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geminiwritten · 11 days ago

Text

playing games ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far

notes: i don't want to say this sucks because i'm actually so proud of getting it done... i was severely burnt out the past week and struggling big time, so i really hope it's not terrible and y'all really enjoy! plus, the ending had me giggling and kicking my feet... as always, please let me know what you think, i love all the feedback (it honestly keeps me going)

warnings: swearing, italics, alcohol consumption, hangman is a bit of a dick but still lovable, kind of cheesy, description of injury and blood (very minor), and it gets a bit horny (18+ ONLY MDNI)! please let me know if i missed anything

word count: 17266

your callsign is chick

You’ve known Bradley Bradshaw since your first day at the academy, and he’s been ruining your life ever since.

With his stupid sun-kissed skin and ridiculously perfect hair. Those damn pink lips, always curled into a soft smirk beneath that criminal moustache. And those big brown eyes—so deceptively innocent as they watch you, like they know you better than you know yourself.

Even the way he speaks gets you hot. That low drawl in his voice, the way he stretches certain words, and—ugh—the way he says your name.

He’s a walking, talking hazard to your health. Engineered in a lab and designed specifically to make your brain short-circuit. All he has to do is look at you, talk to you, flash that smug little smirk—just exist—and you’re malfunctioning.

You want him like a shot of whiskey on a cold night. Need him more than air when you’re drowning. He’s everything you can’t have but can’t stop craving.

And the worst part?

You know he feels it too. That he wants you just as badly.

But Bradley Bradshaw is too fucking scared to cross that line and risk everything for something real.

“Rooster!” Maverick calls across the tarmac. “This isn’t a photo shoot for Hot Pilots Weekly. Move your ass!”

Laughter ripples through the squad—breathless but alive—as you all keep circling the cones on the concrete. Because today, Maverick decided push-ups just weren’t enough. Today, he wanted to torture his squad.

“Don’t slow down, Bob,” Hondo says, stopwatch in hand by one of the cones.

“I can’t see,” Bob huffs. “My glasses are fogging up.”

“Must suck not being in peak physical condition,” Jake quips, picking up the pace to pass Bob and Mickey.

You’re just a stride ahead—and seriously considering faking a faint so you can ditch this godforsaken flight suit.

“Hey, little chick,” Jake says, falling into step beside you. “Lookin’ good.”

“Save it, Bagman,” you mutter, breathless. “I’m not in the mood.”

“See, you say that,” he says, that cocky grin still in place despite running for the past twenty minutes, “but your eyes are telling a different story.”

You let out a huff—something between a laugh and a gasp for air. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“But I’m wearing you down, right?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re wearing my patience down.”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Maverick calls. “Bring it in.”

There’s a collective groan as everyone slows to a walk, dragging themselves toward him without an ounce of urgency—tugging off gloves and unzipping flight suits as they go.

Maverick had made everyone run in full gear. He claims it’s conditioning, but you’re pretty sure it’s just because he’s evil—and possibly an undercover sadist.

You fumble with your zipper, yanking it down before shrugging the suit off your shoulders and pulling your arms free. The rush of cool air against your skin is nothing short of divine, and you let out a soft moan without even meaning to. You don’t even care that you’re down to just a sports bra—since you ran out of clean undershirts this morning and had already resigned yourself to suffering.

When you glance up from tying the sleeves of your suit around your waist, you catch Bradley staring. His wide brown eyes are locked on you, roaming over your bare skin like they have every right to. His face is flushed, lips parted, breath coming in quick gasps as he slows to a stop. Feet rooted to the ground, he just stares—clearly flustered—and somehow, you’re not convinced the run is entirely to blame.

You walk right past him, lips twitching. “Thirsty, Bradshaw?”

He clears his throat and falls into step beside you. “Hungry, actually.”

“That so?”

He nods.

You arch a brow. “Anything in particular you’re craving?”

His tongue darts between his lips as they curl into a slow smirk, his eyes dropping down your body. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”

You want to laugh—because yeah, it’s been a long fucking while—but instead, you press your lips together and shake your head.

Maverick drones on about how maintaining your body is just as important as maintaining your jet before launching into an unhinged story about ‘back in his day’—but you’re barely listening. You can’t. Not with Bradley’s eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. Not with the way he’s standing so close, suit half off, his undershirt clinging to his body in ways you only wish you could.

It’s downright criminal—the way he can still look this sinfully good after a full day of torture. No one should look like that after a gruelling workout. No one.

“You’re all dismissed,” Maverick says, snapping your attention away from the little droplet of sweat sliding down the side of Bradley’s neck. “And don’t forget—my place at six.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Mickey grins, turning to Reuben beside him. “I’ve been thinking about a steak all damn week.”

Reuben frowns. “Then why wouldn’t you just cook one for yourself?”

“Don’t know how,” Mickey says with a shrug.

Maverick chuckles as he turns away, Hondo falling into step beside him.

The others continue roasting Mickey for his inability to cook a steak while you head for the locker rooms, eager to get the hell out of this damn suit and under the cool spray of a cold shower—something you need for more than one reason.

You almost make it when a heavy pair of footsteps echo down the hall behind you, and you don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You recognise him just from the sound of his stride. Is that sad?

“You trying to follow me into the shower now, Bradshaw?”

He tips his head, lips curling into that crooked little half-smile. “Is that an offer?”

You press your back to the women’s locker room door, nudging it open. “You know you’re always welcome.”

A beat of silence stretches between you—electricity crackling softly in the air as you hold his gaze. Your lips are quirked in challenge; his cheeks flushed, eyes wide with want—even though you already know exactly what he’s about to do.

He’s going to defuse the moment. Because he’s scared.

“Raincheck,” he mutters, voice tight—almost strained—before clearing his throat. “I was going to ask if you wanted a lift tonight? To Mav’s.”

“Oh.” You take half a step back into the locker room. “That’d be great.”

He nods once. “Pick you up at ten to six.”

“Can’t wait,” you say before turning sharply and pushing all the way through the door.

You know it was just a joke—an offhand comment—but the little stab of disappointment still lands in your gut. You should be used to it by now. He’s been rejecting you for years. But it still stings. Especially when he’s looking at you like that—gaze hot and full of every emotion he refuses to name.

Now you definitely need an ice-cold shower.

Because for a moment, you let yourself imagine dragging Bradley into the locker room. Peeling off his flight suit. Tasting the sweat on his skin. Pressing him under the hot water, feeling his body move against yours—his hands, his mouth, his arms wrapped around you and his cock—

“Ugh,” Natasha’s voice bounces off the tiled walls. “My ass is basically slow-roasting in this fucking suit. If I peel this thing off and hear a squelch, I’m retiring.”

You snort a laugh as you pop open your locker.

“You’re better than a cold shower,” you tell her, watching as she starts wriggling out of her suit. “Did you know that?”

She narrows her eyes. “Gross. Were you daydreaming about Bradshaw again?”

Once a month, Maverick invites the whole squad over to his house for a barbecue. It’s a cute little tradition he started when the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit based at North Island. He says it’s to keep morale up and make sure Bradley and Jake are always getting along—but you know it’s really just because he loves it.

Your phone chimes just as you’re slipping your feet into your shoes. It’s a text from Bradley, announcing that he’s out the front of your apartment block.

You grab a jacket—just in case—before heading out the door and turning sharply toward the fire stairs. You’ve refused to take the elevator ever since it broke down a couple months ago. It’s supposedly fixed now, but you’re not taking any chances. Those two hours you were stuck in there with your neighbour ‘Crabby Carl’ were some of the worst of your life.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you chant to yourself as you bolt down the stairs.

You shove the door open on the bottom level and breeze through the lobby, darting outside just as Bradley presses on his car’s horn.

You stop abruptly at the passenger-side door, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “You were barely waiting two minutes.”

He looks like the embodiment of sin sitting behind the wheel of the Bronco—lust, to be exact. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear stick, he looks like he’s posing for some defence force recruitment ad created by horny graphic designers. He’s wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt—one that shouldn’t look as good as it does, but of course it looks good on him—unbuttoned to his sternum, showing off a delicious stretch of sun-kissed skin that makes your mouth water.

He tips his head forward, peering over the rim of his sunglasses. “You gonna keep staring or are you gonna hop in?”

You roll your eyes and yank the door open, trying—and failing—not to blush.

“Nice shirt,” you mutter. “Did you mug a tourist for it?”

He chuckles as he flicks on the indicator. “Actually, this is vintage Bradshaw. And I know you love it.”

You scoff, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “Someone’s full of himself this evening.”

His eyes cut toward you as the car stops at an intersection, a sharp smirk curling at his lips. “Jealous?”

Your eyes widen. Your cheeks flame. Your breath catches in your throat. Did he seriously just ask if you’re jealous of him being... full of himself?

The silence between you is thick with static, crackling dangerously as he holds your gaze—brown eyes lit with something reckless. Something sharp that steals the air from your lungs and makes you forget your own name.

You’re used to flirting with Bradley—you’ve been doing it for years—but every now and then, he gets bold. No warning, no reason. Just a sudden shift in heat, like he lives to catch you off guard.

The blaring of a car horn startles you both. Bradley’s cheeks flush as his head snaps forward, foot pressing quickly on the gas.

The rest of the car ride is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the radio—but thankfully, Maverick’s place isn’t far from yours. It’s barely been ten minutes when Bradley pulls up to the curb in front of the small, sun-faded beach house.

You try not to stare as he cuts the engine and pulls the key from the ignition, but it’s hard not to watch the way his shirt shifts. The way it falls open a little more as he leans forward. His skin is so golden, so warm—something you wouldn’t mind burning your fingertips on.

“You alright?”

Your eyes snap to his face, cheeks heating. “Yeah, sorry.” You quickly unbuckle your belt. “Zoned out.”

He chuckles, pushing open the driver’s side door. “You know, it’s not polite to stare at someone’s tits.”

“That so?” you ask, arching a brow as your lips curl into a half-smirk. “So the way you were looking at me after training today... what was that?”

He ducks his head, fighting a smile as his hand tightens on the door handle. “Oh, that wasn’t polite at all.”

Then he slips out of the car and shuts the door, leaving you to catch your breath—for the second damn time in less than twenty minutes.

Once you finally remember how to breathe, you climb out and follow him up the front porch steps. He doesn’t bother knocking—just opens the screen door and turns the brass knob on the weathered oak door, pushing it open like it’s his own house.

There are already voices inside—mostly bickering—and the clink and clang of pots, pans, and other cooking utensils. The kitchen sits at the very back of the house, just before a sliding set of double doors that open onto a spacious deck.

It’s not a big house—it’s cozy—and you love it. From the worn wooden floorboards to the peeling wallpaper. It has so much charm, and so much potential to be the ultimate vintage beach shack. You always joke to Mav about leaving it to you in his will—and he usually fires back with something suggestive about leaving it to Bradley, so it will be yours someday.

“You are not cooking,” Natasha’s voice echoes down the hall. “Last time you cooked, everything was beyond burnt.”

“Well, the last time you cooked, the steaks were still mooing,” Jake fires back.

“Mav, could you please tell Hangman that steak is supposed to be pink in the middle?” Nat says.

“Mav, tell Phoenix to eat her weird, witchy, voodoo blood sacrifices in the privacy of her own home,” Jake retorts, his voice rising with every word.

You snort quietly as you round the corner into the kitchen, just as Maverick lets out a long, exasperated sigh.

“Would the both of you just shut the hell up?” he mutters, glancing up from where he’s unwrapping various cuts of meat. A smile curls across his face as he spots his two newest arrivals. “Rooster is cooking tonight.”

Bradley sighs like he’s just been asked to scrub the barracks with a toothbrush, but he doesn’t argue. He just moves into the kitchen with easy familiarity, greeting the others like he hadn’t been with them all day, then starts helping his godfather unpack the barbecue haul.

“Here,” Natasha says, sliding a beer toward you. “You’re going to need this. Seresin is in fine form tonight.”

Jake’s head snaps toward you, his grin firmly in place. “I’m always in fine form, Phoenix.”

You tip your head, furrowing your brow in faux confusion. “Didn’t I score higher than you on the last PRT?”

“Actually,” Natasha cuts in, lips twitching, “I’m pretty sure we both did.”

Jake’s smirk flickers, just slightly. “Those tests are rigged. They’re designed better for assessing female fitness.”

“The U.S. military is more than eighty percent male,” you say flatly. “Why on earth would the tests be rigged in favour of women?”

Reuben claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Face it, man. You’re not actually that fit. You just look it.”

Jake’s eyes go wide.

“You’re hot girl fit,” Natasha adds, her grin sharpening.

“Oh my God,” you giggle. “That’s so true. You look good, but you’re not actually that good.”

Jake’s gaze swings back to you, eyes sparkling. “Did you just say that I look good, little chick?”

Your smile drops as you narrow your eyes. “You won’t be looking good with a broken nose if you keep calling me that.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick sighs, stepping between you and Jake with a tray full of meat. “No violence indoors. If you want to fight, take it to the park across the road—and don’t mention my name if the cops come. They don’t like me very much.”

Laughter ripples through the group as everyone starts moving outside. Maverick and Bradley take the meat trays while Bob, Natasha, and Jake gather bowls, plates, knives, and forks. You grab the tongs, spatula, and grill fork before following them out the back door and onto the deck.

Javy, Mickey, and Reuben have already claimed spots around the large table. There are a few wicker lounge chairs that match the outdoor setting, and a couple of extra seats that have been pulled from Maverick’s indoor dining set. And at the far end of the deck is where the barbecue is—right next to the two-seater lounge that, somehow, you and Bradley always end up sharing.

“Chick,” Maverick calls as you cross the deck. “You helping?”

“Do I have a choice?” you ask, squeezing between the back of Mickey’s chair and the deck railing.

Maverick shakes his head. “No, not really.”

You roll your eyes as you reach the barbecue and Maverick gives you a quick pat on the shoulder before walking off, leaving you with Bradley.

You set the cooking utensils down and turn to him with your hands clasped behind your back, standing as if at attention. “Reporting for duty, chef.”

Bradley gives you that soft little half-smirk, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Sure you’re ready for the barbecuing big leagues, baby bird?”

You press your lips together, trying desperately to ignore the way your heart flutters at the nickname. It’s lame, and a little cheesy, but he’s been calling you that since flight school—since your very first real flight, when you admitted how nervous you were about getting in an actual jet. Instead of teasing you, he gave you some corny speech about flying the nest and somehow made you feel brave. From that day on, it just stuck. It even inspired your callsign—well, that and the fact that you apparently followed Rooster around like a lost chick... or so they said.

You clear your throat, blinking away the dreamy haze in your eyes. “Trust me,” you say, fighting a smirk, “I know how to handle my meat.”

Bradley rolls his eyes and turns back to the barbecue, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks flush pink.

Once the grill is hot, you help him lay out the meat and stack the empty trays to the side. He spends a few seconds poking holes in the sausages and stabbing a few of the steaks—for God knows what reason—before shutting the lid and turning toward you with a smirk.

“Would you rather let Hangman choose you a new callsign… or your next tattoo?”

You cross your arms and lean a hip against the barbecue’s side shelf, tapping a finger against your bottom lip as you think.

“Can I choose the size and placement of the tattoo?” you ask.

Bradley shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Alright, callsign then,” you decide. “It’s less permanent, and I don’t think he’s creative enough to come up with anything truly awful.”

Bradley tips his head. “Fair.”

He watches you for a moment while you take your time thinking of your own question, his eyes flicking—less than subtly—between your lips and your chest, the latter nicely highlighted by your crossed arms.

Honestly, sometimes he’s the least subtle man alive.

“Okay,” you say, uncrossing your arms to curb the distraction. “Would you rather tell Mav you dented his bike, or accidentally call him ‘Dad’ during a hop?”

Bradley laughs and tips his head back. “Oh, definitely the ‘Dad’ thing. I could live with the embarrassment, but he wouldn’t let me live if I touched his precious bike.”

You nod. “That’s true.”

“Alright,” he says, returning his gaze to you. “Would you rather be stuck in a supply closet with Fanboy all night, or trapped out here on the deck?”

You snort. “The deck, easily. I’m not surviving a night in a closet with anyone on this squad—and this deck has comfy lounges. It’s a no brainer.”

He laughs again as he turns back to the grill, lifting the hood to check the sizzling meat.

“Phoenix, want your steak flipped now?” he calls, without even glancing over his shoulder.

“Yes, please,” she replies.

You grab the tongs before he can and bump your hip against his, nudging him aside to lean forward and flip one of the steaks. Then you casually check the others, rotating the sausages just slightly, before stepping back and lowering the lid.

You turn to face him, tongs pointed at his chest. “Would you rather only ever take cold showers, or have hot showers but you have to pick someone from the squad to join you?”

His brows shoot up, a devilish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leans in, just a little. “Definitely the second option.”

You narrow your eyes. “Who would you pick?”

He leans in further. “That’s not part of the question.”

You let out a flustered little breath as he winks and snatches the tongs right out of your hand. Then he leans back, watching you thoughtfully—clearly taking his time to come up with a question that will top yours.

“Okay,” he says finally, brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “Would you rather have someone’s hands in your hair... or their teeth on your skin?”

You choke on absolutely nothing.

Your breath catches, warmth flooding your face and crawling down your throat. Your heart stutters, then pounds harder—so loud you’re almost positive he can hear it.

“I—” You clear your throat, hard. “What kind of question is that?”

He watches you too closely, eyes sparkling with amusement, and smirk firmly in place. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Hypothetically, of course,” he says, way too innocently.

You narrow your eyes. “Right. No ulterior motives?”

His tongue slides across his bottom lip as he nods.

“Alright.” You take a slow breath, gathering your composure. “Both are good... but if I had to choose?” You meet his eyes. “Teeth.”

His gaze sharpens, hunger sparking behind his eyes. He licks his lips again, and it strikes like lightning behind your ribs, racing heat through you in a single, breathless flash. The space between you hums with tension, dense and electric, thick enough to taste like copper on your tongue.

Then, without a word, he turns back and lifts the barbecue lid, using the tongs to rotate the sausages like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just set you on fire—and then dump a bucket of ice water on your head.

The impromptu game of Would You Rather fizzles out fast—both of you too flustered to meet each other’s eyes after Bradley’s last question. Instead, you keep busy, setting out crockery and side dishes, and grabbing everyone another round of drinks before the meat is done.

Once dinner is served, conversation quiets, replaced by the sound of cutlery and near-feral eating. Everyone is shovelling food into their mouths like they haven’t eaten in days—the fallout from Maverick’s full day of physical torture.

You end up beside Bradley in the two-seater—because of course you do—and the air between you still feels heavy. Charged, almost.

You’re used to tension with him—it’s been there for years—but lately, it feels different. More pressing. More electric. Like one spark could light a fire big enough to burn you both to ash.

“So,” Maverick says, setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate, “I take it everyone’s attending the gala next weekend?”

There’s a general hum of agreement and nods all around the table.

“Do we have to wear dinner dress?” Mickey asks, talking around a mouthful of steak.

Maverick shakes his head. “Command made it mess dress or formalwear—your choice.” He pauses, eyes sweeping pointedly across the group. “But if you don’t have a perfectly tailored tux, I’d recommend your uniform. It’s still black tie. And it’s our first event as an official elite squadron.”

Natasha raises her fork like she’s in class. “If gowns count as formalwear for women, can the guys wear dresses too? Or are we sticking to gender-normative black tie?”

Maverick drops his head into his hands and sighs, elbows braced on the table. “It’s the U.S. Navy, Phoenix. What do you think?”

“Fair point,” she mutters, smirking as she stabs another piece of sausage.

“Damn,” Reuben says. “I had the hottest little red number I’ve been dying to wear.”

Mickey snorts—then chokes, coughing hard as laughter erupts around the table. His face turns beet red as he waves off concern and sputters into his drink.

Bradley nudges your elbow. “You going?”

You nod.

He smirks. “Got a date?”

You nearly drop your fork. “A date?”

“Yeah,” he says with a soft chuckle, tipping his head the way he does when he’s about to tease you. “Do you know what that is? Or has it been so long you’ve forgotten?”

You roll your eyes. “I know what a date is, Bradshaw. I just don’t know why I’d need one.”

“Just thought maybe you’d want one,” he says, voice softer now, cheeks pink and eyes fixed on his plate.

Your brows lift, pulse skipping as heat flickers low in your chest. Electricity crawls beneath your skin, lighting every nerve it touches.

You should be used to this by now—used to him. But somehow, your body still responds to every little thing. Every glance. Every tease. Even when you know better.

“You know,” you say, voice low, “if you want to ask a girl out, you usually have to say the words.”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching, breath caught. It feels like the whole table has gone still—every pair of ears not-so-subtly tuned in to your conversation.

Bradley clears his throat. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Another bucket of ice water. You feel it crash over you like a wave, and you swear the whole squad exhales at once—like they’ve been holding their breath for you.

Heat curls low in your belly, stoking that familiar, maddening frustration that only Bradley seems capable of lighting. It swells beneath your ribs, fierce and unwelcome, pushing out any room you had left for food or rational thought.

You can feel it creeping into your cheeks too—heat and humiliation, tangled together. How he keeps building you up only to knock the breath from your lungs again... you don’t know why you keep letting him.

You let your knife and fork clatter onto your plate as you stand abruptly, the scrape of your chair loud against the deck. The force of it jostles Bradley, but you don’t care. He glances up, brows drawn, gaze wide and confused—as if he has any right to be confused.

You don’t meet his eyes. You can’t. Instead, you grab your plate and empty beer bottle with stiff fingers, turn on your heel, and stalk around the table with your jaw set tight. You don’t stop, don’t speak. Your gaze stays locked on the back door until you reach it, yank it open, and step inside—closing it behind you with more force than necessary.

You take a deep breath and try to calm your erratic pulse before starting to clean up the kitchen and wash the dishes. Outside, Natasha and Bob begin clearing the table, bringing in armfuls of plates, bowls, and cutlery, stacking them beside the soapy sink you’re elbows-deep in. Bob offers to help, but you just shake your head and keep scrubbing.

Once everything is washed, Maverick comes inside and grabs a spare dish towel. He doesn’t ask if he can help—nor should he, it’s his house—he just starts quietly drying and putting things away.

After a few minutes of companionable silence—the only sounds the clink and scrape of dishes—Mav sighs and catches your eye. “So-”

“Nope,” you cut in, shooting him a pointed look before turning to stash another plate.

He frowns. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

You pick up the—clean—grill fork and point it at him like a weapon. “You were absolutely about to make some wildly inappropriate comment about me and your emotionally constipated godson—who, by the way, you helped raise. So if you really want to crack open that Pandora’s box, we’re going to need a couch, a camera crew, and Dr. Phil front and centre. Because this is not a kitchen conversation, my dude. This is a full-blown televised intervention.”

His lips twitch into an upside-down smirk, like he’s trying—and failing—not to let his amusement show.

After a beat, he lifts a brow. “My dude?”

“Sorry,” you mutter, focusing on drying the grill fork a little too thoroughly. “Got carried away.”

He chuckles and picks up another sudsy bowl. “Look, you’re not wrong about him being a little… emotionally stunted.”

You arch a brow but keep quiet.

“But can you blame him?” he asks, slipping the bowl into the cupboard.

“Would you prefer I blame you?”

“What if we just leave blame out of it, yeah?”

“Sure,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes. “Now, since you’re clearly not going to drop it, let’s hear some of that Maverick wisdom. What’ve you got? Inspirational quotes? Dating advice? Drugs?”

He laughs—really laughs—this time. “Wow. You’re snarky when you’re frustrated.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Jake’s voice cuts in. “And I hear she bites when she’s mad.” He steps through the back door, letting it click shut behind him as he holds up a fistful of empty beer bottles. “What’d I miss?”

You roll your eyes and turn back to the waiting dishes. “Mav was just about to hand out some of his expert dating advice.”

Jake gasps. “For free?”

Maverick sighs. “I don’t know why I even try to be nice to you kids.”

“Because you love us,” you say, flashing him your cheesiest grin.

“Come on, then,” Jake urges. “I wanna hear this advice.”

Mav clears his throat, leaning one hand against the bench and the other on his hip, still holding the towel. “All I was going to say is, there’s nothing wrong with a little forwardness. I, for one, think it’s great when women take the lead-”

“Make me two,” Jake cuts in.

“See?” Maverick says, gesturing vaguely at Jake. “Maybe you should just ask him out. Stop waiting for him to make the first move.”

Jake’s brow furrows, his green eyes snapping toward you. “Who? Bradshaw?”

You roll your eyes. Duh.

“Oh, no,” he says quickly, laughing. “No, no, no. You can’t just ask Rooster out. Not after however many millennia you two have been pining over each other.”

“Thanks, Hangman,” you mutter dryly.

“I hate to break it to you, but asking Rooster out isn’t going to magically fix his ridiculous fear of commitment—” Jake pauses, glancing at Mav. “Shoutout to you for that one, Captain. Excellent work.”

Maverick throws up his hands. “How is this all my fault?”

Jake ignores him, turning back to you with sudden seriousness. “If you really want Bradshaw to do something about whatever it is you two have going on, you’re gonna have to convince him you’re not interested anymore.”

You frown. “What? How would that help?”

“Because,” Jake groans, like you’re the slowest student in his class, “he’s comfortable. He knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger. He’s not worried about losing you, so he’s taking his sweet, motherfucking time. But if he thinks he’s lost you—that he’s blown his shot—he might actually do something reckless like... I don’t know, kiss you.”

Maverick’s curious gaze shifts your way. “Wait, you two have never even kissed?”

You feel your face go hot. “Shut up.”

“Then,” Jake continues, undeterred, “you make him prove he wants you. Really wants you.”

Silence falls over the kitchen, thick with anticipation. Jake just watches you, that familiar glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, while Maverick glances between you both like he’s just tuned in to his favourite soap opera.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted. Jake... has a point. But emotional warfare? Even for a cause like this? You’re not sure you can stomach that—especially when it’s someone you love.

“No.” You shake your head like you can rattle the thought right out of your ears. “No way. It’s mean and manipulative. I’m not going to pretend I’m dating other people and just… ignore him—make him feel like crap—just to get him to admit he likes me.”

Jake sighs and turns to the fridge. “Shame. ‘Cause it would’ve worked.”

“I don’t care,” you say, picking up the last plate to dry. “I’m not messing with someone’s feelings like that.”

He crouches down and starts tearing the cardboard from a fresh pack of beers. “Even though he messes with yours all the time?”

You frown, stepping toward him. “He does not-”

“Whoa,” Bradley says, walking in through the back door. “You three having your own party in here?”

Jake stands, three beers in each hand. “Don’t be jealous, Rooster. I was just giving our little chick some dating advice.”

Bradley’s eyebrows lift, his gaze sliding toward you. “Really?”

You shoot him a flat look, then turn to Jake, eyes narrowed. “Advice I don’t want—or need.”

He leans in with that signature smirk. “Not from where I’m standing, Chick.” Then he winks, nods at both Maverick and Bradley, and saunters out.

Silence falls like a brick. No one moves. No one speaks. You’re painfully aware of Maverick across the kitchen and Bradley just a few feet away. It feels like you’ve been caught doing something wrong—except none of you were doing anything at all.

Bradley glances at the empty beer bottles on the bench, then picks one up and squints at the label. “You know,” he says, turning it over in his hand, “I think they changed the recipe on these. Tastes different lately.”

Neither you nor Maverick respond.

Bradley shrugs and tosses the bottle into the recycling bin with a loud clatter. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. I just... can’t commit to a brand.”

Maverick turns to him slowly and places a single, solemn pat on his shoulder—then walks out the back door, leaving the dishes behind.

You bite your lip and shut your eyes, turning to the sink before Bradley can see the laugh bubbling up in your throat.

Maybe Jake’s right. Maybe you do need to do something a little more drastic to help this man over his fear of commitment.

The rest of the night unfolds like any other. You hang around drinking and talking for a few more hours. Maverick gets roasted for trying to say something ‘hip’, and Javy quietly sweeps every card game while Natasha accuses him—loudly—of being an undercover hustler.

Eventually, Bob yawns and announces that he’s heading out—which signals the end for most of the squad since he drove them over—and Maverick agrees, muttering something about being too old for this.

You all file out like it’s Thanksgiving at your parents’ house, offering your thanks to Maverick on your way out the door. Natasha is the first to slide into her car and peel off down the street, while Bob waits for Jake, Javy, Mickey, and Reuben to cram themselves into his car.

You and Bradley are the last ones left on the street. Mav has already shut the door and flipped off the porch light, leaving you parked in the Bronco—roof off, as always—sitting in the dark beneath the stars.

“So,” Bradley says, eyes somehow still sparkling even in the dark, “where to?”

You tip your head back against the headrest and gaze up at the sky. “Take me to the stars,” you say, voice dramatically wistful.

He chuckles as he turns the key, the engine rumbling to life. “You sure you’re ready for that kind of altitude?”

You roll your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “Maybe if you stopped circling and actually climbed, we’d find out.”

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, lips quirking into a soft smile, but he doesn’t answer. He just presses down on the gas, pulling away from Maverick’s and heading in the direction of your place.

The silence that settles between you is thick—almost uncomfortably so—charged like a storm building somewhere just out of sight. You want to break it with something sharp or sarcastic, like you usually would, but Jake’s words keep echoing in your head. Reminding you just how painfully right he’d been.

“Okay,” Bradley says suddenly, clearing his throat. “Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized Mavericks, or one Maverick-sized duck?”

The question short-circuits your brain with how wildly it veers from your thoughts.

“Um…” you blink out at the road ahead. “Probably the Maverick-sized duck. It wouldn’t be much bigger than an average duck anyway.”

He snorts a laugh, tossing his head back just slightly. In the glow of the streetlights and the low-hanging moon, the sight of him steals the breath right from your lungs. You know he knows he’s good-looking—but you’re not sure he realises just how pretty he really is.

With every flash of light overhead, the tips of his curls burn like molten bronze, while moonlight kisses his lips with silver and shadow—softening the edge of his smirk. Even in the dark, he radiates warmth, like his sun-kissed skin refuses to surrender the light.

“Something on my face?” he asks, glancing at you for a beat before returning to the road.

You shake your head. “No, you’re just…”

He raises his brows, looking at you again with those curious, wide eyes. “I’m what?”

“Pretty,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper as you quickly turn to stare out the windscreen.

You immediately regret letting the word slip from your lips, but it’s too late. The car is blanketed in heavy silence—thick with something unspoken, or rather, something you shouldn’t have spoken—and crackling with nervous energy. Your nervous energy.

Bradley’s smirk is gone. His brows are drawn and his eyes wide as he watches the road, jaw tight like he’s trying to work through an impossible equation in his head. His movements are stiff, deliberate—as if driving isn’t muscle memory anymore, but something he has to consciously remember how to do.

It feels like hours before he pulls up to the curb outside your apartment block. You open the door with what has to be superhuman speed and slip out, mumbling a goodbye with your eyes locked on the lobby. But before you can even make it across the sidewalk, he’s in front of you.

How the fuck did he move that fast?

“What the fuck?” you blurt, a little harsher than you mean to, eyes flicking up to the man now blocking your path—standing way, way too close.

“Sorry, I just—” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “Just wanted to say sorry. For before. At dinner.”

You step back, needing space—because holy shit, the smell of his cologne, of his warm skin and coconut-scented hair wax, is making your whole nervous system short-circuit.

You bump up against the Bronco. “It’s fine. Don’t be silly.”

He takes a step forward, closing the gap again until there’s barely a breath between you.

“No, it’s not. Everyone was listening and—and I shouldn’t have said anything.”

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

His eyes meet yours, wide and full of every emotion you’ve been begging him to say out loud.

“You know what it means.”

You want to scream. You want to grab his face and shake him until he gets it. Until he understands how goddamn stupid he’s being. Because you know he cares. You know he loves you. But you can’t keep waiting around for him to get over whatever ridiculous fear he refuses to name.

“Bradley,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “Why are you—”

Your breath catches. Your voice sticking in your throat as he leans in, one hand braced against the car behind you. His warmth, his scent—it all slams into you at once, wrapping around you like a weighted blanket full of static.

“Bradley...” you whisper, your voice unsteady.

Your eyes are locked on his mouth, watching his tongue slip slowly across his bottom lip as he searches your face—looking for something. Maybe he’s searching for a reason to move forward, or maybe he’s trying to find one to stop. You can’t tell.

You just hope, more than anything, that he doesn’t pull away.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, voice low, wrecked.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your heart is in your throat, beating so hard it almost hurts as he leans in just a fraction more. His nose brushes yours. His breath hits your lips.

Is this it?

But then—he stops.

His forehead dips to yours, his eyes falling shut, and he exhales a shaky breath.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “Not with you.”

The words are barely there, like it hurts him to say them.

And just like that, the moment shatters.

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, the sting of heat rising to your cheeks—not from the near-kiss, but from the humiliation curling hot and sour in your gut.

Before he can say anything else, you push off the car and shoulder past him, the night air slicing cold across your skin as you storm toward the lobby, jaw tight and chest burning.

Your vision blurs with tears that wait until the second you step into the elevator to finally fall, streaking down your cheeks in warm, heavy drops.

You don’t even care if the damn lift breaks down—at least then, you wouldn’t be the only one falling apart.

You take a deep breath, clutching a coffee cup in each hand like they’re your lifelines. Then, lifting one foot, you tap the toe of your sneaker against the door you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes—wondering whether you really want it to open.

“Good morning, little chick,” Jake says, grinning from ear to ear as it swings open.

You release the breath you’d been holding and hand over one of the cups. “Peace offering.”

He lifts a brow. “Is this you grovelling?”

“I don’t grovel.”

He takes the cup and steps aside, motioning you in. “What about beg?”

You roll your eyes as you walk past him, pleasantly surprised by the fresh, citrusy scent that greets you the second you step into the kitchen—the first room off the entry.

“Wow, I’m impressed,” you mutter, raising your cup to your lips.

Jake drops onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “What were you expecting?”

“Shag carpet. Disco ball. Strobe lights. A shrine to yourself. And at least a dozen mirrors.”

He snorts. “You’re just as bad as he is, you know that?”

You pull out a stool and settle in, resting your elbows on the counter. “Who?”

“The man you’re here to beg me to help you with.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t beg.” You take another sip before setting the cup down with a sigh. “But... yes. I want help.”

His smirk lifts higher. “What made you change your mind?”

“Nothing,” you shoot back a little too fast.

He just arches a brow and waits.

“Fine,” you mutter. “When he dropped me home last night, he apologised for the whole ‘date to the gala’ thing over dinner. I told him it was fine. He got closer, leaned in. I thought he was going to kiss me, and then... nothing. He said he couldn’t do it. Not with me.”

Jake frowns—not shocked or empathetic, just curious. “Not with you,” he echoes. “Specifically you.”

You give him a flat stare. “Yes. Me. Thank you for really hammering that in.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to rub it in. I mean... there’s something else, then. Something beyond his DEFCON-level commitment issues.”

“So, it is just me?” you ask. “I’m too hideous or something?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that. It’s probably the friendship.”

“Oh, so I’m buried in the friendzone. Awesome.”

Jake narrows his eyes at you. “Would you stop being such a cynic? I told you I’d help—so let me help.”

You press your lips together and sit up straight, drawing an imaginary halo above your head.

“Thank you,” he nods. “Now, I’m guessing the real problem is that he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship. I mean, sure, back in the academy and flight school, it was probably just bad timing. Then after deployment—separate deployments—you could both write it off as unrealistic. But now? Now it’s deeper. He’s not just scared of commitment. He’s scared of losing the one thing he really gives a damn about.”

You tip your head, brow furrowed.

Jake sighs. “You.”

“Oh.”

He takes a long sip of his coffee, eyes drifting across the kitchen like the cupboards might give him an answer.

“We just have to figure out how to get him to believe you’re actually into me,” he says.

Your eyes go wide. “Sorry, what? Into you?”

His gaze snaps back to yours, amusement flickering. “Yes. Me. That’s the plan.”

“You’re the plan?” you repeat, because your brain is still buffering.

He nods. “Yes, I am the plan. You and me—together. That’s the play.”

“Oh, he’ll never believe that,” you say. “Not in a million years.”

