ass right at the edge of the examining table, then sits back down. “Yeahhh, there she is. Oh, that's sweet. You even shaved for me.” Your cheeks heat up at the comment and Roman’s subsequent snickering. You did shave for him. 

He touches you then, spreading you wide as he examines your vulva. And he called it - you’re fucking soaked, arousal glistening under the fluorescent lighting. He presses on your swollen labia, watching as your clit and your hole pulse. “Just relax,” he whispers, his warm breath fanning over your heat. “It’s just you and me, right? Relax for me, sweetheart.”

Okay. You can relax. You take a big breath in and breathe it out as you interlace your fingers, resting your hands on your tummy. “Good,” Roman tells you, lightly running his thumb over your clit. “Good fucking girl,” he praises quietly, noting the way your breathing changes and how your thighs twitch at those two little words. He’s teasing you, just for shits and giggles. His right as a gynecologist, really. Running his thumb up and down your seam, then circling your clit just once. 

Roman reaches for the Surgilube and the metal speculum, then squirts a generous amount of jelly onto the tool. He rubs it around, then turns the speculum to the side and notches it at your entrance, then slowly pushes it all the way inside your hole, eliciting a sharp gasp from you. “Oooh, shit. Is it cold?”

“Yeah, a little,” you answer, wincing. 

Roman pouts mockingly. “Poor thing,” he mumbles. “You’re just gonna feel a little pressure,” he tells you, widening the instrument. Again, Roman reminds you to relax - not that you can or will. With each loud click of the speculum opening comes a rather uncomfortable increase in pressure, but not necessarily painful. You’re squeezing, tightening around the speculum as Roman looks inside you. “You’ve got a niiiice fuckin' cervix, you know that?”

“Thank you?” 

“You’re welcome,” he says, reaching for another tool - a little brush. Fucking weirdo. Roman unwraps the brush from its plastic packaging, then leans forward as he inserts it inside of you. “Gonna feel a little tickle,” Roman lies, brushing your cervix with the tool. It’s less of a tickle and more of a light scrape, but it doesn’t totally hurt. Just feels…weird, more than anything. “Done,” he says, pulling the brush away from you and reaching for the collecting tube. He puts your sample into the tube and closes it tightly, then loosens the speculum and pulls it out of you.

You sit up, lifting your feet out of the stirrups. “Ah ah ah, not so fast. You keep those fuckin’ legs open,” Roman scolds as he puts the tube into a small plastic bag with your name on it. “Doctor’s not done with you yet, honey. Good try, though,” he grins. 

Roman peels off his gloves next, then wipes a bit of the lube off of his wrist with a paper towel. He squirts more sanitizer into his palms then, the scent of isopropyl alcohol burning your nostrils as he rubs it into his hands. He puts on another pair of those blue gloves, snap, snap. As soon as he’s done, he’s rolling back in front of you on his stool.

“Just gonna feel around a bit for the pelvic exam,” he says, prodding at your folds with gloved fingers. He spreads your labia out, this time truly examining you, not just doing his secret little tease. He is a professional, after all. Somewhat, at least. Roman squirts a little more Surgilube onto his fingers before inserting them inside you, not that you need it. He bites down on his smile of amusement as you clench around him. 

He stands up then, reaching under your sheet with the other hand to press on your lower abdomen. He assesses how you feel inside, the size and position of your uterus and ovaries. Good, good. Nothing swollen or anything like that. 

You look at Roman and find him staring at you, his eyebrows raised. “Any pain?” he asks. You shake your head, and he nods. 

You can’t cum, huh? That’s what brought you in today? Oh, you poor fucking girl. If only Roman knew this whole time that you were struggling to reach climax, he would’ve done this sooner to you. It’s a mental block, more than likely. You said yourself that there’s something “wrong” with you, after all. 

There’s nothing wrong with you. Really. There’s nothing wrong with any woman who can’t orgasm. They, and you, just need Doctor Roy’s touch, his steady stroking and massaging. Just someone to show you that it can and will be done.

Roman adjusts the hand on your stomach and presses down firmer, then searches for that special little spot inside of you, the one he’ll use to make you see stars. “Feeling okay? Maybe a little discomfort, hm?”

Roman begins to rub your g-spot slowly, intentionally, knowing exactly what he’s doing to you. You squirm on the table, tearing the paper underneath you. Legs starting to twitch. 

“N–just,” you gasp, arching your back, “Just pressure, Doctor.” 

“Uh huh, sure. Pressure.” Roman smirks at you. “I think you fuckin’ like this.” You sigh as he pulls his fingers out of you, then rubs on the seam of your cunt. Men - and women, too, for that matter - always forget this part. The labia are hardly touched enough. Roman drags his warm, gloved fingers through your folds, his other hand sliding up your torso. He opens your paper gown, exposing your breasts, and squeezes a handful of flesh there. Not harshly, just gentle. He rubs his thumb in circles over your nipple as he rubs your clit with his other hand, noting the way your breathing deepens. 

He massages your clit expertly, wearing a crooked grin as you grip into the soft leather of his exam table, further tearing at the sanitary paper. “Oh,” you moan, canting your hips into his touch. “Oh, Doctor - fuck.” 

Doctor. God, Roman loves that. Loves being called a lot of things. Sir. Fucking…Daddy. But Doctor, well. The prestige and power that comes with that little honorific is second to fucking none, isn’t it? 

Roman’s moving his hand lower again, and slipping two of his slick fingers into your cunt. He teases your other nipple as he pumps those two fingers in and out of you, savoring the way you squeeze him. Roman curls those fingers inside you, stroking lazily as he stares down at you. 

You’re making all the right noises, all the right faces. Those pretty moans and that scrunching of your nose. You’re gonna fucking cum. Roman’s gonna make you fucking cum. 

He strokes harder, now repeatedly curling against your g-spot. The action makes you moan loudly, and he clamps his hand over your mouth. “Shhh, honey,” he tells you, gagging you with two fingers. You taste your own arousal and the latex from his gloves, and instinctually suck on his digits, looking up at him with wide eyes. “I don’t fingerfuck all of my patients like this, right? So keep quiet.” 

Roman steadily fucks you on his fingers as he adds his thumb into the mix, rubbing that swollen clit of yours as he works you. You’re getting sweaty now, soaking through your paper gown. Roman can feel your thighs twitching, and your walls beginning to pulse in non-rhythm. 

You try to speak but can’t with Roman’s fingers still in your mouth, and make only desperate little moans instead. It’s for the best, really. He knows you’re gonna try to tell him that it’s too much or whatever, not realizing what you’re on the brink of. 

“You’re gonna cum for me,” Roman tells you. “Okay? Doctor’s orders. Cum for me.” 

With the methodical, almost ruthless way he fucks you on his fingers, you have no choice but to lay there and fucking take it. Surrender to it. He’s got you trapped between his fingers, playing you like you’re an instrument. Pleasure seems to build almost exponentially, and before you know it you’re imploding; clamping down on Roman’s fingers as he relentlessly works you. The relief you feel is almost palpable, pleasure running through your veins in unending waves. 

Roman guides you through your orgasm until the very last of your twitches, then pulls both of his hands from your body. He leaves you gasping on the table as he removes his gloves, and when he looks back at you, you’re crying. It’s natural, of course. To be expected. He’s still gonna be a dick about it, though. 

“Oh my god, are you fucking crying?” he asks, joining you at the table. He helps your shaky legs out of the stirrups, then reaches for you. “Need a hand up?”

You take his hand and pull him close, wrapping yourself around him as you cry it out. All of that pent up energy, everything. “Oh, you’re fucking hugging me. Yeah, that’s…whatever. Uh huh. There, there,” Roman says, stroking your back. “Fuckin’ told you,” he adds. 

A knock at the door has Roman pulling away from you. “Welp, duty calls, huh? Pleasure to see you as always, and fuckin’...glad we sorted you out. You can schedule your next appointment up front and I’ll see you next year, I guess. Same time and place. Okay. Bye!”

If you enjoyed, let a girl know :) I love reblogs and when you hop in my inbox.

[ichorkurt]

roman's characterization is js chef's kiss in this fr!

LOVE YOUR FIC HOLY FUCK

you’re so good at getting bits in there of roman’s insecurities, i’m wondering how he would respond to attention/love being paid to his body, even just being completely undressed and on show feels like a lot for him

i always think of grace going in his bathroom, trying to unbutton his shirt and slacks as he gets dressed, and him making some shitty joke to get her out and away. i don’t think it’d be like that with someone he totally genuinely loved, though; almost kind of the opposite.

You’d unbutton his shirt, and it’d be in-office, a late night of you helping him do stupid stuff no one really cares about but his dad wants to know is done, and Roman knows exactly how to do it (almost like a test, as per usual). he’d be flirty, little comments of, “Your tits look real — perked,” he’d hold his hands out in front of his chest. “Is that a family trait or are you just special?”

It’d start out with him looking at you from across the room with those eyes that are less puppyish and more like a bad dog, like a sudden wave of confidence has overtaken him in response to you, in his office (maybe you even share one?), tip-tapping away on your laptop and teaching him shit he pretty much already knows, he just doesn’t like to show he knows it.

“Why don’t you do something actually useful? Like. Suck my dick maybe?” he jokes, mentally prodding at you with a lopsided grin.

“You serious or joking?”

There’s a long pause, a look of surprise, raised brows. “Do you want to?”

“Do you want me to?” you demand an answer.

“Since when do guys not want their dick sucked?” he jokes but he’s jittery, squirming, cock throbbing. You sigh, exhausted by his mind games, and walk over to his desk, sitting between his knees on the edge in front of his keyboard.

“Yes or no.”

“Yeah? Yes. Unbutton me?” he means his slacks, but your hands go for his shirt; he doesn’t scoot away, barely mumbles out, “Not what I meant, but sure, yeah, shirt off time.” He preens like a fucking peacock.

Once his shirt is unbuttoned, you lean down and straddle his lap. He’s awkward, fumbling with the hem of your skirt, making a shocked ‘oh! uhhh—’ noise. You kiss his neck and he leans in, he leans in when your tummy touches his through your clothes, the feeling of your bra through your top against his nipples.

“Ah — um, you don’t actually have to — I was just kidding. I’m not actually trying to rack up moral debt with HR,” he shifts his hips and he’s half-hard, eyes a little hazy.

“Hey, just focus on you. Chill out.” He doesn’t like that, he’s weird freaked out by the idea of ‘chilling out’ as you trail kisses down his chest and shoulders and arms (that he flexes, that you quickly massage to ease the muscles), and slink back on the floor to kiss his soft tummy (that he sucks in, but you can’t help but nuzzle into).

Unbuckling his belt is difficult. You’re hazy and kissing his navel and he slips his hands down to help, to unbuckle it for you, unbutton his pants as you reach to unzip them. Pulling them down, he’d lift his hips and his cock would tent his too-tight briefs an embarrassing amount for such little foreplay. He puts a hand over his face, plays around with covering his grimacing expressions, cringing both internally and externally.

“Shh. Come on, briefs next now. You okay with that?”

“Yes, fuck you, I’m okay with it, I’m fucking fantabulous, amazeballs,” he lifts his hips for you to tug his briefs down to his ankles where his slacks remain bunched up.

