#But...I still want to have a way to keep in touch with all of you

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face. 

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer. 

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away. 

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.” 

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath. 

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it. 

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower. 

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen. 

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly. 

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing. 

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side. 

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger. 

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need. 

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth. 

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.” 

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache. 

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter.  “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade. 

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed. 

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs. 

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up. 

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare. 

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much. 

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder. 

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace. 

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you. 

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—” 

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.” 

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough. 

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.” 

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat. 

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed. 

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long. 

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.” 

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something. 

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop. 

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole. 

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling. 

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. 

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?” 

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either. 

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace. 

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him. 

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above. 

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium. 

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words. 

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. 

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?  

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle. 

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore. 

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected. 

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it. 

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel. 

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard. 

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in. 

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you. 

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap. 

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure. 

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic. 

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you. 

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt. 

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips. 

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene. 

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

---

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[rottingpink]

control | simon "ghost" riley

cw. pet play, age gap, finger sucking, oral (m receiving), needy! reader, teasing, dumbification, established relationship

synopsis. you remind simon a lot of an untamed puppy in need of self-control

masterlist

pt ii will be linked here!

simon adores his girlfriend and all her hyperactivity on most days. but when the man's knackered from work, all he wants is a chilled beer, a good football match on tv and you cuddled next to him. maybe some soft kisses and lovemaking once he relaxes.

however, you have an affinity for pestering him the moment he gets home. after all, when you haven’t seen your loving boyfriend all day, the first thing you’d want to do is put your hands all over him, obviously.

you're being such a little brat, squirmy, loud and restless as hell. you're not realizing he's currently not in the mood for your nonsense. you're perched in his lap, pawing his face and shoulders and hair and blowing cool air on his ears to make him flinch. you whine "simon" and pull his palm to your face so you can nuzzle it.

“y’bein' needy,” he says without looking at you, his voice coming out deep and calm. he intentionally uses a cautionary tone in his voice. you don't heed his warning, nipping his fingers playfully. "don't care, i want attention, simon. i missed you."

simon turns his head to look at you, raising one eyebrow. his deep blue eyes rake over you, analyzing your tousled hair, smudged lip gloss, and one of the straps of your nightdress slipping off your shoulder. your messy appearance is accompanied by the big smile on your face. he rubs his thumb along your bottom lip, then taps your cheek twice, firmly. it's one of the only ways to get you to pay attention.

“off,” he says as if he’s talking to a dog that keeps jumping on the bed. you blink up at him and pout, staying exactly where you are. you don't feel like moving, so you won't. you wanna be with him. simon tuts and stares into your big, glassy eyes, grabs you under your arms, and lifts you onto the couch.

"simon!" you cry out his name in dissatisfaction. why won't he let you cuddle him? you try and sit up, but he pushes you back into the cushions, big hand pressing against your body to hold you still.

“stay,” he commands sharply.

you go still under his hand, blinking up at him. you can feel a flutter in your body and a spike in your heart rate. you like when he talks to you this way, even though he’s being firm. the casual dominance makes your head swirl.

“i don't want to,” you whisper, unable to stop yourself. maybe he'll get mad and punish you by pounding you into the mattress. he breathes out through his nose and leans down, miffed by your smug little look.

“you don’t listen,” simon scolds softly, curling his hand around your jaw. “yappin’ at me the second i get home. climbin’ on me. whinin’. y’can’t sit still for five seconds.”

“cause i want you. haven't seen you in hours.” you say dramatically, leaning into his touch. "you're always busy."

he leans down and cages you in, hovering over you from where you're positioned on the couch. "y'need to settle down." he chastises, then taps your cheek again. "open f'me."

even though you do want to keep being a brat to rile him up, you reluctantly obey. he slides two thick fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. he starts off gentle, then holds your jaw in place when you try to wriggle. "mmh..." you hum around his thick fingers, lips sealing tight around the digits.

you try to suck, but he pushes deeper every time you get too comfortable. "y'too wound up, pup."

"mmm... more simon," you keen around his fingers, drool trickling down your chin, sliding his fingers along your tongue. he's trying to keep you busy so you calm down, but it's clear you have a long way to go. he clicks his tongue. "settle." he repeats firmly.

your eyes flutter, and your mind slows down the longer you suck on his fingers. you nod as best you can, feeling melty and warm. the sheer size of him as he crowds you makes you crazy. your panties are already damp. simon strokes your cheek with his pinky, fingers still buried in your mouth.

you behave for maybe five seconds longer, mouth full, lashes heavy, your jaw slack, letting him rock them against your tongue. you respond in soft suckles and breathy hums. his body slouches back a little and he thinks for a moment that you're starting to fall asleep on him, until your fingers slip under his shirt. you climb towards him, releasing his fingers from your mouth with a sloppy wet pop, and begin nosing at simon's clothed crotch.

his breath hitches the moment he looks down and sees you pawing at his zipper with both hands. meanwhile, your hips rut against the couch cushions and create friction on your clothed cunt under your flimsy nightdress. he murmurs out your name in warning.

you don’t answer, still breathing heavily. your eyes are blown out and desperate, and you tug at his boxers pathetically.

“stay still, pup.” he bites out, grabbing your throat in an attempt to hold you in place, and nudges your jaw with his fingers to tilt your chin up. his grip is firm. “y'not listenin' .”

you blink up at him, lower lip trembling. “but i want you!” your voice comes out so helpless, he honestly thinks about stuffing his fingers back into your mouth just to shut you up again. simon drags one hand down his face while you writhe in his hold.

“you can’t stop movin’, huh? need it that bad?” he mutters, almost fond. he remains somewhat annoyed by you, though.

when you try to grope his now swollen cock, he grabs your wrists and pins them to the cushion under one big palm.

“no,” he growls. you try to push into his thigh again even though he’s not moving.

“i said no,” he hisses. “y'so bad. bad fuckin’ puppy. can’t even behave for five minutes.”

you nod eagerly, seeming to be proud of yourself. "mhm... train me then, si, please, please i'll be so good-"

“y'won’t be good,” he snarls, cutting you off. “y'like being bad. y'like gettin’ told off. y'like bein’ treated like a mutt that can’t stay down.” he reaches between your legs with one hand, pressing his fingers hard into the middle of your soaked panties.

"see?" he tuts, rubbing the mess and glaring down at you patronizingly. "all that whining 'n you're soaked. fuckin' hell." you tremble under him, lip caught between your teeth. each time he rubs or pats your soaked panties it spreads your mess all over your cunt and makes soft soggy noises.

“you don’t get to make demands, pup. you don’t get to climb into my lap and rub all over me when I tell you no. you don’t get to beg with your mouth full and your panties soaked through.” he can feel you rocking your hips the entire time he scolds you, trying to get even the smallest bit of friction.

again, he shoves you down to hold you in place, keeping you still and under control. “you done?” he asks, looking at your flushed face, your ruined lip gloss, the need swimming in your eyes. you shake your head briskly, and the second you open your mouth to babble some more nonsense at him, he pushes his fingers back into your mouth and shoves you back down flat on the couch.

simon has you spread under him, his fingers working slowly in your mouth once more while he catches his breath, but you don't want fingers anymore. you tug at his wrist, spitting out the digits, chest heaving. a tantrum’s been building in you for a while and now it wants out. “i don’t want your fingers!” you bark, thrashing. "don’t want them anymore, I want your cock-!”

"need it," you’re panting, not even trying to be lax now. "i need it. i’ve been good... no i’ve been bad, i know i’ve been bad, but... i’ll be better if you just-! please, simon, please!"

“puppy.”

you ignore him, hands going back to his pants. you're a lot more determined this time, hands dragging at his waistband, trying to unclip the buckle, yanking and fumbling.

“pup.”

you snarl at him and try once more-

he grabs your wrists and pins them to your chest so fast you let out a choked yelp. your head falls back against the cushion, legs thrashing, fists caught in his grip. you try to buck your hips up into his again.

“stop it,” he bites. “you’re actin’ out.”

“don’t care, want your cock, simon!" you refuse to shut up, trying and failing to reach the bulge in his pants. "need it now! put it in!” that's his last straw. he shifts, knees caging your hips, holding you down completely. his weight alone stills you a little because the sheer size of him is so intimidating.

“you think you deserve cock?" he sneers in your face. "when you’ve been mouthy and grabby and ignoring every fuckin’ thing I say?”

"mmh, yes, i do, i do si, i do!"

“no, pup. you don’t. you don’t get cock just ‘cause you cry for it.”

he lets go of your wrists and sits back on his heels. “y'know what,” he says. “since y'don’t want fingers, show me what y'want." he sits back on the couch and spreads his knees widely, cocking his head towards his lap.

you've been granted permission.

"..."

you pounce onto his lap, both hands on his chest to keep yourself steady while you begin to grind down onto his hot, clothed cock.

he hisses through his teeth, breathing picking up the faster you rock your body. his grip tightens around you, keeping the rest of your body still while you slide your soaked pussy back and forth on him, soaking your panties even more. he grabs a fistful of your hair.

"heel." he says firmly, and you whine, but pause.

your breath’s caught in your chest, eyes wild and glossy with your arms around him tensely to keep yourself from rutting more.

simon can hear the shallow, frantic sounds leaving your mouth, almost like panting. ridiculous. he finally indulges you, lifting you onto the floor between his legs, lowering his pants and boxers just enough to tug out his cock.

you moan just looking at it, thick, flushed and already leaking at the tip, heavy against his thigh. he’s still half-tucked in his pants, slouched low on the couch with one hand around the thick base. “go slow,” he warns.

you dive in greedily, mouth wrapping around the head tongue swiping over the leaking slit and lapping up any pre-cum that's already drooled out of him, then you go to lick along the underside of the tip.

“fuck,” he growls, jerking under you. his hand tugs on the handful of your hair. “told you slow, pup.” you suck him in fast and shallow, lips stretched and cheeks hollowing each time you bob your head. you gag once, but you don’t stop. you pull off just long enough to breathe and then take him back deeper, sloppier, your tongue lapping around his shaft while your lips stretch obscenely around his girth.

“fucking... mngh, slow down, baby, slow down-” he pants, but you just huff out through your nose, saliva coating your chin. he watches you push your mouth all the way down again, your nose brushing the soft skin above his base.

simon drags you off with a wet pop, his cock bobbing out of your mouth and lightly hitting your cheek. the entire tip is flushed an angry red, and you can see how his balls twitch. they're too full and need to be emptied. you blink up at him, mouth open, saliva stringing from your lips to his length. “you need a collar,” says simon. “an' a leash.”

"mhmmm, want it... please,"

“yeah, I bet you like that, huh?” he growls. “you'd follow me around the fuckin’ house with 'em on. you'd start humpin’ my fuckin’ leg whenever I sit down and i'd have to tug on y'leash to control you.”

you nod frantically, crawling a little closer until your cheek rubs against his thigh, tongue flicking out in desperation to have your mouth full again. he can feel your warm breath panting against his cock.

he slaps it against your face, heavy flesh making contact with your skin. “open,” he snaps, and your lips part immediately.

he pushes back in painfully slow this time, hand firm on your head to keep you down and control you. he's finally giving you what you wanted but on his terms. the second his delicious cock is back in your mouth, you start grinding on him again, the fabric of your panties grinding deliciously into your clit each time you roll your hips. his cock twitches in your mouth, the soft, wet suction of your lips making his head loll and loud pants and groans to leave him.

then, he nudges his leg forward, slotting it between your thighs for you to hump.

simon's hand and stays on your head, fingers tangled tight in your hair to guide the rhythm. he drags the tip of his cock along your tongue until it brushes the roof of your mouth, then pulls out, then thrusts back in and eases you to take it to the base.

“such a fuckin’ slut,” he holds you in place to keep you at the base of his cock. “my stupid little pup can’t think unless she’s got something in her mouth and her pussy rubbin’ on m'leg.”

you wail around him, swallowing him as deep as you can even as tears start to leak out of your eyes in masses. your body bounces with every thrust of your pussy on him. you start humping harder, determined to get yourself to the brink so you can cum with him.

you're bobbing fast and messy, making the most obscene little noises as your lips drag up the length of him, sucking him down again before he can even get a breath in. you're so close to what you want. you can the way his thighs start to twitch. "oh hell, pup. fuckin'... 'm close... keep... keep suckin'... shit, feels s'good," he mutters curses under his breath, cock jumping in your mouth.

you dip lower, licking a broad, nasty stripe down to his balls, then you lave your mouth over them and press hot kisses to the sensitive skin. you nuzzle your face into the sack, tongue swirling over the sensitive skin. grabbing onto his cock with one hand, you fist his length, pumping your hand up and down while you suck on one of his balls, then the other. "pup! fuck, oh my-fuck, where'd y'learn... mmnhh..!"

simon is loud, tugging on your hair while his hips jerk off the couch, and he doesn't last any longer. he shouts, cock throbbing and pulsing in your mouth, and you quickly go down and return to sucking on his length, eager to swallow up everything that comes out of him. he creams in your mouth, seed hot and thick on your tongue.

you don’t spill a single drop, holding still with your mouth so full that your cheeks are puffed out. you gulp down all of his cum, then, hoping to prove to him that you really are a good girl for him, you pull off and show him, tongue out, mouth open, shining and clean, not a trace left. you even make a soft little ahh noise.

simon stops and stares down at his pup in disbelief, cheeks very flushed, breathing ragged, and his heart is racing hard in his heaving chest. in all honesty, he doesn't know what to say to you just now when you've rocked his world and stare at him all glassy eyes and proud.

since you were such a good girl though, he does think his pup deserves a treat. he pushes his foot up firmly on your cunt, putting pressure on your pussy and grinding it in slow, steady circles against you.

you gasp, head falling back and hips instinctively jerking forward to chase the friction. the wet cotton clings to your folds, dragged taut between your clit and the pressure of his foot and leg. "so good! please don’t stop, don’t stop-” you cry out, hips bucking quickly against him. you rut against his skin like a bitch in heat, arms wrapped around his leg to steady yourself.

simon watches you with a hand lazily stroking his slick, still-hard cock.

your mouth drops open in a silent moan, fingers digging into his leg now as the pressure builds in your belly. you rock harder, sloppier, as your panties squish and slide and smear your arousal all over yourself and the arch of his foot. you’re so close that you feel lightheaded.

“you like bein’ a stupid little mutt, huh?” he growls. “say it.”

your body stutters at his words, face burning, but you don’t stop grinding. if anything, the humiliation makes you more frantic. you pant, trembling in his hold, desperate for release. “yes, yes, i love it, i love being your mutt, ngh! m'cumming! si, simon-cumming!”

your thighs twitch and your pussy pulses violently, soaking his foot between your legs with wave after wave of wetness. your whole body convulses as the orgasm overtakes you.

a.n; pt ii in 2-3 days!

[geminiwritten]

worst way ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: being secretly fake-married to your sweet best friend, bob floyd, is almost perfect... until tensions rise, the secret is out, and you both struggle to keep your feelings (and your hands) to yourself

notes: this fic took my soul... there's a piece of my soul in this??? so y'all better enjoy! no, but seriously, i can't wait to hear what you think! i giggled like an idiot when i came up with the idea, and throughout the entire writing process... so please, please let me know what you think! (also, i want to hear y'all chanting perv!bob from across the pacific ocean)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, fake marriage (is that a warning?), italics, seemingly unrequited love (but not really), tiny bit of angst, bob is a perv (i'm not sorry), reader is also kind of a perv (don't fight it), bob’s HUGE dick, and SMUT (male and female masturbation, heavy making out, female oral receiving, a bit of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, rough-ish sex, lots of praise) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 22467

Bob Floyd is an incredible husband. 

He’s sweet, attentive, and always knows exactly what to say to make you smile. He fills up your car before the gas gets too low—and checks your tires, too. He leaves sticky notes around the house with cute messages and gentle reminders. He goes with you to any appointment that makes you nervous—including the goddamn gyno. He knows your coffee order and wakes up early every Sunday to make you breakfast. 

He’s perfect. Literally. You couldn’t build a better husband in a lab, because Bob knows how to be an amazing husband better than anyone else on Earth. 

You almost feel bad for taking him away from his would-be soulmate. For marrying him out of convenience—for benefits over love. Not that you don’t love Bob Floyd—you do. Just… more like a best friend. A platonic soulmate. Someone you can rely on. 

You’ve known Bob since he was fresh out of flight school. You met him during his first assignment as a WSO to one of the strike fighter squadrons at Lemoore, back when you were still a civilian contractor in a lowly admin role with the digital systems department. 

For nearly two weeks, you went back and forth with him, troubleshooting and raising tickets with IT every time you found a new bug or glitch in the digital flight-planning or weapons-targeting software. He wasn’t shy, just quiet—and very sweet. He made sure you got recognised for all your work, and straight-up refused to deal with anyone else on the systems support team. 

Work discussions turned into coffee runs, which eventually became quiet moments amid the chaos of military life. You quickly became good friends, confiding in each other things you wouldn’t dare tell anyone else. You came to care for Bob more than you probably should have, and it wasn’t long before you started thinking of him as your best friend. 

Assignments came and went. He moved, you moved—but you always stayed in touch. Bob looked out for you in a way no one else ever did, even when he was halfway across the world. Eventually, you ended up back on the same base again—him crashing on your couch because he hated the barracks. 

You were burning out at the time. Your contractor status was fragile. Insurance was expensive. But you couldn’t even think about moving back home. One night, you were crying, spilling your guts to Bob, stressed out of your mind, when he said it—the two words that changed your life. 

Marry me. 

You said no at first, because of course you did. But after a long conversation and a few more tears… you agreed. Because it made sense. You trusted him—more than anything—and if he was okay with it, how could you not be? 

You promised that if he ever met someone he truly loved, you’d bow out and let him be happy. But every time you said it, he’d just shrug and say he is happy. That you make him happy. And that he’s just glad to be able to look after you. To know you’re safe and cared for, that you don’t have to worry about losing your job, or affording healthcare, or having somewhere to live. 

He just wants to be there for you—in every way he can. Including the benefits of a military marriage. 

So, now you’re here. On North Island. Because Bob’s special detachment just got commissioned as a permanent unit—which obviously means his wife would be moving to be with him. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bob asks, dark blue eyes wide behind his glasses. “I feel bad.” 

“Bobby, come on,” you sigh, propping a hand on your hip. “I’m a very capable woman. A few boxes aren’t going to break my back.” 

“I can call in sick?” he offers. 

You stare at him, deadpan. “Do not call in sick. Get your butt to work. I’m fine.” 

The new apartment is littered with moving boxes and half-assembled furniture. You’ve been here for two days already, but there’s still so much to unpack. Most of it’s yours. Bob barely brought anything from the barracks, but everything you hauled from Lemoore? Definitely not minimal. 

“It’s my shit anyway,” you say, walking him toward the door. “My responsibility to unpack.” 

He sighs as he steps into the corridor, turning back with a look you know too well. The one that says he’d set the sky on fire just to keep you warm. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” you say, exasperated. “Now go, or you’ll be late.” 

He hesitates—brows drawn, boots still planted. 

“Bob Floyd, go to work.” You lean in, hand on his shoulder, and press a kiss to his cheek. “Now.” 

His face flushes, lips twitching into a smile. “Fine. I’m going.” 

You watch him head down the hall toward the lift, cheeks still pink as he presses the button and waits. 

“Don’t lift anything heavy,” he calls, just as the elevator doors slide open. 

“I won’t,” you call back. “Leaving all the heavy stuff for you, my love.” 

He smiles softly, nods once, and steps into the lift. 

You roll your eyes and step back inside, shutting the door behind you. Then you lean back against it, staring out at the mess of boxes and half-built furniture. 

You’ve got the husband-and-wife act down pat after just over a year of marriage—although, at this point, most of it doesn’t feel like an act at all. Just genuine affection. Because you do love Bob. More than anything. And you don’t know what you did to deserve a best friend this goddamn sweet—all you know is that you’re beyond grateful for him. 

You linger there a moment longer, facing off with the chaos of cardboard and scattered tools. Then you take a deep breath, push off the door, and start tearing open boxes. 

You spend the entire day in the apartment—unpacking, sorting, putting things away. You leave most of the furniture alone. Not because you can’t build it, but because you know Bob would be mad if you did. He considers it his job every time you move, and honestly? You don’t mind. The fewer blisters you get from over-twisting stripped screws, the better. 

By six p.m., your limbs are aching, your head is throbbing, and your stomach’s growling so loud you're almost positive the neighbours can hear it. You still haven’t gone grocery shopping, which means the only things you’ve had all day are a coffee Bob made for you and a protein bar he picked up yesterday when he filled your car up. 

You dig your phone out from under a pile of packing paper and shoot Bob a quick text to let him know you’re heading to the store. Then you pull on a hoodie—or Bob’s hoodie, technically—and head out the door. 

The grocery store is only ten minutes away and easy to find. You park, grab a trolley, and start weaving through the aisles. Normally, you’d have some sort of list—scribbled on a scrap of paper or texted from Bob—but today, you’re winging it. On an empty stomach. Great. 

You’re only in the second aisle, gazing at the Pop-Tarts and wondering which flavour Bob would be the least disappointed in when— 

“Excuse me.” 

You whip toward the voice, eyes wide. “Crap. Sorry, am I in your way?” 

It’s a man—mid-thirties, probably—with pretty green eyes and a wide smile. He’s gorgeous in that obnoxious way that makes girls swoon—and yeah, he definitely knows it. 

“No, no,” he says, raising a hand. “I just—I have to ask. Do you always look this good in a grocery store? Because now I have to pretend I didn’t almost walk into a cereal display.” 

You snort softly. “Wow. Good one.” 

He lifts his brows. “Did it work?” 

You consider it for a moment, tilting your head and leaning a hip against the trolley. “Hm. No. Not really.” 

“Damn it,” he chuckles. “I’ve been trying to think of something to say for the last two aisles that wouldn’t make you immediately reject me.” 

You laugh softly, giving him a quick—but deliberate—once-over before meeting his gaze. 

“It’s not the line,” you say. “It’s the uniform. I don’t date military, sorry.” 

He frowns. “But I’m not wearing—” 

“Dog tags,” you cut in, eyes dropping to the silver chain peeking out from his shirt. 

“Shit,” he says, laughing. “You’re good.” 

“It wasn’t that hard.” 

“Really?” He steps aside to let someone pass, bracing one hand on the shelf beside you. “What else gave me away?” 

Your eyes flick down to his feet. “Boots.” Then his wrist. “Watch.” Then up. “Haircut.” 

He raises his brows. “Impressive.” 

“And your posture,” you add, gaze drifting across his broad chest. “It’s too straight. Too perfect.” 

His eyes narrow playfully. “Did you just call me perfect?” 

You roll your eyes. “I called your posture perfect, pretty boy. Now if you’ll excuse—” 

“So you think I’m pretty?” he interrupts, still not moving. 

“You know you’re pretty. You don’t need my validation.” 

He shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.” 

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Alright. What’s it going to take for you to get out of my way?” 

“A number,” he replies, too quick. 

You give him a flat look. “Okay. One. Now move.” 

He smirks. “Clever. But not the number I’m looking for.” 

“Then keep looking,” you say, gripping the trolley and stepping back. “Because I don’t date military. Trust me—it won’t end well.” 

Then you quickly steer around him before he can stop you, pushing the trolley down the aisle. 

“Won’t end well for you or me?” he calls after you. 

You glance over your shoulder. “Really want to find out?” 

“Can I at least get a name?” 

You stop at the end of the aisle, turning back with a small smirk. “See you around, pretty boy.” 

“Oh, you will!” he shouts, loud enough to earn a few puzzled glances from other customers. 

You laugh quietly to yourself as you turn your trolley into the next aisle. You catch glimpses of the man again as you shop, but you keep your focus on the task at hand—filling the cart with things you know Bob likes, and whatever you can throw together into a few easy meals. 

Still, you’re a little disappointed. Because that guy was hot, and he seemed like he could be a bit of fun. But you and Bob have one very strict rule: no military. 

You’re allowed to mess around with other people—because you’re both human, and you still have needs—as long as it’s casual and doesn’t put the arrangement in jeopardy. 

Hence, no military. 

It’s just too risky. Not that you ever really see the same person twice—because even that feels like a gamble—but especially not someone you might bump into at work. You’re still a civilian contractor, and if you hook up with someone and they recognise you on base? God, the whole thing could blow up. 

So you keep your hookups brief, occasional, and with people who have zero ties to the military. It’s just easier that way. Safer. 

Just as you reach the checkouts, your phone buzzes with a text from Bob: 

‘I’m home. Let me know when you are so I can come help.’ 

You smile and reply with a string of nonsense emojis. Then you pay, haul the groceries to the car, and head home. 

Bob is already in the garage when you pull in—because of course he is. He’s leaning against the wall, looking unfairly adorable in a pair of sweats and an old U.S. Navy hoodie, hair still damp from a shower. 

“Evening, Lieutenant,” you say with a grin. 

He steps up to the car, smiling softly. “How was your day?” 

“Productive,” you reply, popping the boot open. “Couldn’t you tell?” 

He chuckles. “Oh, you mean ground zero upstairs?” 

You nod. “Yep. That’s my organised chaos. Just you wait—by tomorrow afternoon, everything’s going to be perfectly put away.” 

He shakes his head, amused, and leans into the boot, loading as many bags as he can into each hand. When he straightens up, there are only two bags left—and it’s infuriating how easily he handles the weight of four bags per hand, like it’s nothing. 

“Show off,” you mutter, grabbing the last two. 

You head upstairs in comfortable quiet, neither of you feeling the need to fill the silence just for the sake of it. That’s something you’ve always loved about Bob—being around him feels effortless. He doesn’t expect anything from you. Doesn’t ask for more than you can give. 

You could sit beside him for hours and not say a word, and it would still feel like love—not real love, obviously, just the safe, platonic kind. The kind that doesn't get complicated. 

You’ve done things in front of him that would make other men blush. Cried with your mouth full. Passed out snoring on his shoulder during a movie. Gotten so drunk once that he had to wash your hair while you sat slumped in the tub, head in your hands. You’d been wearing your underwear, obviously, but Bob? He hadn’t even looked. Hadn’t dared. Just held the shower head and worked the shampoo into your hair like he was defusing a bomb. Gentle. Respectful. Sweet as ever. 

That’s the thing about Bob—he’s never once crossed a line. Never even hinted at it. You’ve been fake-married for over a year, shared hotels and couches and drunk stories and everything in between, and he’s never tried anything. Never looked at you like that. You don’t think he’s even thought about it. 

Which is honestly kind of a miracle. 

Any other man might’ve used this arrangement as an excuse to test the waters. A ‘harmless’ kiss. A comment. A suggestion. But not Bob. Bob’s too good for that. Too decent. He’s respectful to a fault. The kind of guy who would take a bullet for you but apologise if he got blood on your shirt. 

It’s why you love him so much. Not in a romantic way—just... as a person. As a partner. A friend. You trust him more than anyone. You’d trust him with your life, your secrets, your worst moments. And you know, without a doubt, that he would never do anything to jeopardise what you have. 

Honestly, if more men were like Bob Floyd, the world would be a better place. 

“I met a guy at the store,” you say, pausing halfway to putting the milk away. 

“Oh?” Bob replies, not looking up as he carefully arranges the eggs into the little plastic holder. 

“Yeah, but he was military.” 

“Damn,” he mutters, glancing up briefly. “North Island’s small. You’ll probably have to look further north for anyone not Navy.” 

You nod, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. “I figured. But he was hot.” 

Bob lets out a soft chuckle. “Really?” 

“Yeah. Bit cocky, but that can be fun sometimes,” you say, turning to unpack another bag. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just bugging ‘cause it’s been a while.” 

He hums in agreement, quietly focused as he lines the little spice jars up—in alphabetical order, of course—on the rack like it’s a puzzle that might save his life. 

You sigh, dramatic and long, as you drop a few bundles of fruit onto the bench. “Would it really be that bad?” 

He glances at you, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“A military hookup.” 

His eyes go wide. “Yes. That would be bad. Very, very bad. North Island is small. And my squad? We’re kind of... well-known.” 

“I’m not though,” you counter with a shrug. “I haven’t started my new role yet, but my desk is probably buried in the bowels of some overcrowded office. Who says I’d ever even run into you? Or anyone else?” 

Bob shakes his head, firm. “Still too risky.” 

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing your hands up. “Fine. But if my vibrator blows up from overuse, I’m blaming you for cockblocking me.” 

He chuckles again, cheeks flushing pink as he turns away to continue putting away the dry ingredients. He doesn’t reply—but he doesn’t have to. You both know the conversation is over. 