Jake tips his cup, drains it, and drops it on the counter with a hollow thunk. “Would he believe you if you told him you were here right now? Hanging out with me on a Saturday morning?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“But you are,” he points out, brows raised. “So all we have to do is show him. We can’t just say it—we have to do it.”

You pull back slightly, grimacing.

“I don’t literally mean do it,” he sighs. “God, you act like I’m some uncontrollable savage.”

You hide a smirk behind your cup, deciding not to poke the one person who might be your only hope.

“Alright,” you say, setting your coffee down and straightening up again. “So, how do we show him?”

Jake isn’t just evil—he’s downright diabolical.

You have no idea how he’s come up with so many ways to get under Bradley’s skin—though you suspect that pissing people off might just be one of his favourite pastimes. And damn, his ideas are good. You’re pretty sure Bradley will be ready to murder someone by the end of the week—if he even makes it that far.

Right after your Saturday morning chat, Jake got to work. He started by taking a series of photos where you were just visible but not the focus. One in the kitchen, with you turned away so it’s hard to tell that it’s you. Another on the couch, your hand just barely in frame, resting on his leg. And one in the mirror—he claimed it was to show off a new beanie, but if you squint, you can spot your figure lounging on his bed in the background.

Then it was your turn. With Jake’s help, you snapped a few subtle photos of your own—each one just blurry or cropped enough that someone would have to look twice to notice him.

That night, he fired the first shot. He dropped the kitchen photo into the group chat with a totally fabricated caption about ‘white people taco night’—because he knew it would immediately set Mickey off. The plan worked. Within minutes, the chat was buzzing. Javy asked who the girl in the background was, but Mickey’s dramatic rant about authentic tacos made it easy to dodge the question.

Still, the seed had been planted.

On Sunday afternoon, Jake showed up at your place with a bag of his old clothes and a small bottle of cologne—the one he always wears. You hung out for a bit, fine-tuning your devious schedule for the week, before it was your turn to post in the chat.

Yours had to be subtler. Jake having a girl over? Not unusual. But you? If it wasn’t Bradley in the photo, people would notice instantly.

So you went simple. A picture of a mug of tea. Barely anything else in frame—just a sliver of the floor, a pair of regulation boots, and a bag that looked suspiciously like it was packed for an overnight stay. Keys resting neatly on top.

You captioned it: ‘Look, Payback! Tea! And it doesn’t taste like jet fuel!’—a direct hit on the squad’s long-running inside joke about the time Natasha asked Reuben to make her tea, and it somehow tasted worse than kerosene.

The chat exploded. Half of the messages were Reuben defending himself, and the other half—sparked by Natasha’s quickfire question about the boots—were trying to figure out who you had sleeping over.

You played it cool—a few coy emojis, a couple of vague replies—and eventually, they moved on. But you knew better. The game had officially begun.

And judging by how quiet Bradley had gone in the chat—especially after someone pointed out those boots were definitely too big to be yours—you were confident.

He’d taken the bait.

“You ready?” Jake asks, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning.

You nod. Your mini-meltdown already happened this morning—second-guessing everything, wondering if this is too much, if it’ll backfire, if it makes you the bad guy. But then you remembered. You remembered the way Bradley has strung you along for years, the way his scent lingered on your skin that night, how close he got—closer than ever—just to leave you hanging. Again. And that’s when it clicked. This isn’t petty at all. This is justice.

Because Bradley Bradshaw has had you twisted in knots for far too long.

Now? You get to pull the strings.

You walk beside Jake across the pool deck—barefoot, no pants, towel slung over your shoulder, and his shirt hanging loose over your swimsuit.

Maverick booked a couple of pool lanes for swim training this morning. It’s not your favourite—unless the summer heat is brutal—and you don’t do it as often as you probably should, but at least he’s not making you wear your flight suits this time.

Up ahead, the squad is already gathered at the edge of the pool, standing around in their swimmers while Maverick chats with Warlock down the other end. You and Jake are the last to arrive—exactly as planned.

You force a smile as you get closer, eyes fixed on him no matter how badly they want to flick toward Bradley.

“I’m just saying,” Jake grins, “if you’re going to steal my shirt, the least you can do is admit it looks better on me.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not everything is about you, Seresin. And for the record, I saw you in it yesterday—and I can confidently say it looks way better on me.”

He chuckles, voice low but not too low. “Okay, fair. It does look pretty damn good.”

When you finally glance away from him, your gaze lands on the squad—all of them wide-eyed, mouths hanging open. Every single one of them is staring, expressions caught somewhere between confusion and horror.

Except Bradley.

He looks... flustered. A little angry. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes—wide and flickering—are running up and down your body like they can’t decide whether they love or hate what they’re seeing.

Natasha steps forward, brow furrowed and brown eyes wide. “What the hell is-”

“Alright, aviators,” Maverick says, clapping his hands as he approaches the group. “Time to get out of the sky and into the water.”

You let out a small breath of relief, grateful for his perfectly timed interruption that draws the squad’s attention away from you and cuts through the growing tension.

“I’m not going easy on you today,” he continues, a wide smirk spreading across his face as he leads everyone toward the deep end of the pool. “We’ll warm up with a two-hundred metre freestyle, then hit kickboard drills and buoy pulls. After that, combat intervals, hypoxic training, rescue sims, gear swims, and finally—your favourite—the water tread challenge. Make it to the end without a complaint and you get to leave early. If you pass out? Two hundred push-ups to prove you're not too out of shape for my squad. Got it?”

The collective energy dips—weighted down with dread for what’s to come—but everyone mumbles their understanding and heads toward the diving blocks.

Swim training is always brutal, but today’s line-up of torture only reinforces what you’ve long suspected—Maverick really does enjoy watching you all suffer.

Aside from sticking to your drills and doing what you’re supposed to do, there’s hardly a moment to interact with the rest of the squad. Your head is underwater for half the day, and when it’s not, it’s pounding. You catch the occasional glimpse of Jake’s cocky smirk or a cheeky wink, and a few curious—or maybe frustrated—looks from Bradley, but for the most part, no one has time to talk. Between drills, you're too busy catching your breath and stretching out your aching limbs to worry about anything else.

By the time Maverick finally calls for cooldown, you’re seconds away from collapsing. You’ve nearly forgotten all about your little scheme with Jake—until he swims up beside you, just as you’re about to climb out of the pool.

“Need a hand stretching?” he asks, eyes sparkling like he didn’t just endure six hours of hell.

You raise a brow. “Is this you being a pest, or part of the-”

“You think so little of me,” he sighs, stepping onto the bottom rung of the ladder right behind you.

It’s way too intimate, especially considering you're still surrounded by your whole squad and half the base. But Jake doesn’t seem remotely bothered by pressing his wet, half-naked body up against yours.

“Move it, little chick,” he says sarcastically. “You’re holdin’ up the line.”

You roll your eyes and continue up the ladder, quickly padding across the pool’s tiled edge toward your towel and water bottle.

He dries off beside you while you wrap yourself in your towel and squeeze the excess water from your hair, giving him a sceptical—almost dubious—look the whole time.

“Talk to me,” he says, voice low. “You’ve got to at least pretend not to hate me if we want this to work.”

“I don’t hate you,” you mutter into the mouth of your drink bottle before taking a swig.

Jake gasps—full of faux shock, and eyes wide with dramatic flair. “Don’t let Rooster hear you say that. He’ll blow his carotid.”

You roll your eyes and tuck the towel under your arm to keep it wrapped around your body. “I swear, the way you two talk about each other, anyone would think you’re jilted ex-lovers.”

Jake chuckles softly. “And if I told you we were?”

You lift a brow. “I’d ask for proof.”

His grin turns wicked. “Would you join in?”

You tip your head, fighting a smile. “Probably.”

“I knew it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “You are into me. Even if you won’t admit it.”

“Only your body,” you say, stepping closer and placing your palm flat against his bare chest. “I’d just have to make sure your mouth was too busy to piss me off.”

His jaw nearly drops—if not for the devious smirk tugging at his lips. You wink, pat his chest once, then turn and walk toward the locker rooms… right past Bradley, who you know was listening to that entire conversation.

You take a little longer than usual in the showers, letting the hot water soak into your skin and ease the aches in your exhausted muscles. You rinse your hair until it no longer feels rough and tangled from a day spent in over-chlorinated water, and you slide soap over your skin until it feels less itchy and tight.

Then you turn off the water and spend a good few minutes drying yourself before slipping into some blissfully dry clothes. You pack up your things, sling your bag over your shoulder, and pull out your phone to check what all the buzzing had been about while you were busy getting dressed.

Your heart jumps into overdrive when you open the group chat to see the mirror selfie of Jake in his beanie—the one with you just barely visible in the background. The conversation started with Mickey asking if anyone wanted to go to a new Mexican restaurant tomorrow night—you know, to taste authentic Mexican food. Most of the squad had quickly agreed, and then Jake sent the photo asking if the weather was too hot for him to wear his new beanie.

Then the questions started. It isn’t obviously you in the photo, so most of the squad began asking who the girl is—clearly more interested in that than the beanie. Natasha asked if it was the same one from the kitchen photo, and Reuben said he thought so, since the hair looked the same. Then Javy piped up, offended he doesn’t know who his best friend is ‘dating’. All the while, Jake fielded the questions with sarcastic remarks and cocky quips.

You roll your eyes and type a quick message: ‘Hangman… with the same girl twice? Nah. Couldn’t be.’ Then you hit send just as you step out of the locker room, turning the corner toward the pool deck and—

The next thing you know, you’re on your ass. Your head is spinning, your ankle is throbbing, and there’s a slick smear of blood trailing down the side of your foot.

“Shit,” you mutter.

You must’ve slipped on the wet floor—judging by how your previously dry shorts are now soaking through—and sliced your foot on something during the fall. A cracked or uplifted tile, maybe.

You bend your knee and lift your sore ankle off the ground, gently prodding at it with two fingers—only to wince at the sharp sting. The cut doesn’t look too deep, thankfully, but there’s already an unsightly pool of blood dripping off your heel and onto the ground.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Natasha rushes over, cutting short her conversation with an officer you don’t recognise. “I’m not going to laugh, because I can tell you’re hurt. But damn, that was a good fall.”

You roll your eyes. “You can laugh, it’s fine.”

Her lips twitch into a small smirk. “Can you stand?”

“Not sure.” You try to flex your ankle, but it hurts too much—and it’s already swelling. “I don’t want to, just in case.”

“Good idea. I’ll go get Rooster and we’ll take you to sickbay,” she says, turning on her heel.

“No,” you say quickly, “not Rooster.”

She frowns.

“Get Hangman.”

Her eyes go wide, full of questions as she looks at you in horror. “You want Hangman?”

You nod. “Yes. Please. Just get Jake.”

She stares at you for a moment, like you might be some evil clone of yourself. Then you lift your brows, and she shakes her head, muttering “Jake…” disgustedly as she turns and walks across the pool deck.

A few minutes later, you see her walking back toward you with Jake on her heels. He actually looks concerned, and you’re not sure if it’s just excellent acting or the fact that maybe he’s not completely evil.

“Trying to walk and chew gum at the same time, little chick?” he asks, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You look up at him, trying not to wince at the throb in your ankle. “Slipped on these ridiculously unsafe tiles, actually. Might have to go legal on the U.S. Navy’s ass.”

He chuckles softly and crouches beside you. “Don’t say that too loudly—you might get yourself into trouble.” Then he leans in to inspect your ankle. “Looks pretty gnarly. Might put you out of action for a few weeks.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “That was my first thought too.”

He watches you for a moment—genuine worry flickering in his eyes—before sliding an arm around your waist and lifting you like you weigh nothing. “Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s get you to sickbay, see how long the sentence’ll be.”

With Jake’s help, you’re up on one foot fairly easily. The rush of blood to your ankle makes you wince, but otherwise, you feel relatively steady in his arms.

When you glance up, Natasha is watching with a deep-set scowl. Her brown eyes are so sharp, it feels like they’re cutting right through you. But if she’s looking for something ingenuine, she won’t find it—not this time. Because Jake actually seems worried about you right now, and his help is… surprisingly comforting.

Even if, deep down, you’d still rather be in Bradley’s arms.

“Can you tell Mav?” you ask Natasha. “Please.”

She nods once before stepping aside to let you and Jake pass. But she doesn’t look happy about it, and you know you’re going to hear about this later.

You lean into Jake as he guides you through the building—past the locker rooms, the trophy hall, and the little hire shop that always smells like feet. You’re just about to make it through the exit gate when—of all people—Bradley steps out of the guard’s office, a brand new swipe card in hand.

“Holy shit,” he says, rushing toward you. “What happened? Are you okay?”

He reaches out, like he expects you to drop Jake and fall into his arms. And God, you want to. But you don’t. Instead, you flinch a little and lean closer into Jake.

“I’m alright,” you say, voice cool and indifferent. “I slipped. That’s all.”

Bradley’s eyes widen, flicking between your face and Jake’s before settling on the way Jake’s arm is slung protectively around your waist.

“Well… you have to go to sickbay,” Bradley says. “Do you want me to take you?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine, Rooster. Jake’s got this.”

Double whammy—using his callsign, which you rarely do unless you're teasing, and using Jake instead of Hangman. Yeah. That’ll sting.

“Jake?” he echoes.

“That’s what she said,” Jake cuts in, southern drawl thick and smug. “Told you not to sit too long on that perch, Rooster.”

Bradley’s spine goes rigid, his expression shifting into the one you know he wears when he needs to shut people out. It’s stormy and unreadable—brows furrowed, jaw tight, lips pressed into a hard line.

His eyes lock onto yours. “Hope you’re not grounded for too long.”

Then he turns and walks away, shoulders stiff, fists clenched at his sides.

He doesn’t even glance back.

Not like you do—like you always do—eyes flicking over your shoulder while Jake walks you out.

One prime-time grade-two ankle sprain, six stitches, and four weeks on the ground. Great. And to top it off, you can’t get your foot wet for the next seventy-two hours.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay over?” Natasha asks, her voice crackling through the phone.

“Nat, it’s fine,” you say. “It’s not like I’m totally crippled. I’ll be on crutches for a couple days, then I’ll be walking again.”

“In a boot,” she adds, as sharp as an unimpressed parent. “You’re still injured. Don’t downplay it. How do you even plan on showering without getting it wet? You could slip and hurt yourself… again.”

You roll your eyes and sit up on the couch, gaze glued to the muted TV. “I’m not going to shower on one leg. I’ll have a bath.”

“And what if you accidentally drown?”

You snort. “Seriously, Nat? I’m not a complete idiot. I can take a bath without drowning.”

“I’m just worried about you,” she says. “You’ve been displaying some very self-destructive behaviours lately.”

You lean back into the cushions, tipping your head against them to stare up at the ceiling. “That so? Like what?”

She scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know. Like hanging out with Hangman alone.”

Your eyes widen, panic licking up your spine.

“That’s right,” she says. “I know it’s you in those photos he sent to the group chat. I’m not stupid. What I don’t know is why.”

You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. “Because we’re friends. Why does it matter if I hang out with him one-on-one? You and I hang out all the time.”

You can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “That’s different. You and me, you and Bradley—hell, I wouldn’t even blink if it were you and Reuben. But Hangman? And in his apartment, no less? I know there’s more to it than you’re telling me.”

“So what if there is?”

The line goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if it’s cut out. But then she sighs, heavy and frustrated.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” she says. “You and Rooster-”

“There is no me and Rooster,” you snap, sitting up straight. “This has nothing to do with him.”

There's another beat of silence before she mutters, “Okay, fine. I’ll drop it.”

“Good.”

“Do you still want me to drop off the waterproof bandages?”

“Yes, please. And—” you glance at the empty packet of sour worms on the coffee table, “can you bring me some snacks?”

She lets out a soft laugh, the warmth in it helping to cut through the awkwardness. “Sure. What time should I come by?”

“Whenever,” you say. “I’m going to take a bath and wash off the hospital smell, but you just tell me what works for you.”

There’s a pause, but you can practically hear her thinking while you shuffle toward your crutches.

“Have a bath first. I’ll swing by a bit later,” she decides.

“Okay.” You grab a crutch and hoist yourself upright. “But give me at least an hour and a half. I don’t know how this bath is going to go.”

“You sure you don’t want help? I’ve seen you naked plenty in the locker room.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Nat. Promise. Just give me until eight—then you can come yell at me for being clumsy, as long as you bring snacks.”

“Alright, Chick,” she says with a soft laugh. “Don’t drown.”

“I’ll do my best,” you reply with a small smirk.

She sighs again, full of exasperated affection, and then you both mutter a quick ‘love you’ before hanging up.

You use your crutches to get to your bedroom and then into the ensuite. You start the bath before hopping around the small space to gather what you’ll need, setting everything on the vanity beside the tub—within reach. Then you head back to the bedroom and strip out of your clothes that reek of chlorine and antiseptic.

Once the tub is full of steaming water and fluffy bubbles, you brace yourself on the vanity and the edge of the tub, using them to take your weight as you—not so gracefully—swing your good leg into the bath. Then you lower yourself slowly and awkwardly until you’re sitting, propping your injured foot up on the ledge—safe and dry—before sinking deeper into the bubbles. And God, it feels good.

You sigh, letting the scalding water envelop you as your thoughts wander back to when you last saw Bradley. The look on his face when you’d all but told him to fuck off makes your heart squeeze and your breath catch. In all the years of your friendship, you’ve never been so flippant with him. You’ve never shut him out when you were hurt, never denied him the chance to be there for you. Because honestly? That man is your biggest comfort. He’s your favourite person—and your favourite feeling. And the guilt of making him feel like anything less wrecks you.

The ding of your phone startles you out of your thoughts. You dry your hands quickly on a towel and reach for where you left it on the vanity. It’s just the group chat—Natasha and Jake updating the rest of the squad on what happened and how long you’ll be grounded.

You smile at the sweet and goofy messages pouring in, then type a quick reply to reassure them that you’re fine. As you go to set your phone back on the vanity, you accidentally knock over your shampoo bottle... and it sets off a domino effect.

The shampoo hits the conditioner, which hits your body wash, then your face wash, your face scrub—until every last product is clattering and rolling across the bathroom floor.

“Fuck,” you mutter, gripping the edge of the tub as you watch them inch farther and farther out of reach.

You start looking around for something—an idea, maybe—to help retrieve your scattered products, but then—

“Hello?”

Your heart leaps into your throat, heat rushing to your cheeks—and not just from the scalding bathwater.

“Bradley?” you call, your voice cracking halfway through.

You hear the front door shut, followed by the rustle of plastic bags.

“Yeah,” he calls back. “It’s just me. Phoenix said you needed some stuff but she couldn’t make it so—” He pauses. “Wait, where are you?”

“Um, I’m in the bath,” you reply, eyes snapping to the very open bathroom door.

“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence. “D-Do you want me to just leave this stuff here... or?”

You know Natasha did this on purpose, and you fully plan on killing her for it later. But right now, you could actually use the help.

“Hang on,” you say, settling deeper into the water and gathering bubbles over your chest. “Can you—um—could you give me a hand?”

You hear something clatter in the kitchen, like your words startled him into dropping whatever he was holding.

“You want me... to come in there?”

You sigh. “Yes, Bradley. Please. You won’t see anything—I just... I dropped my stuff and I can’t reach it.”

“Okay,” he mutters, uncertain.

Each footstep grows louder, heavier, your heartbeat matching the rhythm until it’s pounding behind your ribs, threatening to burst free.

And then he appears in the doorway, and the breath leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale.

It’s unfair how beautiful he is. How easily and effortlessly sexy he is, without even trying.

He’s wearing a pair of old Naval Academy sweatpants and an oversized black shirt. His hair is mussed, cheeks flushed, and those big brown eyes are practically glowing. His lips part as he breathes, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. He looks flustered, confused, maybe even a little angry—but mostly... sad.

“Hey,” you murmur, dragging your gaze from his face to the bottles scattered across the floor. “I knocked everything over.”

He shakes his head and blinks hard before quickly crouching down. “I can see that.”

He gathers all the bottles and lines them up on the vanity, keeping his eyes firmly on the task at hand—anywhere but on you, naked in the tub.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice rough and a little strained.

You shrug one shoulder, and it’s almost impossible for him not to notice the way the bubbles slide off your skin as it lifts above the waterline.

“I’m okay,” you say. “The painkillers are still doing their thing, so I’ll probably feel worse in a few hours, but for now... I’m alright.”

He nods, fixing his eyes back on the neat row of bottles like they’re the most important thing in the room.

“I feel a bit awkward though,” you add with a small laugh.

His gaze flicks to you, then back to the vanity, brows drawn like he’s fighting with himself. He looks torn—caught between reason and ruin—with no right answer.

“Do you—I mean, I could—” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you want some help? It doesn’t have to be weird. I could just... help wash your hair and make sure you don’t slip getting out.”

Your breath catches, heart thundering in your throat and robbing your brain of oxygen.

He looks so vulnerable. So... nervous. You’ve never seen Bradley like this. He’s usually cool, confident—borderline cocky, though not like Jake. Sure, he gets awkward sometimes, and you’ve definitely seen him be uncool. But never like this. Never so visibly unsure of himself.

“Okay,” you say, before the rational part of your brain can stop you.

“Okay,” he echoes, cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red.

He shifts quietly, moving to the end of the tub behind you. You hear the soft thud of his knees hitting the tile and you can feel the air shift with his closeness. The room is quiet—except for the gentle lapping of water, the drip of the leaky basin tap, and the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears.

You don’t dare turn around.

Not when you know he’s kneeling back there, barely a foot away, and you’re naked in a tub full of bubbles that feel more and more useless by the second.

You hear him flip the shampoo cap open and squirt a generous amount of liquid into his palm. Then the soft friction of his hands rubbing together.

And then he touches you.

His fingers slide into your hair, spreading warmth across your scalp as he works the lather in. The first stroke is gentle. So careful. Like he’s scared to hurt you. Or scared of something else entirely.

Then he finds his rhythm—stronger, more sure, fingertips dragging slow and deep through your hair, massaging the base of your skull with maddening focus.

Your eyes flutter shut.

His thumbs sweep behind your ears, along your nape, and it sends a pulse of heat right between your legs. You shift slightly, breath catching, and the water sloshes softly around you. You know he can hear it. You know he can see the way your spine arches and your shoulders bare themselves as you lean into his touch.

You feel exposed.

And you know he’s trying not to look. You know he's trying to be a gentleman—but he’s still a man, and you’re naked, and the steam in this bathroom is thick with tension. You can practically feel his eyes skimming over the curve of your neck, your slick shoulders, what little the bubbles don’t hide.

He breathes heavier now. Not quite panting, but close. His fingers falter for just a second when your head tips back a little farther, throat stretching bare, water sliding lower on your chest.

“Bradley…” you whisper.

You don’t even know what you’re about to say.

But he cuts in first—voice hoarse, like he’s choking on the words. “So… you and Hangman, huh?”

Your whole body tenses.

You blink, stunned. Your first instinct is to laugh. The second is to scream. The third is to climb out of the tub and straddle him until you make him eat his words—but you do none of those things.

Instead, you turn your head just slightly, enough to murmur, “Are you really asking me about that right now?”

He hesitates.

“I just thought—” His voice breaks off. “I don’t know. I’m just curious... I guess.”

You let out a short laugh—sharp and disbelieving—as you tilt your head just slightly, just enough for your voice to carry over your shoulder.

“Yeah. I’ve been spending a little more time with him.” Your tone is sweet and deliberately casual—but it’s laced with something else. Something darker. Something dangerous.

And then, as if you’re thinking out loud, you add under your breath, “He definitely wouldn’t be sitting behind me right now acting like he doesn’t want to get his hands on a lot more than just my hair.”

Bradley goes still.

You can hear the breath catch in his throat—feel the tension rise like a tide behind you. His hands freeze where they’re tangled in your wet strands, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. The air between you is thick, heavy, charged.

He doesn’t speak.

You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fixed ahead as heat blooms under your skin and something inside you dares him to move.

Come on, Bradshaw.

“Yeah,” he mutters as his fingers begin to move again. “He probably wouldn’t.”

The moment shatters—falling around you like glass, sharp and splintering, embedding in your skin. Your spine stiffens as you close your eyes, forcing a slow breath past the frustration clawing up your throat. You can’t yell at him. Not now. Not while he’s on his knees, helping you. Not just because he refuses to give in to his own damn needs.

Needs you know are there—because five seconds ago, you would’ve sworn he was about to climb into the tub with you.

But no.

Bradley Bradshaw is still locked in his cage of commitment issues and unnamed excuses. Still holding the line no one asked him to.

The silence stretches, thick as steam, humming with everything you both refuse to say.

You feel the shift in his hands as he cups water and begins to rinse the shampoo from your hair, the heat running down your back in slow rivulets. His fingers trail through the strands, patient and careful, untangling and smoothing. Each pass makes your skin buzz.

He doesn’t speak.

And neither do you.

But you can hear his breathing—shallow, uneven, just a little too fast. You know he’s trying not to look. You know because he hasn’t touched you anywhere he doesn’t absolutely have to. When his knuckles brush your shoulder again, it feels almost obscene.

Once your hair is clean, he reaches for the conditioner. You close your eyes as he works it through—slick and warm—massaging your scalp, smoothing it through to your ends. His fingers graze your temple, your ear, the nape of your neck.

It’s methodical. Careful.

But it still feels like worship.

And he still hasn’t said a word.

When he’s done, he gives your hair one final rinse, quiet and efficient, then stands and wipes his hands on a towel. You expect him to bolt—mutter something and flee—but instead, he grabs a fresh towel and holds it out, eyes fixed on the far wall like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Here,” he says, voice rough. “Let me help.”

You stand—slowly, cautiously—and his hand darts out to steady your elbow, instinctive and warm. He still doesn’t look. Not properly. His gaze stays down, jaw tight, throat bobbing.

He wraps the towel around you, still avoiding your eyes, and lingers only long enough to make sure you won’t slip.

And then he steps back, fists clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together by a thread.

“You good?” he asks, voice tight.

You nod, arms locking the towel around your chest. “Yeah. Thanks for the... help.”

He nods back, quick and stiff, eyes still looking everywhere but at you. “The first aid stuff is on the kitchen bench. Snacks too—your favourites. If you need anything... uh—”

He backs out of the bathroom like he’s escaping, eyes finally flicking up to yours. “See you at work.”

And then he’s gone. So fast you barely register it.

When you turn to the mirror, you're surprised to find yourself crying—cheeks flushed, eyes rimmed red. You swipe at the tears, blurry and stupid, and grab your phone with trembling fingers.

You pull up your text thread with Jake and type: ‘I don’t know if we should do this anymore.’

“You let him what?” Jake’s eyes go wide, blueberry muffin frozen halfway to his mouth. “And he didn’t even-”

You shake your head.

“Not so much as a-”

“Nothing,” you say, staring into your coffee as you stir lazily. “Barely even looked, let alone touched.”

“My God...” Jake mutters around a mouthful of muffin. “The man has the restraint of a priest.” His eyes narrow, flashing toward you. “Are you sure he’s not a-”

“He’s not a priest, Hangman.”

He nods slowly. “Okay, so he’s an alien.”

You just shrug and take a long sip of coffee.

“Well, we can’t stop now,” Jake says, voice firm. “No way. He must be close—like, so close. If we play this right, we’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter. “It feels wrong. Like I’m forcing him into something.”

Jake raises an eyebrow. “Kind of how he’s forcing you to stay ‘just friends’ even though you’re clearly in love with him?”

You frown. “How are you so good at twisting things?”

“Years of practice, little chick,” he grins wickedly, leaning his forearms on the table. “Now, let’s focus on finding you a drop-dead gorgeous dress for the gala.”

You spend the rest of your Tuesday at the mall with Jake—thanks to an RDO from Maverick—shopping for a dress and a matching tie for him for the gala next weekend. It takes a bit longer than it should, thanks to your foot and crutches, but Jake is patient. He even lets you vent about Bradley, spilling some of the more intimate details you’d usually keep to yourself.

When he drops you home, he promises to give you lifts to and from work all week, and even offers to take you to your doctor’s appointment later in the week.

That night, Maverick calls to check in and fills you in on the light duties you’ll be able to do while staying off your foot. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you’re grateful—you’d probably go insane being stuck at home.

The rest of the week is relatively uneventful. You don’t spend much time around the squad, stuck doing menial admin tasks instead of flying, and Bradley is completely avoiding you. Not that you blame him.

Natasha drops by your place once or twice, and on the nights she’s not there, Jake is—not just to scheme about Bradley but to help you out. He takes you to your doctor’s appointment where, thankfully, you get to hand back your crutches, then helps you get used to walking wonkily in the moonboot.

Saturday night arrives before you’re ready, and suddenly the floor-length red gown you picked out a few days ago feels like way too much as it clings to your body.

“I don’t know,” you mutter, even though it’s too late—you're in the car. “I feel a bit stupid.”

Jake’s smirk hasn’t wavered since the moment he picked you up. “You don’t look stupid at all. You look incredible. I’m actually debating whether or not to let Rooster have you.”

You roll your eyes. “Like you have a choice, Seresin.”

“Oh, little chick,” he chuckles, eyes flicking toward you then back to the road. “If I decided I wanted you, you wouldn’t have a choice.”

You scoff. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bagman.”

The drive isn’t nearly as long as you need it to be, and before you know it Jake is pulling up in front of the valet service. Your heart hammers in your chest—part nerves, part something else you can’t quite name. You smooth your dress again, feeling every inch the bold red against your skin, while Jake adjusts his tie with a cocky grin.

Stepping out of the car, you instantly feel the weight of dozens of eyes—curious, impressed, maybe even a little jealous—tracking your every move as you walk toward the grand entrance. The gala’s ornate doors loom ahead, polished glass and shimmering chandeliers spilling warm light onto the stone steps.

Inside, the room dazzles with opulence—sweeping staircases, crystal glasses clinking, a string quartet humming somewhere off to the side. You catch whispers as you move through the crowd, a low hum of “Is that…?” and “Holy shit…”

Then you spot them—the squad, clustered near the bar. Maverick’s unmistakable frame stands out even in this sea of tuxedos and gowns, arms crossed, leaning casually but alert. His eyes flick to you with a brief nod—respect, approval, or maybe warning, you can’t tell.

And then there’s Bradley.

He’s leaning against the wall, jaw tight, eyes sharp as daggers. The tux fits him like a second skin, dark and sleek, every line tailored to perfection. The way the collar of his shirt presses just right against his neck makes your breath hitch.

His gaze locks on you—cold, charged, and… undeniably magnetic.

You swallow, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown out the music. Whatever else is going on, Bradley Bradshaw looks absolutely fucking delicious in a tuxedo.

Jake practically has to drag you across the ballroom, and you lean into him a little more than you should—using his arm to steady yourself under Bradley’s unwavering stare.

“Damn, Bagman,” Natasha says first, eyes trailing up and down Jake’s suit. “You clean up alright.”

Jake brushes an imaginary speck of dust off his lapel. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Phoenix.”

She just rolls her eyes and tips her champagne flute to her lips.

“You look good, Chick,” Javy says with a smirk, beer bottle halfway to his mouth.

You give him a soft smile. “Thanks.”

“And for the record,” he adds, nodding toward the rest of the squad, “they’re all thinking it too, but they’re too nervous to say anything with the way Bradshaw’s watching you.”

Bradley doesn’t even flinch. He’s still leaning against the wall, just a step away from the others but close enough to hear every word. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps threatening to split the seams of his suit jacket, and his jaw is set tight. His eyes are glued to you—not your face, but your body—raking over every curve of the silky red fabric like no one else is in the room.

“You know, Bradshaw,” Jake says, turning toward him, “you probably shouldn’t be lookin’ at another man’s date quite like that.”

You roll your eyes. “Jake, don’t.”

He glances down at you. “What? It’s true. He's being rude.”

Before either of you can say anything else, Bradley is gone—disappearing into the crowd without a word, leaving the rest of the squad exchanging wide eyes and raised brows.

Yeah. This isn’t awkward at all.

You’re sitting on a stool at the edge of the room—a chair Jake found for you when you started complaining about your foot—watching people dance and mingle as you realise... you’re not quite sure what you’re doing anymore.

This whole thing started because Bradley almost kissed you. Jake offered to help, to make him jealous, and you agreed to play along. But you’ve barely followed through, not with your injured foot getting in the way of every plan you had to tease him at work.

So instead... all you’ve managed to do is nearly break your ankle, piss off your best friend, confuse your entire squad, and go on what is very clearly a date with Jake. Like, an actual date. Because tonight he’s been nothing but kind and attentive, making sure you’re okay and comfortable—even though Bradley is nowhere to be seen.

How does any of this make sense?

“Thirsty?” Jake asks, holding out another flute of champagne.

You take it with a smile and tip half of it into your mouth.

“Have you seen Bradley?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Not in the last ten minutes, but Javy said he spotted him at the bar with Reuben and Bob. I think he’s avoiding us.”

“I don’t blame him,” you mutter.

“I just don’t get it,” Jake sighs, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “He’s obviously irritated, and he obviously wants you. So how are we supposed to—” He cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. That’s it.”

You frown. “What’s it?”

His gaze snaps to you. “Don’t worry. This one’s on me. I’ll handle it.”

“Jake—” you start, but he’s already gone.

You slide off the stool and start weaving through the crowd. Your foot is aching, but not nearly as badly as your head—and neither is enough to stop you from finding Jake. The look in his eye had been downright devious. You have no idea what he’s planning.

After a lap of the ballroom, you're drawn toward the back terrace. Fairy lights glitter in the trees, gauzy drapes billow across the tall windows, and pots of manicured flowers line the stone railing. It’s all so beautiful, so dreamy, you almost forget why you came out here.

Almost.

Until—

“Alright, Rooster,” Jake’s voice cuts through the cold night air. “What’s your problem?”

You quicken your pace along the side of the terrace, catching sight of Jake, casually leaning against a pillar.

“Don’t start, Hangman,” Bradley replies.

You can’t see him yet, but you can guess he’s slouched in the dark, probably with a drink in hand and a sour look on his face.

“Too late,” Jake says. “You’ve been in a foul mood all week. Shooting daggers across the room all night. You got something to say, or are you just going to keep sulking like a coward?”

Bradley exhales hard, frustrated. “Can we not do this here?”

“Too late.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” Bradley snaps. “But if you were smart, you’d walk away right now.”

Jake chuckles—low and dry. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m-”

“Jake,” you say, stepping beside him, wrapping your hand around his wrist. “Just leave it.”

Bradley is exactly as you pictured him—leaning against the wall with a scowl—but his eyes don’t look angry.

No. They look hurt.

“I know this isn’t real,” he says, voice low but steady.

Jake tilts his head. “Excuse me?”

“This—whatever this thing is between you two. It’s not real. I know she’s not that stupid. I just don’t know why the two of you insist on playing games.”

Jake’s lips curl into a devilish smirk. “It’s not a game, Bradshaw. And it sure as hell felt real the other night when she called me over.”

Bradley blinks. His expression faltering as he pushes off the wall.

Jake steps forward, voice quieter now—cutting and smug. “She called me right after that bath, you know. Must’ve still been feeling the heat. You’re a hell of a warm-up act.”

Bradley goes still, face empty. His lips part as he stares at Jake, unblinking. But then something sharp flickers in his eyes—something dark and visceral—and his jaw tightens so hard you swear it might crack.

“You’re lying,” he says, voice flat but lethal.

Jake rolls his eyes, smirk unmoving. “Believe what you want. I’m just saying—maybe next time don’t leave the door half open unless you want someone else walking through it.”

Bradley tenses like he’s about to pounce—face flushed, jaw tight, eyes wild—but something holds him back. You step in quickly, before that something disappears.

“Hangman, seriously,” you say, palm against his chest. “You’re being an idiot.”

“I’m not the idiot here,” Jake mutters. “Bradshaw’s the idiot for fumbling a girl like-”

“Just shut up, Seresin,” Bradley growls. “She said-”

“Oh my God,” you snap, throwing your hands up. “Both of you, shut up.” You turn to Jake. “You need to stop before you cause a real problem. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’re going to blow the whole squad to pieces if you keep going.”