His cock is so pretty, his body, bare before you, is so handsome. One hand is at his side, low and just above his hip, kneading the soft skin, and the other is on his thigh. His hands are both fumbling with the fabric of his office desk chair, both scared to fucking death but anticipating your every touch. His whole brain is screaming to push you away but his body is wholly in control and demanding to be even closer, to feel every fucking touch and kiss seared into him.

He’s into it. He doesn’t necessarily like the worship, he sort of just can’t stop his dick from throbbing, and his heart feels all full and fucking fluttery.

You kiss his inner thighs and hips. He bucks his hips against your face like his instincts are telling him to hump you, but his lip is curled in a self-repulsed snarl. You decide to cave and dote on his cock, kissing the side chastely as if to soothe him, though you know it’ll do the exact opposite. He slaps it against your face, pre dripping on your skin, tip rubbing soft and sticky against the cushion of your cheek as you mouth at the underside.

“Soft,” he whimpers, a hand going into your hair, but you pull back. You look for a moment, just taking it all in. He squirms in front of you, brows furrowed, lips in a pitifully defensive snarl.

“Fuck are you doing, perving out?”

“Um, yes,” you retort. “You look nice. This is like my Playgirl.”

He scoffs, because it’s outrageous to him that he’s some fucking pin-up to you, naked with his pants around his ankles, squirming in his desk chair as you’re kneeled against his desk. It’s like a cruel joke is being played on him and his cheek twitches with a sardonic grin, his eyes rolling.

“You’re just fucking — queen bullshitter. Total horseshit-spewer.” His right hand tugs at the base of his cock, his left pulling you closer by the back of your head. You allow yourself to get pulled in, as you do in so many ways with him, and lean in even further when he slaps his cock against your cheek.

“No, you’re just an insecure asshole,” you retort with a grin and a kiss to his inner thigh.

“Oh, you’re such a suck-up,” his thigh twitches, then jumps when one of your hands goes to just feel it, like petting him, your other tracing up his calf. It’s slow, you’re so reverent in your movements that Roman knows he’s gonna fucking cry about this later on tonight and that humiliates him in the worst way, makes him mean.

“Don’t be a bitch, come on. Dick sucky-sucky? Or,” he trails off, spreading his thighs. “Maybe some other gross shit? Whatever you’ve got floating around in your Playgirl palace. Wanna suck my balls?”

“Rome,” you say, both sort of forcefully dragged from your sappy headspace and exasperated and a little shocked at him just fucking saying ‘wanna suck my balls’ as he sits naked in his office. Who the fuck even does that? Roman does.

“What? You don’t have to, I’m just saying it’s available. It’s a viable option,” he giggles, avoiding, deflecting, trying all that he can to pretend like this…whole thing, isn’t happening. Like it’s just a fantasy jerk-off scenario that you think he’s hot and are kneeling on the office floor against his desk, still in your work clothes. Like his office cameras aren’t literally catching every movement you both make and anyone could technically come in if they were in the office this late, however unlikely that may be.

“Yeah? Okay then,” you oblige, almost like trying to call his bluff. You lean down and he jolts at the feeling of your breath against his balls, hips tilting up. You kiss around at the base of his cock as one of your hands goes to rub soothing circles into his hip, the way he does on occasion when you’re asleep on your side and he just watches. Like a creep.

He lets out just a half-squeak when you suck one of his balls, your spare hand playing with his dick, not necessarily to get him off but more to feel the weight of it in your hands, to feel how warm it is and how it jerks excitedly as you try — fucking try to fit both of his balls in your mouth at once.

Eyes hazy and dick pressed against your face, balls in your mouth, Roman feels like his brain is slush. You move to kiss his knee when it jerks, popping off his balls with a wet smack.

“You’re so handsome. Beautiful baby,” you kiss up and down his cock, not sucking, just kissing, licking into the tip. He scoffs, rolling his eyes and throwing his head to the side as if to say ‘fuck you, what the fuck’.

You suckle just the tip, letting it leak into your mouth nice and slow and — he grunts, hips pushing upwards, pushing you down just a bit, needing just a little more. He feels you humming around his cock, and he’s fucking his rip deeper and deeper and he just — fuck, he has to blow soon.

“Throat or face?” he asks, and feels you mumble around him and thinks, maybe, you said throat, and has genuine intentions to do the exact opposite, to pull out last minute just to make you ache for it, but Christ, he cannot pull away.

He pushes a little deeper, a little over halfway down your throat, and when he pulls back a little, you suck just a bit harder at the tip and it just fucking spurts out. It drips out your mouth onto your lips just a little, dribbles out onto your tongue. He whimpers and whines little puppyish noises, things that sound like your name, mumbled, drawn-out curses.

“Ffffffuck you, dick-destroyer,” he says, softening dick falling out of your mouth begrudgingly. “You swallow? Show, show me,” he demands, squishing your cheeks as you poke out your tongue. “Good. Good ol’ girl, great job.”

He’s still twitchy and his thighs tingle, and he isn’t sure if it’s because he just blew his load or because your warm hands are caressing them, one slowly trailing up to rub his squishy tummy that flutters and — swarms with nausea. Fuck.

“Yeah, you’re welcome. So, next, you’re gonna give me full-body pics instead of just dick pics? So I can make my own Playgirl magazine?” you joke, making him groan and his knee jerk, eyes rolling again.

“You’re a succubus here to drain my balls. I’m serious, I’ve told you, but. Succubus,” he points at your face as you giggle.

“Yeah. Okay. Every time I suck your dick or compliment you, you say that,” you grin, leaning in to kiss him. He matches so well, knows the vibe so fucking well, slips his tongue into your mouth against yours, quickly turning a kiss into a sloppy make-out, his soft, wet dick still flopped out, balls still laying out against his desk chair.

So yeah, he fucking loves that worship shit, as much as he acts like he hates it. With Grace, sure, it was more pretending it was okay, and normal, and what ‘real people’ did, but with you, it’s sort of just embarrassing that someone like you wants to kiss him and suck his dick and be around him? Like the highest praise imaginable, so much that it must be total bullshit.

[ichorkurt]

mm hot

Rivalry

being casually involved with both Benji Kaplan and Roman Roy becomes much more complicated and entangled than anyone could have foreseen.

under the cut: bits of fluff, extremely toxic banter, fingerfucking, oral sex of all kinds, PIV sex, dubcon/noncon elements, light daddy kink, forced orgasms, extremely derogatory name-calling/treatment of a partner, alcohol mention, smokin weed, being recorded without permission, being forced to watch, cum swallowing of all kinds, emotional manipulation at its finest.

important note: there are mentions in this story to this thing that i babbled about a while back, and is somewhat integral to part of the story; i recommend giving it a skim.

“Hey - look what I found on the side of the road, at a - a Starbucks? Yeesh. I thought you were, like… volunteering for the homeless today.” Roman startles you from behind, his spidery fingers clenching playfully into your shoulders as he bends down to bury his nose in your hair. He moans a little in your ear, giggling in his way. “Ugh, you smell good. Scared you, didn’t I?”

“Jesus, Rome. Dickhead. I told you I was hanging out with Benji.” You sip your coffee (if it can really even be called that in the first place) and stare up at him as he stands beside your seat at a little table outside. It’s nice out, the sky a big bright blue with lazy streaks of clouds, little puffs here and there. There was no hesitation in texting Benji to go play outside - grab a coffee, bring a joint or two in your bag, and walk around downtown a little bit.

Roman scoffs, grabbing your cup and obnoxiously licking the opening of the lid before taking a drink. He makes a face as he hands it back, shuddering in mock disgust.

“Right. That’s what I said. Benji - the homeless little mutt you keep babysitting, or whatever it is you two do. Your little chocolate shake here tastes like burnt fuckin’ Oreos. You’re a grownup, for fuck’s sake.”

“You love Starbucks,” you mumble, yanking your cup back and sipping from it. Roman’s eyes flicker to where your lips touch where his were a moment ago, where he licked your cup, and there’s a hint of satisfaction in his spreading smirk. “Also, don’t be rude. Benji’s —”

“Right here,” Benji interjects, coming back to the table. He eyes Roman with curiosity and smiles at you, taking a moment to look between the both of you before his features open up as it dawns on him, eyebrows raised, pointing at Roman. “Oh, fuck. It’s him, right? Roman. Yeah, we do kinda resemble each other, I can… I can see it. That’s nuts.”

“She talks about me, huh?” Roman’s smirk melts into a sneaky little grin at you before returning his attentions to Benji, eyes flicking over his appearance, making mental notes. You’ve seen this look a million times - he’s picking apart, analyzing. Storing potential ammo. Making quick, ruthless judgments. “Don’t believe we’ve ever met, though, champ. Think I’d remember meeting someone like… you. Honestly, any resemblance at all is a compliment to you and a slight to me, so…

Benji rolls his eyes, humming as he turns toward his coffee. “Well, this is fun.”

“Okay, Roman,” you warn mildly. “You go take a nap somewhere and I’ll text you later, yeah?”

Roman’s jaw twitches and he shoots you a look, something that resolves almost as soon as it appears in the first place. Roman smiles and it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Just chatting with your new little friend, sweetheart. But sure, yeah, hang out with my - my stunt double, here. You do kinda have that whole haggard look going for you. Except instead of actually working in Hollywood or whatever you - I dunno… operate a cash register in a headshop, or something.”

Benji laughs, genuinely, the sound like bells in the soft, warm breeze. It makes you smile, it’s infectious and silly. He runs his fingers through his hair and slouches back in his seat, relaxed, regarding his abrasive doppelganger as Roman pulls his phone out. It vibrates audibly in his fingers and Roman mutters something under his breath, his brow pinched as he takes in the caller’s name. Benji smiles an easy, shit-eating smile, smug in its own right.

“Busy guy, I bet. Phone’s probably always going off - that sucks, man,” Benji says mildly, eyes glittering at Roman. He laughs again, a tiny snatch of a snicker as he lifts his coffee cup. “You get a lot of crazy calls in your line of business, Roman? You ever - you get any interesting texts lately…? Pictures, maybe, or…  videos…?”

Roman’s thumb hovers over the button on his phone to receive the call and he glares at Benji, jaw clenched. It’s rare to see him pissed off enough to stay silent for longer than a few seconds, but he does, phone still buzzing in his hand. For a moment, you think he might actually flip out; you’ve seen Roman go off for way less. That vein in his forehead pulses and his lip curls into a sneer. 

“Gotta take this. Grownup business,” he spits at Benji. He puts the phone to his ear and turns on his heel, giving you a parting look that feels almost dangerous. A warning. He snaps his fingers and points at Benji on his way back down the sidewalk. “Teach your fucking dog how to heel. Should get that thing a muzzle.”

The rest of the day goes by exactly as you’d hoped it would - sweet, fun, relaxing. You and Benji swap all kinds of stories, little snippets of each others’ lives and interests, the strange, random things that pass your minds. He’s so beautiful this way, carefree and throwing his head back to laugh, sharing little trail snacks with you when you’re both pleasantly stoned and making up stories about what kinds of people live in the various homes and apartments you wander by. Benji’s really good with direction - he remembers which streets you’ve circled back to, how to get back to where you started. 

It feels natural to hold his hand - Roman could never. Benji’s affectionate, constantly reaching out even to hook pinkies, to tickle the inside of your palm real quick when he wants to show you something, bumping his shoulder to yours just because. He reaches out and moves your hair. Kisses the tip of your nose and scrunches his face up when you return the gesture.

