starrvsn

[starrvsn]

this fic fr got me like:

Tongue

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Virgin!Fem!Reader

Summary: During a night out on the town with your friends, you are pushed into talking to a mysterious cowboy at a bar, who turns out to be one of the only blessings that Wabang has ever given you.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Mentions of Alcohol Consumption, Mentions of Grief and Death (Reader was a caregiver for her ailing father since she left high school), Reader kind of sidelined her life to take care of her father meaning she missed out on a lot of things and is looking to catch up (would I say angst? I don’t really know, but I will say possibly?)

Smut Warnings: Virginity Loss, Unprotected P in V Sex (protect yourselves friends. This is pure fantasy), There are discussions of purity/virginity (between friends, and between Rhett and Reader), Masturbation, Dirty Talk (that involves the mentioning of the readers virginity), Rhett is an attentive lover Jesus H Christ lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Making Out and Dry Humping (a devilish combo), Praise and Worship Kink, Discussions about Birth Control, A bit of blood (not always an indicator of loss of virginity btw, just throwing that out there), Hickeys and Lovebites, Squirting, Nipple and Breastplay, Overstimulation, Very Gentle Hair Pulling, Being Held Down (in like a not forceful type of way!), Emotional/Physical Aftercare

Author’s Note: I got a request for this and I really liked the idea of it, but I also had to go all out because it’s Rhett frickin Abbott we’re talking about here. Yeehawwww. Anyways, enjoy another segment of RAF <3

Word Count: 17,045

The Branded Mare was quieter than usual for a Thursday night–not totally dead, but certainly not shoulder-to-shoulder either. A couple of pool games were underway near the back, the clack of billiard balls echoing gently under the low murmur of voices. Classic rock hummed from wall-mounted speakers above the booths–Fleetwood Mac, maybe, or Skynyrd–tinny and worn from years of play. Overhead, the lights were low and amber-hued, casting a warm haze over everything. The bulbs flickered every so often, the way they always did here, like the building itself was coughing dust out of its orifices.

It smelled like a half-hearted attempt at cleanliness–Pine-Sol, bleach, maybe a hint of lemon disinfectant in the corners–just strong enough to sting the nose if you breathed too deep. But underneath that was the true scent of the place: beer-soaked wood, old bar mats, fryer grease, and cigarettes drifting in from the cracked patio door every time someone stepped out for a smoke. It was the kind of bar that felt lived in–scarred barstools, a jukebox that always skipped the second verse, and carvings etched into the tabletops so deep you could run your thumb through someone’s initials and still feel the indent years later.

You and your friends had taken over one of the half-moon leather booths near the back–close enough to the bar to watch people come and go, but tucked just out of the way enough to talk shit without being overheard. The seat was sticky against your thighs where your denim shorts met skin, and the middle cushion sagged slightly, forcing everyone to sit a little too close. The table was cluttered: half-eaten fries going cold in a red plastic basket, a few longneck bottles sweating condensation onto paper napkins, a couple cocktails in mismatched glasses. Someone had spilled something early on, and now the wood beneath your forearm stuck just faintly when you moved.

Your friends were talking–laughing, teasing, making little jabs about town gossip or the girl from high school who just got engaged for the third time–but your attention had started to drift like it normally did when you weren’t in tune with the subject.

Your eyes scanned the place slowly, taking it in with a sort of lazy familiarity. A group of guys in baseball caps gathered near the jukebox, arguing about the next song. A couple older men sat at the bar, hunched over their drink like they had been planted there since 4PM. One woman danced alone by the dartboards, a beer in one hand, her flip-flop tapping against the sticky floor as she swayed out of rhythm to the music.

Then your gaze snagged on a figure, and you paused.

He was sitting at the bar, maybe two or three stools from the end, his back turned partway to you. He wasn’t someone you recognized–not from school, not from the feed store, not from church or town events either. But then again, you didn’t go out much–or you hadn’t been going out much until fairly recently. You certainly didn’t know everyone in town, not in the way your friends did. Maybe he was just passing through. Maybe he was local and liked to keep to himself. Either way, you knew you would’ve remembered seeing him before.

His hair was light brown, pushed back beneath a dark baseball cap that had seen some better days, the brain curved tight and low over his eyes. A few strands curled out from beneath it, damp near the nape of his neck like he had showered and hand’s bothered to blow dry–or maybe it was sweat…You had no idea. He was nursing a beer–bottle, not draft–slow and casual, like he wasn’t in any kind of rush. His posture was relaxed, one forearm propped on the bar top, the other cradling the bottle as he tipped it toward his mouth.

You couldn’t see his whole face–just the side of it, the angle teasing more than it revealed. A strong jaw, the faintest trace of stubble, lips that moved slowly as he spoke to the man beside him. His voice didn’t carry, but you could imagine it–low, maybe a little scratchy. Probably drawled and dripping with a southern twang only the men of Wabang had.

What you could see, though, was his build.

He was lean but solid. Broad shoulders under a navy flannel button-down, the fabric pulled slightly where it stretched over his upper back. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing tan forearms dusted with a little hair, and his jeans–well, they sat just right. Faded, worn a bit at the seams, hugging his thighs like they had been through hell and still clung to him out of loyalty. He didn’t look like he spent hours in a gym. He looked like he worked outside. Someone who used his body for ranch work, or even rodeo–a man carved from manual labor.

You didn’t mean to stare, but you couldn’t help it.

You stippled your drink absently, the lime-slicked gin and tonic turning watery from melted ice, and your gaze lingered–long enough for one of your friends to notice.

”I see you starin’ at that cowboy,” Jennifer stated, tilting her glass toward the bar with a smirk, “You want us to scoot so you can get a better view?” You blinked quickly as if she broke a spell of some sort.

”I’m not going up to him,” You replied, a little too quickly for your own liking.

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N, don’t be shy,” Leah added, nudging your hip under the table, “You’ve been picking from the douchebag buffet lately. A cowboy like that?” She motioned to the man standing at the bar, “They usually know how to treat a woman right.” You rolled your eyes, taking another sip from your drink.

”I’m not looking for candidates to take my virginity tonight, if that’s what all of you are thinking.” They burst out laughing at that joke, leaning in over the table, their drinks sloshing slightly as they hooted and snorted and covered their faces. You shook your head at them, your cheeks warming slightly, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips anyway.

”It doesn’t hurt to flirt,” Sam said through her laughter, “Maybe he’s not into hookups. Maybe he’s decent…And maybe…Just maybe, y’all will hit it off.”

“He doesn’t look standoffish,” Leah chimed in, “And he’s got a nice ass…I won’t lie.” You let out a breath, but your eyes wandered back to him anyway, even through your friends teasing you.

From across the bar, Rhett Abbott wasn’t exactly trying to eavesdrop–but the laughter carried and echoed through the enclosed space, and it was hard to ignore.

Bits and pieces of conversation reached him between guitar riff and clinking glassware, muffled by the music but just clear enough to snag his attention.

He’d caught the words: Cowboy, Virginity, and Nice Ass. The last one made his brow twitch upward, and his lips parted in the faintest grin before he caught himself. He let his eyes wander casually across the bar, lifting his beer for another sip as he scanned the room nonchalantly.

It took a second to find your booth. And when he did, he knew. There wasn’t another group it could’ve been. His eyes lingered for a moment.

You were sitting with three other girls, all of you leaning in close, laughing like you’d just said something scandalous and immediately regretted it. You had your head tilted slightly, one shoulder drawn in like you were trying to disappear into yourself–and he could tell you were warm with embarrassment. Even from here, he could clock it instantly that you were the black sheep of your friend group–which wasn’t a bad thing at all.

The others were smirking, biting down on their straws, whispering into each other’s ears between giggles. One of them flicked her eyes toward the bar–toward him and Rhett watched as you tried not to follow their gaze.

He bit the inside of his cheek, ducking his head slightly.

“What’re you smilin’ for?” Perry asked, leaning over, his voice just above the low hum of the room. He had one hand on a sweating bottle of Coors and the other lazily spinning a beer coaster between his fingers. Rhett scratched the back of his neck, shaking his head a little like he was embarrassed to even say it out loud.

”Think I’ve got a fan club in ‘ere.” He said, voice rough with amusement, “I hear some girls talkin’ about me.” He glanced over at Perry, seeing his eyebrow was raised.

”Yeah?” Rhett nodded toward your table with the tip of his bottle.

“Booth in the corner. Four girls. Laughin’ like they’re up to somethin’.” Perry followed his gaze. It didn’t take long to find your table–too many sideways glances, too many hands covering mouths like they were trying not to be obvious–even though they were doing an extremely poor job. Perry smirked.

”You’re right on that one. They’re definitely talkin’ about you.” Rhett laughed under his breath, rubbing the edge of his thumb against the label on his bottle.

”Can’t imagine why. I’m just sittin’ and drinkin’.”

“It’s that goddamn shirt n’ jean combination…It attracts all the ladies…I told you this.” Perry said with a pointed glance at Rhett’s outfit.

“Maybe I just wear clothes that fit me properly,” He deadpanned, tilting the bottle to his mouth to take another swig of beer.

“You gonna talk to ‘em?” Rhett’s brow lifted at the question, swallowing.

”You dare me?”

“Hell yeah, I dare you,” Perry replied instantly, “I’ll pay for your next beer if you go over and strike up a conversation with ‘em.” Rhett paused, turning the bottle slowly in his hand.

The truth was, Rhett had been thinking about going over from the second he heard your laugh–quiet, a little self-conscious, like it had snuck out before you could stop it. He’d noticed you before the teasing, before the sideways glances, before the odd set of words floated across the bar and almost made him choke on his drink.

You stood out, even tucked into the corner like you were trying not to. Not because you were louder or flashier than the rest–if anything, the opposite. While your friends leaned into each other, bold and easy in their comfort, you sat just slightly apart, shoulders drawn in, one hand loosely curled around your drink like you were grounding yourself.

He wasn’t downgrading the others. Hell, they were all pretty in their own right, the kind of girls who turned heads the second they walked in. But you–

You were the one that made his heart stutter.

Maybe it was the way you watched the room with those soft, perceptive eyes, like you didn’t just see people–you read them. Maybe it was the way you carried yourself–thoughtful, a little guarded, like you’d learned to measure twice and speak once.

Rhett didn’t know what it was, not exactly. But he was curious. And that curiosity was burning like a fuse.

So when Perry threw out the dare and dangled a free beer on the end of it, it was really just icing on the cake. He took the last swig from his bottle and thunked it down on the bar.

“All right then,” He said, rolling his shoulders back with the kind of quiet anticipation that looked more like he was about to hop on a bull than walk across a bar. “Wish me luck.”

“Go get your fan club president,” Perry smirked, already fishing out his wallet.

Rhett adjusted his hat just enough so the low brim wouldn’t shadow his face, then turned and made his way toward your table–easy strides, relaxed, but with that faint electricity crackling just beneath the surface.

The second he stepped within earshot, your group fell quiet. Not instantly–but that kind of rippling quiet, where each girl caught on a second after the last. One by one, your heads turned.

And when you looked up at him–

Your lips parted slightly.

You didn’t even mean to. It just happened, automatic, like your breath caught before your brain had a chance to play it cool.

Because God.

Up close, he was even more than you’d imagined.

His face was all sun-carved angles and soft contradictions–high cheekbones, a strong jawline dusted with stubble that looked like it would scrape in the most delicious way. His skin was golden from time spent outdoors, a faint pink clinging to the high points of his cheeks and nose like he’d just come off the trail. And his eyes–

You could see them now.

Clear, startling blue. Not icy. Bright. Like sky after rain. Like river water in the deepest pocket of the bend. His lashes were thick, almost annoyingly so, and framed his gaze with a softness that balanced the rugged set of his brow. He looked like someone who’d seen his fair share of shit and had come out the other side weathered–but still good.

“Evenin’, ladies,” He drawled, voice smooth as warm honey and twice as slow. He tipped his baseball hat slightly, more charming than cocky, just enough to tease. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just thought I oughta come introduce myself, since I heard y’all had a few opinions about my ass…The name’s Rhett.”

Your friends broke into immediate laughter–delighted, unfiltered, hands over mouths like teenagers again.

You blinked hard and had to look away for a second. Goddamn it, he was funny too.

Jennifer leaned forward with a grin. “We were just admiring the view, cowboy. You can’t blame us.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” He said, grinning easily as his gaze flicked across the table–but it kept returning to you. Like clockwork. Like reflex.

You felt it–every time he looked, your chest got tighter. Your fingers pressed just a little harder around your drink. And when he caught you looking back at him?

Your lashes fluttered. Stupid. Obvious. And you hated how it made your stomach twist.

“I’m Jen,” She said brightly. “That’s Leah. And Sam.”

“Nice to meet y’all,” Rhett nodded, polite and warm. Then, after the briefest pause, he tilted his chin toward you. “But does the quiet one have a name?” You felt your throat tighten. The way he said it wasn’t pointed or pushy. It was gentle. Curious. Like he’d already picked you out and wanted to peel back the layers without spooking you. His voice dipped soft on quiet, like it was a trait he admired instead of teased.

You cleared your throat, sitting up slightly, the heat blooming up the back of your neck as you finally met his eyes head-on.

”…It’s Y/N.” His mouth twitched at the corner, and you saw it–how he bit gently on the inside of his lip like he was tucking something in. His voice dropped just a little when he repeated it.

“Y/N.”

There was weight to it. Drawl thick and reverent, like he was already tasting it on his tongue.

“Pretty name,” He said, soft and sure. “Fits you.”

And just like that, it hit you–hard.

The way your name sounded coming from his mouth. The way his eyes stayed on you even as your friends kept chattering beside him. The way your body was suddenly so aware of every inch of itself–knees pressed together, fingers twitching against the edge of the table, mouth dry.

Rhett’s eyes dropped to the melting ice in your glass, then lifted again, catching your gaze with a faint tilt of his head.

“Mind if I buy you a fresher drink?” He asked, voice low and a little playful, his fingers flicking subtly toward your half-dead gin and tonic.

You glanced down, lips curling slightly as you shifted the glass between your fingertips. The lime had sunk to the bottom, pale rind bobbing listlessly. The condensation had pooled beneath it in a ring, sticking faintly to your skin every time you moved your hand.

“Not at all,” You murmured, soft but clear enough that it cut through the static of your own nerves.

His mouth twitched–not quite a smile, but something just as warm–and then his tongue darted out, quick and unthinking, to wet the center of his bottom lip. Your eyes snagged on it before you could stop yourself. That faint sheen of moisture catching on pink skin, the way it lingered for just a second too long. It made something catch low in your throat.

“What’re you havin’?” He asked. You cleared your throat gently.

“Gin and tonic,” You replied, voice catching just enough to make you wince internally. You weren’t used to stammering. Not over a man. Certainly not over a stranger. Rhett gave a single, quiet nod.

”Gin and tonic it is…” He said with a slow drawl, and then–because of course he had to make things worse–he added “I’ll be right back…Y/N.” And he winked. A soft, subtle little thing. More a twitch of one eyelid than anything grand. But paired with the way he said your name? You nearly forgot how to breathe.

You watched him walk back to the bar–broad shoulders moving with an unhurried confidence, fingers tapping a rhythm on the neck of his empty bottle as he passed a couple other tables. When he reached the counter, he rapped his knuckles gently against the wood, motioning toward the bartender, then turned to say something to the guy beside him.

Jennifer let out a low whistle beside you, cutting through the haze.

“You sure you don’t wanna lose your virginity tonight?” You laughed–more like sputtered through a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“I’m sure,” you said with a shake of your head, watching the bartender hand Rhett a glass that immediately began sweating in the heat of the bar. “But I’m certainly going to be thinking about this man when I go home tonight…Preferably under my covers.” The girls all leaned in at once, delighted by your confession. Sam giggled into her straw. Leah’s jaw dropped.

“You gonna get his number?” She asked.

“Oh Jesus, definitely,” You said, voice a little too loud with conviction. “Did you see him? Holy fuck. If I wasn’t so nervous, I’d ask him to throw me down on this table right now an–”

“My God, and you call us the sex-crazed ones?” Jen cut in, eyebrows raised with mock scandal.

You ducked your head, laughing as your cheeks flamed hotter. “Well sue me for being behind on the whole dating sphere.”

Leah raised both hands in surrender, smirking. “Hey, we’re not judging. Least you have a bit of a reason for it.” You nodded, gripping your glass tighter to hide how warm your palms had gotten.

“Exactly. Let me live.” And just as you said it, Rhett turned from the bar.

He reached your table like he’d never left it, moving with that same easy confidence, one drink in each hand, the condensation trailing lazily down the side of the glass he’d brought for you.

Without a word, he set the gin and tonic down in front of you, sliding it gently across the table.

Your eyes caught on his hands.

They were exactly what you’d imagined–broad, rough around the edges, with strong knuckles and faint scars scattered across the backs like stories he’d never tell out loud. Calloused fingertips, short nails. Hands that had gripped reins, maybe tools. Hands that worked for a living.

But despite the wear and grit, his touch was careful. Thoughtful. Like he knew how to handle things that could break easy.

“Here you go,” He said softly. “A nice cold one.”

You murmured a quiet thank you, fingers brushing the cool glass where his hand had just been.

Then, with the kind of grin that made your heart knock around in your ribs, Rhett tilted his head and added, “Bartender said you gotta pay me back with your number.”

Your friends lost it. Laughter burst across the booth like fireworks, quick and high and delighted. Sam slapped the table. Leah whooped under her breath. Jen bit her straw like she couldn’t contain herself.

You, somehow, didn’t flinch.

You blinked once, then let a slow smile tug at your lips as you leaned in ever so slightly and said, “Got your phone?”

His brows lifted just a little, surprised–but in a good way. Like he’d been ready for a polite no and was suddenly on the receiving end of a yes that knocked the air out of him.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I do.”

He pulled it from his back pocket–an older iPhone, a little scuffed around the edges, the case cracked in one corner–and handed it over without a second thought.

You took it from him, careful not to brush his fingers even though the air between your hands felt charged enough to spark. The screen was already unlocked. No password. Just a plain home screen with a photo of a horse in the background and only a couple of apps.

You tapped into his contacts.

There weren’t many. Maybe a dozen names, tops. But you didn’t dwell on that.

Instead, you added your number under your name and typed in a little note beside it: Branded Mare. Gin & Tonic Girl.

Then you handed it back, your fingers grazing his this time–light, unintentional, but enough to make him glance up at you with something unreadable in his eyes. Something slow and focused.

“Appreciate that,” He drawled, voice low.

You both held that look for a beat too long. Then he stepped back, just slightly, enough to give you space but not enough to feel like he wanted to go.

“I’ll give you a call in the morning,” He said, tipping his head gently, “Make sure you got home safe.”

You nodded, smiling without meaning to.

“But for now…” He added, glancing around at your friends, who were all shamelessly eavesdropping behind grins and wide eyes, “I’ll leave you ladies to whatever it is you were doin’ before I came over and stirred things up.”

He gave a polite nod to the group. “Pleasure meetin’ all of you.”

Then, just before turning to go, he looked at you one last time–and gave you a wink.

And it wasn’t smug. Wasn’t cocky.

It was sweet. Like a secret. Like something he’d tucked into his back pocket for later.

You watched him walk away, your drink sweating in front of you, your heart pounding somewhere in your throat.

And all you could think was–

Holy shit.

Because Rhett Abbott had just walked straight out of your daydreams and into real life.

—————————

Rhett didn’t waste any time giving you a call the next morning. His voice was still thick with sleep, a soft rasp at the edges like he hadn’t been up long—and somehow, that made it even better. That low, gravelly drawl slipped through the phone and straight into your spine, turning your bones into something a little more jelly-like than you cared to admit.

You were curled up on your couch in an oversized tee, mug of lukewarm coffee in your hands, and the second you saw Rhett Abbott flash across your screen, your heart tripped like it didn’t know how to act.

He didn’t waste time with small talk, either. Just a warm “Hey,” Followed by, “Was thinkin’ I’d like to take you out tonight. There’s this little diner just outside town…good food, real quiet. Thought maybe we could talk, get to know each other…see where it goes.”

You had agreed way too fast.

Embarrassingly fast.

There had barely been a breath between his invitation and your answer, and the little laugh he let out in response had made your stomach flip. It wasn’t mocking–it was amused. A little pleased. Like he hadn’t expected you to say yes so quickly, but he liked that you had.

You gave him your address–your one-level, white-brick house with the green mailbox out front and the wind chimes that never stopped making noise even when there was no wind–and he said he’d swing by around seven.

Which led you to having an emergency FaceTime with Jen, who was on her bedroom floor, looking at the outfit options you had in mind. She shook her head at the third pair of denim shorts you held up.

”No. Absolutely not. We’re not doing shorts tonight,Y/N.” You groaned, throwing yourself down on your bed.

“It’s a diner, not a five-star restaurant.”

“I know it’s a diner. That’s exactly why this is the moment. You show up all soft and pretty in one of those summer dresses you never wear anymore and he won’t be able to keep his eyes off you. Especially if it’s the white one with the ties.” You raised your brow.

”The white one?” Jen nodded.

”Yes. The one that laces up in the front…It’ll be a little tease for him…And it’s pretty.” That dress lived tucked in the back of your closet like a secret–one you hadn’t pulled out since last July. It was soft cotton, thick enough to hold its shape but thin enough to breathe. The color was a creamy, near-milk white, with the faintest floral print etched across it in dusty blue. Not too busy. Just enough to catch the light when you turned.

The bodice hugged close, fitted with subtle seams that shaped along your waist without needing a bra. And right at the center of your chest, two long strings tied into a little bow, gathering the fabric just enough to create the softest dip of cleavage–barely there, but suggestive in the right light. The tie could be loosened or tightened depending on your mood, but tonight…You were already tugging it a touch tighter.

The sleeves were short, slightly puffed, ending right above the bend of your arm, and the skirt fell just past mid-thigh–flowy and gentle, not clingy. When you walked, it moved like it had a mind of its own. Soft. Slow. Like summer wind.

And best of all? It had pockets. Deep ones.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, smoothing your hands over the skirt and adjusting the tie at the front.

“You look hot,” Jen said through the screen, tilting her head and lifting her eyebrows, “Absolutely jaw dropping.” You snorted, turning slightly to see the dress from the side.

”It’s not too much?” You questioned.

”It’s exactly enough,” She said, “Now fix that hair of yours, put some lip gloss on, and some of that fancy perfume you have…Because you’re going to have to look good for the mugshot after you kill this man tonight.” You shook your head, smiling down at your phone.

”You’re absolutely ridiculous.” She smirked.

”I want all the details tomorrow about how it went.” You nodded.

”I’ll be a waterfall of details.” Then the call ended.

About an hour later–right on time–Rhett’s truck rumbled to a stop in front of your house.

He cut the engine and stepped out, boots crunching gently over the gravel as he made his way up the walkway. The porch steps creaked beneath his weight–worn but solid–and as he approached the door, he took it in properly for the first time.

The house was one level, white brick with faded sage-green shutters that matched the mailbox out front. The roof sloped low and wide, and the porch spanned the front like a lazy hug, with a couple of mismatched chairs tucked beside the screen door. A potted plant hung off one of the wooden beams, and a wind chime–old, maybe copper–clinked faintly in the breeze. The whole place had character. Lived-in. Like a home someone loved, not just a place they stayed.

He liked it.

He raised a hand and knocked–three quick taps against the frame.

And when you opened the door…

It hit him.

Your perfume first. Soft and overwhelming in the best way. Like wildflowers and spun sugar, like some sunlit meadow had been poured into a bottle and sweetened with something sticky and decadent. It flooded his senses in an instant, made his stomach tighten and his throat go a little dry.

And then his eyes hit your dress.

And your boots.

God.

Those light brown cowgirl boots–scuffed just enough to look broken in, just enough to hint that you knew how to wear them–peeked out from beneath the flow of that pretty white dress. The fabric fluttered gently around your legs, and the delicate little bow that you had tied at the center of your chest made it impossible for him to look away for a good second too long.

You stood in the doorframe, golden in the early evening light, your hair done up soft and neat, a little shine on your lips and that scent clinging to your skin like a secret.

Rhett stared.

Then let out a soft breath like it punched right out of him.

“God, you look pretty,” He said, voice barely above a murmur.

You felt the heat bloom up your neck before you could help it, rushing straight to your cheeks.

Your eyes dipped to take him in as well–the forest green button-up he wore brought out the richness in his blue eyes, the sleeves rolled to the forearms again, his usual denim sitting low and loose on his hips, faded from wear. He wasn’t wearing a hat tonight.

Instead, you could finally see all of his hair–thick, tousled light brown with strands that caught the sunlight as it filtered through the trees overhead. It curled slightly at the ends, like he hadn’t fussed over it much. It made him look softer somehow. Younger. Warmer.

“You look good too,” You complimented, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the smile from spreading too wide.

He gave you a lopsided grin at that–boyish, slightly crooked, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the compliment but appreciated it all the same.

“C’mon,” He said gently, tipping his chin toward his truck. “Let’s get you fed.”

You followed him down the porch steps, the hem of your dress dancing over your thighs with every step, your boots thudding softly on the wood. When you reached his truck, Rhett didn’t hesitate–he stepped ahead and opened the door for you.

The inside was a little worn–the fabric on the bench seat stretched in places, a couple old stains on the floor mats–but it smelled clean, like pine and something faintly citrusy. The kind of scent that lingered from someone who actually tried to keep their truck respectable.

You climbed up and slid across the wide front seat–a bench, not two individual chairs. Nothing between the both of you but a cup holder and a whole lot of unspoken tension.

It was comfortable. Cushioned like an old couch. The kind of seat that begged for closeness.

You didn’t mind that. Not even a little.

Rhett closed the door behind you, circled to the driver’s side, and climbed in with one smooth motion. He glanced over once–just enough to check your seatbelt–before settling in and turning the ignition.

The truck rumbled to life.

“Alright,” he said, easing them down the drive. “Let’s get goin’, hmm?”

And just like that, with the windows cracked and the sky starting to gold, the night began.

—————————

The diner was a relic of another era—an ‘80s dream that hadn’t changed its tune in decades. The neon sign out front buzzed faintly in the twilight, casting a warm pink glow over the gravel lot, its cursive lettering spelling out Marlene’s Midnight Diner. Fluorescent lights bled through the wide glass windows, softening just slightly through layers of streaky Windex and time. A couple of vintage chrome motorcycles were parked near the entrance, and inside, the booths were upholstered in turquoise vinyl that squeaked every time someone shifted too much.

The walls were covered in framed black-and-white photos of rockstars, movie posters with curling corners, and a whole shelf of bobbleheads that lined the back wall like a chorus of silent, nodding critics. The floors were checkered black-and-white tile, clean but scuffed with age—evidence of late-night rushes and post-prom milkshakes long past. A jukebox flickered in the corner, playing faint snippets of something classic and upbeat, while the smell of fried onions, grilled meat, and hot coffee lingered heavy in the air.

It was cleaner than you expected for a 24-hour place. Not pristine, but tidy. The kind of clean that came from someone actually giving a damn, even if the linoleum was chipped in the corners and the sugar dispensers didn’t always unscrew right. A waitress in a powder-blue uniform with her name–Connie–stitched over her left breast had already come by, balancing a notepad in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. She didn’t bat an eye at Rhett’s flannel or your dress, just took your order with a tired smile and a wink that said she’d seen every type of first date sit in this booth at least once.

You were settled into a corner booth, your dress skirt fanned just slightly along the seat beside you, and Rhett across from you, looking about ten shades more nervous than he had at your door. The overhead light buzzed gently, casting a faint golden sheen on the chrome napkin holder between you. Both of you had tall glasses of Coke sitting in front of you, tiny bubbles rising up through the caramel-colored fizz, the glasses sweating slowly in the humid summer air.

Rhett hadn’t touched his drink yet. His fingers rested near it, but he kept glancing up at you and then back down at the condensation ring on the tabletop like it held the answers to something he hadn’t asked yet. And maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was the way your dress dipped just enough at the neckline, but he cleared his throat softly before speaking.

“So…what do you do?” he asked, voice lower than usual, a little rough. Like he was forcing the words out before he chickened out altogether.

You took a sip from your Coke, the straw catching the ice as you pulled it toward your mouth. The chill hit your tongue, sweet and sharp, and you let it sit there for a moment before answering.

“I actually just recently became a home health aide.”

Rhett’s brows lifted, genuinely surprised. “Oh really? That sounds like it’s pretty interesting. You work every day?”

You shook your head, swirling your straw slowly through the glass. “It’s about four days a week, but I can pick up shifts or give them away if I’d like. It’s pretty flexible.”

He nodded slowly, then bit the inside of his cheek–a habit you were already beginning to recognize. “Do you enjoy it?”

You smiled, and the warmth behind it was real. “Definitely. I have a lot of experience in home health, so it was an easy transition.”

His head tilted just slightly. Not in judgment–just curious. “Where’d you get the experience from if you just became one?”

Your fingers tightened on the straw. You took another drink to stall, letting the bubbles fizzle against your tongue before swallowing.

“Well…Umm… My dad got sick when I was still in high school, so I had to take care of him. I gave him all his medications and helped with, you know…Everything. He usually needed help keeping track of everything.”

Rhett caught it right away–the way you were speaking in past tense. His eyes softened a bit, and you could see it, like he made the connection.

He hesitated, then asked gently, “When…When did he pass? If you don’t mind me asking.”

You rubbed at the inside of your palm beneath the table, a nervous little habit that had never really gone away. “About a year ago.”

His lips parted, but he gave you a moment. Then, quietly: “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You shook your head slowly, meeting his eyes across the table. “Thank you, Rhett.”

There was a pause–not heavy, not awkward, but full. Like the air had thickened just slightly with understanding. He nodded once, then looked down at his Coke and back up at you again.

“Enough about me,” You said softly, offering him a small smile. “What do you do?”

He let out a small exhale through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like you’d caught him off guard. “I work on my dad’s ranch,” He said, then after a beat, added with a sheepish little grin, “And I ride bulls.”

You blinked. “A bull rider?” Your lips parted slightly, and you leaned forward a little. “You certainly have the look…”

Rhett flushed, just a bit, but it was clear the compliment hit him square in the chest. He scratched the side of his jaw, eyes flicking down to the table.

“Is it the nice ass that gave it away?” He asked, teasing. “Or the muscular thighs?”

You laughed and the sound made his whole body relax visibly.

“Oh, it was definitely both,” You replied, biting your straw between your teeth for just a second. “But it’s the confidence that really gave you away.”

He raised his brows. “Confidence?”

You nodded. “You walked up to a table of four girls like it was nothing.”

His eyes sparkled, leaning in a little closer. “Truth is, I was only focusing on one…So that made it pretty easy.”

The warmth that bloomed across your chest that nearly knocked the wind out of you.

Your plates arrived just after that last teasing exchange, still steaming as Connie slid them across the table with the kind of efficiency only found in places like this–diners where the waitresses knew how to keep coffee hot and couples talking. The food was simple but good–crispy fries, thick burgers, golden grilled cheese with perfectly melted slices of cheddar–and both of you picked at it between laughs and lingering looks.

The conversation never stumbled. It rolled easy. Quiet confessions about favorite bands, childhood memories, the weird shit you believed as a kid. Rhett talked about riding his first bull at sixteen, about getting bucked so hard he chipped a bit of his tooth and never got it fixed. You told him about sneaking out during summer storms to sit under the porch roof and count how long the thunder took to follow lightning.

And somehow, it all blurred.

By the time you glanced at your phone, your breath caught in your throat.

“Shit,” You whispered, eyes widening as you leaned back from the booth, “It’s one in the morning.”

Rhett blinked, then laughed low and warm in his chest. “Should I be gettin’ you home?”

You nodded, sheepish. “I got work in the morning, so…I think that would be the best idea. I didn’t even realize how much time went by.”

He smiled at that–soft and a little proud, eyes glittering in the golden diner light. “Well… you’re very easy to talk to. And I guess I’m a pretty good distraction if you didn’t even realize how many hours passed.”

You laughed, cheeks warming again, “You really are…”

When the bill came, you reached for your purse–but Rhett was faster.

“Don’t even try,” He said, slipping a couple of bills onto the check tray before you could blink.

“Rhett–come on,” You protested, reaching across the table.

He shook his head, that crooked grin spreading again. “Next one’s on you, if it makes you feel better.”

It did. A little.

By the time you stepped out into the night air, the temperature had dropped. The warmth from inside clung to your skin as the breeze wrapped around your legs and lifted the hem of your dress just slightly. Goosebumps prickled along your arms. Rhett noticed. He tilted his head toward the truck without a word, guiding you across the lot like he was keeping you within orbit.

The ride back was quieter, but not uncomfortable. The windows were rolled halfway down, letting in a cool wind that tangled through your hair. The smell of summer dirt and far-off fields filled the cab. A country station hummed low through the speakers, barely audible over the soft growl of the engine. Rhett kept glancing over at you–quick, quiet looks that made your stomach turn each time.

When he pulled up in front of your house, he killed the engine but didn’t move right away. Both of you unbuckled at the same time, slow, almost hesitant–like the weight of the night didn’t want to lift just yet.

“We should do this again…” Rhett said softly, eyes flicking toward yours in the shadows. “I had a lot of fun.”

You nodded, the words catching in your throat before they came out. “Me too…”

The headlights cast soft light over your porch, reflecting faintly off the windshield, leaving his eyes half-lit in gold and shadow. It made the space inside the cab feel smaller. Closer. Intimate.

And when his gaze dropped–just briefly–to your lips, your breath hitched.

You looked at his mouth too.

Neither of you leaned in right away. It happened slowly–like gravity was inching you closer, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.

When your lips met, it was soft at first. A question. His mouth brushed against yours with careful, aching restraint–as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to have you this close. But once he felt you melt into him, he tilted his head just enough to deepen the kiss.

And fuck.

It was hot. It was deep. It was everything you hadn’t even known you’d been craving. His mouth moved against yours like he wanted to memorize the shape of your lips. His hand came up, rough palm cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek with a touch so gentle it made you shiver.

You kissed him back harder–desperate, drawn. Your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as he let out a soft, guttural sound in the back of his throat, low and breathless.

Then you felt it–his fingers, tentative and curious, ghosting over the ribbon at the center of your dress. He toyed with the edge of the bow, brushing it with the backs of his knuckles like he was wondering if he could tug on it and feel you come undone.

You gasped into his mouth, and that’s when you pulled back.

Your breath was shallow, lips swollen, lashes fluttering as you stared at him in the dim cab.

“We’re gonna have to put the brakes on…For now,” You whispered, voice trembling from the heat that still pulsed under your skin.

Rhett looked wrecked in the best way. Hair mussed from your hands, lips pink and wet from your kiss. His chest rose and fell in short bursts. He nodded slowly, gulping like he was trying to rein himself back in.

“O-Okay,” He murmured. “Yeah… okay.”

You leaned in again, pressing one last, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Text me when you get home.”

He nodded, voice rasped raw. “I will.”

You slid out of the truck on shaky legs, dress clinging to the heat of your thighs, heart still pounding.

That night, alone in bed, it wasn’t even a question.

Your hand slipped under the sheets as you exhaled through your nose, your eyes fluttering shut. All you could think about was the rough scrape of his stubble against your cheek…The weight of his palm cupping your jaw…The way his mouth devoured you like it had been starving for years.

And God–his hands.

You imagined them on your waist, your hips, the backs of your thighs. Rough, wide palms gripping you like he meant it. Like he wouldn’t let go even if you begged him to.

You bit your lip to stifle a sound, thighs clenching as your fingers slipped deeper. Every flick of your wrist was guided by memory–by the sweet pressure of his kiss, the faint smell of pine and leather on his skin, the warmth of his breath when he whispered your name.

You came hard, quiet but breathless, curling into yourself as your body trembled beneath the weight of everything he’d left you feeling.

And as your heart slowed back to something manageable, one final thought danced through your mind–

If his kiss felt like that…

You weren’t ready for what the rest of him could do.

————————

“I need advice.” You announced during brunch a few weeks later. Jen, Leah, and Sam all looked up from their plates like hounds catching scent–forks suspended mid-air, brunch suddenly forgotten.

Jen blinked once. “Proceed.”

You took a breath, speared a piece of melon on your fork, then set it down again. “I think I’m going to sleep with Rhett tonight.”

Silence.

Then Leah, deadpan and unimpressed, muttered, “Fucking finally.”

The table burst into laughter–Jen clapping her hands once with glee, Sam nearly choking on her mimosa as she smacked the table.

“Well?” Sam grinned, wiping her mouth. “What do you need advice on, miss ‘finally going to ride a cowboy’?”

You groaned, letting your forehead fall lightly into your hand. “Y’know… how do I make this experience not so–shit?”

The laughter came again, softer this time. Not mocking–just warm.

Jen sipped from her iced coffee, eyebrows raised like she was trying to figure out exactly how much to say. “Girl…A lot of prep. That’s key. Especially if he’s the patient type. And Rhett seems like the patient type.”

“He is,” you said quickly, cheeks warming. “Very patient. Like…Painfully patient. I can tell he wants to take things further, but he’s never pushed. Not even once.”

“That’s because he respects the hell outta you,” Leah said, pointing at you with her fork. “And he’s probably scared of messing it up. Especially if he knows it’s your first time.”

You nodded, absently swirling your fork through your eggs. “I told him over dinner on our fourth date. He didn’t flinch. Just said, ‘We were all virgins once. I really don’t mind.’”

“Awh,” Jen cooed, mock wiping a tear. “The cowboy has morals and charm. We love that.”

Sam leaned in with a smirk. “And hands. Let’s not forget the hands.”

You pressed your lips together and looked away with a barely concealed smile. “Trust me. I’ve not forgotten.”

Jen pointed her fork dramatically. “Okay. So. Prep.”

Sam nodded, serious now. “Have some lube on hand. You’re probably gonna be nervous, and…If Rhett’s packing, better to be safe than sorry.”

You choked slightly on your juice, eyes wide. “Oh my God.”

“Sorry,” Sam said with a little shrug. “But he is a bull rider. Have you seen his thighs?” Leah cut in, ever the practical one.

“You’re on birth control, right?”

You nodded. “Of course. Been on it since grade nine.”

“Good. But have condoms anyway,” Jen said, gesturing firmly. “Because you never know.” You let out a long breath and poked at your toast.

“I should be taking notes.” Leah smiled softly.

“It’ll come naturally once you’re in the moment. Mostly. You just have to make sure to communicate. Tell him what you like, what hurts, what doesn’t feel good.”

“Yeah,” Sam added, “You don’t have to be a sex goddess. Just be present. Feel what you’re feeling. And trust him.”

“I do trust him,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

Jen reached across the table and gave your wrist a light squeeze. “That’s why it’s gonna be good.”

There was a pause. And then–

Jen lifted her brow. “Have you at least, y’know, explored yourself a bit? So you know what feels good?”

Your eyes shot up. “I’m not Mother Teresa, Jen, I’ve maturbated before…Just haven’t had someone else do it for me, that’s all.” Jen smirked.

”Right…Because now you’ve grown feral for the cowboy.”

“Shut up,” You muttered, grinning despite yourself. Your mind was already drifting. Rhett’s mouth. His hands. The way he looked at you like he was memorizing every detail for later.

“Is there anything else I should know?” You asked, half joking, half serious. “Tips? Warnings? Ritual sacrifices?”

Sam hummed thoughtfully. “You may bleed a little. Totally normal. But if you relax and take it slow, it won’t be bad.”

Jen nodded. “Just breathe. Keep talking. Let yourself enjoy it. It’s supposed to feel good.”

Leah leaned in one last time. “And if it doesn’t go perfectly? That’s okay. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. Especially with someone who clearly gives a damn.”

You looked down at your plate, heart a little fuller than it had been minutes ago.

“All right,” You said, lifting your coffee. “I think I can do that.” Jen leaned back in her chair, spearing a strawberry off her fruit bowl and pointing it at you like it was a mic.

“One last thing,” She said, tone mock-serious, “Don’t be surprised if you cry afterward.”

You blinked. “Cry?”

All three girls nodded in unison, as if they’d just been waiting for this part.

“Yeah,” Leah said, popping a piece of bacon into her mouth. “It’s super common. Doesn’t mean anything bad. It’s just…A lot.”

“A lot,” Sam echoed, sipping her iced coffee like she was preparing for a TED Talk. “All the nerves and build-up and hormones and oxytocin? Sometimes it just leaks out of your eyeballs. No warning. It happened to me with Dave. I went to the bathroom to pee and started crying like I just watched the end of Titanic.”

You stared at her. “You cried on the toilet?”

“Yup. Naked. Legs shaking. Dave panicked and brought me a fruit snack.”

Jen snorted into her mimosa. “Honestly? That man earned a gold star for that one.”

You couldn’t help laughing, the tension breaking a little. “Jesus.”

“It’s not bad,” Leah added, a little gentler now, “Just intense. First times can be overwhelming even if everything goes right. Doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. Doesn’t mean he did anything wrong.”

You nodded, tucking that somewhere in your brain. “Okay. I appreciate the heads-up.”

Jen leaned in again, all faux-seriousness. “But if he does do anything wrong, text us ‘cowboy down’ and we’ll come beat him up for you.” You rolled your eyes, laughing. “He’s not going to do anything wrong.”

“We know,” Sam said, softer now. “That man looks at you like he’d lay down and die if you asked him to…It’s just in case though.” Your smile wavered just a little at that. Not because it was wrong–but because it was true. And hearing it out loud made it all that much more real.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself.

“Okay,” you said finally. “So lube, condoms, communication, expect the tears, maybe keep a fruit snack nearby…Any last words?”

“Don’t focus so hard on doing it right that you forget to feel it. You’ve waited this long–make sure you get something out of it too.”

You paused. Then nodded. “Yeah… Yeah, you’re right.”

And then Sam leaned over with a knowing little grin and murmured, “And hey… If his hands are anything like they looked when he brought you that drink, girl, you’re about to ascend.”

You buried your face in your hands as the table exploded into laughter again.

Because honestly?

You were counting on it.

—————————

When Rhett drove you home from the drive-in that night, he figured things would end the way they usually did–lips on lips, your thighs straddling his lap in the driver’s seat, the console digging into your side while your hands fumbled in each other’s hair. Maybe a little grinding, maybe a few low gasps muffled against his neck, your dress bunched around your hips while his hands found their familiar place on your waist.

But this time, when he eased the truck into park outside your house and leaned over to press a gentle kiss to your mouth, you surprised him.

You pulled back almost instantly–not to stop him, not to tease. Your hands came up instead, cradling his face between your palms, your thumbs brushing the soft skin just beneath his eyes.

His lips parted slightly, breath caught between questions he hadn’t dared to ask yet.

“Wanna come inside?” You murmured.

The shift was subtle, but immediate. His expression changed like the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. Eyebrows lifted just barely. His eyes flicked over your face, searching for a trace of a joke–anything–but all he found was sincerity. Soft, nervous, brave sincerity.

“You sure?” He asked, voice low, raspy, like it caught in the back of his throat. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

You shook your head once, deliberate. “I booked tomorrow off.”

That made him blink.

“You did?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, and the smile you gave him wasn’t teasing. It was warm. Quiet. Like you were holding a secret just for him. You leaned in, slow and steady, your breath brushing his ear as you whispered “Thought it would be best if I was going to sleep with you tonight…I want to spend the morning wrapped up in you.” His hands, resting on your thighs, tensed ever so slightly. He swallowed hard, the sound thick in his throat.

“You sure?” He asked again, softer this time. Almost reverent.

And you leaned back just enough to meet his eyes fully–no hesitation, no fear, just that same quiet bravery–and said, “I’ve never been more sure.”

Rhett unbuckled his seat belt with a click, his movements smooth but tense with anticipation. He cut the engine and stepped out, rounding the front of the truck in a few long strides, boots crunching softly against the gravel. By the time he opened your door, you were already sliding forward in your seat, heart fluttering against your ribs.

His hand found yours, warm and rough, curling around your fingers as he helped you down. You barely had time to settle your footing before he leaned in–just close enough for his breath to fan against your cheek–and whispered, “Lead the way, sweetheart.” You did.

Your fingers fumbled slightly as you dug through your purse for the keys, walking up the short wooden steps to your front door. The porch light cast a soft glow over the faded green paint, your wind chime clinking lazily in the warm summer air.

You found your keys just as Rhett stepped in behind you, his hands gently finding your hips, his thumbs pressing softly into the dip of your waist. He bent close, his lips brushing your bare shoulder in a slow, reverent kiss that made your breath catch.

Then you felt it–his fingers slipping through the back loops of your jean shorts. Not tugging. Just holding. Anchoring. Like he needed to touch you to make sure this was real.

You unlocked the door with a quiet snick and pushed it open, stepping inside.

“C’mon,” You murmured, pulling him in by the front of his white t-shirt he wore beneath his black long sleeve button up.

He followed without question.

The keys clattered onto the little table by the door–a narrow vintage piece with peeling white paint and a small dish full of quarters and hair ties. The entrance opened directly into your living space, and it looked exactly like you: warm, cluttered in a way that felt lived-in rather than messy, cozy without trying too hard.

A worn brown couch sat against the far wall, the cushions a little too soft from years of sinking into them after work. A crocheted throw blanket was slung lazily over the back, and the coffee table was full of mismatched coasters, a candle burned low, and a couple half-read books stacked unevenly beside a mug that still held the ghost of morning coffee. The TV was modest, angled toward the couch, and the rug beneath your feet was frayed at the edges, patterned with sun-faded florals.

Beyond the living room was the open-concept kitchen–small but bright, the kind of space that made use of every inch. White cabinets, a fridge covered in magnets and little post-it notes, a tea towel hanging off the oven door, and a row of spice jars on a repurposed shelf above the stove. A round wooden dining table sat between the rooms, one chair slightly pulled out like it had been left mid-thought.

Rhett looked around, eyes wide but soft, like he was stepping into a space he’d only seen in dreams.

“Really nice place,” He murmured, voice low and sincere.

You glanced over your shoulder and smirked, reaching down to toe off your boots. “Thank you.”

He kicked his off beside yours, then moved toward you with slow intent. His hands found your waist again, fingers curling over your sides as he pulled you in–chest to chest, breath to breath.

And then he kissed you.

It started deep. Immediate. No hesitation this time. His lips slanted over yours with heat and hunger, his mouth moving like he needed you to feel exactly how long he’d been craving this. Your hands threaded through his hair, tugging gently at the roots as your body molded to his, heart racing with every brush of tongue, every subtle press of teeth.

You moaned into his mouth when he bit softly at your bottom lip, and that was all it took for him to lift you.

His hands slid down, gripping beneath your thighs, and in one smooth motion, he hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, locking you in tight. He groaned softly against your lips as your bodies met, the pressure sending sparks through your core.

You barely broke the kiss to breathe, your nose brushing his as your mouth hovered against his.

“Tell me where…” He rasped, voice ragged, breath hot against your cheek. “Where the bedroom is.”

You nodded toward the hallway behind him, your voice coming out in a rush: “Down the hall…Just go straight.”

“Okay,” He murmured like a promise, shifting his grip as he started walking.

You didn’t make it easy for him.

Your lips trailed down his neck the second he turned, slow and teasing, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses to the curve of his throat. Your tongue flicked against the salt of his skin, and you felt it–his pace faltering for just a second, his breath catching, the thump of his heart beneath your lips pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

He swore under his breath–something quiet and desperate–and kept going, the hallway dim around you, lit only by the soft glow of the porch light filtering in through the windows.

The door creaked open as Rhett stepped carefully into your bedroom. The moment the threshold was crossed, the world seemed to quiet even further, as if the very walls of your room were holding their breath, waiting for what came next.

His hands adjusted slightly under your thighs–warm, calloused, steady–and he dipped his head just a little, eyes darting past your shoulder to take in the space. Then, slowly, gently, he crouched, easing you down onto the bed with a care that made your chest ache.

The mattress dipped beneath your weight as you bottom met the comforter. The fabric was soft beneath you–well-worn cotton with faded floral print, not pristine or frilly, but cozy, the kind of bedding someone actually sleeps in, not just made for show. Pillows were stacked unevenly at the headboard, one still faintly creased from the way you’d curled around it the night before. Rhett stood for a second, straightening up as he looked around.

The bedroom was intimate without being staged–walls painted a soft eggshell, glowing warm in the dim light, one corner occupied by a small bookshelf full of worn spines and bent jackets. A framed print of a wildflower field hung crooked over the dresser. Your laundry hamper sat half-full beside it, one of his flannels folded neatly atop it from when you’d borrowed it last week and meant to return it. There was a window just above the headboard, cracked open to let the night breeze in–soft cricket sounds threading faintly through the screen.

To his left, the door to your ensuite bathroom was open, just enough for the warm tile light to spill out in a soft line across the wood floor. Inside, he could make out pale green towels hanging on the bar, a few bottles tucked along the edge of the tub. Your toothbrush sat in a small ceramic holder on the sink, beside a candle and a little jar of cotton rounds. Lived-in. Lovely. Yours.

And something about that hit him hard. The quiet intimacy of your space. The invitation of it. He was stepping into your world–and you were letting him in without armor, without distance, without fear.

Rhett exhaled slowly, his eyes dark with reverence. Then he turned to the small nightstand beside your bed, flicked the switch on the amber lamp, and let warm, golden light spill across the room.

It was the kind of light that softened edges. That wrapped everything in a dusky glow, like honey catching in the air. It made your skin gleam and your eyes catch fire.

Then–wordlessly–he shrugged off the black button-up, the fabric whispering as it slid down his arms. He let it fall to the floor beside him without ceremony.

Underneath, the white t-shirt clung to his chest and shoulders in ways that made your breath stutter. It wasn’t tight, but it didn’t need to be. The cotton hugged his biceps with ease, pulled slightly at the seams where his body curved broad and solid beneath it. The line of his torso cut clean down the middle, a faint shadow hinting at the muscle that lay beneath.

Your thighs clenched without meaning to. Reflexive. Hungry. Heat curled low in your stomach.

Rhett saw it. He could feel it. And his jaw tightened as he crossed the short distance back to the bed.

You opened your legs slowly, deliberately, inviting him in with nothing more than that movement–and he stepped between them, eyes never leaving yours.

Then his hands came up.

Rough palms cradled your face with startling gentleness, his thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones as he tilted your head up toward him. You looked at him and forgot how to breathe.

Because in this light…

His eyes were beautiful.

That striking blue had deepened to something richer now–like the sky right before night swallows the last of the day. They shimmered with something electric, something endless, framed by lashes that caught the glow like they were made for it. There were freckles scattered faintly across his cheeks now that you were close enough to see them, tiny sun-kissed pinpricks that spoke of days spent outdoors, of skin kissed by more than just light.

And the way he looked at you…

It was like he was starving and home all at once.

His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, and he wet his bottom lip slowly–deliberate, sensual, the tip of his tongue dragging over pink skin as if preparing for something sacred.

Then he kissed you.

This time, there was no hesitation. No breath of doubt.

It was heat and hunger, teeth and tongue, lips parting like they’d never tasted anything sweeter. His kiss devoured, coaxed, claimed. His body pressed forward as he kissed you deeper, urging you gently down onto your back until your spine met the mattress.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until your legs curled up, wrapping tight around his waist. The feel of him between your thighs, the weight of him pressing you down–it sent your mind reeling.

His hands braced beside your head. His hips settled low, just enough pressure to make you moan into his mouth, your fingers gripping at his shirt, nails dragging down the fabric like you needed more.

The mattress shifted with every movement. The room filled with the sound of breath and fabric and heartbeats and heat. Your hands slid beneath the hem of his white t-shirt as you kissed him harder, gripping the soft cotton and pulling him impossibly closer. The air between you was thick now, heady with heat and something darker—something slow and primal.

He moaned softly into your mouth, the sound like gravel dragged through honey, and your body answered with a full-body shiver.

Rhett’s hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate, and you felt him through the thick denim of his jeans–hard and heavy, grinding perfectly against the aching heat between your thighs. The friction made your breath catch, made your spine arch off the mattress. You clung to him, your thighs tightening around his waist as he rocked again.

Denim met denim in a blur of pressure and desperate friction–your shorts riding higher with every shift of his hips, the center seam of them pressed firmly against your core now, tugged taut by the weight of him. It was messy and maddening and god, it felt so good.

His body was big and solid above you, but never crushing. He was braced just enough–arms trembling slightly as he supported himself over you, careful not to let his full weight drop even as his pelvis ground into yours. Each motion was intentional. Controlled. He could’ve taken you apart if he wanted to.

But he didn’t.

He held back.

And that restraint–that quiet dominance, that held tension in his jaw, the way his hips ground instead of slammed–it made you dizzy.

His lips broke from yours only long enough to trail down your jaw, his breath scorching against your skin as he kissed a path to your neck. When he found the space just beneath your ear, he groaned low against it, grinding down again, and you gasped.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice ragged. “You feel that?” You could only nod, head tilting back as he rolled his hips again, slower this time, making sure you felt the full press of his bulge against your center. Your fingernails dug into his shoulders, knees pulling tighter around his waist.

It wasn’t rushed. It was feral. Careful. Contained. Like he was holding a match to a fuse and daring it not to blow.

And just when you thought you’d combust from the friction alone–he stilled.

He pulled back, lips swollen, eyes dark and locked on yours as he brushed your hair back from your face.

“Can I take your shirt off?” He asked, voice low and reverent.

You didn’t hesitate. You nodded, breathless. “Yes. Please.”

His hands moved slowly, helping you sit up with a careful tug of your waist. His touch never left your skin. He peeled your shirt up and over your head in one slow motion, like he was unwrapping something sacred. He threw it off to the side and paused, his breath catching in his throat. Because beneath it–you were wearing a powdered blue bra. Soft lace, delicate straps. The kind of blue that looked barely-there in this light, washed in amber glow and moonlight.

Rhett’s eyes traced every inch like he’d never seen anything so beautiful. His hands came up, slow and open, calloused palms cupping your breasts through the fabric–gentle, almost awestruck, his thumbs brushing across the curved edges of the cups.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, eyes still locked on you. “You’re somethin’ else.”

You shivered as his fingers flexed ever so slightly, not squeezing, just holding. Like he needed to feel the weight of you in his hands, needed to remind himself this was real.

Then his mouth found yours again.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize every breath–deep and open and hungry. And as he kissed you, he eased you further up the bed, one hand at your back, the other braced on the mattress beside your hip.

He followed you, slowly crawling forward on his knees until he was fully on the bed now–hovering above you, chest to chest again, his weight sinking into the mattress as it groaned beneath both your bodies.

The kiss never broke.

His thighs slid between yours again. The heat of him, the scent of pine and sweat and summer skin, the constant throb where your bodies met–it wrapped around you like fire.

And when his hips rolled forward again, this time braced against the bed, denim catching against denim, bare skin finally brushing cotton, you moaned into his mouth and pulled him closer, and Rhett swallowed the sound like it was the only thing that mattered. Rhett’s mouth broke from yours with a slow, shaky breath, his lips slick and parted, his gaze heavy-lidded as he pulled back just enough to take you in.

Then he dipped his head.

His lips found your throat first, brushing the skin there in a whisper-soft kiss, then trailing lower, open-mouthed and hot. His breath fanned out across your collarbone as he kissed it slowly, reverently, his voice tumbling out between the touches like he couldn’t stop himself.