And you know he’s right. It is too risky. 

Your marriage might be a secret for now—from his squad and from his CO—but once you start your new role, you’ll have to declare it. And then you’ll have to be even more careful. Not just about what you say. 

But who you do, too. 

- Bob - 

After dinner and an hour on the lounge—scrolling through your phones, only half-watching the Nat Geo doc on sperm whales that Bob put on—you sit up and yawn. 

“Okay,” you say, pushing off the couch. “I’m going to bed.” 

Bob nods, looking up at you with a soft smile. “No worries. Goodnight.” 

“See you tomorrow, handsome,” you call over your shoulder as you walk toward the main bedroom. 

Bob doesn’t mind giving you the bigger bedroom. He knows you like having an ensuite, plus you’ve always had more stuff than him. So every time you’ve moved, he’s happily taken whatever spare or second bedroom is left. 

He waits on the couch a little while longer, until he’s sure he can no longer hear you moving around. Then he quietly turns off the TV and pads into his bathroom. He brushes his teeth, removes his glasses, and steps into the bedroom across the hall from yours, where his mattress is still lying on the floor—he hasn’t gotten around to building the bedframe yet. 

He’s about to switch off the light when he hears it. That soft, familiar hum—barely audible, but impossible to mistake. 

Bob Floyd knows that sound. 

The sound of your vibrator, buzzing through the walls like a siren song. 

He groans low in his throat, flicks off the light, then drops to his knees at the edge of the mattress. He falls forward, burying his face in the pillows, and lets out a long, quiet sigh. 

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just waits—face pressed into the cotton, heart pounding, cock already swelling thick and hot against the mattress. 

Because he knows what’s coming. He always does. 

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, Bob knows exactly what happens next. And he lies there—unmoving, desperate, strung tight—just listening. 

It starts small. The shift of sheets. A soft sigh. The subtle creak of your bedframe as you get comfortable. 

Then the hum kicks in. Louder now. Higher. The toy you keep tucked in the top drawer of your nightstand—the one he’s heard more times than he’ll ever admit. 

He knows that sound like the back of his hand. Not from seeing it—God, he wishes—but from too many nights lying in the dark, counting every soft rise in pitch, every subtle shift in tempo like it’s a fucking metronome set to ruin him. 

Then your breathing shifts—sharp, shallow, soft. It’s quiet enough to pass for nothing at all. Quiet enough that you probably think no one can hear. 

But Bob hears everything. 

He bites into the pillow, hips slowly rolling down, the friction of the mattress nowhere near enough but still better than nothing. He grinds again… and again, slow and heavy, like he can’t stop himself—and really, he can’t. 

Because he can hear you. All of you. The way you sigh, that breathy little whimper as you press the toy closer. He imagines your thighs parting, your back arching, your free hand curling into the sheets. 

He groans into his pillow, hips pressing forward again—slow and deliberate—pressure dragging against his length while he pictures you wrapped around it. It’s not relief, not even close—but it’s something. It’s the only thing he has. 

And he knows he shouldn’t. God, he knows. This is fucked up. You’re ten feet away, touching yourself, slowly coming apart with no idea he’s lying here, rutting helplessly against his mattress like a goddamn teenager. 

But he can’t help it. He’s never been able to help it when it comes to you. 

Not when he can hear you biting back a moan, shifting your hips under the covers. And then—fuck—that tiny little gasp. The one that always gives you away. That last, wrecked sound you make when you come. 

He’s memorised it. Just like everything else about you. 

And the second it hits his ears, he knows it’s over—and he falls apart too. 

His body locks up, muscles tight, grinding hard into the mattress as his orgasm rips through him—hot, heavy, and overwhelming. He chokes on your name, burying it deep into the pillow like a secret he’ll never tell as he spills into his boxers. 

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s desperate. Messy. Shameful. 

And when it’s over, he just lies there—panting, trembling, sticky and spent. 

Shame curls in his stomach, guilt gnawing at the edges of his hazy thoughts. Thoughts of you, in your room, flushed and glowing with that post-orgasmic haze. 

He hates himself almost instantly. 

But this is who he is. This is what he does. Not just since living together or being fake-married—no, Bob has been getting off with your name on his lips for years. 

Because the truth is—Bob Floyd is completely, helplessly, stupidly in love with you. 

God, he wishes he wasn’t. Or better yet, he wishes he’d had the guts to ask you out all those years ago when he first met you at Lemoore. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was too chickenshit. And now? Now he’s trapped in a fantasy you think is fake—wearing the ring, playing the role, losing his fucking mind. 

And he’s the idiot who signed up for it. Who offered it. 

All he’s ever wanted was to make sure you’re happy. Safe. Cared for. And if he couldn’t tell you the truth—couldn’t admit that he’s in love with you—then being your fake husband felt like the next best thing. 

Even though it’s killing him. Slowly. And ruining all his boxers. 

Because living with you, pretending to be married to you, is the hardest thing Bob has ever done—literally and figuratively. 

He likes to think he’s good at hiding it. Hiding how he really feels. 

But it’s getting more and more difficult every day, and— 

Fuck. He’s stupid. He left his goddamn bedroom door wide open. 

You could’ve walked out at any moment—you still could. To grab a drink. Check the front door. Or even adjust the thermostat. And the worst part? This isn’t even the first time he’s forgotten to shut it. 

Just like it probably won’t be the last. Because no matter how many times he promises himself he’ll stop getting off to the sounds of you touching yourself, he always lets those breathless little noises unravel him. 

Every damn time. 

After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity—and sticky underwear—Bob rolls off his mattress, grabs a clean pair of boxers, and heads into the bathroom. He cleans himself up in the dark, avoiding the lights—and his own reflection—before slipping back into his room and falling into bed. 

Sleep finds him quickly, despite the guilt lingering like static under his skin, and before he knows it, the sharp ring of his alarm is dragging him upright again. He groans quietly and moves through the motions the same way he does every morning. 

First, he makes a fresh pot of coffee. Then he showers, does his hair, changes into his flight suit, and heads back to the kitchen. 

Your door is still shut by the time he’s lacing up his boots. He can’t hear the shower running or the muffled sound of videos playing on your phone, so he figures you’re letting yourself sleep in. 

He fills his travel cup with fresh coffee before finding your favourite mug in the sink, giving it a quick rinse, and setting it beside the pot. Then he digs through his work bag for that little pad of yellow Post-it notes and scribbles out a message: 

Good luck today. Remember, the boxes are more afraid of you than you are of them. ♡ 

He sticks it to the side of your mug, checks his pockets for keys and ID, then slips out the door—making sure to shut it quietly—smiling to himself like a loser at the thought of the text you’ll send him when you find the note. 

He knows it’s ridiculous. He knows he shouldn’t indulge himself. But acting like a real husband is what keeps Bob from going completely insane. Kind of. 

Leaving you notes, bringing you flowers, doing all the little domestic things a good spouse might do for their significant other—that’s what makes Bob happy. And he knows it makes you happy too. So he’s not going to stop. Not until you tell him to. Not until you stop saving all his little Post-it notes in that journal you think he doesn’t know about. The one you keep in the top drawer of your dresser, hidden beneath your lingerie. 

And how does he know that? 

Well—spouses do each other’s laundry. It’s completely innocent. He has absolutely no hidden agenda when it comes to offering to do your laundry. It’s not like he’s ever gotten off into a pair of your panties before. 

That would be insane. Perverted, even. 

Bob wouldn’t do that. No way. 

“Hello?” Natasha waves a hand in front of Bob’s face. “Are you even listening?” 

He blinks, vision slowly refocusing on the brunette standing in front of him. He’s not sure when she walked into the briefing room—or when she even started talking. All he knows is that, before he started daydreaming about your lingerie drawer, he was the only one in the room. 

He clears his throat. “Sorry. Distracted. What were you saying?” 

She folds her arms and glances around, as if checking to see if anyone else can hear what she’s about to say. “How’d the move go?” 

Bob straightens a little, subtly shifting in his seat to check the room. Javy and Reuben have arrived and are seated at the back, talking about the flight schedule for the day. 

He turns back to Natasha and nods. “Good. She’s still unpacking. Won’t start on base until next week.” 

“You should tell Mav,” she says, sinking into the seat beside him. “You’re going to have to declare the relationship. It’ll be better coming from you. At least then you can ask him not to tell the others.” 

Natasha knows about you—of course—not because Bob told her, but because she saw his ring hanging beside his dog tags during PT one time. She also spotted the polaroid he keeps of you tucked behind the threat matrix card on his kneeboard, and she put two and two together. 

He hadn’t hesitated to tell her it wasn’t a traditional marriage—because he knew Natasha would understand. What he didn’t expect was for her to immediately clock that he’s in love with you. Or the way she sighed and shook her head when he told her that you didn’t feel the same and asked her to keep her mouth shut. 

He knows she wants to meet you, too. He’d even say she’s dying to. But that can’t happen yet. Not until you’re properly settled on North Island and his CO knows about the relationship. Then Bob will think about telling the rest of the squad. 

Or maybe he’ll just invite Natasha over for dinner and forget the rest of them entirely. Because you’re his secret—his favourite secret—and something about letting that out makes him feel nauseous. 

“Good morning, aviators!” Maverick calls as he walks into the room. “Nice to see that most of you care about being here early.” 

He drops his folders on the desk before powering up the digital display and pulling out his tablet. 

Natasha nudges Bob in the side and tips her head toward Mav. Bob hesitates, glancing over his shoulder to see that Mickey has joined Reuben and Javy at the back, but neither Bradley nor Jake are here yet. They’re not late—but they’re cutting it close. Which means Mav won’t start right away. 

Which means Bob has the perfect opportunity to speak to his CO about you. 

Natasha elbows him again, harder this time, her eyes wide with warning. 

“Okay,” Bob mutters, pushing up from his chair. “I’m going.” 

He walks slowly up to where Maverick is scowling at his tablet, tapping the screen harder than necessary. 

Bob clears his throat. “Mav. Can I talk to you for a sec?” 

Maverick glances up, brow furrowing. “Of course. Everything okay?” 

“Yeah—uh, yes sir,” Bob replies, dropping his voice low. “I just wanted to mention something before it comes up.” 

“Okay…?” Maverick says slowly. “Is this private? Do we need to leave the room, or—” 

“No, it’s okay,” Bob says, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “I mean, it is private, but before the others get here—um.” He clears his throat again. “My wife just moved here. She’s a civilian contractor, and she’s going to be working on base.” 

Maverick’s brows shoot up, but his voice stays low. “Wife?” 

Bob nods. “Yes, sir.” 

“Wow. Okay.” 

“I’d just appreciate if you could keep it quiet,” Bob adds. “We’re not really—” 

“Don’t worry.” Maverick drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I get it. The squad doesn’t need to know. This is your life, your secret. Your wife.” 

God, Bob loves hearing that. His wife. 

“Just file the paperwork with HR, and let me know if there are any issues,” Maverick says, letting his hand drop. “If anyone questions it or gives you a hard time, send them to me. I’m not against a—um… convenient arrangement. So I’ll vouch for you, alright?” 

Bob’s cheeks flush. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” 

Maverick nods, and Bob takes the dismissal. He turns back toward the room and is relieved to find the others still deep in conversation at the back. Only Natasha is watching him, her eyes sparkling and lips curled into a knowing smirk. 

“What’d he say?” she asks as he drops into his seat. 

Bob shrugs. “Not much. He understood the situation.” 

“Oh?” Natasha raises a brow. “So he’s all over the fake-wife-who-you’re-secretly-obsessed-with thing?” 

Bob shoots her a sidelong glare. “Shut up.” 

She snorts quietly to herself but doesn’t say another word—just turns her gaze toward the digital display where Maverick is bringing up their latest sim stats. 

Eventually, Jake strides into the room, with Bradley not far behind. They drop into their usual seats, and Maverick launches into the day’s briefing—something about sim times, and how they need to be tighter. Bob tries to pay attention, but his focus is shot. He stares at the screen, nodding at the right moments, jotting down a few notes here and there, but his mind is miles away. 

With you. Wondering what you’re doing. Whether the unpacking is going okay. If you’ve seen his note yet. If you’ve texted him. 

He’s usually better than this—better at compartmentalising, staying locked in—but something about today feels different. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re finally here. In North Island. In the apartment. In his everyday life, not just in his daydreams and text messages. 

He keeps thinking about last night. The way your shirt had ridden up while you reached to shove a box into the top cupboard above the fridge. The warm stretch of bare skin, the way your hips swayed without you even realising. Or the soft little moan you let out when you bit into your chocolate bar after dinner—like it physically hurt to taste something that good. Or the way your lips wrapped around it, slow and indulgent. He shouldn't be thinking about that. But he is. 

Mostly, though, he can’t stop hearing you. 

That breathy, broken little sound you made in the dark. The one that slipped through the walls when you thought no one could hear. When you were touching yourself. Coming apart. And he was ten feet away, grinding against his mattress, pretending it was you. 

God. What is wrong with him? 

He drags a hand across his jaw and tries to focus, but it’s useless. It’s like something inside of him cracked open during the special detachment—like the distance rewired him. Like missing you for so long left something raw and exposed, and now that you’re here, in his orbit again, he can’t think about anything else. 

You’re everywhere. In his apartment. In his bed—in a way. In his skin. 

And no matter how hard he tries to shake it off, you're still there. Taking up every thought, every breath, every beat of his heart. More than ever. And God, he’s not sure how to deal with it anymore. 

“Not hungry, Floyd?” Javy asks, pausing at the door with a small frown. 

Bob blinks, quickly glancing around the now-empty briefing room—except for Javy. “Is it lunch?” 

Javy chuckles. “Yeah, man. Where have you been?” 

Bob takes a deep breath and pushes out of his chair, gathering his things before following his very sceptical squadmate out into the corridor. 

By the time he reaches the mess hall, everyone has already grabbed lunch and settled around the usual table. Bradley and Reuben are deep in an argument about something Maverick apparently critiqued during their sim flight last week—not that Bob has any idea what it actually was—and Natasha is explaining to Mickey, for some reason, that possums do not, in fact, lay eggs. Why? No clue. 

“Okay, everyone shut up,” Jake says, dropping his tray with a dramatic thud. “I have an announcement.” 

The squad falls quiet—all eyes on him, brows raised, mouths shut. 

“Thank you.” Jake grins. “I just wanted to let you all know that I—Jake Seresin—met the love of my life last night.” 

Natasha frowns. “Are you talking about Penny’s new bartender? Because she literally told you to choke.” 

“Nope,” Jake replies, unfazed. “Different woman. Grocery store. Breakfast food aisle. She was buying Pop-Tarts but looking at me like I was the tart.” 

Reuben snorts. “That checks out.” 

“So what happened?” Bradley asks, a smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. “Did you talk to her?” 

“Yep,” Jake nods. “It was magical. She was so hot, and funny too. The chemistry was insane.” 

“Did you get her number?” Mickey asks. 

Jake sighs. “Well, no, but—” 

Bob frowns, leaning in. “What was her name?” 

“Didn’t get that either.” 

Bradley chuckles. “Hold on. So she’s the love of your life, but you don’t even know her name?” 

“We had a connection beyond this plane of existence,” Jake insists, eyes narrowed. “I’m telling you. It was spiritual.” 

“Is there anything you did find out about her?” Javy asks, clearly trying not to laugh. 

Jake shrugs. “Well, she clocked me for military pretty quick, and said she doesn’t date military.” 

Bob’s stomach drops. Panic creeps up the back of his neck, making the little hairs stand on end and his flight suit feel uncomfortably hot. 

“She wasn’t wearing a ring, was she?” Reuben asks, grinning. 

“Nope,” Jake says. “I checked. Not making that mistake a third time.” 

Bob exhales quietly, relief washing over him. He remembers—very clearly—seeing your wedding ring on your finger last night. He always notices when you're wearing it. He fucking loves seeing it on you. 

“Alright, Romeo,” Natasha says. “How exactly do you plan to find this mystery woman again if you don’t know anything about her?” 

“I trust the universe,” Jake says, leaning back with smug confidence. “I’ll see her again. Soon. It’s destiny.” 

Javy claps a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, destiny. You might want to stop talking before someone calls medical and gets you checked for a head injury.” 

Jake just rolls his eyes and picks up his burger, eyeing the beef patty like it might be radioactive before finally taking a bite. 

There are a few minutes of quiet while everyone starts eating their lunch. Bradley grumbles about how he should’ve picked the burger instead of the sloppy joe, and Javy mutters something to Natasha about trading his vanilla pudding for her chocolate one. 

Then Reuben pipes up, loud and clear across the table. “So, Floyd… saw you whispering something real secretive to Mav this morning. What was that about?” 

Bob stiffens, nearly choking on his sip of water. “What? Oh, nothing. Just… work stuff.” 

“Oh yeah?” Reuben grins. “Looked like top-secret classified info. You trying to get reassigned?” 

“Probably just checking if he could skip night duty next week,” Natasha says dryly, without even looking up from her pudding. “Someone’s got laundry to fold and throw pillows to rearrange.” 

Bob’s eyes go wide. “I’m not—there’s no—” he splutters, flushing red as he waves a hand in mild panic. “It was literally just… paperwork.” 

Javy raises a brow. “Paperwork that makes you blush like that?” 

Bradley frowns, leaning forward to look at Natasha. “What are you talking about throw pillows?” 

She glances up, eyes wide and brows raised—the picture of innocence. “Hm? Oh, nothing.” 

Bob sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Can we just drop it?” 

“Ooh,” Mickey pipes up. “Maybe Bob has a secret love child we don’t know about.” 

Reuben leans in, eyes gleaming. “Blink twice if it was about alimony.” 

Bob lifts his head with a flat stare. “Do I look like I have time for children?” 

“Secret love child…” Jake says slowly—thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’d believe it.�� 

“If Bob had a kid, don’t you think we’d know?” Bradley says, flicking a green bean across the table at Reuben. 

“Exactly,” Natasha grins. “If Bob had any secrets, we’d know. Right, Bob?” 

If looks could kill—or at least maim—Natasha would already be halfway to medical by now. 

“Right,” Bob mutters, jaw tight. 

“And if anyone had a secret love child,” she adds, gaze drifting across the table, “it’d be Hangman.” 

Jake scoffs. “Why me?” 

Mickey snorts. “Because you have the most sex, hands down.” 

“Speak for yourself, dude,” Reuben mutters. 

“Yeah,” Bradley smirks. “Seresin strikes out more than the rest of us combined.” 

“Well, yeah,” Mickey chuckles. “But only because he flirts with way more women than the rest of us.” 

“Again,” Natasha chimes in, “speak for yourself, Fanboy.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs interlaced with laughter as Mickey rolls his eyes, cheeks going just the softest shade of pink—but Reuben notices. The teasing quickly shifts to Mickey, leaving Bob staring down at his lunch with his pulse pounding in his ears. 

The next half hour passes in a blur while Bob does his absolute best not to think about you—which means, of course, you’re all he can think about. And then just as everyone starts rising from their seats, his phone buzzes with a burst of rapid-fire texts stamped with your contact name. 

‘The boxes are winning. If I don’t make it, tell my husband he was too good for this world.’ 

‘Oh, and he’s not allowed to move on for AT LEAST two weeks.’ 

‘P.S. your wife says thanks for the coffee. Might reward you later with some expertly folded laundry.’ 

Bob’s heart lurches into his throat while all the blood in his body reroutes south. He types out a quick reply: ‘What laundry?’ 

“You coming, Floyd?” Natasha asks, standing on the opposite side of the table with a frown. 

Bob looks up, dazed. “I—uh, yeah. I’m coming—I mean, you go. I’ll catch up.” 

“Okay...” she mutters, eyeing him suspiciously as she turns to follow the others toward the tray return. 

His phone pings again, lighting up with another text from you: ‘Found a pile on the floor in the bathroom and assumed it was dirty? Promise there was no creepy sniffing, and I definitely didn’t notice anything about your boxers!’ 

Bob lets out a strangled noise, drops his phone onto the table with a clatter, and buries his face in his hands. 

Right now, he wouldn’t mind if the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. Or if a rogue fighter jet spiralled off course and obliterated the mess hall. Or if a black hole cracked open beneath his chair and sucked all of North Island into oblivion. 

Except for you, of course. He’d want you to be safe. 

But aside from that, he’d gladly disappear right now. Some inexplicable catastrophe would do just fine—anything to keep him from going home and facing the woman who just washed his crusty boxers. Boxers that were only crusty because of her, anyway. 

And— 

Oh, God. Why is he getting hard? 

It doesn’t make any sense. One dumb joke about laundry and boxers and suddenly his body is acting like you sent nudes. He’s not even thinking about you like that—not really—and yet here he is, halfway to a full-blown erection in the middle of the mess hall with zero warning and absolutely no control. What the hell is wrong with him? 

He shifts in his seat, eyes wide and pulse thundering in his ears as his flight suit starts pulling taut in places it absolutely should not. 

If he doesn’t get moving, he’ll be late—and Maverick will ream him for it. But he can’t exactly stand up with a raging hard-on in the middle of the goddamn mess hall. 

With another strangled groan, Bob white-knuckles his lunch tray and holds it right in front of him as he shoves back his chair and stands. He beelines for the tray return, drops his tray without making eye contact with a single soul, and turns sharply toward the exit. 

Once he’s out the door, he yanks down the zipper of his flight suit and adjusts himself as quickly and discreetly as humanly possible. 

Mercifully, there’s no one within ten feet of him—but just ahead, where the squad is walking back toward the squadron building, Bob spots Reuben glancing over his shoulder. Brows drawn. Eyes wide. Curiosity written all over his face. 

And now Bob wants to die. 

Great. What a fantastic Tuesday he is having. 

By the time Maverick dismisses the squad at the end of the day, Bob can’t get out fast enough. He barely mumbles a goodbye before practically running out the door and across base. 

He flicks you a quick text to say he’s on his way, then jumps in his car. But instead of heading straight home, he makes a stop at the little florist he passes every morning and afternoon—the one he’s been wanting to visit for months. He’s been thinking about it since you agreed to move here, picking up flowers on his way home from work like some hopeless suburban husband. It’s dumb. Ridiculous, even. But he can’t help himself. He started doing it the first week you moved in after the ‘wedding’ and now it’s a ritual. A compulsion. 

He grabs a bunch of blood-red roses—because he’s romantic like that—and drives the rest of the way home, parking beside your car in the underground garage. His palms are sweating by the time he’s in the lift, and his heart won’t slow down. He feels twitchy. Wired. Like his whole body has been buzzing with anticipation since he last saw you—which, tragically, was only twenty-four hours ago. 

“I’m home,” he calls as he pushes open the door, trying not to sound breathless. 

The apartment already looks better than it did this morning. Fewer boxes now. The bookshelf is upright and full. The dining table is properly assembled—chairs and all. There’s a knife block, a roll of paper towel, and a candle on the kitchen bench. And right in the middle of the island—an empty glass vase. Almost like you knew. 

“Bobby,” you call, ducking your head out of your bedroom door at the end of the short hallway. “Just showered. I’ll be out in a sec.” 

His breath catches at the sight of you clutching a towel to your chest, damp skin glowing, droplets racing down your collarbones and disappearing between the curves of your breasts. Your hair’s wet. Your legs are bare. And for one unbearable, glorious moment, Bob forgets what language is. 

His cock twitches. 

“No worries,” he mutters, voice hoarse and a little too high. 

You’re already gone before he even finishes speaking, but you don’t fully close the door—and his pulse kicks hard against his ribs. Because fuck, you’re naked in there. 

He drops his bag like it’s on fire, kicks off his boots, and sets the flowers on the counter without even looking. Then he starts down the hall toward his room, right across from yours. His head is bowed like he’s deep in thought, but his eyes flick to that sliver of open door. 

And God—he sees you. 

Just a glimpse. Just enough. A stretch of skin. The slope of your back. And then you turn slightly toward the bed and—fuck. Your tits. Just there. Bare. Bouncing softly with your movement. 

He lets out a strangled sound and walks face-first into his closed bedroom door with a loud thunk. 

“Shit,” he hisses, clutching his forehead and praying to every saint he can think of. 

Your door swings open and you step out, now holding a sweatshirt to your chest. “You okay?” 

Bob can’t even look at you, his cheeks burning. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine. Wasn’t, uh… wasn’t looking. Just tired. Mav really pushed us hard. Long day.” 

“Mm,” you hum, clearly amused. “Well, Lieutenant, maybe wait until you’re in bed before you close your eyes?” 

He half-laughs, half-chokes, and gives you a quick salute. “Noted. Bed first.” 

Then he shoves his door open, stumbles inside, and shuts it behind him in one fast motion. He leans back against it, eyes squeezed shut, hands trembling. 

His cock is hard. Painfully, unreasonably hard. Pressed tight against his flight suit with nowhere to go. 

God, did you notice? 

He’s pretty sure you didn’t. Otherwise, you’d be freaked out. Right? 

With a deep breath, he drags the zipper of his suit down and wriggles out of it. He kicks it off his feet and leaves it crumpled on the floor before turning to face the door. Then he braces one hand against the wood while the other slips beneath the waistband of his briefs. He pushes them down slowly, deliberately, letting his hard length spring free, skin slick with the heat of anticipation. 

His breath catches, shaky and uneven, as he wraps his fingers around himself. He drags slow, torturous strokes up and down, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to the vivid, forbidden image of you—wet, vulnerable, just beyond that goddamn door. 

Each stroke draws a ragged gasp, the heat building low in his belly until it’s almost unbearable. His hips start to lift, chasing the mounting pressure, fingers tightening instinctively. 

He imagines your voice—soft, breathy—whispering something filthy in his ear, something that would have him leaking on the spot if he dared to imagine it too loud. 

His skin prickles, pulse pounding in his ears. The world shrinks until there’s nothing but his hand, the hard length in it, and this door separating you from him. 

He fights to steady his frantic breath as white-hot pressure builds at the base of his cock. And just as that delicious snap of heat tears through his body— 

“Hey, did you want the blue Gatorade or can I take it?” you call out. 

His whole body locks up, release spilling in hot, sticky ropes against the door. 

Fuck. 

“A-All good,” he croaks. “You have it.” 

He slumps forward, forearm pressing against the wood as his head drops with a soft thud. His dick twitches in his hand, still half-hard, still leaking. 

God, this has to stop. He can’t just jerk off every time he sees so much as your shoulder. 

Though, what he saw before was much more than that. But he was creeping—looking for it, trying to catch a glimpse. No, this all has to stop. Not just the wanking, but the perving too. Jesus Christ, it has to stop before you find out. Or worse—catch him. 

The thought makes his spine tingle—but... not in an entirely unpleasant way. 

Great. Now he’s turned on by the idea of you catching him in the act. 

Maybe he needs therapy. Or maybe he should be the one getting checked for a head injury—not Jake and his grocery store destiny. 

After stripping off his underwear—using them to wipe down the door, because he’s disgusting—and pulling on a pair of sweats, Bob finally steps out of his room. His cheeks are still hot, his pulse still hammering, but at this point, that’s just baseline when it comes to being around you. 

“You don’t have to keep getting me flowers,” you say, smiling softly as you arrange the bouquet in the vase like you’ve done it a hundred times. 

He shrugs. “Just being a good husband.” 

And trying to make up for jerking off to you like a goddamn lunatic. 

“Well,” you slide the vase into the middle of the kitchen island, “they’re gorgeous. Thank you.” 

He gives you a small nod, lips twitching like he might smile—but then he notices what you’re wearing, and it dies immediately. 

“Going out?” he asks, keeping his tone light. 

“Yep,” you reply brightly. “I’ve got a date.” 

His stomach drops. 

“Okay, not a date,” you amend quickly. “Just a hookup. Strictly sex. But I didn’t feel like I could show up in my sweats, you know?” 

Bob thinks you look stupid hot in your sweats. But right now you’re in a pair of jeans that cling to your ass and a shirt he’s pretty sure he’s never seen before, and his brain is starting to melt again. 

“Hence, the nice clothes,” you add, gesturing to yourself. “I shouldn’t be late. Probably won’t even eat. So… save me some dinner?” 

Bob frowns. “What dinner?” 

You roll your eyes, sliding one arm into your jacket. “Whatever you decide to make. Because you’re an amazing cook. And I know you’re going to make something, because you cook every weeknight except Fridays.” 

“What if I don’t feel like cooking tonight?” he mutters, feeling petulant and jealous and very much trying not to show it. 

You smirk. “Okay, grumpy. Then order me some extra takeout.” 