Bradley scoffs. “Exactly-”

“And you,” you whirl on him, eyes flashing, “you want to be mad? Then be mad. But don’t pretend I’m the only one who’s been playing games. For years you’ve begged me not to love you while doing nothing but showing me that you’re in love with me, too. And I waited. I gave you everything. For what? So you could push me away every damn time?”

Your voice cracks—just a little.

“And now that it looks like I might actually move on, you get all fucking huffy? You don’t get to do that. You don’t have the right. And you know what? If I wasn’t already so broken because of you, I might actually be into Jake. Because he’s nice. He’s considerate. Sure, he’s a cocky asshole—but he goes after what he wants. And it felt really fucking good to be wanted. Even if it was just a game.”

You turn on your good foot and try to storm away. Your foot screams in protest, pain slicing with every step, but you don’t stop. Your eyes burn with unshed tears, barely held back—and you’re not sure how long they’ll stay put.

You make it through the ballroom and out the front door, sliding into one of the taxis waiting at the curb. You pull out your phone and type a quick text to Natasha: ‘Tell Mav I had to leave. My foot.’

Then you cry. Quietly. Not messy or loud—just a few stray tears slipping down your cheeks. Frustration. Embarrassment. And a little heartbreak.

Once the taxi pulls up at the curb outside your building, you pay, thank the driver, and slide out. Then you limp into the building, across the lobby, and press the button for the elevator. You’ve since mended your relationship with the lift—because stairs are a non-starter these days.

By the time you reach your bedroom, your foot is absolutely throbbing. You quickly slip out of your dress, not even bothering to change the lacy matching underwear you—for some reason—decided to wear tonight, before pulling an old, oversized shirt over your head. Then you hobble into the kitchen and take a double dose of painkillers.

The thought of having to go to work in less than two days makes your stomach twist. You’ve just royally embarrassed yourself—not just in front of your best friend, but your whole squad. And they’re not idiots. They’ll know exactly why you left. Now you get to walk back into work on Monday and deal with all the pitying looks.

At least desk duty means you won’t have to see them as much.

You drag yourself from the kitchen to the couch, collapsing into the cushions with a groan as you reach for the remote. After a few minutes of mindless scrolling through streaming apps, you settle on Pride & Prejudice—the Keira Knightley version, obviously.

You lie back with your foot propped up on a stack of pillows, head turned toward the screen. But you barely make it to the part where Elizabeth visits a sick Jane at Netherfield when there’s a knock at your door.

You’re not even sure you heard it at first. You sit up slightly, ears straining, eyes fixed on the front door. Another knock comes—louder this time, sharp and almost startling.

You sigh, swinging your foot off the pillows, wincing as you push yourself upright and limp toward the door.

You open it—and there he is.

Bradley.

His curls are a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through them the whole way over. His tie is gone, his shirt is wrinkled, and there’s a wild, desperate look in his eyes—like if he blinks, you might disappear.

“I know I should’ve called,” he says, voice hoarse. “I just... I didn’t think you’d answer.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. He shifts, like he might bolt, and exhales hard—as if the words are fighting to escape faster than he can form them.

“I’ve spent so long convincing myself I couldn’t have this. That I couldn’t have you. That it wouldn’t work, or it’d blow up, or I’d ruin you like I ruin everything that matters to me.” His jaw flexes. “But tonight, seeing you like that—watching you walk away like you were already gone—I couldn’t breathe.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m scared,” he admits. “I’ve been scared this whole time. Of loving you, of losing you. I pushed you away because I thought it would hurt less than this. But I was wrong.”

He takes a shaky breath and steps closer.

“I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. And if there’s even the smallest chance I haven’t screwed this up completely… I’m here. I’m yours. And I’m not going anywhere this time.”

A beat of silence stretches between you—thick and electric. You’re toe to toe, just staring at each other, almost close enough to touch, tension crackling in the charged space between your bodies.

“Well,” you say, arms crossing over your wildly beating heart. “That was dramatic.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, completely wrecked. “Really? I just poured my heart out and that’s all you’ve got?”

You shrug. “It was either that or I was going to tell you that you beat Mr. Darcy to the big speech. Although… as someone who’s seen Darcy’s speech more times than I should admit—I’m not sure you beat him in terms of drama. You needed to stutter more.”

His brow furrows. “You’re watching Pride & Prejudice?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Want to join? I know you love it.”

His lips part, his chest still rising and falling a little too fast. Then his eyes drop to your chest—recognition flashing across his face. “Is that my shirt?”

You glance down, heat flooding your cheeks. “Um, yeah. I think I stole it.”

“Clearly,” he says, eyes sparkling.

You roll your eyes. “Come in. Before my nosy neighbours call in a noise complaint.”

You turn on your (good) heel and limp back toward the lounge, willing your face to cool and your heart to stop hammering. God, it’s taking everything in you not to jump his bones right now—especially with him looking like that in his deliciously dishevelled tux.

“Just so we’re clear,” you say over your shoulder, voice laced with sincerity, “I didn’t call Jake after the bath. He didn’t come over. I’ve never even kissed him.”

You don’t hear him move—just feel the sudden grip of his fingers wrapping around your wrist, warm and unshakable. He spins you around in one smooth motion, and you barely register the soft, wicked smirk curling on his lips before he pulls you into him, your body crashing against his like a wave.

His mouth is on yours in a second—hungry, demanding, desperate. There’s no hesitation. No sweetness. Just years of pent-up tension snapping loose as he devours your lips like he’s been starving for them. He lets go of your wrist, both hands coming up to cup your face, holding you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t.

You gasp into him, fingers knotting in his shirt, and he groans like the sound is driving him insane. Then he moves—walking you backward until your lower back hits the kitchen counter, his hips pressing hard against yours. You feel the sharp edge of his need, the strength in his grip, the undeniable heat radiating between your bodies.

And then—his hands slide down to the crease of your thighs, and you know what’s coming a heartbeat before it happens.

“Bradley—” you breathe, but it’s too late.

He lifts you clean off the ground and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your injured foot forgotten in the blur of heat and want and the feel of his body flush against yours. His hands grip your thighs, holding your weight like it’s nothing, before he sets you down on the bench. Then he grips your waist and deepens the kiss—hotter, deeper, more possessive than ever.

You’re gasping when he finally pulls back, foreheads pressed together, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent, “I know.” He kisses you again. “I know nothing happened with him.”

You plant a hand on his chest, pushing him back even though every nerve in your body is begging to let him devour you. “Then why did you almost lose it?”

His lips—puffy and thoroughly ravaged—curve into a sheepish smile. He drops his gaze to where his hands are gripping your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. “Just the—the thought…” he mutters, voice rough and trembling with something darker. “The thought of you with anyone else… fuck, it drives me out of my goddamn mind.”

You fight a smirk as your hand trails up his chest, slow and deliberate, until your fingers slip beneath his jaw and tilt his face back up. “Much better,” you murmur. “With the stuttering, I mean. Mr. Darcy would be proud.”

He groans, more amused than annoyed, then crashes his mouth back onto yours. “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby bird.”

A shiver rips through you as he grinds into you, the hard line of him thick and straining beneath his dress pants. It drags across the damp lace between your legs, lighting a fire low in your belly.

His breath catches like a spark in dry grass when he looks down and realizes—at the same moment you remember—you’re not wearing pants. Just his shirt… and a very pretty, very intentional matching set beneath.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, his fingers skimming the lace at your hips like he’s trying not to combust. His gaze snaps back to yours, pupils blown, voice suddenly hoarse. “Any restrictions on sexual activity with your injury?” he asks—clinical, but barely hanging on.

You smile, toying with the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Pretty sure the doctor said I’m cleared. But I’m on light duties. So…” You lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “Strictly pillow princess stuff.”

He groans low in his throat, burying his face in your neck like he needs to ground himself. “Christ. After making you wait this long, you’re owed a lifetime of pillow princess treatment.”

“You’re not wrong,” you hum.

With a soft laugh, he lifts you effortlessly and carries you to the bedroom—your giggles trailing behind like glitter. He sets you on the bed and drops to his knees, carefully undoing the straps and fixings of the boot like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift. It’s absurdly tender. The kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. His fingers are gentle, reverent, and the only sound is your shared breathing and the faint scratch of shifting fabric.

Then his hands glide up your thighs—slow and searing—raising goosebumps in their wake. He hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and draws it over your head, revealing skin and lace and everything he’s been aching for.

His breath hitches. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice raw with awe. “I’m so in love with you.”

You bite back the grin that threatens to split your face. “Then hurry up and show me,” you urge, cupping his face in your hands.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth crashes into yours and he lays you back, moving you with practiced ease to the centre of the bed. He pauses for one breathless second—just enough to drink you in, to let his eyes drag over every inch of you. Then he’s on you. Everywhere. Lips, tongue, teeth, hands. Worshipping. Possessing. Making up for every second he waited, every moment he hesitated.

And let’s just say… he starts making it up to you very well.

Over. And over. And over again.

END.

#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley x reader #rooster x reader #bradley 'rooster' bradshaw #top gun: maverick #maverick #top gun #imagine #oneshot #one shot #fanfiction #miles teller #fanfic #miles teller x reader #hangman #jake seresin #jake 'hangman' seresin #glen powell

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sunni-stuff · 10 months ago

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The captain returning home to his darling wife

Price comes home dead tired from a mission, stepping through the doors of his home only to be engulfed in a warm hug by his missus.

"Welcome home, bear." You cooed the nickname sweetly, stepping forward with tender hands helping to unstrap his gear.

Price melts into your embrace, his body relaxing as he leans down to bury his face in the crook of your neck. The warmth of his breath against your skin sends a shiver through you, making the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. He inhales in your scent, taking in that he's really in your arms and that this isn't some dream his knackered mind fabricated.

"Missed you." Price murmurs, leaving lovingly kisses along your neck.

"I missed you too, and so did the kids. Want a warm bath?" You look step back, cupping his face in your hands, the course hairs of his bread tickling your palms.

"Only if you join." He says, leaning down and kisses your lips, hands resting possessively on your waist despite his current condition.

Your husband is absolutely fried. You can tell by the way his eyelids flutter and how he fights to keep them open. He should be in bed resting; but who were you to deny a hard-working soldier his reward?

"Hm..." You hum against his lips, pulling away to really look at him. Those brown eyes were so burnt out, yet they held a glint just for you. "Fine, but if you fall asleep, I'm leaving you in there." The tease left your lips playfully, having no real threat in them as you lead him up the stairs.

"Duly noted, love."

#call of duty #cod x reader #captain price x reader #captain john price #captain price #john price

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mushies-stories · 2 months ago

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One thing led to another and now I'm a wife to four military men? 18+

141 X F!READER

CH. One: A mission not gone as planned

Chapter one Summary: You were a hired guard to travel with a cargo container. You were not told what was in it or who you were guarding it from, and in the end your team was under prepared and your truck was overrun by a task force. After a misfire the container was shot and mist covered you and a soldier you had been tackled by. The soldier dragged you along with him when everyone began to scatter.

A little about the Reader: Reader is shorter than the guys and has some length of hair, but mostly the physical description is up to yall readers to imagine. Personality isn't anything too extreme one way or the other, but she has an interest in art, and crafting. Creating in general. reader is infertile, because I said so. It's not a big plot point, reader doesn't care. ALSO because I want this to be longer than I've written before, the guys are ‘straight’ for all intensive purposes. I love reading true poly 141 but ima keep it chill, for my own sanity.

Warnings: SMUT 18+, unprotected sex, creampie, poisoned by aphrodisiac, swearing, talk of infertility. Bad accents… also lack of, sorry XD but any pointers on how our boys should sound would be very welcomed! Homies help homies, right?

Word count: 6473

The beginning.

“S’fuckin hot!” The man, your enemy grunts as he pulls his gear off along with his jacket. His mohawk is a mess and his forehead is sticky with sweat. The room you were in was void of everything but the rusted metal chair that Soap took and an old desk that he pushed against the door. You sat on the floor and against the wall across from him.

You roll your eyes. “It's because of you we’re even in this mess.” you weren't doing much better than him. You were both affected by the unknown toxin and he had only managed to make it to a dingy basement with you before it all became too much to keep walking. His team was waiting for the all clear and location from him before moving in.

“Me? If ya had just surrendered then i wouldn't have’ta tackle yer ass.” he scoffs back. “By the way, yer a terrible fighter.” Soap adds. Petty you think.

You take off your vest and jacket with a huff, the heat getting to be too much. The wall felt cool against your back as you leaned on it and you savored the feeling. “Because I'm not even a real soldier, I've had very minimal training in combat.” you admit. Soap looks at you a little confused. You roll your eyes. “I was hired to watch the cargo mostly, I'm not half bad with guns. I work for an outside source. Meaning I'm basically of no use to you, I have no information, and can we just not talk?” you add with a bit of a cheeky smile. The best one you could muster up under your conditions.

You settle into a mildly uncomfortable silence. Your body is too hot for the wall to have helped for long. You close your eyes and lean your head back, willing whatever was taking effect to pass.

“Did ya even know what was in that cargo?” His voice disrupts what little peace you were managing to get.

You shake your head. “Nope.”

“Amazing.”

You open your eyes to look at him. “What?”

“Yer a little dumb aren't ya?” He snorts.

Your eyes narrow a little in irritation. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Soap pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it to the side. “Ya take a dangerous job from people ya barely know anything about while barely knowing how to take care of yerself? Sounds pretty dumb to me.”

You weren't sure why but your body seemed to react to seeing him so bare. Your own body still felt impossibly warm and your pussy fluttered at the sight of him. You let out a soft huff and try to clear your head, whatever toxin you both inhaled must have been potent. “I've done just fine, I'm good with a gun.” you tell him, trying to defend yourself.

Again he snorts a laugh. “That so? Because from where I'm sitting ye dont look like yer in the best position to be talking.” he points out. He was right, you were now unarmed and your body and mind were both being affected by some sort of toxin. “Besided, I don't know about ye lass, but i'm startin to think whatever we took in was an aphrodisiac.” he says.

You look at him, eyes widening. “How do you assume that?”

Soap leans back in the chair, legs spreading out a bit and looking at you through half lidded eyes. “Because the only thought running through my head is ya being stuffed full o’my cock.” He says bluntly.

A look of shock spreads across your face, your body however has a different reaction. You could feel how damp your panties were starting to get. “I think that's just your problem.” you try and lie, try to ignore the truth of the situation and the way his gaze was making you feel. Even mostly clothed you felt exposed to him as his eyes wandered around your body.

He raises one brow and a smirk plays at the corner of his lip. “Tha’so bonnie? Body isn't hot, ya aren't feeling yer pussy getting all wet and needy?” He wasn't just teasing you, he was taunting you.

As hard as you try, his words still have an effect on you. He was right, your mind is being flooded with thoughts of him. You couldn't just give in to those thoughts though, right? You don't respond in words, instead you shake your head and avoid looking anywhere but his body. Not like his face was any better to look at. He was good looking and had the most entrancing blue eyes. A chill runs up your spine and the dampness between your legs grows.

This isn't helping.

Now he was smirking. “Sorry lass but m’not sure I believe tha,” he chuckles. “Bet yer pretty pussy is aching just as badly as my cock.” Your eyes flicker to his crotch where there was indeed a bulge. Your mouth practically started watering at the sight, mind flooded at the thought of how stuffed you'd be. “See, eyein it up.” your eyes snap back to his, embarrassed of your own actions. “Wishin it was fuckin yer little pussy bonnie? All ya gotta do is ask.” he asks, voice huskier than before. One of his large hands came down to press and message at his cock, his eyes never leaving yours. Soap needed you, but he needed you to need it just as bad. He might be a killer, a soldier, but he had respect for women and this toxin was not working with his morals.

You clamp your legs together as you take in the whole sight of him. You could barely handle the growing ache in your core anymore, ignoring it was becoming impossible and he knew what he was doing to you. He could see it in your face and your body as you begin to rub your thighs together. “I can't do that…” you try to explain but a heat wave crashed into you and your breathing began to pick up a bit more.

“C’mon lass, ya know I can help. Let me make yer pussy feel better, I'll take care of ya.” he tries to reassure you he means it, he doesn't want to hurt you, but he knows you both need this. You can't help feeling uncertain and it shows. He lets out a soft sigh, he doesn't blame you, he was probably intimidating no matter how much you pretend to be as tough as you act. “Soap, can call me soap, I'll make sure no matter what yer taken care of, alright?” He says with a softer smile, a reassuring smile.

You nod slowly, accepting his obvious call sign. “Y/N.” you tell him, figuring using anything but your real name was pointless.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Soap says, smile widening ever so slightly. He liked the sound of your name on his tongue. Lazily he undid his pants and slid his hand under the fabric, watching you as you thought about what he said. He groans softly when he starts to slowly pump his cock, his eyes fluttering a little as they stay focused on you. You can't help but watch his movements, his pants even loose seemed to be straining his cock. He must be big and you assumed pretty thick, if it's anything like the rest of him that is. “Are you sure?” you ask.

He nods and huffs softly. “If wha ya say is true, ya were just fer hire yeah.”

The feeling between your legs was quickly becoming unbearable and you couldn't think of anything else to do about it. Slowly you stood on shaky legs, using the wall as balance before taking the few steps across the room to Soap. He pulls his cock out and adjusts his pants so you have a good view of everything. He was big and thick, a few thick veins trailed up the bottom and sides and it was leaking precum already.

“Alright lass, take off those bottoms.” He instructed. Your eyes trailed up his body and back to his face. You didn't sleep around, and the times you have it was never any good, or special. Your brain was still trying to fight your body's urges. Soap could see the conflict on your face. He reaches a hand out and pulls you closer by the hips. You let out a startled gasp and reached out to hold onto his shoulders. “There we go, I got ya.” Soap says. His fingers do quick work with your buckles and buttons and you are free of the damp fabric.

He glanced up at you when he noticed your underwear. Definitely not military approved lace. You roll your eyes and yank them down yourself. “Shut up, it's not like anyone normally would know.” you say as Soap guides you onto his lap with his hands on your waist. You're placed right on his cock and the feeling of your dripping pussy makes you both shutter a little at the contact.

Again he chuckles. “Guess it's my lucky day.” he teases. He's a little goofy you realize. It helps make you feel a little less nervous, that maybe under normal circumstances this wouldn't be so bad. You don't even realize it when your hips start to shift and grind down against his length. Your mind seemed to have fogged over momentarily, the feeling of his warm cock being the only thing you can think of. “Feeling good dove?”

you're brought back to reality and halt your movements. If you weren't already so warm you knew your face would be shining bright red right now. That new nickname didn't sound too bad coming from him either you think. “Ye-yeah, I mean… i did-”

“Shh, it's okay.” His smile is kind when he looks at you, but the look in his eyes shows you that lust has taken over. “I'm gonna lift ya and I want’ya to guide me in, can ya do that lass?” he asks.

“Mhm.” you hum with a nod. With one hand placed on his shoulders for support he wrapped his hands under your thighs and lifted you up. You reach a hand down and slide your fingers down his length and it makes your pussy flutter.

“Ready?” He asks. You give him a nod in response and line him up with your dripping cunt. “Good girl.” he praised.

He took a lot of care in how he held you and once the tip of his cock was pressing against your entrance he was gentle when pushing in. As much as he wanted to pull you down and have you take his whole length right then, he wouldn’t.

You couldn't hold in your gasps and breathy moans. He was making you feel so good so easily, you wanted him to fill you up, wanted him to keep stretching your pussy on his thick cock.

The sounds you were making as he filled you up inch by inch were like music to his ears and encouraged him to keep going until you were finally at the base of his cock. “There we are Dove, properly stuffed with my cock.” he says, looking down between your bodies and admiring your pussy. His eyes stayed trained on your slick core as he pulled you up a little, cock twitching at the sight of sliding in and out of you. “Tight little pussy, gripping my cock so perfectly.” He groans as he sets a slow pace, rocking you on his cock while you hold onto his shoulders and try to stay focused.

You almost felt like a toy as he effortlessly benched your body. You didnt mind that much, the need to be filled and fucked heavily on your mind. It wasn't long before you were craving more, needing him to go faster, make you really feel him. Your eyes flutter when you look into his. “M-more, please.” you managed to get out.

Soap shuddered at your words, the way you looked at him with such pleading eyes. “Fuck Bonnie.” he groans. His grip on you tightened before he started to move you faster. You hold onto him just as tight, nails slowly digging more and more into his skin the better it starts to feel.

You held your voice as much as you could in case someone was still in the area. While soap would have preferred to be able to hear every sound you could make, he knew better as well and settled on what he was able to get. Soaking in your breathy moans and sharp gasps, the feeling of your breath creeping closer to his neck. You had to wrap your arms around his neck the harder you were slammed down on his cock. You could feel the knot in your stomach getting closer to snapping with every thrust. You found it hard to keep your voice quiet so you pressed yourself into soap, moaning into his neck and clinging to him.

Your actions cause Soap to smirk a little. His cock was throbbing and precum mixing with your own juices, all of it making him feel just as close to his own release. “Gunna cum for me bonnie?” his voice was deeper, close to your ear and it made you shiver. You shake your head and a whiny moan escapes you. Soap responds with a low moan of his own. “C’mon then, make a mess dove.” he encourages.

His words and a few more thrusts were all it took for you to come undone. Your pussy squeezed his cock as you covered his cock in your slick. You did all you could to hold back your sounds, using the crook of his neck and shoulder to mask most of it. All of it hitting Soap's ears and pushing him closer and closer to the edge. Your pussy taking his cock so well and your pretty little sounds were perfect to him. “Need to cum Dove.” he warns you and slows down his pace, letting you ride out the last of your high. He can't help the desperate moan when your pussy flutters at his words.

Your thoughts are instantly filled with thoughts of his cum filling you up, how good it would feel. They fuel a new desire and another ache in your pussy. “Cum, like this.” you say softly, just loud enough for him to hear.

His cock twitched. “Ya want tha bonnie, want me to fill ya up?” he groans, picking his pace back up.

“Need it, n-need you please.” you whine. Your pussy was dripping, making a mess of his lap and pants and you didn't want to waste time explaining that it doesn't matter, you wont get pregnant. You were close to the edge again, pussy fluttering around his thick cock and you needed to feel him cum. “Please cum, need to feel you cum.” you babble.

Soap was focused now, focused on feeling every inch of you. Marveling at how it feels having you take all of him. “Fuckin perfect pussy, gunna be good and take my cum?” Your response was a needy mewl and your nails digging into his back, sure to leave marks. Soap reacted by slamming you down on his cock as he came. His hands moved to your hips to hold you there while he grinds up into you.

Your legs shake and your pussy flutters, Soap fills your senses, his low groans and his cum filling your pussy. Tears prick the corners of your eyes as you cum again. You're both lost in a haze of pure pleasure, you rock your hips in time with his now slow and gentle thrusts. Slowly you caught your breaths. You figured that was it, his cock wasn't as hard anymore but there was still something, you could still feel a dull ache. One that only grew when you focused on the way his cum was leaking out. When he was about to lift you to pull out you couldn't hold back a displeased whine.

Soap chuckled softly and settled you back down. “Like my cock tha much bonnie?” he asks, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. You pull back and look at him with half lidded eyes. Slowly you rolled your hips, gasping a little when you felt his cock twitch. “Fuck, this is some poison.” his cock was already getting hard again, filling you up and fogging his brain all over again. He hooks his hands under your things again and stands, lifting you while keeping his cock snug in your pussy. He brings you to the desk and lays you right on top, leaning over you to get a view of your face. “This time I want to see this pretty face when ya cum dove.” he tells you before sliding almost all the way out just to slam back into you. You have to throw your hands over your mouth to suppress the yelp you let out.

With his hands holding your hips in a firm grip he doesn't waste time being so gentle this go around.

*******************************************************

You weren't sure how long the poison lasted, or how many rounds you went by the end. Hell you don't even remember the end, it all became a blur and at some point you had passed out. True to his word, Soap did make sure to take care of you. At least in the sense that you had woken up in a decent looking hospital bed dawning a hospital gown and not in an interrogation room. Your body was still sore a day and a half later but it's nothing you couldn't handle. Having become dehydrated in your previous state, you were hooked up to a drip bag.

“Looks like ya weren't lyin lass.” Soap familiar voice causes you to snap your head to the doorway, you were lost in thought, trying to piece the events after you blacked out together. He was already back in uniform and roaming around and here you were still stuck in a hospital bed rehydrating. Soap closed the door behind him and stepped into the room. He grabs the empty office chair and and sets it next to the side of your bed and sits down

“Told you, there was no reason for me to.” you state, pulling the blanket up a little more over your lap.

“That ya did lass, never doubted ya either.” He says with a stupid grin. “Love the dress by the way.” He teases with a nod to your attire.

You roll your eyes and ignore the sudden reaction of butterflies. “So what now, what's going to happen to me?” you ask simply.

He eyes you for a moment and you try to stay as confident as you could. “Tell me, what is it ya want, lass?” he asks. You look at him with a raised brow, confused. “Yer job, is this what ya want’ta be doing?” he asks, tone becoming more serious.

You blink a few times, thinking about what he's asking. What benefit knowing the answer would be to him. You shake your head slowly. “No, not really. Just kind of got stuck in it.” You admit. It was true, you never cared for the job, just the money you got from it. “Why?” you ask.

You don't know why you were feeling so anxious, but him being this close again made your skin warm a little. “Why do ya keep at this job then?” Another question.

You tilt your head a little, trying to figure him out. “Money, it pays… well.” you tell him. “What's the point of these questions?” you were starting to get a little irritated.

He smiled then, the stern facade wiped away. “Well Bonnie, I was thinking maybe I could make ya an offer, if you’ll hear my proposal out.” He waits for you to object and when you don't he continues. “My mates and me, we've been looking for a lass, someone to be ours.” he begins and watches your features as he explains. “Think ye’r what we're lookin for Bonnie.”

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. “What are you talking about? You want me to be a whore for you and your “mates”, that's it?” you were offended and it showed.

Soap shook his head. “No, not at all. I mean…there's four of us, and it's difficult for us to maintain relationships because we go on long missions. But we thought, maybe if we find someone who would like’ta be with all of us...” He tries to explain better, he was starting to become uncertain, a little shy even when he realized how it was starting to sound. “Really didn't mean any offense Bonnie, ya also happen to be aware of our jobs, and the struggles that come with it and that might be somewhat beneficial.” he adds, trying hard to save this conversation. He rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I know it was because of the poison, but I can't stop thinking about ya lass and I think the others would feel the same as me.” He confessed.

You feel your face heat up at his confession. You take a moment and process what he's saying. “I guess I understand, but how exactly would this all work? ” you ask.

He smiles a little, seeing that you aren't as angry now. “We have a nice home we all got about a year ago when we decided to do this. ya can do whatever ya want to it. We will take care of ya, whatever ya need, won't hav’ta worry about anything.” Soap smiles when you don't look totally disgusted at the idea. “Ye’ll be our girl.” He adds. He looked at you with hopeful eyes, like a puppy actually.

You let out a soft sigh, relaxing a little. “Can I at least meet the others first, before deciding to sign my body over?” you ask, a little sarcastically.

Soap chuckles. “And yer heart Bonnie, don't forget that.” he jokes. You give him a small smile in return. Okay, he was maybe a little charming, in a dorky kind of way. “Sure ya can, I'm sure our captain will be by eventually anyways. Did make him a little curious when I wouldnt stop talkin’bout ya.” he admits sheepishly.

You're sure after this whole conversation your face was a few shades redder than it normally was. “Of course you did.” you say, rolling your eyes again with a chuckle.

“Wait, not like that… well a little, hell Bonnie.” he chuckles nervously. “Just talk to Price, yeah, he’s our captain, hear him out and if yer still interested we can set up a little meet and greet.”

You look at him, trying to look for any malicious intent but either he was a really good actor, or he meant it. “Alright.” you answer simply with a short nod.

He gives you a genuine smile. “That's it, I'll see you later then dove.” Setting the chair back in its rightful place he leaves, after one more look back with a goofy grin before shutting the door again.

That brings a small smile to your face. He was nice you thought, maybe even a little funny. Were you really going to consider being, what, a girlfriend for hire for a group of military guys? You think back to your little accident with Soap. The thought makes you want to rub your thighs together. Though you were grateful he didn't bring it up just now, you dont think you're ready for that conversation just yet. But that was him, you didn't know who the other men where you would be with. The logistics of everything was confusing.

Then there was the future, did they mean to keep you around forever, or would you be tossed out after a while? What kind of future were they looking for, maybe they wanted kids and to be like a normal family. That was something you couldn't give them, at least not naturally. You were told by three doctors a few years ago you were infertile, no fault of your own, just happens sometimes. You weren’t too upset at the news, adoption was always an option along with others, and if you didn't have any that was alright by you too. But did four men feel the same as you?

You let out a sigh and turn the tv on to find the least boring show you could and attempt to clear your mind. A rather hard task when memories from your time with Soap keep popping into your head. You think over the offer, you'd be lying if you said your interest was peaked. It's not like you really cared for your current job anyways, it was just a means to an end, but what was the end? Would they really take care of you?

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. After a while the tv manages to grab some of your attention.

A couple of hours go by and you've gotten the iv finally taken out and were given something to eat, though you only ended up eating the fruit cup. You were told to sit tight and someone would be in to discharge you. You settle in and let your mind relax a little, focusing on the tv drama you found that was already half way through the series. After a while your peace was disturbed by a knock on the door.

Starting to feel anxious again you let out a huff and prepare yourself, you didn't know if it was a doctor or Soaps captain. You mute the tv and face the door. “Come in.”

The handle turners and you knew who he was the moment your eyes saw him step into the room. “Y/N? I'm Captain price.” He greets you with a smile and closes the door behind him. He was dressed similarly to Soap and he was older than you and Soap and definitely had the ‘aura’ of a Captain by just the way stood.

You nod in response and motion to the chair for him. “You can sit if you want.” you offer. You felt even more awkward being in a hospital gown now. You didn't know what to say, this kind of situation was never something you’ve had to deal with before.

“Thank you.” he places the chair next to the bed and sits. “I assume you know what this is about?” he asks.

“Yes.” you answer simply, trying not to show how nervous you really are.

“I can answer any other questions you have, if you'd like.” He begins. “I know what we are asking is not very conventional, and I would hate to put you in any uncomfortable situations.” He explains.

You take in what he says and gather your thoughts before responding. “Would… would we all like, share a bed or something? Also what about money, and a job? Do I have to find a new one? How is this all going to end? And wha…” you stop, realizing you were just blurting out every thought you were having.

Before you could dive too far into self pity due to embarrassment, the Captain surprises you. He laughs, nothing too extreme but enough to have him tilting back a little in his chair. “That boy really didn't do a great job explaining, did he.” He says, more as a fact than a question. “First, you, like the rest of us, will have your own room. That doesn't mean you only have to sleep in your own bed, you are allowed to choose wherever that is.” he explains with a knowing look in his eye. Even with something implied what he said did help your nerves a little. “As for money, so long as you don't destroy our banks, you will be taken care of. Money to do with as you please and you can ask for anything. You can work if you want, though we would prefer it to be close to home, coming home to you is a big part of the deal. That seem okay to you?” He asks.

Soap did say something along the lines of being taken care of. You wouldn't have to work, or you could. “How do you know I'm right for all of you? What if the others dont like me or we don't get along? I'm not that attractive, you don't know anything about me.”

The captain gives you a soft smile. “Well we don't expect you to be on board right away, it is a lot to ask someone to decide in one day. I was thinking you would come stay with us for a few days in the house, get to know everyone and all that. As for how you see yourself, I can promise you, my men will prove you wrong, if you let them.” he offers but notices the look of hesitance on your face. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to love. We understand what happened between you and Soap, it wasn't either of your choices. While it is what led us to you, it was not the only reason. Soap saw something in you and really pushed for this, can't be without good reason.” he tells you. “You have every right to say no whenever you want and we will respect that.

You nod along to his words. Becoming a little flustered at the mention of Soap and you. The thought of him talking about you like that made your heart skip a beat. Your mind flashes to who the other could be, were as nice as Soap and their Captain seem to be, would you get along with the others? “Could you tell me a little about the others maybe?” you ask, voice quieter now.

“Of course.” John says. “Their names are Gaz and Ghost. Gaz is our pretty boy, as much as he pushes my buttons. He's a good lad, kind, caring, all of that. Ghost, well he seems big and scary, wears a mask more often than not but he's really not all that scary.” he spoke of the others fondly, warmth written on his face and you smile a little at his descriptions.

However you can't help but notice you haven't been told any of their first names, it's all been what you assume is a call sign. “Am I ever going to know your names?” you ask, raising a brow.

He chuckles. “Of course love. Ghost will be back tomorrow and I thought we could do a proper introduction then? Ghost is a little more private about himself than the rest of us, but if you just give him a little time he will warm up to you.” he explains. You go to ask one another question but stop yourself, not sure how to bring it up. The Captain notices and gives you a soft smile. “What is it, love?” he asks.

You glance down at your hands a moment before facing him again. “Kids, I can't have them.” you tell him rather bluntly.

“Do you want kids?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I mean, I can't say one hundred percent no… but I'm not upset that I can't, I can always adopt ya know and… I mean.” you take a short breath and gather your thoughts. “If that was something you all needed, a child, with me, I can't do it.” You explain.

“It doesn't make a difference to us, love, we knew our family would already look different when we decided to do this.” you can't help but be a little shocked. “We are looking for a partner, and what you want or don't want matters.what we need is for you to be happy and healthy.” He leaned in a little and eyes never left yours as he spoke.“As for an end? I can't say what will happen in the future for certain, but our goal is forever if we can have it.” He speaks with a look of sincerity in his eyes. “So Dove, what do you say, come stay with us for a few days?”

Warm, your cheeks felt warm and your heart was beating faster. Something about him made you want to trust him, he spoke so gently to you, not something you expected from someone in his profession. You look at your hands as you think, fidgeting with the hem of the blanket. Soap was funny, and nice and you already knew what sex with him could be like, and if the others are as good as those two seemed to be, why not? You take a short breath and nod once. “Yeah… I think I'd like to give it a try.” you say, glancing at the man through your lashes.

You could have sworn your heart skipped a million beats when a brighter smile spread across his face. “Glad to hear that love. I think you’ll like the place, and I'm sure with your touch added it will feel even more at home for all of us.” He says with a nod and stands. “Would you mind waiting here just a bit longer? I have some paperwork to finish up before we head home.” He explains.

You give him a small smile. “Yeah that's okay, I've got my drama to finish anyway.” you joke, nodding to the muted tv that was still playing your show.

He chuckles. “That's right, just a bit then.”

With that he places the chair back and takes his leave. You unmute your show and try to focus back on the story, a task easier said than done however. Your nerves are all over the place and at the same time you are filled with anticipation. So many different thoughts coursed through your brain, making you question your decision. Could you be risking your life, or were these men actually normal, good people? If they are, will they really take care of you, would you get to live with all of them?

You replay your conversation over and over in your head and it comforts you a little. The Captain seemed so genuine and sincere when he spoke. Even Soap was basically a gentleman when he stopped by. You thought for a second about running out, hospital gown and all but quickly dismissed that idea.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath and slow exhale.

Your moment of clarity is interrupted by yet another knock on the door, this one just a little softer.

“Come in” You call.

One of your nurses, Jackie, you think, entered with a black paper bag. It almost looked like a gift. “This is for you, someone dropped it off, there's clothes in it.” She tells you while setting it on the bed beside you. “Guess you won't be needing to make a fashion statement with a pair of scrubs.” she smiles. “I also have some release forms for you to sign.” she adds, handing you the clipboard and a pen.

You chuckle and smile back, taking the board from her. “As long as it's not this stupid gown, I'd take it.” you joke and scribble your signature where it was needed and handed it back.

She snorts a laugh and nods in agreement. “Very true, well you have a safe trip home, glad you're feeling better.”

“Thanks, and thank you for bringing the clothes.” she smiles and nods before disappearing, closing the door behind her.

You reach in the bag and find a plain black shirt, blue jeans and a black hoodie. Under those were a few pairs of socks and… you pause a moment before picking up the panties. Red lace. You roll your eyes while your cheeks turn a shade of pink. Soap was the one who went out and got you these clothes, and being a cheeky bastard about it too.