“So damn pretty…” He murmured, nuzzling along the delicate slope of your neck. “So fuckin’ beautiful…”

His words were low and breathless, more praise than statement–like they were being dragged from his chest by the heat between your bodies. He kissed the hollow of your throat, then moved lower, his hair falling forward as he ducked down. The strands had begun to slip loose from the way he’d styled them, soft waves now tickling against your skin as he pressed his mouth to the top swell of your breast.

You gasped, spine arching faintly.

His lips dragged across the top curve of one breast, then the other, slow and teasing, the tip of his tongue just barely flicking against the edge of the lace as he groaned softly.

“Your skin is so fuckin’ soft,” He breathed, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just beneath the band of your bra. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat. “Yes.”

He didn’t rush. His hands were careful, respectful, as he found the clasp and eased it open, the soft snap of fabric releasing like a held breath. He let the straps fall away, the bra sliding off your arms, and he tossed it gently to the side.

Then he sat back on his knees for a moment.

Just looking.

The room was quiet but charged, amber light bathing everything in a molten glow. Rhett’s eyes were wide and reverent, drinking in the sight of your bare chest like it undid something deep inside him.

His hand came up, slow and open, and cupped one breast with tender pressure, thumb dragging softly over your nipple as it hardened beneath his touch. You gasped and arched slightly into him, your thighs flexing around his waist, your bottom lip caught between your teeth to stifle the moan threatening to break loose.

“Fuck,” He whispered, voice cracked. “You’re unreal…”

Then he leaned forward again, lips brushing the other breast as he murmured, “Can I kiss them?”

You nodded immediately, your voice trembling. “Please…”

That was all he needed.

He kissed the soft underside first, mouth hot and open, tongue flicking teasingly along the curve. Then he took your nipple between his lips and sucked.

Your whole body jolted.

The sensation ripped through you like lightning–sharp, electric, overwhelming. His mouth was hot, wet, focused as he laved over your nipple, then sucked harder, his tongue swirling as he groaned into your skin. His other hand massaged your other breast, palm wide and warm, kneading with slow, deliberate rhythm.

Your hips bucked into him, the friction of your shorts dragging against the denim of his jeans. His own hips rolled in response, grinding down against you in perfect, torturous time with his mouth.

The weight of him. The rhythm. The praise. The heat.

It was too much and not enough all at once.

“Rhett–” You gasped, one hand tangling in his hair as it brushed against your chest, thick and messy now, tickling with every breath. “God…”

He sucked harder, groaning at the sound of your voice, the vibration of it rumbling through your skin. He didn’t stop. He just kept grinding slow and heavy against your core, the hard line of his cock dragging exactly where you needed it, the pressure maddening.

“You like that?” he rasped, lips slick as he looked up, his hand still kneading at your breast. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You whimpered, nodding, your breath ragged. “Yes–yes, it feels so good–”

He kissed back across your chest to your other nipple and sucked there too, just as intensely, his hips never stopping their slow grind. You could feel how much he wanted you–how much he was holding back–and it only made the tension coil tighter between your thighs.

You were drowning in it–in the heat of his mouth, the drag of his hips, the praise whispered into your skin, the way his body crowded yours completely.

Rhett’s mouth lingered at your breast a moment longer, then released you with a soft, wet pop, placing a tender kiss over the nipple before moving lower. His lips trailed a slow, reverent path down the slope of your sternum, breath warm and ragged as he murmured soft things into your skin.

“So beautiful,” He whispered, brushing the tip of his nose along your stomach, kissing just beneath your ribcage. “So fuckin’ soft… Can’t believe I get to touch you like this…”

You felt his tongue dart out, licking slowly along the gentle dip above your navel. His groan was quiet but raw, like your taste knocked the wind from him. Then he did it again, slower this time, eyes fluttering shut as he tasted the salt and heat clinging to your skin.

He kissed you everywhere–your stomach, your waist, the faint stretchmarks at your hip. Sweet nothings fell from his lips like prayer: You’re unreal…Can’t get enough of you… never seen anything so perfect.

And then he reached the waistband of your shorts.

His mouth hovered just above the button, and he glanced up at you through his lashes–eyes glassy and dark, mouth flushed.

“Can I take these off?” He asked, voice husky, reverent.

You nodded instantly, already breathless. “Yes… please.”

His fingers moved with aching care, undoing the button, pulling the zipper down so slowly it might’ve been deliberate torture. Then he curled his hands around the waistband and shimmied the denim down your thighs, inch by inch. You lifted your hips to help him, legs parting slightly.

And when the shorts slipped off completely–when he saw what you were wearing underneath–Rhett stopped breathing altogether.

It was the matching set.

Powdered blue lace. Dainty straps. Barely-there coverage.

His jaw flexed, eyes flicking up to your face, then dropping again to the sheer fabric stretched over your soaked center.

“Jesus…” He muttered, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. One large hand skimmed down your thigh, then up again, fingers grazing over the lace. You arched ever so slightly into his touch, hips twitching in quiet desperation.

He groaned low, eyes locked on where you moved for him.

“I wanna see how you touch yourself,” He rasped, dragging his knuckles over the front of your panties. “Before I do anything to you… I wanna watch you, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught. You looked up at him with wide, unsure eyes–doe-eyed and flushed, heart pounding.

“O-Okay…”

His hands were gentle as he helped ease the delicate underwear down your legs, bunching them in his fist before setting them aside carefully, like they were something precious. Then he sat back, slow and deliberate, bracing himself between your knees. His hands slid up the outsides of your thighs and gently pressed–urging your legs open to him.

The air between your bodies tightened. You could feel yourself flushing from head to toe.

Your fingers ghosted down your stomach, trembling slightly, and Rhett didn’t say a word–just watched. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Kneeling before you like he was witnessing something holy.

You avoided his gaze as your fingers slipped lower, already slick with the arousal he’d built inside you with nothing more than his mouth, his words, and that grind. You gathered your wetness, circling your clit slowly, trying not to overdo it.

Rhett leaned in. His lips brushed the inside of your knee, tender and grounding.

“You’re very gentle with yourself…” He murmured. “Are you sensitive?”

You nodded a little, breath stuttering.

He exhaled hard through his nose, voice breaking as he whispered, “You look so pretty when you touch yourself like that…”

His hand came up to rub slow circles along your thigh while you worked your fingers in slow, rhythmic spirals. Your breath hitched. You circled again, and then again, each motion sending little shocks through your stomach.

And then you said, “Whenever I touch myself… all I’ve been thinking about is your fingers instead of mine.”

Rhett’s mouth curved into a smirk against your skin. His lips brushed up your thigh, closer now.

“Is that so, sweetheart?”

You whimpered. “I want your mouth on me so badly, Rhett.”

He kissed the inside of your knee again–gentle, sweet, steady.

“Alright,” He murmured, voice barely more than gravel and breath. “But if you want me to stop, you can tell me at any point, okay?”

You nodded instantly. “I won’t want you to stop…”

His eyes darkened as he pressed a kiss higher up your thigh. Then another. Then another.

And as he moved closer to where you ached most, your body shuddered with anticipation. His breath ghosted over your center, hot and unsteady. You could feel it–each exhale brushing across the slick folds of your core, stirring goosebumps up your thighs. And then his voice came, low and ragged, like gravel dipped in honey.

“You’re glistening, Y/N…” He murmured, his breath catching. “It’s so fuckin’ beautiful… Can’t believe I’m the first one who gets to touch you like this…To taste you like this.”

The reverence in his voice made your chest ache. Your thighs tensed beneath his palms, and he soothed them with a slow stroke of his thumbs–circling gently, grounding you. Then he leaned in.

His stubble scraped softly against the tender skin of your inner thighs, just enough to make you flinch–not in pain, but in pure, sharpened sensitivity. He kissed your right thigh first, then your left, mouthing at the soft flesh with quiet devotion before shifting closer, lips parting.

The first lick was slow.

Long.

Deliberate.

The flat of his tongue dragged up your slit in one smooth, reverent motion, tasting every bit of your arousal like it was something sacred. He let out a low hum–a quiet, aching sound of pleasure–as his hands tightened ever so slightly on your thighs.

Then he pulled back just enough to kiss your clit–soft and wet and lingering.

“You taste amazing…” He whispered, lips brushing your folds. His voice was thick, almost dazed.

You bit your bottom lip hard, eyes fluttering as you looked down at him. He stared up at you with that same reverent hunger, mouth slick, cheeks flushed. And then he dipped his head again, tongue finding your clit in a slow, lazy stroke that made your hips twitch.

You shifted, gasping softly, instinctively wiggling against his mouth in search of more. Rhett responded immediately–pressing his face in deeper, his stubble rubbing raw and hot against your skin. You reached down without thinking, hand fumbling until yours found his.

He squeezed your hand gently.

And then, muffled against your core, you heard him ask, “You okay, baby?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes…” It came out like a whisper. “Feels so good…”

He kissed your clit again, murmuring, “Put your hand in my hair.”

Your fingers obeyed instantly, slipping into the thick strands and curling softly. He hummed in response, the sound vibrating straight through your core, and then he returned to you–tongue stroking slow, intentional patterns over your most sensitive point.

Everything about him was gentle, but relentless. He never rushed. He worshipped.

And then his hand slid off your thigh. You felt the shift–the weight of his palm dragging down, disappearing for a second.

He pulled back, panting lightly, lips shiny and pink. His voice was hoarse. “I’m gonna finger you…Is that okay?”

Your answer was immediate. “Yes. Please…”

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he dragged his fingers through your slick, coating them thoroughly. He leaned back in and kissed your clit again–soft and sweet, like a punctuation mark–before gently pressing a single finger into your entrance.

The stretch was perfect. Not painful. But new. Full.

Your lips parted in a soundless gasp, your thighs quivering as your body tried to adjust to the pressure. His eyes were locked on your face.

“Does it feel good?” He murmured, voice frayed at the edges.

You nodded. “It’s better than…Better than when I do it.” You were barely breathing.

He kissed the inside of your thigh again, his eyes glinting with something soft and primal all at once.

“You’re flutterin’ around me, sweetheart…” He whispered. “God, you feel so good.”

He slid his finger in slowly, curling it just right–and then, when you were ready, he added a second.

You moaned out loud.

Loud and aching and raw.

Your hips lifted off the mattress at the stretch, and Rhett caught you–his other arm bracing across your stomach, pinning you down with just enough pressure to steady you.

His fingers moved in slow, careful thrusts, curling deep until they found it–that spot you could only sometimes graze on your own. But he didn’t stop there. As his fingers moved, his mouth returned to your clit, tongue swirling, flattening, lapping.

It was too much and still somehow not enough.

The heat started to bloom in your belly–sharp and fast and unbearable. His fingers were soaked. The squelch of them moving inside you echoed through the room now, tangled with his quiet groans and the soft gasps falling from your lips like prayers.

He sucked your clit deep into his mouth and moaned around it, the sound vibrating through your whole body. His fingers curled again.

Right there.

“Rhett–” You gasped, voice trembling. “Rhett, it feels like I’m gonna–”

His eyes snapped up to yours, wild and focused and god, he was smiling. “Just let it out, sweetheart,” He rasped, never stopping. “Let me drink you in.”

That did it.

The heat snapped like a whip.

Your hips bucked hard–legs trembling, your back arching off the mattress. A strangled moan burst from your throat as your orgasm tore through you like wildfire.

You came hard–rushing wetness spilling out over his fingers, soaking the comforter beneath you. You gasped, nearly sobbing with the intensity, your hands tangled in his hair and fisting hard as your whole body convulsed against his mouth.

Rhett held you there.

Firm but tender, one arm anchoring you while his mouth slowed, his tongue gentling against your clit as he rode out your high. You twitched beneath him, thighs shaking, as the overstimulation began to bleed in.

“Okay…Okay…” You whimpered, barely coherent.

He eased off slowly, kissing your thighs, your stomach, your hipbone–anywhere he could reach as your body trembled down from the high. He held you until your breath evened, until the quaking softened, until your hand loosened in his hair.

Only then did he raise his head, lips flushed and glistening, eyes blown wide with awe and reverence.

“You’re incredible,” He murmured, voice shaking. “Never seen anything so goddamn beautiful.”

And then, without a word, he leaned in and kissed you–deep, slow, still tasting of you, and all you could do was pull him close and kiss him back, letting the weight of that moment settle over both of you like a blanket made of heat and something sweeter.

His tongue slipped past your lips with slow confidence, and you welcomed him, your moan melting into his mouth as your hands tangled in his hair again. It was wet and hungry, the kind of kiss that made your toes curl, the kind that made everything else disappear.

The weight of his body, the grind of denim against your bare core, the deep, soft drag of his tongue against yours–every piece of him was searing into you, and you didn’t want him anywhere else.

You could feel how hard he was through his jeans now. Thick, unrelenting. It pressed up against you, heavy and hot, even through the fabric–and you reached down between your bodies without thinking. Your fingers found the button of his jeans, popped it open, and tugged at the zipper slowly.

That was when he pulled back, just enough to breathe. His lips were swollen, chin wet, pupils blown wide. “Let me go grab a condom,” He rasped, already shifting to move.

But you caught his wrist, held him there, and your voice came soft and breathless.

“I’m on the pill… I want to feel all of you, Rhett. Please… Please, I want to feel you.”

His breath hitched–like the air was knocked out of him. His gaze darted over your face, trying to make sure he heard you right. The way you said it. The way you looked at him, wide-eyed and aching and brave.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice cracked with restraint.

You nodded, slow and deliberate. “I’ve never been more sure.”

That was all it took.

Rhett sat back slightly, and with one hand, he peeled off his shirt in a smooth, practiced motion. The fabric caught the light as it was tossed aside, revealing sun-warmed skin stretched over lean, corded muscle. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, every inch of him tanned and freckled and golden. Your eyes trailed down his stomach–over the faint trail of hair leading beneath the waistband of his jeans–your breath catching in your throat.

He pushed himself off the bed and stood to undo the rest. You watched as he slid his jeans and boxers down in one slow motion, revealing himself fully.

Your stomach flipped.

He was big.

Beautiful, too–thick and flushed, heavy against his thigh, his length curving upward slightly. You swallowed hard as your eyes followed the slope of his hips to the strength of his thighs–thick with muscle, dusted with dark hair, tense as he stood before you, letting you take him in.

He watched your face as you looked at him–searching for fear or hesitation–but all he saw was awe.

“I-I have lube,” you said quietly, pointing to the nightstand. “Top drawer.”

Without hesitation, he turned, grabbed it, and crawled back onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and he settled between your thighs again, kissing you before you could even catch your breath.

This time, it was messier. Hotter. Slick with spit and need and the taste of you lingering between your mouths. His hands roamed–gripping your waist, cupping your jaw, brushing your hair back with aching tenderness.

The heat of his erection pressed against your core again, and the moment he rocked his hips forward, you gasped. He groaned into your mouth and pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You ready?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth again. Then he leaned back just slightly and gently pushed your thighs open a little wider. The cool air hit your skin, but it didn’t last–his hand came next.

He popped the cap of the lube and coated himself first, his breath catching as his hand stroked his erection with slow, slick pressure. Then he reached between your thighs, and you gasped as his fingers spread the lube carefully over your entrance, gentle and reverent.

Then he moved closer again, one arm sliding beneath your neck, cradling you as he brought his forehead to yours.

“I’ll go slow,” He whispered, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks between each word.

“Okay,” you whispered back.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?”

You nodded again, breath shallow.

Then he reached down, adjusted himself, and began to guide his tip to your entrance.

You could feel him there–warm, slick, thick–and your hands clenched around his biceps as he slowly began to press in. The stretch was immediate. Hot. Sharp. Full.

Your breath hitched. “Oh–”

He stopped instantly, holding himself steady, brushing your hair back again.

“You okay?” His voice was ragged, restrained. His whole body trembled with the effort of holding back.

You nodded, jaw tight. “Just…Give me a second…”

He kissed your temple and murmured, “Take all the time you need, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

He stayed still, every muscle in his body taut and waiting, his cock barely halfway inside you, while you adjusted. And he kept kissing you–your hairline, your cheekbone, the tip of your nose–whispering soft things.

When you finally exhaled fully, your hips relaxed, and you whispered, “Okay…You can keep going.”

He did–so slowly it almost hurt with how careful he was. Inch by inch, the stretch deepened, and your hands scrambled for something to hold–his shoulders, the sheets, anything.

But then he bottomed out, fully seated inside you, and everything in your body stilled.

You were full. So full. It was overwhelming and delicious and dizzying, and the feel of his cock pulsing inside you made your whole body tighten.

“Oh my god…” You whispered.

Rhett was breathing hard above you, lips parted, eyes clenched shut.

“You’re so tight, sweetheart… You feel…Fuck, you feel incredible…”

He didn’t move yet. He just stayed there, kissing your shoulder, letting your body adjust around him, trembling with restraint.

“You okay?” He asked again, voice nearly breaking.

You nodded slowly, lifting your hand to stroke his jaw, “You’re so big Rhett…Fuck you’re filling me so good.” Rhett sighed hard against your mouth, the sound frayed and heavy, like he’d been holding it in for years. You felt it in your chest. In your thighs. In the way his body trembled, barely restraining itself inside you.

Your walls fluttered around him, tightening and loosening in sync with your racing heartbeat. He groaned deep in his throat, his breath catching as your body clung to his, pulse and pressure locking him in place.

His free hand found yours, fingers interlacing, his palm warm and calloused where it cupped yours into the mattress. Then he leaned down, kissed your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. Every kiss was soft, reverent–like a thank you in skin.

Then one small kiss to your lips, barely a brush, and you whispered:

“You can move…”

He nodded, eyes locked on yours. “Okay…”

And then he did.

The first roll of his hips was slow. Careful. Shallow. But even that made you gasp.

He paused, breathing against your mouth.

“Okay?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice shaking. “It’s just…A lot. A really, really good lot…”

Rhett gave a breathless laugh, then kissed you again—and this time, when he rocked into you, he went just a little deeper. Then again. And again. Short strokes at first, easing you open, your body adjusting with each slow drag of him moving in and out.

Every inch was pure heat. Every motion coaxed more of you open, more pleasure, more need. Your hips started to lift with his rhythm, chasing the feeling, meeting him halfway in a messy, desperate grind.

He groaned–low and sharp, his head tipping forward so his forehead pressed to yours, sweat starting to bead at his temples.

“Holy fuck, Y/N…” He breathed, voice cracked with pleasure. “I’m already fuckin’ addicted to you. Jesus Christ.”

And then he pushed in harder–just slightly, just enough to steal your breath–and kissed you with all the weight of that confession.

You moaned into his mouth, legs tightening around his waist. Your hands slid up his back, clinging, fingernails scraping lightly as you arched beneath him.

One hand found his hair and tugged–gentle, desperate–and he let out a soft, broken sound against your lips.

Then your voice broke out, wild and shaking: “Rhett, oh my fucking god…Please. Please fuck me.”

He pulled back, just enough to look at you. His hair was damp and messy, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dark with a heat that burned straight through you.

“You want me to go a little faster?” He asked, voice barely holding on.

You nodded instantly. “Yes…Please…”

He kissed you again–deep and hungry–and then he did.

His hips began to move faster, deeper. The slick drag of his cock inside you was dizzying, perfect, each thrust brushing places that made your breath come in strangled gasps. The mattress creaked beneath your bodies, your moans filling the space between the slap of skin and the thick, humid sound of him fucking into you.

He buried his face in your neck, panting against your skin, and you clung to him, crying out as your thighs trembled around his waist.

The tension coiled in your belly again. The kind that burned slow, that built behind your ribs until it was a scream in waiting.

Sweat slid down his spine. Yours, too. The room smelled like sex and heat and skin. You could feel his muscles flexing as he fucked you, his body straining with effort, with restraint.

“Fuck…” He gasped, hips stuttering slightly. “I’m gonna cum…”

And without thinking, you whined:

“I want you to cum in me, Rhett… I want to feel you drip out of me… I want to remember you until the next time you fuck me…”

He let out a broken groan against your lips, his whole body jolting. “Jesus fuckin’–”

Then his mouth crashed into yours as his hips bucked.

His cock throbbed inside you, twitching hard as he spilled into you with a choked, whimpering moan. Hot ropes of cum pulsed into you, thick and deep, coating your walls as his whole body tensed, then sagged forward, trembling with release.

You could feel it. Every drop. The warmth, the weight of him filling you.

He kept kissing you, slow and breathless, as his body rocked through the last of it. Then he collapsed gently onto you–careful not to crush you, but unable to do anything but melt into your skin.

His breath came in hot, heavy bursts against your collarbone. Your fingers threaded through his messy hair, stroking softly, both of you pulsing together in the aftermath.

You tilted your head and kissed his shoulder. Then again. Then you opened your mouth and sucked gently, letting your teeth graze the skin just enough to sting.

He laughed. A breathless, wrecked sound that vibrated against your chest.

“You just gave me the best orgasm of my life and now you’re marking me up?” he murmured, smiling into your neck.

You kissed the spot again. “Mhm. Wanna make sure you remember me too.”

He groaned, low and content. “Like I ever could forget.”

And then he kissed you again–slower now.

The kiss lingered–soft and slow, no heat behind it now, just breath and closeness and the raw tenderness of being seen. When he finally pulled back, Rhett exhaled gently against your lips, eyes still half-lidded, lips brushing yours with each word.

“We should take a shower together,” He whispered. “Clean off…Then cuddle. Sound good to you?”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat from how gentle he was being with you. How careful. Like you might crack if he touched you too roughly now.

He kissed you again, barely a press. Then murmured, “I’m gonna pull out, okay?”

Your hands rose without thinking, cupping his face, your thumbs brushing the flushed heat of his cheekbones. “Go ahead,” You whispered.

He moved slow–achingly slow–as if trying not to jar anything loose inside you. His hips drew back, inch by inch, and the moment he slipped out, you gasped softly at the emptiness. It wasn’t pain. Just…The absence of him. Of fullness. Of connection.

He looked down instinctively, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw the smear of red on the tip of himself. Just a trace. Just enough.

His eyes flicked up immediately. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice low and urgent.

You nodded, resting a hand on his chest, the rise and fall of it still heavy from exertion. “I’m okay,” You whispered. “I promise. Just sore.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then leaned in to kiss your forehead. “Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart.”

He stood first, reaching for your hand to help you up gently. You wobbled a little on your legs, but he caught you before you could sway too far. Wordlessly, he guided you to the washroom, one arm around your waist, the other bracing you.

You sat on the toilet while he turned on the shower, the sound of the water filling the small room. The bathroom lights were still dim, the warm tiles grounding beneath your bare feet. You leaned forward slightly, your elbows resting on your knees as you peed, feeling the soft, warm leak of him spilling from between your thighs–a small gush that made you shiver.

Rhett noticed. He turned, saw your face, and came to crouch in front of you. One hand cupped your knee, the other brushed your hair back as he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“You’re okay?” he asked again, voice like velvet.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Just… feelin’ it, that’s all.”

When you finished, he helped you up again, kissed your shoulder, and led you to the shower. The steam had already begun to fog the mirror, the tiles warm beneath your feet as you stepped in together. The water cascaded over both of you–hot and comforting, like being wrapped in the weight of the moment all over again.

Rhett stood behind you, arms around your waist, kissing your shoulders, your neck, the back of your ear with a tenderness that nearly undid you.

And then it hit you.

The comedown.

It came quiet at first–just a tightness in your chest, a knot in your throat–but then the tears came. Hot and sudden and silent, slipping down your cheeks before you even had the words for them.

Rhett felt the shift immediately. He stepped back just enough to turn you in his arms, his hands rising to frame your face, thumbs brushing your wet cheeks–not from the water this time.

“Y/N…” he whispered, heart in his throat. “Are you okay? Are you in pain?”

You shook your head quickly, the motion jerky. “No–fuck, no. It’s just…The come down.” Your voice broke, cracking like a branch.

His thumbs kept stroking your cheeks, his lips soft and close. “Sweetheart, are you sure?”

You nodded again, more firmly this time. “Yes. I’m okay. You were so fucking good, Rhett. I just…” You exhaled, choking a little on the emotion. “My emotions are all over the place. I promise I’m okay.”

He kissed your tears. One cheek. Then the other. Then your lips–soft and slow and grounding.

“Okay,” He murmured, pulling you against him. “Let’s get you cleaned up… then I’m gonna hold you in bed. Alright?”

You nodded against his chest. “Yeah…Okay.”

And he did. He reached for your body wash–your scent, your favorite brand, that sweetness he always smelled on you–and poured it into his palms. His hands moved with reverent care, smoothing over your skin with slow, deliberate tenderness. He washed every inch of you like it mattered. Like it meant something. He took his time with your arms, your back, your stomach, between your legs–gentle, never rushing.

You let him.

Because it wasn’t just about being clean. It was about being cared for. About being held in the aftermath of something big and beautiful and raw.

When he was done, he rinsed you slowly, pressing kisses to your shoulders between handfuls of water. Then he shut the water off, wrapping a towel around you first before doing the same for himself. He dried you off, careful and quiet, and then scooped your clothes from the floor and carried them out, returning a moment later to help you back into bed.

He tucked the blankets around you, kissed your temple, then turned to clean up–putting the lube away, picking up the scattered clothes, folding them gently and setting them aside. Then, finally, he crawled into bed beside you.

His naked body pressed to yours, all warmth and strength and safety.

One arm slid beneath your neck. The other wrapped around your waist, drawing you in tight. Your head rested against his chest. His breath was steady now. So was yours.

“I love you, Y/N…” he whispered, voice nearly lost to the night.

You curled into him tighter, lips brushing his collarbone. “Fuck, Rhett… I love you too.”

He smiled. You felt it against your temple.

And then the room fell quiet. Just the soft hum of the night air through the cracked window, the cooling scent of soap on your skin, and the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

It was everything.

[starrvsn]

ꕮ ˚₊ ꒰ EVAN BUCKLEY & EDDIE DIAZ ⁾⁾ LIVE WHILE YOU’RE YOUNG!

OVER THE INTERCOM ⠆this is soooo self indulgent... also putting off watching the rest of season 8 because i know it'll break me aka me reading one frat-boy!au of buck and being obsessed ever since also i love these two men so much i had to make a whole mood board! (also if you have any requests about these two men pls flood my inbox <3)

WORD COUNT ⠆5.5K (5,582) not super satisfied with how this came out but love it nonetheless

PAIRING ⠆evan 'buck' buckley x fem!reader x eddie diaz.

CATEGORIES ⠆afab!reader, frat-party, college!au, ravi as a pledge, suggestive, descriptions of alcohol, drugs, sloppy kissing?, buck and eddie being the double trouble that they are, reader is a bit shy :p, mentions of a revealing outfit (a basic one at that, average party girl fit so fell free to imagine it any way you want!), may is her college bestie, not 9-1-1 canon in the slightest, all characters are used in complete fiction!

here’s a playlist to give a listen, a vibe enhancer perhaps ;)

﹡some dialogue is italicized, just thought it flowed better over text!

with college life comes traditions.

with your friend group every frat party, you pick two pieces of paper from a hat and those are your dares for the night, also called frat-cap roulette. the only rules being: no back outs! and you must tell your experience the day after. partying isn't just about the free booze and oogling at hot eye candy all night, its also about having fun and living your life! to live a little and do things you've never done before.

the dares you pulled out for the night are definitely things you've never done before.

1) do a keg stand! even if you dont like the taste of beer! think of it of impressing the hot guy holding up your legs. 2) a menage a trois! more simply three way kiss, what's better than not only kissing two guys but at the same time! go get em tiger!

you think you might faint, you didn't go to frat parties much didn't even know which houses threw the best ones but everytime you did, the girls insisted you pick from the hat. ones you've gotten in the past were more manageable like having someone ghost smoke into your mouth or getting a shoulder ride from a pledge, those are what you'd consider more tame but these? you might have to skip out on this one and any ones in the future, you almost shiver knowing if the ones you had were bad, there had to be worse in that hat.

"oh come on y/n" may whines flopping onto your bed. after getting your dares for the night you were terrified! so what if everyone was drunk and high out of their minds to even care, it would still be weighing on your conscious, way too much for your liking. you thought, initially you were just trying to psych yourself out so you busied yourself with getting ready, your hair and makeup. by the time you finished it started feeling real, very real, too real that you stopped not even bothering to change and reluctantly told may you didn't want to go any more.

"no! i can't, i don’t care if i break the rules.” you practically cry out “these dares are like crazy i'm gonna make a fool out of myself." plopping down on your vanity chair with a huff, no way you were gonna embarrass your way out to transfer out.

"babe, thats the point! no ones gonna remember it the next day and who even gives a fuck if they do?” may attested, getting off your bed to stand in front of you, hands on her hips like a lecturing mother. “this is like a once in a life time experience, we're living our lives remember?" her eyes soften to look at you, head tilting. then insisting if you weren’t going she wasn’t either and may was never one to miss a party.

you caved.

only bribed by may who swore she’d do your laundry and give you a few of her meal swipes if you went. she of course, as well picked your outfit. a black mini skort, thank god for the safety shorts– the fabric over left little to the imagination and a deep red lace halter that dipped low into your cleavage. the girls are out to show tonight! may whistles, proud of her work you’re gonna have no problem getting those dares done, now let’s take pics! you barely get your shoes on before she drags you out to the common room for pregame and pictures. feeling yourself and buzzed, your worrying thoughts slipping from you, this was already going better than you thought.

the alcohol is doing little to keep you warm as you walk to the frat house. hands linked with may as she practically skips towards the party, your friends behind you blistering about their dares and latest flings. you chose to keep yours to yourself, thinking if you shared them it'd create more pressure for you.

tonight’s house of choice psi sigma tau a house full of hotties may tells you, going on to say the last party they had they were all dressed as firefighters. shame you missed that one. you weren't super farmilar with greek life and who was apart of it but you know, your biochem lab partner, ravi was currently a pledge for this very frat. once coming in insanely hung over with streaks of paint on his face- telling you all about it, forgetting your assignment, focusing instead on retelling every moment of his previous night. you were in for a treat. it makes your nerves spike. you practically felt thumping bass of the music before you even reached the house. the house stood at the end of the street, porch light flickering and door wide open, an invitation to all. as you approach the stairs off the lawn, there’s people spread sporadically across the grass, red solo cups in hand, laughter and shouts spilling into the street like a wave ready to crash.

you took a deep breath, the bass shaking in your chest matching the rhythm of your beating chest. just one night, you told yourself. following behind may. at the door a chest full of shooters, a whole variety of them. with a sign, scribbled messily with uneven letters: entry fee, down a shooter! mama aint raise no bitch!

'wow they really pull all the stops' you murmur, picking up a pink whitney shooter from the ice, cool against your warm fingers. 'yep, thats why we like coming here, most parties dont have a guest list' your roommate, addison tells you downing her shooter in one go, you wince, cracking yours open and doing the same. the alcohol burning your throat, the pink lemonade aftertaste lingering in your mouth making you smack your lips in distain.

your group stands by in the doorway, at the base of the stairs. sage—your proclaimed mom friend of the group and creator of frat-cap roulette, gathers your group of six to set down some ground rules. 'okay ladies! remember have the time of your lives, dont throw up unless it's in the toilet, be safe and live your fucking best lives and do your dares!' she yells over the music, your friends shouting in agreement, hooting and yelling, eager to have fun before all splitting off. you and may are left, encouraging smiles and compliments bouncing off the two of you. she tells you to be safe and you mirror her words, shouting 'i love yous' before she disappears into the crowd to god knows where.

now that leaves you alone, the air was thick—sweat, cologne, alcohol, and the faint trace of weed clung to every surface. a haze of smoke floated through the house. the kitchen flooded with people people taking turns at beer pong or slapping hands in loud celebration, the living room turned into a dance floor, with a makeshift DJ booth at the wall, blasting whatever 2000s club playlist they could find. the house is dark but illuminated by strobing lights of blues, greens and reds. bodies pressed together, swaying and grinding on the nearest body they can find, the party is at it's peak.

come y/n fucking live for once! you got this. your inner conscious yelling at you, your hands are already clamming and feeling little sweaty from the heat radiating off everyone, you take a deep breath, straightening yourself before diving into the crowd, moving through until you get to the kitchen, for a drink. through the crowd you see ravi, wearing a stupidly tight crop top that says 'tomorrow isn't promised, we need to fuck now' in big capitalized red words, not ignoring the imprint of his abs to the exposing ones down his stomach. you laugh as you pass, ravi catching you and insisting you shotgun a white claw together. he drags you to the kitchen, loud and full of people playing beer pong.

"nice shirt!" you laugh, watching as he hands you a white claw from one of the coolers, he sways a little, steadying himself with a hand on your shoulder. "hazing, they picked out the shirts and we wear." yelling into your ear, pointing over your shoulder to another pledge wearing a shirt that said 'i wish i had serotonin instead of a huge cock' these hazing activities seemed so wholesome, brotherhood seems good here. ravi drukenly hypes you up as you puncture a hole into the base of the can, he hands his phone, recording, to a frat brother before cheer-sing you. here goes nothing, putting your lips to the puncture and fingers at the pull tab, you crack it open, tilting your head back as you chug it, the cool carbonated seltzer burning your throat as you drink, breathing through your nose whilst the burn down your throat made had your struggling. ravi finishes before you, chugging it in 2 big gulps, it takes you four– usually you never finish it or end up spitting it out so this was a win for you. you hear cheering an whooping as you finish up, as you set the can down you see two men who have joined behind ravi.

‘well look who have here,’ a man with devestating blue eyes pairing well with the pink birthmark above his his eye, tall and broad, standing before you, next to him a man with tan skin, brown eyes that felt like warm honey, and a dimple that betrayed his calm demeanor, backwards hat sporting his head, they’re insufferably attractive making your stomach twist with attraction, or maybe it was the alcohol. the dimpled man wordlessly points to your chest where a trail of the seltzer dripped in between your cleavage, cheeks flushed you clean yourself with a napkin on a nearby counter, he throws you a wink when you do so.

at the sound of the voice, ravi turns around and bursts with excitement, turning to the two men beaming smiles and crescent eyes as they talk. you see them pointing at you over ravi’s shoulder making you feel light headed and tingly, heart racing. ravi turns and grabs your arm pulling you into the conversation ‘this is eddie and buck, two peas in a pod’ he slurs, the two men shake their head at the title ‘they’re always together, like each others shadows it’s kinda freaky’ ravi mutters, really yelling– though it was only meant for you, everyone heard. '

‘so you’re friends with gunslinger here?' eddie pipes up, tipping his cup to you, honey brown eyes catching yours. you feel like a fish out of water, looking at him, the alcohol and nerves making it hard to even think of what to say.

‘this is y/n i have her in lab’ the pledge finishes for you, the two nod eyes focused on you- taking in your presence like they were trying to memorize your every feature, eyes not so subtly dragging up and down your figure, ravi is quick to pull away from the conversation as someone calls his name, something about body shots in the living room. leaving you to deal with two men that were way out of your league, or so you thought.

hm, new pretty face. would've remembered you if you were here last time buck grins, eyes smoldering.

his words make you scoff a laugh ‘use that line on all the girls?’ you may be drunk but you aren't stupid, your eyes challenging his.

‘only on the special ones’ he replies coolly, a stupid smirk on his face that makes you a little weak in the knees.

‘sorry, originality isn’t his specialty.’ eddie’s quick to retort his voice low but smooth, teasing just enough to make your spine tingle. he tips his head slightly, letting that lazy smile tug at the corner of his mouth. it’s the kind of smile that says he’s used to getting what he wants, but not in the way buck is. buck’s energy is all flash and flirt, while eddie is something else entirely—smooth and confident, the type of nonchalant where things come to him a little too easy.

you shoot him a look, biting back a smile, alcohol practically speaking for you. “good thing i like a little unoriginal charm,” you toss out, eyes flicking between the two of them.

buck’s brows raise, impressed. eddie chuckles softly, and god, the way it rumbles out of his chest should be illegal. “oh, shes trouble,” he murmurs to buck, not bothering to hide the way he’s still watching you. his gaze lingers on your lips a beat too long.

“what’re you drinking?” buck asks, leaning closer, close enough that you catch the scent of cologne and beer, something woodsy and warm clinging to him. you hold up your nearly empty white claw, shrugging

“basically air at this point,” you say, tipping the can upside down.

“tragic,” buck says with mock sincerity. “come on. we’re getting you a real drink.”

“define real,” you shoot back, but you follow anyway, trailing after the two of them as they lead you further into the house, deeper into the party.

they take you to a makeshift bar set up on a foldable table in the sun room, attached to the kitchen and just adjacent to the backyard. plastic bottles of questionable mixers, a few crushed limes, and one brave soul attempting to make jungle juice in a salad bowl.

“what’s your poison?” eddie asks, nudging your hip with his. it’s casual, but it leaves a spark where he touched you. his arm brushes yours as he reaches for a red cup.

“something that won’t kill me,” you answer, watching as he mixes you something, his hands moving with ease. meanwhile, buck grabs a bottle of tequila and dramatically pours three shots, heavy handed ones at that– almost filled to the top of the shot glasses “not what i meant,” you laugh, shaking your head.

“too late,” buck grins. “cheers, trouble.” the newfound nickname rolling off his tongue far to easily.

you hesitate for only a second before grabbing the cup and clinking it against theirs, chugging it down with a distain. immediately shoving a lime in your mouth to smooth the burning alcohol on your tongue. you feel their eyes lingering on you, like they’re awaiting your next move that hopefully involves them.

eddie’s the one who speaks first. “you’re not usually at these, are you?”

his voice is smooth, with a thread of curiosity running through it. he doesn’t sound like he’s judging, more like he’s trying to figure you out. there’s a quiet steadiness to him that contrasts buck’s energy, who’s already leaning against the counter beside you, eyes roaming with that familiar frat boy smirk.

you turn toward eddie, eyebrows raised slightly. “how can you tell?”

buck grins, answering for him. “easy. it feels like you're waiting for something to happen, like you're not the type to let loose like this” it didn't mean to come off rude or condescending but it was the truth, you always had your guard up, drinking was fun but you didn't let yourself indulge. he saw right through you.

you huff a small laugh, swirling the drink in your cup. “maybe i’m just good at blending in.”

“nah,” eddie says, eyes catching yours like they’ve hooked onto something. “you’re trying not to be noticed. not the same thing.”

he’s not wrong. you were trying to blend in. trying to distract yourself with drinks and familiar faces while pretending you weren’t running through worst-case scenarios in your head about the dares tucked tightly in your memory. just thinking about them made your stomach flutter—and not in the good way.

“well,” you reply, “i pulled the short straw tonight.”

“you got dared?” buck asks, lighting up with interest. “frat-cap roulette, right?”

"you know?" you were definitely thrown out for a loop now, you knew it wasn't exclusive to just your friend group but with how your friends spoke about it, it almost seemed like fight club.

"oh yeah," buck replies, going on to tell you how they've been roped into some. involving receiving a lap dance, getting flashed and eddie having to switch his entire outfit with a girl wearing a less than nothing dress, buck almost pulls how his phone to show you a picture but eddie is quick to stop him, giving him a look that makes his best friend stop in reluctant defeat. your entertainment is short lived when they ask about you, what your dares entailed for your night. you don’t answer right away. instead, you take a sip from the red solo cup of whatever eddie mixed up for you, eyes scanning the crowd behind them—anywhere but their faces. it’s not like you’re ashamed, but you are trying to hold onto whatever courage you have left. if you say it out loud, it makes it real. and you’re not sure you’re there yet.

buck catches on fast. “you’re dares must be good ones, lots of freaky shit in that hat.” you drink from cup eddie slides you, hiding your grimace, if only he knew.

“or a bad one,” eddie adds, voice lower, teasing. “you’re drinking like you’re preparing for battle.”

“what makes you think i’m not?” you mutter under your breath, offering a coy smile, regaining yourself quickly.

that earns a laugh from both of them. it’s warm, easy. and dangerously charming.

you should probably leave. find may. hide in the bathroom. but something keeps you planted, drawn in by the magnetic pull they both seem to exude without even trying.

you nod toward ravi, who’s just re-entered the kitchen from god knows where—his crop top now speckled with something neon green. “this place always like this?”

“basically,” eddie says, arms folded over his chest, biceps flexing under the sleeves of his t-shirt.

“we host ragers, a perfect place to exercise your free will with no regrets,” buck adds with a wink.

“what does that even mean?” you tease, the edges of your nerves softening just slightly.

“it means if you’re about to do something crazy,” eddie leans in slightly, voice dropping, “you picked the right house.”

you raise an eyebrow, letting the pause stretch between you before replying. “we’ll see.”

“c’mon,” buck nudges your elbow. “just tell us what your dare is. we’ll help.”

you smirk into your drink, letting your voice drop just above a whisper. “where’s the fun in that?”

you watch their expressions shift—buck looking like he’s just been issued the most exciting challenge of his night, and eddie watching you with that same steady gaze, like he’s trying to memorize the way you carry your mystery.

“alright, then,” buck says, straightening. “we’re playing it your way. but if i catch you doing something ridiculous like… surfing down the stairs on a mattress again-”

“again?” you ask with a grin.

“long story. involved ravi, some random girl playing frat-cup roulette, lots of pillows and my football helmet.” listing it on like a bad memory, probably explaining the slight dent in the wall at the stairs.

“right, ill keep that in mind,” you laugh.

eddie takes a slow sip of his drink, still watching you. “you’re not just here to watch, though. that much is obvious.”

you shrug, letting the silence answer for you. you feel the alcohol buzzing through your veins, the heat of the party loosening your limbs. the music thumps harder now—bass vibrating through the kitchen floors.

“alright, mystery girl,” buck leans in just a bit closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “if you won’t tell us the dare, at least let us keep an eye out. make sure you don’t end up on the roof in a tutu or something.”

“tempting offer,” you say, glancing between them. “but i think i’ll take my chances.”

“oh, she’s definitely planning something,” buck mutters to eddie, who only laughs softly and nods.

you take one step back, flashing them both a smile. “i guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

and just like that, you disappear into the crowd—leaving them standing there, drinks in hand, the smell of tequila and possibility in the air.

buck whistles low, shaking his head. “so… are we following her?”

eddie finishes his drink in one sip, quickly replying “absolutely.”

you melt into the crowd, bodies pressed together, people whooping loud at a pair making out, drinks spilling from cups, and loud bass ringing in your ears. lights strobe over you in flashes; green, red, blue— hidden in anonymity under the dark room. you’re buzzed enough now that your confidence is catching up to your adrenaline. your drink is finished, long forgotten on some windowsill, and the room spins just the tiniest bit when you finally spot the keg.

it’s in the backyard. lit by a string of tangled fairy lights, surrounded by a small, rowdy crowd yelling encouragements at the poor guy currently upside down, foam and beer pouring everywhere. he slaps the keg, yelling who's your daddy from the top of their lungs, practically ripping their shirt in half as their friends cheer him on. how were you supposed to top that?

you were psyching yourself out again, swallowing your pride in an effort to let the alcohol take over and just do it. you can do this.

you have to do this, even if you didn’t want too. curse sage and her rules.

“need a lift, sweetheart?” you turn at the voice. it’s buck grinning, eyes full of mischief. eddie stands just behind him, adjusting his hat hiding his locks, that unreadable look on his face again like he’s still trying to solve the puzzle that is you.

your stomach twists, not unpleasantly. you cross your arms over your chest, lifting your chin. “what makes you think i’m gonna do it?”

“because you’ve been staring at that keg like it'll just magically give you what you need.” eddie says, stepping forward.

you huff a laugh, caught. “okay, maybe it’s one of the dares.”

buck whoops triumphantly, pointing at you. “i knew it.”

“not like i want to do it but you know… never hurt to try something once right?”

“never, it’ll make a good memory.” eddie replies, trying to lighten you mind, eyeing your tense shoulders.

“yeah if i don’t eat shit and die,” you say, raising your brows, “but i need some support.”

“what, to cheer you on?” buck asks.

“to hold my legs,” you reply, voice light but firm. and just like that, their smirks drop into something heavier.

eddie finishes his drink and sets the cup down. “we’re in.”

“obviously,” buck adds.

you pull your already short skirt down, hoping it wouldn't ride up. you’re tipsy, but determined, your whole body buzzing now—not just from the alcohol, but from the way they’re watching you. curious. amused. impressed. maybe even a little turned on.

buck crouches low, fingers flexing. “you sure?”

“no,” you admit with a breathless laugh. “but what the hell.”

they lift you with surprising ease—buck at your knees, legs over his shoulder. eddie crouched beside you holding your skirt with chivalrous grace, your skin practically burning at his fingering brushing your thighs as his other holds the keg nozzle. holding it to your mouth waiting for your okay, your arms practically feel like jelly as you hold on the rim. he looks at you softer now, no judgment if you suddenly back out but now theres a burning determination in your stomach when your eyes catch his. you take a deep breath, already bracing for the bitter cold beer. eddie nods in encouragement as buck whoops behind you, a crowd already forming. you nod and eddie presses on the side of the nozzle. you squeal when the cold beer hits your lips. the crowd around you cheers, counting loudly.

“one! two! three—!”

you barely make it to six before tapping out, coughing through the foam, the burn in your throat too much. they lower you gently to the ground, hands lingering a little longer than necessary as you regain your balance, eddie is quick to fix your appearance, flattening your hair and pushing some behind your ears that fell when you were upside down. his tenderness not going unnoticed by you and its incredibly attractive.

you wobble, giggling, wiping beer from your lips with the back of your hand.

“okay,” you say, breathless. “that went better than i thought.” buck and eddie giving you triumphant high-fives as their attentively at your side, bucks hand warm on your lower back.

"you killed it, done it better than either of us." eddie praises, he's just saying that but in reality its true. one party buck drunkenly convinced himself that he can do it on his own, practically doing a hand stand on the keg that almost landed him in the hospital.

buck leans in, smug. “so what's left not the table?” obviously trying to get you to spill your second dare.

you glance between them, still not giving in fully. “you’ll know when it happens.”

eddie raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “is that a threat or a promise?”

you don’t answer—just tilt your head, letting your eyes drag slowly from eddie to buck.

“depends on how tonight plays out.” you say easily, already making your way back into the house. beer still dripping from your top, heart racing. you don’t know how long you’ll last before the second dare gets you, but you know exactly who you want it to happen with.

the pair are already tailing behind you, "we'll be there when it happens." buck quips, fully enticed with what you may have up your sleeve. admittedly they've never had a girl capture their attention like you did. like their was a gravitational pull leading them to you and they weren't upset about it

“good,” you say, turning to head back inside, tossing a look over your shoulder. “you’ll need to be.”

you think you lose them when you somehow make your way into a bathroom, questionable stains on the sink and towels haphazardly throw everywhere. you groan and make quick work in cleaning yourself up. the easy part was over, the keg stand wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it would be, the beer still lingering in the back of your throat making you nearly gag if you thought about it for too long. desperately telling yourself you didn’t need to throw up when the toilet was looking at you way to enticingly. the hard part came next. a three way kiss, you didn’t think you’d get this far into the night and there was so way out of it. now entangled with eddie and buck, so invested with your dares– you think you could just sneak out and hopefully never see them again, just deluded to the memories of your night so far but something in you was tell you not to. this was the most play you’ve gotten so far in the semester and you wanted to kiss them and you know they did too, that’s what scared you– you weren’t as smooth or half as charming as they were, but all you knew is that you needed another drink before you can even think of attempting the second part.

after another shotgun with ravi with little to no convincing on either parts, you find yourself on the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the living room. the floor is pulsing like a heartbeat, bodies moving with the beat, lost in the throb of bass and smoke and strobe. you slip into it easily, your body already warmed from the keg stand and a new buzz from the shot gun, your skin still tingling from their hands.

you’ve lost yourself to the music, dancing with friends you know from previous lectures, even with ravi– twirling you into a dip, you were having fun, the dare slipping from you mind as you laugh and sway amidst the music.

you feel them before you see them. eddie’s presence behind you, broad and steady, and buck’s just off to your side, playful energy radiating like heat. you don’t look back.

you just sway your hips to the rhythm, letting yourself fall deeper into the music, letting the beat pull you under. arms up, eyes closed, the crowd pressing in—someone’s back hits your shoulder, someone else’s arm brushes yours, but then they’re there.

eddie’s hands settle lightly on your hips, grounding you. he doesn’t pull, doesn’t rush, he just follows your movement, letting his fingers flex against the bare skin beneath your top. buck’s closer now too, eyes trained on your mouth, lip caught between his teeth, now in front of you.

then, you open your eyes.

“ you gonna just stand there or are you gonna do something?you shout over the music, glancing between them with a teasing smile.

“thought you were the one with the dare,” eddie replies, voice low and right in your ear.

“and if i am?” you ask, tilting your chin toward buck.

his smirk deepens, a nonchalant shrug with his words “maybe we’re just waiting for you to pick who you want.”

you hum at that, heart pounding harder. the adrenaline and booze taking over your senses, in the heat of the moment, buck looking so attractive in front of you, his eyes roaming and lingering on your lips, you don’t miss a beat.

you look at buck through your lashes, prettily enough as you lean closer to him. just long enough for him to see it coming. then, you reach for him, sliding your hand around the back of his neck and pulling him in soft lips crashing into yours, a ghost of a smile against your lips. his hands falling to your waist pulling you close.

he gets rougher as you kiss, like he’s been waiting for this to happen, making the most out of it like you’re going to disappear into thin air. hot opened mouth kisses as his tongue brushing yours, teeth grazing yours, nibbling at your bottom lip as you tilt your head back to deepen the kiss. he groans softly into your mouth, his hands all over you, cupping your jaw before lacing his digits in your hair– tugging gently. pulling a soft whine from you. he leans into you as you pull away, a sound of dissatisfaction leaving him.

you break away just long enough to turn.

eddie’s closer now, his eyes dark and lust fueled as they lock onto yours. lifting his hand to brush your jaw, he’s eager but awaiting your permission before you lean in. the kiss is slower and deeper, lips warm and sure against yours.

he kisses like he means it, like he doesn’t care about the dare or the party or the people around you, just the feel of your lips on his. his lips mold against yours, soft and deep tasting the remnants of your strawberry flavored lip gloss, hands on your hips pulling you against him, long and fluid like he’s savoring it. he takes his time kissing you, you thread your fingers at his nape feeling as he gets rougher, tongue pushing past your lips, swirling around yours chasing for more.

your forehead pressed against his as you inevitably pull away. buck behind you, chest rising– incredibly turned on as you kiss his best friend. you feel lightheaded as you pull away, kissing both men you’ve been pinning over all night.

their eyes intense on you as your hands rest on both of their chests, your body wedged deliciously between them. they’re staring at you like you just flipped their world upside down.

lips swollen and eyes blown out, a bit breathless. you bite your bottom lip, eyes darting between them. “now, the dare.”

they don’t need more than that.

buck leans in first, eddie following like second nature, and then—your lips meet again, all three of you this time, tangled in a brief but electric collision. soft and wild and ridiculously hot, a mess of lips and breath, wandering hands and someone’s teeth catching on a lip and a muffled fuck as buck smiled against her mouth and eddie pressed a hand digging into your hip a little harder like he forgot to hold back. just long enough to taste each other, just long enough to make your knees weak.

when you finally pull back, all three of you are breathless. buck’s eyes are wide, his grin lopsided. eddie’s gaze lingers on your mouth like he’s already thinking about doing it again, rubbing soothing circles on your hip.

“so,” buck says, voice rougher now, “what else is in that hat?”

you laugh, dizzy and still reeling. “guess you’ll have to wait ‘til the next party.”

eddie’s hand slips around your waist, pulling his hat off and drops it onto your head, his free hand soothing his mess of hair as buck drapes an arm around your shoulders, throwing you a wink. the three of you moving together as the music swells around you.

the night you were waiting to be before dissipated into not wanting to leave, they made it into something worth while, something that felt like more than just those stupid dares. you could care less about how your friends are definitely going to drag this story out until graduation. you feel... good. lighter than you have in weeks. achieving more than what you could ask for tonight with two men by your side with no plans to leave.

you definitely are living your best life tonight and it definitely won't be your last.

ownership of starrvsn. please do not repost, modify or translate.

[starrvsn]

i genuinely need a fic of all the girls talking about the boys pls 🧎🏻‍♀️

“MY FIRST AND LAST”

pairing: bff! chenle x fake gf! reader | genre: rom-com | words: 31k+

synopsis -> zhong chenle, the lowkey fuckboy, captain of the basketball team, doesn’t believe in romance. flowers? chocolates? handwritten letters? ew. too cheesy. but he can’t seem to shake this crazy girl off of him so he goes to you, his best friend, cheerleading captain, for help. will you be his fake girlfriend? sure. the catch? it has to be believable so for the first time in his life he buys the flowers and the chocolate and writes the handwritten letters.

warnings -> the definition of a rom-com, pet name unlocked: baby, yappers, breaking the fourth wall, too many y/n’s in one room, chenle is kinda possessive (not in a toxic way), two scared little cowards, stalker, ovulation, +18, crude humor, language, bathroom sex, drunk sex, mutual masturbation, dildo, dry humping, 69, chenle fucking between your thighs, fingering, he’s a pussy eater!, squirting, accidental penetration, unprotected sex, reader is a very horny girl who knows what she wants!, pussy drunk, overstimulation, slight nipple play, exhibitionism, mentions of: sex in the kitchen, alcohol, frat parties, ropes, breeding kink if you squint

an -> the fifth installment of the loverboy series is happily yours! disclaimer! i don’t know anything about basketball! i just dated a player once. now playing: taylor swift’s down bad, the alchemy and so high school; important things to note -> 1) chenle is the lowkey fuckboy — he doesn’t get around as much but he’ll have one night stands 2) quinn is an OC!, i didnt want to make her any idol…sorry if thats your name! 3) all couples are happily together EXCEPT hyuck x princess. their story is happening simultaneously. have fun reading! - with love, c.

౨ৎ OCTOBER 31 ౨ৎ

chenle is in trouble and it all started here:

THE BIGGEST, MOST ANTICIPATED PARTY OF THE YEAR: HALLOWEEN NIGHT @ THE DREAM FRATERNITY

“ahhhh chenle, harder!,” the unnamed girl moaned loudly in his ear, her voice shrill, overly dramatic and frankly annoying.

“yeah, you like that?,” he grunted through clenched teeth, asking for the sake of asking, hips snapping forward, harder, rougher with absolutely no ounce of care. her body jolted with every thrust, her back slammed against the bathroom door like a ragdoll. he didn’t even bother angling correctly or checking if she was comfortable. didn’t even look her in the eyes. why would he? this wasn’t love. this wasn’t even attraction. for gods sake, he’s in his last minute chucky costume. none of it is serious. this was friction and sweat, the fuck he needed for the night.

and she wasn’t complaining. of course she wasn’t. why would she? she was fucking one of the dream boys, basketball captain, campus royalty. anyone would kill for her position right now.

“ahh yeah! yeah! YEAHH!,” she’s screamed, and it was so loud, so obnoxious. chenle winced mid-thrust. his head pounded, not from the alcohol but from her. she sounded like a banshee and he swore every shriek made him a little less hard. but he kept going. he wasn’t here for fun. he wasn’t here for her. he’s here for one thing and one thing only — to be relieved.