He doesn’t answer—just nods once and turns to the fridge, opening the door like whatever’s inside is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. 

“I’ve got my location on,” you say, stopping at the front door to slip your shoes on. “Just in case the guy’s a psychopath.” 

Bob glances over his shoulder. “Should I be worried?” 

“Nah,” you shrug. “He’s an accountant. Boring as hell. No military ties. Didn’t even know North Island was a Navy base—thought it was Air Force.” 

Bob’s eyes narrow. “You’re kidding.” 

“Nope,” you say with a laugh. “He’s up in La Jolla. I guess when you’re wealthy enough, you don’t have to worry about anything outside your little bubble.” 

Bob shuts the fridge and turns to face you, frown deepening. “La Jolla’s nearly an hour away.” 

“I know,” you say. “But no military, remember? Means I have to travel. And Bob, I know you don’t want to hear this—but I need sex. I’m dying. I’m falling apart. My vibrator can only do so much, but I need a real di—” 

“Okay,” he cuts in quickly, eyes wide. “That’s… enough. Just go. Be safe.” 

He steps up against the kitchen island, grateful that the counter is hiding his growing hard-on. Again. 

You flash him a grin and pull the door open. “If I’m not back by eleven, call the cops and avenge me dramatically.” Then you step out into the corridor, waving. “Love you! Bye!” 

“Love you too,” Bob mutters. 

The second the door clicks shut, he collapses forward, forehead hitting the cool marble benchtop with a groan loud enough that you might’ve heard it on your way to the elevator. 

Bob spends the evening doing everything he can not to be a creep. He cooks dinner, sets aside a container for you, and watches a documentary called Inside The Vatican—hoping some religious guilt might fix him. 

It doesn’t. 

After washing the dishes—and spending a concerning amount of time scrubbing your mug—Bob paces the apartment, trying desperately to think of anything besides jerking off. Then his eyes land on his mattress still lying on the floor, and he decides maybe building his bed will take up enough time. 

Again, it doesn’t. 

Once he hauls the mattress into the frame, he spends the next twenty minutes carefully rearranging the furniture in his room. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, phone in hand and stalks your location like a man possessed—willing it to move, craving nothing more than to see you heading home. But after ten minutes of nothing, he gives up. 

So he decides to wash his bedsheets. He strips the mattress, hauls the bedding to the small laundry room beside his bathroom, and shoves it all into the washing machine. Once the cycle starts, he checks the dryer—and immediately regrets it. 

Your bedding is crumpled up inside, still a little warm and smelling so strongly of you it makes his head spin. 

He tries—he really does—to pull it out and just dump it at the foot of your unmade bed. But no. He can’t leave it like that. He has to make it. It’s what you would do for him. Because you’re not just housemates—you’re friends, you’re a good fake husband and wife. Making your bed is just a kind, domestic gesture. 

That’s all. 

With a deep breath, he starts unravelling your bedding. He finds the fitted sheet and drapes it over the mattress, stepping carefully around the bed to tuck it in and smooth it out. His hands move mechanically, trying to focus on the task, willing himself to keep it together. 

Even though the scent of you in here is like a drug—sharp and heady, flooding his senses and making his sweatpants feel tighter by the second. But it’s fine. He’s got this. He’s in complete control. 

Once the fitted sheet is on, he picks up your duvet and throws it over the mattress before smoothing it down. Then he finds the two pillowcases, picks your pillows up off the floor, and starts shoving them in. 

He’s almost done—and almost proud of himself—as he drops one of the pillows at the top of the bed, closest to the side he’s on. Then he grabs the other one, leans forward to place it on the far side, and— 

His cock brushes the pillow. 

Just barely, but it’s enough. Enough to make heat pool at the base of his spine, to turn half-hard into fully, painfully hard in a heartbeat. 

His breath catches. His fingers twitch. He tries to pull back—he means to—but his body betrays him. His hips roll forward, dragging his length against your pillow in the most delicious, dangerous way. 

He groans. Loudly. And grinds down again—harder, deeper. His cock drags thick and aching against the pillow, trapped beneath the soft cotton and the cling of his sweatpants. The smell of you is everywhere—on the fabric, in his lungs, in his mouth—and it’s driving him fucking insane. 

He leans forward, spreads his legs, and humps the pillow like a dog in heat. Quiet, desperate thrusts. Every inch of his skin burning. His lips part on a shaky gasp as he picks up a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, rougher. 

His hands fist your duvet. The mattress creaks softly beneath him. 

He grinds harder, angling his hips until the pressure hits just right, chasing friction, chasing the fantasy. You, writhing under him. You, moaning into the mattress. You, letting him rut against your thigh like a pathetic, needy animal. 

His cock pulses hard against the pillow. He’s panting now, forehead damp, face twisted in agony as he thrusts deep into the softness over and over and over— 

And then he’s coming. Sharp and hot and shameful, grinding through it like he never wants it to stop. His sweatpants absorb most of the mess, but some of it seeps through onto your pillow, warmth soaking into the cotton. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, scrambling upright. 

He snatches the pillow off the bed and yanks the cover off. There’s only a small stain on the pillow itself, barely the size of a dime. He’ll just flip it. 

He grabs the other pillow, strips its case, and bolts to the laundry, shoving both into the washer with his half-finished load. Then he makes a beeline for the linen cupboard and exhales hard when he spots a similarly coloured pair of pillowcases. 

Ignoring the mess in his sweats, he returns to your room and quickly finishes making your bed with the fresh covers—flipping the soiled pillow face down—before fleeing the scene and shutting the door behind him like it might somehow seal in his shame. 

He needs help. He needs therapy. He might even need religion. 

At this point, he’ll take whatever divine intervention he can get, because clearly he can’t be trusted not to hump your goddamn pillow like some desperate, fucked-up freak with zero self-control. 

What the hell is wrong with him? You’re his friend. His roommate. His fake wife. Not his personal fantasy to jerk off to in every room of the apartment. 

But no matter how many times he tells himself to stop, no matter how disgusted he feels afterward, it’s like his body won’t listen. 

It’s not just lust—it’s deeper than that. Obsessive. Addictive. He’s terrified you’re going to catch him one day and never look at him the same again. And that’s what really scares him. Not the guilt, or the shame, or even the twisted desire. 

It’s the thought of losing you. Because as much as he wishes he could compartmentalise the feelings from the hormones, it’s all tangled up now. He needs you like air—like water. 

Romantic or not, sexual or not—he just needs you. 

So he has to stop. He has to figure out how to act normal before he fucks this whole thing up beyond repair. 

After a cold shower—self-imposed punishment—and making his own bed, Bob flops onto the couch and hits play on a documentary about sea otters. Then he checks the time on his phone—and your location. Again. 

He tells himself it’s just to make sure you’re safe, but his heart still leaps when he sees you’re already halfway home. 

He tries to focus on the otters—really tries—but his eyes keep darting to the front door like you might materialise out of thin air. Which is stupid, because he knows exactly how far away you are. He’s watching your little blue dot crawl toward him on his phone screen like a stalker. 

Thirty painstaking minutes later, the dot pulses directly over his own. Right on top of him. 

He holds his breath. And when the lock finally clicks, he forces his gaze back to the TV screen—doing his best impression of someone who is totally, one hundred percent emotionally invested in a family of sea otters and not, in any way, pathetically desperate to see you walk through the door. 

“I’m back,” you mutter, shoving the door open a little harder than necessary. 

Bob frowns, eyes narrowing at your expression. You’ve come home from hookups before, and he knows what you look like when they’ve gone fine, or good, or even great—he hates that the most. But this? This isn’t any of those. 

“Hey,” he says cautiously. “You alright?” 

You scowl as you shrug out of your jacket, tossing it toward the dining table along with your keys. Then you kick off your boots and leave them lying haphazardly by the door. 

“No,” you snap. “I’m not alright. That was the worst experience of my life.” 

Bob’s eyes widen—and it takes everything in him not to smile. He shifts on the couch, making more room for you, and grabs the remote to pause the TV. 

“What happened?” 

You stomp over and drop down beside him, groaning as you fall onto your side into the throw pillows. 

“He opened the door shirtless,” you start, already exasperated, “which would’ve been fine if he wasn’t holding a protein shake—and if the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t, ‘Sup, babe.’” 

Bob’s brows shoot up, but he manages to not to laugh. 

“Then he led me straight to his room, which reeked of feet and Axe body spray. He dropped his fucking sweats, laid down on the bed, pointed at his half-hard dick, and said—” you hold up finger quotes, “—‘The weapon awaits.’” 

Bob snorts and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. 

You sit up and glare at him. “Don’t.” 

He shakes his head. “Didn’t say anything.” 

“You’re thinking it.” 

“Thinking what?” he asks, all wide eyes and faux innocence. 

You give him a flat look. “That I deserve it.” 

He shrugs, fighting a grin. “I wouldn’t say that.” 

“No, but you’re thinking it,” you mutter, settling back into the couch with your arms folded. 

He chuckles softly. “Maybe a little.” 

“Ugh,” you sigh, tipping your head back. “I just wanted to get laid, not be traumatised.” 

Bob snorts. “Maybe don’t trust what people say on dating apps. Or drive almost an hour to hook up with a guy you’ve known less than a day.” 

“I needed sex, Robert,” you say with a sidelong glance. “What else was I supposed to do?” 

His heart kicks against his ribs. He wants to say me. You were supposed to do me. Your best friend. Your fake husband. The guy with a perfectly functional—and admittedly impressive—dick that is quite literally always hard for you. 

He opens his mouth to reply—to say something he’ll almost definitely regret— 

But you cut in first. 

“He couldn’t even find my clit. I had to literally direct him—like a fucking traffic controller.” You curl your legs up beside you, muttering, “I faked it just to get out of there.” 

Bob’s mouth goes dry. “Faked it?” 

You nod, eyes still fixed on the frozen TV screen. “Yup.” 

There’s a beat—long enough for Bob to imagine every possible thing he could say next. 

But then you sigh—loudly. “I just want someone who listens. Is that really so much to ask?” You glance over at him, brows drawn. “I’m not expecting some expert sex god. Just… someone who pays attention. Enough to figure out what actually feels good.” 

Bob lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Imagine that. Someone who listens. Really pays attention. Makes sure you finish.” He shifts awkwardly, glancing down to check that the bulge in his pants isn’t obvious. “Multiple times, even.” 

“God,” you sigh. “Men like that must be a myth.” 

He clenches his jaw, biting back every smartass thing echoing in his head. Now isn’t the time to make you feel worse. And it probably isn’t the time to admit that he’s been secretly in love with you for years. 

Although, Bob’s not sure when the time for that would ever come. 

Right now, you just need a friend. Someone to complain to. Someone to remind you that it’s not you—it’s men. They suck. 

“Well,” you say, swinging your legs off the couch and pushing up. “At least I’ve got my vibrator to make up for that shitty experience.” 

Bob nearly chokes. 

“I’m heading to bed,” you add. 

“No worries,” he mutters, giving you a tight smile. “Goodnight.” 

“G’night Bobby,” you murmur, soft and sleepy, flashing him a small smile before turning away. 

And God—if that isn’t a shot straight to the heart. A kill shot, to be specific. 

Because you’re so warm. So sweet. And you love him so much—just not like that. He wishes it were enough. But more than anything, he wishes he could show you what you mean to him—because words wouldn’t even come close. 

And fuck, he really wishes you weren’t about to lay your head on a pillow stained with his cum. 

- You - 

By Wednesday afternoon, just about everything is unpacked. There’s a stack of broken-down boxes by the front door, a few rubbish bags full of packing paper, and one very exhausted woman lying on the living room floor—you. 

It’s only three p.m., which means Bob won’t be home for a few more hours, but after three straight days in this apartment alone, you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your mind. Sure, you’ve seen Bob in the evenings—and there was that pathetic hookup last night—but aside from that, it’s been nothing but boxes and furniture and cleaning. 

You don’t necessarily need human interaction. You just need a break. A change of scenery. A coffee, maybe. 

With a deep breath, you push off the floor and grab your jacket from the rack beside the door—the one you just finished assembling. You slide your arms in, slip your shoes on, and head out. 

You’re not overly familiar with North Island, but you’re pretty sure you saw a nice-looking café a few blocks over. And you don’t mind a walk. 

You try to take in your surroundings as you go, but it’s hard not to check out every fit man you pass. Because God, you are horny. So horny that even two rounds with your vibrator last night did nothing to loosen the knot burning low in your stomach. You need dick. Real dick. Good dick. Something hard and decently sized, attached to a reasonably attractive man who knows how to use it—someone who can fuck you stupid so you stop eyeing every guy like he’s a walking, talking slab of prime beef. 

God. You don't want to admit it, but even Bob was looking good last night. With his flushed cheeks, soft messy curls, and those big blue eyes behind his adorable glasses. You were five seconds away from dragging him into your room and letting him ruin your freshly washed sheets—ones you’ll have to remember to thank him for getting out of the dryer and making your bed with. Sweet man that he is. 

But Bob is too nice for you to ask something like that of him. You don’t doubt he’d be decent—probably even good. There’s something about him that tells you he’s not quite as vanilla as people think. But he’s your best friend. You can’t risk ruining a friendship and a perfectly good fake marriage just because you’re desperate to come. 

Not that you think Bob would fall in love with you or anything. God, no. Bob doesn’t see you like that. You just know that arrangements like that get messy, and you love him too much to risk it. 

So for now, you’ll just have to keep looking for some decent dick—something to sate the white-hot need burning behind your hipbones. 

“No way.” 

Your thoughts scatter like a flock of birds, reality seeping back in as you blink toward the source of the mildly familiar voice. 

“Oh,” you laugh softly, cheeks already burning. “It’s you.” 

The green-eyed man from the grocery store grins—and it’s so bright, so wide, you almost want to slide your sunglasses further up your nose. 

“It’s you,” he echoes, just a little breathless. 

That’s when you notice what he’s wearing—a tight tank, gym shorts, running shoes. His tan skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling too fast. He’s on a run—or at least he was. 

You lift a brow. “Shouldn’t you be at work? You know, protecting and serving?” 

He shrugs, bracing a hand on each hip. “My CO dismissed my squad early. Thought I’d get some PT in off-base.” 

“Isn’t this whole island a base?” 

He chuckles. “Technically, yeah. But I meant outside the hangar. With the ocean breeze, warm sun—” his gaze flicks down, then back up, “—pretty girls.” 

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because there weren’t enough of those at the grocery store?” 

You don’t wait for a comeback—you just flash him a small smirk and keep walking, gaze locked on the café at the end of the block. 

“Hey, wait a second,” he says, easily falling into step beside you. “You can’t just disappear again. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Monday night. I need to know your name.” 

“Since Monday?” you glance at him, brows raised. “Wow, is this your longest relationship, then?” 

He snorts but stays at your side—clearly undeterred. “Why do you assume I’m a player?” 

“Seriously?” You give him a flat look. “Look at you.” 

He grins. “And?” 

You huff a laugh. “God, you’re a piece of work.” 

“But I’m worth it.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“Come on,” he sighs. “Just give me a shot.” 

You stop walking and turn to face him, arms folding tight across your chest. “Look. You’re hot—and you know it—but you’re also military. I have a strict rule, okay? Besides, I’m—” you pause, pulse quickening, “I’m not looking.” 

He frowns. “What does that even mean?” 

You glance down at your hand and instantly regret not wearing your ring today. Because as hot as this guy is—not exactly your type, but undeniably attractive—you just can’t do military. Bob would kill you. 

And what better way to scare someone off than with a wedding band? But no—you left it in your car. Like always. You only wear it when you need to, and usually ditch it when there’s a chance you might run into someone worth boning. Like at the grocery store the other day. Or now—even though that was clearly a mistake. 

You clear your throat. “It means thanks but no thanks. Now leave before I do something stupid.” 

He grins. “What if I want you to do something stupid?” 

“You don’t even know what stupid thing I’m talking about.” 

He shrugs. “I’m hoping it’s something along the lines of kissing me—or worse.” 

You roll your eyes again. “It’s definitely worse.” 

He opens his mouth to reply, but the shrill ring of his phone cuts in. He yanks the zipper on his pocket, pulls it out, and frowns at the screen. 

“You should get that,” you say, nodding to the phone. 

He looks up. “Wait, just—” 

“See you later, pretty boy.” 

You flash him one final smirk and turn on your heel, heading back the way you came—determined not to give him one more second to wear you down. You can just have coffee at home. 

And honestly, at this point, he’s kind of annoying. Too persistent. Too cocky. There’s something about him that feels like one giant neon warning sign—aside from the military thing. Something deeper. Weirder. Something that feels... dangerous. And not in a fun way. 

You take the first corner you reach, then the next, hoping that if you wind your way home along a complicated enough route, he won’t be able to follow you. Not that you think he would. You’re pretty sure he’s just a cocky boy—not a full-blown stalker. 

It doesn’t take long to reach your apartment block, and you’re definitely feeling a hell of a lot better than when you left—coffee or not. Sometimes it really is enough to get some fresh air. Go for a walk. Touch grass. Remind yourself the world isn’t made entirely of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap. 

You ride the elevator up to your floor and walk the hall, chewing your bottom lip as you wonder what to make for dinner. Bob usually cooks, but every now and then, you like to return the favour—not that it’s ever quite as good. 

You slide your key into the lock, turn the handle, and— 

Freeze. 

A choked moan breaks through the quiet apartment. Low, needy—completely unfiltered. 

What the fuck? 

You ease the door open, step inside, and shut it quietly behind you. Bob’s boots are by the door, his duffel bag dropped beside the dining table, and there’s a bottle of wine on the kitchen island. 

He’s home early. 

Another groan curls through the air, thick and strained, and your breath catches. 

You should make a sound. Slam the door. Jingle your keys. Do literally anything except stand here like a frozen creep. But you can’t. Because your pulse is racing, your mouth is dry, and that ache low in your belly is pulsing hot. 

Then you hear it—soft and unmistakable—a whimper, followed by a choked, “Mmmf—fuck.” 

Oh God. That’s Bob. 

You swallow hard and step forward quietly. The closer you get to his bedroom, the louder it gets. Deep, unsteady breaths. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. A low gasp, a soft curse. The tiniest creak of bedsprings beneath a body working for release. 

And holy shit, you're already wet—your panties soaked and sticking to you, no match for how goddamn horny you are. 

You stop in the hallway, standing halfway between your bedroom door and his. The right thing would be to duck into your room, slam the door, and pretend you didn’t hear a thing. 

But it’s too late. You’re too far gone. Too turned on. Your pulse is pounding, your legs feel like jelly, and you can’t pull yourself away. 

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, you lean forward and peer through the narrow crack in his door. 

And stop breathing. 

Bob is sprawled across his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His shirt is bunched up around his ribs, sweatpants shoved low on his hips—just low enough for his hand to move. 

And fuck, is it moving. 

His knuckles are tight, forearm flexing, sinew rippling beneath skin. His chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, and his head is tipped back against the pillow, damp tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead. 

His lips are parted. Brow furrowed. Glasses pushed halfway up his forehead like he forgot they were there. 

You can see the muscles in his stomach twitch every time his hand drags up the length of his cock—thick, flushed, glistening with slick—and then back down again. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s thinking about something—someone—very specific. 

He lets out a groan. Soft. Broken. And fuck, it’s... almost your name? No. No, it couldn't be. It's not. You're just imagining things. You’re horny and delirious. 

And a total perv right now, but you just can’t find the will to move. 

You watch as he bites down on his bottom lip, hips lifting from the mattress like he’s chasing something just out of reach. 

Without thinking, you slide a hand between your thighs and press two fingers against your clit. The pressure sparks a jolt of pleasure up your spine, forcing you to bite back a whimper. 

This is wrong. So wrong. You’ve never even thought about Bob like this, let alone seen him. Well—okay, maybe you’ve almost thought about it once or twice over the years, but you’ve always been able to stop yourself. Because this is Bob. Your best friend. Your sweet, kind, too-good-for-this-world best friend who— 

“Sh-Shit—hnng, oh—fuck.” 

—who looks so fucking hot right now. 

You watch his hand speed up—just a little. Grip tighter now. Surer. He’s close, you can tell. You can see it in the way his thighs start to tense, the way his hips jerk up more urgently into his fist, how his breath starts to catch and stutter like he’s barely holding on. 

You press harder against your clit, your wet panties sliding as you move your fingers in slow, torturous circles. 

His back arches slightly. His other hand fists in the sheets beside him, the tendons in his arm straining. The room is filled with wet sounds and shaky breathing and the quiet thud of the headboard tapping rhythmically against the wall. 

Then his mouth drops open. His brows pull tight. 

You draw a shaky breath—almost silent, but not quite. Not that he could hear it over the sound of his own ragged gasps. 

A long, wrecked sound slips out of him—deep in his chest, low and guttural. “F-fuck—” 

Your fingers stop moving, and you just watch. Captivated. Hungry. Mouth watering at the sight you shouldn’t be seeing. 

He strokes himself faster, chasing the edge, working right up to it with almost painful precision. His eyes squeeze shut, a flush rising over his chest, his cheeks, the tips of his ears. 

And then he’s coming. Hard. Head thrown back, neck arched, stomach flexing so tight you can see every line of muscle. His whole body locks up—frozen in pleasure—then shudders as thick ropes spill over his knuckles, striping his hand, his abs, the hem of his shirt. 

His hips twitch as he rides it out, groaning softly as aftershocks ripple through him. He slows his strokes, pumping himself through every last wave until he’s spent and breathing heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s just run ten miles. 

For a moment, he just lies there—limp and boneless. One hand still curled loosely around the base of his cock, the other pressed flat to his chest like he’s grounding himself. Sweat shines on his skin. His curls are damp. His glasses are crooked. 

He looks ruined. And completely, stupidly beautiful. 

He’s still Bob Floyd—your best friend, housemate, fake husband. But now he’s something else too. Something you can’t unsee, can’t stop wanting. And it’s making your head spin. 

You watch his eyes flutter open—and bolt. You slip into your room and ease the door shut, praying he doesn't hear the soft click behind you. Your breathing is ragged, your pulse is pounding, and you’re clenching around nothing. 

God. You need something. Now. 

You stumble toward the bed, stripping off your pants as you go, and drop onto the edge of the mattress. Then you yank open your nightstand drawer and reach all the way to the back—for the one toy you only use when you're desperate. 

Thick silicone. Eight inches. Subtle ridges and a realistically moulded head. 

Normally, it feels big in your hands. But after seeing Bob? Not even close. You’d always suspected he was packing—years of damp swim trunks and clingy grey sweatpants made it hard not to—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the reality. 

Because he’s big. Cross-your-heart and have-paramedics-on-standby kind of big. 

And God, you want it. 

With a pitiful whimper, you collapse back onto your pillows, knees falling open. You're breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, the image of Bob—sweaty, panting, coming hard over his own stomach—burned behind your eyelids. 

You drop the toy between your thighs and glide it through your slick. You’ve never been this wet in your life—you’re sure of it. You tease your entrance, chest heaving, every nerve pulled tight—then drag it over your clit— 

And moan. Loud. Raw. Desperate. 

But you don’t stop. Not even as your face flushes hot with embarrassment. Not when the ache between your hips is too sharp, too deep to ignore. 

You push the tip in, slowly at first, and let out a trembling gasp. It’s not him—not even close—but your body doesn’t care. Not when you’re this wet. Not when your head is full of the sound of his voice, his breath, the way he groaned like he was falling apart. 

You slide it in deeper. Your hips twitch. Your fingers tremble on the base. 

Your mind paints the picture so clearly it might as well be real—Bob above you, thick and flushed, eyes dark behind his glasses. He’d be gentle at first, probably ask if you were sure, if you were okay. You’d tell him to stop being sweet, and then he’d ruin you. 

You fuck yourself harder. 

The stretch, the angle, the slick slide of it—it’s good. Better than good. But it’s not enough. You want weight. You want heat. You want Bob’s hands on your hips, his mouth at your ear, telling you you’re doing so well. 

You twist your wrist and angle the toy up, hitting just the right spot—and stars explode behind your eyes. 

“F-fuck—” 

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Sharp and sudden. Your back arches off the bed, toes curling, walls fluttering tight around silicone. Your free hand fists the sheets. Your mouth drops open, and a broken sob of a moan punches out of you as you come. 

It rolls through you in waves. Shudders. A full-body collapse. 

You lie there for a few minutes—panting, legs still twitching, the toy slipping free as your muscles go limp. Your sheets are damp beneath you. Your chest is slick with sweat. And your brain is buzzing with images of Bob—ones you’ve never even considered until now. 

Well, shit. That’s new. 

With a heavy breath, you sit upright and grab the sticky toy. Guilt and panic twist in your stomach as you pad toward the ensuite—all the heat of the moment fading fast. 

You need a shower—a long one. With scalding hot water. And maybe a lobotomy. 

After cleaning yourself up, stripping your bed, and changing into pyjamas—it’s still early, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving the apartment again—you finally emerge from your room. 

Somewhere between washing your hair and scrubbing the shame from your skin, you decided that pretending nothing happened is the best way to go. Because technically, nothing did. You both masturbate. You’re both adults. Sexually active ones. There’s no evidence that says you were or weren’t thinking about each other. 

Well—you know Bob wasn’t. He thought he was home alone. 

Bob would never do something as perverted as what you just did. 

But he doesn’t need to know about it. So if you act normal, then there’s no reason for him to suspect anything. Right? 

“Hey,” you call lightly as you step into the kitchen. 

Bob glances up from whatever he’s slicing with practiced ease. His cheeks are tinged pink, eyes slightly wide, and there’s the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. But otherwise, he looks… composed. Relaxed. 

Well. He would, after a release like that. 

“Hey,” he replies, voice even. “Didn’t hear you come home.” 

Your cheeks flare with heat, but you wave it off. “Yeah, I ran straight into the shower. Went for a run and got a bit sweaty.” 

He raises a brow, clearly amused. You don’t run. And you both know it. 

"Right," he mutters, eyes dropping back to the chopping board. 

You clear your throat and square your shoulders, determined not to let this be awkward. 

“You were home early,” you say, leaning a hip against the kitchen island. 

He nods. “Yeah. Maverick let us go early.” 

“Oh, that was nice of him.” 

Your eyes drift to the ingredients spread across the counter—chicken breasts, halved baby potatoes, fresh rosemary, a bowl of mixed greens. It’s one of his go-to dinners, the kind he could make blindfolded with one hand and still have it taste incredible. 

And in the middle of it all, a bottle of wine. 

“I was going to offer to cook tonight,” you say, reaching for the bottle. “Did you bring this home?” 

He glances up again. “Yeah. Thought you’d like it.” 

You run your eyes over the label, nodding. “Looks good. Want some?” 

He nods once, without looking up, as you turn to grab two glasses from the cupboard above the bench. Then you uncork the bottle, let it breathe for a moment, and pour two generous glasses—sliding one across to him. 

“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip. 

The kitchen feels smaller all of a sudden. The usual easy rhythm between you is strained, like you’re both circling something neither of you wants to name. 

Quiet tension stretches between you, filled only by the low hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of Bob’s knife. He doesn’t look up again, and you don’t dare look at him for too long. Instead, you swirl your wine and take slow, nervous sips until the alcohol starts to hum in your blood—and you decide to sit down. 

“I’m going to put a movie on,” you say suddenly, already turning toward the living room. “Any requests?” 

“I don’t mind,” he mutters. “Maybe something with action.” Then he drops his voice, low and half to himself—like he’s talking to the chicken. “And no sex scenes.” 

You choke on your wine, nearly tripping over nothing on your way to the lounge. 

You don’t respond. You can’t. What are you supposed to say to that? 

So you just drop onto the couch, set your glass on the coffee table, and start scrolling through streaming apps—skipping anything with even a hint of romance. 

- 

You barely speak to Bob for the next twenty-four hours—and you’re pretty sure it’s the longest you’ve ever gone without properly talking to him. 

It’s not that you’re avoiding him. Okay, maybe you’re avoiding him a little. But seriously, can you be blamed? You just saw your best friend’s huge dick—in action—and then proceeded to come so fast it was honestly kind of embarrassing. And now every time you blink, there he is again—sweaty, panting, flushed, wrecked. Fucking his own fist with your name almost on his tongue. 

Or at least, that’s what you like to imagine he was saying. 

But the worst part is the sudden, devastating realisation that Bob is hot. Not just cute. Not just objectively attractive. But actual, soul-shattering, knee-weakening, unfairly hot. 

When the hell did that happen? 

Maybe you’ve known it all along. Maybe you’ve just been ignoring it. Denying it. 