Roman’s affectionate in his own ways, in Roman ways that don’t translate to normal physical affection. He likes to guide you - if he could glue his hand to the small of your back, he would. If he could make a home for his fingers on the back of your neck, he would. Touch belongs in a different category for Roman - he uses it to possess you. Groping in public, studying every little flicker of change in your expression when he’s pleasing (or hurting) you. His hands are tools where Benji’s are offerings. 

The day takes you both to Forest Park in Woodhaven. Not too long outside the belly of the city (disregarding traffic, of course), you find yourselves traipsing and smoking along the trails. Benji is smiling, the sun is mild and the air pleasantly warm. The shafts of light shooting through the canopies of trees as you get deeper into the trail is devastating - it lights him up, his hair suddenly on fire, shot through with those sneaky grays. Sparkling. His eyes get caught in such a shaft of light, one in, one out, and the illuminated eye glimmers. You can see every little spot of brown, of gold and green. Like an agate. He offers a joint to you, pressing it up to your lips, and you can’t say anything. You simply accept his touch and stare into his eyes. His expression shifts, and he’s staring at your lips, now, watching the smoke stream through your lopsided, silly smile. He takes another hit, deep, pulling as long as he can with those eyes on yours.

He hums and motions to you, and it takes no further conversation - you lean into him and he kisses you, long, sweet, nudging your mouth open with his tongue so you can accept his breath into your lungs. You work your fingers into his shirt, tugging it as it bunches. You want this to last forever, the eternal flow of his breath filling you up. You want everything he has to offer. 

Pulling away light-headed, Benji’s all smirk. It’s not cutting, not mean. It’s just his mouth, so stark in its similarity to Roman’s and so wildly different. The same gesture, the same facial structure, and that’s where it ends. 

Benji shoves his hands into his pockets, but not before you see it - how hard he is. He hides it the best he can, pushing it silently down as you continue walking for a bit. There’s sort of a trail in the grass to the side, a bunch of it flattened and worn sparse by foot traffic - it’s hard to tell for sure from here, but it looks like it leads to a little clearing somewhere deeper beyond the treeline. You point it out, lifting an eyebrow. Benji pauses and smiles, nodding, taking your hand as you both traverse off the trail. 

It’s gorgeous. The sun dapples over the both of you as you giggle, Benji squeezing your fingers between his, and within minutes you’re both on the edge of an open, meadowy area, dotted generously with dandelions and bluebells. It’s heavily shaded, and although you’re only maybe a dozen yards from the trail, it feels so… secluded. Like you’re the only two people in this little pocket universe.

Your turn to Benji and, vibrating on the same wavelength, the rest comes wordlessly and naturally as ever. He sheds his backpack and you do the same, his lips on yours, his hands on your hips as he backs you against a tree. His mouth is so warm, the both of you all minty from the gum you’ve been using to stave off cottonmouth. 

He’s humming and moaning softly into your mouth and you swallow each sweet sound just to echo them back. The both of you, a buzzing, tantalizing force in the world. Your own private moment. Time may as well stop existing beyond the line of trees, because this is all there is - Benji’s lips, his flushed skin and charmingly impatient hands. He pushes one eager hand below the waistband of your pants and moans when he finds you wet, rubbing your clit, pushing deeper to push two fingers inside your cunt. He does something - almost a tap, kind of, a quick, gentle movement as he massages inside of you. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. It’s easy to roll your hips a little, humping against his hand while he licks your throat and hums against the taste of your sweat.

“Wait - wait,” you whisper feverishly, sinking to your knees in the dirt and grass. Benji watches you with a weak, reverent sigh, brows knit like he might come apart on the spot just watching you look up at him like that. Hooking your fingers into the band of his shorts, you pull them down his thighs, his cock bobbing readily out. Thick. Heavy. He shifts a little to rest a palm against the tree trunk, watching you lick and sloppily kiss the head. Oh, his little shudders, his sweet, keening moans. 

“Mmfuuuuck,” he whines, hips twitching. He pets your hair as you take him over your tongue, working him deeper, deep enough to make you gag sweetly around him. He loves it. He gasps and groans and gently rocks into your throat. Just a little. Just a bit. Benji’s eyes glaze over and you run your fingers teasingly along his hairy thighs as he ruts into your mouth. His pubic hair is soft, tickling the top of your nose as he moves deeper. It’s natural to slide your hands around to feel the swell of his ass, kneading and squeezing where the curve of his ass meets the backs of his thighs. Delicious. He makes the most intoxicating sound as you grab him there, holding him close. Softly trapping him. He starts gasping as he nears orgasm - his cock swells over your tongue, the precursor to his own climax; you’re almost convinced you can feel the individual, throbbing veins that lie just under all that velvety flesh, trying to trace them with your undulating tongue. You work harder, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes as you purposely gag yourself, sucking, drooling, tongue working underneath all that rippled cockflesh as it throbs. 

“Oh - oh, m—ohh my god…”

Benji’s voice draws up along with his balls, and that final, sensual feeling of his impossibly engorged cock fills your mouth before he erupts. Cum shoots and drips down the back of your throat in ropes, spurts that you swallow eagerly from him. His voice is a low, shaking mess of syllables - your name, pet names, words that start and then fade into helpless little sounds as he milks himself empty. That’s your favorite part - the sounds. So unabashedly caught up in the pleasure, reduced to a shaky, whiny mess for you.

You unfold your legs, knees uncomfortable, and giggle with him as you pull away and sit on your ass, leaning up against the tree. Wiping your mouth, you wiggle your eyebrows at him and he laughs breathlessly, tucking himself back into his shorts. 

“Thank you for that,” he mumbles. 

“It’s my pleasure. Little… uh, trail snack.”

“Little, huh?”

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh as he winks, his grin infectious. “You’re dumb.”

“Mmm. Dumb? Me? That’s a shame,” he sighs, coming down to your level. He slithers between your outstretched legs and leans in to kiss you, the taste of his cum still on your tongue. “I guess a dumb guy wouldn’t know exactly what to do with you right now.”

“Well - well… what would a smart guy do with me right now? Just curious.”

“Aw, didn’t you hear? Curiosity killed that cat. Bummer.”

“No!” You playfully slap his bicep as he slips his fingers under your waistband again. “Satisfaction brought it back, ya dick.”

“Well, if satisfaction’s the case…” Benji slowly pulls your pants down and drinks in your embarrassment, your pretend little protests as he looks dreamily on. He gets down on his belly like a snake, like the serpent in the garden, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. He stares at your bare cunt, swollen and slick for him. You could have gone without being touched - tasting him is enough. But here he is, pushing your thighs apart so he can lie in that grass, the dirt and moss and errant leaves. He hooks his arms underneath your legs and reaches up to tickle the generous flesh at your hips while he kisses your cunt, over and over, slow and tantalizingly soft. 

Finally his tongue delves between your lips, parted so nicely for him. Considerate. Polite, even. He hums and moans, and again you’re forced to reckon with the difference, the whisper in the back of your mind - Roman wouldn’t do this. If it wasn’t something he wanted to do for himself, he wouldn’t do it. If he’d already blown his load, he wouldn’t bother touching you at all unless he was feeling particularly cruel - making it bad; that’s what he calls it. I’m going to make this fucking bad for you, slut.

Benji’s soft lips, his tongue and teasing fingers… after spending so much time kissing him, tasting and swallowing his cum, you’re already getting close. The trees around you sway just so in the breeze, the leaves shimmering and shaking in the sun. The grass bows gracefully under that slight wind. It goes in rippling waves, birds chattering above your heads. Pot makes your mind deliciously slow, and all of this comes in rhythmic waves of thought, of sensation, much like the ebb and flow of pleasure that Benji gives you. Inching closer and closer to that edge, staring over it. The precipice shimmers ahead, and Benji’s practiced, thoughtful tongue is working its magic. He’s never in a hurry. Always so present, so happy to take the time. You buck a little against his face and he hums a half-laugh. 

“Benji,” you whisper. A glance down between your thighs treats you to his lidded, sexy eyes, the sharp blade of his nose in the plush flesh of your mound, knowing his lips and tongue are making you feel this good. You squeeze your eyes shut and crane your neck back, fingers finding his wrists to grasp them. He shakes you off and instead laces your fingers together, and you allow yourself to fall entirely into his mercy. Each lap of his tongue against your clit is electric. You ride the waves and rock your hips, pointing your toes, trapping him between your thighs as you squeeze them around his head. God, you could suffocate him there. 

His name is carried on the quiet little moans you make and snatched up by the light wind as you hold his hands, giving completely over to him and his magic. In true Benji fashion, he licks at you well past the sparks, the fireworks, only stopping when you have to press against his forehead to push him away. 

“Just a little - little more, just a - just a kiss,” he murmurs, moving cautiously back. If you push, he’ll stop. Overstimulated and stoned, riding on this bliss in the middle of a storybook meadow with your favorite tender man, you pull your hand back from his forehead to free him and he moans. His tongue, his lips. Licking you clean, until he’s ready to give up the ghost. Not a kiss - a prayer. Worship. Something he’s purely giving, expecting nothing. Happy just to lick your cum. 

You both lie in the meadow together fully clothed after that, finishing a half-smoked joint and giggling, holding hands as you point out things you see, random thoughts that cross your mind. Coming down. Turning to look at him and finding him already looking at you, reaching out to trace the pad of your thumb down the bridge of his nose. Leaning in to kiss, so fucking soft. Running your hands idly over his chest, his soft tummy, feeling - fuck, feeling… almost - almost like you might be - 

You push the thought gently away and keep it inside your chest, where it glows like embers, white-hot and flickering.

There’s a point where time has gone on too long. The pocket of magic seals up, and you both brush each other off and laugh, holding pinkies as you gather your little trail packs and meander back from where you came. Kissing goodbye. Watching him even when you’re getting into your car, waiting for him to drive off first, feeling like you can’t miss a single moment. Tucking them away in your heart like it’s less an organ and more a locket, stuffing little mental photographs in there, hints of sensation, snatches of audio from your day. The sunlight glinting off his hair. Fuck. 

Just as promised, you do get a hold of Roman on your way home, as evening approaches. He’s bitchy and short in his communications, but he wants to meet up, so it’s only a matter of time before you find yourself at his doorstep. He lets you in with lidded red eyes and a crooked grin. He’s drunk. Great.

“Come on in,” he drawls, pushing you with that ever-hovering hand on your lower back. “You guys have a nice time today? You… you uh, watch him fuck himself with a bong? Rub patchouli oil on your tits?”

“Already making me feel welcome. You’re so normal about it, aren’t you?”

Roman grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back, eyes focused despite being bloodshot. You can smell whiskey on his breath. 

“You’re really fuckin’ adorable. I understand why that filthy little cuck wants to cum in all your holes, I do. Because I do, too. I do it harder… deeper… meaner. Right?” Roman rubs the tip of his nose along your cheek, traces it down before he tilts his head to bite your throat. “You don’t need nice. You need a firm fucking hand.”

“Roman, that - that hurts,” you whine, reaching back to grasp at the hand holding your hair. Roman uses his free hand to capture it, squeezing your wrist a little as a warning. His eyes glitter, all that dark inside of them threatening to swallow you whole. Your heart’s in your throat and seeing his blank glare, his smirk, feeling the way his fingers tremble almost imperceptibly sends it straight down into the basin of your pelvis, where it melts and pulses. 