You roll your eyes and grab a pair of socks. Once you got them on you slid off the bed and threw the rest of the clothes on, ready to not feel so naked around everyone. They fit well enough, the hoodie was a little big but comfortable. You sit in the chair to put your boots on, loosely lacing them.

Your eyes snap to the door at another knock. “Bonnie, cn’i i come’n?” Soap calls from the hallway.

“Yeah!” you shout.

He smiles when he sees you finishing up your laces. “Hope the clothes are okay, I wasn't sure what yed like.” A small smirk appeared on his face, “well, mostly.” he teases.

You glance up at him with a raised brow. “Like a teenage boy.” you mumble, still loud enough for him to hear. “But yes they are, thank you. Definitely better than scrubs.” you say.

Soap feigned being hurt at your remark but ignores it. “Pretty bonnie like yerself would make anything look good, so ya have nothin to worry’bout.”

You chuckle and shake your head. “If you say so.” you try not to let him see how his comment has managed to fluster you.

“I do.” He said proudly. Then his phone beeped. He fished it from his pocket and took a quick glance at it. “Looks like we're all really to go, ya got yerself all together, lass?” he asks.

You stand with a shrug and look down at yourself. “Yeah, I didn't really have anything with me but my clothes.” you felt that same nervous feeling begin to bubble up again. This was it, you were going to try this with them.

Soap crinkles his nose. “Both our clothes got thrown out, promise we didn want them back.” he informs you.

You mirror his expression as you cross the room, stopping in front of him. “Yeah, probably right.” you agree.

For a moment he looks you over. “Well, we’ll make sure to get you more clothes, take you shopping if you'd like, and whatever else you’ll want or need too. For now though, let's get you home so you can have a good night of sleep.” He smiles and opens the door for you.

You looked from him to the door, that same nervous feeling began to bubble up again. This was it, you were going to try this with them. It took you a moment before your legs started moving, but a cloud of excitement grew and sat right beside the swarm of nerves as soon as you stepped into the hallway.

You weren't going to turn back now, or at least not yet. You wanted to go with them, to follow Soap and see what this life could bring you.

****************************************************

🍄 Thank you for reading!

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joeloverture · 1 year ago

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snowbound | dbf!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | updates blog | ao3 mirror pairing: dbf!joel miller x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] joel is the only guy you know with four wheel drive in the rarely-snowy state of texas, so it seems like a no-brainer to have him pick you up from work — until his truck breaks down, leaving you two to the classic 'huddle for warmth' solution. warnings: (18+ mdni) dbf!joel, age gap (assumed 20s/40s), reader borrows joel's coat, but does not wear it and uses it as a blanket, self-indulgent humor & banter, joel has sarah and she's a 15y/o menace which means liberties are taken with the timeline, blink & miss it drug mention, close proximity, unprotected piv sex, vaginal fingering, (mocking) dirty talk & dirty talk alluding to anal but no actual anal, daddy kink, degradation, dom!joel, brat!reader, brat tamer!joel, mild bondage (with a scarf), rearview mirror sex, clit stim, riding, doggy, a few pussy spanks, 2 spanks, truck sex, sort of edging, getting caught after the act [no use of y/n] word count: 12.3k a/n: this fic was a labor of love from a request i received earlier this month. i didn't expect it to be this long but i really enjoyed these two! massive massive massive shoutout to talia, @lovesickonmybed, for putting up with me + advising. this fic was way too much to handle on my own. they're the reason i pulled it off. joel is latino here, but i think game!joel can be interpreted as latino too, so read who you'd like.

“Looking ahead for our chances at wintry precipitation tonight – measurable snow, freezing rain, or sleet. It’s hard to get snow here in central Texas – if only, huh? We’re seeing some strong flurries tonight, turning into snow showers in the early morning. Low chances of any significant build up, but you can expect hazardous driving conditions. Black ice and low visibility will make extensive travel dangerous–”

The radio in Keith’s Hardware is old fashioned, curving around the volume and tuning knobs. It’s one of the ones that still has a dial pointer, which is almost always aimed at 92.7 if Keith’s in the back (country); 96.7 (pop) if it’s just you and the only other girl that works in the carpenter’s wet dream of a store. Right now, though, it’s neither of those stations. The pointer is at 162.4, the weather station.

You’d known you were in for it on the drive into work. Watch the weather and it’s real nasty out there airing from your parents lips on your way out of the house for your eight hour shift. The drive had been a gunmetal sort of gray, clouds streaked through the sky and spitting bullets of sleet at your windshield.

For a little bit, the weather had almost cleared up. You’d sworn you’d seen a splotch of sun when you’d tried to step out for break, just to be driven back in by your too-thin jacket and the cold as balls temperature.

Now, though? It’s fucking freezing, and the flurries that the weatherman mentioned are starting to fall. And as much as you’d told Keith that your shitty two-wheel-drive couldn’t handle it, he’d insisted on scheduling you and Liz for close.

Which is where Mr. Miller comes in.

Joel Miller, your dad’s buddy. Joel Miller, the grumpiest secret-softie you’ve ever met. Joel Miller, a knight in shining armor with his 4x4 Ford F150 instead of a horse. Although, if your fantasies are correct – and you like to think they are – what’s between his thighs certainly makes up for the lack of a horse. But he isn’t bringing you for a ride on his cock. He just so happens to be the only man your dad knows with a four wheel drive vehicle, or at least the only one willing to spare you from spinning out by giving you a ride home. Just thinking about it has a knot pinching in the back of your throat. His hands, big and wide and stretching over the gear shift. One muscled arm dangling over the wheel. Looking over his goddamn shoulder to back out —

Liz hops up on the check-out counter where you’re counting up the last of the cash, a spread of Hamiltons, Grants, and Jacksons. You wouldn’t expect a girl like her to work at a hardware store, especially one in the backstreets of the seedy part of town. Some sort of family emergency had driven her back to Austin from NYU design school, which you’re thankful for. Mainly because you get out of cutting wood panels since she has the better eye for measurements, but also because after years of sulking in Keith’s, you finally have someone to talk shit with.

“Those heart eyes aren’t for fuckin’ Alexander Hamilton,” Liz says, tapping her acrylics on your ledger to get your attention. You cough, flipping her off with your pen still in-hand. Liz hums, pretending to think about it as you put down the last numbers. “Although I wouldn’t be too surprised. You do love a geriatric man.”

“Joel isn’t that old,” you scoff, arranging the bills into slim white envelopes and then licking them shut. “He’s just an… acquired taste.”

“Sure, his jizz probably tastes like prohibition-era booze–”

“What the fuck,” you wheeze, hands going out to brace yourself on the closest display case. Your head dips as your chest shakes with laughter.

Liz stays completely straight-faced as she continues, “You’ll have to have 911 on speed dial because if you clench, his heart’s giving out.”

“It is not,” you say, voice still strained with the laughs that won’t stop punching out of you.

She puts her hands up in defense and crosses her legs at the ankles. “Hey, it’s not my fault you like playing whac-a-mole with Great Depression dick.”

“Liz!” You playfully shove her off of the counter, thrusting the envelopes into her hands. “You’re nasty. Fucking nasty.”

She splays a wounded hand over her heart, fanning herself with the envelopes. “You know you love me.” She slips into the office behind the register. You hear the click of the safe before she calls over her shoulder, “Any particular reason you’re fantasizing on the clock?”

“Not fantasizing,” you refute. Liz pops out of the back with a uncertain look scrawled on her face. “My dad talked him into picking me up today so I don’t drive into a snowbank.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a shitty porno.”

“Don’t give me hope.”

“I’m just saying,” she grins. “You can still come to mine. Only a five minute walk with zero chance of rejection.”

“You have such little faith in me.”

She purses her lips. “Mkay…. Pro-tip: Keith probably has some Viagra sitting around in his desk drawers.”

“Liiiiiiiz,” you say. You’re about to tune her out completely when familiar headlights light up the wet asphalt, beaming through the windows. The engine idles, a soft rumble through the linoleum floors. The truck lights dim, leaving Joel in the buttery shine of the streetlamp. His thick arms stretch across the wheel, and he rakes one large hand through his hair. “Shit, speak of the Devil.” You clip off your nametag, tossing it into your half-open bag. “Can you finish closing tonight? I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“No problem, no favors necessary.” She closes the register. You fumble to get your bag over your shoulder, not wanting to keep Joel waiting. “Use protection!” she calls after you, and you make sure to flip her off one more time as the door clangs shut behind you.

A wall of cold hits you like a blade of lightning. Wind unfurls, mauling telephone lines and frosted treetops, rippling your jacket. Not even the worn scarf around your neck seems to be doing its job. Suddenly, every one of your limbs feels like an icicle. Joints almost freezing up, you half-jog, half-penguin strut your way to Joel’s passenger side. You wipe the ice off of the door handle with your sleeve. A few stray flurries dust you as you tug the door open, exhaling in relief as you haul yourself onto the side steps and into the toasty warmth of the Ford F150.

You cozy up in the seat, too preoccupied by thawing your hands with long, winded breaths to notice the affronted look Joel is throwing your way. “Are you tryin’ to catch your fuckin’ death, girl?”

“No death to catch. It’s not that cold.” The way you’re shivering says otherwise. Joel pins you with the raise of his brow.

Before you know what he’s doing, he’s groaning as he reaches over the center console into the backseat. You see a flash of his trucker jacket before it lands in your lap, flannel-lined and heavy. You use it like a blanket, draping it across your torso and wrestling your hands into the inside pockets. The canvas smells like car exhaust and off-brand Dollar General deodorant, two things that are so inextricably Joel. As much as you hate to admit it, the warmth is already inking its way across your skin – or maybe it’s just being next to Joel that’s heating you up. “Thanks,” you grumble.

When you adjust in your seat, the inside of your foot catches an empty Dr. Pepper can on the floor. It rattles when you accidentally kick it forward. You lean down and pick it up, going to place it down in the cupholder, only to find it overpopulated with random Home Depot and Whataburger receipts.

“Tax deductions,” he shrugs. “Gotta eat on the job.”

“And a…” You pick up the receipt and squint at the faded typography. “$3.29 strawberry milkshake is part of that, I figure?”

Joel grunts, “Tommy’s order.”

You smirk. “Sure it is.”

“Quit shit stirrin’ and put on your fuckin’ seatbelt.”

You reach back, fingers snagging it and tugging it down. Groping for the belt between the seats and the center console, it goes on for at least five seconds too long before Joel grabs the buckle and shoves it into the slot. His fingers brush your thigh as he pulls away from you and settles his foot over the gas pedal. The singular touch shouldn’t make butterflies beat at the walls of your stomach, but it does. Everything about him does.

Now that you’re all settled in, everything about him is also settling in. The fact that he’s only wearing a tight-fitting white t-shirt now that his coat is off. His sleeves are constricting enough that his muscles bulge below the strip of fabric. Ample scruff dapples his jawline, and his hair is disheveled in the way that you’ve learned you like it. You trail your eyes down his body, his tummy, across the undone drawstrings of his dark gray sweatpants, and no, you move on quickly from there, because you refuse to get riled up in the passenger seat.

He’s slowly peeling out of Keith’s parking lot, arm thrown over the back of your seat. You’re starting to fail at your mission of not getting riled up when you see the flex of his bicep, the way his eyes meet yours as he turns to look through the back window. He turns out of the parking lot and onto the relatively barren, icy streets–

“What the hell are those?”

Joel side-eyes you, brows furrowed. He follows the line of your gaze to his feet, which you’re used to seeing in New Balances or steel-toed work boots, but are instead wearing… fur-lined crocs.

“These here? Yeah, got ‘em recently, good for my days off with all this nippy weather. Sarah told me they’re ‘all the rage’ with the youth–”

You can’t help it. You damn near double over with laughter, clutching at your stomach. Joel’s coat nearly slides off of you, but you hang onto it with your pinkie finger, quickly going dizzy from lack of air. “‘All the rage’? Oh my fucking God– Joel, she was pulling your leg. Those are fucking hideous.”

“Hey, now–” He sighs, pinching his nose bridge with the hand that isn’t dangling over the wheel. “Zip it, I don’t needa justify my shoe choices to ya.”

“Does she do anything other than give you shit these days?”

“You’re one to talk about givin’ shit, y’know,” Joel says. Unfailingly, he smiles. The smile that pulls at the edges of his lips. The smile that he only ever gets when talking about Sarah. It doesn’t matter where – loading up his plate with barbecue, your dad asking him while he’s picking up junk mail in the morning, or on the job. If someone asks him about his daughter, Joel fucking beams.

He sucks on his teeth for a second, and then, “She’s picked up soccer. Goalkeeper. Damn good at it, too, all them other kids on her team can’t match her collapse dive.”

“Of course they can’t,” you say. “She’s got better reflexes than a house fly.”

Joel hunches over the wheel, effectively ending the conversation as he concentrates on the road. The only noise is the rumbling engine and the wagging of the windshield wipers as he attempts to navigate the black ice polka-dotted roads. It shouldn’t be as arousing as it is, seeing him in such a state of focus, his thighs tensed as he manipulates the gas and brakes to stop early, start slow. His arms thickening when he makes a right turn. Thumbs drumming drumming drumming on the wheel and maybe they’d do the same between your legs—

“So how’s work?” you blurt out.

Joel mumbles something that you can’t quite make out.

“Huh?”

“Fuckin’ ‘big shot’ gringos up my ass all day. Goddamn shitshow.” He shakes his head, his lips thinned. “I tell ‘em terraforming is gonna make it look like a Flinstone-owned-and-operated putt-putt course. They say do it anyway. I tell ‘em that orderin’ custom windows is gonna put us months behind. They say do it anyway, then come up jibber-jabberin’ all ‘bout how long it’s takin’. And it’s fuckin’... window madness, not one window in that hellhole matches another. Ain’t had so much trouble buildin’ a house since Sarah had me build her one from Hobby Lobby when she was little. Their architect musta been doin’ lines.”

You think you’ve seen Sarah’s dollhouse before when visiting, just in passing when the guest bedroom door was left open a smidge. You remember stalling in the hallway to look at it, with a fleece of dust growing on the tediously placed shingles and the oakwood front door left open like it’d been waiting for someone to come home. But Sarah outgrew it, and although Joel would never admit it, you know he’s too sentimental to leave it on the curb.

“How bad can building a dollhouse from a kit be?”

“With a five year old yellin’ like a drill sergeant in your ear? Worse than you think. She even made me rig the damn thing with electric so she could have her pink chandelier.”

You pout at him, “Wah wah, I’ll bet you loved it.”

“Was a nuisance at the time. But, uh, she was fiddlin’ with some ‘a the dolls I’d gotten her. Don’t think she knew I was watchin’, had gone to put ‘er to bed ‘cause it was a school night. She was readin’ this book I always read to her. Something about… a stuffed bear with a missin’ button and a girl that was tryna to buy him. I don’t fuckin’ know–” “Corduroy?”

“Yeah, that. Anyway, she was reading, usin’ the same tone I always used with her, tucked her dolls in for the night, and switched off the lights. I don’t think I loved it until then.” There’s a glistening in his eyes at the memory.

You smirk, “Sentimental bastard–”

The truck slides. Or maybe it coasts, skimming across the thin film of black ice. Joel eases down on the brakes, hauling to a stop next to a Minivan with its warning lights on. It’s a long stretch, and you can’t even see all the way down the highway with how thick the snow is. No two snowflakes are the same, but you find it difficult to believe when you’re looking at what must be millions of them. They pirouette, landing on window panes, rooftops, and wind-agonized tree branches. Everything is blotted with white. Red warning lights glare on the ice back at you.

“Shiiit,” Joel says as he squints at the road ahead of him. He scratches at his scruff.

“Tell me you’re not going to drive through that shit.”

“I’m not,” he says.

“Then how the fuck are we getting home?”

“Chill it–” “That’s the last thing I need to do,” you huff.

“I’m takin’ the detour.”

With that, he jerks the wheel — a bit too recklessly considering the weather, in your opinion – and pulls off onto a slippery backroad. The snow seems to have clung to the trees more back here, a sort of incandescent saran wrap over the oaks. At a bend in the road, icicles hang from a yellow sign that says CURVE 30 MPH. Joel takes it at ten.

You’re not checking out his hands while he drives, no, of course not. You’re looking at the gazillion lights on his dashboard display. “You usually have that many lights on?”

“Ain’t your truck, ain’t your business.”

“I’m ridin’ in it, ain’t I?” you mock his accent.

Joel sighs heavily. “Drivin’ me up the fuckin’ wall.” His hands clench briefly around the wheel. “Auto repair shop’s been price gouging, I’m tryin’ to get Tommy to hook me up with his buddy in San Anton–”

“Won’t be able to drive to San Antonio if your bumper falls off halfway there.”

Joel’s voice is dry as bone. “Ha ha. You get off on bein’ a smartass?”

It’s three words – that’s all it is. Just a throwaway phrase that he probably doesn’t even realize he said. If it were anything more, you’d know. But Joel, saying those words in that order? Damn him, because it turns your blood effervescent. You stop yourself from rubbing your thighs together underneath his coat. You’re about to make another quip that’ll not only distract you, but also surely drive Joel up the wall, one of your favorite activities.

His truck putters from ten miles per hour to eight.

Eight to six.

Six to four.

“Motherfuckin’.... shit,” Joel says again, this time much more urgent as he wrests the wheel to the side. The truck skims over the frosted roads and onto the shoulder, rolls for two seconds, and then falls to a complete, utter stop. The windshield wipers pause while they’re still up. Heat no longer spits out of the dusty air vents.

It’s the loudest silence you’ve ever been in.

“...So do you get off on letting your truck break down or–”

Joel sighs in the way that dogs do. “Thin ice, missy.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls out his phone. “I’ll give Tommy a call.” He stares at the screen for ten seconds. Taps it. Shakes it.

“No service?” you ask.

“No service.”

“Let me try mine,” you mumble, shifting in the car seat. Sure enough, zero bars. Even though you know it won’t work, you press your dad’s contact. It goes straight to voicemail. “Well, shit.”

“Shit,” Joel echoes.

It’s unspoken, but you both know the harsh reality of this harsh wintry night: no phone service, no operational truck, and… no heater.

“Hang tight,” Joel says, reaching over the center console and hijacking his coat from your lap. He wrestles his arms through the sleeves and zips it up. He shoves the door open against the hoarse wind that keeps the trees at a slant, hops out, then slams it shut hard enough for the vehicle to rock. From how hard the wind was blowing, stray flurries dust the truck’s interior.

You can’t really see what he’s doing – the snow’s too heavy, the hood popped wide open for him to investigate the truck’s viscera. You run your hands up and down your thighs, already feeling cold. Without the heater, it won’t be much longer before you turn to an icicle in the passenger seat. The hood bangs back down.

Joel climbs in from the backseat, slams the door as hard as humanly possible, and then scoots to the middle seat.

You crane your neck to see him as he shakes out his cold-reddened hands before puffing air into his cupped palms. “What’s wrong with it?” You ask.

He lets out a frigid breath. “Don’t fuckin’ know, snowin’ too damn hard to tell.”

“Ten bucks it was one of the lights on your dash,” you say.

Joel glares at you, still huffing into his hands. His fingertips are bright red to match his ruddy cheeks. Snow is sprinkled through his hair like soot, quickly melting to beads of water on his windblown curls.

“Got some… hand warmers up in that glovebox. Grab the whole pack.”

You lean forward, kneeing it open and rifling through all of his shit. Insurance papers, more receipts, Miller Contracting business cards, a folded pocket knife, lens wipes, and –

“When’s the last time these saw daylight?” you huff out a laugh as you hold up a battered box of condoms.

Turns out, snow isn’t the thing that makes Joel Miller redder than a tomato. It’s the fifteen year old, very expired condoms hiding in his glovebox.

He clears his throat and averts his eyes. “Jesus. Forgot those were in there.”

You shake the box around and pluck a condom out of it. Looking for the expiration date, you turn it over and over in your hand. “August 31st, 2004. Really that long since you got some, Miller?”

“Put ‘em back,” he grumbles. “Pain in my ass.”

You snicker, replacing the condom box with the box of hand warmers. They’re unopened, still sealed. You snatch Joel’s keys out of the ignition and swipe them across the tape. “Happy?” you toss them over your shoulder.

“No.” He tears open the pack and rubs his hands together around the warmer, sighing when it begins to heat.

“Dick,” you grumble.

More tearing. “Brat.” Another warmer lands in your lap.

“Oughta get comfortable. We’re gonna be here a while,” Joel says.

“And whose fault is that?” You ask as you weigh the warmer in your palms. The front seat already feels cramped, and you’re quick to unbuckle your seatbelt. Your legs and arms fold like pretzels as you climb into the backseat. The curse that leaves you when you hit your head on the roof has Joel rolling his eyes.

“Pipe down. First thing in the mornin’ I’ll make the walk out to that country club a mile out and use their phone. Just gotta ride out the night. You ain’t ever roughed it before?”

You fall on all fours on the backseat, finally pulling yourself upright next to him. “Never had a reason to. Like, what if I have to piss? What if I get hungry?”

Joel shrugs. “Tough.”

The cold is starting to settle into your bones. Even your tongue feels popsicle numb, and your fingers are stiff where they wrap around the warmer. It’s like you’ve been trapped in a snowglobe and shaken up by a handsy toddler with how the wind rattles the truck and the snow swishes outside. You suppress a shiver, leaning against the door. Condensation is already building on the windows. Absent-mindedly, you begin to trace a portrait of Joel in the moisture. Your fingertip squeaks against the glass. Your masterpiece wouldn’t be complete without his signature scowl, so you’re sure to paint a frown on his face and his forehead wrinkles on thick.

“Didn’t know you were an artist,” Joel comments from the opposite side of the back. “Looks nothin’ like me, by the way.”

You smirk, “But you knew it was you.”

Because there’s nothing better to do than burn time, you spend the next ten minutes filling up the window with whatever nonsense doodles come to mind — hearts, stars, trees, and of course, the only one that Joel seems to be fond of: Sarah, smiling and curly-haired.

Reality only settles in when you’re done with the ephemeral illustrations, their outlines starting to dissolve back to regular droplets that streak down the windows. You’re stuck, for God knows how long, on this shady backroad that the Zodiac Killer would’ve loved during his heyday. With your dad’s best friend that you’ve been harboring a dangerous crush on.

And it’d be impossible to forget that it’s freezing fucking balls.

“Joel?” you say into the dark truck.

“Hm?”

Always one to speak your mind, you say, “It’s freezing fucking balls.”

A sound that might be a laugh leaves him. “Here,” Joel says, unzipping his jacket. He tosses it over to you, and you snuggle back up with it, nose burrowing into one of the creases in the fabric. His coat smells like him – like cheap body wash, chewing gum, and gasoline.

You try putting your hands in the pockets, even going as far as to open up a new hand warmer for each one, but they’re full of loose change and, expectedly, more receipts. When you curl up against the corner between the door and the seat, the hard plastic bites into your oversensitive back. Sitting upright or cross-legged doesn’t work, and when you test drive sitting diagonally with your feet propped up on the console, Joel makes a disproving noise and swats gently at your shin. You prop your forehead up against the window, but it’s cold enough to give you a brain freeze.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel snorts. “Get over ‘ere, you wuss.” He hauls you over, big hand splayed over your waist, and drags you across the bench to his side. You yelp in surprise, but only for a second before you’re crushed against Joel’s side. “Can’t have ya gettin’ hypothermia,” he jests.

You don’t know where to put your hands, but eventually, you settle on cupping his neck. Touching Joel, hell, even just being near him, is like being by an open furnace. Or maybe the heat is just your stomach doing somersaults at being this close to Joel after years of frivolous pining. His nape emanates warmth, the kind that flows down your arms and wraps comfortingly around your chest.

Joel exhales, the tendrils of his breath curling from the frigidity. He grabs his coat from the side and flattens it over the both of you, a piss poor replacement for a blanket, but all you’ve got.

Still, cold seeps in through the cracks in the doors, spoiling whatever lukewarm air remains. It doesn’t help that Joel had hopped in and out of the truck to play eye spy under the hood. The truck struggles to hold onto heat properly, especially when it isn’t producing more of it.

Joel sort of… flickers against your back. You think nothing of it until it happens again, this time in short bursts, and then turns into full on shivering.

“Who’s the wuss now, old man?”

Joel tenses up behind you. “Funny,” he says. With your hands cushioned against his neck, you feel the grate of his voice in his throat. “This is the best you’re gonna get unless you wanna be butt ass naked to share heat.”

It should be a joke. But the way he says it… doesn’t sound like a joke.

You go still, lifeless, not even sure if you’re shaking anymore. Because now, the only thought in your head is being pressed against Joel, his soft cock hardening against you, his palms splayed and rubbing over your stomach to keep you warm. And if his cock needed to get somewhere warmer, too…. Your clit twitches at the thought.

You smother the initial shock in your voice with your usual solution: sass. “So what, we’re gonna fuckin’ huddle for warmth?”

As much as you enjoy the idea, you're already dripping — and that’s just from your body being pressed against his, breathing the same air as him, closer now than you’ve ever been before. With no panties in the way, it’s not a stretch to say you’d be dripping down his thighs. You’d hate to have that conversation.

“Would you rather freeze to death?” Joel asks. You look up at him from where you’re curled into his side and find no gleam in his eyes. This isn’t just some knee-slapper for him. Joel Miller is being completely, irreversibly serious.

“I’d rather something less like Naked and Afraid, Joel!”

“It works,” he says, nose flaring. “They do it in those fuckin’... action movies all ‘a the time.”

“I didn’t know Hollywood was writing survival manuals for pervs–”

“God, you’re a piece ‘a work, ya know that?” His eyes flick down to you, and maybe it’s just the fact that this road is damn near pitch black, but his pupils seem larger than before. “Listen, I ain’t tryna perv on ya. I also ain’t tryna send you back to your old man with four fingers missin’ from frostbite.”

There’s no way you’re actually seriously considering this. You’ve heard of cold temperatures impairing thinking, but not like this. Your dad’ll go chasing after Joel with a pitchfork and a shovel if he finds out the man who was supposed to get you home safe and sound was cuddling naked with you. Cuddling naked with you in the backseat, no less. You’re certain Joel won’t try anything – he’s not like that. No matter how flustered you get in his lap, he’d never take advantage of you. What you aren’t certain of is your ability to stop yourself from asking him t0 take advantage of you.

This is practical. It’s only supposed to be practical. He wouldn’t be suggesting something this drastic if you both weren’t shaking like a rattlesnake’s rattler.

“Fine,” you say, already unwinding your scarf from around your neck. Determined to keep some semblance of boundaries up, you add, “No peeping, Miller.”

Joel makes an exasperated sound as you once again scoot out from his coat and across the bench, working yourself out of your shoes, your cotton zip-up, and then the stiff Keith’s uniform – a blue polo and jeans. Joel’s eyes are respectfully trained on the truck’s floor mats, which you’re only just now noticing has a sun-bleached Lisa Frank sticker tacked onto it.

Down to your bra and panties, your heart rate picks up. Your fingers are so fucking cold that it’s hard to get your bra straps out of the way so you can unclasp the damned thing, and then it falls to the floor. Your nipples harden in the face of the cold. The only thing you keep is your scarf, which do you do your best to cover your tits with. Scooping up your discarded clothes and tossing them to the front seat, you let out a shaky breath.

Fuck it.

You shimmy out of your panties and get rid of them just as quickly. When you try telling Joel you’re decent, or rather indecent, nothing comes out. Instead, you have to clear your throat with a strained, “All good.”

“Alright,” Joel says, rustling around. You hear his crocs scrape against the mat, and then his shirt swishing over his head.

He doesn’t tell you to look away, but since it’s implied, you look out of the window. The snowy trees tremble in the wind, and you almost wince when you see a small sliver of his tanned skin reflected in the glass. His crocs clunk on the ground when he kicks them off, and you watch his criminally tight t-shirt go flying over the passenger seat. You casually grip the Jesus handle, hoping that Joel doesn’t notice your fist tightening around it when you hear him untying the drawstrings of his sweatpants. When his sweats and boxers follow the path of his shirt, breathing gets a lot harder than you remember it being.

Just an hour ago, you’d been certain that this would be nothing more than a ten minute drive. Maybe, if you were lucky, he’d call you a casual pet name that would fuel the wriggling of your hand between your thighs that night.

The tension in the air is thicker than molasses. Each breath you take is fragile.

“I’m ready when you are,” Joel says.

Since you’re already half-naked, and since chickening out is out of the question, you inch over to Joel’s side. The air tumbles out of your lungs in one fell swoop when your bicep meets his. With some fidgeting, you bring your legs up at an angle beneath you, wrapping around his side in a way that has you feeling a little bit like a koala. You talk yourself into keeping your eyes forward and then scrub your palms across your freezing arms.

Joel, more indifferent than you think anyone else in this situation could be, abruptly casts his coat back over the both of you.

And, fuck him, he’d been right. The engulfing canvas of his coat keeps warmth trapped where it can be passed easily between the two of you. Or maybe it’s just being confined and skin-to-skin with Joel that has you heating up.

The silence is cruel – it’s much harder to make conversation about work or dollhouses or whatever the hell else when you’re naked. Only the wind’s sibilance keeps you company.

You can get used to this, you think. Drift off into a somewhat sound sleep with your head on Joel’s shoulder and hope that you don’t drool all over him or moan his name in your sleep. More embarrassing things have happened to you.

But then, as if you’re the unluckiest person alive, the temperature drops even more, and suddenly, you’re shaking like a leaf all over again. Your teeth almost clack together as you try to stammer out to Joel, “C–cold, Jesus fucking… Christ that’s cold.”

Joel pouts down at you, but you don’t miss the way his lip quivers. “Should I call the wambulance?”

“Should I call the r–r–r–retirement home to pi…pick up a ru–runaway resident?” It sounded a lot better in your head than bouncing off of your frozen tongue, you have to admit.

“Drama queen,” Joel mutters into your ear. “Can’t do anythin’ more about it. Sorry–”

“Can I sit on your lap?” you blurt out so quickly that you don’t even have time to think about it. You grimace, partially covering your face with your hands. Shit.

Joel’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

You’re already half doomed. Why not go all the way? “Listen, it’s just fucking… fucking freezing, Joel. Holy shit.”

“That bad?” he chokes out.

“You’d be warmer than the seats,” you defend. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Best behavior.”

Joel seems to ponder it for a moment, brows stitched together while he looks down at you from where you’re furled up against his side. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek before giving you a slight nod. “Alright.” You nod in return, heart in your throat. “–But you better mean it when you say best behavior. Can’t have any ‘a this shit gettin’ back to your dad.”

Another nod. You hold your breath as you shinny your way onto Joel’s lap, mounting him from the front so his chest hits your back. In your attempt to get comfortable, you bracket your legs around his. His soft cock fits at the small of your back, and even though he’s as flaccid as can be, he’s big. Apparently your imagination isn’t too far off. Joel’s sharp intake of breath forms a pit in your stomach, and you know when you’re warming up for an entirely different reason than close proximity, you also know that you need to calm yourself down. Fast.

Think of something awful. Like that time that you had to dissect cow eyes in sophomore year biology. Think about mold. How many murderers you’ll walk by in your lifetime. Expired leftovers. Anything–

You adjust yourself in an attempt to get away from Joel’s cock. Instead, your hips move just so his cock slips between your thighs and bobs against your slit.

You whine.

Your body immediately locks up once you realize what you’ve done. Crawling out of the truck to die a hypothermia-induced death seems like a much kinder fate than facing Joel, but no matter how much you scream at yourself to reach out and unlock the door, your hands refuse to move. You hadn’t noticed how wet you’d gotten, and you have no idea how. It’s smeared across your thighs, and now pressed up against your back after Joel’s dick had dragged through it all.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit–

Chancing a look over your shoulder, you’re surprised to find the tips of Joel’s ears flushed, cheeks cherry ripe. His Adam’s apple bobs when you meet his eyes. Holy fuck.

You’ve flustered him.

For some reason, the thought makes your chest a lot lighter. You look away nonetheless, but this time, with a newfound gleam in your eye. There’s no such thing as a bad accident, right?

Maybe Liz was right about having to call 911, because when you ‘accidentally’ repeat the movement, Joel stops breathing all together. His cock, almost hard now, you’ve noticed, bumps against your clit. You almost swallow your tongue trying to keep your moan down.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” he asks, his gruff voice scratching at your ears.

“I didn’t mean to,” you lie straight through your teeth, a smug little grin spreading on your face. Something about his semi-hard cock between your bodies tells you he’s going to say no to your next suggestion. “Maybe you should put the coat between us, instea–”

“Are you outta your fuckin’ mind, girl?” Joel’s voice comes out raspy. He shakes his head, clears his throat. The vibrations rumble up your spine. “And take away the whole point of stayin’ warm? Now quit it. Ain’t that hard to sit still.”

You try your hand at listening – for all of two seconds.

You hike your hips up, fumbling with his coat as you slot his cock against your slit once more, pushing yourself forward. The coat slides right off of you, falling in a dark lump on the floor. Neither of you care — you’re both too heated for the lack of cover to make a damn difference. Joel hisses, a sound like water hitting an open flame. His hands fly down to your waist, anchoring you to his lap. A surprised noise squeaks out of you.

“What, you got rocks rattlin’ around in your brain?” Joel scowls. “You’re real impolite for a cocktease, sweetheart.”

Butterflies flap around in your stomach from his words. It’s enough to make your head tip against his chest so you can look up at him, lips shaped in a perfect pout. “I’m not,” you say.

“Not a cocktease, huh? Not even when you’re rubbin’ all over my lap?”

You gasp as your hands fly down to cover Joel’s, nails etching into where his fingers meet your bare skin. You tug at his wrist, trying desperately to guide him where you so desperately need him.

“Not happenin’,” Joel grunts, yanking your hands behind you and pinning them to your waist like you’re nothing more than a poseable doll. His large, work-worn hands make yours look damn near miniature as he holds you down. The sudden roughness douses your inner thighs with a new wave of wetness. “Jesus, girl. Poor thing, gettin’ all hot and bothered. Don’t blame ya for tryna get me to help out. Can feel ya dripping down my legs, gushin’ like a sprinkler.”

“S–sorry, fuck, ‘m sorry,” you whisper, words sticky with your arousal. Your clit twitches from his words, embarrassment and need doing all the work to keep you warm.

“Nahhh,” he says. “I don’t think you are, baby.” Maybe it’s the condescension he’s purring in your ear, maybe it’s the pet name; most likely, it’s a combination of both that has you convulsing in his lap. It’s like he’s found all of the right buttons to press to get you riled up, getting you back for all of your snide comments earlier.

His fingers find the fabric of your scarf, luring it off of your neck so he can cord it around your wrists. You squirm when you realize what he’s doing, and a breathless huff of his laughter brushes your cheek. “I’ll be damned if you ain’t gonna be, though.” He draws it tight, tight enough for you to feel your pulses bumping into each other. Joel leaves a fair amount of your unreasonably long scarf loose.

“Joel, what the fuck are you up to?”

“Teachin’ you some sweet southern belle etiquette, darlin’. Such a goddamn troublemaker, grindin’ on me like I’m some kinda… frat boy.” He shakes his head, disbelieving. “Pullin’ that shit with your pops’ friend. Real fuckin’ classy.”

“Like you’re so different. Who’s the one that’s tying me up? Huh, Mil–”

You hear the hit well before you feel it, a firm whack to your cunt that makes your vision blacken and electricity scurrying up your spine. It takes you a second to come back to yourself before a ragged cry pulls its way out of your lips. You jolt in his lap, bound arms bobbing in front of you as your body instinctively lurches for control. You damn near kick your feet, accidentally ricocheting yourself into Joel’s chest. His forearms hold you there.

“Guess I’ll make it crystal clear for ya, baby, since that dumb lil’ head ‘a yours is havin’ some trouble. My truck, my rules. You’re ridin’ in it, ain’t you?” You nod reluctantly as he turns your words from earlier in his favor. “That was a warnin’, you showoff. Think you can bat your slutty ‘fuck me’ eyes an’ get away with murder.” He fucking tsks at you.

He pulls his hand away from your pussy, and you’re both surprised and not surprised at all to see it covered in your arousal, webbed between his calloused fingers.