Because you’ve always known he’s good-looking. He’s tall and broad and has that stupidly nice face with kind eyes and a soft mouth he never quite knows what to do with. But you’d written him off early. Filed him under safe. Untouchable. Your best friend. Your fake husband. Too good, too sweet. Not for you. 

But now you’ve seen him. And it’s like the filter is gone. Like you’ve stepped on a landmine you didn’t even know existed and now your brain has been blown open by the truth. 

Bob Floyd is possibly the hottest man on planet Earth. 

He’s hot in a soft, devastating way. Hot in a slow-burn, bedroom-eyes, makes-you-feel-safe-then-fucks-you-stupid kind of way. The kind of hot that sneaks up on you. That lives under your skin. That ruins everything. 

And now he’s just... existing. In your shared apartment. Doing normal things. Breathing. And you’re in a constant state of barely holding it together. 

God, you’re an idiot. You need to sort yourself out—immediately—before Bob realises what a creep you’re being and everything blows up. 

But first… you have to tell your contract manager that you’re married. 

You’re awake before Bob’s alarm on Friday morning, but you don’t get out of bed. You just lie there in the quiet, listening to him move around, waiting until you hear the front door close behind him before throwing back the covers. Then you shower, make your bed, do your hair, and change into your clothes for the day. 

The smell of fresh coffee hits you the second you open your door. And sure enough, beside the pot—with a little yellow Post-it stuck to it—is your favourite mug, freshly washed. Just like every other morning. 

Made extra coffee. There’s banana bread in the fridge. See you tonight, Mrs. Floyd. ♡ 

Your heart kicks hard and heat swells through your chest. Everything feels different now. Heavier. Like you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life where every little habit, every small kindness, means more than it used to. 

Like you’ve been half-asleep this whole time and only just woken up to the fact that your dorky, sweet, thoughtful fake husband is also... kind of perfect. 

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to feel different. 

Your phone pings, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You swallow the lump in your throat and quickly check it—a text from your contract manager asking when you’ll be on base today. 

Shit. You probably should have told Bob last night that you’d be visiting base. But instead, you hid in your room pretending to be exhausted because you didn’t trust yourself to sit next to him without doing something weird. 

You type out a quick reply to let your manager know you’ll be there around midday. Then you tuck your phone away, peel the little note off your mug, and pour an exceptionally large cup of coffee—because that ought to help your nerves. Right? 

After coffee, banana bread, half a movie you barely register, and another coffee, you decide to go for a walk. Because you’re still thinking about Bob, and you still can’t figure out exactly what it is you’re feeling. 

You do the same loop you did two days ago—same turns, same streets, same houses—before returning home with zero recollection of it because all you can think about is Bob. He’s everywhere—in your head, under your skin, stuck between your ribs. 

You try to distract yourself by cleaning the already spotless apartment, but it’s no use. So by eleven a.m., you grab your wallet and keys and head out the door. Maybe you can go for a walk and get your bearings on base before meeting up with your manager. And maybe you’ll try to ogle a few other military men so you stop thinking about the one who sleeps across the hall from you. 

At this point, you’ll try anything. 

You go through all the usual checks when you get to base—signing in at the front office, getting your visitor’s pass, a quick vehicle inspection. Then once you’re cleared, someone calls your manager to let them know you’ve arrived, and the clerk hands you a little printed map, pointing out the best place to park for your building. 

Jeannie, your contract manager, is glad you’re early—which is good. That means less time alone to spiral. 

You find the building easily, and soon enough you’re sitting in a small conference room going over the details of your commencement next week. 

“So,” Jeannie says, shuffling her papers into a neat pile, “you mentioned there was something you needed to flag before you start?” 

You nod. “Yes—um, sorry if I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I’m married.” 

Her brows lift, as if to say and? 

“My husband is an aviator,” you add. “Here. On base.” 

“Oh,” she nods. “Right. That’s fine. Ideally, we’d have had it declared earlier, but it’s not a big deal. Since you don’t technically work together, and you're a civilian contractor, there’s no concern about rank. I’ll just get HR to send over the paperwork. You’ll both need to sign, as well as his Commanding Officer. It’d be best to get it squared away before Monday—do you know who his CO is?” 

You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck. 

“Maverick,” you reply quickly—without thinking. “Oh—sorry, I mean—” 

“It’s alright,” Jeannie says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I know who Maverick is.” 

You nod, pressing your lips together while she pulls out her phone and makes the call. As she speaks to whoever’s on the other end, you quickly pull out your own phone and type a text to Bob. 

‘Hey, really hoping you see this before I find you. I’m on base. Need you and Maverick to sign something. Please check your phone!’ 

Now you’ve done it. Not only are you on base without giving Bob a heads-up, but you’re about to have him formally acknowledge your fake marriage. A marriage his squadron doesn’t even know about. 

Fuck. 

“Perfect,” Jeannie says, setting her phone down. “We’ll have the forms in five. I’ll get you to read them over, then we’ll have someone escort you to Captain Mitchell’s squadron building.” 

You give her a tight smile. “Thanks, Jeannie.” 

She returns the smile and stands up, gathering her papers. “I’ll be back in a minute. Sit tight.” 

You nod, trying not to throw up the banana bread and coffee. 

“Oh,” she says, stopping halfway out the door, eyes sparkling. “A naval aviator—well done. Maverick’s squad... they’re kind of legendary.” 

You laugh softly, breath catching. “Thanks. He’s—um—he’s the best.” 

Then she’s gone. Out into the office, leaving you to sit and stew, staring at your phone, praying Bob texts back before you have to show up at his squadron building and ask him to declare your top-secret fake marriage in front of all his legendary colleagues. 

The next fifteen minutes are a blur. An HR rep shows up, talks you through the paperwork, and asks for all the details of your marriage—when, where, how—before a junior officer knocks on the door and announces he’s ready to escort you to the Dagger Squadron’s building. 

You grip the papers with shaky hands as you follow the officer through the building and out to a cart waiting by the curb. He doesn’t talk—thank God—just drives carefully across base while you sit beside him, looking like a seasick idiot on dry land. 

When the cart rolls to a stop, he glances over at you. “Here we are, ma’am.” 

You swallow hard. “Thanks. Do you—uh, do you come in, or...?” 

“No, ma’am,” he replies. “Captain Mitchell was radioed about your visit. You’re cleared to go in.” 

You nod once, breath coming in unsteady gasps as you force your feet to move. Force yourself out of the cart. Across the concrete. Toward the front entrance. 

You steel your nerves and step into the building, immediately hit by the cool blast of air. Bob always whinges about how hot the flight suits get, so it makes sense that they’d keep the buildings icy. 

There’s no chatter, no footsteps—just the low hum of ducted aircon and the faint rustle of paper. You follow the hallway toward the only open door in sight and quietly poke your head around the corner. 

At the front of the room stands a dark-haired man in a flight suit, flicking through a little notebook. He glances up almost immediately, green eyes pinning you in place. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, “I didn’t mean to interrupt—I’m looking for—” 

“Floyd,” he says with a grin—a very charming grin. “Or Mrs. Floyd, should I say?” 

Oh. This is Maverick. 

You step into the room and straighten instinctively. “Yes, sir.” 

He chuckles. “Don’t bother with the formalities. I’m Maverick. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

He crosses the room with an outstretched hand, and you shake it with tight smile. 

“Your manager called ahead, said you’d be stopping by,” he says, gesturing toward the front row of chairs. “Not sure Bob knows, though. He didn’t mention anything. They’re all at lunch right now, but I could—” 

“Actually,” you cut in, settling into the seat beside him, “Bob doesn’t know I’m here. I forgot to tell him I was coming, and I honestly didn’t think I’d be delivering the papers myself.” 

Maverick’s brows shoot up. “Oh. So he doesn’t—?” 

“Nope.” 

“Alright then.” He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Why don’t we say you’re from HR, updating his records? Think he’ll catch on?” 

You nod. “Works for me.” 

He grins again, and you hand over the papers, pointing out the sections needing his signature. He doesn't ask questions—just nods and signs, methodical and quiet. 

Once you’ve gathered the papers back into order, he leans back in his chair and just looks at you—like you’re easier to read than a children’s book being held wide open. 

“So, how’d you and Bob meet?” 

“Through work,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “He was first stationed at Lemoore, where I was in systems support. We got along well, and one thing led to another… now we’re here.” 

Maverick nods thoughtfully, eyes gleaming. “Been a few years then?” 

“Yep.” 

“And how long have you been in love?” 

Your heart jumps and you glance up, blinking. “Uh… well, since we started dating, I guess.” 

You’re pretty sure Bob said that Maverick knew the marriage wasn’t entirely legitimate. 

Maverick lifts a brow. “Dating?” 

You nod, but it’s not convincing. 

He tilts his head. “I didn’t think you two dated. From what I gathered, the marriage is—” 

“No way.” 

Your stomach drops. Your skin prickles. The hairs on the back of your neck rise. 

That voice is familiar. Sickeningly familiar. 

“It’s you.” 

You turn your head slowly, dread pooling in your gut. 

And there he is. The guy from the grocery store—sun-kissed and smug, all lazy confidence in his flight suit as he leans one shoulder against the doorframe. A group of aviators lingers behind him, peering into the room with furrowed brows and curious eyes. 

Your stomach lurches. 

“I knew it was fate,” he says with a grin. 

“What’s fate?” one of the others pipes up. 

“Move your ass, Bagman,” a woman’s voice snaps. 

Bagman? 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Your face is on fire. You can feel it—hot and prickling, crawling down your neck and up behind your ears. You try to speak, to move—to do anything—but your body has entered fight-or-flight mode and apparently chosen freeze. 

Maverick glances between you, brow raised. “You two know each other?” 

The guy—Bagman, apparently—just chuckles. “Yeah, we’ve run into each other a few times.” 

“Hangman, move,” says a tall, moustached man, shoving his squadmate aside. 

Oh no... Hangman? 

You know Hangman. Bob’s told you about Hangman. 

Cocky Hangman and his reckless flying. 

Womaniser Hangman with his endless string of conquests. 

Pain-in-the-ass Hangman—who just so happens to be a member of the Dagger Squadron. Bob’s squad. 

Holy fuck. How could you have screwed up this badly? 

“Hangman?” you echo, your voice cracking. 

He nods, green eyes gleaming as he steps aside to let the rest of the squad through. 

The moustached man—Rooster, you recognise—frowns at you, curiosity carved into every line of his face. A woman follows close behind, scowling at Hangman—you’re guessing she’s Phoenix. Then two tall men step in, both looking confused, followed by a shorter one bringing up the rear. 

And then— 

Bob. 

He steps through the doorway— 

And freezes. 

His eyes go wide. His whole body locks up like he’s been hit with a tranquiliser dart. The colour drains from his face so fast it’s a miracle he’s still upright. 

The silence is deafening. 

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out. 

Maverick slowly leans back in his chair. “Well, this just got interesting.” 

Hangman clasps his hands behind his back like he’s about to give a formal speech, stepping toward you with an oblivious smirk stretched across his face. 

“Phoenix and gentleman,” he starts, “I would like to introduce you all to my future wife.” 

Maverick chokes beside you. 

“A mere five days ago, I first laid eyes on this stunning woman in the grocery store. There I was, minding my own business, and boom—she appears. Like a hot, pissed-off angel, scowling at me because I interrupted her Pop-Tart selection process. And right then and there, I knew this was the woman of my dreams.” 

“You say that about every woman,” Phoenix mutters, rolling her eyes. 

Rooster smirks. “He hasn't said it about another woman since Monday, though.” 

“Exactly,” Hangman says. “Ask Coyote. This is the one. I felt it in my loins.” 

“You’re disgusting,” Phoenix sighs. 

The tallest one tilts his head. “Wait, wait, wait. Are we talking about the same woman you said was stalking you?” 

“She wasn’t stalking me,” Hangman says quickly. “That was a joke.” 

Phoenix scoffs. “It wasn’t funny.” 

“Everything I say is funny.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“I’m a delight, and I’ll have you know—” 

“Hangman,” Coyote cuts in, raising a brow. “Maybe... shut up for once?” 

You’re still frozen in your chair, eyes locked on Bob—who hasn’t moved a single muscle since he walked in. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t blinked. You might not have either. 

Your cheeks are burning. You can feel them. But Bob—Bob is going scarlet. 

It starts in his ears, then spreads rapidly down his neck and across his cheeks. He looks like a man being slow-roasted from the inside out. His fists are clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff beneath his flight suit—and when Hangman shoots you another wink and starts to open his mouth again—you’re genuinely worried he might blow his carotid. 

He looks furious. Downright murderous. 

At first, you thought it might be at you. 

But... his dark blue eyes are locked on Hangman. 

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Hangman says, stepping even closer as his eyes drag over you without a hint of shame, “are you free for dinner, or do you prefer a brunch-with-champagne kind of thing? Because I’ll happily rearrange my entire schedule just to watch you eat a strawberry.” 

You glance sideways—just in time to catch the tick in Bob’s jaw. His gaze hasn’t moved. His whole face is red now, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, his hands curled into fists like he’s physically restraining himself. 

And something about it—about him—pulls tight in your chest. 

Because he looks... wrecked. Quietly, furiously wrecked. 

Not embarrassed. Not confused. Not oh-God-my-squad-found-out. But furious. At Hangman. For flirting with you. 

Your stomach swoops. 

And suddenly, you can’t breathe. 

Because Bob Floyd is jealous. 

The same Bob who brings you coffee every morning. Who washes your favourite mug. Who brings you roses and wine after work, just because. Who smiled so sweetly the day he suggested this marriage, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do for you. The same Bob who hasn’t blinked since Hangman called you the woman of his dreams. 

A small voice whispers in your head—he loves you. 

And for a second, you almost believe it. 

Your heart thuds loud in your ears. Your mouth goes dry. You want to look away, to break the spell, but you can’t. Not when the truth is burning so bright between you it feels like the rest of the room has fallen away. 

He loves you. 

“Listen,” you say, voice shaky as you stand up, “Hangman, I—” 

“Call me Jake, darlin’,” he cuts in, smooth as ever with that Southern drawl. “I never did get your name, though. Wanna finally tell me what it is?” 

There’s a pause—a brief silence. A collective held breath as the room waits for you to respond. 

You swallow hard and step forward. 

“Floyd,” you say, voice firm. “My name’s Floyd.” 

Hangman’s smirk drops. His brows pull tight, confusion flickering behind his green eyes. 

There’s a gasp. A chuckle. 

“Holy shit,” Phoenix mutters. 

But none of it matters. 

Because the look on Bob’s face is enough to make your heart stop. 

His eyes are wide and locked on you like he misheard—like he can’t quite believe what he heard. His lips part. His shoulders relax. He visibly exhales—only for his breath to catch on the way back in. His gaze darts to Hangman, just briefly, then snaps straight back to you. He closes his mouth, swallows hard, and unclenches his fists. 

He looks… nervous. Unsure. Like he wants to be relieved by what you just said, but doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what happens next. 

But you do. 

In three quick strides, you’re standing in front of him. You glance up, breath shaky, heart pounding. Your fingers curl into the collar of his flight suit—and you pull him down. 

His mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, and the world falls out from under you. His hands hover for half a second, like he doesn’t believe this is real—then they grip your hips, hard. Fingers digging in. Burning through the denim. 

The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate. Messy. All heat and drool and pent-up longing—like months, years, of tension finally snapping loose in a single, earth-shattering moment. 

You gasp against him and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. 

Someone whistles. Someone else mutters Jesus Christ. But none of it registers. 

You’re already gone. 

Lost in the feel of him—his mouth, his hands, the warm solid weight of him pressed tight to yours. Your hands slip into his hair, tugging just enough to drag another sound from his throat. He kisses you harder. Like he’s starving. Like he’s making up for every second he didn’t. 

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. 

Bob’s eyes are dazed. Wide. A little wild. 

“Wait,” one of the other men says—the shorter one, “Bob’s married?” 

The taller one chuckles. “Bob bagged a baddie.” 

“A baddie?” Maverick echoes, voice laced with confusion. 

“My future wife is... Bob’s wife?” Hangman says slowly. 

His friend—Coyote—snorts. “That’s not your future wife, man. That’s the mother of Bob’s children in T-minus nine months from tonight.” 

Your cheeks burn impossibly hot as you carefully untangle your limbs from Bob’s. He looks absolutely wrecked—but in a good way now. In a way that makes you want to beg Maverick to let him leave early. With you. So you can take him home and wreck him just a little more. 

Maverick clears his throat. “Well. Now that that’s all cleared up... Bob, you need to sign some paperwork to formally disclose your relationship.” 

Bob gives you a soft, dopey smile before heading over to where Maverick is. The loss of his heat leaves you feeling cold—almost empty—but you don’t have time to dwell on it because the rest of the squad immediately closes in. 

“I’m Fanboy,” the shortest one says with a brilliant grin. 

You smile and nod, still too dazed to speak. 

“Payback,” the taller one says. 

Then Phoenix steps forward. “You probably already know who I am.” 

You laugh softly, nodding again. 

“Coyote,” the guy behind her chimes in. 

“She was almost Mrs. Hangman,” Jake mutters, still sulking behind the group. “What could’ve been…” 

Coyote elbows him. “She literally never agreed to that.” 

“Details,” he sighs wistfully. 

Rooster slings an arm over your shoulder, leaning in a little. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll move on tomorrow night.” Then he flashes you a smirk. “I’m Rooster, by the way.” 

You blink up at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. “These are your callsigns, right?” 

Phoenix nods, opening her mouth to reply when— 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bob says, cutting through the group and grabbing your hand. “She has to go now.” 

“Aw, no,” Fanboy whines. “I want to get to know Mrs. Floyd.” 

“Too bad,” Bob mutters, pulling you toward the door. 

You give them all a little smile, waving over your shoulder. “Bye. It was nice to meet you all.” 

There’s a chorus of byes and teasing words, but above the noise you hear Phoenix shout, “Thank you for embarrassing Hangman!” 

You snort as Bob leads you into the hall, stopping a few feet from the door. 

“I can’t be long,” he says, a little breathless. “So we can talk at home—yeah?” 

Your stomach twists—half-giddy, half-anxious. 

You nod. “Yeah. At home. Get back to work.” 

He nods, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. There’s a taut second of silence—nothing but the sound of your shaky, shallow breaths as you stare at each other. 

Then— 

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning in and kissing you again. 

And God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this—his mouth on yours. Soft but sure. Sweet but possessive. Like he’s claiming you, gently and completely. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before. And you don’t want to feel anyone else’s. You’d happily spend the rest of your life doing nothing but kissing Bob Floyd. 

He pulls away too quickly, and you lean after him a little—desperate for more. 

He chuckles, soft and low. “I’ll see you at home.” 

You swallow and nod. “Okay. See you at home.” 

Then he’s gone—and you’re left standing in the corridor of the squadron building, listening to his team tease him while your head spins, your heart hammers, and that ache between your legs pulses with every breath. 

- 

You don’t remember the walk back to the car. Don’t remember the drive home or climbing the stairs or unlocking the front door. It’s all a blur—just background noise to the steady thrum of want under your skin. 

Because now that you’ve had a taste of him—of his mouth, his hands, the sound he made when he kissed you like it hurt—there’s no coming back from it. 

You feel wrung out. Strung tight. One spark away from coming undone entirely. 

Bob Floyd kissed you like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like he’d been dying to. 

And now you can’t stop picturing it—his mouth trailing lower. His hands under your clothes. The way he’d sound when he groans your name against your skin. You wonder what his fingers feel like when he’s not trying to be polite. When he’s not holding back. When he’s desperate. 

God, you want him desperate. 

You want to see what happens when all that quiet control snaps. 

You want him panting and flushed, cursing under his breath as he pushes into you—slow at first, then rough, then reckless. You want to hear him fall apart. You want to make him. 

You want to pull his flight suit down and wrap your legs around his waist and feel him groan into your mouth as you whisper filthy things for only him to hear. 

You want to know if he’s loud. If he talks. If he begs. 

You want to be sore tomorrow. 

You want him sweaty and wild and undone. 

You want him to love you too. Soft and quiet. In the domestic, steady way he already does. 

But first—you want him to ruin you. 

Thoroughly. Desperately. Completely. 

After pacing the apartment for a good thirty minutes, you start busying yourself by preparing dinner—because it’s the only thing you can think to do. You decide to make spaghetti and meatballs, from scratch. Which means a good few hours of kneading dough, cutting pasta, rolling meatballs—not thinking about anything else—and simmering sauce. 

At six p.m., you get a text from Bob letting you know that he’s on his way home—and you panic. You jump in the shower, scrub yourself from head to toe, and change into the laciest pair of panties you own. No bra. Just one of Bob’s old sweatshirts and a pair of loose lounge shorts. 

Then you’re back in the kitchen, stirring the sauce, making sure it doesn’t boil, and pouring yourself a nip of whiskey. Or two. For the nerves. 

You set the table with matching plates, cloth napkins, two tall candles, and your vase of roses in the centre. The sun spills through the far window, bathing the whole open-plan living area in a warm orange glow, and then— 

You hear the lock click. And it feels like a powerline just snapped. 

You face the door, standing between the kitchen and the dining area, hands curled at your sides and heart hammering in your chest. 

He steps inside—and your breath catches. 

He’s so beautiful. And you feel stupid for not noticing it sooner. 

Tonight, there are no flowers. No wine. Just Bob—in his flight suit—cheeks pink, eyes dark, something unreadable simmering behind them. 

“Hey,” you say, a little unsteady. “Hungry?” 

He takes a deep breath, eyes flicking toward the table, then back to you. 

“Starving,” he mumbles, dropping his bag to the floor. 

You swallow hard. “I know you said we’d talk about today, so I thought I’d set the table and—” 

“Talking’ll take too much time,” he says, voice soft, just a little rough. “I think I just better show you.” 

Before you can speak—before you can even breathe—he’s moving. 

Three long strides. One hand sliding into your hair, the other curling around your waist, and his mouth is on yours. 

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Hot and desperate and all teeth and tongue, like he’s been starving for you and finally gave in. You can taste the whiskey you drank earlier on his tongue, and wonder if he does too, the way his mouth groans softly against yours. 

He kisses you like a man undone. Not rushed—but hungry. Like he’s trying to get closer than your skin will allow. 

Your hands fist in the front of his flight suit, dragging him in until there’s no space left between you. His lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding against yours with a low sound in his throat that sends heat pooling between your legs. 

His grip tightens at your waist. You gasp against his mouth and he swallows it, angling your face back, pressing closer—until the edge of the table digs into your hips. 

“You taste like whiskey,” he breathes, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours. 

You nod faintly. “Took a shot… before.” 

He huffs a half-laugh, his nose nudging yours. “Why?” 

“Nervous,” you murmur, cheeks burning. 

He lets out a broken little groan, then kisses you again, harder this time—deeper. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring you like he needs the grounding. You gasp into his mouth, gripping the front of his flight suit like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, as he crowds in, the edge of the table biting into your hips. 

His breath shudders. His forehead rests against yours for the briefest second before he says, low and wrecked, “I want you in the worst way.” 

Your stomach flips violently. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, grounding yourself in him—in this. 

He kisses you again—slower now, but just as deep. His hands are everywhere, mapping your curves like he’s learning them, like he wants to memorise the exact feel of you under his palms. The tension is humming in the air, sparking down your spine, and when his hands slide beneath the hem of your sweatshirt to knead at the bare skin of your waist, your whole body jolts. 

Then his lips trail down—jaw, throat, collarbone—and you whimper, tilting your head to give him more. But he pauses, mouth hovering over your neck, eyes flicking to the table behind you. 

“Do you wanna put away anything that’ll break?” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. 

You look at him—his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, the raw need burning in his eyes—and shake your head. 

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t care.” 

That’s all he needs. 

He crashes into you again, mouth hot and hungry, pushing you back until your hands scramble for balance on the table’s edge. One of the cloth napkins slips to the floor. The candles rattle. The vase of roses wobbles precariously—but neither of you cares. 

Because nothing else matters now. 

His hands skim down your sides, then grip tight just below your ass. He leans in and kisses your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—lips dragging over skin like he can’t get enough—before he murmurs, rough and breathless, “Up.” 

You barely nod before he lifts you, strong arms sliding beneath your thighs to boost you onto the table like you weigh nothing. You scoot back instinctively, the wood cool under your skin, and his hands follow—pressing your knees apart as he steps between them, eyes burning. 

“You have no idea, do you?” he says, voice low and awed. “How long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.” 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no time. He’s already kissing you again, deeper this time, messier, until you’re dizzy from it—until a wine glass tips behind you and crashes to the floor. 

You flinch. He doesn’t. 

“Leave it,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. 

Then he drops to his knees. 

Your breath catches as his hands glide down your bare legs. He looks up at you like he’s about to pray—and maybe he is. Then one hand trails back up your thigh, slow and reverent, until his fingers hook beneath your panties and shorts and ease them down—so gently it feels like a sin. 

“Been thinkin’ about this for years,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Thought about it the second I first saw you.” 

His hands urge your legs wider. 

And then his mouth is on you. 

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back as heat blooms low and fast. He’s slow at first—teasing, licking—then deeper, hungrier. Like he’s starving. Like he’s waited forever for this moment. He moans against you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted—and it sends a jolt straight through your core. 

He murmurs sweet, filthy things between licks—how good you taste, how soft you are, how bad he wants you to fall apart just for him. His glasses sit crooked on his nose, fogged at the edges, barely hanging on as he stares up at you with those wide, hungry eyes. His cheeks are slick with your arousal, his mouth wet and shining with it—and God, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.  

“You’re so wet,” he groans, voice muffled and wrecked. “Can’t believe this is mine. You’re mine, aren’t you?” 

And something about the way he says it makes your chest ache. It’s not just the heat or the moment—he needs to hear it. Needs to know that you’re his. That you belong to him. 

Your fingers sink into his hair, trembling. “Yes.” 

“Say it again,” he breathes. 

“Yours,” you gasp, legs shaking. 

“That’s right,” he says, mouth back on you, tongue pressing firm and flat. “That’s my girl.” 

Your back arches. Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping just a little, and he groans—low and wrecked—like he loves it. Like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive. 

He keeps licking, firm and slow, then fast and relentless. A rhythm just for you. His tongue circles your clit, flicks it, presses flat and purposeful, then sucks softly—just enough to make your hips jerk. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, your whole body coiling tighter and tighter, every nerve strung like wire. 

“Bob—” you gasp, hips tilting forward, chasing more, needing more. 

His hands curl under your thighs, anchoring you, holding you open like you’re precious—like he’s worshipping. His mouth never stops. He sucks, licks, flicks, groans, whispers your name like a prayer between filthy praises. And it’s too much. It’s not enough. 

The pressure builds like fire in your belly. Your legs start to shake. You feel it spike—sharp and blinding. 

You’re right there—right at the edge—and then he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, just hard enough. 

White-hot pleasure rips through you. Your body jerks, a strangled cry catching in your throat as you come apart against his mouth—shuddering, gasping, twitching, every muscle tightening then breaking. 

And he doesn’t stop. 

He licks you through it, slow and steady, his tongue gentle now but insistent, teasing more from you even as your whole body trembles. You’re whimpering, breathless and wrung out, your body slack and oversensitive—but not sated. Not even close. 

“Bob,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Baby.” 

Your hands reach for him, tugging at the collar of his flight suit, urging him up. He rises slowly, eyes never leaving yours—flushed and panting, his face slick with your arousal. His glasses are fogged and crooked, and you slide them gently from his nose, setting them aside before cupping his flushed cheeks. 

He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Dark eyes devouring you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. 

“You still want—” he starts, voice hoarse. 

“I need you,” you breathe, cutting him off. “Now.” 

That’s all it takes. His hands fly to his zipper, clumsy and urgent as he peels himself out of the flight suit—shoulders, chest, hips—until he’s stepping out of it completely. His undershirt goes next, flung aside without a thought. 

You pull your sweatshirt over your head and toss it away. Nothing underneath. Nothing between you. 

He stares. 

For a moment, he just drinks you in, chest heaving, eyes glazed with disbelief and hunger. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “You’re so—fuck—” 

You don’t give him time to finish. You reach for him, pull him closer. He steps between your thighs, still in his briefs, and his mouth finds your breasts—soft, wet kisses and open-mouthed licks, tongue flicking over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth. 

Your head drops back with a soft cry, fingers tangling in his hair again as heat coils sharp and fast inside you. His cock grinds against your soaked core, separated only by thin cotton, and you feel the sheer size of him even through the fabric. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Take them off.” 

But your hands are already moving—slipping between you, tugging at the band of his briefs. You shove them down, and he helps, kicking them away—and then he’s bare, hot, and hard and impossibly thick. 