“We both know you like that,” he says quietly. He’s scary like this.

“I like a lot of things, Rome, come on. Please.”

“Oh, fuck off. You like a lot of things, huh? Spare me the fuckin’ act. What, you want me to be a crying little cuck baby for you? Yeah? You want me to treat your body like a sparkling, fragile fuckin’ temple, want me to love and respect you?”

Roman’s grip softens, then, and his expression melts a little. He tilts his head, thumb grazing your jaw, your cheek. He glances at your lips and swallows. His expression is almost foreign to you, and it takes you a moment to realize he looks… kind. Earnest. It’s so out of place that it catches you off guard, hypnotized by the softness of it.

“Hey. Is that what you need from me, hmm? To be gentle with you? Telling you how much I think about you, that I miss you when you’re not here? That maybe I’m kind of -” He pauses a beat and then he’s right there, lips ghosting against yours while he murmurs to you. “Maybe I’m kind of… falling in love with you a little bit?”

Your eyes slide shut as he barely kisses against your lips. He hums and you sink into it, heart hammering in your chest, fast, hard, nervous. The soft sound he makes breaks apart, then, splintering into cruel, satisfied laughter. You recoil and glare at him, cheeks flushing an angry, embarrassed red. 

“Fuck you, Roman, that was - what the fuck is your problem?”

The vein in his forehead pulses as he giggles, his grin so utterly sadistic it makes you shiver. He winks and walks over to a side table where he’s kept his glass, draining the last sip of whiskey from it as his laughter tapers off. 

“God, maybe you are that fuckin’ easy. I mean, don’t get me wrong… makes it all the more fun when I break you apart. You’re like a… like a stretch armstrong in that way. ‘Member those? I can just yank and bend and twist and pull and throw you the fuck around and you always come back to the same soft, pliant little toy that you are.” He shakes his head, lifting his eyebrows. He clears his throat and snaps his fingers, the sound of it sharp in the dead air of his penthouse. “All right. Strip. C’mon. Daddy’s been waiting, honey.”

Whiplash. It’s the only way to describe what you’re feeling right now, so electrically pissed off at Roman and yet unable to avoid feeling the thrum in your cunt when he starts giving you those predatory eyes, licking his lips. The way his smirk starts to slide right off his face the longer you’re not listening to him; the utter disbelief in the twitch of his brow. He takes a step forward and, to your own horrified embarrassment, you take a step back. He smiles again. 

“The longer you fuck around, the worse it’s gunna be for you. Is that what you want tonight…? Yeah? After all that fuckin’ hand-holding today, huh, you need - you need a real man to give it to you the way you really need it?”

“Rome -” 

“Mm-mmm. Not Rome. Not anything. I don’t want you to talk unless I ask you to, got it? Now get. Fucking. Undressed. Now.”

This time, it’s easier to listen. There’s the dichotomy - he’s being mean, he’s being awful. He’s being controlling and expectant, and despite what he promises or threatens, you know it’s going to hurt, anyway… and it’s exciting. It excites you very much, in fact, and all these things mingle down in your belly. Heat. Anticipation. Anger, fear, anxiety. 

Guilt.

Benji wouldn’t do this. It doesn’t matter - they’re not even two sides to the same coin. They’re different forms of currency altogether. Roman, a sleek, dangerously tempting black card somewhere, exclusive and cold. Hard-won, a slippery slope. Benji, a crumpled twenty you find at random - in a cash return slot by accident, in the street, an extra bill given to you by mistake that you don’t notice until you’ve already returned home. A surprise, a happy coincidence. 

Roman doesn’t take the time to savor your nakedness, the way your nipples harden up and goosebumps chase over your arms. The way your pupils yawn open for him - not as scary as his are, but enough. Roman’s eyes go over your form with a feral kind of hunger. There’s no softness, no appreciation. Only a stark need for satisfaction. His cock is hard in his slacks, painfully so; you can see it twitching.

It’s only a matter of minutes, if that. Roman moves in for the kill and he swings you around until he’s practically dragging you to his bedroom, shoving you so that you splay clumsily, prettily out for him, all fucking scared and excited like the trapped animal you are. He tosses your clothing on the carpet next to the bed, mindlessly palming the stiff length of his cock through the fabric and hissing with pleasure through those clenched teeth of his. He grins wolfishly, all teeth and sharp, wet canines, and unbuttons his shirt with a quick and effortless grace that takes your breath away. Nimble fingers, cascading down that line of loops and shining little buttons. He shrugs out of his shirt and tosses it aside, undoing his belt, all slim and soft and pale, lip twitching as he crawls across the bed.

“You’re being a very good girl for me, you know that, sweetheart?” His voice is so tender. A mockery. He cages you underneath his body, his arms on either side of your shoulders. He leans down to drag the flat of his tongue up your cheek in a wet stripe. “It’s not gunna save you from any pain, but… it’s nice, nonetheless.”

He laughs as he reaches down to fully unbutton and unzip and push his slacks down his thighs. There it is - god, he’s fucking hard. Harder than usual, flushed almost angrily as he pushes between your thighs. 

“Did he touch you today?” He edges the head in and out of your traitorously wet pussy in slow, shallow pumps. “Focus. Did he fucking touch you today?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?” Roman grunts, and in a blinding moment he’s suddenly fully sheathed inside your cunt. You make an awful sound as you claw your way back up the mattress, but Roman’s having none of that - he yanks you right back down where you belong, underneath him and at his express mercy, leveling you with his cold eyes and the tic in his jaw. His cock pushes against your cervix and he forces himself to stay there, pulsing. “How?”

“Fuck!! F-fuck, Roman, I - I’m not just gunna -” 

Roman takes the barest hint of a breath as he rears back, pounding his cock back into your body so that you can barely catch your breath. It hurts, it fucking HURTS. He does it again, and again, rocking up against you with his dead eyes, grinding balls-deep until you’re digging your nails into his biceps, his shoulders, his back. He notices none of it, so many mosquitos against a titan. 

“You are. You are gunna. Tell me what he did to you, sweet girl,” he says, voice so unlike him. Syrupy, smooth. Kind. “What you did to him, even. And - and did you, sweetheart? Do anything to him? Huh?”

“Please, Rome…”

“No. Listen, if you don’t start fucking talking, I’m going to actually hurt you. You get that, right?” Roman searches both your eyes with a hint of a smile. It’s not even a smirk - his lip curls coyly into that little, tight smile, and all you can think of is an animal deciding whether to play with its dinner first or outright eat it. “You believe me, honey?”

You nod immediately, but this response earns you a twitch of his eyebrow and you’re babbling to him, yes yes I believe you sorry yes Roman I believe you, not wanting him to decide what actual pain is. He has to know he’s already hurting you, right…?

“Good. Good fuckin’ girl. Now,” he says, taking your face into his hand. He squeezes his fingers into the hollows of your cheeks, uncomfortable as the way he’s still got his dick jammed up against your cervix. “He touched you. Did he touch you… here?” 

Roman skates his palm up your body, plucking at your nipple with slow, firm fingers until it’s peaking for him. You shake your head no, and Roman’s eyebrows rise a little in surprise. 

“Straight to the pussy, huh? Wow. Bold. That, or you’re just really, really easy. Is that the thing? You’re just a fuckin’ slut? He finger your little pussy for you?”

“Mm - yeah,” you mumble, uncomfortably turned on. 

“Did you cum?”

“No, not -”

“Aw, no? Your dog too old to learn new tricks?”

“Not from that,” you finish bitterly, taking pleasure in correcting him. “Didn’t cum from that.”

Roman’s smile wipes off his face and he pinches your nipple hard enough that it really hurts - you cry out and he keeps his fingers on your face, holding you there while he leans down to trace the throbs of pain in your nipple with his tongue. He lavishes it with a sweetness that is unlike him, sucking softly with his lips. Nibbling. Soothing. Humming against you, blowing cool air on your wet nipple so that you shiver underneath him. 

“What did he do to make you cum, slut?”

“His - he… used his mouth.”

Roman saws his hips back and forth, the pace tempered but the depth unchanged. He slides back into your throbbing cunt until he’s pushing too deep, bottoming out. If there’s one thing Roman does that is unlike anyone you’ve ever met, it’s knowing how to parse out his cruelty and make you believe that you want and deserve it. 

“And his cock?”

“Um… like - not… not there,” you stammer, suddenly so fucking shy under Roman’s magnifying glass. Shy isn’t even the right word - nervous. Afraid. Roman huffs an impatient breath and glares at you, any hint of calm shattered. 

“Not in your pussy, huh? I know he didn’t fuck your ass in the middle of the goddamn park, so that leaves your mouth, right? You, uh -” Roman releases your face with a hint of disgust in his features, pulling his fingers away like he’s touched something rancid. “You swallow his load and everything? Yeah?”

Blinking back a film of tears, you nod. The heady combination of fear, arousal, obedience… it roils around in your belly, that sense of uncertainty. Roman is an unpredictable and fickle man. He wants what he wants, until he wants something else more. The trajectory is ever-changing. 

“So. So you guys took a little stroll in the park, he got you all fuckin’ stupid-high, and he fucked your mouth before he ate your little pussy. Do I have it right so far? Missing anything?”

“No, that’s - that’s right,” you whimper. Again, his hips, moving so slow. He shifts himself a little to nudge over and over into that sweet, soft spot an inch or so inside your pussy, studying the way your lips part and the wetness of your tears glittering on your lashes. You feel like a specimen in a petri dish, Roman staring and poking and taking mental notes. Touch here, it does this. Poke there, look at it wriggle.

Roman yanks his hips back and flips you over, the feeling of that sudden, harsh emptiness making you cry out.

Even in your surprise, you hurry to comply - staying movable, changeable for him. Whatever he wants. Your cunt pulses, so fucking empty, so achy. Roman’s sliding his cock back inside of you and the mood has changed. He’s back to being rough, digging his fingers into your flesh and pounding into you, punishing you, grunting with each horrible thrust. It’s easier to fuck up against your cervix this way, easier to lean over you to press your head against the mattress. 

Against all else, you do what your body does best - sink into that horrible, cloying heat, the way his viciousness sets you on fire. It’s inevitable. Each brutal kiss against your cervix makes you moan and claw at the sheets, makes you whine and wail. God, does it make him hard watching you suffer like that, so lovely and broken down. He watches a tear slip from your eye and trail over the bridge of your nose, watches your face flush bright red. Wrecked. Just for him, all for him - does Benji get to see this side of you? The pathetic one, the one that cries for him to hurt you, that cums for him without him having to do anything but treat you like his lesser? That’s what you are, right? Beneath him. Physically, socially, sexually. 

“Fuckin’ slut,” he hisses quietly. “You know, I know you and Benji enjoy a good call - right? I think we should indulge him. Don’t you, honey? It’s only fair.”

Your heart pounds in your ears, dread filling you up nearly as much as Roman does. He removes his hand from your head and you try to peer back at him - he’s got your phone. When the fuck did he get that? Roman eyes you and smirks. 

���Uh oh - it’s ringing. Oh no,” Roman singsongs, speeding up his thrusts. He fucks you in a way he knows you can’t handle, and you’re pulling at the sheets again, gasping and trying to hold your breath, trying to distance yourself. Roman knows this game. He knows you’re squarely and certainly fucked, that all he has to do is let you think you can wriggle away, just to follow you til your head’s butting against the fucking wall and there’s nowhere left to go. He likes that. Watching you lose every goddamn brain cell you have to the pain only he can give you. Forcing you to cum from it, to take it.  “Can’t wait to see what your little - oh! Hey, you fucking mutt! How the fuck are you?”