“cum inside me!, cum inside me!,” she begged, which was ridiculous since he was wearing a condom. he slapped a hand over her mouth, not out of passion, but out of desperation for silence. it worked. her moans went muffled, her body hot and slick against his, her legs trembling as he got closer. he doesn’t bother helping her stand. a few more hard thrusts and he spilled into the rubber with a strangled moan, his jaw clenched tightly, head rolling back as he caught his breath. it should’ve ended there. but then, in the middle of his hazy post-nut fog, she did the one thing everyone knew not to do — she kissed him.

a sloppy, wet kiss on the mouth, tongue and all. he kissed her back for half a second, pure instinct, reflex, before shoving her off like she was fire, eyes wide, “what the fuck?!”

everyone knew the rule — chenle doesn’t kiss. not on the mouth. not when he’s fucking. it’s too intimate. too romantic. too real. and he does not do romance. he’s too busy with basketball. too busy with classes. too career oriented. he doesn’t need distractions.

the girl latched onto him, arms around his waist, voice sickeningly sweet, “i knew you felt the same way!,” she squealed, nuzzling her face in his chest like they were something. her grip was tight. he was still half drunk, still recovering, still very much not on the same page.

“no uhm – j–,” he can’t even remember her name. was it jessica? jennie? did it start with an a? fuck. he didn’t know. he shakes his head, voice hardening, “that’s not what this is.”

“but you kissed me back,” she whined, bottom lip poked out. she was cute. but he wasn’t interested in anything real. wasn’t interested in relationships. and definitely wasn’t interested in her.

“i just came,” he said flatly, tone completely dry, “i wasn’t exactly in the right mind,” he explains. but she kept holding on, like she was trying to trap him in some kind of delusion where they were more than strangers in a locked bathroom.

chenle grabbed her wrists, gently but firmly, and stepped back, clipping his overalls back on in one smooth motion, “listen, i’ve got a beer pong game to win,” he said, offering her a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “you good here?”

“wait, you’re leaving?,” she asked, like she couldn’t believe it.

“yeah,” he reached for the bathroom door, not looking back, “you can stay in there if you want.” and just like that, he was gone. back into the chaos. the bass dropped the second he stepped out. someone handed him a drink. he took it without asking what it was. renjun, who was in his men in black costume, shouted his name from across the room and chenle smirked as he raised his cup. the night rolled on. more shots. more games. more bodies pressed too close on the dance floor. that girl from the bathroom? already forgotten. her name never even made it to memory. he was laughing again within minutes, arms slung around jisung in his alien costume, sweat glistening on his neck as the crowd roared when he sank three cups in a row.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 1 - HE’S MINE. ౨ৎ

he woke up to a series of texts:

unknown number: hey boyfriend! 💋 last night was amazing, i miss you already.

unknown number: thinking about ur kisses, they were so soft 😘

chenle squinted at the screen, still half asleep, head pounding from tequila and regret. he didn’t answer. he tossed his phone under the pillow and made his way out of his room. he spent the rest of the day teasing haechan about the girl he supposedly hates, forcing down hangover noodles and completely forgetting about the texts until that same evening — that’s when it got worse. an unknown profile had liked every single one of his photos on instagram, even the ones dating all the way back from 2020. and then she reposted his selfie from halloween night to her story with a heart sticker and the caption: “last night ❤️ can’t believe he’s mine.”

chenle nearly dropped his phone, “oh, HELL NO.”

the next five days were chaos. he did everything he could to avoid her, dodging her outside the library, ducking behind a trash can with his hoodie up like he was being hunted by the CIA, using mark as a human shield whenever he spotted her and even going as far as locking himself in his room just so he wouldn’t run into her — it was getting ridiculous. the championship game was a month away. he didn’t have time for this. he didn’t have time for her. he needed her to back off.

which led to now.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 6 - THE HOTTEST GIRL ON CAMPUS ౨ৎ

you had just wrapped up evening cheer practice, hair still damp from a cold shower, hoodie tugged over your uniform and duffel bag slung across your shoulder. and then – a hand grabbed your wrist. before you could scream or yank away, you were pulled straight into the girls’ locker room by none other than zhong chenle, your best friend.

“what the fuck chenle?!, have you lost your mind?! this is the girl’s locker room!”

“i need your help,” he said, voice deadly serious, eyes wild like he was on the run from the FBI.

“bro, you couldn’t text me like a normal person?,” you snapped, pulling your arm away.

“she’s gonna kill me,” he whispered, wide-eyed, “or marry me, honestly i don’t know which is worse,” he says dramatically.

“...who?,” you ask, an eyebrow raised.

“the bathroom girl,” he said darkly, like she was voldemort. partly because she’s starting to scare him. partly because he still didn’t know her name and just refers to her as the bathroom girl. he didn’t bother trying to learn it. he didn’t want to.

your expression flattened, “oh my god, you’re still dealing with her?” he told you about her through a facetime call some nights ago, since you’ve been away on a family trip and he couldn’t tell you in person.

“she’s obsessed,” he hissed, “she’s calling me boyfriend, she sent me her class schedule, she wrote me a poem!”

you blinked, “damn.”

“i’ve had to cancel practice, skip meals, duck behind recycling bins. i’m not even a person anymore! i’m just a moving target…i can’t live like this,” he groans, collapsing onto the bench like a man defeated.

you crossed your arms, “so what does this have to do with me?”

“i want you to fake date me.”

you blinked, “fake what now?”

“i want you to fake date me–no, i need you to fake date me,” he said, gesturing wildly, “just for a couple weeks, just until she finally gets the hint and leaves me alone.”

you eye him suspiciously, “and why does it have to be me?”

“you’re the cheer captain. you’re untouchable. the hottest girl on the campus. she’ll take one look at you and she’ll know she has no chance,” he explains.

you narrowed your eyes at him, “flattery will get you nowhere, chenle.”

“i’m serious!,” he whined like a spoiled child, “you’re my best shot,” he groaned, “pleasee, i’m desperate. i haven’t slept in days. i saw her outside my house!”

you snorted, “it’s not my fault you were too horny to notice she was insane?!”

chenle groaned, head falling into his hands, “i was drunk! i was thinking with my dick!, how was i supposed to know she’d turn into the female version of joe goldberg?”

you paused. he had a point. the locker room was silent except for the hum of the overhead lights. your body ached from practice, your hair was still dripping at the ends and your brain was barely holding on after a day packed with catching up with your classes and cheering.

“you’re asking a lot, you know i’m not a good liar,” you said finally.

chenle clasped his hands together like he was praying, “i’ll owe you for life.”

you roll your eyes, “i don’t want a lifelong debt. i want the gym.”

he blinked, “what?”

“i’m sick of cheerleading getting shoved into the late night slots just so the guys can play pickup games in the morning,” you said, arms crossed, “if i fake date you, you’re getting me full access to the gym for morning practices. no more evening drills.”

“that’s impossible–”

“i guess you’ll see her on your front porch again,” you cut in sweetly.

chenle stared at you, visibly calculating, panicking, then groaned, “fine. deal. i’ll talk to coach jaehyun.”

“you’ll bribe coach jaehyun,” you corrected.

“whatever it takes,” he muttered. you give him a long, lingering stare. then finally you extended your hand, “only until she gets off your back.”

he grabbed it, sealing the deal.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 7 - ARE YOU BRITISH? ౨ৎ

“we need to establish a few things,” you say, sitting on the bleachers of the basketball court, your cheerleading uniform clinging to your skin as the late afternoon sun bounces off the polished wood floors.

chenle is casually dribbling a basketball in front of you, sweat glistening along his hairline, his tank top darkened at the chest and collar, “like what?,” he sighs, bouncing the ball between his legs before shooting it lazily at the hoop. it sinks in with a soft swish.

“like,” you tap your fingers up to your lips, dramatically pondering, “what are you gonna call me?”

he turns with a faint frown, “uhh…your name?”

you raise your brows, “seriously? you’re the one who asked me to fake date you. if we’re going to sell this then you need to call me something other than my name,” you say.

he drags a hand down his face dramatically, “is that really necessary? this is supposed to be simple.”

“well, tough luck,” you reply, popping a piece of gum into your mouth, “no one’s gonna believe we’re dating if you keep calling me by my government name like we’re classmates doing a group project. give them a nickname to swoon over.”

chenle pauses, the basketball resting on his hip. his mind flashes to his friends and their girlfriends – angel, bunny, kitten – every single one more ridiculous than the last. he swears he’s in a zoo when they’re all at the house at the same time.

“okay,” he says, taking a seat beside you with a huff, brushing his sweat soaked bangs away from his forehead, “how about…love?”

you scrunch your nose up in sync, it felt wrong even when it left his tongue, “too romantic,” you comment.

“honey?”

“what are we? an old married couple?,” you fake gag, making him snort.

“darling?”

“are you british?”

he gives you a long suffering look, somewhere between exasperated and amused. then he leans back on his elbows, eyes glinting as he watches you, “okay then, what do you want me to call you?”

you pretend to think really hard, even tapping your chin for dramatic flair, “hmm…how about, baby?”

he shoots you a deadpan look, “seriously? you made me jump through hoops just to land on the most generic one?”

you grin, smug and unbothered, “what? it’s sweet, simple, not too romantic. it’s perfect!,”

he muttered something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like you’re so annoying but he sighs and give in, “fine. baby it is.”

you smirk, enjoying every second of how much it clearly pains him to play along, “say it again.”

he narrows his eyes, “no.”

“c,mon,” you nudge his knee with yours, “ for practice.”

he groans like you just asked him to sell his soul, then grumbles, “okay, fine. i’ll call you baby…baby.”

you burst out laughing at how stiff and awkward he sounds, “god, you sound like siri trying to flirt.” he smiles in spite of himself, eyes lingering on you a second longer than necessary. your laughter fades into a comfortable silence.

then, casually, you say, “how about kissing?”

his head snaps toward you, “what about kissing?”

the question hangs in the air. you don’t look at him right away but you can feel him freeze beside you. you shrug, like it’s no big deal, “well…if we’re dating, people are gonna expect it. you know that, right?,” you tilt your head at him, the air suddenly a little warmer than it was before. he stays quiet, tongue running along the inside of his cheek like he’s buying time.

“you haven’t thought that far ahead, have you?,” you ask, almost amused.

he shrugs, “i mean, i didn’t think people would care that much.”

you raise a brow, “chenle, you’re the captain of the basketball team, i’m the captain of the cheerleading team, we’re like if a rom-com poster came to life and we’re about to hard launch a fake relationship in a school that lives off gossip. people are going to obsess. they’re gonna look for signs. holding hands, inside jokes and yes…kissing.”

he frowns, looking genuinely torn, “do you…want me to kiss you?”

the question catches you off guard, landing softer than you expect. you blink, “it’s not about wanting to…but if it makes this more believable, then yeah. we might have to.”

chenle runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly, “okay fine but only when we need to.”

you nod, voice gentler now, “okay.”

he groans, “this is gonna backfire isn’t?”

“probably,” you say brightly, standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder. you glance down at him with a smug grin, “but hey… at least it’ll be entertaining.” and with that, you walk off the bleachers, the slap of your sneakers echoing behind you. chenle stays there, watching you go, one word looping in his mind like a curse and a prophecy at once: baby — it makes him shiver. god help him.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 10 - GIRLS TALK ABOUT EVERYTHING ౨ৎ

your fingers are laced with chenle’s as you walk into the gym together. he was able to convince coach jaehyun to let you share the gym in the mornings.

as soon as you walk in, the effect is instant. the basketballs stop mid-bounce. conversations dull into hushed murmurs. heads start to turn one bye one like dominoes. some curious, some amused, some downright nosy. but you don’t flinch. you keep your chin up, posture poised like you own the place like it was just a regular day. chenle’s hand is warm in yours, steady, grounding, even as your heart pounds a little faster than usual. this is it – the hard launch of your very fake, very strategic relationship.

“you good?,” you murmured out of the corner of your mouth without looking at him.

“i’ve played in front of five thousand people,” chenle mutters, voice low, “this is somehow worse.

you snort, “you’re holding hands with the hottest girl on campus, your words not mine,” you grin, “it can’t be that bad.” he almost smiles. almost. but then, a few steps in, you feel him suddenly tense. his hands twitch in yours, his steps slowing just enough for you to notice.

“what?,” you ask under your breath. he doesn’t respond, just slightly flicks his chin toward the girl near the wall. your eyes follow his and you see her. there, on the other side of the gym, leaning casually against the wall with a water bottle in hand, is — quinn. pretty. polished. perfectly unbothered. except you can tell by the way her gaze narrows on your joined hands that she absolutely is.

chenle leans in, voice tight, “that’s her. my stalker.”

your eyes widen and you suck in a quiet breath, “quinn?!,” you half whisper, half gasp.

he nods once, eyes locked on you, “sure.”

you blink, your fake smile faltering for half a second, “chenle,” you grit through clenched teeth, “you couldn’t have told me that she’s on my team?,” you bite, trying to make it look like you’re not seconds away from blowing him up.

“i didn’t know her name!,” he says quickly, trying to keep the easy expression on his face.

“she. braided. my. hair. last. week,” you say through clenched teeth, lips still curved into a terrifyingly sweet smile, even as you internally curse him in six different ways.

“i’m sorry!,” he hisses, eyes darting between you and the squads, still watching. he smiles wider, trying to match yours, but it’s all teeth and tension. you tug him sharply by the wrist and drag him toward the bleachers, out of the direct line of sight, but not far enough to go unnoticed. you know quinn’s watching. hell, everyone is watching. and the second you’re semi-out of earshot, but not out of sight, you whirl on him, still smiling, still looking like this is all so very sweet and couple-y but your eyes are screaming murder.

“you seriously thought this was going to work?” you hiss, “fake dating me in front of someone who knows me? who literally has pictures of us eating sushi on her instagram highlights?”

he winces, hands coming up to your arms like he’s trying to soothe you, voice low and pleading, “can you please not yell at me in front of the entire gym?”

you step into his space, “seriously, what was your endgame here? that she’d see us holding hands and just move on? that she’d back off because you got a girlfriend? you literally chose the worst liar and created the most suspicious looking fake couple in history!,” you say harshly but quiet enough so that only he would hear.

chenle opens his mouth, but then he sees it – how many people are staring. not glancing. staring. a few phones are already out. quinn’s water bottle is lowered, her expression unreadable but her eyes locked on you both with razor-sharp intensity. you’re still scolding him, your hands moving, your voice low but insistent when he makes a snap decision. no time to think. he grabs you by the waist…pulls you in — and kisses you. hard, fast, unexpected.

you freeze mid-sentence, mouth still parted in shock, your entire body stiff for one long second before your muscle memory kicks in and, god help you, you kiss him back. his hand cups your cheek. his lips move against yours with something close to desperation — it’s stupid, messy and feels way too good for something that’s supposed to be fake. for five dizzying seconds, the entire gym disappears. no cheerleaders. no teammates. no quinn. just you and him.

then you hear it — gasps echo from both the cheer and the basketball side. you can feel the shift in the air, the rumors writing themselves in real time. and when you finally pull away, breathless and stunned, you glare at him.

“that had better have been absolutely necessary,” you whisper, voice trembling just slightly. your lips are still parted, heart pounding like a damn drum.

“she was looking,” chenle whispers, flushed and panting slightly, like he can’t believe what he just did. like he just discovered something new. around you, the gym is still watching. a few people start whispering. quinn’s lips are pressed into a thin line. she’s not looking at you. she’s staring at chenle like he just ruined her life.

“congratulations,” you mutter, “there’s no turning back now.” he gives you a sheepish, almost apologetic look. you roll your eyes, toss your ponytail over your shoulder and plaster on the fakest smile you’ve ever worn. then, still buzzing from the kiss you’re definitely not going to think about later, you grab his hand again like it all meant nothing. like your pulse isn’t betraying you right now.

“come on, lele,” you say sweetly, loud enough for half the gym to hear, “help me stretch?”

you don’t look back. but you can feel her eyes on you. and she’s not just suspicious now. she’s out for blood.

౨ৎ

it starts during water break. you’re wiping sweat from your brow, stretching out your calves against the wall, trying to keep your breathing even. you’d been doing well – keeping your head down, counting the minutes until practice ended, avoiding quinn’s gaze like your life depended on it. which it might, honestly. but you should’ve known it wouldn’t last. because suddenly, you’re surrounded. four girls from the squad – mina, chungha, doyeon and of course, quinn, form a loose circle around you, casual, innocent-looking, like they just happened to migrate your way.

“so…,” mina starts, eyes wide and sweet, “you and chenle?”

doyeon grins, “when did that happen?”

somi pipes in with a laugh, “was it after the last game? or have you been sneaking around this whole time?”

you force a tight smile, adjusting your ponytail to stall for time, “it’s uh…new.”

quinn raises an eyebrow, arms crossed over her chest, “define new.” the way she says it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. her voice is calm, playful even. but her eyes are sharp. cold. and if looks could kill you’d be six feet below.

“like…really new,” you say, trying not to sound like you’re lying even though you are, “we didn’t want to make it a thing until we were sure.”

“aw,” mina coos, “that’s kinda cute! i always knew you guys liked each other,” you had no idea what she meant by that. the mere insinuation that the two of you had any sort of romantic feelings before this is completely crazy. chenle was the only guy in this university who hasn’t flirted with you. there’s absolutely no sexual tension there.

“was it romantic?,” she continues, “did he ask you out properly or was it like…spur of the moment?”

you blink, “umm…”

doyeon giggles, “omg, don’t tell us it was a drunk confession? that’s so high school.”

“it wasn’t drunk,” you say quickly, “it just…kind of happened.”

quinn tilts her head, watching you like she’s got front row seats to a show you didn’t audition for, “where’d it happen? his place? yours? locker room?…you two looked very comfortable yesterday.”

it reminds you that she was always watching him.

somi gasps, “wait, have you slept with him yet? is he big? is he good?” mina gasps louder, fanning herself, clearly intrigued. doyeon just cackles, enjoying the chaos. your mouth opens but nothing comes out. quinn has a small smile on her face but the fire in her eyes burns holes through you. because no, obviously not. but you can’t say that. not out loud. not without making everything worse. and quinn sees it – the hesitation, the silence. she smirks. victory glinting in her eyes, “hmm,” she hums, loud enough for the rest of the squad to hear, “i bet you don’t even know how he sounds when he cums.”

the words hit like a slap. your ears burn. your spine goes rigid. your throat suddenly feels dry. the other girls freeze for a half second, mina’s mouth falling open, somi’s eyes widening, doyeon choking back a shocked laugh but no one stops her. they just wait to see how you’ll react. you blink slowly, refusing to give her the satisfaction of looking rattled, even when your heart is pounding like a drum. you tilt your head, channeling every ounce of venom you’ve ever stored, “no,” you say smoothly, “not yet…but i know how his lips feels like on mine and what his hand feels like on my ass.”

somi lets out a scandalized gasp. mina actually drops her water bottle. even doyeons jaw hits the floor. and for the first time since she cornered you, quinn looks defeated. you take one slow step forward, your voice sugar-sweet and dripping poison, “so maybe next time, instead of talking about my boyfriend’s moans, you should ask yourself why he doesn’t want you to hear it.”

quinn’s face twitches. just slightly. just enough for you to know you’ve hit a nerve. you smile. innocent. unbothered. and totally victorious. then you turn on your heel and walk back to your spot on the mat like nothing happened, like your heart isn’t about to explode out of your chest. you don’t look back. but you can feel it. quinn’s not just watching anymore. she’s plotting.

౨ৎ

baby 😎🎀: we have a problem. come to my dorm. now.

he sends back a thumbs up emoji, and fifteen minutes later he’s at your door in a hoodie and track pants, hair still damp from a shower. you open the door, expression grim, “you good?” he asks, stepping inside.

you shut the door, “no. we have a problem.”

he freezes halfway into your room, “yeah, you made that clear in your text.”

you cross your arms, “your stalker and the rest of the girls cornered me after practice.”

he immediately looks like he wants to jump out your dorm window, “what did they say?”

“oh, just the basics,” you say sarcastically, “when did we start dating? how it happened? where it happened?” you fold your arms tighter, “then they started asking about sex.”

chenle slowly turns his head toward you, “what?”

you nod, “they asked if you were big, if you’re good in bed and—,” you pause for effect, “quinn wanted to know if i even know what you sound like when you cum.”

his entire face blanks out, blush creeping up his cheeks and unto his ears, “WHY do you talk about that stuff?”

“girls talk about everything!” you say, like it should be common knowledge.

“i didn’t know ‘everything’ included my moans!” he practically shrieks.

you ignore him, “so i panicked and i told her—” you pause again, a little too embarrassed, “—i know what your hand feels like on my ass.”

chenle chokes on air, the image affecting him more than it should’ve, “YOU SAID WHAT—?!”

you shrug like it’s no big deal, “it worked. they left me alone after that.”

he’s blinking at you like you just admitted to committing arson, “why are you like this?”

“i told you i'm not a good liar!”

chenle groans and puts his face in his hands, “it’s literally day one of being public and people are already starting to question it.”

“they’re not just questioning,” you say, pacing now, “they’re analyzing. calculating. investigating. and quinn?” you point toward the wall like she’s somehow eavesdropping through it, “she smells our lies.”

he lets out a helpless noise, “so what now? we can’t have sex. we’re best friends. that’d be too weird.”

you pause, “would it be weirder than me pretending to be your girlfriend when i’ve never heard you moan?”

he looks at you like you just grew two heads. “i’m serious,” you say, “it’s not just the kiss. eventually, i’m supposed to act like i’ve done everything with you and i don’t even know what your sex face looks like.”

“WHY would you need to—”

“chenle.”

“…okay. fine. what’s your solution?”

you sit down on your bed, “well, we don’t have to have sex but,” you trail off, he nods his head waiting for you to continue.

“we can masturbate in front of each other,” you say, voice quiet. but chenle hears every word.

he jerks like he’s been electrocuted, “i’m sorry, what?”

you don’t blink, “no touching each other. just… enough information so we can sell the fantasy, help us be more convincing with our lies.”

he’s completely unresponsive and you fear you might have broken him, “this is what you get for recruiting me into your drama,” you add.

“mistakes were made,” he mutters.

“correct,” you say brightly, “now take your hoodie off. it’s getting hot in here.”

“STOP SAYING THINGS LIKE THAT,” he says flustered. you throw another pillow at his head. he doesn’t throw it back. then, slowly, hesitantly he moves — sitting on your desk chair, on the foot of your bed, fingers gripping the armrests. you’re seated across from him, a couple feet of space between you, against your headboard, legs crossed, trying not to make it weird. it’s already weird.

“i can’t believe we’re gonna do this,” he says under his breath, still not looking at you.

you chew your bottom lip, heartbeat way too loud, “you want this to be convincing, right?”

he glances up. the second your eyes meet, you both look away again. you inhale slowly, “okay, just…you start.”

“jesus,” he mumbles, “can you not say it like that?”

“sorry,” you say, voice airy, teasing, a defense mechanism at this point, “would you prefer ‘show me what you sound like when you cum?’”

he glares, “you’re enjoying this.”

“only a little,” but your breath catches when he slowly leans back, hoodie sliding up enough to expose a sliver of skin. and then his hand slips beneath his pants.

you go still. the room is absolutely quiet. your thighs press together. he glances at you, jaw tight, “you’re… gonna watch the whole time?” he asks quietly. you nod once, wordless. he looks everywhere but you before he finally starts. he wraps his hand around his cock, still hidden under his pants and he lets out a shaky breath. a little too loud in the quiet room. he leans his head back against the chair, lashes fluttering close, choosing to forget the fact that you, his best friend, was in the same room. and then his lips part with the softest little exhale, not quite a moan, not yet, but it hits you like a punch to the chest — your fingers finally move, hand slipping under your panties and rubbing slow but precise circles on your clit then through your folds. your knees pointing to the ceiling as your shorts bunch up, a clear view of your ass available to him if he opens his eyes.

“f-fuck,” he mumbles, the sound slipping out without him meaning to, the friction of his own hand starting to feel good. his hips lift slightly from the chair, fingers pumping fast then slow, like he’s trying not to let it end too fast.

“chenle,” you whisper.

his eyes drag open, hazy, dark, “yeah?” and the sight of you almost breaks him. your fingers down your shorts, legs slightly parted, showing the supple flesh of your ass cheeks. you’re both watching each other now, breaths shallow, cheeks flushed, something dangerous catching in the air between you.

his gaze dips, he can’t believe this is happening, “y-you’re… really doing it.” you nod again, biting your lip as you stuck a finger in, curling it exactly the way you like it. he actually groans, when he sees the way your eyes flutter shut for a second, a breathy moan slipping past your lips.

“fuck,” he says again, breathless, “this is so—”

“weird?” you whisper.

he swallows, his eyes stuck on you, “hot.”

and it is. too hot. too real. you let your head tip back, your other hand coming in to rub circles on your clit, while you fuck youself on the other, “i-i didn’t think it’d feel like this.”

“like what?,” he grunts, eyes darkening.

“like…you’re touching me too,” you say breathily.

his eyes burn into you. he wonders what it would be like to actually touch you. and for a second, neither of you speak, just the sounds of your hands shuffling under your clothing. then he begs, “can i hear you…please?”

the question nearly knocks the air from your lungs. your fingers rubbing your clit faster. you don’t speak. then, softly, almost like a secret, you let out a moan. low. sweet. just loud enough to be heard.

he’s never been this aware of you. not in this way. he knew you were hot. he wasn’t blind – every guy on campus has had some sort of crush on you, whether quiet or full-blown obsessive. you walk into a room and conversations shift. eyes follow you. people stumble over themselves just to sit near you in class, to ask for your number, to post a blurry instagram story in hopes you’ll repost it. you’ve always been that girl. untouchable. effortless. intimidatingly magnetic — but somehow, over the years, he got used to it. to you.

somewhere between your chaotic texts, your weird humor, your unfiltered rants, and all the times you laughed until you were snorting. your hotness became background noise. familiar. comfortable. like sunlight on skin – always there, always warm, but never overwhelming. until now. right now? god, he’s overwhelmed.

chenle’s head hits the chair again, a desperate noise slipping out of him, his eyes half open, never wanting to look away from you. and it’s not in the way where it feels like someone put him in a trance. no. he’s fully conscious of you, “fuuuck, baby.”

your eyes fly open. you both heard it — the nickname. you moan louder in response. your pussy sucking in your fingers, hips thrusting up at the simple sound of that word, “chenle,” you moan like you’re in pain, you were getting closer, but it wasn’t enough. you never could just get off on your fingers alone. you needed something. visual help. audio. your vibrator. a dildo. more. “i want to see you.”

“only—fuck—only if you let me see you,” he grunts, his hand still pumping his cock up and down. you nod. he nods. and at the same time you bring your shorts and panties down to your ankles in one go. he releases his cock from his pants. he was so pretty. so pink. his precum leaking at the tip. you whine, another sweet sound hitting his ears as you match the rhythm of your fingers to his pace.

“you’re so wet, baby,” he praises, practically drooling at the sight of your pussy glistening under the dim glow of your room. he wonders how you tasted. if you were as sweet as your lips.

“f-faster lele,” you moan, his nickname slipping from your lips, making his brain go haywire as he pumped himself faster, following your command. you watch his cock, your imagination taking over, pretending your fingers were him thrusting in and out of you. he does the same.

you squeeze your eyes shut, panting now, “lele i’m, i’m gonna–,” you don’t even finish your sentence, your orgasm hitting you hard and fast, as you came all over your fingers, your head thrown back, jaw slacked, hair sticking to your skin, fingers coated with your slick and he’s obsessed. like he’s never seen something so unreal.

“that’s it baby. just like that,” he groans, talking you through it, heightening the feeling of your orgasm as you focus on his voice and the lewd noises coming from your bodies. it doesn’t take long for chenle to follow, “i-i’m coming,” he moans, whiny and breathless, snapping you out of your haze. you wanted to see it. wanted to see him unravel and, god, he look’s so pretty. his lips all flushed, his cock messily spurting out his white cum, some landing on his shirt, some on his sweats, eyes completely shut in bliss, mouth open in a soundless moan.

“you’re so pretty, lele,” you praise and he swore he felt his cock harden again. then the room is silent. still. unbearably charged. you pull your shorts back up, chenle tucks himself back in his pants. when you finally look at each other, neither of you knows what to say. he can’t believe that just happened.

“so…” he finally says, voice quiet, “that was uhm…educational.”

you nod, way too fast, “yeah, totally helps with this whole fake dating thing.”

“yeah,” he laughs but it comes out brittle. a little forced. “i mean, can’t have people thinking we’re not sexually active.”

you cough, “god forbid.” you both go silent again. you try not to look at the way his hand is curled around his sweatpants like it’s muscle memory, like he hasn’t quite come down from it. and he’s definitely not looking at your legs, even though you caught him glancing more than once.

“so,” you say, stretching like you’re just super chill about all this, “i think we’re good now. you know. in case it comes up again.”

he nods too quickly, “yeah, totally. i feel…prepared.”

you groan, “this is so stupid.”

he gives a weak laugh, “seriously, who does this?”

“we do, apparently,” you say, a grin making it’s way to your face.

chenle rolls his eyes but can’t help the small, crooked smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth, “great. we barely started and we’re already masturbating across from each other. what’s next, fake couple’s therapy?”

you snort, “i mean, give it another week”

he stares at you for a second longer, then sits up abruptly, rubbing his hands over his face like he’s trying to reset himself. “okay. cool. that’s it. it’s done. nothing weird happened. we’re fine.”

you nod, “totally fine. not weird at all.”

“super normal. totally best friend behavior,” he adds, trying to convince you both.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 12 - I JUST WANTED TO WATCH TRANSFORMERS ౨ৎ

the living room is dimly lit, the glow from the t.v. flickering across a sea of limbs tangled in blankets and pillows. laughter echoes between bites of popcorn and sips of soda, the scent of butter and pizza lingering in the air — you and chenle are sandwiched on the far end of the L-shaped couch. his arm is slung casually behind you, a move that looks natural, but you can feel how stiff he is, how aware he’s pretending not to be. meanwhile, the rest of the room straight out felt like cupid came and shot all of them with love arrows.

jaemin is lounging with angel curled up on his lap, his hoodie drawing her frame as she feeds him popcorn one by one. jeno and bunny are draped over each other, her head on his chest, his hand resting low on her waist. mark and kitten are practically fused at the hip, whispering and giggling like they’re in their own little world — it’s a lot.

you chew on a twizzler, pretending not to notice the glances being passed around, the not-so-subtle curiosity, the stares that linger a beat too long on you and chenle sitting way too properly to pass as a couple in love.

“i’m actually surprised,” kitten pipes up suddenly, tilting her head at you two, “you guys aren’t all over each other.” you almost choke on your candy. chenle tenses beside you, his arm still frozen behind your shoulders.

mark laughs, “yeah, when we first got together, i couldn’t keep my hands off her,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to kitten’s shoulder.

jaemin grins, tossing a popcorn kernel at him, “you still can’t keep your hands off her.”

“ohhhkay,” jeno chimes in, trying to sound diplomatic, “jaemin, maybe don’t butt in, you and angel have been together the longest and she’s still sitting on your lap.”

mark snorts, “yeah, and who did i catch fucking on the kitchen counter last week?”

“mark!,” angel yelps, face burning as she throws a pillow at him. kitten and bunny both laugh as they swat at their boyfriends, mumbling strings of shut up and stop talking.

jaemin just smirks, clearly unbothered, wrapping his arms tighter around angel as he chuckles, “you guys are just mad i thought of it first.”

angel’s cheeks are burning, she glares then turns toward you and chenle with a too-sweet smile it was almost scary, “okay, that’s not important” she says, “let’s go back to chenle and y/n.” and every single one of them is staring — chenle fumbles, trying to shift closer. you nudge into his side out of instinct and he reacts a second too late, hand brushing your thigh like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you. the warmth of his hand immediately ignites that heat between your legs.

“yeah, how long has this been going on?,” mark asks. there’s a beat of silence. you glance sideways at chenle. he’s sweating. not literally, but he may as well be. his gaze flickers to your lips, then to the forgotten movie, then to mark’s arm around kitten’s waist, then to bunny playing with jeno’s fingers then back to you.

chenle blinks, “this?”

“you two,” kitten continues her boyfriend’s question, not bothering to hide the grin on her lips, “you’re together now, right?”

you exchange a look with chenle before nodding slowly, “yeah, seven days.”

“seven days?,” bunny echoes, blinking, “that’s…sudden.”

you force a smile, shifting in your seat, “it just happened to be that way.”

jaemin leans forward, squinting, and it’s all feeling much like an interrogation, like they all planned this, “i thought you guys were just friends.”

“best friends,” jeno adds, looking way too interested, “as in, you’ve known each other since orientation, you call each other bro, you help each other get laid.”

chenle butts in, “you and bunny were best friends too,” he points out but no one pays him any attention so he sips on his soda instead, trying not to show how nervous he was getting. if he couldn’t even fool his friends, how was he going to fool his stalker? who’s watching his every move like a hawk.

jaemin raises a brow., “and now you’re suddenly dating… the week after his stalker?”

you stare back at them, doing your best to look unfazed and chenle was just throwing you to the wolves. he was an even worse liar than you. “timing’s weird, yeah, but feelings aren’t always convenient,” you say.

kitten gasps, “wait, were you secretly in love with him this whole time?”

chenle actually chokes on his soda. “what? no—” you start to say.

“i mean, it would explain a lot,” mark cuts you off, “like why you never dated anyone seriously,” he looks at you then at chenle, “or why you’d randomly punch guys who flirted with her.”

you and chenle both speak at the same time. “i didn’t—” ; “that wasn’t—”

bunny holds up a hand, “we’re just trying to understand. you guys went from ‘platonic soulmates’ to ‘public kissing in the gym’ very fast.”

the news traveled fast, of course it did. that little kiss you two shared yesterday — it was up on instagram and snapchat in minutes, everyone finding out in real time that the captain of the basketball team and the captain of the cheer team are now dating.

“we’ve always been close,” you say carefully, “we just didn’t know we liked each other that way until… recently.”

“did you… do anything else?” bunny asks with a sly little smile. chenle freezes. the memory of last night alive and burning in his head. your moans are still replaying in his mind. you still. all eyes are locked on you.

angel wiggles her eyebrows, “is he good in bed?”

you nearly choke on air. how many times were people going to ask you that question. “excuse me?!”

“it’s a fair question,” jeno shrugs, “we’re all friends here.” it’s not a fair question. they all know that. and usually the boys wouldn't discuss these things. but this was the group’s plan. your dating news came very suddenly. it was weird. they needed to know how serious it was.

“NO,” chenle says, eyes wide, “that is not a fair question.”

“oh my god,” angel gasps, covering her mouth, “you haven’t done it yet, have you?”

“guys,” you laugh nervously, “we’ve only been together for a week.”

“still!” kitten exclaims, “i couldn’t wait more than three days.”

mark smirks, wrapping an arm around her waist, “you didn’t even wait three hours.”

angel snorts, “okay, let’s not start outing each other again…anyway,” she says sweetly, “you must know what chenle sounds like in bed.” you stare. so does chenle. the room goes quiet. then, calmly, you set your drink down and smile — you’ve caught up to their plan. their teasing. and you decided to play along, “i know what his voice sounds like when he begs.”

silence. no one was actually expecting you to say something. hell, they were sure that there was nothing going on between you. that this was just a game you both decided to play. they all know how much the both of you loves games.

jeno lets out a choked cough. mark’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. jaemin’s jaw drops. chenle chokes on his own air, “WHAT?!” he sputters, turning red from the ears down, “w-when did i—why would you—what?!”

but he doesn’t get to finish. because suddenly all the girls are screaming. kitten grabs your hand. angel is already up on her feet, squealing. bunny’s dragging you by the wrist with wild eyes like you just dropped the gossip bomb of the year.

“YOU’RE COMING WITH US—NOW,” bunny demands through her laugh, “WE need DETAILS.”

“i’m sorry…he begs?!” angel shrieks as the girls literally pull you out of the living room.

“is he vocal?? how vocal?!” kitten gasps, already halfway down the hall with you in tow. your smug little smirk mixed with a mixture of fear is the last thing chenle sees as the girls yank you into a random bedroom and slam the door shut behind you.

the living room is left in stunned silence. mark sighs dramatically and throws his head back, “there goes my girl.”

“didn’t even finish her popcorn,” jeno grumbles, arms crossed.

“she was on my lap,” jaemin mutters, like he just got robbed.

chenle blinks, still stunned, “do they… always do that?”

“welcome to the club, man,” mark says, clapping him on the shoulder, “you’re one of us now.”

“yeah,” jaemin adds, pouting, “boyfriends left behind. again.”

“i just wanted to watch transformers,” jeno mumbles into a pillow.

chenle exhales, brain still short-circuiting, “why does it feel like i’m not the one in charge of this relationship?”

mark and jeno laugh. jaemin just shrugs, “none of us are.”

chenle is still staring at the closed door like it betrayed him. he runs a hand down his face, “what do they even talk about in there?” he mutters, getting nervous for you.

jeno doesn’t miss a beat, “us.”

chenle blinks, “like… guys in general?”

“no,” jeno says, popping a kernel of popcorn into his mouth, “specifically us.”

“they talk about everything,” mark adds with a grim nod, “our sex voice, our fingers, how fast we fall asleep after sex.”

“angel once told me she and the girls have a group chat called ‘the loverboys audit,’” jaemin sighs, “there are screenshots.”

“screenshots of what?” chenle asks, horrified.

“texts. apologies. unsent drafts. thirst traps. anything they can think of,” jeno lists off like he’s been through it.

mark cuts in, “one time i brought kitten her favorite cookie during her period without her asking and she sent a pic of it to the chat and now apparently i’m the gold standard,” he said beaming.

“congratulations,” jaemin deadpans, “i left angel a needy voice note saying i missed her…i’m pretty sure they’ve all heard it.”

chenle’s jaw drops, “i’m scared,” he says genuinely. and he is scared. less for him. but more for you. he wonders what kind of interrogation scheme you’re under right now. wonders if you can continue lying for him.

some time passes, the girl’s laughter echoes from behind the door, “do you think they’re still talking about us?,” chenle asks.

“absolutely,” they all say at once. you were right. girl’s do tell each other everything.

౨ৎ

the door clicks shut behind you and instantly the room explodes, their voices all harmonizing in the air, you weren’t even sure who said what anymore.

“okay, spill!” “when did it happen?” “did he kiss you first?” “who made the first move?” “is he big?”

your eyes widen. in any other situation, like for example: you were actually his girlfriend and you were actually fucking, this would’ve been fun. but right now the room is spinning.

“no, seriously,” kitten grins, practically vibrating with excitement, “you can’t sit here and tell us you bagged chenle and then give us nothing, he kissed you, chenle doesn’t kiss!”

bunny flops down beside you, legs criss-crossed. “like, i don’t even understand. you guys were just friends, right? and now he’s grabbing your waist and making out with you in public??”

“and don’t give us that ‘we’re private’ line,” angel smirks, “we saw the kiss. that was not private. that was possession.” you blink at them, smiling tight. you were prepared for fake couple questions like how did it start or where’s your first date gonna be, but this? this was a firing squad of horny girlfriends.

“i mean…” you trail off, trying to think fast, “it was kind of…sudden? things shifted. we realized we had chemistry and…boom.”

“boom?” bunny arches a brow.

“like…tension. long time coming. slow burn,” you say, proud of your own improv. they all squeal in unison.

“okay but is he good?” angel asks, not missing a beat.

you freeze for half a second too long. kitten’s eyes narrow, “oh my god. you haven’t slept with him yet.”

bunny gasps like you just confessed a crime, “wait. no. have you?”

you panic, “i mean—not, like, fully—but…”

all three of them lean in at once.

“okay, what have you done?” kitten demands.

you hesitate, chewing your cheek. and then you commit, “well,” you say, slow and measured, “we just…touched,” you admit, knowing you had to give them something for them to let you go.

there’s a pause, followed by a collective shriek.

angel grabs your wrist, “YOU MEAN—”

“guys,” you whisper, “it was hands only. that’s it.” you leave out who’s hand was touching who. their jaws drop. you force a smile but inside you’re combusting.

angel slings an arm around you, “god, i love new couple energy. so fresh. so chaotic. i give you a week before you’re fully obsessed with each other.” you just hum, hoping no one notices how hard your heart is pounding. because you're not just faking a relationship anymore — you're faking experience, chemistry, desire.

a few more minutes and you finally emerge from the room with the girls, cheeks flushed, hair slightly tousled, and a drained smile plastered on your face. your laugh is a little delayed. your steps slightly uneven. and chenle notices immediately. he’s sitting on the floor with the rest of the dream boys, a soda can balanced on his knee, but the second he sees you, his brows pinch slightly.

he stands, “baby,” he says, voice pitched just right, casual but a little needy, purposefully loud enough for the rest of them to hear, “you okay?”

you nod a little too quickly, “totally, just girl talk.”

he doesn’t buy it. not for a second. and then you feel it — his hand slipping around your waist, low, secure, warm against the small of your hips, thumb rubbing slow circles, and he leans in like he’s about to whisper something sweet. the small action makes you feel hot. god, you were going crazy.

instead, “we’re going,” he announces smoothly, voice dipped in just enough gravel to sound like he means business.

“what?” mark blinks, “we’re barely halfway through the movie!?”

“she’s tired,” chenle says, already pulling you into his side, “and i need her...in…more ways than one.”

your breath catches. the room erupts again.

“OKAY!” “get it, chenle!” “don’t forget protection, king!”

kitten throws a pillow at mark. bunny covers jeno’s lips. angel’s cackling and jaemin’s trying to pull her back into his lap. but no one tries to stop you. chenle flashes the room a satisfied grin, like this was always the plan. like he didn’t just lie through his teeth to get you out of there. you barely manage a wave as he leads you to the door, “bye, guys!”

“BYE SLUTS!” kitten yells cheerfully. the second the door shuts behind you and it’s just the two of you on the porch, you groan and bury your face in his shoulder.

“i think i aged ten years,” you mumble.

chenle chuckles and tightens his grip around your waist, “you looked like you were about to pass out. what the hell did they ask you?”

you sigh, dragging your feet as he starts leading the way to your dorm, your hand wrapped in his, “everything. like everything, everything.”

he pauses, “like…”

“chenle,” you deadpan, “i had to describe what you sound like when you finish.”

he chokes, “YOU WHAT—”

you hold up you free hand, silencing him, “do not make me relive it. just know, i deserve more than the gym schedule.”

he’s red in the face again, “why do girls talk like that?!”

“because we’re nosy and unhinged, and also because men are way too hot when they fall apart. that’s why,” you say more than you’re supposed to and chenle can’t help but tease you.

“oh so you thought i was hot,” he smirks, eyebrows wiggling.

“don’t even start,” you groan, “i can’t go another second of this.” he just smirks as he walks you to your dorm.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 13 - SUGAR SWEET MOUTH ౨ৎ

you’re stretching at the edge of the court, hair pulled back, body still warm from the last cheer sequence. the gym smells like sweat and floor polish, the low thump of basketballs echoing from the other side where the boys are warming up.

then you hear it – gasps, followed by whispers. you glance up and see chenle walking in, a bouquet of blush-pink and white tulips in hand. the sight makes your heart skip a beat. you ignore it. he marches right past the curious stares and half-shocked teammates, past quinn, until he’s in front of you.

“for you, baby,” he says casually like he didn’t just change the rhythm of your heart beat, “they reminded me of you.” your mouth parts slightly. for a second your brain short-circuits. he needed to shut up before you forget you’re only playing a part. you remind yourself that this wasn’t just sweet — it was strategic. you’d both agreed. since you only were supposed to kiss when it’s absolutely necessary, courtesy of his rule, the two of you came up with alternatives. subtle touches, cute gestures, notes, little tokens of affection that would sell the story without breaking whatever fragile line of comfort was left between you.

today, he chose flowers. and he chose to give it to you in front of everyone — your fingers curl around the stems carefully, “lele,” you say, voice soft. he shrugs, feigning nonchalance but not quite hiding the way his ears are tinged red, “just pretty flowers for my pretty baby,” he says the line he’s been practicing ever since he bought those flowers a couple hours ago. you don’t even look around to check who’s watching. you already know. quinn is still near her usual wall, frozen mid-sip of her drink, eyes sharp with something between confusion and jealousy. the rest of the cheer team is giggling animatedly behind you, all of them feeling giddy. and on the other side of the court, mark, co-captain of the basketball team, watches it unfold like he’s watching one of his girlfriend’s rom-coms in real life. mark’s brows lift, lips twitching into a smile. then, silently, he pulls out his phone, took a quick picture and sent it to the couple’s group chat.

mark: okay maybe we were dicks last night. this might be real

the groupchat flooded with messages instantly, mostly from the girls talking about how chenle takes the number one boyfriend of the month spot.

back on your side of the court, you offer chenle a genuine smile. then, slowly, you rise to your tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek. soft. light. barely more than a brush of skin. but his breath catches. for a millisecond, his whole body stiffens, then softens. he tries not to react. tries to play it cool. but if he was being honest, his heart is pounding, traitorous and loud, and his fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you but his own rules stops him.

“thanks, lele,” you say sweetly.

he offers you a smile, “anything for my baby,” he says, softly tapping your chin before turning his head toward the court, shooting a half-hearted glare at mark, who’s giving him a thumbs up and mouthing you’re so down bad across the gym. chenle doesn’t respond. he just grabs a ball, sinks a shot with near perfect form and tries to ignore the lingering warmth of his cheek.

౨ৎ

later that afternoon, the gym buzzed with the usual chaos of practice, only the basketball team were around now. sneakers screeched against the hardwood. balls bounced around the room. sweat, noise and routine, nothing out of place. until some of the players joined chenle – eric jogged up beside him, “so…you and the cheer captain now, huh?,” he said, not even trying to sound casual.

chenle nodded once, eyes still on the court, “yeah.”

“damn,” juyeon said with a low whistle, joining in on the conversation, “didn’t think you had it in you to bag the girl every guy on campus wants.” chenle’s jaw tensed, but he kept his eyes ahead.

jay, another player, chuckled, “yeah, she’s–,” he hesitated for effect, then grinned, “—a handful, huh?”

chenle didn’t look up but he did not like where this was going at all. juyeon leaned in a little, “mhm, still remember that party two semesters ago. she kissed me so hard i forgot my name,” he snickers, the memory playing in his mind, “sugar sweet mouth, bro and she tastes even sweeter where it really matters if you know what i mean.”

“real flexible too,” eric added with a laugh, “you just have to know how to use her.”

jay gave him a nudge, “seriously, props to you man, she’s got a mouth that–”

“stop.” chenle says. the word wasn’t loud. but it was final. dark. deadly. the ball hit the floor with a loud thud. chenle stopped moving. and it’s not like he was hearing all of this for the first time, he’s pretty sure you’ve told him about these activities in extreme detail before. i mean, you guys talk about everything and anything under the sun, including your sex life. but it’s different now. you’re supposed to be his gf. and he hates that they’re not respecting that. slowly, he turned to face them. not blinking. not smiling. nothing about his expression was amused. a silence fell between four of them.

juyeon rolled her eyes, “relax, man. she’s not a saint–,”

“i said stop.” he said, voice low, jaw tight, “that’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.”

eric scoffed, “c’mon man, we’re just messing around. it’s not that serious.”

“it is serious,” chenle bit out, teeth gritted, “i don’t care what happened at a party two semesters ago, hell, even two weeks ago. if any of you talk about her like that again, i’ll kick you off this team myself.”

jay scoffed, arms crossed, “yeah, well she wasn’t always yours. don’t get all territorial now just because you finally got a turn.”

that did it. chenle’s eyes flashed. the cool, easy going demeanor he always wore was gone in an instant. his hands were shaking from how tightly he was clenching his fists, breath shallow with rage. he stepped in until he was chest to chest with jay, “you think this team matters more than my respect?,” chenle hissed, voice low, dangerous, “keep talking about her and you’ll be off the roster before you can blink.”

juyeon and eric looked stunned. none of them had ever seen chenle like this — not even close. he’d always been the chill one, the sarcastic one. even when people trashed him online after bad games, he shrugged it off. but this was different. chenle stepped back, nostrils flaring, chest still heaving. his hands curled into fists at his sides. then he blew the whistle. loud. sharp. angry.

“LAPS,” he barked, “until i say stop.” groans echoed across the gym, but no one dared challenge him. not when his voice sounded like that.

chenle wasn’t sure what he hated more. the fact that they were talking about you in that way or the fact that now he had to picture those guys touching you, tasting you, and he couldn’t unsee it. they knew the curve of your body. the sound of your voice when it cracked, broken with pleasure. they knew what made you moan. what made you beg. and he didn’t know any of that. all he had was one kiss. all he had was the memory of your dorm room, your mouth parted, hand between your thighs as you whimpered his name. the sound of your breath hitching. the way your eyes rolled back when you came. that was the only version of you he had – distant, aching, too far away to feel.

the image of you touching yourself ruined him. but now he had to imagine other guys doing it for you…and liking it. talking about it like it was theirs to own. that burned worse than anything. because now all he could think about was how other men got to taste you…and he hadn’t even had you. not like that. not the way he was starting to need to.

jealousy coiled tight in his chest like barbed wire. and worse than jealousy, something else had cracked open beneath it – something sickeningly possessive. something unspoken. nothing has ever made him angry like this before. no one had ever made him feel like this before.

౨ৎ

lele 😎💗: i’m coming over.

you barely have time to register the message before a sharp knock hits your door. he’s already here, less than five minutes later. you open the door and the look in his eyes hits you like a wave – anger, frustration and something darker curling beneath it. he walks in without a word, jaw clenched tight, hair damp from a recent shower, gym bag slung over one shoulder, his hoodie half zipped, exposing the clean line of his neck. you close the door behind him, “chenle?”

“it’s not right,” he cuts in, voice low and tense, dropping his bag on the floor at the foot of your bed, “it’s not fucking right that those guys know how you taste and i don’t,” he lets the words spill out of his lips, clearly not thinking properly.

you blink, thrown off by his bluntness, confusion all over your features, “what?”

he paces around, then stops and looks at you, “today at practice…they said things. stuff i didn’t want to hear,” he swallows hard, fists clenched, “and it’s driving me insane, because i’m supposed to be your boyfriend. even if it’s fake, i should at least –,” he trails off, his words finally catching up to him.

“you should what?,” you ask, heart pounding, “what do you want us to do, chenle?”

he stares at you for a second too long. then quietly, intensely, he says, “would you let me go down on you?”

you freeze. a million things he could’ve said. a million things you had expected him to say. and none of it included that. you think it over for a bit but it really doesn’t take long. you had needs too. your voice drops to a whisper, “only if you let me go down on you too.”

he stiffens just slightly, your eyes search his, “we need to get better at lying, right? everyone’s already asking what we’ve done…how far we’ve gone. it’ll just make this more convincing,” you explain, not too sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself. the tension hangs heavy in the air. his tongue darts across his bottom lip.

you decide to make the first move, stepping closer, “tell me to stop and i will,” you say. but he doesn’t. he just nods once. and in that moment, both of you know – the lines between real and fake are about to blur. hard.

you pull your shirt over your head, slowly, deliberately. if this is for a lie, for your story, for your reputations, then you’re going to commit to it.

chenle’s eyes drag down your breasts. of course you weren’t wearing a fucking bra. and fuck, you were so fucking perfect. his jaw is locked tight like he’s holding himself together with the last thread of restraint, all his blood surging to his cock. you walk toward him, fingers hooking into your shorts, peeling them down without breaking eye contact, leaving you completely bare for him. his breath audibly stutters but he still doesn’t move.

his rule rings out low and firm in the heavy silence, and he’s not sure if he’s reminding you or himself, “no kissing on the mouth.”

you nod, stepping closer, “i know the rule.” you take the last step in between you, closing the distance. you push his hoodie off, then slip your hands under his shirt, dragging it up and over his head. his skin is warm, his abs flexing as your palms skate across them. your lips brush along his collarbone, testing at first, and he doesn’t stop you. instead, he tilts his head back as your mouth trails down his neck, his breath catching like he wasn’t expecting it to feel this good and you’ve barely even started. you push his sweats down, it falls to his ankles. his cock already hard against your thigh.

his hands hover near your waist like he’s still unsure whether this is real. you decide for him. grabbing his hands and placing each one on your breasts, “you can touch me, lele,” you say littering kisses all over his neck, down to his chest.

you feel his breath hitch beneath your lips. then his fingers start ghosting over your perky nipples, making you release a sigh of pleasure in response. his fingers flick quick and fast and hot. you could feel the heat in your stomach start building. he bends over, just slightly, to take one of your breasts in his mouth and you can’t help but let out a whine, loud against his ear, gripping his hair as you pull him closer.

he pushes you back until your legs hit the foot of your bed, your back hitting your mattress, chenle still sucking on your nipples like it was the only thing he was made for. for someone who didn’t kiss, he knew how to use his tongue well. it was almost unfair, “lele,” you moan.

“hmm?,” he says, mouth still full of your breasts, tongue swirling around your bud, finger rolling the other. your pussy clenching at nothing. you needed to feel just how good his tongue is on you. now. you lightly push him off of you and he looks up with dazed eyes, already lost in the lust. you crawl backward on the bed, until your head hits the pillows. then you open your legs for him, fingers dipping down between your folds, showing him wet you are. showing him what he does to you.

“are you gonna keep staring or are you gonna make sure you know how i taste?,” you smirk. his gaze darkens and then he was moving. diving in between your legs, his hand on your hips as his tongue swipes across your folds, your reaction was immediate, a quiet gasp slipping past your lips.

his tongue swipes again, slower this time, more deliberate — like he’s savoring it. like he wants to make sure you feel every flick, every glide, every warm drag of his mouth along your slick folds.

“fuuck,” you whisper, head falling back into the pillows, hips jerking toward his face. you weren’t ready for how good it would feel, how thoroughly he’d devour you. he grips your thighs, spreading you wider, angling your hips up to meet his mouth better. his tongue laps at your clit, slow at first, then faster, more focused, until your breath catches in your throat. he moans low against you, the vibration rippling through your core, his hunger for you making your thighs tremble against his shoulders. the way he eats you is not shy. it’s messy. loud. tongue everywhere. mouth sealed around your clit, then dragging back down to tease your entrance, tongue prodding in and out of your hole, only to dive right back up to leave kisses on the bundle of nerves that has you clenching around nothing.

you reach for him. not just to ground yourself, but to do something back. “lele—” you murmur, voice barely steady, “i want to taste you too.”

his eyes flick up, dark and blown wide with lust, and he understands instantly. in a swift motion, he flips the two of you over so you’re straddling him, hands on his chest. then he completely mahandles you, turning you around, until you’re facing his cock. you let him do what he wants until you feel his breath on your hot core. you turn over your shoulder, “are you sure?”