Your breath stutters. 

Your fingers wrap around him, shaky and reverent—and you can’t even close them all the way. Your mouth goes dry. Your whole body tightens. 

“Oh my god, Bob,” you whisper. 

He leans in close, forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. 

“I know,” he murmurs, voice raw and tender. “But you can take it. I know you can. You’re so fucking ready for me, sweetheart.” 

And you are—dripping onto the table, slick and aching and pulsing with want. You shift your hips, lining him up, desperate to feel him. Every inch of your body is on fire, begging for the stretch, the pressure, the fullness. 

He reaches down, one hand on your thigh, the other guiding himself to your entrance—and his tip just barely nudges against you, slick and hot. 

Your breath hitches. 

Your eyes meet his—wide, pleading. 

“Please,” you whisper. “I need you.” 

He groans—deep and guttural—and begins to push in. 

You gasp as the tip breaches you—hot and thick and already stretching you more than you thought possible. 

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so big—” 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, breath shuddering. “We’ll go slow.” 

And he does—inch by agonising inch, letting you adjust. Letting your body yield to him. 

Your nails dig into his back as you breathe through it, chest rising and falling with every trembling inhale. The stretch burns, pressure building low and tight, but it’s good. It’s so good. Too good. 

He’s panting against your neck, forehead pressed to your skin. “So tight, baby,” he groans. “You feel like fucking heaven.” 

He pauses, buried only halfway, chest heaving. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel every twitch, every inch still waiting to sink deeper. 

“Can I keep going?” he asks, voice wrecked. 

You nod quickly—too quickly. “Please, Bobby. Need all of you.” 

He kisses you—slow and deep—and presses in again. 

You moan into his mouth, high and breathless, clenching around him as he sinks deeper, deeper still, the fullness dizzying. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your whole body shudders. 

“Almost there,” he whispers. “Just a little more. You’re taking me so fucking well.” 

And finally—finally—his hips press flush to yours. 

You both freeze. 

The air between you stills, hot and heavy. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Between your legs. Everywhere. He’s completely inside of you—thick and deep and overwhelming—and you’ve never felt so full in your life. 

You cling to him, fingers digging into his arms, heart pounding out of control. 

And then it hits you. 

The feeling. The weight of it. The way your body holds him like it was always meant to. The way your chest aches with something so fierce and raw it knocks the breath from your lungs. 

“I love you,” you whisper—it slips out like a secret you’ve kept too long. “Oh my god, I love you.” 

He goes still—completely still. 

Your chest tightens. For one agonising second, you think maybe you’ve ruined it. 

But then— 

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the whole damn world. 

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathes. 

And then his hips draw back—and snap forward, hard. 

You both cry out. 

Your head drops back. His name spills from your lips in a broken moan. It’s too much and not enough all at once—him, everywhere, holding you, filling you, claiming you in the deepest, most perfect way. 

His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like he needs to anchor himself inside you. And all you can do is hold on—eyes wide, chest split open, heart bared—because this? This is everything. 

He is everything. 

Your gasp tears through the air the second he thrusts in again, a raw, desperate sound as your back arches and your nails drag across his shoulders. The stretch is relentless, searing, addictive. You’ve never felt anything like it—so full, so deep, like he’s carved out space inside you and claimed it all for himself. 

“Jesus,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck—you feel unreal.” 

The table jerks under you as he pulls back, just an inch, then sinks in again. Slow. Measured. But it still punches the breath from your lungs. You can feel every inch of him, every thick pulse of his cock dragging against your walls, and it’s almost too much. Almost. 

But you don’t want almost. You want all of him. Ruin and worship. Love and filth. 

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Bob, please—don’t stop.” 

His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, your lips—kissing like a man gone feral. Like he needs you to breathe. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, pushing it up, opening you wider. The next thrust is harder. The table rattles. A plate clatters to the floor. 

“Gonna break the fucking table,” he mutters into your skin, almost in awe, like he can’t believe this is real. His voice is wrecked—low and ragged—completely undone. 

“Let it break,” you choke out. “Just don’t you dare stop.” 

He growls—growls—and his pace picks up. The sound of skin on skin is loud, messy, perfect. His pelvis slaps yours, the rhythm brutal and sweet all at once. Your slick coats him, soaking the tops of your thighs, dripping onto the damn table, and still—it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything. 

“Touch me,” you beg, voice breaking. “Bob, I—please—” 

His hand drops between your bodies instantly, fingers finding your clit like he was born knowing where to touch you. He rubs tight, filthy circles, and your vision whites out. Your head falls back. A loud moan rips from your chest. 

“That’s it,” he pants, watching your face like he’s memorising it. “Come on. Let me feel you. Let me have it.” 

The table shudders with every thrust. Something else crashes to the floor, but you barely register it over the thunder of your own heartbeat and the filthy, perfect sounds of him fucking you. 

His cock drags deep, perfect pressure against every spot inside you. And that heat—God, that unbearable, beautiful heat—builds fast. Sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine. 

“Close,” you gasp. “I’m—I’m so close—” 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the edge of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. “Always got you.” 

He’s getting close. You can feel it—his rhythm falters, his breathing shatters. And then his arms wrap tight around you, strong and shaking, and he murmurs into your hair, “Lay back for me, baby—just like that, I’ve got you.” 

He eases you down against the table—one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh. The wood is cool against your spine, but his body follows, hot and heavy and trembling as he slides back in, deeper than before. A new angle. A devastating one. 

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he bottoms out—so deep it feels like he’s pressing inside your stomach. And then you feel it—his hand trailing down to your lower belly, palm flattening gently just above your pelvis. 

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s me, baby. Right here.” 

You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “Bob—fuck—please—don’t stop—” 

“I’m not stopping,” he swears, voice low and cracked. “Not until I feel you fall apart around me. Not until I know you’re mine.” 

Your body arches, legs trembling, hips chasing his thrusts. His cock hits that spot over and over again, rubbing just right, the pressure building like a storm. His fingers return to your clit—slick and practiced—and that’s all it takes. 

The vase topples. 

Water spills across the table, soaking the cloth, flooding under your shoulders—but you hardly notice. All you can feel is him. All you can hear is your name on his lips, the slap of skin, the scrape of the table legs against the tile. 

“Come with me,” he grits, forehead against yours. “Right now. Let go for me—come on—” 

The coil inside you snaps. Your second orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out—shaking, clenching, blinded by heat. And a heartbeat later, he follows—spilling inside you with a hoarse, broken moan, his hips stuttering, his whole body seizing with it. 

The stove beeps. There’s a pop. Then a low whoosh. 

Flames flicker—and the smoke alarm blares. 

You both freeze—panting, sweating, still locked together—then slowly dissolve into breathless, messy laughter. He doesn’t move. Just leans in, presses a kiss to your damp forehead, and murmurs against your skin, “I love you.” Then another, softer kiss to your lips. “So much.” 

He pulls out—slow, careful—and helps you sit up. You glance over at the little fire crackling in the pot on the stove, eyes going wide. 

“Shit,” you breathe, still dazed. “We—We should fix that.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs, like it physically pains him to let you go. “Yeah, we should.” 

Stark naked, skin slick with sweat, and cum still dribbling down your sore thighs, you hurry into the kitchen. Bob is right behind you, sliding his glasses back on as he grabs a dish towel and tosses it in the sink. You try not to stare—try not to drink in the sight of him standing there like some Michelangelo sculpture come to life—but it’s useless. The way the light catches his bare skin, the way his muscles flex as he soaks the towel until it’s nothing but a dripping rag—it’s impossible not to look. 

When he turns, cheeks pink, lips glossy, eyes glazed—he smirks. Bob Floyd actually smirks. 

“What are you looking at?” he asks, voice rough and teasing. 

You bite your lip, drop your gaze, then drag it back up, slow and deliberate. “Just my hot as fuck husband.” 

His blush deepens, and it makes you giggle. That man just fucked you so good your knees are shaking, but this—a compliment—makes him blush? 

“Watch out,” he murmurs, wringing out the towel. 

You step aside as he lifts the pot lid and smothers the flames. Then he checks the oven, flicks off the stove, and turns back to you, smoke alarm still blaring overhead like it’s part of your own personal soundtrack. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, even as a grin tugs at your lips. “Want to get takeout?” 

He shakes his head. “I think I’d rather have something else.” 

Before you can blink—or even breathe—his hands are on you, sliding under your thighs and lifting you effortlessly until you’re perched on the cold kitchen counter. The marble bites into your skin, but you don’t care. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your slick core pressing to the heat of his stomach. Your bodies flush together, skin igniting where you touch. 

You card your fingers through his damp hair, eyes locking on his behind smudged glasses. “I have to tell you something,” you admit, butterflies swirling fiercely in your stomach. 

His brows pull together. “What is it?” 

You swallow. “I—um, I saw you the other day. When you thought you were home alone... jerking off.” 

His frown fades, but his face stays carefully blank—too blank. Not scandalised. Not surprised. Just watching you. 

Then he nods. “I thought so.” 

You blink. “You’re not creeped out?” 

“No,” he says simply, shaking his head. 

“Even though I made myself cum after watching you?” 

His laugh is soft, low. His breath ghosts across your skin as he ducks his head, hiding his smile in the curve of your shoulder. “I’m not creeped out.” 

His lips brush your neck. “There are things I want to tell you too,” he murmurs, then leans back, eyes piercing. “But first…” His hands tighten on your hips. “Let’s see how much love we can make.” 

Then he’s on you again—lips, tongue, teeth, hands—everywhere. He kisses like he’s starving, touches like he’s claiming. And though you’re aching to hear what he has to say, to dig into all that’s just erupted between you… right now, none of that matters. 

Because Bob Floyd—your best friend, your fake husband, your everything—is about to ruin you all over again. 

And you’re going to let him. Happily. Absolutely. Again. And again. And again. 

[gay-dorito-dust]

Imagine if Bobby was the person manager!reader was going out with! How do you think the Saja boys + the girls would react?

You and @twennari asked similar things so I thought I’d bring both together.

The boys had -somehow- managed to locate where exactly your date was taking place, nothing too fancy, just a well beloved restaurant with a warmth that could be felt even when the door was closed.

They were all adorned in ridiculous outfits that no one with any ounce of self respect would ever be caught in for even a second, once glance within the mirror would’ve have them rethinking every decision they’ve made in their life, but not Saja boys as they were hell bent on seeing who this person that was trying to take you from them.

Yet when they saw who it was, he was the last person any of them would’ve suspected. Your date was Bobby, the manager of Huntrix, and the boys all collectively groaned at the implications of this going forward.

Baby and romance were disheartened by this revelation, yet knew there wasn’t much they could do in this situation without making things worse for themselves in the long run, they also can’t deny that you were having a good time. And if you were having a good time without them was a bit of a blow at first but they know that being overbearing or threatening Bobby will do nothing but push you away and into his arms further.

Baby would huff about how unfair it is but would not let it show on his face, not wanting to let his innermost emotions show unless it was for his own benefit. He didn’t like the idea of you on a date and you on a date with Bobby only made him dislike him just that little bit more, yet he knew that he’ll have to act civil with him for your sake and he’ll do it for you and you alone, though that doesn’t mean he won’t give Bobby the cold shoulder now and then.

He still expects his quality time with you, but he might start writing dis tracks about Bobby in a secret notebook, and keeping it hidden from you. Baby is more than willing to keep you happy, even if it goes against his own happiness.

Romance would be sad that Bobby was being an utter gentleman with you, but it’s how he would’ve treated you if he was the one on a date with you, so he had to give Bobby his flowers when he could. He wanted to see you happy and being spoiled, so seeing you and Bobby having a genuine time together, trading stories and having a good connection in due to your line of work being the same as it brought you both together.

He’s protective over you for a multitude of reasons, he doesn’t like having to share your attention with anyone else, but he’ll have to learn soon enough as to not make things awkward for you and ruin whatever relationship you have with him in the process. There was a time and the place to be selfish and he’ll feel that always whenever he will see you and Bobby in close proximity, but he knows that if he wanted to stay in your good graces then he needed to play nice, even if those niceties with be like that of a double edged sword.

Abby and mystery were sad that they couldn’t do anything about your date with Bobby, knowing that Zoey, Mira and Rumi would be on their asses faster then they could blink.

They were forced to accept that you were on a date with the manager of their rival group, laughing and chatting it up like you were lifelong friends, even if they didn’t like how Bobby would look at you with fond eyes and touch your hand or how you’d laugh and intertwine your fingers with his, showing them without the usage of words of how good Bobby was treating you and it was only the first date of many yet to come.

Jinu is the one with his head clear and able to see that Bobby was not to be harmed in any way. He understood the upset within his group but knew that if any of them acted out, putting their mission at risk in due to their jealously of not having you, then he would have to reprimand them quickly and quietly as possible before it caught wind elsewhere.

He’s got his own thoughts and feelings about the situation. He’s jealous and he’s envious, he’s upset, he’s mad, but he knows that he can’t act upon them without putting himself and the others at risk, he’s meant to lead by example and he needs to do that more then ever. He cares for you just as deeply as the others but can’t dictate your heart if Bobby is the one you happily see a future with, it’s something he’ll have to come to accept sooner or later as there’s no point holding a grudge against Bobby, not when he’s been nothing but respectful of you.

Yet he will keep an eye on him, the protectiveness he felt over you doesn’t fade, it grows stronger and he’ll be keeping a close eye on Bobby and will act accordingly if he found anything he didn’t like. You were priority to him and the group and he won’t allow you to be treated as anything less.

Now as for Zoey, Mira and Rumi, they were absolutely ecstatic that Bobby was going on a date, a gorgeous date as he liked to claim; but they were protective of Bobby and were suspicious on whether or not this date was actually a demon in disguise.

So they too dress in ridiculous disguises and began to follow Bobby on his date and surprise, surprise, the person he’s went on about going on a date with was you! The manager of demonic boy band: Saja Boys.

Now the girls have a level of respect for you because how you tolerated those five men they was behind them, you keep them in line and didn’t allow them to make a fool out of themselves and importantly you, making sure they didn’t get up to anything that would have you on clean up duty and lack of sleep.

Zoey loves you and the fact that you were the one Bobby was on a date with almost made her squeal in happiness because you both look adorable together.

Both overworked managers of two of the most successful groups within the industry, it was a match made in heaven, and yet seeing you both get along like you have for a while was more then enough proof for Zoey to trust you with Bobby. You both understood each other’s workloads and would look out for each other, it was wonderful watching you both laugh and smile at each other as you enjoyed your date.

She hoped that you go on plenty more dates after this, develop your relationship further and deepen it and just in general be happy together. She just knows you’d both make the perfect fit for one another and will gladly make it known whenever possible, maybe even teasing you both if you were to cross paths backstage perhaps? Bobby works himself to the bone and he needs a break even when he insists he didn’t, and if being with you was the way to get him to relax and take the time for himself to breath and enjoy life? Then so be it and she’ll be your biggest cheerleader through and through.

Mira is protective of those closest to her, and Bobby is one of them.

She loves you, don’t get her wrong, but it’s only natural of her to feel on edge or some sort of skepticism towards the demonic group you manage. She was happy that Bobby was on a date, but had her suspicions on who the mystery person could be, if they were only going out with him to get to them and other thoughts like this were within her mind.Mira didn’t want to see Bobby be hurt in any capacity and while she trusts you to not do so, she couldn’t say the same for the five men that seemed to act as though they were your lovers more often then not.

She didn’t like how they’d become borderline obsessed with you and thus would keep a close eye on them in case any of them acted out, it was almost as if she was wanting them to but would reframe from such as you and Bobby didn’t need any more stress that was built upon your shoulders because of them. She smiled softly at how you both seemed to be eager to be closer to one another, shoulder to shoulder as you traded smiles and share a desert between the two of you, looking nothing like the overworked and determined managers in that moment but two people who enjoyed their date together. You both deserve that much after dealing with them and it shouldn’t be ruined, especially not by the Saja Boys who only viewed you as a possession and not human.

Rumi distrusted the group you managed more than she distrusts you.

She doesn’t want them anywhere near Bobby, yet couldn’t help but smile as she saw how happy and relaxed you made Bobby feel, the dark bags under his eyes from excursion almost became none existent whenever he practically beamed at you. That’s all she wants for Bobby, to find someone of a like mindedness as him and someone who could easily make him ease up and relax, and she’s glad he had found that in you as she watched you both genuinely enjoy each others presence.

She also knows that from this point onwards your two groups would be seeing each other more often, and this could be used to her advantage to gauge each Saja boy’s reaction and determine who she should keep the closest eye on, knowing that they’ve become borderline possessive towards you over a short amount of time and so knowing that someone was encroaching on their territory, they were bound to lash out and she would be there to keep you and Bobby out of the line of fire. You were most likely unaware of the true natures of your boys, and thus Rumi saw your date with Bobby just as much of a threat towards you as she saw it a threat to Bobby.

Rumi would make sure that yours and Bobby’s peace was left undisturbed, you both deserve that much after all you’ve done for them, you both deserve to enjoy your date without worry and focus on each other, it’s a look she hoped to see more of in the future as it would reassure her that Bobby was in safe hands; your hands.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

The Matchmaker Assassin

Bob Reynolds x reader

Summary: When Bob realizes how lonely he really is Yelena is quick to pick up on it and sets him up quickly with a friend...he won't embarrass himself...right?

Bob wasn’t sure when the loneliness had crept in. Maybe it had always been there -- buried under guilt and power and the slow, aching process of putting himself back together. For years, he’d been too busy surviving to feel much of anything, and now that he was clean in all body, mind, and soul he actually had time to feel it.

And god, it hurt sometimes.

It hurt to come home to an empty apartment. To eat dinner standing by the sink. To wake up in the middle of the night and have no one beside him but the extra blanket he had on his bed.

He’d tried to ignore it. Tried to pour himself into training, into books and rebuilding and fixing what had been broken. But loneliness was a quiet, persistent thing. It lingered in the corners. It spoke in silence.

He even thought about dating apps once. Spent twenty minutes staring at the “bio” section before deleting it entirely. What the hell was he supposed to say? Hi, I used to be an addict then I became a walking bomb basically and now I fold my laundry instead of it just sitting in the basket for weeks and go to therapy. Wanna grab a coffee? He didn’t think that would really work out very well. 

He didn’t want to explain himself to strangers. He wasn’t sure if he was built for small talk anymore.

And of course, Yelena noticed.

“You’re moping,” she said one afternoon, chewing a piece of his leftover pizza without asking. “You get all squinty and broody when you’re touch-starved. It’s pathetic.”

Bob blinked over the rim of his coffee mug. “What the hell kind of diagnosis is that?”

“A correct one,” she replied flatly. “You named your houseplant Maxwell, Bob. I caught you talking to your microwave Tuesday.”

He cringed remembering that conversation, the worse part was that it was a good conversation.“…Okay. I might be a little lonely.”

She grinned like a shark. “Good. I’m setting you up.”

“What? No. No, no. Yelena, I can’t—”

“She’s a friend. A good one too. You’ll like her. You’re going. Tomorrow. Wear a shirt that doesn’t scream ‘man who talks to plants and kitchen appliances.' Do not embarrass me Roberts.”

Bob didn't know anything about you but he was terrified.

You didn’t know much about Bob Reynolds before that night. Yelena told you he was sweet – with “sad golden retriever eyes and the posture of an anxious oak tree.” You thought she was exaggerating. She really wasn’t.

You walked into the little bookstore café near their complex, not expecting much. A favor to a friend is what you expected that’s all. But then you saw him sitting near the back: tall, broad, fidgeting with a napkin like it had personally insulted him. He stood when you approached--actually stood--and smiled like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

And god, that smile.

“I’m Bob,” he said, offering a hand.

“Yeah,” you said, shaking it. “Yelena told me. She also said you cry during dog movies.”

His ears turned red. “Well I mean only the good ones.”

You teased him the entire first hour, but he gave as good as he could-- in a quiet, dry, completely endearing sort of way. He was nervous, sure, but also funny. Surprisingly sharp. He told stories about accidentally vaporizing vending machines he told you how he once won a free T-shirt by correcting a grammar error on a billboard. You laughed so hard you snorted once -- and he beamed like he’d won the lottery.

The real click happened when he walked you home. Neither of you said much until your porch. You turned to him and asked, “Wanna hold my hand or are you gonna keep pretending you’re not dying to?” He huffed a breath of laughter. “You always that direct?” You shrugged. “You always that obvious?” He smiled. “Only with you, apparently.”

__–__–__–__–__–

Later that night, Bob lay in bed staring at the ceiling, fingers still tingling from where they’d brushed yours.

He grabbed his phone and texted Yelena:

Bob: I think I really like her.

She responded in three seconds flat:

Yelena: I know I do have eyes Bobert you should know by now I am genius. You truly should be worshipping me at this point of our friendship.

Bob just smiled. Because maybe -- after everything -- he could have this. Maybe you were exactly what he hadn’t known he was waiting for.  And maybe Yelena Belova was terrifyingly good at matchmaking.

--_--_--_--_

Your second date was set for the weekend. Bob promised he’d plan everything.

He showed up ten minutes early. Not because he was nervous he absolutely was, nor because he’d changed his shirt twice he absolutely had, but because this time, he wanted to get it right. You weren’t casual. You weren’t forgettable. You were sitting-in-the-back-of-his-mind kind of unforgettable. When you arrived, with your gentle smile and bright eyes, he forgot how to breathe for a second.

“Did you plan all this?” you asked, nodding at the little sidewalk café table already laid out with two drinks and what looked like one of everything from the dessert case.

“I may have panicked and ordered like everything,” he admitted cringing while he rubbed the back of his neck. You laughed. “That’s okay. I like a man with a default in chaotic dessert strategies.”

You spent hours talking. Bob nearly cried laughing at one of your stories. You confessed you liked to eavesdrop in public and make up fake love stories for strangers. He told you he thought he’d never be normal enough to date again -- and you just held his hand across the table, steady and sure.

He walked you home again. This time, your hands brushed on purpose.

“You really are sweet,” you said, voice softer now. “Yelena wasn’t lying.”

“She also said I’d trip over myself, which I have so far managed not to—” Bob tripped on a cracked part of the sidewalk.

You caught his arm. “You were saying?”

He groaned slightly embarrassed, “I’m two for two.”

At your door, the pause came. That charged stillness where neither of you moved — both of you waiting.

“So…” you said, grinning. “Do I get a goodnight hug, or is this the part where you awkwardly salute me and run off?”

“I was leaning toward a dramatic bow,” he offered.

“Even though that sounds amazing to see I think I’ll take a hug.”

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you gently; carefully, like you were something precious. You leaned in and didn’t let go until he finally pulled back, eyes flicking to your lips.

Bob hesitated.

Then, with more courage than coordination, he leaned in… and completely misjudged the angle.

Your noses bumped. Your teeth nearly clicked.

“Ow—shit, sorry,” he blurted. You were laughing. “Wow. We are so smooth.”

“Worst kiss attempt in history?”

“Top three. But you’re still cute.” You grabbed the front of his jacket. “Let’s try again. But this time…you tilt left yeah?”

The kiss was better the second time. Still a little too eager, still smiling into each other’s mouths, but warm and real and just… right. And for the first time in years, Bob felt hope in his chest instead of hollowness.

_–_–_–_–_–_

He showed up at complex the next morning looking like he’d been hit by a truck full of sunshine and bad poetry.

Yelena barely glanced up from her coffee. “You kissed her.”

Bob blinked. “How’d you know?!”

“You look like you cried during a Pixar movie and then got laid.”

“Okay look! Everyone cried when we watched Coco…” Yelena raised her eyebrow making Bob sigh and nod, “Yes. I kissed her.”

“And?” she asked, sipping dramatically.

“It was so good,” Bob said, practically glowing. “We bumped noses at first, but then she laughed and actually kissed me and--Yelena, I swear I could feel the planet tilt. She made me feel like I wasn’t some walking disaster. Like I was just… me.”

Yelena rolled her eyes hearing his dreamy sigh. “Disgusting. You’re so in love.”

“I’m not in love!” he insisted. “I mean--I just met her that'd be so soon like scary soon ya know and I don't want to scare her off...but also… maybe?”

She stared him down. “If you mess this up, I will break both your knees.”

“Understandable.”

Then she softened. Just a flicker. “I’m happy for you. Really. You deserve this.”

Bob blinked before getting a teasing smirk on his face. “Wait--was that… are you being nice to me?”

“Shut up,” she snapped, throwing a pen at him. “Go text your little girlfriend before you start writing her poetry in your mission logs.”

He didn’t even deny it. Just grinned and pulled out his phone.

Bob: Last night was perfect. Wanna get dinner tonight?

You: You bumped your nose into mine and still managed to be cute. You’re dangerous, Reynolds.

He melted. Yelena groaned. “God help me. He’s smitten.” And he was.

Because maybe the world was still a mess. Maybe there were still bad days and echoes of old chaos. But now, when he got home, his phone lit up with a text from you. And that quiet ache in his chest?

It didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed :) If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

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[fanficsat12am]

You were never supposed to matter (1)

Targeting the fans was only the beginning. If he truly wants to bring down HUNTR/X, Jinu knows he has to strike at their core by focusing on one of their beloved managers, (Y/N). But what happens when the demon prince of pop finds himself falling for the very heart he planned to break?

wc: 1.9k

divider credits go to @hyuneskkami 💛

Letting out a sigh, your shoulders droop in exhaustion, your marbled countertop now looking like the softest mattress in all of Korea. With the way the Saja Boys have been climbing the charts lately, Rumi’s voice disappearing, and the backlash from the canceled live performance, you had no idea how you were supposed to manage this nightmare.

You knew about the girls’ second life—how they protected the world from Gwi-Ma’s demons while maintaining the perfect image of K-pop idols. You were one of the few people Rumi trusted with her secret, having accidentally seen the marks on her back during a fitting. After years of working with HUNTR/X, you’d gotten good at spinning lies to Bobby and the others: exploding demons? Special effects. The girls falling from the sky mid-rehearsal? Just some ambitious wire work. But with the recent threat of the hot, muscular demon boy band, you had been on your toes for days, coordinating with the PR team on how to keep the girls afloat amongst their competitors. 

Your eyelids begin to droop, heavy from exhaustion—until something shifts.

The air changes. The night breeze picks up, colder now, sharper. 

Your eyes snap open. You reach back, grabbing the nearest knife from the block. As you spin around, your blade lands inches away from a familiar figure—a raven-haired boy standing in your kitchen. 

“Easy, easy, easy,” he says, hands raised in mock surrender. As he takes a step closer, the streaks of moonlight seeping through the curtains reveal him in his human form—the one plastered across billboards and fangirl daydreams.

And who could blame them?

He was the epitome of perfection. The sharp jawline, the tousled black hair, the lean frame that moved with dancer precision—it was a weapon in itself. He was sculpted to charm, built to be adored. Even now, bathed in silver light, he looked less like a demon and more like a dream.

But it was his eyes that made you hesitate—those honey-colored irises, warm and gleaming with something almost human. Almost.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” you demand, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he replies calmly.

“Oh sure, because trusting a demon has never gone wrong before,” you snap, stepping closer, the blade still pointed at him.

But he doesn’t flinch.

“Well... your little friend believed me when I promised to keep her secret. Purple hair with demon marks sound familiar?”

That stops you. Just for a moment. Just enough.

Jinu sees it—and steps forward, gently pressing a finger to the tip of your knife and guiding it away.

“Now that I have your attention,” he says calmly, “I want to help you.”

You let out a sharp laugh. “And what makes you think I’d ever believe you?”

He sighs, gaze lowering. “I don’t expect you to. I just… I want to be like her. To be free. But until they reach the Golden Honmoon, we’ll never escape Gwi-Ma’s control.”

Your jaw tightens. “You have those marks for a reason.”

“I made a mistake—”

“No,” you snap. “You made a choice.”

Your grip tightens on the knife. “And that’s why I can never trust someone like you.”

In a split second, the blade flies from your hand—but before it can touch him, he vanishes in a puff of violet smoke. The knife hits the wall with a dull thunk, then clatters to the wooden floor.

A small, pale blue card flutters down from where he once stood. You hesitate before picking it up.

A cartoon duck smiles on the front.

You open it.

Inside, in delicate handwriting, it reads:

“Come find me when you’re ready to listen.”

You roll your eyes, toss the card into the bin, and fall back onto the couch with an exhausted sigh.

But as the night settles in, you can’t help but wonder, why did Rumi trust him? And why, deep down, did part of you want to believe him too.