Benji’s voice comes out all tinny, filtered through your phone’s speaker. Roman turns the volume all the way up as he looks down into Benji’s face on the screen, a horrible grin splitting his lips. 

“Um - yeah, hey… is there a reason you’re calling me on her phone…?”

“Oh, don’t get all possessive on me, Benji. After all, we share such a special thing together, right? Huh, buddy? And speaking of, I’ve got her right here - wanna say hi?” Roman switches the screen and points it at you, guides Benji visually over your arched spine and to your face, where you hide behind your hands. “Aw, honey, don’t be shy. C’mon. Bark for Benji. Fucking bark.”

“Roman, no -”

Roman buries his free hand into your hair and yanks your head back. Benji’s face changes, then, tense and - what is that - worried…? Roman laughs a little at this, at how fucking serious this guy is. 

“‘Roman, yes’, you mean. Bark.”

Humiliated, eyes squeezed shut, you bark. It comes out weak, embarrassed little sounds you make just to get Roman to stop, just so he can get it out of his system. 

“Dude, this is - like, what the fuck. Don’t make her do that shit,” Benji says, his tone betraying his anxiety. Roman balks at this, his laugh so utterly sadistic it makes you shudder underneath him, a hint of a moan creeping up your throat.

“She fucking likes it. Don’t worry, Banjo, this is just what Daddy does to your fuckin’ Mommy when you’re not around. I just wanted you to see for yourself, kinda - mmm, kinda returning the favor, yeah? Did you know she’s like this? Huh? You know if you ram your dick right up into her as deep as it goes, like if you really grind into her fuckin’ cervix, she bleats like a slaughtered little lamb for you? Maybe your dick doesn’t go that deep. She ever make these noises for you? Or just for Daddy?”

You feel a ripple of pleasure surge through your core and it takes every ounce of effort you have to cover your own mouth and let it pass through you, not wanting to give Roman the reaction he wants. He gives your hair another yank and you cry out, cunt pulsing against his thick cock, the way he splits you open on it. 

“Fuck, yeah. Cum for Daddy, you useless fucking hole. Let’s all fuckin’ hear it.”

“Don’t fucking say that to her -”

“Oh Jesus Christ, save it,” Roman grunts, fucking you even harder. Each miserable sound you make has Roman closer and closer to filling you up. He can’t wait. His fucking balls ache, full of that delicious pressure. Showing Benji what he does to you, forcing him to watch while he forces you to take it and cum on it against your will - Roman could cum now, give it up and call it a day. But it’s too good, and Roman can’t let this slip out of his fingers. He stares right at Benji’s image in your phone, his eyes all lidded and hot, smiling, so utterly pleased with himself he could giggle. And he does. “It makes her cum hard - don’t even gotta bother with her clit. But you’ve got that covered under our, uh - our cunt custody agreement, right? Always fuckin’ slobbering on it. You’ve got all the nice guy shit covered, so she can come home to Daddy and get railed til she’s screaming. Honestly, you’re saving me some work, so, thanks. I should - mmm, fuuuck - I should send you a gift basket or something.”

“This is really fucked up,” Benji mutters. Roman notes with a sense of pure, undiluted joy that Benji looks sick, he looks uncomfortable and - is he sad? Is he fucking sad? Oh, well that’s just delicious, isn’t it?

“Is it fucked up though? You hear her mewling like a dying fuckin’ kitten, right? Can you make her sound like that, asshole? You ever fuck her so hard she cries? I make her cry a lot, Benji, you white-knight cuck. Here, lemme - yeah, let’s fix the angle. Hey, sweetheart, talk to your little puppy for a minute.”

Roman shoves the phone into your hands and manhandles you, grabbing and squeezing until he has you flipped on your back again. He grabs the wrist of the hand you’re holding your phone in and raises it up so that Benji can see you, flushed, chin trembling, lips all plush and bitten, eyes cry-swollen and red.

Benji looks stressed out, his eyes going soft when he looks at you. 

“Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, I -” 

Roman lines his cock up to your cunt again and plunges into you, taking your breath away. He digs his fingers into your flesh and squeezes, pounding into you in a way he knows drives you to the edge. His eyes glitter, his hair sweat-slicked and hanging in his face. He looks like a demon, watching you, his knowing smirk as you try your hardest to keep it together. You can’t, you just can’t.

“Ohh! Mmm - m’sorry, m’sorry, I’m - I’m fuh-fucking - sorry -” The apology is sincere, but it’s hard to reconcile that with the way you moan it, louder and louder, your pitch going up as your body starts to betray you. Everything pulses and tightens, every muscle helpless to Roman’s brutal attack on your sex. 

“It’s okay,” he says softly, and it’s so easy to look at him, his kind smile, forced as it is. God, he’s beautiful. Roman is, too. Looking at both of their faces on the brink of orgasm is strange and feels wrong, so fucking wrong, feels needlessly cruel. 

Roman grabs the phone, switches it so he can navigate your body with the camera. He focuses on where he fucks his thick cock in and out of your cunt, how hard he’s fucking you, and with a grin, he tips his hips juuust so.

“Watch this, Benji. Watch her go.” Roman’s nearly salivating as he watches Benji’s torn expression - he’s gotta be at least a little turned on by this, right? Roman’s nearly panting, so fucking excited he might blow his load before he’s ready. He focuses on your face, waiting until he can see the way you look like you’re in agony - you’re gunna cum. Oh, you’re gunna cum fucking hard. “Tell him you love him, honey. Tell Benji you love him while you cum, wouldn’t that be sooo nice?”

“No, no -”

Roman goes harder, a sound ripped from his chest like a wild animal. “Tell him now or I’ll make you regret it. Say, Benji, I love you. Say it while you cum all over my big fuckin’ dick, honey. Go on, tell your boyfriend you love him.”

Tears spilling down your temples, stomach twisting, you look into the little black eye of the camera in your phone and say it: “I l-love you, Be-Benji,” you sob.

Roman grunts as he rolls his hips, snaps them so that it hurts, oh god it hurts, and there it is. You clench and pulse and arch your spine, coming apart at the seams til you’re shaking. You squeeze your eyes shut, knowing Roman’s making Benji watch. You can’t stop yourself from writhing and wailing, but you can at least close your eyes, right?

“Good girl. Daddy’s stupid little cocksleeve,” Roman laughs. He pulls his hips out midway through your climax and jerks himself off against your clit, against your hole, your cum all over his shaft and his hand. The sound is obscenely loud, wet as he strokes himself. He takes a certain satisfaction from taking away from your pleasure, using it to further his own. You whine and whimper and try to quietly beg him - please come back, please, please, I need you.

“No.”

Roman makes Benji watch as he shoots his load over your mouth, your face. Ropes of it, thick and copious; fuck, he hasn’t cum this hard in a long time. Roman paints your face with his seed and laughs as he comes down, giving his softening cock a few last pumps before he switches the camera back to his own grinning face, memorizing the way Benji looks absolutely fucking dejected and miserable. 

“Well, hey, dogboy - this was fun. Glad you came - or, at least, glad you watched us while we came, right? Hope this was more fun than just a few texts and pictures, dickhead. Fuck off, now, bye-bye!” He says cheerfully, ending the video chat before Benji can even think of a response. He tosses your phone to the side and studies your face, reaching out to collect his cum on his fingers and swipe it down into your mouth.

“Clean yourself up. Come on. Can’t do everything for you, huh?”

[ichorkurt]

OMG THIS WAS SO GOOD !!! the angst is sooo delicious, i'm eating this uppp !!

My Atlantis, We Fall | Part 1

Summary: A childhood friendship between Viktor and you grow into unspoken love, but your paths diverge when Viktor left you behind. Still heartbroken, you unexpectedly reunite during Progress Day after years, only to cause more heartbreak.

Pairing: Kid!Viktor X Kid!F!Reader, Viktor Arcane X Female Reader

Warnings: ANGST Words: 2.7k

A/N: Thank you so much for the love on my last Viktor fic! I am new to the Arcane fandom, so I apologize if I wrote some of these incorrectly <3 Hope you like this one as well. I will be posting Part 2 later today, hopefully!

The smog of Zaun never lifted. To Viktor, it was a constant haze that wrapped the Undercity in an unpleasant shade of gray. But even in that, there were spots of color, moments that broke through the dullness of it. For him, that color was you.

You were no stranger to the way the city worked. Born to a family scraping by on restricted earnings, you spent your days scouring the alleys for bits of scrap that could be sold or repurposed. The life of a scavenger wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest, and it was all you’d ever known.

At 9 years old, you met Viktor in the middle of a dusty alley, where scraps of metal and broken pipes littered all over the ground. He stood there, his cane awkwardly propped against a pile of junk as he messed around with some contraption he had made using a discarded piece of clock. For the first time ever, his golden eyes darted up to meet yours, they were wide with curiosity.

“Do you need help?” you asked, your tiny hands already brushing away the grime to pick up the gears he had dropped.

He hesitated before nodding. “Only if you don’t mind dirt.” You heard the accent for the first time.

From that moment on, dirt never mattered. Neither did the cane, or his limp, or the thin, almost too-pale figure that struggled to keep up with the other children. What mattered was him and the way his mind worked. Sharp and inventive that even the very air of Zaun couldn’t dull it.

The two of you spent your days hunting for scraps together, crafting makeshift toys your parents cannot afford, or setting little boats afloat in the polluted streams of the Undercity.

Life in the Undercity was a series of neverending struggles, but when you were with Viktor, it felt lighter somehow. You knew that together you could dream. Like you can achieve anything.

In the dim of the makeshift workshop you two had set up behind an old factory, you would spend hours building and talking about the future. Viktor would sit cross-legged on the ground, cane resting beside him. His golden eyes always alight with a passion that seemed to defy the gloom of your surroundings.

“We will leave someday,” he said, voice filled with determination. “We’ll go to Piltover. The air is clean there, and the people don’t suffer from the smog.”

You smiled at him and chuckled softly, hands busy polishing a piece of scrap metal. “And what will we do there?”

He let himself think for a moment, as if the question caught him off guard. Then he looked at you, his expression unusually serious. “Once we are there, we can change the world,” he said simply.

You laughed, a soft, melodic sound that echoed in the small space. “That is a big dream, Viktor.”

“Hey! It’s not just a dream,” he insisted, gaze unwavering. “We’ll do it. Together.”

"Promise?"

"Promise."

There was something about the way he said it that made you believe him. Viktor’s certainty was infectious. You could see it in the way he worked and the way he poured every ounce of himself into his small inventions.

Some days when his leg hurt too much to move, you would sit beside him to help him sort through the piles of scrap you had collected. He’d teach you the basics of his engineering, he was always patient and thorough while his hands guided yours as you pieced together a simple mechanism.

“See?” he'd say, voice tinged with pride as the small contraption you built whirred to life. “You’re a natural.”

You grinned, the warmth of his praise spreading through you like sunlight.

The days blurred together in work and laughter as your shared dreams served as a beacon in the darkness. It was during one of those days when you were both ten or eleven, that Viktor made a declaration that would stay with you forever.