“just take your seat, baby please,” he says, practically whining. you let yourself down slowly, carefully, until chenle grabs your hips and pulls you down hard against his mouth, lips immediately on you like a magnet. he’s all tongue and open-mouthed hunger, licking into you like he means it, like he wants you undone within seconds. you moan, hands flying to his hips for balance as yours stutter against his hot, wet mouth. he doesn’t ease up. he groans into you, low and hoarse. his hands grip your ass, guiding your rhythm — up, down, until you’re rolling your hips in sync with his mouth, pleasure crawling up your spine in electric waves.

and then you lean forward — hand closing around his cock, already hard and leaking, twitching under your touch. he jerks the second you stroke him. another moan vibrates against you. you lower your mouth over him slowly, savoring every inch, and when he feels your lips wrap around the tip, his hands tighten on your thighs, dragging you down even harder against his tongue — the position is hot, filthy and perfect for two people who weren’t allowed to be intimate. just pure lust and desire.

every time you take him deeper into your mouth, he moans against your cunt, sending vibrations throughout your body making you moan around him. it was a continuous chain reaction. a circle. a rhythm that shouldn’t feel this good for something that’s supposed to be fake. he eats you out like he’s starving, like he’s desperate. the groans he spills into your skin when you swirl your tongue around the head of his cock is addicting. you hollow your cheeks and bob your head steadily, spit and precum making it easier to move faster, sloppier. his thighs tremble beneath your hands. his breathing’s gone ragged, harsh exhales against your folds as he keeps licking you like he can’t decide what he wants more — to come or to pull you over the edge first.

you don’t stop until you feel him throb against your tongue, hips bucking weakly. his moan breaks against you — loud, unfiltered, completely undone. just as you fall apart on his face, grinding down until your vision goes white. you both cum at the same time, wrecked and breathless, your bodies slick with sweat and need. you swallow all of him as your thighs quiver above him, hands digging into the sheets for some sense of control that’s long gone.

slowly, you climb off him, your chest still rising and falling fast. his face is flushed, jaw shiny with you, eyes glazed as he swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, still tasting you on him. you collapse beside his legs, your skin still tingling, the air thick with the scent of sex and something heavier beneath it — something unspoken.

you’re just catching your breath when he speaks, “they were right,” he says, voice low, jaw tight like he’s trying not to clench it.

you blink, turning your head toward him, “huh?”

he finally looks at you, eyes darker than before, almost like he was mad that they knew this about you.

“your pussy’s the sweetest there is” he whispers. you freeze. it was so vulgar. you’ve never heard him like that before. you’re not supposed to blush. you’re not supposed to feel anything — this was supposed to be for the lie. but your cheeks warm anyway, blood rushing to your face like your body doesn’t care what rules your brain is trying to enforce.

“…don’t say shit like that,” you mumble, hiding your face in your sheets, suddenly all too aware of your nakedness, your vulnerability, the way your heart is thudding like it wants to be acknowledged.

chenle lets out a soft, breathless laugh, the kind that’s more teasing than sincere, “relax,” he says, grinning as he taps your ass, “just telling the truth.” before you can respond, he’s already off the bed, striding butt-naked into your bathroom. you hear the soft creak of a cabinet, the rustle of movement and then he’s back, completely unfazed, moving like none of this is new to him. he doesn’t say a word as he gently nudges your thighs apart, and before you can fully process what’s happening, he’s cleaning you up with a warm, damp paper towel. slow, deliberate, and so unexpectedly tender it makes your chest ache. then, he reaches for your blanket and carefully pulls it over your body, tucking it around you like it’s second nature.

you stay sprawled on the bed, watching him through half-lidded eyes, too tired to argue, unsure if you want to kiss him or strangle him for how easy he makes this all seem. once he’s done, he tosses the paper towel in your bin like he’s shooting a three-pointer, throws his hoodie over his head, and slides back into his sweats like he wasn’t just naked with his face between your thighs and his cock in your mouth just five minutes ago. he heads toward the door, but pauses before opening it. then, with one hand on the handle, the other tugging his duffel bag over his head, he glances over his shoulder with a lazy smirk.

“later, baby,” he teases, “try not to miss me too much.” you groan and bury your face deeper into the pillow, flipping him off without looking, his laugh ringing in your ear. then the door clicks shut. and you’re left alone, naked under the sheets, your heart annoyingly full and your cheeks burning like hell.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 14 - LET’S SEE IT CAPTAIN ౨ৎ

the gym is still and quiet when you and chenle arrive, early enough that even the usual overachievers haven’t shown up yet. you’re both trying a little too hard to be normal. trying to pretend that you didn’t spend last night tangled in the 69 position. you stretch near the free throw line, lazily balancing on one leg. chenle’s dribbling nearby, head down, hair still damp from his pre-practice shower, glistening slightly under the overhead lights.

“you look like you’re in a gatorade commercial,” you mutter.

he doesn’t even glance up, “you look like someone who couldn’t shoot a basket if her life depended on it,” he teases, a playful smirk on his lips.

you gasp dramatically, “excuse me?”

“i’m just saying,” he walks over and tosses you the ball, “let’s see it captain.”

you scoff, adjusting your stance, “i’ll have you know i’ve cheered for hundreds of games, i know this court as well as you.”

he raises a brow, arms crossed, “sure. now actually throw the ball.”

you do. it doesn’t even hit the rim. you pout, “okay, rude,” you say, talking to the ball.

chenle smirks and jogs to retrieve it, “come here”

“what, so you can mock me more?,” you say, a light smile on your lips.

“so i can teach you,” he replies easily, motioning you over. you roll your eyes but go to him anyways.

he steps behind you, gently positioning your arms, “fingers here,” he says, softly guiding your fingers around the ball, “-elbow in,” he murmurs, low and close, sparking the goosebumps to travel down your spine, “breathe, you’re not stabbing someone, you’re guiding the ball.” you scoff, but let him continue guiding your hands anyway. his chest presses lightly against your back, his lips brushing warm at your ear. it’s oddly intimate, this quiet closeness. you pretend not to notice it. so does he.

“now,” he murmurs, “just relax…and shoot.”

the ball flies in a clean arc – nothing but net.

you beam, eyes sparkling, “did you see that?!,” you cheer, excitement written all over your face.

“i’m an excellent teacher,” he smirks. you turn to grin at him, but before you could reply — he kisses you. no warning. no smirk. no audience. just lips on yours. warm and deliberate.

you gasp softly, but your body reacts faster than your brain – your hands go to his chest, mouth moving against his in quiet surprise. it’s soft and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. he swipes at your bottom lip and you part them on instinct, giving him access. your tongues moving in sync like he means it.

and then your brain catches up. this doesn’t make sense. chenle doesn’t kiss. that’s when you’re reminded — quinn. she must be here. she must be watching. why else would he kiss you like his life depended on it?

you pull away slowly, eyes fluttering open, lips flushed, “was she here?,” you whisper.

chenle blinks like he was still processing what the hell just came over him, “yeah,” he answers, a little too quickly. you nod once, eyes scanning the gym, but you don’t see anyone. still, you assume she must’ve been behind the bleachers or near the doors. maybe she slipped out quietly after the kiss.

you swallow down whatever strange flutter just took root in your chest, “right. okay.”

chenle nods too, hands dropping from your waist, “just doing my part,” he mutters with a small, unreadable smile. you nod. some of your teammates start making their way in and that was your cue to escape. you walk away from him, pretending your heart isn’t doing cartwheels in your chest. because if you let yourself think about that kiss too long. the way his mouth moved perfectly in yours. you know you’ll be way past saving.

౨ৎ

his lips are still tingling. chenle walks the other way, jogging across the court to fetch the ball, but his heart isn’t in it. his chest feels tight.

he lied. quinn had been there – earlier. lurking behind the bleachers like some twisted shadow stitched to the edge of his vision. he spotted her in the middle of adjusting your grip on the ball but she slipped out halfway through your shot.

the kiss happened well after she was gone. he didn’t have to do it. there was no audience. no pressure. it wasn’t calculated. it wasn’t strategic — it was instinct. he couldn’t help himself. his body just moved, pulled by something stupid and impulsive and real that curled hot and electric in his chest. you were just standing there, flushed and proud and happy and annoyingly adorable he didn’t know what to do with it but kiss you.

he bounces the ball once. twice. his hands are suddenly sweating. it’s not supposed to feel like that. not with you. you’re his best friend. or you were. this whole mess, this fake relationship. it was all supposed to be fake. controlled clean. he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about how soft your lips were. how those damn assholes were right, you did taste like strawberries but also something else…something sinful. the way you kissed him back. the way you completely melted into him.

he grits his teeth and shoots the ball harder than he needs to. it hits the rim and bounces out. perfect. just like him — falling short. he drags a hand through his hair. the kiss can’t stop replaying in his mind. you, wide-eyed. you, tilting towards him without even thinking. you, pulling away and asking if his stalker was around as if that was the only possible explanation. and it should have been the only explanation.

he was slipping. the way your name is starting to echo louder than it should is suffocating. he’s not ready for that. and that tight, heavy feeling in his chest. it’s not guilt anymore. it’s want. god, help him.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 17 - DON’T ASK ME STUPID QUESTIONS. ౨ৎ

you’re already tense by the time chenle shows up at the gym. he’s leaning against the wall, holding up your favorite snack, “for the prettiest cheerleader in the world,” he says, before pulling you into his arms for a hug. it’s been like this for the past three days, him showing up to your practice with your favorite chocolates, a stuffed toy, letters, any gift he could think of. picking you up and walking you back to your dorm, putting on a show, making sure everyone knows the two of you are so sickeningly in love.

and as sweet as it all has been. you wanted something else. your thighs ache from practice but the throbbing between your legs is worse. you don’t smile. just snatch the bag from him and make your way out the door as he stumbles after you, “what’s wrong?”

you ignore him, just slipping your hand into his and walking the rest of the way in silence. he doesn’t ask again, not until the door to your dorm clicks shut, the silence crashing down like thunder. you toss your bag down, arms crossed, heart pounding with frustration and need.

“bad day?,” he asks carefully, not entirely sure what kind of territory he’s in.

“would it be okay with you if i went and had sex with someone else?”

the air goes still. chenle freezes like you slapped him, “what?”

“i’m serious,” you snap, arms crossed, “this plan sucks, i didn’t think being your fake girlfriend meant i’d be celibate for weeks, im sooo horny chenle, it’s not even funny!,” you groaned, throwing yourself onto your bed, arms covering your face. the silence stretched until you peeked through your fingers and saw him still frozen, mouth parted. “so?,” you prompted.

he blinked, voice lower now, “no. it’s not okay.”

you sat up, suddenly irritated, “why not? we’re not actually dating. it’s not like i’d tell anyone.”

“are you serious? people talk y/n, i’d rather not have everyone think i can’t satisfy you so now you’re cheating on me,” he groans, dragging a hand through his hair.

you stand up annoyed, stepping toward him with fire in your veins, “i’m ovulating, chenle. everything hurts. i’m soaking through my underwear. i can’t think. i’ve been dreaming about you. that night. the way you moaned, the way you ate me out — it’s all i think about. and then you kissed me at the court like i was yours.”

he blinks. swallows hard. your words affect him instantly. his cock twitching in his pants. his mind running a mile per minute.

“i can’t keep pretending that didn’t happen. my body won’t let me,” you say, not even caring if you sounded desperate. you need to be relieved now, “i fingered myself last night and i cried because it wasn’t enough.”

his head is spinning at the image of you not being able to get off. god, you were so sexy.

“don’t go to someone else.” he says, voice low and dark.

“then what?” you whisper, “because if i don’t do something, i swear–”

“i can take care of you.” he says, stepping in close. his breath brushes your lips.

“we said no sex,” you remind him.

his voice drops into something dark and dangerous, “that doesn’t mean i can’t ruin you.”

you raise an eyebrows, “with what? your hands?”

a smirk appears on his features, “my fingers. my mouth. whatever you’ll let me use.”

your heart thuds in your chest. you walk backward to the bed, pulse hammering, “then let’s make it interesting,” you reach into your drawer, pulling out your favorite toy – long, thick, velvety-soft silicone curved just right. you drop it onto the mattress like a challenge. he raises a brow, not shocked at all that you had a dildo.

“use your fingers, use your mouth, use that… i don’t care, just help me, please,” you practically beg. his eyes widen for a second before his mouth twitches into a grin, wicked and reverent all at once, “say less.” and then he was closing the distance. dragging your shirt over your head, unhooking your bra like it was second nature and yanking your cheer shorts and panties in one go, tossing it somewhere around your room. he pushes you down so you were sitting at the foot of your bed, his hands wandering throughout your body, lips marking your exposed breasts and then he was spreading you open, kneeling on your floor, slotting himself in between your thighs and actually groans when he sees how wet you already are.

“goddamn baby,” he whispers, dragging two fingers through your folds “this all for me?”

you nod, “yes lele, please,” you whine. he slides his digits in, deep, slow, curling with precision that makes your hips thrust up. you gasp, body tensing.

“jesus, you’re tight,” he murmurs, “and so fucking warm.” he pushes your legs up until your knees were almost to your chest then adds a third finger, working you open, pumping deep and steady, watching your face the whole time. his thumb brushes your clit in maddening circles, quiet and uncontrollable moans slipping from your lips.

then he picks up the toy. you watch, breathless, as he slicks it up with your arousal, pressing the thick head to your entrance, “ready?,” he asks, looking at you for final confirmation. you nod frantically and he slides it in slowly, dragging it against every swollen nerve ending, pushing it inside until it completely disappears in your cunt. the stretch is intense, full, enough to make your eyes roll back, “oh my god,” you whimper.

“that’s it,” he whispers, breath hot on your thighs as he leans in, “you take it so fucking well.”

he starts pumping it, setting a rhythm, the dildo driving deep, your chest rising and falling with every pant “do you use this and think about me, baby?,” he grunts. when you don’t answer, too lost in the pleasure, he stops his movement, making your eyes shoot wide open.

“lele–”

“i said,” he asks again, voice firmer this time, eyes darker, “do you use this and think about me?”

“y-yes lele, i think about you, how full your cock would feel inside me,” you admit and something in him breaks. he thrusts it deeper, faster, finding the spot that makes your eyes roll back, watching your legs shake. his lips press kisses to the inside of your thighs, sucking and biting, leaving his mark. then his free hand circles your clit in fast, tight spirals. the pressure in your stomach builds fast, unbearable, so sharp you can barely speak.

“fuuuck, chenle,” you breathe out, your back falling to your sheets, no longer able to keep yourself up, “i–im gonna come,” you moan.

“go ahead baby,” he commands, “come for me.” your body obeys. fast. your back arches, toes curling, hands gripping your sheets, jerking so hard the toy nearly slips out as you cry moans of his name. but he doesn't stop. he keeps going, driving you over the edge again, until you’re squirming, tears in your eyes, the toy moving in and out of you in sync with his fingers rubbing furious circles into your clit. you barely even get the chance to process your first orgasm before a second wave hits. the pleasure just as good, just as world rattling as the first. you sob his name, overstimulated, shaking, mouth open but soundless, hand pushing him away.

but chenle isn’t finished.

“c’mon baby, you’re the one who wanted this,” he says, amused as he swats your hand away, pushing you up to your pillows until he’s hovering above you. he pulls the toy out giving you a second to catch your breath before his mouth was on you, lapping you up like a man starved.

“h-holy fuck—,” your stomach tightens immediately, “chenle–too much–”

“no”, he laughs, against you, completely amused, the vibration making your toes curl, “not yet. i’m not done with you,” he teases, flicking his tongue on your clit and thrusting two fingers in your hole, dragging every ounce of sensation out of you. his free hand is strong, keeping you right exactly where he wants you until your hips buck into his face, bibbling his name, fists in his hair, riding the edge again.

“you taste so sweet,” he mumbles between licks. he’s in complete bliss, eyes shut, eating you out like he was satisfying his cravings.

“you’re mine. all of this is mine.” that’s what does it. you come again, even harder – thighs clamping around his head. he holds you through it, still sucking you like there’s no tomorrow, hands gripping your thighs to keep you open as you writhe beneath him, completely undone. yet he still doesn’t relent. you swore there’s tears streaming down your face now, incoherent noises slipping past your lips. you try to close your legs, try to shimmy your way out but he was stronger than he looks, “don’t you ever talk about fucking someone else again.”

he was so addicted. so pussy drunk. he doesn’t know how to stop. then you feel it. that curl in your stomach that only comes when you know you’re about to soak your sheets, the type of sensation no one else but yourself has made your body do.

you try to warn him, “w-wait–chenle–i’m gonna–” but the words don’t come out fast enough. your body explodes. your legs jerk, eyes snap open wide and you squirt – a hot rush of liquid soaking your sheets, his hand, his face.

you choke on a cry, body shaking. he stops dead for a second. his gaze flickers to your soaked thighs, the mess under you, then back to your face, “holy shit, does that always happen?,” he asks. his expression is pure awe and hunger.

you shake your head no, a little embarrassed “not with other people,” you manage to say, voice hoarse. and when you thought it was finally over – he buries his face between your legs for the umpteenth time, making you scream, more determined than ever to get you to do it again.

he’s laughing into your cunt, loving the way you’re crying out for him. the way your juices continue leaking out of you. the way you’re trying to push him away. his fingers are back inside, curling, pressing just right, over and over and over. you can’t breathe. can’t think. the sounds spilling from your mouth are desperate. pleas and stops that he ignores. until you’re twitching. gasping. and it hits again. another wave crashes through you, harder than the first. you sob his name as you gush, spraying him, your body completely undone. he continues rubbing until you we’re completely empty, hands keeping your thighs spread, mouth drinking in as much as he can.

you’re a mess — wet. crying. shaking. and he loves it.

“fuck, you’re so sexy like this,” he groans, licking you through the aftershocks, “fucking soaking for me. mine,” before kissing your clit one last time, finally letting you breathe. then he crawls up your body, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your jaw, your temple, everywhere but your lips. you’re panting, eyes glassy. you stay sprawled out on your back, chest rising and falling in erratic breaths, limbs heavy, brain wiped completely clean. everything’s soaked – the sheets, the comforter, your thighs, chenle.

he’s lying next to you now, propped up one elbow, hand toying with one of your breasts, grinning like he just won the lottery. his face is still shiny with you. you should feel embarrassed that you’re completely naked next to him and he’s still fully dressed but you’re not. you're too high up in the clouds, too light headed to think about anything else.

“you good?,” he asks, voice smug.

you roll your head toward him, still panting, “i think you broke me.”

he laughs, actually laughs, soft and playful and stupidly attractive, “i mean, i did make you squirt. twice,” he smirks, still palming your breasts, like he was glued on to your skin.

you swat his hand away, “god. don’t say it like that.”

“why?” he leans over, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, “it’s the truth. you squirted. all over my fingers. in my mouth. whole crime scene situation down there.”

you groan, “shut up.”

“i’ve never seen someone look so sexy and so destroyed at the same time,” he pokes your cheek, “like, tears in your eyes, legs shaking, moaning my name…i'm flattered,” a smirk on his face.

you swat at him weakly, “stop talking before i die of shame.” but you’re smiling, cheeks flushed. and he notices.

“oh no, don’t get all shy on me now,” he teases, “not after you practically begged me to use a toy on you and called me sir at one point.”

“i did not—” honestly, you weren’t too sure. you had no idea what you were saying half the time. or if what you were saying were even words.

“you did,” he grins, “right when i had three fingers in you and you were like—” he puts on a dramatic impression, moaning exaggeratedly — “‘ahh ahh please, chenle, i’ll do anything, just make me come—’”

you grab the nearest pillow and smack him in the face with it. he just laughs harder. “you’re the worst.”

“and yet,” he says, catching your wrist, pulling it gently until you’re turned toward him again, “you’re here. naked and very very wet.”

you narrow your eyes at him, “you’re very proud of yourself, huh?”

“i made you do something no one else ever has. of course i’m proud,” his fingers skim your bare thigh, slow and cocky, “i own that now.”

and the phrase does more than he thinks. you push the thoughts away, “cocky bastard.”

he leans in, placing a kiss below your ear, “next time don’t ask me stupid questions.” you blink up at him, heart skipping. chenle softens for a second, gaze flicking between your eyes and lips. before his grin returns. mischievous. dangerous.

“and next time, i’m bringing rope,” he teases and you gasp, swatting his face away.

“what?,” he nuzzles into your neck, an arm around your waist, “you want me to keep your legs open properly, don’t you?” you shove him off again, laughing, flushed and glowing.

that night, when he got home, chenle pumped himself up and down, thoughts of you and only you plaguing his mind. he imagined your voice in his ear again. he tries to visualize the way your thighs were shaking, your hands gripping his hair. how beautiful you looked when you fell apart. how you tried to warn him but never got the words out before you were decorating him with your juices. he wants you again. he wants more. his orgasm tears through him, hot and sudden, spilling over his fist.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 19 - SORRY MR. BENCH ౨ৎ

the gym doors slam shut behind the last of his teammate. steam curls from the showers at the back of the locker room. chenle walks out, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp, boxers clinging to his hips. he hums to himself softly. and then he stops cold.

his eyes land on you, leaning against the metal lockers in your cheer shorts and his hoodie that he probably left at your place, “how’d you get in here?” he asks, eyes wide.

there’s a playful smile on your lips, “i snuck in.”

his brows shoot up, “you what?...you can’t just…this is the boy’s locker room, you maniac,” he says, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

you push off the lockers, crossing the floor toward him, “i couldn’t help it.”

he swallows, visibly trying not to look down at what you’re wearing or lack of, “it’s worse today,” you murmur, closing the space between you, “i thought the other day would calm me down but now everytime i close my eyes, i feel you.”

chenle exhales through his nose, the last of his restraints on a thin line, “you’re insane.”

you nod, “i know,” before stepping into his space and wrapping your arms around his neck.

he looks around quickly, like someone might still be lingering. then he grabs your wrist, dragging you behind a row of lockers, out of sight, “we’re going to get caught.”

“no one’s here,” you whisper, voice soft and sinful, “and if they are, i don’t care.”

he groans quietly, eyes flickering down to your exposed thighs, your shorts doing absolutely nothing to hide how worked up you already are, “i can’t stop thinking about the other night either,” he murmurs.

he leans in, lips brushing your ear, “we’re still not having sex.”

you nod, “we’re not,” lips brushing his jaw, “i just want to feel you….please lele…take care of me again.” you didn’t have to say anything else. that phrase was enough. suddenly, his hands are all over you, gripping your ass and pushing you back until you were seated on the wooden bench in between the row of lockers. he kneels between your legs, nuzzling your inner thigh through your clothes, and you whimper, hips bucking up as his breath ghosts over your clothed heat.

“you’re soaked already,” he murmurs against your shorts, breathing you in, “did you walk in like this?”

you nod, cheeks flushed, “i’ve been wet the whole day,” you say as he pulls down your shorts, the undeniable wet spot of your panties clear to him.

he hums like he’s satisfied, “you’re dangerous,” he says, almost lovingly, “no one should be this needy,” a playful smile on his face. you grab his shoulders, pulling him up and making him straddle the bench as you got into his lap. your mouth crashes on his neck, hot and messy, and he moans into your ear when you grind your hips against his. your underwear was still on but the friction was unreal.

he pulls your hips flush against him, and you feel him – hard, throbbing beneath his boxers, pressing against your clothed core, “like this?,” he pants, voice already ragged, “you just wanna feel me?”

“more,” you whine, “please, lele.” with a low groan, he pulls down his boxers just enough to free himself then hooks his fingers into your underwear sliding it down. he runs his hard cock through your folds, slapping his tip against your clit and your grip on his shoulder tighten, “mmm feels so good, just like that,” you moan before you straddle him, grinding into his shaft, the both of you moaning and whining into the night air.

he lets the feeling go on for a bit before he makes you kneel on the bench. then he positions his cock right in between your thighs, against your soaked folds, still outside and starts thrusting. slow. heavy. deliberate. the head of his cock glides between your thighs, through your ass, dragging against your clit with maddening pressure, slicking through your wetness. he unzips your (his) hoodie only to find you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

“god, baby, you’re gonna kill me,” he sighs, his hands on your ass, controlling your hips as your nipples brush against his chest. you nuzzle into his neck, gasping, clinging onto his shoulders like its the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.

“fuck–,” he breathes, “you feel like heaven.”

you nod frantically, “faster lele, please–”

he holds you tighter, gripping your hips, increasing his speed, thrusting between your thighs like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. his shaft brushes your clit over and over, grinding deep into that soaked spot right beneath your entrance, giving you the illusion that he’s inside you. and your body believes it. you rock against him like you’re possessed. like you need this to survive. every stroke sends heat spiraling through your stomach, your thighs trembling. he sucks that sensitive spot on the side of your neck and you were done for.

“i-i think,” you gasp, “i’m gonna–”

“do it,” he growls by your ear, “come on my cock, baby.” with a strangled cry, your body locks up, thighs quivering around him, vision going white. he didn’t even have to touch you inside and yet you unravel completely. chenle swears under his breath, thrusts harder once. twice. and then he’s coming too, warm and thick between your thighs, his juices slipping down your legs. the bench under you looks like it witnessed something illegal. his head falls to your shoulder, panting hard, clinging to you like he’s been holding back for days.

you’re both a wreck. neither of you move for a while. your knees start to get sore but you don’t care. his arms stay wrapped around your waist. eventually, he sits down, sitting you onto his lap, “shit,” he mutters, voice raspy, “poor bench.”

you smile weakly, “sorry mr. bench”

he looks at you for a long moment. and then that damn smirk returns, “we are so getting banned from the locker room.”

you groan, “they can’t ban both of the captains.”

“they can if the bench gives a testimony,” he teases. you elbow him, laughing breathlessly.

“i cannot believe we just did that,” you mumble, hiding in the crook of his neck.

chenle’s voice is way too proud, “i can. i had faith in our poor impulse control.”

you snort, “you're disgusting.”

he winks, “you love it.” there’s a pause. you go quiet. he does too. a beat of something unspoken simmers between you. but before either of you can crack it open, he glances down at the mess on your legs and grimaces.

“damn,” he mutters, reaching for his towel on the foot of the bench, “i got you good.” you roll your eyes as he dabs at your inner thighs carefully, like he’s handling something delicate.

“i can’t believe i ever thought we could pull off fake dating without...this happening,” you whisper.

he blinks at you, then grins, “you thought we’d not eventually dry-hump in a locker room?” you laugh again, trying to brush it off. but he doesn’t. he’s watching you now, softer. less joking. and then, the sound of the locker room door opens.

“chenle…you still in here?,” coach jaehyun’s voice echoes down the tiled corridor. both of your eyes go wide, “oh my god” you stare at each other like two deer caught in headlights.

“shit”, he hisses under his breath. he zips your hoodie up clumsily over your bare chest and scrambles to pull his boxers up as you pick up your shorts and underwear.

“stay still, don’t breathe, you’re invisible” he whispers.

“i’m not invisible!,” you whisper back, panic rising but he’s already shoving you behind one of the open lockers. your back hits the cool metal just as coach jaehyun’s footsteps draw closer. you clasped your mouth shut, heart pounding out of your chest, legs still weak. chenle wipes his hands on the towel, trying to look casual, and walks out just as coach rounds the corner, still in his windbreaker, clipboard under one arm.

“there you are,” coach says, slowing his stride, “always the last to leave, huh?”

chenle offers a lopsided grin, trying to keep his face neutral despite the chaos in his chest. “yes coach, just making sure the showers were off. locker doors closed. y’know, the usual.”

coach glances around, oblivious, “that’s what I like to hear.” you hold your breath behind the locker, still trembling slightly, trying not to let your knees give out or your breath catch audibly.

coach crosses his arms, “big game tomorrow. you’ve been putting in the work. i’ve seen it. just keep your head clear. and for god’s sake, get some sleep. no all-nighters, no tiktoks, no distractions. you hear me?”

chenle coughs, mouth twitching, “yes, sir.”

“good. i need you sharp. you're the heart of this team, chenle.” that hits. chenle’s face softens just slightly, eyes darting to where you’re hiding. “i’ll be ready,” he says, quieter this time.

coach jaehyun claps him on the shoulder, “proud of you, kid. lock up behind you.” and with that, the coach turns and exits, the heavy door creaking shut behind him. you wait until the footsteps fade. one beat. two. then you burst out of the locker, wide-eyed, “the heart of the team, huh?” you tease, breathless.

chenle lets out a laugh, bracing his hands on his hips, “do not talk to me about what just happened while i’m still trying to survive a cardiac event.”

you’re grinning now, limp but giddy, “you were sweating bullets.”

“he said no distractions, and i had my very naked distraction grinding on me just five minutes ago”

“you were very focused, i’ll give you that.” you put your underwear and shorts back on before shuffling over to him, still slightly dazed, “guess it’s good i helped you, then. let out some of that…pressure.”

he chuckles, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into his chest, “you are not helping.”

you smirk against his collarbone, “want me to give you a pre-game pep talk tomorrow too?”

“i think you already gave me one tonight,” he murmurs, and you both dissolve into laughter. then he pulls back, a little more serious, “but for real… i’m glad you’re here.”

you blink at him, surprised, “you are?”

he nods, “i don’t think i could’ve slept tonight if i hadn’t…felt you. been driving me insane.” your chest tightens a little. something tender stirs in the air between you, but he breaks it off, walking to his locker.

you laugh helplessly as he gets dressed, grabbing his gym bag and throwing an arm around your shoulders, guiding you toward the exit, “come on baby, let’s get you home before you start climbing me again.”

you’re not entirely sure why you’re still acting sweet. why your fingers automatically laced with his as you walk down the hall — his stalker wasn’t around. there was no audience to act for. no one to fool. no reason to keep pretending. yet you’re still wearing the stupid smile he put on your face. and when he glances down at you, his gaze softens like he’s seeing you for the first time. maybe it should bother you. maybe you should pull away. to remind him, and yourself, that this wasn’t supposed to mean anything. that this was a game. a favor. but you don’t. not yet. for now, you keep walking beside him – sweet, quiet, warm. not because you have to. but because you want to.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 20 - HIS GIRL. ౨ৎ

the gym roars with life – drums pounding, sneakers squeaking, the crowd’s cheers pulsing like electricity through the air. but chenle can’t hear any of it. because then you step out. and you’re not in your usual cheer top. no — you’re wearing his jersey. cropped. tied with a rubber band just under your chest so his number (30) stretches perfectly across the swell of your breasts. your cheer skirt is even shorter than usual. or maybe it just feels that way because now it’s paired with his name sitting proudly on your body. like a claim.

his eyes drag down your legs as you jog across the court, white sneakers bouncing, hair tied up in a high ponytail with ribbons that match the team colors (green and white). you wave your pom-poms and wink at the crowd, all of them screaming for the university’s darling. then you let your eyes slide to him. it hits him low. hard. his throat goes dry. and somewhere beneath the waistband of his shorts – he feels the heat pool. sharp and instant. you weren’t even doing anything yet. just being there, in his number — his hoodie had been one thing. but this was something else entirely. this showed everyone that you belonged to him.

the game starts. and every time he makes a shot, every layup, every three pointer – he points at you. the first time he does it, you blink. then your face breaks into a smile. the second time, your knees almost give out mid-cheer. by the third, the entire student section has caught on. they’re screaming for him and chanting his name but chenle only had eyes for you. you’re cheering like always, sharp, energetic, your moves clean and practiced. but every now and then, he notices the shift. the way your eyes flick only to him, the way you proudly shout, “let’s go! that’s my boyfriend,” when he scores. the way you throw in little extra spins, little kicks, a twirl you know he likes. you do a jump and land perfectly, grinning like you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

mark nudges him at halftime, chuckling, “dude,” he say under his breath, “your girl’s really going all out for you today.”

chenle’s ears turn bright red. his heart flutters. the way everyone knows you’re his girl creeps a smile in his face, “she’s just…excited for the game,” he mutters. mark just laughs and slaps his back before making his way to the stands, giving his own girlfriend a kiss on the lips for good luck.

during the cheer intermission, you’re front and center. the rubber band holding up his jersey bounces with every move. your chest jiggles with each jump. and there’s a moment, one that lasts way too long, when your skirt flips just enough to show the top of your spandex and chenle just stares. he swears he blacks out for a second. and then you get tossed into the air and he really can’t breathe. you were so high up. and yes, you’ve been a cheerleader since you could walk but his heart still lurches with worry.

by the final quarter, you’ve lost all sense of the score. you’re not sure if its the heat of the gym or the way he’s been looking at you all night, but your whole body feels flushed, electric. like the universe has boiled down to this court, this moment, him — and then it happens. final seconds on the clock. the score’s tied. chenle steals the ball, running pass the defenders, he jumps to shoot, you’re holding your breath so hard your lungs ache. and…he scores!

the ball hits the net with a clean, satisfying swish just as the buzzer blares. the gym erupts. but chenle doesn’t throw his hands up. doesn’t high-five his teammates. doesn’t go for the trophy.

he runs straight to you. before you can even say his name, he’s got both hands on your waist, twirling you in the air, your laughter ringing in his ears. and then his lips crash into yours. no hesitation. no warning — the cheerleaders squeal. the crowd screams. his team goes wild. and quinn watches with wide eyes and stunned silence, finally convinced that the two of you are head over heels in love.

and maybe it’s because you are. maybe the only people you were still fooling are yourselves.

you kiss him back like the world’s ending. like he’s gravity and you’re falling hard and fast and there’s no stopping it. like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to earth. it tastes like adrenaline and sweat and something dangerously close to love.

when he pulls back, breathless and glowing, you stare at him, dazed. your eyes meet his and for one aching second, just one, there’s something soft there. something real. a look you’ve never seen before. one that steals your breath in a different way. but it was gone in an instant, replaced with one of his usual smiles, that trademark, smug, chenle smile and he says, “that should really sell it now.”

your heart cracks. just a little. you pretend not to notice. you smile. of course you do. because that’s what you’re supposed to do. because he’s right. because his stalker was just right there, watching. because this whole thing is fake. because it’s easier to pretend this doesn’t mean everything to you. because if you stop smiling now, it’ll all fall apart. you’ll fall apart.

so you laugh, soft and light, like it didn’t mean anything. like it was all part of the plan. you slide a hand behind his neck, fingers trembling slightly as you pull him back down and kiss him again – fierce. desperate. wordless. pouring everything into it. all the things you can’t say.

you kiss him like you’re trying to convince yourself that this is enough. that pretending is enough. but you feel it—deep, deep in your chest. when you pull away, he lets go of your waist gently, oblivious to the way your fingers curl into fists at your sides, to the way you avoid looking at him too long. then he walks back to his teammates, laughing, his arm slung around mark’s shoulder like nothing just happened. you cheer with the rest of the squad. you wave at the crowd. you let the moment play out like it’s everything you wanted. but your chest burns. because you’re starting to realize the worst part isn’t pretending to love someone for the sake of a lie – it’s realizing you stopped pretending. and he still is.

౨ৎ

the music is loud, bass thumping through the floor of the dream frat house. the place is packed with players, cheerleaders, friends of friends but chenle doesn’t stray far from your side. he hasn’t left you since the two of you walked in together, hand in hand.

you’re both a little buzzed, drunk off victory and just enough vodka to feel reckless. his arm draped around your shoulders and your fingers are casually laced with his. you’ve stopped pulling away from him when he gets too close. maybe it’s the alcohol. maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you like you were more important than stephen curry.

“you’ve been staring at me all night,” you murmur, pressing your lips to the shell of his ear as the two of you lean against the kitchen counter, resting for a bit after wining a beer pong game together.

he smirks, fingers sliding under the hem of the jersey you’re still wearing – his jersey, still tied into a crop top, showing off too much skin, “can you blame me?” his thumb brushes circles into your hip, playing with the bare skin just above your waistband. the party rages around you but it feels like it’s just the two of you. he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and leans in to say something but instead of words, he presses a kiss to your cheek. then your jaw. then the corner of your mouth. so close to your lips.

“why are you being clingy?,” you whisper, not really complaining as you lean back on the kitchen counter.

“i’m being convincing,” he says with a wink and your heart cracks a little more. he slides his hands tighter around your waist, tucking you back into his chest and swaying the two of you to the song the dj is currently playing. then he’s guiding you back into the party, fingers laced with yours. without missing a beat, he tugs you closer, hands smoothing down your sides before settling on your hips. he rests his forehead against yours.

“everyone’s watching,” you whisper, your hands on his chest now, heart racing way too fast.

his eyes don’t leave yours, “that’s what we want right?,” your hands find the back of his neck, curling into his hair as his nose brushes yours, and he kisses you — just a ghost of a kiss at first, almost too soft to be real. but when he feels you lean into it, he kisses you again, deeper, more certain.

you pull back just long enough to smile, “breaking your own no-kissing rule again?”

he smiles too, that boyish, dizzy grin that always gets you, “had to.” that’s it. just had to. two words that now has your heart was soaring through the skies.

and he’s drunk. not just from alcohol. he’s drunk on you. during the next dance, he keeps sneaking kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone. at one point, he reaches around you to pull your jersey down a little, muttering, “my name looks really good on you,” before pressing a kiss to your shoulder. you roll your eyes and pretend not to melt.

when his teammates pull him away for photos and victory shots, you catch mark smirking, “you’ve got it bad, dude.”

chenle’s ears flush pink, “shut up.” but his eyes dart back to you instantly, and when he makes his way back, he grabs your hand again like it’s second nature. you’re halfway into another laugh when he spins you, catches you, presses your back to his chest again. his arms wrap around your waist like he never wants to let go.

“you’re seriously being so touchy tonight,” you say, but your voice is still soft. like you don’t mind it. like you want more of it.

“i’m celebrating,” he murmurs, “we made it to finals. you’re in my jersey. and i get to pretend you’re mine for a few more days.” your breath catches. you barely had time to process his words when his hand curls under your chin, tilts your face to his, and he kisses you again. gentle. long. like he’s memorizing it.

you pull away and his fingers interlock with yours, warm and familiar. you glance up at him. he doesn’t say a word, just gives you a soft, almost shy smile and tips his head toward the stairs. you nod, following him without hesitation — his bedroom door shuts quietly behind you. the music becomes a muffled thrum below your feet, nothing but a distant heartbeat now.

chenle turns around, eyes raking over you in his jersey, his cheeks flushed from the drinks, from the game, from you. “you’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbles, hands finding your hips like it’s second nature, “the way you cheered…my jersey,” he squeezes the hem of the shirt in between his hands, “this smile,” he adds, softly tapping your lips, “i couldn’t stop looking at you.”

your heart flips in your chest, “i was just playing my role.”

his jaw clenches at that, and for a second, he looks like he wants to say something. but instead, he just nods, “right.” — you want to take it back. you want to tell him it wasn’t just the role. that nothing about tonight felt fake to you. instead, you reach up and cup his jaw, tracing your thumb along his cheekbone. he leans into it without thinking, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of the night is finally catching up to him.

maybe you’ll both blame the alcohol tomorrow. whatever reason it is just so he could kiss you again — slow, unhurried, almost fragile. not like the others. not like you’re trying to convince anyone. just him and you and the quiet truth neither of you are brave enough to say out loud. and you let him kiss you. because pretending it didn’t mean anything was easier than acknowledging how badly you wanted it to. how badly you wanted him.

he pressed you up against his bedroom wall, pulling his jersey over your head like he’s unwrapping something fragile, and his eyes take their time, “you’re unreal,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion and desire. his hands grab at your waist, your hips, your ass, needy and warm and too far gone for restraint, his lips moving in sync with yours. he can’t get enough of you.

you murmured against his lips, “should we do it like last time?”

“yeah,” he panted, nodding, “just— just let me feel you again.” you both get undressed at the same time, fast, the need to feel each other overwhelming.

he sits on the middle of his bed first, patting the space in front of his legs. you make your way towards him, crawling on all fours and kissing him again. he kisses you just as hard. but before you could straddle him, he turns you around so your back is flushed to his chest. he parts your legs and his fingers slide through your folds with no warning, slow and teasing.

“you’re soaked,” he murmured against your neck, voice full of awe and want, lips brushing your skin between every word, “are you like this because of me, baby?”

you nodded, shameless, “all because of you.” his hands roamed your body, gripping your hips, sliding up to cup your breasts, to rub circles over your nipples. then he leans back against the pillows, settling you on top of him as his cock rocked in between your thighs. he thrusts up with a speed that has you moaning, his cock rubbing your folds perfectly. his tip curving up to hit your clit every time with just enough friction to build that heat in your stomach.

you were still playing by the rules. still pretending. or trying to.

but the moment he adjusted your hips to grind a little deeper, to rut you down against the underside of his cock — he slipped. not against you. into you. you gasped, eyes flying wide, breath catching in your throat as he filled you in one sudden, accidental thrust.

maybe it was due to how wet you both are. or maybe it was because both of you are tired of pretending you don’t want this.

“shit—,” chenle choked, arms tightening around you like a reflex, “i didn’t mean—fuck, i didn’t mean to—”

but neither of you moved. not forward, not away. because he was inside you. warm and hard and throbbing, deeper than anything before. and your body betrayed every rule with the way it clenched around him, wet and welcoming.

“lele…” you breathe, frozen in place.

he pressed his forehead to your shoulder, swearing under his breath, “we should stop,” he whispered, “we said we wouldn’t—fuck—you feel too good baby,” his hands gripping your hips tighter like he couldn’t help himself.

and then you moved your hips…once, instinctively, sliding up and back down. just to test it. just to feel him deeper.

“fuck–no–don’t do that baby, i can’t….” he groaned. your shared moans harmonizing in the air, low and broken. but even as he said it, his hips were bucking up to meet you, his hands were on your hips, guiding you up just to slam you back down on him, burying himself inside you again.

and now you were riding him. leaning back against his chest as he filled you again and again, so thick, so hard. neither of you were pretending anymore. it was all real — the desperate way he kissed your neck, the way your head tipped back against his shoulder as he bounced you on his cock, slow and deep, your thighs already shaking with how full you were. your moans were helpless now, sharp and breathy and real. his name spilling from your lips between curses and whimpers.

“fuck, you’re so tight,” he whine, voice cracking, “so warm, baby, i—shit, i knew it’d feel like this. i knew i wouldn’t be able to stop.”

“don’t stop,” you begged, clawing at his thighs behind you, gripping his arms, “please, lele, don’t stop.”

and he didn’t. he held you tight to his chest, fucking up into you in. deep, heavy thrusts that left your mind blank and your body arching. one of his hands slid to your breasts, twisting your nipples as he whispered filth into your ear.

“this is all mine,” he growled, “fuck, you take me so well. you love this, don’t you? my cock inside you. my hands on your body.” you couldn’t even speak. you just nodded, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how intense it felt, how much you wanted this, how terrifying it was to feel everything. it didn’t matter that you weren’t supposed to. that you’d agreed not to. that this was just pretend. because right now, as he pounded into you from below, forehead sweaty against your spine, mouth pressing open kisses to your shoulder, it felt like love — messy. real. dangerous.

his rhythm continued increasing, rougher, greedier. the bed creaked beneath you, the air thick with your shared moans, your slick, the sound of him thrusting into you again and again.

“c’mon baby,” he grunted, “soak my sheets,” and with no warning, one hand snakes down to your clit, rubbing furious and harsh circles and you feel it again, that overwhelming feeling and within seconds you’re cunt pushed him out, squirting all over his bedsheets.

“god, you’re so fucking hot,” he continues, rubbing you until you were crying and then shoving his cock again, chasing his own release, “i’m not gonna last,” he warned, “not when you’re like this.”

and you were overwhelmed – writhing, squirming, grinding down on him like you needed it more than oxygen. “one more,” he groaned, his hand making his way in between your legs again rubbing your clit harshly, “fuck, baby, come on, want to feel you come on my cock.”

you did, suddenly, violently, your body clenching around him so tight he swore. your juices leaking out of you. his muscles locked as you came with a strangled moan, shaking against him, “shit…fuck, i’m gonna—” he gasped, thrusting up once. twice. then he stilled with a low, guttural groan, cock twitching deep inside you as he released. his cum is hot. thick. buried deep.

you could feel it — the way he pulsed, the way he filled you with every drop, the way his arms wrapped around your waist like he was holding you together while he spilled himself inside you. he didn’t move. neither of you did. his breath stuttered against your neck. your body still trembled on top of him. you were both sweaty, flushed, ruined. the room spinning. neither of you said a word. because everything had changed. no rules left to break.

eventually, his cock softens inside you, warmth leaking down your thighs as the weight of everything you just did settles into the silence. but chenle doesn’t pull away. and you don’t make an effort to do so. instead, he wraps his arms tighter around you, placing you on his side and wrapping his arm around you. he’ll deal with the mess in the morning. right now he wants to keep you right there, tucked against him, safe in the quiet cocoon of his room and you were too fucked out to even care.

he kisses your shoulder. just once. you swallow the ache rising in your throat. he shouldn’t be this sweet. he shouldn’t be holding you like this — like you’re his. like this wasn’t a complete and utter mistake. but he is. and you let him. because the moment feels too fragile to ruin. because you’re too tired to pretend it didn’t mean something. you shift, slightly wincing a little as your sore body adjusts to the way he’s holding you.

“sorry,” he murmurs against your skin, brushing hair from your face, “did i hurt you?”

you shake your head, voice soft, “no…i just…” you trail off, unsure what you’re even trying to say. he doesn’t push, afraid you’ll pull away. he just holds you closer, his chin settling gently on your shoulder.

“don’t think too hard, okay?” he says, like he already knows what’s spiraling in your head, “let’s just sleep.”

maybe it’s the way he says it. or maybe it was still the alcohol lingering in your system. or it’s how warm his body feels against yours. but you close your eyes. you let your hand fall over his. let your fingers curl around him without thinking. let yourself pretend, just for tonight, that this means what you wish it did.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 21 - SO WEIRD ౨ৎ

you wake up first. the sun is filtering through chenle’s blinds, casting warm stripes across his bed. his room is still and quiet. your clothes are somewhere on the floor. his arm is still slung around your waist. you don’t move. you don’t dare. because if you do, this moment breaks.

you feel him shift behind you eventually. a groggy inhale, the slight tightening of his grip before it loosens again. he’s awake. you can feel it. but neither of you says anything for a while.

finally, he murmurs, “you awake?,” his arms finally let go of you.

you swallow, “yeah.” another beat of silence. then, as if on cue, like it was rehearsed, like you both felt the exact same pressure rise between your ribs, you both say:

“last night was a mistake.”

you laugh. a little too quickly, “yeah. for sure. we were drunk. stupid drunk.”

he nods, eyes still on the ceiling “it got out of hand.”

you sit up, pulling the blanket up with you, hiding behind it like you’re shielding yourself from what actually happened. what it meant.

“we should forget it,” he says, “it didn’t mean anything. just heat of the moment.”

“yeah,” your voice is soft but the pause between the words gives you away , “exactly.” you glance at him and you notice the way his eyes linger on you too long. the way his jaw clenches like he’s holding something back — it wasn’t just a drunken mistake. you both know it. you both remember every single second of it. neither of you says it. because admitting it would ruin whatever fragile thing you’re still pretending to control.

you slip out of bed first. the silence is unbearable now. you tug on one of chenle’s hoodie, “can i use your shower?”

“go ahead,” he nods. and then just as you thought you could have a moment for yourself, he asks, “mind if i join you?” you turn slowly. his tone is casual. too casual. and if he can act casual then so can you.

you nod, because it’s easier than saying no. because you’re not quite ready for this moment to be over yet, “sure, i mean we’ve already seen each other naked and all.”

he smirks but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “yeah, nothing to be shy about.”

the steam curls around the bathroom before either of you speaks, the shower running hot, fogging up the mirror, the air thick with heat and everything unsaid. you step under the spray first, letting the water hit your skin, trying to drown the memory of last night. at first, it’s easy. he jokes about how bad the punch was at the party. you tease him about the way he practically tackled mark after winning. he lathers shampoo in his hair with that boyish grin of his and you roll your eyes, stealing some of it for yourself. but under the surface, everything feels different. the rules are broken. there’s no going back. but here you are, still pretending to joke around like nothing happened.

you lean your forehead against the cool tile wall, letting the water stream down your back. behind you, you hear chenle’s voice, quiet now, “i…i remember everything about last night,” he whispers, almost afraid to say it too loud.

“yeah,” you whisper, “me too.” he doesn’t say anything after that. just reaches for your hand under the water, threading his fingers through yours for a few heartbeats. and you let him. even though it hurts. even though you’re both going to pretend later that it didn’t happen.

you turn around to face him, forcing out a laugh, trying to deflect, but your chest feels too tight, “we’re being weird, right?” you say finally breaking the silence that hugs the air.

“so weird,” he agrees. but neither of you moves. he looks at you, really looks, and his gaze dips to your lips before darting away. you both pretend not to notice. a beat passes. then, as if trying to make it easier, he says with a grin, “at least now we can lie better.”

your hide the way your smile falters. because yeah, now you didn’t have to improvise your lies. now when people ask you, there’s a story you could tell without looking like you just made it up on the spot. but for what? you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. and you hate the awkwardness that it brought. the way you’re tiptoe-ing around each other. you don’t do that — not with chenle.

౨ৎ

chenle still walks you home because it would be strange for him not to. he still has a role to play. the streets are quieter than usual. maybe it’s the way the sun is barely rising, casting the campus in soft golds and sleepy shadows. or maybe it’s just the stillness between the two of you – the space that used to be easy, now thick with all the things you’re pretending didn’t happen. every step feels heavier than it should, like the weight of last night is still stuck to his skin. like he's still in that bed, wrapped around you. he can still feel you. smell you. taste the words he didn’t say. he walks half a step behind. always close enough to feel the brush of your arm. but not close enough to take your hand.

you’re in one of his hoodie’s again and he’s convinced that they all look better than you than they ever did on him. he wonders if it’s going to smell like you now. if he’ll ever wear it again without remembering how you look in it – legs bare, eyes still a little sleepy, trying to pretend the morning hadn’t made everything more complicated.

he watches the way the sunlight hits your face in pieces as you pass under the trees. you’re not smiling. not frowning either. just quiet. and maybe that’s the worst part – how normal this feels when it isn’t. not even close.

he wants to say something like last night wasn’t a mistake or did it mean something to you, too?

but he can’t. he’s not ready for a relationship. instead, he stayed silent. when you get to your dorm, you thank him. just a quiet thanks, like that’s all this ever was. a walk home. a night you’ll both forget. a lie. he almost says your name. almost tells you to come back with him. that he can’t stop thinking about the way you kissed him. the way you looked after. the way it didn’t feel like pretending anymore. but you’re already turning. already slipping away with his hoodie and a piece of him he’ll never ask for back.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 24 - HE KISSED ME TOO. ౨ৎ

you’re quiet at the gym. too quiet. it’s not just you. chenle’s across the court, shooting hoops like he’s trying to outrun a thought. he misses most of it. you keep your eyes on your stretches, your warm-ups, your water bottle. anywhere but him. because looking hurts. because pretending is hard today.

you haven’t talked since that morning. not a call. not a text. not even to share gossip that you both love. just that long, strange walk home. just the memory of his arm around your waist, of his mouth on your neck, of the words this was a mistake and we can lie better echoing like a curse between your ribs.

now you’re back here — the gym, where it all started. where you first agreed to fake this thing. and it feels like neither of you knows how to act anymore. not when he won’t look at you. not when your heart is falling alone.

you’re mid-lunge when quinn walks into the locker room, ponytail swinging, perfectly smug as she drops her gym bag on the bench beside you. she watches you for a second. too quiet. too observant. then she says, “so, what, you’re not talking now?”

you glance at her in the mirror, “what?”

“you and chenle,” she points out. you just stare at her.

she turns to face you now, arms crossed, “let me guess,” she continues, “you finally gave it up, and now he’s pretending you don’t exist?”

your stomach drops. because maybe that is exactly what’s happening. you say nothing. she leans in a little, voice softer now, almost sympathetic. “look, i’m not trying to stir anything, i just… figured you should know how this ends.”

you blink, “how what ends?”

quinn sighs, “now that he’s had you, he won’t want anything to do with you again. that’s what happened with me.” you freeze. your chest tightens.

“he kissed me during it, too,” she adds casually, but it lands cruelly. you don’t respond. not because you don’t want to — but because you don’t know how. that one sentence shatters everything inside you.

“he told you it was just sex, didn’t he?” she continues, “that i was obsessed, that i didn’t mean anything.” you keep quiet. because yeah, that’s exactly what he said.

quinn gives a dry laugh, like she’s been expecting your silence, “it’s fine,” she says, reaching for her jacket, “i’m over him now. but i just thought you should know. watch out for yourself. because once he gets what he wants…” she trails off. shrugs. “he’s good at pretending it never happened.”

she walks out before you can respond, leaving the air too heavy, your mouth too dry. you sit there for a while. that ache in your chest — the one you’ve been trying to ignore since the moment you agreed it was a mistake, throbs a little sharper now.

because even if he didn’t mean it… even if quinn was exaggerating or playing games — chenle never told you that part. he told you they hooked up. he told you she got obsessed. he never told you he kissed her.

you were stupid enough to think you were different. stupid enough to think that maybe the way he kissed you meant something. stupid enough to think he only kissed during sex when it mattered. but you were stupidly wrong. maybe you’re just next in line. either way, it hurts. and it shouldn’t. because this was never supposed to hurt.

you stay in the locker room longer than you need to. you don’t want him to see your face —not like this, not while it’s breaking.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 26 - OVER IT. ౨ৎ

it takes you two full days to find the nerve to talk to him. and in those two days he never once reached out for you either — quinn was right. and you were furious. you only agreed to this stupid plan to help him out and now he’s the one acting like you were just one of his fucks and not his best friend.

he’s sitting on the bleachers alone after practice, still sweaty from drills, a water bottle half-forgotten at his feet. the rest of the gym is nearly empty — the team long gone, the lights dimming with the early evening.

you walk over before you can talk yourself out of it, “hey,” you say, voice quieter than usual but with a kind of bite that makes the hairs on chenle’s arms rise.

he looks up, startled, his expression is unreadable at first, like he wasn’t sure you’d ever come back. “hey,” he says back, and scoots over to give you space. you sit beside him. close, but not touching. not like before. the silence stretches out, filled only by the sound of a bouncing ball in the far court and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights.

“i talked to quinn,” you say finally.

he doesn’t move, but you see the way his jaw tightens slightly, “yeah?”

you nod, eyes on your hands, “she said she doesn’t care about you anymore. that… she’s over it.”

a beat of silence passes. awkward and dry. “that’s good,” chenle mutters. his voice is flat. you don’t tell him the rest. not the part about the kiss. not the way it made something cold and sharp twist in your chest.

instead , you take a breath and say, “i think we should break up.”

his head jerks toward you, eyes wide.

“not right away,” you add quickly, “just…not yet. not until after the championship. if we do it now it’ll look suspicious. but afterward… we end it. for real.”

he stares at you for too long. and for a second, one single second, you let yourself believe he’s going to fight you on it. that he’s going to say no. that he’s going to tell you this isn’t just fake anymore, not really, not to him. but he doesn’t.

he just nods. slow. measured. like it’s the only thing he knows how to do, “yeah,” he says, voice even, “that makes sense.” you both sit in silence again, this time with a weight that’s impossible to ignore. he doesn’t reach for your hand. you don’t lean into his shoulder. you just sit there, two people surrounded by everything unsaid.

this is what pretending gets you — a breakup plan for a relationship that never existed.

you nod, standing up slowly, “okay. after the game.” he still doesn’t say anything. you walk away before he can see your face. and behind you, chenle closes his eyes — like maybe if he squeezes them tight enough, he can pretend this doesn’t feel like losing something real.

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 27 - LARA JEAN AND PETER ౨ৎ

the echo of the basketball against the court was sharp, biting. over and over again, it bounced, rolled, slipped out of his fingers like he was a rookie who didn’t know how to play under pressure. but it wasn’t the upcoming game that was getting to him — it was you.