__________________________________

As you watched the girls practice the dance for what felt like the umpteenth time, your mind kept wandering back to last night’s encounter. There had to be a catch. Demons were all the same—selfish, vile, cruel.

So what did he really want?

The memory of his honey-colored eyes lingered like a bruise in your thoughts. Warm, almost sincere—but lies always wore a pretty face.

So many questions spun through your head like a whirlpool, dragging you under until—

“Helloooo?”

You blinked. Zoey was waving her hand inches from your face.

“Earth to (Y/N)?” she teased, dragging out the last word.

Your eyes widened, snapping back to the three girls now staring at you.

“You okay?” Mira asked, head tilting, brows furrowed with a mix of concern and suspicion. “You’ve been acting… different today.”

Zoey pipes up again, “Yeah, you’ve been looking at us like—” She tilts her head to the side, eyes wide, like she’s under a spell.

You giggle softly. “Yes, I’m fine. Just thinking.” You send them a reassuring smile.

They all nod, understanding. You always had a lot on your plate as a manager.

“We’ll go ahead and call it a day,” Rumi says. “Let’s pick it back up tomorrow.”

The other girls sigh in relief, clearly eager to be swallowed by the nearest couch. As they turn to pack their things, you reach out and gently grab Rumi by the wrist. She stops, her violet hair swaying slightly as she looks back at you.

“Can we talk?” you whisper.

Her brows crease. “Yeah, sure, uhm…” She glances over to Zoey and Mira. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up later.”

“Sounds good,” Mira calls. “See you tomorrow, (Y/N)!”

“Bye, (Y/N)!” Zoey waves excitedly before leaving with her pink-haired companion.

Once the door clicks shut behind them, the room grows quieter.

You turn to Rumi, wasting no time.

“Have you been talking to Jinu?” Your voice is firm. “And don’t lie to me.”

She stiffens. Her eyes dart away, debating silently. Then, quietly—

“Yes.”

You let go of her hand as if burned, staring at her like she just suggested disbanding HUNTR/X.

“Rumi…”

“It’s not what you think—”

“Not what I think?” Your voice sharpens. “Rumi, he’s a demon! One of the very monsters you’ve sworn to hunt and destroy. You’ve hated their kind since you were a little girl!”

She hesitates, but then… she speaks.

“He’s different.”

She bites her lip. “He’s not like the others we’ve fought. He just… he doesn’t enjoy the hurting. It’s like he’s trapped in something he didn’t ask for.” She pulls her sleeve up slightly, revealing the faint glowing marks etched into her skin. 

“People change,” she says, voice low. “Sometimes… they just need a reason to.”

Before you could respond, the studio lights flickered once… twice… then died. The room plunged into darkness.

“Get out,” Rumi said sharply, her voice instantly shifting into that protective, no-nonsense tone. “Now.”

“Wait, what are you—”

“Go!” she shouted, already dashing in the opposite direction.

Heart pounding like a war drum in your chest, you grabbed your phone with trembling hands and fumbled to switch on the flashlight. The weak beam flickered to life, cutting through the thick veil of darkness as you sprinted down the hallway, footsteps echoing against the studio walls.

But halfway through, you skidded to a stop—your breath caught in your throat.

A low, sickening growl echoed from the shadows ahead. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t even close.

Then came the sound of claws—wet, ragged, scraping against the walls. From the cracks and corners, they emerged—a horde of demons, crawling out like living smoke. Half-shadow, half-nightmare. Spines jagged like broken glass. Eyes glowing red in the dark. Limbs bending wrong, too many joints, too many teeth.

You turned to run—but they were faster. One leapt toward you, its mouth splitting open in a shriek that pierced your skull.

You screamed, stumbling back, and instinctively squeezed your eyes shut.

You braced for the pain. For the end.

But it never came.

Instead, a feral snarl ripped through the air, so loud and guttural it made your bones rattle. The sickening crunch of impact followed, like something had been thrown straight into the wall. Hard.

Your eyes snapped open.

There, standing between you and the demon pack, was a tall figure draped in a jet-black hanbok, its fabric swaying gently like smoke in the still air.

“Jinu?” you whispered

But not the Jinu you knew.

His human illusion had fallen away. He wore a traditional black gat, its ribbon fluttering in the unnatural wind that had suddenly stirred. From beneath the wide brim, his eyes burned golden—not warm, but wild, predatory. Smoke, thick and purple-black, coiled around the edges of his silhouette.

His body moved like liquid shadow, sleek and elegant, but every step oozed restrained violence. The demon who had attacked you lay crushed against the wall in a heap of limbs, twitching before going still.

Jinu didn’t even glance back.

He didn’t speak.

But as the others lunged at him, he moved with a speed that was inhumane.

Effortless. Precise. Beautiful in a way that made your breath catch and your spine crawl.

He cut through them like a blade of darkness—one clawed hand dragging a demon to the ground, the other summoning a flick of searing smoke that split through flesh like fire through paper. Each motion was deliberate, calculated, protective—but brutal.

You stared, frozen.

Not because you were afraid.

But because you understood.

He hadn’t come for them.

He came for you.

You watched as he dealt with the last of them, holding it by the throat and with a crack of finality, letting it fall limp to the ground—it’s body fading into ashes. He looks back to you, but the look of anger and bloodshed in his bright golden eyes was gone, now back to a warm hue. The silence seemed to stretch between the two of you, almost palpable. He walks towards you. Every step echoed in your ears, louder than your own heartbeat. Your instincts screamed—Run. Turn away. Don’t let him get close. But you stay frozen in your spot. He stopped just inches away, closer than you should’ve ever let a demon get. He raised his hand slowly. You flinched and shut your eyes, breath hitching sharply. 

This is it, he’s going to kill me himself. 

Instead, you felt his ice-cold finger lifted your chin gently, his touch featherlight. Your eyes fluttered open. You find his gaze inspecting every inch of your face, his bows furrowing just the slightest as he memorized every detail. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, a hint of worry in his voice. 

You nodded, though your voice trembled. “Y-yeah.”

He let out a soft breath, the corner of his lips curling into the faintest smile. “Good.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then his expression shifted—just slightly, like a storm creeping back in behind his eyes.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he murmured, gaze dropping for a second. 

Before you can speak, he steps back. The smoke curling around his form starts to rise again, swallowing him like mist.

“Wait—” you call out, reaching a hand toward him

But he’s already fading.

“Don’t follow me,” he says, voice soft but clear. “Not until you’re ready.”

Then, just like before, he vanishes into a ripple of violet haze.

You’re left standing in silence. The hallway, once haunted by demons, now feels too still. Too empty.

And then… something flutters gently to the floor.

Your eyes lower.

Another card.

Same pale blue. Same cartoon duck. But now, taped to the back, a single ticket—National Theater of Korea. Tomorrow. 8 p.m.

You pick it up slowly, heart thudding in your ears.

Inside the card, in that same careful handwriting:

“Come find me. I’ll be waiting.”

You want to throw it away.

You should throw it away.

But instead, your fingers tighten around it. You stare at it for a moment longer… then quietly tuck it into your pocket.

[thatonegrimm]

Hello Grimm !

It’s a pleasure send you an ask for the first time, if I’m not writing this right, feel free to tell me.

I wanted to request a one shot (or whatever it’s called, I’m not used to these terms, sorry) with the Saja Boys (separately) with a reader who is always innocent and sweet and then the boys find out that they write really dark stories, like thrillers with morally gray characters and that go highly philosophical about the corruption and hypocrisy of humanity, you can write them dating the reader or not dating them but crushing on them, whichever you’re comfortable with !

I hope it was okay and that this made sense lol, have a good day/evening/night !

Hello, and welcome!! 💌 You absolutely nailed the ask — it was clear, thoughtful, and gave me everything I needed to work with! This one leans romantic-crush-adjacent, so you can read it as dating or just tension building — whatever feels right for you. It’s written as a drabble set, with each-reacting separately. Hope you enjoy!

"What Sweet People Don’t Say Out Loud"

Summary: The Saja Boys find out their sunshine might have a darker mind than expected.

----------------------------

🧿 Jinu

Jinu finds your writing by accident. You'd left your laptop open to a document titled “Cured By Fire: A Moral Treatise on Manufactured Innocence” while you stepped away to make tea.

He’d only meant to close the screen — honestly. But curiosity got the better of him. The title alone didn’t match the person who giggles at animal memes and says “oopsies” when they trip over a pillow.

A few scrolls in, he forgets about the tea.

The story unravels like a slow-burning reckoning. Government corruption, religious rot, and a protagonist who justifies arson as “a cleansing act in a city that won’t admit it’s already ash.”

When you return, he’s sitting rigidly upright, eyes wide behind his glasses. He looks… lost.

“Everything okay?” “You… wrote this?” “Uh. Yeah. Is it… bad?” “No, no, it’s—” He gestures vaguely. “It’s just… disturbingly good?” He pauses. “How long have you been thinking about the illusion of free will?” “Since middle school.” “Oh. Huh.”

He doesn’t touch his tea for an hour. You catch him rereading the ending later, brows furrowed.

“I think your villain might be right,” he mumbles, almost sheepish. Then softer, like it snuck up on him: “You’re… kind of brilliant.”

--------------------------------

💪 Abby

You print your story out for him — all 17 pages — and hand it over like it’s fragile. You're smiling nervously, chewing your lip.

“Be nice?” “Always.”

He’s expecting poetry. Something light. Maybe a whimsical fairytale about cats.

What he gets is a psychological thriller about a prison warden who slowly manipulates both inmates and guards into losing track of who’s imprisoned who. The tone is cold. Surgical. Inescapably brilliant.

By the time he finishes, he’s still staring at the final paragraph like it called him out personally.

“...Did you just make me root for a guy who drowns his boss in a koi pond?” “A little bit.” “I’m scared of you. In the best way.”

He sets the story down, still processing.

Then looks at you with open awe.

“You hide this whole part of yourself behind cute sweaters and sunny playlists, huh?” “...Maybe.” “That’s wild. I love it.”

He throws an arm around your shoulder, pulls you into his side, and presses a kiss to your temple like it’s instinct.

“Just remind me not to piss you off too bad. I’d like to stay above water.”

--------------------------------

📚 Mystery

You hadn’t meant for anyone to read it.

You keep your darker writing tucked away in a leather-bound notebook, usually hidden under your pillow. But Mystery finds it while you’re asleep �� not on purpose, just straightening the blankets after you passed out reading.

He flips it open absently. Stops flipping five seconds later.

The story is unlike anything he’s read — a first-person monologue from a vigilante priest who sees sins as carvings, both literal and metaphorical. The prose is lyrical. Unnerving. Devastating.

He reads it in silence, unmoving. The kind of stillness he only slips into when something truly grips him.

When you wake up, you find him sitting on the edge of the bed, notebook in his lap, expression unreadable.

“Did you dream this?” “No... I wrote it a few weeks ago.” “It reads like it hurt.”

You wait for him to laugh. Or be weirded out. But he just closes the notebook gently and places it beside you.

“Everyone sees you as light.” He looks at you. “But you write like someone who understands what darkness actually costs.”

He lies beside you after, shoulder to shoulder, silent. But when he presses his forehead to yours, there’s reverence in it.

-----------------------------------

💋 Romance

It’s open mic night. Romance volunteers to read your piece out loud without looking it over first — he says he wants to be surprised.

He is.

The story is a sleek, cutting piece about a world where people wear masks that reflect their social status — and the one character who dares to shatter their own. It reads like a manifesto in disguise, full of quiet rage and philosophical tension.

By the end, the audience is dead silent. Romance lowers the paper slowly.

“So.” He clears his throat. “This was not about bunnies.” You nod. “And you wrote this?” “Yup.” “This explains… so much.”

Later, once the adrenaline wears off, you find him leaning against the hallway wall backstage, still holding the pages like they’re made of fire.

“You wrote this like a scalpel,” he says. “Soft hands. Sharp intent.” He laughs, shakes his head. “You had me out here baring your philosophical teeth to a full room. I’ve never been prouder.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours.

“Sweet, dangerous, and literary. What a combination.”

--------------------------------------

🔥 Baby

He finds your notebook in his backpack two days after you borrowed it. He flips it open thinking it’s a to-do list or grocery note.

Instead, he finds this:

“They call me innocent because I smile in public. But no one ever asks why the monsters in my stories look like men in suits.”

He stops chewing his gum.

Turns the page.

Keeps reading.

And then, at 2:12 AM, you get this:

baby🖕: wtf baby🖕: ur a menace baby🖕: u write like ur planning a quiet revolution and i’d probably help

When you see him the next morning, he tosses the notebook at you and crosses his arms.

“You have no right being that nice and also writing like this.” “You didn’t like it?” “Are you kidding? I read it three times. I might be in love with your brain.”

He grabs your face, thumb brushing your cheek, gaze intense.

“You’re soft and terrifying. That’s hot.” Then he smirks. “Just don’t ever base a villain on me, okay?”

You don’t answer. You definitely already did.

-------------------------------

M-List

[shidoglazer]

doing the “think fast im another girl!” trend on bllk boys

ft sae rin kaiser nagi reo shidou

sae

“think fast im another girl!” you lean in to hug him and he immediately shoves you away. its only natural that a footballer has quick reflexes right? you ended up on the floor, bewildered as he looks at you with the nastiest side eye. “its common sense to not overstep with celebrities. are you dense?” he knows its one of your silly pranks, but he’ll entertain you anyways

“babe-” you burst out laughing and he crosses his arms and looks at you with a glare. “its sae to you. babe is for my girlfriend.” and at this point, you can’t stop cackling while he rolls his eyes and goes back to washing the dishes

rin

“rin, think fast im another girl!” he’s surprised, eyes widening every so slightly as your hand trails to his jaw and starts caressing it, “oh wow your jawline is soo shar-” he immediately backs off from you and put his hands in front of his body like a security guard. “..don’t touch me?..” he says with a confused tone, because he didn’t even have a single second to process it before you went on with your act.

“oh but babeee! don’t be like that!” you lean in again, and this time he really doesn’t know what to do. did the act end? “oh, okay.” he says, still unsure and you immediately have a dark aura radiating off you. “excuse me? okay? you’re gonna say okay when another girl calls you babe?” oh. this is when the act ended. “i mean. back off. fuck off, even. i have a girlfriend and she can maul your face off.” and its hard to keep up the angry act when his clueless face makes you want to giggle. “you’re insufferable!” you say as you squeeze his cheeks together and kiss him.

kaiser

“michael, think fast i’m another girl!” you lean in, your hands leaning against the arm rests on either side of his body while he stares at you at a disinterested look. he knows he’d never act like this in a real life scenario, but he just wants to get you riled up for the fun of it. “can you cook?” you narrow your eyes at him, and you continue your act anyways. “..yes??” “can you clean?” “yeeess??” “alright. can you shut the fuck up? ‘cuz my other woman doesn’t do that.” “EXCUSE ME??”

you tug on his ear and drag him to the ground, and well. long story short, now he has a big, red, swollen bruise on his head

nagi

“sei, think fast im another girl!” you wrap your arms around his chest from the back as he plays his switch, “ooh what’re you playing? you’re so handsome!” and all he does is ignore you at first, and when he beats the level and theres a short intermission, he gets up and walks to the other side of the couch, plopping down and immediately sinking into it like he’s some sort of liquid.

“..hey don’t be like that! you’re not even a liiitle interested in meee?” you jog over to the side of the couch he’s at and start to play with his hair, and now he finally talks. “lea’me alone.” “whyyy? we’d be such a good match!” “uhh..” he takes awhile to reply, focusing on his game. only after a few seconds of silence he finally responds. “cuz my girlfriend could kill you. and she’s pretty. you’re not, so.” and you end up on the floor beside him wheezing.

reo

“reoo, think fast im another girl!” you start twiddling with his hair “you’re so cutee!” and not even a second after, he’s swatted your hand away and gave you the most judgemental side eye ever. eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowed and twitching, lips in a frown— “get your dirty hands off of me. who even are you?” and this is genuinely the first time you’ve seen this side of reo.

“jeeesus, okay babe i see you!” you giggle, immediately out of your act, but reo wasn’t. “not the peasant calling me babe.. get out of my way.” and theres a long pause. “reo.” another pause. “the acts over.” its like a switch flipped in him, and he’s acting like the other persona doesn’t even exist. “ooh who’s this pretty lady??” his hands trail to your waist and pulls you in closer, and you squint your eyes at him.

“not the peasant from 5 seconds ago??” “completely 2 different people, that was the peasant, not my glorious princess in front of me right now.” you giggle and playfully hit him, leaning into his touch anyway

shidou

“ryu, think fast im another girl!” you lean in to hug him, but he’s immediately slammed you onto the bed (would be the floor if you were actually another girl) “oh hell nah.” he runs to the bathroom to wash his hands after touching you, overdramatic as usual before running back, hand on his hip and the other fixing his hair.

“first of all, my wife is beautiful, and you’re an ugly whore, and i’m beautiful too, so if 1 plus 1 equals 2, why do you think you have a right to touch me? second of all-” he was about to go all off on you if you didn’t cut him off “okay, okay! jesus christ ryu, you really don’t know the concept of holding back??” you say as if you’re disappointed, yet the smile stretching on your face proving uou wrong.

“not when it comes to my pretty princess.” and you just giggle at that, getting up to kiss him but he backs off again, “woah woah woah, is this my princess or the whore?” “the princess, ryu.” “alright, just doublechecking.” he leans into to kiss you, smiling a little as he does so

[makingsenseofwhathappened]

Thinking of telling them to stop?

Let’s say you’re being harassed at work and you're not ready to go to HR or file a complaint. Maybe you’re not sure it “counts" or you’ve heard HR can make things worse (they really can). Or it could be you don’t want a whole investigation stormclouding over your life. You just want it to stop!

Well, you’re not alone. And here’s what to start thinking about before you wander into the wild woods of workplace warbles.

1. Remember: You don’t owe them anything A lot of harassers already know they’re crossing lines. You don’t need to give them a wake-up call. You’re not their coach, therapist, or HR rep. Changing or reprimanding them is not your job.

2. Don’t downplay it just because it’s common Lots of people deal with low-level harassment. Creepy comments, weird touches, “jokes” that cross a line. Just because something isn’t criminal doesn’t mean it’s not harmful. If it’s making your job harder or making you feel unsafe, that’s real.

2. Never do it because someone told you to If a manager or HR person says, “Just go talk to them,” hit the brakes. That’s called informal resolution, and it’s only okay when it’s 100% your choice.

3. You don’t owe them politeness Some people worry about being “mean” when confronting someone. But if someone is making you uncomfortable, it’s not your job to manage their feelings. You can be direct. You can be blunt. You can be cold. You don’t have to soften your boundary.

4. If you’re going to speak up, plan it This doesn’t have to be a big performance. But if you do decide to say something, think it through in advance. Choose a private but safe moment. Keep it short. Say what you need to say and then stop. You don’t owe them a debate.

5. The goal is clarity, not a perfect script You don’t need to give a TED Talk. You just need to be clear. “Don’t touch me at work.” “That joke wasn’t funny.” “This isn’t appropriate.” You can say it in a way that works for you, but the point is: make sure they can’t pretend they didn’t know.

6. Don’t expect an apology Some people will apologize. Some won’t. Some will get defensive or act confused or tell you that you’re overreacting. None of that means you were wrong to speak up. People don’t have to agree with your boundary for you to have one

7. Expect weird reactions Sometimes people apologize. But they tend to deny it, make it your fault, or get icy. That’s not on you. That’s who they are when they’re caught.

8. If it makes you feel unsafe, skip it Talking to a harasser can be risky, especially if they have power over you, or if you think they’ll retaliate. You simply don’t need to light a match to prove there’s a fire.

9. Document it anyway Even if you’re not making a formal report, keep notes. Dates, times, what happened, what was said. If you tell them to stop, write that down too. If things escalate, that documentation can help you later, and you’ll be glad you kept it.

10. You don’t need to forgive Confronting someone doesn’t mean you have to make peace with them. You can ask someone to stop without getting closure. You’re allowed to walk away still feeling angry, shaken, or done. This is about your boundary and not their redemption.

The prime directive: do what keeps you safe That’s it. You aren't required to be brave or “fair.” or, hell, even consistent . You just have to survive this in a way that lets you keep your power intact. Whatever choice helps you do that, that’s the right one!

TL:DR / You want to dig a little deeper, clickarino right here.

Thanks all for reading. I hope my long-ish posts are thought-provoking and problem-solving in some way for some of you out there. Be safe lovelies on your travels 💘

[puck-luck]

heya Andy! I’m so so so happy for you and proud of all that you’ve reached within your one year!!! I’m especially happy that we’ve gotten to know each other🥹 I absolutely adore YOU.❤️

could I please get a chai latte with peppermint (frat!quinn) with a little bit of cold foam!

maybe something like: frat!quinn steals the it girl from his rival fraternity president when he sees him not treating her right. (talking down to her, ignoring her, talking to other girls?) she’s stand offish at first with his rep as being the quiet yet cocky one but when he gets her alone? pics that inspo my thots⇩

got carried away but what can you do... when frat!quinn is helping you cheat on your toxic older frat boyfriend matthew tkachuk...... well. it's an appealing offer. we'll see where these two go in the future ;)

thank you cay (@rowdyluv) for sending this request and thank you for all of the support you've shown me over this past year :) i am thankful for you!! it's always nice to make friends on tumblr dot com <3

It’s homecoming week and you’re just about fed up with your boyfriend, Matthew. He, his brother Brady, and his father are somewhere in the Chi Phi house, leaving you stranded on the lawn. His mom is at the hotel with Taryn, since she’s not old enough to drink yet and Matthew didn’t want to bring his younger sister to the frat. You shouldn’t be upset with him, really– it’s his senior year. It’s his final football season, his final homecoming game. You’ve still got a whole year ahead of you, a junior to Matthew’s senior.

You’re nursing your drink, shaking the ice from the edges of your glass. You like the brothers, but you’re not close with them. None of your friends are here because Matthew doesn’t like them. They’re over at Xi Chi, the frat next door who’s also having a homecoming pregame. 

Despite having been elected sweetheart of Chi Phi just a few weeks ago, with heavy campaigning on Matthew’s part, you cross the invisible boundary between frat houses and make your way into the Xi Chi backyard. A brunet boy materializes at your side, cradling a solo cup in his hand.

“You’re Matt’s girlfriend,” he says. “Y/N.”

When you look over, you recognize him too. This is Brady’s friend. He went to Brady’s birthday dinner and sat at the other end of the table, quiet but quippy. He always had something to say at just the right time and Matthew elbowed you when you blatantly laughed at… Quincy?... ‘s joke.

“Yeah, and you’re… I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name,” you apologize genuinely, touching the boy’s hand. Brady is a year younger than you, so this guy must be a sophomore. Matthew threw a fit when he got home from that birthday dinner full of sophomores, declaring that he needed a night out with his boys– and he went. It was too late for you to make plans with your friends and you had to paint a cooler for Matthew for formal anyway, so you stayed in that night.

Luckily, this guy doesn’t seem offended. He chuckles. “Quinn,” he says. “What are you doing over here? Chucky’s not wondering where you are?”

“No, not today,” you reply. “He’s with his dad.”

Quinn nods. “Oh, yeah, Brady said Keith was coming into town for homecoming. Where are your friends?”

“Around here somewhere.” You continue on, describing what your friends were wearing in the picture they sent you this morning.

Quinn cringes. “I think they left a little while ago,” he says, breaking the news gently.

“Oh.” You don’t know what else to say.

“Here, hang with me,” Quinn offers. “I was just going to play pong with Petey and Demmer. Matt knows them. He likes them. We’ll keep you from talking to any of the guys he doesn’t fuck with, yeah?”

Just the mention of talking to guys Matthew doesn’t like makes your blood pressure spike. He’s gotten in one too many drunken brawls with your male friends and acquaintances, his jealousy tainting his vision red. You hate seeing him fighting, especially when you’re the one who has to drag him away. There have been a couple of times that people from your classes have stopped talking to you after Matthew threatens them. It’s just easier to avoid.

You agree to play pong with the boys, laughing with slim Petey and sweet Demmer. Quinn stands beside you, chuckling and jabbing back at the boys– and you– when they make cutting jokes. You feel comfortable next to him, laughing and growing more loose as you consume more beer.

You and Quinn lose the game, which would be sad enough without the tall boy you’re required to shotgun after losing. You’ve got a pleasant buzz afterward and Quinn offers to accompany you while you get another drink from the kitchen, his own tipsy smile convincing you that it’s a good idea to end up alone with him.

He talks with you as you fill a cup with jungle juice, the sharp taste of vodka mixing with the somewhat chemical flavor of cheap Hawaiian Punch. You drink one cup and make Quinn his own when you fix up your second, talking with him all the while.

His lips are stained red and his eyes are bright when he crushes his cup and tosses it into the messy frat sink. His hair falls messily forward as he fixes his backwards cap, the smile on his face stunning you.

You make either the worst mistake or best decision of your life in a split second, driven by the drinks and the genuine attention Quinn has given you. You kiss him right there, in the Xi Chi kitchen, with your boyfriend and his family just next door.

Better yet, Quinn kisses you back. He cups your butt with both hands, pulling you close and keeping you flush with him. He kisses messily, lazy and hungry at the same time. You feel yourself growing dizzy from his touch and his taste, tongue working into Quinn’s mouth to chase the thrill of desire. 

He’s greedy with you, lifting you up onto the counter and continuing to kiss you. Quinn grinds against your core, standing between your legs and running his hands all along your body. It’s good and you can feel how badly he wants you, how badly you want him, from the tension pulsing where your bodies connect. 

“Are you going to the game?” Quinn asks between breathless kisses.

You snap out of the moment. You forgot– actually forgot– you weren’t kissing Matthew. Quinn’s voice startles you, then the guilt sets in. “Oh my God,” you think aloud. “Oh my God.”

Quinn lifts his hands from your body immediately. 

“You can’t tell Matthew,” you instruct, hopping down from the counter and fixing your outfit. “You can’t tell Brady.”

“I swear,” Quinn promises, extending his pinkie to you. “I won’t tell them.”

You go to leave, pushing past Quinn, but he catches your arm.

“Look– Matthew’s not good to you,” Quinn says in a low voice. “You know it. I know it. If any part of you enjoyed what we just did… you know where to find me.” 

He releases your arm, freeing you to flee, but you feel rooted in place. After a moment, you shake the feeling away. You can’t deal with this right now– there’s no time to process that you just kissed another boy, another boy who affirmed that your boyfriend isn’t good for you, not when that boyfriend is probably wondering where you are next door. You need to appear before he gets suspicious and thinks something is happening, something exactly like this.

“Just–” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “I can’t do this right now. I have to go.”

A small smile appears on Quinn’s red lips. “Okay,” he says. “Good luck, Y/N. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

You run back to the Chi Phi party, back to Matthew, but there’s a niggling voice in the back of your head for the rest of the night: you liked kissing Quinn. A LOT more than kissing Matthew.

[femmesport]

Connected - Part 2

warnings: suggestive themes, language wc: 6k an: wow... here are 6k words of an unedited disaster. i know i said this will only be two parts, but i started writing and suddenly i needed a third part. please remember, i love Aubrey and know she is not like this at all - i needed her character to have some anger in her though, so sorry!

The past few weeks have been fun. Azzi and Paige were sneaking around. They were getting to know each other and each other’s body in a way that was so intimate.

All was going well, but it was hard to get to know someone when you could only hang out at certain times and had to sneak about before anyone noticed. The pair was sure that KK, Jana, and Lauren all knew what was going on, but they still chose to keep this between them.

It was late one evening after Azzi’s practice. Lauren had gone out to dinner with a few friends, and Paige had come over. Azzi was sitting up on her bed with her legs out in front of her. Paige was laying down with her head on Azzi’s lap. She had her phone also on Azzi’s leg while she was scrolling.

Azzi had been scrolling through her phone with her other hand running gently through Paige’s hair. She swears that her phone knew she was up to no good. She kept getting TikToks about secret relationships. It made her skin crawl and a feeling of guilt wedged its way between her ribs.

“Do you ever feel guilty?” Azzi asked so softly that Paige was unsure if she heard the words.

“Hm?” Paige hums out against Azzi’s leg.

“Do you ever feel guilty? Like about this?” Azzi spoke up a bit.

Paige paused her scrolling and disconnected herself from Azzi. She sat up and turned to the girl who looked so soft and upset. Paige reached out grabbing Azzi’s cheeks with her thumbs brushing against her face. Azzi nuzzled into the feeling.

“I don’t feel guilty about how I feel. I don’t feel guilty about being with you, that part is natural,” Paige starts, “but, I also don’t love lying to my best friend…that doesn’t feel great.”