You were sitting by the river, watching the toy boat Viktor had built move along the surface of the water. The sunlight did its best to pass through the smog, casting a glow over the scene that made the water seem like it was sparkling.

“When we grow up,” Viktor said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm, “I’m going to marry you.”

You turned to look at him, eyes are wide with surprise as you felt the warmth of your blood travel up to your cheeks. Then you laughed, a sound so full of joy. It was music to him. “Then you would have to make me a pretty ring, silly.”

Viktor nodded, his expression earnest. “Of course! Then I’ll build us a house in Piltover, and we’ll have a workshop where we can create anything we want.”

It was a childish promise, one you didn’t take seriously at the time. But for Viktor, it was more than that.

It was a goal; a dream he clung to with every fiber of his being.

୭ ˚.⁺⊹ .ᐟ

The day you found a cave felt like the start of a new stage of life.

As usual, it began with Viktor’s handmade boat, the delicate creation that floated across the river. You were laughing, like you always do when Viktor is around. It was as if everything's happy when you were together. Your voice echoed through the narrow canyon, laughing until you saw the boat drifting too far downstream.

“I’ll get it!” you called, kicking off your shoes and splashing into the shallow water. Viktor watched from the bank, his cane resting against a rock, his expression was a mix of amusement and mild concern. He would've been the one to dive in if only it wasn't for his leg.

You chased the boat until it got caught against a jagged rock near the mouth of a dark opening in the cliffside. “Vik, look!” you shouted, pointing to the cave.

He limped over to join you, curiosity piqued. The two of you went inside, the cool air of the cave was a contrast to the warmth of the day. The deeper you went, the more excited you grew.

What you found inside changed everything.

As you went further, the light spilling in from the entrance slowly faded, replaced by an eerie green glow. You exchanged a glance with Viktor, “What do you think it is?” you whispered, the volume barely louder than the drip of water from the stalactites above.

“No idea,” Viktor murmured, his fingers tightening around his cane.

The source of the glow soon became clear: a hidden lab, long abandoned yet still pulsing with strange energy. You could almost feel it on your skin. Machines lined the walls, coated in layers of dust. Beakers filled with faintly glowing liquids sat undisturbed on a table alongside half-finished notes and sketches in a language you didn’t understand.

“Woah!” You stepped closer, your breath hitching at the sight. “Viktor, this is awesome!”

He nodded, gaze fixed on a machine in the corner that hummed silently as if it was alive. “Whoever built this was a genius,” he said, his voice filled with awe. He felt like this is where he belonged. For the first time he felt like he belonged. “Imagine what they could have created here.”

It was then that you heard the shuffling of footsteps. You both froze, hearts pounding in unison as a figure emerged from the shadows. He was sharp-featured, eyes glinting with a dangerous intelligence.

“Curious little mice, aren’t you?” the man said.

You instinctively moved closer to Viktor, your hand grabbing his arm. You felt safe that way. “We didn’t mean to intrude,” you said quickly, your voice steady despite the fear curling in your chest.

The man—Singed, as he introduced himself—was a Zaunite alchemist. He seemed more intrigued than angry as his gaze lingered on Viktor with intensity. He asked many questions, probing Viktor about his interest in machines and invention.

“I see potential in you, boy,” Singed said after a long pause, his voice carrying a weight of authority that was impossible to ignore. “A sharp mind like yours shouldn’t be wasted scavenging scraps. I could teach you things. Show you how to truly create.”

Viktor hesitated, his grip tightening around the worn wood of his cane. His knuckles whitened, using his other hand to place it on top of yours that was still rested around his arm. His touch comforted you more that he realized.

“What about her?” he asked, his voice quieter. He glanced at you, golden-brown eyes searching yours as if they were trying to find reassurance, or perhaps permission.

Singed’s gaze shifted to you briefly, cold and judgmental, before dismissing you entirely with a shrug of indifference. “I have no use for distractions,” he said bluntly, as though you were nothing more than an inconvenience in Viktor’s path.

The words stung. But what hurt more wasn’t Singed’s dismissal, it was the flicker of emotion on Viktor’s face.

You could see the storm brewing in his eyes. The pull of ambition against the weight of loyalty, the desire to seize an opportunity against the fear of what he’d leave behind.

He looked at you again, his expression was pained and conflicted. “I...” he began, but the words died in his throat.

“Hey, it’s okay!” even though it wasn’t, you still said it while smiling. “You should go, Vik. This is what you always wanted, right?”

The words felt like lead on your tongue, but you said them anyway. Because this was Viktor’s dream, wasn’t it? To break free from the chains of Zaun, to do what he is passionate about and take any step to build a better future. You couldn’t stand in the way of that, no matter how much it hurt.

After that day, everything changed.

Viktor began spending more of his time in the cave with Singed, learning things you couldn’t begin to comprehend. The closeness you shared, the companionship that defined your days, was slowly replaced by distance.

At first, he tried to make time for you. You’d see each other twice a week. His hands and clothes would often smell faintly of chemicals and his mind clearly still preoccupied with whatever he’d been working on.

“How was it?” you’d ask, trying to keep the bitterness out of your voice.

“It’s fascinating,” he’d reply, eyes lighting up in a way that made your heart twist. “There’s so much to learn, so much to do.”

You wanted to be happy for him. You tried. But it was hard not to feel like you were losing him, piece by piece, day by day.

The Viktor you had grown up with, the boy who had dreamed with you, who had promised to build a life together in Piltover, was slipping away.

You can feel it.

Eventually, even the twice-a-week meetings stopped. You hadn't realized that the both of you have grown into teenagers.

You considered that it was just a temporary thing at first, that Viktor was just busy with his new life and his ambitions. But the days turned into weeks, then months, and still, there was no sign of him. You did not bother going to that cave, still too hurt to face that man Singed for the second time.

You went to the places you used to go to frequently together. Hoping to catch a glimpse of him, hoping that the streets of Zaun would somehow bring him back to you. You waited, watched, sometimes even hallucinated he would appear around the corner with that damn crooked smile. The same smile that used to make everything feel okay.

But it never happened.

You said you didn’t care, but then you would be lying to yourself. You didn’t want to care, but the ache in your chest told you otherwise. You missed him more than you were willing to admit. And every time you walked past the spots where you once laughed and talked, where you shared dreams, that pain hit you all over again.

The day your family decided to move out of Zaun was the final blow. You wanted to tell him. No, you needed to tell him. You needed him to know that you were leaving. Maybe, just maybe, he’d say something to stop you from walking away from the place that had once held the dreams you shared.

So, you went to his home.

You stood there. The familiar wooden door that always opened to reveal him, limping toward you with that look of recognition and warmth.

You knocked. And knocked again. Heart pounding in your chest as you waited to hear his voice from the other side. But when the door opened, it wasn’t Viktor who greeted you.

It was an empty, cold silence.

The neighbors told you he’d moved. No one knew where, just that he wasn’t coming back.

The feeling was like a slap in the face.

Since when was he gone?

You couldn’t comprehend it. How could he just leave like that? The memories of all those times, those quiet moments where you had thought you were the most important person in his life suddenly felt like lies.

You convinced yourself, over and over, that he would always come back to see you, to explain himself, that the bond between you was way too strong to break. The amount of times you told yourself, "If he comes back tomorrow, I will forgive him" was beyond ridiculous at this point. Because it never happened, and now, everything seemed foolish.

The anger bubbled up inside you. Burning and consuming. And yet, underneath the anger, there was a deeper, more painful emotion. A quiet sorrow you didn’t want to acknowledge because it was too raw, too unbearable.

"Why..."

The truth was, you loved him. And he left you behind.

The years passed, and you are now in your early twenties. The anger inside you eventually faded. Time, as it always does, softened the sharp edges of your pain. But the emptiness never truly went away.

You tried to fill it with other things, other people, other distractions. But there were nights when his face would appear in your dreams, and you’d wake up with that same hollow feeling in your chest.

You thought about him often, even when you told yourself you wouldn’t. You wondered if he ever thought about you, if he ever regretted how things ended between you two.

You hated yourself. For still caring, for still holding on to something that crumbled a long time ago. You wanted to move on, to forget him and everything he had meant to you. But a part of you still clung to the memories of your childhood.

The laughter, the dreams, the whispered promises.

It was the only thing you had left of him now. It hurt, but you couldn’t bring yourself to let go.

୭ ˚.⁺⊹ .ᐟ

Progress Day

You found yourself in Piltover, the city you and Viktor had once dreamed of when you were just children playing amidst the grime of Zaun.

He was right. He always is. The air was indeed lighter, free of the toxic smog that choked you since the day you were born. The streets were filled with energy and purpose, lined with tall buildings that gleamed under the bright sun. Progress hummed in every corner, from the click of Hextech gadgets to the chatter of inventors sharing ideas.

You had fought hard to get here. The countless nights spent working until exhaustion, the sacrifices, the dreams you had held onto so tightly—it had all led to this. You should be proud of yourself.

And you were. You could look around at everything you had built and feel the satisfaction of knowing you did it. But no matter how high you climbed, no matter how far you tried to run, it still feels hollow inside. An emptiness that lingered like a ghost.

An emptiness that only Viktor could fill.

Deep inside, you knew that to yourself. It whispered in the quiet moments, when the celebrations died down and you were left alone with your thoughts.

The city was alive with celebration. It was a day to honor the advancements of Piltover after all. You attended one of the more exclusive parties, hosted by none other than Jayce Talis, the prodigy of Hextech innovation. You had little interest in the fanfare, but it was a chance to network, to prove your place among the elite minds of Piltover.

You had expected the night to be uneventful. Mingling with strangers, exchanging polite but fake smiles and calculated compliments. It was all part of the routine by now.

What you hadn’t expected was him.

[ichorkurt]

AH LIN THIS IS SOOO GOOD </3 did nawt know i needed tsumiki & megumi slice of life soso bad :( it was so sweet and as always your writing is sooo good !!!! so happy you posted again dude !!

the short mention of geto had me TWEAKINGGG THO it's always geto never suguru BROKE MY HEART <//3

intertwined, sewn together - satoru gojo

pairing: satoru gojo x gn!reader

wc: 1.0k

synopsis: satoru was a chronic overthinker

a/n: finally posting after quite literally forever, so she may be a bit rusty !! :] set while tsumiki and megumi are still quite young, gojo is 19-ish! ac to 510_juju :)

There were few things that reminded you of Satoru Gojo’s mortality.

Sometimes it was the glint in his eyes as he all but pressed his nose into the windows of local shops, staring at the desserts or knick knacks that lined the shelves with a wonder behind the black-tinted lens of his glasses. Other times, it was the small, pale scar you saw on occasion that was etched onto the flesh of his forehead, serving as a physical reminder of past curses and fights.

But at times like this, when it was just the kids and you, it was how his shoulders slumped as he sat on the couch beside you, blue eyes lidded and dull as he stared at the TV.

You sat in the Fushiguro’s small, worn apartment, the clinking of forks against glass dishes coming from below you as Megumi and Tsumiki ate their dinner in front of the television. The cartoon playing provided an airy feel to the living room, an occasional laugh from Tsumiki pulling a soft smile to your face.

From the corner of your eye, you watched as Satoru shifted to rest his cheek against your shoulder, a small puff of air leaving his nostrils when his body relaxed against yours. A quiet pitter-patter of rain had begun to hit the window panes and matched the pattern he tapped onto the back of your hand.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he hummed. “Maybe a little tired.”