“dude, what’s going on?” mark asked from across the court, brows drawn together in concern, “that’s like your fifth miss in a row.”

chenle just shook his head, grabbing the rebound too hard, the ball nearly slipping from his hands again, “i’m good,” he lied, “just off today.”

but he wasn’t just off. he was losing it. every time he blinked, he saw the curve of your mouth when you smiled at him. heard the soft sound of your laugh in his ear. felt the weight of your body leaning into his. he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you said you’d break up after the championship like it didn’t mean anything. like it hadn’t changed everything. because for him… it had.

that night broke all his rules, no kissing, no sex, no romance all down the drain. but instead of regret, all he felt now was a hollow ache at the idea of losing it. of losing you.

he missed the next shot. the ball clanged off the rim hard enough to make mark flinch, “alright,” coach jaehyun called from the bench, standing up, “chenle. water. now.”

chenle huffed and jogged off, wiping sweat from his face with his jersey, heart pounding harder than it should’ve been. coach pulled him aside, “you need to lock in,” he said lowly, seriously. “championship is three days, we’re counting on you.”

chenle nodded, but his throat felt dry. he wasn’t locked in. he wasn’t even close, “i know,” he muttered, “i’ll fix it.” but he didn’t know how to fix any of it. because the only thing on his mind was you. and how soon you wouldn’t be his anymore, not even pretend. and he didn’t know how to go back to that. he didn’t know how to watch you cheer without knowing your laugh was waiting for him after the game. he didn’t want to share you with anyone else. he didn’t want it to be fake anymore. he wanted it for real.

your kisses, your stupid teasing, the way you wore his jersey like it belonged to you — he wanted all of it to be real. he took a deep breath, letting his head fall back, staring at the gym ceiling like maybe the answers would be up there in the metal beams or the lights or the sky beyond them. you were breaking up. that was the plan. that was what you’d said. after the championship game. no more fake dating. no more pretending to be in love.

but the worst part was he couldn’t even tell you that he didn’t want it to be fake anymore. somewhere along the way, he’d fallen. or maybe he was always in love with you and he just didn’t know it. and now he was losing you before he ever had the chance to ask if you felt the same. all because he kept telling himself he wasn’t ready. that he didn’t need distractions. yet here he is. more distracted than he’s ever been at the mere thought of not having you around.

mark sat next to him some time later, eyeing him carefully, “alright, dude. spill.”

chenle shook his head, “it’s nothing.” but mark knew better. his friend looked exactly like him when his heart was breaking over his girl a few months back.

“bullshit,” mark passed him the ball, watching as chenle failed to catch it properly, “you’ve been off all week.”

there was a moment of silence. then chenle let the ball roll away and sat down on the edge of the court, burying his face in his hands, “it was fake,” he muttered, “the whole thing. me and y/n, we were just pretending…to get quinn of my back.”

“damn,” mark reacts on instinct, then he sat down beside him slowly, “and now?,” he asked.

chenle swallowed, “now i’m in love with her.”

mark blinked, “wow, you went full on lara jean and peter, huh?”

“what?,” chenle breathes, a little annoyed.

“nothing,” mark shakes his head, “so what’s the problem now?”

chenle lets out a humorless laugh, “i didn’t mean for it to happen but it did and she…she wants to break up after the game. says there’s no point in pretending anymore.”

“have you told her you’re in love with her?,” mark asks, raising a brow.

chenle didn’t answer, just stared at the hardwood floor like it might save him. mark sighed, “chenle, c’mon man, you’re seriously going to let her go without even trying?”

“she already decided,” he huffs out. and it takes everything in mark to not strangle him. his friend needed a lot of help.

“she decided because she thinks it’s still fake. because you’ve never told her otherwise,” mark bumped his shoulder lightly.

chenle looked at him like he was piecing the puzzle for the first time, “what do i even say? what if she thinks i’m lying?”

mark grinned, “then you better not say anything small. you make it count. you make it big. you make it the kind of confession that leaves no room for doubt.”

chenle swallowed hard, “and if she doesn’t feel the same?”

“then at least you’ll know. and you won’t have to live the rest of your life wondering what could’ve happened if you’d just been brave enough to tell her,” mark says, giving him an encouraging pat on the back.

and chenle knew then and there what he needed to do, “okay,” he nods, “i need your help.”

౨ৎ NOVEMBER 30 - BREAK MY RULES ౨ৎ

you haven't spoken in three days. you weren’t supposed to see each other. that was kind of the silent agreement. keep your distance. stick to the plan. wait until after the championship, and then break up clean. quiet. neat. like it never meant anything — but that’s not what happens.

instead, you find yourself in the empty gym after hours, sitting on the edge of the bleachers, your legs dangling, the overhead lights buzzing faintly above you. you hadn’t meant to run into him. but of course he’s there — of course he’s the one taking extra shots alone, long after practice is over. the gym is quiet now. it’s just the sound of rubber on wood, the squeak of his sneakers, the soft thud of the ball hitting the backboard.

you think about leaving before he notices you. you should. but he turns, sees you, and doesn’t look away. he doesn’t smile, not really. just slows down, his shoulders heavy like the weight of the whole season is pressing down on him, and maybe something else too. he dribbles the ball once more, then lets it go. it rolls off to the side, forgotten.

you don’t say anything when he walks over. he sits beside you quietly, letting the silence settle, letting the soft echo of your presence fill the space. his leg brushes yours, barely, but it sends a jolt straight through your chest.

it shouldn’t feel like this. you’d already agreed it was a mistake. already agreed it didn’t mean anything. and yet it still feels like everything.

“couldn’t sleep,” you say finally.

chenle’s eyes stay on the court, but you can tell he’s listening, “me neither.”

silence again. you breathe in slowly, “you’re ready for tomorrow?”

his laugh is soft, a little breathless, “i don’t know.” he tilts his head back, leans against the seat behind him, “my shots were off all week.”

“i noticed,” you murmur, half-teasing, but there’s no real bite to it. he glances at you, and for a second, something flickers behind his eyes, something open, vulnerable, “i think i’m too in my head,” he admits.

you nod. you don’t say me too, but it’s there. in the way you look at him. in the way your fingers twitch like you want to reach for him, but don’t. “you’ll kill it,” you say instead, “you always do.” he looks at you then…really looks. and your heart stutters at the softness in his eyes, the way his gaze lingers a little too long on your mouth. like he wants to say something. maybe kiss you again. but doesn’t.

you break the moment, “can i ask you something?”

chenle shifts, eyes flicking toward you, wary now. “sure.”

you hesitate, “why didn’t you ever tell me that you kissed quinn?”

his face twists instantly. confusion. surprise. and then, unbelievably, he lets out a breathy laugh, short and stunned, like he can’t believe what he just heard. it cuts through the tension but not in the way you expect. not relieving. not light. just disorienting. you blink. “why are you laughing?” your voice comes out sharper than you meant. your chest twists, your pulse jumping.

he turns toward you fully now, blinking like he misheard, “you think i kissed quinn?”

you don’t answer. your silence is enough. he stares at you a second longer, and something in his expression crumbles. the humor drains away. he leans forward, elbows on his knees, head down for a beat before he looks back at you, eyes searching your face.

“she kissed me,” he says flatly, “it wasn’t even a kiss. it was like…barely a second. she kissed me afterward. one of those dumb, post-nut haze things. i didn’t even know she was gonna do it. i pushed her off the second i realized,” his voice is low. careful. measured. you just look at him, unreadable, arms crossed like armor. you feel stupid now. exposed. but mostly — you feel small. stupid for caring too much. stupid for letting yourself believe her.

chenle studies you. there’s something in his eyes. something raw, almost hurt, “she didn’t tell you that part, huh?”

you swallow hard. your throat tightens, “no.” there’s a pause. heavy. he looks away for a second like he’s giving you space, then looks back, more carefully this time, like he’s trying to put together a puzzle that only just now makes sense.

then, gently he asks, “is that why you wanted to break up?”

you bite your lip hard. your whole body feels hot. ashamed. you’ve been caught caring more than you should. but it was more than quinn. it was so much more than that. it was the way everything felt too real. the way it scared you. the way he made you forget that this started as a lie. and hearing her say that she kissed him felt like confirmation. that this was never what you wanted it to be. that you were temporary. that, to him, it was still just a deal.

you feel ridiculous. jealous. attached. so in love it makes your whole body ache — because these are all emotions you’ve never felt before and you don’t know how to handle it.

“i don’t know,” you say finally, “maybe it just tipped everything over.”

chenle looks at you like he’s putting something together for the first time, “i never kissed quinn the way i kissed you,” he says softly, “i never even wanted to.”

your heart clenches. it’s too much. you break eye contact, stare at your sneakers like they can save you from this conversation. you think he’ll let it hang there. that maybe the silence will settle in again. but then, out of nowhere, he lets out a breath of laughter, quiet and half hearted.

you glance sideways, brows furrowing, “what?”

he smirks faintly, “i can’t believe you believed quinn.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it, “she was very convincing.”

he leans back, voice dry, “you really thought i’d break my rules…for her?”

you laugh now too, a soft, reluctant sound that melts into the air between you, “honestly? for a second, yeah. you’re not exactly known for your self-control.”

“hey,” he says, grinning, nudging your knee with his, “that’s fair…but…that’s only when it comes to you.”

the smile on your face falters. just slightly. because you believe him. and that makes everything so much worse. everything feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something too big. too fragile. the laughter dies down. what’s left behind is thick air. dense with unsaid things. the kind of silence that hums with everything you’re both too afraid to say out loud.

you glance over. he’s already looking at you. that look in his eyes — wide, scared, soft. like he wants to say something. like he wants you to say it first.

neither of you does.

instead, chenle clears his throat. forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “well,” he says, holding out his hand between you like a peace offering, “thanks for being my fake girlfriend.”

your chest aches. he smiles again, smaller this time, “let’s happily break up tomorrow.”

you stare at his hand. you should laugh. you should say something stupid to lighten the mood. but you can’t. because that single sentence shattered everything. you take the handshake. you force out a smile even though it burns in your throat.

that was all you needed to know — he’s sticking to the plan. he’ll let you go without a fight. you were wrong for hoping.

your hand is still in his when your heart breaks in your chest. neither of you says a word about it.

౨ৎ DECEMBER 1 - LET’S BREAK UP. ౨ৎ

today was the day. the day you put an end to the charade before anyone else got hurt. you told yourself it was for the best. so you smiled as you always did – bright and blinding. your makeup perfect, your cheer uniform pristine, your borrowed jersey tucked into your skirt, still repping chenle like it meant nothing. like it wasn’t the only thing holding your heart together.

the gym was packed. the team was currently losing. the crowd was nervous. your chest was tight. you’d barely spoken to chenle. barely looked at him.

then intermission started. you stepped forward automatically, muscle memory taking over, ready to lead your squad in the usual halftime routine. but then – the wrong music started playing.

your steps faltered, you blinked. this was not your cheer track. the opening synth of an unfamiliar but strangely familiar track poured through the gym. the kind that made the whole crowd tilt their heads in confusion. then the gym door flung open with dramatic flair and out came all seven of the dream boys, storming the court in a chaotic, barely synchronized line – in matching cheer skirts.

you froze. everyone froze. someone gasped. another person shrieked with laughter. and right at the center of the team – chenle, with glitter on his cheeks, mismatched socks, a crop top over his jersey and a neon green bow clipped into his hair.

he caught your eye instantly and grinned like a man with nothing left to lose. the music kicks up and the chaos began. they were recreating a choreography suspiciously similar to my first and last by nct dream – mark was tapping his feet like his life depended it. jaemin was twerking way too well. jeno did an unnecessary backflip that could’ve gone terribly wrong. haechan’s toe points were graceful. renjun was hitting heart poses with alarming precision. jisung looked like he was going to kill someone out of pure embarrassment.

and chenle? chenle was eating up the choreo like it was the final round of a dance competition. he was clapping, stomping, wiggling his hips, spinning with his arms out dramatically and he never took his eyes off you.

the crowd lost their minds. phones were up. people were screaming. someone in the back row might have even fainted when jaemin’s crop top rode too high up his chest.

and despite your shock and confusion – you were smiling. laughing. maybe crying just a little.

the routine hit a ridiculous crescendo with the boys scrambling into a final formation, chenle at the center, lip syncing the final line like he meant it. and then – like a miracle, like a rom-com, like a dream, each of the boys and coach jaehyun who was running at the last second to join them, raised their signs, flipping them one by one, until the words spelt: I L O V E Y O U

for one stunned heartbeat, the gym went silent. and then it exploded in screams, whistles, gasps, cheers. you stood there, frozen, mouth parted, breath stuck in your lungs. and then chenle stepped forward, ditching his pom-poms. his hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed from the effort. he was panting. but he smiled, sheepish and beaming, looking at you like there was no one else in the room. like the whole ridiculous routine was worth it—just to make you look at him again.

he picked up the mic, hands shaking slightly, “hi baby.”

the crowd lost it again but your heart stopped. his voice trembled, just once. just enough, “i know this is kind of…not normal protocol,” he said, laughter following, “but i don’t care.” he looked right at you like the rest of the world faded into static.

“i asked you to pretend to date me just to get someone off my back,” he starts. you hear the gasps echo throughout the court. could practically see their shocked faces, could envision the fire in quinn’s eyes, heads whipping toward each other in disbelief but you didn’t look away.

“that’s all it was supposed to be. just pretend, just fake,” he paused, taking a breath, “i even bribed coach jaehyun to let the cheerleaders into the morning session just so you would agree.”

coach jaehyun sputtered “what?!,” but mark pulls him back with a laugh. chenle winced, guilty, “sorry, coach,” he sent him a sheepish smile before turning his head back to you.

“and at first, that’s all it was. but then…it wasn’t fake anymore.” his voice was soft now. tender. scared and sure all at once.

“i started looking for you in every crowd. i love walking you home even when it was freezing. i love walking into the gym everyday because i knew you’d be there. i love buying every single thing that reminded me of you and seeing that sparkle in your eye. i love the way you wore my hoodies like they were yours. ”

you swallowed hard. he kept on going.

“i love seeing you in my jersey,” he said, eyes dropping to it now tucked into your skirt, “because it let’s everyone in this god damn gym know that you’re mine.”

silence. total silence. you thought your heart might break right through your ribs. you weren’t sure how you got from the sidelines to the center of the court. maybe your legs moved on their own. maybe the universe pushed you forward. either way, suddenly you were standing in front of him.

“chenle,” you whispered, barely louder than a breath.

he leaned in, gaze soft, he gets rid of the microphone, “i know we said we’d break up after this,” he added, quieter now, just for you, “but i don’t want to. not if you feel even a little bit of what i do. i’m not letting this end like that. not without telling you the truth.”

he stepped closer, “i don’t want to pretend anymore, i want to do all the romantic things, i want to hold your hand, i want to walk into the gym and greet you first thing in the morning, i want to kiss you whenever i want,” he admits, taking a breath.

“i’m in love with my best friend. i’m in love with you.”

and your world tilted. your heart was racing so hard it felt like it was going to burst. you stared at him. at the glitter on his cheek, the hope in his eyes.

“i thought i was the only one who caught feelings,” you whispered. his lips parted. you kept going.

“i was so sure it was just me. that you were just…playing the part a little too well. smiling like it didn’t matter, pretending like it didn’t mean anything when it meant everything to me.”

you blinked, tears threatening to slip, “i never thought you’d fall back.” the crowd was dead silent. chenle looked like he was about to crumble.

his voice barely made it out, “can i kiss you?”

you didn’t answer. you didn’t need to. you close the distance between you, grabbing his face, and pulling him down into a kiss so full of everything unsaid — every denied feeling, every stolen moment, every crack that led to this.

it was slow at first. gentle. like you were both still in disbelief that it was real. like he was afraid you’d vanish if he kissed you too hard, and you were afraid this might be a dream. the crowd was screaming, roaring, rising in volume like a crashing wave behind you. but none of it mattered — all you felt was him.

he pulled back only slightly, just enough to breathe, just enough to smile, and oh, it was the softest smile you’d ever seen on him, full of wonder and nerves and overwhelming joy.

“let’s break up,” he said, breathless. you blinked, confused, until his smile widened, “let’s end this fake relationship,” he added, voice warm with laughter and something deeper.

then, even softer “be my real girlfriend?”

your heart soared. “yes,” you whispered against his lips, pulling him in for another kiss, even deeper than the last, filled with promise and warmth and everything you hadn’t dared to believe. this time, the kiss wasn’t for an audience. it wasn’t to convince a stalker. it wasn’t part of a deal. it was real. and it was yours.

౨ৎ

the rest of the game passed in a blur. your lips still tingled from that kiss, head still spinning from his confession, and your heart was barely keeping up. but the game wasn’t over. it was the championship. the final battle. the one they’d been working toward all season. the air in the gym buzzed, every scream from the crowd ricocheting off the walls like firecrackers. sweat dripped, shoes squeaked, coaches yelled, but none of it registered, not really.

all you could see was chenle. he jogged back onto the court after the halftime confession, chest heaving, cheeks flushed but his eyes found you one more time and he grinned like he’d already won. the team played like their lives depended on it. chenle was unstoppable. every shot he took landed. every move he made was sharp, strategic, brilliant. you could see it – he wasn’t just playing to win the game. he was playing like a boy in love. a boy who wants to impress you. who wants you to keep your eyes on him and him only and you do. with every point, the crowd got louder, the bleachers shook beneath stomping feet. you were hoarse from screaming, your pom-poms nearly falling apart from the way you’d been shaking them. but none of it mattered.

you were his lucky charm. and you were so damn proud.

then – final minutes. the score was neck and neck. mark passed it to chenle. chenle faked, dodged, twisted. he didn’t hesitate. he launched the ball just before the buzzer. time slowed. the gym held its breath – swish. final point. game over. victory.

the crowd erupted. it was deafening. people screamed. some cried. streamers flew. confetti rained from nowhere. the scoreboard blinked their win in big, shining numbers. the team went wild, huddling, tackling each other to the floor in a euphoric mess. but chenle didn’t stay with them. he didn’t waste a second. he ran. straight for you. his jersey was drenched in sweat, his hair sticking up in every direction, his face flushed with effort and joy and something far deeper.

“we did it!” he yelled as he reached you, arms around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground. you shrieked with laughter, looping your arms around his neck as he spun you in dizzying circles, adrenaline mixing with something warmer, something forever.

“you did it,” you whispered in his ear as he set you down.

“no,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “we did it. you said yes and you wore my jersey. that’s, like, at least half the reason we won.”

you giggled, eyes glossy, “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculously in love with you,” he said without hesitation, and you kissed him again quick, giddy, and full of love.

౨ৎ

the dream house was bursting at the seams. laughter spilled from every room. music pulsed through the floorboard. red solo cups were in every hand. the whole school had shown up. and why wouldn’t they? the team just made history. the championship was theirs. the season was done.

except chenle wasn’t really feeling the party. not the loud music. not the overflowing drinks. not the swaying bodies or sticky floors. the only thing he cared about is you – the way you fit so perfectly into his side, like your body had been made to lean into his. you were in your cheer shorts and his hoodie, oversized and soft and swallowing your frame, and he couldn’t stop touching you. couldn’t stop looking at you. every few seconds, his hand would slide along your lower back, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your shorts like he just needed to feel skin to believe you were really his.

he made the rounds because he had to – thanked the upperclassmen, posed for victory photos, people kept stopping him, clapping him on the back, calling him MVP, handing him shots. but each time, his arm stayed wrapped around your waist. each time, his fingers sought yours. each time, he smiled like none of it really mattered as long as you were still looking at him like that.

it felt like deja vu but it was different now. it was real.

“lets go up,” he whispered in your ear, a playful smirk on his lips.

you quip a brow, teasing “the party just started.” he didn’t answer. just grinned, tugged you closer, and whispered against your ear, “i’ve had enough of sharing you with everyone else.” you barely had time to process that before he was dragging you toward the stairs, weaving through the crowd with surprising focus. cheers and music and flashing lights swirled around you, but his grip never wavered, and you followed like you were tethered to him.

chenle shut his door, leaning against the wood. his eyes were soft. hungry. full of something that looked a lot like awe. “god,” he whispered, eyes sweeping over you, flushed, in his hoodie with your legs bare and glowing in the low light, “you’re my favorite win tonight.”

you took a slow step forward, “so…what’s your post-game plan, champ?” his breath hitched at your words, eyes dragging over you slowly, your bare legs, his hoodie hanging off your frame, the slight tilt of your smile.

“come here,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. you stepped closer, breath catching when his hands found your hips and dragged you closer. he kissed you hard. no hesitation, no slow build-up, all tongue and teeth and raw emotion. his lips moved over yours with urgency, like he needed to memorize every curve of your mouth.

“you,” he murmured between kisses, “you’re all i wanted tonight.”

your hands slid up his chest, nails grazing lightly over his collarbones, “then show me.”

he didn’t need to be told again. you gasped as his hands slid beneath the hoodie, warm palms skimming over your bare waist. the pads of his fingers traced your ribs like he was learning you by touch, brushing just under your breasts before he groaned into your mouth, “you’re not wearing anything under this?” he whispered, voice rough.

you grinned against his lips, “didn’t want to waste time.” he cursed softly, then pulled the hoodie up and off you in one quick motion. his gaze dropped, drinking in the sight of your bare skin, the soft swell of your breasts, the faint marks he’d left on them the last time, the flushed heat of your chest rising with every breath.

“damn, baby,” he whined, dragging his hands up from your hips to cup your breasts. his thumbs brushed over your nipples, slow, deliberate, and you arched into the touch with a soft gasp, “you’re so perfect,” he breathed, “so fucking perfect.” his mouth replaced his hands, lips wrapping around your nipple as his other hand slid down your back, gripping the curve of your ass through your shorts. he sucked gently, tongue circling until your knees buckled, and you clung to his shoulders.

you reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it off and tossing it aside. your hands ran over his chest, his stomach, lean and tense, muscles flexing under your touch. he was warm and solid and real, and when you pushed his shirts and boxers down, you felt how hard he already was for you.

“lele…” you whispered, and he responded by kissing you again, deeper, hungrier. he walked you backward until the backs of your thighs hit the bed. you let yourself fall onto it, legs parting instinctively as he followed, crawling over you like he couldn’t bear to be more than an inch away.

for the first time, there was nothing holding either of you back. no rules. no pretending. no almosts. there was nothing fake about this anymore.

he peeled the rest of your clothes off, leaving you both naked in the soft glow of the bedroom light, heart pounding as the moment stretched into something that felt timeless. chenle’s lips followed the path of your skin, reverent and hungry all at once.

“let me feel you,” he murmured, dragging his cock slowly through your folds, teasing and maddening. you were soaked already, the tip catching at your entrance again and again, never pushing in.

“lele,” you gasped, nails sinking into his back, “stop teasing.”

he grinned, nosing at your jaw, “i just love how wet you get for me, baby.” you whimpered, wrapping your legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer. but then he paused, reaching over you, as he fumbled in the nightstand drawer. then you saw the crinkle of silver foil in his hand.

“you’re joking, right?” you said breathlessly, voice cutting through the quiet haze of the room, laced with a teasing bite. chenle froze halfway through rifling his nightstand drawer. he looked at you, already flushed from everything that came before, your kiss-swollen lips, your thighs still brushing his hips, the marks that was starting to bloom on your chest.

“what?” he asked, eyes wide, confused.

you tilted your head toward the foil packet between his fingers, raising a brow, “you’re not putting that on.”

his brows knit, “why not?”

“because,” you said, taking it from him and throwing it off the bed, “you didn’t last time.”

his ears turned crimson, “that was different,” he muttered, flustered and suddenly shy, even as you were both naked and tangled together.

“was it?” you teased, brushing your lips against his jaw, “who just accidentally slips in?”, you smirk.

“swear it was an accident,” he groaned, burying his face in your neck.

“not a chance,” you grinned, and then your voice dropped lower, softer, “besides…i don’t want anything between us tonight.” that made him still. his eyes searched yours, like he needed to know you meant it. and you did. every inch of you meant it.

his fingers laced with yours, slow and sure “you’re sure?”

you nodded, “i want all of you, chenle.”

a beat passed, his gaze darkening just slightly, the weight of your words settling deep in his chest, “god,” he whispered, kissing you like he couldn’t believe this was real, “you’re gonna kill me.”

you grinned against his mouth, “maybe. but at least you’ll die happy.”

he laughed, low and breathless, but there was something else there too. a hunger, a desperation that hadn’t been there before, “you say things like that,” he murmured, voice rough now, lips brushing yours, “and i start thinking about how good it would feel to really fill you up. to know you’re mine. like…really mine.” the words creep up your toes. your pussy clenching at nothing.

“you feel that?” he murmured, grinding against you still teasing your folds, “i’m so fucking hard for you, baby,” you whimpered as he rocked against you again, slower this time, dragging the pressure right over your clit. your fingers curled into his back, nails biting lightly into his skin.

“need you inside me,” you gasped, “please, lele,” you snapped whatever thread of restraint he had left. he lined himself up and pushed in slowly, your breath catching as you felt him stretch you open, raw and unfiltered. you gasped his name half moan, half prayer, as he bottomed out, and his head dropped back with a groan.

“fuck,” he groaned, eyes squeezed shut, “you feel so good. so warm. so wet,” he muttered, rocking into you slow, controlled, like he wanted to savor it. every thrust dragged a sound from you, high and helpless. he watched your face, drinking it in like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. you whimpered, tightening around him, and he swore under his breath, picking up the pace.

“i think about this all the time,” he admitted, voice ragged, “when you wear my hoodie. my jersey. i think about being inside you. claiming you. fucking you like i’m the only one who gets to.”

“you are,” you whispered, voice breaking, “you’re the only one.” you pulled him in, breath hot against his ear. he groaned, fucking into you harder now. rougher. his hips snapped forward, cock dragging against every sensitive spot, his hand slipped between your bodies and found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your toes curl, made you cry out, made your body shudder beneath him.

“chenle— i’m close,” you warn him, your eyes rolling back.

“let go for me,” he whispered, teeth grazing your ear, “i wanna feel you cum.” his voice pushed you to the edge. you shattered, body arching, hands clutching him like he was the only real thing in the world — he held you through it, letting your clenched body milk him with every spasm, groaning loud as he gave in, hips stuttering, jaw clenched, gasping your name like a prayer as he spilled into you, raw and full and deep. he collapsed against you, both of you gasping, hearts hammering, limbs tangled. you stayed like that for a long while. just breathing. just being. just real.

“i love you,” you whisper into his side. he didn’t answer with words, just tilts your chin up and kisses you again. soft and slow.

౨ৎ BONUS SCENE: DECEMBER 12 - UNSPOKEN MOVIE NIGHT TRADITION ౨ৎ

the L-shaped couch was packed. mark had kitten tucked in between his legs. jeno had one arm lazily around bunny while she hogged the popcorn. jaemin was practically sprawled over angel while whispering dumb commentary in her ear. and on the loveseat was the newest couple, hyuck and princess, tangled up together like they’d been joined at the hip for years.

then there was you and chenle. last time, you sat side by side, awkwardly hyper-aware of every shift and brush. this time, you were sitting sideways on his lap, head nestled in the crook of his neck. his arms were wrapped securely around your waist, fingers absentmindely playing with the hem of his hoodie strings, a blanket draped over the two of you.

halfway through the grinch, his hand dipped lower. at first, it seemed casual, just resting on your thigh, fingers drumming absently like he was bored. but then his touch shifted, intentional and his hand slid closer. you stiffened slightly, heart racing. he acted unfazed, eyes still fixed on the screen. and then, slowly, deliberately his fingers crept under the waistband of your shorts and your breath caught. “chenle,” you warned, barely a whisper, glancing nervously around the darkened living room where your friends sat, fully engrossed in the movie. he didn’t answer with words, just leaned in and pressed a casual, innocent kiss to your lips. soft. sweet. utterly deceptive. like nothing sinful was happening under the blanket.

then a single finger slide inside you. your back arched the slightest bit before you could stop yourself and you clutched his hoodie tighter. the moan that threatened to escape got caught in your throat, your mouth falling open in silence.

“you’re so warm,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear as you bit your lips, your hips twitching against his hand. his fingers began to move, gentle and slow and infuriatingly precise. he knew exactly what he was doing, what you liked, how to get it without rushing. you were already soaked, and he was taking his time, like he had all the hours in the world. your thighs clenched around his wrist, but it only made him smirk.

he didn’t even look at you. his gaze was still on the screen, feigning interest in the movie as he worked you with a devastating calm. every curl of his fingers drew out more heat from you, more slick, more desperation. when he hit that perfect spot again, and again, your jaw tensed and your lashes fluttered shut. you didn’t dare make a sound.

you could feel your pulse hammering everywhere. sweat beading at your lower back. your stomach tightening with every calculated thrust. you were trying so hard to stay composed, to look normal, to not give yourself away. but your body had other plans. every nerve was screaming. every inhale was shaky – he knew and he loved it. he curved his finger just right, over and over, dragging you closer to the edge. you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. still, no one noticed. laughter burst out from the group at some scene on screen, and you clung to the noise like a lifeline, using it to mask the soft sound that slipped out of your lips.

then, finally, the credits rolled. the lights flicked on. chenle slipped his hand out with the same casual grace he started with, leaving your skin flushed, your core aching, and your thighs trembling with the aftermath. you watched in shock as he brought his hand to his mouth and sucked the tip of his finger, as if sampling a secret. then he leaned over, kissed your shoulder sweetly, and whispered, “you did so well for me.”

after a few minutes of everyone in their own worlds, bunny turned, eyes zeroing on princess and haechan like she’d been waiting all night, “so…” she starts, “how long have you and donghyuck been going on?”

“yeah,” jeno grinned, wiggling his brows, “i thought you two hated each other.”

princess didn’t even blink, “we did. until we didn’t.” everyone blinked.

“that’s it?” angel gasped.

princess shrugged, then smiled, “hating him was exhausting. loving him’s easier,” which made haechan break out into a grin, placing a soft kiss on her cheek. the room erupted in squeals. and as if on cue, the girls scrambled off the couch in a flurry of giggles and bare feet, all heading to the kitchen together, angel grabbing princess’ hand. in the kitchen, bunny poured wine, kitten grabbed the cookies but the real chaos started when angel leaned in, eyes narrowing at you with a knowing smirk, “so,” she said, tilting her head, “you were definitely getting fingered under the blanket earlier.”

your mouth dropped open. your cheeks flushed. but you didn’t deny it. “i knew it!,” bunny said with a laugh, “don’t worry…we’ve all done it!,” she smiles innocently winking at you.

“that’s like an unspoken movie night tradition,” kitten added, “i swear all the boys have the same brain,” she smirks. you covered your face in mock horror while the rest of them erupted in giggles.

then you said, “i guess princess and hyuck are next then?,” you tease, earning more squeals around the room. and the squealing didn’t stop for a while – everyone laughing over whispered confessions and wild stories.

౨ৎ

the second the girls vanished into the kitchen, all giggles and whispered chaos, the boys were left in their wake, staring blankly at the netflix home page like they’d just been collectively ghosted.

jaemin let out a slow, dramatic sigh and flipped sideways onto the couch, “every. time.” he muttered.

jeno added, “i still haven’t gotten used to it.

“used to what?,” haechan asks, looking towards the kitchen door, confused.

“girl talk,” chenle and mark says at the same time, sighing.

suddenly, in the middle of their group moping they hear a – CRASH. the sharp shatter of glass echoed from the kitchen. all five boys bolted upright.

chenle was on his feet first, not even bothering to say a word. haechan whipped around, calling out his girlfriend’s name. jaemin was quick to follow with a, “is everything okay?,” jeno called out in panic, nearly tripping over a pillow, “bunny, are you hurt?,” and last but not least was mark who’s eyes landed immediately on his girlfriend as they all stormed into the kitchen, a blur of limbs and frantic footsteps. it was chaos – every one of them expecting blood and tears. but what they found was very different.

the girls were all huddled in a circle of laughter, one hand covering their mouths in shock while the other held their sides from laughing too hard. a glass of wine had spilled and shattered on the floor, “i told you to stop swinging your arms when you laugh like that!” bunny said between cackles, nudging angel.

kitten held up her hands, “no one’s bleeding. we’re fine.”

the boys froze in the doorway, “…you’re okay?” mark asked, breathless.

princess blinked at haechan, “why do you look like you ran a marathon?”

“we thought you died,” haechan says dramatically.

chenle’s eyes darted from you to the floor to your hands, “you’re not hurt, baby?”

you smiled, soft and amused, “i’m okay.” he visibly relaxed, like his bones finally settled back into place. the boys stood there for another second, dazed, still a little shaky from the adrenaline rush.

jaemin sniffed, “i was ready to jump in front of the danger.”

“you’re so dramatic,” angel muttered but she was grinning.

“okay, okay,” bunny said, hands up, “we’re all good, you guys can go back to the couch now.”

jeno walks over, “bunny, can’t we join girls talk?,” he asks, pouting, all the boys nodding simultaneously like that was the best idea someone has ever come up with.

she smiles at him sweetly, kissing his cheek and for a moment the boys seem excited until, “you have exactly three seconds to step out before we revoke your boyfriend privileges.”

“but we want to know what you were saying about us!” haechan pouted.

princess lifted a chip and smirked, “you don’t.”

chenle tried to casually lean against the counter next to you, giving you his best puppy eyes, “c’mon. just a little insider info…best friend to best friend?”

you raised a brow, “what, you think we were talking about you guys?”

kitten gasped dramatically, a sarcastic smile on her lips, “how arrogant.”

angel nodded, “as if you’d even make the top three topics tonight.”

the boys all looked genuinely offended.

“we better have made the top three,” jaemin muttered, crossing his arms.

haechan threw his hands up, “what could be more interesting than us?!”

mark, ever the peacekeeper, cleared his throat and smiled diplomatically, “look, we’re just curious. maybe we join for a few minutes. add a little masculine energy to the room—”

“OUT,” all the girls said at once, pointing to the door.

“but this is our kitchen!” jaemin protested but shuffled back into the living room anyways.

haechan looked at the kitchen again, filled with squeals and giggles and secrets, “do you think if i start crying she’ll let me in?”

mark just handed him the popcorn, “cry into this, rookie. you’ve still got a lot to learn.”

𓏲 the end.

—

18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content

bonus: loverboy links (i added so many for chenle it’s actually insane)

—

an: 5/7 is done! two more to go! that’s kind of insane guys. this was the fastest story i’ve written in this series (thank god for wfh schedules). i love these two baddd i didn’t want to say goodbye. also this is my first time writing for chenle i hope it was okay >.< (i’m so nervous for this one) i hope you liked baby! wanted to have female character who was very very in touch with her sexual side so there you go! also fun question: do you guys have a girlfriend bias? let me know! lolol

likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated ⏦ﾟ♡︎

love tags: @bluedbliss @yesohhsehun @tynlvr @sunghoonsgfreal @2sungie @euphormiia @ptv-hades @imnotrosiee @remgeolli @vantxx95 @leehaechie @beestvng @schatjze @mango-bear @wachimingox @amazinggraxia @nesryn @strwbbit @meylovesmusic

if you would like to be added to the taglist, just let me know <3

[starrvsn]

my drafts keep growing…

[starrvsn]

ꕮ ˚₊ ꒰ EVAN BUCKLEY ⁾⁾ CATS OUT OF THE BAG

﹙ SHOW/FANDOM ⠆911﹚

PAIRING ⠆evan 'buck' buckley x femreader.

CATEGORIES ⠆fluff, secret-family!au, i have a butt load of fics like this in my drafts (if you can’t tell already i love dad!buck and eddie)

buck is usually an open book, he talked about everything and anything- the 118 practically knew his whole life story but then you came along. when things got serious with you he didn’t want to jinx it. being a man of superstition, he just didn’t want to ruin something good. so he never really told anyone. then a year of dating became two, you got engaged and not soon after had maisie. he didn’t mean to keep you away from his family (except maddie, he cannot keep anything from her) it just never came up. they just knew about the vague ‘im seeing someone’ stick that never was pushed because, knowing bucks past dating history, they thought the relationship wouldn’t last long especially when he stopped mentioning anything about it.

you hadn’t planned on coming by, buck had been texting you all day– it’d been a slow morning for them. maisie had just woken up from her nap with the sleepiest gummy smile and an arm stretched toward the door, babbling for him and you couldn’t resist, a surprise visit wouldn’t hurt, right? plus you missed him and you knew maisie did too.

it’s around 3PM, the team was getting ready for family dinner at the 118 when chim catches someone walking in the station. stood at the loft he sees a women with a child on her hip, tucked into her shoulder. the women looks around like she’s searching for something.

“can we help you?” chim asks from above, leaning against the railing of the loft, brows raised in curiosity

you look up, spotting him. nerves growing in your stomach, one of many colleagues buck has told you about. you clear your throat, nerves betraying you as your voice comes out small and meek. “uh hi… i’m looking for evan.”

evan? no one ever calls him evan.

chims head tilts, turning back to buck who’s lathering on way to much butter on his biscuit. he calls out to buck, mid bite giving chim an unsatisfied look for stealing his attention from the delicious food.

“evan buckley?” hen asks from besides chim, gathered in curiosity looking down at you with a daughter suspiciously looking a lot like buck. eddie coming out from the locker room nearly does a double take, his eyes falling to maisie. “and… who’s this little one?”

buck who’s now abandoned lunch, joins chim and hen ever the noisiest. comes to see you and your daughter with eddie, behind your shoulder softly speaking to maisie. his heart nearly stops and grows at the same time. his expression went from furrowed brows to a wide gleaming smile, excited to see you both. he practically bolts down the stairs, hen and chim watching him “sweetheart?” his familiar voice calls out, taking long, fluid steps to you. you watch the way the room freezes. hen’s eyes widen. chims jaw already dropped, bobby who’s joined at the railing as well at the sudden commotion. eddie blinks like he’s not sure he heard right.

“what are you two doing here?” a soft grin already forming—one that stretches into a full-blown smile the moment he sees you.

maisie squeals and kicks her feet in your arms, reaching out for him. buck doesn’t hesitate—he scoops her up with practiced ease, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek. “she missed you,” you say softly, watching the way she burrows into his neck.

“i missed you too, sweet pea,” buck murmurs into her hair, before bending down a bit of give you a chaste kiss on your lips, everyone else in the station forgotten in the moment. the team looks at each other bewildered, what is going on? hen clears her throat, hands on her hips like a mother catching her child doing something bad. buck turns, maisie babbling, pointing at hens glasses. “oh! uhm guys, this is my wife.” wrapping his arm around you pulling you close. “and our daughter, maisie.”

you wave albeit a bit awkwardly, telling them your name. you’ve heard about them so much and seen pictures but they all look different in person– more welcoming, like home.

“wait, wait,” chim gasps, holding his hands in front of you “you’re his wife.” he points to you, then maisie “and that’s your daughter who looks basically like a mini version of buck!” grasping the concept that buck has his own little family without anyone knowing “does maddie know? you’ve been withholding a little niece and best friend from jee-yun!”

you and buck exchange a look, eyes narrowing– his mouth faltering to a nervous grin “yeah about that… maddie knows”

chimney practically freezes “she’s met jee-yun?” you nod, biting your lip anxiously, buck looks at you the same. you were surprised chim hasn’t caught on, they’ve meet quite a lot since maisie was six months old. maddie even telling you once jee-yun wouldn’t stop saying mai-mai the day after they went to your house and chim chalked it up to jee-yun being in her ‘imaginary friends’ phase. the rest of the 118 look at him– unsure how’d he react, then wordlessly he pulls his phone out of his pocket before heading to the locker room, probably calling maddie.

“guess the cats out of the bag.” hen remarks, the rest of the group nodding along. the moment is quick to pass as they turn their attention to your and your daughter, their newest revelation.

“how old is she?” eddie asks, already drifting closer brushing a finger over her small, chubby knuckles. her hand soon enveloping his finger in a tiny fist, he gives the group ‘are you seeing this? someone take a picture!’ look

“just turned one,” you say, shifting into buck’s side. “she’s been crawling but has yet to take her first steps.”

“i—wow,” bobby says with a slow shake of his head. “buck, you’ve been holding out on us.” looking to wear hen and eddie are now clamoring around her trying to make her laugh, making silly faces and playing peek-a-boo.

“i wasn’t trying to hide them,” buck says quickly, eyes flicking to you. “i just… it felt nice, keeping something just for me for a little while, you know?”

you squeeze gently his bicep. you understood. he’d lived so much of his life in the open, under watchful eyes and immense expectations put on himself and his job. but this your little family was something he got to build quietly.

“so this is why you started turning down overtime,” hen says with a knowing smile.

“and showing up to shift early with coffee, black and this aura… should’ve known as a father myself, how did i not notice earlier?” eddie says with a smirk.

buck laughs, bouncing maisie gently as she clutches at his shirt. “yeah. turns out being a dad makes you… grow up a little.”

“a lot,” you tease under your breath.

the 118 gather around slowly, the initial shock fading into curiosity and warmth. chim back after giving maddie a earful and promising a play date with maisie soon. maisie charms them all within five minutes, everyone having a turn carrying her and taking quite a liking to bobby, which who wouldn’t? even sharing her star shaped puffs with the team after they invited you to stay for lunch

you lean into buck’s side as he watches his team interact with your daughter, around the table. maisie in eddies lap as they coo and giggle at her, gnawing on a piece of bread. this was it, this is what he’s wished for all his life, his daughter and you with the people he loves the most. you catch the way his eyes shine a little.

“you okay?” you ask quietly.

he nods, his arm tightening around your waist.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “i think… i think i finally get what home feels like.”

ownership of starrvsn. please do not repost, modify or translate.

[starrvsn]

Kiss Cam : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Summary: The San Diego Padres are saluting the U.S. Navy during their upcoming game, and the Dagger Squad has been invited to attend. Hangman's only goal for the game? Get you and Bob to finally act on your feelings and confess to each other.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY (I am not responsible for the media you choose to consume), fluff, friends to lovers, pining, language, female reader, language, maybe some incorrect descriptions of the Navy, suggestive and steamy but no smut, some suggestive and steamy PDA that's borderline not appropriate for public spaces, Padres don't do a kiss cam but lets pretend, I'm a Pirates fan (please pity me) so maybe some incorrect descriptions of Padres games and Petco Park and San Diego

Word Count: 12,368 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

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

“There’s something about a Padres jersey that has our own last names on the back that’s kind of really cool,”

You’d shot Natasha an eye roll from across the room, catching the specially made Padres jersey with your last name stitched into the back when she’d tossed it your way. In turn, you’d grabbed the one lying on your bed, ‘Trace’ stitched into the back, and tossed it over to where she sat cross-legged on your bedroom floor. You tugged your tank top down over the pink, lacy floral bra you wore before plopping down on your bed with your jersey in hand.

“Is it bad that I kind of hate them?” Nat raised her eyebrow as you held out your jersey in front of you, examining the dark brown fabric and gold stripes, before laying it down on the bed next to you. “Not the jersey itself, but that it has our names. Kind of wanted to wear my Bogaerts jersey to the game.”

Nat hummed, dragging herself off the floor and throwing herself down on the bed beside you. You cast a glance down at her, just to see a cheeky grin on her lips.

“Dying to wear Bogaerts’s name on your back-”

“Please, Phoenix, we all know she’s dying to wear the last name ‘Floyd’ on her jersey,”

Hangman’s unexpected voice was not a welcome one, as he came strolling into your bedroom to lean against the doorframe with that signature smirk of his. His presence only garnered a groan out of you as Nat sat up, laughing at the comment.

“Right, almost forgot about her undying love for our teammate-”

“I don’t remember saying you could come in,” you interjected, sending Jake a pointed look, ignoring Natasha’s comment the best you could with red creeping up your neck. His grin only widened as he lifted his hand, dangling his truck keys in the air with a little shake.

“Perks of having the spare key to the ladies’ apartment. Your fault, you entrusted me with it. Best friend perks, and whatnot,” he waved his hand dismissively, before giving you a pointed look in return to your own. “I’m also your five-minute warning that the Bradshaw Bronco just picked up the pizza and beer for lunch and should be here soon, since neither of you likes checking the groupchat. Sometimes I wonder if you two have muted it.”

“I’m terrified that they somehow shoved Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote in the back of that thing,” Natasha chimed in with a fake shiver, shooting Hangman a sly middle finger for his groupchat comment. Her actions made you laugh, nudging her shoulder with your own.

“True, those three are the most brutal during dogfight football. Lord knows what happens when they're in close proximity to each other-”

“Ladies, we have more pressing things to discuss!” Hangman interrupted, clapping his hands as he stepped toward the bed, standing directly before the edge with his hands resting on his hips. That alone had you and Nat sharing a look of amusement, but Jake Seresin was all business. “I’m determined to take ‘Operation Peob’ to the next level tonight…and by next level, I mean get you, our little flower, laid.”

You weren’t entirely sure if your brain was short-circuiting or if you’d actually heard your best friend right. Truly, though, knowing Jake as long as you had, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been speaking total nonsense. Judging by the pained groan that Nat let out at your side, you knew you’d heard him right.

“Operation Peob-?”

“It’s his stupid 1000-step plan to get you and Bob to fess up that’s not working,” Nat explained with a shake of her head. “He’s been at it for months. I’ve helped, obviously, because I’m sick of seeing you two pining after one another, but the mashup of ‘Peony’ and ‘Bob’ is just terrible.”

“That time we invited you guys out for drinks, but we both canceled last second, so it was just you and Bob? My plan,” Hangman grabbed your desk chair, wheeling it over in front of the bed to sit backwards on it, that shit-eating grin on his face that you just wanted to smack off. “Or when I started that childish game of seven minutes in heaven to lock you guys in a closet? Or when I blamed that screwed up pre-flight checklist on you and Bob so you’d be held later together-”

“I’m sorry, you did what-?”

“Point is,” Jake quickly interjected, cutting you off midsentence. “I’ve tried every single trick in the book, everything I could think of, and you two are dense. Hell, it’s like trying to talk to two brick walls, you refuse to act on shit! So, I’ve got a foolproof plan in line tonight, even Nat thought it was a good idea.”

“True, might be his best one yet,”

You looked between them as they both looked at you expectantly. Natasha Trace, your best friend and roommate, one of your closest confidants. Jake Seresin, your childhood best friend, whom you, for some reason, followed straight into the Navy because you couldn’t bear to be without him. Two people you adored more than life…who sounded certifiably insane right now.

“Guys, I’m not in love with Bob-”

“You are,” they both cut in simultaneously.

There was no reason to argue. These two people knew you better than you knew yourself sometimes, so of course they’d picked up on it.

Robert “Bob” Floyd, the bane of your existence. Not really, because you knew if he wasn’t in your life, you’d probably spend your entire life somehow searching for him. Your other best friend, who had somehow claimed that title in the few short weeks leading up to that Uranium mission. The man who, when you started sobbing as you held him in the hospital hours after the bird-strike during training, you realized you were falling head over heels in love with. 

But that was months ago, before your special detachment became a permanent squadron in San Diego. You weren’t falling anymore, you were in love, and if you had to watch him do another round of push-ups during Maverick’s drills while his arms strained and sweat in the California heat, you were going to, quite literally, gnaw the bars off the enclosure you’d closed yourself into in your mind.

“It’s not my fault he’s so hot in such a fucking nonchalant way,” Nat and Jake laughed the second you dramatically threw yourself backward on your bed. “Seriously! Sure, he stutters when he’s nervous, and he’s got those stupidly cute glasses, but Jesus Christ, if he’s not the most adorable man. But, then you, Hangman, manage to piss him off and he gets this-this fucking air of slight confidence around him, he gets so quick and witty with his comments and I’m, like, two seconds from climbing his tall, slender ass like a fucking tree.”

Word-vomit, but you didn’t care. There was no use lying anymore. Jake and Natasha were silent for only a moment before Nat’s laughter finally managed to escape her.

“Wow, you have it worse for Floyd than I thought you did!”

“I seriously don’t even think he realizes how hot he is,” you shouted, completely exasperated as you threw your arms out toward the ceiling. “He thinks girls don’t pay him any attention, meanwhile I feel like a total ass the way I’m eyeing him like a piece of meat everytime his shirt rides up on the beach. Then–the worst part–he’s out here holding doors for me, brought me a bouquet of flowers for my birthday, texts me good night and good morning every day–a thing that COUPLES DO–even makes sure he walks on the outside of the sidewalk when we’re all in downtown. He’s, quite literally, driving me insane because he’s the definition of the perfect man. As if he crawled straight out of my childhood diary.”

No one else could get a word in before the doorbell rang, and you froze. Natasha laughed again, grabbing onto your arms and tugging you back into a seated position on the bed before climbing off of it herself. Jake had already put your desk chair back across the room and was halfway to the door before he shot you a wink over his shoulder.

“No, you’re driving yourself insane by not just jumping the man’s bones, given that he’s clearly just as obsessed with you as you are with him. But have no fear. Trust in Phoenix and me, and Operation Peob will go just perfectly tonight-”

Nat gave him a shove to the back, pushing him out of your bedroom.

“Give her a damn minute, I think she’s still processing the fact that she just finally owned up to her crush. Just go get the door…and think of a new name for this dumb operation of ours on the way there, too,”

They were gone in seconds, and you could hear the unmistakable sound of Rooster announcing himself the second they opened the front door. You? You were stuck in place, thinking back over all of those moments Jake (and subsequently Natasha) had thrust you into over the last few months.

That dinner hadn’t been awkward in the slightest with just you and Bob. Honestly, you’d stayed there for upwards of four hours just talking and laughing about anything and everything like you usually did. He’d let you drink, picked up the bill without letting you even reach for your purse, and drove you home. That childish seven minutes in heaven game wasn’t even awkward. They’d shoved you both into a hallway closet in Rooster’s apartment, you’d wrapped Bob in a hug, and just laughed about your friends' antics in the dark of the closet. No one was even surprised to see you wrapped around one another when the door finally opened: the second Bob had gotten comfortable around you, the pair of you were attached at the hip like that all the time.

You loved him, but you could never tell where he was at when it came to your blurry relationship, so you always danced on the edge of wanting to say something and biting your tongue. But if Hangman was this insistent, could he see something you couldn’t? Did he know something you didn’t?

“Any chance I could get some help with these pizzas?”

And suddenly, there he stood. Tall, lean, sandy blonde hair still perfectly swept to the side on top of his head, balancing three boxes of pizza in his hands, along with the box of garlic bread and mozzarella sticks (a special request from you). Your eyes betrayed you, straying from his face and down his body. 

Shorts, an item you didn’t get to see quite often on him, but man, did he look good in them. A white t-shirt that clung to him just enough to drive you insane, his dog tags lying directly in the center of his chest. Overtop of that was his own personally designed Padres jersey, gifted to the entire team for Navy appreciation night at the ballpark, but unbuttoned in the front so that it lay at his sides…and, god, were you having thoughts about running your hand down his chest and over those abs you knew he was hiding-

Shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you glanced back up to meet Bob’s eyes and caught sight of the blush clearly embedded into his skin, and shot out of bed.

“Jesus, Bob, were they not going to help you at all?” you asked incredulously, taking two of the boxes from him as you tried to rid yourself of the inappropriate thoughts you were having of your best friend. He only laughed, shaking his head at your question.

“I mean, they at least took the beers,”

“Of course they did,” that comment got another laugh out of him. Easily, you joined in on the laughter, kicking his shin lightly. “Let’s go, dork, you know where the kitchen is.”

Like it usually was once a week, you and Natasha’s Southcrest apartment were overrun by the loud sounds of the men you called family, your squad, all gathered in the living room. This time, it wasn’t for game night or movie night, but instead in preparation for the San Diego Padres game later that afternoon, one the organization had personally invited your squadron to be recognized at for their Navy appreciation night at the ballpark. An opportunity to stand on the field during the pre-game festivities, the chance to watch Maverick throw the first pitch, lower-level seating on the third baseline, and your own custom Padres jerseys to wear to the game. A sweet deal, all around, that your squad was more than happy to accept.

“So, a baseball game,” Bob managed to speak, standing at your side in your tiny galley kitchen that two people could barely fit in. You were taking boxes from his hands, laying them out on the small bit of counter space you did have. “I-Is this a bad time to say…I’ve never been to a baseball game?”

“Never?” you questioned him, raising an eyebrow at him as you took the final pizza box from his arms. You couldn’t help the way your lips quirked up as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know Montana doesn’t really have a team, unless you just root for the Rockies, but you never went during basic? Not a White Sox game, or a Cubs game?”

“Nope,” Bob accentuated his word with a little pop of his mouth, leaning back against the sink behind you while you squeezed past him, grabbing the plastic plates you and Nat had picked up for today the last time you went grocery shopping. “I’m relying on you to show me the ropes.”

“Depends what I have to work with here, baby-on-board,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder at him with a gleam in your eye as he rolled his eyes at the ridiculous nickname. “You know anything about the game at all, or did you really grow up under a rock?”

With everything laid out, you flipped around, leaning back against the counter behind you with Bob directly across from you. A mistake, in that tiny galley kitchen, the lack of space making the position feel more intimate than it needed to be. Bob’s legs seemed to instinctively spread slightly without a word, allowing you to stretch out your own between them.

“If you’re in the field, don’t let the other team score. If you’re hitting…score,” Bob smiled as you laughed at his explanation. “Pretty basic stuff, but I get the gist of it, Peony.”

“Yeah, it’s a very basic understanding of the fundementals, but I can work with it,” you assured him with a grin of your own, catching your eyes flicking down for just a moment to those dog tags resting against that white shirt that had no reason to look as hot as it did on him. “Should take you home with me sometime to a Rangers game, that’s where I really shine. And it's how I ended up with my callsign-”

“Your favorite flower,” Bob chimed in immediately before you could finish your sentence, your eyes catching on the way his Adam’s apple throbbed for just a moment after he said it, his eyes averting from yours and instead to the fridge, as it was the most interesting thing in the kitchen. “How Hangman started dragging you along to games, and you fell in love with the game. But then, every time you went together, they won, like you were the secret good luck charm of the team. And when he learned that peonies just happened to represent good luck…it all fell into place.”

You desperately tried to fight off your blush when he looked back at you. You and Jake had told that story about your callsign months ago, way back during the start of training for the Uranium mission. You didn’t want to think too hard about the fact that he remembered every detail of it, instead choosing to clear your throat with a very over-exaggerated nod.

“Yeah, see…you know the story. Promise you, though, Rangers games are a thousand times better. You’ll have to come home with me sometime, when we get time off,”

“Would…your family like me?”

Yeah, in your rant to Natasha and Jake, you’d forgotten to mention moments like this. He held the door, he bought you flowers, walked closest to the road on sidewalks, texted good morning and good night, and then sometimes he just…said things. Things that just came out of left field. Comments that felt like they were straddling the line of friendship and something more, too afraid to commit to one side or another fully, as if afraid to make the leap.

His eyes held something in them you couldn’t place; you could only describe it as uncertainty. Your eyes betrayed you once again, glancing at his lips where he was just barely biting into his bottom lip, before glancing back to those blue eyes you adored so much, hidden behind those glasses that were just so him that the thought of them kept you awake at night.

“Yeah. Too much, probably,” you settled on, though there was an unmistakable air of nervousness in your tone. The air in the entire kitchen had shifted with just a single sentence, the heaviness tangible, and you felt like you were going to suffocate looking into those piercing, soft blue eyes. “They’d probably never let you leave. You’d be stuck with us.”