Her acknowledgement both soothed and further upset Azzi. She felt so guilty going behind her sister’s back. Not only did her sister not know she liked girls, she didn’t know that she was in her bedroom cuddled up with her best friend who she had done not so friendly things with.

“I think I want to come out to her,” Paige paused at Azzi’s words, “not about us…well not yet. But, I want to tell her I like girls” Azzi whispered out the last part and Paige smiled softly.

She leaned in and kissed Azzi softly, “whatever you want to do. I have your back.”

Azzi looked at Paige and saw the softness that fell over her face and the look of genuine adoration. She couldn’t believe this was real. She couldn’t believe that being with someone could actually feel like this.

Hoping to not let her emotions take over for her, Azzi leaned forward wrapping her arms around Paige and resting her head on her shoulder. She squeezed tightly and Paige chuckled before returning the hug with just as much effort.

Paige began scooting down slightly with Azzi still wrapped up in her arms. Now Paige had been laying down with Azzi laying on her chest. The two held on with a softness for each other that neither had experienced. This type of feeling was big and all consuming.

The two had been laying in this position unmoving with gentle soothing touches for a while when there was a banging on Azzi’s bedroom door.

“You have a minute to separate, get clothes on, and collect yourselves before I come in there. I am in the middle of a crisis here,” Lauren dramatically wails from outside Azzi’s door.

Azzi giggles and rolls off of Paige who was also smiling. The two simply create a bit of space and sit up.

“You can come in,” Azzi calls out.

Lauren bursts in with her hands over her eyes dramatically reaching out to make sure she doesn’t bump into anything, “are you sure we’re good? That wasn’t the full minute.”

Azzi sighs at her antics and Paige just smirks. “Nothing was happening, you are so dramatic.”

Lauren uncovers her eyes and frowns at the two, “you have a gorgeous girl in your bedroom and nothing is happening? Wow, both of us must be fucking losers.” She groans dramatically, throwing herself onto the end of Azzi’s bed.

Azzi flushes but laughs at whatever was happening. Paige’s grin never faded and her eyes shifted back over to Azzi with a soft look. Her eyes always seemed to be on Azzi.

“Alright, are you going to keep being dramatic? Or, are you going to tell me what happened?” Azzi nudges Lauren with her foot and Lauren looks up at Azzi with a glare.

“This is not dramatic, this is serious stuff,” her face was all pouty and it made Azzi laugh more, “seriously…listen, I was at a party last weekend. I was making out with this beautiful girl, right?”

Azzi nods, “the one you’ve been talking about, yeah?” Lauren sits up at the end of her bed crossing her arms.

“Yeah. Well today, we are out to eat with the team and I see her with the basketball team,” she gets out glaring at Paige whose grin grows even further, “and instead of saying actual words, my jaw drops and I ran.”

Azzi can’t hold in the surprised laugh she let out, “you ran?” Lauren groans and reaches out for Azzi’s arm, shaking it dramatically, “dude, you don’t get it, not all of us can get the girl the first time we try.”

Lauren is gesturing vaguely in Paige’s direction.

“Wait, you’re the girl Yanna hasn’t shut up about?” Paige asks with a laugh and Lauren groans more covering her eyes.

“I was mostly not sober last weekend and I was not paying attention” is all she responds to Paige.

“Wait, so you guys are into each other, why is this bad?” Azzi asks Lauren who just uncovers her face with a look of absolute shock and horror.

“I ran away, Azzi,” Lauren says slowly, “like arms flailing and everything.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, Yanna was probably so shocked to see you, she didn’t even see you run,” Paige offers and Lauren rolls her eyes.

“I am going to develop this super mysterious and sexy persona,” Lauren decides after a moment and turns to Paige, “and you are going to hype me up. Just tell her I was sick today or something.” 

“Woah, I am not getting involved in this” Paige raises her hands up and Azzi just laughs at the two.

“Yes you are. I deserve to be getting some for putting up with you two,” she points and Paige at least has the decency to flush.

Azzi just crosses her arms, “we are just hanging out.”

Lauren rolls her eyes at her roommate, “really? Okay, then we should hang out and do whatever it is you and Paige do since you seem to be so happy afterwards.” Azzi flushes and looks down.

“Yeah, absolutely not,” Paige shrugs.

“Seriously, I am way too into this girl for my own good. I can’t do this alone,” Lauren just pouts looking at Paige with pathetic puppy dog eyes.

Paige just looks at Azzi who smiles and shrugs. “Fine, I’ll give her your instagram or something.”

Lauren perks up at that and immediately squeals and claps, “oh my God, Paige! You’re the best, thank you so much!” She is leaning forward to hug a fake annoyed Paige.

Paige just laughs and pushes Lauren back slightly, “yeah, yeah. Now if you could leave, I need to make your friend happy after being tortured by you.” She smirks and Azzi is swatting her arm.

Lauren simply smirks and nods, “anything for my new favorite bonus roomie.” She blows a kiss in Azzi’s direction and is out of the room shutting the door behind her.

Paige turns to look at Azzi with a smirk and Azzi has her arms crossed and a pout on her face.

Her dramatic pouting was interrupted when Paige was leaning in to kiss her. She couldn’t keep up the act with Paige pressing breathy kisses down her throat. She just giggled and let it happen.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was a few days before Aubrey and Azzi had been able to get together for lunch. Azzi had decided she wanted to tell her sister in a public place. Realistically, she knew her sister wouldn’t care and would support her no matter what, but the anxious part of Azzi had decided that she was less likely to say or do something stupid in public.

They had gone off campus to the cottage café she had been to with Paige. Aubrey had been very impressed that Azzi was able to order without spending thirty minutes looking at the menu. 

“I need to tell you something,” Azzi had said anxiously in a lull that occurred in conversation.

Aubrey looked up and noticed her sister messing with her hands. It was her biggest anxiety give away. Aubrey frowned.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, turning her full attention to her sister.

“Yeah, yeah, everything is fine, I just wanted to tell you something” Azzi looks down avoiding her sister’s eyes.

Her and Paige had practiced what she would say yesterday. Paige reminded her endlessly that her sister would love and support her no matter what. It was also Paige that sent good luck messages before Aubrey was set to pick her up.

“What’s going on, Az?” Aubrey asks with a gentleness in her voice.

“I-” her voice cracked, “I like girls.”

There. It was out. The words were out there and she was unable to take them back. Aubrey was silent for a moment before chuckling with a sigh.

“Azzi, you know that doesn’t matter, right? Like I love you no matter who you love,” Azzi’s eyes go up to meet her sister, “I’m very proud of you, because I know how hard this must have been. I remember when I first started feeling that way, I was scared shitless to tell anyone. At this point only my teammates know I do too, well and now you.”

Azzi’s eyes welled up with tears, “bro, this was supposed to be my moment.” Azzi jokes, reaching out to swat at her sister who just laughed.

“Sorry, I just thought I should put it out there while you were,” she shrugs and laughs and Azzi feels a pressure lifting off her chest that had settled without her knowing.

“Can I be honest?” Aubrey asks and Azzi just nods smiling at her sister.

“I think I might have been able to figure it out,” Azzi pauses at that, “you have always looked at Paige with stars in your eyes. Like ever since we were younger your crush has been so obvious. I am surprised she hasn’t noticed.”

Aubrey laughs and Azzi’s heart drops. Oh my god. Her sister knew? Azzi tries to calm her reaction.

“What?” is all she manages to get out and her sister just smiles gently at her.

“Don’t worry, I won’t like tell her or anything, but Paige would never be rude about it,” Aubrey waves her hand in vague explanation.

“I didn’t- I don’t- what are you talking about?” Azzi sputters out and Aubrey just laughs again.

“Bro, I swear it is not that deep, I don’t care! I mean it is just a little crush. Nothing will happen from it, no offense, I just thought it was funny ‘is all.”

“Nothing will ever happen?” Azzi repeats, stunned.

“Definitely not! I mean you are a little sister to her, and plus, family is family. They’re off limits,” Aubrey explains as if she was breaking the news to her little sister. Before Azzi could open her mouth and get anything else out, the waitress was walking up with their food.

Azzi ate in a stunned silence. She wondered how obvious it had been. She also began to consider the daunting task of telling her sister. 

After lunch with her sister, Aubrey drove back to the dorms and Azzi returned to her room. She had started to learn Paige’s schedule and knew she would be home right now. She needed to see her and explain what had happened.

Azzi: We just got back, you should come up. Be careful to avoid Aubrey in the halls.

Paige: damn correct capitalization and punctuation

Paige: everything good?

Azzi: yeah, sorry.

Paige: i’ll be up in 5

Azzi was sitting on her couch chewing her lip thinking of how messy this was. She was thinking of how messy it was that she was sitting on her couch with her door unlocked waiting for her sister’s best friend to walk in and lock it. All of this was carefully orchestrated so there was less time for her sister to spot her best friend in the hall. Messy.

Azzi hadn’t moved or even flinched when the door opened and then just as quickly shut and locked. Paige spotted Azzi chewing on her lip nervously and made her way quickly over to the couch. She sat down beside Azzi with their thighs pressed together. She put a hand gently on Azzi’s leg.

“Hey, what happened?” Paige asked softly.

“She was supportive,” Azzi started and Paige’s shoulders sagged at that piece of information, “but she also said she kind of figured.”

“Huh?” Paige asked as confusion washed over her features.

Azzi turned to face Paige, “she said she thought I had a crush on you.”

Paige has a growing grin at that, “well duh. I mean who wouldn’t.”

“Paige, she followed it up with saying you won’t make fun of me and it was cool because nothing would happen from it,” Azzi explains and Paige grimaces at that.

“So she is only okay with it because nothing will happen?” Paige asks for clarification. She has gotten really good at reading Azzi’s moods.

“Yeah,” Azzi sighs and leans her body into Paige’s, she needed the comfort of the older girl.

Paige wraps her arms around Azzi and rests her chin on top of Azzi’s head. Her hands were rubbing gently up and down Azzi’s back. Paige had the tendency to remain calm and look for the best in every situation. She knew Azzi had the tendency to have a bit more anxiety but needed time before they went into problem solving mode.

They just sat there for a while. Cuddled up with each other and breathing this moment in. It was the soft moments that Azzi craved in the fast motions of what they had been doing the past few weeks.

After enjoying the moment for longer than she should’ve, Azzi remembered that wallowing was not sustainable. She sighs and sits up looking at Paige and whispers, “Aubrey is going to be so mad at me.”

Paige looks over at Azzi with a soft, sad smile. She reaches up, pushing her hair behind Azzi’s ear.

“Aubrey could never be mad at you. Me on the other hand…” her voice trails off.

Azzi felt her stomach drop in a guilty realization that Paige was probably right. Aubrey would definitely go into defensive older sister mode. She would turn this on Paige, her longest friend. The idea burnt like an acid at the back of Azzi’s throat.

That acid quickly turned into guilt. She was going to ruin her sister’s most cherished friendship over stupid feelings.

“Paige, I don’t want to hurt you, Aubrey, or your relationship,” Azzi’s eyes are welling up with tears.

“Azzi, this is not on you, at all. I have feelings for you and I acted on them knowing where it would get me,” Paige explains softly but firmly, reaching out to brush away the first tear to fall from Azzi’s eyes.

Paige looked between Azzi’s eyes. She tried to convey her feelings and push it through in any way she could. Azzi blinked before looking down softly.

“I know I am probably being dramatic, but she is going to be so upset with us,” Azzi whispers.

“We will get through that,” Paige reminds her and Azzi nods.

The two sit in the silence for a bit longer. Azzi had an early morning training session but a relatively free afternoon. Paige still had a bit before she had to go to her training sessions and practice. 

Normally she would spend the time watching her favorite show or going in early depending on the type of day she was having. Right now, she knew she wanted to stay with Azzi. Her sweet Azzi who was spiraling.

When she finally did detangle their bodies, it was with soft kisses and promises to come back and stay after her practice. Azzi had been really anxious and appreciated that Paige was willing to sit with her through this all. She knew anxiety could be a lot, but she appreciated all the support Paige was giving her.

“I think we are having a team dinner after practice, but I’ll be over afterwards. We can cuddle and watch Love Island” Paige promises before leaning down and kissing Azzi. Azzi smiles up and nods.

As Paige was leaving, she passed a smirking Lauren on the way in. Paige just waved her off and hurried downstairs. Lauren walked to the couch and sat down near Azzi.

“So…I have been texting Yanna” Lauren says with a dreamy look on her eyes.

Azzi sat up and immediately went into supportive friend mode, “tell me all about it.”

“She is seriously so amazing! She is sweet, funny, and arguably the most attractive person I have ever seen,” Lauren has this dreamy look in her eyes.

“She is inviting me to go to the basketball team hangout tonight! You should come” Azzi frowned at that.

“Paige didn’t mention that…she said she was going to come over after practice,” Azzi whispers.

“Oh my god! She was dipping on team hangouts for you!” Lauren squeals and Azzi blushes.

“Listen, it was probably only because I had a rough day, I’ll tell Paige she should go” Azzi is grabbing her phone and typing out a quick text.

“Oh no, what happened?” Lauren’s face quickly became more serious.

Azzi finished up her text to Paige and began retelling the story and bringing up her anxieties about her sister’s reaction to whatever is going on. Lauren smiled softly at her friend’s words and paused. She carefully considered her next words.

“You really care about Paige, huh?” Lauren offers and Azzi scoffs like it is the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, of course I care. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t,” Azzi explains.

“Yeah, but like, I didn’t realize it was this deep” Lauren states, “I think you need to consider that how you and Paige are feeling is a lot more serious than what your sister can be expecting. Of course it would be a shock, but she loves you both too much to be truly mad.”

Azzi takes in the words and considers them. Lauren did have a point. Aubrey loved both Azzi and Paige. If she knew that they didn’t plan on letting their relationship interfere with her relationship with them, she had to be supportive, right?

Azzi’s phone buzzed.

Paige: idk would rather be w u tonight

Azzi: hmm… Lauren got the invite and said I could come

Azzi: maybe I could go?

Azzi: you can’t just avoid your team

Paige: i mean i will only go if you are there

Paige: up to you. pls know i am fine staying in tho

Paige: i also want u to know that aubs will be there

Azzi: let’s go!

Azzi looked back up at Lauren who was smirking. It was only then that she realized she had been smiling brightly at her phone. She flushes at being caught and sighs.

“I’ll go tonight, but I am going as your plus one, got it?” Azzi directs at her friend.

“Yes! Of course, my plus one,” Lauren repeats grinning at Azzi, “I’ll have you know, as my plus one it is incredibly important that you look that part.”

“Huh?” Azzi pauses at Lauren’s words.

“Come on. I am trying to impress the girl and I cannot be the only one looking effortless yet sexy, you need to as well,” Lauren explains as if it is the most obvious thing.

“Bro,” Azzi groans, “I can’t, my sister is going to be there.”

“Yeah, but so is Paige,” Lauren smirks, “we can do subtle, effortless, yet still sexy.”

Lauren shrugs and is grabbing Azzi’s hand, pulling her up to head to Lauren’s room. Lauren has the better closet when it comes to trying to attract people. Her clothes have a tendency to be more revealing and lure in people.

Azzi thought it was kind of funny. She was doing so much for a girl she already had. Maybe she was down bad. Maybe.

But still, Azzi let herself be pulled into Lauren’s room. Inside, Lauren began throwing various clothing items at Azzi to try on. They all seemed too formal for a simple team hangout or too casual.

Eventually, after at least an hour, Lauren had handed Azzi an outfit that felt really simple but cute. They had decided on a red halter top and a pair of jean shorts. Lauren mentioned that they would be going out to eat, so Azzi wanted to be comfortable but still cute enough that she was impressing Paige.

Lauren, who wore a similar white halter top but with some low rise baggy jeans, helped Azzi put her hair into a bun with her front curls falling out framing her face. She also insisted on doing light make up, which Azzi thought was overkill, but filled the time nicely.

By the time they were done, Azzi had received a text that her and Aubrey were going to be riding together and they could offer a ride. Azzi smiled at her phone before explaining to Lauren the plan. Lauren nodded and also found herself smiling down at her phone.

“Hey, Paige and Aubrey are ready and heading to her car. You ready?” Azzi asked as Lauren applied the finishing touches of her own make up.

“As I’ll ever be,” she nods and grabs her purse following Azzi out of the apartment and to the parking lot.

They spotted Paige’s car and saw her and Aubrey sat up front. Lauren smirked quickly and followed Azzi to the vehicle. Paige looked up and did a double take at Azzi. Azzi flushed but didn’t skip a step and got into the car.

“Hey!” Aubrey says excitedly turning around to her sister and Lauren, “Yanna is going to be so excited to see you, Lauren. And Azzi, I am so glad Lauren could drag you along, the girls love having you around.”

Lauren snorts, “it took a lot of convincing to get her to come.” Azzi knocks her knee against Lauren’s and smiles back at her sister.

She sees Paige briefly look back in the rearview mirror with a small smirk before driving off.

“I love spending time with you all,” Azzi offers.

Aubrey turns back around to the road and shifts her attention to finding the perfect song on the playlist. Azzi settles into her seat while Lauren and Aubrey’s eyes are trained on their phones.

Every few minutes, Azzi would meet Paige’s eyes subtly in the mirror. She received a soft smile every time. Paige was looking at Azzi like she couldn’t believe she was here. Like she couldn’t believe that Azzi was hers.

The rest of the drive was spent in this same cycle. The two sneaking looks whenever they could and grinning like absolute fools for each other. 

As Paige pulls into a parking spot, she turns her attention to Azzi, “hey, any chance there is my chapstick back there?”

“Uh, I don’t see any,” Azzi says looking around while Lauren and Aubrey get out of the car.

Paige just hums and opens the door at Azzi’s side. She leans her head in as if to look and presses a quick kiss against Azzi.

Azzi flushes and shoves Paige’s chest lightly, “my sister.” Azzi starts with a whisper.

“She thinks I am looking for chapstick,” Paige whispers with a shrug and leans back.

“Hmm, must’ve left it somewhere,” Paige returns to normal volume stepping back.

Azzi chuckles at the girl lightly before stepping out. Paige waits a moment and shuts the door after her. The two follow Lauren and Aubrey, who were in deep conversation, into the restaurant.

They quickly spot the rest of the team in three booths in the corner. They’re being waved over and Azzi quickly joins KK. Paige smiles when she notices a spot across from KK. She pulls Aubrey over while Lauren settles into the open space next to Yanna.

“Azzi, I can’t believe you have left me with your sister for so long,” KK wails dramatically, laying her head on Azzi’s shoulder.

“Aw, you poor baby,” Azzi coos, placing a gentle hand on KK’s cheek. 

“Don’t even play, you love me,” Aubrey sticks her tongue out at KK.

“You make me run sprints, she doesn’t,” KK’s hands wrap gently around Azzi’s arm.

“What can I say? I am everyone’s favorite,” Azzi replies dramatically to her sister.

“No sprints? Compelling argument for the favorite spot,” Paige is smirking at Azzi before turning her attention to Aubrey.

“You’re like legally required to have me as your favorite,” Aubrey snorts, shoving Paige’s shoulder.

Paige smirks and just laughs. Aubrey laughs back and Azzi just looks between the two flushed. Aubrey looks back at Azzi and notices her weird reaction.

“Hey, we can both be favorites,” Aubrey offers with a smile in Azzi’s direction. Azzi knew this was in response to her thinking Azzi was feeling some type of way about Aubrey saying she had to be Paige’s favorite.

Before the conversation could go any further, a young waitress was walking up to their table, “well hello everyone, how are we doing?” Her eyes glance around the table lingering for a moment too long on Paige.

“Good, how are you?” Paige was too polite for her own good, the waitress was smiling at Paige with a flushed face.

Aubrey smirks, nudging Paige who just looks back confused before returning her look to the waitress, “I think we’ll all have water.”

“Great choice,” she is turning to her notebook, writing something down, “and do you know what you would like, or do you need some more time?”

Paige looks around the table and her eyes land on Azzi who looks torn, “uhm, I think we need just a bit more time.”

The waitress just nods before turning around to get their drinks started. Aubrey is back to nudging Paige. 

“Dude, she is into you. She is also really cute, you should get her number.” Aubrey is trying to whisper, but Azzi hears everything and is quickly shoving her face into the menu.

“Nah, not really my type,” Paige just replies, but Azzi can practically hear the smirk on her face.

“So, what are you guys getting, I can’t really decide,” Azzi cuts in. Her voice is far steadier than she feels.

“Oh, uhm I was just thinking about the alfredo,” Aubrey looks back at the menu.

“I was thinking maybe a burger,” KK shrugs looking at her menu.

“Hm, they have a shrimp meal, you might like that. You like shrimp, right?” Paige is looking at her menu.

Azzi looks up at the same time Aubrey does. Aubrey just frowns at Paige.

“Yeah, I do. That sounds good,” Azzi flushes and then closes her menu.

The waitress is back with their drinks and is ready to take their order, Paige just smiles politely up at the waitress before ordering they get around the table until she is at Azzi.

“Uhm, I’ll have the shrimp meal,” Azzi says to the waitress who is smiling politely.

“How about your side?” the waitress asks.

Azzi freezes not knowing what the options were, “oh…uhm. What do you guys have?”

“We have broccoli, mashed potatoes, french fries, green beans, side salads, and fruit,” Azzi felt her eyes on her. Everyone’s eyes were on her.

“Uhm,” she considers pausing.

“Fruit might go well with the shrimp,” Paige offers after a moment of silence.

“Yeah, let’s do the fruit,” Azzi nods before handing the menu to the waitress.

As she walked away, Azzi turned to face Paige and gave her a grateful smile. She then looked up and saw a frown deep on Aubrey’s face. 

“Hey, Paige,” Aubrey begins, “can you help me with something really quick?”

Paige had a confused look on her face but nodded, “uh sure.”

The two were standing up and walking out of the booth. They began talking in hushed voices away from the booth. KK gives Azzi a weird look and Azzi shrugs.

The conversations continued around them as Azzi watched Aubrey and Paige who had made their way outside. She could see Paige with furrowed brows and Aubrey with an irritated look on her face. Azzi was sure this had something to do with Aubrey knowing about Azzi’s crush.

Her chest lurched at the sight of the two having an obvious argument. That wasn’t their thing. Those two often were so calm and collected that it made everyone around them annoyed. To see them arguing, especially knowing it probably centered around her, upset Azzi.

She saw Paige sigh, closing her eyes and turning away. Aubrey just sighed as well and Azzi had to tear her eyes away. She put her attention back on the conversation on the table. Well, she tried.

Her eyes had gone to the table in front of her and a silly conversation KK was having while turned around, but her mind was with her sister and Paige. Clearly this was going to be a bigger issue and the two would need to talk about this with Aubrey sooner rather than later.

The conversation continued around Azzi, but she couldn’t focus until Aubrey and Paige were coming back to the table. They weren’t looking at each other or talking. There was a certain intensity that rattled Azzi.

When they sat down, Aubrey was immediately focused on a conversation behind her. Azzi just looks at Paige who just waves her off. She gave the typical ‘it’s fine’ look. Azzi knew that wasn’t true, but tried to convey that all would be well with just a look.

The waitress walked up carrying a tray of food. She was handing them out quickly before asking if there was anything else they might need. When no one responded, she lingered a moment longer slightly leaning into Paige’s space. 

She eventually sighed when Paige wouldn’t look in her direction. She walked off which seemed to irritate Aubrey more.

“Why won’t you acknowledge her? Or any girl?” Aubrey asked in a tight whisper.

“I told you, Aubrey. I am not interested,” Paige responded in an equally tight whisper.

“I understand, but it would be a lot less confusing for some people if you would show interest in other people,” her eyes were shifting in Azzi’s direction and Azzi flinched at that.

Paige just ignored her and focused on her meal. KK and Azzi’s eyes shifted between the two.

“Awkward,” KK mumbled under her breath.

The rest of the meal was spent in an awkward silence. There was only the occasional sound of silverware scraping against the plates and conversations that carried too loudly to their table.

Azzi hardly ate any of her food. She was too busy stressing over what happened between Aubrey and Paige. As everyone started to finish, the silence became almost unbearable.

It wasn’t until the three of them had made their way back to Paige’s car that anything was said. Azzi was sure it was going to be an awkwardly silent ride when Lauren mentioned heading back with Ayanna.

“What are you doing?” Paige asked Aubrey who went to sit in the back of Paige’s car.

“I’m sitting back here with my sister,” Aubrey snarks back, Paige just lets out a frustrated chuckle.

“Whatever,” she mumbles before getting in the car. Azzi sighs as she follows suit in the back seat.

“Why are you upset with me, Bueckers?” Aubrey is getting out in a frustrated tone.

“You are being ridiculous,” Paige responds simply like Aubrey had asked her what color the sky was.

“No, what is ridiculous is leading people on,” Aubrey’s arms are crossed and she is becoming defensive.

“Bro, you have no idea what you’re talking about. I am not leading anyone on,” Paige lets out in frustration.

“Azzi,” Aubrey turns to Azzi who stills, “how would you feel if you had a crush on someone and then they start doing things to make you think they have feelings? Even if they don’t.”

Azzi’s face is bright red knowing exactly why she was being brought into this. She felt sick.

“Aubrey, stop. This isn’t fair and you know it” Paige’s voice is tight and her hands are gripping the wheel as she glares in the rearview mirror.

“What you are doing isn’t fair!” Aubrey exclaims dropping her hands for emphasis.

“Can you two please stop?” Azzi’s voice comes out small and Aubrey hesitates, “this is ridiculous to argue over.”

Her arms are crossed and she is facing away. She hears Paige sigh and can imagine her ready to let it go.

“Sorry, Azzi. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want people to know they cannot disrespect you like that,” Aubrey’s hand is on Azzi’s back.

“No one is being disrespectful,” Azzi’s voice is weak, but she turns to face her sister, “I am not sure why you guys are fighting, but you two are best friends.”

“I am not going to be quiet while someone is playing with my little sister’s emotions,” Aubrey’s voice is soft, hoping Paige can’t catch the words.

“She isn’t, at all” Azzi groans and Aubrey frowns at that.

“She is saying and doing what she normally does, she is flirting like it is nothing. That’s not cool when it is you, I don’t want you getting hurt,” Azzi hears the hurt in Aubrey’s voice. She knows it isn’t the right time, but she hardly thinks before the next words slip out of her mouth.

“She isn’t flirting like it is nothing. She is only like this with me,” Azzi groans out.

Aubrey is quick to frown in Paige’s direction with her eyes shifting to carry even more hurt.

“No, Azzi, that is what she wants you to think. She knows how you feel and yet she is still saying and doing everything she is,” Aubrey didn’t say her words in any type of way, yet they still stung, “how would you feel to see her like this with some other girl later tonight?”

“I wouldn’t. She wouldn’t,” Azzi’s frustration is growing and seeping out into the conversation.

“Yes she would!” Aubrey exclaims, “I know you have this little crush on her, but you have no idea this is how she is with any girl.”

Paige had gone silent up front. Azzi could see her face in the mirror and saw the hurt and frustration that was all over her face.

“Would you stop and think before you speak?” Azzi has no idea where her words turned to venom, but here they were, “I do know her, I know her and that she would do anything for me. I know that she wouldn’t look at another girl that way. Not for a while at least. If you would stop and really try to pay attention, you would also see that. You’re so worried to see me getting hurt, that you haven’t stopped and tried to see the love we have for each other.”

Azzi’s chest is heaving and Aubrey’s face stilled with anger crossing all of her features, “the love you have…for each other?”

Shit.

feedback would be appreciated!! tysm <3 -- tea ★’*•.¸♡

[tokoyamisstuff]

Hwang In-ho x gn Circle Guard! Reader

Why did it take 6 months until the Frontman gave 222's baby to his brother?

just a quick drabble from the top of my head, idk it's 2am leave me alone

"Take off your mask."

A shaky breath escapes your lips while doing as you were told, sweat still dripping from your forehead from earier labour.

Now that the games have ended and the protocol for erasing all evidence has been completed, you assumed it was about time for the usual: One last, passionate moment spent together before you and your superior would part ways for yet another year.

Almost automatically, you fondle with the zipper of your suit, about to present yourself for him like so many times before.

"No" he stops you immediately, raising his hand in a rather appeasing than commanding manner. "Don't."

Before you could even react, the man turned around, fondling with a piece of furniture you didn't recognize despite being invited to his quarters on the regulary.

And then, out of the black box no one would assume was a bassinet, he took the last thing you'd expect to see ever again.