“Got a whole goddamn slip ‘n slide down here…” murmurs Joel. You whine, bucking your hips against him. “Oughta just…” he starts, nudging his cock towards your hole. The noise you make is pathetic. “Stop ya from ruinin’ my seats. Cork you right up.” You tense up, fully expecting the intrusion, but his dick passes your cunt right up, instead sliding up to meet your clit. It taps against your swollen nub, and if his goal was to stop you from ruining his seats, you’re certain he’s already failed with how quickly you gush all over the upholstery.

“But that’d be real nice, wouldn’t it? Givin’ ya what ya want so early on…” Instead of pulling away like you expect, Joel griiiinds the head of his cock against your clit. You moan helplessly, head falling back across his shoulder.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And agai–

“Joooooel,” you whine, knees jerking each time his tip meets your most sensitive spot. Heat spins in your stomach.

He backs his hips up “What? Thought you loved this with how much you were gettin’ at it earlier.”

You shake your head rapidly in the negative, chest rising and falling at a breakneck pace while he teases you.

“So you can deal, but you can’t play?”

“I think you’re just taking your sweet old time getting it up, old man,” you grit out, knowing damn well he’s stiffer than titanium behind you.

Joel hums. “Ah, she’s got jokes.” His cock slips back, quickly replaced by his hand engulfing your mound. Your clit twitches ever so slightly against his palm lines, and you’re almost convinced you could get off from that alone. His palm cracks against your cunt again, somehow even harder than the first time. You cry out, eyes burning from arousal and the slightest edge of pain.

With his thumbpad, he taps your clit like he’s just scrolling through the cable guide with a remote. Fleeting movements that have you wanting more more more. It heals the sting of his slap even if the echo of the hit still simmers in your stomach. Your cunt throbs so hard that it hurts, jumping up to meet Joel’s scarce ministrations.

When he retracts his hand, your hips chase the movement. “See this?” he taunts, fluttering his wet fingers in front of your face. You make a choked noise when his drenched middle finger breaches your lips. He doesn’t even need to tell you; you latch on and suck yourself off of his calloused skin. You’re mostly salty, but a little sweet, and tasting yourself on your own tongue by his insistence manages to make you even wetter.

Joel takes his spare fingers, just as soaked, and smears them all around your chin and lower cheeks. He presses down on your tongue as he does. You gag from the pressure, and you can’t hear his laugh over the roaring of your blood in your ears, but you feel it rattle his chest where it meets your spine. Your slick cools quickly against your burning skin, syrupy as it clings to your face. “Need a bib, baby?”

He pulls his finger from your mouth with a pop and your scarf-wrapped hands spring to wipe yourself from your lips, hoping to save yourself from the humiliation of having your own pussy juice anointing your face. You only scoop up a little before Joel lowers his forearm over yours, but for once, you’re faster than him. You swipe your wet hand over his mouth, smudging as much as you can along the scruff surrounding his mouth.

He wraps a burly hand in the scarf and yanks your hands back into place. All you can do in response is giggle, but the breath is swiftly knocked out of you when he drives his cock right into your clit. “Think you’re funny, don’t ya?” He asks, and finally grunts as he rolls his hip into you. A break in his resolve, a sign that he wants this, or at least the discipline of this, as badly as you do.

You almost weep from the pressure, that rope of pleasure in your stomach that he keeps knotting tighter and tighter and tighter with each stroke of his cock, his fingers. “Joel!” you cry out as he follows it up with another firm swat to your clit. His cock spreads your folds as he softens the bashing, nuzzling his tip against your spasming cunt.

“Really, oughta give standup a go one ‘a these days. Be a real hotshot.”

“Oh yeah?” you pant, light headed and woozy.

“Mhm. If the whole crowd’s drunk.” His cock nudges your nub with a new vigor.

“Assh–”

Right as you’re about to press down and follow the sensation, Joel senses it. His cock gives way through your cheeks, just in time for him to land a ruthless slap across your pussy. It’s harder than the others – makes your ears ring for a second, gives you a sort of visual snow that has you doubling over and gripping at the closest object for purchase, which just so happens to be the metal rods coming out of the headrest.

“Ain’t what you should be sayin’ if you’re plannin’ on gettin’ what you want, sugar,” Joel tuts. He shakes his head at you. “Don’t wanna hear no lip from ya, girl.”

You open your mouth, argument on the tip of your drool-loaded tongue, but your halfhearted attempt at defiance doesn’t last long. Joel’s hand clamps around your chin, denting your skin into your teeth. He jerks your head to face him, knocking you down a peg with scathing eye contact. “You’re pushin’ it.” He loosens his grip.

“As if, Miller. If those pre-Cold War condoms are anything to go by, you’ve been dying for a chance to get your dick wet. Doesn’t matter how much lip I give you, you aren’t gonna blue ball yourself for much longer.” Satisfied, you raise your brows at him.

Turns out, he is going to blue ball himself for much longer, because he lands six slaps in rapid succession across your sopping cunt. The skin smarts, and you cry out. Your grip tightens around the headrest rod to the point of strangling it. Your eyes water, and you can’t tell if you’re crying. Too consumed by Joel, everything has melted into him – the smell of sawdust perpetually sewn into his skin, his cock sealed against your body.

“How many times are ya gonna poke the bear before you learn your lesson, you cheeky little shit?” Joel’s palm cups the inside of your right thigh, just above the knee. He traces circles with his thumb, and heat trails after him with everywhere he touches. “See, the thing about havin’ ‘pre-Cold War condoms’ is that I’ve had a helluva lot more time to learn self control than you. Can wait as loooooong as it takes for you to get your head on right. Don’t matter if you’re waterfallin’ down my seats or not, pretty girl. I’m giving you exactly what ya deserve.”

You whimper, trying (and failing) to get your magma hot core closer to Joel’s unfairly large hand, still splayed out on your inner thigh. You can’t stop how you squirm in his lap, smearing your arousal everywhere with each movement you make.

At a snail’s pace, his hand begins to inch up your leg. Joel pauses to grope at you as his hand travels upward. Handfuls of your skin, rubbing at your scalding hot thighs. Your patience is wearing thin by the time he gets midway there. You need him to touch you. And that’s just the tip of this impossibly destructive iceberg.

You shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t have let him go down this shitty backroad, shouldn’t have agreed to your dad’s ridiculous idea of Joel picking you up, shouldn’t have asked to be naked on his lap, shouldn’t have gotten naked on his lap, shouldn’t be leaking like a twenty-year-old pipe in a building he’d been hired to renovate. If your dad ever finds out–

“Joel, please, please – plea…” you trail off, dissolving into incoherent whimpers as his hand hovers over your cunt. You’re running hotter than a radiator now, and if you both wanted to be warm, then you’ve got your wish. Although mostly gibberish, Joel has to understand what you want from him. It’s just that the bastard is unwilling to provide.

Joel reaches down to pinch your clit, and your body can’t even discern from pleasure and pain anymore. You react the same to it all, back arching as you try desperately to plant yourself on his cock. “Shhh, shhh, quit runnin’ your filthy mouth. Only gonna get yourself into more trouble.”

You swear you hear angels singing, swear you see the pearly gates when he gives your clit a merciful rub. Melting into him, you exhale shakily.

“See? All nice ‘n quiet when she’s gettin’ what she wants.” You wouldn’t even dream of mouthing off to him now.

“I want – I need…” you gasp out, putty in his hands. Moldable to his liking. Everything you’d pretended not to want.

“Go on,” he coos. “Tell daddy what you need.”

You don’t even hear him say that word. You’re too hooked on begging, begging, begging. “Please – Joel, oh god, please – I need… I need… please please please, fuck, it hurts–”

Joel clicks his tongue. “Nuh uh. Start over. Always such a chatterbox ‘cept for when I need ya to be.”

“Wha…?” you ask, admittedly dazed from the harsh treatment that you’ve come to crave more of.

“Tell daddy what you need,” he repeats, words molasses slow.

You clench, gushing even more all over him. Shit, your next paycheck might have to go to replacing the goddamn seats if you keep up like this.

“D–D… D-” you start stammering out, but you’ve lost autonomy over your body long ago, and apparently that goes for your tongue, too. “Da– Da… pl–”

“Any day now,” he scoffs.

“Daddy!” you spit out all at once. “Please, please, daddy, fuck – fuck me, daddy, please, I want your cock, daddy. Feels so fucking big. Need it daddy, it hurts… please, ngh– daddy!” Tears are burning the corners of your eyes, fueled almost entirely by arousal and partially by frustration. You squirm, cunt crying all over the place.

“M’kay, baby,” he says. Running a hand down your chest and squeezing your nipple on the way down. He slides his hand down your stomach to cup your mound, giving your clit slow, gentle circles. Your hips jump forward, and this time, he doesn’t stop you. “Daddy’s got ya.”

At the first intrusion of his middle finger in your cunt, you jump. It’s a lot compared to what he’s been giving you, but nowhere near enough. A second finger slips inside. He doesn’t have to do much work to stretch you out — you’ve been seeping out of you since you first got on his lap. He’s all too quick thrusting them in and out of you – the messy squelch of your pussy filling the backseat has you burying your chin against your chest, averting your eyes. The heel of his palm bumps persistently at your clit with each shift of his fingers inside of you.

“I know you ain’t a virgin, but you’re soakin’ like one. Too damn cocksure to ain’t have had a cock in ya before. Prancin’ around like a glorified dick trap.” You inhale sharply when his fingers scrape that spongy spot inside of you that you can never reach yourself. A moan rips out of you. The combination of him talking down to you and rubbing your g-spot has you dangerously close to cumming. Your moan is quickly swallowed up by more of Joel’s condescension.

He starts mumbling to himself then, obscenities that make you clench even tighter around his fingers. “Gonna get you all sore baby, make you regret beggin’ for this dick like a horny ‘lil bitch that ain’t ever been laid in her life. Fuck you so hard you’ll be cryin’ for daddy’s cock up your ass instead, turn you into an anal slut, too.” He’s too busy listening to himself talk, too absorbed in his own world to feel you balancing on that razor-thin edge.

The noise you make is inhuman. You pulse around him, doing your best to stave off your impending release. “Daddy–” you warn, but he cuts you off then, too. Joel grinds his cock between your ass cheeks, his precum dripping down your slit to meet your trembling cunt.

“Ever been fucked here before baby?” He swipes his tip along your asshole, and the way you shudder is answer enough for him. “Don’t get all jumpy, sweetheart. Ain’t gonna fuck ya there right now. Be cruisin’ for a bruisin’.” Still, he replaces his tip with his free hand’s thumb, simply rubbing at the ring of muscle. You fidget in his lap without an end-goal. You just want to be close to him, want to take everything he’s willing to give you. His fingers hook just right inside of you. “Would love to be the first to unlock this pretty backdoor. If this tight ‘lil pussy’s anything to go by… Christ. You’d look so pretty squirmin with my cock in your ass, baby–”

“Daddy!” You scream as your orgasm guts you. His fingers and his voice rip your climax right out of you and your cum streams down your inner thighs and Joel’s hand, still smacking against your clit with each thrust. Your cunt spasms around his flexing fingers. He has to fold an arm over your chest to keep you from sliding off his slippery lap entirely.

All the way through the aftershocks that make your limbs quake, Joel holds you upright against his body, still bumping his palm and fingertips against your clit and g-spot. You swear you can feel him smiling against your shoulder.

“Didn’t tell ya you could cum, darlin’,” Joel murmurs, flicking his cum covered finger across your clit. You wince in overstimulation, a whine catching in your throat.

“‘M sorry, daddy,” you pant. His hands go up to

“‘S okay, babygirl. Pretty pussy couldn’t help it when I was talkin’ ‘bout fuckin’ your ass, huh?” His hands rove up your stomach to play with your tits, palming and stroking, getting his hands all over every carnal part of you.

You hum into his bicep, “Mmmm.”

“That’s alright. Don’t mean you’re gettin’ away with a slap on the wrist though. C’mon, up,” he guides with a small slap to your thigh. You adjust, bringing yourself onto your knees so he can enter you from behind. You look down at his sturdy thighs, flexing as he adjusts himself between your legs. He gives you one more teasing thrust through your thighs, poking your oversensitive clit one more time before reaching down to spread your folds.

You moan as he presses against your entrance, and it’s not the best time to have a come to Jesus moment, but – Joel’s size was in no way over exaggerated between your legs. You stiffen in realization, and Joel, attentive as always, notices. He guides your chin to face him and nuzzles his nose up against yours, mouth tracing down to your lips. Your breath mingles, stagnant in the long-forgotten chill. A cushion of softness against all of his spiky edges that showed up tonight. “You’re on top, baby. Take it as slow or as fast as ya want.”

Nodding at the reminder, you find yourself that you don’t want to take it slow. You want to be as sore as he’d promised, want to feel him for days and be reminded of this every time you look at the winter morning’s frost on the shingles outside.

Sinking down over his throbbing length yanks the air out of your lungs as you seat yourself with him bottoming out and going balls deep in your cunt simultaneously. He grunts against you in surprise, softening the blow of your heady moan. “Attagirl,” he huffs into the crease between your neck and shoulder. It’s a stretch, searing up your thighs and to your lower back. You’re brought back to yourself when Joel rolls his hips into you, making the pain liquefy into mind-numbing pleasure. You spend thirty seconds waiting for him to fuck up into you in a way that changes your philosophy around the world, but instead, he’s still and solid inside of you.

“Go on,” Joel coaxes, placing a steady hand just shy of your mound. “Gotta prove you deserve to cum again.” He taps your thigh as if he’s telling you to giddy up, and the shame warms the back of your neck better than any heater ever could.

You whimper. His hands coast up your thighs, squeezing your hips tight before falling to grip the seats below. You’re still weak from your last orgasm, shaky legs struggling to hold yourself up as it is. “Daddy… I can’t…”

“Ain’t no different than fuckin’ y’self on that vibrator or dildo or whatever the fuck’s in your nightstand. Girl like you, gotta have a wimpy ‘lil fucktoy somewhere.” His words make you clench around him, and he groans into your neck. Joel looks up at the front window, now covered in snowflakes. He smirks when he spots the rearview mirror. “Oughta make you watch yourself. Show a pathetic, cockstarved slut what happens when she bites off more than she can chew.” At that, you mewl, grinding yourself down. The chuckle he lets out is lined with cruelty.

Joel pins you to his chest with one burly arm and leans forward with a hash of grunts from effort. He reaches out towards the rearview mirror, lowering it to face the middle seat that you’re both braced on. He sinks back quickly, and it almost gives you whiplash before you make eye contact with yourself. You can see everything. Tremors travel up your legs and into your arms. Your body is getting freezer burn from how cold and hot you are at the same time. Pleasured tears threaten to spill over your waterline. Joel’s smug fucking face as he murmurs endlessly at you.

Your mouth is parted as you take yourself in, truly a pathetic, pretty little picture as you pant. “C’mon,” Joel coaxes, squeezing your ass. “You can do it. Make daddy proud. I’ll even give you a boost.” Joel reaches to your tied hands and quickly undoes the scarf, letting it drop to the floor. You flex your fingers and then reach out for the chairs ahead to get a good grip.

You prop yourself up on your knees, anchoring yourself to the two chairs in front of you. Using a combination of your upper and lower body strength, you rise halfway off of Joel’s cock before your body gives out. His balls slap wetly against your clit. He laughs, still not touching you at all. Your head flops forward as you look down to where the two of you meet, and then at the mirror where his cock is buried deep inside of you. You whine in dismay.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was going to get you sore. You can only moan. It’s pleasure like you’ve never had it before – too much, not enough, painful, so good. “Please, Joel – I can’t… can’t handle it.”

“I’ll decide what you can handle,” he says.

“You’re– you’re so fucking mean,” you rasp.

“Gets you this soaked, baby. Don’t see your pussy complainin’. You love bein’ treated like a piece ‘a meat. Like a little fleshlight for men to fuck.”

You clench, tight. “Ah!” Joel fucking sniggers behind you, but a rush of confidence spills through you at the underlying moan in his throat.

Determined to get what you want, you tighten your grip on the front seats. Haul yourself up, almost so that the tip slips right out, and then collapse back onto Joel’s cock. And, shit, it’s a lot. You doubt you could handle his cock in missionary, but being made to ride him in such a compromising position, sprawled out across his shitty backseat? That’s an entirely different animal, one that you hadn’t expected to have to handle.

You focus on doing just enough to please him and just enough to keep yourself intact. You repeat your movements two or three times, rising and falling. Little moans and whimpers, some pained, some good when he nudges your g-spot just right, slip in and out of you.

“Mmmm, yeah, that’s it. Daddy’s ‘lil wannabe pocket pussy. Doin’ a ‘lil better baby. Keep doin’ that. Jus’ keep doin’ that.”

You’re shaking like a leaf on his cock as you somehow manage to lift yourself another time before fucking back on him. “Daaaddy.” Your lips quiver as you form the word. A single tear runs down your face from overexertion, and he’s quick to wipe it up with his thumb as if it was never there. You look truly whorish and pathetic, just like he’d wanted, bouncing on his cock with the last of the energy you have left in you.

His tip jabs against that goddamn spot again, and you double over on the center console. You take heaving breaths, making eye contact with yourself in the mirror, desperate to please as you attempt to keep humping him with the change in angle. You’re letting out strings of disoriented words, but barely can tell that you’re talking.

“I fuck you dumb already? Slutty little girl. Told ya you were in for it. Ain’t ever had much of a knack for listenin’. Gonna dick you down now, sweet girl.” He drags your legs into the crook of his elbows, holding you upright for him as he shifts to his knees between your legs. Braced on the center console with your pussy settled on his cock, the new angle makes you cry out. You hold yourself up on your elbows, giving shallow rolls of your hips in return as Joel gets settled inside of you.

The first thrust makes your eyes roll back so far that you see black. “Feel good?”

“So… so fu–fucking goo… good daddy,” you whimper into the console, gripping the sides of it just so you have something to hold onto.

“Swallowin’ daddy’s dick whole in this greedy cunt. Goddamn, drippin’ down my fuckin’ balls. Such a masochistic slut, all after a poundin’ from an old man. All up in a tizzy for this cock.”

You moan your agreement, completely submissive to Joel’s wills. You move like a ragdoll for him, letting him yank you back on his cock while he meets you there, thrust for thrust. He pulls out, a small mercy, but when he sheathes himself back inside of you in full, it’s the beginning of a punishing pace.

You don’t even notice yourself drooling all over the console until Joel says something about it. “Droolin’ from two places. Yeah, baby, you needed this. Daddy’s pretty cockslut.” You whine especially loudly when Joel drags you back across the console, damn near fast enough to give your stomach rugburn.

Hands framing your spread legs, Joel hooks them both around his torso, using the leverage to plow into you. You’re boneless beneath him, mouth frozen in silent moans. His hips meet your ass with each shove of his cock in your sloppy cunt, the obscene sound of slap after slap pealing out within the truck. “Damn lucky we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Joel growls on another thrust. “Someone woulda been knockin’ on the window long time ago with how loud you’re bein’.”

“Mmph,” you gasp when Joel tosses one of your legs up and over the passenger seat. You hold yourself there as he digs his fingers into your other thigh, shifting his spare hand to your mound.

“Daddy please please please plea–” you start panting like a broken record, desperate to feel his hand on your clit, which throbs with inattention on the console. You grind frantically on the edge just in case he denies you again.

Joel laughs above you, fully smudging two fingers across your clit in a blur of indescribable pleasure. “Ain’t gonna make ya beg this time. Can’t wait to feel ya creamin’ ‘round me… maybe I’ll make ya lick that up too. Nasty bitch.”

“Joooel, oh fuck, please…” you whine as he continues railing you, this time fiercely tweaking your clit in-time with his movements.

The new position has his thrusts meeting your cervix, and you scream, pleasure corkscrewing through your body. There’s nowhere for all of it to go with how viciously it burns in your stomach – all you can do is take it and whine for him. “Takin’ it real good. See what happens when ya behave? You get this fat cock splittin’ your whore cunt in two, jus’ like you were askin’ for.”

He grips your hip tight, clearly expecting an answer. You slur, “Mhm, daddy!”

Joel rubs faster circles around your clit, spouting filth while he drills your pussy. You can tell he’s chasing his own release, too, hips frantically fucking in and out of you, his cock twitching every single time you clench. You’re burning up as he jackhammers your pussy. Your second orgasm of the night brims low in your stomach, “Come on, baby, know you’re close. Feel this slutty pussy squeezin’ me. You gonna ask permission like a good girl this time, or are ya gonna go back to your defiant little slut self?”

“No, daddy,” you whimper, suspended in thin air over orgasmic bliss. He’s rubbing your clit erratically, doing everything he can to hold you in place. “P-please daddy, can I come?” You practically scream it out.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Come for daddy’s, come allll over daddy’s cock.”

The band snaps. Your back arches, and you feel time stop in the second before you fall slack on the console, spasming from the best orgasm of your fucking life. Your clit feels like there’s fucking pop rocks on it, something that not even your vibrator has ever achieved. “Thank you daddy!” you cry out, repeating it as you lose all feeling in your bones. You hardly have any control over your body anymore – it’s just Joel Joel Joel Joel. Sated and weary, you just lay there, letting Joel fuck into you.

And fuck into you he does – roughly, helping you ride out your orgasm as he pursues his. “That’s my girl,” he says, and you swear that alone could make you cum all over again. “Lettin’ your daddy use this juicy, well-fucked cunt to get his own.” He can’t hold back his moans, that’s how you know he’s close, grunting and gasping as he rocks his hips into yours. His hand lands on your ass in a sharp smack, and your pussy clenches in exactly the way that he expected. He lets out a particularly ragged noise, folding himself over you to nip at your neck and rest his forehead against your shoulder blade. “Daddy’s close, where do ya want me, baby?”

“Tits,” you whine. It’s a miracle you can even get that one word out, but somehow, you manage a few more. “Come on my tits, daddy.”

“Fuck!” Joel shouts, yanking himself over you. You help him roll yourself over and sit up on your elbows, and he jerks himself once, twice, before spraying his load all over your tits with the loudest groan yet. His brows fold together as he cums, eyes drooping and his mouth parted as he takes deep breaths.

You sit there for a handful of heavy minutes, listening to each other’s jagged breathing and the sawtoothed wind outside. You’re both so fucked. Literally, and figuratively. Stuck in the buttfuck middle of nowhere, you with your dad’s proclaimed bestie’s cum drying on your tits, and said bestie staring at you with post-coital puppy dog eyes and your cum all over his balls.

You’re the first to speak up, still winded. “That was… that was good.”

Joel nods mindlessly, tongue swiping out to lick his lips. He beckons you closer, and on trembling legs, you bring yourself to the backseat. You return to your previous position, huddled up and curled next to the door. Joel fumbles around under the back bench for a little until he comes up with a small, sunbleached pack of princess-themed pocket tissues that have to be as old as Sarah is. He dabs at your chest before stuffing them into the closest empty cupholder, and then brings you closer to his chest.

You don’t notice yourself falling asleep when all you can feel is Joel.

There’s better ways to wake up than a furious rapping on the window, but that isn’t the first thing you notice. You blink your eyes open groggily, only to face an egg yolk sun cracking wide open over the treeline and snowmelt bleeding out from every given surface. Joel’s behind you, nose in your neck, snoring softly with his arms wrapped around your middle. You take a moment to admire him – his sun kissed skin and his peaceful expression. It takes you a moment to remember you slept with him. You slept with Joel, and it was the best fuck of your life.

You’re stretching, on the verge of a yawn, when you see the familiar head of black hair over the window. “Shit!” you shout. Joel jerks to life behind you, mumbling something that sounds a lot like ‘what?’.

You scramble to pull the coat over the both of you from where it fell off of you in the middle of the night, covering your naked bodies. “Get dressed!” you hiss to Joel, searching for wherever the fuck your panties ended up last night.

“What the hell’s gotten into ya–” he starts, and you feel the exact moment that he realizes Tommy Miller is outside of the truck. “Motherfucker,” he curses, swaying towards the front seat to snag his clothes. You see him almost put his head through his T-shirt armhole three times before he gets it right. His sweatpants are next, which he tugs up his bare legs without even searching for his boxers.

“Joel?” Tommy shouts outside. “Wake up, sleepin’ beauty!” He knocks on the door again, the windows blurry from melting snow. You have that to thank, at least. It buys you enough time to tug your polo over your head, but not enough time to button it all the way up.

“Fuckin’... dumbass,” Joel huffs as he clips the lock on the door and kicks it open, looking at least somewhat composed. You take deep breaths, looking between the two of them. “How’d you find us?”

Tommy looks Joel up and down, scrutinizing him. “What happened to southern gentleman manners? I came out here to save ya from Mt. Everest, brother! Least you could say is ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you,” you fill in for Joel, even if the last thing you’re feeling is grateful.

“Her daddy threw a hissy fit, y’know? Told him you were fine and we’d go lookin’ for ya in the mornin’. We saw all that backup on the highway, I went this way, he went that way, turns out my gut was right. ‘Course my dumbass brother would take this route… hey, you’re truck’s a fuckin’ mess.” Tommy sinks his hand into the closest cupholder, pulling out a wad of tissues that have been soaked in his cum. You hiss as if you’ve been scalded with boiling hot water.

Joel starts, “Tommy–”

“What the fuck is this shit?” The realization seems to dawn on poor Tommy when he’s peeling apart the tissues, and he drops them like they’re a thousand pounds. You can’t even bring yourself to scold him for littering as the wind carries them away. “Joel. You dirty dog!” He says, eyes flitting between the two of you like it’s the most impossible thing in the world.

Your heart picks up to a speed that can rival most NASCAR drivers and your face burns like hot asphalt. You look pointedly down at the ground.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Joel seethes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Get outta here, you little shit.”

Tommy’s hands go up. “Hey now, I ain’t doin’ anything. That is not a conversation I wanna have with her daddy.” He clears his throat, effectively clearing the air along with it. “So, uh, truck break down?” Joel grunts in affirmation.

“Been tellin’ ya you need to make a stop at the auto shop… C’mon, I’ll get y'all home,” Tommy says, jingling the keys to his own truck. “Call a tow on the way.”

Joel drags his feet all the way to Tommy’s passenger side. You get your wallet and jacket together, winding the latter around your waist. The sun almost blinds you on your way out, and Tommy stops you.

“I hope you didn’t let ‘im stick it to ya with them prehistoric condoms. You’re smarter ‘n that.”

“God, no,” you huff out.

“I dunno what’s stupider, lettin’ my asshole brother hit it raw or gettin’ a UTI–”

“Okay!” you announce, hands going up as you round the back of Tommy’s truck. “Conversation over.” You’re still smiling playfully at Tommy as you clamber into the back of the truck, sighing when the air conditioner hits.

Just like that, back to the same old same old sunny, shithole state of Texas. Joel looks at you in the rearview mirror and winks at you. You guess not everything has to stay the same these days.

#vetty's words 𓇢𓆸 #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller/reader #joel miller/f! reader

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triviallytrue · 2 years ago

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The state of affairs in Palestine, 10/23/23

Conditions on the ground in Gaza continue to deteriorate. Gaza has no fuel, electricity, or clean water, and it remains under constant bombardment.

Humanitarian aid is beginning to make its way through the Rafah border crossing (Gaza's border with Egypt) but the current quantity is completely insufficient. There have been two convoys. The first convoy of 20 trucks contained enough water for 22,000 people, or ~1% of Gaza's population, for a single day. It's unclear what was in the second convoy, but it only had 17 trucks.

Israel continues to gear up for a ground invasion of Gaza. It's unclear what exactly they will do or what the end result will be, to the point that the US is calling on Israel to publicize its goals.

In the meantime, Israel has aggressively increased its air bombardment of Gaza. [CW for the header image on the red link: wounded young girl] This, along with the lack of fuel and supplies, is causing the complete collapse of the Gaza hospital system.

There is a very real risk of further escalation of the war. Israel has repeatedly raided and airstriked the West Bank and targets in Syria, continuously exchanged volleys with Hezbollah on the Israeli border with Lebanon, and hit the Egyptian border (allegedly by accident).

Protests around the world are rallying to bring attention and support to the Palestinian cause.

#blacklist #said i wouldn't do another fully sourced one of these but people are still reblogging the old one

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vanteguccir · 1 year ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTIKTOK TRENDS⁴ * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　4 times that Y/N and Matt made a couple's trend on tiktok.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²　::　part 1 || part 2 || part 3 || part 5

1. Decorating my boyfriend's car super girly and seeing his reaction

Going downstairs quietly so as not to wake anyone, considering it was still too early for any of the triplets - and even Y/N - to be awake, Y/N entered the garage. Matt's car, an impeccably clean black one, was there, parked and oblivious to what was coming.

The girl turned on the room light and made sure she had closed the door before finally unlocking the car ones by simply touching the small control in her hands.

Opening the driver's door with her unoccupied hand, Y/N climbed in, sitting down on the seat, a sound of complaint escaping her throat as she noticed how far and low the seat was - obviously adjusted for Matt's height. She quickly adjusted the position of it until she felt comfortable and, finally, put her phone in the support attached to the lower center of the windowshield, exactly where the boys supported their camera during car videos, her right hand instinctively flying towards the ceiling lights, turning it on.

Y/N unlocked the device and quickly browsed through the apps until she found TikTok, opening it and entering the recording space, adjusting the focus to ensure that every detail was captured, and pressed the red button.

"Good morning, TikTok!" The girl muttered in a low tone, a mischievous glint clearly apparent in her eyes. "Today, I'm going to do the biggest trolling of all in my boyfriend's car. Let’s turn it into a real preppy car!"

Y/N started by taking the first piece from the box of items she had prepared: a pink fuzzy cover for the steering wheel. The cover was a vibrant pink, with a soft, cozy feel to the touch.

Y/N carefully slid the cover over its right place, making sure every inch was covered and fitted perfectly. The fluff glowed below the yellow light, giving the steering wheel a luxurious, exaggerated appearance.

Then, she picked up two pink cup holders, filled with glitter, both twinkling every time the light hit one of them, as if it was full of little stars. Y/N laughed to herself as she placed them on the center console's cup rests, fitting them in and smiling widely when she noticed how perfect the size was.

"Matt will love putting our morning Starbucks here, for sure.” The girl murmured, looking up and sending a wink towards the camera.

The next step was to decorate the air conditioning vents. Y/N had bought several mini pink decorations, also full of glitter, each one more extravagant than the last. There were little hearts, stars, and even some fake diamonds. She carefully attached each to the air vents, adjusting until they were all secure and at a good enough distance to notice them all.

"Get ready for style and glamor to be blown throughout the car when Chris asks Matt to turn on the air conditioning during videos." She joked while still adjusting the last small items.

The car's gearshift could not be forgotten. Y/N pulled out a smaller sized pink fuzzy cover, specially designed. It was soft to the touch, matching the steering wheel cover perfectly. She slid it over the gear, adjusting it so it was secure, her right hand closing around the cover, smiling as she felt the small hairs caressing her palm.

Finally, to complete the look, Y/N took a pink diamond-shaped pendant, stretching her upper body upwards and extending her hands, hanging it around the rearview mirror. The pendant swayed slightly by itself, reflecting the light and casting small colored reflections throughout the interior of the all car.

"I feel like I'm in Barbie: a Fashion Fairytale." Y/N said, letting out a nasal laugh, resting her back against the backrest of the seat so that her eyes could analyze every corner of the car, admiring her final work.

She then turned her attention back to her cell.

"Alright, guys, the car is ready. Now we just need to wait for Matt to wake up and see his reaction."

The video stopped at that moment before it returned seconds later.

"I went upstairs after fixing the last details and woke up Matt, I made up that I was hungry, but that I wanted to have breakfast at a café." Y/N began with a hushed tone, now sitting in the passenger seat, her phone now in her hands. "I waited for him to get up and get ready before telling him I would wait for him in the car."

It didn't take long and soon Y/N heard Matt's footsteps coming down the stairs that led to the garage, her eyes looking up in time to see the silhouette of her boyfriend appearing in the doorway. She pressed her lips into a thin line in an attempt to contain her laughter.

Her eyes followed Matt's steps, who walked quickly towards the driver's seat door, the sound of the door opening echoing through the small space was followed by anticipation on Y/N's part, who looked at the camera to Matt and back again, waiting for his reaction.

"Hey, sweet girl, I'm sorry it took me so..." He interrupted his own sentence, his movements instantly stopping for a few seconds. "Y/N! What- What did you do to my car?!" Matt's voice echoed in a tone of disbelief, the surprise evident on his face not yet visible to the phone camera.

"Come on, babe, sit down so you can take a better look at this incredible work I did just for you." The girl asked in a fake sweet tone, smiling openly and leaning her upper body over the console, extending her right arm so that her hand could touch Matt's, holding it firmly and pulling him inside.

The boy, still wide-eyed and surprised, obeyed, sitting on the leather covered seat - already arranged again to his own taste - and closing the door with a thud.

"Where- When did you even get all those things?" Matt questioned again, his blue eyes quickly traveling over every pink detail before turning his attention back to Y/N, his mouth slightly open.

"Yesterday, duh." The girl answered as if it was obvious, shrugging her shoulders before her neutral expression broke into a smile again. "Did you like it? It's pretty, right? I'm sure your videos will be much cooler now."

"Babe, oh my God." Matt's voice sounded airy, eliciting a laugh from Y/N. He didn't know where to focus his attention, different shades of pink calling his eyes from every corner. "I can't lie. It looks so good." The boy finally reached out with his hands, his fingers curling around his steering wheel, pressing lightly against the extremely fluffy fabric over his palm.

"I know, right?" Y/N responded excitedly, briefly glancing at her cell that was still recording them. "Look at the cup holder, babe!" Her tone rose as she reached out toward the console, pointing to the pink cup holder with her index finger.

"So I can put in your favorite Starbucks drink every morning, huh?" Matt lowered his gaze to the item, shaking his head amusedly as he heard his girlfriend agree excitedly.

"Next step: getting the car wrapped in pink."

"Are you crazy?"

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

2. Pretending to be asleep to see my boyfriend's reaction

Y/N was home alone, comfortable silence filling every corner as she waited for Matt to return from the street. He had gone out to get a specific sweet that she had been asking for for days, and the only place where they sold it didn't deliver.

Sitting comfortably on the grey couch in the living room, the girl was immersed in TikTok videos when a new couple trend appeared on her For You Page, catching her attention; Pretending to be asleep to see my boyfriend's reaction.

Y/N didn't think twice before making the decision to join the cycle of famous couples replicating the trend, quickly leaving TikTok, and opening the location app she shared with Matt. Watching his icon move across the colorful map, she calculated that she still had a few minutes before he arrived, rising from the couch seconds later, running down the small hallway that led to their room.

First, she took the plush, gray bedspreads off the bed, folding it and leaving it on Matt's gaming chair. The soft light from the already turned on lamp created a calm and welcoming atmosphere, perfect for what she had in mind.

She then adjusted her phone on the nightstand on her side of the bed, ensuring the camera was pointed directly at the mattress and the space Matt would enter, propping it against the lamp and organizing the minimal decorations that was always above the furniture around the device in a way that it disguised its existence there.

Checking the app again, she saw that Matt was just a few blocks away. Y/N hurried to lay down, adjusting herself comfortably but naturally.

She turned slightly to her back, rescuing Matt's pillow and hugging it to her chest, not stopping herself from lightly exhaling the natural scent of her boyfriend's male shampoo and cologne that permeated into the fabric, closing her eyes and regulating her breathing to make it seem like she was actually sleeping.

A few minutes later, she finally heard Matt's footsteps echoing across the floor, going from quieter to louder, indicating that he was getting closer to the room. She kept her eyes closed, trying to contain a wide smile as her heart beat fastned.

Matt's footsteps approached the door, the sound of it opening echoing after, the familiar sound of the paper bag he was carrying filling Y/N's ears.

"Babe, I found the one that you wanted, and guess what? They had just made it!" Matt started talking as soon as he entered the space, his voice excited and loud, before noticing the silence in the room.

The boy looked up, his eyes running around before noticing his girlfriend lying on their shared bed, lowering his voice when he noticed her apparently sleeping figure, his expression softening immediately, a small smile settling on his lips.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, walking with steps of a feather towards the bed, the sound of his sock-covered feet tapping against the wooden floor gently echoing through the four walls.