“I-Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” your response came quickly, still laced with nerves, just as his was. But the whole time, neither of you looked away. “I’d choose you to be stuck with.”

He’d straightened slightly at that comment from you, squaring his shoulders and crossing his arms in front of his chest, the jersey lying around his shoulders tightening around him at the movement. Your eyes watched, tracked every little movement as a pang of heat flashed through you at just the sight of the muscles strewn through his biceps and forearms stretching with the movement. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. You followed suit, then stopped yourself. An invisible line was still drawn in the sand between you both, no one quite sure enough to take the leap and talk about it all. To talk about the tension, or the heated stares, or even the softer looks exchanged when you both thought the other wasn’t looking.

“Hey, my two favorite brick walls! You two somehow making love in a 75 square foot kitchen against the fridge, or can we eat some pizza with these beers?”

If there was anything that could break a moment, it was Jake Seresin. His over-confident tone shouted out from the living room, and you could hear the unmistakable sound of Natasha hitting him and the rest of the squad laughing.

With a groan and a roll of your eyes, you looked back at Bob. He wordlessly passed you the paper plates you’d set down on the counter, avoiding your eyes, even as his fingers brushed yours for a moment longer than they needed to.

The moment might’ve been ruined, but the ‘what ifs’ still hung heavy in the air like they had been for months.

“Shut it, Seresin, before I call your mother! Come get food, you hooligans, I know what you’re all like hangry and I’m not in the mood for it today,”

With pizza and beer distributed around the group, everyone found themselves seated around the limited seating that you and Natasha had in your living room. Rooster and Coyote were already taking up two-thirds of the couch, Payback and Fanboy were fighting over the beanbag, Nat had taken her favorite spot on the floor in front of the coffee table, while Bob took his usual place on the loveseat. With a beer in hand and pizza loaded up on your plate, you made your way over to the last spot on the couch. Hangman, being his typical annoying self, practically vaulted over the backside of the couch, almost knocking Bradley’s beer out of his hand as he let out an indignant ‘hey!’ at the action.

The wink Jake gave you, and the laughter that Natasha tried to cover up, were enough to tell you that this was definitely planned.

Without even sparing a glance at Bob, you took a seat on the other end of the loveseat, as far away as you could given that little moment in the kitchen not long before. You ignored the wiggling eyebrows that Jake was sending your way as Rooster scrolled through the various streaming services on your living room TV, trying to find something to watch to fill the time.

“We’ve got time for one movie; my turn, since Javy picked last week on movie night,” there was a collective groan through the room at Bradley's choice, ‘The Shawshank Redemption,’ simply because it was his usual choice during movie nights. “First pitch is at 4:10, but Mav told me they need us ready to go by 3:45 for the opening ceremony stuff. He said to meet him and Penny by the home plate gate, and someone from the home office would meet us out there.”

“I’ll take the ladies and Bob in the truck,” Jake threw in, with a sly wink sent your way. “The rest of you boys can ride with Rooster. Figured we could park in that garage off Tenth Ave since we wanted to hit up Tom’s Watch Bar after the game. Hope you ladies are cool with us crashing here tonight, because I’m not in the mood to drive home later.”

“Ah, yes, I’m sure our landlord will love a noisy, drunk group of fighter pilots staying here,” you’d shot back at your best friend, garnering another round of laughter from the group. “Nat and I aren’t sharing our beds, and we’ve only got the one air mattress, so fight amongst yourselves for sleeping arrangements. Now start the damn movie before we run out of time.”

With how often Bradley chose Shawshank during his pick on movie nights, there was barely any watching of the movie actually occurring. Payback and Fanboy had taken to giving dramatic renditions of the dialogue in terrible accents, leading to laughter throughout the room for every second of the movie.

Barely half an hour in, with pizza and sides finished off, your phone buzzed. A notification that you were added to a new group chat called ‘Operation Peob’ was the last thing you were expecting to get.

At this point, you shouldn’t be surprised. Especially with Jake. He’d been this way since high school, always butting into anything that had to do with your love life and trying to give you a push, so his meddling here wasn’t surprising. Natasha’s willingness to help and agree with Hangman, of all things, had you thinking that maybe this pining had gone on for far too long.

You and Bob were close; you sat close plenty and had been in enough semi-intimate settings with one another. What could it really hurt?

Tearing your eyes away long enough to glance at Bob for just a moment, you swore you could see his eyes dart away from your legs crossed underneath you and back to his phone in his hand, but chalked it up to seeing something you wanted to see. What you could see was that blush coating his skin. So, with a small boost of confidence, and the knowledge that Nat and Jake were definitely watching with renewed interest out of the corners of their eyes, you swung your legs out from under you and draped them across Bob’s lap without a word, bringing your eyes back to the movie screen to ignore your own skin’s flush.

You weren’t the only people in the room, but god, in those few short moments afterward, did it feel like you were. The movie felt quieter, the laughter of your friends was drowned out, and the only thing you could force yourself to think about was the fact that your bare legs were resting over Bob’s own bare legs. How warm his skin was, how it felt against your own, and you let your mind wander to how you’d give anything to feel any other part of-

Then, Bob’s hands were on your legs.

Holy shit, Bob’s hands were on your legs. And you were frozen in place.

Gentle and yet firm all the same, it was clear just in his touch how big his hands truly were as they seemed to engulf your skin. One found its place just around your knee, skin warm to the touch and igniting a fire under his touch, and what you wouldn’t give for that hand to rest just barely higher above your knee and on your thigh. His other hand rested itself right around your calf, and there only seemed to be a moment of hesitation before his fingers began to knead little circles into your muscle that had you biting the inside of your lip to keep back a noise you’d never utter in the presence of your squad.

You’d spared a quick glance at Bob out of the corner of your eyes, but his gaze never moved from the TV screen. So, you’d averted your own gaze to the movie too, but not before catching yet another obnoxious wink from Hangman and an impressed look thrown your way from Natasha.

Even as the movie had ended, and everyone was putting their shoes back on and unplugging their phones from their chargers in order to head out the door to the game, neither you nor Bob brought it up. Not once as you’d gotten off the couch, or as he’d let you use his shoulder for leverage to slip your beat-up tennis shoes on, or even as he climbed into the backseat of Jake’s truck, taking your hand in his own to help you inside.

Even in that short, barely ten-minute ride to the stadium, that heat hadn’t left your skin, and those thoughts refused to purge themselves from your head. You could only hope the same thoughts and feelings were running through Bob as he kept his gaze focused on the San Diego streets out the window.

“How did we manage to beat Rooster here?” Hangman complained the second that his truck was parked on the third floor of the garage, popping his front seat forward so that Bob could exit, helping you out as well just as he helped you in. “We left at the same fucking time, it’s not that hard to get here.”

Your hand slipped from Bob’s with a grateful, albeit nervous, smile that he reciprocated the second your feet landed on the ground of the garage.

“We took National Ave, they probably took Ocean View and hit some traffic,” Natasha shot back, rounding the truck before setting her sights on you. “You have the sunblock, right? I don’t feel like being burnt to a crisp today.”

You tossed the bottle from the back of the truck over to Nat before it was passed around to all of you, though Hangman swore he ‘didn’t need any’ and that he’d just get even more tan in the sun. He lost that argument when you, once again, threatened to call his mother.

With Rooster arriving just moments later with Coyote, Fanboy and Payback packed into the Bronco, parking beside Jake’s truck, the Dagger Squad was on the move toward the stadium.

It was barely a walk to the stadium, your chosen parking garage not even a street away, as your group made it’s way down the sidewalk in the direction of the home plate entrance. You and Bob brought up the rear, and you were barely a few steps down the sidewalk before his hand found the small of your back, sending a shiver up your spine, and easily switching places with you so that he walked along the edge closest to the road.

“Why do you always do that when we’re walking somewhere?” you ventured to ask him, bumping your shoulder lightly with his as you crossed one of the main roads heading toward the stadium. Bob shot you a soft smile as his hand found your back once more, guiding you slightly out of the way as a group of rowdy teenagers went barrelling past you all.

“Roads can be dangerous, just…don’t want you getting hurt is all,” was all the answer he offered, his hand finally leaving the small of your back after lingering for a moment longer than it needed to.

God, he really was a gentleman. That smile seemed to be etched perfectly into your face until your eyes glanced at your teammates in front of you, and the jerseys all bearing their last names hanging from their shoulders.

“Fuck,” Bob glanced over at you as you groaned, rubbing at your face. “I left my fucking jersey back at the apartment. Mav is going to kill me.”

Barely a second later, Bob’s jersey was bunched up in his hands as he presented it out toward you as you walked. Your eyes shot open as you looked at him, shaking your head, but his grin only widened.

“Take mine-”

“Bob, Mav specifically told us to wear our jerseys tonight, he’s going to be pissed at you if you don’t have yours on,”

“He’ll go easy on me, it’s fine,” he tried to assure you, lips quirking up slightly more into a smirk. “He’s still pissed about that argument you and Hangman had mid-flight the other day, he won’t go easy on you.”

Part of you wanted to argue, but there was something in the look in Bob’s eyes and the flutter it sent through your chest that had you taking the jersey from him without another word.

The first thought that ran through your mind was that it was bigger, much bigger than your own jersey that was still bunched up on your bed. You were trying desperately not to think about the fact that those biceps you found yourself distracted by almost every night you guys were at the Hard Deck, in civilian clothes or in your khaki uniforms, had been hugged by this fabric just moments prior.

The second thought was the smell; unmistakably his cologne. Bob never tended to wear a ton of it, but you’d been in close proximity enough to him to pick up on it over the last few months. Cypress, a woody smell that felt like the definition of lying in nature, surrounded by pine trees, and a hint of bayberry, another woody scent that brought a hint of sweetness to the smell.

The final thought that crossed your mind the second it was slipped over your shoulders completely was the fact that you were, quite literally, wearing his name on your back. When you’d turned to look at him again, breathless just from the idea, you swore you could see his pupils almost darken just a touch as he licked at his lips, his eyes flickering away from the back of the jersey and to your face again.

“Thanks,” you’d managed to speak as it felt like heat was coursing straight through your veins. Bob nodded, and you couldn’t help but notice the bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Of course,” the lower tone to his voice had parts of your body that you were not willing to think about in public practically aching with the need to touch him. “It looks good on you.”

Bob could’ve meant the jersey looked good on you, or he could’ve meant the name ‘Floyd’ looked good on you, but boy, were you hoping he meant the latter. Unfortunately, you’d already made it to the home plate entrance without even realizing it, and Maverick didn’t look particularly happy with how long he’d been kept waiting while Penny chatted with the woman from the front office there to lead you through the ballpark.

“I said we needed to be on the field by 3:45, that didn’t mean show up at the gate at 3:40,” Maverick shot at the group, before his eyes found Bob hiding in the back next to you. “Bob…push-ups after the next round of training, I said everyone needed to wear their jerseys today. We’ll discuss how many later.”

The eyes of every single one of your friends seemed to shoot back to both of you. Judging by the smirks on everyone’s faces, they all knew for a fact that you hadn’t been wearing your jersey when you’d all left and Bob had been.

“It’s nice to see you’re all here!” the woman from the front office greeted them all, and you were mentally thanking her for saving you from an embarrassing confrontation with your team. “We’re on a time crunch now, so please quickly follow me so I can get you guys to the field before the opening ceremony begins…”

As you all followed her through the gates of the ballpark and down toward one of the sections that would allow you access to the field, Hangman fell back into step beside you and Bob for just a moment. He leaned in, lips barely grazing your ear so he could speak only to you.

“Step two was to somehow get you in his jersey, but you both beat me to it. At this rate, you’ll be fucking by the fourth inning-”

You attempted to land a punch to Jake’s shoulder, cheeks blaring red, but he’d dodged it with a laugh, falling back into step ahead of you with Natasha and Coyote. It took everything in you to avoid killing him, or looking at Bob, as you made your way through the crowd of Padres fans toward the field.

“So,” Bob chimed in after a moment, his hand catching onto your forearm lightly and tugging you to his side before an already drunk older man could spill his beer on you. “You ever been on a professional field before?”

“Once, back in high school,” you answered him, cheeks still burning as Bob’s hand didn’t leave your arm, keeping you at his side as you squeezed through the crowd of the sold-out, late afternoon game. “Globe Life Field, it’s where the Rangers play. We took a field trip, got to see behind the scenes, and take photos out on the field.”

“I assume there wasn’t a huge crowd of almost 40,000 when you were on the field, though,”

“Not in the slightest,” you laughed, glancing back over to Bob as he laughed with you, though you could hear the nerves in his voice. You raised your hand, placing it over his on your arm with a little squeeze of comfort. “Don’t worry, it’ll be just fine. We just have to stand, listen to ‘God Bless America,’ watch Mav hopefully not mess up the first pitch after the National Anthem, and then we can go enjoy the game.”

Your reassurance seemed to do the trick as you walked through the gate at the end of section 114 and onto the field. The woman who had walked you down was positioning you all in a line around home plate, telling you each where to stand, while entertaining whatever it was that Hangman seemed to be animatedly telling her. You watched as she seemed to think something over for a moment, her eyes flickering toward you, before it looked like she agreed with whatever Jake had said, getting a fist bump out of him.

When you met his eyes with raised eyebrows, he’d only sent you a wink and took his place in line beside you.

Though your squad had just barely made it to the field on time, things had gone off without a hitch. The stadium announcer had introduced your squad to the crowd for Navy Appreciation Night with thunderous applause from the sold-out stadium. The local man singing both ‘God Bless America’ and the National Anthem was perfect and got his own standing ovation. Maverick’s ceremonial first pitch…could’ve been better, given how far in the left-hander’s batters box it ended up. You were all thankful that Penny was standing off to the side to get it on video for blackmail at some point.

“Section 116, row D,” Maverick informed the entire group once everyone was off the field, crowded back near the concessions as the first pitch of the game was thrown, and the Padres versus Mets game was officially underway. “Penny and I will go find seats, one of you bring us back a nice tray of nachos!”

Nat was quickly swept up by Hangman, Rooster, and Coyote, dragged off in the direction of one of the local pizza shops that were set up within the park, while Payback and Fanboy darted in the direction of a local beer company not far from that pizza joint.

“Well, baby-on-board,” you teased, spinning around to stand in front of him with a grin. “Ready to have some real ballpark food?”

Bob laughed, hand once again finding the small of your back even though there was a much small amount of people littering the walkway now that the game was underway, and he set you down a grin that had you ready to kiss him on the spot.

“I’m ready for the full experience, flower,”

That’s how, barely a minute later, you had Bob over at one of the self-serve food stations as you loaded your arms with food. A giant tray of nachos with cheese for Mav and Penny, two footlong hot dogs for yourself and Bob, and two comically large waters balanced on top. Bob was laughing again, trying to hold you steady so you didn’t drop any of the food on the way over to the checkout area.

“The footlong hot dogs are a necessity at any ballpark you visit- don’t laugh at me!” more laughter bubbled out of you as Bob shook his head with a grin, taking items out of your arms and scanning them through the self-checkout. “I’m giving you the true baseball experience, including the over-priced food. Nachos are a staple, too, Mav has good taste. And we can’t forget the water, this San Diego sun is brutal.”

Bob picked up the small packet of peanuts still left in your hands, shaking it with a raised eyebrow in your direction.

“And peanuts?”

“Another ballpark classic…I also know how much you love them, you’re always eating them at the Hard Deck,”

He looked at you for another moment, his smile almost visibly softening, before he shook his head and turned back to the checkout in front of you both.

“God, you’re adorable,”

You weren’t sure Bob had meant to say that as loudly as he did, given the flush crawling up his neck directly after, but he had. And that simple statement had you frozen in place, just watching him as he paid for the food without a complaint. Even as you both moved to the condiment station, slathering ketchup and mustard over both of your hot dogs before gathering the supplies and heading toward your seats, that little comment had you almost on autopilot.

“Finally, you two missed the entire first inning!”

It was Bradley’s voice that finally shook you awake. It was true, the Mets had gone down easily in three batters, just as the Padres did, and the second inning was already well under way. With a fake laugh, you shot Bradley the middle finger that had everyone laughing, before passing the nachos off to Maverick and moving toward the final seats in your row for your team.

They’d shoved you and Bob off on the end of the row toward the middle, placing you right between Coyote and whatever random group had unfortunately been stuck beside you all.

“Okay, I feel like I have to see what’s so damn good about these things now,” Bob announced one you both were seated, leaning over to ‘clink’ his hot dog off the side of your own with a shared laugh with you. You held off on your own, simply watching him and the way his face contorted slightly after a single bite. “It’s…it’s not terrible, but I think I’ve had better just from Bradley on the grill. Not worth the price.”

“No, but you’re paying for the experience,” you reminded him with another giggle. Ketchup and mustard were plastered to the side of Bob’s face from that one bite alone as you grabbed one of the napkins from his lap, reaching up to wipe it away. “Game has barely started, and you’re making a mess of yourself, Floyd.”

It wasn’t until you locked eyes with him that you froze, realizing how intimate a position that simple action put you both in. Just barely a few inches away from one another, close enough that you could see the faint smudges on the lenses of his glasses and study the exact shade of blue his eyes were. Close enough to, once again, watch the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, to get a glimpse of that flush in his cheeks that never seemed to leave. Your throat went dry instantly, but you couldn’t look away. Your tongue darted out to lick at your lips, and for once, you didn’t miss the way Bob’s eyes darted down to the action, lingering on your lips for a moment longer than needed, before finding your eyes again. It was hard to miss the way his pupils dilated the second they met your eyes again, or even the slight catch in your breath at that action.

“Hey! Didn’t Mav say something about acting professional today? Ballpark is no place to be eye-fucking each other, you two,”

If Hangman interrupted another moment with Bob today, you were personally going to bury him in the ground. His mother would forgive you; she loved you. Even so, you tore yourself away from Bob and the ruined moment, focusing on the game as you sent a blind middle finger down the row toward him as Mav lectured him about swearing with children around while the others laughed at the antics.

The game managed to go off without another comment from Hangman for a few innings. It was an evenly matched game, for the most part, both the Padres and Mets having some errors that led to runs that shouldn’t have been scored. At one point, on a blown-out call at second base, you jumped from your seat, screaming at the umpires just like many in the stadium were. When they’d finally set it off for review and corrected the call you returned yourself to your seat, shooting Bob a sheepish smile as he watched you in amusement.

“Sorry…grew up going to games with my dad, and with Jake. I get a little intense sometimes when they don’t call things right,”

Bob smiled and seemed to hesitate for just a moment before he stretched his arm over the back of your chair, his fingertips just barely brushing over your shoulder as he focused back on the game.

“It’s okay…it’s cute, seeing you all passionate,”

Bob Floyd was, once again, driving you insane. This time, you had no idea if he realized he was or not. 

By the seventh inning stretch and a crowd performance of ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’, your group had participated in three rounds of the wave, Coyote, Payback, and Fanboy had gotten up and given a fantastic rendition of Sweet Caroline along with the crowd that had gotten them projected onto the scoreboard. And Bob? His arm never moved from it’s place, and every so often he’d lean over toward you to mutter a question about the game right into your ear.

“Wait,” he’d leaned over for another question, and you could feel his breath ghost over the shell of your ear. It was hard to tell if you were hot because of the sun or because of Bob’s proximity at this point. The seventh inning had just ended with an out on the Padres runner at first, and they were slowly transitioning over into the eighth inning. “Why did the Mets throw to first to get that runner out when there was a guy on second?”

Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the scoreboard in left field. It’s time for the Petco Park eighth inning…KISS CAM!

“It wasn’t a forced out,” you explained to Bob, ignoring the cheers of the crowd over whatever announcement had just been made as you pointed toward the field to explain. “Since there was only a runner on second, he’s not forced to move because there’s no one behind him. If they want to get him out, they have to tag him with their glove and the ball.”

“So why not do that?” Bob questioned, glancing away from you and toward the scoreboard as the crowd continued to go wild, and you continued to explain.

“It’s not a guarantee that they’ll get him. With only two innings left, plus the score being tied, you want to throw down the runner on first and give yourself the best chance of an out. You want to end that inning as soon as possible, and while the runner is already in scoring position at second base, his chances of scoring increase greatly if he reaches third base, and you give him a chance to do so if you don’t get that runner at first out-”

“U-Uh…Peony?”

You glanced at Bob as he interrupted your explanation, tilting your head quizically at him. He glanced back at you, eyes wide and jaw slack as he pointed to the scoreboard, and you finally followed his gaze.

The Kiss Cam, broadcasted right on the scoreboard for the entire park to see. And the camera? Centered directly on you and Bob.

In a rush, the cheering of the entire stadium came straight back to you as you and Bob sat frozen in your seats, just staring at the screen as the camera stayed locked on you both. You spared a glance down the line at your friends, you squad, and they were all on their feet cheering for you both. Even Maverick and Penny were cheering.

“KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS!”

The entire stadium was cheering and chanting, and it didn’t look like the camera centered just a few rows down from you both was leaving anytime soon. At least, not without what it came for.

Slowly, you turned back to Bob, eyes still wide and words caught in your throat. He was still leaning in toward you, arm still on the back of your chair. But there was a smile on his lips; nervous, but with a faint hint of something else in the quirked edges. Something that felt a lot, in your head, like hope.

You? You were terrified, but knew that you had to make a split-second decision, one that could potentially change everything…for the better or worse.

But one more second looking at those gorgeous blue eyes, or at the way his tongue peeked out to just run over his bottom lip, had you mumbling ‘fuck it.’

Your hand wound around the back of his neck before you could stop yourself, tugging the handsome WSO closer and brushing your lips against his like you had dreamed of for months. 

Even though the cheers around the stadium, practically from your friends, got louder in that moment, it was all drowned out in your own ears the second you had Bob Floyd’s lips on yours.

Gentle, polite, even a little unsure at first, was what that kiss felt like. Just the smallest touch, but the biggest leap over that blurry friendship-or-more line you’d been dancing along for so long. But the feeling, the softness of his lips, the leftover taste of vanilla chapstick, and the fluttering in your chest had your hand gripping his neck just the slightest bit harder, tugging him closer as your other hand grabbed onto the armrest between you both as if to keep you grounded. That seemed to be all Bob needed to respond in kind.

His hand left the chair behind you, curling around your shoulder to hold you as close as he could, given the awkward positioning the ballpark seats allowed. You swallowed the groan that left Bob’s lips almost involuntarily with your own mouth as his hand gripped your shoulder as tightly as it could for just a moment. While at once it was gentle and unsure, those insecurities were long gone. Bob’s lips moved against you clumsily, desperately, just trying to memorize the feel of your lips against his.

As quick as it had happened, it ended. The cheering stopped, the camera disappeared, and you and Bob pulled away from one another. A simple kiss, no more than five seconds, broadcasted for the entire stadium to see, but it had wrecked you. Inside and out, that mere moment had solidified that you were hopelessly in love with Bob Floyd, and there was no one else you’d rather be in love with. And, given the blown pupils, the heavy breathing, and the flush etched into Bob’s skin, you were praying it had solidified the same thing for him, too.

“And THAT, Dagger Squad, is how you finally get two brick walls of human beings to figure their shit out!”

You didn’t want to look away from Bob, not at all, even as the baseball game before you finally resumed play for the eighth inning. But you stole a glance behind you to Hangman as he leaned over everyone, ignoring his lecture about swearing from Maverick again, shooting you a wink as the rest of the squad looked toward you and Bob happily.

“The office worker, when you were talking to her earlier…did you plan the kiss cam?”

“I told you I had a foolproof plan for tonight, and it worked! Operation Peob can officially be labeled a success, in my eyes. At least, partially,”

“Operation Peob?”

Your attention was brought back to Bob as he asked that question, a dopey smile on his lips as his fingers kneaded into your shoulder comfortingly. You breathed out a laugh, hang sliding from his neck to rest over his chest, right on top of his dog tags like you’d thought about so many times before.

“Hangman’s terrible nickname for his plan to…get us together,” you dug your phone out, flashing him the groupchat from earlier as he let out a breathy laugh at the contents of the messages. “Nat was in on it, too.”

“Guess, she was playing double agent, then,” Bob dug his own phone out, opening another group message and flipping the phone toward you to read with a grin.

There was nothing you could do, nothing you needed to do, after seeing those messages besides laugh. Bob laughed with you, your forehead falling against his forearm as you both shook with laughter, the game behind you on the field long forgotten.

“Well, if there’s one thing I know for certain now, it’s that our friends suck at coming up with ship names,” you pointed toward his phone incredulously. “I don’t know what’s worse, Peob or Boney!”

“Boney is at least a word, I’d argue that Peob is worse. Given that Hangman came up with it, too, it makes sense,”

You laughed again, before finding yourself just completely lost in those blue eyes you’d fantasized about for so long. Bob was looking at you, too, as if lost in a daze where the only thing he could see was you. That dopey smile that refused to leave his lips was sending yet another flutter through your chest and heat to places that you didn’t need to be thinking about in public.

“So…how long?”

It was Bob’s turn to pause, thinking over your question. His arm moved from the back of your chair as your hand slid off his chest. His hand, though, only found a home right on the skin of your thigh, exactly where you’d wanted it to rest just hours ago. The feel of his skin on such a sensitive part of your body, the pressure of his grip into the muscle under his hand, had another bolt of heat shooting down your spine as your body leaned into his touch, practically begging to be touched by him.

“The first time we met, at the Hard Deck. Hangman was being a dick to me, as he so often can be, and you took his ego down with a single story from your middle school dance. I knew the second you did that…that I was utterly fucked. It only took Phoenix and Rooster a day to figure it out, too,”

If it were possible to love him more, you did in that moment. Your hand came to rest on top of his, squeezing it as the crowd cheered for the home run that had just been hit by Xander Bogaerts. Your entire attention was on Bob, though, just as his was on you.

“I realized it after the bird strike, even though I think I was already feeling something before that. To see you all scratched up, to not know if you were okay until we got to the hospital, and then the way I just broke down crying when I saw you…it was hard to ignore after that,”

Bob’s smile only widened, giving your leg an affectionate squeeze.

“We wasted a lot of time being too scared to do something about this, didn’t we?”

“We did,” you gave him a small nod, thumb tracing circles onto the back of his hand as he gave you another squeeze. “Why did you never tell me?”

“Well, at first, I was sure that you and Hangman were a thing,” he couldn’t contain his laughter as you let out a fake gag at the thought. “Trust me, after one day of training with you guys, I realized that was ridiculous. After that, we became friends, and…I got nervous. You made me nervous, like, beyond comprehension. Still do. I tried sometimes to make it obvious, with the flowers on your birthday or when I’d ask if you wanted to get dinner.”

“And to think, I was just complaining to Jake and Nat this morning that those little moments were driving me insane,” you laughed at yourself, letting your head come to rest on his shoulder as you let your eyes focus back on the ending of the game. “I was nervous, too, you know. That’s why I didn’t say anything. I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

There was silence between you both for a moment, just the cheers of the crowd around you, before Bob’s lips pressed to your hairline. In that moment, you were cursing yourself for not having said something sooner, for depriving yourself of being Bob Floyd’s for as long as you had.

“I’d wait again if it meant I got you in the end,”

Even in a crowded stadium, it was like you and Bob had found yourselves nestled into your own little world. As the game ended and the crowd dispersed to the streets, your group waiting until you were some of the last few to leave, you still stayed wrapped up in one another. Bob’s hand easily found yours as your fingers intertwined with one another on instinct, tying yourselves to each other as you moved with your friends out of the stadium. While the snide comments from the team thrown back your way had both of you blushing, neither of you dared to let go of one another.

The second you hit the streets outside of the stadium, fully able to observe the fast-setting sun, Hangman was leading the charge around the stadium in the direction of the bar he had mentioned hitting up after the game. He was met with no protests from the group, everyone wanting to celebrate the Padres' 8-6 win in the ninth, and also the ‘culmination of months of pining’ as they’d all glanced back toward you and Bob in the back of the group.

That’s where you both stayed in a comfortable silence with one another, simply watching your friends act like absolute psychos on the sidewalk in front of you. Bob placed himself closest to the road again without even asking, your hands never unlinking as they swung between you both.

“So, since we already kind of beared our souls to each other in those uncomfortable ballpark seats,” your smile only grew at the laugh Bob couldn’t help but let slip over your comment. “Where…does that leave us?”

He glanced over with that adorable smile, the one that was making you weak in the knees, and brought your hand up to his lips to leave a gentle kiss right to your skin.

If he wasn’t careful, you were going to get arrested for jumping his bones in the middle of the downtown sidewalk. Bystanders be damned, your need for this man was outweighing just about every single rational thought you had.

“This leaves us at me needing to take you out on a date like a proper gentleman, first,” was his response, letting your hands fall back down between you both. Your eyes didn’t leave the side of his stupidly handsome face, and your mind couldn’t help but wander to those late night thoughts that invaded your mind about him, or the way that white t-shirt looked entirely too good on him right now, or how you wanted to just grab him by the dog tags and tug him closer-

“Does being a proper gentleman mean you won’t fuck me before the first date, too?”

As your cheeks reddened, eyes quickly turning back to your friends ahead of you, you decided that you were going to blame Jake for that little outburst. How was it his fault? No idea, but you’d been blaming things on him since you were a child, so why not continue that trend into adulthood.

There was a yank on your hand, your body spinning until it collided with Bob, who had stopped right in the middle of the almost empty sidewalk. It didn’t take a second for your eyes to meet his, and you swore you could feel your knees wobble just at the look in his eyes: pupils blown and a heat dancing through them. He looked as if he wanted to devour you here, in the middle of the sidewalk, and the feeling was mutual. His large hand slid around your waist to your lower back, dipping under his jersey and barely pulling your tank top up so that his hand could rest against your bare skin. You knew in that moment that you must look absolutely wrecked.

“Yeah, a proper gentleman would at least buy you dinner first,” his tone had dropped incredibly low, a sound that nearly stopped your heart, and his grip right on your hip tightened. “But my patience is wearing a bit thin, especially when you’ve got my name sprawled across your back.”

“Well,” with your hands lying against his chest, you allowed your fingers to curl around his dog tags just like you’d thought about so many times today, tugging him toward you with a smirk on your lips. “Guess it’s a good thing my patience is wearing thin, too.”

Bob’s smile quirked up as he leaned in, just as you leaned up to him- until two arms wrapped around your waist and practically tore you from Bob’s arms, landing you over a broad shoulder with a yelp.

“Baby-On-Board, Peony! I expected more from you two!” Seresin. Of course fucking Jake Seresin had to ruin everything again, holding you over his shoulder like a scolded child as he let out a ‘tsk.’ “Public displays of affection can make people very uncomfortable!”

“Jake, you’re going to be lucky if you ever step foot in an F-18 again when I’m done with you,” there was murderous intent in your tone as he turned on his heel, continuing the walk toward the bar with a laughing Penny, Mav, Coyote, and Payback surrounding you both. You hit him once on the back with your fist, not that it did anything to him, before speaking just loud enough for him to hear. “You’re the one who was bitching at me to get laid!”

“Not in the middle of the damn sidewalk, though, little flower,”

“I wasn’t going to fuck him on Park Boulevard, but damn, at least let me kiss him! This is what you wanted!”

“Step one was the legs, step two was the jersey, step three was the kiss cam, and now welcome to step four: more tension. Have some faith in me, and our little baby-on-board is going to be begging to fuck you before you’ve even had a drink,”

You grumbled something along the lines of ‘castrating’ him before accepting that he wasn’t going to put you down anytime soon, at least not until you got to the bar. Resting your chin against your hand popped against Jake’s shoulder, you couldn’t help but smile as you watched Bob. Rooster was at his side, arm slung around his shoulder as he muttered something that had a blush coating your WSO’s cheeks, Phoenix and Fanboy laughing beside him. When Nat met your eyes, a smirk crawled across her own face.

“Comfortable up there, Peony?”

“Just peachy, Nat. Trying to calculate how hard I have to swing my leg in this position to take away Jake’s ability to breed,”

With more laughter from the group, your eyes found Bob’s, and he was already looking at you with the softest smile you’d ever seen that had your heart racing like it always did around him. Annoying friends or not, as long as he kept looking at you like that, you’d put up with it all.

By the time Hangman had trekked all the way around the stadium and across Gallagher Square to the sports bar he wanted to visit, the sun had set. The inside was already packed from what you could gather through the windows as Jake finally set you back down on your feet.

“We’ll go get a tab started,” Coyote announced, most of the group following in after him. Jake nodded in his direction, holding the door open for your group as he glanced down at you with a smirk. Your glare hadn’t softened at all toward your best friend.

“You ever pull that shit again, and I will tell the story about how you fell off your horse when you were eight,”

“Damn, pulling out the deep cuts,” his tone was indifferent, the cocky bastard just choosing to shoot you a smirk and a wink as he stepped inside the bar door as well. “It’s packed in here, go see if there’s some outdoor seating.”

Yeah right, like you gave a shit what Jake wanted at that point.

An arm snaked it’s way around your waist, hand resting against your stomach as a pair of lips you were slowly growing accustomed to the feeling of pressed to the side of your head. You didn’t hesitate to lean back against Bob, craning your neck to look him in the eyes as he smirked down at you.

“Enjoy your ride?”

You huffed, elbowing him lightly with no malice what-so-ever.

“No, especially when there’s another man I’d rather ride,”

Even as your cheeks flushed at your own confident statement, you didn’t look away from Bob, giving you a full view of the way his eyes darkened at the comment. He glanced to the bar entrance, before behind you both, before his hand wrapped itself around yours and tugged.

“Come on,”

The bar did have an outdoor patio, but given the raging humidity still in the San Diego air as night time set in, everyone at the bar had opted to sit inside with the air conditioning. Bob wasn’t stopping at the patio, though, guiding you around the bar tables and out past the patio to the secluded section behind the bar, hidden from the main walkways with trees blocking the view in from Gallagher Square.

Nervous giggles left you in those moments once you were well and truly along, just barely illuminated by the string lights hanging on the patio just a few feet away. Those giggles ceased, your breath catching, as Bob stalked toward you as if he was the hunter and you were the prey, backing you up until your back was flush with the brick wall of the building covered in darkness.

Then, he was on you.

It’s hot, its messy–its the kiss of two people who have been starving to get their hands on one another for months. You practically unravel, putty in Bob Floyd’s hands, those same hands that are caressing up your bare thighs and to your waist then back down once again, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Your fingers were threaded through hsi sandy blonde hair, tugging at the strands with every movement of his lips against yours and every swipe of his tongue just along the edge of your own, leaving his taste lingering in your mouth as you craved more. 

One of his hands trailed down the back of your left thigh, gripping into the flesh and tugging it up around his waist, holding it there as he ground his hips toward your core as a breathless moan tumbled from your lips.

“I-In the interest of, uh–oh god–of putting it all out there,” you barely managed to get your words out, fingers tightening their grip in Bob’s hair as his lips trailed across your jawline and down your neck, nipping just enough at the skin that there were sure to be little marks left in the morning. “You…you realize I’m hopelessly in love with you, right?”

“I hope so, because I-I’m in love with you, too,” breathy, wrecked Bob Floyd was testing every ounce of your patience left, his words ghosting over your neck as he nipped at your skin once more, accentuating it with another roll of his hips. “If we’re being completely honest, then…can I say something?”

“As long as you don’t stop touching me,”

His laughter vibrated against your skin, his lips trailing back up your neck until they hovered right in front of your own, giving you the perfect view of his lust blown gaze. If you even had breath left to catch, it did, as the hand on your waist moved to the front of your jean shorts, fingers just barely dipping past the waistline and ghosting over the skin of your lower stomach.

“These shorts,” he snapped them back against your skin, the other hand still holding your thigh tight around his waist squeezing tightly for just a moment. “Have been killing me for hours. The legs on my lap? Nice play by Hangman, I’ll admit. You’ve been driving me insane for hours.”

“You think seeing those biceps and forearms in this t-shirt hasn’t been driving me insane?” your gaze flickered to said shirt and dog tags before returning to his eyes. “But…just hours?”

“No, for months,” he was quick to counter, leaning in an stealing another bruising kiss from you, barley pulling back so that his lips still brushed yours as he spoke. “When it’s hot out on the tarmac and you unzip your flight suit, and I can see the sweat dripping down your chest. Today, wearing my name on your back like it’s your own. But the one that never leaves me…when we all went up to the the Mission Beach Boardwalk. You wore that little maroon sundress, the one that barely comes to your knees. And I don’t know why, maybe you wanted to kill me o-or maybe it was one of Hangman and Phoenix’s stupid plans, but you didn’t wear bike shorts that day. You bent over to look at something in one of the shops, and I saw them clear as day: pink, lacy, covered in flowers, and barely covering an inch of your skin. I haven’t stopped thinking about them since.”

Desire coursed through every inch of you at his words, at the memory of that day. To know that Bob really did think of you in the same depraved way that you did him only had your want–your need–for him increasing tenfold.

The ghost of a smirk crossed your lips as one of your hands left his hair. He watched it as your fingers trailed over his shoulders, down his bicep as your nails dug into the skin just slightly, down his forearm as your nails traced his veins, before settling over the hand still gripping to your shorts. Hooking a finger around his, you dipped it fully below the waistline of your jeans as you heard his breath catch, looping it around the edge of your panties and tugging them upwards until they were just barely visible: pink, lacy, and covered in flowers.

“It’s a matching set,” you whispered in a sultry tone, his eyes finally finding their way back to yours with a newfound heat in them, and you swore you could see a thin layer of fog overtake the lenses of his glasses. Leaning in just barely, you caught his lower lip between your teeth, biting just barely enough for a groan to elicit from somewhere deep in his chest, another shot of heat going straight to your core, espeically as his hips once against ground forward as if they had a mind of their own, and there was no mistaking the size of the rigid bulge pressing against you now. “Guess it’s your lucky day, Floyd.”

“It will be when you’re finally under me,”

“You’ve got me pressed up against a wall,” you managed to joke breathlessly, hand finding it’s way back up to his hair. His fingers stayed dipped past the waistline of your shorts, slowly finding their way around to the back, his whole hand almost dipping lower now as the heat of his hand spread out across your entire ass, squeezing just hard enough for you to stutter out another gasp against his lips. You felt his lips curl into a smirk at the sound. “I-Isn’t that good enough?”

“Baby, I’m not fucking you against a wall with our Captain probably thirty feet away. No, when I finally get to fuck you, I’m taking my time until you’re ruined,”

Yeah, fuck anyone on this team that joked that Bob Floyd must have been vanilla in bed, or that he’d be awkward and stutter his way through any sexual encounter. He had you willing to put your entire career on the line for a misdemeanor just to finally feel him like you did in your dreams.

“Damn…I leave you two alone for ten minutes and baby-on-board looks like he’s two seconds from whipping it out,”

Jake Seresin was a dead man. Worse than a dead man, not that you even knew what could be worse, but the second you could get your hands on him you were going to strangle him. Or beat him. Or hold a pillow over his face until he finally stopped breathing and you never had to hear hid stupid voice again.

Your head fell to Bob’s shoulder, hands still wound in his hair and refusing to leave. He let out a soft, but you could tell embarrassed, chuckle against the side of your head, the hand on your ass slipping back to your waist, his other hand finally letting your leg drop back to the ground.

“Something you need, Bagman?”

“Was just seeing if my hunch was right and you two wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off one another,” you tilted your head against Bob’s shoulder in order to fully look at your best friend, your death glare doing nothing to deter his smirk and wink. “As usual, I was right, given that you were well on your way to a misdemeanor. I think you two should be thanking me, this is all thanks to my brilliant foolproof plan for the day-”

“Seresin, I know you like hearing yourself talk, but if you interrupt me one more time I’m going to ride Bob right in front of you just to make sure you’re scarred for life,”

It was Bob’s turn to laugh, squeezing your waist gently with another kiss to the side of your head. Jake’s smirk only widened as he took his hand out of his pants pocket, tossing something in your direction. You let one of your hands leave Bob’s hair to catch what he’d thrown, both you and Bob looking down at your hand: Jake’s truck keys.

“No scratches, that’s all I ask. And no sex in the truck,” Jake sent another wink in your direction, shuffling backward toward where he’d come from. “Rooster is designated driver, Phoenix and I will just squeeze in with them. I’m sure I can keep them busy here for three…maybe four hours, if that’s enough time for you jackrabbits to get rounds 1 through 5 out of your systems. Just wrap it, please, I don’t feel like calling your mom and informing her that you’re pregnant anytime soon.”

You and Bob could only stare at the place in which Jake had just been standing for a moment in shock, trying to process what had just occurred. Then, you laughed, spinning the keys around in your hand.

“He’s a dick, but I guess he’s a good wingman…at least on the ground. Remind me to thank him-”

Bob’s hand was on your chin, tugging your face back to him as his lips moved headily against yours, swallowing the moan you didn’t even try to suppress as that bulge nudged against your thighs once more. Lust, love, adoration, need, it was all prevalent in the heated kiss as Bob pulled away, hot breath ghosting over your lips.

“Thank him later. I’ve waited long enough to fuck you, flower,”

[starrvsn]

Knight in Shining Glasses : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Summary: All you wanted to do was enjoy your first night in San Diego at the bar recommended to you by your father, but a hot-shot new to the Top Gun program was intent on bringing you home with him, or at least couldn't take a hint. Lucky for you, there's a knight in shining glasses ready to save you.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY (I am not responsible for the media you choose to consume), fluff, language, kind of a pushy douchebag guy is in this, female reader, language, probably incorrect descriptions of the Navy (my dad was a Marine, I'm doing my best lol but I did do a ton of research so hopefully it's accurate-ish), suggestive and steamy but no smut (but boy did we get real close), like a TINY maybe hint of angst for 0.2 seconds

Word Count: 11,044 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

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

“Another beer?”

You nodded your head at the gorgeous woman behind the bar, who was already sliding a beer your way before you’d even answered, as if she could read your mind. You gave her a smile in thanks, sighing the second your hand touched the cool glass of the bottle.

San Diego was hot, too hot for your liking. Every piece of fabric on your body felt as if it was clinging to your body right now in a way that had you begging the world just to make it legal to walk around naked. You much preferred the weather back in New England, on the complete opposite side of the country, but you had promised to come to town for a bit. It had been years since you’d seen your father, not since his promotion and subsequent move to San Diego, your conflicting work schedules making it impossible to make the cross-country trip, even if you missed him.

You were here now, though, seated in the bar that had come highly recommended to you straight from him: The Hard Deck, located right on Coronado Beach, just minutes from the Naval Air Station of North Island.

“Local beer?” you questioned the woman as yet another group of rowdy, young Naval aviators came bursting through the doors of the bar, disturbing some of the other guests in the packed bar. The woman, whose nametag you could now see said Penny, just laughed at the antics of her new guests before nodding at you.

“Yeah, local company. They’re pretty popular around here, so I always have to keep them in stock,” you hummed, taking another sip of the drink in your hands. Rich in flavor, maybe with a hint of sweetness that complemented the bitterness it left behind. You could see why it was popular around here. Penny wiped the bar directly in front of you, flashing you a smile. “Now, I know most of my regulars here, and you certainly aren’t one. Where’d you blow into town from?”

“Watertown, New York,” you told her as another group of Naval aviators passed by you in their service khakis, older than the group that had just come in. Your eyes followed them for just a moment, lingering as they moved to the back of the room to the pool tables as if they were there every night, before looking back at Penny. “My father is in the Navy, stationed here in San Diego. Thought it was finally time I visited him.”

“Good, means you know how to deal with the rowdy bunch I have here,” you both laughed as she gestured toward the group of young pilots that had just come through. Someone called to her from further down the bar, and she paid you one final smile. “Holler if you need anything, or if anyone’s giving you trouble.”

“Will do,”

With the jukebox playing off in the corner, Summer of ‘69 by Bryan Adams filling the air, it gave you a chance to really take in the atmosphere. Given the proximity to the Naval Air Station, you weren’t surprised by the amount of Navy paraphernalia that decorated the entire bar. Mugs hung from the ceiling with F18s on them, plenty of pictures of those monster jets hung up around the tables as well. And with the clientele that Penny seemed to attract here, judging by the number of young pilots scattered around, you weren’t surprised that this seemed to have turned into a place many in the Navy flocked to after a long day on base.

The young group of aviators, who seemed to have met up with another group of friends, were loud and rambunctious over by the dart board as they took bets on who could make a bullseye first. You rolled your eyes at their antics with a slight smile, reminded of the stories your father had told of his days, and looked over your shoulder toward that older group by the pool tables.

Easily your age, or at least older and more experienced than the group by the dart board. There was one woman among the groups of men with darker hair, already kicking their asses at the pool game they were playing. That alone quirked your lips up just slightly as you watched Penny deliver a tray of drinks to the group that seemed very personally friendly with her. Ah, so they must be stationed here at North Island and be regulars of the Hard Deck.

They were quite the bunch, from what you observed from the bartop. There was the young man playing alongside the woman, and what seemed like his best friend pestering him after another missed shot. There was a taller, tan blonde who you could tell from here exuded confidence in an over-the-top way, and a friend beside him who also seemed to have that arrogant confidence about him. The man taking the tray from Penny and passing out the drinks had that same confidence and charm, but it almost seemed to roll off of him naturally as if he wasn’t even trying to charm those around him.

It was the one sitting off to the side, silently observing his friends, that caught your eye.

He didn’t exude confidence in the same way that his friends did. He wasn’t walking sex on legs like many would think the tall, overconfident friends of his were…but he was to you. Quiet, simply observing his friends with a tiny smile that stirred something in your chest. One hand holding onto the neck of his beer bottle, the same one you were drinking, and the other casually snacking on a cup of peanuts. You tried, and failed, to keep your eyes from lingering on those long, slender fingers of his, or the fact that, even from here, you could tell his hands were large in a delicious way that had your mind imagining what they’d feel like settled on your bare-

Okay, yeah, maybe it was time to say ‘fuck it’ to your no hook-up rule and get laid on this vacation. You couldn’t be thinking like this over a man you’d been looking at for less than a minute, didn’t even know his name, or had yet to make eye contact with.

But then, when your eyes finally left those slender hands, you were making eye contact with him.

There was an adorable flush crawling across his cheeks, and god were you a sucker for a cute man in some glasses. His lips quirked up in a shy smile as he met your gaze, giving you a tiny nod. A similar flush crept up your neck at being caught staring, giving him a small wink before turning back around to not seem like a creep watching him.

With Penny off taking orders as the bar only seemed to get busier by the minute, and no one around you seemed like good options for a conversation, you found yourself spun around to lean against the bar and observe the room. No time like a crowded bar to people watch.

With a few work emails checked to ensure you weren’t missing anything pressing on your vacation, and a text sent to your father to thank him for the bar recommendation, you found your eyes drifting back to that same Naval aviator once more.

The woman had dragged him from his seat, his beer and peanuts left behind as a pool cue was shoved into his hands as his friends cheered, bringing a grin to your face. Your eyes tracked him as he bent over the table to line up his shot, his friends engrossed in a conversation together, but then his eyes flicked up and met yours again. Your eyebrow shot up as you raised a beer to him, a simultaneous encouragement for him to sink his shot and also a challenge to see if he could. His lips quirked up at that as, without even glancing down to his cue, he took his shot: directly in the pocket without interference. His friends clapped for him, patting him on the back, but his eyes stayed on you. Even with another flush crawling up his neck and nerves practically stitched into his smile, he shot you a wink this time, and you couldn’t stop the giddy grin on your lips.

“Well, never seen girl as pretty you before,”

You didn’t want to stop looking at that gorgeous man in glasses across the bar, but you were intrigued to know who was speaking to you.

He wasn’t the worst-looking man, he was attractive. Dark hair that matched the mustache and the beard that was growing in, which was definitely against grooming standards for the Navy. Pretty brown eyes…but he wasn’t your shy, glasses-sporting boy across the room. Plus, you recognized him from that rowdy bunch of pilots that had walked in beforehand. The smile you’d given the man across the bar dropped into the smallest, friendliest one you could muster as you looked at the name on his badge: Jackson.

“Well, that’s definitely a way to open up a conversation,” you shot back. The man only laughed, leaning against the bar next to you with a charming, over-confident grin on his lips.

“Warrant Officer Daniel Jackson,” he held out his hand to shake yours, and you reluctantly gave it to him. You regretted it the moment he brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, and you quickly took your hand back and slyly wiped it along the side of your jeans. “Friends call me Caveman.”

“Interesting callsign,” you shot back with a fake laugh, tilting your head. “You get that from the unkempt beard that’s clearly not within grooming protocols?

He laughed again, but it did nothing to lift your smile from where it was frozen to be polite. He took a swig from his own beer that he’d brought over with him before leaning closer.

“Funny, and you know the Navy,” you laughed uncomfortably again, taking a subconscious scoot backward on your chair to get away from him. “Brand new to Top Gun, friends and I got in earlier. About to become the best of the best…”

He continued talking, droning on and on about Top Gun and the ‘prestige’ that came with being one of the best of the best (if he could actually get through the vigorous training). In the interest of being polite and not pissing off a man your first night in town, you laughed politely when appropriate and pretended to be listening.

When your eyes glanced back at that man in the glasses, though, he was already looking at you. Back to standing near the seat he’d occupied before, peanuts in his hands and the pool game abandoned as he seemed to be watching you. You gave him a dramatic roll of your eyes, pitching your head toward the pilot still talking your ear off as if to say ‘get a load of this guy,’ and you could see him laugh from across the bar. That simple action sent a flutter through your chest, and god, what you wouldn’t give to actually hear that laugh.

“...I could show you base sometime,” your attention was, sadly, brought back to Caveman beside you, who was still smiling at you as if you were a prize he’d won and wanted to flaunt around the entire bar to each and every patron. “Could sponsor ya for the day, give ya a private tour.”

“That’s sweet, but I’m sure if I wanted to visit the base, my father would happily sponsor me,” you shot back, trying to turn him down as politely as you possibly could. Your comment only seemed to brighten his mood even more.

“Navy dad, you say?” he’d leaned in closer once more, and you were running out of room on the little stool to lean away from him. “Guess that means you know a lot. Dad have rules about…dating pilots?”

Yeah, no, now you were uncomfortable. There was no being polite now, he’d made his intentions clear and could clearly not read your body language. Your body instantly tensed as your eyes avoided his, still trying to keep the most polite smile you could on your lips. Penny was nowhere in sight to help, so your eyes immediately found your pilot across the room.

He was already watching you, it seemed, but when you locked eyes again, he stood up a little straighter, the smile he had on his face dropping slightly. It was as if he could see the way your demeanor had suddenly changed, and god, you hoped he could see it.

“I’m flattered, but I’m not looking for anything like that,” you’d awkwardly laughed out as you looked back at him finally. “I’m just here on vacation.”

That was when his hand settled on top of your knee, and your heart leapt into your throat. The heat of his hand felt like it was burning a hole in your jeans as he squeezed just so.

“Don’t got to be anything serious, I’m down for some fun,”

That polite smile was gone off your face in an instant as you tried to yank your leg from him, but he squeezed it just slightly tighter.

“Okay, Caveman, sounds like you must’ve got your nickname from how you treat women,” that snide comment seemed to drop his confident demeanor immediately. “I’ve turned you down, I’ve made it clear I’m not interested. So I suggest you let me go.”

“Come on, I think you just need to-”

“I’m pretty sure she said let her go, Caveman,”

There was an edge to the voice that cut in, but not one that made you feel on edge yourself. A hand clamped down on your shoulder from behind, firm but not uncomfortable in the way that the hand on your knee was. Grounding, and when it squeezed your shoulder just slightly, it felt comforting. Protective, in a way. And when you finally turned your head and noticed those familiar glasses you’d been staring at all night, and those gorgeous blue eyes hiding behind them, you immediately relaxed into his touch.

Caveman’s hand immediately left your knee as he seemed to sit up a little straighter, putting his hands up in surrender as he looked at the man standing at your side now.

“Lieutenant Floyd-”

“Things are looking tense over here!” those two pilots you’d observed earlier, the ones who exuded confidence in your eyes, suddenly appeared behind Caveman. The taller blonde placed his hand down on his shoulder just as Lieutenant Floyd’s was on yours, and you glanced at their tags: Lt. Seresin and Lt. Bradshaw. The blonde pointed to Caveman, raising an eyebrow at the man at your side. “Baby-on-board, is this man causing trouble?”

Your shoulder was squeezed once more as you turned back to look at the man at your side, feeling another flutter in your chest as you got a good look at those sky blue eyes up close, which made him even more attractive in your eyes. He gave you a small smile, tilting his head toward your ‘friend’ just like you had earlier on.

“Is he bothering you?”

You’d glanced back at Caveman, who seemed semi-scared shitless around these guys, and a smirk curled up on your lips.

“Yes, yes he is,”

“Disrespecting a lady?” it was Penny’s voice now as she reappeared behind the bar, her glare set on that poor pilot that everyone was ganging up on. She ‘tsked’ in his direction, before stepping back to point to a sign hanging just behind her. “It’s your first night here, you should probably check the rules before you get comfortable.”

Disrespect a lady, the Navy, or put your cellphone on my bar…you buy a round.

Alright, Penny might be your new favorite person, besides the hot ass pilot in glasses still comfortably resting his hand on your shoulder as the scene played out before you all.

Caveman never even got a chance to defend himself, as Penny had stepped up to the bell hanging from the ceiling beside the sign, the ring of it echoing throughout the bar. Within seconds, there were chants of ‘OVERBOARD!’ heard throughout the room before Lt. Seresin and Lt. Bradshaw had the man hooked under their arms, dragging him out to the parking lot as his friends quickly followed behind.

“A-Are you okay?”

Your eyes found your pilot’s brilliant blue ones again, this time in front of you as he chose to now occupy the seat Caveman was sitting in just moments prior. You simply stared at him for a moment, still trying to process the entire interaction, before a smile stretched wide across your face.

“You know, I thought the Knight in all the fairytales was wearing shining armor?” you posed it like a question, a teasing tone present in your words as you took a quick swig of your beer, eyes never leaving his, and your smile turning into a slight smirk. “Didn’t know mine was going to come bearing shining glasses, instead.”

He’d laughed, that laugh just minutes ago you would’ve burned this bar down to hear, and my god, did you adore it. You adored it more than you should, given that you still didn’t know this mystery man’s name.

“No woman deserves to be treated like that, ma’am,” he tried to dismiss you, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as your eyes trailed over those hands once again, now that they were so close. You could see the redness in his cheeks from this close now, too. “T-The way he was acting, my mom would’ve torn me a new one if I didn’t step in.”

“And is that the only reason?” you quipped back immediately, placing your beer down on the counter just so you could really look at him, study him. “That you stepped in?”

You could see the way he hesitated for a moment, but not as if he didn’t want to answer you. No, you could see that flush deepening in his skin: you were flirting with him, and he knew it, he just didn’t know how to handle it.

“N-No, no, that’s not the only reason,” there was a shy smile on his face as he huffed out a sheepish laugh, looking down at his lap for a moment, before looking back to you. “I should actually thank him, his incompetence gave me the balls to come over here and talk to you.”

He’d made you laugh, a boisterous one that caught the attention of a few lingering around the area of the bartop you were sat at, and you knew already that you were screwed when it came to this man. You’d offered your name immediately after that, a hand out to shake, and he took it in his own as he gave his name: Bob Floyd.

You tried desperately not to think about the way his hand had felt against yours, or the way it had absolutely engulfed your hand due to its sheer size alone. You forced your gaze to the badges that adorned the left side of his khaki uniform, glancing back up at him with a grin as you pulled your hand away.