You looked down at him, his breathing even and the alabaster skin beneath his eyes tinted mauve from restless nights. “It’s just us here, Toru. They’re not paying attention.” Although you wouldn’t outright say it, you always knew when he avoided telling the truth.

He toyed with your fingers for a moment. “I really am tired, sweetheart.”

Things were different now, but you knew that. Satoru used to feel invincible, an amalgamation of his youth and being the strongest sorcerer translating into an aura of confidence that radiated from him like a shimmering aureole. Nowadays, he wasn’t much older—or suddenly weak—but he’d been pulled from his own bubble and into a world that everyone around him had to face much earlier.

Not everyone could be saved and no one could stick around forever—he now knew this to be true. It had always been in the back of his mind, but every day that passed seemed to nail the idea deeper into his psyche.

It was a culmination of everything, he thought. Both the father of the children who sat in front of him and the two adolescents themselves, deaths of his juniors who deserved to be here more than he did, and the simple way in which the people he knew like the back of his hand seemed to change into things he couldn’t recognize.

“Satoru,” you whispered against his temple, “I think you think too much.”

“There isn’t much else to do,” he replied.

“Your mind’s always running, isn’t it?”

“It’s the same as always; things are so different from how they used to be.” He buried his face further into your shoulder, muffling his voice. “It’s whatever now, I know. But I miss it.”

“I miss it too,” you admitted. “We rarely see Shoko, and Nanami’s, well, not the same.”

Everyone had found something to bury themselves in after whatever loss they may have faced, because there was more than plenty to go around. For Shoko, it was anatomy textbooks and the morgue, and whatever breaks she gave herself were spent with a cigarette dangling from her pink lips and a salty snack that substituted dinner stuffed in her hand.

“Sometimes I think Geto would’ve been a lot better at this.”

Geto.

It was rarely Suguru nowadays.

Your words were caught in your throat at the mention of his name, but Satoru seemed unaffected. It might have been his way to push the memories back, but his voice still rang with a twinge of regret.

“At expressing his feelings?” you joked after a moment. “Something tells me he would have been anything but better than you.”

He squeezed your hand in mild amusement. “Not just that, the kids too. He could have been a little more helpful than I am, I think.”

“Not true,” you chastised. “Isn’t that why I’m here too? I pick up from wherever you leave off, Satoru.”

“You’re the better part of us,” he mumbled. “I know it’s not fair, but I need you.”

“We need each other,” you corrected him. “We’re partners, Satoru.”

“Do you really think that’s true?”

Although it proved itself to be impossible, you often wanted to take some of the weight he held on his shoulders and place it onto your own. He’d had the expectations there his whole life, long before you were ever in the picture, but Satoru still acted like it never weighed him down.

You pushed strands of hair away from his eyes, letting them fall near his temple. “How could it not be?”

There wasn’t much the two of you had in life that stayed consistent, other than each other and the seemingly never ending issues that came with jujutsu society. Subconsciously, you knew that was part of the backstitch that held you and Satoru Gojo together, like two mismatched pieces of fabric sewn along the edges to create something that could withstand wear and tear.

“Y’know, in my world it’s only us two left,” you murmured, looking down at him, “and our new little friends, too. Everything and everyone else just comes and goes.”

Satoru slid an arm around your waist, the lingering scent of gourmand perfume that stuck to your clothes and the soft humming of the cartoon in the background comforting him.

For the first time in forever, he felt his mind settle into the same apartment his body was in, surrounded by the scent of a garlicky dinner and pages of neatly solved equations on homework assignments. Satoru was no longer looking behind him, only up at your warm eyes.

© 2024 KIWICIDER - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, modify, repost, or claim as yours.

[ichorkurt]

tew cute </3 batmom's relationship with the kids makes my heart melt fr

Wife On Repeat

Reader(Wife) X Bruce Wayne(Husband)

Summery: Bruce goes on an interview, and during his interview he wouldn't stop talking about you.

Rating: Fluff, slight spicy(if you squint your eyes and turn your head sideways.)

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

"Welcome back, folks," the host, Janelle, flashed a gleaming smile as the commercial break concluded. "And tonight, we have a truly remarkable individual joining us. An inspiration to millions, a legend in his own right. Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a warm welcome to Bruce Wayne!"

The studio audience erupted into applause as Bruce emerged from behind the velvet curtains. He was impeccably dressed, as always, his jaw firmly set, and his eyes focused on the cameras. He took his seat opposite Janelle.

"Mr. Wayne, we're absolutely thrilled to have you here," Janelle said, her voice a mix of excitement and professionalism.

"Oh, Janelle, it's an honor to be here," Bruce responded with a courteous nod, his deep voice resonating through the studio. "I might even say I've been here before, but then I realize that you're show is always on my 12th living room Tv."

The audience chuckled at Bruce's light-hearted remark, easing the tension that always seemed to follow him. Janelle leaned in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Now, as a man with such an illustrious career, we're all dying to know, what drives you?"

"Well, Janelle," Bruce replied with a twinkle in his eye, "you might say it's my chauffeur."

The audience chuckled again, and Janelle couldn't help but laugh along. "Seriously though," she said, "what motivates you to get out of bed in the morning?"

Bruce's smile remained, but there was a sudden shift in his demeanor, a softening of his eyes. "My wife, she usually has to shove me out of bed in the morning," he joked, his tone light but tinged with a hint of something deeper. "But in all seriousness, it's my wife and sons that keep me going. They're my rock, my reason."

The camera zoomed in on his face, capturing the sincerity of his words. Janelle nodded, her own expression a blend of admiration and curiosity. "You speak of your wife, Mr. Wayne, but you never mention her name. Is there a particular reason for that?"

Bruce's smile never wavered, but his eyes grew distant for a brief moment, as if looking into a memory. "Let's just say she's a very private person, and I like to respect her wishes. Plus, I think the mystery adds a bit of intrigue to the whole billionaire philanthropist package, don't you think?" He winked at Janelle, and the audience laughed in response.

"Well, I'm sure swim suit modals and Russian ballerina, are sadden to see you off the market," Janelle said with a playful smile, eliciting another round of laughter from the audience.

"Ah, the perils of fame," Bruce chuckled. "But in all seriousness, she's the love of my life, I wouldn't have her any other way."

The interview progressed, with Janelle asking him about his latest ventures in tech and philanthropy. Yet, she found herself drawn back to the topic of his family life. "You have quite the brood of young men, Mr. Wayne," she said, glancing at her notes. "Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian. They're all so accomplished in their own right. Tell us a bit about them."

"Well, my wife would tell you that each of our sons mostly take after me, but I'd say with a sprinkle of their mother's charm and grace," Bruce said with a proud smile. "Dick is the eldest. He's taken after me in a lot of ways, but he's also forged his own path. He's got a strong sense of justice, and he's not afraid to get his hands dirty to make the world a better place. Sometimes he'll literally get dirty, and my wife has to remind him to wash up before dinner."

The audience chuckled, and Bruce's gaze grew more intense as he continued. "Jason, on the other hand, is the wild card. He's got this fiery passion that can either set the world alight or burn bridges. But usually my wife is the one putting out the fires."

"Then there's Tim," Bruce went on, a hint of warmth in his voice. "The brains of the bunch. He's got a mind like a computer—no, better than a computer. And he uses it for good, just like his mother always taught him. He's got a gentle soul, but don't let that fool you. He's as tenacious as they come when he sets his sights on something. I think he picked that up from my wife."

"And finally," Janelle prompted, "what can you tell us about Damian?"

Bruce's smile grew wistful. "Ah, Damian. He's the youngest, but he's got the heart of a lion. And the stubbornness to match. He's a bit of a handful, I won't lie. But he's also the most loving and fiercely loyal little guy I know. He's got a bit of his mother's grace in him, which I'm sure she's thrilled about, and he's learning to channel his intensity into positive outlets. I can't wait to see what he'll achieve when he's all grown up. Though I think my wife would argue that he's already achieved quite a bit."

Janelle nodded, scribbling down notes. "It seems you're very proud of your sons," she said.

"I am," Bruce said, his eyes glowing with pride. "But it's my wife who truly deserves the credit. She's the glue that holds us all together. Without her, we'd all be lost."

Janelle leaned back in her chair, her gaze thoughtful. "I couldn't help but notice how often you brought up your wife," she said. "It's clear she plays a significant role in your life and the lives of your sons."

"She does," Bruce agreed, his voice filled with a warmth that seemed to radiate through the studio. "She's the unsung hero behind the Wayne legacy. Without her, none of this would be possible."

"How did you two meet?" Janelle asked, her curiosity piqued.

Bruce took a deep breath, his eyes glazing over as if lost in a cherished memory. "Well, Janelle, that's a story for another night," he said, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "But I can tell you that she walked into my life when I least expected it, and she changed everything."

The audience leaned in, hanging onto every word. Janelle, sensing the gravity of the moment, decided not to push further. "Let's move on to your philanthropic efforts," she said, switching topics. "Your newest venture, the Wayne Foundation, is making waves with its innovative approach to solving global issues. Can you tell us more about that?"

"My wife's idea," Bruce said, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "She saw a need for a more personal approach to giving back. We wanted to create a foundation that didn't just throw money at problems, but actually rolled up its sleeves and got involved in the community. We've started with education and environmental initiatives, but our goal is to expand into healthcare and social justice as well. She's the heart of it all, the one who keeps me grounded and reminds me that it's not about the size of the donation, but the impact it makes."

As Janelle nodded, she couldn't help but feel the genuine love and admiration Bruce had for his wife. It was clear she wasn't just a partner in life, but also in his mission to make a difference.

The interview continued, with Bruce explaining the intricate details of the Wayne Foundation's projects. His passion for the cause was palpable, and it was evident that his wife's influence had been instrumental in shaping the foundation's core values. The audience listened intently, inspired by the depth of his commitment and the quiet strength of the woman who remained behind the scenes.

"Well, that's all the time we have for tonight," Janelle announced as the interview drew to a close. "Thank you, Bruce Wayne, for giving us a glimpse into your fascinating life and the incredible work you do. And of course, a special thank you to the woman who stands by your side, even if she's not here in the flesh."

"Thank you, Janelle," Bruce said with a nod. "I'm sure she's watching," he added, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "And she's probably cringing at every sappy thing I've said."

The audience erupted in laughter as Janelle wrapped up the segment. "Well, folks, there you have it," she said as the lights dimmed. "The enigmatic Bruce Wayne, opening up about his life's work and the woman who fuels his passion. Thank you for watching and we're going to take a quick break. When we come back, we'll be discussing the latest in celebrity gossip."

The cameras switched off and Bruce took a moment to collect himself. The mention of his wife had stirred up a whirlwind of emotions. He had always been careful about what he shared with the public, but tonight, he had allowed himself to be more open than ever before. The warmth of the studio lights began to feel stifling, and he longed for the cool embrace of the night.

Once arriving home, Bruce found his mansion ablaze with lights, a stark contrast to the quiet solitude he had left behind in the TV studio.

"Welcome home, Master Bruce," Alfred, his ever-faithful butler, greeted him at the door. "Your presence was quite enchanting on television tonight. Your mysterious charm has not waned."

Bruce chuckled, peeling off his tie. "Thanks, Alfred," he said, his gaze drifting to the grand staircase. "I think it's time for me to check in with the real star of the show."