His busy hand placed the bag with the sweet on the nightstand beside his side before he approached the edge of the bed, admiration written all over his face as he looked at Y/N.

He bent his knees slightly, curving his upper body over the mattress and bringing his face closer to Y/N's head, using his left hand to support his own weight, just watching her sleep for a few seconds, a tender smile on her face.

Matt then lowered his head so that his face was close to hers, sealing his lips over her forehead and head repeatedly, but very lightly and slowly, without the intention of waking her up.

"You're so beautiful when you sleep, you know that?" He whispered, his voice filled with affection, stroking the side of her face lightly with the tip of his nose before reaching out with his right hand, gently brushing away the loose strands of hair with his fingertips, taking them away from her eyes, being careful. His touch was light, almost like a gentle breeze.

Matt looked around, noticing the phone on Y/N's nightstand, but didn't suspect anything thanks to the low brightness of the screen. He just smiled, enjoying the moment, taking note of how the surroundings seemed as calm as ever.

Taking the corner of the duvet that was at the foot of the bed, he gently pulled it over his girlfriend, making sure she was comfortable and warm, petting the thick fabric lightly, molding it to his girl's body.

Then he got up again, reaching his hands to his bedside table, taking the bag with the sweet he had brought between his fingers. It was an angel cake with strawberry filling and whipped cream, Y/N's favorite.

The boy took the box with the cake out of the bag, being careful not to make any loud sounds, leaving the brown paper bag on the wood surface before walking towards Y/N's bedside table slowly, leaving the frame of the phone's front camera for a few seconds, placing the small white cardboard box above it.

"Hope you like it." The brunette murmured again, more to himself than to her.

Matt then returned to his side of the bed, resting his right hand on the mattress and taking off his socks before finally laying down next to her, being careful not to make too much noise or sudden movements.

After snuggling as best he could under the duvet, he turned on his side, bringing the front of his body closer to the back of Y/N's one, wrapping an arm around her waist slowly, gently pulling her closer, his hand automatically finding its way under the oversized t-shirt that covered Y/N's upper body down to her thighs, snaking his hand across the soft skin of his girl's stomach and finding home beneath her right breast, just as he did every day, not seeming to notice the shiver that ran through her body, closing his eyes.

Y/N couldn't help but relax her body even more under her boyfriend's gentle touch, snuggling closer, feeling a deep peace settle in her chest, momentarily forgetting that she was even recording something.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

3. Trying the spray trend on my boyfriend

Y/N was in the bathroom she shared with Matt, her hands working on resting her phone on the marble sink in a way that it wouldn't be obvious that she was recording, the screen with low brightness already open on the TikTok app. She made sure the frontal camera was well positioned, capturing the perfect angle from the bathroom door to the area where she would be standing.

Then, Y/N bent down slightly and opened the cabinet under the sink, her right hand retrieving a spray deodorant she had recently purchased, taking off the cap and setting it aside. With everything ready, the girl turned to her cell again, pressing the record button with her thumb.

Y/N smiled playfully at the camera before turning away from the device and extending her right hand, opening the bathroom door.

"Matt!" The low, muffled sound of Matt's voice shouting back echoed down the hallway leading to the bathroom. "Babe, can you come here for a minute?"

She waited, listening to her boyfriend's footsteps approaching. His figure quickly appeared in front of the already open door, a confused look on his face.

"What's wrong, babe? Do you need help with something?"

"I bought this new deodorant that says it's unscented, but I think it has a slight lavender scent. Can you smell it and tell me what you think?" Y/N asked, her tone sounding naive, holding the spray deodorant at the height she knew would be ideal for him to reach it, and pointing the hole where the product exited upwards.

"Sure." Matt nodded, still a little confused, but willing to help. He entered the bathroom completely and approached Y/N, tilting his head closer to the area where his girlfriend was holding the spray.

Y/N pressed the button on the top of the deodorant, creating a white cloud that slowly rose. Matt leaned even closer to smell the scent, a look of genuine concentration written across his face, and at that exact moment Y/N moved quickly, closing the distance between their faces and pressing her lips softly against his.

The kiss was quick and surprising, and she could feel Matt's slight shiver of surprise, a sound of shock escaping his throat.

When she pulled away, Matt's eyes were wide, his eyelids blinking rapidly as his brain tried to assimilate what had happened, his cheeks slowly turning into a bright red hue, a small smile appearing on the corner of his lips.

"What?" A loud laugh escaped Y/N's mouth as she watched his reaction, noticing his shy expression.

"You're a little devil." Matt shook his head comically. His tongue acted on its own as it escaped his mouth, passing his lips carefully, the taste of mint flooding his palate. "Is that mint?"

"Maybe." Y/N replied with the ghost of a smile, vaguely remembering how she had applied the Space Camp mind lip balm a few minutes earlier.

"Can I have another taste of it?"

"Matt!"

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

4. Using my scary dog privilege to walk alone at night

It was a quiet, cool evening as Y/N and Matt were taking a walk after a nice dinner at a home-cooked Italian restaurant close to their home.

Y/N's eyes swept the deserted streets in front of her, quickly looking back over her shoulder, taking note of Matt a few steps behind her body, vaguely remembering a TikTok she had watched earlier that day, the environment around them reminding her a lot of the one in the video.

With that, she decided to record one, too.

And how she was when she was beautiful

The girl was now holding her phone in her right hand, her screen with TikTok already open in the recording area staring back at her, the sound of the Babooshka song melody playing at a low volume from her speakers.

Her half-closed eyes were fixed on the front camera, which recorded her face contorted into a small smirk, her hair moving around her face as if it was planned, a consequence of the light wind that surrounded her and her measured steps, which never stopped.

She signed the letter

Y/N slightly raised her hand that was holding her cell so that the camera now captured the view from behind her back.

All yours

The video captured the image of Matt following in her footsteps, his body completely covered in black clothing, making a perfect contrast with the yellow night lights coming from the tall poles above their heads.

His posture was erect and his head remained high, his arms crossed so that his biceps were visible against the thin fabric of his black shirt and a serious expression resting on his face - as usual -, his eyes fixed straight ahead, as if he was on alert of everything, accompanied by his furrowed eyebrows, giving an impression of anger to anyone who saw him from afar.

Y/N, watching the image through the tilted phone screen that was still recording her boyfriend, felt a shiver run down her spine; a small, satisfied smile blooming on her face.

Matt was definitely a scary Doberman by her side.

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revelboo · 4 months ago

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Cannot believe that knockout has a HUMAN side piece and that breakdown is jealous of them smh 😔

(I love your writing sm btw I'm binging everything)

I can see Breakdown being the more attentive, affectionate of the two in a relationship once he gets over the fear of reader stealing Knockout. Any unpleasantness with the human just gets pawned off on him by Knockout, though. You’re sick? Ew. No, that’s Breakdown’s problem now.

My Favorite Accident Pt 10

TFP Knockout x Reader x Breakdown

• Heart racing as the car puts itself into gear and starts rolling, wheel turning, you dig your fingers into your thighs. There’s something seriously wrong with you for being relieved that you’re being grabbed by one of them, someone who knows Knockout and not some random, human druggie. “We race together,” you say, putting your hands in your lap remembering how weird Knockout was about you touching things inside him. “Are you his friend?” Because you really wish you’d asked Knockout more questions about his people. He’s gossiped enough though to remember names he’s dropped. And one he’d mentioned more than any other. “You’re Breakdown, right?”

• Engine stuttering for a klik at the fact that Knockout had told you about him, he growls. What exactly had the medic told you? “That’s right.” And okay, that voice of yours is soothing. Is that the fascination? Knockout just liking how you sound? Knows Knockout can be a bit funny about things he finds pretty, but aside from that soft voice, you’re just another organic flesh bag. Nothing special. Why reveal himself? “He talks to you about me often?”

• Enough to know this is his bestie and maybe something a bit more. Do alien robots do romance? Because when he’d mentioned this guy, he’d sounded almost wistful for all of five seconds before catching himself and swapping back to arrogant condescension. “He said you look after the,” you begin and hesitate as you scrabble for the word he’d used, “Vehicons. Make sure they have what they need.” Even if Knockout had sounded torn between almost admiration and annoyed bemusement by that. Like Breakdown was wasting his time.

• Engine rumbling as you fidget in his passenger seat, he vents. “Someone has to,” he mutters. It had been an insult when they’d put him over the cloned soldiers, but really, they’re Cybertronians, too. They have sparks. And he’d just shrugged it off, doing his assignment to the best of his ability. Trying to lobby for better conditions, a bit more rations for them. “Those energon mines are death traps even when we’re not at war.”

• “I think that’s what Knockout admires about you. That you care,” you say, because staying on this guy’s good side seems prudent. And you have no idea where he’s taking you, but you’re starting to get worried. “You’re not driving me out in the desert to dump my body, are you?” Because he’d left the outskirts of your little town miles ago. And he laughs, but also doesn’t answer your question. “Cause Knockout may be a little put out at losing the only real competition he has in the races.” No response. Alright then. You grab his gear shift and shove it into park catching him by surprise as he shudders and snarls, hear his startled alien swearing as you claw at the little nob to unlock the door, breaking a nail before throwing open the door and running flat out.

#transformers x reader #knockout x reader #tfp knockout #breakdown x reader #tfp breakdown

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hiiikiko · 7 months ago

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𝖘𝖕𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖆𝖓!𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖘

tlou m.list | caught in your web m.list

[a/n]: hi! i hope you’ll all accept this, i hv work today n i’ll be workin until like 9 p.m but i’ll make sure to write tmrw !! n ty for all the likes on this series ♡

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

♰ before ellie got bitten, she wore glasses but after she didn’t need them anymore. she still wears them with the lenses popped out though because she thinks she looks weird without them, although she doesn’t wear them at school that often

♰ when she gets in a fight with tommy or maria, she sneaks out her window and finds a nice quiet roof to sit and listen to music, sometimes smoke but she’s cut back since her vigilante career began

♰ she has backpacks hidden all over the city so she can make a quick change. there’s one at school, the library, oscorp labs, the planetarium, and your apartment

♰ she knows you can handle yourself but that doesn’t stop her from following you home, like, come on! new york city is pretty dangerous and don’t you like having your very own vigilante??

♰ might be a little stalkerish but she sometimes hangs out on the roof of the building across your apartment building so she can watch you go about your evening, she doesn’t mean to do it but somehow she always ends up there

♰ she carries pepper spray even though she has literal superpowers

♰ she’s trained her spider sense to be even more heightened so that she can fight with her airpods in

♰ she has a playlist for fighting bad guys

♰ even though she’s city renowned spiderman, she still helps the elderly cross the street and help cats out of trees (she’s a little hesistant to help the cats because of how hard it is to mend scratches on her suits fabric)

♰ she owns a spiderman figurine like what did you expect? she’s a fan girl of the avengers, she owns all their figurines and they are in mint condition so why wouldn’t she own her own?? like that has to be the coolest thing to her

♰ concert tickets are expensive so sometimes she uses her powers for “bad” and sneaks into venues (she says it’s anti capitalist but really, she’s just being cheap)

♰ she has nightmares about turning into a real spider, kinda like franz kafka (she actually read this book in freshman lit and it scarred her)

♰ another one of her biggest fears is like what if she’s having sex with someone and she’s fingering them and her webs somehow shoot up into them?? like how do you explain that to a doctor?? this keeps her up at night

♰ seeing you in spiderman merch makes the tips of her ears go red and her heart race

♰ she cringes whenever she sees spiderman edits on her fyp

♰ onlyfans ppl who make content in her suit kinda scare her LMAO

♰ she actually doesn’t mind that everyone assumes spidey is a man, it helps her hide her identity but it kinda pisses her off that people can’t tell she’s a girl?? like do you not see the boobs . (her suit actually flattens her and all the protection gear inside gives her a pretty boxy figure so you can’t really tell)

♰ she has a hate/love relationship with her webs because on one hand she’s scared of touching people and on the other, she likes that she can ‘glue’ her camera to her hands when she’s on more dangerous photo ops and that she doesn’t have to get up from her bed to get her guitar (although, one time she hit herself in the face because she didn’t get it fast enough)

♰ ellie’s a different type of spiderman.. she’s actually very violent! especially against criminals who hurt others just for fun, she’ll beat them to a bloody pulp and leave them their for the ambulance to find (she leaves a note apologizing to the emts and sheriff, but it’s not like she killed them! nobody thinks that spiderman could do this so they assume there’s another vigilante out there, a more violent one *ahem* deadpool)

♰ she met deadpool once.. never again

♰ much like her infected bite from the game, her spider bite has caused cobwebs to grow in her veins

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honeydippedfiction · 3 months ago

Text

Red Zone {JB9}

Navigation

Genre: Slow Burn-ish, Comedy, Fluff, Romance, & Tension.

Synopsis: Y/N has spent weeks teasing Cincinnati’s golden boy, Joe Burrow, making him work way harder than he ever has for anything. But Joe doesn’t back down from a challenge—especially not when it comes to her. He’s all in, and the longer she keeps him waiting, the more he realizes… yeah, he’s down bad.

The real question?

How long before Y/N slips up and realizes she’s just as gone for him?

Warnings: Heavy Flirting & Tension, Joe Being Down Horrendous, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn (but Barely), Mild Language, Slight Possessiveness

Themes: Push & Pull Romance, Athlete x Support Staff, Man Falls First, Man Falls Hard, Confidence vs. Vulnerability, Football Setting, But It’s About Them.

WC: 9.6k

A/N: This does switch back and forth from your pov and Joe's pov. They will be separated by the orange banner.

Join my Taglists here or message me

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

Joe Burrow was in trouble.

Real, undeniable, can’t-think-straight trouble.

And the cause of his suffering? You.

It started small—just stolen glances here and there. At first, he told himself it was nothing. Just admiration. But then admiration turned into distraction, and now distraction had turned into full-blown infatuation.

Joe was down bad.

It didn’t make sense. He’d met beautiful women before. Dated some, even. But you? You weren’t just beautiful. You were effortless. He noticed it in the way you moved, the way you carried yourself—never shrinking, never trying to impress anyone, just being. You had this energy about you, something magnetic that made it impossible to look away.

And damn, did he look.

A lot.

Like right now, for example. You were walking across the practice field, hauling a bag of footballs over your shoulder, curls bouncing as you moved, skin glowing under the late afternoon sun. Joe knew he should be focusing on drills, but how the hell was he supposed to do that when you looked that good just existing?

"Yo, Burrow, you good?" Ja'Marr Chase's voice snapped him out of his daze. Joe blinked, realizing he’d been gripping his helmet in a death grip, eyes still locked onto you like you were the end zone in the Super Bowl.

"Yeah," he muttered, clearing his throat. "I’m good."

Ja’Marr followed his gaze, then smirked knowingly. "Man, just talk to her."

Joe rolled his eyes. "It’s not that simple."

"Uh, yeah, it is. You’re Joe Burrow."

Joe huffed, adjusting his wristband. "And? What does that have to do with anything?"

Ja’Marr shook his head with a laugh. "Boy, you are gone."

Joe didn’t bother denying it. Instead, he jogged over to where you were setting up equipment, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the heat.

"Need some help?"

You looked up at him, arching a brow. "With what? My job?"

Joe grinned, ignoring the way his pulse kicked up from just being near you. "Hey, just trying to make your life easier."

You scoffed, but he caught the tiny smile playing at your lips. "I’m good, QB1. You should be stretching or whatever it is y’all do before practice."

"I was stretching." Joe placed his hands on his hips, giving you his best innocent look. "Stretching my ability to be a gentleman."

You laughed, shaking your head. "That was corny."

"Yeah, but it got you to laugh," he shot back, smiling like he’d just won a game.

You shook your head, going back to work, but Joe wasn’t done yet. He lingered, watching the way you bit your lip in concentration as you sorted gear. He wondered if you even realized how fine you were. Did you know how bad you were messing with his head?

"You know," he started, "I’ve been thinking…"

"That’s dangerous."

He chuckled but pressed on. "I think you should let me take you to dinner."

You froze for a second before glancing up at him, skepticism clear in your eyes. "Take me to dinner?"

"Yeah." His voice was softer now, more serious. "Just you and me. No football, no equipment… just good food and good company."

You tilted your head, studying him. "Why?"

Joe exhaled, running a hand through his curls. He could lie, play it cool, act like this was nothing. But the truth was, it was everything.

"Because I can't stop thinking about you," he admitted, voice low. "And if I don’t at least try to take you out, I’m gonna lose my mind."

Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by his honesty.

For a long moment, you didn’t say anything, and Joe swore he could hear his own heartbeat in the silence. Then, finally, you smirked.

"You’re really down bad, huh?"

Joe let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "You have no idea."

You let that hang between you for a second before grabbing a football and tossing it to him. "Well, keep thinking about it. Right now, you got a job to do, QB1."

Joe caught the ball with ease, but his eyes never left yours.

"Yeah," he murmured, smiling. "I do."

And as he jogged back to practice, he knew one thing for certain—this game he was playing with you?

He had to win.

---

Joe was spiraling.

It had been three days since your little conversation on the practice field, and he was still thinking about it. About you.

The way you had smirked at him like you knew you had him wrapped around your finger. The way your voice had dropped just a little when you called him down bad—like you enjoyed watching him squirm. And worst of all? The way you didn’t give him a straight answer about that damn dinner.

You had him in a chokehold, and you weren’t even trying.

Joe wasn’t used to this. He was Joe Burrow. Starting quarterback. A whole NFL franchise depended on him to be calm under pressure. But when it came to you? He was fumbling every time.

"You look stressed, man," Tee Higgins said, plopping down next to Joe in the locker room after practice.

Joe sighed, running a hand down his face. "I am stressed."

Ja’Marr, who was lacing up his sneakers, snickered. "Lemme guess. It’s about her."

Joe shot him a glare. "Her has a name."

"Yeah, yeah," Ja’Marr waved him off. "But the point is, you still stuck on that dinner thing?"

Joe huffed, leaning back against the locker. "She didn’t say no."

Tee raised a brow. "She didn’t say yes either."

"Exactly!" Joe groaned. "She’s messing with me, man."

Ja’Marr laughed. "Or maybe she’s just making you work for it. You’re used to girls throwing themselves at you, but she’s making you earn her attention. You know, like a real one."

Joe already knew that. It was one of the reasons he liked you so damn much. You weren’t impressed by the usual charm, the usual Joe Burrow Effect. No, you were different. And that made him want you even more.

But how the hell was he supposed to get your attention when you were so damn good at ignoring the fact that he was losing his mind over you?

He needed a plan.

And then it hit him.

---

The next day, you were in the equipment room, sorting jerseys when a familiar voice made you pause.

"Y/N."

You turned to see Joe standing in the doorway, looking entirely too good in his hoodie and joggers, curls slightly damp from his post-practice shower. He had a look in his eyes—intense, determined.

Lord, here we go.

"You stalking me now, QB1?" you teased, turning back to your work.

He stepped closer. "Maybe."

You looked up, surprised at his boldness. "Oh? So now you’re admitting you’re obsessed with me?"

Joe let out a soft chuckle. "I never denied it."

Your breath caught for half a second. He was playing a dangerous game, and the worst part? You kinda liked it.

Joe leaned against the counter, watching you. "You never answered my question."

You sighed, but the smile playing on your lips gave you away. "What question?"

"Dinner." His voice was lower now, laced with something unreadable. "You, me, somewhere nice. No football talk. Just us."

You bit your lip, pretending to consider it. "Hmm. I don’t know. I do like watching you sweat."

Joe stepped closer. "Oh, trust me, I’m sweating."

Your heart flipped. Damn it, why was he so smooth?

He tilted his head, searching your face. "Come on, Y/N. One dinner. Let me prove I’m serious about this."

You held his gaze for a long moment, pretending to be unfazed. But inside? You were unraveling.

Finally, you exhaled dramatically. "Fine."

Joe’s brows lifted. "Fine?"

You smirked. "Yeah. One dinner. No promises after that."

Joe grinned like he just won the lottery. "That’s all I need."

As he walked out, a victorious swagger in his step, you shook your head with a laugh.

Joe Burrow was down bad.

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to like it.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

You were in trouble.

Big, undeniable, what-the-hell-did-I-just-agree-to trouble.

Joe Burrow had been flirting with you for weeks, testing the waters, waiting for you to bite. And up until now, you had been so good at keeping him at arm’s length. He was Joe Burrow—star quarterback, franchise player, a literal golden boy. And you? You were just the equipment girl, someone who spent more time making sure shoulder pads were strapped on correctly than entertaining the advances of NFL players.

But Joe?

Joe was relentless.

And now, because of that damn smirk and those ridiculous blue eyes, you were stuck in a situation you had no business being in.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face as you paced your apartment later that night. Your phone sat on your bed, Joe’s contact pulled up on the screen. He had texted you about dinner—nothing extra, just a simple, Pick you up at 7?

Like this was normal.

Like you weren’t freaking out.

You hadn’t even said yes to dating him. Just one dinner. But the way your stomach had flipped when you saw his name pop up on your phone? Yeah, you were in deep.

You weren’t about to make this easy for him, though.

So, after taking a few deep breaths, you finally texted back:

"Fine. But if this food is trash, I’m never letting you live it down."

Joe’s response came almost instantly.

"Noted. I’ll pick a spot worthy of impressing you."

You stared at your screen, shaking your head with a smile. Damn him.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Joe was losing his mind.

The second your text came through, he nearly fist-pumped right there in his living room. She said yes. She actually said yes.

It wasn’t a confession, it wasn’t a relationship, but it was a win. And when it came to you? Joe would take any win he could get.

"You’re smiling at your phone like a high schooler," Sam Hubbard teased from across the room.

Joe rolled his eyes, tossing his phone on the couch. "Shut up."

"Man, you got it bad," Sam laughed. "Who knew Joe Cool was capable of being this whipped?"

Joe ignored him. He didn’t care. If being whipped meant getting a chance with you, then fine. He’d take it. Because truthfully?

You were worth every bit of this madness.

---

The next evening, Joe stood outside your apartment, hands shoved into his pockets as he waited.

And then you stepped out.

And damn.

You weren’t even overly dressed—just a simple, fitted dress that showed off just enough, curls framing your face effortlessly. But to Joe? You might as well have been a damn supermodel.

He blinked, momentarily speechless. "Wow."

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. "What?"

"You look…" He exhaled, shaking his head. "So fine."

Your smirk deepened. "You are down bad."

Joe grinned. "And I’m not even ashamed."

As you slid into the passenger seat of his car, Joe couldn’t help but think—yeah, he might be in trouble.

But for you?

He’d risk it all.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

You had to admit—Joe Burrow had taste.

The restaurant he picked wasn’t one of those over-the-top, flashy spots where people went just to be seen. No, it was intimate, warm lighting casting a soft glow over the tables, a quiet hum of conversation filling the air. It was the kind of place where the food actually mattered—not just the aesthetics.

Damn it. He was already impressing you.

Joe pulled out your chair for you, something so simple yet so unexpected that you blinked at him for a moment before sitting down. He didn’t say anything about it, just gave you that small, satisfied smile before taking his own seat.

"You’re really pulling out all the stops, huh?" you teased, picking up the menu.

Joe leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. "I told you, I’m serious about this."

You met his gaze, expecting cockiness, but all you saw was honesty. And that? That was dangerous.

"Guess we’ll see," you murmured, scanning the menu to avoid the intensity of his stare.

Dinner was… nice.

Too nice.

Joe was easy to talk to, and despite your best efforts, you found yourself relaxing around him. He asked about you—not just the generic, surface-level stuff, but real questions. How you got into working for the Bengals, what you wanted to do next, what kind of music you liked.

"I figured you had good taste, but you really listen to Mint Condition?" Joe asked, grinning as he took a sip of his drink.

You raised a brow. "Why do you sound shocked?"

"I don’t know, I just…" He shook his head, smirking. "It’s just so fine."

You groaned, throwing your napkin at him. "No. Absolutely not."

Joe laughed, catching the napkin midair. "What? I had to say it at least once!"

"You are so corny," you muttered, but you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

Joe leaned in, his voice dropping just slightly. "Yeah? But you like it."

And there it was again—that thing he did. The way he looked at you like he already knew how you felt, like he could read every single thought running through your head.

It should’ve been illegal to be this smooth.

You picked up your drink, taking a slow sip just to give yourself a second to think. "Mmm. Jury’s still out."

Joe just chuckled, sitting back. "Take your time. I’m patient."

That was the problem.

You weren’t sure you were.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Joe had been on a lot of dates before. Some good, some forgettable. But this?

This was something else.

He couldn’t remember the last time he cared this much about what someone thought of him. He was used to women being into him because of who he was. The quarterback. The fame. The whole Joe Cool persona. But you? You didn’t give a damn about any of that.

And that’s why he had to have you.

As you walked out of the restaurant together, the night air cool against his skin, Joe hesitated for the first time all evening. He didn’t want this to end.

"Let me take you home," he said softly.

You gave him a look. "Is that your smooth way of inviting yourself up?"

Joe smirked. "Nah. I just wanna make sure you get home safe."

You stared at him for a second, like you were trying to figure him out. Then, finally, you nodded. "Alright, Burrow. Take me home."

The drive was quiet, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable. Joe stole glances at you every chance he got, watching the way your fingers tapped lightly against your thigh to the music playing low through the speakers.

When he finally pulled up to your place, he put the car in park and turned to you. "So… did I pass?"

You raised a brow. "Pass what?"

Joe grinned. "The test. The ‘is this food trash’ test."

You sighed dramatically. "I guess you passed."

"Good." He tilted his head. "What about the other test?"

You folded your arms. "And what test is that?"

Joe’s voice was low, teasing. "The ‘do I get another date’ test."

You let the question linger, your lips curling slightly at the edges. "Hmm. I’ll have to get back to you on that one."

Joe laughed, shaking his head. "You love making me work for this, huh?"

You shrugged. "Gotta keep you on your toes, QB1."

Joe exhaled, gripping the steering wheel. "You really got me bad, Y/N."

You stared at him for a moment, and for the first time, Joe swore he saw something shift in your expression. Something soft. Something dangerous.

But then, you opened the car door, stepping out. "Goodnight, Joe."

He watched you walk up to your building, waited until you disappeared inside before running a hand through his curls with a groan.

Yeah.

He was absolutely gone.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

You were in so much trouble.

It had been two days since that damn dinner with Joe, and yet, you were still thinking about him. About the way he had looked at you across the table, completely focused, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. About the way his voice dropped an octave when he got serious, his words sinking into your skin and settling deep in your stomach.

About the way you could feel the heat of his gaze even after you got out of his car.

Damn him.

You tried to shake it off, focus on work, anything to get him out of your head. But that was impossible when Joe Burrow was everywhere. At practice. In the locker room. Hell, even in your damn text messages.

Because, of course, he didn’t let up.

Joe: So, have you decided yet?

You rolled your eyes at the text, but a smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t even have to ask what he was talking about.

You: Decided what?

Joe: Don’t play with me, Y/N. The second date. You’ve had 48 hours. I know you’ve been thinking about me.

You: Bold of you to assume.

Joe: I’m right though, aren’t I?

Damn it.

You didn’t reply. Not because he was wrong. But because you refused to give him the satisfaction of being right.

For now.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Joe was losing patience.

He wasn’t used to chasing anyone. Not because he was cocky, but because usually, things just… happened. Natural. Easy.

But with you? You were making him work for it. And as much as it drove him crazy, he liked it.

Scratch that. He loved it.

It made everything about this—about you—even more real. Because you weren’t after his name, his money, or his status. You weren’t even sure if you wanted him at all.

And that? That was why he needed you.

Desperately.

"Man, you checking your phone again?" Ja’Marr’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

Joe locked his screen and shoved the phone into his pocket. "Mind your business."

Ja’Marr smirked. "She got you in a chokehold, huh?"

Joe sighed, running a hand through his curls. "Bad."

His teammate laughed, clapping him on the back. "Yeah, you’re done for."

Joe didn’t even argue. Because it was true.

Now, he just had to figure out how to make you admit it, too.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

You should’ve known he wouldn’t leave you alone.

After practice that day, you were in the equipment room, organizing cleats when you felt someone behind you. Before you even turned around, you knew who it was.

Joe.

You sighed, not looking up. "Don’t you have somewhere to be, QB1?"

Joe leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. "I do. But I’d rather be here."

You refused to let that get to you. "Well, unless you suddenly forgot how to tie your cleats, you don’t need me."

Joe smirked. "No, but I do need an answer."

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze. "An answer to what?"

Joe sighed dramatically. "Y/N. Don’t play with me."

You bit your lip, pretending to think. "I don’t know, Joe. Maybe I like watching you suffer."

Joe chuckled, shaking his head. Then, before you could react, he took a step closer. Too close. Close enough that you had to tilt your head to look at him. Close enough that the air felt thick between you.

"You are enjoying this," he murmured, voice lower, rougher.

You swallowed, refusing to back down. "Maybe."

Joe let out a slow exhale, his eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing every inch of it. "Damn, Y/N." His voice was almost pained. "You have no idea what you do to me."

Your breath caught.

Because this? This wasn’t just flirting anymore. This was real.

You forced yourself to keep your voice steady. "Oh, I think I do."

Joe exhaled sharply, like you had physically knocked the wind out of him. He shook his head, laughing softly, but there was nothing funny about the way he looked at you.

"You’re gonna drive me crazy, aren’t you?" he muttered.

You smirked. "Looks like I already have."

Joe clenched his jaw, hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you. And for a second—just a second—you thought he might.

But instead, he stepped back. Barely.

"You’re gonna say yes eventually," he said, voice sure.

You tilted your head. "What makes you so confident?"

Joe grinned, dimples on full display. "Because I know you want to."

You didn’t reply. Because, once again—he was right.

And you hated that.

As Joe walked out, leaving you standing there, heart racing, you realized something.

You might’ve thought he was the one in trouble.

But really?

It was you.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Joe was losing his mind.

It had been days since your little moment in the equipment room, and you still hadn’t given him a real answer about the second date. He had tried to be patient, to let you play your little game, but at this point? He was suffering.

The worst part?

You knew it.

And you were enjoying every second of watching him lose control.

Now, at practice, Joe was struggling. He wasn’t missing throws or anything—he was still Joe Burrow, after all—but he wasn’t locked in the way he usually was. Because every time he looked up, his eyes found you.

And you were torturing him.

It wasn’t even anything big. Just little things. The way you’d walk past him without acknowledging him, a tiny smirk playing at your lips like you knew exactly what you were doing. The way you’d bend down to pick up a helmet, moving just slow enough that it made his brain short-circuit. The way you’d casually talk to everyone else—laughing, joking—while completely ignoring him.

Oh, he was done.

"Yo, Burrow, focus!" Ja’Marr shouted after Joe overthrew a pass—something he never did.

Joe cursed under his breath, shaking his head.

"Man, what is wrong with you today?" Tee asked, jogging up to him.

Joe exhaled sharply, glancing toward where you stood on the sidelines, chatting with one of the other staff members like you didn’t have a care in the world.

Like you weren’t currently driving him insane.

"Her," Joe muttered, jaw clenched. "It’s her."

Ja’Marr followed his gaze, then laughed. "Damn. She’s really got you, huh?"

Joe ran a hand down his face. "Bro, I’m suffering. I can’t take this shit anymore."

Tee chuckled. "Just be patient, man. She’s testing you."

Joe huffed. "I know she is. But why? Why can’t she just be mine already so I can worship the ground she walks on in peace?"

Ja’Marr died laughing. "Oh, nah. Not worship."

Joe gave him a dead serious look. "I mean that shit. I’d do anything for her. And she knows it."

Tee shook his head with a grin. "Yeah, bro. You’re done for."

Joe groaned, adjusting his helmet. He was so close to snapping.

And you? You were thriving off of it.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

You had Joe Burrow wrapped around your finger.

And you were having the time of your life.

You weren’t cruel—you weren’t trying to hurt him or anything. But watching Joe, Mr. Cool Under Pressure, absolutely lose his mind over you? Oh, it was too good.

And the best part? He wasn’t even hiding it anymore.

You caught the way he watched you like you were the only thing on the field that mattered. The way his jaw tensed every time you laughed at something that wasn’t him. The way he physically exhaled in relief whenever you so much as acknowledged his existence.

It was delicious.

So, naturally, you kept it up.

During a water break, you strolled past him, completely ignoring him like you had been all practice. But this time, right as you passed, you murmured, "Looking a little tense there, QB1."

And then you kept walking.

You didn’t have to turn around to know what effect it had.

You felt his eyes burning into you.

Oh, this was too much fun.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Joe was going to explode.

You had one sentence. One little sentence. And now he was done.

Practice? Over. His sanity? Gone.

This was it.

The second he got the chance, he was fixing this.

Because you were his.

You just didn’t know it yet.

---

Enough was enough.

Joe had spent weeks playing your game. Watching you tease him. Watching you enjoy watching him suffer. And at first? Yeah, he liked it. Loved it, even. The chase, the tension, the way you made him feel like no other woman ever had.

But at this point?

He was desperate.

He needed you. Had to have you. And if you weren’t going to give him an answer?

Then he was going to take one.

The second practice ended, he was on the hunt. While his teammates made their way toward the locker room, Joe jogged straight toward the equipment room—where he knew you’d be.

And sure enough, there you were, casually sorting gear like you hadn’t spent the entire day ruining his life.

You barely glanced up when he walked in. "Need something, Burrow?"

Oh, that was cute.

Joe shut the door behind him, locking it without a second thought.

That got your attention. You arched a brow, amused. "Oh? So we’re locking doors now?"

Joe didn’t respond. He just moved.

Before you could react, he was right in front of you, crowding your space, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

And for once?

You looked surprised.

Good.

"You think this is funny, don’t you?" Joe’s voice was low, rough. "Watching me lose my mind over you?"

Your lips curled slightly, but there was a flicker of something in your eyes—something unsure. "A little."

Joe exhaled sharply, his hands flexing at his sides like he was physically restraining himself. "Y/N, I’m done waiting."

You blinked. "Oh?"

"Yeah." Joe tilted his head, eyes locked onto yours like you were his only lifeline. "I’ve been patient. I’ve let you play your little game. But now? You’re gonna give me an answer."

Your breath hitched.

Joe saw it.

Felt it.

He took another step closer, so close now that if he wanted to, he could tilt his head just slightly and—

No. Not yet.

"Tell me you don’t want this," Joe murmured. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel this the way I do. And I’ll walk away."

Silence.

You didn’t say a word.

Didn’t push him away.

Didn’t do anything except stare up at him, lips parted, eyes flickering with a storm of emotions.

And Joe? He knew.

He knew he had you.

His lips barely ghosted over your ear as he whispered, "That’s what I thought."

Then, just like that, he pulled back.

And smirked.

"See you at dinner," he said casually before unlocking the door and walking out like you hadn’t just shattered in front of him.

Yeah.

Game over.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

You were done for.

Like, actually, completely finished.

You stood in the equipment room, still gripping the jersey you had been folding before he walked in and single handedly wrecked your entire system.

Your brain was short-circuiting. Your body was betraying you. Your heart was racing.

And Joe? That smug, infuriating, fine as hell quarterback had the audacity to walk out like he hadn’t just flipped your entire world upside down.

You exhaled sharply, dropping the jersey onto the counter before bracing yourself against it.

What the hell just happened?

You had been teasing him all week—hell, all month—enjoying the way he looked at you like he was one second away from losing control. You thought you had the upper hand. That you were the one calling the shots.

But now?

Now, it felt like he was the one playing with you.

The way he had walked in here, eyes dark, voice rough like he was holding something back… whew.

And then he had the nerve to get in your space, to practically dare you to deny that you wanted him? That you had been craving this just as much as he had?

Yeah. You were shaking.

Your fingers curled into your palms as you swallowed hard, trying to get a grip.

The worst part?

Joe knew what he was doing.

He saw the way you reacted. The way you had just stood there, completely speechless for the first time since you met him. And instead of pushing his advantage? Instead of really pressing you for an answer?

He had pulled back.

Smirked.

And walked away like he hadn’t just left you hot and bothered in the middle of your damn job.

"That’s what I thought."

His voice echoed in your head, making you shiver all over again.

Oh, he was good.

And now you had to face him at dinner.

Alone.