“So, a Lieutenant?” you commented, gesturing toward the two silver bars on the collar of his uniform, before pointing with your beer bottle to the golden wings centered above his heart. “Flight officer badge. You’re a Weapons Systems Officer?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he gave you another kind grin as Penny swung by quickly, shooting a wink in both of your directions as you slid you both another beer each, muttering something about it being on the house. Bob took his with a sheepish smile, thanking Penny quietly before his attention refocused on you. “Top Gun graduate.”

“Ah, that and the rank explain why Caveman was so scared shitless to see you and your friends,” he’d laughed again at that comment as you finished off the last of your beer, a sly smirk appearing as it was hard to miss the way that Bob’s eyes flickered down to your neck as you tilted you head back to finish off the bottle. “Typically, you’re only recalled here for special detachments and sent home to your squadrons, unless you’re here to train newbies like our friend in the sand outside.”

“We were brought in for a mission months ago,” Bob’s attention was turned away as Lt. Seresin and Lt. Bradshaw reentered the bar. They both gave you polite waves that you happily returned for what they’d done for you, before making the most obvious of kissy faces toward Bob that had him shaking his head in embarrassment. You tried to hold in your laughter for his own sake. “They thought we had good team dynamics, so they formed a special squadron to keep us in town for a while. VFA-73 Dagger Squad, at your service.”

“Well, cheers to you all and a sincere thanks for your service,” he happily clinked the top of his bottle against your own. “Must be one special group to get a new squadron formed, no less made up of the best of the best.”

“Oh, they’re special, alright,”

You’d quickly come to learn in the next few minutes that Bob Floyd might’ve been the quieter one of his friends, but he was just as charming as the rest seemed to be. Honestly, you weren’t sure he understood just how charming he really was. He’d pointed across the bar toward his friends, naming off their names and the callsigns that you were sure to remember more easily. With each name, he seemed to easily have a story or a quick-witted quip about each one (including the embarrassing story of his Bob ended up his callsign and how Hangman had turned it into baby-on-board) that had you progressively laughing harder, leaning further toward him. You were seated facing one another, bodies angled directly at the other, and his knee was just barely brushing up against yours now with each laugh shared.

“Hangman seems like a piece of work, but I bet he’s got a soft side buried somewhere down in there,” you’d shot back, turning Bob’s attention back to you as you leaned closer to him with a grin, launching into a story that Bob seemed gripped to, an easy smile on his own face. “My dad’s the same way, took my Uncle Solomon–not my real Uncle, but kind of chosen Uncle–to break him down a little bit, get him to loosen up more.”

“So, your father was in the Navy?”

“Still is, reason that I’m in town right now,” 

With Bob this close, you were losing focus fast. The way he hung onto every word that you said, seemed to genuinely care about what you had to say, had a flutter flying through your chest that you hadn’t felt since your first boyfriend back in high school. Sure, you’d had your fair share of relationships in adulthood, but nothing that clicked, no one that made your heart soar or made you want to ‘pop your foot’ as Princess Mia always said in your favorite childhood movie. You were starting to understand her logic, though, because every second around this charming knight in shining glasses had you ready to throw caution to the wind.

So, with a little boost of confidence fueled by the third beer in your hand and the adorable sight of a blush on the Naval aviator’s face, you moved even closer. Your leg slotted itself between his, pressed between his thighs as your foot rested against the bottom rungs of his chair. You could see him freeze for just a second as his eyes followed you, not apprehensive, but just unsure, like he’d never been here before. With your beer pushed off to the side, not seeing a need for any more liquid courage, your elbow came to rest on the bartop and your head on top of your hand, allowing you to look up at the handsome man before you and watch as he visibly swallowed the lump in his throat.

God, that really had no right to be as hot as it was.

“S-So, he’s stationed here on North Island?”

“Maybe,” you shot back with a smirk, one that brought an easy smile back to his lips as he could surely hear the teasing tone laced through your words as you kept your answer vague. “I’d prefer not to talk about my dad, though, when I could be hearing more about the incredibly handsome WSO who saved this poor damsel in distress.”

Another easy laugh was shared between you both before the floodgates seemed to open up.

Bob had no issue telling you all about his childhood. He’d grown up in Montana, on a ranch somewhere on the outskirts of Bozeman, which prompted a lengthy debate on whether or not he qualified as a cowboy or not (you thought he did, and when he confessed to owning a few cowboy hats, you declared yourself the winner of the debate). His mother and father, Bonnie and Owen Floyd, had three daughters before finally having Bob, their youngest: Laura, and the twins Sophia and Sierra. He’d recounted a story from back in high school when they’d taken a trip to Yellowstone National Park for Bob’s birthday, at his request, where his oldest sister had gotten yelled at by a park ranger for stepping way too close to one of the hot springs.

“That’s, like, impossible to do!” you’d almost shouted through the bar incredulously as Bob laughed at your reaction. “All you have to do is stay on the guided paths, right?”

“That’s what I said!” Bob managed to explain through his own laughter. “Laura swore she saw a bald eagle and was just trying to get a closer look. She then, unbelievably, yelled back at the ranger about how one day she was going to be a conservationist and work there.”

“In the nicest way…she sounds like a piece of work sometimes,”

“No offense taken, the whole family agrees. I like to say she took all the extrovertedness in the family so that there was none left for me,”

Your lips quirked into another bright smile at that, tone slightly teasing once more, but in a soft way.

“I don’t know, you don’t seem so introverted around me,”

Bob paused at that, that adorable blush still ever present in his skin, as his lips quirked up just slightly higher than they were before.

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t,” he’d shyly managed to say, eyes never straying from yours. “You make it easy.”

With more shared laughter, two hearts fluttering just from conversation alone, Bob even told you the story of how he’d decided to join the Navy. He’d been with his father one day, the family truck getting worked on at the local shop, and his dad had slid him some money to grab them both some snacks from the pharmacy a few doors down. Bob had only been around 10 at the time. In between those two buildings, though, had been a Navy recruitment center where he’d overheard the conversation inside with some high school students, and the rest was history. He suddenly had every book known to man about the Navy, was watching every movie that even mentioned the Navy in passing, and had sheepishly admitted to even starting a collection of model planes he’d built, dreaming one day of flying them.

God, if that wasn’t somehow the cutest story in the world, but also the hottest moment of vulnerability you’d seen from a man your age in years, you were practically ready to swoon and drop to the floor right there in the middle of the bar. You had a feeling that Penny wouldn’t take kindly to that, even if she seemed to like you and Bob’s friend group.

In turn, you’d told Bob everything about yourself, too. Growing up in a town in New York that felt more like it was part of Canada than New York, given your proximity to the border. You were an only child, your father (who had you skirting around any details that Bob asked about him) was too focused on his career to think about having another kid. But he always swore that you were enough for him. His workaholic nature and deep love for the Navy and moving up the ranks strained the relationship he had with your mother until they divorced. How you never got to see him often, but he always managed to call at least once a week to talk to his ‘perfect girl.’

With the depressing comparison of your childhoods and family dynamics, you’d told him the happy stories and memories, too. Ones that you didn’t normally divulge to a man you had just met. You’d been on a softball team all through high school with your best friends, won multiple championships, and even gotten a scholarship to Boston University because of it. There were multiple stories about how your parents always bribed you with Cold Stone Creamery, and how it was still your favorite ice cream place today. That time your friends had gotten caught sneaking alcohol into the punch bowls at prom (that story had Bob laughing, as he recounted a similar one that Hangman had told them from his high school days). And, of course, the thrilling stories of your very mundane marketing job back in your hometown, the one you never managed to escape.

“You at least like your job, though, right?” Bob had asked, and with the way you were now sitting together, it would probably be more comfortable and practical to just climb into his lap and use him as a chair. Legs still wound around one another, both leaning against the bar with beers long forgotten, faces entirely too close together as you sat in your own bubble together. The sun had long since gone down, as it had still been in the beginning stages of setting when you’d first entered the bar. 

One hour, two? You had no clue how long you’d been talking to Bob Floyd, but every part of you wanted to talk to him for the rest of the night and beyond. It was easy, it was comfortable, and you felt more respected in the entirety of this conversation than you did on any Tinder date you’d been on in years. Safe. That’s what you felt. You felt safe around Bob Floyd, a feeling that was a hot commodity in today's dating climate.

“I do. I went to school for it, so I hope I like it,” your eyes drifted to the bartop, finger absentmindedly tracing the water ring left around your discarded beer bottle. “Pays well, very well. Just want to do it…somewhere other than my hometown, is all. Love the company I work for, just want a change. If an opportunity presented itself, I’d leave Watertown immediately.”

“And besides your mom, you wouldn’t uh…you wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind, would you? No like a, uh, a boyfriend…or anything?”

You’d glanced back up at him now, at the way he bit into his bottom lip with both nerves and hope shining in his eyes as he waited with baited breath for your answer. And in turn, you smiled, leaning just the slightest bit closer to him with amusement laced in your words.

“Lieutenant Floyd, if you haven’t noticed, I’ve been flirting with you all night. I wouldn’t do that if there was someone waiting for me,”

He laughed then, and you could almost physically see the tension and nerves leave his body.

“Good, because uh, I-I don’t either. Have anyone, I mean,” your head tilted as Bob groaned slightly, running a hand down his face and adjusting his glasses with a deep chuckle. “I’m sorry, I’m really not good at this.”

“At flirting?”

“I never really get the chance to, no one ever really notices me,” he’d shrugged it off like it was nothing, but you’d felt a small pang in your chest at that comment. “Jake, Bradley, Javy…it’s always them, and it doesn’t normally bother me. But I…I saw you earlier, and you looked at me like you saw me. Like you really saw me. You never looked at them, you kept looking at me. And…I’ve never been the one looked at like that, not when I’m with them. I’m not the one noticed.”

You shuffled, sitting up slightly now so that you weren’t leaning against the bar, as you placed your hand on top of his, where it lay in his lap. Bob simply watched you, a tiny smile never leaving his face, as you reciprocated the look and gave his hand a squeeze.

“I’m not one to flirt with a random guy at a bar, or sit and divulge details of my life story to him for hours on end. Which means you, Bob Floyd, are special. And honestly? I’m glad the other ladies don’t notice you, because I sure did. And that just leaves more for me.”

There was silence for a beat before his hand under your own moved back just slightly, his fingers now splayed out over your own, wrapping around them slightly with a tiny squeeze. And somewhere in that small movement, in the looks exchanged in the never-ending eye contact you seemed to hold with one another, something changed. Those heated looks from earlier held a new weight with the words spoken out loud, the tension on the rope connecting the two of you tighter than it had been from the moment you’d first saw Bob Floyd from across the bar, and it felt like all it was going to take to snap that tension was to lean in-

“Baby-on-board! You done hogging your girl over there so we can meet her?”

And…moment ruined. Bob immediately shut his eyes, groaning with a mumble under his breath about how he was ‘going to kill Hangman’ while his friends all laughed from across the bar. You’d simply laughed, leaning your head down until your forehead rested against Bob’s shoulder, his breath and words ghosting over the side of your face as he finally spoke.

“Sorry about them. The one time I have a girl interested in me, they decide to be pricks about it,”

“Maybe they’re just trying to summon you back over, I have held you hostage long enough,” you commented when you finally lifted your head, glancing down at the watch on his arm to see that you had, in fact, held this man hostage at the bar for almost two hours, even though it had felt like minutes.

“Trust me, this was no hostage situation. I’d rather be over here with you,” Bob was quick to interject, his smile seeming to stretch wider as you were sure he could see the flush crawling up your own neck. Untangling your legs, Bob rose to his feet beside the chair as a pang of disappointment hit you square in the chest. That was, until he held his hand out to you with a sheepish grin. “Care to join me?”

You were pretty sure you would’ve followed Bob Floyd anywhere at this point. Was it insane to like a guy this much after barely knowing him for a night? Probably, but you didn’t feel like you’d just met him. No, Bob Floyd felt like meeting an old friend again, and god did you love the feeling. That’s why you didn’t hesitate to put your hand in his.

“Lead the way, Lieutenant,”

There was another round of cheers the second you and Bob were finally in their vicinity, another comment from Hangman about ‘Bobby finally bagging a woman’ that ended with a harsh shoulder slap from Phoenix. You’d only laughed as Bob shook his head at their antics and gratefully accepted the barstool he’d held out for you. Your eyes watched him, like they had been the entire night, as he turned down the invitation to the pool game at hand, taking a seat on the stool directly next to you.

What he probably hadn’t expected was for your foot to hook around the leg of his stool, dragging it directly to your side until every part of you that could be pressed up against the handsome WSO was. When he saw the easy smile on your face and the tiny wink you gave him, you could see any last bit of tension leave his body as he easily leaned into you as well.

They’d all quickly introduced themselves, though Bob had already given you the rundown before. You greeted them politely with a smile, finally giving them your own name so Bradley didn’t have to call you ‘mystery bar girl’ anymore.

“Well, well, well baby-on-board,” it was Hangman once again, shaking his head as he took a shot on one of his last solids left in play, sinking it easily. “Looks like you snagged a confident one. Too bad, bet I could’ve swept her off her feet if given the chance.”

Flirty. Bob certainly didn’t exaggerate just how flirtatious Jake Seresin seemed to be, not that you were interested at all in any comments from him. The comments didn’t catch you off guard, but Bob’s actions did.

His hand was immediately on your thigh, closer down toward your knee, but resting there nonetheless. Just the slightest bit of pressure, enough to feel as if it had been meant in a comforting gesture, but it inherently held something a little more to it. Not quite possessiveness, but something akin to staking a claim, to say you were with him and him only. While Caveman’s hand on any part of you had you wanting to run for the hills, Bob’s firm grip had you leaning into his side more, chasing after the warmth and security he provided. It still sent a flash of heat through every inch of your body, especially when you glanced down to see just how big his hand was when it was resting on such a small part of you. You wished you’d opted for the jean shorts you had picked out earlier now just to feel his hand engulf your bare skin instead.

“Knock it off, Bagman. Clearly, she’s more interested in the quiet types,” the wink Natasha sent your way made you laugh, a similar chuckle coming from Bob at his front-seater’s comments, as she whacked Hangman over the shoulder. While lining up to take her own shot in the game, you saw her catch the way Bob’s hand rested on your leg, and a flash of surprise followed by pride seemed to cross her features. “So, never seen you around before. What brings you to Fightertown?”

“Visiting my dad for a few weeks, he’s stationed here on North Island. But…I’m also here for work,” you could see Bob’s head turn to look at you curiously from the corner of your eye, but you kept your gaze on Natasha. “The marketing firm I work for has a branch out here in San Diego, over in Chula Vista. They know I’ve been looking to move, so they thought I should come check out their set-up out here to see if I liked it enough to take their offer.”

There was a squeeze to your thigh as you turned your attention back to Bob, who was looking at you quizically.

“You didn’t mention that before,”

“Wasn’t sure I was going to take their offer earlier,” you shrugged innocently. “San Diego is hot, I’m not built for this weather.”

“But you…think you might take it now?”

You bit into your bottom lip, leaning just a fraction closer to Bob as you tried to hold back your grin as you replied.

“Well…maybe I found another enticing reason to hang around San Diego for a while,”

There was a low murmur of laughter throughout the group at your words, that gorgeous redness settling back into Bob’s cheeks, and you could hear Fanboy mumble out just loud enough a ‘damn, she’s good at this’ comment.

The group asked their questions, and you answered happily. Where you were from, what all your job entailed, even the stupid little questions like who your celebrity crush was or if you ever thought about joining the Navy like your father.

All the while, Bob never strayed from your side. His thumb had been rubbing little circles into your jeans, just firm enough to feel it on your skin each time the digit moved back and forth, and god, you were really cursing yourself for not wearing those shorts right now. At some point, during a pool rematch between Rooster and Coyote, your head had found it’s way to rest against Bob’s shoulder, and after a brief moment there was the unmistakeable feel of lips pressed to the crown of your head that had a shiver running down your spine and another flash of heat rushing through you, this time heading all south.

Charming, sexy in a quiet way that made him seem so non-threatening, and an absolutely sweetheart and a gentleman…it hadn’t even been a day, but you knew Bob Floyd had already ruined your standards for men. He was the standard.

“Sorry, my favorite fighter pilots,” the attention of everyone crowded by the pool tables turned to Penny, hand on her hip, but an easy smile on her face as she glanced around, eyes lingering on you and the WSO who were still wrapped around one another. “Last call time, going to have to kick you all out now.”

Last call? With a quick glance around the bar, you noticed that there was, in fact, barely any patrons still around. The ones still left behind were already moving toward the door. And with a glance down at Bob’s watch, the time was confirmed: 2 a.m.

“Damn, we almost never stay here until last call,” Rooster laughed, packing up everything on the pool table so that Penny didn’t have to deal with it, Fanboy and Paybackl disappearing after offering to help Penny clean up bottles still littered around the bar.

“Time does fly when you’re having fun,” Natasha commented, bumping shoulders with him before she set her sights on you. “What about you, our honorary Dagger? Need a ride back to wherever you’re staying?”

“Nah, I’m staying at Hotel del Coronado right down the beach. Perks of the job. I just walked along the beach to get here earlier,” your gaze then flickered over to Bob, his thumb still rubbing circles into your leg where he’d never let go throughout the night. “Though it’s pretty late, I’d love if there was some knight in shining glasses still hanging around that wouldn’t mind walking me back.”

There wasn’t a second of hesitation from Bob before he was on his feet, the heat of his hand on your leg disappearing, and then reappearing moments later when his hand wrapped around your own, fingers sliding into place between yours.

“I’ve got tomorrow off, I’ll see you guys on base Sunday,” Bob nodded toward his friends, tugging you even closer to his side. “Tell Penny I’ll come grab my truck later.”

“More like in the morning,” Hangman commented, trying to conceal it surrounded by fake coughs. The group had laughed, the comment spurring another bloom of red across Bob’s cheeks and your own, before he’d tugged you out the back door of the Hard Deck and into the sand.

The beach in these early hours of the morning was quiet, beautiful in a way that only these lonely hours of the night could make it. No distant sound of traffic, no families or rowdy groups of teenagers running up and down the sand, just the sand, the waves, and the moon. It cast streaks of light over the water, its reflection rippling in the waves as they crashed to shore, setting the scene of a picturesque night along the stretch of sand that lasts miles.

Bob had held you up as you removed your sandals, carrying them in one hand in order to appreciate the cool sand beneath your feet. Your other hand still stayed wrapped up in Bob’s, the warmth of his skin a delicious contrast to the cool breeze that came with the cool nighttime California air. Conversation hadn’t stopped, not once, since you’d both started talking earlier on in the night, but this time it was Bob pointing up at the sky as you lazily moved down the beach at the slowest pace you could, naming constellations visible.

“That one right over there,” you followed his gaze as he pointed just slightly West in the sky. “That one is Hercules.”

“Ah, absolutely. I can totally see it,” you nodded your head repeatedly, and it was clear that Bob was already starting to laugh at your response. “The square those stars form, and the little stick arms and legs, definitely gives off a mythological Greek hero to me.”

“Well, actually,” Bob managed to speak through his laughter. “It’s named for his Roman counterpart. Heracles was his Greek counterpart, so they’re essentially the same thing.”

After a moment, you dropped Bob’s hand, turning and angling your body so that you were facing him head-on, walking backward in the sand. Even in the dark of the night, you could tell there was a tiny blush creeping along his cheeks as you tilted your head toward him.

“Bob Floyd, don’t tell me you’re also a secret space nerd!”

His laugh echoed down the beach as he hung his head for a moment, adjusting his glasses when he finally looked back up to you with a grin.

“Guilty, hard not to be with the kind of night skies I grew up seeing in Montana. I-I haven’t…completely ruined my chances now that I’ve nerded out…have I?”

“On the contrary. I have a thing for smart men,” with another wink, you’d spun on your heel in the sand, continuing your walk toward the hotel. “Especially this smart, handsome WSO named Bob Floyd that I met tonight.”

You’d barely gotten a few steps away before there was a sudden tug on your hand, your body spinning back around in the sand until your chest was pressed directly to Bob’s. And before you could utter a single word, his lips were, finally, on yours.

Without a second of hesitation, you fell into him, swept away by the way his fingers traced the line of your jaw, sliding their way to the back of your neck as he held you in place against him. His lips moved against your own with a sense of gentleness that disappeared once it was clear you were reciprocating with vigor, his mouth swallowing yours with the hunger of a starved man.

Almost involuntarily, a delicious little sound you swore you’d never made before tumbled from your lips, swallowed whole by the soft, firm moves of Bob’s lips against your own. A spark grew in the pit of your stomach the second the hand on your waist gripped you just the slightest bit tighter, a spark that was soon a raging inferno that you had no thoughts about taming. 

It takes no effort to give in to Bob Floyd, not when he holds you like this. Not when he’s kissing you on a moonlit beach as if you’d personally hung the moon in the sky just for him.

There is no question in this kiss, no lingering doubts about whatever had sparked between you both since the moment you’d made eye contact hours ago. When your hands find their way to the nape of his neck, fingers sliding through and tugging lightly on the sandy blonde hair you couldn’t even see in the dark, and he elicits a groan that has your knees threatening to give out in the sand, there’s no question: there’s a claim. If his hand on your thigh was the precursor, the writing of a contract to claim you as his in a way you didn’t even realize you already were, this kiss was the signature. Signed and dated, written in stone. You weren’t sure there was another man in the world who could kiss you the way Bob Floyd was kissing you, who could ignite a fire that bright in the depths of your soul.

With reluctance, as if it takes the gods themselves to pull either of you away, you part for the simple need to breathe. And, god, does Bob Floyd look wrecked. Panting, lips red and swollen, the skin of his neck and cheeks flushed red, and an unmistakable bit of fog to his glasses. You laughed then, breathy from your own lack of oxygen, reaching up with the sleeve of your shirt to wipe at the fog, knowing that, given how you felt right now, you surely didn’t look any better than he did.

“Well…hi,” you managed to huff out, chest still struggling to get air back into your lungs.

“Hi,” his voice came out almost like a whisper at first, full of wonder, his hand still cradling your head. His thumb was, once again, drawing little circles into the skin right around your ear, his smile wider than you’d seen all night. “I…I’m sorry-”

“Do not apologize for that,” you’d interjected immediately as Bob huffed out a laugh. “Please, never apologize for that.”

“Good, because I was lying. I-I’m really not sorry,” the hand against your cheek left you, taking its warmth with it, before both of Bob’s hands settled on your waist. You tightened your arms around his shoulders in response, sandals having been long discarded in the sand somewhere amid the kiss. “I’ve wanted to do that for hours. I…I like you. Like, a lot. More than I think I should for the few short hours I’ve known you.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re on the same page. I don’t divulge my entire life story to just any Naval aviator in a bar,” another breathy laugh fell from Bob’s lips as you leaned forward, the tip of your nose brushing against his. “No, I only tell all those stories to this one guy that I happen to really like. Like, a lot.”

And when Bob Floyd kissed you again, it was blissful. Gentler, still passionate, so full of an emotion that you wouldn’t ever dare to call love, not this soon. It was more like affection, adoration, a warmth that had you melting into his arms without a care in the world. You’d do anything, as long as it meant you got to keep kissing this man.

Maybe Princess Mia had been onto something with that ‘foot pop’ of a kiss idea, because this sure felt like that moment.

“God, you’re going to be the death of me,” Bob groaned out against your lips, hands squeezing at your hips again as you laughed, playfully leaning back to swat at his chest as he smiled down at you, illuminated by the moonlight. 

“Hey, you’re the one who keeps kissing me. I think any court of law would find you at fault for that. Also,” you quickly gestured around at your surroundings with a tilt of your head. “Hell of a setting for a first kiss. A moonlit beach in the dead of night, did you walk straight out of a rom-com, Bob Floyd?”

“In all honesty, I was going to wait until I got you back to your hotel room to kiss you and hopefully get your number,” he stated matter-of-factly. “But then I looked at you and…and you were just too beautiful not to. And I was going to kick myself in a few hours if I didn’t kiss you.”

If you were ever asked to pinpoint something you adored about Bob Floyd, his ability to make you laugh with the simplest of things would probably be your favorite. He barely even had to try, and he had you laughing like a little schoolgirl.

The entire walk back to the hotel down the beach felt like a dream sequence, like something straight out of a movie that you never believed actually happened to people in real life. Bob’s hand never strayed from yours, swinging between you both as you kicked at the sand. Every few steps, he’d push you away from him slightly, just to be able to pull you back into his side and make you laugh again.

And somehow, in the midst of the walk, you’d ended up engaged in the most spontaneous round of ‘Never Have I Ever’ questions you’d ever been part of. You and Bob had both been caught speeding during college, but Bob had managed to awkwardly sweet-talk his way out of a ticket with the female officer. You’d been skinny dipping twice before, both on bachelorette trips for two of your college friends, and you didn’t miss the way Bob had to swallow the lump in his throat at that confession (no doubt imagining it). He, in turn, had ended up having to confess the embarrassing story that was him having a crush on his high school English teacher.

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to wrap my head around that,” you’d managed to say through your laughter that you couldn’t contain as you both approached the main doors of the hotel building. “She was at least young, right?”

“Yes, she was in her thirties,” Bob shook his head, obviously amused by how hilarious you found the story. Like the gentleman he was, he’d opened the door for you, a hand resting on the small of your back as he led you into the building. “Girls didn’t look at me in high school, okay. She always offered that I could eat lunch with her since she had a free period, and the entire school had agreed that she was objectively pretty. You can’t blame me!”

“Okay, fine, but you do have to admit it’s a little funny,” you’d offhandedly waved to the concierge, the same one who had checked you in that morning, now working the graveyard shift, before leading Bob over to the elevators. You rested against the wall, awaiting your ride to arrive, while Bob stood just barely a foot in front of you. “As for the girls: their loss. If I’d have gone to high school with you, trust me, I would’ve looked at you.”

The doors for the elevator slid open with a ‘ding’ as you quickly moved inside, back turned to Bob.

“And trust me, if I’d have known you back then, we’d be married by now,”

The second the elevator doors shut, you paused, finger hovering over the button for your floor. Turning on your heel back to Bob, head cocked to the side in amusement, you could see the realization flicker over his face as it dawned on him what exactly he’d just said.

“Oh, would we now? You saying we’d be high school sweethearts?” Bob sheepishly laughed, fixing his glasses as he looked anywhere but you. “That kind of sounded like a line straight out of Hangman’s playbook, and I barely know the guy.”

“Yeah…y-yeah, it really did, didn’t it? Might have to blame the alcohol, I-I don’t typically drink much on our nights out,”

You hummed, taking a step toward him with a growing smile as his stuttering came back for just a second, something you realized only ever made an appearance when he was nervous. His eyes were locked on you as you leaned up, nose bumping his.

“Don’t worry, I found it cute coming from you,” you leaned back to hit the button for the third floor, and the second you did, Bob’s hand was settled on your hip, pulling you back to him. Teeth gnawing into your bottom lip, you contemplated the words floating around your head for a moment, afraid that whatever was happening here was fragile and your words could break it. “When we get up there…do you want to come in?”

You had read it before, about the way a man’s eyes darkened with ‘lust’ or in moments such as this, but you’d never witnessed it. Not until now, and once again, Bob Floyd had you weak in the knees.

“I’d love to,”

“Good,” you nodded. “Just know…I don’t do hook-ups. I don’t do flings.”

“Good,” he responded with his own nod. “Because neither do I.”

“Good,”

The door of your hotel room had barely been closed before Bob was on you.

His hands on your hips guided you, pressing you up against the closed bathroom door just to the right of the room’s main door, and his lips descended upon yours as if he were attacking his target. Vigorous, relentless, he kissed you in a way you’d never been kissed before, not even like he did on the beach, and you knew you didn’t stand a chance. A wanton moan slipped out of you, parting your lips just enough for Bob’s tongue to sneak through, to savor the taste of you. You savored the taste of him, too: the lingering taste of the beer he’d been sipping all night, and the remnants of your own vanilla chapstick still smeared across his lips.

You moved in tandem, like your bodies were one with each other. It didn’t take long before your shirt was off, his lips hot, slicked with spit, dragging themselves over every inch of skin he could get his lips on. Every drag of his lips, every press of a kiss against your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts had your mind going blank, your fingers desperately fumbling with the buttons of his khaki uniform to no avail.

If you just asked, you’d let him have anything he wanted in this moment. You’d let him take you against this door, the wall next to it, the floor, the bed, hell, you’d let him lean you over the balcony railing where anyone might be able to see you both. Nothing else mattered besides Bob Floyd, as long as he continued to touch you, adore you, worship you the way he was.

In the moments it took Bob to maneuver you from the wall to the bed, you’d finally come back to yourself, able to delicately unbutton his uniform and not ruin it, before tugging it from its place tucked into his pants and tossing it across the room. The white shirt he had on beneath it was gone in seconds, too, and god, you wanted to admire him like a painting on the walls of a museum, like he was the Mona Lisa himself.

Like they say, it’s always the quiet ones. You shouldn’t have been surprised; he was in the Navy, after all. But you couldn’t deny the heat that pooled between your thighs from just a single look.

With a tiny yelp from your lips, your back hit the bed, and Bob was on top of you in seconds, drawing yet another moan from your lips. At this rate, there’d surely be a noise complaint in minutes. His leg wedged itself between your thighs, delivering just enough friction to have you squirming, while his lips locked back into your neck. From your jawline, all the way to your collarbone, Bob nipped at every inch of skin he could, blowing a short puff of air across over tender spot before leaving a searing kiss to it that felt like you were being branded. All the while, your hands roamed up and down every expanse of skin you could touch, His forearms to his biceps and every vein that ran along them, popping out from under his skin. The lean body that hovered over you now, nails ghosting along the lines across his stomach toward his chest that had a low grumble emitting from him. And in a moment of boldness, invigorated by the tension that had snapped between you both, your hand traveled lower, just barely grazing over the outline straining against his khaki pants, finally feeling for yourself just how big he truly was. And the groan that left him that time, wrecked and on the verge of falling apart, had a whole new flood of heat rushing through you.

In a show of his strength, Bob rolled you both again with just one arm. Suddenly, there you sat, straddling him as he lay below you, half naked, eyes blown wide behind those glasses, looking absolutely desecrated beneath you. The only sound that flickered through the room was the heavy pants from each of you, once again catching your breath and calming the firestorm of emotions in you both.

“So,” Bob had breathed out once he’d finally caught enough of his breath. “Y-You’re totally taking that transfer to San Diego, right?”

You’d let out a breathy laugh, swiping your hand down your face as you sent him a small smirk.

“In all honesty…I already accepted it. That was half the reason for this trip: to see my new office and meet my new coworkers. Meeting you, though…well, that’s just like the cherry on top,”

His grin was infectious, but your mind was elsewhere in the moment as you took your chance, simply grinding yourself down on the man below you with a smirk of amusement still on your lips. His smile was gone instantly, lips straining to hold in a moan as his hands gripped your hips tightly, forcing you to freeze in place so you couldn’t make that same move again.

“I-If you do that again, I’m not going to be able to stop myself,”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Yes, because I want to do this properly. I want to do this in order,” he huffed out a laugh. “Tomorrow, my day off. 7 p.m. I’ll pick you up. Il Fornaio, an Italian restaurant just on the other side of the island, right on the beach, with beautiful views of the water. We’ll eat, we’ll drink, and for dessert…a Cold Stone Creamery, barely a minute away. And if I can muster up the confidence to do it, I’ll make you mine before you’ve even taken a single scoop of your ice cream, because I don’t need a second date to know I want this. And then I’ll bring you back here, and then I’ll fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked, to be worshiped. God…I already don’t think there’s a single thing I wouldn’t do if you just asked me to.”

If you opened a dictionary, Bob Floyd would be painted under the word ‘perfection,’ and there was no doubt in your mind about it. Hell, he’d remembered the stupid story about your favorite ice cream shop you’d told him hours ago. You were about ready to ravish him on the spot.

“Sounds like you’ve had this planned out for hours now,” your voice had dropped into a whisper, laced with just pure awe for the man below you.

“Since the moment we first locked eyes across the bar. Had to add the ice cream bit in, later,”

And you’d laughed, something you had done all night with him. For a moment, you paused, smile stretching nervously, as something you’d been meaning to say all night, but had been stuck in your throat, was itching to finally be said. It terrified you, but you had to say it. Bob Floyd was an angel; he deserved to know what he was getting into.

“Well, that’s a yes to dinner, and everything that comes after. I’ll just have to make sure to tell my father I can’t have dinner with him after I visit the base tomorrow afternoon. I hope he doesn’t get too upset, you know how the, uh…how the Vice Admiral can be,”

It was like you’d just dropped a bomb, and you could see the aftermath in Bob’s eyes. The way he tilted his head from beneath you, before realization seemed to crawl into every feature of his face.

“The…the Vice Admiral. As in…Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, Cyclone…” it wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and all you could do was nervously nod your head as Bob let out yet another breathy laugh. “Your Uncle Solomon…Rear Admiral Solomon Bates, Warlock. Wow, how did I not figure that out?”

“Because I was really careful not to give it away,” you’d tried to laugh, nerves only calmed slightly by the little circles that Bob’s fingers were drawing into the skin of your waist where his hands still lay. “I’m sorry, I should’ve said something earlier. But you were so sweet, and not to mention attractive, and it was so easy to like you…I was scared if you knew, you wouldn’t think it was worth it.”

Bob’s eyebrows furrowed as he shifted, sitting up on the hotel room bed now with you still positioned in his lap. One arm fully locked around your waist, the other taking your chin between his fingers to keep your eyes locked on him as he spoke.

“Why would I think that?”

“I dated a Navy man in college; he was a few years older than I was. He was excited for his reassignment; he was going to be training under my dad. But then, I told him that it was my dad, and he freaked. Thought he’d be treated unfairly if his superior knew he was dating his daughter. I just…I just didn’t want you to think I wasn’t worth the hassle. I know how my dad can be.”

Bob stared at you for just a moment before he pulled you into another kiss. Softer than any previous kiss the entire night, but firm, as if he was trying to drill something into you. Whatever it was, it was working, as your chest fluttered and your hands wound their way back into his hair. And barely a beat later, he’d pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, hand on your chin, cupping your jawline to hold you there with him.

“If in the end, I get you…anything is worth the hassle,”

[starrvsn]

Tangled Up (Evan Buckley) ִ ࣪✮🕷⋆˙💥

“It’s just—sometimes when I don’t know what to draw, I just sketch people I see often. You’re always walking around in that hoodie, looking like you’ve got some secret life.” 🎸⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Synopsis: Spider-Man!Buck finds peace in the quiet company of his fire escape neighbor—an unbothered artist who couldn’t care less about the city’s chaos. What you don’t know is that he’s the guy swinging over rooftops… until the night he saves you, and you thank him with a kiss that turns his whole world sideways.

Genre: Romance, Fluff

AU: Spiderman!au

Pairing: Spiderman!Buck x Artist!Reader

Warnings: None

Note: Fun fact, the character of the reader is based on me! I graduated just recently as an art student in highschool (It’s kinda complicated but where I’m from we have 2 extra years of highschool and you major in stuff like engineering, business, and in my case, I majored in arts!) so I thought why not put a little bit of myself into this fic to honor my major? Also here’s to a self indulgent little fic of Spiderbuck because it’s been plaguing my mind for weeks. Love you guys and happy reading! Thanks for the support as always, with every like + reblog and comment comes a token of why I continue to do what I love! (

Evan Buckley was the kind of guy who was always a little too curious for his own good.

At twenty-two, he was a college student juggling a full course load in mechanical engineering, part-time shifts at a local auto shop, and an inexplicable tendency to be at the wrong place at exactly the wrong time.

He lived in a cramped but homey Brooklyn apartment with his older sister Maddie, who worked nights as a nurse and had long since accepted her little brother’s chaotic energy as a fact of life—like gravity or taxes.

The day everything changed had started out completely normal.

Buck had cut class to fix the brakes on Maddie’s clunky old Corolla, spilled coffee all over his only clean hoodie (which he’d later keep wearing anyway), and gotten roped into a last-minute errand run that ended with him tagging along to a university-sponsored lab tour.

Science wasn’t really his thing. He liked taking things apart, sure—but the molecular level? That was more Chim’s speed.

Still, there was a certain comfort in watching the glass-encased spiders of the university’s bio-genetics program crawl in their terrariums.

Buck had stared at one particularly twitchy red-and-blue arachnid, laughing to himself about its resemblance to a Fourth of July parade float, before a series of moments blurred together: a distraction, a bump, a crack in the glass no one noticed. And then—

A bite. Sharp. Hot. Quick.

The pain had radiated up his arm and burned like wildfire through his veins. He didn’t remember much else except nearly blacking out on the subway home and waking up sprawled on his bedroom floor, sweating through his sheets with the overwhelming urge to… climb.

And so began the freakishly strange, secretly exhilarating new chapter of Evan Buckley’s life: learning to web-sling through alleyways, punch through steel, and crawl upside down on ceilings—all while still managing to grab groceries for Maddie and pretend he wasn’t literally climbing the walls.

But despite all the chaos—the nighttime patrols, the bruised ribs, the suit he sewed together by hand with shaky fingers and leftover fabric from Maddie’s DIY Halloween bin—there was always one constant in Buck’s world:

You.

His next-door neighbor. The girl on the fire escape.

You didn’t talk much, not to him anyway.

You always had paint on your fingertips and headphones on, lounging on the rusty fire escape outside your window like it was a throne.

Sometimes you sketched in charcoal, sometimes you painted in oils, and sometimes you just laid there with your eyes closed and a cigarette tucked behind your ear, completely unaffected by the world spinning madly around you.

Buck would catch glimpses of you when he came home from patrol, exhausted and aching. The moment he saw you sitting on that fire escape, illuminated by the yellow glow of your window, something in him stilled.

You never looked up—never noticed the way he lingered by his window to watch you—yet somehow, your calm bled into him through the walls.

He liked to imagine what kind of art you made.

Whether you drew the city like it was, gritty and unforgiving, or how you wanted it to be. Maybe you drew the man in the red mask who was starting to appear in headlines and blurry phone videos—the masked vigilante who flung himself between danger and disaster, who arrived just in time and disappeared just as fast. The man the internet had nicknamed Spider-Man.

He wondered what you would say if you knew it was him.

But for now, Buck kept his mask on — both literal and metaphorical.

He swung through alleyways and over rooftops with city wind tearing past his ears, adrenaline roaring in his blood, balancing the impossible weight of his double life:

Evan Buckley, college burnout with a tendency to care too much, and the faceless vigilante the internet had started calling Spider-Man.

And still, no matter how chaotic the night had been — whether he’d stopped a robbery, pulled a kid from a burning building, or barely escaped with a cracked rib — it was always your window that he looked for when he came home.

You, on the fire escape, one leg dangling off the side, sketchpad balanced on your knee, music low in your headphones. You never looked up. Never said anything. But somehow, your stillness reached through the chaos like a tether.

It grounded him more than any rooftop, any anchor line, ever could.

Maybe one day he’d say something. Maybe he’d knock on your window. Maybe he’d show you who he really was — not the mask, not the headlines, just Buck.

But not yet.

For now, he’d just watch from the window, heartbeat finally slowing, the world briefly at peace as you drew under the stars.

And for the first time all night, he’d breathe.

It was raining again.

A soft, cold drizzle that stuck to your jacket and turned the streets of Brooklyn into one giant watercolor palette—muted grays, splotched browns, wet cement smeared with light.

Buck tugged the hood of his sweatshirt tighter over his head as he jogged across the street, nearly slipping on the corner thanks to some particularly slick cobblestone.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath, water dripping down his neck.

The city always had a way of testing his limits, even when he wasn’t in the suit.

He made it into his building, boots squeaking across the tile as he shook out his jacket and hit the elevator button, tapping his foot impatiently. He was running late — of course — and Professor Harley didn’t give second chances.

Then the elevator dinged, and the doors opened to reveal you.

And everything else just… faded.

You were hunched slightly under the weight of your tote bag, sketchbooks crammed into your arms, a few charcoal pencils sticking out at odd angles from a roll that looked like it was held together by a shoelace.

You didn’t seem to notice him at first — your headphones were still in, your hoodie sleeves slightly stained with paint, your mind probably a thousand miles away in some idea or image you were trying to pin to paper.

Buck stepped in quickly, offering a small nod, but his bag knocked into yours. Your sketchbooks teetered, and before he could say anything—

Everything spilled.

“Oh no—shit, I’m so sorry—” Buck dropped to his knees immediately, hands scrambling to catch one of your sketchbooks before it could land spine-first on the grimy floor.

Pencils clattered, a kneaded eraser bounced once and rolled toward the elevator wall.

You blinked at the mess for half a second before crouching down with him, laughing softly under your breath.

“Guess gravity’s not a fan of me today.”

Buck looked up just for a second before he fully looked up at you.

You were smiling.

The soft kind — not performative or polite, but effortless, like you’d found something quietly funny in all of this.

Your eyes met his, a glint of curiosity in them, and for a moment, Buck forgot where he was. Forgot the elevator. The rain.

The fact that he was, technically, very late.

It was as if the whole city paused.

The hum of fluorescent lights, the distant honk of a car, the muffled conversation from the floor above — all of it blurred behind the simple click of that one moment.

“Seriously,” Buck stammered, clearing his throat and handing you a battered sketchbook with a corner bent. “I’m really sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

You shrugged, brushing your thumb over the bent edge.

“It’s okay. Honestly, I’ve done way worse. Last week I spilled ink all over a professor’s desk.”

You smiled again, a tiny self-deprecating tilt of the lips. “This is nothing.”

“I’m Buck, by the way,” he said, still crouched, handing you the last pencil.

You tucked it into your roll. “Y/N.”

And then, something shifted.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

“Wait. You live upstairs, don’t you? I’ve seen you come home late sometimes.”

Buck tried not to panic. “Yeah, uh—night shifts. Campus security.”

Half a lie. It sounded like a job a sleep-deprived student might have. It also covered for the nights he swung home bruised and limping with smoke in his lungs.

The elevator dinged again, and you both stood. Buck didn’t even realize he’d hit the ground floor button.

“What major are you?” he asked as you rebalanced your tote on your shoulder.

“Studio arts,” you replied. “Painting concentration. You?”

He almost said, Spider-Man, full-time disaster, part-time community college bio major, but instead: “Engineering. Sort of. Still figuring that part out.”

The two of you walked out of the building together, the rain now just a whisper on the wind. Buck hesitated a second before glancing over.

“You taking the subway?”

“Nah,” you replied. “It’s only a fifteen-minute walk.”

He nodded. “Cool. I’ll walk with you.”

You didn’t protest. Just slipped your headphones around your neck and fell into step beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

For the first five minutes, neither of you spoke much. But it wasn’t awkward — it was easy.

You pointed out a mural someone had defaced and then half-fixed, a new bakery you were meaning to try, and Buck listened, letting your voice settle into the quiet corners of his mind.

It was stupid, maybe, but he felt like he’d stepped into one of your sketches — something warm, a little offbeat, a little messy but real. Brooklyn didn’t seem so gray anymore.

When the two of you turned the corner onto campus, he gestured toward the arts building. “You’re in here, right?”

You nodded. “Yep. First class is figure drawing. Which is basically two hours of wondering if your proportions are garbage.”

Buck laughed. “I think that’s just… college.”

From across the quad, someone whistled. Buck turned to see Chimney and Eddie walking toward them with Ravi trailing behind, coffee in hand. Chim cupped a hand to his mouth.

“Is that a smile, Buckley?”

Eddie raised a brow. “Didn’t know your face could do that this early.”

Buck rolled his eyes. “Ignore them.”

You laughed, already heading toward the doors. “I’ll try. Thanks for walking with me.”

He watched you go, shoulder brushing your sketchbag back into place, headphones back in. Then he turned back to his friends, still grinning.

“Who was that?” Ravi asked, clearly interested.

Buck didn’t answer right away. Just shoved his hands into his pockets, the morning gloom finally giving way to something a little brighter.

“Just my neighbor,” he said simply. “She’s an artist.”

Eddie nudged him. “You like her.”

“I—what? No—shut up.”

They all laughed, but Buck didn’t fight it.

For the first time that day, he really did have something to smile about.

Buck leaned back against the brick wall of the fire station’s rooftop, the city sprawling endlessly beneath him—a chaotic, restless beast that never truly slept.

The orange glow of streetlights mixed with neon signs and the occasional flash of emergency vehicles weaving through traffic.

The hum of Brooklyn at night was relentless, but somehow, it was the only soundtrack that made sense.

His classes were finally done for the day, and for once, he’d thought maybe he could take a breath. Maybe catch up on sleep, or hell, maybe even cook something edible. But the city had other plans.

A fire at a nearby warehouse, a car accident with trapped passengers, a mugging in a dark alley—each call pulled him away from any semblance of rest.

When the last siren finally faded into the distance, Buck swung silently between rooftops, the familiar rhythm of web-slinging a brief balm for his restless mind.

His muscles ached, exhaustion tugging at the edges of his focus, but the city was safe. For now.

He landed softly on the fire escape outside his apartment, the metal cold and slightly slick from the evening’s drizzle.

The window to his room was just above, cracked open to let in the cool night air. He wiped a hand over his sweaty face, peeling off his jacket and tossing it onto the floor inside before unzipping his hoodie.

Finally, some relief.

That’s when he saw you.

You were perched on the fire escape just a few floors down, knees pulled to your chest, sketchbook balanced on your lap.

Your hair was pulled up messily, strands falling around your face, illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlamp below. You looked up just as he shifted to climb inside, and your eyes met his.

You smiled and gave a small wave.

Buck smiled back, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little. “Hey,” he called softly.

You nodded, your fingers twitching as if you wanted to say more but held back. For a moment, the world felt smaller, quieter, and somehow more manageable.

He climbed into his room and closed the window behind him, the familiar scent of his sister’s incense and textbooks greeting him.

Maddie was in the kitchen, humming softly as she stirred a pot on the stove. The clinking of dishes and the warmth of the overhead light made the apartment feel like a refuge from the city’s chaos.

“You’re home early,” Maddie said without turning, her voice carrying a teasing edge.

Buck shrugged off his shoes and tossed his hoodie over a chair. “Work’s been… lighter, today. Maybe the city finally gave me a break.”

He settled at the small kitchen table, rubbing the back of his neck. “You ever notice the girl on the fire escape downstairs? The one who’s always sketching?”

Maddie glanced over her shoulder, a knowing smile spreading across her face.

“You mean Y/N? Yeah, I know her. She lives alone in that little apartment with the big windows.”

Buck leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You’ve met her?”

“More than a few times,” Maddie said, stirring the pot again. “She’s quiet, but she’s kind. Always polite when I’ve bumped into her in the hall. Seems like she keeps to herself mostly.”

Buck nodded slowly. “She seems… grounded. Like she’s not trying to fight the chaos, just living through it in her own way.”

Maddie smiled softly. “Sounds about right. You think you want to say hi? More than just a wave?”

Buck felt his cheeks heat up and looked down at his hands. “Maybe.”

Dinner was simple—spaghetti and meatballs, just like Maddie’s favorite from their childhood.

They ate quietly at first, the kind of easy silence that only siblings shared. But Buck’s mind kept drifting back to you—your quiet presence on the fire escape, the way your eyes caught his in that fleeting moment.

After the last bite, Maddie pushed her plate aside and looked at him pointedly. “You’re going to talk to her, aren’t you?”

Buck hesitated, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I think I’m ready to try.”

Back on your fire escape the next evening, Buck found you again, sketchbook open and pencils scattered around your lap. He lingered a few feet below, careful not to startle you.

“You’re still drawing?” he called up, voice softer than he expected.

You glanced up, surprise flickering across your face before a small smile curled your lips.

“Yeah. Helps me think.”

Buck shifted on his feet, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Mind if I join you?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you patted the spot beside you.

He climbed up slowly, settling next to you. For a while, neither of you spoke, the quiet interrupted only by the scratching of your pencil on paper and the distant sounds of the city.

Finally, Buck said, “You ever think about how weird it is? We’re neighbors and never really talked until now.”

You chuckled. “Yeah. Guess we were both busy in our own worlds.”

He nodded. “Yours looks a lot more interesting.”

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh really?”

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “And I’m not just saying that because I want to see what you’re working on next.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t push him away. Instead, you handed him the sketchbook.

“Here,” you said. “Maybe you can’t swing from rooftops, but you might have an eye for art.”

Buck flipped through the pages, genuinely impressed by the swirls of charcoal and bursts of color.

“This is amazing.”

Your smile grew softer, more real. “Thanks.”

For a moment, you both sat there, the city sprawling below, the night wrapping around you like a secret.

And for the first time in a long time, Buck felt like maybe the city’s noise could wait.

Because here, on this fire escape, everything felt just a little bit clearer.

The morning sun filtered through the early autumn trees on campus, scattering dappled light across the pavement.

The quad buzzed with its usual weekday chaos—students rushing to class with coffee cups in hand, flyers being shoved into backpacks, music playing faintly from someone’s speaker across the lawn.

Buck adjusted the strap of his backpack as he jogged lightly across the courtyard. He was cutting it close—again.

Physics class was on the far end of campus, and his last patrol the night before had stretched far too late into the night. But the city had been oddly quiet that morning, which gave him time for something he hadn’t done in a while: sleep.

He rounded a corner just as you were coming down the path with a friend, laughing at something she had said, your arms swinging a bit more freely than usual.

You had your sketchpad tucked under one arm, hair caught in a messy bun, glasses perched lazily on your nose as the clouds had started to gather.

Buck’s pace slowed almost unconsciously.

“There’s our friendly neighborhood science major,” your friend teased when she noticed him approaching.

You looked up, surprised but not unwelcome. “Hey, Buck.”

He offered a smile, adjusting the hoodie he hadn’t bothered to zip. “Hey yourself. Didn’t think I’d run into you before caffeine.”

“Me? I’ve been up since seven,” you said, lips quirking up. “Studio time.”

“I don’t know how you manage that. I can barely make it to class with both shoes on.”

Your friend snorted and nudged your elbow. “He forgot his coffee and his left brain last week.”

Buck chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Harsh, but not inaccurate.”

The conversation lingered for another minute—light and easy, the kind of small talk that made him wish he had nowhere to be. But your friend tugged on your sleeve.

“We’ve got to go if we want a table,” she said. “C’mon, Van Gogh.”

You rolled your eyes and started to walk away, waving to Buck as you did. “See you around?”

“Yeah,” he said, watching you go. “Definitely.”

As you and your friend disappeared down the path, Buck caught her voice floating back: “So, what’s the deal with Hoodie Guy? You two flirting or what?”

Your flustered laugh followed immediately after, and Buck found himself smiling like an idiot all the way to class.

That evening, the city still held its breath.

No sirens, no car crashes, no desperate police radios begging for backup. Just the normal hum of traffic and soft city chatter.

So Buck went to the fire escape early.

He didn’t even change out of his hoodie and jeans—no suit, no mask, just Evan Buckley in socks and sweats, sliding open his bedroom window with the casual ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times.

The cool breeze greeted him as he climbed out and onto the rusted steps. The scent of paint, graphite, and street-level incense drifted upward. You were already there, cross-legged on your usual step, sketchpad open and pencil in hand.

You glanced up, mildly surprised.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Didn’t think I’d get the early shift Buck tonight.”

“City’s calm,” he said, settling down beside you. “Thought I’d come hang out.”

You nodded and returned to your sketching, the moment folding into a peaceful, wordless quiet.

Buck let his gaze drift, watching how your pencil moved across the page—careful, deliberate, intimate. You worked like you breathed, natural and steady.

Then, almost shyly, you tilted the sketchpad toward him.

“I’ve been drawing you,” you admitted.

Buck blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Not like… creepy drawing,” you said quickly.

“It’s just—sometimes when I don’t know what to draw, I just sketch people I see often. You’re always walking around in that hoodie, looking like you’ve got some secret life.”

He laughed—sharp and genuine. “That obvious, huh?”

You shrugged. “It’s not a bad thing. You always look like you’re running toward something. Like you’ve got purpose.”

Buck’s throat tightened a little.

There was something too real about that observation—too close to the truth he constantly had to keep hidden.

He took the sketchpad and flipped through the pages, gaze softening.

There were drawings of him laughing on the fire escape, one of him in profile looking out toward the skyline, and even a half-finished one of him leaning against the brick wall, hoodie bunched up at the sleeves.

“They’re really good,” he said, voice quieter than before. “You’ve got an eye for… I don’t know. Soul.”

You shrugged again, this time a bit more bashful. “I draw what makes the world feel a little less loud.”

A silence settled, heavy but comfortable. Buck leaned back on his palms, letting the quiet wrap around them. Your elbow brushed his, barely, but it was enough to anchor him.

For a moment, he forgot everything else. The pressure. The responsibilities. The secret tug of the red suit folded away under his mattress.

Then—sirens.

Buck’s head snapped up as the whine of fire trucks echoed down the street, distant but growing louder. He turned just in time to see three engines blur past the avenue below, red lights flashing wildly against the apartment windows.

You straightened too, watching them. “Wonder what that’s about.”

Buck stood abruptly, his body already moving toward the window.

“I—uh—I should head in,” he said quickly. “Promised Maddie I’d help with some stuff.”

Your brows drew together slightly at his sudden shift. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just… gotta go.”

You didn’t push. “See you later?”

Buck gave a tight smile. “Always.”

And then he was gone—slipping back through the window, heart racing, already halfway into the suit before you could even put your pencil down.

There were little things about Buck that didn’t quite make sense.

He always looked tired. Not just college tired, but the kind of tired that made you want to cradle someone’s face and ask, What are you carrying?

His hands were always scraped, his knuckles bruised more often than not. Sometimes you’d catch a fresh cut just beginning to scab over, and when you’d tilt your head questioningly, he’d brush it off with a half-lie about “tripping on a sidewalk” or “burning himself on a hot pan.”

You weren’t oblivious. You noticed things. Like how he always seemed to disappear right before something happened—sirens wailing, smoke curling into the sky, chaos blooming somewhere in the city.

But you didn’t ask.

You really, really liked him. And liking someone for once felt simple. You didn’t want to ruin it with questions.

Until the first time Spider-Man saved you.

It had been late. You were walking back from the print shop off campus, earbuds in, when a guy on a bike zipped past you and grabbed your bag right off your shoulder.

The adrenaline hit like a punch to the chest, but before you could even scream, someone in red and navy streaked across your peripheral vision and had the guy webbed to a telephone pole within seconds.

You remembered blinking, breathless, when Spider-Man dropped from the rooftop and handed you your bag, his mask wrinkled at the nose, his chest rising with heavy breaths.

“You okay?” he’d asked, voice soft but roughened by fatigue.

“Yeah,” you’d whispered. “Thanks.”

You were too shaken to notice then—but later, as you curled up in bed, a creeping familiarity itched at the edge of your thoughts. Something about the shape of his shoulders. The way he stood. The blue of his eyes when the mask caught the streetlight just right.

You didn’t say anything. Just tucked the memory away.

But it happened again.

And again.

Once when your cab skidded on a rain-slicked road. Another when someone tried to break into your studio space on campus. Always, somehow, Spider-Man was there. Steady. Reliable. Familiar.

And every time, afterward, Buck would show up to the fire escape looking tired, moving a little slower, smiling a little more like it hurt.