Alfred nodded knowingly, his eyes twinkling. "Indeed, she's been waiting for your return."

Bruce took the stairs two at a time, his heart racing with anticipation. He found you in your private study, surrounded by books and papers, your eyes glued to the computer screen. You looked up as he entered, a soft smile playing on your lips. "Welcome back," your said, your voice warm as you get up to greet him. You're arms wrapped around him in an embrace that felt more like a homecoming than a simple greeting.

He held you tightly, burying his face in your hair, inhaling your sweet scent. "How'd it go?" you whispered.

"You watched it, didn't you?" he said, pulling back slightly to look into your eyes.

"I had to make sure you didn't spill any of our secrets," you teased, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

Bruce chuckled, his arms tightening around you. "You know me, I'm a pro at keeping secrets," he murmured. "But it went smoothly, all things considered. Janelle was quite the interviewer."

You stepped away, a playful smirk on your face. "Or you're just eager to spill everything about your love life on national television," you said, raising an eyebrow.

"Maybe I did get carried away," Bruce admitted with a chuckle, his gaze following you as you moved to the minibar to pour him a whiskey. He took the glass gratefully, his eyes never leaving yours. "But when it comes to you, I find it hard not to." Taking a sip of the amber liquid, he let out a contented sigh.

You took a seat on the couch, your legs crossed elegantly, and your arms resting on the back of the cushion. "Well, with everything you told Janelle tonight, I don't think I'll be revealing myself any time soon," you said, your voice a perfect blend of humor and affection.

Bruce sat down next to you, his eyes never leaving yours as he took another sip of whiskey. "I have to let them know how lucky I am without them getting all… obsessive," he said with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes playfully. "I couldn't help but notice how you avoided the question of how we met."

Bruce took a long sip of his whiskey, his eyes twinkling. "Some secrets are better left untold," he said, his voice low and mysterious. "But if I did, a few… other secrets would come to light."

You leaned in, intrigued. "Oh? And what might those secrets be?"

Bruce set his whiskey glass down with a clink, his eyes alight with mischief. "Well, thinking back, it would be interesting telling them the real story of how we met," he began, his tone playful yet filled with a sense of nostalgia. "Imagine their faces when I tell them it was in a dark alley, not at some fancy gala or charity event."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound as enchanting as it was unexpected. "Only you could turn a mugging into a romantic meet-cute," you said, shaking your head.

"Well, when you put it that way," Bruce said with a grin, his arm sliding around your shoulders with yours coming down. "But really, it was your fiery spirit and quick thinking that night that made me fall for you."

You playfully slapped his chest. "Fiery spirit? I was just trying not to get shot."

"And you did it with such poise," Bruce said, his eyes warm with admiration. "But yes, that's when I knew you were special. And when I saw you handle those thugs with nothing but a pair of heels and a handbag…"

You blushed, the memory still vivid in your mind. "Well, I'd like to think I've improved since then."

Bruce leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And you have, in more ways than you know," he said, his gaze lingering on your face. "But I'll always remember that night, when I realized I'd met my match."

You raised an eyebrow at his dramatic tone. "The Joker?" You joked, trying to lighten the mood. "I don't recall seeing the Joker there."

Bruce leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "No, not the Joker. But someone equally as formidable," he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Someone who could handle the chaos of Gotham and still look good in a pantsuit."

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth of his gaze had your heart fluttering. "Dick?" you said, playing along.

"No," Bruce said, his voice a low murmur. "Someone much more… elusive." He leaned in closer, his lips so close to yours. "Someone who can melt the ice in my heart."

"Superman?" You whisper your tone teasing.

"You little teasing woman," he murmured, his gaze lingering on your lips before returning to meet your eyes. "Always keeping me guessing."

"It's part of my charm," you said, your voice a gentle tease.

"The charm that never gets old," Bruce murmured, his eyes darkening with desire.

The air between them grew thick with anticipation, the unspoken tension stretching taut as a bowstring. You leaned closer, your heart racing. "Are you just going to keep a girl waiting?" you whispered.

With a soft chuckle, Bruce closed the distance between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that was as fiery as it was gentle. The warmth of his embrace enveloped you, and for a moment, the weight of their shared secrets and the chaos of Gotham City felt a world away.

As the kiss deepened, you felt the tension of the day melt away. His touch was familiar yet always had the power to ignite something new within you. You pulled him closer, your hand resting gently on the back of his neck, the warmth of his skin sending shivers down your spine.

Bruce set the whiskey glass down with care, the sound of the liquid swirling the last reminder of their light-hearted banter before the intensity of their connection took over. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer, his hand splayed over the curve of your hip. The warmth of his palm seemed to seep into your very bones, anchoring you to the moment, to him.

The door to the study swung open with a creak, the hinges protesting against the weight of the heavy wood. You both startled, breaking the kiss as your eyes darted to the intrusion. In the doorway stood Dick, his eyes wide and a look of shock etched on his face. "Bruce, I—uh, I didn't." he pause, "I should have figured…this, after tonight's interview."

Bruce cleared his throat, straightening his tie with a slight blush. "Dick, what can I do for you?"

"I wanted to say," Dick says, his cheeks flushing as he stepped into the room, "that I thought you did a really good job on the interview tonight. You talked a lot about us, and…" He trailed off, looking down at his feet. "And I'll just leave now, oh but, uh… you might want to start locking doors."

You both laugh awkwardly, the tension dissipating as quickly as it had formed. "Thank you sweetheart, I think we'll keep that in mind," Bruce says, patting your knee reassuringly.

Dick nods, a knowing smile on his face, closes the door and retreats down the hallway. "Nobody go in the office, Bruce is making out with mom," he calls out, his voice echoing through the mansion.

You and Bruce listen as he goes, "It's like he's announcing dinner," you murmur, amusement coloring your voice.

"Well, my dinner at least, come here" he smirks, tackling you to the couch with a playful growl, making you giggle and squirm in his grip. The plush fabric cushions your fall, but it's Bruce's arms that truly make you feel safe and secure. His eyes dance with mischief as he pins you down, the weight of his body pressing into yours, a comforting reminder of his presence.

[ichorkurt]

bruce got me sooo good ...

♯ ATTRACTIVE THINGS THEY DO . . . without realizing

BRUCE WAYNE

rolling his sleeves

bruce wayne sat at his desk, eyes scanning the papers in front of him with a focus that bordered on obsessive. his brow furrowed slightly as he sifted through the reports, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him. with a sigh, he leaned back in the chair, his broad shoulders rolling as he stretched, the fabric of his shirt straining just enough to hint at the muscle beneath.

he reached down to his cuffs, fingers moving with practiced ease as he undid the buttons. the action was simple, but there was an undeniable smoothness to it. slowly, he pushed the sleeves up, the fabric tugging against the defined muscles of his forearms as they flexed with the motion. the shirt rode up slightly, revealing the veins beneath.

once the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, he flexed his fingers briefly, feeling the weight of the day settle into his body. there was no rush, no hurry. bruce wayne wasn’t just a man who wore suits—he was a man who controlled the world around him.

looking down and leaning in to hear you better

he stood tall, his imposing presence filling the space as he leaned in slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. the difference in height between you made the moment feel all the more intimate, as though the world around you had faded into the background. his broad shoulders, strong and steady, seemed to fill the room with the weight of his silent power. every inch of him radiated control, and yet, there was something almost magnetic about the way he was focused on you now, narrowing the gap between you.

he tilted his head just a little, his gaze softening yet still intense, before his lips parted slightly. with a quiet, almost imperceptible shift in his posture, he leaned closer, his height forcing you to tilt your head back just to meet his eyes.

“sorry, what were you saying?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, the words lingering in the air between you. there was no rush in his movement, no hint of impatience—just the steady presence of a man who knew the effect he had, who made every action feel deliberate, calculated.

DICK GRAYSON

stretching

dick grayson towered in the middle of your bedroom, a small stretch escaping him after a long day of training and patrol. with a soft grunt, he raised his arms high above his head, his back arching slightly as his muscles flexed in the motion. the action was simple, but the way his body moved with effortless grace caught the light in just the right way, accentuating the sleek, toned lines of his chest and abdomen.

as he reached upwards, the hem of his shirt lifted slightly, revealing the faint line of his happy trail—dark and subtle beneath the fabric. his abs tightened with the stretch, his posture perfect and confident, yet so natural.

when his arms finally lowered, he relaxed, a small, satisfied smile curling on his lips, unaware of the effect the simple stretch had on your wandering gaze.

running a hand through his hair

he leaned back against the post of your bed, his chest rising and falling with each steady breath after another long night of patrol. he was tired, but not exhausted—just enough to feel the strain of the evening settling into his muscles. his hand moved instinctively to his hair, running through it with a relaxed sigh. the motion was effortless, but there was something undeniably attractive about it. his fingers tangled in the dark strands, pushing them back, only to leave them even more tousled than before.

his hair, usually neatly styled, now fell in messy waves, a little wild and chaotic—much like dick himself. as he scratched the back of his head, his tousled look gave off a carefree vibe, as if he didn’t have a care in the world despite the weight of his responsibilities. the slight rumple only added to the charm.

his lips quirked into a soft, knowing smile as he caught the look in your eyes, momentarily lost in them—so damn predictable. he had you right where he wanted you.

JASON TODD

leaning against a doorway

jason todd stood in the doorway, his posture relaxed yet undeniably intimidating. his arms were crossed over his chest, biceps flexing slightly with the movement, a stance that spoke of quiet confidence and a hint of defiance. his shoulders were broad, his body leaning casually against the doorframe, but there was an edge to him—something hard and unyielding beneath the surface. the way his weight shifted ever so slightly to one side gave him an almost effortless air, as if the world had to adjust to him, not the other way around.

his dark eyes scanned the room, taking in everything with a sharp focus, though he didn’t seem to be in a rush to move or speak. the leather jacket he adorned hung from his frame, the subtle creases and folds of the material giving it an air of worn-in familiarity, like it had seen too much for too long. but his gaze—intense, guarded—never left your figure, as if he was watching for something just out of reach, something that only he could sense.

the way jason held himself in the doorway, arms crossed with a hint of tension in his posture, felt like a silent challenge for most, though there was nothing overtly aggressive about it. it was just the quiet power of a man who was used to being underestimated, a man who didn't need to say a word to command attention.

wearing a shirt that fits just right

he moved through the motions of his training with practiced precision, the rhythm of his strikes steady and controlled. his black shirt clung to his body, the dark fabric stretching over the defined muscles of his chest and back as he moved. the fit was snug, highlighting the sheer strength in his frame, the subtle curve of his biceps flexing with each punch and kick.

swaet began to bead on his forehead, trailing down his temple as he focused on his technique, his breathing steady despite the exertion. the shirt, stretched tight across his shoulders, rode up slightly as his arms reached high, the lines of his stomach momentarily visible as he performed another series of rapid, forceful punches. his torso flexed, muscles tightening and releasing with each movement, and the shirt seemed to accentuate the sculpted definition of his body.

as he paused, catching his breath, the shirt clung even tighter, the movement of his chest beneath it noticeable with every rise and fall of his breath. jason didn’t seem to notice—or care—how the fit of the shirt left little to the imagination. his focus was on the work, on pushing himself further, but the way the fabric outlined his form only added to the unspoken intensity of his presence. even when he wasn't speaking, his body did all the talking.