Your stomach flipped at the thought.

You were in so much trouble.

---

You were not nervous.

Nope. Not at all.

You weren’t pacing around your apartment, staring at your closet like it had personally offended you. You weren’t overthinking every possible outfit, wondering if it sent the wrong message.

This wasn’t even a date.

…Right?

You groaned, flopping onto your bed. This was his fault. Joe Burrow’s fault. If he hadn’t waltzed into that equipment room acting like he owned you, whispering in your ear like some kind of smooth-talking devil, you wouldn’t be in this mess.

Because now? Now you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

His voice. His eyes. The way he had leaned into you without touching you, and somehow, that had been worse than if he had.

It was annoying.

And even worse? He knew what he was doing.

Cocky bastard.

Your phone buzzed, and you already knew who it was before you even checked.

Joe: I’ll be there in 10.

Your stomach flipped.

You sat up so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. Ten minutes.

Cursing under your breath, you bolted toward your closet, grabbing the first outfit that made you feel like you weren’t trying too hard but also didn’t scream I’m unbothered, because let’s be real—you were very much bothered.

By the time you were dressed, your phone buzzed again.

Joe: I’m outside.

Oh, Lord.

You took one last deep breath before stepping outside.

And there he was.

Leaning against his car, arms crossed, looking so damn good in a fitted black tee and jeans that should not have been allowed to fit that well. His curls were slightly damp—probably from a post-practice shower—and his ocean eyes locked onto you immediately.

And of course he smirked.

Like he knew.

Like he knew you had been thinking about him nonstop since your last encounter.

You refused to let him win that easily.

So you kept your expression neutral, tilting your head. "You clean up nice."

Joe let out a soft chuckle, pushing off the car to open the passenger door for you. "You always look good."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the heat creeping up your neck as you slid into the car.

The second he shut the door and got in on his side, you felt it.

The energy.

The air was thick, charged, like something was just waiting to snap.

Joe didn’t start the car right away. Instead, he rested one arm on the steering wheel and turned to you, his eyes dragging over your face like he was committing every detail to memory.

"You nervous?" His voice was too smooth, too damn confident.

You scoffed. "Please. What would I be nervous about?"

Joe’s smirk deepened. "Good. Because I don’t want you running when you realize how bad I want you."

Your breath hitched.

Joe saw it.

And for the second time that week, you had nothing to say.

Joe chuckled, low and deep, before finally starting the car. "Let’s go, sweetheart."

You turned to the window, biting your lip to hide the fact that you were so not prepared for whatever the hell this night was about to be.

Because if Joe Burrow wanted you this bad?

You weren’t sure how much longer you could resist.

---

You were in trouble.

Not the kind of trouble where you could talk your way out of it, either. No, this was real, heart-racing, stomach-flipping, toe-curling trouble.

And it was sitting right next to you, gripping the steering wheel with one hand like it was the only thing keeping him from reaching for you.

The drive was quiet—but not awkward. No, it was worse than that. It was charged. Every second stretched out, thick with something unspoken.

Joe had already made his intentions painfully clear.

Now, the ball was in your court.

But what scared you wasn’t making a choice. It was the fact that you already had.

You were done pretending that the tension between you wasn’t real. That every look he gave you, every touch he barely allowed himself to make, wasn’t unraveling you from the inside out.

And Joe? He knew.

He knew you were running out of excuses.

Which was why he wasn’t pushing.

Not yet.

"You're quiet," he finally said, voice smooth, careful.

You huffed, forcing yourself to look at him. "And you’re smug."

Joe glanced at you, smirk barely visible in the low light of the car. "I can’t help it. I like knowing I’ve been on your mind."

You scoffed. "And what makes you think you have been?"

Joe hummed, tilting his head slightly, fingers flexing over the wheel. "Because if I hadn't been, you wouldn’t have spent the last ten minutes avoiding looking at me."

Damn him.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you turned toward the window. "You’re exhausting."

Joe let out a low, knowing chuckle. "And yet, you’re here."

Your heart stumbled.

Because… yeah. You were.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

He had you.

He knew he had you.

And not in some cocky, I always get what I want way. No—this was different. This wasn’t just some game to win.

This was you.

The woman who had been living in his head since the moment he met you. The woman who had him gripping his phone, waiting for your name to pop up. The woman who had turned him into a man who actually gave a damn about something other than football.

And you were here.

With him.

That was all he needed.

For now.

"You’re thinking too hard," you muttered, eyeing him as he pulled into the restaurant parking lot.

Joe chuckled, shaking his head. "And you’re acting like you’re not thinking about me at all."

Your lips twitched. "Maybe I’m not."

Joe turned the car off, then slowly—slowly—leaned over, resting his arm on the back of your seat.

His voice dropped, low and intimate. "Lying’s a sin, sweetheart."

Your breath hitched.

Joe felt it.

Saw the way your fingers clenched against your thigh.

And it took everything in him not to reach for you.

Not yet.

Instead, he just smirked and pulled back, getting out of the car like he hadn’t just left you gripping onto your last bit of self-control.

Yeah.

You were so close to giving in.

And Joe?

He was ready for it.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

You needed a moment.

Just one, tiny second to gather yourself after Joe Burrow had the audacity to lean in like that, murmur in that damn voice, and then just—just walk away.

Like he hadn’t just turned your brain into a useless pile of mush and your panties into the damn Pacific Ocean.

Like he hadn’t left you gripping your thigh because you needed to physically stop yourself from doing something stupid—like grabbing him by the collar and testing just how much he really wanted you.

You let out a slow breath, pressing your palms against your thighs before finally stepping out of the car.

Joe was already waiting for you, leaning against the hood with his hands in his pockets, watching you like he knew.

Which, of course, he did.

Smug bastard.

"You good?" he asked, voice light but laced with something deeper.

You narrowed your eyes. "Perfect."

Joe’s lips twitched like he wanted to laugh.

Oh, he was enjoying this too much.

You straightened your shoulders, brushing past him toward the entrance. You refused to let him see how badly he was affecting you.

The problem?

Joe was Joe.

And he had zero intention of letting you pretend.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

He was winning.

Not in a cocky, arrogant way—no, this was something else.

Because you liked this.

You liked the push and pull. The teasing. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And that?

That made him want you even more.

But what really got him?

What really fucked him up?

The fact that you weren’t just some prize to be won. You weren’t playing hard to get just to make him chase you. No—you were trying to protect yourself.

Because deep down?

You knew.

Knew that once you gave in, once you let him in—there was no coming back.

For either of you.

Joe clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply before following you inside.

Time to turn it up a notch.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Dinner was dangerous.

Not because Joe was being obvious—no, that would’ve been easy to deal with.

Instead, he was being subtle.

And that? That was so much worse.

It was the way his voice dropped just slightly when he spoke to you. The way he leaned in when you talked, giving you his full attention like nothing else in the world mattered.

It was the way his fingers brushed against yours when he passed you the menu, the way his knee barely pressed against yours under the table—and stayed there.

You were losing it.

And the worst part?

You were letting him.

"Y/N."

Joe’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

You blinked, realizing you had been staring at your untouched drink.

Joe tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You good over there?"

You cleared your throat, straightening in your seat. "Fine."

Joe grinned.

Slow. Knowing.

And then he leaned in, elbows resting on the table, voice dropping to something dangerous.

"You keep saying that," he murmured. "But I don’t think you are."

Your stomach flipped.

You swallowed hard, refusing to look away. "And why’s that?"

Joe’s eyes darkened.

"Because," he said, voice smooth, confident, "if you were really fine, you wouldn’t be gripping your napkin like it’s the only thing keeping you from grabbing me."

Your breath caught.

Joe smirked.

And just like that?

You knew.

Tonight wasn’t about whether you’d give in.

It was about how much longer you could pretend you hadn’t already.

—

Okay, no.

You were not about to lose control.

Not here, not now. You were better than this.

You had spent weeks enjoying the chase—the game—the thrill of watching Joe Burrow squirm. The smug look on his face when he thought he had you cornered… that was what you lived for.

But now?

Now he was testing your limits.

His words had gotten under your skin, but you could see the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. He thought he had you all figured out. Thought he knew how far you could be pushed before you’d crack.

Well, he was about to find out how wrong he was.

You took a slow breath, meeting his gaze across the table. His eyes were dark with something dangerous, something that promised a night you weren’t sure you were prepared for.

But you weren’t going to make it easy on him.

You straightened in your seat, narrowing your eyes just slightly, and let your lips curl into a smile that wasn’t nearly as innocent as it seemed.

"Really?" you asked, voice low, almost too casual. "Gripping my napkin? You’ve been watching me that closely?"

Joe’s smirk faltered for half a second, and you caught it. Oh, you caught it.

His confidence was slipping.

You could see it in the way he leaned back just a little, trying to recover, but you weren’t done yet.

"No need to get shy, Joe," you teased, leaning forward just enough for your neckline to catch his attention. "I mean, if I were you, I’d be enthralled, too. Can’t blame a guy for staring."

Joe’s throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze flicking to your lips before meeting your eyes again, though his expression was strained now. He was fighting it—fighting you.

And it was so much fun.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Y/N," Joe finally said, voice thick, though there was a trace of uncertainty that wasn’t there before. "You sure you want to keep doing this?"

You leaned back, adopting a casual posture, making sure you weren’t leaning in too far. No, you were letting him come to you this time.

"You’re the one who keeps pushing," you said with a playful edge to your voice, eyes never leaving his. "I didn’t start this."

Joe’s lips twitched into a grin that was just a little too confident for his own good. "You know what they say," he said, voice dripping with teasing amusement, "You can’t start a fire without getting burned."

Oh, so now he was going for the full flirtation.

Well, two could play at this game.

You met his gaze with a tilt of your head. "Maybe I like fire," you said slowly, the words carrying a deeper meaning. "But I’m not the one getting burned here."

You saw it then—the brief flicker of his pupils dilating, the slight shift in his posture as if he was leaning in without even realizing it.

And that? That was the moment you knew you were winning.

Joe Burrow—Joe Burrow—was sweating.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Joe was done for.

He thought he had this all figured out. Thought he could walk in here, say a few smooth lines, and watch you crumble under the weight of his attention. He had spent the last few weeks imagining this moment, planning on how he was going to pull you in, how he’d sweep you off your feet.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for how good you were at this.

You weren’t shy, you weren’t tentative. You were dangerous.

And the worst part?

You knew it.

He had leaned in, fully expecting you to crack under his teasing. He’d been so sure you’d back down. But instead, you had turned it around on him—effortlessly.

Your smile, that look in your eyes… God, it was like you were toying with him, and for the first time in his life, Joe Burrow had absolutely no idea what to do.

When you leaned forward just enough for him to catch the curve of your neckline, his mind completely short-circuited. His thoughts scattered, his pulse quickened, and all he could think was more.

More of you.

But no.

He wasn’t done yet.

"You're good, Y/N," he said, trying to regain his composure, voice thick but still playful. "Real good."

You smirked, clearly pleased with yourself. "Good is an understatement," you quipped. "But I guess you’ll find out just how good I can be, huh?"

Joe couldn’t help the low chuckle that escaped him. "Oh, I’m already finding out, trust me."

But even as he said it, a little voice in his head reminded him that you were still in control.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t mind one bit.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Joe Burrow was unraveling.

And God, was it fun to watch.

He had walked into this evening so sure of himself—so cocky, so convinced that you were the one barely holding it together. He thought he could get in your space, whisper in your ear, watch you melt for him.

But now?

Now, he was the one gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His posture was still relaxed, sure—but his eyes? His jaw? The slight way his knee had started bouncing under the table?

Yeah.

You had him.

"So," you said lightly, taking a slow sip of your drink, "should I be flattered or concerned that you’ve been studying my every move?"

Joe exhaled through his nose, lips twitching like he was fighting a smirk. "You should be flattered. But at this point, I think I’m the one who should be concerned."

You arched a brow. "Oh? Why’s that?"

Joe tilted his head slightly, hazel eyes locking onto yours in that way that always made your stomach do something stupid. "Because," he said smoothly, "I’m starting to think you enjoy watching me lose my mind over you."

You set your drink down with an innocent smile. "Starting to think? Joe, I thought we established that weeks ago."

Joe huffed a laugh, dragging a hand down his face like he was physically restraining himself. "Christ, Y/N."

You bit back a laugh. "What?"

Joe shook his head, leaning in again—closer, but not enough. Never enough. "I don’t think you get it."

Your breath hitched, but you refused to back down. "Then explain it to me."

Joe’s jaw flexed. His fingers curled against the table, like he was debating something—like he was at war with himself.

And then, finally, he let out a breath and muttered something so low you almost missed it.

"I want you."

The words shot through you like electricity.

Not in some casual, flirty, let’s-see-where-this-goes kind of way.

No.

Joe Burrow had just laid it all out on the table.

No games. No teasing.

Just truth.

And for the first time that night?

You had nothing to say.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

There.

He said it.

No more games. No more back-and-forth.

Just the truth.

And now? Now he was watching you, waiting—because this was it.

This was where you either pulled away or fell right into him.

You blinked once. Then twice.

And then, the slowest, most dangerous smile spread across your lips.

And Joe swore he stopped breathing.

"Took you long enough," you murmured.

Joe’s pulse spiked.

His fingers curled into fists against the table as he exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to keep himself in check.

Because you had no idea what you had just done.

None.

His patience? His self-control?

It was hanging by a thread.

"Y/N," he said, voice tight, "don’t push me right now."

But you just smirked.

"Oh?" you said, tilting your head. "And what happens if I do?"

Joe clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

Because fuck.

You were testing him.

And if he wasn’t careful?

You were going to win.

---

He couldn’t sit here any longer.

Not with you looking at him like that—eyes gleaming with mischief, lips curved in that little smirk that knew exactly what it was doing to him.

But when you had looked at him across the table, all playful and smug, that damn smirk on your lips—he snapped.

Not in a reckless way.

No.

Joe Burrow was calculated.

Always.

So, without a word, he stood up.

You blinked up at him, brows furrowing slightly. "Joe?"

But he didn’t answer.

Didn’t give you time to process before he was rounding the table, slipping his hand into yours, and gently—but firmly—pulling you up to stand.

His fingers curled around yours, warm and steady.

And when you didn’t resist?

When you let him lead you?

Yeah.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

"Come on," he murmured, his voice low, thick with something you felt in your bones.

You barely had time to register that he had already paid before he was leading you through the restaurant, fingers wrapped securely around yours.

Heads turned as you passed, but Joe didn’t notice. Didn’t care.

His entire focus was on you.

And the second you stepped outside, the cool night air brushing against your skin—

Your back hit the car.

Gently.

Not harsh, not rushed. Just decisive.

Because finally—finally—he had you exactly where he wanted.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Okay.

What just happened?

One minute, you were testing Joe, enjoying every second of watching him try to keep his composure.

And now?

Now, his hand was in yours, his grip strong and unwavering as he led you—no, practically dragged you—out of the restaurant.

"Joe—"

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down.

And when you stepped outside, the night air cool against your skin, he turned so quickly that you barely had time to react before—

Your back hit the car.

Gently. Not rough, not rushed—just firm.

Like he needed you here.

Like he couldn’t wait another second.

Your breath hitched, hands instinctively finding the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric like you needed something to ground you.

Not because Joe had pushed you against the car—no, that wasn’t what had your pulse racing.

It was him.

Joe pressed his palms against the car on either side of you, caging you in.

And when he finally met your gaze—

You felt it.

The weight of everything unsaid.

The way he was looking at you.

Like he had spent every second of this night holding himself back.

Like he wasn’t going to anymore.

The tension that had been simmering for weeks, threatening to spill over.

You swallowed hard. "Joe—"

"Enough."

The word was low. Rough.

A command. A plea.

Your hands were still curled into the front of his shirt, fingers twitching slightly, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he liked it.

Your stomach flipped.

Because this?

This was different.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

And neither were you.

Joe exhaled slowly, ocean eyes flickering down to your lips before snapping back up.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured. "If you want me to, just say it."

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because you didn’t want him to.

Instead, you tilted your chin up slightly, your own silent challenge.

And that was all it took.

Joe moved.

His lips crashed onto yours, firm, certain—like he had been dying to do it.

And maybe he had.

His hands found your waist, fingers pressing into your sides, like he needed to feel you, to ground himself.

And you let him.

Because God, this was Joe.

And you were done pretending.

When he finally pulled back—just enough for his breath to mix with yours, for his forehead to brush against yours—he let out a rough, almost breathless chuckle.

"You drive me insane," he muttered.

You smirked, voice slightly dazed. "Good."

Joe huffed a laugh, pressing a slow, lingering kiss just beneath your jaw, like he wasn’t quite ready to pull away.

"You’re mine," he murmured against your skin.

And you didn’t argue.

---

You’re mine.

Two little words, murmured against your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

And the worst part?

You liked it.

Far too much.

Joe was still close, still hovering over you, his hands firm at your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. Like he needed just a few more seconds of feeling you pressed against him before he could think straight again.

You weren’t sure you could think straight either.

You swallowed hard, inhaling slowly, trying—failing—to steady yourself. "Bold statement, Burrow."

Joe just smirked, his breath still warm against your skin. "Bold? Nah. Just facts."

Your stomach flipped.

You should’ve said something back, something clever, something to knock him off balance like you’d been doing all night—

But your brain?

Completely blank.

Because Joe wasn’t playing anymore.

He had spent weeks letting you tease, letting you test him, letting you hold the power in your little back-and-forth game.

But now?

Now, he had you exactly where he wanted.

And he knew it.

You let out a shaky breath. "And what makes you so sure I belong to you?"

Joe pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his hazel eyes dark with something unreadable. "Because," he said smoothly, confidently, "you haven’t pushed me away yet."

Damn him.

Damn him for being right.

You hated the fact that he had you speechless. That he had flipped the script so effortlessly, leaving you the one struggling to keep your cool.

But you weren’t going down without a fight.

Not yet.

So, with as much composure as you could possibly muster, you tilted your head, running your fingers down the front of his shirt. "Hmm," you mused, voice teasing despite the way your heart was pounding. "I don’t know… feels like you're the one who can’t let go."

Joe’s grip on your waist tightened—just for a second—before he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You’re impossible."

You grinned. "And you love it."

Joe exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes. "Yeah, I do."

Your breath caught.

Because he had said it so easily.

No hesitation. No games.

Just truth.

And for the first time tonight, you didn’t have a comeback.

Didn’t have a single damn word.

Joe smirked at your silence, leaning in just enough to brush his lips against your temple—soft, lingering. "Come on," he murmured against your skin. "Let’s get out of here before I do something reckless."

You swallowed, pulse still wild, but somehow, somehow, you managed to smirk back. "Like what?"

Joe pulled back just enough to look at you, his hazel eyes filled with something deep, something dangerous.

"Like proving that you already belong to me."

Oh.

Oh, you were in trouble.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

You were gonna be the death of him.

Joe had spent weeks chasing you, letting you tease, letting you think you had the upper hand. He let you play your little game, let you watch him squirm, let you test just how much he could take.

But now?

Now, he had you cornered.

And God, was it satisfying.

The way you had no response to his words, the way you were staring up at him, lips slightly parted, that confident little smirk finally wiped clean off your face—yeah.

He had won.

You knew it, too.

But you were still fighting.

Still trying to hold onto whatever was left of your control, even as your fingers curled just slightly in the fabric of his shirt.

Joe smirked. "What? No comeback?"

Your eyes narrowed slightly, like you wanted to say something, like you were searching for something smart to throw back at him.

But nothing came.

Joe loved that.

"That’s what I thought," he murmured, letting his thumb trace slow, lazy circles against your waist.

You shivered.

Barely.

But he felt it.

Joe exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "Still wanna pretend you don’t feel this?"

You inhaled sharply, jaw tightening. "I never said I didn’t feel anything."

Joe arched a brow. "Oh?"

You swallowed, but that playful fire in your eyes was back, that spark of defiance that drove him absolutely insane. "I just said I like watching you lose your mind over me."

Joe huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

You grinned, clearly pleased with yourself. "I try."

Joe should’ve pulled away.

Should’ve stepped back, given you space, let this moment simmer between you instead of pressing his advantage.

But he couldn’t.

Not when you were standing there, smiling at him like that, all smug and teasing and absolutely infuriating.

So, instead, he leaned in, voice low, thick. "Careful, Y/N. Because if you keep pushing me…"

Your breath hitched, eyes flickering to his lips. "Then what?"

Joe smirked. "Then I’ll remind you exactly why I’ve been so patient."

Your expression flickered—just for a second. Just long enough for Joe to see it.

And that?

That was everything.

"Come on," he muttered, finally—finally—forcing himself to take a step back. "Let’s go before I lose every ounce of self-control I have left."

You exhaled slowly, eyes still locked onto his, and then—finally—you nodded.

Joe let his hand slide down your arm, fingers brushing against yours before he laced them together, gripping your hand like he wasn’t letting go.

And he wasn’t.

Not now.

Not ever.

—

The whole drive to your place was quiet—too quiet.

Joe could still feel the weight of everything that had happened tonight, lingering thick in the air between you two. The teasing, the tension, the way you had finally, finally let your guard slip just enough for him to see that he wasn’t the only one feeling this.

And now?

Now you were sitting in his passenger seat, scrolling on your phone like you weren’t completely aware of the way his hand was still resting on your thigh.

Joe smirked to himself. You weren’t fooling anyone.

When he finally pulled up in front of your place, he threw the car in park but didn’t move.

Neither did you.

Seconds passed.

The air between you still crackling, still charged with something neither of you wanted to be the first to say out loud.

Joe tilted his head slightly. "You gonna invite me in?"

You huffed a laugh, side-eyeing him. "Cocky."

"Just hopeful," Joe corrected smoothly, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze. "But if you need me to beg…"

Your breath hitched—just barely—but Joe heard it.

You turned your head, finally looking at him head-on, eyes searching his face like you were trying to figure out if he was serious.

(He was.)

Then, after a long pause, you hummed. "Nah."

Joe arched a brow. "No?"

You grinned. "I think I like making you wait."

Joe groaned, throwing his head back against the headrest. "You are killing me."

You laughed, and damn, that sound alone made every second of waiting worth it.

He turned back toward you, gaze locked onto yours. "One day, you’re gonna slip up," he murmured. "And when you do, Y/N…" He leaned in just slightly, voice dropping. "I’m not letting you go."

Your grin faltered—just a little.

Just enough for Joe to see that you felt it too.

But instead of answering, you reached up and tugged his hoodie strings, pulling him in just enough for your lips to brush the corner of his mouth—soft, barely there.

Joe froze.

And then—

"Goodnight, Burrow," you whispered against his skin.

And just like that, you were slipping out of the car, leaving Joe sitting there, stunned, gripping the steering wheel like he was barely holding himself together.

His head fell back against the seat. "Jesus Christ."

He was so, so screwed.

JB9 Taglist: -

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naffeclipse · 4 months ago

Text

Tusks

Reader x Yeti!Sun & Moon

Commission Info

The lovely @divinit3a requested their Frostbite AU with their cryptid Arctic boys, which was an absolute delight! There's snow, there's local legends, and there's the fellas themselves! I had such a great time writing them, and I'm so glad for the chance to write Sun being so extra monstrous and Moon as soft and sweet. Enjoy!

Content Warnings: Animal death, blood, gore, and fear.

———

The evening light slants golden over the frozen tundra, the sky softening to a popsicle pink hue. Trees and jagged mountain outcroppings alike cast shadows which turn the snow blue and the rocks and bark of willows dark and thick. You cheerfully continue deeper along the expansive land, hiking in snug boots and thick layers of clothing that loudly rub in a high pitch zip with each stride you take.

This journey is very ill advised—but that has rarely stopped you from chasing after what you wanted. Vanessa, the one who strictly told you not to leave the town set on the frozen edge of the sea at the North Pole, warned her to wait for either her or an official crew before you started chasing after myths and folklore in the region. But one night in and hearing about the local abominable snowman propelled you forward into a solo day trek into the frigid wilds just beyond town.

Yeti. Local legend. Tall tale. “The ice devil” is too great of a story to pass up. You set out to find a hook, a real, captivating myth to jot down upon your notebooks and preserve on your voice recorder, and you are not going to disappoint yourself.

Stories are as important as reality, as nature itself. Stories are how people keep themselves alive. You continue the tradition by writing reports for a renowned wildlife and wilderness journal. Nothing would give you more pleasure than to witness first hand the places and conditions which swirl the rumors of a creature so inexplicable lurking along the edges of the town.

It was once thriving too. Even before the tourism died down, the town hushly boasted of the local cryptid that were said to roam in blizzards after dark. You’ve walked between the frozen houses and down the thin strip meant to behave as the mainstreet—it is struggling.

Perhaps a new, fresh story could bring attention back to such a place. It could do good to remind the world that there are still stories here, waiting to be heard, wishing to inspire awe and fright and imagination.

You slide between two giant boulders slick with frost and reach a fantastic overlook at the top of a crag. The town seems so small and far away. The sun is setting low, the perfect golden hour setting upon you like a caress from a loved one saying goodbye. You brush a gloved hand against your nose. It drips slightly, and you can already imagine how bright-red and cold-bitten you must look.

It’s going to be a trek back down. You frown slightly, studying the distance. Maybe the town really is far away. You have… less than a perfect amount of time to return to your shelter for the night. You simply don’t have the gear to survive a night in the Arctic tundra without additional aid, but that’s no matter. You’re on your way back to your rental room.

Ignore the slight ringing of Vanessa’s voice in your mind, terse and firm, telling you to wait for her, you turn around to find a way to slip down the mountain. You couldn’t help but be allured by the beautiful tundra and the rising mouths of caves and caverns alike. Icicles hang thick as harpoons from the mouths of openings in the mountain and snow piles are so thick in some areas, it would bury you alive to step in them.

You’ve been careful. You’ve traveled slowly and mindfully, and stopped to jot down your notes in a notebook before pulling out the voice recorder to wander aloud about how the environment has crafted a perfect abominable snowman for the locals to chat about.

Of course, you’re convinced there is no such thing. Stories are born for the need of understanding. One night, a long long time ago, someone saw something in the snow and it seemed larger than reality and taller than life, and then they never saw it again. The understanding of it drifted perfectly into place as a monster. One can wrap their head around a spooky thing when it fits the criteria of horror within their mind, and it becomes a way for people to warn others from wandering too far or staying out at night when the temperature drops to lethal negative digits.

A new understanding was born. The story of the yeti thrives.

You drop down towards a sprawling of trees. The mountain still looms tall and dark behind you, its pale face darkening with the change of the light. You almost lose sight of the sun over the sharp slopes and peaks—but you’re sure these are your own foot tracks you’re following back.

And Vanessa was so worried about you. You grin only for yourself to know.

A tempting ice cavern opens up along your side. It’s yawning mouth is towering and the inside is deep and dark. You stop a moment to gaze within, picturing a monster lunging from its depth at a poor, unsuspecting victim. Quickly, you pull out your recorder and make a few vocal notes about the textures and impressions of the cavern. Could more ice be inside, thickly burrowing underground?

Something to return to later. Vanessa will have to explain more to you, and you’ll ask if she’ll deign to take you on a tour inside one of them. She’s so severe about anything—it can’t simply be the lack of light in half the year or the weather. No, that’s just her disposition.

Around a bend of willow trees, thick with snow clinging to its dangling branches like an umbrella beaded in white, you walk without care. Striding forward, followed the edge of several smaller caverns, still impressive but not comparable in size, your eyes fall to the ground you tread.

The snow is disturbed. Long and lengthy strides of something small, and there are multiples of them. You slow your rush to peer closer under the deep shadow you’re caught within. Paw prints. Large, impressive animal tracks.

Wolves.

You slowly straighten, intrigued. Did they pass through here? Perhaps they caught your sense and curiously lingered. You trek through the little patch of willows, studying the strangeness of which the snow is disturbed, markings that are too thick and long to be from wolves, but could perhaps come from them falling into the snow and rolling. Why would wolves roll around here? This couldn’t be a local resting spot for them, could it?

The division between shadow and brilliant, bright sunlight glittering on snow is a stark threshold. You reach it, stepping from the trees’ shelter only to stop in the golden glare of a sunset.

Further ahead is a wolf in the path. It lies upon the snow, terribly still. Your pulse pricks up along your throat as you stare. The beautiful, thick coat of the creature is ripped to shreds, stained with blood which languidly spills out around it.

Your skull empties of rational understanding. As if compelled by morbid curiosity, you step closer, reaching its unmoving side.

Its tongue luls out of its mouth. Eyes, wet and open, stare lifelessly. The hide is decorated with severe gouges, exposing its entrails. Heat ever so delicately rises in misty wisps into the frigid air. The carcass, missing pieces, is not even cold yet.

Something was eating it.

A crunch of snow echoes further down the path. You startle. An instinct, animalistic and wild within you, scratches at your heart. Go. Hide.

You obey. Flinging yourself back from the clearing of the dead, eaten wolf, you hunker behind a cluster of frosted rocks. Dropping to your knees, the light barely glancing off the icy edges of the stones, you throw yourself into its shadow.

The crunch of snow shifts into footsteps, heavy and quick. You press a glove over your mouth, afraid the smoke of your breath could somehow give your position away.

The footsteps stop. The stillness turns your blood to slush.

“Oh my,” a curious voice singsongs. It’s high and bouncy with a strange, radio-like static underlying its tone. “Friend? Come on out. I can share.”

The demand is too cheerful. Friend you are not. You hold your breath, terrified as you lean your head against the cold, unforgiving rock.

“Reveal yourself before I find you,” the voice still is strong, but a strain hits its cords.

You are doing no such thing.

“How rude,” the voice pouts.

The crunch of snow becomes a rapid sharpness of footsteps, and then silence.

The back of your neck prickles. You lift your head back, back, back—

A face of gold and rust stares back down at you, a crown of sharp, splayed icicles framing the creature's head, with a grin stained in blood just behind two golden, metallic tusks. Thick white fur clings to the monster’s frame.

The ice devil.

“There you are,” his voice deepens into a growl most dreadful. A hand, large and clawed, dripping blood, reaches over the rocks.

You throw yourself to your feet. Almost knocking into a willow, snow falling from the branches and catching like dozens of wayward diamonds in the sunlight, you run.

The creature snarls and quickly strides behind you. Your heart thunders in your ears.

You almost trip over a rock and the creature tuts a sharp sound of rebuke, calling for you to stop. Breathless, fighting the tightening of your throat, you race back towards the ice caverns. A hapless thought of losing it in one of the caves crosses your mind. You step towards the fine division between shadow and sunlight upon the ground, and pump your legs with all your might.

A large hand closes on your shoulder, twisting you back to face him while throwing you to the ground. It knocks the breath from your lungs. In a split second, the creature of wild white fur and golden plates is upon you. He pins you down neatly, as if you were a small toy for his hands to enjoy shaking about.

“Friend,” he beams, tusks decorated in red, “There’s not enough time!”

You struggle, your boots sliding against snow while you panic without air in your body. Your head spins. The yeti crouches over you, far too close for comfort. One eye is wide and pale, icy blue. The one is damaged, scratched, with a star-like prick of blue deep in its black center.

His claws squeeze your shoulder. His other palm sits on your chest, keeping you in place.

“I won’t get to play with my friend,” he pouts and snarls the next, “How naughty of you to run from me.”

The air trickles slowly back into your gaping mouth. You scramble, clutching at his arms in a vain attempt to push him off you, but you only succeed in smearing blood onto your coat.

The shadows stretch deeper. The monster tilts his head, the impressive icicle jags upon his head spinning like crystals in the air. He releases your shoulder to drag the back of a claw down your cheek, leaving you to whimper with precious little breath.

“We can play,” he decides. “You can run and I’ll hunt you down.”

You frantically mewl, trying to push out from underneath him but he cages you in his long and looming figure. He laughs, bordering on maniacal.

“Keep struggling, little hare,” he growls, “It’ll make you taste all the better—if you don’t behave.”

You suck in a sharp breath at the first cool brush of shadows on your face. The yeti snarls a guttural, temperamental sound. His claws sink into the front of your coat, pricking the fabric.

“No, no, no!” His other hand flies to his face, covering it as the evening gives way to twilight, and the gold upon his particular face fades to a silver and black.

Unhanded, you push yourself out from underneath the monster before bolting straight back into the thicket of the willows. You dash madly. Your footsteps remain in the snow, calm and steady, now smeared with your backtracking as you rediscover the great opening of the ice cavern from earlier, and toss yourself inside with all your might.

You race into the darkness. The coldness turns your breath into thick smoke before your lips. Your heart pounds while your fingers and toes grow numb. You ignore the paint of red upon your clothing, left on your cheek.

Stories are understanding. A warning. A way to survive.

The ice devil should have been a story.

The rounded walls of the ice cavern grow narrow. Panic hooks into you, sharp and cold, as you push yourself against the wall. The cold bites at your nose. Your head swims as black stains the edges of your vision—or is it that dark?

You slip down to your knees. Clutching yourself, your body shakes violently with shock and icy temperatures. This is too dangerous for you to lie low in—you won’t make it through the night.

Footsteps click into the icy entrance. You lift your head, staring at the large figure taking up the entrance with a thick, wild coat of undisguisable white. Shrinking closer to the frozen ground, you bite your bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

The figure draws near. The low light of the deepening twilight barely reaches inside. Your heart struggles in your ribcage, clawing at your sternum. You can no longer hold your breath. A faintness takes hold.

A head snaps towards you, two sharp and icy horns upon the crown of its head, paired with two dark tusks. Something long and fluffy sways behind its head—a nightcap. The creature lumbers towards you upon lethargic steps. You yelp as it stands over you, eyes blue and piercing, but his expression is far less bloody.

A sluggish hand reaches for you. Fear strikes so thick in your mind, you freeze without any adrenaline to protect you. The hand lifts you off your feet and pulls you against its body. You briefly struggle.

“Stop,” a voice comes, low and raspy, and exhausted, “Hold still.”

You obey, if only due to being struck dumb by the difference in the voice from only moments before.

Long and thickly furred limbs wrap around you. A cloak, white and heavy, drapes over you until you’re snuggled against the creature’s chest, held secure in lithe arms.

Surprisingly gentle, the ice devil ensures every part of you is coated in the warmth of his attire. The fluff is wild and warm. The relief it brings is instant despite your shaking limbs, and you stare, wide eyed, up at the mysterious face of silver.

“Sun…” he mutters, shaking his head. His tusks cut through the air before he looks down at you. “It’s alright now.”

You don’t know if you believe him, but your body sags, and the blackness flanking your vision engulfs you entirely. The last fleeting sensation is a claw touching your cheek, wiping away blood.

#naff's writing commissions #frostbite au #oh i love me some monsters #especially the kind that chases you!#naff writing

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dmitriene · 10 months ago

Text

cw: not detailed mentions of human trafficin for experiments.

being kyle's garrick bunny girl, he ain't particularly fond of the hybrids and the whole idea of selling people, despite that you reminiscent of the fluffy bunny, as weak and innocent as the real ones, yet not raised in the wild and barely seen the world outside, but it's not the same when instead of buying you, he finds you while on mission, while raiding with his team at the place that was suspected in human trafficin.

you're a sight for a sore eyes, sitting in some metal cage that's too small for your human size, your snow white, long fluffy ears pressed tightly to your head as you look around in fright at the soldiers walking across the room, harmless doe eyes cling to kyle's figure as he suddenly stops in front of you, crouching down, pursing his lips in a thin line as he notices you jerking backwards when his hands reach out to open the cage.

kyle knows you're too frightened to try and leap off the cage, you just curl in a protective, harmless ball, pressing your knees against your chest and stained cloth that is hard to call a proper shirt, you even hide your face from him, skin smudged up with dust and dirt, but as he reaches into the cage, scooping you towards him as gently as possible, coaxing you out and into his tender, careful embrace, you bundle up against his chest, tucking your face against his gear.

he's warm, smells soothingly of something fresh, making you sniff on him, missing the light, biting chuckle that reverberates through his chest, dissolving at the background of loud noises, too busy to melt into the light citrus smell that fades in the scent of gunpowder and sweat that clings to kyle instead, but it's enough for you to settle comfortably in his arms, curling snugly, letting his palm brush tentatively against your soft furry ears.

kyle takes you to his home, you've been treated at the medical bay at the base so as to check your health condition, before they gave him a leave to either find a place for you to be from now on, or stay with him, and did he thought about finding a special shelter or some place for you to start a proper life there, but with you sitting on a plush couch in his apartment, eyes fluttering with innocent curiosity at his hazel irises, supple body cloaked in his shirt, he wants to keep you here.

you don't know how life works out there, who knows what will happen to a silly bunny girl like you, but kyle, he can provide for you, keep you nourished and have a warm place to sleep in, right against him at the spacious, soft bed, curled beneath his arm that are draped protectively over the curve of your waist, your round, cotton tail wagging in delight, brushing against his smooth skin.

so you stay with kyle, living comfortably in the coziness of his apartment that is now called your home, he teaches you how to cook, operating in the kitchen like a chef, teaching you how to cope and provide for yourself if he is not around, he wants his bunny being capable to care of herself, your long ears perching up at the little praises he croons to you through wide, toothy grin, smushing your face adoringly in his soft palms.

and when he does leaves on a mission, coming back home after couple of weeks, he's greeted by the empty, messed living room and pungent, sweet ambrosial scent that leads him to the open bedroom, where he meets you humping his pillow, twitchy, fat pussy creating a creamy pool of your gushy slick, his shirt draped over your body, thick collar pressed against your nose, as you slur his name in a cloudy haze of your unexpected heat.

main masterlist. quidelines.