Today, the sky was clear and too blue—an omen, maybe, because that’s when the worst stuff always happened.

You were walking back from your last class, sketchpad under your arm, when you caught sight of a crowd forming on the pedestrian bridge near the quad. Your heart skipped.

There was shouting. Someone yelling about an unstable piece of scaffolding. You edged closer before anyone could stop you.

And then the world tilted.

You didn’t even register what gave way, only that the rail near where you stood suddenly cracked loose. Your foot slipped. The edge of your boot lost traction and—

Free fall.

For a split second, the only sound you heard was the rush of your own breath before gravity claimed you.

But then—

Thwip.

A web caught you midair. Strong arms followed.

You crashed into something warm, steady, secure.

“You really have a knack for this,” came a familiar voice.

You clung to the suit in stunned silence. He landed you both gently on a rooftop, crouched low to keep you close.

You looked up—his mask covering everything but his eyes, breath huffing out behind the fabric.

“Spider-Man,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, casual like it was the hundredth time.

And that’s when it hit you.

The voice. The hands. The way his shoulder curled slightly when he caught his breath—like he was carrying something heavy.

“Buck?” you whispered.

Spider-Man stiffened.

You blinked slowly. “Evan.”

He looked like he stopped breathing entirely. Your hands, still clinging to the suit, slid up toward the base of his mask.

“Can I…?” you asked.

He hesitated. Just for a beat. Then he nodded.

You reached up, fingers grazing the fabric, and tugged the mask halfway up—just enough to reveal his lips and his nose.

Yeah. It was Buck. No doubt about it.

You didn’t ask why. Didn’t press. Instead, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his mouth—firm, slow, deliberate.

When you pulled back, you were smiling.

“I’ll see you later,” you whispered.

Buck was still frozen, stunned into silence, a dazed smile tugging at the edge of his lips. “Uh-huh,” he said dumbly.

And then you hopped down the fire escape, the echo of your kiss still buzzing against his mouth as you disappeared around the corner, sketchpad bouncing at your hip.

The city buzzed outside the window—horns blaring, chatter echoing up from the street below—but inside your apartment, everything felt warm, slow, still.

Buck sat cross-legged on your floor, a carton of Chinese takeout balanced on his knee. He was in sweatpants and a hoodie that had clearly seen better days, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from a post-patrol shower. A smear of lo mein sauce sat smugly near the corner of his mouth.

You’d been sitting opposite him on your tiny couch, legs pulled under you, chopsticks dangling lazily from your fingers—but now you were leaning forward, elbow on your knee, fully focused on what he was finally ready to say.

“I didn’t mean for any of it to happen,” he began softly, eyes cast down into his food. “It was supposed to be a normal Tuesday.”

You waited.

“I got roped into running an errand for one of Maddie’s friends. She needed a signature for some campus form, and I was already nearby, so… I figured, why not?”

You smiled gently. That sounded like him.

“One thing led to another, and I somehow ended up tagging along on a university-sponsored lab tour. Just me and a bunch of overachieving STEM kids with clipboards and fancy pens. I didn’t belong there, not really. But I was curious. Always am.”

You nodded, heart open. “And then?”

He looked up, finally meeting your eyes.

“There was this spider. Red and blue. Looked like it had been dipped in fireworks. I remember staring at it, kind of laughing to myself about how ridiculous it looked. Like a walking Fourth of July.”

You stifled a grin. “Sounds cute.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t laughing when it bit me.” His voice turned wry.

“There was a distraction. Some guy dropped a camera, I think. Everyone turned their heads. No one saw the crack in the glass. No one saw the damn spider crawl out. Except me.”

His fingers flexed instinctively at the memory, like he could still feel the sharp pinch. “The bite was quick. Hot. And then everything changed.”

You stayed quiet, but your expression told him to keep going.

“I made it home, barely. Almost blacked out on the subway. And when I woke up, I was on the floor of my bedroom, drenched in sweat, burning from the inside out. I remember trying to grab my phone and instead sticking to the ceiling.”

You let out a surprised laugh, and Buck grinned, cheeks pink.

“Yeah. It was a mess. For weeks, I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Maddie. I tested things. Pushed myself. I got stronger, faster. Could see and hear things I wasn’t supposed to. And when I realized what I could do… I couldn’t not help. You know?”

You nodded slowly, still absorbing everything. “So that’s why you disappear. That’s why your hands are always bruised.”

“And why I’m terrible at texting back,” he added sheepishly.

You reached out, resting your hand on his knee.

“I figured something was going on. I mean, the disappearing, the exhaustion, the fact that Spider-Man always seems to show up five minutes after you vanish…”

Buck gave you a lopsided smile. “I thought I could keep you out of it. Keep you safe. But after the third or fourth time you almost got hurt…” He paused, swallowing thickly.

“I realized it wasn’t if you’d find out. It was when. And I needed you to hear it from me.”

You looked at him for a long moment, letting the weight of the truth settle.

“I love you either way,” you said quietly.

His brows lifted.

“I mean it, Buck. I don’t care if you’re Spider-Man or just the guy next door who eats like a raccoon and forgets laundry in the washer for three days.” He snorted, but you continued, voice soft and sincere. “You save people. You care. That’s what matters to me.”

Buck’s throat worked as he looked at you, expression open and stunned, like the floor had dropped out from under him and he hadn’t expected you to be the net that caught him.

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “You’re not alone anymore.”

He closed his eyes, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. “I really, really love you.”

You smiled, letting the moment stretch around you like a cocoon. The city could keep buzzing. Emergencies would come and go. But right now, you had each other, Chinese takeout, and a shared secret that somehow made everything more real.

© fordiaz 25’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

[starrvsn]

single parent romance prompts

feel free to use :)

“you have… a child.”

seeing them interact and it just completely warms the parent’s heart

like when their kid is like “what’s your job” and it’s some complicated one so they use really basic words etc etc and the parent just stands back and watches

“you’re really good with her.”

their kid runs out and they’re like “oh gosh, sorry,” and the other person is like “no need :) i love kids.”

what if they’re both single parents hmm?

single parent enemies to lovers hmm hmmmmmm??

the parent is super stressed and needs someone to watch their child so they call the love interest and by the time they return from work they’re cuddled on the couch asleep in their apartment

“i can’t bring you around her yet.”

just the idea that the love interest would become a mock mom/dad and how that would unfold :)

character b doesn’t like kids at all, but somehow character a’s child is just different and the cutest sweetest child who warms their heart

“is that her?” “yeah.” “she’s beautiful.”

fun interactions between the love interest and child (esp fun if they’re over like twelve years old)

once they’ve reached that time of domesticity and when/if the child is comfortable to use titles like mom or dad

like “dad, where’s did you put my backpack????!??!! and this time don’t spend five minutes shocked about how i called you dad IM GONNA BE LATE FOR THE BUS AGAIN.”

they knew each other in college and broke up before one had a child… now they meet again and it’s so awkward which is only worsened by a little girl running out and calling one “mommy”

so then the former love interest is like WTF IS THAT MY KID??? DID U KEEP HER DROM ME

[starrvsn]

﹙ SHOW/FANDOM ⠆911﹚

PAIRING ⠆eddie diaz x single-parent!reader

CATEGORIES ⠆fluff, baby’s first words!, single-parent!reader, brief mention of choking, a kind of what are we situation, lots of plot for no apparent reason. not canon to the 911 timeline!

OVER THE INTERCOM ⠆i got a little carried away with this one but ive been so obsessed with this show i just needed to write something, so please enjoy!

𝟒𝟏𝟏. your finally shares her first words and it’s nothing like you expected, based off a prompt that says we’re friends and my child’s first words were your name… i’m jealous but also endeared.

you had met eddie when addison was six months old– he responded to a call where your baby was choking on a carrot that you had thought was soft enough to eat, thankfully they had gotten there quick enough for eddie to perform the appropriate heimlich to retrieve the piece of carrot stuck in her throat. whilst they had your daughter overnight at the hospital, he had visited you. partically to see if your daughter was holding up okay, but mainly for you. he knew as a father himself how hard you must’ve been on yourself and offered to take you out for coffee as comfort, share silimar experiences which lead to a blossoming friendship.

eddie was always there for when you felt misguided in parenthood, always there to lend a shoulder and give you advice you needed whilst he was still figuring out how to be a good father to christopher. addison and chris became fast friends as well– despite her being a toddler and chris being fourteen, he looked after her like a sister, reading books to her and looking forward to the days you’d drop her off sometimes when you didn’t have a sitter, it was almost like a little family and you were content with that.

now, addison is almost a year old and has been growing up wonderfully. eddie was there for a majority of her milestones, when she started crawling and beginning to stand on her own and almost taking her first steps. you and eddie were on blurred lines, whilst you appreciated him being there for you and you’re daughter, you both knew getting into a serious relationship or even putting a label to things was tricky, still navigating so many changes in your lifestyle and his, it was easier to just call yourselves friends.

eddie and chris are over are you apartment today for your regularly scheduled sunday breakfast, something you made a tradition after you grew paranoid with feeding addison on your own, so in order to ease your worries eddie offered to come over every sunday to make sure breakfast would go swimmingly. at first he came on his own but then started bringing chris after a few weeks, claiming he had fomo– which was just a coverup because chris knows about you and wanted to meet you, but eddie didn’t want you knowing he talks about you, especially to his son. in those five months you’ve all gotten closer– seeing christopher slowly mature over that time and seeing his closeness with addison, it was something you didn’t want to ruin.

it was a nice sunday morning, so you decided to eat outside on your patio, there was a slight breeze but the sun was warm enough to keep the chill away. you’ve got the full spread of a classic breakfast: plates full of pancakes, fruit, bacon and scrambled eggs, a perfect breakfast. addison is sitting at the head of the table in her high chair, you’re sat next to her with eddie and chris across from you. you try your best to give addison the food your eating so she doesn’t feel left out, which you know she does, her emotions developing and finding out clearer way to express herself. on her plate are bits and pieces of fruit and plain pancakes cut into smaller, digestible pieces– even now you still check with eddie to make sure they’re not too big, not that he has ever minded.

the morning air is light, filled with laughter and passing stories about chris’ new crush or what’s been going on at school, eddie talking about the squadron– their calls and a little chismes about their current qualms outside of work. you laugh and react to their stories, it would be a lie if you didn’t enjoy them– your job was quite mundane but kept you stable so this was something you looked forward to before the busy week ahead of you.

eddie is mid sentence talking about bucks recent dilemma with tommy when addison lets out a loud babble and slaps both palms against the tray of her high chair.

“foods good huh, chiquita?” he hums to her endearingly, nodding along to her babbling, an endearing smile gracing his face. it was hard to not imagine eddie becoming a father figure to addison, he’s a great father to chris and bonds so easily with your daughter, it’s selfish and a crazy thought but is something that has crossed your mind for than once.

“addie’s has been talking a lot more recently, hasn’t she?” chris chimes in, looking over at addison who’s picking up another strawberry. i remember when you started talking eddie reminisces, going on about how his first words were when he’s was on deployment and wishes he was there to witness it.

you hum, thoughtfully. lifting your napkin to dab a smear of syrup from the corner of addison’s mouth. “she has, i’m waiting for the moment she says her first words.” a part of eddie wishes he could be there for it.

breakfast continues, more jokes and stories were shared with addisons babbling reactions in the mix. then, addison starts babbling again, less random this time. more focused. insistent.

"dee... da... eh-"

your eyes snap to her immediately, chest tightening just slightly because you've been waiting for this moment. her first real word. you've been expecting "mama." hoping for it, really. eddie's already chewing on a bite of pancake, looking over at her with soft eyes. chris, mid-sip of orange juice, sets his cup down carefully.

the moment stills as you daughter tries to find her footing, she’s been saying sounds that sound like words but not quite there, this could be the moment though. you all watch her with bated breath, no way of telling if her first words will come from her lips. then addison turns to eddie. waving her chubby hand at him and beams.

"eh-dee!" the table falls silent, eddies eyes are already on you trying to gage your reaction. your mind is blank, you never expected her first words to be his name, not even mama, not even chris’.

she then looks at you, big bright eyes as if she’s awaiting your reaction. you clear your throat, sitting a little straighter in your seat. “that’s right baby, that’s eddie right there isn’t he.” addison flashes a gummy smile at you, nodding at your words, smart little girl. postive reinforcement! reguardless of her first word, at least she got there in the end and makes it clear as day. chris is next to react, breaking out into a loud, shocked laugh. "no way! did she-? did she just say?"

"eddie," she says again, a little more proudly this time, her tiny voice clear as day. "eddie!" you look at eddie, who seems to be in more shock than you, his eyes like a deer caught in headlights, his jaw dropped a little. it isn’t until you brushed your foot against his under the table, he shifts, eyes finally focusing to you. his are wide, soft, apologetic all at once.

"she-uh," he clears his throat, setting down his fork. "she said my name."

"yeah." your voice comes out smaller than intended, a touch breathy. "yeah, she did."

addison claps, giggling like she's solved world peace. your heart squeezes.

"i didn't teach her that," eddie says, like he needs you to believe him. "i swear. i always call myself tío or just talk about 'your mama' when i'm with her—i never-"

you wave a hand, the corners of your mouth twitching. "no, i know. i believe you. it's just.." you glance at your daughter, cheeks pink and eyes so happy. "i thought it would be me, you know? or even chris. not-"

"not me," eddie says quietly.

your eyes meet again. the air between you shifts, heavy with something unspoken. but neither of you address it, just push it aside for later, shifting your mood to the fact it was addisons first word, praising her endlessly, ignoring the swirl of warmth in your stomach when she babbled eddies name when he took her out of her high chair.

later, whilst you’re cleaning up from breakfast, now early afternoon. christopher is sitting snuggly on your loveseat, he’s enthusiastically reading to addison, making silly voices and sound exaggerations to make the story of the little red riding hood more entertaining.

you and eddie are doing dishes. he’s washing while you’re drying. it was silent at first, neither of you knew what to say. how to approach this conversation, hey my daughters first word was your name what does this mean? this was not something you read about in your guide to motherhood books. you couldn’t even form appropriate words without giving anything away. eddie knew it would lead to other unanswered things to your friendship that sometimes seemed more than what it was. eddie was content with what you had going on but lingering in his mind knew he wanted more, you wanted more.

it was just difficult to approach, you didn’t want to overstep or mislead. you never really settled on what your friendship had turned into, afraid of shifting your dynamic into something awkward and that would lead to being distant then into being out of touch and away from each others lives which neither of you wanted. if the conversation needed to be had, it was now.

eddies the one to break the silence “well, that was unexpected,” he murmurs, addisons little voice ringing in his head, he felt so delighted and warm when she has said it, it was a moment he wanted to experience with chris and it just so happened with your daughter, that’s evidently not his.

“…very unexpected.” you cough, picking at the threads of the dishtowel. unsure how the lead the conversation. the silence stretches again, this time a little less heavy, a little more expectant. like the moment is gently asking you both to be brave.

“but it wasn’t unwelcome, i didn’t think it’d make me feel so much.” he adds, glancing at you sideways, his voice barely above the hum of christopher’s animated storytelling in the background. “it did though, hearing her sweet little voice say my name…made me happy.” dishes are long forgotten and his soapy hands stand at the edge of the basin.

“yeah…” you trail, “made me happy too, just don’t know what happens now.” your throat feels tight, not in a bad way just anticipating his words.

your hands clutching tightly on the rag, eyes focused on the pattern away from his gaze. he pauses, turning to fully face you. his hands grasps yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. as if begging you to look at him. you slowly turn to him, your body before your head– gazing at him through your lashes.

he looks at you, really looks, like he’s searching for something in your eyes that’ll give him all the answers. his eyes are soft, with something raw and vulnerable he only ever shows in quiet moments like these. "i know we’ve been walking this weird line for a while now. friends, but sometimes it feel like we’re more than friends. you’re important to me. and addie—she means a lot to me too. maybe more than i realized."

you don’t look away. your heart thuds loud in your ears. "i’ve thought about it," you admit softly. "more than i should. i just didn’t want to ruin what we have. what we’ve built. it’s been safe. and good."

"it still can be," he says gently, moving your hands close to him, moving closer, closing the gap between you. "just... maybe with more honesty. more intention."

"you think we could make it work?"

he smiles then, a more meaningful one. "i think we already are. we just haven’t admitted it to ourselves yet."

you glance toward the living room; addison is squealing at christopher’s overly dramatic wolf impression, clapping her hands, her joy bouncing off the walls of your little home. it feels warm. like family.

"i want to try," you say, voice steady now. "not for her. not because of today. but because i want to. because you’re the first person i feel like i don’t have to pretend with."

he leans closer, as if telling you a secret only for you to hear. his big brown eyes boring into yours. "i’m not perfect. i’m still learning. still messing up." he means it.

"so am i," you say with a soft laugh. "but maybe we can figure it out together."

"yeah," he says, moving his hands to your waist and into a hug, cheek against your hair, it warm and content, like secret promises and new beginning "together sounds good."

just like that, everything you had been worrying about, are washed away and into something more, something real and worth it.

ownership of starrvsn. please do not repost, modify or translate.

[starrvsn]

yukitsunoda0511 back to where it began for my 100th grand prix

[starrvsn]

oh my god.

[starrvsn]

hi hi

idk if you’re accepting requests but if you are pls could i request an evan buckley where he has a gf/wife and a baby but the 118 doesn’t know, and maybe one day reader/kid is injured and they either turn up at the fire house or the 118 is called to the scene and buck has to come clean about his secret wife/gf and kid?

thank you bestie, i love your writing <3

lover - e.b

summary: request

evan buckley x reader

gif from @eddiemunsens

a/n: what tswift album do u guys think the 118 are 🤭 also what happens to yn is inspired by an episode of s19 that i love sm it’s so funny :))

buck knew the second y/n got pregnant that he wasn’t leaving. two years of dating is a short time to have a child, but they loved each other more than anyone. they knew they could give a child a good life, so they went with it.

all three of them moved to la, so buck could work with the LAFD and y/n could get to a higher position at work. their life there was immaculate. their little family was thriving, so buck put a ring on her finger. he didn’t even hesitate to buy the biggest one he saw, because he loved y/n the second he met her, and he emotionally couldn’t wait anymore. the words husband and wife rang in his ears, making him drop a dumbfounded grin.

no one at work knew, he didn’t really know what they thought of him. his team knew he was too fine to not have anyone, so they figured he was just with some girls here and there. the last thing they expected was a child and a fiancé along with it. it never came up in conversation, but buck still didn’t bother. he didn’t want to face any judgement from people that he didn’t already get from his family. the constant scrutiny about his age and his girl was exhausting.

now, neither of them would’ve changed it for the world. buck can’t imagine himself happier or in a life without them. it hurts him to even consider what would happen if y/n and his little boy weren’t there. he always gazed at them playing, sometimes just wanting to observe their brilliance.

buck knew he would have to explain to his team that he’s married, and that doesn’t mean he’s ashamed. he wants the world to know, but he doesn’t want y/n to be hurt by opinions from other people. he didn’t realize how soon he would have to until the alarm rang and until dispatch came through with the address. it was their house. the house where buck and y/n raised their son and the one where either could be hurt. every single scenario waved over buck, making him panic more by the second.

“you good, kid?” bobby asks, taking note of his bouncing knee.

“uh.. yeah! yeah, i’m fine,” he lies. buck hasn’t been with them for more than a year, so they just pass it along, not knowing any better. buck climbs out of the truck, grabbing a few tools before sprinting toward the house. now, the teams more alarmed. what is it about this house is making him act like a maniac?

“y/n?” buck calls out, running around trying to find her.

“kitchen!” she yells out, sounded distressed which only makes buck move even quicker. when he walks in, he immediately notices her leaning over the sink, her hand in the disposal. bobby and the rest of his crew walk in behind him, the four of them standing in the kitchen staring at her. “well?”

“oh-“ bobby moves, starting to gather some more tools out of his bag.

“what the hell happened?”

“i dropped my ring down, and i was trying to make him lunch,” she nods to the baby, sitting on the floor happily, clearly having no idea what’s happening. “i don’t even know why i tried to grab it, like some idiot!”

“hey,” buck says, walking over to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. “you’ll be fine, y/s/n is fine, yeah?” she looks up at him and nods, brushing her hair with her free hand.

“should we know the kids name too?” chim asks, giving buck a completely bamboozled expression. y/n passes buck the same face as hen walks over to check her hand. buck can’t get around it this time, and he wants them to know for once.

“um, guys,” he starts. “this is my fiancé, y/n and my son.”

“your what?” hen shouts, peeking her head out from behind y/n’s shoulder. she gives hen an awkward smile and buck stands there stiffly, worried about their reaction. everyone looks around at each other in shock that buck has his own family, and they didn’t even know.

“why didn’t you tell us?” bobby wonders.

“because i didn’t know how you’d react! i’ve heard it all from my parents, i didn’t need any more.”

“buck, we would’ve welcomed you no matter what your home life is. we’d love to get to know you and your family despite how it might’ve happened,” hen tells him, kindly. buck is confronted with immediate love, something he’s not to familiar with other than when his shifts end and he’s in y/n’s arms again. he’s surprised to say the least. he expected at lease some judgement, but there was nothing of the sort in the room.

“i’m thrilled you’re all having a nice moment here,” y/n interrupts. “but can we maybe get my hand out of my sink?”

buck and bobby pull the cabinets open and start drilling at the pipes underneath. buck secures the ring in his fingers before beaming up at y/n, showing her that he found it. “i got it!” he replies excitedly. “thank god, i don’t know if i have insurance for this thing. cost me my left leg,” he whispers to bobby. once they fully disconnect the system, hen slowly drags her bloody hand out and wraps it up. she hisses at the contact of the gauze and antiseptics. chimney starts to clean up the rest of the supplies, as hen treats the wound.

“so,” chimney begins. “when’s the wedding?”

“time and place, chim,” hen tells him. “time and place. but, yeah, are we invited?”

“yes,” buck says, obviously. “you’re invited.” he moves over to scoop his baby off the ground, carrying him over to his friends. they all speak to him in their little baby voices, and y/n watches with a shining smile on her face. buck knows he did the right thing, but he wishes he didn’t wait as long. now, he is certain that he has two solid families.

[starrvsn]

red flag, huh? ⛐ 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙙

your boyfriend declares something you do as a red flag. he faces the consequences. (𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri, isack hadjar, lando norris, carlos sainz, alex albon, george russell. ꔮ word count: 3.9k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor/crack, fluff. mention of food. established relationships, the drivers grovel!!!, reader is rightfully petty (#isupportwomenswrongs). references to F1 Drivers Decide Their Personality Red Flags. ꔮ commentary box: look. i’m not fond of writing grid fics, but when george in the video said “i think my girlfriend does that, hang on,” my ass kicked into high gear. finished this in one deranged sitting because, sometimes, the stories truly do write themselves. they’re all just men, dawg 🤥 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

OSCAR P. ⸻ 🚩 PHOTOGRAPHING THE MEAL BEFORE ALLOWING PEOPLE TO EAT.

Oscar first clocks you somewhere around week three.

At first, it didn't register. There are plenty of other photos in your latest dump: a blurry sunset, your sock-covered feet tangled with his on the couch, some artistically chaotic overhead of your cluttered nightstand. 

But not a single photo of the mille-feuille from last Tuesday. Which is strange, because the plating was obnoxiously good. Food magazine good. The kind of good you usually made everyone wait to eat so you could get the angle just right. He ate it without pause, and you didn’t say a word.

He tells himself not to overthink it. Maybe you just didn’t like the lighting.

A week later, it’s ramen. A new spot. Big ceramic bowls and frosted glass dividers and lanterns that would’ve made for a great moody backdrop. You sit down, murmur something appreciative about the soft-boiled egg, and then just—dig in.

Oscar blinks. He waits for you to stop him. You still don’t.

It’s not until he scrolls through your camera roll on a flight to Austria, looking for a photo you took of his hoodie on your desk chair, that it really hits him. Because there are still photos of food, sure. Just… not his. One sad little snap of a half-eaten bao bun, probably taken when he went to the bathroom.

No more overheads. No more rearranging the table for composition. No more sighing at shadows or holding up menus for bounce lighting.

The worst part is, he knows exactly when it started.

He can picture it perfectly. How he, the genius, the romantic, the absolute idiot, had laughed and said, As soon as that plate's on the table, I’m eating it. So if anyone’s stopping me... 

He hadn’t thought twice about it. Not until now, anyway.

By the time he books dinner for the two of you at the trendy bistro in Notting Hill, he’s borderline subtle about it. It’s got a tiled floor. Terracotta plates. A whole skylight situation. He figures, if anything’s going to tempt you into propping your elbow on the table and telling him to wait, it’s this. Instead, you just smile, thank the waiter, and start on the roasted carrots like it doesn’t hurt your soul to leave that burrata unrecorded.

When he finally brings it up, it’s less a confrontation and more of a low-stakes science experiment.

“Did the food get uglier, or did I say something dumb?”

You stare at him from across the kitchen island. You’re in your pajama shorts and one of his old team shirts, chopping strawberries. He watches your mouth twitch. “Be more specific,” you say.

Oscar gestures toward the pan on the stove, which still smells faintly of vanilla and burnt sugar. “You made crêpes. They’re perfect. Where’s the Instagram story?”

You glance at the pan. Then at him. Then back at the strawberries. “Oscar,” you say sweetly, “you once said—and I quote—As soon as the plate’s on the table…” 

His face folds into a groan before he can stop it. “You’re still mad about that?”

“Not mad,” you say airily, slicing another berry. “Just respectful of your dining philosophy.”

He leans his elbows on the counter, eyeing you. “You’re telling me you gave up a six-year food photography streak because of a side comment I made?”

You hum noncommittally, but the corners of your mouth are doing something very close to smug. Oscar lets out a short laugh, half in disbelief. “Unreal,” he mumbles. “I miss it, you know. The hovering. The adjusting of cutlery. The way you used to bully me into not breathing on the plate.”

“You said it was a red flag.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “Turns out I like your shade of red.” 

You pause mid-chop. It only lasts a second, but he catches it—that soft hitch in your breath, the way your gaze flickers up to meet his. “You liked being told not to eat yet?”

“I liked watching you fuss over things that made you happy,” he says, voice steady and firm. “Even if I had to pretend my pasta wasn’t going cold.”

You set the knife down. Walk around the island. Slide your arms around his waist, your cheek pressing against his chest. Oscar wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. “Just take the photos, okay?” he sighs, holding you like you might slip away from him in the face of his sheer stupidity. 

Your voice is muffled against his shirt. “I’m going to take a dozen of the crêpes.”

ISACK H. ⸻ 🚩 SLOW WALKING IN BUSY PUBLIC AREAS.

Isack used to joke that your natural walking pace was somewhere between a daydream and a scenic detour.

Not that he minded. He liked it, actually. Liked the way your fingers would slot into his, how your pace slowed time down. Sunday markets, grocery store aisles, even airport terminals. You never walked like you had anywhere to be. He used to tease you about it, but secretly, he enjoyed that you made the world feel less urgent.

Lately, though, he feels like he’s dating an Olympic speed walker.

He has to jog to catch up to you outside the baggage claim in Barcelona. You’re weaving between people like a salmon upstream, carry-on bag in tow, jaw set in quiet determination. He reaches out to grab your hand, but misses. Again.

“Do you have a flight I don’t know about?” he calls out, the frustration edging his tone ever so slightly.

You glance back at him over your shoulder, barely slowing. “The cab queue fills up fast.”

He huffs a laugh as he tries not to get shoulder-checked by a tourist group. “You used to take pictures of the floor tiles,” he bites out. 

“They were nice tiles.”

“They’re still there, you know! They didn’t run off!”

You flash him a grin but don’t slow down. He frowns, adjusting the strap of his backpack. He doesn’t know when this started, exactly. Just that his arm feels colder without your hand in it.

It gets worse in Heathrow. The terminal is chaos, all metallic ceilings and garbled announcements and snaking queues. You’re ahead of him again, fast-walking toward passport control like it’s a competitive sport.

Isack’s about to tell you to slow down when you trip.

It’s not graceful. Your bag wheels the wrong way and your ankle buckles. The slap of your hands on the tile echoes, and so does the word you mutter under your breath. He’s at your side in an instant, crouching next to you, heart doing something unpleasant in his chest.

“Hey, hey. What the hell. Are you okay?”

You nod, but you’re wincing. “Think I twisted it.”

He checks your ankle gently, jaw tight. There’s already a faint redness blooming, and you hiss when he presses lightly against the bone. “You were practically sprinting,” he mutters.

“I was not sprinting.”

“Mon coeur, you were drafting off an old lady with a cane.”

You let out a pained laugh. “It’s fine. I’ll walk it off.”

“The only thing you’re walking is slowly, beside me, like a normal person,” he snaps, pulling a pack of instant cold compresses from his bag.

You go quiet, watching him shake the pack and press it gently to your ankle with a kind of exasperated care that only makes your cheeks burn. Eventually, in a voice barely above a whisper, you murmur, “You said it was a red flag.” 

He pauses, hand still pressing the pack to your inflamed ankle. “What?”

You look everywhere but him. “In that video. They asked about red flags. And you said slow walkers in busy places.”

Isack stares at you. Then: “You changed your entire walking speed because of something I said in a video?!”

“I just didn’t want to annoy you.” 

He groans. Loudly. Like he’s being haunted by his own past stupidity. “Mon coeur,” he says, pressing the cold pack a little firmer, “you could be moving backwards on a conveyor belt and I’d still want to hold your hand.”

You look like you’re biting back a grin. Progress, he supposes. 

He sighs, brushing your hair back from your face. “I said something dumb. I’m allowed. I was raised in a paddock. But if you think I care more about getting to the taxi stand than walking next to you, you’re an even bigger idiot than me.”

You sniff, leaning your head against his shoulder. He shifts a little to accommodate you, wraps one arm around your waist. “You sure?” you ask, just for good measure. 

“I’d wait light years for you,” he says. “Just maybe not in Heathrow ever again.”

You laugh, soft and sheepish. He smiles against your hair.

“Now let me carry you to the taxi queue before you try to walk again and ruin both our lives,” he declares, one arm already snaking around your waist. 

“Romantic.”

“You know it.”

LANDO N. ⸻ 🚩 INSTANT TEXT REPLIES.

Lando tells himself you’re just busy.

That’s all it is. Bad Wi-Fi. Time zones. A dead phone. You’re not ignoring him, not really. Your texts still sound like you, peppered with emojis and the same dry jokes. It’s just the timing that’s off. 

Where you used to reply within minutes, now it’s hours. Sometimes half a day. Sometimes he checks his phone and there’s nothing, and then he keeps checking, like maybe the notifications are delayed.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just refreshes your chats more than he should, tells himself he’s being clingy. It’s not a big deal. You’re allowed to have a life. Except when it happens for the fifth day in a row, he rereads your last message six times trying to decide if there’s some kind of shift in punctuation.

After two weeks, he’s convinced you’re slowly breaking up with him.

He books a flight the next morning.

You open the door in sleep shorts and an old hoodie. There’s a dent in your cheek from your pillow. “Lando?” you say, voice rough with sleep. 

He doesn’t say anything for a second. He just stands there, backpack hanging off one shoulder, trying to read your expression. “Hi,” he breathes. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought we were breaking up.”

You stare at him in that way that makes him want to melt, or go stupid, or both. “What?”

“Or you were about to,” he blurts out. “I don’t know. You weren’t texting back. I thought maybe I said something, or forgot something, or—I dunno, babe.”

You squint at him. “You flew across countries because I was texting slower?”

He shifts on his feet. “...Yes?”

You drag him inside by the wrist, as if the answer itself is proof you don’t hate him. He doesn’t let go. Your apartment smells like laundry and mint tea. There’s a blanket balled up on the couch and your laptop still open on the dining table.

“I didn’t want to seem too keen,” you say plainly, dropping onto the couch.

Lando drops his backpack by the door and draws his eyebrows together as he tries to process your words. “Pardon?” he says, only because it makes absolutely no sense to him. 

You reach for your tea and take a sip. Then, as if it’s obvious: “You said instant replies were a red flag. In that video. I didn't want to come off too clingy.”

He stares. Then he laughs. Sharp, breathless, stunned.

“You were trying to not seem too keen? Have you met me?” he says incredulously. “I check our chat thrice an hour. I’ve reread your ‘good night’ texts like they’re Pulitzer material.”

Your eyes widen behind your cup. “You what?”

“Shut up,” he groans, flopping down next to you. “God, you’re such a menace. Do you know how many times I checked to see if your read receipts were broken?”

You lean into his side, smugness radiating off you in waves. “So you’re saying you’re the clingy one?”

“I’m saying we can both be keen. Equally keen. Keen as hell.” He pauses, then adds, just on the right side of desperate: “Just text me back like before. I don’t care if it’s in under ten seconds. Fuck being nonchalant; I want us to have all the chalants about each other.” 

“That’s not—” 

“You know what I mean, numpty.” 

Your smirk melts a little. “Okay, okay.” 

He presses a kiss to your temple, then mutters, “I flew across Europe like a complete loser. You better reply with at least two heart emojis next time.”

“Four,” you bargain, “if you buy us lunch today.” 

He grins, cheek pressed to the top of your head. “Deal.” 

CARLOS S. ⸻ 🚩 TAKING A GYM MIRROR SELFIE.

Carlos never thought he’d become someone who looks forward to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. But here he is, eyeing his phone like a teenager, waiting for that familiar notification.

You at the gym: ponytail messy, cheeks flushed, smile cocky. Sometimes it’s a mirror selfie with your shoe on the bench. Sometimes a blurry video of your form mid-rep, with music blasting in the background and your caption reading something like form check or thirst trap?

He doesn’t care which it is. He opens them all immediately. Saves every single one. Watches the videos at least twice; once to appreciate your form, the second time just because.

Lately, though?

Crickets.

You still text after your workouts. Little things. Done for the day, or PR’d squats, almost cried, or Leg press almost killed me. But no photos. No clips. Nothing to tide him over while he’s stuck at media days or pretending to listen in debriefs.

Carlos gives it a month. A month of maturity. And then he decides that maturity will get him nowhere.

Carlos: So who is he? You: ? Carlos: Your new gym boyfriend. Must be hot if u are not sending me anything anymore :) You: 🚩🚩🚩

Carlos immediately hits call. You pick up on the third ring. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “Do you know how many Tuesdays I’ve had to go without your gym face? I’m wasting away.”

“Carlos—”

“Don’t Carlos me. You’re punishing me because I made one comment. One! And I was clearly talking about the guys.”

“You literally said gym selfies were a red flag. You called it icky.” 

“From men! From other drivers!” he says frantically. “Not from you, mi vida, who has the best gym selfies in the known universe!”

You go quiet for a second. He can hear you breathing, the soft shuffle of fabric like you’re sitting back on your couch. “So you’re saying my gym selfies aren’t cringe?” you ask, and even though Carlos knows you’re just fishing at this point, he rises to the bait. 

“They are elite content,” he declares. “They are the highlight of my week.”

You hum. “Maybe I want that in writing.”

“Text or handwritten? I can send a notarized statement. I can tweet it from the Williams account if you want. Just send me the mirror pics again. Please.”

He hears you laughing now, amused and soft. “You’re ridiculous,” you tsk. 

“No,” he exhales, sighing like he’s Atlas bearing the weight of the world. “I’m deprived of my girlfriend.” 

The call ends with a promise to check his phone in ten minutes.

He lasts seven.

The selfie hits his inbox at minute eight: your face glowy, sports bra matching your nails, the gym mirror smudged like always. He grins so wide, the engineer across from him gives him a look.

All is right again in Carlos’ world.

ALEX A. ⸻ 🚩 TALKING DURING A MOVIE.

Alex had really thought this one would get you.

It’s a Friday night. The lights are dimmed, the couch is a mess of blankets and limbs, and the opening credits of the rom-com he swore was actually good are rolling. He’s already chucked a pillow at your legs for trying to guess the twist too early, but he’s grinning when he does it. It’s the kind of movie night that’s become a ritual by now.

Fifteen minutes in, he’s already whispered two jokes into your hair. You’ve smiled. You’ve laughed, even. But you haven’t said a word about the plot, and that’s when Alex starts to feel a little off-kilter.

Because you’re quiet.

Suspiciously quiet.

You’re not doing your usual commentary—no side remarks, no scoffing at the over-the-top meet cute, no delighted gasps when the soundtrack hits. You’re sitting curled up next to him, expression warm, sure, but the running commentary? The back-and-forth he usually loves? It’s missing. 

Alex, idiot that he is, keeps trying to coax it out. He makes a joke about the best friend’s eyebrows, nudges your arm when a line is especially cheesy, even points out a continuity error like a gift-wrapped invitation. Still nothing.

You chuckle when appropriate, lean your head against his shoulder like the world’s coziest silent film date. But it’s not the same. By the time the credits roll, Alex is pouting in that half-dramatic, half-serious way of his, picking at the popcorn bowl like it’s betrayed him.

“So you hated it.”

You blink before frowning at him. “What?”

“The movie. I thought you’d like it! I’ve been saving it for a month. But you barely said anything.”

You blink again, incredulous, like he’s grown a second head. Then slowly, very calmly, you say, “Alexander Albon. You literally said talking during movies was a red flag.”

It’s Alex’s turn to frown. “Yeah, but that’s—”

You raise your eyebrows, challenging him to go back on his word. He groans and sinks lower into the couch. “I was talking about, like, loud talkers. People who explain the plot as it happens. You’re—you’re different. I’m colorblind to your red flags.”

You narrow your eyes, sinking your teeth into something new entirely. “Red flags. Plural?”

Alex’s expression stutters.

You shift forward, eyes narrowed in mock interrogation, cornering him against the armrest with the casual menace of someone about to win an argument and enjoy it. “What else, Albon?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, voice going a bit high-pitched like a cartoon character under pressure. “I love all your weird little traits. Every single one. Especially the one where you interrogate me like a detective from a teen drama.”

“Mhm.” You fold your arms. “Is that another one?”

“No, no,” Alex says, voice cracking with laughter now. “That’s my favorite one, actually.”

You let him stew for half a second longer before lunging. Alex tries to climb over the back of the couch, but you pull him back by the hem of his hoodie. He tumbles against you with an oof, limbs tangled, laughing as you trap him under your weight. You poke at his side until he squirms, cheeks warm, grin helpless.

“I really thought you lost your personality for two hours,” he says, flipping you onto your back. “Turns out I just red-flagged myself out of the best part.”

You reach up to tug at his hair, fingers threading through soft strands. “That’s what you get for being fake deep in interviews.”

“I’ll never recover.”

“You’ll live.”

Alex kisses you once, twice, lingering the third time. The TV is still softly playing previews in the background, forgotten. He pulls back just long enough to rest his forehead against yours. “Next time,” he says, “talk through the whole thing. I want every thought. Every gasp. Every rant about pacing.”

You smile against his lips. “Even when I complain about how they kissed too early?”

“Especially then.”

He kisses you again. That one, in his humble opinion, is just on time. 

GEORGE R. ⸻ 🚩 LIKING ALL PHOTOS ON YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA FEED.

George doesn’t notice it at first.

Which is, in his opinion, fair. He doesn’t obsessively track notifications like some people. He’s a busy man. He has training schedules and simulator runs and six different WhatsApp group chats muted for mental health reasons. He doesn’t exactly sit around checking who’s liked his most recent Instagram post.

After the third post in a row goes without your name popping up, though, he starts to feel it.

It’s not even a proper jealousy thing. He’s not spiraling. It’s just that—well. You always like his posts. You react to the Mercedes team reels with unrepentant bias. You comment the most cursed memes under his podium photos. You once made a slideshow on Facebook called George Russell: The People’s Princess and tagged him in it.

So yeah, maybe George’s ego has grown used to the digital affection. Maybe it expects a little fanfare from you. 

Maybe it sulks when it doesn’t get it.

He holds out for a bit. Tells himself you’re just swamped with work. Tells himself the algorithm’s being weird. Tells himself anything but the thought that’s slowly growing louder in the back of his mind: that you’re doing it on purpose.

It all comes to a head one lazy Sunday afternoon. He’s draped across your lap like a Victorian heroine with a fainting spell, scrolling through his phone while you absentmindedly rake your fingers through his hair.

“Hey,” he says, angling his screen up at you. “Did you see the photo I just posted?”

You hum, glancing down. It’s him standing next to his AMG ONE, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, all long lines and smug satisfaction. It’s the kind of photo he knows you usually clown him for.

You smile. “Very dreamy. Should I be worried you’ve found someone hotter than me?”

He snorts. “It’s a car.”

“You’re not denying it.”

George grins and elbows your thigh. Then, more casually, “So, you liked it?”

“I said you looked dreamy.”

“No, I mean—you liked it?” He waggles the phone meaningfully. “With the little heart button?”

You blink. “Oh. No. I don’t do that anymore.”

His head lifts off your lap. “You don’t—what do you mean you don’t?”

You pause. Shrug. “You said in that video that it was a red flag.”

George looks personally victimized. “I meant people who like every single post, like bots. Not you. You’re allowed. You’re grandfathered in.”

“Too late,” you say dismissively. “I’ve reformed. No more Instagram validation for you.”

“But—but that’s not fair!” he splutters, sitting up fully now. “You’re taking it seriously? That interview was mostly me taking the piss!”

You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t know, love. Seemed pretty sincere.”

He looks scandalized. Like he’s been hoisted by his own curated online persona. “You mean to tell me I’ll be doing this season without your moral support?”

“You’ll be winning even without it.”

“That’s not the point,” he grumbles.

You lean over and kiss his cheek. “Don’t pout.”

“I’m not pouting.”

He falls dramatically backward into the couch, muttering something about betrayal. For a few minutes, he’s quiet, phone in hand, frowning at the screen like he’s planning a very slow, very petty war.

Then your phone buzzes.

And buzzes again.

And again.

The Instagram notifications pop up in a steady stream across your lockscreen. 

George Russell liked your photo from last week. George Russell liked your photo from 23w ago. George Russell liked your photo from 103w ago. 

You glance over. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps scrolling, jaw set. “I can keep going,” he huffs. “I’ve got time.”

You start laughing. “George,” you wheeze, “are you liking my entire archive out of spite?”

“Out of principle,” he corrects. “Equality in red flags. If I have to be loved embarrassingly, so do you.”

You reach over and muss his hair. He lets you. “Fine,” you acquiesce. “I’ll go like your car thirst trap, you lunatic.”

George finally looks satisfied. “Good,” he says. “I deserve it.” 

He keeps scrolling until your very first Instagram post, and then he switches on over to Facebook. ⛐

[starrvsn]

good luck charm masterlist (completed!)

last updated: 11/10/24

♡ = smut

a college football player!buck fic

series summary: you're having a bad day and you run into an attractive guy in the hallway on your way to class. your frustration gets the better of you and you snap at him, but he’s intrigued by your attitude, and goes out of his way to keep talking to you. as the semester progresses and you’re forced to keep seeing each other, feeling grow and are revealed, but not without challenges along the way.

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight ♡

chapter nine

chapter ten ♡

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen ♡

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen ♡

chapter nineteen

chapter twenty

epilogue

bonus drabble: come and get your love

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[starrvsn]

Is She Mine?

summary: when buck left pennsylvania, he unknowingly left you there, pregnant with his child. four years later he runs into you and your daughter at the grocery store.

word count: 2.8k

a/n: another buck with a kid fic, another baby name from my baby name list used<3 if you don't like the name argue with the wall. someone gave me this idea months ago, but i can't find the ask, and i know birthmarks like that aren't hereditary or anything, but just pretend lol. anyway, enjoy<3

warnings: barely edited (sorry), reader has a daughter (obviously lol), no use of y/n, fem!reader, plus size!reader, race inclusive!reader

“Delia, come back here right now!” you whisper-yell down the grocery aisle, looking up right as you see your daughter disappear around the corner.

You’ve always been against kids on leashes, but lately, your three-year-old daughter has been single-handedly changing your opinion on them. You can’t take your eyes off of her for more than a couple of seconds before she’s gone; chasing after nothing in particular and probably talking to a random stranger or two along the way, if you know her at all.

You see flickers of her father in her; not merely in her appearance, but in who she is on the inside as well, and she’s never even met him. She’s extremely outgoing and talkative, and stubborn, and has a heart of gold. As much as you hate to see the painful glimmer of her father within her, it also makes you happy to think of your time with him.

You haven’t seen him since shortly after you realized you were pregnant. You were both in college in your home state, and when you took the pregnancy test, you couldn’t figure out how to tell him. You had ended up waiting too long, and when he told you that he was leaving to travel the world, you couldn’t stop him, as much as you wanted to.

You knew how miserable he was with his parents, and you couldn’t bring yourself to ruin his dreams. You knew all he wanted to do was get out of Pennsylvania, and you didn’t want to force him to stay with you just because you had done something stupid. 

You abandon your cart in the middle of the aisle and race after her, haphazardly pulling your purse up your arm as your eyes frantically look around you for a glimpse of her hair, or her light blue shirt. Or was it purple? God, you really need to start taking pictures of her before you go out with her, you think to yourself as your heart hammers in your chest.

Finally, you hear her loud giggle, and you let out a relieved sigh, following the noise and finally setting your sight on her curly hair and her blue shirt. Good to know you were right about that, at least.

“De, what are you doing? You can’t run away from m-” your words catch in your throat as you see that she’s talking to a man who’s bent down to her level and smiling fondly at her. 

When he turns and locks eyes with you, the smile drops from his face, and he stands up straight as his eyes travel down your body. His breath has been ripped from his lungs as he watches you pick up the little girl and set her on your hip, but before either of you can speak, your daughter squeals excitedly in your ear.

“Mommy, he’s got dots, too!” Her tiny hand shoots out toward his eyebrow, pointing at the birthmark above his eye, and you nod slowly, eyes still focused on Buck. Your sweet girl is completely oblivious to the tension between you and Buck; all she can focus on is that this random man at the grocery store has the exact same birthmark as her.

“Buck,” you breathe in disbelief, watching as the realization dawns on him. He knows exactly what he just heard. Mommy. And unless he’s suddenly extremely bad at math, he knows exactly what this means.

His eyes dart between you and your daughter, now seeing the mix of your features on her face. She has your eyes, and her hair is the exact same, but she also has his bright smile, and his nose, and of course, the same birthmark above her eye.

“Is she-” he begins, trailing off as he shakes his head. He’s trying hard to wrap his head around this situation, and the only thought running through his mind is why the hell didn’t she tell me?

“She’s three,” you reply softly, unable to bring yourself to say the real truth. He’s not stupid; you know you shouldn’t need to, and you don’t want to say a thing around Delia, anyway. 

“Why didn’t you-?” he begins again, but you cut him off, keeping a firm grip on your daughter as she wiggles around in your arms.

“You were miserable in Pennsylvania, I couldn’t make you stay,” you explain, your throat feeling tight as you feel all the emotions you’ve been shoving deep down for the past four years fighting their way to the surface again.

“You wouldn’t be making me stay, if I knew, I would’ve wanted to stay. You know that,” he tells you, brows furrowed. 

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about you since he left. Leaving you in Pennsylvania was the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, but he knew how important it was for you to graduate, and he couldn’t ask you to leave with him and throw away your own dreams for his. 

Now, looking at you, and the little girl in your arms, his heart feels heavy. He feels guilty for not being there for you for four years. He wishes that he never left.

“And I wasn’t miserable. I had you,” he continues, his fists clenching at his sides as he watches his daughter wrap her arms around your neck and rest her little head on your shoulder. He wants more than anything to hold her, but she has no idea who he is, and that causes a pain in his chest.

“I’m sorry. We were young, and I didn’t know what to do,” you explain, guilt filling your belly. In hindsight, you know you should’ve told Buck; he had a right to know, but you didn’t know what to say.

“Well, I can’t just forget about this now. I can’t just go back to not seeing you, not seeing her,” he says, his tone pleading as he looks down at your daughter again, his eyes soft as he takes in her drowsy eyes.

“Delia,” you tell him with a small smile, tilting your head to the side and resting your cheek against the top of her head.

He smiles too, and you think you see tears forming in his eyes as he nods, then clears his throat.

“Delia,” he whispers. “She looks just like you,” he continues, louder this time. 

You laugh softly, shrugging as you squeeze Delia tighter to you. You’re thankful that she’s been quiet while you talk, clearly tired after a long day at the park, and then running errands.

“I think she looks like you,” you reply, and he chuckles softly, feeling a sense of pride fill his chest. He can’t believe he hasn’t been there to see his little girl grow up, and that you’ve had to do this all alone.

“Please let me see you again. Please.” You smile at his words; you knew Buck would want to help out as much as he could if he ever found out. You feel guilt eating at you as you see the longing in his expression, but this feels like a second chance, and you don’t want to cut him off again.

“Okay. But, can I call you later? I should get her home and ready for daycare tomorrow. We shouldn’t really talk about this here, anyway,” you say quietly, gesturing down to Delia. She may only be three, but she understands a lot, even in her sleepy state, and you don’t want to confuse her before you know what this is.

He nods quickly, then gives you his phone to get your number, and when he has it, you say goodbye before you go your separate ways. 

Your daughter waves haphazardly at Buck as you walk away, and you can’t help the grin that makes its way onto your face. She’s asked about her father before, and you never quite knew what to say. Maybe now she’ll actually be able to have the father she’s always asked about. The one that you’ve longed for for the last four years.

Later that night, when Delia’s in bed, you call Buck and set up a day for him to come over to spend the day with you two. You both agree not to tell Delia who he really is, at least not right away. First, you’ll just get her used to him, and then you’ll cross the next bridge when you get to it.

You weren’t at all surprised when the first time Buck showed up on your doorstep, Delia welcomed him in with a bright smile, grabbing his hand and bringing him into the living room where all her toys were scattered around. You weren’t surprised when Buck sat right down with her and played with her all day, either, only stopping for snack breaks.

Anything she would ask for, he would do, whether it was playing hide and seek, or painting with her, or throwing her up in the air as many times as she wanted while playing what she calls “rocket ship.”

Eventually, his afternoon visits ended up ending later and later, and you’d sit on the couch and talk long after Delia went to bed. You missed hanging out with him, and seeing him being so good with Delia had you falling for him all over again. 

It wasn’t hard to see that he felt the same; you could see the way his eyes wandered down your body, or down to your lips when you were speaking, but you never did anything about it. Your number one priority is Delia, and you don’t want to do anything too early and confuse her. 

One day, a few months after you had run into Buck, he’s sitting on the carpet with your daughter, holding two of her Barbie’s in his hands with furrowed brows as she explains to him who they are. You’re sitting with them, watching with a fond smile, when Delia stops, looking up at Buck quizzically.

“Are you my daddy?” she asks softly, her brows knit together in confusion as she eyes him.

Both you and Buck’s eyes widen, and your lips part as you try to figure out what to say. You knew this was coming, but you couldn’t figure out how to go about it.

“Why do you ask, sweetheart?” Buck finally says, tilting his head to the side as you watch them.

“Everyone at school has daddies. And, you love my mommy,” she explains, looking between the two of you. You tilt your head to the side and steal a glance at Buck, seeing the smile growing on his face. He meets your gaze for a second, raising a brow, and you nod once. You don’t know how this is going to go, but you want to try.

“Of course, I love your mommy. And I love you, too,” he assures her with a smile, bringing a hand up and tracing her chubby cheek with his fingers.

She smiles bashfully, tilting her head to the side, then stops for a moment, thinking. You can practically see the wheels turning in her head as she looks at the space between the two of you, spaced out, and then she looks back up at Buck.

“Will you be my daddy?” she asks, and your heart shatters when you see the nervousness in her eyes. Buck can feel tears forming in his eyes as he looks back into her eyes, and his heart somehow feels both full and empty at her words. He’s been hoping to eventually become Delia’s father for real, but hearing the uncertainty in her voice makes him want to hold her close and never leave her again.

“Yeah, baby, I’ll be your daddy,” he says after a moment, not wanting her to wait a second longer. He lets out a huff as Delia suddenly shoots up and launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and settling into his lap with an elated giggle.

“I love you, daddy,” she says breathlessly, nuzzling into his neck and squeezing him hard. You watch with a smile, tears forming in your own eyes as you see a tear slip down Buck’s cheek.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice shaky as he hugs her close to his chest.

He’s always wanted a family, and now that he has this one, he never wants to let it go. He just can’t believe he missed out on the first three years. He’ll have to make it up to his girls, he thinks to himself.

“I’m gonna go talk to your mommy for a second. We’ll be right back, okay?” he tells your daughter when she finally gets off his lap and goes back to playing with her Barbie’s.

When you’re both in the kitchen, and sure Delia’s distracted, Buck closes the space between you two, cupping your cheeks and bringing your lips to his in a passionate kiss. You hold his wrists as you kiss him back, caught slightly off guard but quickly regaining your composure as you move your lips in time with his.

When you finally pull back, you’re both out of breath, and he looks down at you with sparkling eyes, studying your face for a moment before bringing your foreheads together. 

“I want to be a real family. I don’t just want her, I want you, too.” he whispers, letting his thumb trace along your skin as he holds your face in his hands. You laugh in slight disbelief, then nod, letting a tear finally fall down your cheek. The last four years without him have been exhausting, and all you wanted was this, but you never thought you could have it. Except now Buck is standing right in front of you, telling you that he wants exactly what you want.

“I want that, too.” you tell him softly, then bring your lips up to his again, kissing him with newfound fervour. 

Your hands go to his chest, bunching up the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer as you part your lips and let his tongue slip into your mouth, searching. He keeps one hand on your face as the other goes down to your hip, holding you flush against him as he tilts your head further up into the kiss, and a low groan escapes his throat as he feels your plush middle pressed against him. 

You finally have to pull away when you hear your daughter’s squeal from the other room; yelling a high pitched “daddy!” 

You both race to the living room, letting out sighs of relief when you see her sitting in the same spot on the carpet that you’d left her, with a cheeky smile on her face.

“Can we have ice cream for dinner?” You scoff, laughing softly as you shake your head. You’ve seen that sweet little expression before; she knows exactly how to ask for what she wants, but unlike Buck, you’re more used to having to say no.

“Yeah, we can have ice cream for dinner, baby,” Buck replies before you can, and your head snaps in his direction, your eyes narrowed. He hasn’t noticed your reaction, however, as he’s smiling fondly at Delia as she squeals excitedly and makes her way to him.

When Buck picks your daughter up in his arms and finally turns to face you, you can feel the sliver of anger slip away, seeing how Delia is looking up at Buck with a dazed smile; clearly happy about finally having her daddy. 

“You’re already wrapped around her finger.” you tease, and all he does is shrug, a smile plastered to his face.

“Happily.” he replies, then leans down and gives you a gentle kiss. You both laugh when you hear Delia’s fake sounds of disgust, and when you pull back, Buck throws her up in the air, then catches her.

“Hey, if I’m gonna be your daddy, you’re gonna have to let me kiss your mommy, that’s part of the deal.” he teases as he throws her up in the air, eliciting a high-pitched giggle from her lips. 

“Okay, okay, okay!” she gets out through breathless gasps, and when Buck hums in victory and lowers her back into his arms, he gives her a big, sloppy kiss on the cheek.

You watch with a grin, and you can’t believe that you lived for four years without Buck. But now that he’s back, you never want to leave him again.

notes: likes/comments/reblogs would be much appreciated if you liked this<33

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flood of blood to the heart