"Is that-"

"Yes, it is" he answers the obvious, beckoning you over while cradling the newborn in his arms with a tenderness you weren't aware he was capable of.

For a while the two of you would remain like this, standing besides each other as you undeservingly watched in awe of this peaceful innocence born in the midst of sin and despair.

In-ho observes intently how your eyes light up when the baby's little fingers wrap around yours, feeling the corners of his mouth etch into a smile he had long since forsaken.

Many questions were burning on your tongue, most of them concerning the child's future, but also about the Frontman himself that remained an enigma to you even after all those years. Because as intimate as your relationship was, it was also strictly physical, and in all other aspects he prefered to keep a 'professional' distance.

"Did you ever want to have children?"

You blink up at him like a deer in the headlights, unsure whether it was a trick question. After all, he was never interested in your thoughts, or feelings in particular.

"I heard you volunteered to feed her" he inquires further, gently wrapping a blanket around the baby after placing it back into the bed.

Sure, you weren't opposed to the idea itself, but with the circumstances your life had developed, you never truly allowed yourself to even consider it.

"I'm a murderer" you state matter-of-factly, facing downwards in a mixture of shame and bewilderment. "I shouldn't involve myself with anyone."

"Same goes for me" he retorts in his usual callous tone, standing so close that the back of your hand barely touches his. "But I was told to deal with the baby as I see fit."

"So...have you decided yet what to do with it?"

The Frontman's features always seemed as much of a mask as the angular black shapes of his attire, although right now a hint of melancholy slipped right through. "I...have someone in mind. But not yet, not while it's still so dependent."

Before you could even think of a possible answer to continue the conversation, you felt his fingers intertwine with yours, eyes still locked on the baby stirring contently in it's sleep.

"You still live alone, right?" You nod. It's not a question, it's a fact. He knows even the most trivial details about your life outside of this job, and unbeknownst to you he's way more involved than he should be.

In-ho remains silent, chooses not to reveal what's going on in the inside, about how the current games reopened old wounds and got him to question simply everything.

"Just a few months" he squeezes your hand ever so slightly, gaze darting between you and the newborn with a fondness that almost startled you. "I need to settle some other things, so...I could use some help caring for the child."

It sounds like he tries to convince only himself, for the power imbalance between you two made that proposition more order than offer anyways.

Still, here was method to his madness, well aware that you both would inevitably taint this symbol of hope shall you get too attached for too long.

In-ho leans to your height, planting a lingering hiss to your temple before resting his forehead against yours. You crack a meek smile, since this brief imitation of normalcry was the first thing worth looking forwards to in an eternity.

"Alright, then let's...try to enjoy this while it lasts."

[naffeclipse]

A Photo

Reader x Mob Bosses!Sun & Moon

Commission Info

I am so excited to show off another commission from @vixenfoxpup involving the mob boss brothers in a continuation from the previous fic! They left you with a promise and they have returned to fulfill it. The mob bosses pay a visit to your humble apartment, looking for answers, and you diligently try to keep them far from the truth.

Content Warning for suggestive themes, implied abuse, and bruises.

———

The streets are beginning to darken as you make your way home. Your clothes are wrinkled and begin to touch your skin like a layer of dead skin needing to be shed, and your hair is starting to fall out of the careful hairdo you had tied it up in this morning. The thought of looking at your reflection in windows as you hurry past is a less than appealing thought: your make-up might be smeared and the dark circles underneath your eyes could be especially ghoulish in the dying light of day.

It’s best to not confirm the worst case scenario in your head.

A sigh falls from your lips. Another shift of chasing after a scoop that ended in brick walls and sealed lips. Who would want to discuss the most notorious gang members? Who wants to throw their life away for saying just a little too much? Your notebook is a mess of scattered notes and circles of hopeful leads that you’ve had to cross off, one by one.

No one is willing to whisper about the Celestial Gang, much less blab. They have an iron-tight grasp on the city, and they’ve found you in all of the mess. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe they thought you had some important information or lead. But why not kill you then?

It wouldn’t be hard. They’ve disposed of far grander people than yourself for getting half as close as you have.

So why promise to return? To torment you? The drive still sits heavy in the back of your mind. Reflections trigger a soft warmth in your face when you recall how they held you tight, and how they seem to grow cold and furious when they touch the bruises on your wrist and neck.

They brushed too close against the truth. All you can do is wait and hold your breath, and hope they find a new mouse to toy with.

You tug at your collar. It’s hard to see directly, but this morning, in the mirror, the yellow splotches looked far less noticeable than the purple and blue blossoms that once wrapped around your neck. Your wrist is healing steadily as well, practically gone save for the sallow hues of what remains. The reminders fade but the lessons do not.

You will not let that person back into your life again.

Pushing your sleeve back into place, you find your apartment building. The bricks are rough and worn on the corners, and the doorway creaks like a banshee as you push it open. A resident knocks shoulders with you and doesn’t even bother to look up before they scurry out into the darkness. You look back only once with a grimace before rushing up the stairs. 

Home’s within reach. You need a shower and something to eat. What are you even going to give your boss tomorrow? A few scant quotes from scared people? You bite back a groan as you pull out your keys. 

Food first. An article later.

The key scrapes against the lock before it catches, and you twist the doorknob. Faint light from the hallway spills into the midnight blue darkness of your apartment. Entering inside, your eyes catch on a glint of metal, then priceless, glossy dark shoes. 

Your flesh prickles.

A figure stands in the darkness, red optics burning like hellfire. A hand rests on a gun holstered to his waistband under the jacket of his suit. Before you can throw yourself out of your apartment and scream, the door shuts behind you. A hand clamps over your mouth from behind. The notebook drops from your hands.

“Easy, turtle dove,” a voice slips into your ear, and you pick up his grinning without looking to see what’s on his faceplate, “It’s just your darlings.”

Through the hammer of your heart as it nails adrenaline through your veins, you grasp onto the arm wrapped around you. The second intruder holds you in place. You find the sleeves of his pure white shirt, and feel the rumble from his chassis as he bows over you. How easily he contains you in his grasp. It’s no different than when he snatched you off of the street and stuffed you into their car.

It’s not the one you thought was waiting for you in the dark, but that doesn’t improve the situation by much.

Your muffled question gives the mob boss Sun pause. He chuckles and removes his hand. 

“Be good,” he warns playfully. His fingertips slip from the corner of your mouth and to your ear. The crime lord gently tucks a wayward strand of hair away from your face. “And don’t speak too loudly. We wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbors, would we?”

“What are you doing here?” you whisper harshly. 

Darting your eyes across your apartment, you watch Moon’s jacket fall back over his waist, hiding the gun with practiced ease. He tilts his head. The shadow of his fedora falls over his expression, and gives the glow of his optics an even sharper crimson hue as he grins. 

“Welcoming you home, doll face.” Moon steps through the darkness of your apartment, attaching himself to the shadows. His gaze skims away from you and falls over your things. “Such a quaint dwelling.”

You make a face at his tone, as if he’s talking about an animal’s pen and not your home. No, it’s not glamorous, but it’s a lot better than most people have. They’ve probably only ever had the most ritzy of accommodations. With the money they handle and pass around, it would be impossible for the mob bosses to have less than the best.

Your heart thunders quietly in your chest, not so horrified as it once once, but you feel the closeness of Sun at your back. He has yet to free you. His arm falls around your waist. A soft squeeze from his hand on your hip makes you squeak softly, and Sun chuckles in delight.

“We missed you,” he coos. “We couldn’t let you forget about us, could we, Moon?”

“Never,” Moon agrees with a cheshire-like grin.  

“Are you going to kidnap me again?” You flick your wided-eye stare between the two. This is the calmest hostage takedown you’ve yet to attend, and you’ve only done so twice including this instance. 

Moon chuckles darkly. His hands find a small table you usually set small vases and plants on for decorations, along with your keys. He rummages through a drawer.

Sun clicks his tongue. “I think you know, my dove, that if that were the case, you would already be gone from here.”

His scent brushes against your senses. The rich amber taste of bourbon as well as the crisp cleanliness of his suit, topped with a tang of metal as if blood or broken bones. You swallow roughly. He smells so harsh and intense, you couldn’t ignore him anymore than you could the blinding effects of looking directly at the sun.

Moon pulls out a small, unopened gift box. Your stomach clenches. That was supposed to be thrown away—all you wanted to do was get rid of it. Instead, you left it to rot in a drawer you never intended to open again. 

The tautness of Moon’s fingers nearly crush the box before he gently places it back and slides the drawer close. His head turns, catching you watching him. You shudder until the pinpricks of his nearly obsidian gaze. He roams further, taking in the meekness of your kitchen, and you wish to step out of Sun’s arms just to stop the mob boss from unfurling more secrets of your life that are better left forgotten.

Why are they doing this? And to what end? To know how to personally turn your life upside down? Maybe they’re hoping to find weaknesses or evidence that you’ve gathered against them. If that were the case, they would have plucked your notebook off of the ground by now. 

“What do you want?” you ask carefully.

You try to tug yourself free from Sun’s grasp, but his arms only twist around you. The apartment spins and you find yourself dipped slightly in the mob boss’s arms. His pale eyes are wide and hungry, raking over you as if looking for the best place to sink his teeth. 

“Have we not made ourselves clear?” Sun tilts his crown of sun rays, sharp and golden even in the lightless space. 

“I’m afraid we haven’t,” Moon sighs deeply, regretfully, before he wipes his fingers along the dust on your counter. 

In the corner, there used to rest a mug before it was shattered against the floor by a violent hand. You were glad to have it gone, but you watch as Moon lifts his fingertips together and rubs them thoughtfully before he prowls further. He turns back to you, resting against the counter with a terrible sense of ease—like he wasn’t just snooping through your things. 

“Your affections, doll face.” His smile sharpens. “We’ve been very polite.”

You pinch your lips into a thin line. You don’t consider pulling you into a dark vehicle against your will, and now breaking into your apartment in the darkness, as polite, but you mind your tongue. 

“There’s nothing here—” You’re cut off by a sudden turn from Sun. 

Whisked around your apartment, you can hardly keep up with his intricate moves as he all but carries you across the floor to the window. The faint light of a blooming city under darkness cuts through the window pane. His hands clench yours, and you breathlessly try to find your balance. He presses you against him. Your middle roils with heat as you look up into his looming face. 

You don’t notice Moon slipping down the hallway towards your bedroom, your head still dizzy from the forced dance.

“We keep meeting like this,” Sun simpers. 

His hands keep you tightly in place, making you small in his presence. You can’t turn your blushing face away. 

Sun leans closer, as consuming as sunlight in summer. “It’s unbecoming. A proper date is in order, turtle dove.”

“A date?” you sputter. You try to straighten, and step back. “I find it difficult to imagine you and your brother growing concerned about doing things the right way, considering the illegal business you’ve built your empire on.”

Sun steps in time with you, and he pulls you into a move that must be part of a waltz. You’re not sure. You’ve never danced like this with someone like him, and Sun takes care to force your concentration lest you find yourself falling right into his arms. 

He spins you around once, nearly pinning you against the window. The city beyond glows and the shadows deepen. His expression shifts, unreadable for a moment, before the smile returns with vigor. 

“It’s a matter of principle in this case.” He chuckles. “The rest requires far less sophisticated efforts.”

A cold chill wraps around you, and you shudder underneath it.

“Enough about me,” he declares, “I need to know about your friends. Is anyone coming to your apartment often? Anyone we need to worry about?”

You freeze. Guilt creeps over your features like fresh bruising.

“No, but why would you need to know—”

He spins you around, and you gasp before clutching close at Sun’s shoulders for stability.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” he says, and sets you upright back on your feet. “I believe Moon and I must be on our way.”

You turn your head and find Moon exiting the hallway. His hand slips something into his pocket. Were you not aghast that the mob boss was in your bedroom, you might have noticed the small nod he gives his brother.

“You were so good for us, dove,” Sun coos. He talks hold of your chin and admires you for a moment in the distant light of the city.

Your mouth opens but not a sound comes out when he gives you a peck on the cheek. Stuck fast in place, you are dumbfounded as Moon glides to your side. In the dark, his hand slips underneath your sleeve. His cool touch soothes the tenderness of the healing bruises as he circles your wrist.

“We’ll be seeing you soon, doll,” Moon rasps.

As quickly as they appear, they are gone into the night. The mob bosses disappear out your door, and you are left standing alone.

Your hand leaps to your heart. Did they find what they were looking for?

You dart down the hallway and throw yourself into your bedroom. It looks the same in the darkness. Not bothering to flip on a light, you kneel beside your bed and blindly grope underneath it until you hit a wooden box. Pulling it out, you set it on your lap. It seems undisturbed, but how can you trust that?

There are only bad memories left in it.

You push open the lid. Tasting acid in your mouth, you stare at the emptiness within. There was a photo. One last photo, and it’s gone. The one frame of time in which you were happy with your ex.

And now the mob bosses know who gave you those bruises.

[megatraven]

what marks the future for us

Pairing: Polytrix (Mira x Rumi x Zoey) Summary: Rumi's insecurity rears its head when she catches Zoey and Mira staring at her patterns. Words: 1064 || Rating: T || AO3

_

The moment she starts to shrug her jacket off, she can feel their eyes on her.

Again.

It happens every time- but when she looks up at them, they immediately look away, pretending they hadn't been staring at her. She knows they don't mean anything bad by it... but it makes her skin itch, and it's only through pure will that she doesn't scratch the skin from her arms into a bloodied mess, patterns and all.

This time, she turns to them and puts her foot down.

"What?!" she exclaims, before the other two can look away. She shimmies her jacket back on, crossing her arms. "Why do you keep staring at me? At my..."

She looks away, feeling the patterns on her face shimmer as her cheeks heat up, frustration and anxiety boiling over. More aggressive than she means to be, she zips her jacket back up, hiding her exposed midriff and collarbone. The zipper nearly rips off between her fingers, which only aggravates her more.

"I thought you didn't- I thought we were okay, but-"

Zoey jumps forward, almost falling into her as she cuts her off.

"We are! We're totally okay!" she exclaims, holding her hands out to placate her. Her eyes are wide, and genuine surprise draws her brows higher as the words rush out from her mouth. "You didn't do anything wrong, Rumi! It's just- I mean, before you, we never really got to have a close look at demon marks before, and yours are so, well, different! We aren't judging you for having them, you're just-"

"Hot," Mira finishes for her. Zoey nods enthusiastically, never taking her eyes off of their leader.

When Rumi looks between the two of them, every demon mark on her body gleams, as if she were blushing with her entire body.

"...What?" she says again, this time from surprise. She blinks, sure she must have misheard.

"You're hot," Mira repeats, raising a brow.

"Oh."

Her confusion- denial?- is palpable, but thankfully, Zoey jumps in again.

"We've been friends for years, but we've never seen you be so... casual!"

"You've always been pretty modest," Mira throws in.

"It's just... nice. To see you." Her hands reach forward and take one of Rumi's, squeezing it before pushing her sleeve up. The patterns on her arm peek out, pulsing at Zoey's touch. "All of you."

"....Oh." She wants to say more, but the words stick in her throat. She sniffles, suddenly overcome with emotion, and just barely keeps herself from crying. She knows that once she starts, it'll get Zoey going, and Mira won't be far behind if the both of them are in tears.

She stands there for a long moment, frozen as she processes everything they'd just said. Swallowing, she tries to speak, but the words don't come out. Unlike when her voice broke during their practice performance of Takedown, this wasn't because of her marks. Rather, there was an intense, burning ache in her that refuses to get snuffed out.

It's a familiar feeling, in a strange way. She's felt it most of her life, most prominently after she'd met the girls and became their friend... their leader. She always had to hold herself back, keep parts of herself hidden. It hadn't been fair- not to them, and certainly not to herself. But she'd done it anyway, certain at the time that it was for the best, that it was the right thing to do.

And still... she wanted what they had. She wanted to go to the bathhouse together, she wanted to casually strip down to her underwear when it was too hot to do anything, she wanted to do what they could do. Show off their skin, get help with putting her hair up or taking it down, exist comfortably with each other.

Maybe more than that, though, she wanted this.

Them.

She longed for it.

"Okay," she finally says, voice cracking.

The pain in her throat spreads down to her chest, and before she knows it, Mira's in front of her, next to Zoey, reaching for her face. She almost flinches from how fast she moves, but then Mira's cradling her face between her hands, and Rumi can't help relaxing into them as her breath hitches. Thumbs wipe at the tears that spill over her cheeks, trailing over the two demon marks that curve beneath her eyes.

She can't look away from them even when her cry turns into a sob, but when Zoey and Mira start to cry with her, there's no pang in her heart like she expected. Instead, there's relief. They're not crying because of her, or even for her, really. They're crying because... they're happy too.

Pulling away from Zoey's hands, Rumi throws an arm over each girl's shoulder and falls to her knees, pulling them down with her. All three embrace, riding out the wave of emotion until Rumi's sobs peter out.

"S-so," she starts, taking a shaky breath. "You think I'm hot, huh?"

Zoey smiles wide and rolls her eyes a bit.

"Duh!"

Mira's grin is sharp, despite the tears.

"Yeah. So take off the jacket."

A laugh erupts from Rumi at that, and there's a lightness in her that she's never felt before. Everything she'd longed for, everything she'd wanted, it was hers now. She could be herself. She didn't have to yearn for it anymore, it was all right here, right in front of her.

No more hiding.

She lets go of Zoey and Mira long enough to bring the zipper back down, smiling all the way. Just as quick, she shrugs it off like she'd intended to do earlier, a satisfying whump as the fabric falls to the floor around her. She's about to hug the girls again when they both gasp.

"What is..." her words trail off. Looking down at her own body, at the exposed demon marks, she sees what they see. Iridescent marks that were faded into her skin glow now, as bright as they had when they fought Gwi-Ma together.

"Wow, Rumi... they're so beautiful!" Zoey exclaims, grabbing one of her arms. The compliment and the touch make the marks pulse again, and this time Rumi's face turns pink.

Mira's finger pokes at her stomach before she looks up at Rumi again.

"...Hot."

And for the first time in her life, Rumi believes that she might be.

[mysteryshoptls]

Idia Shroud Chat Lines

The King of the Underworld's System.

Idia: A-Apparently, the King of the Underworld made a system that'll automatically keep track of the number of dead souls. Idia: Doesn't that feel super advanced for that mythic era? Idia: That's why I def think it's best to have a forward-thinking mind to clue into the newest stuff. Idia: Th-That's why I bet it'd be more efficient to have an AI be a Housewarden, 'stead of a human... Idia: I can set up a perfect program for it and everything... You sure I can't?

An Admired Idol

Idia: I-Ignihyde's dorm emblem...? It's portraying a Cerberus. Idia: I see it popping up in a ton of games as the last boss, but actually, it first appeared in the Underworld. Idia: Try not to forget that. Idia: The King of the Underworld definitely had a massive cheat code active with an OP pet like that. Idia: He's way too cool. An admired idol of all middle schoolers everywhere! Idia: ...Eh, they don't admire him...? Idia: How dare they not understand his appeal... Idia: Aaand this is why I don't get what goes on in a normie's head...

Good at Dealing with Women

Idia: I heard the King of the Underworld was good at dealing with women... Idia: Some still talk about how he'd coax the goddesses into giving him info he wanted. Idia: Plus, he even had a beautiful lady working for him, too. Almost like a normie! Idia: I mean, like whenever I'm playing a dating sim... Idia: I usually can figure out how the algorithm works and just do a speedrun clear. Idia: [sigh] ...Saying that out loud just made me feel lame.

A Little Too Generous? (New!)

Idia: There's a story about how the King of the Underworld encouraged a hardworking young man to take a nice break from it all... Idia: He'll let others rest while continuing to do all the hard work himself, isn't that a little too generous? Idia: Although, speaking of breaks, there's a ton of guys in my dorm who'll skip class a bunch. Idia: But it's not like they're just skiving off just 'cause they can. They're all just super focused on their own interests. Idia: You know how it is, you get into the groove of some kind of research or task and you just don't want to drop everything... Idia: So it's OK by me if classes get skipped. That's why our dorm embodies the spirit of diligence, 'cause we do whatever needs done.

The Underworld was a Gloomy Place

Ortho: Nii-san, wanna go to an amusement park on our next day off? Ortho: I bet it'd be more fun than just sitting in a dark room all day! Idia: Ortho... The Underworld was a gloomy place with no sun, and definitely no amusement parks. Idia: But even then, the King of the Underworld never forgot his sense of humor or his ability to laugh. Idia: It's all about what's in your mind. Idia: So, just because I'm holed up in my dark and cramped room it doesn't mean my life is boring. Ortho: If you say so... Then, we'll go to an amusement park when you're feeling up to it more... Idia: .........If you're okay with a VR amusement park, I can program something up over the weekend. Ortho: C'mon, that just defeats the purpose～!

Consume Content of my Faves (New!)

Idia: Yaaawn... I couldn't stop re-watching Premo vids on a loop last night and ended up staying awake too late. Idia: Ortho told me to go to sleep earlier, but I can't life means nothing if I can't consume content of my faves. Idia: But lately, whenever Premo says they have some kind of "big announcement," I can feel my heart leap up my throat in anxiety... Azul: I see. It would make sense that any sort of "big announcement" nowadays could mean the group is breaki... Idia: Azul-shi, don't say anything else! If it's spoken aloud, it could really happen! Idia: Like you know how they say the Thorn Fairy's curse on the spinning wheel was so strong... Idia: That the curse cheat code could be activated just by touching it? Idia: Just like that spinning wheel, there are some topics you should just never ever ever touch! Azul: How cumbersome... Yes, it does seem that I've touched on something that should not have been disturbed, in more ways than one.

Guess the Truth just Slipped Out, LOL (New!)

Azul: Idia-san, you may currently be winning, but I doubt you can still afford to be looking away from the board and reading the game box. Idia: Oh no, oh my, how could I? Boredom was just creeping in 'cause of how long you're making me wait. Idia: Looks to me like you're stuck and I'm p. sure a comeback's near impossible, so why don'tcha just suck it up and give in? Azul: Impossible? The outcome is still unknown. I shall never surrender. Idia: They say that a beautiful girl with skin as white as snow once wished upon a well. Idia: How 'bout you go and wish upon the courtyard well, begging it to let you win against me? Idia: Maybe then, by some miracle, you'll be able to pull a win out of nowhere! Idia: Whoops, shouldn't've called you winning a miracle, huh! Guess the truth just slipped out, LOL. Azul: Once you start talking, you just won't stop, do you...? Azul: Please go back to staring at the box and silencing yourself forever.

Requested by @monavitty

[kxsagi]

why is sae kinda wave to earth coded like

“𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬”

a/n: he is and for that reason, i wrote angst. oops! (trying my best to ignore the picture but the honkers...)

okay but reader’s part hurt me a lot even though i wrote it so sae’s pov is right after and it has a happy ending 🥰

you never told him. and maybe that was your first kindness to him. 

because what could he have possibly done with a love like yours? the kind that clings, stubborn and unshakable, even in silence. the kind that doesn’t ask for anything back – not time, not warmth, not even a glance. just to exist near him was enough, you used to tell yourself, though it broke you open in the quietest ways. 

sae itoshi stood at the center of your world, unknowingly, like the sun, brilliant and blinding. and you? you were just a season. temporary. fleeting. passing through. 

you met in the blur of youth, back when dreams were louder than doubt. he was already distant, aloof, eyes fixed on a future that didn’t have room for unnecessary things like feelings. you, though? you felt everything. all at once. and maybe too much. 

still, he never pushed you away. you were kind, and he noticed. you listened, and he noticed. you stayed even when he didn’t make it easy, and he noticed that, too. 

but he never looked. not the way you wished he would. 

you remember once, on an autumn evening, watching him through the window of the library. the wind carried golden leaves like soft confessions, and he sat alone, eyes glazed over a textbook he wouldn’t read. he looked tired. he always looked tired. 

and all you wanted was to touch his hand. to whisper that he didn’t have to be alone. that someone, you, was willing to love him without condition. 

but you didn’t. because you knew better. 

because love, real love, isn’t always about being with someone. sometimes, it’s about standing on the other side of the street and watching them walk away, hoping they find light even if it’s not through you. 

so, you became a shadow. a quiet supporter. you cheered for him in the silence of your heart. lit candles on days he didn’t know mattered. remembered the little things he forgot about himself. 

and when he won, when the world started screaming his name, you clapped the loudest, even if it was behind closed doors. 

you told your friends you were proud. you told yourself you were fine. but you weren’t. 

because loving someone you can’t have is a slow kind of dying. like winter creeping in too early, catching you without a coat. and every time you thought you’d moved on, some piece of him would find you again – in a song, a headline, the memory of his voice. 

still, you never blamed him. not once. if anything, you blamed yourself. for not being stronger. for feeling too much. for wanting too badly to be loved back in the exact way you loved him. 

and maybe that’s why you disappeared first. 

slowly, like the fading of seasons. no goodbyes. no questions. just a quiet drift. he probably didn’t notice. or maybe he did, and decided not to ask. either way, you never came back. 

but even now, years later, as the world keeps turning and time keeps pulling you further from him, you still think of him when the cherry blossoms bloom. you still light a candle on his birthday. you still close your eyes when you hear his voice in post-match interviews, just to pretend he’s speaking to you. 

and you still pray. you pray that he’s happy. that someone’s taking care of him. that his heart has softened with time. you pray he never finds out how much you loved him, because if he knew, he might carry that weight. and you want him to fly. you want him to be free. 

so you let him go. and that was your last act of love. 

but oh, if you could have been by his side… you would’ve given him everything. your life. your warmth. your seasons. 

your love. 

𝐬𝐚𝐞’�� 𝐩𝐨𝐯

he always knew. 

maybe not at first. maybe not when you sat beside him in class, humming under your breath and passing him notes he barely glanced at. not when you waited for him after practice with an extra drink, not saying much, just offering your presence like a silent apology for his exhaustion. 

but eventually, he noticed. 

it was in the way you looked at him the same years later, not like he was a star, but like he was still human, even after the world started turning him into something else. you saw the boy behind the brilliance. you saw the parts he buried. 

and he didn’t know what to do with that. 

because sae itoshi was taught that love came with expectations. that closeness led to dependence. that if you opened the door even a little, people would walk in and never leave. 

but you didn’t push. you never asked for anything. not his time, not his attention, not even his affection. you loved him in the quietest way possible. and that terrified him. 

because he wanted to reach back. he wanted to hold your hand in that library. he wanted to say your name without sounding like he was choking on it. he wanted to tell you that when things felt too heavy, thinking of you made it a little easier to breathe. 

but he was afraid. afraid that if he touched something so good, he’d ruin it. 

so he stayed still. and you drifted. 

you started smiling less. started saying less. and one day, you were gone, just like that. no explanation. no fight. you disappeared the same way you came into his life: gently, and without warning. 

and he hated himself for it. 

he watched you vanish through the cracks of time, like water slipping through cupped hands. and the worst part? he let you. because that’s what he thought you wanted. but it wasn’t. 

months passed. then years. the fame got louder. the lights got brighter. but his world got smaller. and when things quieted, when he was alone in hotel rooms with aching legs and an emptier chest, he thought of you. 

he thought of the what if’s. the if only’s. the maybe, if i had just… 

and one day, something broke. 

he saw a fan holding a sign with your favorite quote. some poetic nonsense he used to roll his eyes at. but this time, he didn’t look away. 

this time, he picked up his phone. 

you hear his voice before you see him. deep. cautious. hesitant in a way you’ve never heard before. 

“i was an idiot,” he says. no greeting. just truth. “i knew. the whole time. and i was scared, but… i never stopped thinking about you.” 

your heart stops. 

“i still think about you,” he continues, softer. “every season, every year, it’s always you.” 

you turn slowly to look out your window. he’s standing there, in the rain, holding nothing but his phone and something raw in his eyes. 

“so if you’ll let me… i want to try. for real this time. no silence. no distance. just me. and you.” 

he steps closer. your breath catches. 

“you once said nothing. now let me say everything.” 

you say yes. and this time, you stay. 

he gives you his winters, quiet and warm, bundled in scarves and late-night movies. he gives you his springs, soft and clumsy, filled with new routines and relearning how to be loved. he gives you his summers, loud and golden, messy with beach trips and laughter and sunscreen kisses. he gives you his autumns, slow and nostalgic, where the leaves fall like old fears and make room for something new. 

and when he looks at you now, he doesn’t feel afraid. he feels home. 

because love, real love, was never about perfection. it was about showing up. 

and this time, sae itoshi chose to stay. for you. for him. for all the seasons you still had left to share. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