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colorlessjay · 4 months ago

Note

Concept: S16 Dean got really, REALLY into photography while retired. Why? Well he realized far too late he had barely any pictures of Cas, so Dean is making up for lost time once Cas came back. And like, Cas’s beauty is hard to capture with some dinky phone camera and so he does some research and learns about lighting and lenses and depth of field, etc

And of course Dean is an old fashioned guy so he of course uses an old school film camera and has a dark room in their marital home and of COURSE Cas is his favourite muse and model.

Does he take 1000000 glamour shots of his gorgeous wife? DUH. Does he take even more creeper CANDID shots of Cas? double DUH. Does he also force Cas into doing dumb couples shoots with him like awkward prom pics or whole family portraits with terrible matching sweaters? What do you take him for? of course he does

(He also loves taking pictures of Jack and Cas together, and he has an active and willing collaborator in Jack. They once did a silly shoot for Jack’s 5th birthday where they have him do a baby->Kindergardener photo shoot but as his fully grown self and it’s hilarious to Dean and no he doesn’t then almost start crying right along Cas at the set ending with Jack standing on their porch, wearing a backpack, a spider-man t-shirt, and holding up a chalkboard with “first day of school!” Dean DIDN’T start crying then because he was already crying at the picture of Jack all blanket burrito’s and swaddled up with a “welcome home jack” à la baby’s home from the hospital style pic lol)

Sam tries showing Dean his new phone’s super high end camera and Dean is sooooo annoying and dismissive of it and scoffs at the results, especially what he learns it’s got that post processing AI shit on it. Bah.

(Claire makes his break out his rapid shot gear to get some sweet pics of her fighting a vampire to send to Kaia. Dean promises he’s staying out of the fighting part cuz he’s retired and this is Claire’s hunt but he does get a twinge of FOMO when she is the one with a machete and he’s got the telephoto lens to stay out of the way. But him catching the money shot of Claire doing the final beheading? That’s more exhilarating that the last 10 vampires hunts he went on before retirement combined. The pictures turn out AMAZING considering the lightning conditions at night! And the blood splatter! No Sam this isn’t disturbing and serial killer shit this is art!!)

Dean’s 2nd favourite model is of course Baby, he ends up getting some gig work are a car photographer from fellow old heads that also want glamour shots of their old classic cars on real film. Jody teases that it’s like Dean is directing a porno for the cars with how he talks about “lighting the contours” and “we gotta highlight this lady’s curves just right”

(And speaking of porno’s, yeah Dean’s taken many, MANY erotic nudes of his favourite model. Often on or in his 2nd favourite model. And yeah the cowboy gear gets used a LOT in these. Why do you think Dean asked Rowena for a spelled locked box that OBLY him and Cas can open? It was a lovely birthday present from the Queen of Hell that was only happy to provide!)

I love this idea so much I'm gonna write smut about it

Anon, idk who you are but DM me more of these ideas

reblog

#destiel #castiel #dean winchester #deancas #destielbttfau

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targaryenfelikayt · 1 month ago

Text

headcanons: joint trip. |The Sinclair Brothers|

wc: 1,029 summary: this installment of road trip headcanons showcases three very different sides of the Sinclair brothers - Bo, Vincent, and Lester - as they go on a road trip with you. tags/warnings: very fluffy fluff, lots of romance (not typical for movies), a trip for two, a bit of realism. note: if you read this in Russian, then yes, I am translating my works into English.

Bo Sinclair.

— Before heading anywhere, he always makes sure everything under the hood is in perfect order, and the tires have been changed. The car’s condition is important to him, can’t risk getting stranded on some highway like a few of the victims did. So while still at home, Bo checks every detail. No exaggeration. Literally every single one, without exception.

— Once he’s satisfied the metal beast is roadworthy, he tosses the packed bags into the trunk. Then, after buckling your seatbelt himself, he circles the car and slips into the driver’s seat.

— Half-jokingly, he’ll suggest you hold the wheel while he searches for his cigarettes. But once he realizes there’s only one left, he slips into that strange state somewhere between frustration and despair.

— At the gas station, he starts pestering the local clerk: Is the fuel watered down? Why does the oil smell funny? What do you mean you’re out of his brand of smokes? You’ll practically have to drag him out by the arm before someone ends up bleeding (and honestly, it’s unclear who would start it first).

— Then comes his little ritual again, Bo leans in to fasten your seatbelt with deliberate care, only returning to his seat once he’s done.

"Baby, I just don’t wanna replace the damn windshield if some asshole causes a wreck," he mutters, adjusting his cap as he shifts the mirror and tries to look effortlessly cool.

He’ll never say it’s your safety he’s worried about — the only real threat here is him.

— Be ready for Sinclair to drive with one hand, the other wandering between shifting gears and letting his fingers graze your thigh. Gentle, steady touches always within reach.

— And don’t be surprised when that hand occasionally moves higher, teasing with soft strokes. He likes seeing the way you unconsciously hold your breath when he does that — it gives his ego a little boost. Bo just can’t bring himself to deny that little indulgence.

— Hours into the drive, he’s still riding the high of cicadas singing and the sharp tang of the night air. It makes him feel alive and maybe, just maybe, like he could do something right for once. He’s done plenty of things others would call wrong, sure, but right now? Everything’s just fine.

— After all, if there’s still a pack of cigarettes in your pocket — today can’t be that bad, right?

Vincent Sinclair.

— Vincent settles into the back seat, perfectly content to spend the ride in quiet comfort.

— But first, he takes care of packing the suitcases, everything arranged with such precision and spatial logic that you can’t help but wonder if he secretly played Tetris while the wax was cooling on his future creations.

— He enjoys the scenery outside the window, holding your hand the whole time. If something especially catches his eye, he’ll try to sketch it in his notebook.

— Of course, the motion will eventually get to him. His inner ear’s not the best. And while he’s trying to steady his breath, you’re tearing through the bags he’d packed so carefully, looking for the right pills and not finding them.

— He ends up spending the rest of the trip in the front seat, staring straight ahead with a bottle of water clutched in hand. He knows it’ll be at least another hour before the next town.

— Passing a field of sunflowers, Vincent insists on stopping again, subtly, politely, but with a kind of quiet determination. The massive yellow blooms draw him in like magnets. He disappears among them, wandering from one flower to the next.

"Vince, we need to go unless you wanna sleep in the car. If you really like it," you gesture to a sunflower that looks exactly like all the others, "take it with you." He mumbles something that sounds both like agreement and protest, then leans in to press waxen lips to your forehead before turning back toward the field.

— Two minutes later, he comes jogging back, clutching a sunflower roots and all. You're informed, in no uncertain terms, that it’s now your duty to plant it by the front door when you get home.

— Now he’s not afraid of anything. Unless, of course, the plant dies. Then you’ll have to throw it away and that’s a nightmare he’d rather not face.

Lester Sinclair.

— He’s ready to go anywhere, anytime. Just say the word, and he’s already starting the engine, even if it’s the middle of the damn night.

— Unlike his brothers, Lester actually prefers riding in the truck bed or the open-back area, stretching out like he owns the place.

— First thing he does is throw all the snacks back there with him, devouring half the stash in the first leg of the trip. After that, he turns into Donkey from Shrek, hitting you with a constant, “Are we there yet?”, even though he knows every roadside diner in the state by heart.

— When the speedometer needle starts climbing in direct correlation to your rising temper, he finally shuts up and pretends like he doesn’t even exist.

— But of course, he pipes up again the moment nature calls and all you’ve got around are endless stretches of farmland. He takes the opportunity to "multi-task," stealing as many ears of corn as he can carry in his hands, shirt, and shorts. What a resourceful man. Always thinking of the homestead.

— Long trips aren’t easy for him. The wait alone is enough to dissolve whatever tiny bit of focus he has. But he really tries not to annoy you out of sheer boredom.

— Eventually, he flicks on the radio in hopes of livening things up and naturally ends up singing along. And then he surprises you again, dropping random backstories about the old songs he likes best. "How do you even know that?". He just shrugs.

— By 9 PM, when you finally pull into a diner parking lot, hunger hits him all at once. He’s the first one out of the car.

"You city folks ain’t never had cherry fritters this juicy," he says, and soon the tray in front of you is overflowing with local delicacies, half of which look nothing like anything you’ve ever seen at home or in a restaurant. At least there’s French fries. You won’t go hungry. And Lester? Already eating like he’s feeding twins.

#house of wax #x reader #slasher x reader #slashers x you #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #lester sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #lester sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you #vincent sinclair x you #lester sinclair x you

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kr-v · 5 months ago

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Serdtse

pre/early s1 Viktor

male reader

Ch.1

Synopsis: You're a metalworker who has finally been given the opportunity to meet a long-time friend's assistant. And you're not sure what you expected, but this wasn't it.

Word count: 6k

Note: happy new year:) hope it is not too out of character

You typically meet what feels like copies of the same person in your field of work. The same industrial plants looking for parts, the same labour companies looking for tools, the same orders coming from the same people.

Sometimes, you do get the outlier—maybe an older woman cradling precious jewelry in her frail hands with the request that you resize it, telling tales of when she was young and beautiful and her rings still fit. You do your best to break your silence and humour her, telling her that her beauty has not faded one bit before offering a lower price, heart feeling a little heavier as you watch her head back down into the dark recesses of the Undercity, clean and adjusted jewelry hidden in her pockets.

And, despite these brief, unique-seeming instances, you still find yourself trudging through haze and sinking into a repetitive cycle.

Into the furnace, out of the fire, onto the anvil, into the water.

Forming. Cutting. Joining.

Again and again and again and again.

What once excited you has begun to dull, boring you in the process. You don't doubt the worsening conditions with shimmer in Zaun attribute to this sudden tilt towards a downward spiral. But you still hold a passion for your craft, so you stick with it, despite the itch for something, someone, to come and knock the piling monotony over.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

You're in the midst of completing yet another commission of metal panels, something you must admit you no longer find much joy making, let alone care for whatever their purpose will be. Not when you had made a near-painful amount of them for another client the prior week.

You aren't what would be considered talkative typically, but you would have appreciated something more than silence and an anxious glance in response when you had asked where they would be installed. The unease in the atmosphere gets to those from the other side of the bridge too, you suppose.

(What's life without mild irritation? You find yourself repeating the phrase often in your mind.)

You barely hear the ringing of the bell installed over the door as you hammer the hot metal, flattening it out. Looking up, you catch the eyes of a young man standing near the door. He's no devil—incredibly far from it, actually, and you swear you can feel your pulse quicken when you make eye contact—but he doesn't look like someone that would typically find himself in your type of shop. Especially not as you register he's wearing a Piltover Academy uniform.

Too refined to be surrounded by burning metal and gear grease.

"I'll be with you in a minute. Sorry for the wait."

His shoulders very slightly jump into a shrug when he assures you. "It's no problem at all."

And you go back to your task. You can feel his eyes on you, but you chalk it up to curiosity, which you can already tell he's full of. Something that feels rare in the misery that surrounds.

The final panel does not take long for you to finish and you pull your glove off and slip it halfway into the pocket of your apron where the other one is tucked in as you approach the front of your shop. The man is still there, very slightly leaning on his cane, and you're not entirely sure why you're pleasantly surprised he hasn't left.

But the answer to that comes quick when you move closer.

His deep brown hair is styled so that it doesn't hide his face, allowing you to get a better look at him. There are little moles dotted onto his face, with hollowed cheeks under sharp cheekbones that lead to his unexpectedly piercing eyes. You might have described as pools of molten gold had you been referring to a piece of art and not a real person standing in front of you.

His features are sculptural—sharp edges with an undeniable softness hard to identify. In another life, where you had chosen a more artistic passion, you'd have loved him as a muse.

"It really was a minute." His strong brows are raised and the tone you can hear in his voice is unexpectedly teasing as he pulls you out of the nearly-endless abyss of your thoughts, as if he knows what you're thinking.

You exhale a laugh through your nose after a second of reeling your mind back into the present moment and away from his appearance. It's probably the first amused noise you've made in weeks. "Thanks for waiting." Your gaze lingers on the mole above his lip for the briefest moment. "What can I help you with?"

"I presume you are (Y/N), yes?"

"I am." "Perfect." He takes a step closer, as if this confirmation was what he needed to properly allow himself into the space. "Professor Heimerdinger sent me here, something about a talented metalsmith whose help he needed." He scans your shop with his pretty eyes as he speaks and there's a pause his explanation before he looks at you once again. "I'm Viktor, his assistant." He moves his right hand outwards, as if to shake yours, before his eyebrow twitches and he seems to remember the dark blue folder occupying his hold. "Oh, eh.. Here." His lip quirks into a small smile and he holds the folder out for you to take.

There's a little spark of recognition that passes through you as you realize who exactly is standing in front of you.

In truth, Heimerdinger had described Viktor to you in prideful detail, like a father boasting about his golden son. You can feel the bit of excitement bubbling in your chest as you realize this is your opportunity to finally see the man behind Heimerdinger's carefully crafted, but ultimately foggy image. He'd never been one to discuss physical appearances and you never expected.. this.

You take the folder gently in one hand and properly introduce yourself, holding out your other, thankfully clean, hand for a proper handshake now that Viktor's is free.

His hand is a little cold and you feel it jolt against yours from the shock of the temperature change—your skin is still warm, bordering on hot, from your physical work and the glove you only just pulled off.

You do your best to steer your mind away from the skin-to-skin contact as you pry the folder open.

"..I've heard of you before." A glance is thrown his way to see his reaction.

The surprise in his face is evident. His thick eyebrows are raised again and there's this glimmer in his eyes. "You have?"

"From Heimerdinger. He seems very proud to have you as an assistant."

You flip through the papers after finding you need to tear your eyes away from his bright face. "And 'talented'? The professor is ever the flatterer, did he tell you to say that?"

"Maybe."

The papers inside display sketches of gears, all labelled and neatly detailed with dimensions and materials. Yet, they're oddly uncomplicated. "Why send you all the way here? I'm sure someone at the academy can make these. They're quite simple."

At that, Viktor cocks his head, eyebrows quirking, as if to say he understands your thought process. "To be entirely honest, Heimerdinger also said something about wishing you'd visit again. I suppose this is his indirect way of inviting you." His nose scrunches for a second as he winces and his teeth show for a quick moment. It's charming. "...I also suppose I spoiled his plan."

Not entirely. You're not quite sure if he realizes the other half—the professor did let it slip that he believed you and Viktor would get along quite well, and this is the perfect opportunity. Face-to-face, standing on equal ground, and without the distractions that come with being inside the Piltover Academy.

But you don't mention this.

"Maybe."

Instead, you echo his words and tilt your own head to the side. "I guess I can do this, then." You gesture with the folder. "And drop the finished gears off myself. To, er, indirectly accept his invitation."

Seeing Viktor's amusement painted on his face with another smile feels like a small victory. A victory you're not sure you should be internally celebrating. But the smile really does fit his features nicely.

"That works." There's another pause. His eyes quickly fleet over your body. You're sure he's now realizing just how messy you look, covered in soot and grease. Maybe he's judging your work clothing, too. You can't exactly vouch for the safety of relying on an apron and a, maybe slightly too tight, dirty old shirt for upper body protection.

In contrast, Viktor's well dressed. He's in a maroon button-up, with layered vests, a cravat, and ironed dress pants. He looks nice. And you do your best to ignore the fact that you feel like a grimy fool standing in front of him. You hope that, at the very least, he doesn't think you dress like this outside of your job.

"Quite impressive." Your brows pinch.

"Your work is very versatile." He clarifies.

Oh.

You're internally chagrined for a moment before logic kicks in.

Sure, Viktor's attractive. You can admit that to yourself—and you already have a million times over in your racing mind. But this is humiliating. You've only just formally met.

"Ah.. yes, I do a bit of everything." Praise from anyone as bright as he must be would get your heart jumping, you justify, no matter who it is. "Thank you."

He moves closer to one of the many tables in your space, one that's littered with all sorts of tools, papers, and things you've crafted. Some yet to be picked up by clients, some with no final destination or use—often made during odd hours, when sleep felt like it was out of your grasp and your mind still buzzed.

"May I touch?"

You swallow.

"Go ahead."

Your fingers drum against the folder for a few seconds before you make your way around Viktor and place the paper down onto your much neater desk.

Viktor leans his cane against the cluttered table and picks up a small, overcomplicated mechanical propeller. It's not your typical smithing work that people look for—a mechanism rather than a tool or weapon—and it's been lying around for so long, you only vaguely remember its intended use. "I believe that was ordered by a father. ...Something about his kid's toy."

"Why do you still have it?"

"He gathered enough money to move, or something like that. No need for toy planes at that point. I have not received any orders for.. mechanical things since then, unfortunately." The fact that a piece of a child's toy is one of the best things you have to show for your engineering prowess makes you frown.

Viktor makes a little sympathetic hum in the back of his throat and pushes one of the blades with his pointer finger. "I understand." It's quiet but you can tell he's genuine.

He watches as it spins, holding it close to his face and analyzing it like it's some impressive, overly detailed mechanism.

"Quite intricate.." He seems to be talking to himself, but he lifts his head to look at you and continues, before you have the chance to argue that it's nothing spectacular. "And you also made those?" Using the hand that holds the propeller, he gestures to the far corner of the main room, where steel breastplates are propped up against the wall.

You lean against the edge of your desk, arms crossed over your chest, where a little flame of pride begins to burn. And maybe a little bit of something else you don't want to entertain the thought of. Something you probably should not entertain the thought of, especially not so soon. "Everything in here is my own." The sentence comes out colder than you wanted as a result and you hope the smile you give afterwards helps soften it.

It seems to work, or maybe Viktor doesn't mind your tone, either way. "Very interesting." He places the propeller back onto the table, between a jar of thick nails and some rusted cinch clamps. "Jack of all trades and master of them all, it seems. Flipping the saying on its head, so to speak." He sounds and looks genuinely impressed and it fans the the fire in your chest. It may be because this is the first time the man has stepped foot into your workplace and he's already flattering you nearly to a fault. And because genuine compliments seem so rare now.

Or it may be because of who's giving them out.

You choose not to dwell on the thought longer than need be.

"You're too kind." Is what you manage to say. A bit quieter, softer, than intended. "I'm no master, but thank you, Viktor."

"From what I've already seen, you are." His shoulders jump up into a slight shrug as he replies.

The light tone of his response paired with a facial expression you can't quite make out makes it feel like something you'd hear from someone you've known for far longer, someone you hold much closer, and not from Heimerdinger's assistant whom you first saw in person only 20 minutes ago. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks away.

Viktor's gaze is back on the table. You know from Heimerdinger that he has more of an interest in the mechanical, engineering side of things. That claim is backed up as you watch him zero in on one of the blueprints partially hidden under an array of tools. His palm is flat on the tabletop and his fingers twitch, like he's holding back from pulling the pages out from under the mess to get a better look at the lines sketched into the blue paper.

Part of you really does not want to say your next words.

"Shouldn't you be heading back to the academy now?" Viktor's eyes are on you again. This time, he blinks, looking puzzled and maybe even a little... deflated. His hands drop to his sides as he stands up straight. "I'm sure you're needed there, and I don't want to take up too much of your time."

"The professor gave me plenty of time—the whole day, actually—and you're not forcing me to stay." You can't argue with that. Especially as you feel your own relief seeping into your bones.

I hoped you'd say something like that. That is left unsaid.

"Plus.." There's a pause, a split second too long. His eyes seem to search for something unseen in his mind. "I do find your work interesting."

You uncross your arms and your fingers drum against the edge of the desk this time. "Do you usually hand out compliments like this?"

"Sometimes." It's all Viktor says, and he pairs it with a glance you can't decipher.

"Well, uh... I unfortunately have to go out and pick up some materials today...." There's a pause. Viktor's eyebrows furrow and there's a little frown, maybe even a hint of a pout, tugging at his lips and you want to punch yourself for paying so much attention to them. "But, maybe you can find some time to stop by another day? If you don't mind for me to work on the gears you were sent here for during your visit.."

He looks relieved at your words. The crease between his eyebrows smooths out and his mouth relaxes into a little smile that thins out his lips. Your brain is still stuck on the briefest image of the pink of his bottom lip jutting out in disappointment and you nearly forget to listen to his answer, having to forcibly haul your attention back to the present. "I wouldn't mind that at all." He seems to mentally run through his schedule and he holds his chin between his pointer finger and thumb. "Would Thursday two weeks from now work?" In the quickest instant, you picture your hand replacing his, and his facial expression morphing into a softer one as you lean in, his hands on your waist—god.

"That works perfectly."

Any plans you had for that day be damned.

You're sure Viktor is happy to have more time to quench his inquiries and you're more than happy to provide some mental nourishment, though you do wish that interest would pivot away from your work and focus on you.

You bid him goodbye, with a request to inform Heimerdinger you will visit when the gears are complete, and watch him leave, not getting back to your tasks until he's entirely out of view.

It's Monday afternoon the next week and you're surprised to find a paper unceremoniously slid under the door to your workshop. It's a crisp white envelope with the Piltover Academy symbol stamped into the wax seal that you do your best to preserve as you pry the flap open and pull out the page stored inside. Probably a letter from Heimerdinger, with an expression of excitement for your meeting.

Upon unfolding it, you find your theory disproven quickly.

Dear (Y/N),

It was a pleasure meeting you last week, and I must admit I am glad Professor Heimerdinger's patience with you had run out enough to send me your way. Now, thinking about it, I can see that our meeting must have been part of his secret plan, as well. Smart man.

I am sending this letter as to inform you that the professor is greatly looking forward to your visit, which I'm sure you know. Whether or not you have finished making the gears by then seems to be the last of his concern. He has already begun creating a buzz around the academy regarding the visit of a mysterious, metalworking genius sometime in the following weeks. So, please be aware that there may be some extra pairs of eyes on you and many questions from curious students when you arrive. I hope this does not cause you to have second thoughts, though I doubt it will.

I am looking forward to seeing you again next week and witnessing your creation process in person.

Kind regards,

Viktor

You stare at the paper in some confusion. Viktor sent you a letter. You're not sure why. The meeting between the two of you was brief, without anything particularly impressive to show on your part, and you still feel like you may have made a fool of yourself in some way.

And, either way, there was no need for Viktor to have gone out of his way to write all of this and send it. He could have told you everything in person next week.

But you can't deny the little spark of 'what if?' that flashes through you, especially with his little humorous quips strewn throughout the lines.

And he's looking forward to seeing you again? You're reading too much into it, but you really do internally wish this goes beyond simple work relations, and maybe Viktor wouldn't be against stepping into a genuine friendship. And possibly, though definitely out of reach, something closer.

Still, even if he doesn't share the dream, you skim over the sentence a few more times, until you read it with his voice in your mind and maybe a little gentler of a tone than necessary.

You waste no time in finding a clean sheet of paper and a fountain pen. Doing your best not to overthink your words, you write a response.

Dear Viktor,

Thank you greatly for taking the time to handwrite a letter to me. I had not expected it, but I really do appreciate it, and I hope my thankfulness translates through my writing.

(My apologies if this letter is too brief. Writing them is not my strong suit, I must admit.)

I am glad to hear that Heimerdinger doesn't seem to hold any animosity regarding my delay and I will do my best not to disappoint anyone curious when I arrive. But I make no promises.

And I, too, am very glad to have met you last week. I anticipate with excitement to learn more about you during our next get together. I can already tell you have a bright mind and I am curious to hear about your studies. I can't be the only one discussing my specialty, after all.

Thank you again for your kindness.

Regards,

(Y/N)

True to his word, Viktor shows up two weeks later on Thursday.

He's holding a brown paper bag you assume contains his lunch and smiling when you immediately drop what you're doing to greet him.

"I hope I'm not interrupting your work." There's that soft, teasing edge to his words again.

"Not at all. I wasn't really working, anyway." It's the truth. You'd resorted to fidgeting around in your workspace in attempt to pass the time and ease your impatience as you waited for Viktor. Nerves had spiked in your insides as you considered the possibility that maybe he forgot, or changed his mind.

The fact the idea of Viktor having second thoughts had hurt embarrasses you.

Viktor had been stuck in your very brain tissue since you'd met last week. Partially convincing yourself it was a dream, you almost felt the need to pinch yourself when he came into your shop again, even though you had exchanged those few letters in the meantime and you were sure he was a man of his word.

"Well, then..." You speak again, before your silence becomes odd and another source of overthinking. "Should we get started?"

Viktor occupies a chair you've pulled out for him at your desk as you clear a space and set everything up.

He pauses his in-depth, intensely passionate run-down of his latest scientific theories—and his desires to achieve more—that give you a glimpse into the intricacies of his mind in order to offer his help. The offer sounds more like a request soaked with curiosity and you're unable bring yourself to decline, so you ask him to pull out three moulds for the gears from the shelf next to your workbench.

Leaning his cane against the edge, Viktor pulls the moulds off of the shelf and shifts them into one arm.

One by one he carries the moulds out, holding them close to his chest with his right arm as not to drop them, cane in his left hand. He's as gentle with his movements as he can be with the heavy things when he places them onto the thick metal surface.

"These are your work, too?" Viktor traces the strong edges of one of the forms with a dexterous finger, like he's analyzing every atom that makes up the metal block with his fingertip. With shameful haste, you concentrate on the incredibly simple task of picking out bits of scrap metal and dropping them into the melting pot.

"Yes, they were made from their own moulds." You pull your gloves on once there's enough metal for three gears. "...A mould cast within a mould." It's a mere, under-the-breath mutter as you slowly pick the pot up by the handle with a steady hand, but you can hear a little amused exhale of laughter from Viktor.

You can't help but to glance up at the sound, at Viktor, and find him already looking at you.

You, rather than the hypnotizing flames of the hearth or the pot of steadily melting metal. Or the hundreds of other things around the shop that slot into the little jar of metalworking intrigue far better than you do.

He diverts his gaze fast, like he was caught red-handed and trying to act normal about it. There's just a hint of his eyes widening and lips pursing as he lifts a fist to his mouth and clears his throat.

The wishful implication that it was something more than simple knowledge-hungry interest is a thought quickly shoved away, under the carpet and into the desperate corners of your mind.

The sudden crackle of charcoal reminds you that you're still standing in front of the forge and definitely not paying as much attention to the dangerous pot of hot, near-liquid metal as you should be. There's a sudden urge to drag a hand over your face and sigh as you peel your focus away from Viktor and direct it back to your job.

It's silent for a few beats until Viktor speaks again. His voice is calm. steady, unaffected. Confident once more. "How do you know Heimerdinger? He hadn't mentioned it to me."

You know you're a fool for wishing he could've sounded as flustered as you feel.

"Ah, I guess I hadn't mentioned that, either.." You keep your eyes on the melting metal. "We met when I was still an apprentice in the Undercity. He needed some parts for a machine he was working on and I took up the job, as my mentor was busy." Before Viktor asks why look for someone in the Undercity? like anyone would, you continue. "My mentor had a good reputation. One that carried over across the bridge. Heimerdinger has been keeping up with me and offering support, ever since." Part of you is upset with yourself that you hadn't visited the professor in a long enough time that he decided a commission would be the only way to get you back in the academy. "I really should have visited sooner."

Viktor hums. It's a low, rumbling sound that seems to come straight from his chest and it snakes up your spine in the form of goosebumps. "Why not stay in Piltover? You have a very good connection there."

"Can't say I have a particularly.. good or logical reason." Carefully, the pot is carried over to workbench, where the moulds are held in place by thick iron clamps. "I just don't really want to, I suppose."

The blocks are positioned in a row and you slowly pour the molten metal into the hole atop each one, doing your best to ignore Viktor's watchful gaze that tracks each of your movements over and over. You don't doubt he's mentally jotting down the motion of your every muscle and each maneuver you make under the How to Cast Gears tab in his mind. You briefly wallow in the self-indulgent hope that there's a little topic marker dedicated solely to you, too.

"That's a good a reason as any." Viktor replies. And his voice is suddenly right there as he leans in to get a closer look at the process. "Feelings are important, too. Not every decision needs to have a definite, analytical cause that you can pin point behind it."

You keep your head forward.

When the metal seeps into the depths of each mould and leaves some extra space, you follow through with another round of pouring, until each form is full and metal threatens to pool over and out of the spouts. "That's true."

There's a moment silence as you hang the pot on a thick metal hook by the loop on the handle and turn to Viktor, "Now we wait. Shouldn't take too long. I can make some tea in the meantime. I have black and green tea. ...Or coffee?"

"Black tea would be nice, thank you."

At the confirmation, you walk over to the small faux-kitchen in the corner near your desk and pull out a steel kettle.

Viktor looks over the setting metal before he suddenly stands up straight.

He goes back to your desk, where the brown paper bag he brought sits. He leans his cane against the back of his chair and straightens the folded top of the bag, pulling it open and reaching in. Two small cardboard food boxes are pulled out, held in his pale hands, and placed on the tabletop. "Eh... I hope you have a bit of a sweet tooth.."

Wait.

He pulls the lid of one of the little boxes off, revealing a delicious-looking slice of Napoleon cake, and looks back to you. One of the corners of his lips raises just a bit higher and suddenly he's smirking and raising a brow in invitation.

You can't help but pluck his expression out of context, and place it into a more intimate, gentle situation. One where you move closer, close enough for Viktor to place his palm on the back of your head and sigh against your lips as you lean in....

Realizing you've been silent for a beat too long, you do your best to sound normal as you clear your throat.

"You didn't need to— Thank you, but really.." You feel like you're blubbering for words like a fish out of water and you hope that it's just in your imagination.

"I wanted to." Viktor says this with such ease and maybe a bit too gentle of a tone that it sends little spikes of warmth rushing through your muscle fibres. Again, he's back in that soft setting in your mind, as you stand at the sink and fill the kettle with water. "It's only fair—you're letting me intrude on your work like this."

"You're not intruding—" There's a pointed look directed your way. "—okay. Thank you. Again." He can have this win.

He waves you off, but there's a little quirk to his lip that evens his smirk out into a satisfied smile, like he's proud he has triumphed a debate with a topic more serious than dessert, and, once more, your eyes immediately flicker towards the movement.

You place two thick ceramic mugs onto your desk and drop a bag of black tea into each one once the kettle is on the fire. Viktor watches as you bring a second heavy chair over with one arm, your hand hooked through the opening in the back, and place it at the short end of the table. The balancing act of two small plates and forks in your other hand ends when you put them on the table, as well.

Viktor's right leg crosses over his left and he leans back, with his elbows on the arm rests and hands resting atop each other in his lap. He seems comfortable and you can't shake the fact that his posture really does make it look like he owns the space, possibly more than you do. And when you're beckoned back to the fire by the kettle's whistle, you reassure him that you don't need his assistance. He's the guest here.

Just sit still and look pretty. You don't say that—but you do think it.

It's far too bold and far too early, and maybe a bit too simple of a phrase for a bright man like Viktor. You'd do anything in your power to avoid implying the false idea that you're dumbing him down to his outermost layer, his physical appearance. And you keep telling yourself that, that it's too fast, even when he looks at you from under the shadows of his brow bone and eyelashes with a little bit of something in his eyes as you lean in just a bit closer over his shoulder to pour hot water into his cup. You feel a bit like you're putting on a show for him—one he observes with some unidentifiable interest before quickly diverting his gaze to the steeping tea. He plays with his fingers for a few seconds, catching his left middle finger between his right pointer and thumb. He seems almost.... awkward. Nervous. You pray it's because of you and not the logical explanation of it simply being an odd moment between two friends.

Once you place the kettle onto a cork board, you take a seat like the moment never happened and watch Viktor regain his momentarily lost composure with haste. His hands relax and start to take the small dessert boxes apart, gentle but with enough force to pull the tabs open and lay them flat with his fingers. He moves the slices of cake to the plates with ease this way, after sliding the prongs of his fork under each piece.

"Here—your slice." Viktor pushes one of the small plates in your direction, and you reach over to pick up the flattened boxes and drop them into the hinged trash can under the desk.

Picking up your fork, you take a moment to examine the slice of cake in front of you. It looks almost unnaturally appetizing, with its many flakey layers sandwiched between sweet cream and the mixed berries decorating the top. You almost don't want to eat it, since that comes with the pain of ruining the perfect dessert. "Thank you. It looks delicious."

You wonder if Viktor has a serious sweet tooth. Maybe you should be the one treating him.

When you take the moulds apart and pull the gears out, Viktor watches intently. He stands closer, seemingly have gained some more confidence and comfort within your presence.

"The next step is shaving them down and shaping them into the ideal form." The rasps are held in the top drawer under the workbench, and you pull out a few different sizes and grits. They're placed on the table while you vertically clamp a gear and bring the chairs from your desk over to the bench.

Viktor sits next to you as you pick up one of the bigger rasps and begin filing down the edges of the gear. You do your best to ignore the closeness.

"Eh.. Would you like to try?" You catch his eye.

"May I?" This seems so easy to pluck out of context. Again.

"Of course." You stand up, pushing the chair back, and walk around it, gesturing for Viktor to take your spot. He sits, gently taking the rasp from your outstretched hand. His movements are a little unsure as he presses his pointer finger against the flat top and pushes forward, angling his hand upward. "Ah..." For a second, you reach ahead, from your standing position behind Viktor, before you realize that this probably isn't a good idea. "..You need to angle your hand slightly downward. It will make the rasping a bit easier." Thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice your little slip-up and short internal dilemma.

But then he glances over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "You can touch me. I don't mind." His facial expression reads as inviting of all things and it almost feels like an intentional taunt. A tease. Like you've cracked a bit at the seams and he's gathering the spill with his fingers instead of ignoring it like he should, all while giving you this small, innocent smile. "I think I'll understand better that way, since I have no experience with this."

Finding your mouth suddenly unbearably dry, you pause and release a silent breath. Viktor has to know how this sounds.

"Okay." It's all you say before you're leaning over his shoulder again. This time, your hand overlaps his and you hold the tool with him, doing your damn best to focus on helping and not Viktor's sharp little inhale that you can hear clearly with how close you are. You angle your hand and it forces his to do the same, and you push. The rasp files down the excess metal with much less resistance. You pull back before the touch becomes awkward. More awkward than it already feels.

Viktor is still and silent and he's not looking at you anymore. His grip on the rasp is tight and white-knuckled and his head is facing straight forward. Your gut sinks as you realize you definitely messed up. Fuck. You feel awful.

Before you get a chance to apologize, Viktor leans his head against the knuckles of his free hand and clears his throat. "..Thank you." He lifts his head against and loosens the painful-looking hold he has on the tool. When he begins to rasp again, he finally glances at you again and you nearly loudly release an exhale of relief. There are no harsh lines of malice or disgust in his face. Instead, there's a little smile. "Er, is this correct?"

"Yes. That's perfect."

You're not sure if it's a good idea to hope the brief bashful-seeming look on his face before he turns his head again isn't only part of your imagination. But you do. More than you should.

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